Shattered Dance

by Caitlin Brennan

The tribesman hawked and spat. “We’re not imperials here. We don’t play courtiers’ games. You and the one on the white horse—you come with us. The rest stay here.”

  “But, sir,” Pretorius said as sweetly as ever, “the rest are the gift, along with certain trinkets in yonder mules’ packs that might sit ill with your king if he discovers them missing.”

  The tribesman peered at the prisoners. They were not a prepossessing lot. His sniff said as much. “These aren’t our people. What would we do with them?”

  “That’s for the high king to determine,” Pretorius said. “Do by all means come with us or send an escort—that’s only proper. But we will see him as we are. Those are our orders, sir. We’ll be pleased to swear on our lives and souls that we will do no harm to the king or his people.”

  The tribesman’s eyes had narrowed. Valeria waited for him to refuse. Instead he said, “Very well then. One guard for each of these mongrels. The rest stay with us to keep us company and share a jar of not excessively bad wine.”

  And serve as hostages for the others’ good behavior. That went unspoken, but they were all aware of it.

  Pretorius spread his hands in surrender. The captain of the guard made his choices quickly. Those who rode onward took charge of two of the dozen mules. The rest, men and beasts alike, stayed with the camp guards, quiet and watchful but not visibly dismayed.

  Pretorius’ guardsmen were better armed and better trained than they looked, and they were mages. If anyone could be safe here, they would be.

  All of Valeria’s stallions went with her into the camp. The high king’s guards made no effort to stop them, though she saw how their eyes rolled.

  None of the citizens of Aurelia that she had met had recognized the three grey cobs for what they were. But among the tribes, everyone seemed to know them.

  She was not afraid or even particularly uncomfortable. She was the only woman and almost the only Aurelian in that valley, and yet the eyes that followed her had no hostility in them. They were curious, intent, sometimes grim, but they did not hate her.

  That was astonishing. Her own people would have loathed the very sight of the conquerors, but these tall fair people seemed prepared to take them as they came.

  She had no doubt whatever that if a battle began in the next instant, these sons of the One would do every possible thing to destroy her and all her kind. But as guests in the camp, Valeria and her companions were made as welcome as if they had been kin.

  Pretorius and Valeria left the horses in one of the outer circles with a pair of guards to look after them, assisted by a handful of tribesmen. When they continued on foot, the three stallions followed.

  Valeria had neither power nor desire to stop them. Nor, it seemed, did anyone else. With that more than royal escort, they made their way to the high king’s tent.

  The camp was pitched in circles of tents around a central fire. That fire burned high in spite of the heat and the daylight. A whole fat deer turned on a spit, with a handful of young tribesmen in attendance.

  Beyond the fire rose a tall tent, very large as such things went, with the front of it rolled up. There were rooms beyond that Valeria could see, marked off by curtains of woven plaid and deep-dyed wool. The room that opened on the fire’s circle was spread with carpets from the east, a touch of surprising richness. Over them lay the pelt of a vast grizzled bear, the claws intact and polished until they gleamed.

  The bear’s head hung from the tent pole, its fangs as long as Valeria’s smallest finger and inlaid with colored stones. Its eyes were carbuncles, ember-red and glowing as the sun caught them.

  The high king sat on the bearskin. He was a big man but still rather rangy with youth, broad-shouldered and lean in the flanks. His plaid was the color of heather on the moors, shot through with the gold of the broom. His hair and his long moustaches were as bright as the flames of the fire. Around his neck was a golden torque as thick as a child’s wrist.

  Euan Rohe’s yellow wolf-eyes met Valeria’s. He dared her to be shocked or surprised—or for that matter angry.

  Anger she could easily manage, but not at him. It took all the self-control she had to keep from whirling on Pretorius and railing at him in front of everyone.

  He had known. He had brought her here because this of all possible men among the tribes had managed to make himself Ard Ri.

  Never mind how Pretorius knew the rest of it. He was a dream-mage and a reader of omens. He could have seen every moment she spent with Euan, damn him—and now he used it and them for his own purposes.

  Her fists clenched. Not if she could help it. She looked Euan in the face and smiled.

  It must have been a terrifying sight. He blinked, but then he went still again.

  “My lord high king,” Pretorius said, “it’s a great pleasure to meet you at last.”

  Euan turned a heavy-lidded gaze on him, a look of calculated insolence. “We’ve met,” he said. “We sent you the long away around.”

  “So you did, my lord,” Pretorius said affably. “It was somewhat easier on the horses than the tracks you chose.”

  “That it was,” said Euan. He drew up his knee and rested his arm on it. “So. What brings you to the far edge of the world?”

  “Courtesy,” Pretorius replied, “and gifts.”

  Euan’s brows rose. “Not anything lethal, I hope.”

  “I do hope not, my lord,” Pretorius said.

  He flicked a glance. The guards brought the prisoners forward. They were so tightly bound with magic that they could barely walk, but their eyes were open as wide as they would go.

  Euan looked them up and down as his camp guards had. “I don’t believe these are mine,” he said.

  “And yet they are, my lord,” said Pretorius. “We offer them to you with our empress’s compliments. It seems they have a great passion for your god and your people.”

  The only passion they were showing at the moment was a desperate desire to run away. All but Bellinus—he seemed fascinated by the high king, as a mouse might be by a snake.

  Valeria hardly took pity on them, but she was tired of the dance. “You’re supposed to give them to the priests,” she said. “That absolves both you and us of the need to dispose of them, and the priests get a more or less useful set of sacrifices.”

  Pretorius winced slightly. Euan threw back his head and laughed.

  So did the tribesmen who had gathered to stare and listen. They were not laughing because their king did—they honestly seemed to find her words hilarious.

  That was interesting, because she had spoken in Aurelian. She had not known her language was so widely known among the barbarians.

  There were a great many things she did not know. One of them was the whereabouts of Gothard. He was somewhere near here—she could feel him. But he was not letting himself be seen.

  The roar of laughter died down at last. “You should have been one of us, rider,” Euan said. “You tell the truth as you see it.”

  “So do we all,” said Pretorius. “There will be other gifts as well, as we come to know you better. In the meantime, along with these young devotees of your god, we offer you our goodwill and a token or two thereof—gold and silver, such jewels as you might be presumed to take pleasure in, and a few small things for your amusement.”

  As he spoke, two of the guards unloaded the mules and spread the contents of their packs in front of the king. They made a glittering display. There were torques and necklaces and rings, earrings and armlets, a belt made for a giant and wrought of plates of solid silver inset with bright blue stones, a full banquet service of silver and gold with goblets of sea-blue glass and bolts of silk in a dozen shimmering colors.

  Valeria had never known wealth to tempt Euan, except insofar as it gave him power. She watched him count it up and reckon its worth. Then he nodded slowly. “My people will be glad of this,” he said. “I thank you for it.”

  Pretorius bowed. “The pleasure is ours, my lord.”

  “You�
��ll dine with us tonight,” said Euan. “Both of you. My people will show you where to bathe and rest beforehand. We eat at sunset.”

  Pretorius bowed again, lower than before. “We’ll be honored, my lord.”

  Valeria did not say anything, though Euan’s eyes were on her again. He had trapped her and he knew it. It seemed to amuse him.

  This was revenge of a sort, she supposed—though whether it was for saving his life or helping to destroy his army, she could not tell. Probably both.

  She would survive this. Who knew? She might even enjoy it.

  Chapter Thirty

  The envoys bathed in the river, which was icy cold, and rested in tents pitched in one of the circles that orbited the king’s tent. Valeria thought of feigning exhaustion or illness, but when Pretorius set out for the feast, she went with him.

  This time the stallions stayed behind. She felt oddly naked, though she was thoroughly clothed. She had deliberately and somewhat defiantly put on her rider-candidate’s uniform, the grey coat and close-cut breeches and high boots in which Euan had seen her many times before.

  Pretorius wore his usual brown robe like a scholar’s, without ornament or badge of any order. That was an affectation, too. It made her feel slightly better about her own silliness.

  The sky was ragged with blood-tinged clouds. Around a dozen fires, the clans feasted and danced and sang. The king’s fire leaped high as the darkness fell, catching the gold of Euan’s torque and the bright stream of his hair. He had taken it out of its plait and let it fall loose to his waist.

  There were a hundred men around him, but she hardly saw them. The sheer male beauty of him had captivated her since she first saw him riding as a hostage to the Mountain. He had been a dreadful rider then and probably still was, but it had never mattered. On foot where he belonged, he had a wild grace that made her heart flutter.

  The place beside him was open, waiting for her. Pretorius had to settle for one well down the circle, in between a pair of gold-decked chieftains.

  They were wearing some of the gifts Pretorius had brought. So were most of the others at the feast—all but Euan. He had kept none of it for himself.

  The prisoners were nowhere to be seen. The priests must have taken them. Valeria did not want to know what was happening to them.

  Euan lolled at ease on his bearskin, dressed as she had seen him before. Except for the loosening of his hair, he had done nothing to adorn himself for the occasion.

  He needed no more than his youth and strength and the beauty that had grown stronger as he grew into himself. Valeria sat stiffly beside him. The heat that came off him was strong enough to burn. Her belly kept trying to melt.

  It did no good to think of Kerrec. That only made her angry, and anger made Euan seem all the more irresistible.

  He insisted that she have the first taste of everything. She could refuse none of it without giving offense. The best she could do was eat small bites and take tiny sips and try not to get dizzy with having him so close.

  He seemed content to torment her with his presence but not his conversation. He indulged in an interestingly small quantity of that with the tribesmen around him—most of it having to do with hunting.

  Some of them seemed to think Valeria was a boy. She heard two debating it, down past Pretorius. In the way of large and boisterous gatherings, once in a while there was a lull, and one’s ears could catch snippets. This one was brief but telling.

  “Yes, that’s one of the riders—a horse mage. Or priest. I’m not sure which.”

  “I thought they were all men.”

  “They are.”

  “That one’s not.”

  “You don’t say? Are the horses female, too?”

  “Not hers. I looked. One of them tried to drop a load of manure on my head. If those are gods, they’re gods with leaky guts.”

  Valeria swallowed a startled burst of laughter. That made her choke, and then cough.

  A cup appeared under her nose. There was water in it, cold and clean. She gulped it down.

  Euan had already turned away from her and back to the rest of his guests. But he was aware of her in his skin, as she was of him.

  She took the only escape she could, which was to mutter about the jakes and then run for it.

  She did not need it as badly as that, but it seemed wise to be seen to tell the truth. None of the tribesmen squatting or standing along the redolent trench seemed to notice her in her twilight-colored clothes. When she was finished, she slipped away toward the horselines.

  Oda and Sabata and Marina were in comfort. They had grass enough to graze—since this camp had so few horses, it was not all gnawed down—and water from the river. They stood together in the fitful starlight, nose to tail, flicking night insects from each other’s faces.

  Someone or something was lying on Oda’s back. The stallion showed no sign of minding it.

  Valeria caught herself before she leaped forward to strike it off. When she advanced, she moved slowly, peering in the dimness.

  The shape was human, if small. A child-sized hand trailed down the heavy white neck, working fingers into the stallion’s mane. Oda stretched out his neck and wiggled his lip in bliss.

  Valeria halted. The other two stallions stood between her and the small rider. She rubbed Sabata’s shoulder, which happened to be closest, frowning as she decided how to feel about the interloper on her stallion’s back.

  Oda was not hers or anyone’s. That thought came from all three stallions. He was here because he chose to be. He had chosen her, not she him. As long as he pleased, he would stay. If his mind changed, he would go.

  He was a god. That was his right.

  Valeria flushed faintly at the rebuke. It was hard to set aside human ways of thinking and remember that these were not horses. No matter how thoroughly horselike they might seem, they were something different—and that something was divine.

  Softly and by his leave, she swung up onto Sabata’s back and lay as the child was lying, watching as he gradually became aware of her.

  He did not stiffen or show alarm. His head turned. His face was a pale blur in the starlight. “Rider,” he said in barely accented Aurelian.

  His voice was grave and courteous. It was also very young. He was large enough to claim eight or nine summers in Aurelia, but among his tall people he might only have five or six.

  “Do you all speak our language?” she asked him.

  “My father made me learn,” he answered.

  “That was foresighted of him,” Valeria said.

  “Oh, no,” the child said in quiet horror. “We don’t do magic.”

  Valeria’s brows rose. “That’s not magic,” she said. “It’s only prudence.”

  The child shook his head firmly. “We are not supposed to see ahead. Or tell people about it.”

  “Not in my country,” she said.

  He sat up on Oda’s back. His eyes were perfectly round. “You’re not safe here. Not if you have magic—and say you have it.”

  “Everyone knows,” Valeria said. “These white horses and this coat I wear tell everyone what I am.”

  “You aren’t safe,” the child repeated. “Nobody with magic is safe with us. Except…”

  He stopped. Valeria opened her mouth to prompt him, but something about his expression warned her not to.

  She could guess what he had not said. Only priests could practice magic among the tribes. He was not a priest—he was too bright and clean-spirited a creature. She would wager that his father was taking great care that the priests did not notice him.

  All that care might prove useless if priests of the tribes could sense the power in this child. It was damped down with impressive skill for one so young, but one look at him and any mage would know.

  Because she could not help herself, and because it would thwart the worst of her enemies, Valeria wrought a small working on the child. When it was done, his wards were so secure as to be invisible. To any mage’s eye he would seem
the most ordinary of unmagical children.

  He shivered so hard he nearly fell off, but then he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Thank you,” he said.

  Valeria’s teeth clicked together. Gods, he was strong, if he had felt that.

  Oda turned his wise old head and blew gently on the child’s foot. The child laughed, tumbled down and somersaulted and scampered off like the simple mortal youngling he pretended to be.

  He had distracted Valeria wonderfully. The heat of Euan’s presence had left her. She could go to her tent and undress and lie down without wanting to jump out of her skin.

  She lay on her blankets with their familiar smell of horses and camp smoke, listening to the sounds of revelry without.

  The pressure of foreboding was back. It had come and gone even after she banished it, but tonight it was stronger than it had ever been. Her defenses were barely enough to keep it out.

  “Too late,” she said aloud. “I’m already here.”

  Her words made no difference to that far distant outcry. It was a beacon and not a living voice, blaring forth the alarm until she either heeded it or went mad.

  She intended to do neither. She stuffed the blanket in her ears and shut her mind more tightly than ever. In the almost-silence, she willed herself to sleep.

  A light hand followed the curve of Valeria’s spine. She shivered in pleasure and turned her head to smile at Kerrec. “Such a dream,” she meant to say. “Gods forbid any of it should come true.”

  The words died before she spoke them. Euan Rohe sat on his heels beside her, looming large in the small space of the tent.

  “Get out,” she said.

  He made no move to obey. She had not expected him to.

  “If you refuse to leave,” she said with studied calm, “I will flay you alive and dance on your bones.”

  He grinned. “You could do that,” he granted her, “but you won’t.”

  Valeria weighed the living fire in her hand. His yellow wolf-eyes followed it, but they were obdurate in their refusal to be afraid. She hissed at him. “Are you challenging me?”