They came from the far and near ends of the arena. Humans and na’shek, and two other types. One designated by cloaked hoods — the taroks — and the other by helmets with rhino horns, clearly intended to represent the borogs.

  Their movements were hurried, but frantic. Desperate. Some fell, were mourned over, and abandoned, while others rushed haphazardly to come together in the center, where one, lone human danced on a hill.

  Once the ragtag refugees reached that hill, the lone human stopped dancing.

  Silence reigned.

  That lone human — clearly representing Dereth Sehk — held up his hands, as Herewyn had done. The refugees looked confused for a moment then, tentative, repeated the gesture.

  He brought his hands down, crossed at the wrist. They did the same.

  And then, he began to dance a slow, simple dance.

  Initially, he danced in silence. Then drums joined in. Haltingly at first, but falling into line.

  The refugees all looked at each other. Fell into groupings by race. Started shoving one another. Squabbling among themselves.

  The cadence of the drums broke. Clashed as the refugees clashed.

  Dereth Sehk halted his dance. Walked down among the refugees. Separated those who looked close to battle. Patted shoulders. Offered smiles. Indicated through gestures that the would-be combatants should shake hands.

  They refused. Turned away.

  Dereth Sehk danced around them while a single, rapid violin accompanied him. Such swift, but precise movements, that even the other dancers seemed captivated.

  He threaded through all four groups as he danced. And his dance conveyed both urgency and unity. And as he danced, he brought the hands of enemies together, and they found themselves shaking hands even before they seemed to realize it.

  Then just as suddenly, Dereth Sehk stood on the hill again. Raised his hands in that gesture, and this time all the humans and na’shek, taroks and borogs all raised their hands in unison — as did everyone in the audience, including Aefric, Herewyn, and everyone in the baronial box — bringing them down to cross at the wrist when Dereth Sehk did.

  Then the musicians struck up a slow song in a triple beat. Dereth Sehk began to dance on the hill, and down below him, all the four groups began to dance as well. And as they did, they slowly mixed together until the four separate groups became one great unit.

  Then the rhythm changed to a four-beat again, speeding up, and taking the dancers with it.

  Suddenly the drums boomed out a call to arms. The people scattered, taking up new positions. But still one great unit, no longer four scattered peoples.

  The music shifted to a military cadence. They danced at first as though marching. But then the music grew wild, and the dancing frenzied. Both now mimicking a battle against invisible foes.

  Dancers slowly began to drop, until only a handful remained from each of the four groups.

  Up on the hill, Dereth Sehk pushed his dancing then. Everyone looked exhausted, but he danced as though trying to fight off the armies of Emperor Orsk all on his own.

  The few still remaining from the armies of humans, na’shek, taroks and borogs — conveying exhaustion with every movement — pulled together once more.

  They danced with Dereth Sehk one more time as the music built and built and built until a dancer spoke for the first time.

  “They break and flee!” Dereth Sehk cried out, and the whole of the audience broke into thunderous applause.

  The dancers and musicians held their dance while the applause died out.

  Then the music stopped.

  The survivors sagged where they stood. Looked at one another, and then at their many fallen comrades.

  The survivors held each other, regardless of race. Mourned together. And then, as a unit led by Dereth Sehk, trudged up the hill to settle down.

  Together.

  Silence.

  The crowd roared so loud it must’ve been heard all the way to Water’s End. And Aefric cheered and shouted along with them, celebrating a performance beyond any he’d ever seen before, in this world or any other.

  Following the dancing, and through the performances to follow, light foods were brought to Aefric and the others, easily enjoyed while watching the entertainment. Spears of roasted meats and vegetables. Puffs of sugared pastries filled with cream. And to drink, a light, pale sharabi with a minty undertaste that seemed to suit both the savory and the sweet.

  Following the dancers were the singers. Some of their songs were said to have written in the days before the great battle itself, or the days just after.

  But they all paled beside the sheer power of that dance.

  It wasn’t the fault of the skalds or other singers. They sang beautifully, their powerful voices full of emotion. And it wasn’t the fault of the songs. They were certainly written well enough.

  But there had been something transcendent about the dancers. The sheer commitment of every one of them. Even those who represented the fallen multitudes left behind by the people fleeing Orsk’s forces.

  They told their story with a purity and conviction that simply moved Aefric beyond anything else he saw that day. In fact, Aefric found himself pitying the singers and skalds that followed. They should have been scheduled to perform before the dancers, for no one should have been expected to follow such a magnificent performance.

  After the singers was the main event of the day. A recreation of the battle itself. An admirable simulation of a great conflict, done in miniature. Complete with charges and retreats, desperate gambits, inventive tactics and individual heroics.

  The battle took most of the afternoon, and yet it never dragged. Whoever choreographed it had paced it beautifully. All around the coliseum, voices rose and fell in time with every momentary edge or temporary falter. The crowd lamented every fallen hero, and cheered every fallen foe.

  Even up in the baronial box, Deirdre and Beornric stayed on the edges of their seats through the whole of the battle. Quietly discussing this tactic and that one, what they agreed with and what they didn’t. And most of all, what each of them would have done, had they held command.

  So Aefric knew that the battle recreation had been brilliant. A masterwork worthy of commanding a whole afternoon’s entertainment within such an arena, on such a day.

  And yet, throughout it all, Aefric found his thoughts going back to the dancers. Their tunes. Their steps. Their expressions. And most of all, the way they seemed to convey so much, with so little.

  It was their performance that Aefric would most remember, after his first trip to the Feast of Dereth Sehk.

  The mock battle timed its climax with the sunset, so that a sparker somewhere near the baronial box — Aefric sensed the spellwork — could tint the late sunlight to bathe the battlefield red, as though with blood.

  The only magic they’d used all day, and it created a stirring effect, rippling awe through the crowd.

  A scant few actors still stood on the torn-up remains of the battlefield. Dereth Sehk, of course, but only about a score of others. Four or five each from the humans, na’shek, taroks and borogs who had been fighting alongside him.

  If the mock battle was even a close approximation of how the actual battle had gone, only perhaps a tenth of Dereth Sehk’s armies remained by the time they drove off the last of the derekek.

  All the same, the actors roared out their victory, and up in the stands the crowds cheered them as though they’d won an actual battle.

  Aefric thought about that through the applause, which continued for quite some time.

  Perhaps the mock battle had been too good? Too close to real for him? Was that why he preferred the dancing?

  After all, Aefric had seen more than his share of battles during the Godswalk Wars. Perhaps he had seen too much of the real thing to appreciate a facsimile. Whereas the dancers had focused on the emotions of their efforts, rather than on weapon work, and tactics.

  Something for him to think about, during the ride back to Water’s End.

  But that ride would not come for two days yet. And right now the applause was finally dying down, and Herewyn was standing once more. Hands raised in the manner of Dereth Sehk.

  Slowly, the pose spread through the crowd, until enough had followed suit that all were giving her their attention.

  She lowered her hands and crossed them.

  “The battle is over!” Herewyn called out to the crowd. “The day is won. And now we feast and drink and dance in the name of Dereth Sehk!”

  “In the name of Dereth Sehk!” the crowd half-chanted half-yelled back, and then gave one more wild cheer before they began filing out toward the exits.

  Herewyn turned back to Aefric, smiling.

  “Your grace,” she said. “As the ranking noble present in Asarchai today, tradition presents your grace a choice. He is welcome to go out among the common folk and celebrate, as some say Dereth Sehk did following the battle. Or he is welcome to come celebrate with the nobles, for others say Dereth Sehk celebrated with his officers, who all came from the nobility.”

  “Sources vary,” Sighild said, suppressing a giggle.

  “They do,” Herewyn said. “However, if scholarship matters in this, there is more evidence that Dereth Sehk’s priority following his great victory was working with the leaders of his remaining forces. And thus, the nobles.”

  “And yet,” Ferrin said, “there is convincing evidence that he went first among the people, where he was said to feel most at home, and celebrated with them before returning to the nobles the following day.”

  “As has been established,” Herewyn said, “sources vary. Which is the reason that tradition offers your grace a choice.”

  Herewyn cocked an eyebrow at Aefric. “Then again, given what I have seen of your grace, I suppose he might do one, and then the other.”

  “If your grace does wish to do both,” Ferrin said, frowning, as though he might actually be concerned, “I would personally suggest your grace go first among the common folk. Before their celebrations risk … becoming excessive, and they lose sight of the importance of your grace’s person.”

  “If I may, your grace,” Beornric said.

  Aefric suppressed a sigh, but nodded for his knight-adviser to go ahead.

  “There have already been two attempts on your grace’s life—”

  “What?” Herewyn snapped, apparently only just learning this.

  “His knights say they weren’t serious,” Sighild said. “But after the attacks on their majesties—”

  “It’s all right, Sighild,” Aefric said. “Herewyn. It’s not as bad as it sounds.” He turned to Deirdre. “If you would.”

  “Of course, your grace,” Deirdre said, and waited until she had everyone’s attention to continue. “They were not assassins. Just drunken louts. Jealous that among his grace’s considerable gifts are the affections of noble beauties such as yourselves.”

  Sighild blushed a pretty shade of pink.

  “I assure you,” Deirdre continued. “Rendering them both unconscious was the work of no more than a moment. And they rest now in her lordship’s cells, no threat to anyone. Except themselves, of course.”

  “That is all true,” Beornric said. “And yet it occurs to me that, were I an assassin, I would enflame the jealousies of just such drunken louts, that they might give me a look at his grace’s defenses.”

  “Let them look,” Deirdre said, smiling. “It won’t help.”

  “So you think the threat remains,” Sighild said, to Beornric.

  “The threat is always there,” Ferrin said. “For each of us.”

  That wasn’t what Beornric meant, and Aefric knew it.

  “You think there is an assassin in town?” he asked.

  “I think we would be fools to assume there isn’t one,” Beornric said. “Especially after Kefthal’s strange appearance. Therefore, it is my formal request, as your knight-adviser and the captain of your personal guard, that your grace restrict his celebrations to her lordship’s feast tonight, where we’ll have an easier time ensuring your grace’s safety.”

  “You know I’m not fond of hiding,” Aefric said.

  “Hiding from what, your grace?” Beornric asked. “No formal threat has been issued. Your grace has a choice of parties, and I am requesting that he choose the safer option.”

  Aefric could practically hear Beornric adding, “The noble’s choice, rather than the adventurer’s choice.” Aefric sighed at that subtext, but he did feel grateful that Beornric didn’t say the words aloud. Not here in front of so many others.

  “Please, your grace,” Herewyn said. “The common folk saw a great deal of their duke yesterday afternoon. But last night, we were all so involved in the traditional dances that your grace had little time for socializing among the nobility.”

  Sighild gave him a big-eyed look and opened her mouth to add what would doubtlessly be her own request that he forgo celebrating with the common folk.

  “All right,” Aefric said, getting the words out before Sighild — or anyone else, for that matter — could beat him to it. He wasn’t sure he’d intended to go out into town anyway. He turned to Herewyn. “I would be most delighted to celebrate with your lordship and the nobility at your keep this evening.”

  “Thank you, your grace,” she said with a smile and a small bow. “There is, of course, time for us all to freshen up beforehand. As well as change out of our armor, and dress for a celebration.”

  “Thank the gods,” Ferrin muttered.

  He must’ve said that louder than he intended. Because while the nobles all chuckled in response, he gave a chagrined smile.

  “Full plate holds the hot sun better than I remembered,” Ferrin said.

  “Then by all means,” Herewyn said, “let’s get out of the dregs of that sunlight and into more forgiving clothing.”

  With that — and Aefric’s group leading the way — they made their way out of the coliseum.

  Aefric took full advantage of Herewyn’s promise of time to freshen up. He lingered in his bath, and really enjoyed the enchantments that Burrew had lain on that smooth, granite tub.

  Soaking in hot water scented with fennel. A pure delight.

  Aefric hadn’t sweated as much as those in heavier armor that day, but the day had still been long and involving.

  Especially the dancing, which Aefric found himself thinking about again as he bathed. He would have to try to convey the sheer brilliance of it in his next letters to Byrhta and Maev, but he knew he’d fall short.

  He might have to settle for conveying his reaction, and hoping that made up the difference.

  After the bath, he considered his outfit. He was to dress for a celebration, but Herewyn hadn’t been clear how formal a celebration.

  Informal, he decided. After all, this was the Day of Battle. Chances were that the party the survivors threw back then hadn’t been heavy on formality.

  Of course, the nobles had celebrated separately from the common folk…

  Assuming that was true, and not … historical license.

  Yes. Informal. So he wouldn’t wear the Deepwater colors, but something a little flashier.

  And, of course, Dajen had packed him options.

  Aefric settled on a sky blue tunic over cream-colored hose, with a cloth-of-gold sash belt suspending his noble’s dagger, belt pouch and the wand Garram, and soft shoes of gold-leafed pale leather.

  The tunic was a little fancier that his usual. This one had pearl buttons, and interesting designs embroidered at the cuffs and collar.

  He wore his sandy blonde hair down, free past his shoulders. Deciding that jewelry was probably expected, he adorned himself with the emerald ring Queen Eppida had given him, along with a gold chain suspending a large sapphire that had been cut to the shape of Lake Deepwater.

  The Brightstaff, of course, completed the outfit.

  For a change, when Aefric emerged into his sitting room, only a handful of knights awaited him.

  Ser Beornric, of course, wearing a rust-brown doublet over a tunic the color of parchment, and dark brown hose. As a knight, he still wore his longsword at his side, but to Aefric’s surprise the older knight actually wore a little jewelry. A golden oak tree, pinned to his doublet.

  The other two knights were Leppina and Temat, both of whom still wore their full plate. Clearly, they’d drawn guard duty tonight.

  “Anything I need to know before we head down?” Aefric asked.

  “If so,” Beornric said, “they’ve neglected to tell me.”

  “Probably not, then,” Aefric said, chuckling. He pointed out the golden oak tree. “A gift from his majesty?”

  The royal sigil was a golden oak tree on a field of forest green.

  “Yes, your grace,” Beornric said, puffing out his chest just a little. “In commemoration of my years of service to the crown, before he allowed me to enter into your grace’s service.”

  “And I’m lucky he did,” Aefric said, clapping his knight-adviser on the shoulder. “Shall we?”

  Kian and Bess were waiting again in the hall, and escorted Aefric and his knights down those smooth, granite stairs into the great hall, which was set for a feast.

  And quite a feast. It looked as though every ler and knight in Norra — and more than a few from the surrounding baronies and counties — were in attendance. Enough people to fill more than a dozen tables, and that didn’t include the baroness’ table up on the dais, at the far end of the hall, where seating for eight awaited.

  And everyone in the hall seemed to be dressed for celebration, wearing bright colors and flashing a great deal of jewelry. Even the knights, who were most easily spotted by the weapons dangling from their belts.

  As Aefric entered the room, he was announced by a herald. Everyone who had been sitting, stood.

  This, in and of itself, was nothing new to Aefric. And yet, seeing so very many people all stop their easy conversation and laughter to stand for him still sent a little chill up his spine.

  How much worse must it be for the king? Whose court was likely this size every night?

  As Aefric was led through the tables by Kian and Bess, with Beornric at his side and Leppina and Temat following, the crowd of knights and nobles bowed as Aefric passed.