A New Princess

by A. R. Henle

  “This way!” The other princess shouted as she grabbed Gisela and led the way, but Gisela kept losing hold of her hand.

  With every step came the howling of the winds and the tolling of the bell. It rang thirteen strokes at a time—thirteen thirteens in all. By the end, all princesses and compeers should be gathered.

  Impossible to miss.

  Gisela missed a step and crashed into Danissa’s back at the edge of the stairwell. Reeling back, she grabbed hold of the frame. Bit her tongue as her slippery fingers grabbed the wooden doorway then nearly lost purchase. Dug her fingernails in to halt, whirling around.

  “Follow me down.” Danissa yelled over the howling winds. A dark, shadowy outline against more darkness, she passed through the doorway.

  Gisela drew in a deep breath, swallowing the last of the blood from her lip. Right hand resting lightly against the stone wall, she followed. A little light trickled into the stairwell through gaps in the shutter-covered windows. Better than the windowless hall, but not by much.

  Sliding one foot ahead then the other, she made her way to the stairs. Grabbed the railing and clung as she descended sideways, the better to keep hold and not fall. She slipped once, heel catching the edge of the stair rather than clearing it and moving cleanly down to the next. The tight grip on the bannister let her get her feet back under her.

  Once on solid land, Danissa led the way through the door to dash across the courtyard to the dancing pavilion. An easy passage in daylight, for Gisela had made it often enough to find some familiarity in the dashes right, then left. Random wind gusts howled in her ears and nearly knocked her off her feet.

  Only a few raindrops mixed with the winds, but those smashed against Gisela’s arms and face as though bits of frozen ice. The wind and rain chilled her body, but not by much. Summer’s warmth still held against the storm chill.

  They made it safe.

  Danissa stopped immediately inside the door to shake her head. A few semi-frozen raindrops loosed hold of her curls and splattered the walls.

  Gisela darted around, and headed toward the great room where they always exercised. During those failed storms, a few princesses and compeers had practiced steps to ease winds and rains.

  “No, this way.” A form stood next to a door Gisela had not yet seen open. Flickering light from a lantern held in Rik’s hand illuminated their face. “You’re nearly the last. Go on down.”

  Gisela lingered, then followed again in Danissa’s wake as the other princess moved around and passed through.

  Another set of stairs faced them, wide enough for two to walk abreast. Stones lined either side, with a thin wood railing fixed on the right. No windows to offer even fragments of light, but Amara held a lantern high at the bottom. Between her and Rik, the stairway resolved into sharply delineated steps and overlapping shadows.

  Turning sideways, Gisela wrapped her hands tight around the railing and descended again.

  The door at the base opened into a room the equal of the dancing chamber above in size.

  Here, however, all was gray and shadowy. Alcoves around the outskirts contained soft couches and stores of sweet-smelling breads. Three small fountains affixed to the walls—in the shapes of stars, fishes, and trees—provided a constant trickle of water. The soft tinkling sounds reached her ears easily; the layers of stone kept away the howl of the winds above.

  A clean-smelling breeze bearing a hint of storm-scented moisture tugged at Gisela’s tunic and then moved on. The air was fresh and easy to breathe, with no taint of sweat or staleness.

  The floor captured and held the bulk of Gisela's attention. Unlike the smooth surface above, this was a mosaic formed of thousands of small tiles. All well set into the stone floor, but so unnecessary for they gleamed a uniform dull silver gray. Surely plain stone would have sufficed, or a good coat of whitewash mixed with ashes. She stepped onto the surface and off, grimacing. It wasn’t slippery at all, but she’d felt the difference between the tiles.

  For the first time she truly was grateful for the sandals protecting her feet, even as Amara had predicted all those days ago. A shiver rippled through Gisela, apprehension or a touch of chill in the air despite the princesses and compeers stretching and yawning.

  A warm form approached from behind, stopping next to her at the very edge of the mosaic. Stevan's presence relaxed her, although anticipation and dread continued to reverberate in her body.

  “You were right about the bell. I couldn’t miss it.”

  “Nor I.” Stevan touched her arm with his as they stood side by side. “Are you ready to Dance?”

  “Are you?” She turned her head to look up at him; as she did, he wore a thin gray tunic and a layer of sweat. “This is your first time as well, is it not?”

  “It’s what we were made for.” His hand brushed her.

  She slipped her fingers into his, lacing them together.

  “You speak truth.”

  Both whirled, without losing hold of each other, to find Amara standing behind them. Farther away, Rik held the door for Jola and Nefeli.

  “We were made to Dance, to mediate between the forces of nature and the needs of humanity.” Amara reached up and brushed a finger across each of their brows, Gisela then Stevan. “But be at ease, for this will not be a swift matter. The Terparchon will require only so many of you as necessary on the floor at any given time, to keep pace with the storm. At a guess, we shall be here through the remainder of the night and all of the day.”

  “Stay here?” Gisela turned, instinctively seeking the door. Now closed, only a faint glowing line betrayed where it lay. Stevan’s grasp on her tightened, but his fingers shook as well as hers.

  They were captives, no matter that they’d come willingly.

  “Only until the Dance ends. All needs will be supplied. We have food and water”—Amara waved one hand at the fountains and the alcove containing sweet breads beyond—“and places to rest and do whatever is necessary.” Another hand wave at the cushioned couches in the other alcoves, and a privy tucked off of one. “And I and other former princesses and compeers will tend to your needs.”

  A sharp clapping punctuated Amara’s pronouncement.

  From an alcove on the far side of the room marched the Terparchon. Unlike the other times Gisela had seen her, she was plainly dressed. Nothing differentiated her from the others, princesses and compeers alike. Only the small remainder who would not Dance—Amara, Rik, Idan, and a few others—wore anything other than a gray tunic and sandals with mismatched ribbons.

  “The storm comes. Let us begin with two princesses each for wind and rain.” Spine straight and head held high, the ruler turned in a slow circle. She summoned each princess and their attendant compeer with a crook of her finger.

  Jola, Danissa, and two other princesses stepped forward. With a last squeeze of Gisela’s hand, Stevan left her to join Danissa. He and the other compeers each placed themselves directly behind their princess.

  A third of the way around the chamber, Rik placed a cushioned, backless bench just big enough for one person at the very edge of the mosaic. A dam Gisela did not remember having met or seen before seated herself and pulled out a flute. She blew a few notes, then began a soft meandering melody. The music floated in the air with no echo.

  As wind and rain, the princesses began to move. Their compeers matched them, swaying as rain or whirling as winds. No dancer quite the same, but all graceful and lovely to watch. The Terparchon remained at the center of the mosaic, body swaying and arms tracing curlicues in the air.

  A sudden gust of true wind somehow slipped into the chamber, bringing a hint of dampness and the taste of raindrops. The air grew hazy around the dancers. Gisela blinked, but her vision remained fuzzy. Then cleared—except it was as though the view before her had doubled.

  The Dance and dancers remained visible. Stevan hooked a hand under Danissa’s knee and braced her torso as she rose on the other leg and stretched her arms out. He lifted her high and twirled
them around. Nearby Jola and Nefeli linked arms, back-to-back, and swayed in opposition to each other.

  Yet another sight overlaid them. A dark and heavy cloud hung in place of Jola and Nefeli’s heads and torsos, and their bodies shared space with torrents of rain. Where Stevan and Danissa moved, there blew a swirling wind. When Danissa pulled her arms and legs in, and Stevan lowered her to the floor, the swirling wind uncoiled into five or seven wind gusts, all heading in different directions.

  Below, the floor changed the most of all. A miniature illusion of the palace and city grew to cover nearly half of the gray tiles. The royal residence stood knee-high on Danissa as she tiptoed around it. A matching illusory lake filled the remainder of the circular mosaic. An ever-increasing wall of dark rain clouds marched in from the far side. But Jola, Nefeli, and the other princess and compeer dancing rain encouraged them to empty the bulk of their water upon the lake before they reached shore.

  Only the Terparchon remained unaltered. The images of palace, city, and lake turned slowly around her. With a hand gesture here, a toe pointed there, she directed the dancers where she wanted them.

  How long did Gisela stand watching them with an open mouth?

  Not long enough to prepare her for the experience of swapping in as Jola and Nefeli cycled out.

  Todor laid a warm hand on Gisela's back as he ushered her from the periphery into the mosaic. Energy crackled to life within every cell in her body, welling up from the earth beneath her feet. The smells of the room—bread, sweat—dissipated and instead she breathed air redolent with rain.

  Startling, she arched away from him. Her right hand rose high, and the clouds shifted. A portion burst. A brief torrent fell upon the lake shore close by the palace. Todor lifted his arm to match the angle of hers. He had not Stevan’s ease at matching her. All the same, his gentle insistence forced her to curve her arm down, around, and back to her side. The torrent shifted, easing away from the royal residence to pound upon small buildings on the other side of the palace walls.

  As she danced, she seemed to break into three parts rather than two as before.

  Her body conducted the work. Arching, bending, weaving about the floor. Embodying and directing rain to fall here, not there.

  Most of her mind watched not the scene in the dance chamber under the earth but from above as though she were one with the storm clouds. Amorphous and so laden with water that the winds could not move her fast.

  Yet a small slice of her observed the action in the chamber. Watched the Terparchon direct her and the others upon the floor. Noted how the ruler made choices of where the winds spent the bulk of their energy, on land or over water, where the rains fell hardest and flood waters rose.

  The time came for Gisela and Todor to spiral out and be relieved by other dancers. She spun over the edge of the mosaic, and then crashed to the floor. The crackling energy dissipated, leaving her limp and exhausted. Body drenched in sweat to the point her tunic and underthings clung to every muscle and sinew. Every muscle in her body ached, feet worst of all. Her stomach growled in hunger, mouth was parched, and she was in need of the privy.

  Amara and Rik slipped gentle hands under her arms to lift her and carry her to a nearby bench. Rik left her and returned to help Todor to his feet. Amara remained beside Gisela. Ensured she had all she needed. Ample goblets of water from the fountains. A slice of bread sweetened with sugar and spices that drove all taste of sweat from her mouth. Access to the closest privy.

  A cushioned couch to recline on afterward, so as to recoup her strength for her next turn at the dance. And basins of cool water sprinkled with healing herbs in which to ease her aching feet.

  Gisela half-dozed, half-watched. The flutist no longer played, and instead the lyrical strains of the harp underscored the whirl of movement on the floor. The storm had shifted well over the coast, though much remained. The number of princesses and compeers dancing at the Terparchon’s command had risen to seven.

  Likewise, the ruler’s control over the dancers increased. The hazy image of the city and palace grew in size, driving out most of the lake, until the tip of the highest building reached the Terparchon’s waist rather than her knee. This allowed her to be more particular about where the heaviest rains fell, the strongest winds blew, and deepest flood waters gathered.

  “Rest, my dear. You will be needed again, soon.” Amara knelt next to Gisela, obscuring her view of the Terparchon and center of the dance.

  By chance? No, given the glint of warning in the older dam’s eyes.

  “She chooses where the damage is worst.” Gisela tilted her head to the side, watching waters seep into a single-level building at the edge of the mosaic.

  “The Terparchon can’t completely abate storm effects, so she must make choices.” Amara’s voice dropped to just above a whisper. “She has a care for which areas are best able to recover from flooding or wind damage, unlike . . . “

  “The old Terparchon.” Gisela finished the sentence, keeping her tone equally low.

  “She protected what she valued first and foremost.” Amara bent her head, coming so close her lips nearly brushed Gisela’s ear. Her breath was warm, showing Gisela how much she’d cooled.

  “And went after what she wanted?” No living beings showed in the illusory city. The flooded building might be a home, business, or something else.

  Amara didn’t answer. Drawing back, Gisela glanced at the floor. Princesses dancing winds leapt around, both lifted and lowered by the Terparchon’s daughters, their compeers. Stevan and Danissa oozed along the floor in the distance as thick, turgid waters filled another building farther from Gisela.

  Slow anger seeped into Gisela with every flood surge, each tree toppled by the wind. When she cycled back into the Dance, she fancied she heard the shrieks, moans, and groans of those suffering from the storm damage. People who might have been harmed by the storm by chance—but instead took harm due to the Terparchon’s choice.

  Her feet hurt more with every step she took, as she and the others Danced until they wore their shoes through. All at the command of the Terparchon.

  Better than her mother she might be, but that only increased Gisela’s fury at the old, dead Terparchon. The earthquakes that drove the Escalli from their homeland must have been the old Terparchon’s doing. Surely one or two princesses alone could have eased the later quakes, if not the first.

  The haze over the mosaic dissipated when the Dance ended. Another lingered in Gisela’s eyes. She saw the other princesses and the compeers as though from a great distance. Stevan’s concern registered, but only for a moment as he was swept away by fellow compeers as Gisela climbed the stairs in company and sought the bathing chamber with other princesses. She didn’t argue, glad that he wound up in a different part of the baths.

  She wanted him safe from the anger burning within her—or perhaps she feared he'd somehow drain it from her and put off the conflagration to some other day.

  Time spent in the baths did nothing to ease her ire. Neither plunging in cold water nor sitting in the steam room. Her thoughts spiraled, always returning to the surety of the old Terparchon’s guilt. Increasing belief, since she’d suspected as much ever since Ilburna raised the topic. Convinced herself, but let it slide and do nothing.

  How many times would this cycle repeat? Or she bear with repetitions?

  Saying little, she trailed the other princesses as they dressed. Some others silent as well, letting her quiet go unnoticed while a few chattered all the while.

  Pulling on a clean tunic and mantle, both in shades of green, failed to change anything. Donning sandals deepened the rage building within. Her feet bore lines where the dancing sandals had worn through. The muscles ached, and covering her soles with stiff leather made it worse. Making her way through palace complex, too much of it covered with intricate mosaics that made for chary walking, had no appeal whatsoever. Given a choice, she’d go barefoot upon grass or soft earth, such as that in her former home, rather than wear sand
als across stone.

  But she was given no choice. No one else complained or appeared to mind.

  The clop of leather against stone resounded in her ears as she followed other princesses out of the pavilion.

  Everyone stopped at the first step for a long moment. Near the end of the line, Gisela understood only when it came her turn. The air was light and cool and wonderful to breathe after the closeness of the downstairs. The remaining clouds in the sky were fluffy and light against the blue, faintly tinged with pink as the sun headed toward the horizon.

  Nevertheless, more than one princess yawned. Heron first, and three more in the moment after. Chatter about whether or not to head to bed and sleep for days, if possible, filled the air.

  Gisela took one cautious step after another until she reached the edge of the oval mosaic filling most of the courtyard surface. It faced the pavilion, and only someone leaving would see the whole as no doubt meant to be viewed.

  Yet she’d managed to miss it before. At least, she’d registered the mosaic’s existence but as little more than figures and colors. A stylized scene of conquest, perhaps.

  On closer inspection, the full expanse hit her. At the center of the mosaic stood an ancestress of the Terparchon. A previous Terparchon, by the dam’s stance and coronet, and distant resemblance to her descendant. There was no Marchon in evidence, only her in front of a bevy of princesses. Twelve, of course, with compeers standing in a line behind.

  In this rendering the princesses and compeers were reduced to little more than outlines. No personality or distinctiveness about any of them. Indeed, whoever had designed the mosaic made them exactly alike. Same height, same proportions, same clothing in three layers of blue tunics each, graduated from dark to light for the princesses and the reverse for the compeers. Their faces featureless.

  Only the image of the Terparchon had a face.

  A prisoner knelt before her. Or perhaps crouched. The individual’s head bowed so low that they, too, were unidentifiable except for the lavender-colored tunics they wore. Rips and blood stains marred their clothes. They lifted hands stained with blood to the Terparchon, perhaps asking for mercy.