Elizabeth Ann Scarborough - Bronwyn's Bane.rtf

[Argonia 03] – Bronwyn’s Bane by Elizabeth Ann Scarborough

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Version 1.0

Release Date: May 12th, 2003

PREFACE: (FROM THE ARGONIAN ARCHIVES TRANSCRIBED BY SIR CYRIL PERCHINGBIRD FOR THE ARGONIAN HERALD)

CROWN PRINCESS CURSED AT CHRISTENING!

QUEEN SWOONS AS BEWITCHED TOY SHOUTS "LIAR" AT HRH BRONWYN

Fort Iceworm, Northern Territories, Argonia: Reign of King Roari the Red, Year I ... The Royal Christening of the firstborn of our King and Queen was marred earlier this year by the antics of a bewitched christening gift, a jack-in-the-box that shouted "You're a liar!" at the infant Princess Bronwyn, cursing her to be one. Queen Amber-wine fainted hysterically but gracefully into the arms of her Lord while the vocally distraught Royal Heiress was soothed by onlookers.

Experts fear the curse may damage the Princess's ability to succeed her Royal Father on the Throne and reliable sources say the King is launching an investigation into the source of the curse.

CLASSIFIED DECREE: FROM HIS ROYAL MAJESTY KING ROARI I TO SIR CYRIL PERCHINGBIRD, CHIEF ARCHIVIST:

"Perchingbird: While We approve of your notion of trans­cribing the archives into readable form for the populace against such a time as the populace shall learn to read, the above article wasn't exactly what We had in mind. As you know, Our quest to have the Princess's curse lifted has not been entirely successful, and must needs be delayed while other matters of State take precedence. Therefore, in order to prevent undue disrespect on the part of Our subjects for Our daughter, and to keep from making life harder than it already is for the poor wee lass, We and Our Queen have decided that this incident shall be in no way published abroad until such time as We otherwise declare, and that those persons who have knowledge of Bronwyn's curse shall keep their big mouths shut about it around her so she can grow up as normally as possible without being punished and plagued for that which she cannot help. We know We can expect your loyalty in this matter. Roari, Rex."

(FROM THE ARGONIAN ARCHIVES TRANSCRIBED BY SIR CYRIL PERCHINGBIRD FOR THE ARGONIAN HERALD)

GOOD NEWS AND BAD NEWS: QUEEN AMBERWINE

WITH CHILD AFTER MORE

THAN A DECADE AND ABLEMARLE LAUNCHES INVA­SION FLEET

Queenston: Reign of King Roari the Red, Year of the Great War ... A palace spokesman announced this year that by the Grace of the Mother, our good Queen Amberwine is to bear another child for the greater glory of our realm. The Queen has been elegantly but fruitlessly slender since the birth of Princess Bronwyn, well over a decade ago. Due to Her Majesty's delicate constitution, our Queen's healers have recommended bedrest for her for the duration of her pregnancy. His Majesty is quoted as saying he doesn't care if the new babe is a boy or a girl, just so it, and the Queen, are healthy.

On the darker side of the national scene, official sources have confirmed that the King announced to his council that we are now officially at war with Ablemarle. A reliable Royal spy has spotted the Ablemarlonian Navy, with King Worthyman the Worthless himself aboard its flagship, headed our way. An unconfirmed report has it that the Ablemarlonians are planning to unleash a new secret weapon to wreak death and destruction among us, may the Mother preserve us. King Roari and the consolidated Argonian Army and Navy, and the three-dragon Air Force, have already set sail to foil the blackhearted aggressors.

During the King's absence and the Queen's indisposition, Her Majesty's half-sister, Lady Wormroost (nee Magdalene Brown) has been appointed Regent by His Majesty. Her Ladyship, a hearth witch from birth and a national heroine (for an account of Lady Maggie's and Earl Colin's rescue of Her Majesty from the Forces of Evil, see The Herald back issue dated Year of the Election of King Roari I) was created Honorary Princess by His Majesty some years ago, a title she modestly chooses not to use. Her Lord, Colin Songsmith, Earl Wormroost and President of the Minstrel's Academy Alumni Association, is presently abroad in the countryside, rallying the populace with song and story to the defense of their King and Country. May the Mother grant him speed and success.

Chapter I

Bronwyn the Bold was still flushed from the heat of battle when the Lord Chamberlain found her in the small courtyard below the eastern wall of the Royal Palace. The courtyard was in ruins. Trees, walls, jousting dummies, the Queen's prize petunia patch, all were gouged, hacked and otherwise dismembered. The Prin­cess knelt beside the wall, her short sword cooling in its sheath, her red carved shield close by her side. Evidently satisfied with the routing she'd dealt her enemies, she bent over the prone forms of her dolls, each of which was blanketed by one of her monogrammed handker­chiefs.

"My lady," the Chamberlain began.

"What is it, Uncle Binky?" she demanded in a fair imitation of her father's regal roar. "Can't you see I've mortally wounded casualties on my hands? We need healers and medicine now!"

"Yes, my lady," the Chamberlain replied with a tone sober and a face straight from long and difficult prac­tice. "I'll see to it personally, my lady. . . ."

"A simple 'general' will do," Bronwyn said gra­ciously, since she was actually very pleased to have someone to talk to. She hopped to her feet and took the Chamberlain's hand in hers, her action very like that of any normal child except that ordinary little girls didn't tower over adult royal retainers. "What news do you bring from behind our lines?"

"Your lady mother wishes a word with you, madam," the Lord Chamberlain replied.

"She hasn't—?" Bronwyn asked, jiggling his hand excitedly.

"No, madam, she has not. Nor will she deliver the babe for a month yet to come, as the Princess Magdalene has already informed Your Highness." And he clamped his lips tightly shut as if he were afraid she'd steal his teeth.

Bronwyn was quite used to having not only the Lord Chamberlain but everyone else who attended her adopt such attitudes when she tried to question or talk to them, so as usual she continued chattering at him as if he were answering each remark and paying her rapt attention. She supposed it went with her high rank to have everyone so in awe of her presence that they couldn't speak properly out of deference. Later, she decided that his silence was less usual than she'd thought, and smacked of the stoicism of a guard escorting his prisoner to the block—or into direst exile.

Maggie, Lady Wormroost, paced the Royal sick chamber with an anxiety which was in no way relieved by the sound of her niece's big feet galumphing towards her from down the hall. At least this interview would be short, but it wouldn't be easy.

She glanced at the Queen—sleeping, of course, as she should be to conserve her meager strength. Except for the mound of belly drifted over with white satin coverlet, the Queen was more frail than Maggie had ever seen her, her bones sticking out like those of a plucked bird, her skin thinned to a ghost-like translu­cency, marbled with blue. Maggie loved her elder half-sister and wished there was something she could do for her besides keep her company when she woke and see to it that her chamberpot was kept empty and her bedding spotless.

For though Maggie was officially Regent, she knew only enough about government to know that it was best left in the hands of the few capable ministers the King had appointed to take charge of the war effort on the home front. Oh, she had used her hearth-witchcraft, which allowed her to do all work connected with the home magically, to give a hand at readying the castle and surrounding city for siege. But she hoped the prepara­tions she made, mostly consisting of magically expand­ing and storing existing food supplies beyond normal winter needs, would be unnecessary.

With any luck at all, King Roari's army would be able to head off Worthyman the Worthless and the Ablemarlonian forces and persuade them of the error of their ways. But it would not be easy. Worthyman was an unscrupulous scoundrel and a wastrel, but in one of his wiser moments he had chosen to squander a large portion of the treasury on a professional standing army of trained soldiers. Immediately thereafter, without bothering to try to forge a trade agreement, he had declared war on King Roari. He used the excuse that his country needed Argonian timber for its ship-building industry, which may have been true since, at his direc­tion, Ablemarle's remaining forest land had been de­nuded and cultivated. However, the private opinion held by the King, Maggie, and a few others, was that Worthyman was actually hoping to find and eliminate his elder brother, the true Crown Prince, a focus of frequent Ablemarlonian rebellions even though he pre­ferred to dwell quietly among the Argonian gypsies.

Whatever the reasons behind the war, Maggie wished it were over and she and Colin were safe back at Wor­mroost with their own daughter, Carole.

Which reminded her of her most immediate prob­lem, one which concerned both Carole and Bronwyn. Too bad the King hadn't left her some wise minister to whom she could delegate this sort of domestic crisis, but unfortunately she and the Queen would have to muddle along by themselves.

If only Bronwyn weren't so bloody irritating. With her constant rattling nonsense, she was so provoking that Maggie never seemed to be able to talk to the child without snapping at her, even though she knew what annoyed her most was hardly the poor girl's own fault. Ah, well, Bronwyn was lucky Maggie Was only a hearth witch and not a transformer like her Granny Brown or a really wicked witch like child-eating Great-Great-Grandma Elspat, or there were times when Her Royal Highness would have gotten worse than a snapping at. ...

"The Princess Bronwyn," the Chamberlain an­nounced at the door.

"You think we can't see that for ourselves?" Maggie snapped—damn! The girl was getting to her already. The Chamberlain beat a hasty retreat. Bronwyn gave her a shy smile that was ludicrous in such a strapping girl. Then, with her eyes still on Maggie's, as if anticipat­ing a blow, she tripped sideways to her mother's bedside, stumbling at the last moment to fall across the sleeping Queen. Amberwine gasped and sat up, catching at her daughter's arm. Bronwyn held her mother by the elbow with one hand and with the other hand brushed at her, as if the contact might have dirtied her.

"Leave off, niece. You'll bruise her," Maggie advised as evenly as possible.

Bronwyn sprang away from the bed as if she'd touched the lighted end of a torch.

The frail Queen blinked her wide, green eyes twice and held out her hand to her daughter, who took it timidly. "How good it is to see you, my darling. How are you today?"

"Splendid, Mama. Extraordinary in fact. I've just slain the entire Ablemarlonian army and the leaders have all been hanged in your name."

Maggie groaned and Amberwine, had it been poss­ible for her to have become any paler, could have been said to have done so. "Er—how kind of you, pet. You're such a thoughtful child. Isn't she, Maggie?"

Maggie shook her head and managed a faint, rueful smile. Bronwyn had her mother's eyes and chin, but she was otherwise her father's daughter entirely. A fitting successor to her paternal grandfathers, Rowans the Rambunctious, Rampaging, and Reckless respectively, she would have made King Roari a fine son. Pity. She was a dead loss at the womanly pursuits, and had gone through so many gowns her tiring women had finally given up and allowed her to go about in the simple undergown and armor she preferred. She clinked somewhat now as she perched on the edge of the bed, not quite resting her entire weight upon it, afraid she'd break her mother's bones if she relaxed. She was such a large girl—half again as large as either Maggie or Amberwine and uncomfortably aware that she had yet to gain mastery of her body. She knew she could cause irreparable damage to practically anything in the twinkl­ing of an eye. If only she could be allowed to puncture something other than her own fingers during her earnest but ultimately painful attempts at needlework, perhaps the child would be good for something despite her—problem.

Amberwine caught Maggie's eye and said to Bron­wyn, "Your aunt has a wonderful surprise for you, darling. Don't you, Maggie?"

Maggie felt another stab of guilt as a look of hopefulness and anticipatory pleasure dawned in the girl's eyes, and before it could turn into a full-fledged smile Maggie lost her nerve and tossed the conversation­al ball back to Amberwine. Sick or not, the Queen was Bronwyn's mother. Let her be the one to break the news. "I think she'd rather you'd tell her, Winnie."

"Tell me what?" Bronwyn demanded in a childish parody of her father's boom.

She was a-wriggle with excitement now.

Winnie shot Maggie an injured look. "Why, that it's been arranged for you to have a nice trip in the country for awhile, dear. To see some of the rest of the kingdom and to meet your cousin Carole. It must be so dull for you shut up in the castle all the time and—"

"But it's not, Mama, really," Bronwyn protested, though, of course, it was.

"There's your duty too, young lady," Maggie said, stepping in before the child got out of hand. "To your mother, your subjects and Argonia. You will need to see more of your realm than the capitol sometime, and there's no time like the present."

Bronwyn started to protest, but for once Winnie was firm.

"Besides, I wish it. Maggie and I were such good friends as girls, you and Carole must learn to know and love each other too. I want you to have friends and—oh, darling, don't look like that! You'll have such fun! Tell her about the ice castle and the worm and the animals and the talking river, Maggie."

Maggie began talking very fast, tripping over her own tongue while describing the peculiar sights of Wormroost Manor, before the Princess could start cry­ing or raise some other row that would further upset Winnie. It was unsettling enough to the Queen to be pregnant and bedridden while her husband was at war and her country under attack without worrying about Bronwyn. Not only was the girl a handful to have around at such a crucial time, but if the new reports of the enemy entering the Gulf of Gremlins were true, and by some ill fortune the King's forces could not stop them, the Ablemarlonians might soon be in Queenston Harbor. Bronwyn was Crown Princess and must be kept safe. Winnie was sure that if her daughter knew how potentially perilous the situation was, she would refuse to leave, although it was vital to national security that she do so. Maggie's view was that the girl had to grow up sometime, but then, Maggie wasn't Queen and very glad of it too. So she talked, wishing she had her husband's gift of gab and persuasive musical abilities to help her sound convincing.

Bronwyn interrupted her in mid-sentence, rising from her mother's bedside to stand at attention, her face set in a small painful smile not quite tight enough to control the trembling of her freckled chin. "Thank you for your intriguing tale, my lady aunt. If my Royal Mama commands it, I am sure that I shall greatly enjoy my banis—fostering at your home. If I may be excused, I'll take my leave now and prepare for the journey." And she turned on her heel and left.

Maggie and Amberwine exchanged relieved sighs that Bronwyn had been so tractable for a change. It was a sign of their anxious preoccupation with other matters and the poor state of Amberwine's health that it didn't occur to either of them until much later that Bronwyn's seemingly sensible attitude was more ominous than any fuss she might have made. For the trouble with Bron­wyn was that, through no fault of her own, the girl was incapable of telling the truth.

As soon as the Princess clanked down from her coach, the Honorable Carole began getting the idea that having a Serene Highness around the stronghold wasn't going to be the thrilling experience filled with cousinly chumminess she had been led to believe it would be.

Since the carrier bird had brought the news of the Royal arrival a month before, Carole had thought of little else. The villagers at Wormroost were all transplants, ref­ugees from another, blighted village. They were all older than her parents and none of them had brought any children with them. Carole's father sang wonderful songs about children at play together, and the village seamstress was fond of telling Carole about learning to stitch while taking in the clothing her older female relatives had outgrown.

Princess Bronwyn was only two years older than Carole, and as a Princess was bound to have some beautiful gowns to hand down to a country cousin. Rumor had it that the Rowans had no magic in their family, so it would be great fun to show Bronwyn the latest refinements in Carole's own little talent. Or so she'd thought.

The metal-girded, wire-haired, red-eyed appari­tion towering over her didn't look to be in the mood for a magic show, nor did she appear to be at all friendly.

"It is I, Bronwyn the Bold," the Princess announced to no one in particular among the five or six peasants who'd stopped their labor long enough to watch the coach arrive. Three of them, their curiosity apparently satisfied by the introduction, sauntered off again, re­turning to their work. As if afraid she wasn't being impressive enough, the Princess drew what was for her a short sword, though for Carole it would have been a full-length saber. The Princess was bigger than any man in the village, including Bernard the Guard, Worm-roost's military detachment. With a nonchalance obvi­ously planned for effect, Bronwyn sliced the air in two sharp swishes. "I have come on behalf of my father to inspect these, our hintermost provinces. You may genu­flect any time now."

Carole didn't know what genuflect meant, but she didn't like the sound of it. Still, she thought maybe Bronwyn only seemed unfriendly because she was tired from the coach ride, so with a patience admirable in a Brown witch, Carole minded her manners and asked, "Would you like to inspect supper first? I think it's about ready."

Bronwyn sheathed her sword with another clatter­ing display, then stopped, staring at Carole suspiciously. Surrounded as the stare was by the Princess's helm and chain mail shirt and the rest of her martial parapher­nalia, it was tantamount to a threat. "You have an odd, familiar yet somehow foreign look to you, wench. Are you a spy, perhaps, sent by my father's enemies to poison me? If so . . ."

"Oh, come off it, won't you?" Carole cried, exas­perated. "I look familiar because I look like my mother. Well—sort of. I do have my father's nose, Gran says. And of course you know my mother because she's been living at your castle taking care of your mother. Come to think of it, if anyone doesn't look like her own mother, it's you. You're nothing like the tapestry of Auntie Amberwine in the guest chamber. You get to sleep there, by the way, and it's the nicest room in the house. You can see the ruins of the ice castle out the back window."

Thinking the girls were leaving, the coachman threw down Bronwyn's trunk, to the top of which was strapped a small shield, and jumped from the driver's seat. He handed a sealed scroll to Carole, and followed the retreating skirts of the most curious of the village wives, now off to her own supper. Carole began strip­ping the wax from the seal and started after them, only to be jerked back when Bronwyn's metal-fingered hand clamped down on her shoulder.

"Hold, wench," the Princess commanded. "None dare deny the royal resemblance without consequence. Take it back. Say I do so look like Mama."

"I can't do that," Carole said reasonably. "That would be telling a lie and telling lies is wrong."

"Take it back," Bronwyn repeated, biting off each word, her fingers digging more painfully into Carole's skin.

"Hey, stop it!"

Bronwyn looked as if she was about to cry but her voice was hard and angry. "I said take it back, and kneel while you're about it."

"Or what?" Carole demanded. Enough was enough. Cousin or no cousin, the Princess just wasn't a very nice person.

"Or I'll—I'll thrash you, is what," Bronwyn said. Obviously she could, though she'd never thrashed anything but jousting dummies before. Carole was less than half her size and skinny to boot.

"Hmmm . . ." the country girl said. "Will you now?" She didn't seem frightened. In fact, she looked pleased. She was even humming to herself. Perhaps it was her family's battle song? It sounded vaguely military. Yes, definitely a march. Good beat, that. Couldn't keep the feet still. One had at least to mark time to a lively tune like that. Bronwyn loosed her cousin's shoulder to watch amazed as her boots stomped the beat of their own volition. What a march! Why, if father had such a song in the field, his troops would be undefeatable. With a neat about-face, she strutted away from the manor house and from her grinning cousin, hearing the tune in her head long after Carole had ambled back towards the kitchens.

Down the single street of the village she marched, past the blue-white face of the glacier and the half-melted towers of the castle carved from it, through the thin woods and straight towards the river—the talking one, she thought to herself through the one-two beat pounding in her brain. So Aunt Maggie hadn't been telling her children's stories about that after all. She could clearly hear the river saying all sorts of words now, words which became even more easily discernible as she neared the swirling waters. She heard them very clearly indeed as the march swept from her brain when her last step from solid ground plunged her into the chattering flow, which began protesting loudly. As the cold water clamped over her scalp, she belatedly remembered that Cousin Carole was supposed to be a witch in her own right. Evidently it was more than a wild rumor.

"And so, my love," Maggie of Wormroost's letter to her daughter read, "I'm sure you'll try to make Bronwyn feel at home, and will be as tolerant of the little problem she has with what folk here call her 'fanciful ways' as we are tolerant of yours. In her case, there's a curse involved, and she really can't help herself, so I know you'll be fair-minded enough to ignore it. The Mother only knows the child needs friends. I'll write more later. The coachman is loading Bronwyn's trunk now and Winnie's call bell is jangling at me. Be a good girl and give my love to your dad if you see him before I do. Love, Mum."

Carole rerolled the scroll, her smug smile of mo­ments before gone. Curse? Why hadn't anybody said so before? Trust adults to leave out the good stuff! She supposed there was no help for it but to go find the big lout and apologize for marching her all over the countryside, though the exercise was bound to do her good after she'd been sitting in the coach all that while. Not that one could expect Bronwyn to see it that way. For a peace offering, Carole stuck a few biscuits into her pockets before snatching up her cloak and trotting back outdoors. The air got nippy in the evening now. Maybe she should fetch Bronwyn's cloak along too, but she didn't see it when she peeked into the coach. There was the trunk on the ground, though, with the little red shield strapped to it. It might come in handy if Bronwyn was slow to accept apologies.

She set off in  the direction the Princess had marched away, but as soon as she came within earshot of the river, she broke into a run. Had the villagers not all gathered at the manor hall for supper, someone would have cried the alarm already.

"Help!" the river screeched, boiling with indigna­tion, "Help! Pollution! Contamination!" Carole's lungs and legs pumped frantically as she sped past all the houses and almost into the water before she could stop herself. It hadn't occurred to her that the silly oaf might fall into the Blabbermouth. And with all that armor . . .

"You—puff—didn't—puff—drown her, d—pant, did you?" She asked, stripping off her boots and balling her cloak between the shield and its strap to keep the garment dry. She thought wildly that if Bronwyn weren't dead, she'd at least be in urgent need of being dried.

"How should I know what the silly thing's done?" the ensorceled river demanded. "Ask downstream. I for one certainly hope not. A bloated, rotting carcass is the last thing I want to take out to sea with me."

"You'd better NOT take her out to sea," Carole said, stepping gingerly into the shallows and wading along the bank. "And don't you dare try to tow me under either."

"I wouldn't dream of it," the river said nastily. But even though it was in a bad mood, the Blabbermouth was at least making sense for a change, which meant a unicorn must have come out of the woods last night and purified it. When she'd gone to draw water for supper yesterday evening, the river was still yammering the gossipy nonsense that composed its usual repertoire. Not only was the river bewitched, it was also haunted by the spirit of the slightly barmy witch who'd drowned herself after listening to the mindless drivel it poured forth in response to the talkative spell she'd placed on it so it would always keep her company. Only after unicorns came to Wormhaven Valley did the river begin to make sense and answer questions, at times with great wisdom, and at other times—well, not with great wisdom.

Having lived near the Blabbermouth's banks all her life, Carole found nothing particularly strange about drawing her water from a talking river, and right now she could see that it had its advantages over less communicative streams.

Burbling at her every step of the way, the river guided her farther downstream than she'd dared to venture before. Not that she wasn't adventurous, but close to the cliffside on which the glacier hung, under­brush grew so thickly along the banks that the river was inaccessible without tangling in a lot of brambles and nettles. Though Father had taken her swimming once or twice in the summer when he wasn't traveling on the King's business or off to some seminar at the Minstrel's Academy (Mother claimed that was a lot of poppycock and just an excuse for him to fool about singing and making up silly songs with other musicians. This seemed unfair to Carole since, as everybody knew, that was what musicians did), Mother didn't like her to play in the water. And what Mother didn't like she had ways of preventing Carole from doing.

The waters downstream were far more eager to assist her than those closer to the town. Probably, since they weren't so often exposed to people, they were more entertained by the novelty of having two within them in one afternoon, Carole thought, though she didn't think about it too long since she was intent on trying to keep her footing and on searching. It was hard to see, for in the shadows under the bushes the water was inky black, whereas in the parts that curved away from the cliff and rolled down the middle of the riverbed, the wavelets glittered brightly enough to dazzle her eyes. As if that weren't enough to keep her mind on, she also had to try to pay attention to the river's gurgling instructions.

"This way now. Do hurry. Look out for that hole, there. Clumsy child, aren't you? Try to be more careful in the future. I daresay I can do without another of your sort muddying me up. Look sharp—yes, there, you see, she struck that rock there and made the most dreadful clamor—the rock will never be the same. You can see where a big chunk's knocked off. Ah, yes, here we are. Right around this next bend and—"

"And what?" she demanded, after negotiating the prescribed turn and coming face to face with the cliffside again—and no more river, much less any sign of her cousin. "Hey, that's not fair. Where'd you go?"

"Down here!" the voice bubbled up, seemingly from within the glacier.

"Uh uh," Carole shook her head emphatically and backed off. "You have drowned her, haven't you? And now you're trying to get me too!"

"Don't be tedious," the river said. "I think I've made my feelings on that subject perfectly clear. Now then, are you coming or aren't you?"

"I can't just walk into a glacier," she said, a whine creeping into her voice in spite of herself as she eyed the driftwood clogging the immense dirty white base stretching into woods on either side of the river.

"No, but you can float," the river replied.

"You ARE trying to drown me!"

...