A New Princess Read online

  A New Princess

  The Dancing Princesses #1

  A. R. Henle

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Sneak Peak

  Healer Princess

  Also by A. R. Henle

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Gisela followed a trail of sunlight from the village.

  Her toes dug into warm earth still damp from the recent downpour. She held her green tunic well above her ankles. The pose made her belt rise along her torso and slip under the band wrapped around her breasts rather than rest around her waist. The serpentine brass pin securing her tunic at the shoulder chafed where it brushed her skin.

  Only her hair remained in place. A green cloth wound around her head to hide the purple streak marring her otherwise black locks.

  She left the village behind, from the hustle and bustle to the buildings of wood and brick with their thatched roofs. The smoke rising from squash and peppers roasting in the ovens, as the cooks and their assistants labored to prepare the one meal all ate together. The runners dashing back and forth from the potting sheds to the fields, bringing seeds and young sprouts to those planting the summer’s crops in earth made soft by the rain. The songs of the weavers at their looms crafting lengths of linen for use or trade.

  At least the songs offered some cover for the bright chatter of the young as they streamed naked from the nurseries out to play in the mud. Called to each other. Yelled. Screamed. The nursery guardians egged them on, all showing an edge of relief at this break in the spring rains that had kept everyone pent up so long.

  By the time Gisela walked a dozen paces from the village perimeter, she gave up and let her skirt fall about her ankles. Her tunic was a hand-me-down, and her errand worth the mud even if others might disagree, in particular the elder who’d turned the tunic over to the common stores because she had no time for mending.

  Gisela had time, little though she wished it. Given a choice, she’d take more work—the better to lay aside personal concerns and focus on duty. Alas, the only additional task she’d been offered, subtly enough she pretended not to recognize the invitation, was to become a nursery guardian. Maybe someday she would embrace such labors. Much as she used to love watching the children play, she could not bear it yet.

  Better to get away, take anger and bitterness and earth them where none else might witness.

  The latest rain had left the fields and woods damp. Passing through the still air slicked her skin with sweat. Such a good, steady fall of water nourished crops poking up through the dirt. It cleansed the layers of grime adhering to stone chimneys, thatched roofs, and the woods that lay between the village and the charcoal burners’ kiln. All appeared cleaner and brighter as the sun reflected off wet foliage.

  Nevertheless, she retreated away from people. Drank in the earthy scent of oils wafting up from the greenery, and the hints of white, yellow, and various shades of purple blooms growing along the wide path toward the next village over.

  At first she wandered without purpose, knowing only where she did not wish to be.

  Yet keeping to the trail raised the risk of meeting someone. Anyone. The few Escalli remaining held only a few villages in which to live, laugh, and cry. Although spread across rough hills, the people kept in regular contact. Many lived and worked in one village but had close friends in the others. Moreover, a number of traders found the path a convenient route even though the villagers were known for trading away more than they ever acquired.

  How much did she wish to avoid people, known or unknown?

  She turned aside onto a narrow, overgrown track that led to a once-fertile field. No one would think to find her there, should any even miss her. So long as she had made a clear escape from the village, her absence should not be noted until twilight. The elders had called a council for the evening fires, and her presence would be desired to enter the deliberations and decisions into the village rolls, but until then she was free.

  Her damp skirt swished around her ankles as she passed by a large, old tree. She brushed the smooth bark. No one had cleared the way since the summer storms began, or perhaps even earlier given the number of fallen twigs, branches, and leaves.

  Head down, she picked her way with care. Within moments she emerged from the woods into a desolate scene. Lines of caked earth showed where plows had passed in earlier, better times. Despite lying fallow for several years, the field had yet to recover.

  The afternoon sun filled her with warmth and eased the chill that lingered in her since winter. Field birds flitted along the rows, pecking at the earth. Tree rats raced along limbs stout and fragile to chitter at her.

  Few signs of burgeoning life surrounded her. Although the rain’s recent glaze on leaves and stalks had begun to dry, scarcely any tender shoots budded. Only enough to show growth persisting in drained earth.

  This was something to celebrate. No need for words. She desired movement. To feel life in her veins.

  As well, to celebrate evidence that lying fallow did not mean death or ending: merely a different type of existence. Renewal might take time, but it came to pass sooner or later.

  She tapped the earth to announce her presence. Gentle on the toes as she lifted her foot and then a firm touch with the heel.

  Only birds and bees noticed.

  No matter, she expected no response. It was a matter of courtesy, or so she’d learned from the old, frail sire who once spent time in the nurseries teaching children to dance, back when she was a youngling. Many of the children laughed at him for the finicky ways he'd picked up during years spent roaming the land before settling back down with the Escalli—or so the gossip ran.

  Gisela had joined in the laughter, then.

  Yet when she was chosen to apprentice to the council scribe and learned to use a stylus to scribble notes on a wax-covered wooden tablet, and craft formal accounts in pen and ink on parchment, she appreciated the lessons on how to hold her body, maintain good posture, and respect her muscles and sinews. The practices helped keep her hale and healthy. She’d sought him out to sit at his feet and drink in lessons, though by then he spent more time watching children dance than instructing.

  She tapped a second time.

  Usually, the earth responded with a faint ripple of pressure, light enough she varied between belief and doubt that anything had happened.

  This time a matching thrum jolted against her heel. Even her teeth hummed for a moment.

  Her breath caught. She froze, hands out and left foot raised. Her right ankle wobbled and she stumbled to the side before she regained her balance.

  Shock drove everything from her mind save realization that the land had accepted her invitation.

  When the earth agreed to join the dance, a wise dancer consented at once. Her old teacher’s advice ran through her, and she shifted her stance immediately.

  Bending down, Gisela laid her palms against the warm earth. Her right sat flush against firm, cracked dirt between furrows. The left angled down as it rested on the side of a furrow. Her third and fourth fingers sank into the shallow mud at the bott
om.

  You choose the measure.

  Each time she’d done this before, she’d waited a full five breaths before the faintest tremors rippled where skin met dirt.

  This time, barely had she bent to touch when a firm, fast beat set her hands shaking.

  Bam, bam, ba-da ba-da ba-da, bam.

  She straightened as she assumed a start position. Clapped her palms together for several measures, until her whole body thrummed with the beat.

  Then she danced.

  Up and down the crooked trails between furrows. Leapt across the narrow trenches where weeds and remnants of previous year’s crops sought to grow and flourish. Dipped her toes here and there, brushing new-green vegetation with the tips. There were more than she’d seen before, more than she’d thought.

  Turned three times in quick succession. Then jumped across another furrow and rose onto her tiptoes. Energy crackled within her body. Her old, foul mood gave way to sheer pleasure in the dance. Every movement, even those that stretched her muscles, produced delight and joy.

  She held her arms high, fingers flicking this way and that. As though she had dipped her hands in a bucket of water and sprinkled stray drops in her wake. Kicked high with one leg, then to the side with the other. Turning again, five times, she lifted her arms higher, stretching so her hands met in the middle, above her head.

  Then she arched her back, let her arms fall wide, and dashed down to the end of the furrow to start up the next.

  Her gestures and steps drew upon the dances favored at the quarterly village festivals, celebrations of life and fertility. She let go of any preconceptions as to what steps and gestures went with which. The fever of the moment captured her, and all her body—muscles, sinews, bones—combined to select whichever movements best expressed joy in warmth and sunshine after rain.

  Sweat slicked Gisela’s skin. Her tunic clung to her torso, belling out around her legs when she moved with vigor and sticking when still. Her open mouth dragged in deep breaths, filling her lungs. Her arms and legs ached, as did her neck, belly, and back. These were minor matters, for the same dance that caused them also eased the pain.

  The more she danced, the better her spirits. Cares and worries fell away, unable to compete with the insistent drumming in her blood and bone.

  Old, hard-baked earth softened beneath her, as though she brought life-giving rain with her passage.

  Tree rats chattered from perches high in the trees, voicing the beat that resounded in her body. Small birds flocked about her, never approaching too close and yet mirroring her movements. Soft coos and bright cries added to the tree rats’ drums to provide impromptu music.

  After one startled glance, even a rabbit joined in—hopping across the furrows and tracing intricate patterns through the paw prints left behind.

  Gisela's hair slipped, thick, black curls marred by the streak of purple falling half-loose. Without missing a step, she grabbed the slackening cloth around her head and pulled it off entirely. Her hair streamed free behind—and the length danced with her, floating and whipping as she whirled about.

  At the end, when she had covered all the field, she raced around the sides. Arms back and head cloth trailing after her.

  Until she reached the corner where she’d started.

  There she stopped. The beat faded. Her pulse slowed, resuming a more restful pace. Her chest heaved as she dragged in air, lungs aching and breathing taking longer to return to normal. A light breeze wicked away sweat drying on her skin, leaving her chilled. Otherwise, a sense of wellbeing filled her body. Old troubles lurked at the back of her mind, but their weight had lessened.

  Bowing low, she laid her palms against the earth in the exact spot as before—the mud still held the prints of her last fingers.

  Thank you.

  A last pulse across her skin, then nothing.

  A green haze enveloped the field. Old, yellowed shoots and leaves now glowed green. The earth exuded a subtle glow.

  The birds fell silent, scattering across the field to pick for seeds and bugs as did the rabbit among the new shoots. The tree rats ceased their chattering.

  Sharp as a tree limb breaking, a harsh clap resounded in the sudden quiet.

  The rabbit fled and birds took flight to join the tree rats up high.

  Hands twisting the length of cloth in her hands, Gisela whirled around.

  Five people clogged the narrow track. More passed along the trail behind them, given the thud of oxen, creak of wagon wheels, and distant chatter of voices.

  All of which she’d missed.

  So many people, all gaudily bedecked. Three carried swords or spears, and wore armor over knee-length tunics: boiled leather breastplates and arm and leg guards, all with gilded embellishments. Bright red cloaks flowed from their shoulders, and matching bands with gold embroidery decorated their tunic hems. A hint of sweat and leather tainted the air.

  Helmets partially shielded their faces. She could not tell which might be dams, sires, or those who were both or neither. Nevertheless, there were visible differences between them. Serpentine blue tattoos wound up a pair of pale legs, a silver hand-chain stood out against the warm, ruddy hand of another, and a bracelet of red feathers circled the third’s deep brown skin.

  The fourth unexpected visitor was an elder by their long, braided white hair, and carried the aroma of sea moss, which Gisela only recognized because the village council had once confiscated a drunken peddler’s goods, after he was found guilty of assault and destruction, and found a vial of it within. They’d sold it for enough to cover all the damage to property, if not the villagers.

  The elder seemed to be a sire, though looks could be deceiving. As dark of skin as the soldier with red feathers, he wore a plain, ankle-length tunic over which he’d wrapped a long swath of deep green fabric woven with thin gold thread that caught the light and bent it. One end was thrown over his shoulder, weighted down with a band of heavy embroidery including several gold coins.

  The bright dyes in those few pieces of clothes alone would require at least as many launderers as the village possessed to keep the garments in good order.

  Yet all paled in comparison to the fifth and central figure. The one who had applauded. The dam stood tall, with a solid build yet delicate wrists bedecked with several bracelets. Her thin, gauzy tunic, visible at throat and hem, was dyed deep purple. She too wore a long, woven cloth wrapped over her tunic several times. The cloth bore an intricate design of birds and flowers in contrasting shades of blue. A matching band, narrow and only a thumb’s length at its widest, kept black hair liberally streaked with gray back from her face.

  What a face it was, long and narrow with deep-set eyes, thick black brows, and a thin-lipped mouth. Burnished gold skin with a brace of wrinkles. A profile near-perfectly formed for carving in stone or metal . . .

  Or stamping on a coin.

  How many times had Gisela seen council members test and verify metal coins? Sometimes she’d even handled them herself, and spent a moment tracing the features impressed in gold or silver—the land’s rulers, the Terparchon and the Marchon. One of the palaces lay on the lake several day’s journey to the northwest.

  The Terparchon's eyebrows lifted.

  Gisela held her head-cloth-wrapped hands close to her body, all too aware of her old, stained tunic and ill-kempt appearance. Her knees trembled, but her feet and legs remained connected to the earth and did not fold beneath her. The very dirt under her seemed to help hold her up.

  She did, however, bow her head. Held her breath. Focused on having done nothing wrong. Even the elders of her village would likely accuse her of nothing more than foolishness in coming out to dance. She’d chosen a fallow field, so she hadn’t damaged any crops.

  Moreover, she’d danced. The royal family was well known for their love of dance. Indeed, the fame of the ruling family’s Dancing Princesses spread far and wide. To see one walk out on promenade, or so traders told when passing through, meant witnessing grace unparal
leled. Their dancing ranked as nothing less than poetry in motion.

  Even allowing for the exaggeration storytellers invested into their tales, Gisela hoped her dance had not displeased.

  The Terparchon stepped forward, movements marked by distant chimes. The folds of her tunic floated about her ankles, revealing gilded sandals and several anklets hung with bells.

  Two of the guards followed close behind, the ones with the silver hand-chain and the feathered bracelet. Both held spears at the ready.

  Laying a single finger under Gisela’s chin, the older dam pushed her head up and back. She had enough height on Gisela to look down upon her even so. She grasped Gisela’s chin and turned her head this way and that, then grabbed Gisela’s wrists and twisted them so as to inspect work-roughened hands and ink-stained fingers.

  As before, the earth supported Gisela as she let her body be turned this way and that.

  “Where are you from, girl?”

  Gisela blinked, drawing back. The Terparchon used the same language spoken throughout the land, but more quickly than Gisela was accustomed to, and rolled her rs.

  Gisela’s silence tested the ruler to the point she gave an impatient grunt.

  “Do you not understand? Your village. Name it, child.” The resonant voice gave the words a musical intonation and a beat not dissimilar from that to which Gisela had so recently danced.

  “Foleilion, Great Ruler.”

  The Terparchon repeated the village’s name, turning her head far enough for those behind her to hear. The mantled elder coughed, raising a hand to cover blue-tinged lips.

  “Idan?” The ruler’s eyebrows rose again, though her tone seemed polite.