The Crimson Crown. Cinda Williams Chima

Averill sat down, Raisa struggled to maintain her trader face. Why didn’t you tell me? she thought. It seemed she should have participated in this decision, or at least have been notified ahead of time.

      Averill smiled at her, patting her hand.

      You have a trader face, too, Raisa thought. Too good at keeping secrets.

      The dancing began with the youngest children, whose enthusiasm trumped any lack of skill as they showed off their steps to the Gray Wolf queen. There followed midsummer dances, and some traditional name day dances to honor those who would be celebrated the next day.

      Suddenly, Raisa’s father stood before her, hands extended. “Dance with me, daughter,” he said, smiling. “It has been a long time.”

      And so Raisa did, circling the fire with her sturdy Demonai father. Though Raisa was small, her father stood only a few inches taller than her, so they were a good match for dancing. Her body recalled the movements of the familiar Dance of Many Braids. The pace accelerated, and Raisa allowed herself to be carried away by the music, her feet flying in her new moccasins. The dancers wove intricate patterns, coming together and then shattering apart.

      As the night went on, the older dancers dropped out, but the young people continued, shouting out requests, fueled by upcountry wine, seeming to draw energy from each other. Bats fluttered drunkenly in the trees overhead, singing their silent mating songs.

      More and more, Raisa found herself dancing opposite Nightwalker, her pulse picking up the cadence of the drums. Her clan blood thrummed in her veins as sweat trickled between her breasts, and her skirts swirled around her legs. They danced the Dance of the Berry Moon and the Dance of the Flower Moon. During the Dance of the Gray Wolf, the shadows outside the glare of the torches seethed with yellow eyes and lithe, furred bodies.

      Shilo Trailblazer called out, “Demonai Woman!”—a traditional war dance of matched pairs that dated from the Wizard Wars.

      Voices shouted out support. The Demonai loved battle dances—stylized depictions of battles between wizards and the Demonai, culminating in a symbolic slaughter of the gifted.

      A flicker of motion caught Raisa’s eye. Willo Watersong rose and left the circle of onlookers, leaving Han and Dancer sitting alone. Han watched Raisa, his eyes in shadow, head cocked to one side as if waiting to see what she would do.

      It was one thing for the Demonai to dance battle dances among themselves. It was another to confront two wizards with their history of bloodshed.

      Raisa mopped her face with her sleeve. “I’ll sit out,” she said, turning toward the sidelines.

      But Elena stepped into her path. “Please,” she said, looking into Raisa’s eyes. “Dance with us, granddaughter. We danced the flatlander dances yesterday. This celebration is for us.”

      “Please,” Nightwalker said, taking Raisa’s hand. “Dance with me, Briar Rose.”

      And when Raisa looked back for Han, he had disappeared. “All right,” she said. “Just a few more.”

      As the round began, men and women danced opposite each other, shaking their weapons, tossing catcalls and challenges back and forth, competing for the honor of confronting the armies of wizards that had invaded the Fells. Raisa and Nightwalker came together in mock combat, glaring into each other’s eyes.

      The men chorused, “Wait by the fire, wife, and have babies. Your sons will grow up to fight jinxflingers.” Nightwalker struck a pose, scowling down at Raisa, lips twitching as he fought back a smile.

      “Wait by the fire, husband,” Raisa replied. “And bind up my wounds when I return. I will fight jinxflingers so my sons won’t have to.”

      They split apart and danced some more.

      “Wait by the fire, wife, and prepare a meal to restore me when I return from the wars,” the men said.

      “Wait by the fire, husband,” Raisa called with the others. “Heat the water to wash jinxflinger blood from my clothes.”

      And, finally, the last chorus.

      “Ride beside me, wife, and kill the jinxflinger that gets past me,” the men said.

      “Ride beside me, husband, and we will drive the jinxflingers into the sea,” the women sang.

      By the time the dance ended, Raisa was trembling and weak in the knees. She looked for Han again, but he was still missing.

      When demands for Hanalea’s Triumph could no longer be ignored, Raisa agreed to dance the part of Hanalea, and Nightwalker, of course, chose the Demonai role. They donned the ritual amulets signifying their parts and picked up their ceremonial weapons. Other players selected their roles as demons, warriors, and soldiers. But no one volunteered for the unpopular role of the Demon King.

      Until Han Alister stepped forward, out of the darkness. “I’ll dance the Demon King part,” he said in Clan. “It’s fitting, don’t you think?” He paused for a heartbeat, then added into a charged silence, “Since I’m one of only two wizards here.”

      He was barefoot, still in clan leggings but now wearing a beaded dancing jacket trimmed in feathers. His skin shown pale against the time-darkened deerskin, his blond hair glittering under the torchlight. He already wore the flame-patterned feathered wristlets and the stylized serpent amulet that identified him as the Demon King.

      “Hunts Alone!” Averill looked vastly unhappy. “Do you even know the part?”

      “I’ve some practice at clan dances,” Han said. “But I’m no expert. So I’ll take the part nobody wants.” He smiled, but it never reached his eyes. “I’ll try not to step on anyone’s toes.”

      But something in his expression sent the opposite message.

       CHAPTER TWO

       A DANCE IN THE DARK

       Why is he doing this?

      Raisa wished she’d gone to bed an hour earlier. She wished someone else would say no. “You know, it’s been a long day,” she said. “Let’s just call it a night.”

      “Please, Your Majesty,” Han persisted. “I love to play the part of the villain. I’m good at it.” His words were light, belied by his razor-honed voice and aggressive posture.

      There was a smattering of applause from Han’s Marisa Pines friends.

      “Well,” Raisa said, her head spinning from too much wine and dancing, “I suppose you look more like the Demon King than I look like Hanalea.”

      This was met with a sharp intake of breath. Raisa looked around, trying to figure out what she’d said wrong. Averill and Elena glowered at Han.

      What? Raisa thought. I’m so tired of the wizard-Demonai feud. I’m tired of Han Alister making my life more complicated than it already is.

      “Fine. If you insist, let’s dance.” Raisa seized Han’s hands, yanking him into the center of the clearing. “I’ll lead,” she said, remembering their dancing lessons at Oden’s Ford.

      After a moment’s hesitation, the drums started up, and the flute. The first part of the dance belonged to Hanalea and the Demon King. Raisa, as Hanalea, danced alone as she dreamed of her wedding. (The clans always conveniently forgot that her intended was a wizard.)

      Han entered the clearing as the Demon King, tiptoeing up behind Hanalea, sneering at the audience as they shouted a warning. He closed his hot hands on Raisa’s shoulders, and she turned, throwing up her hands in mock fright.

      There followed a long pas de deux—the Temptation of Hanalea, in which the Demon King tries to convince the queen to run off with him. Hanalea, her mind