by A. R. Henle
Gisela clasped her hands together to keep from twitching. What had she wrought? A simple hope to ease their travels had ensnared her. She’d thought Amara might dry the ground—not her.
Thick damp earth oozed under Gisela as she left the verge to stand in the middle of the track. Feet together. Arms loose at her side. Back straight. Head raised.
Slow pulses moved through the goop surrounding Gisela’s feet. She tapped her thigh to catch the beat.
Then startled when Amara rapped her nose.
“Not yet.”
“Don’t we Dance to the earth’s beat?” Gisela let her hand hang loose. The thick smell of warm, wet earth filled her and made it hard to focus.
“Not if we want to change matters in a way the earth has no interest in.” Amara circled Gisela, feet sliding through the mud. “Now first, you must set limits. Think only of this stretch of track, not the field or forest. From here to where it joins the stone road.”
A glance in the direction Amara pointed showed nothing but a mucky track, with trees and crops to either side. Yet the words stone and road formed a picture in Gisela’s mind: of the track, except lined in stones to make for an easier passage.
“Just the track.”
“Good.” Amara crossed her arms and tilted her head. “Now, if we’re drying the track, where does the water in the mud go?”
“Wherever it would?” Gisela shrugged.
“So you wish to speed the process up? Or bring sun to bake it or a wind to absorb it and wick it away?”
“I don’t know.” Gisela took a deep breath and resisted the urge to stamp her foot. “Isn’t that what I’m supposed to be learning?”
“Dances change the world, however small. It is important to consider as many of the consequences as you can in advance. This is true even when the earth asks you to Dance something for it. The best Dances are those that balance the needs and interests of all parties, and . . .” Amara leaned in, so her face lay only a breath away from Gisela’s. “Do you understand me even a little?”
“We can’t just change one thing, because everything is connected.” Gisela stared back, refusing to back down.
“That’s a start.” Amara squelched back to the edge of the track, heaving a sigh. “Now, what’s the earth’s beat?”
Finding it again took little effort. Gisela clapped her hands. The slow, lazy beat sapped energy from her body. Standing straight became work, as her torso wanted to sway.
“Enough.”
Gisela squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, trying to banish the somnolence creeping over her.
Amara had Stevan start a fast, sprightly beat. Much perkier. Even from a length away, the crisp clapping brushed some of the cobwebby feel from Gisela’s mind.
“Find the rhythm between the earth’s beat and Stevan’s.” Amara shifted so she stood halfway between Gisela and the cart. “Think about what you want to have happen, the track drying. Dance until that’s all you hear—until that’s what you’re Dancing to. Then stop—and be sure to end with your body touching Stevan in some way.”
Two beats, and she had to find a third between them. With no further help from Amara, some teacher she was. Gisela shifted—or tried to. Mud clung to her feet, sucking at her and resisting efforts to pull away. Her legs settled into a slow back-and-forth movement without actually lifting toes or heels. An itch crept across her shoulders. She rolled them, fast and then faster.
How long it took she never knew. Only that her legs followed the earth’s beat and her arms Stevan’s. Her poor torso suffered. Muscles in her abdomen of which she’d been unaware began to ache.
A third beat began to pulse in her hips. She made small circles, then larger as the thrum expanded from her mid-section to reverberate in her legs and arms.
The earth firmed beneath her feet, growing warm and lifting her. Letting go of her soles. She twirled around, her skin rippling with energy as the air heated and wicked moisture from the earth. Light filled her eyes, turning the world into a haze in the distance.
Life and joy and happiness thrummed from the tips of her hair into the deepest recesses of her body. All sorrows faded, drained. Her whole being became light, mere thistle-down floating on the breeze. Her hair dried and stood out from her head.
Gisela barely remembered Amara’s last instruction. Some instinct had her twirl over to Stevan before a wind could blow her away.
His arms wrapped around her, and the energy sank through him back into the earth. She slumped against him, body still aquiver. Skin exquisitely sensitive to the press of him against her. The taste of his sweat on her lips as she tucked her head against his chest.
Only then did she dare open her eyes, in time to watch a glowing Amara give a leap—and the wagon likewise lift before settling onto dry ground.
Chapter 14
Forget weariness or inexplicably stained clothing or the general lack of decent bathing facilities, Stevan considered the lack of privacy the primary problem with travel. Every time he turned around, someone watched or brushed by, or hummed.
He slogged on along the road, gritting his teeth so as not to say anything too rude or unforgivable. It was his own fault he walked close to the hummer. Rik led the donkey cart and, unfortunately, had no musicality whatsoever. They wandered from tune to tune without warning, all the while never managing to be in key.
Stevan’s own choice placed him right in front of the cart, in the middle of the procession.
Yet at the same time, it was the best option. The most courteous. He’d ceded the places closer to the front to Amara and Gisela. They had only two guards preceding them, leaving them with clearer air while he had to follow behind, breathing in the dust kicked up by additional pairs of feet. Stevan brushed at his clothing but never managed to get them quite clean. His throat remained dry, and no matter how often he resorted to well-watered wine he couldn’t be rid of the taste of dust.
Stones lined the road, worn almost even by the repeated passage of wagons and carts and feet over the decades since they were first laid. The dust came from between the stones, and from the dry earth to either side.
They hadn’t seen a drop of rain since the day Gisela dried the track.
Hot, dry, dusty weather might make any man ill-tempered. Increase a tendency to stomp. Grit teeth. Tap fingers restlessly against his thighs.
Stevan blamed the lack of privacy instead.
Gisela walked in front with an easy stride, hips rolling from side to side. The straight lines of shoulders and back remained steady in contrast.
Remaining behind deprived him of the proximity needed to talk to her. Save that the things he wished most to discuss warranted distance. Not between them, but between them and everyone else. The very thing he’d not managed to arrange at any point. Only times for more general discussions about the weather, scenery, and court.
All because they were traveling in company.
If only they were at the palace. Immense and rambling and a font of nooks and crannies. It held hordes of people, as every generation added on to the rambling assortment of buildings. Some part was always under construction, and another falling apart. Between them and the extensive gardens, an inventive explorer could always find some measure of privacy.
But they hadn’t arrived yet, and before they did, Stevan wanted time with Gisela. Alone, or at least where they might speak without being overheard. A chance to ensure she was prepared for the organized chaos of the court. To discuss her Dance, and how she’d clung to him afterward. Her arms had wrapped around him, head pressed against his chest, and bolts of energy passed from her body through his and into the ground.
She laughed at something Amara said. A light, clear tone that rang out over Rik’s humming and the constant plodding footsteps of humans and donkeys.
The sound lifted his spirits, no matter he had no idea what she’d found amusing. A small chuckle escaped him at that realization.
And she heard him. For a moment, her head turned just far enou
gh to glance back.
For eyes to meet.
He smiled.
So did she, before turning away. Facing front. Setting her shoulders.
Though her hips kept swaying, circling.
Somehow he’d find a way.
Less than an hour later, they topped a rise and began to descend towards a village halfway down. The lake spread out before them, wide enough the far side was no more than a sandy blur against the horizon. Likewise, the palace appeared in the distance as only a smudge along the lake shore.
They wouldn’t make it there tonight.
The village, on the other hand, lay well within reach. It had a lovely, multi-floored inn with a garden at the top.
No sooner did Stevan see it, than he began to plot ways to draw Gisela with him up to the garden.
Alone.
He waited through the bustle of their arrival. The reservation of a suite of chambers. The disbursement of their belongings to those rooms, so that all in the party could—in strict order of rank—take advantage of the inn’s bath house and plunge pool.
Hair damp and newly trimmed, and the stubble cleared from his face, he donned fresh loincloth and tunic, and the cleanest of his mantles now sponged free of dirt. The barber had rubbed his head with a cloth bearing a light, musky perfume, of fir trees and high places.
Thus refreshed, he tracked Gisela down to the common room. Similarly cleansed and perfumed, she leaned against a wide window and watched the hustle and bustle in the inn-yard below. She too wore fresh attire, a light purple mantle that complemented her coloring. Declining to don another pair of sandals anytime soon, her bare toes dug into the soft, flat rush rug covering the stone floor. Thick walls, also of stone, kept the rooms to a tolerable temperature despite the heavy sunlight.
Already her skin started to glisten with moisture. He was sweating. A breeze blew by, but not enough to offer true ease.
“There’s a garden above us.” He stood at the opposite side of the window, giving her space. “With refreshing breezes, and a lovely view. Would you care to see?”
She didn’t respond immediately. Her head remained tilted downward, face toward the courtyard. One of her hands slipped up and under the damp hair trailing down her neck. Lifting the thick locks, she angled her shoulders to catch the breeze. With a sigh, she let her hair fall and turned to face him.
“More breezes?”
“I promise.” He held out a hand.
After a moment’s consideration, she laid hers atop his. His fingers curved instantly about her fingers, skin soft and warm and redolent with a perfume that made his nose itch. He kept his grasp loose and easy as he led the way to the stairs, and up and out onto the rooftop.
The sun had begun to descend, and shadows lengthen. These allied with the breezes to ease some of the day’s heat.
Wide-lipped basins and vases, and long rectangular stone fixtures, boasted a dazzling array of plants. Tall ferns with delicate leaves. Short trees only a few hands taller than he with thick canopies that offered pools of shade. An abundance of flowers in all shades of purple, pink, and red. Without the breezes, cooler here so high above ground, the floral scents might be oppressive. Instead, it made for a heady mixture: lush and damp from earlier rain or watering.
Gisela oohed and aahed over the plants, asking a myriad of questions. He pled ignorance too many times.
“The palace gardeners will know, I am sure. This is lovely, but less than one thirteenth what you will find in the gardens when we arrive tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.” She ran her fingers along the fronds of a fern. “So soon.”
“All travels must end some day.” A breeze lifted scents of bread and meat cooking, making his stomach rumble. He drew in a deep breath. “Are you looking forward to joining the court? Nervous? I am.”
“You?” She turned on her toes, bracing one hand against a tree trunk. “But you’re—”
“Newly raised to a compeer and with little notion what is expected of me.” He shrugged. “As I told you once before, we have much in common.”
“And many differences. You have some knowledge of life at court.”
“Some, yes. But you’ll catch up. We’re nearly there, after all.” He led her to the waist-high balustrade surrounding the garden. Pointed down the hill at the palace splayed out along the lake shore. The gilded roofs of the main buildings glittered in the burnished light. “We’ll arrive before the midday meal.”
“So close.” Gisela drew back, brow furrowing. “Why did we not press on today?”
“Would you want to arrive tired and dusty from the road?”
A pause, then she shook her head. Began to smile, small though the movement was.
“As well, this small delay means we will arrive back thirteen days from when we left to find you. An auspicious number.”
“Indeed, the best of them all save one and two.” She turned back to lean against the balustrade, head turning this way and that. “Which is the palace?”
“Nearly all. It sprawls, and the town curves around it, from the river harbor to the lake shore in a great arc.” He reached over her shoulder to point at the ships sailing to and from the docks out into the wide waters. The light, floral fragrance clinging to her skin made him a little dizzy, but he resisted the urge to stroke her hair. “The palace grounds are laid out in a solar pattern. The royal residence is the sun, that half-crescent shape by the shore.”
“So large.” Her shiver shifted her back to lean against him.
“It holds all manner of chambers and suites. I haven’t gone in it often, got lost once. Or twice.”
Mosaics covered the floors and walls. Tapestries hung in chambers, alongside wooden furniture with intricate carvings and glittering arrays of candlesticks, ewers, and items for which he had no words. Quite different from the plain, white-washed walls of the manor he’d grown up in. He’d learned to use the mosaics and furniture to decipher his way, as he couldn’t merely memorize numbers of turns.
So many things to learn, but she didn’t need to hear that now.
“The buildings running out from the center, like rays of the sun, hold ministries and barracks and servants' quarters. Between them are gardens and practice fields for the guards.”
“Where do you live?” Gisela glanced back at him, with a small smile.
“I share a room on a top floor with another scribe, about there.” Stevan tried to point, then gave up. It was too far distant. “I’ll likely be moved, but no one’s told me where.”
“Or where I’ll be put either, I suppose.” Her sigh pressed her body more firmly against him.
“No, but this much I can tell you. You see that seven-sided building at the center, within the curve of the royal residence?” His cheek brushed hers.
“Yes?”
“That’s the dancing pavilion. Where the princesses go every day to . . . do whatever it is they do.”
“Right by the lake and that gray spot.” Her hair brushed his neck as she shifted, then pointed at a pale-gray circle near the pavilion. But what is that squarish building on the far side?”
With the exception of the palace and pavilion, almost all the buildings were square. Stevan had to align himself with Gisela’s arm to track down what she was pointing at, then nodded. The one spot he’d forgot to include.
“That’s the children’s palace.”
“The what?” Her body stiffened, a sudden motion that made him step backward to give her room. Her arms pinned tight against her side and a muscle jumped along the side of her neck.
“Given the size of the court, and the number of servants and guards required to keep all safe and functional, there are many families with children.” Stevan circled around to lean against the railing close but not right next to her. Where he could gesture at the scene below, but also watch her from the corner of his eyes. “Several generations ago, one of the Terparchon’s ancestors decreed children should not be separated from their parents but allowed to travel with the court. S
he had small palaces built for her children and those of her attendants and servants. Tutors and nurses care for the young when their parents cannot. Some of the wealthier families do not let their children mingle with those in the children’s palaces, but the Terparchon’s children all played with others regardless of rank.”
It should be good news, yet Gisela’s torso remained stiff. Her shoulders hunched and head drooped.
“Don’t the Escalli do likewise? Care for children gathered together?” Stevan had passed by the nursery often enough, and the cacophony of children’s laughter, calls, and tears was unmistakable.
“Yes, but Escalli children don’t belong to specific parents. It’s known who sired and bore them, but they’re kept as a shared treasure. I thought . . . I was taught that it was different for others. For the courtiers.” Her voice dropped. “I didn’t think they would have children there with them.”
“Why not? Children belong with their parents, except when work doesn’t allow for it. Most of my older siblings have marital contracts, and the few times I’ve gone home the place was overrun with their offspring.” He’d shared a room with five of his nephews on the last visit.
She didn’t respond. Her hands wrapped around the balustrade, knuckles white.
Stevan drew in a sharp breath, near choking on the thick scent of smoke wreathing up from the cook fires below.
Escalli held children in common.
“Did you leave children behind?”
“No.” She blinked and touched the fading purple streak in her hair. “I am unable to bear children.”
Back straight, she held onto the railing as though only it kept her standing.
“That’s the first time I’ve said it aloud.” A lurching laugh broke from her as she turned wide, bright eyes his way. “It’s strange. I always assumed I would be able to. Never even considered not, though there are always some unable. Our children belong to us all, not merely those who sired or bore them, and yet . . . ever since I had to dye my hair purple instead of pink, I haven’t been able to face the nursery and the nursery guardians.”