Return of the Goddess

By JoEllen Conger

Grand Princess Iona Anders's world turns chaotic on her 16th Natal-Day Celebration. With her king away at war, her scheming cousin, Prince Sweetbrier, arrives to claim Iona as his bride. He imprisons her for her refusal to wed him. When a mirror is brought to her cell to aid her in her nuptial preparations, she falls through the magical glass into a parallel world, meeting the man of her dreams. Iona must learn to fight like a warrior to save both realms against the invaders, and the wicked wizard, Nickademus The Bold.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9781590885246

Book preview

What They Are Saying About

Return Of The Goddess

Iloved the Goddess (es). All the companions were wonderful, their senses of humor and innocence. Kuscus, Dragontroth (and -guard), and Lirpha. Both girls just found the other sides of themselves through their adventures. I was wondering all through (and grieving a little) how you were going to put them together at the end because that's where I thought you were going. But you surprised me—happily. The adventure was fun and Exciting. And the girls were the bosses. Excellent.

—Jane Quinn

AN EXCITING AND MAGICAL Fantasy of two young women who are really each one-half of the Dragon, Goddess Anoona. I highly recommend the story! It is WELL worth it!

—Detra Fitch)

Huntress Book Reviews

BOOK 3 SHOULD CONCLUDE this amazing trilogy. As much as I enjoyed Book 1, I found Book 2 much more exciting! More battles and strategies are in this one. However, much is still left unresolved. Terrific reading!

—Detra Fitch

Huntress Book Reviews

JOELLEN CONGER HAS molded a tale worth of JRR Tolkien. Return of the Goddess wisks the reader away; from the 'Once upon a time' to the final words-The End.

Once again, JoEllen Conger has captured our imaginations and taken us on a D ticket ride. This is a must have for every reader.

—Celia Cooper

Old Enough To Know Better

Sun in Sagittarius, Moon in Mazatlan

Return Of The Goddess

JoEllen Conger

A Wings ePress, Inc.

Fantasy Romance Novel

Edited by: Kathryn Lively

Copy Edited by: Leslie Hodges

Senior Editor: Elizabeth Struble

Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens

Cover Artist: Richard Stroud

All rights reserved

NAMES, CHARACTERS AND incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Wings ePress Books

Copyright © 2005 by Joan C. Powell & Joyce A. Kennedy

ISBN  1-59088-524-4

Previously published: 1-929034-39-3

Published by Wings ePress, Inc.

Published In the United States Of America

Wings ePress Inc.

3000 N. Rock Road

Newton, KS  67114

Dedication

This book is dedicated to everyone who believed that it was an exciting Other World tale. These talking animals are geared for the enjoyment of young people as well as highly imaginative adults.

Return Of The Goddess

Book One:

One

Natal-Day Celebration

Once upon a time, on a world far away, the nations of the land lived under the rule of The Way protected by Goddess Anoona, a double-headed dragon. Knowing of her dualistic ano-ona powers of Light and Darkness, the nobility of that far and distant planet vowed to uphold and preserve this mystical knowledge. In this way, they balanced the dual powers of Peace and Chaos—until a time when mankind forgot to keep the ways of the Brotherhood.

Their world fell into upheaval, and man began to fight his own kind. It was this sad state of affairs which brought the only daughter of the grand king, Princess Iona Catherine Anders of Glastershire, to stand, alone, on the battlements of Northernwild Castle, on the eve of what should have been the happiest day of her life—her sixteenth Natal-Day Celebration.

The cold wind lashed at her fur-lined cape. Princess Iona tugged it more securely into place and continued to pace the turret. Stubbornly, she had maintained vigilance upon the high road since dawn, determined to ignore the cold fingers of wind whipping the strayed ringlets of hair that escaped her ankle-length braid. Still she waited.

She leaned stiffly against the cold stone at her back, and watched the road across the valley for any sign of her father’s return. She ached from watching. Restless, she roused herself and began to pace again. She looked even taller than her five-foot stature, with her erect form silhouetted against the leaden, spring sky.

How can Papah not come on such a memorable occasion! He’s the only parent I’ve known these past eight years since Mamah died. But nay! He’s not even here! He’s off fighting the Kerdsman!

Iona tossed her head in annoyance. She had lost her mother, the Grand Queen Lillianna, to the Misty Veils of Death. Not having her mother, to tend to the ritual details, Iona thought surely he’d return for her celebrated transformation to womanhood!

Still, Iona was reluctant to recognize her responsibilities as Grand Queen-in-Waiting, even in her private thoughts. What did she know about the obligations and responsibilities of leading a nation? Or warfare? She just wanted to be like other girls of sixteen, unfettered to romp across the moors as free as a butterfly, flirting with life, having fun.

Beth, Iona’s maid, suddenly appeared near the princess’s elbow. Why not come below out of the cold, Your Majesty? Iona only waved her away.

Then at least eat a little of this bread and meat. The girl held out the packet she carried.

Reluctantly Iona accepted the proffered package and unwrapped the toasted slices of oven-baked bread, stuffed with butter and venison strips. She tore off a chunk, popped it into her mouth, and chewed vigorously.

The princess leaned over the parapet and cupped her small hands against her brow to shade her eyes against the afternoon sunlight. With squinted eyelids, she examined the moving patterns of light and shade that swayed beneath the trees lining the distant high road. Nothing moved but the trees and their shadows. Iona sighed, and took another small bite of her repast.

Beth spoke to distract her mistress from her gloomy mood. The preparations for the celebration are nearly finished. And young Drew left this morning to fetch a fiddler—from Bestenshire. In fact, he should be back by now.

Iona whirled on one heel to face her handmaiden and childhood confidant. How could I possibly celebrate without His Majesty? Who will serve as my Kin Witness?

One of us could, I suppose.

That’s not possible! None of you is kin to me! Iona retorted.

Then, with second thoughts, she pictured the troubadours and their lively music. How could she refuse her people an evening of entertainment? Especially now with so many families torn apart by the terrible war. They could use the diversion—and so could she.

Who will dance with me? Iona exclaimed.

Well, Beth began thoughtfully.

Iona obviously had not considered this social disaster until this very moment. She jerked back her cape and took on a dance pose; her arms held her imaginary partner. I guess I could dance with the stable boys.

She executed several dance steps. Or, one of the guardsmen. Nay! She squealed with glee. The cook!

Iona envisioned herself and the pot-bellied man gamboling about the kitchen, knocking over pots and pans in their frenzied flight, while his jealous dwarf of a wife chased in hot pursuit, swinging a blackened skillet. A slow, delighted smile transformed Iona’s melancholy mood.

Beth’s eyes glowed with amusement as her own solution popped into her mind. I know what! We’ll have His Majesty do it again, after he returns. Then, we could celebrate twice!

Oh, Beth! It just wouldn’t be the same! Surely he’ll come! Iona whirled about to lean over the parapet again, determined not to have Beth witness the hot tears caught on her lashes. Stubbornly, she refused to allow them to slide down her cheeks.

Nobility doesn’t cry! she admonished herself.

Their mood broken, Beth persisted, You’ll come right in, won’t you?

Iona nodded, replying absently. I will follow shortly. Popping the last slice of venison into her mouth, Iona placed the empty napkin back into her maid’s open hands.

"Nay, I mean really. Come in with me."

Really. I will.

"I mean, really, really," Beth persisted doggedly. Her eyes flashed her teasing mood.

Iona laughed. I speak true. She grinned.

You can’t break your promise, scolded the maid.

Be gone, you harping fosterling. Even though your mother took up raising me where mine left off, I haven’t forgotten which one of us is to be queen! Iona growled.

The servant girl fled without another word, but her chuckle drifted back over her shoulder.

Why does she mean so much to me? Iona wondered. Perhaps it’s because, of all my people, she’s the only one who is not afraid of my esteemed position, or me. How refreshing. I have no one else dear to me in these chaotic times.

Iona leaned back against the wall and turned her gaze back toward the road. The last of the sun’s rays slanted weakly across the afternoon sky.

Oh, Papah! Where are you? she lamented.

She cupped her hands to block the glare from her eyes, and again strained to search the road below. Nothing. Iona stamped her foot and paced some more.

I’ll just stay a few moments longer, she argued.

But you promised, cried the voice of conscience. She chose to ignore it.

Iona had nearly given up hope when she caught sight of movement along the road. Running to the edge of the rampart, she leaned well out over the wall and strained to make out a troop of horsemen marching slowly toward the castle.

She squealed with joy. I knew he’d come! She suddenly felt loved, warmed from top to toe, and secure once again. She sighed her relief, no longer noticing the bite of the wind.

As the party of riders drew nearer, she wondered why Papah’s flag wasn’t flying. She narrowed her gaze. If the prominent rider were her father, why wasn’t he astride his favorite stallion?

With a jerk, her heart froze. He loved that horse! He’d trained it himself, and he’d never willingly ride another. Had he lost it in the war? Did this mean the border skirmish was going badly?

Maybe it’s not Papah! she fretted. Who else could it be? Nay! Surely it’s Papah! Fear nudged the edges of her mind. Why would he feel he has to sneak back into Northernwild Castle? He’s disguised himself, that’s it! He’s ridden a horse not known by his enemy.

Her heart racing, Iona tore herself away from the rail and galloped down the many stone steps, tunnels, and passageways to the front gate. As she ran, she pulled the damp hem of her velvet gown disgracefully above her knees. Her soft leather leg wrappings felt frozen to her feet, but she opted to ignore the shooting pins and needles stabbing her nearly frosted toes.

There were so few people left in the castle that Iona saw no one on her dash to the gate. Nearly everyone had gone with the king to fight the war, or to feed and care for his guardsmen at the war camp. He had even taken his Council members with him. He had provided her with Regent Lockly and a minimal number of guardsmen to keep possession of the castle in the name of the crown.

Papah had reassured her it was only a formality. The castle was in no real danger of attack.

By the time she reached the front gate, her cheeks glowed from exertion, her chest heaved. Weary horses blew and pranced, their hooves striking a clatter on the cobblestone.

Eyes wide, Iona jerked to a stop. Her heart raced. Who are these strangers? Although the horses wore the grand king’s white dragon crest, her sire was not among them. Why have my guardsmen so foolishly thrown open the gates for unknown riders?

Ah, good evening, Princess Iona, interrupted one of the riders. How charming of you to greet me in person.

Who dares speak to me in such a familiar tone? Eyes ablaze, Iona whirled to challenge the nobleman still astride a huge, shadow-gray stallion. Declare yourself.

The tall, dark-haired man dismounted without aid from his squire and bowed low before her, slowly removing his riding gloves. His dirty riding tunic and mud-splattered fur cape left little of the man to be recognized.

Iona backed away. It was obvious the man had traveled many miles in haste. His knights came to attention in loose formation behind him.

"I see you don’t remember me, my dear cousin. Then, it’s my good fortune the guardsman at the gate did so. But, it truly is no wonder. I’ve not been to Northernwild Castle in many years.

My mother married Prince Sweetbrier of Kent, and our liege graciously awarded our little family stewardship of Wildcoast Castle Quay, where His Majesty’s fishing fleet is stationed.

He twiddled his mustache. Have you never heard of us? Surely you must remember me. He stepped toward her.

Iona stumbled back another step. His smile was charming, yet she could not explain why the hair stood up on the nape of her neck. This stranger had given her no particular reason to distrust him, yet she did.

With a flourish, he threw back his cape to display his colors, and nodded. May I present myself? I am Prince Eric Bruce Sweetbrier at your service. He smiled fondly. As a child, before my mother’s second husband adopted me, I was called Dormer. However, after the wedding you lovingly called me ‘Cousin Brier’. Remember?

Dormer. That name did sound familiar. Recognition dawned. Iona fell back yet another step. "Oh, of course, that Cousin Brier. How could I have recognized you? You’ve grown." She wasn’t about to reveal she’d disliked him, even then.

And you, also, Your Majesty. And well, I might add.

Even at the best of times, Iona hated being called, Your Majesty, but she bit her lip and chose not to correct this nobleman in front of his men.

He turned to his troops and riding companions and motioned them to dismount. The knights stiffly dismounted, giving their mounts up to the young squires.

Prince Brier realized Iona’s scrutiny took in his traveling companions, weighing them with curiosity. May I present Peterson of Soux. He is a scoundrel, but plays the flute with great heart.

The gangly youth stepped forward and bowed before her. She saw he was nothing more than a smooth-faced boy, who was every bit as covered with mud as his Lor.

And Kenderhielm from Northland, who has a divine way with the lyre. The prince motioned his second companion forward. The giant ambled into the light, now cast by lanterns hung within the entry. He ducked his head, crushing his leather hat in front of him with both gnarled hands.

Iona looked up, and up, and up, putting a kink in her neck trying to view this stranger’s face. His cape was also dappled with mud. She suddenly realized his eyes reflected a disquieting yellow glow. His beard was a maze of tightly curled, blond ringlets, which matched the ringlets on his bare chest. Shocked to find him half-naked, she dropped her gaze with a blush. Then, resuming her inspection, she spied the hump of the man’s lyre strapped across his back.

Iona didn’t realize she stared until the prince spoke.

Seven foot, ten, he is, and a man to be trusted. Well, not ‘human’ actually. He’s of Gibralteran stock... but I trust him as though his race be truly human.

Forgive me for staring. I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone of your kind, Iona stammered, and turned back to Brier.

It grows late, Prince Sweetbrier. You and your men must be weary. I must attend to having quarters made ready for you. In the meantime, I’ll guide you to the bath in the kitchen where you may all wash away the grime from your travels. And, I’ll have your horses looked after.

That’s ‘Cousin Brier,’ remember? The prince winked at her. My knights and guardsmen won’t mind bunking in the barracks. But as for myself and my companions, I’ll gladly accept your kind offer of a hot tub. With a quick hand signal, he commanded that his saddlebags be brought.

Iona gestured to have her guests’ horses taken to the stable. Several of her own squires appeared and led the horses away. Iona watched as the weary horses turned to follow, their legs already stiffening.

Good thing I was in no real danger, she grumbled to herself, heaven only knows where my guardsmen were when I needed them. Then, Papah hasn’t exactly left me the cream of the crop.

Wrap their mounts’ legs with hot oil and rags, and walk them until they be limbered, she ordered.

The sergeant saluted, and barked the princess’s command to his livery squires as Iona returned her attention to her guests.

Please follow me. I’ll show you to the kitchens. Iona turned to lead the three men and their aids through the deserted castle, where only a bare minimum of torches lit the passageways. Belatedly, she realized that such a condition only advertised the minimum force that remained to protect her and the castle.

And what brings you to Northernwild Castle at a time like this? she questioned the strutting prince.

"Why, you, milady. Tonight is your Natal-Day Celebration, is it not? And your need for a kinsman to witness your coming of age." He smiled down at her.

So, knowing our liege, your sire, left you here... ah, virtually unprotected...

I have my guardsmen, Iona protested.

Aye, but so few.

And Regent Lockly.

Aye, I had forgotten about the Regent, Prince Brier mused. Yet, your sire’s lack of warring knowledge is truly a pity. In the past he’s taken so little interest in military theory. His voice trailed off, then continued with a tone ringing with insincerity. I only thought it my loyal duty to the crown, to—well, you know, be here. He grinned.

So... here I am, dear, sweet cousin. I came as your kinsman. His smile mocked her. My companions and I rode long and hard to be here this night. They are my gifts to you.

Iona stopped abruptly. A boy and a non-human giant?

Beware! Brier cautioned. His feelings are easily hurt. His eyes darted meaningfully toward the blond giant. You misunderstand. I offer you the joy of their songs, their talents, for this special night of yours.

Iona’s sideways glance at the giant could not detect the slightest presence of a musical soul. She’d be greatly surprised if the furry beast of a man could carry a tune at all, but whatever he had to offer, it might be far better than the lonely evening she otherwise might have suffered. And although the lesser prince called himself family, the thought made her flesh crawl, recalling the pleasure he’d once taken at her discomfort. He’d always had some unpleasantness up his sleeve; pitch in her hair, burrs under her saddle blankets, honey in her riding boots, and dead snakes in her bed. Yet, he was right. She needed him. Tonight kin was kin, regardless of her personal feelings toward him.

She stepped into the warm kitchen, the three noblemen at her heels. The heady aroma of cooking leeks and baking bread assailed her nostrils with heavenly scents. Her cheeks fairly burned with the change of temperature. She threw back her fur hood, and waited for the cook to come forward.

At last, the cook noticed her arrival. Milady, he murmured, dusting flour from his callused hands. As he bowed before her, he noted the kitchen’s fires gleaming golden highlights across her copper-blond hair.

Prince Sweetbrier and his men have joined me for the celebration. See to it that they have hot water for bathing. In addition, several dozen or so knights and guardsmen have gone to the barracks. Have them fed as well. The cook nodded.

Several of the prince’s squires pushed their way into the well-lit kitchen, the clack of their hard-heeled boots over-riding the other sounds in the room. Prince Sweetbrier motioned them to place his saddlebags near the washroom door.

The men saluted without an exchange of words and marched back the way they had come, disappearing as suddenly as they had appeared.

Iona turned back to Prince Sweetbrier. I will leave you now and join you again at dinner.

Brier bowed low, and the young flutist fell to one knee to kiss the hem of her garment, but the giant of a man merely nodded his head.

Please, Cousin Iona, Kenderhielm means no disrespect. Brier smiled sweetly. It’s the disadvantage of his race which dictates his lack of flexibility. Thus he bows before no man—or woman, for that matter.

The princess eyed the giant with suspicion. He was from another land, she could forgive him for not bowing before her, but the heavy calluses she spied on his palms and the strange man’s furry knuckles somehow seemed out of place on someone professed as lyricist. Perhaps he handled a crossbow with better skill, she speculated.

Iona returned her thoughts to duty. To the cook, she ordered, When they have finished here, have someone take our distinguished guests to their quarters. Have the hearth in the Oakwood chambers laid and the rooms heated. She indicated the noble delegation.

Returning her attention to the prince, she said, Dinner will be served at eight o’clock in the lesser hall. The grand hall is far too big to heat this time of year. Regent Lockly will escort you to the hall. The prince bowed again as she swept from the room.

Take care of these gentlemen. The cook motioned to a small waif, who had just entered the room carrying a bucket of kindling. Help them with their tubbing.

The lad sneaked a sideways glance at the impressive giant. Him, too? he asked in a stage whisper. He set down his bucket near the ovens.

Aye, laddie, him, too. He’s an honored guest.

The boy, too young to be afraid, considered the task of scrubbing so large a personage insurmountable. The water will splash right out of the tub! he blurted.

Git! the cook growled with impatience.

The child scurried to pick up one of the saddlebags and lead the way into the washroom. With trembling hands, he laid out towels and brought a container of soap from the storeroom. When he reached out to help the prince undress, the man knocked him aside.

Be gone, lad! I have no need of your fumbling fingers.

Wide-eyed, the youngster didn’t need to be told twice. He bolted from the room.

As soon as the boy had gone, Kenderhielm growled, His Majesty has truly left the door wide open for you, milor. Why bother to invade? Did you not see their paltry defenses? How poorly trained the men? We have no need for your entire garrison.

Hush, you fool! hissed Brier. He jumped to the door, cracked it open, and saw that the boy had truly departed. Whirling back to his companion, his face livid with rage, he snarled, Don’t ever take their defenses for granted! And don’t ever talk about my plans where someone might overhear!

He shook a stern finger in the giant’s face. Not even a mere boy! His tongue could wag as easily as a snake’s. Take care of this Regent Lockly before dinner.

You think the princess will not miss him at dinner? questioned the gigantic beast-man, a heavy eyebrow raised in speculation.

"Do as I say. Kill the man before dinner. I have no wish to have him interfere with my plans. Understood? I will take Northernwild Castle for my own... my way!"

The Gibralteran was unimpressed by the prince’s show of temper. His eyelids blinked languidly, mesmerizing Brier mid-stride before Kenderhielm reluctantly turned his gaze away, releasing his momentary control over the prince.

Ferociously, Brier growled, I’ve told you a hundred times not to do that! However, before their quarrel continued, several lackeys stumbled through the door with a copper bathtub. It buckled and clamored as it settled into place in the center of the room.

Fresh water a plenty on its way, milors, one man called cheerfully as the two men backed out the doorway.

The nobleman spluttered. Turning away, he struggled to contain his composure.

Several kitchen helpers strode through the still opened doorway and emptied five barrels of heated water into the tub. An old woman popped into the room on the heels of the water bearers.

It is I who’s best at drying fur capes, milors. She smacked her gums. Give them to me, and I’ll have them back to you before the night is out.

Without waiting, she tugged on the prince’s cape. I’ll tend it personal like, Your Grace.

Unwillingly, Prince Sweetbrier unfastened his cape and allowed her to draw it from his shoulders. Removing his own hooded cape, the prince’s young companion slipped the crone a copper coin for her trouble. Arms akimbo, the giant stoically refused her service.

Oh, let her have your cape! snarled Brier, still irritated with his companion.

Relenting, Kenderhielm slowly dislodged the lyre from his back, then removed his cape. When he handed it to the woman, her eyes traveled approvingly from his naked belly fur to his wide-set yellow eyes.

Well, she cooed, In all my days, I’ve not seen the likes of you. She haltingly placed a gnarled hand upon his waist and tested a ringlet’s texture between her fingers. Lordy, lordy, you’d of been in great danger had I met you as a girl, milor. Self-consciously the old woman jerked her hand away; her toothless smile begged indulgence of an old woman.

Wooed by the old woman’s attention, the Gibralteran’s mood suddenly brightened. His eyes crinkled with an amused smile. If I need my back brushed, I’ll keep an appreciative lady, such as yourself, in mind, his voice rumbled.

Oh, go on with you, the woman flirted, chuckling as she left.

How can you put up with that pawing? snarled the prince. It’s disgusting!

She meant no harm, milor. What’s wrong with jollying the old folk? We’ll all be that age someday ourselves—hopefully, the giant amended. And besides, any female’s admiration is well accepted. He raised an eyebrow suggestively.

AND YOU SAY YOU DON’T much care for this Prince Sweetbrier? Beth asked as she carefully swept a brush through Iona’s long, coppery-blond tresses. She deftly worked the smaller braids she had made to accent the unbraided rope of hair down Iona’s back.

"He wasn’t born a prince, Beth. Not even a Lesser Prince. He was adopted!

Just a glimpse of his infuriating sneer reminded me all too vividly of his sneaky tricks! Of all the people to turn up tonight as my only Kin Witness—it had to be someone I’ve never liked!

Well, milady, people do have a habit of growing up. Perhaps he’s changed.

That would be a coming-of-age gift to beat all others, I swear. I’ll bet His Majesty doesn’t even know he’s here. Why aren’t he and his troops with Papah?

Grand Princess Iona squirmed on her bench. Hold still! ordered Beth.

I’ve not got a good feeling about this Sweetbrier fellow. Stay by my side tonight, I don’t trust him, Iona worried. With a restless hand, she swished her long velvet skirt and frowned at its swirl of dark green and bright gold in the lamplight.

Aye, milady. I will keep an eye on him. There, your hair is finished. Now all we have to do is slip on the bodice and you’ll be ready. Beth reached for the bodice from the foot of the plain, fur-covered sleeping platform.

Iona stood and allowed Beth to pull the bodice into place and fasten the many buttons that flowed down the back of the garment.

Without a word, the two young ladies navigated the dimly lit stairs to the rooms below. Outside the huge double doors to the lesser hall, Iona stood a moment and listened to the mummer of the occupants of the room. All the young wives of the court had been left in her charge, along with an uncountable number of children in varying sizes. Noble Ladies, their companions and servants, even regal pretenders clung to the protection of the throne during this time of unrest. The extent of obligation, her sire had placed upon her, seemed a heavy burden... yet, these were her people.

Even before she stepped through the door, she knew the older people would be concentrated around the hearth of the massive fireplace. Absent were the jolly knights, the aristocratic men, the lors and princes in their flashy peacock plumage, strutting, vying for her father’s attention. All of them had followed her sire to battle.

Iona drew in a deep breath and, with her chin held high, strode into the room. For the first time, she became aware of the leanness of her charges. The opulent tapestries that covered the cold, stone walls, the elaborately bound library books filling the well-crafted bookcases, and the intricate place settings and raw silk tablecloths appeared incongruous to her, compared to the gaunt frames of her people. It had indeed been a hard winter.

Her guests quieted, turning to bow before her as she passed, and the princess nodded to various individuals she recognized as she swept the length of the room and climbed the steps to the grand king’s platform. She turned to acknowledge her entourage, her Ladies in Waiting, the rugged Headmen from the village, and her special guests.

At first sight of the lyricist, Beth stumbled against her mistress, who instinctively caught her arm to steady her. Beth whispered, Lordy, milady, what is he?

Gibralteran, Iona whispered back.

The man made an impressive figure with massive gold chains draped across his bare chest, accentuating his muscular shoulders. He wore only a loose fitting leather vest and blue, skin-tight pants that shimmered like fireflies, emphasizing his huge furry feet. He wore overlapping golden loops, pierced down the length of his tufted ears that accented the amber-gold of his eyes.

The lad, Peterson, although dressed in the latest fashion, looked rumpled, his light brown hair still wet from his bath. His boots declared their own vigorous scrubbing, the leather still dark and wet. His bright blue eyes glowed with the excitement of discovery as he perpetually pivoted his neck like an owl, to take in every impression of the room all at the same time.

Prince Sweetbrier’s visage was perfection. Each hair was in place; his sword and dagger gleamed with an evil fire against his black attire. His boots were spotless. His uniform fit like a well-made glove. The prince was aware of what an impressive figure he cut in his finery. Head held high, he strutted lion-like before the fire.

The nobleman and his companions turned to acknowledge Her Majesty’s entrance. As soon as Princess Iona sat in her chair and pulled her skirt about her ankles for added warmth, Beth ducked behind her mistress’s high backed chair to stare at the giant.

The prince advanced to the head table to join Iona, not noticing Beth, who faithfully held her position. His companions settled themselves at a lower table.

Iona studied her guests. There remained but a mere handful of people at the castle to celebrate her coming of age. She had always envisioned a gay affair, with the castle brimming over with celebrants, tumblers and dancers, and wild music and winsome young men all bowing before her, vying for her attention. Their courtly trappings would compete with one another to be recognized as the finest garments in all the realms. As she dreamed about it, melancholy shrouded her expectant mood.

The prince threw himself down in a chair beside her.

Iona’s gaze swept the room, then back to her cousin. Where is Regent Lockly?

Brier’s eyes glittered. He went to see after my knights, he lied, a well-manicured hand caressing the upward thrust of his throat. He should return before long. Which musician would you like to hear first? Taking up her hand, he pressed his lips fervently to her fingertips.

Dismayed by his touch, Iona jerked her hand away. She stifled her shudder and helped herself to a sweetmeat before she could answer. She studied the musicians. Which would you recommend? she inquired in a restrained voice.

Ah, if the choice were mine, milady, I’d have the boy go first, as Kenderhielm has a great deal more experience.

His smile was so cloying that Iona wanted to scream. She bit her lip instead, and returned his smile. In that case, so be it. She turned to face the entertainers.

I’d like, Peterson, I believed you called him, to entertain during dinner.

Brier raised a hand, and the boy stood hesitantly, his knees visibly quaking. Peterson glanced about helplessly, seemingly unable to decide for himself where to perform. He shot a quick, uncertain glance back at the head table. The prince glowered.

Watching Brier’s face turn ugly, Iona shuddered, but quickly laid her hand upon his sleeve before he could speak. When he turned his stormy eyes toward her, Iona said, I’ll handle it. Brier’s mouth snapped shut.

Iona wiped her palm against her skirt and forced her eyes away from the prince’s smoldering orbs. She nodded to the young performer. Please, she called to the boy, you may stand nearer the fire if you like.

She waited while he awkwardly crossed the room. When he stepped up on the raised hearth and turned, she went on. I’d like to hear something soft and lilting. Do you know anything like that?

The youth swallowed hard, nodding. Iona returned her attention to her cousin. His expression had resumed its prior benevolence.

Eventually, a reedy run of notes whispered from the flute, and Iona signaled the meal to begin. Her staff paraded the full length of the hall to present their meager fare for her approval before they served it. As the simple meal progressed, so did the flutist’s confidence.

The young lad became braver and replayed some of his earlier attempts with a bit more flair, a bit more personal voice, and a bit more rendering. When he came to the end of his repertoire, he faltered, unable to improvise.

Iona instantly applauded him. Well done, she proclaimed, regretting he had so few selections to offer. His music had lifted her spirits.

You have great promise. If ever you find yourself in need of a court to entertain, I hope you find your way back to ours. You would find great welcome here.

Peterson blushed vividly, and scurried back to his place at the table, sheathing his flute like a sword.

Iona next pointed to a weathered old man, his shoulders permanently bent. He had to be the fiddler from Bestenshire of whom Beth had spoken, although she’d not seen him before now. He was the only other entertainer visible, besides the giant.

The man rose stiffly and, taking up his violin, shuffled to the stage the boy had marked by his performance. He turned to Her Majesty and bowed reverently, then tucked his instrument beneath his chin, eyes closed.

After what seemed an unendurable silence, he began to play. He tickled his violin, waking it, then played a long involved love song. Half way through the piece, the baritone voice of the giant picked up the refrain and unfolded the lyrics as if the story had been misunderstood until now. His voice belled clear and filled the hall with its resonance.

Surprised, Iona leaned across the table, watching him with renewed interest. When the piece finished, she noticed that the lower end of the room held all her household servants who had ghosted in to witness the occasion.

Kenderhielm half rose from the table and acknowledged the fiddler. The old man’s grin was thanks enough, and the lyricist resumed his seat. The fiddler fell directly into a lilting folk dance, causing every foot in the room to tap.

Your Majesty, the prince crooned. Grant me the pleasure of this dance. He offered her his hand.

Iona eyed him with misgiving. She didn’t want to dance with him. He fell far short of her imagined handsome prince.

The people await your pleasure, milady, he chided. They will not dance until you have.

Embarrassed, Princess Iona glanced down at the yearning faces. Reluctantly she placed her fingers in the nobleman’s proffered palm. He rose and pulled her with him. Without knowing how he had managed it, she found herself cradled in his powerful arms, moving gracefully to the sound of the fiddle. Although she didn’t want to admit it, she couldn’t fault his dancing skills.

The song ended, and Iona turned toward her chair, but Brier refused to release her. His smile was winsome, all the while his fingers played with the buttons on the back of her bodice. Before she could complain, he expertly guided her into the next dance.

As they turned slowly in measured step, Iona glanced at all her guests enjoying the celebration. The couples were odd indeed. Young ladies danced together, oldsters danced with small children, and, to make the best of a bad situation, her ladies danced with gawky young lords polished to a gleam, to fill in for their sires. They were making do. Iona felt humbled. She, after all, danced with a nobleman, even if she didn’t much like him. She had wanted a dance partner and one had come. She had needed a Kin Witness... she had her Kin Witness. Then, why wasn’t she happy? How could she be so selfish?

The fiddler played tirelessly until at last he turned to invite Kenderhielm to join his final selection. The bear of a man stood at his place at the table, singing the song with full heart. At song’s end, applause filled the room. Kenderhielm strode the length of the room and the two men threw their arms about each other, sharing an intimate bonding of two musicians who had performed well together.

Princess Iona collapsed gratefully into her chair as Kenderhielm helped the old man to his seat. Then, placing his stool and lyre at the far end of the room, he waited patiently while the dinner dishes were cleared. The staff served a rich cake and strong mulled wine.

When the clatter of crockery finally subsided, Kenderhielm stood. You’ll forgive me, Your Majesty, if I don’t join you by the fire. It is all too obvious that I come from a country farther north, and closer to where the ice kings were born. He bowed; the firelight highlighted the tight curls beneath his loose, leather vest.

Forgiven, Iona proclaimed.

With a nod, the giant settled himself onto his stool and pulled the lyre into his arms. He took a deep breath. Then, he centered himself with the caves of creation, and exhaled. Inhaling a second lungful, he tilted his chin toward the heavens and drew upon the powerful forces of the unseen.

He inhaled a third breath. His heavily callused fingers caressed the instrument’s strings while he attuned his spirit with that of the lyre. When he blinked open his bright yellow eyes it was as though he had shape-shifted into another type of being. He and the lyre were one. They were lovers, lilting together in exquisite harmonies. Their voices mixed, harmonized, complementing each other. All those present fell silent beneath his spell. Spellbound. Mesmerized.

Kenderhielm’s glowing orbs captivated Princess Iona. She fell into a trance. In her vision, she found herself drifting across an endless blue plane, following the notes of the song, and the words that crowded about her like nodding wildflowers.

The giant met her upon the vast expanse, his flowing black monk-like robe rippling as he walked. He flexed and flowed. His furry chest radiated comfort.

Iona struggled against her desire and resisted the urge. Although she was aware of their different stations, she still accepted his offered hand, placing her small hand into his fur-covered palm.

Together they turned and the expanse before them became a maze through which he guided her. He navigated the mysteries hidden upon the plane, directing her to a doorway without walls.

This is the threshold, he said, pointing to the open archway. To remain on this side, your mind will always dwell in childhood no matter what your age, while to cross over, you will enter into the delights and sorrows of maturity.

Adulthood! her mind screamed. That’s where the ceremony was supposed to take her—with a—with a family member as witness! The counterfeit monk stood in silhouette. But, you’re only a... ah... what are you?

The half of me which you now see is guided by the Brotherhood of Goddess Anoona. But... not my other self... Slowly he turned to face her.

Iona drew back in shock. One half of the monk’s face glowed from his inner depth of Mystical Illumination and peace of mind; while the deceitful half centered around one bright, malevolent-yellow eye. His lips pulled back in a snarl exposing his sharp, pointed teeth.

Choose! he snarled.

Her heart pounded. Iona fearfully leaped across the narrow threshold, intuiting she would be safe on the other side. That, for some unknown reason, she knew the threatening giant couldn’t follow her.

Suddenly awake and gasping, Iona clutched the table’s edge to keep from falling. The music had ended. Disoriented, she hardly recognized her own lesser hall. When she finally focused on the Gibralteran, his eyes smoldered fiercely. She felt faint, hardly able to catch her breath. Not a spark of the monk’s character remained in those fierce warrior’s eyes.

Iona jerked her gaze away, only to be confronted by her cousin’s condescending sneer.

As Kin Witness, I welcome you to adulthood! He threw back his head and brayed. Well, my dear cousin, now that you have the right to make your own decisions, and decrees... as an adult, I have a proposition for you.

The prince twiddled his luxuriant mustache, his eyes burned with greed.

Iona’s heart hammered with trepidation. She gulped to steady her nerves, then finished her glass of mulled wine in a single swallow. Her heart continued to flutter like a captive bird. There was something feral about Prince Sweetbrier’s manner that frightened her.

Your castle is defenseless and weak with no army to protect you. The prince smugly rubbed his hands together and leaned toward her. He touched the back of her hand with one long, immaculate finger. I’m willing to correct that situation.

Why? Iona quavered, her intuition screamed in warning. She wanted no part of whatever he might suggest.

"You’re kin, my dear cousin, left here alone, and vulnerable to attack. He drew a lazy circle on the back of her hand. Why would I not offer my guardsmen to protect you from harm?"

What harm? Iona choked, pulling away from him.

Oh, you know. The Kerdsmen. His fingers advanced up her arm.

They offer me no danger, she protested. They aren’t nearby.

How about... a fortune hunter... while our liege is away?

They wouldn’t!

How about bandits or thieves. Aye! How about the riffraff after your kingdom’s treasures?

They wouldn’t dare! Regent Lockly would never allow it.

The prince leaned back in his chair, and began picking his teeth with an ivory pick. I doubt your Lockly could stop them. He played a fingertip across his lower lip. Not anymore.

Why ever not? Iona demanded.

Oh, your Regent Lockly wasn’t much of a warrior. And, in the meantime I could manage your lands for you... while His Grand Majesty is away.

The princess spluttered, devoid of an adequate retort. How could he be so bold?

He displayed a lascivious smile. I could stay here and look after you.

His heart is rotten to the core. Iona contemplated and drew herself erect, her eyes flashing. And what would be your price for all this... protection?

Brier polished the fingernails of one hand on his jacket lapel. If you fear for your honor.

What do you mean... fear for my honor? she rasped.

With His Grand Majesty away, there arises the question concerning the safety of your lands...

"Now you’re concerned about my honor, and my lands?" Her voice cracked.

To protect your good name, we could... He stroked her arm suggestively once again.

There’s nothing wrong with my good name! Iona spat.

We could be wed.

What? Iona jerked away.

You and I could be wed, he repeated more slowly.

Never! Color drained from Iona’s cheeks.

I could be very nice to you. Again his fingers wandered the length of her arm. You might even... learn to like it. Other women have.

Iona leaped up, her face flushed with rage. She whirled away from the table to escape his advances, but as fast as a striking snake the prince jerked her back, his steel grip biting into her wrist.

Where are the guardsmen? she thought wildly.

I’m trying to make this easy for you, you little twit!

Iona’s eyes bulged. No one dared speak to her in such a condescending tone. Their eyes locked. Iona’s heart pounded.

Without warning, Beth stepped between them and forced the prince to release his savage grasp.

How dare you! he snarled.

By my leave, she dares! Iona seethed. "You forget yourself, Your Grace. Pray that on the morrow, once the wine clears from your head, you will remember the allegiance you owe my father, and me, as his new Grand Queen-in-Waiting.

Prince Sweetbrier surged forward to grab at Iona again.

Beth blocked his advance with her own body. Come, milady, ‘tis late. Tomorrow is another day, and soon enough to sort things out.

Iona drew herself up, bade him a terse goodnight, and stalked the length of the room with her maidservant at her heels.

When she turned to bid her other guests good night, Iona discovered the room empty. The three of them were the only persons remaining. Iona sighed with relief. Without witnesses to her shame, Princess Iona of Northernwild Castle felt her dignity restored. Her chin climbed even higher to express her disdain for the adopted prince. She marched from the room, her back stiff with pride.

As the princess and Beth hastened to Iona’s chambers, it was more than the chill in the hallway that caused Iona to shudder.

Thank goddess you were close at hand, she whispered. "What an awful man! And his audacity! Did you hear... he wants to marry me?"

I heard only that, Beth admitted.

Where were you? He was perfectly awful.

I fell asleep behind your chair, milady. The music. I couldn’t help myself.

Never mind that now. Iona’s thoughts replayed the evening’s events. Pray, don’t leave my chambers tonight!

Aye, milady. I saw how he coveted you. Beth led her mistress into her royal apartment and threw open the door to her warm bedchamber. She barred the door behind them. He’ll not bother you here. I’ll see to that.

Aye, said Iona. But better still, slip down to the barracks and bring back several guardsmen to stand by the door throughout the night.

I don’t want to leave you! Beth cried.

I’ll be fine. Hurry and help me with my bodice. The bar on the door will hold back any would-be suitor. If he comes, I must be protected. Now, away with you.

Aye, milady. If you insist, so be it. Beth opened the door and squeezed through the narrow crack. Don’t wait, bolt this door behind me.

Without further coaxing the princess slid