“Neither awake nor in a dark dream are perilous blades just as they seem,” said Chelle. “Isn’t that what Lady Wyrd told you?”
“Oui,” said Borel.
“Hmm . . .” said Flic, looking at his épée, “it seems a silver blade isn’t always proof against creatures of darkness. Perhaps Argent isn’t quite as perilous as I thought.”
“Nevertheless, Flic, it slew the Shadows, and were I you I don’t believe I’d throw it away,” said Borel. Then he looked at the slain Démon. “By the bye, I think you should call Buzzer off. The thing is dead, you know.”
Flic glanced at the bee, yet circling above the Démon just in case it was feigning death.
Chelle looked, too, and then all three broke into laughter, and it went on and on, and they could not seem to stop themselves, for after all they had just cheated death . . . they were yet alive.
But from behind came a grunt, and they turned to see Borel’s horse, and abruptly the laughter stopped. Borel sighed and retrieved his long-knife and sword. The sword he sheathed, but the long-knife he kept in his hand, and he went to the steed and knelt and said, “Sorry, my friend.”
And Chelle looked away as Borel put his horse beyond the reach of pain.
Borel then stepped to the Démon’s side and took up the black sword, and he looked about and then walked to a large split boulder and jammed the blade into the crevice and, with a grunt, snapped the sword in two. The moment the blade broke, the shards of the weapon burst into violent flames, and Borel sprang back and flung the blazing hilt from him.
Chelle cried out, and Borel whirled to see the Démon aflame as well, with Buzzer and Flic fleeing the fire and toward Chelle. The Sprite and the bee landed on her shoulders, and all watched as both the Fiend’s corpse and its weapon furiously and swiftly burned to ashes.
“My lord,” said Flic, “I think next time you should be wary of breaking a Démon’s sword, for, as Lady Wyrd said, neither awake nor in a dark dream are perilous blades just as they seem.”
Borel saddled the packhorse and distributed the supplies between the two steeds, and Borel said, “Flic, we need find a town and get another horse.”
“And me a bow with arrows to suit,” said Chelle. And when Borel looked at her, she added, “I nearly didn’t get yours strung, my love, and your arrows are much too long.”
Flic nodded and said, “I will talk to Buzzer. Perhaps there’s a ville nearby with a garden she remembers.”
A quarter candlemark later, they rode down from the pass and out onto a plain, and there did Buzzer turn and take a new heading. And late in the day they came unto Arens, a modest ville with several inns and a number of stables.
They took a room in Le Taureau Noir, and luxuriated in hot baths and ate delicious hot meals and downed copious glasses of hearty red wine. And Chelle and Borel slept in a real bed, and they made love.
They stayed in Arens that night and two more, resting, relaxing, eating, acquiring another horse and replenishing their supplies, and obtaining a bow and arrows for Chelle.
But when the next day dawned, they rode away from the Black Bull inn, and through the town and to a nearby hillock, and there Buzzer took a bearing, and off the bee shot on a line for the demesne along the sunward marge of the Winterwood.
Through twilight borders they fared, and across lands of Faery, but midmorn of the fifth day they emerged from an umbrous bound and came unto the realm where grew yellow daffodils and blue morning glories and sweet red clover. They had entered the stream-laden demesne adjacent to the Winterwood.
On they rode, splashing through rills and runs and streams, and nigh the noontide of the second day within this land they arrived at another twilight wall.
As Borel and Chelle dismounted, Flic and Buzzer flew through the marge and quickly back, and the Sprite came shivering. “Snow, ice, barren trees: what a dreadful realm you have, my lord, for surely it is the Winterwood.”
Borel, fetching winter gear from the packhorse, grinned and shook his head. “Dreadful you say? Non. Marvelous say I, for it is both savage and peaceful, with times when the wind howls like fury come alive, flinging snow and ice in its rage, and other times of preternatural stillness, when one can hear a snowflake fall across the width of a vale. Non, my friend, ’tis a breathtaking realm for all days are different, yet somehow all the same.”
“Well, you can have it, my lord, for neither Buzzer nor I can deal with the cold: she would fall dormant, and me?”—Flic grinned—“I do believe I would fall dead. Besides, now that Buzzer and I have delivered you securely to your realm, you will be safe as soon as you pass through this twilight wall.”
Chelle’s face fell and she said, “Surely you two are not leaving us, are you, Flic?”
Flic sketched a bow in the air and said, “I must, my lady, for, truly, neither Buzzer nor I can withstand such cold as is in the Winterwood. Ah, me . . . I am but a warm-weather friend, oui?”
“Non, my friend,” said Borel, shaking out cold-weather gear. “Most certainly not.”
“But where will you go?” asked Chelle, taking a winter cloak and gloves and warm stockings from Borel. “I would see you again, my friend. Besides, there’s my père and mère and their guests to set free, and I would have your épée at my side.”
“My lady, I will of certain be one of your chevaliers, though how I will cope with King Arle’s iron, that I cannot say. But first, and most immediately, I will seek out my Fleurette, for she is waiting, and I love her as much as Borel loves you. But then—”
“But then,” said Borel, pulling on his socks and then his boots, “you will come to the Summerwood, for I would have you and Buzzer attend my brother Alain’s wedding.”
Chelle clapped her hands even as Flic said, “Summerwood?”
“White camellias,” said Borel, looking at Buzzer, the bee hovering at Flic’s side. “Red, red roses, and yellow ones as well. And lilacs.—Oh, and something called hydrangea. But do not ask me more, for that is the extent of my knowledge.”
“I will see if she knows,” said Flic. And he and Buzzer landed on a patch of ground. After a moment of silent converse, Buzzer did a waggle dance. Then she paused and did an entirely different dance of waggles. Flic laughed and looked up and said, “She knows the Summerwood, and so we will be there. She also said that for someone as slow as you are, my lord, you seem to get about a lot.” Flic broke into giggles, as did Chelle, and Borel’s guffaws joined them.
Borel and Chelle pulled on gloves and fastened cloaks about their shoulders, then mounted.
Buzzer and Flic took to wing and hovered, and Flic drew Argent and saluted both the lord and his lady.
“Au revoir, my wee friend,” said Borel.
“Till we meet again,” said Chelle.
“See you in the Summerwood,” said Flic, and then Buzzer circled ’round and took a bearing, and both bee and Sprite shot away.
When they were beyond seeing, Chelle and Borel turned their horses and rode into the Winterwood.
All the rest of that day and into the night rode the two, for, no longer needing the guide who went dormant in the dark, they could press on. And the nearly full moon rose and lighted the way before them.
The land was extraordinarily still, with no wind whatsoever, and through the quiet they rode, the only sound that of the horses and the creak of leather. But then from far off there came the hoot of an owl, and Borel answered in kind. And for a mile or so, these two kept up a running conversation, and closer to one another they came, and then a silent shape swooped through the air and across and up; a snowy owl it was.
“Oh, how beautiful,” said Chelle, watching the flight as the owl rose and briefly silhouetted itself against the moon, ere it vanished among the stars.
On they rode, and as the moon passed through the zenith they came to a pine grove standing dark in the night.
“Here we will stay the eve, my love,” said Borel, leading the way inward.
Midst the evergreens stood a cabin, unlit and unoccupied. They dismounted and unladed the horses and rubbed them down. Borel stepped into the tiny lodge and returned bearing blankets with which he covered the steeds.
Then he and Chelle carried their goods inside, where Borel poured oats from the grain they carried into nose bags to feed the horses, while Chelle readied a fire. When Borel returned, she had a small blaze going, and Borel fetched ice in buckets and set them on the irons above the fire.
“Water for the horses,” said Chelle, her statement not a question.
Borel then broke out biscuits and jerky and the remains of a block of cheese they had gotten in Arens, and he and Chelle ate.
After watering the steeds, they went to bed, and Borel lay with Chelle, holding her close, and they fell asleep that way.
All the next day they rode, and Ice-Sprites ran before and behind and around them, the wee ice-dwelling creatures grinning and dancing in glee within the frozen surfaces. And Chelle laughed joyfully at their antics, while Borel looked for the Sprite that had accompanied him to Hradian’s cote, but he saw it not.
And over snowy ridges and down through silent valleys they fared, some atrickle with meltwater, others with dashing streams. And Chelle was all eyes and curiosity, and she pointed out the subtle colors amid the blacks and whites and greys.
That night they stayed in another lodge, this cabin in a hollow along a fold of land.
Yet accompanied by dancing and racing Ice-Sprites—vanishing here, popping up there, always within the ice itself—Borel and Chelle rode through a wintry but low mountain range, to emerge in snow-covered vales beyond.
And the sun rode through the skies, up and across and down, and alongside a small river they passed, the water swift under the ice, air bubbles trapped in the run, though now and again there were stretches of open water; and the flow sang and danced on its way toward a distant sea. And as the sun set and winter twilight graced the land, and with the full moon just now peeking above the horizon, they came into the vale overlooked by Winterwood Manor.
Borel halted and dismounted, Chelle dismounting as well. And with Sprites peering out through clear windows on the ice-clad trees and rocks, of a sudden Borel cupped his hands ’round his mouth and gave a long howl. The sound echoed and reverberated throughout the valley, and joyous calls answered, the echoes of many joining those of the one.
Chelle laughed, and as the cries died out she said, “That was your pack?”
Borel chuckled and said, “Oui.”
“I remember the dream,” said Chelle. “We were in the Springwood, and they came, and you introduced them to me, and me to them: Slate, Dark, Render, Shank, Trot, Loll, and Blue-eye.”
“You remember their names,” said Borel, his eyes widening in admiration.
“I could not forget them,” said Chelle.
Borel threw an arm about her, and in the light of the half-risen full moon he pointed across the vale and up. “There is your mansion, my love, there atop the far bluff.”
“Oh, how lovely,” said Chelle, “and it sits like a great aerie atop its widespread cliff.” She giggled. “My lord, with eagle eyes we will perch high above and—”
“Sstt!”
hissed Borel and pointed, and Chelle could see Sprites fleeing within the ice, scattering, fear on their tiny faces.
Borel released the keepers on his long-knife and sword and whipped them from their sheaths, and in that moment the air before them began to waver, to ripple, as of heat rising from the ground, yet this ground was cold, icy, such heat not present. And then stepping through the undulance as if passing through a door, with her ebon cloak swirling about her came a tall, stark woman, her eyes dark, her hair black, her features haughty, imperious.
“Rhensibé!” sissed Chelle.
And even as Borel started to raise his sword, with a casual wave of her onyx-nailed hand Rhensibé cast a spell, and neither Chelle nor Borel could move.
“I have come to set matters straight,” she said, a sneer in her voice. “You thought you could escape your just doom, my pretty and oh-so-blessed Michelle, yet you see I am here to make certain you do not, for I and my sisters—Hradian, Nefasí, and Iniquí—we four acolytes of Orbane, we each have sworn that all those who conspired to prevent my master from executing his grand plan shall suffer as have we. And among our many vows, not only will I and my sisters ultimately set Orbane free, we have pledged that Valeray and his get will agonize dreadfully.
“In the matter of you, Michelle, an oracle foretold that you would bring joy unto one of Valeray’s sons, and so we took it upon ourselves not only to prevent that but to destroy Roulan, Valeray’s ally.
“And so, though it is a full moon later than planned, I have come to slay you, and as an added windfall, I will let you watch as I kill this fool of a prince.”
Rhensibé looked at the black nails on her hands—sharp as talons—and she smirked at Chelle and said, “All it will take is a slight prick from my beautiful, ebon, and quite venomous clutch, and he will die a most satisfying and agonizing death.” And laughing in her wickedness, she reached forth with her left hand and stepped toward Borel.
Chelle tried to scream, but could not.
And sweat broke out on Borel’s brow as he tried to raise his sword, yet all was in vain.
Rhensibé sneered at their futile efforts and flexed her black claws and brought them up to Borel’s throat and—
—running full speed, Slate slammed into the witch, smashing her sideways and down, and racing Wolves followed and leapt upon her and their snarling and rending and tearing drowned out her terrified shrieks. Blood flew wide to stain white snow, and Rhensibé’s shrill screams chopped short as Render tore out her throat, and the rest of the pack ripped her apart—hands, arms, legs, feet, viscera, her face, her head. And Borel, the paralysis long lifted, made no move whatsoever to save her, but looked on coldly instead, while Chelle turned aside and only glanced now and then.