《Spellbreak》


 Maiden 1) Flask

    "So it begins," the witch said softly out of the darkness behind the girl''s closed eyelids as the rim of the cup touched her lips.


    The draught was bitter. Bronwyn almost choked on it, but knew that spilling it or not finishing the cup would mean death or worse. She drained the horn cup and as she lowered it the world spun about her. She fell heavily against the bench, cracking her chin against the table. The old woman stooped to take the cup from Bronwyn''s limp fingers, her long white braid brushing the stricken girl''s face. She paused to twitch the girl''s skirts straight, covering her bare legs. One of the miners made a rude comment, and the rest of the drunken crowd murmured in assent. A weanling puppy snuffled Bronwyn''s ear and face, licking her lips dry of the last clinging drops. The old woman turned to the restless workers, now deprived of their sport, and raised a thin hand to point at the speaker.


    "Aye, you could do that, Jacob Tanner, but would you risk it?"


    "What risk is there? She''s out cold, couldn''t even put up a bit of a fight." He sounded a bit disappointed.


    "Oh, she''s not asleep at all, nor is she dead, and that''s what she should have been if she weren''t a witch." The woman raked them with her dark gaze. An uneasy tremor rippled through the group, very like a great beast shuddering its hide to shoo away a biting fly.


    "Then get her out of my inn, Gilda Oldroot. One witch in this county is bad enough, I''ll not have two in my taproom." The inn-keeper gestured curtly to two of the men to carry the girl out. The wagoneer shook his head, backing away, and the hunter eyed the apparently sleeping girl speculatively. Dressed in the wolf-skins that marked his trade, a necklace of teeth around his neck, he looked rather like he wanted to test the risk involved in bedding a witch against her will. His eyes were gold, but not the warm gold that is almost brown. They were cold yellow, a wolf''s eyes, as if he peeled their souls away with their skins, and took their essence into himself even as he ate their flesh.


    As he stepped forward to gather her up, another man pushed forward through the crowd, dressed in a coarse brown tunic and trousers. He carried a heavy wood axe on his back, a hunting knife at his belt. "I will take her," he said in a quiet voice. Their eyes met for only a moment, but the clash of wills was almost audible. Bronwyn heard a future moment, the bite of an axe into flesh and the tearing of teeth against sinew. The wolf hunter paused a moment and stepped aside, bowing with a sarcastic flourish.


    "Indeed. Take her now. She is fond of wandering lost in the woods, so I shall have her later." Gilda Oldroot stepped aside as the woodcutter knelt to gather Bronwyn up, cradling her against his chest. The old witch gathered up her walking stick and pulled her cloak over her ancient frame. Slipping the flask of bitter drink back into her pouch, she took a shaker of salt from the table. The crowd parted before her, and she led the woodcutter from the taproom and into the night.


    "I''ve never known you to be cruel, Dame Oldroot," the woodcutter¡¯s voice was a pleasant rumble through his chest. Bronwyn became aware of his scent, spicy with tree sap, musky in a way that made her wish she could move closer to him.


    "Bah. If I''d not offered her the cup they''d have passed her ''round til she died of it."


    "She could have died of the cup," he pointed out, shifting Bronwyn higher on his chest, her head falling to lie against his shoulder, forehead against his neck.


    "Better that than the other," the old woman snapped, glancing at the girl.


    "How long will she sleep like this?" He ducked around a low branch.


    "Who knows? A night, a hundred years, depends on her."


    "Will anything wake her?"


    "The usual, I''d imagine. Mix a potion made of the powdered horn of a unicorn, an apple from the tree of knowledge and follow it with True Love''s kiss, that sort of thing. She''ll wake on her own eventually, though, no need to go to great lengths chasing down wee beasties." He was silent for a long while, striding through the woods in the wake of the witch. It seemed that the woman moved with the sureness of youth, and Bronwyn vaguely wondered how old the witch really was.


    If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    "We''re being followed," he observed quietly, his short beard tickling Bronwyn''s cheek as he turned his head, scanning the woods.


    "That''s the way of things," the witch said, and there was a peculiar sadness in her voice. "Here, lay the child down, this clearing will do." Bronwyn could hear the murmur of a brook nearby, and felt the cool mossy rock beneath her as the woodcutter carefully laid her down, folding her hands together over her waist. She could see a sliver of sky through her eyelashes, but nothing else but the stars twinkling there. ¡°She''ll be safe enough from most things, but the wolf is coming, and him we should defend her from, at least." Bronwyn felt the air move as the witch walked around her, heard the sandy fall of salt shaken on the fallen leaves.


    Bushes rustled nearby, and a small yelp broke the silence, followed by an anxious whine. "Well, I suppose you''ll do as a last resort. Watch after her, mind you, and never let her st?arve or go thirsty, if you''re able." The witch''s voice was tender, and Bronwyn felt the weight of a small and squirming thing on her thighs, and it crawled up her body until the puppy could lick her face again before settling on her chest, head heavy on her folded hands. "Girl, when you wake keep the pouch and cloak and whatever else you find. I''ve no time to teach you, but fate is a cruel master, and it has its hooks in you now, deep in your gut. Do as you see is right and you¡¯ll fare reasonably well. Use the things that come to hand when they are needed. Use cobwebs and bird feathers, and bits of string and wool and soot. Use ashes and tender young leaves and wind chimes. Use stray copper coins, caterpillar silk or pretty rocks to focus your will or your sight. Bundles of herbs fashioned into dolls or animals, bits of carved wood and scraps of string. A single drop of blood or the tears of a maiden or a witch. Wildflowers, morning dew, raindrops; first snow, frost melt, wine, mead or brandy. Anything, girl, remember that. Bind it, breathe it, feel the weight of the spell and then set it free, as a gift or a sacrifice or just something set aside for the nonce. Don¡¯t fret if you don¡¯t have much to say; the magic will speak plenty through you, for good or for ill. Remember, though, there are things one takes along, no matter what the journey''s end. Keep those with you, they will always fit in the pouch."


    There came another rustle, and the old woman muttered under her breath, moving away from the rock Bronwyn was laid out upon. The woodcutter uttered a startled cry, and a vicious snarl was followed by the sound of iron on rock. The sounds of bodies colliding terrified her, the snap of jaws and the whistle of the axe through the air, all just outside her narrow field of vision. There was a red-silver flash and she saw the blade of the axe rise high before descending, and then the yellow eyes of the wolf, intent upon her as it stood over her for a brief moment, its breath hot on her face. The puppy growled a warning as a thick muscled arm came ''round the throat of the creature and hauled it off the rock while the other hand plunged a knife into one of the wicked yellow eyes. The scuffle of combat dragged on out of her sight, beast and man grunting occasionally as a blow fell or missed. All the while the witch chanted her spell, the wind rising to whip the branches on the trees above Bronwyn, clouds obscuring the few stars she could see. Something warm and wet sprinkled her jaw and lips, salty on her tongue, but she was helpless to wipe it away.


    The witch finished her magic with a final cry and lightning struck so close that the hair on the girl''s arms and legs stood on end. The puppy was knocked off of her and ozone hung heavily in the air.


    The silence was absolute for a moment, and the girl waited, trapped in her own body, for death or salvation to reveal itself.


    A dragging shuffle to her left brought with it even more fear, without even the weight of the small dog to comfort her on the cold and mossy rock. The night birds began to sing again, and the clouds boiled away as if they''d never existed. She would have shrieked aloud if she could when a cold and sticky hand touched her wrist, and then cradled her unmoving hand against a warm chest. The woodcutter bent over her, blood from a slash on his forehead dripping down his nose. He wiped at it futilely, the blood on his hands simply smearing his own blood.


    "If you can hear me, lady, listen close. This wood shall be friendly to you, and the trees will give you what shelter they can if you only ask. The wolf is dead, I think, and perhaps I''m not far behind him. The witch is gone with her own spell. I have nothing more to give you that might save you. Perhaps even my own life won''t be enough." He sat beside her for a moment. "I''m frequently wrong about things, so please forgive me if any of that proves untrue. Forgive me this, too. I''m not a prince, but I have watched you yet a while, and perhaps loving you simply may make up the difference in my birth." He bent over her again and kissed her lips gently. The bitterness of the draught and the coppery tang of blood sweetened under his mouth, and she felt her heart skip and then resume its beat, faster now. He sat by her, keeping watch as the moon arced overhead and passed out of her view. The sweetness filled her slowly, spreading through her flesh, thawing the core of her helplessness by mere finger-widths at a time. At length the sky grew lighter, and finally he sighed. Folding her hands together at her waist, he said "I am truly sorry. I hoped it would help. I must go now, lady. I would not die beside you and disturb your sleep with my rotting." He kissed her once again, and a tear fell from his cheek to hers, warm in the chill morning. Her eyelids sank closed completely, and the last she heard of him was the rustle of leaves as he staggered into the forest to die where he would not disturb her sleep with his rotting.

 Maiden 2) Moss, 3) Chimes

    2) Moss


    When she woke it was to the desperate washcloth tongue of the puppy, who had somehow climbed back up on her rock. She pushed his face away from hers, rolling to one side stiffly, chin and back sore with the bruises she''d earned at the inn. The clearing was pretty enough, sweet ferns growing on the edges of the brushline and the banks of the tiny brook. The thick feathery grass of the meadow was torn and stained with dried blood, though no bodies remained to tell the end of the tale. Looking around she saw the moss stained dark beside her, as if someone had bled quite a lot while sitting there.


    Hazily, she remembered the woodcutter, and the wolf hunter''s sour yellow eyes. An ancient boulder stood to her left, almost hidden by the trees.  She saw that it had been blasted asunder by lightning, and a faint trickle of water wept from the split, cupped to pool just a bit, and then flowed down to join the brook.


    Almost crazed with thirst, Bronwyn stood unsteadily, taking stock of herself as she staggered to the little pool. Her bodice was ripped, and the sleeve of her blouse, and a slit had been cut high in her skirt, so that only her heavy cotton petticoats kept her decent. She put the filthy men who''d done that out of her mind, lest the terror rise again, the terror that had led her to take the witch''s bargain. Her bottom and arms and breasts would be sore for quite some time from the pinches of hard eager hands.


    Dried blood smeared across her fingers and wrist, and she remembered the woodcutter again, holding her hand and keeping watch before crawling off to die alone. She choked back tears as she went to the water trickling from the cleft in the boulder, bending only a little to wash her hands and face. The water was uncommonly sweet, a sweetness that reminded her of a dream she''d had, deep in the throes of the witch''s potion. She couldn''t remember the dream, exactly, and with a start she realized she could remember little else before the tavern, only her name and a lingering echo of anger and pain. She was distracted from her panic by the puppy, a black and brindle spotted thing, scrambling up to get at the water. To his delight, she bent to pick him up to the edge of the rock where he''d be best able to get at the clear stuff pooling in the shallow basin. He was heavier than he looked, and his paws showed that he''d be a medium sized creature, even if his legs were ridiculously short and his back comically long.


    When they''d both had their fill, she turned away from the rock and looked more closely at the torn turf of the clearing. She found the woodcutter''s wicked knife, covered to the hilt in dried blood. Turning it gingerly in her hands, she remembered seeing the knife plunge into the wolf''s eye. She tried to wipe the blood away with the corner of her skirt, and finally gave up. It would take water and strong lye soap, perhaps even sand to get the blood off of it. The woodcutter''s axe was nowhere to be found, but she came upon the witch''s pouch and heavy cloak on the ground to the lee side of the rock. The flask with the bitter drink had come uncorked, and had spilled dry upon the ground. There was little else in the pouch, a few coppers, a needle, a spoon and a packet of herbs. She put all of the things on the rock before her; the pouch, the flask the knife and the trinkets and odd things from the bag, and considered them carefully. The puppy nosed through her arm and she petted him absently.


    "Well, we can''t very well stay here," she said finally, gathering the bits up and putting them in the pouch along with a bit of the red stained moss. She tied it on and thrust the blade through the thong of the pouch, topping it all with the cloak. "Wherever that is." She squinted up at the sun; it was almost midday. Walking around the edges of the clearing one last time, she looked for any sign of the woodcutter or the witch or the wolf. Failing to find trace or track of any of them, she slowly gave in to the urge to simply flee, to walk away from this place and never return, or perhaps only to return after a long while. She filled the flask with water from the lightning scorched rock and finally went to the center of the clearing. With a deep breath, she turned round in a circle, closing her eyes. Her arm raised on its own to point outwards. After a moment, when the direction felt just right, like the weight of a sunbeam falling on her face after the cold night, she stopped and opened her eyes. The forest before her was no more dark or mysterious than it was behind her or to either side. With a shrug she started forward, the little dog following close behind.


    3) Chimes


    There was no trail at first, but she found that many of the bushes she pushed through bore berries as well as thorns, and when she recognized the fruit she didn''t hesitate to eat her fill and put more away in her pockets and the witch''s pouch. When she grew tired in the early afternoon, it wasn''t long after that she found another tiny spring trickled down into a little pond, the water splashing against a few rocks. Shadowy shapes moved in the cool depths of the water. The puppy bounded off into the underbrush, ignoring Bronwyn when she called to him.


    She knelt next to the pool and drank deep, plunging her hands and face as deep as she could. She tried to wash away the memory of blood on her skin, but only succeeded in soaking herself to the shoulders, her dark hair streaming like water weeds over her face and breasts. She tried to pull the bodice closed again but the abused fabric simply gave up. A split in the back that she didn''t remember parted all the way to her hips.


    Suddenly it was all too much, and she buried her face in the torn bodice and wept, great harsh sobs of frustration and fear and the shock of it all.


    "Excuse me, but why are you crying?" A small voice said from across the chiming water. Bronwyn looked up, wary. A young girl stood there, warmly dressed with a golden ball held forgotten in one hand. Bronwyn felt a tentative pull, rather like the tug that led her into the woods. The girl''s light brown hair was tied back with a red ribbon, and there was fine embroidery on the edges of her cloak and the hem of her skirts. The puppy plowed through the stream to reach her.


    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    "I am lost, and my dress is torn, and I''m very hungry," Bronwyn replied honestly, startled by her answer.


    "Oh," the girl considered that gravely. "If I bring you something to eat, would you grant me a wish?"


    Bronwyn was startled. "I don''t think I can grant wishes," she replied.


    "Is it against the rules?" The younger girl shuffled her feet a little. "See, my brother told me all about nixies, and he said they can grant wishes and answer questions, or do amazing things if you trade with them."


    "But I''m not-"


    "I''ll give you my golden ball, and bring you bread," the girl wheedled. The puppy wiggled his way into Bronwyn''s lap, his stomach growling. He licked his mistress''s face, and the unseen pull strengthened. Bronwyn looked more closely at the girl, and was moved by the dark circles under her eyes, and cautioned by an edge of self-satisfied expectation in the girl''s smirk.


    "Keep your ball, but bring me a crust of bread for my dog and I''ll answer one question." Bronwyn was astonished again by her answer, but the girl squealed with delight and ran off before she could speak again. Bronwyn felt no compulsion to follow, and a bone deep weariness kept her on the bank.


    The puppy bounded out of Bronwyn''s lap once again and set himself to chasing the dark shapes moving in the pool. After a few minutes of awkward paddling, he came to her with a fat frog, green skinned with brilliant coppery eyes and a starburst like a crown on his head. The young dog presented it to his mistress proudly and she accepted it graciously. Her hands tingled as she held the frog, a whisper of the compulsion pressing against her mind like an almost forgotten task. The creature was unharmed, so she gently set it on a log out of the puppy''s reach.


    The dog resumed his hunt. Heralded by a great deal of sloshing in the cold water, he emerged with an elegant dappled fish, spotted with gold and black along its silvered length. She dispatched it quickly with the woodsman''s knife, and gave the puppy the guts and half of the fleshy length. Not wanting to eat her half of the fish raw, she started gathering kindling wood from the underbrush on the bank of the pond. The frog stayed on its log, watching her steadily with bland amphibian patience.


    Bronwyn had gathered enough wood for a small cook fire and was looking through the pouch for flint when the girl returned with a covered basket.


    "I brought you food and an old smock, is that worth two questions?" she demanded, her cheeks flushed with the cold. She pulled back the lid of the basket to reveal bread and cheese and sausages, the smock folded beside them.


    "You may ask, certainly," Bronwyn replied.


    "Will I marry a prince?" the girl asked.


    Taking in the fineness of her clothes but her lack of an attendant, Bronwyn judged that the girl''s family might be moderately wealthy, perhaps even poor gentry. Her gaze was drawn again to the frog. "You must never be fooled by appearances. If this frog is a prince, he will surely marry you."


    The girl pouted. "That''s no answer. How can a frog be a prince?"


    "Perhaps a witch put him under a spell," Bronwyn pulled out the smock and quickly shed her tattered dress and tied on the new one.


    The girl cautiously approached the frog while Bronwyn ate the bread and sausages and cheese, sharing some with the puppy and giving him the remainder of the fish. Speaking to it in girlish sing-song phrases, the girl praised its fine green skin and the handsome crown on its brow, telling it silly stories about her family and the people of her village. She looked dubious at first, and more disenchanted as the one-sided conversation progressed with the afternoon. Finally, she sighed, exasperated.


    "Some nixie you are." The girl picked up the frog, brandishing it at Bronwyn, who''d wrapped herself close with the witch''s cloak and sat resting in the cool leaves at the forest edge of the bank. "You said this frog was a prince, but he''s just a toad." In a sudden fit of temper, she flung the hapless frog against the bank. Instead of a squishy thud, there was a crack of thunder and flash of light, and when Bronwyn had blinked the spots from her eyes, a young man lay before them, naked but for a crown of gold and emeralds around his brow.


    Bronwyn stood, released by the hold that had kept her in that place, and the puppy led her back into the woods before the young girl or the prince recovered enough to look anything more than stunned.


    They found the road, and as late afternoon began to fade into evening, she heard silvery chimes. She heard the heavy tread of ox hooves on the dirt and bells ringing. They stood to the side, peering at the bend ahead in the road. The tinker¡¯s wagon was tall and brightly painted, hung about with scores of wares, all tied up with silver and brass bells to announce the tinker¡¯s coming and alert him to thieves. The ox was massive, taller than Bronwyn at the shoulder and as wide as the wagon it pulled.


    As the wagon neared, the puppy began to bark excitedly.


    The tinker himself peered down at them from the high box seat. ¡°My goodness, girl, did you fall in a creek?¡± She blinked at him. The man hopped down, looking her over as he approached. He pulled a bit of dried meat from a pocket and offered her a piece. She shook her head, bewildered, but the puppy accepted it with delight.


    He was a very average man, of average height, and passably handsome, merry eyes and a slightly rounded paunch. ¡°The dress will serve, and the cloak. Ah, here.¡± He went to the side of the wagon and opened a cabinet, pulling out a bundle and a pair of simple leather shoes. ¡°You can¡¯t go barefoot, not with the journey ahead of you, and the best thing a girl could have is a good stout shift.¡±


    She shied away from the bundle, fumbling a little with her pouch. A few copper coins fell out into her hand, and she offered them to the tinker. ¡°Is this enough?¡± she asked, trembling.


    The tinker stepped closer and took her hand, closing her fingers over the coins. She looked up at him, and his merry eyes crinkled in a smile. ¡°I¡¯ll not take your coin, girl. Here. Take the clothes, and the shoes, and here¡¯s a bell, too, if you should ever need something silver.¡± He dropped the bell into her pouch and deftly tied it closed. ¡°Now, if you ever need help, seek me out, Aodhan Tinker. Say it back to me?¡±


    ¡°If I ever need help, seek out Aodhan Tinker,¡± she replied obediently. He climbed back up to the tall box and chuckled to the ox, who snorted and lumbered on.

 Maiden 4) Needle, 5) Cinders

    4) Needle


    The season progressed. Weeks later, in the warm dreamy haze of extreme cold, Bronwyn took shelter under a long hedge, pulling the cloak about a body that no longer bothered to shiver. The hedgerow shifted around her, blocking the cutting wind. She hoped vainly that she might create a nest of warmth for herself and the dog beneath the icy branches. She sensed that the bushes were sorry that they were only cold wood, and not warmer.


    The city constables found her later, the puppy curled up beside her. In her sleepy haze she could scarcely bring herself to even open her eyes wide enough to break the ice on her lashes.


    The younger of the two men, cold and tired, was of a mind to leave her there and not trouble with taking her to the gaol for vagrancy. After all, in the cold she''d be dead soon enough, and the dead didn''t require as much upkeep as vagrants and gypsies.


    The other man, thinking that she looked a bit like his oldest daughter, knelt at her side, stroking the dog''s ears gently before shaking the young woman''s shoulder.


    "Girl, you need to move along," he said, though his eyes were gentle as she looked up at him. His partner grumbled a bit at the bother, turning to watch the snowy street.


    Bronwyn nodded, stiffly crawling out from under the bush. The constable who''d spoken to her offered his hand to help her rise, and she gratefully took it. "Thank you, sir," she said, shaking the cloak to fall around her more warmly.


    The constable saw the tangles in her black hair, and her dirty hands and bare feet in the snow, and the thin ribs of the dog who stretched his short legs and looked to the girl with utter devotion. Her hand was light and sure in his, her eyes smoky dark, and he was moved to pity by her poverty and her beauty and her frail stature. She saw him watching her, saw his thoughts in his eyes and withdrew the hand slowly, pulling her hood up over the secrets tangled in her hair.


    "There''s a charity house down the lane," he said.


    She smiled stiffly and shook her head. "Others need that charity more than I," she said quietly. She set aside the thought of the clumsy groping hands in the stinking dark of the first charity house she''d gone to, and her stolen shoes, and cast even the slight temptation of thin hot soup away. She could not afford to lose what little remained in the pouch, no matter how generous the pouch was.


    "Then come back to the guardhouse and at least warm yourself," he said, much to the disgust of his younger companion.


    She looked down at her dog and saw his piteous shivering. Nodding, she allowed the constables to lead her to the guardhouse. The reluctant man complained the whole way about the interruption in their rounds, but she noticed that he slowed his pace to match hers, careful of her bare feet on the icy cobbles of the lane and then the streets that followed. Her advocate said little, deep in thought.


    When they came to the guardhouse, the man who''d wakened her went up the stairs to make his report to the sergeant, leaving her with the gruff young man who would have walked past her in the snow. "Sit there," he pointed to a stool near the hot stove and pulled down a plain wooden bowl. He filled it with the thick hot stew simmering in the pot and gave it to her.


    He watched her while he puttered around the boot room, moving the basket of darning a little further from the stove with a disgruntled look, muttering about endless holes. She blew gently at the steam before setting the bowl down on the floor beside her so the dog could eat its fill. When the pup was finished the guard picked up the bowl and filled it again.


    "This time, you eat it," he ordered, but she saw the slow flicker of kindness in his eyes. He sat at the table, soon drowsing in the warmth of the stove.


    She pulled the basket of darning closer and reached into the pouch, finding a needle and stout thread. Her hands stayed busy with the little rips and tears, needle flickering in the firelight.


    After an hour or so the older constable returned. "Well, we can''t keep you here, lass, but at least you''re warm," there was regret in his voice.


    "Thank you for your hospitality,¡± she said, stroking the sleek fur of the dog affectionately. She pulled the last stitch tight and broke off the thread. She had pricked her finger, and a spot of blood slipped into the plaited willow rim of the basket.. Rising gracefully, she pulled the cloak back on, and the dog was at her heels again.


    The constables walked with her to the guardhouse gate, and the kind one gave her a bit of bread and cheese, wrapped in a rough towel. She started off into the snowy evening, feeling their eyes on her back as she made her way down the lane. The gruff young man grumbled again, clapped his older companion on the shoulder in farewell and came after her.


    "Wait, girl. Look here. My cousin''s the cook for the Lord Mayor, and I guess she might need some help, since she''s broke her ankle. Her last kitchen girl just left to marry or take care of her ma or some such. It''s not easy work, but you seem to be the helpful type. Even sleeping on the hearth''s better than under a hedge."


    A tickle of curiosity started in the back of her mind, and she felt the offer hang like fate before her. Smiling, she looked up at him, and he was suddenly absurdly glad that they''d not walked past her.


    "I think I''d like that. To help your cousin while her ankle heals."


    ¡°I¡¯ll walk you there, and you tell Marnie the cook that her cousin Dale sent you.¡±


    5) Cinders


    Bronwyn worked hard in the kitchens of the Lord Mayor through that winter. Marnie the cook was pleased with her skills and the hard work of her hands, and when the splints came off that dame''s leg there was no discussion of sending Bronwyn on her way.


    The Lord Mayor was a kind man, well suited to his office and well liked by the people of his city and his household. He accepted the addition to the kitchen staff without question, and often greeted Bronwyn by name.


    Marnie realized quickly that Bronwyn had an aptitude for herbs and the garden, and gave her the task of gathering herbs and stems and seeds. She took Bronwyn aside for long afternoons and taught her the way of the distillery.  The cook was astonished at the unusual potency and purity of the unguents and potions the young woman turned out.


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    It followed suit that Bronwyn also learned the uses of the herbs and brews.  When people from the town or servants from the castle came by for a posset or salve, or with an injury, Bronwyn was required to look on and learn that, too.


    The Lord Mayor''s wife and daughters returned from the south with the spring. The Lady came down to the kitchens on her first day back and spoke with the cook while watching Bronwyn critically. The young woman was efficiently peeling roots while keeping an eye on the spitted pig being turned by one of the house curs.


    Bronwyn''s puppy, now lanky and long with adolescence, emerged from the root cellar with a smallish rat and came to his mistress, wiggling with glee. She smiled at the dog and sent him outside with his prize.


    "The rats used to be larger than that," she overheard the lady say, surprised.


    "I reckon he''s caught all the really big ones," the cook replied fondly.


    "That''s good to know then," the lady replied. There was no talk of whether to keep the new girl on or not, and her small wages were added to the household budget.


    The Mayor''s daughters were a handful, a spoiled lot accustomed to ordering servants around like serfs, generally indulged by their father and encouraged or ignored by their mother. They took special glee in ordering around and tormenting the new kitchen girl, and more than once she cried herself to sleep, curled on her mat near the fire.


    She never let on about the cruelty, not to Marne the cook or Hilde the seamstress or even the young constable, Dale.  He visited his cousin often, always lingering to speak a word or two to the quiet girl he''d brought to the house. Bronwyn began to look forward to his visits, but never quite sought him out.


    When he was assigned to the palace guard, the visits abruptly stopped. She missed him, but never thought to visit him there. She had a task to do in the house of the Lord Mayor, and the sense of purpose grew into a compulsion that would not release her no matter how much the daughters made her life a misery.


    Months and then a year and then more passed in the same fashion. The cook taught her about the running of a kitchen, and then a household, but Bronwyn''s special knack still lie in the sunny garden. Eventually Marnie simply sent whatever injured goodman or abigail who came for healing to Bronwyn.


    The palace servants became particularly fond of her, bringing their burns and bruises and scrapes to her specifically. The Lord Mayor¡¯s daughters grew in stature if not in social grace, and finally news came to the city from the palace. The Queen had fallen ill and died of it quickly. The King, once again widdered, would hold a Royal Ball and then a lottery to decide who would become the next Queen.


    "Why hold a ball and a lottery both?" the middle sister whined, throwing her bone handled brush across the room with a clatter. It narrowly missed Bronwyn as the kitchen girl ducked to avoid it.


    "Stupid, he can''t be expected to dance with every girl in the kingdom," the oldest snapped, critically examining her dancing shoes. "And he can''t offend the houses who can''t attend."


    The youngest, perhaps the only one of them who was even remotely kind, dreamily sorted through her dresses before deciding which would be cut down to become her ball gown. She gave the deep burgundy satin to Bronwyn. "Put ribbons on it, too," she ordered, "and mind that you don''t get soot on it. I wish to be the prettiest girl at the ball that night."


    The dresses were picked apart and remade by Bronwyn and Hilde the seamstress. The seamstress finally wrapped the new dresses in fine cotton to be delivered back up the long flight of stairs to the bower.


    Upon delivery of the dresses, the oldest threw a plate, the middle daughter shrieked her displeasure, and the youngest frowned down at the ribbons on the burgundy bodice of her new gown. There was never any rhyme or reason for their tantrums that Bronwyn could discern; she merely tried to glide through the mayhem unharmed.


    Weeks of preparation came to an end with the grand ball itself. Bronwyn was chosen to attend the daughters that evening, and with her clever needle she made herself a suitably plain shift out of scraps from the girl''s dresses. The bodice was a deep blue, and the skirt a burgundy and blue counterpane, with a black overdress to keep the chill from Bronwyn''s thin shoulders.


    The little dog whined but consented to stay with the cook with suspicious obedience. As Bronwyn stepped down from the footman''s box on the back of the coach, she felt a cold nose against her bare calf and looked down just as a short brindle tail disappeared beneath the counterpane skirt. She said nothing. There was nothing to be done but hope that the dog stayed out of sight.


    The servants of the guests were expected to take the cloaks and gloves of their charges and retire to a small sitting room set aside for them. Bronwyn was startled to see a familiar face at the door. The young guard, Dale, who was once a constable, winked at her merrily from his post at the door of the ballroom, handsome in his gray and black uniform. His was the only humor in that place, at least among the servants and guards.


    The kitchen maids and abigails who brought trays to the servants of the gentry looked worn and haunted, and there was a certain grimness in the set of the servingmen''s jaws. Bronwyn recognized several of them from their visits to the Mayor''s kitchens for aid or healing, and they smiled tightly at her as they passed.


    The evening was long, and ended with the lottery. The Mayor''s Lady herded her charges out shortly afterwards, a look of calculated glee in her eye and a smug smile. The youngest daughter was the fairest lady at the ball, and had danced more than once with quite a few of the lords and councilmen.


    Bronwyn learned later that evening, while helping the youngest girl undress, that the Mayor''s family had been chosen to give an eligible daughter to the King to wed. A tight frozen ball lodged in Bronwyn¡¯s chest.


    Despite their pettiness and cruelty, fear for her young charge¡¯s safety and the pull of fate like a great rope around Bronwyn¡¯s body. It drew her to hug the girl impulsively, taking in some of the weight of fate from the Lord Mayor¡¯s daughter.


    The servants of the house whispered for weeks after about the tremendous fight between Mayor and Lady that night, and the night after, and a third night, when the lady slammed the door of her suite and locked it.  The Lady refused to emerge for three more days.


    At the end of the sixth day after the Grand Ball, Bronwyn was summoned to the Mayor''s private office. He sat behind the enormous desk, writing a letter. He glanced up as she entered and gestured for her to sit while he finished.


    She gingerly sat on the indicated chair, worried a bit about getting soot on the velvet. He sealed the letter with crimson wax and his signet ring before looking up at Bronwyn. His eyes were heavy with regret.


    "Child, I''m very sorry, but I must do this. A daughter of this house must be presented to the King tomorrow to wed him. Do you understand that?"


    Bronwyn nodded. "Yes my Lord Mayor," she replied calmly, the fate that hung over her tugged her forward in the chair.


    "I cannot, in good conscience, deliver one of my own children to him. The rumors - " he stopped, looking down at the papers on his desk. "I have, therefore, adopted you as a daughter of this house. .I will present you to His Royal Majesty at midafternoon tomorrow." He pushed the letter towards her. "You will be well dowered, Bronwyn, and have not only the title of Queen but duchess as well, should you become widdered."


    Bronwyn picked up the letter in both hands, looking at her fingers with their rough skin and frayed nails, not the hands of a lady at all. "Yes, My Lord Mayor," she replied, and suddenly smiled up at him.


    His distress was painfully visible. "Please don''t fret, Lord David, all is as it is fated to be," she said, greatly daring in her use of his given name. He looked startled, but then smiled warmly in return.


    "You''re a good girl, Bronwyn. Cook has asked to help you bathe and a dress has been prepared for you. You needn''t wait on the sisters this evening, of course, and the guest room has been made ready. Tonight, at least, you will not sleep among the cinders on the hearth."

 Maiden 6) Pouch , 7) Splinter

    6) Pouch


    That night she slept deeply, scrubbed clean in water she drew from the well and heated herself.  The following morning, she bundled her few belongings, pouch, flask, the woodcutter''s knife and the cloak, into a small pack. The cook came up the long stars to help her bathe and dress in rich white satin, trimmed in scarlet, and golden shoes beaded with glass for her feet.  Marnie''s eyes were red, but she tried to be cheerful and encouraging as she trimmed Bronwyn''s nails and brushed her hair smooth, leaving it to hang long down her back in a silken fall of midnight, tiny white flowers caught in the masses like stars.


    After a small luncheon, the Lord Mayor came to her door and knocked politely.  The cook let him in, hugged Bronwyn hard, and left.  Her benefactor walked around her, examining the effect of the bath and new clothing, and nodded briefly, deep in thought.  Bronwyn gathered her pack and took his arm awkwardly when he offered it to her.


    "You needn''t take anything, you know," he said, as they descended the long stairs.


    "There are things one takes along, no matter what the journey''s end," she replied absently, concentrating on not tripping in the unfamiliar slippers.


    A coach with the King''s crest emblazoned on all its livery waited for them, and she was reassured to see the former constable in the ranks of the guard assigned to it.  He stepped forward and took her pack from her as she was handed into the carriage, and she smiled at him in thanks, no longer worried that she would not be allowed to keep those humble things.  Dale would return them when the time was right.


    The sun was just setting as the horses pulled them into the torch-lit courtyard.  The Lord Mayor stepped down and then turned to take her hand, his fingers soft and uncalloused around hers.  With stately grace enforced by her poor balance in the heeled shoes, they walked up the stairs to the solemn group awaiting them at the top.


    Bronwyn had never seen the king before, but kept her eyes lowered as she was introduced to her bridegroom.  Another man began to speak, and after a moment she recognized the words of the marriage rite, and was startled into looking up into the face of the archprelate who was binding her life to this stranger''s.  His eyes were a dull pewter, and he did not smile as he spoke the joyous words.  She looked past him and saw a girl, perhaps twelve years old, slender and dressed in scarlet silks.  Her hair was finely kept, her skin glowed with the application of cosmetics, but there was something vaguely absent in her expression.  Bronwyn glanced up at the face of her king and saw his gaze lingering on the girl with a hunger that left her cold despite her heavy satin wedding dress.  Seeing her movement, the king looked down at her and smiled, his fingers tightening painfully on her hand.  She cast her eyes down again, her thoughts frozen by that look and an old nightmare.  His hair was the black of a raven¡¯s wing, and the eyes were cold, predatory, a yellow glint in light brown depths.  The Wolf was watching her.


    The archprelate finished the ceremony and the king bent and kissed her, lips and teeth and tongue forcing her mouth open and choking away her breath.  Dazed, she would have lost her balance, but his grip on her arm and waist held her trapped.  His mouth released her, and she hardly noticed as they were escorted into the palace and through the long corridors to the royal apartments.  He left her in an ornate sitting room, the door closing firmly behind him as the guards withdrew.


    7) Splinter


    Shivering, she wondered what fickle twist of fate or luck had brought her here, out of poverty and harsh labor, out of the woods, into a luxury she could barely believe, only to be trapped, finally, by the Wolf.  Pushing despair away, she noticed that the room was cold, the fire laid buy unlit.  That, if nothing else, she could change.


    When she finished, the flames cheerfully licked the birchwood and ash.  She went to the window, the finely diamond cut panes still glimmering red with the last of the sunlight.  Opening the window, she found herself looking out over a breathtaking precipice, the castle walls ending in a cliff face above a chasm whose bottom she could only guess at.


    Dizzy with the height, frightened by the prospect of falling, she stepped away from the window, too shaken to pull it closed.  An icy breeze rushed in after, plucking at her sleeves and turning her towards the inner chamber door, standing open.


    The bedroom was lush with velvets and satins and fur, red and gold and black. The immense bed, with its copious hanging canopies, seemed to her more like the mouth of some enormous beast than a place to sleep. There was another fireplace, though, and that fire was already lit.  The dancing firelight reassured her a bit, as did the neatly stacked firewood to the side.  Ignoring the bed, she entered the room and went to the hearth, fingers unconsciously tracing the rough end of a piece of ashwood, the bite of an axe still deep in the wood-grain.  Peace and a sweet strangeness stole over her, and she found herself smiling, just a little, not knowing why.


    The peace was shattered as she heard the door of the sitting room open, and she whirled to face the intruder, driving a splinter deep into her finger.  The girl in crimson silks stood there, her eyes empty of everything but a vague angry curiosity as she stared at Bronwyn.


    "Who are you?" Bronwyn asked finally, as the silence drew out.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    "Janette," the girl answered, and Bronwyn realized that she was the princess.


    "Oh," Bronwyn said, surprised.  "I''d thought you''d be..." She stopped, and the tickle of purpose began to wake her from the fear-spell of the wolf.


    "What?  You thought I"d be what?"  Janette came towards her, hair dull dark brown in the firelight and candle-light, her eyes pale as glass and lifeless as paste diamonds.


    "You aren''t what I''d imagined of a princess," Bronwyn said diplomatically, trying to ignore the desperation in the girl''s eyes.  With a start, Bronwyn realized what it might be to live with the Wolf, and to not even know that there might be a rescue.  Pity moved her, and a little compassion.  "But having never met a princess, I don''t suppose I would know what to expect."


    "I wish you''d tell me how I should be," The princess drifted towards the window and stood there a moment, looking out at the edge of the world.


    "It''s not for me to say," Bronwyn whispered.  Tears slipped down the princess''s cheeks, paler even than a sheltered maiden''s should be.  She reached out to touch the girl''s hand, saw the bruise on the wrist as the arm moved smoothly out of range and the silken sleeve rode up onto her forearm. "Sweet mercy," Bronwyn breathed as she realized the meaning of the look the King had given his daughter earlier that evening.


    "It''s nothing.  My father loves me."  A tense defiance stiffened the girl''s spine, brought the thin shoulders back and the chin up.  For a moment, she was almost regal.


    "I see," Bronwyn replied, not daring to say more."


    "He''ll love you, too, Stepmother, maybe even more than he loves me."  The gaze died again, fire seeping away from her, the shoulders slumping and the head bowed.


    "Nothing is certain.  Nothing is ever certain."  Bronwyn twitched her skirts aside, and the hidden occupant blinked in the sudden light, his brindle and black spotted coat shining in the firelight.  Fully grown, he was barely a hand and a half tall, but more than three from shoulder to tail, and his expression was mournful as he gazed up at his mistress, expecting that he''d be in trouble.  "Well, misbehaving dogs are always certain,¡± she added, reassured and delighted that he''d managed to come so far without being discovered.  He set about exploring the suite, assured that he wasn''t in immediate danger of her wrath.


    "He''ll come to you soon," Janette said, and there was an edge to her words.  Bronwyn felt her stomach clench as she realized it was jealousy she was hearing from the child-woman.  "That''s OK, though.  When he''s finished with you, he''ll be mine again."  Before Bronwyn could even think of a reply, the girl was gone.  Troubled, Bronwyn pulled the window closed and went to sit by the fire, careful to keep her fine satin skirts out of the ashes.  The dog came to her, and she petted his head absently, pulling the long ears through her fingers gently, and he groaned in pleasure.  She winced, noticing the splinter in her finger, and carefully teased it out.  A single drop of blood rose on the flesh.


    "I suppose there''s another thing that''s certain," she mused.  "That child couldn''t run a kitchen, much less a kingdom."  She stared into the flames, trying not to think about what would come later, careful to keep the blood off of her dress.  She was no virgin, though she couldn''t remember the name of the sweetheart who had wooed her in a dim past devoid of witches and wolves.  When she thought of the King, though, now her husband, a cold finger of fear touched her belly.  Tears blurred the flames in her vision, and they seemed that they were made of living things.  Slender gold and orange creatures twined lizard-like over the wood, and the dog whined a little as one turned its head to look at them.  Its blue-hot eye peered into Bronwyn''s soul, warming her face with its dry and blistering breath.  She blinked, and the tears fell into the scant ashes on the edge of the hearth.  Sitting back, she rubbed her face and tried to remember when she''d leaned forward so far.


    The salamander, for surely that''s what the little fire elemental was, delicately edged away from the glowing nest of its kin, lapping up the ashy tears where they beaded in the soot.  Its tiny scales flashed blue and yellow and white, and it crackled a little as it smiled at her.


    "What do you wish, lady witch?"  Its voice was the muted roar of an oven, the hiss of a tiny forge as the bellows pump air through the fire.


    "I don''t know,¡± she replied, startled.  ¡°May I think about it?"


    The salamander bowed its head gracefully.  "As you are a witch, and as you are wise, too, you may wait til dawn to ask."  It climbed back up onto the burning log, a finger-long ripple of flame.


    A bit of breeze touched the back of Bronwyn''s neck, and she turned to see a maidservant enter.  The girl went to a tall wardrobe and produced a nightgown that was more gauze than substance.  The abigail stepped back to wait, obviously ready to help Bronwyn with the elaborate laces on both the dress and the nightgown.  When she was finally undressed, the maid helped her wash in the opulent bathing room hidden beyond the bedroom; its plumbing included copper spigots that brought heated water directly into the tub, something Bronwyn had never seen but thought very convenient.  It was done quickly, and the maid carefully hung Bronwyn''s wedding gown in the wardrobe.


    "What happened to your neck?" Bronwyn''s eyes lingered on the ugly burn showing just above the girl''s collar.


    The maid was startled into meeting Bronwyn''s gaze, and she flushed, her fingers covering the burn self-consciously.  "It''s nothing, Your Highness."  Bronwyn, remembering the wicked words of the Lord Mayor''s daughters, also remembered explaining away her own bruises to the young constable.


    "Well, don''t let it fester.  Bring me marifleur and hot water in the morning, please, and bring me my tray yourself."  The girl curtseyed obediently. "Do you serve the king as well as the princess?" Bronwyn hazarded the guess.


    "We all serve the King.  The princess is to be preferred," the maid''s fingers went to the burn again unconsciously.  She left Bronwyn alone again.  The dog came to his mistress, and she picked him up and shoved him into the wardrobe.


    Almost immediately after the serving girl''s exit, the suite doors were thrown open yet again, and Bronwyn heard His boot heels loud on the marble tiles of the floor.

 Maiden 8) Salamander

    8) Salamander


    She woke naked on the hearth in the deep silence before dawn.  The stones were cold, but the dying fire still warmed her face.  The salamander regarded her dispassionately.  It seemed bigger.


    "As we agreed, healing of your body and forgetfulness, for a time.  When your memory returns, you will have fire enough to do what you know is right."  Bronwyn tried to make sense of the words.


    "Forgetfulness?"  She sat, stiff and a little sore, and felt the stickiness of blood on her arms and breasts.  Looking down at her bare body, she fought nausea as she saw the blood staining her limbs and torso, though she was not injured in any way she could see or feel.  She stood carefully, and the feel of blood between her thighs made her dizzy.  The bed was a wreck, sheets crimson and brown with blood as well as expensive dyes.  Her blood, she realized.  "Oh," she said, understanding washing over her.


    Suddenly unable to bear the feel of drying blood on her skin, she rushed to the bathing room and filled the tub with water as hot as the spigots would produce.  Using the rich soaps and scrubbing sands, she scoured her body once, then again, draining the filthy water away and refilling the tub.  When it seemed she might finally be clean, she scrubbed herself once again for good measure before washing her hair and submerging herself fully, holding her breath against the cooling water until she thought she would burst.  Her skin glowed red from the heat and the washing, but when she emerged she was better able to think, better able to put together how she would approach the day, and determined that she would escape somehow.


    Wrapped in a thick robe, she left the bathing room, skirting the ruined bed without looking at it, and built up the fire.  The salamander crawled between the burning logs and basked in the heat.  A muffled bark brought her to the wardrobe.  When she opened it, the little dog tumbled out, anxious and excited to see her.  She petted him until he trembled with ecstasy, finally sending him off to explore while she looked through the contents of the wardrobe.  She chose a day gown of deep blue crepe, edged in the finest of delicate white lace, barely able to believe that she herself would wear the thing.  She pulled it out and hung it from the door, examining it carefully.  She quickly realized that she would not be able to fasten all of the hooks and laces alone, but was rescued from having to entertain herself further by the arrival of the maid.


    The woman brought a tray, not of food, but an assortment of vials and unguents in cut glass pots, starched bandages folded neatly on the tray.  She entered quietly, her eyes lingering on the bloody bed, and paled dramatically when she turned and saw Bronwyn standing, apparently whole and unharmed, next to the wardrobe.  A spreading bruise peered up from the girl''s white collar on the unburned side of her neck, and Bronwyn quickly picked through the medicines on the tray, selecting marifleur ointment for the burn and a familiar sharp smelling clove preparation for the girl''s bruises.


    "Unbutton your collar, dear.  When we''ve finished with you I''ll need your help dressing, and breakfast."  Bronwyn had to unbutton the collar herself, the maid was stunned beyond speech or action, her eyes haunted as the new queen tended her injuries.


    "Breakfast is served only with the King and his advisors and the rest of the court, Your Highness," the girl finally said, pulling her collar closed.


    "Even better.  We should probably hurry."  Bronwyn smelled the ointment again.  "Did you buy this from the Mayor''s kitchen?"  The girl nodded, confused as Bronwyn smiled.


    "It''s still very early, Your Highness, you would likely be the first to arrive."  The plan began to form in Bronwyn''s mind, and she smiled sweetly at the servant.


    "All the better.  Please, if you would, when we''re in private, call me Bronwyn.  May I know your name?"


    "I''m Rebeka.  My Lady Bronwyn, I think that blue would fit you, but His Majesty prefers white dresses on his Queen."


    "Well, if he wanted me in white, he should not have given me such a selection of colors," Bronwyn answered tartly, hardly able to believe her sudden courage. "The only white gowns in that wardrobe are fit for children of invalids, and I''m neither."  Rebeka''s hands trembled on the hooks and lacings, but she quickly finished the task of dressing the young queen.  The maid glanced often at the bed, but Bronwyn''s limbs were smooth and white, unblemished by bruise or laceration.


    When they were finished, Rebeka led Bronwyn through the maze like halls of the castle, down long staircases and to a large dining room.  The king and his advisors had just arrived, and the advisors all stood immediately when the Queen arrived.  Bronwyn walked with slow grace, the pull of fate steadying her legs against sudden anxiety and the unfamiliar weight of yards of fabric.  The king stood more slowly, his eyes steely and guarded as his Lady wife approached the table.


    "Your Highness," he greeted her, and Bronwyn realized that he didn''t even know her name. "How good of you to join us."


    "Good morning, Your Majesty, my lords.  I could hardly miss, of course."  He extended his hand to her and she accepted it, meeting his eyes calmly.


    "I trust you slept well?" The advisors all looked on in stunned silence, watching the interplay like doves among hawks.


    "No, indeed, I did not, Your Majesty.  I didn''t think you would need to be reminded of the vigorous entertainment of our wedding night."  She smiled sweetly at him, and then seated herself gracefully.  The little dog, having hidden himself in her skirts, sat resolutely on her feet.


    "Your dress is becoming, Your Highness," he remarked.  "I prefer white, though"


    "Of course, Your Majesty.  I prefer the blue."  She delicately heaped eggs and toast on her plate.  "Lord Chancellor," she looked to the man on her left.  The Lord Mayor had once entertained Lord Fredrick Wilhelm, Chancellor to the King, for an evening.  She had liked him very much when she waited on the table that evening.  "If you would pass the cream, I would be grateful."


    Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    "Certainly, Queen Bronwyn. You need only ask."  His eyes were lively and his smile genuine.  The King''s fingers were a bit too tight on his fork, his words a bit too forceful as he discussed the business of the kingdom with his chief counselors.  Bronwyn kept up her bland but firm manner, though a part of her screamed every time he casually touched her or spoke to her, and she shut that part of herself away to cower simply because he sat so near.  When she was addressed, she answered demurely, and smiled at kindness and refused to respond to the veiled courtly cruelties that were occasionally directed at her.  She found that she could not eat the food before her, and instead discreetly fed it to the eager mouth waiting beneath her chair.  The tea served to her was finer than anything she''d ever tasted, and warmed her a bit.


    When the meal was finished they all rose together, and the King turned to his bride, taking her hand in his. "My day is full, but I will join you again tonight," he said, his grip tight enough to bruise. With an artificial calm that she''d learned in serving the daughters of the Lord Mayor, she smiled up at him, inclining her head gracefully in a demure curtsey.


    ¡°If it pleases you,  Your Majesty,¡± she was unable to keep an edge out of her voice.  The Lord Chancellor laughed.


    "What an enchanting girl!  My King, I think perhaps the joke''s on you.  She''s going to bewitch all of us like little birds, and we shall eat lentils out of the ashes if she asks."


    The words hung heavy in the air for a moment.  Witchcraft was a serious crime.


    "That''s nonsense, Lord Wilham," the King grated out. "My Queen is not a witch,"  The King released her hands and turned on his heel to leave, his guard appearing silently to escort him.


    "As you say, Your Majesty, of course."  The old chancellor looked at her speculatively.  She curtseyed deeply and left by the same door she''d used to enter, opposite the door the King had used to exit.


    Rebeka was waiting for her, accompanied by a pair of guards Bronwyn had not yet met.


    Bronwyn took in a deep breath, held it a moment and then exhaled slowly.  "Are there gardens here, Rebeka?  I would like very much to walk in the open air."  She knotted the corners of her napkin with the bread she''d not eaten into a pouch of sorts, with the thought that perhaps she would be hungry later.


    "Certainly, Your Highness, your guards will take you, and I''m sure one of the Ladies would be honored to accompany you.  May I take that to your suite?" Rebeka indicated the napkin.  Bronwyn surrendered the food to the maid, blushing slightly.  "Will you take luncheon in your rooms?"


    "Yes, if that won''t cause you more work."  Rebeka smiled demurely and curtseyed.


    "Your Highness, it will be no trouble at all."


    The rest of her day was surprisingly pleasant.  The Lady Wilham, wife of the Lord Chancellor, joined her in the gardens, regaling Bronwyn with endless stories of the court.  Bronwyn knew that the lady was also scrutinizing her closely, and did her best to conceal her growing unease about the night to come.  It was obvious that escape would not come easy, and even thinking about leaving made her faintly ill at ease.  She did not see the Princess at all that day.


    The bed was replaced and remade by the time Bronwyn returned to her suite for luncheon.  Lady Wilhelm made her excuses, the guards locked the doors behind her, and Bronwyn ate most of the bread and cheese on her tray before feeding the rest to the little dog.  She fell into an exhausted sleep on a richly brocaded divan in the sitting room.


    She dreamed of the Inn where Gilda Oldroot had found her, and of the old woman''s sharp words to the men there about the risks in taking a witch against her will.  She tasted the bitterness of the draught again, and the dream turned to darkness, and blood, and a sweetness she couldn''t name.  The sweetness was yet on her lips when she woke, and sunset bled through the cut glass window, and she heard the king''s boot-heels on the floor.


    The days that followed were very like the first.  She would wake on the hearth, naked and covered in blood and worse, aching and exhausted.  The salamander and its brood watched over her newly healed body, and they grew fat and powerful on her tears; always they gave her healing and forgetfulness of the hours she spent with the King in the night.  She bathed before Rebeka came to help her dress, and she breakfasted with the King and his advisors.  Because the King had publicly declared that she was not a witch, the clergy could not challenge her, even if they had been inclined to do so.  She always wore any color but white.  As the days passed almost every servant in the castle found an excuse to wait on her at least once.  The King''s advisors cautiously began to like her, and unlike any of the king''s previous wives she showed no inclination towards frailty or illness.  Something of the weight of dread lifted from the atmosphere of the castle, and even if abuse did not cease or even lessen, it seemed that everyone was stronger.


    In the long afternoons, if she was allowed time to rest, Bronwyn slept and dreamed of the witch, Gilda Oldroot, and the cook who had taught her a bit of herb-lore and healing, and sometimes of the salamander.  In her dreams the little fire thing entertained her with stories of magic, real magic, and of its cousins the dragons.  She watched as a maiden found her faithless swain in the arms of another and threw herself from a bridge into the river, and for many nights Bronwyn watched over the girl¡¯s ghost as it tormented the young man until he too finally threw himself into the river to escape her keening voice and wet clawed hands.  Sometimes she wandered through the woods, and a spotted weasel or a blue-grey hawk with barred wings showed her the ways of small creatures hiding and flying and living in the land.  When her heart was heavy and her spirits weary, she would come round a bend in the trail, and a clearing would open into golden sunlight, a small stone cottage set back from the stream.  She never saw who lived there, but it was always a comfort to step out into that golden light.


    As she dreamed, she found she could change things, nudge things here or there.  A boy planted beans at the foot of a towering cliff, and Bronwyn set them to growing with a whispered word, til finally they reached the top of the cliff in a mighty vine.  The boy started climbing, and Bronwyn woke to the feel of the salamander¡¯s tongue on her face.


    Each night, the King came to Bronwyn''s rooms, and her anger and loathing of him grew stronger.  Each morning she reappeared whole and un-marked at breakfast, and his determination to dominate her became an obsession beyond the activities of the marriage bed.  By royal decree, she was required to attend every court function and his every public appearance within the capital.  He left occasionally for days at a time, hunting wild game or other sport, and those days Bronwyn was locked in her tower room.


    Janette hated her stepmother, and vented her spleen on the servants who grew to like Bronwyn.  The girl whispered vicious rumors among the ladies of the court, smiling at her stepmother when her father was present, sneering with petty scorn when he was not.  Despite the child¡¯s antics, Bronwyn came to love her stepdaughter, seeing the pain where others saw cruelty.

 Maiden 9) Cloak, part 1

    9) Cloak


    A month passed, and then a season. At Midsummer the people of the kingdom were invited, as dictated by tradition, to bring their joys and their grievances to the palace itself. Most simply came for the festival, their differences having been resolved by local magistrates, but some problems festered until they could no longer be healed by local wisdom.


    The day before Midsummer a young man who had once been a constable in the town below the castle traded duty with one of the Queen''s guards. On that morning, a small pack containing a cloak and pouch and dagger, among other small but humble things, made its way into the Queen''s suite. Bronwyn took them all out and held each piece, shaking the wrinkles out of the cloak. Its earthy color shimmered and bled to a deep scarlet in the early light. She set it aside and reassembled the pack. After helping the Queen dress in a gown of blue embroidered with red and yellow flowers, Rebeka thoughtfully hid the pack in the bottom of the wardrobe.


    That morning, the maid looked at her mistress carefully, noting how thin she''d become, and the slight bloom of a child growing in the cradle of the young Queen''s hips. Bronwyn was unable to disguise her horror when she looked up and Rebeka met her eyes. Impulsively, the maid embraced the Queen who she''d grown to love. No word was spoken between them, but Bronwyn was silent at breakfast, and reserved with Lady Wilham on their walk afterwards. That afternoon there was no rest for Bronwyn; she was required to hear the domestic disputes. Janette sat at her left hand, ostensibly to learn the wisdom of queenship, but the woman-child contradicted her stepmother whenever possible, making cruel observations about the poverty or poor education of the commoners who came before them. After the third case was heard, Bronwyn firmly asked Lady Elaine, the chatelaine who was admitting the plaintiffs to give them a few moments before bringing them the next family. She considered the princess for a moment, words rising from the source of the deep pull of fate that drew her to the girl.


    "When you''re finished with your game, Janette, we can continue."


    "I''m sure I don''t know what you mean," the girl said with poisonous sweetness.


    "I think you do. You''ve worked to undermine me all morning. I might not have asked to marry your father, I may never have wanted to be Queen, but while I am the Queen of these people I will do my best to give them justice and kindness. You think it doesn''t matter if you cut down what they are trying to build, but these people are the foundation of your kingdom, it''s wealth. Without them, you are nothing more than an overeducated and spoiled blue-blooded heiress with no lands, since all the royal lands belong to the kingdom, not the King''s family."


    "How dare you, you filthy grasping whore-"Janette flushed an ugly red and Bronwyn slapped the princess firmly across the mouth.


    "Be silent, child, before you say something you will come to regret." The girl stared at her in shock, tears of surprise and pain standing in her eyes.


    "I''ll tell my father -" she began, but Bronwyn laughed bitterly.


    "So that he''ll do what? Beat me like a servant or a dog? Abandon me, finally, so you can go to his bed like the incestuous stupid chit of a woman you were becoming before I married him away from you? You will never be Queen as you are, Princess Janette, you are not strong enough and certainly not well enough liked to earn the support of the Chancellors and Lord Mayors or the Knight Commander."


    "It''s not about being Queen," Janette protested. "I love him, and he doesn''t even see me anymore! You have cut my very heart out, and you laugh at me as I bleed to death!"


    "You''re more pitiful than I thought. You speak of bleeding? I''ve bled myself dry every night because I thought you might be worth rescuing from that monster." The words stirred memory, and fire, and anger, and the salamander murmured in her mind like the crackling of fire. "You will sit," Bronwyn pointed to the Princess'' chair beside her own, "and you will listen Janette. These people are more human than you will ever be, and you don''t deserve the respect or loyalty of any one of them." The girl sat abruptly, forced down by an invisible hand.


    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    "You really are a witch," the girl whispered, fear suddenly growing in her eyes.


    "I''m whatever I''m needed to be, but your precious father declared that I am not a witch, foolish child. Since my husband, our King, has decreed that I am not a witch, I cannot curse you. I can only wish, on a thousand tears shed and fed to dragons, that your heart will open to these people, and that you will come to love them as I do." The fire in the massive hearth flared. Even in Midsummer the stone walls of the castle were cold, and the salamander and its relatives had grown in size and power as they fed on the tears and blood of a witch''s pain. Bronwyn glanced at the flames and saw the jewel blue eyes of a fiery lizard watching. It nodded graciously and Janette began to glisten with a faint dew of perspiration as the magic began to change her blood. She tried to speak, but could not.


    "Lady Elaine, please admit the next petitioner." The chatelaine, pale from the scene she''d just witnessed, quickly opened the door.


    "Friar Seco of Deep Woods Monastery," she announced.


    An elderly man entered, his hat in his hands. Ink stained fingers twisted the worn leather out of shape. He dressed plainly, much as any poor farmer would dress, but his fingers were knobby with a lifetime of fine writing and illustration, not bone-breaking toil. He bobbed a bow and mumbled something indistinct, his eyes on the ground. Janette looked at him, stunned, as if she''d never seen anyone like him before.


    "Please, Father Seco, you''ll need to speak up," Bronwyn encouraged gently.


    "Your Highness, my brothers and I are in a bad way. We been transcribing texts that are almost three hundred years old, and our housekeeper died with the fevers this spring. It''s not a bad thing, to cook and clean and keep things in order ourselves, but every moment we spend away from our work we risk losing some of the knowledge, some of the history of our land to bad eyesight or old age or just simple senility." His passion for his work was plain in his eyes, dark blue and slightly myopic. "I wish, if you know of any woman willing to put up with and look after seven old men who are set in their ways, we''ll be sure she''s provided for, give her whatever she wants, if you could be so kind as to send her to us." His words rang out into the audience chamber, startling him a little.


    "I''ll make inquiries, Friar Seco, I promise you that."


    "Just... It would be a boon if she could read, even a little," he said wistfully. "So that maybe she might understand."


    Bronwyn nodded. "That will be more difficult, but perhaps it can be done." She glanced at Janette, who stared at the little old man as he left, spell-struck.


    "He really does love what he does," the girl said, as if the idea had never occurred to her. She looked stunned, something unfurling in her mind like a bright banner in the wind.


    "Yes he does, as much as a kitchen girl might love her garden or a farmer loves his land.¡± Words crowded through Bronwyn¡¯s mouth, half driven by her own fear and half pulled by the current of fate blowing through the princess. ¡°And you don''t deserve any of them, a spoiled and thoughtless brat who just now recognizes that there are other people in the world." Bronwyn reeled with the sharpness of her words, their deliberate cruelty, and the tears in Janette''s eyes began to fall. She buried her face in her hands, slumping forward in her chair, sobbing. Bronwyn waved the chatelaine away and beckoned to her friend the former constable. He came away from the door and met her at the foot of the dias. "The princess needs some air, I think," she said, loudly enough for the girl and the chatelaine to hear her. Sobbing still, the princess bolted from her chair and ran from the room, followed closely by the older woman. Bronwyn turned back to Dale. "It''s very likely that she will try to run away. Watch after her. Not for me, but for the sake of a kitchen maid who thinks highly of a constable who saved her from the cold."


    He nodded and bowed deeply, pausing as he turned to go. "Perhaps, things could have been different, if I had spoken -" he began, his eyes searching hers.


    She smiled sadly. "No, I don''t think they could have been. We were born to do different things. You to protect a princess in the wilderness, and me to save her from herself. Go, now. You will know when the time is right to return."


    "But who will save you, Queen Bronwyn?" he asked, and left her there to finish the task set before her.

 Maiden 9) Cloak, part 2

    That night, Midsummer''s Eve, the King came to her yet again. She waited for him calmly, seated near the window. She was fully dressed, a goblet in her hands and a plain travelers flask and pouch on the windowsill beside her. Her dress was deep red, a scarlet cloak pinned at her shoulders, and a fire burned bright in the marble fireplace.


    She stood and walked to him, looking up at him steadily, something dark and burning in her eyes. She gave him the goblet and he drank the bitter wine without a second thought, the icy draught going straight to the core of him in the heat of the room.


    "My daughter is not in the palace," he said, a dangerous edge in his voice.


    "No, husband, she isn''t. She has gone to foster and serve at the Deep Woods Monastery. She''ll learn a great deal there, I suspect, that she would never even begin to know by simply living in the palace. She''ll be a better queen for it, after you die."


    "You assume she will outlive me. I did not authorize this, my Queen. How did you force her to leave?"


    "Oh, it was quite her own idea, my King. I''m sure you''re aware that Janette hates me far too much to be forced into anything by her dear stepmother." Bronwyn stepped closer, and as she came within reach he raised his hand to hit her. For the first time she did not flinch away. "I assure you, sir, if you touch me again you will regret it."


    He laughed at her. "No, little Queen, you are the one who will regret this. If I have to beat you til you''re half dead every night for the next year you will learn to fear and respect me."


    "Like you''ve beaten and raped me every night for five months? You would risk the life of your unborn son if you follow that path." She smiled cruelly, and the humor drained from him like water, chilled by the look in her eyes.


    "A son? My son?" His jaw worked, the powerful muscles bunching and relaxing as he stood before her, trying to process what she had told him. He felt paralyzed by the shock of it, his legs and arms heavier and heavier with each breath.


    "Yes. Isn¡¯t that what you wanted? Or did forcing yourself on me have another point?" She turned a little away from him, looking deep into the fire. It seemed to wink at her, but surely, thought the King, it was his imagination. "It''s really too bad that you''ve declared that I''m not a witch. There are consequences, you know, for bedding a witch unwilling." Dizziness gripped him, and as he fell she stepped aside, letting his head strike the stones of the hearth. Blood flowed freely from his temple.


    "What have you done to me, woman?" His speech was slurred as cold spread from his belly to his limbs and face.


    "I''ve given you a great gift, my King. I am healing your kingdom, cutting an abscess from its very heart and placing a cleaner heart in its stead. As for you? You will die, of course. You will die knowing that Janette is out of your reach, that you could never own me, and that you will never, never see your son."


    His breath became labored. "You will pay dearly for my death," he gasped.


    Bronwyn feigned mild surprise. "I''ve already paid for your death, my King. Again and again, I''ve paid, and I have earned it." She looked into the hearth and spoke to something crouched there. "You gave wishes and healing and forgetfulness for a witch''s tears, what will you give for the blood of a king?"


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    "There is great power in the blood of a king," the fire flowed out of the fireplace, licking at her face and then coming to stare with blue-hot eyes into the king''s face. "You will live almost forever, sorceress, and I grant you that your powers shall only grow and never fade in all those years." The burning tongue lapped the blood that spilled onto the hearthstones and then the fresh blood from the king''s wounded head. When it was done, as the king turned blue from lack of breath and lay dying, it delicately touched her face again, a faint steam rising as her tears fell into its mouth.


    "What is your final wish, lady? Memory can no longer be held from you, not any memory I have taken from you, at least."


    Bronwyn thought for a long moment as the king''s eyes glazed over in death. "You have made my power immortal, or at least as long lived as I am. Let me never forget the sweetness that comforts me in my worst hurts. Give that a life as long as mine, whatever its source."


    "As you say it. Would you fly away with me, then, ride a dragon as only one of your kind can?" It unfurled fiery wings, growing as she watched. Its tail shattered the diamond paned window as it coiled and uncoiled, stretching its length.


    She smiled and glanced at the wardrobe where the dog cowered, hiding from the fire elemental. "No, dragon, I have other obligations to tend before memory steals away my sanity. Thank you for your service. Be free and live long." She stood, dusting the ashes off her hands, and stoppered the witch''s flask, gathering her pack and dog from the wardrobe. She tucked the long body of the dog beneath her arm as he hid his face in her bosom, short legs kicking until he was comfortably wedged in the crook of her elbow. The salamander flew out the broken window, followed by those of its brood who had also supped too much on a witch''s tears to ever be content living in the fireplace of a mere palace.


    The guards followed her without question as she went to the offices of the Lord Chancellor. He looked up at her, astonished, as she entered.


    "My lady Queen," he exclaimed, seeing something of trouble in her eyes, seeing the facade begin to crumble as memory crowded her and her control began to slip.


    "Listen carefully, Lord Wilham, I haven''t much time. The King is dead. Princess Janette is fostering with the monks at Deep Woods Monastery, and you are Lord Regent until she comes of age." The Chancellor glanced at his secretary and gestured impatiently for the man to begin writing. ¡°The Princess will grow in beauty and kindness and wisdom, and when she is ready, she will be Queen. The kingdom will prosper under your guidance until she is ready.¡± Her words resonated as the spell took hold in the bones of the castle and swept through the halls and down the streets and alleys of the town, running out the city gates like wild horses to scatter into the wilderness.


    "And what of you, Your Highness? Even if you are not Queen, you are still a duchess, so surely you will remain at court?"


    She laughed, a little breathless as the power left her body trembling. "No, my Lord. I must leave. I''ve lost myself somewhere along the way, I think. And I''ve done quite enough as it is."


    "Then give me an hour, then, or half an hour, so you may at least say goodbye to my lady wife." Bronwyn nodded her consent, and there was a flurry of activity as the Chancellor gave instructions to the secretary and orders to the guards and a passing maid. The dog was fed, a better pack prepared for the Queen, and Lady Wilham fussed over Bronwyn like a hen with a single chick. In the end, Bronwyn was presented with a parchment and a quill. She took it awkwardly and made a scrawling mark at the bottom, glancing at him apologetically when she was finished. "I''m sorry, I never really learned much of writing."


    "Perhaps you''ll find the time, away from court." He didn''t comprehend her bitterness as she laughed again.


    "Time is the only luxury I do have. Thank you, my lord, for all you''ve done for me."


    He kissed her forehead as if she were his own daughter. "I think in time I shall thank you, Lady Bronwyn. Not just for what you''ve done, but for the sacrifice you made to do it."


    She left quickly, tears on her cheeks and the ghost of a king who was a monster hounding her footsteps all the way.

 Mother 10) Frost

    10) Frost


    She wandered for days, following the moon and the sun and the moon, stopping to rest only when her body would go on no longer. Memory came upon her, and she cried and shivered and tried to lose her mind, hoping that insanity might be kinder than knowing. Her hair escaped its braids and her fine clothing became dirty. The little dog followed her, forlorn and worried, and stole eggs and bread for her when he could, but she refused it all, vomiting when she did make herself eat until finally she stopped trying. Sometimes, when she slept, she knew a sort of distant peace, the echo of a sweetness she had forgotten, but the nightmares always returned and she lived the violation far more often than its surcease.


    The mountain came up in her line of sight one morning, blocking the dawn for a while, and she fixed it in her mind, thinking that the snows on its flanks might cool the burning in her blood. She walked until her slippers fell off in tatters, and her feet bled. She clutched the crimson cloak close to her body even when her fever raged high, and the little dog began hunting only for himself, always offering her the first part of the kill, but eating quickly when she did not respond to the gift of food. Finally he ceased even to hunt for his own supper, never leaving her for long as they began the long toil up the slopes of the mountain. Dawn came later and later, until the mountain finally filled almost half the sky and Bronwyn could climb no further.


    Weeping without tears to shed, she collapsed, vaguely hoping that the snows would come soon. She thought that the salamander was wrong, and that perhaps she could die after all if she wished it hard enough.


    She heard the trees whispering among themselves, and felt woody limbs curl around her, lifting her and the dog high into the air. She dreamed that the tree lifted its roots up like a lady¡¯s skirts and made its way up the mountain. She dreamed of a time when a profound sweetness assured her that the wood would care for her if it could. And then she dreamed of nothing.


    At long last, hands grasped her shoulders and she struck out blindly, remembering other hands that forced her down or gripped her cruelly. A voice spoke to her gently, a dark and rumbling voice that rolled over her like thunder, and raindrops fell on her cheeks and lips. She licked at the rain, and it was salty, tears to go with the voice, and she looked up at the shadow of the mountain and met the dark eyes of the Giant, reddened with emotion and sad compassion. He spoke to her again, but she did not understand anything but the little dog climbing over his trunk-like legs, looking up at their rescuer with pitiful hope that perhaps this stranger could make his mistress eat and grow strong again. Bronwyn was lifted like a babe and fainted before he took the first step.


    The dog woke her when her mind finally stopped wandering in its painful limping circles. She smelled wood smoke, hickory and a bit of oak, and the burned feather smell of a partridge cooked too long. Rolling stiffly to her side, she saw a high-ceilinged round room, made of larger stones than she''d seen even at the palace, with tall wide windows that opened out into the sky. She lay between soft sheets in an enormous straw-tick bed. The dog gamboled around her in delight, and darted off the bed and across the room to the table and its sole occupant.


    The Giant looked up at her, pausing in his writing for a moment, before he bent his head again and finished the line on the parchment. He capped the ink well and carefully set the quill aside.


    "Are you hungry?" His voice was deep, the voice of mountains, and when he stood she could not help but cower down into the blankets, fear gripping her even as a small voice in her mind noted that he was merely very tall, not monstrously huge, and that she was a silly goose for fearing him.


    "Just a little," she replied after a moment. She had no sense of fate in talking to him, no tug of purpose guiding her, only the empty gnawing in her belly.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.


    "I have no little bowls or plates, miss, but I am carving them for you. For now will you make do with eating just a little from a large saucer?" He smiled at her kindly, pulling a tea-cup the size of a mixing bowl off a high shelf and spooning a bit of broth into it. The partridge began to scorch, and finally she could not stand it any longer, and wormed her way off the bed to move the spit off the fire.


    She stood before him, dressed only in her shift, and fear washed over her again, gripping her heart until she could barely breathe. He was almost twice her height, and there were no salamanders here to save her; the fire was just fire. Her belly moved, and she looked down at herself, horrified. Her body had grown round with the child, prince of a man she hated, who invaded her even from beyond death. She began to shake and sat abruptly on the hearth.


    The giant did not approach her, sensing her fear and perhaps a little of the rest of it. He slid the teacup across the hearth to her. "You will feel better if you eat," he rumbled softly, in tones one would use with a child or an injured animal. "Please eat, just a little, for the sake of this pup if not for yourself." The dog whined in response, wiggling himself under her arm. She smiled at the dog and her face felt stiff and cold, as if she had not smiled in eons. Carefully, she lifted the cup and sipped the broth. He sat again at the table, blowing on the pages of the book he''d been writing in. "Miss Bronwyn, it''s not very good, I''m afraid. I know many things, but cooking is not one of those things." He was right. The broth was rich with juices, but had little flavor beyond the meat that had been boiled in it.


    "How do you know my name? Do you know healing? Or midwifery?" She spoke in a rush, and he looked up at her again, his eyes cautious and too knowing.


    "I heard of your need from a tinker who wrote me a letter. As for the rest, I know a bit of both, enough to know what you''d ask me next. I also know that if you are learned enough to ask me, you''re also learned enough to know the babe is too far along to cure with herbs. Other means would likely kill you, also." The dog licked her ears away, his tongue cool against the memory of the tongues of salamanders.


    "If only it would," she whispered. He did not reply, but watched her as she finished the broth in the cup. She was too weak to stand again, but did not remember how to ask for help. So she sat there, before his fire, watching the mundane flames flicker in their hungry consumption of the wood. After a long moment he lit a pipe, the sweet smelling tobacco lulling her and easing her fear a bit. Nothing in the palace smelled like the smoke from that pipe. The wood-pile was stacked on the other side of the hearth, the bites of the axe larger and deeper than any she''d ever seen.


    "You should go back to bed," he said finally, the deepening shadows hailing the end of the day.


    "He''ll come for me," she said, the nightmare descending upon her as she gazed into the hearthfire.


    "Miss, he may not come here. Please, look at me," his voice failed to rouse her. "Bronwyn," he said finally, firmly. She was startled into looking up at him again; he knelt close and she struggled to her feet, swaying as she tried to back away. He would hurt her so much -


    "Nothing will harm you here, Bronwyn." She trembled and almost fell, and he reached out without thinking and caught her waist and back with a hand that reached almost all the way across her heavy body, but he was gentle, so very gentle. He froze and she thought of running away from him, of falling out of the cut glass windows in her palace room to find death in the abyss below the castle. "You are not in the castle any more, the King is dead, and you are safe, dear girl." Her vision blurred and she saw the giant''s stone room and the walls of the castle at once, and blinked to see only the round room with sunset pouring golden and pink through the unglassed windows. He repeated the words of reassurance to her again and again as she struggled with the ghost of the palace, slowly relaxing against his chest as she sat across his lap. He stroked her hair and back and rocked her gently until she thought she might possibly begin to believe him.


    At length he stood, tucking her into the broad bed. Almost exhausted beyond fear, she still crawled towards the wall as he stood, her body desperate to be as far away from him as she could. He did not pursue her, but pulled a stout rug from a cedar chest and spread it on the floor, lying down upon it. The dog jumped up onto the bed and curled into a small ball next to her head, groaning in ecstasy as his body settled into the straw mattress. He sighed and was quickly asleep.


    Bronwyn listened to the breathing of the giant and her dog, waiting for the nightmare, for the sound of boot-heels on marble. The nightmare never came, and the only sounds were the breathing of her companions, the crackle of the fire, and the first notes of a nightingale''s sonnet as sleep finally claimed her.

 Mother 11) Birdsong, part 1

    11) Birdsong


    Late morning sunlight woke her as it inched across the bed to touch her hand. She sat up and stretched against the stiffness of sleepy limbs, trying to ignore the ungainly bulge of her belly. Neither dog nor giant were present, though she smelled the smoke from the giant''s pipe. Finally she decided that she felt brave enough to slip out of the bed and explore the room. Porridge had been left on the hearth in a normal sized wooden bowl, close to the fire to keep it warm. A large cauldron, filled with water, stood heating over coals carefully raked away from the ashes. The table was tall, but not impossibly so; the top was even with the bottom of her ribs when she stood next to it. There was a single chair for the table, and four cedar chests stood around the edges of the room. This morning the book was closed and pushed to the side with ink and quill neatly arranged nearby. In its place was a tangle of wood and metal wire that, if it had a purpose, Bronwyn couldn''t even begin to guess at what it might be. The soft sounds of birds spilled in through the windows.


    She circled back to the hearth and carefully ate all of the porridge left to her. She grimaced a bit at the lumps and the gluey taste of the oats, but found that she couldn''t stop once she''d started. The babe moved inside her a bit, and she froze until he stopped, struggling with her horror and curiosity. Her hands clenched and unclenched, and she waited for the nightmare to begin, but it stayed away. It was kept at bay in the darkness of her mind by the smells of woodsmoke, tobacco and evergreens.


    The sound of someone whistling drifted through the tall windows, and she stood awkwardly, abandoning her seat on the edge of the hearth. Faintly, she heard her dog barking, and the giant called out to him, admonishing him not to get himself lost or hurt. The door swung open and the giant entered, carrying a stout washtub. His hair was wet, pulled back into a tail at the back of his neck, and he smelled of herbs and lye soap.


    "Good morning, Miss Bronwyn, almost afternoon." He smiled as he put the tub down next to the hearth. ¡°It''s wash day, and lasses and dogs aren''t exempt. The little fellow cooperated well enough, but I hope I don''t have to hold you under by your scruff." He winked and she smiled at the image; the dog had never liked baths. The other meaning of his words sunk in and she took a step back.


    "You don''t mean to give me a bath, do you?" He poured the steaming water from the cauldron into the tub, which was certainly big enough to bathe in if she didn''t splash too much.


    "Well, unless you insist, no, there''s not much dignity in giving a grown woman a bath like a child." He laid out a cake of brownish and lumpy soap, flecks of herbs suspended in the waxy stuff, and pulled a towel from one of the chests. With a flourish he produced another shift, made of plainer stuff than the fine-combed cotton of the one she wore, and a faded blue dress that seemed to have been made of one of his shirts. He held the dress out to her and she stepped closer to take it from him.


    This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    "Did you make this?" She''d known male weavers, but never known a man to sew anything more than patches or shoes or leather. The stitches were a bit long, but strong enough.


    "Nah, my brother''s widder did. She also, in case you wondered, took care of bathing and turning you while you were off your head. You were too frightened of anything tall and broad for me to tend you that way." His smile faded to a gentle but serious look of concern. "There''s nothing here that will hurt you, miss. Nothing at all, and I swear this on the bones of the very earth." The rumble of his voice deepened and resonated through the stone foundations and walls of the room, a power answering him from the rock beneath them.


    She nodded, speechless. She remembered the garment in her hands and held it up to her face, smelling the warm homespun, feeling the softness on her cheek. The babe moved again, pushing sharply up against her kidneys and she gasped. "Nothing that I haven''t brought here myself," she answered, putting a hand to her side.


    "No, miss. Even that will go easy. The child is small, likely because you were so sick for so long, and you''re not poorly built, if you''ll forgive me for saying it." He actually blushed, and she felt her fear of him lessen a bit. They heard a flurry of wings and mad barking beyond the door, and Bronwyn smiled, delighted with the sounds of her dog''s success.


    "What''s the dog''s name, if I may ask?" He turned to look out the door in the direction of the noises.


    "I don''t know. He''s never left me long enough to need to be called." It suddenly occurred to her that it might seem strange that her dog had no name.


    "You''ll have to think on it, then, if you wish. It''s always better that important things have names, and he saved your life these past weeks ago, when he came and found me and brought me to you."


    "I will. I''m sorry, but you seem to know everything about me, and I know nothing about you at all. Do you have a name? Or shall I name you as well?" She realized that she was teasing him and stiffened, fear gripping her belly, or perhaps the porridge just weighed heavily on her.


    "I''m Grahme. I''m going to go and see if the lad''s taken on more than he can handle. I wonder that his ma didn''t give him taller legs for such a long body."


    "He''s fierce, but thinks he''s bigger than he is," she replied absently, laying the dress and the clean shift on the bed. Grahme glanced back at her.


    "Perhaps he comes by that honestly." He smiled gently. "Call me if you need anything, or when you''re done, whichever comes first. It''ll be time to put on supper soon."


    She listened to the excited barking. "If you''ll bring me the coneys he''s hunting, I''ll cook them for you tonight." The giant''s eyes crinkled with his smile, and she found him easier to look at when she noticed that the corners were creased with smiling.


    ¡°You just tell him to stay out of the pigeons; I¡¯ve use for them.¡± He left and she eased out of her shift and into the hot water, wistfully remembering something distant but sweet, sweeter even than the smoke of the giant''s pipe.

 Mother 11) Birdsong, part 2

    The giant never cooked for them again after that first evening.  She took over the hearth and the cooking with such deft skill that he never had a chance to protest.  The one-roomed stone tower stood on a low mountain top, high enough for clouds to drift occasionally through the tall windows, but not so high that the ground was frozen all year.  A small village stood far below, on the forested shoulders of the mountain, and Grahme looked over it all and occasionally aided one of the locals where size and strength were an advantage, and sometimes where a problem was too big for a family to solve alone.  He was handy with wood carving, and within a week there was an elegant rocking chair made to her proportions.  It was set at just the right angle next to the hearth that they might sit and talk in the evenings, him seated at the table, writing or whittling or working at some other thing while she curled in the warm wood of the chair with some small task in her hands, listening to the cooing of the pigeons in their cote float on the evening air as the seasons turned.  The tangle of wire and wood on his workbench resolved itself into a shattered harp, and then into a mended harp, and finally it was whole except for a few strings.


    As she got used to him, he became less ominous.  He stood head and shoulders taller than the king, and her own head only came barely to his chest, but it soon was normal to her, to look so far up.  Gretchen, the graying red-haired widder of Grahme''s late brother, was a bit taller than Bronwyn herself, a cheerful woman with a distant look in her eye whenever she wasn''t directly occupied with a task.  She never spoke of her husband, but Bronwyn knew his memory was very much with her.  Gretchen was good to Bronwyn, and did not make a fuss about the quickly coming arrival of the baby, but talked at length about the births of her own children, the get of her first husband who was killed by wolves one lean winter.  The women became friends, cautiously at first, and then with greater confidence as time passed and they became accustomed to each other''s ways.


    On the day of the first frost, while Grahme was away collecting firewood, Gretchen came storming up the path in a fury, the little dog tucked under her arm and looking pitiful.  Bronwyn was pruning back a blackberry ramble from the edge of the small vegetable garden, and was hard pressed to keep a serious expression as her friend advanced on her.


    "Your little thief broke every egg in my henhouse this morning.  I swear I don''t know how you abide his ways, Bronwyn."  She set the little dog down and he came immediately to hide beneath his mistress''s skirts.  "He''d rob us all blind if he had the chance, and laugh at us all the while."


    Bronwyn lifted her hem, bending a little awkwardly to look at the mournful cowering thing. "I don''t think he''ll steal from  you again, Gretchen.  He was told by Mistress Oldroot to look after me, and more often than not when we couldn''t buy food it would appear in the night, only slightly drooled upon."  She nudged him forward with her foot.  "Now, sir, you''ve always taken good care of me, and for that I thank you.  While we''re here, though, you shouldn''t steal from people''s homes.  Bring me coneys and birds and burrowing things, but no more eggs or bread or anything from windowsills or doorsteps, and none of Grahme¡¯s messenger pigeons."


    "So he''s the robber!  My neighbors thought we were all being plagued by brownies."


    Bronwyn blushed, ashamed.  "I''m sorry, Gretchen.  He won''t do it again, I swear."  Her look at the dog clearly said he''d better not do it again.


    "Silly robber, he is, to get caught like that.  Might as well name him that, since he''s got such a gift for it."  Gretchen patted her fading hair into better order and straightened her dress fastidiously.


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    "Done, then, but we''ll call him ''Robbie'' and let him keep some of his dignity."


    "At least we can stop worrying about faeries stealing the babies from their beds."  Gretchen muttered.


    "One can only wish for that, I suppose."  The babe was quiet today, crowded in his mother''s womb as they grew closer to time.  She stroked her belly absently through her the fabric of her dress.


    "You''re sure you don''t want him?"  They''d never discussed it directly, never spoke of what would happen after the child was born.


    "He doesn''t belong to me.  He belongs to the kingdom he might grow to rule one day, if his sister never returns."  Bronwyn looked out over the treetops.  "I suppose I''ll have to take him back, give him to the lord Chancellor."  She struggled with the terror that returning to the castle invoked, hands trembling until she clenched her fingers around her pruning shears.


    Gretchen took the tool away from her and slipped her arm around the younger woman''s shoulders.  "No, Bronwyn, you''ve done enough.  Fate will find another way to return the prince to his homeland."


    "Perhaps you''re right.  Fate has let me be for a little while now, so perhaps I''m finished with being called to do things.  She looked at her friend''s brown eyes and saw a bit of sympathy and pity.  Ashamed of the pity Gretchen felt for her, Bronwyn turned away, rubbing a bit at the small of her back.  She walked to the furthest edge of the garden, where lavender bristled along the edges, still fragrant despite the lateness of the season.  Robbie trailed her, sniffing for small pests among the shrubs and other perennials.


    The sound of Grahme''s whistling traveled up the path before him, and Bronwyn smiled a little as she looked for him.  She glanced back at his sister-in-law and saw that Gretchen''s look had turned speculative.  Grahme carried a full cord of wood across his back, and a canvas sack slung across his front.  He was thoughtful as he climbed, and didn''t look up until he was almost upon them.  His eyes crinkled with his smile as he saw Bronwyn and then Gretchen, but he didn''t pause.  Even a giant''s strength has limits, and Bronwyn could see the strain in his legs and arms.  They followed him up to the woodpile, set a dozen feet from the door and opposite the garden.  Despite the weight of the load he set it down gently and unslung the sack.


    "I''ve got a gift for you both."  He opened the sack and pulled out a bolt of green fabric and handed it to Gretchen.  "Make yourself a dress for the spring fair, dear sister, but only if you wear daisies in your hair."  Reaching in again, he pulled out a bundle of blue and gave it to Bronwyn.  "I don''t yet know your favorite flower, so I brought you a dress that would be just as fine without, if you''ll forgive me for being so bold."  Bronwyn smiled at him fondly, and saw Gretchen''s expression, beyond his shoulder, shift from speculative to knowing.  A dread gripped her, though she managed to keep her smile.


    "Thank you, Grahme."  She wondered if she''d be present for the festival, or if she would find herself wandering alone again.  Her back twinged again, and she arched against it.  He looked concerned, but she cut off the inevitable questions of how she felt, or if she was tired, by pointing at the little dog.  "We named him today.  Robbie."


    He nodded. "I''d hoped for "Longfellow, but Robbie is a good name."


    "Then we''ll go both ways, and he''ll be Robbie Longfellow."  The dog wagged his tail so hard his long body wagged, too, and he barked his delight over and over and over until they all laughed.  Bronwyn was gasping when the next pain brought her to her knees and her waters broke.


    "Early, it''s early," Gretchen said to Grahme, as they helped her to her feet after the pain passed.  Bronwyn''s dress was wet at the knees and she felt her body bracing for the next contraction.


    "I didn''t think it would go this fast," she panted, and then cried out as a bone-rending contraction caught her up.


    "It shouldn''t.  Don''t worry, though, all will be well.  Grahme''s a good one with all sorts of things, and I''ve birthed my own three, so we''ll do as well as we can."

 Mother 11) Birdsong, part 3

    The birthing went quickly, it was barely dusk when the prince took his first breath and gave a lusty cry.  Bronwyn did not fare as well.  After the caul came, the blood did not stop until she was almost bled dry.  When she was finally clean and tended, Gretchen offered her the babe, but the young mother turned her face to the wall and would not look at him.  Her body felt more bruised and torn than ever it had after a night with his father, and the pain brought back treacherous memory.


    Gretchen bundled up the bloody sheets and rags to burn with the afterbirth, and then gently bundled the baby boy in an old blanket.  She spoke in low tones with Grahme  and left with the infant prince.  Bronwyn shivered beneath the blankets, the heat gone from her body with her blood, and from far away she knew that Grahme built up the fire and admonished the little dog to lie quiet next to his mistress.  The giant sat next to her late into the night, keeping vigil and trying to comfort her as her temperature came up again and then soared, and her body shivered as if she was freezing.


    When her sleep finally came it was fitful, and the nightmares were close behind, and she was helpless to wake herself to escape the king''s hard hands and cruel attentions.  The dream changed, and he chased her through the woods, his eyes changing, his face changing, until the wolf snarled and sprang at her.  She fell, hard enough that her back and groin and legs felt like they were ripped apart, hard enough to make her dizzy.  And then the wolf was on her, rising over her to snarl into her face.  An arm pulled it off of her, and another came ''round the wolf''s neck to plunge a dagger into the beast''s eye, and she rolled to the side in desperation to find herself staring into the face of the dead king.


    She dimly heard the voice of the Lord Chancellor in her dream, and moaned in protest.  She was desperate to wake, desperate for the pain to end.  Grahme''s voice answered the old lord''s question, and there was an ominous tone in the giant''s rumble; she realized she was no longer dreaming.  Bronwyn struggled out of the depths of her weakness, flinging aside the blankets and sheets that tangled around her.  Standing, she felt blood flow down her thighs as she staggered towards the door where Grahme''s broad back blocked whatever stood beyond it.  She didn''t know how, but the Woodsman''s knife was in her hand, and there was such rage and desperation in her that she could already feel it sinking into the flesh of whatever had come for her this time.


    She must have made some noise, because her protector turned to look at her, and she saw the Lord Chancellor and a dozen guards standing at the door of the stone tower, some with swords unsheathed.  She managed to stagger between Grahme and the newcomers, blood on her nightgown, knife in her hand.  Whatever her expression was, Lord Wilhelm went pale and two of the guardsmen stepped back a pace.


    "This is not your place, Lord Wilhelm, how dare you come here?"  She swayed a little and felt Grahme''s hand on her back, steadying her.  Rob Longfellow growled at the lord from near his mistress'' ankles.


    "We were concerned, Your Highness, that you would come to harm in your laying-in.  Your maid told us of your pregnancy a week after the King was slain by dragons.  We want you to come back."  His expression said clearly that he wasn''t convinced that Bronwyn hadn''t come to harm after all, and his glance up at her protector was apprehensive.


    "The dragons didn''t kill the king, a witch did," she said bitterly, her voice thick with exhaustion and pain and the weight of that king''s death.  "She killed him with a potion older than time.  Do you know why she killed him?"  The old man''s eyes came back to her face, and she saw fear there, not a fear for her safety, but a fear of Bronwyn herself.


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    "Please, my Queen, my lady Bronwyn, please don''t -"


    She straightened, and felt the flow of blood on her legs finally stop.  "She killed him because he held her prisoner.  She killed him because he held his kingdom hostage and ruined his daughter and gave nothing to anyone but pain and fear.  Finally, she killed him because no one else would."  She lowered her hand, the knife falling to her side.  "Do you know how all the other queens before me disappeared?"


    The Lord Chancellor stood there frozen, pinned by her gaze and unable to look away.


    "One by one, they cast themselves out of that high window, to find their deaths at the bottom of that chasm.  Their bones lay there still, pitiful wrecks that found release from their tormentor.  But they have had no proper burial, Lord Chancellor, and that is yet another injustice that I can not correct myself."


    "Dear God," he whispered, finally taking a step backwards himself.  "We never knew, I swear -"


    "You never wanted to know," she snarled.  "You trained yourself not to see the things that happened before your eyes, the bruises, the bloody clothes and bedsheets, a princess creeping into her father''s bed night after night after he raped his queen."


    "Bronwyn," Grahme said gently, and she could feel his warmth behind her, keeping her on her feet with only the single touch of his hand on her back.


    "Take the babe and go, Lord Chancellor.  I''m done with all of you for now."  She began to turn and would have fallen if not for her friend''s steadying hand.


    The old man stepped towards her again, but stopped when Grahme put a protective arm around the woman.  He knelt before them, tears on his cheeks.  "How can we make this right?  How can we earn your forgiveness?"


    "Just leave me be.  I''ve given you everything I can, more than I ever wanted to or would have given of my own free will.  I swear, though, if you raise that prince to be the monster his father was, I will come again and strangle him myself."


    "But he''s your son!" the guardsmen looked on, aghast at the spectacle of the Lord Chancellor weeping on his knees before the blood soaked and grieving witch.


    She laughed, and one or two of the men at the back broke away and ran back down the path at the bitterness and fury in that sound.  "Yes, he is my son, and I should have purged him from my womb the first time I missed my courses.  Fate would give you a prince, though, and I could not."  Her strength and determination drained away suddenly, and she was left only with tears.  "Go away, Wilhem.  There is nothing here that will harm me, and much that will keep me safe.  I will not return with you."


    With shaking hands Lord Wilhelm untied a purse at his belt. "I had feared that your answer would be just that."  He set the purse on the doorstep.  "Your rents will be kept for you, or whomever you cede them to.  The decree is in the purse, and enough gold and silver to keep you very comfortable for a long time."  He paused, his eyes haunted, and Grahme stirred, lifting Bronwyn into his arms effortlessly.


    "You should go now.  The babe is with a wet-nurse in the village," the giant said, and there was a quiet threat in his deep voice.


    "Take better care of her than we did, Sir Giant.  She is more precious than she knows."  Grahme closed the door firmly and lowered the bar one handed.  Bronwyn lay quietly against him as he carried her back to the hearth, setting her carefully on her feet.

 Mother 12) Inkwell

    12) Inkwell


    "You should bathe before you go back to bed," he said gruffly, face turned away from hers as he turned the tub upright and poured steaming water into it from the cauldron.  Hugging her arms tight across her body, she didn''t think she would ever be warm again.


    "I don''t think I can manage it alone." Exhaustion made her more honest, more vulnerable, than she wanted.


    "Gretchen won''t be back til morning," he replied stiffly.


    "If you wouldn''t mind helping me, I think we can make due."  She was suddenly shy, and then felt ridiculous for being shy of all things, after such a day.


    He turned to her, and she saw tears on his face.  He wiped them away abruptly.  "Then give me your nightdress, woman, you''re half frozen."


    He was very careful as they worked, pouring water over her and deliberately not noticing her nudity as he helped her wash her legs and toweled her dry after.  She bound up her slowly bleeding flesh with the rags Gretchen had left for the purpose, and pulled on his spare nightshirt; all of hers were unfit to wear before they were washed again.  The hem dragged the floor, and she rolled up the sleeves until her hands were free.  He pulled back the blankets for her and helped her climb in.  He opened the chest where the rug he slept on was kept.


    "Wait," she squirmed over to the wall, leaving most of the bed free.  "It''s too cold to sleep on the floor."  She firmly told her fear that she wouldn''t be afraid of him any longer, even a little bit, that he was far different than the King.


    "I snore," he said finally.


    "I know.  I have nightmares.  Rob''s not big enough to warm the whole bed, and the sheets are cold."  She hated the edge of pitiful complaint in her voice.


    "That''s terrible," he said, smiling wryly despite the tension of uncertainty between them.  She turned to face the wall, and heard him take off his boots and pull on his nightshirt.  There was a long pause as he stood watching her, and then he carefully eased into the bed beside her.  When she didn''t protest, he reached out and pulled her gently against his chest, a massive arm settling across her body with a comfortable protective heat.


    He did snore, but her nightmares scattered away from her, and for the first time in a very long time she slept, deep and true.


    She was terribly weak in the days afterwards.  The first snows followed the first frosts almost immediately, and by the third day after the baby''s birth they were firmly isolated, the path closed even to Gretchen''s determination.  Rob brought them small game every day, and Bronwyn simply added the fresh meat and the first of their stored vegetables to the stew pot early each afternoon.  She slept most of every day, and tried to conceal her dismay at how long her body was taking to heal.  Grahme must have seen her impatience and gave her small tasks to do between naps in her rocking chair.


    He spent a lot of time carving small things, door knobs and spindles and small animals, and she was often put to work painting them or rubbing fine beeswax into the smooth wood.  She fancied that he captured the spirit of the animals he carved, and found herself smiling a bit as she painted the eyes on a fox or a rabbit, or polishing the fine feathers of a duck.  There were no wolves among his growing menagerie.  One afternoon, when the window of a sudden blizzard rattled the shutters and frightened poor Robbie into cowering under the bed, the giant gave Bronwyn a book and asked her to read a marked passage to him while he worked.


    She blushed, embarrassed.  "I don''t know how to read," she admitted, looking down at the words helplessly, running her fingers delicately over the inked page.


    "It''s time you learned, then," he replied, gesturing for her to come to the table.  She came to his side and he scooped her up onto his lap.  Seated thus on his thigh, she was at a good height to awkwardly accept he quill he placed in her hand.


    "The best way to learn reading is to learn how the letters are made and to know how to make them yourself."  He changed the angle of her fingers around the quill and pulled a piece of parchment over to them.  Together, they bent over the parchment and the lesson began.


    Bronwyn hated learning to write.  It was harder than she thought it would be, and as the days passed she felt she had no aptitude at all for it as she looked down at her scrawled and blotted words and compared them to the ordered neatness of Grahme''s script.  Out of politeness, and a sense of duty to him for all he had done for her, she continued with the lessons.  When he smiled and counseled her to patience when she had another difficult practice session, her frustration finally came to a boil.


    "It''s all well and good, but it doesn''t mean anything, writing letters and child''s words.  What is the point of this at all?"


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    His smile faded to seriousness.  "Let me show you." He set her on her feet and brought a thick tome down from the top of a tall shelf.  "What does it say?"  He pointed to the words tooled into the thick leather of the binding.


    She looked at the words, tracing them lightly with one finger, scowling at the letters.  "Esses of Plants," she said finally.  "It''s nonsense."


    "Look again, at the first word."


    "Esse - no, that''s not right."  She thought hard.  "Essence of plants?"  She looked up at him. "What does that mean?"


    "Tell me what lavender flowers are good for," he said casually.


    "Soothing tiredness, calming the distraught, bringing luck, which is why we have it planted in the garden - but you know all of that."


    "I know that because it''s written in here.  Look," he opened the book and she saw how worn the pages were.  "See, Lavender.  And it says more than what you told me a moment ago."


    She looked at the words in wonder, and saw the fine drawing of the plant, stem, leaf, flower and root, next to the entry.  "What does it say?"


    "I''ll not spoil the surprise for you, Miss Bronwyn.  If you want to know you''ll have to read it for yourself."


    "Is this a joke?"  She looked from the page to his face in dismay.  "I''ll never be able to read all of that!"


    "Oh, I think you will, my dear."  He stood from his chair and set her on the seat, kissing her hair fondly.  "I''m going to go bring in the firewood.  I hope you decide it isn''t impossible after all."  She considered throwing the inkpot at him but decided against having to clean up the mess afterwards.


    Thus motivated, she plunged forward, and the Essence of Plants became her primer, though it was not one her teacher would have chosen for her.  Her physical strength returned slowly as she did battle against herself and against the words.  She still hated the gradual process of her learning, but for the chance at more knowledge she disciplined herself harshly.  By Midwinter she had recovered fully in body, and her mind only occasionally ambushed her with stray fears or illusions.  She learned to listen to the wind outside the shutters, and to the crackle of the fire and to see the patterns of the smoke from his pipe and the steam from the cauldron.  He showed her, in the depths of the winter night, brilliant soft curtains of light shining in the darkness, and those held meaning, too.  She learned to read all of these things even as she learned to read the sprawling and spidery script in his books, and the things she read gave her pause.


    She learned to read her own dreams as well, and to remember them.  She dreamed sometimes of the girl and her frog-turned-prince, and others of the constable who had found her under a bush, who had found that any darning that went into the basket she''d mended from was complete the next day.  More often, her mind''s eye showed her the Princess Janette, learning to cook and clean and care for the brothers at the Deep Woods Monastery.  The girl stood straight and proud, but it was not the pride of station, but the sense of purpose in the work that she did, the friendships she formed.  Something deep within the princess was released, and sometimes Bronwyn heard echoes of her singing even after she woke.  Other nights, Bronwyn dreamed of wicked yellow eyes and slashing teeth, and a knife plunging down into blood.


    Bronwyn could not avoid the simple fact of the Giant''s love for her.  That thought never unleashed the fear, but let loose a wistful memory of sweetness, of a kiss she could never forget.  Grahme never touched her uninvited, and made no advances at all even as they continued to share his bed.  She considered that carefully, as carefully as she tended her cooking and the herb lore and the pigeons in the coop that carried messages back and forth to the Giant and whoever it was he corresponded with.  As she devoured one book of herb lore he would produce another, and then another as she finished them.


    "Grahme," she said quietly in the depths of the night.  She had been listening to the creak of the trees talking to each other on the mountainside below the house, and to the thrumming in her own blood and bones.  Spring was coming.


    "Yes, my dear?"  She rolled over to face him and propped herself up on her elbow to look at him in the dim light of the banked fire.


    "I''ve been watching, listening.  I need to tell you something."  She searched for the words as he waited patiently for her to continue. "I don''t know if I will be called away again, by fate or magic or even the wind, sending me back into the world.  I do know that if I should be called, that I must go alone with Robbie."


    "That is the way it often is, with witches, he replied.  "It makes them hard to love and difficult to keep, because they were never meant to be held in one place, and mortals want to hold on to what they love."


    "Yet you allow yourself to love me?"  The silence stretched on for a dozen heartbeats, and she feared she''d hurt him badly already.


    He sighed like a wind in the trees.  "You have not been loved enough simply for who you are.  You have been loved as a queen, and as a servant, and as someone to be sheltered.  I doubt any has seen past all that to see who Bronwyn is, within.  So it is my gift to you, for as long as you are able to stay."


    She lay down with her head on his shoulder.  "You are more than just someone to rule or serve or be grateful to, Grahme.  You are my friend, and a better healer than you can know.  I can''t love you with all of my self, but I will give you what I can, until I am called away again."


    His arm tightened around her, and he kissed the top of her head.  "Are you certain?  The things that have been asked of you already, the pain you''ve suffered -"


    "Those things have nothing to do with you.  Besides, I can feel the wanting in you, even now.  I may be a witch, but you are dear to me.  I am not made of ice."


    "Tis true. Your feet eventually thaw out, at least in time to get out of bed in the morning."  She was startled into smiling.  He traced her lips with an ink-stained and calloused fingertip, and then kissed her gently.  The kiss was chill and salty with tears, but what came after was warm.

 Mother 13) Ribbons and String

    13) Ribbons and string


    The path thawed just in time for the Spring Fair in the large village below.  Folk would travel from smaller villages all over the surrounding county to trade and feast and gossip, and even the Giant came down from his home in the clouds to celebrate the thaw and the crops to come.  Bronwyn dressed that morning in the blue dress Grahme had given her the day the prince was born, and wove her midnight hair with a posey of delicate blue and pink flowers that the peasant girls called heaven.  Grahme smiled at the sight of her and put the last bundle of carvings into the packs they would carry down the mountain.  Bronwyn had her own basket of soaps and remedies in small jars and parchment envelopes.  They would sell some of what they carried, and trade or gift other pieces.


    Bronwyn felt strange, walking into the village at Grahme''s side, and felt the slightest tug of purpose.  The glances of the village folk were curious and friendly, and more than one goodman or goodwife smiled at them.  As they came into the central square, Bronwyn saw Gretchen setting out her own winter''s projects, aprons and dresses and shirts.  The older woman turned and smiled, delighted, as she saw them.  She came out of her stall and hugged them both in turn.  As she''d promise Grahme, she wore the green dress and had tucked daisies into her fading red hair.


    "I''ve saved the space next to mine for you both.  I''m glad to see you didn''t fare too badly."  Gretchen missed very little, and she saw how they did not touch each other but never quite stepped out of touching distance, and felt the warm friendliness between them.  She met Bronwyn''s gaze but said nothing, merely helping them put their wares on the shelves and table of the booth.


    The morning went quickly.  Grahme''s carved animals were a favorite among the children of the village, and more than one was given as a gift when the child''s mother purchased a spindle or finely carved bowl, or a father paid for a commission of cabinet knobs.  Bronwyn''s soaps were all sold before the village midwife brought luncheon to them.  She was a withered woman, button bright raisin eyes peering up at Bronwyn with birdlike curiosity.


    "I''ve been waiting to meet you, girl," she said.  "Hoping you might consider helping an old woman with some of the lambing."  It took Bronwyn a moment to realize that she was being asked to assist with human births.  She waited a moment, listening for the bird-call of fate or magic, and heard only the beat of her own heart and the murmur of happy people.


    "I can''t seen any reason why not," she replied slowly, and then looked to Grahme.  "Except that women and their husbands don''t often favor a witch to tend birthings."  He winked at her so quickly she wasn''t certain she''d seen it.


    "Well, child, if the people of this village will put up with not one giant but two, I''m thinking that a mere witch won''t turn heads much.  Besides, I''ve been accused of worse, so yer'' in good company."  She smiled a toothless grin.  She sat with Bronwyn for the rest of the afternoon, and more than one man or woman stopped not simply to meet the Giant''s woman, but to ask practical advice on one ailment or another.  Bronwyn quickly discovered that the simple herbalism she''d learned from the Lord Mayor''s cook and Grahme''s books was counted as quite sophisticated in the far wilderness.  She paid close attention to the things the midwife told their less trusting clients, the ones who kept their children back even as they asked about ailments of man or beast.


    The dancing and feasting began as the light faded.  Grahme was called to play on an odd, harp-like instrument, and Bronwyn was claimed for the circle dances and reels and line jigs until she could barely even breathe anymore for the exertion and laughing.  The sense of magic gathering around the village infected them all like excitement, and Bronwyn saw sparks in the lanterns and torches, slender flickering figures leaping in the bonfire.  Finally Gretchen caught her arms and pulled her out of the mob of dancers, pressing a cup of cold apple beer into Bronwyn''s hands and finding an empty bench at the edge of the firelight near their stalls but not terribly far from the musicians'' platform.


    As they sat in companionable silence, some of the folk began to drift their way, each giving way to the other until a young woman arrived at their bench first.


    The girl was perhaps thirteen or fourteen, pretty by country standards with brown hair and blue eyes, freckles across her nose.  Thirteen was close enough to marrying age for the people of that county, and her frock was embroidered with simple ribbon flowers, her hair braided with ribbons and string to match.


    Bronwyn motioned her closer when the girl hesitated, and Gretchen smiled reassuringly.  "You look lovely tonight, Lisel," Gretchen said warmly.  Lisel blushed and looked down nervously.


    "Have you enjoyed the dancing?" Bronwyn asked, suddenly nervous about what the girl might bring to them and the tug of magic from below her ribs.


    "Tis very nice, Mistress Bronwyn, thank you."  She fidgeted, tracing a twisted rose on the cuff of her sleeve.


    "Are you ill, Lisel?" Bronwyn hazarded, though the girl looked healthy enough.  Gretchen smiled, but did not interrupt, and Bronwyn realized that her handling of this was a bit of a test.


    "Oh, no.  But I was wanting to buy... a spell, if that''s not too much trouble?"  The words came out in a jumble, and she looked around furtively, as if concerned about getting caught.


    "What sort of spell?" Bronwyn asked, thinking of wishes granted and mysterious potions.


    "Well, Hans... He''s my Da''s apprentice, and a good one, too, he''s gonna be a fine blacksmith."  She blushed again, and Bronwyn felt a chill touch her, and dreaded what the girl might say next.


    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    "Go on.  Is there trouble between you?"


    "Trouble?  Well, I suppose."  Lisel glanced across the firelit square.  Bronwyn had met the blacksmith and his apprentice earlier in the day.  The young man had broken two fingers a few days earlier, and they had come to Bronwyn and the midwife to have them set.  Hans was looking in their direction an instant before Lisel''s head turned towards him, and he glanced away with feigned nonchalance as her eyes found him.  Bronwyn was suddenly relieved.


    "Does your father or mother have any preference in who you choose to court?"  The question must have been too abrupt; the girl paled a little, though she didn''t step away from them.


    "My Da needs me.  I help ''round the house and do the cooking and washing.  Mam died last spring with the fever that came after the -" She looked at Gretchen and cut of her sentence before plunging on.  "After master Cormoran was killed."  Cormoran was the name of Grahme''s late brother, and Bronwyn was suddenly very curious about the tale she had not yet heard.  Cormoran''s widder gestured for Lisel to continue.  "Da said it''s time for me to start thinkin'' who I fancy, and sometimes I think he worries about the house when I''m gone and married.  But I don''t want to leave him or the house, and Hans doesn''t even notice me.  Well, not any more than he does the barn-cat.  I cook, the cat catches mice, and Hans never thinks twice about either of us."  Despite the girl''s despairing words, Hans was watching them again now that Lisel was looking at Bronwyn and Gretchen, and Bronwyn stifled her smile.


    "What kind of spell do you want, child?" she asked gently.


    "Well, I''d heard... that witches can charm beasts."  She looked down at Robbie Longfellow, sitting on Bronwyn''s feet with his tail under her skirts.  The dog looked back up at her.  "Do you know how to charm men, too?"  Memory loomed large in Bronwyn''s mind, the faces of the huntsman and the king, the miners in a dirty tavern deep in the woods.  She pushed aside the faces by glancing towards the musicians, seeking Grahme''s very real face.  She sipped her beer, and for just a moment it was bitter as the witch''s potion and then sweeter than any honeyed apple ever thought to be.


    "Lisel, did your mam talk to you about how babes are got?" the girl blushed scarlet.


    "Yes ma''am," she very resolutely avoided looking in Hans'' direction.  "Some women complain, but my Mam said it was actually nice, most times."  The skepticism and speculation of virgin curiosity colored her words, and Bronwyn suddenly laughed.  Startled, Lisel met Bronwyn''s gaze, the girl''s dark eyes flashing with a chilling yellow gleam, gone before Bronwyn really believed she''d seen it.


    "Yes, Lisel, it can be very nice indeed."  This time, Grahme met her glance and smiled warmly at her, perhaps hearing her laugh in the noise of the crowd.  Bronwyn listened for the tug of fate of magic as she smiled in return, hearing only the music of the dancing.


    "The spell you need is simple, but it requires work on  your part.  Hand me your ribbon."  Lisel leaned near as Bronwyn spoke, and Gretchen nodded approvingly.  When they were done, Bronwyn presented the ribbon, tied in a lover''s knot, to the girl.  Lisel impulsively hugged Bronwyn before skirting the dancing to find her father.


    Gretchen chuckled warmly.  "Is it magic, then, to comb your hair and watch out for your intended''s needs?"


    "Not so much magic, but that child needs no love philtre to get his attention.  They just don''t know that they''re noticing one another.  If she puts herself under his nose he''ll know it soon enough, and I''d be willing to bet we''ll be hearing from him before the summer sets in."  Bronwyn smiled, and the people watching them began to shift once again.


    A goodwife came for advice about her cow, and a farmer for a charm to keep moles from his garden.  Finally, as midnight approached, a pair of young boys, perhaps nine and ten years old, came forward with a medium iron kettle held between them.  "Miss, we found this thing, and our Mam told us you''d know what to do with it better than she does," the older said, proud for being responsible and a little afraid as they slid the lid off.


    Bronwyn peered in, and saw the infant salamander.  It rested among the coals, shorter than the length of her finger from nose to tail tip.  She smiled and reached in fearlessly, ignoring the boy''s exclamations.  The fire elemental clung to her fingers, looking up at her sleepily with blue-hot eyes.


    "Oh, aye, I know what to do with the likes of this.  How did you come to find him?"


    "Our sister Magda, she looks in the fire, and she saw it, and showed it to us ''cause it''s pretty," the younger boy said.


    "How old is your sister?" Bronwyn turned the salamander through her fingers, the sparking burn of its feet bringing tears to her eyes.  As the tears fell she caught them on her palm, letting the creature lap them off of her skin.


    "Oh, she''s only three.  Sees things all the time."  The boy''s mother came forward to redirect the conversation, looking nervous.  Bronwyn realized that the dancing had stopped, that every man, woman and child was watching her handle the elemental.  Some were curious, others were afraid of her or the glowing coal on her hand.


    She felt a tug, a singing in her fingertips, and she put the little lizard back into the kettle, gently sucking on her burned fingers.  "Well, you should put the baby back in his fireplace.  He''ll keep your fires hot and true, Goodwife Spinner, and when your daughter grows older, perhaps she should apprentice to the midwife, if she seems so inclined?  The things she sees are harmless, just another way of looking at things."


    "Is she a witch, then?" The goodwife was nonplussed at the thought of harboring both lizard and a daughter who might ultimately grow to be even more dangerous.


    "Goodness, no.  She¡¯ll be an excellent healer, perhaps, or herb-woman.  Nurture them both, Goodwife, for you are doubly blessed."  The crowd muttered, and Bronwyn smiled at the girl-child sleeping on her mother''s shoulder.  Grahme came to her side, putting his arm around her shoulders.


    "It was creatures like that which saved the Queen''s life when she fought against the evil in the land.  Surely they are not evil, if such good comes of them.  Surely that tiny thing is even spawn of one of them, come to protect our fires and bring us luck."  Grahme''s words were met with exclamations and approval.  The tide of the muttering shifted, and the crowd began to move into more normal patterns.


    "Come, lovies, you two''ll sleep in my house tonight,¡± Gretchen said as the attention of the people left them for other things.

 Mother 14) Pebbles

    14) Pebbles


    Gretchen''s home was neat and orderly, made entirely of wood except for the massive chimney and hearth.  Much like Grahme''s had become since Bronwyn''s arrival, it was a house of different proportions; the table a tad too high for normal comfort, a tad too low for a giant, chairs of two sizes, bowls and plates and spoons likewise.  The bed was identical to the one in Grahme''s stone tower, and Bronwyn suddenly recognized the craftsmanship in all of it.  There was no question that Grahme had built this house, had lovingly carved the furniture and the massive bed.  As well, Bronwyn could see that the blocks of the chimney were cut by the same hand that cut the stones of Grahme''s house, the hand that had shaped the stones of the village well in the market square.


    "Your husband was a stonemason?" Bronwyn guessed, touching the blocks of the chimney, warm from the banked fire.


    Gretchen looked startled, but Grahme smiled.  ¡°He taught me to carve stone also, but i''ve always found more solace in softer stuff.¡±


    Gretchen''s workspace was as tidy as the rest of her cottage, fabric rolled in lengths and stacked carefully under her workbench. A basket of pins and shears and bits of chalk and wooden spools of thread set to the side with a fine stoneware bowl filled with small polished stones. A harp with several missing strings and a covered frame stood near the wardrobe.  Bronwyn recognized it as the instrument that Grahme had spent so many weeks repairing.


    Robbie Longfellow sniffed around the room twice before curling up on the footstool of Cormoran''s chair.  Grahme picked him up and settled himself in that chair, the dog almost lost in his lap.


    While Bronwyn built up the fire, Gretchen lit the lamps, her fingers brushing the strings of the harp as she passed it by, a whisper of notes falling into the silence.


    "You''ve never said much about Cormoran," Bronwyn said gently, settling on the hearth by Grahme''s knee.  Gretchen settled into her rocking-chair, pulling yarn from a basket and rolling it into a ball.


    "There''s too much to tell, and not much, really, to say," Gretchen''s face was troubled, a sweet joy warring with terrible grief.  Bronwyn thought she tasted an echo of sweetness in that look, and longed for a kiss she barely remembered herself.  Grahme stroked her hair gently and she looked away from Gretchen''s loss and deep into the fire.  The giant idly lit his pipe and began to speak, his voice rumbling in the silence of the night.


    "He was a stonesmith, fifteen years older than I, and all but raised me after our father died.  He built houses and kirks and wells, and finally he took me and we traveled far away from our birthplace, in search of a place where giants could dwell in peace.  Along the way, we met a merchant and his family, beset by brigands along the road.  The brigands stood no chance against a pair of giants, and we drove them away, and then we accompanied them on the last day of their journey to see them safely home.


    "The merchant''s wife was the most beautiful woman my brother had ever seen, and she sang as beautifully as any bird.  But she was married, and had a son and daughters to raise and her merchant to care for, so without ever saying a word about his feelings, Cormoran led us on until we came here."  Grahme drew on the pipe for a moment, smoke rings wreathing his head.  "The people of this country love their giants, and we had work.  They even helped us build the tower on the mountain.  We were content.  When I was a man grown, Cormoran took to wandering the mountain at night, looking, listening for something he wouldn''t share with me.  After months of it, he came home with a bundle in his arms."


    Gretchen sighed and picked up the thread of the tale.  "The merchant''s wife always remembered the giant and his brother," she softly, and Bronwyn realized she spoke of herself.  "When my husband was killed by wolves one winter, all I could think of after that first shock of grief was a smile I''d seen only for one day and night.  I left my children with my sister and set out into the night immediately after the funeral, never looking back.  It took me weeks, and I''m no woodsman, so I was nearly starved and more than half frozen when Cormoran found me on the mountainside and brought me home."  She looked steadily at Bronwyn.  "Cormoran and Grahme built me this house, and Cormoran married me the next summer, and I was happier in the fifteen years after than I''d ever been in the lifetime before."


    Bronwyn listened for the tug of fate, or a future or a puzzle to solve, and heard only the crackle of Gretchen''s hearth fire.  She smoothed her skirts, and felt the magic rippling around her.  Robbie, sensing Bronwyn''s unease, jumped down from the Giant''s lap and came to his mistress, stretching up to put his paws on her knee and look at her with mournful eyes.  She fondled his ears absently, drawing them between her fingers.  "What happened next?"


    Gretchen bowed her head, grief and shame swirling around her in the eddies of the magics.  "Cormoran was killed by a youth named Jak, the son of a merchant who became a thief after his father died and his mother left them behind when he was three.  One of his sisters died of a fever, and the other took up with a faithless gypsy and probably wanders still with him.  He came to me while Cormoran was out helping Grahme repair a kirk-tower in the next county, demanding to know why I had abandoned them, why I had left them with my sister.  He demanded that I change his fortunes as a punishment for abandoning them, and for days he hounded me.  He brought me an old cow, commanded me to bring her milk down to make into a charm to give him coin.  I''m no witch, but I know a bit about herbs, but the cow was old and terrible, and she died the second day.  He brought me a goose, and demanded that I make her lay golden eggs."  She laughed bitterly.  "The goose died, too, and I hoped he would desist, but he continued on the third day, insisting that I give him something, anything, to reverse his fortune.  He smashed my harp and threatened to do me harm."  She was silent for a long time.  "So I gave him what I called magic beans, told him to plant them at the bottom of the cliff that the Giant''s Tower was built upon.  Somehow the beans grew up, woven together, into a mighty vine that reached up into the clouds.¡±  Bronwyn frowned, thinking of a dream long past, but listened carefully as her friend continued to speak.


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    "I didn''t know that my husband had returned late in the night, stopping at the Tower to rest before coming the rest of the way down the mountain the next morning.  I didn''t know that Jak had stolen one of Cormoran''s knives, that he would use it to cut out my sleeping husband''s eyes and then drive him with a dozen cuts to the edge until he fell from the cliff to his death.  His body fell with such force that we thought the earth had quaked, and the stones he fell upon crumbled into pebbles and were ground smooth."  The widder touched the pebbles in the bowl with regret.


    "Jak stole a sack full of rocks from beneath my husband''s body, finding that some of them had soaked his blood like rubies, and others gleamed like diamond, and nuggets that looked like ivory and gold and jade.  He took them all, intending to share the wealth with his aunt.."


    Grahme shifted in his seat.  "I found my brother''s body the next day, and tracked the boy. He was beset by brigands the first night, and they took all he had.  The next night, a wolf came upon him and finished the job.  I found the brigand''s lair and took back what was ours, resolved that they would never waylay another traveler, no matter how good or evil.  I followed the wolf another night and day, but never found him before I knew I must return to my home and my brother''s widder."


    "Six months after Cormoran died, fate or magic sent to us you, Bronwyn, a woman who would be my friend and Grahme''s lover, and eventually you will be my healer.  I will die peacefully at planting time with my brother in law and his wife at my side."  She smiled at Grahme.  "Maybe we can restring my harp before then."


    Bronwyn slipped out of her chair, kneeling before Gretchen and taking the older woman''s hands in hers.  "How can you know this?"  She searched Gretchen''s face for any sign of uncertainty in her words, but found none.  Worse, she read clearly what she had chosen to ignore earlier, a darkness around her friend''s eyes, a tightness at the corners of her mouth that spoke of lingering pain.


    "Oh, I knew I was ill even before my Cormoran was taken from me.  Since then, I''ve no desire to live past the pain, except perhaps to see you wed Grahme at Midsummer."


    The witch''s eyes filled with tears.  "I can''t grant wishes, Gretchen," she said out of old habit, though she thought perhaps that wasn''t true anymore.  "I don''t have that power."


    Grahme gestured with his pipe, shaking his head. "I won''t marry her, sister.  Bronwyn is dearer to me than I could ever say, but she''s pulled by fate.  I can''t ask her to choose between saving a child or a kingdom and staying with an aging giant who has little impact on the world."  Bronwyn looked up at him sharply, stung.


    "You have impact on my world," she insisted sharply, but he only smiled and did not reply.


    The giant''s widder saved them from having to continue the exchange.  "I saw the end of my story in my grandmother''s mirror.  I don''t have any living daughters, and I''d like you to have it after I die.  It might help you to see whether marrying your giant, or not, is the right thing for you."  Gretchen rose stiffly, gently pulling her hands from Bronwyn''s grasp.  She walked over to the covered frame and pulled the linen drape aside.  Bronwyn followed her, wading through the magics that pooled thick on the floor, spilling from the mirror as Gretchen stood before it.


    Clearly, Bronwyn saw Gretchen''s reflection, perfect in every detail, young and vivid and undistorted by any irregularities in the glass.  The woman in the mirror had rich auburn hair, not its current fading glory.  Her love for her late husband was written clearly in her face, but so was the pain and the darkness in her belly, a darkness that sucked down all her life and energy and grew to consume her.  The reflection drew Bronwyn in, and it was as if she saw time move forward, the illness overtaking her friend until she lay gasping in pain in the bed she''d shared  with Cormoran.  Familiar hands gave her a drought, a sip from a flask, and Bronwyn recognized her own blood-stained hands holding the woman''s head, and saw the slim gold band on her left hand.  Before the meaning of that came clear, peace and relief eased the deep lines of pain in the dying woman''s face, and Bronwyn and Grahme left the house together as it burned, a pyre for the giant''s widder.


    Then the image in the mirror changed, and Bronwyn saw herself, and the magic that was gathering around her.  It made itself at home in the high mountain village, seeping into the ground like floodwaters easing finally into a pond.  She saw a young woman with hair the color of hay and hazel eyes standing near the well, throwing in a silver coin and closing those eyes tight, and later a green-eyed, golden haired girl running towards Bronwyn, laughing.  In a flash, the green-eyed girl was a young woman herself.  A woman a few years older, dark hair falling forward over her face in a curtain, held up a newborn babe with wonder in her eyes, lifting the babe to Bronwyn¡¯s waiting hands.  Finally, a raven haired prince with hard yellow eyes and Bronwyn''s fair white skin rode his charger through the woods, his eyes glassy with fever and madness.


    Bronwyn drew herself out of the vision with a start, turning to Grahme.  "No, Gretchen is right.  You will marry me at Midsummer, my Giant.  I have a few years yet to be here."  He looked at her, startled, but she turned back to Gretchen before he could speak.  ¡°And as for you, dear sister, I must plant something in your garden, because you have yet to make my wedding dress.¡±

 Mother 15) Coin

    15) Coin


    The next morning, Bronwyn dressed early and took Gretchen''s water bucket to the village well to draw water, thinking wistfully of the indoor water pipes of the palace.  Robbie Longfellow raced around her, excited by the sunlight and the dew, and by the small creatures waking for the day or going into their homes to sleep.


    The world wavered around her for a moment, for as she glanced up at the well she saw a frail woman with hay-colored hair, struggling to pull her own bucket out of the well.  Bronwyn shook her head sharply, like shaking rain off her face, and the scene solidified.  The woman closed her eyes, lips moving softly as she prayed, or wished, or simply recited her morning''s tasks.  Bronwyn remembered her from the dancing the night before, the miller''s new wife, moved to the village from several valleys over last fall.


    "What are you wishing for?" Bronwyn asked as she lowered Gretchen''s bucket into the well.


    The miller''s wife''s hazel eyes filled with tears as  she looked over at the witch.  "Only what every new wife wishes for, a child to catch and stay in my womb."  A desperate hope dawned in her face.  "Can you help me?"


    Bronwyn smiled and reached into her pouch, pulling out one of the coins.  "I don''t grant wishes, child, but this well certainly can."  She pressed the coin into the miller''s wife''s hand, noticing that it wasn''t copper, but silver.  "If you have problems when you''re with child, you need but call me or the midwife and we''ll aid you."  Drawing up the bucket, Bronwyn turned away but saw the woman clutch the coin tightly in her hand, and then cast it into the well with a gasp.


    For the rest of the morning, Bronwyn turned the soil in Gretchen''s herb garden, picking a place near the garden wall that got just enough sunlight, and just enough shade, and where the mint grew the same dark green as the eyes of a laughing gold haired girl, running to Bronwyn in a dream.  She planted herbs to staunch bleeding, and herbs to ease pain.  "Something special to nourish a sick body, too, I think," she mused, thinking of how painfully thin Gretchen was in her vision.  Reaching deep into the pouch, she pulled out nine hard round seeds.  These she poked deep and marked each with a pebble from the bowl on Gretchen''s table.


    Some weeks later, Gretchen produced a fine linen gown in shades of cream, simple in its lines and girdled with a sash of yellow and red flowers.  Bronwyn made the journey down the mountain every other day, and made teas and possets and tended Gretchen''s garden herbs, the nine little seeds growing quickly into thick succulent stalks with broad leaves.  Gretchen seemed to rally against the pain and the darkness in her belly.


    As promised, Bronwyn married her giant at the Midsummer Feast.  Lisel''s young swain offered the girl ribbons for her hair and asked his master for his daughter''s hand in marriage.  If there were more small forest creatures in the meadows around the village that night, if there were glints of blue hot eyes and dancing shapes in the bonfires, they were only counted as good omens, and Magda laughed brightly and played with the salamanders under the watchful gaze of her brothers.


    The miller''s wife had remained wan and barren, but after Midsummer she suddenly bloomed with health.  Bronwyn went into her garden on the day of the first full moon after Midsummer and found that one of the nine little plants had been stripped of most of its leaves, the stalk dripping with sap like tears from the wounded stems.  A man''s boot prints led to and from that part of the garden, where it was neither too shady nor too sunny, and the mint grew a dark glossy green.  Bronwyn noted the footprints sadly, and harvested the single remaining leaf from the mangled plant.  She spoke with Grahme that afternoon and they agreed that she would stay with Gretchen most days and come up the mountain only on rest-days.


    The next full moon, the second of the nine little plants was robbed of all its thick leaves, the stem cut to the ground.  Bronwyn met the miller''s wife at the well the next morning.  "Remember, lass, speak to me or the midwife if you have any troubles with the babe," she said, hauling up first her own water and then the other woman''s bucket.


    The miller''s wife cast her hazel eyes to the side, flushing.  "All seems well thus far, but thank you."  Bronwyn walked away, but she could feel the other woman''s gaze on her back, and knew that if she turned to look her eyes would flash yellow.


    Gretchen''s discomfort only grew unless she had a weekly, and then a twice weekly dose of the powerful teas Bronwyn made, and as the miller''s wife''s belly grew, so did Gretchen''s.  A hard mass pushed out between the bones of her hips in a grotesque mockery of the pregnancy she had wanted so badly when her giant yet lived.  Bronwyn looked through the pouch for more of the seeds, but found only seeds for poppies and simple kitchen herbs.  Grahme cleared a sunny place in their mountain garden and she planted the poppies, fearing in her heart that they would never bloom and fruit in time to ease Gretchen''s agony.  At each full moon, another of the nine little plants would be stolen from the garden.


    Grahme bartered with a glassmaker and worked with the smith to frame a little shelter around the shady place in Gretchen''s garden, fitting a dozen panes of glass into the wrought metal and carved wooden frame of the little shed to protect the herbs from the frost and then the cold of wind and snow, heating it with a tiny brazier and burning through a dozen candles a week in the darkest of days.  Desperate to keep the succulents alive, Bronwyn wrote to the Lord Regent and bought even more of the fine wax candles from her own coffers.


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    On Midwinter''s night, the sixth of the little plants disappeared, dug up by the very roots from the soil.  The next morning, Gretchen started to bleed, and so did the miller''s wife.  The midwife tended the miller''s wife even as Bronwyn prayed and sat staring into the fire, searching her soul and casting out with her mind for any subtle calling, any mystical instruction or half forgotten memory of a dream.  The bleeding slowed finally, and stopped, and both the miller''s wife and Gretchen seemed to rest more easily.  Days lengthened and the snows melted away, and spring came early to the mountainside.  The seventh plant disappeared as the first of the spring greens pushed out of the cool earth, and the eighth as the first tiny blooms opened their faces to the skies, and yet Bronwyn simply reminded the miller and his wife to come to her, or the midwife, if there were any further troubles with their pregnancy.  They bobbed, and nodded, and cast their eyes aside, and as time passed they became happy but more furtive around her.


    The poppies bloomed early, and both Gretchen and the miller''s wife took to their beds.  Bronwyn stayed at Gretchen''s cottage day and night, tending her friend, and Grahme brought her the herbs and flowers she asked for, begging her to stop and eat from time to time.  He sent word to a merchant friend in the city, and a messenger returned to him with a package on the morning of the miller''s wife''s first labor pains.  Gretchen felt well enough to sit up that morning, though Bronwyn kept the mirror covered and turned to the wall for good measure.


    The midwife was across the valley, tending the birth of Lisel''s twins, come a month early into the world. Grahme carefully opened the package at the kitchen table, laying out the coiled bronze strings for the mended harp as Gretchen and Bronwyn watched.  The miller himself burst through the cottage door, panting and shouting at them, grabbing Bronwyn by the arm to drag her towards the lane.  "You must help her, Goodwife Bronwyn, there is so much blood!"


    Bronwyn slapped him, shoving him back through the doorway to fall into the dust of the road.  Villagers stopped on their errands, men with tools to mend and women with buckets to fill or empty.  "So, I must help her now, must I?  Miller, you have stolen my most rare and precious herbs moon after moon, taken a beloved life from me too soon, and now I must help your wife?  What will you give me in return?  What price will you pay for stealing something so dear from me?"  The bright morning sunlight dimmed a little and the birdsong fell silent as clouds rolled across the sky.


    "Anything, I''ll give you anything, I swear, just help my wife and save our baby!"


    Bronwyn was shaking with her rage. "A life for a life, then, and witnessed by all here.  On the day that my sister dies, you will give me your daughter."  A few houses down the lane, the miller''s wife cried out in agony.


    The miller crouched in the dust, groveling before the witch as Bronwyn stood over him.  "Yes, anything, just come now, I beg you!"  She turned and jerked her cloak off its peg, and the pouch and flask off the table beside the door.  Her rage and grief dimmed just a moment as she looked at Gretchen and Grahme.  "I will return soon, I promise."  As they passed the garden gate, she paused only to pull the last of the herbs from the soil with a tenderness that was terrible to behold as the rage poured off her shoulders in waves of heat.  Only the child Magda and her brothers were brave enough to follow them to watch, a salamander scorching the homespun of Magda''s smock as it clung to her arm.


    The miller''s bed was awash with blood already, and the birthing was difficult.  Bronwyn made a decoction of the entire plant with well water, making the woman drink it all to ease her agony and labors, and set aside the mashed leaves and stems and roots as a poultice to stem the flow of blood after.  Sometime in that long day, a soothing melody grew up around them all, and Bronwyn''s anger eased, receding as the harp notes fell down among them.


    Bronwyn finally caught the babe with practiced care, and the mother''s exhausted gasps slowed and stopped, unnoticed by anyone but the miller.  The infant girl opened dark green eyes and looked up at the witch with the puzzled blurry gaze of a newborn.  Shaken to her very core, Bronwyn stared at the babe as it drew its first breath, and then a second, the silence filling the world and even the lilting notes of the harp falling still as the babe wailed her astonished joy at being thrust into the world.  Bronwyn''s head snapped up as the music ceased, gazing towards Gretchen''s cottage.  "No!" she cried out, holding the baby tight to her breast with bloody hands, careful despite her grief.


    "No!" the miller sobbed at the same moment, pressing his face against his wife''s unmoving chest, shaking with his tears.


    Bronwyn walked out of the miller''s house and the few steps up the road, babe in one arm, cloak and flask in the other.  Magda followed with the pouch and tiny salamander, her brothers bringing up the rear of the small procession.  The villagers had gathered outside Gretchen''s cottage, and silently parted before Bronwyn and the babe.


    Gretchen lay on the bed, the harp and stool nearby.  Her breath came in shallow pants, and Grahme held her hand.  Absently, Bronwyn gave the baby to Magda''s mother as she passed through the door.  "I heard you playing, dear heart," she said softly to her sister-friend.


    "I''m so glad."  Gretchen tried to smile around her pain.  "It''s time, I think."  Bronwyn nodded, dry mouthed and dry eyed. Grahme put the teakettle over the fire, but his wife, his witch, shook her head silently, face pale.  Bronwyn knelt beside the bed, pulling the stopper from the flask.  Her hands steadied the flask as Gretchen drank, the slim golden wedding ring on Bronwyn¡¯s bloody finger glinting in the firelight.  The stricken woman smiled, relieved as finally she slept, the pain forever gone.


    Bronwyn reached out and took Grahme''s hand, leading him from the cottage as she invited the salamanders into the cottage and the flames licked up into the eaves.  He stopped only to cover the harp and pick up the mirror.  She took the baby and her giant carried the mirror and they went up the mountain.  Hers was the only dry face in the village that day.


    The miller stayed by his wife¡¯s body for two days, unable to leave her in his desolation and sorrow.  On the morning of the third day his broken body was found on the river bank far below the narrow bridge.

 Mother 16) Mirror

    16) Mirror


    The baby, Rue, grew quickly. It seemed that before Bronwyn even settled back into the tower on the mountaintop that the infant was toddling and then running. Seasons passed and her piping laughter rang through the trees with the summer breezes. The village children took to coming up the mountain on sunny days, flocking like birds in the meadow grasses. Her hair was as golden as sunlight, and grew in long curly locks. Lisel''s twins, Hansel and Lisette, were particularly fond of wandering with her in the woods, often they were all watched after by Magda once her brothers were old enough to apprentice and she was deemed too old herself to need a nursemaid.


    Bronwyn watched over the village with Gretchen''s mirror, sometimes seeing a blessing or a tragedy as it unfolded. Sometimes she snatched up her cloak and pouch and flask and ran swiftly down the mountain to give aid where it was needed. She often went alone, but sometimes Grahme lent his strong hands or long arms to her cause.


    The witch learned the sort of happiness that grows from loss and care, and cherished her adopted daughter with the love Gretchen had taught her. Sometimes she saw visions of a little boy, a year older than Rue, midnight hair and snow pale skin, and she pretended not to recognize her son as he grew. She shut away visions of his hand a little too tight on a horse''s bridle, closed her heart to the way the servants began to flinch away from his tantrums and how the courtiers bowed and scraped and grimly commented on how splendidly like his father he was.


    It was in Rue''s fifth summer that The Mare first came to Bronwyn. A team of villagers were clearing a new field, chopping down the old growth trees and hauling the stumps and bigger rocks from the stony soil. Grahme was lending his strength to the efforts, and Bronwyn happened to glance away from the potion she was brewing at just the moment that the Mirror showed a tremendous limb falling on his broad back, bearing him to the ground with a crash she could almost hear from the mountain tower. Wordlessly, she grabbed pouch and flask, flung her cloak around her shoulders and ran headlong down the path towards the village. The new field was beyond the village, across the narrow bridge over the river. She never stopped until a trailing root caught her ankle, throwing her sprawling across the path. The impact drove the air from her lungs for a moment, and she was eventually able to choke down the cool mist of the forest. Her leather shoe was caught in the root and her ankle mangled painfully, bleeding and quickly swelling in her bare woolen stocking. Her next breath was a sob, pain and desperation and fear choking all thought into panic. The image of Grahme falling flashed before her eyes again and again and she carefully rolled onto her back, opening her arms wide to the branches above her, embracing her next breath and expanding her ribs.


    Black shadows lay against the sky far above her, bright clouds shining through the tree limbs. Thunder rumbled in the far distance, and through the earth she felt the forest gather itself for the coming storm. She flexed her fingers and closed her eyes, gathering up the darkness and the thunder and the bright clouds between her palms, raising her arms above her, whispering a rhyme the children sang, about ponies prancing. She gathered the rising storm and finally brought her hands together in a tremendous clap. She waited a moment, listening, and finally rolled to her side, despairing of the aid she''d tried to summon.


    Thunder rolled again, a long rumble that continued far longer than a mortal storm, and as she struggled to sit to begin to bind up her ankle, the noise became more distinct, and hoofbeats coalesced into reality. She looked up, impatient and afraid, as the night black horse came upon her. The mare was slender and lithe, emerging doe-like from the woods. Her face was marked with a narrow jagged blaze down her nose, a white lock of mane falling down between her ears. Prancing sideways a little, she stopped next to the witch and lowered her head to nudge the woman. Bronwyn raised her hand to stroke the velvet nose. The mare thrust her head and neck under Bronwyn''s arm, and Bronwyn wrapped her arms around her withers and let the horse pull her to her feet. She was small, delicately proportioned, shorter than many of the hardy mountain ponies used by the villagers.


    Bronwyn''s ankle was a hot mass of agony, but the mare maneuvered until the witch was able to drape herself across a back mottled with gray thunderclouds. She jigged a little, bouncing Bronwyn into place, and then moved forward with a silky smooth gait that covered ground without jostling her passenger too badly. Bronwyn wound her fingers into the dark mane, and they proceeded faster than she''d been running, quickly coming to the new field.


    Somehow they arrived just as the tree fell, bringing Grahme down abruptly and pinning him under the broad limb. Bronwyn urged the horse forward. "We must move it away," Bronwyn ordered, coming as close as she dared. "We''ll need everyone to help, and ropes, too."


    "Goodwife, we could just use the block and tackle and lift it up a bit, and yer horse could drag him from under?" The blacksmith stepped close, looking at the tangle of branches and giant. He lifted his hand up to stroke the mare''s neck. Startled, Bronwyn looked down at him. In a few steps the lightly built mare had became a heavy draft horse, coal black with great feathered hooves pawing at the earth, haunches bunching and gathering beneath her.


    "Yes, let''s get it done. Georg," she called out to Magda''s oldest brother, "when they move the branches off of him, go under and run the rope around his chest so the Mare can pull him free." He nodded, still young enough to be excited.


    They made quick work of it, and astonishingly enough, though the tree had flattened him and cracked a rib, Grahme lumbered painfully to his feet, dragging himself up by the rope tied to the Mare''s massive shoulders.


    "Well, then," he said, looking up at his wife for once. "Where''d you find this wee beast?"


    The dark horse carried Bronwyn back to the village, where the midwife bound up her ankle. The creature had dwindled back down to her original size as Grahme led them back to the village. The old woman fussed about with splints and stitches and admonished Bronwyn against running anywhere before the end of the season at least. The giant gently lifted the witch to the horse''s back, and they made their way back up the mountain. The mare was an incorrigible tease, her eyes bright with intelligence and interest. She arched her neck at him, blowing and widening her nostrils and whickering softly as they walked, and he laughed at her antics. She walked right into the tower and stopped next to the bed. Bronwyn slithered down off her back, and her husband arranged pillows under her wounded leg.


    Their equine helper had made her way back out while they settled in the cottage, and they heard Rue squeal with glee and the little dog''s excited bark. Grahme went to the door to check on them, and chuckled painfully. "Well, that''s all good, then."


    Days passed, and Robbie Longfellow fell in love with the Mare, and they would romp in the meadow with the children through long autumn afternoons, always looking up to see Bronwyn as she studied or moved slowly about doing her chores. The ankle was long to heal, no matter what poultice they devised for the gashes and no matter how they braced the broken bones, and she limped painfully even after the splints came off. When it was time for her to venture into the world, the Mare would be waiting patiently for her, sometimes even before Bronwyn knew herself that she was headed down the mountain that day.


    The spring that Rue and the twins turned six, Magda''s mother''s house burned to the ground. The roof collapsed as the girl and her mother tried to escape, and the neighbors saw Magda dragged from the flames by a salamander the size of a mountain goat. She was badly burned, but would not let go of her guardian until Bronwyn and Grahme arrived, passing the frightened Rue off to Lisel to sit with her playmates. The witch tended the injured and giant used his considerable strength to help douse the flames, hauling horse troughs like buckets. Bronwyn pushed the salamander aside, looking closely at Magda''s wounds. Terrible burns marked one cheek and half her forehead, and half her hair was burned away, the arm twisted and broken, hands scorched. Her breath came in terrible bloody coughs where she had inhaled the flames themselves.


    "Hush, little Magda, it won''t be bad for long," Bronwyn murmured to her. Reaching into her pouch, she drew out the woodsman''s knife, the edge glinting. One of the village women cried out, but Bronwyn turned the blade against her own flesh, slashing her forearm thrice. She looked to the salamander, crouched at the edge of the firelight. "You. A fair trade. Witch''s blood for healing for this girl."


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Blue hot eyes glowed with interest. "A witch''s blood, but she is not of your blood. She has touched us, and we adore her courage, but we can not entirely touch her." Its voice roared like the blacksmith''s furnace, deeper toned than that of the creature in her palace fireplace.


    Desperate, the witch smeared her hand through the blood on her arm and marked Magda''s forehead, cheeks, and chin with it, dripping it onto the girl''s tongue, and then marked her own face, brow, cheeks and chin, with blood. "Blood of my blood, heart of my heart, and my daughter''s dearest friend, I claim her as my own."


    "Such oaths are generous, but never perfect," the salamander hissed, coming close again and lapping the blood from the girl''s face and Bronwyn''s arm. Where its tongue passed, the burns eased, scars twisting before the wave of generous, but imperfect healing. Its breath passed over Bronwyn''s temple, and the rich black locks there faded to white in an instant. Magda fainted and Bronwyn lifted her, passing her carefully to Grahme and turning to Magda''s mother. The spinner had died already of her burns, and Magda''s brothers stood nearby, looking lost.


    "Georg, Marle, can you stay with your masters?" she asked the two apprentices. The ferrier and the baker came forward, nodding. "I will take Magda home and nurse her. She has a knack for herbs and animals, perhaps she would be a good midwife." Bronwyn took Rue back from Lisel, trying not to see the woman''s frightened gaze, or the way the other villagers edged cautiously away from her.


    Once more by firelight, the witch went back up the mountain with her Giant, now with two daughters.


    Afterwards, if the village children didn''t come up to the tower in its green meadow as often, perhaps it was because Bronwyn was so often preoccupied with Magda''s healing. She was still called often for birthings and healings, but the baker and the butcher refused to take her coin any more, and the weaver simply left her supplies at the top of the mountain path on market day.


    Magda''s hair grew back, falling dark and straight over her scarred forehead and cheek. Bronwyn''s hair was thick and shining as ever, but the hair at her temple and brow fell white as snow among the midnight locks. Magda''s voice remained a soft whisper, like the hiss and crackle of a hearthfire, or the blowing of autumn leaves, but her hands were quick and clever with herblore and bandages, and when she was thirteen and Rue was nine, Bronwyn began taking the older girl with her when she was called to a healing or a birthing.


    Rue grew into a kind and beautiful girl, full of laughter and endlessly bringing home injured animals to nurse back to health or simply to befriend and have nearby. She loved Grahme''s pigeons, and gladly learned to read and write so that she might correspond with people in far places. She delighted in telling her family stories in the evenings by the fire. When she discovered she could send the lightest of cargoes, the tiny seeds of herbs and flowers, and that her far off friends would send back seeds in return, their garden began to bloom with exotic species from the world over. She was especially fond of roses, though they did not grow well on the mountainside. She planted them anyway, and one irregular seed, planted and forgotten at the base of the tower, grew like a mad thing, climbing the stones of the wall til it was fully twice the height of the giant and bursting into hundreds of loose petaled ecstatic blooms.


    One evening when she was twelve, she looked up from a letter. "Mama," she said to Bronwyn.


    The witch looked up from her needlework, smiling. "Yes, my dear?"


    "Did you know that there''s a girl who lives in the woods with little old men?"


    Bronwyn''s embroidery twitched, the needle raking her forefinger. She stilled her hands, a drop of blood welling up to drop onto the white cloth. "Yes, I have heard part of her story."


    "Well, she is wishing that she might find a young man, a husband." Grahme looked up from the book he was writing in.


    "That''s what women do, sweetness, when they are grown and ready."


    "Would it be OK if we found a husband for her? She is lonely, and very dear to me. I have watched her in the mirror, and I want to do this thing for her."


    Frowning, Bronwyn set aside her handiwork. "Do you watch her in the mirror often?"


    "Well, not just her, all sorts of people. Sometimes people down the mountain, or across the big river, or in the castle with diamond windows, or the one with golden walls, or in the keep where the spring is only a day or two, and summer is only a week, and winter is the rest of the year. Sometimes, when you go to help people who have troubles and I miss you, I watch you, too."


    "Do you ever see things from long ago?" Bronwyn asked carefully.


    "Oh, no, it won''t show me things from long ago, or a little while ago, and it won''t ever show me things from tomorrow or next month, either. But it shows me things far away or near by, and I would really like to help Miss Janette." Rue knelt by her mother the witch and lay her golden head in Bronwyn''s lap. ¡°Please, Mama?"


    "Well, Miss Janette is a woman grown, she''s perhaps twenty five years old?"


    "Yes, I think so. Her friends all love her so, but they''re so very ancient."


    "Who would you choose for her to marry?"


    Rue looked up at her, and then across at Magda. "Magda, who would you think? Maybe the duke in the blue manor?"


    "Oh, no, he married last year, do you remember?" The older girl thought for a moment. "What about his younger brother? He''s never married, and he''s quite kind."


    "Not like the prince in the diamond castle," Rue agreed.


    "Well, the prince is too young, anyway. Do you remember the brother''s name?"


    "Umm... it''s... Poitr!" She looked back up at her parents. "Surely we can send them letters, and introduce them, and let them fall in love?"


    Grahme cleared his throat, a low avalanche of sound. "It''s never guaranteed, of course," he began, and the girls cheered.


    Bronwyn frowned slightly. "We could write to the Lord Regent and to the young man''s brother, and arrange for them to meet..."


    "Well, he must go to her soon, a bad woman is watching her, too, and I don''t know what will happen."


    "What bad woman?" Bronwyn remembered her pricked finger and sucked on it gently to clean the blood away.


    "The one with yellow eyes, who calls herself Grandmother." Rue looked up, listening to something in the night outside. "Time for bed, the bears will be here tomorrow."


    After the girls were safely asleep, Bronwyn and Grahme stepped out into the starlit meadow where their tower stood. He wrapped his arms around her, feeling the pull of fate in her almost as strongly as she did.


    "What should I do?" Bronwyn asked, though they both knew the answer.


    "Dress warmly, for certain. I''m sure the Mare will be along in the morning to take you."


    "And what shall you do?"


    "I shall write yet another letter to the Lord Regent, and one to the young man''s brother, and I will make sure that the young man is there in time to help you save your stepdaughter."


    "If anyone comes, I suppose Magda can care for anyone who comes with an illness or a birthing. She''s old enough, now, and skilled enough for most things." She fretted a little; she had traveled one day, or two days, but never had she gone down the mountain, past the king''s city and into the deep wood where she had wandered so many years ago.


    "Yes, goodwife, that she can, and I can help her as well. We shall be well, here, and Rue can show me that trick of hers, of watching you in the mirror."


    "That was rather a surprise. My Lord Giant, if the Lord Regent will not dower Princess Janette, would you write to the Lord of the Exchequer and arrange for it from my own accounts?" She looked up at him, the white lock shining pale against her midnight hair.


    "Of course, my Lady Witch. Just as long as you stay safe for us."


    "I shall try, Grahme, I shall try." She kissed him softly, and they walked back to the tower, one starlight shadow stretching forward before their steps.

 Mother 17) Apple, part 1

    17) Apple


    The Mare appeared just before dawn, a sturdy riding horse in the morning twilight.  Grahme picked Bronwyn up by the waist and set her astride, settling the deep red folds of her cloak warmly around her and making sure that the pack containing pouch and flask and knife was securely tied to the simple saddle the Mare chose to wear that morning.  There was no bit or bridle, but the creature seemed confident in her knowledge of their errand and the path they were to take.


    "Behave for your father, girls, and remember that he''s a giant, and therefore just a bit frightening."  They giggled and he bent slightly and kissed her cheek.  "C''malong, Robbie," she called, and the dog materialized out of the morning mists, followed by a great bear and her cubs.


    Bronwyn waved farewell to all, turning once to look back and see them all waving in return.  A scarlet bird flitted ahead of them as they wended their way down the mountain trail, and past the village, and through a town or three.  The witch paused at the crossroads that might take her to the castle where once she was queen, but turned and took the southern road, deep into the woods.


    Three days they rode out at first light and stopped late in the afternoon.  Three nights Bronwyn dreamed of her giant, and her daughters, and older memories, of darkness and violence and blood.  She had little notion of how she would stop the wolf eye''d woman, or what plots she would have to unravel.


    The trees grew tall and thick, wider around than her giant, darker than her memories.  Moss grew on most things, and deer walked calmly through the scant underbrush.  The road became a track, then a rutted trail where carts had passed less often than not.  Finally, Bronwyn heard the singing.  She slid down from the Mare, who obligingly was not as tall as she had been that morning.


    The woman gathered flowers in one of the sudden forest clearings where light broke through the canopy and touched the ground. Bees and butterflies followed her and the blossoms she carried, and birdsong hung in the air in counterpoint to the woman¡¯s singing.  Janette had grown tall, and her skin was milk white except for the faint flush of exertion from her walk.  Bronwyn remembered the girl who had spent hours with cosmetics, vainly trying to achieve the same results.  Ruby lips and raven hair were much like her father''s, but now her smile was bright and genuine as she sang.  She stopped, startled, when she saw Bronwyn.


    The witch limped forward from the shadows of the forest, pushing back her hood.  Her own hair spilled free, midnight masses punctuated by the streak of stark white at her crown and temple.  Janette stared for a moment, as recognition dawned.  "Stepmother?"


    "Yes, child, I am that," Bronwyn shifted uncertainly, not knowing how she would be received.


    The princess rushed forward and swept the witch into a tight embrace.  She was taller than the older woman, and her frame was strong and slim.  "I''d hoped you''d come!  So much has happened - I think you would be pleased."  Stepping back, she was suddenly shy.  "Won''t you come home with me for supper?"


    "Why, I suppose I could do that, yes."  Bronwyn hitched her pack up over her shoulder; the Mare had disappeared altogether into the darkness of the woods.


    They walked the path together to the Deep Woods Monastery.  "Abbot Tirce  passed away in the spring, so there are only seven brothers now.  They can''t seem to decide who will succeed him as Abbot, and can''t be brought away from their writing and transcribing and research long enough to choose his successor.  Perhaps you could help with that."  She chattered happily about life at the old chapterhouse, and her election as Cellarer.


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    "Have you taken vows, then?" Bronwyn asked.


    "No, but I suspect they have forgotten that."  Janette grinned suddenly.  "I suspect that they frequently forget that I''m not one of the Brothers, too."


    "Then they are remarkable in their dedication to their duties," Bronwyn spoke wryly; her stepdaughter was very obviously not a man.  "So you are treated well?"


    "Yes, your Grace, and I''ve treated them well, also."


    "Janette, please call me Bronwyn, or you may call me stepmother, but I''ve no room for titles these days.¡±


    Janette smiled, "Yes, Stepmother." As they passed slowly through a patch of sunlight Bronwyn noticed a thread or two of silver in her raven hair.


    "Have you have many visitors?  Suitors, or a sweetheart?" Bronwyn asked cautiously.


    "We''re a bit out of the way.  I have a guardsman, Dale, who came with me from the Palace.  He and his wife Rebeka live with their children in a cottage just outside the cloister walls.  Otherwise, there''s a tinker who comes to visit, and a woodsman brings us firewood in the fall and in the spring, and a provisions cart from the capital from time to time."  She thought for a moment.  "No suitors among them, though the Lord Regent visits each year on my birthday."


    "Would you be open to an offer, should one be brought to you?" Bronwyn thought that perhaps the whole thing might be settled quickly, except for the threat of the old woman.


    "I''d not given it much thought," Janette lied, blushing and looking down.  Bronwyn smiled and continued on in silence, limping on her twisted ankle.


    They were greeted as the Deep Woods Monastery came into view by a tremendous brood of children, six boys between five and ten years old, and a girl of perhaps eleven.  Bronwyn staggered as another thread of fate pulled through her chest, and Janette took her arm, steadying her.


    "Give us some room, children.  Stepmother, this is Jaq and Jute, Tristin and Trustan, Jarmin and Jarvis and their sister Lisbet.  They are Dale and Rebeka¡¯s brood, and they are all very brave and loyal."  They chattered, excited, and swarmed around the women as they escorted them down the road.


    A tidy house, somewhat larger than a cottage, nestled against the cloister wall.  A woman came to the door, a spindle in one hand and a bundle of fiber in the other.  "Miss Janette, who is our visitor?" she asked cheerfully, though there was a certain wariness in the way her blue eyes looked Bronwyn over.


    "Rebeka, this is Bronwyn, my stepmother," Janette said simply.  The spinner startled and dropped her spindle and flax, warily stepping out to greet them.


    "Your Highness, it is a great honor to see you again," she said, curtseying. Bronwyn closed the last distance and hugged her former maid tightly.


    "It is wonderful to see you here, and with such a wealth of riches."


    Rebeka laughed.  "A girl and three sets of twin boys - that''s quite enough riches for any grand lady, I''m sure."  She surveyed her brood shrewdly.  "And I suspect they have not all finished their chores," she added, and they scattered with a jabber of protest and exuberance, except for Lisbet, who curtseyed and made her way to the small cow shed built onto the side of the house.  "All of our joy is doubled here.  Even the cow has twins each spring."


    "A great blessing, I''m certain, with so many mouths."


    "We are very blessed.  Dale is away for the day, but will return at nightfall.  I''m sure Janette has much to show you."  Rebeka hugged Bronwyn tightly again and turned to pick up her spindle again.


    "Rebeka -" the former palace maid looked up at the former queen''s troubled tone.  "Beware strangers."


    "Always, my lady.  Always."  There was a shadow behind her smile, and an old pain, unvoiced.

 Mother 17) Apple, part 2

    The princess led Bronwyn through the gate into the cloister walls, pausing in the yard to pull a bucket of water from the well. They entered the kitchen, and she set the bucket on the table and continued into the hall. She led Bronwyn to the Scriptorium. Seven elderly men hunched over their work, some transcribing, some carefully illuminating manuscripts with vivid paints. Bright clear light filled the room, and candles crowded the sconces and every available space that was not already covered. Scrolls and books and loose sheets of parchment or vellum, jars of ink and stray quills were scattered throughout the chaos, and cobwebs festooned the rafters.


    One of the old men looked up from his work, peering at them. He held a finger to his lips for silence and turned back to his work. Smiling, Janette pulled the door closed behind them and led the way back to the kitchen.


    "They used to store drying manuscripts here, on the kitchen table, and simply skip any cutting or peeling of vegetables for the stew pot. It took months, when we first arrived, to get things in order." Janette dipped a cup of water from the bucket and offered it to Bronwyn. The well water was cool and sweet. "Thank you for sending me here. I was lost, I think, and this place gave me an anchor, a true home."


    "I''m just sorry it all had to happen as it did," Bronwyn said simply.


    "Never be sorry for rescuing my kingdom from the curse of a line of kings who preyed on their subjects rather than cherishing them, abused them instead of ruling them. I''ve learned a lot of how kings and kingdoms and fathers ought to work, since coming here. Some I learned from Dale, some I learned from the monks, and even more I''ve learned from the old records and histories they are working to preserve."


    A bell rang sweetly and Janette stood again. "It''s a bit early for the apple dame," she mused, straightening her apron. "Rest here a moment, Stepmother, I''ll be back shortly."


    Bronwyn settled, taking another sip of water as she looked into the fire. It was built low, simmering a stew of vegetables and rabbit. A fingerling of charred wood thrust up to one side, and a finger length salamander basked there. It winked at her once and then went back to its dreaming.


    Smoke drifted up into the chimney, coiling in a silent pantomime as Bronwyn watched. She saw Janette and Rebeka checking baskets of apples and jugs of cider, chatting with an old woman as they unloaded her donkey cart. Janette rejected one of the baskets, and a dark curl of smoke showed the corruption of rot in the fruit it contained. The apple dame bobbed a curtsey, gesturing apologetically. Rebeka looked at Janette and nodded, and the princess nodded also in agreement.


    Rebeka looked away, speaking to someone beyond the tableau, and as Bronwyn reached out to pass her hand through the smoke and disperse the image the apple dame looked up sharply, a bright spark flying up into her smoky hood, yellow eyes staring back. She pulled her cloak closer around a body crooked with age and prodded the donkey with a switch. Six little boys escorted her away from the cottage and the cloister, and as Janette opened the door of the kitchen, the gust of air scattered the smoke on the hearth. She dropped a few letters and a pigeon scroll on the table before checking a large bowl of bread dough rising on the countertop near the high window.


    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    "Is everything well?" Bronwyn finished the water and held the clay cup on the table before her.


    "Yes, just a few bad apples in one of the baskets. She''ll bring some back in a few days, so it''s not a true loss for Deep Woods."


    "Janette, there is something I need to tell you," Bronwyn hesitated.


    "Oh?" The princess sat, folding her work reddened hands in her apron.


    "Have you heard from the Lord Regent in the past week or so?"


    Janette pulled a letter from her pocket, much folded and creased. "This came yesterday. They want me to receive suit from a baron''s younger brother. He''s a knight, and by all accounts he''s plain of face but honest."


    Bronwyn closed her eyes, fingertips touching the letter. She felt the honesty of the Lord Regent, but also his age. He had been elderly when they met, and was nearing the end of his days. She felt the longing of his grief for his lady wife, who passed on after a brain storm in the winter. Fate tightened around her chest, leaving her gasping for breath. Tears pricked her eyes as she realized that her own giant''s hair was now more white than grizzled. She pushed that thought away, feeling Robbie Longfellow lean against her calves beneath the table.


    "May I advise you?" Potentialities, events flickered like firelight behind her eyelids.


    "Most certainly, stepmother."


    "Accept the offer. Talk to the man. There are storms coming, and you will need a knight consort to lend you strength when things seem darkest." She opened her eyes. Janette was troubled, looking down at her hands with their rough callouses and jagged nails. Bronwyn gently took those hands in her own work hardened hands, brushing her thumbs over the backs and fingers, smoothing the skin and erasing small scars from cooking and chores. The princess''s hair lifted and fell back, clean and shining and free of tangles, threads of silver an adornment rather than a mark of a hard and demanding life.


    "Very well. I shall receive his suit, but you must answer me a question."


    Bronwyn smiled wryly. "Questions I can do, yes."


    "You said I would need a knight consort. Is something going to befall my brother the Crown Prince?"


    "It''s not clear to me, my sweet, I don''t see him easily or often. But yes, you would be wise to seriously consider this offer."


    "Then I shall. He arrives the day after tomorrow."


    "Very good." Bronwyn rose stiffly. "Be careful. For all that our time together was troubled, you are the first of my daughters, and I care for you deeply."


    "Someday, I think I would like to meet my sisters," Janette said shyly.


    "Perhaps all three of us shall come to your wedding," Bronwyn said, sadness filling her as she realized that fate or premonition or prophecy spoke of greater grief between this moment and that one. She hugged the princess tightly and pulled her cloak tight around her shoulders. "I must leave now, there things I must tend to elsewhere."


    "Very well. Stepmother?" Bronwyn paused a moment, listening but not meeting Janette''s eyes. "Be careful. And no matter what may be following you, there is a sanctuary for you here if you need it."


    "Thank you, child, that is very kind indeed."

 Mother 17) Apple, part 3

    Bronwyn walked wearily down the forest road for several hours, wondering if the Mare would return or if there was yet another adventure in store for her.  Robbie Longfellow ranged their path from side to side and ahead, chasing birds and small animals for the sheer doggy joy of it.  When he returned to her abruptly, pacing before her with his hackles up.


    They came upon a man and a small wagon.  The pony was panicked, the wagon''s rear axle broken and the man trying to soothe the animal and prevent it from further damaging the wagon.  He looked up, and his frustration and concern dissolved into a smile.  "M''lady Bronwyn, if you would be so kind, would you hold his head while I get us out of this mess?"


    "Dale?"  She was astonished that he recognized her so quickly, though he was not much changed from the young constable who had taken her to his cousin so long ago.  She limped forward and took the pony''s bridle, hugging his head close to her breast and covering his eyes with her cloak.  He quieted, trembling.  Dale bent to look over the animal''s legs and found a wire snare around a rear fetlock.  The pony groaned as his master carefully loosened and removed the snare, the smell of his own blood almost sending him over the edge of panic again.


    Bronwyn pulled a small jar of healing salve from her pouch and handed it wordlessly to her friend.  Dale nodded his thanks and applied it to the wound, accepting a length of bandage afterwards.  As he worked and she held the beast''s head, the witch heard the soft sound of the Mare''s hooves on the dirt of the track, and the horse draped her head across the pony''s withers, comforting him with the touch and presence of herd.  She was only slightly taller than him at the shoulder, and he leaned into both of them as the wound was bandaged.


    Dale unhitched the pony from the broken wagon.  "Well, that''s just grand."  He surveyed the damage, and then the sacks and boxes in the bed of the wagon.  "And the day was going so well.  If my luck holds, Aodhan will come a day early this month."


    Robbie Longfellow looked up from his examination of the cart and the discarded snare and Dale''s sturdy shoes.  The dog marched stiff legged to the middle of the road and started barking, excited.  The pony and the Mare pricked their ears and the Mare turned her head to look down the road to see what her friend was going on about.


    Clear sweet bells tinkled in the distance. Dale listened for a moment and then grinned.  "I take that back.  On the day my axle broke and my pony was lamed by some idiot hunter, I am rescued by a witch and a tinker."  He straightened and strode out into the road to stand and wait with Robbie.  Bronwyn released the pony''s head and ran her hands down the injured leg, whispering a healing over it.  The bandage fell away in ashes, the fetlock snowy white but completely healed.


    "Aodhan, brother, I could kiss you," Dale exclaimed as the heavy hoofbeats of an ox drew closer, the hissing grind of massive wagon wheels on the packed dirt of the road.  The tinker¡¯s wagon was still tall and brightly painted, hung about with scores of wares, all tied up with silver and brass bells to announce the tinker¡¯s coming and alert him to thieves.  The ox was massive, taller than Bronwyn at the shoulder and as wide as the wagon it pulled.


    "Now that''s the warmest greeting I''ve had in a bit. Broken axle?"  Bronwyn looked over the pony''s back and saw the man himself, startled.  The tinker was still a very average man, of average height, and passably handsome, merry eyes and a slightly rounded paunch.  Age had creased his face and faded his hair, but otherwise he was as vigorous as he had been so many years before, when he gave a girl shoes and petticoats simply because she needed them at the beginning of her journey.   He hopped off the seat and looked through at the assorted axles and spindles and wagon wheels hung off one side of the wagon.  He pulled one down and carried it over one shoulder to Dale''s cart.


    "Madam Witch, I assume you''ve cared for the beast?" he said casually, not looking at Bronwyn as she watched.


    "Yes, he''s sound again," she replied, startled.


    Dale and Aodhan Tinker shifted the load off the wagon and Dale held the bed steady while the other man deftly unpinned the broken axle and slid the new one in place.


    "I''m glad you had one to spare," Dale said, relieved as they reloaded the boxes and sacks and bags of grain.


    "I had a notion you might be needing one, so it was simple enough."  He mopped his forehead with a kerchief and then turned to Bronwyn, taking her hand in both of his and bowing with a flourish.  "Madam Bronwyn, it is a pleasure to meet you yet again.  I have heard much of your adventures! I hope you remember me, for I am Aodhan Tinker, crafter, merchant and occasional convenient miracle producer, at your service."


    "What do you know of me?" Drawing her cloak tighter, she shivered with a sudden pull of fate, but it was from behind her, not from the cheerful brown haired man standing before her with mischief in his eyes.


    "What do I know of you?  My dear, you are the stuff of legends, or at least more than one tavern story.  Bronwyn Firehand, mistress of salamanders, witch and Queen Mother, wife to the giant Grahme Mountainfist and villain of more than one bedtime story to frighten children from playing in the hearth or disobeying their parents, or stealing from their neighbors.  Known by her crimson cloak, hair like the blackest midnight with a lightning streak of white, limping from where a great bear caught her foot as she climbed a tree to rescue a small child from being eaten.  Oh, yes, I do know you."


    "But some of that isn''t even true!"  She was astonished, and the Mare bumped Bronwyn''s back with her nose, whickering a horsey laughter.  "Shut up, you," she snapped at the horse.  "The thing about the bear was totally wrong, I broke my ankle running down a path to arrive where I was needed in time."


    "Perhaps you did, m''Lady Witch, but I prefer the bear story.  So tell me, was it a very large bear?"


    "There was no bear!" she withdrew her hand from his, exasperated.  Magic and fate jerked against her again.


    "As you say.  Modesty is a good quality in a witch for sure.    Are you quite all right?"  Dale turned to her also, concern in his eyes.


    "Yes, of course, I just -" the pull came again, sharp now, and she heard a girl weeping and the thunder of wings.  "The children!"  She didn''t remember mounting the Mare, but they were gone back towards the Deep Woods Monastery even before the tinker and the former guardsman could exclaim or demand explanation.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    The cloister seemed to come into view in precious minutes.  Lisbet knelt over Rebeka''s still body, her mother''s head pulled into her lap as she keened and rocked. An apple lay on the ground nearby, half eaten.


    Bronwyn all but fell off her mount.   She knelt beside them, gently examining the girl''s mother.  Rebeka''s lips and skin were blue, her eyes bloodshot.  Her heart was still and she did not breathe.  Bronwyn found the apple, and it smelled faintly bitter, like a drought from the flask.  She bowed her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Where are your brothers?"


    "Flown away, all flown away as swans, bright gods what shall I do, they''re all swans and mother won''t wake," Lisbet sobbed uncontrollably.


    "Where is the princess?"  Dread settled into Bronwyn''s belly, a heavy weight that made her gorge rise.


    "In the kitchen, I don''t think she knows."


    "First thing''s first, I''m going to try to wake your mother."  Bronwyn hesitated for half a moment and brought out the flask.  She wet her fingertips and pressed them to Rebeka''s lips. The stricken woman remained still in their arms, and Bronwyn waited until the pull of fate became unbearable again.  "Your father and Aodhan Tinker will be here shortly.  Keep watch over her, she may yet wake."


    Bronwyn left them there, limping as quickly as she could into the cloister.  An ancient woman in a tattered black cloak and ragged dress opened the kitchen door just as Bronwyn reached it herself.  The hag hissed and recoiled from the witch, her face warped and rumpled, toothless with glaring yellow eyes. A wolf pushed past her, snarling.  Bronwyn staggered as she was herself shoved to the side, the basso rumble of a mastiff vibrating in her chest. The beast was striped black and gold brindle with white feet and a white patch on the crown of his head.  He was as massive as the direwolf, but his legs were shorter by half, his body longer by half.


    The hag flung herself to the side and rushed Bronwyn as the wolf and dog engaged, storm clouds gathering overhead as she muttered an incantation to draw down lightning.  As quickly, Bronwyn called the salamanders to her, fire elementals flying in like sparks and fingerlings of flame.  Far overhead, thunder rumbled and the raptor screech of a dragon pierced the sky.  The earth shook for a moment and then heaved, knocking them all to the floor.  The yellow eyed hag looked beyond Bronwyn and pushed onwards, her rags catching fire as the salamanders and drakes swarmed over her.  Bronwyn tripped her and they went sprawling together, but the hag was astonishingly strong and kicked her way free.  With a sharp cry she called her wolf to her and leapt to his back as they fled the cloister.


    Bronwyn heard the thunder of steel shod hooves and the scream of a war horse, a knight''s challenge shouted across the field.  Ignoring the uproar and the sounds of combat, the witch crawled into the hallway, past the mastiff and into the kitchen.


    Janette lay on the floor, an apple in her hand, lips and face blue.  Bronwyn could smell the bitterness of poison on the fruit as she crept painfully to her stepdaughter, fear caught in her throat.  She groped for the flask, and as she lifted Janette''s head into her lap the bitten piece of apple fell from the princess''s mouth.  Hope surged, and Bronwyn threw the apple and the bitten piece into the fire, and salamanders swarmed after it, growing as they devoured the ensorcelled fruit.


    "Heart of my heart, sister of my son and daughter of a king, I pray you have the strength to survive what has gone before and what I must do, and if you do not, I pray I may forgive myself after."  She tipped the flask to Janette''s bluish lips, giving her the barest sip of the draught.


    After a moment, and then another, the flush of life returned to the princess'' lips and cheeks.  Bronwyn bent over her and felt the faintest breath on her cheek, a slow weak pulse beneath her fingertips.  She held the girl to her breast, weeping in relief.


    Silence fell over the monastery, and Bronwyn looked over at the mastiff as it stood clumsily.  It came to her and drew its tongue across her face, and then shook itself from head to tail, shivering smaller and smaller until finally Robbie Longfellow looked at her smugly.  He sat before them, and his tail thumped three times on the stone floor of the kitchen. "You''ve learned a lot more than play from the Mare, have you?"  The tail thumped again.


    A small noise made her look up, and seven pairs of elderly eyes peered out of the hallway at her, the monks roused from their work by the battle raging outside.


    "What''s happened to our Janette?" Friar Seco asked faintly.


    "She was poisoned by an evil hag," Bronwyn replied simply.


    "What happened to our house?" another one of the brothers asked.


    "I don''t know.  I missed that part."


    "Will our Janette live, do you think?"  The youngest asked, only slightly less stooped and wrinkled than the others.


    "Yes, but she might sleep a while."


    "But how long?  Her prince should arrive at any moment," another one of them fretted, wringing his hands anxiously.


    Bronwyn shrugged.  "Who knows?  A night, a hundred years, depends on her."


    "Will anything wake her?" The light baritone voice came from the kitchen door.  The knight''s armor was bloody and dented, and he''d lost his helm.  His jaw was strong, but he was not handsome, and the fine lines around his eyes were from kindness and a ready smile.


    "Are you Sir Poitr?" Bronwyn asked, holding Janette a little closer.


    "Yes, your Grace."  He knelt and bowed his head to her briefly.


    Half remembered, the answer came back to Bronwyn from a dream.  "The usual, I''d imagine.  Mix a potion made of the powdered horn of a unicorn, an apple from the tree of knowledge and follow it with True Love''s kiss, that sort of thing."  She kissed Janette''s brow and offered the princess''s still form to the  knight.  "Leave the quests and the beasties alone, though, I think."


    "She is so very beautiful," Poitr murmured, brushing the hair away from her brow and cradling her gently for a very long moment.  "Princess Janette, please forgive me for my impertinence," he whispered, kissing her eyelids and her lips in turn.


    After a moment, she stirred a little, and then her eyelids fluttered.  She opened her eyes and met his gaze.  "Sir Poitr?" she asked.


    "Yes, your Highness.  I''m so sorry to touch you uninvited, but I could not wait a hundred years to see you wake." He would have set her down, but she put her hands over his and smiled shyly.


    "I forgive you, Sir Knight.  Perhaps we could discuss the matter at length, and if we are both agreeable, we could repeat the experiment."  His breath caught, and Bronwyn witnessed the first moment of love dawning in his eyes.  Janette smiled like the sunrise in spring, and Bronwyn felt the snap and release of the cord of fate binding them together.  The witch had dreamed that moment over and over again for all the years she remembered, the sweet echo of a kiss on her own lips that had never quite faded.


    "Mistress Bronwyn," Lisbet''s voice broke the tableau.  Bronwyn looked up, wiping tears from her face.


    Lisbet was very pale, her hands shaking.  "Could you come and see my mama?"

 Crone 18) Feathers

    18) Feathers


    They all made their way out of the monastery in a daze, Bronwyn and Lisbet leading, then Princess Janette and Sir Poitr and the monks. The front wall of the cloister was rubble, nearby trees crushed by a massive weight falling down upon them. The smoking hulk of a storm dark dragon lay the length of the meadow, lightning still sparking from its claws and wings. A lance was driven deep into its heart, behind the front leg. The monks were dismayed by the destruction, but immediately excited about the dragon, bravely crowding around it, pointing and chattering and exclaiming.


    The warhorse stood nearby, tethered only by his good manners. The Mare flirted delicately with him, and his ears pricked forward, interested. Robbie Longfellow ran ahead of them all, chasing chickens back towards their coop and running barking after the terrified cow and her twin calves.


    Aodhan stood near the cottage with his hat in his hands. Dale knelt beside Rebeka, eyes red with tears as he held her hand. Bronwyn sank down next to him, stroking the spinner''s forehead and checking her mouth and eyes. Her skin had faded further, a sickly bluish green, and her eyes were washed out almost white.


    "Can you bring her back?" Janette asked, taking Rebeka''s other hand.


    The witch hesitated, then looked up at Dale. Hope and despair warred in his expression, in the way he clutched his wife''s hand.


    "The poison took deeper root in Rebeka than in Janette. The fruit fell from Janette''s mouth, while Rebeka swallowed her bite. This curse was more than just the end of life, or the draught would not have changed Janette''s death to ''chanted sleep." She drew out flask and pouch. "I read a little about sorcerers who tried to bring the dead back and who brought back monsters instead. She might wake, Dale, but I do not think she would be our Rebeka." Bronwyn closed her eyes, reaching into her pouch. Her fingers touched needle and thick waxy thread, and knew what her magic demanded. Leaving her hand in the bag, she looked back up at Dale.


    He cleared his throat, tears wet on his face. "I want her back, I do not know how I can live past losing her. But she was a brave woman, and kind, and I know for certain that she would not want to wake accursed, or become the shell for some evil. Do what you must. We will gather wood for her pyre."


    They all went out into the woods except Aodhan and Bronwyn. Lisbet and her father, Janette and Sir Poitr, all of the monks, gathered branches and kindling and larger pieces. Aodhan silently helped Bronwyn straighten Rebeka''s body, and he brought stout twine and bright ribbons from his wagon. At Bronwyn''s instruction, he tied Rebeka''s wrists and ankles together, first with the twine and then covered the ugly hemp with the ribbons. To his credit, he made the ribbons festive and lovely. Bronwyn carefully sewed Rebeka''s lips and eyelids closed with the thick waxy thread, whispering protections against evil entering or escaping the vessel. As the witch worked, energies poured off of her like waves of heat from a fire, and her hair fell in masses more white now than black until finally only her brows and lashes stood like soot against her pale skin. Rebeka''s limbs twitched slightly, and once she tried to stir and waken, but the weight of spells kept her still.


    Finally, the dead woman''s skin sparkled with Bronwyn''s efforts and protections, and Bronwyn gestured to Aodhan to help her with the shroud. He brought a fine gauze, embroidered with flowers and bees and butterflies, and Bronwyn recognized the fabric as a wedding veil. "I think it will be easier for the girl and her father, remembering her wrapped in beauty," he said simply. Bronwyn looked down at the ugliness of the stitches on her friend''s mouth and eyes and reached into the pouch, finding and bringing out two lapis stones to put over the corpse''s eyes. Aodhan nodded, and they finished the work.


    The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    At sunset, Rebeka lay on her bier. She was covered with the bridal veil and a blanket of flowers and sweet grasses. Dale brought out a flint to light the torch, but Bronwyn stopped him. She cupped her hand around the tarry rag and a fingerling salamander obligingly climbed onto it, igniting the pitch. Dale held the torch to the wood of the pyre and the elemental lept into the wood and twigs and branches, growing brighter as it danced, consuming flesh and spells and wood alike. Aodhan and Poitr led him to a safe distance and sat with him as the fire burned.


    Lisbet watched only a moment or two before taking Bronwyn''s hand and pulling her away. Bronwyn followed silently as the girl led her to the cottage. Silently, Lisbet spilled a dozen white feathers onto the table.


    "My brothers saw that the hag only looked like our apple dame, that she was wearing a disguise. They chased her off, and some of them threw rocks or sticks at her. I watched, and she... she turned them into swans and they flew off." She stood straight, waiting for Bronwyn''s disbelief.


    "How did you watch this?" Bronwyn asked.


    "It was just something I saw," Lisbet evaded, looking at the floor.


    "Did you see it in the fire, or in the well?"


    "In the well, when I was drawing water."


    "Do you often see things there?"


    "No. Only when it''s important, like when the cow run off and birthed her calves in the woods, or when Papa hurt his leg when he was bringing home things from market."


    "Ah," Bronwyn ran her fingers through the feathers, feeling their pull, but not as her own task. "Did your mother teach you to spin?"


    "Yes, and said I have very fine hands for it."


    "What would you do to get your brothers back?"


    Lisbet''s head came up, hope blazing in her far brighter than the funeral pyre outside. "Anything. I would do anything."


    "Once you are done, you may be called on to do other things. You will not be able to refuse."


    "Then I will do those things, too, but tell me how I may help my brothers."


    Bronwyn took the child''s hands in her own, feeling the power there, and closed her eyes. "You must make each of them a shirt made from nettles. Gather the plants at midday, and spin them to thread in the dark of night, and weave the cloth during the twilight of dawn and dusk. You have three years to complete the shirts, or the spell will last forever, and the spell must be broken for all of your brothers all at once, and you may not speak of your task to anyone, or the spell will last forever." Bronwyn took out the flask, and poured a few drops of the draught into her hands, bathing Lisbet''s hands in the bitter smelling liquid. Together, their fingers and palms shed an eerie blue glow for a moment before the magic soaked into their skin. Lisbet reached out and touched the lip of the flask, bringing a single drop to her own lips and nodding silently. Bronwyn kissed her forehead and whispered a blessing. "If ever you need help, seek out Aodhan Tinker."

 Crone 19) Cobwebs, part 1

    19) Cobwebs


    Bronwyn left the cottage, tucking the flask back into the pouch and pulling her cloak close across her shoulders. She sat on a stump and watched Rebeka''s pyre as it burned down through the night. Robbie Longfellow hopped up and sat by her side with his head on her lap. Aodhan led Dale to the cottage and to his bed as the pale fingers of dawn touched the clouds to the east. When the tinker emerged he came to Bronwyn where she perched.


    "This was a terrible business," he said, pulling out a bit of dried meat and offering Bronwyn a piece. She shook her head, grief struck, but Robbie accepted with great dignity.


    "What happened to the hag?" she asked finally.


    Aodhan Tinker shrugged. "What always happens. She disappeared in a flash of light and a gust of wind when her dragon fell to the knight''s lance."


    The witch watched the clouds redden the sunlight until the bloody sunrise spilled over the horizon. She reached deep into herself, searching for any calling or pull, but found only a great vault of emptiness, small forgotten things in the corners and cobwebs in the arched rafters.


    "I have no call to seek her out," she said eventually, pulling Robbie''s ears through her fingers and stroking his long face.


    Aodhan grunted, shifting to sit a little more comfortably. "I would imagine not. Witches don''t kill hags. It''s not the way of things."


    "The way of things..." She looked at him sharply, bathed in the ruddy light. "What is the way of things, then, if I can''t keep death from my door, if I must be pursued by wolves and hags and mad kings? Did you know she turned those boys to swans? Even if Lisbet finishes the coats I don¡¯t know how she¡¯ll find them again."


    "They¡¯re lucky she didn¡¯t curse them to be swans for nine hundred years; she¡¯s fond of that one.¡± He nodded at Robbie Longfellow and gave the dog another piece of jerky. ¡°It seems to me that you have a dragon and a Night Mare and a little God''s Hound by your side to keep you company along the way. It will all come clear."


    She looked down at her dog, who simply looked up at her mournfully. "A God''s Hound? Is that what you are, little thief? We have much to discuss, then." Sighing, she raised her eyes to meet the tinker¡¯s. "So what am I to do?"


    "Well, the way I see it, you continue doing what you''re called to do, until you can do it no more, and then pass on the flask and the mantle to the next witch."


    "I never thought I had a choice of doing what I''m called to do, or not. It''s always the right thing, always the thing that''s easiest to come to hand." She stopped petting the dog for a moment, until he nudged her hands insistently.


    "My lady, there is always a choice. It''s difficult to see, though. Magic is just a tool, but it''s a powerful one, and fate is fickle. We want to do the good thing, or the thing that makes us most important, and we don''t always see alternative choices that we would accept. You did well with Lisbet, letting her take on the task of rescuing her brothers."


    Bronwyn looked at him sharply, surprised. "It was her task to do, her skills to use. I may have lived longer, but I don''t love her brothers the way she does, I do not want to save them as badly as she does, so it was the right thing to let her borrow a bit of magic to weave into a way to rescue them."


    "That was a choice, too," Aodhan replied, nodding sagely, "and a wise one."


    "What are you, Aodhan Tinker? Are you also a witch, if witches could be men?"


    He grinned. "Oh, no, I am many things but not a witch. I know stories and songs, all of them actually, and often I see things. I arrive at convenient times. I can sometimes make a thing easier, though sometimes I choose not to."


    "And what do you think I should do next? I''m out here, off my mountain, and the world seems to have found me all at once."


    "A witch is difficult to put back into her tower, yes." He grinned at her and then sobered. "Because I am your friend, I think you should return to your tower for a time, and tend your garden and your giant. You will know when it''s time to come back down, and what to do then."


    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    "And how would you advise me if you were not my friend, but a tinker who knows things?" She looked up at the sun as it rose full off the forested hills.


    "I can only say that you could be a great force for good, but that you may pay for that goodness with heartache and regret."


    "There is only one thing I regret," she answered, her face and her heart closed to him.


    "I know," he replied, feeding another piece of dried meat to the God¡¯s Hound Robbie Longfellow.


    Bronwyn left an hour after dawn, the Mare and the dog following their mistress sedately for a mile or so until the Mare got fed up with watching the witch limp slowly up the path. She nudged Bronwyn in the small of the back, sidling up next to her. Whickering, she tossed her head, rolling her eyes towards her back. "I can walk," Bronwyn snapped, her mood dark with self pity. Robbie Longfellow cut across her path, barking in high tones at her until she stopped. Between them, they nipped and yipped and bullied her until finally she relented and slipped onto the Mare''s back. Robbie lept up and sat behind her, balanced on the horse''s haunches. He ignored an evil look from his equine friend.


    As they traveled, where they had encountered no one on their way to the Deep Woods Monastery, they seemed to encounter a great number of folk. On the first day, a cow girl sat weeping on a rock beside a stream, her milk-cow lost in the woods. Bronwyn sent Robbie Longfellow out to find the beast while she spoke with the girl. The child was simple, but loved her cow and worked hard for her mistress. The cow was returned, happy to be with her girl once again, and the cow girl gave them fresh milk in thanks.


    On the second evening as they made their simple camp, they met a messenger from a queen two kingdoms away. He was weary and heartsick, for his people loved their king and queen very much. "What is your task?" Bronwyn asked, answering the weary tug against her heart.


    "My queen has tasked me to find out the name of an imp who taught her to make straw into fine gold thread. I''ve been searching for two weeks, and if I do not return with the name in seven days, she must give the imp her firstborn son." The witch looked into the smoke of her cook fire, and the steam rising off of the cook pot where that day''s game hen simmered.


    "Travel back a day and take the northern fork. You will go deep into the wilderness for three days, and then you will find the cottage of the creature you seek. You will find the answer there, and your prince will be saved." She saw the fear and wonder in his eyes as she handed him a bowl of broth and a piece of hen. He took a sip or three of the soup before taking his leave, returning the way he came.


    At noon on the third day, a young merchant met them on the road, two pack horses following along behind his serviceable gelding. She liked him very much, as much for his kindness with his beasts as for his gallantry. His family crest was embroidered with roses and sea-shells, and she touched them with a smile as he made tea for them over a hastily built fire. "Do you have a sweetheart?" she asked, idly.


    "Oh, no, but I dream every night of the girl I''ll marry," he smiled with hope and joy.


    "She must be a remarkable young woman, that you dream of her each night." Bronwyn could not help but smile in return, though her face felt stiff with it.


    "Oh, she is. She has long golden hair, and eyes the color of the darkest mint in my mother''s garden, and she laughs and cares for the wild beasts who come to her hand."


    Bronwyn stilled. "And where does she live?"


    "In a rose covered tower on a mountainside. Someday when I have made my merchant-house I will find that mountain, and I will woo her."


    "So you will." She drew a dusky white rose down from the steam of her teacup and presented it to him. "Your sweetheart''s name is Rue. When you have made your merchant house, ride three days west of the king''s castle. Present to her a climbing rose, a briar rose, and a rose from a far off land, and she will surely hear your suit."


    He accepted the smokey rose with wonder and no fear. "And will we be happy?"


    Prophecy rose in her like the bitter draught, and a great rush of fate and future rushed through her. When she could speak, she picked up the thread of the future that she saw in the middle of the tale. "You will be happy together, and she will give you three daughters, graceful, hopeful and honorable, and they will love violets and lilies and roses. A time will come, though, when one of your daughters will have to make a terrible choice to save your life."


    He looked troubled. "Perhaps I will find another way," he said hopefully.


    "Perhaps, but you must also trust your daughter. Now, go - your wares will be well received in the next town, and the one past that, and soon you shall be very wealthy indeed."


    They parted ways and Bronwyn leaned against the mare''s shoulder, tears wetting her face and the mare''s neck. "Home, take me home," she sobbed, and they passed down the road like a fleeting shadow, the white haired witch on her night black mare, dark mane and white hair streaming behind them like wings and a hound at their heels.

 Crone 19) Cobwebs, part 2

    Rue and Magda met her at the top of the mountain track, excited to see her return. "Janette and her Knight married at his brother''s chapel this morning!" Rue said, excited. "And he was so brave when he killed the dragon, and they have gone back to stay at the Monastery, but taken stone masons and carpenters to rebuild the cloister walls and expand the scriptorium and build a manor for the princess and her knight. The Lord Regent came to bless the wedding, and the Crown Prince chose to go hunting instead of attending - I think he''d rather nobody remember that he has an older sister." She looked troubled at the last.


    "Should his sister have a son, the boy will become the heir until the Prince has a son of his own," Bronwyn explained wearily. "Where is your father?"


    "He will return by supper, he''s gone to mediate a dispute between a baron and his tenants," Magda replied. "I think he''s also bringing you a present, but he''s been very clever about hiding what it is."


    ¡°Is all well, otherwise?¡± The girls took her pack and helped her dismount, and the Mare faded into the trees.


    ¡°Life goes on. Nothing is stirring since the dragon was slain by Sir Poitr. Magda has delivered four babes this week, and the baker¡¯s son broke his arm falling out of a tree.¡±


    ¡°Peace is good. Babies are good. The baker¡¯s son probably told his father an outrageous story about how he broke his arm, but at least it wasn¡¯t fighting this time.¡±


    Bronwyn looked around the tower as they entered, seeing with fresh eyes the stray cobwebs and dust on the books and some of the shelves. The linens were clean, though, and the hearth was freshly scrubbed. That year¡¯s salamander was tiny, barely a candle flame in the embers, but it watched her brightly as she moved about their home, settling into her rocking chair with a basket of darning at her elbow. The mirror stood covered on the opposite side of the hearth, and Rue and Magda settled into their afternoon tasks in the garden and at the distillery bench.


    Magda cut cheese and bread and put out a bowl of fruit on the high table for their supper as the sunlight began to slant and then fade, and Rue poured cups of cider for them all and set the table. Bronwyn glanced at the candles and they flickered to life, the fire in the hearth brightening as she moved to add more wood.


    At dusk, Robbie Longfellow got up and trotted out the door. The moon rose full and heavy in the new night. Bronwyn went to the mirror, hesitating a moment, and then slowly drew the cover off of its frame. She had never herself peered into the mirror to see something specific, to search out someone.


    "Mirror, show me my heart''s true love," she said, thinking of the enormous tenderness of her giant''s heart.


    The image was blurred a long moment, and then a resolved on a woodsman, axe over his shoulder and a full cart of wood drawn by a big draft horse at his side as they traveled in the new evening. A scar marked his forehead and the thick muscles of his left arm under the sleeve that was rolled up for work, as if vicious teeth had once slashed him near to ribbons. Silver threaded through his brown hair, and his hand on the horse¡¯s neck was gentle. The room stilled behind her as the girls looked on. Even as the sweet memory of a single kiss filled her senses, she noted idly that he had replaced the knife he''d lost when he fought the wolf over her ensorcelled body. Knowledge filled her with a shock, and she dismissed the image as fantasy.


    She cleared her throat. "Mirror, show me my giant, who I love dearly," she said, and it resolved on Grahme''s familiar face. He was moonlit, but appeared confused, and as Bronwyn and her daughters watched the mirror''s image widened, and a darker shadow slunk ''round to his flank. White teeth flashed, and his image cried out silently, batting ineffectually at the attacker. A single yellow eye flashed triumphant in the moonlight as the giant stumbled, and it raised it''s muzzle to the sky in a howl. They heard the howl in the distance, and it was joined by another howl, the deep baying of an enormous dog, challenging the wolf, and the roar of an enraged bear. The moon rose above the trees, bathing the tableau in silverlight. The Wolf was harried by the God''s Hound and the bear who visited the girls each winter. They bit at its legs and throat, slashing at its ears and remaining eye.


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    The Mare coalesced out of the darkest shadows, rearing high and striking with her heavy hooves, nostrils and eyes shining a fiery red. She grew larger in the mirror, as the God''s Hound did before their eyes, and together horse and hound pushed the Wolf back from the wounded giant.


    As Bronwyn watched, her daughters appeared in the image, Magda carrying a rope and sack, Rue with a short bow and a shepherd''s crook, determined to defend the giant who was father to them. The Wolf turned on the girls, throwing itself at Rue with slashing teeth and crushing jaws. Grahme bellowed in rage and caught the Wolf as it lunged, and they both fell to the ground. The Wolf squirmed free and fled into the darkness, pursued by the God''s Hound and the Night Mare and the simple mortal bear who had come to love the daughters of a giant.


    Rue and Magda worked to bind up the wounds in Grahme''s legs and arms as Bronwyn came to herself and rushed out the door as best as she was able, cursing her lame leg as she stumped down the path to her family.


    Magda had made a torch, and by its light and the moonlight, she wrapped broad linen strips around the wound in Grahme''s hamstring, and Rue made quick work of cutting down saplings to make a travois for the stricken giant. The Mare returned when the litter was ready, wearing a heavy horse collar and dragging the hauling chains.


    With great difficulty, they all got their giant onto the litter, and the Mare hitched to the contraption. It was hard work, but at length they arrived at the tower meadow. He was able to stand with an arm draped over the Mare''s withers, and she half dragged him into the tower, maneuvering him to collapse onto the great bed that he shared with Bronwyn.


    They staunched the bleeding, but he remained confused, the left side of his face slack with palsy and his left arm and leg near lifeless. Bronwyn stitched the deep slashing bites closed with finest silk made of cobwebs and spells, and they healed as the girls watched.


    "He''s had a brain storm. Magda, make a brew of motherwort and skullcap, and pigweed if we have it."


    "And ginger?"


    "Ah, yes, but sweeten it with spring honey to ease the burn." She gathered the rags and bloody bandages, the urgency of several threads dragging at her.. "Rue, come with me a moment." The girl followed, worried.


    "Will Father be okay?" she asked, poorly veiled fear in her eyes, though she tried to be brave.


    "I don''t know, dearest, I simply don''t know. He will be a long time healing." Bronwyn bowed her head a moment as she tossed the soiled bandages into the outdoor hearth, burning them. "But listen closely, child. In a few years young men shall begin to come to you, seeking your hand in marriage. There''s one who will bring you three things, a briar rose, a climbing rose, and a rose from very far away - I believe he would be a good match, that you will be very happy with him, if you choose."


    "Is this something you''ve seen, Mother?" her golden haired daughter asked seriously.


    "Oh, no, child. It¡¯s something he¡¯s seen himself. He''s been dreaming of you for a very long time. He has a good heart. Just consider it."


    "Yes, Mother." Rue was silent a long moment as they watched the bandages burn, swarmed by salamanders. "Who was the man in the mirror? The woodsman?"


    Bronwyn closed her eyes and her heart. "That was someone I knew a very long time ago. I believe he died to save me from the wolf that attacked your father tonight."


    Rue''s fingers were cold against Bronwyn''s as she reached out to hold her mother¡¯s hand. "I''m glad he saved you."

 Crone 20) Gift, part 1

    20) Gift


    Their giant was slow to heal, much of the spirit taken from him. He barely spoke, but turned his face to the wall when they tended him. After a day, the wound began to swell, and then to seep, and Bronwyn pulled the stitches free to let the infection drain.


    On the third day, Rue came to Bronwyn as she sat on a rock in the meadow, trying to warm herself in the morning sunlight. "The prince is gravely ill," she began.


    "I don''t care," Bronwyn snapped.


    "But he''s -" she let the rest of the sentence drop off as the witch whirled on her.


    "He''s a beast, like his father. If he dies, Janette will inherit. If he dies, the male line with all it''s curse upon this land, will die with him." Pain and hatred darkened her vision for a moment. "Grahme is worth ten of him; I will not leave my husband to tend that evil brat."


    A messenger came the next day, the Lord Regent himself, led up the path by Lisel and Robbie Longfellow. He was followed by a young woman in a servant''s gown, carrying a baby slung across her breast. He looked exhausted and afraid, and when Bronwyn came to her door, flanked by her daughters, one fair and perfect, one dark and scarred, he knelt in the dirt of the path without regard for his fine traveling clothes. The servant woman did likewise, and the babe fretted a bit.


    "What do you want, Lord Regent." Grief and worry turned quickly to anger.


    "The Prince, your son, is gravely ill. He took ill while hunting, and is confined to the royal hunting manor, too ill even to return to the palace. He is blinded by fever and raving. The finest physicians in the land can''t find a cure, but I wonder if their limitations might not be fear of failure, or..."


    "Or fear of the brat if he comes to his senses and finds himself blind? Or fear of punishment if they do not actually want to succeed?" He looked back down at the ground. "Stand up, Fredrick. Did I not tell you what would happen if you allowed the babe to grow into a monster like his father? Did you bring this woman with you, bearing his bastard child in her arms, thinking to sway me to mercy with a grandchild conceived in hatred?"


    "No, my Lady. I brought Cora and her babe because the babe is a boy, and would threaten Princess Janette''s right to succession if he were known. Bringing them here, now, while he is not in the palace and does not know of the babe, seemed best."


    Bronwyn stepped off the broad stone before the threshold and the servant girl stood, offering the tightly swaddled baby to the witch, afraid but weary. His eyes were tightly closed, his hair a wispy brown like his mother''s. "Did you not want to marry the Prince and legitimize the child?" Bronwyn asked sharply.


    "No, your Highness. The Prince does not love me, nor does he know of the babe. I do not want, ever, to return to the palace." Rue and Magda came to look at the babe as well, and Bronwyn took him, holding him up to the light of the afternoon. His infant eyes opened, and they were stormy gray, not hazel or golden.


    "He has your eyes, my Lady Witch," Cora said, a barest tremor of hope in her voice.


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    "Cora, can you spin, or sew? Do you have any skills to offer the village?"


    "My father was a brewmaster, and my mother taught me spinning and sewing, and I can cook for large groups. I''ll do anything, learn anything, and I will work very hard."


    Bronwyn looked at Lisel, who stood back, quietly watching. "Would you see them settled in the village? We need a spinner, and the village has grown enough that we could use a tavern, if the council wills it." Lisel curtseyed.


    The witch turned back to the Lord Regent. "The babe and its mother are safe. As for the healing, my husband is gravely ill. I will not come. I don''t know if I could heal him, regardless."


    Magda stepped forward, her dark hair swinging forward to cover the scarred half of her face, blue eyes fearless. "I will go," she said, resolute. Bronwyn looked at her for a long time and finally turned on her heel and returned to Grahme''s side.


    Magda left the following morning with the Lord Regent and his guardsmen. She wore her hair brushed over the burned side of her face, a kerchief securing it all. Rue went with her to the bottom of the mountain trail to see her off, and pressed a small packet of seed into her sister¡¯s hand as they said farewell with a tight embrace. Bronwyn watched for her older daughter in the mirror as she tended Grahme, whose fevers continued. Magda was received with great respect by the palace staff, and great fear by the nobles. The prince raved with fever, and Magda pricked his finger, summoning a salamander to taste the blood. It looked deep into her eyes, and thoughtfully she began to mix herbs and infuse them into wine. This went on for days, but the prince''s fever finally seemed to break, though he was gravely weak, and light pained him so much that Magda fastened a silken blindfold over his eyes. She threw open the shutters to let in fresh air, and in the window box she planted some of the seeds Rue had given her.


    On the mountainside, black streaks began to creep up the giant''s leg as the wound on his calf mortified. Grimly, the witch sent for the blacksmith and the butcher, and together they took the leg off at the knee.


    After the amputation the giant began, finally, to heal. He was still gravely weak on his left side, and Rue and Bronwyn grew adept at helping him eat, making broths that were not too thin for him to manage through a mouth half slack. Each evening, Bronwyn went out at sunset and looked up into the clouds or the stars or the shadows cast by sunlight and clouds upon the mountainside. She felt the call of fate each night, threads cast upon her that she pushed away, some stronger than others, none as important to her as the giant who lay stricken in the bed in the rose covered tower on the mountain.


    At last, one afternoon while Rue was delivering medicines in the village, he gestured for Bronwyn to bring him parchment and pen. The pen proved difficult for him to manage, so she offered a piece of charcoal instead.


    "Had a gift for you, was lost?" he scrawled clumsily.


    "Your pack was gone, I''m sorry," she said. He shook his head sorrowfully.


    "A month south and then another to west," he wrote. "The rock where you slept. Love you, wife."


    She smiled, tears in her eyes. "As I love you, giant. But I''ll not leave your side, not for anything." The words tasted wrong as soon as she said them, and a great dread washed over her. She kissed his hands and stood, going to the mirror. All was well in the village, a new tavern being built just off the village square, near the place where Gretchen''s cottage once stood. Magda sat reading to the fretful blind prince, unconcerned by his temper. A young merchant stepped up onto the deck of his first ship, and the Princess Janette and her knight hunted deer together on matching dapple horses. The mirror showed her a small cottage in a deep wood, but nothing of whoever lived there, and the Wolf stalking a girl carrying a basket of flowers and bread, a shadowy figure with an axe and a wicked knife stalking after the wolf.


    "No. There is nothing to call me away from you, Grahme," she said, but there was a thread of doubt in her heart, and she saw infinite kindness and understanding in his eyes.


    "Always free," he said clearly, and settled to sleep, exhausted.

 Crone 20) Gift, part 2

    Spring turned to summer. Sometimes the giant was able to sit up for a few hours, but he tired easily. Pigeons came frequently from the royal hunting lodge, and Magda seemed content with her work as the prince''s nursemaid. Rue spoke once of a hope that the prince had changed, had gentled under her sister''s care, but the look of horrified dread on her mother''s face before Bronwyn turned away was enough to silence her on the topic thereafter.


    The days lengthened, and once or twice the witch made her way into the village, tending an illness or bartering for supplies. Her giant seemed to suffer no ill effect from her absence, so she roamed a little more each week, often carried by the Mare, though she never stayed away past nightfall.


    Robbie Longfellow, no longer pretending to be anything but a God''s Hound, kept her company in a variety of sizes, sometimes striking out on errands of his own. After the fashion of his kind and true to the legends, he brought back lost livestock and children to their homes, harried bandits in the woods and defended innocents who came to mischief in the deep wood. Bronwyn watched him in the smoke of her fires and was proud of her friend. He was always alert, watching for something, even at home, but when she asked him, he merely thumped his tail and curled up before the fire, short legs curled under his long body.


    Messenger birds came regularly for Grahme, and when he had the strength Rue read the messages to him, or held them flat while he read them. He only occasionally replied, dictating to their fair haired daughter. Eventually, she came to him with the replies already composed, and he nodded, satisfied, as she took on his role as advisor to strangers in far lands. The summer passed, and the first suitors came to see her. She met with them in the meadow, Robbie Longfellow a faithful chaperone, and while some were handsome, and others were wealthy, none came bearing her a climbing rose, a briar rose, and a rose from a far off land. Sweetly, she turned them away, or suggested alliances favorable to the great families of the land.


    Winter passed, and spring dawned, and their giant began to sleep more and more each day, his massive frame grown thin and wasted. A message came from the hunting lodge where much of the court had relocated to be close to the crown prince during his recovery. An announcement would be made at the Festival of Spring Equinox, and all in the land were invited. Watching him in the mirror, Bronwyn and Rue saw that he still walked blindfolded by day. Bronwyn saw as well that at night, alone, he removed the cloth from his face and tested his sensitive eyes against the glare of first a single candle, and then more, until he lit as many candles as as he could, making it almost as bright as morning in his room. She could not shake her dread, seeing how her older daughter had come to care for him, seeing little telltale signs of temper or impatience in his actions.


    As the day approached, nightmares kept sleep from her, and a sudden fever swept through the village. A third of the adults and almost every child fell ill, and she spent much of her time making potions and teas to send down the mountain, rarely going herself for fear she would bring the sickness to her giant.


    The fever came to the tower anyway, and Rue and Bronwyn and Grahme all spent days delirious, the women taking turns bringing water when they had the strength. Bronwyn suffered with vivid dreams, some in which Robbie changed not only his size but his shape, tending them gently as a short legged and very hairy youth dressed only in leather breeches. A woman with skin as black as a starless night and dressed only in her long ebon hair would bring him medicines and potions in strangely shaped bottles in sandalwood boxes.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    The days lengthened, and Bronwyn woke one morning three days before the equinox, weak but with no fever. The ache of premonition chased sleep from her mind, and she sat stiffly. Foreign bottles and boxes sat on the high table, and Robbie Longfellow''s small brindle form curled exhausted before the hearth. Rue lay sleeping on the trundle bed she had shared with her sister, her color improved as well.


    Grahme''s breath was soft, labored, the faintest of rattles echoing up from the cavern of his lungs. His face was cool beneath her fingers, the fever broken, though he did not stir at her touch.


    She looked up at the mirror, standing uncovered by the hearth. She saw a young woman with healing hands. The woman¡¯s face was deeply etched by salamander fire, elegant to her mother''s eyes, horrible to all others. She stood on the courtyard steps at the royal hunting retreat, dressed in a simple dress of pale blue embroidered with small white flowers, and her scarred features were bared to the morning light. There was movement from the door behind her, midnight hair and bandaged eyes, and the princeling was led from the castle by a courtier.


    The courtier smiled kindly at the woman, and Bronwyn frowned; the last time she''d seen him he''d accompanied the Lord Regent in taking away an infant boy newly forced from her body. A steward read from an official looking scroll, announcing something that was received with a wave of approval through the crowd. The gathered people, all of the assembled courtiers and the young woman whose lovely face was etched deeply by the salamander''s mark, knelt before the crown prince, faces bowed low to the ground.


    The prince reached up and released the bandage. As it fell away he looked down at the kneeling people around him. He reached down with a smile and touched the healer''s shoulder, encouraging her to rise. She did so, morning glory eyes lifting to his golden eyes, but he did not see the glowing compassion in her gaze, the kindness in her smile. The salamander''s mark pulled at her eyelid, at her cheek as she smiled at the prince, and the youth recoiled in horror. He asked a question, shock twisting his face and body language, and she recoiled in hurt but answered, bowing her head so her dark hair fell forward.


    He pulled his hand back, to the horror of his retinue, and struck the healer across her marked cheek. Her head rocked back hard and she crumpled bonelessly to the unforgiving granite of the courtyard steps.


    The mirror went dark, and a deep rage surged in Bronwyn''s very bones. She felt the pull of fate like logging ropes around her heart, crushing the very breath from her. Sensing the change in her mood, Robbie Longfellow was on his feet beside her, hackles raised and teeth bared in a silent snarl. Clouds rolled across the sky, and the Mare neighed like thunder in the tower meadow.


    A cough behind her, and she whirled, a hand lifting. Rue stood next to Grahme, holding him steady as he sat weakly on the edge of the bed. "If you can save her, go," Grahme said.


    "I must go," she agreed, hoarse with fury.


    "Yes, my love. Save her."


    "And if I can not?" Thunder crashed overhead, and the Mare screamed again.


    "Then do as you will."


    The witch whirled and disappeared into the sudden night.

 Crone 21) Knife

    21) Knife


    The rolling earthquake of Bronwyn''s steed woke her from the nightmare, and she was riding past the city gates and into the deep forest, passing merchants and countrymen, lesser nobles and then more important ones as they traveled to the royal hunting lodge for the proclamation. The morning of the third day, as the sun rose above the mountains on the spring equinox, she blasted through the gates, scattering commoners and courtiers alike as she galloped towards the tableau on the granite steps. The Mare trumpeted and pawed at the air over Magda''s still form as her head struck the stair, and Bronwyn fell to the flagstones beside her, cloak darkening from crimson to coal as she spread it over the girl. She touched the fire-etched face, watched as the light left the morning glory eyes and the breath stilled. As sure as if she watched them in the mirror herself, she knew that Grahme and Rue bore witness to the death as well, and that Grahme collapsed back onto the bed, his massive heart faltering and then falling as silent as the girl on the ground beneath her on the steps. An eerie wail of loss rose from her, a shriek that rose in pitch and volume as the clouds gathered around her, lightning striking around them over and over again until the granite stairs melted and then shattered from the heat of it.


    When at last Bronwyn stood, her eyes had bleached to the color of ice as she raised her hand to point at the prince, the healer''s blood on her fingers. "Not pretty enough for you, boy?" she demanded, advancing on the petrified youth and his stunned retinue. By some miracle, they were all still alive to see the prince fall to his knees.


    "Never again, my Prince, will one of your blood-line strike a woman in arrogance." She advanced on him, drawing the woodsman''s hunting knife with her bloodied hand and yanking his head back by the hair, forcing him to look up at her as she spoke. "Your father, your father''s father, and back until the founding of your line, all have taken their subjects as property, as a right and not a responsibility. It is laughable that you have lived as long as you have. But there will be no more. It ends here." She lifted the knife high. With a swift slice, she opened the right side of his face to the bone, only barely sparing the eye. "You are a beast, not a man, and soulless in your selfishness and cruelty.


    Without releasing him, she looked around at the courtiers. They cast their eyes down, looking anywhere but the bloodied prince or the body of the woman on the stairs. A dreadful force came to a crashing halt in the witch''s heart. "Can''t look at her, my lords and ladies? Can''t look at what your princeling has done?" She spun, not losing her grip on the crown prince. Suddenly her simple dark dress flowed down her arms and body like another dress had, formal silks in the same fashion worn eighteen years ago. Her white hair shone in the eerie phosphorescence of witchlight, and the gathered crowd recoiled as they recognized the old King''s last Queen. "Can''t bear to see what your king wrought, over and over again?" The wind began to rise again, but her voice rang against the stones of the hunting lodge and courtyard, and there was no escaping her words. "Six wives before me threw themselves from their crystal cage to their deaths because not one person stood against him before me." A distant roaring like a forest fire echoed from the distant mountains. ¡°Even now the maids and the manservants begin to cringe before your princeling, and not one person has spoken out. Surely, tend their wounds, but this boy-king and his people must have Justice, must learn the compassion that acts to protect the wounded, not cower before the predator."


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    She looked back down at her son once more, and saw the flash of wolfen yellow in his eyes as he drew breath to speak. "Will you kill me, then, witch?" he sneered, a measure of fear shading the arrogance..


    She dropped his head and slapped him sharply across his flayed cheek, smearing his blood with Magda''s. "Death is not good enough for you. You know everything of privilege, everything of pride and beautiful things. Now you will know what it is to be feared, to be hated, not for your power but for the ugliness in your soul." He doubled over in agony. "A curse upon you, boy, and all your house. You act like a ravening beast, you shall live like one, look like one, breaking everything you love with strength beyond your control.¡± His body twisted as her words fell down around him like hailstones. ¡°A curse upon you, boy, until you learn to see another''s heart as your own, that you may act in kindness and without gain." His fine clothing shredded around him and fell to the flagstones. "A curse upon you boy, that until someone can love you for your heart, despite your face, and chooses to marry you anyway in joy and not in fear, you shall remain a beast." He fell to the ground as his bones shattered and reformed, something more bear-like or boar-like, with far less the wolf in its gaze, and it reached up to her in supplication.


    She turned away, surveying the gathering. "And for you, as you have been ghostlike and impotent to help any of his victims or his father''s victims, or his grandfather''s victims before them, so you shall become as ghosts, impotent to help him or serve him until the curse is broken except by the greatest effort of will. As you whispered of his crimes in life, so you shall only be able to whisper from this day forward until the curse is broken." A hush fell over the courtyard, spilling into the lodge through the doors and windows, spreading through the houses and shops within the walls of the small town, as if every hearth fire in the kingdom gathered itself up and simply left, each salamander chasing the last sparks up the chimney, flitting towards the courtyard. No breath rustled except for the Mare''s as she snuffled over the fallen healer and the agonized gasps of the beast-like creature cowering before the witch. The people, nobles, servants, commoners and merchants, simply disappeared, invisible but still present as the faintest of whispers in the empty buildings.


    Bronwyn knelt and lifted Magda into her arms, cradling the girl''s head against her cheek and shoulder so she would not have to feel the loose way that dark head moved on the neck. The collected salamanders of an entire kingdom came upon them, witch, healer and Mare, and bore them away in a pillar of silent fire.


    Magda and the giant who loved her as a father were burned on the same funeral pyre that very night, wrapped in the love of the sister who yet lived. The witch stood in the darkness beyond the firelight on the hill, drowning in fury and despair.


    Finally, wordlessly, Bronwyn mounted the Mare and left the mountain.

 Crone 22) Sacrifice

    22) Sacrifice


    How long she wandered without purpose she could never say. She dreamed of a rose covered tower on a mountain and the golden haired maiden who lived there. Other nights, in the darkness of her grief, she saw an abandoned hunting lodge that began to fall down in the elements, concealed with a tremendous hedge of briar roses. Sometimes she could hear the bellows of an enormous beast in the night, or the whispers of invisible courtiers. A young merchant bought a house in a port city, and his fleet grew to a respectable twelve ships.


    The witch avoided the company of humans, preferring the company of badgers and stoats and wildcats. When she was hungry, she took food from cottages, leaving something random, small and useful in return. In the winter, she came across foundling babes and stole them away from the hillsides with her. She listened for the sobs of young mothers, and left more than one of the foundlings in the arms of a mother whose babe was stillborn or who died of fever or pox.


    Where the witch came upon cruelty or neglect, she would wait and watch for signs of the Wolf, a crafty gleam of eye or turn of phrase. Where mean spiritedness was simply a feature of poverty or exhaustion or bad blood, she faded away and moved on, sometimes riding the Mare, sometimes walking with her slow and painful limp.


    She found evil in pockets of every community, no matter how tiny or sprawling. She aided where she had a clear opportunity, but often the lives she witnessed were complex. She learned in the first winter that the death of a miller who beat his children left the mill untended for a season or more, causing hunger for all within the township. She discovered that wherever she went, a tinker arrived a few days after. Messages were passed swiftly from town to village to city, apprentice millers or journeymen blacksmiths traveling where they were needed most at the best moments.


    Where clear opportunity did present itself, or the Wolf was too deeply rooted, she was drawn to act. The rage woke each time, growing stronger. A blacksmith too fond of brawling and drinking she cursed. He soon found that his fires would not light or that they would burn too hot. Horse shoes would shatter as they were nailed to the hoof, and any tools he crafted would go sour after a season. A cheese maker who was a cruel wife and neglectful mother found that her cows went dry or ate bitter grasses and became bloated, ruining the cheese for weeks.


    Word of her passing began to spread, and even if she was not seen, her presence was felt, the most powerful witch in a dozen generations. She found wards against the evil eye painted on doors and windows, and the scarecrows in the fields were fashioned with sachets of trollsbane and the roots of devil''s shoestring tied around their necks. Rumors started of gossips and wise women accused of hexing their neighbors or spoiling the bread of their enemies. If there was a pox or an unusual death, some villages would hunt down their shrew or wise woman and more than one of them died in brutal tribunals. Second and third sons armed themselves with lances and swords not against dragons and trolls and ogres, but against witches and sorcery, and many family crests developed sigils and runes to ward against evil.


    She felt the eyes and the accusations, and when hunting parties began to run in search of not game but The Witch, her caution and grief and rage became paranoia and fear and anger. Her dreams were troubled, and she saw the tinker keeping watch for her, and Robbie Longfellow trying vainly to catch her scent. Finally, she abandoned the Mare entirely and took refuge in the top of a tall tree. It obligingly wove its highest boughs into a hut for her. When her pursuers came too close and it was time for her to move, the proud tree picked up its roots like a lady''s skirts and gracefully walked across the forests, conveying the most powerful witch in a dozen generations to safety.


    She took solace only in dreams of Rue and her merchant. He went to the golden haired beauty on the mountain at last, with a briar rose and a climbing rose and an exotic garden rose that grew only in a desert far away. She did not dare attend their wedding as herself, but gathered leaves and flowers and wove them into a magnificent wedding gown for her daughter. She dressed in the garb of a simple kitchen cook, brown smock and linen apron, and put a wimple over her cloud white hair, and watched the wedding from the servant''s entrance. The candles were bright and merry, and the couple was very happy indeed, except for Rue''s wistful loneliness for her mother.


    The witch made certain that the wine was never empty, that the platters were never more than half empty, and that the wedding gifts were all a bit better than their giver intended. She served bride and groom with her own hands, and made certain that Rue''s favorite foods were represented. The golden haired woman with laughing green eyes smiled at her, and the wistful look in her eyes lifted.


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Rue and her merchant had three daughters, as he had once been told by a wandering wise woman. The first two, Lily and Violet, were lovely and kind and charming to all whom they encountered. The third was a wild child, and loved running in the woods and collecting plants and charming wild animals out of the trees. Her parents named her Briar Rose, and while no parent should ever have a favorite child, the girl may have been the favorite of the entire family. She had a riot of golden curls and eyes of darkest mint, and she was fonder of reading and birds than ever she was of parties and society. Rue loved all of her girls, but took great joy in her youngest child, and taught her everything she''d ever learned about the land and beasts and the beauty in the world.


    Rue died of a sudden fever the same year Lily came of age, and while he was yet in mourning, eleven of the merchant''s fine ships were sunk in a terrible storm. Bronwyn was far away, and helpless to nurse her daughter or comfort the merchant she''d come to love as she''d never loved her son.


    She was perched in a tree in that far off land, watching a young boy play with his mates. He was the son of the lord''s gamekeeper, and always rougher and faster and more brutal than his peers. He was very bold, and today they played at hunting wolves. His best friend was a woodsman''s son, a boy who was taller and stronger, but perhaps kinder. The boys were toying with the cusp of manhood, voices beginning to crack and deepen, legs and arms too long for their trousers and sleeves.


    By chance, they found a wolf''s den. With shouts and thrown rocks and sticks, they drove off the lone thin female who was guarding the pups. The gamekeeper''s son crouched and entered the low burrow, and the witch heard the frightened squeals of the pups and then silence. The boy backed out, dragging three wretched bloody bodies and a fourth squirming cub. He threw it at the woodsman''s son, who caught it midair.


    "Kill it," he ordered, and his friend looked down at the creature. The noises of the wood hushed, but the boys did not notice. The witch slithered down the obliging tree, drawing her long knife. She drew her hood over her white hair and limped forward from the shadows.


    "No. Drop it," she commanded, and they struggled to understand the foreign flavor of her words. She sensed the wolf pack beginning to close, and heard the far off horns of a hunting party.


    The gamekeeper''s boy looked at her, trying to cover his fear with swagger. "You''re the Witch," he said, brandishing his bloody knife at her.


    "Yes, and you''re a stupid boy. The wolves will kill you if they find you here. Drop the pup and run." The woodsman''s son looked inclined to obey, but his friend called out.


    "No, Alexy, look at her. She''s an old woman, a cripple. We''ll kill her and collect the reward." His words were fast and she barely followed his meaning.


    "Nestor, we should run, look," the woodsman''s son, Alexey, watched something beyond her shoulder, and the witch could not tell if it was wolf or hunter or some other threat. He put the pup down on the ground and backed away, hitting his friend on the shoulder with a closed fist as he passed him. Nestor looked beyond her as well, and stuffed the dead wolf cubs in his game bag as he turned to follow.


    The witch knelt stiffly and picked up the wolf cub. It was smeared with the blood of its littermates, eyes barely open. Even so, it growled at her, ferocious, even as she brought it close to her chest and turned slowly to see what approached her from behind.


    She saw three things as she pushed her hood back. The first was the pack of wolves with her in the morning light, the thin female with two larger females and the biggest male she had ever seen. They were all golden eyed and wary. The second was the flash of afternoon sunlight off of the helmet of a knight in the far distance. The third was an immense pyre being built in a village square at sunset, a charred stake rising up from the middle of it, burnt shackles bolted to a ring at the top.


    The cub whimpered, smelling its pack, and one of the larger females advanced slowly. Her teats were swollen with milk, and she was more interested in the pup than the witch. The witch set the pup down and backed away. Silent, the female picked the pup up by its scruff and the predators vanished into the underbrush. The wolf king watched her as the rest swiftly passed and was last to turn and leave.


    The witch found herself shaking with reaction, her hands clenched with the spell she had not released. She looked after the wolves until long after the bushes stilled, unable to reconcile the storm of emotion that consumed her.


    Thus, she was easy work when the knight''s charger erupted from the trees, his lance spearing through her shoulder and pinning her to her tree.

 Crone 23) Tinker

    23) Tinker


    They were quick to gag her and bind her hands, and there was great debate about how to remove her from the tree.  The lance head was buried deep in the heartwood, and the haft was made of ironwood intended to do battle with trolls or dragons.  Indeed, some suggested that they simply burn the tree with her on the spot, but the Knight would hear nothing of it.


    "We¡¯ll chop the tree down and drag it to the village if we have to.  For now, though, we¡¯ve got her trapped.¡±  They took away her knife, but the pouch and flask were trapped between her body and the tree, concealed in the folds of the cloak.  She felt the bark give a little against her back.


    A little monk came to sit with her as dusk fell.  He tried to give her weak wine and a bit of bread, but the guard would not allow him to remove her gag.  ¡°It¡¯s a sorry pass you¡¯ve come to, woman.  If you would renounce the demon and give up your heathen power, I would speak to the bishop.  Perhaps we could arrange a comfortable prison instead of the stake?¡±


    She turned her head to look at the earnest young man.  He was soft, and there was kindness in his expression, ink stains on his fingers.  She  lifted an eyebrow wearily, working her jaw against the knot in her mouth.


    ¡°Yes, well, perhaps you¡¯re right. Difficult to renounce anything if you can¡¯t speak, I suppose.¡±  He reached up to loosen the gag.  The guard protested again.  ¡°No, Dion, every sinner deserves the opportunity to repent her sins.  I¡¯ll just be taking this off for a moment.¡±


    ¡°Speak anything but the truth, witch, and I¡¯ll kill you here,¡± the guard warned, placing the edge of his spear to her throat.


    ¡°I never lie,¡± she replied as the knots were loosened.


    ¡°So, do you renounce your demon lord and swear to abandon your dark arts for all time?¡±


    ¡°You have no idea what you¡¯re talking about boy.  Give me a moment and we¡¯ll solve this problem without having to cut down the tree.¡±


    The guardsman and the monk exchanged  uneasy glances.  She whispered to the tree, and with a great noise of cracking wood the trunk split open, separating to each side of her, leaving her pinioned to a pillar of living wood a head taller than she was, held upright by the soil beneath her feet.  The Knight came over, sword drawn.


    ¡°What goes on here?¡± he demanded, and the guard looked abashed


    ¡°Your monk wanted me to repent and renounce, because that¡¯s what monks do.  Your guard is struggling between his loyalty to the crown and to the church, so you might want to speak to him about that.  As for me, you have been wishing for me on a stake in your town square for burning, so I thought the least I could do was oblige you.¡±  Clouds began to gather on the horizon, and her hands clenched with a spell that wanted to be cast, but she firmly pushed it back, shaking her head.


    ¡°How generous of you,¡± he replied, looking over the stake and the lance blade mostly bare to the world as it thrust through the post behind her.


    ¡°You have no idea,¡± she muttered, teeth gritted from the pain.


    ¡°Your pardon, witch, I believe this may hurt a bit.¡±  He grasped the shaft of the lance, put a boot against her chest, and pulled it free.  She screamed once and blackness eclipsed the world as consciousness fled.


    The first thing she became aware of was the gaze of the wolf king from the shadows of a building opposite her.  The next was the bite of ropes into her flesh.  She was tied quite soundly to a post stacked high with firewood and bales of pitch soaked hay.  A garrotte lay slack against her throat, and she realized that this township strangled its victims as they burned to death, perhaps as a mercy, perhaps to simply silence the screams early.  She looked around at the torches in the square, and more than one salamander climbed among the flames, curious about the events unfolding.


    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    "Aodhan Tinker," she said softly.  "If ever I needed you, or your counsel, now might be that moment."    The benefit of being tied so soundly to the stake was she was not able to move enough to disturb her wounded shoulder.


    A rock struck her hip, Alexy and Nestor standing near the front of the crowd and shouting with the rest of the mob.  Alexy threw a second rock, and it hit her across the cheek.


    "Silence!" a big chested man ascended the platform across from her.  He wore the crest of the local lord embroidered on his doublet and a velvet hat at a jaunty angle on his head.  After a long muttered moment the crowd hushed.


    "Well, hag, do you have anything to say for yourself?" he asked.  The little monk tried to whisper in his ear, but the lord shoved the monk.


    The witch felt a deep pulsing vibration in her chest.  It grew stronger, until her breath came in a great wheezing cackle.  The crowd became uneasy.  "Stop that, at once," the lord demanded, impudent.


    She gasped for breath.  "You want me to speak, little lord?" she asked, incredulous.


    "Even a hag deserves last words before her execution," he said with great certainty.


    "That might be the problem then." She reached deep into the skies.  Clouds began to gather.


    "I see no problem, woman, what are you going on about?"


    "I''m no hag," she answered, and called down the first bolt of lighting on the high steeple of the kirk.  The monk cowered from the noise and hurried off to make sure nothing was lit afire.


    "Father, you fool, I told you to leave the witch gagged," the knight rushed forward, shrill fear making his voice carry across the din of the mob as they milled about, trying to decide whether to run or stay to witness the execution.


    Alexy dragged a young boy away from his mother and put a rock in the child''s hand.  "Throw it," he ordered.  "Stone the witch!"


    "Stone the witch!" the little boy shouted and threw the stone, missing her by several feet.


    "Stone her!" someone from the back took up the chant, and a hail of rocks and small objects fell down around her.  The salamanders flickered on the torches as the night grew black.  The deep rasping cackle rose again from her chest.  The knight and the lord shouted for order, but fear and violence gave the mob a mind of its own.


    Winds began to whip the trees, and the wolf king howled his challenge.  His voice was joined by others, and the witch saw the three females who accompanied him.  More and more singing voices joined the chorus and the shrieking of the wind, and hail fell from the skies to stone the villagers even as they had stoned the witch herself.


    Salamanders grew large, toppling some of the torches.


    "What is your bidding, My Lady Witch?" the largest one asked, eyeing the thatch of a nearby house.  "Shall we burn them?


    "What is your bidding, Lady Witch?" the Wolf King asked, regarding the soft flesh of the villagers.  "Shall we hunt them with tooth and claw?"


    "What is your bidding, Lady Witch?" the winds and the thunder rumbled.  "Shall we wash away the town and blast the rock to glass?"


    A forlorn howl rose above all of the noise, the mournful sound of a small dog who has lost his person.  The God''s Hound limped into the square, as tall in the shoulder as the Wolf King, fear and hope in his liquid eyes.  The witch closed her eyes as blood dripped down her brow and into her lashes, and she licked her lips, tasting her blood and tears on her lips, salty on her tongue, helpless to wipe it away.


    The magics rose in her, waiting to be unleashed upon the land, upon the people, upon the stupid boys who threw rocks at her.  All of the pain and loss and horror of her years welled up in her heart, all of the wickedness she''d seen and the hateful things she''d done.  She felt the hunger of the children whose family could not mill their grain, the pain of badly wrought tools breaking, the suffering of the cattle with bloat in their guts and empty dugs.


    A hush fell, the world waiting, and with the great clamor suddenly gone she heard the beat of enormous wings and the softest buffet of air as something touched down before her.  She opened her eyes when she heard the silver of bells, and Aodhan Tinker stood on the platform, the king fallen to the wooden floor in a faint.


    "The choice is yours, Madame Witch," he said, deep sorrow in his countenance.


    "Is it really a choice?" she asked, choking on her own tears and blood.


    "It is always a choice," he answered, tugging a swan feather out of his sleeve.


    "Have you always known my heart?" she whispered, gathering her will.


    "Your heart is merely a song, and I know all of the songs that ever were," he answered, and lept to snatch her up as she called the lightnings down on her pyre.

 Crone 24) Thorns

    24) Thorns


    She woke cocooned in the softest white down she had ever touched.  Her skin was filthy, her clothing in rags, but she was warm for the first time in what felt like years.  She heard the soft lap of water nearby, and a cold doggy nose began to lick at her sore hands.


    The cloud white cover lifted above her, and she saw the skies blue and hard above her.  A black eye and orange beak rose from beside her, and the great swan carried them to the edge of the misty lake, gently putting her down on the bank.  The bird shimmered and changed, and Aodhan Tinker squatted to sit beside her.


    "I should be dead," she said, almost disappointed.  The little God''s Hound reached up to lick her face, accidentally putting an eager paw in her wounded shoulder.


    "It''s a disturbing feeling, yes," Aodhan agreed.


    "The village?" She bowed her head, afraid of his answer.


    He laughed, throwing his head back.  "Oh, my dear witch, it was the best ever.  They can''t abide to say they let you get away, so they have said you were a mighty warrior, and when they stoned you and set fire to the wood that you were snatched up by an angel of God Himself and carried direct to heaven.


    "So do they still hunt the Witch?" she was weary of fleeing, weary of the rage and anger and vengeance.


    "Vanished like the warrior woman.  Her great walking hut is simply a tree now."


    She shivered, and he wrapped her cloak closer around her shoulders.


    "What will you do now?" he asked, handing her the flask and pouch, and a second bundle that she knew would be a simple dress to replace her rags and clean under garments.


    "I don''t even know," she answered.  "There is so much I''ve seen, so many things I''ve done, good and evil."


    "What does the magic tell you?" He stroked her sooty hair and it fell white and soft to her hips, and gently touched her shoulder with healing hands.


    "Only that I must see one more thing, that there is one spell left unfinished."


    He rested his hand on the nape of her neck, thumb against her skull in just the right place, as if she was a chicken or a rabbit.  "Is your heart healed a little, that you can trust yourself in the world?" His eyes were infinitely compassionate, but she was suddenly very afraid of him and how sure his hand was.


    "Can you trust me?" she asked the tinker who was not a man, and not quite a god, and who carried a responsibility to the people to know all of the songs and arrive at convenient times, sometimes to make things easier, though sometimes he chose not.


    He drew her into a tight hug, the first embrace she''d felt since her Giant had died, and he did not let go until her tears were done.  He kissed her forehead.


    "Do you need a task, Madame Witch?  Or do you know what you must do?"


    "I know what I must do, but thank you Aodhan Tinker."


    When she was dressed and presentable, he handed her a single swan feather.  The little God''s Hound leapt up into her arms as she clutched the feather tight and they were whirled away on a column of cold air, and dropped invisible into a deep forest.  Her ankle ached terribly with the cold and the abuse of being bound up at the stake, and she took only a moment to wonder why the tinker had not healed her leg as well.  She smiled bitterly at the twisted limb, knowing that it served to limit her, to remind her of all her lives before.


    They followed the track, coming upon an old black nag, sway backed and temperamental, and the Mare bit the witch hard on the shoulder for all the trouble the horse had following her.  They limped down the track together, coming to an overgrown gate.  The witch sat on a piece of fallen wall, waiting patiently.


    The merchant who had married Rue a lifetime ago came to the gate.  He wore poor homespun that was yet carefully mended, and he put his hand on the gate.  "Hello?" he called, pushing it open.  The witch followed him unseen, looking around her, curious.  She watched as the former merchant took shelter in the old hunting lodge for the night, heard the whispers of invisible servants.  She saw the row of roses grown in the window box of what was once a prince''s quarters, and she left him as he slept.


    More roses grew in every available container, in every patch of ground that was not paved or otherwise planted.  She looked upon them in the moonlight, and saw that they grew in hundreds of varieties, garden roses and tea roses, richly scented blossoms and waxy blooms with barely any scent at all.  She saw the great beast, taller than any bear, as it walked in rags tied to its body and tended the bushes with great tenderness.


    When morning came, she watched the Beast as the Beast watched the merchant.  The merchant broke a single stem, a fragile bloom from a far off land falling into his hand.


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    The Beast roared, and she whispered the words with it as it spoke.  "How dare you repay my hospitality thus? How dare you steal my roses?"


    "Forgive me, Beast, I thought only to take a single bloom to my youngest daughter.  She asks for so few things, and it was only a rose -"


    The Beast roared again.  "Then if you would take my rose, then you shall pay me in kind with your daughter.  Send her to me in three night''s time, or I shall come after you and keep you myself."


    "I can''t do that!  She is my youngest, my Briar Rose!  What kind of monster - " he cowered beneath the Beast''s menacing shadow.


    "That is exactly right.  Go home to your daughters, merchant.  Take with you the gift you have stolen from me and give it to your daughter, and tell her the price you have paid.  I will see you in three night''s time."


    The Beast whirled to leave, and the witch whispered a cover of darkness to make it vanish.


    The merchant, suddenly very old and more heartbroken than before, gathered his belongings into a threadbare sack and made his way out to the track.  An elegant black mare stood waiting for him at the first bend, and bitterly he accepted the stirrup and mounted.


    It took only a moment to return to his home, a simple wooden cottage at the edge of the wood.  Lily and Violet spun and wove, singing as they worked, and Briar Rose ran headlong down the path to meet him.  She was tall and strong, her hair a long tangle of golden curls.  She looked so much like her mother that the witch almost reached out from the shadows to touch her, but pulled back before she was seen.


    Wretched, the merchant gave her the rose, and she lifted it to her face in wonder, smelling the sweet spicy scent of a far off land.


    He told them the tale that night before a fire bright with salamanders.  Violet and Lily held one another and wept, but Briar Rose sat tall and resolute.  "I will go," she said calmly.


    "Never, I forbid it!  Child, it is a Beast!" the merchant knelt before her, begging her to stay.


    "How much a Beast can he be, if he loves roses so dearly?" she asked simply.


    "No, we can not lose you!" he wept.


    "Father, you will never lose me, for I love you so."


    The witch filled the merchant''s pack with beautiful things, practical things, and a small envelope filled with seeds.  Briar Rose found them in the predawn silence, and planted every seed along the wall of the cottage closest to the forest.  She tied the rose into her hair and mounted the waiting Mare before her family awoke, unable to face their tears and her own fear at once.


    The witch wove the Beast''s rags into decent garb as he watched the girl in silent wonder for days.  He was frightened by her beauty and his ugliness, and meals would appear to them as if by magic each night when they met for supper..


    "I must ask you, m''lady, Brrrri - " he stumbled over her name, his animal throat catching on the syllables with a growl until he roared in frustration.


    Bravely she sat quiet, watching the Beast as she would watch a wild animal.  Patiently she waited until he finished his bout of temper.


    "Perhaps, you could call me Beauty?" she suggested.


    He took a deep breath like the wind rustling in the trees.


    "My lady Beauty, I must ask you, would you marrr- wed me?"


    "What?  Why do you have to ask me that?  What shall I say?"


    "Say only yes, or no, without fearrrr," he replied.


    "Oh, no, Beast, I could never marry you!"  She turned and fled, and the witch watched as the Beast crumpled in despair and then ran to rampage in the forests beyond the walls, frightening the deer and squirrels and birds, rousing a bear from her summer nap, always very careful not to do them any harm even as he crashed among the trees and hedges.


    The next day they met in the garden, and he found her carefully trimming the dead wood from some of the older bushes.  He watched, fascinated, as she worked, and eventually he even helped a little, pinching off branches beyond her reach, lifting fallen limbs out of her way.


    Day after day, they put the garden in order, and the hunting lodge also came together as invisible hands restored walls and flooring and furnishings.


    Night after night, he would say "My lady Beauty, I must ask you, would you wed me?"


    Night after night, she would close her eyes and bow her head and speak, whispering or speaking clearly, "No, my Beast, I cannot."


    The witch began to realize that even this girl might never love him, might never see beyond the blackness that was his soul writ large on his face and body.   She felt pity for the Beast who had been her son, and compassion for the man he might have become.


    Finally, the Beast sat at the massive gleaming table in the restored dining hall, gathering his courage.  He saw the tears on Briar Rose''s face and ever so gently reached out a terrible paw to cover her hands.  He spoke carefully and clearly.


    "You must go back to your family, my Beauty.  Leave me here with my rrrroses.  I love you too much to keep you here any longerrrr.  Go home, Beloved, and be happy."


    "What?" she asked, incredulous, taking his paw in both of hers.  "But, Beast... I would miss you as terribly as I miss them now.  I could never leave you here alone, even with your roses."


    "You would stay?" he whispered, holding very still that he did not accidentally injure her.


    "Yes, Beast."  She stood, tall and resolute.  "I will stay, and I will marry you."


    There was a clamor of bells and a rush of sorcery so fierce the witch was deafened by its roar.  She cast all of her magic into the maelstrom, every moment of joy and pain and love and consequence contained in her very being into one final spell, banishing the Wolf and bringing resolution to all of the broken bits within them.  She touched her son''s beastly arm as she was drawn past, and she was very far away by the time they all regained their senses.


    When she woke, there was stillness in her soul, no tug of magic great or small, and she fell into a deep sleep.

 Crone 25) Flask, and Epilogue

    25) Flask


    The magics left her alone for a long time, and when they roused again it was always for simple things, little things, a charm or a notion, or something to give freely. Her wanderings brought her steps back to a small bustling town where perhaps she had been born forever ago. The tavern was now run by the elderly great grandson of the barkeep who had sent Gilda Oldroot out into the night with a young witch newly born into her powers. There was little to bring to mind the old village, none of the misery and squalor and violence. The community had grown up. Wives had come and families formed, and children ran in the streets, playing the games of youth in the wet evening air. It had rained every day for a fortnight, and the fortnight before that as well. There was some concern about crops and roads, but despite the water there was no flood or rot to speak of.


    She paid for her meal and ate it in a quiet corner of the tavern, and the old tavern keeper sat down next to her, chatting companionably and feeding her small dog scraps from his own plate. This was not a town that feared the Witch, for indeed that fear had faded from the world as soon as Aodhan Tinker drew the body of the sorceress down off the tree.  Salamanders basked peacefully in the great hearth that warmed the room.


    Three days passed, and she realized that she was waiting. Each morning, she filled her flask at the well, and sorted through the pouch, and sharpened the knife, and brushed dust and lint from the cloak. The weather turned on the third day, a sudden cold front chasing the last of summer from the autumn days. The witch looked up from her meal as the door banged open, and fate and magic swirled in, pulling at her skirts and hair and cloak like a demanding child. A girl in tattered clothes, scratched and dirty, stumbled in from the cold rain, followed by a young man in homespun clothing and an old one dressed in wolfskins and necklaces of teeth, a patch over one eye.  The girl''s hair was black, her eyes the deep green of mint grown in the shadows of a garden.


    "So it begins," the old witch said softly, looking at the young woman and giving her the flask. The girl drank deep and collapsed immediately, eyes rolling back into her head. The young woodsman and the old Wolf stood by and Bronwyn heard the echoes of a drunken crowd jeering and calling out crude suggestions.  Bronwyn shivered, and the voices fell silent.


    "She''s a witch, then, Bronwyn Firehand?" the innkeeper asked, and the old witch nodded.


    "Aye, and probably a great granddaughter of mine. Have you room here for her?"


    He thought for a moment, and looked around at the friendly faces at the bar, seated at the tables. "I think we can make due for her. Where to put her?"


    "Make it a room with a fireplace, I think." the witch thrust the knife into her pocket and gathered cloak and flask and pouch, bundling them all into a pack that she put beneath the girl''s head. She leaned close and whispered into the girl''s ear for a long moment. Standing, she shook out her skirts and straightened her shoulders. Her hair fell from its braid, a mass of white secrets that gave her a sense of age, though her skin was fair and unwrinkled. Leaning on her walking stick with the small dog at her heel, Bronwyn walked past the young woodsman and the Wolf.  She left the inn and stepped out into the clearing day as the rain finally ceased.


    If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    Epilogue: Things one takes along, no matter what the journey¡¯s end


    Thoughtfully she made her way into the cool wet woods, coming quickly upon a well worn trail. She followed it, curious, recognizing rocks and trees and patches of flowers from a dream she''d had once. Robbie Longfellow dashed off to stalk something small and warm among the leaves. At length, she came upon a small round clearing. A spring flowed up from beneath a large lightning blasted rock, and she closed her eyes to take the last few steps, turning far to her left before opening them again.


    There lay the rock upon which she had slept that fateful night, the moss still growing red and green upon it, as if someone had sat on the edge, bleeding and keeping vigil. Beyond the rock was a cottage under the trees, neatly trimmed and whitewashed. A simple garden rambled in the golden sunshine of the meadow, and wood smoke drifted from the chimney. She smelled rabbit stew and herbs, and Robbie Longfellow re-emerged from the undergrowth with another coney for the pot.


    The door opened, and Bronwyn''s heart leapt. The woodsman stepped out, wiping his hands on a rag. He saw her, frozen in the sunlight of the meadow, staring at him. He stopped for half a moment and came to her, the little dog bounding around him in excitement.


    His hair was white, but his back was straight and his body strong and young, his eyes blue and clear with only slight crinkles at the corners.


    "You''re alive," her voice was no louder than the wind in the trees, but echoed between them and rattled around the clearing.


    "You came back," he answered, reaching out to touch her own whitened hair, his calloused fingers brushing the youthful bloom of her pale cheek. She felt the loneliness that had frozen in her heart thaw a little. "I was afraid you''d lost your way."


    "I had some things to do," she said simply. ¡°I wanted to return your knife, though, and to thank you.¡±


    He dropped his hand and began to step back, kneeling before her. "I am not a prince or a king, Bronwyn. I don''t know if I can give you what you need, if I can love you the way you should be loved." She saw the weariness of long years of hurt and solitude in his eyes, and knew that he was haunted by fear of her answer. She closed the distance between them again, kneeling awkwardly with him to look up at him just a little, for he was not so much taller than she was herself. He smelled of tree sap and something muskier that made her want to be closer still.


    "I''ll take my chances," she replied, tilting her face to his just a bit. He smiled and it warmed her more than the sunlight.


    The kiss was still as sweet.