Beneath the Guarding Stars

by Everly Frost

  I didn’t want to get back to the topic of forgiveness, so I said, “You were taking me somewhere.”

  “Oh, yeah. Those two.”

  The two female dancers in the back square closest to the door were the same ones who had come with Seth to the First Tower when I arrived—one with black hair piled on her head and dark olive skin, and the other with a wash of brown curls floating free around her face. They seemed to sparkle as they moved, their hands most of all, but also their bare feet, shining from this distance as though they reflected light into the dark ceiling.

  They tumbled and lunged, mimicking each other as though they could have been mirror images, never touching, constantly shimmering.

  As we approached, what appeared to be glittering light between them became more solid. Silver things passed so fast, so fluidly, from one to the other that they appeared to be part of their bodies.

  I froze as I realized what they were doing.

  They were dancing with knives.

  “It’s our trademark dance,” Luke said, his voice a low whisper in the quiet. “One of the dance troupes up north, they dance with plants—flowers and vines and stuff. Another one dances with water—they love to show off with waterfalls.” He grinned. “We dance with weapons.”

  “And Ruth didn’t want to send me north.”

  No wonder Seth thought I was a problem.

  Chapter Six

  THE TWO female dancers made a final spin, knives in both hands, and slammed their weapons, one after the other, point first into the floor, halting there in position for a moment, arms extended.

  “Knives,” I said. And that was when I noticed the wall in front of us, on the left side of the front door—the side I hadn’t looked at when I’d come in—covered with rows and rows of silver things.

  One of the women, the one with black hair and olive skin, raised her head, her eyes piercing, drawing my gaze to her. We were close enough that she must have heard us talking.

  She exchanged glances with her partner as they both drew themselves up.

  The other woman tossed her curls and slid one of the knives out of the floor. As the knife slipped from its resting place, I realized there was only one cut in the floor.

  They never got their target wrong.

  The woman with the curls and brown skin rose to her full height, facing me, and Luke whispered, “That’s Leah. The one with black hair is Natalie.”

  Both women stared at me.

  “We know we can’t be hurt,” Leah said, holding my eyes, stepping around the other knives in a new kind of dance, weaving toward Natalie, who also began dancing, her clothing swishing around her body, gently at first, and then faster.

  “But fearlessness leads to carelessness, you understand?” Leah continued, her breathing impossibly even and controlled. “The object is to avoid the blade, not heal from it.”

  With a swipe, her blade cut close to the other woman’s arm as they danced around each other. “We challenge ourselves to come as close as we can without a single cut. How close can we get?” The knife flew from her hand, flipping into Natalie’s.

  In response, Natalie whirled and swiped the weapon across Leah’s side, almost touching, missing her by a hair’s breadth. “This close?” she asked, her dark head weaving with her body.

  Faster than I could follow, the knife flipped between the two women again, passing and moving as they turned, spun, kicked out, drew back.

  “What about this?” Natalie spun around Leah. Within seconds, she sliced across Leah’s throat and I froze to the spot, expecting to see a brutal cut, my hand over my mouth.

  There was none.

  Both women smiled at my surprise.

  They drew to a stop and I couldn’t believe it when I realized that at some point in their dance they had picked up all four knives, holding one in each hand at their sides.

  Natalie smiled, not unfriendly, but there was an edge to her tone. “Injuries are not acceptable. Our audience expects more from us. Of course, you will need to avoid the blade altogether. But maybe that will make you a better dancer.”

  Avoiding the blade sounded like a good plan. I knew it was. I should never go near the weapons, or touch them, and I definitely should never dance with them. And yet…

  “It’s a beautiful dance,” I said, which seemed to surprise them, and I wondered if they thought I should be cowering in a corner by now. Maybe bawling my eyes out like the weak little mortal I was.

  I stepped to the very edge of the square toward them but not into it, respecting the boundary. “You must have to maintain perfect balance to adjust to the weight changes. Are they heavy?” I held out my hand for one of the knives.

  Leah flicked a loose curl off her forehead, glancing around, hesitating.

  Natalie shrugged at her. “Seth didn’t say anything about not letting her touch things.”

  Leah flipped the weapon over so that she held the blade between her fingertips, the handle toward me. “Be careful. Don’t cut yourself. We don’t get blood on the floor.”

  The knife was light in my hand but heavy enough to be felt. Its handle was ornately wrought, cast with what looked like a multitude of diamonds. The stones were rough to create grip but smooth enough to allow slippage from one hand to another, and were definitely responsible for the shimmering light I’d seen passing between the two women.

  “The stones are fake, in case you were wondering,” Luke said. “We have real ones that we use for special performances. Sometimes. They’re worth a bomb, so Seth keeps them locked up.”

  As I held the knife to the light, watching as it caught and refracted, he added, “I suck at knives. I try not to dance with them. Pathetic, I know, but kind of why Seth partnered me with you. I prefer to push the limits of my body, not the limits of the steel.”

  I remembered Seth’s glare at Luke earlier when he’d ordered the group to avoid crazy stunts. The two women rolled their eyes but didn’t seem too concerned—until I inclined my head toward the middle of the wall of weapons. “What about those? Ever tried them?”

  Right in the middle of all the sharp objects—knives, swords, other mortally-threatening things—was something I thought I’d never want to see again.

  A pair of serrated ribbons.

  “Um. You did hear me say I suck at knives? Those are way worse…” Luke’s voice trailed off as I moved around the square and over to the wall, aware of Luke and the others following me as though they suddenly didn’t want to let me out of their sight.

  The ribbons were flat against the wall and made of some kind of thin, silky-looking material, but each had a very fine serrated blade somehow melded along one side. They lay crossed over each other like a set of decorative swords, with the long wooden handles at eye height. Metal strips kept the ribbons in place; the handles rested on small plates jutting from the surface. There was a fine sheen of dust on them.

  “I’ve never danced with knives like you do,” I said. “But I danced with these once.”

  There was a silent pause behind me.

  “Seriously?” Leah paced behind me like a circling cat, disbelief etched all over her face. “You’re kidding, right?”

  I slipped one of the handles upward off its resting plate and the ribbon slid from its holds. It was about seven feet long—long enough to wrap around me a couple of times and then some. I made sure to angle it sideways and I dropped my wrist as it came free so that it hung directly downward and didn’t arc back at me.

  “Hey, wait—” Now Natalie was circling too and both women looked alarmed.

  Leah stepped forward as though she’d stop me, but I ignored her. Still holding the first handle, I used my free hand to lift and release the second one, skipping to the side as smoothly as I could to let the second ribbon drop to the floor without swinging either of them into my legs.

  “I fought a Basher with ribbons like these.” I tried not to drag them on the floor as I headed past Leah and back to the dancing square. “Bashers don’t like anyone who
takes longer than a couple seconds to heal. Bury the weak and all that.”

  “I’ve heard of them.” Natalie’s voice was clipped, her eyes never moving from the ribbons in my hands. “We don’t have people like that here.”

  I arced an eyebrow at her. She thought they didn’t, and to a degree she was right, but the way she looked at me was the same. I didn’t heal fast and she, and everyone else, judged me for it. Still, the fight with Jeremiah seemed far away now. My best friend, Hannah, had been a Basher. Her mission with Jeremiah had been to steal the mortality weapon so the Bashers could finally accomplish what they wanted—to rid society of the slow healers—people like Michael’s brother. Michael told me that was the reason his dad started experimenting with nectar, to help Jason heal faster.

  “The Basher’s name was Jeremiah, and he pretty much ended up in pieces on the floor.”

  “I’ll say.” Leah was trying to smile, coming at me, or rather—coming at the ribbons, as though she was suddenly desperate to get them off me. “Why don’t you just…”

  “Put them down?” I tilted backward, away from her, shaking my head.

  Hell, no. There was no way I was going to be treated with pity by these people. Compassion I could hope for. But, pity? I’d rather cut myself ragged proving to them I was not a charity case.

  “You should stay back if you don’t want blood on the floor.” I slipped off my shoes at the edge of the square and lifted an eyebrow at her. “Or not. Your choice.”

  She assessed me for a moment, searching my face, as though she was trying to figure out if I was stupid or just plain crazy. She must have decided I was one or the other because she backed off with a dismissive flick of her wrist. I was my own problem, not hers.

  Luke, on the other hand, watched me intently, a glimmer in his eyes as if he might understand why I was doing this.

  Sure, I couldn’t exactly dance with knives like they did, but in Evereach I’d danced with twirling ribbons, and these were the same. Well, almost.

  I closed my eyes for a moment as the two women cleared the square, picturing the ribbons in my mind, how long they were, and the space I was in. The square was twenty feet wide and long—larger than the nearby squares—but there was still only a small margin for error. The trick would be to keep moving, which meant always having my next step planned and always keeping within the square, never allowing the ribbons to touch my skin, but that was what I’d been trained to do with twirling ribbons. Marks off for contact.

  It would be harder with two. I’d not only have to keep them away from me but away from each other.

  I opened my eyes and moved my arms side to side, one first, then the other, getting the feel of each ribbon’s weight, how they arced, how fast they reacted to my movements. They were light, and despite their razor edge, flexible enough to curve, making lovely swirls in the air.

  I took one step, and then another, keeping the ribbons swirling in their own distinct circles until I felt as though I owned them. Then I stopped on the spot, my feet apart. A fighter’s stance.

  Somewhere in my head, Michael’s heartbeat was playing.

  It was all I needed to start dancing.

  Up I went, en pointe, my feet arched and my toes supporting me, the ribbons twirling. Then faster, until they made beautiful spirals like miniature tornados in the air on either side of me. Within moments, I let the left ribbon drop and spun the right ribbon in a full circle, up and down and around my body. I followed the arc, kicking up my right leg parallel to my body and kept the right ribbon in motion, forming horizontal swirls up the length of my leg and down again, then up and around to my back. As I twisted right, I engaged my left arm, turning in a circle to keep both ribbons moving.

  The ribbons followed a curve around my body as I spun, creating ripples in the air. Another kick, and I sensed the air move across my leg as one of them came very close to the skin on my ankle.

  They were well balanced, but the razor edge pulled a little to the side. Just a little too close. I’d have to watch that.

  One move after another I danced to a beat that had lulled me to sleep under park benches, low-lying branches, and in alleyways. No matter where we were, no matter how scared I was, Michael’s heartbeat against my ear was all I needed to stay focused and calm, to keep it together. I forgot about Leah and Natalie. About Seth. Even about the medical unit. The only thing in my head was Michael’s heartbeat, the way it got faster when I lay my head against his chest.

  One move after another, from one side of the square and back again. I leaped through the air, legs stretched, ribbons flying in swirls as I kept them moving. I threw one of the ribbons into the air and tumbled, stretched upward and caught it. Tumbled again and threw the other one when I came back to my feet, spinning on the spot. Faster and faster. As fast as I could until I was a blur.

  The airborne ribbon plummeted. I snatched it from the air, forcing it right and left, right and left, whipping it back and forth, making it snap-snap in the silence, adjusting my balance so I was ready for the final move—to stop the movement. Preferably without killing myself.

  With a flick of my arms, I cracked both ribbons outward and dropped at the same time, forcing them flat to the floor. I stayed there for a moment, one leg bent at the knee, the other outstretched to the side, my eyes only on the now-still ribbons.

  My lungs pounded and my heart crashed in my chest. Without moving, I hurried to do a mental check of my body. Nothing stung, nothing bled. Nothing that I could feel right then anyway.

  Then … a slim line of red, about an inch long, blossomed on my right shoulder, but the cut was shallow, not much more than a graze. I kept my face forward, not drawing attention to the wound as I rose to my feet and left the ribbons on the ground, not daring to pick them up until the shake in my arms subsided.

  I was okay. I could have cut my arm off but I didn’t. One little cut was nothing. Then, through the quiet in my head, came the murmuring of others crowding me.

  Everyone had stopped to watch.

  From one corner of the room to the other, all the other dancers in their squares had crowded forward. Natalie was the first to reach me, stepping around the ribbons as though she didn’t want to touch them.

  “Well, what do you know.” She smiled a genuine smile for the first time as Leah joined her.

  “We need to get you some pointe shoes,” Leah said.

  Seth barged between us, muscles bunched, as though he was about to grab me. “What do you think you’re…?”

  His words were drowned in applause. Not one, but everyone, and suddenly the whole arena was in uproar, people clapping and talking.

  Luke ran to me and pulled me out of the square before Seth could say anything else. I glanced back to see him gesture to four dancers, who broke off from the group and carried the ribbons back to the wall, one at each end of them.

  Luke maneuvered us through the milling dancers as everyone returned to their spots, all of them smiling at me.

  “That was…” He whistled. “Amazing.”

  I shrugged. “I’m just glad people aren’t looking at me like I’ll burst into tears anymore.” I gestured at the dispersing dancers, still chatting among themselves, many looking at me.

  Luke shook his head, eyes wide. “You don’t get it. Nobody dances with the ribbons. Nobody. They’re only up there to remind us of our limits.”

  “No, I do get it. They’re dangerous. I told you, I’ve used them before and a guy got hurt.”

  He shook his head. “No, you really don’t understand. Those ribbons…” He gestured behind us. “They were designed not to be used. The former head of the dance troupe—the one before Seth—he had the ribbons made to teach his students a lesson, to teach them their limits. Not even Seth touches them.” He took my shoulders and I hid the wince as his palm covered the wound on my shoulder.

  His eyes bored into me. “You just did the impossible.”

  I assessed the sincerity in his expression. He really wasn’t joking.
Which would be why Seth had looked at me as though things were worse than he’d originally thought. Seth’s hard, cold eyes told me that I wasn’t just a problem.

  I’d become a threat.

  Chapter Seven

  FOR THE rest of the dance session, Luke showed me the steps of the contemporary routine we’d be performing at the mid-summer festival, and I did my best to avoid Seth. At the end of the session, Luke asked me if I was going to the gallery that night and said he’d see me there.

  I raced back to Ruth’s top level apartment by five o’clock like she’d asked, and found that she’d had me added to the security system, because I had no issues getting into the apartment on my own.

  She had food waiting on the table and I strode over the flowers and the running stream in the floor—muted now, as though the room was preparing for the evening. Dusk had settled in the sky beyond the balcony, crisp blue replaced by pastel purples and grays.

  “You can see all the stars from here.”

  Ruth followed my gaze outside as she ladled pasta into a big bowl in front of me. I inhaled basil and parmesan cheese and couldn’t believe how good it tasted. It wasn’t just hunger that made me gulp it down. I needed to get to Michael as soon as I could and make sure he was okay.

  Ruth sat at the end of the table closest to me and started eating. She was quiet, and after a while I realized that she was just moving the food around on her plate. She caught me watching and stopped pretending to eat.

  “Ava, I understand why you did what you did this afternoon. But you need to understand that if you hurt yourself it will affect your ability to stay in the dance troupe.”

  I stopped eating. “You were watching me.”

  “I’m always watching you, and I’m not the only one. I want you to think first next time. If you can’t dance, you’ll need to find another occupation. And if you’ve proven that you’re reckless with your own safety, then convincing another occupational group to take you will be even more difficult than it already is.”