Once Upon a Summer Day (20 page)

“—and then Rhensibé came.”

Chelle began to weep, and even as Borel stepped toward her, the walls began to waver, and—

—he awakened in a grassy field with dawn upon the land and the waning, slightly gibbous moon yet above.

In the Winterwood, Wolves startled awake, and Slate sprang to his feet and howled, and the others stood and joined him, all muzzles raised to the sky.

In his chamber, Arnot, steward of Winterwood Manor, awakened and leapt from his bed and rushed to his window. He threw open the sash, and looked out to see the Wolves milling about and calling, as if seeking someone lost.

To Arnot’s right another window was flung wide, and Gerard, valet to Prince Borel, looked out upon the same scene.

And in that very moment, with Slate in the lead, and Dark and Render and Shank and Trot and Loll and Blue-eye following, off in the direction of the Springwood they sped, with clots of snow arcing high into the air from their flying feet.

Gerard looked at Arnot, his unspoken question unanswered, for neither man knew what had gotten into the pack, although they feared the worst, for the Wolves had returned five days past without the prince, and none at the manor knew ought of what had occurred.

As to the prince himself, he had gone on a mission to find someone he had dreamt was in peril, and whether or no he was yet on that quest and had merely sent the Wolves back . . . well, again none could say. Gerard and Arnot both thought it unlikely that Borel would leave the pack behind unless he had no other choice.

And so, they had assembled an armed search party, and it had marched away just two days gone—first to Hradian’s cote, and then to the dream-seer Vadun beyond—and no word had yet come from them.

And even as steward and valet closed their windows, onward sped the pack, Wolves running through snow and toward the Springwood and a particular wildflower-laden glade, for surely the prince and his lady were there. After all, the pack entire had just moments before been at that place . . . or so to them it seemed.

“R
hensibé again?”

“Oui. Rhensibé again, Flic. And even as Chelle said the name, the dream began to fade, and there was nought I could do to stop it.”

Flic frowned and looked up at Borel. “And she gave you no hint as to what or who this Rhensibé might be?”

“Non.” Borel took another bite of cold marmot meat.

Buzzer landed next to Flic and began a waggle dance. After a moment, the bee stepped to the jar lid and began lapping honey. Flic dipped a finger into the sweetness and licked it off.

“Well?” said Borel around a mouthful of marmot.

“You are to be congratulated, my prince,” said Flic. “Buzzer says we are not too far off the line. How you managed to hew to the course while wading through the swamp with nought but the light of stars to illume the way, well, that was quite a feat.”

Borel laughed. “Flic, my lad, I used those same stars to guide my feet.—And speaking of swamps, is there a stream nearby where I can wash this putrid blackstool slime and the other foul leavings of that wretched mire from me?”

Flic shoved two fingers of honey into his mouth and then said, “I’ll look.” Up he flew to a great height, and then arrowed off on an angle to the twilight wall behind. Buzzer continued lapping sweetness from the jar lid, though it seemed to Borel that Buzzer’s eye facets remained locked upon him.

Just as Borel finished the last of the marmot meat, and Buzzer the last of the honey in the lid, Flic circled down. “There is a small thicket in a low spot yon, a mere therein. I believe it’s large enough to be a bath for you, my lord.”

“Ah, good.” Borel capped the honey jar and packed away their meager belongings into the tiny, Gnome-given rucksack, which he then belted by rope to his waist. He strung his bow and took up his quiver and said, “Let us away.”

And with both Buzzer and Flic riding the tricorn, off toward the thicket Borel marched, Flic pointing the way.

“We still do not know whether this Rhensibé is friend or foe,” said Flic, as Borel strode through the hip-high grass, some stalks of which were topped with tiny blue flowers.

“Given Chelle’s fright, I think Rhensibé is a foe,” said Borel.

“Mayhap not, my lord,” said Flic. “Rhensibé could merely be a bearer of ill tidings, and one should not blame the messenger for the message. But then again, perhaps you are right and Rhensibé is a foe, or a dreadful beast, a savage monster, or even a dumb brute.”

Borel shook his head. “Not a dumb brute, Flic. Recall, Chelle said it was Rhensibé who told her there was but a moon left. So, no matter what or who this Rhensibé might be, he or she or it can speak.—Heed, my tiny one, we can speculate all day and still be no closer to the pith of it. When we reach Roulan’s estate, then will we learn the truth.”

“Perhaps so, my lord. Perhaps so.—Ah, there is the thicket.”

 

With himself bathed and his leathers wiped off as best he could, Borel made ready to go. As the prince stepped from the thicket, Buzzer flew up and sighted on the sun and then shot away. Borel sighted along the beeline Buzzer took, and in the distance afar, he could see foothills rising up into the flanks of a low range of mountains, their sides green with foliage in the midmorn sunlight. Borel’s heart beat a bit faster, for he seemed to recall that such forest-clad slopes lay behind Roulan’s lands.

Taking up the Wolftrot he could sustain all day, he started toward a particular mountain peak along his line of sight.

Flic, jouncing but a bit on the tricorn prow, said, “Can you talk while you run, my prince?”

“Oui. It is how my père taught me to gauge my rate. ‘Trot at a pace at which you can just carry on a running conversation, ’ he said, ‘and then you will know you are at nigh the fastest clip you can keep to nearly all day.’ ”

“Ah, good,” said Flic, “for I would ask you this: what is this ‘majority’ you spoke of?”

“It is a holdover from when humans lived only in the mortal world,” said Borel, “and concerns the status of having reached full legal age, with attendant entitlements and responsibilities. It means one has the right to make his own choices, to go his own way, and on his own to decide what to do with his life. Yet it also means that one has obligations to fulfill to his kindred, his clan, his realm. Some also call it the coming of age.”

“And when might that be?” said Flic.

“It is that point in time when a person becomes an adult,” said Borel. “In the mortal world, it can be fifteen years for some, twelve or thirteen for others, or eighteen, or even twenty-one.”

Flic laughed. “In the mortal world it sounds as if time is as irregular as it is here in Faery.”

“Oh, no,” said Borel, jogging ’round a small stand of trees. “What it really depends on are the needs of the culture; in some, majority arrives earlier than others. I would have been twenty-one in mortal years when I came of age. For my sisters, eighteen.”

“Hmm . . .” said Flic. “I wonder what it would be in my case.”

“Who knows, my lad,” said Borel. “In Faery, a millennium can pass in but a single day, and a thousand or more days in but a single year.”

Flic frowned and scratched his head and tried to imagine what a mortal year might be, and Borel jogged on, sighting on the crest of a particular mountain to hew unto the line flown by a special bee.

 

As the sun reached the zenith, it seemed they were no closer to the foothills and mountains, but distances can be deceiving in the realms of Faery. Even so, the thigh-high, blue-flowered grass of the plains had vanished arear, and now Borel loped across a lowland, turf and peat aground. Borel paused on the bank of a flowing rill and laid out some jerky and the honey jar, dribbling a bit of the golden sweetness into the lid. As Borel took a bite of the dried meat and chewed, and Flic dipped fingers into the sticky fluid and licked it away, Buzzer returned annoyed by the delay, but settled down to sip beside the Sprite.

Flic looked up at Borel and said, “Have you made love to her in your unfettered dreams?”

“Eh?”

“I asked if you and Chelle had yet made love in your unfettered dreams.”

“Do you mean, have I bedded her?”

“Oui,” said Flic, a Pixyish grin on his face.

“Non.”

“Non? Why not? It is only a dream, and anything can happen in a dream.”

“Flic, if it were an ordinary dream, then whatever happens happens. But this dream is not ordinary, for it is a dream she and I share. And in it I know I am dreaming, but she does not. And though I control aspects of the dream, I would not force myself upon her. You see, I do love her, and when or if we ever lie together, it will be a matter of free choice on both our parts. But for now, I am the only one who truly has free will, who truly is not subject to the heedless whims and wild emotions of a dream, and so I have not made love to her, and will not until she and I both choose to do so. Perhaps it will never be, but if it does so happen, then it will be when we meet in the flesh.”

Flic burst out giggling, and when Borel raised a questioning eyebrow, “Meet in the flesh, indeed,” gasped the Sprite, and giggled all the harder.

“Ah, Flic, you know what I mean,” said Borel, smiling in spite of himself.

They ate without speaking for long moments, and then Borel said, “Let me tell you a tale.”

“Oh, good! I love stories,” said Flic. Then he frowned and added, “Unless they’re bloody. This isn’t a bloody one, is it?”

“Non. It is quite mild, my wee friend.”

“Well, not too mild, I hope. I mean, an Ogre getting smashed to a pulp and squirting out in all directions, well that’s all right. Or a seven-headed Giant getting each of his heads chopped off, that’s acceptable, too. Gushing blood, if it comes from Goblins and the like, that I wouldn’t mind. Or ropelike guts spilling out from a gleaming sword cut, or sprayed wide from a swung axe, I find that quite to my liking, and—”

“Wait, wait,” said Borel, flinging up a hand, “just what do you mean when you say you don’t like bloody stories?”

“Oh, well, you know,” said Flic, shrugging one shoulder, “like, say, a bee getting smashed . . . or a Sprite. Now
that
would be entirely too bloody.”

Borel fell over backward, laughing, and Flic cried, “Well, it would be, you know!” And in a huff, the Sprite hitched around sideways to the laughing prince and crossed his arms and jutted out his chin, a glaring pout on his face.

Buzzer merely kept lapping at the honey.

Finally, Borel sat back up, and he held out a hand of apology to Flic, the Sprite to snort in response and turn his face ever further away.

The prince sighed and took another bite of jerky. He chewed a moment and swallowed and said, “Once upon a time there was a king in the West—that means duskwise—who heard of a princess of surpassing beauty and wisdom in the distant East—dawnwise. It was said that this princess had made up her mind that she would never marry unless the man who asked for her hand could answer her question. Her father decreed that if a suitor was unsuccessful, then his head would be forfeit and would rest on a pike outside the city gates. So far, many a man had tried, but all had failed, and all had died at the hands of her cruel sire, which pleased him much, for this way he would not lose the wisdom of his daughter in his rule of the kingdom.”

Borel paused and took another bite of jerky. The scowl had left Flic’s features the moment he heard of heads on pikes; even so, he yet remained with his face turned away from the prince. After a moment, Borel swallowed and said, “The king in the West, intrigued by this story, went to see for himself. He rode his gallant steed over many miles, crossing burning deserts, climbing snowy mountains, swimming deep rivers, and faring o’er endless plains, but at last he found himself at the gates of a great city in the East wherein it was said the princess dwelled. And outside the portals on hundreds of pikes, some with blood yet dripping, were impaled the heads of hundreds of would-be suitors, all who had failed to answer one simple question.”