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I stand frozen, watching him approach. Depths, he’s massive. I’m tall by the standards of the merroc, but he looms over me, looking down at me with large, calculating golden eyes. His long black braids are pulled back from his stern face. While the other contenders are decked in finery, Arcorlan wears a simple loincloth of blue and black woven cloth and a strand of shark teeth around his neck. A sealskin cloak drapes over one of his shoulders, and a plain dagger is belted at his side. My gaze brushes over his golden-brown skin and broad, bare chest. Heat spreads through me.
Some part of me finds him handsome. Like a statue carved by a master’s hand—beautiful and a little too perfect to be real.
I shudder as he takes my hand. His fingers are warm and calloused under my touch. He stoops low and gently presses his forehead to the back of my hand, lingering for a long moment. It’s a customary Fethani greeting that conveys both respect and friendship. My heart speeds, but I just stare at him, not sure how to react. None of the other challengers bothered with such a respectful gesture.
“I have come to challenge for the Seamother’s daughter,” he says when he finally raises his head. “I do not bring you boasts. My deeds will speak for themselves soon enough. May the currents flow as the Creator desires.”
“You still invoke the Creator?” I ask. Not all of the tribes do, and it’s certainly not what I expected from someone with a reputation as bloodthirsty as Arcorlan’s.
I almost see a hint of surprise in his eyes, but it fades too quickly for me to be sure. “Why shouldn’t I? You do the same.”
The hypocrisy in my assumption hits me, and shame creeps over me. What have these contenders heard aboutme, I wonder? In the gossip of the seas, am I just the Seamother’s daughter who lives in armor and paints her skin in the blood of her foes, who can pull dragons from the sky with her magic and drown whole elven battalions at once?
Maybe I should give this man a chance to be something other than a monster.
“You are welcome to take your place among the challengers,” I murmur. “May the Creator determine your fate, and mine.”
He gives a short nod, his face remaining expressionless. I stare after him as he steps into place beside the still-sulking Veltuk.
My mother turns to face the court, spreading her arms wide. “The contenders have come forward, giving their lives into the hands of fate.” She glances at me, her green eyes cold as ever. “In nine days, one will triumph and gain his prize.”
My lips curl in a silent snarl at the word “prize,” but the Seamother turns away and addresses the court again.
“In nine days, you will prove your courage in the sight of all,” she goes on, “but tonight another custom demands our observance. We welcome the first flowers of the maraseya trees and the turning of the world. Let the sound of our drums and the rhythm of our feet call in the winds of spring!”
For the first time that night, the weight lifts from me a little. She’s not going to draw this out as long as I’d feared.
Most importantly, she’s not going to skip the dances.
Without a word, the highest-ranking warriors move away from the wall and into the center of the hall. They form two long lines, with men on one side and women on the other. The rest of the guests form their own lines along the edges of the room.
The contenders move toward me, and each man looks at me intently, as if demanding I choose him as my partner in the first dance. But to choose one over another would show favoritism, and I won’t make such a statement until I’ve considered my next move more carefully. I give them a courteous nod, then quickly make my way to the far end of the central column of dancers where a few of my battle-sisters have gathered with their partners. Relief lightens my steps as I escape my suitors’ intense gazes, though my mind still churns. I fall into line beside Cirali and across from a stoic older warrior, and wait for the music to start.
From one side of the room, musicians beat out a lively rhythm on shark-skin drums, accompanied by the high lilt of bone flutes. One musician even plays a harp, his sharpened fingernails flying over the wire strings and calling forth a melody in bell-like tones. My scowl turns to a smile as the strains of melody resound through the room.
The dancers move as one, the lines of men and women mirroring each other’s movements. We stomp and sashay in complex patterns, circling around one another. I join hands with the man across from me and we spin, then draw apart and take hands with the next people in line. We move like a hurricane wind, powerful and ceaseless as the musicians play on and on.
It’s been five years since we’ve danced together in the great hall, but my body remembers this part of life before the war. I melt into it gladly, caught in the rush of pounding feet and whirling skirts, laughing and chanting along with the familiar old dancing songs. Losing myself to the beat of the drums, letting the rhythm numb my fears for a few blissful moments.
It takes several dances before the contenders finally catch up to me, but they close in on me one by one. I catch hands with each of them in turn and spin through the vigorous steps before moving on to the next man.
As the dance flows, so do my thoughts, until my mind is spinning as fast as my body. I catch glimpses of Arcorlan here and there, his bulky frame towering over most of the other dancers. I should seek him out. He’s the only one of the five who might be an acceptable mate. I need to find out for sure.
Yet somehow, my steps never carry me closer to him, and my gaze never lingers on him long. Phrases in the melody seem to tease me, its lilting pattern reminding me of a song Keliveth likes to sing on cloudless nights. I weave deeper into the crowd of dancers, hoping the chaos around me will drown out the foolish memory, but the elven song swells within me, almost as if he’s singing to me now, somewhere far beyond the palace—
A heavy hand closes on my wrist. I pull away instinctively and turn on my assailant, hissing and reaching for the knife tucked into the satin folds of my long red skirt.
I find myself face to face with Arcorlan. He glances down at the blade I hold, then takes a step back.
“I startled you,” he shouts above the clamor of the music.
“Not a wise thing to do to a warrior.” I tilt my head. “You should know better.”
“I should.”
My eyes narrow in suspicion for a moment before I realize he’s not being sarcastic. I think he’s being humble. I return the knife to its hidden sheath.
“Dance?” He offers his hand. I grasp it, and we start moving through the motions of the dance together.
