Free Resenting the Hero by Moira J. Moore Page A

attention to what was going on around us. Some regulars danced just for fun. There were amateur competitions for those who took it a bit more seriously. Then there were the professional bench dancers who traveled from city to city, collecting purses. And where you have professional sports you must also have gambling, with stakes rising to ludicrous heights. Dancers could get rich, some honestly, some by taking dives. Shields couldn’t make money from bench dancing, though. We were supposed to donate any winnings to charities.
    The list of competitors was called out. I nodded to my first opponent, a young girl who was an idiot to be dancing at all. She had the look of someone in the middle of a growth spurt, gaining inches every day and having to relearn her own proportions every time she walked through a room. She should have waited until she finished growing before dancing again, especially in a competition.
    I allowed myself a few more stretches, then dipped my feet in a nearby chalk pan. I stepped up onto my assigned benches, rubbing my soles into them. I watched the girl climb up at the other end of the benches and settle into a half crouch. She stared at me intently.
    Don’t look at me, girl. This isn’t a sparring match. How I move isn’t going to affect how you move.
    There was a warning roll from the drums. I felt the pounding in my stomach, and my whole body shivered. I shook it off. Bent knees, hands loose at my sides. Silence descended on the circle.
    One moment, all was still. The next, an explosion of sound and movement. I was never sure exactly how or when it started. All of a sudden I was dancing, pulling one foot off the bench and feeling the faintest breeze as the bars crashed together under my sole. That foot went down, the other came up.
    Just as suddenly, it stopped. I looked up in surprise. That had to be one of the shortest dances of my life. The girl had fallen off.
    She started crying.
    I rolled my eyes as a woman I assumed was the girl’s mother ran out to soothe her disappointment, shooting nasty glances at me for defeating her precious daughter.
    I looked over the other dancers. Some had been defeated as quickly as my opponent. I saw the appealing fellow, the one who had offered to keep an eye on me. He had won his dance.
    He noticed me watching him. He winked. I smiled.
    The first round was over. Some bench sets were dragged aside. New chalk for the stalkers, and a new drumroll. The bars would be lifted half an inch higher for this round.
    New opponent. I beat him, too. My third opponent was more of a challenge. All the dancers were in fine form, but he was in particularly hardened shape. He spent a lot of time practicing, I could tell. He was possibly a professional. And he looked like he meant to be troublesome.
    But I beat him, too.
    I’d never danced against regulars before. At first I thought I was defeating them so easily because they were regulars. No doubt they didn’t enjoy the high levels of rigorous training all Shields endured.
    But then I faced Ogawa. She was good and had a height advantage, but she was tired before we even started, and I could feel her thinking about her feet too much. Every step she took, she shifted her balance just a little too far. Shortly after we started, her movements became less fluid, less sure, her breath coming too hard. Her stamina deteriorated rapidly, and I knew she would fall the instant before she did. She hit the sand, unhurt, and I jumped down after her.
    â€œYou’re very good,” she said as I helped her to her feet.
    â€œBecause I beat you?” I teased her.
    â€œAye,” she answered somberly. “And you don’t even feel it.”
    â€œI will tomorrow,” I promised her. “Believe me.”
    She smiled wearily and limped out of the circle. Tenneson gave her a comforting clap on the shoulder and a goblet of wine.
    I suddenly realized my throat was dry. Swallowing was a