Once Upon a Summer Day (43 page)

“I will not think of such,” snapped Borel, and in that moment he trotted into the green vale, and now the running eased. Onward he sped toward the massive mound and he came unto pavestones just before reaching the vast tangle of thorns.

“My lord, again I caution you, there is something of magie about the vines,” said Flic. “I do not know what it might be, yet there is an enchantement upon them.”

“Indeed,” said Borel, “else how could they have grown so large? The entire vale must be ensorcelled, to be so green among these dry sands.”

“Oui, lord, yet the vines seem somehow . . . I don’t know . . . different from the rest of the vale. ’Ware, lord prince, be chary.”

“What kind are they, Flic?—The vines and thorns I mean.”

“Blackberry, I think, my lord, though perhaps there are rose vines as well.”

“Pink-blooming shamrock and blushing white roses and thorn-laden blackberry vines,” murmured Borel. “I deem you are right—roses and blackberry—but these are monstrous, most as thick as my leg and more.”

Cautiously, Borel moved forward along the pave. “I think this is the footpath to Roulan’s gates,” said Borel. “I vaguely remember such.—It has to be the way in.”

“Take care, my lord,” said Flic, as Borel came to the snarl of—

Of a sudden, one of the massive vines lashed out at Borel, and without thinking he snatched his long-kni—Nay!
Not
his long-knife. Instead it was the jagged remainder of the rusted sword he wrenched from his scabbard to parry the attack, even as Flic shrieked, “Look out, my lor—!”

But in that moment the blade touched the lashing thorn vine, and lo! just as had the rider, the vine withered, shriveled, blackened and fell to dust, as if it had aged a thousand years in but an instant of time.

“Hai!” cried Borel, staring at the weapon he had taken as an afterthought from the remains of one of the Riders Who Cannot Dismount. “Indeed not all perilous blades are just as they seem. Oh, d’Strait, d’Strait, your death was not in vain.”

And Borel stepped forward, wading into the massive thorn tangle, striking left and right with the rusted blade at the giant lashing briars, their long thorns seeking to stab, the vines striving to grasp.

“Hurry, my lord, hurry!” cried Flic. “The sun is low and ready to set, and the full moon nigh to rising.”

Hacking and slashing, onward went Borel, and attacking vines fell before him, yet with each vine turned to dust, the sword grew shorter, rust flaking away, and the farther he penetrated into the mass, the less of a blade he had.

“Mithras, be with me,” cried Borel, and onward he hewed, leaving a wide tunnel through the entanglement behind. Yet Borel did not come off unscathed, for as vine after vine lashed at him, the thorns stabbed and tore at his flesh. But still he pressed on, his leathers gashed, blood seeping, and his sword diminishing with each strike.

But at last, bleeding and with no blade left, he came the remaining few feet to the end of the vines and stepped into a clear forecourt before the gates of Roulan’s manor.

The portal was open and warded beyond by sleeping guards wearing blue tabards with a silver sunburst centered thereon: Roulan’s sigil.

And drifting through the air from within came a strange, squeaking noise.

And the rim of the sun just then touched the horizon, and the limb of the moon peeked above the edge of the Endless Sands.

“Hurry, my lord,” said Flic, “for the sun is even now setting and the full moon rising, and we must save Lady Chelle.”

Borel looked at the bladeless hilt of d’Strait’s sword, and he reverently laid it down, and then into the courtyard stepped the prince, Flic and Buzzer coming after. The moment Borel stepped through the gate, the squeaking became a soothing but atonal squealing flutelike sound, and Flic, entering just behind, flew past Borel and partway across the courtyard but then fluttered down to the pave, where he fell sound asleep.

Buzzer agitatedly flew about, and Borel crossed to the Sprite and took him up and set him within the rim of the tricorn. With the bee angrily circling ’round and ’round, onward Borel headed, running for the doors of the manor and the tower within.

Yet with every step taken, his own eyelids began to droop, and his mind became fuzzy, and all he wanted to do was curl up and go to sleep.

An agonizing pain stabbed him in the neck and he snapped awake.

The sun sank its lower limb below the horizon, and the full moon continued its inexorable rise.

Across the courtyard Borel staggered, past sleeping men and women, past sleeping Fey Folk, Fairies all. And they were dressed in finery, as if celebrating—

Lurching to the doors, he opened them and reeled into the halls beyond, sleep dragging at him. And he was so tired, so very tired, all he needed to do was lie down and—

Again the bumblebee stung Borel, and again the pain brought him awake, and the flutelike music—or was it a squeaking?—tugged at his mind.

The flute—the squealing—grew louder, and Borel jabbed his fingers in his ears, but it seemed the sound grew louder still.

And the rim of the sun sank lower, nearly a full quarter gone, and the moon rose higher, nearly a quarter up.

Now down the hallways he reeled, past sleeping men and women and Fey. He came to the stairwell, and up into the turret he tottered, and the music—the skreeking—became a discordant crescendo, and when he reached the stone floor at the top the noise was nearly unbearable, and he staggered under the burden of simply trying to remain awake, and he was losing consciousness.

But again Buzzer stung him to awareness, and there slumped against the wall lay Chelle, an overturned stool nearby. And just beyond, a spinning wheel turned, its distaff empty of wool or flax or fiber of any kind, its treadle oscillating up and down with no foot whatsoever pressing. And the wheel rotated a strange spindle, a spindle with flutelike holes along its considerable length, and from this instrument came the screeching, came the atonal music.

And now the sun was nearly halfway set, and the moon nearly half risen, and each continued its relentless advance heedless of any consequence that might ensue.

Borel stumbled toward the turning—

The moment he came to Chelle, he fell to his knees, unable to go on, and he closed his eyes and—

Again pain jolted him awake.

Once more he tried to get to the wheel, this time crawling, but the shrieking—the music—swelled even higher, and he could not go forward.

He swung about, and crawled to Chelle.

He took her slender form in his arms, and, in an effort nearly beyond his capability, he just managed to gain his feet.

Once more Buzzer stung him, and down the stairs Borel struggled.

And the sun was nearly three-quarters gone, and the moon three-quarters up, and still they moved on and on.

Lurching, reeling, down the hallways Borel faltered with Chelle in his arms; past sleeping guests, past Lord Roulan, past Fairies, and past Lady Roulan, he staggered. He paused a moment to rest, but Buzzer stung him again.

He stumbled out through the doors and into the courtyard beyond and across, and finally he was past the gates.

And the sun was nigh set, the moon nigh risen; and the sun continued its unrelenting slide downward, its upper limb now disappearing; and the moon continued its remorseless ascent, the orb striving to reach the open sky.

Flic awakened in that moment, and he screamed, “Lord Borel, the tunnel!”

Ahead, the thorn vines were closing the hewn corridor, and Borel, now free from the spindle music, began to run through the ever-narrowing gape.

Vines lashed at him, and he held Chelle close to protect her, and he ran with speed to get her free from harm.

Through the swiftly closing gap he fled, Flic and Buzzer leading the way, and just as he thought he would be trapped forever, he burst out into the vale beyond.

Within a few more strides he sank to his knees, and, bleeding and totally exhausted, he laid Chelle to the grass.

“My lord, she does not seem to be breathing,” said Flic.

“Oh, my love, you cannot die,” moaned Borel. “Please, my love, please.”

And he pressed his lips against hers and breathed air into her lungs, and then listened for it to escape.

And as he started to press his lips to hers again, Chelle put her arms about him and murmured, “Borel, Borel, my beloved,” and she kissed him fervently.

Then she opened her incredibly blue eyes, eyes that Borel had not seen ere this moment, but for the time when she was yet a child.

Of a sudden she said, “Oh. Oh. ’Tis no dream.” And, completely embarrassed, she reddened.

But Borel kissed her once more, and for a moment she seemed to be utterly confused, but then she threw herself into the kiss, her passion a burning fire.

Flic smiled and looked away at the moon, just then standing full on the horizon.

W
ith the sun now set, twilight crept ’cross the Endless Sands, and even as Buzzer, preparing to sleep, took station upon the tricorn, Borel said, “My Lady Michelle, the kiss, forgive me for being so bold.”

Chelle reddened and said, “Nay, my lord, ’tis I who must beg forgiveness.”

Borel grinned and said, “Then shall we forgive one another? Or instead shall we continue to repeat the offense in the many days to come?”

Chelle laughed, and in spite of his weariness, Borel stood and offered his hand and raised Chelle to her feet.

As she stood, “My lord, you are wounded!”

“Nought but scratches,” said Borel, even as he winced when Chelle reached out to touch a gash in his leathers.

“We must bandage you,” said Chelle.

“When we are on the other side of the twilight border,” said Borel, gesturing.

She looked about, her eyes widening in shock. “Where are we?”

“The Endless Sands, Lady Chelle,” said Flic.

“Oh, my, a Sprite!” said Chelle, seeing the wee Fey for the first time.

With a flourish, Flic bowed and said, “At your service, Demoiselle. I am Flic, wielder of Argent and companion of Buzzer. I am, as well, Prince Borel’s tagalong.”

“Without Flic and Buzzer, I never would have found you,” said Borel.

Chelle frowned. “And Buzzer is . . . ?”

Carefully, Borel removed his hat and pointed at the now-sleeping bee and said, “Our guide.”

“I remember a dream,” said Chelle, smiling. “But it was in among thorn trees where I saw a Sprite and a bee.”

Borel nodded. “These are the same you saw there, and that was quite far from here.”

Again Chelle looked ’round. “And these are the Endless Sands?”

Borel replaced his hat and said, “Indeed, Chelle.”

“How did I get here, and what is that great green mound? It looks like a vast tangle of thorns.”

Borel sighed. “There is much to tell, my lady, but this I will say: the greenery about is your sire’s estate, and within that tangle lies your manor.”

Chelle shook her head. “This cannot be Roulan Vale, not here in the Endless Sands.”

“Mademoiselle,” said Flic, “we believe the estate was borne here by a great black wind.”

“A black wind?” said Chelle. “I remember no black wind.”

“Perhaps you were already in an enchanted sleep,” said Borel, “a sleep we believe was cast by the sorcière Rhensibé.”

“Rhensibé?” gasped Chelle, then her eyes narrowed. “That wicked Fairy. Yes, I remember. She threw the spell during the celebration of my majority.” Chelle glanced at the moon. “But it was nigh noon today, not in the twilight.”

“Chelle,” said Borel, taking her hands in his, “ ’twas not this day the spell was cast, but in a time now gone.”

“A time now gone? When?”

“As mortals would reckon, eleven years and eleven moons past,” said Flic.

Chelle’s hand flew to her mouth. “Eleven years . . . ?” Her words fell to a whisper even as Borel embraced her.

“And eleven moons,” said Flic.

She looked up into Borel’s face unbelieving. “ ’Tis true,” he softly said.

She rested her head against his breast for a moment, and then she said, “My père and mère, are they well?”

“Chelle,” said Borel, “they, too, were enspelled by the enchanted sleep, as were all your guests and the staff.”

“Where are they?”

“Trapped within that tangle of thorns in your père’s manor, held by the same magie that ensorcelled you.”

“We must set them free,” said Chelle, pulling away and starting toward the mound.

“Non, non, my love,” cried Borel, quickly catching her and drawing her back. “The thorns are enchanted and they will strike down any who come nigh.”