Dream of Me/Believe in Me

venturing along it all the way to the beach, where they rooted about for clams and mussels, finding a bounty of both. Thus laden, they returned home to deliver their treasures to their mothers, who received them gladly. The women spared a few curious glances for Krysta but did not question her. Indeed, no one had questioned her since her arrival at Hawkforte save for its master. She wondered if being a servant, and a foreign one at that, rendered her in some way invisible or if this was only an expression of courtesy on the part of people naturally inclined to respect the privacy of others. Whatever the answer, she observed that the parents were indulgent, kind to their children and glad to see them have a day of leisure. Nor did it end then, for Edythe led them back out to a circle beyond the fortress walls where, so she informed Krysta, the older boys bound for knighthood trained. They were done for the day, gone off to polishtheir weapons and talk of manly things, thus leaving the circle available for gentler pursuits.
    The children danced. They whirled around in circles, sometimes alone, sometimes holding hands. They sang, nonsense songs mostly that they made up as they went along. They whistled, clapped, stamped their feet, flung their arms to the sky, and laughed. Krysta watched, entranced. She had never seen so much lovely, glowing energy blossoming in one spot. Instinctively, she was drawn into it. Edythe took her hand, grinning up at her, and suddenly Kysta, too, was dancing, around and around, the steps becoming more intricate, the tune playing in her mind, the song forming on her lips. The children became a line behind and around her, following where she led, their darting bodies creating ancient patterns that coiled back upon themselves before bursting out again in new shapes, new forms, new energy. It was a dance for starlight and hidden places, for strands washed by moon-bright foam, for children of another ken. Yet here it was in the bright sun of a Hawkforte afternoon, among children who held within them, all unsuspected, marvels beyond reckoning. Those might be hidden but their exuberance was plain for all to see. Certainly it did not escape the Hawk, who, coming off the training field thinking of nothing more than a good steam and a mug of cold cider, stopped suddenly at the sight of them.
    Children dancing? Had he ever seen that before? Of course, he must have for children were ever-energetic, yet did memory elude him and without it came the stirring unease that perhaps such merriment should be more in evidence in his domain. Since it was not, he sought some explanation for its sudden appearance and found it quickly enough. The green-eyed girl was right there in among them, noticeable only because she was taller but otherwise gamboling along with the rest. The air seemedto shimmer around her. The glow must be dust raised by their feet, glimmering in the sun. Yet it had rained in the night, softly like a benediction, and there was no dust. Only that glimmering, shimmering ripple of the air right to the edge of the circle.
    He blinked, looked again, saw the children and the green-eyed girl bathed in radiance. He was no dancer but he knew the morris dances and the other revels, still indulged in on the holy days or, more often, the night before them. This dance he did not recognize. The steps were more complex. Yet did it seem he had seen it somewhere … sometime … as though in a dream. A tune rippled on the air, very faint, taking him by surprise for he saw no players to make such music. He heard a reed, high and fluting, and beneath it the throb of a drum beaten lightly. Then it was gone and the children had stopped, suddenly, as though frozen in place. They were staring at him.
    Only then did he realize he had come almost into the circle, so absorbed was he in watching the dance that he might have joined it.
    “My lord …” the green-eyed girl began. He sensed an explanation forming, perhaps a request for pardon. He felt the tension of the children, looked around at their faces set in expectation of reprimand or worse. Thought of the child he had lost unborn when his feckless wife went to her death, felt the old pain of that for the first time in more years than he could count.
    “You should dance more often,” he said, and smiled.
    They stared at him as though he had grown a second head. All but the green-eyed girl, who, after a moment, cast him a smile of gratitude and … vanished. No,