A New Princess Page 5

  He might have been better off born to the crafting classes rather than to a father hanging onto aristocratic status with his fingernails.

  Stevan’s background had little to do with the vicissitudes of fortune that had snatched him out of his comfortable role as scribe into the lofty circles of the princesses whose magic protected and shaped the realm.

  It merely imbued him with a sense of honor at odds with his task in the village. He longed for pen or sword or hammer. Or an opportunity to get in line hefting planks from one part of the green to another.

  Anything to avoid setting himself up as bait.

  Amara hadn’t used that word, but anyone who'd spent their youth fishing would recognize the principles at work.

  Stevan was bait for a princess.

  He and Amara had only two tasks to accomplish. Find the dancer whose name the Terparchon had managed to not obtain—something that still puzzled him, since she’d known his readily enough and he hardly ranked as high as a potential princess—and ascertain the payment or other arrangements necessary to ensure she returned with them.

  Amara had taken the latter upon herself and assigned the former to him.

  He hadn’t argued then. Now, if wishes could whisk him back in time, he’d do things differently.

  Neither of them had realized that while the court celebrated midsummer on the longest day, the villagers of Foleilion followed a lunar calendar and set their great festivities for the nearest full moon.

  Hence the questionable fortune of their arrival. The princess-in-waiting must be here, but she was hidden in a crowd.

  The green at the center of the village thronged with people young and old, almost all ready to throw themselves into the festival with their whole hearts and bodies. Here and there were grumpy faces and pouts and the other unpleasantness that managed to show on any occasion, but most bore smiles and bright expressions.

  More to the point, there were hundreds of lusty young people looking over each other. Promenading before each other. Flirting and flaunting their bodies.

  Many of the women and some men took entirely too much pleasure in studying him. One woman licked her lips, eyes dark and intent. Blew him a kiss. Blood rushed to his face.

  Any potential princess would find him irresistible, Amara had assured him.

  But there was only one here, surely. The ability to draw and channel power ranked among the rarest of gifts. Therefore finding her should be a simple matter.

  Hah.

  Why hadn’t Amara warned him that so many others might also find him of interest? Be willing to act upon it? Anyone would recognize the signs of people ready to celebrate fertility in every fashion.

  Men watching women and other men. Women watching men and other women. Likely if there were any eleee among them, they watched all likewise.

  In short, everyone gazing around and making no bones about who they found attractive.

  And many not stopping at watching. Flirting. Surreptitious or open caresses. Kisses.

  Some weren’t waiting until evening. Unmistakable grunts and cries slipped from the occasional pockets of shade between buildings. The smell of sex mixed with that of the laborers’ sweat, so that the sweeter scents of baking and roasting overlaid a musky base.

  The same took place at court after all, albeit usually with more discretion. No sooner had he arrived than his brother had alerted him to the types of places to avoid unless he wanted to tryst. He’d figured out others on his own.

  Stevan idled at one corner of the green with an excellent view of the organized chaos setting up for the feast—and the council chamber doorway through which Amara had vanished. The Terparchon had insisted on sending guards with them, and two stood watch to either side of the broad opening. The servants who’d accompanied them lurked nearby, one holding the reins of the donkey cart bearing all the supplies the royal logistician considered necessary.

  Food stuffs. Gifts of clothing to ensure the new princess made a proper appearance when they returned with her. Large tents for shelter a nice touch although he'd spent many nights sleeping out-of-doors wrapped in a thick cloak against the cold.

  The fuss he could live without. The cart, marked with the royal insignia—multiple circles forming a sphere that in this case appeared poised and ready to roll off the side even though painted on—drew attention.

  Hence the guards, to keep Amara safe.

  And him.

  Two lurked near him at all times. From an unobtrusive distance, so that he had room to breathe without hot breath falling on his neck. That same space allowed him to pretend they weren’t there so successfully he sometimes turned around and nearly tripped over them.

  “Here to dance?” A woman his age, maybe a little older, flitted just out of arms’ reach. Long dark-brown hair with a bright pink streak fell over her shoulders, reaching to her narrow waist. Her sun-kissed beige skin shone under a sheen of sweat, as she came from the crew assembling trestle tables. The fabric of her yellowed tunic was worn thin to the point the underlying threads gaped in places. She’d hitched her skirts high, tucking ends under the cord serving as a girdle so that she flashed bare feet, ankles, calves, and knees.

  “No. That is, perhaps. But I’m here for other things. Thank you.”

  “Ah, good, we can use a new sire such as you. I’ll look for you later.”

  He drew in a sharp breath, working through the words she pronounced so different than he was accustomed to until the meaning dawned. Did she consider him a bull brought to leave a herd of cows in calf? Surely not.

  Before he had time to do more than frown and shake his head, she headed away from the green—but at such an angle that she slipped behind him in the process.

  At which point, her hand pressed against his mantle. Found the curve of his buttock.

  Squeezed.

  “What in . . .” He stiffened and lurched forward, away from the grabbing fingers. Whirled around. The woman blew him a kiss. Then she toddled off on her merry way.

  At court, no one ever groped him. Looked? Yes, on occasion, but touched without permission? No.

  Both guards appeared likewise taken aback. The elder turned as if to follow and accost the groper, but Stevan shook his head. It might be a local custom.

  Might.

  He needed the favor of the village leaders if he and Amara were to leave with the princess.

  All the same, no need to leave himself open to further molestation. With a regretful sigh, Stevan allowed his guards to stick closer. Cover his back and protect his backside. Literally.

  Alas, that meant drawing even more attention.

  Back stiff, Stevan re-ensconced himself in his former spot with a view of the preparations and council door.

  Flowing cloth captured his gaze, as pairs of mature villagers paraded along the assembled trestles. Unlike the younger workers, they wore mantles in bright colors over their tunics. At each table, two unfolded a long yellow-and-red striped cloth to cover the wood. Behind them, their fellows with baskets efficiently laid out flats of bread to serve as edible plates. Rather than simple roundels in golden brown, each had a medallion of color at the center. Reds, blues, and greens predominated, with the occasional purple and orange.

  Although the fittings and fixings were simple—rough boards, unleavened bread, and tunics and mantles with few ribbons or other pieces of decoration—the village boasted an astonishing array of color. Far more than the almost-equally poor manor in which he’d grown up.

  Even the people bore color—every one had a streak of some contrasting shade in their hair. The older favored greens and blues, while the younger boasted shades of pink and red with the occasional flash of purple.

  A slight cough from close behind had him whirling around, hands reflexively slipping down his back to protect his buttocks from another attack. He snatched them away to dangle stiff at his side as Amara moved closer. Her guards melded with his. In whispered phrases, the latter updated the former as to the earlier incident.


  His ears burned hot. He sighed as the villagers shifted to make more space around them.

  “Any news to share?” Amara tilted her head to the side in a birdlike gesture.

  No twinkle lurked in her eyes or twitched at the edge of her lips.

  “No.”

  She nodded, turning to view the scene and smile at the cooks beginning to march immense platters heaped with meats and grilled vegetables around the green. Cheers followed the procession, the more so as the first to be served were children at the low tables set up for toddlers to those just below the age of consent.

  Stevan smiled too, particularly at the youngest trying so hard to imitate their elders and wait for the food even as their eyes and hands betrayed them. The savory smoke rising from the platters made his stomach rumble, and no doubt theirs as well.

  “We’re to sit with the council at the high table, but before we join them, a piece of news first.” An even broader smile stretched her lips wide and her eyes were alight. “I think I may have found our princess.”

  “So fast?” His neck ached as he whipped his head around as though he, too, might spot her in a moment. None of the many women caught his attention in particular. “Then when may we leave?”

  “You’re not fond of this place?”

  “It’s no worse than where I grew up, but . . .” His backside still felt the imprint of unwelcome fingers. “Very different.”

  “Indeed.” Amara steepled her fingers together and rested her chin upon them. “I forgot Foleilion is an Escalli village, or I might have delayed us on the road rather than push for speed.”

  “That makes a difference how?”

  “Have you never heard of the Escalli?” she asked.

  “Not that I can recall.”

  “Ah, yes, you’re from Silver Hills. Far enough away to pay less attention to the doings in the deep valleys. Permit me to illuminate you inasmuch as I can, as certain topics are best avoided.”

  “Please.” He nodded.

  “In the time of, oh, most likely your grandfather, the Escalli controlled a small territory.” Amara shifted to face the east and rising moon, her back to the slowly setting sun. Gazed over Stevan’s shoulder into the distance.

  “A lovely, fertile spit of land circled on three sides by the Omirisi River just before it emptied into the sea. Unfortunately for them, a series of earthquakes shook the land. Destroyed their homes completely and left the earth in such ruins that rebuilding was impossible. They tried, but the first buildings they raised lasted only days. The second attempt at rebuilding turned to ruins in even less time. Everywhere Escalli set foot, the land shook until the survivors were forced to flee. They had a certain reputation for licentiousness, or so folks said. Rumors flew that this had drawn the earth’s rage upon them and their destruction was a warning to all. Hence few rulers were willing to let them settle in their territories. At length, the Terparchon and Marchon offered the Escalli these lands here—largely overgrown and untenanted then—on condition that they pledge never to roam, and adapt their laws and customs to abide with ours.”

  “And they agreed?” he asked.

  The shadows in Amara’s eyes suggested she didn't consider the bargain fair.

  “They had little choice.” She shook her head, white braid snapping back and forth. “And they valued their people above their land.”

  “That speaks well of them.”

  “Yes, though, you should know they value the good of the many—at least of their own kind—above the interest of any one person.” She pointed her chin at caressing couples among the masses gathering for the feast. “Their reputation for licentiousness derives in no small part from their insistence that all sire or bear at least two or three children to be raised in general for the common good.”

  “Interesting.” Stevan took a second look. Many kissed and touched with affection, so far as he could tell. Yet at least two men and one women showed signs of tolerating rather than welcoming the caresses. Perhaps they were driven by the need to contribute offspring instead of delight in their partners. Beneath his robes his toes twitched and he swallowed in an attempt to dispel the small lump forming in his throat.

  “They do not believe in marriage between individuals, although they accept and respect those people among them who prefer limited partnerships. Or who prefer couplings guaranteed never to produce offspring. Except on their quarterly festival nights, when anyone not yet known to have done their part in ensuring the people continue is expected to find someone by the last dance and go off to attempt their duty.”

  Her meaning hit him with all the subtlety of a hammer. The woman who’d groped him had indeed considered him in the same manner as she would a sire—available for breeding. No care for forming a connection with him. Merely a transactional desire to engage in impregnation and have him depart.

  “But you have located the princess already. So we can retire to the tents and return tomorrow to ask her to go with us?” He pasted a polite smile on his face. The neckline of his tunic seemed suddenly too tight.

  “You do not want to stay for the dances?” The light in Amara’s eyes and tilt of her head suggested she teased.

  “The dances, yes. Not necessarily what follows. If I am going to sire offspring, it will not be until and unless I can maintain them and take part in raising them. I would not leave a child behind, perhaps to be neglected.” He snapped his jaw shut. An urge welled up within him to let more words spill until she understood in full how little the prospect of siring and walking away appealed. Holding his breath, he counted to ten—a way to resist the tendency to share with her more than he should. Beads of sweat rolled down the sides of his face, despite the slight cooling breeze rising as the sun fled the sky.

  “That may disappoint many here.” Amara tapped his arm, a gentle touch that eased the urge to share more.

  “I am sure others will be happy to save anyone from suffering loneliness for long.” He crossed his arms over his chest, mimicking her earlier actions and gesturing with his chin at the many eager young men among the festival goers.

  “Though you may dance without moving on to mating after.”

  “I may?” As though he needed her permission. Senior to him in age and rank though she was, there were some things no one could command. Then his eyes lit on a young man, little more than a boy. A woman whispered in his ear as she stroked his head, arm, and chest. His shoulders slumped, but he made no move to shake off her touch. Amara could not command Stevan in matters of the heart or groin, yet clearly the elders of the village had no compunctions about mandating the actions of their people.

  “I hope you will. Join in the dance, not the mating—unless you so wish—and see which woman most draws your attention and vice-versa.” She spread her hands wide. “If it is the same woman I suspect to be our princess, we may be doubly certain we ask for the right person when we bargain with the village elders.”

  Across the green, a drummer began a steady beat. Soon all the people began clapping to the same. Stamping, too, until the very earth beneath their feet moved to the steady, insistent cadence.

  The moon rose fully above the horizon, and a great shout rose. Three runners approached the high table with blazing torches held high. Exchanged bows. Then ran in great loops around the green, lighting torches as they went. Whatever the torches held, it wasn’t any wood or kindling Stevan recognized. These burned with a soft white light, miniature versions of the moon, and gave off a musky aroma that set his body thrumming in unexpected ways.

  Sometimes, dancing alone satisfied his need to move. On other occasions movements aroused and built desire. This whole night was meant to accomplish that for the villagers, but it had an effect on him as well.

  Particularly as a form in the shadows farther down the green caught his eye. Even with the bright moonlight and mirrored torchlight, he couldn’t make out her features. Nevertheless, something in her way of moving summoned an urge to dance. To meet and twine hands. Her hesitant steps gave an i
mpression of grace, sorrow, and a seed of hope.

  “Good. I’m glad you’ve agreed.” Amara clapped a hand on his shoulder. “But first, come and meet the council and eat. You’ll need fuel to dance.”

  The woman had vanished back into the shadows. Stevan followed Amara, the guards in turn behind them, but he kept glancing over to seek her in the darkness. If he couldn't find her there, though, surely he would in the dance.

  Chapter 5

  Gisela waited for the drums to start. Her heart pounded in her chest, hot blood running in her veins. Bright moonlight and dark shadows reduced most color except the blazing orange and red flames of the bonfires burning in each corner of the square. Smoke from the fires spiced the air with a golden scent reminiscent of fall’s splendor. Of the season of bearing fruit—but this was not autumn. Rather, summer still lay ahead, during which all that bloomed in spring might dream of ripening into autumn. None yet knew which fields and crops would flourish, and which wither and die.

  Grim thoughts with which to begin the celebration, but apt nonetheless. Among the last to arrive, she’d barely tasted the feast. Didn’t even know for certain what she’d consumed, save that the last sweet had been drenched in honey. Drops still lingered on her lips. The air was redolent with smells, from the foods laid out to the scents with which some adorned themselves, to the more basic element of sweat—it all mixed into a giddy, dizzying whole that she associated only with well-attended festival nights.

  A simple unbleached tunic hung from her shoulders, gathered at the waist with a braided cord. A similar cord at the nape of her neck bound her hair back so it became a tumbled fall rather than cascading around her. No other adornments, not even an over-tunic. Nothing save a thin layer of cloth covering her skin. She rubbed the goose bumps lining her bare arms as the sun slipped from the sky. Delicately stretched her legs and ankles. Ss soon as the dancing started, she would warm up.

  For however long she managed to dance.

  At least the earth remained warm beneath her bare feet.

  The cords binding her waist and hair matched the streak dyed into her hair.