The Age of Light (The Ava'Lonan Herstories Book 1) by Ako Emanuel Page B

through to the heart of the problem. She made a series of
leaps that took her about the periphery of circle, her left foot leading this
time, the swords framing her like parentheses, the one in her right hand
reversed to follow the curve of her forearm. The veils flowed out about her,
floating, turning her into a flower that danced bell-down, with the deadliest
of leaves.
    Her eyes remained dry in the darkening light. She
moved to the second sword dance without breaking stride.
    She blamed herself, for this could have all been
prevented. She could blame no one but herself. She could have forbade the Heir
to go, could have insisted that she remain with her escort, could have had the
Heir report directly to her. Any of a million things that would have prevented
this. Any of one...
    Why
couldn’t I see this coming? I am High Queen, Keeper of Ava’Lona, all wise and
all powerful. So why couldn’t I keep my daughter safe? Why didn’t I refuse to
let her pursue this mission of hers, that would take her to the far end of my
Realm, and out of my reach? Why?
    She knew why. The rhythm of her dance quickened,
beating out with her body what she could not accept with her mind. The swords
became solid silver streaks, weaving a killing sinusoid as she turned to each
point of the compass, stepping wider and deliberately sliding her weight from
the ball of one foot to the other. Both blades were now reversed, making her
arms into scythes. Sixteen of these steps took her around the circle again. She
pivoted and ran four paces, sprang into a handless cartwheel and ended with a
forward flip and roll that took her to the edge of the roof. There she froze
for two heartbeats.
    She had let the Heir go, because the Heir, though
obedient and dutiful, had been champing at the bit, straining at the yoke,
yearning for a touch of freedom such as others had. Freedom from duty and
responsibility, such as she would have gotten on Journey. But the Heir to the
High Throne did not go on Journey, as such, where she would have complete
freedom and all the joys and pains that went with it. The Heir’s Journey was
dogged by guards, warru acting as
not-so-unobtrusive protectors. For, yes, all royal persons on Journey had
keepers, those that watched over them, but only as a last resort, the fail-safe
if things went beyond their ability to cope with. Not so with the High Heir. No
such chances were taken with the High Heir’s life - unless permission were
given by the High Queen. She would not know the hardy, rough living that
tempered the personality - without permission. The Heir’s Journey was no such
thing, more like a vacation, which was not what the Heir had wanted. And the
Heir could not, would not come right out and ask that the fail-safes of her
Journey be nullified - that defeated the spirit of the whole thing. But if, for
some reason, the Heir were out on a mission of some sort, and something
happened that required that she leave the majority of her escort behind...
    She let herself collapse backward and rolled - once,
twice, and on the second she twisted and came up with a thrust under the
sternum with the right dom’ma . She whipped
around with a savage slash to a nonexistent throat with the left dom’ma ,
followed through with a body cut that would have parted her opponent from
collarbone to opposite hip.
    Audola knew this. And she knew that this ‘mission’
that the Heir had concocted, though it had a legitimate and specific purpose,
was a substitute for Journey, a mild bending of the rules so that the Heir
might glean a taste of what others of lesser rank bandied around frivolously.
This was the Heir’s way of getting her Journey.
    Had Audola not done the same? Had not every Heir to
the High Throne?
    That’s
why I had allowed it. That’s why I agreed to let the Heir part company with her
escort for a few turns. How could I have refused?
    She slashed both swords down in a diagonal parallel,
then a horizontal parallel, once, twice, thrice,