Fire Dance

by Ilana C. Myer

  They had ridden three days from the poppy fields and the temple there. Before departing, Lin had stopped to pay her respects to the god, to see for herself what a temple to Alfin was like. It was a small building of adobe, unadorned, but for its domed roof and minaret. As instructed ahead of time, she removed her shoes upon entering, felt cracked tile underfoot. A temple that had not been in use for some time, it was empty this morning. Arches split the half-dark in multiple angles, gave a feel of depth even to this small space. Lin noted that though the god of the Kahishians had a thousand names, he was without a face: there were no images of him to be seen. In Eivar, even the meanest temple to the Three might have figures, or a fresco, depending on what the community could afford. Artists in Eivar made their livelihood depicting images of gods. Here, the art was without a human subject: intertwining tree limbs made for a frieze along the wall. This was interspersed with grapes hanging from a vine, a lion frozen in the act of stalking a gazelle.

  In a corner, the grave of the martyr was an upright slab, his name an inscribed curlicue that had faded. But the bas-relief beneath his name endured: a winged horse. This in their faith represented the journey from earth to the heavens.

  Lin had insisted on entering alone, against Ned’s protests. She could tell that was a problem for him—she hoped he would forgive her. It was useless for him to try to protect her. I’m already endangered, she’d told Valanir Ocune with a wry lightness of tone, in part to set him and his sorrow at a distance. But here in this abandoned temple to a foreign god, surrounded by flowers stained with the blood of a long-ago martyr, Lin could not deny the heaviness in her heart. The place forced her into an awareness of herself. Something in the entrenched silence; in the blades of sunlight, glittering with dust, that cut the shadows between pillars. In the engraved letters, strange to her eye, that ran in flourishing strokes across the wall. Unthinkably old, this place was. Though Ned waited outside, she felt alone.

  That evening, following a day’s ride, a council was held in the banquet tent. They had set up camp on the banks of the River Gadlan, a watery road that led to the capital. Zahir Alcavar had not, it seemed, denounced her, but he avoided her, too. He was close to the king; her words would have consequences. She wondered if he was biding his time—if they all were. But for what? It seemed as if, for now, the plan was to go forward. As if, bizarrely, they felt an urgent need of her.

  Or no, it was Zahir Alcavar who felt a need for her, an outsider to the machinations of his court.

  At the council Zahir had stood at the head of the table, at the other end of which sat the king and queen. In between, to either side, sat the courtiers who had accompanied the retinue, whom Lin didn’t know yet by name, along with Second Magician Tarik Ibn-Mor. Now Lin could see that Zahir Alcavar was tall and slim-waisted, with skin like copper. And like copper exposed to days of air and rain were his eyes, vivid blue-green. Silver streaked the hair at his temples; he was, she recalled, some ten years younger than Valanir Ocune. About his waist a sash of gold silk, the mark of First Magician. A hush fell in the tent when he began to speak, to tell of the battles Mansur Evrayad faced in the north. From the Tower of Glass, the Seven could foresee where the Fire Dancers were to attack and send a warning to the prince. It gave him enough time to lead his men to the villages’ defense.

  It was not enough time to prevent the nightmare that came.

  As Zahir spoke, he became impassioned; it was clear that some of this nightmare he had seen for himself.

  Lin Amaristoth was flanked on either side by guards and her personal men-at-arms, Ned Alterra and Garon Senn. She had instructed them to remain impassive, no matter what they might hear. Ned knew the Kahishian tongue well, as was customary for a scion of one of Tamryllin’s great houses. Garon Senn, commander of Lin’s guard, spoke it with crude efficiency by dint of his field experience abroad. Certainly he would comprehend Zahir Alcavar’s tale of war.

  Zahir’s eyes were ringed with shadow as he recounted what he’d seen. “Without purpose, without mercy, the Fire Dancers kill,” he said. “They do not seem to have a motive beyond killing—there is no theft. Cattle, even dogs, are slaughtered along with the rest. The last village they attacked, Mansur Evrayad reports that he and his men waded up to their ankles in blood. There were—heads piled in the streets. Women, children—it matters not at all to them.”

  Eldakar Evrayad cleared his throat. He looked pale. “And you still think it is magic.”

  The Magician bowed his head. “There is some spell,” he said. “The way they appear within town walls or village gates—as if barriers do not exist for them. When they fall, their bodies rot within moments. Not in the natural way of things. It is another horror for the prince’s men—the sight and smell of melting flesh. Morale wears thin.”

  Lin looked at the head of the table where Eldakar and his queen sat. She saw Rihab Bet-Sorr was upright, her expression calm. But her eyes were another story. Lin wasn’t sure what she saw there, but she made a note to herself to find out more. She thought there were things that did not make sense in what she had been told of Rihab Bet-Sorr.

  Now Tarik Ibn-Mor had risen. He was draped in green brocade bound with a bronze sash, the mark of Second Magician. He sounded harsh, even hoarse, as he said, “There is much here not in accordance with what we know of the Fire Dancers. Their magic has never tended to violence. Previously we defeated them in nearly every battle. Those we lost were due to the uncommon cunning of the Renegade. He has not stirred for years from his mountain fortress—until now. What we must ask now is, What has changed? Who is helping them obtain this power? Moreover, what do they want?”

  “There is the matter of my father,” said Eldakar. He spoke drily. “His breaking faith with the Renegade brought us to this. We could not question Yusuf Evrayad, not on any matter, while he was alive. Now we pay the price for that silence.”

  “It does nothing to blame your father,” Tarik began.

  “Perhaps not,” said Eldakar. “But it is truth. And truth must be our light to see a way out of this. The Renegade has asked nothing from us—so it must be he wants revenge. You know what happened to the messengers we sent, seeking terms.”

  For the first time, Lin spoke. Her tone was sharp. “What happened?”

  Eldakar eyed her across the table. He looked so young and helpless in that moment, Lin marveled that this man commanded the armies of Kahishi. But of course—it was Yusuf Evrayad who had built those armies, not his son. “Their horses returned bearing the messengers,” said Eldakar. “Without their heads.”

  Lin bowed her head.

  “Something is at work here,” said Zahir. “Something we don’t yet see. As I have often acknowledged, Gvir Ibn-Mor. It’s the reason Lady Amaristoth has come.”

  “And that is to our shame,” said Tarik, eyes flashing anger. “With respect to the Court Poet, and our alliance with Eivar. We have never needed to call upon Eivar for aid, and should not have done so this time. We have all the resources we need.”

  “You say that,” said Zahir. “Events give the lie to your words. We are no nearer the truth than we were months ago.”

  “Then why not turn to Ramadus?” Tarik demanded. “They are our equals, if not more. Our neighbors to the west, though they make charming music, make little else that is of use.”

  “Enough.” Eldakar Evrayad had risen from his seat. “This is grievous disrespect to our guest. And foolish, besides. The enchantments of Eivar have returned. What we once knew of them is no longer true. At the very least, it can do no harm to consult the Court Poet in matters that continue to stymie us.” He looked to Lin. “My lady,” he said, “my apologies for the remarks of Tarik Ibn-Mor. They were uncalled for.”

  She made a gesture of dismissal. “What I hear him saying, your grace,” she said, carefully, as she felt all eyes on her now, “is that the Fire Dancers may not be the enemy.” Either that, or he wants to turn to Ramadus for aid. If Tarik was working with Ramadus, it was the logical next step. In
still fear in Kahishi, then present the eastern empire as their salvation.

  “And would that that were true,” said Zahir Alcavar. He appeared haunted, as if scenes of violence still played in his mind. “I am not sure I understand the Second Magician’s game here. In our seekings, we have traced the shadow.”

  “You see shadows,” she said. A flat tone, without mockery. Their eyes met.

  “It is part of what we do.” No anger in him that she could see. A directness. “A Magician of the Tower might see the dark and demons that surround us, that are invisible to the eye. This one comes from the north.”

  Lin’s gaze moved to Eldakar. She said, “Why not attack their fortress, then—in the north?”

  “You mean war,” Eldakar said shortly. “The Renegade is wily—has built a stronghold of warrens and weapons, possibly enough to outlast years of a siege. It would require most of our forces, leaving Majdara, and the Zahra, unprotected. Of all the counsels my father gave me, the one against doing that is most clear in my mind.” Eldakar’s lips twisted, as if he tasted something sour. His hand clenched on the table. “It’s what our enemies are waiting for.”

  “And yet if we don’t,” said Zahir, “we lose Almyria.”

  A silence. Lin knew of Almyria, jewel of the north. The city that, long ago, had been the capital.

  “We will send men,” the king said. “As many as may be spared. But no more.”

  * * *

  “BY sunset we will be there.” Ned had joined her at the guardrail. Wind off the water blew back his hair. He had befriended the Kahishian guardsmen, and had come to know before she did what the next stage of the journey would be, the route of the day’s ride.

  She turned to him. “You are smiling.”

  His teeth flashed. “This wakens … memories for me. Despite that we’re in a toy that would perish at sea.”

  “The seas blooded you,” she said, remembering. Her hand found his on the guardrail. “Ned, thank you. For being here.” A glancing touch, and then she withdrew; she would not impose her need, her deepening isolation, on Ned Alterra.

  He looked at her with sombre eyes. “I am here as long as you require me, my lady.”

  “I took you from home.”

  “I have my duty just as you have yours,” said Ned, becoming stern. “Say no more of that.”

  Only Ned was permitted to speak so to her. She turned back to the water. Beyond the green shadow cast by their boat, the river mirrored the sun’s glare. Nearer the bank, spindle-legged herons skimmed the surface like intrepid couriers, calling.

  “Look.” Ned’s voice was soft.

  She followed his gaze. Beyond the city walls rose the mountain. Piled upon it a layered confection of towers, gold in the late sunlight. There were terraced gardens. Cutting upward through these, a white stairway tunneled under a series of archways that reached all the way to the top. The Zahra looked vast enough to contain several palaces within it, yet all the parts together were harmonious—arches and terraces and tower-tops mirroring one another in their curves. As a contrast, the jagged stairway was of a piece with the terrain of the mountain.

  “Do you believe it is as they say, Ned?”

  He was looking up still. “I daresay we shall see.”

  “Yes.” She looked around, saw no one within earshot. “You with your tasks, and I with mine.” She was thinking of one of the last things Valanir Ocune had told her—the address he had pressed into her hand, in that way he had. “This person may help you,” he’d said. “Keep it secret. You must find a way to go out to the city alone, without a guard.”

  She had smiled at this, for it had not sounded much of a challenge at the time. Not after all they’d done. But today, staring up at the proud spear of a mountain overlooking a strange city, she knew there would be more layers to this—to everything—than experience had led her to expect.

  She had given some thought to what she wanted of Ned. Not to investigate Tarik Ibn-Mor—she would not send her man after a Magician. The risk was too great. But there were other ways Ned’s skills could be of use.

  “Your task is to befriend the queen,” she said. He didn’t react, still watching the water. “It is an odd tale, this slave girl elevated at such great cost to the king—to the kingdom. Find out all you can. Become a friend to her. She strikes me as a woman of few friends.” Ever since the council, she had been thinking back to the still, lovely face of Rihab, the way emotions had seemed to flicker through it nonetheless. It might have been horror at the events recounted … but it might not.

  Now Ned turned to her. His fierce smile was without humor. “You think I’m skilled with women.”

  She shrugged. “I know it.” And was surprised—then amused—that he looked away, blood risen in his face.

  * * *

  IT was drawing toward sunset when a servant approached Lin, summoning her to a private meeting with Zahir Alcavar. Or no, that was not entirely true. Requesting her presence. The distinction mattered. She was standing alone at the guardrail, watching the conflagration of the sky. Had sent away anyone who might protect or watch her, tiring after all of that. Of being watched.

  Without summoning any guards to her now, Lin followed Zahir’s servant to a chamber on deck. The double doors to it were of polished cedar, each gilded with the Evrayad falcon sigil, its beak like a dagger. Lin recalled many a tale of guests summarily dispatched by their royal hosts—an assassin in a bathhouse, a cup of poisoned wine.

  There was no dignity in such an end. On the other hand, she didn’t know what her end would otherwise look like. Last night she had found herself standing incrementally nearer to Darien as he sobbed in the corner. Lin did not need anyone versed in magic to explain what this meant. In her mind’s eye she saw the silver amulet of the wizard swing on its chain: once. Again.

  As it happened, no apparent threats waited behind the double doors. There was only Zahir Alcavar himself. He sent away his servant. So against protocol and perhaps good sense, they were alone.

  The last of the sun was soft in this east-facing chamber, with bay windows that opened generously to the air and a view of the river. The wood-paneled walls were of the same décor as the doors, the falcon repeated. In place of chairs were velvet cushions of various colors, adorned with thread-of-gold. He motioned her to sit. “If you will.”

  “I prefer not,” she said. “First tell me what it is you want.”

  He let out a sigh. “I suppose I should not be surprised. I said things to you, when we met, that I shouldn’t have. It’s why I asked you here.”

  She nodded. “Good. But not quite enough. There is a pall that lies between us now.”

  “Distrust.”

  Her lip curled, grudging acknowledgment of his candor. “Yes.”

  The Magician looked at her as if weighing something in his mind. There was a vulnerability to him such as he’d shown in the council meeting, when describing the atrocities of the Fire Dancers. As if it wore on him, to see so much. Today in addition to the sash of gold, he wore a brocade robe, liberally threaded with gold and silver. Turquoise earrings and neck chains hung with ruby, topaz, and tourmaline were added to this.

  Lin wore a dress of midnight silk belted with silver links, and her diamond earrings. Silver woven into her hair. Trailing from her shoulders, the six-colored cloak of the Court Poet. It was necessary, the day she presented herself in the Zahra, to appear so, just as her hosts had made themselves resplendent to welcome her to their city.

  “Lady, that pall will be lifted only if you speak plainly.” He sounded gentle. “I was wrong to think ill of you. A darkness wraps around you more surely than the six-colored cloak you wear, but now I see … it is not your choice. It is, perhaps, a grief.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t owe you an explanation. Even some of those dearest to me don’t know.”

  “If we are to work together in enchantments, I must know.”

  “Enchantments.” She laughed. “Gvir Alcavar, I am only lately turned Seer. Init
iated into powers even the most learned Seers can only guess at. We know so little. I’m here because Valanir Ocune told me you need someone from outside your court to provide aid; but if it is magical aid you seek from me, you may be sorely disappointed. In this respect, I regret to say, Tarik Ibn-Mor may be right.”

  She had been steeling herself to make this admission, a dangerous one, since it revealed weakness.

  Unexpectedly, he nodded. “My lady,” he said, “I would be surprised if you fully grasped the nature of your abilities. The enchantments of Eivar—that which we dreamed of restoring, Valanir Ocune and I—lack the mechanical precision of our magic. It is not a system such as we have, ruled by the stars.”

  She stared at him a moment. Then all at once in a sweep of her skirts, she sat. The cushion sank beneath her. “Go on,” she said.

  He smiled, and sat across from her. He had very white teeth, slightly pointed. A sensuous mouth, to cover savage teeth. She redirected her attention to his words. “I am glad that despite all—despite whatever it is that torments you—you want to know,” he said. “I take it as a good sign. Here is the point: your enchantments are not a system to be learned. Oh, there are laws, likely more than we have discovered yet … But laws are not the essence of it. It will manifest differently, in your hands, than it would for any other Seer. Who you are is at its core. Do you see?”

  She shook her head. She did not understand how something taught in an Academy could not be learned. But knew it was Zahir Alcavar who had guided Valanir in crucial ways—his words could not be discounted. “What do you want of me,” she said, “if you help me learn? I assume that is what you are offering.”