Once Upon a Summer Day (4 page)

All that morn they ran at the easy pace, with small game and large scattering before them or freezing motionless so as not to be seen, while limbrunners scolded down at them from the safety of the branches above. Borel and the pack passed among moss-laden trunks of great hoary trees and wee Fey Folk among the roots or behind the boles or in a scatter of stone looked up from their endeavors as the Prince of the Winterwood and his escort loped by. Across warm and bright fields and sunlit glades burdened with wild summer flowers did Borel and his entourage run, where the air was alive with the drone of bees flitting from blossom to blossom to burrow in and gather nectar and pollen. Butterflies, too, vividly danced across the meadows, occasionally stopping on petals to delicately sit and sip. Hummingbirds
burr
ed through the air and drank of the sweet liquid among floral bouquets, and now and again Borel did see a gossamer-winged sprite playing among the blooms. Yet all this was but glimpsed in passing, for the prince and his Wolves paused not in these burgeoning glades. Instead, they pressed on through forest and field alike, only stopping now and again at sparkling streams to slake their growing thirst.

As the sun rode through the zenith, Borel halted under a broad oak at the edge of a grass-laden meadow, and there he took a cold meal of bread and jerky, while his Wolves foraged in the field at hand for mice and voles and other such ample fare.

After a short rest, again they took up the course, and miles fled in their wake as across the Summerwood they ran, the cool green forest shaded by rustling leaves above, with shimmering golden sunbeams dappling the growth below.

Down into a river-fed gorge they went, the lucid water sparkling, greensward and willowy thickets adorning its banks. From somewhere ahead came the sound of a cascade falling into water, and soon Borel and his Wolves trotted alongside a spread of falls pouring down amid a spray of rainbows into a wide, sunlit pool. Here did they stop to drink of the pellucid mere, and in the glitter a handful of Waterfolk cavorted. Two foot long and nearly transparent they were, as of water itself come alive. Webbed fingers and long webbed feet they had, the latter somewhat like fish-tails. Translucent hair streamed down from their heads, as if made of flowing tendrils of crystal. Over and under and ’round one another, darting this way and that they swam, as if playing tag or some other merry game, and though they were completely engulfed in lucid water, still did their laughter come ringing clear above the roar of the cataracts.

Borel and the Wolves, their thirst now slaked, once again trotted onward; and up and out from the ravine they loped and in among the woodland again.

It was nigh sundown when they came to a looming wall of twilight, and this they entered, the day growing dimmer as they went, and then brighter as on through the tenebrous marge they pressed. When once more they reached daylight, they came into a color-splashed forest, the trees adorned in scarlet and russet and gold. There was a nip in the air, for they had left the Summerwood behind and to the Autumnwood had come.

J
ust after crossing the marge into the Autumnwood, Borel called a halt to the run and set about making a camp ’neath the limbs of an apple tree, its bounty ready for harvest. He put the Wolves to hunting, and shortly there were two coneys spitted above the fire, and several others being consumed by the pack.

Nearby, a patch of wild onions grew along a small rill, and Borel gathered a few of these and washed them clean. He plucked two of the red fruit from above. The apples and onions alike would be replenished overnight, for this was the wondrous Autumnwood, where such things did happen: no matter whether picked, plucked, shorn, or dug, whatever was reaped somehow reappeared when none was looking. Only wild game seemed vulnerable within this forest where falltime ever ruled, yet given the fecundity of such fare—be it furred or feathered or scaled—it would not be long ere whatever was taken came to full fruition again.

Yet Borel did not ponder upon the marvel of the Autumnwood as he set about making his meal, for in this demesne it seemed as natural to him as breathing or eating or sleeping.

Soon the savory smell of rabbit on a spit, with juices dripping into the flames, mingled on the crisp air with the sweetness of fresh apples and the sharp tang of onion. And the Wolves, now finished with their own meals, occasionally turned toward the fire and raised their noses and inhaled the odor of cooking, though for the main they stood alert, with ears pricked and eyes scanning the surround for any sign of intruders.

After consuming the haunches of one of the rabbits, along with the onions and apples, Borel spent some time calling the Wolves to him one by one. He started with Slate, the dominant male, after which he summoned Dark, the dominant female. He then called Render and Trot and Shank and Loll and finally Blue-eye, as he worked his way down through the hierarchy of the pack. As turn by turn they separately came to him, he hand-fed each a bit of cooked rabbit, and he ruffled their soft, clean fur and spoke gently until he had done with the last of the lot.

With words somewhere between utterances and growls, he assigned a watch order, and as two took up station, all the rest settled down, including Borel.

Sleep soon came . . .

. . . and stars wheeled in the silence above.

But just after mid of night, once more Borel found himself in a round stone chamber, only this time it was deeply shadowed. Again, the slender young damosel was there. With her head bowed, she stood in the dark on the opposite side of the stone floor. In spite of the gloom, Borel could see that her hands were clasped together just below her waist, and an ebon blindfold or a band of blackness lay across her eyes. She was dressed in a sapphire-blue gown with a ruffled white bodice, and dark blue ribbons were entwined through her golden hair; given the utter darkness surrounding her, how Borel could see this he could not say; nevertheless he saw.

Once more, off to either side stood windows, beyond which daggers floated in the air. Only a thin tendril of wan light managed to shine through one of the apertures, so thick were the blades. Borel stepped to that opening and peered up along the meager glimmer. As to its source, he could not be certain, though from its pale silvery illuminance he thought it might be light from the moon. He leaned into the opening for a better look, but daggers darted forward and threatened. Borel stepped back, and the stilettos moved hindward as well, away from the sill.

Even so, Borel yet tried to see past the blades, and he shifted this way and that, attempting to get a glimpse of what lay beyond the sharp poniards hovering so thickly all ’round. And as he moved, so did they, each of them locked in aim toward him. But the only thing he could glimpse that might be outside the beringing dirks was the wisp of light that managed somehow to winnow its way through.

He stopped and stilled his breathing and listened intently, as if to discover something of the world that might lie on the other side of the floating blades, yet all he heard was a faint but persistent squeaking. As to its source, what it might be, he knew not.

Shaking his head, Borel turned and stepped toward the damosel, and as he did so, once again came her desperate plea:
“Aidez-moi,”
she whispered.
“Aidez-moi.”
And in that moment she and the stone chamber faded, and Borel awakened to find himself under the apple tree. A waxing gibbous moon shone down through leaves shifting in a faint breeze, and a scatter of pale light rippled upon his face.

Somewhere at hand chirped a cricket.

Nearby, Trot and Shank stood ward, and they both looked toward Borel, sensing he was awake. Slate, too, roused and lifted his head, and he and the ward waited. Yet Borel gave no command, and soon Slate lowered his head and closed his eyes, and Trot and Shank shifted their attention to the darkness beyond the camp.

With a sigh, Borel turned on his side, but it was a long while ere he once more fell adoze.

S
leeping but fitfully, at last Borel gave up his attempts at restful slumber and arose just ere the dawntime, and after a meal of apples and a bit of bread left over from the loaf he had taken from the bakery in Summerwood Manor, he and the Wolves set out.

Dawn came and slowly vanished as the sun rose into the morning sky, and its angling light revealed an autumnal forest adorned in yellow and gold and amber and bronze, in scarlet and crimson, and in roan and russet and umber. Through this flamboyant woodland passed Borel and the pack, trotting at the steady pace Borel had set the day before.

In midmorn they came to a long slope leading down into a wide meadow, and a rich stand of grain grew therein. High on the slope stood a massive oak, and ’neath its widespread limbs sat a large man with a great scythe across his knees. As Borel headed for the scarlet- and gold-leafed tree, the man stood and grounded the blade of his scythe and swept his hat from a shock of red hair and bowed.

Borel called out, “Bonjour, Moissonneur.”

“Bonjour, Seigneur Borel,” the reaper replied as he straightened up and donned his cap. Huge, he was, seven or eight feet tall, and he was dressed in coarse-spun garb, as would a crofter be.

Borel called a halt to the run, and set his Wolves to hunting, though by growled word he forbade them to go into the field of grain, for he would not have any of the wee gleaners within accidentally taken for game. As the Wolves trotted away, Borel turned to the man and gestured to the ground and both sat beneath the autumn-clad oak. “How goes the day, Reaper?”

“The sun rises, passes overhead, and then sets,” rumbled the large man, a grin twitching his lips.

Borel laughed and shook his head. “Still the wit, I see.”

“And you, my lord,” said the reaper, “how fare you?”

“Well, I could say on two legs,” replied Borel, but then he sobered. “I have been having strange dreams of late.”

“Dreams?”

“Aye, of a demoiselle in some distress, but what that misfortune might be, I cannot say.”

“Mayhap instead of a dream, Lord Borel, it is a sending.”

“If it is, it is of little use, for I cannot aid when I know not where she is.”

“Have you no inkling?”

“She is in a stone chamber, and beyond the windows hover endless daggers.”

“Daggers in the air? How can that be?”

“Who knows the ways of dreams, Reaper?”

“A seer, my lord, a seer.”

“Aye, you are right, Reaper. Mayhap when I reach the Winterwood, I will consult with one.”

The big man nodded. “A wise choice, Lord Borel.” He paused a moment and then asked, “And there is no more to this vision?”

“In the dream I hear a cricket chirping, or a squeaking of some sort. Yet it simply could be that somewhere near my place of rest a real cricket sang for a mate.”

“Hmm . . .” The reaper frowned. “A cricket does not seem to have a bearing on a maiden in trouble. Perhaps more will come if the sendings continue. On the other hand, if these are not sendings, perhaps there is something of import in recent days that could explain your dream, something dwelling on your mind.”

Borel sighed. “The only thing of note is that Alain and Camille are to be married soon, and of late I have been pondering on whether or no I will ever find a truelove as did he. Yet if that has ought to do with this demoiselle of my dream, I cannot say. Perhaps she is nought but a manifestation of my desire, though why I might think of her as being in peril, I know not.”

The reaper frowned and said, “Perhaps in your sleep you wish to do a bold deed to win a demoiselle of your dreams.”

Borel sighed and turned up his hands.

The reaper shook his head and said, “You have a dilemma, Lord Borel. If it is a sending, then she is real and you know not how to find her. If it is but a dream, then she is not real, and you worry needlessly.”