Dancing the Warrior E-Book

Marie Brennan

• Herausgeber: JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Doppelganger
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 108

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Those who serve the Warrior face the harshest of discipline. Trained from a young age to become lethal Hunters, they have no room in their ranks for the weak -- or for those who join them late. Her entire life, Seniade has felt a bond with the Warrior. Becoming a Hunter ought to be a dream come true. But first she has to prove herself worthy to stay . . . and she might just kill herself trying. Dancing the Warrior is a standalone novella set before the events of the novels Warrior and Witch, by the author of the acclaimed Memoirs of Lady Trent series.

Leseprobe

DANCING THE WARRIOR

Copyright © 2011 by Bryn Neuenschwander

All rights reserved.

Published as an eBook in 2018 by JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.

Originally published in Beneath Ceaseless Skies issues #66 and #67.

ISBN 978-1-625673-90-9

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright

Dancing the Warrior

Author’s Note

About the Author

Other Books by Marie Brennan

Dancing the Warrior

She was never happier than when she Danced the Warrior.

Kick hard off the ground, back arched, arms in a hard curve; then bend to land. Drop low into a crouch, feeling the wind of Sareen’s leap overhead. Then up, fast, to whirl around Thal, never mind the burning lungs and quivering calf muscles because all of that is a problem for later; right now, you are one with the Warrior, a body in motion, muscles and bone and blood, perfection.

Until it ended, and Seniade came back to herself with a rush, heart pounding so hard it shook her entire body. Only then did she remember her surroundings: the pentagonal temple of Angrim, with the oculus above streaming light down into the sacred space, the statues of the Aspects standing sentinel along the five walls, and the audience gathered to watch the Dance. An audience that was now applauding, each clap echoing and redoubling in the great chamber, tribute to the glory they had just seen. To Dance the different faces of the Goddess, and to witness it, was an offering to her.

What came afterward was much duller. When Sen was cast in the central role for this Warrior Dance, she had been ecstatic. She’d never stopped to consider that taking a special role in a special performance meant standing in a receiving line afterward, to greet the important members of the audience.

She drew some satisfaction from hearing the Lord and Lady of Abern congratulate her on the Dance—even if she knew they were also congratulating themselves, for having invited the company from the Great Temple in Eriot to visit their court in Angrim. But the crowd of supposedly important people seemed endless, and she had to fight not to fidget with boredom. “May the beauty bring you closer to her,” she said, over and over again, pasting a gentle smile on her face. This, not the choreography, was the hard part. Sen knew her own abilities very well: she was strong, she was fast, and Dancing—movement of any kind—came to her as naturally as breathing. But acting as a sort of priestess to the people who watched her? That made her want to crawl under a table until they were gone. Warrior, when will this be over?

She sighed, looked up—and froze. The next woman in line was a witch.

The words of greeting stuck in her throat. They weren’t the right words, anyway; priestesses, when forced to deal with witches, greeted them with “Blessings of the Goddess on the unbalanced.” But Sen wasn’t a priestess; she was only a very junior Dancer, and in no position to be rude.

The witch didn’t seem to notice her paralysis. Taking Sen’s hand, she smiled and said, “I remember you, from the Warrior Dance. Such power and force—I’ve never seen anything like it, especially from one so young. What is your name? How old are you?”

Her melodious, trained tones sent a shiver up Sen’s back. That voice had magic in it; Sen had to remind herself that spells were in some other language, and sung besides. The questions were ordinary, nothing more. But the woman, with her witch-red hair braided high on her head, had a severe, intense look, like a hawk searching for prey. Sen barely managed to say, “Seniade. I’m twelve.” Her mind flailed for the right honorific to address a witch, but failed to turn it up.

The woman didn’t seem to mind. “Simply incredible. You move like the Warrior herself. I would have expected to see a young Dancer like you in a Maiden role instead.”

Young Dancers mostly didn’t get roles at all, when they began performing at the age of ten. They only did group Dances, or decorated someone else’s solo: sisters of the Bride, ghosts to haunt the Crone. Sen shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not as good with the other Aspects.”

“Oh?”

All these questions were holding up the line, other people waiting impatiently behind the witch. But that melodious voice compelled an answer, even without resorting to magic. “They don’t . . . speak to me the way the Warrior does.”

It was the simplest explanation she could give. When it came to technical skill, Sen was better than anyone her age, as good as some years older. But those perfect moments never came when she Danced in honor of the other Aspects: that crystalline clarity, sharp as the edge of the Warrior’s blade.

“Fascinating,” the witch murmured, studying her as if she were an exotic bird, never seen before. “You serve her above all.”

With the memory of that performance still humming along her tired muscles, the reply rose to Sen’s lips, without need for thought. “I would dedicate myself to her forever, if I could.”

Another faint smile touched the witch’s mouth. “It would please the Warrior, I’m sure.” With a bow, she moved on.

* * *

The memory of her own words stayed with Sen long after the company returned to Eriot. The teachers noticed; she grew restless in practice, impatient with anything that wasn’t the Warrior’s Dance. Not wanting to disappoint them, Sen worked even harder than before—but again and again, as the year faded into winter and then warmed once more, she found herself in the Warrior’s shrine.

Most of that Aspect’s statues depicted her with a weapon, but here she wore only a breastband and loose breeches, the costume of a Dancer. The muscles of her body were sculpted into breathtaking perfection—the sort of perfection Sen aspired to, and might someday hope to reach.

On her knees before that statue one late spring day after she turned thirteen, Sen wondered. Is it wrong, to feel like I’m meant for more? Or for less: one Aspect, not all five. And for myself, not for those who watch me. Guilt gnawed at her heart. However well I Dance, I’m not a good Dancer. And I don’t know that I ever will be.

But what am I, if not a Dancer?

Thal found her there shortly afterward. “Sorry to interrupt—but Criel wants to see you.”

The company mistress. Sen’s pulse quickened. “Did she say why?”

Thal shook his head. Junior Dancers often ran messages, but rarely got explanations. Reflexively, Sen glanced over her shoulder at the statue of the Warrior. Had the Goddess decided to answer her cry?

The statue gave no reply.

Criel’s office was flooded with warm sunlight, gilding her whitening hair. She had to be in her fifties, at least; she’d retired from regular teaching shortly after Sen’s parents sold her to the Temple eight years ago. Nowadays she Danced only Crone roles, and those rarely. But there was still an elegance to her every movement as she led Sen to kneel upon cushions by the window.

Once settled, she studied Sen with an unreadable expression. Finally she spoke. “Are you happy in the Temple, Seniade?”

“Mistress?” Sen blinked in confusion.

“Children come to us at five,” Criel said softly, looking out the window. “Too young to choose. It’s necessary, of course; the training must begin early. But it means that not everyone has the calling. To be a Dancer is to be more than a body in motion; you become a conduit between the people and the Goddess. And I know you struggle with that, sometimes.”

To hear her own doubts echoed back to her was terrifying. Quickly, Sen said, “I’ll try harder. I’m happy here, I swear—especially when I’m—”

She stopped herself before the words could come out. It wasn’t possible, that Criel could be thinking of sending her away. Surely a connection to the Warrior was enough. The rest would come with time. She just had to try harder.

Before Sen could say this, Criel rose, restlessly, and moved a few steps away. “What do you know of Hunters?”

It was unexpected enough to stop the panic growing in Sen’s gut. Steadying her breathing, she answered promptly. “They’re old Warrior cults, or they were. Now they’re, um…”

“Mercenaries,” Criel said, when Sen hesitated. Then she frowned and shook her head. “No, that sounds too common. Too derogatory. Call them individual warriors, who can be hired as bodyguards, spies, assassins, investigators—many things, depending on their school.”

It wasn’t uncertainty that had made Sen pause. She knew very well what Hunters did. Two years ago a cheap book had found its way into the Dancers’ dormitory, tales stuffed full of Hunters’ exploits; their independence and daring made them romantic figures for storytellers, whether as heroes or villains. Long after the rest of the Dancers had tired of the book and moved on to other things, Sen kept re-reading it. Even now, the battered volume sat in the bottom corner of her cabinet, carefully wrapped in a shirt.

Criel said, “If you wish it—you have a chance to join them.”

The company mistress waited, then waited some more; then she turned and peered down, concerned. “Seniade? Did you hear me?”

She had. And she didn’t believe it. This was a hallucination; Sareen hadn’t leapt high enough in practice this morning and her foot had clipped Sen in the head. Surely she’d misheard Criel, her brains jarred loose by— 

Awkward as a marionette, Sen nodded.

“It’s a chance only,” Criel said. “There are no guarantees. But the Grandmaster of Silverfire has agreed to see you. Their training starts at ten—you would be entering late—but you have the physical conditioning. If I bring you to him, he may let you in. And—” She hesitated, then knelt once more on the cushion across from Sen. “You have a gift, Seniade. I would never have given that role to one so young, but your strength and grace are nothing short of astonishing. You are blessed by the Warrior. And if you have a chance to serve her more directly . . . I will let you try, if you wish it. With regret for our loss.”

Go to Silverfire. Become a Hunter. Leave behind everything she knew, the only home she truly remembered—in exchange for something she knew only through tales.

“If . . . if I go there—”

“If the Grandmaster refuses you, then we’ll return here,” Criel said. “But if you are accepted into Silverfire, then you cannot return. A Dancer’s consecration, once broken, cannot be restored.”

She wouldn’t risk anything by going, then. Only embarrassment, if her fellow Dancers ever heard she’d tried and failed.

And she would not fail. The mere thought was inconceivable. Beyond any doubt, this was a gift from the Warrior—which meant Sen had made her decision already, in the pentagonal temple of Angrim, after that perfect Dance.

Sen bowed low to the floor. The words rushed out, as if by speaking them faster she could bring the future to her now. “Thank you, Mistress. I will go.”

* * *

Sen’s first sight of Silverfire was the tower. It jutted up from the horizon, at first hardly more than a speck, then gradually resolving into a definite structure. Behind it lay a dark smear: woods, she thought. Closer by, a wall stood athwart the road, with a squat guard-post keeping watch. A short wall, Sen saw as she and Criel drew closer, not in height but in length. It ended not far away. Only an idiot would sneak into a Hunter school, she supposed—but then why have a wall in the first place? To give the trainees something to practice on, maybe.

A Hunter emerged from the guard-post as they drew near. Sen devoured every detail, trying not to stare. He wore the familiar uniform—full, loose breeches, wide sash, short jacket—but in a dusty, unremarkable grey rather than the black of the tales. No mask, either. His right arm hung in a sling; that was probably why he was here and not out on the road. According to Criel, Silverfire Hunters were itinerant, taking commissions from anyone with enough money to hire them, rather than accepting long-term contracts like some other schools did.

Sen liked the sound of that. Going where she was needed, not tied down to one employer’s whims. It seemed more likely to lead to the kind of grand deeds that would honor the Warrior’s name.

Criel produced a letter, and the Hunter, after reading it, jerked his thumb toward the buildings and gave them directions in a brief, bored tone. His eyes, though, showed more interest than his voice let on.