Britannia – 427 A.D.

“Race me to the top of the Tor, Balen.” Eartha issued the challenge to her twin brother before gathering the multiple layers of skirts and petticoats she wore, lifting them as high as she could. Beside her, her friend Galiene gasped at the scandalous display of her ankles—now in plain view of all the young men in their company.

Eartha ignored her girlish horror, instead concentrating on her brother. He pretended not to hear her because he didn’t want to be embarrassed in front of his peers. He knew Eartha was faster than him. However, the other sons of the tribesmen watched with a curious eye, and her twin couldn’t ignore the dare forever.

“Afraid of losing to your sister again?”

The jibe came from a slovenly boy named Arn. At just over twelve years, he was the oldest and by far the largest of the adolescents, though he had yet to learn the basics of cleanliness. The stench of a week’s worth of filth clung to him, matting his tawny hair. Eartha crinkled her nose in distaste whenever he approached. Of all the silly boys at the tribe meeting, he was the most arrogant and pompous. She decided to teach him a lesson.

“I shall race allof you to the top of the hill,” she announced. “No man-child can outrun me, girl or no. Not even you, Arn.”

“The great stag himself is not as swift as I,” Arn retorted, accepting her challenge by thrusting a rock in her direction. “We shall see who reaches the top of the Tor first!”

Soon Eartha found herself lined up beside seven or eight gangly young men while Galiene watched with wide, innocent eyes. By the set of their jaws, some of them seemed to be taking what was meant to be good fun too seriously. Perhaps it was not a good idea to set the future tribe leaders against each other in open competition. They would no doubt be vying for the title of High King in a few short years. Already there was animosity among them—a trait most inherited from their fathers. However, it was too late to back down. Eartha had a point to prove. No one had ever beaten her in a foot race. She was not about to let a pack of man-cubs do so that day! Stretching her long legs, she waited for Galiene to give the designated signal to begin. When her yellow ribbon fell to the ground, the whole lot of them sprinted up the steep hill.

“You are all mad!” Galiene called out behind them. “You shall fall and break your necks. Or worse yet, the faeries will carry you away!”

Eartha only heard her friend’s protests because her voice carried on the wind, but her disapproval did not slow her down. She left most of the boys in the dust, but Arn and her twin were close on her heels, but there was no way they would get the advantage. Eartha leapt over moss-covered rocks, following the path of stones laid by their ancestors. Some believed it was possible to wander into the world of the fae and be lost forever in the mists on the winding path of the Tor. Eartha did not believe such nonsense, but judging by the nervous faces of her companions, many of them did.

It was another reason why Eartha had no trouble beating them to the top of the hill. She was barely winded and even had time to enjoy the view before the others caught up. Though covered in a light mist, a patchwork of green fields stretched out for miles. The animals grazing hay and grain far below appeared so small they resembled insects instead of livestock. It was her country—her Britannia, and how Eartha loved every acre of rich farmland, lush forests, and wet marshlands. Just breathing in the delicious scent of the air at the top of the hill gave her a giddy, heady feeling. She treasured the touch of the gentle breeze blowing her mane of chestnut curls and the breath of life the wind carried. She did not mind if she looked like a wild child in comparison to Galiene, who always kept her honey-colored tresses swept back in a proper braid.

“You…you run like a hare being chased by a fox,” Balen complained as he struggled to catch his breath.

“And you run like a woman heavy with child!”

Eartha relinquished the glorious view to give her brother a smug look, but still lent him her hand as he struggled up the last few steps of the steep incline. Her twin gave her a good-natured smile, and green eyes mirrors of her own twinkled with amusement. Eartha and Balen were more than siblings and playmates. They were the closest of comrades and shared everything. He never treated her like a weak damsel, and never blinked an eye when the other boys ridiculed him for allowing his sister to tag along when they practiced their swordplay and archery. Though she teased him, Eartha was secretly glad Balen was the second to reach the top of the Tor. None of the other tribesmen’s children could stand up to their united front, and the boys couldn’t hassle Balen when a female bested them all.

Several minutes passed before the other youths scrabbled their way to the end of the trail. A red-haired boy whose mother was a gift from the tribes of Gaul looked as if he would be the third to reach the top, but just before the lad took the final steps, Arn came up behind him, shoving him roughly to the ground. Arn sneered and stepped over the fallen boy.

“Barbarian scum,” he muttered before racing to the edge of the hill where he proclaimed his victory with an ear-piercing war cry.

Again, Eartha thought about how much she disliked him. She was tempted to make Arn taste the good, clean soil of the Tor by shoving his face into the dirt, but she controlled herself. Her father promised to whip her if she started any trouble with the other children. Besides, the red-headed lad already brushed himself off and joined his friends, so Eartha contented herself with lying on her back with Balen and searching for shapes in the scattering of white clouds above them. The pair chatted as they waited for the stragglers, including poor Galiene, to catch up with the rest of the group.

One by one, the children of the tribe leaders gathered atop the Tor. Most of them did not understand politics yet, but far below, their parents were in peace talks with the priestesses of the Isle of Avalon. It had become a custom for the council of elders to meet at the sacred spot every spring. For centuries, the tribes fought amongst themselves, leading to an easy takeover when Rome invaded. Eventually, the common threat united them and they overthrew the Romans. Her grandmother told Eartha stories of those final battles, when the last of the Roman soldiers were driven from the land, but no sooner had they left than a new threat arrived. The Anglo-Saxons were inching their way to the shores of Britannia, and unless the order among the tribes held and they presented a united front, they had no hope of defeating this new menace.

A grudging peace was formed under the rule of the High King, but already there were whispers of an uprising. The king sired only one child—a girl—and though she was scarcely eleven years old, already the noblemen fought over who she would marry. It made Eartha furious that Galiene had no control over her own future. Yet as her friend lumbered up the Tor—the last to arrive—the would-be men who would someday vie for her hand rolled their eyes at her breathless, flustered appearance. Only Balen’s eyes shone with adoration when the fair-haired maiden was in his company. As usual, he fell mute when she sat beside them in the lush green grass. He gawked at her, his mouth hanging open, before making an awkward dash to join the other youths skipping rocks from the hill.

“So, tell me, Eartha, who was the victor of this game? Or should I guess?” Galiene cast a reproachful glance in her direction. “I have no idea how you manage to run so swiftly in your skirts. It’s scandalous the way you behave as though you were one of the village boys.”

Eartha giggled. “Luckily for me, I will never bear your burden, Galiene. I will never be queen, and I care nothing for being a lady. I shall run when and where I like.”

“I do envy your freedom.” Galiene sighed. Her lapis-blue eyes fell upon Balen, and in their depths Eartha saw the same flicker of affection that he wore so openly. “I dread the day my father will choose my betrothed.”

“Are you not the daughter of a king?” Eartha challenged. “Marry whomever you will. Or better still, marry no man and rule on your own. Look at the priestesses of Avalon. No man commands them! It should be no different for any woman.”

Galiene shook her head, her sad expression making her seem much older than her eleven years. Childhood was a gift they clung to, but soon their carefree days would come to an end. For some, like Galiene, adulthood was arriving far too swiftly.

“The land is my first love, and I will marry whom I must to ensure peace between our tribes,” Galiene confided. “But that is all many years away. For now, let us think of happier tidings. Eartha, as the winner of the race, you are entitled to take my ribbon as a token of your victory.”

Eartha snorted as Galiene held out the silken thread. “And what, pray tell, do you expect me to do with that? I have ribbons enough of my own I do not care to touch. Give it to Balen. He was the second to reach the top of the Tor. Balen,” she focused her attention on her brother’s figure in the distance, “get your arse over here|!”

“My, must you even swear like a soldier?” Galiene fretted. “It’s simply appalling! You could at least pretend to be gentile!”

Eartha rolled her eyes as they waited for her brother to jog to their side. His cheeks were scarlet, and he had trouble looking Galiene in the eyes. Eartha noticed his hands were filled with a spray of wildflowers he gathered.

“For my beloved sister.” He divided the flowers and handed half to Eartha. The second bundle he held out to an equally red-faced Galiene. “And for my future queen.”

“And for you, Balen, gallant champion of the race.” Galiene lifted the yellow ribbon, and it danced in the breeze. “A token of my great esteem.”

Though the race and the reward were their childish mimic of the very real war games going on below the Tor, Balen clutched the prize to his chest as if it was made of spun gold. Eartha’s heart gave a sympathetic tug. Balen and Galiene were the two people she held dearest. It seemed unfair the harsh realities of life would destroy a union born from love. Yet Eartha was no fool. She and Balen were children of one of the lower tribesmen. They had no castle—only a cottage nestled upon some meager farmland. They were barely nobility at all, and though their father was a trusted advisor to the king, their low social standing made Balen the last possible choice among Galiene’s many suitors. Of course, that didn’t stop their fingers from entwining as they exchanged their gifts. Eartha sighed as she watched their blossoming courtship, wishing things could be different.

* * *

Britannia – 433 A.D.

“Eartha! Eartha!”

Her ears pricked at the sound of her name being carried on the wind. When the cry was repeated with even more urgency, the basket of medicinal herbs she was gathering fell to the ground, forgotten. Balen had ridden off several weeks earlier with the other young warriors in the service of the High King, prepared to face the Anglo-Saxon invaders. Since then, Eartha spent every waking moment filled with dread and scarcely slept a wink. Had her worst fears been realized? Were they coming to tell her that her brother was dead?

Eartha lifted her skirts, dashing toward the fields, terrified of what she would find waiting there. She almost fell to her knees to praise the gods for his safe return when she saw it was Balen himself. Their gazes met across the cornfields, and it took a moment to still her hammering heart. Balen dismounted his steed before the animal came to a complete halt when she greeted him. Instead of waiting for him to get his bearings, Eartha sprang forward, tackling her brother in a frenzied embrace. He laughed as they toppled to the ground, rolling in the grass as though they were mere children again.

“You gave me quite the fright,” Eartha scolded as she rumpled his short, curly hair. “Mother and I have been worried sick since you went off on this half-cocked mission to win the king’s favor. It would have served you right if you were run through like the swine you are!”

Instantly, his mirth vanished. He was a serious soldier, who appeared much older than his seventeen years. “You mustn’t jest about the war, Eartha. The battles we fought were no game. Many good men died, and I came close to a death blow myself on more than one occasion.”

“Well, you are home now,” Eartha cheered. “You have served your time. You can put this foolish business behind you and tend the fields like the farmer you were meant to be.”

Balen shook his head. “It is not so simple. Eartha…the High King…he-he is dead!”

“No!” Eartha gasped and covered her mouth. “Oh, my poor, dear Galiene! She must be so bereaved. But-but how did this happen?”

“In battle,” Balen revealed. He stood from the ground, wiping dirt from his knees. “We held those damned Saxons at bay and won the day, but the king succumbed to his injuries not long after we returned from the field.”

Eartha narrowed her eyes at her brother, ignoring the gentlemanly arm he offered to help her up from the grass. Was that a twinkle in his emerald eyes? “Is it only my imagination, dear brother, or do you seem more pleased with this news than any loyal subject ought to be?”

“Oh, Eartha, you do not understand. Of course, I grieve for the loss of our king. He was a great leader and a good man. My love and admiration for the High King does not change the fact that he is dead, and Galiene is yet unwed!”

Eartha huffed. “Even less reason for joy! There will surely be war among the tribes if Galiene does not choose quickly from the high-ranked nobles. You have to see reason, Balen. You have no chance with her now that the king is dead!”

“No!” Balen shook his head. “You are wrong, Eartha. My love has devised a plan. She has given me a chance to win her hand and the approval of the people.”

Eartha was incredulous. “The tribe leaders would never accept such a low-ranked noble as their king.”

“They will if I am victorious in the stag hunt.”

Eartha released an involuntary gasp, her hand fluttering to her heart. It was an uncharacteristically feminine reaction on her part, but this was news she never anticipated. The stag hunt was an ancient rite, invoked in times of great necessity when the country needed a protector. The warrior who took down the mighty stag—the king of the forest, embodiment of the horned god—would prove himself the chosen benefactor of the land. That man would take his rightful place as the leader of the tribes. After the battle, he would consummate his passage by taking as his own a virgin priestess or the unmarried queen, both of whom were believed to be the personification of the goddess. Eartha was proud of her old friend’s foresight in invoking the ancient rite, yet she wondered if the sheltered princess-turned-regent truly understood the danger involved in the hunt.

“Galiene is very wise,” Eartha muttered. “Yet I fear for you, Balen. You will not only be battling the stag. There are many men who would sooner kill you than let you steal the throne out from under them.”

Eartha gave her twin a serious once-over. At seventeen, he still had only a light sprinkling of a beard, and his torso wasn’t much thicker than hers. Of course, he was quick, and no one was his match with a sword, but in the hunt, he would be armed with only a bone dagger and his wit.

Balen could read the worry in her eyes, and did his best to console her fears. “Eartha, you know I must do this.” He pleaded for her understanding. Despite her uncharitable thoughts, she allowed her brother to clasp her hand. “I love Galiene. I cannot walk away from her.”

Eartha huffed and jerked her hand free. “I pray you will be able to walk at all when this foolishness is done.”

* * *

Eartha was not alone in her aggravation in the weeks that followed. Her parents had no time for Balen’s whimsies, and Eartha found herself covering for him in the field while he spent his time training. His love-lust kept him from both sleeping and eating properly, and Eartha worried what her lovelorn brother would do if he failed to emerge victorious from the hunt. How would he fare against the other men when all the fool could think of were his silly romantic fancies? He didn’t take the danger seriously. Even before the contest began, there was something sinister afoot. Already more than one of the tribesmen vying for the hand of the queen died under mysterious circumstances. Others simply vanished without a trace. Eartha wasn’t the only one who noticed the odd accidents and disappearances. Accusations were flying. The tribe leaders were furious, and the country was on the brink of war.

Shaking her head at her dark thoughts, Eartha lifted her bow and arrow. A brown ball of fuzz stepped unbeknownst into her line of vision. Its little nose twittered up and down, as though it was sniffing the early-blooming flowers nearby. Her arm muscles were pulled as taut as the string as she took aim. There was a soft whoosh when she released her arrow. The shaft soared through the air and struck its mark perfectly, impaling the rabbit through the heart. The little fellow never saw it coming.

Eartha felt a brief moment of regret for taking the animal’s life, but it would make a good meal. Of course, she would have to give Balen credit for the kill to appease their father. He didn’t like his daughter hunting like one of the men any more than he liked his son mooning over an unattainable bride.

Lifting the carcass by its ears, Eartha prepared to skin the animal when the clash of metal against metal made her raise her head to listen more closely. At first, she was unconcerned. Balen was pestering some of the farmhands to assist him in his daily swordplay, so the sound was not uncommon on their land. But when she heard angry voices mingled with the dueling weapons, she feared her dark premonitions of doom were about to be realized. Pulling her cloak over her long hair, Eartha ran toward the sound. She arrived just in time to see two men battling along the edge of the forest where she was hunting.

“You have no right to vie against me for the crown,” a man’s voice declared. “I will kill you before I let you enter the stag hunt!”

Still clutching her dead rabbit by the ears, Eartha ducked behind one of the trees so she would remain unseen. It appeared her brother was holding his own against a bulky stranger, and she did not wish to wound his pride by interfering when it was unnecessary. Eartha watched them battle, prepared to intercede when and if she must. So far Balen matched the intruder’s thrusts blow for blow while a forgotten horse bucked and whinnied behind them. Animal furs covered the man’s tunic to disguise the family crest he bore, but it did not take much imagination to guess his identity. Something in his angry voice and the mane of greasy blond hair was familiar. Eartha thought back to the day on the Tor when Arn cheated and pushed his way to the top of the hill. Though she had not seen him since he reached adulthood, little had changed with her brother’s rival. It made sense that he was the one picking off the challengers before the stag hunt had even begun.

“Arn, you damned scoundrel!” Balen shouted, confirming her suspicions. “Are you too much of a coward to face me in fair combat? Instead, you sneak up on me like a thief in the night and strike me from behind! Do you truly think yourself worthy of Galiene?”

Arn threw his head back and guffawed as he swung his long sword, missing his target by only an inch. “That shrew means nothing to me. It’s the crown I covet, and no lovesick worm a step above a commoner will stand in my way! The stag’s crown and all of Britannia will be mine!”

“The stag will never surrender to you!” Balen challenged.

“Fools and your superstitions!” Arn scoffed. “There are no gods! And no man has the strength or the will to defeat me in battle!”

It seemed as though his words would be proven true at that very moment. Eartha watched in stunned silence as Balen succumbed to exhaustion, stumbling backward. He raised his sword to block the attack, but his legs gave out under his weight and he collapsed to the ground, clutching his side.

Instantly alert, Eartha dropped her dead rabbit and stepped from her hiding place in the underbrush, all thoughts of dinner forgotten. Arn loomed above her brother, the point of his blade inches from Balen’s chest. Behind them, the steed gave another nervous whinny.

“And now you shall die,” Arn promised in a harsh whisper.

“I think not.” Eartha stepped into the open with her bow at the ready. Within seconds, her arrow was strung, the deadly point aimed at Balen’s attacker. “Kill my brother, and you die next.”

Arn stopped mid-thrust, but didn’t lower his sword. He turned to glare at Eartha and her weapon. If he felt any fear, he covered it well with his cocky smirk. “Still need your sister to fight your battles, do you, Balen?”

“I may be his sister and a woman, but know this, Arn—just as no boy ever bested me in a foot race, no man is my equal with a bow. I have the sharpest eye and the quickest hand. I have never missed my mark. If I were you, I would step away from Balen and leave our land before you find yourself with an arrow through your heart.”

Arn weighed her threat, debating whether to call her bluff. Perhaps it was because he saw the slight tremble of the bowstring. It was true Eartha never killed a man, but the tip of his blade was dangerously close to a heart she valued more than her own. She was not afraid to strike if it meant saving Balen’s life. Arn seemed to read that determination in her expression. He lowered his sword, climbed onto his still neighing horse, and spat on the ground by Balen’s feet.

“This weakling is no challenge anyway. The stag’s life will be mine and with it, the crown of Britannia.”

With that declaration, Arn grabbed his reigns and galloped into the security of the forest. Under the cover of the trees, Eartha could not be as certain of her aim, but she held her stance for several long minutes before lowering her tired arm. Only when the sound of galloping hooves faded into the distance and she was certain Arn was long gone did she finally drop her weapon and run to Balen’s side. Her brother struggled to his feet, but he seemed to be having more trouble than he ought to.

“That bastard will not…he will not have my Galiene,” Balen muttered, breathless. “He will…he will not steal her throne!”

It was only then that Eartha noticed the long, jagged gash across his side. The dark brown tunic had hidden the blood, but her fingers were quickly stained red. Eartha realized she was foolish to wait as long as she had to assist her brother. He must have been wounded before she arrived. Eartha barely managed to catch Balen around the waist before the last of the color drained from his face and her twin collapsed, unconscious, into her arms.

* * *

“Just let me die!” Balen complained as Eartha dressed his wounds with a poultice. “What does it matter? I will never be able to hunt the stag. The gods have spoken! I am not worthy of the land or of my sweet Galiene.”

“If you keep up this sniveling, I shall be apt to agree with them.”

Eartha huffed, pressing the medicine against his side a little harder than she intended, making him flinch. She hoped she never fell in love if it meant she would turn into a blubbering weakling. It was all a lot of folly in her mind.

“You should be grateful to be alive,” she told her brother, annoyed. “You were ranting with fever for days, and there were times I was certain I would lose you.”

“Don’t you see your efforts were in vain? The race is tomorrow, and I am weak as a newborn calf. There is no chance for victory.” He sighed deeply, looking toward Eartha with beseeching green eyes, but accepted the mug of hot tea she offered him, sipping it gingerly. “Tell me, what is the point of living without my Galiene by my side?”

Eartha mumbled under her breath as her brother continued to wail, ungrateful brat that he was. She spent the better part of a fortnight nursing his wound on top of taking on all his responsibilities on their farmland. It cost her many sleepless nights, but she managed to keep Balen’s wound a secret from the world, including their parents since she hid him in the sheepherder’s hut. Only Arn had any inkling of his injuries, and it was unlikely he would reveal his unsportsmanlike behavior. The tyrant only managed to land the blow when her brother’s back was turned. In a fair fight, Balen would never have been bested by that clumsy oaf.

“Just let me die…let me die…”

His words became no more than whispers as the herbs in the tea did their job. Before long, he fell into a fitful sleep, still tossing and calling out to Galiene even in his dreams. But it was Eartha who clutched his hand and lovingly smoothed the hair from his eyes until at last he settled into a sounder slumber.

“I will not let you die, Balen,” she whispered, though he could no longer hear her. “Nor will I allow you to lose that which you hold most dear.”

Eartha stood from the straw bed and stared into the fire. Suddenly her cheeks were blazing, but it had little to do with the warmth of the flames. There was a reason Eartha kept her brother’s injuries a secret. If anyone knew Balen was wounded, he would be forced to forfeit his place in the stag hunt, but that could not happen. Eartha was not going to let Arn win. For her brother, for her dear friend Galiene, but most of all, for the country she loved, Eartha devised a plan.

“Hold on to your hope, dear brother. All is not yet lost.”

* * *

“This is madness!” Balen cried from his straw bed. He tried to pull himself up, but the pain from his wound quelled his efforts and he fell back against his pillow. “Eartha, you shall be discovered! Worse yet, you will be killed! You will be discovered andthen killed, for surely such deceit is treason!”

“Nonsense,” Eartha argued as she slipped into her brother’s finest tunic. “Do you forget so easily who bested all the boys in the summer games?”

Balen shook his head. “This is not a child’s game, Eartha! You will not be playing with wooden swords or racing to the top of the Tor. The boys you remember have been hardened by battle and greed! They will stop at nothing to win the hunt.”

“I can still whip your tail,” Eartha teased her twin. “What makes you think I fear any of those other weaklings?”

Balen continued to rage about the faults of her plan, but Eartha ignored him and continued with her preparations. She already wrapped her chest to hide her breasts, and the added material made her torso seem broader and more masculine. Over the tunic she added an animal pelt to help fight the chill and dampness of early spring, but also to make her appear larger. The coating of war paint on her face hid the fact there was no stubble on her cheeks. It was the final step that was the hardest part of the masquerade.

Eartha ran her fingers along her thick brown tresses. Her hair flowed in a soft blanket all the way down to the small of her back. In her youth, it was a tangled and unruly mess that made her look like a wild spirit of the woods. Yet as she blossomed into womanhood, her curls became her greatest beauty and the only part of her femininity she did not openly shun. But it was too thick to hide beneath a cloak, and even if she bundled it on top of her head, it was sure to give her away. There was only one thing she could do to avoid detection, but her hands trembled too much to accomplish the task on her own.

“Take out your dagger,” Eartha ordered.

Balen stopped raving long enough to give her a dubious stare. “For what reason?”

Eartha took a deep breath and sat on the edge of his bed. She tilted her neck, gathered her hair in her fist, and pulled it taut. “Cut it off.”

“What? Eartha, no!”

“Do it now, you damn fool,” she demanded, trying to cover the quiver in her voice. “How will I ever pass myself off as you with all these ridiculous curls? It’s nothing but a lot of unnecessary work anyway. It takes me hours to work out the tangles in the morning. I shall not miss that trial.”

Balen knew her well enough to know it was a farce, but he also knew better than to argue with his twin when her mind was set. Eartha was almost certain they both shut their eyes as locks of russet curls fell into piles at their feet. Refusing to acknowledge it, Eartha stood and faced her brother as soon as he sheathed his dagger.

“What do you think?” she asked.

Balen’s mouth fell open. “By the gods, it’s as if I were looking in a mirror.”

Eartha nodded in approval, hoping those same gods were on her side when the hunt began.

* * *

Eartha stood in line with six men, all that was left of what was originally fifteen competitors. Each of the tribes sent their strongest warriors to vie for a chance at the throne. As she studied each combatant in turn, Eartha realized Balen was right. These were not the boys she remembered playing with on the Tor. They were brawny, with full-grown beards and thick, muscled arms. Her brother seemed a scrawny adolescent in comparison to these war-hardened soldiers. Even with his years of training, Balen would have a difficult battle on his hands. Eartha wondered how her brother dared to enter the challenge. Of course, those thoughts made her realize it was even more foolhardy for her to take his place, but it was too late to turn back. Thankfully, her disguise worked. Not even her parents, who were among the throngs of curious onlookers, guessed it was their daughter and not their son waiting to challenge the great king of the forest.

Of course, Eartha always knew that fooling the crowd would not be her greatest challenge. Most of them barely spared a glance at the poor farmer’s son. However, the virgin priestesses of Avalon were already passing among them, offering their blessings for a safe return. They would not be so easily tricked. One of the women took a step closer to Eartha, and her heart began to hammer. She kept her eyes diverted as the priestess handed her one of the sacred daggers—a handcrafted weapon carved from the very bones of the King Stags brought down in centuries past. The priestess paid little heed to most of the warriors, but paused when she reached Eartha. She kept her eyes downcast as custom decreed, but saw the blue robes and sandaled feet pause in front of her. She trembled when the priestess reached out a slender hand, tilting her chin up, forcing Eartha to meet her stern but gentle scrutiny. Her breath caught at the power seeping through those electric-blue eyes. She was certain she had been discovered. The maidens of Avalon were said to possess strong magic—the type that allowed them to look into the very souls of men…and women. At the moment, as their gazes locked, it seemed as if the priestess possessed that knowledge and more.

Eartha was terrified. She almost expected to be struck down for her impudence. However, the priestess didn’t speak or curse her for her deception. White veils covered most of her features, but beneath the light material, Eartha was certain she caught the hint of a smile. She even appeared to nod in approval before moving down the line to the next warrior.

Then it was Galiene’s turn to wish the warriors luck. She was supposed to remain unbiased, to rely on the gods to deliver her champion and her husband, but when she passed Eartha, she secretly pressed a small token into her hand. Eartha could feel the young queen’s desperation radiating from her in that simple touch. Had Galiene not been so overwrought, she may have noticed the hands she touched were slender and smooth, not hard and calloused like Balen's. Only when Galiene moved on did Eartha dare to look at the gift meant for her brother. It made her eyes tear to see the yellow ribbon, identical to the one the young queen gifted Balen the day of their race on the Tor. Eartha tied the token around her belt, finding it strengthened her resolve. She knew she was doing the right thing for everyone she loved.

Despite her personal fears, Galiene retained her regal composure when she stepped forward to address the people. Both nobility and commoners gathered on the outskirts of the woods where they would frolic as they awaited the return of the victor and celebrated the festival of Beltane. It was a day to honor the fertility of the land, which made it the perfect time for the stag hunt, when a suitor would be chosen to continue the fertility of the royal line. Bonfires burned and lovers leapt across the flames hand in hand. Children danced around maypoles. Bards strummed their lutes while drummers tapped along to the gentle rhythm. Even the dark-skinned lake people, who were believed to be direct descendants of the fae, made an appearance, silently observing the fanfare from the shadows of the woods. The stag hunt was a tradition even the indigenous people acknowledged with honor. Galiene stood before this diverse group of warriors, farmers, nobles, and natives without so much as a quiver to her voice.

“Each of these brave warriors shall venture into the forest, but only one will return victorious,” Galiene began. “The stag is the physical embodiment of the god, and he will not succumb to any man unless he is worthy of the title of king. Whoever returns wearing the antlers of the great stag shall hence forth be my champion and the defender of all Britannia. The victor shall also be my lord and husband. Today, the land shall feast on the blood of the king so that it might grow stronger. This is a sacrifice the god has made for time immortal. Yet, be warned,” Galiene turned a hard stare on each of the men, “the stag will not fall to just any warrior. If you are not worthy, it may well be your blood that feeds the earth.”

Her voice trembled almost as much as Eartha’s hands as she finished her speech. Again, Eartha wondered what she had gotten herself into. Was she mad to challenge a god when she was a mere woman? Around her, many of the male warriors took the queen’s words to heart as well, but it was too late to bow out gracefully. To step back now would be a disgrace to their tribes. So, they all stood ready, waiting for the signal from the queen.

“Let the hunt begin!” Galiene proclaimed.

In eerie synchronization, the chosen warriors leapt from their places in the line, running toward the thick underbrush of the waiting forest. Eartha was foremost among them. She heard the crunch of leaves under her feet even over the thunderous cheers of the crowd they left behind. Her heart seemed to pound along with the drums thumping in the distance, but soon the voices and the music faded. Eartha and the other hunters were lost in the maze of trees surrounding them. Realizing she was alone, she came to a sudden halt. Tramping through the woods would startle the wildlife of the forest, so she tiptoed through the undergrowth until she came upon a small open clearing surrounded by a circle of ancient oak trees. There, Eartha slunk down behind a thick patch of bushes and waited for her prey.

Eartha was well practiced in the hunt. She learned to be still and silent; had mastered patience. It was one of the things solidifying her bond with the land. She spent many hours under the canopy of the trees, blanketed by the shade of their leaves. Eartha loved the scent of the soil wafting to her nostrils when she rested her head in her hands. She did not mind the dampness from the spring rains. It was like being cradled in the womb of the earth, a feeling she reveled in. Eartha became one with the land, until she heard each birdsong and insect hum—until her heartbeat thrummed in rhythm with nature itself.

Time seemed to stand still as she crouched in mud and leaves. The woods were ripe with the new life of spring, that bounty the only lure she needed. Before long, a young buck snuck into the quiet clearing to nibble on the newly sprouted grass. Eartha lifted her bone dagger, prepared to pounce, but stopped herself before she made an impulsive error. The deer was no more than an adolescent, with perhaps four jagged points atop his small rack. This was no king. He was hardly a prince.

The animal’s youth did not stop another hunter lurking nearby from initiating his attack. He saw the young stag, slipped from his hiding spot, and made a mad dash across the clearing inches from Eartha. The deer’s ears flicked once and its brown eyes widened before it leapt into the cover of the deep woods. Eartha watched her impulsive competitor give chase and snickered. Even if the fool slayed the young animal, it would earn him no rewards. Only the warrior who captured the kingstag would be named the champion of the hunt.

Eartha had to bide her time. Eventually the right animal would appear. She waited, secure in her spot in the underbrush, watching the lush young grass that would be an enticing meal to any hungry buck. She was silent but determined, ignoring the men thundering past her, some in pursuit of their animal prey while others took advantage of the hunt to end old feuds once and for all. Only Eartha observed with a calm patience few men could uphold or even comprehend. The sun was beginning to set on the horizon, turning the sky a dazzling combination of red, orange, and purple, when she was finally rewarded for her patience.

Eartha saw the buck step into the clearing, and had to hold back a gasp. He was glorious. His torso was thick with rippling muscles and his pelt a shiny brown. There was even a bushy mane around his neck. Upon his head sat a magnificent crown. Eartha was certain she counted at least fourteen points. Surely, this was the king of the forest. This splendid beast captured the essence of divinity and was the very embodiment of the god.

Eartha inched up slowly from her hiding place. Although she moved without sound, the deer lifted his majestic head. His eyes met hers without blinking. He didn’t flee or show an ounce of fear, but studied her with a curious calm. Eartha did not feel nearly as tranquil. The stag was not only beautiful but threatening. She was not fooled by the docile brown eyes. The deer was not the meek creature some imagined. The points of those antlers were as deadly as any sword. Many hunters before her were impaled for their impudence in thinking the stag was no challenge.

Eartha’s hands trembled. They were so slippery she feared she would lose her grip on her bone dagger if she attacked. Regardless, she had no choice. This was her only chance to give her brother and Galiene the happy ending they so rightfully deserved. Drawing forth all her courage, Eartha took another tentative step toward her prey.

The attack came so suddenly, she did not have a moment to react. Something heavy crashed into her back, and she fell hard. Her knee slammed against a rock and even through her leggings, blood welled. Shocked and gasping for breath, she turned to face her attacker. She was not surprised to greet the snarling face of Arn. He never fought fair, not even when they were children.

“I see you learned nothing from our last meeting, Balen,” Arn spat.

Eartha was glad the darkening sky helped maintain her disguise, but relief turned to panic when Arn lifted his bone dagger to her throat. For a moment, she was as paralyzed with fear as the young buck. Luckily, a loud snort and a shuffling hoof diverted Arn’s attention for a fraction of a second. That was the only reprieve Eartha needed to steal back the advantage. She thrust her knee against the viper’s genitalia. With a grunt, he fell to the side, and Eartha rolled free from his grasp.

Arn didn’t take as long to recover from the blow as she anticipated. He pulled himself to his feet, clutching his crotch, but ready to pounce again. Thankfully, he had a more important target. Like Eartha, Arn only had eyes for one creature. They both watched in awed silence as the king stag cocked his head in their direction. He gave them each a condescending stare before bounding into the forest.

Arn forgot about Eartha altogether as his primary target escaped. He darted after the deer, making sure to shove Eartha first for good measure. She stumbled backward, swearing under her breath when she banged her other knee on the same bloody rock. Glaring at Arn’s retreating back, she pulled herself to her feet. If she had her crossbow, the arrogant pig wouldn’t think himself so superior.

Despite her hurt pride, Eartha could not allow the king stag to escape or fall into the clutches of that vile Arn. The whole country would pay the price of her failure if a tyrant won the rack and thus the crown. Though she stood no chance against Arn in hand-to-hand combat, she fought back her fear, rose to her feet, and gave chase. Eartha followed the trail of crushed leaves and broken twigs marking the path the hunter had taken. She leapt over fallen logs, shoving low-hanging branches aside. The brambles sticking to her newly shortened hair and the thorns cutting into her skin were ignored. She even pushed past the awful stitch in her side until Arn and the stag came into view.

When she found them, she feared perhaps all was lost—that the gods had chosen Arn as their champion after all and were punishing Eartha for her deception. She stopped her mad dash and hid behind the trunk of an ancient oak, watching as the warrior locked horns with his adversary.

Arn had one powerful arm wrapped around the bulk of the deer’s torso while the other forced the deadly rack away from his chest. His well-aimed thrust revealed the clump of white fur just under the buck’s throat—fur that might soon be stained with the stag’s blood. Arn held the bone dagger in his teeth while he tried to force the animal into submission. Both man and stag fought with muscles taut and teeth bared. With Arn’s fur vest pressed against the deer’s pelt and the tangling of limbs as they struggled, it was hard to tell man from beast. However, Arn seemed to have the advantage. The stag was trapped against the trunk of a large tree and though he spit and thrashed and his powerful hooves pawed at the ground, the buck seemed unable to overpower the hunter. Arn took the knife from his mouth and lifted it toward the animal’s throat.

Eartha gasped and shut her eyes before Arn could strike the fatal blow. She couldn’t bear the thought of watching the majestic beast succumb to such a hateful scoundrel. It made her feel as though the gods themselves abandoned the land—that all was lost. She was ready to back away and accept her failure.

Then she heard Arn scream.

It wasn’t the victory cry she was anticipating. It was a shriek of pain laced with sheer terror. Eartha snapped open her eyes in time to see Arn’s innards fall to the forest floor. The very crown he coveted had become his death mantle. He was impaled and gutted by the mighty antlers of the stag. Blood bubbled from his mouth as the animal shook its head to free itself from the unwanted burden still attached to its antlers. A few mighty thrusts and Arn’s body slipped lifelessly to the ground, his eyes open but forever unseeing. His blood soaked the very earth he hoped to rule over, his life the sacrifice the land demanded for his villainy.

For a moment, the deer peered down at the body with disdain. He pawed the dirt, snorting his displeasure. Still frozen in her spot, Eartha expected him to flee into the woods now that he alleviated the threat to his life. Instead, the regal stag turned and met her gaze for the second time. The once ivory points of the king’s majestic rack were stained red with blood, a cruel reminder of his reining power. He cocked his head and studied her with an almost-human intelligence. Though he could not speak, his deep brown eyes begged a question.

What makes you think you are worthy?

It was a question Eartha could not answer. She believed her motives were pure, but what good were her righteousness and bravery now? If Arn, a man twice her size and with ten times her strength, couldn’t overpower the stag, how could a mere woman?

The deer sniffed and turned his back to her, as though acknowledging her unspoken defeat with contempt. His white tail flicked and his back legs arched as he prepared to leap to freedom. In seconds, the deer would bound into the woods and be lost forever. Or worse yet, one of the other men still lurking in the forest—most of whom were no nobler than Arn—would claim him as his trophy. Eartha could not give up. She could not walk away from the hunt. Like the great oaks surrounding her, she drew strength from the very ground on which she stood—the Mother Earth that always sustained her. As that power consumed her, Eartha underwent a metamorphosis. The trembling hand holding the bone blade steadied. With a war cry filled with animalistic fury, Eartha tucked her dagger into its sheath and sprang toward the stag.

The animal was strong. Eartha had no doubt about that when she landed on his back and felt the muscles rippling beneath her thighs. She rode astride the stag bareback as if he was a wild horse. Like any angry steed, the deer bucked its hindquarters in an attempt to throw her. When he realized his efforts were fruitless, the stag leapt about wildly, flying through the forest at a dizzying pace. When he crashed against a tree, pain shot up Eartha’s spine. She only maintained her precarious position by clinging to the gigantic antlers she used as reins. Sadly, this was no mount that could be tamed. As much as she hated the thought of ending his reign, she had to take the king stag’s life before he took hers. There could be only one champion. Those were the rules of the hunt.

Eartha struggled to maintain her balance with only one hand on the giant antlers. The other reached into her scabbard to pull the bone dagger free from its sheath. The point of the blade cut into her palm, making it wet and sticky with blood. The stinging wound did not cause her to lose her focus; a few meager drops of blood were a far smaller offering than the stag would deliver to the land.

She strained to reach her arm around the thick neck of the deer, almost as if she was locking the buck in a lover’s embrace. He maintained a constant gallop, and Eartha clenched her thighs tight against his sides to hold her balance. Her heart was pounding, her adrenaline pumping. She was filled with a passion born not from love but from the thrill of the hunt as she reached her blade around and sliced the deer’s throat clean from one end to the other. Instantly, his soft white chest turned crimson.

Even after the death blow was dealt, the king did not easily relinquish his crown. He bucked, he screamed—a terrible wail that made Eartha weep for his forthcoming demise. She clung to the stag’s thick neck as he fought back and pressed her face against his fur until her tears mingled with his blood. Eartha embraced the buck to her heart like a lover bidding a final farewell. Finally, the deer’s strong hindquarters could no longer hold his weight. The king stag fell to the forest floor with a crash that made the trees tremble with grief.

Only after the stag collapsed to the ground did Eartha climb down from his back. She stood in front of the buck, no longer afraid. A deep sadness filled her heart. Eartha stroked his mane; surprised at how soft his coat was beneath her trembling fingers. She gazed into those large, doe-brown eyes as he took his final shallow breaths. Through the shadows of approaching death, she glimpsed a gentle, surrendering peace. Again, those wise eyes seemed to speak to her—giving her the honor of hearing his last words.

The goddess has chosen you as her champion. The god will feed the land. His blood is given so his people may flourish.

“Thank you for your offering,” Eartha whispered in reply.

With one more strained breath, the majestic beast bowed his crown and died in Eartha’s arms. She lowered her head in homage, weeping for his loss. Even though the god would be reborn with the churning of the wheel, she still grieved for him. He made the ultimate sacrifice. Resting her cheek against his beautiful pelt, she kissed the snout of the king. After bestowing upon him the reverence he deserved, she prepared for the next step in the ritual. Swallowing back the bile rising in her throat at the thought of defiling so magnificent a creature, Eartha lifted her bone dagger. She had to adorn herself with the crown of antlers and the robe of fur before she returned to the people to collect her prize.

* * *

Within the village walls Eartha heard the boisterous sounds of a celebration as the people waited for their new champion to emerge. Beltane was a time of goodwill and love-making. Many of the men and women partook of too much wine and ale while couples sat entwined in each other’s arms in front of the roaring bonfires or within the privacy of the bushes. Things were jovial, and arguments were set aside, even among the rival tribesmen. Perched upon her makeshift litter, Galiene seemed to be the only one who was not enjoying the festivities.

All that changed when Eartha entered the gates of the city. The people turned to her in wonder and awe. Laughter died on their lips and chalices fell from their hands when she stepped into the glow of the giant bonfire, a foreboding presence despite her small stature. The blood of her recent kill added to her war paint, and she wore the pelt of the great stag like a royal train. His antlers crowned her hair, also stained with blood. Eartha did not need to see her reflection to know she glowed with power. She must have appeared to be a god to many, though she felt more in tune with the virgin goddess of the hunt than any male deity.

Galiene was the first to acknowledge her approach. She stood from her litter, lifting a pale hand to point in her direction. “Look! The champion has emerged!”

“Who is he?”

“Who has slain the king stag?”

Whispers dominated the crowd that had otherwise fallen into a quiet hush. They still had not guessed her true identity. The slip of a moon and the fire’s glow were not enough to unmask her secret. The people watched and waited as Eartha approached Galiene, whose face turned a peaked white. Yet the queen’s voice was strong.

“Speak, my lord. Tell us who has returned victorious from the hunt.”

Eartha raised her gaze to the queen, and even before she spoke, she knew at last she had been recognized. Galiene lifted a hand to her mouth and gasped, losing her royal decorum.

“I am Eartha, daughter of Balaan, sister of Balen. I am your champion!”

Instantly, murmurs of disapproval rose from the crowd, and Galiene reached for one of her ladies-in-waiting to steady herself. It seemed she was about to speak, but a middle-aged man with gray sprinkling his dark black beard leapt onto the platform and cut off her protests. He was the father of one of the other competitors, and the furious glaze in his eyes made it clear he would not accept this new development.

“What trickery is this?” the man roared in their direction. “A woman cannot enter the great hunt! It is sacrilege!”

There were shouts of agreement from the tribal leaders. Galiene was beside herself, unsure what to say to regain order. Even when she attempted to make a declaration, her soft voice was lost in the din of angry shouts and curses. As her champion, Eartha took it upon herself to speak for the queen. She ascended the wooden platform, raising arms stained with the blood of the king stag. Her own blood still ran hot from the thrill of the chase, and she felt no fear as she faced the drunken, angry mob.

“I ran with the king stag! I brought him down, and I wear his crown upon my head as proof of my victory. A woman I may well be, but I am also your champion, chosen by the gods!”

They were brave words, but the people were not so easily convinced. The bearded man beside her was on the verge of tossing her into the throng of villagers, who seemed close to rioting. An adolescent among them tossed a piece of rotten fruit in her direction. While it landed with a harmless splatter at her feet, Eartha began to wonder if she was foolish to take this chance. Would she shame her brother instead of helping him? Did she ruin Galiene’s chance at happiness and of bringing peace to her country?

Despite her fears, Eartha held her ground, facing the villagers without blinking. She prayed that someone, anyone,would speak on her behalf, and her pleas did not go unanswered by the gods who chose her as their defender. The priestess who blessed her earlier stepped forward, her blue robes swishing in the sudden hush. The crowd parted for her with their heads bowed. She was not just any priestess. She was the Lady of Avalon, High Priestess of all Britannia. With white veils shielding her features from view, the virgin priestess took her place beside Eartha and clasped her hand.

“The goddess speaks through me, and I tell you this woman was chosen. The god himself surrendered to her. Eartha, daughter of Balaan, sister of Balen, is your champion! The goddess wills it! Your queen agreed to accept the victor as her champion. Who are you mere mortals to challenge both your queen’s declaration and the will of the gods?”

The priestess stared down each of the tribe leaders in turn. Every one of those men hoped their sons would emerge victorious for their own selfish reasons, but their flushed cheeks paled under her stern gaze. There were no more angry shouts or uncertain whispers. Despite the power they craved, no one dared question the will of the Lady of Avalon, especially when the horns of the god rested upon Eartha’s head. God and goddess had spoken. Both the queen and high priestess made their proclamations. Yet there was some confusion among the people.

“Who then shall be our king?”

Again, Eartha stepped forward after receiving a nod of encouragement from the priestess. “Today, I took the place of my brother. He was injured due to an underhanded trick and unable to take part in the hunt. But it was not for wealth or power that I risked my life and my family’s honor. Balen loves Galiene and could not bear to see her wed another out of duty. Nor could I stand idly by and watch the country I love torn apart by feuding tribes when we must stand as one people for the good of Britannia. I am chosen as your champion and defender, but I care nothing for the throne. I have only one wish for my queen and my friend.” She turned to Galiene, and though Eartha’s hands were caked with dirt and blood, the queen squeezed her fingers. “Galiene, if you wish to marry Balen, do it for love and not for duty. Your life is your own and you need no man to tell you how to rule.”

The Lady of Avalon nodded her agreement. “The champion speaks truth! Galiene is a prudent leader. In centuries past, many wise queens led without a husband. The queen does not need a man to rule beside her, unless she chooses one at her discretion.”

Galiene stepped forward, still clutching Eartha’s hand. “The gods have chosen my defender wisely. Already she gives me the strength I lacked. The Lady and Eartha are correct. I am your queen by right of blood. I will accept the council of the tribe leaders and I will work closely with all of you to maintain peace, but I will not be forced into a marriage against my will for your convenience.”

There were a few grumbled protests, but with Eartha, Galiene, and the Lady of Avalon all facing the crowd like a triad of goddesses, they had no choice but to relent to the will of the queen and their gods. Eartha was forgotten in the ensuing peace talks, but she did not mind. She was weary from her quest, and anxious to return home to check on Balen and share the happy news. Besides, she did what she came to accomplish. Galiene and Balen were free to marry, and Britannia was once again united.

Eartha tried to sneak out of the crowd, but Galiene would not let her escape so easily. The queen clasped her hand against her heart one last time, ignoring the stains it left on the cream-colored satin of her royal finery.

“You truly are my champion,” Galiene whispered in her ear. “Even more importantly, you are my friend. Thank you, Eartha, for all you have done. And please, tell Balen I will come to him as soon as I am able. Give him my love, and my ribbon.” She giggled, tousling Eartha’s short hair. “It doesn’t appear as though you shall need one for quite some time.”

Eartha nodded, leaving Galiene to her duties. She expected to go unnoticed by the nobles and commoners, but the crowd parted as she passed, many bowing their heads in homage, showing her the same respect they displayed to the high priestess of Avalon. A cheer rose from men and women alike as Eartha stepped through the gates of the village.

“All hail our champion Eartha!” they cheered. “Defender of Britannia. Queen of the stag hunt!”