A New Princess Read online

  Again, her legs and hips shifted, muscles tensing and relaxing as she swayed to the music. Even her torso and shoulder began to circle as much to match the beat as to release the last ache in her back.

  Even those such as she could join hands with others and participate in communal dances. Some dancing, however limited, was much more appealing than sitting at the tables through the first of the feast, and then fleeing to stuff her fingers in her ears. Suffering through the vain and impossible task of shutting out all the sounds and thrums of the dance merely because she would lack a partner for the ritual mating afterward.

  Maybe she'd dance. Her lips curved into a smile and she stretched her arms up and out again. Let her head roll back on her neck, working out the kinks.

  For the love of movement and music, she'd join in tonight and stay as long as she had willing partners.

  “Pardon me?”

  The soft words broke Gisela’s reverie. She jerked, head lowering with a crack and arms clenching against her torso. The bench legs squealed against the floor as she pushed back from the table and rose.

  She expected one of the elders returned to seek more names for last visitations and “encouragements” before the festival began.

  Instead, a stranger stood in the wide space left by the open double doors. Rather a misty apparition, short with light skin tinged with lilac undertones, sheer-white hair in a braid that fell to their waist, and a thin length of foggy gray fabric wrapped around their body over their tunic. Even the dangle of jeweled bells at ears and the metal girdle at waist seemed dull and hazy. In all, a sight completely unsuited to the summer season. Better fitting for the festival turning from winter to spring than spring to summer.

  Gisela blinked, but the figure remained. “May I be of assistance?”

  “This is the village council chamber, is it not?” The lilting voice slurred their esses, the very words proclaiming strangeness.

  With light, graceful steps, the stranger—likely an old dam—entered. She lifted her skirts ankle high, revealing sandals held in place with numerous thin straps of leather all dyed gray or bearing layers of dust. Her footwear alone marked her as not merely a stranger, possibly from a not-too-distant village for the festival, but a traveler from farther distance. None of the villagers owned a pair of sandals so elaborate and fine. Most went barefoot.

  The closer the new arrival drew, the finer her apparel appeared. Gray the over cloth might be, but by choice, for it was clean, the weave narrow, and the soft threads touched with hints of silver. Beneath a thin layer of travel dust, her hair likewise had a subtle sheen unlike the duller appearance of many of Gisela’s fellow villagers even after multiple applications of oil and vinegar.

  “Yes. Is there someone in particular you seek? The first councilors, perhaps?” Gisela buried her hands in the skirts of her tunic. Her fingers twitched toward the over-tunic she’d previously doffed.

  Dark eyes in that narrow-featured face flickered in the direction of the cloth, then fixed on Gisela’s face. “Are they available?”

  “Not at this time, no, but a meeting can be arranged. Tomorrow? It is the midsummer festival tonight, and the elders will be busy ensuring everyone who needs to attend does so.” Gisela gave a sharp shake and closed her mouth. So many words where a simple answer would have sufficed.

  The flicker of movement at the doorway drew her attention there. For an instant only, yet long enough to register that two soldiers in knee-length tunics and red cloaks stood to either side of the open doors.

  “Tomorrow will be well enough.” The outsider glanced at the array of papers covering the table, then sank onto the stool on the far side. “Though we will need to spend the night. Will there be room?”

  “Lodgings for the night?” Gisela shuffled the papers into a pile and set them at the far end of the table, out of the stranger’s reach, all the while considering the possibilities. Within moments, she shook her head, hands trembling as she settled down onto her own stool. “That will be difficult, very much so. You see there already so many here for the festival, although we might be able to find a corner to lay down a pallet or two.” This time she nearly bit her lip when she snapped her jaw shut to stop her own babbling.

  The outsider laid hands on the rough wood table, weaving long, thin fingers together.

  “More than two, I fear.” A touch of compassion shone from her face. “There are eight of us. Myself, my companion, four guards, and two servants.”

  Worse and worse. So many to squeeze in? Already spare beds and pallets in homes were reserved, to say nothing of the guest houses near full to bursting since two nearby villages had opted not to hold their own festivals this year but instead join in Foleilion’s—the better to increase the jollity and fertility all-round.

  “Eight?”

  Across the table, the dam gave an apologetic smile. “And we come from the summer palace.”

  Gisela snapped her mouth shut.

  The court. The Terparchon and Marchon were ensconced, for the first time in several years, at the nearby palace.

  Which explained the outsider’s fine attire. A second glance at the door, and the two she’d thought to be petitioners waiting their turn resolved into soldiers on guard. Without armor, yet the combination of short tunics and red cloaks should have registered.

  Less than fifty years earlier, the ancestors of the current rulers had given the Escalli sanctuary and permission to build among these stone-ridden hills, and thus ended a decade of wandering. Something Ilburna and her compatriots among the elders never let the council forget—that they owed their current fortune to whatever whim had convinced the rulers of Codaros to let them stay.

  The stranger bore no arms or scrolls, nor any sign of message. Yet given where she came from, Gisela might already have caused offense.

  “My apologies for the poor reception I’ve offered you. Please, may I bring you food or drink? Some wine perhaps? Or bread or the first berries?” Gisela sprang to her feet, clasping her hands together.

  The two courtiers would take the finest rooms of course, in the head councilor’s dwelling. Unfortunately, those were already occupied by councilors of other villages. Moving them into the next best chambers might be done, as they had a clear awareness of their importance relative to court representatives. Yet displacing them in turn required doing the same of others, many of whom would take or cause offense. Although all villages and villagers enjoyed equal station, Gisela and the elders had assigned visitor lodgings based on careful considerations of temperament, trade, and likely level of participation in the festivities.

  Blood drained from her face. Her fingers dug into the edge of the table as she held on, trying to stay straight. Even the chamber in which they sat already had been allocated as quarters for visitors.

  “Child, do not worry so.” The stranger leaned forward and laid a warm hand atop Gisela’s chilled skin. “I fear I have not been so forthright as I ought. When I asked for room, I meant to set up tents. We have brought our own lodgings with us. You need not redo your arrangements.”

  Gisela let out a long sigh, all her body releasing tension with the air. She shook her head, then tucked strands of hair back behind her ears.

  “On behalf of the council, and most especially myself as their arms and legs, I thank you.” Gisela settled back onto the bench.

  She ran through a mental list of possible places to pitch tents. Not the banks of the brook, traditionally set aside for trysting couples. Nor the greensward by the bath house, which was likewise favored for liaisons. The greensward near the trail between villages would be filled with other tents. And the village green, of course, would hold the festivities.

  “Perhaps you might accept a nearby clearing? It will be much quieter, although at a slight distance from the village.”

  “It sounds excellent. Let us begin again.” The stranger extended a well-shaped hand with neatly trimmed nails and a gold ring on the forefinger. “I am Amara. Once, long ago, I was one of the Da
ncing Princesses. Now I serve at the pleasure of the Terparchon.”

  A former princess and a servant of the Terparchon.

  “It is an honor to meet you.” Gisela laid her ink-stained and callused hand in Amara’s. To her surprise, she found the visitor’s hand strong and callused along the writing fingers—and heated as though she ran a high fever despite showing no other signs. Lilac-toned skin was bad for betraying high blood and color, but no such marked Amara.

  “And you are?”

  The stranger’s prompt made Gisela’s cheeks flush hot instead.

  “Gisela.” Her name alone did not seem enough. “Ah, scribe and aide. I serve at the pleasure of the Foleilion Council.”

  “Excellent.” Amara turned Gisela’s hand over, lightly running fingers over her muscles and sinews, before letting go. “Though I think clerk and aide is not all you are. Something tells me you are a dancer.”

  “In Foleilion, we all dance.” Gisela ran a finger along the stylus, but managed a smile. “You shall see tonight, if you choose, since you are here at the time of the summer festival. I am sure the councilors would be happy for you and your companions to join the festivities.”

  “On behalf of my companions, I accept.” Amara nodded. “Is it permitted for strangers to join the dancing?”

  “Some dances are for everyone.”

  “And others only for those who live in this village?”

  “No, no such restrictions based on residence. Rather, age and fertility.” Picking up the stylus, Gisela traced a four-step dance pattern on the bare table. “Anyone may dance at the start; indeed all are encouraged to do so, to honor the Powers and express joy in life. Then, as with other times of the year, we recognize and cherish the full variety of humanity. Sire and dam, and those who are both or neither. We do so tonight as well, until the initial dances. Those divide us into two groups.”

  A remembered surge of excitement washed over her. Standing in the choice lines, scanning over likely partners, those first festivals when she was young. Her nerves had nearly overborne her, setting her toes twitching and body shifting as new and strange urges pulsed in her blood and bones.

  “All will have to choose at the start of the music whether to dance as dams or sires. We shall wind betwixt and between, giving ample opportunity to look each other over. First the very young will drop out, though some of them try to stay until the nursery guardians gather them up and sweep them back to the creche. Then elders step back, and those others who have sired or borne as many children as required and no longer wish to sire or bear more—and eventually those who cannot do either as they go without partners.”

  Dwindling numbers left gaps—made it easier to see who was left. Which pairs had all but declared for each other, dancing with no one else. Or, at the other extreme, who flitted from one to another leaving laughter or tears behind until they made their final choice.

  Gisela had never been either type. In her years, she’d never found a lover early to dedicate herself to, nor waited and teased to the last. Her preference was to cast a wide net during the first winding dance where sooner or later all dancers touched hands with each other. Some pair of hands and eyes always managed to catch her fancy, and by the next dance she’d slip into a firm flirtation.

  “Some trysting pairs may slip off early.”

  Also something she’d rarely done, though more than one partner had tried to lure her away. Given the choice, she danced every dance until the last—and then went joyously to do her duty by her people unknowing it was for naught.

  “But even they will usually return for the last dance which is only for those pledged to fulfill their duties to ensure continuity and prosperity of the people.”

  “It should be a most enjoyable evening.” Amara nodded, smoothing her hands over her tunic skirt.

  Gisela froze, her own words suddenly running back through her mind. All the things she’d let slip. The information was not secret. Could not be, since all Escalli knew—those here and in the kindred towns nearby. Yet equally, rarely was it laid forth so plain before outsiders. Rumors abounded already about their ribald festivals.

  And although Gisela was too young by far to remember, in the years when her people had wandered for many years after the loss of their homeland—often other lands accused them of unbridled licentiousness and turned them away when they sought to settle.

  “Do not fear me.” Amara grasped Gisela’s fluttering hands and pressed them together between hers. “I am made of secrets, and so attract ever more to my keeping. I pledge that any you entrust may be safe with me.”

  “But you serve the Terparchon.” Gisela shivered. “What if she cares? And chooses to throw us out onto the road again?”

  “I serve not the ruler but at her pleasure.” The dam stroked Gisela’s wrists. “There is a difference. I do not let secrets slip by chance. If ever there is a danger I will need to share yours, I shall give fair warning. But this type of secret the Terparchon is unlikely to care much about. The more so since she wants something from your council. If they agree, your people may be safer and more secure here than ever before.”

  “I want to believe you.”

  Amara smiled. “Then do. And be sure to enjoy the festival yourself. May you make memories to keep you warm for years to come.”

  “Thank you for the good wishes. I hope you appreciate it as well.” Gisela nodded and returned the smile. A chill ran up her spine, making her shiver. A foreboding, from nowhere she could discern, warned that if she did not dance and relish this evening, she might never do so again.

  Chapter 4

  Stevan’s empty hands ached for a pen with which to write. Sword to slash. Or hammer to hold and nails to set. In short, any physical labor. An excuse to doff the new travel mantle—dark green with a fluttery ribbon trim along the edges—bestowed on him, along with other items of clothing, before leaving the palace. Although cast-offs, they were one and all finer and less worn than anything he’d owned before.

  Quite possibly royal cast-offs, for Amara had muttered about his size compared to the Marchon before vanishing and returning with a pile for Stevan to sort through and try on. Even the simple green tunic he wore beneath the mantle seemed stiffer than his former attire. No matter how much someone had worn it before him, the band around his neck made him itch.

  His sandals too were new, or at least new-to-him. Although simple by court standards, the straps binding the soles to his feet bore subtle bronze loops and whirls inlaid into the leather. He’d broken the footwear in on the trip, or they had him. From the second through the fifth days, one of the servants accompanying them provided soft slips of sweet-scented lambswool for Stevan to tuck between leather and skin, to cushion his blisters so he walked in relative comfort. He no longer needed the extra padding, but his feet looked different in the decorated sandals than in his old ones.

  How quickly fate turned, from embarrassment at old, well-worn hand-me-downs one minute to discomfort in new clothes the next. Especially as his older clothes would have drawn less attention in this particular time and place.

  Foleilion bore little resemblance to the village where he’d spent his youth. He’d run and played over high hills covered with long grasses and scrub brush enjoyed by sheep and goats. Stood atop hills pretending to be one of the giants who tamed the winds. Fished in lakes fed by streams running down from the snow-capped mountains beyond the hills. At night, he’d settle into dark corners of stone cottages to listen to tales from the older fisherfolk, who always bore a whiff of fish scales about them, of the latest attempt at the big catch that got away.

  No stone buildings whatsoever here. The only stones visible edged the wells. Instead, the Escalli built with wood and topped everything with thick thatched roofs. Rather than clusters of small cottages, they favored long houses more closely resembling soldier’s barracks. All the buildings were laid out to trace a series of three large rectangles around the central square.

  The hills boasted trees grown high
and thick, save for fields kept clear for planting. No sight of a stream or river anywhere, nor had he seen or smelled anything fishy in any way, though the wells evidently provided ample water.

  Nevertheless, the village had at least two things in common with his childhood home. The villagers' clothes were well-worn and bore signs of mending and patching—and everyone worked.

  Folk engaged in physical labor wore only tunics, no mantles, although a few wore old-fashioned over-tunics. Most favored ankle-length tunics rather than knee-length, but one and all hitched their skirts up around their knees the better to labor at the gargantuan task of assembling dozens of trestle tables to hold a feast and feed a horde of ravenous celebrants. The luscious smell of meat roasting and pies baking made clear he’d be well fed tonight.

  If only he could determine what else he was supposed to do and how to go about it.

  Or, more particularly, how to go about it in a discreet manner.

  He and Amara had plotted their approach on the march from the palace. Rather, she’d done the plotting and he'd nodded his head in agreement. She’d probably something similar often before. Why bother arguing with sense? Too many of his brothers, sometimes even the otherwise sensible Brenn, preferred arguing to accepting others’ ideas unless brought to consider them their own.

  Such silliness, not that he ever made the mistake of saying as much. If something made sense, did it matter who came up with the idea? Or who received credit? Better to be about and doing than wasting time arguing minor points. The more so since Stevan had spent too much of his youth listening to his suggestions be ignored, overlooked, or credited to others.

  Brenn accused Stevan of lacking ambition, not without some justification. Stevan lacked a burning need to clamber atop a mountain, pound his chest, and proclaim a great achievement. He preferred the quiet satisfaction of a job well done.