A rickshaw brought Caen and Zeris to the plaza in the city where the dance rehearsals took place.

The Dalat festival wasn't for another ten days, but decorations were already underway, and this segment of the city was abuzz. Some people had begun painting the front of buildings around the plaza in tones of red and deep yellow. Large Inshol motifs and designs marked the cobblestone pathways. Felfe leaves, broad and crimson, hung in splotchy clusters from door lintels or in flower pots by windows. Some young children even wore them in their hair.

The large fountain surrounding a statue of Trellam the All-Seeking gurgled water, which had been treated with an edible reagent that caused the liquid to shimmer between the colors yellow and red.

A wooden stage was still being constructed around the statue and the fountain. A suspiciously large number of onlookers hung around the edges.

Some performers loitered about the plaza in costumes or stood in groups chatting. Costumes weren't necessary for rehearsals, but some performers preferred to practice in them. A woman whose face was being painted to look like a cat's waved excitedly at Zeris, who returned the wave with much less enthusiasm. The weather wasn’t quite sweltering, though Caen had needed to take off his coat and was already sweating quite a bit.

The dance-master, a tall, lithe man named Lon, stood on the half-constructed stage calling for the dancers to gather up quickly. Behind him, instrumentalists went about setting up their equipment.

Caen and Zeris hung back as the chattering dancers crowded around Lon’s feet.

“Alright, listen up, low lives!” the lithe man said.

The crowd quieted some.

“We have a very important guest joining us today, as many of you must have already heard.”

At this, a great many dancers in the crowd whistled and laughed. Lon eyed them with mock disdain. Several of them here, Caen included, had been skipping out on dance practice.

“Our guest is an esteemed magister from one of the most prominent citadels in Pectos. He is an accomplished archmage and a very cultured man.”

The performers began to chatter among themselves and whirl their heads about as if expecting the magister to just pop out of nowhere. Which he very well could. Much of Fermien's notoriety had more to do with the shenanigans he got up to than with his academic prowess.

“I'm going to need all of you low lives to be on your best behavior,” Lon continued.

“We're dancers,” someone yelled. “We're always on our best behavior.”

That elicited chuckles from the crowd.

“I'm happy to hear you say that, Qolo,” Lon said, smiling, “because you won't be dancing today. In fact, if—like Qolo, who I haven't seen here in well over a week—you've missed any more than two rehearsals in a row, you will not be participating in today's routine. Now off to your positions.”

Some dancers raised their voices in protest, but Lon was already dispersing the crowd to take their positions. The man panned the crowd as if searching for someone.

Caen tried ducking behind Zeris, but Lon's gaze locked onto him.

“Caen! What are you doing down there? Didn't you hear me? Get into position before I skin you.”

“Actually, I'm not feeling very well today,” Caen called back, rubbing the back of his head.

“Oh, okay. Just give me a second to write that down in my diary—get into position, will you!”

Zeris chuckled as Caen dropped his bag and coat by her feet. He made his way closer to the fountain and joined the twenty-odd dancers there—the actual number kept fluctuating as Lon made the rounds, sieving out truant performers.

Drummers, standing on the edge of the stage, began beating their aff-skin drums in a steady rhythm. Fluters joined in, as did the aged woman with a stringed instrument. This was the penultimate segment of the hour-long dance drama. The last time Caen had attended rehearsals, they'd practiced this very scene.

Lon had split the performers into three groups with different dance sequences in the routine: mundane dancers, those who assisted them with magic, and those who did both. Abjection aside, Caen was nowhere near proficient enough to cast any fancy spells while dancing. He fell into the first category as a mundane dancer, which meant he didn't have to worry about being grievously injured. Mundane dancers tended to have low affinities in Body-enhancement, but Caen had none at all and would still have to be careful around them.

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They danced in concentric rings beside the fountain. The actual performance would take place atop the platform, which was still being constructed.

Caen executed the routine by rote; a good memory and flexibility allowed him to perform the sequences with acrobatic ease. He hadn’t brought his headband out with him today and thus had to keep wiping the sweat out of his eyes. The supporting performers cast spells of sparkling light as the dancers twirled with ribbons and executed complex movements.

A change in the tempo signaled the part where one of the performers was supposed to jump into the center of the innermost ring, spinning in a column of flame and executing feats of stellar acrobatics.

But seconds after his cue to jump in, the man who'd been playing the role all through previous rehearsals was still dancing in the inner ring.

Caen caught movement at the corner of his eye. Someone was standing atop the shoulder of the statue of Trellam. They stood with their backs to the setting sun, and Caen couldn't make out any of their features.

The surrounding onlookers and dancers who weren't participating in the routine were pointing and speaking excitedly.

Some performers around Caen looked up, too, but the routine did not stop.

The strange figure, whom Caen was fairly certain had to be Fermien, somersaulted into the center of the dancers. The rings parted around him, flowing by as people danced with even more vigor and excitement than they had in previous sessions. Caen himself felt a surge of anticipation.

Magister Fermien had a bright orange beard, which had to have been dyed that color. The hair on his head and brow was a deep brown. Silver ornaments glittered on his ears. He didn't even look to be in his fifties. But then again, the first edition of the Hillian Primer had been published almost a century ago. Magister Fermien was not as young as he appeared.

Despite himself, Caen's excitement was climbing. He was so excited, in fact, that something soft buzzed within his spirit. Caen frowned.

Still dancing, a very superficial scan revealed nothing amiss. Caen had developed a deep spiritual sensitivity over the years. The buzz, though subtle, felt like a pull, a gentle tugging of his spirit. To where, he could not say. He would have to do a thorough scan later.

Fermien braided four different colors of fire around himself. The braided flames laced through all the rings of dancers but were, after a moment of voiced panic, revealed to be totally harmless.

As the different rings of dancers parted and flowed around Fermien, Caen got closer to him. He and Fermien locked gazes. The buzz in Caen's spirit flared to an even greater degree. It was a flame, blazing within him.

He stumbled. A dancer crashed into him, and together they crashed into another pair of their twirling companions. They all fell on the floor, a tangle of limbs.

The music ground to a halt.

“What in Trellam's hairy balls are you idiots doing?” Lon bellowed.

The pile of dancers disentangled themselves from each other.

Caen was the last person to get up and probably the only one with any injuries among them. He’d sprained his arm a little, and his ribs smarted from the fall. His thoughts were in chaos. “I—I’m sorry about that,” he stammered to the others. “Is everyone alright?”

A few of the dancers grumbled, understandably annoyed, but fortunately, no one else was injured.

Zeris hurried over to Caen, looking worried. “What happened?” she asked. “That looked like a bad fall. Are you okay?”

“I… I don't know.” Even though the flare had died down, Caen’s spirit still buzzed softly within him. His hands were trembling. What was—

Zeris stared over his shoulder with wide eyes.

Caen turned around to see Magister Fermien approaching them.

“What a surprise to find my kinsfolk so far down south,” he said smoothly in accented Thermish.

Gooseflesh spread over Caen's skin, and the buzz in his spirit flared once more. “What?” he muttered.

Lon, who had reached them, turned to frown at Caen. “You're related to the magister? Why didn't you say anything?”

“Actually,” the magister said, “I don't believe I've ever met either of these children before today. Give us some privacy, please.”

Lon retreated, packing away the dancers with him. Everybody was watching them.

Fixing Caen and Zeris with a piercing gaze, Fermien smiled and tilted his head as if listening to something. He nodded once. “Well… the strings of fate are a wondrous thing.”

Those words resonated so deeply with Caen that they sent shivers down his spine and through his spirit.

“We share a bloodline, the three of us. But you in particular,” he pointed at Caen, smile widening, “my heart tells me that I have something you need.”

Caen's breath caught in his throat. The buzz had expanded to consume his entire being. Beside him, Zeris gasped and held his forearm.

“Some bloodlines, in rare instances, remain inert until incited by another kinsperson of higher precedence. Bloodline resonance, it's called. We come from a long lineage of fervent scholars and pragmatic educators, so I gladly do you this service. Know now, little brother and sister, that you are of Aialda heritage with a gift for fire.”

The significance of these words washed over Caen and seemed to intensify the buzz to nigh febrile proportions. His third bloodline. Just like that? He couldn't believe it. He needed to leave now. Needed to go and locate it in his spirit.

“I'll be giving a lecture at the Phrontistery tomorrow evening,” Magister Fermien said. “Come find me afterwards.” He was already walking away before either of them could reply.

“Ancestors,” Zeris said, shaking Caen's arm.

Lon was already instructing the dancers to get into position once more, but Caen wasn't listening. He could almost feel his awareness being tugged inwards.

“I need to go and—” he began.

“Yes, yes,” she said. “Let's leave immediately.”