A New Princess Read online

  Under no circumstances was this the time or place. The Terparchon and her princesses led, without question, and their partners—even those of royal birth—followed.

  The Terparchon accepted his acknowledgment as her due. Standing straight and tall, she did not glance toward the musicians as she lifted a hand in command.

  “All present, attend the dance.” The evenings master of events pounded a staff against the floor. The rills of conversation quieted enough for his voice to roll against the columns. “The tachino.”

  A drummer gave a fast roll, then slowed the beat down considerably.

  “An interesting choice.”

  “A favorite of mine.” The Terparchon smiled at him, teeth flashing white and sharp.

  A line of sweat formed along his spine, but his mouth turned dry. A chill ran through his brain as he searched for every iota of memory about the tachino.

  Performed within an invisible square, any careless step outside became cause for dismissal from the floor and, for those who did not last long, mockery. Solo sections where partners mirrored each other alternated with parts where arms snuck around waists as partners whirled in seemingly wild spinning that had to be carefully controlled so as not to leave the dancers dizzy enough to misstep.

  The music started slow, and inexorably sped up.

  “A second elimination dance in a row.” Stevan managed a smile back, careful not to show his teeth. “Unusual.”

  “Do not disappoint me.” The Terparchon positioned her arms for the start: upraised, palms facing him.

  Instinct and a knack for mirroring had him align his body and arms opposite her, body a step ahead of his mind. Drawing in a deep breath and letting the air out slowly, he let his body slip into the movements.

  He focused on her. Matched her, without ever taking the lead.

  The flutes soared above the drum as the dance proper began. Past and future faded away. Only the present existed—only the dance.

  A step to the right, curl the arm and bow. To center. To left, curl and bow.

  Out and in—close enough to feel her breath hot on his throat. Eyes meeting, his careful not to risk a challenge. No touching.

  In and out.

  Heart-beat follows the drums, rises with the drums.

  Wrap arms around waists—forget she could order his dismemberment with a word—and whirl. Pick a spot in the distance and look only there: Brenn, leaning against the column as though he had not a care in the world but his jaw clenched so tight he’d likely ache all night. Rely on the firm surface beneath. Resemble the mosaic floor: solid, stable, and decorative.

  Whirl.

  Whirl.

  Back to stance. Ignore the rest of the world. Only the dance exists.

  Speed.

  Precision.

  Speed.

  Note the pleasure on the Terparchon’s face when closing in for the whirl. Do not rest easy.

  Do not stop to wipe sweat dripping from forehead, even when it runs into eyes and makes them sting.

  Nor question the unexpected ripples of energy crackling in the air. Familiar from a distance, watching the princesses dance with their partners—and now, for the first time, experienced up close.

  Feel the energy as it wells from the earth, through her, then to him, and out until the air above the dance floor fills with sparkles that rival the stars above.

  Taste the airy fizziness as though inhaling wine straight from the vat.

  Only the dance matters.

  Until a high scream cut across everything. Drums, flutes, and sandals slapping against the floor.

  Stevan froze, muscles seizing at sudden stillness after frenetic movement. Opposite, the Terparchon’s torso shook as she, too, stopped in place.

  Everything stopped, as a second scream rang out and a deeper shout.

  Then a thud and a cry of pain.

  Stevan whirled around. Snapped out of his fizzy daze, breath coming in pants and sweat dripping along his body.

  The Terparchon lurched, hands grabbing inelegantly at his thick mantle. Her shoulder pressed on his and hip dug into his side, as they watched her son kneel next to his writhing partner.

  Ylena bent double, hands clutching at her leg. Sounds no longer escaped her. She rocked, mouth gaping open as though she were a fish, her face contorted in agony. Her movements dislodged her circlet. Blonde hair spilled free, falling around her as the circlet rolled over and came to a stop at Stevan’s toes. It plopped half-on and half-off his sandaled foot.

  A trio of healers in mismatched purple and orange mantles rushed over to cluster around the fallen princess.

  The Terparchon knelt with her son for a few moments, whispering. Then bent and did the same for the writhing woman, albeit with no sign she heard.

  Stevan retrieved the circlet of gold twined with silver, fingers curling around metal still warm from Ylena’s head.

  When the Terparchon extended an imperious hand his way, he helped her up. All eyes fell on her. The dancers close by, and the watchers from the edge of the floor.

  “The dance is over for the night.” She stretched an arm toward the musicians. “Something soothing, to settle our spirits and ease our daughter-sister in her healing.”

  The drums stayed silent, but the flautists and harpists began a series of rippling chords as the crowd began to clear the floor. Slow, though, for most glanced often at the growing cluster of healers. Cries of pain escaped the injured princess until one of the healers laid a hand over her brow. Then the four strongest carried a limp body from the chamber. The Terparchon’s children followed, and other princesses and their partners as well.

  Stevan made a bow, but before he could leave with the crowd his hand clenched around something hard. He held the fallen princess’s circlet, and needed to find someone suitable to whom to entrust it first.

  The Terparchon’s hand wrapped too firm around his arm for him to shake her off even had he the nerve.

  “Accompany me.” She jerked her head in the same direction the healers had gone. “Amara, you are needed as well.”

  Thus instead of fleeing, he found himself escorting the woman into a nearby antechamber. Cool air dried the sweat on his skin, though his tunic and mantle still clung unpleasantly close. The chamber itself was long and thin, with pale green walls and a rendition of a summer picnic painted on the ceiling. The floor was simple black and white squares of some material that made a swishing sound when trod on by sandals. Only a few pieces of furniture lined the walls: chairs along the length and a desk at the far end.

  The Terparchon’s earlier attendant reappeared at her side, as reticent and withdrawn as before despite bearing an ancient name and the ruler’s trust. Head tilted downward, she played with the ends of her braid.

  The ruler’s guards moved to block the door and keep any others from following them.

  The Terparchon marched to the far end of the chamber. Stevan followed, in step with the other woman. His hands twitched. When the ruler whirled around to face them, only an arm’s length away, he extended the circlet.

  She stared at it for a long moment then took it from him, leaving his fingers still warm where he’d held it.

  “A bad sign. A bad break, too. She’ll be months in healing, before she can even think of dancing again.” A thin sheen of tears damped her eyes, although none rolled down her cheeks.

  “Already there are rumors she was tripped.” Amara had a low, pleasant voice as musical as the Terparchon although nowhere as commanding of attention.

  “There will always be rumors. Maybe they are right, maybe not. We will see. If someone did this on purpose, they will pay.” Teeth flashed as the Terparchon drew back her lips, then shook her head. “But in either case the end is the same. She cannot dance. Which leaves us only eleven, since Felipa is near bursting with child. Even if the birth goes well, she may not return for weeks or months, and we cannot be so long without twelve princesses. The security and welfare of the realm demand it.”

  Amara nodded
, steepling her fingers under her chin. “There’s the candidate near the winter palace—“

  “Too far.” The Terparchon grunted. “No, I stumbled on one a few weeks ago by chance. In some village nearby. Fillie . . . no Fo . . . Foleilion.”

  “Never heard of it.” Amara said.

  Both women glanced Stevan’s way. He shook his head, no more familiar than they.

  “It matters not. You two must go with all speed there and do whatever you must to bring her here. I’ll give you a writ of empowerment.” The Terparchon laid the circlet on the desk and yanked on a drawer. Wood screeched as it opened, at an angle, and caught.

  A moment later, Amara eased herself between the Terparchon and desk. With deft movements, she laid out paper, pen, and ink, and shifted a chair to just the right spot for the Terparchon to sit as she wrote.

  Then effaced herself back to Stevan’s side.

  He hadn’t moved. Why did the Terparchon wish him to go on this errand, such as he’d never done before? Surely some more practiced courtier would be the better choice.

  He didn’t think he’d spoken, but Amara stirred next to him and gave him an encouraging smile.

  “You have the potential to be a princess’s partner in the Dances. A compeer: able to withstand and channel the power they raise. To match and support their magic. As you’re still new and untried, you’ll likely be near irresistible to any potential princess.” Her soft words reached only as far as his ears, sending a shiver through him. “The prospect of dancing with you may be a lure in itself to convince her to come to court.”

  “I’m not . . .” He shivered again. He’d danced for years without experiencing . . . whatever had happened on the floor. Which he could have—would have—written off as imagination, except Amara kept smiling at him.

  “You may not have been before, but now you are.” Eyes dark with worry despite her smile, she gazed over at the busily writing ruler. “I haven’t been a princess for many years, but even I can sense that much. Someone sturdy and rooted, a bulwark against the arrows of fate.”

  “There.” The Terparchon waved a piece of paper in the air before extending it to Amara. “Don’t promise too much in luring her here. The village is peopled by Escalli, now I recall. Communal. Get the elders on your side, and they’ll hand her over to you fast enough. I want her here to begin learning the core Dances within a week.”

  “Make it two.” Amara blew on the paper, then rolled it up although the smell of wet ink lingered. “I can teach her some of the basics, but you must give her time to pack and say her farewells.”

  The two women stared at each other for a long moment.

  Stevan barely dared breathe, calculating the odds of getting out of this without losing his head or other valued appendage. But also twitching from the same energy as on the dance floor. As one of the youngest, but not the baby, of a long, large family, he’d never been noted for much more than trouble—quickly quelled—and a knack for dance. To suddenly have more was wonderful and strange, and he wanted very much to sneak away and spend time in contemplation, to re-root himself in his world, before having to go find a stranger.

  “Two weeks if necessary. Make it less if you can.” The Terparchon clicked her tongue. “Only for you, my friend, would I bend so far. Gather what you need and be on your way.”

  With a sharp nod, she headed back toward the dance chamber.

  “Er, Excellence?” He said before he could call the words back.

  “What?” She stopped and turned, lips tight at his impudence.

  “What’s her name? The woman, the dancer, we’re to find.”

  A blank look crossed the ruler’s face, then she waved a hand at him. “Don’t worry about her name. You won’t be able to miss her. Or her you.”

  Again, the emphasis on him as a part of the mission.

  Exactly what did she expect him to do?

  Chapter 3

  Gisela's back ached from bending too long over a table of wood planks. Dull pain radiated from her spine outward. She laid down her stylus and stretched. Arms up overhead, tunic sleeves falling back halfway to her elbows and the cord at her waist rising, then to the side. Muscles and bones creaked and the pain dwindled to a low throbbing.

  Quick tugs at the sleeves, and her corded belt resettled her tunic into proper place. The distant clamor of festival preparations—hammering, yelling, clangs—all blurred together into a single noisy mess that the wooden walls of the village hall partially blocked out. On the other hand, the savory scents of fresh baked bread, fruit pies, and meat deep in the fire pits on the outskirts of the village easily sifted through chinks to reach her. She nibbled on a heel of stale bread, careful not to let crumbs fall on the papers covering the table.

  Her summer-weight over-tunic of linen in green and blue stripes cascaded over another backless bench nearby. She’d discarded it earlier, when its warmth made her sweat and think longingly of slipping out of the village to dance in the fields.

  Next to the over-tunic lay the thin band of matching cloth she’d used to bind up her hair, leaving the dark strands to cascade around her shoulders and occasionally fall forward to veil her work from her. Given her preference, she’d have put it back on. Alas, earlier in the day she’d had the purple streak re-touched and it had yet to finish drying. Her bare feet rested on the smooth wooden floor, toes curling occasionally as cool drafts snuck in through the door.

  Scraps of scraped-down parchment covered the scarred work table. Her wax-covered tablet sat in the middle, half-filled. The abandoned stylus had rolled to a stop at an angle, lying athwart the lists of those Escalli who’d sired or borne children in the village nurseries, and those currently in anticipation of births.

  In a brief fit of generosity she’d freed her assistant to go help assemble tables for the feast, and flirt and frolic in the process. After all, her predecessor had done the same for her.

  Letters danced before her eyes, forming names and then bouncing to reform into different ones. Nonsensical words. Names of those dead, or aged or vanished . . . any names save those she should write. Those unfortunate individuals who appeared on too many of the parchment scraps as having skipped certain festival duties these past seasons.

  Names of people she pitied and envied in equal measure. All those currently suffering polite visits from the council of elders. Earlier in the day, one of the eldest, Ilburna, made her displeasure at the number of people on her list quite clear.

  “A disgrace.” The old dam had thumped her walking stick against the floor. Her legs might be too weak to walk far without assistance, but her arms remained strong. Dark brown eyes had flashed in a parchment-colored face lined from top to bottom with wrinkles. “Do your siring and bearing when you’re young, and blood runs hot. Duty to village first. Fuss with love and life partners after. That’s how it was in my day.”

  No one contradicted her, although at least three were near as old and sharp of memory.

  None of the elders would ever knock on Gisela’s door or track her down for such an errand.

  Although the room was long and wide, well able to hold not merely the councilors but the small crowds regularly attending their meetings, the walls nevertheless seemed close. The still air, heavy with scents and humidity, turned thick and hard to breathe. Her toes curled against the smooth plank floor and a shudder ripped through her.

  Clasping hands grown chill, she massaged her fingers and blew warm air on them. In and out, in and out. Her shoulders slumped, the ache between them returning.

  Somewhere in the distance, someone turned the raising of the dance floor and erection of trestle tables for the feast into a matter of music. Hammering became drumming. Over the excited cries from here and there, deep voices and a few higher ones began a chant of thanks to the sun for warmth and light. The walls muffled the words actually sung, but the familiar tune readily brought them to mind.

  The muscles in her legs twitched. Randomly, but only for a moment or two. Within a handspan of beats,
her legs began to move to the music. Her hips swayed, unable to resist the driving rhythm although she remained planted on the bench.

  She hadn’t danced in public for quite a while. Not yet long enough for her name to be at risk of appearing on the lists—were she not, sadly, excused—but so much time that the very notion of dancing in public made her shiver. In worry and fear as much as hope and delight. A sad thing for one once known and admired for the figure she cut on the dance floor.

  The loss of that admiration cut, deeper than she’d expected. Its absence left her chilled within. But the lack of dance was worse. She could slip out to the fallow fields only so many times without notice.

  People would understand her not dancing tonight, of course. Click their tongues and shake their heads. Pat her hand and speak bland phrases that blended together until she wouldn’t remember who’d said what.

  Was that so much worse than standing up for the measures?

  Again, people would know. A glance at her hair—for no one danced with a head scarf—and the sight of the purple streak would no doubt ensure she lacked for partners, or paired only with those who no longer needed to care or had been deemed incapable of siring or bearing. Most purple-marked avoided festival dances for just such reasons.

  Quite the come-down for one accustomed to selecting among many. The flirtations set up during festival dances usually comprised a third of the evenings’ pleasures.

  But not all.

  The joy of dance itself remained. The linking of movement and music. Weaving among others to make a dance of many into something bigger than each alone. Finding ways to express deep, sure feelings for which words alone were inadequate and incomplete.

  The chant shifted to a new song, also familiar. A list of summer blessings, from the greening of the fields to the arrival of chicks and piglets, calves and kittens. Long summer evenings leading to warm nights.