Fire Dance

by Ilana C. Myer

  One’s shadow is private, she thought. Then wondered—as she often did—if the thought was her own.

  One’s shadow. Rayen flinging her down stairs to the music of their mother’s laugh. His fist springing to take her in the jaw. The time he’d carved the blade of his hunting knife, slowly, in the palm of her hand. And that last day she’d seen him, when he’d tied her down and sketched on her chest a sign in blood meant for magic.

  It was not a darkness to share with the world. Sharing would not serve to illuminate it. It was hers.

  “There is a story,” Aleira had said, in a low, throaty murmur, rooting through a pile of books. “Yes,” she said, drawing out a volume of battered brown leather and finding the page. Lin glanced down, but it was not in a language she knew. When she refocused her gaze on the merchant it was with new admiration. Kahishian was the only other language Lin could read. “A Samarrian tale,” said Aleira, eyes on the text. “A man once sought revenge against the king for the death of his son. The boy had been unjustly put to death. This man, this Salman, he knew the only way to move against a king was with an army. Of course he had no means of assembling one, as a common craftsman. But there was a spell … this is where it becomes unclear.” Aleira pursed her lips. “There are no details as to how Salman called upon his army. I must do further research.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Not at all.” Aleira shut the book with a snap. “If Yusuf conquered that way, I want to know.”

  * * *

  THE Tower drew her to return later that evening. It felt that way—that she answered a call. As dusk lowered on the Isle outside the window Lin dipped her pen in ink and with a melody striking its first chords in her, she wrote.

  It had been a day of duties. After her sojourn in the city she had met with Garon Senn, who reported news to her of singular interest. It seemed that that afternoon, for a light repast of figs, dates, and olive bread, Tarik Ibn-Mor had met behind closed doors with the ambassador of Ramadus. Lin had noticed the man during the court introductions—slim, with a thin, clever face, going by the name Bakhor Bar Giora. Pale hair—a Galician, perhaps. Galicians were said to fill prominent offices in Ramadus.

  “So?” she said to Garon. “What was said?”

  They were in Garon’s chambers again, this time with tapers lit as evening crept at the window. They’d just sat in an interminable council with Eldakar, the Magicians, and various courtiers who represented the viziers; there was no news yet from Almyria, but an attack was expected at any time. Mansur Evrayad expected reinforcements from Vizier Miuwiyah to arrive any day. But Zahir had spoken passionately about the inadequacy of this number, based on seekings of the Tower of Glass. This attack of the Fire Dancers would make previous ones look like skirmishes. Eldakar had conceded that more men must mass in Almyria’s defense. Though Tarik did not raise the issue of Ramadus again this time, the pall of Eldakar’s fateful error was tangible in the confines of the chamber. Without a marital alliance, only shameful capitulation could gain the support of Ramadus. And Majdara had its pride.

  So Lin had left the council feeling as if Kahishian affairs weighed upon her. This was nothing like the comparatively minor matters she dealt with in Eivar, complicated as those might become. These events evoked the tension of an indrawn breath.

  And now, according to Garon, a meeting was held in secret between Tarik and the Ramadian ambassador.

  “How am I to know what was said?” He was annoyed. “But the fact of the meeting is itself significant. I found out only because I was keeping close watch on his rooms—it was not announced. And Bar Giora entered through the side door. It was clearly meant, as much as possible, to be kept private.”

  “All right,” said Lin. “Well done. But I must know what they are saying to each other.”

  “The Ramadian’s rooms are heavily guarded at all times,” said Garon. “But a look at Tarik’s papers would tell me much, I suspect. They can’t often meet. There must be correspondence of a sort.”

  “And you’re telling me his rooms aren’t guarded?”

  “They are locked,” said Garon. “Guarded? Only when the man himself is there. It is the Magician’s person that’s of value to the throne, not his possessions. And the Feast of Nitzan is soon.”

  “So?”

  “It is a time when the Magicians will be out in the city, participating in the rites,” Garon explained with an obnoxious air of patience. “A good time for me to make a move. To see what I can find. I’ll befriend Tarik now … see if I can get an idea where such correspondence is kept.” His smile here reminded her what he was. “Locks don’t hinder me, my lady.”

  “That’s no surprise,” she said. Sardonic, to cover the revulsion she felt. “Very well. So that is our plan. You’ll search his rooms during Nitzan.”

  * * *

  AT her desk in the Tower these concerns—of war in Almyria, of intrigues with Garon Senn—receded. If she were honest, she did not care about them at all. Not in ways that mattered. With each passing day she neared the abyss, and knew it; what else could truly matter to her? By day she did her duty as best she could. Her nights … these nights had become everything.

  She had moved beyond the favorite topics of poets. She had begun with pretty verses about the gardens of the Zahra, but had not felt satisfied with these; had moved on, from there, to a time-honored refrain—that of the poet on the road recalling home. But this didn’t draw her, either, perhaps because the idea of a home had never taken root for her. Where, after all, was home for the last Amaristoth, and a female poet, and a woman on the threshold of the final portal? Vassilian was a cold castle without her soul. Tamryllin, a place she loved, but where she was compelled to armor and mask herself. Home, to her, was a night singing at the fire with Darien and Hassen when they’d still had hopes; or when Valanir sang to her in the chamber overlooking the harbor, and she had let herself forget—for a moment—that they would be parted soon and besides, he had loved so many women. Moments like flame that danced to ash were all she knew of home.

  And what underlay these moments? What was the thread, the throughline, that drove it all?

  What belonged to her, not to the Seer who crouched in her soul?

  When she pressed the pen to paper again, Lin was thinking of the song that drew her, that must draw her now that it was soon to end. The one she owned in a way Edrien Letrell could not touch. The arc of her life.

  Lin Amaristoth wasn’t sure when it happened that night—the first time the world dropped away. She was at her desk, crafting a verse with painstaking care, crossing out lines, inserting new ones, starting over again. The next moment she stood in a corridor. One she recognized too well. Doors marched into the distance, as if multiplied by the reflections of a mirror: they were endless. The details of the place changed continuously, the eye couldn’t hold it. She saw gilding and marble, then whitewash and cobwebs, then carpeting and plush shadows, and on. This was not one place, she knew, but several, all at once.

  Kiara guard me here, she thought, but with a bitter edge; the goddess had done little yet to guard her that she could see.

  The only way out was through. Lin opened the door nearest her. She saw a room in the Academy; she knew this right away. It was lit only by a fire and smelled of rain-soaked leaves; the windows moonlit. Seated at the fire were two men, one with his back to her, hooded against a draft. Facing her, the mark at his eye a shimmer when he turned his head towards the window, was a face she knew well.

  “The girl will act as a concealment for me,” said Valanir Ocune to the man seated across from him. “An elementary task, without much in the way of danger. She is stronger than she knows. I want you to keep watch over her if—whatever happens.”

  The other man leaned forward. His voice was young, mellifluous. “It sounds as if you expect danger.”

  Valanir shifted in his chair. “I don’t expect it. But it makes sense to be prepared. That’s why I need you there. I know you have your duties. You must f
ind an excuse to get away.”

  The other man stretched. Even from behind, his movements were graceful, confident, qualities that also informed his voice. “Of course. As you know, I have my ways. But I’m interested to know what you’ll be doing that night.”

  “I’m sure you are,” said Valanir in acid tones. “But there’s a reason we’re meeting in this abandoned tower—which is awfully drafty, by the way, even with the firewood you brought. I must keep what I do secret.”

  “Even from me?” The man sounded half-teasing.

  Valanir shook his head. “It is not my secret to share,” he said. “What I can tell you is … It will be one of the most perilous acts I’ve attempted. Manaia is when the portals are thinned, more than they are already. The only time I might have a chance.”

  “So you do it for another.”

  Valanir smiled. “Someday you’ll know what that means, boy. Even if you don’t think so now.” His smile faded, and he looked bemused. “You could say what I intend to do the night of Manaia … I do for love. Gods help me.”

  “Love!” said the younger man. “You’ll need the gods’ help, indeed.”

  They both laughed. And then a darkness came over Lin’s eyes, as if someone had flung a bag over her head. A sickening jolt, and the room was gone. Lin found herself back in the corridor. When she tried the door again, it was locked.

  Dread tugged at her. Valanir going into danger. For love. She had been telling herself that she was the one in danger; that Valanir was safe. But had all along known better.

  The quiet in the hallway was oppressive. Lin knew there was no way out until the Path had had its way with her. It was still with that dread that she grasped the doorjamb of the next door, and pushed.

  The scene that greeted her, bright-lit and warm, brought to mind one of the paintings that sold to the newly rich, sneered at by the aristocracy. Such subject matter was seen as too cloying, too unashamed in its simple joy. It was the front room of a house, where a woman rocked her baby, a man at her side.

  The house was one like Lin had seen in paintings but never in life: small, cozily furnished, lit with a warm glow. Humble, yet rich with comforts. The home of an artisan, perhaps, or a moderately successful merchant early in his career. There was a fire in the hearth, and a carpet and couches. It was a place to take one’s ease, away from the cares of market streets.

  It took her several moments to recognize the man. He was in the far corner, after all, and blond hair half-hid his face as he bent over the woman’s shoulder to gaze at the child she held. The moment Lin knew him was when he began, softly, to sing. His hand came down to the woman; she grasped it. And then he turned his head so Lin could better see his face, just as his voice had made her know him.

  The glow of the home was within him, too. As Alyndell Renn sang, Lin saw, the melody was carried by a light from within. That light, of course, was love.

  The first, perhaps the only man she’d loved with her whole heart. Who had deserted her, pregnant with their child, when the offer of her hand came stripped of gold and titles.

  It had helped to think him incapable of love, Lin thought, as she closed her eyes. It had helped.

  She opened her eyes. The two of them played with the baby, each with a finger clasped in its fist. She saw the woman, lovely and curly-haired, with features soft and sweet.

  She saw Alyn bend towards the woman, kiss her hair. Closing his eyes a moment as if drinking it all in, the wealth of her and the gift of new life she had given him.

  Lin found herself at her desk in the Tower of the Winds. The air swam before her though she was dry-eyed yet. Maybe it will be all right to die, she thought, and hated herself for it.

  She looked down at the desk. The pen still gripped in her hand. Before her now, on the desk, a page of verses. They were unmistakably in her hand. But not written as her earlier attempts had been, in careful strokes, with words and phrases crossed out, rewritten. This had flowed swiftly and without corrections. Lin took up the page.

  I came to a place awash in light

  It stabbed me to the heart.

  Sweet and strong the contained hearthfire

  Sweet the voice that once

  Breathed through my hair, called me by name.

  Those days are done.

  Here, then, was the throughline, the arc of her life, as some part of her had known from the start: it was loss. The lies that had assuaged her heart were turned like a knife in the hand; from defense to a truth that eviscerated. Lin’s head slipped into her hands. She remained that way as night fell on Academy Isle and a wind rose off the water, carrying the promise of rain and the old, much older scents of the sea.

  * * *

  SHE found them in the gardens, though not in the way she expected: Rihab Bet-Sorr was there, too, standing with Eldakar by the waterfall. Lin was not sure how she recognized the queen in the dark—perhaps it was her proud carriage, her willowy body like the trees along the bank. And Zahir was there, but stood apart as if to allow the couple their space. It was he that Lin had been seeking.

  As she approached she saw that Eldakar and the queen did not quite stand together. “You don’t listen,” said Rihab.

  Eldakar reached across the space to touch her cheek. “Every word you speak is precious to me,” he said. “It grieves me to see you unhappy—more than you know. But this is my home, Rihab. My duties are here. What would you have me do?”

  “I don’t say to leave forever,” she said. “Just … for a time. Until the tensions of the city have eased.”

  “This city is my responsibility,” said Eldakar.

  The queen shook her head. “It has cost me so much to love you.” She turned abruptly, vanished into the trees.

  “Go to her,” said Zahir.

  “No.” Eldakar was like a sorrowful statue beside the water. “Nothing I say can assure her. Nothing I do. She is going to her game, most likely. The only thing that can distract her mind. That mind,” he said, sounding tired, “that is always, always at work, even when we make love.”

  “That need not be altogether a bad thing,” Zahir said gently, and his friend laughed, but even as he did so covered his eyes with both hands. “I can’t make her happy,” said Eldakar.

  Lin stepped forward, though with a pang of guilt for disturbing them. Both men looked up. “Lin,” said Zahir, in the same gentle tone he had used with his friend.

  “I must speak with you.”

  “Of course, Miryan.” He held out a hand. “Tell me why you look so sad.”

  * * *

  A SERVANT had escorted Ned to the spot where they were to meet, making it oddly official. For what seemed a long time they had wended the paths of the imperial gardens in the dark, with only the servant’s lamp to light their way. He expected it would be the site of another chess game. But when they arrived at the pavilion—dainty, carved of pale wood, surrounded by rose hedges—Ned saw there was no gameboard on the table. There was a pitcher of wine, and two cups, and the queen presiding over these with an expression he could not read in the lamplight.

  “Leave us,” she commanded the servant, who bowed low, lower than perhaps he need have; it occurred to Ned that this particular servant, a burly, grim-faced man who did not speak—who might have been mute—was more loyal to the queen than most. It would make sense, as her meeting Ned out here, away from the eyes of her maids and the other servants, was not the custom. For all he knew it was a breach of their laws, one that could pose a danger to him as much as it did to her.

  She indicated a seat beside her on the cushioned bench. A bench that seemed uncommonly long, wide, accommodating to anything they might do. Ned swallowed hard. “I believe I’ll sit here,” he said, and took the chair across from her instead. Making a decision as he did so. There was only so much he would do for Lin. And another thought—if he let this woman beguile him, if he made love to her, Ned knew it would not be out of loyalty to his lady and Tamryllin. It would not be for any purpose beyond himself. That m
ade the act out of bounds for him.

  “You are an unpredictable man, Ned Alterra,” said the queen in a voice that made him need to draw breath, slowly, as he sat down.

  “Not if you knew me,” he said. “Some very straightforward principles guide me, as it happens.” He poured himself some of the wine, without waiting for her to offer. Formalities had sometime, along the way, collapsed between them.

  “It’s a shame,” she said. “I had him leave the lamp here because I thought—better to see you.”

  Ned swallowed some of the wine. He allowed himself a moment, feeling the warmth stream the length of him. Potentially a dangerous warmth and yet … for now it composed him. “My lady,” he said, “if I may, I’ll be honest. I believe I know you to some degree after these few days.” When she did not speak, but only watched him with that unfathomable gaze, he went on. “It’s not me you want. You are in dread of something, and hopeless, and for whatever reason you can’t tell Eldakar. You are using me. Want to use me. As a distraction.” His breath quivered but he steadied it, as one did the prow of a ship in a high wind. “If it please you, my lady,” he said, courteously, “I will not be part of your game.”

  A long silence. He didn’t look away from her, would not betray how she affected him. Her eyes were pools of darkness.

  At last she said, “I love Eldakar. Do you believe that?” Like a child she propped her elbows on the table and her chin on her hands. “Ned, I’m so tired.”

  “I know,” he said. “The game never changes, you said. Care to elaborate?”

  “I love him but I can’t protect him,” she said, her voice dull now instead of smooth. “I try, but even I can’t decipher where the danger is coming from. And worst of all … I am being used against him, Ned. A web is spun to trap us both. I can see it. Eldakar—he sees only what he wants to see.”