The drums called.

The drums called in a violent crescendo of beats, both as steady as a heart and as undulating as a storm. Furiously summiting, then abruptly stilling; reaching toward a thrum of consistency, a beat, beat, beat, beat of hooves in disciplined chaos, and then a sharp turn into dark pandemonium, dark uncertainty, a rising, cresting, challenging thrum of noise.  

There was an aspect of the Night Court that spoke deeply to her soul; and the drums of her dance were one. The guide-like company of artists Boudika had joined were happy to have her and her feverish, reverent dancing; they were glad to see her war-like passion in each and ever movement, the way the music possessed her, and the drums stole her control and turned her into a creature other, a creature possessed by near-poetic passion.

That night, during her performance, they had spoken to her in a violent way; a way that altered the course of her nimble feet, possessed her trim limbs, and made her fly with the furious violence of her old life. The flicker of firelight remaindered her of nighttime battles upon the cliffs; the capture of Orestes; the betrayal of Vercingetorix; the blood of dead Khashran splattered on her face; the feel of metal catching on flesh, bone. These things frightened her but, possessed in the dance, flying with the frantic urgency of the drums, she could not escape them.

Beat beat beat and—a spar between her and Vercingetorix, the deep pitch of his laugh when she bested him, the clean pine-stone scent of his skin, the clatter of a wooden sword—

BeatBEATbeat!—Orestes in his water cave, half-horse, half-monster. Rearing. Eyes bright and terrified and enraged—

Beat—beat—beat—Vercingetorix staring, handsome and suddenly steely, saying nothing, then telling her to leave, knowing her for her, for Boudika, for Boudika—

Beat--beat—beat—beat—beat—the falling of the mast, the crash of waves, going under the water—

The dance ended in a bow, and a study tap—tap—tap of a quiet, hollow drum. She sweated, eyes cast toward the floor, waiting for the curtain to close and the darkness to envelop her. There was a crowd; and they jeered, clapping hooves upon paving stones, impressed, their comments floating to her in disembodied sentences. It was excellent. She was excellent.

Boudika left her heart, her suffering, laid out on stage. But it warranted only claps; only the clamour and appreciation of talent, of flash movements, the flutter of her cloth and the effect of the firelight and heady drumming. Such was this new life, of hers, and she felt disorientated as she rose and bowed again, this time for the end of her performance and to recognise the cheering crowd. Then the curtain closed, and she was in the dark.

She left the borrowed garments of the guild at the performance center, and, upon the earlier recommendation of one of her fellow dancers, headed toward the lake to see the Castle of Ice and Colour. Its as a reckless leaving; a leaving that possessed her abruptly, impulsively. She needed to escape the sound of drums and crowds which, in a context completely unrelated, continued to bring to mind the disciplined rows of marching soldiers, the crash of an army against a tribe, the blood in the water—

Boudika’s thoughts were stilled by the silhouette of the castle; vibrant in the moonlight, both dark and bright all at once. It glistened, mirage-like, and the image dispelled her thoughts of war. The effect was the same as looking upon a placid pool, and the mare stood dumbstruck, possessed suddenly by the sheer beauty of it. It was a work of art, and the ephemerality of it made it all the more beautiful—and in a way, delicately tragic. She approached heavily, her breath fogging the winter air, uncertain of how to approach the place.

Her father would have hated it, she know. Vercingetorix would have loved it in his own strange, quiet way. And Orestes—what would have Orestes thought, from his prison bars, of such a sight? The stillness of the place quieted her heart, her mind, her emotions, and Boudika continued to approach, her hooves breaking the crusted snow to dispel the midnight silence. 

AND NEVER WOULD AGAIN AND NOW I WRITE ANOTHER LETTER THAT I WILL NEVER DARE TO SEND, COLLECTING MEMORIES OF LOSS, LIKE CHAINS WRAPPED AROUND MY VEINS, AND IF YOU SEE A FIRE FROM THE SHORE TONIGHT, IT’S MY CHAINS GOING UP IN FLAMES. I WAS YOUNGER THEN AND EASILY FOOLED AND THE OCEAN WAS DEEP AND DARK AND BLUE AND I LET THE WATER FREEZE MY BONES. I WADED UNTIL I COULD NO LONGER WALK AND IT WAS TOO COLD TO SWIM BUT STILL I KEPT ON WALKING AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA FOR I COULD NOT TELL THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE OCEAN AND THE LACK OF SOMEONE I LOVED

The serenity Boudika experienced, still and breathless before the beauty of the ice castle, was as ephemeral as the work itself. For just a moment, brief and nearly imperceivable, her mind and heart were utterly still: even the voices and images of the past were held at bay, the void opened by a chasm of her own imagination. Boudika did not know what Orestes would have thought, and so the idea fell away easily and remained unpursued. Nevertheless, this peace of mind rarely lasted for Boudika.

She was not surprised to hear another’s voice. Something magnificent indeed. The mare turned to assess the newcomer; she was a dark, painted mare with heterochromic eyes and a look of the wild and untamed. Boudika thought, perhaps, she looked familiar; in the same sense that many of Denoctian’s people did, despite Boudika knowing very few by name. Perhaps she had seen the other in the marketplace. Or not at all.

If nothing else, Boudika admired her audacity. The warlander simply rolled her shoulders in a shrug. “Neither can most of us, for more than a decade or so. We’re transient, too… Most of us just less beautiful, and less magnificent.” For a moment, Boudika continued to appraise Morrighan, with the way that Boudika had: clear, unhidden eyes. The colour of them was nearly volatile in the lantern-light, and against a backdrop so pristine—the stark contrast of blood-red against white, of crimson and virgin snow.

“I’m going to explore it, if you would like to join.” The offer was delivered in a neutral tone: neither inviting, nor cold. Thus far, the entire encounter reminded Boudika strangely of the sea: although it was pristinely beautiful, in a way reserved for the grandiose manifestations of life. Transient. The difference here was there was no subdued violence, no promise of destruction in the form of wave or storm. Boudika cast her gaze toward the castle; and once more at her potential companion. “I’m Boudika, by the way. I’m a dancer in Denocte.” Something about the other woman’s demeanour reminded her distinctly of a warrior and, once again, that idea sat oddly with her.

After all, she had risked her life and freedom for a privilege that women in Novus were allotted without reservation. It was a gamble Boudika had ultimately lost and to be reminded of the differences between Novus and her homeland, so starkly, always felt borderline insulting through no fault of anyone in particular. The copper-and-black mare began to pick her way through the ice toward the lighted entrance of the castle, feeling once more overwhelmed by the newness of the land.

BUT THERE ON THE SHINING METAL HIS HANDS HAD PUT INSTEAD, AN ARTIFICIAL WILDERNESS, AND A SKY LIKE LEAD. A PLAIN WITHOUT A FEATURE, NO BLADE OF GRASS, NO SIGN OF NEIGHBOURHOOD NOTHING TO EAT AND NOWHERE TO SIT DOWN; YET CONGREGATED ON THAT BLANKNESS STOOD AN UNINTELLIGIBLE MULTITUDE, A MILLION EYES, A MILLION BOOTS, IN LINE, WITHOUT EXPRESSION, WAITING FOR A SIGN.