"Her Ladyship?" asked Selvi. "Is she in charge of this forest?"
The head of purple bobbed up and down, while the legs below it danced in place. "Yes, yes! She knows every root, every tree, and every path!"
"So she knows a way outta here, then?"
Thistle paused, just for a second, before putting a finger to her chin and spinning in place. "Hmmmmmmmmmmm..." She stopped. "I suppose she does. Never wanted to leave, myself. Well! Shall we be going? Hate to leave her waiting!"
"Might as well..." Selvi said with a shrug, which Gwen mirrored. It wasn't like they had many options.
With their purple-topped guide leading the way, passage through the forest was insultingly simple. Clumps of undergrowth that would defy any number of swords parted at the touch of the girl's hand, and even heavy branches seemed to turn away. If the princesses tarried too long, then they might get a face full of foliage.
"Hope we get there soon," Selvi muttered as she picked leaves out of her hair. She had to spit a few out as well.
"Vwa-LA!" shouted Thistle, spinning on her toes in front of a large garden gate. A thick, thorny hedge stretched either way for as long as the eye could see, with only the one break in the expanse of greenery. Unlike most everything else they'd seen in the forest, the gate was metal, with thick bars twice the height of Selvi and topped with weathered spikes. The gate itself was overgrown with delicate vines and lush flowers.
"It's certainly... welcoming?" said Gwen, noting the little wrought sculptures barely hidden beneath the leaves. Fierce animals snarled silently as pink blooms grew from their mouths.
"Yes, yes! Her Ladyship loves guests! Oh!" Thistle cheeped. "Sweetbriar! There you are!"
"Thistle!" There was an answering squeal of delight. A pink-topped girl, dressed in equally ragged leaves, danced through the underbrush to their right. The two girls met in front of the great gate, hugging and jumping enthusiastically. This newcomer's hair did not stand straight, but instead flopped down in five thick clumps resembling petals. Not far behind her, pushing through the boughs of uncooperative leaf and vine, were three other familiar faces.
"Gwen! Selvi!" Cassie waved her arms and called to them. The young priestess's dark eyes flashed as brightly as her hair when she saw them.
"Whoa, what happened to you gals?" Selvi asked when Bianca drifted into view. The witch had always been a little brat, as far as the half-orc was concerned, but now she was, well, little. Even that darn cat looked bigger, cuddled up against his mistress as he was. She felt a pang of worry when she saw the color of the witch's face and the plaster bandage on her head, the side of which Jinkies was stubbornly trying to bathe with his tongue.
"Don't ask," Bianca said glumly as she tried without success to fend off her familiar's ministrations. The cat let out a mewl that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.
"Thought that stick of yours made stuff bigger?" Selvi continued.
"It does a lot of stuff, apparently. Just don't ask me what," the witch grumbled.
"I see you've got a guide, too," Gwen said quietly to Flora.
"Yeah..." the druid replied, with her own voice low. "Not sure 'bout her. Something's..."
The ranger nodded. "They seem harmless, but I'm not about to trust them just yet."
"It's not just that," said Flora. "Them, this place, everything feels so weird. Like, it's nature, but it ain't natural, if that makes sense."
Gwen thought about the bush beasts and the orcs -- or the Oaks, whatever they were called. Plants that moved, and beasts that grew bark. Thistle and her friend looked positively normal when compared to everything else she'd seen, and that by itself was suspicious, in her reckoning. "Keep your eyes and ears sharp," she whispered to the druid. "Pass the word along. We don't lie about who we are, but we don't mention the word 'princess' or anything else that makes us seem like a tempting target. We need help, but until we know what they're really up to, have your weapon ready."
Flora hugged her lute to her chest. "Gotcha."
Past the garden gates, a little path appeared beneath their feet. Pale green bricks fitted together in a complicated, blocky pattern that led them through twists and curves. Without it, Gwen realized, they would be in trouble. The garden was a maze of hedges, with splits and forks leading every which way. The two leafy girls danced straight down the brick path, however, and completely ignored all other routes. The ranger's own sense of direction gave it up as a lost cause.
After an unfortunate number of twists and turns, the green bricks ended in a little paved circle, beyond which lay the heart of the garden. There was a wide lawn, as meticulously clipped and level as in any elven citadel, with a fountain burbling at the far end. And every which way they looked, there were roses. Truly she wondered if every variety in the world might be planted here, because the fragrant blooms appeared in every color of the rainbow. Red, orange, yellow... She blinked as they passed a tiny bush with delicate petals of blue, which her father's gardeners had always insisted was impossible.
Thistle and Sweetbriar stopped in front of a circle of stone pillars. The six tall pieces of rock were ancient and dull on the edges, and might have been the remnants of an old pavilion. Or they might have have been the petrified fingers of some sleeping titan, stretching up from the depths of the earth -- either seemed equally likely. The two girls never actually ceased moving, instead dancing and hopping in place with their arms carefully crossed behind their backs. As one, they bowed and announced, "We've brought your guests, Your Ladyship!"
"Thank you, girls." That answering voice was low and sultry, sweet as the scent of roses that filled the garden. Its owner was seated on a divan, a low-backed couch with deep green upholstery that at second glance was probably moss. There was plenty of the thick green stuff arranged strategically around the pillars in a way that suggested seating cushions. Gwen had seen similar in elven lands, especially in forests inhabited by--
Dryads. That was what Thistle and Sweetbriar reminded her of. The two were strangely like the fey tree-women, and yet different. Their mistress was even more so.
'Her Ladyship' stood to receive her guests, with a willowy grace and fluidity that suggested the curve of a green branch more than the rigidity of bone. Her hair was the deep red of rose petals, hanging in a fragrant bouquet that reached down past her waist. Delicate, pale skin was tinged a light green where it was not covered by a cascade of white rose petals, somehow fixed together to provide a veil over her otherwise bare body.
"Greetings unto you," said the woman. Her smile was as red as her hair. "I am the Princess Rosalind Gracia Tatannus, formerly of Baragoccia and now caretaker of this witch's garden." Her slender arm sketched a broad arc to encompass the pillars, roses, and lawn, not caring how it pulled at her veil of rose petals. "All that ye see here is mine to care for, and in turn it cares for me. Is that not true, my little maidens?"
"Oh, your garden is wonderful, Your Ladyship!" squealed Thistle.
"Almost as wonderful as you, Your Ladyship!" added Sweetbriar.
"Ye maids flatter me," Princess Rosalind said with a satisfied smile. "Might I have the pleasure of my guests' names?" she asked.
"Gwenevrael, daughter of Artundus, lady of the Fifth Court," Gwen said with a formal bow.
"Selvi, daughter of Clan Dungivadim," her fellow half-human announced.
"Cassandrella, priestess novitiate of Selunika!"
"Flora Fidella DelMonica, of the united clans of Silvalachia," the druid said simply. She nudged the little witch beside her.
"Oof! Um, Princess Bianca of the Western Winkwoods," the witch said, not seeing the collective wince of her fellow young ladies.
"A princess?" Rosalind said with glee. "Oh, this is an occasion indeed! It has been so long since we have had the chance to entertain fellow royalty. Though thou art quite small for a lady of such high stature."
"I've been ill lately," Bianca said. "Fragile disposition and all that." She sniffed derisively. "Hard to find proper food on these long voyages,
you know."
"That I understand," their hostess said. "Come, come. Sit a while. Thistle, Sweetbriar, fetch some water and fruits for our guests!"
"Yes, Your Ladyship!" The two girls scampered off, returning only a few minutes later with a large pitcher of cool, clean water and a basket filled with assorted fruits. There were apples and cherries, oranges and berries, and a few that even Flora couldn't identify for sure. As the princesses settled on their mossy mats, they could all agree it was a pleasant welcome.
"So how did you come to this place, Your Highness?" asked Gwen. "You said you were from... er..."
"Baragoccia, wasn't it?" Bianca piped up. "I've heard of that place, somewhere. Maybe in a book, hmm..." The little witch pondered as she bit into peach nearly the size of her own head.
"Oh! it is a sad story!" said Thistle.
"Very, very sad," agreed Sweetbriar. "Please tell them, Your Ladyship!"
"We don't mean to pry," said Flora hastily.
Their hostess shook her head, sending loose rose petals to drift off her shoulders, and gifted them with another radiant smile. "It is not a bother. I enjoy having new audiences to play for. Let me begin, then." With a snap of her fingers, a harp materialized out of the ground, like a tree for which years passed like seconds. Fan-shaped leaves spread out from its trunk, and wiry vines became strings to be plucked by Rosalind's fingers.
"It all began on the happiest day of my life," she sang as she played. "My wedding to Prince Marti of Carpazha. It was an event of such beauty, and we loved each other so very much. But then she appeared." The strings cried out in pain as she dragged her nails upon them. "A witch, old and ugly, who hated me so for my youth and beauty."
"What was her name?" asked Bianca, somehow missing the furtive but frantic signs from the others that she should be quiet.
"She called herself Alvatra," said Rosalind. "Why do you ask?"
"Um, no reason," said Bianca, who'd apparently just realized that it wouldn't be wise to identify herself as a witch. "Thought that if she was so famous, I might've heard of her before. Sorry to interrupt."
Rosalind needed no apology, nor permission, to pull another long and complicated string of notes from her harp strings. The interlude continued for many minutes before her voice rose once more into song: "Alas, my wedding was ruined on that day, for the witch Alvatra came to steal me away, to this garden to be its warden, and since that day I have stayed. Dark magics she wrought, so that all who sought me would know me not. A rose was my name, and so I became the centerpiece of her garden."
"What terrible tragedy!" cried Thistle.
"What tragic terror!" squealed Sweetbriar.
Their lady nodded, and they accepted the touch of her slender hand like it was the caress of an angel. "There, there," she cooed at them. "One day soon, my dear Marti will come, for he promised to rescue me, cried it for all to hear as that witch pulled me from his strong arms."
"Um, how long have you been here?" asked Flora.
"Not so long as one would think," Rosalind assured. "This is a feywood, stolen by the witch from its original masters long ago. Time runs faster here, so a few years may only be a matter of weeks to my Marti. He will come."
"But..." Bianca's voice quivered through the still forest air. "The kingdom of Baragoccia was destroyed over a hundred years ago, in the Palachkit Wars. I just remembered..."
The harp strings screamed as Rosalind clawed at them. "Thou dost lie!" Her voice matched her music in tone, and the green light of the grove flickered as it passed over her body. A cloud seemed to shroud the sun, leaving them all in a shadow lit only by the bright petals of the roses. Princess Rosalind's eyes glowed brightest, in a deep bloody scarlet.
"You just had to blurt that out," groused Shelby as she watched Uncle swap out the three neutral character pieces for hostile ones. "Seriously, did we need to have all those wisdom checks? We know better than to blab like that."
"Sure you do," said Uncle. "Because you know that this is a game. But they don't." He quickly tidied up the princess pieces on the board. "Just as they couldn't realize that Rosalind's harp music was making it progressively harder not to just sit there and appreciate her beauty -- which is why you're all going to need to roll better than a 15 to break the effect. Ready, ladies? Time to roll 'em!"
Five large, colorful dice rolled -- and they rolled surprisingly high, Uncle was annoyed to note. Even before counting in all the bonuses, three of the princesses were over the needed number. After everything was added in, Selvi and Flora actually cleared the 20 mark.
"Sorry, Claire," he said after the final tally. "Princess Cassie is still starstruck. Everyone else, on the other hand..."
Selvi Khan's-daughter had been on edge for the entire performance. Gwen and Flora had both quietly warned her to be on guard, but their words weren't necessary. Something was just so obviously wrong with the situation, and it wasn't just the way the harp strings hurt her ears with their sharp-edged twang.
So when their hostess began ranting and raving, Selvi took it for the opportunity it was, and lunged straight for the flowery princess. She actually managed to get a hand around that delicate, arching throat, only to be met with pain.
Her battle cry curdled into a whimper of shock as a dozen thorny spikes shot through the meat of her hand. When she fell back, Selvi could see a dark necklace of blood -- her blood! -- circling Rosalind's neck. The flower princess's smile pulled back to reveal a row of fangs to match the scores of thorns erupting from her skin. With one delicately clawed finger, Rosalind wiped a crimson droplet from her neck and licked it.
"What a curious flavor," was all she said, and then she was gone.
Gwenevrael had been just a beat behind Selvi, and caught the khan's daughter as she collapsed. The ranger did not envy her the glory of going first; it looked far too painful. Her sword was bared and ready to slash, but Princess Rosalind was nowhere in sight.
"Tut-tut," echoed that silky sweet voice, somewhere in the gloomy distance. Dryads, the half-elven princess now remembered, could magically jump to their soul tree at any time. "What ill-mannered guests! Thistle, Sweetbriar? Would ye maidens please show them the error of their ways?"
"As you wish, Your Ladyship!"
"At once, Your Ladyship!"
Their two guides were still perched on a nearby rock, not too different from how they'd been scant moments before. They were no taller, no stronger, but their body language had changed completely. Feet no longer danced in place; instead the girls crouched, and their outlines in this unnatural dusk seemed much jagged than before.
That momentary glimpse was all the warning any of them had.
Flora barely managed to jump out of the way in time, and she could feel the fabric of her blouse catch on Thistle's spiked arm. The purple-haired girl pulled, knocking the druid off-balance. One skinny leg snaked around to sweep Flora's feet out from under her, and then she was on the ground with a walking weed standing on her chest. The little girl was not nearly so cute now, with her thorns exposed and her teeth all sharp. One prickly fist rose up, and Flora braced for a punch--
Which never came. Instead, a tiny, squeaky voice shouted "Head's up!" and then a magic broomstick collided with Thistle. Bianca clung defiantly to the length of elm wood as it slammed repeatedly into its target.
Flora rolled over and bounced to her feet. On her left, the little witch led an irate Thistle on a wild goose chase, while on her right Gwen fended off Sweetbriar. Selvi seemed to be hurt, but Cassie... The moon princess was still sitting there with glazed eyes and a simple grin plastered on her face. Over, around, and throughout the little scene, the sound of Rosalind's harp wrapped itself, at times beguiling and at others screeching.
"Oh no she ain't," the druid muttered. She'd hung around her Uncle Alvis enough to recognize the influence of bard song. Even though she knew what it was doing, she couldn't quite shrug off the tune's insidious whisper, that little ringing in the ears that said "Give up; there's no point..."
Well, like grandpa'd once told her, sometimes you had to fight fire with fire. The elder druid had meant it as a lesson in keeping forest fires from spreading, but she figgered it applied here, too. Bringing her trusty lute to bear, she called up the memory of one of Uncle Alvis's favorite tunes and made up the words as she went along:
Y'ain't nothin' but an old bloom, withered on the vine!
And as for your old thorns, oh, pay 'em no mind!
Cuz your withered old thorns, oh, ain't no threat o' mine!
She played and sang as loudly as she could, hoping for the best. For a moment, it even felt like she was getting somewhere, pushing against the tide of depressing harp music. There was a lull in Rosalind's rhythm, a pause, and then:
"A fair try, girl, but a bard thou art not." Then the shrill cacophony of harpstrings began again.
With a start, Cassie remembered to breathe. Her head felt like it was stuffed with soft bunny fur, and she almost fell over when she tried to stand. All around her, the other princesses were fighting. Well, most of them at least. Not far away, Selvi was also on the ground, curled up and cradling her left hand.
"Er, hey. Um, you okay?" She rolled over to the half-orc, not yet trusting her sleepy feet. The only response she got was a harsh growl. "Okay, not good. Me neither," she babbled. The wool in her head was slowly clearing away, but it was scratchy and itchy as it went. "Er, um, let me..."
Somehow she held her holy scepter steady, keeping it level between them. As quickly as she piously could, Cassandrella intoned the holy words, finishing with a simple "Moonlight Mercy!" Soft, comforting light surrounded the two of them, stripping away the last of the bunny wool. Selvi seemed to be doing better, too.
"Thanks." The barbarian princess still winced as she flexed her left hand, but she was up and ready. "Time to chop that rosy bi... bush," she corrected herself under Cassie's sadly disapproving gaze. With a wild howl, Selvi ran off, brandishing her scimitar.
Princesses Are Never Lost Page 5
