Part One: The Blacksmith

This is a fairytale. I suppose that the term fairytale is a misnomer, seeing as fairies do not
enter into the story. However, it involves knights and princesses. Therefore I do not feel that I am
entirely remiss in terming it a fairytale. Perhaps it is a princesstale or a knighttale. However, since
both princesstale and knighttale sound more than a little bit ridiculous, we will call this a fairytale.
Excellent. We have established that our tale is in fact a fairytale.
Now, fairytales have ground rules. There must be a kingdom. I believe that is customary. Yes, let
us start there. A kingdom.
Not so long ago, in a land not so far from here, there was, established upon the land, a great
kingdom. The king was beloved by all, and rightly so. He was blessed with wisdom, he detested
falsehood, and he ruled with a gentle hand.
Now, I have often observed that, in fairytales, kings have daughters. Those daughters are, purely
by virtue of having royal parentage, princesses. Let us therefore incorporate a princess into our fairytale.
The king, whose name will remain shrouded in mystery (primarily because I am not entirely sure
what kings in fairytales ought to be called) had a daughter. She was, naturally, a princess. For the
daughter of a king to be otherwise would be laughable.
Now, I feel that I ought to enumerate the qualities of said princess. What are princesses like? If
memory serves, they tend to be beautiful. Let us say that our princess is beautiful.
The princess was a great beauty.
That has been established. Now, it seems natural that beautiful princesses must have a number
of suitors. That seems to follow logically. They are, after all, beautiful. And princesses. Those are
attractive qualities. Men are drawn to attractive women.
She was, in fact, so beautiful, that great men would travel miles to gaze upon her face, if only for
a moment. Many approached her father with requests for an audience with the princess, but the king
refused them all and turned them away at his castle gates. The princess beauty passed into legend.
Bards sang of it, poets attempted to capture it in verse, painters threw away failed canvas after failed
canvas in disgust, for no mere portrait could capture the luster of her eyes, the delicate curve of her
face, the raven blackness of her hair.
We have established a truly pitiful foundation for this tale, but I can do no better. We have a
kingdom, a king, a beautiful princess, and disappointed suitors. Ah, conflict! Disappointed suitors. Good
stories require conflict and resolution. We have conflict; resolution is in order. This part of the story is, I
believe, referred to as the rising action. Let us proceed.
Then, one day, the king announced that his daughter had come of age and was ready to marry.
There was to be a tournament of sorts, the winner of which would be deemed worthy of the princess
hand. Any man who wished to present his suit to the princess, be he high born or low born, duke or
baker, lord or serf, was to present her with a gift. The man whose gift the princess deemed the most
beautiful would take her to wife.
Well, as can be imagined, there was a great stir in the kingdom. Sir Dustain, a knight renowned
for his strength and bravery, rode into the north and slew the dread-wyvern Pharadon. He returned with
a single scale from the beasts hide. It was harder than diamond, clearer than water, and shone with an
inner light. He requested an audience with the princess, which was granted, and presented her with his
prize. She thanked him, graciously, and bid him depart. He did so, and returned to his estate with high
hopes.
The Duke of Parivaine, the wealthiest man in the kingdom beside the king himself, traveled to
the far east and was not seen again for three months. Rumors of his demise began to spread through
the kingdom, and his nephews began to divvy up his estate. However, he returned with the first snows
in a ship laden with chests upon chests of gold of unparalleled quality and gems of matchless size and
brilliance. He retreated into his castle and sent out therefrom a number of envoys, bidding them fetch
him the finest craftsmen in the kingdom. Two months later, he too requested an audience with the
princess. His request was granted, and he presented her with a rose crafted of brilliant gold and
shimmering rubies. He too was sent away with the princess thanks.
Scores of knights, lords, dukes, and barons brought their respective offerings to the kings castle
and laid them at the princess feet. They all awaited the princess decision with anxious hearts.
Now, in this same kingdom, in a smallest house in a small village, there lived a blacksmith named
Camadon. The townsfolk knew him as Cam. Cam was a mere boy, having only seen his twentieth winter.
He was skilled in his craft; the lords of four nearby fiefs would allow no one to shoe their finest horses
but Cam the blacksmith. One day, in the deep of winter, Cam rose early (as was his custom) and ate a
meager breakfast of barley bread and goats milk. He stepped out into the cold, put up the hood of his
roughly sewn deerskin jacket against the cold wind, and struggled to light the coals in his small foundry.
However, the fresh snow had gotten into the fresh coal and dampened it. It would not light, despite his
best efforts. Cam sighed. He would not eat that evening. The money was gone, and he could make no
more without a functioning furnace. However, he was not unaccustomed to hunger. He would manage,
as he had always done.
He stepped out into the street, hoping to collect four coppers from the baker (whose cart he
had repaired on a promise of money to be delivered) and was nearly run down by a man on horseback.
He leapt out of the way, and the man jerked his reins to the left. The mans horse stumbled and fell onto
one knee.
Dolt! Fool! cried the stranger. You must be a stupid fool indeed. What do you mean by
impeding me thus, when it is plain that I am in haste? Answer swiftly, lest I free your shoulders of the
weight of your foolish head.
You wrong me, sir. Naught was done with malice, or indeed intentionally. I simply failed to see
you.
Blind fool! shouted the stranger, Whats more, you have lamed my horse. See, how he has
fallen. Now he will not stand. How am I to reach the capital? On foot, I suppose? A pretty thought.
Ninety leagues, and three feet of new snow on the kings road.
What is your business in the capital? inquired Cam.
You are a simpleton, replied the stranger. What else should my business be, but to request
the princess hand in marriage? I have procured, after a long journey fraught with all manner of perils, a
gift worthy of her royal person. I have forded rivers, climbed mountains, slain brigands, fled fire-
breathing dragons, riddled with sorcerers, and after all is done I am vanquished by a senseless peasant
with a penchant for standing in the middle of roads when honest people mean to pass by. Cruel, cruel
fate!
The stranger threw up his hands, and glared at Cam.
Cam sighed. He did not understand what the stranger meant, having heard nothing of the kings
promise or the ongoing struggle for the princess hand. Three things were apparent, however. This
nameless stranger intended to reach the capital, he was unable to do so because his horse had fallen,
and he regarded Cam as the source of his trouble. Cam opened his mouth to reply, but the stranger had
recovered the breath that he had expended upon his preliminary tirade and saw fit to continue.
You fool! Do you not know that the princess is the most beautiful woman who has ever lived?
I did not know that, replied Cam, humbly.
And now I shall likely never catch even a glimpse of the hem of her royal robe. The pox upon
you and your idiocy!
Cam did not reply. He imagined that the stranger was not finished. He was right.
You truly are the dullest, most idiotic, most ill-bred-, the stranger began.
Then, however, the stranger stopped speaking suddenly. His horse, which was not, as he had
assumed, newly crippled but which had rather been resting, had risen to its feet. It was now tossing its
head, clearly ready to continue the mad dash toward the capital.
The stranger turned red.
You are a lucky fellow. I do not suffer witless peasants to cripple my horse. Had he not risen, I
would have ended your sorry life. A plague on you!
The stranger galloped off.
Cam shook his head, and continued across the street. However, upon arriving at the bakers
door, he saw that the shop was not yet open for business. The baker, he imagined, was still abed. He
turned away with a sigh, and started back toward his small house. As he turned, however, his heart
jumped into his throat. There, standing in a field not forty yards distant, stood a majestic buck deer. Cam
knew that its hide would fetch three pieces of silver, and the meat would stock his small pantry for
months. He dashed back home to retrieve his bow and his quiver; he had lost most of his arrows, and
broken several others. There was only one that could be called serviceable. Cam sighed again. However,
he was a skilled archer. If he could get close enough, there was a chance
He crept down the lane behind his small house, quiver slung across his back and bow in hand.
He rounded a bend, and the field where he had first espied the beast came into view. The buck was
nowhere to be seen. Cam cursed under his breath. However, hope soon returned. The fresh snow
showed the beasts tracks leading off to the north. Cam followed them, his heart still pounding. He
jogged steadily for ten minutes, and then perceived that the tracks veered off to the left. He turned to
follow them, his head down against the wind. After another ten minutes, he raised his head to see if the
buck was not yet close to hand. He gasped and swore under his breath. He had not meant to come so
far. Not ten yards distant, the bucks trail disappeared into Darkling Wood.
Every mothers son knew that it was a foolish man indeed who braved the wood. The legends
said that no one had ever passed in and come out on the other side. There were tales of ghouls that
dwelt in caves, stories of giant spiders that dropped from the trees onto the heads of unsuspecting
travelers, even whispers of a dark sorcerer who lived at the center of the wood and reanimated corpses
into puppet servants who did his bidding. Cam turned to run, but as he did so he spied the buck. It was
standing just behind a tall, twisted oak. It had not seen Cam, and was chewing contemplatively on a
large growth of Spanish moss that hung from one of the trees lower branches. Silently, agonizingly
slowly, taking care not to alert his adversary, Cam knocked an arrow, took a deep breath, and raised the
bow. He drew the arrow back, and exhaled
The buck looked up, saw him, and started. It turned and ran into the trees. Cam, forgetting his
fear of the wood in the heat of the moment, leapt after his fleeing quarry. He ducked under a branch,
dodged round a dead snag, and made chase.

Part Two: The Princess
We have been introduced to our princess peripherally. Let us now meet her in a more intimate
context. That seems fitting. Shes important. Dont worry. We have not abandoned Cam. Hes off
somewhere chasing a deer through a haunted wood. It would be bad form to leave him thus. We will
simply let him be for a time.
Ninety leagues distant, the princess sat in a sumptuously furnished chamber at the top of a tall
tower that was sent into the north side of the central keep in the kings castle. She sighed. No less than
fourteen lords and knights had begged her hand earlier that day, each bearing a gift more extravagant
than the last. The long table that spanned the western wall of the room was littered with trinkets. An
iron cage in the courtyard, just visible from the towers window, housed a tiger with a pelt that was as
gold as an autumn sunset. She was pleased with the tiger, but Lord Brackenstone (who had captured the
beast in the Jungle of Vomen) was a renowned boor and a loyal patron of several local brothels.
There was a knock at the chamber door.
Enter, said the princess.
The door opened, and a small girl in a simple, white frock and skirt slipped into the room. She
shut the door behind her, glanced about furtively, and scampered across the stone floor to bow before
the princess.
Betsy, you goose, remonstrated the princess, smiling in spite of herself, You bow to no one.
Stand. You look silly.
Yes, your highness, said Betsy, standing.
Hah! Your Highness, she calls me, laughed the princess, Wast not last night that you termed
me a stubborn old mule? I ought to have you thrown in the stocks.
Betsy giggled.
You cant hardly blame me, miss. You refused nine good men, spurned three great men, and
positively ignored two men who were, youll forgive my saying so, dreamy. Why?
The princess sighed. She knew that Betsy was, in all likelihood, entirely right. Some of the suitors
who had gained an audience with her were, indeed, little better than beasts. No one would have termed
the nobility, as a caste, virtuous or restrained. They were better known for their excesses, their
unfair tax policies, and their petty war, many of which had raged for so long that the combatants no
longer knew what it was they were fighting over.
However, Betsy was right in saying that a number of the lord and knights who had solicited the
princess hand were men of integrity, men of mettle, men with good hearts. However, the princess felt
somehow that she could not grow to love any of them. She knew this to be a childish notion. Love was
more than an emotional response to the proper stimuli. Betsy, a horticulturally minded lass, had
described it thus not three nights past: it was a flower; it was to be planted in fertile soil, allowed to
enjoy, in measure, both sun and shade, and watered at regular intervals.
The princess knew this to be true. However, she also knew that even the most skilled gardener
could not convince a marigold seedpod to yield roses, regardless of soil, sunshine and water. She could
love any number of the men who sought her acquiescence, but not with the right sort of love.
She sighed again.
Your right-stubborn royal highness is tired, said Betsy, with a wink. Shall I make up your bed?
Ill stand guard at the door. Nor lord, nor knight nor baron shall pass through without first defeating me
in single combat. I shall serve as your champion.
Betsy squared her shoulders and threw back her head in a noble yet ultimately futile attempt at
looking fearsome.
The princess contemplative frown softened. She giggled in spite of herself.
I have a better idea, replied the princess
The author would like to interrupt this tale for an important bulletin: the princess name is
Olianna. I dont know WHEN I was going to reveal that key piece of information. Alright, back to the
story.
I have a better idea, replied Olianna (sure is nice having a name for this lass). Ive a mind to
go riding. Saddle Nutmeg, and give her a measure of oats. I shall take the air for a few hours and return
in time for a late supper.
Youll catch a cold! remonstrated Betsy. Be sensible. You ought to stay in on such a day as
this; you have but to look out the window. See! It snowed afresh last night. You wont get three leagues
before your horse takes a bad step on ice, loses its footing and goes lame.
Bah! You forget that I am an exceptionally skilled rider. Do I not ride well, Betsy my dear? It is
not true that I ride well?
Betsy grudgingly admitted that it was so.
And have I not lived in this castle all my life? Does it not follow that I should have acquired
some degree of familiarity with the surrounding roads, tracks, field, dells and streams? Come, you know
it is so. I shall not lose my way or take some perilous path. I shall dress warmly to stave off the cold, and
I shant be gone but an hour and another. What is there to fear? Come Betsy, you are being a goose
again. Come, you know that I am right.
Betsy sighed her assent, and shuffled back to the door.
Wear two coats, warned Betsy, just before she closed the door.
Thirty minutes later a visibly peevish Betsy stood outside the royal stables, holding by the bridle
a magnificent mare with a glossy chestnut flanks, powerful, graceful legs and long, flowing mane. The
horse pawed the ground anxiously; its breath came in great misty clouds that froze in Betsys hair and
stung her eyes.
Several minutes later, Betsy heard footsteps approaching from across the courtyard. Out of the
mist emerged the princess Olianna, wrapped in several shawls and wearing, as per Betsys request, two
fur-lined jackets. Nutmeg whinnied happily and started toward her mistress. Betsys cold fingers lost
their grip on the great mares halter, and the horse loped gracefully to Oliannas side and rested its great
head on her shoulder, bringing their two faces together. Olianna smiled. Nutmeg blinked, snorted, and
whinnied again.
Betsy sighed as Olianna patted Nutmegs mane, planted her foot in the stirrup, and pulled
herself into the saddle.
Back by supper, mind you! she called, as Olianna rode past her toward the postern gate set
into the east wall. And dont go too far!
No answer came back to her on the cold wind, only a clear soprano laugh. She sighed and
turned away, put up her hood against the cold, and started back toward the castle.

Part Three: The Gift

Olianna spurred Nutmeg forward, bending over the gleaming pommel that rose from the leather
saddle, squinting against the biting winter wind. She parted her lips to taste the air. Nutmegs pace
quickened as Olianna continued to press her. The eastern wall emerged out of the winter mist, and
Olianna gave Nutmeg her head. Nutmeg veered left, passed through the postern gate onto the open
road, and accelerated to a full gallop.
Nutmegs copper mane and Oliannas raven hair whipped about in the wind. Olianna bent lower
still, taking shelter from the wind. Her breath quickened; she felt Nutmegs sides rise and fall with
exertion. She closed her eyes, and breathed a single, slow, deep breath.
To say that the princess Olianna loved to ride would be a gross injustice. One might as well say
that men love to breathe. It is neither sport nor leisure to a man to breathe, it is life. Just so with the
princess; to ride was to live. To see the land pass away below her like a flowing river, to feel her heart
beating in her throat, to feel the blood pounding in her head, to feel that exhilarating surge of energy
Suddenly, Olianna was yanked from her reverie by a hollow sound, carried to her on the wind.
She reigned in her horse, and held her breath. Could it be it was. The sound was carried to her again,
this time multiplied threefold. It was the long, low, blood-chilling howl of a dire wolf. Of a pack of dire
wolves. Olianna pulled on the reigns, urging Nutmeg to turn back. However, the horse was frozen with
fear. The howls continued to increase in volume. The pack had taken to the hunt. They had scented
Nutmeg on the wind.
Olianna dug in her heels, and Nutmeg snorted. The great mare turned and fled across an open
field. Olianna began to grow very seriously frightened. If she could coax Nutmeg back onto the open
road, she could easily outstrip the pack and return to the safety of the castle. However, Nutmeg would
not give any head. She snorted, whipped her head, tugged against the reigns, and continued on.
What was more, the wolves were gaining. She could hear them now; they had long since ceased
howling. Now all she heard were snarls and growls. She urged Nutmeg forward. She looked over her
shoulder and her heart leapt. Not ten stone throws distant, the first wolf had emerged from the mist. It
stayed low to the ground, its teeth bared and its ears plastered back against its skull. Its muzzle was
brown with dried blood, and spittle flew from its open jaws.
Olianna cried out, and turned back around in the saddle. She gasped, and nearly fainted dead
away. There, rising from the gloom, rushing toward her like a black wave, were the black shapes of
hundreds upon hundreds of trees. Nutmeg had brought them to the edge of Darkling Wood. Olianna
had heard stories of the wood as a little girl; even her father, the king, never dared to pass into the
realm of the fabled Necromancer. However, Nutmeg had heard no such stories. She continued on,
rushing headlong into the dark trees.
Olianna was swallowed by the trees; she could not see through the blackness. Cobwebs and
branches grasped at her, like diseased, rotting fingers. She could barely breathe for fear. Then, quite
suddenly, she realized something. The wolves had not continued to pursue her when she had entered
the wood. At first, she breathed easier. Then, however, it occurred to her that if even a fierce, fearless
pack of wolves would not brave the wood, what chance did she stand?
After another ten minutes (though it felt like years in the inky blackness), Nutmeg slowed to a
trot, then to a walk, then to a standstill. Her sides heaved, her neck was flecked with sweat and spittle.
Olianna quaked with fear, and strained to see through the blackness. However, try as she might, she
could not see past her own hand. She reasoned that if she turned back and held a steady course, she
would reach the edge of the wood eventually, if not precisely where she had entered. She pulled
Nutmegs reins, urging her to come around over her left shoulder. Then, quite suddenly, she froze.
There was a light in the trees to their left. A faint, green, sickly light. It was coming nearer; its approach
was accompanied by the sound of rustling brush and cracking twigs. Olianna held very still, barely daring
to breathe
Then, quite suddenly, Nutmeg reared up onto two legs with a terrified whinny. Olianna was
thrown from the saddle and landed on her back. Nutmeg continued to nicker in terror, wheeled round,
and sped into the trees. Olianna was left all alone. There was no way of knowing where she was, no way
to get back home, and the someone or something in the trees was still drawing nearer. Olianna,
breathless and shaking, without once taking her eyes off of the green, glowing light, groped round for
something, anything, with which to defend herself. Her fingers closed over the end of a large branch,
about two inches in diameter. She lifted it with both hands, scrambled to her feet, and, for the third
time, nearly fainted.
Out of the trees, into the clearing (for she was indeed in a clearing, as the sickly green light
revealed) emerged a creature out of a nightmare. It had a spiders body and eight long, spindly, legs, but
where the spiders head should have been was a skull in an armored helmet. The skull was certainly not
human, for it sported cruel, twisted horns and three rows of cruel, sharp teeth.
Olianna, in spite of herself, gave a little cry of fear and fell to her knees. The creature turned to
face her, slowly and ponderously, and then started toward her. Its approach through the trees had been
slow, but now it scuttled along at a rapid clip. Olianna closed her eyes, held her arms above her head,
and prepared herself for a ghastly demise; she wept bitter tears and wondered why she had not listened
to Betsy.
There was a loud twang and a hiss. These were followed by a sickly thud and then a muffled
crashing sound. Olianna quaked with fear, wondering if some new beast, fouler than the first, had found
its way into the clearing, when she heard a voice.
Up, mlady! There will be more, I have no doubt! And I had but one arrow!
Olianna peered out from between her fingers, and perceived that the nightmare creature was
lying on its side, its eight legs curled in and under. Standing over her, clad in a rough jacket of deerskin
and rabbits pelts and clutching a yew short bow in his left hand, was a man; a boy! He could not have
seen more than twenty five harvests. She nearly leapt into his arms, but she caught herself. Was he yet
another demon of the shadowlands, disguising himself as a man to taunt her?
He held out his hand and spoke again. His voice was gentle, yet firm. She felt inexplicably safe
with this ragged stranger.
Come, we must go. Your horse is ninety yards distant, I arrested her flight and returned her
hence. Let us be on our way.
Olianna stretched out her hand and the stranger lifted her to her feet. However, when she tried
to stand, she fell to her knees once again with a cry of pain. The stranger dropped to one knee and
caught her.
What is wrong? Are you ill? Have you suffered an injury?
Olianna sighed bitterly. It is my left ankle. It caught in the stirrup when I fell from my horses
saddle. I fear that it is broken. I cannot walk, that much is certain.
Then come, replied the stranger, I will bear you hence. He bent down, lifted her in his arms
as if she weighed no more than a newborn babe, and started off at a jog in the direction he had
indicated as the one in which Oliannas runaway horse was tethered.
The stranger was as good as his word. Oliannas eyes had adjusted to the blackness, and as they
drew nearer she perceived Nutmegs dark silhouette against a gap between the trunks of two tall,
twisted, ancient old oaks. The stranger lifted her into the saddle, climbed into the saddle himself, bid her
hold onto his waist, and with reassuring clicks and whistles, led Nutmeg back toward the periphery of
the wood.
Thirty minutes later, the two refugees emerged into the same open field that had earlier served
as the theater for Oliannas flight from the wolves. They breathed deeply of the fresh, clean air and
urged Nutmeg onward, anxious to leave the dark forest behind. Only when they had ridden for another
quarter hour yet did Olianna think to speak.
I feel compelled to express gratitude, she began. You saved me from a horrific death;
perhaps from some greater horror still. I am very conscious of the bravery that you exhibited. You are a
gallant man indeed.
The youth reddened.
Nay, I cannot rightly accept your words of praise. No man would have stood by to watch a fair
maiden come to a bitter end at the hands of such a creature as that. Cam blushed in spite of himself
(for indeed, it was he, as you have probably already guessed). Fair maiden? he thought to himself. A
bold choice of words. And a foolish one. But by the gods, she is a fair lady!
Olianna blushed in her turn. In her fathers court, no man would be suffered to pay her such a
compliment if he were not her promised one. Such things were considered undignified and improper in
noble circles. However, she found that she was rather pleased in spite of herself.
You do yourself a discredit, sir! she chided. There are many men who I have had the
misfortune of meeting who, upon perceiving such a dreadful sight as that which was struck by the beast
which you so skillfully slew, would have run to save themselves rather than letting fly an arrow in
defense of said fair maiden. Her own boldness shocked her. She had acknowledged his compliment
and paid him one in return. She resolved to behave herself in the future, when he turned to look at her.
For the first time, she saw her rescuers face. She had never seen a face like it. His rugged, dark
hair, his soft, brown eyes, and his strong, angular features left her breathless. She felt that she had
stumbled into Eden and encountered Adam. He smiled at her, and she went weak. Exhaustion, coupled
with relief, seized hold of her. She felt the world slipping away, she saw his arms reach out to catch her
as she fell, and she sank out of consciousness.
Some hours later, she awoke. She looked around, and discovered that she was lying on a small
cot in the corner of a tiny cabin. Her ankle was wrapped in warm cloths and splinted with a rough piece
of Birchwood. On the floor, in front of the door, slept the lad who had so bravely rescued her from the
hell-beast yester night in the wood. She wondered why the countless nobles who vied for her hand were
not more like this brave lad. They were petty, cruel, self-absorbed, and (she was shocked, once again, by
the rebellion of her wayward mind) blessed with a measure of physical beauty that could be accounted
for by one finger on the handsome strangers exposed hand, one lock of his dark hair, nearly as dark as
her own, or one line of his chiseled, decisive chin.
As she stared, he opened his eyes. They met hers, and lingered for a moment. Then, however,
he become aware of himself. He leapt to his feet, brushed the dust from his tunic, and asked whether
fair lady would care for some breakfast. He blushed, again, and looked around for something else to
stare at.
She giggled. She regretted it instantly. She could not abide girls who were always giggling.
However, she accepted his gracious offer. He set about preparing a simple meal of cakes with honey and
butter, and set water boiling over the small fire in the grate to prepare tea. He approached the bed, and,
after seeking his guests acquiescence, lifted her in his arms and carried her to the table. She could not
help but notice the ease with which he bore her across the room. She found herself gazing into his eyes,
her face a few inches from hers. She retreated, instinctively, and blushed scarlet.
He deposited her, gently, in a chair and served breakfast. The princess, famished from the
nights exertions, ate as much as he. Afterward, as he cleared the dishes, he cleared his throat to speak.
Mlady, I have yet to learn your name. I am also ignorant as to where I ought to take you once
you have recovered from your injury. Where is it that you live?
Olianna started to answer, then checked her tongue. Should she answer candidly? She was
vulnerable; what was more, she enjoyed the handsome strangers society. She feared that he would
become cold and guarded, as so many other men did, when he learned her true identity. However, she
felt compelled to answer honestly. She trusted him. His face was an honest one, and she felt confident
that his heart was true. What was more, her father would be worried sick, as would Betsy. She had to
return to the castle as soon as was expedient. There would be more suitors bearing more gifts, she
thought. More dull hours spent inside those stone walls. More rich, selfish, vapid men who sought her
hand for the sake of her beauty and for the political clout that would come with such an alliance
All at once, she felt bitter tears well up in her eyes. It was not fair! Why should she marry a pig
of a man? She was a princess! A flame of defiance leapt into her heart and burned in her eyes. She
would not be bartered nor sold. She would choose a man who she felt that she could love with a pure,
burning love. A love that would stand the test of time. A love that would pass into songs and tales! She
burst into tears and flung herself onto the table, her body wracked with sobs.
Cam was rooted to the spot. What was he to do? Had he said something that had distressed the
fair lady? He sat down beside her, and took one of her hands in his own.
Fair lady, he asked, gently, What is the matter?
Olianna raised her head and, through a blur of wet hair and hot tears, met the strangers eyes
with her own. She took two deep breaths, and spilled her heart at his feet. She told all. The tournament,
the gifts, the suits from the scores of shallow, bickering, little-minded men who desired her hand. She
poured out her desires, her fears, her wants; she bared her heart and begged him to save her again. She
felt that if anyone could make right the wrongs that so tortured her soul, it was the strong, handsome,
noble lad who had rescued her from the wood and brought her back to a safe, warm, wholesome place.
Cam listened in silence. He was, initially, dumbfounded. This fair guest was a princess? However,
as she told him of her plight, he forgot his shock and was consumed with pity and a feeling that he could
not quite identify. Something that lay on the far side of longing, that tasted of desire but smelled of
roses and sun. As the princess drew near to the end of her tale, the feeling intensified. It filled his head,
it pounded in his heart, he tasted it on his tongue, and he realized, in an instant, that he loved the fair
lady sitting beside him. He did not know how he could love after so short a time; he barely knew her.
But these bitter tears that she shed, her heart an open book, and the intimacy of the moment swept him
along.
She stopped, suddenly, and drew a shuddering breath. Her shoulders sagged, and she collapsed,
once again, into the strangers arms. However, he pushed her back into her chair. She was surprised and
hurt. It was as she had feared. Propriety dictated that he keep a respectful distance, that he bow just
this low and speak in this manner. She sighed, sadly. Heavy hangs the head that wears the crown, she
thought. Where had she heard that? She could not remember. The stranger rose and walked to the
door. She raised her head to see what he was about. He was staring at her with a curious expression on
his face. It was like fear, but softer. It was anxiety tempered with tenderness. He opened the door and
went outside, closing it behind him. He had gone to saddle Nutmeg, to bear her back to her cold stone
room, to her cold stone tower, to the scores of men with hearts of stone who tried vainly to win her
heart with offerings of cold metal and cold, hard gems.
However, he returned almost immediately bearing a parcel wrapped in a clean oilcloth. He set it
on the floor, and unwrapped it slowly, staring at Olianna all the while. She said not a word, but observed
him silently. The oilcloth fell away to reveal a box of cherry wood. Cam opened the box and drew
something from within. It was small, and it gleamed in the firelight. He stood, and walked, slowly and
silently, to Oliannas side. He held out his hand. In it rested a small, silver spoon.
The Duke of Ellingson left these with me. I was to clean them. He said, simply.
Olianna stared at him, bemused.
What am I to do with this? she asked.
Whatever your heart desires, answered the youth. It is yours.
Nay, it is not. Countered Olianna, You said not a moment ago that it belonged to the Duke of
Ellingson.
Yes, well, he shall have me hung as a thief no doubt. But it is yours now. It is for you.
Whatever do you mean? asked Olianna. She was growing almost frightened. The handsome
strangers eyes had not left her face for a moment since he had entered the cabin. She suddenly felt
very vulnerable.
It is mine. My offering. My gift. Hold it in the light. Do you see?
Olianna raised the spoon to eye level and stared into it. She saw herself, reflected, staring back.
Her face was torn and bruised from her midnight flight in the wood, her eyes were red and swollen from
crying, and her hair was a mess of tangles and twigs.
Princess, you ask for a beautiful gift? I can think of nothing lovelier than yourself. Note the
blackness of the hair, its satin sheen, the graceful curve of the neck, the ruby red of the delicate mouth,
the depth of the eyes, like limpid pools of water
Cam stopped, shocked, horrified. What had he said? The lady was a princess. He was but a
worm. What would she say to him? How angry she would be. He averted his eyes, shuffled his feet, and
mumbled out a hasty apology.
Olianna did not hear. She only reached out and touched his arm. He raised his eyes to meet
hers.
The princess was smiling.