So now I know this is a matter of life and death. That simplifies things.

I’m left with plenty of questions, but I find it easier than before to push them aside while Arcadius and I come down the hill together, to this tent. As we approach the two Norgardian soldiers standing watch in front of it, I feel an adversarial thrill kindling itself in my gut. But I don’t feed the fire by paying it any mind. Instead I meet their hard stares with a smile. Up close I see the brands on their bare shoulders. Rune warriors. Whoever they’re guarding is a somebody.

The blond one on the left gives Arcadius a sneer. “You said you were coming alone.”

“I did,” he says, meeting his stare without flinching. “But the plan’s changed a bit. This is my bodyguard, Rekka. She’ll be accompanying me.”

The guards trade a look, have a brief conversation in their language. The one on the right frowns and nods. He turns and dips his head down to enter the tent, and I give the handle of my weapon a squeeze. Two rune warriors would be a good little fight, but nothing I couldn’t handle. As for whoever is inside that tent, however, I don’t know. Not that it matters. Fighting to the death is what I was made for.

A few moments pass in silence. I think I’d welcome a scuffle at this point, just to get the tension out. But all the other guard does is stand there while we wait, stone faced. the light of a torch painting the side of his bearded visage in flickering reds and oranges. He has discipline, I’ll give him that. I wonder if he fought in the second battle of Esden. No, he’s too young, but he’s certainly heard of it. Of how we K’zar won it twice, once for Norgard and the second time for Ecea. I imagine he doesn’t approve of mercenaries, especially not those who stole away a victory they bought for a lesser price.

Mercenary. Such a vulgar word. It doesn’t do us justice.

Eventually the other guard re-emerges from within the tent, assumes his post again, and gives us both a curt nod. “She’ll see you now,” he says.

Arcadius’s smile is practiced, regal, but I see that glitter in his eyes. He wants to dive into this tent, but instead he enters with a stately walk past the two guards, and I follow.

A peculiar thing happens when I step inside. I feel a rushing sensation all around my body, as if I just opened a door into a storm of howling winds before slamming it shut again. Looking out from inside the tent I see many more silhouettes moving around than I did before, and bonfires, shadows of an entire Norgardian army encampment. My eyes widen in alarm. One hand grasps my sword, the other reaches for Arcadius, before a voice cuts me off.

“That won’t be necessary, dear.”

It is an aged voice, dry and raspy, but tinged with mirth. And it belongs to the old woman sitting in the middle of this tent, on a chair that resembles a throne. She is wearing a plain blue linen smock, with a mantle of furs draped over her shoulders, her long, silver hair parted in the middle. Her face is lined with deep wrinkles over the brow and down the cheeks, and there are crows feet at the corners of her eyes. The eyes themselves, blue as the ocean on a sunny day, have a youthful glimmer within them.

Arcadius is grinning from ear to ear at this woman. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are just as glimmery as hers. I get the impression they’re friends, but if they’ve been commiserating in secret, there had to have been magic involved. Arcadius hasn’t so much as taken a meal outside his room in a year. I should know, I guard him.

“Sigrun. It’s an honor to meet you,” he says. Then he bows to her as if she were a fellow head of state, and she responds by inclining her head politely.

But he didn’t use a title when he addressed her. Whatever makes this woman powerful has nothing to do with heredity, it seems.

“Thank you for meeting me here,” says Arcadius. “I know reaching us was no small task.”

“Ah, it was nothing. We’re encamped for a fortnight anyway, I had more than enough time,” says Sigrun, with a smile and a wave of her wrinkled hand.

Arcadius returns her smile. I notice he’s tapping his foot, and clutching his sleeve hard enough to make his knuckles go pale. Meanwhile, my blood grows cold. This woman is casually discussing the movements of an enemy army, with said enemy’s crown prince. And by the look of it, some manner of magic plucked us from just outside the palace grounds and took us to who-knows-where. Something is very wrong about all of this. Evidently I’m wearing my disdain and suspicion on my face, because Sigrun sees it and smiles crookedly at me.

“We witches have to stick together. Nationality is just an accident of birth, after all. We mustn’t let such things get in the way of enlightenment.”

Something about her word choices puzzles me, but I can’t put my finger on it. I don’t fail to notice the wry smile on Arcadius’s face when she mentions accidents of birth. I glance between Arcadius, who is practically buzzing with excitement, and Sigrun, who has a sort of maternal grin on her face, and I can’t help but let our a harsh laugh.

“Enlightenment, eh? I could use some of that. No one’s seen fit to enlighten me much tonight.”

“You were not supposed to be here in the first place,” says Sigrun. “But your ward couldn’t bear to be parted with you. Nor you her, I reckon.”

Her retort makes my face heat up. I glare at her, and as I’m opening my mouth to give this old crone a lecture on friendship and honorable conduct, Arcadius cuts me off. He steps in front of me, a sheepish smile on his face, holding out a hand to Sigrun in entreaty.

“Ah, yes, anyway. Were you able to finish the ring?” he asks.

Sigrun’s gaze lingers on mine a moment longer, as if to silently accept any challenge I might offer her. Her eyes turn away, toward Arcadius, but the grin doesn’t fade from her face. She nods her head slowly and points a gnarled finger at a wooden chest sitting in the corner of her tent.

“Aye, I did. It’s in that chest over there, right on top, in a little box.”

Arcadius’s eyes dart toward the chest. He swallows. I didn’t think it was possible for him to look more excited, but he exceeds my expectations yet again. He turns and approaches it slowly, as if he were sleepwalking, a trembling hand extended until, at last, he can lay that hand upon the chest. His eyes are wide, and his chest is rising and falling visibly from exhilarated breathing.

The lid creaks as he gingerly lifts it, his other hand reaching down into the opened chest to claim a small red box sitting on top of a pile of books and scrolls. Once it’s in hand he steps back from the chest, pries open the tiny box. The ring inside is a fine one, threads of gold and silver twisted together into something that resembles a braid. He plucks the ring from the box, almost dropping it, catching it with a blush and a grin and a little laugh. But when he extends a shaking finger to don the ring, something gives him pause.

Apparently it’s me, because he’s staring right at me now. I should be used to feeling stupefied at this point, really, but I guess I’m not. I get a sense that the way I’m looking at him is somehow stealing his elation. He purses his lips, looks down at the ground the way a guilty child might.

“I’m a little scared of what you’re going to think when you see this,” he says.

I frown. “You said you’d die without it. If this thing is going to save you, I’ll stick it on your finger myself if that’s what it takes.”

That makes Arcadius and Sigrun both smile at me. “Once I put it on, it’ll help me explain,” Arcadius says.

Then he slips the ring onto his finger, and some magic happens.

A band of golden light appears above Arcadius’s head, sweeps downward to sheathe his body in a glowing cylinder. When it reaches his feet it shimmers, shrinking down to mold over the shape of him. Then it shatters outward like broken glass and disappears.

For a moment nothing happens, and we watch him stare vacantly off into space as if he’d fallen into a trance of some kind. But then his hair begins to glow gold, and floats around his head like it was underwater. His eyes flicker, before shining like lanterns. The body before me dwindles in size, and at the same time its hair lengthens. The face shifts, the jawline softening and tapering gently, the nose shrinking, the lips plumping out. Breasts fill out the front of the tunic. The shoulders shrink. The waist squeezes inward. Curvaceous hips stretch out the waistband of Arcadius’s breeches as they grow into womanly proportions. Then the light fades, and the color of Arcadius’s hair returns to normal. Hair that barely reached his forehead before now hangs over the eyes, framing them. Those eyes now have thick lashes. And they look larger than before, a more vivid shade of green. Focus begins to return to them slowly.

He, no, she touches her face. Whatever spell I just witnessed seems to be done, but she still looks like she’s in a trance. I must be entranced as well, because I neither see nor hear Sigrun getting out of her seat. She just appears beside me, and claps something into my hand.

It’s a mirror. “Give it to her,” she says, with a grin and a wink.

I blink, nod, take a step toward Arcadius and offer her the mirror. She takes it from me, holds it up to her face, moves it around while turning to examine it from different angles. Her eyes are wide with wonder. Mine must be as well, because Sigrun lets out a light cackle when she looks at me.

Arcadius’s eyebrows arch inward, her lips parted slightly. She freezes for a moment, not even breathing. Then streams of tears pour from her eyes.

“It’s over. I-I’m fixed,” she says.

A sob escapes her small frame. She attempts to stifle the next few, but fails. They begin to flow out of her as she sinks to her knees and hugs herself, looking at the mirror still. It’s not a pretty or dignified cry. It’s the kind of heart-wrenching wail that only accompanies true suffering. Her body trembles as her eyes become red and puffy.

I reach out for her, but Sigrun puts her hand on my shoulder to hold me back. I give her a wounded look, but she shakes her head and smiles.

“Give her a moment,” she whispers.

Easier said than done. This is the second time this evening Arcadius has wept openly in front of me, and it isn’t getting any easier to bear. In fact I think it’s getting worse, now that I know how good it feels to have him in my arms. Her, I mean, not him. She’s a girl now.

No, she’s been a girl all along. All of a sudden I have some clarity. I understand why she’s been so secretive, so fascinated with magic. I haven’t been serving a Prince these last five years, I’ve been serving a Princess in hiding. The realization rises up in me, and along with it comes a painful upwelling of compassion.

Arcadius's sobs are slow to finish. When they do, she stands up on weak legs.

"Sorry, you had to see that. It was..." she has to stop as she sniffles and swallows. "It was more than I expected."

I feel Sigrun’s hand release my shoulder. It’s all the signal I need to sweep Arcadius into a crushing embrace. She melts in against me, and when her tears come again, mine join them.