A New Princess

by A. R. Henle

  Her momentum had her tripping off the stairs and nearly barreling into Gisela before she came to a sharp stop. She grabbed Gisela’s hands and pressed them in warm fingers.

  “Oh, I am glad to meet you. Now I’m not the youngest anymore.”

  “This is Danissa, born and raised at court, who’s only been a princess for a year.” Amara wrapped her arms around the shorter dam’s shoulders and squeezed.

  “I’m the youngest princess by years and time dancing. But no more! You’ll be the last of us until the next changeover.” Danissa wiggled out of Amara’s grasp, still holding tight to Gisela. “Though I’m sure I’ll learn a lot from you all the same. Everyone teaches me all the time. Even Ylena, who always had her nose so high in the air she hardly noticed the rest of us. But my father said he’d not seen anything so moving as your dancing in a long time, not since Amara still Danced, so maybe we can practice together and some of it will rub off on me?”

  Gisela blinked “Your father’s seen me dance?”

  “He was with the Terparchon when she found you. Idan? Her first counselor?” Danissa let go and took a step back. She folded her arms over her chest and tilted her head.

  The pose called forth vague memories of an elder with Danissa’s skin and build but long white hair wrapped around his head, and a deep, resonant voice naming Foleilion.

  “He’s also the longest serving of the compeers. There are some who say the Terparchon only took me on as a princess because of him.” The other princess heaved a sigh as she abandoned the serious pose. “But they’ve only ever seen me at court balls—not Dancing.”

  “I’m sure you are a fine dancer.” Gisela smiled.

  “You need do nothing to encourage her confidence.” Heron’s voice was low and musical, with faint lilt that made their pronunciation closer to Gisela's people, though not the same. “But praise is always welcome.”

  “Oh my, yes. Do not look to the Terparchon for praise for she rarely grants it. We are never quite good enough for her liking, no matter how well we accomplish her desires.” Danissa bounced on her toes. “But come. Let us show you around, all that you will need to know before the rest return.”

  “The rest?” Gisela glanced around the open area. Few others stood upon the stones—but above, faces shone at nearly every window.

  “The other princesses.” Jola gestured at the city beyond the gates, her wrists fluid and graceful and eye-catching. “Some are in town. Others on a hunt with the Terparchon and Marchon. The three of us were chosen, or volunteered”—a smile at Danissa there—“to remain behind. We did not want to overwhelm you with the need to meet, and remember, all of us at once.”

  “Very politic choices.” Amara nodded at each in turn.

  The note in her voice sent a chill along Gisela’s spine. “Oh?”

  A second turn around showed even more faces at the various windows, all looking down at her. She stiffened, keeping her lips closed in a smile so no one might hear her teeth chatter. Twined her hands around soft folds of her mantle to hide how her fingers twitched. The sun seemed to shine even brighter overhead, light reflecting from every side until the world was awash and colors faded in her sight.

  “Jola and Heron usually Dance with the Terparchon’s daughters as their compeers.” Amara waved a hand at the youngest. “And everyone likes Danissa.”

  “Not everyone.” A shadow passed across the young dam’s face.

  “Nearly everyone likes Danissa. So to have these three to welcome you is a statement of support.”

  “We’re prepared to like you.” Danissa quivered, each and every curl seeming to jiggle independently. Her circlet shifted, but never fell from her brow. “Even Ylena might, so long as you don’t choose Todor as your partner for the Dance.”

  The new names went in one of Gisela’s ears and out the other. They meant nothing more than syllables, save for the three princesses before her.

  “I thank you for the courtesy. I’m prepared to like you as well.” Gisela managed to smile at Jola and Heron, then wider at Danissa as the younger grabbed her hand and squeezed it.

  “Come, there’s so much to show you and so little time!”

  Danissa would have swept Gisela up the stairs and away without ado, but Gisela paused to glance back. To seek support or encouragement from Stevan and Amara—and in hopes one or both might accompany them.

  Amara only smiled and nodded, gesturing for Gisela to accompany the others.

  Stevan smiled as well, but a shadow crept over his face and a hesitancy hung about him Gisela didn’t understand.

  Danissa escorted Gisela up the stairs. Jola and Heron fell in only a few steps behind. Drawing a deep breath, Gisela mounted step after step, rising as high as any building in Foleilion. Dizziness gripped her, slowing her feet as she refused to sway or fall.

  Or to glance back again and see Stevan watching her but doing nothing more.

  Danissa drew Gisela into a large room, bigger and more elaborate than any she’d ever seen, but called it only an antechamber to the reception hall.

  Gisela forged ahead on her own, aware she must form connections and alliances with others if she was to serve her people . . . and if she wanted to survive.

  But her back grew cold. How quick she’d learned to rely on Stevan’s presence so close by to shield her.

  Chapter 16

  Stevan paused at the fourth landing. Planting his sandaled feet firm on the smooth, gray stones, he leaned back against the interior wall. Only small puffs of air moved, no breeze or even whisper of a caress despite the long, thin window looking out over the city. He raised a hand to his throat. His mantle had ridden up during his climb; the band of green and gold embroidery rolled over twice to form a heavy ridge. Wrapping his fingers in the fabric, he yanked hard. The cloth unfurled and settled lower on his chest.

  He breathed easier, though the gray stones blurred together and so discouraged him from proceeding onward.

  For days, he’d lain on the earth, at Amara’s bidding, and absorbed subtle details of the world around. Unbidden and unwanted, that same awareness unfurled to reveal how high he’d risen and the full extent of the layers of stone-on-stone that were all that prevented him from crashing down.

  He’d climbed these stairs—and others as similar as to make little difference—hundreds, thousands of times, in his years. Never once had he refused a climb or experienced fear of heights.

  Yet a fervent disinclination to rise any further weighted his feet and pulsed in his head. He had to force himself to leave the wall, to climb the last array of steps to top floor. It stretched out a fair length, far enough the window at the distant end was little more than a rectangle of light.

  Alternating squares of light and shadow lined one side of the corridor. Each of the half-dozen wide windows had a pair of stout, thick shutters that could be adjusted to let light or air in, or shut completely when one of the many storms blew across the lake. This late in the afternoon, they were a mix, some open and others partly shut.

  Across from them sat a thick wall punctuated with regular doors. These had louvered panels at top and bottom, to increase air circulation. Most were open at the top, letting sweet scents swirl up from the gardens far below.

  His footfalls echoed. No voices, except in the distance. A halting snore from behind one door and whistle at another. Most of the clerks and scribes who shared these rooms were off at their labors.

  He no longer had a key to the chamber he’d once shared with others.

  Why return?

  Habit, most likely. At least once or three times a day, he’d walked this way. Not long, but enough days and nights he knew the route with ease. As soon as Amara left him, after nearly dragging him from Gisela’s side—and an accounting before one of the Terparchon’s aides—he’d retreated having forgotten he no longer belonged.

  Stevan trudged down the floor to stand before the door to his old room. Shared, then, with three others, none of whom he’d known well. Something he’d regrette
d when he first came to court, but found more palatable since. The few times he’d interacted with them between elevation to a compeer and leaving to find Gisela, they’d fawned on him. Not because they understood his new station—for that matter, neither did he—but desiring some part of the increased status and access to power that would come his way.

  Their motives were natural. He’d have done the same if one of them were elevated, albeit likely with more reticence. Perhaps he would continue some of the acquantaince. What harm in reminding himself of who he was before?

  A scribe who enjoyed dancing.

  Versus a compeer.

  A lost compeer, at that, with no knowledge of what place to go to lay his head. Or find his belongings. Someone had moved them, but forgotten to tell him.

  Still more aware of the building’s height than ever before, he descended with care. Kept one hand brushing against the wall, in case his feet slipped. The haze that clouded his vision eased the lower he went—the closer to solid ground.

  When he finally set foot off the last step, a thump and thrum against the soles of his feet gave him a start. He nearly lost balance, but slid against the wall and steadied himself. Then bent and patted the earth.

  “I’m glad to be down, as well.” With no one in sight, he dared ask, “I don’t suppose you know where I’m to go?”

  No answer. Not a surprise.

  He could traipse through the palace complex until he found someone in the know. Amara, no doubt, or one of the Terparchon’s aides. All of whom had assumed he knew already, or were testing him, or keeping him in his place by making him ask.

  Rather than do anything so active, he retreated into the shadows of the nearby gardens. The walls around had a small alcove with enough space for one person—or two if they were small or narrow hipped—to sit and take a rest. He settled down onto the stone seat, still warm from the sun or from whomever had last sat there, and leaned back against the likewise sun-heated wall.

  This was one of the gardens that mingled beauty and practicality. A mix of flowers, fruits, and vegetables. Stake fences lined a nearby portion, supporting beans and peas. Cucumbers and squash. Redberries. Other plots held carrots and turnips, leafy greens, fennel, garlic, and more.

  Whichever gardeners tended these plants had come and gone. They left behind the smell of moist, freshly turned earth. A faint moisture hung in the air, as roots and leaves greedily sucked in water.

  Only a few people remained, all in simple knee-length tunics slung over one shoulder rather than both. Half in sandals, the rest bare of feet. Bustling here and there, as they filled baskets with those vegetables needed for dinner.

  It smelled familiar, homey. As a child, he’d often taken refuge in the kitchens from those in his family who considered him unwanted or too much under foot. The head cook hadn’t paid him much attention, except when he brought a passel of fish. But two of the under cooks had welcomed an extra set of hands to chop or stir.

  One of the cooks called to another in a voice similar to Amara’s.

  She’d certainly had words with him recently.

  If not for her, he would have followed Gisela and the other princesses into the main royal residence. Might know now where she roomed, and how she fared.

  But Amara had kept him at her side instead, her fingers wrapped tight around his arm when he went to follow.

  “Let Gisela find her place as a princess on her own, and you yours as a compeer, before you make any long plans.”

  Her words still burned in his head.

  They held truth. Neither he nor Gisela knew what awaited them. They needed to learn who to trust, to listen to, and of whom to be wary.

  Yet Amara had been a courtier for a very long time, since she once was a princess. She’d no doubt forgotten how lonely it could feel to be new and uncertain—one small person within the great machine that was the court. If she ever knew to begin with.

  His first, tentative days at court remained fresh in his memory.

  Confusion. Trouble finding his way around, remembering names, or distinguishing between people he’d just met. Awkwardness as he tried to recall manners he’d thought ingrained when he met rulers and those they entrusted with great power.

  Surely Gisela would appreciate not being left alone to find her way. The other princesses might help or hinder, for all that three had come to welcome her.

  Alas, too late now to go back and be her guard and helper. He’d let Amara hold him back. The result? He didn’t know where anything was save himself, and he sat where he no longer belonged.

  Lacking enough energy to move and tackle the task of finding his new place.

  Or, to start with a smaller goal, finding his possessions.

  “Here he is.” Rik’s voice preceded their arrival by no more than a breath.

  The stomp of Brenn’s boots on the hard-baked ground nearly drowned out the softer slap of as Rik’s sandals as Stevan’s brother strode hard on the eleee’s heels.

  “I heard you were back.” Brenn strode over and shook his head. He wore a red mantle thrown over one shoulder, the tunic underneath a strong pink, rather than his usual uniform.

  Stevan found small satisfaction in the casual attire, indicating that Brenn had chosen to search for him on his own time.

  “Of all the parts of the palace open to you, this is where you end up?”

  “Don’t you ever miss the kitchens, back home?” Stevan leaned back and lifted his chin.

  “No. The food’s better here, and no one throws rotting vegetables at me.” Brenn shuddered from head to toe, an exaggeration.

  Albeit not by much. Their siblings had enjoyed a number of food fights, if only when their father and stepmother were away. When the elders were present, decorum ruled the day as much as children were capable of it. No smushing mushy lettuce heads against the wall. Instead, an offender might be summoned to one or the other parent’s chambers for chastisement. Smacks on the behind or stripes with a length of wood.

  “I preferred getting hit with vegetables,” he said.

  “That’s because you were small and good at ducking.” Brenn scowled, eyebrows drawing together into a single line. Then he gave a smaller, more genuine shudder and held out a hand. “You got the worst of it, but you’re out and away and will never go back. You’ll dance with princesses any day now.”

  “Already danced with one, though she didn’t know she was a princess then.” Stevan smiled. No matter what he faced when he joined the compeers to partner the princesses, he had that success to fall back upon. Slapping his hand atop Brenn’s, he let his brother pull him to his feet.

  “Did you, eh? Fast worker.” Brenn patted Stevan’s back, a warm thump very similar to the earth’s. “Let's go take a sit over a skin of wine and you can tell me all about it.”

  “Sounds good.” Stevan ran a hand through his hair, combing the thick strands. “Though I’ve no notion where I’m to sleep now.”

  “Your quarters are in the princesses’ wing, on the first floor. A very nice arrangement, too, a corner room with windows on two sides the better to catch the breezes off the lake.” Rik clicked their tongue as they took in the state of Stevan’s hems and the set of his mantle. “Your belongings and the remainder of your new wardrobe await you.”

  “Who moved my things?” Stevan had known someone else would have had to do it, but that was different than bracing himself to find out what might have been thrown away as of no value.

  “I saw them transported myself.” Brenn brushed his hands together. “They’re all there, some left for you to unpack and choose where to dispose.” He turned to Rik. “I’ll take Stevan there. Perhaps you can scare up some wine?”

  “Some food might not go amiss, either.” Rik nodded. “If you’re willing to allow me to draw on your stipend, I can arrange everything.”

  Stevan waited for Brenn’s agreement, but instead find his brother regarding him with impatience.

  “Well?” Brenn jerked his head at Stevan.

&
nbsp; “My stipend?”

  “From the court, fitting for your new position.” Rik’s voice dropped, although the cooks were far enough away they wouldn’t hear, and he said a number that made Stevan’s head reel.

  He bobbed agreement, still stunned.

  “Excellent. The food and drink will be ready directly.” Rik sauntered off.

  Brenn watched them, then shook his head with wry grimace. “That’s a second piece of luck for you, or a third or fourth at the rate you’re going, getting on Rik’s good side. They counsel the Terparchon and Marchon when they want, but prefer working for compeers as a daily matter. Something about similar roles and greater understandings.”

  Something in Brenn’s words almost struck a chord, but Stevan’s stomach growled and he lost hold of his thoughts. He followed his brother, still in something of a daze.

  Within minutes, they walked through the garden entrance to a large, white-washed building close to the lake. Several buildings had better sites—the Terparchon and Marchon's quarters, the princesses’ dancing pavilion, the grandest of the audience chambers. Nevertheless, this constituted a part of the royal dwelling. He now had two chambers for himself, plus a semi-private water closet allotted to him and his closest neighbor versus communal sanitary facilities at one end of a long corridor.

  The smaller chamber held shelves bearing Stevan’s new wardrobe, boxes containing his old wardrobe and belongings, and a bed. A thin blanket of blue-and-white striped linen covered the mattress and two lumpy pillows. A sweet lavender perfume emanated from the shelves, proof someone had taken time to layer protection against insects. It had a wide window, shutters thrown back to show the view of the gardens and the far edge of the Shadow of the Moon beyond.

  A matching window in the larger chamber—big enough to host five or seven comfortably—had the shutters closed, but adjusted to let air through while minimizing the glare off the lake. He peeked through, blinking hard twice and pinching himself at the choice lake view.

  The angles of doors and placement of the windows combined to ensure a light breeze circulated, drying the last of Stevan’s sweat from his skin. Not one but two reclining sofas stretched out in an L-shape. Light cloths covered them, matching the blanket. On the only wall unbroken by door or window hung a tapestry—a mass of blues and greens and purples portraying a sea chock-full of fish with a single figure on the shore casting a fishing line in.