The Final Strife

“Let’s dance,” she cut in.

“Really? I haven’t danced in years.”

“Come on, we know this one,” Sylah said, tilting her ear to the band.

Jond listened, his grin growing with each beat of the drum. The flute player dipped into a minor melody then trilled upward in a major scale. The drums made her shoulders want to dance. The singer was melismatic, avoiding the harmony of the flute, making the song almost jaunty. Sylah and Jond mouthed the lyrics to each other. “Take me to the fields of Jin-Gernomi, in the green grass you’ll build a home for me.”

They both scoffed at the lyrics, just like they had done when they were children. It was an Ember song, but so many of the Sandstorm foster parents were servants in the Keep, they had the song memorized. The Sandstorm teachers used it to train them to dance, over and over again.

Jond bowed and held out his hand, and for a moment Sylah felt the itch of her mama’s stare between her shoulder blades, like she was there instructing her to pinch back her shoulder blades, lift her chin high. But she was no longer ten years old.

“A dancer’s grace, a killer’s instinct, an Ember’s blood, a Duster’s heart,” Sylah whispered, reaching for his hand. His palms were calloused but warm. They fit together like they had always done.

—

Anoor had been dancing with a very tall gentleman when she spotted them. A circle had grown around them as if the crowd were standing on the edge of a precipice, afraid to be dragged into the sandstorm within.

Sylah danced with the same grace she fought with, but with less anger marring her brow. They spun and pranced as if made from wisps of radish leaf smoke. Sylah’s legs bent and flicked outward with precision while the man twirled around her. Her hips dipped and moved back and forth in time with the music. Sylah looked happy as she grinned at the young man who led her around the dance floor. He looked dangerous to Anoor; something about him unsettled her down to her marrow. But he was enthralled by Sylah, so he couldn’t be all bad.

Sylah laughed, and Anoor was struck dumb by the sound. There was no echo of bitterness or spite in it. Anoor turned to leave; she couldn’t watch the trust in Sylah’s eyes as she let him catch her. There was a shout, a soft screech from a spectator, a thud. Sylah had fallen, her knee giving way beneath her. The crowd had already started moving away, the spell broken.

The man was helping her up, concern etched into his brow. He probably assumed it was the drink, not the tremors caused by the lack of joba seeds in her body. Her brain had not yet adapted to the stimulant deficiency in her nerve center, and seizures and tremors had become a regular ailment Sylah still dealt with. Though they had lessened, her muscles still shook every time they practiced, even though she tried to hide it from Anoor. It was battle wrath, the meditative state that required Sylah to be angry, but being angry agitated her nerves and brought on the tingling and lack of mobility.

Anoor thought about going to help the man, but as Sylah leaned into his embrace, Anoor realized she’d just be in the way. It was time to go to bed anyway.

—

Sylah was drunk. Jond was holding her up, but she couldn’t stop laughing.

“Sylah, you’re taller than me, please can you at least try and walk?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m trying to get you to bed.”

“Bed? With you?” The thought fizzed out of her mind and into the empty hallway between them.

“Sir, you can’t just wander the Keep.” An officer blocked their path. “Exit is that way.”

“She lives here.” Jond was surprised Sylah wasn’t fearful of the officer. It unsettled him to see how a mooncycle at the Keep had already changed her. She was turning into one of them.

“Yeah?” the officer asked doubtfully.

“I live in Ood-Zaynib—”

“No Sylah, you live with Anoor Elsari.” Air hissed through Jond’s teeth.

“I know, I’m not stupid.” Her eyebrows knitted together.

“Look, unless you can prove that she lives here—”

“She’s a servant. Anoor Elsari’s chambermaid.”

“Where’s her uniform?” The officer stifled a yawn.

“She’s been at the winners’ banquet.” Jond was getting impatient.

“Sure, working in that outfit?” He scoffed.