Once upon a Spring morn

21

Memorial

Benumbed with grief, Borel and Michelle, Alain and Camille, Liaze and Luc, and King Valeray and Queen Saissa all sat in a drawing room in Springwood Manor, waiting for the mark when the service would begin.

Hierophant Georges would preside, a tall and somber man. But for the nonce they sat alone, shielded from the sorrow of all others who had come-the retinues of the Winterwood, Autumnwood, and Summerwood, and that of the king-as well as from the heartache of the Springwood staff.

They sat for long moments without speaking, each wrapped in thoughts unshared.

Finally Camille said, “Alain and I think I might be with child.”

Even this news brought nought more than a slight glimmer of gladness to the gathering.

“When will you know?” asked the queen.

“By the next full moon, I should think,” replied Camille.

But then silence fell and the glumness had returned.

The king sat with his foot propped up and in a tight wrap from toes to knee. “Damned horse,” he said, peering at it.

“How?” asked Liaze.

“Eh?”

“How did you hurt your ankle?”

“He broke it, dear,” said Saissa.

“Not I,” said Valeray. “ ’Twas the horse that fell on me, not I on him.”

“Still, how?” asked Liaze, seeking anything to take her mind from the matter at hand.

“He was trying to jump a rock wall,” said Saissa.

“Well, that’s where the stag went,” said Valeray, huffing.

“Ah,” said Liaze.

There came a light tap on the door, and tall, spare, silver-haired Vidal stepped in. “They are ready,” he said quietly.

Alain sighed and stood, offering an arm to Camille.

And so they all stood, Valeray using crutches to aid him along the way.

Out to the lawn they went, out to an arbor. And gathered in the garden before the vine-laden latticework were all retinues and staff.

When the kindred were seated, and after a short opening prayer to Mithras by Hierophant Georges, Prince Borel, eldest of the siblings, took stance behind a small lectern. And even before he began to speak, a soft weeping filled the air.

Tears ran down Borel’s face, and nearby his Wolves whined in uncertainty; they cast about, seeking the cause of the woe besetting their master but finding none.

“Friends, family, loved ones,” began Borel, “even though she was the youngest of us, my sister Celeste was the most headstrong. Always did she seek a challenge, and for that we loved her. Perhaps it was to show us that she could hold her own against Alain and Liaze and me, and hold her own she did, yet I think it was in her nature to-” A distant horn cry interrupted Borel’s words.

He frowned and looked toward the far woods.

Again sounded the horn, and bursting out from among the trees came a rider, a remount in tow. Across the sward galloped the stranger, and he wore the tabard of a king, but just which king it was-

“ ’Tis Avelar’s man,” said Valeray.

Once more sounded the horn, and up galloped the youth. He leapt from his steed and called, “A message from Vicomte Chevell.”

The lad strode forward, and his gaze swept over the gathering, for all their faces were turned toward him.

He then saw Giselle, her own face puffed and her eyes and nose red with weeping, and the youth frowned in puzzlement.

Now he saw Steward Vidal, as well as Armsmaster Anton, yet in spite of his instructions, he gave over the message to Prince Borel, whom he also recognized.

“We’re having a memorial here, son,” said Vidal quietly.

“Oh, my, I did not mean to interrupt,” replied Quint.

Just then there came a whoop from Borel. “She’s alive!” he cried, holding the letter aloft. “She and Roel did not drown after all, but landed on a ship instead!” What? cried some. Alive? cried others, but most shouted in glee.

“I’m going to wring her neck,” muttered Liaze, embracing Luc, tears of relief and joy running down her face.