Once upon a Summer Day

8

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.

She is real. I know it. Not just a dream but real. How I know this I cannot say, but nevertheless I do. And she is in peril, and there is but a moon left ere something dire comes afoot or awing or aslither or however else it might arrive. I must do something. I must! But what? — Ah, the reaper had it right. A seer. I must consult a seer, a dream seer-a voyant de reves. No, wait. Better yet a diviner of dreams-a devin de reves — and the nearest diviner is Vadun, a day beyond the cursed part of my demesne. I will pass by Hradian’s cote on the way. Two birds with one stone, or so I hope.

Of a sudden the wind gusted and banged one of the shutters to and then flung it wide only to slam the other about. Snatched from his musings, Borel grabbed the boards and closed and locked them and drew the window sash. He stood for a moment in the thin beam of moonlight shining inward through the small gap, and then went back to his bed. Yet he did not sleep again that night, his mind atumble with inchoate thoughts, imperfectly formed and vague… and in the end quite pointless, for he did not know who she was, nor where she was, nor what hazard she faced. He only knew she was in danger, and time grew perilously short.

Tossing, turning, unable to sleep, at last Borel left his bed just as the moon set and pale dawn graced the sky.

“But, my lord, so soon?” asked the steward. “You are not yet rested from your journey here.”

“I must, Arnot. She is in peril, and time is of the essence.”

They stood in the armory, Borel buckling on his leather-armor vest, Gerard fussing about, slipping things into the rucksack, while Jules, the armsmaster, handed Borel his gear.

Arnot, however, off to one side, eyed the weaponry all ’round the chamber: swords, halberds, axes, bows, long-knives, shields, bucklers, war hammers, chain, breastplates, and other such arms and armor, all marked with a silvery snowflake. Would that his lord would take up better weapons and protection-a good war hammer, a bronze breastplate, a helm, rerebraces, vambraces, cuissarts, greaves, and knee and elbow guards, as well as a shield-but Borel seemed to prefer to go lightly.

With a sigh, Jules, tall and dark-haired, took up Borel’s bow-its grip polished ironwood, its limbs white horn, its bowstring intertwined strands of waxed silk-and turned to the prince. “Perhaps, my lord, it was merely the groan of the wind made you dream so. It was quite fierce last night.”

“Non, my friend, not the wind, instead ’twas a sending, I am certain. She is real, and somehow we are linked.”

“And where do you propose to go?” asked Arnot.

“To Vadun. He is a dream diviner-a devin de reves — and if any can unravel her location, Vadun is the one to do so.”

“But, my prince, that means going through the cursed section of the ’Wood, and Hradian lives just beyond the blight. Let me round up some men, and we will go armed with you.”

“Non, Arnot,” said Borel, taking his long-knife from Jules and belting it on and strapping it to his right thigh. “I would not put you or them in peril.”

“Then, my lord, I suggest you swing wide of her cottage,” said Jules.

Borel shook his head. “My sire asked me to find out if the witch yet dwells in her cote; you see, after Alain’s wedding, then will we raise a warband and run her down.”

“But, my lord,” said Gerard, the valet’s voice tight with stress, “you needn’t go nigh; we can send the Sprites to see if she yet resides therein.”

“Non, Gerard. The Sprites avoid the cursed section entirely; they fear to go near. And Hradian’s cottage lies on the far bound. Instead, I must go.”

“Ah, this is a scouting mission then?” said Jules.

“Indeed,” replied Borel, turning aside to take up his quiver, hence his gaze did not meet that of his armsmaster nor his steward nor his loyal valet.

“When do you plan on returning, Lord Borel?” asked Arnot.

“Before Alain and Camille’s wedding three months hence,” replied Borel, slipping the quiver baldric over his head and across one shoulder.

“My lord?”

“If Vadun interprets my dream and it is true, I have but a moon-nay, a day less than a moon-ere the lady must face her peril. At a minimum-twenty-eight days hence-I intend to be with her when that occurs, and I know not how far away lies this stone chamber surrounded by daggers dire. And so, if it takes the full of that time to reach her, and a like amount returning, then I should be back in two moons, well before Alain and Camille’s wedding. Yet I hope that I can find her ere the whole of this moon has passed, for I would spirit her safely away with days to spare.”

Jules handed the bow to the prince and stood back and examined him, then grunted in satisfaction. The prince seemed ready. But then the armsmaster frowned and said, “My lord, concerning this dream or sending-the daggers may merely be symbolic as to the threat she faces. They could represent an army besieging a palace, or other such encircling hazard. If that is true, you may need a warband or even an army to meet the peril beleaguering this damsel. If so, what then, Prince Borel?”

“I am hoping Vadun can tell me what is needed.”

Borel took up his rucksack and stepped from the armory, the three men following. They passed down long corridors to come to the welcoming hall, and thence unto the main entrance and out into the courtyard. And there awaited Borel’s Wolves, yipping and yammering and milling about, for they had sensed that another run lay ahead. How they knew the prince would be leaving this day, none could fathom, yet sense it they had, and they were eagerly waiting.

Prince Borel shouldered his rucksack and adjusted the straps to keep it from interfering with the quiver, then he slung his bow by its carrying thong and, with a final adieu to the trio, he set out across the courtyard at the Wolfpace he could sustain all day.

Shivering with the cold, Arnot, Jules, and Gerard watched until the prince passed over the flat and started down the slope beyond, and then with sighs they turned and stepped back into the warm and comfortable halls of Winterwood Manor.

All that day Borel and the pack trotted through the snow and ice, with gleeful Sprites flashing from ice-clad tree to ice-coated rock to the ice of a frozen mere or pond or lake, or of tributaries, be they rivulets, brooks, streams, or rivers. At some of these places, scattering the Sprites wide, Borel and the Wolves would pause and quench their thirst, but mostly they merely passed over the ice and continued on through the snow-laden land.

They rested for a while as the sun passed through the zenith, and then they continued on. And as they ran, the Ice-Sprites coursed with them. Yet toward midafternoon the number of Sprites dwindled and dwindled, until there was but one yet in their company, for they were nearing the cursed section.

Finally, they topped a rise, and downslope ahead stood a tangled and twisted wood, with barren, shattered, stark trees clawing at a drab, overcast sky. All was black and white and gray, no color whatsoever in the land. Even the evergreens were blasted and dead, needles gone, bleak branches broken and hanging lifeless. And there at the verge of this drear and stricken place, the Sprite flashed ahead and took up station on an ice-laden boulder and, with its face twisted in dread, it frantically gestured for Borel to stop, signing that peril lay in the desolate snarl.

Borel signalled that he and the Wolves knew the hazard of this part of the ’Wood, and trotted past the terrified Sprite and into the appalling blight.

Among the twisted trees they went, did Borel and the pack, Wolves running to the fore and flank and aft-Slate and Dark in the lead, Render and Trot to the left, Shank and Loll on the right, Blue-eye bringing up the rear. And all about was gloom and desolation and chill, a grim and silent wood. And now and again one Wolf or another would pause and raise a nose in the air, seeking the scent of peril in the surround, and then lope forward to take station again.

On they went into the fading day, the sky seeming even more dismal in this dreadful demesne. Embedded in ice and snow and looming all ’round were harsh gray rock and jagged crags and stripped, barren trees-nought but cracked and splintered and tangled wood-and clawlike branches seemed to reach out to grasp, as if clutching at these insolent travellers who dared to journey within. Yet neither Borel nor the Wolves paid heed as misshapen boughs reached forth with their fingers of twisted twigs as the day drew down toward eve.

And a candlemark or so ere sunset, Slate in the lead trotted free of the tangle, followed by Dark; and then Borel and the flankers-Render and Trot, Shank and Loll-broke out of the snarl, followed at last by Blue-eye.

And just beyond the border awaiting them in an icicle dangling from the limb of an evergreen was an Ice-Sprite. And when Borel had emerged from the gnarl, relief flooded the Sprite’s face. It was the Sprite who had accompanied the prince to the opposite side of the blight, and even though terrified, it had waited for them to safely emerge. All the other Sprites had long ago abandoned them, though somewhere farther on, somewhere beyond the reach of the cursed section, they would take up the run again.

Borel signed his thanks to the Sprite, and then-looking first left and then right-he turned leftward and trotted parallel to the tangle.

A horrified look on its face, once more the Sprite flashed ahead, this time to a frozen mere. And it signalled to the prince that menace lay to the fore, for in the near distance sat a small cottage of rough fieldstone, its roof tattered thatch.

Borel paused, and at a growled word, the pack paused as well. As he strung his bow, Borel studied the meager cote, one room at the most. There was no smoke coming from the chimney, and the air was silent.

Still the Sprite frantically gestured. Borel then signalled he knew of the peril and knew what he was doing, and, nocking an arrow, he started toward the dwelling-Hradian’s abode-the Wolves yet arrayed to the fore and flank and aft.

The Sprite accompanied them no farther, so strong was its dread, yet Borel and the Wolves went on.

The sun sank lower in the sky.

And then they came to the cote and quietly circled ’round.

There was a single door facing the blighted wood, with a window to either side, and one in the rear as well. Yet the windows were covered with scraped and oiled hide and did not permit Borel to see within.

He looked to Slate and growled a word. A rumble came in response.

No fresh scent; all was old.

Borel stepped to the door. It was latched, yet a simple pull of the string snicked it open. Borel drew his bow to the full, then kicked the door wide on its leather hinges and stood ready.

No one was in the dimness beyond.

Borel stepped inside.

Perhaps the place is abandoned.

He scanned about. A fireplace stood in one corner; a tripod holding a lidded iron kettle dangled over cold ashes. In front of the fireplace sat a three-legged stool. To one side was a table, and hanging from the beams above were pots and pans and utensils. Several rude shelves on a wall at hand held a small number of wooden bowls and dishes and spoons. In the shadows overhead, strings of beans and roots and turnips and onions and leeks and other such fare depended from the joists. Along one wall stood a cot, and along another wall sat a worktable with several drawers. Just above were more shelves, these with jars of herbs and simples and things that looked like parts of fur-bearing animals and insects and amphibians and reptiles preserved in a pale yellow liquid. On these shelves as well were scrolls and loose sheets of parchment. A half-full drinking bucket, the water frozen, sat on the hard-pack floor nearby, a hollowed-out gourd for a dipper hanging down from the bail.

Relaxing his draw, Borel stepped to the table and set his bow thereon, the arrow beside it. Then he took down a scroll and unrolled it. Whatever it said, he did not know, for it was written in runes unfamiliar.

Another scroll yielded the same result, though the symbols were stranger still. Another scroll and then another he opened, none of which he could read.

Perhaps I will burn these.-No, better yet, take them to Vadun. He is a seer of sorts and mayhap well versed in many tongues.

He unslung his rucksack and set it on the table, and placed all scrolls and parchments within. Then he began opening the drawers, and in the first he found odd instruments of bronze; what they were for he could not say. In the next were powders and what seemed to be lumps of ores, and a mortar and pestle for grinding. The next drawer yielded pressed flowers. Brushing most aside, Borel uncovered a book.

A grimoire?

The sun began lipping the horizon, casting long shadows across the Winterwood.

In the fading light Borel opened the book. It was written in a small, crabbed hand.

No, not a grimoire. Instead it seems to be… — Yes, a journal of sorts. Written in the Old Tongue.

Though the writing was difficult to read, still Borel quickly leafed from page to page, skimming.

Of a sudden his eye caught the words Foret d’Hiver. He flipped back a page to the beginning of the entry. Though Borel could read the Old Tongue, still his progress was slow, for the hand was difficult. “Aujourd’hui, j’ai complete ma malediction sur la Foret d’Hiver pour produire sa ruine totale…”

Today, I completed the curse upon the Forest of Winter to produce its total ruin, but the forest is too strong and resisted total destruction. Even so, I managed to blight a wide swath between the Springwood and the Summerwood along the shortest route to the common world, hence I deny them an easy journey. On this same day in an 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. 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 Startled, Borel looked up from the journal. Trapped? Turret? Full moon? This has to somehow be From the corner of his eye, Borel noted movement in the bucket near his feet. And there, under the surface of the ice, the Sprite, sheer terror on its face, signalled frantically of oncoming peril. And then the Sprite disappeared.

Borel jammed the journal into his rucksack on the table and snatched up his bow and an arrow. Nocking the shaft as he went, he stepped through the doorway and out into the long shadows cast by the nearly set sun. Alighting in the snow some fifty paces away, Hradian dismounted from her besom, the crone dressed in black, with black lace frills and trim and danglers streaming from her like tattered gloom.

Borel’s Wolves stood with fangs bared and hackles raised and growls deep in their chests.

And even as Hradian turned and looked at the cote, Borel took quick aim and loosed his shaft, the arrow to fly straight and true.

Yet even as it flashed through the air, with her index and little fingers of her right hand hooked like horns and pointing at the arrow, and her middle fingers pointed down and her thumb pointed leftwards, “Avert!” cried Hradian at the last instant, and the arrow veered to her left and ripped through her ear as it flew past. Hradian screamed in agony, even as Borel nocked another shaft.

Slate howled, and the Wolves charged.

But Hradian snatched up a talisman on a thong ’round her neck and cried a word and broke the amulet in two, and in a roaring black wind Borel was hurled up and away, his last sight that of the Wolves hurtling at the witch, yet she had mounted the haft of her twiggy besom, and then Borel lost consciousness and saw no more as the black wind bore him away.