by A. R. Henle
Then she added a cream-colored over-tunic likewise decorated with vines and flowers although in this case the blooms were of deepest red. It, too, was made of thin fabric. With the council gathered to hear the royal envoys, she could not afford the previous day’s laxity in attire.
Sunlight shone through the window in her chamber. Although the air remained cool within, thanks to thick walls, the strong quality of the light hinted that the day would be hot. Already it had dried dew from the grass around the well. Only a bare hint of a breeze trickled through, carrying the scents of oatcakes baking, and burning, in the oven.
With a tinge of regret, she pinned up her hair with a sharp metal pin to keep the curls from bouncing free. Pulling out a nearly transparent length of lilac gauze, she bound it over her hair. Patted her head to be certain no unruly strands had escaped.
In the normal course of events, she almost never wore sandals in summer. But the dam envoy’s elegance the day before prompted Gisela to drag out a pair with narrow straps. Sitting on the bed, she bound them around her feet and ankles. As an honor and reflection of the importance of the visitation.
An upthrust of bile filled her mouth, and she stopped with ties dangling from her numb fingers.
How could she have lost herself so thoroughly the day before? Amara had been so kind and gentle even as she drew Gisela’s secrets from her—but spilled none of her own. Perhaps the councilors had pressed her during the feast, but Gisela had had the best chance to discover in advance why the rulers had bothered to remember their existence.
And she’d failed.
Only two envoys and four guards, so surely they had not come to take back the village and the land? Perhaps to extract further taxes. Bundles of tally sticks rested in a trunk at the foot of her bed. Tied up with scraps of twine and ribbon, they documented the village’s increasing prosperity and growing population.
Why else they might have come?
Maybe the royal guards needed more soldiers and sought to take a human tithe alongside the coins and goods that covered taxes. Though why send courtiers to choose fighters?
Moreover, Amara had said she served at the pleasure of the Terparchon, not the Marchon. And war was most definitely the province of the latter.
Then again, Stevan had not said at whose pleasure he served. His grace in the dance, and quickness at picking up steps of those dances unfamiliar to him, suggested the Terparchon.
With a deep breath, Gisela turned on her heel. Winced at the unfamiliar bite of the sandals against the sides of her feet. Then scurried out to ensure all was in readiness for the council and their visitors.
She bustled about making arrangements in the first burst of the day, until her feet grew tired.
Turning to head to the council chamber, Gisela had to throw out a hand to brace herself against the side of the cookhouse, to keep from barreling into Ilburna
The older dam also braced against the building with one hand flat on the wide planks. The other wrapped tight around the head of her cane. She’d pulled three over-tunics over the first layer, all in bright shades. Red. Dark green. Yellow. The uneven layers of cloth left corners untucked here and there, and gave her the look of a fennel complete with fronds of white hair falling loose to her waist. A single head cloth, little more than a length of yellow matching the outermost of her tunics, covered her temples and forehead but left the rest of her head exposed to air.
“Ah, good, you are not slugabed.” Ilburna lifted her cane. Stretching, she planted it with a thud right next to Gisela. “There’s time enough to lay about another day.”
“That’s not what you said yesterday. Do you not remember?” Gisela retreated, and whirled around to pace the elder. She knew better than to offer assistance unless asked for it, but mimicked Ilburna’s tone and delivery. “Sleep well, sleep long, but sleep not alone.”
“For the youngest whose blood boils in their veins.” The former dam jerked her chin in agreement, then leveled her gaze at Gisela. “But you have reached the temperate age, that of wisdom matched with agility. Enjoy it, and be sure to make the most of it. You worried me some, with your fretting, but, since I saw you join the dance again last night, I have less concern.”
“If I am at an age of wisdom, what may be said of you?” Gisela spoke in the most dulcet tone possible.
“I live in ice. Even in high summer, I cannot be warm.” Ilburna thumped her cane again as she hobbled forward. “This is the time, in truth, that it is good to have many bedfellows. If only they did not steal my covers!” She paused in her progression and tilted her head to the side. “Perhaps I shall seek out more cats. But that is a matter for another time.”
Most of Ilburna’s feline friends preferred to bask in the morning and wait until later before mouse hunting. Nevertheless, Gisela flicked her head and searched for any sign of their encroachment—and inevitable demands for attention, amusement, or food, or all at the same time. “More cats.”
“Perhaps. But these people from the court, we must hear them this morning.” Ilburna shook the hand holding the cane at Gisela. “Go, go, to the cooks and bakers, to the kitchens and store rooms. The freshest and most choice leftovers of last night’s feast must be laid out for their morning meal.”
“This is being done.” Gisela folded her hands before her. A bit of flour yet dusted the edge of her right hand, from when she’d tested the suitability of a day-old bun.
“And those visitors who had permission to lay their bedrolls in the council house, they must be on their way and the chamber swept and aired.” Ilburna thumped another step on her way.
“Done and done.”
“Fresh flowers placed on the tables?”
“Also underway, to be delivered with the food and drink.”
“Truly you are a treasure.” Ilburna managed to smile and speak most politely while imbuing her words with a distinct edge of irritation.
Gisela hoped someday to have such control over voice and expression. The elder was her idol in that, if not in temperament.
Although despite her irritation, Ilburna had a distant look to her eye and a flicker of a smile played about her lips regularly. “And what about appointing someone to escort the courtiers from their tents to the council house?”
Stopping short, Gisela stood with her mouth half-open.
“Close.” Ilburna tapped a finger on the underside of Gisela’s chin, her smile now wide. “No sense trapping flies.”
“But . . . they know the way . . .” A gap between two buildings showed the near end of the trail to the clearing Gisela had shown the palace servants the evening before, and left them setting up tents.
“It is a nicety, not to make people find the way even when they know it.” The other coughed. “Find someone to do this but do not take it upon yourself, if you don’t mind.”
“You’re in quite a mood this morning.” Gisela stepped backward, putting just enough distance to look the other over head to toe. Even wrapped in the multiple tunics and inching her way along, the elder had a lightness to her steps. “Is the news from the courtiers so good?”
“Nothing was spoken out of turn last night.” Ilburna laid a finger aside her nose and gave a slight nod. “But Amara let me know, roundabout as it were, that they come here for no ill purpose. Their desire is to conduct a trade of sorts. To take from us something that we appreciate but cannot make use of at its full worth and give ample recompense.”
“That’s wonderful.” Gisela’s empty stomach gave a lurch and a sour taste bloomed in her mouth.
Doubt must have shown in her voice or on her face, for Ilburna gave her a sharp look. “You think I would lie? Or mistake?”
“No, never, not you.” Gisela shook her head, hard enough her head cloth nearly came loose. “But what could the village have that they would want?”
“Ah, not what my dear, but who.”
Pressing a finger against her lips, the elder refused to say more.
Cruel of her. She hobbled off, leaving Gise
la ill-at-ease. She should be delighted Ilburna had extracted useful information. A heavy lump formed in Gisela’s belly instead. The riddle perplexed her, nagged at her, would not leave her mind as she continued about her errands.
The palace representatives wanted to take someone away with them. For what purpose? Yet that concern came secondary to the question of who.
Had Ilburna shared the news as a courtesy—or a warning?
Chapter 8
An ill-night’s sleep made for a grumpy Stevan.
How dare the birds sing and wake him so early? Several evidently nested in trees nearby and insisted on calling to each other in light, lilting songs much better suited to full day than early dawn. Their high voices pierced his ears, even when he pulled the wool blanket over his head. This did little enough muffle them, and too much stifled him, so he let the cover slip back under his chin.
His body ached from the previous night’s exertions, but it was a minor thing. All told, almost a pleasant sensation wherein he noticed each and every muscle he’d tired in the dance, but none bore more than stiffness. No true pains plagued him anywhere, as in times past when he’d overexerted previously underused muscles.
Though he would ache more if he didn’t move with care and ensure his muscles warmed and woke to the day.
He lay on the pallet nude. The soft blue-and-white striped blanket covered him from toe to neck without a single itch or rough spot in the weave. Were he to stretch his arms wide, there was enough fabric to reach from fingertip to fingertip. In a similar unanticipated luxury, a matching cloth covered the pallet below him. Whatever it was made of lifted him sufficiently high off the ground that he didn’t feel a single pebble or hard spot below. He hadn’t peeked and risked disturbing the careful arrangement, and nor had he asked lest he seem ungrateful, so he didn’t actually know what he had lain on. Whatever it was had savory herbs mixed in that discouraged creeping, crawling insects.
Alas, it was also over-soft, even overstuffed—likely to smother him if he rolled over onto his stomach, his preferred sleeping position, so he’d spent the night on his back apart from occasional shifts to right or left.
Lying on his back gave him a too clear view of the slanted tent sides and the line where they met overhead. Much appreciated for the way the expensive layered canvas protected against the dew and wind, yet not made for one Stevan’s height. He could not stand up without crouching in some way and mostly had to kneel and crawl about when it was time to enter or leave.
In truth, that discomfort—although unfamiliar—would have made him much more at ease with the whole situation were the tent not covered with ornate decorations. Someone had invested time or money ensuring the sides of the tent bore immense replicas of the owner’s family seal both inside and out and thus quadruple embroidered.
Stevan was no mean needle man, able not only repair his clothes but make basic tunics. However much the Minister of Fields and Forests had spent on the tent, Stevan hoped the makers had been adequately paid for their hours of work.
Nevertheless, the very fixings intended to make Stevan comfortable instead left him irritable.
The worst and most aggravating matter of all was his having slept by himself. Completely alone, as opposed to sharing a room, sometimes even a bed, with his brothers when he was a growing child. Then with fellow clerks as he rose in the world. Even when he’d achieved his most recent position, he had to share a room half the time depending on how large the palace in which the court resided.
The tent and pallet were made for two, hence their width and the amplitude of the blanket.
But there was no Gisela with him. He banished fantasies about all the pleasures given up the night before. Shoved away memories of her eyes flashing in delight as he picked up dance moves from her and managed to repeat them in reverse. Refused to ponder how their easy alignment in the dance could have translated into a similar rapport while skin to skin.
The joys of the hand didn’t make up for the loss of her beside him. Not even when his conscience turned smug at his moral fortitude, something his stepmother might not have thought possible. But he refused to think about her either, especially not in the same moment as remembering Gisela.
Rolling over, he punched the pillow under his head then slumped against the pallet. The distant clatter outside the tent—footsteps, metal clanging, muffled voices—suggested the servants and guards were preparing for the day. A faint whiff of smoke blew through, carrying as well a hint of tea and fruity sweets baking.
His stomach rumbled. The physical appetite, at least, he could satisfy without morals getting in the way.
From his sideways position, he had a clear view of a small trunk sitting at the far side of the tent. It held the new wardrobe which he’d been gifted, almost all overly ornate and luxurious, if not to the extent of the tent.
Someone had laid out clothing, one of the servants giving him a subtle suggestion of what would be suitable to wear. A blue tunic, almost twin to the green he’d worn yesterday, and a matching mantle embroidered with waves and ocean fishes. A leather belt dyed blue bearing a fish-shaped buckle. Two loincloths topped the other clothes, one in pale blue and the other undyed.
Such luxury, but alas he wasn’t suited for this kind of life. In his previous position, he'd had to count his coins and carefully consider before embarking on any expenditure. Still, at least he’d known what niceties came with his position and what he was expected to pay extra for or do himself. He’d even laundered his own loincloths and tunics in his early days of service, when he lacked the means to trade to have someone do it for him.
Now he had risen to the point a servant reviewed and recommended his attire, guaranteed to be clean, and had many options to select from.
So many changes in such a short time, all bringing fears, for the higher he rose the faster he could fall.
Gisela would face these changes—and fears—too. Likely find her new life as strange or more so than he. Would she be willing to let him help as he could? He might not be able to offer much, as he was still learning his new role.
But others could—and more. Princesses possessed power, magical and influential, and were highly sought after as mates and consorts. Whether or not she accepted his assistance, she’d have many people with power of their own eager to help and form alliances. To woo her.
Not so him. Insofar as he was aware, few knew or cared who partnered princesses in their magical dances. Only who they paired or trioed with at the court dances, where all played games of power.
A rustle came from the tent flap, followed by a polite cough.
“Are you awake, sir?”
“Yes.” He sat up, letting the blanket pool around his waist. Then flinched as his head approached the slanted tent wall. The air seemed the thicken about him and the tent grow smaller. He hunched his shoulders and shifted closer to the center.
Rik opened the tent flap just enough to slip through sideways. Although a head shorter than Stevan, the eleee entered on their knees so as not to brush their head against the canvas. They’d pulled their hair back in a short, stubby braid of mixed white, green, and brown strands that formed a dramatic frame for their round face.
Selected to accompany the expedition from among the Terparchon’s personal entourage, they wore a loose tunic of bright yellow from neck to knee. The color complemented the ochre undertone of their otherwise tawny skin. Intricate embroidery of twining green vines bearing blue and purple flowers covered all edges of the tunic, even the dusty hem, so that it matched and even exceeded most of Stevan’s wardrobe from before his elevation.
Being well-mannered and matter-of-fact, Rik had not protested being assigned to care for Stevan. Or Amara, but she’d enjoyed her rank much longer and knew how to handle it, and most assuredly deserved good service inasmuch as she rendered the same to the Terparchon. For his part, Stevan appreciated Rik’s quiet guidance—and that they were not of the type to take much advantage of an inexperienced master. Indeed, they waite
d patiently when it was quite clear Stevan had no idea what orders he should be giving.
This morning, they carried a small tray which they settled within arm’s reach of Stevan. It held mug of tea—and a small, shallow bowl of hot water that emitted an astringent-scented steam thanks to the cleansing herbs floating on the surface.
Stevan braided his hair and tied the end, then picked up the top cloth from those provided. Dipped it into the water. Wiping his face with care, he removed the morning bristles breaking through the skin along his neck, chin, and upper lip. Then gritted his teeth against the flash of heat that followed.
Then did a second and third pass in certain spots as Rik discreetly indicated he’d missed them on the first go-around.
Done and cleansed, he took the mug of tea provided with the bowl and drained it to the dregs. The unsweetened fluid left him more awake, and ready to respond to the message Rik had brought.
That Amara would meet him shortly for their morning exercises.
This had him leap to his feet, ducking his head and hunch his back at the last so as not to strike against the tent roof. He grabbed the plain loincloth and wrapped it close in a style offering extra support.
He strode out into the circle laid around the fire pit. His and Amara’s tents sat across from each other. Awning strung on either side offered lesser shelter to the guards and servants. Their belongings had been rolled into careful balls wound with twine for the day, save for the one guard who’d been on sentry duty at the tail end of the night and lay snoring under a length of red wool bearing the Marchon’s emblem in one corner.
Despite his stomach’s growl, Stevan made a wide arc around the fire with the various savories steaming and frying. Nodded to the guard standing watch. Then walked past Amara’s tent. A series of patches made a jagged stripe along the top, all having faded at different rates. The sides lacked any insignia, but a subtle pattern edged the front tent flaps with an abstract design.