CHAPTER 38
My dancing teacher was tall, with striking ash-blond hair cut to flatter his handsome face.
He wore a tailored black doublet, black pants, and black boots, and as he entered our courtyard, he moved with easy, smooth elegance.
A young woman in a yellow gown followed him, carrying a wens, a stringed instrument similar to a zither.
Lute trailed them, with Tzeri perched on the pauldron on his shoulder.
He’d discovered that she really liked seedrocks, a hard candy made from honey and sunflower-like seeds.
Lute had been giving her little bits of it as training aids and over the past week she had finally stopped screaming every time someone came near.
The way to a mordok’s heart was clearly through her bottomless stomach.
The dancing teacher was Clover’s idea. She’d informed me that he was highly sought after and expensive, but worth every den.
I was getting worried about Clover. After we cleaned up Isadau and situated her in a spare room, I had gone to check on Clover before heading off to bed.
She was still in the kitchen, and when I woke up, she was back in the kitchen again.
I wasn’t sure she had even slept. Fingers crossed that the dress took the dye, because I really didn’t want her to have a breakdown.
The dancing teacher approached me and executed a beautiful bow. “My lady, my name is Erodel. I’m dapchel and a ranowen. You may address me as he and him. It is my privilege to serve you today.”
Ah. In Rellas, like in every society, some people didn’t fit the stricter definitions of gender roles.
Dapchel were designated female at birth but lived their life as men, while darchel were designated male at birth but lived as women.
Both identities embraced the feminine and masculine parts of themselves as one harmonious whole, not one gender but rather both.
It was a complex philosophy centering on acceptance.
Dapchel often worked as ranowen. The word meant battle brothers in the Old Tongue, but their actual duties were much more complicated.
They served as escorts in a strictly nonsexual sense.
They were well educated, had impeccable manners, and were highly skilled in combat arts.
If you had to attend a social event where bringing a bodyguard wasn’t appropriate or just needed a sympathetic ear without any judgment, you would schedule a date with a ranowen.
“It is my privilege to benefit from your instruction.”
“We will begin with simple stretching,” Erodel announced. “Listen to the music Ruana plays, my lady, and try to find the rhythm.”
The stretching took a full fifteen minutes. Apparently, I had a good sense of rhythm and was flexible, but my footwork would need major improvement. We progressed into making small circles around each other, with strategic turns and arm raising.
“Our time is limited, so we can only concentrate on a single dance,” Erodel said. “Luckily, we only need one. Although joedurars include dances, the main point has always been conversation.”
He reversed the direction, and I followed, trying to mirror his movements.
“I will teach you how to dance the polhe. It’s not a particularly fast dance, with only five main parts, and it’s danced in pairs and designed to keep you moving at just the right pace to easily converse with your partner. It’s a way to have a private talk in a very public setting.”
“So it’s an excuse for flirting?”
“Single people such as yourself have limited opportunities to interact with other single people their age unless they are chaperoned. This is a way to sidestep that limitation. And that is our next move. We sidestep to the left . . . and to the right. And again, to the left . . . and to the right. Very good. You will not be chaperoned at the joedurar. The invitation is for you alone. You cannot bring a companion.”
I was painfully aware of that.
“During a polhe, the entire gathering acts as your chaperone. If anything untoward were to take place, the perpetrator would be instantly condemned by everyone. There is nothing society loves more than tearing down one of their own when they stumble in a public way. You will be perfectly safe during this dance.”
“What happens if they don’t play a polhe?”
“They will. They will likely play it more than once as well. The first dance at the joedurar will be an exhibition dance, something fast like a sarett. It will be danced by a single pair handpicked by the Chamber of Ceremonies, usually someone young, of good birth, and excellent at dancing. The sarett will be followed by a polhe, then a fast dance since the dancers will have warmed up, then a polhe again. Raise your hand like this, my lady.”
He raised his hand as if for a high five. I mimicked him and we touched our fingers.
“So far this doesn’t seem too complicated.”
“The polhe is an old dance. It’s relatively simple. The challenge isn’t in learning all of the steps, my lady. The challenge is in training your body until the dance is so familiar, you can do it without thinking and with casual ease, so you won’t stand out.”
“So I don’t look like I’m trying too hard?”
“Exactly. The focus should be on the conversation. The dance is simply an excuse to have it. Please don’t look at your feet. Look at me instead.”
My foot hit his. “Sorry.”
“No worries.”
“I’m guessing developing ‘casual ease’ will require a lot of practice.”
Erodel gave me a small smile. It was the same kind of smile Everard had given me when I asked him how much time it would take for me to get good with my dagger.
I surrendered to my fate and concentrated on not stepping on my teacher’s feet.
Dancing for three hours straight was harder than stabbing the straw dummy.
At some point, Isadau exited the house and sat on the stone wall around the wine tree watching me struggle.
She wore one of Clover’s gowns—mine were too short for her—and her hair, a wavy mass of deep red, fell all the way down to her waist. In the books she was known as the beauty of the Mage Tower, and I could see why.
Erodel finally relented and let me and Ruana have a long break. I stumbled to the wine tree and landed in the chair by the little table. Ow, my legs. Ow, my feet. Ow. Ow. Ow.
Isadau leaned over and stared at my shoes.
“Yes?”
“You don’t have two left feet. Surprising.”
“Ha. Ha.”
I closed my eyes.
“I can kill all of you, you know,” she said. “I can burn this place to the ground.”
“You won’t.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“You’re not that kind of person.”
“You speak as if you know me.”
“You have your magic, and I have mine.” My legs hummed like I had attached two phones to my thighs, and they were vibrating.
“Do you know what happened between me and Damaes?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me.”
This was a test, and one I had to pass. I opened my eyes.
“There are twelve circles of magic, each requiring progressively greater understanding. The top two ranks are theoretical. Nobody has ever ascended past the tenth circle.”
But every mage in existence spent way too much time speculating about what that might be like. Mages were the ultimate power hounds. No matter how great their achievements were, they always wanted more.
“Two years ago, you were in the seventh circle, while Damaes was in the eighth and on the way to the ninth. The eighth circle is the art of unlocking the mystery of existence through which the mage gains complete control over their body and achieves the Fade, a state of existing without the physical form.”
The Fade wasn’t an astral projection but rather an ability to turn your physical body incorporeal, which rendered you immune to most physical attacks. It could only be maintained for a few moments, and many eighth-circle mages couldn’t hold it for longer than an instant.
“You had been in the seventh circle since you turned twenty-two. Up to that point, your rise was meteoric, and then you got stuck.”
Isadau grimaced.
“For years, you’d refined your magic and discovered new ways to employ it, but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t achieve the Fade.
You were frustrated, especially because the mage society is filled with jealous, pissy academics who snipe at each other and squabble over petty things.
You were exceptional and that chafed at some of them, so once you couldn’t break through to the eighth circle, even the mages who couldn’t dream of ever reaching it started making comments about you hitting your limit. ”
She opened her mouth to say something but changed her mind.
“Meanwhile Damaes was relentlessly pursuing the ninth circle. He always paid special attention to you, which you found flattering, and over time, you became his right-hand person. You practically ran the Tower, and he was consulted only on the most important decisions. The Mage Tower possesses the Eye, which is a source of great power. You wanted Damaes to allow you access to the Eye so you could boost your power and ascend. He refused and told you that you needed to think less.”
She clenched her teeth.
“You told him that you had ambitions, that you wanted your own Tower one day, and he said that he didn’t see you as the head of a Tower.
Your place was at his side as his subordinate and his woman.
Although he had never communicated that kind of interest, in his head the two of you were in a relationship.
You simply hadn’t had the opportunity to consummate it, it was glaringly obvious to anyone with half a brain, and he was annoyed that you were being deliberately dense about it. ”
She barked a short laugh. “He didn’t even ask me. The thought that I might reject him never crossed his arrogant brain. His woman. Not the one I love, not a partner, not a wife. His woman.”
“Damaes was born in the Highlands of Grador. His father is a hunter, and his mother is a bow maker. If you took away his magic and dropped him into the mountain wilderness with nothing but a knife, he would find his way back and come out of the woods carrying a delicious mountain goat he had hunted on his shoulders.”
Isadau gave me an odd look.
“While his actions are deeply problematic and criminal in multiple ways, calling you his woman wasn’t an insult,” I told her. “That is how Grador band-men speak. They refer to their loved ones as my man and my woman. It is their term of endearment.”
“I don’t care.”
“That’s fair. Do you want me to finish the story?”
“Yes.”
“You had an argument, and then you attacked him. He defended himself. You had a duel. You lost and he shattered your mind and used his own name as the key. He placed a spell that prevented anyone from touching you and turned you loose in Kair Toren. He made sure someone came by to feed you every day and heal your injuries, and he watched you. By now he knows you’re gone. Did I leave anything out?”
“No.”
I shifted my weight in my chair and rubbed my thighs. Ow. Maybe sitting had been a mistake.
“I suppose you want something from me,” Isadau said.
“I could use your help.”
“I can’t teach you to dance. That would take a miracle. I’m a mage, not a saint.”
“It was my first polhe ever. Leave me alone.”
“I don’t like debts.” Her voice had an edge. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want a door opened.”
“Who does it belong to?”
“Ulmar Hreban.”
“Are you trying to rob the richest man in Rellas?”
“Do you know what lugur campur is?”
She made a hissing noise. “How did you come by that?”
“Someone has been making those contracts for Ulmar Hreban. They are hidden in his secret vault, which is sealed with a spell.”
Isadau raised her left eyebrow. “And you want that spell cracked?”
“Yes. There is a catch. Ten years ago, when Damaes had just come to power, he needed a lot of money fast. Hreban offered him an outrageous fortune to seal his vault, and Damaes did it.”
“Fool.”
Damaes understood magic and little else.
He spent his time contemplating incredibly complex spells, but he never quite got the complexity of human relationships.
To Damaes, doing something for Hreban in exchange for gold was a simple barter.
Political or moral implications hadn’t crossed his mind.
It was a weakness Isadau had compensated for when they were working together.
“If you break the seal, Damaes will come to see who dared.”
A glint of golden fire sparked in her eyes. “That’s not a catch. That’s a bonus.”
“You will fight again.”
“I’m counting on it.”
“Don’t you need time to meditate and recover?”
Isadau raised her hand. A beautiful red glow coated her fingers and trailed as she moved them.
“Mages meditate to build up their reserves. We set the world ablaze with our spells, so we must stack wood within our soul to fuel them. For two years, I sat by that temple like a mindless beast, while my body absorbed and cycled magic, storing it within me. Had I been in my right mind, I would’ve been spending it casting spells and training.
But I wasn’t. My tower of wood is so high, it scratches at the heavens.
I’m so full of magic, I’m about to burst. I must burn some of it. ”
And it would be one hell of a bonfire.
Isadau cracked her knuckles.
“Take me to this door.”
“Let’s make sure you’re fine first.”
“Tonight,” she said.
“Let’s do it in three days.”
Getting the contracts was crucial. Everything was riding on it. But I wanted her to rest, and eat, and get her bearings.
Erodel motioned me over.
I got up.
“Maggie!”
“Three days. I want you to remember what it’s like to live before you decide you want to fight Damaes again. He might kill you this time.”
Her eyes shone with red. “Not in his wildest dreams.”