Stiffly, Borel arose and added wood to the remaining few glimmering coals of his fire, and he made strong tea to revive his alertness. Shortly thereafter, he broke camp, then he and the pack began trotting through the Winterwood, with its snow-clad pines and ice-clad deciduous trees barren in their winter dress, trees that in the ordinary world would awake with the coming of spring, yet these trees rested perpetually in the forever winter of this realm. Shrubs and grasses and other plants slept as well, for among the Forests of the Seasons, each woodland was eternal in its aspect: the Springwood was ever burgeoning; the Winterwood ever resting; the Autumnwood ever bearing; the Summerwood ever flourishing. Somehow, these mystical realms seem to maintain one another in concert, each by some numinous means giving unto the whole the essence of that which was needed to remain in a constant state of existence. The Winterwood provided slumber and rest that all such life needs; the Springwood infused all with the vitality of awakening life; the Summerwood gave to the whole the sustenance of coming to fullness; and the Autumnwood spread the fruitful rewards of maturation throughout. Jointly, they ran the full gamut, though each separately remained unchanged as well as unchanging.
And so the realm of the Winterwood slept under blankets of snow and claddings of ice.
And as in any winter realm, within this woodland there were storms and blizzards and gentle snowfalls, days bright and clear and cold or gray and gloomy or dark, days of biting winds howling and blowing straightly or blasting this way and that, of freezings and hoarfrost so cold as to crack stone, of warm sunshine and partial thaws and a bit of melt, and of snowfalls heavy and wet, or falls powdery and dry.
It was a world of silence and echoes, of quietness and muffled sounds, and of yawling blasts and thundering blows.
It was Borel’s realm-wild and untamed and white and grey and black, with glittering ice and sparkling snow, with evergreens giving a lie to the monochromatic ’scape-and he loved it most dearly, for never were any two days the same, and never were they different.
And across this icy realm did Borel and his Wolves lope, clots of snow flying from boot and paw alike. And as they trotted, a track left behind, within the ice of the ice-clad trees, and within the ice of the icicles, wee Sprites followed along, some merely to turn and look and note the progress of the prince and his pack, others to somehow shift from ice-clad rock to ice-clad tree to icicles dangling down as they kept pace with Borel or gleefully raced ahead. These were the Ice-Sprites: wingless and as white as new-driven snow, with hair like silvered tendrils, their forms and faces elfin with tipped ears and tilted eyes of pale blue. They were completely unclothed, as all Sprites seemed to be, and they had the power to fit within whatever shapes ice took. And their images wavered and undulated and parts of them grew and shrank in odd ways and became strangely distorted as they sped through the uneven but pellucid layers of frozen water, the irregular surfaces making it so, rather as if they were passing through a peculiar house of mirrors, though no reflections these, but living beings within.
As he ran, Borel glanced at the Sprites and smiled, and thereby acknowledged their presence. For they were of his demesne and subject to his command, though he seldom asked ought of them.
It seems that in all the Forests of the Seasons, wee beings love to pace alongside travellers passing by, though now and again something or someone comes along that causes them to flee in terror. Yet in this case it was Borel and his Wolves running through the Winterwood, and Sprites accompanied them by passing from iced rock to clad tree to coated limb to frozen stream to anywhere ice clung, and they did so without seeming to have to travel the distance between: they simply were here, and then were there, all as if there were no intervening space. And as far as Borel knew, they spent their entire existence within layers of ice.
The sun rose into the clear blue sky above, and tiny gleamings of shifting color were cast from the crystalline snow unto the eye. And across this ’scape trotted Borel and his pack, now and again passing through stark shadows cast by boulder and limb and bole to come again into the glitterbright day. And crows and ravens called through the woodland, for oft did they spend days or even weeks in the winterland. Treerunners, too, chattered and scolded and scampered along barren limbs, for they as well often came through the twilight borders unto this realm. It was as if they were compelled to bring nuts and other fare from the Autumnwood and place these stores in hollows and holes within this cold forest.
As he had done in the Summer- and Autumnwoods, oft did Borel pause at streams and, with Ice-Sprites scattering aside, he would break through the frozen surface and quench his thirst, Wolves at his side lapping. But then he would take up the trot again, and continue on deeper into the snow-laden forest.
He stopped as the sun gained the zenith, and all rested for a while, but before the sun had travelled two fists along its arc, Borel was up and running again.
At times his progress was slowed by deep snow, and often did he break trail for the Wolves, though at other times they broke trail for him. On the prince and the pack ran as the sun fell through the sky, and at last dusk came upon the land, yet Borel did not pause, but kept going.
Night came upon them, and still they coursed onward for a candlemark or so, and in the glow of a luminous full moon rising they passed across the ice of a river and followed a trail up a long slope leading to a great flat atop a bluff overlooking the wide vale below.
As Borel and the Wolves crested the rise, they came into the lights of a great mansion. Yet, unlike stone-sided Summerwood Manor, the walls of this hall were fashioned of massive dark timbers cut square, and its roof was steeply pitched. A full three storeys high, with many chimneys scattered along its considerable length, the manse spanned the entire width of the flat. All along its breadth the windows were protected with heavy-planked shutters, most of them closed as if for a blow. Even so, enough were open so that warm and yellow lanternlight shone out onto a stone courtyard cleared of snow. Atop the high river bluff it sat like a great aerie for surveying the wide world below.
As the prince and the pack crossed the flat and came unto the courtyard, ’neath a sheltering portico great double doors were flung wide, and some ten bundled servants, all men, stepped forth and formed a double line.
Borel and the Wolves slowed to a walk, and as he passed through the short gauntlet all the men bowed, and Borel nodded in return, while the Wolves, noses in the air, tails wagging, scented friends of old. At the head of the line a slender, dark-haired man dressed all in black straightened and stepped forth and smiled. “The Sprites told us you were coming, my prince. Welcome home.”
“Arnot,” said Borel, acknowledging the steward of Winterwood Manor.
Borel strode inside, followed by his Wolves and then the men, the great double doors swinging to after, and they passed along a short corridor to come to a great welcoming hall. And there assembled were the rest of the mansion household-maids, servants, footmen, seamstresses, bakers, kitchen- and wait-staff, laundresses, gamekeepers, and others-men to the left, women to the right, and they smiled in welcome and bowed or curtseyed accordingly.
Borel stepped across the heavy-planked floor to a wide marble circle inset in the wood, within which was a great hexagonal silver inlay depicting a delicate snowflake. As his Wolves gathered about, smelling the air, their tails yet awag for here were many friends as well, Borel said, “Thank you for this warm welcome,” and all within the hall applauded his return.
After a moment, to one side Arnot raised a hand, and when silence fell he asked, “What would you have of us, my lord?”
“For my Wolves a fair bit of cooked meat will do, not overdone, mind you, along with a few bones to gnaw,” replied the prince. “As for me, I would have a warm bath and a good hot meal and then a pleasant bed, for I have come far these last four days and need a good long sleep.”
At these words, and with a gesture from Arnot, the staff bustled off-some to the kitchen, others to Lord Borel’s quarters, and still more to the sculleries and other c
hambers-for there was work to be done.
The prince and his Wolves were home at last.
8
Turnings
Gingerly, Borel eased into the hot water. Nearby, Gerard, laying out the towels, paused long enough to pour dark red wine into a crystal goblet, and when the prince was well immersed and had leaned back with a sigh, “My lord,” said the small redheaded man, and he held out the drink to Borel.
“Thank you, Gerard,” said Borel, accepting the glass and swirling the contents about. He took a sip. “Ah, some of Liaze’s finest.” He set the crystal on the flange of the bronze tub and glanced up at the valet. “I just realized: I’m famished. What does Madame Chef have in mind as tonight’s creation?”
“I believe, Sieur, when the Sprites came and said you were on the way, Madame Mille began marinating venison.”
“Ah. The dish with the white cream sauce?”
“She said it was your favorite.”
“Your mother knows me well, Gerard.” Borel took up the goblet again and in one long gulp downed the drink. “Tell her I will be ready in a candlemark or so.”
“Yes, my prince,” said the manservant. “Will you have more wine?”
“At dinner, I think. But now I just want to soak away the toil of travel.”
“As you wish, Sieur.” Over a rod on the fireguard Gerard draped a towel to warm it for the prince to use, and placed a washcloth on the edge of the tub and said, “Along with your linens, I have laid out a white silk shirt with pearl buttons and a grey doublet with black trim, black trews with a silver-buckled black belt, and black stockings and black boots. I have also included a crimson sleeve-kerchief. Will they do?”
“Ah, Gerard, you would make me into a dandy. Even so, it will be nice to wear something other than my leathers. Indeed, they will do.”
“Very good, Sieur.” Gerard took up the empty goblet and the bottle of wine. “I will inform Madame Mille as to when you will be down, and then I shall return to dress you.”
As Gerard left the bathing room, Borel smiled and shook his head. Dress me. Though I always don my own clothes, he insists he must “dress” me.
Borel settled lower into the hot water, and relaxation slowly eased into his muscles. It was only after long moments that he realized just how tense he had been.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the metal slope of the tub…
… And in but moments, it seemed, he awoke in water gone tepid to see Gerard standing silently and patiently by.
“Oh, Gerard,” said Borel, “Madame Chef will have my hide.” As he snatched up the washcloth and soap he looked at his hand and broke out laughing. “My wrinkled hide, that is.”
Within a quarter candlemark, with his straight, silvery, shoulder-length hair still damp, he was scrubbed and dressed, and downstairs sitting at the head of a long, highly polished, blackwood table. Quickly, he finished the last of his aperitif — sliced mushrooms lightly sauteed in creamery butter. At a signal from Borel, one server whisked away the modest dish while still another server removed the small glass holding a trace of a pale red wine, one that Albert, the voluble sommelier, had called “a refreshing, rose-colored wine fortified with a hint of fruit and a crisp touch of sweet aftertaste-perfect for clearing the palate of any vestige of a previous drink.” A third server set a bowl and a silver soup spoon before the prince, and a fourth waiter came in from the kitchen, a great tureen in hand. He ladled out soupe a la creme de legumes assaisonnee avec des herbes. When that was done, a fifth server set down a small loaf of bread on a modest cutting board, with a knife in a groove for slicing, and he put a porcelain bread plate to the prince’s left, while yet a sixth server placed at hand a dish of pale yellow butter pats embossed with the form of a snowflake. The loquacious sommelier set a new goblet to Borel’s right and said, “My lord, I have selected a special blanc to stand up to the heartiness of the soup: a full-flavored, substantial white wine with grape and apple aromas mixing well with the mustiness of barrel-aging and culminating in a robust aftertaste.”
At a nod from Borel, the sommelier poured a tot into the goblet and then waited as Borel swirled and inhaled the aroma and took a sip and said, “A fine choice, Albert.”
Albert smiled and filled the goblet half full.
The meal continued, the soup followed by venison in a light splash of a white cream sauce, with a sauteed medley of green beans and small onions and peas, all accompanied by a hearty red wine poured from a dusty bottle laid down for many years in a cool cellar. As the effusive sommelier put it, “I have selected a red that will enhance Madame Mille’s splendid dish, a wine almost delicate in its complex bouquet holding a suggestion of aged cedar, a trace of pipeweed, and a hint of sweet, fragrant leaves of a kalyptos tree. Its rich flavor should spread evenly across the tongue, exciting senses of sweet and bitter equally, followed by a pleasant, drying sensation upon swallowing.”
Borel smiled to himself at the sommelier’s abundant description, but tasted the wine and said, “Again, Albert, a fine, fine selection,” and then he ravenously tore into the meal.
After two full helpings, at last Borel leaned back in satisfaction, the plate empty before him, scoured clean, the last of the sauce sopped up with small chunks of bread.
And then the eclairs were served, and Borel groaned but faced them heroically.
Albert stepped forward with yet another fresh goblet and a bottle of wine. “A sparkling, bit-off-dry white, my lord. It will enhance the sweetness of Madame Mille’s splendid pastry.”
Once again Borel nodded his appreciation and managed not one but two of the eclairs.
When that was cleared away, Albert served a snifter of cherry brandy, this from a very dusty bottle Albert held back for special occasions, “… a refreshing tartness to clear the palate, my lord. Would you care for some cheese as well?”
Satiated, Borel waved off the cheese, but he took up the brandy and groaned to his feet and headed for the kitchen, Albert trailing after. When the prince entered, all work stopped, and stepping to the fore of the kitchen- and wait-staff came a white-haired man in somber black, and a small woman wearing a chef’s hat and a full, white apron over a dove-grey dress. The man in black bowed, as did all the men, Albert now among them, and the woman doffed her hat, revealing red curls, and she curtseyed, as did all the women.
Borel raised his glass on high and called out, “I salute you, Monsieur Paul, Madame Mille, and Monsieur Albert, as well as all who had a hand in the preparation and serving. Never has a finer meal graced Winterwood Manor.” Borel then tossed down the drink, much to Albert’s dismay, for this brandy was meant to be savored-slowly, and in small sips-else one might just as well guzzle straight from the bottle.
The rest of the staff, however, looked at one another and beamed in pleasure, and then bowed and curtseyed again.
Albert stepped forward, the dusty bottle of cherry brandy gripped tightly, but Borel smiled and shook his head, then set down the snifter on a nearby counter and turned on his heel and headed for his quarters, while behind voices were raised as the staff returned to whatever they’d been doing ere the prince had come: Madame Mille snapping out commands; Monsieur Paul’s words less intense; men and women scurrying about.
“Nightshirt, Sieur?”
“No, Gerard.”
The valet looked at the bed curtains and shook his head and sighed. Lord Borel never wanted them drawn good and proper, but instead required them left open-“the better to hear the household” he said, as if at any moment something wicked might come crashing in.
“Good night, then, my lord,” said Gerard. “Sleep well.”
“So I hope,” said Borel, crawling into bed.
Candle in hand, Gerard slipped out the door, taking the light with him, even as Borel eased under the down covers.
It seems somewhat strange, sleeping in my own manor again.
Ah, but it is good to be home.
Two or three days hence, I will head for Hradian’s cote
and see if there she yet dwells, but for now…
Borel fell aslumber ere he could finish that thought.
Long did he sleep, dreaming not at all… not at all, that is, until a candlemark or two beyond mid of night…
With stone walls all ’round, beyond the windows Borel could see daggers floating in the air, threatening, ever threatening. A young, golden-haired lady stood across the chamber, her head bowed.
I’ve been here before, but when?
From somewhere nearby there came a persistent squeaking, though perhaps it was music instead.
“Oh, s’il-te-plait aidez-moi, mon seigneur,” whispered the demoiselle, a band of black across her eyes. “Il ne reste qu’une lune.”
“What do you mean, my lady, when you say there is but a moon left?”
“Il reste peu de temps, mon seigneur. Il ne reste qu’une lune.”
“Time grows short?”
“S’il-te-plait aidez-moi. Aidez-moi.”
“Do I know you, mademoiselle?”
Before she could answer there came a long, low, sustained cry, as of pain or grief or displeasure, and it slowly rose to a shriek, and the stone walls faded, and she was gone, and Borel startled awake in the night, a wind wailing about the mansion, and then it fell to a groan. He threw off the covers and stepped into a thin, silvery beam shining through the narrow crack between the two leaves of the shutters on one of the windows. Unclothed and crossing to that window, he lowered the sash and flung wide the hinged planks. A frigid wind moaned inward, bringing him entirely awake, and a bright full moon angling through the sky shone onto the far slope of the wide vale across the frozen river, casting long shadows down the slant.
Help me, she said, and she called me her lord.
Borel gazed up at the argent orb overhead. And she said time grows short, there is but a moon left.
Oh, what a stupid question I asked-Do I know you, mademoiselle? — when instead I should have asked where she was.
With the wind whirling up over the lip of the bluff and across the flat and courtyard, and groaning ’round the timbers and eaves, and blustering about the chamber, Borel stood in the aerie that was his mansion and gazed out across the Winterwood, his silvery hair whipping in the blow.
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