Witches, Princesses, and Women at Arms

by Sacchi Green

  Slight as he was, when Hjørdis had alternately teased and switched him for a short time he was clearly tall enough where it counted. She tweaked her own breasts and envisioned Styggri’s large hands on them to get her juices flowing enough for comfort, and, when his cries and gasps signaled that it would soon be too late, she mounted and rode him fiercely until he was drained and sobbing.

  Hjørdis was far from drained, but she untied the prince and allowed him to sleep in her arms all night, his head nestled between her breasts. She herself slept little, dreaming of Styggri, but too fitfully for relief.

  At dawn the castle was in an uproar. Hjørdis gave up any pretense of sleep, sent the prince away, and cornered her maid. The girl was longing to tell the news. Princess Vesla had been found in the prisoner’s bed, and was defying her father through her tears, proclaiming that she would marry Harald or die. Some whispered that she had gone to him through a secret passage beneath the castle, but the castle was built on rock, so that must be untrue.

  In the turmoil Hjørdis slipped out unseen, pausing in the laundry yard behind the stables to exchange her finery for leggings and a shirt of suitable size. As soon as she reached the bridge Styggri appeared among the trees.

  Hjørdis confronted her, eyes blazing in anger. “A secret passage? There was a secret passage through the rock?”

  Styggri retreated a step or two and shrugged. “Well, there is now.”

  “And what other useful lessons did you learn in all those years of training? I suppose poor Vesla’s wine, like mine, contained herbs with special powers.”

  “Not quite the same herbs,” Styggri said. “And do not pity Princess Vesla. She had the courage to follow the counsel of the fearsome troll who appeared in a ‘dream.’ She will bear a healthy son, so if the king has the sense to get them quickly wed, your oath will be fulfilled. Or near enough.”

  “I will not be managed!” Hjørdis was every inch the Lady of the Hall. “I do not presume to command you, nor you me. There must be no secrets between us!” Styggri, for all her solid strength, looked shaken, until Hjørdis took her by the sleeve and tugged her toward the rocky cleft from which the stream flowed. “Well, what are you waiting for? We must be far away and hidden by the time they think to search for me.”

  By noon they were well away to the north. Where they must pass through open land, night travel would be best, so they rested in a dense hillside copse above a rocky ledge through the afternoon. Once settled in, Hjørdis sighed and leaned against Styggri’s shoulder, and when she felt a tentative arm across her shoulders, she put her own around Styggri’s waist. Was Styggri too wondering what lay ahead for them? Each had changed in the years apart. Yet she knew already that Styggri was her truest home, more to her than any mountains or fjords or Halls.

  There was one question left unanswered. “Why,” she asked, “since you had built your plan around Vesla, did you urge me on to seduce Prince Oleg? Merely part of your game?”

  “No game.” Styggri drew a deep breath. “No game, but something that should have been your choice, not mine.”

  Hjørdis forged on. “‘Not quite the same herbs,’ you said. And now you are sure that she will bear a son.”

  “There was no time for discussion. But…surely there should be another Lady of your Hall to come after you…”

  Hjørdis had already considered this possibility. By now her rage had been spent, replaced by a small flicker of hope. A daughter. Yes.

  She shifted until her body pressed Styggri’s backward. The blood-red garnet pendant slid out from beneath her shirt, dangling from its silver chain, and she swayed deliberately so that it bobbed against Styggri’s lips. “Conception without benefit of pleasure? You have a great deal to make up for!”

  Their bodies still knew each other as well as they knew themselves. Taste did not lie, nor scent, nor touch. Both were strong and fiery enough to wish for no gentleness; that could be savored later. Hjørdis’s grip ranged over Styggri’s rump and back and shoulders, leaving trails of bruises and scratches, until Styggri’s hot mouth on one breast, then the other, and the skill of her agile tongue, made Hjørdis tug frantically at her head to get that mouth pressed even harder against peaks that were swollen and tender, yet ached for more and more.

  Styggri, her hand as busy between Hjørdis’s wet folds as her mouth on those full breasts, clamped her own thighs fiercely around the one Hjørdis raised between them, so that each movement by one, every thrust and arch of hips, every stroke of fingers, heightened the other’s pleasure. The shattering peak was reached all too soon, followed, after a brief interval of catching their breaths, by new entanglements and challenges, and equal triumphs.

  By the time Hjørdis had gained what she was due and more, with much rolling and wrestling and the heat of maximum friction, they were both sore, scratched by branches and each other, and supremely satisfied.

  Hjørdis lay curled on her side, panting, her head on her lover’s belly. “Here is the choice I make,” she said at last. “If we are to raise a daughter, a child of the Hall by blood, and of Trollkind by love”—she felt Styggri’s sharp intake of breath— “her name will be Magnhild, for any daughter of ours must become a strong, valiant woman.”

  Styggri, with a long, contented sigh, let Hjørdis have the last word, for nothing further need be said.

  THE SORCERESS OF SOLISTERRE

  Lea Daley

  The polished torchwood table seemed to stretch to infinity. Seated at its head, Ilyaviere the Third—Queen of Solisterre, Venestria, and the Prithian Islands—counted the councillors in attendance. All present, twenty grave faces turned toward their sovereign. But aligned with one another, in opposition to her.

  Conscious that too much conflict might cause the immense table to ignite, the monarch faced the prime minister and chose her words carefully. “Marriage is a weighty matter, not to be undertaken hastily, Lord Nestrington.”

  “Yet not to be deferred forever,” he countered.

  That was true. After ten years on the throne, Ilyaviere understood that certain obligations were nonnegotiable. She belonged to Solisterre, existed only for its purposes, had less freedom than any laborer. Now at five-and-twenty, the pressure to wed increased with each passing day.

  The prime minister regarded his queen from beneath hooded eyes. Rumor had it she was lusty between the linens, but had never given her heart to a lover. Ilyaviere was like high summer’s afternoon—resplendent, golden, fiery, seductive, flowering. Always too warm, she dressed in the gauziest of robes, threw open windows, flung off coverlets. Her intemperate heat was a perilous distraction, Nestrington thought, capable of warping sound judgment. And actively dangerous in concert with the torchwood table. “Moreover, Majesty,” the prime minister said cautiously, “with Helgartha gone to Summerland, your empire is at ever greater risk.”

  Ilyaviere’s amber eyes blazed. How dare Nestrington patronize her? Who knew better that Solisterre—so rich, so desirable—was dreadfully vulnerable to attack now? Without Helgartha’s intuitive powers, her impregnable spells, enemy forces would soon be on the march. If they weren’t already massing at the borders. Then Ilyaviere’s subjects, young and old, would be hostage to fortune. The table grew warmer, the queen’s voice cold. “I have summoned a new witch, as well you know. She is due within this week. Taliander assures me she possesses the skills necessary to safeguard our lands.”

  At the mention of the high priestess, Lord Nestrington changed tactics. Steepling his fingers, the prime minister spoke delicately. “There is also the matter of an heir, Majesty. Which is another form of security.”

  An inarguable statement. The line of succession in Solisterre stretched back some three thousand years unchallenged, every monarch blood kin to Ilyaviere. She could delay no longer. “Very well. Make the arrangements. We shall begin receiving candidates forthwith.” Twenty sets of shoulders relaxed.

  But twenty pairs of eyes narrowed when the queen raised a regal palm. “However, I will only accept
someone who sees me truly, loves me deeply, strengthens me where I am weak, and accepts such gifts and faults as I may possess. I will marry one who venerates neither my wealth nor my position, but only my spirit—in bed and out. Find such a suitor, high-born or low, rich or poor, and I will wed.”

  She pressed judicious fingertips to the tabletop, which was gathering fire as her councillors fought back angry rejoinders. Rising, Ilyaviere smiled upon them. “Pray forgive me, gentlemen. I must take my leave before we induce a conflagration.”

  Head in his hands, the prime minister sat alone in the council hall until the gleaming table cooled. Thinking, At least when Helgartha was alive, Solisterre had a mature presence guiding the helm—even if she was only a woman, subject to every female caprice and vagary. It’s past time for a man to rule the empire again. And I know just the fellow for the task.

  Back in her chambers, the queen was far too heated to wait for assistance. Tossing the ancestral diadem to the bed, throwing off her formal garb, she asked her ladies, “Has the white witch yet arrived?”

  “No, Majesty. Perhaps she is delayed by poor weather to the north.”

  Ilyaviere paced impatiently. “Having lost my dear Helgartha, I am in dire want of her talents.” And for the first time, the queen admitted to herself how much she needed the counsel and support of another shrewd old woman, another surrogate mother. “Present her to me as quickly as may be, no matter the hour. She may dine here.”

  In fact, Helgartha’s successor was only a witch-in-training, albeit an Estrellian adept, able to freeze time and motion at will. She had also an emergent flair for sensing trend lines, the tilt of cosmic probability, the faintest strands of interconnection. Still, Aivlynn Janisdottir seemed a peculiar choice for the Queen’s Court—nay, for Her Majesty’s most essential advisor—and an extremely unlikely channel for the awesome powers required of a royal sorceress. Certainly she thought herself too green to defend an ancient empire. And this was a time of great hazard. Unguarded Solisterre was the jewel of the continent, with a thousand miles of coastline, deepwater ports, mild climate, fertile fields, unparalleled craftsmen, and coffers overflowing. Wherefore Aivlynn wondered what Taliander had been thinking to anoint someone so untried. Again and again she reviewed the high priestess’s parting words. “Fear not, my daughter. You are more than ready for the tests that lie ahead. You are right for them. And your capacities will only gain potency over time.”

  Yet how wrenching it had been for Aivlynn to leave the only home she remembered! The venerable Wiccan community, that small world of wise women and their aspiring acolytes. The Grandaliese Forest, where she’d spent her girlhood studying whitecraft. The sheltering stone dormitory, where the Four Rules—Live, Love, Learn, Enjoy—were carved above the entrance, and unfailingly observed within. Even now, her friends remained there, happy and carefree, unburdened by the weight of encroaching responsibility.

  Despite the urgency, though, despite impending danger, Aivlynn had declined transport to Denethra—royal seat of Solisterre—choosing instead to walk the Hallowed Way. For she needed the length of that transit, needed time to ponder the mystery of her appointment. Much too soon she’d be a captive of the queen’s court, imprisoned in unsought luxury by her own extraordinary aptitudes.

  Each noon, she supped at some local inn. And afterward, she amused herself by playing her flute in the marketplace for an hour. Releasing a deceptively simple minor-key tune into the air, a song designed to strip passersby of pretense. Many mistook her for a busker, a few tossed coins her way—some from generosity, others for show. Aivlynn never had to guess at their motivations, for in the presence of her music, a person’s true essence was revealed. She watched a scold stroll past, and a peacemaker. A miser and a misanthrope. A meddler and an altruist. But she alone saw the secrets of their hearts.

  On her last night of travel, she slept outdoors, on the generous bosom of fair Gaia, under the protection of Mother Moon. Sheltering below the downward curving branches of a kibko tree, she was little more than a shiver of loneliness concealed beneath her thick cloak, awaiting the turn of the world, the comfort of the sun. When day broke, Aivlynn made a meal of succulent kibko berries, and bathed in a nearby stream. Then she gathered her courage and pointed her feet toward Castle Paschendrale.

  “Aivlynn Janisdottir!” a herald announced in stentorian tones. “Most Solemnly Anointed Sorceress to the Queen of Solisterre, Venestria, and the Prithian Islands!” Every lord and lady pivoted toward the entrance of the grand receiving room. What they saw was winter’s dawn. Frost white, crystal clear. A wisp of a woman with hair so pale it was almost ivory and eyes the changeable lavender-blue of ice caves when struck by sun. An aura of magic swirled around her, deep and chill as antediluvian wells. Healing. Nigh giddy with relief at her timely arrival, the court bowed welcome in perfect synchronicity.

  Aivlynn felt she was in a dream as she walked a narrow plush carpet that seemed ten thousand leagues long. At the end, a dais. On the dais, a throne. On the throne, a queen—Ilyaviere the Third. In her presence, welcome warmth roared through Aivlynn. When the white witch rose from a deep curtsy, the women’s eyes met, then locked with almost palpable shock.

  No mother figure, this! the monarch mused, while source-less breezes cooled her. Uncommonly flustered by the sorceress’s dewy youth, Ilyaviere greeted her candidly. “I’d thought you to be much older.”

  “ I had thought you more vulnerable,” Aivlynn replied, such forthrightness only permissible as her unique proficiencies near rivaled royal status.

  “It pleases the council to represent me so,” the queen murmured with a cynicism greatly heightened by the rigors of her role. “You come to me at a thorny time, Aivlynn Janisdottir. There is much work to be done—and undone.”

  When the witch closed those mesmerizing eyes, Ilyaviere could almost see tendrils of mystical power drifting outward, seeking, assessing. “Indeed,” Aivlynn affirmed. “Menace lies all around you. Within and without Castle Paschendrale.”

  “Hopefully nothing that cannot wait till after our bonding ceremony three days hence.” Gesturing toward a table laden with exotic food and drink, the queen added, “Partake of what pleases you, then rest if need be. As is customary, your chambers adjoin mine.”

  Ilyaviere turned her attention to a messenger, but the prime minister’s gaze never left the newly appointed sorceress. Madame Taliander must be more muddled than I imagined, Nestrington said to himself. This girl couldn’t thwart the most basic of invasion spells. Solisterre is ripe for the picking.

  That night the queen lay in her opulent bed separated from the sorceress by the thickness of a stone wall, consumed with thoughts of the woman. Ilyaviere was bored as only those in gilded cages can be, isolated by ultimate power and consummate authority. She had unfettered access to everything except liberty, privacy, and honest exchanges of emotion. But now came bewitching Aivlynn Janisdottir, and the world was suddenly astir with possibility.

  The traditional bonding ceremony between white witch and monarch was sacred, deeply intimate, permanent. Unattended, the pair traveled to a sunstruck glen far from the castle. By the light of a waning moon, Aivlynn had prepared this space: A double circle of clarith blossoms lay on pounded earth there, a pentagram of pungent herbs within. An altar at center, displaying only a tiny flute, and a beeswax candle redolent of sweet brenebane.

  “Step within, oh Queen, and kneel.”

  Then Ilyaviere was face-to-face with the sorceress. Whose voice was indistinguishable from enchantment itself. Whose commitment was firm, whose will unbreakable. Whose spirit was light and airy, nothing like Helgartha’s. Aivlynn raised a silver flute to pliant lips. In the strains of her melody, she divined all that was necessary: Ilyaviere was bright, decent, and dedicated, but impetuous. The headstrong queen would profit from a moderating partner.

  Enmeshed in the mood of that music, Ilyaviere saw something new. Always she’d thought white witches eschewed evil in favor of doing good. Now she unders
tood why Taliander had elevated Aivlynn; this woman was simply incapable of malice. She walked a path illuminated by her own internal light. No dragons awaited her command, no miraculous wand did her bidding. Her only weapons were that shining spirit and the force of hard-won whitecraft. Yet the high priestess had judged those sufficient.

  “Strange are the workings of your flute,” the queen observed.

  “Music is naught but mathematics, which cannot lie—song is the very soul of the universe, Majesty.”

  “Mayhap we should keep the special properties of your instrument secret?”

  “You anticipate me, Highness.”

  Extending a practiced hand, the witch sketched a protective rune on Ilyaviere’s forehead, then others conjuring wisdom and restraint. The touch of her finger sparked deep, unnamable emotions in the young queen. Fine strands of connection grew up between the two, twining round them, an unexpected intensity startling both—for it was a physical thing, seemingly, as well as a spiritual one, their very atoms intermingling. Wholly unlike the maternal-child bond Helgartha had woven so long ago.

  Arising at last, the women glided solemnly back toward the castle. And if something inside Ilyaviere longed to clasp Aivlynn’s cool hand, that was unnecessary. For she was henceforth alone nevermore.

  The queen and her sorceress became fast friends, their pleasure in companionship evident to all, their trust in each other absolute. Ilyaviere never doubted that Aivlynn would fearlessly confront any perceptible threat to Solisterre. Yet the witch’s singular innocence equipped her poorly for anticipating the perfidy of men—a lesson every princess must learn in her nursery, or perish prematurely.

  As Aivlynn went about the vital business of blanketing each hill and valley in the borderlands with impenetrable charms, the populace calmed. Every access to the realm was soon secure, though the sorceress would endlessly be engaged in the business of reevaluation. All the adjacent territories had mages almost as talented as she, and many who were far more devious. They would continuously probe for vulnerabilities, and any identified would be exploited—to Solisterre’s detriment. Just outside the drawbridge, Aivlynn whispered one further defensive incantation. For the nonce, at least, anyone might leave Castle Paschendrale, but only the approved could enter.