Free The River Wall by Randall Garrett Page A

suddenly beamed. The girl tried the turn and, though she stopped too soon, her movements and body position were an exact imitation of Tarani’s model. Tarani spoke to her, encouraged her to try it again, and Lesara did it perfectly the second time.
    They worked together for several minutes, Tarani performing a movement and then watching Lesara. They were simple steps, designed with a syncopation that blended well with Lesara’s slightly left-favoring gait. Lesara was a quick study, and one thing soon became clear: she had a natural grace almost the equal of Tarani’s. And she
wanted
what was happening, wanted it so tangibly that I felt afraid to breathe, lest it break the spell that bound the two women together.
    Tarani began to repeat the steps in different combinations, and Lesara imitated them exactly. Lesara’s long white robe was slit to above the knee, and did not hamper her in the leaping or kneeling steps. It swirled to good effect in the turns, reminding me of the gown Tarani had worn in her performances.
    Finally, Tarani combined all the steps into a single, fluid dance. When she finished, Lesara took a deep breath and then, her face absolutely shining with joy, Lesara performed the dance.
    Tarani turned to us.
    “Gentlemen,” she said, “if you will please take you seats?”
    Charol and I moved forward to sit on the salt-block bench that Tarani and Lesara had occupied. Tarani turned back to Lesara, whose joy faltered as she became aware of her audience.
    “Together,” Tarani said, and though her voice was not harsh, no refusal of its tone was possible. Lesara snapped back into the almost-trance of obedience, and she and Tarani executed the dance together, matching one another’s movements and timing exactly. Though each step had seemed simple, the combination was complex and impressive. Tarani had choreographed the dance to take advantage of every square inch of available space, without making the “stage” seem crowded or cramped.
    Beside me, I felt the tension in Charol’s body. When the dance ended, I knew he was on the verge of shouting his pleasure and congratulations. I put my hand on his arm to delay his outburst, because I had finally figured out what Tarani was doing.
    Charol looked at me questioningly, but I only nodded toward the “stage.” Tarani took Lesara’s arm and led her back to the starting point of their dance. Both women were breathing heavily; since I knew Tarani’s tolerance, I suspected her fatigue was partly faked for the sake of Lesara’s self-image.
    Tarani faced the girl, and lifted her arms above her.
    Her hands caught fire.
    Charol gasped.
    Lesara took a step backward, with a little cry of surprise.
    Tarani brought her flaming hands down and offered them to Lesara.
    The girl stared at Tarani’s hands, their outlines barely visible within the flames. She looked up at Tarani’s face, and a look of resolution came into her own face.
    Lesara stepped forward, closed her eyes, and placed her hands in Tarani’s. She opened her eyes and stepped back again; four hands now seemed to burn.
    Tarani and Lesara danced again, their burning hands leaving fiery trails in the air as they turned and bent and leaped about the room.
    The dance was faultless.
    The dance was beautiful.
    Lesara was beautiful.
    When they froze in the final pose, a kneeling bow, it was evident that Lesara had reached the end of her endurance. She was panting heavily, but the glow in her face outshone the brightness of her hands. They stood. They faced each other. Their hands touched, and the flames went out. Still holding the girls hands, Tarani leaned down to kiss Lesara’s cheek.
    “Thank you,” she said, “for giving me a reason to dance again.”
    Charol could contain himself no longer. He jumped up from the bench and rushed over to them. Heedless now of what he perceived to be Tarani’s “rank,” he put his arms around both women and hugged them fiercely, so overcome that his voice was raspy and