A New Princess

by A. R. Henle

  Storms filled the upper portions of the mosaic with dark clouds save at the center where they parted to let through rays of silvery light upon the Terparchon.

  Below the prisoner, around the edge of the mosaic, appeared pictured perfect images of the moon. A dozen to match the princesses and compeers.

  And the supposed number of the Shadows of the Moon.

  Stooping to one knee, Gisela brushed a hand over one of the mosaic Shadows. The cold stone had a roughness to it despite years, decades, even centuries of feet passing over it. Surely it should have worn smooth, but instead it was nearly as unpleasant as the nearby Shadow of the Moon. A layer of dust adhered to her skin, thick and tacky as old mud.

  The previous Terparchon had wanted to possess all of them. Why—had an ancestor held them and lost the territory? None of the tales of history told in Foleilion indicated Codaros had ever owned their lands before them. The Escalli had lived there until driven out.

  By a Terparchon who wanted possession.

  “Gisela!”

  Startling, Gisela rose to find Danissa and Jola standing before her. Neither showed any awareness or concern that they stood over the tiled images of previous princesses.

  From the note in Danissa’s voice, she’d been calling for some time. Only the three of them remained in the yard. Other voices echoed in the distance, none close nor could Gisela see anyone around.

  “My apologies, I was . . . distracted.” Gisela rose, rubbing her hands together to remove the dust. She had to work hard to get it off, until it finally cracked and fell away in large flakes. “What is this of?”

  “That’s the Empire Builder, the Terparchon who first brought the princesses together to Dance and protect the land from storms and floods and invasion and other disasters. Most of the mosaics portray her.” Jola gave a harsh laugh and kicked at a loose pebble, sending it skittering across the tiles. “Nefeli dislikes this one in particular. Says it gives her mother ideas when she looks too long at it, as it did her grandmother before. They both talked about matching her—going out and acquiring new territories.”

  “Her grandmother certainly did that.” Gisela stepped back to view the whole. The tiles between the Terparchon, princesses, and compeers' feet and the Shadows of the Moon resolved into a miniature map. No doubt of Codaros as it had been, for it did not stretch all the way along the Omirisi River where the Escalli once lived.

  “Oh yes. Many.” Jola ticked names off on her fingers. “Midrilia, Fayorth, Rorenber.”

  “And Escalad,” Gisela said.

  “What?” Jola blinked, then her mouth froze in a wide O.

  “Isn’t that the river land the old Terparchon built a spring palace on?” Danissa broke in before Jola could react further.

  “Because it had a Shadow of the Moon.” Gisela flicked the last fleck of dust off her hand and tapped her foot on the air over the mosaic Shadows rather than let her sole fall onto the stone.

  “How do you know this?” Jola half-turned away, but her eyes watched Gisela closely.

  “My people lived there once, until we were driven off. By earthquakes. So many that stone would not stay upon stone.” No sense in hiding the information. Everyone who’d come on the journey to bring Gisela back knew where she came from. “Nature in action, perhaps, or destruction by Dance.”

  “I would keep that to myself, if I were you.” Danissa grabbed Gisela’s arm, fingers digging in and eyes flashing warning. “The Terparchon is not her mother. She does not send out guards in the night to bring unwitting prisoners and hostages into her keeping. Nor cry treason on those who did nothing wrong save offer unwanted opinions. All the same, it is better not to speak against any of the family. I will not mention this.” Her head twisted to fix her sights on Jola. “You too can keep quiet, can you not?”

  “I will not volunteer,” Jola said, words dripping one at a time from her mouth. She licked her lips. “But if Nefeli asks, neither will I lie.”

  “She won’t. I grew up with her and she always was one for keeping matters calm and not letting winds blow out of proportion.” Danissa turned back to Gisela and gave one last squeeze, then loosened her hold. Her fingers left dull red marks on Gisela’s skin. “So you may have this moment, but you must keep silent.”

  “Understood. I’ll keep quiet.” Though Gisela would send word to Ilburna when she had a safe chance. Let the elder know her deepening surety. Anger at the need for quiet flamed in her blood and bone. “But I’ll have a Dance of my own first.”

  Memories of dancing in the fallow field flashed through Gisela. How she’d danced out her grief and bitterness. It took many visits, many dances, but then she hadn’t known at the time that she was a princess and could change the world with movement.

  She needed something similar now: a way to release anger and resentment so that they would not poison her, or cause her mouth to slip and antagonize those who ruled the land and moved her about at their whim whether she willed it or no.

  Danissa had said that the old Terparchon used to dance on the Shadow of the Moon.

  Gisela stalked off to do the same.

  Danissa and Jola followed in her wake, calling for her to stop and asking where she went, what she meant to do.

  No matter what they said, whether in ignorance of where she headed or once they began to suspect, they could not stop her.

  No one could.

  Anger drove her away.

  Chapter 23

  Beauty and peace greeted Stevan as he left the dancing pavilion through a side door that gave out onto the wide patio where the Terparchon and Marchon sometimes held revels. Clouds lingered in the sky, but light, fluffy ones that formed streaks of pink and gold as the sun sank toward the horizon. A pleasant breeze off the lake tugged at the damp strands of hair lying plastered to his head and neck, and wicked away the last beads of sweats from his time in the baths.

  He’d grabbed a clean, old white exercise tunic from a heap left for any to use, his dancing tunic most definitely in need of laundering. The hem hit him at mid-calf, shades of his old clothes before his promotion. A sign of how comfortable he’d already grown in his new position that his lower legs felt cool exposed to the sun and breeze.

  His dancing sandals had worn through at the ball of the feet, so he’d left them behind in a pile with the others. None of the extra sets of sandals left for compeers to use quite fit him. He’d settled for a pair a little too big even taking into account that his feet remained slightly swollen from the dance. He’d tied the straps extra tight.

  An urge to go barefoot made him pause and consider removing the sandals, but practicality won the day. The patio showed evidence of the storm’s passage. Plenty of downed leaves, assorted branches, and other things kicked up from who-knew-where lay scattered across the mosaic, concealing the vast majority of the stones. At least one jagged length of painted wood lay athwart a pile of leaves. It had broken off a shutter high above that now flapped loosely against the side of the royal residence. Otherwise, he saw few signs of real damage to the buildings.

  Body relaxed and muscles at ease after a warm steam bath, more energy flowed in his veins than he’d have expected. Almost too much, for one of the muscles linking knee and ankle had begun to twitch. He might not sleep for hours at this rate. Scanning the sky, he noted the moon rising in the east. Nearly full, but not yet. He’d never tracked the moon’s phases with such care before, but it would not grow for his wanting.

  Sometimes patience hurt. A low, dull ache deep in his chest. He’d seen Gisela in the baths, but she’d left without a word. Not alone any more than he, but with other princesses, none of whom lingered here. Much as he wanted to track her, ensure she was well, he resisted.

  He’d promised to wait.

  So wait he would, but at least in good company.

  Though he’d turned around in search of the moon, both of his companions faced the lake. Nefeli stretched her arms high and arched her back toward the sun. Beside her, Idan planted his feet wide but ot
herwise kept a more compact stance as he drank in the sunlight.

  “A lovely night.” Idan’s chest rose high and fell in a slow sigh. “It almost never fails that we leave Dancing down a storm to such a sight.”

  “I’d rather it without the Dance beforehand, or the need at least.” Nefeli turned her head long enough to flash a grin.

  “Quite right, but let an old man luxuriate in the simple pleasures.” Idan didn’t move, though the corner of his lips tilted in a half smile.

  “Old man?” Nefeli laughed, deep and hearty. “You may be slowing down, but I’m not so sure you won’t live to dance on my grave.”

  “I would never! Dancing upon a grave is not a thing to do, likely to wake the dead to dance, too.” Idan turned around, twisted lips straightening into a full grin. “I would dance next to your grave, in honor of your life.”

  The extra energy in Stevan’s leg shifted to his foot. His toes twitched against the soft, worn leather of the sandals. It distracted him to the point he didn’t notice Nefeli moving and so jumped when she clapped a hand against his back.

  “You did well tonight.” She gave him the small bow of equals rather than royal to courtier. “I look forward to many more Dances with you.”

  “Thank you. I count myself a credit to my teachers, then?” He quirked an eyebrow at her, something easing in him at this open acknowledgment of his contribution.

  “Only if you insist.” She stretched her arms, mouth gaping wide in a yawn. “But I, at least, am for my bed. Time to rest and dream, and not to dance!”

  Stevan and Idan bowed and watched her slip through the doors into the royal residence. Idan jerked his head toward the path leading to the princesses’ and compeers’ quarters. Stevan fell in step with him, their sandals clapping against the stones as they walked.

  Other footsteps sounded in the distance, but none near. Otherwise the area lay quieter than Stevan had expected. Most folk seemed unwilling to trust the storm had ended, and he didn’t blame them.

  For all the lovely colors in the sky and absence of heavy clouds, there was an odd energy in the air. A frisson that kept him on edge, as though a bird sang just high enough to be out of the range of hearing.

  “Danissa seemed well.” Idan’s voice held no hint of the oddness. He rubbed his fingers together as he walked, a soft rustling more felt than heard.

  “Yes, it was a pleasure to dance with her.” Though a simple truth, it needed more when speaking with her father. “She moves well. Memorized the steps quickly, and made sure I knew where she wanted me to help her.”

  He’d found following Danissa’s lead very easy. She gave ample indication of when she wished to be lifted and ways he could support and magnify her movements as they’d danced through the different roles, rain, wind, and flood. Yet dancing with her lacked the extra . . . excitement? connection? He couldn’t readily compare dancing with Danissa versus Gisela, save that he didn’t lose himself as much with the Danissa and his energy levels remained fairly even, while every time he danced with Gisela he wound up with more energy. And everything, even colors, looked brighter.

  “I know it wasn’t what you wished, but give it time.” Idan led the way into the building and up the stairs.

  “I am.” Stevan nodded.

  The air grew close and warmer here. Drier as well, leaching moisture from Stevan’s lips and making him think longingly of the pitcher of water that had stood in his rooms when he left. Even warm, it would be worth drinking.

  “And thank you for indulging an old man who wishes to see after his daughter’s wellbeing.”

  They reached the door to Stevan’s chamber. The older man swung around, a glint in his eye. His chest rose and fell more than it should, and he leaned a hand against the wall as he dragged in air.

  “Nefeli had it right; for an old man you may well out dance us all.” Stevan had thought Idan withdrew from Dancing as an active compeer in no small part to give Stevan a chance. Perhaps the elder had done so for his own reasons as well.

  “Maybe, but if so only because I have waited and watched my step.” Idan nodded for Stevan to open the door, and followed him inside. Closed it behind with a soft click, then leaned back against it. “You be sure to do the same. There should be more of us, you know.”

  “More who?” Stevan glanced about the chamber, lit by a single lantern resting on the low table between couches. Two goblets and a new pitcher of water sat in a bowl next to the lantern, condensation dripping down the clay sides of the pitcher suggesting a servant, perhaps Rik, had recently replenished the room.

  “Natural born compeers.”

  A chill ran down Stevan’s spine. He pretended it away, and walked over to the table. Lifted one of the goblets and gestured at the older man, offering refreshment.

  “I’ll not stay long.” Idan declined, face grave and voice lowering. “I wanted to offer a word of warning, which you are not to pass to Nefeli. She knows, even if she will not admit it. All is not well here and never has been. Most natural born compeers burn out or take enough injuries to stop dancing within the space of five years, where princesses last at least ten. I should not be the exception—all compeers should last as long as I and not be carried off injured or accused of . . . Keep your wits about you. Never lose yourself too much in a Dance.”

  He refused to say anymore. Escaped through the door and let it bang shut behind him.

  Stevan leaped across the space and opened it to watch Idan totter down the hall and slip into his own chambers at the far end.

  He closed his door with more care. Pushing aside the empty rumbling of his belly and dryness of his mouth, he crossed the room. Opened the shutters with care, letting loose a small spray of water and leaves trapped in the edges. Leaned against the sill.

  Even more colors swirled across the sky than before. Pink, gold, purple, and deepest blue. Somewhere the moon rose, although he couldn’t see that part of the horizon. Nearly full by now. uch a small span of time since he’d become a compeer, met Gisela, returned to the palace.

  How fast things changed, and kept changing. He no longer wished to be back in his former place and quarters. These became home more quickly than expected. Yet every time he turned around, he was reminded of all the things he didn’t know, big and small.

  Easier to ponder those he did.

  The home he’d left, that he could still return to if he didn’t mind being one of a crowd.

  The place and work he had for now, for however long it lasted—and the pleasure he took in the work, the more so on those occasions when he’d partnered Gisela.

  The hopes he held that when the moon turned full, Gisela would turn to him and agree to explore where their dance might lead.

  He had no excuse to seek out Gisela but wishes and dreams. Yet now he knew he could find her by her footsteps, an urge itched at him to check on her. Just a peek, that was all, to find where she was.

  He resisted, helped by an unexpected knock at the door.

  Kicking off his sandals and shoving them under a couch, Stevan walked over to the door. Brenn waited on the other side.

  An air of weariness hung about Stevan’s brother. Brenn’s tunic and short mantle, white and red respectively, were clean and free of rips or tears but well worn. Hair freshly oiled and slick against his head showed scratches along the left side of his face. His arms likewise bore healing scratches and several bruises.

  “Congratulations on your first Dance. Will you let me in? I’ve brought you dinner.” Brenn managed a half smile, lips twisting wider on the right than the left. He lifted his hands. One held a jug of wine, the other a small basket from which the smell of savory pine nut rolls wafted.

  Stevan’s mouth watered. His stomach growled so loud it nearly roused an echo.

  Brenn’s smile grew wider for a moment, then he winced as the gesture strained the new scab forming along his cheek.

  Within moments, they settled onto the couches and divided the food between them. The wine as well, although Stevan
mixed his well with water given the emptiness of his stomach. After a close look at his brother, he did the same for Brenn.

  The older man gave him a long glance in return, but didn’t argue for more wine and less water.

  Only when Stevan had demolished his rolls, save for a few crumbs, and watched his brother’s body slowly relax against the soft cushions, did he speak.

  “You heard the Dance went well. In the barracks? Or someplace else.” Stevan nodded at the bruises.

  “The Marchon ordered most of the guards out into the city to help batten down loose shutters and ensure those without adequate housing found shelter. It got a bit tricky at points. This,” Brenn gestured at the left half of his body, “came courtesy of an encounter with a tree that decided to fall. I count myself fortunate I’ve only scrapes to count.”

  “I hadn’t realized you were out.” Stevan tilted his head back, running through the hours spent underground. Displeased to realize he hadn’t thought to check on his brother during his breaks from Dancing. If he had, he would at least have known Brenn was in danger even if he couldn’t have helped. Other, perhaps, than trying to reduce the wind or floods there.

  “What did you say?” Brenn sat upright, couch creaking beneath the sudden shift in his weight.

  “I don’t . . .” Stevan’s cheeks grew hot as he realized he’d spoken his thoughts.

  “You check on me?”

  “I can, though I didn’t. I should have.” Stevan ran a hand through his hair. “I might’ve been able to do something this past night—”

  “That doesn’t matter. I knew the types of work I’d be doing when I signed up.” Brenn waved a hand and shook his head as though a wet dog. “You can track my footsteps from a distance again? You’ve remembered how?”

  “You know?” Stevan swiveled around, mirroring Brenn’s tense seat on the couch, feet against the cool floor.