A New Princess

by A. R. Henle

  The crack of a whip.

  Swish of a switch.

  Smack of a hand slapping his face.

  Lashes landing on his back. He hunched. Pulled his arms in against his chest. Ducked his head. Pain bloomed from neck to buttocks. He ground his teeth, rocking.

  Soft arms wrapped around him. A welcome voice crooned in his ears. “Shh. Easy now. You’re safe here. Nothing’s going to harm you. You’re safe.”

  He let his head fall onto her shoulder as shuddering breaths racked his body. But the pain and voices of the past eased their hold, while leaving unwelcome knowledge behind.

  “I could do this all along. Ever since I was a child, except . . . I forgot. I didn’t want to remember.”

  “You’ve been a compeer that long?” Gisela stroked his hair. He shifted to cuddle closer to her, and she didn’t pull away.

  “Perhaps. I guess. But no one recognized it, especially me. At first, when I popped out word of where this person or that was, usually one of my siblings who’d run off to avoid punishment, no one believed me.” Stevan drew back, though he wrapped his hands around one of hers to keep the contact as long as he could.

  “If I hadn’t seen evidence, I might have trouble believing you.” She twined her fingers with his, squeezing. “You don’t need to tell me, but I admit to being curious. Why did you forget?”

  A lump grew in his throat, sourness filling his mouth. Swallowing hard, he continued. “When people did believe, things got worse. My father and stepmother were a bad match. My father wanted money and a mother for his children. My stepmother wanted higher rank. Neither got as much as they expected, so they sought consolation elsewhere.”

  Her eyes flickered at that.

  “You do know that most people in Codaros form marital alliances in twos and occasionally threes? And restrict their, ah, sexual activity to within marriage rather than . . .” He halted, rather than try to describe what little he knew of her people.

  “Rather than lying with whomever takes their fancy?” She huffed. “I daresay I know more of your ways than you of mine. In point-of-fact, many Escalli pair off or form triads after they’ve done their procreative duties, although as many do not.”

  “Fair spoken.” Stevan’s cheeks grew warm. “I wish more of my family were that. Both my parents constantly asked me where the other was. Scolded me, slapped my head, when I tried to keep from speaking. Then turned around and railed when I let slip where they were to the other. Sometimes my back still aches in remembrance.”

  “They hit you!” Gisela sat stock straight, body stiff and face radiating indignation. “They’re no parents, no carers, if they did. Hurting you for their own deeds.”

  “Are children not punished among the Escalli?” An incredulous chuckle escaped him.

  “Punished yes, but by being denied treats or made to do chores they detest. A guardian who is discovered hitting a child is removed and put to other tasks. At best.” She stroked his cheek, her skin warm and soft to the touch. Eyes damp. “Children should be cherished. I’m sorry you weren’t. And honored you confided in me.”

  The caring in her eyes loosened something within him. Bending forward, he set his head against her chest again and wept.

  Chapter 21

  Books, scrolls, and papers everywhere Gisela turned. The contents of Foleilion’s small cache multiplied by thirteen or thirteen squared or more—so many the air tasted of ink and parchment.

  Turning around and around, sandals scuffing against the wooden floor planks, and tunic and mantle swaying about her legs, she drank in the marvel that was the summer palace library.

  Sturdy wooden shelves towered above her by at least a head. The highest held rolled scrolls carefully wrapped in varicolored fabrics. Her fingers itched to untie the cords—gilded, silvered, or plain twine with the ends dipped in dye of one color another. To unfold the soft lengths of cloth and reveal the treasures beneath.

  Or to pull off one of the immense ledgers laid sideways on lower shelves and open covers nearly as large as her torso to read the contents. Would she even be able to move one on her own? Plenty of smaller books, most bound in bright colored boards, filled the middle shelves. Those more closely resembled the books she’d once cared for.

  Then there were wooden boxes, gilded or plain, that held papers not yet copied into other volumes. If she dived into one, what might she find . . .

  Caution held her back. So new to court and court life she might as well be a green bud barely poking its head above earth, patience was the better path. The safer. No sense doing anything rash until she knew whether the doing would endanger more than herself.

  And her village’s tax rolls.

  Even though forbearance left a sour taste in her mouth. She’d waited years without complaint, trusting each cycle to show she'd finally conceived. What good was patience when it brought only unwelcome results?

  One hand slipped out far enough to brush the binding of a burgundy book. Her fingers met lushly woven fabric, and a spark of energy shot up her arm.

  She jerked back, grabbing her shoulder to keep from trying again.

  Her hand landed, by chance or fortune, on the part of her mantle where Stevan had laid his head. The cloth was still damp from his tears. Some had even soaked through to the tunic below and not dried yet, leaving a cool patch.

  This was all the more notable because the library was cool. Tall windows captured breezes and channeled them along the shelves. The underlying floor was unmatched stone, rough and unadorned with mosaics. The shelves sat on stones cut into triangular shapes, raised a finger’s length or more above the floor. More triangular stones supported wooden floors and walkways around and between the shelves.

  Wooden platforms around the edges of the large chamber held ample tables and benches set out for reading and copying. Clear, bright light from the sun through the windows and the ever-present baskets of mosses allowed scribes to view every detail of the works they studied.

  The shelves holding the books and scrolls sat at the center of the room.

  “This way, should a storm blow open the protective shutters, any damage from rain or wind might be limited to the tables and benches and not reach the treasured contents.”

  An elderly librarian, white-haired and face shrunken to a mass of light-brown wrinkles, bent to point out the high-water mark halfway up a supporting stone. His multi-layered tunics, in graduating shades from pale pink to deep rose, fell to his ankles. A thick leather belt wrapped three times around his waist, hanging low at the center loop, for several metal rings of keys depended from it. He’d covered his feet in strips of matching rose underneath the straps of his sandals, but was steady as he led the way around the chamber.

  “The princesses have been kind to us.” His voice quavered a little, and he nodded at Gisela’s broach. “Even in the worst storms, they’ve shielded us from the heaviest downfalls and gales.”

  “I look forward to helping protect such an important place.” So many folk had mentioned the summer blasts as evidence of the princesses’ power and protection.

  She smiled at the elder, but grew uncomfortable when he continued to stare at her. Rather than return gaze for gaze, she glanced away at the assortment of clerks seated at the tables. Most had two books or scrolls before them, one dense with text and the other blank save where the scribe laboriously copied in letters and forms. Pens scratched against paper. Pages rustled as they were turned. Occasionally a scribe drew in a deep breath after a turning.

  Most also peeked her way now and then. She ignored them other than polite nods.

  In a far corner sat Stevan, bent over a thick book as tall as his forearm. He’d stayed to escort her back after. Instead of following her and the librarian around the room, he’d asked for a book on trees of all things. Despite the distance between them, as he turned a page she caught a glimpse of a drawn tree that filled the paper from edge to edge.

  He glanced up and grinned. Then turned back to his book.

  Per
haps he’d noticed her stopping. Or whatever power let him track her footsteps shared other things, too, such as that she’d looked at him.

  No one had told her about the powers of compeers, other than that they supported princesses and made their Dancing easier.

  Then again, neither had anyone particularly instructed her in the powers of princesses either. Amara had shown her various exercises and steps, all of which raised some measure of power. This morning’s practice had expanded her knowledge. Yet still so much remained a mystery.

  One fragment of Amara’s instruction stuck with her, nagged at her in stray moments.

  Princesses raised power and directed it.

  “But what matters most is what’s in your heart.” Amara had patted her own chest. “And how you express it in Dance.”

  Hence the practice of being rain and wind and flood.

  Swallowing the burst of irritation burning the back of her throat, Gisela drew deep breaths. Each one bore the aromas of parchment and ink, of leather and preserved cloth. The special threads that stitched pages together within bindings. All familiar, albeit she was accustomed to a lesser degree, and that familiarity eased the tightness in her shoulders.

  She had time. Her pledge to her village bound her here for years. What matter if she didn’t find any answers on arrival?

  Save Ilburna might not have so long to wait.

  The village elder had mentioned fellow Escalli placed at court, one in the winter palace library and another somewhere. Gisela glanced over at the scribes and librarians rustling through the building. None gave her any sign of recognition or spoke with the brisk accents she already missed.

  Jerking her head, she turned her attention back to the elderly librarian showing her around. He’d moved from the matter of water to discussing the treasures held here.

  “We have at best a third as many volumes and rolls as the winter palace.” The old sire shook his head and clicked his tongue. “But more with every passing year. You see we have the room.” He gestured at half-filled shelves.

  Some had as little as one volume laid flat upon them. Others contained one, two, or three covered boxes of wood specially treated to preserve the contents. The planks shifted not at all beneath Gisela as she slipped partway down the aisle. The librarian followed. Loosening some of the keys chained to his belt, he opened a selection of the boxes for her to peer into.

  Most of the pages were thin and flimsy, or had the appearance of over-used parchment that had had writing scraped off so often they were nearly useless. Yet all had some words or numbers on them, mostly in the kind of cramped hand Gisela used for notes back in the days she’d documented the elders’ meetings.

  “Are these notes of value?” The lesser light between shelves combined with the narrow, scratched letters to make reading difficult.

  “We will see.” The librarian threw his hands out. “They came with the court this spring, and will go back in the fall. Clerks and aides sometimes come to consult them, or even remove them.”

  “How old are they?” She shifted further down, trying to read the lines on a particularly yellowed scrap of parchment.

  “Most are recent. A season? A year? But some boxes go back and forth every year. That one there,” he caressed the box lid, “has notes dating from the Terparchon’s mother and grandfather’s days.”

  Gisela’s fingers twitched at the urge to page through them. Study. Search for more information about the loss of the Escalli homeland. She didn’t fully understand the urgency welling within her. A distant voice in her mind insisted she already gave Ilburna the answer that yes, the old Terparchon could have and probably did drive them from their homeland.

  But she lacked surety or proof.

  Then again what good would proof do? Except give a little ease or direction to the deep burning anger that welled within her at how little territory the Escalli now occupied, and how little control they had over their lives and livelihoods.

  And how little she had. Easier to be angry with the old Terparchon, whether or not she was truly guilty, than face the lingering resentment for her situation. For how fate blew her about, taking with one hand and giving with the other but not in equal measure.

  And Gisela went along. Let herself be blown this way and that. Ordered here, sent there, commanded to dance.

  Perhaps that’s partly why she increasingly wanted to know the truth. Ilburna was right that knowledge was likely all they’d ever have, as it wouldn’t change their situation. But Gisela found hope in the possibility that the old Terparchon was to blame for Gisela’s people’s misfortune. That would give Gisela someone, no matter how dead, to be angry with. To curse and lash out at, when she couldn’t do anything to other forces.

  Though it would require doing something other than going along.

  Pulling away from the box, she let the lid fall.

  Steeled herself to continue on the tour when what she wanted more was to sit down with the box’s contents.

  Turning, she discovered the librarian frowning at view through the window at the far end of the shelves. A small mass of dark clouds loomed in the distance over the water. Closer, the sky took on a greasy, yellow cast. Winds whirled over the lake, but all breezes had vanished. The air lay still and calm. Drier, and easier to breathe.

  “That’ll be a storm, no doubt.” The librarian gave her an abstracted smile, eyes distant and calculating. “I regret that I must end the tour now, but do return another time. We are always happy to share our treasures. Now I must see about preserving them.”

  He clapped a friendly hand on her shoulder.

  And somehow, within a matter of minutes, she and Stevan and most of the other scribes had vacated the building, only those employed by the library remaining behind. The scribes scattered off in a dozen directions, several muttering about supper.

  Gisela remained, shocked by the speed with which she’d been shunted out of the library. The old sire had every excuse, if he believed a storm coming, but had he also noticed her interest in the old papers?

  Distant clattering marked the shutters being closed over the windows, three at a time.

  Quiet though the air lay, a current ran through it setting every hair on Gisela’s body on end.

  “The sky does have a storm-cast to it. We may be called to Dance before long.” Stevan scanned the horizon, pointing out where the clouds merged and multiplied. “Maybe tonight, maybe morning.”

  “Do we Dance at night?” Gisela had never seen such a strange twilight.

  “I don’t know much more than you, but I’ve heard the bell that calls princesses, and compeers to Dance ring out at all hours. Even though it never called me before. You cannot miss it. Only infants can sleep through it. It always woke me out of sleep no matter how deep.”

  Both fell silent, waiting on it to ring. Bangs and clatters sounded from every part of the complex. Window after window turned dark as shutters closed. Only a few lanterns, and fountains here and there overgrown with the luminescent mosses, offered warm light to counter the greasy, yellow sky.

  Except at the horizon, where thin silver beams fought to break through the clouds. The crescent moon hung above the lake before the storm swallowed it.

  “Not long, now, until the moon grows full again.” Stevan’s voice grew distant and abstracted, though his eyes fell warm on Gisela when she glanced his way.

  He said nothing more, but his silence spoke volumes. A flicker of power electrified the air between them. An illusion grew, from the power he'd begun to embrace—and the way he stood gazing down at her. Twilight turned to midnight. Their clothes shifted into thin tunics clinging to their skin after long hours of dancing. His refusal to lie with her rang again in her ears, along with his other words. His promise.

  She now realized he desired a yes to last for days and months and years, not just a night.

  If she decided to make the offer. Which she hadn’t . . . yet.

  A blink dispelled the illusion, returning her to the summer pal
ace on the eve of a storm.

  A tender, wry smile shone on Stevan’s face.

  “If you’re not ready to make an offer at this full moon, hold off until the next one moon after. Or the one after that,” he said, quiet but sure. “I’ll wait until you know what you do or don’t want from me.”

  “Why?”

  “I have always loved to dance, but never did so with anyone who fit me as well as you.” He took her hand, pressing it between his. In the growing quiet, their pulses beat in harmony. “No matter which of us leads, I can match you in the dance. And, I believe, in life as well.”

  They stared into each other's eyes. Longing rose in her, to dance with him in every way—but that very longing brought fear. The last thing she desired anywhere near so much had turned to dust and left only bitterness behind.

  She looked away first. “I can’t.”

  His hands remained warm around hers for a long moment, fingers squeezing in encouragement before he let go.

  His promise to wait lingered in her ears, on her mind, for hours after.

  Chapter 22

  A week later, a deep bell tolled out, stroke after stroke to the count of thirteen. A long pause, then another set. The low notes resonated in every bone in Gisela's body, from skull to toes. Her teeth chattered.

  The bell woke her from a deep sleep. Sleep of the innocent, even, for she’d lain down on her bed convinced the storm would not be too bad. Most of the court had dismissed the evening’s greasy yellow sky as another minor gale pretending to be more than it would prove. Thrice this had happened so far—but this was a true storm. Heavy wind gusts battered the shutters and walls.

  She pulled a thin undyed tunic over her undergarments, binding her waist with a matching cord. Thin sandals covered her soles, held on by mismatched, loosely woven orange and blue ribbons wrapped around her ankles. Strands of hair clung to her forehead, the rest she left uncombed and bound at her nape with yet another length of mismatched ribbon.

  Sweat covered Gisela's body, most particularly her hands. She ran into Danissa in the nearly pitch-dark hall.