by A. R. Henle
No breeze blew through the clearing, but Gisela’s skin remained dry and warm rather than hot. The still air held a taint that hit the back of her throat as though she’d swallowed a mouthful of soured milk.
Gisela remained several feet back from the shadow itself. Not close enough to touch. The ground of the Shadow appeared hard and sharp. Unweathered by the elements. Except . . . around the edge, bits flaked off. Or was the Shadow growing and absorbing the earth around it?
The trees’ ample foliage ended with the edge of the clearing. None of the trunks had limbs growing out over the mosses, toward the Shadow of the Moon; nor signs such limbs had been removed. The closest trees seemed almost to be leaning back and away.
A faint ringing began at the back of Gisela’s ears. Distant, as though someone far away had struck a gong. Or screamed. She shook her head, but the impression remained. It made her dizzy. She blinked and rubbed her ears with fingers growing chilly against heated cheeks.
A sense of wrongness flooded through her. The Shadow reminded her of the fallow field, only worse. Withering. Dying. Dead. Despair formed a lump within her. Her arms grew heavy and legs wobbled. Hard to pull away. The chalky earth called to her. She almost stepped forward, except memory of the fallow field also brought to mind the last time she’d danced there. Bidding it farewell. Stevan balancing her and cradling her as she wept.
Behind her, Danissa shifted from one foot to another. Her mantle rustled, disturbing the silence, and the ringing faded away.
Gisela turned in a circle, fixing on Danissa. The other had her arms crossed and shoulders hunched. Desperate to go, but unwilling to abandon Gisela. Shaking her head a second time, Gisela nodded at the closest path leading away.
“Shall we go?”
“You do not wish to see any more?”
“Not today.” Gisela turned her hands out to either side. “I thank you for coming with me. I regret I didn’t listen and stay away.” Only a half truth, for Gisela would have wanted to come close some time. Still might, but not alone. Danissa was right about that.
“The old Terparchon—not the current one, her mother—she used to host picnics and court dances here and on the other Shadows of the Moon.” Danissa started along the path away, glancing back every few steps as though to be sure Gisela was following—or perhaps that nothing else trailed along farther behind. “She died when I was young, but I remember having to go along with my father and hating it.”
“The Terparchon treasures it?” Gisela glanced back herself, and saw only empty air. Not even butterflies or insects seemed to dare the area close to the Shadow.
“All the Terparchons have, or so my father says. The empire possesses eight now, but that’s not a good number. Sooner than later they’ll want to get them all. The old Terparchon never let anyone else walk on the Shadow of the Moon, but she would dance on it with glee.” Danissa sighed, relief clear in every inch of her body, as they reached the more natural shade of the canopy of trees. Stopping for a moment, she shuddered and gave Gisela a rueful glance. “The old Terparchon—she’s not much missed. The current Terparchon has her oddities, and you have to get to know them, but she’s much nicer to dance for. Even my father will admit it if you get him drunk enough.”
Gisela made no protest when Danissa set a quick pace on to the library.
A chill remained, no matter how far they went from the shadow. Its very unnaturalness lurked in the back of her head. So horrid. Worse than the fallow field. Gisela pulled her mantle closer around her shoulders and tucked folds around her arms. All the same, she didn’t warm even when they left the woods and gardens to walk bright, hot paths between buildings.
No matter how fast she moved, or how hot the sun, she stayed chilled to the bone until they reached the arched entrance to a tall building of silvery stones—and met Stevan hurrying along toward them.
Chapter 20
Stevan's unexpected promotion brought many benefits, some he’d admit publicly and the remainder never. Of those he would claim, new clothes ranked high. Shallow of him, perhaps, but practical as well.
The summer heat no longer bothered him so much as he wove his way from one side of the palace to the other. Tunic and mantle, both in shades of green-blue, flowed around his arms and legs but wicked away moisture. His sandals lacked patches to the underside.
And all were clean without his having lifted a finger. The second clean outfit in one day, the clothes he’d worn dancing having been whisked away for laundering.
If he strode along a little faster, bounced a little higher with each step, it was from the sheer pleasure of being able to cross an open-air courtyard from side to side without hugging the shadows in a vain attempt to avoid overheating.
Gray stone buildings rose high to either side. Matching stones paved courtyards, save where raised beds nourished trees and flowers, or fountains rose to toss drops of water high. These were rougher stones than elsewhere, the buildings newer and paths less trodden and so not yet worn smooth.
Fewer mosaics adorned the walls—room left for rising generations to leave their mark. The most decorative parts were often the floors and paths. The stones beneath his feet were myriad small ones set in the earth to form patterns. One courtyard boasted stones adding up to a starry sky. Another was decorated with waves teeming with fish.
They made walking much more interesting, even if one did have to step carefully to avoid stray stones lying slightly higher. The stones channeled whatever waters fell from the sky. Though dry now, under the hot sun overhead, bits of moss already grew here and there waiting for the next deluge.
He’d walked these ways many times before, back when he sharing rooms on a high, hot floor. Unlike other, grander, parts of the palace, he knew what lay within these walls. Which ministries filled this building. Whose overworked clerks labored on the other side.
Now he’d didn’t belong—he passed through.
But his new coworkers had welcomed him. At least Nefeli and Idan and the other born compeers. For well over an hour they’d all sat together in the shade outside the dancing pavilion, exchanging stories and hints and tips.
Giving him advice, but in a kindly fashion that did not demand he immediately act on any of it. Just as well, with so many offerings from the best ways to lift and support princesses to many of their individual quirks and preferences. Better to listen and let the suggestions sink in. Whatever made sense would float to the top, and those he’d seek to make second nature.
He licked his lips, clearing away the last lingering drops of the yogurt-smeared flatbread he’d grabbed for a snack when he passed the kitchens.
Tonight, the court would feast to celebrate Gisela’s arrival . . . and the looming departure of some ambassador or another . . . and at least three or four other purposes as well. The Marchon and Terparchon had perfected the art of honoring as many people at the same time all the while convincing most of them that they were the primary reason for the celebrations.
Gisela would likely not be taken in.
The heat of noon-day sun sent most people inside thick walls that held the night’s chill, or in the shade somewhere. Even when on the track between Foleilion and the court, he and Gisela and Amara stopped for lunch and naps.
Stevan didn’t mind being sent off on an errand this day, not in light clothes. Not when he returned some service to those who helped him.
Particularly when it meshed with his own inclinations and interests.
Despite the heat, some others were out walking between the buildings: the secretary to minister of defense, clerks who toiled for the treasurer. Stevan nodded and occasionally exchanged pleasantries. He avoided longer conversations and project a friendly air to show he hadn’t grown too big for his sandals since his sudden elevation, but also appear a man with a mission of some urgency. Someone who knew where he was bound.
Which he didn’t, at least . . . not exactly.
He knew not when or where, but whom he was headed toward.
Quite
an odd feeling to be tracking a person rather than heading to a place. Energy raced through his skin, keeping him on edge. His skin heated the longer he walked, making him all the more glad to wear cool clothes.
The uneasiness in his bones made no sense. Tracking should seem a natural extension of his ability to know where Gisela was at her village, or where people were on the dance floor.
But this wasn’t the dance floor, and he didn’t seek Gisela . . . or, not only Gisela.
Idan and Nefeli had explained it, but making sense of it all required time.
His powers extended beyond the dance. Or should. The more he used them off the dance floor, the more natural he’d find them on.
Apparently a natural compeer could, if they put their mind to it and practiced, track at least one and as many as several people across varyingly vast distances by feeling their steps on earth and stone. Or a compeer might cast a wider net upon a smaller field, and learn something of everyone who walked there. Or various combinations between.
Stevan tracked Danissa on purpose, to deliver a message. He’d find Gisela near Danissa. They followed such a similar trail that surely walked together. They headed toward one of the newer, squarish buildings that sat near the guard barracks. As Stevan drew closer, he became aware of Brenn not too far away, pacing around a large square.
That was only one part of being a good compeer: cultivating awareness of his environs and the people surrounding him.
Much as he wanted to see Gisela again—indeed he’d jumped at the errand as an excuse to head her way—the other parts of being a compeer, such as drawing and channeling power or grounding it when a princess overextended, intrigued him more.
Tracking people, knowing where they were, made his skin itch. Phantom noises plagued him—the whistle of a whip or switch about to strike. When he whirled around, he faced only empty air.
Still, Idan had asked him to find Danissa and see if she would attend on her father. To explain his decision to withdraw from being an active compeer to advising only. This guaranteed Stevan a place in the next Dance; albeit partnering Danissa, should she agree, rather than Gisela.
How could he say no? Particularly when Idan framed it as an opportunity to test and stretch Stevan’s tracking ability.
Even if it meant hurrying ever faster, no matter that it made him sweat more. Struggling to draw in deep breaths as he tried to outrun the inexplicable sounds chasing him. Desperate to reach Danissa and deliver his message before whatever invisible force caught him.
He spotted Danissa and Gisela together on the stoop of the library. The tall building with its high, arched windows rose up behind them. Against that, they appeared smaller and drawn in upon themselves. A light sheen of sweat made their respective skins glow, but rather than seeming overheated both shivered. Their mantles and tunics clung close to their skin.
Gisela smiled at his approach, but Danissa managed only a flicker of movement along her mouth.
He yanked open the door to the entry hall and encouraged them to enter. This was but an anteroom to the library itself, though large enough to encompass many people. Empty at the moment.
The air was cooler than outside, albeit not by much, and tinged with a dusty tang. Baskets hung on the largely unadorned walls. Each held a wealth of luminescent mosses that offered the only light. Faintly green, the moss light complemented no complexion but held less risk of fire.
At the center of the wall to the right sat a fountain in the shape of an immense pink spiral shell. Water trickled from the tip down the sides before falling into the basin. Beneath hung a dozen or more mugs from hooks set into the stone. The last wall featured immense double doors to the library itself, both pierced by a series of grates that allowed the librarians to look out. The wall to the left held three small alcoves, each with a bench and a degree of privacy.
Sandals clacked against the tiled floor, with its subtle pattern of browns, greens, and golds meant to represent layers of books. Every footstep raised an echo, as did the princesses’ shivery breaths. Stevan ushered them into the center alcove. Retrieving two of the mugs, he filled them with water and left them to drink. For himself, he stuck his cupped hands into the cool fall and drank straight from the source.
One of the librarians opened a door a hand's breadth, just far enough to stick out a pale face topped with a mass of tousled brown hair. An instant later, a tall, thin body draped in a double layer of green tunics slipped out. Slippered feet made a soft shushing noise. The librarian patted hair down, giving Stevan a courteous nod.
“How may I be of service? Do you wish to consult the library?” Wide brown eyes glanced at the women in the alcove, gaze lingering on the broaches that proclaimed their rank.
“Perhaps, but not quite yet. If we might have a little time?” Stevan nodded back.
“Of course.” With a last look at the princesses, the librarian retreated and let the door click shut behind him.
“Gisela wanted to see the library.” Danissa set her mug on the floor and stood up, dusting her tunic and mantle although both appeared spotless to Stevan.
“And so she shall, if she wishes. But drink well, first.” He refilled Gisela’s mug; Danissa shook her head when he offered to do the same for hers. “No liquids are allowed farther than this room.”
“I didn’t know you were headed here.” Danissa glanced between Stevan and Gisela, eyebrows arching. “Or perhaps you hoped to meet us?”
“I did, yes, but for reasons other than what you may suspect.” Stevan didn’t meet Danissa’s eyes. “It’s you I was asked to find.”
Both stiffened and looked straight at him for a long moment. Gisela shifted to glancing between him and Danissa, concern clear on her face. Danissa merely seemed surprised.
“Your father would like to speak with you. He’s in his rooms.” Stevan tilted his head in the general direction.
“Is he well?” Danissa held very still.
Stevan drew and expelled a deep breath, turning his hands out in unspoken commentary. “He says he is.”
“He would.” Danissa turned to Gisela, then Stevan, then back and forth until she finally settled on giving Stevan a glare before facing Gisela. “If you don’t mind, might I leave you in Stevan’s hands?”
Scarcely waiting for Gisela’s assent, Danissa stalked through the antechamber. Her footsteps quickened with every step, sandals slapping against the tiles by the time she was out the door.
Gisela watched her leave.
Stevan watched them both.
“He seemed tired this morning.” Gisela pursed her lips. “I only met him once before, but he reminded me of many of the elders on the council—determined to go on and do what they consider their duty no matter what anyone else said.”
“An apt description as far as I can see, though I know him only a little better.” Stevan shrugged.
“I didn’t know I was headed here until a little while ago. Danissa and I told no one.” Gisela set her half-full mug on the floor and twined her fingers together, a puzzled expression on her face. “How did you know to find us here?”
“There’s more to being a compeer than dancing.” Stevan stood still, feet firmly planted on the tiled floor. Nevertheless, movement thrummed in his heels: an echo of Danissa’s steps headed across the palace complex at a rapid rate. A faint whistling sound from behind made him jerk and whirl about, but no one was there.
“Such as what?” Gisela rose, tunic and mantle hems fluttering around her ankles. The fabric no longer clung quite so close to her figure as before, to Stevan’s regret. She peered around him, brow further furrowing. “Were you looking for someone?”
“No, I heard . . .” The whistle echoed in his head, more distant but still audible. Again he turned around to find no source.
“Be at ease.” Gisela gave him a gentle shove, enough to send him reeling into the alcove.
He dropped onto the bench and scooted back into the corner where stone surrounded him on two sides. Nothing and no one could
sneak up behind him here. Filling her mug, she brought it to him and pressed it into his hands.
“Your turn to drink deep, and tell me what is wrong.”
He obeyed only so far as to take a long swallow. Enough to wet his throat, but no more. All the same, his voice was rough and words scraped his mouth when he spoke.
“I can follow people. Find them, by tracking where they step on the ground. That’s not . . .” He grimaced. “I’m not sure how to describe it. A knowing or . . .”
“Such as when you found me dancing at the fallow field?” Gisela settled onto the bench next to him, radiating warmth and comfort.
“No, that was as much because I watched you leave the village and followed you.” He met her eyes. “This is more. At practice, I knew where everyone was on the floor. When I found you while blindfolded, it wasn’t by chance.”
“Hmm.” She didn’t look away. “It must be so distracting, particularly here where there are so many people. How do you manage?”
“I only track those I’m most interested in. It used to be my family, but then—” He stopped, his own words repeating in his head.
He tracked his family? Why had he said that and not merely that he tracked Brenn? Drawing in a quick breath, the air whistled through his mouth. All at once, voices overlaid each other in his ears. His father’s, stepmother’s, other siblings.
“Where is she? I know you know. You’ll tell me if you know what’s good for you.”
“I warned you, boy, keep your mouth shut on things that aren’t any of your business.”
“Tattle-tale, you better not spill my secrets or you’ll get it this time.”
Voice after voice demanding to know where someone was: he, she, she, he, they. Then the same voices yelling at him for having told on them. Always angry at other people—and at him.