“But when we came riding into their midst, they fled before us, and down corridors and passages and ways unknown. As to the White Hart, he was nowhere to be seen.
“But then the King Under the Hill stepped from a side hall and welcomed us, though there was a pained look upon his countenance. Yet we did not understand why… until it was entirely too late.
“But as I say, the High Lord welcomed us, and offered us food and drink and quarters overnight, for darkness was even then descending.
“We gladly accepted his hospitality. And though we were mostly shunned, still, women of surpassing-even ethereal-beauty served us food and drink, though they did not linger in spite of our entreaties.”
Borel said, “You ate their food and drank their wine?”
“Yes,” replied Arle, glumly, “for ten days running.”
“Ah, then, that does not bode well, my lord.”
“Indeed, it did not, for when we mounted up and made ready to depart, the High Lord came and said, ‘For ten days herein you have eaten our food and drunk our wine and so when you return to your own world you will find a thousand mortal years have passed.’
“We were aghast at hearing such a dreadful thing, for all those we had known and all things we had owned were now crumbled unto dust. Yet that was not the last of our torment, for the King Under the Hill said: ‘Hear me, you did pursue me, for I was the White Hart who fled, and this by itself is enough to bring woe upon you. Further, you brought the Agony of Iron into our midst, and for that alone you are cursed. Take this dog, ’tis a gift the like of which I have given to many,’ he said, ‘to the peril of those receiving.’ And he placed it on my saddlebow, where you see it now. And he further said, ‘And unless and until it leaps down of its own will, you must not dismount, else it shall be to your doom, for in the moment you set foot to ground, you will become wholly mortal, and, even though you might yet be in Faery, all of your years will catch up with you.’
“ ‘How can this be, my lord?’ I asked, and then he told me that as time is reckoned in the mortal world, for every day we stayed within his hill and ate his food and drank his wine, one hundred mortal years had passed, hence, for the ten days we had been within his hall a thousand years had elapsed all told. And he said that when we return to the outside world, all will have changed, and we will no longer know anyone nor will anyone therein know us. And my realm would now be ruled by strangers, if it yet existed at all.
“We were devastated, and we rode out from under that dolmen and have been riding throughout the realms of Faery ever since… riding for years untold.” Arle held up a ghostly hand and said, “And each day we fade a bit more, and we are shunned by those in towns, for they fear us, given our ghastly state. And so we avoid them altogether, and have no companionship but our own. Ah, zut! There will come a day when we and our mounts will be gone altogether, be nought but empty armor riding upon unseen steeds.”
Arle sighed and gestured at the pile of ashes. “And so, you see, if we dismount, then of a sudden we are a millennium old, and fall into complete ruin.
“Five of my men have perished, for they could not bear what they were becoming, nor could they forget what they had been and what they had lost, d’Strait just the last of them.”
King Arle fell silent, and Borel looked at the dog and said, “You say the dog must jump down of its own will?”
“Oui,” replied Arle.
“This then is my bargain, King Arle,” said Borel. “I will tell you how to break the curse, and you will tell me how to find the King Under the Hill.”
King Arle said, “Prince Borel, even if it is as you say-that your truelove’s life is at stake, the King Under the Hill is not to be trusted.”
“Nevertheless, I insist,” said Borel.
King Arle looked at his men, and for the first time saw that they now had hope in their eyes, and he turned to Borel and said, “Very well. From here to reach the King Under the Hill you must go across three twilight borders always in the direction where the sun sets and only in that direction and do not deviate; then, beyond the third border, look for the hills, and amid them find the one with a great dolmen on top; at dusk a hole like a cavern will open within the dolmen and light will shine out. Down a steep slope twisting ’round within you will find the King Under the Hill, for therein is where he dwells.
“This I would offer, were we ordinary men: that you mount up behind one of us and we would take you there; yet we are not commonplace men, and as long as we are cursed, it would mean that you yourself perhaps would take on that curse were you to ride with us as we are; and so we can only lead you to that place.”
“Thank you, my lord,” replied Borel, “but I have no need to be led, for I have an unerring guide who takes her direction from the sun. Instead I would have you break your curse and find your way to your goal, whatever it might be, once the curse is done.”
“Say on, Prince Borel,” cried one of the men. “Tell us how to lay aside this bane.”
“The dog, is it male or female?”
“Male,” replied Arle.
“Then here is the way of it,” said Borel. “Ride to the nearest town where people abide, no matter their fear of you, a town where many dogs do dwell. Find a bitch in heat, and surely will your dog leap down of its own accord to mate with her.”
The king looked at his men in amaze and they in turn at him. “How simple,” breathed Arle. “How very simple.” He turned to Borel. “Surely, my prince, this is the solution. We are deeply in your debt.”
“No more than I in yours,” replied Borel, bowing.
“My Lord Borel,” said one of the men, reining near, “take care, take care, and beware this High Lord. Eat not his food nor drink his wine nor cross him in any manner. Take no iron into his realm, else you will find yourself in dire straits.”
“I heed and thank you,” said Borel. He stepped back a pace or two and called out, “Now go, for you have a curse to break.”
At a signal from King Arle, all the men wheeled their horses and into the forest surround they rode, and just ere they vanished from sight among the trees, a horn sounded in gratitude and farewell.
Borel strode around the mere and began to break camp, drowning the remaining coals of his fire with water and then replenishing his waterskin. As he strapped on his rucksack and slung his bow and shouldered his quiver, Flic and Buzzer came flying back.
“Well…?” said the Sprite.
“Come,” said Borel, “we must go to where I spoke to the riders, and then Buzzer need take a sighting and guide us toward the exact place where the sun sets, for three twilight borders hence is where the King Under the Hill dwells. I will tell all as we fare about the mere.”
And so Borel strode and Flic and Buzzer rode to the opposite side of the mere, and Borel told of what the men had done and what they had said, and when he reached the far side he pointed out the pile of ashes and rust and aged tack and tattered cloth and timeworn splinters that had once been a man and a horse and their accoutrements.
Flic said, “A dreadful fate, yet he and the others pursued the White Hart and brought the Agony of Iron into Faery.” Then the Sprite frowned and asked, “What I wonder, though, is what do the riders and their horses eat, how do they sleep, and when they have to relieve themselves, how do they, um, go?”
Borel shrugged his shoulders and said, “I didn’t ask.”
Flic groaned in frustration.
“Come,” said Borel, “we’ve more important things to do than to worry about the daily lives of the riders. Tell Buzzer what it is we want. Go directly to where the sun sets, Arle said, and no deviation.”
Flic sighed and, with Buzzer, flew to the ground. Somehow Flic spoke to the bee, using that silent language of theirs. After a moment the bee did a short waggle dance, and Flic replied. Finally, Buzzer took to wing and sighted on the morning sun, and then shot off at an angle.
Flic flew to Borel’s tricorn. “She wanted to know if you would be any faster. I told
her no, and in fact perhaps a bit slower, after your Pooka ride. Next chance we get, I’ll see if I can find flowers for another tisane or two; I mean, given your ways so far, it seems you are certain to suffer damage again.”
Borel smiled and nodded distractedly, for his gaze was locked upon the hilt jutting out from the pile of ashes and rust. “All blades are not what they seem,” he murmured, and he bent down and took hold of the sword and lifted it free. It came up in its decrepit sheath, and as ash and dust drifted down he drew out the weapon, and the scabbard, baldric, and edge alike crumbled, and all that was left was the hilt and a short, jagged piece of rusted blade.
“Does this bother you, Flic?”
“Non,” said the Sprite. “Only iron in a near pure form twists aethyr enough to pain the Fey. That or steel. It seems the blade you have in your hand-including its tang-is wholly rust and it is no more hurtful than the ore from which it comes.”
“Good,” said Borel, and he sheathed the jagged remainder in his empty long-knife scabbard.
“Well, are we going to stand around all day?” asked Flic.
Borel barked a laugh and began his loping Wolftrot, following the beeline Buzzer had flown.
34
Events Past
Through the forest they hastened, Buzzer awing, Borel afoot, and Flic aseat on the hat. Past great old oaks they went, and across flowering glades, and up and down wooded slopes, some steep, others not. Through streams Borel splashed, ever following the course set by Buzzer. In less than half a candlemark, his soreness from yestereve’s harrowing ride upon the Pooka diminished to the point that Borel’s lope was nigh his usual rate.
And they came upon a wide glen, wherein a herd of Unicorns-of silver-sheened grey and pearlescent white and lightly brushed gold-did graze, and they scattered before Borel as he loped across, and they fled into the woods.
“Oh, my,” said Flic, “so beautiful they are. See how they run: so graceful.”
Borel paused and watched, for even in Faery Unicorns are rare, and to see an entire herd rarer still. Soon these single-horned, cloven-hoofed, nimble creatures passed from view, running as they did among the trees. When the last one disappeared, Borel took up again his own run.
“Much nicer than the Pooka, eh?” said Flic.
“Oui,” replied Borel, and then added, “Speaking of the Pooka, perhaps I should have asked Chelle about him before going after that Dark Fey.”
“How so?” asked Flic.
“In my dream of last night I asked her what she knew of Pookas, and she related to me the legend of the ride of the king of the Keltoi. It seems he had a much easier time of it than did I.”
“Did she tell you the tale? If so, I would have you refresh my own memory.”
Borel said, “Her version had no Elf weaving three Pooka hairs through an Elf-made rope. She said that twining them thus would mute their power.”
“I wondered about that,” said Flic. “But, you know how Elves are: they tend to insert themselves into all manner of stories… at least the several Elves I’ve met do.”
“Ah, then that might account for the difference,” said Borel.
“If Lady Chelle’s telling had no Elf-made rope,” said Flic, “then how did the king use the three hairs?”
“He merely made a charm by plaiting them together,” said Borel, “thereby making them into a cord. Hence, their power was not muted, and all he had to do was ride the Pooka until it became exhausted.”
“Did the Dark Fey shift shape?” asked Flic.
“I think not,” replied Borel.
They came to the brink of a short drop to a mossy bank. “Hold on, Flic,” said Borel, and without waiting for an answer he sprang down. But the moss was slick and Borel nearly lost his balance. Flic was thrown from the hat and took to wing, but as soon as Borel gained his footing, the Sprite returned to the tricorn and settled in.
“Next time, my lord, a wee bit more warning would help,” said Flic.
Borel merely grunted and continued his lope.
“Also, my lord, it certainly won’t do for you to twist an ankle.”
Again Borel grunted, but said no words.
After moments, Flic said, “By the bye, woven together into a cord, I would think three hairs alone not strong enough to subdue one of those Dark Fey. How did the king use them?”
“He merely looped them around the neck of the Pooka and leapt upon its back,” said Borel. “The instant he did so, the three hairs turned to steel, and so they were strong enough.”
“Feh, my lord. That Pooka hairs could change into steel or into any form of iron is but a flight of fancy, for the Pooka is of the Fey, and iron is an anathema to him, to us, to all Fey. Such a thing simply could not be.”
“Strange things have been known to hap in Faery,” said Borel, “and if Pooka hair did turn to steel, it could be among the strangest.”
Neither spoke for a while as Borel continued to lope, and Buzzer continued to fly, the bee keeping to the line where she knew the sun would undoubtedly set. But finally Flic said, “Unless and until we meet that very king of the Keltoi, I think we’ll not know the truth. Regardless, Prince Borel, you did ride that Dark Fey to submission, magic cord or no.”
Borel said nought as he ran on.
They stopped for a meal in the noontide: Flic and Buzzer lapping honey; Borel chewing jerky and hardtack. And as they sat, Flic said, “Tell me of Valeray and his friend Roulan and what they did to make Rhensibe angry.”
Borel looked at the Sprite. “Are we to assume Rhensibe is Hradian’s sister?”
“I think it most likely,” said Flic.
“If that be so, then here is the way of it: Hradian and her sister-if it is Rhensibe-were acolytes of the dark magicien Orbane, the most terrible of all the Firsts.-Did I mention that Camille has a notion how Faery came to be?”
Flic shook his head, No, and Borel said, “Camille believes that long past the Keltoi bards told tales that were so entrancing that the gods themselves became enamored of the stories. So, after hearing of Faery, they created it, and initially they populated it with folk from the tales. And whenever one of the Keltoi bards spoke of someone of a new Kind-a Kind the gods had not before heard of-they made that Kind manifest in Faery. Hence, Raseri the Firedrake and Adragh the Pwca-and others who were first of their Kind-became Firsts in Faery. And so, too, was Orbane a First-a terrible magicien as told by the Keltoi bards.
“And Orbane and his acolytes caused much trouble throughout all of Faery, until the Fates themselves stepped in and through riddles told other of the Firsts if nought were done there would come a day when Orbane would be the ruin of Faery and the mortal world as well.”
“Why would the gods create someone so horrible?” asked Flic.
“I think for the adventures he would cause,” said Borel, “as good folks and the Firsts tried to overcome him.”
“Ah, I see,” said Flic. “Please go on with the tale.”
Borel nodded and said, “After the Fates gave warning, many of the Firsts formed an alliance, and they took cause against the magicien. Yet even with all of their powers, Orbane was still more powerful.
“But then an oracle among the Firsts said that Orbane could only be defeated by his own hand, and so Valeray, my sire-a considerable trickster in his time-was chosen to find a way to discover the means by which this could be done.
“Disguised as a soothsaying crone, my sire inveigled his way into one of Orbane’s many castles-he had several, you see, one of them on an isle far in the sea, another on a mountain crest high above the land, still another mid a stormy lake, and yet others scattered throughout Faery.
“Regardless, my sire-as a soothsaying crone-went to one of these holts: a castle on a bald hill in the midst of a dark forest. Therein the crone met the witch Nefasi, one of the acolytes, and-even though my sire knew the magicien was not within-the soothsayer asked for an audience with Orbane. When Nefasi asked why, the crone replied she had a dreadful message to give to t
he dark one.
“Nefasi told the old crone that Orbane was elsewhere, but that she herself would receive the message from her and pass it on to Orbane.
“The old soothsaying crone agreed, but she insisted that they go to a place of protection-a place of power and transmutation-ere she would divulge the message dire. And after wheedling and haranguing, at last Nefasi consented.
“Accompanied by well-armed Troll guards, by winding ways and up stairwells and past many rooms-ways and wells and rooms my observant sire committed to memory-Nefasi took the aged soothsayer into Orbane’s own alchemistry chamber, where a pentagon of protection was permanently inscribed upon the floor. There did Nefasi cast a spell, one that temporarily rendered the Trolls deaf and mute, and then told the old soothsayer to speak. And so, surrounded by unhearing and unspeaking guards, with both sitting at a table within the pentagon, the crone divulged the message: ‘Orbane will be defeated by his own hand.’
“At these bodeful words, Nefasi’s gaze flicked briefly toward a small locked chest sitting atop a table, a chest my sire clearly noted. Nefasi asked if there were more to the sooth divined, and the crone shook her head. Nefasi rewarded the soothsayer with a single gold piece and sent her on her way.
“That very same night, my sire scaled the outside wall to the alchemistry room, and he picked the lock and found within the chest two clay amulets-Seals of Orbane-and he wrapped them well and stood in the window and, using a sling, he cast them to Roulan, who was waiting at the edge of the woods. Then down clambered my father, and soon he and Roulan were riding agallop to the waiting Firsts. Yet even as Valeray and Roulan passed through that dark forest, they were seen and recognized and pursued.
“They managed to reach the Firsts, and the enemy was routed.
“Later, the Seals were descried for what they were, and the two were used to cast Orbane into the Castle of Shadows beyond the Black Wall of the World, where he remains still.”
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