Beneath Ceaseless Skies #66

by Brennan, Marie

  “The masters won’t like it,” he said, checking the girth strap on the gelding he’d been assigned today. That was another thing Seniade had no idea how to do; apparently Dancers hardly ever rode anywhere, for fear of warping their legs. She sat in her saddle well enough, but Anchor, the stable-master, was having to teach her how to put that saddle on.

  Rolier spat into the straw. “Masters turn a blind eye, if we’re not obvious about it. That’s why we’re holding off until we get to the creek.”

  It was true, unfortunately; so long as trainees kept their scuffles semi-private, it was considered part of their training. But it was hardly fair to jump the girl when she’d barely been at Silverfire a week.

  He thought about telling someone, but dismissed it a heartbeat later. That would only make things worse for her—and guarantee that he would find himself surrounded by his year-mates when nobody else was looking.

  He couldn’t bring himself to join in, though. Hoping to discourage Rolier, he said, “The Grandmaster won’t like it. He’s giving her a chance, at least, and if you break her neck—”

  Rolier snorted in contempt. “Won’t have to do that. People quit, you know. We’ll bloody her up a bit, and she’ll go crying back to her Temple.”

  Kerestel wondered if she could. Even if the Grandmaster released her... the way that old woman had spoken, he bet Seniade had left them for good. The girl had to be crazy, leaving a nice peaceful life like that for this. Had she not known how it would be? Or did she just not care?

  Shaking his head, he said, “I’m not going to risk it. Not this soon.” Not ever—but he couldn’t tell Rolier that. One-on-one fights, to settle some kind of score, didn’t bother him. This kind of mob, though....

  He’d said all he dared. Or so he told himself, until the saddling was done and the trainees lined up for their daily ride. Then an impulse seized him, as his horse passed Seniade’s. Quietly, pitching the words only for her ears, he muttered, “Watch yourself out there.”

  Judging by her stiff glare, she heard it as a threat. But at least she was warned now. Hoping it did some good, Kerestel kneed his mount forward. If he rode fast enough, he could be out of earshot before they caught her.

  * * *

  There was no hiding what had happened to her, of course. Everybody could see the black eyes, the split lip. Her clothing hid the rest of the bruises, though, and Sen was determined not to let any pain show.

  She hadn’t stood a chance. “We thought you could use a little sparring practice,” Rolier had said—and then they waded in, six of them, with others keeping watch. Six, Sen judged, was about as many as could usefully attack her at once. More, and they would have tripped over each other. She did what little she could, but before long they had her on the ground, and then it was mostly a matter of protecting her head and waiting for them to be done.

  No point in complaining to anyone. It would only show weakness, make people question her right to stay. The only solution, she thought grimly, is to get better. So they can’t do that to you anymore.

  So after the evening meal, when the trainees were free to work on whatever needed improvement, she slipped away from the others and through the compound. In theory she could go to the unarmed combat salle; in reality, she didn’t dare. Her practice would have to be private.

  Sen caught sight of a thick shadow in the dusk up ahead, familiar even after this short time, and drew back against a wall. Talon was the last person in the world she wanted to see—or be seen by—right now. Only when he was gone did she hurry onward.

  She’d seen a small clearing in the woods during their ride, before the other trainees jumped her. The space was open and flat, and so long as nobody was sent on a night ride, she should be able to work here undisturbed.

  It should have brought peace, as practice in the Temple always had. Breathing through the pain of bruises and wrenched muscles, she performed the basics, one after another, and even tried to copy one of the patterns she’d seen the others doing. But it wasn’t pain that made her stop, biting hard on one knuckle to keep from crying.

  I made a mistake. And she could never take it back.

  This wasn’t a Dance. It was empty movement, nothing more. No meaning in it. No transcendence. Sen knew what that glory felt like, and she could not imagine ever finding it here.

  She would not cry. She would not. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, centering herself, banishing the tears. And then she began to pray.

  She didn’t know how Hunters prayed. Probably the way she’d seen people do in Angrim, pricking their fingers to leave a small blood-offering on the railing before the Warrior’s statue. There was no statue here, and Dancers didn’t offer blood. They prayed instead with their bodies.

  Spontaneous movement, following the impulses in her heart. She felt the strength in her muscles, the smooth rotation and unfolding of her joints; she played with the poise and tension of balance, holding an unstable position until at last gravity rushed in and carried her onward. Sharp twists, powerful leaps—movements suited to the Warrior.

  It felt right. This was what she knew; this was what she was good at. And it brought understanding, as clearly as if the Warrior had spoken in her ear.

  Idiot.

  Sen halted, staring into the shadows beneath the trees. Of course there was no transcendence in what Talon had taught her. There hadn’t been any in Dancing, either, when she was five and barely knew how to point her toes. Transcendence came when she drew close to the Warrior, and the Warrior was perfection.

  Right now, you’re so far from perfect, you can’t even see it from here.

  But she knew the path that led there. She’d walked it before, in the Temple. Discipline. Practice. Rooting out her weaknesses until nothing remained of them. Perfection lay beyond human ability—but in reaching for it, she might find that lost glory.

  “What Talon’s shown you is the Warrior’s Dance,” she whispered to the night air. “You just aren’t Dancer enough—Hunter enough—to feel it. Not yet.”

  Her fierce smile cracked open the split in her lip and sent a trickle of blood down her chin. “So no more weakness. You can’t afford it. They might throw you out tomorrow. And if not tomorrow, the day after that. ‘Good enough’ isn’t good enough; you have to be perfect. And it starts now.”

  The hairs on the back of her neck rose, as if someone was watching her. Sen twisted about, eyes raking the darkness beneath the trees, but she saw nothing. Maybe it was the Warrior.

  If so, the Goddess was waiting for her to get to work.

  Licking the blood from her lip, Sen began to practice her blocks.

  * * *

  Her year-mates seemed surprised to find her in the refectory the next morning. Clearly they’d expected her to go crying to the Grandmaster, begging to be released.

  The other trainees didn’t matter, though. Sen had woken up with that realization clear in her mind. Oh, they were hazards; they could try and set her up to fail, as they’d done yesterday. But what she’d said to Rolier that first day was true: they didn’t get to decide whether she stayed or went. Only the masters did.

  Unfortunately, it seemed that Talon’s patience had begun to fray.

  After her first day under his eye, he’d mostly left her to practice the basics on her own, occasionally wandering by to offer a laconic bit of correction but spending the bulk of his time on her year-mates. The arrangement had suited Sen just fine. Today, however, he stationed himself in her corner as soon as the warm-up was done and said, “Show me what you have.”

  What she had was nowhere near good enough for him. “Toes forward, not sideways—Void it, you’ll break your ankle doing that, the instant you have to retreat on rough ground. Guard up. Up more. No, don’t tuck your ass under. What part of ‘move in a straight line’ don’t you understand? The more you flail around, the more your enemy will see you coming. Now hit my hand. Yes, hit it; I’m not afraid of you. A skinny thing like you isn’t going to hurt me, not until you get s
ome muscle on you. Stop floating, already—put some weight behind it!”

  Her year-mates were frankly staring, and this time Talon let them. Until she finished the basics, and he barked to the room at large, “Patterns! First five. Whoever does the worst on each one will run five laps around the compound. If that’s any of you lot, it’ll be ten instead, for being such a Void-damned disgrace that the new girl can best you.”

  The meaning of his words took a moment to sink in. “That’s right, my little kitten,” Talon said, grinning at her. “Get out there on the floor. I want to see how badly you can botch this.”

  Choreography. It’s just choreography. And a test she was set up to fail. He hadn’t taught her the patterns yet; what little she knew came from observing the others. Clenching her bruised jaw, she positioned herself behind Kerestel and copied his opening stance.

  It could have been worse. The first five patterns were quite basic, and there was a logic to the way the moves progressed. One block, followed by three strikes. Turn and repeat to the other side. They were built on a simple octagonal orientation, a far cry from the elaborately ranging movement of the Dance she’d performed in Angrim. But that didn’t mean her execution was anywhere near satisfactory—as Talon pointed out in vivid and venomous detail.

  As expected, she was the worst at all five. “Twenty-five laps around the compound,” Talon said with satisfaction, while Sen gasped for air. “You need them, too. I’ve seen Dancers, little girl. They’re impressive, for about two minutes at a time—but a Hunter needs endurance. You’ve got to be able to ride all day, and kill ten men at the end of it. And they won’t stop to let you catch your breath.” His eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me you can’t do it.”

  The threat in his words was plenty clear. “Not a problem, sir,” Sen insisted, and forced her legs into a run. As fast a run as she could manage, though she slowed once she got away from his gaze. She didn’t know the distance around the compound, but twenty-five repetitions of it was going to be brutal at any pace. Trying to settle her breathing, she added running to the mental list she had made during breakfast, of the extra work she needed.

  Running—and a partner. Going over the basics did her no good if she just kept practicing bad habits. She needed someone to serve as her model.

  Kerestel was good. He hadn’t been one of the six who attacked her, either. Had he kept watch for those who did? She didn’t think so. His words in the stable might even have been a warning.

  Well, if she was wrong, the worst he could do was beat her up again. And she could learn from that, too.

  * * *

  He didn’t beat her up. But he wasn’t as much use as she had hoped, either; she could snatch only brief spans of extra time with him, during the day, in the rare moments when the trainees weren’t otherwise occupied.

  “I need sleep,” he insisted when she tried to talk him into working at night or before dawn. “And so do you.”

  No, I don’t. Her body tried to argue otherwise, of course. Waking up grew harder ever day, weariness dragging at her, as if somebody had sneaked in and tied weights to her limbs while she slept. In truth, the weights came when she was awake: she had begged iron ingots from the school’s blacksmith, to help her get stronger. Push-ups, pre-dawn runs, practice with Kerestel—it was exhausting beyond anything Sen had ever put herself through, and she knew she couldn’t do it forever.

  But she didn’t have to. Just until she found the Dance within this movement. Once she had that, she could back off to something more like a sane pace. Until then... Warrior, give me strength.

  At least she was making progress, if not nearly fast enough. Kerestel showed her all the patterns they’d learned so far, and after that, Talon couldn’t yell at her for not knowing the sequences. He yelled about other things, instead. “There’s no strength in that—especially not with your weak excuse for arms! Have you been eating anything? The Crone herself hits harder than you do. Power comes from your core, from your other arm, not from your shoulder. Any idiot in a tavern can hit from the shoulder, and usually does.” Sen ground her teeth together until she thought she might crack one and focused on her core, the sudden twist uncoiling from her gut and back, momentum whipping out through her fist. “Hah. Next time, try to aim.”

  Day after day; she soon lost count of how many. Each day was a victory, but never the victory. She wasn’t as good as the others—nowhere near—and until she was—

  Sen kicked herself mentally. The others don’t matter. Ignore them. Ignore everyone and everything—Talon, Rolier, the stares, the whispers, the weakness of your body. The Warrior is there, waiting. You just have to reach her.

  Kerestel did what he could, though he wasn’t an advanced trainee, let alone a master. “You’re striking with the edge of your hand, see?” He demonstrated on the air. “You want your palm flat, nice and stiff. Fingers back a little. You should try it against one of the wooden dummies; you’ll need to toughen up your hands.”

  Because a Dancer’s hands were soft, delicate, not like the sinewed claws of a Hunter. She’d seen what Talon’s hands were like. More things to practice; the list kept getting longer. She wondered if she could sneak one of the dummies into her room. A tree will work just as well.

  For now, there were barrels, stacked against the back of the store-house they’d slipped behind for their secret practice. Sen hit one, experimentally, and nearly bit through her lip. Mother’s tits— She’d learned a lot of new curses since coming to Silverfire, and made frequent use of them. Did I do that wrong? No, it was right—or at least it was like Kerestel had shown—the problem was just her usual weakness. But she could get rid of that.

  “What’s with your head?”

  She turned to find Kerestel squinting at her. Sen ran one hand over her hair, wondering if there was something wrong with it. It felt normal. Still far too short, but grown out a little from the severe cut she’d gotten after her arrival at Silverfire.

  Ah. “The dye’s probably growing out.”

  His curiosity faded into surprise. “Your hair’s dyed?”

  “Did you think all Dancers were born with black hair? They do it to make us look more uniform.”

  “Huh,” he said, as if that had never occurred to him. “What color is it, really?”

  Sen opened her mouth to answer—and then every muscle in her body drew wire-tight. Stammering, buying time, she said, “I—I don’t really remember—it’s been dyed since I was five—”

  But he was coming forward, and it wouldn’t help if she shoved him away; it would only delay the inevitable, because she hadn’t thought to bring dye with her from Eriot. She had hardly given it any thought at all, not since she was five and her parents sold her to the Temple—but she remembered the days before that very well....

  Kerestel was there, reaching out, parting her close-cropped hair so he could see the roots better. “It looks red.”

  She heard him say the words; then she felt the shift in his body as he realized what he’d said.

  Sen stepped back, out of his reach. She could see the questions growing in Kerestel’s eyes, the pieces fitting together in a way she hadn’t remembered to fear. Strong for her size, and fast, more than she ought to be—more than anybody ought to be.

  “I’m not—” Sen began, but there was no point. They were already whispering about her, resenting her, the Temple Dancer let in three years late, and she couldn’t blame them for it; but all she had to do, she’d thought, was show them she deserved to be there. And now they never would.

  I’m not a witch.

  Not all witches had red hair—only most of them.

  Not everyone with red hair was a witch—only most of them.

  She had no magic; she just had her body. Strength, speed, and devotion to the Warrior, which had brought her to this place. But witches were “the unbalanced;” they all but ignored the Warrior in their worship. And Hunter schools, descended from Warrior cults, kept the witches at arm’s length, on the rare occasions they
dealt with them at all.

  Kerestel’s weight had shifted onto the balls of his feet, his body turned halfway into the combat posture that was already becoming habit for the trainees. As if he were about to defend himself—or attack.

  The others disliked me before? They’ll kill me, now.

  Sen turned and ran.

  * * *

  (Concluded in BCS #67)

  Copyright Copyright © 2011 Marie Brennan

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  Marie Brennan is the author of the Onyx Court series of London-based historical faerie fantasies: Midnight Never Come, In Ashes Lie, A Star Shall Fall, and the upcoming With Fate Conspire. "Dancing the Warrior" is a prequel to her novels Warrior and Witch. Her stories have appeared multiple times in Beneath Ceaseless Skies, including two set in the world of the Onyx Court novels, and “Driftwood” in BCS #14, which also appears in the BCS anthology The Best of BCS, Year One. She has published more than thirty short stories in venues such as On Spec, Intergalactic Medicine Show, and the acclaimed anthology series Clockwork Phoenix. More information can be found on her website: www.swantower.com.

  Read more Beneath Ceaseless Skies

  THE FAIRY GAOL

  by Heather Fawcett

  The blood drips from my fingers to the floor, where it coagulates into tiny pearls and baubles. Out of sheer boredom, I flick them through the branches of my narrow cell, my gaol, to be swept up into the skirts of the madames and ladies who fill the dance paths or end up crushed under their golden stilettos. A marble lands in the goblet of a River Knight bargaining for a new mistress, and wine spatters his gorget. My laughter resounds through the bedrooms of the inelegant brothel. I need these small diversions, after all. I am waiting to die.

  My laughter goes unheard. The men and women who enter the brothel, bringing with them the salty damp of last night’s flood and the scent of curdled caramelles hawked by the street vendors, do not notice the fairy gaol perched in the corner. One of the boys glances my way once or twice, but he is either attempting to discourage the attentions of a handsome condottiero or conscious of the dangers of revealing his sight to a fairy, for his gaze never lingers. I eye him as he moves through the crowd, distributing cheese, wine, and licquorice among the sweaty dancers. His green eyes and self-conscious grace are attracting attention from all corners of the room. I would gladly wrap him in my arms and drag him into Fairy, were I still at liberty.