“Sieur Blaise,” said Jerome-
“Stay with the mounts,” said Blaise, and he and Regar set off upstream, Flic and Fleurette and Buzzer again riding the tricorn.
Jerome sighed and sheathed his blade and watched them until they vanished beyond the turn.
’Round the bend fared the knight and bastard prince, along with two Sprites and a bee, and aseat on a low limb of a widespread oak sat a distressed, yellow-haired demoiselle, a small basket in hand. She was clad in a gingham dress, though her feet were bare. Relief swept over her face at the sight of the men coming to rescue her.
“Oh, sieurs, I am so glad to see you, for I need aid in getting to the ground.”
“What are you doing up this tree, m’lady?” asked Regar.
“Collecting birds’ eggs, Sieur, for my sisters and me.”
“Your sisters?”
“Oui, I have two.”
Blaise sheathed his sword and stepped among the great gnarled roots spreading out from the bole and across the ground.
“Mademoiselle, if you would trust me, please lower the basket first, and then yourself afterward. I will catch you.”
“Oh, Sieur, but I am afraid.”
“Then I will climb up, and ease you down to my friend.” He turned to Regar. “N’est ce pas?”
Regar nodded, and as Blaise climbed, the prince sheathed his arrow and slipped his bow across his back.
Blaise took the basket with its grass-cushioned eggs and gave it into Regar’s upstretched hands, and the prince set it to the ground.
Then Blaise grasped the mademoiselle by the wrists and, with her emitting small whimpers, he lowered her to Regar’s embrace.
Blaise leapt down as Regar eased the femme to earth, the prince saying, “There, my lady. Safely done.” And in that moment the basket and eggs vanished and a shimmering came over the mademoiselle, and there before them stood a matronly woman with golden hair and golden eyes and dressed in a gold-limned ebon robe, and the air was filled with the sound of looms weaving.
As Regar stepped back in surprise, “Lady Verdandi,” said Flic, even as Blaise knelt and said, “Lady Lot.” Following Blaise’s action, Regar knelt as well.
“Blaise, Regar, Flic, Fleurette, Buzzer,” said Verdandi, smiling.
“So much for Fey sight,” said Fleurette.
Verdandi laughed. “Not even Fey sight can pierce the disguises my sisters and I wear.” Blaise said, “My Lady Who Sees the Everlasting Now, have you come to give us a rede?”
“Oui, I have, and, since you have helped me, I can do so, but only if you answer a riddle.”
Flic groaned, but otherwise didn’t speak.
“A riddle?” asked Regar.
“By the rules my sisters and I follow, you must do so ere any of us can render aid.”
Blaise sighed in resignation, but then he seemed to brace himself. He looked up at her. “Say on, Lady Lot.” Verdandi nodded and took a deep breath. And as the sound of weaving intensified, she said:
“You will find me in beds, in friendship, in love, But not in enmity or cold winds above.
I come from without, and I come from within; I am oft shared among good women and men.
From hearts and hearths, though not quite same, You will say I arrive; now tell me my name.” As the clack of shuttles and thud of battens diminished, Fleurette cried, “I know, I know,” yet Verdandi pushed out a hand to silence the Sprite.
As Blaise’s heart fell, Verdandi said, “It is Sieur Blaise’s to answer here in the Summerwood.”
Here in the Summerwood? What is it about the Summerwood that makes it another clue? Blaise looked about, seeing full-leafed trees amid lush and verdant undergrowth, and a greensward leading down to the stream, and he heard birds singing in the distance, and the sound of the brook as the clear water tumbled o’er rocks on its way to a distant sea. Yet none of these fit the words of the rhyme. This domain, where everlasting summer lies on the-
“Warmth, my lady,” said Blaise. “It is found in beds, in friendship, in love, but not in enmity or cold winds above. It arrives from hearths without and hearts within, and is often shared by good women and men.” Blaise fell silent, and waited with bated breath for Lady Lot to speak.
“Indeed,” said Verdandi.
Even as Blaise gave a sigh of relief, “I knew the answer,” whispered Fleurette to Flic.
“I didn’t,” said Flic.
“My lady Lot,” said Regar, “the rede you are to give us, is it a riddle as well?”
“Oui. By the rules my sisters and I follow, we can do nought else.”
Again Flic groaned and Blaise braced himself, as did Regar.
Only Fleurette seemed eager to hear the rede.
Once more the sound of weaving intensified, and Verdandi intoned:
“Grim are the dark days looming ahead Now that the die is cast.
Fight for the living, weep for the dead; Those who are first must come last.
Summon them not ere the final day
For his limit to be found.
Great is his power all order to slay, Yet even his might has a bound.”
Verdandi fell silent, and the clacks and thuds diminished.
And Blaise looked at Regar in confusion, and received a shrug in return. Flic shook his head in bewilderment, and Fleurette turned up her hands in puzzlement.
“My lady Lot,” said Blaise, “can you not-?”
“Non, I cannot,” said Verdandi. “Yet this I can tell you for nought: Heed my rede, all of it, and make certain you do not send word prematurely, else the world will be fallen to ruin.” And with that dreadful utterance, again the sound of shuttles and battens intensified, and then vanished as did Lady Lot.
Reaper
Just after the noontide, Luc and Maurice came to a long slope leading down into a wide meadow, in which a rich stand of grain grew. High on the slope stood a massive oak, and ’neath its widespread limbs sat a very large man with a great scythe across his knees. As Luc and Maurice slowed to a trot and 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.
Luc called out, “Bonjour, Reaper.”
“Bonjour, Prince Luc,” 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.
Luc reined to a halt next to the large man and dismounted, and Maurice followed suit, and both knight and guide began changing saddles to remounts.
“What news, my lord?” asked the Reaper.
“Ill word, I’m afraid, Moissonneur.”
“Ill word?”
“Oui. It seems the witch Hradian has come into possession of a token to set free the wizard Orbane from his imprisonment.”
“That is ill news indeed,” said the Reaper.
“If so,” replied Luc, “we will need all the aid we can summon.”
“My lord, I will come when the time is right.” Luc frowned at this odd turn of phrase, yet he said, “We will welcome you,” and both he and Maurice mounted up.
Luc then saluted the Reaper, and the huge man bowed in acknowledgment and watched as the two galloped away.
Then the Reaper sat down with his back to the great oak and positioned his huge scythe across his knees and smiled unto himself.
Warnings
After Laurent and Edouard galloped away, the Ice Sprite they had enlisted flashed from his icicle to the frozen mere where many of his kindred played, and he relayed the message to all. They in turn spread throughout the Winterwood, alerting their kindred as to the dreadful news. And as they went from icicle to frozen stream to ice-clad trees and boulders, unlike their winged kindred, they did not seem to cross through the intervening space at all; instead they were here, and then they were there. Hence, the word spread much more swiftly throughout this realm than through the other Forests of the Season, for it seemed as if an Ice Sprite could cross enormous di
stances in the blink of an eye.
And winged Sprites briefly came from the Springwood and Autumnwood and Summerwood, and they paused just long enough to tell of the plans for dealing with the crows ere fleeing back to their more hospitable domains.
And as in the other realms, the Ice Sprites spread the word from hamlet to hunter, from cottage to fortress, from snowy vale to icy mountaintop, and to all beings wherever they found them, as long as ice was at hand.
And they, too, alerted the Root Dwellers, and they spied upon the crows massed along a section of the starwise border, waiting for winged Sprites to come flying through.
And the Root Dwellers harvested long, slender thorns, and they plotted and planned among themselves.
And while that was in progress, Ice Sprites went through the twilight borders along particular sectors of the Winterwood, to cross into other frozen realms, and they alerted their kindred, and the reindeer herders, and the seal hunters, and the woodsmen hewing trees, and other such hardy beings, and these folk, too, were dismayed to hear of the appalling news. Yet they clenched their jaws and straightened their backs and promised they would be ready.
And as the Ice Sprites bore the warning onward they also sought Raseri the Dragon and Rondalo the Elf, but this day it was in vain.
Conundrums
Down into a fog-laden vale plunged Roel and Devereau.
Their passage caused swirls in the clinging vapor, as of ghosts flying through the mist. But soon up a long slope they surged, and back into the sunlight of the Springwood they ran, the air among newly leafed-out foliage bearing the scent of the forest, fresh and full of promise. Yet old were these trees, some of them, their roots reaching deep, their great girths moss-covered, their branches spread wide and interlacing with others overhead. Oak there was, proud and majestic, and groves of birch, silver and white; maple and elm stood tall, with dogwood and wild cherry blossoms filling the air with their delicate scents. And down among the roots running across the soil, crocuses bloomed, as did small mossy flowers, yellow and lavender and white. Even though much of the woodland seemed aged, here and there stood new growth-thickets of saplings and lone seedlings and solitary treelets, all reaching upward in the search for light, their hues more vivid than those of their ancient kindred. Birds flitted among the verdant leaves, their songs claiming territory and calling for mates. The hum of bees sounded as they moved from blossom to blossom, and elsewhere beetles clambered along greening vines and stems. Overhead, scampering limb-runners chattered, and down among the grass and thatch, voles and other small living things rustled.
And streams burbled and splashed among stones, as if singing and dancing on their way to some collective goal. Bright and dark and twilight were these woods, and full of wakened life, and Roel, though he had lived herein for some four years in all, was filled with the marvel of this splendid place.
But unlike other times and other days, he did not stop to revel in the glory, but pressed his mount onward toward the distant goal.
Now and then across Roel’s vision a winged Sprite would flash, much like a hummingbird in its swiftness, bearing the warning through some part of the realm. And occasionally, Root Dwellers and other such elfin folk would try to keep pace with them, but swift were the steeds and their riders, and shortly the small beings would be left far behind.
Even though their mission was urgent, of necessity Roel and Devereau paused to relieve the horses, to water them and feed them a bit of grain and allow them some respite. And at these stops, they would change tack to fresher mounts and shortly take up the ride again, the horses pounding through the soft loam and the detritus of the forest floor.
One of these halts occurred nigh the noontide in the hamlet of Auberville, where the Sprite-borne warning had already come, and an assembly of folk looked unto the chevalier for answers. While the horses rested, Roel replied to their queries as best he could, but at last he and Devereau mounted up to push on. Yet ere leaving, Roel wheeled his horse toward the gathering and said, “At this time, we are doing all we can to meet the threat of Orbane. Yet whether or no he gets free, in but a few days men will arrive to begin training those who are able-bodied, for there might come a time when battle cannot be avoided, and we must be ready. Thereafter, if the call to assemble is sounded, all fighters will then report to wherever the muster is to be held. Even so, some must remain behind, not only to protect the realm, but also to provide for the oldsters and youngsters and the sick and lame and enfeebled, for, though you might be eager to join the fight, we cannot abandon those herein who will need your aid.”
And with that, Roel and Devereau spurred away.
Across flowered glades hammered the mounts, spring melt trickling from the shadowy feet of trees, where snow yet huddled out of the rays of the sun.
And the sun itself slid through the sky and across and down as the day crept toward the eve. And as the orb set and dusk drew down on the land, Devereau called out, “But a league or so and we’ll be at the manse.”
“Oui, Devereau, I know,” answered Roel, for he was quite familiar with the route between Springwood Manor and the Castle of the Seasons, having travelled it a number of times.
Yet he was glad of Devereau’s company, for the flaxen-haired youth was of good spirit. Besides, should they meet up with trouble along the way, the youth, a member of the Springwood warband, was quite handy with a bow.
And as they galloped down a dark gallery of trees, in the near distance ahead something small and white stood upon the way.
“Rein back, Devereau, rein back,” called Roel. “We know not what this might be.”
“Think you it is a trick of the witch?” called the youth, even as he and Roel slowed their mounts to a walk, the horses breathing heavily, lather running down their flanks.
“I know not,” answered Roel, and he drew Coeur d’Acier, its silvery blade rune-marked.
Devereau strung his bow and nocked an arrow, and slowly they pressed forward, both scanning the surround for waiting foe, yet in the light of dusk they saw none.
Now Roel gazed ahead at the creature in the trail. “Devereau, methinks ’tis a goat.”
“Indeed, Sieur, but something or someone small lies on the ground at its feet.”
“I see,” said Roel, frowning, then urging his mount onward.
“Perhaps a new kid or a small child. Even so, keep a sharp eye.” And as they neared, they could see it was a youngster, a femme lying facedown. When they came unto her, Roel sheathed his sword and reined to a stop and leapt from his horse. The goat bleated and sidled but did not flee, and Roel turned the child over and cradled her head and shoulders. She was breathing but unconscious and looked to be no more than eight or nine summers old.
“Devereau, your wineskin,” snapped Roel as he supported the child’s small frame, and he reached with his free hand toward his companion.
Devereau untied the small leather bag from his cantle, and leapt down and uncapped the skin and handed it to Roel. Carefully, Roel dribbled a small amount in between the child’s slightly parted lips. She lightly coughed and then swallowed, and opened a dark eye and whispered “More, please, Sieur.”
“Oui, ma petite goatherd,” said Roel, and he gave her a second sip.
She opened her other eye and said, “More please, Sieur.” As Roel tipped the skin to her lips, she grasped it with both hands and gulped and gulped and gulped.
“Non, child!” protested Roel, but with surprising strength she wrenched the wineskin from his grip and drained it. Then she looked up at Roel and cackled.
And of a sudden she was free from his embrace, and a dark shimmering came over her as she stood.
Roel sprang back and ripped free his blade from its scabbard, even as Devereau snatched up his bow and nocked an arrow and drew.
And before them stood a black-haired, black-eyed toothless crone dressed in a black-limned ebon robe, and from somewhere, nowhere, everywhere came the sound of looms weaving.
Roel called out, �
��Devereau, hold! Loose not!” and then he sheathed his sword and knelt before the hag and said, “My lady Urd.”
Behind him, Devereau pointed his bow down and away and relaxed his draw, then he, too, fell to his knees in obeisance.
“Heh! Had you fooled, eh?” said Urd, even as she turned toward the goat and made a small gesture, and it vanished.
“Oui, my lady Doom,” said Roel, yet kneeling before her.
“Given the straits we find ourselves in, have you come with a message?”
“Of course, of course,” snapped Urd. “Why else would I be here?”
“Only the Fates would know,” answered Roel, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
Urd gaped a gummy grin and said, “Given to bons mots, are we?”
“I rather thought you would like such,” said Roel.
Urd hooted in glee and said, “And I thought no one could fathom even a trifle when it concerns the characters of my sisters and me.”
“My lady Doom, I remember the pleasure you took in small joys when last we met.”
“Hmm. . Got to be careful around the likes of you, my lad, else I might let something unwarranted slip. Can’t be too caught up in tomfooleries, especially not given the events to come.” Urd’s smile vanished, and her face took on an aspect even more careworn than her aged features would suggest.
“Events to come,” said Roel. “That’s why you are here.”
“As always,” said Urd. “By the rules we follow, ’tis only in times of a future need that we might appear, and even then not always.”
“But I thought all was written,” protested Devereau.
Urd shook her head. “Although we have seen, still no event is permanently set until I finally bind it into the Tapestry of Time.”
“How so?” asked the youth.
“My elder sister Skuld sees the future and weaves those scenes into the tapestry; Verdandi sees the present, and changes the weavings to reflect alterations in the events; and I finally bind all incidents into permanency. But heed me, Devereau, Roel, great deeds are needed to change what Skuld and Verdandi weave and what I prepare to affix, but once I do the final binding, nought will recall any event whatsoever so that one might change the final outcome.”
Once upon a dreadful time ou-4 Page 12