“Then I’m not the only one who tried to kill you,” he said, and smiled.

“I suppose not.”

“I like your honesty,” said the duke, “as well as your fortitude. You’re made of strong stuff, and we Frisians admire that. I can’t make you my wife because you might murder me in my sleep, but if you’ll accept the position, I’d like to appoint you as my adviser. Your unique perspective would be valuable indeed.”

The princess happily accepted. She moved back into the palace with her handmaiden, took a position of prominence in the duke’s government, and never again covered her mouth when she spoke, as she no longer had to hide who she was.

After some time had passed, she paid her father a visit in the dungeons. He was wearing grimy sackcloth and not looking very kingly at all.

“Get out of here,” he growled at her. “You’re a traitor and I have nothing to say to you.”

“Well, I have something to say to you,” the princess replied. “Though I’m still angry at you, I want you to know you are forgiven. I understand now that what you did to me wasn’t the action of an evil man, but a common one.”

“Fine, thank you for the wonderful speech,” said the king. “Now go away.”

“As you wish,” said the princess. She started to go, then stopped at the doorway. “By the way, they’re planning to hang you in the morning.”

At this news the king curled into a ball and began to snivel and cry. It was such a pathetic sight that the princess was moved to pity. Despite all her father had done, she felt her bitterness toward him melting away. She used her venom to melt the lock from his cell, secreted him out of the jailhouse, disguised him as a beggar, and sent him running in the same direction she had once fled the kingdom. He did not thank her, nor even look back at her. And then he was gone, and she was gripped by a sudden, wild happiness—for her act of kindness had freed them both.

The First Ymbryne

Editor’s note:

While we can be certain that many of the Tales’ characters really lived and walked the earth, it can be difficult to confirm much of their factualness beyond that. In the centuries before our stories were written down, they were disseminated as oral tradition, and thus highly subject to change, each teller embellishing the tales as she saw fit. The result is that today they are more legend than history, and their value—beyond simply being compelling stories—is primarily as moral lessons. The story of Britain’s first ymbryne, however, is a notable exception. It is one of the few tales whose historical authenticity can be thoroughly accounted for, the events it describes having been verified not only by many contemporaneous sources, but by the ymbryne herself (in her famous book of encyclical addresses, A Gathering of Tail Feathers). That is why I consider it the most significant of the Tales, it being equally a moral parable, a ripping good yarn, and an important chronicle of peculiar history.