The morning of our final test, tension hung over our sleeping quarters like the jaws of a forest hound about to snap down on our necks. I rolled my shoulders against the taut fear. Around me, the other women managed their nerves in varying ways. Some fell quiet, others chattered. A few reviewed patterns, using their fingers to walk through movements on their palms. Others coaxed an inch more flexibility from their spine or legs.

For me, the past few days had been a blur of training, teaching, and burying my questions and doubts. I was exhausted, but today I needed to grasp determination with both hands.

Starfire tucked and tied her hood scarf three times before being satisfied. “Have you ever thought about being an attendant instead of a dancer?” she asked. “I would be great helping in the laundry.”

I laughed. “You don’t get to choose your assignment. Remember how much you loathed kitchen duty when we were in our form nine year?”

“Scrubbing pots is better than this pressure.” She grabbed my arms, panic widening her eyes. “What if I do so badly that I’m cast out?”

I hugged her. “You won’t. Trust your training.” I hoped the words reassured her more than they did me. Each breath I took fluttered in my chest, leaving me shakier than the last.

A prefect tapped at our open door. “It’s time.”

A bubble of panic caught in my throat. My stomach twisted into a hard knot. I shook out my arms and legs and rolled my head side to side. Nothing could shake loose the foreboding that gripped me.

We filed downstairs and entered the practice hall. Ranks of novitiates sat along one side of the room, creating a rainbow of tunics. They would watch with a sharpened intensity all day, dreaming of their turn before the Order, when their destiny would be fulfilled or crushed.

The saltars sat on benches at the front in their most formal robes, wide cuffs with intricate embroidery hiding their hands, tiny silver stitches adorning their hems and collars. Although they held their expressions still and severe as befitted their role as our judges, their postures held none of the tension of the students. They almost looked smug and eager to destroy our dreams. I quickly banished that disrespectful thought.

Saltar River stood, displaying her impressive height. “A momentous day. You have all prepared diligently. If you fail, the saltars will determine your future fate. Some may be allowed to remain as attendants or work in Middlemost to support the Order. Those deemed the most flawed will be cast out.” She allowed a gleam to light her eyes. “The novitiates who pass their final test will be invited into the Order. But only on a trial basis. No dancer can truly be judged until she dances in the center ground. I hope this news will only fuel your desire for excellence.”

I stared straight ahead, jaw tight. So even if I was accepted, I couldn’t be secure in my place as a dancer? I’d heard that after her injury, Dawn Blue had been sent to work for a tanner down in Middlemost—a loathsome job. Would that be my fate as well?

Keep breathing. No distractions.

“Let us begin with star rain pattern.” The saltar nodded to the drummer in the corner. The deep, throbbing beats were so much stronger than the clacking sticks used in practice. I embraced the sound, summoning courage.

As a group, we performed each pattern requested, striving to dance with more power and skill than ever before. The first hour steadied me. Familiar work and physical exertion quieted some of my nervous energy. My joints softened and my muscles grew more supple.

But as time passed, the patterns became more challenging. The gale pattern had never been a favorite of mine. The dance included a series of jumps in place, landing with our feet tight together, then adding a spin in the air with the fourth jump. By the time we finished all the repetitions, we were panting. That made the delicate alcea movements that followed even more difficult. I fought to glide smoothly into a sustained pose, leg extended behind me, without letting my chest heave for breath.

During the next two hours, my body tired, but the greater challenge was to keep my mind alert. A slip in concentration could cause a disastrous mistake. Under the gimlet eyes of the saltars, there was no place to hide. The saltars took turns walking among us as we danced. During the summer cloud pattern, I noticed Saltar Kemp touch Tangleroot Blue’s arm and whisper in her ear. The novitiate silently left the room, spine curved in defeat.

Don’t lose focus.

If I worried about the fate of others, I’d be throwing away my own destiny. I completed my turn and knelt, holding the final pose, arching back, heart lifted toward the ceiling. My muscles burned and my heart pounded. I had invested every ounce of strength. Whether I had succeeded was now the saltars’ decision.

When the group portion of the test finished, the High Saltar ordered us to wait in the hall. I immediately claimed a spot on the floor, lying on my back and letting my spine lengthen as my muscles released their tension. Then I hugged my knees to my chest, feeling the sweet ache as I stretched more deeply. One by one, novitiates were called in for individual testing.

When Starfire Blue was called, I watched the door until she returned. She came and settled beside me, pale and shaken.

“Well?” I whispered.

She wiped moisture from her forehead. “Calara, do you think anyone at this point has said, ‘No, thank you,’ and walked away?”

I forced a small chuckle. “Those are your nerves talking. Think of all the women who would love to be in your place.” Still, the image took root. Would a woman ever be offered a place in the Order and turn it down? Where could she go?

“Calara Blue.” The prefect’s voice snapped me to my feet, and I smoothed my tunic. As I walked to the door, one of the other women stretching on the floor thrust her leg in front of me.

I stumbled over her, my ankle twisting as my weight came down hard. Pain speared me. I whirled to see who had tripped me.

“Sorry.” Furrow Blue shrugged. “Didn’t see you.”

Furrow had never been a close friend, but I hadn’t expected deliberate sabotage. “You—”

“Calara Blue.” The prefect gave his final call.

There was no time to confront Furrow. I rolled my foot a few times, then put a little weight on it. Only a sprain. I limped to the door, then forced myself not to favor the leg as I entered.

Novitiates learned the patterns in ranks of dozens, carefully matched for size. Now I stood alone in the large hall, exposed and vulnerable.

High Saltar Tiarel nodded to the drummer, who began a pattern. For a few counts I couldn’t identify it. Panic flared upward from my throbbing ankle. Four more counts and I was supposed to move, but in which direction?

The rhythm grew clearer. I hid a smile. Calara pattern. Of course. The strong and supple reed that was my namesake.

I threw myself into the movements, gliding forward and back, sweeping my arms overhead. Each step jarred my ankle, but I ignored everything except the perfection of the dance. Still, I was relieved no jumps were included in this pattern. If they had been, my ankle would have collapsed. As it was, the last section of spins that circled the room jammed sharp knives into my foot each time I pushed into another turn. Sweat mingled with a few escaping tears and rolled down my face, but somehow I completed the steps.

Yearning surged through my muscles as I held the final pose, stretching at an angle toward the vaulted ceiling. Would I be found worthy?

Inches from my calling, a strange impulse intruded.

Run!

Memories flickered across my vision. Alcea limping away, Nolana huddled in the dark storeroom, Brantley’s accusations, Saltar River’s cruelty. Then I saw a woven hut built on undulating land, a woman’s face, careworn and tear-streaked—hands reaching toward me.

My heart cried a desperate plea. You don’t belong here.

I forced every thought into stillness. These doubts were another test, and I hadn’t worked so hard only to fail now. I leaned a bit more weight on my sore ankle and let the pain distract and steady me.

Still, I worried that my thoughts had broadcast my doubts. Had my eyes flickered with those memories? Had the frowning panel members noticed? I commanded my face to mask every thought, every fear.

With the last beat resonating off the walls, I bowed my head, completing the pattern. Then I walked to the center of the room and faced the panel of saltars.

They fired questions at me, designed to test my knowledge but also to assure my loyalty and dedication. History came easily, since teaching the first form all week provided a review. Botany had always been a favorite, so I had no problem naming various plants and explaining the design of the patterns that carried their names. Constellations weren’t difficult since Starfire and I often slipped out to the courtyard after the subsun disappeared and watched the sparkling patterns emerge overhead. I answered each question with swift confidence.

High Saltar Tiarel leaned forward, her lips a tight line and her thin eyebrows arching. “Why are the dancers the most important people on our world?”

“Without their work, our world would float aimlessly. The dancers are vital to the survival of everyone.” And oh, how I longed to join their work. . . to be important.

The High Saltar met my wide-eyed earnestness by raising her pointed chin another inch. “Why have you endured fifteen years of training?”

“Because there is no room for flaws in the work of the Order.”

The High Saltar pursed her lips. “Which novitiate would you name as unworthy to be invited into the Order?”

“Furrow Blue,” I blurted without thinking. Then I despised myself for my petty vengeance, no matter how justified. Had a life dedicated to nothing but the patterns made me as heartless as the saltars? A few younger girls in the watching rows giggled. I cleared my throat. “I mean. . . Everyone in our form has worked very hard, and I wouldn’t—”

“That is all.” The High Saltar crossed her arms.

My test was over. But how had I done? I could read nothing on the severe faces before me.

I walked to the door, wincing inwardly with each step. As soon as I was outside the door, I sank to the floor, rubbing my ankle and finally allowing myself a small moan. Starfire came and sat beside me, putting an arm around my shoulders. “See, working in the kitchen doesn’t sound so bad now, does it?”

I gave a broken laugh. “Did they all look grim when you finished?”

She nodded. “They always look that way. I’m sure you did great. Do you want me to find an extra scarf so you can bind up your sprain?”

I shook my head. “We aren’t done yet, and I don’t want to draw any attention to myself. Not that way.”

We both stared at the mottled purple colors rising on the swollen skin of my ankle. The injury would be impossible to hide.

I found a place near the stairs and rested with my leg braced up against the wall. As blood stopped pooling around the sprain, the ache eased. I should be able to survive the day, as long as we didn’t have any more dance tests.

After what seemed like weeks, a prefect summoned us all. Starfire let me lean on her until we reached the threshold. Then I walked as steadily as I could manage and took my place. A few more women had been dismissed at some point during the afternoon, but our rows still held many hoping to be chosen.

I lifted my chest. I’d given all I had. If I wasn’t found worthy, that was my fate.

High Saltar Tiarel rose, hands tucked into the wide sleeves of her robe. “Novitiates, I want to thank the saltars who have trained you throughout all fifteen forms. The quality of your work today is a testament to their dedication.”

The rows of students to the side tapped their fingertips against the floor in a sparkling rhythm of acknowledgement, raising a sound like a soft rainfall.

“I also commend each of you who passed your test.” She opened a roll of parchment. “The novitiates who will be invited to move to the dancers’ arc of our building and take their place in the grand patterns of the central ground are—”

A commotion rose from the outer courtyard. Angry voices advanced. Metal jangled beyond the windows. Heavy boots stomped into the inner courtyard. A soldier burst into the rehearsal hall, shoving aside the prefect who was trying to hold him back.

“High Saltar, I must speak with you. Now.” His tunic was torn, his breastplate streaked with blood.

Her eyes flashed with the white heat of a smithy’s flame. I expected her to sear him with a rebuke. Instead, she gave a terse nod. “In my office.”

She strode toward the door. In spite of the surprising sight of an armed soldier within the Order, my focus fixed upon the parchment that held my future. The High Saltar carried it crushed in her fist as she left.