The End of The Cursed
Chapter 5: A Witch Worth Her Weight in Gold

’The Lost King of Eillene is a troubling problem for historians who tend to prefer a corpse in a crown.” – Annotated History of Eillene and the Eillenese People

Freyr and Gilda had been continuing to stay out of sight, traveling through the woods. During the day they had no choice. Gilda could not pretend to be a gypsy traveling with a circus bear…that trick had been used before. Now the woods were becoming sparser and the villages larger. They had been forced to travel through an orchard earlier that day, and now they were heading through thick rows of barley. The barley was only tall enough to hide Freyr from a great distance, anyone close up would see the dark blur for what it was. Practicing stalking her for over ten years had made him skilled, but not perfect. Gilda hoped that whatever farmer tended these fields was not wealthy enough to own a rifle. A man who saw a bear in his fields might very well shoot at it. It was for this reason that Gilda was thankful rifles were so expensive. The likelihood of one of the serfs working the fields having one was almost non-existent. The only danger was from a Lord or an overseer coming to inspect this field. At the moment it was abandoned, mostly because the barley was drying, and needed no tending.

Freyr craned his huge furry head up at the sky. The sun was finally sinking below the horizon. There was no tree nearby for Gilda to climb. There was nothing but a sea of dried barley glittering in the waning sunlight. Gilda looked about her. They had hoped to find some sort of cover by this point, but there was none. Gilda knew Freyr’s instincts as a bear were not to hurt her, but if he began acting on what instincts he did have towards her, before he was fully human…she would definitely be hurt.

“What are we going to do?” She asked, still looking hopelessly around her. Freyr made a rumbling noise in his throat. He didn’t want her to be far away from him. There was a mad man after them, and apparently at least one Gyllene noble. What was he going to do?

“Run. Run as far ahead of me as you can in the next fifteen minutes. I will do whatever I possibly can to remain stationary long enough for you to get away.” Gilda looked concerned. He touched her face hesitantly, as though it might burn him. “Once I am fully myself, I will catch up to you easily.” He met her eyes with his ursine ones. “You will not be alone for long.” He nosed the top of her head with his. She didn’t shrink from his touch. It was unfair. She didn’t seem to mind his affection while he was in bear form. She knew that it would never be more than a small caress. He wished she would just tell him what was bothering her, but she was like a little golden rock, unwilling to crack. He didn’t understand how things could have gone so very wrong, or why she would not confide in him. If she forgave him so readily for abandoning her, why would she not forgive him for trying to save her life?

“Run ahead? You mean leave you?” She asked. Her inflection made it sound more like she was afraid of him being alone than being alone herself. He nodded.

“Go on then.” He said firmly. He didn’t have time to wonder about what she was afraid of. She had to be a good several lengths away before his mind left him…left him while he still had fangs and claws. She nodded hesitantly at him and began to run. Her skirt lifted to her knees, running through the field. Her legs were so short compared to his. Gilda could not be more than 5 feet 4 inches tall. Could she really get far enough away in time? He wondered this, as he watched her get further and further away. He kept himself anchored to one spot as long as he could before the change began.

Gilda stopped running. At this point she was both out of breath, and hoping that Freyr was in control of himself and actually trying to catch up with her. She wished that they had not given the horse to a peasant whose barn they had slept in. Riding was preferable to running, but they had not been able to properly care for the poor creature. Having a horse made them even more conspicuous in these crowded villages, and soon it would be the wrong type of beast to have. The pretty dark mare was not suited for frigid mountain travel. They had simply tethered her in an empty stall and filled the trough with water. Hopefully she would be a pleasant surprise for the farmer when he awoke to milk the surprised cow in the neighboring stall.

Gilda had exited the field of barley and was now standing on a road leading toward a massive manor house. It was made of beautiful white stones and looked so imposing against the landscape. It really had more the appearance of a castle, with turrets and rounded windows of stained glass in the towers. It was so perfect, that she really hoped it was the house of the Duke that they intended to visit. The idea of being inside a real nobleman’s house again…and one that didn’t intend to marry her or burn her at the stake! Just being clean, properly fed, and indoors was going to be a magnificent change.

Gilda heard rapid footsteps coming up behind her on the road and spun to check who it was. But she had spun around straight into Freyr’s arms. He took her chin and kissed her firmly, despite her attempt to slip out of his grasp.

“Caught you.” He said, his voice playful, teasing, testing even.

“There was never a doubt.” She allowed the intimate gesture. She was lucky they were on a public road. With the change only just complete, he was most likely having difficulty keeping things to a mere kiss. Even now his hands were hard to contain as she pried them from her waist.

“Is that where we are going?” Gilda asked pointing to the white manor when he released her. He nodded.

“Yes, that is the home of the Aliksanders. They are a noble family distantly related to mine, but split off before the curse. Out of necessity they are one of the few families who know the truth the truth of what we are.” Freyr paused with a nervous look at the large white structure. “We should be cautious, they may be the ones who sent the nobleman we met in the woods. If anyone could claim the right to rule after my father was removed from power, it would be this family.” Freyr growled in a low voice as they passed a few people on the road. The villagers looked suspiciously at the strange sight of a beautiful girl, and a gigantic man in clothes made for a much shorter one. His height always made people look at him with suspicion, but mostly the people looked at Gilda. Everyone looked at Gilda. Thankfully it was getting dark enough to hide the sheen of her hair, and to hopefully obscure her face. She was too conspicuous for public travel.

They followed the winding path toward the huge wrought iron gates, they had been gilded over with bronze since he had last seen them. Gilda looked at them with awe, apparently she liked ostentatious things. Freyr stopped moving forward. There were too many men at the gate. He tried to hold her back, but Gilda was already striding forward eagerly.

Gilda could see six guardsmen waiting outside the gates. This was clearly problematic. Would the guards let them in? They were dressed in ill-fitting, obviously stolen clothes. They carried the unshapely baggage of continuous travelers, were unaccompanied and unwashed. The only thing they had that was to their benefit was the signet ring. As they approached the gate in the gathering darkness, the lead guard raised his sword toward them. Oh thank heaven. The men were not armed with anything more dangerous than swords. Gilda was fairly certain that Freyr could defend himself against those, now that he was in his right mind.

“Servants entrance is around the back.” The guard said in a clipped voice. Freyr took a cautious step forward, hands palm up. His gesture was one universally used to indicate a wish for peaceful communication.

“We are not servants. I am the crown prince of Gyllene and the young lady is my wife. We are here to see your master.” He said in a serious voice. All six men began laughing. They had been told that the heirs would be returning to the kingdom, but not dressed as vagrants complete with animal skin rucksacks on their backs. Royalty would return in carriages with sumptuous clothing and uncountable attendants. This was by far the worst set of imposters that they had seen.

“I’m sorry, you do not honestly expect me to believe that, do you?” The guardsman asked with a snide smile. This man was not the first vagrant to attempt to impersonate the returning heirs, only the most ridiculous. Freyr shrugged.

“Believe it, or don’t believe. It is your master I am here to convince, and to do that, I must see him.” He said firmly. The guardsman shook his head.

“My master pays me to keep him from being bothered by every peasant impersonating the missing royals. That means that I cannot, and will not let you pass through this gate.” The man spoke derisively. Freyr took the tooth off the leather thong tying the cloak around Gilda’s neck closed, with a sharp tug, causing her cloak to fall to the ground.

“If I cannot pass through the gate, will you bring him a message? If he receives it, it will prove to him that I am who I say I am.” Freyr held the tooth out towards him. The guard looked at the tooth as he took it suspiciously.

“Right now his Grace is enjoying dinner with his sons and his new wife. He would not wish to be disturbed only to get a false message, and an old animal tooth.” The guard threw it into the dirt at Freyr’s feet, and his gaze turned to Gilda. Freyr was becoming frustrated. The man’s belligerence was irritating, and the other guards who were not distracted by speaking with him, were looking at Gilda in ways he did not appreciate. Freyr grasped Gilda’s hand and pulled her into the light of the torches. He held her hand up toward the light.

“There. You see? She wears the signet ring of Gyllene. That, along with the tooth, will prove to your master, that I am precisely what I say, and that I am someone to be feared. If you do not let me in willingly, I will be forced to enter at great personal cost to you. Do not make the mistake of turning away your future King.” The men began laughing again, clearly assuming that they had excellent odds against one man. Freyr bristled visibly. “Can I assume that you are rather attached to all your limbs?” He asked the leader. “You do not wish to be relieved them?” Freyr lowered Gilda’s hand and tucked her behind him. But that damage had been done. Now the guards saw two thieves with a piece of valuable property, two pieces if you counted the extraordinary girl.

“That proves nothing but the fact that you are criminals. Criminals that we have the authority to deal with on our own.” The guardsman gave a glance toward Gilda. The girl could be kept, or sold for a significant amount of coin.

“I’m afraid that we have very clear instructions when it comes to thieves.” He drew his sword with a nod to the other guards. They hesitated only for a moment, Freyr was one man, but he was the size of two. Still he was unarmed, and so they leapt at him like a pack of wolves.

Gilda screamed. This was like watching the fight between Grigor and the witch hunters, only there were more of them, and Freyr did not want to maim anyone. This fight could go poorly, and Freyr could be harmed. His reticence to kill might very well be what got him killed. A massive stab wound that bled out in minutes would be difficult for Gilda’s magic to repair.

Freyr had kicked the first man who came at him square in the chest with his long leg, before the man’s sword could get close to him, but he had still been nicked in the calf by it. As the second man approached him from the other side Freyr grabbed the handle of the man’s sword with his superior reach and broke the blade over his knee, tossing it aside. He stepped to the left of the sword, of the man who came at him from the front and instead gripped his arm. He hurled the man bodily into two of the others, knocking them over like a game of nine pins. He took the sword the man dropped as he had been flung and brandished it towards those still standing. Gilda could see how this was going to go. There were too many. He would either need to begin killing them, or he was going to be killed.

The leader of the guards crossed swords with Freyr as two of his men came in from the flanks. Freyr leapt to one side and collided with the man to his left, knocking him to the ground. His elbow had hit the man in the ribs, and he fell down with a crunching noise. He had no choice but to begin injuring them. His blood was pounding too fiercely to avoid it. One of others came at him from behind as he continued to meet the leader sword to sword. Freyr spun for the briefest of seconds, hitting the advancing guard with his fist, right in the throat. The man made a croaking noise through his crushed larynx and fell down, unable to fight. Freyr then picked the man up by the back of his shirt and held him up like a shield as he advanced toward the leader. The lead guardsman considered only for a moment before running his own man through in an effort to reach Freyr with his long blade. The blade entered and exited the man before it scratched Freyr’s chest and drew blood. Freyr gasped as he attempted to pull his hostage back to safety, but it was too late. The second of hesitation from Freyr to glance at the dying man’s wound in order to see if he could be saved was all it took. Two men came at him from either side and held swords to his throat. Their leader wiped his blade on the leg of his uniform and chuckled.

“Well? Run him through. We need not wait for the Duke to order his execution. He’s a peasant and he has committed two types of treason. Theft, and impersonation of royalty.” The man gave a nod to his men. Freyr hesitated. Each man held him by an arm and held a sword to his throat with the other. If he ducked his head and jerked each man’s arm with all his strength, they would fall forward and stab each other through the neck. He did not want to be the cause of more death, but how could he avoid it? The men tightened their grips on his arms as they prepared to finish him.

“STOP!” Gilda shouted. The men glanced at the girl they had forgotten. No one had even tried to apprehend her. They had imagined she would stand there frozen with fear, patiently waiting to be divided and shared like a loaf of bread. No matter what they decided to do with her, she was a valuable commodity.

Instead of simply waiting to for them to finish killing her companion, she was holding out a tin cup that frothed and boiled with no heat source near it. Just as alarming was her appearance. She had stepped into the light which illuminated her unnatural glowing hair and eyes. The ground shook slightly as apples from the Duke’s orchard rolled out through the gate and to the feet of the girl. A pheasant from the Duke’s hunting grounds flew straight toward her and perched docile as a chicken on her outstretched arm.

“Do not harm him.” Her yellow cat-like eyes seemed to crackle with fury. “I do not think you wish to be a reminder to this land as to why his lineage is known as the Demon Kings.” She met the eyes of the leader intently. “Do you think that he is the first of his line to be without a witch?” She bent to pick the tooth up from the ground and held it up into the light. “You really think that this is meaningless? It does not belong to an animal, it belongs to the man who is your future King. Touch him and you will be hung for treason and attempted Regicide. Release him immediately, before I kill you all.” Gilda said in a loud low voice. It was the same voice she had used to strike fear into the villagers the night they had come after her for witchcraft. The men released him quickly with looks of intense panic and fear. They fell to the ground bowing, not to Freyr, but to Gilda. Their leader knelt before her.

“Please, my lady, please, forgive us. We did not know who you were.” He kept his face toward the ground as he turned slightly to speak to Freyr.

“Apologies Majesty.” He said with a bow. “We had not heard that your father had sent his witch to bring you home, or that you would be disguised.” He coughed apologetically. “Understandably you must be disguised for your own safety in this uncertain time-but it is not as we were given to expect. Please, please Majesty, tell your witch to spare us.” The man asked, his forehead pressed to Freyr’s hand. Freyr was confused. Since when did a witch garner more respect than a Prince of the blood? He did not realize that his father kept anything more than a Seer, nor that she was one his people knew about and feared.

“That is entirely up to her. She is fiercely loyal to me, and like the men that tried to conquer my grandfather’s kingdom, those that seek to oppose me, necessarily end up dead.” Freyr said solemnly as Gilda put away the cup, and the stone. The pheasant was still at her feet, simply waiting to be killed. Gilda wasn’t sure what to do with the poor thing, so she ignored it. It followed her like a puppy.

“Allow me to attend to the injuries of my master and then escort us in.” Gilda returned to Freyr’s side. She gave a regretful glance toward the injured guard lying a small ways off, but he looked as if he were already dead. The sight of a bloody wound on Freyr’s chest immediately called to mind his former injury and tears sprang to her eyes without effort. She caught one deftly on her fingertip and applied it to the laceration on his chest through the rip in his shirt. Freyr gripped her hand in his before she could continue on to healing his cut leg.

“Heal the guard, if he is not yet dead.” Freyr commanded her. Gilda nodded slowly. Witchcraft seemed to impress them, it would be wise to continue to do display it…unless the man was dead…in which case her failure might cause them to disbelieve once more. Still, the guard who was dying did not deserve to have been skewered for simply being in the way. She knelt to the man and put a hand to his crushed neck. He was still breathing, but so lightly that it was almost impossible to see it, only to feel it. She bent over him and let her tears fall on his neck, and then onto his bleeding stomach. She could only pray that her magic would actually work again, and had not been used up by its one miracle.

“He should be healed by morning. His wounds are grievous and it will take some time. Have someone stay with him, out here, and do not attempt to move him until he is healed. If it appears as though he is dead, be patient. He will come around a few minutes later.” Gilda spoke with forced confidence. The men looked nervous. To their eyes the man already looked dead…no one got up from a stomach wound. Gilda had no idea how much magic her Gran had given her. The cut on Freyr’s chest was already gone…so apparently she’d still had some moments ago. The other guards looked at their fallen comrade who still looked as though his death was imminent. Gilda saw doubt in their faces. Freyr rolled his eyes and tore open the front of his blood streaked shirt, exposing the lack of wound on his perfect chest which looked like a muscular shield in the torchlight. He let the two sides fall and gestured with open palms as if to say “See?”

“The worse the injury the longer it takes. Your friend will be alright.” She assured them. Freyr calmly retied the remaining sections of his as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Years of suppressing his emotions had not failed to have a practiced effect. The display seemed to have been worth it though, as the guards looked suitably awestruck by his healed chest. She would have knelt again to heal his leg but Freyr didn’t seem to think the scratch was worth her effort, he waved her away.

“Now. We have proven ourselves to be who we say we are. Are you going to continue to delay, or will you take us to the Duke? I doubt he will be pleased that you kept us from seeing him, or that you nearly killed one of his men in an effort to assassinate your Prince.” Freyr said coldly. The lead guardsman bowed low. He did not expect to survive the evening. Once his master discovered what he had done, and to whom, his head would be displayed on the very gate he guarded.

“Please, follow me.” He said respectfully. Freyr and Gilda followed behind him through the gate and toward the doors of the manor. The lights in the windows made it look like a glowing fairy house in the dark night. The thick glass was bubbled and cast circles of candlelight on the lawn. The guard stopped in front of the door and rang a bell. A beautifully liveried butler opened the door and looked at them with supreme disdain. He had not a single thread of his garment out of place. Outside his door was the ill-mannered guard captain, a vagrant woman with a pheasant at her heels, and an actual giant with blood on his clothes. The giant’s leg was literally dripping blood onto the front step of his house. Unless physically forced to allow them in, he would not permit even one of these creatures to cross his threshold.

“Mr. Farrow, these are the Crown Prince, and his witch. They must be taken to see the Duke immediately.” The guardsman said seriously, and with a fearful look at the strange girl. The steward did not believe a word of it, but he was surprised to see that the guardsman appeared afraid of them. He outranked the guard in household status, but the man’s demeanor gave him pause. The guard forced the door open all the way, using the handle of his sword to press it inwards.

“It is true. If you value your life, for God’s sake let them in.” He gave another backward glance at the young woman. Mr. Farrow reluctantly opened the door and allowed the filthy strangers to step in onto his perfectly polished marble floor. As they passed him he instinctively held his breath, awaiting the stench of peasant to wash over him. Instead the spicy scent of church incense wafted as they stepped through the doorway. That was odd.

“I will announce them for you Renard, you may return to your post.” He dismissed the guard, once the guard was gone he could show them to the servants’ quarters. No one dressed as they were, was going to be presented to the Duke in his household. The guard bowed to the man and his woman and retreated back toward the gate. It was clear that he had no intention of staying on the estate another second. He had no wife, or children to worry about. He would be gone for good before the Duke was told of the events of that evening.

The steward led the two people, and the mysterious pheasant, into the parlor. He shut the door behind them. There was no conceivable way in which he was going to take these people into the dining room and disturb his Grace with their presence. He had no idea what had come over the guardsman, but he was at least going to maintain the dignity of the manor house.

“We will not wait for your master to come to us. You must bring us to him immediately.” Freyr demanded. He was done with this nonsense. The steward was barely listening. He was looking at the blood dripping from Freyr’s leg onto the clean rug in the parlor. The rug covered the entire floor of the room and had taken a Turkish weaver a lifetime to create. It was conceivably even a generational rug, and now it was ruined.

“That will not be possible.” The steward said in a very polished tone. The face of the gigantic man gave him momentary pause. He bit his lip. “I will, however, notify him of your arrival. How shall I announce you?” He asked looking up at the barbarian. He realized too late that the man was not going to obey the bounds of decorum. The giant hoisted him up by the vests of his livery and held him in the air. He was now face to face with the monster. His eyes were almost black, and his nose was a sharp as hawk’s…it was in every way, a frightening visage.

“You may announce me, by telling me which direction to carry you in before throwing you at the feet of your master, and informing him of what an unsatisfactory servant you are!” Freyr growled at him. Gilda was surprised. Freyr was almost always unflappably calm. Now he was seething, much more like Frederick than like himself. The steward squeaked and pointed back outside the room. Freyr, true to his word, carried the man out by the back of his vest, like a cat might carry a bird it had just dispatched with. Gilda followed mutely behind them, the pheasant chirruping and following behind her. They walked down a long stone hallway, like some sort of strange parade toward a large set of polished wooden doors. The poor shaking servant nodded towards them. Freyr pulled him across the floor behind him as he pushed open the doors and strode through them. Inside, ten people were seated at a large table set with candles and what appeared to be their fish course. Gleaming oysters sat in their pearlescent shells in front of each place on a plate of snow white salt and surrounded by a single twist of seaweed.

The older man at the head of the table stood up in surprise as they burst through the doors. The five younger men and four women seated with him looked up in shock at the peasants that Mr. Farrow had allowed to invade their dinner. Although, it didn’t look as though Mr. Farrow had been given much of a choice. He was hanging from the arm of an enormous man like a petulant toddler. Had Renard left the gate unattended? How had such a creature gained entry to their dining room?

“What is the meaning of this?” The Duke demanded. Freyr smiled broadly at the elderly man.

“Goran, it has been far too long if you have forgotten the face of your Prince!” Freyr said with an unsettlingly toothy expression. He let go of the humiliated servant who slumped to the floor before getting shakily to his feet. Freyr took Gilda’s hand and held it up so that they could see the ring glinting in the light of the many candelabras that lit the room. In the other hand he held out the bear’s tooth.

“Do not make me wait until dawn to prove my identity. I do not wish to alarm anyone in your company.” He said meaningfully. The Duke in inhaled sharply. The bear’s tooth would mean nothing to most people, but it meant something very important to him. He leapt up as quickly as a man in his seventies was able and knelt before the creature. This was inconvenient, and potentially life-threatening. He hoped that his guest would not recognize the son that had threatened to shoot him the other night. He hadn’t actually intended to kill the heirs to Gyllene, he merely wished to find out if they were genuine or not. It was not the first time, in 15 years, that someone had claimed to be an heir, and he had five sons waiting to fill the role if they were counterfeit.

“Your majesty.” He said, still kneeling. He rose. “I was not informed that you would be stopping here on your return journey! Please tell me what I may do to assist you, and to thank you for this honor.” His eyes were still cast down to the floor.

“You could always train your household staff properly. I was nearly killed by your lead guardsman, and your steward was decidedly disrespectful. Your guard almost killed one of his own men in an effort to murder his future King. My tender hearted wife was forced to use her healing abilities on the man rather than let him die. I imagine she is drained from the experience and could use attendance by a ladies maid.” He ignored the whispering of everyone at the table, it was deafening enough to scarcely be called whispering. He caught the eye of one of the young men who was pretending not to know him. He sighed. It was him. This was an unfortunate wrinkle.

“Your Majesty, I apologize sincerely for the faults of my staff. The steward will be dismissed and the guard executed for treason.” He paused, his eyes taking on an interested glint. “Did you say your wife? Your wife is a healer? Or is she something more?” He only just now noticed the girl half hidden behind the immense Prince. She was clearly magical, one only had to look at her to see it. Was she the King’s own witch? Had he sent her ahead in order to escort his son? Or did Gyllene now have access to two true witches? That would be decidedly good news, given that there was an army massing just south of his border.

“She is a healer, and a witch. Provided that no one else attempts to do us harm, none of you are in danger from her. For now, we are both decidedly fatigued. We would like a set of adjoining quarters, baths, and fresh clothing. We will provide you with a list of the other items we require in the morning.” The Duke was looking rather gray. Freyr sighed. “You will be compensated upon our safe return to the Keep.” Freyr gave a second glance at the young man still seated at the table. He could tell he had been recognized.

“Anything you wish your highness.” The Duke replied with a deep bow. He waved his hand for a servant to come forward. “Please take our Prince, and the Princess consort to our guest apartments. Bring them everything they ask for without exception.” The servant looked perplexed but he nodded. A dark haired young woman with small delicate features rose from the table and came to the Duke’s side. She gave Gilda a long slow looking over, beginning and ending on her hair. Gilda did not have much time to dwell on this, as she and Freyr were being guided from the room by the servant the Duke had given them. Freyr turned toward the Duke a final time.

“Will you make it clear to the servants that no one is to enter my room between morning light and the dinner announcement for any reason? I require no valets to dress me, no butlers with beverages, no porters with trays of food, no one. My wife will be the only one allowed in and out of the room before sundown, and she will request whatever I require during those hours.” He spoke intensely, his eyes shining in the candlelight with an unnatural gleam. While this odd speech confused the women, it solidified the Duke and his sons’ belief that this man was who he claimed to be. Gilda momentarily turned her head back toward the seated parties as well. She locked eyes with the green eyed man she recognized. She knew that speaking to a man out of turn was improper, but she had already done a number of improper things that evening.

“I do hope you were able to replace the pistol which was ruined upon our last meeting. It seemed to be rather fine.” She said, as they were swept out of the room by the confused servants. Their ragged appearance had no place in the beautifully appointed dining room. As they continued toward the guest apartments Gilda could just hear the dark haired woman by the Duke’s side speaking.

“Goran, her hair! I vant it. I vant da girl’s hair.” Her voice had a petulant quality. He responded with what sounded like a slap.

“Hush! I should not have to tell you that you cannot have the hair of Princess Consort of Gyllene.”

Gilda had been led to a set of very feminine quarters attached to what were clearly masculine ones. Everything in hers was covered in gold filigree from the rich mines of the northern mountains. All the fabric was in pastel blues, greens and pinks. The room was decadent enough to be called gaudy, overly hung with tapestries, and blanketed in ornate rugs. Every surface was either filigreed or covered in small statues and ornamental mirrors. A year ago Gilda would have felt like this was where she belonged. Now it all felt strange. She was in a doll’s house, and she was trespassing.

Freyr was inspecting his apartments and having his wound seen to in the adjoining room. The door was open a hair’s breadth, too small a crack for the servants to realize that it was open, but more than wide enough for Freyr to hear everything that occurred in Gilda’s room. The serving girl she had been assigned was just finishing filling a large tub with water from a series of pitchers she had wheeled in on a heavy bathing cart. Using a set of large iron tongs, she set smoking bars of iron into the end of the basin. The water steamed in response to the addition. Soaps, towels, and the dried petals of various flowers lay on the tray that was the top of the cart, while rows of empty pitchers filled the bottom.

“Will my lady take rose petals, chamomile or lavender blossoms in her water?” The girl asked as she helped Gilda undress. The girl tried not to stare, but she had never seen someone with golden skin before. It even glittered as she helped the girl into the bath. The witch’s ill-fitting clothing was completely out of place with her appearance. She looked like a Princess in every other respect.

“Chamomile please.” Gilda said. Roses still reminded her of Gran, and she was not feeling charitable towards her yet. Chamomile was like bathing in sunshine. Gilda lay under warm water with a carpet of white petals on the surface. She would feel utterly relaxed, except that there was a slack faced girl looking at her as if she were some sort of exotic animal like a tiger or a peacock. She wasn’t too far off. She did have an unlucky pheasant still in the room with her. Everyone seemed afraid to ask about it, or to offer to take it away.

It wasn’t entirely their fault. Gilda had made a point of refusing to allow anyone to take her bags, pouches or strange supplies. She could not explain the small leather bag, the cup and stone, or the vial of blood that she carried in a small pouch. It was best they stay in her travel bags, undisturbed. After being shooed away from those items, it wasn’t surprising that the servants were afraid to try to remove the strange bird she had brought with her.

“Would it be entirely impossible…for me to bathe myself?” She asked the wide eyed girl who was handing her a bar of soap. The girl looked startled.

“But you are a royal consort…and the personal witch of the crown Prince! It would be unseemly to allow you to bathe yourself!” She said in surprise. She could not allow this woman to do something so horrid as to bathe her own self, not with her rank.

“Have you ever bathed a witch before?” Gilda asked the girl. She shook her head, at least Gilda thought the girl was shaking her head. It was hard to see her as the girl was now behind her, taking an overly long time washing her hair.

“No Majesty. I have not.” The girl admitted.

“That is because we do not like to be touched. Our power is so great, that we could accidentally harm a mere mortal who was less than careful.” Gilda hoped to scare the young girl out of the room. It was strange. She had hated the lonesome quiet of the constant time in the woods for her whole life, and now, all she wanted was a moment of peace.

“Is that why you, a witch, are a good bride for the Demon Kings? Would their love ordinarily kill a mortal? Our current King has lost three wives.” The girl asked. Gilda had not scared her. She had piqued her curiosity beyond the fevered pitch it had already been at. Gilda sighed. She had half a mind to drop the stone into her bath and make it look like she was bathing in boiling water. Of course if she did that, she would end up with another pheasant and who knows what else.

“My irritation might well harm you, and I would hate for that to happen. Please, do allow me to rest?” She asked the girl. It had been a horrible day. Although, the girl’s curiosity had given her information. There were no additional heirs, the King’s attempts at remarriage had all ended in death. The girl stood regretfully. She laid a towel over one of the pale blue shiny upholstered chairs. She began to wheel the cart out behind her. She looked back toward Gilda.

“May I ask just one more thing?” She asked, with pleading eyes. Gilda nodded.

“As you wish.” Gilda replied. Better to sate the girl’s curiosity on one matter and get her out.

“How does one tell if someone is truly a witch? The Duke has been searching for one for years. People say he only married that Russian girl because she claimed to be one. But it turned out that she was not. Why has he not found one before now?” The girl was speaking rapidly, as if her tongue was moving too fast for her brain to realize how many bounds of decorum she was breaking.

“They are exceedingly rare. It is a family trait, like how you might have your mother’s eyes or your father’s hair color. I am the Granddaughter of the witch who served the first Demon King.” She told a small lie about her lineage in order to preserve the larger one that she was a witch. The girl looked properly impressed.

“Thank you Majesty. I’ve been terribly curious…but I will let you rest now.” She abruptly backed out of the room wheeling the cart behind her, and shutting the door at last. Gilda gave a deep sigh. She was finally alone.

The Duke shut Freyr’s door behind him. Freyr was standing by the window in a long robe. He had bathed, and was drinking a glass of wine and looking out into the night. He could not see all the way to the gate, despite his excellent night vision, but he wished he could tell if there were 5 figures standing by it or 6.

“My apologies for your difficult entry into my estate.” The Duke gave a bow as Freyr turned towards him. sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ (F)indNƟvᴇl.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“Difficult? You send your son, if not all your sons out into the woods in an effort to murder me… Then upon my arrival here you have your gate guards attempt to do the same! I did them the great courtesy of not killing all six of them, but they would not have extended such courtesy to me.” Freyr said, his voice black. “You know that I could have ripped the throats from their necks before they could scratch me, but I am not that sort of man.” Freyr said evenly as he took a step closer to the Duke, towering over the little man. “Tell me Goran, what sort of man are you?” The Duke swallowed nervously.

“Please Majesty…allow me explain.” He began. Freyr held up his hand for silence.

“This castle – which you call your ‘estate’…is the home of my grandfather, a loan of trust to you from my own father. Without our generosity, you would have nothing. Do not forget for a moment how tenuous your situation is.” Freyr’s voice was thick with anger. He knew that he had no real power until he reached his father’s castle. Here he had to rely on those with money to respect his name, but he was too angry to be careful. If the Duke summoned more than 6 or 8 of his guards at the same time…he would not have a positive outcome. But Gilda had been threatened multiple times in one evening. His blood boiled with the desire to kill anyone who so much as glanced at her. He was pent up to the point of violence.

“Majesty, I cannot express my sorrow for my poor choice of words.” The Duke said anxiously. “If I could only just explain my actions.” He begged. Freyr nodded slowly.

“I haven’t heard a good story in ages. Please – enlighten me.” He sat down slowly into the red velvet chair by the window. He crossed his long legs at the ankle as if feeling utterly composed. The Duke nodded gratefully.

“I did send all five of my sons out into the woods.” He turned pale. “But not to kill you!” He interjected before Freyr could speak. “Rumors of your return were circulating-I had not yet received official word from your father-and you have to understand-there have been so many false heirs before! Any peasant with a passing resemblance to the portrait that was circulated after you and your siblings’ disappearance has claimed royal blood! There are so few of us who truly know how to tell who is telling the truth and who is lying. My sons know. I sent them to ascertain the truth. I swear it! We are on the brink of war and cannot afford to be distracted by imposters.” The Duke’s eyes were wide. “My son did not attempt to shoot you did he? Only to rouse your anger?” He asked. Freyr considered. It was true. The young man had not made any attempt to actually harm them…just to infuriate him. He had seemed more interested in harming Gilda than harming Freyr.

“Why would you encourage your sons to poke a bear? You could have gotten them killed.” Freyr asked, his voice accusing.

“Because we are at war! Our scouts have seen troops marching from Twyle to our southern border. This estate will be the first to fall and myself and my entire lineage, as next in line to the throne would be slaughtered by the invaders! I had to find out if you were truly returning before it all starts. We are all dead anyway, if your father cannot get more of his armies here in time…or if he does not use his witch.” The Duke’s voice sounded almost hysterical. He had three grandsons, the youngest of which was only a few months old. He could not let war come to the estate and end his line. Any invaders would make sure to kill every last member of any family with royal blood, his included.

Freyr found himself starting to understand the precarious situation of the man. He had imagined a war would occur at some point, but he had not known that it would be now. Given that in the winter, the realm of the King was so far remote, and that the country was rife with internal unrest, now was about as good a time as could be had for invaders to strike. The Duke momentarily brightened.

“Could you use your witch? To kill the men who invade us?” He knelt before the Prince. “You will stay here with us then, until the danger is passed? You will not abandon us to fall while you return to the Keep?” He asked Freyr, implored really. Freyr sighed. He did not want to give the Duke false hope, but he also did not want to remove the fear which was keeping them alive.

“My witch is a healer. She can only do magic which preserves life. She can find food and water, and she can heal injury. Her magic is only beneficial.” He said slowly, wondering with each syllable if he was consigning them to death.

“Surely keeping us alive from invading armies is beneficial! Your grandfather’s original witch was a healer and she killed thousands of men. Please, you have been so clever in capturing another witch…use her to our advantage.” The Duke pressed him.

“What do you mean by capture?” He asked. “The girl is mine willingly.” Freyr asserted, feeling affronted.

“Of course, of course…but once your grandfather ensnared his witch with the same pretty words and professions of love…some leverage was needed to get her to cooperate. Witches do not like to take life, it is not their nature, but if pressed, they are capable. Your witch is yours willingly now, for whatever it is that you use the pretty creature for. I do commend you on doing a better job than your grandfather, as you bound her to you by law. But do you have the leverage to get your pet to do what will soon be required of her?” The Duke asked, every single portion of the speech insulting. Freyr felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. If he did not rein himself in, he would kill this man, and all Goran wanted from him was to preserve his people. Even so, he had to clench his fists till his fingernails cut into his palms in order not to strike the kneeling man’s head from his shoulders. What was wrong with him? He rose from his chair, and stepped closer until he stood directly above the cowering man.

“The girl is my consort first, and a magical being second. She is not violent and I will not allow her to become violent unless doing so is absolutely necessary. We will find another way to help you, and to preserve Gyllene. You and your sons will not be slaughtered by the invading armies, and I will not execute you for treason.” He held out his hand to help the Duke to his feet. He then struck the man across the face with the back of his hand. The Duke stared at him in surprise with his hand to his reddened cheek. Freyr sat again. He’d had to help him rise first, angry as he was, he would not strike a man on his knees.

“I apologize for striking you, but you did send your sons, armed into the woods to intercept me and to threaten my bride. Treason in a time of war – even if thoughtfully considered – cannot be met with indifference. Be grateful that your punishment was met out privately.” The Duke bowed his head.

“Thank you your highness.” He said rubbing his scarlet face. He sighed both in disappointment and anger. “If we cannot use your witch, how are we to preserve ourselves from the invading armies? Your father has sent a bird with a missive telling us that he makes plans to protect the peace, but his emissary has not arrived yet and we do not know if we are to prepare for war or not. He is not a well man your father, if your woman does have healing powers, she will be needed.” The Duke sat down himself at long last. He was unused to physical altercations and he felt weak. Freyr uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in concern. He was confused. His father should not be able to become ill.

“How is it that my father is ill? The curse should protect him from such things.” Freyr asked. By now the Duke had no fear that this was not the correct man. He knew too much.

“That is why the ailment must be magical, it will take an otherworldly healer to cure it. The witch he keeps now professes to be a Seer, which may be why she cannot heal him.” The Duke answered. Freyr sighed, remembering the night of the vision.

“I know she is a Seer, she visited my wife in a vision and warned her of an impending danger. She is protective of her sister witch. If what marches on your castle is truly dangerous, and Gilda is still here, we will receive warning.” Freyr said reassuringly. These people seemed to be obsessed with magic, he would not disabuse them of that fascination. He rested his forehead on his hand. “We will stay with you until the situation is resolved. Tomorrow morning instead of sending out your sons to hunt bears, you will have them conscript all your landsmen, farmers, joiners, any man strong enough to fight as soldiers. Arm them with what you have in the armory and forge. Set your smithies and their apprentices to work to make as much more as you can in the days you have. No matter the outcome of my father’s proposed treaty, we must be ready for anything.” Freyr ordered. He waved his hand to dismiss the man. He could endure no more of this. The Duke nodded, but stopped at the door.

“How did you capture a witch? My own efforts have been…unsatisfactory.” The Duke admitted. Freyr looked up. A strange feeling suffused him.

“I didn’t capture her. I came home one day to find her asleep in my house. I merely kept her.” He said truthfully.

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