Orbane nodded. “By force, you mean.” Again his words were not a question.
Effroi nodded once more.
“As it should be,” said Orbane. “Tell me, have you tried to fetch the cloak by way of a spell before?”
Effroi sighed. “Oui, but I have failed each time. Did I not say her magic is strong?”
A small flash of ire crossed Orbane’s face, but he managed to quell his rage at being questioned. “I heard you the first time . . . boy.”
Effroi looked at Orbane. “My lord, they say your magic, too, is mighty. Think you that you can overcome the power of the Queen of the Changelings?”
Again rage briefly flashed upon Orbane’s features, but he said, “Effroi, do the Changelings once commanded by your sire now acknowledge you as their liege?”
“Oui.”
“Then, my lord,” said Orbane, “I have a proposition to make, one that will restore the cloak to you and give you all the mortal virgins you desire. And all it requires is that you and your minions join me in a minor venture.”
Effroi’s face lighted with the expectation of promises fulfilled. “Say on, my lord, say on.”
“They start their march on the morrow, Acolyte, and gather strength of numbers as they go. All I had to do was promise Effroi I would retrieve his father’s cloak and give it to him. The fool! As if I would actually yield up that splendid mantle. Why, with it I will be able to instantly transport myself to wherever it is I desire. Black it is, and limned in scarlet—how fitting that I shall be the one to own it.”
Hradian did not respond. Instead she ground her teeth in frustration, for what she had sought, the corpse of her sister had not had. There had been no thong about Nefasí’s neck with a clay amulet dangling. Instead, it seems she had not had any of the Seals of Orbane, or if she had, they had not been on her person when she had been slain by that whore Céleste. Yet gritting her teeth, Hradian bore down on her besom to urge more speed from it, as toward the Isle of Brados they raced and the corsair stronghold thereon.
38
Under the Hill
“There it is, at the top of that tall mound,” cried Flic as Regar crested a hill and stopped, the horses lathered and blowing.
Across the expanse of green rolling downs, Regar could see a great grassy mound on which sat a dolmen, with three upright, twice-man-tall megaliths equidistant from one another and a great flat capstone atop.
Two days earlier in the dawn they had left Lisane’s great willow tree abode. She had wept, and Regar had embraced her dearly, his own eyes filled with sadness. Yet both knew he could not remain, for momentous events were afoot. And so, following Buzzer, Regar had ridden away, Lisane’s sweet kiss yet lingering on his lips. “Au revoir, Lady of the Bower,” had cried Flic. “I am certain we shall see you again.” And off they had galloped, and, even as they went apace, Fleurette had drawn in a gasp of wonder, and quickly she wiped away her own tears of parting, for trotting across the sward had come a Unicorn to comfort weeping Lisane.
But that had been two days past, and they had ridden far and had crossed many a twilight marge. And not but a few moments ago they had emerged from the final crepuscular bound to come into these verdant downs.
“Oh, Flic,” said Fleurette, peering at the dolmen, “should we go near? As you once said, the Fey Lord Gwynn is quite capricious and might give us some onerous task to perform.”
“Fear not, my sweetling, for the sun is o’erhead and the passage will not open until the eventide, by which time we can be at a distance, and Gwynn will not know we are nigh.”
“You name him Gwynn?” asked Regar.
“Oui,” said Flic.
“My grandmother called him Auberon, for that was the name he gave her.”
“Ah, he is known by many names, depending on who is speaking, Gwynn and Auberon being just two.”
“His queen has many names as well,” said Fleurette, “Mab, Titania, and Gloriana being but three.”
“My grandmother called her Gloriana,” said Regar.
“By any name, she is the Fairy Queen, just as he is the Fey King.”
“Well and good,” said Regar, “but let us tarry no longer.”
Regar spurred his mount and galloped down the far side of the hill, the remounts and the pack horse in tow. Across the swale below and then up to the dolmen they went, where Buzzer awaited atop the capstone, her task as guide now done.
“My lord,” said Flic, “you’ll have to wait until the coming of dusk, for none can enter ere then. It’s shut, you see.”
But as Regar dismounted, the moment his foot touched the sod, a great hole yawned open ’neath the dolmen, revealing stairs and a wagon ramp leading down and in, a dim glow seeping upward.
“Oh, my!” exclaimed Flic. “I wonder what—?”
“Perhaps it’s my blood,” said Regar.
Flic frowned. “Your blood?”
“Oh, love,” said Fleurette, “he is, after all, the grandson of the Fairy King.”
“Ah,” said Flic, enlightened.
Regar stepped under the capstone and looked into the gape. “You tell me that time strides at a different pace therein?”
Flic nodded, though on the tricorn as he was, the Prince could not see his assent. At an elbow from Fleurette, Flic added, “Oui, my lord. When last Buzzer and I were here with Prince Borel and he had gone within, we waited for him for a full fortnight, and yet to him but a few candlemarks had passed ere he emerged once more.”
Regar stepped back out from under and looked about, and both Sprites flew to alight upon the edge of the capstone.
“Tell me, my tiny comrades, can you keep the horses from running away?”
“Oh, yes,” replied Flic.
Fleurette giggled and added, “We oft play tricks on crofters’ steeds, and the farmers find them far afield.”
“How so, Little Flower?” asked Regar.
“Well, they are trained, you see, and so we merely light in the animal’s ear and command them with a gee and a haw and a hup and a whoa, and they go where we wish.”
Regar broke into laughter, and then he began unlading the cargo from the pack horse and removing the tack from the one he had ridden and the tethered halters from the remounts. After he had rubbed them down, he said, “There’s good grazing at hand, and I see a stream in the distance. So while you’ll watch over the steeds, I will go see my grandsire.”
“Ah, good,” said Flic. “That way you can tell the Fey Lord that we are down by the stream and tending a task, and he won’t think of something for us to do.”
“But please, Prince Regar,” said Fleurette, “leave a honey jar open for us to sup upon should you be a long while returning.”
“Mais oui,” said Regar, fetching out one of the small stone crocks and uncapping it and setting it in the shade of the dolmen.
“Speaking of dining, my prince,” said Flic, “remember to eat no food and drink no wine nor take any other form of refreshment from them . . . not even water. For if you do, ’tis said that you might forget all.”
Fleurette frowned and said, “I’m not certain of that, my love.”
“Oh?”
“Oui. He has the blood of the Fairy King in his veins.”
“Ah, I see,” said Flic. He turned to Regar and said, “But still if I were you I’d be cautious.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Regar. Then he looked from Flic to Fleurette to Buzzer. “Well, now, there’s nothing for it but for me to go.” And he stepped under the capstone and down into the gaping hole.
“May the Fates watch over you,” called Flic. But in that very moment, the hole closed behind the prince, leaving nought but green sod in its place.
Down the steps alongside the wagon ramp went Regar, a soft silvery light throughout showing the way. Both the stairs and road swept downward in a wide and shallow spiral as into the hollow hills he went. Finally, around a last turn, Regar came to the bottom, where to one side stables marched away—magnificent steeds
therein—and opposite the stables and up three steps was a long corridor leading toward brighter light. And Regar could hear music beyond.
Into the passageway he went, and yet to his gaze along one wall loomed what appeared to be a stone archway, though it seemed to be there and then not there, as if somehow illusory in nature. As he drew nigh he gazed through a solid wall of stone—or was it altogether absent?—and within a long chamber beyond, he espied what looked to be endless rows of glittering weaponry, as if to arm a legion or more. Even so, he could not tell if it was real or merely the semblance of something real. Perhaps if I had what Flic calls Fey sight, I would then know. —But wait! Mayhap with the blood of the Fey Lord flowing in my veins, I am seeing something mortals cannot, though not as well as perhaps the Fey.
Shaking his head in puzzlement, Regar pressed on, and he came unto a great banquet hall, and therein lithe males and lissome females gracefully danced. And they all were of exotic beauty, with faces long and narrow and ears tipped and eyes aslant, their forms most pleasing. Fey, they were, of a size to be human, but no humans these. Instead they were Fairykind or Elvenkind, Regar could not tell which.
And as Regar crossed the threshold, some of these Fey folk turned to see this person who had come uninvited into the hall, while others simply continued their elegant dance and paid him little or no heed.
Yet from the throne on which he sat, a redheaded male looked to see Regar enter, and his green eyes flew wide in astonishment, and he peered overhead as if seeing through the stone above. Then he gazed back at Regar and frowned in perplexity.
A corridor opened up among the dancers, and Regar walked through and to the foot of the dais, where he bowed low and said, “Your Highness,” for Regar’s grandmother had described this homme, and he could be none other than the King Under the Hill.
To the right of the Fey Lord sat a femme of incredible loveliness, her hair raven-black, her eyes sapphire blue, her flawless skin tinged with just a hint of gold, a tint held by all the Folk within the hall, a bit more so than Regar’s own hue.
Again Regar bowed and said, “My lady.”
Both King Auberon and Queen Gloriana inclined their heads in acknowledgment, and the High Lord signalled for silence, and the music stopped, as did the dancers. When quiet fell, he smiled and said, “I am surprised for ’tis yet daylight without, and still you entered. Only those of great power might do so. I would have your name, Stranger.”
“I am Regar, of the Wyldwood, son of Lady Mirabelle and grandson of Lady Alisette, both of the Wyldwood as well.”
At these words, the Fey Lord’s eyes again flew wide, this time in understanding, but the queen’s eyes narrowed, in understanding as well.
Auberon turned to his queen and said, “Do not hold him responsible for my misdeeds.”
A cold stare was her only response.
The king then turned back to Regar. “Now I realize how you could enter even though daylight graces the land above.”
“It is my blood, then?” said Regar.
“Indeed.”
“Quart-sang,” spat Gloriana.
Auberon glowered at her and then took a deep breath and turned toward his court and in a loud voice proclaimed, “I present to you Prince Regar, of the seed of my loins.”
A surprised whisper muttered through the assembly, and, in spite of the queen’s icy mien, the lords and ladies bowed and curtseyed, many smiling, and some of the ladies cast covetous gazes upon the handsome prince.
“Take care they do not steal your heart away,” murmured the king.
“Fear not, my lord,” said Regar, “for it belongs to another.”
At these words a gleam came into Gloriana’s eye, and she called out, “Let us have wine to welcome our guest.”
Regar sighed and said, “I do apologize, my lady, but my mission is urgent and to partake of food and drink must wait, for time passes upon Faery above, and I would not be late to the war.”
The king frowned. “War?”
A stillness fell upon the court.
“Pah!” snapped the queen. “What have we to do with the petty squabbles of your kind? Nought, I say, nought. Nought whatsoever. Let you mongrels and humans slay one another until you are all dead. Perhaps then the mortal world will return to what it should be, to what it was before any of you came.”
Regar was stunned by the accusative bitterness of her words and the murmurs of agreement rippling through the court. Nevertheless, he said, “My lord, my lady, have you not heard?”
“Heard what?” demanded the queen.
“Oh, my lady, if war does come, it is not only humankind and the mortal world in peril, but the whole of Faery, too.”
A gasp of horror now replaced the murmurs, and the Fey Lord said, “Your meaning?”
Regar sighed, then took a deep breath and plunged on: “A sevenday past, the witch Hradian, by cunning and guile, stole a key to the Castle of Shadows. She intends—”
Regar’s words were drowned out by shouts of alarm and denial. The Fey Lord’s face blanched, and the queen looked at Regar agape.
Auberon held his hands up for silence, but it was a long while coming. When the uproar had run its course, Regar continued: “She intends to set Orbane free. Yet there is hope, for Sprites search for Raseri and Rondalo, and they might be able to intercept her. But, if the Drake and Elf are not found, and if the witch succeeds, then I am sent by King Valeray to urge you to arms, for surely the wizard will raise his armies of old and once again seek to master the whole of Faery.”
Auberon turned to Gloriana, but ere he could speak, she called out, “My mirror! I must look in my mirror.” And she sprang to her feet and rushed away.
The Fey Lord motioned to Regar and commanded, “Follow.”
Through long corridors they went, to finally come unto the queen’s chamber, and as they entered, Regar saw her standing before a tall silver mirror, her head bowed in deep concentration. Regar and Auberon stepped forward to flank the queen, her reflection between their two.
Of a sudden the image wavered, and slowly another formed. It showed a tall, dark, hawk-faced homme who was speaking to a sly-eyed femme dressed in black, with trim and danglers hanging down like shadows streaming away.
Gloriana gasped and clutched Auberon’s arm, her face pale, nearly white. “Our son, our son. ’Tis our son.”
But even as the likenesses formed, the man glanced up and ’round, and then he made a gesture, and the mirror went dark.
Auberon, his features grim, looked at Regar and said, “It is Orbane, and he is free.”
39
Visions
“Princess?” Michelle turned to see Steward Arnot standing in the snow.
“Oui?”
“My lady, Vadun is here. He came with Armsmaster Jules.”
“Ah, then, I’ll be right there.”
As Arnot trudged away, Michelle signaled the pack au revoir, though what they interpreted was I go, for what the princess and the Wolves said to one another, though understandable, had slightly different meanings, such as Michelle’s posture for femme was taken as bitch by the pack, and vice versa.
Regardless, for the past three days not only had Michelle been intensely acquiring Wolfspeak, she had also learned from the pack some of the human words and silent hand-signals Borel had taught them all. In the beginning it had been painfully slow, but as her Wolfspeak vocabulary had grown, it had gone much faster. At times the entire pack had been involved; even Slate had deigned to speak with her.
As Michelle bade the Wolves “au revoir,” Slate turned to Dark and said: Master’s bitch two-legs cub-smart. Tears brimmed in Michelle’s eyes, and yet she had a great smile on her face, for never had any praise from her former human tutors made her as proud as Slate’s casual aside to Dark.
Chelle hurried through the corridors to come to the blue room, where Jules and Arnot and Laurent waited with the guest. And as she entered, the princess paused, for Vadun was not like anyone Chelle had ever seen before
: small, he was, child sized, and seemed to be dressed in nought but leaves and twigs. His hair, while clean, was unruly and long, reaching unto his waist, and though it was brown it had a greenish tint shimmering among the strands. His tilted eyes were green as well, though pale and translucent, as of the most delicate of jade. His face was narrow and his form slender, and his arms and legs lean. His smooth light brown skin seemed to match that of a young tree sprout, and his feet were shod in bark shoes. It was almost as if some small woodland being akin to a bush or a tree had somehow come to animate life. That such a creature lived in a realm of ice and snow was a mystery, one that Michelle, for reasons unknown, felt she had no right to delve into.
And as the princess entered the chamber, Vadun stood and bowed and said, “My lady.” His voice was soft, almost a whisper, as of a zephyr gently stirring foliage.
Michelle inclined her head and replied, “Voyant Vadun.”
She took a comfortable chair and gestured to the others to be seated as well, and Vadun returned to the cushioned footstool that fitted his size.
“Princess,” said the small being, “Armsmaster Jules has told me the terrible news, yet unless someone in your household has had a dream bearing upon the calamity, I know not how I can help.”
Even as Michelle’s heart sank, Jules said, “He suggested I bring him here, my lady, just in case someone has had such a rêve.”
At the armsmaster’s words, Vadun smiled, showing rather catlike teeth.
Michelle turned up her hands. “I know of no one who has said so.”
“Princess,” said Arnot, “recall that you and Borel were dream-linked during your imprisonment.”
“Oui. We were.”
Arnot turned to Vadun. “Shouldn’t that help?”
“Perhaps,” murmured the dream seer. “What were the circumstances?”
With her hope rising, quickly Michelle explained.
Vadun sighed and said, “I see. Yet that was an enchanted sleep, and the fact that you could meet one another in your dreams is quite rare, even when one is enspelled, and rarer still in normal sleep, though great love or loyalty aids.”
Once Upon a Dreadful Time Page 21