Blade Dancer-The Complete Series: Dancer, #0

By K. M. Tolan

Emerging from an ancient civil war with only a patchwork of once-powerful technologies, the Qurls are threatened by new weapons in the hands of old enemies.  Driven by the guilt of a comrade's death, Mikial reaches out through her own divided heritage to discover the humans behind the guns.

On guard against a treacherous alliance with Earth, Mikial is blind to the danger from those she trusts most. As she realizes the inherent danger, she must face off with the deadliest foe she has ever met—the tyrant within.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Book Group
• Release date: Jun 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533745606

Book preview

BLADE DANCER

One

Stand ready! Cort Havada bellowed. The Datha Qurl slid his shoulders sideways among the camouflaged ranks crowding the troop cabin. Narrow black eyes darted from soldier to soldier as the officer tugged at packs and rifles. Mikial pulled back her auburn combat braids, running them through the back slot in her dun-colored helmet. Sensing Cort pause behind her, Mikial firmly planted her feet on the less-than-steady deck. There was a brittle crunch as her Line Officer found another of his bitter corul roots to chew on. He jostled the cannon strapped to her back, then gave her braids a good-natured yank.

Secured! Mikial said, her contralto reply cutting through the deeper voices around her. Her claws, unwilling to retract them­selves, scraped against the brass support rails hanging from the ceiling.

The dirigible turned. Mikial watched as her shadow shifted in the first rays of an early sun. The only other light was from the Curtain, the violet star mist swirling across the sky. The hum of propellers sounded through the black canvas skin of the troop compartment as the airship was aligned over a canyon.

Brace!

Mikial gripped the rails as the aft jump door swung up and open. Icy air washed across the smooth caramel of her high-set cheeks, chilling any bare skin not covered by her armor and battle dress. An anticipatory surge from her wrist glands sent sparks of energy across her palms. Her thin lips pulled back into a scowl beneath the flare of a slender nose, revealing sharp canines. Tradition or not, she hated being first in line.

Havada leaned over her shoulder, contrasting with Mikial’s relatively smaller height of ten hands. Now let’s not embarrass me with a broken neck, little Dathia. We have too few females in this sect as is. He gave her shoulder guard a slap before he turned to the rest with a roar. JUMP!

Teeth bared in a feral grin, Mikial hurled herself across the deck until her legs flailed on emptiness. Harsh winds slashed her face as she tumbled from the airship. She spread her legs and arms for stability during the exhilarating fall. She counted three breaths then tugged at the cord, enduring the endless moment before a silky gray plume expanded above her with a sharp crack. Leather straps seized her, exacting a grunt as she seemingly was wrenched skyward again.

Their drop zone was obvious, a wide trail that swayed far beneath her dangling legs. Dark shadows of bordering trees beckoned like spears. The wind was faint and from the west, requiring little correction from her fingers on the guidelines. Beyond the bulge of her chute, Mikial saw the second airship approach. On board, the medical teams of the primarily female Shandi sect were preparing for their own drop. When she looked groundward again, the windings of a deep gorge were coming up fast. Bramble Ravine.

Mikial adjusted for a slight drift, the stony crests of the canyon rising around her. Legs poised, she aimed for a fairly even patch of ground. Trees murmured their welcome in the wind. Releasing the harness as she hit, Mikial pitched forward beneath the awkward weight of her cannon. She gave an indignant hiss, wiped dirt from her angular face, and quickly gathered her parachute. No doubt Cort would have much to say about her drop, and none of it good. Mikial checked that the pistols holstered to her waist had survived the sloppy landing. She chose cover behind a root-entwined outcrop, discarded her chute, and unlimbered her cannon. Flipping the bipod down, she aimed the long black barrel in the direction of Bramble Ravine. She watched as her Strike landed, both Lines melting into the brush. High overhead, her airship turned toward home.

Mikial’s hunting eyes, internal receptor organs couched near her temples, reached out into the shadows to seek the natural energy fields emanating from the Datha hidden around her. The glow of their body patterns took shape from behind the lighter radiation of covering foliage. Soon she would be able to identify individuals by their auras alone, as they would come to similarly recognize her. It was one Datha trait she enjoyed. It kept her from blundering through the night with lamps like members of the other three Qurl sects.

Parva Conn appeared on the trail, his famous white braid hidden beneath a Strike Leader’s helmet. He was lean for a Datha of over thirteen hands in height, his muscles more moderately proportioned beneath the arm and leg guards he wore. Parva moved with the grace of a seasoned hunter, his pale gray eyes constantly alert over deep brown cheeks and a sharp nose.

Parva motioned the Lines to form up. Soldiers moved quietly from their concealment, dart rifles ready. Hoisting her cannon, Mikial scrambled behind Cort before he could grump at her for being slow as well as clumsy. Meanwhile, the parachutes of the Shandi Immediate Teams were descending further down the trail. She hoped no one would require their services.

Parva moved them out in an extended line along the trail. Mikial guessed that the Minnerans were still well ahead of them in the ravine, off her left shoulder. The Curtain had faded with the rising sun by the time they halted at a rocky wash.

A Datha ranger ran up to Parva, conferring with the Strike Leader for several minutes. Parva looked down into the ravine, puzzled. He finally turned to his waiting troops.

We’ll block and flank. Cort, take your thirty into the brush. I’ll move my Line forward to the next narrows and drive them into you. He looked back down across the field. The Minnerans aren’t using their standard infantry formations. They’re too widely spaced for the usual volley fire. Something odd about their weapons, too. Assume their guns will have the range and accuracy of Kiorannan long rifles. Anticipate contact within the chime. Take posi­tions.

Mikial studied the intended battlefield while they still had a vantage point above it. The ravine bowled out into a short meadow extending east to west, confined within banded layers of rock that were cut eons ago by swift waters. Thick brush capped the western edge below the Strike. A short field extended eastward from the brush roughly one hundred spans. She guessed it only wide enough to accommodate one Line—a perfect killing zone thirty spans in length. Thick mist marked out a small creek that skirted the southern side of the field. The stream disappeared within a deep gully angling into the trees.

Mikial’s Line Officer motioned his detachment down the wash while Parva moved forward with his force along the high trail. Mikial wished she could shake the feeling that this was just another exercise. Her cannon slung beneath one shoulder, she approached Cort for instructions as they reached the streambed along the bottom of the defile. His quick hand signal ordered her to the right flank, not the traditional place for gunners.

Parva wants to try this out, Cort whispered at her hesitation. Since Feren Cloa is familiar with how you handle a cannon, I’ll assign him as your escort."

Acknowledged. Mikial gave Feren a friendly nudge as her mentor wordlessly took position at her side. The middle-aged veteran winked a brown eye at her from beneath a dark-skinned brow bordered with tightly knotted battle braids. He spent the previous week getting her used to how the Strike fought. He took as much care with her instruction as her own father did. Feren had even taken her father out fishing yesterday. No doubt in part to discuss her.

Feren’s hand reached to hold her arm in a momentary vise, his voice a growl of caution. Class is over, Mikial. Being First Student counts for nothing if you get yourself killed graduating.

She nodded, needing that brief pinch of reality.

A small knoll crowned by a splintered stump became her home as the rising sun burned off morning fog. Resting her cannon barrel over a lichen-spattered log, she surveyed the field through closely spaced amber eyes. Beside her, Feren’s fingers tapped rhythmically against his gunstock. He looked almost bored.

Her thoughts drifted to the people she would be fighting soon. Of all the Servant races, the Minnerans seemed the least able to forgive the Qurl descendants of the race that once had enslaved them. Never mind that four centuries had gone by since civil war had devastated the lands of Min Saja and brought their Taqurl masters down. Min Saja. That old name was all that was left of a quarter of the world—turned to desert by the Taqurls and their now-forbidden weapons of destruction. Today, Qurls still had to contend with the bitter legacy of their forefathers, such as idiots like these Minnerans.

At first she thought that Feren had committed the unpardonable sin of revealing their position with a cough. Then the muted sound repeated, and Mikial realized that it was originating somewhere beyond the clearing before canyon echoes played their tricks. Puzzled, she gazed in vain at the line of trees across the field.

Movement caught her eyes at the far end of the meadow where the valley narrowed. Smoke curled from the right hillside bordering the tree line ahead of her. As she watched, a sudden puff sprouted like magic from the ridge. The first distinct CRUMP reached her tufted ears, followed in quick succession by more plumes and concussions. Mikial realized that she was witnessing some kind of cannon bombardment right where Parva was supposed to be; his flanking maneuver to get behind the enemy must have been detected.

The odd coughing thud increased in tempo. She was sure it came from among the trees, but a noise like the quick rush of birds made her look up. A geyser of dirt flashed skyward near the creek just to her right, scattering stones and debris through the brush. Before Mikial could make sense of what had happened, another crash of sound and light erupted in front of the Line’s position.

Cort Havada gave a series of signals that sent her scrambling to her feet. Assault by flanks. Mikial bolted as more birds flew in, chewing ground around the Datha blocking force.

Feren was right behind her as she dashed along the creek along the hillside. Glancing back, she saw Cort lead a skirmish line across the field as enemy cannon shells continued to rend the bushes they had left behind. Then came the next ugly surprise. It sounded like the sharp blast of a Qurl cannon, except that one report followed another in impossibly fast succession. Something raked across the rushing Datha like a deadly wind, many of them crumpling in bloody sprays.

Mikial dove instinctively as projectiles far worse than the expected simple rifle balls smashed rocks and tore the soil around her. A stinging rain of debris made it seem like an entire cavalry brigade had chosen her for volley fire.

In the trees! Feren shouted, slapping at her helmet. Just ahead...see the flashes?

Targeted! She snapped open the bipod attached to the cannon barrel and raised the weapon into position. Whatever the thing was, it had gone back to hammering Cort’s group in the field, forcing Datha to crawl across the meadow.

Mikial reached over to the square battery packs on her cannon and clicked open the discharge switch before sighting her target. She guessed it to be around ninety spans away. Her cannon was effective up to four times that distance. She drew hard within herself until the fine hairs rose along her arms and special conductive sweat drenched her palms. The Minnerans’ hidden cannons slammed more shells into the field, the concussions making it all but impossible for her to hold her weapon steady.

Fire spat once more from her target amid the trees. Mikial replied, discharging her stored energy in one great shudder. Her cannon’s blast added its thunder to the barrage, sending a brilliant streak of lightning across the field. The enemy position blossomed into a spray of smoke trails with glowing tips twisting skyward like angry serpents.

Mikial barely had time to gather her strength, let alone her cannon, as Feren’s strong arms scooped her up into a staggering run. She started to ask him what he thought he was doing when a smashing fury from behind hurled them into a furrow between the roots of two trees.

I’ve got to find those cannons, she shouted, as sections of pulverized hillside fell around them.

They certainly found you, her mentor said as the barrage

lifted. We’re more than halfway to the trees. Just follow the stream. Let’s go!

She scrambled with him through a pungent haze. It was simple enough to understand the lull as the fluttering sound shifted once more toward the field beside them.

Mikial held her cannon high as she leapt with Feren down the sloping sides of the gully the stream spilled into. In the same instant, three Minnerans burst from cover, heading in the opposite direction. They were far smaller in stature then any Datha, their khaki uniforms making her think more of field workers than soldiers. The five of them met at the bottom of the gully in a confused rush.

Mikial used her forward momentum to smash the butt of her cannon against the head of the nearest wide-eyed Minneran soldier. Spinning, she caught the other with a kick to his groin before crushing his larynx with a chop of her free hand. Mikial did not see what had happened to the third Minner­an, but Feren’s dripping claws were indication enough as she joined him in a run up the other side of the gully.

Feren waved her forward to a hollow where the creek dug into the ground beneath a granite wedge. Rifle fire crackled close by, punctuated by a sudden shriek as a Qurl dart found its mark. The air was tinged with a dun-colored haze from repeated shell impacts in the field to her left. The Line won’t last long under this kind of punishment, Mikial realized. She traded looks with Feren. Giving a grunt, he became a blur across the stream, vanishing into the surrounding foliage.

Fingers tight around her weapon, Mikial threw herself after him. Each splash seemed sure to alert the world to her presence. But the rifle fire she expected did not come. Across the stream at last, she crouched low in the brush. Feren had taken cover to her right. His eyes locked on the same sight as hers.

Situated on stone terraces only a few spans upstream was the Minneran battery; at least that was the best explanation she could provide. A dozen soldiers busied themselves around what appeared to be six black stovepipes. There was no mistaking them as the source of destruction slamming into the Strike. Three of the tubes were tilted toward the southeast corner of the valley where Parva’s Line was held down. The other trio of tubes was aimed toward the field. Minnerans dropped small, finned shells into the smoking maws of the weapons, turning away as the pipes coughed them back out in a belch of flame. Bewildered, Mikial looked over at Feren.

He reached for her cannon, slapped the discharge switch closed, and gripped the handles. Mikial felt the transfer of energy from his body. Hope you left enough for your rifle, she thought. She eased the cannon barrel through a gap in the tree roots. He took covering aim, giving her an encouraging wink.

Resetting the batteries to discharge, Mikial sought a target. The tubes were widely spaced and she doubted the enemy would wait until she recovered for a second shot. Mikial drew hard until her palms glistened with the need to release. That pile of green boxes the Minnerans were getting those odd-looking shells from would do fine. She could not destroy all the tubes, but scattering their ammunition might suffice. Mikial centered her sights and fired.

The crack of her cannon was immediately devoured by a shock wave blasting her into the dirt. Stunned, Mikial pulled back her weapon, but could make out nothing ahead but a cataclysmic white fog. Her ears hissed from the concussion. More explosions sent shrapnel ripping through the woods as Feren tugged hard at her shoulder. Together they sped back down the gully, urged on by scattered detonations from ammunition like nothing she had ever seen. Insane as it seemed, they had to be using explosives as propellant. Qurl rifles and pistols used a pulse of energy to fire darts down their barrels—employing batteries that did not blow up in one’s face. Mikial doubted that anyone would be coming out of that haze to pursue them.

Ahead!

Startled, she saw Feren raise his rifle just as several Minnerans entered the gully ahead of them. Pushing her aside, Feren shot first, hurling two Minnerans to the ground with darts to the heart. The third leapt into the brush and disappeared.

Watch our backs, he growled. Minnerans are retreating all around us.

The two dead soldiers rose up on elbows and returned fire. Mikial could see projectiles tearing through Feren’s body even as she became aware of her own pain. Collapsing on numb legs, she saw her protector fall back in a spray of blood while firing. Mikial dropped her cannon and drew her pistols to take aim at the prone forms. They were not firing. Each of their faces was transformed into a red smear.

Body armor, Feren croaked beside her, his eyes staring upwards.

Hold on! Dropping her pistols, she pulled open the medicine pouch on his belt.

Aim...head. Blood erupted from the Qurl’s grim­acing lips as his fingers reached out to entwine hers in a fierce clasp.

Shaking her head in disbelief, Mikial heard his final breath leave him.

Brief explosions still sounded behind her as she forced pain

aside and probed the foliage around the gully for more Minnerans.

Her hunting eyes found nothing, yet. Lips curled back, she rolled on one side to inspect the burning source of her own wounds. A mix of blood and dirt caked her hip. She could see a gouge in the metal pads of her kilt pointing to an oozing hole. Another injury stained her armored jacket just above the pistol belt.

Rifle fire erupted to her right in increasing volleys. First aid would have to wait. Teeth clenched, she retrieved her pistols and crawled up the rise for better position. She was not worth Feren’s death. Neither were the Minnerans that shortly would pay for it.

Five khaki-clad fighters burst into view, running across sunlit patches of ground in panic. One fell without a cry. The remaining Minnerans spun around, knelt, and shot back at their pursuing antagonist. Mikial felt the tug on her body’s dwind­ling reserves as she discharged through the pistol grips. Metal darts sped toward her targets. The first two Minnerans convulsed and fell as the projectiles slammed into the exposed backs of their necks. She took the third as he turned. The remaining soldier desperately flopped on his belly, only to end up sliding helplessly down the gully wall. Her dart was through the soldier’s forehead before he reached the bottom. More Minnerans charged out from among the trees. Far too many.

Mikial slid back into the gully, leaving a bloody trail behind her. Feren stared in lifeless accusation as she rolled next to him. He had given his life for her; couldn’t she do the same for her Line? Mikial lay still as death while Minner­ans leapt and stumbled across the gully, a few even jumping over her body. The only thing she could do now was survive, though conditioning screamed for her to leap up and attack instead. The Minnerans’ retreat soon passed her by. Mikial’s hunting eyes picked up one straggler, the panicked soldier falling headfirst into the depression. He lay there unmoving. She sent a dart through his face anyway.

She could feel blood welling up just above her waist. Mikial pulled out her medicine pack and poured the yellow powder into the wound, quickly numbing the pain there. She sensed the welcome ripple of her approaching Line.

A Datha slid down the dirt slope beside her. Growling, the soldier bent down and did a quick assessment of her injuries. He tied a yellow marker around an overhead branch before resuming pursuit. Other arms soon supported her as an Immediate Team pulled her out upon a bed of leaves. A Shandi female in full armor bent over her, placing her palms near Mikial’s temples. Mikial felt a relaxing wash of energy and knew nothing more.

Two

She danced. Mikial felt her soul whirl and spin like a rising leaf as her body moved. Her dance pattern glowed with life, an intricate latticework set like jewels within her mind. Following those lines brought a joyful release. There was music from somewhere; strange, exciting, filling her in ways she never knew. Again and again she tried to capture those feelings, to express bodily the wonderful sensations for all to see and share. Again and again, she failed. No matter what dance style or form she chose, her movements somehow were distorted. The First Dancer was frowning at her, and she heard mutterings of discontent from the balconies. Eyes burning with tears, Mikial tried one last time, and succeeded. The audience gasped with pleasure. Mikial felt as if she could soar into the air. But instead of rising, she slipped, nearly falling. Angrily, she looked down. The floor was slick with blood.

Mikial woke with a snarl, claws extended to slash...at what?

A cluster of lights dimmed above her. The bulbs hung like buds from the open petals of a domed ceiling painted to look like a blue night flower. A blue-and-gray quilt was tucked around her on the elevated swivel bed. She had seen her mother’s workplace many times, but never as a patient. Mikial groaned, Feren’s lifeless eyes staring at her from the mud of fresh memories.

Easy, Dathia, a female voice spoke. An elder Shandi in a yellow operating gown bent over her, the surgeon’s brunette hair bound back in a hurried-looking knot of white cloth. Your mother will be happy to see you back in one piece again.

Mikial licked dried lips. Where is she?

Counselor Yeneen is operating on one of your comrades. She already is credited with saving two before him. The Holding will be quite proud of you both. If you’re wondering why you can’t move much, it’s because we’ve immobilized you. The Shandi brushed long fingers over the extended claws on Mikial’s unresponsive right hand. It was more for our protection while we worked on you, Dathia. I will unblock just your arms now but we don’t want you moving about yet.

Mikial felt her upper limbs tingle with returned use. She winced as she tried raising her left arm.

We’ve pulled some odd rifle balls from your side and hip and mended the damage there. You are regenerating nicely, Mikial, but it will be some time before you can return to your dancing.

I can wait, she muttered, the dream’s bite still bitter in her mind. Remembering her manners, she gave the Healer an appreciative smile. I’m grateful for your help.

Thanks to your bravery, our work was less than it might have been, the Shandi replied with an approving nod. It seems that your skills extend beyond the dance floor."

I’m not so sure.

You have to mend, Dathia. The Shandi’s hands paused gently on her forehead before sliding to her temples. Sleep. The next time you wake, it will be in the comfort of your own bed.

~ * ~

True to the Healer’s word, Mikial’s eyes opened to see familiar ironwood bedposts, their dark surfaces scored by scratch marks from her claws when she was younger. She glanced out the window to her left. Dawn was not even a hint outside, the Curtain coloring the night sky in its purple hues. Heating vents blew softly across a floor of deep orange boards fashioned from the sturdy wood of sheld trees growing throughout the Holding hills. Mikial smiled to herself. It was not a big room, but she found the cozy confines a welcome refuge against the impositions life provided.

Wincing, she reached over to the nutwood stand between the window and bed and switched on the battery of her cone lamp. She drew back her blankets in the soft yellow light to see what had been done to her. Her left side was one large ache, punctuated by a deep soreness in her hip. Angry lines marked where the Shandi had sealed the wounds by fusing her skin back together. The marks would disappear as she regenerated.

Mikial scowled at the powerful muscles sculpting her calves and thighs. Some things would stay, unfortunately. Even her modest breasts were couched in bands of muscle that also endowed her with broad shoulders and bulky arms. The descriptions slender or petite never applied to the few rare Dathia in the otherwise male Datha sect. She couldn’t help but envy those more fortunate females in the other three sects. Especially her best friend Paleen Chimmer with the body of a reed, no claws, and fewer worries about staring down at the opposite sex. Paleen was Ipper Qurl, a sect valued for its work in both communication and general entertainment. Paleen was always good company, if not overly energetic even for an Ipper. Unfortunately, she was returning from the western Holding of Kinset where her mother’s family lived. The largest Qurl Holding, the small continent of Kinset sat well off the coast of Kioranna. It would be several more days before Paleen’s airship arrived home.

Mikial gave a bleak look at her reflection in the copper-lined mirror standing next to the right side of her bed. Her auburn battle braids had been undone, softening a predatory face. Her greater height and build, along with her claws, marked her as Dathia; no sect was as physically apart from the rest as was hers, and this morning she felt every bit of that distance.

Mikial looked across the foot of her bed, her nostrils catching meaty flavors issuing from beyond her door. No doubt they were the reason she had woken up. Her stomach rumbled its consensus, the scent becoming clear. Torses! The pastry-wrapped meat was her favorite meal. Mikial eagerly scooted forward to sit up, but sucked in a breath as her hip stabbed with pain. Sighing, she pulled up the blankets and settled back to wait.

After a moment the bedroom door swung open, and her mother, Yeneen, entered bearing a white porcelain tray heaped with torses. Her curly brown hair was tied back in a manner reserved for a day’s work at home. She wore her yellow morning robe as she might a surgeon’s gown. Her gray eyes centered on Mikial with a determined smile below lightly tanned cheeks. Welcome home, daughter. How are you feeling?

Sore, Mikial grumbled, eyeing the tray her mother sat on the dresser adjacent to her mirror. And hungry. Her humor improved as she regarded the sizzling strips of tender meat wrapped in delicate curls of pastry. You know I love those things.

There’re plenty of them, Yeneen said, the smaller female pulling extra pillows from the dresser beside Mikial’s closet. Here, let me help you sit up. She carefully braced Mikial’s back to bring her to an upright position, then propped the pillows behind her. I can’t tell you how relieved I am to see you safely home. Your father boasts about you to everyone within earshot. That battle has the entire Holding talking.

We did win, didn’t we? It was a question Mikial had never thought any Datha would have to ask after fighting mere Servants.

Well, you sent them running for home, so I suppose we did.

Mikial shook her head. They weren’t supposed to get back home.

She gave her mother a bewildered look. They had better weapons than ours.

Nonsense. Now eat your fill and stop looking so worried. Yeneen picked up the tray and set it across her lap. There’s milk to wash these torses down with, and plenty of fruit in the cooler if you want me to get you some. You’ll be in bed for a few days, so enjoy it. You’ve certainly earned it.

Mikial knew better, but did not want to share that particular burden with her mother. Soon enough she would be giving Parva Conn her report of how she lay there next to Feren’s body while the enemy ran by unscathed.

Three

Mikial wrapped the brown fursnake coat tight against the predawn reminder that it was still early spring. She shifted to a more comfortable position on the cushion, grateful for the insulating softness between her body and the cold stonework capping the central dome of her Holding Keep. Her movement brought a sharp reminder from her hip of how this honor had befallen her. Six days had passed since the battle at Bramble Ravine. Mikial let out a frosty breath, wishing she could expel those memories as easily. Feren Cloa paid his price without hesitation. Why hadn’t she?

Her amber eyes regarded the silvery curves of the dome. They mirrored the ghostly pink hues of the fading Curtain. How many mornings had she heard First Greetings drifting across the hills? Oh to be that person! To sit high atop this pinnacle and sing the Holding awake, greeting Creation as the voice of her people. Now, because of what she and Feren had done to win the battle, here she was. It was like unwrapping a gift you always wanted, only to find it lying in pieces.

Mikial looked down over the city lights. Her bedside debriefing yesterday with Parva Conn echoed in her mind. The battle had ended dismally. With eight dead and twenty-nine wounded, herself included, Parva had had little choice but to let the Minneran survivors escape. Now all eight Holdings across Dessa were in a panic over the exotic weapons the Minnerans had developed. Her father mobilized the Qurl Hills. Four High Strikes, comprising nine hundred-sixty Datha, were deployed eastward around the battle site. Parva’s battered Strike was placed in reserve as part of Commander Keel’s Eighth Force.

Parva told her that the Cothra sect was working hard to counter those armored vests the Minnerans had worn to defeat the Qurl rifles. How could fabric stop a dart? The Cothra also were at a loss to explain the alloys they had found in the captured weapons. The new Minneran rifles could fire up to twenty times in quick succession from a spring-loaded ammunition compartment similar to the dart cartridges used by both Qurl rifles and pistols. Even the rifle ball removed from her hip, if it could be called that, was like nothing anyone had ever seen. It looked like a fat, finless dart instead of the normal ball-shape projectile fired from Servant weapons. The thing now hung from a gold necklace in her room, her first war trophy. Almost her last.

The approaching sun cast orange sheets across the low clouds, calling Mikial to her duty. First Greetings was a very old song. Even the ancient Taqurls had sung it. It was one of the few customs the Qurls retained following the apocalypse of Min Saja. To sing it demanded the respect of a clear and focused mind. She tried to swallow back the feelings that said she had no place here. Mikial cleared her throat as a point on the horizon bloomed into bright gold. Seven other singers would join her from the other Qurl Holdings when that same light touched them. I’m sing for us all, Mikial reminded herself, as the silver spire of the Keep blazed with the sun’s reflected glory. Then, as its warm rays washed over her, she searched within her heart to see if any of the old wonder remained. Something returned, rising until it stung her eyes and gave song to her tongue.

Rejoice!

Let hearts sing forth with living,

Creation hear our sound

Raise upward with this giving,

to bless both sky and ground

First Greetings to the first light,

another day begun

Again to sing in your sight,

our thanks rise with the sun

Shine on with brilliant glory,

let darkness melt away

A new page for our story,

we’ll write upon this day

Rejoice!

Hanging her head, Mikial sat in silence as her final notes rebounded off the ridges in a mocking refrain. It left her quiet, almost hollow. Hardly the feelings she had dreamed of having at that moment. One lame Dathia who sat among the shards of delusion. Before Bramble Ravine, she thought she finally had become the accomplished warrioress her father pushed her to be. He still refused to believe otherwise. But she knew differently. Mikial drew in a shuddering breath. The wind was cold this morning.

Her right hand grasped the dark ironwood cane the Shandi had given her to use while she regenerated. The metal tip scraped against stone as it received her weight. Wincing, Mikial slowly stood and ducked her head through the granite archway leading back inside. Two sets of sixteen twisting stairs brought her to the third floor. From there she made her way to the foyer of the Public Hall with its wide agate tiles. Lamps cast pale light across an empty hall from which drifted smells of old wood newly polished.

She glanced up at the white-robed sculpture of Corias Charrid within a wall niche. Corias was her favorite historical figure, a patron of all who faced adversity. The statue depicted a small, unassuming female with sorrowful eyes and a wisp of reddish brown hair slightly lighter than Mikial’s own. Corias was a Suria—a Qurl female who emerged from the fever of Change with the abilities of more than one sect. Males that went through Change became Surs, but there was never more than one Suria per Holding.

Nor had there ever been a Suria like Corias Charrid. Couched within the white borders of her wide belt were the colors of all four sects. Few Surs or Surias ever saw more than one extra color. Corias had come through her Change with them all, the only such Suria the Qurl race had ever produced. She became what was called a Great Suria. Originally a Shandi, Coria’s first band was bright yellow. Next came cinnamon of the Cothra sect, followed by Ipper blue, and finally Datha red.

Corias’ distinction did not help her when she had tried to open the eyes of her Taqurl brethren to the evil of their own actions. They murdered her on the eve of Min Saja. Mikial sent a quiet prayer to the Great Suria, asking for some small measure of solace. She did not bother asking for forgiveness. She deserved none.

Mikial turned to glance at the severe visage of the statue across from Corias, depicting a male who had changed history, and a way of life, four hundred years ago. Gile Tassomon of Kinset Holding also wore four colors in his belt. His dark hair was braided flat against his head like a Datha, even though he too rose from among the Shandi to become the only Great Sur, and eventually a Great Tasur after marrying his Holding’s Suria. His robes displayed a quilted pattern that reminded her more of combat armor than ceremonial garb. The green eyes of the statue pierced through her with the same harsh judgment Gile had used to transform the wicked Taqurls into Qurls after Min Saja. Looking down, Mikial continued down the hall.

There was to be a breakfast in her honor, as was the custom when one sang First Greetings. Mikial looked forward to the gathering of family and close friends that awaited her, hoping that they would help dispel the gloomy thoughts. She practiced a smile, not wishing to spoil everyone’s jubilation when she arrived. Her hip hurt.

That will not fool anyone, you know.

Dark brown eyes glinted with lamplight as an older female stepped out of the Public Hall and entered the foyer. Her somewhat amused expression was framed by a finely boned jaw and wide cheeks. The orange-and-mahogany strands of her calico hair spread about her narrow shoulders like a hood. She was not a tall female, standing only a little higher than seven hands. What made up for her stature was the yellow-and-brown bands of the belt tied above the ivory side-skirts of her blouse. The mark of a Holding’s Tasuria and co-ruler.

Mikial clasped her hands in respectful greeting as Tasuria Sencia Ellis approached. Mikial could not help but eye the small broach pinned to Sencia’s belt. The gold lantern was awarded to graduates from the famed White Canyon College of Tessana Holding, the leading school of Shandi Mental Studies.

I must admit that I am used to seeing happier faces upon my singers, the Tasuria said, folding her hands in front of her.

Trying to hide anything from Sencia was a futile effort. I’m not certain I belonged up there, Tasuria, Mikial admitted.

Sencia’s fine eyebrows rose. Really? Perhaps I should listen less to the recommendations of the Tamerid, then. Not to mention those of my husband. With both this Holding’s council and Tasur in error, we seem to be experiencing a serious rash of misjudgment.

Mikial flinched inwardly at the rebuke. Tasuria, you don’t— Her mouth clamped shut, but it was too late.

Understand? Sencia finished. She grinned as if they had just shared an amusement. It hardly takes a Shandi Teacher to see what’s drooping your ears, Mikial Haran. Most Datha would be proud to know that their actions saved so many lives, but not our Mikial. Whom should she blame for her dissatisfaction? The Tasuria appeared to consider the question, Mikial not daring to answer. Your Strike Leader, perhaps? His mission was to destroy the Minnerans. Instead, he barely managed to turn them back, and not before suffering an extraordinary number of casualties.

Parva did his best, Tasuria, Mikial defended.

The Tasuria gave her a surprised look. Even a three-to-one kill ratio in our favor would be a tactical defeat. We have few Datha to spare. Your actions prevented such a loss, Mikial. Is that not victory enough for you?

Mikial grimaced. I saw no victory. I hid in a ditch as the enemy ran past while— She broke off, having touched the hollow core of her honor.

While another died protecting you? the Tasuria quietly finished. I read the reports, young Dathia. Could you have prevented Feren’s death?

She shook her head, holding in the ache that threatened an embarrassment of tears. I hid.

Sencia said nothing, her slight smile letting that single statement settle in. Like your Strike Leader, Mikial, you knew when to withdraw. Anything else would have rendered your companion’s sacrifice meaningless. His duty was to keep you alive, and in that accomplishment Feren found his own victory. Because of you both, a military disaster was averted. Isn’t that right?

Mikial avoided those piercing eyes. Yes, my Tasuria.

Then honor Feren’s memory by not blaming yourself. The Tasuria motioned to a side bench along the wall. Rest that hip of yours a moment.

Nodding, Mikial joined her.

The Tasuria clasped her hands over Mikial’s. In many ways, your experience is not unlike my becoming Suria. One day I was a young Shandi about your age, studying hard to become something more than just another Healer. Then came the fever of Change. She shook her head. I have never been so sick. When my body finished altering itself, I could sense the inner workings of metals and such like a Cothra. Suddenly, because of events over which I had neither control nor choice, I was destined to eventually replace my Tasuria as ruler of this Holding.

Sencia’s eyes reflected a treasured recollection. Mikial knew that as a Dathia she could never hope for such an experience. Dathia were incapable of Change, their tough physical makeup rejecting any of the internal alterations Sencia mentioned. To become the Holding Suria must have been a wonderful feeling. Especially with all the eligible Surs to court you.

Sencia laughed. Well, a Suria can not become a Tasuria without wedding a Sur. The prospect of courtship by would-be Tasurs had me doing some hiding of my own for a while. Her smile softened. I had given First Promise to a fine young Ipper before my Change, and was about to give Second Promise to seal our upcoming marriage. She sighed. I had to take my Promise back, but then I later met my husband, Halan. You might say that my whole life became a series of newly opened doors. She gave Mikial’s hand a squeeze. Now those doors are opening for you, young lady. True, Dathia are immune to the fever of Change, but you can look upon your recent battle in similar fashion. It has passed beyond you much as the fever might. You are not the same Dathia as before, and you must accept this new Mikial as I did the new Sencia.

Mikial could not hide her lack of enthusiasm. Right now I find it difficult to accept anything I did.

Sencia stood up. Self-pity doesn’t become you, Mikial. You are the most promising Dathia I have seen since Yora Horian. You should sit with her one night when she is in the mood to talk.

We talk all the time, Tasuria. She’s my dance instructor.

Sencia tapped Mikial’s nose with a finger. Yora might teach you something more than just dancing if you give her a chance. Now, let us see about getting you home. I will not have Yeneen blame me for having to serve a cold breakfast.

~ * ~

Mikial’s father was waiting for her in the courtyard with a neighborhood carriage. At almost fourteen hands, Jakar Haran was large even for a Datha, appropriate for his position as sect Principal. He was a Sur as well, though he rarely paid attention to his secondary Cothra abilities. Timber-brown eyes regarded her above a similarly colored mustache that lately remained pulled down in a frown. He had been unrelenting during her final training, allowing her time for little other than practice. He even had forbidden her to dance. Or tried to. The predatory angles of his face had softened this morning, however. A hopeful sign.

For once he was starting the day in something other than his uniform. He wore loose ivy-colored pants and a rumpled brown sweater. His professional hardness seemed to have been left behind as well.

Ears flicking, Mikial let him help her into the passenger’s seat. Her mind searched for dialogue appropriate to this situation. It was like looking at him through her mother’s eyes. The best she could manage was an awkward Thank you.

Jakar gestured to the doorway where the Tasuria stood watching. Did you have much chance to talk to her? he asked, his left hand sliding the carriage’s brass throttle forward. The vehicle moved across the gray flagstones with a muted whine.

A little, Mikial admitted reluctantly.

His mustached lips crinkled. Chewed on you too, eh?

Oh? What did she say to you? she ventured, her curiosity emboldened by his casual manner.

Jakar said nothing at first, turning the carriage toward the Shadow Canyon cross tunnel. When he did answer, his words came slowly. We were discussing you yesterday after the Tamerid adjourned. The Tasuria said that I was quite fortunate you had not met your death. She feels that I don’t know you well enough.

Too busy teaching to listen, Mikial quietly added to herself. Hadn’t she shouted as much at him when he threatened to cancel her dancing during the pre-trials? That wasn’t called for, Mikial whispered diplomatically.

At your age, I had been a Sur for almost two years. The sect was all I cared about, at least until I met your mother. I wanted you to have that same devotion. It’s what I thought you most needed from me.

Or what the sect most wanted from you, she grumbled. Well I seem to have met your expectations, but I can’t say I’m happy with what I’ve become. I wasn’t supposed to get someone killed as the pinnacle of my accomplishments.

Had you been the one to die, would you have blamed him?

I’ll settle with the blame that exists, she sighed. "What exactly did we run into out there anyway? The Minnerans weren’t just out to grab Qurls this time. Not with such numbers. And those rifles they had. Itsa!"

He shrugged, slowing the carriage as they entered the tunnel running beneath Keep Ridge. The Cothra are no less surprised than you by these new weapons. Obviously the Minnerans wanted to test them in combat. Apparently the occasional kidnapping to augment their failing bloodlines isn’t enough anymore.

That’s the Servant race for you. I guess, if our population kept dropping, we’d be desperate too. I’ve heard the Shandi say that almost half of Servant births end up with a Qurl baby instead. What I can’t understand is why they can get a Servant child simply by cross-breeding with a Qurl.

One guess is that they were never meant to breed among themselves, daughter, her father replied. I sometimes wonder if they were ever meant to breed at all.

Mikial chuckled. Well, if that’s true, then the Taqurls didn’t know as much about making a new race as they thought they did.

Assuming the fable that Taqurls made the Servants to begin with is true, her father agreed. In any case, we need to find out how they came by these new inventions.

Could it be from some of the Cothra they’ve managed to capture over the years? she suggested. Maybe the Minnerans are forcing more than just Passion exchanges.

That would be a departure from killing their captives once they’re done with them. He raised a warning finger. In any case, your duties don’t include spreading speculation as official reports.

Of course not. I’ll leave that to the Ipper sect. Her light humor dampened. I hope this doesn’t trouble our relations with Kioranna.

We wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize the baby exchanges. He gave her neck a fond rub. They mean a lot to us.

They certainly did to me, she replied, mindful of her own heritage as an exchange baby. It’s hard to think of myself as being Servant born; still, I can’t help but feel sorry for them. At least for the Kiorannans. They don’t sneak in to steal anyone.

They’ve found other means, he replied with a chuckle. A few months ago we escorted another camp full of females back to the border, but not before some Cothra hunters picked up their scent. They even had enticed an Ipper Signaler, I’m told.

It’s not exactly something most males can resist. She gave a sigh. Or so I’m told. She hated being late for her first Passion.

Yours will come in time, daughter. I’d suggest you find yourself someone worth sharing it with.

I’m a Dathia, remember? She folded her arms with a hiss. The only way I’m going to find someone is to run him down. Mikial gave her father a wicked grin. Maybe I’ll turn the tables on the Kiorannans and pitch a camp of my own.

His long look quickly silenced that line of thinking.

They passed through the canyon tunnel, traveling south down the terrace road. Like the rest, her house occupied a niche carved into the hillside, with rooms that extended into the rock. Her home displayed her neighborhood’s love for generous bay windows and broad porches. Morning’s shadows tempered the colored roof tiles that were Shadow Canyon’s other hallmark. Instead of pulling into the curved drive, Jakar continued down toward the canyon mouth. Puzzled, Mikial glanced at him, but received only a grin as they approached the cluster of buildings making up the community center. They slowed before Shadow Inn, the surrounding lawn full of carriages and saddled yhas.

What happened to the simple breakfast I was promised? Mikial asked, as one of the long-necked animals snorted inquisitively in her direction. Several faces peered through blue curtains hanging from the inn’s arched windows.

You know how the Ipper are about organizing these things, her father explained with a wry look. They probably invited the whole canyon.

Two welcomers were waiting as Jakar pulled up to the

double doors leading into the inn. The first was her mother, who had chosen to wear the light yellow dress and sash favored by her sect. Yeneen’s oval face was alight with pride. The second was identifiable easily by the single large braid running back from his snowy hair.

Parva Conn stepped forward, wearing his Datha black dress uniform with red trim. Mikial was impressed with the heavy crimson brocade on the extended side panels of his jacket. Each individual pattern represented battles fought. She wondered what her very first battle pattern would look like when the Strike gathered for the Sewing ceremony. The only one not in a uniform of some sort was her father. The tender realization came to her that he had intended it that way.

Parva carefully helped Mikial out of the carriage. You must be feeling better. We heard you sing all the way out here.

Barely, her mother added. But it was lovely!

I would’ve done much better if this hip wasn’t bothering me so much, Mikial said, pulling the cane from the carriage as she endured another twinge.

I kept that pain there for a purpose, her mother reminded with a shake of her finger. The last thing I want you doing is attempting to dance while that mends.

For once you’re going to have to watch someone else perform, Parva said with a grin. You’ll have opportunity enough at our Sewing. He glanced at her mother for assurance. She will, won’t she, Yeneen?

Maybe, her mother replied with a cross look, but definitely not today.

Mikial’s sour expression was swept aside by what waited for her inside. Most of the neighborhood had turned out for the event. Her nose caught savory smells coming from the kitchen. The bench tables in front of the circular stone hearth had been pulled back along the tall windows and were crowded with guests. Mikial took note of the musical instruments that flanked the hearth. Robed dancers sat at tables just beyond the instruments. Yora Horian was among them, the calico Dathia’s height easily singling her out from the rest. Her robe was deep black with rich red filigree around the high collar. Yora’s hair, a delightful contrast of apricot and ebony, was semi-bound in loose battle braids. Her dark eyes gleamed with anticipation.

Facing Mikial from the center of the wood floor was a performer like none other. Her face shimmered, as if carved from clearest crystal. The crowd held its breath as Mikial stepped forward to gape at the water sculpture rising from a wide jade basin.

Liquid shoulders rose from inside the basin, supporting a firm neck and angular Dathia face. It quivered slightly as the sculpture inclined its head in polite greetings.

Mikial laughed with delight. Her simulacrum drew back lips to return a transparent smile that earned appreciative gasps from those gathered. Mikial regarded Mikial, the latter’s hair streaming like miniature cataracts into the pool. A net of silver wire extended from the water to mesh with gloves worn by two fair-skinned Ipper girls kneeling next to the basin. Their somnolent appearance belied the concentration being exercised by the young females. Mikial was elated to see that one of them was Paleen Chimmer, the narrow features of her face seemingly frozen into an expression of perpetual mischief. Her long-time friend’s hazel eyes held a distant look, the sandy brunette absorbed with her gift’s presentation.

The sculpture gracefully slid back into its element with a dreamy expression as the basin refilled. Everyone gave the performers a round of applause.

Congratulations! Paleen said, after giving her assistant a quick hug of gratitude. The Ipper stood up, the specialized hairs of her ear fans that marked her sect rising in a white spray of excitement along the sides of her head. Hope you liked it.

You know I did, Mikial replied with a smile. I’m so glad you made it back!

We arrived last night. Paleen shook her head. I heard about what you did back at Kinset. The Ipper girl gingerly embraced her, the tops of her ear fans barely reaching Mikial’s shoulders. Sorry you were hurt.

Mikial gave an awkward smile. I was lucky. She plucked at the turquoise robe Paleen wore. That’s a chira underneath that? she inquired, referencing the traditional two-piece dancing gown.

Of course. The entire dance class is here, if you hadn’t noticed.

And me barely able to move. She sighed, giving her cane a tap.

Paleen helped Mikial off with her coat, beneath which she was wearing her own black dress uniform. As was the custom for unmarried males and females, the red belt securing her side-skirts was tied to the left. The Shadow Inn staff was quick to replace the basin with an honor table representing the Datha sect. Mikial looked down at the heavy ironwood that bore the claw marks of other Datha before her. Its scored surface was carved with scenes of her sect both at war and sport. Emblazoned at the center was the insignia of the Datha Qurl, a four-spoked wheel resting on the hilt of a dagger, its blade forming the fourth spoke.

Mikial held up her hand, claws extended. Gritting her teeth,

she cast aside the cane to murmurs of approval. Her palm slapped down upon the insignia, her claws adding their marks to the rest.

Cheers erupted. Breakfast could now begin. Jakar and Yeneen took their seats to Mikial’s right, with Paleen assuming the favored position beside her. The tempting scents Mikial first inhaled when she entered the inn were fulfilled as the first platter of glazed cliff hens arrived. Soon everyone was enjoying courses of meat and stuffed fruits, along with side dishes of steaming morning cakes.

The rich aroma of murr pervaded the room. The soothing root brew was poured from the ornate ceramic pot against the back wall. Extending to the ceiling, the murr pot was a masterpiece of Cothra sculpture. It appeared to be the broken shaft of a tree wrapped by vines. Gnarled and stunted limbs served as taps for the ginger-colored liquid and spice dispensers. Heat was provided by battery-fed glowstones inset within the base, the ruddy light of which lent a certain magic to the piece. Mikial smiled as she sipped her drink, remembering all the times she sat around the murr pot just to listen to its flavorful gurgling.

Entertainment was heralded by the lilt of shries. Resonating spheres on the harps coaxed Yora Horian to the floor with their lingering melody. Mikial grinned with expectation at the sight of her personal instructor.

The tall female wore a chira that mimicked the black Datha uniform while taking it into boldly daring areas. The vest enhanced rather than concealed her breasts, the fabric appearing as if it had been all but torn away in combat. The bottom half continued the embattled look, revealing solid thighs and hardened stomach muscles. Red trim outlined her hips and swirled suggestively inward. Around her neck gleamed four firestones, signifying the highest achievable rank of a Four Beat dancer.

This from a Dathia with a husband and four children, Mikial whispered to Paleen beside her.

Now for a performance to suit the occasion, Yora announced in a smooth contralto. The calico Strike Leader produced two wicked-looking swords. Blade dance!

A crash of drums announced the martial glory of Hane’s Retreat. The music depicted a sacrificial delaying action by Datha Taqurl forces against Kiorannan Servants four hundred years earlier during the Holding’s violent creation. With the feral snarl of a cornered huntress, Yora leapt and spun about the room, her blades seen only as droning blurs. Mikial joined in the delighted shrieks as the Dathia faced both an imaginary enemy and the very real danger of sharpened steel.

The excitement surged as Parva Conn abruptly swung over his table and entered Yora’s pattern. Mikial gasped with the rest at

his encroach­ment.

Ears flat against her head, Yora switched to a duet version of her pattern without missing a beat.

She’s going to let him get away with this? Mikial thought, gaping as Parva quickly found the tempo and began a counter-weave of his own.

The thunder of a bass drum made clear Yora’s intentions as she flung a sword at her uninvited partner. Parva caught it in mid-leap, then took the external portion of the pattern, spinning and twisting around her in a magnificent display of dancing prowess.

He’s Four Beat too! Mikial realized, picking out the nuances as the two Strike Leaders synchronized their timing.

Yora Horian grinned with predatory anticipation and began to make Parva earn his right to dance with her. Their swords clashed, using the quick rhythm of Hane’s Retreat to pace their blows.

She’s going for his braid! Paleen shrieked with glee as Parva barely fended off a blurring slash.

The music swept out like racing yhas, both dancers caught up in the frenzied rise and fall of the tempo. Their blades flickered and sang. Yora and Parva’s bodies weaved in harmony to both the tempo and each other. Although they performed like two chezels bickering over a pile of nuts, Mikial saw smiles widen on both officers’ faces.

Hane’s Retreat ended in a collapse of drums and shries. In that moment the two swords rang together over Mikial’s head, the dancers leaping to her table in final salute. Steadying herself on her cane, Mikial rose, giving her head a shake of elated disbelief. You two planned this!

Actually, Parva said between breaths, giving Yora an appreciative look, it was more of a dare.

Didn’t believe he’d try it, Yora said with a laugh. You’ve shown yourself well Mikial, and have made us all proud of you. Yora gave Jakar a sidelong glance. I expect her back at Dowin Hall the moment she heals, Principal.

I wouldn’t presume to disappoint you, Strike Leader, her father replied with a chuckle. Neither, I suspect, will Mikial.

Once I determine that she is fully healed, her mother reminded with a stern look before Yora and Parva returned to their tables.

Paleen was next to dance, providing a performance as energetic as her nature. Others in Mikial’s dance class also took turns on the floor. The families of Jakar’s two brothers got together with Yeneen’s sister to present Mikial with a green dress bordered in lace the color of deep ivy. Neighbors and friends transformed her table into a fragrant bouquet of flowers.

Her father’s gift came last. Eyes wide, she lifted up the camouflage helmet, the solid armor countered by its slight weight. Mikial looked at her father. Tensa?

Smiling, he nodded. There isn’t a better metal, daughter. The Cothra have been fashioning your battle dress for some time. Tensa is not the easiest to work with.

This is magnificent, she breathed. The forehead of the helmet was composed of two wings with finely etched feathers flared back to protect her ears and neck. Chinstraps had been fashioned to look like talons. It fit perfectly. She inspected the body armor, each piece artfully shaped in the same feathery motif. She got to her feet slowly and gave as graceful a bow as her aching side would allow. The applause of friends