A New Princess Read online

  Two steps brought the elder sire to her side, after which he raised a hand to his mouth for another cough.

  “Foleilion was founded by the Escalli refugees your Excellence’s mother allowed to settle here a few decades back. One of several communal villages, run by elders for the good of all. Some produce trade stuffs, most notably well-woven cloths, but they are largely self-sufficient among themselves.” An odd sound, not quite a cough. “They pay their taxes on time.”

  “Interesting.” The Terparchon dismissed the elder with a wave of her hand.

  He bowed and slipped back. Lost his balance for a moment, but the guard with tattoos steadied him.

  “Your foot.” The older dam let go of Gisela’s hands and gestured for her to raise a leg.

  Gisela swayed on one foot as she lifted the other high. Muscles that hadn’t ached in the dance began to hurt with star-bright pains that sparked unpredictably here and there along her thigh.

  Grabbing Gisela’s foot, the ruler tilted her head and inspected it. Pressed sharp nails into the calluses. Flexed it this way and that. Gisela gritted her teeth as her head swirled, hoping she wouldn’t fall or faint . . . or lose the last remnants of her midday meal that now seemed so long ago. She bit her lip, the harsh taste of blood filling her mouth.

  Just when she was about to give up, and plead for mercy or risk death by grabbing hold of the Terparchon, the feather-bracelet guard braced her. Well-shaped fingers with red-painted nails wrapped around her forearm, dark against her sand-colored skin.

  Not content with inspection of one foot, the ruler insisted on seeing the other as well. The guard continued to support Gisela through further poking and prodding until at last the Terparchon let Gisela’s other foot drop.

  “Well, you’re no elder.” The Terparchon dusted her hands. Frowned at them, then wiped them on the skirt of the guard with the wrist-chain. “But you are a dancer, true and certain. Here of all places. I will remember you.”

  Without another word, she turned on her heels and walked away. The chime of anklets marked her steps, until drowned out by the creak of leather armor and tromp of four other sets of feet following behind. Then all melded with the ongoing sea of wagons and walkers proceeding down the track eastward.

  The Terparchon took most of the joy of the dance with her when she left, leaving only a faint throb and pulse in Gisela’s feet.

  That, and the distant hope the dam would forget Gisela. After all, the ruler had inspected her closely but failed to inquire after her name.

  Chapter 2

  The formal ball inspired in Stevan nothing so much as a desire to sneeze.

  The rulers allowed their courtiers much leeway in selecting attire in which to parade and flaunt themselves—resulting in a riot of different colored tunics and mantles of varying hem lengths and necklines—but mandated all wear the same perfume. Despite suppressing his urge, as sneezing risked unpleasant notice and disfavor, his nose continued to itch.

  If only he were anywhere less formal. His lightweight tunic was fine enough for the occasion, but not his dark green mantle. His best, until he could afford to replace it. The fabric wrapped around his body fewer times than ideal. A good thing, as the heavy fabric was intended to keep a body warm in winter. Unfortunately, it was ill-suited to the sultry summer weather. He oozed moisture, so much so that his bangs clung to his tan-colored forehead and drops slicked the brown braid hanging halfway down his back. A hand-me-down from his third-oldest brother, the mantle fell to mid-calf on Stevan. It thus put on full display the lower portions of Stevan’s tunic, with their attendant traces of mud stains despite repeated laundering, and his decidedly plain sandals.

  Stevan’s two-up sibling, who’d turned down the honor of receiving the mantle before it came to Stevan, claimed the color made Stevan appear sallow and sickly.

  Little though Stevan cared for that, he disliked more the notion his clothing affected his fortunes. Making one’s way in the world as the fifteenth child of an impecunious noble family was difficult enough. Before coming to court as an adjunct to an adjunct, he’d counted his ribs rather than muscles. Stretched meals as far as they could go.

  He hadn’t gone hungry at court yet, at least, but neither had he found any way to make enough of a mark to gain a competency. Enough to support a modest style of living would count as a success for one long expected to fail. He’d leave the grand pretensions and uneasy marital contracts to his other brothers and sisters.

  As long as he managed not to sneeze.

  The heavy, smokey perfume the rulers currently preferred triggered in Stevan no reflexive response such as some unfortunates faced. Some servants and guards suffered so much they would trade to get out of court duty on months when the proclaimed scents made their eyes burn or noses twitch. Or pay alternates to take their place, those that could afford it.

  His new position as a clerk and aide placed him amongst the hangers-on at court, but did not allow him the possibility of paying someone to take his place—even had he enough funds, which he did not.

  He lacked the excuse of ill-health.

  Nor was he willing to explain his desire to be anywhere else.

  He simply detested the perfume, which certain unlamented and not-missed members of his family had favored. Despite the passage of years, the little hairs along the nape of his neck stood stiff at the scent despite the weight of his mantle. His fingers twitched, except when concealed under the folds of cloth.

  Ears waited for a whistle and snap, or a high laugh—but the only sounds were the muted chatter of other watchers around the room and the labored results of musicians anxious to impress. Harpists with predilections for rippling trills. Mellifluous flautists each soaring higher than the next. Drummers determined to ensure everyone felt the beat in their bones.

  Lanterns blazed from every corner of the wide-open plaza, held by still, stiff servants dressed in simple white tunics and loincloths. Overhead, the sky was the roof—a glorious expanse of deep blue with slowly fading brighter colors reflecting on the water where the sun had vanished beyond the end of the wide lake.

  Beneath their feet lay a wooden dance floor covering a wondrous mosaic portraying the first Terparchon’s selection of the first Marchon to lead the armies. Couples, trios, and the occasional quintet danced to the lyrical beat of the court musicians.

  Everyone—male, female, or eleee—wore thin ankle-length tunics covered with lightweight mantles and girdled at the waist with gilded leather belts or brightly embroidered sashes, the better to flutter their skirts as they preened and posed. Many flaunted wealth and status in circlets across their brows or broad circular collars over their mantles. The poor went without or made do with cloth alternatives. Only soldiers and servants were notable for simpler attire.

  And everyone with any pretensions whatsoever shoved a half-dozen or more bracelets around their wrists and clasped bell-hung anklets above their sandaled feet.

  Given the cacophony of so much chiming metal, the musicians did well merely to be heard above the dancers and the crowds mingling around the edge of the floor.

  The princesses stood out with their circlets of gold twined with silver—for only they and the royal family adorned their heads with gold. The dancing had become general enough that anyone might dance within reason, or within the confines of custom and rank. The princesses had yet to dance with someone not bearing precious metal or jewels at brow or neck.

  Hands clasped behind his back, he remained on the shady side of a marble pillar. Most of the court promenaded around. Music and movement always lured him, but he resisted the urge to join the crowds on the floor.

  Too many posed rather than danced for pure enjoyment.

  Moreover, joining in the dancing required finding a partner since no one asked him. Easier to remain unnoticed along the side walls—watching and guessing at the motives of those mingling around him.

  Those who had power knew it. They stood, sat, or danced at the center of crowds. Others with less clus
tered around, divided into ever-changing groups. Those without any power formed sober, forgettable witnesses, such as the silent holders of torches.

  Glitter, glitter, and more glitter. Fine colors, flashing jewels, coy glances.

  All well and good for those who could afford such frivolous pastimes.

  He preferred his day duties of shuffling papers and negotiating supplies. There he worked through tasks with right and wrong answers. So much simpler than the constant shifting and searching for power and influence.

  “You’re not so bad at this as you claim.” Stevan’s two-up sibling, Brenn, appeared out of nowhere. “You should give yourself more credit.”

  Stevan jerked, one arm grabbing hold of the marble and the other slipping to his waist. He lacked so much as a table knife. Only certain trusted individuals were allowed to bring weapons to the dance.

  “How do you do that?”

  “Do what?” A broad smile stretched Brenn’s thick mouth wide. In ways that counted, he was the bigger person. Taller, broader, and wealthier, albeit not by much. He kept his dark-brown curls cut short, so as to offer little purchase to enemies should he ever be in a battle and lose his helmet. For this occasion, he’d donned a knee-length tunic rather than ankle, plus a flowing red mantle. The circlet across his brow, a length of blue enamel twined with copper only a hair darker than his skin and bearing the faintest green patina, attested to his rank as a captain in the guards, as did the subtle wings attached to the heels of his sandals.

  “You always manage to sneak up on me.” Stevan licked his dry lips, nodding at the sword and daggers hanging from Brenn’s belt. “You should clang, with all you carry.”

  “I practice walking silently, the better to test sentries and catch those dozing when they ought not.” Brenn clapped a hand against Stevan’s back and nodded at the dazzling array of dancers at the center. “Why are you not out there dancing?”

  “I wasn’t asked.”

  “Piffle.” Brenn lived up to expectations, clapping Stevan’s back again. “That never stopped you at home. I recall dozens of times you snuck off to the village and joined dances on your own. You always wound up with plenty of partners by the end of the night.”

  “There it was a pleasure.” Plus Stevan had known most of those he asked. “Here it is . . . performance.”

  “Ask one of the princesses to dance. Let them see your grace. How well you match them. That’s a straighter slide to security than slogging with papers.”

  A good consortial contract was the fastest way to wealth for impoverished nobles, but Stevan had no mind to pursue it. Without a reasonable degree of affection—and sometimes even with it—such alliances tended to grow thorns that injured any who came near.

  Even the power and connections that would flow from becoming a princess’s favorite wasn’t worth the risk. A sentiment he suspected his unmarried and uncommitted brother shared, though he teased Brenn nevertheless. “Straighter than swinging your sword, either. You’re as good a dancer as I, so why not live your own words?”

  “Kind words, though we both know that is not true. I clomp about too much.” Brenn’s voice turned tight, rising several notes from his usual rumble. “Stamp my feet with all the delicacy of an ox.”

  “A quote?”

  “I tried. Asked one of the princesses to dance with me.” The older man’s brows lowered, but otherwise he gave no sign of unease. “It didn’t work. But there’s no reason it wouldn’t for you.”

  The current dance spilled into a serpentine spiral as all on the floor joined hands into two immense chains and wove among themselves. Jewels flashed as half ducked and others leapt. The uneven slap of sandals against the mosaic tiles sent ripples of resonance throughout the hall.

  Stevan's shoulders swayed, hips shifted, feet itched. His hands grew damp at the memory of serpentine dances past, when he’d vied with others to be the last knocked out, the last to break a chain. Shown his worth on the dance floor, if nowhere else.

  Already, pockets of the serpents had broken into gales of laughter—or charges of trickery—as hands slipped and dancers fell away.

  “Come, dance the next with me.” Brenn nudged Stevan with his shoulder. “You took laurels at the festivals when you were young.”

  “Once.” Stevan shrugged. Only on one occasion had he done better than place second or third, something his father had pointed out when he arranged for Stevan to apprentice as a clerk rather than expend money on a place in the guard or doing anything more than copying texts in a clear hand.

  “More than that.” Brenn frowned. “You outlasted near anyone else on a half-dozen occasions at the least. Show off your moves rather than hiding them in the shadows.”

  “What is this? A laureled dancer among us who does not favor the floor?”

  Stevan straightened with a snap, laying an arm over his chest and bowing. Next to him, Brenn did likewise. An element of music vested in that voice, fitting, for it was music and dance that made the Terparchon who she was. The Marchon ruled in matters of war, and kept a keen eye on issues of justice and diplomacy as well, but in all else the realm belonged to the Terparchon. As it had to her mother before her and grandfather before that, and on back for generations.

  This night, the Terparchon dressed in midnight blue. Her mantle rivaled the sky for depth of color and ability to drink in light without giving it back. A crown enameled in blue and set with deep sapphires rested atop her head. Bits of unenameled silver in the crown and the gray strands in her hair surrounded her warm, golden face with the illusion of a starry sky in contrast to the starless-sky folds flowing about her body.

  An older woman in a silver mantle stood two steps behind. Despite unusual tan skin with lilac undertones and lovely white hair bound in a braid as long as Stevan’s, she was thoroughly eclipsed by the Terparchon.

  Two guards hovered behind the ruler as a precaution, but otherwise she had only one attendant. By preference, it was said, as she enjoyed mingling with crowds during dances. She had a gift for going unnoticed when she wished.

  Stevan swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. “I took laurels on one occasion, Excellence, though I have shown a knack for movement. But I am still new to this court and enjoy watching the parades of those more skilled than I.”

  “New, but with no need to be so retiring, Stevan of the Silver Hills.” She dropped his name with ease as she tilted her head back, eyes nearly level with his. “It is a sad commentary upon the court that we have not yet offered sufficient lures to bring you to the floor. But do not be so selfish as to rob us of the pleasure of your company.”

  A trio of rings and matching bracelets flashed silver and blue as she extended a hand, palm up.

  Brenn kicked Stevan, but Stevan had already nodded and set his hand, damp and cold, on her warm, dry one. “The pleasure is mine, Excellence.”

  “We shall see.” Turning, she led the way into the crowds mingling and reshaping into duos and trios for the next dance. He followed, body at ease and face calm—all except a sudden twitch in one cheek which started up and refused to stop.

  His performance in the dance depended on many factors, not least whether his partner meant to show him up or show him off. Whether he recognized the dance and remembered the steps. As well, whether the steps allowed others to approach and lay obstacles in his way.

  So many unknowns and pitfalls.

  He had to take courage from his ability to move and let the music take him. Though he had not danced at court often, he found escape and relaxation outside the seasonal palaces—in lesser halls and common taverns. He was young and lithe, if poor and unfamiliar with such proximity to royalty. Though he’d also spoken true—he’d taken laurels, but only when dance prizes were awarded on grace and movement. Never more.

  Never magic, such as the Terparchon and her attendants wielded.

  It would be an interesting span of time before he could bow again and retreat back to the wall in disgrace. Or face multitudes desiring to dance with him
in hopes that a little of his current partner’s luster might rub off on them.

  A bitter tang bloomed in his mouth, but he swallowed and set his jaw.

  The Terparchon led him to the center of the floor. Around them gathered the twelve Dancing Princesses arrayed in a veritable feast of colors, each with a chosen partner.

  In other courts, the title of prince and princess might denote close blood or marriage connection to a land’s rulers, but not here. Not in Codaros, where dance ranked high and the greatest dancers held true power in their bodies.

  Blonde, brown-eyed, fair-skinned Ylena in a daylight-sky-blue mantle over her tunic held hands with the Terparchon’s son Todor, her second-born and a masculine version of his mother down to his preference tonight for deepest blue. Neither did more than glance at him from the corners of their eyes.

  Red-haired Jola wore a harsh shade of yellow that enhanced the green undertones of her otherwise fawn-colored skin, giving her the appearance of one half-dead. She was known for curious color choices in her attire, but this did not put off Nefeli, the Terparchon’s eldest, who wore an unusually eye-catching mantle of red that gave her golden skin a ruddy, fiery cast. A number of wrinkles fanned around Jola’s eyes. Several years separated the two, but they were reputedly devoted to each other.

  Short and slight, the Terparchon’s younger daughter, Zora, stood next to the tallest person in the court. The gold circlet perched upon her black hair glinted next to her partner’s upper chest, so much did they tower over her. Brown-haired and brown-skinned, Heron was one of six princesses who did not present themselves as women—two were men and four eleee. Both Zora and Heron wore shades of green, one light with a tinge of the sea and the other so deep as to verge on black.

  The Terparchon smiled upon each and every one, a sparkle of mischief in her eye. Or perhaps only the joy of returning to the dance floor as she seldom did these days.

  A remembered whip and crack resounded in Stevan’s mind. He rolled his shoulders to ease the knot forming in his back. Settling into place opposite his partner, he mirrored her stance. He bowed, twisting his arm and torso in the traditional sign that he acknowledged her right to take the lead. Only the closest of pairings could tackle dances without a designated lead. Twice in his life, he’d been fortunate enough to watch dancers able to share the lead between them.