A New Princess

by A. R. Henle

“Of course. I was the first person you tracked, or at least the first time you did so in such a way that all the family knew.” His brother smiled again, more with his eyes than lips. “You were only three, so perhaps you don’t recall that, but . . . I was mad and ran off, as children do. I don’t remember over what. A storm was coming in. Thunder and lightning, the home kind of storm, not those over the lake. Everyone was worried and gathered in the great hall after searching everywhere, or so they thought, when you piped up with where I was. Told everyone not to worry because I’d curled up in the back of the larder under an old, empty sack. The rest of us, all of us children, used to tell the story over and over, as a reminder it did no good to run away because you’d only track us down.”

  “I . . . . must’ve forgotten.” Fragments of memory slipped through Stevan. The boom of thunder. Whispered voices. The image of a much younger and smaller Brenn blinking sleepily at family crowding around.

  “You wanted to forget. We kept telling you to at least pretend you’d lost the knack over and over. At least, I did and most of our siblings.” A low growl escaped Brenn, a rumble as much felt as heard. “After watching father and second mother near tear you to pieces tracking each other and tattling . . . It took a while, but you stopped tracking any of us by the time you were, oh, seven.”

  A sudden ache bloomed in Stevan’s head. An echo of the pain and determination it had taken to suppress the ability, perhaps, for he remembered hurting. Spending the winter crawling off into any small nook or crevice to press his head against cool stones to ease the pain.

  He bent over, pressing the heels of his hands against his temples.

  “I’m sorry.” The couch legs groaned as Brenn settled down next to Stevan. Warmth seeped from his long body, and he laid an arm across Stevan’s back. “We were all bigger than you, and older. We should’ve protected you. We didn’t. I didn’t.”

  “Father in a rage would put anyone off,” Stevan mumbled, eyes closed and pressing against his head harder to push back the ache.

  “Or worse, both of them.” Brenn gripped Stevan’s shoulder. “But it’s not right you took the brunt of their anger, when they weren’t aiming at each other, when it wasn’t your fault you could find them anywhere.”

  “You couldn’t have done anything. You aren’t that much older than me.” Stevan shook, but Brenn held him. Braced him.

  Stevan’s gift flared, feeding an echo of Brenn’s pain into him. Then spiraled out further, inexorably seeking Gisela.

  Found her.

  The ache in his head doubled. Tripled. He forced it back. He felt her yearning for help.

  Shrieking for him.

  Chapter 24

  Gisela stormed through the wooded garden, down the path toward the Shadow of the Moon. Her tunic and mantle swished around her calves. With every breath, cool air invigorated her lungs. Blood pounded in her veins. Step after step kept her muscles loose despite residual aches. Anger overwhelmed all else.

  The sun shifted inexorably down to the horizon. The sky above flamed with all manner of shades from light pink to deepest red and purple. After one glance upward, she averted her gaze. Deliberately, rather than get caught in the beauty and lose her momentum.

  Breezes whispered in the trees, almost as though spectral voices called to her alternately encouraging or warning. She ignored them even as she refused to acknowledge the patter of feet behind her. Danissa and Jola both sought to keep pace, but never quite caught up.

  Gisela stopped for a moment at the edge of the open space around the Shadow. Shook her head at Danissa and Jola’s protests and pleas for her to come back and rest and think about what she was doing.

  Instead, she removed her sandals. Left them behind and stepped onto the grass.

  Oh, the pleasure of walking on lush greenery with bare feet! She swayed, eyelids flickering.

  In that moment might have allowed herself to be dissuaded from her purpose . . .

  Except the Shadow of the Moon reflected the ruddiness of the sunset overhead. The stones gained a bloody cast, appearing as a raw wound in the midst of green beauty as though the Shadow lived and mocked her, revealing how it would look drenched in the blood of those who fell victim to previous Terparchon’s lust for land and possessions.

  The change of color increased Gisela’s rage and determination to dance her own triumph upon it. She waved a hand to cut off the other princesses as they nattered at her.

  “Enough. I am doing this. Go away or stand witness, but be silent!”

  Gisela strode forward over the soft lawn, gaining strength and purpose as she drew closer. Soft shuffling sounds indicated the others followed.

  Again, too slow to catch or stop her. Danissa’s hand grazed Gisela’s arm once, but Gisela yanked free with only faint scratch marks on her skin. Jola grabbed for Gisela’s shoulders, but stumbled. As though the earth rippled beneath her feet. Whether to aid Gisela or not she couldn’t tell.

  Too late to wonder, as she reached the edge of the Shadow.

  The bloody cast faded, leaving the circle glowing with silver light. The moon rose, barely visible between the branches, but there—nearly full—and the Shadow mimicked its light.

  Nearly full. She hesitated a moment, seeking the faint glimmer of true moonlight through the trees. Memory flowed, of dancing under the last full moon. Beloved strains of music guiding revelers through familiar sequences of dances. Seeing Stevan for the first time. Meeting eyes. Taking hands. All the unspoken promises they’d made with their bodies in the dance, promises not yet made whole and complete.

  But soon.

  She couldn’t take up the offer Stevan had made with the burden of rage and bitterness still upon her. This small circle of land had done nothing in-and-of-itself to offend her, yet it represented the forces that had inflicted pain and suffering upon herself and her people.

  The previous Terparchon and her lust for land.

  The current ruler who’d summoned Gisela with little care for her wellbeing, and couched it so that she couldn’t refuse.

  Even the whims of fate that arranged Gisela’s body so that she couldn’t conceive and contribute to the continuation of her people.

  All of them out of Gisela’s reach.

  But not this symbol of them—this perfect circle of infertile land amidst a clearing overflowing with lush growth.

  Drawing in a deep breath, she set aside her rage to begin the Dance properly.

  She’d learned much about dancing since being plucked from her village. New stretches. Ways of moving that allow her to channel natural forces. How to use a compeer’s strength and solidity as base and refuge when dancing magic.

  All that slipped away. She fell back on the earliest lessons from the village elder. To begin as she meant to go on.

  So she started in the exact way she’d used every time she visited the fallow field.

  Remaining outside the circle, she tapped a foot against the earth to announce her presence and interest in dancing.

  The earth responded sluggishly. As though torn as to whether or not to dance with her. Her toes received a mild pressure while her heel, farther away from the Shadow albeit not by much, experienced a more enthusiastic acknowledgment.

  Kneeling, she laid a hand next to her foot. Asked the earth to choose the measure.

  “What are you doing?” Jola’s voice, echoed by Danissa a beat after.

  She waved for them to quieten.

  Again, the earth returned a double response. A faint baaa-baaa-baaa against her fingertips, near the Shadow. At the heel of her hand a quick pitter-patter. Together, it seemed as though the earth gave her the thrum of two hearts that did not quite beat as one. She touched her other hand to her throat. Her pulse fluttered back and forth between the two uncomfortably close beats.

  The syncopation, and speed, spoke to her. Roused the rage she’d tamped down.

  Standing, she stretched out her arms.

  Lifted her right foot.

  Then leapt and stretched her
legs to travel as far across the circle as she could.

  Landing hurt. The chalky earth was barren not only of any growth but any response. It gave her back nothing, not even the sluggish beat. Only resistance. Uncomfortable prickliness. Sullen warmth.

  She’d lost the beats the earth provided, but had her own heartbeat. She Danced to that. Stomped and leapt. Growled and hunched her shoulders. Threw her arms and head back to scream defiance at the sky.

  Her anger raised a response below. The Shadow began to glow red again, this time with accompanying heat and the occasional burst of steam.

  Speeding up didn’t help. The very air grew so warm it hurt to breathe. Dust filtered up from surface below. No, not just dust . . .

  What had Danissa said before? That the old Terparchon used to dance here, in glee and triumph?

  Or perhaps she’d done more. She’d been a Dancing Princess in her day, and knew Dance magic.

  The old Terparchon had poisoned the ground.

  Gisela danced on land inimical to life. With every step the unnatural earth took energy, power, will from her without giving anything back. Bits of poison floated in the air around her. The very air tasted bitter, of bile and ash.

  Resisting, Gisela slowed her movements. Imagining her heartbeat when calm, comforted, contented. Ceased to pour power into the hostile ground and instead invested it in keeping herself alive.

  Danissa and Jola stood beyond the edge of the Shadow, horror on their faces. Their hands raised and pressed against the air, until their skin smoked and they had to step back.

  Gisela reached out, but couldn’t leave. Couldn’t stop dancing.

  Trapped.

  Needed help—but not theirs. They were princesses too and might get trapped alongside her.

  No, she required a compeer, preferably the one who’d proven himself able to match her and magnify her power.

  “Get Stevan!” Her throat hurt from her scream.

  Danissa nodded and ran off.

  Gisela set herself to dancing and keeping herself alive until Stevan could arrive.

  If he did.

  From the first he’d struck her as solid and reliable. It was she who’d been skittish and unpredictable, as though a leaf plucked from its tree and set to tumble head over heels through the air, blown this way and that.

  Or a seed, seeking fertile ground.

  Which was not that on which she danced, but she might find that with him if she could only let go of the sorrow and bitterness she lugged with her ever since her life went awry.

  She’d tried to make serving as a princess ease her pain over her lost fertility—and failed. They were two different things. Linking them did nothing to ease the one, just reduced her ability to explore and take joy in the other. She had to let them be separate. Allow the one grief to hurt and ease with time. Open herself to the opportunities being a princess brought.

  Her vision began to waver. Waves of heat made the dust-and-ash-filled air shimmer and sway around her.

  She closed her eyes, the better to dance the inner workings of her heart.

  The air thickened. Her breath reduced to pants, lungs unable to draw in more than a gasp at a time.

  The ground beneath her feet grew hotter yet, almost molten. She kept her feet moving, never resting too long on any point, but her arm gestures drew from a different type of dance. One of grief and resignation. Of finding possibilities and embracing them.

  Her head began to droop, body succumbing to heat and suffocation.

  All at once, hands wrapped around her waist and lifted her high.

  She went slack, arms falling down at her side and head lolling back.

  Moonlight poured down on her. Separation from the heated surface let her breathe easily.

  “Dance with me.” Stevan lent her strength.

  He’d leapt into the poison. It grew thicker. Foggy. Hard to see, but three forms stood on the other side.

  “You shouldn’t have come. You’ll be trapped too.” Fear burned Gisela's throat.

  “Then let us die dancing.”

  Again and again he supported her, proved himself reliable and stalwart.

  The least she could do was be the partner he deserved.

  As he moved around to keep from getting burned, he held her high.

  She reached up and lured down cool breezes to ease the heat and reduce the motes of poison filling the air. They cleared from the center of the Shadow, but thickened around the border.

  Gisela and Stevan might not survive passing through.

  So they danced together. Without words, letting their feelings show. Hope filled her as she opened herself to the new possibilities before her . . . love, magic.

  With every step, their alignment increased and rapport grew. Awareness of his body pressed against her bloomed and heated her blood in a way far more welcome than the sullen heat of the Shadow below.

  Under the almost-full moon, they danced as they had at their first meeting.

  Until their hearts beat as one. Then they danced to that single beat. Hands joined, bodies pressed close, and gazes meshed.

  The ground quaked beneath them. Stevan lifted her as cracks formed in the stone.

  Energy swirled in the air. Crackled in their ears. Slid along their skin, making the hairs on their arms and legs stand straight up.

  Gisela focused on the beat of two hearts joined in one.

  He pulled; she pushed.

  She led; he followed.

  The earth shook more. Cracks widened, splitting the circle into three parts.

  A wisp of steam escaped at the point where they joined.

  Stevan swirled away, but Gisela was unable to avoid breathing in a little steam.

  A sudden urge flooded through her.

  Twirling around, she gathered energy into her hands until they overflowed.

  Stevan lifted her high again, retreating toward the edge and the circle of poison around them.

  Arms shaping the energy, Gisela aimed it at the central crack and let fly.

  A bolt of lightning crashed into the earth. The force sent them flying through the air—over the poison.

  Gisela landed the soft grass, but the impact drove air from her lungs. The instant she could move, she rose to her feet and reached for Stevan to find him likewise seeking her. They stumbled to their feet, clinging tight—then froze.

  The red cast on the Shadow melted away, leaving chalky gray. Stone crumbled and turned to dust then merged with the poison dust circling at the edge.

  A whirlwind from on high formed and lifted the poison and dust. Carried it up into the sky, where it shimmered and vanished in the moonlight.

  Layer after layer disintegrated, wicked up by the wind, until only a perfect circle of earth remained, dark brown save where lay two immaculately preserved bodies. They lay face down. More notable than proportions or lineaments were the wounds and bloodstains at the center of each back, as though they were pierced through at the same moment.

  The whirlwind abruptly stopped, then reversed direction. Curved beneath the bodies and lifted them high. Cries of gladness and gratitude broke the silence before the bodies, too, vanished into the moonlight.

  All Gisela’s bitterness and anger seeped away, leaving her lightheaded and so light of heart she could float after them. But Stevan’s hold grounded her. She squeezed his hand as plants burst forth through the circle of earth and grew at an accelerated rate. Midnight-blue stalks bore leaves unfurling in shades of deep blue green. Then buds appeared, opening into blooms of dark blue and silver.

  Life returned to the former Shadow of the Moon.

  Chapter 25

  High on a rooftop, Stevan had an excellent view of the palace compound. No Gisela in sight, but plenty of others traipsing about.

  A lovely sunset shaded the sky overhead with pinks and blues, although nowhere near the beauty of the sunset two nights earlier. Few signs remained in the palace of the recent storm. Crafters had repaired the broken shutters and servants cleaned the co
urtyards. The palace returned to normal, although the same was not true of the city.

  Stevan stood close to the protective wall at the edge of the roof. The rough stone remained warm under his hands after hours of soaking in the sun. His light blue tunic and darker mantle fluttered in the breeze. Bands of green-blue and copper embroidery edged the hems of both. The ornate twining vines matched well with the formal circlet resting on his brow. Heavier than he’d expected, it kept his hair back from his face.

  He wore good sandals on his feet, set with polished stones but not so light as he was accustomed to. He’d declined the loan of any other adornments, so no bracelets or anklets weighed him down. Time enough for that after he’d adjusted to the minimum requirements of formal attire.

  The zest of clover honey lingered on his lips. He’d eaten well, but not heavily, at the banquet—well aware of the need to keep limbs loose and ready for the ball. High, sour notes carried across the distance as the harpist and other musicians tuned their instruments. Stevan could be there, on the floor. Or still in the banquet hall. He’d retreated to the rooftop for a respite instead.

  As a compeer, he was expected to attend the ball and not sit out more than one or two dances. This had been made very clear. Idan, Amara, Nefeli, and others had all indicated that although he might choose to dance with whomever he wished to ask or was asked by, he needed to be present and accounted for whenever the Terparchon glanced around.

  He hadn’t found Gisela to ask yet. She’d been huddled away with other princesses preparing some special interlude to present before the dignitaries at the ball.

  His vantage point offered clear lines of sight in two very different directions. To the one side, servants bustled about making the last decorative touches to the open-air dancing floor. On the other, irregular groups of palace denizens snuck out to the far clearing amidst the wooded garden to see the recent changes.

  Guards had been assigned there, but they only kept people from drawing too close—and allowed viewing otherwise.

  The former Shadow of the Moon had become quite popular. The more so since the Terparchon's and her daughters’ reaction to the news of the change the day before ensured everyone who hadn’t already heard about it did so. The Terparchon reputedly blanched, older daughter froze, and younger daughter turned red with fury.