Page 1 of Storm of Blood and Shadow

1

The troupe leader rushes into our rehearsal room as I’m applying a thin layer of tinted cream to the bruises on my right arm.

“The Queen is calling for us,” he says, breathless. “Quickly, everyone.”

“Shit,” I hiss, snatching up the strip of cloth I’ve been using to bind my ankle. I injured it a week ago, but I can’t risk taking time off from the royal dance troupe to let it heal.

The troupe leader, Avrix, hears me curse and comes over. “Do you need help with that, Jessiva?”

“Please.” I hold out my foot, and Avrix kneels and begins to wrap the bandage tightly. He’s manifesting a male aspect today, though sometimes he prefers to appear asfemale. Perfume wafts from his wavy hair—sandalwood and vanilla, a familiar scent that soothes my tension a little.

Avrix has been my friend ever since I auditioned for the palace troupe and secured a coveted spot, one that dozens of girls would sell their souls to possess. Perhaps I sold a few pieces of mine to obtain it.

With a final tuck and tug to secure the bandage, Avrix looks up at me, concern in his eyes. “Be honest. Can you perform tonight?”

“I can.”

“Good. She loves you.”

I don’t argue the point. He’s partly right—I’ve been one of the Queen’s favorite dancers for several years, during which time I’ve enjoyed good pay and plenty of additional benefits, like attending royal balls and parties. But since our kingdom’s conflict with Vohrain began, the pay and the parties have decreased to a mere trickle. And as my career has faltered, I have gained more responsibilities and dependents thanks to the ravages of war.

My ankle hurts, but backing out of this performance isn’t an option. If I don’t dance, I don’t get paid. If I don’t get paid, my family doesn’t eat. The rent for our shabby apartment is already overdue.

Avrix rises and claps his hands. “With me, everyone. Hurry, hurry.”

There’s a storm of perfume being spritzed, feet being tucked into dance slippers, ribbons being tightened, fingers driving pins deeper into hairdos. Then we’re out the door, prancing down the hallway and up the stairs as quickly and gracefully as we can, a row of pretty birds in scanty, fluttering clothes.

To look at us, one would never guess that this kingdom is at the bitter end of a long and terrible war, one that has cost countless lives and nearly all our resources. Earlier today I heard that the fortress city of Guilhorn is under attack by King Rahzien and his army from the northern kingdom of Vohrain.

Ever since Vohrain allied with the dragons from the isle of Ouroskelle, our cities have been falling to the enemy, one by one. Guilhorn won’t be the exception. It will probably fall tonight.

And while that stronghold collapses, my fellow dancers and I will be entertaining the Queen. She often calls for us while she’s eating dinner. Sometimes we’re summoned afterward, when she’s reclining in her private salon with a glass of wine. Tonight she’s in the salon, but her glass holds amber-colored rum, and she’s prowling behind the sofa instead of sitting on it.

The Queen of Elekstan is always perfectly coiffed, wearing a sumptuous gown, but as we enter, I can’t help noticing the limp state of her dress, stained under the arms as if she’s been sweating. Strands of hair straggle around her face, escaped from her upswept hairstyle. The black makeup lining her sharp eyes is smudged.

She taps ringed fingers impatiently against her glass while the other dancers and I line up. Five court musicians file into the corner of the room, tune briefly together, and then begin playing the music.

As one of the most experienced and skilled dancers in the troupe, I’m on Avrix’s left, in the front row. There are thirteen of us tonight, moving in perfect sync, limbs stretching and bodies swaying with the current of the music.

My ankle twinges sharply, and the smile on my face falters for a second. I feel the quiver of my mouth, the tension around my eyes.

At that moment, my gaze locks with the Queen’s.

She’s watching me with vicious and calculating disapproval. I force a more brilliant smile and keep dancing, but I can’t lose myself in the flow of the music like I used to. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt the magic of movement in my soul. That’s what happens when you practice every day for hours, only to be summoned abruptly to entertain someone who barely pays attention and rarely allows you to finish a full performance. I can’t recall how long it’s been since I danced a full program for an actual audience.

The incandescent delight of dance is a thing of the past for me. I have no joy in it anymore.

If I’m honest, I find little joy in any part of my life.

Still eyeing me, the Queen snaps her fingers to one of her servants, then points in my direction. She speaks loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear. “The redhead is getting too old. I don’t want dancers who look depressed and half-dead. I need youth, beauty, vitality. Get her out of my sight.”

Each word is a heavy stone falling onto my bones, breaking them, crushing me under a weight I’m not strong enough to lift.

I let my arms fall to my sides and stand still, facing the Queen. She’s turning away, speaking to a messenger who just entered the salon through a side door.

In a few curt sentences, she dispensed with my devoted service and soured the compliments she has paid me over the years, which I’ve hoarded in my heart like precious treasures and used as my inspiration.

She’s done with me. The kingdom is dying, she is losing the war, and I am just a reminder of that loss, that failure, that downward slope to the end of everything.

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