“No permits,” he says, shaking his head. “Illegal activities. Arrests will have to be made.”
My mother stands. “Ashlord, please, it’s my daughter’s birthday.”
He ignores her. His eyes find me like Mother’s pronouncement has given him a right to stare. The entire room holds its breath. There’s not a man or woman in the bar who wouldn’t enjoy taking a swing at him, but striking an Ashlord isn’t an option. Defiance leads to death.
“Imelda Beru.” He tastes the name. “You’re to blame for all this, then?”
Father rises. The sight makes Oxanos smile, like he’s finally struck a chord of music he enjoys. Oxanos has probably heard stories of Ashlords inciting riots among the Dividian and getting killed for acting like fools. Those stories are rare, but every now and again it happens. Rare because rebellion has a cost. Battalions come, villages burn. The Ashlords always offer retribution, even for the lives of their most unlikeable exiles.
“A special occasion, but no excuse for illegalities.” Oxanos smiles. “I’ll pardon them, however, in exchange for a dance. Consider it a gift to you, Imelda.”
Murder is written on my father’s face. Uncles are sobering toward dark possibilities. Oxanos knows what he asks. A woman’s first dance belongs to her father, or her intended. I am old enough now to have a man who could ask that of my father, but it should never be someone like him. Oxanos is greedy and petty and undeserving.
I will not risk my father’s life on a man like him.
“I agree. One dance.”
Oxanos stares. “Of my choosing?”
“Of mine.”
He’s surprised by that little defiance, but it just brings out a nastier smirk. My eyes drift back to my father. He knows what I’m doing and why, but it doesn’t make the burden of his anger any lighter. It’s unfair that he has to shoulder this shame just to keep us alive. He looks away. It’s the closest I’ll get to approval. The room is silent as I cross to the center. The Ashlord’s eyes flick around the room before settling on me. He looks delighted by it all.
My cousin Luca watches with clenched fists. His guitar’s been abandoned to a corner. I call over to him and smile. “The Contested, Luca. Play the Contested.”
Oxanos looks surprised again, but he crosses over and takes his position diagonal from me. It’s a dance he should know, if he’s had any formal training at all. The Ashlords have their traditional dances, but the Contested is something they created just for us.
Our people sailed to their land centuries ago, intending to conquer. Only, we failed. With the help of their gods, the Ashlords defeated our ancestors. We were stranded on foreign soil, and the Ashlords forced us to bow to them. Most Ashlord dances tell a story. The Contested is a dance that’s meant to show our role in the Empire, not as rulers, but as subjects. The longer strides and gliding turns are intended to favor them. Each year the dance is performed to remind every Dividian that our ancestors came and failed. It is a reminder that we live at their mercy.
But I will dance a new dance.
The music begins fast, but it’s the Contested, which means it will only get faster. When Oxanos reaches for my hand, I give it to him freely. His skin is nearly burning, each palm furious with heat as he turns me twice. The steps of the dance have us circling, darting forward only to dart back again. Oxanos is a fine dancer, a graceful thing. He matches my rhythm easily as we reach the first chorus. Then I spin away, and clap twice.
The signal surprises Oxanos. The Contested is a competition, a battle of wills. Traditionally, the Ashlord will clap to the players, asking for a feverish pace the Dividian dancer struggles to match. My cousin sees the signal and the speed of his strumming doubles. I spin back into the Ashlord’s arms as the rhythm of our steps and hips races to match the music.
Oxanos is nearing the edge of his comfort now. He doesn’t sweat, because his kind never sweat, but he’s gritting his teeth in concentration. As we reach the second chorus, I spin away, and clap twice more. Oxanos’s eyes go wide. I hear the gasping echo around the room. My cousin answers. The pace doubles again. I spin back to the Ashlord, but he’s far from ready.
I move my hips faster than he can match. My steps are lightning, his a flawed and broken thunder. He loses me on a turn and I dance a cruel circle around him, eyes fixed with fury. This is not how the Contested goes. When they televise their galas, it’s always the Ashlord leaving the Dividian dizzy by the end. But Oxanos is not my king. I am not his slave.
He loses me, again and again, and suffers red-faced through the embarrassment of trying to catch back up with my steps. I answer without mercy. I punish him through perfection. I stomp my feet and swing my hips and toss my hair until he knows, at least tonight, he is nothing but a sideshow. When the music ends, I’m sweating and breathless.
It’s traditional for the loser to bow, but the Ashlords are fond of telling us they only bow to the gods. Oxanos glares around the room, then at me, before setting his jaw and walking out the front door of the bar. It’s quiet. The only sounds we hear are the door banging shut, his boots crunching in the desert dark. No one’s foolish enough to cheer or shout or celebrate, but Amaya slips a cold drink into my hand. She taps the neck of her bottle against mine and smiles.
“Look sharp, girl. I don’t think that’s the last Ashlord you’ll have to outdance.”
Daddy’s got us set up well before the Crossing match begins.
His private box in Lady’s Stadium is normally the opposite of private. He’s always believed with the right drink and the right view, any man will be willing to make a deal. I’ve watched him cozy up to oil tycoons and ship builders, tobacco farmers and war veterans. I didn’t know the scope of what he was planning, but every conversation was a brick in the road to a second Rebellion. He’s been crafting his war quietly, patiently.
Which means his final pitch is for me.
He’s got his money, his troops, and his rebels. All he needs now is a face to put on the posters. The other seats sit empty. It’s just Antonio Rowan and Daddy, sipping their drinks and talking up the two teams below us like a game could possibly matter right now.
“I like the kid from Panhandle,” Antonio is saying. “Fastest quickling I’ve ever seen.”
Daddy makes a thoughtful noise. “Never seen him before.”
“He’ll keep it interesting,” Antonio replies. “But Sanctuary’s defense is one of the best in the league this year. I’ve got a little side action on them.”
I sip my own drink, watching the players stretch in the arena below, my mind leagues away. We spent all night watching the broadcasts. How would Furia react to our announcement? Only natural that the gossip wove its way through every newscast. We saw Pippa’s interview. An Ashlord noble; this year’s favorite. Daddy pulled videos of her amateur races months ago and had me studying them. She’s fast and smart, a hell of a rider. But most of the amateur races are contact free. The actual Races require knowing how to fight, how to defend your ashes, and how to strike someone down without killing them.