Fire Dance

by Ilana C. Myer

  Lin thought she could guess what lay at the top, as they climbed; she counted more than a hundred steps before the end. “Are you all right?” Zahir Alcavar said once, turning to her with an outstretched hand, as they passed through alternating lamplight and shadow.

  She gave him a cool look. “No less than you, Magician.”

  At the top was a room wrapped in sky. She caught her breath, not just from the climb. What opened around them was vast. It was said Yusuf Evrayad had built the Tower of Glass to rival the famed Observatory in Ramadus. The artisans had employed magic in its construction, she’d heard, though this was disputed. She did think it should have been a much longer climb to go as high as they now were, and wondered if there was magic involved in this, too.

  Rumors swirled about this tower. The center of the Zahra, as much as the throne. More?

  The space was large enough to contain a small town. It was impossible, simply not possible, that it was in reality this large, she thought, imagining some kind of illusion wrought by Ramadian magic. Light came from everywhere and nowhere; there was not a torch to be seen, yet the room was flooded with soft illumination like moonlight. Lin’s gaze was drawn up, to the walkways that ran alongside the walls in three levels, accessible by staircases of porphyry and gold. The walls that were entirely glass, clear as air, so that along the walkways burned countless stars.

  All this overseen by an arched ceiling like a second sky, adorned with stars and spheres. Against a backdrop of black crystal, jewels made the constellations. Lin knew them: The Great Tree, the Warrior, the Witch, and many more. They glittered as if from within. Scattered among them the heavenly spheres, represented with enormous gems of various colors. In Eivar they used the Kahishian names for them: red Mahaz, for war and bloodshed; blue Maia, for the seas and navigation; diamond Vizia, for fertility; amber Sheohl, lord of the Underworld. Zahir said, quietly, “The dome shows the original order of the heavens. At the beginning.”

  “The beginning?”

  “The creation of the world.”

  Not wanting to seem as if she gaped, Lin pulled her gaze downward to Zahir. He was looking up, however, as if in contemplation. The illumination from above softened his face. “There are seven heavens, you see,” he said. “That which is above us—the one we see—is the lowest of these. Beyond are the upper reaches. The configurations of stars, the spheres—these are gateways, agents of higher powers. And prophecies—these are, if you think about it, like writing sent from above. Messages only the initiated can read.”

  “Upper reaches?” she said. “What—what is there, in the heavens we cannot see?”

  He smiled. “There’s little we know for sure. But it’s where wisdom, and knowledge of what is to come, are infinite. That’s why the god is with the Tower of Glass in all that we do. Our work is nothing but for the grace of Alfin.” He beckoned to her. “Come.”

  The constellations were set into the floor in mosaic tile. They trod on a gold and green Great Tree, a silver Wheel. It took time just to pass over each one. In the deep quiet Lin could have sworn she heard, from far away, a snatch of music; this kept time with the spark of the stars.

  At last they reached a stairway, this one more gilded than the rest, and slender, accommodating only one person at a time. It traversed the air in a spiral, unsupported as a curl of smoke, and seemed neverending; after a time, Lin found herself growing dizzy. Around her spun lights: from the candescent gems overhead; from the stars outside.

  By the time they reached the top she was winded. Lin had a fear, as she caught her breath, her chest pounding, that her soul was about to fly out of her as the wizard had foretold. But as her breath slowed, she felt the blood return to her face. Zahir was watching her, not speaking. She could see he felt impelled to help her but held himself back, knowing she would dislike it. She didn’t know how she could see that, from a glance. “I’m all right,” she said. They stood on a platform of glass. It was cut in the shape of a square, fenced in with rails of gold. Lin looked down, through the glass, and saw they were at a vertiginous height.

  Looking up, she saw the platform was encased in a glass dome. Lin guessed this must be the Tower’s pinnacle—its observatory. Nearby stood a long brass tube on a tripod, that she guessed was a tool of observation; and a great gilded sphere inlaid with silver symbols and wrapped in gold and silver rings. That, she guessed, was an astrolabe.

  Zahir Alcavar was waiting for her to speak. In her eyes he had altered, as someone who belonged to a place like this. The sourceless light seeming to emanate as much from him as their surroundings. His eyes less bright, softened, but harder to read.

  Lin found her voice. “So from here you see it. The … shadow.”

  “That is a part of it,” he said. He sounded deliberately casual, as if to set her at ease. “We can foretell catastrophes like drought, and war, and sickness. It is secret, because such things, if known, would drive the people to frenzy. And because such knowledge rightfully belongs to the king. It is him we serve, at the behest of the Thousand-Named God.”

  “But surely the people know something is happening,” said Lin.

  “They know of the battles in the north. Skirmishes. They don’t know of magic. Though rumors will travel of the—the strangeness, if they haven’t already. And soon more men will march north, fuel further rumors.” He shook his head. “All this and more, we will have to deal with.

  “Meantime, I wanted to show you our work here. It is not like the Academy, where mysteries prevail. The stars tell a tale.” He swept a hand outward at the dome. “We have clear means to read it, worked out in calculations. These are the makings of prophecy.” Here he indicated a desk pinned with a parchment, on which had been drawn a series of intersecting lines and symbols. Not the way Lin would have pictured a prophecy. “There are disputes of the finer points, of course. But the fundamentals are absolute. Along with our calculations, there are acts we can take—Seekings and—very occasionally—with portals. Like all magic, these pose a risk. Last time, in our Seeking north … we nearly lost a Magician. As it was, he was ill for a long time.”

  “It is that bad?”

  He was sombre. “Lady, I would not have asked you here for less.”

  “I believe you asked me here,” she said, “because you suspect one of your Magicians. Perhaps…” She watched his face, but he was impassive. “Perhaps one in particular.”

  “Yes,” he said curtly. “But I don’t have proof, and personal animosity might cloud my judgment. I cannot act, nor let on I suspect, until I am sure. That’s where you come in, my lady. If you so agree.”

  “I agreed from the moment I set out,” she said. She had gone to stand at the glass. Far below, curving with the riverbank were the walls of Majdara, made visible by the light of watchtowers. She saw the bridge that spanned the River Gadlan, lit so it resembled a jeweled strand. “That is not the question. The question is, rather, what you’d have me do.”

  “We’ll talk about that,” he said. “Not here. There is something else I want to speak of first.” A change in his tone, but she did not turn. This was beauty, she thought, looking to the jeweled sky; and she did not know how long she had.

  Zahir said, “Lady, the night we met, you accused me of being removed from danger. From life, perhaps.”

  “Did I?” She wondered if the pearl of light on the horizon to the east, more brilliant than any star, was Vizia.

  His tone became more emphatic. “What have you done,” he said, in an accent eerily like hers, “in your tower above the world?”

  She smiled, finally turned. “I suppose I did say that.”

  “In some ways, it’s true,” said Zahir. “What happened to you is more than most Magicians face in a lifetime. And there are other ways in which I keep myself—distant. You saw more than perhaps you knew, when you said that.”

  She inclined her head, studying him. “You never speak of a wife.” Her thoughts went to Ned, who was possibly with the queen in that instant. What I do
for you, he’d said so coldly.

  “Magicians don’t marry,” said Zahir. “Some take concubines.”

  “And you?”

  He was expressionless. “I am—careful with women. A child shouldn’t carry on my blood, along with whatever happened in Vesperia.” He held up a hand. “But I did not mean to speak, just now, of myself. You may be right that I am at a remove from life and its trials. And you have been so much in them. And what if that holds you back, now, from the thing you want most?”

  “And what would that be?”

  She issued it as a challenge, half-mocking, but he seemed not to notice—or else it didn’t matter. On his face that same look she had glimpsed as Garon Senn fastened the emerald bracelet to her wrist—understanding, a trace of tenderness. “Valanir Ocune has told me, many times, that always it is about the music,” he said. “And I believe … so it is with you.”

  She was about to reply, but later would not recall what she would have said. That was when she heard labored breathing, growing nearer. Someone mounting the stairs. Together they turned towards the sound.

  “You brought her here.” Tarik Ibn-Mor, his eyes like dark glass, standing at the top of the stairs. His silver cloak glistened.

  “If she is to aid us, she should see how we work,” said Zahir equably, as if he didn’t notice that the other man, though expressionless, was seething. “You are here for your watch?”

  “I am. Have you had word?” Tarik spoke as if Lin were not there, his gaze trained on the First Magician.

  Zahir shook his head. “Tonight has been quiet,” he said, and pressed his palms together at his chest. “Prayers be with the prince.”

  Clearly it was a ritual, for with the same gesture Tarik said, in flat tones, “Prayers be with the prince.”

  Later they were out in the courtyard, back on the ground after what seemed an interminable descent. The sky left behind. Lin keenly felt it, like a loss. Yet nothing was changed. Water splashed among the night flowers as before.

  “So we part ways here,” she said, stretching her arms above her head with a sigh. She thought of the chamber where she was to sleep, soft and perfumed and silent. Isolation rose in a wave. Not even a pretty servant-spy would dispel that, she knew. That, she had known all along—her thoughts of the evening meal a game of self-deceit. “I’ll bid you a good night,” she said.

  “Not yet, if you will,” said Zahir Alcavar. There was that cat’s gleam in his eye. “The night isn’t over.”

  * * *

  THE route to her took him through the palace at night, a different sort of splendor than had been lit vividly at sunset. The king’s boat had deposited them ashore just before dusk. In a procession they had ridden from shore up a road that wound with the curves of the mountain, past terraced fruit trees and walls ornamented with carvings delicate as a spider’s weave. Ned had marveled at the entrance hall tiled with porphyry, at rooms gilded as the inside of a jewel box. Gardens interwove with rooms on every level of the palace, wild or tamed, with flowers like explosions of fire and trees in bloom. He knew what he saw was a fraction. The tales he’d heard were true, more than true.

  With nightfall, the colors dimmed. Low-burning coals in the braziers cast a ring of light on the wall carvings, left the rest in darkness. On his way Ned came to a courtyard where pillars lithe as birch trees surrounded a still, square-cut pool that held the moon.

  If he had been a poet, Ned thought, he might have lingered here. But someone like him had no business tarrying in a place like this. He was tasked to act: his thoughts about it didn’t matter. He was no more than a concealed knife in the Court Poet’s sleeve. Yet even after he’d left the courtyard behind, that image, of the moon doubled in water, lingered in his mind.

  When he showed the pearl-encrusted ring to the door attendant, he was led inside without a word, down a hall hung with silk draperies, their embroidered designs vague in the half-light of braziers. The steps of the servant made no sound; in contrast, Ned thought his own boots rang a vulgar announcement on the tile. It would be painfully clear to anyone that he was not of this place. Nonetheless: he had bathed from the dust of the journey and changed into his best clothes, which included a jacket of blue jacquard of which Rianna was fond. Had shaved using the copper mirror and scented oils provided, taking care not to look himself in the eye.

  What he had not done was apply the scent that had been presented to him in a handsome brass jar. Had resisted the urge to throw it back at the impassive servant who offered it. It might have been a gift for all honored guests. Scents were distilled and mixed in the Zahra itself, with some valued for medicinal properties. Some would have brought a fortune to Tamryllin merchants. He had learned something of trade in his travels—what seemed long ago.

  The male attendant, garbed richly as a monarch, remained expressionless as he motioned Ned Alterra to enter. Without allowing himself to think—though a part of him still with the calm pool, its doubled moon—Ned parted the curtain that led to her.

  She was seated at a table ringed with red candles that stood in tall brass sconces, each split at the base into four clawed feet. She had changed her dress from the opulent absurdity of earlier; her robe was simple and yellow, kirtled with gold thread. Peering from beneath the robe a slippered foot, all soft satin and gold beads. Her hair only partly braided, flowing soft around her face. “Come,” she said. “Sit. Do you like wine?” A woman at her elbow held a pitcher and cups—porcelain glazed to look like gold. Ned remembered: there was a prohibition among those who worshipped Alfin against drinking from vessels made of metal.

  With a murmured assent, he allowed himself to be seated at the table. And then saw the table for the first time. Ned felt his brows draw together. He looked from the table to the queen and back again.

  “Wine,” he agreed, and took the cup, drained it. When he was done, he saw the queen was watching him with a small smile.

  In a way that gave him an opening. “You like to play games, I see.”

  “This is why I invited you here.” She balanced her chin on her fingertips, looking mischievous. “Are you angry?”

  “No.” Ned could have laughed in that moment, but it would have come out wild, strange. He restrained himself. When at last he could speak, he managed a casual tone. “Though it does raise some questions. The first being: is this what you meant by my ‘performance’?”

  She laughed. But he thought, when her eyes turned to the table, figures of black and white lined up in rows on the squares, it was with a veiled look that was not amusement at all. “This is the game that interests me, Lord Alterra. And I so rarely have the opportunity for a fair match. No one wants to win against their queen, you see.” Here her lip curled with scorn. “Or they imagine this is a whim for me, like a new face powder, and will not engage with all their wits. It is a bore, you know, to defeat someone not even in the fight.”

  “What game is it?” He narrowed his eyes in concentration as he took in the game board. A new, different sort of task. His knees were weak with relief; at the same time, he felt unprepared. And beneath that … he would not look too closely.

  She was smiling as if they were already friends, as if his agreeing to play so delighted her. “Do you not know it? It is the Game of Kings.”

  “I have heard of it.” He thought he had played it once or twice. A childhood memory.

  But he would have remembered a gameboard like this. The alternating squares of black and white were marble, the white veined with red. Also carved from marble were the pieces, their faces dignity in miniature. Each side had its king and queen, the white with tiaras of diamond, the black with rubies. Alongside these he noticed the figures of bearded men in long robes who held staves, each topped with a jewel to match the royal crowns. “The Magicians,” said Rihab Bet-Sorr, noting his glance. “I suppose in Tamryllin they would be Court Poets. Each side is a court, you see. The game … it’s the only game that matters, isn’t it?” She had taken up the king on her side, the side of blac
k. Her slender fingers with their painted nails stroked it in a manner almost sensuous, or seemed so to Ned. But her gaze was far away. “Kings fight to keep ahold of the throne while the queen—their queens—must play the game. As you’ll see, the king can do little on his own behalf, so hampered is he by tradition and ceremony. These weigh on him like the crown itself. The queen—she is more skillful at maneuvering. But surrounded by enemies. Much of the battle falls to her.”

  “When you say that,” he said, “do you mean the queen is the more powerful piece?”

  She nodded. “She can move this way, and that, and that, to capture a piece.” She demonstrated with her own queen, using it to knock one of Ned’s foot soldiers from his front line. “The Magicians have power, too, but they are at her command. Capture the queen,” she said, staring at the board, “and more often than not, you’ve as good as won the game.”

  “It sounds … straightforward,” Ned said, studying the positioning of the pieces. He wondered where on such a board he would be. He was no Magician. His eyes fell on the disposable soldiers on the front lines. They were not as finely carved as the rest, their faces crude copies of one another. But there were other pieces, too. There were horse heads as if inspired by a royal battle charger—not as disposable as the more numerous men-at-arms, perhaps. But loyal. In the end just as ready to die for their king, or queen.

  Rihab was saying, “It may sound simple, but you will see it becomes complex. Sometimes power is its own price.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She smiled, though it seemed forced, like a curtain coming down on a lamp. “That, I should keep to myself,” she said, “if I want to win against you.”

  * * *

  THEY followed a melody through trees. A lonely tune, picked out on a woodpipe. Or it sounded lonely to Lin. A harp was different: the strings keeping company with each other, a sound ethereal rather than plaintive. Melancholy, yes, but that was something else.

  Perhaps Valanir Ocune would have disputed this point, she thought, keeping Zahir Alcavar in sight ahead of her, the gold of his sash. There were few absolute facts about their art, it was clear; her own thoughts were often at odds with the Academy. As if on her solitary path she had picked up other things, odd and random, like brambles caught in one’s cloak on a walk through the wood.