Sword and Sorceress XXVII (28 page)

Hyacinth squeezed her hand. “Do take
care. I still can’t agree with what you’re doing—”

“You live in this kingdom,” came Renata’s
furious whisper.  “Do you want Terzo and his offspring to rule you? My child
must be strong enough to face whatever comes, and make a fine ruler in his own
right. With strength and wisdom. . . .”

“I understand.” Hyacinth’s whisper was
almost inaudible. She didn’t remind Renata that there would be payment for the
bath. The queen was fully aware of that.

#

Though she ached to know if Renata had
been able to use the spell bath—and what its consequences had been—Hyacinth was
not summoned to the palace again until two months before the queen’s child was
due. She—and Renata—knew that the child would be ‘early,’ but they hoped no one
else suspected.

The palace was very different now than
it had been during Bhaltair’s rule. New tapestries on the walls, expensive
carpet underfoot, and gaudy statuary and bric-a-brac cluttering the hall were
probably the least of the changes.

Hyacinth was taken to the room where she
had met Renata before. The queen paced awkwardly back and forth, surrounded by
chattering ladies and their useless needlework. Hyacinth looked closely at the
queen, trying to discover what price she had paid for wisdom. But she seemed
well enough, though restless and clumsy. The child would be a large one, that
was obvious.

When Hyacinth accompanied Renata to the
nursery for a final check that all was well, the ladies didn’t even bother to
follow. What mischief could a woman who could hardly waddle get into?

“One more spell—and it must be soon,”
Renata told Hyacinth. “Compassion. No matter what happens to me—or you—a king
with compassion
can’t
be as greedy and selfish as Terzo is.

“But is this wise? The cost—”

“It doesn’t matter to me what payment
the spell exacts. The child is healthy and strong. He’s big enough now that I
could bear him today and he would thrive, so the midwife assures me.”

Hyacinth closed her eyes, praying for
strength. “We may not have time,” she said. “I don’t have that one prepared,
and it takes weeks. And how will I get it to you?” Compassion was another
difficult spell—although not nearly as complex as that for wisdom. Hyacinth had
never made it, because few people wanted it. Why risk the inevitable loss of
some other faculty to gain compassion?

“Start moving your belongings into your
rooms here at the palace. You needn’t come yet, but if you leave the spell
somewhere, hidden but clearly labeled. . . .”

“The coffer you gave me when you were a
child—the one with my initial on the lid,” Hyacinth said. Ten-year-old Renata
had carved the ornate ‘H’ into the wood herself. She would know it.

Renata gave a half smile. “Good.” They
passed back into the parlor, Hyacinth half supporting the queen, who was
clumsier than ever. Renata said, as if continuing a conversation they had been
having, “Then you will start sending your possessions to the palace in a week? The
midwife says the child is so active it may come sooner than expected.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I’ll send a cart, and porters.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

#

The reality of her move to the palace
was made all the clearer when she sent off a cartload of her books and
clothing. Her friend Tamarisk would live in the cottage until the young prince—or
princess—no longer needed a nurse and she could return to her private life. She
was apprehensive about living in such close proximity to the new King Terzo. If
he came to the nursery to visit ‘his’ child, she would be meek and as invisible
as possible. To his sort, servants were usually invisible. Perhaps he would not
remember that she was a witch.

On a cold and blustery day in the Month
of Storms, a carriage came from the palace. The imposing individual who stepped
down from it to tell her that the Queen requested her presence had to wait. Hyacinth
fed Pot Pie and gave him a last hug, gathered a bundle of things she wanted to
take, left a note for Tamarisk, and closed the door. She looked back on her
cottage regretfully. She would miss it, miss the independence and ability to
speak her mind. But Renata was giving up so much more, living with Terzo;
Hyacinth could spare a few years of a long life to raise up the next ruler of
Orthefell.

Armed men were everywhere in the streets
now, and few people braved the cold and possibility of tangling with the king’s
troops. Hyacinth missed the laughter of children playing in the snow.

As the carriage drove through the palace’s
main gate, a maid scurried out to tell Hyacinth that Renata was calling for
her. Hyacinth left her bundle in the carriage—either it would be taken to her
rooms or not, she didn’t care at this point—and hurried up the stairs to the
Queen’s rooms.

The lying in was attended only by women,
as tradition demanded, and Renata had banned her twittering companions. The
only people in the room were two stolid middle-aged maids and the midwife.

Renata sat, propped up with pillows, in
bed. Though she was breathing quickly, she was far too still for Hyacinth’s
peace of mind. Where was the restless energy that had filled the queen the last
time Hyacinth had seen her?

Renata looked up as Hyacinth entered,
but did not smile at her until the witch was nearly at her bed. The way Renata
squinted at her made Hyacinth wonder if clarity of eyesight had been the
payment for one of the spells. “I’m—so glad—you’re here,” she panted. “He’s
coming early, my baby, and I wanted—you to be here.”

Now that Hyacinth could see the queen
with her hair down in two plaits instead of up under a veil—as it had been the
last two times she’d seen her—she thought she knew what another of the payments
had been. Silver glints showed among the chestnut hairs at the crown of her
head. How many years had Renata lost? More than ever, it pained Hyacinth that
her gain was made at the cost of the people she helped.

“Thank you for calling me, Your Majesty,”
she said.

“I knew—you would want—to be here. Oh!”

The midwife and maids lifted Renata onto
the birthing stool. Hyacinth, though she had birthed babies before, wasn’t
needed. She watched, uneasy. Why had Renata been in bed? Why not walking to
ease the pain of the contractions?

The birth progressed quickly after that.
When the baby was delivered, and the midwife had tied off the cord, the maids
gently washed Renata, then carried her back to the bed and covered her up. She
didn’t seem to notice; all her attention was for the child the midwife held.

“My child,” she whispered.

“Your son,” the midwife said. “Strong,
for all he’s early. I think he’ll have your hair, Your Majesty.” Indeed, the
round head was covered with chestnut fuzz. With luck, Terzo would never suspect
the child’s true father.

As the midwife washed and swaddled the
boy, Hyacinth studied him closely. She could see no deformities—he waved his
arms and legs vigorously, and blinked big dark eyes when the midwife moved him
closer to the lantern. What price had he paid for his mother’s spell baths? There
was a patch of dark skin on one shoulder, but many babies had birthmarks
similar to that.

“Show him to Terzo,” Renata whispered. “Show
him his son.”

The woman left, carrying the baby, and
the maids followed her. Renata closed her eyes and went limp against Hyacinth. “It
was worth it.”

“What is it, Renata? What’s wrong?”

“The last bath. Ever since I took it, I’ve
been losing the use of my legs. By this morning, I couldn’t stand. By the time
the contractions started, not even my toes would move. But my son—he’s strong,
he’s healthy.”

Hyacinth swallowed, tears rising in her
eyes.

“I’ve given him everything I could. He’ll
be the ruler Bhaltair didn’t have the chance to be. He’ll have strength,
wisdom, and compassion.”

“We still have to raise him, to teach
him. Keep him from Terzo’s example.”

Renata sank back against the pillows and
closed her eyes. “Thank all the gods I’ll have you with me. You’ve given me the
strength and wisdom to raise him the way Bhaltair would have wanted.”

In a nearby room, the King of Orthefell
exulted over the birth of his son. He did not ask about the child’s mother.

Hyacinth had never made a bane bath in
her life. She wondered grimly if, during her time here as the new prince’s
nurse, she would find a need to. She would be meek, she would be obedient—but
if Terzo stepped outside the bounds, he would be sorry he had offended the
witch who loved the queen.

Dead Princesses

by
Steve Chapman

Shada has never
been anyone’s idea of a proper princess: that would be her sister Sienna. Shada
has always preferred straight-forward fighting to diplomacy. Fortunately, she’s
a very good fighter.

A
lapsed musician and engineer, Steve Chapman lives with his wife and daughter at
the New Jersey shore. Though he spends most days high above Times Square , in
the evening he can hear the ocean. His fiction can be found in SWORD &
SORCERESS 25 and 26, and in the forthcoming Harrow Press anthology MORTIS
OPERANDI.

****

“It is my understanding, Master Dominic,”
Shada said, “That once a Scarlet Guardsman is sworn to a princess as her Shield
he must do whatever she commands.”

The young guardsman stiffened beside
her. “This is accurate, your highness.”

Shada batted her eyelashes, playing the
flighty girl Dominic seemed to take her for. He was terribly earnest, unable to
parse even the broadest irony. It augured poorly for their future together, a
future she was desperate to avoid.

Every member of St. Navarre’s royal
family was assigned a Shield on his or her sixteenth birthday. The tradition
was designed to foster a bond that could not be corrupted by gold or sorcery.

But Shada required no bodyguard to
ensure her safety. She was afraid of nothing and had no doubt that she could
beat handsome, stalwart, and dim Dominic senseless on the proving grounds.
Despite her protests, the dark-haired, dark-eyed junior Guardsman had been
sworn to her in a Citadel ceremony that morning. The only possibility of
escaping his constant attention that Shada could see was to make his duty
intolerable. If he resigned the bond then maybe they would leave her in peace.

To this end she had led Dominic into the
dim passages behind Kings Hall. The corridors were roughly hewn from obsidian
stone, lit only by wall-set torches. When Shada took Dominic’s hand it was
moist with unease.

“We should not be here.” He tried to
pull away.

“Your protection excites me.” Shada
dropped her voice to a whisper and worked hard to suppress a snicker. “I feel a
dangerous swoon approaching that can, uh, only be defeated by the touch of your
lips.”

Dominic flushed the red of a turnip. “I
cannot.”

“It
is
forbidden.” Shada knew her
behavior was deplorable, but felt her heart sing at the look of horror on the
boy’s face. “Yet you are sworn to obey me in all things.”

“Enough.” Shada’s twin sister Sienna
emerged from the shadows.

Shada sighed. She should have known
there was no escaping her killjoy sister. Dominic jumped to attention, back
ramrod straight, arms at his sides.

Sienna had been born just moments after
Shada, yet they were nothing alike. Sienna’s brown hair contrasted with Shada’s
streaked blond, her perfectly fitted court dress with Shada’s worn combat
leathers. They shared only the green of their eyes, through which they saw the
world in utterly contrary ways. Because Sienna had been born second, she would
not have to suffer her own Shield until the next High Day.

“I had thought myself beyond shock at
your behavior, Shada.” Sienna’s dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her
unadorned face starkly beautiful. “I stand corrected.”

Shada threw her arms around Dominic’s
neck. “Just wait until you have your own dreamy Shield, sworn to answer your
every need.”

The guardsman’s face darkened from
turnip to eggplant.

“You’re not amusing.” Sienna said. “One
day you may rue making your Shield despise you.”

The notion that she’d ever require
anyone’s protection burned at Shada, but she kept her tone cool. “Should
Dominic ever show the poor taste to despise me I would immediately command him
not to.”

Sienna rolled her eyes and brushed past
them, undoubtedly off to spy on someone through the many peepholes into the
Hall.

Shada returned her attention to Dominic,
but Sienna had effectively killed the joke. Shada no longer felt funny or
justified, only tired and mean.

Down the dark corridor, Sienna screamed.

Shada broke away from Dominic and
launched herself along the passage, her sword hissing from its scabbard.

“Princess, wait!” Dominic cried out
behind her.

Two turns of the corridor ahead, Shada
found her sister standing in a pool of yellow torchlight. Strung up beside the
torch was the body of a girl in a pretty purple dress.

“Sorry,” Sienna said, now all business. “I
was surprised.”

Fair enough, Shada thought. “Who…?”

“Jennie Fassbinder, the Coin Minister’s
daughter.” Sienna’s voice shook. “I barely recognized her.”

Sienna brushed Jennie’s hair back from
her face. She had died from a cut across the throat, but it was her other wound
that drew Shada’s gaze. She’d been fond of delicate Jennie, a kind and quiet
girl whose blue eyes had lit up many dark Citadel rooms.

Now she was dead, and her eyes were
missing.

#

Half an hour later Shada still lingered
over the body, feeling sad and helpless. She could abide neither sensation, but
neither could she walk away.

Scarlet Guardsmen had cleared the
courtiers from the Cathedral-like space of Kings Hall, brought in the body, and
taken up positions around the empty throne. Sir Gregory, the King’s
white-haired First Councilor, huddled with Sienna and the Master at Arms at the
foot of the enormous stone seat.

“Princess, we should let the Guard
handle this.” Dominic looked nervously about the Hall.

“Leave me.” Shada was unable to pull her
gaze from Jennie’s empty face.

“I’m sworn not to,” Dominic said.

The stab of shame Shada felt at her
behavior towards him only inflamed her fury at his presence.

Sienna returned from her huddle. “The
body was placed there to be found. Gregory believes someone is sending a
message.”

Shada touched the sword at her belt. “It
would be my pleasure to respond.” She intended to make whoever had done this
very sorry they had.

“Jennie was harmless in herself and her
position,” Sienna said. “If this is a threat, it lacks clarity.”

A Citadel Warden in gleaming armor
approached. At the sight of the corpse the warrior-priest gasped. “This is
Lisle’s Mark.”

Gregory looked over sharply. “What?”

“The Shroud Maiden.” The Warden crossed
himself. “This means she’s coming to claim her price.”

A murmur of fear spread through the
Guardsmen. Shada remembered the rough contours of the old bedtime story.

 
The Shroud Maiden Lisle, alive
beyond death for centuries untold, on rare occasions wakes from her undead
slumber and calls at the gates of the world’s great Kingdoms.

“Get my sister as far from here as you
can,” Sienna snapped at Dominic. “As fast as you can.”

“Princess, I don’t understand.”

The Shroud Maiden announces her presence
by taking the life of a highborn young woman. Lisle’s Mark is a purposeful
mutilation: the removal of the eyes. Shortly thereafter Lisle will appear to
the Kingdom’s ruler and demand the realm’s firstborn girl child.

“You don’t need to.” Sienna’s tone
turned to ice. “Go now. Don’t let anyone stop you. Shada’s life depends on it.”

Anxiety rippled across the Hall as
Gregory interrogated the Warden. Men drew their weapons. Voices echoed in the
high rafters.

Shada’s breath came too quickly. The
Shroud Maiden was just a rubbish tale made to frighten young princesses, but
Sienna seemed to credit it, and her sister didn’t fear storybook ghosts and
goblins.

“As you say.” Dominic took Shada’s arm. “
Now
,
your highness.”

The edge of Shada’s right hand struck
Dominic in the throat, sent him gasping to his knees. She had tempered the
blow. He would live, but he would be silent for a matter of minutes and wouldn’t
touch her again anytime soon.

Should Lisle be refused, she will
slaughter three times thirty female children of the lesser nobility, just as
she killed the first.

Shada pivoted to face her sister. “I’m
not going anywhere.”

“You can’t fight her, Shada.” Sienna
appeared so tense she looked like she might shatter.

“The Shroud Maiden?” Shada snorted. “She’s
a myth.”

“That’s what they tell us when we’re
young.”

Scarlet Guardsmen swarmed about Shada,
drawing weapons. The ring of blades drew tight as the First Councilor pushed
through them. Tall and rail thin, the older man towered over the red-caped
guardsmen.

“This is unfair.” Sienna seethed.

“It is,” Gregory said. “But the kingdoms
that refused the Maiden now lie in ashes, torn apart by rebellion and civil
war. Allaria, Karzupel, Riasch, all have ceased to be.”

Shada vaguely recalled those names from
her history studies. Real places, not fairy tales…

“Our father may not agree.” Sienna
stepped between Shada and a dozen swords, but Gregory brushed her aside. His
unblinking gaze took in Shada’s torn leathers, her unruly hair, and her stunned
Shield, still down on his knees. Shada steeled herself for a verbal thrashing,
but Gregory threw his arms around her.

“Even the wisest ruler cannot be
expected to prize the realm above his own child. Your father is three days’
ride from here. He will not be told until the matter is concluded.” Gregory
looked Shada in the eye. “The Warden and I will attempt to thwart the Maiden,
but if we fail you must yield to her.”

Shada found herself unable to breathe,
unable to comprehend what was happening. If this was true her entire life,
everything she ever hoped to be or do, had been taken from her in the blink of
eye.

“The Shroud Maiden is coming.” Sir
Gregory raised his voice. “Prepare yourselves.”

The air grew cooler, as if a door to the
sea had been opened, great gouts of fog forming. A flood of ants swarmed over
the patterned carpets. Flies darkened the air.

“There’s no preparing for me, old man.”
The girl who stepped out of the thickening mist was physically slight, clad in
a tiny, threadbare black dress that had perhaps once been beautiful. Her hair,
black as ink, was hacked short. Large, dark eyes dominated an elfin face. Her
skin was a strange, lustrous gray, the color of a mollusk. She appeared no
older than Shada and held no weapon, but the guardsmen shrank from her
nonetheless.

Shada felt the girl’s power like an
oppressive humidity, but she looked so delicate that a single blow might knock
her down.

“How did you get in here?” Gregory
demanded. “The Citadel is impregnable to dark magic.”

“Such powerful wards old men have
smeared into your old walls.” The girl’s voice was musical, almost sweet. “So I
walked through your large front door.”

“Our guards—”

“Are dead.” She fanned both hands,
displaying long black talons. “Care to join them?”

“Your presence blasphemes our Citadel.”
The Warden held up a thin, gleaming dagger. “I bear the named blade Angel’s
Kiss, which can sear the unlife from the walking corpse you wear like a mask.”

“I’m always game for a kiss.” A smile
spread across the Maiden’s face, making her pretty.

The Warden charged. Shada’s heartbeat
double-timed. Wardens were supposedly the greatest of the Citadel’s soldiers,
fearless masters of every martial art.

The Shroud Maiden turned her gaze on
him. Tiny black spiders crawled between her fingers, scuttled up her forearms.
Ants and maggots coated the floor at her feet.

The Warden stopped in his tracks. He
screamed, turned, and ran past Shada into the passages. The guardsmen fell back
around Gregory.

Gregory’s face was bathed in sweat.
Shada had never seen him show a hint of fear, but he now appeared terrified.

“I can kill your guardsmen, old man. I
can kill you.” Lisle’s whisper carried into every corner of the Hall. “But I’d
rather have my princess.”

Two Scarlet Guardsmen broke and ran.
Gregory swallowed hard.

 “Bring the princess to the temple in
Aeyple Forest by moonrise.” Lisle strode toward him. “If the moon tops the
trees and she is not present, I will return to prune your children by the
dozens.”

Maybe Lisle possessed dark magic and a
manicure of doom, but Shada found it hard to believe that she couldn’t kick
this wisp of a girl’s teensy ass all the way back to Tartarus.

“I’ll be there,” she blurted out.

The Maiden’s black-eyed gaze shifted to
Shada. She felt spiders and maggots crawling through her hair, down her back.
The urge to run was so strong she had to stamp her feet to hold her ground. But
she did. She
was not
frightened.