Sword and Sorceress 33: Sword and Sorceress, #33

By Elisabeth Waters and Deborah J. Ross

Women of Wisdom and Power... 

For over two decades, the late Marion Zimmer Bradley, best-selling and beloved author, discovered and nurtured a new generation of authors. The roster of contributors over the years includes Mercedes Lackey, Laurell K. Hamilton, Charles de Lint, Diana L. Paxson, Emma Bull, Jennifer Roberson, and countless others. 

The original stories featured here include such stellar authors as Dave Smeds, Jane Lindskold, Deborah J. Ross, Pauline J. Alama, and exciting newcomers whose voices are sure to be heard again. 

Enter a wondrous universe...

Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword and Sorceress 

Volume 33 includes stories by Pauline J. Alama, Evey Brett, Lorie Calkins, Margaret L. Carter, Alisa Cohen, Jessie Eaker, M P Ericson, Jane Lindskold, Jennifer Linnaea, Melissa Mead, Catherine Mintz, Deirdre M. Murphy, T.R. North, Deborah J. Ross, L.S. Patton, Marella Sands, Jonathan Shipley, and Dave Smeds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marion Zimmer Bradley Literary Works Trust
• Release date: Nov 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386250289

Elisabeth Waters

Elisabeth Waters sold her first short story in 1980 to Marion Zimmer Bradley for THE KEEPER'S PRICE, the first of the Darkover anthologies. She then went on to sell short stories to a variety of anthologies. Her first novel, a fantasy called CHANGING FATE, was awarded the 1989 Gryphon Award. Its sequel, MENDING FATE, was published in 2016. She is now concentrating more on short stories. She has also worked as a supernumerary with the San Francisco Opera, where she appeared in La Gioconda, Manon Lescaut, Madama Butterfly, Khovanschina, Das Rheingold, Werther, and Idomeneo.

Book preview

Sword and Sorceress 33

edited by

Elisabeth Waters & Deborah J. Ross

The Marion Zimmer Bradley Literary Works Trust

PO Box 193473

San Francisco, CA 94119

www.mzbworks.com

Contents

Sword and Sorceress 33

Contents

Introduction

by Deborah J. Ross

Wrestling the Ocean

by Pauline J. Alama

Haunted Book Nook

by Margaret L. Carter

The Hood and the Wood

by Lorie Calkins

Singing to Stone

by Catherine Mintz

The River Lady's Pale Hands

by M P Ericson

Lin’s Hoard

by Deirdre M. Murphy

The Citadel in the Ice

by Dave Smeds

All in a Name

by Jessie D. Eaker

Death Everlasting

by Jonathan Shipley

Balancing Act

by Marella Sands

First Act of Saint Bastard

by T. R. North

The Fallen Man

by Deborah J. Ross

A Familiar's Predicament

by Jane Lindskold

The Secret Army

by Jennifer Linnaea

Coming Home to Roost

by L. S. Patton

From the Mouths of Serpents

by Evey Brett

Magic Words

by Alisa Cohen

Charming

by Melissa Mead

About the Editors

About Sword and Sorceress

Copyright

Introduction

by Deborah J. Ross

My very first professional fiction sale was to Marion Zimmer Bradley for the debut volume of Sword and Sorceress, so I’m honored to now be entrusted with carrying forward what has become an iconic series. Marion looked for stories that featured strong women characters with talents in both physical and magical arts. She wanted true alternatives to what was jokingly referred to at the time as Conan in drag, stories in which women acted like male action heroes (and wore improbable and uncomfortable brass bikinis). This was the early 1980s, a time when other writers, notably women, incorporated in their work a new definition of a female hero, one who prevailed through intelligence, cooperation, or compassion, rather than brute force. Marion also felt strongly that her anthology series should welcome all submissions, including from writers who had never before sold a story to a professional market. Under her editorial guidance, the Sword and Sorceress series established a reputation for discovering and encouraging new talent. This current volume continues that tradition, nurturing the next generation of fantasy writers while giving scope to those with admirable publishing credits. Some of the authors whose work graces these pages made their literary debuts in previous volumes, others have already established literary careers elsewhere, and some make their first appearances here.

Marion had a gift for seeing into the heart of a story and choosing stories that spoke to her; her stylistic choices resulted in a distinctive reading experience regardless of the individual makeup of any particular volume. That, too, continues today. Over the decades, the breadth of stories has grown, yet the series has been remarkably consistent. Readers know that when they picked up a copy of any volume of Sword and Sorceress, they will find tales of fantasy featuring strong female characters, with some version of either martial skill or magic. Not all the protagonists will be human, and sometimes the magic will take highly original forms, but the emotional satisfaction in each story and in the anthology as a whole, remains true to the original vision.

This is the second anthology I’ve edited with Elisabeth Waters, and by far the most light-hearted. It includes a good measure of humorous twists on well-known folk and fairy tales, puns and other forms of word play, and playfulness. Every anthology I’ve ever edited, whether by open submission or invitation only, broad in topic or narrowly defined, has developed its own internal structure. By this I mean the way the stories weave themselves into a whole that is greater than the individual parts: a journey, if you will, through a unified landscape that is the product of many distinct visions. Humor plays an essential role, giving us a chance to catch our literary breaths after a journey through the darkness and take a moment to smile.

In the mysterious way anthologies coalesce, stories will often elaborate in unique ways on the same theme. My editorial debut, Lace and Blade, included two very different stories about Spanish highwaymen (in the second one, two stories featured Chinese generals). I have yet to figure out if this coincidence is pure chance or the simultaneous emergence of story elements in various creative minds. Perhaps certain themes arise from the temper of the times, or simply because we are all so heartily tired of sparkly vampires (for example), we long for something that, if not exactly new, is fresh and meaningful.

In this volume, you’ll find more than one tale with dragons or bodies of water (oceans, rivers) or books. I’m always tickled when I find a librarian saving the day, or any character—human or not—who adores books as much as I do. I will concede that libraries are a bit cumbersome for vagabond sorceresses to cart around, and look forward to the magical version of an e-reader as a repository of arcane information. As for dragons, we’ve come a long way from the demonic incarnations of evil as portrayed in medieval Western Europe to include their benign or even sagacious non-Western cousins, and now dragons speak for themselves about their own, often humorous concerns. Still, the stereotypical physical form of a dragon with its ability to fly and to breathe fire is awe-inspiring and therefore attractive to writers of fantastical adventures. As for water, as a primal element, it begs for a central role, everything from ocean storms to sea gods and monsters. And as usual, the authors included here showcase the richness of interpretation of all of these themes.

Wrestling the Ocean

by Pauline J. Alama

From the beginning, Sword and Sorceress has featured stories of the friendships—both likely and highly improbable—between swordswomen and wielders of magic. While the same is sometimes true for their male counterparts, this type of story emphasizes how women can work cooperatively and in a complementary fashion, each providing her own particular strength with a rotation of leadership.

Pauline J. Alama doesn't exclusively write stories about the ocean, but no reader of her novel The Eye of Night (Bantam Spectra 2002) will be surprised to find her returning to the theme. Her heroic duo of damsels-errant, warrior Ursula and enchantress Isabeau, have appeared in four other volumes of Sword and Sorceress. The events of Wrestling the Ocean occur between Unicorn Heart (Sword and Sorceress 31) and Women’s Work (Sword and Sorceress 32). Pauline’s work has also been published in Abyss & Apex, Fantasy Scroll Magazine, and numerous anthologies.

"Marvelous! Why didn’t anyone tell me it would be so wonderful? My friend Ursula, known to heralds as the Maiden of Révie or the Knight of the Unicorn, stood knee-deep in sea water, her hair wind-blown, her eyes alight. Surely one of the troubadours we met in our travels had seen the ocean. Why ever didn’t they sing about it?"

"Because they thought they had more to gain by singing of you, O peerless Maiden of Révie, I said wryly. But it is a marvel. I never imagined the sea could feel so different from the river around the Isle of Sorcery. It seems so vast, so ancient."

Ancient? I’d say young, like a colt not yet tamed to the bit. Wild and unharnessed and glorious. She drank in a deep breath of briny air.

I was glad none of those flattering minstrels could see Ursula now; they’d have been insufferable. For a daughter of the hill-country, she looked oddly native here, akin to the shimmering seascape, her flyaway hair the color of wet sand, her eyes the stormy green-blue of the waves. She’d left her armor piled on a rock high above the tide-line, weighing down the outer garments and stockings we’d shed so we could wade in our linen shifts. For a brawny, broad-shouldered maiden, she seemed unexpectedly light thus stripped to her essence, as if she’d been unmasked as a sea-bird. No more chilled than a seal, she danced through the spume. Don’t you love it, Isabeau?

I approached the sea more circumspectly, holding handfuls of linen above the water that swished about my ankles. I’m not sure yet, I admitted. It’s so— I found myself, for once, at a loss for words. So alien, I finished, though the word did not do it justice. I reached down one finger to the wave, then tasted the brine it left on my skin. It’s full of formidable magic.

And what can you make of that, Isabeau?

Nothing yet. Most of my enchantments are rooted in earth; this is strange to me. I’ll have to learn.

Here, look! Ursula fished up a handful of emerald-green stuff as sheer as the finest veil. Herbs of the sea. Can you add that to your herbal?

I took the offered herb, felt its slick wetness, held it up to my eye. Clear as stained glass, it startled me with its simplicity: no stem, no root, no flower, no vein, yet it was complete in itself. Indeed, it will be short work to embroider its likeness. This sea green could wind like a ribbon among the plants I’d already embroidered on my gown as I’d learned their natures and powers. I had some notion already what virtues this one carried: simplicity, resilience, clarity. And contradictions: like the ocean, it was new and fresh, yet impossibly ancient. Reluctantly I returned it to the water—it was crying out for water—and knelt in the cold surf, heedless of my sodden shift, to look more closely at the life that teemed there. No one told me the ocean was a garden.

Is it? Ursula said. Maybe it was the Garden of Eden, where life began. Imagine that, Isabeau! Adam and Eve washing ashore like driftwood, having suddenly discovered they couldn’t swim.

You’ve been listening to too many troubadours and not enough preachers, Ursula, I growled, but beneath it I was laughing, too, as if the live, moist air of the seashore put the laugh in my throat. Perhaps it did: anger arises from choler, a dry humor. Perhaps if I but stayed long enough in this air, I could learn joy.

I waded toward Ursula and kicked brine at her. If she’d done it to me first, I’d have been angry, but Ursula took it as a game. I could see her preparing to kick a bigger splash of water at me—but a sudden wave stole her thunder, soaking us both to the neck. Above the roaring surf rang her laughter, louder than gulls’ screaming.

Suddenly she broke off. Hey, stop!

Stop what? I said. Then I saw what Ursula was heading toward: her shield floating seaward on a rapacious finger of tide. She launched herself at it and tackled the errant shield with a mighty splash. Rising triumphant, wet sand on her face, shield held aloft, she raged at the ocean: What use would you have for my shield, tell me?

"Who are you scolding? The sea?"

Don’t laugh, Ursula said, but I think I saw a hand. A hand out of the sea.

Really? I had seen no such thing, but perhaps Ursula’s eyes were sharper than mine. Standing at her shoulder, I tried to follow her gaze, but saw only waves. At length I plucked something from Ursula’s hair.

She started. What was that?

I showed her what I’d captured: a clump of knobby brown weeds. Let’s see what story these may tell me.

We returned to the higher ground where we’d left our clothes. With a firm grasp on my elbow, Ursula guided me over the rocks when I was too immersed in my find to watch my step. The brown seaweed was not at all as simple as the green one, that was certain. The knobs were hollow bladders of air, cunningly placed to keep the plant afloat. This buoyant little traveler, like its simpler green neighbor, lacked a root—like me, like Ursula, it roamed freely.

Come on, Isabeau, Ursula said as she steered me to the patch of coarse beach grass where we’d left the horses browsing. You can study that herb later. I want to go to the town and ask if anyone else has seen the hand in the waves. Besides, we need to find a place to spend the night. I’m not sleeping on the beach.

It was not hard to find the road to Muresca, the town that loomed above the beach like a beacon. Soon our horses’ hooves clattered on stone pavement and the air smelled less of brine than of peat fires and soup and human sweat.

In a year of traveling with Ursula, I’d grown used to seeing bystanders gape at the spectacle of a maiden in full armor, sword at her hip, shield hanging from her saddle. But in this busy city street, no one stared at us. Instead, I stared at the varieties of humanity that passed on all sides: a blond northman with a braided beard; a lanky woman made taller by a basket balanced on her head; a seller of rich-colored silks who was so wrapped up in her wares that I could see no inch of her skin; a fisherman who hawked his catch wearing nothing but a band around his loins; a dyer whose hands and arms were purple to the elbow.

We edged around a weather-beaten statue of a woman who seemed to be riding an enormous fish, holding a seashell in front of her. The crowd jammed so close to us that I could not properly examine this curious figure. It had been made with care and artistry once, displayed in the square for all to see, but now part of the fish tail had crumbled away, the seashell was cracked, and passers-by ignored the statue as if it were no more remarkable than the stones beneath their feet.

In the press of bodies, I almost failed to notice a girl reaching for the purse at my belt. She’d have been disappointed indeed to find it full of leaves and dried blossoms, not coins, but I could not tolerate her grubby fingers on my herbs. I gave her the sort of paralyzing glare my grandmother deployed to keep her fractious progeny submissive. The urchin backed away, crossing herself as if she thought me a fiend.

Ursula, where in all this teeming ant-hill should we go? I said.

We need lodging, said Ursula, and work to pay for it. And news to find the work to pay for the lodging. An inn will have all three.

I stared in bewilderment at the maze of stone streets as close-packed with people as a hive with bees. But how in all this chaos do we find an inn?

We follow him. She pointed at a slender, russet-maned young man with a lute slung over his shoulder.

"Ursula, seriously?"

Seriously, Isabeau. He’s not dressed fine enough to be heading to the castle, so he must be bound for an inn.

"And your taste for troubadours has nothing to do with it?" I grumbled, but I followed her anyway. What else could I do? She was right: the musician made straight for a beery-smelling stone house with a mermaid painted on the wall.

Ursula opened the door and called in to the malty darkness, Good day to you, master of the Mermaid. How much to lodge two travelers and stable two horses?

The innkeeper, a horse-faced man with thinning blond hair, quoted a price that left Ursula sputtering.

But that’s impossible! It would clean out our purse in a night.

Can’t help it, the innkeeper said. Since my well’s gone brackish, I’ve had to pay to have water hauled from over the hill. Horses are thirsty beasts.

Sorry about your well, Ursula said, but isn’t there some work we might do to earn our keep for a night or two? I’m strong as any man, and a deft hand with horses.

With all the ships moored in the harbor that should have sailed long ago, I have my choice of strong backs and deft hands that have nowhere better to go. I’m sorry, lass, the innkeeper said.

Come on, Isabeau. Maybe we’ll find a better welcome elsewhere. Ursula mounted Fury and began riding away.

I started after her, but kept looking back at the Mermaid Inn. Something nagged me. I think I need to go back. Without waiting to see if Ursula followed, I turned Cloudmane and rode back to the inn.

The innkeeper was not pleased to see me again. Don’t think I’ll drop my price for pretty words from a pretty face.

I haven’t come to plead with you, I said. I am an enchantress from the Isle of Sorcery, and I may be able to purify your well.

A likely tale, the innkeeper scoffed. And on that hope, you expect me to offer bed and board to you and your thirsty horses?

Arriving close behind me, Ursula chimed in, That would seem fair.

But I said, No. No exchange. A gift freely given—a parting gift if need be. I turned to Ursula. If I can purify water, it will have been a gift of the unicorn, not mine to sell.

She nodded silently. The unicorn had touched each of us with a horn of pure light. I can never describe how it changed me. With Ursula, I did not have to.

The innkeeper was unmoved. Right. You’ll do something to our well as you go—poison it, most likely—

A woman’s voice spoke from behind the innkeeper. Oh, by all that’s holy! Ask her to purify a bucket of water first. If she can do that, it’s worth keeping her here—bodyguard, horses, and all.

Very well, Loïsette. The innkeeper beckoned me in. Ursula tethered the horses and followed me.

The woman the innkeeper had called Loïsette—perhaps his wife, perhaps a sister, for they both had the same lank pale hair—hefted a wooden bucket with one muscular arm and set it before me. Drawn from our own well this morning, she said. Scarcely good enough to scrub pots with.

I dipped my finger in the water and brought it to my lips. Sure enough, it was salty as the waves.

Now what will you do? The innkeeper hovered at my elbow.

Give me a moment’s quiet, I snapped.

And room, Ursula added, imposing herself between him and me.

Indeed, I was not sure what I could do, but this was no time to show it. Hands suspended above the surface, I prayed in silence, casting my mind back to the sublime moment when the unicorn’s horn of light had seemed to pierce my tainted soul. That same horn, all authorities agreed, has the virtue to purify water. I knew now how it felt to be that water. But was something of the horn still in me?

I immersed my hands. The water frothed like a boiling pot, yet my hands felt cool. I brought them out coated in salt. Bring me a dipper and I’ll taste it, I said. I was about to suggest that they bring a pot to keep the salt, when something crashed into my mind like the wave that had drenched me and Ursula—except this wave was of anger, terror, cold despair. I saw bees swarming over a laborer who blundered into their nest. I saw my grandmother cursing her third husband till his leg withered. I saw my cousins Valdere and Laurent pounding each other’s faces, fighting over a woman who wanted neither of them. Senses reeling, I lowered myself onto the beer-stained floor before I could swoon like a lover in a ballad.

Isabeau, what’s the matter? Ursula supported me with an arm at my back. Have some water. It’s clear; I tasted it.

I drank from the proffered dipper and leaned my head against her till the room stopped spinning. It seems I can purify water, I said, but not without cost.

Then you’ll stay here without cost, said Loïsette. She brought us a loaf of bread and a hard-cooked egg each, while the innkeeper poured us cups of ale.

I pushed my cup toward Ursula; I was unsteady enough without it. Ursula can drink like a lord and still keep her head, except where troubadours are involved.

What happened to you, Isabeau? she asked quietly.

I—I was lost in memories.

What memories?

Nothing important, I lied. They were nothing I wanted to talk about, anyway. This is good bread.

Loïsette brightened. There’ll be soup later, but if you’re hungry from your work, I can bring you cheese.

I’d love some. And afterward, I might have a go at the well.

Are you sure? Ursula said. That bucketful of water took a lot out of you.

"Says the woman who fought from sun-up to sundown to rescue a horse. I know my strength as well as you do, Ursula."

All right, all right, Ursula said. You’d better have the bigger share of the loaf, then. She pushed it my way, not without regret; it really was good bread, and Ursula has the appetite of a warhorse. Sharp-eyed Loïsette brought us another loaf with the cheese.

An enchantress and a lady knight, Loïsette marveled. It’s been a rare season for travelers, but you two may be the strangest I’ve seen.

Why is it such a rare season for travelers? I asked.

It’s not so much how many arrive; it’s how few of them leave, the innkeeper said.

A weather-beaten guest in the tar-stained smock of a sailor spoke up. Can we help it? The tides are out of step. The storms offshore are like none I’ve ever seen. Six times we’ve tried to set sail with our cargo, and six times the sea has driven us back.

Another man in the same attire added, Our captain leapt overboard chasing a dream.

Loïsette said, Even the fishermen scarcely dare put out to sea. The price of fish has gone so high, if it weren’t for the oysters in the shallows, it’d be nothing but porridge and bread every night.

The ocean’s at war with the land, the troubadour said, fingering his lute as if contemplating the song he’d make of it.

That’s just poetry, scoffed a young man in black clerical robes. It’s a bad year for storms; no need to spin tales about it.

Ursula spoke then. I saw a hand in the waves that tried to snatch my shield away.

The cleric laughed, but the innkeeper said, A few others have seen riders from the sea on the crests of waves, cold-eyed and fierce, bearing weapons of war.

I saw one, said a sailor, just before our ship scuttled on the rocks.

If there’s a war for your town’s survival, Ursula said, I’ll be your champion.

You? A dry-foot? a fisherman scoffed. Can you even swim?

I informed him, She swam the icy river that guards the Isle of Sorcery. Many a bold man turned back from its death-cold waters, but she reached the other side.

Maybe, said the fisherman. But just because you swam a river, don’t assume you know the wiles of the sea.

~o0o~

The next morning, I got Loïsette to show me the brackish well. Ursula came along, and the whole complement of inn-guests followed us to gape. In its ring of stones, the water lay about seventy cubits below the rim. I’ll need some sort of pulley and harness so someone can lower me in.

She’s mad, said one of the inn-guests.

Not a bit, I said. If I’m to do anything to the water, I must touch it.

Jeannoc the Mason has pulleys and stout ropes, Loïsette said, and sent a boy to fetch the mason.

Jeannoc proved a clever artisan with a practical turn of mind, like the men my grandmother hired to build her stargazing tower. How Grandmother would have valued Jeannoc! He quickly devised a trick to adapt his pulleys into a sort of sling-chair that could lower me smoothly into the well. I put Ursula in charge of playing out the rope. With my embroidered gown in Loïsette’s keeping and my shift belted up to the knees, I breathed a silent prayer and began my descent into the well.

I’d never been in such a closed place before, so the visceral horror of it took me by surprise. It reminded me of magic lessons with Grandmother and my cousin Vivienne, before Grandmother gave up on Vivienne’s weak talent. Being shut in a small chamber with Vivienne’s envy and Grandmother’s dominating power made me shrink smaller; in the same way, I felt myself shrinking in the narrow space of the well. But I forced myself to think clearly: no one was here to harm me. The harness held me securely, with the rope in trusted hands. I had made a promise, and was honor-bound to continue.

With all the bravado I could muster, I called up, About two cubits more! Soon my feet were immersed. A little lower, I said. Slowly the rope lengthened, and I reached down till my fingertips touched the water. You can stop now, I called. Then I prayed desperately till I felt the light of the unicorn’s horn flow through my whole body.

The water rushed up around me angrily. In my mind, jealous Vivienne was shaking me; my grandmother, enraged, pointed her wand at me; a warrior with a spear ran at me. Water covered me. I will die here, I thought.

But the turmoil must have been visible above, for Ursula hauled me upward at great speed, scraping me over the side of the well in her haste. When I dropped exhausted to the ground, she threw down the rope to seize me in her arms and drag me further away. Waves surged out of the well, groped for me, and receded into the earth.

It’s too much, I gasped. I’m sorry. It’s too much. It was like wrestling the whole ocean. I brushed salt off my arms, but it was not enough; I felt it caked over my legs, between my toes, and in less mentionable places. And still, I knew, the well was brackish. The sea has captured that well.

What did I tell you? said a clear tenor voice—the troubadour from the inn.

It’s as you said, I admitted. The ocean’s at war with the land. I felt its vast rage and envy. Maybe also fear.

Well, if there’s a war to be fought, you need a knight. I offer my services, Ursula said.

Don’t you think we tried fighting? one of the sailors said. How can you fight something that turns to water in your hands?

Ursula shrugged and looked at me. I raised an eyebrow, which she may have mistaken for encouragement. Isabeau and me, we’ll figure something out.

~o0o~

Ursula armed herself in her plated leather brigantine, sword at her hip, shield on her arm. I girded myself with a purse full of herbs of a hot and dry temperament; to these provisions, Loïsette contributed a little of her kitchen supply of sage, fennel seed, and garlic. Silently, I wondered whether a lone warrior and a green, young enchantress could prevail against this mysterious wrath from the deep.

From just above the tide line, Ursula called to the ocean, Whatever quarrel you have with the town of Muresca, you have with me! Either cease harassing them or send your champion to fight me for the peace of this haven.

The waves came in and fell back, and for a brief space, it seemed the sea would give no other reply. Then came a wave greater than all the others. I stepped back, but Ursula stood her ground as the crest resolved itself into a grim-faced, green-eyed warrior mounted on a finned steed of blue surf and white spume. His face was white as foam; the greens and browns and reds of seaweed, the white of storm-churned waves, were in the hair that streamed back as he rode. His spear was the spar of a shattered boat, tipped with the monstrous tooth of some dragon of the deep. I am the king of this cove. Who dares challenge my dominion?

I do! Ursula couched her lance and spurred Fury toward the waves. Her aim held true, straight at the sea-king’s heart—but he flowed around her, leaving her drenched and alone on the beach as the wave retreated into the sea. Oh, you’re a slippery character. Afraid to meet me head-on? Come at me, or give up the fight! She faced the sea-king again; this time, her eyes followed not his weapon but the movement of his watery steed. Her blow fell closer to the mark this time, but once again, her efforts were lost in the shifting waves.

The king from the sea laughed, a free, wild sound like the sea-birds’ cries. Again he charged; again Ursula watched the movements of his mount. This time, instead of striking, she slipped off Fury’s back, grabbed the sea-king’s bridle, and swung herself up onto the foam-white horse from the sea.

Ha! You too are a subtle warrior, fair Ursula, the sea-king said. "Your wit, your strength, and your beauty exceed all the songs I have heard of you, which echo over the waves from the voices of a thousand troubadours, chanting the praise of the matchless Maiden of Révie.

For this I have sought you, moved by love boundless as the ocean. For this I teasingly stole your shield, hoping you would follow it and find me. Only you are worthy: join me as queen of my undersea realm. Together we shall ride the white horses of the waves to the wondrous reefs of undiscovered islands. I shall compose love songs to you, radiant Ursula, on a harp strung with the living heartstrings of the ocean. His voice was resonant as a wave, tuned like a troubadour’s.

Oh, no, I thought.

Ursula ceased trying to wrest him from the saddle, but her arms remained tight around him. How I’ve longed for you, my love, she said. The white horse turned back toward the sea, taking Ursula away from me.

Saint Ursula, help your namesake! I cried. If I did not act soon, I’d lose sight of her. A splash of green caught my eye: a clump of the simplest seaweed. I grabbed it, twisted a few of the strands together, and plunged into the waves after my friend and the rider from the sea.

The seaweed was clear, simple, honest, and utterly at home in the waves: a token of Ursula’s spirit. I fought my way through the water till I could catch Ursula around the throat with the twisted strands of green: Ursula! Maiden of Révie! Knight of the Unicorn! My friend! Remember yourself.

I felt rather than saw her flinch away from her would-be seducer. She floundered a moment, then let me pull her back to shore. We collapsed on the sand, soaked and breathless.

Oh, what a fool I was! I thought I’d marry him and be queen of the ocean. Ursula hid her face in her hands.

He cast a glamour on you, I explained. "Very expertly,