The inn, the Happy Hog, was a shithole, like many tiny village inns. The rough wooden floor was covered in dirt, the furniture was creaky or broken, and the tables and bar were pocked with scars. The food, well, the less said the better. With enough people though, sometimes, for a time, a bunch of broken furniture and third-rate food can seem something almost grand. The three farmers at the bar were laughing and joking with each other. A young couple flirted in one corner. In another, a family with two young children was enjoying a rare meal out; well, mostly enjoying – managing the children was a sight. The Happy Hog was . . . happy.

Sar’s story extinguished the atmosphere at the table like sodden cloth over a torch. What does one say after a story like that? Val . . . Val tried. “Sar. I’m sorry you went through that. Thank you for sharing that with us. Keana, would you like to go…”

Keana put a hand on Val’s shoulder and spoke in a deep, rough voice. This Keana bore little resemblance to the smiling, teasing, chattering girl the group was getting to know. Thought they were getting to know. “Shut it Val. My story is my own. None of your damn business. We just flipping met.”

Keana turned to Sar and grasped his hand. “Sar. I don’t know what in the Hells you were thinking, telling that story here. We maybe shouldn’t spend the night. But.” Keana paused and drank deeply. “I understand. These shits probably don’t, but I do. I . . . I have a story too."

“There are only two places in the world to get Blade Dancer. They train for years. No one just unlocks the class. No one. Especially not the daughter of a whore.”

“Funny thing. A whore charges enough, learns to dance, play or sing, they decorate the building pretty, they call her something else, something fancy – Consort, Escort, Madam, Geisha. One thing I’ve learned. Names don’t change who you are. What you are.”

“My mother, she didn’t want me to be part of that life. But that was where she lived. Her only family. So they were mine as well. The women had more money than family of their own; they bought me dresses and toys, taught me to sing or play an instrument. It seemed a happy perfect place – to a child.”

“My mother was a dancer. Dancer wasn’t her class or all she did, but a dancer is what she was. Her heart and soul wove through the air when she moved. She was beautiful of course. They all were. Some could sing like angels, or play music that would carry you away on a dream. But when my mother danced, conversations stopped. The room and the people were hers.”

“She taught all the girls to dance, but she never taught me. She danced with me. I didn’t learn the names of dances or moves. I learned the joy of moving. For a time, a shining moment, maybe I could do what she did, a little. In another world, I would have been a dancer too.”

Keana paused, gripping Sar’s hand with white knuckles, some combination of rage and anguish in her eyes. “But a whore is a whore is a whore. Once you lose sight of what you are, you forget where you are, who and what is around you. They forgot. All of them.”

“There were rules. There were guards. I’m sure there were incidents, but I never saw them. Maybe I wasn’t allowed to see them. Maybe I just didn’t know to look. I remember bits and pieces. Snatches of conversations. I think…I think they were so good at pretending that they explained problems away. General so and so lost his battle. Lord so and so lost his son. Anything, but admit that they were whores, and some men are worse than beasts.”

“On the day…on the day I got my mother killed, I was supposed to be in the basement, playing. I was often allowed in the dressing rooms. One of the whores would watch me. But the War of The Six Sons was finally over. Generals and nobles, drinking, screaming, shouting and wild celebrating. It was never like that, and I didn’t understand it. I wanted to make sure my mother was ok . . . or at least that is what I tell myself.”

Keana suddenly lost her animation and stared at nothing, horror fixed on her features. After a moment, she resumed in a quiet voice; almost a little girl’s voice. “The door wasn’t locked. There was a man on top of my mother. I called for her. That’s all. Nothing else. But the man got up in a frothing rage and backhanded me. Mom was up in an instant. She got between us and raised her hand, like the notion of him not stopping was inconceivable. She started to say something. A command. When she spoke like that, everyone obeyed. But she never finished. The man flung her to the side, into the dresser, and she crumpled like a puppet with cut strings.”

“I was 10. I didn’t know what to do . . . I’m grateful for the cheese. On the table, by the wine, as always. With a knife, as always. I saw the knife, grabbed it.”

Keana’s eyes took on a strange gleam, and she spoke in a sing-song cadence. “I cut him. He was shocked. Drunk. But enormous. He reached for me. Somehow, some way, I found the dance. He couldn’t touch me. I was smoke. I was wind. He should have screamed, but I don’t think he understood. How could he? He cornered me, but I slid through his legs and sliced his thigh. I was too slow to get up; he grabbed me with both hands and yanked me to my feet. But then his eyes got big. He let me go and felt his thigh, brought a bright red hand to his face and collapsed.”

Keana faltered. “My mother was dead. I don’t know what price she paid, but Moralia, the Madam, snuck me out. Sent me to live with relatives, in one of the eastern villages by the sea.”

As Keana shook to a stop, Arn took the hand Sar wasn’t holding; she didn’t seem to notice. When she started to speak again, she seemed far away. “I didn’t take the class. I didn’t dance. I couldn’t. But I did come to love the ocean. Some days, the ocean would bring something beautiful, spiral shells and glass like rainbows. So when I saw the ships, I didn’t understand.” Keana clenched her eyes, fighting tears. “Slavers.” Keana was suddenly back, present in the moment, anger blazing from her eyes. “I took the class.”

After a time, Keana looked up at Sar, tears in her eyes, ragged iron in her voice. “When the time comes, you burn. I’ll cut.”