The Crimson Crown. Cinda Williams Chima

toward her.

      “What do you think you’re doing?” Raisa demanded. “Do you have a death wish?”

      “Probably,” Han whispered, his warm breath in her ear. “But this is the only part I’m allowed to play.” And then, loudly, “Come away to my fine palace, where I will seduce you with enchantment.”

      And so they circled the clearing in a sensuous dance, their bodies twining together as the Demon King bent her to his will.

      Han’s hands closed around Raisa’s waist, nearly meeting on either side, and he lifted her, turning, her skirts belling out, the campfire and assembled clanfolk reduced to a smear of color and muddled sound. His face was inches from hers, sweat beading on his upper lip, a faint reddish stubble on his cheeks and chin.

      He’d been drinking—she could smell high country wine on his breath; his cheeks were flushed and his eyes overbright.

      Still, he seemed to know the steps very well. He knew the script, too.

      “I will carry you off to my enchanted bed, where I will have my way with you,” Han cried, his breath coming fast, blue eyes glittering. “I will build you a palace in the air—so bright the sun will refuse to rise.”

      Raisa as Hanalea drooped back against him, temporarily overcome by his wizard charms. His arms tightened around her, and she could feel his hard outline through the fabric and leather between them. His lips brushed her neck—once, twice, three times, kindling little fires each time.

      That was NOT in the script. Around them, the Demonai shifted and muttered.

      “Han!” Raisa hissed, struggling to free herself; but his grip was like iron. “Be careful. The Demonai—”

      “I’m not afraid of the Demonai,” Han growled so only she could hear. “I’m tired of sneaking around like an abbot on the strum.” Han looked over at Nightwalker and smiled. The warrior stood, arms folded, as if he were looking forward to killing the Demon King.

      “I thought you didn’t want anyone to think there was anything between us,” Raisa persisted.

      “Don’t worry. Nightwalker thinks I’m doing this to yank his sensitive Demonai tail.”

      “Don’t you think there’s trouble enough between the two of you as it is? Do you really have to—”

      “I don’t really care what Nightwalker thinks,” Han muttered. “So I’d hardly do this to annoy him.”

      “Then why would you—?”

      “Maybe I just like kissing you,” Han said into her ear.

      The drums started up again, urgently, as if to break their forbidden embrace. Han turned Raisa to face him, and the dance continued, their bodies pressed tightly together, making it difficult for Raisa to remember her part.

      When the drums stopped, Han took hold of her elbows, pushing her out to arm’s length. “Sweet Queen,” he said in a strange, thick voice. He reached up, tucked her hair behind her ears, cupped her face with his hands. “Raisa. I love you. Marry me. Please. I promise I will find a way to make you happy.” He was off script, but there was no trace of humor in his expression.

      Raisa stared at him, speechless.

      “Your line,” he said, dropping his hands to her bare shoulders.

      Raisa opened her mouth, closed it, distracted by the tingle and burn of his touch.

      “No,” Han prompted, stage-whispering in Clan. “You don’t fool me. You are the wicked Demon King in disguise.”

      Mechanically, Raisa launched into the Dance of Refusal. Han pursued her around the clearing, sometimes getting ahead of her and driving her back, intercepting her when she tried to flee into the trees.

      Finally, convinced that Hanalea wouldn’t give in to persuasion, Han snarled in frustration and dragged Raisa off to the Demon King’s dungeon under Gray Lady Mountain. He circled around the captive queen, winding long ribbons around her, representing the legendary chains that bound her. The audience howled in dismay.

      Once Hanalea was properly bound, Han, as the Demon King, walked around her again, striking her with the feathery rattles that represented bolts of flame. Raisa knelt, head thrown back, eyes closed, still resisting. Feathers brushed her chin, the back of her neck, along the backs of her knees, and behind her ears, raising gooseflesh and setting her heart to hammering.

      Exhausted after a long session of torture, the Demon King lay down to sleep, pillowing his head on his arms. Raisa rose, dramatically stripping off her ribbon chains and dropping them to the ground. Hushing the audience with a finger to her lips, she went and stood over the sleeping Demon King. As she looked down at Han, he opened his blue eyes and gazed up at her in mute appeal. She wanted nothing more than to kneel beside him and press her lips to his.

      Instead, seizing the ceremonial Sword of Hanalea, Raisa lifted it high in front of her, then plunged it into the Demon King’s breast. Han took hold of the blade with both hands, holding it in place, staring up at Raisa with no trace of humor.

      “Your Majesty,” he stage-whispered. “You have pierced my heart.”

      There followed a lengthy dance in which the wounded Demon King chased Hanalea around the circle. Finally, he dropped to his knees, shook his fist, and promised to destroy the world.

      Han fell forward on his face and lay still.

      The other dancers circled around Raisa, beating drums and waving rippling strips of brilliant cloth to represent the earthquakes and flaming eruptions that were the Breaking. Now Nightwalker came into the firelight, emissary of the clans. He and Hanalea entered into an elaborate dance, circling the clearing while the Demon King lay dead on the ground, forgotten.

      Together, Nightwalker as the Demonai Warrior and Hanalea swept away the cloth flames and chased off the drummers. A cheer went up from the audience as they embraced. The dance was finally over, Hanalea’s victory complete.

      Han rolled to his feet and walked out of the clearing without a word, melting into the darkness.

      Afterward, Nightwalker walked Raisa back toward the Matriarch Lodge. Light and voices spilled from the entrance. Willo was hosting guests from other camps, along with Han and Dancer.

      A short distance from the lodge, Nightwalker drew Raisa onto a side path. “Please. Let’s not go back right away,” he said. “Come sit by the river with me.”

      “All right,” Raisa said, instantly wary. “But only for a little while. It’s been a long day.”

      As they navigated the rocky, narrow path toward the river, Raisa thought she heard a faint sound behind her, like a footfall. Wolves again? She turned around but saw nothing.

      Nightwalker heard it too. He stood frowning, listening. All Raisa could hear was the sigh of the wind through the treetops.

      “Probably a straggler from the dance,” he said, and ushered her forward.

      They sat down on a flat rock next to the water. The Dyrnnewater laughed over stones, a dark ribbon flecked with bits of foam.

      Nightwalker slid an arm around Raisa, pulling her close. “Briar Rose,” he whispered. “You are a fine dancer.”

      “And you, also,” Raisa said, still distracted by the last dance and worrying about its meaning. Wondering where Han had fled to.

      “You are a beautiful Hanalea,” Nightwalker said. “You put the original to shame.”

      “Hmm,” Raisa said, trying to focus on the conversation. “Not many people would agree with you.”

      “Then they are wrong. You are stronger. More … arousing. Who would choose a pale flatlander over a clan princess?” Turning her to face him, he drew her in for a kiss.

      “Nightwalker!” Raisa pushed him back with a two-handed shove. “No.”