Shattered Dance

“We didn’t destroy it,” she said, “or the people who worship it. It’s still there. It still wants us. We’re everything it isn’t, you see.”

“I see,” he said. “The coronation?”

“Or the Dance. Probably both. Briana is wound up in it so tightly I can’t see where she begins and the rest ends. It’s Maurus’ vision and more. They—whoever they are—have opened doors that should have been forever shut.”

He nodded slowly. His eyes were dark in the firelight. “So you’ll send Grania out of the way.”

“I hope so,” said Valeria. “Are you angry?”

“No,” he said. “If this storm swallows everything, she’ll be no safer in Imbria than in Aurelia. But she might last a little longer.”

“She’s going to last a lifetime,” Valeria said fiercely. “I’ll stop it. I don’t care what I have to do, but I will do it.”

“So shall we all,” he said. He held his finger for Grania to clasp. She reached for it with clear intent and caught hold, gripping as if she would never let go.

They parted with Morag at the crossroads, half a day’s wagon ride from Imbria. Grania was asleep in the nurse’s arms. Valeria should not have been disappointed—this was a six-weeks-old child, too young to know anything about grief or farewells—but the heart was not prone to reason.

She kissed the small warm forehead. For an instant she paused. Was it too warm? Was Grania brewing up a fever?

If she was, all the better that she was going to Morag’s house instead of traveling on to Aurelia. The wisewoman would look after her.

It hurt to pull away. Valeria embraced her mother quickly and tightly, then half strode, half ran toward Sabata. If Morag said anything, Valeria never heard it through the roaring in her ears.

Kerrec took longer to say goodbye, but even that was only a few moments. When Valeria looked back, he was riding toward her with a perfectly still face and the wagon was rattling away over the hill to Imbria.

Valeria stiffened her spine. She had done the best she knew how. Grania was as safe as anyone could be.

The rest of them were riding into the whirlwind. She reached for Kerrec’s hand.

It was already reaching for hers. With hands clasped, riding knee to knee, they turned their faces toward Aurelia.

Chapter Eleven

Briana was playing truant. There was a hall full of nobles waiting for her to open their council and another hall full of servants intent on making this coronation more splendid than any that had gone before, and a temple full of priests awaiting a rite that she could not put off. And here she was, dressed in worn leather breeches, creeping off to Riders’ Hall to see if Corcyra had foaled yet.

Her heart was remarkably light. Too light, she might have thought. It was a kind of madness, as if after a long and arduous struggle she had come to the summit of a mountain—and leaped.

The earth lay far below, just visible through a scud of cloud. Her body would break upon it, she knew with perfect surety. But while she rode so high, all that mattered was the joy of soaring through infinite space.

It was still early morning. The air was cool and sea-scented. The night’s fog had burned off already, promising a warm day later.

As she walked down the passage between the palace and Riders’ Hall, her back straightened and her shoulders came back. The weight of her office was no more than she could bear—she was born and bred for it and trained from childhood to carry it. But even she needed to escape now and then.

The passage had numerous turnings and branches. The one she chose ended in the stable, which at the moment was empty except for a stocky bay mare and the young black, Corcyra. All of her sisters had foaled days ago. They were in pastures outside of Aurelia now, running with their offspring and getting fat on the rich green grass.

With just the two of them in residence, the stalls were open for the mares to come and go. They could go out into the riding court if they liked, which at the moment they did not choose to do. The bay Lady was nose-down in a manger full of sweet hay. Corcyra dozed in a stall.

Briana’s eyes narrowed. The mare seemed placid. Her belly drooped and her sides seemed oddly flat. Her rump was sunken, her tail limp. She looked just as she should at the very end of her pregnancy.

“She’ll go tonight,” Quintus the stableman said as he came up beside Briana. “She’s crossing her legs and holding her breath as it is.”

Briana shook her head and sighed. “Mares,” she said.

Corcyra barely acknowledged her as she came into the stall. Briana stroked the sleek neck and rubbed the little lean ears. “Only a little while longer,” she said.

The bay Lady snorted derisively. She was a horse by courtesy and physical semblance, but in the world of the spirit she was greater than gods. It was her choice to live here in Aurelia, pretend to be the empress’s favorite mount and bide her time for some purpose known only to herself.

Briana would never presume to ask what it was. The Lady had chosen Briana for her rider—a thing no Lady had done in a thousand years. Ladies lived on the Mountain. They showed themselves to no mortals except those select few riders who attended them in their high pastures.

This Lady came and went as she would and did as she pleased. Briana existed to serve her, no more and no less.

Maybe that was why she had chosen Briana. An empress more than any needed to be reminded that there were powers higher than she. In front of this blocky, cobby, yet rather pretty little horse, Briana understood the meaning of humility.

This morning the Lady was even more inscrutable than usual. Some of the reason for that came clear in Quintus’ words. “I had a message last night, lady. The riders will be here by tonight, or tomorrow morning at latest.”

No doubt a similar message was waiting among the hundreds that Briana had eluded in coming here. She nodded and sighed a little. “Good,” she said. “I’m glad. They’re all safe? No one’s missing?”

“Everyone’s well,” Quintus said. “The road was clear and nothing got in their way.”

“Send word when they come,” Briana said. “Will you do that for me?”

“Of course, lady,” said Quintus.

Briana withdrew regretfully from the stall. Duty was calling more loudly with every hour that passed.

She paused to stroke the Lady’s neck and head and feed her a bit of sugar. The Lady ate every scrap and demanded more. Briana laughed, spreading her hands. “Look, see. You ate it all.”

The Lady snorted wetly over her hand. Briana grimaced and wiped it on her breeches.

She opened her mouth to say something appropriately cutting. The words never came. The Lady’s head had turned, her ears pricked.

Quintus was still outside Corcyra’s stall. Corcyra had roused abruptly and was circling in a way Briana had long since learned to recognize. Her body was tense and her mind focused inward. Her tail flicked restlessly. She pawed, paced then pawed again.

She went down abruptly. As she dropped, water gushed. Briana started forward but forced herself to be still.

The mare stiffened in spasm. The silver bubble of the caul appeared under her tail, with the foal dark inside. Briana saw the sharp curve of hooves—one behind the other—and the blunter shape of the nose.

It was all as it should be. Every one of this season’s foals had been, as if their ancestry protected them from the dangers of mortal birth. They were a white god’s get, sired by the stallion Sabata over the course of long summer nights.

The foal seemed to take a very long time to be born. It could not even be half a turn of the glass, or Quintus would have been in the stall, doing what needed to be done. Instead he stood with arms folded, watching calmly.

When half the foal was out, it broke the caul, scrambling with its front feet, digging into the straw of the stall. Its head was already up and seeking, its lips working. It butted its mother’s side imperiously, demanding the teat, though she was still racked with the pains of birth.

It was dark as all these god-begotten foals had been. There was a thumbprint of white on its forehead. When it dried, no doubt it would be black as Corcyra. Maybe it would stay black, or more likely it would turn grey as it grew, like its father.

Almost before the rest of it emerged from the mare, Briana knew it was a filly like all of its siblings. Even so new, it was a solidly built young thing, with a big square head and broad haunches.

That was its father’s legacy. So were the eyes that turned to her. They were preternaturally bright and focused.