Fire Dance

by Ilana C. Myer

  She trailed him through the grey dark of moonlight into the deeper dark of tree shadows, scented with orange blossoms. A nightingale’s song carried on the breeze. They were in the imperial gardens, those which could be seen from the throne room. Even at sunset Lin had noticed that there seemed no end to them. Upon entering now, Zahir had listened a moment, then said, “Ah!” when the woodpipe was heard. And smiled. Then motioned that she follow him, down the garden path before swerving from it, into an unmarked wilderness of trees. He didn’t explain—not about the music, nor the garden, nor the reason for coming here.

  It didn’t matter. The alternative was the silence of her room and the dream. She would have agreed to almost anything.

  At one point she did whisper, grabbing hold of his sleeve, “I feel as if … I’ve been here.” The scent was overwhelming in what it recalled to her, despite the memories not being hers. As was the construction of this garden; the way the sight lines teased, made you think you were coming to one thing, only to see another in its stead. Every angle you stood, the prospect changed dramatically. There was a pattern to this, and an art, that was decipherable once you recognized it.

  Zahir stopped then. He bowed his head as if she’d told him something disquieting. “Edrien Letrell played in the court of Ramadus,” he said. “Was welcomed as a guest there. Yusuf Evrayad wanted his palace to resemble that court.” The pipe had broken off a moment, but soon resumed.

  “Do you think he succeeded?” Lin asked, recalling that Zahir had been in the court of Ramadus for a time.

  He thought a moment. Then: “In some ways. But the Zahra—it is no copy of anything, in the end. Whatever Yusuf might have wanted. It is itself.” The tune of the woodpipe soared, became wild. Neither happy nor sad—at a remove from both of these. For Zahir it seemed a signal. He held out a hand to her. “Come.”

  After a moment she took his hand. It was roughened, with a firm grip. So he was a fighting man. In bouts she wore gauntlets to keep the palms of her hands smooth, as befit a Court Poet and lady of Amaristoth. They walked together. The warmth of his hand, after days without contact, a reminder of isolation. This and the refrain of the pipe twisted within her as they trod the grass; she breathed deep of the garden scents to clear her thoughts. To forget everything but this moment, since nothing around it—before, or after—could be altered.

  Soon they heard not only the nightingale and the woodpipe but the sound of falling water. She was not surprised when they stepped into a clearing and saw that the moon shone on a waterfall and beside it, a stream. She was more surprised that she recognized the man who played music at the water’s edge. He sat cross-legged on a blanket in the grass. Willows dug their roots into the bank, their branches dipped to the water in curves, like a lady dropped in a curtsy.

  As they approached, Lin disengaged from the First Magician. She bowed to the man by the stream. He stopped playing, looked bemused. “No need for that here,” said Eldakar. “Sit with us.”

  “In this garden you—drop formalities?”

  Eldakar’s smile looked sweet to her, and sad. “Here, we become ourselves.”

  Zahir knelt in the grass, then stretched full length beside the king, the back of his head cupped in his hands. He let out a long sigh and closed his eyes, as if, at long last, he was at rest. Almost absently, the king reached over and squeezed the other man’s shoulder. Zahir raised himself on an elbow. “A long day,” he said, looking up at Eldakar’s face. “How are you?”

  “I am home,” said Eldakar. “We—all of us—are home. For now that is enough.” He looked to Lin. “Please make yourself comfortable, my lady,” he said, indicating a spot on the blanket. “I swear to behave with every propriety, as will my friend.”

  She smiled. “A rash promise,” she said, “if even half of what I’ve heard of this place is true. But I was listening to your playing. I did not know that you, too, are a musician.”

  “It is something my father despised,” said Eldakar. “My love of music. Of poetry. Oh, these things he approved at his court—he wanted a name for sophistication. Kahishi was, before his arrival, too riven by feuds and dynastic battles for art, for music. So he took pride in these, as the fruits of peace. But not from me. Not from his son.”

  Now it was Zahir’s turn to reach out, to lay a hand on his friend’s knee. “There was no pleasing that man.” A bitterness low in the throat. “You are worth ten of him.”

  “But I am no warrior,” said Eldakar. “He was right about that. Mansur should have had the throne. I would give it to him if I could.”

  Lin curbed her shock—it helped, in this instance, that it was dark. A king did not say such things, her instincts told her; except just now, one had. She thought of Eldakar seated on the golden throne, alight with the sun. His mien impassive, stately. He knew as well as she did—better, even—what kings did and did not say.

  But since he had, she could ask. “Why don’t you give it to him?”

  His response was a mirthless grin. “There is a belief in the countryside that if the heir—the eldest male issue—does not inherit, the land is cursed. The crops will fail, rains will not come. In the cities fewer believe this, but I cannot afford to induce panic—not at such a time. The same people who scorn my presence on the throne, who see me as a weakling king, would still see no one else there. Under only one circumstance will they accept Mansur as king.” A silence, and there was no need for him to explain this last. A cricket chirped from the willows; another answered. Lin thought of a legend from her home, from northern Eivar, from a time before Eivar could have been said to exist at all. Of occasions when the lands were infertile, were said to cry out for blood in place of rain. A king’s blood.

  An image came to her of Eldakar with a black grin across his throat, his face waxen pale, and she shuddered.

  The king said, “There is no real choice. If I were to abdicate…”

  He trailed off. Zahir shook his head. His eyes were fixed on Eldakar’s face, as if he could read it as he did the stars. A look that weighted his words. “These are dark thoughts. Why need you dwell there?”

  A breeze wafted towards them. Roses, such as Lin had seen earlier. This intertwined with other scents she could not identify. In the gardens throughout the palace she had noticed lilies, irises, narcissus, and others she didn’t know.

  Eldakar smiled again, and Lin was sure now that it was with sadness. “Mansur is a fine brother,” he said. “I know he cares for me. But if he became king … well, if he did not quietly have me killed, one of his supporters would do it. So we remain in this bind. So we dance. And I must try to save this place, which I love. Mansur’s love is for war … he has little interest in the Zahra. While for me, this place is home. Anywhere else, I would be an exile.”

  On impulse, Lin knelt in the grass. “Eldakar,” she said. “You honor me tonight with your trust.”

  He nodded. “Zahir has told me I can trust you,” he said. “And to him I would entrust my soul.”

  A memory reared up: she was in the hills north of Tamryllin, in the company of two men. Before so many terrible things had happened. She felt Darien Aldemoor and Hassen Styr beside her. Not as ghosts, nor quite as memories. She simply felt them there. Almost she could imagine twining her hands in theirs, the comfort that brought—one that had evaporated so quickly.

  Lin sank into a seated position in the grass. “How came the two of you to be friends?”

  The two men looked at each other with identical wry expressions. Zahir laughed. “I assume you’ve heard the rumors.”

  “I…”

  “Let her alone, Ramadian,” said Eldakar, punching his shoulder.

  “It’s not my business,” said Lin, and meant it.

  “For some things there is a time, a season,” said Zahir Alcavar. He had turned serious. “And after, one might go on in a different way. Now Eldakar belongs to Rihab Bet-Sorr. But some things are as before: we meet here, some nights, for music; by day, in the practice yard. And sometimes
…”

  “The city,” said Eldakar. “Though that is … a greater risk than it used to be. To be recognized, as prince, was a game. As king … that is something else, again.”

  “What about the queen?” asked Lin. “Doesn’t she want to see Majdara?”

  “She would, most likely,” said Eldakar with a smile. “But she knows the way of things. A queen is a treasure to be guarded. Otherwise her reputation is stained forever. I think she understands.”

  “Rihab?” Zahir shook his head. “She understands everything. More than we can imagine, probably.” He must have seen Lin’s quizzical look, for he added, “Perhaps you haven’t heard how Rihab and Eldakar met. It was here.”

  “Here?” She gestured around them, at the waterfall, the willow trees. She remembered Ned’s story of the king coming upon a singing slave girl, that he’d had from the guardsmen. It was hard to picture it now.

  “Here.” He turned to Eldakar, who was looking away, appearing embarrassed. “Our king—prince at the time—was in search of a rhyme, but quite in his cups. He couldn’t think of a way to end his poem. And then suddenly from out the trees, one of the singing girls spoke up. The poem, as it stands now, has become a popular song at court.”

  Lin raised an eyebrow. “The singing girls.”

  “She had a way of distinguishing herself,” said Eldakar.

  “And still does, I am sure,” said Zahir, and laughed when his friend winced. “Stop that,” said Eldakar. “You ought not dare, considering what I know about you.”

  “True enough,” said Zahir.

  No longer did they make her think of Darien and Hassen. Nonetheless the presence of her lost friends was with her, as if they lounged here in the grass. They would have loved this place, and to make songs here.

  As Zahir had said, Lin thought, one goes on. Even if not, not ever, as before. “I would hear more of the tune you were playing,” she said, hugging her knees to her chest. “If you would be so kind.”

  They sat there a while. Eldakar took up his pipe, shut his eyes. The melody still sounded lonely to her; as if even loved as Eldakar was, a corner of his soul stayed apart. Some time passed, and then Zahir began to sing, wordless and melancholy. The two men leaned together. In their movements she read a story: of adventures in the city, a headlong passion, of plans that had faded like the roses would, once the demands of monarchy asserted themselves. And seeing this story, or even a piece, made her feel some of its sweet ache, and a desire to open her voice to it, release it that way. But she was silent. Somewhere the nightingale resumed its song, a counterpoint to music joined with a man’s voice at the water’s edge.

  It was a moment, Lin thought, in which she would have liked to take root, stationary and content, as time and mortality slid around the three of them and away.

  * * *

  THE red candles burned low, and she had beaten him three times. Wine was replaced with steaming cups of khave, bitter and rich. Giving him a jolt of false alertness amid fatigue. Ned scowled at the board. Across from him Rihab Bet-Sorr sat with her legs crossed, one slippered foot over another. Her lips parted as she gazed toward the vistas of garden now more clear in the growing light. Every so often Ned would look up and see her in this same pose, unchanging, as if she’d forgotten their game. Yet this mattered not at all for his chances: at each turn she demolished him.

  She did this without triumph, but also without seeming to think; her expression one of weary inevitability. By the time Ned Alterra realized that once again, her pieces were assembled to entrap his king, there seemed no way to reverse it. “How are you not tired?” he said at last, rubbing his eyes. They had spoken little in the course of the night. Ned was drawn into the contest despite himself. She, in turn, seemed to have no need of conversation.

  She shrugged. “I see you are tired. There is no shame in losing, Ned Alterra. As time passes, you will improve.”

  “How long have you been … at this?”

  “The game? Some months. Or weeks. I don’t recall.”

  He swore softly. He had thought, perhaps, she was long-practiced at this. “Pardon me, lady,” he added, remembering himself.

  She smiled, though it was abstracted, as if her mind was elsewhere. “You are an intelligent man,” she said. “Don’t doubt yourself. It is a pleasure to see how fast you learn, compared to others I’ve played against. I promise you.”

  He did not know whether to be irritated or touched by this extensive reassurance. A salve for his male pride. Largely, he thought, it depended how tired he was.

  The girl who served them khave—a new one, as he supposed the one with the wine had gone to sleep—approached the queen’s elbow. In Kahishian said, “He’s here, my queen.”

  Coming up behind her, in a silk robe and with shadows under his eyes, was Eldakar. He leaned over the back of her chair, hands on her shoulders, without sparing a glance for Ned. She tilted her head against his arm and closed her eyes. “Why are you still here, my heart,” said Eldakar. A tone playful and weary, as if this had happened many times. “Come.”

  When she spoke, her eyes closed, it was a murmur. Both men leaned close to hear. “The game,” she said. “It doesn’t stop.”

  “It does when the king commands it,” said Eldakar, teasingly, and kissed her behind the ear. She made a low, gratified sound in her throat. Ned rose hurriedly. “I shall … take my leave, majesties. Wishing you both a good night.” Or a good morning, he thought sourly. How Rianna would laugh at him, if she could see where he’d gotten himself tonight. A thought like a sudden ache.

  “Wait,” said Rihab, rising too. She extended a hand. “Let us play again soon. Tomorrow?”

  “As the queen commands,” Ned said with a bow only slightly mocking, which seemed safe; Eldakar was distracting her with kisses again, this time on the nape of the neck. When at last Ned Alterra extricated himself from the room and found himself back in the long marble-tiled hall, he needed time to orient himself. Nothing seemed familiar. But there was an attendant, a new one, with movements like oil, to conduct him to the corridor entrance.

  Ned’s thoughts were a welter as he made his way back. He had arrived at the queen’s chamber with a mix of dread and compelled desire; the latter was chilled, dampened, by hours engaged in a battle of wits. But Eldakar’s arrival served as a reminder of what Ned had earlier been expecting to do; and he found himself disturbingly overheated as he recalled the sound Rihab Bet-Sorr made when kissed behind the ear. Yet he could not shake a memory that seemed important, despite the protesting distraction of his body. As he was leaving, Ned had met the queen’s gaze once more. What he saw, in the moment before departing, was the same fatal inevitability as when she maneuvered her pieces on the board. Setting the trap.

  CHAPTER

  7

  THE night of vigil ended with Dorn Arrin and the other singers bearing the body of Archmaster Myre in a procession to the water. Their singing pitched deep, wordless. Under fading stars they lay the dead man in a boat carved of blackthorn. Pallid as the robes he wore, the High Master looked more severe, even fearsome, than he had appeared in life. Hands folded on his chest, his ring towards the sky. A diamond, lightless in the grey dawn.

  It was the Archmasters, the nine who remained, who bore torches to the bier and set the oil-soaked rags alight. As the ritual boat glided from shore in smoke, the Archmasters enjoined the procession to turn away—not look back. As a result of their night’s work, the barrier to the Otherworld was thinned, dissipated. They released the High Master from this life through a portal of flame. The boat would catch quickly, a transient flare on the water. But to look into the dark realm was forbidden. Thus the men departed with the snap and hiss and scent of smoke at their backs, until even that was gone and they were once more in the wooded stillness of the Isle.

  Dorn returned to his room, weary to his soul. Though all was quiet, the memory of music and of merged voices pursued him. In the next bed Etherell Lyr lay on his back, arm outstretched, lips gently
parted. The impulse that overwhelmed Dorn in that moment was agony; he suppressed an unseemly keening that would have been from the heart. It was the night, of course, that had done this to him. Cut him open, the wound exposed to air. He hated it. His accustomed rage was painful, but still more easily borne than this.

  He collapsed into bed and next he knew the room was too bright, every one of his limbs weighted to the bed. His mouth tasted of dust. It must have been past noon. The next bed was empty—and a mess, of course. Etherell saw the rules for students’ tidiness as a suggestion, or a jest. Somehow he never got in trouble.

  Dorn was ravenous. With an effort he dragged himself up and threw on his clothes as fast as he could. He did stop, however, to tidy both their beds. He didn’t care much about rules, either, but from his father’s workshop had learned to loathe a disordered surface. Or else there was refuge, a solace, in order. Either, or both.

  He was in time for the noonday meal, as it happened. As Dorn sped down the spiral staircase to the main floor he heard voices in the dining hall. Had he been thinking more clearly, he would have realized it was past noon and should have been too late; but hungry as he was, and tired, he didn’t think. So when he set foot in the dining hall Dorn was momentarily halted in his tracks. For while the other students were there, and the Archmasters, there was a man at the high table whom Dorn could not identify, who now addressed those gathered. Seated beside him was a smaller figure, cloaked and hooded in blue.

  The man was tall, broad-shouldered, and very handsome. Instead of a robe he wore a simple tunic and trousers that showed a trim yet muscled frame. In short, he looked nothing like the Archmasters with whom he stood at the high table. As Dorn took his seat beside Etherell, the man was saying, “It will be my honor to take a place here, where I once studied the art like all of you. I have traveled much of the world, seen wonders most would not believe, but always I yearned to return to my home.”