She reached the far end of Hartfare, where the witch of the White Forest kept her cottage. The perfectly trained horse stopped as Gaela leaned back in her seat. Dismounting, she ordered one of the gawking boys to see to rubbing down the beast if he wished to keep his staring eyes. She swung her heavy shield off her shoulder and propped it against the mud brick wall of the house.
“Brona,” she called out sharply, a warning before pushing open the door. She ducked slightly under the sloped thatch.
“Gaela,” the woman said happily, crouched barefoot by the fire. Brona’s mass of black hair was tied in messy knots down her back, and she wore heavy ruffled skirts and a loose shift that did not want to stay on both shoulders. The sunlight spilling in from the windows seemed to dance around her. Though the woman was almost twice Gaela’s age, around her Gaela felt still and old as an ancient spring.
Brona stood, smiling. “Don’t you look glorious and intimidating. Come out back with me.”
And with that, Brona vanished through the rear room of the cottage. Gaela followed more slowly, nudging aside bundles of hanging herbs as she passed through the longish, dim herbary toward the glint of daylight.
Halfway through, a familiar pain clenched in Gaela’s womb. Refusing to bend, refusing to whimper, Gaela bared her teeth to the empty room, hissing breath at the drying rainbow of flowers and herbs. Dust motes shimmered in the sunny air like tiny spirits.
Gaela snarled silently, impatient to walk again. She was not meant for this.
The first time she’d bled, years ago, it had begun with days of lethargy and fever, until finally, with the first hot drops on her thighs, she ran to her mother in a panic. Dalat had hugged her and smiled, chiding Gaela for not listening the many times she’d been warned this would come. But Gaela never thought those warnings applied to her; they were for girls like Regan who would one day become women. Gaela had been absolutely certain she would never cross that threshold.
Her body had betrayed her. And continued to do so, no matter how she fought, prayed, cursed, ran it ragged, or pretended.
The pain loosened its grip, slinking into the hot muscles, waiting.
When she emerged into the elaborate garden, there was Brona waiting with a sprig of some gentle green plant in her hand. “Here, child. Chew on this.”
Gaela took it, tearing off a bitter leaf. She studied Brona as the tip of her tongue numbed pleasingly. She wanted to argue over the word child; she was past twenty years old.
Brona nodded, though Gaela had said nothing, and touched Gaela’s cheek briefly in fond greeting. “You’ve not come here since your mother died,” Brona said.
“This is no place for me,” Gaela said harshly.
Sorrow warmed Brona’s glinting brown eyes, but she nodded. “I know.”
Gaela was uninterested in reminiscing, or in regret. She would not discuss her mother or her mother’s death, not with anyone but her sister. She said, “I am here now because I need something from you.”
Brona nodded. The wind blew through the canopy overhead, tossing blotchy shadows over the garden, and tiny crystals and bells hanging from the branches chattered and sang together. Gaela missed the controlled sounds of the barracks, of the practice grounds in Astora.
“I’m engaged to marry the Duke Astore,” Gaela said.
The witch only lifted her eyebrows, not in surprise, but to indicate she continued to listen.
“I need…” Gaela hated how difficult it was to say what she’d come to say. It was a weakness to be afraid of the words, doubly so because her very need was a weakness. But there was no alternative: only the witch of the White Forest could help her, even if Brona wouldn’t understand. Not even Regan understood, so how could a witch like Brona?
“He will want to touch me,” Gaela managed to say, quiet and low. A shudder coursed through her at the thought of it, of his hands on her waist, her breasts, and—memory triggered another sharp pain in her womb. Gaela could not hold back the gasp, and she pressed her hands to her belly, furious at her body’s betrayal.
“Sit, and let me make you a tincture,” Brona said gently.
“No medicine.” Gaela would not use any restorative herbs to face this regular battle. It was hers to suffer, and hers to defeat.
Brona frowned and slid her arm around Gaela’s waist, rubbing the heel of her hand against the layers of gambeson and mail, into the small of the princess’s back. “All this weight you carry. Your mother spent this difficulty naked as a babe, so she could be rubbed and soothed.”
“I remember,” Gaela panted. Dalat had withdrawn from court during these times to share the experience with her daughters and ladies, but that was not Gaela’s way. She crouched, alleviating the tightness in her back, but not the ache inside, not the viscous pain filling her hips like a cauldron of poison. The mail shirt dragged at her shoulders, shivering gently. It was a comfort to Gaela: her true, epicene skin.
In silence they waited together for Gaela’s pain to pass. She breathed deeply, forcing her body to relax as best she could, and the witch held her cool hand against Gaela’s neck, patient and maternal.
Gently, Brona said, “You need not marry if you find the thought of sexual congress so terrible, Gaela. If you cannot bring yourself to lie with a man, do not.”
Gaela snorted at a woman like Brona offering such advice. “You know my stars, and you know Innis Lear. I will never rule if I am not married,” she said, upset at the
