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DANCING AND DARKNESS

KADEN

P eople avoid her. Avoid us. It is clear as day as she stumbles and trips her way through unpracticed steps.

I’m a quick learner, our earlier attempts at dancing making me cautious and careful, and I keep a hand on her the entire song, steadying her each time her feet catch each other, spinning her in tight circles, trying to ignore the growing, anxious murmurs running through the nearby crowd.

They draw back from her shining face, from her moonlight hair that clicks as she twirls, and I forcibly swallow back anger at the scared faces, and anger at myself for the shiver that runs through me when I realize the sounds from her hair are bones.

You have no space left for judgment or apologies I caution myself, clenching my teeth together to keep the questions inside.

You have no space for missteps. And so I smile, and sing to her, and revel in the answering curve of her lips, in the pink flush of her cheeks, the tightening of her fingers on my own.

Her people may pull away from us, but mine fill in around us the moment they see me on the floor.

They’re curious, but friendly, shouting out their names to her as they go by, shooting me knowing looks and teasing winks.

The closer they get to us, the tighter she pulls into me, never quite full against me, but clearly uneasy with the clamor and pressing around her.

It does not take long for her smile to become strained, and her breathing to change from happiness to something close to fear.

I stop immediately. “I’m out of shape, Flame.” Making a show of puffing like an old man, I’m rewarded by her startled laugh, though she captures it and presses it back into her mouth, covering it with a trembling hand. “Can we break for a moment? Long enough for a drink, some food?”

“You’re welcome to, Trad-” She pauses, looks at the ground, then, “Kaden.” Who knew the sun could rise on a single word? “I think I’ve overstayed my time here, though…nights like this are rare for my village. I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable, or drain their joy in any way by my presence.”

Frowning, I grip her hand more tightly, even as she surreptitiously tries to draw away. “The lack of your presence would drain my joy completely, Wren.”

Her eyes widen and she darts nervous, unseeing glances around her, as though checking who could hear. “Please, Kaden. Just…Keeper, when others are around.”

Nodding, I sigh. “Keeper. Come sit with me. We’ll go to the very edge of the crowd.

But gift me some company? Some of my men can come with us, scatter around the table to make it less…

I don’t know, to be honest. I don’t understand the dynamics at play here.

But come for food, will you? Is that not done? ”

She laughs again, and again hides it. “None of this is done , Trader. But I suppose if there is to be a reckoning, food is not worse than dance.”

Nothing she says makes sense, but if she’s willing to follow, I’m happy to lead, and I carefully navigate to a far corner that is full of shadows, where empty cups and used plates litter the table.

There will be time enough to clean in the morning; the few hours of this night are clearly for pleasure, not for chores.

“Sit,” I say gently, clearing a place in front of her and tucking her against the wall, picking a spot specifically so she is close to an opening through which the white gleam of exposed skeleton glimmers in shivering torchlight.

It makes my skin ripple, but she immediately relaxes, and I feel a brief sense of triumph at having made a good choice.

“I’ll get plates. Is there anything to avoid for you? Anything you most crave?”

Again I’ve surprised her, judging by the startled tilt of her head.

“I– I don’t know how to answer that, Trader.

I suppose if there’s something you’ve brought from your lands, I would like to try it?

” Her voice tips up in a question, but a certain longing sparks the words, and her request becomes my command.

“Of course, Keeper. You trust me to choose?”

“Surprisingly, I think I do.” The cautious, teasing note from our first meeting is back somehow, despite all of my wrong turns, and I grin down at her, though she can’t see me.

“Well, then. Let’s see if I can earn it.”

It doesn’t take long to pile a plate for her.

Though the tables with food are rapidly going bare, some of my friends sneak things from their own stores and pouches into my hands, nudging me with joking elbows and approving looks.

A few jerk their heads toward her in silent question, but I shake mine in response, and they shrug without pressing the issue.

When I’m satisfied with the selection I make my way back, pausing only briefly when I see the seats near her occupied.

She is unmoving, the pale focal point in a strange, chaotic painting.

There are three councilmen set away from her by only two or three spaces, carrion birds with dark faces, shooting angry, malevolent glares toward the silent Keeper.

And then a second group, two laughing women and two men, one of whom is distracted by the smaller of the two girls, who is wrapped around him like a cloak, the other who is desperately trying to focus on the second girl, but whose neck muscles are strained from not turning toward Wren. Interesting, interesting.

Other spots at the table are filled with my own people, most of whom are accompanied by openly welcoming women sharing plates.

Everyone is flushed red from the dancing and the mead, half-drunk glasses of dark liquid being refilled from flowing pitchers while small sweets are passed from lingering fingers to waiting mouths.

It’s an obvious courtship of sorts, and I watch carefully as I approach the table before sitting across from Wren, ignoring everyone else.

“Alright, Keeper,” I say by way of getting her attention. She immediately looks up from where she was staring at her folded hands, still as a statue.

“Trader?”

“I’ve brought you a wealth of things to try, but I’ll warn you, not all are to my liking.

I figured I’d give you as much of a variety as possible though — let you make your own mind up.

I think I’ll be selfish and start with my favorites, lure you to my side.

” Trying to keep my voice light despite the number of eyes on us, I cut a small piece of meat and hold it out to her lips.

She flinches back minutely as it brushes her mouth.

“I…I can feed myself, Trader,” she mumbles, almost silently, but can’t fight a reluctant smile when I take the chance to nudge the food into her mouth.

“I’m watching around us, Keeper, and this seems to be the tradition, no?”

She’s about to answer, chewing thoughtfully as the new flavor fills her mouth, when a tight voice beside us breaks into our quiet conversation.

“No.”

Startled, her eyes flick toward the sound, as do mine. The man from a few seats down the table looks as though he’s surprised himself and his friends around him; a strange sort of silence falls over the people nearest us.

“I’m sorry, Keeper. Of course I didn’t mean to speak for you.

But no, Trader. It’s not the tradition. Not with her.

” He’s stumbling over his words, forcing a casual tone into them, cheeks rounding with a practiced smile.

“Ahh…I’m sorry,” he says again, and unexpectedly holds out a hand to me, stretching down the table, across the woman next to him.

“I was watching your people. This is your custom, yes?”

Taking his hand, I shake it, answering smile tight. “It is. I appreciate your careful study of us.” There are many, many meanings in seven short words, and I believe he hears them all .

“Not all conventions are as obvious,” he answers, meeting my gaze steadily.

“Tahrik.” The man motions to himself by way of introduction.

“I am sorry, Trader, for joining uninvited. I’m sure it’s hard to come in and know the smaller nuances of our ways.

For example, this one, with food, is not as clear perhaps? It’s…an offer. A pursuit, if you will.”

“Like the sharing of water?” I ask, and his eyes widen in surprise before he nods.

“Exactly so.”

Keeping my eyes locked on his, I reach down to the plate again, picking a slice of sweet bread I can see in my periphery, and hold it out to Wren’s lips.

“Keeper?” I say quietly, making my voice purposefully soft, a whisper of promise, lingering on the word with intention clear. Tahrik’s hand flexes white against the table.

“It is not done ,” another voice snaps out, this time from one of the thin lipped vultures, and the violence in his tone would be a warning to most men.

Suddenly I recognize him; he was one of the few when we arrived who was less welcoming, who almost threw the trade away before we even entered the gates, and I narrow my eyes at him.

Seeing the challenge there, he glances nervously at his two friends, then back at me more confidently once he’s assured of their support.

“We wouldn’t expect someone like you to know—” the meaning is clear, though the words aren’t inherently offensive, “—but the Keeper is not like the women of our village.”

“Isn’t it her choice? From what I’ve been told? The women in your village are free for three days to keep any company they desire?” Keeping my voice level, I glance between the two groups.

“She is not a woman.” He bites out the word like an injured dog, baring teeth and snapping.

His friends shift anxiously at his flat statement though, and then from down the table there’s a surprised sort of huffing sound that catches everyone’s attention.

The smaller of the two women, tilting her head, brow furrowed, interrupts the conversation, much to the displeasure of her partner, who is frantically trying to shush her .