Awakened and Other Enchanted Tales

by Pamela Sherwood

  “It means Ellen’s body wasn’t made into that harp,” Kylvan replied. “But not whether she is dead or alive, or if Annet is blameless.”

  Tammas grimaced, frustrated. “Then we’re no closer to the truth than when we began!”

  “There is one way to learn…what truly happened the night the princess disappeared.”

  They turned to stare at the harp, at the Bardic Runes, glinting in the wan light, which seemed to mock them both.

  “It’s not possible,” said Tammas hoarsely. He eyed his partner askance. “Is it?”

  “It is, with my talents—and yours—combined.” After a moment’s pause, he nodded consent to her implied request. Kylvan strove to keep her voice level as she continued. “A birthlock links the soul to the body, and we have—a medium, of sorts. But…if we do this, are we any better than the man who made this harp?”

  “If we don’t do this, an innocent woman may die,” Tammas pointed out. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. “Do you think the queen knew? That it would come to this?”

  “I think Rosalys of Cartheyn would do anything short of murder to save her child.” Kylvan smiled tautly as she held out the parchment to him.

  Tammas read aloud, “By my order and for the good of this realm, the bearers have done what must be done.” His own lips twisted as he folded up the royal edict again. “My own people could not have chosen their words more cannily.”

  Kylvan glanced up at the high windows. “Dawn’s almost here. We’d better get started.”

  The trial began soon after sunrise. Allegre’s nine royal councilors filed somberly into the courtroom, seating themselves at the long table opposite the prisoner’s dock. Kylvan and Tammas, stationed by the side doors, watched as the lords and ladies took their places in the gallery. A murmur, quickly stifled, arose when the royal couple entered and seated themselves. Around King Gaultier’s neck hung a miniature of a dainty golden-haired girl. Princess Ellen, Kylvan realized with a shock. His Majesty was certainly not letting his partiality go unobserved. Queen Rosalys was pale, her lips tightly compressed, and she did not look at her consort. Her dark eyes, meeting Kylvan’s across the courtroom, held a question. The bard nodded briefly in response: Trust me. Queen Rosalys hesitated, then inclined her own head: Very well.

  Brows knit, the king leaned forward on his throne, hands restlessly grasping its arms, as the guards escorted his eldest daughter into the room. Another guard brought in the harp, again covered, placing it on a low table before the thrones.

  Walking toward the prisoner’s dock, Princess Annet saw the miniature around her father’s neck and for a moment, she faltered as she mounted the steps. Then, raising her head, she climbed the rest of the way without a stumble. Once there, she stood straight as a lance, pale but composed.

  The king beckoned to the nearest guard. “Let the accusation against her Highness be heard.”

  The guard uncovered the harp and stepped away. For a moment, there was silence, then once again, the instrument shuddered, sighed, and began to play. One by one, the strings sounded, then shaped a tune—jangling, oddly dissonant—nothing like the one heard at the Princess Royal’s ill-fated wedding feast. Bewilderment spread through the courtroom as the unmusical twanging continued, then King Gaultier’s face suffused with rage and he leapt to his feet.

  “Hold!” he roared, flinging up a hand. “Silence that thing!”

  The guard hastily threw the cloth back over the harp, as the king glared about the room, searching for the culprit.

  “What trickery is this?” he demanded harshly.

  Kylvan stepped forward. “No trickery, your Majesty. The hair that strung the harp was not that of the Princess Ellen. I replaced it with hair already proven to be hers.”

  “By whose order?”

  “Mine,” Queen Rosalys replied, meeting her husband’s furious stare with perfect calm. “At my command, Bard Kylvan restrung the harp with my daughter’s birthlock, that we might learn the truth.”

  “You dared to disobey me, madam?”

  “Should I obey a command given in the heat of anger, without thought for the consequences? I am Queen of Allegre and the mother of your heirs! We had two daughters, my lord. Killing one will not restore the other—and if she is innocent, then you wrong her still more by dismissing evidence that might exonerate her!”

  Their eyes met like crossing blades, but it was the king who looked away first. “Very well, madam.” His words came out half-strangled; he gestured brusquely at the guardsman. “Uncover that thing.”

  Bowing, the man obeyed and stepped away from the instrument. The courtiers leaned forward avidly as the harp’s broken music resumed but recoiled as a ragged voice joined in. “I’ll tell,” it sobbed, “I’ll tell, I’ll tell—”

  In the middle of the floor, the air shimmered, twisted to form the flickering image of a girl, her fair face streaked with tears, confronting the shadow of a much taller man. Even as the court stared in fascination, the girl’s lips parted, her voice merging with the harp’s plaintive cries…

  “I’ll tell,” the girl insisted, perilously close to hysteria. “I’ll tell my father, the court, the whole world—”

  The man before her laughed, unmoved. “Will you so? When all the court, nay, all the world save your purblind father, knows you for a wanton panting after your sister’s suitors?”

  “That’s a lie! I’ve lain with no one else!”

  “And an apt pupil you were, sweet Nell. Too apt, I fancy, for my teachings alone.”

  “Everyone will know what you’ve taught me, in six months’ time!” Seeing him flinch, she raised her voice in shrill triumph. “Wed me, run away with me, or I cry shame upon you!”

  He already had himself under control again. “The brat you carry might be anyone’s. I daresay a suitable father could be found. Among your grooms, perhaps.”

  “No one will believe it, not once my baby is born! And not when I can describe every inch of your body, down to the mole on your back, to my father and Nan! I wouldn’t give that,” she snapped her fingers in his face, “for your chances with my sister then!”

  She shrieked in pain as his hand closed over her wrist, twisted it behind her back, then there was no chance to scream again for his arm was tightening around her throat and the world darkening before her eyes…

  The harp gave a last harsh cry, then stopped as though choked into silence; the image on the floor winked out like a snuffed candle. Courtiers jumped and started as though waking from a dream, a few ladies swayed, kerchiefs pressed to their lips. Then, almost of one accord, countless eyes fixed themselves upon Lord William. For it had not been only Ellen’s voice they’d heard, engaged in this dialogue of casual seduction and murder, but that of her lover as well.

  The young man’s face was sheened with sweat, but even now, his mobile features were assuming an expression of lambent innocence. Before he could utter a word, the king spoke.

  “Lord William, what is the meaning of this?” King Gaultier’s voice wavered between accusation and entreaty.

  William attempted a smile. “Sire, surely you cannot believe this—”

  “How is it we hear your voice, during our daughter’s last moments of life?” The queen’s eyes were hard as obsidian.

  “A conjurer’s trick, madam!” Lord William protested. “That harp can be made to say anything, accuse anyone—”

  “Including the Princess Royal?” Kylvan inquired in her clearest, most carrying bard’s voice. “Why didn’t you employ this argument in your bride’s defense last night, Lord William? Was the harp lying then, or is it lying now?”

  William’s eyes strayed to the princess, staring at him from the dock. He licked his lips, took a tentative step towards her. “Sweet Nan—”

  Annet flinched, turning her face away in violent repudiation. Lord William stopped short, eyes wild as he saw belief slipping away, then suddenly lunged for the harp of bone.

  “Seize him!” King Gaultier shouted.


  The guards moved swifter than thought, but it still took four men to subdue Lord William as he thrashed and struggled like a fish in a net. Finally, they managed to escort him out the side door, still protesting his innocence.

  Princess Annet swayed where she stood, her face pale as chalk, her hands white-knuckled on the rail. The queen was instantly at her side, helping her down from the dock. She leaned gratefully on her mother’s arm as they made their way from the courtroom.

  “Annet!” The king’s voice was hoarse, his eyes haunted by the knowledge of what he had nearly done. “Daughter! Forgive me.”

  She looked at him briefly and what he saw in her face made his shoulders sag in defeat. Only time could breach the distance between them now. Head bowed, the king followed his wife and surviving daughter from the courtroom.

  The rest of the court, still murmuring among themselves, rose and made their own discreet exits. Within minutes, the bard and conjurer were left alone with the harp which, its terrible burden discharged, had fallen silent forever.

  “The king’s men found her and her saddlebags under the stones of their trysting-place. They’ve taken up the bones and brought the poor lady home.” Sir Huberd, the Queen’s champion and envoy, rubbed his brow. “Lord William swears he didn’t intend murder and truly, few believe he’d have the wit to plan it—”

  “He’d wit enough to see his chance at a crown slipping away if she exposed him,” Kylvan said acidly as she unstrung the birthlock. “And malice enough to plan this vile business with the harp.”

  “That, I cannot fathom,” Sir Huberd confessed. “Why cast suspicion on his betrothed? Why not allow everyone to believe Princess Ellen simply ran away?”

  “But she was his bride when she was accused. I thought the timing remarkably convenient; no doubt Prince Hugh’s unfortunate accident—or the king’s—would have occurred at an equally opportune moment.” Kylvan grimaced. “Princess Annet may not have cared what became of her sister, but she’d not have let the deaths of her brother and father go unquestioned.”

  “Whereas if she were dead or discredited, Lord William, the devoted son-in-law, could proceed unimpeded,” Tammas finished. “And he could use the princess’s disgrace to his advantage, claiming he married her in good faith. The king, it seems, is as easily played upon as that thing.” He jerked his chin towards the harp. “Who was she, do you think?”

  Kylvan shrugged, placing the last strands of the birthlock within the queen’s kerchief. “Who knows? A whore perhaps, or a thief—she probably lay in a common grave. The harper couldn’t afford squeamishness, especially if Lord William wanted results as quickly as possible. And then he may have known a minor spell of compulsion himself.”

  “Or acquired one,” offered Sir Huberd. “There are a number of hedge-witches in Allegre.”

  “The source of the spell doesn’t matter overmuch. Once the accusation was made, the harper was expendable,” Tammas pointed out. “Lord William never intended him to live.”

  “And for that, as well as for his injuries to my daughters, he shall answer to Allegre’s justice,” said Queen Rosalys, from the doorway. Despite the tragic confirmation of Ellen’s death, she seemed oddly tranquil. The truth was out now, and she would lose no more children. “Even Lord William’s father will not dispute our ruling.”

  She inclined her head as they bowed to her. “I came to thank you, for your aid to my family.”

  “How is Princess Annet?” Kylvan asked.

  “Distraught, to learn of William’s guilt. But also relieved, I think, that she was his wife in name only. In time, she—and the rest of us—will mend. It has helped her to know that Hugh and I never thought her guilty.”

  Hugh and I. The emphasis was faint but unmistakable, as the queen herself seemed to realize, observing the neutral expressions of her listeners. “I pray you, do not think too harshly of his Majesty. It is…difficult to lose two great illusions in one day.” Queen Rosalys spoke dryly but not unkindly.

  Kylvan sighed. “I fear we did him no favors, in exposing Lord William and Princess Ellen.”

  “Sometimes, the truth, however painful, is the only favor one can give. Eventually, my lord will see that. Meanwhile, Allegre is free of a murderer and my daughters have been restored to me, even though one could not return alive.

  “Tomorrow, Ellen shall sleep with her ancestors, and then—” her face softened in weary pity as she covered up the harp of bone, “this poor soul shall have rest as well.”

  A Woman’s Weapon

  “MY greatest success?” Monna Mirabella Collona, known to a select few as the Lamia, frowned prettily as she considered the question. “Oh, that would have to have been two years ago. Some nobody from the country—I can’t think why the Duchess appointed her as a lady—but fair enough, in her way! Still, when she set her cap at one of my court, what else could I do?”

  “What indeed, lady?” Fosca di Marino agreed with just the right touch of obsequiousness. “How did you dispose of her? The ducal household is well-guarded, and you too are one of her Grace’s ladies—”

  “I first made it a point to acquaint myself with all her habits. Monna Sophia, as it happened, had a passion for scented gloves; she ordered new ones every month. I had them intercepted and coated with a special perfumed venom. Time and her own vanity did the rest.” Mirabella smiled thinly, remembering Monna Sophia’s shrieks at the blemishes that marred the porcelain skin of her arms and face. Towards the end, even her beautiful red hair was falling out in handfuls. “The best part was that everyone believed she’d caught the pox. None guessed the true cause.”

  Fosca paused while pouring out the damson wine. “How very ingenious! And with scented gloves so fashionable now…oh!” The goblet was nearly overflowing; setting down the pitcher, she handed the brimming cup to her guest. “Truly, poison is a woman’s weapon, and you, my lady, wield it to perfection. The Lamia’s achievements are much admired in our circle, considered second only to those of Lucrezia herself! I am honored that you should patronize my establishment now that Rinaldo has been forced to leave Corrina.”

  “Yes.” Mirabella permitted herself a sigh of regret; Rinaldo had been an excellent procurer, at least until the Ecclesiastical Council, which regulated all magical activities, had learned of his more sinister practices. “Well, I had heard—from a reliable source—that you surpassed him, in certain areas. Forbidden magics, in particular.”

  “Indeed?” Fosca’s brows rose, giving her softly rounded face the look of a surprised tabby-cat’s. “I am not — unskilled, but you seem to have managed quite well without the aid of magic.”

  A servant appeared at that moment, bearing a tray of small cakes. Conversation momentarily ceased as Fosca turned to the servant with further instructions. Mirabella surreptitiously fished out the fragment of unicorn’s horn she wore on a thin chain around her neck. But the horn neither sweated nor changed color; Fosca’s food and drink were perfectly safe. Reassured, Mirabella sipped from her fine Venetian goblet: the wine was excellent.

  After the maid had gone, Fosca turned back to her guest. “As I said before, your fame precedes you. If you could dispose of a rival so cleverly without sorcery, why do you require my assistance?”

  Mirabella braced herself. “Because this time I desire more than a rival’s death. I want the love of her husband.”

  “Ah!” The procuress’s round eyes grew rounder. “And who is the fortunate young man? Or, should I ask,” she added, smirking, “the unfortunate young lady?”

  “Don Alessandro Marchetta. We were betrothed as children, but his family broke it off, for some reason.” Mirabella brooded over that distant wrong. Instead, she had married her much older cousin Pandolfo who, at least, had never forbidden her affairs as long as she was discreet. A place at court and a string of handsome lovers had contented her, until Alessandro had joined the Duke’s household last year.

  Even now, she felt her breath quicken and her loins melt. The scrawny boy she remembered had gro
wn tall and lithe, his skin bronzed by the southern sun. He’d also become a fine scholar and an eloquent speaker, qualities that made him much sought after in diplomatic missions.

  But Alessandro had also brought a wife back from the southern provinces. And such a wife! Mirabella’s lip curled. She herself was petite and angelically fair, with silver-gilt curls and midnight blue eyes. Monna Chiara was tall and dark with angular, almost hawk-like features. Picturing her with Alessandro made Mirabella feel physically sick. Worse, the marriage was reportedly a love-match!

  “It is intolerable that so common a creature should have him! And the Duchess has appointed her a lady too, because Alessandro stands in such high favor with the Duke. Her airs are insupportable!”

  “Do you contrive at her death?”

  Mirabella shrugged. “Eventually. What I should most enjoy,” she leaned forward avidly, “would be to render her utterly helpless while I deprive her of all she holds dear. She might even oblige me by taking her own life then! What better revenge could there be? But,” she grimaced distastefully, “he shows a depressing taste for fidelity these days. And my specialty is poison, not love charms and aphrodisiacs.”

  “I see.” Fosca tapped a finger against her teeth. “Have you studied the habits of your new rival, my lady?”

  “Of course. She’s a hoyden, who prefers riding and hawking to dancing and embroidery, but vain nonetheless. Alessandro sends her little gifts when he’s away: jewelry, which she flaunts, or flowers.”

  “What kind of flowers?”

  “Roses.” Mirabella gave a disdainful sniff. She’d always found them vulgar and obvious. Lilies were her favorite flowers and Pandolfo, rusticating on their country estate, sent her some every day to adorn her hair and gown.

  “Roses? How fortuitous. Wait here, my lady.”

  Rising from the divan, the little procuress bustled to the other end of her salon, where a row of handsome curio cabinets stood. Moments later, she returned, carrying a small chest which she set on the table between them. Mirabella watched intently as Fosca unlocked the chest with a tiny key, rummaged through its contents, and emerged with a triumphant cry, brandishing a small silken packet.