It did not take long for Britomart to learn what Amoret had meant about the castle being insistent–and about it being alive. Nearly everything in it seemed to have a life of its own. Shortly after Amoret swept out of the chamber, Britomart tentatively opened the door to an odd scuffling knocking, only to find a large clawfoot bathtub waiting outside it, one foot raised to knock again. She hastily moved out of the way as the tub scuttled in, followed by a sturdy wheeled table that glided along unassisted, carrying several steaming pitchers of water, a bar of soap, and a length of fabric for Britomart to dry herself with after her bath. Britomart looked warily into the hallway for any other incoming furniture before closing the door and turning to the bathtub and table, which had settled near the fireplace and were doing a very good impression of completely normal fixtures.
Britomart strapped on her sword belt before cautiously approaching the tub. She thought of Queen Boemia seeing through the Blood Witch’s illusions to find that the castle’s servants were evil wights. With a shiver, Britomart called out for the servants who had brought in the table to show themselves. There was no answer. She circled the tub and table, swiping her hand through the air around them. Nothing there. She warily studied them until the steam from the pitchers faded. It was almost a relief to know that the water was growing cold. That lessened the temptation.
Britomart nearly jumped out of her skin when there was another tapping at the chamber door. She opened it to find another table, this one with three more pitchers of steaming water and a vial of oil that gave off a pleasant woody scent. She shut the door on it, refusing to let it in. The tapping on the door resumed, then intensified, accompanied by the sloshing of water. Something hit the back of Britomart’s knees, and she turned to see that the clawfoot tub had migrated over to her and was trying to get her attention. She gave in.
The bath was glorious. When Britomart had scrubbed herself clean and dried off, the bathtub waddled out, accompanied by the tables. She experimentally rubbed the scented oil into her hair and began the task of combing out the tangles. She gave a sigh when her hair was finally smooth enough to run her fingers through it without snagging. There was a point at which tangles became unpleasant, even for her. The instant she reached up to begin braiding her hair, however, her chair bucked, depositing her on the floor. She indignantly scrambled back onto it and reached for her hair again. The chair bucked again. She grabbed for it and managed to keep her seat. Then, she pushed the chair back and stood, giving it an admonitory glare before once more reaching up to begin braiding. The chair knocked into her calves. Hard. Britomart considered depositing the chair in the hallway, but she had the feeling it would simply bang against the door until she let it back in. So she left her hair loose. It was an odd feeling: the heavy sway of her hair against the small of her back. In Galbrica, women never wore their hair loose in public past the age of childhood. Unbound hair was something reserved for the company of other women–and for one’s husband.
Britomart was already wincing as she opened the wardrobe. If the castle had such firm ideas about hairstyles, she did not want to know what it thought about her clothing. The wardrobe gown after gown–gowns of fine wool and taffeta and silk, gowns in the most recent fashions alongside fashions that had not been seen in centuries. She pulled a gown out and eyed it. It looked perfectly her size, right down to the breadth of the shoulders, which normally stymied even the most skilled tailors. The gown was made of delicate pink silk with a cream underdress and matching embroidery at the collar, interworked with threads of gold. Britomart wondered if the castle had heard the word “princess” and missed everything else about her. “No,” she said firmly, putting the dress back. The wardrobe rattled ominously. “Thank you, but no,” she said more politely but no less firmly. “I would prefer something more…” She hesitated. More what? Masculine? But she couldn’t say that, could she? “...subdued.”
There was a pause in which Britomart could have sworn the wardrobe was thinking. Then, a dress began to twitch as if trying to get her attention. She pulled it out. It was unadorned black, cut in a style that must have been in fashion during her grandmother’s time. It looked like widow’s weeds. Britomart scowled at the wardrobe. “Very funny.” It seemed to regard her as sufficiently chastened, for the next garment that it presented was a simple but elegant gown of deep blue wool with an underdress the color of the midday sky. When Britomart put it on, she found that the fit was as perfect as it had looked on the hanger, although the gown hugged her figure rather more closely than she was used to. She looked in the mirror above the dressing table and had to admit that the effect was not unpleasing. The silken blue slippers that the wardrobe produced to accompany the gown were downright impractical, but it did not seem worth protesting. Britomart did not want to know what the wardrobe would come up with if she rejected them. Nor did Britomart protest when a small wooden box on the dressing table that had been rattling to get her attention produced a sapphire necklace that nestled comfortably around her neck.
Britomart itched to strap her sword belt over the gown, even if it would ruin the effect, but she made herself leave it where she had stashed it beside the bed. She had sworn not to harm Amoret while under her hospitality, and bringing a sword to dinner hardly sent the right message. The thought of going unarmed to dinner with a blood witch sent a tingle of adrenaline through her. She thought of the proximity of Amoret sitting next to her on the bed. She thought of those dark eyes and the half-mocking smile on her lips. The flutter in Britomart’s stomach intensified. Adrenaline. It was only adrenaline.
It was only adrenaline that made her pause at the base of the spiral staircase before entering the great hall; only adrenaline that made her heart pound when she stepped into the hall and saw Amoret sitting alone at the far end of the long table; only adrenaline that made her swallow hard when she saw that the place set for her was not at the foot of the table but directly beside Amoret.
The firelight from the hearth played over the crimson silk of Amoret’s dress and sent her shadow dancing on the wall as she stood to welcome Britomart. Her eyes traveled over Britomart, from her loose hair to the sapphire nestled at her neck and the fine woolen dress of deep blue. The corner of Amoret’s mouth quirked. “You must have been quite forceful with the castle. It insisted I wear silk.”
Britomart could feel a flush creeping up her cheeks. She wasn’t sure if it was from Amoret’s gaze or from the sense that she should have given into the castle’s insistence about more elaborate finery. She felt underdressed. “The castle seemed to think I might like pink,” she managed.
“Yes, it always insists on shades of red for me,” Amoret replied. “Someday I shall have to convince it to give me more variety. I’m glad you persuaded it to give you blue. It suits you.” Amoret’s stance became more formal as Britomart joined her at the end of the table. Amoret’s words had the feel of a ritual greeting as she inclined her head and said, “Be welcome, guest, to my castle’s board. May this meal make us stronger in fellowship as it makes us stronger in body.”
If it was a ritual, it was one Britomart did not know. She inclined her head in turn, grasping for a proper response. She settled on, “And may I someday return in fellowship the fruits that you give this day unto me.”
“May it be so,” Amoret intoned. Then she broke into the half-sardonic smile that was quickly becoming familiar to Britomart and added, “You know, I don’t think you mean that at all. I can hardly picture you welcoming me to your father’s court in Galbrica.” She gestured at Britomart’s chair. “Sit, please. We should eat while the meal is hot.”
Britomart smoothed her skirts as she sat, trying to hide her discomfiture. Amoret was right, of course. “I would not deny hospitality that I am honor-bound to give,” she said.
“Perhaps I shall come to your court then, someday. Just to see your face when you have to welcome me.” A hunted look came over Britomart’s face, and Amoret relented. “Oh don’t worry, I no more wish to visit Galbrica than you wish to have me there. You are quite safe.”
“That’s just it, though,” Britomart said, struggling to find the right words. “About being safe I mean. It’s not just that I would be betraying my country by letting a dangerous enemy into the court if I gave you hospitality. It’s that you wouldn’t be safe. And to let a guest come to harm under my roof–that would be sacrilege.”
Amoret arched an eyebrow. “Are you truly so convinced I am a dangerous enemy?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Perhaps.”
Britomart was not sure what to say to that. She was glad when Amoret turned her attention to the covered dishes arrayed before them, which had begun to jostle each other in their attempt to catch the diners’ eye. Britomart studied the food as Amoret removed the covers. It was not a feast by Galbrican standards–there was no suckling pig, no swan, no platter of partridges piled high–but it looked hearty and delicious, and it was certainly enough for the two of them. There were several vegetable dishes, only some of which Britomart recognized, and a beautifully seasoned platter of meat whose smell made her keenly aware that she had not eaten since breakfast. She wondered what sort of meat it was. Did she want to know? Perhaps it was not even meat at all. If only she had Queen Boemia’s true sight, she might be able to see this castle for what it was: to see the rot and fungi under the beauty.
“It’s not poison,” Amoret commented.
Britomart realized that her host was waiting for her to serve herself. She began to pile food onto her plate, too flustered to remember to take only as much as was proper for a ladylike guest. If it was rot and fungi, so be it. She was hungry.
The food tasted as good as it smelled. Britomart ate single-mindedly for several minutes before remembering that she ought to be paying at least as much attention to her host as to her meal. She darted a look at Amoret, expecting to find Amoret watching her scornfully, but her host was equally preoccupied with demolishing a large helping of meat. Britomart wondered if she hadn’t been the only one to miss lunch. She remembered Amoret saying that she’d spent hours tracking down how to reverse the sleeping spell. It was an odd thought: that a blood witch might have missed lunch to help her. Britomart turned back to her meal before Amoret could notice her looking. After a while, their eating slowed, and there was a rustle of silk as Amoret settled back in her chair. Britomart set down her fork and pushed her plate slightly away. She looked up to find Amoret regarding her.
“What?” Britomart asked defensively, then internally winced. “That was rude, I apologize. What I meant to say was that the meal was delicious. Thank you.”
Amoret waved away Britomart’s apology. “I was merely thinking that I should have served you mead. I forgot. I think the castle did too. There have not been many guests lately, and I take only water with meals.”
Britomart thought of what Rowena had said about Amoret lacking companions. She wondered how long it had been since Amoret had any guests at all. “It’s nothing. Mead is too sweet anyways.”
“Be that as it may, the castle will no doubt try to make up for its lapse with rivers of mead tomorrow night, so you will have to drink some to avoid hurting its feelings.”
“I wouldn’t want for the castle to go to any trouble on my behalf. I don’t even know whether I'll be here tomorrow night, to be honest. I came here on urgent business, and I was hoping that you–that we–could take care of it tomorrow, and then I could be on my way, and leave you and the castle in peace.”
An indefinable hardness settled over Amoret’s face, erasing the last traces of the wistfulness that had crept over it when talking about guests. “I see. I think the time has come for you to explain yourself, Britomart Ameliana Boemia Cardis, princess of Galbrica.”
Britomart explained. She explained about Alfrick and Willa’s unofficial engagement, and about Alfrick disappearing on his way to make that engagement official. She explained about setting off without her father’s permission to rescue Alfrick. She explained about Rivensfeldt and Smudge. She explained about fleeing into the Shadowed Wood and following the white stag to the stream. (Amoret’s lips tightened at that. “I see Rowena has indeed been interfering. And with my creatures.”). She explained about the sleepers’ cave and about Rowena’s claim that the only sure way to wake Alfrick was for the spell’s caster to remove it. She explained about the fiery cloak that Rowena had given her and about fighting her way through the roses to reach the castle.
“...So, you see,” she concluded, “I’ve come to ask you to take the spell off of Alfrick. And off of the other sleepers too. Nobody deserves to be stuck like that.”
Amoret studied Britomart with a piercing intensity that was far more disconcerting than anger would have been. “Are you so sure? What do you know of the other sleepers?”
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“I know that they are people, and putting people under a spell like that is–it’s evil.”
“Is it so much worse than what your people do to those who break your laws? Worse than cutting off a child’s hand and leaving him to fall prey to slow death by infection? Worse than suffocation at the end of a noose? Worse than the punishments I have read of for your traitors?”
Britomart wished she had not told Amoret about Smudge. “That’s justice,” she replied, though she was not sure she believed it any longer.
“And so is the sleepers’ spell. Did Rowena tell you how the spell began?”
“No,” Britomart reluctantly admitted.
“Of course she did not. Rowena tells precisely as much as serves her purposes and no more. Over a thousand years ago, a group of Tywyth Teg landed their ships on the Northern shores. Old Ones, I believe your people call them, or sometimes elves. It always sounded like a ridiculous word to me. From the coast, they made their journey through the mountains to the valleys and the woods: these valleys, this wood. They settled here amidst the trees and streams, and in time, some of the bolder Northerners began to seek them out. The Tylwth Teg were a dangerous people. Some could speak with earth and stone. Those were the eneidiau careg, like the being who made this castle. Some could speak with the water, some with air, some with fire. Whichever element they could speak to, they could persuade it to do their will. The inhabitants of the North would have stood little chance had the Tylwyth Teg wished them violence. But they did not. They were, I think, simply curious.” A hint of mischief in Amoret’s eyes told Britomart that Amoret had not missed the similarity to her own curiosity about Britomart.
“Whatever the cause,” Amoret continued, “the Tylwyth Teg did not try to conquer their human neighbors. Instead, they lived alongside them. Some even fell in love with humans and took them as mates, although the humans lived only a fraction of the Tylwyth Teg lifespan. The children of the humans and theTylwyth Teg inherited some of the powers of their Tylwyth Teg parents, along with a slightly increased lifespan. A few of those children were born with a hybrid magic that was particularly prized: a magic that combined the elemental control of the Tylwyth Teg with the concentrated life force of the short-lived humans. Those were the first blood witches, although we were not called that until much later. Back then, we were known as the eneidiau bywyd–life whisperers–for our power is not over elements but over things that live.
“Centuries passed. Some of the Tylwyth Teg died, whether because their time had come or because they lost the will to live after their human lovers died. One day, those who remained began to rebuild their ships. Perhaps the remainder feared the fate of their companions who had died. Perhaps they simply grew bored. Whatever the cause, they took sail from the same shore that had brought them to the North long ago, and they were never seen again. They took a few of their part-human children with them when they left, but most were left behind. Some of their descendants reintegrated into the Northern villages. Over generations, the power they had inherited from the Tylwyth Teg faded. All that remains today among the Northern villagers is an occasional affinity for certain elements–a sort of heightened sensitivity. One person will always be able to tell you where the nearest water source is; another will know precisely when the first snow will fall; a third will be able to grow plants from even the stoniest ground.”
“Those who stayed in the Shadowed Wood retained more of their power. Perhaps there was something about the wood itself that strengthened their magic, or perhaps it was simply because they intermarried less with humans. A line of blood witches emerged that became the unofficial leader of those who stayed in the wood. People from the Northern villages knew of the power and wisdom of those who lived here, and they began to come to the Shadowed Wood to seek guidance and aid, then to seek resolution when conflicts emerged in their villages. The leading blood witch became first arbiter, then ruler, of more and more of the North. She helped and guarded her people, passing judgment when needed, meting out punishment when required. And that is how the sleeping spell came into being. The power of blood witches is the power of life, and they have always been loath to use it for death, whatever your stories might say. So blood witches came up with a punishment of a different sort for those whose crimes were so grievous that they could never again walk freely in the world: the punishment of eternal slumber.”
Britomart’s resolution to listen silently broke. “But the sleepers in the cave–they weren’t villains. At least, not all of them were. I’m sure of it. There were children, for Frigga’s sake.”
“I would bet a great deal that you saw only the outer chamber if you are so sure of that. And do not be so sure that children cannot be villains.”
“Fine. Say you’re right about some of the sleepers. There’s no way that all of them committed crimes so grievous that they deserved such a punishment. If that’s what a blood witch’s justice looks like, I can’t say I think much of it.”
Amoret’s eyes flashed dangerously, and there was a sudden stillness about her that made Britomart feel like a deer fixed in a wolf’s gaze. “Be careful what you say, princess. I have taken you in and lifted your slumber, but my patience is not infinite.”
Britomart nodded stiffly. “I overstepped myself. I must beg your pardon.” Britomart felt Amoret relax, and after a moment, she did too.
There was a wry note in Amoret’s voice when she resumed, “If you had let me finish, you would have known that the function of the spell has changed. Nearly five hundred years have passed since it was last meted out as a sentence by a blood witch sitting in judgment. The slumber is still a punishment of sorts, but it is, above all, a precaution. After the Conquest, when Morgwynna was dead and all that was left of her realm was the Shadowed Wood, her sister made sure that no traitor would enter the wood again. She bespelled the roses around the castle so that a single prick from their thorns would send an intruder into slumber. Ever since then, any outsider who ventures too far into the Shadowed Wood finds their way here and pays the price. That is how the Shadowed Wood has survived all these years: survived even though loggers covet its lumber and trappers its animals, survived even though rumors of a blood witch in its depths still linger in some of the Northern villages. The sleeping spell is not an evil thing. It is what keeps the wood and its inhabitants safe from all those who mean it harm.”
“But Alfrick didn’t mean the wood any harm!” Britomart burst out.
“Do you know why he entered the Shadowed Wood?” Amoret asked calmly.
“He was going after his friend. Danbar told me.”
“And what was his friend doing?”
“Hunting a stag.”
“A white stag, to be precise. Were they starving, Alfrick and this friend? Did they need the meat? Or were they hunting for the fun of it? For the fun of killing.”
“I don’t know,” Britomart admitted.
“Think,” Amoret pressed on inexorably. “Would a duke’s son and his entourage set out for a journey to Boemapolis without sufficient provisions to make it even as far as the Koleagh Pass? Or would they be provided with the best supplies the duke’s larders had to offer?”
“They would have provisions, I suppose.”
“So they sought to kill for the joy of the hunt.”
“You ate meat tonight,” Britomart said in exasperation. “I saw you. It can’t be a crime, not unless you’re breaking the law too.”
“No, it’s not a crime to hunt for meat in the Shadowed Wood–not if you are one of the wood’s inhabitants–but no creature here hunts for more than they need. We do not kill for sport. And nobody here would be foolish enough to hunt a white stag. They are the symbol of Morgwynna’s house. As much as any creature in the Shadowed Wood belongs to another, the white stags belong to Morgwynna’s line. To me.”
“Oh.” Britomart thought of the white stag that had led them to the stream and understood why Amoret had been so annoyed that Rowena had used it as their guide. “Still, Alfrick wasn’t hunting the stag. He was just trying to get Sir Rolf back.”
Amoret smoothed nonexistent wrinkles on the full skirt of her dress. Britomart had the distinct impression that, for once, she had caught her host wrongfooted. “Yes, well, once a person comes within range of the roses, the spell will begin to work on them no matter what.”
“That’s hardly fair.”
Amoret shrugged. “The spell is a precaution, remember? It wouldn’t be much good as a safeguard if we had people returning from the Shadowed Wood and spreading news of an enchanted castle. We would have treasure hunters flooding the wood, willing to bear the risk for the hope of gain. And, in time, we would have the duke’s men too, and perhaps your father’s, wondering what risk it might pose.”
Britomart thought again of Amoret’s isolation. “But if the roses simply go after everybody who comes too close, if nobody can reach the castle without falling under the spell…Can anybody ever come in? Can you ever go out?”
“Oh, it’s easy enough to go out. The roses will not stop anybody trying to leave. Nor will they harm anybody who enters with my blessing. The spell recognizes my blood, for I am of the blood that made it. The roses will obey me.”
“Let me get this straight,” Britomart said, indignation stirring. “You could have simply let me in? You could have told the roses to stand down, and I wouldn’t have had to fight my way through them? I wouldn’t have had thorns trying to pierce every inch of me, or have been knocked unconscious on your doorstep?”
Her annoyance grew as Amoret replied, “I could have let you in, yes. But why would I? You were a knight attacking the castle. Besides, I was in the library, and I didn’t even notice you until one of the more enthusiastic roses caught my eye through the window.” Amoret did not look in the least repentant. If anything, she looked smug. Britomart wished that Amoret was someone she could fight with a sword. She would have liked to dump her on her butt in the dirt.
“Couldn’t you–I don’t know–install a bell in the clearing? A nice big bell that people could ring so that you could let them through the roses without them becoming pincushions?”
“The roses do not make anybody a pincushion,” Amoret said archly. “They’re very restrained, really. They only pricked you once, even after all the trouble you caused them. And, yes, there used to be a bell at the edge of the clearing. Anyone who wanted to speak to the blood witch could ring it to request an audience.”
“What happened to it?”
A closed expression had come over Amoret’s face. “My mother removed it,” she said flatly.
“Why?”
“That is a tale for another time.”
“You could have the bell rebuilt,” Britomart tentatively suggested.
Amoret gave no sign that she had heard Britomart’s words. She had turned to stare into the fire, and Britomart watched the play of light and shadow on her profile: the firelight gilding her cheek; the shadow at the hollow of her throat; the dark glints in her thick hair. They sat in silence for some time before Amoret turned back to her and said, “It’s getting late. We had best go to bed.”
Britomart realized that it must indeed be late. With that realization, fatigue hit, as if it had been waiting just at the edges of her consciousness for her to notice it. “Yes, of course, but Amoret–”
Amoret’s eyebrows rose. Her sardonic look was back. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use my name before. Either you’re getting used to me, or you want something from me.”
“You know I want something from you. You never answered my question. Will you break the spell on Alfrick?”
“That is not a question. It is a request, and a foolish one.”
“Fine, you never answered my request. Will you wake him?”
“Ask me again tomorrow night.”
“Again you speak of tomorrow. Am I trapped here?” Britomart thought of Queen Boemia, bound to serve the Blood Witch for a year.
“You may leave any time you like. As I said, the roses do not prevent anyone from going out. But if you leave, do not expect to come back. No matter what tricks Rowena gives you, no matter how much the castle likes you, I will not admit you a second time.”
“I see.” Britomart’s jaw tightened. “Then until you grant my request, I am trapped here, just as surely as if you had shackled me with iron. Do not pretend you do not know that.”
Amoret did not answer. She had gone back to looking into the fire.
“Tell me,” Britomart asked harshly, “will you ever wake Alfrick?”
“Ask me again tomorrow. That is, if you will stay.”
“Of course I’ll stay. I haven’t got a choice.” Britomart thought of Smudge still waiting for her, and her heart ached. She hoped that he had gone back to Rowena’s cottage when she did not return. “But I can’t leave my traveling companion without word. He’s only a boy.”
“I will send him word that you are safe.”
Britomart wished that Amoret would look at her. She wished she could tell what the other woman was thinking. She pressed on, “And tell him that he is to stay with Rowena until I return.”
“It shall be done.”
“And that I will return soon.”
There was a long pause this time before Amoret replied, “As you wish.”
“I will return soon,” Britomart repeated defiantly. When Amoret did not respond, she added sharply, “I’m going to bed.” She did not bother to say goodnight. She did not care that it was rude. She rose and left the table.
Britomart did not stop to look back when she heard Amoret murmur, “Sleep well, princess.” She did not stop until she had barred the door to her chamber. Then she leaned back against the door and put her head in her hands. She wished bone-deep that she could leave this castle behind–that she could leave Amoret behind. But when she finally closed her eyes that night, it was Amoret’s face she saw as she drifted into dreaming.