Once Upon a Summer Day (32 page)

Borel stood and turned to the others and said, “Now I understand why they call you the Riders Who Cannot Dismount.”

Mastering his grief, the man with the dog upon his saddlebow asked, “And you are . . . ?”

“I am Prince Borel of the Winterwood in Faery,” replied Borel, bowing.

“And I am King Arle of the mortal realm,” replied the man, canting his head in acknowledgement. “And these are my men, what remains of them.”

Borel glanced from man to man, and each had nought but desolation in his eyes. Then Borel looked at the ashes. “I take it he was not the first.”

“The fifth,” said Arle.

“Here is a story to be told,” said Borel. “Perhaps I can help, for Lady Wyrd, Lady Skuld, She Who Sees Through Time’s Mist, she sent me to aid others, and perhaps receive aid in return.”

“Skuld sent you?” said the king, as if mulling over what he had just heard, and his men shifted about in their saddles and looked at one another, a bit of hope in their eyes.

“Indeed, my lord.”

“And she said we might help you in turn?”

“Oui, my lord.”

“And what is it you want?” asked Arle.

“To find the King Under the Hill,” replied Borel.

At this, all the men gasped and made warding signs and cried out in a great clamor that he must not seek the King Under the Hill.

Arle held up his hands for silence, and when it fell he said, “Prince Borel, you must stay away from the King Under the Hill, for it was he, the High Lord of the Fey Folk himself, who cursed us to be the Riders Who Cannot Dismount.”

“That I understand, my lord, for such did the Pooka say.”

“Pooka? That dark creature?”

“Oui. He was the one who told me to seek you out to find the King Under the Hill.”

“I think they be in league,” called one of the riders, “the Pooka and the King Under the Hill. Both are black of heart.”

“Nevertheless,” said Borel, “I must find the High Lord, for my truelove’s life depends upon it.”

King Arle sighed. “Ah, me, if that be the case . . .” He frowned and said, “But first I would tell you our tale, and then you will see whether or no you still wish to seek out that king.” He looked at Borel for consent.

“I will listen,” said Borel, “yet I am determined.”

King Arle nodded and said, “This then is the way of it:

“I am monarch of a mortal realm bordering on Faery—or perhaps I should say, I
was
monarch there. Regardless, one day I decided to go on a hunt, and twelve of my chevaliers were eager to accompany me.”

“Dix et trois,”
said one of the riders. “Unlucky thirteen.”

Arle sighed and ruefully nodded. “Unlucky thirteen indeed we were.”

The king remained silent for moments, and Borel thought he might not continue. But then Arle said, “We had no intention of riding into the realms of Faery, but up jumped a white stag. We sounded the horns in glee and gave keen pursuit. Yet into the twilight border he ran, and for such a magnificent creature we would ride into the very Realms of Perdition, were he to run that way—or so we told ourselves.

“And thus into Faery we raced, hot on the trail of the White Hart, though one of us, d’Strait, I believe, said such creatures were enchanted and to beware.

“Yet I would not easily yield such a trophy, and after him I galloped, all twelve of my chevaliers following, for they would not abandon me in dread Faery.

“Over hill and dale we ran, and through many of the looming twilight borders, the White Hart just out of range of bow shot, and just a bit faster than our steeds, though every time it stopped to rest, again we caught up.

“And just ere dusk, it fled into a large opening ’neath a dolmen sitting atop a hillside, light pouring out from below, and we pursued, and found ourselves not only in Faery but also in the very Hollow Hills of the Highborn Ones, a gala in full swing.

“But when we came riding into their midst, they fled before us, and down corridors and passages and ways unknown. As to the White Hart, he was nowhere to be seen.

“But then the King Under the Hill stepped from a side hall and welcomed us, though there was a pained look upon his countenance. Yet we did not understand why . . . until it was entirely too late.

“But as I say, the High Lord welcomed us, and offered us food and drink and quarters overnight, for darkness was even then descending.

“We gladly accepted his hospitality. And though we were mostly shunned, still, women of surpassing—even ethereal—beauty served us food and drink, though they did not linger in spite of our entreaties.”

Borel said, “You ate their food and drank their wine?”

“Yes,” replied Arle, glumly, “for ten days running.”

“Ah, then, that does not bode well, my lord.”

“Indeed, it did not, for when we mounted up and made ready to depart, the High Lord came and said, ‘For ten days herein you have eaten our food and drunk our wine and so when you return to your own world you will find a thousand mortal years have passed.’

“We were aghast at hearing such a dreadful thing, for all those we had known and all things we had owned were now crumbled unto dust. Yet that was not the last of our torment, for the King Under the Hill said: ‘Hear me, you did pursue me, for I was the White Hart who fled, and this by itself is enough to bring woe upon you. Further, you brought the Agony of Iron into our midst, and for that alone you are cursed. Take this dog, ’tis a gift the like of which I have given to many,’ he said, ‘to the peril of those receiving.’ And he placed it on my saddlebow, where you see it now. And he further said, ‘And unless and until it leaps down of its own will, you must not dismount, else it shall be to your doom, for in the moment you set foot to ground, you will become wholly mortal, and, even though you might yet be in Faery, all of your years will catch up with you.’

“ ‘How can this be, my lord?’ I asked, and then he told me that as time is reckoned in the mortal world, for every day we stayed within his hill and ate his food and drank his wine, one hundred mortal years had passed, hence, for the ten days we had been within his hall a thousand years had elapsed all told. And he said that when we return to the outside world, all will have changed, and we will no longer know anyone nor will anyone therein know us. And my realm would now be ruled by strangers, if it yet existed at all.

“We were devastated, and we rode out from under that dolmen and have been riding throughout the realms of Faery ever since . . . riding for years untold.” Arle held up a ghostly hand and said, “And each day we fade a bit more, and we are shunned by those in towns, for they fear us, given our ghastly state. And so we avoid them altogether, and have no companionship but our own. Ah, zut! There will come a day when we and our mounts will be gone altogether, be nought but empty armor riding upon unseen steeds.”

Arle sighed and gestured at the pile of ashes. “And so, you see, if we dismount, then of a sudden we are a millennium old, and fall into complete ruin.

“Five of my men have perished, for they could not bear what they were becoming, nor could they forget what they had been and what they had lost, d’Strait just the last of them.”

King Arle fell silent, and Borel looked at the dog and said, “You say the dog must jump down of its own will?”

“Oui,” replied Arle.

“This then is my bargain, King Arle,” said Borel. “I will tell you how to break the curse, and you will tell me how to find the King Under the Hill.”

King Arle said, “Prince Borel, even if it is as you say—that your truelove’s life is at stake, the King Under the Hill is not to be trusted.”

“Nevertheless, I insist,” said Borel.

King Arle looked at his men, and for the first time saw that they now had hope in their eyes, and he turned to Borel and said, “Very well. From here to reach the King Under the Hill you must go across three twilight borders always in the direction where the sun sets and only in that direction and do not deviate; then, beyond the third border, look for the hills, and amid them find the one with a great dolmen on top; at dusk a hole like a cavern will open within the dolmen and light will shine out. Down a steep slope twisting ’round within you will find the King Under the Hill, for therein is where he dwells.

“This I would offer, were we ordinary men: that you mount up behind one of us and we would take you there; yet we are not commonplace men, and as long as we are cursed, it would mean that you yourself perhaps would take on that curse were you to ride with us as we are; and so we can only lead you to that place.”

“Thank you, my lord,” replied Borel, “but I have no need to be led, for I have an unerring guide who takes her direction from the sun. Instead I would have you break your curse and find your way to your goal, whatever it might be, once the curse is done.”

“Say on, Prince Borel,” cried one of the men. “Tell us how to lay aside this bane.”

“The dog, is it male or female?”

“Male,” replied Arle.

“Then here is the way of it,” said Borel. “Ride to the nearest town where people abide, no matter their fear of you, a town where many dogs do dwell. Find a bitch in heat, and surely will your dog leap down of its own accord to mate with her.”

The king looked at his men in amaze and they in turn at him. “How simple,” breathed Arle. “How very simple.” He turned to Borel. “Surely, my prince, this is the solution. We are deeply in your debt.”

“No more than I in yours,” replied Borel, bowing.

“My Lord Borel,” said one of the men, reining near, “take care, take care, and beware this High Lord. Eat not his food nor drink his wine nor cross him in any manner. Take no iron into his realm, else you will find yourself in dire straits.”

“I heed and thank you,” said Borel. He stepped back a pace or two and called out, “Now go, for you have a curse to break.”

At a signal from King Arle, all the men wheeled their horses and into the forest surround they rode, and just ere they vanished from sight among the trees, a horn sounded in gratitude and farewell.

 

Borel strode around the mere and began to break camp, drowning the remaining coals of his fire with water and then replenishing his waterskin. As he strapped on his rucksack and slung his bow and shouldered his quiver, Flic and Buzzer came flying back.

“Well . . . ?” said the Sprite.

“Come,” said Borel, “we must go to where I spoke to the riders, and then Buzzer need take a sighting and guide us toward the exact place where the sun sets, for three twilight borders hence is where the King Under the Hill dwells. I will tell all as we fare about the mere.”

And so Borel strode and Flic and Buzzer rode to the opposite side of the mere, and Borel told of what the men had done and what they had said, and when he reached the far side he pointed out the pile of ashes and rust and aged tack and tattered cloth and timeworn splinters that had once been a man and a horse and their accoutrements.

Flic said, “A dreadful fate, yet he and the others pursued the White Hart and brought the Agony of Iron into Faery.” Then the Sprite frowned and asked, “What I wonder, though, is what do the riders and their horses eat, how do they sleep, and when they have to relieve themselves, how do they, um, go?”

Borel shrugged his shoulders and said, “I didn’t ask.”

Flic groaned in frustration.

“Come,” said Borel, “we’ve more important things to do than to worry about the daily lives of the riders. Tell Buzzer what it is we want. Go directly to where the sun sets, Arle said, and no deviation.”

Flic sighed and, with Buzzer, flew to the ground. Somehow Flic spoke to the bee, using that silent language of theirs. After a moment the bee did a short waggle dance, and Flic replied. Finally, Buzzer took to wing and sighted on the morning sun, and then shot off at an angle.

Flic flew to Borel’s tricorn. “She wanted to know if you would be any faster. I told her no, and in fact perhaps a bit slower, after your Pooka ride. Next chance we get, I’ll see if I can find flowers for another tisane or two; I mean, given your ways so far, it seems you are certain to suffer damage again.”

Borel smiled and nodded distractedly, for his gaze was locked upon the hilt jutting out from the pile of ashes and rust. “All blades are not what they seem,” he murmured, and he bent down and took hold of the sword and lifted it free. It came up in its decrepit sheath, and as ash and dust drifted down he drew out the weapon, and the scabbard, baldric, and edge alike crumbled, and all that was left was the hilt and a short, jagged piece of rusted blade.

“Does this bother you, Flic?”

“Non,” said the Sprite. “Only iron in a near pure form twists aethyr enough to pain the Fey. That or steel. It seems the blade you have in your hand—including its tang—is wholly rust and it is no more hurtful than the ore from which it comes.”

“Good,” said Borel, and he sheathed the jagged remainder in his empty long-knife scabbard.

“Well, are we going to stand around all day?” asked Flic.

Borel barked a laugh and began his loping Wolftrot, following the beeline Buzzer had flown.