Once upon a Spring morn

44

Perils

Into the flickering torchlight way they went, Roel in the lead, Celeste following, and behind them lightning flared and thunder crashed, and the corridor flashed bright in the strike. And revealed by the glare, at the far end stood a tall figure in black, his cloak limned in red.

“You!” cried Roel, and he spurred forward, but an axe came flying the length of the passage to bite deeply into Roel’s shield. A second axe flew out from the wavering shadows, and a third, and they struck and slashed at Roel, wielded by no hands at all. And horses snorted and blew and recoiled and jerked this way and that in the clanging din as axes met shield and Roel fended with Coeur d’Acier. Yet a fourth axe joined the fray, and a fifth, and Roel was hard-pressed as the blades flew about and slashed at him.

Behind Roel, Celeste’s mount flinched and stutter-stepped, yet in spite of its frantic dancing the princess drew her arrow to the full and aimed and loosed. Even as the shaft hurtled through the fluttering light, the figure at the far end whirled and vanished, and the arrow hissed through where he had been and shattered against stone.

And the axes fell to the pave of the corridor, no longer under sorcerous control.

His breath coming in gasps, Roel said, “ ’Twas the Changeling Lord.”

Yet even as he said it, at the far end a huge knight in black armor and bearing a battle-axe with flames running along its blade rode out from a side archway on a horselike steed; but no horse was this mount, with its serpent scales and flaring yellow eyes and a forked tongue and cloven hooves.

And with a howl, the black knight charged down the corridor, his flaming axe raised for a killing blow.

Roel spurred his mount forward to meet the onslaught, Coeur d’Acier’s edge gleaming argent in the flickering torchlight.

Even as they closed, an arrow hissed past Roel to-

thuck! — pierce the serpent horse and plunge deep into its breast. A skreigh split the air, but still the creature thundered on.

Down swung the black knight’s fire-edged battle-axe, and with a mighty crash, it shivered Roel’s shield in twain, yet at the same time, Roel’s silver-chased, rune-marked blade swept under the black knight’s own shield and ripped open his gut. Roel spun his horse, and with a second blow, he sheared through the knight’s neck to take off his head, even as another arrow flashed along the corridor, this one to pierce the serpent horse’s left eye, and that creature shrilled and crashed to the stone. The black knight’s body smashed down beside his monstrous horse, and his head yet encased in his helm clanged to the pave just behind, his axe blanging down nearby, its flames now extinguished.

Celeste quickly nocked another arrow, but the grotesque knight and his hideous beast began to pool into slime. And a horrific stench filled the passage.

With their horses snorting and blowing in the malodor and trying to jerk back and away from the sickening smell, gagging in the reek, both Roel and Celeste prevailed and spurred past the now-runny sludge and on down the corridor.

To the right and through the archway whence the black knight had come, they found an extensive, torchlit stable.

“Mid of night is drawing upon us,” said Roel as he and Celeste rode halfway down the row of stalls and dismounted. “We must find Avelaine ere then.”

“Hsst!” cautioned Celeste. “Roel, at the far end, something or someone moves.”

Down to the far extent they crept, to find several horses in stalls. “Celeste, there is Imperial, Laurent’s horse, and Vaillant, Blaise’s. They are here; my brothers are here. But, if that’s true, then why haven’t they-?

Oh, are they prisoners?”

Mayhap dead, thought Celeste. No, wait, Lady Doom showed us their images in her farseeing mirror. Surely they yet live; else why show us them?

Quickly they tied their horses to stall posts, and then wrenched down two of the sorcerous flambeaus, and up a flight of stone stairs they went, to find themselves in a courtyard, the rain yet sheeting down.

As they crossed, lightning flared, and Roel gasped.

“Celeste, it is Laurent and Blaise.”

“Where?”

“Yon.”

In that moment another flash brightened the courtyard, and near a gaping entryway stood two figures.

“Take care, Roel, for the Changelings are shapeshifters, and this could be a trap.”

“Laurent, Blaise!” called Roel, and, sword in hand, he and Celeste ran through the rain to where they had seen the two, slowing as they neared.

Another flare.

The figures had not moved.

Stepping closer and raising their torches on high, they found two life-sized statues.

Celeste recognized both from the image in Lady Urd’s dark basin. And just as they had seen at the crossroads some nine days past, both Laurent and Blaise stood with their hands on the hilts of their swords, the weapons partially drawn or mayhap partly sheathed.

And their faces reflected either smiles or grimaces.

Were they preparing to do battle, or instead were they putting their swords away? Neither Roel nor Celeste could tell.

“Oh, Mithras, my brothers, an enchantment, have they been turned to stone?”

“I do not know,” said Celeste, “yet we cannot stand and ponder. ’Tis nigh mid of night, and we must find your sister.”

In through the opening they went, and they found themselves in a long corridor. From somewhere ahead came the sound of soft weeping.

“Avelaine!” called Roel, and down the hallway they trotted.

From a doorway at the end of the passage there stepped a maiden. “Avelaine, we have found you,” cried Roel in triumph. “We have found you in time.”

“Is it you? Is it truly you?” asked Avelaine, sweeping forward, a beautiful smile transforming her face.

Celeste’s heart plummeted even as Roel rushed forward and embraced Avelaine. Then he stepped back to look at his sister and said, “Where are Laurent and Blaise?”

Celeste came to stand beside Roel, and Avelaine glanced at her and smiled. “Roel, she spoke to us,” said Celeste in a low voice.

Roel shook his head. “Celeste, she is my sister,” even as Celeste held her torch up for a better look at this maiden, the light casting shadows against the walls.

Celeste drew in a sharp breath between clenched teeth.

And as Roel started to sheathe his sword, “No!” cried Celeste, and she dropped her bow and torch and grabbed Coeur d’Acier away from Roel, and in spite of his shout, with a backhanded sweep she slashed the keen blade through Avelaine’s neck, the head to go flying.

Down fell the body and the head.

“Celeste,” cried Roel, horrified, “what have you done?”

But then the head began to transform into a visage of unbearable hideousness ’neath hair of hissing snakes.

And as Celeste and Roel looked on, their own bodies began to stiffen, to harden, yet at that moment the corpse and its head collapsed into mucous slime and then to a malodorous liquid, and Celeste and Roel felt whole and hale again.

Celeste said, “She was not Avelaine.”

“But how did you know?”

Celeste handed Coeur d’Acier back to Roel and retrieved her bow and torch and said, “She had a shadow, and Avelaine does not. And I remembered Skuld’s words:

“What might seem fair is sometimes foul And holds not a beautiful soul.

Hesitate not or all is lost;

Do what seems a terrible cost.

“When I held up the torch, her shadow showed her true soul, her true form-that of someone with writhing snakes for hair-a Gorgon. Besides, she spoke to us, and Lady Lot said that until Avelaine is fully restored to slay all those who do so.”

“A Gorgon?” Roel glanced at the puddle that was her head and then looked over his shoulder toward the statues in the courtyard. “Laurent and Blaise, this is how they. .?”

Tears brimmed in Celeste’s eyes. “I’m afraid so.” Gritting his teeth, Roel said, “The Changeling Lord will pay dearly for this. Come, we yet need to find Avelaine.”

As they started down the hallway, again they heard the soft weeping. They came to a cross-corridor, and Celeste murmured, “This way,” and rightward she turned toward the sobbing.

To either side open doorways showed chambers furnished with tables and chairs and cabinets and lounges and other such. In some, fireplaces were lit; in others the rooms were dark, and some were lit by candles.

They arrived at the doorway whence the weeping came, and they stepped into a chamber where a maiden sat on the floor quietly crying. At hand stood a narrow golden rack o’er which a dark wispy garment draped.

Celeste raised her torch and approached the girl to find she cast no shadow, though there was a thin line of darkness at her feet that shifted slightly as the torch moved about. “Is it Avelaine?” asked Celeste.

Roel knelt before the maiden and whispered,

“Avelaine?”

The demoiselle looked up, yet there was no recognition in her eyes, and she cast her face in her hands and wept on.

Celeste looked at Roel, a question in her eyes, and he nodded and glanced down at Coeur d’Acier and stepped well back and murmured, “Oh, Mithras, do not let her speak.”

In that moment, Celeste gasped and pointed, where on the wall a huge celestial astrolabe slowly turned, the large disks of the golden sun and silver moon and the smaller disks of the five wandering stars-red, blue, yellow, green, and white-all creeping in great circular paths.

“Roel, look, the disk of the moon is nigh all black. ’Tis but a faint silver line remaining, and even it is disappearing.”

“We must hurry, for mid of night is upon us,” said Roel.

Frantically Celeste looked about, her eye lighting on the golden rack. “Can this be her shadow?” asked Celeste, reaching for the dark garment. But her hand passed through; she could not grasp it.

“It must be,” said Roel. “It looks just like the one the Changeling Lord had draped over his arm.” Celeste frowned in puzzlement. “If we cannot even touch it, then how do we restore it to her form?” Roel frowned and looked at the golden rack and then his face lit up in revelation. “Celeste, the Fate-given gifts!”

“Oui!” cried Celeste, and she set her bow aside and took the three gifts in hand: the golden tweezers and spool of dark thread from her pocket, and the silver needle from her silken undershirt.

With the golden tweezers and their very rounded, blunt ends, she found she could take hold of the shadow on the rack.

But when she tried with her fingers to pluck the loose end of the wispy dark thread from the obsidian spool, she could not grasp it either. Once again she used the golden tweezers, and with some difficulty, she managed to thread the silver needle. Then she lifted the shadow from the rack and moved it to the thin line of darkness at Avelaine’s feet, and after comparing one with the other, she turned the shadow over to mate with the line.

And on the wall the astrolabe showed a black moon with but a trace of silver remaining, and it began to disappear.

Taking a deep breath and praying that she had gotten things right, Celeste began to stitch, the seam sealing perfectly as she went.

Roel stepped to the door to stand ward, only to hear a distant rising and falling of an incantation echoing down the hallway.

“Celeste,” he called quietly, and when she looked up, he glanced at the astrolabe where but a faint glimmer remained. “Someone is chanting. . mayhap the Changeling Lord. If so, it might be to entrap Avelaine’s soul forever, for mere moments are left of time. I must stop him ere it falls, but you must continue sewing.” Celeste paused in her stitching and glanced aside to make certain her bow was in reach, and then she nodded and whispered, “Go,” and began sewing again.

With Coeur d’Acier in hand, Roel stepped quietly along the corridor toward the chanting. Past doorways he trod, and he turned at a cross-hall, the sound growing louder. Down the passage before him, an archway glowed with wavering light, and as he approached, a brief flare of brightness glared through the portal, followed by the boom of thunder. At last Roel came to the entry, and it led into a grand room bare of furniture, with a great, round skylight centered overhead. Again a stroke flashed through the sky and starkly lit the entire room, thunder crashing after. But the storm above was not what caught Roel’s eye, for there in the flickering candlelight, with his back to the door, in the center of the chamber at the edge of a circle engraved in the floor with five black candles ringed ’round, each joined by five straight lines forming a pentagonal shape, the Changeling Lord stood with his arms upraised, and he chanted, invoking some great spell.

Running on silent footsteps, across the broad floor sped Roel, his sword raised for a strike. But ere he reached the Changeling Lord, in the circle appeared a tall, thin, black-haired woman, dressed in a dark flowing gown. And her imperious face twisted in rage, and she shrieked, “You!”

But it was not the Changeling Lord who evoked her venom, for, even as the lord turned to see Roel hurtling forward, the woman raised a black-nailed hand, and with a gesture she spat a word.

And Roel was frozen in his tracks, and try as he might, he could not move.

Sneering in triumph, the woman started forward, but the lines on the floor seemed to stop her. She looked down at them and with a negligent wave, as if flicking away a fly, she stepped out from the pentagon, out from the circle, and, with but barely a glance at the Changeling Lord, she strode past him and toward her impaled victim: Roel.