DANCING THE WARRIOR
Copyright © 2011 by Marie Brennan
All rights reserved.
Published as an eBook in 2018 by JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
Originally published in Beneath Ceaseless Skies issues #66 and #67.
ISBN 978-1-625673-90-9
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Dancing the Warrior
Author’s Note
About the Author
Other Books by Marie Brennan
Dancing the Warrior
She was never happier than when she Danced the Warrior.
Kick hard off the ground, back arched, arms in a hard curve; then bend to land. Drop low into a crouch, feeling the wind of Sareen’s leap overhead. Then up, fast, to whirl around Thal, never mind the burning lungs and quivering calf muscles because all of that is a problem for later; right now, you are one with the Warrior, a body in motion, muscles and bone and blood, perfection.
Until it ended, and Seniade came back to herself with a rush, heart pounding so hard it shook her entire body. Only then did she remember her surroundings: the pentagonal temple of Angrim, with the oculus above streaming light down into the sacred space, the statues of the Aspects standing sentinel along the five walls, and the audience gathered to watch the Dance. An audience that was now applauding, each clap echoing and redoubling in the great chamber, tribute to the glory they had just seen. To Dance the different faces of the Goddess, and to witness it, was an offering to her.
What came afterward was much duller. When Sen was cast in the central role for this Warrior Dance, she had been ecstatic. She’d never stopped to consider that taking a special role in a special performance meant standing in a receiving line afterward, to greet the important members of the audience.
She drew some satisfaction from hearing the Lord and Lady of Abern congratulate her on the Dance—even if she knew they were also congratulating themselves, for having invited the company from the Great Temple in Eriot to visit their court in Angrim. But the crowd of supposedly important people seemed endless, and she had to fight not to fidget with boredom. “May the beauty bring you closer to her,” she said, over and over again, pasting a gentle smile on her face. This, not the choreography, was the hard part. Sen knew her own abilities very well: she was strong, she was fast, and Dancing—movement of any kind—came to her as naturally as breathing. But acting as a sort of priestess to the people who watched her? That made her want to crawl under a table until they were gone. Warrior, when will this be over?
She sighed, looked up—and froze. The next woman in line was a witch.
The words of greeting stuck in her throat. They weren’t the right words, anyway; priestesses, when forced to deal with witches, greeted them with “Blessings of the Goddess on the unbalanced.” But Sen wasn’t a priestess; she was only a very junior Dancer, and in no position to be rude.
The witch didn’t seem to notice her paralysis. Taking Sen’s hand, she smiled and said, “I remember you, from the Warrior Dance. Such power and force—I’ve never seen anything like it, especially from one so young. What is your name? How old are you?”
Her melodious, trained tones sent a shiver up Sen’s back. That voice had magic in it; Sen had to remind herself that spells were in some other language, and sung besides. The questions were ordinary, nothing more. But the woman, with her witch-red hair braided high on her head, had a severe, intense look, like a hawk searching for prey. Sen barely managed to say, “Seniade. I’m twelve.” Her mind flailed for the right honorific to address a witch, but failed to turn it up.
The woman didn’t seem to mind. “Simply incredible. You move like the Warrior herself. I would have expected to see a young Dancer like you in a Maiden role instead.”
Young Dancers mostly didn’t get roles at all, when they began performing at the age of ten. They only did group Dances, or decorated someone else’s solo: sisters of the Bride, ghosts to haunt the Crone. Sen shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not as good with the other Aspects.”
“Oh?”
All these questions were holding up the line, other people waiting impatiently behind the witch. But that melodious voice compelled an answer, even without resorting to magic. “They don’t . . . speak to me the way the Warrior does.”
It was the simplest explanation she could give. When it came to technical skill, Sen was better than anyone her age, as good as some years older. But those perfect moments never came when she Danced in honor of the other Aspects: that crystalline clarity, sharp as the edge of the Warrior’s blade.
“Fascinating,” the witch murmured, studying her as if she were an exotic bird, never seen before. “You serve her above all.”
With the memory of that performance still humming along her tired muscles, the reply rose to Sen’s lips, without need for thought. “I would dedicate myself to her forever, if I could.”
Another faint smile touched the witch’s mouth. “It would please the Warrior, I’m sure.” With a bow, she moved on.
* * *
The memory of her own words stayed with Sen long after the company returned to Eriot. The teachers noticed; she grew restless in practice, impatient with anything that wasn’t the Warrior’s Dance. Not wanting to disappoint them, Sen worked even harder than before—but again and again, as the year faded into winter and then warmed once more, she found herself in the Warrior’s shrine.
Most of that Aspect’s statues depicted her with a weapon, but here she wore only a breastband and loose breeches, the costume of a Dancer. The muscles of her body were sculpted into breathtaking perfection—the sort of perfection Sen aspired to, and might someday hope to reach.
On her knees before that statue one late spring day after she turned thirteen, Sen wondered. Is it wrong, to feel like I’m meant for more? Or for less: one Aspect, not all five. And for myself, not for those who watch me. Guilt gnawed at her heart. However well I Dance, I’m not a good Dancer. And I don’t know that I ever will be.
But what am I, if not a Dancer?
Thal found her there shortly afterward. “Sorry to interrupt—but Criel wants to see you.”
The company mistress. Sen’s pulse quickened. “Did she say why?”
Thal shook his head. Junior Dancers often ran messages, but rarely got explanations. Reflexively, Sen glanced over her shoulder at the statue of the Warrior. Had the Goddess decided to answer her cry?
The statue gave no reply.
Criel’s office was flooded with warm sunlight, gilding her whitening hair. She had to be in her fifties, at least; she’d retired from regular teaching shortly after Sen’s parents sold her to the Temple eight years ago. Nowadays she Danced only Crone roles, and those rarely. But there was still an elegance to her every movement as she led Sen to kneel upon cushions by the window.
Once settled, she studied Sen with an unreadable expression. Finally she spoke. “Are you happy in the Temple, Seniade?”
“Mistress?” Sen blinked in confusion.
“Children come to us at five,” Criel said softly, looking out the window. “Too young to choose. It’s necessary, of course; the training must begin early. But it means that not everyone has the calling. To be a Dancer is to be more than a body in motion; you become a con
duit between the people and the Goddess. And I know you struggle with that, sometimes.”
To hear her own doubts echoed back to her was terrifying. Quickly, Sen said, “I’ll try harder. I’m happy here, I swear—especially when I’m—”
She stopped herself before the words could come out. It wasn’t possible, that Criel could be thinking of sending her away. Surely a connection to the Warrior was enough. The rest would come with time. She just had to try harder.
Before Sen could say this, Criel rose, restlessly, and moved a few steps away. “What do you know of Hunters?”
It was unexpected enough to stop the panic growing in Sen’s gut. Steadying her breathing, she answered promptly. “They’re old Warrior cults, or they were. Now they’re, um…”
“Mercenaries,” Criel said, when Sen hesitated. Then she frowned and shook her head. “No, that sounds too common. Too derogatory. Call them individual warriors, who can be hired as bodyguards, spies, assassins, investigators—many things, depending on their school.”
It wasn’t uncertainty that had made Sen pause. She knew very well what Hunters did. Two years ago a cheap book had found its way into the Dancers’ dormitory, tales stuffed full of Hunters’ exploits; their independence and daring made them romantic figures for storytellers, whether as heroes or villains. Long after the rest of the Dancers had tired of the book and moved on to other things, Sen kept re-reading it. Even now, the battered volume sat in the bottom corner of her cabinet, carefully wrapped in a shirt.
Criel said, “If you wish it—you have a chance to join them.”
The company mistress waited, then waited some more; then she turned and peered down, concerned. “Seniade? Did you hear me?”
She had. And she didn’t believe it. This was a hallucination; Sareen hadn’t leapt high enough in practice this morning and her foot had clipped Sen in the head. Surely she’d misheard Criel, her brains jarred loose by—
Awkward as a marionette, Sen nodded.
“It’s a chance only,” Criel said. “There are no guarantees. But the Grandmaster of Silverfire has agreed to see you. Their training starts at ten—you would be entering late—but you have the physical conditioning. If I bring you to him, he may let you in. And—” She hesitated, then knelt once more on the cushion across from Sen. “You have a gift, Seniade. I would never have given that role to one so young, but your strength and grace are nothing short of astonishing. You are blessed by the Warrior. And if you have a chance to serve her more directly . . . I will let you try, if you wish it. With regret for our loss.”
Go to Silverfire. Become a Hunter. Leave behind everything she knew, the only home she truly remembered—in exchange for something she knew only through tales.
“If . . . if I go there—”
“If the Grandmaster refuses you, then we’ll return here,” Criel said. “But if you are accepted into Silverfire, then you cannot return. A Dancer’s consecration, once broken, cannot be restored.”
She wouldn’t risk anything by going, then. Only embarrassment, if her fellow Dancers ever heard she’d tried and failed.
And she would not fail. The mere thought was inconceivable. Beyond any doubt, this was a gift from the Warrior—which meant Sen had made her decision already, in the pentagonal temple of Angrim, after that perfect Dance.
Sen bowed low to the floor. The words rushed out, as if by speaking them faster she could bring the future to her now. “Thank you, Mistress. I will go.”
* * *
Sen’s first sight of Silverfire was the tower. It jutted up from the horizon, at first hardly more than a speck, then gradually resolving into a definite structure. Behind it lay a dark smear: woods, she thought. Closer by, a wall stood athwart the road, with a squat guard-post keeping watch. A short wall, Sen saw as she and Criel drew closer, not in height but in length. It ended not far away. Only an idiot would sneak into a Hunter school, she supposed—but then why have a wall in the first place? To give the trainees something to practice on, maybe.
A Hunter emerged from the guard-post as they drew near. Sen devoured every detail, trying not to stare. He wore the familiar uniform—full, loose breeches, wide sash, short jacket—but in a dusty, unremarkable grey rather than the black of the tales. No mask, either. His right arm hung in a sling; that was probably why he was here and not out on the road. According to Criel, Silverfire Hunters were itinerant, taking commissions from anyone with enough money to hire them, rather than accepting long-term contracts like some other schools did.
Sen liked the sound of that. Going where she was needed, not tied down to one employer’s whims. It seemed more likely to lead to the kind of grand deeds that would honor the Warrior’s name.
Criel produced a letter, and the Hunter, after reading it, jerked his thumb toward the buildings and gave them directions in a brief, bored tone. His eyes, though, showed more interest than his voice let on.
Sen couldn’t hide her own. Beyond the wall lay a sprawl of buildings and open areas: obstacle course, paddock, and that was definitely a forest behind. The stable they went to was small, clearly just for visitors; Sen spotted a larger one in the distance. A girl a little older than her took their horses. She wore grubby, mismatched breeches and shirt. Was she a Hunter trainee? Sen couldn’t tell.
Their destination was the building at the base of the tower, a blocky, two-story thing overlooking an empty ring of packed dirt. After the bright sunlight, the interior was blindingly dim. Sen heard a voice before she saw its owner: an old, one-eyed man whose scarred face wasn’t improved by his scowl. Once Criel gave him the letter, he rang a small bell, in a pattern that had to be a code. After a moment, a single ring came from upstairs. “Go on,” the man said. “He’s expecting you.”
Her heart beating so hard she was surprised nobody commented on it, Sen followed Criel up the stairs.
After that scarred old Hunter downstairs—not to mention the tales in her book—Sen expected the Grandmaster of Silverfire to be a white-haired elder with a long beard. Instead she found a lean man younger than Criel. His eyes were blue, his voice was mild, and it would have been very easy to mistake him for a nice man. The sharpness of his gaze, though, made Sen shiver. There was steel inside him, and he was letting her see it.
“You’re the Dancer,” he said to her after the greetings were done. Criel he ignored.
Not trusting her voice, Sen nodded.
“And you think you can be a Hunter, or you wouldn’t have come here.” He circled her, smooth as one of the Temple cats. “I’ve been told you have a gift.”
The silence stretched out, until Sen realized she was supposed to answer. How? If she bragged about her talents, he might think her arrogant; if she played them down, he might decide she was a waste of time. “I don’t know about that, sir,” she said at last. “Maybe. I’ve got eight years of training.”
“Dancer training.”
Which wasn’t the same, of course. “I worked hard for it, sir. I’ll work hard for this, too.”
“Hmm.” He circled her again. Criel opened her mouth to speak, but stopped at a brief gesture from the Grandmaster. The company mistress clearly didn’t matter to him, except as the woman who currently owned Sen’s apprenticeship, and he trusted his own judgment more than hers. Sen swallowed and held her ground.
—then jumped, at a knock on the door. The Grandmaster smiled, reminding her even more of the Temple cats—particularly a certain grey tom, who liked to toy with his prey. “Let’s see how you do.”
At his call, a boy entered the room and saluted. A trainee, Sen knew immediately; his brown, practical clothing bore a faint resemblance to the uniforms of his elders. “Kerestel here will be your partner,” the Grandmaster said. Of course; the boy wouldn’t get a Hunter’s name until he graduated. She wondered what he would choose. What she would choose, when that day came. Excitement fluttered in her throat.
Only after she had followed the others back down the stairs and outside to the ring of beaten dirt did she won
der: her partner for what?
“You may warm up first,” the Grandmaster said, as Kerestel began swinging his arms to loosen them.
Sen’s heart sank like a rock. Her partner for fighting. Criel had warned her all the way from Eriot that this invitation wasn’t acceptance; the Grandmaster would evaluate her, and only then decide. And this, it seemed, was to be her evaluation.
The boy seemed about her age, which would put him around his third year of training. But they weren’t equals—not anything like equals. Sen had thought her test would be a class, like Dancers had every morning, where the teacher could observe her for an hour or so. Not a fight, with no warning and no instruction, against someone by far her senior in training.
What was the Grandmaster looking for? Did he expect her to win?
Habit alone propelled her into the familiar, comforting patterns of stretching: backbend, calf stretches, various splits, getting through it all as quickly as she could lest the Grandmaster think she was stalling. Her muscles responded easily, even to the abbreviated warm-up. All right, so it isn’t fair. You still have to try. Covertly, she watched Kerestel. He was about her size, and wiry. Couldn’t judge his speed, not yet. He would expect her to be cautious, uncertain. Her best bet was to surprise him.
A single clap from the Grandmaster brought them both upright. Kerestel sank into a loose, ready stance; for lack of any better guide, Sen copied him and settled her breathing. Forget the people watching. Forget fear, and how much depends on the next few moments. Forget everything but the Warrior, who sent you here.
In that mild, deceptive voice, the Grandmaster said, “Begin.”
Sen rushed the boy.
His blue eyes flew wide in shock. Sen flung her arm out, hoping to tackle him to the ground, but Kerestel leapt to the side; her hand only caught his jacket, and before she could do anything with that he sent a fist flickering toward her head, so she had to release him and leap back. Sen cursed inwardly. She’d missed her chance, and now he knew to be wary.
The Grandmaster said nothing, so they began to circle each other. Sen’s attention was split, trying to avoid him and learn from him, all at the same time. Body angled away, hands up like— She leapt back from a sudden flurry of punches, staying out of range. But not too far out of range, or she wouldn’t be close enough to hit him. What was the best distance?
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