“What do you mean ‘disappeared’?” Britomart demanded. “Princes don’t disappear. Princesses do. That’s why princes have to go rescue them.”

Willa paused in pacing her chamber to glare up at Britomart. Willa may have been two years older than Britomart, but she looked about as fierce as an irritable kitten. She was not precisely short for a woman, but Britomart was the sort of tall that came with shoulders. Willa seemed to have inherited all the femininity that Britomart lacked. She looked every bit the princess with her delicate features and deep blue eyes. No visiting diplomat had ever embarrassed himself by failing to recognize Willa as King Gundred’s daughter, as more than a few had with Britomart. The matter was not helped by the fact that, at eighteen, Britomart was nearly as tall as her father’s knights. In fact, she was one of her father’s knights as of two months and three days ago (not that she was counting). Britomart was the first female knight in Galbrica for centuries. She was also, she had to admit, bored. She had expected for there to be at least one quest by now. She would even have settled for freeing a sleepy village from the predations of a rogue wolf. But there were no hungry wolves, no nefarious lords who needed vanquishing, and no long-lost magical objects that would determine the fate of the kingdom. Galbrica had continued to be just as peaceful as it had been all Britomart’s life. Magic had continued to be something that belonged only to old tales.

Britomart looked down to meet her older sister’s glare. She shrugged. “Well, it’s true. Besides, Alfrick’s not even a prince, he’s a duke’s son. He should be rescuing you.”

“I have no intention of being rescued, thank you very much,” Willa replied. “Though I’m sure Alfrick would be very good at it. But you’re missing the point. Alfrick left Svernhold nearly two months ago to make the journey to father’s court–”

“–Where we will all act suitably surprised when he asks for your hand,” Britomart interjected.

“And it’s less than a fortnight’s journey from Svenhold to here,” Willa continued as if she had not been interrupted. “Father wrote to the duke asking if there had been a delay, and the duke wrote back that he had no more idea of what had happened to Alfrick than we do. He thought that his son had arrived and had simply been too busy to write.”

“You mean too preoccupied with his impending nuptials.”

Willa looked at her sister in aggravation. “There will be no nuptials if Alfrick never arrives to propose to me.” She resumed pacing up and down her chamber.

Britomart watched Willa pace for a moment before saying, “Being unmarried isn’t so bad. You could stay here with us, not go north after all.”

The aggravation went out of Willa, and she seemed to wilt. “I love him, Brita.”

Britomart could hear the barely-contained tears in Willa’s voice. She drew her sister into a hug and heard a sniffle from the vicinity of her shoulder. “Don’t worry, the Duke will find him. I’m sure there are men out looking already. The North is still half wilderness anyway, even if it technically belongs to Galbrica. Alfrick probably took the wrong route through the mountains and came out too far east. He’ll be making his way here right this moment.”

Willa’s voice came out muffled against Britomart’s tunic. “You know that’s not true. There aren’t any routes through the mountains except for the Kolaegh Pass.”

“None that we know of. But you and I have never been to the North, have we? There might be some that aren’t on father’s maps.”

Willa loosened her hold on her sister just enough to wipe her nose on the back of her hand. She might look like femininity incarnate, but that didn't stop her nose from running when she cried. She took a deep breath and mastered her tears. “If only we could go. Go find Alfrick, I mean.”

A dangerous light went into Britomart’s eyes.

Willa realized her mistake too late. “We can’t go, Brita. I wasn’t serious. Stop looking like that.”

“Like what?” Britomart said innocently.

“Like a cat who has just spotted a saucer of cream.”

“I have no idea what you mean. I have no intention of us going to search for Alfrick. I swear on my sword.” Us, Britomart reasoned, was not the same as me. After all, she had no intention of taking Willa with her when she went searching for Alrick. No self-respecting knight went on a quest with her sister in tow.

Willa eyed Britomart suspiciously. “Alright. Since you swear it. Besides, father will send out men to search if I ask him.”

The statement was true enough. King Gundred was not always a kind father, but he did love his daughters in his own way. After his eldest daughter Goneril had guaranteed the future of the kingdom through her marriage to the Prince of Osterland, Gundred had been content to let Willa form an attachment to the Duke of Svenhold’s son during the spring tournament. Svernhold was a minor duchy on the northern edge of the kingdom, but the family was an old one that had served the kingdom well in times gone by. Gundred would do what he could to find Alfrick if Willa asked. He would have to send men to look for Alfrick soon enough anyways since the duke’s son had been accompanied by young Sir Rolf, the son and heir of one of her father’s favorite nobles. Rolf had become fast friends with Alfrick during the tournament and had ventured North with him on his return to Svernhold. Rolf’s knighthood was as shiny and new as his armor. Like Britomart, he had been itching for more adventure than the Galbrican court could provide.

“Of course father will send someone,” Britomart said soothingly. “They’ll find Alfrick. You’ll see. Before the month is out, your duke-ling will arrive at father’s court looking just as handsome as ever and sweep you off your dainty little feet.”

Willa sniffed. “My feet aren’t dainty. Yours are just big.”

“They’re fighting size,” Britomart protested.

Willa raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know knights kicked when they fought.”

“Not when the ladies are watching.”

“You are a lady,” Willa teased, thankful to have gotten away from the subject of dangerous journeys north.

Britomart made a face. “Only when I have to be.”

“Well, for now, I say you have to be. I need something to take my mind off of this business, and crying has made me look a fright.” Willa glanced in the ornate mirror that hung along one side of her chamber in front of a dressing table. “I don’t know what I have done to my hair. You’ll braid it, won’t you? As a favor? It will be like when we were little. And I want proper braids, a coronet of them, not like yours.”

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“I’m hopeless with hair. You know that as well as I do,” Britomart replied. As if in confirmation, she caught a glimpse of her own messy, waist-length braid in the mirror. It had recently been pinned up under a helm, and hairs poked out of it at loose angles that put one in mind of a haystack. Britomart had kept her promise to regrow her hair after she cut it off in protest when her father forbade her to become a knight. She had been thirteen, and King Gundred had caught her sparring with one of the squires in the practice yard. The pageboy whom Britomart paid with extra sweetmeats to keep a lookout during her training sessions had gone to take a piss behind the barracks, and by the time that Britomart saw her father, there had been no time to pretend that she was merely watching the squires practice. Gundred had been tolerant of Britomart’s swordplay when she was a child–after all, many girls played at being Queen Boemia–but he was far less tolerant when he found out that she had never stopped. Noblewomen wielded embroidery needles, not longswords. With a few cold commands from her father, Britomart was banned from the practice yard and sent to her mother’s chamber to be reformed into a proper Galbrican princess.

King Gundred had expected Queen Elsbeth to berate their daughter with the sort of lecture on a princess’s duties that the girl would never forget. Instead, Gundred had found himself at the receiving end of one of his wife’s lectures. If there was one force that Gundred could not withstand, it was his wife. When he came down to breakfast the next morning to find Britomart with her hair crudely hacked off, his mind had already been made up. It had been made up for him by the queen, who had told him in no uncertain terms that she would far rather have a knight for a daughter than a broken husk of a girl, which was exactly what Britomart would become if she were forced into a life of gowns and embroidery. If Gundred had needed any more persuading, the sight of his youngest daughter with a stableboy's haircut would have done it. He understood, then, that turning Britomart into a lady was as fruitless a task as commanding the Shadowed Wood to move. So Goneril and Willa became ladies, and Britomart became a knight. By the time Britomart’s hair had grown long enough to reach her waist, she could hold her own against everybody but Sir Reginald, and he was the King’s Champion.

“I’ll read to you while you braid,” Willa wheedled.

Britomart relented. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Willa crossed to her dressing table and handed Britomart the comb that lay there. “Which story? It’s your bribe, so you can choose.”

Britomart’s eyes fell on the old volume that lay beside Willa’s inlaid jewelry box. She thought of the coming quest and the Shadowed Wood, of lost paths and shadowed thorns. “Read me the one about Queen Boemia and the Blood Witch.”

Willa rolled her eyes. “Really, you would think you’d want some variety. I must have read that one to you a thousand times when you were little.”

“Just read it. I don’t have to braid your hair, you know. The armsmaster has just set up a new quintain that I’ve been wanting to try.”

“As the lady commands,” Willa replied.

Britomart muttered something in which Willa could distinctly make out the words “lady” and “arse,” but she began to unpin her sister’s hair nevertheless. Willa’s pale golden hair fell loose over her shoulders in gentle waves. Britomart was more aware than ever of the untidiness of her own dirty blonde braid.

Then Willa opened the book, and began to read. Britomart let the familiar words wash over her.

“Those were the days when Galbrica was new, and the North was still vicious and wild. Few people dared to live north of the Kolaegh Pass. Those who did were in constant fear, for in the woods, the Old Ones reigned. The Old Ones had come from across the sea long, long ago. Some say they were elves; some say they were the descendants of elves and bore all of the elven cruelty behind a human face. Whatever they were, they were beautiful and terrible, with hearts black as pitch and magic that was blacker still. And over them all, the Blood Witch reigned.

As time passed, the Blood Witch grew greedy. The North was no longer enough for her. She set her eyes on the South. She could not stand for mankind to thrive just beyond the borders of her land, living in light that burned against her darkness. So the Blood Witch sent her creatures down from the Shadowed Wood, down into the plains of Galbrica, where the wheat shone golden in the sun. The Blood Witch sent thorn-wights to spread rot among the Galbrican harvests. She sent water daemons to swell the streams and make them flood. She sent white stags to tempt unwary hunters, and will-o’-the-wisps to lure children into the Shadowed Wood. And whoever entered those woods never returned, for the Shadowed Wood was her creature too, and it swallowed them whole.

When Queen Boemia heard of this, she declared that the Blood Witch would harm the Galbrican people no more. The queen mounted her stallion and rode out from her royal city, which we call Boemapolis now, but was Gerion then. She rode north, then further north still, until she passed beyond the Kolaegh Pass. Then she rode into the Shadowed Wood. She followed no path, for she knew, as all do, that the Blood Witch comes for those who lose their way in her woods.

Queen Boemia rode until her horse grew weary; then she walked until she could walk no more. At last, she sat down at the edge of a stream to rest, and it was then that the trees closed in. From amidst the trees came thorn-wights, creatures of bark and vine, of spirit and thorn. Their tendrils wrapped around her, and she felt the press of their thorns. Blood flowed down her armor as thorns pierced the iron strong. Blood flowed, and in her senses something stirred. The slithering of a cloak on the leaves, a shadow in the wood. And she knew the Blood Witch had come.

Then the queen called out to the darkness, and her words rang strong and true: ‘I will make you a bargain, Blood Witch, a bargain for my life.’ For Queen Boemia knew that no Old One could resist a bargain, and what you could not win by force, you could sometimes win by guile.

The thorns ceased their pressure, and before her a figure appeared, its cloak as red as blood, its face a deeper shadow in the dark. The Blood Witch spoke in the darkness, and her voice was as rich as wine.

‘What will you give me,’ said the witch, ‘in return for your life?’

‘I will give you my hair,’ said the queen. ‘It is bright as purest gold.’

‘What need have I for golden hair?’ said the witch. ‘It buys nothing but men’s love.’

‘I will give you my sword,’ said the queen. ‘It is sharp as winter’s bite.’

‘What need have I for a sword?’ said the witch. ‘I kill with vines and thorns.’

‘I will give you my horse,’ said the queen. ‘It is swift as the swiftest wind.’

‘What need have I for a horse?’ said the witch. ‘I ride the shadows black.’

‘I have nought else to give,’ said the queen. ‘I will not give you my throne.’

‘The wilds are mine,’ said the witch, ‘what need have I for thrones?’”

The wilds. Britomart had only ever been as far as Ildensvine, and that had been on a royal progress in which, despite her best efforts, she had been laced into a gown of sky-blue velvet that was simply not meant for somebody with a warrior’s shoulders. To go north on her own, north past Ildensvine, past Rivensfeldt, past the Kolaegh Pass; to go north into the Shadowed Wood…it was more than she had ever dreamt of. Well, perhaps she had dreamt of it once or twice, but only in a hypothetical sort of way.

“Ouch!” Willa exclaimed, abruptly stopping her reading. “Watch that hairpin!”

“Sorry! I was wandering.” Britomart looked with chagrin at the monstrosity she had made of Willa’s hair, all dreams of the North temporarily forgotten.

“You’re supposed to be riveted, not wandering. Queen Boemia is about to be taken to the Blood Witch’s lair. It’s one of the good parts.”

“I’m listening.”

Willa looked in the mirror. Her initial look of shock at the hairdo that greeted her turned into a giggle, then into an all-out laugh. “You know, I think you’ve actually gotten worse at this.”

Britomart grinned sheepishly. “I did warn you. Now stay still. If I just adjust this–”

“You will do no such thing. I am not sure my hair will survive much more. Thank you though. You’ve helped.”

Britomart didn’t need to look at the state of Willa’s hair to know that her sister was not talking about the hairdo. She reached down to squeeze Willa’s hand. “Alfrick’s out there, Willa. Don’t worry.”

He’s out there, Britomart thought, and I’m going to find him for you.

The next morning, the stable lads woke to find Britomart’s horse gone. A hasty note torn from what seemed to have been a fine lady’s diary hung on the wall, speared onto the nail that normally held the horse’s bridle. It read, “Gone rescuing.”