ã€ŠThorns: A Queer Fairytaleã€‹


 Prologue

    ¡°Rolf, you idiot, this is not the time for hunting! You¡¯ll lose the path!¡± Alfrick looked with exasperation at the quickly vanishing shape of the young knight riding into the gloaming. In little more than a moment, all that was left to view was a flash of white as Rolf¡¯s horse disappeared into the trees. It was as if the forest had closed around him, swallowing him into its deep and brooding silence, heavy with the weight of years.

    Alfrick fought down his frustration, ignoring its edge of fear. Sir Rolf had all the sense of a newly whelped pup. Rolf had taken off like a shot after the white stag, all warnings about venturing into the Shadowed Wood forgotten in the thrill of pursuit. Alfrick was not much older than Rolf, but he had grown up in the North. Alfrick¡¯s father was the Duke of Svernhold, and his ancestors had governed the North in Galbrica¡¯s name ever since the Galbrican Conquest nearly five centuries ago.

    Rolf was city bred, raised in Galbrica¡¯s capital amidst the ease of the king¡¯ court. He was ill-suited for the dangers of the North, as were most things from south of the Koleagh Pass.

    Alfrick glanced at his two remaining companions: Galfried and Danbar, both gruff knights from his father¡¯s guard. Galfried was young for a guard, only a few years older than Alfrick¡¯s twenty-four years, but he was already on his way to acquiring the grizzled look that seemed to be the hallmark of a Northern guardsman. Danbar had already been looking grizzled by the time Alfrick had been weaned. It was he who had trained Alfrick in swordcraft as a boy.

    Alfrick met Danbar¡¯s impassive gaze and knew the older man was waiting for his instructions. ¡°I suppose we had better go after Rolf,¡± Alfrick said resignedly.

    Danbar nodded brusquely. ¡°Aye, my lord.¡±

    ¡°Galfried,¡± said Alfrick, turning to the younger guard, ¡°stay close. Danbar, follow behind as quickly as you can and mark the path. You have the ash?¡±

    ¡°Nay. But Gormghlaith does, and I¡¯ll have it off her quick enough.¡± The packhorse waiting behind them pricked up her ears at her name. Gormghlaith had been named by one of the stablehands when he was still young enough to think that the name sounded majestic, and despite the best efforts of the Master of the Horse, the name had stuck. Most people had taken to calling her Gorm, but Danbar seemed to feel it was a matter of the horse¡¯s dignity to call her by her full name. Perhaps he was right. Gorm undoubtedly liked him best. She stood patiently as Danbar dismounted and unfastened a large, scuffed sack from her back. The sack was light for its size, filled only with ash. No northerner traveled through the Shadowed Woods without such a sack. Even the most careful of travelers needed to veer from the path at times, and the Shadowed Woods rarely surrendered those who did not mark their way. Ash had become the traditional method because of its lightness and because it stood out clearly in the forest gloom.

    Danbar tied Gormghlaith to a nearby tree, then remounted his stallion and opened the sack, withdrawing one pale, crumbling handful. He nodded at Alfrick.

    Alfrick returned the nod and flicked his horse¡¯s reins, following the broken twigs and crushed undergrowth that marked Rolf¡¯s route through the woods. Behind him and Galfried, Danbar followed, trickling a trail of ash to lead them back to the path. The bruised underbrush might be enough to mark their route for now, but the Shadowed Woods had played tricks before. Even now, Danbar distrusted the ease with which the woods were letting them follow the errant knight¡¯s route.

    To Alfrick, the going felt painfully slow. He could push his horse no faster than a trot while still following the signs of Rolf¡¯s passage. There was no sign of Rolf himself. Surely Rolf would soon realize how far he had strayed and cease his pursuit. Or perhaps he would catch the stag at last, and they would find him bent over its pale body, pulling his arrow from its side. But the shadows were growing ever darker as night fell, and the traces of Rolf¡¯s pursuit went on. At last, the woods grew so dim that Alfrick and Galfried had to dismount to make out the hoofprints in the underbrush, leading their horses, who snuffled and whinnied with growing unease.

    Danbar caught up to them and dismounted to walk behind them, still scattering a thin trail of ash. He had to reach far down into the sack now whenever he drew out a fresh handful. They walked on and on until the last silvery trickle slipped from between his fingers. ¡°Ash is out,¡± he said, his voice gruff in the settling dark.

    Alfrick and Galfried turned to look at Danbar¡¯s empty hand. Nothing but a few feathery flakes clung to the palm of his glove. A tense silence settled over the men until Danbar once more broke it. ¡°Best go back, my lord.¡±

    Alfrick knew Danbar was right. Still, he pictured arriving in the capital and having to explain that he had lost Sir Rolf in the woods¨Cnot just lost him, but left him there to die. The Southern nobles would not understand that there was no other sane option when someone had strayed so far into the Shadowed Wood. Alfrick pictured Willa¡¯s face when she heard: Willa, the king¡¯s middle daughter, the princess whose heart he had been so lucky to win and whose hand in marriage he was traveling to the royal city to ask. If he left Rolf to the Shadowed Woods, that would be the end of his hopes for marriage. The king would not want such a man as his son-in-law. There was only one decision that Alfrick could make. It was, without question, a stupid one.

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    ¡°Go,¡± said Alfrick. ¡°I can¡¯t ask you to come with me. Make camp at the edge of the forest, right where we left the path. If all goes well, I¡¯ll return by daybreak, and Rolf with me. If I don¡¯t come back by tomorrow at nightfall, ride to my father and tell him what has happened. Tell him I have chosen my own path. I will not have him send any others after me.¡±

    ¡°My lord¨C¡± Galfried began.

    ¡°You¡¯re a fool of a boy,¡± Danbar cut in, the furrows in his face deepening into a scowl. ¡°And you¡¯re even more of a fool if you think I¡¯ll turn back and leave you to wander through the Shadowed Wood alone. I always meant to die in the service of the Duke. Dying in service of his son will have to do.¡±

    ¡°My lord,¡± Galfried began again, ¡°we¡¯re not out of luck altogether. There¡¯s the old trick still.¡±

    ¡°The old trick?¡± Alfrick asked.

    ¡°Aye. The squirrels are a danger, to be sure, but I haven¡¯t seen any around, and the loaves that Cook packed for us are stale enough.¡±

    A slow grin spread across Alfrick¡¯s face. ¡°Breadcrumbs.¡±

    ¡°Aye, my lord¡± said Galfried. ¡°The old trick, as I said.¡±

    ¡°Daft,¡± muttered Danbar.

    ¡°Brilliant,¡± declared Alfrick.

    Galfried unpacked the stale loaves and moved behind Danbar to take up the rear, scattering breadcrumbs as they resumed their slow way. He did not notice the clearing until he felt the others pause before him and looked up.

    Alfrick gave a low whistle.

    ¡°Now would be a good time for stealth,¡± Danbar grumbled, his voice little more than a whisper.

    In answer, Alfrick led his horse to the side so that Danbar could see the full view. At the heart of the clearing stood a castle encircled by a thick stone wall. The wall was covered in the most luxurious climbing roses that any of them had ever seen. The petals seemed to soak up the darkness and turn it into a velvety red so deep that it was nearly black. Alfrick forgot all about Rolf. He could think only of the roses, only of how Willa would smile when he gave her one. He stepped into the clearing. The deep, sweet scent of the blooms wrapped around him.

    A flicker of movement on the other side of the clearing caught Danbar¡¯s eye, and he turned, his hand going to his sword. It was the swish of a horse¡¯s tale. Rolf¡¯s steed, riderless. Danbar scanned the area, fighting against the rose-scented haze that pressed in on his mind, until he spotted the dark figure slumped against the rose-laced wall. He could make out Rolf¡¯s pale hair against the dark blooms. He turned back to tell Alfrick, but Alfrick was no longer there. He stood at the center of the clearing, reaching towards the wall, one hand out to pluck a rose. Danbar called out, but it was too late. Alfrick snapped the stem and stared transfixed at the rose in his hand. He hardly noticed the thorn that had pierced through his glove, nor the slow trickle of blood that was spreading across the glove from his hand beneath.

    A single prick, a trickle of blood. Blood magic was potent; it needed no more.

    Danbar watched in horror as Alfrick slowly collapsed, the rose tumbling from his hand to lie at the base of the wall. Danbar was running before Alfrick hit the ground, his sword drawn as if he could fight off whatever magic was a work. Relief flooded him when he reached Alfrick¡¯s side and saw that he was still breathing. Danbar searched for a wound and could find none. Alfrick¡¯s chest was rising and falling with the slow regularity of deep slumber. Danbar slapped Alfrick lightly across the face. When there was no reaction, he tried again, harder.

    ¡°You¡¯ll not wake him,¡± said a lilting voice from behind him.

    Danbar spun around, sword raised. He recognized that lilt. It still lingered in the most remote of the Northern villages. It was the accent of the Old Ones, that vanished race that had inhabited the North before the Galbricans came and claimed it for their own. Vanished, at least, as far as people south of the Kolaegh Pass were concerned.

    Before him stood a middle-aged woman with all the commanding regalness of a lady of the court. Her dark eyes pinned him in place. The hood of her cloak was thrown back to reveal finely hewn features, now set in an expression he could not pin down: some unaccountable mix of amusement, pity, annoyance, and a touch of satisfaction.

    ¡°Do you plan to stop me?¡± Danbar asked warily.

    ¡°Not at all,¡± said the woman. ¡°It is simply not within your power. Your other companion is over there, by the way,¡± she added, nodding further along the wall. ¡°He does not seem to have resisted the roses as well as you did.¡±

    Danbar risked a glance in that direction and saw Galfried drooped against the wall, a fallen rose beside him. ¡°What have you done to them?¡± he demanded.

    ¡°I have not done anything,¡± the lady replied. ¡°The owner of this castle, on the other hand, has put a powerful working on the roses. They are a guard dog of sorts. But while a brave man may successfully fight off a guard dog, he will rarely be so successful in fighting off sleep.¡±

    ¡°A sleep spell, then? Can you undo it.¡±

    ¡°Only its caster can undo it. And, given that one of your companions was hunting one of her creatures, I hardly think that she will be in any mood to do so.¡±

    ¡°She?¡± Danbar croaked.

    The lady smiled enigmatically. ¡°I see you know the stories. I saw you scattering ash to mark your way. And breadcrumbs. It had been a long time since I saw that particular trick. It entertained me so much that I instructed the woods to preserve the breadcrumbs from decay. Not even the squirrels will touch them. They will be there to guide you should you wish to depart.¡±

    Danbar thought of what the lady was offering. A way out of the Shadowed Wood. It was an offer few had ever received. He shook his head. ¡°I cannot leave my lord like this. Nor the others.¡±

    ¡°I thought not. Come, then, let us load them on the horses. We shall take them to my cottage. They will be safe there while we wait.¡±

    ¡°Wait for what?¡±

    ¡°For the hero to come, of course,¡± said the lady. ¡°There must always be a hero in cases like this. Perhaps this time, the hero will even be successful.¡±

 Chapter 1: Old Tales

    ¡°What do you mean ¡®disappeared¡¯?¡± Britomart demanded. ¡°Princes don¡¯t disappear. Princesses do. That¡¯s why princes have to go rescue them.¡±

    Willa paused in pacing her chamber to glare up at Britomart. Willa may have been two years older than Britomart, but she looked about as fierce as an irritable kitten. She was not precisely short for a woman, but Britomart was the sort of tall that came with shoulders. Willa seemed to have inherited all the femininity that Britomart lacked. She looked every bit the princess with her delicate features and deep blue eyes. No visiting diplomat had ever embarrassed himself by failing to recognize Willa as King Gundred¡¯s daughter, as more than a few had with Britomart. The matter was not helped by the fact that, at eighteen, Britomart was nearly as tall as her father¡¯s knights. In fact, she was one of her father¡¯s knights as of two months and three days ago (not that she was counting). Britomart was the first female knight in Galbrica for centuries. She was also, she had to admit, bored. She had expected for there to be at least one quest by now. She would even have settled for freeing a sleepy village from the predations of a rogue wolf. But there were no hungry wolves, no nefarious lords who needed vanquishing, and no long-lost magical objects that would determine the fate of the kingdom. Galbrica had continued to be just as peaceful as it had been all Britomart¡¯s life. Magic had continued to be something that belonged only to old tales.

    Britomart looked down to meet her older sister¡¯s glare. She shrugged. ¡°Well, it¡¯s true. Besides, Alfrick¡¯s not even a prince, he¡¯s a duke¡¯s son. He should be rescuing you.¡±

    ¡°I have no intention of being rescued, thank you very much,¡± Willa replied. ¡°Though I¡¯m sure Alfrick would be very good at it. But you¡¯re missing the point. Alfrick left Svernhold nearly two months ago to make the journey to father¡¯s court¨C¡±

    ¡°¨CWhere we will all act suitably surprised when he asks for your hand,¡± Britomart interjected.

    ¡°And it¡¯s less than a fortnight¡¯s journey from Svenhold to here,¡± Willa continued as if she had not been interrupted. ¡°Father wrote to the duke asking if there had been a delay, and the duke wrote back that he had no more idea of what had happened to Alfrick than we do. He thought that his son had arrived and had simply been too busy to write.¡±

    ¡°You mean too preoccupied with his impending nuptials.¡±

    Willa looked at her sister in aggravation. ¡°There will be no nuptials if Alfrick never arrives to propose to me.¡± She resumed pacing up and down her chamber.

    Britomart watched Willa pace for a moment before saying, ¡°Being unmarried isn¡¯t so bad. You could stay here with us, not go north after all.¡±

    The aggravation went out of Willa, and she seemed to wilt. ¡°I love him, Brita.¡±

    Britomart could hear the barely-contained tears in Willa¡¯s voice. She drew her sister into a hug and heard a sniffle from the vicinity of her shoulder. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, the Duke will find him. I¡¯m sure there are men out looking already. The North is still half wilderness anyway, even if it technically belongs to Galbrica. Alfrick probably took the wrong route through the mountains and came out too far east. He¡¯ll be making his way here right this moment.¡±

    Willa¡¯s voice came out muffled against Britomart¡¯s tunic. ¡°You know that¡¯s not true. There aren¡¯t any routes through the mountains except for the Kolaegh Pass.¡±

    ¡°None that we know of. But you and I have never been to the North, have we? There might be some that aren¡¯t on father¡¯s maps.¡±

    Willa loosened her hold on her sister just enough to wipe her nose on the back of her hand. She might look like femininity incarnate, but that didn''t stop her nose from running when she cried. She took a deep breath and mastered her tears. ¡°If only we could go. Go find Alfrick, I mean.¡±

    A dangerous light went into Britomart¡¯s eyes.

    Willa realized her mistake too late. ¡°We can¡¯t go, Brita. I wasn¡¯t serious. Stop looking like that.¡±

    ¡°Like what?¡± Britomart said innocently.

    ¡°Like a cat who has just spotted a saucer of cream.¡±

    ¡°I have no idea what you mean. I have no intention of us going to search for Alfrick. I swear on my sword.¡± Us, Britomart reasoned, was not the same as me. After all, she had no intention of taking Willa with her when she went searching for Alrick. No self-respecting knight went on a quest with her sister in tow.

    Willa eyed Britomart suspiciously. ¡°Alright. Since you swear it. Besides, father will send out men to search if I ask him.¡±

    The statement was true enough. King Gundred was not always a kind father, but he did love his daughters in his own way. After his eldest daughter Goneril had guaranteed the future of the kingdom through her marriage to the Prince of Osterland, Gundred had been content to let Willa form an attachment to the Duke of Svenhold¡¯s son during the spring tournament. Svernhold was a minor duchy on the northern edge of the kingdom, but the family was an old one that had served the kingdom well in times gone by. Gundred would do what he could to find Alfrick if Willa asked. He would have to send men to look for Alfrick soon enough anyways since the duke¡¯s son had been accompanied by young Sir Rolf, the son and heir of one of her father¡¯s favorite nobles. Rolf  had become fast friends with Alfrick during the tournament and had ventured North with him on his return to Svernhold. Rolf¡¯s knighthood was as shiny and new as his armor. Like Britomart, he had been itching for more adventure than the Galbrican court could provide.

    ¡°Of course father will send someone,¡± Britomart said soothingly. ¡°They¡¯ll find Alfrick. You¡¯ll see. Before the month is out, your duke-ling will arrive at father¡¯s court looking just as handsome as ever and sweep you off your dainty little feet.¡±

    Willa sniffed. ¡°My feet aren¡¯t dainty. Yours are just big.¡±

    ¡°They¡¯re fighting size,¡± Britomart protested.

    Willa raised an eyebrow. ¡°I didn¡¯t know knights kicked when they fought.¡±

    ¡°Not when the ladies are watching.¡±

    ¡°You are a lady,¡± Willa teased, thankful to have gotten away from the subject of dangerous journeys north.

    Britomart made a face. ¡°Only when I have to be.¡±

    ¡°Well, for now, I say you have to be. I need something to take my mind off of this business, and crying has made me look a fright.¡± Willa glanced in the ornate mirror that hung along one side of her chamber in front of a dressing table. ¡°I don¡¯t know what I have done to my hair. You¡¯ll braid it, won¡¯t you? As a favor? It will be like when we were little. And I want proper braids, a coronet of them, not like yours.¡±

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    ¡°I¡¯m hopeless with hair. You know that as well as I do,¡± Britomart replied. As if in confirmation, she caught a glimpse of her own messy, waist-length braid in the mirror. It had recently been pinned up under a helm, and hairs poked out of it at loose angles that put one in mind of a haystack. Britomart had kept her promise to regrow her hair after she cut it off in protest when her father forbade her to become a knight. She had been thirteen, and King Gundred had caught her sparring with one of the squires in the practice yard. The pageboy whom Britomart paid with extra sweetmeats to keep a lookout during her training sessions had gone to take a piss behind the barracks, and by the time that Britomart saw her father, there had been no time to pretend that she was merely watching the squires practice. Gundred had been tolerant of Britomart¡¯s swordplay when she was a child¨Cafter all, many girls played at being Queen Boemia¨Cbut he was far less tolerant when he found out that she had never stopped. Noblewomen wielded embroidery needles, not longswords. With a few cold commands from her father, Britomart was banned from the practice yard and sent to her mother¡¯s chamber to be reformed into a proper Galbrican princess.

    King Gundred had expected Queen Elsbeth to berate their daughter with the sort of lecture on a princess¡¯s duties that the girl would never forget. Instead, Gundred had found himself at the receiving end of one of his wife¡¯s lectures. If there was one force that Gundred could not withstand, it was his wife. When he came down to breakfast the next morning to find Britomart with her hair crudely hacked off, his mind had already been made up. It had been made up for him by the queen, who had told him in no uncertain terms that she would far rather have a knight for a daughter than a broken husk of a girl, which was exactly what Britomart would become if she were forced into a life of gowns and embroidery. If Gundred had needed any more persuading, the sight of his youngest daughter with a stableboy''s haircut would have done it. He understood, then, that turning Britomart into a lady was as fruitless a task as commanding the Shadowed Wood to move. So Goneril and Willa became ladies, and Britomart became a knight. By the time Britomart¡¯s hair had grown long enough to reach her waist, she could hold her own against everybody but Sir Reginald, and he was the King¡¯s Champion.

    ¡°I¡¯ll read to you while you braid,¡± Willa wheedled.

    Britomart relented. ¡°Fine. But don¡¯t say I didn¡¯t warn you.¡±

    Willa crossed to her dressing table and handed Britomart the comb that lay there. ¡°Which story? It¡¯s your bribe, so you can choose.¡±

    Britomart¡¯s eyes fell on the old volume that lay beside Willa¡¯s inlaid jewelry box. She thought of the coming quest and the Shadowed Wood, of lost paths and shadowed thorns. ¡°Read me the one about Queen Boemia and the Blood Witch.¡±

    Willa rolled her eyes. ¡°Really, you would think you¡¯d want some variety. I must have read that one to you a thousand times when you were little.¡±

    ¡°Just read it. I don¡¯t have to braid your hair, you know. The armsmaster has just set up a new quintain that I¡¯ve been wanting to try.¡±

    ¡°As the lady commands,¡± Willa replied.

    Britomart muttered something in which Willa could distinctly make out the words ¡°lady¡± and ¡°arse,¡± but she began to unpin her sister¡¯s hair nevertheless. Willa¡¯s pale golden hair fell loose over her shoulders in gentle waves. Britomart was more aware than ever of the untidiness of her own dirty blonde braid.

    Then Willa opened the book, and began to read. Britomart let the familiar words wash over her.

    ¡°Those were the days when Galbrica was new, and the North was still vicious and wild. Few people dared to live north of the Kolaegh Pass. Those who did were in constant fear, for in the woods, the Old Ones reigned. The Old Ones had come from across the sea long, long ago. Some say they were elves; some say they were the descendants of elves and bore all of the elven cruelty behind a human face. Whatever they were, they were beautiful and terrible, with hearts black as pitch and magic that was blacker still. And over them all, the Blood Witch reigned.

    As time passed, the Blood Witch grew greedy. The North was no longer enough for her. She set her eyes on the South. She could not stand for mankind to thrive just beyond the borders of her land, living in light that burned against her darkness. So the Blood Witch sent her creatures down from the Shadowed Wood, down into the plains of Galbrica, where the wheat shone golden in the sun. The Blood Witch sent thorn-wights to spread rot among the Galbrican harvests. She sent water daemons to swell the streams and make them flood. She sent white stags to tempt unwary hunters, and will-o¡¯-the-wisps to lure children into the Shadowed Wood. And whoever entered those woods never returned, for the Shadowed Wood was her creature too, and it swallowed them whole.

    When Queen Boemia heard of this, she declared that the Blood Witch would harm the Galbrican people no more. The queen mounted her stallion and rode out from her royal city, which we call Boemapolis now, but was Gerion then. She rode north, then further north still, until she passed beyond the Kolaegh Pass. Then she rode into the Shadowed Wood. She followed no path, for she knew, as all do, that the Blood Witch comes for those who lose their way in her woods.

    Queen Boemia rode until her horse grew weary; then she walked until she could walk no more. At last, she sat down at the edge of a stream to rest, and it was then that the trees closed in. From amidst the trees came thorn-wights, creatures of bark and vine, of spirit and thorn. Their tendrils wrapped around her, and she felt the press of their thorns. Blood flowed down her armor as thorns pierced the iron strong. Blood flowed, and in her senses something stirred. The slithering of a cloak on the leaves, a shadow in the wood. And she knew the Blood Witch had come.

    Then the queen called out to the darkness, and her words rang strong and true: ¡®I will make you a bargain, Blood Witch, a bargain for my life.¡¯ For Queen Boemia knew that no Old One could resist a bargain, and what you could not win by force, you could sometimes win by guile.

    The thorns ceased their pressure, and before her a figure appeared, its cloak as red as blood, its face a deeper shadow in the dark. The Blood Witch spoke in the darkness, and her voice was as rich as wine.

    ¡®What will you give me,¡¯ said the witch, ¡®in return for your life?¡¯

    ¡®I will give you my hair,¡¯ said the queen. ¡®It is bright as purest gold.¡¯

    ¡®What need have I for golden hair?¡¯ said the witch. ¡®It buys nothing but men¡¯s love.¡¯

    ¡®I will give you my sword,¡¯ said the queen. ¡®It is sharp as winter¡¯s bite.¡¯

    ¡®What need have I for a sword?¡¯ said the witch. ¡®I kill with vines and thorns.¡¯

    ¡®I will give you my horse,¡¯ said the queen. ¡®It is swift as the swiftest wind.¡¯

    ¡®What need have I for a horse?¡¯ said the witch. ¡®I ride the shadows black.¡¯

    ¡®I have nought else to give,¡¯ said the queen. ¡®I will not give you my throne.¡¯

    ¡®The wilds are mine,¡¯ said the witch, ¡®what need have I for thrones?¡¯¡±

    The wilds. Britomart had only ever been as far as Ildensvine, and that had been on a royal progress in which, despite her best efforts, she had been laced into a gown of sky-blue velvet that was simply not meant for somebody with a warrior¡¯s shoulders. To go north on her own, north past Ildensvine, past Rivensfeldt, past the Kolaegh Pass; to go north into the Shadowed Wood¡­it was more than she had ever dreamt of. Well, perhaps she had dreamt of it once or twice, but only in a hypothetical sort of way.

    ¡°Ouch!¡± Willa exclaimed, abruptly stopping her reading. ¡°Watch that hairpin!¡±

    ¡°Sorry! I was wandering.¡± Britomart looked with chagrin at the monstrosity she had made of Willa¡¯s hair, all dreams of the North temporarily forgotten.

    ¡°You¡¯re supposed to be riveted, not wandering. Queen Boemia is about to be taken to the Blood Witch¡¯s lair. It¡¯s one of the good parts.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m listening.¡±

    Willa looked in the mirror. Her initial look of shock at the hairdo that greeted her turned into a giggle, then into an all-out laugh. ¡°You know, I think you¡¯ve actually gotten worse at this.¡±

    Britomart grinned sheepishly. ¡°I did warn you. Now stay still. If I just adjust this¨C¡±

    ¡°You will do no such thing. I am not sure my hair will survive much more. Thank you though. You¡¯ve helped.¡±

    Britomart didn¡¯t need to look at the state of Willa¡¯s hair to know that her sister was not talking about the hairdo. She reached down to squeeze Willa¡¯s hand. ¡°Alfrick¡¯s out there, Willa. Don¡¯t worry.¡±

    He¡¯s out there, Britomart thought, and I¡¯m going to find him for you.

    The next morning, the stable lads woke to find Britomart¡¯s horse gone. A hasty note torn from what seemed to have been a fine lady¡¯s diary hung on the wall, speared onto the nail that normally held the horse¡¯s bridle. It read, ¡°Gone rescuing.¡±

 Chapter 2: The Kings Justice

    It took seven days of hard riding for Britomart to arrive at Rivensfeldt, the last major city before the Kolaegh Pass. Or, to be more precise, it took two days of hard riding and five days of riding at a reasonable pace after Britomart realized that her horse Arthur would not thank her for riding full tilt for nearly a fortnight. She needed to slow down if she wanted Arthur to be any good in a rescue attempt when they arrived at the Shadowed Wood.

    The result was that Britomart arrived at Rivensfeldt bursting with impatience and looking even more disreputable than her horse, who was glowing with health under a coating of dust.

    Even from a distance, the city looked packed with life after the small towns and villages that Britomart had been passing through. Rivensfedlt lay nestled in the fork where the Kell river branched into the Oster and the Galden as it slowed in its rush down from the northern mountains. Huge bridges led into the city over the branching rivers, supported by arches whose pillars disappeared deep beneath the water. From there, the Oster flowed east into the neighboring kingdom of Osterland, while the Galden wound its way down to Galbrica¡¯s royal city, Boemapolis. The rivers were the arteries through which goods traveled through Galbrica and beyond, carrying wheat and barley from the center of the realm, lumber and furs from the North, and a broad array of useful (and not-so-useful) products from the artisans in the few large cities that Galbrica possessed. Galbrica was primarily a land of towns, villages, and countryside. Britomart had known that from her father¡¯s maps, but the reality of it struck her forcefully as she spent day after day riding through wide plains and alongside neatly tilled fields.

    Britomart had taken the most direct route towards the Koleagh Pass rather than the most frequented, which followed the Galden River. Looking at her father¡¯s maps, the decision had seemed simple. The Galden road would add at least a day to the journey, and Britomart was far more likely to meet travelers on it who would recognize her, even in disguise. There was a distinct chance that her father might send men after her to try to bring her home. Allowing her to become a knight was one thing; allowing her to venture alone into the Shadowed Wood was another.

    Britomart was rather proud of her disguise. She had blackened her armor with bootblack to hide its perfect sheen, and she wore the bedraggled tabard of a down-on-his-luck hedge knight hocking his services to petty lords. Her gender was almost impossible to make out under the armor. She had burst into peals of laughter the first time an armorer had shown her a design for a breastplate with, well, breasts. The armorer seemed to think that a busty breastplate was a prerequisite for a female knight. Britomart had thanked him and told him that a standard breastplate would be fine. Binding her chest was not precisely comfortable, but it was infinitely better than wearing a custom-designed breastplate that reminded every single opponent of what her anatomy looked like underneath it.

    Apart from her braid, Britomart was confident that she could pass for a beardless youth. Her features had always been more handsome than beautiful. The journey North was too long and hot to wear a helm the whole time, so she had pinned her braid tightly under one of the dashing leather hats that some of the younger knights had taken to wearing in order to make themselves look interesting despite the general dearth of quests. She had requisitioned the hat from Sir Danquil, who had been knighted only a few weeks before her and had spent much of his training on the losing end of sparring matches with her. Danquil had the misfortune to have the same clothing size as Britomart, which meant that she had requisitioned items from him on more than one occasion when sneaking out of the palace in disguise to explore the city without some glowering noblewoman as her chaperone. One look at the glint in Britomart¡¯s eyes when she came to claim the hat had told Danquil that resistance was futile.

    The sight of Rivensfedlt on the horizon felt like a drink of cool spring water after hours of traveling with a dry waterskin. Britomart longed for a room and a bath. She had soon discovered that the problem with choosing the  rural route was that even the largest villages were too small for anything resembling an inn. She had slept in cramped spare rooms when they were available, in barns when they were not. She was itchy all over from sleeping in hay. There were, she thought, very few things worse than being itchy while wearing armor. It was very hard to scratch.

    Britomart slowed Arthur to a walk as she neared the city gates, settling into the line of carts and travelers that were making their way through the gates and into the market square. She watched warily as a city guard nodded each traveler through, sometimes exchanging a few words, sometimes merely waving a hand after a cursory look. Her excitement and impatience turned to nervousness as she came under the guard¡¯s scrutiny. Certainly word would not yet have reached the city of an armor-clad princess on a highly unauthorized quest. Britomart did her best to look inconspicuous and kept her hat low. The guard was a stocky, middle-aged man with a bored expression that did not alter for a travel-worn hedge knight on a dusty horse. He hardly spared Britomart a glance as waved her through.

    When he was questioned about her later, all the guard could remember was a vague impression of a swashbuckler¡¯s hat and grimy black armor.

    Britomart dismounted as the market square opened before her, packed with stalls and people. It rang with the shouts of merchants advertising their wares, vying for attention over the ever-present chatter of the city¡¯s inhabitants, the crunching of cart wheels on dirt, and the occasional squeals from the pigs that wandered loose through the city. Side streets branched off from the square at haphazard angles, some so narrow that they looked like canyons between the three-story wooden buildings on either side. The signs on the shops proclaimed their wares: a vial and chalice marked an apothecary''s shop; a pair of pink hose marked a clothier¡¯s; a fine throwing ax marked an armorer¡¯s. Britomart had to fight down the urge to pay the last of those shops a visit. She already had a perfectly serviceable throwing ax strapped to her saddlebags along with her spear, not to mention her sword and dagger. She looked like an armory all by herself. Weapons were a very important part of questing as far as Britomart was concerned.

    It took Britomart a moment to realize that the crowd was moving. More and more people were breaking off from the eddy of shoppers in the market square and making their way towards the broadest of the streets that led deeper into the city. Now that she listened for it, she could hear the retreating peal of a town crier¡¯s bell. Curiosity won out over the desire for a bath. Britomart made her way down through the square, leading Arthur beside her, and soon found herself being carried along by the human current.

    The crowd abruptly slowed and spread out as the street opened onto another square. It was smaller than the market square but packed just as densely with people. Britomart could just make out a wooden platform at the center of the square. She wondered for a moment if a troupe of traveling players was about to perform. Then she got close enough to see the structure erected on the platform, and her stomach turned. It wasn¡¯t a stage. It was a scaffold.

    She knew where she was now: the city¡¯s Justice Square. Every major city in Galbrica had one. Her father had once explained to her that the people needed to see the crown¡¯s justice carried out because that was how they knew that the king was protecting the peace of the realm. But there was nothing peaceful about what took place in a Justice Square. A first-time offender might get off with only branding, but executions were not uncommon.

    Britomart had only been to an execution once. She had not been supposed to be there, of course. Princesses were considered far too delicate for such things, even princesses who could hold their own with a sword. A group of squires had gone to watch the hanging of a notorious highwayman, and Britomart had snuck out with them wearing one of Danquil¡¯s drabbest tunics. She¡¯d had nightmares about the execution for longer than she cared to admit. The highwayman¡¯s neck had not broken when he dropped from the scaffold. She wished for his sake that it had.

    Britomart turned to leave the square, but there was no room to turn Arthur in the press of people. They were hemmed in by the crowd on every side. Whatever was about to happen, she was going to have to watch it, whether she wanted to or not.

    A trumpet blast called for the attention of the crowd as the magistrate climbed the stairs to the scaffold. He was a large man dressed in the black velvet robes of his office, and he strode onto the scaffold with the solemn grandeur of a priest of the Allfather about to address his followers.

    The hubbub of the crowd settled down into a low murmur as the magistrate began to speak, his voice loud and rumbling.

    ¡°Today,¡± he proclaimed, ¡°you shall witness the punishment of the worst kind of malefactor, a repeat malefactor, one whose depravity the gentle correction of the law could not soften¨C¡±

    The crowd booed.

    ¡°¨Cwho is young in body but old in misdeeds¨C¡±

    Another boo.

    ¡°¨Cwho, in his greed, has preyed upon his fellow citizens and torn from them their hard-won earnings through his wiles and skullduggery.¡±

    Shouts of ¡°hang him!¡± and ¡°death to him!¡± rang out from the crowd. Britomart shivered, fighting down the sensation of being trapped in the maw of an angry beast. She had heard of bloodlust on the battlefield. She had not expected to find it in a Galbrican town square.

    The magistrate held up a hand for silence, and the crowd settled. ¡°You are right, good citizens of Rivensfedlt. Such a creature is the lowest of the low, the vilest of the vile, the leech that preys upon the prosperity and uprightness of our city, which¨CI don¡¯t hesitate to say¨Cis one of the finest cities in Galbrica. He deserves to be hung: to be hung by the neck until dead!¡±

    The crowd cheered.

    He¡¯s like a commander, Britomart thought, only, it¡¯s the emotions of the crowd he¡¯s commanding. It occurred to Britomart for the first time that emotions were a very dangerous thing.

    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    The magistrate waited for the crowd to settle down, then raised a golden-ringed finger as if delivering a key point. ¡°And yet, Galbrica is a merciful land, and our laws are merciful laws. The laws punish us kindly to bring righteousness to this land. The king¡¯s justice is a gentle justice that kills only when it must. And so it is with such gentle justice, such merciful justice, that we show our young offender the error of his ways. He shall not, my good citizens, be hung. The law will take only what it must, only a hand ¨C just a single hand to prevent further crimes of this sort, to give our seasoned wrongdoer one last chance to change his ways before the time comes for the noose.¡±

    There were some sounds of disappointment from the crowd. Britomart let out a breath that she hadn¡¯t realized she had been holding. There wouldn¡¯t be an execution after all. The thief would only lose a hand, the typical punishment for a second offense. If he did it again, he wouldn¡¯t be so lucky. The third offense would be a hanging crime.

    Lucky? Britomart¡¯s surge of relief vanished as she thought of the treatises on battlefield medicine that she had borrowed from her father¡¯s library. Diagrams and phrases came back to her. Amputation, blood loss, blood poisoning, gangrene. Cutting off a criminal¡¯s hand might as well be a death sentence if they didn¡¯t give him proper medical aid afterwards. She wondered if they would. She wondered why she had never thought to ask, all those years that she had known the law. Her father¡¯s law. She wondered what the thief had stolen that was about to cost him so dearly.

    ¡°My good citizens,¡± the magistrate began again, ¡°I congratulate you on performing your civic duty by bearing witness to the king¡¯s justice and its sacred protection of Galbrica. Together, we keep our city¨Cand our realm¨Csafe and strong.¡±

    Another cheer came from the crowd, and the magistrate made his exit to the ground beside the scaffold, where he stood flanked by city guards. The executioner took his place on the platform, bearing with him a stained tree stump that he set down with a resounding thud. He unhooked his ax from his belt, and the light glinted on its nicked blade. Britomart did not want to think about what had nicked it. Two city guards mounted the scaffold, each holding one arm of a ferociously struggling child.

    A child.

    Britomart tried to get away from the word, but she couldn¡¯t. The boy could not have been more than ten years old, hardly old enough to be a page at her father¡¯s court. This might be the law, but it wasn¡¯t justice.

    Before she knew what she was doing, Britomart had swung into Arthur¡¯s saddle and was forcing her way through the crowd astride him, calling desperately for a halt. The guards holding the boy turned to look at her, but they did not release their captive.

    ¡°Can¡¯t,¡± one of them called. ¡°It¡¯s the law. Stop your interfering or it will be the law for you too.¡±

    The boy seized the opportunity to kick the guard in the shins. That earned the boy a blow to the head that left him hanging limply, held upright only by the guards¡¯ grip on his arms.

    ¡°I demand that you stop,¡± Birtomart called, continuing to force her way through the crowd astride Arthur. ¡°I am Britomart Ameliana Boemia Cardis of Galbrica, true daughter of his majesty King Gundred and princess of this realm, and I will not have this boy hurt.¡±

    ¡°Aye, and I¡¯m Princess Willa,¡± called a man¡¯s voice from the crowd. A jeering laugh went up around him, and more shouts came.

    ¡°I¡¯m Queen Elsbeth!¡± came another.

    ¡°I¡¯m Duchess Vironia!¡±

    Britomart felt her cheeks burn. ¡°I speak the truth!¡± She drew her hat off as she urged Arthur forward, but her hair was pinned up too thoroughly to cascade down the way Queen Boemia¡¯s did in the stories. She looked no more like a princess than she had before. She was just a hedge knight on a dusty horse, and the jeers were growing. She could feel the crowd turning against her. But she was close now. She unsheathed her sword, and the remainder of the people between her and the edge of the scaffold shrunk back. Jeering from a distance was one thing. Jeering while in range of a sword was quite another.

    ¡°I command you again,¡± she called to the guards, ¡°in the name of myself and my father, to halt this punishment and release the boy.¡±

    The guards looked to the magistrate. Uneasiness ran through Britomart at the cold smile playing on the magistrate''s lips. He gave a mocking nod. ¡°Do as he says.¡±

    The guards hesitated in confusion.

    ¡°You heard me,¡± the magistrate said more loudly. ¡°Do as he says. Release the boy.¡±

    A restless stirring ran through the crowd. The guards let the boy go, and he slid to the ground with a thump. Britomart guided Arthur forward and swung down onto the scaffold, warily approaching the guards with the boy crumpled at their feet. The guards might not be trying to stop her, but they were not going to help her either. She would have to sheathe her sword and bend down in front of them to pick the boy up, leaving her neck and back exposed to their swords. She did not like that one bit. Instead, wincing internally on the boy¡¯s behalf, she grabbed his outflung leg with one hand and dragged him towards her, keeping her sword ready in her right hand. She would need both hands to seat the boy on Arthur, but at least she would only need to sheath her sword for a moment, and she would be further away from the guards when she did so.

    The boy reached her feet. She glanced down at him, getting a good look at his face for the first time. It was grubby and freckled. Britomart stared in surprise as his mischievous hazel eyes opened, then winked.  ¡°Quick,¡± he mouthed.

    In one smooth movement, Britomart sheathed her sword and bent to pick up the boy. The instant that she began to lift him, her worst fears were confirmed. The magistrate¡¯s command rang out from behind her, cutting through the crowd¡¯s muttering like a whip: ¡°Seize the pretender!¡±

    And suddenly the boy was springing up, hardly needing Britomart¡¯s help as she heaved him into the saddle and wheeled around, drawing her sword to meet the oncoming guards. She had just enough time to realize that she had probably given her horse to a thief, and then the first guard was on her. She brought her sword up under her assailant¡¯s guard, thrusting towards his ribcage. Her blade cut through his tabard and into his leather armor before she abruptly wrenched her sword back, only grazing the skin that she had been about to pierce. She realized in horror what she had been about to do. These were Galbricans she was fighting. They were her people to protect, not to kill.

    That moment of hesitation nearly cost Britomart her life. She felt a searing pain along her left arm as the second guard¡¯s sword found its mark. She retaliated with a blow to the guard¡¯s neck using the flat of her sword, leaving him gasping for air but not, she was glad to see, dying. The first guard pressed in again as his companion staggered back. Britomart feigned to the guard¡¯s left and then came up hard on his right as he swung, slamming her pommel into his sword arm so hard that he dropped his sword as his arm went instantly numb. She turned to face the second guard again, but he was lingering warily just out of reach of her sword. He knew just as well as she did that she could have killed him with the blow that winded him. He also knew just as well as she did that more guards were rushing onto the scaffold behind him. Britomart¡¯s time was up.

    Britomart whirled towards where Arthur had been standing behind her¨Cwhere she was praying he would still be standing if the boy hadn¡¯t ridden him off into the crowd. The horse was two paces away. The boy had not stolen him. Instead, the rascal seemed to have found the throwing ax strapped to Arthur¡¯s saddle and was now gleefully slashing it at anyone who came too close. It was not the most polished combat technique, but it had certainly kept anyone from attacking Britomart from behind.

    ¡°Stop swinging,¡± Britomart yelled to the boy, ¡°I¡¯m getting on!¡± The boy paused mid-warcry, ax upraised but blessedly still. Britomart launched herself into the saddle behind him and spurred Arthur through the quickly clearing gap in the dwindling crowd, leaving the scaffold and its guards behind.

    ¡°That was fun,¡± said the boy. ¡°I like your ax.¡±

    ¡°I do too, but will you please hold it somewhere where it won¡¯t slash both of us? And stop squirming. You¡¯ll fall off the horse, and I¡¯m not rescuing you again.¡± She fastened one arm firmly around him, dropping the reins to guide Arthur with her knees as she kept her sword held fast in her other hand.

    ¡°Never been on a horse,¡± said the boy. ¡°That¡¯s for farmers and velvets.¡±

    ¡°Farmers and¡­? Nevermind. You won¡¯t be on one for long if you don¡¯t hold still and lean down.¡±

    ¡°Why would I lean down?¡±

    Britomart winced as something whizzed past her ear and thudded into the wall of a nearby building. ¡°Arrows, that¡¯s why.¡± She leaned forward in the saddle, flattening herself as much as she could over the boy while still holding her sword. She could feel her heart beating out of her chest as she urged Arthur faster, guiding him around the few remaining people in the street who had not had the time or the sense to get out of the way at the sound of shouting and pounding hooves.

    They tore out of the street and into the market square. It was full of fleeing people seeking shelter behind stalls. The costermonger¡¯s cart had been overturned in the chaos, and apples rolled everywhere, bright red against the  churned up dirt. A few grubby hands darted out to grab the fruit, taking advantage of the general distraction. At the other end of the market square, a line of guards stood, swords drawn, in the gap between the baker''s stall and the vintner¡¯s. Together, guards and stalls blocked the way to the road that led through the city gates. Britomart grimaced. The magistrate must have sent a messenger as soon as the fighting started.

    The boy said a few choice words that not even the stableboys had dared to use in front of Britomart.

    Britomart hesitated for only a moment. She could hear the pounding feet of the guards closing in behind her. There was nothing else for it. They would have to jump one of the stalls.

    ¡°Hold on tight,¡± she said, securing her hold on the boy. And then they were racing towards the baker¡¯s stall, racing and then flying as Arthur jumped, bearing them over it. The boy let out a whoop, and the world seemed to stop for a moment in the sheer rush of exhilaration. The baker, cowering behind his stall, looked up in shock at the horse¡¯s underbelly as Arthur cleared him.

    Then Arthur¡¯s hooves hit the ground, and they were running for the gates, the guards shaking off their surprise and scrambling after. Britomart thanked the gods that these guards, at least, seemed to have no bowmen in their numbers.

    Before her, two guards were struggling to close the city gates, but the massive oaken doors had been designed to be sturdy, not manageable. They had swollen with the moisture of the rivers, and their bottom edges creaked along the dirt as the guards heaved at them. With a last burst of speed, Britomart was there. The guards jumped out of the way as Arthur charged through the gap between the closing doors. The fit was so tight that Britomart felt one of the saddlebags tear as its buckle caught the door and was wrenched free. She winced, then fought down the absurd urge to laugh. They had made it through.

    Arthur¡¯s stride lengthened to a gallop as they raced past gawking travelers and turned onto the road that led towards the Oster Bridge. Britomart''s ears were filled with the sound of  hooves ringing on stone as they reached the bridge and galloped across it. The road stretched out before them on the other side, a rough brown ribbon disappearing into the distance. Somewhere in that distance lay the Koleagh Pass and, beyond it, the Shadowed Wood.

    Before her lay adventure.

    Behind her lay¡­well, a bit of a mess.

    She wondered, not for the last time, what on earth she had been thinking. She wondered what sort of passenger she had acquired.

 Chapter 3: Travels with Smudge

    Britomart did not slow Arthur to a trot until Rivensfeldt had disappeared from view, swallowed by the horizon and the endless plains. They had veered into the open countryside as soon as they were able, leaving behind the road and the pursuers that Britomart was sure would follow. Arthur was flanked with sweat, and Britomart was too. She could feel the hairs that had come loose from her braid sticking to the back of her neck. Of course now her braid would start to come loose, not when she needed it. She would really have to devise a system for getting out of disguise quickly.

    Britomart relaxed her grip on the boy in front of her as the horse slowed. He promptly squirmed into a more comfortable position in the saddle, bringing the throwing ax dangerously close to Arthur¡¯s withers as he did so.

    Britomart winced and held out a hand for the ax. ¡°You can put that away now. We¡¯ve left the guards behind, and you won''t do any good by injuring the horse.¡±

    She quickly withdrew her hand as the boy twisted in the saddle to look at her, inadvertently swiping the ax towards her in doing so. He seemed to have about as much control over it as a newborn colt did over its legs.

    The boy looked mournfully up at her. ¡°Can¡¯t I keep it?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s very natural to want a weapon or two¨C¡± Britomart thought of the spear strapped behind her and the sword and dagger at her hip ¡°¨Cor three, but you¡¯re not trained, and you¡¯re not old enough. Besides, I¡¯ll protect you. Now give me that ax before you take my arm off.¡±

    The boy grudgingly handed it over, and Britomart slid it into the carrying loop on the back of the saddle.

    ¡°What if you trained me?¡± asked the boy. ¡°I bet I¡¯d be good at it. Slippery Meg says I¡¯m the best she ever trained with a knife, least when it comes to cutting purses.¡±

    ¡°Cutting purses?¡±

    ¡°Half the people in Rivensfedlt go around with their purses tied to their belts by strings as thin as anything, just waiting to be cut,¡± the boy said cheerfully.

    Phrases like repeat malefactor surfaced in Britomart¡¯s mind. ¡°But you were only doing it because you were hungry,¡± she said sternly, as much for her own benefit as for the urchin¡¯s.

    ¡°Oh, aye. There wasn¡¯t so much as pigs¡¯ scraps to eat after mum died. The Sisters of Frigg tried to get me for their orphanage, but they scrub behind the ears and won¡¯t let you do anything interesting, so I ran away first chance I got.¡± The boy paused and eyed Britomart curiously. ¡°What is it you want me to steal for you, anyways? I figure it must be something special for you to have gone to so much trouble. Slippery Meg wasn¡¯t too particular, long as she got her share.¡±

    Britomart could feel a headache coming on. She attempted to rub her neck and winced as she scraped herself with her gauntlet. ¡°What I want is for you to stop stealing. You don¡¯t have to steal any more. You don¡¯t have to go back to that¨Cthat woman. I¡¯ll give you money. You won''t need to worry about food.¡±

    ¡°I couldn¡¯t go back to Slippery Meg if I tried, no more than either of us could go back to Rivensfeldt. They''ll be posters up in no time with our faces on them.¡±

    ¡°Yes, of course,¡± Britomart said hastily, as if she would never have thought of something so absurd as returning the boy to Rivensfeldt once the chase died down. Truth be told, she hadn¡¯t much thought about what she would do with him: He would be rescued, and that would be that. She did some quick recalibrating. ¡°I¡¯m taking you back with me to Boemapolis, and you¡¯ll get a fresh start there. Only, it will be a little while because I¡¯m on a quest at the moment. You¡¯ll have to come along, I suppose. Once we¡¯re back in Boemapolis, I¡¯ll see to it that father pays your apprenticeship fee for a respectable trade. But you must promise never to steal again.¡±

    ¡°I promise,¡± the boy said solemnly.

    ¡°You¡¯re crossing your fingers behind your back. I can see you.¡±

    The boy grinned and shrugged. ¡°Worth a try.¡±

    Britomart raised an eyebrow the way her older sister Goneril used to when she knew Britomart was up to something. ¡°I¡¯m still waiting for your promise. You¡¯re never to steal, and never to break the king¡¯s laws in any way again.¡± When the boy hesitated, she added, ¡°And if you keep your promise, I¡¯ll teach you to use my throwing ax.¡±

    ¡°I promise,¡± said the boy.

    ¡°Say the words.¡±

    ¡°I promise¨C¡±

    ¡°You should add your name. It sounds more official that way.¡± Britomart paused. ¡°What is your name?¡± She hoped it didn¡¯t involve the word ¡°slippery.¡±

    ¡°Smudge,¡± declared the boy.

    ¡°That¡¯s not a name. That¡¯s what you¡¯ve got on your nose.¡±

    Smudge grinned. ¡°How do you think I got my name?¡±

    Remembering Smudge¡¯s comment about the Sisters of Frigg scrubbing behind one¡¯s ears, Britomart decided to wait to broach the topic of a bath. ¡°Fine. ¡®I, Smudge,¡¯¡± she prompted.

    ¡°I, Smudge, promise never to steal, and never to break the king¡¯s laws in any way again. Except for by riding around with a fugitive.¡±

    ¡°Certainly not!¡±

    Smudge looked up at Britomart angelically. ¡°Well, I¡¯m riding around with you, aren¡¯t I?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not a fugitive,¡± Britomart declared. She realized that she was, indeed, a fugitive. ¡°At least, not really. It was a misunderstanding. I¡¯ll have my father write a royal pardon for both of us when we reach Boemapolis.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re really a princess, then? You don¡¯t look like one.¡±

    Britomart glared at the grubby boy before her. ¡°Just because my hair doesn¡¯t cascade down when it¡¯s supposed to doesn¡¯t mean I¡¯m not a princess. It was pinned up very tightly, alright?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s more to do with you wearing armor dirtier than a knackerman¡¯s cookpot. And you haven¡¯t got a chest like a princess either.¡±

    ¡°I couldn¡¯t exactly bring a chest with me. I was traveling light. Besides, princesses don¡¯t really carry around chests of gold with them. That¡¯s just a common misconception. Chests of clothes, sometimes, but that¡¯s only because velvet doesn''t pack down easily. And the armor is because I¡¯m a knight, dash it. I don¡¯t know why nobody will believe me.¡±

    ¡°I think you might be a princess after all,¡± Smudge said contemplatively.

    ¡°Thank you.¡±

    ¡°You swear like one.¡± He put on a high-pitched voice: ¡®Dash it!¡¯¡±

    ¡°You are being impertinent.¡±

    ¡°Yep, you¡¯re a princess.¡±

    Britomart tried to come up with a retort. But Smudge seemed to believe her now¨Cwhich was, after all, what she wanted¨Cso she settled on dignified silence. The pair rode in silence for some time after that, and if it was not quite a comfortable silence, it was not an entirely uncomfortable one either.

    They stayed off the roads all day and made camp that night in a copse of trees near a stream. Britomart supplemented the hardtack and cheese from the surviving saddlebag with a few mangled fish speared from the stream. Smudge regarded the fish as a personal achievement, having provided Britomart with ample (and often contradictory) advice during her first foray into spearfishing.

    After dinner, Britomart pored over the map that she had borrowed from her father¡¯s library. They were farther west than she would have wanted, but their detour would add no more than a day to the journey, even with staying off the Northern Road until they reached the Koleagh Pass. Once through the pass, she could stop in the first northern village they came to and find a family to take in Smudge while she went into the Shadowed Wood. It would be perfect, really. She would use it as an opportunity to question the villagers about where exactly people went when they disappeared into the Shadowed Wood. Surely they must go somewhere? The Shadowed Wood was large, but not so large that a person could not find their way out in two weeks, not unless they were dead, trapped, or going in circles. She refused to believe the first of those options. That left trapped or going in circles. But what¨Cor who¨Cwould trap somebody in the Shadowed Wood? A shiver went down her spine. It couldn''t be. The old tales were just tales. Goneril had explained that to Britomart in no uncertain terms upon realizing that, at fifteen, Britomart still believed that the tales of Queen Boemia¡¯s exploits were accurate histories.

    The question must have lingered in Britomart¡¯s mind, though, for she dreamt of the tale that Willa had been telling her. In her dreams, Britomart saw Queen Boemia strung up by the thorn-wights, bargaining with the Blood Witch. Queen Boemia entrapped, weaving traps of her own.

    ¡®If you will make no deal,¡¯ said the queen, ¡®then kill me and be done.¡¯

    ¡®It is not your death I wish,¡¯ said the witch. ¡®I wish one year from your life.¡¯

    Queen Boemia thought of all the years past, all the years to come. The Blood Witch could choose any year, any year she wished. But what was a year, compared with a life? For the dead could not fight for the kingdom they loved.

    ¡®It is yours,¡¯ said the queen. ¡®Let it be done.¡¯

    And the thorn-wights released her, and she dropped to the ground.

    ¡®Which year?¡¯ gasped the queen, ¡®which year will you claim?¡¯

    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

    ¡®This one,¡¯ said the witch. ¡®For this year, you are mine.¡¯

    Britomart woke with a start, her heart pounding. She sat up and looked around. All was quiet and still. The sun was rising over the plains, chasing away the gray tones of night, painting the landscape in greens and browns and gold. Britomart checked to make sure that Smudge was sleeping safely and then watched the colors spread as the sun rose. Galbrica¨Cnot its cities, but the land itself¨Clay before her as she had never seen it before. It was beautiful.

    She shook herself, then shook Smudge awake too. From the way he talked, she had expected him to wake at the lightest touch, ready to rob the nearest warm-blooded being. Instead, Britomart had to roll him completely off of the bedroll she had lent him before he would do more than mumble and go back to sleep. The fact that she had spent the night sleeping on prickly ground because of giving him her bedroll did not make her any more gentle.

    All day, they rode across the open countryside, veering back towards the Northern Road without ever getting too close. Britomart listened for pursuers, but none came.

    One day passed without incident, then another. Britomart and Smudge began to fall into a routine. He told her stories about Rivensfeldt, and she told him stories about the court. After her initial shock at the song he was singing while building their cooking fire, she had him teach her the lyrics to all of the Rivensfeldt tavern songs he knew, even if he sometimes had to pause and explain them (¡°the milkmaid did what?!¡± ¡°Oh! you mean milking the cow is a metaphor!¡±). Smudge expanded Britomart¡¯s vocabulary, adding several new words that she was excited to try out on the practice field. Britomart expanded Smudge¡¯s vocabulary, adding fancy new names for things that already had perfectly serviceable names, even if they didn¡¯t sound so pretty. Britomart finally learned what a ¡°velvet¡± was: a rich person, since nobody else had enough money to wear velvet. Smudge finally learned what a metaphor was: when milking a cow wasn¡¯t really milking a cow.

    On the third evening, Britomart started teaching Smudge how to use the throwing ax. She had, after all, promised. On the fourth, she made him memorize a speech to give to her sister Willa if she didn¡¯t make it out of the Shadowed Wood and he had to go to Boemapolis alone.

    ¡°Willa will take care of you,¡± Britomart told him. ¡°She takes care of everybody, whether they want it or not.¡± At some point, Smudge must have started to believe Britomart about her identity, because he worked hard to get the speech right. Britomart mistook the small furrow on Smudge¡¯s brow for concern about getting to Boemapolis without her. She did not realize it was a furrow of concentration as he tried to work out how to get her to take him with her into the Shadowed Wood. He had never had someone to teach him about throwing axes and metaphors before, and he had no intention of being left behind.

    On the fifth evening, they camped within sight of the northern mountains. Trees crept down from the mountains so close to their camp that it filled Britomart with unease, but it was either camping near the woods or camping within sight of the road, and she had no wish to be seen in case there were still guards out looking for them.

    Britomart and Smudge kept their fire small even though it served not just for cooking and light now, but for warmth too. Summer was giving a valiant last stand. On the southern plains, the sun had still been hot enough to make riding in armor uncomfortable at midday. This far north, summer was already surrendering to autumn. The night air had a bite to it that made Britomart think wistfully of the bedroll she had given to Smudge. But she had rescued him, and it was traditional to sacrifice your comfort for the person you had rescued. That tradition had probably been intended for situations involving rescuing delicate princesses, not grimy urchins, but it was the principle of the thing.

    Britomart lay awake for a long time that night, and not just because of the cold. She watched the stars wink into existence, remembering Goneril teaching her and Willa the constellations when they were young. That had been back when Goneril smiled, back before she walled away some part of herself to become what she was expected to be: the princess whose marriage must secure the future of the kingdom. Goneril¡¯s marriage to the Prince of Osterland meant that their child would unite Galbrica with the neighboring realm, making Galbrica more powerful than it had ever been. Britomart wondered why that felt like a loss.

    The next morning, they rejoined the Northern Road and began their ascent of the Koleagh Pass. It was slow going. The road through the pass wound steadily upwards, growing narrower and more rocky as it went. Britomart could feel Arthur tiring as it grew steeper. He wasn¡¯t accustomed to being ridden for days on end, particularly with two riders. Britomart dismounted and walked beside her horse. Smudge stayed in the saddle, proclaiming that he would be the lookout since he was now the tallest in the group. He was as good as his word, swiveling vigilantly as if expecting pursuers to jump out from behind the rocky outcroppings to either side.

    Britomart did not truly expect pursuers to have followed them this far North, but that didn¡¯t stop her from feeling nervous about how easily trapped they would be this close to the pass, hemmed in by rocks and trees with nowhere to go but onwards along the road.

    The road began to level out as they approached the top of the pass. Along the mountain slope that cut steeply downwards towards their left, Britomart could see the beginning of the thick fringe of trees that marked the edge of the Shadowed Wood. She stared so fixedly at it that she forgot to walk. Was that a slicker of movement she had seen in the trees? Just for a moment, she could have sworn she saw a flash of white. Alfrick? Perhaps there was some magical force binding him there, doomed to forever look out at the world to which he could never return. She was being foolish, she knew. If there ever had been magic in the Shadowed Wood, it had died with the Blood Witch. And yet, wasn¡¯t magic what she was half-expecting to find there?

    Britomart shook off her reverie and hurried to catch up with Arthur and his small, disreputable rider.

    Five minutes later, Britomart clucked her tongue to bring Arthur to a halt. She lifted Smudge down to stretch his legs. They stood in the mountainous saddle between two peaks, hemmed in by outcroppings of rock. They had made it to the top of the Koleagh Pass. The fingers of the Shadowed Wood reached down over the mountains to one side of them as if grasping towards the plains of Galbrica. On the other side of the pass, the wood grew vast and dark to the left of the road as far as the eye could see. The road skirted the Shadowed Wood, always staying a wary furlong from its edge. The quickest route from the Koleagh Pass to Svernhold would have been to cut a road through the wood itself. Nobody had been foolish enough to suggest that.

    ¡°That¡¯s it, then?¡± Smudge asked, his voice unusually somber. ¡°The Shadowed Wood?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s it, scamp.¡±

    Britomart turned for one last glimpse of the way they had come. The way back to the Galbrican plains with their warmth and wheat. The way back to the royal city that she knew so well. The road up from the southern side of the Koleagh Pass unfolded below them, curving in and out of view. Her breath caught in her throat. Partway up, three men rode: knights, judging by the glint of their armor. They were still far below, but not as far below as Britomart would have liked. She could only hope that the winding of the road between rocky outcrops had shielded her and Smudge from the mens¡¯ notice.

    Arthur caught Britomart¡¯s sudden tension and whickered softly. Britomart sprung into action. ¡°We need to go,¡± she told Smudge, her voice low and urgent.¡°There are men coming, partway down the pass.¡± She set the boy unceremoniously on the horse as he tried to twist around to look at the men below them. Then she swung herself into the saddle behind him, and they were moving again, heading down the northern side of the pass with all the speed they could manage. Which was not very much.

    The road down from the Koleagh Pass was not as steep on this side, nor was the distance as long, for the wooded valley that it opened onto towards the north was higher than the plains on its southern side. But it was not an easy ride either. The terrain remained uneven and rocky. She could not risk pushing Arthur any faster than a walk lest his hooves lose purchase and send them all tumbling down the mountainside.

    Once they reached the valley below, they could gallop. Maybe, just maybe, they would have enough of a head start for Britomart to get Smudge to a village before their pursuers caught up. Then, she could slip into the Shadowed Wood. Then, but not before then. She could not take a child into the Shadowed Wood, not even a child like Smudge. It was too dangerous.

    Even with a head start, though, she knew that Arthur was tired from a fortnight of cross-country riding, and there was only so much she could ask of her horse. Outrunning three knights on horseback might be too much.

    Knights rather than city guards meant something different than pursuers from Rivensfeldt. Had King Gundred granted Willa¡¯s request and sent a band of knights to track down Alfrick? Or had he sent the knights to bring Britomart back? Could they have caught up with her already? Of course they could, Britomart thought with chagrin. She had lost a day in her flight away from the Northern Road with Smudge. Even if her father had waited to search the city for her before sending out a rescue party (as if I need rescuing!), she would not have been able to outrun them for much longer.

    A shout sounded from above.

    ¡°I think they saw us,¡± said Smudge. ¡°Does that mean we get to gallop?¡± he added hopefully.

    Britomart grimaced. ¡°Not yet. Almost.¡± Almost there. Almost to the bottom of the pass.

    Behind her, she heard the clatter of hooves on rocks. The knights were not being as careful as she had been of Arthur. They were either desperate or stupid. She was fervently hoping for the latter.

    Gradually, so gradually that Britomart felt like she might implode with impatience, Arthur¡¯s stride became more regular, and the ground grew flat beneath them. They had reached the bottom of the pass.

    ¡°Now,¡± Britomart said, ¡°we gallop.¡±

    They galloped.

    Soon they heard the knights behind them galloping too. Let there be a village soon, Britomart prayed, any village, anywhere that I can leave Smudge in safety and go into the Shadowed Wood. There must be villages too small to have been marked on father¡¯s map. Just one village. Let there be a village. But no villages came, and a quick glance back told her that the knights were gaining on them.

    They would simply have to keep running.

    She leaned in closer to Smudge to catch his words as the air racing past snatched them away. ¡°I said,¡± he yelled, ¡°Are we going into the woods, or are you going to wait till they catch us?¡±

    ¡°We can¡¯t! It¡¯s not safe for you,¡± she yelled back.

    ¡°Neither is whoever is back there!¡±

    That, Britomart had to admit, was true. A rescue party of knights might not take kindly to a dirt-caked boy with a thief''s ¡°T¡± branded on the back of his hand. She hesitated for a moment, but the hoofbeats behind them were growing louder. She dared one more glance back. The knights were close enough now that she could recognize the blazons on their surcoats. That couldn¡¯t be¨CSir Danquil? She was damned if she would be rescued by Danquil.

    ¡°If you get eaten by wolves, it is not my fault!¡± she yelled to Smudge.

    She reined Arthur off the road and towards the Shadowed Wood.

    Smudge whooped as Arthur¡¯s long strides ate up the space between the road and the trees. Then they were among the trees, huge trunks whipping past them. Britomart eased Arthur to a canter, then to a trot. She listened for the sound of hoofbeats behind them. None came. Bit by bit, her heartbeat grew steadier. She slowed Arthur to a walk, then dismounted to walk alongside him and give him a rest.

    She began to ask Smudge if he wanted to come down too, but the words caught in her throat when she saw his expression. His face was blank with awe.

    For the first time, Britomart truly looked around her. Huge trunks rose up to every side, their leaves forming a thick, green dome overhead that let in only the dimmest of light. Occasional motes of light glowed in the perpetual green twilight and then were gone. It reminded Britomart of being underwater, surrounded by some foreign element. Thick undergrowth grew up among the trees. The ground was spongy and emerald green with moss beneath her feet. Splashes of color caught her eye amidst the foliage: clumps of tiny white flowers half hidden by leaf shadows; a red toadstool nestled against the gnarled roots of a tree; a stirring of iridescent blue that might have been an insect¡¯s wings.

    ¡°It''s beautiful,¡± Britomart whispered. She spared no glance behind her as her feet carried her forward. Neither she nor Smudge noticed the trees closing in behind them, erasing any trace of their path.

    ***

    Out on the road, Sir Danquil reined his horse to a halt. His two companions halted next to him. ¡°Well, that¡¯s torn it,¡± he said in a querulous voice. ¡°Dashed if she hasn¡¯t gone and disappeared. Probably gone into that dashed wood of hers.¡±

    The knight beside him, whose sparse attempt at facial hair proclaimed him to be no older than Danquil, fidgeted nervously. ¡°I suppose we¡¯d better go in after her.¡±

    Danquil cleared his throat. ¡°Well, yes, technically we ought to, I suppose, but you see, I only got roped into this because the king found out I¡¯d given her my hat, given it to her, as if I had a choice; you try telling her it¡¯s your hat and not to go using it in on of her disguises¡­¡± Danquil¡¯s words sputtered out as he saw the confused looks on both of the other knights¡¯ faces. ¡°What I mean to say is that we ought to have a local guide. Someone from one of the villages hereabouts. They¡¯ll know the Shadowed Wood like the back of their hand, I dare say. No use us going in without a guide.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t see any villages around here,¡± said the third knight dourly.

    ¡°We had better ride on then,¡± Sir Danquil declared. ¡°We¡¯ll just keep riding on, and I¡¯m sure we¡¯ll come to one. True, it might be a bit far from the Shadowed Wood, but the king can¡¯t blame us for geography, can he?¡±

    The other two knights readily assented.

    They rode on towards Svernhold, hoping that the next village would be very far from the Shadowed Wood indeed.

 Chapter 4: The Shadowed Wood

    Further and further into the Shadowed Wood they walked, drawn by some irresistible force, enveloped in the radiant gloom of that ancient place. Even Arthur seemed affected by it, his tread on the mossy ground slow and inevitable, his big eyes blinking slowly in that strange green world of towering trees and luxuriant foliage.

    Gradually, Britomart became aware that the heavy silence was giving way to living sounds, as if the inhabitants of the wood were growing accustomed to their presence and welcoming them in. She heard small rustles in the underbrush, followed by the chittering of a squirrel and an answering chitter from far above. She scanned the canopy and saw a small brown body and bushy tail ducking between leaves. Occasional bird calls sounded through the perpetual twilight, sharp and sweet as bells. She tried to locate their source and spotted a small bird with a russet chest hopping along a branch far above. She saw more of the russet-chested birds as they went along. Once, when a loud caw called her attention upwards, she found a large, yellow-taloned bird watching them intently. Its eyes seemed to pierce through her. She thought of the tales of animals in the Shadowed Wood that were not animals at all, but werebeasts who could turn human at will. There had been an almost human intelligence in those black eyes.

    The thought stirred something in her mind: something that had been lulled into quiescence by the primeval enchantment of the Shadowed Wood. The Shadowed Wood. Britomart came to herself with a start. ¡°Smudge!¡±she said too loudly, looking up at the boy on the horse. He wore a blank, dreamy expression. Britomart winced at the loudness of her own voice, though Smudge did little more than make the mumbling sound that he made when she tried to wake him up in the morning.

    ¡°Smudge,¡± she said again, more quietly but no less urgently, ¡°you need to wake up. The wood¨Cit¡¯s got you.¡±

    This time, Smudge did not respond at all.

    Britomart drew Arthur to a halt and reached up to take Smudge from the saddle. He was docile as a sleepwalker. She set him down before her and was glad to see that he could stand. He continued to stare off into the wood around them, his pupils dilated in a dazed awe. She gave him a light slap. He did not react. She grimaced and slapped him harder. Still no effect. She tried once more. Nothing. Only a rosy patch showing on his cheek. ¡°Fine, I¡¯ll find another way,¡± she muttered to herself¨Cor perhaps to the wood. The gentle woodland sounds around her had stilled, and she had the feeling that the wood and all its inhabitants were bending in to watch.

    Hoping that she would come across a stream before the day was out, Britomart drew out the waterskin and upended it over Smudge¡¯s head. Smudge sprang to life, doused and sputtering.

    He glared accusatorily at Britomart from under sopping hair. ¡°What¡¯d you have to go and do that for?¡±

    Britomart squished him against her armor in a hug. ¡°I thought I¡¯d lost you.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m right here,¡± said a muffled voice. ¡°Being slowly crushed to death by armor.¡±

    Britomart promptly released him. Smudge¡¯s face was even more grimy than usual. Some of the bootblack that she¡¯d used to darken her armor must have come off on him. ¡°Sorry about that,¡± she said hastily. ¡°It¡¯s just that I tried slapping you and it didn¡¯t work, so if dunking didn¡¯t work, I wasn¡¯t sure what I¡¯d do.¡±

    ¡°I was perfectly fine before you half-drowned me,¡± Smudge grumbled. He did indeed look like a drowned kitten. An irritable one.

    ¡°Stop and think for a moment. Where are we? Where were you before I half-drowned you, if that¡¯s what you want to call it.¡±

    ¡°I was in the woods,¡± Smudge said crossly. His voice softened and the faraway came back over his face as he went on, ¡°The trees were as big around as the baker¡¯s cart, and there were critters like rats, but with tails big as a man¡¯s hand and fuzzy as a lady¡¯s collar, and they sat on their haunches and squeaked so as you could almost understand them.¡±

    ¡°Which wood were you in, Smudge?¡±

    ¡°The Shadowed Wood,¡± he said dreamily. He snapped back to alertness with a look of horror. ¡°Freyja¡¯s tits! We¡¯re in the Shadowed Wood. It tried to eat me!¡±

    ¡°It didn¡¯t try to eat you. It just¡­distracted us. It can¡¯t get us like that again. We can see it for what it really is now. ¡± Britomart glared around at the wood, expecting to find it revealed as a dank nest of trees and brambles. It was as beautiful as ever. There was something uncomfortable about its beauty now, though: a threatening edge that set the hairs on the back of her neck on end. The occasional rustlings in the underbrush no longer felt friendly, nor did the beady eyes of the birds staring down from the branches above.

    ¡°¡¯Spose we¡¯d better go on, then,¡± Smudge said with an attempt at bravery that did not keep the quaver out of his voice.

    ¡°I suppose we had. I had meant to gather information from the villagers before searching the Shadowed Wood, but since we¡¯re here, I think we might be better off going onwards than going out. There¡¯s bound to be a sign sometime. There always is.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t see any signposts.¡±

    ¡°Not that sort of sign. You know, a sign. A white peacock glimpsed through the trees, or the shade of a past hero gliding ahead.¡±

    Smudge looked at Britomart oddly. She could feel a flush creeping up her neck. ¡°I know they¡¯re old tales, but if old tales are true anywhere, they¡¯re true here. Come on, we¡¯d better mount up.¡±

    They rode on.

    The Shadowed Wood seemed to stretch endlessly before them. The shadows pooled more deeply as twilight came in earnest. The leafy canopy dulled and darkened towards black. Britomart could feel Smudge starting to slump in the saddle as the weariness of the day caught up with him. She looped an arm around him and let him drift off. They would have to make camp soon. There was no point in pushing on through the night when they did not even know where they were going.

    Britomart fought back a growing sense of disappointment and foolishness. She had been so sure, so sure in some gut-deep, unarguable sort of way, that the wood would take her where she needed to go, if only because it would want to entrap her in the same way it had Alfrick. She had been so sure there would be a sign.

    She turned her head sharply as she saw a stirring in the trees to her right. The occasional rustlings in the underbrush sounded bigger now. She wondered if it was just her imagination. She squinted into the thickening gloom and wished that it were still light enough to see the squirrels. Surely it was just squirrels. She thought of the image of a bear rampant on the Brun family crest. Its claws had been very large. She thought of the old tales: the Blood Witch leading Queen Boemia, bound by her oath of year-long servitude, back to her lair in the heart of the Shadowed Wood. The words echoes through her mind.

    The Blood Witch walked, and the brambles parted, and the trees drew back till they formed a path. She did not look back, but the queen did follow, for her honor was strong, and her oath did bind. And from the trees came the witch¡¯s creatures to bear their fangs and gnash their jaws. There were bears sable-dark that tore all who wandered, and wolves fierce and hungry with flame in their eyes. There were panthers pitch-black and sleek as a nightmare, and foxes as sly as a traitorous friend. There were boars with great tusks, yellowed and bloody, and snakes that twined down from the grim, ghastly trees. And worst of them all were the ones with false beauty, that lured into death those whom they charmed: the birds blue as sapphires and deer gently dappled, the hares soft and silver, the butterflies gold. And foremost among them, white as a snowdrop, with great antlers fatal, stood the fell¨C¡±

    ¡°Horse,¡± Smudge mumbled sleepily. ¡°Horse with horns.¡±

    ¡°No, it¡¯s supposed to be a¡­¡± Britomart¡¯s voice drifted off as she saw what Smudge was talking about: a pure white animal watching them from amongst the trees, its antlers curving gracefully upwards as if they were tree branches themselves. ¡°...stag. Smudge, I think we¡¯ve got our sign.¡±

    The stag waited for them to approach, then bounded silently into the trees. Britomart flicked the reins, and Arthur followed. Every so often, the stag paused, just at the edge of their vision, as if waiting for them to catch up. After the third time, Britomart became certain that that was exactly what it was doing. Danger prickled through her. This was exactly what she had wanted, wasn¡¯t it? She would find Alfrick, even if it meant walking into the same trap that had claimed him. She just hoped that, unlike Alfrick, she would be able to fight her way once she found him.

    They followed the stag for what felt like hours. True dark fell and then lessened as a whisper of moonlight filtered down through the canopy. The stag was a pale flash among the shadows, always just ahead, always guiding them on. Smudge began to sag against Britomart in the saddle again, his return to wakefulness fading as the hours passed. Then Britomart heard it: the rushing of water. She thought of the empty waterskin and felt a surge of gratitude towards their strange guide.

    This time, the stag waited until they had come almost alongside it, so close that Britomart could see its sides moving with its breath. The tips of its antlers came up almost to Arthur¡¯s nose. They were as sharp as the stories said. But the eyes that looked up at her were neither vicious nor magical. They were wise and patient, and just a little bit wary. Britomart bent in the saddle and reached out a hand towards it. It fled. Within moments, the stag had disappeared among the trees.

    Britomart straightened in the saddle to go after it, but something stopped her as she raised the reins. Perhaps it was the sound of running water¨Cwater that they could not afford to pass up¨Cor perhaps it was the moonlight streaming down brightly ahead, promising a break in the trees. She turned away from the direction where the stag had fled and urged Arthur towards the sound of running water instead.

    The trees thinned, then stopped. They came to a wide stream. Its waters rushed black in the moonlight, a silver sheen dancing over its ripples. Grass grew tall on its banks, and moss blanketed the rocks that jutted up alongside the stream. She could not tell how deep it was in the darkness. She wondered if they would have to ford it. For now, she would have to trust that the stag had led them here for a reason, even if that reason was merely to drink and refill their depleted waterskins so that they could continue their quest in the morning.

    ¡°We¡¯re here, scamp,¡± Britomart said softly, gently shaking Smudge awake. The boy rubbed grubby hands against his eye. He started to say something, but it got lost in a massive yawn. ¡°Found Alfrick?¡± he repeated when the yawn was complete.

    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    ¡°We found a spot to camp for the night. We¡¯ll find Alfrick in the morning.¡± It wasn¡¯t precisely a lie, she told herself. After all, it could be true.

    With Smudge deposited safely on the banks, Britomart unsaddled Arthur and led him to the stream to drink before filling her cupped hands herself. The water tasted as crisp and clear as the night air. She filled her cupped hands again and again until her thirst was quenched. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Smudge had joined her and was doing the same thing. She splashed water over her face, washing away the grit of the day¡¯s travel, and filled the waterskin. Her face tingled in the chill air as her skin dried.

    Britomart and Smudge ate their meal of  hardtack, cheese, and jerky in silence broken only by the rushing of the stream and the crunching sounds of trying to chew through hardtack. At last, Smudge lay back contently. Britomart brushed the crumbs from her hands and went to tether Arthur to a nearby tree. She bundled Smudge onto the bedroll and found as comfortable a position as she could beside it, her head resting on the saddlebag. By unspoken agreement, they had made no fire, and the night nipped at her as curled up on the ground. She was too tired to care.

    The familiar dream took her.

    Through beasts and through horrors, through beauty foul and false, the Blood Witch led her, and the queen followed close. The Blood Witch led on till the queen ached for rest; then the lair of the Blood Witch loomed up ahead.

    A castle it was, built of stone black and shining, and around it a wall made of blooms red as blood. Roses they were, petals unfurling, softer than silk, more fragrant than oud. But Queen Boemia looked with her eyes wise and piercing; on the roses she looked with a heart pure and true, and she saw what they were beneath all illusions: briars with thorns sharp as daggers of steel. So she plucked no rose as the witch led her onwards, through the wall of briars to the castle door.

    Open it swung at a word from the Blood Witch, a word old as the elves and dark as them too. Then the castle they entered and the queen looked around her at beautiful servants and tapestries lush. But she looked with her heart and illusions soon faded; wights were the servants, and the tapestries vines.

    ¡°Will you eat?¡± asked the Blood Witch. ¡°You must surely be hungry.¡± And she led the queen onwards to a sumptuous hall. A feast lay before her of delicate morsels, but illusions they were, over fungi and leaves. So the queen did refuse them and went to her chamber, guided by servants who were not what they seemed.

    Her chamber was spacious and its bed soft as goose down, but she saw with her heart it was crawling with moss. So she slept on the floor with her sword at the ready, lest the Blood Witch betray her in the depths of the night. The Blood Witch took heed and sent no evil against her, lest her servants take harm from Boemia¡¯s blade.

    But the Blood Witch saw not the queen¡¯s true intention: to search for a year for the Blood Witch¡¯s heart. For not even an Old One could work such fell magic if she did not first tear the heart from her breast: tear her heart from her breast and keep it still beating, hidden away where no person could find. As long as her heart kept up its beating, nothing could kill her, neither dagger nor fire. So Queen Boemia searched while the Blood Witch entrapped her, entrapped and entrapping, our queen true and strong.

    Britomart woke to the sound of birdsong and rushing water. She blinked muzzily at the light. It had that indefinable quality of earliness, as if the sun had not entirely woken up yet. She rolled over and blinked herself further into consciousness. Her first thought was that the sound of the water was making her desperately need to pee. Her second thought was that the bedroll beside her was empty.

    She scrambled to her feet, calling for Smudge. The only response was Arthur¡¯s whicker. She frantically scanned the nearby woods for the boy, then took off at a run towards where the stream curved out of sight further up.

    Her heart skipped a beat when she saw a small figure crouched near the bank ahead. She hardly had time to register the waterfall rising up beyond him before Smudge looked up at her with a scowl and a finger pressed to his lips. Britomart slowed to a walk, resisting the temptation to put her arms behind her head to catch her breath. She wasn¡¯t about to let Smudge see how winded she was from sprinting to look for him. Instead, she put her hands on her hips as she advanced on him. His scowl wavered under hers.

    ¡°I found tracks,¡± he whispered loudly as soon as she got within range to hear him over the rumbling of the waterfall not far ahead. He pointed at the ground in front of him with the hopeful, slightly guilty look of someone who has realized they are in trouble and is trying to get out of it.

    Britomart did not move her glare from Smudge. Neither did she bother to whisper.  ¡°You went galavanting off by yourself in the Shadowed Wood, and you didn¡¯t see fit to tell me? Didn¡¯t it occur to you that I might wake up to find you gone and think you had been taken? Or eaten? Or turned into a tadpole? Which would be no more than you would deserve. You nearly gave me a heart attack.¡±

    Smudge fidgeted under her gaze. ¡°Well, you were still sleeping, see, and I thought I would just explore a little¨Cnot far, mind, just a little, and maybe I would find something, and I did. I found tracks.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t care about tracks. I care about the fact that you disappeared without a trace and without so much as a note¨C¡±

    ¡°¨Ccan¡¯t write. So it¡¯s not my fault, see.¡±

    ¡°¨Cand without telling me where you were going¨C¡±

    ¡°¨Ccouldn''t. You were asleep.¡±

    ¡°¨Cand,¡± Britomart concluded, as if it were a particularly grievous offense, ¡°you chose today of all days to wake up before me.¡±

    ¡°It was the whooshing of the river. Woke me up needing to piss like a who¨C¡±

    ¡°¨Cwhole herd of goats,¡± Britomart said, finishing Smudge¡¯s words for him. ¡°Yes, I get the picture.¡± She was suddenly very aware of the fullness of her own bladder, which she had forgotten in her panic over Smudge. ¡°I¡¯ll, umm, just investigate the woods over there to make sure they¡¯re safe. Stay here. If you move an inch before I get back, I¡¯ll¡­¡± she paused as she tried to think of a dire enough punishment.

    ¡°Flay me alive?¡± Smudge said helpfully.

    Britomart narrowed her eyes. ¡°I¡¯ll keep all the cheese for myself.¡±

    ¡°Won¡¯t move an inch.¡±

    Britomart came back to find Smudge exactly where she had left him.

    ¡°You said you found tracks,¡± she commented, having had time for that fact to sink in while doing her necessary investigations of a nearby tree. ¡°Show me.¡±

    It was a mark of Smudge¡¯s contrition that he did not remark that he had tried to show her before, and she had simply not listened. He pointed to a patch of moss. ¡°It¡¯s scuffed. Here.¡±

    Britomart tilted her head as she studied it. There was a scuff in the moss as if a shoe had crushed it when somebody¨Cor something¨Chad walked over it, slipping slightly as they went.

    ¡°And here. And here,¡± Smudge pointed. ¡°Spaced like footprints. Then he must have gotten sick of slipping on the moss and moved further towards the tree, because the tracks stop.¡±

    ¡°Could be,¡± Britomart admitted.

    Smudge did not seem to notice the skepticism in her voice. He triumphantly declared, ¡°I think I know where he was going. The waterfall. I¡¯d bet you anything that if we go closer, we¡¯ll find his tracks again.¡±

    Britomart followed the boy¡¯s gaze to the waterfall. It cascaded down from a rocky ledge that jutted out over the streambed below. The ledge extended far to either side before tapering off into wooded hillside. ¡°That¡¯s the last place he would go, assuming there is a ¡®he¡¯ at all. There¡¯s nowhere to go from there except up a cliff.¡±

    Smudge shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s where I would go.¡±

    ¡°That''s because you¡¯re a tourist.¡±

    ¡°Am not. I¡¯m a knight¡¯s companion.¡±

    Britomart¡¯s mouth quirked. She resisted the urge to ruffle the boy¡¯s no-doubt-lice-ridden hair. ¡°That you are. Let¡¯s go look at your waterfall.¡±

    Smudge insisted that they go slowly, watching for the tracks that he was sure would be there. Britomart indulged him, in part out of relief that he was alright and in part out of lack of a better idea now that their stag guide had abandoned them. The banks grew muddy with the spray from the waterfall. The ground became slippery with moss and wet rocks where it was not slippery with mud.

    Britomart grabbed Smudge by the back of his threadbare tunic just in time to keep him from slipping into the stream as he let out a cry of excitement, pointed at something ahead. and promptly lost his footing. His cry turned into an indignant squawk as he was lifted off the ground. Britomart could feel the seams of his none-too-sturdy tunic straining; she hurriedly set him down on firmer ground before it tore and deposited him in the stream.

    She wasn¡¯t looking at Smudge, though. She was looking at the tracks he had pointed to in the mud along the bank. They were undeniably footprints this time.

    ¡°Guess you were right after all, scamp.¡±

    Smudge indignantly tugged at his tunic. ¡°Course I was. I¡¯ve got the instincts of a hardened criminal.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re just quoting the magistrate,¡± Britomart said crossly. Not that the magistrate was precisely wrong, she thought wryly. But she would make an honest citizen of Smudge yet. Whether he wanted her to or not.

    The tracks took them nearly to the base of the waterfall. Three, the mud gave way to a shelf of rock, and the tracks disappeared once more. The waterfall slammed into the stream with a crash of white foam, misting water over them. Smudge backed up to avoid the spray. Britomart stood stalwartly at the rock¡¯s edge, looking out over the spray. Water droplets trickled down her armor and found their way into the joins. It didn¡¯t take long before she backed up too. It was hard to feel heroic while damp.

    Britomart studied the slick rock shelf that stretched the remainder of the way to the cliff¡¯s base, where it disappeared into the concavity behind the waterfall. There must have been enough room to stand behind the falls, the way the cliff curved in like that. The rock wall behind the waterfall looked almost like it had been scooped out. She wondered if there might even be a cave back there.

    A cave.

    She turned to Smudge with a gleam in her eye that Willa would have recognized all too well. ¡°How slippery do you think those rocks are?¡±

    ¡°Slippery as a greased eel on a skelpie-limmer¡¯s table.¡±

    That sounded very slippery to Britomart. ¡°I think you¡¯d better help me out of this armor.¡± She had no wish to end up pinned to the streambed by forty pounds of metal.

    Britomart left her armor and boots by a nearby tree with Smudge under strict instructions to keep guard over it. She felt horribly vulnerable venturing into unknown territory with nothing but a woolen tunic, chemise, and hose between her and an enemy¡¯s weapon. She touched the sword belt around her waist for reassurance. The sword did not help as far as feminine propriety was concerned¨Cthe court ladies would have a fit if they saw how she was dressed¨Cbut it certainly made her feel better about the whole thing.

    The stone was, indeed, as slippery as a greased eel. Britomart barely caught herself in time to avoid falling in when the rebounding spray hit her in the eyes as she skirted around behind the waterfall. It took her a moment to realize that she had made it. The falls thundered down in front of her in a blue-white curtain, blocking out all but the muted, wavering sunlight that managed to make its way through. The water¡¯s roar vibrated through Britomart¡¯s sternum. For a moment, she could only stare.

    And then she turned slowly and looked behind her.

    It was there: the entrance to a cave, arching just high enough for a tall person to walk upright¨Carching into the unknown, into the dark.

    Britomart unsheathed her sword. She stepped in.

 Chapter 5: The Sleepers Cave

    The roar of the waterfall lessened as Britomart stepped into the cave¡¯s entrance. She found herself in a tunnel so regular that it could have been hewn by human hands, were it not for the swirling ridges in the rock that told of water¡¯s work. The ground felt cold and slimy under her bare feet. She jumped and raised her sword the first time a water droplet plonked onto her shoulder from the condensation above. By the wavering light that filtered into the tunnel¡¯s entrance through the waterfall, she could make out a deep darkness at the tunnel¡¯s end. She felt as if she were entering the gullet of some great creature. She could almost feel its breathing: a slow, many-voiced thing that resounded through the stone.

    Britomart hesitated at the end of the tunnel. The light had grown dimmer and dimmer as she went on, and only the slightest glow illuminated the steps that led down into the cavern below. To either side of the steps, stalagmites rose up like dragon¡¯s teeth in the gloom. The sense of standing in a sleeping beast¡¯s maw intensified. Britomart could have sworn that underneath the sound of trickling water she heard the rhythmic breathing of a slumbering creature echoing from the cavern¡¯s walls, echoing and echoing until it seemed to come from many bodies. She steadied herself against the tunnel wall and jerked her hand back as she felt the sliminess of the stone beneath her fingers. Grimacing, she wiped her hand on her damp tunic and squinted into the darkness.

    She could see nothing but the strange luminescence that clung in irregular patches to the cavern walls. The walls seemed to stretch back endlessly. The cavern must have been even larger than her father¡¯s throne room. The thought made her square her shoulders. I am a king¡¯s daughter, she told herself, and I am here on a quest. I will not be intimidated by a rock formation. All the same, she wished she had a torch. But the torches had been in the saddlebag that tore against the gates of Rivensfeldt during their flight, depositing its contents by the roadside for eager hands to snatch up during the guards¡¯ distraction.

    A sense of vast space enveloped Britomart as she went down the steps. The cavern opened out around her, unfathomable. She ventured on. The faint light from the tunnel¡¯s exit gave way to utter darkness. The sound of slow breathing seemed to engulf her the further into the cavern she went. She whirled to one side and then another, trying to find its source, but she could see nothing more than occasional patches of even more impenetrable darkness that might have been rock formations.

    Britomart whirled again at a sound from the tunnel. Footsteps. She crouched and waited, thankful that the odd sounds of that place would mask her own breathing.

    She did not have to wait long before a figure appeared at the end of the tunnel: a black silhouette against the wavering light. A small silhouette. A child¡¯s silhouette. She rose from her crouch and strode back into the light, seething.

    The figure turned to run.

    ¡°Don¡¯t you dare, Smudge,¡± Britomart whispered fiercely. ¡°You are not getting out of this that easily.¡± The whisper echoed in soft hisses through the cave.

    The figure paused, then cautiously turned back to the cavern.

    Britomart saw the tension go out of Smudge¡¯s body as he recognized her. It was replaced by a look of angelic contrition as she got close enough for him to tell how angry she was.

    ¡°You didn¡¯t come back,¡± Smudge said.

    ¡°Shhh! You¡¯ll wake the dead.¡±

    ¡°You didn¡¯t come back,¡± he repeated in a whisper. ¡°I thought you might need help.¡±

    ¡°From an undersized, beetle-brained, malodorous scallywag?¡± Britomart whispered back. ¡°I think not. I told you to guard my armor.¡±

    Smudge¡¯s chin went out defiantly. ¡°You were only doing that to keep me from coming with you.¡±

    ¡°Well, sort of,¡± Britomart admitted. ¡°But it wasn¡¯t just that. I need that armor. I don¡¯t fancy stopping a blade with my flesh. Would you?¡±

    ¡°Oh.¡±

    ¡°Yes. ¡®Oh.¡¯¡±

    ¡°¡¯Spose you want me to go back, then.¡±

    Britomart internally cringed as thought of Smudge scrambling back along the slick stone ledge behind the waterfall to the banks of the stream. ¡°Can you even swim?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t need to. Won¡¯t fall in.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re staying with me. Stick close and, for Woden¡¯s sake, try to stay out of trouble. We don¡¯t know what¡¯s down here. I don¡¯t want you to get hurt.¡± She realized just how true those last words were. Smudge might be a malodorous scallywag, but he was her malodorous scallywag.

    Britomart had barely taken two steps back into the cavern when she felt Smudge tug at her tunic. ¡°What?¡± she turned and whispered in exasperation.

    ¡°Heard something. Sounds like¡­¡±

    ¡°Breathing. I thought I was imagining it.¡±

    There was just enough light for Britomart to see Smudge¡¯s face scrunch up in thought. ¡°It¡¯s more like with the Sisters of Frigga, where they stick you in a dorm-tory with all the other boys.¡±

    ¡°And they make you wash behind your ears, I know. Sounds horrible.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re missing the point,¡± Smudge said in a long-suffering whisper. ¡°The dorm-tory had this big arched ceiling, and it echoes loud as anything, and you can hardly sleep at night for the sound of all the breathing. And that¡¯s not even mentioning the snoring. And the farting.¡±

    But Britomart was no longer listening to Smudge. Now that she was listening for it, she could hear the slight asynchrony in the ghostly inhales and exhales that echoed around them. Not the sound of one creature¡¯s breathing, but of multiple creatures¨Cor, perhaps, people? It had been human breathing that the sound reminded Smudge of. There were old tales of enchanted slumber, but surely those were only tales¡­ She remembered telling Smudge that if the old tales were true anywhere, they were true here. She wondered if she had been more right than she knew.

    If only they had light. She scanned the cavern for what felt like the hundredth time, willing herself to see past the darkness. All she could see was the hint of deeper darkness from the rock formations. That, and the luminescent patches along the cavern¡¯s walls. ¡°Got it,¡± she whispered. ¡°Smudge, keep hold of my tunic.¡±

    Several stubbed toes later, Britomart reached the nearest patch of luminescence, Smudge following on her heels. Up close, the light was a green so bright that it looked almost white in the pitch black. The glow was coming from a bulbous fungus growing on the cave wall. Britomart scraped it away from the wall with her sword, then broke it in two and handed half to Smudge. She grinned at the expression of awe on his face¨Cnot simply because of his awe, but because she could see it spreading across his features, illuminated by the green glow in his hands.

    After that, they went from one patch of luminescence to another, collecting the softly glowing fungus from the cavern wall. Britomart took off her tunic and fashioned it into a makeshift sack. Her skin felt clammy in her linen chemise. She could feel her arms break out in goosebumps, as much from the feeling of being so exposed to an enemy¡¯s sword as from the chill of the cave. But she needed light far more than an extra layer. A tunic would not stop a blade anyways. They went on until Britomart¡¯s makeshift sack was full and Smudge¡¯s arms were bulging with as much of the glowing fungus as he could carry, piled almost up to his chin.

    ¡°Ready?¡± Britomart whispered.

    Smudge nodded precariously, trying not to unbalance his armload. The green light around him wavered up and down with his nod.

    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    Britomart closed her eyes against Smudge¡¯s glow and poured every bit of her senses into listening, trying to pinpoint one of the sources of the breathing. She turned to face where she thought the sound was coming from before opening her eyes. There?  She nodded her head in that direction. Smudge nodded in turn, then scowled as a chunk of fungus fell from his pile.

    Britomart sheathed her sword and gestured to Smudge to step behind her. She drew a handful of crumbled fungus from her makeshift sack and scattered it in front of her. A dimly glowing constellation appeared before her on the cavern floor. Britomart grinned. The glow was faint, but it was enough. Enough to be sure of their footing. Enough to make a path. She took three steps, then scattered another glowing handful.

    It took on the rhythm of a dance.

    Ten steps. Was the sound of breathing getting stronger?

    Fifteen. It was, she was sure it was.

    Twenty. Was that a deeper darkness in the dark?

    Twenty-five. The breathing was close now. Definitely something there.

    One more step. Scatter. A constellation of light on the cavern floor. A constellation that came to rest against the base of one of the rock formations. Britomart stopped and stared. She heard the scuff of Smudge¡¯s feet as he came to an abrupt halt behind her. The rock formation was remarkably regular: a rectangular slab roughly the size of the stone sarcophagi in her family¡¯s vault. Britomart set down her sack beside her and drew her sword as quietly as she could. The slightest slither of steel cut the cavern¡¯s echoes. She stood stone-still waiting for any change in the rhythm of the breathing. It continued as slow and rhythmic as ever. She turned to Smudge and beckoned him forwards beside her. His luminescence spread over the stone slab, revealing the statue of a recumbent woman atop it. The statue had been carved to a perfect likeness of life, right down to the slightly crooked nose.

    And then the statue breathed. Britomart heard Smudge¡¯s stifled squeak over the sound of her own sharply indrawn breath. They had found their sleeper.

    The woman could not have been much older than Britomart. She had a petite slimness that made Britomart think of a bird. Not a showy bird, but the sort of gently wild bird that perched in your garden one morning and then never came back, no matter how much birdseed you left out. She would have been beautiful in precisely the way the court ladies approved of had it not been for her crooked nose and a certain determination about the chin. Her hair was braided into elaborate coils over each ear, held in place with what looked like golden mesh. Ramshorn, Britomart remembered the hairstyle was called. She had asked her mother about it as a child when she couldn¡¯t figure out why the heads of the ladies in the palace tapestries looked so misshapen.

    Britomart¡¯s brow puckered as she studied the rest of the sleeper: the fur-lined mantle that lay in thick folds around her, fastened with a wide jeweled brooch at her throat; the richly embroidered tunic that ending just below the knees; the fine wool dress beneath it; the elaborately worked gold cuffs that braceleted both wrist; the gold signet ring that looked almost comically large on the woman¡¯s small hand. It all belonged in one of the palace tapestries, not just the woman¡¯s outdated hairstyle. Nobody had dressed like that in centuries. There ought to be a unicorn lying with its head in her lap, Britomart thought. There were always unicorns in the tapestries.

    And that ring¡­ Britomart craned in closer, trying to puzzle out the crest in the odd green light. It looked remarkably like an eagle with a sheaf of wheat in its talons. She tilted her head to the side as if the image would change. It remained resolutely the same. An eagle with a sheaf of wheat in its talons: the royal crest of Galbrica. The ring was the twin to the one that Britomart had shown Smudge a week earlier to prove her identity. Nobody but a member of the royal family or a truly extraordinary thief would own such a thing.

    Britomart racked her brain for an aunt or uncle who had disappeared. Her father¡¯s only sibling, the dowager Duchess of Drakelmire, was most definitely accounted for, being one of the court ladies most apt to cast disapproving looks at Britomart¡¯s less than feminine appearance at court balls. The sleeping woman was far too young to be an aunt or uncle anyways, Britomart chided herself. But she could not be a cousin; the Duchess of Drakelmire had only sons.

    Could the woman be a thief, then? But if she were, why dress in such old-fashioned clothing? Surely that would only draw attention to her.

    That left only one option, as far as Britomart could see. Magic.

    Either the woman was some sort of eldritch fabrication, or she had been asleep for a very, very long time. Britomart swallowed. Tightening her grip on her sword, she looked at Smudge, then reached out with her free hand, laying it carefully on the woman¡¯s shoulder. The woman did not move. Britomart grasped her shoulder more firmly and gently shook her. There was not even the slightest variation in the steady rhythm of the sleeper¡¯s breathing. Britomart gave the sleeper¡¯s face a pat. A harder pat. A light smack. A harder smack. Nothing. She remembered trying to wake Smudge from his daze when they entered the Shadowed Wood. If only she had a waterskin.

    Britomart looked to Smudge for ideas. He shrugged, making the luminesce bob. Then, he closed his eyes and puckered up his lips. He opened his eyes and shrugged again.

    Britomart felt a flush creeping up her neck. She should have thought of it. It was, after all, how it worked in the old stories. In the stories, though, the rescuer was always a dashing young man betrothed to the lady he was rescuing. Still, it might work. Resolutely ignoring Smudge, Britomart bent towards the woman. Her braid fell over her shoulder to trail across the stone as she leaned in, and she impatiently tucked it back. Surely her heart shouldn¡¯t be beating so hard. Britomart could feel the woman¡¯s breath against her skin. She closed her eyes and closed the distance. Her lips brushed softly, quickly, over the woman¡¯s. She had a fleeting impression of softness and warmth. Then she darted back, blushing furiously. Smudge nimbly scooted aside to avoid being stepped on.

    They both stared at the woman. Not so much as the flutter of an eyelid. Britomart suddenly felt very foolish. She turned back to Smudge. He made a more prolonged kissing motion. Britomart rolled her eyes at him and gestured further into the cave. Smudge nodded reluctantly, his eyes flicking almost imperceptibly back to the large gold brooch that fastened the woman¡¯s mantle.

    Britomart sheathed her sword and reached for her sack, listening for the breathing in the dark. There. She scattered the luminescent particles and stepped onto the lengthening path. It stretched out behind them like a comet¡¯s tale as they ventured further into the cavern¡¯s dark.

    They found the next sleeper on a nearly identical slab. A fighter this time. There was something about the shape of his face that reminded her of the sleeping woman. A half-helm with a crest of gold knotwork lay beside his head. Britomart had seen a helm like it only once. It rested on a plinth in the back of the royal armory, carefully oiled to preserve it from rust. The royal historian would swear himself blind that it was the helm of King Aethelwulf, who had restored Galbrica to order after Viscount Osmont paid Corsirian assassins to murder King Sigfried and his children. Aethelwulf had been King Sigfried¡¯s half-brother, and his revenge had been so terrible that there had never again been a plot against a Galbrican king. That had been nearly three hundred years ago. Britomart shivered. If Alfrick was here, how long might he sleep if she could not save him? Already, they had lingered too long.

    They came to one slab after another, one sleeper after another. Three more warriors with knotwork on their helms, though none so elaborate as the first. A woman whose furs and ice-blonde paleness marked her as a Hjalderlonder. A man with a blacksmith''s shoulders and a beard so thick that it obscured his face nearly up to his eyes. A lithe young man with his dark hair fastened into a short queue at the nape of his neck. Two children, little older than Smudge, clearly siblings. A weather-beaten man in a trapper¡¯s leathers. An elderly woman with a chin so pointy that it seemed to curve upwards. A plump young woman with softly curling hair and a rosebud mouth. A youth with a round, hopeful sort of face. Two men dressed in the plain, respectable tunics of Galbrican artisans: the first with small eyes and a weak chin; the second with cadaverous cheeks and a pointy, black goatee. Britomart paused when she came to the second of the two men. She studied him more closely. She could have sworn she had seen the two men before, though their clothing could not have been more different. They had been in the Prince of Osterlond¡¯s retinue when he came to Boemapolis to formalize his betrothal to Goneril. What in Woden''s name were two Osterlander nobles doing in the middle of the Shadowed Wood dressed as Galbricans? Britomart shook her head to clear it. That problem would have to wait until another day. She had more pressing problems.

    Britomart¡¯s hand scraped the bottom of her makeshift sack when she reached for a handful of luminescent fungus to mark their path as they moved on. She grimaced, then turned to Smudge. The luminescence in his arms lessened as Britomart transferred nearly a third of it to her sack.

    When they came to the next sleeper, even the dimmed light was enough for Britomart to recognize the surcoat of a Svernhold guard. Her heart leapt. Her pace quickened. Her hand scraped the bottom of her sack. She transferred more of Smudge¡¯s pile to her sack. The luminescence shrank. Darkness huddled in.

    Another slab. Another sleeper. Smudge had to stand on his tiptoes to lean in as far enough over the slab for the glow from what remained of his armful of fungus to reach the sleeper¡¯s face. The luminescence glinted dull green on the steel of a gorget. Smudge shifted further up. The luminescence spread over ruddy cheeks and an attempt at a mustache. Sir Rolf. Britomart could have hugged Rolf. I¡¯ll come back for you, she silently promised him. She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. She took two more handfuls of luminescence from Smudge¡¯s pile. The glowing particles had hardly hit the cave floor before she was stepping over them, Smudge trotting in her wake.

    So resolutely was she walking¨Cand so dimmed was the light¨Cthat she nearly strode into the next slab. She took the remaining fungus from Smudge as he stepped up beside her. There was so little left that she could hold it in her cupped hands. She lowered it until it almost touched the sleeper¡¯s face. A faint greenish light traveled over a chin with the beginnings of stubble, a kind mouth and a straight nose, and hair that stuck up at all the wrong angles. It was a face that Britomart knew well. How could she not have, with all the time that Willa spent gazing at it?

    A fierce triumph surged through Britomart. ¡°Got him,¡± she whispered.

 Chapter 6: A Surer Path

    ¡°It¡¯s Alfrick. Here, hold the light. I need to lift him. No, hold it closer,¡± Britomart added in exasperation as Smudge took the remaining fungus and backed up to give her room. He hastily stepped back towards her. He couldn¡¯t see much, but he could hear a great deal of muffled cursing and clanking as Britomart tried to heave the sleeping man onto her back. With a final clang and a grunt, she slung Alfrick over her shoulders. Britomart winced as she took a step and Alfrick¡¯s armor dug into the back of her neck. Knights who went around rescuing princesses had it easy.

    ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± she whispered to Smudge. They stepped onto the path of scattered light that stretched back along the line of sleepers, a softly glowing ribbon in the dark. She could not help glancing towards each slab that they passed, though she could no longer see the sleepers in Smudge¡¯s dim light. I¡¯ll be back, she promised them silently. I¡¯ll find a way to wake Alfrick, and then I¡¯ll come back to wake you too. She hoped it was true.

    Smudge sped up as they neared the place where their path dead-ended into the cavern wall that they would follow to the entrance. Britomart thought about calling for Smudge to wait as she trudged slowly onward, but she did not want to stir anything else that might be lurking in the cave, particularly not when they were so close to getting out with Alfrick. She was relieved when Smudge paused to wait. His light wasn¡¯t of much use at this point, but she didn¡¯t want him to get so far ahead that she wasn¡¯t close enough to protect him if something went wrong.

    Britomart found Smudge waiting for her at the slab with the first sleeper. There were tiny crumbles of the glowing fungus on the slab near the sleeping woman¡¯s shoulder. Britomart hid a smile. Smudge must have been leaning in close to get another look at the woman. She was beautiful in her own way.

    ¡°Okay,¡± she whispered, and Smudge took off again. Britomart suppressed a grunt as she readjusted Alfrick across her shoulders and followed.

    They reached the cavern wall, and the mouth of the tunnel loomed ahead, an arch of pale light cut out from the darkness. The darkness thinned as it grew nearer, until Britomart could see the texture of the cavern floor and the rising shapes of occasional stalagmites. It was odd to think that the cavern¡¯s entrance had seemed so dim when she first entered it.

    A wave of relief hit Britomart as Smudge placed his foot on the first step up to the tunnel. He had gotten a ways ahead of her again, but she could see him perfectly silhouetted against the tunnel¡¯s light.

    Then a voice loud as thunder cut through Britomart¡¯s relief.

    ¡°Seek not to take what is not yours.¡±

    The command resonated off the cavern¡¯s walls until it seemed to come from everywhere and to reach everywhere, even to the very marrow of Britomart¡¯s bones. Britomart hardly had time to register that it was a woman''s voice before she was spinning on the spot, trying to locate its source, but she could see nothing but darkness deeper into the cave. She nearly stumbled as Alfrick¡¯s weight threw her off balance. If only she could draw her sword. But she could not wield a sword and carry Alfrick too. She would not abandon him. She would not.

    ¡°Run!¡± she shouted to Smudge. Britomart tried to run, but her legs did not move. She tried again, tried forcing herself forward, but it was as if her legs had turned to stone. She looked down in panic. The stone of the cave floor had grown up around her legs, encasing her to the thighs. She fought to force her legs onwards but felt only the screaming of her muscles as they pushed against an immovable barrier.

    No way out.

    She tried wriggling, looking for some sort of leeway that would allow her to slip her legs free. Not even a hair¡¯s breadth of room.

    No way out.

    And Smudge wasn¡¯t running either.

    ¡°Smudge,¡± she cried out desperately, ¡°you need to run!¡±

    ¡°Can¡¯t! Stuck!¡± His voice held a shrill terror that Britomart had never heard in it before, not even when they were being chased by the Rivensfeldt guards. She looked up and saw that stone had grown up around Smudge¡¯s legs too. He was trying to pry his way out and having no more success than she was. His movements were as frantic as a mouse caught in a trap.

    ¡°Hold on! I¡¯ll get us out of here!¡± she called. But how? How? She glanced down and saw that her sword belt and scabbard were still free. As long as I¡¯ve got my sword, we¡¯ve got a chance, she thought. She swung Alfrick down from her shoulders, wincing as he hit the cave floor with a clang. There was no time to be gentle. Then her sword was in her hand, and she was raising it, raising it high above her head, preparing to bring it down with as much force as possible on the stone that encased her legs, hoping that it would be strong enough to break the stone. Hoping that she would be able to stop the blade before it sheared into her leg.

    ¡°I would not do that if I were you,¡± said a voice from deeper in the cave. ¡°You will merely dull your blade.¡± Britomart recognized it as the same voice that had thundered out earlier, a woman¡¯s voice, rich and clear, though quieter now. She ignored it and brought her sword down with all her might. The impact clanged through Britomart¡¯s arms with such intensity that she nearly dropped the sword. Her whole body felt like it was ringing. She stared down at the stone around her legs. It was unmarked. She looked at her sword. There was a notch in the blade. She swore.

    ¡°As I said, you will merely dull your sword.¡± The woman¡¯s voice was amused now, and it was coming closer. ¡°You had as well tell the Shadowed Wood to march at your command as free yourself from this cavern¡¯s stone with a sword.¡±

    Britomart twisted to look over her shoulder, her back nearly cramping with the effort. Two cloaked figures were walking towards her from the back of the cavern. Light spread out through the stone at their feet, rippling across the cavern floor. It was as if the stone had soaked up years of sunlight and was gently radiating it back out. The light remained in the figures¡¯ wake, spreading through more and more of the stone until the cavern was filled with a soft auroral glow.

    The figures paused so close to Britomart that only a thin ribbon of twilight remained between her and them. She held her sword at the ready. They stood and regarded her. When they made no move to attack, Britomart paused and regarded them too. She let herself really look at them this time, not just checking for weapons as she had when frantically summing them up (none on the woman; possibly a sword under the second figure¡¯s cloak). The woman¡¯s hood was thrown back to reveal a face with a strength and elegance that would have quailed even the formidable Marquess of Blinkensop, whose raised eyebrow had been known to reduce a courtier to tears. Her dark hair was winged with gray and swept back to an elaborate knot at the nape of her neck. She reminded Britomart of a hawk.

    The second figure kept his hood up, but Britomart thought she had been right to suspect that he carried a sword. He walked with the assurance of a warrior. Britomart glanced at his boots and wondered if it had been him whose tracks they had followed. At least he seemed like the sort of person whom she knew how to fight. She did not think it was he who had made the stones glow with sunlight, nor cast the sleepers into slumber. She could not fight that: fight magic. But she would have too. She felt her sword tremble and firmed her grip on it.

    Britomart met the woman¡¯s eyes. Her voice was even as she said, ¡°Let the boy go. I am the one who has taken a sleeper; he has done no harm but to accompany me. Let him go, and fight me.¡±

    A smile quirked the corner of the woman¡¯s mouth. ¡°I have no intention of fighting you, my child, and neither does Danbar. But, alas, I cannot let the boy go. You are wrong to say that he has done no harm.¡±

    Britomart wondered how the woman knew about Smudge¡¯s past. ¡°He has done harm before, that is true, but he has done none here. I alone took the sleeper.¡± Britomart set her jaw and added firmly, ¡°And this sleeper is mine to take. He belongs to my sister.¡±

    ¡°You may take Sir Alfrick if you wish,¡± the woman answered in measured tones. ¡°You have a true claim on him, although I cannot say that he ¡®belongs¡¯ to anyone except himself. Perhaps your sister will even be able to wake him. There are tales of true love¡¯s kiss removing such a curse. I think you are too young, though, to know how rare a thing true love is, even among those who believe they possess it. Are you willing to bet Sir Alfrick¡¯s restoration on it? Both parties must love truly, you see, and I do not think Sir Alfrick has known your sister for long, from what Danbar tells me. He would not be the first to mistake infatuation for true love; nor would your sister, though I do not doubt her sincerity. Better by far to take a surer path. I am certain it is what Danbar would prefer, and he has known Alfrick for far longer than you.¡±

    Britomart¡¯s temper flared. ¡°Willa¡¯s love is true. She is the truest¡­and they¡¯ve known each other for months¡­and¡­¡± Britomart could feel herself losing ground ¡°...and this has nothing to do with letting Smudge go.¡±

    ¡°It does and it does not. You see, while you have a true claim on what you have taken, the boy¨C¡±

    There was a yelp, and Britomart turned to see Smudge trying to wriggle away from a tendril of stone that seemed to have come alive. It was reaching for the small leather bag tied to the ratty rope that served as Smudge¡¯s belt. Britomart strained towards Smudge until she thought her muscles would burst, but it made no difference. The woman¡¯s voice went calmly on.

    ¡°¨Cthe boy has no claim but greed on what lies in his purse.¡±

    Smudge grabbed hopelessly for the bag as the tendril of stone jerked it loose from the rope and upended it over the cave floor. There was a soft clink as a golden brooch hit the stone. The jewel at its center winked in the light. Britomart recognized it immediately as the brooch that had clasped the first sleeper¡¯s mantle.

    Britomart stopped struggling. So did Smudge. They both fell so silent that the sounds of the sleepers¡¯ breathing suddenly seemed loud again. A small part of Britomart¡¯s mind registered that it must be magic slumber indeed for the sleepers to have slept through the light and the noise. But only a small part of her mind. The rest was occupied with fuming at Smudge. She now had a very good idea of why Smudge had paused to wait beside the sleeping lady on their way out of the cave.

    ¡°Smudge,¡± she said through gritted teeth, ¡°you made a promise.¡±

    ¡°Meant to keep it,¡± Smudge mumbled.

    ¡°Promises are not an issue of ¡®meant to.¡¯ You either keep them or you don¡¯t. How am I supposed to take you back to Boemapolis if you keep stealing? I can¡¯t apprentice you to someone when I know you¡¯ll rob them blind the first chance you¡¯ve got.¡±

    Britomart heard the swish of skirts as the woman walked past her towards Smudge. She bent gracefully to pick up the brooch, then studied it for a moment before closing it in her hand. ¡°It is not just in Boemapolis that thieving comes at a cost, little one,¡± the woman said. ¡°The Shadowed Wood has its own laws, and those who break them may suffer worse than a mark on the flesh.¡± Her eyes lingered on Smudge¡¯s branded hand. He hastily hid his hands behind his back. Britomart thought that the woman¡¯s steely gaze would have pinned Smudge in place even if he hadn¡¯t already been locked in stone.

    The woman took a step back, and the tension broke. She gave a slight smile, and Britomart was surprised to see that it reached her eyes. ¡°For now, however, I judge that the fright you have suffered is punishment enough. You may go if you wish.¡± Her eyes flicked to Britomart. ¡°Although I hope you will remember what I said. If you wish to wake Sir Alfrick, you would do better to take a surer path than true love. I can help you on that path. You need only ask.¡±

    Britomart gave a bitter laugh. ¡°And I¡¯m supposed to trust you? You¡¯re a¡­a¡­¡± She could not bring herself to say it. And what would she have said anyways? ¡®You¡¯re a blood witch?¡¯ But there had been no blood. ¡®You¡¯re an Old One?¡¯ But the Old Ones were dead. Truth was, she had no idea what this woman might be, only that the stone seemed to obey her in a way that was definitely not natural.

    ¡°I am what I am,¡± the woman replied calmly. ¡°You may choose to trust me or not. I think you know as well as I do, however, that I could leave you as you are, and you would wither and die, for humans are not half so permanent as stone. Instead, I have chosen to let you go.¡±

    Britomart stumbled as the pressure around her legs released, the stone melting back into the ground. She heard the patter of running footsteps as she caught herself, and she let out a breath of relief. Smudge had gotten out. She straightened to see Smudge sliding to a stop beside her. Her relief turned to exasperation.

    ¡°Going to help,¡± Smudge said.

    ¡°I¡¯ll handle this,¡± Britomart growled.

    ¡°Like I said, I¡¯ll help.¡±

    Britomart recognized the mulish expression on his face. She¡¯d seen it in the mirror more than once. ¡°Fine. Keep an eye on them while I lift Alfrick.¡± She darted a glance at the woman, who was still standing serenely near where Smudge had been, then sheathed her sword and bent to heave Alfrick over her shoulders. It was much harder without the slab to help. Her muscles protested as she straightened. But she had him. ¡°Now we go.¡±

    The cloaked man stepped forward from beside the strange woman as Britomart reached the stairs to the tunnel, and Britomart thought for a moment that he would try to stop her, but the woman laid a hand on his arm and shook her head. He stepped back and let them pass. They made it down the tunnel, one step at a time, Smudge watching for an attack from behind that never came. The sunlight opened out before them, streaming through the waterfall. Britomart laid down her burden and half-collapsed beside him. For a moment, she basked in the sheer, beautiful relief of having gotten out of the cave alive. Of having gotten out of the cave with Alfrick. Then, her eyes fell on the slick stone ledge that led back to the banks of the stream. She groaned. She glanced up at Smudge, who was keeping a worried watch on the tunnel. ¡°We¡¯d better get him out of this armor.¡±

    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    The Alfrick that Britomart deposited in their camp half an hour later was scuffed, dirty, and slightly sodden. He was also very much asleep. Britomart looked down at him in something much closer to dislike than she had ever felt for him when awake. Nobody had ever told her rescuing was so hard on the back.

    She and Smudge tried everything they could think of. Britomart poured a waterskin over Alfrick¡¯s head. Smudge tickled his nose with a piece of grass. Brititomart fanned cold air over Alfrick¡¯s face. Smudge tickled his feet. Britomart spoke softly to Alfrick of Willa¡¯s love. Smudge shouted surprising noises in his ear. Britomart upended another waterskin over Alfrick¡¯s head. Smudge wafted cheese under his nose. Britomart demanded that Alfrick wake up on his honor as a knight. Smudge insulted Alfrick¡¯s mother. And still Alfrick slept on.

    ¡°Not even a snore,¡± Britomart said in disgust as she sat down with a thump beside him some time later. She sprang up again as the residual wetness from the upended waterskins seeped into her thin woolen leggings. It took a moment before she noticed Smudge smirking and realized that she had been patting the seat of her legging to check how wet they had gotten. She dropped her arms to her sides in what she hoped was a dignified manner. ¡°We¡¯d better get a fire going to dry us all out before night falls. Willa will never forgive me if Alfrick dies of pneumonia halfway to Boemapolis.¡±

    ¡°Then she wouldn¡¯t get her kiss,¡± Smudge said sagely.

    Britomart rolled her eyes and bent to dig the flint and steel from the saddlebags. ¡°It¡¯s not all about the kissing, you know.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re only saying that because it didn''t work when you kissed the sleeping lady.¡±

    Britomart felt her cheeks burn. ¡°The lady you stole from. And that wasn''t my fault: It needs to be true love¡¯s kiss, not just any kiss will do. Find some kindling, would you?¡± Her hand closed around the flint, and she straightened. ¡°Wait, I¡¯ll come with you. I don¡¯t want you getting lost again.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t get lost. You just got worried.¡±

    Britomart did not deign to reply.

    They moved companionable silence through the undergrowth, Smudge collecting kindling, Britomart looking for larger branches that would serve as firewood. After a while, she asked, ¡°Do you think that woman is right about true love?¡±

    ¡°The witch, you mean?¡± Smudge asked.

    ¡°If you want to call her that. I don¡¯t know what she was. But what she said about true love being so rare¨Cdo you think she¡¯s right?¡±

    Smudge gave the problem his full consideration. He studied the forest floor intently as he thought, occasionally bending to pick up twigs. Finally, he shrugged. ¡°Can¡¯t say as I¡¯ve ever seen it, but it¡¯s in all the tales.¡±

    Britomart swallowed. ¡°So Willa and Alfrick¡­Willa might not be able to wake him. I know she loves him,¡± Britomart rushed on, ¡°but what if it¡¯s not true love. Or what if Alfrick doesn¡¯t truly love her. I know he wants to marry her, but what if it¡¯s just affection? What if it¡¯s infatuation?¡±

    ¡°Or lust,¡± Smudge volunteered helpfully.

    ¡°We¡¯re talking about my sister,¡± Britomart said indignantly.

    ¡°Might be lust though.¡±

    Britomart thought of a certain talk that her mother had once given her about men and their intentions. There had been something about the way that her mother had said ¡®Intentions¡± that had made Britomart picture it with a capital ¡®I¡¯. She pushed that talk out of her head. ¡°The point is, Willa loves Alfrick, and Alfrick almost certainly loves her, but¡­¡±

    ¡°But if he really just wants to get in her smock, then he¡¯ll be sleeping just as soundly as ever, no matter how much she kisses him.¡±

    ¡°Smudge!¡±

    ¡°Well, it¡¯s true.¡±

    ¡°But it might be true love.¡±

    ¡°It might.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s almost certainly true love.¡±

    ¡°Could be.¡±

    ¡°It''s definitely true love.¡±

    ¡°Won¡¯t say it¡¯s not.¡±

    Britomart let out an exasperated sigh and shifted the firewood in her arms. ¡°We need to find that woman again, don¡¯t we?¡±

    They did not need to seek far to find her. When Britomart awoke the next morning, it was to the sight of the cloaked woman standing beside Arthur, feeding him small, tart apples from her hand.

    Britomart scrambled to her feet, sword in hand. ¡°You.¡± It came out as an accusation.

    ¡°Indeed.¡± There was something about the calm, arch way the woman said it that made Britomart feel embarrassed for her lack of courtesy.

    Britomart lowered her sword. ¡°Err¡­welcome. My lady.¡±

    Arthur gave a soft whicker of protest as the woman turned away from him to face Britomart. ¡°You have not left. Am I to take it that you have decided to ask my help? The path I told you of still waits, and it holds the power to wake Sir Alfrick, should you be successful. And I am no lady. I am simply Rowena. You may address me as such.¡±

    ¡°¡®Should I be successful?¡¯¡± Britomart asked warily, echoing the woman¡¯s phrase. She thought of all the sleepers in the cave. ¡°How many people have tried?¡±

    The woman¨CRowena, Britomart reminded herself¨Cshrugged nonchalantly. ¡°Some.¡±

    ¡°They died?¡±

    ¡°For the most part, no. Mostly, they sleep.¡±

    Britomart suppressed a shiver. ¡°What happened to them to make them sleep like that?¡±

    ¡°Most did not make it across. Some did, and were¡­insufficiently persuasive.¡±

    ¡°You speak in riddles.¡±

    ¡°No, I simply speak of things you do not understand.¡±

    ¡°On that, at least, we can agree. I thought you said you would help.¡±

    The woman gave a slight smile. ¡°And so I shall, but not, I think, here. There is much to explain, and we will be more comfortable in my home. It is not so far away. Wake the boy, pack up your things, and I shall take you there.¡±

    Britomart stopped a retort on the tip of her tongue. She was not used to taking commands, and her pride smarted at it. She gave a curt nod and went to wake Smudge, taking comfort in the knowledge that it was traditional for knights to bear indignities for the sake of their quests. Even Queen Boemia had become the slave of the Blood Witch in pursuit of her mission.

    They reached Rowena¡¯s house in what felt like no time after their long days of riding. Britomart marveled at how the woman walked with utmost certainty through the unmarked wood, following no discernable path but always, it seemed, perfectly aware of where she was.

    Britomart had half-expected the house to be as fantastical as the cave: a structure of seamless stone that had grown out of the hillside, or a damp underground lair with an ominously large cookpot. Instead, it was a quaint cottage nested among the trees. Smoke rose lazily from its chimney, and a few climbing roses twined up its whitewashed walls. ¡°A gift from an old friend,¡± Rowena said when she saw Britomart studying the roses. ¡°Do not worry, they are not dangerous.¡±

    Britomart exchanged a glance with Smudge. Who had ever heard of roses being dangerous? He seemed as perplexed as she was.

    The cottage was as cozy inside as out. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling, and earthenware jars lined the shelves beside the window in orderly rows, each labeled in a flowing black script¨Cnot Galbrican, Britomart realized, but the old language of the North, which seemed to be composed primarily of y¡¯s and w¡¯s. The morning sunlight shone through the window onto a large oaken table with four chairs pulled up around it. A stool sat beside the hearth, and a fire burned merrily beneath a perfectly-normal-sized cookpot. There was something about the careless position of the stool that gave the impression that it had been recently vacated.

    Rowena hung her cloak on a peg near the door, smiling when she noticed the stew boiling in the pot. ¡°Ah, I see Danbar has anticipated us. He hoped that you would come. He is one of the Duke of Svernhold¡¯s guards, you see, and was charged with Sir Alfrick¡¯s safety.¡±

    Britomart went cold with shock. ¡°But if he¡¯s a Svernhold guard, and he''s just left Alfrick like that, left him when he should have stood between Alfrick and danger, he¡¯s a¨C¡± Something about Rowena¡¯s expression stopped Britomart from finishing her sentence. Stopped her from saying the word on the tip of her tongue: traitor.

    Rowena cooly raised an eyebrow. ¡°Danbar is a loyal man. He is simply not a foolish one. He did not fall into the same trap as Sir Alfrick and his other companions did, but he was too late to save Alfrick from the consequences of his own actions. He has stayed in the Shadowed Wood rather than return to the comfort of Svernhold because he knew that staying here is the best chance that the boy has got. Danbar can no more wake Sir Alfrick with a kiss than you can. He could have bundled him onto a horse and taken him to your sister, true, but like me, he is old enough to prefer a surer remedy than true love. He would not risk taking the boy out of the Shadowed Wood when the only certain cure for Alfrick¡¯s slumber lies here.¡±

    ¡°You mean you have a cure? Here? Why didn¡¯t you say so?¡±

    ¡°Not here in the cottage. Here in the Shadowed Wood. Patience, child. Sir Alfrick has been sleeping for some time; it will not hurt him to sleep a little longer.¡±

    A door at the back of the room opened, and a man stepped in. This must be Danbar, Britomart realized. He had shed his cloak, and she could see him properly for the first time. He reminded her of her father¡¯s Arms Master, a grizzled old fighter who had learned his trade through selling his sword in the Corsinian wars during his youth. Galbrica had been peaceful for so long that it was an unacknowledged but accepted practice for those who wished to gain military experience to do so in foreign wars, returning to serve their king when they had gained the skill to fight on behalf of their homeland should the need ever arise. The Arms Master had been a hard man, but a fair one. She felt ashamed for having been on the verge of having called Danbar a traitor.

    Rowena smiled when she saw him. ¡°Good, we are all here. Stew, I think, and then we can get started.¡± Rowena¡¯s attention turned back to Britomart at Britomart¡¯s impatient movement. ¡°Yes, stew first, my child. As I said, Sir Alfrick shall come to no harm from slumbering a little longer. In the meantime, there is much for you to learn, and you will need your strength for what is coming. You may leave your weapons by the door. You are my guests; you will come to no harm here.¡±

    Britomart recognized the woman¡¯s invitation for the order that it was. Hesitantly, she unbuckled her sword belt and hung it on a peg beside the cloaks.

    The stew was good: earthly and salty with a thick broth and root vegetables. Britomart¡¯s impatience subsided in the sheer pleasure of eating something other than hardtack and cheese. At last, Smudge, who had been busily working his way through a second bowl of stew long after everyone else had finished, gave a final slurp and set his empty bowl down on the table with a contented sigh. Silence descended over the table¨Cnot simply the lack of talking that went with determined eating, but the electric silence of expectation.

    ¡°The surest path to break a spell,¡± Rowena began, ¡°is for the spell¡¯s caster to reverse it. And Sir Alfrick¡¯s slumber is a spell, make no mistake.¡±

    A spell. Britomart suppressed a shiver. She knew the slumber must be magical, but hearing it said aloud made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She forced herself to keep her voice even as she asked, ¡°Who is the caster? Do you know them?¡±

    Rowena smiled, but there was sadness in it. ¡°Yes, I know her. She is my goddaughter. It is an old spell, one that has run in her family¡¯s blood for generations, but it is she who wields it now, and she alone who can undo it.¡±

    ¡°In her family¡¯s blood?¡±

    ¡°You heard correctly, child. It is a blood spell, and she is a blood witch, as her mother was before her, and her mother¡¯s mother before her.¡±

    ¡°The Blood Witch is dead.¡±

    ¡°I presume you mean Queen Morgwynna. Yes, she is dead, killed by your Galbrican queen long ago¨Calthough I suspect that you do not know quite as much as you think of the matter. ¡®Blood witch¡¯ was never just a title for Morgwynna, although the strongest blood witches in the North were always of her line. A line sadly dwindled now, for Amoret is the last.¡±

    Britomart¡¯s head was spinning. She latched onto the one stable thought that she could find. ¡°So I need to find the blood witch and kill her.¡±

    ¡°Kill her? Have you heard nothing that I have said, child? She is the only one who can undo the spell that binds the sleepers. Kill her, and Sir Alfrick may never wake.¡±

    ¡°But if not kill her, then what am I supposed to do? Ask her nicely?¡±

    ¡°Persuade her,¡± Rowena said calmly.

    ¡°How?¡±

    ¡°With words.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not good with words.¡± Hope filled Britomart¡¯s voice as she added, ¡°But you are. Couldn¡¯t you try? You said you¡¯re her godmother. Surely she would listen to you.¡±

    ¡°Do you think I have not tried? Amoret is stubborn, and she did not appreciate the interference of an elderly godmother. A bit like you, I imagine. I think, though, that she may listen to you where she paid no heed to me.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡± Britomart demanded.

    ¡°Amoret is descended from a line that once ruled the North. When Queen Morgwynna was killed and the North was conquered, her descendents were driven into the Shadowed Wood, as were all those like her, all those with powers that the Galbricans feared. The Shadowed Wood was a haven, but it was also a cage. Over time, our numbers shrank, and Morgwynna¡¯s line dwindled. No wild creature thrives in captivity, and that is what the Shadowed Wood became to her descendents, for they cannot venture openly beyond its limits without forswearing all that they are. Galbrica has been content to rule the North with a light hand in recent centuries. It would not remain so if its people learned that a blood witch still lived.¡±

    Britomart shifted uncomfortably under Rowena¡¯s piercing gaze. She did not miss what the woman had left unsaid: that Britomart¡¯s reaction to learning of a blood witch had confirmed just how hostile Galbricans would be; that Britomart could bring that hostility down on the inhabitants of the Shadowed Wood if she told her father of a living blood witch. Telling him would be the right thing to do, Britomart knew. The king should know of any threat to the realm, and it was her duty as a princess and as a knight to warn him. So why did it feel so wrong?

    Whatever showed on Britomart¡¯s face, Rowena seemed to be satisfied. She continued, ¡°The Shadowed Wood has become a lonely place for those who cannot leave as its inhabitants have dwindled. Amoret¡¯s mother Arundel ran away for a time to see the world beyond. She went all the way to Corsiria and the coast of Caspir sea before she returned. But she did return in the end, and she died before Amoret was old enough to have any travels of her own. Amoret has been given much in this life: powers most people could only dream of; a castle that provides all its owner could wish; even a realm, for in the Shadowed Wood, Morgwynna¡¯s line rules still. Yet for all that she has been given, she has not been given friends. She has never had many companions her own age. That is why I think you will be able to persuade her. She needs a companion, and despite her best efforts, she will like you. You, I think, may like her too. If you let yourself.¡±

    Britomart plunked her elbows down on the table and leaned her head in her hands. Like a blood witch? ¡°Let me get this straight. You think that I will be able to convince this blood witch to take the spell off of Alfrick because she will want to be my friend?¡±

    ¡°If you want to put it simply, then yes.¡±

    Britomart raised her head from her hands to look at Danbar. ¡°And you think this will work?¡±

    Danbar gave a stoic twitch of the shoulders that in another man might have been a shrug. ¡°Can''t rightly say. If it could get Alfrick back, I say we try.¡±

    A bark of laughter escaped Britomart. She was not even sure what she was laughing at. Perhaps the absurdity of it all. She threw up her hands. ¡°Alright. I''ll do it.¡± She saw the tension ease from Danbar. ¡°So where do I find the blood witch? You said she has a castle.¡±

    Britomart saw Rowena¡¯s eyes flick to Danbar before she answered. ¡°That, you see, is the complicated part. There is the matter of the roses.¡± There was something about the woman¡¯s voice that made Britomart suspect that the matter of the roses was going to be very complicated indeed.

 Chapter 7: Fire & Roses

    Britomart nervously clenched and unclenched her hands as she stepped into the clearing. The scent of roses hit her, hazy and intoxicating, pressing in on her senses, telling her to come closer, to breathe more deeply. She did not need to look far for its source. At the heart of the clearing stood a castle encircled by stone walls twenty feet high, walls covered with climbing roses red as blood and rich as velvet. The castle was nothing like the hulking crenelated monstrosity of the royal palace at Boemapolis. It was a soaring thing of slender spires. There was something graceful and defiant about it, some indomitable wildness not fully contained by the fixed geometry of stone and mortar.

    Directly before her, an arch cut through the towering stone. No gate barred it, no door closed it off. None was necessary, Rowena had explained. The castle had its own safeguards. Beyond the archway, a stone pathway led over a moat and across a grassy courtyard to the high oaken doors of the castle itself, imposing even from this distance.

    Britomart settled the heavy cloak more closely around her. It shifted in hard planes like a mantle of rock reluctantly conforming to her shape. She had watched Rowena make the cloak the day before, watched flint flowing into fabric, merging with it, reluctantly pliable. The cloak would give her two hundred heartbeats of protection: two hundred heartbeats for which it would burn, every particle alight, flint dancing with the memory of fire. Two hundred heartbeats to reach the safety of the castle door, if safety it could be called. The door merely led from one kind of danger to another. Then the fire would fail, and the cloak would crumble to dust around her.

    Britomart took another step forward and thought she saw a tendril from the climbing roses creep closer to the arched entryway, as if preparing to weave its way across it. Rowena¡¯s voice sounded in her head: ¡°The roses have soaked up magic like most plants soak up water. Their thorns will pierce the toughest leather, find the smallest crevice in a suit of armor. They will seek your flesh until they find it. The smallest cut, and you will sleep as Alfrick does and not wake until some blood witch centuries hence takes pity on you¨Cif such a witch should ever come. Yet there is one thing that the roses fear, and that is fire. Fire must be your armor, fire your shield, fire your refuge.¡±

    Britomart would have much preferred for her sword to be her refuge. She took some comfort in the feel of it by her hip. She dearly hoped that Rowena was right that the heat from the cloak¡¯s fire would not harm its wearer. She did not want to think about what would happen if the flames heated her armor.

    With a deep breath, she turned and looked at Smudge. He waited beside her, eyes wide with worry. He held a piece of steel clutched tight in his hand, ready to strike against Britomart¡¯s flinty cloak at her command. Britomart tried to smile reassuringly at him, but judging by the fact that he only looked more worried, it was not a success. She reached out to lay a gauntleted hand on his shoulder. ¡°I¡¯ll be alright, scamp. I¡¯m a knight, remember.¡±

    ¡°Better be,¡± Smudge said ferociously.

    ¡°I¡¯ll come back. I promise. And you know how I feel about promises.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s no ¡®meant to.¡± You do or you don¡¯t.¡±

    Britomart really did manage a smile this time. ¡°Exactly. Ready?¡±

    Smudge scowled.

    ¡°Come. It¡¯s time.¡± She gave Smudge¡¯s shoulder a squeeze, and they walked towards the wall, stopping no more than a few strides away from it. The scent of the roses hit Britomart more strongly than it had before, and the sense of hazy intoxication that it had stirred in her when she first entered the clearing redoubled. She had to fight the temptation to reach out and pluck one of the roses. Surely a single one would not hurt¨Ca single rose, and then she could continue her quest. The thought of her quest snapped her out of her growing haze. She gave Smudge¡¯s shoulder a slight shake, and the hazy expression on his face cleared too. His scowl returned, but it was directed at the roses now. Britomart blinked. In her momentary haze, the position of the roses had changed. They had begun stirring. Some of the thorny tendrils were creeping towards her, reaching out from the wall like grasping tentacles. Others were slithering to fill the archway.

    Britomart drew her sword and gave Smudge a curt nod, then pulled the heavy hood of the cloak over her head. There was a grating scrape as Smudge sparked steel on flint. The cloak rippled like an animal flexing its muscles, and Britomart heard the whoosh of flames. The edges of her vision rippled like a heat haze, dancing with fire. The tendrils of roses that had been reaching towards her drew back with a hiss.

    Two hundred heartbeats of protection. Two hundred heartbeats of fire.

    Go.

    Britomart closed the distance between herself and the archway, her sword slicing through the roses that had formed a web across it. Their stems felt hard as bone against her blade. She sliced at them again and again, pushing relentlessly forward until the remaining roses recoiled from her and the stone pathway extended before her. And then she ran. Thorny tendrils grasped after her, hissing as they searched for an opening where thorn could find flesh. Her cloak swayed as she ran, and she felt something snake beneath its hem and wrap around her ankle, dragging her back, thorns closing around her greaves with such force that they dented the steel. She lashed out with her sword and the pressure fell away with the severed stem.

    The ground dropped away on either side as the stone path became a bridge over a moat. A wave of horror washed over her as she realized that the moat was filled not with water but with writhing roses and gnashing thorns that slithered and reared up around the bridge as she ran. They shied away only at the last moment from the flames that engulfed her and the snick of her sword. She could feel her heart racing as she cut at one tendril, then another, dodging between the thorns of the vines that had crept underfoot. How many heartbeats had passed? Ninety? One hundred? One hundred and fifty? She fought her way across the bridge until the moat gave way to a verdant courtyard. She could hear the rose vines slithering after her, grasping, grasping. Her chest burned as she pushed herself faster. Her flame-fringed vision narrowed on the castle steps and the massive wooden door arching at their top. She raised her foot to take the first step and was jerked back as another tendril found its way under the hem of her cloak and wound around her ankle. A quick cut, and she was free. She cleared the other steps and felt her cloak crumble to ash as she laid her hand against the door and gasped the words that Rowena had taught her: ¡°My heart is pure and¨C¡± The vine that had been snaking up the steps behind her wrapped around her leg, and a thorn slid perfectly into the join between greave and cuisse.

    Britomart hardly felt the prick at the back of her knee before she slumped to the ground, deep in slumber. She did not feel the rose vines retreat, their task complete. She did not see the castle doors swing silently open. She did not hear the footsteps approaching from within the castle, nor the half-aggrieved, half-amused tones of a young woman¡¯s voice saying, ¡°Really, castle, did you have to let him in?¡±

    ¡°¨Cmy need is dire!¡± Britomart woke up exclaiming. She was at the castle doors, saying the words that would win her entry. Except that she wasn¡¯t. She was lying down somewhere remarkably soft. There seemed to be bed hangings above her, and a young woman bending over her. A young woman with thick dark hair, dancing brown eyes, and the olive skin of a Corsirian. A young woman who was currently studying her with unabashed amusement.

    ¡°I dare say your need is dire,¡± said the woman. ¡°Or at least it would have been if the castle had not convinced me to help you. I don¡¯t know what you did, but the castle seemed to change its mind about you as soon as the roses pricked you. It refused to shut the door until I had brought you inside. I don¡¯t suppose you have any magic, do you? No, I can see you do not. The castle is far too old and set in its ways to be affected by anyone else¡¯s magic anyways.¡± The woman smoothed the bedspread beside Britomart and sat down on it.

    ¡°Who are you? Where am I?¡± Britomart croaked.

    ¡°Don¡¯t you know? I¡¯m the blood witch. As to where you are, you¡¯re currently taking up one of the best beds in my castle.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re the blood witch?¡±

    The woman arched an eyebrow. ¡°Not what you expected?¡±

    ¡°No.¡± Thoughts chased themselves through Britomart¡¯s head¨Ctoo many thoughts. The blood witch. Amoret. Britomart had known that Amoret was her own age, but seeing the reality of it was different. The Blood Witch was supposed to be ageless as the sea and cold as the coldest winter night. But this woman looked¡­well¡­human. Human and warm and far too entertained. And Corsirian, of all things. Not like an incarnation of Northern villainy at all. ¡°You¡¯re supposed to seem more evil,¡± Britomart added, then immediately wished she hadn¡¯t.

    Amoret made a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a laugh. ¡°At least you¡¯re honest. Perhaps that¡¯s why the castle likes you. If it would make you feel better, I could start mumbling dire spells and threatening you with horrible tortures. I¡¯m sure I could make myself appropriately evil with sufficient effort.¡±

    Britomart¡¯s brow furrowed. ¡°Why do you keep talking about the castle that way¨Csaying it likes me, like it¡¯s a living thing?¡±

    ¡°Because it is a living thing in its own way. It was crafted by eneidiau careg¨Cstone whisperers, you might say¨Cand blood witches working together, and it has belonged to many generations of blood witches since then. The castle is as much magic as stone by now. It is no more an inanimate object than its roses are, and surely you noticed how lively they are.¡±

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    It all came back to Britomart then. The archway in the wall and the flight through the roses, the flaming cloak rippling around her, the slashing of her blade, the grasping tendrils writhing towards her, the dagger-sharp thorns seeking a breach in the flames, the courtyard of lush green, the steps ahead, the castle door, the wood under her hand, the words Rowena had taught her to open the door¨Cwords she had woken up shouting. And then blackness, and a sensation of falling.

    Instinct took over. Britomart sat up frantically in the bed, nearly banging heads with Amoret as she tried to pull herself free of the blanket, scanning the room for her sword. There, propped against the wall beside her armor. Her armor! She looked down and realized to her horror that she was dressed in a thin linen shift embroidered with roses. She heard a murmured word, and a hand stopped her as she tried to swing her legs over the side of the bed and lunge towards her sword. It was a slender hand. Britomart should have been able to ignore it easily. Instead, she found herself unable to move. It was even worse than when her legs had been encased by stone. Every muscle from her neck down had simply ceased to obey her. She stared down at the hand on her shoulder and saw a small red stain seeping into her shift from under it. ¡°What have you done to me?¡± she growled, her voice tight with fury.

    ¡°I have stopped you from doing something foolish,¡± Amoret placidly replied. Her voice lost its placidity as she continued, ¡°More than that, I have broken the spell that bound you, a spell that no blood witch has broken in over three hundred years, though many sleepers have come under its sway. I had to spend hours in the library looking for the counterspell, it had been so long since anyone used it. Had I not, you could have slept for eternity and been none the wiser. Which would have been no more than you deserved, for all the thanks that you have given me for saving you.¡± Amoret removed her hand from Britomart¡¯s shoulder and wrinkled her nose as she studying the shallow gash on her palm. ¡°And now I¡¯ve had to reopen the cut from waking you. It stings, you know, even when you¡¯re used to it. I don¡¯t suppose you thought of that.¡±

    Britomart felt herself blanch. ¡°You used blood magic on me. Twice.¡± She could hear the fear in her voice. Fear and something else: the beginnings of hatred.

    Amoret had begun to rebind her palm in the dark red handkerchief that had fallen to her lap, but she looked up sharply at that. ¡°Should I instead have let you bolt out of bed and grab your sword? I saw the instant that you noticed it behind me. Your face changed. Did you come here to kill me? I wouldn¡¯t have thought the castle would have let you in if that were your intent.¡±

    ¡°I came here to talk to you,¡± Britomart replied through gritted teeth. ¡°I would just prefer to do it with my sword in hand.¡±

    ¡°Customs must be very different in Galbrica if one talks to one¡¯s host with sword in hand.¡±

    ¡°We are in Galbrica.¡±

    ¡°Are we? Will the trees outside this castle follow your king¡¯s command? I assure you, they will follow mine.¡±

    ¡°That is because you are a blood witch. It has nothing to do with who rules the land.¡± Even as Britomart said it, though, she could feel that it did not ring true. She hastened to change the subject. ¡°Why did you save me anyways? Why not leave me like the others?¡±

    ¡°Ah, you know about the others. Then perhaps you know that the others sleep in a cavern an hour¡¯s ride away where they do not bother me. My godmother tends to them.¡± Amoret¡¯s eyes narrowed in suspicion. ¡°I don¡¯t suppose you have met her too?¡±

    Britomart nodded grudgingly.

    ¡°I should have known. Rowena is always interfering. Well, when somebody pricks themselves on the roses and falls into the slumber, Rowena comes and collects them. It¡¯s quite simple because nobody ever makes it past the walls. You, on the other hand, practically fell into my entryway, and the castle seemed determined to have you. I had no wish to have you taking up one of the castle¡¯s bedchambers for the remainder of my years, so I woke you. Also, I have to admit, I was curious.¡±

    Britomart blinked in surprise. ¡°Curious?¡±

    Amoret shrugged. ¡°I¡¯ve never seen the castle take to someone who was not from the Shadowed Wood¨Cnot without the command of its owner. And when I took your helmet off and saw that awful mess of a braid¡­well, I¡¯ve never seen a woman dressed as a knight before either, except in the histories. I don¡¯t suppose you would care to explain who you are?¡± she added hopefully.

    ¡°I will tell you nothing until you let me go.¡±

    ¡°Will you swear not to lunge for your sword if I do so?¡±

    Britomart nodded curtly. Then, in response to Amoret¡¯s waiting look, said, ¡°I swear.¡±

    ¡°Nor to attempt to harm me in any other fashion while under my hospitality.¡±

    Britomart hesitated. Everything in her screamed that she must not let a blood witch live¨Ca blood witch who had worked magic on her, who had openly denied the rule of Galbrica. But the thought of actually killing the young woman beside her¡­Britomart looked into those dancing eyes and looked away. She could feel the slight dip in the bed where Amoret sat by her side. She could feel the warmth coming off her.

    It was with a surge of relief that Britomart remembered that killing Amoret would doom her quest. Really, she had a knightly obligation not to kill her. She swallowed hard and said, ¡°I swear not to harm you in any way while under your hospitality.¡±

    Amoret gave a small, satisfied smile. ¡°Good. Let us hope that you hold to your oaths better than your ancestors.¡± Britomart hardly had time to open her mouth for a retort before Amoret had once more unbound her hand and was reaching towards her. Britomart flinched. The flinch traveled no further than her face. Even such an inadvertent movement could not stir her bespelled body. Amoret lowered her hand in annoyance. ¡°I need to touch you to reverse the spell.¡±

    Britomart felt a flush of shame creeping up her neck. Knights did not flinch. ¡°Fine,¡± she said stoically. Amoret¡¯s touch on her shoulder was firm but not ungentle. Britomart looked away so that she would not see the fresh bloodstain on her shift. She heard a few murmured words and heaved a deep breath as she felt control return to her limbs. As soon as she could move, she scrambled as far back on the bed as she could, stopping when her spine jarred against the headboard. Her muscles protested against the hurried movements. For the first time, she became aware of all the aches and pains from fighting her way to the castle.

    Amoret must have seen her wince, for she said, ¡°Since you dislike my spells so much, I took the other off you as well: the healing spell that I put on you just before I woke you. It has done some work already, I¡¯m sorry to say, but you will be glad to know that you will do the rest of your healing naturally, with all of the aches and pains that accompany it.¡±

    Britomart fought back the urge to massage the sudden cramping in her calf. ¡°Three spells,¡± she gritted out. ¡°You did three spells on me without my permission. What sort of person are you?¡±

    ¡°What sort of person? I would expect you to say what sort of ¡®monster.¡¯¡± Amoret was once more binding her sliced hand with the handkerchief. She was remarkably efficient at it¨Cbut then, Britomart supposed you would be if you had to do it so often. ¡°I am the sort of person who woke you and tried to ease your pain. I could hardly ask your permission for either of those, as you were in a state of enchanted slumber at the time. The third spell was against your will, true, but you must admit, it was not without provocation.¡±

    Britomart could think of no good answer to that. ¡°Just don¡¯t work magic on me again,¡± she grumbled. Her anger still felt fresh, but the adrenaline that had stoked it into rage was fading.

    ¡°As you wish. Now, I believe you said you would tell me who you are if I freed you. I have freed you. It¡¯s time for your part of the bargain.¡±

    Britomart cleared her throat uncomfortably. As the adrenaline subsided, she was becoming increasingly aware of the fact that she was crouched against the headboard of a featherbed wearing nothing but a thin, flowery shift with someone else¡¯s blood drying on her shoulder. Amoret, meanwhile, looked perfectly composed in a dress of fine burgundy wool embroidered with cream-colored vines across the bodice. Her spine was straight and her shoulders proud. The only mussed thing about her was the handkerchief that bound her hand, but even that showed no bloodstains. Britomart wondered if its color had been chosen specifically to hide such marks. ¡°Couldn¡¯t we wait until I¡¯m more presentable?¡± she asked. ¡°You spoke of hospitality. Surely you would not require a guest to converse in such a state.¡±

    ¡°Squirming out of promises already?¡±

    ¡°No! I just feel rather¡­¡± Britomart gestured at herself. Her embarrassment grew as Amoret¡¯s gaze traveled over her.

    Amoret¡¯s lips quirked. ¡°Yes, I see. Under the circumstances, I suppose a delay is forgivable. I¡¯ll hold you to your word though, guest though you are. Dinner will be served in the great hall an hour after dark. I will expect you there. You can tell me of yourself then. The castle will expect you there too, so you¡¯d best come. It can be very insistent. In the meantime, I suggest you bathe and dress. I¡¯ll have a bath sent up. I imagine you¡¯ll find acceptable garments in the wardrobe. But there is one thing I will not leave without: your name.¡±

    ¡°Britomart.¡± Then, for reasons she did not entirely understand, Britomart added, ¡°Britomart Ameliana Boemia Cardis, his majesty¡¯s knight and princess of the realm of Galbrica.¡±

    Britomart thought that she saw a flash of surprise, even fear, on Amoret¡¯s features, but it was gone as quickly as it came. A sardonic expression took its place. ¡°Quite a mouthful. I wish I could say that I am pleased to meet you, Britomart Ameliana Boemia Cardis, his majesty¡¯s knight and princess of the realm of Galbrica, but in truth I will have to reserve judgment. Well, your highness, let me officially welcome you to Castle Curiadcalon. I am Amoret Arundel Gwiragariad, last of the line of Morgwyyna the Betrayed, rightful ruler of the Shadowed Wood. Though I suppose you know that already if you have been talking with Rowena.¡±

    ¡°I knew your name. I can¡¯t say that I know that you are the rightful ruler of the wood.¡±

    ¡°Yes, I see now why you were so insistent that it belongs to Galbrica. We shall have to agree to disagree. Otherwise, your stay here will be intolerable for both of us. Though I think, in time, you will come around to my way of thinking. I will leave you until dinner then, princess.¡±

    Britomart had never known that her own title could sound so mocking. ¡°Call me Britomart.¡±

    ¡°As you wish. I will leave you until dinner, Britomart.¡± There was something about the emphasis Amoret put on her name that annoyed Britomart even more than the mocking use of her title had. Amoret rose from her seat on the side of the bed and brushed her unbandaged hand down her dress to smooth its folds, then turned and left the room. The latch clicked as Amoret pulled the door closed behind her.

    Britomart picked up the pillow beside her and hurled it at the door. It hit the bed curtains and tumbled fluffily onto the bed. Britomart cursed. She cursed magic roses and scheming godmothers and blood witches and featherbeds and bed curtains. Above all, she cursed the sound of her name on Amoret¡¯s lips.

 Chapter 8: To Dine with a Witch

    It did not take long for Britomart to learn what Amoret had meant about the castle being insistent¨Cand about it being alive. Nearly everything in it seemed to have a life of its own. Shortly after Amoret swept out of the chamber, Britomart tentatively opened the door to an odd scuffling knocking, only to find a large clawfoot bathtub waiting outside it, one foot raised to knock again. She hastily moved out of the way as the tub scuttled in, followed by a sturdy wheeled table that glided along unassisted, carrying several steaming pitchers of water, a bar of soap, and a length of fabric for Britomart to dry herself with after her bath. Britomart looked warily into the hallway for any other incoming furniture before closing the door and turning to the bathtub and table, which had settled near the fireplace and were doing a very good impression of completely normal fixtures.

    Britomart strapped on her sword belt before cautiously approaching the tub. She thought of Queen Boemia seeing through the Blood Witch¡¯s illusions to find that the castle¡¯s servants were evil wights. With a shiver, Britomart called out for the servants who had brought in the table to show themselves. There was no answer. She circled the tub and table, swiping her hand through the air around them. Nothing there. She warily studied them until the steam from the pitchers faded. It was almost a relief to know that the water was growing cold. That lessened the temptation.

    Britomart nearly jumped out of her skin when there was another tapping at the chamber door. She opened it to find another table, this one with three more pitchers of steaming water and a vial of oil that gave off a pleasant woody scent. She shut the door on it, refusing to let it in. The tapping on the door resumed, then intensified, accompanied by the sloshing of water. Something hit the back of Britomart¡¯s knees, and she turned to see that the clawfoot tub had migrated over to her and was trying to get her attention. She gave in.

    The bath was glorious. When Britomart had scrubbed herself clean and dried off, the bathtub waddled out, accompanied by the tables. She experimentally rubbed the scented oil into her hair and began the task of combing out the tangles. She gave a sigh when her hair was finally smooth enough to run her fingers through it without snagging. There was a point at which tangles became unpleasant, even for her. The instant she reached up to begin braiding her hair, however, her chair bucked, depositing her on the floor. She indignantly scrambled back onto it and reached for her hair again. The chair bucked again. She grabbed for it and managed to keep her seat. Then, she pushed the chair back and stood, giving it an admonitory glare before once more reaching up to begin braiding. The chair knocked into her calves. Hard. Britomart considered depositing the chair in the hallway, but she had the feeling it would simply bang against the door until she let it back in. So she left her hair loose. It was an odd feeling: the heavy sway of her hair against the small of her back. In Galbrica, women never wore their hair loose in public past the age of childhood. Unbound hair was something reserved for the company of other women¨Cand for one¡¯s husband.

    Britomart was already wincing as she opened the wardrobe. If the castle had such firm ideas about hairstyles, she did not want to know what it thought about her clothing. The wardrobe gown after gown¨Cgowns of fine wool and taffeta and silk, gowns in the most recent fashions alongside fashions that had not been seen in centuries. She pulled a gown out and eyed it. It looked perfectly her size, right down to the breadth of the shoulders, which normally stymied even the most skilled tailors. The gown was made of delicate pink silk with a cream underdress and matching embroidery at the collar, interworked with threads of gold. Britomart wondered if the castle had heard the word ¡°princess¡± and missed everything else about her. ¡°No,¡± she said firmly, putting the dress back. The wardrobe rattled ominously. ¡°Thank you, but no,¡± she said more politely but no less firmly. ¡°I would prefer something more¡­¡± She hesitated. More what? Masculine? But she couldn¡¯t say that, could she? ¡°...subdued.¡±

    There was a pause in which Britomart could have sworn the wardrobe was thinking. Then, a dress began to twitch as if trying to get her attention. She pulled it out. It was unadorned black, cut in a style that must have been in fashion during her grandmother¡¯s time. It looked like widow¡¯s weeds. Britomart scowled at the wardrobe. ¡°Very funny.¡± It seemed to regard her as sufficiently chastened, for the next garment that it presented was a simple but elegant gown of deep blue wool with an underdress the color of the midday sky. When Britomart put it on, she found that the fit was as perfect as it had looked on the hanger, although the gown hugged her figure rather more closely than she was used to. She looked in the mirror above the dressing table and had to admit that the effect was not unpleasing. The silken blue slippers that the wardrobe produced to accompany the gown were downright impractical, but it did not seem worth protesting. Britomart did not want to know what the wardrobe would come up with if she rejected them. Nor did Britomart protest when a small wooden box on the dressing table that had been rattling to get her attention produced a sapphire necklace that nestled comfortably around her neck.

    Britomart itched to strap her sword belt over the gown, even if it would ruin the effect, but she made herself leave it where she had stashed it beside the bed. She had sworn not to harm Amoret while under her hospitality, and bringing a sword to dinner hardly sent the right message. The thought of going unarmed to dinner with a blood witch sent a tingle of adrenaline through her. She thought of the proximity of Amoret sitting next to her on the bed. She thought of those dark eyes and the half-mocking smile on her lips. The flutter in Britomart¡¯s stomach intensified. Adrenaline. It was only adrenaline.

    It was only adrenaline that made her pause at the base of the spiral staircase before entering the great hall; only adrenaline that made her heart pound when she stepped into the hall and saw Amoret sitting alone at the far end of the long table; only adrenaline that made her swallow hard when she saw that the place set for her was not at the foot of the table but directly beside Amoret.

    The firelight from the hearth played over the crimson silk of Amoret¡¯s dress and sent her shadow dancing on the wall as she stood to welcome Britomart. Her eyes traveled over Britomart, from her loose hair to the sapphire nestled at her neck and the fine woolen dress of deep blue. The corner of Amoret¡¯s mouth quirked. ¡°You must have been quite forceful with the castle. It insisted I wear silk.¡±

    Britomart could feel a flush creeping up her cheeks. She wasn¡¯t sure if it was from Amoret¡¯s gaze or from the sense that she should have given into the castle¡¯s insistence about more elaborate finery. She felt underdressed. ¡°The castle seemed to think I might like pink,¡± she managed.

    ¡°Yes, it always insists on shades of red for me,¡± Amoret replied. ¡°Someday I shall have to convince it to give me more variety. I¡¯m glad you persuaded it to give you blue. It suits you.¡± Amoret¡¯s stance became more formal as Britomart joined her at the end of the table. Amoret¡¯s words had the feel of a ritual greeting as she inclined her head and said, ¡°Be welcome, guest, to my castle¡¯s board. May this meal make us stronger in fellowship as it makes us stronger in body.¡±

    If it was a ritual, it was one Britomart did not know. She inclined her head in turn, grasping for a proper response. She settled on, ¡°And may I someday return in fellowship the fruits that you give this day unto me.¡±

    ¡°May it be so,¡± Amoret intoned. Then she broke into the half-sardonic smile that was quickly becoming familiar to Britomart and added, ¡°You know, I don¡¯t think you mean that at all. I can hardly picture you welcoming me to your father¡¯s court in Galbrica.¡± She gestured at Britomart¡¯s chair. ¡°Sit, please. We should eat while the meal is hot.¡±

    Britomart smoothed her skirts as she sat, trying to hide her discomfiture. Amoret was right, of course. ¡°I would not deny hospitality that I am honor-bound to give,¡± she said.

    ¡°Perhaps I shall come to your court then, someday. Just to see your face when you have to welcome me.¡± A hunted look came over Britomart¡¯s face, and Amoret relented. ¡°Oh don¡¯t worry, I no more wish to visit Galbrica than you wish to have me there. You are quite safe.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s just it, though,¡± Britomart said, struggling to find the right words. ¡°About being safe I mean. It¡¯s not just that I would be betraying my country by letting a dangerous enemy into the court if I gave you hospitality. It¡¯s that you wouldn¡¯t be safe. And to let a guest come to harm under my roof¨Cthat would be sacrilege.¡±

    Amoret arched an eyebrow. ¡°Are you truly so convinced I am a dangerous enemy?¡±

    ¡°Aren¡¯t you?¡±

    ¡°Perhaps.¡±

    Britomart was not sure what to say to that. She was glad when Amoret turned her attention to the covered dishes arrayed before them, which had begun to jostle each other in their attempt to catch the diners¡¯ eye. Britomart studied the food as Amoret removed the covers. It was not a feast by Galbrican standards¨Cthere was no suckling pig, no swan, no platter of partridges piled high¨Cbut it looked hearty and delicious, and it was certainly enough for the two of them. There were several vegetable dishes, only some of which Britomart recognized, and a beautifully seasoned platter of meat whose smell made her keenly aware that she had not eaten since breakfast. She wondered what sort of meat it was. Did she want to know? Perhaps it was not even meat at all. If only she had Queen Boemia¡¯s true sight, she might be able to see this castle for what it was: to see the rot and fungi under the beauty.

    ¡°It¡¯s not poison,¡± Amoret commented.

    Britomart realized that her host was waiting for her to serve herself. She began to pile food onto her plate, too flustered to remember to take only as much as was proper for a ladylike guest. If it was rot and fungi, so be it. She was hungry.

    The food tasted as good as it smelled. Britomart ate single-mindedly for several minutes before remembering that she ought to be paying at least as much attention to her host as to her meal. She darted a look at Amoret, expecting to find Amoret watching her scornfully, but her host was equally preoccupied with demolishing a large helping of meat. Britomart wondered if she hadn¡¯t been the only one to miss lunch. She remembered Amoret saying that she¡¯d spent hours tracking down how to reverse the sleeping spell. It was an odd thought: that a blood witch might have missed lunch to help her. Britomart turned back to her meal before Amoret could notice her looking. After a while, their eating slowed, and there was a rustle of silk as Amoret settled back in her chair. Britomart set down her fork and pushed her plate slightly away. She looked up to find Amoret regarding her.

    ¡°What?¡± Britomart asked defensively, then internally winced. ¡°That was rude, I apologize. What I meant to say was that the meal was delicious. Thank you.¡±

    Amoret waved away Britomart¡¯s apology. ¡°I was merely thinking that I should have served you mead. I forgot. I think the castle did too. There have not been many guests lately, and I take only water with meals.¡±

    Britomart thought of what Rowena had said about Amoret lacking companions. She wondered how long it had been since Amoret had any guests at all. ¡°It¡¯s nothing. Mead is too sweet anyways.¡±

    ¡°Be that as it may, the castle will no doubt try to make up for its lapse with rivers of mead tomorrow night, so you will have to drink some to avoid hurting its feelings.¡±

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t want for the castle to go to any trouble on my behalf. I don¡¯t even know whether I''ll be here tomorrow night, to be honest. I came here on urgent business, and I was hoping that you¨Cthat we¨Ccould take care of it tomorrow, and then I could be on my way, and leave you and the castle in peace.¡±

    An indefinable hardness settled over Amoret¡¯s face, erasing the last traces of the wistfulness that had crept over it when talking about guests. ¡°I see. I think the time has come for you to explain yourself, Britomart Ameliana Boemia Cardis, princess of Galbrica.¡±

    Britomart explained. She explained about Alfrick and Willa¡¯s unofficial engagement, and about Alfrick disappearing on his way to make that engagement official. She explained about setting off without her father¡¯s permission to rescue Alfrick. She explained about Rivensfeldt and Smudge. She explained about fleeing into the Shadowed Wood and following the white stag to the stream. (Amoret¡¯s lips tightened at that. ¡°I see Rowena has indeed been interfering. And with my creatures.¡±). She explained about the sleepers¡¯ cave and about Rowena¡¯s claim that the only sure way to wake Alfrick was for the spell¡¯s caster to remove it. She explained about the fiery cloak that Rowena had given her and about fighting her way through the roses to reach the castle.

    ¡°...So, you see,¡± she concluded, ¡°I¡¯ve come to ask you to take the spell off of Alfrick. And off of the other sleepers too. Nobody deserves to be stuck like that.¡±

    Amoret studied Britomart with a piercing intensity that was far more disconcerting than anger would have been. ¡°Are you so sure? What do you know of the other sleepers?¡±

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    ¡°I know that they are people, and putting people under a spell like that is¨Cit¡¯s evil.¡±

    ¡°Is it so much worse than what your people do to those who break your laws? Worse than cutting off a child¡¯s hand and leaving him to fall prey to slow death by infection? Worse than suffocation at the end of a noose? Worse than the punishments I have read of for your traitors?¡±

    Britomart wished she had not told Amoret about Smudge. ¡°That¡¯s justice,¡± she replied, though she was not sure she believed it any longer.

    ¡°And so is the sleepers¡¯ spell. Did Rowena tell you how the spell began?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Britomart reluctantly admitted.

    ¡°Of course she did not. Rowena tells precisely as much as serves her purposes and no more. Over a thousand years ago, a group of Tywyth Teg landed their ships on the Northern shores. Old Ones, I believe your people call them, or sometimes elves. It always sounded like a ridiculous word to me. From the coast, they made their journey through the mountains to the valleys and the woods: these valleys, this wood. They settled here amidst the trees and streams, and in time, some of the bolder Northerners began to seek them out. The Tylwth Teg were a dangerous people. Some could speak with earth and stone. Those were the eneidiau careg, like the being who made this castle. Some could speak with the water, some with air, some with fire. Whichever element they could speak to, they could persuade it to do their will. The inhabitants of the North would have stood little chance had the Tylwyth Teg wished them violence. But they did not. They were, I think, simply curious.¡± A hint of mischief in Amoret¡¯s eyes told Britomart that Amoret had not missed the similarity to her own curiosity about Britomart.

    ¡°Whatever the cause,¡± Amoret continued, ¡°the Tylwyth Teg did not try to conquer their human neighbors. Instead, they lived alongside them. Some even fell in love with humans and took them as mates, although the humans lived only a fraction of the Tylwyth Teg lifespan. The children of the humans and theTylwyth Teg inherited some of the powers of their Tylwyth Teg parents, along with a slightly increased lifespan. A few of those children were born with a hybrid magic that was particularly prized: a magic that combined the elemental control of the Tylwyth Teg with the concentrated life force of the short-lived humans. Those were the first blood witches, although we were not called that until much later. Back then, we were known as the eneidiau bywyd¨Clife whisperers¨Cfor our power is not over elements but over things that live.

    ¡°Centuries passed. Some of the Tylwyth Teg died, whether because their time had come or because they lost the will to live after their human lovers died. One day, those who remained began to rebuild their ships. Perhaps the remainder feared the fate of their companions who had died. Perhaps they simply grew bored. Whatever the cause, they took sail from the same shore that had brought them to the North long ago, and they were never seen again. They took a few of their part-human children with them when they left, but most were left behind. Some of their descendants reintegrated into the Northern villages. Over generations, the power they had inherited from the Tylwyth Teg faded. All that remains today among the Northern villagers is an occasional affinity for certain elements¨Ca sort of heightened sensitivity. One person will always be able to tell you where the nearest water source is; another will know precisely when the first snow will fall; a third will be able to grow plants from even the stoniest ground.¡±

    ¡°Those who stayed in the Shadowed Wood retained more of their power. Perhaps there was something about the wood itself that strengthened their magic, or perhaps it was simply because they intermarried less with humans. A line of blood witches emerged that became the unofficial leader of those who stayed in the wood. People from the Northern villages knew of the power and wisdom of those who lived here, and they began to come to the Shadowed Wood to seek guidance and aid, then to seek resolution when conflicts emerged in their villages. The leading blood witch became first arbiter, then ruler, of more and more of the North. She helped and guarded her people, passing judgment when needed, meting out punishment when required. And that is how the sleeping spell came into being. The power of blood witches is the power of life, and they have always been loath to use it for death, whatever your stories might say. So blood witches came up with a punishment of a different sort for those whose crimes were so grievous that they could never again walk freely in the world: the punishment of eternal slumber.¡±

    Britomart¡¯s resolution to listen silently broke. ¡°But the sleepers in the cave¨Cthey weren¡¯t villains. At least, not all of them were. I¡¯m sure of it. There were children, for Frigga¡¯s sake.¡±

    ¡°I would bet a great deal that you saw only the outer chamber if you are so sure of that. And do not be so sure that children cannot be villains.¡±

    ¡°Fine. Say you¡¯re right about some of the sleepers. There¡¯s no way that all of them committed crimes so grievous that they deserved such a punishment. If that¡¯s what a blood witch¡¯s justice looks like, I can¡¯t say I think much of it.¡±

    Amoret¡¯s eyes flashed dangerously, and there was a sudden stillness about her that made Britomart feel like a deer fixed in a wolf¡¯s gaze. ¡°Be careful what you say, princess. I have taken you in and lifted your slumber, but my patience is not infinite.¡±

    Britomart nodded stiffly. ¡°I overstepped myself. I must beg your pardon.¡± Britomart felt Amoret relax, and after a moment, she did too.

    There was a wry note in Amoret¡¯s voice when she resumed, ¡°If you had let me finish, you would have known that the function of the spell has changed. Nearly five hundred years have passed since it was last meted out as a sentence by a blood witch sitting in judgment. The slumber is still a punishment of sorts, but it is, above all, a precaution. After the Conquest, when Morgwynna was dead and all that was left of her realm was the Shadowed Wood, her sister made sure that no traitor would enter the wood again. She bespelled the roses around the castle so that a single prick from their thorns would send an intruder into slumber. Ever since then, any outsider who ventures too far into the Shadowed Wood finds their way here and pays the price. That is how the Shadowed Wood has survived all these years: survived even though loggers covet its lumber and trappers its animals, survived even though rumors of a blood witch in its depths still linger in some of the Northern villages. The sleeping spell is not an evil thing. It is what keeps the wood and its inhabitants safe from all those who mean it harm.¡±

    ¡°But Alfrick didn¡¯t mean the wood any harm!¡± Britomart burst out.

    ¡°Do you know why he entered the Shadowed Wood?¡± Amoret asked calmly.

    ¡°He was going after his friend. Danbar told me.¡±

    ¡°And what was his friend doing?¡±

    ¡°Hunting a stag.¡±

    ¡°A white stag, to be precise. Were they starving, Alfrick and this friend? Did they need the meat? Or were they hunting for the fun of it? For the fun of killing.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Britomart admitted.

    ¡°Think,¡± Amoret pressed on inexorably. ¡°Would a duke¡¯s son and his entourage set out for a journey to Boemapolis without sufficient provisions to make it even as far as the Koleagh Pass? Or would they be provided with the best supplies the duke¡¯s larders had to offer?¡±

    ¡°They would have provisions, I suppose.¡±

    ¡°So they sought to kill for the joy of the hunt.¡±

    ¡°You ate meat tonight,¡± Britomart said in exasperation. ¡°I saw you. It can¡¯t be a crime, not unless you¡¯re breaking the law too.¡±

    ¡°No, it¡¯s not a crime to hunt for meat in the Shadowed Wood¨Cnot if you are one of the wood¡¯s inhabitants¨Cbut no creature here hunts for more than they need. We do not kill for sport. And nobody here would be foolish enough to hunt a white stag. They are the symbol of Morgwynna¡¯s house. As much as any creature in the Shadowed Wood belongs to another, the white stags belong to Morgwynna¡¯s line. To me.¡±

    ¡°Oh.¡± Britomart thought of the white stag that had led them to the stream and understood why Amoret had been so annoyed that Rowena had used it as their guide. ¡°Still, Alfrick wasn¡¯t hunting the stag. He was just trying to get Sir Rolf back.¡±

    Amoret smoothed nonexistent wrinkles on the full skirt of her dress. Britomart had the distinct impression that, for once, she had caught her host wrongfooted. ¡°Yes, well, once a person comes within range of the roses, the spell will begin to work on them no matter what.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s hardly fair.¡±

    Amoret shrugged. ¡°The spell is a precaution, remember? It wouldn¡¯t be much good as a safeguard if we had people returning from the Shadowed Wood and spreading news of an enchanted castle. We would have treasure hunters flooding the wood, willing to bear the risk for the hope of gain. And, in time, we would have the duke¡¯s men too, and perhaps your father¡¯s, wondering what risk it might pose.¡±

    Britomart thought again of Amoret¡¯s isolation. ¡°But if the roses simply go after everybody who comes too close, if nobody can reach the castle without falling under the spell¡­Can anybody ever come in? Can you ever go out?¡±

    ¡°Oh, it¡¯s easy enough to go out. The roses will not stop anybody trying to leave. Nor will they harm anybody who enters with my blessing. The spell recognizes my blood, for I am of the blood that made it. The roses will obey me.¡±

    ¡°Let me get this straight,¡± Britomart said, indignation stirring. ¡°You could have simply let me in? You could have told the roses to stand down, and I wouldn¡¯t have had to fight my way through them? I wouldn¡¯t have had thorns trying to pierce every inch of me, or have been knocked unconscious on your doorstep?¡±

    Her annoyance grew as Amoret replied, ¡°I could have let you in, yes. But why would I? You were a knight attacking the castle. Besides, I was in the library, and I didn¡¯t even notice you until one of the more enthusiastic roses caught my eye through the window.¡± Amoret did not look in the least repentant. If anything, she looked smug. Britomart wished that Amoret was someone she could fight with a sword. She would have liked to dump her on her butt in the dirt.

    ¡°Couldn¡¯t you¨CI don¡¯t know¨Cinstall a bell in the clearing? A nice big bell that people could ring so that you could let them through the roses without them becoming pincushions?¡±

    ¡°The roses do not make anybody a pincushion,¡± Amoret said archly. ¡°They¡¯re very restrained, really. They only pricked you once, even after all the trouble you caused them. And, yes, there used to be a bell at the edge of the clearing. Anyone who wanted to speak to the blood witch could ring it to request an audience.¡±

    ¡°What happened to it?¡±

    A closed expression had come over Amoret¡¯s face. ¡°My mother removed it,¡± she said flatly.

    ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°That is a tale for another time.¡±

    ¡°You could have the bell rebuilt,¡± Britomart tentatively suggested.

    Amoret gave no sign that she had heard Britomart¡¯s words. She had turned to stare into the fire, and Britomart watched the play of light and shadow on her profile: the firelight gilding her cheek; the shadow at the hollow of her throat; the dark glints in her thick hair. They sat in silence for some time before Amoret turned back to her and said, ¡°It¡¯s getting late. We had best go to bed.¡±

    Britomart realized that it must indeed be late. With that realization, fatigue hit, as if it had been waiting just at the edges of her consciousness for her to notice it. ¡°Yes, of course, but Amoret¨C¡±

    Amoret¡¯s eyebrows rose. Her sardonic look was back. ¡°You know, I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever heard you use my name before. Either you¡¯re getting used to me, or you want something from me.¡±

    ¡°You know I want something from you. You never answered my question. Will you break the spell on Alfrick?¡±

    ¡°That is not a question. It is a request, and a foolish one.¡±

    ¡°Fine, you never answered my request. Will you wake him?¡±

    ¡°Ask me again tomorrow night.¡±

    ¡°Again you speak of tomorrow. Am I trapped here?¡± Britomart thought of Queen Boemia, bound to serve the Blood Witch for a year.

    ¡°You may leave any time you like. As I said, the roses do not prevent anyone from going out. But if you leave, do not expect to come back. No matter what tricks Rowena gives you, no matter how much the castle likes you, I will not admit you a second time.¡±

    ¡°I see.¡± Britomart¡¯s jaw tightened. ¡°Then until you grant my request, I am trapped here, just as surely as if you had shackled me with iron. Do not pretend you do not know that.¡±

    Amoret did not answer. She had gone back to looking into the fire.

    ¡°Tell me,¡± Britomart asked harshly, ¡°will you ever wake Alfrick?¡±

    ¡°Ask me again tomorrow. That is, if you will stay.¡±

    ¡°Of course I¡¯ll stay. I haven¡¯t got a choice.¡± Britomart thought of Smudge still waiting for her, and her heart ached. She hoped that he had gone back to Rowena¡¯s cottage when she did not return. ¡°But I can¡¯t leave my traveling companion without word. He¡¯s only a boy.¡±

    ¡°I will send him word that you are safe.¡±

    Britomart wished that Amoret would look at her. She wished she could tell what the other woman was thinking. She pressed on, ¡°And tell him that he is to stay with Rowena until I return.¡±

    ¡°It shall be done.¡±

    ¡°And that I will return soon.¡±

    There was a long pause this time before Amoret replied, ¡°As you wish.¡±

    ¡°I will return soon,¡± Britomart repeated defiantly. When Amoret did not respond, she added sharply, ¡°I¡¯m going to bed.¡± She did not bother to say goodnight. She did not care that it was rude. She rose and left the table.

    Britomart did not stop to look back when she heard Amoret murmur, ¡°Sleep well, princess.¡± She did not stop until she had barred the door to her chamber. Then she leaned back against the door and put her head in her hands. She wished bone-deep that she could leave this castle behind¨Cthat she could leave Amoret behind. But when she finally closed her eyes that night, it was Amoret¡¯s face she saw as she drifted into dreaming.

 Chapter 9: Searching

    ¡­But the Blood Witch saw not the queen¡¯s true intention: to search for a year for the witch''s black heart. For not even an Old One could work such fell magic if she did not first tear the heart from her breast: tear her heart from her breast and keep it still beating, hidden away where no person could find. As long as her heart kept up its beating, nothing could kill her, neither dagger nor fire. So Queen Boemia searched while the Blood Witch entrapped her, entrapped and entrapping, our queen true and strong.

    The Blood Witch¡¯s heart close at hand must be hidden¨Cthis Boemia knew, so she searched high and low; from the grisly, dank dungeons to the tallest of spires, she searched through the castle, the witch unaware. She searched in great peril, with threats all around her, for no pain would be spared her should the Blood Witch find out. Tortures untold and torments unfathomed would await she who sought for the enchantress''s heart, for the Blood Witch knew well that her heart was her weakness; whoever did hold it held her life in their hands. Boemia searched with spies all around her: the beautiful servants who were spirits most foul. But she used greatest caution to outwit and avoid them, and her heart pure and noble made her purpose blaze strong.

    No villainy could taint her nor temptation ensnare her, though the Blood Witch sent many to try if they could. And each morn the witch gave her a new task to debase her, treated not as a queen but as servant or thrall. Our queen strong and true mucked dung from the stables, swept ashes from hearths and churned butter from milk. She scrounged low in the forest for herbs so malignant that they curdled and hissed in the witch¡¯s fell brews. Lower than low the Blood Witch did cast her, till Boemia served even beasts of the wood. She plucked briars from bears¡¯ paws and salved wounds of great fanged cats, though she knew at glance that they longed to consume her, tearing muscle from bone and limb from limb.

    But worse than her servitude, worse than this labor, were the vile delights sent to tempt her from good. For when work grew too weary and relief seemed the sweetest, then the Blood Witch would craft poisoned pleasures for her. When the queen¡¯s mind grew dull from the drudgery endless, the Blood Witch gave her books bound with leather and jewels. But the stories within them were lies and distractions that lured innocent minds from the truths eyes could see. When the queen¡¯s spirit grew stifled with the bonds of confinement, the Blood Witch showed her the view from the highest tower of all, the endless horizon of land spread before them, an illusion of freedom in the expanse down below. For what the Blood Witch wanted was to bind the queen to her; she cared not if she did so through honey or gall. So the witch schemed malignly but our wise queen resisted, and still she searched on for the Blood Witch¡¯s heart¡­

    Britomart woke up with a gasp, grasping for her sword. Her hand closed on nothing but blankets. She frantically sat up and looked around until she saw her sword propped against the wall beside the head of the bed. The pounding of her heart slowed. She remembered scanning the room for her sword in just such a manner the day before: that horrible moment when the fight through the roses came back to her and she fully realized her danger, unarmed with a blood witch at her side. As if summoned by the memory, all of her residual aches and pains came flooding back. A small, treacherous part of her wished that Amoret had not removed the healing spell.

    Britomart flopped back down on the bed with a groan. Snippets from her dream still lingered in her mind¨CQueen Boemia¡¯s servitude, her search for the witch¡¯s heart¨Cbut they were fast giving way to the all-too-real captivity that she was facing with a blood witch of her own. A captivity that she could walk out of at any time, true, but one that was no less real for that. If she wanted Amoret to wake Alfrick, then she would have to stay until the blood witch decided to help her. She wondered how long that would be. One more night? Two? A week? A month? She could not bear to think of staying a year, even if Boemia had done so. What would Smudge do if she were gone that long?

    Britomart disentangled herself from the covers and got out of bed. The rug beside the bed was soft under her feet. Sunlight slanted through the chamber window, cutting a swath across the rich colors of the rug and plucking tiny silvery glints from the stone walls. A small fire was burning in the hearth, keeping the morning chill at bay. Britomart wondered who had lit it. She did not like the idea of somebody having been in her room while she slept. Then she remembered that the castle seemed to do most things for itself.

    Britomart made her way to the window, squinting against the light. The castle windows were finer glass than Britomart had ever seen, clear enough for her to make out the details of the scene below without the haze or distortion common to even the costliest windows in Boemapolis. She wondered, as she had wondered about so many things lately, if they were merely an illusion. But the glass felt cool against her palm when she laid her hand against it, and her fingers left small smudges on its surface. She tried to wipe smudges away with her shift but only succeeded in spreading them. ¡°Sorry,¡± she muttered to the castle, half-hoping it would not hear her. She could not believe she was talking to a mound of stone. The glass gave a shiver and cleared. Britomart scrambled back, eyeing it warily. After a minute passed without it making any further signs of life, she approached again, careful not to touch it this time.

    Her chamber was on the third floor, and the window looked out on a side of the courtyard that Britomart had not glimpsed during her fight to the doors. ¡®Courtyard¡¯ was not quite the right word, Britomart realized. ¡®Castle grounds¡¯ would have been more accurate. The space enclosed within the walls seemed much larger from the inside. Another trick of the castle¡¯s enchantments? Or had she merely misjudged the area inside the castle walls? Below lay a wide stretch of green lawn that gave way to a small orchard as it neared the castle wall. The comparative chill of the North made Britomart half-expect to see the trees¡¯ boughs bare, but they were still heavy with foliage and autumn fruit.

    Britomart craned closer as she saw movement amidst the fruit trees. At first she thought it might be a deer, but it was too furry for that, and its coat looked more black than brown. Her eyes widened as the creature stood on its hind legs to reach for a fruit, and she recognized it from the Brun family crest. A bear. She had heard a great deal about bears from the Queen Boemia stories, enough to know that they were creatures capable of tearing a person limb from limb and then devouring even the bones. Yet this bear seemed no larger than one of her father¡¯s hunting dogs, which could not be right. It must have been a young one. She had the fleeting thought that it was rather cute, and promptly chided herself for her stupidity. Even if it didn¡¯t eat people yet, it would grow up to be a killer¨Ca killer under Amoret¡¯s thrall.

    The light from the window had the quality of mid-morning, and Britomart realized that she would be delaying breakfast if she lingered any longer. She might be a captive, but she was also a guest, and there were certain proprieties to be observed. She tore her gaze away from the small bear, who was now happily munching on what Britomart guessed to be an apple.

    A note on the dressing table caught her eye as she turned back to the room. When she picked it up, she found that it was written in a bold and slanting hand that must have been Amoret¡¯s:

    Good morning, princess. I have gone to tend to my business. Breakfast will await you in the great hall when you awake. The castle and grounds are yours to roam as you wish, save only the east tower. I shall expect you at dinner an hour after dusk. Try not to break anything.

    P.S. Before you work yourself into a state about me having been in your chamber while you are sleeping, you may as well know that I had the castle deliver this.

    ¡°What does she mean ¡®tend to her business¡¯?¡± Britomart muttered to the chamber, tossing the letter back down. ¡°What business does a blood witch have, anyways?¡± For once, the castle gave not the slightest stirring in reply.

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    Twenty minutes later, after heated negotiations with the wardrobe, Britomart made her way down to the great hall. She was dressed in a red tunic emblazoned with a crest of two white stags rearing on either side of an oak, and she had the uneasy feeling that she was wearing the heraldry of Morgwynna¡¯s line. It was, however, the only tunic that the wardrobe had deigned to give her after she refused a steady stream of highly impractical dresses. It would have to do.

    The great hall looked far more mundane by daylight. A low fire still burned in the hearth, warming Britomart¡¯s back as she sat at the place laid for her beside the head of the table. She raised the cover on a large bowl of what turned out to be porridge. She wondered for a moment if it was meant as a snub¨Cin Boemopolis, only the poor ate porridge¨Cbut she thought of Amoret¡¯s wistfulness at having forgotten mead at dinner and decided that serving porridge to guests must just be a strange custom of the North.

    As she ate, she thought. She was free to roam the castle and the grounds, all except the east tower. She would have to find out what Amoret was hiding up there, of course, but not yet. First, she would search the rest of the castle¨Cthe very same castle that Queen Boemia had searched centuries ago¨Cand find its weaknesses. Maybe she could find some leverage that would force Amoret to wake Alfrick. Maybe she could find some vulnerability that could defeat Amoret if the blood witch ever became more of a threat to Galbrica. And maybe, if the legends were true, she could find the blood witch¡¯s heart.

    Britomart began her search with the cellars. In truth, she had been looking for the dungeons, but the musty staircase led to a low, long room filled with shadowy shapes. She squinted into the gloom, but it was no good. The shadowy shapes remained no more than shadowy shapes. Feeling very foolish, she laid her hand against the wall sconce and whispered, ¡°Castle, light.¡± The candle in the sconce flickered to life, as did candles in sconces all down the room, illuminating crates and barrels stacked against the walls. Britomart opened one or two of the crates experimentally, hoping to find some sort of dark artifact that would confirm Amoret¡¯s evil nature. She was disappointed to see that they contained only onions and some kind of root vegetable.

    The chill grew as she followed a short flight of stairs down into  a second chamber off the back of the room. It was cold and dark, and she had high hopes for it as a haunt of dark forces. But when light flared in the sconces, the room proved to be filled with barrels of beer and jugs of mead. Refusing to be fooled, Britomart shifted several conspicuous-looking barrels and pressed on many suspicious looking stones, but no secret passages opened. She made her way back up the stairs.

    At the top of the staircase, she found a large kitchen with heavy iron pots hanging above the hearth and a huge wooden table in its center, scarred from years of chopping. She thought she saw a scattering of oats on it and wondered if they were from her porridge. A small nook off of the kitchen turned out to be a larder. The only sign of evil in it was a foul-smelling wheel of cheese. Unfortunately, Britomart was fairly sure that some cheese was supposed to smell that way.

    From the kitchen, a hallway led Britomart behind into a corridor of bedrooms not unlike her own chamber, and from there to the south tower. She ventured up. More bedrooms. How many people had this castle once held? At the top of the tower she found what must have once been servants¡¯ quarters. So there had been human servants once. She had the horrible image of the castle simply absorbing them. She hoped that was not what had happened. She quite liked the castle, and she did not want to think of it as evil, even if its owner was. Perhaps the servants had simply become unnecessary when the castle¡¯s population sank to a single inhabitant.

    The next corridor turned out to be much the same, as did the other rooms in Britomart¡¯s tower, though she was delighted to find that the tower¡¯s topmost room contained a small study with an immensely comfortable chair and a stash of well-worn books. The books were in a language she could not read, but there was something comforting and familiar about them nonetheless. She promised herself that she would come back there, temporarily forgetting her resolution to leave the castle as soon as she was able.

    The room that she truly had trouble leaving, though, was the armory, which she found halfway down the corridor towards the north tower. It was the strangest armory she had ever seen. It looked less like a proper armory and more like the historical collections that some of her father¡¯s more eccentric nobles had amassed. There was armor of all types¨Cstudded leather and chainmail, splint armor and full plate, even what seemed to be armor fashioned from polished wood and bone¨Cbut it was also from all historical periods. The weapons were equally varied. Before she knew what she was doing, she was weighing one of the longswords in her hand. It was a beautiful blade: whisper-sharp and perfectly balanced. A glinting black stone was set into the pommel, and a pattern of vines twined around the crossguard. Britomart had the absurd sense that the sword was happy to be in her grip. She forced herself to put it down. Who knew what sort of dark enchantments these weapons might hold. Of course, Britomart told herself, if there might be dark enchantments, I had better investigate carefully. She happily settled in for a long session of examining the arms and armor. Britomart finally had to admit that there was nothing obviously malevolent about the armory¨Capart from the fact that it showed that Amoret was equipped for war, which was bad enough. But even that wasn¡¯t quite right. The armory showed no fresh preparations for war, nor did it hold enough arms and armor to furnish an army. What it showed was a record of past conflicts, or perhaps simply of times when the Shadowed Wood had been home to more inhabitants, some of whom were warriors.

    The north tower yielded the greatest surprise of all. It was a library. All of it. The stone walls had been carved into bookshelves that stretched all the way to the ceiling. A staircase spiraled up the inside wall, set at regular intervals with balcony-like platforms that circled all the way around the tower¡¯s interior. Tall ladders stretched up on each platform, giving access to row after row of leatherbound volumes and neatly rolled scrolls. Britomart felt very small looking up at it all. She had the feeling that if she wanted information about the blood witch¡¯s secrets, she had found a very good place to look.

    Unfortunately, it might take her approximately a decade. That is, if any of the books were in her language.

    Britomart began to climb the spiral staircase, studying the spines of the books that she passed, looking for something recognizable. Most bore titles in the Old Tongue; some bore only designs along their spines, or nothing at all. She tried to puzzle out what some of the titles might mean, as if staring at them intently enough would make the language resolve into words she could understand, but they remained resolutely obscure. She stepped onto the first platform and began to make her way around it, still scanning titles for a language she recognized. She was so focused on her task that she blinked in surprise when the bookshelf abruptly stopped at the edge of a large window. Britomart peered through it, wondering what part of the grounds she would see now. She judged that she must have been looking northeast, on the opposite side of the castle from the orchard. This seemed to be where the stables were, along with a handful of other outbuildings.

    As Britomart watched, a figure in red appeared from around the back of the castle and strode into one of the outbuildings. It was unmistakably Amoret, with her dark hair and confident grace. Amoret¡¯s note had said that she had gone to tend to her business. Perhaps if Britomart were sneaky enough, she could creep after her and find out what exactly that business was. Amoret had not even closed the door properly behind her. It would be easy to slip down and peak in. Britomart had just resolved to do so when another figure appeared below. Britomart¡¯s heart skipped a beat. It was a bear, and not a young one this time. This one was much, much bigger. She had no trouble believing that it could crunch through bones.

    And it was headed towards the building that Amoret had just gone into. The building whose door Amoret had so foolishly left half-open.

    Britomart forgot all about the fact that Amoret was a blood witch. She forgot all about the fact that the bear was probably Amoret¡¯s thrall, and that Amoret probably sent it out to eat her enemies for breakfast. She could think only of the fact that bears ate people, and that a bear had apparently just selected Amoret for its afternoon snack. She was scrambling down the staircase in less time than it takes a bear to roar.

    Britomart sprinted down the hallway, skidding to a halt outside the armory to grab a sword before she was off again, running towards the castle doors. She did not have time to worry about the roses as she heaved the doors open and ran for the outbuildings. There was no bear in sight when she rounded the corner of the north tower. It took only a moment for Britomart¡¯s relief to turn to terror. If the bear was not in sight, that might mean it had already gotten through the door to Amoret. Britomart ran on, expecting to hear the screaming start at any moment, scared that she had arrived too late and the screaming had already stopped. Her sides were burning by the time she flung open the door, sword raised¨C

    And stopped as if she had hit a brick wall.

 Chapter 10: Amoret & Bears

    The bear snapped its jaws shut and swiveled its head towards Britomart as she burst into the building, sword raised. Britomart stopped so abruptly that her muscles protested. She stood in the doorway of a bright, tidy room with a tall table set against one wall and shelves against the other. A large area towards the back was covered with what must have once been quite a nice rug. It would have been quite an ordinary building had it not been for the bear sitting on the rug and the blood witch in the chair beside it, leaning in towards the bear with her hands on either side of its muzzle. Amoret, too, looked up in surprise at the sound of the door thunking into the wall, instinctively laying a hand on the bear¡¯s shoulder to soothe it as a growl began to rumble in its throat. The growl subsided.

    ¡°Oh.¡± Britomart said. She lowered her sword, trying to make it inconspicuous. A shaft of light from the window glinted off of the blade, ruining her effort.

    Amoret had apparently recovered from her surprise, because she was now looking at Britomart with a combination of exasperation and amusement. Britomart wanted to sink through the packed earth of the floor. Any moment now, Amoret was going to raise an eyebrow, and then maybe Britomart would sink through the floor, disintegrating out of pure embarrassment.

    Amoret raised an eyebrow. ¡°The castle has done a number on you, hasn¡¯t it? A servant¡¯s livery and the Champion¡¯s sword. I don¡¯t think there¡¯s been a Queen¡¯s Champion to wield that thing in nearly two hundred years.¡±

    ¡°I saw the bear,¡± Britomart mumbled. ¡°I came to save you. I can go now.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m a blood witch, princess. I have power over all of the vile creatures of the wood, don¡¯t you know?¡± Britomart felt herself going red at the sarcasm in Amoret¡¯s voice. The bear gave a low growl again, and Amoret shushed it, whispering something to it in the Old Tongue.

    ¡°You talk to it,¡± Britomart said stiffly.

    ¡°I talk to her,¡± Amoret corrected. ¡°And she understands me.¡±

    ¡°Blood magic.¡±

    Amoret cocked her head. ¡°Yes and no. Blood magic makes me more attuned to all that lives in this wood, more able to sense their feelings and thoughts. But my ability to understand the wood¡¯s creatures is also a matter of the creatures themselves. I told you that people with Tywyth Teg blood who stayed in the Shadowed Wood maintained more of their powers. Well, either some of that power seeped into the other creatures who live here, or the wood always had some magic of its own. Many of the creatures here are far more intelligent than their brethren elsewhere.¡±

    ¡°Can she understand me?¡± Britomart asked hesitantly. Then a far more pressing question occurred to her. ¡°Wait, you said you can read the thoughts of everything that lives here. Can you read mine?¡±

    ¡°I can sense their thoughts, not read them. It isn¡¯t that precise. And don¡¯t panic, princess. You¡¯re in the Shadowed Wood, but you¡¯re not of it. Your thoughts are safe. At least, they would be if you didn¡¯t show them so clearly on your face. As to Blewog here, if you wanted her to understand your words, you would have to speak the Old Tongue, which I don¡¯t imagine you can do.¡±

    Britomart nodded mutely, doing her best to keep her expression blank. What did Amoret mean about her showing her thoughts on her face?

    ¡°As I thought. Well, even so, she can understand your movements and moods, just as you could understand hers if you tried.¡±

    Britomart remembered the impression of disgruntlement she¡¯d had from the bear when she first entered. She looked back at the bear and found that it was giving Amoret a longsuffering look. Are you done yet? it seemed to be saying. Can you make the stranger leave so we can get on with things?

    What had they been doing anyways? Britomart wondered. She studied her surroundings for the first time. The shelves that lined the wall behind Amoret held earthenware jars and bundles of herbs; squares of fabric and long swathes of rolled bandages; and a collection of splints of varying sizes. She turned her attention back to Amoret and was alarmed to find that Amoret had gone back to examining the bear. ¡°What is this place? It looks like an infirmary.¡±

    ¡°It is an infirmary of sorts, just not for humans,¡± Amoret replied distractedly, pulling the bear¡¯s upper lip back to expose worrisomely long fangs.

    ¡°So you¡­what¡­spend your days tending to animals? Isn¡¯t that a little odd for a queen? Since you keep saying you¡¯re a queen, I mean,¡± Britomart added, realizing that she had come dangerously close to acknowledging Amoret as the ruler of the Shadowed Wood.

    ¡°And what is it that your queens do that is so queenly? Sit around all day embroidering and exchanging gossip? At least what I do is useful.¡±

    ¡°Our queens don¡¯t¨C¡± Britomart began hotly, stung by the grain of truth in Amoret¡¯s words.

    Amoret held up a hand to stop her. ¡°I shouldn¡¯t have been so harsh.¡± She lifted her hands from the bear¡¯s muzzle and turned towards Britomart. Britomart was surprised to see a rueful expression on Amoret¡¯s face as she continued, ¡°You see, I''m more accustomed to bears¡¯ company than to humans¡¯. Come and help me, and I¡¯ll explain. If you¡¯re going to stay, you might as well make yourself useful.¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t¡­¡± Britomart feebly protested. The bear gave Amoret another longsuffering look and let out a huffing sigh that reminded Britomart of her horse Arthur.

    ¡°Yes, you can,¡± Amoret replied firmly.

    Britomart looked at the bear once more and swallowed. She laid her sword on the table and went to Amoret¡¯s side. Amoret smiled up at Britomart when she reached her. For once, there was nothing mocking in that smile. ¡°Good,¡± Amoret said. ¡°Gods know what Blewog has been eating, but she seems to have cracked a tooth. I¡¯ll need you to hold her mouth open while I heal her.¡±

    Britomart felt a bit faint. ¡°How do I know she won¡¯t bite my hand off?¡±

    ¡°Because she knows I don¡¯t want her to. Besides, bears only eat humans when they¡¯re starving or threatened, and Blewog is definitely not starving¨Cnot with the amount of fruit that she and her cub have been stealing.¡±

    ¡°And if you did want her to eat me?¡±

    Amoret shrugged. ¡°Then she would. Just as it is my duty to heal her because she is my subject, it is her duty to obey me because I am her queen. That is what I wanted to explain to you: why tending to creatures like Blewog is my business as queen. Ruling the Shadowed Wood is not just a matter of ruling the humans who live here, who are few and far between. It is a matter of ruling all that lives and grows within the wood¡¯s bounds: bears and stags and squirrels and trees and all. Blewog is my subject no less than the cottagers by the forgotten grove are¨Cno less than Rowena is, though she hardly acts like it. And as the bears and the oaks are my subjects, I care for them as a queen should. I settle their territory disputes and rein in the violence of their natures when they would kill beyond their needs; I help them live in harmony; I heal them when they are hurt. You may think I am a queen without a kingdom, princess, but you would be wrong.¡±

    Britomart had thought exactly that, of course. She hesitated, unsure what to say. It was odd hearing Amoret talk as if she were a queen in more than name¨Cthere was even something admirable in the way that she talked about caring for her subjects. But a kingdom of plants and animals simply wasn¡¯t the same as a kingdom like Galbrica.

    Amoret seemed to sense what Britomart was thinking, for she rose from her chair with a sudden air of efficiency and said, ¡°But enough of that. I have kept Blewog waiting long enough.¡± Britomart shifted out of Amoret¡¯s way as the witch went to the shelves behind them and began sorting through a row of earthenware jars until she found one containing a muddy-green salve that smelled of peppermint and willowbark. She brought it back and sat with it balanced open on her lap as she drew the short, sharp knife that she wore at her waist, then looked expectantly at Britomart. ¡°Ready?¡± Amoret asked.

    ¡°Are you going to cut the tooth out?¡± Britomart couldn¡¯t quite keep the horror from her voice.

    ¡°Of course not. I am going to use blood magic.¡±

    ¡°But the salve¡­¡±

    ¡°Is to ease the pain until the spell finishes its work. Even in the Shadowed Wood, magic isn¡¯t as strong as it used to be. My ancestors may have been able to heal a creature instantly, but I cannot. Now hold Blewog¡¯s mouth open, will you? I¡¯ll show you how.¡±

    Amoret murmured a few words to Blewog in the Old Tongue, and the bear obligingly opened her mouth. A very pale-looking Britomart reached to hold back Blewog¡¯s lips, trying to do exactly as Amoret had shown her. Britomart nearly jumped out of her skin when the bear growled. Amoret glared at Blewog and issued what seemed to be a fierce rebuke, for the bear looked distinctly chastened. ¡°She¡¯s only joking,¡± Amoret assured Britomart, who had pulled her hands out of the bear¡¯s mouth and was exercising all of her control not to step back. ¡°You can go ahead now. She won¡¯t do it again.¡± Britomart peeled back the bear¡¯s lips once more. Her fingers felt slimy.

    She watched as Amoret applied a dollop of salve to the gums at the base of one of the bear¡¯s back teeth, then pricked her finger with the point of her small knife. A droplet of blood welled, then another, staining the bear¡¯s tooth scarlet as Amoret pressed her finger against it. Britomart shivered at the red stain on Blewog¡¯s tooth. Amoret whispered once more in the Old Tongue, and something about the rhythm of the words and the way they tingled across Britomart¡¯s skin told her that it was a spell. Amoret drew back her hand and examined the bear¡¯s tooth. Finally, she nodded in satisfaction. Britomart hastily withdrew her own hands as Blewog chomped her jaws experimentally. Amoret asked the bear something in the Old Tongue, then broke into a smile and said something more, patting the bear¡¯s neck with her unbloodied hand.

    Britomart realized she was swaying on her feet. Bears and blood magic and a kingdom of trees. It was all too much. She muttered something incomprehensible and went to wait for the other two outside.

    By the time dinner arrived, Britomart was so exhausted that she let the wardrobe bully her into a glimmering gown of cerulean silk. She found Amoret waiting for her at the table just as she had the first night. There was no formal greeting this time. It is hard to be formal with someone after tending to a bear¡¯s toothache together¨Cparticularly when that toothache has caused you to miss lunch again and the prospect of food has driven out all thoughts of decorum.

    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

    As Amoret had warned her, there was quite a large amount of mead. It must have been the mead that made the dinner feel so comfortable. It must have been the mead that made Britomart forget for a time that the person she was dining with was someone she ought to despise. She remembered in the end, of course, when their conversation melted into silence, leaving only the gentle crackling of the fire to fill the air between them.

    ¡°Amoret¡­¡±

    ¡°Britomart?¡±

    ¡°Will you wake Alfrick?¡±

    ¡°Ask me again tomorrow night. If you will stay.¡±

    So one tomorrow followed another. Days became a week, a week became two. Every night at the end of dinner, Britomart asked the same question. Every night, Amoret gave the same reply. And if Britomart did not quite give up hope, neither did she feel quite the same bitter frustration that she had first felt at Amoret¡¯s reply.

    For a time, Britomart continued her search of the castle, looking for some dark secret that would be the blood witch¡¯s undoing. She soon discovered an infirmary¨Cfor humans, this time¨Cand the oddest storeroom she had ever seen. The storeroom must have been where the castle kept things when they were not in use. It was vast. Rack upon rack of clothing took up one corner, as varied in time period as the gowns that the wardrobe had first presented to Britomart. Then came shelves of shoes, then belts, then a magnificent array of headdresses and hats that Britomart was glad to have been spared. In another section of the storeroom lay tubs and tables and pitchers like the ones that trundled into Britomart¡¯s chamber when the castle decided that she needed a bath. Beside them were shelves of soaps and oils, drying cloths, hair brushes, and hand mirrors. In another area lay what seemed to be extra cauldrons and cooking utensils, which Britomart guessed must have been needed in the days when all of the castle¡¯s bedchambers were full and all the seats occupied at the table in the great hall. Other supplies were stranger: delicate braziers, oddly shaped jars, and glass contraptions that Britomart did not recognize. She wondered which room the castle sent those to.

    Britomart even found the dungeon eventually. She had to ask Amoret how to get to it, which rather took the secrecy out of the whole thing. Amoret did not seem particularly repentant when Britomart confronted her with the fact that the dungeon had rows of barred cells in it with manacles fixed into the walls. She merely asked Britomart what she had expected and pointed out that surely her father¡¯s castle had dungeons too. Britomart had blusteringly protested that her father¡¯s dungeons were much more humane, at which Amoret asked whether she had ever actually seen her father¡¯s dungeons. Britomart had had to admit that she had not. It was not until later that night that she realized what had truly bothered her about Amoret¡¯s dungeons. They didn¡¯t have an interrogation chamber. Britomart wondered if she had been terribly wrong to insist that her father¡¯s dungeons were more humane, or whether blood witches simply had ways of getting information out of people that didn¡¯t require a rack. She wasn¡¯t sure which idea disturbed her more.

    After that, Britomart began to explore the grounds. The forbidden east tower could wait. It was not that she felt guilty about betraying Amoret, she told herself. It was just that if she were caught, Amoret might throw her out, and that would be the end of her hopes of waking Alfrick.

    In the grounds, Britomart encountered more of Amoret¡¯s creatures¨CAmoret¡¯s subjects, she corrected herself, though it still felt somewhat absurd to think of them that way. She came across Blewog more than once, sometimes accompanied by the cub that Britomart had spotted nibbling fruit from the castle¡¯s orchard. The castle¡¯s wards seemed not to apply to animals, for the wood¡¯s creatures roamed in and out of the grounds at will. Dappled deer came to graze, and red-breasted birds flew in to perch in the orchard¡¯s branches. A pair of dog-sized cats regularly slunk across the lush grass, baffling Britomart with their tufted ears, stubby tails, and comically large paws. The squirrels miraculously disappeared whenever the cats were present, although Britomart thought that there must have been some sort of truce on the castle grounds. Amoret had said that the wood¡¯s creatures were allowed to hunt to meet their needs, but Britomart had never seen one animal hunt another there.

    Britomart stared in fascinated disbelief the first time that she saw a sapling lurching up the castle path on its roots. She had not truly believed that the trees of the Shadowed Wood could move. She thought at first that it must be a tree wight¨Can evil spirit that took the form of a tree to deceive and strangle travelers¨Cbut it settled into a spot near the empty stables and was soon rooted there as solidly as any other tree. When Britomart asked Amoret about it that night at dinner, Amoret shrugged and explained that the tree was in its rebellious phase and had decided to try somewhere new. Moving onto the castle grounds was considered particularly daring for a young sapling. Mostly, they went back to their groves in a decade or two, or so her mother had said.

    The stable did not remain empty for long either. A few weeks into her stay¨Cher captivity, Britomart reminded herself¨CArthur came trotting across the moat. Amoret seemed more amused than annoyed by his appearance, and she agreed to let him stay. She even went down to the stables with Britomart to help her settle Arthur in. Britomart brushed Arthur¡¯s coat while Amoret sat on a hay bail and watched pensively. Arthur did not seem to mind Amoret¡¯s presence. He had taken to Amoret immediately in a way that Britomart couldn¡¯t help feeling was a little disloyal.

    Britomart soaked in the comfort of Arthur¡¯s familiar presence as she brushed him. With the comfort came a sudden sadness. She wished that Arthur had brought Smudge with him. She remembered Amoret talking with the bear, and a thought occurred to her. Turning to Amoret, she asked, ¡°You can sense animals¡¯ thoughts, right? Can you ask Arthur how Smudge is?¡±

    ¡°As I have told you,¡± Amoret had replied patiently, ¡°I can sense the thoughts of the creatures of the Shadowed Wood. Arthur is no more the wood¡¯s creature than you are. In fact, he is a good deal harder to read than you are. He doesn¡¯t show half as much of what he¡¯s thinking on his face¡±

    ¡°Of course. I had forgotten.¡± Britomart fixed her attention back on Arthur¡¯s coat, trying not to let her disappointment show. She was mortified to find that her eyes were wet. She had not realized how much she had missed Smudge¡¯s companionship.

    Amoret gave a resigned sigh. There was a crinkle of hay as she stood. ¡°Come. If you wish to see your urchin so much, I can show him to you. No, we are not going to Rowena¡¯s cottage,¡± she added, anticipating Britomart¡¯s question. ¡°But I am not a blood witch for nothing.¡±

    Britomart did not even notice Arthur¡¯s huff of disapproval at his abandonment as she followed Amoret out of the stable. Amoret took her to the well at the edge of the kitchen garden and instructed her to wait. She disappeared through the kitchen door and returned some minutes later with a smooth stone basin that she set down on the edge of the well. ¡°Draw some water, would you?¡± she asked.

    Britomart obliged. When the bucket reached the top of the well, Amoret carefully filled the basin, then drew her small knife and pricked her finger. Britomart had seen the sight many times now from the small magics that Amoret worked seemingly without conscious thought, but she had not grown used to it. She was not sure she ever would. She shivered as a drop of blood fell into the basin and diffused in slow tendrils through the water. Amoret whispered a few lilting words, and the water began to go silvery and opaque where the blood diffused through it. Soon the whole surface was the same flat silver. Britomart almost protested as Amoret poured the basin¡¯s contents onto the grass, but the silvery pool spread out into an even sheet at their feet rather than seeping into the ground. It reminded Britomart of a mirror, except that it cast no reflection back at her.

    ¡°Think of what you wish to see,¡± Amoret told her. ¡°Hold it firmly in your mind. And then tell the mirror.¡±

    ¡°So it is a mirror.¡±

    ¡°Not precisely, but that¡¯s as good a way to think of it as any. It is a way for the forest to reflect back to you what it senses. I can explain the magic behind it later if you wish, but for now, you had better tell it what to show you. It won¡¯t not last forever.¡±

    Britomart closed her eyes and thought of her small, disreputable traveling companion. ¡°Show me Smudge.¡±

    She opened her eyes, hardly daring to hope. An image was diffusing across the silvery surface, following the same path as the blood had. It came into focus with frustrating slowness. At first, there seemed to be only a round blur rolling around against a vague green background. Britomart¡¯s brow furrowed. That didn¡¯t look like a boy. It was too large, for one, and too ungainly. It looked more like a wild animal thrashing about in pain. A gasp escaped from Britomart as the image resolved. It was a wild animal. And it was also Smudge. She recognized both of them in an instant: Smudge and the bear cub. The cub was attacking him, and there was no way Smudge could hold his own. The cub was small, but so was he, and he didn¡¯t even have a dagger.

    Britomart sprang up before she knew what she was doing. Her hand flew to her hip and found her sword absent. It did not matter. She had to get to him.

    ¡°Wait!¡± Amoret¡¯s hand was on Britomart¡¯s arm, holding her back, but there was no blood magic behind Amoret¡¯s grip this time, and Britomart shrugged it off easily. ¡°Wait!¡± Amoret called after her as she began to run towards the archway that led out of the castle and into the wood beyond. ¡°They¡¯re only playing! And you don¡¯t even know where they are! You¡¯ll never find them.¡±

    It was the second part of Amoret¡¯s statement that made Britomart turn back. ¡°Tell me where they are,¡± she growled.

    ¡°No,¡± Amoret said firmly. ¡°Not until you sit down and listen¨Cnot even listen, just look. They¡¯re playing.¡±

    Britomart warily approached the silvery sheet and stared back into it. Now that she was looking, she could see that Smudge was laughing as he tumbled around the clearing with the cub. When she squinted, she could make out Rowena¡¯s cottage in the background, and Rowena looking out at the boy and the bear from the doorway. ¡°I am going to kill him,¡± Britomart muttered.

    ¡°Smudge or the cub?¡±

    ¡°Both.¡±

    ¡°You really don¡¯t like bears.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t trust them. Besides, what was I supposed to think? Only someone as daft as Smudge would decide to wrestle a bear for fun.¡±

    ¡°He is certainly more open minded than most,¡± Amoret said mildly.

    ¡°What¡¯s that supposed to mean?¡±

    ¡°You know precisely what I mean, princess. But you needn¡¯t get into a huff. You haven¡¯t done so badly yourself, even if you do seem to have it out for bears. Blewog likes you, and even the lynxes don¡¯t mind your presence. And they can be very selective.¡±

    ¡°Lynxes?¡±

    ¡°The cats. Surely you¡¯ve seen them. They¡¯ve seen you.¡±

    ¡°Oh, the ones with the tails. Without the tails. You know what I mean.¡± Britomart settled back down beside Amoret on the edge of the well. They watched the ongoing wrestling match in the silver pane. Britomart tried to figure out what the rules were, but there didn¡¯t seem to be any apart from no claws and no teeth.

    A few minutes passed before Amoret broke the silence. ¡°You were going to go after Smudge, even though you knew you could not come back if you left. It would have been the end of your quest. The end of Alfrick. Is one boy worth so much to you?¡±

    Britomart glanced at Amoret, but the other woman was still staring fixedly at the images in the silvery pane. Britomart looked back at the pane too. ¡°He¡¯s my friend,¡± she said simply.

    ¡°You say that like it answers everything.¡±

    ¡°It does.¡±

    ¡°I do not think that I¡¯ve ever had a friend like that.¡±

    Britomart looked again at Amoret, but her profile was as inscrutable as her voice. Britomart swallowed, knowing she was about to do something very stupid, then slid her hand over Amoret¡¯s where it rested on the lip of the well. ¡°I could be your friend,¡± she said quietly.

    Amoret did turn to Britomart then. She had that half-mocking smile on her lips, but its mocking edge seemed to be directed more at herself than at Britomart. ¡°No you can¡¯t, princess. We both know that.¡± She turned back to watching the images in the pane. ¡°But thank you,¡± she added softly, ¡°for saying it.¡±

    Britomart went back to watching the pane too. It was easier than sorting out what she was feeling. She felt Amoret¡¯s hand turn upwards and close around hers. They sat like that until the images faded, until the silver pane melted into water, until the water sank into the grass.

    That night, Britomart brushed her hair until it shone before she went down to dinner.

    Amoret was waiting for her at the end of the table, as she always was. The firelight felt warm and close. They sat together until the flames burnt low.

    ¡°Will you wake Alfrick?¡± Britomart asked.

    ¡°Ask me again tomorrow night. If you will stay.¡±

    ¡°I will stay.¡±

    Of course she would stay.

 Chapter 11: A Strange Captivity

    Weeks grew into one month, then another, and Britomart fell into a routine. In the morning, she breakfasted with Amoret. Then, she went down to the stables to visit Arthur while Amoret went about her business of tending to the Shadowed Wood. Britomart and Arthur trotted around the castle grounds, which felt much smaller at the horse¡¯s gait. Eventually, Britomart hung a ring from the branch of one of the old oaks and, after asking the castle very nicely, found a lance tucked away in the back of the armory. She and Arthur took to practicing jousting. The combination of concentration and speed helped to ease the growing restlessness that pulled at them both.

    Britomart began to practice her swordplay too, going through her forms with the sword that she had found in the armory. She had put it back after grabbing it to chase Blewog¨Can episode that still made her want to sink through the ground when she thought about it¨Cbut the sword had been waiting for her in her chamber the next day. She had put it back four more times, partly out of an obstinate refusal to acknowledge how much she wanted it and partly out of what Amoret had said about it being the sword of the Queen¡¯s Champion. Britomart was a Galbrican princess, for Woden¡¯s sake, not the defender of a queen with a false claim to the Northern throne. Yet the sword felt inexplicably right in her hands. When she finally gave in to the castle¡¯s insistence that she take the sword, she assured herself that she did so merely as a matter of convenience. Returning it to the armory every day was getting annoying.

    After lunch, Britomart would spend the afternoon wandering the grounds. She began to get to know the animals who roamed there as their wariness gave way to curiosity. The deer no longer bounded away when she approached, and the gangly fawns frisked up to her on increasingly confident legs. By the time the autumn had advanced enough for the castle to add a thick woolen cloak to Britomart¡¯s wardrobe, even the lynxes would deign to twine around her legs. She began to wish that she could find a dictionary of the Old Tongue in the library so that she could try talking to the animals as Amoret did, although she was not sure it would work for her the way it did for Amoret.

    Britomart continued to search the library, but it remained frustratingly elusive. She tried asking the castle to give her particular books, but either the castle could not read, or the library had a different magic all its own, a magic that did not respond to words as the castle¡¯s did. The books that would appear the next day on her dressing table were never the right ones¨Cor at least, they were never in the right language. All were in the Old Tongue. It did not help matters that Britomart dared not tell the castle too blatantly what she was searching for. She did not want to think about what would happen if the castle knew she was looking for a weakness in Amoret¡¯s power: a weakness that would allow Britomart to force Amoret to wake Alfrick; a weakness that would allow Britomart to conquer Amoret if she ever needed to for Galbrica¡¯s sake. Still, Britomart refused to give up hope. As long as she was searching for some vulnerability in the blood witch¡¯s power, she could justify staying, even if Amoret seemed no closer to agreeing to wake Alfrick. Britomart just wished that she could shake that odd guilty feeling that had begun to creep in every time she visited the library to hunt for Amoret¡¯s fatal flaw. Amoret was her captor, not her friend, she told herself. Amoret had been clear enough about that when Britomart had offered to befriend her.

    But when Britomart thought of the pressure of Amoret¡¯s hand in hers, she was not sure that Amoret had been clear at all. Amoret had not taken Britomart¡¯s hand again, but sometimes when their eyes met, Britomart was sure that Amoret remembered it just as well as she did. In those moments, Britomart wanted more than anything to reach out and take Amoret¡¯s hand once more, but there always seemed to be some invisible barrier that stopped her. The normal rules of distance did not seem to apply to Amoret. Britomart and Amoret could be sitting less than a foot apart, and reaching across that distance felt as impossible as reaching across a chasm. They could be standing across the room from each other, and Amoret felt close enough for Britomart to run her hand down her cheek. It was very hard to remember that Amoret was an enemy of Galbrica at times like that. The dinners did not help. It was hard to remember to regard someone as an enemy when you spent every evening eating beside them, drifting into comfortable conversation. It was hard to hate your only human companion when you were lonely.

    Britomart reassured herself with the knowledge that once she was out of the castle and back around other human beings, she would cease to feel like this, whatever ¡®this¡¯ was.

    Britomart knew she had been lucky, in a way. She was not confined to the dungeon, nor was she condemned to the demeaning drudgery that the Blood Witch had inflicted on Queen Boemia. True, Britomart occasionally helped Amoret tend to injured animals, but that was by choice, not by compulsion. And she mucked out Arthur¡¯s stall, of course, but that was because it gave her something to do. She was fairly sure the castle would have cleaned the stall for her if she asked.

    Still, captivity was captivity. There was a great difference between trotting around the castle grounds and galloping across open country, and both Britomart and Arthur felt it.

    So it was that Amoret came back to the castle one day to find Britomart and Arthur staring longingly out of the archway that led out through the castle wall into the wood beyond. Both seemed unaware of the chill breeze that was stirring Arthur¡¯s mane and nipping color into Britomart¡¯s cheeks. The matching expressions of wistfulness on horse and master would have been comical if they had not been quite so heartfelt.

    Amoret paused beside them and reached out a hand for Arthur to nuzzle. Her brow furrowed as she observed, ¡°He looks sad.¡±

    Britomart laid a gentle hand on the horse¡¯s shoulder. ¡°He misses the outside world.¡±

    The furrow in Amoret¡¯s brow remained. ¡°But surely he¡¯s used to being kept in stables. You live in a palace.¡±

    ¡°Yes, but the king¡¯s pastures are nearby, and there¡¯s land to gallop in not far from the city.¡± Britomart smiled wistfully, thinking of the rush of joy that came with galloping across the open countryside. ¡°I used to take Arthur out for a gallop whenever I could. Neither of us was ever much good at being cooped up.¡± Britomart had not meant to mention her own longing for the outside world, and she glanced quickly at Amoret. She did not know what she expected¨Cfor Amoret to be hurt? Annoyed? But the other woman merely looked thoughtful.

    ¡°I never learned to ride,¡± Amoret said consideringly.

    ¡°I could teach you.¡±

    Amoret¡¯s thoughtful look lingered for a moment, then gave way to a smile. ¡°You know, I think I would like that.¡±

    ¡°What about tomorrow morning? Or later,¡± Britomart added, thinking that she must have sounded far too eager.

    ¡°It had better be the afternoon. There¡¯s a grove to the west that needs tending in the morning. The trees have grown so big that they¡¯re fighting for the sunlight, and there will be broken branches soon if someone doesn¡¯t step in.¡±

    ¡°Right. Tomorrow afternoon at the stables.¡± Britomart tried not to look too directly at Amoret¡¯s rather close-fitting dress as she added, ¡°And you may want to wear something less flattering. I mean fancy. Something less fancy. I ended up in the dirt more than once before I got the hang of staying in the saddle.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll inform my wardrobe. Perhaps it will even cooperate,¡± Amoret replied, eyes dancing. ¡°I¡¯ll see you at dinner, princess,¡± she added, giving Arthur one last pat before heading off to the castle.

    ¡°See you at dinner,¡± Britomart called after her.

    Amoret raised a hand in acknowledgement but did not turn back.

    Britomart wondered if it was possible to blush so hard that you gave yourself a sunburn. Or maybe it was just the feeling of the wind on her cheeks. It was a very brisk wind, really.

    Amoret¡¯s riding lessons began the next day. Britomart did a double take when Amoret pushed open the stable door wearing a tunic and hose, soft leather riding boots encasing her calves.

    ¡°I see you convinced your wardrobe,¡± Britomart observed.

    ¡°I think you must be having a good influence. It only took three tries. Although I do think the red brocade is a little excessive,¡± Amoret added, grimacing as she looked down at her tunic.

    ¡°I suppose I should feel lucky that my wardrobe stopped putting me in servants¡¯ livery.¡±

    ¡°It was only throwing a tantrum. It gives you quite nice tunics now.¡±

    ¡°Tantrums don¡¯t last for weeks.¡±

    ¡°The castle¡¯s do. It gave me cold baths for a month after I painted on the walls when I was a child.¡±

    ¡°You painted the walls?¡± Britomart struggled to picture the castle in any color but its characteristic grey.

    ¡°I painted on the walls. It¡¯s not the same thing. Though the castle did not seem to appreciate the difference either. Shall we?¡±

    ¡°Paint the walls?¡± Britomart asked, perplexed.

    ¡°Ride. That is what we¡¯re here for, isn¡¯t it?¡±

    ¡°Oh, yes. I think we¡¯d better start in that grassy area beside the kitchen garden. The ground is soft there.¡±

    ¡°Is that good for riding?¡±

    ¡°It''s good for falling.¡±

    Much to Britomart¡¯s annoyance, however, Amoret did not fall. Arthur seemed determined not to let her. He stood patiently as Britomart cupped her hands for Amoret''s boot to help her scramble into the saddle. He adjusted his weight to steady Amoret when her balance was off. He began moving at a gentle pace when she asked him to walk, even though she squeezed her knees around his sides far too sharply in her nervousness. When she urged him into a trot, then panicked and pulled hard on the reins for him to stop, he halted smoothly rather than sending her tumbling off his behind the way that any self-respecting warhorse ought to do. As far as Britomart was concerned, it was downright unfair.

    ¡°It¡¯s not normally this easy,¡± Britomart said crossly when Amoret and Arthur arrived back beside the vegetable garden.

    Amoret had just ridden all the way around the castle, and she was positively glowing. ¡°It¡¯s wonderful! I wish I¡¯d known earlier. I might have sent for a horse from one of the villages. I think I know how the stags feel now when they canter through the woods.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re not at a canter yet. You¡¯re hardly at a trot,¡± Britomart retorted, then realized how petty she sounded and added, ¡°We can practice cantering later this week. You really are learning incredible fast, you know. I feel a bit foolish for thinking you¡¯d be covered in dirt by now.¡±

    Amoret grinned. ¡°Disappointed?¡±

    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

    ¡°Of course not! No true knight would be disappointed that a lady had not fallen in the dirt.¡±

    ¡°And yet,¡± Amoret said wryly, ¡°I think you would make an exception for me.¡±

    Amoret learned quickly after that, which turned out to be a good thing for Britomart. Once Amoret had truly learned to ride, she was no longer content just to canter around the castle grounds. She had developed the same restlessness that plagued Britomart and Arthur: the desire to ride beyond the castle¡¯s walls and roam on horseback through the woods.

    ¡°It¡¯s hard, isn¡¯t it?¡± Amoret asked a few weeks later, dismounting at the foot of the castle steps where Britomart waited bundled up in her cloak. The last of the apples had fallen in the orchard, and the air had the undeniable feel of impending winter.

    ¡°Riding? I don¡¯t know, you seem to have gotten the hang of it remarkably quickly.¡±

    ¡°Not riding. Being cooped up here. I see what you mean about Arthur missing the outside world. I can feel it now: the way that he can never quite stretch his legs.¡±

    Britomart shrugged. ¡°So take him out riding. It¡¯s your own rules that bind him here.¡± She couldn¡¯t entirely keep the bitterness from her voice, and she thought she saw Amoret flinch.

    ¡°I couldn¡¯t do that. It wouldn¡¯t be fair, taking him and leaving you behind.¡±

    ¡°Fair?¡± It was as if a dam broke, and all the frustration that Britomart had been holding in flooded loose. ¡°Since when do you care about fairness? Is it fair to keep me here, one day at a time, always holding out hope of something that you never grant?¡±

    ¡°Has it never occurred to you that I might have a very good reason for doing so?¡± Amoret asked.

    ¡°Rowena said that you were lonely, but¨C¡± Britomart caught herself, aghast. She hadn¡¯t meant to tell Amoret that.

    ¡°Did she? And you thought that I was so desperate for companionship that I would do anything you asked, just for the pleasure of your company?¡±

    ¡°It wasn¡¯t like that,¡± Britomart protested. ¡°Or maybe it was, at first. But later¡­ I thought you liked me.¡±

    ¡°I see,¡± Amoret said tightly. ¡°I will have you know, princess, that I have kept you here because I could not very well let you go back to Galbrica in the same state that you came here. Or have you forgotten that you tried to lunge for your sword the instant that you remembered where you were when I first woke you? You came here as the princess of an enemy realm that once conquered mine,  that did its best to eradicate those of us whose powers it feared¨Cand nearly succeeded. Should have sent you straight back to Galbrica, where you would tell your father of my kingdom in the Shadowed Wood? Should I have forgotten my duty to my creatures so utterly as to risk bringing the wrath of Galbrica down on them? I had three choices, princess: kill you, put you back to sleep, or try to make you understand. I chose the third. I have kept you here in hopes that when you leave, you will do so no longer hating my kingdom, no longer so ready to call for our ending. It is a strategy that has been tried once before. It failed then. I am hoping that, this time, it will succeed. You are a better person by far than the last Galbrican on whom it was tried.¡±

    It was too much to take in all at once, so Britomart latched onto the one thing that seemed most concrete. ¡°You weren¡¯t ever planning to wake Alfrick, were you? You were just using that to keep me here.¡±

    The anger seemed to have gone out of Amoret, and she answered levelly, ¡°I haven¡¯t decided whether to wake Alfrick. I have not lied about that. The sleeping spell was once a form of justice, and perhaps you¡¯re right that it has become unjust. But my kingdom will not be safe if the sleepers wake and carry news of it back to their homelands¨Cnot if they are believed. It is not an easy decision, and I will not make it lightly. I need more time.¡±

    ¡°How do I know you¡¯re not just saying that to keep me here?¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re asking me to trust you?¡± Britomart asked incredulously. ¡°After you¡¯ve kept me here for months trying to make me forget my duty to Galbrica?¡±

    Amoret met Britomart¡¯s furious gaze unflinchingly. ¡°I am asking you whether it¡¯s worth throwing away the one chance you have to wake the sleepers.¡± She sighed. ¡°And yes, I suppose I¡¯m asking you to trust me.¡±

    ¡°What if I told you that you¡¯ll never make me believe that the Shadowed Wood isn¡¯t evil? That you¡¯ll never make me believe that you aren¡¯t evil? What then? Will you try to put me back to sleep? Try to kill me?¡±

    ¡°Do you truly think that I would do that?¡±

    ¡°I¨C¡± Britomart had been about to say yes, but something stopped her. ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±

    ¡°At first I didn¡¯t know either,¡± Amoret admitted. ¡°But now¡­ No, gods help me. If you left, even hating us as you once did¨Cas perhaps you still do¨CI would not kill you. Not even if I would put my kingdom in danger by letting you go.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°Because it would not feel right, having spared you, to condemn you. And because you were right: I have come to like you.¡±

    ¡°Oh.¡±

    The silence stretched, and Amoret seemed to realize that she was still holding Arthur¡¯s reins as the horse shifted impatiently beside her. She gave the horse a perfunctory pat before looking back at Britomart. ¡°I won¡¯t ask if you are going to leave. But I hope, princess, that I will see you at dinner.¡±

    Britomart gave no answer. Instead, she turned on her heel and strode back into the castle.

    There was not much packing to do. The only things that Britomart had brought with her were her sword and armor, along with the worse-for-wear tunic and leggings that she had worn beneath her armor when she first arrived. She got halfway through buckling on her plate before she let a vambrace fall to the floor with a clang. She slowly unbuckled the rest of her armor and set it back against the wall. By the time that she had taken off the remainder of the plate, brushed her hair, and changed into the gown that the wardrobe had provided for the night, she was late for dinner.

    She found Amoret staring into the fire, ignoring the platters of food growing cold on the table. Amoret¡¯s eyes widened in surprise when she saw Britomart¨Csurprise and, Britomart thought, something like joy.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t think you¡¯d come,¡± Amoret said, rising.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t either.¡±

    ¡°About Arthur¡­ we could ride out together. You and I. If you¡¯d like.¡±

    Two days later, Britomart and Amoret rode into the Shadowed Wood. It was to be a day trip only, not a true end to captivity, but to Britomart, it felt like a gulp of water after days of wandering parched through the desert. Part of her wondered if it was Amoret¡¯s way of apologizing. A more cynical part of her wondered if it was simply another part of Amoret¡¯s scheme to coax her into liking the Shadowed Wood so that she would not send her father¡¯s forces to attack it. But her doubts did not stop her heart from soaring as they rode out through the arch in the castle walls, Amoret sandwiched in front of her in the saddle.

    At first Britomart had tried to preserve a little space between herself and Amoret, but that required sitting as stiff and straight as a carved soldier, with her arms bent out awkwardly to avoid resting against Amoret¡¯s sides while holding the reins. Eventually, the position simply became too uncomfortable, and Britomart relaxed. She felt the gentle press of Amoret¡¯s back against her torso as the space between them vanished. After a while, Amoret asked to switch off on the reins¨Cafter all, this was her first excursion on horseback, and she wanted to give it a proper try¨Cand Britomart found herself holding onto Amoret¡¯s waist while Amoret held the reins. Britomart held on as lightly as she could, but she could not have been more aware of it if she had been hanging on for dear life.

    The Shadowed Wood opened up around them, and Arthur frisked like a colt in celebration of new paths to roam. They rode through parts of the wood that Britomart had never seen before: a primordial grove of trees with trunks nearly as wide as Rowena¡¯s cottage; a rushing stream that must have been a distant continuation of the one that flowed from the waterfall over the sleepers¡¯ cave; a rock formation that reminded Britomart of an old-fashioned helm; and a wide meadow that Amoret assured her was full of wildflowers in the spring, although it was dull and flowerless now. Even Amoret had to admit that the meadow was a bit of a disappointment. They ducked back into the woods and were soon amidst majestic trees again, stopping for lunch on the roots of a gnarled old giant that towered even higher than the others.

    The wood seemed to grow still and expectant around them as they ate. Britomart rubbed her hands together for warmth as she finished the hunk of bread and cheese that she had been holding. ¡°It feels like the wood is waiting for something,¡± she commented, looking around for any sign of movement and finding none.

    ¡°It is,¡± Amoret said, wiping her own hands on her leggings.

    ¡°You?¡±

    ¡°No, not me. The wood is accustomed enough to me. It¡¯s waiting for snow. Can¡¯t you feel it?¡±

    Britomart realized she could feel it: the crystalline snap to the air; the heavy stillness of the clouds massing above the canopy; the sharp, nearly metallic scent mingling with the earthly musk of trees and underbrush.

    Something must have shown on her face, because Amoret smiled and said, ¡°I thought you could, if you tried. All the same, it means we¡¯d better be going. It would be unwise to get caught in a storm.¡±

    By the time they made it back to the castle, the snow was falling in thick flakes. The grounds were covered in a thin sheet of white that Britomart did not think would stay thin for long. There was no sign of the usual inhabitants of the castle grounds, and Britomart imagined they must be curled up in their dens by now. The silence was broken only by the crunch of Arthur¡¯s hooves and the jingle of his tack.

    They dismounted by the stables, and Britomart reached up to help Amoret down after her. Amoret had been able to dismount on her own for some time now, but she was a lady, and there were certain things that knights were supposed to do. Helping ladies out of the saddle was one of them. The hood of Amoret¡¯s cloak fell back as she dismounted, and snowflakes settled gently on her hair, white against the dark. There was something about the sight that made Britomart forget to step back once Amoret was on firm ground.

    ¡°You have snowflakes on your eyelashes,¡± Britomart said.

    Amoret grinned and reached up to pull back the hood of Britomart¡¯s cloak. ¡°Then you shall face the same peril, Sir Knight.¡±

    Britomart felt the cold touch of a snowflake on her cheek, then another. Amoret¡¯s hands lingered on her cloak. More snowflakes were gathering on her hair. Then Arthur whickered, and the moment was broken. Britomart stepped away. ¡°We should get Arthur out of the snow.¡±

    The next morning, Britomart looked out of her window onto a world of dazzling white. The snow lay so thick on the ground that Britomart could hardly make out the bulges that had once been bushes. Only the roses seemed untouched, as if their blood-red blooms¨Cimmune from the changing of the seasons¨Chad burned away the snow that dared to settle on them. Britomart had never seen so much snow in her life. Southern Galbrica got snow occasionally, but nothing like this. She wondered if the snowfall was part of the magic of the woods. Then she realized that it was probably just part of the North. She wondered what it would feel like to walk through a landscape like that, to be the only set of tracks on something so pristine. Would it feel like walking through water to tramp through so much snow? Or would you just need to lift your legs very, very high?

    The thought brought her high spirits crashing down. No matter how trudging through so much snow worked, she wasn¡¯t going to be wandering around the grounds much while it was there. Riding Arthur was definitely out. Britomart had come to rely on their daily jousting practice to give her some sort of outlet for her restlessness, some sense of movement amidst the stasis. Losing that was all the harder after her brief taste of freedom yesterday. She felt like the castle¡¯s walls were closing in around her all over again. A stab of disappointment shot through her as she realized that the snow would also mean a temporary halt to her afternoon riding lessons with Amoret.

    Britomart¡¯s expression was so glum when she came down to breakfast that Amoret¡¯s smile of greeting quickly changed to a look of concern. When Britomart answered the question of what was the matter by saying, ¡°There¡¯s too much snow,¡± however, Amoret let out a laugh. That did nothing to improve Britomart¡¯s mood.

    ¡°It¡¯s not so bad,¡± Amoret said in a conciliatory tone, clearly attempting to make up for laughing. ¡°The snow won¡¯t last forever. In the meantime, try to think of the castle as your den: somewhere safe and warm where you can curl up and weather the storm.¡±

    Britomart did not point out the absurdity of thinking of a blood witch¡¯s castle as ¡®safe and warm¡¯. Instead, she said, ¡°I¡¯ve seen the castle. All but the east tower, as you told me. Unless you want to show me that, there¡¯s not much more for me to do.¡±

    ¡°And have you practiced with every weapon in the armory? Read every book in the library? Tried on all of the absurd outfits in your wardrobe?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not a child. I don¡¯t play dress-up.¡±

    It did not escape Amoret that Britomart had ignored the first two points. ¡°You haven¡¯t figured out how to work the library, have you?¡±

    ¡°How was I supposed to?¡± Britomart asked defensively. ¡°You never told me.¡±

    ¡°I thought you might like the challenge.¡±

    ¡°I prefer challenges that I can solve with a sword.¡±

    ¡°Well, princess, after breakfast, I shall show you the library. Now eat up. That is, if you can manage your porridge without your sword.¡±

    Britomart glared at Amoret. Amoret smirked. They ate.

    Outside, the snow lay thick and still.

    Inside, the library lay vast and waiting, its silence soon to be broken by two voices, the scratching of a quill on old parchment, and the sound of a stifled exclamation as a row of books began to pulse with a soft golden light.

 Chapter 12: What Britomart Found in the Library

    Britomart awoke bleary-eyed the next morning after a long night of studying the dictionary of the Old Tongue. She had fallen asleep reading it, and at some point she seemed to have converted it into her pillow, with the result that she awoke with the title tooled into its leather cover imprinted on her cheek: Llyfr Geiriau''r Ysgolhaig Ieuainc Yn Iaith Rhyfedd y De, Wedi Ei Gyfieithu o''r Newydd yn Tylwythiaith. Her first fifteen minutes with the dictionary had been dedicated to puzzling the title out. She was now fairly sure that it read something like The Young Scholar¡¯s Compendium of Words from the Strange Tongue of the South, Newly Translated into Tylwythiaith. It had never occurred to Britomart that the Old Ones would have their own name for their language, and she felt silly now for not having realized it. Tylwythiaith: it must have been the language of the Tylwyth Teg long ago. No wonder it sounded like a spell even when Amoret was just talking to a squirrel about acorns.

    Britomart had wanted to take one of the more impressive dictionaries instead¡ªthe kind that were heavy enough to have doubled as a weapon against a fully armed knight¡ªbut Amoret had told her that she would find little use for those dictionaries unless she decided to become an Old Tongue scholar. Even in that case, she had better work up to it. Instead, Amoret had selected this slimmer volume. Amoret had refused to translate the title for Britomart, telling her only that it was the right level for her and that her first task could be to figure out the title herself. Britomart had stubbornly set to work doing so, wanting to prove to Amoret that she could.

    The dictionary had come from amidst the row of glowing books that had lit up when Britomart wrote ¡°Dictionary of Galbrican and the Old Tongue¡± on a worn piece of parchment stretched taut beneath the lid of an ornate desk near the center of the library. Britomart had examined the desk early on in her search of the library, but she had dismissed it from her thoughts after finding only a piece of parchment, a quill pen, and a bottle of ink under its folding top. How was she to know that the piece of parchment was some sort of magical inventory? But as soon as she had finished writing her request, the ink had seeped into the parchment and disappeared, and the books had begun to glow.

    Britomart looked ruefully down at the book as she got out of bed and set it on her dressing table. She wished she had thought to ask for a dictionary with a pronunciation guide. She could understand the title now, but she couldn¡¯t have said it aloud if her life depended on it. She had to remind herself that speaking the Old Tongue wasn¡¯t her primary purpose, although it had been easy enough to let Amoret believe that. True, she did want to be able to speak it¡ªvery much in fact¡ªbut that wasn¡¯t as important as being able to read the other books the library had to offer: books that might contain a clue to a blood witch¡¯s weaknesses. She wondered why the prospect of finding such a book no longer left her feeling excited.

    Britomart greeted Amoret at the breakfast table with the phrase that she had memorized from the dictionary while she was tugging on a fresh tunic and leggings: ¡°Bore da.¡± Good morning.

    Amoret stared at Britomart blankly, then broke out into a grin and slowly repeated the words back to her, correcting her pronunciation. Then, Amoret said the phrase again, but with something else at the end. Britomart wished she had brought her dictionary with her. She tried to stow the sounds away in her mind to look up when she got back to her room. They had been something like ¡°hardow kisskeh.¡± She had a feeling there were probably some g¡¯s and y¡¯s hidden somewhere in there, though. She tried repeating the whole phrase back to Amoret, carefully enunciating every sound so that it came out as ¡°Boar-e dah, harrow kisskeh.¡±

    Amoret¡¯s grin widened. ¡°For me, I think, just Bore da, Cysgu.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t suppose you¡¯re going to tell me what that means?¡± Britomart asked, sitting down and helping herself to porridge.

    ¡°Bore da, Cysgu? It means ¡®Good morning, Beauty.¡¯¡±

    ¡°And what was the word you told me to leave out?¡±

    ¡°Harddwch. ¡®Sleeping.¡¯¡±

    Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. Britomart felt suddenly irritable. Amoret seemed to have a gift for making her feel that way. But it was hardly fair of Amoret to tease her for falling under a sleeping spell that Amoret¡¯s own ancestors had created. ¡°I wasn¡¯t under the sleeping spell for that long,¡± she protested.

    ¡°No, I saw to that,¡± Amoret replied with aggravating equanimity. ¡°But that¡¯s not what I¡¯m talking about. Judging by the circles under your eyes, you hardly slept at all last night.¡± Amoret craned closer. ¡°Are those letters imprinted on your cheek?¡± She reached towards Britomart¡¯s cheek as if to trace them, then seemed to catch herself and withdrew her hand.

    Britomart rubbed at her cheek and scowled, even more irritated at the fluttering feeling that had just started in her stomach. She wondered if it was from sleep deprivation or the porridge. ¡°I fell asleep on the dictionary.¡±

    ¡°An innovative way to read it.¡±

    ¡°If you¡¯re just going to tease me about it, maybe I should return the dashed thing to the library.¡±

    Amoret¡¯s expression softened. ¡°I¡¯m not teasing you, princess. Well, alright, maybe a little. But I¡¯m doing it because I¡¯m happy that you¡¯re learning the Old Tongue. My tongue. Few Galbricans speak it.¡±

    Britomart sighed in frustration. ¡°I¡¯m about as close to speaking the Old Tongue as a scholar of Aegyrian runes is to speaking ancient Aegyrian. Nothing sounds like it looks. I can¡¯t even get dore right, and that doesn¡¯t even have any y¡¯s.¡±

    Amoret looked at Britomart consideringly. ¡°You¡¯re serious about learning to speak the Old Tongue?¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± said Britomart, forgetting that she had spent much of the last hour convincing herself that this wasn¡¯t about learning to speak the Old Tongue; it was about deciphering books that would reveal the way to defeat a blood witch.

    ¡°A dictionary won¡¯t be enough for that. I doubt even an Old Tongue primer would be, if we could find one. You need a teacher.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s what I¡¯ve been telling you.¡±

    Amoret nodded decisively. ¡°We¡¯ll start now.¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll teach you. I should have from the start, only it didn¡¯t occur to me that you would want to learn. Besides, we can hardly continue my riding lessons with so much snow on the ground. This will be a good project. Now, you already know ¡®Bore da, Cysgu¡¯¡±¡ª

    ¡°I am not calling you Beauty. I was just repeating after you. You were the one calling me that: ¡®Sleepy Beauty¡¯ or whatever it was.¡±

    ¡°Sleeping Beauty,¡± Amoret corrected. ¡°Harddwch Cysgu. It is an expression in the Old Tongue. I think your equivalent would be ¡®sleepyhead.¡¯¡±

    ¡°Oh,¡± said Britomart, feeling very foolish.

    A hint of mischief entered Amoret¡¯s eyes. ¡°Although it would not have been so very inaccurate to have called you Cysgu instead. Now, let¡¯s start with the basics. You say bore da, I say it in turn, and then you ask, ¡®Sut wyt ti bore ma?¡¯ How fare you this morning? Try it. ¡®Sut wyt ti bore ma?¡¯ ¡±

    Britomart had to clear her throat several times before repeating after Amoret, for she had the distinct impression that somewhere in there, Amoret had just called her beautiful.

    By lunchtime, Britomart knew greetings for every time of day and could creditably answer the question of how her day was going, as long as her day was either going well, poorly, or so-so. Beyond that, her vocabulary ran out. She was torn between pride that she had mastered that much and annoyance that she could not say more.

    That afternoon, she returned to the library, where she began a study of a different sort. She glanced nervously over her shoulder as she scrawled the words ¡°Blood Witch¡± on the magical parchment, but Amoret had retreated to the east tower, and there was nobody to observe Britomart as she searched. She climbed the library¡¯s winding stairs to a row of softly glowing books. She picked the grimmest-looking one from among them, a musty old volume with a singed and peeling leather cover the color of dried blood. Then, walking so furtively that she looked as guilty as she felt, she retreated to her room to begin translating it. She had to go back to the library almost immediately to find a dictionary that went from the Old Tongue to Galbrican, since her current dictionary, which translated in the other direction, proved to be useless.

    She locked her chamber door and set to work on the chapter titles, writing them out in Galbrican as she deciphered them word by word. Slowly, they revealed themselves to her:

    Chapter 1: A Preamble Considering the Utility and Delight to Be Had of Studying the Most Excellent Magic of Our Great Protectors, the Blood Witches.

    Chapter 2: A Discourse on the History of Blood Witches, Including the Coming of the Tylwyth Teg and the Effects of Tylwyth-Human Miscegenation on Magical Efficacy Relating to Living Forms.

    Chapter 3: A Metaphysical Speculation on the Mingling of Elemental Magic and Human Life Force as Manifested in the Operations of Blood Magic.

    And so it went. Britomart was glad that she had grabbed a thicker dictionary this time. She did not think her dictionary for young scholars would have had any more of an idea of what some of those words meant than she did.

    Fifteen chapters later, she could safely say that the book did not contain a single chapter along the lines of ¡°On the Weaknesses of Blood Witches and How to Defeat Them in Ten Ways Most Sneaky and Simple.¡± She tore up the paper she had been using for her translation and threw it in the fire, not sure whether to feel disappointed or relieved. She thought of the row of books that had glowed when she wrote ¡°Blood Witch¡± on the parchment. She would try the next one tomorrow.

    By the time Britomart found the right book, the snow had long melted, and her language lessons had progressed far enough that she could hold a basic conversation in the Old Tongue about her summer travels. It went something like this:

    Amoret: ¡°What did you do this summer?¡±

    Britomart: ¡°I went on a trip to the North.¡±

    Amoret: ¡°Did you meet new friends?¡±

    Britomart: ¡°I made one friend. His name is Smudge. He is small.¡±

    Amoret: ¡°Did you visit anywhere fun?¡±

    Britomart: ¡°I visited a castle. It was not fun.¡±

    Amoret: ¡°Not at all?¡±

    Britomart, grudgingly: ¡°Sometimes it was fun.¡±

    Britomart had worked her way nearly to the end of the row of books on blood witches, and she was beginning to lose hope. She had painstakingly deciphered chapters on the actual practice of blood magic¡ªperhaps if she understood how it worked, she could disrupt it? She had blundered her way through accounts of the great feats of blood witches past. She had carefully examined all mentions of the instances when a blood witch had lost her powers (no conclusive reason for such instances had been found, although Blewedyn the Blunderer proposed that it was due to the instability of the humors in the female body, which had to purge itself of blood monthly or risk exploding from an excess of it). A foray into theoretical treatises on blood magic had quickly convinced Britomart that sticking to practical guides and histories was more productive. As far as she was concerned, an hour spent puzzling over ¡°the synergistic interpenetration of elemental energies and sanguineous material¡± was more than enough for one lifetime.

    The book that changed things was a massive volume with a plain leather cover, its spine bearing only the words Cronicl gan Gruffydd. Gruffydd¡¯s Chronicle. Britomart had not run across any mention of a chronicler named Gruffydd in the other histories, and she figured he must not be very important. Chroniclers like Amlodd True-Quill and Maelog Pinch-Parchment were constantly mentioned. It had not occurred to Britomart that Gruffydd was simply a more recent chronicler than those whose histories she had read.

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    As soon as Britomart opened the book and read its full title, she realized that she should have looked at it long ago. Inked across the first page were words she translated as Gruffydd¡¯s Chronicle, Being a True and Full Account of the Kingdom of the North, Its Rise and Fall under the Blood Witches, the Lives of the Rulers Aforesaid, and Its Most Tragical Conquest by the Southern Strangers. Britomart had not come across anything about the Galbrican Conquest yet, and she had come to the conclusion that, as far as the historians were concerned, the history of blood witches ended when the Conquest began. That was certainly the view in Galbrica. She should have known that it wouldn¡¯t be the view in the North. Her heart thumped faster as she turned to the table of contents and skimmed down it. She saw the name Morgwynna a few chapters from the end. The pages trembled slightly as she flipped through them to reach it.

    The official Galbrican histories of the Conquest were straightforward enough. After the death of the Northern queen with only a young child for her heir, the loose conglomeration of villages that constituted the Northern Kingdom had fallen into disarray. A small Galbrican army had been able to quickly subdue the North¡ªalways an unruly neighbor¡ªamidst that disarray, bringing the North under the law and order of Galbrica. One of the commanders of the army that conquered the locals had been appointed to rule the North in Queen Boemia¡¯s name. He had become the first Duke of Svernhold. Historians disagreed about whether Queen Boemia herself had been present in the campaign. Some said that her role in the Conquest was merely legend; others said that every legend had some grain of truth in it, and surely this one might too, for Boemia had been known to lead her own troops into other battles. Historians disagreed, too, over what had caused the Northern queen¡¯s death. Some said that she had wasted away from a fever brought on by the North¡¯s unwholesome climate; some that she had been gored by a wild beast while out hunting; some that she had been assassinated by a vengeful noble.

    That history had been a shock to Britomart when she first learned it, for she had not realized until she was fifteen that the legends of Queen Boemia were not actually historical accounts. She had slipped into her father¡¯s library soon after her sister Goneril had told her that, hoping for some proof that Goneril was wrong, but the histories she found there had merely confirmed her sister¡¯s words. Even so, the old tales had never ceased to feel more true than the official histories.

    Britomart felt the old tales whispering past her in the rustle of pages as she leafed through the book searching for the chapter on Morgwynna: a chapter that might tell her how one of the North¡¯s most powerful blood witches had been defeated, and how a blood witch might be defeated again.

    Boemia searched as day followed day, and spring turned to summer, and summer to fall. She searched as the land grew hard with fierce winter, and the wind of the North whipped her skin chapped and red. She searched always stealthy, amidst spies and enticements, amidst hardships unheard of and magic accursed. She searched till the end of her servitude neared her, and but one day remained of her bondage oath-sealed. Now the Blood Witch grew fearful for the Queen had not broken, had not bent to her will like a creature in thrall. For the Witch had schemed slyly to bind the Queen to her: through fear or through love, to make Boemia hers: hers to command, and Galbrica with her, the Witch¡¯s to rule with sorcery cruel. But Boemia too feared the time¡¯s waning, lest the contract expire ere she found the Witch¡¯s heart. For what would it be worth, that year¡¯s hated service, if she found not the way to destroy her fell host?

    Britomart wondered if she was about to find that there was some truth in the old tales after all: that there truly was some dark object¡ªa heart or otherwise¡ªhidden somewhere in the castle that was the key to Amoret¡¯s power.

    As the last day grew dim and the Witch ventured wood-wards, to do the grim rites that filled her foul nights, one chamber remained, its contents untried, for the door was close-watched by the spirits who lurked there, guarding in guise of servants most fair. Boemia knew that her one last hope lay there, but the servants must go if enter she would. So she lured into the castle many a wild boar, lured them in close near the chamber¡¯s watched door. She pricked them with nettles and their rage grew to bloodlust; they stampeded the hallway and chased servants clear. The chamber door yielded not to her pressure, and she knew, as she feared, that it must have been locked. She took from her belt the ax that she¡¯s stored there, snuck from the armory that morning at dawn. The first blow could doom her, she knew as she struck it, for she had no way to hide the damage she¡¯d done; when the Blood Witch returned, she would know what the Queen sought there and punish her sorely if the Queen found it not. But if Boemia found it and held firm the Witch¡¯s heart, the Blood Witch¡¯s life she would hold in her hands. So one blow and another Queen Boemia did strike, till the thick oaken wood could no longer withstand. The door splintered and fractured and gave way before her, and into the chamber she strode with her ax.

    How many times had the ending of the tale echoed through Britomart¡¯s mind when she spotted a dark patch of stone on the castle floor that might have been (but never was) a trapdoor? How many times had it haunted her when she walked past the forbidden east tower?

    She searched high and low in the room¡¯s every crevice, but nowhere she looked hid the Blood Witch¡¯s heart. She knew soon the servants would come back and find her, and her searching redoubled as she scoured the room. Then her keen eyes did see it, the mark yet unnoticed, and when her hand touched it, stone moved away. A hollow lay hidden behind the stone¡¯s roughness, and inside the hollow, a chest white as bone. From the hollow she pulled it and flipped the lid open, as behind her she heard racing spirits approach. Inside the box, on red velvet nestled, a still-beating heart pulsed in time to her own. She took it in her hands and held it before her, warm to the touch like a newly-slain deer. When she turned to the servants pouring in to surround her, they stopped still as stone when they saw what she held. For the first time that year, Queen Boemia smiled, for she knew once and for all the battle was won. Some servants fled fast to warn their fell mistress, and Boemia waited for the Blood Witch to come. Our great queen sat stately in the chamber and waited, until the Witch came before her, eyes blazing with rage. But her rage was all useless, and the Witch herself knew it, for Boemia held her heart in her hands.

    With voice sweet and terrible, the Blood Witch did ask her, ¡°Will you kill me, then, false queen, and break your sworn promise, to grant me one year of the life that you live?¡±

    Queen Boemia answered with words pure and regal, ¡°I am no false queen, but truer than iron, and as I have sworn, so I will do. Yet the last day is waning and midnight approaches, and when it arrives, my one year is through. Then no oath will bind me and my freedom will be mine, to do with your heart as my duty demands.¡±

    ¡°Does your duty demand that you show me no mercy?¡± the Blood Witch did ask with cunning most low.

    ¡° Mercy I¡¯ll show if you show you deserve it, though none have you shown me this filth-laden year. Yield me your kingdom and forswear your black arts; live as my prisoner, and I¡¯ll grant you your life.¡±

    ¡°Wealth I can grant you, and beauty unfathomed, a life longer than mortals, strength greater than oaks. This will I grant you if you give me my heart back, to live once more my own, queen of the North. But my kingdom I¡¯ll not grant, nor my magic I¡¯ll forswear, for both are my own, as is my heart.¡±

    ¡°Your heart you have sold for the price of your magic. Now that price has come due since your pride will not yield. My mercy I¡¯ve offered, my offer you¡¯ve refused, then bear the reward for the dark acts you have done. No blood witch shall live on to threaten my borders, to prey on my people and endanger their lives. This is my sentence, this is true justice: die for the evil with which you have lived.¡±

    Then outside a wolf howled, and despair seized the Blood Witch, for she felt in her bones that midnight had come. She drew out her dagger, pricked blood from her finger, our true queen to slay with a blood spell perverse. But our queen, she was quicker and took from beside her the ax she had used to break down the door; in its place on the stone floor, she laid down the cursed heart, and swinging the ax, clove it in twain. The Blood Witch screamed once as her heart was cleaved open, then she crumbled to ash, and the heart crumbled too. And at once all around her, her magic was vanquished, and all was exposed as it truly was: a castle of ripe rot, furnished with fungus, and served by gross spirits who now wailing fled.

    No more would the Blood Witch send beasts to kill children; no more would she blight Northern Galbrica¡¯s crops. No more would she threaten at Galbrica¡¯s borders; no more would she harm our kingdom so blessed. For our queen had protected the Galbrican people and defeated the Witch who would poison their lives.

    Boemia strode from the castle thus conquered, and she saddled her horse, and rode from the wood. She rode back to her country, to her throne rich and golden, her mission completed, her realm safe once more. There she chose from among the staunchest of her knights a band to go North and rule in her name, for the Blood Witch¡¯s kingdom lay now in chaos, lay now in need of Galbrica¡¯s rule. So the North became our land, Galbrican by right, through Boemia¡¯s courage and her heart pure and true.

    Pure and true. The words shivered through Britomart¡¯s memory as she turned one final page and found herself staring at the chapter she had been looking for, the one with Morgwynna¡¯s name in the title. She read the chapter¡¯s title carefully now, translating it word by word: ¡°On the Death of Queen Morgwynna, Killed by the Queen of the South, and the Fall of the Kingdom of the North.¡± So Queen Boemia had been the one to kill Morwgynna and conquer the North. Britomart felt a surge of triumph at being right when the Galbrican historians had been wrong. Perhaps she hadn¡¯t been so foolish in believing the old tales after all. She adjusted the book and began to translate the chapter.

    In the twelfth year of the reign of Queen Morgwynna the Great, which was the year 651 after the founding of the Kingdom of the North, the Queen of the Southern Strangers, Boemia by name, arrived at Castle Curiadcalon in the company of eight of her best knights, claiming to have come on a diplomatic mission and begging leave to stay as visitors at Queen Morwygnna¡¯s court, that they might learn the Northern ways and be joined to us in friendship and understanding. Only through such an understanding, the Southern Queen claimed, could the two kingdoms come to an agreement that would stop the constant border skirmishes that had grown up between them. Queen Morgwynna assented, for she knew that such skirmishes might grow to war if they were not stopped.

    A diplomatic mission? That wasn¡¯t in any of the histories Britomart had read before. Still, what was wrong with a diplomatic mission? It showed that Queen Boemia had come in peace.

    ¡­The Southern Queen stayed for many moons, until all knew that she must return to her kingdom soon, lest her power become unstable in her absence, for Galbrica was not so old of a realm as the Kingdom of the North, and Boemia¡¯s rule was what held it strong. The two queens came to an agreement to stop the border skirmishes and establish peaceful trade between their kingdoms, but still the Southern Queen stayed. Diaries salvaged from residents of Castle Curiadcalon at the time, now housed in the castle library, indicate a persistent rumor that Boemia¡¯s protracted stay was the result of an intensely personal relationship that had developed between the two. Morgwynna¡¯s consort had died some years earlier after providing her with a daughter, and the queen¡¯s widowed state intensified speculation on the nature of her relationship with the foreign queen.

    Britomart¡¯s bewilderment grew. It was all wrong. It had to be. Based on this, it sounded like Boemia had been Queen Morgwynna¡¯s guest, not her captive. That couldn''t have been the case. Killing one¡¯s host was sacrilege. Even a child knew that. And what did it matter if Morgwynna was a widow? Was Britomart supposed to feel sorry for her because of that? But it made her think of the way Rowena had talked about Amoret needing a companion, and the way Britomart had tried to make use of that in her attempt to free Alfrick. Britomart¡¯s hand felt clammy where she held the quill, and she had to wipe her palms against her tunic before continuing to write out her translation.

    ¡­Whether or not the rumor was correct that the Southern Queen had become Queen Morgwynna¡¯s lover companion¡ªhere Britomart had to correct her translation because the word she had translated as ¡®lover¡¯ clearly had an alternate definition¡ªit ultimately became clear that Queen Boemia¡¯s visit also had another purpose. It was a ploy designed to allow the Southern conquest of the North. In that aim, it was, alas, successful. On the last night of her visit, the Southern Queen stabbed the sleeping Queen Morgwynna and proceeded, with the assistance of her retinue of knights, to eliminate as many of the Northern nobles as possible. Presumably, the assassination fell on a prearranged date, for when the remaining nobles were finally able to mount a defense, the Southern Queen and her retinue fled through the Shadowed Wood to the Koleagh Pass, where they were met by a Galbrican army that had arrived to provide reinforcements.

    A blot of ink seeped into the paper as Britomart pressed down on her quill nearly hard enough to break its nib. It was wrong. All wrong. She wanted to stop reading, to slam the book shut and never think about it again, but something made her keep going.

    ¡­The Galbricans swept across the Kingdom of the North, meeting with little resistance as the North reeled from the loss of its queen and much of her court. The queen¡¯s heir, who now ascended to the Northern throne as Queen Aerona, was only nine years old, and had neither the experience nor the power to lead a successful defense, not yet having grown into a full blood witch. Some of the nobles attempted forays against the Southern conquerors, but the numbers of the Southern army were too large to resist without the strength of a full blood witch. The North fell. Historians speculate that the horror of the attack on Castle Curiadcalon, suffered at a young age, permanently stunted Queen Aerona¡¯s powers, for even when she grew to adulthood, she was unable to fully wield the power of the land and reclaim what had been conquered. She dedicated her reign sealing off the Shadowed Wood, which was all that remained of her kingdom. So it has remained since.

    Britomart made herself set the quill down calmly and read back over her translation. Perhaps she had mistranslated some crucial part, some part that had made her misunderstand the whole thing. By the time she finished rereading it, she knew that was not the case. Northern lies, she assured herself. Northern lies told to assuage the North¡¯s pride after being justly conquered by Galbrica. Queen Morgwynna had been harming the Galbrican people, and Boemia had acted nobly to save the Galbricans.

    So why did this book make Queen Boemia¡¯s vanquishing of Morgwynna sound like a guest¡¯s calculated assassination of her host? And what was that about an ¡®intensely personal relationship¡¯ between Boemia and Morgwynna? There was nothing about that in the Galbrican histories, unless you counted Morgwynna¡¯s attempts to enthrall Boemia in the old tales. This book made it sound almost like the two women had been friends. Or perhaps more than that. Britomart thought of the word she¡¯d crossed out: lovers. That had to have been a mistranslation. Two women couldn¡¯t be lovers.

    Two women couldn¡¯t¡­

    Britomart¡¯s breath seemed to freeze in her chest as a wave of realization hit her. Images washed over her. The firelight dancing in Amoret¡¯s eyes as they talked after dinner. The feel of Amoret¡¯s hand in hers. The warmth of Amoret¡¯s waist under Britomart¡¯s hands as they rode into the Shadowed Wood together. Snow on dark eyelashes. That familiar raised eyebrow. The sound of Amoret¡¯s infuriating, wonderful voice correcting Britomart¡¯s pronunciation on a new word in the Old Tongue. All of the things that Britomart had been trying so hard, and so unsuccessfully, not to think about.

    Perhaps lovers had not been a mistranslation after all.

    Britomart slammed the book shut and rose to her feet. She crumpled up her translation and tossed it in the fire. Lies. It had to be lies. Whatever the secret of Queen Boemia¡¯s defeat of Morgwynna had been, it had not been killing Morgwynna in her sleep. That meant that the book was hiding something: some other way to defeat a blood witch, to break her power. Perhaps, if the part about Boemia being the one to kill Morgwynna was true, then the legend about the Blood Witch¡¯s heart was true also.

    The time had come to find the truth, no matter the consequences.

    The time had come to search the east tower.

 Chapter 13: The Traditional Price

    Britomart strode to the east tower, her sword a reassuring weight against her hip. She couldn¡¯t have said exactly what she meant to do with it¡ªit would be far less useful for breaking down doors than Queen Boemia¡¯s ax¡ªbut she certainly did not want to be unarmed when she met whatever awaited her in the forbidden tower.

    Every instinct told her to stop as she stepped onto the tower¡¯s spiral staircase. Even if she didn¡¯t get caught¡ªwhich she might not, for Amoret had gone out that afternoon to tend to the wood¡ªBritomart knew she would not be able to hide her trespass into the forbidden tower. Her guilt would show as plainly on her face as her thoughts always did. She fought her instincts down. A Galbrican knight did not give into fear. A Galbrican knight did not worry about destroying her friendship with a blood witch. There could be no such friendship, not with people who warped the truth to try to turn Galbricans against their own country. There could be no friendship, only a temporary truce. And truces come to an end.

    Britomart held her breath as she reached the door to the first chamber and tried its handle. None of the castle¡¯s doors had been locked so far, but none of those had been intended to keep her out. Not for the first time, she missed Smudge. She did not think that a locked door would have been much of a barrier to him.

    Her breath whooshed out as the latch yielded to her touch, but her relief was followed by uneasiness. It felt too easy. Was this some sort of trap that Amoret had set for her, or had Amoret merely grown careless in guarding whatever secrets the tower hid, lulled into a false sense of security by Britomart¡¯s compliance? Or, worst of all, had the prohibition been no more than a test of Britomart¡¯s trustworthiness: a test she had just irrevocably failed? It did not matter. It could not matter. Britomart gritted her teeth and stepped into the room.

    It was a bedchamber like her own, and she knew at once that it must be Amoret¡¯s. The crimson gown that Amoret had worn to dinner the night before was thrown over the back of a chair, and the matching slippers lay at an awkward angle on the floor, as if they had been kicked off and left to lie where they landed. A smile tugged at the corner of Britomart¡¯s mouth. Amoret was so perfectly composed in everything she did that Britomart had assumed her bedchamber would be perfectly neat. As it was, Britomart was surprised that the castle had not found some way to protest. Britomart¡¯s eyes fell on the book on Amoret¡¯s dressing table, and her amusement died as she remembered why she was there. She began to search.

    She investigated every nook and cranny she could find, throwing open the wardrobe, scouring the contents of the small desk, pulling the covers off the bed, running her hands under the mattress, searching the floor for any mismatched stones, and scanning the walls for the tracery of a hidden compartment. Nothing. Nothing except for the traces of everyday life: a half-finished sheet of notes about an ointment for split hooves, a pair of stockings forlorn and forgotten under the bed, a single pearl earring missing its mate. Britomart hastily put the room back in order, though she knew it would fool no one. She closed the door quietly behind her as she left. There was a tightness in her chest that had nothing to do with fear. She assured herself that the truth would be worth it. It had to be.

    The stairs spiraled upwards, leading her onwards.

    The next chamber Britomart came to opened just as easily. She flinched back as an intense light hit her eyes, then realized that it was no more than the glare of sunlight off of glass. She was facing a counter filled with an assortment of tapered glass containers and a contraption that reminded her of the stills from the castle brewery back home, though much smaller. Beside them sat a small brazier with more than a few scorch marks around its base. The other walls were lined with shelves of carefully labeled jars and bunches of dried herbs, reminding her of the healing shed where she had helped Amoret fix Blewog¡¯s tooth.

    At the center of the room was a pitted table with a scroll unrolled upon it, old and faded. A brownish-red smudge ran down one side of the scroll as if someone had run their finger down it without properly wiping blood off their hands. Britomart tried not to look too closely at the stain as she craned over the scroll to study its title. The title was long enough to have made the ancient chroniclers proud: Swyn Trwy''r Hwn y Galler Dyrchafu''r Gosb Fwyaf O''r Amddifadedd o Ymwybyddiaeth, Pan y Gogwydda''r Frenhines, Yn Ei Holl Drugaredd a''i Fawredd, Tuag at Drugaredd. Britomart tried to read it, but none of the words were familiar except for swyn, spell. Well, that and a lot of prepositions, but those weren¡¯t very useful. A chill ran through Britomart as she realized that one of the other words was familiar after all. She had read the chroniclers praising the grandeur of long-dead blood witches too often not to recognize it: fawredd, greatness. A spell for greatness. If Britomart had been looking for proof that Amoret was up to something, she had just found it.

    With a pang, Britomart realized that when she had thought of the forbidden tower containing the dark secrets of the blood witch, she had never quite thought of those dark secrets as belonging to Amoret. Not her Amoret, the one who put far too much honey in her porridge and used her magic to heal injured animals. It was as if there were two different Amorets in Britomart¡¯s mind: the Amoret who was a dangerous blood witch, and the Amoret who gave Britomart language lessons and talked with her beside the fire each night. It seemed those two Amorets had been the same woman the whole time. Amoret¨Cher Amoret¨Chad always been and never ceased to be a dangerous blood witch. A blood witch who was preparing a spell to gain power.

    Britomart could think of no reason for such a spell other than an attempt to reclaim the North from Galbrica. She slammed her hand down on the table and turned away, wanting to look anywhere else but at the scroll, wanting to be anywhere else but here, here where she finally knew that someday she and Amoret would be facing each other across battlelines. Unless she did something to stop Amoret first.

    Britomart grabbed the scroll and left the room. She rolled the scroll tightly as she continued up the stairs, tucking it under her swordbelt where it rubbed uncomfortably against her waist with every step. She would not destroy it. Not yet. For now, she needed the scroll as proof¡ªthough whether as proof to anybody else or only to herself, she did not know.

    Britomart threw open the door to the next chamber with savage efficiency. Once again, she found herself squinting: not from light this time, but from darkness. The room was so dim that she could make nothing out except for a tall, spindly-legged shape at its center. A thin sliver of light from the far wall led her across the room to where a thick velvet curtain had been pulled over a tall, arched window. The sunlight that poured in when she pulled aside the curtain was almost blinding, and she blinked ferociously for several seconds before the room came into focus around her.

    When it did, her breath caught. She was standing in a whirl of color. The chamber walls were lined with canvases painted with the bold grace that could only belong to Corsirian art. Britomart had seen only two Corsirian paintings in her life, but they were not something a person forgot easily. They had been gifted to her father by Corsirian ambassadors, and he had hung them in his own chambers, claiming that it would be un-Galbrican to hang another country¡¯s art in the throne room. Britomart suspected that her father just wanted to keep the paintings for his own chambers. They were that magnificent. And now she was standing in a room full of them.

    Entranced, Britomart walked from one painting to the next. She knew that Amoret¡¯s mother Arundel had visited Corsiria in her youth and that she must have met Amoret¡¯s father there, for Amoret¡¯s olive complexion was that of a Corsirian. Arundel must have brought the paintings back with her from Corsiria when she returned to the Shadowed Wood. The cost of so many paintings would have been astounding. So was their beauty.

    At last, Britomart came to the easel at the center of the room: the tall, spindly object whose outline she had glimpsed in the dark. Britomart stepped back in shock when she saw what was on it. It held a half-finished painting in the same masterful strokes as the others, but whereas the other canvases had depicted the exploits of the gods or majestic forest views, this one showed only a simple human scene: a woman grooming a horse. There was an undefinable tenderness about it: something about the way the light filtering through the stable door touched the woman¡¯s cheek, or perhaps about the way the artist had captured the untidiness of the woman¡¯s blonde braid. A braid that Britomart knew all too well from her own mirror.

    ¡°Do you like it?¡± asked a voice from behind her.

    Britomart whirled, her hand going to her sword hilt. Amoret watched her from the doorway. Britomart swallowed hard and made herself drop her hand to her side. In all her imaginings of being caught, it had never gone quite like this. Instead of accusations or evasions, she found that all she could say was, ¡°Why is there a painting of me here? Is it magic?¡±

    ¡°It is not magic. It is art. And it is here because I have been painting it.¡±

    ¡°You? You mean, these paintings¡­you...¡±

    ¡°My mother painted many of them, but yes, the rest are mine.¡±

    ¡°How? Nobody paints like that, not outside of Corsiria. And even then, it takes ages to get that good.¡±

    ¡°My father taught her, and she taught me. I have been painting since I was old enough to hold a paint brush. I told you once that the castle got upset with me when I was young for painting on its walls.¡±

    ¡°And your father? Are any of these his?¡±

    A sad smile flickered across Amoret¡¯s face. ¡°Only one.¡± She crossed to the window and picked up a small painting that was propped beside it, no larger than her outspread hand. She handed it to Britomart. ¡°This one.¡±

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    It was a portrait of a young woman, perfect in every detail. One of the woman¡¯s eyebrows was slightly arched, and there was a familiar glint of amusement in her eyes. Britomart thought she now knew where Amoret had inherited that particular expression. ¡°Your mother,¡± she said, handing the portrait back to Amoret.

    ¡°My mother,¡± Amoret confirmed, replacing the portrait in its former spot. ¡°It was the only one of my father¡¯s paintings that she could take with her when she fled Corsiria. My father had been a master painter there, good enough to be commissioned to paint the frescoes on the ceilings when his city began construction of a new temple. High ceilings, you understand. The scaffolding that he was standing on gave way, and by the time they brought him to my mother, he was dead. She tried to bring him back to life. It did not work, of course. No blood witch in her right mind would try, particularly not that far from the Shadowed Wood. One of the washing women saw her trying to do it, and soon the whole city knew there was a strega in their midst. A witch. They have legends of witchcraft in Corsiria, just as they do in Galbrica. Their legends are not any kinder to witches than yours are. So the city drove my mother out with stones and fire. She could not resist with her power so diluted that far from the North. The portrait was all she could salvage of my father¡¯s. The portrait and me, that is. By the time she made it back to the Shadowed Wood, she had learned she was with child.¡±

    Amoret gazed out of the window, but she seemed to be looking at something much farther away than anything that lay outside of it. ¡°Rowena says that my mother was different before Corsiria: always out wandering past the borders of the Shadowed Wood, always curious about what the world beyond might hold. She lost her trust in the outside world when she was driven from Corsiria. So she walled herself away in the castle and painted, and when I was old enough, she taught me to paint too. And when my grandmother died and my mother became queen, my mother took down the bell that used to sit outside the castle walls for people to seek a meeting with the blood witch. She did not like visitors, even those who were her own subjects. She was not a very good queen, my mother. I am trying to be better.¡±

    ¡°But you have not rebuilt the bell,¡± Britomart observed.

    ¡°No. I have not rebuilt the bell.¡± Amoret turned to look at Britomart then, and Britomart nearly stepped back at the ferocity in her gaze. ¡°Tell me, princess, why should I? Why, when the one person I have let into this castle betrays me? I forbade you only one place, and that was this tower. Or had you forgotten?¡±

    ¡°I had not forgotten.¡±

    ¡°Then why are you here?¡±

    ¡°I came to find the truth.¡± Bracing herself, Britomart added, ¡°The truth about how to defeat a blood witch.¡±

    ¡°Why now? You have had months to do so.¡±

    ¡°I found a book in the library. It said that Queen Boemia murdered Morgwynna in her sleep. It said that the whole thing was a plot to take over the North by killing her host, and that¡­that Boemia and Morgwynna were lovers.¡±

    ¡°I see. And what do your Galbrican histories tell you?¡±

    ¡°The histories say that Galbrica claimed the North after it fell into chaos following the death of its queen. The old tales say that it was Queen Boemia who took the North. She found the Blood Witch¡¯s heart and clove it in twain, and the Blood Witch crumbled to dust.¡±

    ¡°Did it never occur to you,¡± Amoret asked with forced levelness, ¡°that the part about Morgwynna¡¯s heart might be metaphorical?¡±

    Britomart stared at Amoret, aghast, then looked down at the floor. ¡°No,¡± she whispered.

    She heard the slither of Amoret¡¯s gown on the stones as Amoret drew closer, then Amoret¡¯s voice, near now, asking, ¡°Did you come to the east tower to search for my heart?¡±

    Britomart couldn¡¯t bring herself to look up. ¡°No¡ªand yes. I wasn¡¯t sure what to believe.¡±

    There was another swish of fabric, and the hem of Amoret¡¯s gown came into view, followed by Amoret¡¯s hand, reaching for Britomart¡¯s. Britomart let Amoret draw her hand upwards and place it over her heart. Amoret¡¯s heartbeat thrummed under Britomart¡¯s palm.

    ¡°But you see, princess, there is a problem with your plan. I still have my heart. Here. I would not be so careless as to cut it out and leave it somewhere for you to find. If you were hoping to crumble me into dust, let me assure you that you never had a chance. If, on the other hand, you were simply hoping to trade my heart for Alfrick, we may be able to come to an arrangement.¡±

    Britomart looked up. ¡°What sort of arrangement?¡±

    ¡°I will wake your Alfrick. I will even wake the other sleepers too¡ªall those who sleep in the outer cave, for those who lie in the inner cave were justly sentenced to their sleep by blood witches past. I will do all of this for one simple thing in return: the traditional price for breaking a sleeping spell, though it is typically paid to the sleeper. A kiss.¡±

    ¡°I tried that. I kissed one of the sleepers the first time I saw them. She didn¡¯t wake up. It has to be true love¡¯s kiss.¡±

    ¡°I am not talking about kissing the sleepers.¡±

    Britomart¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°Oh.¡±

    ¡°Do we have a bargain, then?¡±

    ¡°Just one kiss?¡±

    ¡°Just one.¡±

    ¡°And you¡¯ll wake all of the sleepers?¡±

    ¡°All those in the outer cavern, Alfrick included.¡±

    ¡°Done.¡±

    Britomart squinched her eyes shut and held herself as still as stone.

    A few moments passed, then more. And more. Finally, Britomart felt her hand fall away from Amoret¡¯s heart as Amoret took a step back. Britomart warily opened her eyes. Amoret was standing by the window again, arms crossed, looking unimpressed.

    ¡°Aren¡¯t you going to¡­you know?¡± Britomart asked.

    ¡°I have no interest in kissing a statue, princess. If this bargain is distasteful to you, perhaps we should find another. I would not have much use for all of the gold in your father¡¯s treasury, but for form¡¯s sake, perhaps that might¡±¡ª

    ¡°No. Wait.¡±

    Britomart reached Amoret before she was even aware that she had started moving. She had a moment to see the startled expression on Amoret¡¯s face, and then her hand was on Amoret¡¯s cheek, tilting her chin upwards. Her lips met Amoret¡¯s, and she felt Amoret soften against her as her surprise passed. It vaguely occurred to Britomart that this was when she should step back¡ªshe had performed her duty, no more was necessary¡ªbut instead she felt her hand slipping into Amoret¡¯s hair, felt herself pulling Amoret closer. When at last she broke away, she could not have said whether seconds or hours had passed. She only knew that, for a while, the world had stood still, and at its center had been only Amoret.

    Then the world snapped back into place, and Britomart stepped back from Amoret so hastily that she nearly crashed into the easel. She steadied herself on the small table of paints beside it and sent several paintbrushes rolling onto the floor. She was surprised to see that Amoret looked equally flustered.

    ¡°I see why that is the traditional price,¡± Amoret said.

    Britomart let out a hoarse laugh.

    ¡°You¡¯ve kept your end of the bargain. I will keep mine. We¡¯ll leave for the cavern the day after tomorrow. In the meantime, there are things I need to prepare. Things for which I will need the scroll currently tucked into your sword belt.¡±

    Britomart blanched. ¡°You knew I found it.¡±

    ¡°I checked my workroom as soon as I saw that somebody had searched my chamber. That is a very valuable scroll you have there, princess. One that I will need quite soon.¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t let you have it. I saw the title. A spell for greatness. I don¡¯t know what you were planning to do with it, but I can''t let you.¡±

    ¡°Not even if you would be giving up what you just bargained for?¡±

    Regret stabbed through Britomart. She had been so close. So close to waking Alfrick. But the safety of Galbrica came first. ¡°Not even then.¡±

    Amoret shrugged. ¡°As you wish. Take the scroll, and let our bargain end.¡± She turned to go.

    ¡°You¡¯re not going to stop me?¡± Britomart called after her in confusion.

    Amoret paused in the doorway. ¡°No. I am going to get you a dictionary. Kindly wait until I have returned with it before you destroy the scroll. It is for your own benefit.¡±

    Britomart listened to Amoret¡¯s retreating footsteps. She thought about fleeing the castle, taking the scroll and riding back to Galbrica, returning with enough soldiers to put an end to all of this. Whatever Amoret was doing, it had to be a ruse. But it didn¡¯t feel like one.

    Amoret returned to find Britomart poised over the scroll with flint and steel at the ready to burn it if needed. ¡°Very dramatic,¡± Amoret commented wryly as she set down the dictionary. ¡°Now do some reading.¡±

    She left Britomart craning over the ancient scroll and returned to her chamber. Fifteen minutes later, Amoret heard the sound of muffled cursing coming from two floors above.

    Britomart wanted to sink through the floor as she knocked on Amoret¡¯s chamber door. Amoret opened it, and the amused look on her face made Britomart go even redder.

    Britomart held out the scroll to her. ¡°Here. I want to keep our bargain.¡±

    ¡°You finished your translation, I see,¡± Amoret said innocently. ¡°And what did you learn?¡±

    ¡°This spell¨C¡± Britomart smacked the scroll with her free hand and then quickly smoothed it. ¡°This spell,¡± she began more calmly, ¡°is not a spell for greatness.¡±

    ¡°Indeed. Shall I check your translation of the title?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d rather not.¡±

    ¡°I insist.¡±

    Seeing no way around it, Britomart cleared her throat and read out, ¡°A Spell by Which the Most Grave Punishment of the Deprivation of Consciousness May Be Lifted, When the Queen, in All Her Mercy and Greatness, Inclines Towards Mercy.¡±

    ¡°In other words¡­¡± Amoret prompted.

    ¡°Are you really going to make me say it?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s the spell to remove the sleeping curse.¡±

    ¡°Good.¡±

    ¡°But how was I supposed to know that?¡± Britomart burst out. ¡°It was in your workroom, for Woden¡¯s sake! I thought the only things in there would be¡­you know¡­things you were working on.¡±

    ¡°They were,¡± said Amoret.

    ¡°They can¡¯t have been! Not this one. If you were working on this spell that would mean¡­¡±

    ¡°That I had already decided to reverse the curse? Yes, it would.¡±

    ¡°But you made me make a bargain!¡±

    Amoret shrugged. ¡°People always value things more when they come at a cost. And there are other things that come at a cost too. Going where one is forbidden, for example. I could not grant your request for free after that.¡±

    ¡°Well, it¡¯s all settled now,¡± Britomart said firmly, holding out the scroll again. ¡°I kept my end of the bargain, you¡¯ll keep yours. Here¡¯s your scroll.¡±

    Amoret pushed the scroll gently away. ¡°I think not, princess. You ended that bargain when you took the scroll.¡±

    ¡°But I¡¯m giving the scroll back.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not that easy.¡±

    ¡°Fine. What do you want this time?¡±

    A slow grin spread over Amoret¡¯s face. ¡°Oh, I think the same terms as last time will do quite nicely.¡±

 Chapter 14: The Awakening

    They reached the stream at midmorning two days later. Britomart felt lightheaded from the sense of d¨¦j¨¤ vu as she and Amoret dismounted to walk the last bit to the cavern on foot, leaving Arthur to graze contentedly at the stream¡¯s edge. Amoret had had a stern talk with Arthur about staying nearby and assured Britomart that there was no need to tie him up.

    Britomart was nearly bowled over by the force of the creature that came charging at her from out of the woods, and she narrowly avoided falling into the stream, armor and all, in the moment before she was able to catch her balance and extricate herself from the small arms that were wrapped around her waist. When she did so, she found a scrawny boy glaring accusingly up at her.

    ¡°You promised you¡¯d come back,¡± he said.

    Britomart pulled Smudge back into a hug, squishing him against her armor.

    ¡°Ouch,¡± said a muffled voice from somewhere around her navel.

    Britomart let Smudge go and ruffled his hair. ¡°I did come back, scamp. It just took me a little longer than expected.¡±

    ¡°You were gone for months. It snowed. Twice.¡± Judging by Smudge¡¯s tone, this seemed to be a particularly grievous offense on Britomart¡¯s part.

    ¡°And that was very wrong of me,¡± Britomart responded gravely. ¡°But I came back as soon as I could.¡± Movement near the trees caught her attention, and she realized that Amoret was talking with two figures there. One of the figures drew back its hood, and Britomart saw that it was Rowena. The other must be Danbar.

    Smudge turned to follow Britomart¡¯s gaze, and his eyes went wide. ¡°Is that the Blood Witch?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s Amoret.¡± Britomart felt a flush creeping over her cheeks as she watched Amoret, and she abruptly turned back to Smudge. ¡°And yes, she¡¯s a blood witch.¡± Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Amoret and Rowena had finished their conversation and were headed towards her and Smudge with Danbar following behind them like a bodyguard.

    Smudge stared at Amoret in ghoulish fascination. ¡°Is she going to liquify our bones and eat our livers for breakfast?¡±

    Britomart tried to hush the boy, but Amoret had already heard him.

    ¡°Only if you annoy me,¡± Amoret replied as she reached them.

    ¡°Amoret!¡± Britomart said, aghast.

    There was a familiar gleam of mischief in Amoret¡¯s eyes as she haughtily raised an eyebrow. ¡°What? I am a blood witch.¡±

    ¡°Yes, but¡±¡ª Britomart noticed that Rowena was watching them with amusement and promptly cut herself off. She refused to give Rowena the satisfaction of seeing how well her plan had worked. It didn¡¯t matter that Rowena¡¯s plan had helped Britomart achieve her quest. She did not like how smoothly Rowena had manipulated Amoret. Britomart also had a sneaking suspicion that Rowena had manipulated her too, although she could have said precisely how or why Rowena had done so.

    ¡°It is good to see you again, Britomart,¡± Rowena said, as if sensing Britomart¡¯s thoughts. ¡°You look¡­thriving.¡±

    Danbar, stoic as always, merely nodded in greeting.

    Britomart gave a curt nod to both in return, then stiffly replied, ¡°Rowena, I must offer you my greatest thanks for taking care of Smudge in my absence. I can never repay you sufficiently, but I will endeavor to try if you tell me what you would wish in recompense.¡±

    ¡°I wish for nothing but what you have given me already: a chance to see my goddaughter. I trust that the two of you got on well?¡±

    Britomart¡¯s eyes met Amoret¡¯s. Both women had the look of children who had just been caught stealing sweetmeats from the kitchen. Smudge looked suspiciously from Britomart to Amoret and then back again. The look of suspicion on his small face changed to one of speculation. You did not grow up on the streets of Rivensfeldt without learning a thing or two about the facts of life. Slippery Meg and her associates had never seen much need to censor their conversation around the young pickpockets.

    ¡°We got along sufficiently,¡± Britomart finally answered.

    ¡°Sometimes quite well, even,¡± Amoret said airily. ¡°When she was not plotting to kill me.¡±

    ¡°Excellent,¡± said Rowena, smiling beneficently.

    Britomart feigned a sudden interest in the stream.

    Amoret cleared her throat and shifted her basket to her other hand. ¡°Well, I suppose there is no reason to delay. We have all we need. Rowena, would you do the honors?¡±

    Rowena stepped out onto the portion of the riverbank where grass gave way to the slick rocky shelf that curved behind the waterfall. Britomart had not been looking forward to repeating that part of the journey, nor to leading a group of newly awakened sleepers back out along the slick rock after Amoret had reversed the spell. Some of the sleepers looked like they had been asleep for a very long time. Britomart doubted that a three-hundred-year nap improved one¡¯s coordination.

    Apparently, she need not have worried. Rowena murmured something too low for Britomart to make out in the Old Tongue, and the rock softened and stretched like pulled taffy before hardening once more, now in a wide, flat ledge. Britomart blinked and looked closer. The newly formed ledge was even crosshatched for steadier footing. Britomart wondered uneasily just how powerful Rowena was¡ªand just what Rowena was. She had tried asking Amoret about Rowena once, but when she asked Amoret what Rowena was, Amoret had merely responded, ¡°My godmother.¡± When Britomart replied, ¡°Yes, but what is she?¡± Amoret had volunteered no more than, ¡°She was my mother¡¯s godmother too.¡± Whatever Rowena was, Britomart was glad of the surer footing as they made their way behind the waterfall and into the cave with the older woman in the lead.

    Light pooled through the stone at Rowena¡¯s every step, spreading out in lazy ripples to envelop the group as they walked through the tunnel. Britomart felt the plink of water droplets on her armor. The weight of the plate felt unfamiliar, a reminder that she had reentered her old life. She remembered all too well the vulnerability of venturing into the cave in only her leggings and a tunic last time, and she had resolutely refused to do so again, even before knowing that the risk of falling into the stream would be far smaller this time. Amoret had pointed out that waking up to a fully armed knight might not be the most reassuring experience for the sleepers, but Britomart had pointed out that some of the sleepers were wearing armor too, even if Rowena had stored their weapons in a back room of her cabin. What Britomart did not say was that she wanted to be able to protect Amoret if any of the sleepers attempted to kill the blood witch as soon as they awakened. Both of them were aware of the risk.

    Britomart had not thought much about the logistics of waking the sleepers until she and Amoret had discussed it over dinner after making their bargain. Britomart had been relieved to have something so concrete to talk about¡ªsomething that could hold at bay the memory of Amoret¡¯s lips against hers. She and Amoret had decided to wake the sleepers one at a time, beginning with the most recent and working their way back in time. Those sleepers were likely to be the hardest to deal with, for they would be awakening to find that the world they knew was gone. Rowena would go with them, to take the lead with the sleepers from the Northern villages and to restrain any sleepers who, as Amoret had diplomatically put it, ¡°reacted adversely¡± to their awakening. Neither she nor Britomart wanted the awakening to descend into violence.

    Waking the sleepers had seemed like such a simple matter when Britomart had asked Amoret to do it. Now, she was beginning to understand why Amoret had needed so much time to consider.

    Britomart put a hand on Smudge¡¯s shoulder as they stepped into the cavern itself. Together, they stood and watched the light ripple out across the vast stone floor, sending the darkness fleeing up the cavern walls. The light seeped up the slabs that bore the sleepers, chasing the shadows from one body after another until the cavern looked like a vast mausoleum bathed in the mellow gold of the late summer sun. Amoret¡¯s eyes locked with Rowena¡¯s, and the two women nodded and began to make their way to the back of the cavern, where the most recent sleepers lay. A pang of loss shot through Britomart as she followed. She had not realized how accustomed she had become to being the one at Amoret¡¯s side. But it had always been about this, she reminded herself: about waking the sleepers, accomplishing her quest, and bringing Alfrick home to Willa. Amoret had only ever been an obstacle to be overcome. A very lovely obstacle. One who had felt undeniably nice in her arms.

    Britomart made herself study the cave around her before her mind could drift back once more to the events in the tower. She watched the sleepers they were walking past grow more and more recent. Her heart started to beat faster as they passed the rosy-cheeked form of Sir Rolf and she realized¨Ctruly realized¨Cthat it was really happening. Amoret was going to wake Alfrick. Britomart¡¯s quest was going to succeed.

    Rowena stopped Amoret at Alfrick¡¯s slab, and Amoret began to unload the items from her basket, laying them meticulously on the empty strip of stone at Alfrick¡¯s side: a small, sharp knife; a square of dark fabric; and a worn-looking scroll whose title was now burned into Britomart¡¯s mind, where it would likely stay until her dying day, making her wriggle with embarrassment any time she thought of it.

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    Averting her eyes from the scroll, Britomart made her way over to stand beside Danbar on the other side of Alfrick¡¯s slab, steering Smudge with her.

    Amoret looked around at the assembled company. ¡°Ready?¡± She was answered by a series of nods, as if nobody dared speak lest it disrupt the magic that was about to happen.

    Amoret¡¯s blade flashed, and she pressed her bleeding palm to the exposed patch of skin between Alfrick¡¯s glove and hauberk. The lilting rhythm of her voice seemed to expand to fill the cave as she recited the spell. The cavern walls echoed the words back to them in counterpoints both sweet and harsh.

    Alfrick¡¯s eyes opened, hazily focused on something in front of him, something only he could see. His lips moved as he reached for it, and Britomart leaned close to catch what he was murmuring.

    ¡°¡ªa single rose, for Willa. Beauty for beauty.¡±

    ¡°You idiot!¡± Britomart exclaimed, standing back up with her arms crossed. ¡°You picked a rose for Willa from a castle in the middle of the Shadowed Wood? Even I could have told you that was bound to be magical, and I¡¯m not even from the North.¡±

    Rowena gave her a reproachful look from Alfrick¡¯s other side, and Britomart remembered that she was supposed to be being soothing. ¡°Well, it¡¯s true,¡± she said defensively.

    ¡°Britomart?¡± a bewildered voice asked. Britomart looked back down to see the faraway expression clearing from Alfrick¡¯s face as he fought his way out of the haze. His hand dropped from plucking its imaginary rose, and he pushed himself up into a sitting position.

    Britomart reached out a hand to steady him. ¡°It¡¯s me.¡±

    He did not seem to notice her steadying hand, for his eyes had just fallen on the man beside her. ¡°Danbar!¡±

    ¡°Aye, milord.¡±

    Alfrick¡¯s brow crinkled as he noticed Smudge. ¡°Danbar, why is there a child with you? And Britomart, what are you doing here? We¡¯re days from Boemopolis. Did Willa send you?¡±

    ¡°Child my arse,¡± Smudge grumbled. ¡°I¡¯m not the one who just took a nap.¡±

    Britomart flicked Smudge on the back of the head, but Alfrick had not even noticed the remark. Instead, he was looking past them at the cavern. ¡°Good gods, where am I? The last thing I remember, it was nighttime, and we were chasing after Rolf in the wood, and there was a clearing and a castle. A castle with the most beautiful roses I¡¯ve ever¡­¡± His voice trailed off into a groan, and he put his head in his hands. His voice came out muffled as he said, ¡°Tell me I didn¡¯t pluck a rose from a magic castle.¡±

    Danbar nodded stoically. ¡°Aye, milord, that¡¯s about the shape of it.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve been an idiot.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s what I was telling you,¡± said Britomart. ¡°Though, to be fair, I don¡¯t think you were fully conscious yet when I was saying it.¡±

    ¡°And Rolf?¡± Alfrick asked, raising his head from his hands.

    ¡°On the next slab,¡± Danbar said.

    Britomart reached out to stop Alfrick as he began to turn, her gaze flicking frantically to where Rowena and Amoret stood at the slab¡¯s other side, albeit at a safe distance. ¡°Wait! There¡¯s something else we should tell you first.¡±

    ¡°Rolf¡¯s not hurt, is he?¡± Alfrick tried even harder to turn, and Britomart¡¯s grip on his arm tightened.

    ¡°Sir Rolf is fine,¡± she assured him. ¡°The thing we need to tell you has to do with how you got awakened.¡±

    Alfrick blanched, a look of horror dawning on his face as he stared at Britomart, no longer struggling. ¡°You didn¡¯t¡­I mean, the stories say¡­you didn¡¯t wake me up by kissing me, did you? Does that mean I have to marry you? Not that I don¡¯t like you, of course, but Willa¡­¡±

    ¡°Gods no. I would have kissed you if I¡¯d had to, mind, but thankfully it doesn¡¯t work like that. It has to be true love¡¯s kiss.¡± She thought of the forbidden tower. ¡°At least, most of the time. Sometimes the kiss is more of an, umm, special arrangement between interested parties.¡±

    Alfrick was starting to look confused, and Britomart had the distinct feeling that Amoret was trying not to laugh. Britomart cleared her throat. ¡°But that¡¯s neither here nor there. The point is that I didn¡¯t wake you. Somebody else did. My¡ªwell, my friend, I suppose. She¡¯s the owner of the castle. She¡¯s not the one who put the spell on the roses; that was her great-great-great-great¡­I don¡¯t know how many greats, but it was one of her ancestors, not her. So it¡¯s not her fault, really. And she did wake you up, after all, so, you see, she can¡¯t be that evil.¡±

    Britomart thought she saw Amoret roll her eyes.

    Alfrick was looking confused again. ¡°So you¡¯re saying she kissed me? Do I have to marry her, then?¡±

    ¡°For Woden¡¯s sake, Alfrick, nobody kissed you, and you don¡¯t have to marry anybody. Except Willa, if you want to. Danbar, would you explain?¡±

    ¡°You were under a blood spell,¡± Danbar said gruffly. ¡°A blood witch broke it. She¡¯s not bad for a blood witch, so you don¡¯t need to kill her.¡±

    ¡°And she¡¯s a looker,¡± Smudge helpfully chimed in.

    Alfrick stared at Smudge for a moment, then looked to Britomart for confirmation, as if wondering whether everyone around him had gone crazy.

    Britomart shrugged. ¡°That captures the main points.¡±

    Alfrick went even paler than he had when he thought that Britomart had kissed him. ¡°Then we need to get out of here. Britomart, you¡¯re not from the North, you don¡¯t know how dangerous blood witches are. They¡¯re supposed to have died out centuries ago, but if there¡¯s still one alive¡­Britomart, if half the stories are true, we¡¯re talking about someone who would turn us inside out as soon as look at us. Where¡¯s my sword?¡± Alfrick felt frantically at his side for his missing swordbelt, then swung himself off the slab to look for it. Britomart barely managed to get out of the way in time to avoid having him clang into her.

    ¡°Sir Alfrick,¡± Danbar began. But Britomart never found out what Danbar meant to say, for at that moment Alfrick caught sight of Amoret and Rowena. Alfrick froze, then scrambled back to take up a fighting stance with nothing but his fists. Britomart¡¯s hand went to her sword, and she wondered who exactly she was planning to use it on.

    Then Amoret stepped forward. ¡°I mean no harm,¡± she said, her voice rich and regal.

    ¡°How do I know that?¡± Alfrick demanded, not quite able to keep the quaver from his voice, although his fists remained up and ready.

    ¡°Because if I did,¡± Amoret replied, ¡°you would already be dead. As you said, I could turn you inside out as easily as look at you, should I wish to do so. Yet you will find that you are still right-side-out. Not only that, but you are awake. Had I not awakened you, you would have slept for eternity. As it is, you have lost only the passing of two seasons. The curse itself was not my own, though I must apologize for the¡­overzealousness of my ancestors in protecting their castle.¡±

    Britomart stared at Amoret in surprise and¡ªthough she was ashamed to admit it¡ªfear. She had never heard Amoret talk like this: like a blood witch ruling over her domain. And yet, as she glanced at Alfrick, waiting to see if he would attack, she saw that Amoret¡¯s approach seemed to be working. Based on Alfrick¡¯s considering expression, he seemed to have found Amoret¡¯s words logical rather than simply terrifying.

    ¡°Why?¡± Alfrick demanded. ¡°Why won¡¯t you harm us? Why wake me?¡±

    ¡°Let us say that your princess was very convincing.¡±

    There was a clang as Smudge elbowed Britomart salaciously, forgetting that she was wearing armor. Amoret¡¯s eyes flicked to Smudge, who was rubbing his elbow, then back to Alfrick.

    Amoret continued, ¡°Your princess convinced me that it was not right for me to leave those who had fallen under my ancestors¡¯ spell to sleep unendingly beneath it. So I have come to wake the sleepers, and among them, you.¡±

    ¡°And after you¡¯ve woken us?¡± Alfrick asked warily.

    That had been the hardest part of the plan, a part that Britomart had not even thought about until Amoret brought it up the day before. But there was no hint of the uncertainty Britomart knew must be there as Amoret replied, ¡°Those who wish to leave may do so immediately, or they may stay at the castle for as long as they need to prepare themselves for their journey. Those who no longer have a home to return to can remain in the castle as long as they need. If they wish to take up residence in the Shadowed Wood, they may stay as my subjects. If they wish to start life anew in the Northern villages or in Galbrica, they will receive sufficient resources to do so. In return, I ask only that all those I have awoken say nothing of what they have experienced in this wood after they leave its bounds. You became lost, and Britomart found you; that is all. There was no castle and no slumber. There was no blood witch.¡±

    ¡°Is she telling the truth?¡± Alfrick asked Britomart.

    Britomart¡¯s eyes met Amoret¡¯s. She thought of her doubts two days before. ¡°Yes,¡± Britomart said levelly. ¡°She is telling the truth.¡± Britomart had the sense that she had just come to a decision about something far greater than whether Amoret would keep her word to the sleepers.

    Alfrick let out a shaky breath, then traced a stiff bow to Amoret. ¡°Then I suppose I should offer you my thanks, my lady.¡±

    The air in the cavern seemed to grow lighter as the tension around them eased. Amoret inclined her head. ¡°Your thanks are most welcome, Sir Alfrick. Now, I believe you have been looking for a certain Sir Rolf? If you would not mind, we could use your assistance in explaining the situation when he awakes. Perhaps we can even manage it without him wanting to attack me.¡±

    Alfrick began an awkward apology, but Amoret was already walking towards the next slab. ¡°Don¡¯t worry duke-ling,¡± she called over her shoulder, ¡°you weren¡¯t the only one.¡±

    Alfrick looked quizzically at Britomart.

    ¡°Ignore her,¡± Britomart muttered darkly.

    And so they woke the sleepers one by one. They woke them until the cavern hummed with scattered conversations in Galbrican and the Old Tongue, punctuated by the low, lyrical flow of Amoret¡¯s spell. Britomart looked around at the pockets of movement that had replaced the cave¡¯s sepulchral stillness: at Alfrick joking with Sir Rolf; at the two men whom she was certain she recognized from the Prince of Osterlond¡¯s retinue, now incongruous dressed as Galbrican vintners and talking with their heads bent close together; at the young lovers who had fled to the Shadowed Wood after their families prohibited them from marrying (and who still seemed to be celebrating their reunion in an embarrassingly physical way); at the cluster of sleepers from the Northern villages who regarded Amoret with as much awe as fear; at the group of ancient Galbrican knights who had gathered around the last of the sleepers to be awakened; and at that last sleeper herself: the ancient Galbrican princess who had slumbered the longest of them all.

    Britomart turned back around just in time to see Amoret¡¯s knees buckle and to catch her as she fainted. She gently laid Amoret on the cavern floor and noticed the blood trickling over the rock from the slash on the blood witch¡¯s hand. Amoret had reopened the slash repeatedly to shed enough blood to wake all of the sleepers, and it looked long and painful now. Britomart swore and rummaged through Amoret¡¯s basket for one of the dark handkerchiefs, then wrapped it tightly around Amoret¡¯s wounded hand, tucking the ends into place.

    Amoret still did not stir. Britomart shook her gently, but to no avail.

    ¡°Let her rest,¡± said a voice from above. Britomart looked up to find Rowena standing over her. ¡°She will be alright soon enough. The magic has drained her, that is all. I do not imagine she has ever performed so much at once before.¡±

    ¡°But the blood¨C¡± Britomart protested.

    ¡°Is not so much, really, and blood witches recover quickly from such wounds. They would not have survived long else.¡±

    ¡°I shouldn¡¯t have asked so much of her.¡±

    ¡°She made her own choice, child. And, as you can see around you, you asked no more than she could do, even if she could not do it easily.¡±

    There was a pause, and then Britomart heard the swish of Rowena¡¯s skirts as the older woman walked away.

    Britomart brushed back an errant strand of hair that had fallen across Amoret¡¯s face when she fainted. ¡°People value things more when they come at a cost,¡± Britomart murmured, remembering what Amoret had said of bargains. Her hand lingered on Amoret¡¯s cheek, and she added softly, ¡°I just thought I was the one who had paid it.¡±

 Chapter 15: Ancient Grudge, New Mutiny

    ¡°My brother tells me we owe our lives to you.¡±

    Britomart turned at the sound of the unknown voice and found herself looking at the lady whom she had once tried to waken with a kiss. On one side of the lady stood a man who must have been the brother the lady had mentioned, for he had the same fine-boned features and hazel eyes. His mail shone in the late afternoon sun, and Britomart thought how odd it was that his mail had no rust on it when the design of his helm proclaimed it to be centuries old. On the lady¡¯s other side stood the owlish young man who reminded Britomart more of a librarian than a knight. She half expected to see ink stains on his hands.

    Britomart shrugged self-consciously. ¡°Not really. Your lives weren¡¯t in any danger. You probably would have lived longer if you stayed asleep, come to think of it.¡±

    ¡°We owe you our consciousness, then,¡± said the lady, ¡°and I would much rather have that than an eternity of slumber.¡± She exchanged a look with her brother, then added tentatively, ¡°My brother Garren has been talking to Sir Alfrick. Sir Alfrick told us the date. It has been over three hundred years since I first entered this wood.¡±

    Britomart winced. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t be. The centuries have given me what I sought: escape. And I have my brother with me, and Eral, who was always as good as a brother, though I don¡¯t think he has ever loved me quite so well as his scrolls¨C¡± The owlish young man tried to protest, but the lady merely smiled and continued, ¡°and old Horrick, who is as tough as leather and as true as steel. Although I can¡¯t say where he¡¯s gotten to.¡± Her brows drew together as she turned around to look at the line of sleepers making their way down the rock ledge from the cavern to the banks of the stream where Britomart and the three companions stood.

    Britomart spotted two figures lingering where the ledge curved out from behind the waterfall, half-obscured by the spray. Their chainmail marked them as the two remaining Galbricans who had lain on the slabs by the lady and her brother. Britomart had just registered the strange fact that the lady had only mentioned one additional companion, not two, when one of the figures tried to hurl the other into the deep undertow where the waterfall plummeted into the stream below. There was a muffled shout and moment of struggle as the second man grappled with his attacker, and then both men crashed into the water and disappeared beneath its roiling surface, their armor dragging them down.

    Britomart stared in shock for a moment and then began fumbling at the buckles of her breastplate. It took her only another moment to realize that attempting to get her armor off in time was useless. She turned to call for a rope, looking desperately for Arthur, whose saddlebags were once more loaded with her supplies, rope and all. A flash of steel caught her eye, and the sweep of a red dress, and she saw Amoret striding towards the stream with her knife in hand, preparing to work who-knew-what magic to save the men. How much strength did it take to control a stream? Britomart was willing to bet it was more than Amoret had to spare. The blood witch still look wan from her faint.

    ¡°Smudge, find Arthur,¡± Britomart commanded as the small boy appeared at her side. ¡°Bring me the rope from his saddlebags.¡± Then she took off after Amoret. Rowena got there first, laying a gentle hand across the flat of Amoret¡¯s knife to push it aside. Turning to the stream, Rowena murmured a flowing series of words that reminded Britomart simultaneously of the strength of granite and the rush of water. With a muted grinding noise, something shifted beneath the waterfall. The flow of the water changed, parting to make way for a wide column of rock that slowly rose from the streambed, pushing its way up just beyond the waterfall to jut out above the water. On it were two half-drowned men. The stockier of the two was partially collapsed on the other, holding him down with a forearm over his throat, clearly determined to kill him even if he himself drowned doing so. He did not even seem to realize for a moment that he was above the water. When he did, he coughed and gasped but did not ease the pressure on the other man¡¯s throat.

    ¡°Horrick!¡± the lady cried out.

    ¡°Aye, milady?¡± The stocky man asked roughly, not looking up.

    ¡°You are killing that man!¡±

    ¡°Aye, milady.¡±

    ¡°Stop!¡± commanded Amoret, striding the last few steps to the stream. ¡°You are in my kingdom now, and I do not allow killing.¡± Her knife flashed before either Rowena or Britomart could stop her, and three drops of blood fell from her palm into the water. The stream came alive as every reed within its depths reached upwards, twining together into thick, slimy tendrils that wrapped around Horrick and pulled him away from the other man, forcing Horrick onto his back on the rock before subsiding into thin bands that bound him there hand and foot. As the other man lay gasping, similar tendrils wrapped around his wrists and ankles, binding him too in place. ¡°I said I do not allow killing,¡± Amoret added dispassionately as Horrick struggled against his bonds. ¡°I should have added, except under very special circumstances. Do not make yourself one of those circumstances.¡±

    ¡°You can¡¯t!¡± the Galbrican lady cried. Her brother reached out to take her shoulder, but she shrugged him off. She took a step towards Amoret, and her demeanor changed from distress to authority as if she had slipped into some invisible royal robe. There was a dignified fierceness about her that should have seemed ridiculous on her petite frame but somehow did not. ¡°Horrick has served me faithfully, as he did my father before him. If you harm him, you harm a guard of the royal house of Galbrica.¡±

    ¡°I owe no loyalty to Galbrica,¡± Amoret replied coolly. ¡°As I said, you are in my kingdom now.¡±

    ¡°This kingdom is Galbrica.¡± A look of uncertainty crossed the lady¡¯s face. ¡°Isn¡¯t it?¡±

    ¡°As much as it was when you fled here to escape Galbrica three hundred years ago.¡±

    The lady¡¯s eyes went wide. ¡°You know about that?¡±

    ¡°I know stories only, but stories enough to guess who you are. Stories of a hunted princess who fled her land for our woods and encountered what all who stray here encounter.¡±

    Britomart felt a thump beside her foot as Smudge dropped the rope he had finally found in her saddlebags and crossed his arms. ¡°Are they going to talk like this all afternoon, or can I rope something?¡±

    Britomart attempted to shush him, but it was too late.

    Amoret shot Smudge an amused glance before turning back to the lady. ¡°The boy has a point. We cannot stay here all afternoon. Those who wish to leave will want to be on their way while the light holds, and those who wish to lodge in the castle tonight must depart if we are to reach it on foot before dinner. I need hardly say that I will require your guard to remain in the castle until I am able to judge his case.¡±

    ¡°You mean you will keep him prisoner,¡± the lady said fiercely.

    ¡°Him and the other man too. They will receive fair judgment, I assure you. Will you ask him to come willingly, or shall he make the journey asleep?¡±

    The lady paled. The prospect of one of her companions descending into bespelled slumber once more was clearly not a pleasant one. ¡°He will come willingly.¡±

    Amoret turned to Rowena and nodded, and the column of rock slid to the side of the stream. The slimy manacles that bound the men detached themselves from the rock and then re-formed to bind their hands and feet as the rock tilted and rolled the men unceremoniously onto the muddy bank.

    Amoret lingered by Britomart as the Galbrican lady went over to speak to her bound and muddy companion. The eyes of the assembled sleepers, which had been fastened on Amoret and the lady throughout their conversation, now turned to follow the lady, and Britomart felt Amoret sag as soon as the sleepers were no longer watching her.

    ¡°I wish I could sit down,¡± Amoret murmured to her. ¡°Right here, mud and all.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s a horse blanket in Arthur¡¯s saddlebags, I can¨C¡±

    Amoret gave Britomart a tired smile, and Britomart was relieved to see that the familiar sardonic edge was still there despite her exhaustion. ¡°The problem is not the mud, princess. It¡¯s the people. I will be queen over those who choose to stay. They have seen me faint already. It wouldn¡¯t do for them to see me sitting in the mud. Not until they know me better, anyways.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve seen you sitting in the mud,¡± Britomart pointed out.

    ¡°You know me better.¡±

    ¡°The lady, who is she?¡±

    Amoret sighed. ¡°If I am not mistaken, she is the Princess Saskia. At least, that is what the stories call her. I had thought the story of the hunted princess was a legend only: a foolhardy thing to think in the Shadowed Wood. Blood witches themselves are no more than legends to most people. But perhaps you should let her tell you who she is herself. We will both need to hear her story tonight, I fear.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know if I can.¡± Britomart¡¯s throat felt tight. ¡°Alfrick may want to leave as soon as possible, and I have to go with him. It¡¯s not a proper rescue otherwise.¡±

    ¡°This is not a matter of a trivial delay, princess. If I am right, you have woken a Galbrican royal. I think Alfrick will understand. And princess?¡±

    ¡°Yes?¡±

    ¡°I cannot say that I would be sorry to have you stay longer.¡±

    ¡°I cannot say I would dislike that either.¡±

    Amoret¡¯s gaze lingered on Britomart. She smiled, and it was a soft smile. For once, there was no sardonic edge to it. Then Amoret seemed to gather herself, and she said in a businesslike tone, ¡°Now get me to that horse of yours. If I don¡¯t sit down, I¡¯m going to fall down, and at least if I sit on him, I can still look regal.¡±

    That night, the castle threw a feast. It would not have been a feast by King Gundred¡¯s standards¨Cthere was no sucking pig, nor roasted peacock with its plumage reattached¨Cbut such standards had faded in Britomart¡¯s mind, replaced by the habit of simple dishes eaten side by side with Amoret at the end of vast oaken table. Now, the full length of the table was heaped with steaming meat pies and roasted turnips, crusty bread and thick vegetable stews, rich puddings and dried fruits from the castle¡¯s winter stores. The strangest thing of all was that every seat around the table was full.

    To Britomart¡¯s surprise, all of the sleepers had chosen to return to the castle for the night, although many had shrunk warily away from the roses while passing beneath the archway through the castle walls. Amoret had performed some complicated magic on the roses the day before to lull them into quiescence, but not even Britomart could stop her steps from speeding slightly as she walked past them. Many of the sleepers had slumbered so long that they would have no homes to return to, but Britomart wondered what had brought the more recent sleepers to the castle when they could have left as soon as they were awakened. Perhaps they had simply not wanted to depart so late in the day.

    She looked down the table at the two disguised Osterlanders who were claiming to be Galbrican vintners. She wished that they, at least, had not stayed. Her suspicion of having seen them in Prince Ludovic of Osterlond¡¯s retinue had turned to a certainty once they woke up and resumed their customary expressions. The first one reminded her of a rat. There was something unctuous about his weak chin and fleshy mouth. Even without his rings and velvet, he had the soft, toadying look of a courtier who had climbed to favor through flattery and secrets. The second man was as tall and thin as if he had been racked, with sharp cheekbones above sunken cheeks and a thin, black goatee. If the first Osterlonder was a rat, this one was a spider.

    Britomart did not like the way the half-speculative, half-acquisitive way the two Osterlonders looked at Amoret, nor the way they seemed to linger at the fringes of the Galbricans¡¯ conversations, always careful to avoid Britomart but always close enough to catch what was being said. Osterlond was Galbrica¡¯s ally, and the marriage of Britomart¡¯s eldest sister Goneril to Prince Ludovic ensured that their child, if they had one, would one day rule both kingdoms. Yet there was something about Prince Ludovic that Britomart neither liked nor trusted.

    Britomart¡¯s unease was briefly replaced by amusement as her gaze traveled down the Northerners sitting on the opposite side of the table, landing on a very disgruntled Smudge. The boy was wedged between Rowena and the two siblings who had been sleeping side by side on a shared slab. Rowena had decided that it would be good for Smudge to be around children his own age. Smudge seemed to regard that as a grievous insult.

    Britomart herself sat at Amoret¡¯s left hand; Princess Saskia¨Cfor that was who the ancient Galbrican lady had confirmed herself to be¨Cwas in Britomart¡¯s customary seat on Amoret¡¯s right. It was the seat of honor, and Saskia had taken it instinctively. Britomart had felt a surge of jealousy before Amoret, with a knowing smile, had beckoned for Britomart to take the chair at her other side. Britomart had not been sure whether she was more annoyed by somebody taking her place next to Amoret or by somebody taking her place as the guest of honor. She was a princess, dash it.

    The problem, of course, was that Saskia was a princess too¨Cor at least had been three centuries ago¨Cand did one ever really cease to be a princess, even after that long? Britomart found herself wondering what the proper order of precedence was for a three-hundred-year-old princess and a present-day one. She fought down a laugh as she thought of posing the quandary to the scrupulously correct Dowager Duchess of Drakelmire. The duchess would probably have an apoplexy.

    Britomart found herself studying Saskia. She wondered what exactly the ancient princess had been trying to escape by fleeing into the Shadowed Wood, and whether it was ever possible to fully escape being a princess.

    Saskia paused halfway through a bite of meat pie when she looked up to find Britomart staring at her. She resumed chewing and then smiled self-consciously as she finished. ¡°I¡¯m doing something wrong, aren¡¯t I? Table manners must have changed much in three hundred years.¡±

    ¡°No, it¡¯s not that,¡± Britomart said hastily. ¡°It¡¯s that I know so little about you. You come from three centuries ago, you¡¯re almost certainly my ancestor, and all I know is your name. Not to mention that your guard is currently in the dungeon for trying to murder a man, and I still don¡¯t really understand why.¡±

    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

    ¡°I, too, would find such information useful,¡± remarked Amoret. ¡°Your guard will face my judgment tomorrow, as will his adversary, but I would prefer not to wait until then to learn more of the matter. That, I think, involves learning more of you.¡±

    Saskia looked to her brother, seated on her other side. ¡°What say you, Garren? It is your story too.¡±

    Garren shrugged. ¡°She will find out soon enough when she examines Horrick. Besides, you are not in hiding anymore. All who sought you are either here or dead.¡±

    ¡°You speak truly, brother.¡± Saskia turned back to Amoret and Britomart. ¡°I shall do as you ask, then. Princess Britomart, you say that you know only my name. Does that name mean nothing to you?¡±

    Britomart shook her head apologetically.

    ¡°I would have thought¡­but no matter. You say, too, that I am likely your ancestor. Perhaps you are right. What is your line?¡±

    Britomart frowned. ¡°The royal line of Galbrica. I thought you knew.¡±

    ¡°There has only ever been one royal line?¡±

    ¡°Of course there has. It goes all the way to Queen Boemia.¡±

    ¡°There has never been any break in it? Any¡­unusual transfer of power?¡±

    ¡°Kings died in battle occasionally early on, but only one or two, and their heirs simply took over. You would know that better than I do. It¡¯s closer to your time than mine.¡±

    Saskia hesitated, then asked, ¡°There has never been a usurpation?¡±

    ¡°Absolutely not,¡± Britomart replied indignantly. ¡°The throne has never passed out of the family.¡±

    Amoret shifted. ¡°Not all usurpations occur outside of the family, Britomart. A son can usurp a father¡¯s throne, a nephew an uncle¡¯s, a brother a brother¡¯s.¡± Her eyes fixed on Saskia. ¡°Which was it?¡±

    It was Garren who answered, his voice hard. ¡°A brother a brother¡¯s.¡±

    ¡°You mean to say you have another brother,¡± Britomart asked, aghast, ¡°and he¨C¡±

    Saskia shook her head firmly. ¡°No. Our older brother has been dead many years¨Cmany centuries, I suppose¨Cand Garren and I have no other siblings. It is our uncle that Garren speaks of: our father¡¯s brother, not our own. You did not recognize my name; perhaps you recognize my father¡¯s. My father was King Siegfried, third of his name. Siegfried the Gentle, they called him.¡±

    Britomart racked her memory. Finally, she answered, ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but there¡¯s never been a Siegfried the Gentle. There was Siegfried the Mace, who beat back the Hjalderlonder raiders, and Siegfried Steelthews, who could throw an anvil halfway down the great hall and kept breaking all the benches, and Siegfried Crookneck, whose neck was turned all the way backward when he was¡­¡± Her voice drifted off amidst the dawning realization.

    ¡°When he was assassinated?¡± Saskia finished.

    Britomart nodded silently.

    ¡°Siegfried Crookneck,¡± Saskia repeated. ¡°I see they renamed him. Poor father, he would not have liked that at all. Well, go on.¡±

    Britomart swallowed and continued, ¡°Well, from what I remember, Siegfried and his children were killed by Corsirian assassins working for the Viscount Osmont. Osmont was trying to take over the throne, but his plot failed because Siegfried¡¯s brother Aethelred survived the assassination. Aethelred became King Aethelred the Unyielding, and when he captured Osmont, his vengeance was so terrible that no one has ever tried to overthrow a ruler of Galbrica again.¡± Britomart thought back to Saskia¡¯s earlier question and added, ¡°So I suppose there was a usurpation attempt, but it didn¡¯t work. Siegfried and his children were killed, but Osmont didn¡¯t get the throne. Aethelred did. And he was the one who was supposed to inherit it after Siegfried¡¯s children.¡±

    ¡°Except,¡± Saskia said bitterly, ¡°that Siegfried¡¯s children were not dead. Not Garren and I, at least. Aethelred must have had his heralds add that part after Garren and I disappeared. He would have had to account for our disappearance in some way, and what way better than our deaths, which would make it so much easier for him to take the throne? Aethelred was always good at convincing people of his own tales. It was part of what made him so dangerous, although we did not realize it until it was too late.¡± Saskia sighed at Britomart¡¯s blank look. ¡°I see I will have to tell you the whole story.¡±

    ¡°I think that would be for the best,¡± said Amoret. ¡°We would not ask it if it were not necessary, but there are two men in the dungeons whose fates cannot be separated from it.¡±

    Saskia took a deep breath, then began, ¡°You are right, Princess Britomart, that our father was killed by assassins. Whether the assassins were Corsirian or not I cannot say; the assassination took place while my father was out riding. What I can say is that they were working for our uncle Aethelred, not for Viscount Osmont. Aethelred came to me as soon as the assassination happened. I was in my chamber reviewing the plans for the summer progress. My father was a good king, but he had little interest in the administrative details. After my mother died, he left them to me. I did not mind. It was interesting work.

    ¡°Aethelred told me that my father had broken his neck in a riding accident and that there was unrest among the nobles at the prospect of being ruled by a queen. I am older than Garren by two years, and by all rights, I should have been queen after my father. Yet it had been nearly a century since a woman ruled Galbrica, and not all of my father¡¯s nobles were pleased with that prospect. At least, that is what Aethelred told me, and as I have said, he could be very convincing.

    ¡°Aethelred said that he would support my claim to the throne, but for my own safety, I would need to be confined to my chambers until he¡¯d had a chance to root out those who would oppose me. When I objected, he told me it was for my own good, and I would see the sense of it soon. I told him to leave. He did. I waited long enough for him to have made his way back into the rest of the castle; then, I tried to open my chamber door to go down to the great hall and impose order on whatever chaos awaited there after my father¡¯s death. I found the door barred against me from the outside. When I called out to be released, I was met only with refusals from unfamiliar guards.

    ¡°Aethelred left me there for days, hidden away from the court. He must have suborned a good deal of the castle staff before he had my father assassinated, for no one responded to my cries. I do not know what he told the court¨Cperhaps that I was mad with grief.¡± She looked to Garren, who nodded in confirmation.

    Saskia smiled bitterly. ¡°I thought as much. It did not take me long to realize what must have happened, although it is not the sort of thing anyone wishes to believe of an uncle. I became certain of it when my uncle¡¯s visits began. He was deaf to my demands to be released, still insisting that I was only being confined for my own safety. He told me that he was doing his best to persuade the rest of the court to accept my rule as queen, but some of the nobles were obstinate. They would agree to my rulership only if I were to rule alongside a king. I told my uncle I had no wish to marry, but I would do so if it were necessary for the good of the kingdom. Let me be crowned, and I would promise to wed a suitable husband within one year.

    ¡°My uncle began to talk of times past when, for the sake of a kingdom, cousins had married cousins; nieces, uncles.  I had wondered why he did not just kill me if his plan was to seize power. Now I understood. If he could persuade me to marry him, he could become king without further bloodshed, without more suspicious deaths. He did not care how unnatural such a marriage would be, he who had been unnatural enough to murder his brother. I do not doubt that Aethelred would have killed me¨Cand Garren too¨Cif I did not agree to marry him. If he could not get the throne one way, he would another.

    ¡°So I put Aethelred off, pleading grief and maidenly shyness, telling him I needed time to decide. I put him off, even as his suggestions that I marry him lost all subtlety and his proposal became an unrelenting demand.

    ¡°And then one night, I heard the bar heaved away from my chamber door, and when the door opened, it was gruff old Osmont was there. It appeared I had tried my uncle¡¯s patience for too long, for Osmont had overheard Aethelred giving the order for my death. Osmont told me there was a horse waiting for me in the stables, and he would hold back my uncle¡¯s men if they tried to pursue. I ran. From what you have said, I fear that Osmont paid dearly for his loyalty. It is an injustice as great as my father¡¯s murder that Osmont should be remembered as a traitor.

    ¡°I rode north, then further north still, heading to the one place I knew no one would dare to follow: the Shadowed Wood. Not long after I came to the wood, I found myself in a clearing. At the heart of the clearing was a castle, and its walls were covered in the most beautiful roses. I hardly need tell you what happened from there.

    ¡°As for the rest, Garren can tell you better than I can. He told me much after we woke, but it is more his tale than mine.¡±

    Garren grimaced. ¡°There¡¯s not much to tell, except that I was a gods-forsaken idiot. When Aethelred announced to the court that father had died in a riding accident, I swallowed the tale along with the rest of the court. Worst of all, I believed Aethelred when he said that Saskia had taken to her chamber with grief. I should have known she was far too practical for such a thing. I did my best to go and see her, but one of the palace healers convinced me that I would only be doing Saskia harm if I troubled her. What my sister needed was absolute rest, lest her wits desert her completely. I can see now that the healer must have been in Aethelred¡¯s pay.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t realize what was happening until the evening that I woke to the sound of fighting. By the time I reached the castle courtyard, Aethelred¡¯s men had already cut down Osmont, who had been trying to stop them from leaving through the gates. The poor man was horribly wounded and unconscious from blood loss, although he lived for some days longer, the worse for him.

    ¡°The next morning, Aethelred announced to the court that he had uncovered a conspiracy that threatened the very roots of the kingdom. My father¡¯s riding accident had been no accident at all. It had been the work of trained killers in Viscount Osmont¡¯s pay, part of Osmont¡¯s plot to take the throne. Then uncle told the court the greatest tragedy of all: Osmont had struck again last night, killing the grief-stricken princess in her chamber.

    ¡°That was when I began to doubt Aethelred. I knew it couldn''t be true, not of Osmont. I couldn¡¯t let myself believe that it was true about Saskia either. I went to the stables and found Saskia¡¯s mare gone, and I came to my own conclusions from there. I told the two people I trusted most in the world: Horrick, who had been the captain of the guard since before I was born, and Eral, who was the best friend a man could have, even if he wasn¡¯t much of a fighter. We slipped out of the castle as soon as we could, taking advantage of the tumult caused by Aethelred¡¯s news. I don¡¯t think I would have lived long if I¡¯d stayed.

    ¡°We rode to find Saskia. I was sure that she was alive, and I was also sure that Aethelred would send men after her if he had not already. He had declared her dead; he couldn¡¯t risk her turning up alive to reclaim her throne. I knew Saskia well enough to guess where she would go. She had loved the stories of the Shadowed Wood when we were younger. Horrick and Eral and I must have come to the wood only hours after her, days at most. But it was already too late. We did not find her, not until we awoke yesterday. Instead, we found the roses. I can only be thankful that my uncle¡¯s men had no more luck than we did. Only one of them came to the right place, and he, too, fell under the roses¡¯ spell.¡±

    ¡°The other man in the dungeon,¡± Britomart said, eyes wide. ¡°The one Horrick tried to kill.¡±

    Saskia nodded. ¡°Horrick recognized him as one of my uncle¡¯s men. When Horrick confronted the man on the way out of the cavern, the man tried to throw him under the waterfall. Horrick grabbed him, and they both went in.¡±

    ¡°You are certain that Horrick is correct about who the man is?¡± Amoret asked.

    Garren snorted. ¡°With that mustache? I don¡¯t know how he could be mistaken.¡±

    The corner of Amoret¡¯s mouth quirked upwards. The man¡¯s luxuriant red mustache had looked significantly less well groomed after his dousing. ¡°It is certainly distinctive.¡±

    Saskia seemed less amused. ¡°I would think the man¡¯s attempt to murder Horrick would be proof enough,¡± she said, an edge in her voice.

    ¡°A reasonable surmise,¡± Amoret conceded, ¡°though it was Horrick who was attempting to murder the other man when the two emerged from the stream. In any case, we will know the truth of it tomorrow.¡±

    ¡°What exactly do you plan to do?¡± Britomart asked. The unease that had gone through her when she explored the castle¡¯s dungeon crept back. With a touch of bitterness, she added, ¡°I don¡¯t see how you can find the truth when even the histories lie¨Cand they¡¯re written down.¡±

    ¡°I plan to hear the men¡¯s stories and judge them as blood witches always have: with a spell that will reveal truth and lies. It is an old magic and a sure one. But it is, much as I regret it, one that I am too tired to perform tonight.¡±

    ¡°And the man that turns out to be guilty?¡± Britomart pressed.

    ¡°I will not awaken a man merely to sentence him to death, if that is what you fear, princess. If one of them proves guilty of attempted murder, I will put him back to sleep, no more, no less. This time, he will not be awakened.¡± Amoret turned to Saskia, and there was iron in her voice as she continued, ¡°You understand that you must accept my judgment? You were rightful queen of Galbrica once, for all that you were never crowned, but that time has passed.¡±

    Saskia sat perfectly still for a moment, and Britomart had the odd feeling that she stood at a tipping point between peace and battle. Then the woman gave a small nod, and the tension eased. ¡°As you say,¡± Saksia replied, ¡°that time has passed. This is your domain, and Galbrica is ruled by a new king now. It has been ruled by many new kings since my uncle took the throne.¡± She turned to Britomart. ¡°Aethelred married and had a child, I suppose?¡±

    ¡°A son,¡± Britomart supplied. ¡°Aethelred Short-tunic. Aethelred the Second, that is.¡±

    ¡°So be it,¡± said Saskia.

    ¡°So be it,¡± echoed Amoret. She picked up her goblet and drank.

    ¡°What was that about?¡± Britomart murmured to Amoret as they left the great hall. Ahead of them was the chaotic bustle of the sleepers navigating unfamiliar hallways as they went to find the rooms they had chosen for themselves when they arrived.

    ¡°What?¡± Amoret asked.

    ¡°All of that about Saskia¡¯s time having passed. She knows she¡¯s lost three centuries. You didn¡¯t have to rub it in.¡±

    Amoret looked at Britomart pityingly. ¡°It hasn¡¯t occurred to you, has it? Think, princess. Who was the legitimate monarch: Saskia or Aethelred?¡±

    ¡°Saskia.¡±

    ¡°And who are you descended from?¡±

    ¡°Aethelred.¡±

    ¡°And now that Saskia is awake, who has the strongest claim on the throne: Saskia or your family?¡±

    ¡°Saskia,¡± Britomart said in dawning horror. ¡°But my father would never believe her. I don¡¯t think anybody would. He wouldn¡¯t give up the throne.¡±

    ¡°What if people did believe her¨Cnot all Galbricans, just enough to build up an army?¡±

    ¡°It would mean civil war.¡±

    ¡°So you see what it was all about. Saskia has acknowledged my authority over the Shadowed Wood, and she has agreed not to challenge your family¡¯s claim to the Galbrican throne.¡±

    ¡°I should have been the one to handle that,¡± Britomart said in consternation. ¡°You don¡¯t even think my father is the rightful king of the North. Why would you get Saskia to agree not to challenge him?¡±

    ¡°Perhaps, princess, for you. And perhaps because I do not need your father to officially give up his claim to the Shadowed Wood when that claim is, for all practical purposes, meaningless here. As long as your father does not bother me, it would not be worth the cost that it would take for me to officially reclaim my territory from him.¡±

    ¡°And if someday he does bother you?¡±

    ¡°Then the situation will have changed, and I may reconsider my attitude towards Saskia¡¯s claim. I believe she and her brother mean to stay in the Shadowed Wood for now.¡±

    Britomart went still. ¡°Is that a threat?¡±

    Amoret stopped and turned to Britomart. They were the last ones in the great hall now. The fear and anger froze in Britomart¡¯s chest as Amoret reached out to cup her cheek. ¡°I would have thought you would have realized by now, princess: I would do a great deal to protect the things I love. My kingdom is one of those things.¡±

    ¡°And the others? What are those?¡± Britomart whispered.

    ¡°The first stroke of paint on a fresh canvas, the smell of the forest after the rain, the way the sunlight dapples the ground beneath the apple trees. And, perhaps, one more thing: y¨C¡±

    ¡°Are you going to be in there forever?¡± came Smudge¡¯s voice.

    Britomart jerked away from Amoret and saw Smudge standing in the archway into the great hall. ¡°Whoops,¡± he said.

    ¡°Out, minion,¡± commanded Amoret.

    ¡°We should go,¡± Britomart said self-consciously as Smudge ducked out of sight.  ¡°He¡¯ll be listening in the hall.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t doubt it. May I make a suggestion, princess?¡±

    ¡°Anything.¡±

    ¡°Next time, adopt a nice, well-mannered child.¡±

    The next morning, the castle¡¯s inhabitants awoke to find only one of the dungeon¡¯s cells occupied. The man with the red mustache was gone. So too were the disguised Osterlonders, and a furious Horrick soon confirmed that the disappearances were not unrelated. Horrick had watched helplessly from within his own cell as the spider-like Osterlonder picked the lock to the other prisoner¡¯s cell door. The mustachioed man had apparently been as surprised as Horrick himself at the Osterlonders¡¯ assistance, but that had not stopped him from accepting it.

    ¡°They just picked the lock?¡± Britomart asked Amoret as she examined the cell door. ¡°There was nothing, you know, magical, to stop them?¡±

    Amoret shot her a pained look. ¡°Usually there would be a spell to keep them in, but I was too drained to do it. I thought that a lock would be enough for a single night. Foolish, I see now.¡±

    ¡°Well, there can¡¯t be too much to worry about,¡± Britomart said with forced cheerfulness. ¡°How much trouble can two Osterlonders and a three-hundred-year-old sleeper cause?¡±