He wants to humiliate me. Please, help me prove him wrong. Warrior, Lady of Battle—my body is yours. My blood is yours. Every breath, every movement, I dedicate to you. Imperfect as they are, they’re the best I can do.
Give me the strength to show it.
Kerestel and Marwen weren’t paying attention to Talon, either. Their eyes were on her, nervous, almost afraid, as the three of them bowed to each other. Why? What did they have to fear?
“Begin,” Talon said.
Kerestel’s moves she knew, from his lightning-fast reverse punches to that flaw, still not quite eliminated, in his roundhouse kicks. Marwen was less familiar, a stocky girl Sen had only been paired against once before. She kept her center of gravity low, but felt too safe in it; most trainees, taller than her, took advantage of their height to go over her guard. She wouldn’t expect to be swept or thrown.
I can use that.
Marwen came at her first. Sen dodged and ducked under Kerestel’s arm, forgoing the chance to arm-lock him; it would have slowed her unacceptably, with Marwen at her back. Instead she punched, not expecting to connect, just driving Kerestel back the necessary distance. Marwen was coming back in already. Sen maneuvered to put her in Kerestel’s path. The more she could make them trip over each other, the better.
There! Sen dropped, planting her hands on the floor and pivoting in a quick, devastating sweep. Marwen dropped like a rock, gaping in comical surprise. Nobody had taught Sen that move yet; she’d picked it up from Leksen, by dint of being its victim a hundred times. Momentum brought Sen back up. She shifted her weight, thrust downward with her left foot, stopping just shy of Marwen’s face—and then flung herself to the side, avoiding Kerestel’s opportunistic attack.
“You’re unconscious,” she heard Talon tell the other girl. “Stay down.”
An imperfect attack, but successful: the strategy of her mind and execution of her body, in harmony for the first time in ages. Warrior—
Hope threatened her focus. Sen brushed it away. There was still Kerestel to worry about, Kerestel to prove herself against. She could do this. Get him on the defensive, off-balance, turning and turning until he lost track of direction, then drive him back over Marwen’s forgotten body; he rolled and recovered with speed, but not fast enough, not this time. She could see the gap in his defenses, clear as crystal; all she had to do was slide her body into it. Over Marwen and punch once, not to hit, just to make him retreat those few inches, and then twist and—
Something tore inside her knee.
For a moment she didn’t register the pain, or her own scream. Then she slammed back into her body with brutal awareness; she was on the floor, and the other students had leapt to their feet and were crowding around her.
“Out of my way,” Talon barked, pushing his way to her side.
Hot, liquid agony poured through her leg. She could have wept at her own unforgivable stupidity. She’d remembered for Marwen, pivoting on her right leg so as not to strain the left, but then she’d seen her chance and she’d forgotten—
For an instant, it had been within her reach. But she was too eager, too hasty.
Too flawed.
Unworthy of the Warrior, and now she’d destroyed her chance.
“Lie back,” Talon said, his voice tight and yet weirdly gentle. “Kerestel, bring that pad over here to elevate her leg. Somebody go to the infirmary. And get the Grandmaster. Sen, lie back.”
In a panic of desperation, Sen shoved his hands away from her knee, as if that could somehow change the truth. I’m done. Whatever I’ve just done, it won’t heal quickly; I’ll be out for ages. And that means I’m finished here.
She couldn’t accept it. Couldn’t admit it. “I’ll be fine. I just need to rest it.” She hated the tremor in her voice. “It’s nothing. I’ll be fine.”
Somehow she made it to her feet and began walking. It hurt like nothing she’d ever felt before, and blackness fluttered at the edges of her vision. Warrior, just let me get out of here. Allow me that much, please.
Three steps short of the door, she collapsed.
* * *
Singing awakened her.
A strange tune, not very melodic, and she couldn’t understand the words. At first she thought it part of some dream. But shudders chased through her body, heat and cold in successive waves, and that felt too real to be a dream. Sen opened her eyes and found herself staring at a wall.
Carefully, feeling as if somebody had replaced her neck muscles with rotting leather, she rolled her head to the side—and found herself staring at red hair.
Sen jerked away, breaking the woman’s concentration. Heat and chill both vanished, leaving behind a dull ache. Not stabbing pain, though. Not the white-hot agony she remembered, from the moment before she blacked out.
Red hair, and singing, and a body that hurt less than it should. “What are you doing to me?”
A truly stupid question, but the witch was kind enough not to point that out. “Healing you—as best I can.”
Healing. Magic.
A witch, here at Silverfire.
Sen recognized the room; it was part of the infirmary. “But—why? Who are you? What are you doing here?”
The witch wasn’t the one from Angrim, who had complimented her Dancing. A stranger. Not anyone with reason to help her. “I am Ninkou-kai,” the witch said. Sen’s reasoning might not be working very well, but her memory was just fine; kai meant she was a witch of Air. Itinerant, like a Silverfire Hunter. “I had business with your Grandmaster, and when he mentioned your condition, I offered to do what I could.”
The meaning of that began to sink in. “You healed me?”
“I did what I could,” the witch said. “The spell works better on some things than others. Clear injuries, such as your torn knee, can be pieced back together. More generalized problems, though. . . .” She pinned Sen with a sharp look. “What has happened to you?”
Sen’s mouth went dry. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve just been training, that’s all.”
“I’ve treated Hunters before, girl. ‘Training’ doesn’t do this to you.” She began to tick the points off on her fingers. “Two cracked ribs. Three broken toes. Stress fracture to your lower right leg. Virtually every joint in your body has been over-strained, to the point of near-collapse, quite apart from the knee that did collapse. Malnutrition, infected blisters, enough bruises for three abused wives—you should have been flat on your back ages ago. How you could walk, let alone fight, is beyond me.”
The litany appalled Sen. She felt it, too, every strained and cracked and weakened bit; whatever clarity she’d found in those last moments before the end, it was gone now, beyond recall. Tears burned hot behind her eyes. She couldn’t have answered Ninkou-kai, even if she wanted to; it would have come out in a storm of weeping. And she would not—could not—allow that. I’ve lost everything else, but I will keep my dignity, damn it.
The witch let the silence stretch out; then she sighed. “As I said, I’ve healed what I can, but you’ll need strict rest to recover fully.” She rose from her chair, brushing her loose riding trousers as if they’d picked up dust from Sen’s ground-down bones. “I’ll go tell your Grandmaster. Whatever you’ve been doing, girl, I suggest you stop, unless you want to destroy yourself.”
Sen waited, staring blindly at the wall, as the witch left. Then she waited another minute more, giving the woman a good head start.
Then she lurched off the bed and ran.
* * *
It was more like a stagger, even with her body more whole than it had been in ages. Out of the infirmary, through the compound, avoiding eyes at every turn, desperate to get away.
Her thoughts kept chasing in circles. They’ll kill me. The witch-brat, being healed by a witch; they’ll never believe I have nothing to do with those women. She crouched behind a stack of crates, waiting until a clutch of the older trainees had gone by. It doesn’t matter. I won’t be here for them to kill me. Strict res
t; Talon would never accept that. He would insist she be thrown out. Not thrown out; once Silverfire takes you, they keep you. But what job would she be fit for, broken as she was? It doesn’t matter. They’ll kill me, anyway.
Into the forest, where at least she could hide. Sen made it as far as the clearing where she and Leksen “trained;” then she collapsed, gasping through the tears she could no longer hold back. Unworthy. Goddess. Where did I go wrong? Should I have stayed in the Temple? I thought this was right; I thought it was a sign, that you wanted me here—but I failed you. I wasn’t good enough. Nowhere near good enough.
Even despair couldn’t last forever. In time, the storm passed, leaving her cold and drained on the ground. Empty. Her clarity was gone, and her purpose; what happened next would not be hers to decide.
“You in here, witch-brat? Hiding from the world?”
Leksen.
His voice hit like a splash of cold, stinking water. What was he doing out here? Sen scrambled to her feet. No point running; she was too stiff and sore to be quiet, and he knew where to find her.
To the Void with it. Pitching her voice to carry, Sen called back. “Over here, you ugly bastard.”
A branch cracked behind her; she turned and saw Leksen, gaping like a fish. “What did you call me?”
“I called you a worthless piece of goat shit. Looking for someone to beat up? Warrior knows you won’t find it without picking on somebody younger than you. You’re not good enough to take on your own year-mates.” Sen spread her arms wide. Something had snapped inside her, but unlike the tearing of her knee, this rupture brought relief. “You want to hit someone? Try me.”
His face flushed purple. With a roar of pure fury, Leksen threw himself at her.
Anger gave Sen cold focus, but it made him crazy. She sidestepped his first wild blow and got in a solid kidney punch that made him howl; he grabbed her arm and slugged her in the stomach. Sen snarled that away and clawed his face, leaving bloody furrows down his cheek. It wasn’t a Dance of any kind, but she didn’t care. It was her sacrifice to the Warrior. Either he was going down, or she was.
“Sen!”
The sound broke her concentration, making her turn at the worst possible moment. She saw Kerestel, his hand outstretched, horror on his face—
Then something hit her jaw, snapping her head around with a crack.
Then nothing at all.
* * *
Kerestel’s breath burned in his lungs, white-hot with panic and guilt and desperation and rage, driving him through the compound as fast as he could run. He couldn’t even spare an instant to look behind and see if Leksen was chasing him. The Grandmaster—he had to tell the Grandmaster—
A hand caught his arm and brought him slinging around so fast he bounced off a broad, hard chest. Staggered, he looked up and found his captor was not Leksen, but Talon.
“What’s happening?” the master demanded. “What are you running from? Or to?”
“Sen,” he gasped. Too many words were trying to crowd out of his mouth at once; her name was the only thing that emerged.
Talon gripped his other arm, steadying him. “Deep breath. Tell me.”
Deep breaths weren’t doing him a Void-damned bit of good. Kerestel held his breath until he thought his lungs would explode; then he exhaled, spilling it all out in a rush. “Went to look for Sen. She vanished from the infirmary. I followed Leksen, and—” Horror surged up in a fresh wave. “He killed her.”
All the blood drained from Talon’s face. “What?”
The sickening crack echoed in his memory, over and over. “He broke her neck.” My fault. I distracted her. Kerestel wanted to vomit.
“Show me,” Talon said, cold as winter ice.
That voice couldn’t be disobeyed. Against the will of his conscious mind, Kerestel’s feet took them back toward the forest, the clearing where the two had fought. It was empty.
“Hid the body,” Talon said, in a quiet, abstracted voice that held murder not far below the surface. “We’ll find out where. Did he see you?” Kerestel nodded. “Then he’ll try to flee. Stables.”
They didn’t even have to go that far. In the falling light of dusk, a figure was riding for the head of the trail; Leksen had been at Silverfire long enough to know the forest offered the best chance for sneaking out. Talon broke into a silent lope, angling to catch him where the trail bent downward. Kerestel followed, leaping branches and stones, not even caring if he broke an ankle. Dead leaves skidded underfoot, and he slid wildly for a moment, but then he fetched up short against Talon’s suddenly unmoving back.
Clinging to the master’s jacket for balance, Kerestel looked around him—and saw the impossible.
* * *
Snap the foot forward, like a punch, then pivot and snap again from the side. Block as you come down, turn into it, too fast for him to follow. Fist to the ribs, low, lock his arm so he can’t strike, then haul back and sweep the near leg; keep the arm and twist, make him roll or be broken, drop your weight and pin him, easy as breathing, easy as thought, because this, at last, is the Warrior’s Dance.
“Sen!”
For the second time that day, the voice broke her concentration, but this time it was all right. Sen came aware once more, like the first free breath after an exhausting Dance, breathing herself back into the world around her.
The woods, fading rapidly into dusk. Leksen beneath her, pinned and trembling. His horse, nosing along the ground for interesting grass.
Talon and Kerestel, staring at her from the slope above.
Her year-mate was gaping, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. But Talon . . . he had that look in his eyes, the one she sometimes saw in audiences after a perfect Dance. As if he had, for a moment, glimpsed the face of the Goddess.
The face of the Warrior.
She’d lost hope of ever seeing it again. All these long months, however many it had been, until she ceased to believe she was blessed, or even worthy, in the Warrior’s eyes.
She knew otherwise, now.
Sen stayed, kneeling atop Leksen, while Talon descended and caught up the reins of the horse. He pulled them free of the bridle, then tossed them to Kerestel. “Tie that bastard up.”
Kerestel approached her sideways, still gaping. When Sen let go of her captive, Leksen remained face-down in the leaf mould, limp as a puppet for Kerestel’s nervous hands. Sen didn’t resist much more when Talon took her arm and pulled her aside.
“There will be plenty of explaining to do, back at the compound,” he said, in a low voice not meant for Kerestel’s ears, “but before we get there—Seniade, I made a mistake.”
Her voice felt like she hadn’t used it in years. “Sir?”
“He warned me.” Talon nodded at Kerestel. “But I didn’t see it. I thought you were doing fine—no, not fine, but not so badly that I needed to step in. You seemed like you were all right. I didn’t know, until the witch told me, how far it had gone.”
All the bruises and cracks and strains, hidden from everyone, for fear of showing weakness. “That wasn’t your mistake, sir.”
“Yes, it was. Most trainees, their will breaks before their body does. Not you. But I didn’t see it. And I almost broke you permanently, driving you so hard. As the Warrior is my witness, I never meant that.” Talon’s free hand clenched into a fist, but not to strike. In his voice, she heard something entirely new and unexpected: anguish. “I just knew . . . I saw you out here, you know. Just after you came to Silverfire. Dancing. When I saw that, I knew you had more in you. And I wanted to bring it out. Any way I could.”
The memory of her fight against Leksen still hummed along her tired muscles, like the Dance in Angrim. She’d found that transcendence again, making good on the promise she’d spoken that day: that she would serve the Warrior forever.
It brought such joy that Sen almost laughed, which probably would have offended Talon. She bit her lip until her voice steadied, then said, “I don’t blame you, sir. We wanted the same thing.”
Talon did laugh, a short, disbelieving bark. “Which only goes to show you’re even crazier than I am. Girl, whether it’s me breaking you or you breaking yourself, there are better ways to learn. And better people to help you than this useless piece of dung.” He jerked his thumb at Leksen, whom Kerestel had just hauled to his feet.
Leksen’s face was a mask of terror, and not, Sen thought, just for the fate that awaited him when he got back to the compound. When Talon seized him by the scruff of the neck, he almost seemed glad to go.
Taking the horse’s bridle in one hand, Kerestel fell in beside Sen. He still walked with that odd, half-sideways air, torn between staring at her and looking absolutely anywhere else. The words burst out of him in a strangled, disbelieving whisper. “You were dead.”
Against her will, Sen’s hand rose to rub her neck. Skin, muscle, and bone all answered smoothly, with no sign of damage. “You were seeing things.”
Kerestel made a noise like he’d just choked on his own tongue.
“He only stunned me,” Sen said. “Like Rolier did. Remember? When I got up, he was gone, so I staggered around a bit, and then when I saw him riding away I jumped him.”
No jumping had been necessary. He’d hauled so hard on the reins at the sight of her that his horse had reared, throwing him to the ground. From there, it had been the Dance, muscles and bone and blood, perfection.
Because she knew now, beyond the slightest doubt, that the Warrior hadn’t abandoned her.
The hideous, incomprehensible crack; then nothing. Then waking in the cold, damp leaves, and the soul-deep understanding that the impossible had just happened. A miracle, unasked-for, beyond her ability to explain. The Warrior had brought her back.
Kerestel was right.
She would never admit it, and she’d deny it if Leksen said anything, too. This was too personal, too profound to be shared with others. What she’d done to deserve it, she couldn’t begin to guess; her decision to devote herself to the Warrior couldn’t have been enough. Could it?
Dancing the Warrior Page 6