Hilda sat among the stalagmites, sagging, wishing to be a worm. She felt she had taken a deep breath years ago and had held it for her whole life whereas the worm, living in the innards of this mountain, had breathed freely every single day and had breathed with all its body and she envied it.

Yes, but the worm, she reproached herself, did not breathe anymore. Its lymph and ichor stained her boots and sword. And the creature had bore nothing in its whole life, and had writhed here in this darkness all alone; only its death had any meaning. It was so.

The lymph pooled at her feet. It ran like rainwater gathered in a heavy hoof-print. The shape reminded her of the Prince. But these days she saw him in the clouds, in the knots of trees, in the campfire, even in her dreams. She saw his golden locks hovering above his eyes--the eyes of a bird, or some other creature of the air--and she felt proud, knowing, or at least guessing, at his affection for her. It buoyed her, even as she knew how impossible it all was.

She jumped to her feet, sheathed her sword, and drew her knife. Returning to the dead worm and plucked out its eight blind eyes, and stuffed them into a sack. They were as heavy as pearls, and colored rich amber like honey--the wedding gift of her people--and she reproached herself again. So, its love is it? she mocked herself and spat on the worms body.

In the cavernous hollows she seemed like the tiny flame of a match. She had discarded all pretenses of beauty, but in that harsh contrast of light and shadow, her skin shone like gold. She wore a silver headband and silver hung in heavy loops from her earlobes. Her cheeks were soft and smooth as molten lead and her neck was as powerful as a bulls.

Her horse awaited her at the mouth of the cave and whinnied as her head rose, step by step, from the darkness. The sack of eyes swung in a tight arc from her girdle and the bare parts of her thighs were enveloped in a sheen of sweat mixed with blood and slime. The horse snorted and flared its nostrils at her approach, disdainful of her scent, but she soon coaxed him with secret promises of apples and strawberries. The sack, she strung to his saddle and then mounted him and rode hard down the path. You will not see him, she thought, and you will give it to the courtier and you will go away without being tempted. When her heart beat heavily against her ears, like a funeral bell, she thought, now you old fool, you'll forget him in a moon. And tears streamed down her face as she rode. Yes, it was so, she told herself, it was so.

The Prince had not been the first. Before him there was Fethrsyn, the vagabond; she knew his feelings straightaway because, like all else about him, they had been blunt as a sow's nose. She remembered a bald body, sleek, polished everywhere like a marble. It was impossible not to admire his strength, but he was also ugly. His eyes were set too far apart and too far back in his head, his cheeks hollowed out; he looked like a ghoul. Hilda smiled. The Prince in contrast, was beautiful. His body was pale and delicate and hard like porcelain. When he had asked her to slay the worm and fetch its eyes, she had been thankful, because in that moment she would have agreed to anything, however impossible or terrible. The thought of him possessing her so completely, terrified her, disgusted her, and secretly thrilled her.

Her cloak brushed against her cheek, and she felt the weight of its furs again. The cloak had belonged to her father and for a long time had been too large to use as anything other than bedding. If Hilda's father were alive to see her wearing it now, he would have spat at her feet and cursed her name three times--and also swelled with pride. He would've advised her to give in and to stay with the Prince, and to abandon her responsibilities--which was precisely how she knew that she could not.

The Prince's castle was carved onto a cliff-face overlooking the ocean. Eagles nested in its crags, and glided effortlessly onto plumes of hot air. A narrow path snaked its way up, higher and higher, until the oppressive sound of the sea grew distant and sad, like the sound from an old conch shell.

At the gates, Hilda called for the Prince's courtier, a greybeard with bushy white eyebrows and pinprick eyes that were as warm as two rays of light. He wore a blue tunic with a darker blue sash and a white cloak with a golden brooch. It was clothing for a younger man, but the courtier wore it with complete confidence.

"You've saved us," he said, peeking in the sack which Hilda had handed him from the horse. "I shall prepare the medicine at once and the boy will live."

"So then, farewell," said Hilda. She dared not even look at the ramparts, afraid that she might glimpse the Prince's likeness or the Prince himself among the faces of the guards. She went to pull on the horse's reins, but the courtier grabbed them first.

"But your reward?" he asked.

"Will you bring it to me?" Hilda noticed her voice was very small and cleared her throat. "Will you bring it to me?" she said again.

The courtier shook his head. "Impossible," he said. "For the Prince himself wishes to give it to you, and to thank you for all you've done." Hilda's stomach fell; the reins bit into her palms.

"That's not necessary," she said quickly, ignoring how fast her heart had begun to beat. "It was my duty, and I am merely glad I could be of service."

"The Prince will be upset," admonished the courtier. "He was looking forward to your return and has not slept since yesterday, since your departure." He chuckled, patting the horse's flank. "I think he was more worried for your sake than for his own brother's."

Forget the reward, thought Hilda, leave this instant. But her heart had swelled within her at the courtier's words and when she opened her mouth she said, "So then, I guess I must see him." The courtier had already begin to guide the horse toward the gate. On the other side he handed her off to a servant and a stablehand. One took her to bathe, the other grabbed her horse. With every step she became conscious of a