They passed a chamber where on the wall a huge celestial astrolabe slowly turned, the large disks of the golden sun and silver moon and the smaller disks of the five wandering stars-red, blue, yellow, green, and white-all crept in great circular paths.
Black and silver was the lunar disk, echoing the current gibbous state of the waxing moon. But on they strode, did Orbane and Hradian, not pausing to marvel at this splendid device.
Past more doorways they went, and as they came to a cross corridor, “Hsst!” murmured Orbane, signaling for silence.
From leftward, drifting along this passage, came the cadent sounds of chanting, rising and falling in pitch.
Orbane smiled. “Acolyte, I think we hear the whinings of the new Lord of the Changelings.”
Leftward he stepped, and Hradian gasped, “My lord, be wary.”
Orbane stopped and slowly turned and glared at her, and she fell to her knees and groveled.
Then he laughed, and took up the pace again, leaving Hradian to scramble after.
Down the passage ahead, an archway glowed, and, as Orbane approached, the sound of chanting grew.
At last the wizard and witch came to the entry, and it led into a grand room bare of furniture, with a great, round skylight centered overhead: the main source of illumination in the chamber, though candles also cast a glow. The marble floor was dark with long-dried puddles: the mingled remains of many slain Changelings. And on the floor as well lay a bundle of black rags wrapped about a desiccated corpse. Yet these things did not interest Orbane, for there with his back to the door, at the center of the chamber in the midst of a circle engraved in the floor with five black candles ringed ’round, each joined by five straight lines forming an enclosed pentagonal shape, a manlike being stood with his arms upraised, and he chanted, as if invoking some great spell.
In that moment there came an anguished cry from Hradian, and a clatter as she dropped her broom. Past Orbane she darted and across the dried puddles of dead Changelings and to the corpse on the floor. “Nefasi!” she shrieked as she dropped to her knees next to her long-dead sister.
In the pentagram the being whirled about, his chant cut short, and a dark shimmering came over him and of a sudden he was no longer there but instead stood as a massive Ogre.
Eighteen feet tall, the monster roared and raised huge taloned hands to attack, but with a casual gesture, Orbane stopped the Ogre in its tracks, the creature unable to move.
To one side Hradian wailed, and she clutched the corpse in her arms and rocked back and forth in seeming agony. And she kissed the parchmentlike lips, skin sluffing to the floor in response.
Again Orbane made a gesture, and silence fell within the room, though Hradian yet rocked and howled, but no sound whatsoever seeped beyond the tight, encircling bounds of Orbane’s spell.
Once more Orbane turned to the Ogre. “I will set you free, but only if you shift back to your lesser self.” He twitched a finger and added, “Do you agree? You may nod.” Slowly and with effort the Ogre nodded, and Orbane said, “I warn you,” and then he made another gesture.
The Ogre’s tense muscles slumped, and its hands dropped to its side, and a darkness shimmered over the gigantic form, and a manlike being stood where the Ogre had been. Dressed in black, slender he was and tall and dark-haired, and his fingers were long and tapered. His eyes were deep gray and his features hawklike, much like those of the former Changeling Lord slain, or even of Orbane himself.
“That’s better,” said Orbane. “Now give me your name.” The man glanced from Orbane to Hradian and then back again. “Effroi.”
“Terror, you say?” Orbane laughed. “Well, Effroi, I am Orbane.”
“Orbane!” blurted Effroi, his dark eyes wide in astonishment. “But he is, I mean, you are, that is, in the Castle of Shadows-”
“I was, but am no longer, Effroi.”
Orbane then looked at the circle and the black candles and the pentagon. “What is it you were trying to do?” For a moment it seemed as if Effroi would not speak, but at last he said, “I was trying to recover the cloak of my sire.” Orbane smiled unto himself. “Morgrif was your sire, then.” His words were not a question.
“Oui,” said Effroi.
“And this cloak?”
Again Effroi hesitated before answering. Finally he said, “It contains the power of the Changeling Lord.”
“Ah, I see. And who has it now?”
“The Queen of the Changelings.”
“Your mere, I take it?”
“Oui. She will not yield it to me, the rightful heir.”
“And you want this cloak because. .?”
“With it I can fetch mortal virgins and keep my people strong.”
Orbane smiled. “Ah, and these mortal virgins, you plow them yourself and sow your seed?”
Effroi jerked a nod.
“Why not merely take the cloak from the queen?”
“Her magic is too powerful, and she insists that we woo these mortal women instead of taking what is rightfully ours in our traditional manner.”
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 Nefasi’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 Celeste. 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.
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, ONCE UPON A DREADFUL TIME / 231
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.
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