“Non, my sweet. Did I not say you are beautiful?”
“You did, and I am somewhat tired, for the ride here was long.”
“Is the faire already—But wait, I thought this was the day it would close, yet you are here instead.”
Avélaine looked into the clear blue eyes of the somewhat stocky sea captain. “Indeed, the faire will be over as of this eve, but Valeray sent me away three days past, Love, and I’m glad he did.”
“Three days? But that means you must have raced all the way.”
“Oui. But for one night in my father’s manse, all we did was ride and camp and ride and camp until we got here. I am looking forward to a night in my own bed.”
Chevell frowned. “Why did the king send you away?”
“Oh, Love, it was not in anger. But with Hradian having gotten the key to the Castle of Shadows, they thought it best.”
“Ah, I see. The Sprites brought word of the witch’s deed, yet they also brought word that Raseri and Rondalo are on the way to intercept her.”
“Oh, my, I had not heard that,” said Avélaine. “What wonderful news.”
“Wonderful if they stop her,” said Chevell, brushing a stray lock of his red hair from his brow.
Avélaine smiled at the gesture—So like him—then sobered and said, “If Raseri and Rondalo do not manage to intervene, then Valeray and his get are in special peril, for Hradian will seek vengeance for the deaths of her sisters, and Orbane, if he gets free, will want revenge for his imprisonment, a thing for which Valeray is most responsible, for ’twas he who stole the seals that locked the wizard away. And so, that’s one reason they sent me away.”
“One reason? There is another?”
Avélaine smiled and said, “They did not want our unborn to share this jeopardy.”
“Our unborn—? Avélaine, is it true?”
“Oui, my love. I am with child.”
Chevell shouted in joy and took her up to swing her about, but then gasped and set her down gently. “Oh, chérie, you rode at a gallop all the way here, and now I am manhandling you. Will it hurt the—?”
Avélaine laughed. “Non, non, my captain. As I once heard someone else say, at this point I am just a little pregnant.”
Chevell roared in laughter. “Who?”
“I believe it was Camille when we got back from the realm of the Changelings. Oh, chéri, you should see the child she and Alain have. Such a sweet little boy. I hope we are as fortunate.”
Chevell shook his head. “Boy or girl, it matters not, for we will love the child. And how could it not be sweet, coming from someone such as you.”
Laughing, hand in hand they walked down toward the central pier.
“There is one more reason I am here early,” said Avélaine.
“Oh, and what is that?”
“I came to realize that this endeavor you are about to undertake is not the lark you make it out to be. My love, you are sailing into perilous waters, and I would have every spare moment of your time ere you embark.”
Chevell did not reply, other than to squeeze her hand. Had he looked at her he would have seen eyes brimming with unshed tears.
She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “Speaking of your mission, how goes the fleet?”
Chevell made a wide, sweeping gesture toward the bay. “We have twelve ships of the line, with another five or six due to arrive any day now. Some we are fitting with new ballistas and the latest in fireballs. Some only need refurbishing. Some need new rigging, others new canvas, still others nought but fresh paint and a cleansing of barnacles. When we are finished we will have the finest armada in all of Faery. And all the captains are eager, for all would see the corsairs eliminated forever. And up in the hills, King Avélar’s own warmaster is training a battalion of marines in ship-to-ship tactics and in grappling and boarding and fighting in close quarters and in conquering a fort.”
Chevell frowned and then added, “Yet, if Orbane gets free, he might take a hand in this battle, for in the last war, he tried to recruit the corsairs unto his side. This time he might succeed.”
Avélaine stopped in her tracks, and swung Chevell toward her. “Oh, chéri, if that happens, what will it mean?”
“There’s nought to say it will happen, but if it does, then things will be dire. ’Tis all the more reason we should set sail, and soon, and destroy the corsairs ere he can seduce them.”
Avélaine hugged him fiercely, and he gently returned her embrace.
34
Blow
Alain laughed and turned Prince Duran upside down, the lad squealing in delight, and Scruff flew about, chirping in joy. Yet Alain’s conversation was anything but playful. “Not since yesternight and this morning, eh?”
“Non,” replied Camille, adjusting the small tiara and inspecting herself in the mirror. “Just those two times.”
Alain lifted the boy up and set him upon a shoulder. “Why is it, I wonder, we males do not sense it, this sinister spying? And if not Hradian, then who?”
“That I know not, my love,” said Camille, smoothing the front of her wide-sweeping gown. “But there is this to consider: if it is Hradian, then Raseri and Rondalo have yet to deal with her.” She turned to Alain. “Ready?”
Alain looked up at Duran. “Are we ready, Little Prince?”
“Asphodel,” said the lad.
“Oh, my, that’s right. It would not be complete without your Fairy horse.”
Alain set Duran down, and the boy scrambled across the chamber and took up the toy. “Now we are ready, Papa.”
Scruff flew to Camille’s shoulder and lit, and out into the hallway all went and down the stairs, Duran holding onto Alain’s hand and jumping two-footed from step to step with a minor boost from his sire. As they reached the great welcoming hall, Borel stood and said, “At last we can close this faire, and the sooner done with that, then the quicker we can get out of this finery and get on with the business of making ready for war.”
Both he and Alain were dressed in silks and satins, Borel in his customary white and pale blue, signifying the Winterwood, and Alain in his green and gold, signifying the Summerwood. Likewise was Duran in green and gold, as was Camille, and under her gown she wore gold pantaloons for riding ahorse in the rade.
Borel looked about impatiently. “Now where are our dear sisters and mother and father?”
Alain pushed out a hand. “Forbear, brother, forbear. They’ll be here anon.”
Even as he said it, sweeping down the grand staircase came Liaze in russet and yellow and Céleste in pale pink and white.
Almost immediately they were followed by Saissa and Valeray, both in dark crimson and black.
In the late afternoon sunlight, across the Springwood hurtled Hradian and Orbane astride the witch’s besom, and as they came to the starwise border, Hradian looked down to see the corpses of slain birds amid a litter of black feathers. “My crows, my beautiful crows. What has happened here?”
“Your crows?”
“My lord, I set them to watch the borders to stop the flight of Sprites to slow the spreading of the alarm. And now they are all dead, my beautiful, beautiful crows.”
Seething, Orbane sucked air through clenched teeth. “Since you failed in that small matter, Acolyte, we can assume that the word is spreading even now. All the more reason to hurry and assemble my armies before these fools can assemble theirs. Faster, Acolyte, faster.”
Hradian urged her broom to greater speed, and through the twilight bound they plunged.
Out through the gate and over the bridge rode the royal party, Wolves to the fore and aflank and aft. Through the grounds of the faire they went, the crowd cheering, though rather thinly, and many faces were filled with concern. The news had spread like wildfire of Hradian’s obtaining a means to possibly free Orbane, and the appearance of men arriving at the castle to be trained for war had all citizenry on edge. Many had left the faire-grounds and even then were on their way to their homes: some in Valeray’
s demesne, others in one or another of the four Forests of the Seasons, and still others from farther away.
The baggage trains of the princes and princesses had departed yester, and Princess Michelle and the Vicomtesse Avélaine had gone two days ere then, each party trailing remounts no less, for they were in a hurry.
And yet King Valeray and Queen Saissa and their get, as well as Princess Camille and wee Prince Duran, had remained, and this had had a calming effect on many a taut nerve.
Still, at the stables stood other horses, ready to bear Borel and Liaze and Céleste in haste to their own manors. Only Prince Alain and Princess Camille would ride at a more leisurely pace, and that was because of wee Prince Duran, who would slow the stride of that particular cavalcade. Even so, they would press forward as fast as they could, for if the Wizard Orbane were indeed to be set free, then the presence of prince and princess in their demesnes would strengthen trembling hearts.
And so, as the sun sank through the sky, through the dilute crowd of well-wishers rode the procession and toward the arena where the faire would come to an end.
A fanfare of trumpets sounded the entry of the royal party into the amphitheater, and ’round the perimeter rode the procession, people cheering to see them pass by, especially Prince Duran, seated before his father on a high-stepping black.
To the royal box rode all, and there they dismounted, and pages led the horses away as into the seats King Valeray and his family ascended. At a gesture from Borel, the Wolves plopped down upon the ground off to one side.
And as Valeray stood to give the ceremonial closing speech, Borel smiled as Duran “clip-clopped” his toy along the forward rail.
Of a sudden, Borel’s eyes widened. “Mithras!” he exclaimed, turning to Alain. “But I now know what at least a part of Skuld’s rede means, though I don’t understand the full of it.”
In that same moment, Scruff leapt into the shoulder pocket of Camille’s gown and frantically tugged on her hair, and Wolves sprang to their feet, and a Sprite came hurtling through the air and across the arena, shrilling, “It’s not a crow, not a crow!”
Camille glanced up to see a black bird lazily circling o’erhead—
—and then it wasn’t a bird, but a witch and someone else astride a broom.
“Orbane!” cried Valeray.
“Hradian!” shouted Alain, even as Camille reached for Duran.
Arcane words rent the air, and amid gleeful laughter from above, a great, roaring, whirling black wind descended upon the royal box and bore them all away.
35
Pack
The black wind roared; posts and rails and the boards of the arena stands hurtled through the shrieking air and smashed into whatever stood in the way—ripping, rending, bashing, killing—people and horses and ought else. Dust and dirt and wood shavings and rocks and straw hurled ’round and blinded all, and men and women and animals screamed and fled, some running straight to their doom. And all the while unheard laughter rang down from above.
And then the wind lifted up and away, and wreckage and dirt and stones fell, and straw and wood shavings fluttered down . . . and the air cleared, revealing the devastation wrought: men and women and children lay wounded or slain; horses lay dead or dying; nought remained of the arena but shattered wood and rent cloth and other such flinders.
But in the center of all stood Slate and the pack, for the great Wolf had led the others to the safety of the eye of the spin, where they stood their ground and snarled at the witch and wizard above.
“The Wolves, my lord,” shrieked Hradian, “kill the Wolves.” Even as she called for their deaths, Hradian reached for the thong about her throat, where hung the last of the clay amulets known as the Seals of Orbane—terrible talismans filled with arcane power. With it she could easily slaughter the animals.
But Orbane snarled, “Pah! They are of no import whatsoever, for the Fates and Wolves truck not with one another.”
“But they are the ones who tore Rhensibé asunder.”
“Silence! Would you have me discipline you?”
Hradian cowered, a mewl of fear escaping her lips.
“Away, Acolyte,” commanded Orbane. “I have removed those with whom the Fates ally themselves. Now little stands in my path. Away, I say, to rally my own armies.”
With one last venomous glance at the pack below, Hradian’s hand fell away from her throat, and she spun the besom about, and toward the dawnwise bound she and Orbane sped.
Slate and the pack watched the bitch two-legs and the other one vanish. Not-birds they were, yet still they flew. Once before the Wolves had seen the same bird-not-bird bitch two-legs, there at the little stone den near the long bad place in the territory of snow. That, too, was a time when a terrible black wind bore their master away.
Slate turned to the others and chuffed, and then he and the pack trotted past the broken-legged and maimed horses and those that were not-alive, past the two-legs that were hurt, some of those not-alive, too, while other two-legs wandered among the sharp odor of mark-water, and the strong smell of mark-pile, and the intense reek of life-water. Through the wrack they passed and among the two-legs now rushing toward the not-alive and hurt ones, many two-legs running out from the big stone den.
And when they were free of the place of the two-legs in the field, and had rounded the big stone den, Slate broke into a lope, with Dark, Render, Shank, Trot, Loll, and Blue-eye following. Starwise they ran, toward where they knew lay the territory of snow, for the last time the black wind had carried their master away, they had waited at his big den, and he had finally come home with his own bitch two-legs. And the master had begun to teach his bitch a limited form of True-People-speak, for the two-legs had no tails and could not move their ears; still she had much left to learn. And even though her understanding was stunted, he would tell her of the terrible black wind taking the master away.
Through the warm-days woodland the pack sped, and ere the sun had set they came to the twilight border, and they slowed not a step but plunged on through.
Foxes scattered before them, and Slate paused a moment to snap up the remains of a dead crow, mostly rent of feathers, thanks to the canine brethren. All others in the pack lingered a moment to take up stripped birds of their own. And with a snap and a crunch and a swallow, they were swiftly on their way once more.
Through the snow they hammered, white clots flying from paws, and they came to a swift-running stream, ice lining the banks though the center flowed free. They took a moment to lap water, and with thirsts quenched, away they sped.
On they ran and on, tireless in their pace, and the waxing half-moon high above slowly sank duskwise through the star-laden wheeling sky.
Some Sprites watched them run, and some raced alongside the Wolves, popping from icicle to clad limb to covered rock to frozen pond, while others flashed on ahead to bear mute word to the manor of the presence of the pack in the wood.
“M’lady,” said Arnot.
Michelle looked up from her book. “Oui?”
“M’lady, the Sprites tell that the Wolves are on their way.”
“Ah, good. Then my Borel will soon be home.”
Arnot shook his head. “The prince is not with them.”
Michelle frowned. “Not with them? But why would he send them on alone?—Oh, my, are you then telling me Borel comes without the pack’s protection?”
“Princess, the Sprites say that Borel has not entered the Winterwood.”
“Non Borel; just Wolves?”
“Oui.”
Michelle set her book aside and stood. She bowed her head and frowned a moment in thought, and then looked up and said, “Have a falcon ready to fly on the wings of dawn, Arnot, for I would know what is afoot.”
“Mayhap, my lady, a falcon will come from the castle ere midmorn and let us know.”
“Perhaps . . . yet I would not wait, for the pack would not leave him without cause.”
“Mayhap, my lady, it is as you first said:
the prince sent them on ahead.”
Michelle slowly nodded and said, “ ’Tis unlikely.” Of a sudden, anxiety filled her eyes. “—Oh, Arnot, I feel something is amiss, yet what it might be escapes me.”
A silence fell between them, but then Arnot said, “The only time I’ve known the prince to be without his Wolves is when he and they went beyond the blight to the cottage of the witch, and she reft him away and into imprisonment by using one of the Seals of Orbane.”
Michelle blanched. “But surely that cannot be the case.”
Arnot shrugged. “I would think not, for if Hradian yet lives, she should be far from here. Even so, we cannot be certain.”
Michelle sat down, but immediately stood again. “Oh, I wish we had word of Raseri and Rondalo’s mission; surely they’ve killed the witch by now.”
“If they caught up to her,” said Arnot.
Michelle sighed and said, “Given where the Sprites saw them, how long ere the pack arrives?”
Arnot pursed his lips. “Nigh dawn, give or take a candlemark.”
“Have the Sprites bring word when the pack passes the blighted section. And then find me, for I shall speak with Slate and the others the moment they reach the manor. In the meanwhile, have a page come to me, for I would send a message to the scribe to post by falcon at dawn.”
“Oui, m’lady.”
After Arnot was gone, Michelle sat down at a nearby escritoire and composed a short query:
The Wolves have come alone. What is afoot?—Chelle
Moments later, a page appeared at the door.
“Burton, take this to the scribe and have him pen it small enough for a falcon-borne message to King Valeray. But do not have him send it to the mews as of yet, for I would first speak with the Wolves.”
“The Wolves, m’lady? But they’re not here.”
“They are on the way, Burton. Now take that to the scribe.”
“Oui, m’lady.”
As the lad rushed away, Michelle tried to return to her reading, but in moments she placed a ribbon between the pages to mark her place and then set the book aside.
Once Upon a Dreadful Time Page 19