by A. R. Henle
“Nor are any of them alike to each other. Look again. You belong at least as much as I do.”
Since he’d done her the courtesy of pondering her words, she returned the favor. Studied the princesses—denoted by the gold and silver cords about their brows—and compeers—marked by gold and copper.
Although they all seemed more at ease than her, in their fine clothes and sandals and jewels, there was truth in his words. All differed from each other. Body types from thin and gangly to lushly curved. Heights ranged from short to tall, ages from Danissa’s likely late teens to her father who had at least four more decades, and appearances likewise with every color she’d ever seen of hair, skin, and eyes represented.
“Give yourself time.” Stevan’s hands braced her shoulders before he stepped back and began to stretch himself.
Across the floor, Danissa waved and gestured for Gisela to join her.
Before Gisela moved, Amara arrived. She stood out from all the others, not only for her unusual lavender skin but as the only one not wearing cords of rank across her forehead. Nevertheless, no sooner had she clapped her hands than all rendered her full attention.
“The Terparchon will not be present until later in the morning, if then.” Amara strode to the center of the floor, standing atop the seven-point star fixed there in shades of gold, silver, and copper. “She’s asked that I to see to the morning practices, as we need to be ready for the storm season. There’s warning one may be forming over the lake even now. Therefore, take your pairs.”
The order made no sense to Gisela, until she noted princesses matching up with compeers.
But the numbers weren’t even. The room held one more compeer than princess.
All the others quickly formed twos: Jola with Nefeli; Heron with a younger dam who had been introduced as Nefeli’s younger sister but whose name Gisela didn’t remember; Danissa with her father Idan, who seemed spry but tired. They spread themselves out around the circle, leaving one twelfth of the space for Gisela.
Two compeers remained: the Terparchon’s son and Stevan.
Both stepped forward and bowed, waiting for her choice.
The one courtly and wary; the other reticent and resigned.
Far more comfortable with Stevan, Gisela stretched out her hand in his direction—but Amara stepped between them.
“It is best not to have the new princess and new compeer together, when both have much to learn.” Amara shook her head, with an apologetic look in either direction. “I will take Stevan as my partner for the exercises. Gisela, dance with Todor.”
Gisela didn’t desire power, or to dance with the sire who’d partnered Ylena, but she no longer had a choice about the latter.
How much choice she would she have about anything?
Chapter 18
Despite the heat of summer, a cool draft wafted up through minute cracks in the floorboards. Enough to set up a chill through Stevan's body, especially where lines of sweat dried. His loincloth, tunic, and mantle could not keep away the cold seeping upward. Even the shoulder where he’d tied his mantle, tucking it under the arm, grew goosebumps along his skin despite the layers of cloth in the knot. The brass buckle keeping the knot tied absorbed the cold and radiated it back.
Occasionally a breeze brought in a gust of steam from the nearby bathing rooms, but not enough to counter the dank stench of iron welling upward. The piece of warm bread spread with yogurt and honey that he’d consumed for breakfast turned to lumps of heavy snow or even ice within his belly.
In that moment, he desired most of all to turn his head and learn if others likewise suffered.
He set his teeth and fixed his gaze on the ceiling high overhead. The wooden beams holding panes of glass aloft at the center gleamed with warmth and light. Yet the cold slipped into his head to change the view. Golden lengths of wood turned gray to reveal bars of iron within. Glass grew cloudy and turned to a fog so thick a person walking through would not see so much as their own nose.
A few blinks and the illusion dispelled.
Stevan remained chilled. His muscles and joints tightened. Faint aches seeded his legs, arms, and back. They grew vines, snaking through his body.
Who could dance this way? He should be up and stretching, growing warmer and looser.
As opposed to slowly turning into an icicle in the middle of summer.
In the distance, a single pair of sandals clicked as Amara circled the floor. All dancers save she lay on their backs slowly chilling. Or so he presumed, having not heard any of them rise.
No, not merely presumed.
Knew.
For though he did not move and had yet to dance in the chamber in any way whatsoever, something in him tracked the location of every other person. Ever since the first day he joined a throng dancing for joy, he’d experienced heightened consciousness of those around him. As a gift it wasn’t worth much. Kept him from painful clashes with others on dance floors. Mostly. He’d still tripped his share of times over the years.
All the same, here in the stillness and cold, he registered more than so many people being present around him. He knew who lay where, and how fast their hearts beat.
Along this section of the chamber were arrayed the compeers. Amara had made introductions so fast that half their names escaped him. She skipped mentioning which compeers came by it naturally versus which mimicked. Nefeli had yet to let him know, but while lying on cold wood Stevan came to his own conclusions. Nefeli, of course, and Idan whom Stevan had recognized from long service at the Terparchon’s elbow, and a few others.
Likewise, a picture formed in his head of the room indicating where each of the princesses lay. His mind skipped over the others—those he recognized, those he had yet to meet, and those who confused him—in favor of Gisela. She was as cold as he by the hitch in her breath.
His awareness seemed to spin, turning a spiral and with each revolution deepening his understanding of his surroundings—first and foremost the people.
Then Amara clapped her hands and all his extra consciousness burst as sudden as a bubble boiling up from water.
Rising from the floor in a single, smooth motion, he moved into the first of the stretches Amara had shown him during the trip to find Gisela. He managed to match her and the others in a regular progression from movement to movement.
First his head, arms, and upper body reached, stretched, retracted, and repeated. Then on down through the torso, legs, and feet.
All solo, each working at their own pace although no one that he saw or sensed was far off from the others.
Why the fuss about who partnered whom if they danced alone?
Until they didn’t.
From exercises done in place, they took hands and skipped in a wide circle. Pair followed pair.
Although dry and smooth, Amara’s fingers slipped through his hand time and again. Maintaining hold required constant adjustment through the various circles. Skipping, leaping, twirling.
How he held his body mattered, as did finding the proper angle to complement his partner. A buzz of power zipped along his skin. When he aligned his movements to those of Amara’s, it crackled along his skin and gave him more energy so that the exercises invigorated rather than tired him. In contrast, when he fell out of alignment, the buzz nipped and stung. A few welts on his hands and thighs, and he took increasing care to match Amara.
All the same, he kept an eye on Gisela. She smiled as she traced circles on the floor, graceful and lithe. Yet certainty welled within him that she was not completely comfortable with Todor’s hands on her. A hesitancy marked her movements as she shifted from leaping to twirling, which required two hands joined. Moreover, an element of her discomfort seeped up into him from the floorboards.
When he turned away from her, his ability to track the dancers expanded. Perhaps due to the circular nature of the floor. Or the awareness that had blossomed since the interrupted dance with the Terparchon, after which she proclaimed him a compeer. Or Gisela’s dance in th
e field.
It was not Gisela alone he followed, will-he nil-he, but everyone. A relief, on the one hand, because it made her one of many rather than a sole focus. But a mixed blessing, because the more he breathed, the more information and unasked-for knowledge flooded through him. It was as though he’d connected to the dancing floor to experience the weight and pressure of every foot that stepped on it, no matter how firm or tentative.
The knowledge didn’t come whole-cloth but in pieces that he had to choose whether to track and put together or not.
He knew too much and too little. Which details mattered? He might pay attention to the way Idan favored his right side in twirling and occasionally winced when he came down heavily on one foot or another. Should he care that Nefeli and Jola matched each other best of all the dancers, nearly breathing in the same measure?
That for all his calm appearance, Todor was tentative and performed the steps only a little better than Stevan? An oddity that troubled Stevan, for Todor’s younger sister Zora was far more assertive. Indeed, she danced more like a princess than a compeer, despite partnering Princess Heron, except for an oddly heavy step on the floor.
How did Stevan even know? Why was he sure that he could be blindfolded and yet walk among the dancers’ still bodies and know who was who, and which princesses?
Too many questions without answers.
At least he had managed to adjust to Amara’s slipperiness. The occasional odd step when her whole body jerked and turned limp as though hung from strings. The way she regularly leaned to the outside and had to be gently coaxed back in.
Amara certainly hadn’t lied about her imbalance.
He needed to talk more with Nefeli and the other compeers, at the first opportunity.
But more urgent was the desire to speak with Gisela. Amara had separated them because they were both new, but that was also a reason to bring them together. To let them learn in company rather than isolated and all too aware of their lacks, the more so as they’d already danced together often enough to have developed an ease approaching that between others who had partnered each other much longer.
Then Amara set them a new set of exercises. This involved practicing specific movements mimicking storm winds, rain, and flood.
“The better to give the Terparchon possibilities in easing stormfalls.” The elder turned in a circle, taking care to meet every dancer’s eyes. She demonstrated these, slow and sure.
Stevan struggled to follow. Pretending to be the wind proved the easiest but most tiring. It involved extensive twirling, leaps, and hand movements. Always moving, always changing, never remaining in one place for longer than a breath.
The turn to rain let him catch his breath, and spend more time in one place or at least moving slower. Stretch, yes, reaching high and then hand movements tumbling down. Much hand and arm action while torso and body drifted this way and that, often driven by those dancers imitating winds.
Last but far from least, the flood steps brought him low. Crawling on hands and knees or even lying flat and undulating against the hard floor. Never rising very high. Always swaying and seeking the path of least resistance.
These became more involved than the earlier exercises, the more so as Amara broke them into three groups. Each worked their way through the movements in rotation. Wind dancers, rain dancers, and flood dancers all had to interact with each other. Weave around the floor in intricate patterns.
Now experience mattered. Amara and Todor’s familiarity with the movements let them guide Stevan and Gisela, and reduced clashes and crashes. Amara had everything down cold despite her balance issues. The same did not hold true of Todor, who never aligned his body quite right to Gisela no matter how he tried.
By the end, sweat covered Stevan’s body. Even with the windows open at the upper level, the smell of warm bodies in motion filled the air. His muscles ached, but he’d aligned himself enough with Amara to end with more energy than he’d started.
Seeking out the fountain near the entrance, he dashed lukewarm drops against his face. Cupped his hands under one of the spouting fishes and drank deep. Other dancers formed lines at the remaining spouts or sought out the other fountains.
Then Amara summoned them back for one last exercise.
This time she ordered them to line up along the walls.
Stevan took a place near the fountain, the distant trickle of the water a pleasant underscore to the soft shuffle of sandals on wood as Amara rearranged them to place all the compeers on one side and princesses on the other.
And gave to each a length of cloth. A blindfold. Stevan ran the soft, dark fabric through his fingers.
“I will assign you each a role.” She turned a slow circle, once she had them all where she wanted them. “Wind, rain, or flood. You are to dance in your role through the room until you find a partner with the same role. Princesses find compeers, compeers princesses. Once you’ve found a matching partner, pair up without ever touching each other.”
Whispers and glances circled the room. Stevan joined in the second, but not the first. From the astonishment, and resistance, on various faces, this represented a variation from usual practices.
He stroked the fabric a second time, holding it up to the ceiling. The fine weave allowed little light to pass through. They’d all be dancing without sight. Although hardly an activity he’d have sought out, he did not fear it. If anything, nervous energy made his whole body vibrate. He ached to discover how much he truly did sense without seeing.
“A warning,” Amara pitched her voice to be heard over the whispers. “You may not touch anyone during the course of this dance. If you do—and I will know—you must remove your blindfold and withdraw to the edge of the room.”
“Why?” Zora stepped away from the wall, body stiff and chin high. “What purpose could this possibly serve? If we do this, surely next you will stuff our ears as well, that we cannot hear each other.”
“I shall keep the suggestion about stuffing your ears under advisement. It’s not a bad idea. But not for today. Blindfolding you will be enough.” Amara drew back, away from Zora, but her voice rose in power and impact. Every syllable resounded throughout the chamber. “Remember, o child of radiance, how dark it can be down in the Dancing chamber. Even with lanterns at every corner. A true Dancing Princess is able to Dance and work magic whether or not they can see. Or hear. Move or breathe.”
The air in the room grew taut for a moment, then Zora jerked her head in acknowledgment and retreated to the wall.
Across the chamber, Gisela fumbled with the task of tying her blindfold. One foot tapped restlessly against the floor.
Lifting the cloth in his hands, Stevan laid it over his eyes. The sudden cessation of light made him shiver. The fabric seemed cool, even cold, against his skin. Bowing his head, he tied it tight at the back.
His breaths sounded louder in his hears, but otherwise his senses didn’t change. He still tracked Amara’s passage around the room by the press of her sandals against the floorboards. Couldn’t hear what she said in anyone’s ears, no matter how hard he tried. Even when she reached the compeer nearest him.
Then she rose up high enough to cup her hands around his ears and whisper.
“Flood.”
He quenched his instinctive urge to sink down and begin the movements. Waited until she’d finished the circle and picked up a drum.
“Here is your beat.” Three slow even taps, three fast, then back.
Stevan delayed leaving the wall for three full rounds of the beat, letting it sink into his bones and the flow of blood in his veins.
Becoming a flood, he dropped low. Crouched and slunk along the floor. Sometimes moving fast, other times slow. Stretching upward slightly, as though swelling with added waters and swallowing a beast, hillock or house, then falling low again.
His calves and back ached, but also sizzled with the energy of the dance.
His other senses compensated for lack of sight. The movement of air around his
body shifted to alert him when someone approached. So too did the different scents of peoples’ soaps or perfumes mixing with their bodily odors. Those dancing the part of winds breathed fast and frequently. Rain dancers changed their breathing patterns often as they moved from heavy falls of water to soft and then back, but otherwise remained steady. Flood dancers such as he drew long, deep breaths as they flowed about the room.
As before, he registered when anyone stepped upon the floor. Without vision, he couldn’t put names and faces to a good half of the other dancers. But he tracked where Gisela moved. By her long, low, slow steps, she too danced as a flood. The whole of the room separated them, but he headed that way, determined to dance the flood with her even if they couldn’t touch.
Todor danced as rain—and so could not partner with Gisela this time.
A third of the way across the floor, a twirling wind nearly took Stevan out. They both dodged at the last minute, Stevan with a sharp almost whistle.
Occasional curses as others bumped into each other—or brushed by and had to be ordered out by Amara—distracted him as well.
Yet not enough. He met up with Gisela two-thirds of the way across the chamber. Had she headed toward him consciously or not? No matter. As two flood dancers they faced off, slipped to one side then another.
Then danced together.
In joy—and agony, for they couldn’t touch.
Heat and power zinged between them, easing his aches and helping him dance longer. Savor his triumph. Exult in the pleasure of dancing, success, and how well they paired. Above and beyond, a new wave of confidence flooded through him in time with his movement. The Terparchon and Amara were right: he was a born compeer, with something of value to offer.
When the drumming stopped, he stood up and removed his blindfold. Without thought, he mirrored Gisela as they removed the fabric from their eyes and stared at each other in perfect harmony.
Several voices interrupted. Nefeli and Idan approached, the latter’s steps heavier than before, both calling Stevan’s name. He glanced their way, and when he turned back Gisela had vanished from the room. As had Danissa . . . and Todor.