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.
. .
On raced Slate and the pack, and soon they passed the small stone den where the bird-not-bird bitch two-legs had once lived, the den smelling of old char.
They plunged into the tangle of the long-bad place, the trees twisted and stunted, some shattered, the branches hard and bare and clawlike. And the pack felt the faint itch of the same itch felt when the bird-not-bird bitch two-legs made the master go away on the wind.
As they emerged from the long-bad place, a nearby Sprite looked out from a plane of ice and then vanished. But Slate ignored the tiny being, except to note it had gone.
On ran the pack, and as the dawnwise light began to glimmer, they raced up the long slope and onto the flat where the master’s great den sat. And there to greet them stood the master’s two-legs bitch and others of the master’s two-legs pack.
. .
Michelle knelt and ruffled Slate’s fur, the huge Wolf deigning to be so petted. The remainder of the pack gathered about and waited their turns, some fawning, though Slate stood quite still.
After she had greeted each Wolf, Michelle signed to the waiting attendants, and they brought buckets of water for the pack to drink. And when all had slaked their thirst, Michelle struck a posture, and then another, and rumbled as best she could, followed by a short whine. Then she murmured to Arnot, “I’ve asked Slate, where’s Borel?”
With pricked ears and cocked head Slate replied: Where master?
Michelle looked away and raised her nose to the wind, answering: Not here.
Slate raised his nose and looked the same direction and whined: Not here?
Michelle took on another posture and then shifted: Not here.
Where Borel?
Slate emitted a low rumble of disappointment and anger.
Michelle: Where Borel?
Slate gave a whine of uncertainty.
Michelle growled low: Tell.
Slate: Bird-not-bird bitch two-legs.
Michelle gave a whine of confusion.
Slate repeated: Bird-not-bird bitch two-legs.
Michelle: Whine.
Slate snorted and flopped down and looked at Dark and rumbled, for his own bitch and her delicate True-People-speak seemed more able to talk with the master’s bitch two-legs.
Dark struck a single posture: Bitch.
Michelle replied with a chuff of understanding.
Again Dark struck a single posture: head low, tail down, eyes fixed straight ahead.
Michelle frowned, for the posture could mean “bad” or
“danger” or ‘’immediate threat” or any number of allied things, depending upon what came before or after. Nevertheless, with her heart sinking, she replied: Chuff.
Dark: Two-legs.
Michelle: Chuff.
Dark: Bird.
Michelle: Chuff.
Dark: Not-bird.
Michelle: Whine.
Michelle turned to Arnot. “They have told me they do not know where Borel is, and now are trying to tell me something having to do with a bird and peril and a female.” Arnot shrugged and then looked at the others standing nigh.
“Any suggestions?”
Men looked at one another, yet none had ought to say.
Dark: Not.
Michelle again frowned, for this could mean “no” or “not” or “stop” or the like, again depending on context. Michelle replied with a chuff.
Dark: Not-bird.
“Ah,” said Michelle, enlightened, followed by Chuff.
Dark raised her nose high.
Michelle sighed, for that posture could mean “air” or “wind” or “odor on the wind” or “scent” or other similarities. Chuff.
And then Dark struck many poses, putting it all together: Bird-not-bird danger bitch two-legs. Master gone. Bad wind.
With a cry of dismay, Michelle fell to her knees and buried her face in her hands and wept.
Seers
It was not yet midmorn when, in the skies above the manors of the Forests of the Seasons, falcons from Valeray’s domain announced their presence and spiralled down to the mews.
Waiting attendants detached message capsules and bolted away, while others fetched fresh mice for the raptors.
In the Springwood, Steward Vidal, his face somber, came onto the training grounds, where Roel looked over the arriving recruits. “My lord,” said Vidal, distress in his voice, “we have received terrible news.” He handed the message to the knight.
Roel frowned and read and blanched. Shaken, he turned to the captain of the houseguard. “Theon, I leave you in charge until Armsmaster Anton returns. See to the men.” And without another word he spun on his heel and ran toward the manor, Vidal following apace.
To his quarters hurried Roel, and therein he unracked his armor and-
“My lord,” asked Vidal, “what is it you plan to do?”
“Find Celeste and the others,” replied the knight.
“But you do not know where to search.”
“I will ride through all of Faery if necessary,” spat Roel.
. .
Some distance away in the Autumnwood Manor, Luc looked at tall and gaunt Zacharie. “It matters not, Steward, for no matter where Orbane has cast them with his black wind, I will find them.”
“But, my lord,” said Zacharie, “Faery is said to be an endless place, hence setting out with no knowledge whatsoever will lead to nothing at all.”
. .
In Summerwood Manor, Blaise glared at grey-haired Lanval.
“Then what do you suggest I do?”
“My lord, nearby is the Lady of the Mere, and she at times gives aid.”
“And just who is this Lady of the Mere?”
“A seer, my lord. A seer.”
. .
In the armory of Winterwood Manor Laurent set down his helm and looked at Michelle. “A seer?”
Michelle nodded. “Or so the Steward Arnot tells me.” Arnot inclined his head. “Vadun lives starwise from here, a day’s journey beyond the blight.”
“And he will be able to tell us where this black wind of Orbane’s has taken them?”
Arnot frowned. “He is a dream seer, hence might or might not be able to aid.”
Michelle said, “ ’Tis better than setting out and searching at random.”
. .
Roel sighed and reracked his armor. “You are right, Vidal. But where can we find a seer?”
“I know of four: the Lady of the Mere in the Summerwood; Seer Malgan in the Autumnwood; Vadun, a voyant de reves in the Winterwood; and Lisane, the Lady of the Bower, yet I am not certain where she lives.”
“And there is none in the Springwood?”
“None I know of.”
“Are there any in Valeray’s domain?”
Vidal shrugged and turned up his hands.
“Then we must send falcons to the other manors and bid them to seek out these seers and discover what they can of where Orbane has had our family borne off to.”
. .
“Ah, me,” said Luc, “my first impulse was to ride out and seek Liaze, yet it seems a hopeless cause without further knowledge. Send for Seer Malgan; mayhap he can give us aid. In the meanwhile, there is a war to plan, yet once my father takes command of the army-”
“But, my lord, will he not need you to lead the Autumnwood battalion?”
Luc sighed. “Truelove versus the good of the many, a terrible choice to make.”
. .
Blaise looked at Lanval. “Where do I find this Lady of the Mere?”
Lanval slowly shook his head. “She only appears at dawn, and she does not come at just anyone’s beck, and things must be quite dire, else she appears not.”
Blaise spread his arms wide and gestured about. “The king, queen, princes, and princesses ripped away on a black wind.
What is more dreadful than that?”
“Orbane,” replied Lanval gravely. “The wizard is a good deal more terrible, for he threatens all of Faery and not just King Valeray and Queen Saissa and their get and Princess Camille and wee Prince Duran.”
Blaise slammed a fist into palm. “Bloody Orbane!” He turned to the steward and said, “Oh, Lanval, ’tis the wont of knights to ride to the rescue, and yet for the moment I and my brothers and Prince Luc cannot. And even did we know where they were, still we are faced with an ill choice, for there is Orbane and his armies we must defeat.”
“My lord, I suggest you remain at the manor and see to the planning of the war. On morrow’s dawn I will go to the mere; mayhap she will come at my call.”
. .
Michelle gazed out a window slit at the snow. “With Orbane on the loose it means that Raseri and Rondalo did not succeed.” Arnot nodded and said, “Oui, my lady, they did not, yet mayhap they are still on the hunt. ’Tis another thing a seer might be able to answer.”
Michelle sighed. “Very well, then, Arnot, have Armsmaster Jules ride in haste to Vadun and pose him our questions. Mayhap in spite of the fact that this mage is a voyant de reves he can shed light on Raseri and Rondalo and on where Orbane’s black wind took my Borel and the others; to his Troll holes or the dungeons of one of his many castles, I imagine, and none knows where they all are. In the meanwhile, send messages to the remaining manors and have them also seek the aid of seers.”
“Oui, m’lady,” replied the steward.
When Arnot was gone, Michelle said, “And you, sieur knight, have a war to plan.”
“As you command,” said Laurent, and he, too, stepped away from the chamber.
Michelle looked long out through the slit at the black and white forest touched with subtle shades of grey. Finally, she took a deep breath and turned and strode from the armory.
Once Borel came to rescue me, and then his Wolves saved us both. It is time I returned the favor to my love, and once again the pack will aid.
Down the hall she trod, pausing long enough to take up a warm cloak. Then she stepped through a doorway and into the wintry ’scape beyond. At the edge of the woods she found the pack at rest, and she singled out Dark. Michelle struck postures and voiced growls Borel had said she might one day need: Michelle: I want learn all Wolfspeak.
Dark: Master’s bitch want all True-People-speak?
Michelle: All.
Dark looked at Slate, and he raised his head and rumbled his unconcern and then laid his chin back on his paws.
And so, slowly and laboriously, with many mistakes and many repeats, as well as many long work-arounds until the new word was understood, in spite of the fact that this two-legs had no tail and could not move her ears or raise any hackles, the bitch Dark began teaching Master’s bitch the words of the True People.
Changeling
Nigh the noontide on the second day after the black wind had hurled her cursed enemies away to their doom, Hradian spiralled down toward a dark tower looming up from amid a cluster of stone buildings clutched among massifs and crags in dark mountains high. A long and steep roadway twisted up from the foothills below to disappear within an archway marking a passage through the wall surrounding the structures entire.
“We are here, my lord,” said Hradian.
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br /> “I am not blind, Acolyte,” growled Orbane as he peered downward. The lesser buildings, their roofs all connected, surrounded the broad, square-based, tall edifice. But there gaped an opening among the buildings, revealing a small plaza before the entrance to the tower. “That courtyard is where we’ll alight.”
“Oui, my lord,” replied Hradian, and she headed toward the square. As she descended, Hradian added, “There are no Changelings about, Lord Orbane. The place looks abandoned.”
“Bah, Acolyte. This is the seat of power in this realm. There will be someone to greet us.”
Down into a deserted stone courtyard they settled, and before them at the foot of the tower an enshadowed opening yawned. Dismounting, Orbane said, “Come, Acolyte, let us see just who is the new Changeling Lord.” And toward the entry he strode, Hradian scuttling after.
Into a long empty corridor they went and toward the far end, where stood a massive door flung wide. They passed a swath of something lying dark upon the hallway floor, something that might have once been a thick, oozing puddle, now long dried.
Orbane paused and peered at it. “Grume,” he sneered, “the remains of a Changeling,” and then strode onward, the blackness crackling underfoot.
Hradian stepped wide of the patch that had once been a shape-shifting being and scurried after her master.
Through the doorway they went, turning rightward and toward the distant throne chamber, where long past Orbane had faced Morgrif, then the Lord of the Changelings. But Morgrif had refused to hew to Orbane’s cause, for there was nought of significance the Changeling Lord would have gained in such a venture. And so Orbane had gone away enraged, for Changelings would have greatly enhanced his armies, shapeshifters that they were.
To either side open doorways showed room after room furnished with tables and chairs and cabinets and lounges and other such. In none were the fireplaces lit, and a layer of fine dust coated all.
Once upon a dreadful time ou-4 Page 19