The dust motes danced blue, green, and red in the glass tinted sunlight.

Those tiny specs were all that moved in the great hall, for though the rest of the kingdom, as many of them as could fit within the great stone walls, were in attendance, all were silent and still in a show of reverence.

Into this stillness four figures took shape, three appearing in sparkling clouds of mist, the fourth in a dark swirl of smoke. Refined, with skin that shown milk white in the light and garments only a shade less fine than those of the king and Queen, the Witches stood, unaffected by the murmurings of fear and astonishment that ran through the crowd.

Three stood together, their hands clasped, garments of light colors, evoking feelings of peace and calm, lightness and joy.

Carefully laced overdresses of spider-web white floated on heavy skirts of robin’s egg blue, new leaf green, and buttercup yellow. Sleeves were lined with the same colors in darker hues and held in place by woven ribbons and strings of freshwater pearls. Hair, golden auburn and the palest white, hung in rainfall straight curtains, unadorned, giving the women an air of youth that hid the truth of their years.

The fourth woman was something else. She glittered with dark, from the wild fall of jet curls to the lush body wrapped in black on black brocade with gold and red accents. Her throat and the upper swell of her breasts were bare. Rubies, gems of passion and madness, dripped from her slender wrists and ears. The pale line of her throat was bereft of these gems, drawing attention to the nakedness of her flesh.

The rolling soft fabric of her skirts fell to the floor, but when she stepped forward those who knelt could see that, like a savage, she wore no shoes, only anklets of rubies.

“Welcome, honored guests. You grace us with your beauty and refinement.” The king never looked at the dark one when he spoke. His steady, placid gaze remained on the three witches of light, and while the insult hidden in his words may have been beyond the understanding of the peasants, the king, Queen, and four witches, understood it well enough.

“Majesties.” They spoke as one and then, like daises bobbing in the sun, dipped in curtsies.

The dark witch moved forward, deliberately placing herself at the same level as the others. Rather than perform some insipid curtsy she dipped her head and shoulders in a subtle bow.

The king paused for a moment, his lips pressing tight as he realized she would not grovel further.

“We have invited you here to celebrate with us the arrival of our long awaited daughter and heir.”

Now the pastel witches spoke, each voice chiming on identical notes.

“We are honored at the invitation, and delight with Your Graces at this blessed event.”

“To show our fealty and thanks, we have come to offer blessings over the child.”

From the tightly wrapped bundle in the queen’s arms a tiny whimper sounded.

“Your majesty, may we?” The witch in yellow held out her arms for the squirming babe. With the quiet obedience that marked her life the queen handed the babe over.

As the people watched, the tiny princess disappeared into the arms of the witch. Her sisters crowded around her, cooing inanely at the babe who continued to fuss quietly.

When the witches stepped back their cheeks were pink with pleasure, and their eyes bright. The one in yellow now stood in the center, the babe still in her arms. To her left the titan haired witch, a smidgen taller than her sisters, reached into a pouch at her belt.

“Your majesties, by your leave we will grace your daughter with gifts, the first of which will be a symbol of the others, enchanted by the light to grow and change with her, its beauty increasing as she does.” She raised her hand high, the colored sunlight striking off a solid gold bracelet. Simple pure lines of gold, with subtle contouring, spoke of elegant wealth.

In the glittering light the bracelet glowed, reflecting beams of light to rival the streams pouring from the stained glass. Wrapped securely in her confining blankets the baby blinked large blue eyes, struggling to focus on the glittery thing. When one of the women, for the babe knew them to be female, though not her mother, gently freed her arm and placed a tiny fist against the gold bracelet, the baby’s fingers curled reflexively around it.

Smiling at this sign of obedient precociousness the witch in blue, the quietest of the three, took up her part of the ceremony.

“We three will grant you blessings. Features befitting a princess, as this bracelet of gold is a symbol of your royalty, so will you become a symbol of royalty to the people.

“The first gift is that of beauty.” The blue-garbed witch leaned low and pressed a lavender scented kiss to the babe’s brow. For a moment the wide blue eyes deepened to purple and then the babe let out a fitful cry.

On the throne the queen twitched forward, hearing fear and pain in her babe’s cries. The king placed a restraining hand against her forearm and with a quick glance at her husband the queen settled back, only the tight twists of her fingers showing her discomfort.

“The second gift is that of grace.” A second lavender kiss was pressed to the child’s brow and her small cries escalated to a high whimper. The queen bowed her head, starting at her clenched hands.

Finally the child was returned to the arms of the yellow-skirted woman. Murmuring to the fretful baby she raised her voice, placing her hand atop the golden bracelet still clenched in the child’s fist.

“The final gift is that of obedience, so you may always remember your place and carry the gifts of grace and beauty while being mindful of the will of your sovereign.” The witch smiled at the king, who gave her a regal smirk in response.

A think sheen of pale gold enveloped the child, while a chorus of oohs and ahhs rose from the crowd. Utterly disgusted at the display the black witch curled her lip; repugnance and pity welled in her heart for the baby.

As the light grew to its zenith, the spell, for as much as those three might call this a gift, it was in truth a spell, sank into the baby’s skin and the fitful whimpers blossomed into a frightened baby’s endless wail.

On the throne the queen jerked, but stilled when the king’s hand fell against her shoulder once more. Pitiful woman, the dark witch thought. Had the child been hers nothing on this earth would have stopped her.

The yellow witch leaned down and whispered, “Hush.”

The babe stilled, the small round face going smooth, eyes large and blue and passive, no longer alight with curiosity.

The black witch could bear to watch this no longer.

“Majesties, I too would like to bestow a gift upon your child.” Horrified stares had no effect on her; she suffered through derision and fearful regard more times that she could count.

“A gift ... my lady?” The king’s voice dripped with veiled scorn. How he hated that he could not cut her, could not have his knights hunt her down and burn her. She was too powerful, the most powerful, and so was tolerated.

“A gift, and one of great value.” Skirts rustling she pressed close to the other witches, scooping up the baby and letting her rosewood scent settle over them, watching in petty pleasure as their noses wrinkled in disgust.

Backing away she looked down at the babe, stroking one plump little cheek as she murmured words to dampen the spell. There was no way to break it, for there was strength and old magic, a power she could not duplicate, in their trifecta, but she could change it, distort it enough that the child might have a chance.

She tugged the bracelet, plain cumbersome thing that it was, from the child’s grasp, clucking as she did so, a watery grin and a spit bubble her reward. Charmed despite herself the witch gathered her skills, more determined than before, to right some of what they had done to the child.

Imitating the witch’s movement she lifted the bracelet. From beneath her sleeve a twisting column of smoke, snakelike, wove up her arm, circling the bracelet. She pulled her hand away and it hung in mid air, supported by an ever twisting band of smoke. The crowd shrank back, fearful of her magic.

“Your beauty and grace are yours to keep, though neither will bring what others think they do. Your bracelet of gold, to which those gifts are bound, is now tempered. By blood its spell is broken, and by the briar rose it is remembered.” Light flared around the bracelet, and on its inner surfaces a twisting pattern of thorn-studded roses appeared. “And now for my gift.”

With great deliberation she plucked the bracelet from the air and offered it back to the baby, who was the only one not trembling in fear. Instead she began sucking intently on the precious gold, the tiny slurping noises audible only to the dark witch.

“My gift to you is something more precious than grace or beauty, more real than obedience. My gift to you is an awakening of the heart.”

With a long hard glance and the king, Queen, and three witches, she lifted the child, pressing blood red lips to the small downy head. There she whispered the words, the truth of her spell kept between them.

“Be not who they want you to be, but who you are.”