Still, she hoped that they would choose freedom, to walk away from the ring while they were still whole and sane.

The Belrene was right: she had had a long and illustrious tenure, but it had to end. Better to end it now at the peak of her prowess, in triumph, by her own choice.

Her mind full of the ferment of her decision and its implications, she rose, slipped on her gown and sandals, and went out to wander the temple byways, walking aimlessly, feeling the old nervous flutter in her stomach. It was not the dance she was nervous about this time, but the feeling reminded her of that first day, the first time she danced.

It was a day in early spring; she had been two years in the temple, undergoing the rigorous training of the bull dancer, advancing through the neophyte ranks with uncanny facility. She had taken to the dance as if bom to it, as if it were in some way a natural thing to cavort with slavering, enraged beasts. And even that first day, though her performance was in no way extraordinary, those who saw her remembered the solemn-faced girl who danced with such aplomb, so completely abandoned to the fate of the ring.

This casual disregard for her body became an emblem. It was not long before people were rilling seats in the arena solely to see the girl who danced with death. Although no one who saw the slim figure standing alone in the center of the ring ever doubted death was more than the merest heartbeat away, she eluded that grim reality with almost whimsical ease-even while performing feats considered too dangerous by other dancers. Her inspired performances quickly earned her the respect of the other older dancers and she was made leader of her team, the Grays.

She proved a demanding leader, however, and one by one the members of her team were pared away to be replaced by other, more talented dancers chosen by her. Soon the Grays became the Gulls.

Now it was to end. She had never deceived herself about that; despite what she told the Belrene, she knew that one day it would end. There would be a mistake, an error, a miscalculation however minute, and it would end. Pain and blood, yes, but also release. Life would end.

Her recognition of this certainty had made it possible for her to hold off the pain and blood for as long as she had. She accepted the inevitable fact; more, she embraced it, gloried in it, flaunted it. The gods responded to her bravery and abandon by conferring upon her a longevity denied other dancers, a gift Charis had never sought and did not value.

Until now. “It is time you made a decision,” the queen had told her. Very well, she had made her decision. The others would have to make their own. She could not be responsible for them forever. She would give them one more dance and then set them free. And she would be free. They would dance once more for the gold and the gold would buy a future.

Charis’ steps had taken her far from the temple precinct. She stood in a near-deserted side street in a market district where merchants were busily striking their awnings and shuttering their shops. She realized they were closing because it was time for the arena gates to open.

She turned and fled back the way she had come.

The first team of the day had already entered the ring by the time Charis reached the ready room. The cries of the crowd in stands directly above covered Charis’ breathless entrance. She dressed quickly, pulling on the stiff leather clout, tugging the hip laces tight; she wound the linen band around her chest and from a camphor box lifted out a laurel necklace with leaves of thin gold. With deft fingers she plaited her long hair into a thick braid and, snatching up a white leather thong with which to bind it, joined her dancers.

The Gulls were dressed and ready. They sat in a loose circle, legs crossed, arms resting lightly on knees, eyes closed in meditation. Charis eased into the meditative position, took the three breaths of ritual purification, and began:

“ Glorious Bel, god of fire and light,

Ruler of the skyways, Lord of the Underworld,

And of all things enduring,

Hear the petitions of your servants! Eldest of Heaven, look down from your high throne,

Shower the favor of your presence upon us,

Give us strength, give us courage, give us valor,

We who dance before you this day. Great of Might, Illuminator of the Earth,

Flourish in our sacrifice,

Live in our spirits,

Inhabit the beauty of the dance. “

When the prayer had been recited three times, the dancers rose silently and began stretching, loosening limbs and muscles, each dancer reaching deep down into the well of the soul to bring up the courage required to take that first step into the ring. Once over the threshold, the endless hours of practice and repetition would take over and movements would be instinctive. But the first step required an eifort of will no training or repetition could render involuntary. And each dancer had to find that strength alone.

From the sound of applause they knew that the first team of dancers had finished and that the second team had entered the ring. The Gulls continued with their preparations. One by one they came to the large amphora of alabaster which sat in’a low tripod in the center of the room, dipped their hands into the fragrant oil, and began smoothing it over their bodies.

Taking up a small stone jar, Charis circulated among her dancers. At her approach each dancer knelt-eyes closed, hands raised in the sun sign. Charis dipped her finger into the jar and then drew a golden circle at the base of each dancer’s throat.

The cries of the crowds in the stands above reached a crescendo and then died suddenly. The dancers glanced at one another silently. They knew the sound and what it meant: a dancer lay in the ring, crimson blood seeping into the hot, white sand.

“Bel has chosen his own,” whispered Chairs. “Bel be praised.”

“Bel be praised,” repeated the others.

She held out her hands and dancers on either side took them, and one by one they all joined hands, forming a circle in the center of the room. “Who are we?” asked Charis softly.

“We are the Gulls,” the dancers replied.

“Who are we?”

“We are the Gulls!” they shouted, their voices rising. “The Gulls! We are the Gulls!”

“We are the best,” cried Charis. “The best!”

“We are the Gulls and we are the best!” they shouted.

At that moment the huge inner doors of the room swung open. Two pitmen stood watching them, sweating. Still holding hands, the dancers walked quickly into the hard, bright sunlight. A roar of recognition and delight surged from a thousand throats. Charis felt the familiar thrill run through her body. She looked up at the steeply-banked sides of the arena into the cheering mass and slowly raised her hands. The simple gesture brought the crowds to their feet amidst a peal of acclaim, her name thunder in the tormented air.

Char-is! Char-is! Char-r-isss!

There was no prelude. Across the arena another door opened and a bull rushed into the burning ring. He shook his monstrous head, trailing streams of saliva. His horns had been painted red, the tips sharp and gleaming. At Charis’ signal Joet and Galai advanced, walking easily to the center of the oval; the remaining Gulls left the ring to their comrades.

The bull charged at once. Head lowered, he swept toward the two. But by the time he reached them, the dancers were gone. To the animal’s dumb surprise they were never quite where they appeared to be, so that when the dance was over and the doors were opened once more and the pitmen raced out waving their nets, the confused animal went willingly. The spectators laughed and shouted; Joet and Galai ran tumbling from the ring.

“Well done,” said Charis, hugging them both as they came running up, breathless, glowing with exhilaration. She nodded to the others. Joining hands, Kalili, Junoi, and Peronn dashed forward to take their places in the center of the ring. Peronn lifted Junoi high over his head and Kalili whirled around them, arms flung wide.