Page 19 of The Scouts

Breaés beamed at us as well. “Damn right. A feast and dance before going back into action at last? Even without the drink, what’s not to like? The lads will be thrilled with such a send-off.”

“Aye. I can’t say I mind a jig or two myself.” Lieutenant Javyés extended his hand in what appeared an attempt to pat Lochan on his back. But then he must’ve thought better of it because he ran it through his hair instead.

* * *

ERVYN

The dress uniform they sorted me with was a decent fit for a last-minute affair, apart from being perhaps a pinch too snug across my shoulders. But since it didn’t restrict my movements and flattered my chest, I had no complaints.

Transformed into a ballroom for the occasion, the city hall bustled with laughter and chatter. A quartet of fiddlers—who knew their onions—filled the high-ceilinged space with lively tunes. More than a hundred couples swirled around the stone-tiled floor to the beat of a reel. The red and silver of the City Guards’ attire mixed with various shades of white, grey and lilac—the season's colours, I guessed.

Wheat sheaves and leaf garlands adorned the walls. Paper lanterns gleamed from the round tables, on which holiday treats were piled in mouth-watering towers. The food tasted the part. Having sampled several sweet bits myself, I could attest to it.

The Scouts scrubbed up damn well. Despite how odd it seemed to see my brothers-in-arms outfitted in the City Guard regimentals, one couldn’t fault the suddenly straightened postures and manners alike. Many pairs of eyes followed our every move that night. And many scented notes made it into our pockets.

Myself, I’d been stealing glances at only one man.

That night, Lochan wore his hair in a high ponytail, secured with a hairpiece on top. The black, flowing strands chased him throughout his twirls and jumps.

Bloody hell, but did he have the moves. It didn’t come as a surprise at all—most martial artists made exquisite dancers. I couldn’t fault his nonchalant grace, excellent timing, and the way he led his partners through complicated syncopated rhythms, anticipating the slightest change or delay to their steps.

I sneaked peeks at him whenever I could without acting too conspicuous about it. The last thing I needed was another earful from Commander Heinnés.

I would’ve missed the latter in the first row of spectators if not for his copper hair. Clad in smart, light-coloured garb I never would have suspected him of owning, Heinnés looked unrecognisable. Keeping a close eye on his herd, the commander seemed engaged in an amicable exchange with a city councillor.

It would be a fib to say I didn’t enjoy myself cavorting about. Nor did I have any trouble leading my partners across the floor to the ever-changing music.

Dancing came fourth in the Highland’s hierarchy of most-desired skills—preceded only by shooting, horse-riding and climbing the rough hills. But nothing captured the free spirit of my people any better. Our traditional dances required a fit body and good memory since they consisted of many rigorous steps and intricate figures. Dancing was regarded not only as a form of entertainment or social interaction, but exercise. It improved stamina and established the bond between clansmen. The clan chiefs often chose their best warriors by watching them jig at gatherings, assessing their agility, endurance and athletic abilities. A Dark Elf who couldn’t dance for shit wouldn’t be trusted to know how to fight. It was as simple as that.

Sometime before midnight—which marked the end of the fete—they announced the last dance.

While waiting for my partner to find me, and a little worn out at that point, I grabbed a glass of something pinkish off the nearest table. I downed the cool, refreshing liquid—which turned out to be honeyed pashijanade—in three gulps.

The sudden appearance of Commander Heinnés in front of me had me baffled. Out of momentum, I almost bowed to him, about to escort him onto the dance floor by his hand. I stopped myself in time.

“Sir?” I said.

“Morryés, a word.” The commander nodded at me. “You handled the baroness, err, issue well. You both did. The tavern brawl was a bit much, perhaps, but then again, it’s worked out for the best. A little fun before going back to it will only raise the spirits.” He looked around the room.

I followed suit, noticing the joyful, flushed faces of the lads from my unit. Indeed—it seemed a touch of music, loin-shaking and flirting did wonders for their morale.

“So when Féyes asked me for this,” he continued, a strange smile curled at the corner of his lips, “I thought a little reward might be fitting.”

The impish glint in the commander's eye intensified my confusion. “Sir?” I repeated.

“Take a peek at your dance card, Morryés.”

Before I could think of an answer that didn’t include The fuck?, Heinnés walked off, leaving me gaping.

For the first time that evening, I reached for the tiny booklet hanging from my belt on a fancy chain. I hadn’t bothered checking it earlier, since I didn’t know any of the men and women I partnered with, their names and titles meaningless to me. I exchanged but a few words with them during each dance, my enjoyment of it depending greatly on their ability to move and be led. Most of them turned out pleasant and not horrendous dancers. For townsfolk and lowlanders, anyway.

I flipped the pages to the last entry.

Number twenty: Lochan Féyes.

The rabble of butterflies in my stomach kicked off a ball of their own.

I glanced up to the sight of an azure-eyed man in a City Guard uniform standing before me, his hands behind his back. His attire introduced an exciting element of strange to the familiar. This aside, he looked as stunning as ever.