by A. R. Henle
“Your choice?” Stevan nodded at it as his legs folded beneath him. He dropped into the nearer sofa.
“A gift, to celebrate your new station.” Brenn settled himself with more ease onto the other sofa. “You can replace it with that old painting of home, if you want. I thought I’d give you something new to go with the older. Keep what you will, though if I were you I’d be rid of most of your old clothes now you’re wearing the Marchon’s hand-me-downs.”
Rik had been and gone, for the table between the sofas bore a tray with bottles of wine and water, goblets, and a platter of vegetable rolls wrapped in vine leaves. The infused oils used in the rolls set Stevan salivating. He maintained sufficient control to offer his brother, as guest, first choice of food and drink.
“You start in.” Brenn waved at the rolls. “I’ll pour.”
Stevan wrapped his fingers around the first taut roll and took a bite. Onion, garlic, and a sharp redberry tang hit his mouth. He shook his head at the burst of flavor, then settled in to the mix of leftover vegetable ends and the chewy leaf rolled around the whole. One alone served to settle his stomach and banish the last vestiges of dizziness.
Brenn made a hmphing sound, and filled the goblets partway with red wine in unequal allotments. He added more water to balance them out. Stirred the results with a glass rod, then pushed the pinker one in Stevan’s direction.
Stevan sent him a tight glare—his older brother took liberties—but allowed it this once. Even with his belly filling with food, a lighter hand with wine made sense. Despite the watering, the wine held a tang that soothed his throat.
“So, you brought the new princess back. Well done.” Brenn lifted his goblet in a toast, then knocked back half in one long draught. “The Terparchon will be pleased, and just as well. She’s been up at least once most nights pacing the rooftops and staring out over the lake at any word of dark clouds—praying, so I’ve heard, that the next great storm doesn’t manifest until the princesses are at full strength.”
The mere mention prompted Stevan to glance over at the window. The angle of the shutters allowed a glimpse of the sky. Peaceful enough, save for wisps of white clouds. As he turned back to his meal, he caught Brenn also checking the sky, and shared a grin of relief. Then indulged in a second roll.
“Word’s out the princess’s well-grown and pretty, but fairly unassuming.” Brenn swirled wine in his goblet before taking another sip. “She’d best show some spine. Whether she likes playing for power or not, she’s in the middle of it now. Taking Ylena’s place? With Jola and Heron welcoming her into the lot? Dancing with Todor?”
Stevan stiffened, tension creeping into his back and shoulders. He laid the roll aside, half-eaten.
“Who says she’ll be dancing with Todor?”
A pang struck him at the idea of her Dancing with anyone else. After their impromptu Dance on the road, he anticipated with great pleasure in doing so again. As for dances at court balls, those everyone mixed and mingled. Gisela could, and would, dance with whomever she pleased.
Amara hadn’t addressed with whom Gisela would Dance as a princess. Stevan’s stomach clenched, the food he’d consumed turning heavy in his belly. He’d made the error of presuming he might get to partner Gisela. In truth, he had no knowledge of how princesses and compeers were partnered.
The princesses would need one less compeer if they accepted Stevan as one—but in that case, were one to be let go, it would not be Todor. He had experience. Peerless connections. Even the potential to someday become Marchon, should he beat out both sisters, and raise his chosen princess to be Terparchon.
What could Stevan offer to balance that?
“Well, now, that’s a twist I hadn’t expected.” Brenn leaned back and tilted his head to one side. “How serious is it?”
Stevan’s tongue deserted him. He ducked his head and shrugged.
“That serious.” Brenn put his wine aside and reached over to clasp forearms with Stevan. Skin to skin, he gripped tight. “Best of fortune to you. May you be both worthy and rewarded.”
Before Stevan found words to reply, or managed to subdue the flush of blood to his cheeks, a hard knock broke their rapport.
Leaving Brenn to finish his wine, Stevan rose and opened the door, then stiffened yet again.
No less a personage than Nefeli stood there—the oldest of the Terparchon’s children, Todor’s elder sister, and partner to Princess Jola. Solidly built and a hand shorter than Stevan, she wore shades of yellow and orange this day. These combined with her gold-tone skin to give her the appearance of a statue, save for the array of short black ringlets curling out from her head.
“May I enter?”
A polite enquiry, since both knew he couldn’t deny her without good cause.
“Of course.” He stepped back and bowed. Glanced around the room and didn’t see a third goblet, but he’d only had one sip from his. Surely he could clean it well enough. “May I offer you some wine?”
She declined with a smile as she entered. Her lightweight slippers shuffled against the stone floor making hardly any sound, yet heavy enough to raise reverberations from his heels to his teeth.
“Captain.” She nodded at Brenn, acknowledging and dismissing him in a single word.
Brenn bowed and shot a speaking glance at Stevan as he departed.
He left the door open, but Nefeli shut it. The latch caught with a snick.
“We will want no other ears to hear.” She settled onto the sofa where Brenn had reclined.
Stevan eased back on the other. The fabric was warm beneath him. A bitter tang bloomed in his mouth, and he risked a quick sip of wine to banish it. Kept the goblet cupped in his hands, the better to remain still.
“How may I be of service?”
“No, it is I who come to help you.” She wove her fingers together and gave a half-laugh. “Of the compeers who partner the princesses in the Dances, there are four born to the task, five now with you. The rest have learned to mimic what we do, but their capabilities are limited.”
“‘We?’” He set the goblet aside and bolted to sit straight up. “You are a born compeer?”
She nodded.
A million fragmented questions filled his mind. So many he couldn’t form a single coherent response for several beats. At length, he gave up. She hadn’t moved, just sat waiting for him. “There is so much I don’t understand. Amara didn’t really explain much,” he said.
She’d trained Stevan, true, but he’d watched Amara working with Gisela. The older woman hadn’t showed him anything she didn’t also share with the princess.
“I’ve developed a greater awareness of the world around me thanks to Amara”—Stevan shrugged—“but most else she shared with me thus far boils down to stretches and exercises to fit me as a partner.”
“Amara was a princess, and they do not appreciate all that we do.” Nefeli’s eyes flashed and her mouth tightened. Setting her hands on her knees, she leaned forward. “My mother does not, and never will. She identified you as a compeer, but did she offer you any training?”
“No. Though I was sent away almost immediately to bring back Gisela.” The excuse slipped out. But it was the truth, as well as a polite way to ensure he didn’t accuse the Terparchon of neglect to her own daughter.
“She would not have thought of it either.” Nefeli flicked her fingers in the air. “Dances have been shown to be particularly successful when more princesses are paired with true compeers, rather than those who only mimic. Nevertheless, my mother considers what we do a matter of instinct. We are believed to be able to be in the right spot to brace and support our princesses because we become so subsumed by the Dance as to be part of it.”
“But that is not the case?” Shards of memory flashed through him: watching Gisela dance in the field as she lost her way, providing the beat and then bracing and supporting her as she dried the track. Both times he’d been aware of her and her actions in ways new and strange—and acted only on instinct.
> “Not for me. Not yet. Only the eldest of us, who knows the most and has Danced near as much than the rest of us put together.”
He nodded, watching her with narrowed eyes. She’d come to give him information, certainly, but only that? Why not hope, even reach, for more?
“If by this you offer me training, with you or another, I accept.”
“We who are compeers by birth meet regularly to practice, apart from the princesses, and to talk. You are most welcome to join us.” She extended her hand. Her grasp was firm and decisive as they shook. “And the night after any Dance, we always gather to discuss how things went from our perspectives and consider ways we might do better.”
A rill of excitement sent his heart pounding, even as giddy waves of relief rolled through him. He hadn’t realized how much he’d dreaded and feared having to fight for a place and hold it against all comers. Yet her welcome struck him as genuine, and warmer than he’d hoped for.
Which made him bold enough to share a remaining fear.
“Will there be any resentment against me for displacing one of the other compeers?”
“Hmm.” She tilted her head back then shook it. “I think not. There are never enough of us. One of those who mimics will have to step back.”
He nodded, teeth clenched in his jaws. One of his worst fears made real: to have to battle for a place. She might blithely say one would step back, but who? Not her, and surely not her brother, even though Todor would be the most natural in that the princess he paired was unable to dance.
No, Stevan would likely face many dancers who, though they were not natural compeers had years of experience and did not wish to give their up places.
Unable to keep all his tension within, he blew out his cheeks in a sigh that made her laugh.
“Do not fear to share your mind with me or the other true compeers. We do not lead and we rarely shine, yet an active compeer can help shape any Dance and bring better, stronger, greater results. I consider us of equal import to princesses in making a Dance succeed.” Nefeli’s smile turned bitter. “But even if you do make that difference, do not expect my mother to ever recognize it. She takes the part of the thirteenth princess. Yet even when my father joins as her partner, she still Dances alone.”
The Terparchon had found him, yet by Nefeli’s warning would never truly value him. Regrettable, but not concerning. Rather, the new fear that filled him after Nefeli left was how Gisela might view him once she was brought fully into the ranks of the princesses. Would she consider him a match and equal, or no more than a step on the way to greater partners than he?
Chapter 17
Gisela woke well-rested and sprawled across a thick mattress with her torso deeper than her limbs. A tricky position, for every move made her sink further. The soft linens made things worse. They shifted beneath her, soft and slippery to the touch. She had to grab hold of a hank to pull herself upright.
All was strange, herself included. Yesterday’s tour of much of the palace complex had featured a visit to the private baths provided in the princesses’ dancing pavilion. She’d been steamed, swabbed, oiled and massaged. In the process, the attendants eased most of the signs and soreness of travel, and more. Lifting her hands, she twisted them this way and that. Between the water, lotions, and oils, some of the ink stains had vanished from her hands.
So she lay, clean and naked, under a soft blanket that kept out the early morning chill, in bounteous bed hung with nets from the ceiling to keep out any insects that might flit through the wide, open windows facing the lake. The shutters were fastened to either side, leaving nothing to obscure the long view. Warm pink and orange light from the rising sun reflected off the lake, casting rippling patterns on the white-washed ceiling. Few shadows filled the room, save along the wooden floor and its many braided rugs. All was light and color from the pale peach walls, to the tapestries decking the walls with images of people dancing, to the shelves bearing more clothes than she could wear in a month.
Luxury.
And strangeness.
So few sounds. Only a few voices broke the silence, and those in the distance. Speaking, at that, rather than breaking the dawn with coos and shrieks of joy as lovers celebrated the start of another day of life. She hadn’t noticed so much the night before as she wished, too busy drinking in all the new sights to remember any one in particular—but a few princesses entered chambers such as hers without company.
Did most people at court sleep alone as a matter of course?
Birds sang. Some of the light, lilting calls were familiar, but several strange, not least one composed of two long, low notes followed by a trill.
The breeze sifting in through the open windows brought the aromas of bread baking and meat cooking. Only enough to stir an appetite, suggesting the kitchens lay far distant from her rooms.
Gisela strove to rise, but every time she pushed up on one side she sank on another. Losing patience, she rolled over until she dropped out of the bed onto her side atop a thick rug of blues and pinks braided together. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs, and roused twinges of pain in her elbow and knee. These eased soon, although deeper soreness lingered in her legs.
Once up on her feet, she raised her arms high into the air on a long stretch. The bones along her spine and shoulders settled into place. Although still cool, the day promised to be warm with summer’s full heat.
She pulled the top loincloth and breast band from those piled on a low shelf. Plain they might be, with no adornments or embroidery unlike some of the other pieces, but they were still of thinner, softer fabric than she’d worn until the fateful day her world changed.
She’d met the other princesses and been presented to the Terparchon, all giving her a warm welcome. Or, at least, showing pleasure that she’d brought their numbers back up.
Nevertheless, her stomach growled and rumbled—and the queasiness was not from hunger alone.
Feet planted on the rug, she went through the routine Amara had shown her. The sun sequence, then birds, and last plants growing from the earth.
After which she remained prone on the floor with her arms extended. Even with the rug cushioning, the surface was hard and unyielding beneath her. A far cry from the warmth and shelter the ground offered when she’d learned the sequences in her home and then along the road. The earth lay too far away.
Still the exercises soothed her spirit and her belly. It no longer rumbled with anything but an edge of hunger.
The Terparchon had summoned Gisela; she had not come by choice or desire. If she were sent from court, she might regret, but she had a home to return to. Foleilion and her people would take her back, whenever the need came. With disappointment, no doubt, if she did not manage to last long—but they would welcome her all the same.
She drew in a deep breath until her chest rose high.
Then leapt to her feet at an unexpected knock on the door. Bare moments later, metal scraped against metal. The latch lifted and the door opened to reveal Emmi on the other side. She carried a covered platter in one hand, the other wrapped around the door handle.
“Oh, you’re up already, are you?” The older dam slipped through the narrow opening and let the door close behind her. Her light blue mantle was tied at one shoulder, leaving her paler tunic visible at the other. Savory aromas of cinnamon and berries rose from the dish in her hand. “I thought to leave your breakfast for you, to start your first day. Mind, you may not have such service all days—much depends upon the kitchens and the moods of the cooks. Yet there’s such a lovely set of fruit rolls today, I could not but bring you a few.”
“I hadn’t . . .” At home, Gisela would have slipped over to the kitchens to get her breakfast. “I didn’t realize anyone would bring me food, or I’d have left the door unlatched. I would have sworn I’d locked it.” Gisela glanced at the door and shook her head, only realizing a beat too late she’d spoken all her thoughts.
“It matters not whether you locked it or not, I have the o
ther key.” Emmi set the round dish on a small table by the window. Lifting one hand, she wiggled her fingers. “I am one of those who serve the princesses. I will tidy and clean your rooms most mornings, and see to your clothes and laundry.”
“I see.”
This meant Emmi would provide even more assistance and service than while on the road.
“Does everyone at court have servants to clean and launder for them?” Caring for fine fabrics and vibrant colors would require more skill at washing than Gisela had learnt.
“Most do who can afford it. For the princesses, it is one of the comforts given back in return for their service. Do your part in easing the storm we’re bound to have in the next day or two,”—Emmi nodded her head at the sky and the deep pinks fading from the eastern horizon—“and we’ll be in balance.”
“You never wished to dance yourself?” Gisela lifted the cover and inhaled the warm scents of fresh baked sweet rolls.
“Not I, though there are others with such dreams.” The other clicked her tongue.
Gisela picked a slice of pastry thick with cinnamon spots and ruddy berries, and paused food partway to her mouth.
Emmi turned away, to flip through the tunics and mantles piled on the shelves, but Gisela had caught a glimpse of her face. Of blankness, and caution.
Rethinking her words, she bit her lip before biting into the sweet.
Better to listen much and think before she spoke, as she learned the ways of the court.
Emmi laid out suggested attire for Gisela to don. A light pink tunic and a darker mantle nearly as deep and ruddy as the dawn sky plus sandals decorated with matching ribbons—and a cord of braided gold and silver silk to bind around her forehead and keep her hair back.