life's but a walking shadow
The dancers in the clearing are turning faster, faster, and for a moment Indra cannot tear her eyes away from them. The music has changed, she realizes abruptly—the pipes’ cheerful melody has disappeared, perhaps so that the piper might catch his breath. In its place is a cantering drumbeat, rhythmic and wild, beneath which she can hear something low and dark and strumming.
The world seems almost to tilt, to flicker around her, and she is glad to fix her gaze again on the stallion at her side, reassuringly solid and still. “Well enough, so far,” she replies, and then, recognizing that this is not much for a conversation to go on, continues, “I visited once, long ago, when I was very young. Much has changed.” Her smile at that is a slippery thing, perhaps a little sad, perhaps a little cynical, though in the trembling moonlight it would be difficult to say.
He is flustered, then, at her attempt to offer him a tactful exit, and the smile on her mouth turns genuine, a short, startled laugh escaping up her throat. “A drink,” she repeats, brows lifting slightly as if in doubt. But he has no reason to lie to her, a stranger on a strange night, and she decides after a heartbeat’s hesitation that his offer is sincere. Besides—a drink suddenly sounds like exactly what she could use right now.
“Sure,” she says, more lightly, and follows as he leads the way toward the merchants’ stalls. She is strangely glad to leave the dancers behind, with their swift, searching music that pulls so unreasonably at her soul. “I’m Indra,” she says, in return for his own introduction. Almost as an afterthought to their earlier exchange, she adds, “I am staying in Terrastella. Where is it you make your home?”
The shops are a welcome diversion at this achingly late (or is it early?) hour, and Indra’s golden eyes flit with interest over the multitude of wares. There are instruments carved from polished wood; jagged hunks of white and gray and dusty pink crystal, all glinting in the lamplight; bunches and wreathes of flowers perfuming the night air. Indra breathes deeply, filling her lungs with the scent of gardenias, and roses, and freesia. This feels like summer to her, more than the music and incense and the thickly-crowded night.
“What’s your poison?” she asks Eik, as they make their way toward the tavern section of the marketplace. It is a broad, open area, framed on three sides by low hedges, and strings of lights glitter overhead, crowding out the stars. She studies the bar’s offerings herself, and inclines her head to tap her horn lightly against a bottle filled with a shimmering golden liquid, a galaxy inside a glass. “I’ll try this one, I think.”
i n d r a
@
