Blade Dancer

by K. M. Tolan

  Mikial clasped her hands in respectful greeting as Tasuria Sencia Ellis approached. Mikial could not help but eye the small broach pinned to Sencia's belt. The gold lantern was awarded to graduates from the famed White Canyon College of Tessana Holding, the leading school of Shandi Mental Studies.

  “I must admit that I am used to seeing happier faces upon my singers,” the Tasuria said, folding her hands in front of her.

  Trying to hide anything from Sencia was a futile effort. “I'm not certain I belonged up there, Tasuria,” Mikial admitted.

  Sencia's fine eyebrows rose. “Really? Perhaps I should listen less to the recommendations of the Tamerid, then. Not to mention those of my husband. With both this Holding's council and Tasur in error, we seem to be experiencing a serious rash of misjudgment."

  Mikial flinched inwardly at the rebuke. “Tasuria, you don't—” Her mouth clamped shut, but it was too late.

  “Understand?” Sencia finished. She grinned as if they had just shared an amusement. “It hardly takes a Shandi Teacher to see what's drooping your ears, Mikial Haran. Most Datha would be proud to know that their actions saved so many lives, but not our Mikial. Whom should she blame for her dissatisfaction?” The Tasuria appeared to consider the question, Mikial not daring to answer. “Your Strike Leader, perhaps? His mission was to destroy the Minnerans. Instead, he barely managed to turn them back, and not before suffering an extraordinary number of casualties."

  “Parva did his best, Tasuria,” Mikial defended.

  The Tasuria gave her a surprised look. “Even a three-to-one kill ratio in our favor would be a tactical defeat. We have few Datha to spare. Your actions prevented such a loss, Mikial. Is that not victory enough for you?"

  Mikial grimaced. “I saw no victory. I hid in a ditch as the enemy ran past while—” She broke off, having touched the hollow core of her honor.

  “While another died protecting you?” the Tasuria quietly finished. “I read the reports, young Dathia. Could you have prevented Feren's death?"

  She shook her head, holding in the ache that threatened an embarrassment of tears. “I hid."

  Sencia said nothing, her slight smile letting that single statement settle in. “Like your Strike Leader, Mikial, you knew when to withdraw. Anything else would have rendered your companion's sacrifice meaningless. His duty was to keep you alive, and in that accomplishment Feren found his own victory. Because of you both, a military disaster was averted. Isn't that right?"

  Mikial avoided those piercing eyes. “Yes, my Tasuria."

  “Then honor Feren's memory by not blaming yourself.” The Tasuria motioned to a side bench along the wall. “Rest that hip of yours a moment."

  Nodding, Mikial joined her.

  The Tasuria clasped her hands over Mikial's. “In many ways, your experience is not unlike my becoming Suria. One day I was a young Shandi about your age, studying hard to become something more than just another Healer. Then came the fever of Change.” She shook her head. “I have never been so sick. When my body finished altering itself, I could sense the inner workings of metals and such like a Cothra. Suddenly, because of events over which I had neither control nor choice, I was destined to eventually replace my Tasuria as ruler of this Holding."

  Sencia's eyes reflected a treasured recollection. Mikial knew that as a Dathia she could never hope for such an experience. Dathia were incapable of Change, their tough physical makeup rejecting any of the internal alterations Sencia mentioned. “To become the Holding Suria must have been a wonderful feeling. Especially with all the eligible Surs to court you."

  Sencia laughed. “Well, a Suria can not become a Tasuria without wedding a Sur. The prospect of courtship by would-be Tasurs had me doing some hiding of my own for a while.” Her smile softened. “I had given First Promise to a fine young Ipper before my Change, and was about to give Second Promise to seal our upcoming marriage.” She sighed. “I had to take my Promise back, but then I later met my husband, Halan. You might say that my whole life became a series of newly opened doors.” She gave Mikial's hand a squeeze. “Now those doors are opening for you, young lady. True, Dathia are immune to the fever of Change, but you can look upon your recent battle in similar fashion. It has passed beyond you much as the fever might. You are not the same Dathia as before, and you must accept this new Mikial as I did the new Sencia."

  Mikial could not hide her lack of enthusiasm. “Right now I find it difficult to accept anything I did."

  Sencia stood up. “Self-pity doesn't become you, Mikial. You are the most promising Dathia I have seen since Yora Horian. You should sit with her one night when she is in the mood to talk."

  “We talk all the time, Tasuria. She's my dance instructor."

  Sencia tapped Mikial's nose with a finger. “Yora might teach you something more than just dancing if you give her a chance. Now, let us see about getting you home. I will not have Yeneen blame me for having to serve a cold breakfast."

  * * * *

  Mikial's father was waiting for her in the courtyard with a neighborhood carriage. At almost fourteen hands, Jakar Haran was large even for a Datha, appropriate for his position as sect Principal. He was a Sur as well, though he rarely paid attention to his secondary Cothra abilities. Timber-brown eyes regarded her above a similarly colored mustache that lately remained pulled down in a frown. He had been unrelenting during her final training, allowing her time for little other than practice. He even had forbidden her to dance. Or tried to. The predatory angles of his face had softened this morning, however. A hopeful sign.

  For once he was starting the day in something other than his uniform. He wore loose ivy-colored pants and a rumpled brown sweater. His professional hardness seemed to have been left behind as well.

  Ears flicking, Mikial let him help her into the passenger's seat. Her mind searched for dialogue appropriate to this situation. It was like looking at him through her mother's eyes. The best she could manage was an awkward “Thank you."

  Jakar gestured to the doorway where the Tasuria stood watching. “Did you have much chance to talk to her?” he asked, his left hand sliding the carriage's brass throttle forward. The vehicle moved across the gray flagstones with a muted whine.

  “A little,” Mikial admitted reluctantly.

  His mustached lips crinkled. “Chewed on you too, eh?"

  “Oh? What did she say to you?” she ventured, her curiosity emboldened by his casual manner.

  Jakar said nothing at first, turning the carriage toward the Shadow Canyon cross tunnel. When he did answer, his words came slowly. “We were discussing you yesterday after the Tamerid adjourned. The Tasuria said that I was quite fortunate you had not met your death. She feels that I don't know you well enough."

  Too busy teaching to listen, Mikial quietly added to herself. Hadn't she shouted as much at him when he threatened to cancel her dancing during the pre-trials? “That wasn't called for,” Mikial whispered diplomatically.

  “At your age, I had been a Sur for almost two years. The sect was all I cared about, at least until I met your mother. I wanted you to have that same devotion. It's what I thought you most needed from me."

  “Or what the sect most wanted from you,” she grumbled. “Well I seem to have met your expectations, but I can't say I'm happy with what I've become. I wasn't supposed to get someone killed as the pinnacle of my accomplishments."

  “Had you been the one to die, would you have blamed him?"

  “I'll settle with the blame that exists,” she sighed. “What exactly did we run into out there anyway? The Minnerans weren't just out to grab Qurls this time. Not with such numbers. And those rifles they had. Itsa!"

  He shrugged, slowing the carriage as they entered the tunnel running beneath Keep Ridge. “The Cothra are no less surprised than you by these new weapons. Obviously the Minnerans wanted to test them in combat. Apparently the occasional kidnapping to augment their failing bloodlines isn't enough anymore."

  “That's the Servant race for you. I guess,
if our population kept dropping, we'd be desperate too. I've heard the Shandi say that almost half of Servant births end up with a Qurl baby instead. What I can't understand is why they can get a Servant child simply by cross-breeding with a Qurl."

  “One guess is that they were never meant to breed among themselves, daughter,” her father replied. “I sometimes wonder if they were ever meant to breed at all."

  Mikial chuckled. “Well, if that's true, then the Taqurls didn't know as much about making a new race as they thought they did."

  “Assuming the fable that Taqurls made the Servants to begin with is true,” her father agreed. “In any case, we need to find out how they came by these new inventions."

  “Could it be from some of the Cothra they've managed to capture over the years?” she suggested. “Maybe the Minnerans are forcing more than just Passion exchanges."

  “That would be a departure from killing their captives once they're done with them.” He raised a warning finger. “In any case, your duties don't include spreading speculation as official reports."

  “Of course not. I'll leave that to the Ipper sect.” Her light humor dampened. “I hope this doesn't trouble our relations with Kioranna."

  “We wouldn't do anything to jeopardize the baby exchanges.” He gave her neck a fond rub. “They mean a lot to us."

  “They certainly did to me,” she replied, mindful of her own heritage as an exchange baby. “It's hard to think of myself as being Servant born; still, I can't help but feel sorry for them. At least for the Kiorannans. They don't sneak in to steal anyone."

  “They've found other means,” he replied with a chuckle. “A few months ago we escorted another camp full of females back to the border, but not before some Cothra hunters picked up their scent. They even had enticed an Ipper Signaler, I'm told."

  “It's not exactly something most males can resist.” She gave a sigh. “Or so I'm told.” She hated being late for her first Passion.

  “Yours will come in time, daughter. I'd suggest you find yourself someone worth sharing it with."

  “I'm a Dathia, remember?” She folded her arms with a hiss. “The only way I'm going to find someone is to run him down.” Mikial gave her father a wicked grin. “Maybe I'll turn the tables on the Kiorannans and pitch a camp of my own."

  His long look quickly silenced that line of thinking.

  They passed through the canyon tunnel, traveling south down the terrace road. Like the rest, her house occupied a niche carved into the hillside, with rooms that extended into the rock. Her home displayed her neighborhood's love for generous bay windows and broad porches. Morning's shadows tempered the colored roof tiles that were Shadow Canyon's other hallmark. Instead of pulling into the curved drive, Jakar continued down toward the canyon mouth. Puzzled, Mikial glanced at him, but received only a grin as they approached the cluster of buildings making up the community center. They slowed before Shadow Inn, the surrounding lawn full of carriages and saddled yhas.

  “What happened to the simple breakfast I was promised?” Mikial asked, as one of the long-necked animals snorted inquisitively in her direction. Several faces peered through blue curtains hanging from the inn's arched windows.

  “You know how the Ipper are about organizing these things,” her father explained with a wry look. “They probably invited the whole canyon."

  Two welcomers were waiting as Jakar pulled up to the double doors leading into the inn. The first was her mother, who had chosen to wear the light yellow dress and sash favored by her sect. Yeneen's oval face was alight with pride. The second was identifiable easily by the single large braid running back from his snowy hair.

  Parva Conn stepped forward, wearing his Datha black dress uniform with red trim. Mikial was impressed with the heavy crimson brocade on the extended side panels of his jacket. Each individual pattern represented battles fought. She wondered what her very first battle pattern would look like when the Strike gathered for the Sewing ceremony. The only one not in a uniform of some sort was her father. The tender realization came to her that he had intended it that way.

  Parva carefully helped Mikial out of the carriage. “You must be feeling better. We heard you sing all the way out here."

  “Barely,” her mother added. “But it was lovely!"

  “I would've done much better if this hip wasn't bothering me so much,” Mikial said, pulling the cane from the carriage as she endured another twinge.

  “I kept that pain there for a purpose,” her mother reminded with a shake of her finger. “The last thing I want you doing is attempting to dance while that mends."

  “For once you're going to have to watch someone else perform,” Parva said with a grin. “You'll have opportunity enough at our Sewing.” He glanced at her mother for assurance. “She will, won't she, Yeneen?"

  “Maybe,” her mother replied with a cross look, “but definitely not today."

  Mikial's sour expression was swept aside by what waited for her inside. Most of the neighborhood had turned out for the event. Her nose caught savory smells coming from the kitchen. The bench tables in front of the circular stone hearth had been pulled back along the tall windows and were crowded with guests. Mikial took note of the musical instruments that flanked the hearth. Robed dancers sat at tables just beyond the instruments. Yora Horian was among them, the calico Dathia's height easily singling her out from the rest. Her robe was deep black with rich red filigree around the high collar. Yora's hair, a delightful contrast of apricot and ebony, was semi-bound in loose battle braids. Her dark eyes gleamed with anticipation.

  Facing Mikial from the center of the wood floor was a performer like none other. Her face shimmered, as if carved from clearest crystal. The crowd held its breath as Mikial stepped forward to gape at the water sculpture rising from a wide jade basin.

  Liquid shoulders rose from inside the basin, supporting a firm neck and angular Dathia face. It quivered slightly as the sculpture inclined its head in polite greetings.

  Mikial laughed with delight. Her simulacrum drew back lips to return a transparent smile that earned appreciative gasps from those gathered. Mikial regarded Mikial, the latter's hair streaming like miniature cataracts into the pool. A net of silver wire extended from the water to mesh with gloves worn by two fair-skinned Ipper girls kneeling next to the basin. Their somnolent appearance belied the concentration being exercised by the young females. Mikial was elated to see that one of them was Paleen Chimmer, the narrow features of her face seemingly frozen into an expression of perpetual mischief. Her long-time friend's hazel eyes held a distant look, the sandy brunette absorbed with her gift's presentation.

  The sculpture gracefully slid back into its element with a dreamy expression as the basin refilled. Everyone gave the performers a round of applause.

  “Congratulations!” Paleen said, after giving her assistant a quick hug of gratitude. The Ipper stood up, the specialized hairs of her ear fans that marked her sect rising in a white spray of excitement along the sides of her head. “Hope you liked it."

  “You know I did,” Mikial replied with a smile. “I'm so glad you made it back!"

  “We arrived last night.” Paleen shook her head. “I heard about what you did back at Kinset.” The Ipper girl gingerly embraced her, the tops of her ear fans barely reaching Mikial's shoulders. “Sorry you were hurt."

  Mikial gave an awkward smile. “I was lucky.” She plucked at the turquoise robe Paleen wore. “That's a chira underneath that?” she inquired, referencing the traditional two-piece dancing gown.

  “Of course. The entire dance class is here, if you hadn't noticed."

  “And me barely able to move.” She sighed, giving her cane a tap.

  Paleen helped Mikial off with her coat, beneath which she was wearing her own black dress uniform. As was the custom for unmarried males and females, the red belt securing her side-skirts was tied to the left. The Shadow Inn staff was quick to replace the basin with an honor table representing the Datha sect. Mikial looked down
at the heavy ironwood that bore the claw marks of other Datha before her. Its scored surface was carved with scenes of her sect both at war and sport. Emblazoned at the center was the insignia of the Datha Qurl, a four-spoked wheel resting on the hilt of a dagger, its blade forming the fourth spoke.

  Mikial held up her hand, claws extended. Gritting her teeth, she cast aside the cane to murmurs of approval. Her palm slapped down upon the insignia, her claws adding their marks to the rest.

  Cheers erupted. Breakfast could now begin. Jakar and Yeneen took their seats to Mikial's right, with Paleen assuming the favored position beside her. The tempting scents Mikial first inhaled when she entered the inn were fulfilled as the first platter of glazed cliff hens arrived. Soon everyone was enjoying courses of meat and stuffed fruits, along with side dishes of steaming morning cakes.

  The rich aroma of murr pervaded the room. The soothing root brew was poured from the ornate ceramic pot against the back wall. Extending to the ceiling, the murr pot was a masterpiece of Cothra sculpture. It appeared to be the broken shaft of a tree wrapped by vines. Gnarled and stunted limbs served as taps for the ginger-colored liquid and spice dispensers. Heat was provided by battery-fed glowstones inset within the base, the ruddy light of which lent a certain magic to the piece. Mikial smiled as she sipped her drink, remembering all the times she sat around the murr pot just to listen to its flavorful gurgling.

  Entertainment was heralded by the lilt of shries. Resonating spheres on the harps coaxed Yora Horian to the floor with their lingering melody. Mikial grinned with expectation at the sight of her personal instructor.

  The tall female wore a chira that mimicked the black Datha uniform while taking it into boldly daring areas. The vest enhanced rather than concealed her breasts, the fabric appearing as if it had been all but torn away in combat. The bottom half continued the embattled look, revealing solid thighs and hardened stomach muscles. Red trim outlined her hips and swirled suggestively inward. Around her neck gleamed four firestones, signifying the highest achievable rank of a Four Beat dancer.