by A. R. Henle
Amara was little help. She encouraged Gisela to join their early morning exercises, but then sent Stevan away regularly when his exercises and lesson had finished but Gisela’s evidently had not. He’d expressed interest in remaining, but been told in no uncertain terms to leave.
“You have a firm foundation already.” Amara had patted his shoulder while giving the impression that, had she been tall enough or he shorter, she’d have patted the top of his head instead. “You need little more but practice.”
“Then let me practice here and now, I am ready.”
“But Gisela is not.”
And that was that. He slunk away, and the relief on Gisela’s face at his departure cut.
He did not enjoy being a pursuer. Didn’t enjoy hunting at all, for that matter. If he had to contribute to meals, he preferred fishing or helping cultivate kitchen gardens where patience and time worked wonders.
They didn’t have time—he didn’t have time.
Whatever was between them, they needed some certainty before reaching court. It wasn’t finished. Not a gaping wound, but a sore that might fester if they did not address their unfulfilled attraction.
As one of the partners for the princesses in the dances where they wielded power . . . they couldn’t avoid each other.
And this much he knew from watching other courtiers: if they returned at odds, it would do neither of them any favors.
So for this, he became the hunter.
The pursuer.
Determined to find and hold and converse with her long enough to ensure she did not feel the need to constantly run away from him at the palace.
Or on the road there, which would be even more difficult. Whether walking or riding in the cart, a rackety, teeth-chattering pace worse than walking, there were only the nine of them headed back. He and Gisela would have to spend some time in proximity.
All these arguments he mustered in his head.
The thoughts drained away when he stepped out of the bushes to the edge of the clearing. No, not a clearing but a field left fallow. The signs were clear, from the broken remnants of a last plowing to the greenery growing uneven within and without the furrows.
Despite the lack of tending and care, here everything blossomed, bloomed, and showed signs of bearing fruit in time. A vine growing along one furrow held berries already gleaming red. A bush farther along bore the glimmer of blue amidst green. Birds of red and blue and gray darted here and there, picking at the berries and flowers. A couple of rabbits nibbled at sprouts further along. Tree rats chittered and raced along tree branches heavy with leaves and unripe fruits.
And in the midst of it all, Gisela danced to the same beat that pulsed up from the ground beneath his feet and through his blood.
He’d only ever seen the princesses dancing at court events, in the same types of dances all enjoyed. Fast or measured. Careful movements repeated regularly, or precisely circumscribed random circling. Much the same as the progression of dances at the festival those few nights back. All very enjoyable, but also largely predictable.
This bore little resemblance.
Every movement was freeform.
She’d lost the sash from around her waist. The length of yellow cloth dangled from a tree branch near Stevan. The cloth once covering her hair had come free as well, although this she retained in her hand and let the similarly bright fabric billow out behind her even as her dark locks and tunic belled and rippled in her wake.
One moment she leapt from furrow to furrow. Laughed and raised her face to the sun. Her smile wide and her chest rising and falling with easy motions despite her exertions. A faint aura misted around her, as though the sun shone brighter where she passed. Minute points of light flowed in her wake, so that each movement left a brief after-image behind. These in turn fell onto the ground behind her in a shower of glowing sparks.
Then, abruptly she dropped. Crouched over and around a half-grown plant topped with a tilted, half-broken crown of dying flowers. Embraced it. Stroked the petals as though trying to raise the flower back to its peak.
The brilliant column of light flowing down from the sun to her expanded to encompass the plant. Light, warmth, and healing surged. The petals quivered, their torn ends merging together as the flower regained health and vitality.
Rising, she bent and stroked again. Then took the loose cloth in both hands, wrapping the ends around her fisted fingers, and twirled her way down the furrow.
The free flow of her hair in the wind inspired him to slip off the tie holding his hair. He fastened the cord around his wrist instead. Rather than comb out the braid, he left it to unravel as it would. A breeze wound around him and did the task for him, releasing section after section of hair but always blowing it back and away from his face so he might watch Gisela unimpeded.
The energy emanating from her had a predictable effect upon his body. Slow and sensuous, as though each mote of his being woke to the sunlight shining through her. Much as he desired to reach out, to touch and stroke, he resisted. Far better to remain patient and aware, and stand witness.
Sheer delight shone from her. The air and earth around responded, warming as though she were the sun made flesh and come to dance among the plants.
He’d never seen her so happy. So free.
Shadows had haunted her even that first night, when they’d danced. Something weighing her down, keeping her from this blitheness. Similar cares had lain on her shoulders and face since she’d accepted—at least part unwillingly—the place at court.
Not at this moment. Her every movement echoed the earth’s beat—feet tapping or stepping, arms waving, shoulders rising.
Yet something changed. The light around her took on a grayish hue, as her gestures grew broader, wider. Had his presence affected her? She showed no sign of having seen him.
The steady pulse of the earth rippled through him as well as her, but with a different effect. Indeed, leaving the spot where he stood seemed beyond him, as if he’d been planted in the earth. Knees locked, he remained in place although his upper body echoed her movements.
Unable to chase after her and join the dance.
Did the earth fear he would have done so? That he could not recognize this was a private moment that he had interrupted, perhaps even a farewell to the field, birds, and bees?
But it should let him leave, that she have her time alone.
Except . . .
Her aura unbalanced, thickening along her arms and left shoulder while dissipating in a long streak wrapping from the right shoulder around her back and waist to split and stripe her legs. The color shifted from gleaming gold to a sullen, pulsing gray-green. Merely looking at it made his head hurt.
She twirled faster than before. Sped up, bit by bit, so perhaps she didn’t realize it. The earth’s beat thrummed in him—and she exceeded it. Her elation and happiness rose. She whirled faster and fast. Her arms stretched out, fingers moving as though desperate to grasp and absorb the moment, the memory.
The unpleasant aura seeped into her, speeding her while also making her lurch as though drunk.
Around and around she went. Her circular movements never ceased. Up and down the furrows. She whipped close by, but did not seem to see him. Her eyes had a vacant look that sent a chill down his spine.
The song birds followed her path, hovering around and chirping at her. She smiled at them, but it was an empty thing.
“Let me go to her.” Stevan gritted his teeth and tried to pull his feet from the earth’s clutches. He failed, his sandals rising not a whit. He bent to undo the straps holding the leather about his feet, but a vine whipped against his knuckles.
He straightened in an instant. Arms pressed tight against his sides and his head ducked to the side. Memory provided the smart of the back of a hand slapping against his cheek, though no true pain followed. A thin red line crossed his fingers but healed as he watched.
“Please.”
The earth continued to hold him fast, while Gisela twir
led.
Bright light outlined her form. Sparks ran along her body. The stench of burning hair spiraled out from her head.
Overhead, tree rats darted along branches chittering at her.
A rabbit dashed across her path, so close it nearly tripped her. She made no response.
Merely whirled.
Until, as she passed close again, another vine or perhaps the same one lashed out and wrapped around her ankle.
Yanked.
Stevan still couldn’t move, yet he was in the right place to catch her as she fell. He braced her upper body, as she sagged against him. Energy flashed through him, as though a dozen bolts of lightning struck his body then condensed into one and drained into the earth.
He eased Gisela down to the ground. Her eyes remained blank and unseeing. Breathing shallow, catching often in her throat.
Until it turned to sobbing.
Then the earth let him lift his feet, so he sank down and held her. Wrapped his arms around and let her cry on his shoulder. Hot tears soaked through the mantle and tunic to dampen his skin. Her chest heaved as sobs racked her body. He cupped the back of her head with one hand, and traced circles across her shoulder blades with the other.
She no longer glowed. Her body exuded heat that subsided moment by moment, sob by sob. A layer of sweat dewed her skin, carrying a not-unpleasant whiff of earth and growing things though a hint of burnt hair remained. Warm air twined around them, breezes wrapping them together and wicking away her tears.
“It’ll be all right.” He held her close, rubbing her back and letter her bury her head in the crook between his chin and neck. “One way or another, it’ll be all right.”
“Never.” She trembled, burrowing into him. “Never, never, never.”
“That’s a long time.” He stroked her back. “Are you certain?”
Tremors rippled through her, head to toe. Stevan adjusted his strokes to move in the same direction, but slow and steady. He matched the low thrum of the earth below. Bit by bit, the vibrations racking her body lessened and adapted to the same rhythm.
Why her?
Why his body’s sudden focus on her and the interest from the moment he’d seen her?
Maybe for this. For her delight in dancing over the earth, her beauty and the magic of her movement.
But also that he could catch her, and brace her fall. Give her ease and comfort. Hold her. Respond to her need. Be needed, and be enough where he never had felt sufficient in himself before.
For how well she fit against him.
And that, strangers though they yet were, still she felt comfortable enough to cry in his arms.
Alas, she drew away. He let his hands slip from around her. His chest and arms cooled quickly, deprived of her warmth. Staying in place, he watched her sway and rub her head.
Then open her eyes. She gazed right into his. Her body straightened, arms clamping tight against her torso as she stared at him with startled—horrified—eyes.
“You!”
Chapter 12
A welcome warmth enfolded Gisela. With the heat and humidity, she should be sticky and uncomfortable. Instead, she rested against a warm, smooth surface. It rose and fell, helping steady her breathing. Wisps of wind blew about, lifting damp coils of hair from her neck. Her tunic stuck to her damp skin, but started to dry in spots. The sweet smell of grain ripening tantalized her nostrils.
She kept her eyes closed, too tired—and sore—to face the world. Every muscle in her body ached, as though she’d run smack into a tree. Quivers of energy shot along her limbs. Irregular, but fast as bolts of lightning.
An even pressure circled her back. Fingers massaged, easing the ache. Her muscles twanged as they released tension. Spiraling out from her back, her body relaxed against the warmth.
She knew who held her, massaged her. Recognized his voice in the reassurances breathed into her ears. The same kind of soft nothings the nursery guardians used to croon when she woke gasping from nightmares as a child.
Yet as long as she did not open her eyes, she could pretend that this was all a dream.
So much easier to lie with her head pillowed on layers of warm cloth without admitting the fabric covered a broad chest.
Preferable to allow hands to continue stroking her back and overlook that they had to belong to someone.
To put off facing the losses and pressures that had sent her out into the field to dance.
Forgo, for a little longer, facing her failure in the field. Without him to catch her, she might have fallen. Worse, in so doing she could have damaged the plants and earth around her.
How long had she willfully ignored the signs of magic around her dancing?
Since meeting the Terparchon, at the least calculation.
Time after time, Gisela had come out to escape the village and all the reminders of what she was and wasn’t. To dance and leave behind her cares and woes for however many moments.
On each occasion, she rejoiced in how the field bloomed, the plants flourished, and totted it all up to the cumulative effect of lying fallow enough years to recover from over-use.
Power blossomed in her muscles and veins with every step, every circle, every dance. She moved to the beat of the earth. Let the ground below her dictate the tempo of the dance. Then circled and whirled as she surrendered everything except the pleasure of movement.
Still she’d denied it, but no longer.
At first the dance had gone so well. The ground rejoiced in her return. The earth gave her a bright, sprightly measure to tread. Up and down she’d gone, spiraling and spreading joy.
But unable to surrender fully. An edge of awareness remained that this would be the last dance here for a while, perhaps forever.
She wanted it to last. Desired nothing so much as to grab hold and never let go.
The earth did not understand. She was the conduit: taking energy, transforming and multiplying it, then returning power to the ground and all that sprang from it. This was a cycle, but not an endless one. For every day, there must be a corresponding night. For every dance of power, a matching period of rest, absorption, and recovery.
For her, stopping meant leaving. Facing the unknown future ahead. The limitations of her body.
All that she had run here to escape.
Increasingly trapped in her longing to remain, she ceased to perform her function, her role in the dance.
Power became trapped within her. Crackled in her veins. Flared in her arms and legs. Even sparked minute fires in her body. Scorched her hair.
Until someone touched her. Braced her. Wrapped his arms around her and all the energy that did not belong to her drained out—carrying away her denials and excuses.
The dam within her heart broke, and tears swept out. All the sorrow she’d pent up, the rage she’d buried deep, and regrets for what would never be.
Her body shook. Lungs heaved. Head sought to burrow into the source of warmth and comfort holding her.
She didn’t know how long she wept, only that she did. As the tears eased, her mind cleared. A fog within her seemed to lift, leaving behind a dancer with a newborn respect for the gift she had not asked for, nor recognized when it arrived.
Gisela intended to investigate the powers of Dancing Princesses for Ilburna when she reached the court. Nevertheless, she already knew the part of the answer, half of the truth Ilburna sought.
Had just lived it.
Gisela alone might not be able to cause an earthquake, but the power that flowed in her dancing moved the earth in another way. If all the princesses joined together, she did not doubt they could wreak destruction of the kind that leveled Escalad.
Past princesses surely had.
What might be asked of Gisela? The possibilities Amara described sounded wondrous and worth pursuing—easing storms, droughts, and fires.
Would she be able to say no to doing the reverse? To causing or worsening ill weather? A dilemma worthy of the greatest minds, for in refusing, if she could, she w
ould risk backlash against her people.
All of this presumed she would know what effects her dancing caused upon the world. She’d managed to ignore it quite successfully.
The problems made her head ache.
Pushing back to sit on her haunches, she rubbed her temples. The soothing hands let her go. A breeze flitted around her, chilling her back and face.
Unable to repress a shiver, she opened her eyes.
Stevan sat before her. Back to a tree. Damp spots on his mantle, no doubt from her tears.
The sire who’d rejected her, yet so much kindness and care shone in his eyes.
She startled and jerked back. He grabbed hold of her hands. Braced her. Her head swayed backward, but she didn’t fall.
“Better now?”
“Yes.” She ran her tongue over dry lips, tasting the salt of her tears. “You?”
“I am not the one who danced all over the field, as a whirlwind.” He smiled, fingers wrapped around her cool hands. “I am well. I’m glad you are, too.”
Her hands remained within his grasp. Her fingers twitched, yet instead of letting go she slipped them between his. The better to keep warm.
“Is it only you?” She shifted to kneel next to him, their hands still entwined. “No one else saw?”
“I don’t think anyone else noticed you leave. I followed you from the village. I would’ve left when I realized your dance was personal,” he said, shrugging, “but the earth didn’t let me go.”
“It wasn’t the earth alone.” She glanced away, back at the rows filled with burgeoning growth. “I knew someone was there—you—but it seemed fitting. You meshed so well with the trees and bushes.”
“Thank you for letting me watch. It was beautiful.” He lifted their hands to his lips and kissed her fingers.
Pleasure swirled through her, heating her cheeks. Nevertheless, a frisson rippled through her. Still more tears leaked from her eyes. Her head swayed as the world blurred around her.
“You were happy for a while.” Lifting one hand, her fingers still twined with his, he brushed dampness from her skin.