Once Upon a Summer Day (33 page)

T
hrough the forest they hastened, Buzzer awing, Borel afoot, and Flic aseat on the hat. Past great old oaks they went, and across flowering glades, and up and down wooded slopes, some steep, others not. Through streams Borel splashed, ever following the course set by Buzzer. In less than half a candlemark, his soreness from yestereve’s harrowing ride upon the Pooka diminished to the point that Borel’s lope was nigh his usual rate.

And they came upon a wide glen, wherein a herd of Unicorns—of silver-sheened grey and pearlescent white and lightly brushed gold—did graze, and they scattered before Borel as he loped across, and they fled into the woods.

“Oh, my,” said Flic, “so beautiful they are. See how they run: so graceful.”

Borel paused and watched, for even in Faery Unicorns are rare, and to see an entire herd rarer still. Soon these single-horned, cloven-hoofed, nimble creatures passed from view, running as they did among the trees. When the last one disappeared, Borel took up again his own run.

“Much nicer than the Pooka, eh?” said Flic.

“Oui,” replied Borel, and then added, “Speaking of the Pooka, perhaps I should have asked Chelle about him before going after that Dark Fey.”

“How so?” asked Flic.

“In my dream of last night I asked her what she knew of Pookas, and she related to me the legend of the ride of the king of the Keltoi. It seems he had a much easier time of it than did I.”

“Did she tell you the tale? If so, I would have you refresh my own memory.”

Borel said, “Her version had no Elf weaving three Pooka hairs through an Elf-made rope. She said that twining them thus would mute their power.”

“I wondered about that,” said Flic. “But, you know how Elves are: they tend to insert themselves into all manner of stories . . . at least the several Elves I’ve met do.”

“Ah, then that might account for the difference,” said Borel.

“If Lady Chelle’s telling had no Elf-made rope,” said Flic, “then how did the king use the three hairs?”

“He merely made a charm by plaiting them together,” said Borel, “thereby making them into a cord. Hence, their power was not muted, and all he had to do was ride the Pooka until it became exhausted.”

“Did the Dark Fey shift shape?” asked Flic.

“I think not,” replied Borel.

They came to the brink of a short drop to a mossy bank. “Hold on, Flic,” said Borel, and without waiting for an answer he sprang down. But the moss was slick and Borel nearly lost his balance. Flic was thrown from the hat and took to wing, but as soon as Borel gained his footing, the Sprite returned to the tricorn and settled in.

“Next time, my lord, a wee bit more warning would help,” said Flic.

Borel merely grunted and continued his lope.

“Also, my lord, it certainly won’t do for you to twist an ankle.”

Again Borel grunted, but said no words.

After moments, Flic said, “By the bye, woven together into a cord, I would think three hairs alone not strong enough to subdue one of those Dark Fey. How did the king use them?”

“He merely looped them around the neck of the Pooka and leapt upon its back,” said Borel. “The instant he did so, the three hairs turned to steel, and so they were strong enough.”

“Feh, my lord. That Pooka hairs could change into steel or into
any
form of iron is but a flight of fancy, for the Pooka is of the Fey, and iron is an anathema to him, to us, to all Fey. Such a thing simply could not be.”

“Strange things have been known to hap in Faery,” said Borel, “and if Pooka hair did turn to steel, it could be among the strangest.”

Neither spoke for a while as Borel continued to lope, and Buzzer continued to fly, the bee keeping to the line where she knew the sun would undoubtedly set. But finally Flic said, “Unless and until we meet that very king of the Keltoi, I think we’ll not know the truth. Regardless, Prince Borel, you did ride that Dark Fey to submission, magic cord or no.”

Borel said nought as he ran on.

 

They stopped for a meal in the noontide: Flic and Buzzer lapping honey; Borel chewing jerky and hardtack. And as they sat, Flic said, “Tell me of Valeray and his friend Roulan and what they did to make Rhensibé angry.”

Borel looked at the Sprite. “Are we to assume Rhensibé is Hradian’s sister?”

“I think it most likely,” said Flic.

“If that be so, then here is the way of it: Hradian and her sister—if it is Rhensibé—were acolytes of the dark magicien Orbane, the most terrible of all the Firsts.—Did I mention that Camille has a notion how Faery came to be?”

Flic shook his head,
No
, and Borel said, “Camille believes that long past the Keltoi bards told tales that were so entrancing that the gods themselves became enamored of the stories. So, after hearing of Faery, they created it, and initially they populated it with folk from the tales. And whenever one of the Keltoi bards spoke of someone of a new Kind—a Kind the gods had not before heard of—they made that Kind manifest in Faery. Hence, Raseri the Firedrake and Adragh the Pwca—and others who were first of their Kind—became Firsts in Faery. And so, too, was Orbane a First—a terrible magicien as told by the Keltoi bards.

“And Orbane and his acolytes caused much trouble throughout all of Faery, until the Fates themselves stepped in and through riddles told other of the Firsts if nought were done there would come a day when Orbane would be the ruin of Faery and the mortal world as well.”

“Why would the gods create someone so horrible?” asked Flic.

“I think for the adventures he would cause,” said Borel, “as good folks and the Firsts tried to overcome him.”

“Ah, I see,” said Flic. “Please go on with the tale.”

Borel nodded and said, “After the Fates gave warning, many of the Firsts formed an alliance, and they took cause against the magicien. Yet even with all of their powers, Orbane was still more powerful.

“But then an oracle among the Firsts said that Orbane could only be defeated by his own hand, and so Valeray, my sire—a considerable trickster in his time—was chosen to find a way to discover the means by which this could be done.

“Disguised as a soothsaying crone, my sire inveigled his way into one of Orbane’s many castles—he had several, you see, one of them on an isle far in the sea, another on a mountain crest high above the land, still another mid a stormy lake, and yet others scattered throughout Faery.

“Regardless, my sire—as a soothsaying crone—went to one of these holts: a castle on a bald hill in the midst of a dark forest. Therein the crone met the witch Nefasí, one of the acolytes, and—even though my sire knew the magicien was not within—the soothsayer asked for an audience with Orbane. When Nefasí asked why, the crone replied she had a dreadful message to give to the dark one.

“Nefasí told the old crone that Orbane was elsewhere, but that she herself would receive the message from her and pass it on to Orbane.

“The old soothsaying crone agreed, but she insisted that they go to a place of protection—a place of power and transmutation—ere she would divulge the message dire. And after wheedling and haranguing, at last Nefasí consented.

“Accompanied by well-armed Troll guards, by winding ways and up stairwells and past many rooms—ways and wells and rooms my observant sire committed to memory—Nefasí took the aged soothsayer into Orbane’s own alchemistry chamber, where a pentagon of protection was permanently inscribed upon the floor. There did Nefasí cast a spell, one that temporarily rendered the Trolls deaf and mute, and then told the old soothsayer to speak. And so, surrounded by unhearing and unspeaking guards, with both sitting at a table within the pentagon, the crone divulged the message: ‘Orbane will be defeated by his own hand.’

“At these bodeful words, Nefasí’s gaze flicked briefly toward a small locked chest sitting atop a table, a chest my sire clearly noted. Nefasí asked if there were more to the sooth divined, and the crone shook her head. Nefasí rewarded the soothsayer with a single gold piece and sent her on her way.

“That very same night, my sire scaled the outside wall to the alchemistry room, and he picked the lock and found within the chest two clay amulets—Seals of Orbane—and he wrapped them well and stood in the window and, using a sling, he cast them to Roulan, who was waiting at the edge of the woods. Then down clambered my father, and soon he and Roulan were riding agallop to the waiting Firsts. Yet even as Valeray and Roulan passed through that dark forest, they were seen and recognized and pursued.

“They managed to reach the Firsts, and the enemy was routed.

“Later, the Seals were descried for what they were, and the two were used to cast Orbane into the Castle of Shadows beyond the Black Wall of the World, where he remains still.”

Borel fell silent and Flic said, “Oh, my, but what an adventure. Is that the end of Orbane?”

“I think not,” said Borel, “for the Fates did tell Camille that events were afoot and Orbane might be set free, and if so, he planned to pollute the River of Time itself.”

“And what does Hradian have to do with such?” said Flic.

“Along with unnamed sisters, she is one of Orbane’s acolytes,” said Borel.

Flic nodded and said, “Ah, then Nefasí and Rhensibé and Hradian might be sisters three.”

“That is my thought as well,” said Borel, standing. “Yet we are not certain at all whether this be true, and speculation alone is not proof.”

Borel then looked at the bee. “We should be on our way. Is Buzzer done?”

“Oui, my lord,” said Flic, “and so am I.”

Borel repacked the rucksack and made ready to leave, and Buzzer took flight and sighted on the sun and shot away. Borel set his hat upon his head, and Flic took the prow, and away they went, following the beeline once more.

 

All the rest of the day Borel loped, and just ere sunset he broke free of the forest, and across a grassy field stood a wall of twilight, where Buzzer awaited. “Here be the first of three borders of which King Arle spoke,” Borel said, and into the marge he jogged, and when he and Buzzer and Flic emerged on the far side, they came into a savanna stretching away for as far as the eye could see. In the distance a great herd of some sort of beasts were agraze on the veldt.

As darkness fell, Borel made camp within a stand of spiny acacia, the thorn-laden trees a bit of protection against wild predators, though perhaps not all.

“M
y love,” said Borel, “I have seen the world from above, and I would take you there.”

“Are we to go to a mountaintop?”

“Something much better, ma chérie.”

Chelle smiled. “Then let us away.”

Hand in hand they stepped through the enshadowed door and out onto a broad, windswept ledge upon a looming mountainside. Snow shone white on the crest above, wooded slopes lay darkly on the flanks below, the trees leading down to a deep forested valley, where a glint of a river hinted at its existence in the light from the waning moon, a thin crescent in the sky. To their right a torrent of meltwater thundered onto the ledge and then cascaded on downward into deep shadows ’neath.

“It is beautiful up here,” said Chelle. “But I thought you said we were not to go upon a mountain.”

“This is but temporary, Chérie,” said Borel, stepping behind her and clasping her in his arms. “Here comes our mount now.” And he pointed, and silhouetted against the starry sky came winging a Great Eagle.

“Do not be afraid,” whispered Borel.

“I’m not,” said Chelle, and she pressed Borel’s arms tighter about.

With a graceful turn the mighty bird glided down to settle upon the broad shelf, and then stepped ’round and to the verge and waited. “After you, Chérie,” said Borel, and he handed her up to sit on the eagle’s back, and he took seat behind.

“Away,” he called to the eagle, and the raptor leapt from the ledge and flew into the air.

Up they soared into the night sky and out over the forest below, the mountainside falling away as eagle wings stroked atmosphere.

“Oh, but how splendid,” cried Chelle, enraptured. “Would that we ourselves had wings.”

High over the terrain they flew, and they left the woodland behind, and far below they could see farm fields looking much as would an échiquier, squares awaiting échecsmen—spearmen, hierophants, kings, queens, towers, and chevaliers all that were lacking.

They flew over campsites, some with small fires ablaze, others with nought but ruddy coals aglow, still others dark. Over lakes they soared, some with night fishermen casting their lures. Wild horses ran across plains, and then in the sky beside them a vee of honking geese flew by heading for a place only they knew.

“Oh, my Borel, how did you ever—?”

Of a sudden the air shuddered and jolted, and Borel—

 

—woke to a thunder and rumble and a juddering of the ground.