Fire Dance

by Ilana C. Myer

  She heard Piet Abarda first. “He is hardly cold, and you speak of this?”

  “Delay is a pastime for lovers and fools, it is said.” A voice she knew, one of the Archmasters. She struggled to recall the name. Kerwin, that was it. The youngest of the Archmasters, she had never liked him, though Cyrilla and Miri thought him handsome with his trim black beard and broad shoulders. “Lord Abarda, if we can depend on your support, you will not regret it. Whereas if not…”

  “Threatening me, Archmaster Kerwin?” said Piet. “Do you forget I have the ear of the Court Poet?”

  “None could forget,” said Archmaster Kerwin. Julien now recalled why she disliked him—he always seemed to be sneering. His voice became oily, what perhaps he imagined as persuasive. “You are in a unique position, Lord Abarda. So much power and prestige … yet so precarious. Your protector is not looking our way at this time—is preoccupied with politics in Kahishi, as it happens. Here is an opportunity much nearer to hand.”

  “So far you’ve presented me with no opportunities, only threats,” said Piet Abarda with scorn.

  “If that is how it seems, I apologize,” said Archmaster Kerwin. “I will only remind you that a time is coming to … choose. And to make matters more interesting, I know which Seer has been chosen to complete the ten.”

  Complete the ten. Death had reduced the Archmasters to nine.

  “Surely, Valanir Ocune…”

  “You see, Lord Abarda. You are not acquainted with the way of things. Valanir Ocune may be hand in glove with the Court Poet, but that is no advantage. Once it might have been. Not anymore.”

  “What will you give me?” A note of defiance from Piet even as he gave in.

  “Surely you know.” Archmaster Kerwin sounded as if he were smirking. “What could Lord Abarda want, other than his high position? And yet—he is not a Seer. The Court Poet has lavished him with importance, yet has not seen fit to give him that power. And there is power in it now, Piet Abarda. After tomorrow night, there will be even more.”

  A hand on Julien’s arm made her jump. She whirled, terrified that an Archmaster had discovered her. Found herself staring into the surprised face of Etherell Lyr, which inspired a different sort of terror. He was holding a candle and looked at her with puzzlement. “Julien Imara, is it? What are you doing here?”

  “They’ll hear us,” she whispered, inclining her head towards the door. He nodded and walked with her down the hall. All clear thought had left Julien’s head, and she could only think how silly she looked in the prim high-necked nightrobe sewn by her sister, with lace at the cuffs. Etherell Lyr was a fantasy for all the girls, with his golden hair and eyes bluer than the forget-me-nots that bloomed on the Isle in spring. Julien was furious with herself, with the banality of such thoughts. She had not gone so far as to compose a poem about him, but had thought about it—which was bad enough.

  “What are you doing?” she said when they were out of earshot, summoning irritation as a defense.

  “I was hungry,” he said, unperturbed. “I see you were too.”

  “You know my name,” she said. Regretted it instantly.

  “Yes,” he said with a quizzical smile. “Well, good night. I think you had best go to bed.”

  “Wait—Etherell, what do you think is happening?” It felt odd, presumptuous, to say his name. They had never spoken before.

  “Lots of things.” He sounded patient. “That’s the way of it, in places where power resides. Julien, you are not powerful yet, won’t be for some years. Stay out of it now. When you’re ready, well.” He laughed. “Good night. I think I’ll get one of those biscuits.”

  She turned with a sigh, back to the dark stretch of hallway. Heard him say, “Julien.”

  She turned back, and her throat caught. His expression had become stern, like a lord about to mete out judgment. “You’re fortunate it was my path you crossed tonight,” he said. “Try again, you may not be so lucky. There are dangers here.”

  “You mean … like Maric Antrell?”

  He surprised her by smiling. “You know, then. That’s good.” With a jaunting step, even a slight hum as if he was off for a picnic, he ambled down the hall and into shadow. She heard a door shut. And then all was quiet in the hall.

  Julien sought her room. She felt a chill, as if the wind had got inside her robe. Of the final-year students, Maric Antrell—talented, handsome, with auburn curls—was among the most admired. And most feared. Julien had seen Etherell face down Maric and his friends in defense of Dorn Arrin. But not before the boys had broken one of Dorn’s fingers. They were wealthy, noble—untouchable, though that was supposed to be against the rules. Archmaster Hendin might occasionally have sharp words for them … as had Archmaster Myre. But the others seemed not to see.

  Julien had thought such dangers well beyond her. She was no one. Invisible. But the recollection of Etherell’s stone gaze unnerved her. She shivered under her blankets for a time, as the air crisped with the dawn. A blackbird nested in the eaves began to sing.

  Stay out of it now.

  She had lived in this place eight months, thought she knew its ways. With one death everything had become strange. The skies were light by the time Julien Imara fell asleep, into a chasm of dreams that resounded with the song of Dorn Arrin, lamenting. A great soul was gone from the world.

  CHAPTER

  2

  WHEN he arrived it was from rain, the first of spring. Before him the palace rose through fog, the same clouded grey as the sky. Behind, the great bells of the Eldest Sanctuary had begun their tolling of the hour, marking it noon. The Seer spurred his horse through a side gate, was welcomed by attendants. From a long distance he had come.

  “The Court Poet is in audiences all day.” An attendant, intoned with a note of false regret.

  “She’ll see me,” said Valanir Ocune.

  A bath was offered, which he declined, though he did submit to an escort to chambers where he might change his clothes. He had not ridden south for seven days through almost continuous rain to be delayed by formalities. It weighed on him what could be happening at the Academy now, in his absence. “Where is she? The Court Poet,” he asked one attendant, a boy. “Has she been informed I am here?”

  “She has,” the boy said smoothly. “I am to escort you to a midday meal. The Court Poet is concerned for your health.”

  “My—” Valanir could scarcely find words, but saw the boy’s face was blank. “Tell her I will eat when it pleases me. No, I’ll tell her—where is she?”

  He took to the halls barely as soon as the words were out of the boy’s mouth. He would find Lin himself. Annoyance was growing into something like anger. He had ridden in haste to get here, with barely a stop on the way, not even pausing to pass time with the friends who would have welcomed him as a guest. One in particular, an aristocratic widow of slender form and heavy, silver-threaded red hair gathered at the top of her head in a braided crown, would have been a great solace to Valanir after his interminable time on the Isle. Wit made all the more alluring by a melodic voice. She lived by a vineyard on the outskirts of Tamryllin. Letters she’d sent to the Isle teased, incessantly, with references to pleasures taken in the course of years. She did not mind that he wandered, and that he had other women. That was the way of it with poets.

  It would have only added a day to his journey if he’d made the detour to her estate in the outlying valleys. One day. Instead he’d come galloping as fast as he could for the good of the realm and the clearly ungrateful Court Poet. Through torrents of rain, no less.

  As far as he could gather, Lady Amaristoth was in council with representatives of the guilds. He also knew these men petitioned the Court Poet for various favors and ordinances nearly every day. To let them cool their heels for once would have done them good.

  When he arrived at the council chamber to which the attendant had directed him, it was empty. Another attendant was there to tell the Seer with fervent apologies that the Court Poet had only just lef
t, was scheduled to take the midday meal with lords of the council. It was unclear where the meeting would take place—whether it was in the solar or in the Green Chamber, which was in a different wing of the palace altogether.

  The situation was beginning to remind Valanir of a farcical ballad. He would rather have been composing such a ballad instead, from the prospect of a manor house that overlooked a vineyard cupped in hills. After he and the vineyard’s lady had collaborated—alternately in her bed, on a couch, even the carpeted floor—on new points of discussion for correspondence. Instead he was here, in this palace and the responsibilities it brought, waiting for the Court Poet to deign to acknowledge him.

  The Seer was in a passage that led to the Green Chamber, after he’d had no luck in the solar, when he heard a voice behind him cry a greeting. “Not exactly the man I expected to see, but a surprise I welcome,” said Ned Alterra. He looked well, Valanir thought with some pleasure; he liked the boy. After they’d exchanged pleasantries Valanir said, “I am here to see her—Lin. It’s been uncommonly difficult finding her.”

  “I imagine she’s busy,” said Ned with an apologetic air, as if the fault were his somehow. “I was just here for a meeting of the council. My father thought I should come. But if we’re to speak of it…” Glancing around, he motioned the Seer to join him in the shadow of an alcove. Beneath an arch of ornate scrollwork a bench was carved in the wall, but neither man was inclined to sit. Beyond, a marble colonnade made a stately procession down the hall and wound around a balustrade to the upper levels. It seemed to be empty, though one never knew in the Tamryllin palace who might be listening. In an undertone Ned said, “We’ve had word from Kahishi—they are beset in the north by attacks. King Eldakar requests financing for a campaign.”

  “Attacks from whom?” said Valanir Ocune, a sinking in his stomach. Seven days he had journeyed, but events had moved faster. He had hoped to arrive ahead of the emissaries from Majdara. He would barely be in time to talk to Lin. If he could find her.

  “The King of the North, he calls himself,” said Ned Alterra. “In Kahishi he is named the Renegade.”

  “I know the man,” said Valanir.

  “Know him?”

  “It has been a long dance between the Renegade and the court of Majdara. He was not always in disfavor … though he was never trusted,” said Valanir. “There has always been distrust of the Fire Dancers.”

  “The Fire Dancers, exactly,” said Ned. “King Eldakar suspects them of using … magical means of attack. He wishes to consult with Lady Amaristoth in person.”

  “You mean…”

  Ned’s clear gaze seemed to see through to his thoughts. “She has agreed to go.”

  * * *

  HE saw the glint of a jewel at her throat. Lady Amaristoth had risen from her place at table, a goblet uplifted as she smiled at one of the delegates from Kahishi. Her place at the king’s right hand. They were seated with the delegates at the head table on a raised dais. Valanir Ocune sat below, with the Tamryllin lords who dined here tonight.

  Briefly the Seer and Court Poet had exchanged words in the dining hall. She embraced him with a smile brilliant as the jewel she wore and as she stepped away, looked amused. Her hair was twisted in silver combs atop her head, a court fashion.

  “I must speak with you,” he had said, holding in check his anger. She had deliberately avoided him all that day. The anger was, in a way, comforting; it distracted from the emotion coursing beneath it, which was shock. With anger at least he had some measure of control.

  She had nodded, diamonds in her ears reflecting sparks like ice. “Soon.” And then was at the head table, a ring of light from lamps and gold plate surrounding her as she made welcome the lords and delegates. Extending her hand like a gift, to be kissed each time.

  These men knew who had the king’s ear. Harald relied on his Court Poet more than on his chancellor, just as in the time of Nickon Gerrard.

  Valanir Ocune watched and wondered. Was she angry that he had absented himself from Tamryllin for so long? She could not know what was happening at the Academy … what he believed was happening.

  He remembered their last meeting, in autumn of the previous year. The conversation had been strained. She had seemed a world away even while clasping his hand in farewell. And now she had consented to go to Majdara without seeking his counsel, even though no one in Eivar was better versed in the court of Kahishi than Valanir Ocune.

  Old man, perhaps she grows away from you.

  It would be natural, he thought, if she sought to assert her independence. Lin could hardly forget it was Valanir who had put her forward as a candidate for Court Poet. Who had made her Seer. If her purpose was to demonstrate where power lay, he would readily concede.

  Still he recalled the hard glitter of her smile and wondered.

  There is too much at stake now, he wanted to tell her. We cannot be at odds.

  On the dais Lin Amaristoth turned to one of the delegates and laughed.

  * * *

  A NOTE came for him close to midnight. Valanir Ocune was at the desk in his chamber, composing by candlelight. So she knew his habits. The bearer of the message, one of the smirking boys Valanir had come to detest, waited to escort him. They were in their petulant way striking—perhaps she had begun to take lovers. Last he had seen her, Lin had seemed clenched in herself with enforced solitude. Hedged in responsibilities, some private griefs. He only understood some of them.

  She was seated at her desk when he entered, poring over a scroll. At the sound of his footfall, looked up. “I thought you’d be awake,” she said, and dismissed the servant. They were alone, then. Valanir had wondered if this time he would only be permitted to see her under guard. He had been many times in this room. Tonight, he was struck by its simplicity. She was Court Poet, and of House Amaristoth, yet the harp by the window was the only object of great value. Above her desk hung a painted landscape: mountains on a moonlit night, hues of violet and black melting into mist. He wondered what that landscape meant to her. Whether it was her origins, or the Academy—nexus of her desires. Or both.

  She had not desired the honors and responsibilities that came with this room. Those had been his doing.

  “Thank you for seeing me, lady,” he said.

  Lin laughed and rose. She had changed her dress. This was black, and high-necked, almost to the chin. A belt of silver links clasped her waist. Valanir felt stirrings of recognition: Lin almost resembled her mother. Now her smile in the dining hall was like a breath down his neck from the past, and for the first time the Seer felt fear. He had only seen Kalinda Amaristoth once, twenty years ago. He was then a poet of thirty-two years of age, and without a care. He had ventured into that castle with a light heart, imagining there was nothing he didn’t know about people and the world.

  As it happened, he’d been wrong. And had never forgotten the lesson.

  “I’m impressed, truly, that you’d thank me at this hour,” said Lin, and motioned him to a couch while she sat at the one opposite. “I’m sure you’ve heard of my imminent journey. Perhaps you have advice?”

  He could not tell if she mocked him. “No advice,” he said, seating himself across from her. “Only what I may share of my experience.”

  “An experience of years,” she said. “I’d be a fool to discount it. But first tell me why you are here.”

  “Two things. The first, and most urgent, is about Majdara,” said Valanir. “I had hoped to get here before their messengers did. The situation in the Kahishian court is … delicate, Lin.”

  “Please explain,” she said. “I see this is going to be interesting. I’ll pour us wine.”

  “I’ve had word from a friend,” he said as she handed a cup to him. “Zahir Alcavar. He is some years younger than I, but already First Magician in the court of Majdara. It was with his help that I learned what I needed of Kahishian magic to defeat Nick Gerrard. They know of such things in Kahishi—of spirits in lower realms. They believe there are se
ven dimensions of earth. We reside at the highest. What Nick summoned was from one of the lowest … a creature of hell. We could never have stood a chance without Zahir’s help.”

  “So we owe our lives to this man,” she said. “You had word from him—how?”

  “He is a Magician,” said Valanir Ocune. “Zahir suspects this war … that there is something at work. That someone near King Eldakar is responsible.”

  “A traitor at court.”

  “Yes. It must have been Zahir Alcavar who suggested summoning you, Lin. He doesn’t trust anyone in the Zahra. Not even his fellow Magicians. Something is going wrong there, though he didn’t say more to me. Probably he dared not—these connections over a distance can be spied upon.”

  She was expressionless. “So I am to go and root out this traitor,” she said. “Is that what you believe I should do? Why you rode here in such haste?”

  “So you knew.”

  “Erisen, we are linked,” she said. The Seer’s mark around her eye had caught the moonlight in netted strands. “I am not yet sure what that is good for, but I did know you were coming. I knew the moment you arrived.”

  “And avoided me.”

  She shrugged. “What is the purpose of your visit?”

  Anger twinged, but he restrained it. “My purpose,” he said, “is to prevent your going. Despite my friend’s wishes. Every instinct tells me you would be walking into danger. I offered to go in your place, but … King Eldakar does not welcome me in his court. To him I represent the court of his father. They only want you.”

  For a while she was silent. Her face slanted away from his. At last she said, “It means much. That you came all this way, with thoughts of my safety. I am grateful.”

  Gracious words, lacquered in formality. Nonetheless: “Of course I thought of your safety,” he said.