Witches, Princesses, and Women at Arms

by Sacchi Green

  “You took my ring last time,” she said. “I have no more possessions of value. You could have everything in this room, for all I cared.”

  “And because you care so little, I cannot accept that as payment.” Suddenly, we were close—so close—to each other, her face inches away from mine. I was taller by half a head, and she tilted hers up to meet my eyes. I rested a hand on her cheek, covering the port-wine stain as with a lover’s caress. My thumb gently stroked her skin. Her breath caught; her eyes half closed. “I will claim payment when my work is done,” I whispered, my breath teasing her lips. “And you will give it freely.”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Sleep.” And she did.

  And I worked. This time, when she woke, it was to the sight of silver everywhere. Coins and bars, plates and knives and goblets, bracelets and brooches. It was a king’s ransom and then some; it shone in the moonlight that streamed through the window. Katharina gasped, overwhelmed by what she saw. As well she might have, for I had outdone myself in a desire to… impress her? Certainly, I cared not what that foolishly greedy king thought.

  The look she gave me was almost heartbreaking. Could she feel the passion I’d poured into my creations? Could she sense how I felt about her, this brave, determined young woman? For we were kindred spirits, of that I had no doubt. Her breaths came quick and nervous as she waited to hear my price.

  “A kiss,” I told her.

  “I’ve never been kissed,” she confessed.

  “I know.” I cupped her cheek again, fingers gentle against the skin, and tilted her head to meet mine. Our lips came together in a soft moment of awkward fumbling before…

  She responded with an endearing inexperience that spoke profoundly of hidden fire and repressed desire. Her lips parted at my subtle urging, and our tongues teased each other. I showed her the way, but she raced along the path like a wolf after a rabbit, threatening to leave me behind. Her fingers snuck into my hair, and I wrapped an arm around her waist to hold her close. When we finally broke apart, it was with heaving chests, mussed hair, and bruised lips. Her eyes were wide, almost fearful, and yet—she understood something new.

  I smiled. “I find your payment…acceptable.”

  “Take me with you,” she whispered hoarsely, less a cry for freedom and more a need to further explore these new and confusing emotions.

  “Guess my name,” I ordered her, even as I ran my hands over myself, making sure my clothes were in order again. Her eyes tracked my movements hungrily. I had to remind myself that she’d been starved for affection, lonely all her life, never desired in the way a woman should be desired. I could not let this go further tonight.

  Until the sun came up, she made her guesses. But I was not Liesl or Leona, Michaela or Miriam, Theodora or Thora. And when the time came for me to go, it was with regret on both our parts.

  This time, the king waited an entire month before succumbing to his base desires. This time, it was a veritable mountain of straw, enough to fill the chamber from floor to ceiling, and the demand was for gold.

  This time, Katharina greeted me with a warm embrace that lasted too long to be friendly. I knew then that she had thought of me in my absence, and not just because I held the power to save her life. Did she dream of me, perhaps? Did she touch herself and wonder just how exactly I’d feel, taste, smell?

  Oh, I had. Sex magic is very powerful stuff indeed, and in the depths of the forest I’d practiced the solitary arts in order to gather the power I’d need to perform tonight’s miracle. I’d given myself to the earth, the wind, the night sky, the hidden pools. I’d stripped naked, spread my legs, plunged my hand between my legs, and fingered myself to screaming orgasms. I’d tugged at my nipples and raked my flesh, all for an imaginary lover who resembled Katharina in every regard. My arousal had soaked into the moss, the wind had teased away my scent, and the owls flew on my cries. The magic had infused me so I shone like the midnight sun, and I’d done it all for Katharina.

  I pulled out of her arms to solemnly regard her. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, her lips slightly parted. She radiated excitement. “This will be my last visit,” I informed her. “Three tests, three visits. We are all constrained by rules.”

  “I know,” she murmured, her mood dimming at my straightforward manner. “And you will charge a hefty price indeed for this final miracle.”

  “I shall. But you will pay it.”

  She lowered her eyes, speaking toward the floor. “Gladly.” Her tone was husky, just a little wanton; we both knew where this would lead. I knew on some level, she was willing to pay anything simply to survive. People are remarkably stubborn when it comes to defying fate, after all. I knew that in me, she saw survival and freedom. I knew that I’d awakened something long dormant within her.

  Need.

  Desire.

  Lust.

  I caressed her cheek, tipped her head up to again meet my gaze. I leaned in, my lips brushing hers. As she inhaled, I whispered: “Sleep.”

  And she did.

  As Katharina, the miller’s daughter, dreamed of freedom and the wild woods, I spun straw into gold and created such works as the world had never seen. I transformed her chamber into a place of luxury and decadence, where every stick of furniture, every trapping, every ornament, was spun from the finest of gold. I imbued it with warmth and softness, light and life. The centerpiece of my labors was a great four-poster bed, as soft as a cloud with sheets finer than silk, pillows fluffier than any stuffed with goose down, and a near-transparent canopy. And on that bed I lay Katharina, and when all was ready, I woke her with a kiss.

  She stretched and arched, fully rested, languid as a cat in a sunbeam, and gasped to see what I had wrought. “This is…I never could have imagined this,” she breathed.

  “All this, I’ve done for you,” I said. “But now I shall claim my payment, and we will be quit. Scales balanced, obligations settled. The king will marry you. You will claim your gifts were exhausted by these trials; he will believe you and relieve you of any further tests. You will live long, have many children, and rule as a queen should. You will live…happily ever after.”

  My voice near broke on that last one. It was not a lie, but I knew she would not have a completely happy life with the king. Who could, knowing her husband would have killed her over something as ridiculous as copper and silver and gold? Foolish king. Katharina would have burned ever so brightly for anyone who simply loved her for herself.

  She stared at me with those deep blue eyes, as if to read truth in my expression. I forced my features to remain still and stern. I started to reach for her—and then I stopped. I couldn’t take that next step. I knew the price I wanted her to pay. So did she, I believed. We both paused for a long, long moment. My heart hammered in my chest, and I feared it would explode, or shatter into a million pieces. I swallowed my desire and loneliness and heartbreak down, and said, “I shall claim your firstborn as my own.”

  The sound she made nearly brought me to my knees; it was a cry of anguish and disappointment. I turned away so I didn’t have to look at her. I wrapped my cloak tight around me, and took a step toward the shadows.

  From behind me, a ragged plea. “Take me with you!”

  I paused in mid-step. Without looking back, I replied, “Guess my name.”

  I was not Pauline or Petra, nor was I Reinheld or Rike. I was not Brunhilde, or Beata or Barbara. With each failed guess, I felt her come a little closer, until she was whispering names against my ear, her tone desperate and desirous. Her breath tickled the spot where neck met shoulder; I shivered even as my legs weakened and the moisture pooled between my legs.

  Katharina kissed that spot, and I bit back the lightest of moans. She spoke a name, which I felt rather than heard.

  “No,” I told her. That was not my name. Yes, I thought. Kiss me again.

  Her lips skimmed my neck. She traced another name with her tongue on my skin.

  “No.”

  Yes. />
  She caught my arm, tugged until I twisted to face her.

  She was naked. Every inch of smooth skin was on display, and I drank it in with hungry eyes. She was lean and lithe, well muscled and yet oddly delicate, surprisingly confident as she posed for me. My gaze swept over the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts, the rosy nipples made taut with arousal. I noted the scarlet flush that crept down past her neckline, and the cascade of hair around her shoulders. As I watched, she lifted a hand to sweep the hair back, boldly displaying the stain on her cheek that had repelled so many suitors in the past, which had inadvertently gotten her into this predicament. She wore it now like a badge of honor, and she was radiant in her newfound boldness.

  “Take me,” she said. “If not as the price for your labors… then freely given while we still have this time. If you can’t take me with you, then at least take me to bed.” Her eyes glimmered with sudden tears. “If I must resign myself to a life with a king I despise, give me a night to last me a lifetime.”

  The pain in her voice—the naked longing and quiet resignation—finished the job of shattering my heart. But as she held her arms out to me, I felt the pieces already mending, renewed by something deep and strange. I could not save her from her fate—not unless she guessed my name, for there were rules binding us all—but I could grant this one last request.

  Gladly. With all my repaired heart.

  We came together in a sudden awkward tangle of limbs and lust, our mouths meeting in a hungry kiss, devouring each other with lips and tongue. Her hands fumbled at my robes; mine skimmed over smooth skin and lost themselves in golden hair. I cheated, exercising just a little of my unspent magic to let my clothes fall away in a shower of scraps, so many cloth petals to litter the floor at our feet. Katharina laughed against my lips at the odd sight, before renewing her efforts to explore me.

  Oh, I was no beauty, not like her. I had some years on the miller’s daughter, and more curves than was considered fashionable. It didn’t matter to her. She found my breasts, cupping them in her hands, thumbs teasing the nipples to erectness with utter fascination. She was soft and warm and so very enthusiastic, filled with infectious joy, and I found my own reserve melting away.

  I walked her backward, directing her with kisses and caresses, and we fell onto the golden bed in an awkward sprawl that took away our breath and left me on top. She lay under me, eyes wide with a wanton innocence that set fire to my nerves and left me dripping with need. The need to please her, to claim her, to know her completely.

  And I did. With fingers and mouth, I taught Katharina, the miller’s daughter, the ways of women together. I kissed my way over her breasts, down her stomach, and between her legs. I spread her with my fingers, and buried my face in her sex. I stroked the length of her, tasting her wetness, teasing her with the flicking of my tongue and the warmth of my breath. As Katharina moaned, whimpered, and clenched handfuls of golden sheets, I drank my fill of her. I tormented her to the brink of orgasm with my mouth…and then I fucked her with my fingers. I alternated in this fashion until she exploded with pleasure, crying inarticulately, shuddering over and over while the aftershocks rippled through her body.

  Then it was her turn to demonstrate what a quick learner she was. She kissed me fiercely, licking her taste from my lips with utter fascination, before encouraging me to lie back so she could explore me. For what felt like hours, she stroked and caressed me, listening to my moans and murmured instructions—yes, there, more, harder, yes, don’t hesitate—working me into a right state of arousal indeed. My nipples grew painfully tight, and I pinched them for relief even as she took her first taste of my sex.

  The hesitant, feather-soft touch of tongue on clit nevertheless felt like lightning; I arched and commanded her to continue. She paused as if to savor me, as if to decide that she liked what she’d found, and then, awkward and inexperienced but oh so eager to learn, she devoured me. I looked down, and there was that golden waterfall of hair, falling over my thighs; it was a sight I’d never forget, nor grow weary of.

  If only we weren’t bound by rules.

  As I orgasmed, magic escaped from me, bathing the room in sparkles and vivid colors, fading away slowly as I returned to my senses and reclaimed control. Stray magic twisted around us like dust motes in the sunlight, reminding me that time still ticked on and our long night would end sooner than we liked.

  Determined to give Katharina as much satisfaction as possible, I pulled her into my arms, claiming her mouth with mine in another needy kiss. I breathed in her scent, fixing it in my memory. I would take her with me in spirit, if nothing else. I teased her with my fingers, and once more she opened herself to me. Soaked, hot, tight, arching into my touch desperately. I stroked and rubbed, feeling the tension build within her. I—

  I couldn’t let it end so simply.

  “Say my name,” I whispered.

  Katharina moaned, unable to put together coherent syllables.

  “Say my name,” I repeated, several fingers thrusting faster to match her ragged breathing.

  She mumbled something, begging me for more, more, more.

  “Say my name,” I demanded, my hand moving furiously as she ground herself against the merciless onslaught of sensations. “Katharina the miller’s daughter, if you love me… Say. My. Name!”

  And as the orgasm tore through her, so did my secret name rip itself from her parted lips, a nonsense collection of sounds which defined me, gave me form and function and power and meaning, which bound me and limited me.

  Her cry freed me to act as I would. To raise my magic and break the invisible chains which locked us into our roles. To snip unseen threads and shatter unknown locks. As the sun rose outside Katharina’s cell, I carried us both away with the bed itself in a swirl of golden wind, far from greedy kings and foolish fathers.

  In our wake, all the copper and silver and gold I’d spun for the king turned to dust and cobwebs. He would not benefit from my labors, nor profit from his greed ever again. He would die in a hunting accident before taking a wife; the throne would pass to a far wiser cousin who would rule with grace and dignity. The miller would one day receive a message stating that Katharina was happy and cared for and no longer his concern. He would live well, but deep in his heart, he’d regret the foolishness that cost him his daughter.

  Elsewise and elsewhere, Katharina and I lay curled together in my own decidedly non-golden bed, speaking of life, love, and the future. We spoke of learning magic and defying propriety and living happily ever after.

  “And,” she said with a soft laugh, “to think you wanted my firstborn.” She rolled over to kiss me playfully. “I give you that as well, willingly, however it might come about.”

  “What service shall I perform to earn that payment?”

  “I’m sure we can find something…”

  And we did. For many years to come.

  WARRIOR’S CHOICE

  A. D. R. Forte

  Another tourist attraction in the impatient midst of the bustling, honking downtown, the palace dreams its dreams. They have pulled down the old ruins of the walls now, and anyone can get to the gardens, a shrubby fragment of their former glory. But it was not always this way.

  Once, the walls towered, crowned with iron spikes. Once, only the faintest scent of roses wafted out into the night. Borne by the wind. Blown by the breath of a princess.

  She leans her head against the window arch, letting the night cool the ache and heat of the revelry below. A few precious minutes of escape. A respite from excess, from glittering, smiling duty. She lifts a hand to her head, to the confection of gold mesh and filigree birds with eyes of jewels. It is heavy, this towering artistry of the hairdressers’ guild, and it weighs on her neck with the burden of an iron ring. It cages more than her dark hair.

  She would tug at the coif, send the birds flying to a watery grave in the fountains far, far below. If she dared. But she cannot. No more than she can forever say, “No.” To her father. To the s
tate. To the bonds of birth.

  But she can reach her arms to the distance that unfolds beneath her, away from her, into a destiny she cannot imagine. She can sing of all she cannot say, of all she cannot even think, to the night wind that carries her song across the plains and out into the wide world, to fall where it may.

  Maevyn wakes, shivering in her furs. The stars are bright pinpoints in the darkness, but their light is not what has wakened her. Nor is it the cold, though her breath turns to steam as she gets to her feet and reaches for bow and knife. Snow mutes her footsteps and pine branches brush, sharp and pungent, by her face until she reaches the wooden bridge where the river churns, still and sluggish, between its banks.

  In this season, there is no travel. The Hadrai huddle close to their fires, within the shelter of stone and wood. The warriors take their skills to the foothills in search of meat, and even they share the fires of the small folk when they can. As she does now, following the sound of pipes to the vale below. There is a song playing in her head, but not one of the folk. Not a song of the Hadrai. Not one she’s ever heard before.

  And yet it goes on, a ripple of notes so exquisitely joined they might almost hide the sorrow in the melody, the loneliness in this song she doesn’t know. The call that drives her to search for something, somewhere, against all good common sense.

  “Who is it that calls?” says a voice in the dark.

  “It is I,” she replies as she steps into the edge of the fires’ glow.

  “Maevyn. And how fare you?”

  She nods her head at the small, gray-bearded man, but in the way of his kind, he senses what she doesn’t say. He holds out a pitcher and mug, gestures to the nearest fire ring.

  “Come,” says he, “and tell me what disquiets your soul.”

  If only she could. If only there were a way to describe this nameless, faceless longing. This compulsion, this knowledge that she must go. Though to do so is madness. And folly.