by Sharon Hinck
Brantley’s questions were always sharp and pointed and threw my thoughts into a tangle. Yet I knew I’d face much more difficult questions from High Saltar Tiarel. Dear Tender of my soul, please give me the right words.
“The Order claims our world just happened into being. Don’t tell me you agree with them? When you ride Navar, don’t you sense that there must be a Maker behind the immense ocean and the glorious sky?”
He lurched to his feet and shook out his cloak. “I almost want to trust your Maker’s letter, if only to spite the Order.” He chuckled. “I guess time will tell who’s right.”
He strode to the nearby creek for his morning ablutions.
I folded his cloak and stuffed it in the pack. For now, I’d need to be content with his uncertainties. But please make Yourself real to Brantley. Somehow. In some way. And to all the people of Meriel.
Silence hung heavy over the campsite, and the weight of the task ahead rounded my back. The Maker was reaching out to His people, but what would be the cost? And would I have the courage to bear it?
Middlemost was smaller than I remembered. And larger. Although I had spent little time there during my years in the Order, I knew the town enough to expect a sense of familiarity, of coming home. Instead every building looked out of balance, like a dancer with an injured limb.
As we entered the town early in the morning, the wide ring of buildings bustled with frantic activity, harsh voices, and the sharp crack of a whip against a pony’s flank. A tantalizing aroma of bresh and salt cakes floated from the chimneys of a bakery but was soon smothered by the scent of hot metal from the smithy and the hay and dung from one of the local stables as I followed Brantley through the narrow streets. Each time we turned a corner, the tower of the Order loomed from its central place, observing all, controlling all.
We’d traded berries at a midrange village, so I now owned a cloak with a deep hood. Few would identify me as a dancer. My skin was no longer the pale hue of a novitiate, my braids were unkempt, and although I was still slender, some of my muscles had filled out. More importantly, I no longer moved with the delicate precision of a dancer. I didn’t stride as carelessly as Brantley, but my gait had definitely been reshaped by all the miles of walking over varied terrain.
“A colleague is meeting me at the Fernshadow Inn,” Brantley said in a low voice. “Might already be here.” By colleague he undoubtedly meant a co-conspirator, another village leader bent on revolution and violence.
I pressed my lips together and stopped. “I want to talk to Starfire. Go on ahead.”
He frowned and rubbed the several days’ growth of beard that made him look even rougher than usual. Even his fair hair was darkened with dirt and had lost its carefree waves. Every part of him wore the weight of his plans and the uncertain future of our world.
A knot in my gut twisted more tightly, but I forced a smile. “I can meet you at the inn later.” I darted away before he could argue. Clinging to shadows, I scurried around a corner. When I glanced up, the Order glared down again, the only building of such height in our world, more imposing than I’d remembered. I dipped my chin and tugged my hood forward, determined to ignore its menacing glower of superiority.
Reaching the stable where Starfire worked, I waited across the street, lowered a pack from my shoulder, and pretended to rummage in it while I eyed the entrance. Several ponies rested in the fenced paddock, some saddled and some without gear—although they all looked equally despondent.
The oafish tender appeared in the corral, arguing with a merchant before they settled on a price and the merchant rode off on a mangy pony. The owner took no notice of me, but counted his coins with a greedy smile. He shouted something into the stable and sauntered away toward the nearest tavern.
I crossed the street and cautiously approached the door. One of the ponies snorted, and I paused to stroke his muzzle. He bumped his nose against my chest, and his limpid eyes reminded me of Navar. How I missed the stenella. I even missed the sweet, tangy spray of the sea against my skin as we cut through the waves and the exhilarating swoop in my stomach as she glided up and down. Would I ever see her again?
I gave the pony one more absent pat and stepped into the fog of stable smells and dimness. Odors of manure, wet straw, and horse sweat hung in the air. A slim figure at the far end was mucking out a stall with energetic pulls of a rake. I tiptoed closer. “Starfire?”
The person startled and turned. A gangly lad, smudged with dirt and suspicions, thrust his chin out. “Whaddya want? The tender ain’t here.”
“I-I’m sorry to disturb you. I was looking for Starfire.”
His face pinched with the effort of thought, then cleared. “Oh, she be the one a few times ago. Heard tell they took her back to dance. They sure use up a lot of dancers.” He scratched his rib cage and shuffled forward, peering at my face. “Hey, are you one of them? What are you doing down here?”
My stomach contracted, making me catch in a sudden breath. “No, no. Just looking for a friend. Sorry for bothering you.”
I fled to the comfort of the ponies in the yard, hoping the stable boy would lose interest and forget he’d seen me. Starfire was a dancer now? Months ago, the news would have delighted me. Now only dread swam through my veins, spreading a frigid tremor. Tiarel was destroying women, sending them to wrestle Meriel’s course from the hands of the Maker, a task as foolish as a toddler trying to wrench away his father’s knife. If Ginerva had been right, when they failed and their minds broke, they were banished like Dancer Subsun . . . or worse.
The rumors of a pit in Tiarel’s inner office—cut directly into the sea below—conjured horrible images. Even the friendly ponies offered no more comfort. I scurried away, head down. Closer to the inn, crowds jostled me. Middlemost had always been a full and busy place, but there seemed to be more people about than I remembered.
A man elbowed past. He looked familiar. A father from Undertow? A landkeeper from Windswell? I pulled against the nearest wall, one hand pressed over my heart that pounded wildly against the pouch I carried. Brantley’s rebellion was already gathering. Did the Order suspect? Were the conspirators able to stay hidden among the bustle of the town? More importantly, were they keeping their intentions hidden?
I tried to breathe, but the threat of blood and destruction tainted the air.
No quiet glen invited me to seek the Maker and rest in His presence. Instead, I raised a nervous prayer in the midst of the chaos. “What do I do now?”
Only silence answered me. A silence so heavy it blunted the din of the streets. A silence that squeezed my heart in a tight fist, wringing out the last drops of faith.
I’d never felt so lost and bewildered. “I’ve come here. I’ve done what You asked of me. Tell me what to do now. Please.”
Unbidden, my gaze traveled upward to the windows of the tower. I wasn’t being fully honest with my Maker. I’d come close to the halls of the Order where He’d called me. But how could I take any more steps if He didn’t make His presence clear to me? Did I have the strength to cross the open space from Middlemost to the grounds?
If I headed to the inn, Brantley could make the choices. Where I was bereft of plans, he had a bounty of them.
A young face appeared at one of the tower windows, then disappeared. The Order housed so many children torn from their homes, indoctrinated. This very hour novitiates were being convinced that they were gods, that their will was supreme, that if they achieved perfection, they would control the world. Those children needed to hear the truth about the Maker.
A woman carrying a heavy basket bumped me and pressed past without apology. I realized I’d moved away from the wall and into the street. I changed my course away from the inn and kept walking, closing the distance to the edge of town until nothing but bare earth and daygrass stretched up the slope to the Order.
I aspired to march forward with great courage and resolve. When the Maker had carried me above our world, guided me onto the water, spoke words rich
in love and strength, I imagined striding toward the Order to tell them about the Maker’s letter.
But it had been many days since He had met with me. My steps were timid as I walked up the slope, my gaze down and my body weighted with fear and doubt. Perhaps the Maker had been nothing but fevered dreams. And how could mere words change the course of the mighty Order? Perhaps Brantley had the best strategy: an all-out war against those in power.
As I trudged closer, the faint pulse of the Order’s drums rode the wind. I paused and tilted my head. The pattern was leeward storm. I pulled my cloak around me. That pattern was rarely used . . . only if our world was suffering drought. With all the rain in recent weeks, that was not the case. Why would the High Saltar inflict this dangerous weather on Meriel?
Dark clouds already gathered over the tower. A harsh gust tore my hood from my head. The approaching storm helped me to hurry as I battled the buffeting wind. Perhaps this opposition was a gift from the Maker. It certainly motivated me to move and gave me no time to entertain my fears.
By the time I reached the outer garden walls, rain sheeted down, angling outward. I ran, half swimming through the deluge, through an arched entry, and past the school’s cultivated beds where I used to linger as a student.
Alcea flowers and calara reeds alike bent and broke in the downpour. Gasping for breath, I no longer debated an approach. I pushed open the nearest door and stepped into the place that had been my cherished world for most of my life.
The angry drum pattern pulsed through the whole building, while sticks clattered a different rhythm in one of the school’s rehearsal halls. In the midst of the storm, classes continued as always. A saltar shouted something to her students, a young voice asked a question, an attendant crossed the far end of the hall and turned toward the saltars’ office without seeing me. Before me, the stone stairway led upward to the sleeping quarters and classrooms.
I shook droplets from my cloak and brushed back my wet hair. Indecision cut through me like a broken rhythm. What next? Maker, You promised to never leave me, but I’m not seeing You or hearing You. How do I know where to go?
I had two choices: I could storm down the curved hall and into the High Saltar’s office to confront her. Or I could look for Starfire. Maybe she could help me decide my next steps.
I tiptoed up the stairs and found one of the balconies overlooking the center ground. The faithful dancers below formed precise patterns and moved with strength. Since the storm blew outward, there was only a thin layer of mud to impede their steps. While hiding in the shadows, I watched each face in the cloud-darkened light but didn’t spot Starfire.
Good. Perhaps she was resting in her room. She was the one face I looked forward to seeing in this place. I slipped through the dining hall and to the door that led to the dancers’ wing. At the threshold, all the old taboos pounded with my pulse and the relentless drums. I was no longer a dancer of the Order. I wasn’t worthy to enter.
From the kitchen, a cook called to an attendant. They’d be bringing out lunch soon. If I lingered here in the dining hall, I’d be discovered. No more time to hesitate. I pushed open the door and shut it quietly behind me. Familiar halls greeted me, along with the banners of each form’s color.
Since Starfire wasn’t out in the center ground, she was either resting in her room or rehearsing with her group. I stopped at the main rehearsal hall and peeked in. Saltar River’s back was to the door as she harangued the dancers. All the women were concentrating on holding an extension facing the left wall, so no one spotted me.
Iris was there, and other familiar dancers, but no sign of Starfire. If she had been brought in to replace me, would they have given her my old room? Footsteps approached, and I ducked into a laundry alcove, hiding behind a large basket. The steps continued on toward the dancers’ dining hall.
After leaning out to look both directions, I took a deep breath and ran to my old room. I found the reed pattern carved on the door and pushed it open an inch. Then another. A slight figure slept under a blanket. Auburn hair spread across the pillow.
I’d found her! I breathed a prayer of thanks to the Maker, entered the room, and quietly closed the door behind me. Touching her shoulder, I whispered, “Starfire?”
She bolted up in one sudden movement, panic turning her freckles dark against her pale skin. I remembered the stress of living here. The constant fear of making a mistake.
“Shhh. Starfire, it’s all right. It’s me . . .” I was about to use my true name, but realized it would mean nothing to her. “You knew me as Calara.”
A spontaneous flare of welcome brought a smile to her face, but then she covered her mouth. “How? How can you be here? I thought . . .” Her voice quavered.
“I’ve found something wonderful. The Maker’s letter. I’m here to tell the saltars about it.”
She shoved aside her bedding and stood, her movements stiff and abrupt. “You shouldn’t be here.” Her muscles were so rigid she seemed to push me away without even touching me. She looked past me.
“What’s wrong?”
She turned away. The hem of her long sleep tunic shifted, revealing scars on her ankles.
“Please go. I’ve broken a million rules even speaking to you.”
“What have they done to you? Starfire, please look at me.”
She sniffed in a tight breath through her nose. “I am not Starfire. I am Dancer Calara.”
Of course. She had taken my place, my room, my name. “I remember when we both longed for this,” I said softly.
Did her shoulders soften? Her troubled gaze met mine, then darted away.
I dared a small step toward her. “I found them. My village, my family. I was stolen from them when I was tiny. Maybe you were too. Maybe you have a family somewhere outside the Order.”
Her jaw clenched and she stared at the door.
I edged sideways into her line of sight. If she would only look at me, if one ounce of our friendship and laughter remained, if . . .
She looked straight through me. “Only the worthy may serve the Order.” Her singsong voice drew chills across my flesh.
“Starfire, don’t be that way. I understand you face danger by talking to me. But I had to let you know—”
She thrust one palm toward me. “Leave. Now.”
“I will, but first let me tell you. Remember how we—”
“I mean it.” Her voice hissed low through her teeth. “I’ll fetch an attendant.”
The blow of betrayal and loss hit like the hilt of a knife driving into my chest. I stepped back, sagging around the pain. “All right. I’m leaving. Maybe you could meet me later in the . . .”
She covered her ears, visage fierce, eyes unseeing.
I searched for any flicker, any hint, that my dear friend was still inside the resolute body of this dancer.
One tear poised in the corner of her eye, the only glimpse of Starfire that remained.
Tears blurred my vision as I stumbled away from Starfire’s room. Outside the wind howled as the leeward storm unleashed its anger, and a shutter cracked against stone.
I’d rather be outside in the tempest than trapped in this miserable tower that had stolen everything—even my best friend. Would Starfire report my presence? Even now she could shout for prefects to drag me before Tiarel. And the High Saltar could make me disappear before I’d ever have a chance to speak to the Order. I should have joined Brantley at the inn. When I’d stood in Middlemost and looked at the tower, I’d believed that I had to approach before I lost all courage. Perhaps my impulsive choice had been foolish.
I retraced my steps, rounding a curve near the laundry alcove. A chubby figure backed out, her arms full of neatly folded tunics. I sidled away, but not rapidly enough.
She bumped into me and whirled with a fierce frown. “Here, now! You aren’t allowed in the dancers’ quarters. Deliveries use the kitchen.” The fluff of white hair and the soft lines of her face belied her harsh words.
My panic gave wa
y to recognition. “Ginerva!”
She squinted at me, then dropped her stack of laundry. “Can it be?”
By law she should refuse to acknowledge me. Instead she enfolded me in plump arms. Her welcome brought all my loneliness and fear to the surface, and I sniffed back my tears, allowing myself this one blissful moment of comfort.
She pulled back, head swiveling like a nervous harrier bird. “In here.” She tugged me into the alcove. After retrieving the clothes, she pulled a curtain over the alcove before cradling my face in her hands. “How?”
“You were right. About so much. The Maker led me to His letter, and He . . .” The enormity of that encounter washed over me again. I coaxed a deep breath from my tense lungs. “I’ve read His words.”
My shoulders drew back. I pulled the pouch from beneath my cloak and removed the letter. Here at last was an ally. Someone who could advise me and help me. I held out the precious pages.
She threw up her arms. “Put that away!”
“Don’t you want to—?”
“Fool girl. Why would you bring that here? Tiarel would delight in destroying it.”
My fingers fumbled as I tucked the letter back into the pouch. I’d feared for my life coming back to the Order. I’d feared the danger of being drawn back in to the pride, the control, the lies. But I hadn’t thought of this letter being destroyed. Doubts rose again. Had I misremembered what the Maker had asked me to do? The last time He’d spoken to me, I’d been grief-stricken over my mother’s death. Exhausted. Confused. No one had believed this was a wise course. Now even this dear attendant thought I had made a huge mistake by coming here.
I sagged against the alcove wall, leaning on one of the laundry baskets. “He told me to read the letter to the villages. To help them remember what has been lost.”
Ginerva squeezed the bridge of her nose. “Then why are you here?”
“Because then He told me it was time to bring the truth to the Order.”
