Once upon a Summer Day

24

“They say she’s a sorciere, this Rhensibe,” whispered Charite.

“Oui. In town there are some who claim she has some sort of grievance against the duke,” said Maurice, “or she did, until the valley turned to stone.”

“You know this for a fact?” asked Borel.

“Well, rumor would have it be so,” said Maurice.

Charite nodded her agreement and said, “I think someone-perhaps one of those Fey ladies-anyway, someone said-’round the time of Lady Chelle’s birth I think-that Rhensibe’s rancor against the duke goes back to a distant time.”

Flic looked at Borel. “What was it Hradian wrote in her journal about her sister?”

Borel took a deep breath and intoned, “ ‘On this same day in a linked act, my elder sister cast a great spell upon Roulan and his entire estate through his daughter Chelle, on this the day of her majority’-”

Maurice and Charite gasped, and Maurice said, “Ominous words, them.”

“That great spell had to be the black wind,” said Flic. “But we interrupted you, Lord Borel. There was more.”

“Oui,” said the prince, “there was more. ‘This vengeance is so very sweet, for Roulan was the accomplice of Valeray the Thief. And now all are ensorcelled and well warded; and since none can find Roulan’s daughter-or even if they do, all attempts to rescue her from the turret will fail-then when the rising full moon sits on the horizon eleven years and eleven moons from now…’ ” Borel paused, then added, “That’s as far as I read in the journal ere Hradian came.”

“And Hradian is…?” asked Maurice.

“A witch,” replied Borel. “A very powerful witch.”

Maurice and Charite nodded and looked at one another, and Charite said, “Another sorciere.”

“Like Rhensibe is said to be,” added Maurice.

“Perhaps sisters,” said Flic.

“They must have had a pact,” said Borel. “My sire and the duke were both cursed, all for what they did during the struggle against Orbane.”

“Orbane!” exclaimed Maurice and Charite together, making warding signs. And Maurice pled, “Oh, Lord Borel, speak of him no more, for we would not sear our minds with thoughts of that foul magicien nor have his name uttered in this house. It might draw him here.”

“But he is cast out,” said Borel, “banished to the Castle of Shadows beyond the Black Wall of the World.”

Both Maurice and Charite moaned in fear, and from under the table, Brun whined, the dog sensing his masters’ dread. Charite said, “Oh, my lord prince, we will not hear any more, else he himself is likely to appear.” And she grabbed Maurice by the arm and together they fled to their bedchamber and slammed the door to, and left Brun sitting without and whimpering.

The dog looked over his shoulder at Borel, seeking reassurance. Borel growled a word or two, and Brun settled down.

A moment later, the door opened a crack and Brun jumped to his feet. Through the gap a blanket was tossed into the main room, and Charite called, “Sieur, you may sleep in the loft,” and she slammed shut the door again, abandoning Brun. The dog came to Borel and looked up at him, and the prince reached down and stroked the animal’s head.

From outside, there came a persistent lowing, and Borel and Flic heard the slide of a window sash. Borel looked at Flic and said, “It is Maurice. He’s gone out through the window to milk the cow.”

Flic yawned and said, “Speaking of windows, would you open that one a bit?”

“Ah, yes, fresh air,” said Borel.

“Or something of the sort,” said Flic.

As Borel stepped to the sash and lowered it, the jamb sliding into the recess below, Flic lay back down near dormant Buzzer and pulled the kerchief to his chin and yawned and said, “Good night.” Then he grinned and added, “Pleasant dreams.”

“Good night,” said Borel, and he took up the blanket and climbed the ladder to the loft. And even as Madame Vache out in the byre quit bellowing now that Maurice had come to relieve her of her milk, and as Brun took station under the table and turned ’round several times before flopping down, Borel fell fast asleep.

In the faint breeze, water lapped softly against the shore. The just-risen half-moon cast a long glimmer of light across the rippling surface. “I thought we might take a stroll by this lakeside,” said Borel.

“Oh,” said Chelle. “I was rather hoping this night I would see the Winterwood.”

“Perhaps another time, my love,” said Borel. “You see, I would rather take you there when I find you at last.”

Chelle laughed. “But I am not lost, my lord. Must we play hide-and-seek ere you show me your demesne?”

Borel’s laughter joined hers. Still, he did not dare say more, else she might wrench them both back into the turret, wherever it might be. He closed his eyes a moment, and then opened them again. “I think there is a small skiff just past this stand of reeds. Would you join me in a row?”

“Oh, yes, my Borel. I would.”

Borel frowned a moment. “Ere we go out onto the water, I need to ask: can you swim?”

“Indeed,” said Chelle, and of a sudden she stood unclothed on a bluff above the lake, her golden hair gleaming in the moonlight, her firm young breasts high, her aureoles pale, her narrow waist gracefully flaring into slim rounded hips tapering down to her long slender legs, a golden triangle at her cleft. Borel’s breath shuddered inward, for she was splendid. Laughing, she dived outward and down into the pellucid waters of the lake.

Borel found himself naked beside her, his blood pulsing, a fire in his loins, and in the water he took her in his arms and kissed her hungrily as they sank below the surface, his erect manhood pressing against her No! I cannot do this!

Borel wrenched himself awake, and he groaned softly in his desire. Yet- Great Mithras, what have I done to Chelle? Is she trapped in a place of my making? I must return to that dream. I must!

Borel tried to will himself to sleep, yet he could not force slumber, and he lay with his mind racing, wondering, anxiety gnawing at his viscera, his breath rasping in disquiet.

This will never do.

Down from the loft he clambered, and as he crossed the floor he glanced at the table- Flic is missing. Buzzer is here, but Flic…? Borel looked at the open window, moonlight shining in. Mayhap he has gone outside to relieve himself.

With Brun at his side, Borel stepped into the yard, his mind yet churning in turmoil, his gaze irresistibly drawn toward the mouth of Lord Roulan’s vale. He glanced at the waning half-moon, now risen some four fists above the horizon- Two candlemarks past mid of night — its light angling across the slope and foothills above and the mountains beyond.

Shaking his head, he turned and walked out to the byre, Brun running ahead. Madame Vache stood inside adoze.

Yet Borel couldn’t keep his mind off his beloved, and he looked once more at the vale. Not only might she be cast adrift in a dream of my own making, but somewhere in Faery, or mayhap not, she is lost to me as well, and I need to find her. And there are but some twenty-one days until the moon is full again. Oh, Michelle, my Chelle, where are you?

Then Borel saw a faint glitter flashing through the air… nearing. What can that…?

He watched as it drew close, a tiny flickering luminescence, or perhaps moonlight glancing off Wings! It is Flic.

The Sprite sped toward the stead, and then veered toward Borel. Now Brun saw the glimmer, and he set up a din at this strange “Brun,” said Borel, and then a guttural word, and the dog immediately stopped.

Flic flew down and alighted on Borel’s shoulder.

“I thought it would be worth a look,” said the Sprite, “yet I found it unchanged, nought but stone.” He sighed in dejection and said, “I was wrong.”

“Wrong about what, Flic?”

“I’ve heard tales of enchanted people and places and things that only reveal their true form or can only be seen or only show up in moonlight. It seems Lord Roulan’s estate is not one of those. Either that, or perhaps this moon is simply not full enough for the vale to appear.”