Once upon a dreadful time

Messengers

It was ere midmorn when Laurent and his guide, Edouard, galloped through Valeray’s starwise twilight border to emerge running sunwise in the Winterwood, snow flying from shod hooves and flinging out behind. From warmth to cold they passed in but strides, and even as they hammered among the barren trees, a great squawking murder of crows rose up into the chill air. Yet though the crows filled the surround with racket, they let the men pass unmolested. And as the riders and their remounts plunged on, the crows settled back to the stark branches, their black eyes awatch on the twilight border, as if waiting for other beings to come hurtling through.

And the knight and the guide galloped on, into a realm sleeping under blankets of snow and claddings of ice.

At times within this woodland there were storms and blizzards or 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, or freezing days with hoarfrost so cold as to crack stone, or days of warm sunshine and partial thaws and a bit of melt, or of snowfalls heavy and wet, or falls powdery and dry. It could be a world of silence and echoes, of quietness and muffled sounds, or of yawling blasts and thundering blows. It was wild and untamed and white and gray and black, with glittering ice and sparkling snow, with evergreens giving a lie to the monochromatic ’scape, and never were any two days the same.

And under a winter-bright sky, across this icy realm did a chevalier and his guide race, a track left behind in the snow.

As they ran, within the sheathings of the ice-clad trees and in icicles and in the frozen planes of streams and pools, Laurent could see wee beings following their progress, some to merely turn and look and note the passage of the riders and remounts, while others somehow shifted from ice-laden rock to ice-clad tree to icicles dangling down as they kept pace with the two, 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 the 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.

“Edouard!” called Laurent, even as he reined to a halt, “let us change mounts.”

The guide, a skinny, dark-haired youth, galloped on for a few more paces ere bringing his steeds to a stop.

As they changed saddles and gear from one mount to another, Laurent said, “Tell me, can you speak to these Sprites?”

“Oui, Sieur Laurent. All of Lord Borel’s household can do so.”

“And can they travel to other realms?”

“Oui, Sieur, if it has ice.”

“Then call one to you, and tell them to spread a message of warning among all Ice Sprites and other beings throughout this cold realm and others alike. Also, I would have them search those demesnes for a Drake named Raseri and bear a message to him as well. Too, have them alert the staff of Winterwood Manor that we are on the way. -Oh, in addition, they are to bear word to the Root Dwellers as well.”

Edouard glanced ’round and noted a Sprite in an icicle at hand. Then the youth turned to Laurent and asked, “Very well, Sieur, and what might these messages be?”

. .

Roel and his guide Devereau pounded through Valeray’s dawnwise border to find themselves running sunwise in the Springwood. And as they splatted through a chill stream, a great flock of crows flew up and ’round, cawing and milling as the pair raced past. Yet once the riders had gone onward, the dark birds settled back among the greening limbs and again took up their ward of the twilight marge and waited for promised tasty morsels to come.

On into the land of eternal springtime sped a knight and his guide, a place where everlasting meltwater trickles across the ’scape, where some trees are abud while others are new-leafed, where early blossoms are abloom though some flowers yet sleep, where birds call for mates, and beetles crawl through decaying leaves, and mushrooms push up through soft loam, and where other such signs of a world coming awake manifest themselves in the gentle, cool breezes and delicate rains.

As they galloped onward, Roel kept a sharp eye out for crows, and when they had travelled a league or so, but for the area right at the marge, he had not espied any of the black birds the rest of the way. “Devereau, let us stop and not only change mounts, but call the Sprites to us. It seems Hradian did not take into account the greed of her guardians, and they are all massed at the border awaiting the arrival of the winged messengers of Valeray’s demesne.” A moment later, dismounted, Roel raised his horn to his lips and blew a summoning call. He then switched his saddle to a remount, as did Devereau. And even as he finished, a Sprite landed upon a nearby limb and said, “Yes, my lord?”

. .

Through Valeray’s sunwise border galloped Blaise and Regar and their guide Jerome, along with Regar’s tricorn passengers-

Flic, Fleurette, and Buzzer. And when they emerged from the twilight, they found themselves running sunwise in a sunlit forest. And an enormous flock of crows flew up and ’round, crying out in alarm. Flic and Fleurette hid themselves against the enshadowed upturned brim of Regar’s cocked hat, as onward careered the horses. Soon they were past the gauntlet of dark birds, and onward into the woodland they raced.

And it was a domain graced by eternal summer, a realm of forests and fields, of vales and clearings, of streams and rivers and other such ’scapes, where soft summer breezes flow across the weald, though occasionally towering thunderstorms fill the afternoon skies and rain sweeps o’er all. But this morning was clear, and under cloudless skies they ran, a cool breeze blowing athwart.

Both Flic and Fleurette kept a keen eye on the limbs of the trees and the air above. And almost immediately they noted an absence of crows, for those killers were massed at the starwise border, it seemed. After running a league or two, Flic called out,

“Prince Regar, see you any of the murdering black birds?”

“Nay, they seem to be all gone.”

“Then let us stop and call my kindred, for they have messages to bear.”

. .

Luc and Maurice hurtled through Valeray’s duskwise marge to find themselves running sunwise in the Autumnwood, and a mass of crows sprang into the air to churn about as the riders plunged on. Soon the crows settled back to their perches and waited as they were told to do by that strange person who flew on a brush-ended broken-off limb.

And the knight and guide raced deeper into the woodland where eternal autumn lies upon the land, a place where crops afield remain ever for the reaping, and vines are overburdened with their largesse, and trees bear an abundance ripe for the plucking, and the ground holds rootstock and tubers for the taking. Yet no matter how often a harvest is gathered, when one isn’t looking the bounty somehow replaces itself. How such a place could be-endless autumn-was quite strange; nevertheless it was so.

Of course, how three other allied realms of this woodland could be-one of eternal winter, another of eternal spring, and one of eternal summer-was just as peculiar.

Yet these four realms supported one another: the Winterwood somehow gave all needed rest; the Springwood, awakening and renewal; the Summerwood, growth into fullness; and the Autumnwood, fruition. Even in Faery, where mysteries are commonplace, the existence of these four was odd in the extreme.

And it was into the realm of everlasting largesse that Luc and Maurice raced, and soon they were out from under the dark swirling cloud of birds.

And just as had the other knights, soon Luc called a halt to summon winged Sprites and give them their messages to bear.

Then on they galloped, heading for Autumnwood Manor.

Riddles

It was yet early morn as Laurent and Edouard rode atrot through the snow-laden bottom of a gully, when in the distance ahead, where the walls curved inward to make the passage strait, stood an old woman, her hands raised in a gesture bidding them to stop.

“ ’Ware, Edouard,” said Laurent. “For all we know, this could be an ambush, or might even be the witch herself.”

“Sieur, it might also be someone who offers aid,” said the lad, used to the ways of Faery.

Laurent grunted a wordless reply, and he took up his crossbow and cocked it and set a quarrel in place, all the time his gaze sweeping along the somewhat overhanging rims above for sign of foe, but all he saw was white hoarfrost and overburdening snow and dangling ice.

And as they neared the crone, “Make way, old woman,” called Laurent. “We ride in haste.”

The hag did not move, and, in spite of his urgings, Laurent’s mount came to a halt, as did Edouard’s, the remounts in tow stopping as well.

The crone gave a gummy smile. “In haste you say? Heh! You don’t know what haste is.”

“Heed, old woman,” said Laurent, “we are on an urgent mission. Now give way.”

The hag moved not. “Have you any food? I’m hungry.” Even as Laurent shook his head, Edouard tossed her a half loaf of bread. “Madam,” said the youth, “we truly must needs ride onward. Will you please give way?”

“Well at least there’s someone here who knows courtesy,” snapped the crone, glaring at Laurent. She held up the bread. “I need something to wash this down.”

Laurent ground his teeth, but unloosed a small wineskin from his cantle. “Here,” he growled and tossed it to her, the old woman spryly snatching it from the air.

And in that same moment a shimmering came over her, and there before the knight and his guide stood a beautiful demoiselle with silver eyes and silver hair, and she was clad in a silver-limned ebon robe. And the air was filled with the sound of looms weaving.

As Edouard gasped, Laurent sprang from his horse and knelt before the maiden. “My lady Skuld, forgive me. I knew not it was you.”

“Whether or no it was me, still you should not have abandoned all courtesy, Sieur Laurent.”

“Indeed, I should have not, Lady Wyrd.”

“Ever proud, my knight. Someday your arrogance will do you ill if you do not mend your ways.”

Without a word, and yet on his knees, Laurent nodded.

In the snow behind him, Edouard now knelt, and in a small voice asked, “My Lady Who Sees the Future, have you come to give us a message?”

“Indeed, and since you each have done me a favor by giving me bread and wine, I can do so, yet under the rules I follow, first you must answer a riddle.”

“Say on, my lady,” said Laurent.

Skuld took a deep breath, and the sound of the looms swelled.

. .

“Glittering points

That downward thrust,

Sparkling spears

That never rust.

Name me.”

As Skuld fell silent, and the clack of shuttles and thud of battens diminished, Laurent’s heart fell. Edouard started to speak, yet Skuld gestured him to silence and said, “This is for Laurent to answer here in the Winterwood.”

Laurent looked up at her, his gaze narrowing in speculation, and then he glanced about and finally up at the overhang above.

He grinned and pointed and said, “My Lady Wyrd, the answer is icicles.”

Now Skuld smiled. “Indeed it is.”

“And the message you would give us. .?”

“As you might have heard, Sieur Laurent, I can only render aid in riddles.”

Laurent nodded but did not speak.

“Heed, then,” said Skuld. Once again the sound of weaving intensified.

“Swift are the get of his namesake,

That which a child does bear;

Ask the one who rides the one

To send seven children there.

At the wall there is a need

For seven to stand and wait,

Yet when they are asked to run,

They must fly at swiftest gait.

The whole must face the one reviled

Where all events begin:

Parent and child and child of child

Else shall dark evil win.”

And as the timbre of looms fell, Laurent frowned and said,

“But, my lady, I do not understand. Can you not say it plain?”

“Non, I cannot,” replied the silver-eyed demoiselle. “But this I can tell you for nought: If you do not give this message to the one for whom it is intended, then all will be lost forever.” And with that dire pronouncement, again the clack of shuttles and thud of battens intensified, and then vanished as did Lady Skuld.