Tarov’s eyebrows rose. What could the woman have possibly said to him?
The master held up a hand to forestall any more of her protests. “I don’t want to lose you, Tarov, but your friend has the most potential for a great dancer that I’ve seen in a long time. I’d prefer to keep the both of you.”
Tarov couldn’t find it in herself to resent his decision, for his ambition to house the best dancers matched hers to become one of them.
Now she watched him approach Henel and sternly gesture at Tarov’s bloody leg. The golden-haired woman scurried over, concern etched all over her face.
“Tar, I’m so sorry,” she gushed. “I didn’t know such a famous dancer like you would cut herself over a little laugh. I promise it won’t happen again.”
And it wouldn’t either, for Henel never used the same ploy twice.
Tarov stalked off, refusing to let Henel tend her cut, and the other dancers frowned at her seeming rudeness to the ‘new girl’. Since Henel had joined the troupe Tarov found herself becoming increasingly unpopular, but she’d never been overly social with the rest anyway, too intent on learning the dance and erasing the pain of Braq. So she’d ignored them, telling herself she overreacted just because Henel always stood in the middle of the group.
But now half the troupe avoided her; a few actually even threw her hostile looks.
Tarov wondered how Henel managed it. The ability to poison other minds wasn’t one of Tarov’s own talents.
Instead of returning to her cabin, Tarov climbed the stairs to the top of the barge, took a deep breath redolent of seawater and musky growth. She looked ahead, to where the current wound through the sea trees, and then aft to the rest of the flotilla of barges and rafts, linked one-by-one with rope bridges, that she called home.
She loved this life; the travel from tree town to tree town, the different people and customs that awaited in each, and finally the excitement of the stage. Funny, how you never appreciate what you have, until someone threatens to take it away.
“No, it’s not truly funny now, is it?” said a deep voice.
Tarov turned to face the master, unaware she’d spoken her thoughts aloud. “Hardly,” she replied dryly.
He grinned, his gray eyes, with the telltale spots of green from ingestion of the zabbaroot, almost on a level with hers. A lean man, with a quick smile and a ferocious dance--she suddenly realized she’d never really looked at him before. She’d always seen him as her mentor, but never as just a man, and idly wondered why. Her stomach did a little flutter when she realized how attractive he looked with the wind blowing his auburn hair across his cheeks and brow, his dancers’ leggings showing the muscles in his calves and thighs. His bare chest gleamed in the filtered sunshine, tiny scars etched across his smooth skin.
Unlike Braq, who possessed a face handsome enough to take a woman’s breath away, her master possessed a more interesting face. Cut with lean angles, a hawk-like nose and high cheekbones, it reflected his strong character and willful soul.
He joined her at the rail surrounding the top deck. They watched the flow of the water in companionable silence; the schools of iridescent fish that swam between the rafts, and across the way, the colorful, parasitic growth that clung to the trunks and hung from the limbs of the massive sea trees. Tarov fought not to See or Hear beyond her normal senses. Zabbaroot was doled out carefully, and she’d been taught to focus the magic to only See the pattern of the dance, to enhance and Feel her body’s reactions to it.
“She’s jealous of you, you know,” her master murmured.
Tarov frowned. “Henel? With her looks and charm? There’s no reason she would be jealous of me. Something else drives her, although I don’t know what it is.” She took a breath, fighting to keep the bitterness from her voice. “And I don’t care to know.”
She felt him sigh, more than heard it, above the swirling of the water, the song of the birds, the rustle of enormous leaves. “What do you want, Tarov Jin’nidea?”
She narrowed her eyes, knew they also glowed green from the zabba she’d chewed for her practice. No one had ever asked her that question before, but she already knew the answer. “I want to be the best.”
“You already are,” he reassured her. “What I meant was, what does being the best mean to you?”
Tarov stared at the ‘ka she still clutched in her gloved hands. She should appreciate it when the master asked difficult questions. When she’d finally told him everything concerning Braq, he’d shown her how to use that suppressed passion and rage in her performance--which had resulted in her rapid success as a moon dancer.
She stepped away from the rail and swung the ‘ka briefly, and the bones of the sea monster sighed the beginnings of a song. Tarov still had enough of the zabbaroot in her system that she unwittingly Saw their pattern, and stilled them before she felt compelled to finish it.
“It means,” she finally answered, “an invitation to the Palace Tree, the opportunity to gorge myself on the offered root--not the bits and pieces we’re allowed by law--and to truly See the ultimate pattern with the full of the zabbaroot’s power.”
She paused, thinking of the retired dancers who clung to the flotilla, doing the most menial tasks just to be near the dance. Her stomach always twisted at the look of yearning on their faces. Tarov didn’t want to end up like them.
“And if I survive the dance,” she continued, “with mind and body whole, I’ll be the royals’ dance master, my name on the history rolls, my life one of pleasure and prestige.”
The master nodded. Few had attained the rank, but his expression said he thought she could be one of them. “Then let nothing get in your way, my dear. Nothing…and no one.”
Tarov stepped back to his side and turned to look into his eyes. What she saw astonished her. Did she imagine that warmth of feeling? And even more surprising, did she imagine she could respond to it?
“Your dance has changed,” he said, tilting his head at her.
Tarov frowned, too many new emotions roiling inside of her. “In what way?”
He continued to study her, as if gauging her reaction to his words. “You still dance for Braq, but your anger has subsided.”
“I was angry at him?”
“Of course. He left you. Twice. But your heart is healing, Tarov. You just have to allow it to do so. The zabbaroot gives us the ability to move with the speed necessary to wield the ‘ka, to Feel the patterns, but the true magic of the dance is within your own heart. Without that connection, the dance is no more than a series of practiced movements.”
The master had mentioned this before, but for the first time, Tarov thought she truly understood what it meant.
“My heart will never heal,” she said, surprised at the uncertainty in her voice. She’d said these same words over and over to herself for so long. “I can never love like that again.” There. That sounded more like her. She did not want to go through such pain ever again.
He reached out and touched her hair, and for a wonder, Tarov did not flinch away from the contact.
Still, he abruptly removed his hand and stared at it, as if he couldn’t comprehend the action of his own appendage. Then he flashed her a smile. “I am a few years older than you, so allow me to share what I have observed of the human heart. It is easily damaged, and hard to heal, but it yearns to be whole. It yearns for another to join it, for without that connection--just as in a moon dance--life will be only going through a series of motions.”
The wind snapped her hair across her face and Tarov took shelter within the covering. Were their hidden depths to this conversation? “So you think I--someone can love more than once?” she whispered.
He nodded. “If you are lucky to love once and be loved in turn, and spend your entire life with that person, it’s an unusual blessing. And since your heart is whole, you have no need to see another kindred spirit if one is standing right in front of you. But if your heart is broken, and you open yourself up to it…yes, Tarov. I believe ther
e is more than one possibility for love in a lifetime.”
He flushed, suddenly looking uncomfortable, yet determined. “What do you see in my dance, Tarov?”
“I’ve never thought of it before.” She closed her eyes, imagining all the times she’d seen him perform on stage. Lithe and strong, his ‘ka swirling around his body, creating a song that often made her eyes water with the sadness of it.
“Loneliness,” she blurted, her eyes opening to widen at him. “Master, you search for your soul mate every time you dance.”
He leaned toward her, and she fancied she could feel his breath on her cheek. “I would like for you to stop calling me master. My name is Dolph.”
Tarov nodded. “Dolph,” she agreed. And then took a step back, bewildered and almost frightened with these new feelings he stirred in her. She felt no easy camaraderie, like she had with Braq. This felt more like tension, like the hum of her strings when she spun her ‘ka.
And so the song of leviathan bones caught her attention as it drifted up to them, and they both wandered over toward the stage, Tarov confused, and Dolph apparently now lost in his own thoughts. When they looked down, they saw Henel practicing with the first-level bones; their ridged surfaces pitted with only a few of the music holes. The resultant melody lacked the complex harmony of Tarov’s thirteenth-level ’ka, but still managed a haunting tune.
They watched as Henel tried to force a connection with the virgin bones, knowing she’d fail, for the ‘ka chose its dancer, not the other way around. And the bones could be deadly unless the instrument and dancer became one. All the power of the root, or skill of the dancer, couldn’t change that. With a cry of frustration Henel abruptly flung down the ‘ka, stomped across the stage and grabbed a pair of virgin ninth-level bones from their intricately carved case.
Tarov cursed and ran down the stairs, Dolph trying to stop her but unwilling to come within range of her ‘ka, which twirled behind her.
“She couldn’t be ready for ninth-level yet,” she flung over her shoulder, unsure if anger at Henel’s insolence or fear for another dancer’s safety spurred her on.
By the time she reached the foot of the stage the dance had already begun. Tarov pressed forward, grabbing her ‘ka with her gloved hands, parting the sea of students in front of her. She could hear fragments of their whispers.
“She’s just jealous--”
“Wants to be the star of the--”
“Master’s pet--”
Tarov stopped in amazement, scanning the hostile faces. Another gloved dancer snatched her bones from her, an almost unheard of act of disrespect. Dancers usually hesitated at even touching another’s ‘ka. At least he had the grace to apologize, yet he didn’t return them to her, instead he handed them gingerly over to the master, who hastily pulled on his own gloves before accepting them.
“What’s the matter with everyone?” demanded Tarov. “Since when does the apprentice make the rules, and not the master?”
Her voice rose higher after each word, and several of the dancers told her in no uncertain terms to shut up.
She met Dolph’s eyes, but he just frowned and shook his head. “Too dangerous to stop her,” he murmured.
At the same time they turned to watch Henel dance, slowly mesmerized by what they saw. For Henel danced the patterns as Tarov would herself; even the free-form was an exact imitation of Tarov’s own erotic moves.
Henel also imitated a connection with the bones. Tarov could only sense this with the dregs of power from the root taken for her dance, but she Saw with clarity that the bones didn’t accept Henel. Heard it faintly in the song issuing from the spinning ‘ka. And Henel just barely got away with it using ninth-level, had she chosen even one level higher….
Henel finally finished her parody of a dance, and although reasonably unharmed she still bled in enough places to cover her entire body in a thin layer of red. She stood with pride while the audience responded to her bravado with cries of enthusiasm.
Her brilliant blue eyes--touched with a glow of green, sought out and met Tarov’s own, and then she smirked and stuck out her tongue. The other dancers howled with laughter.
Tarov trembled with frustration. Could it be possible only she knew what a travesty that dance had been? Then she met Dolph’s eyes and knew another had also Seen the truth.
The master stepped forward, took the ‘ka from Henel. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed,” he growled.
Henel batted her lashes, pulled off her gloves, and ran her hand down Dolph’s naked chest. He took a step back and glared at her.
“If you ever dance above your level again,” he continued, “you’re off my boat, do you understand? The bones retain the memories of the leviathans, Henel. With luck, a dancer can even reach out to them with their song. You can master the dance, but the bones must choose, and they showed you mercy today, that’s all. You will go through the levels like all of my students have to.”
Dolph turned and swept an arm at the assembled dancers, who suddenly looked chagrined. “Anyone stupid enough to skip levels can get off my boat now. I will not be the one to clean your sliced carcasses off my deck.”
Suddenly, the crowd found somewhere they urgently needed to be, leaving Tarov and Henel alone with the master.
“I’m so sorry,” whispered Henel, her blue eyes glittering with regret. “I just can’t wait to be good enough to perform for an audience--”
“Enough,” growled Dolph. “You’ll be scrubbing decks for the next week in penance. And if you ever threaten my authority again, it’s all you’ll ever be doing. The dance is dangerous, Henel. You show great promise, but unless you learn restraint, you’ll never live long enough to attain the thirteenth-level.”
Henel’s eyes widened, and Tarov thought she truly looked frightened. Then she lifted her chin, threw a glare at Tarov, and stomped off to the cook’s cabin where all the cleaning supplies were kept.
“If she would only harness such emotion in her dance,” muttered Dolph.
Tarov almost smiled. It seemed Dolph’s ambitions as a teacher matched her own as a dancer. For his sake, she hoped Henel could master whatever ambitions drove her.
As long as she left Tarov alone.
* * *
Through the next few towns, Henel did avoid Tarov, but the woman suddenly appeared intent on gaining Dolph’s attention. Although the master treated her with the respect he showed all the dancers, he appeared indifferent to Henel’s advances of a more intimate nature.
And he found reasons to approach Tarov for quiet discussions alone together, atop the main deck beneath the thirteen moons. Multiple shadows draped them as they talked, and the vines growing up the sea trees sported blossoms that bloomed a glowing white, releasing their heady perfume, which Tarov breathed in with deep appreciation.
“Your dance has changed completely,” said Dolph one day as they traveled to yet another tree town. He wore a long tunic and trousers, matching Tarov’s own leisure wear, except he’d added a belt hung with a knife and pouches.
Tarov nodded. “I made a conscious decision to change them after watching Henel perform my moves.”
“I see.” Dolph frowned as if disappointed.
“What is it?” said Tarov.
“Oh, nothing really.” Dolph shrugged. “There’s still passion in your dance, but the anger is finally gone.”
“Oh.” Tarov hadn’t noticed. After consciously making the decision to change her dance, her ‘ka began to sing a new song and she naturally adjusted her moves to match it.
He laid his hand over hers on the railing, still looking out across the channel. “I just hoped it had something to do with me, is all.”
Tarov felt the warmth of his hand travel to her heart, and suddenly realized Dolph had a great deal to do with her new dance. Despite Henel’s concerted effort to attract the master to her bed, Dolph had rebuffed every one of the girl’s advances. How long had it taken Braq to succumb to Henel’s charms? A few moons? Perhaps Braq had lo
ved her, but not enough. Not as much as she deserved.
“I…I think my dance has a great deal to do with my feelings for you,” said Tarov. “But how do I know this is real? I don’t want to be hurt again, Dolph. I don’t think I can bear it.”
He squeezed her hand. “I have loved you for a long time, Tarov. I could reassure you with words, but I don’t think they would be enough for you.”
Tarov felt her stomach flutter. Dolph loved her. Despite what he thought, his words did mean a great deal to her. She’d known him for years now, and had never met another man with such admirable qualities. He’d taught her to dance with patience and a yearning to please him. He commanded the troupe with an enthusiasm for each of their gifts, gently guided by his superior knowledge. He never spoke without meaning exactly what he said, and never looked at another woman the way he looked at Tarov.
She looked forward to their talks each night, found herself thinking of him all day. And had no doubt she was falling in love with him. Then why did she hesitate?
Fear coiled inside her like a sea serpent longing to strike. Because what she felt for Dolph was stronger than what she’d ever felt for Braq. Another betrayal would crush her soul, and she could lose her dance, her connection to the bones of the sea monster. This time, she could lose her ‘ka.
Tarov heard the call of a furred punja, the answering scream of a birdshark seeking its prey from high above the canopy. The sounds startled her out of her thoughts. Dusk had fallen and the flotilla had slowed almost to a stop. The trees around them were wild ones, with no sign of door or dock. “Why are we stopping?”
Dolph grinned. “I would like to show you something, if I may?”
“What is it?”
His eyes glowed green in the shadows, the zabbaroot from his earlier practice still flowing within him. “A surprise. Trust me?”
Tarov nodded, astonishing herself. Perhaps she trusted him more than she realized. When he handed her a piece of zabbaroot, she held it for a moment, her face wrinkling into a quizzical frown. “I’m not dancing tonight.”
Moon Dancer (Beneath the Thirteen Moons) Page 2
