by A. R. Henle
Just as well he wasn’t there.
A hint of unease followed him wherever he went. Not merely because he hadn’t seen Gisela to speak with—viewing her across the room at the banquet barely counted. They’d all agreed to keep their involvement in undoing the Shadow of the Moon as secret as they could, but Gisela had seemed unsure.
No matter how he scanned the throngs of gaily clad nobles and notables filtering out of the buildings in the direction of the dancing floor, he found no sign of her. From the distant sense of her footsteps, she lingered somewhere in the banquet hall.
A cough behind him set him whirling around. Elbows clamped to his sides, but arms raised and hands ready to join a fight if necessary.
His brother stood there, in the same outfit as Brenn wore to every dance. Knee-length tunic showing off shapely calves. Red mantle complementing sun-warmed skin. Brow and sandals adorned with the signs of his rank in the guards.
And a broad smile stretching his face, showing sharp, bright teeth.
“Startled you, did I?” Brenn’s sandals crunched against the roof tiles as he approached further.
“Is it just you?” Stevan stretched out his senses, broadening them to note the presence of anyone in general rather than searching for Gisela in specific. Better not to allow anyone to sneak up on him. They had the roof to themselves, with no one closer than two floors below.
“No one else.” Brenn drew close.
Stevan narrowed his gaze, searching his brother’s smile and keen eyes for any hint as to what brought him close when they hadn’t seen each other in nearly two days. “What news?”
“None so far, and that’s to the good.” The older man patted Stevan’s back, hand warm and comforting. “No whispers anywhere, that I can hear. Everyone was too busy dealing with the aftermath of the storm to notice who went into the wooded gardens or came out after. Even the gardeners—and believe me, I talked to near all of them, nor was I the only one—were busy with the plots closer by and didn’t check the woods until well after daybreak.”
Stevan and the others had all fled the scene well before then. They’d walked back in company. Stunned, then shaky. He and Gisela had clung to each other, to reduce the chills rattling their teeth and toes. Danissa and Jola had done much the same, with only Brenn on his own. He'd felt the least of the power released—but even he stumbled on his words more than once.
Jola had worried the most over how the royal family would react. She held no hope whatsoever they’d consider it good. Yet Brenn had talked her into keeping quiet, that they all do so.
All five of them.
“Can five keep a secret?” Stevan glanced again at the trickle of courtiers and servants stealing out to view the flowers that bloomed in place of the Shadow.
“Any five? No. This five? Perhaps.” Brenn leaned a hip against the stone wall. “We all have good reasons to keep silent. For now.”
“For now.” A hint of last night’s chill rippled through Stevan. He set his teeth and pushed it back. Refused to allow the honey of dessert to sour with fear.
Brenn nodded. “I happened to run into Jola earlier, not by chance—“
“Jola?” Stevan asked. “Not Danissa?”
Brenn shook his head. “Jola has the better connections, and the greater fear. I’d judge her the most likely to break, but she seemed calm. Said the Terparchon’s ordered an investigation but, most interesting, not by anyone here. The Chief Librarian at the winter palace is to send someone. By the time they arrive, memories will be even more muddled. Most people blame the storm. Think it was a freak of nature. They’ll talk themselves into impressive signs and signifiers, and lightning strikes that blazed across the sky.”
“You sound very certain.” A layer of tension slipped from Stevan's shoulders and arms.
“I have some experience in investigations done after the fact.” Brenn made a face. “Don’t you?”
“I’ve written them up, but never done them.” Stevan broke off. He sensed rather than heard two people climbing the stairs. One, Idan, stopped at the foot of the last flight while the other continued upward.
Gisela.
He turned to watch as she emerged from the doorway. Every step brought her closer, allowing him a better view of her shapely figure and the light fabrics billowing around her. Thick bands embroidered with vines bedecked her pale blue tunic and darker mantle. Her hair wrapped around her head in thin braids, half-covered by a wide gold-and-silver circlet. Matching bands hung about her right wrist and ankle.
Her colors meshed with his. Accident or choice?
Again Brenn clapped a hand against Stevan’s back, this time giving a light push. “Good fortune to you, brother. I’ll see you at the ball.”
He walked off, exchanging nods and smiles as he passed Gisela. Teasing on Brenn’s part, tentative on Gisela’s.
“Come to view the sights?” Stevan gestured at the many views: ball, sunset, trickle of viewers heading to or from the former Shadow.
“No.” She ducked her head for a moment, then looked him square in the face. “I came to find you.”
The sun still rested above the horizon, and summer’s warmth lingered. No matter that a light breeze tugged at the hems of Gisela’s tunic and mantle, by all measures she should be warm. Yet a thin layer of perspiration dampened her skin and left her chilled. Her toes curled against the soles of her sandals.
Even weighed down by lengths of leather on her feet, she walked lighter. Stood straighter. Found the very air easier to breathe. The sun shone brighter, and the moon gazed down at the world with greater beauty than before.
On the other hand, despite drinking amply of watered wine at the banquet, the better to wash down the few dishes she’d found to her liking, her mouth was dry. She played with the bracelet at her wrist, a gift from the Terparchon for her first successful Dance. The twined wires of gold and silver chafed skin unused to such adornment.
Nearly all Gisela had done for the last moon was adjust to change and newness.
Time to take a more active role.
Swallowing a rush of fear, she searched Stevan’s face for response. Found the glimmer of hope, but also wariness.
Fair enough, given how she’d blown hot and cold.
“You’ve come in search of me so many times. It’s my turn to do the seeking.” She shifted to stand directly before him, separated by only a hand’s breadth. Close enough for the warmth pouring off him to warm her. “It wasn’t easy, either. Compeers may have the gift of tracking people by their steps, but not princesses. I had to ask for assistance.”
“Idan and Brenn are at the base of the steps.” Stevan didn’t glance that way, surety in his voice regardless. “They can’t hear us, not if we keep our voices down.”
“Idan offered to keep anyone else from coming up until we’d had a chance to speak.” Gisela sighed. “He doesn’t know what happened the other night, at least not from me, but he knew I hadn’t had a chance to talk with you.”
“If you’re afraid of word leaking out, we’re safe, for now, from the Terparchon’s ire. Brenn assured me, so long as we all keep quiet.”
“That’s not why I’m here.” A flash of shame flicked Gisela, that he’d think her first concern on speaking with him would be safety.
At the farther end of the sky, the full moon started its ascent above the horizon. Soft silver light meshed with the fading glimmers of the setting sun.
Taking his hand, she urged him to turn and view the night ascending. Everything on land differed from the night they’d met, at the last full moon. There was to be a ball, a dance, but it would little resemble the festival at which they’d first danced.
He’d sought her out then, for she would have retreated without his encouragement to dance together to the end. Though he’d turned down her offer to walk aside and lie together under the moon, time and again he’d come through for her.
She took his hands in hers, sliding fingers under, over, and through. “You told me that if I made th
e offer again under another full moon, you’d have a different answer.”
“Is it the same offer?” His hands trembled, but his voice remained steady.
“It can be, if that is all you want. But I am willing—desirous—of more.” Gisela breathed deep and blinked back impending tears. “You know where I am from, what I can bring and what I cannot. I will never be a princess such as some of the others seek to be. Never a power, except as needed to protect those I love. And never able to bear you a child.”
“I need no children of my body. I’m sure my family and your people will provide more than enough for us to love and cherish. I don’t wish for power, never did.” Stevan lifted her hands to his lips. “Only a sufficiency—enough to live and love and flourish the rest of my days.”
“A sufficiency sounds lovely. May I share it with you?” Gisela slipped her arms around his waist, drawing close.
“I would have no other.”
Their mouths met in kiss after kiss, two bodies close entwined.
Until the harsh sound of a gong summoning celebrants to the dance floor broke even such a reverie as theirs.
“Come dance with me, this night and always.” Gisela asked and offered.
“If it’s a life of dancing you desire, I am your man.”
Chapter 26
At the end of summer, Amara slipped from her room in the dark of night. Her long, dark gray tunic and mantle enveloped her in shadows. Matching cloth wrapped around her hair, hiding every strand lest any glitter and give her away. Her skin she’d touched with ashes stolen from the kitchen hearth. Only so much as needed on face and hands to let her slip unnoticed through the darkness. Nevertheless, ashy dust covered her fingers and got in everywhere, bitter to the taste.
Regularly oiling the hinges of her door had benefits. It opened without sound. A quick glance up and down showed no one about. Someone might go to lengths, as she had, to hide in the dim corridor, but she doubted any had. The one most likely had rooms elsewhere, and no reason—Amara hoped—to wander those parts of the complex where former princesses and compeers resided.
Indeed, Amara had little company here. Most who left the ranks of the princesses also departed from the court to live in the cities of their birth or choice. Or, if they opted for other types of employment with the court, did not travel with it from city to city and palace to palace but remained in considerable comfort in one or another. Only a few remained to serve in one capacity or another.
Then again, the others who left had choices not allotted to her. She knew her place. It chafed, but it always had.
She checked the hall anyway. Best to take extra care, and give no cause for complaint or suspicion. She did not work against the wellbeing of the Terparchon, after all.
Only for the peace of mind of those no longer able to dance for themselves.
For them, she ventured out after resisting the urge for weeks on end since the Shadow was banished.
She had only this chance. In the morning, most of the court would leave the summer palace. Two entourages, led by the Marchon and Terparchon, would take separate routes to visit various villas, towns, and castles, before rejoining at the winter palace.
Now—or wait nearly a year to stand witness.
The latch barely clicked as she closed the door.
She left her sandals behind. Went barefoot, the better to walk in silence. She tiptoed down, hand light upon the railing lest she leave any trail of ashes behind to mark her passage.
Out into the night, finding her way by memory and starlight and a sliver of moonlight. A few clouds flitted across the sky, the wind brisk up high but warmer and lesser down low. A hint of chill mingled with the warm gusts doing their own dance above the flowers and paths. Autumn remained distant, but not for long.
Keeping to the shadows and the edges of paths, rather than strolling down the center, she wove her way through the gardens. Her passage kicked up a light layer of dust which the winds blew about. No doubt her feet and ankles would be coated when she returned, but a damp cloth would make short work of cleaning.
Thin candlelights flickered in windows along the way. From the Terparchon and Marchon’s quarters and their son’s in the royal residence, but not their daughters'. A few of the windows of the princesses and compeers likewise were lit, not least Idan's, but he had confessed to finding sleep more difficult of late.
Of more interest, no lights glimmered in Gisela’s chambers or Stevan’s above, though these past weeks they’d often shared one or the other. More than once their laughter broke the night in the princesses' quarters, albeit not this night. A good sound to hear, even if it did make many a heart ache—not out of jealousy but the wish such fortune might favor them.
Including Amara, if only for a few moments here and there. Bittersweet memories wakened, but she stuffed them back down. All it took was a moment or two counting her years on her fingers and toes and back and forth. She’d borne too much for too long to waste time remembering certain things.
Yet here she was, visiting a site she’d avoided: the former Shadow of the Moon.
Changed utterly, she’d been told. Everyone wanted to tell the story, especially those who hadn’t been there in the moment but stopped by afterward.
“You wouldn’t know it.” one of the cooks had told a new arrival, waving a dripping ladle, as Amara stole through to take up ashes. “Flowers such as even no gardener’s ever seen. Blooming fierce as any garden, or something fiercer as though it had decades to make up.”
Or centuries.
Amara drew the skirt of her tunic close about as she hustled down the path through the woods. Made it almost all the way, until exhaustion set in and she had to stop and rest.
How had she grown so old without noticing? She’d missed the signs, until they bore in on her all at once as though she stood within a hollowed-out house waiting for the roof to cave in. Her chest heaved and lungs ached. She had to force herself to drag in deep breaths—she who once outlasted all her fellow princesses in capacity to dance on a single, long exhalation. Much as she wished to blame the thickness of the air, she knew the weakness was as much internal as external.
Digging her fingers into the bark, she let her head fall back. The folds of her tunic hid her slender figure from others, but no longer concealed the truth from Amara herself. Eyes open at last, she noted how her limbs withered. Body contracted, drawing inward. Shoulders began to slope and curve despite long years of keeping herself straight.
Even her hair changed, growing brittle. She still kept it long, and usually braided, but if strands kept breaking, one of these days she might give in and chop it off. A sorry day for one who’d once gloried in her long tresses. Then again, those days were well and truly gone. She could think of no one alive who remembered when her hair was not white. No one who’d care.
Not even the Terparchon, although Amara had occasionally taken turns among the princesses dancing before the current ruler assumed her throne. Only in the decade since had she withdrawn completely from the field and contented herself with teaching in hopes she might find pupils willing to learn what she sought to share.
They learned, but never enough.
Yet she kept trying. Hoping. Praying. With so little to show for it. Everyone else seemed so young these days.
Then a light, buoyant perfume reached her. She drew in a deep breath, near tasting a scent bright and sweet beyond compare. All her weariness dropped away, banished by the flowers even at a distance.
Memories of her youth flashed back. Of running through a thick forest, branches catching at her tunic and scraping her arms and legs. Hiding in the underbrush to watch people dancing in a ring. No drums but the clap of their hands. No flutes or harps, but voices raised in a single tune although sung in several different languages or dialects.
Being caught out, and dragged into the center as face after face turned down upon her. Eyes staring. Lips set.
Until one broke out in giggles, and another followed.
&
nbsp; And somehow she knew matters would work out all right. They had, that night.
The laughter, joyous cascades of mirth, echoed in her ears as a chilly breeze passed by. Returning to reality, she found the giggles repeated.
Slipped onward through the wood to the edge of the clearing, then stopped in the shadow of a tree.
At the center, there remained no sign of the chalky soil, or the murdered bodies once laid there and unceremoniously covered in such a way as to poison the soil.
Instead, wildflowers filled the circle. Such a profusion of blooms, for so late in the year. Perhaps the cook was right and no gardener had ever seen them, though Amara doubted it, but sooner or later someone would recognize them. Match them against drawings and descriptions in books.
Nightbells.
Far more, and fuller grown, than Amara would ever have expected—but she doubted not. The reason why lay clear before her.
Two figures in plain tunics and bare feet. Arms entwined. Bodies in harmony. Smiles clear even at this distance.
Gisela and Stevan whirling around and around.
They danced for joy. Their pleasure fed the earth, furthered the blooms, in turn contributing to their joy. A wondrous cycle seen too infrequently.
All the court might wonder how the change had come to pass. No whisper of a credible explanation had reached Amara’s ears, though she usually heard all manner of gossip. She’d pondered the matter herself. Worried. Fretted.
No more. These two must have played some part.
Rather than proceed anywhere nearer, she retreated. As she left, she Danced just a little. A minor jig upon the path. Unbalanced she might be, but she still had some power to dance magic and so she laid a confusion around the clearing and its occupants—that no one else might spy upon them this night, or make the connection.