Elizabeth Ann Scarborough - Argonia 03 - Bronwyn's Bane

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

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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!"

"Don't be such a baby. Would I have warned you about the holes and whirlpools if I were trying to

drown you? I'm shallow here, except right at the bottom, and I'll sweep you past that. Just keep your

head down so you don't bump it on the overhang, and hold onto that thing in your hand so you can

keep adrift if you capsize."

"You make it sound easy," she said doubtfully.

"I do this all the time," the river replied. "Down with you, now. That's it. Here we go—budge your

bottom a bit. You're stuck. There now—WHEEEEE!"

That was all very well for the river to say, Carole thought, panicked, as she first slid downstream.

But her fright was soon replaced by elation as she realized that she was not cold and uncomfortable as

was quite reasonable to expect in a glacial river in late autumn. In fact, sliding along with the water

was tremendous fun. Thrusting Bronwyn's shield inside-up before her, she flopped forward on her

stomach and sluiced down into the darkness.

Entrance to the glacier was a shallow slide of water over stone and ice smoothed with centuries of

the Blabbermouth's passing. As first her head and then her stomach slid beneath the opening in the ice,

Carole closed her eyes for fear she'd strike her head on a rock. She hoped the shield would protect her.

No protection was necessary, however. At the foot of the slide, she knifed straight ahead into a

deep pool, stopping abruptly when her momentum deposited her against a squishy, clanking object.

"Mission accomplished," sighed the river. "Get her out now, will you, before she rusts or

something?"

Chapter II

The eddy swirling around them giggled and Carole couldn't blame it. High overhead, several huge

round holes piercing the roof of the glacial grotto showed a struggling, swearing Bronwyn performing

all manner of contortions and gyrations with the portion of her that remained above water. Setting her

own feet down, Carole immediately started sinking into a deep layer of mud. With her leg armor on,

Bronwyn was unable to kick loose, as Carole herself did only with great difficulty. She swam to

Bronwyn, grabbing her arm and tugging.

"Let me be," the Princess said in a mournful and thoroughly frightened voice. "I'm doing perfectly

well by myself, thank you." Any idiot could see she wasn't. For that matter, Carole wasn't doing so

well either. The pool covered the entire floor of the grotto and its icy rim was little more than a slick,

narrow ledge, with nothing to hold onto and no place to pull herself and Bronwyn to dry land if and

when she succeeded in unsticking her.

"How do we get out?" Carole asked the river.

"Out? Out? You just got in. How should I know how you get out? You asked me to find your

cousin, as if cousins were important! Pshaw! I, for instance, had a cousin once—runny little sort—

thought it was the deep blue sea but really, it was scarcely more than a mud puddle—and I'll brook no

contradiction on that, let me tell you. I says to this puddle, says I—"

"Oh, no," Carole wailed, and would have stomped her foot under other circumstances.

Bronwyn was sufficiently struck by the hopelessness in her tone to look up from her own

predicament.

"The unicorn spell is wearing off," Carole explained. "Now we'll never get out of here. I knew this

wretched river was trying to drown us both!" She had to shout above the river now, for when it was

making no sense it talked constantly and more loudly than when it was sane, and had no manners

whatsoever about interrupting others or talking right over them.

"Now what?" Bronwyn managed to howl back with some difficulty, since her struggling was

sinking her deeper till by now her chin was half-submerged and her voice almost as distorted as the

river's.

Carole dog-paddled around her and finally hollered back—She would have shrugged if she could

have managed to do that and keep afloat at the same time—"I don't know. Wait until another unicorn

comes to bless the river so it'll tell us how to get out of here or lead the grownups to us, I suppose. Do

you think you can hold out?" The last question was more wistful than hopeful.

"Certainly I—blub—can," Bronwyn answered. She had sunk until she could keep her lower lip

above water only with considerable effort. "Save—glub—yourself, wench. Don't—gurgle—worry

about—gulp—me. I'll be —blub—fine."

Remembering Bronwyn's curse, Carole decided that the seemingly valiant disclaimer was, coming

from the Princess, a cry for help and a plea not to desert her. As if Carole could have had she been so

inclined. The light from the holes overhead was fading and her eyes probed the cavern for a way out or

at least an outcropping to hang onto or climb up on. After all, if the river flowed into the grotto, it

obviously must go somewhere.

But it was not until she left Bronwyn and paddled around the slippery-sided perimeter that she

found the passageway and the odd contraption blocking it. She felt it, rather than saw it, for it was

hidden in the shadows. It was a bit like a boat and also something like a bathtub with curved sides,

somewhat buckled and smelling of mold, but when she put her hand in the bottom, the wooden surface

felt solid and no wetter than her own hand.

"Aha!" She cried triumphantly, and then to Bronwyn: "I think I've found just the thing. Hold on and

I'll fetch it over."

"I was—glub—just going for a walk," Bronwyn answered.

Tossing the shield into the decrepit-looking contraption, Carole threw one arm over the edge and

tried to kick off. Unfortunately, the rim was too high for her to be able to keep hold and still be able to

swim properly. So she flipped onto her back, grabbed the side with her fingertips, and tugged.

The craft—whatever it was—began floating with her, and she was halfway to Bronwyn when she

felt a pull corresponding to her own. She tugged harder, but the boat wouldn't budge. Thinking it

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[Argonia03]–Bronwyn’sBanebyElizabethAnnScarboroughScannedandpreproofedbyBW-SciFiVersion1.0ReleaseDate:May12th,2003PREFACE:(FROMTHEARGONIANARCHIVESTRANSCRIBEDBYSIRCYRILPERCHINGBIRDFORTHEARGONIANHERALD)CROWNPRINCESSCURSEDATCHRISTENING!QUEENSWOONSASBEWITCHEDTOYSHOUTS"LIAR"ATHRHBRONWYNFortIceworm,Northe...

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Elizabeth Ann Scarborough - Argonia 03 - Bronwyn's Bane

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