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  TRUE SHAPES

  by

  Lea Tassie

  Copyright 2016 by Lea Tassie

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the

  author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or

  dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  TRUE SHAPES

  Once upon a time, in a land far away, a beautiful princess was born. Her noble parents named her Damara, which means gentle. True to her name, she grew into a sweet young woman who saw only the good in everyone.

  Damara's beloved father died in battle when she was seventeen and her mother, heartbroken, soon fell ill. When she knew death was near, she sent the servants from the room and clasped Damara's hands in hers.

  “My child, I must burden you with a secret. Promise never to reveal it.”

  “I promise, Mama,” Damara said, her tears dropping softly on the silk coverlet.

  “Faery blood runs in your veins, for I am of the Sidhe,” her mother whispered.

  Damara gasped. The people in her country scorned faeries, believing them to be evil. Anyone suspected of being a faery was driven out or, at the very least, left to wander the hills and high roads, alone and hungry. Sometimes worse things were done.

  “Don't be afraid, child,” her mother said. “You are under no enchantment and your heart holds its true shape. Your powers will protect you, but guard and use them well.”

  “What powers do I have, Mama? Who will teach me how to use them?”

  “They will arise when you need them.”

  “But is there no one I can call on? People may drive me from the castle, though it is my home and though I harm no one.”

  “You must be strong, my daughter, young as you are. I have said your powers will protect you and that is the truth. You need know only one thing else: use them to do good in the world. Never for selfish reasons.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Damara’s tears flooded her cheeks.

  “Remember, you have given your word never to speak of your faery blood or your power. Farewell, my darling daughter.” So saying, the mother drew her last breath.

  Damara wept for seven days and seven nights, then began to learn the ways of the land and the laws of prudent husbandry. Wherever she went, walking or riding, the first footman, young Gregor, followed close behind. He had been trained by her father the king and trusted like a son by her mother, and she soon learned to rely on his strong, steadfast presence, which seemed unusual in one so young. Gradually Damara took up her new duties, overseeing her castle and lands with a kind and sympathetic hand. The people loved her, as they had from the time she was a babe in arms,

  In spite of her mother’s words, she sought to explore her mysterious power late at night, when she was alone. But nothing worked. Her spiders remained spiders, flowers did not bloom at her behest, candles did not burst into flame when she flicked her fingers at them. Perhaps her mother had been wrong; whatever power she might possess seemed too weak to have any merit.

  Two years passed and Damara's people prospered. They began to speak of their hope that a prince would come and end her solitude. Damara, too, wished to find happiness in true love. She sent invitations to the nobility in neighboring kingdoms. Alas, her suitors were old men hankering after lost youth or larger empires. She feasted them, pitied them and sent them away.

  One day in late spring, Damara sat on her favorite grassy bank, beside a brook that bubbled down from snow-covered mountains. Gregor waited discreetly in the background. She glanced at him to make sure he was too far away to intrude on her thoughts and noticed, for the first time, that he was handsome as well as tall. An acceptable quality for a prince, but of course, he was only a commoner. And, handsome he might be, but he was also dull, never speaking unless she spoke first.

  Sunlight filtered through the leaves and crowned her golden head as she bent over the white daisy in her hand. She gently pulled the petals away, one by one, reciting, “He loves me, he loves me not.” The last petal was “he loves me.” Sighing, she dropped the stem at her feet. Why ask about love when there was no one to give it?

  Damara picked more daisies and wove a chain with them. She placed it around her head, raised her hand and murmured aloud, “Let my prince come to me!”

  “Lady, he is here.”

  Startled, she glanced around but could see no one in the glade.

  “Here, my lady. Look near your feet and you will see the sad state of a young man who was a prince but chanced to anger a wicked witch.”

  A small green frog crouched beside the brook. He looked up at her with large, sad eyes and said, “My lady, the witch decreed that I may be saved from this dire enchantment only by the kiss of a lovely princess.”

  Damara gazed at the frog in amazement. She had heard tales of such things but never dreamed they could be true.

  “Do you have a name, frog?”

  “No, my lady. The witch took it when she took away my true shape.”

  “Then I shall name you Calder because you come from a cold brook.” She held out her hand and the frog leapt onto it. His skin felt cold, but his eyes, a mixture of brown and green, were soft and pleading.

  Could this frog truly be her prince? Had she woven some magic spell with the white-petaled daisies? Or was the power contained in her raised hand and her wish? Damara stared at the small, ugly creature sitting on her palm. Should she risk a kiss only to have her hopes dashed again? Or put him back in the brook?

  "My lady..." Gregor now stood only a few feet away, his face pale, his expression concerned.

  "It's all right, Gregor. I am perfectly safe. You may take up your position again." She could not tell him that she was protected by faery powers.

  And she could not turn Calder away, lonely and unloved as he was.

  She bent and kissed the frog on the top of his head. To her amazement, he blossomed into a tall, young prince with hair of ebony, skin of ivory and eyes of summer blue. He held out his hand and raised her to her feet. “My lady, if you will take me as husband, I will love and honor you as long as I live.”

  A month later, Damara and Calder were wed under an arch of white rosebuds in the castle courtyard. The people feasted and danced for seven days. And for seventy and seven days, the prince and princess rode matching white horses the length and breadth of the country. Damara took great pleasure in acquainting her prince with the people, the fertile fields and thick woods. Everyone was charmed by Calder and delighted for her, but none were as happy as she.

  One day, as they rode, Calder rose in the stirrups and cried, “I must see at once what is over that next hill!” He loosed the reins of his steed and galloped ahead.

  When Damara caught up with him, he said, “Why so laggard, lady? Is not the day fair? Are not the horses on their mettle?”

  “In a race, I urge my horse to run,” she said. “But when I look at the land, I want to see each leaf on the trees, each bird in flight, each head of grain nodding on its stalk.”

  The prince lifted her hand and kissed it. “Sweet Damara! But surely I am entitled to ride as fast as I choose.”

  “Of course,” she said, though she was better pleased when he matched his pace to hers. Then she remembered how sad he had looked in the shape of a frog and put away her selfish thoughts. He had his true shape now and it was a delight to see how his eyes, so like a summer sky, danced with merriment and sparkled with happiness.

  On the seventy-eighth day, the prince begged leave to remain at home and Damara rode out alone to oversee the corn harvest. She returned to find servants making up the huge canopied bed in which her parents had slept. Calder stood in the middle of the room, caressing his chin with his fingers.

  “Ah, there you are, my lady! I have decided that we should take this room as our own; it is the largest sleeping chamber in the castle.”

  “But,” Damara said, “the chamber we have is a fine one, with ample light.”

  Calder frowned. “I am your husband and your prince. I am entitled to sleep where I choose and certainly I am entitled to the largest chamber.”

  “Of course, my dear,” she said, remembering his former sadness. Surely she had done much good by releasing him from his cruel enchantment.

  She watched with tears in her eyes as the servants, supervised by Gregor, with a face as expressionless as a mask, carried away her parents' clothing. No longer could she sit in this room among their things and remember the happy days she had spent with them.

  Damara