Occasionally she would catch a glimpse of the spellbound expressions on her audience’s faces and that would goad her on. Eventually it all fell away—the ache in her ankle, her worry about the risk she took by remaining at the Keep, and even her awareness of Serat and the mages. For that brief time, she knew she was doing exactly what she was meant to do. A few seconds of peace counted to the beat of her feet upon stone.

The song was one of her favorites, pure and sad and sweet. As she danced, she heard the words whisper through her mind. The song told of a woman who waited on the shore for her lover to return, of the child in her womb and her hope of a good catch, of the storm hovering on the horizon as the sun melted into the sea. The song ended before the lover returned…if he ever returned. Caris had given her such a look when she’d told him earlier what song she wanted.

“A tragic one, that,” he’d muttered, shaking his head.

Lorel disagreed. It was a fearful song, full of dread and longing, but the hope was still there. Lorel had always liked to imagine that the woman’s lover made it home eventually and that there was another song, lost now, about that happy day.

Lorel felt her spirit drifting free, merging into the music until nothing of herself remained. The cadence was the surge and pull of the ocean. The higher notes a melody of grief and hope. The hope pulled at her heart, pushing her to dance for longer than was necessary. Whatever was lost. Whatever the invaders had trampled and burned and destroyed. There was still this.

But the dance couldn’t last. It never did.

Her body felt the strain first. A twinge behind her shoulder blade and a wobble in her turn. Pride wouldn’t let her dance herself into an exhausted heap of twitching muscle. It was better to end it while she was still in control.

She timed her finish to the song. Rolling onto the balls of her feet, she balanced in a small lift before falling back, her formal bow collapsing into the posture of a supplicant.

Her breath rushed out, and the world rushed in.

A summer storm had rolled in at dusk, and she could hear the tap of rain against the side of the Keep. She felt the warmth of the fire against her back and the cold stone beneath her body. Flagstone bit into her shins. The bottoms of her feet had become so callused that she barely noticed the hard surface anymore until she was on her knees.

The consul shifted in his seat. She raised her face expecting him to beckon her forward. Serat often rewarded her with a coin, sometimes with a goblet of the rich red wine so prized by the Ghadrians. But perhaps that was only when he wished to annoy Janek. Tonight, he ignored her completely, turning to his guests instead. “You see what I mean. There is none of the refinement, none of the artistic skill that you find in the dancers of the capital.”

The old mage leaned back in his chair, his eyes gleaming darkly.