Once Upon a Summer Day (39 page)

As Borel trotted across another stream, Flic said, “Why must these Fates
always
say that
I
fall behind, when anyone knows that would never happen?”

Borel laughed. “Ah, Flic, ever humble, I see. Were I you, I would not question the Sisters Three.”

“You’re not one to talk, my prince,” said Flic. “After all, she said you are the one who ‘would dare flirt with Destiny. ’ ”

Borel laughed and kept running.

After a while, Flic said, “What’s all this about Skuld being the older? Why, anyone can see that she is a demoiselle, whereas Verdandi is a matronly lady.”

Borel said, “Some call them the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone, where Skuld is the Maiden, Verdandi the Mother, and Urd the Crone, for they do resemble those three. And Skuld is the one who sees the future and weaves it into the tapestry of events, yet, even as it leaves her loom, that weaving is not then immutable; for when it gets to Verdandi, whatever changes have been made through the extraordinary deeds of men and others, she alters the pattern set down by Skuld and weaves those changes into the Present; finally, Urd fixes all events forever into the Past. And so, Flic, the one who sees the events of time
first
is the one considered Eldest, and the one who sees the events
last
is the one considered Youngest.”

“Ah, then,” said Flic. “Skuld the Maiden sees things first, and so she is eldest of the three; Verdandi the Mother is the middle child; and Urd the Crone is the baby of the family—eh?—for things come to her dead last.”

“Yes,” said Borel, smiling at Flic’s choice of the words “dead last.”

“It still doesn’t make sense, though,” said Flic. “I mean, if that be the case, why wouldn’t Skuld be the Crone and Urd the Maiden?”

“Because, Flic, I think they take on the visage that others give them, and most others think the Past is the oldest, and the Future the youngest.”

“Well, isn’t that true?” asked the Sprite, frowning.

“It’s relative, Flic, and it depends on whether you think of yourself as moving through time, or whether you think of time as moving through you.”

“Huh?” said the Sprite, now confused.

“I believe I’ll let you ponder that, Flic, while I continue to run.”

 

And Borel did run throughout the rest of the day, and as the sun began to set, they came to another twilight border.

“This is the third and last bound spoken of by King Arle of the Riders Who Cannot Dismount,” said Borel.

Through the marge they pressed, and they came in among grassy downs. Buzzer then alighted on Borel’s tricorn, for with the night drawing nigh, she would sleep.

But Flic took to wing, and up he flew and scouted among the myriad green knolls, and a quarter candlemark later, as dusk came on, he darted back to Borel.

“My lord, yon,” he cried, pointing. “A light glows, just as Arle said. Therein should be the halls of the King Under the Hill.”

Flic led Borel to a great grassy mound, atop which sat a dolmen, with three upright, twice-man-tall megaliths equidistant from one another, and a great flat capstone atop. And within that triangular setting a large hole yawned, with stairs and a wagon ramp leading down and in.

Flic said, “My lord, if you will, I shall stay here with Buzzer, for the Lord of the Fey is quite capricious, and if I go in he is likely to assign me some onerous and lengthy task, and I would much rather stay at your side until we have your lady free.”

Borel nodded and removed his tricorn with the bee aboard and said, “Very well, Flic, I leave Buzzer with you.” And he set his hat to the ground nigh one megalith of the dolmen.

Then Borel shed his rucksack and laid it beside the hat.

He uncapped the honey jar and put it down, saying, “In case dawn comes ere I return.” He then unstrapped the long-knife scabbard and set it there as well and said, “Even though the blade within is nought but rust, I would not take iron in any form within the High Lord’s demesne.”

“Remember, my prince,” said Flic, “eat no food and drink no wine nor take any other form of refreshment from them . . . not even water. And remember Lady Verdandi’s words, even though I cannot fathom what they might mean.”

As Borel checked his bow and quiver and waterskin, all yet borne by him, Flic added, “And may Fortune’s beaming face be turned your way.”

Borel smiled grimly and said, “May it be so.” Then he spun on his heel and strode under the capstone and into the light below.

D
own the steps alongside the wagon ramp went Borel, both stairs and road sweeping in wide and shallow spiral turns as into the hollow hills they went. At last Borel came to the bottom, and there to one side were stables with magnificent steeds—
For Fairy rades, no doubt
—and opposite the stables and up three steps was a long corridor leading toward light and music beyond.

Into the passageway went Borel, and he came into a great banquet hall, and therein gracefully danced men and women of exotic beauty, their faces long and narrow, their ears tipped, their eyes aslant, their forms lithe and lissome.

And as Borel entered the chamber, some turned to see this human who had come uninvited into the hall, while others simply continued their elegant dance and paid him little or no heed.

Yet from the throne on which he sat, one looked up and smiled in welcome. “Prince Borel of the Forests of the Seasons, hail and well met.”

A corridor opened up among the dancers, and Borel walked through and to the foot of the dais, where he bowed low and said, “Your Highness.”

Beside the redheaded, green-eyed king sat a woman of incredible loveliness, her hair raven-black, her eyes sapphire blue, her flawless skin tinged with just a hint of gold, a tint held by all the Folk within the hall but Borel.

Again Borel bowed and said, “My lady.”

Both the King Under the Hill and his queen tilted their heads in acknowledgement, and the High Lord signalled for silence, and the music stopped, as did the dancers. When quiet fell, he smiled and said, “Won’t you join us in banquet and ball? Let me get you a glass of wine.”

As the king turned to signal a page, Borel said, “I must decline, my lord, for I am on an urgent mission, and I beg a boon.”

The High Lord frowned. “A mission? A boon? Then tell me, what mission, what boon brings the Prince of the Winterwood unto my demesne?”

“My lord, I would find the Endless Sands.”

“Ah, then, and you think I would know where these Endless Sands lie?”

“I have it on good authority that you do,” said Borel.

The king frowned again and looked first at his queen and then among the dancers. Yet none volunteered that he or she had given the prince any guidance. “And who might that be?” he asked Borel.

“A Pooka,” replied the prince.

“A Pooka? And just how did you get a Pooka to tell you that?”

“I rode him to submission,” said Borel.

A gasp went up among the gathered Fey, for, even though they were Fairies all, none there had the courage to do the same.

“Ah, then, you must be quite a sportsman,” said the Fairy King.

“Not really, for he almost did me in,” said Borel.

“Yet in the end you triumphed?” asked the queen, her voice melodious and entrancing.

“Barely,” replied Borel, grinning ruefully.

She turned to the king and said, “You must help this brave prince, my lord.”

“But he has asked for a boon, and you know what that entails.”

The queen nodded. She turned to Borel and said, “You must best my husband at a game ere he can aid you. Yet heed: he will try his utmost to get the better of you, for otherwise ’tis but a sham.”

“A game?” said Borel.

“Yes,” said the king. “A contest. And should you lose, you must dine with me and my queen. Do you agree?”

“Lord, might I name the stakes if I win?”

“Indeed,” said the King of the Fairies.

“Then this is what I would have: that you not only tell me where lie the Endless Sands, but you also loan me your very own favorite horse to get there.”

“My favorite horse?”

“Oui.”

The Fairy King looked at his queen and then said, “Very well, I agree.”

“As do I,” said Borel. “What is the game?”

“I offer you five,” said the king, “for since I name the weapons, you will choose the play.”

Borel canted his head in assent.

“These are the five,” said the Fairy King. “Taroc, échecs, quoits, archery, dames.”

Two of these games I played with Chelle: archery and échecs. Which to choose? Oh, but wait, ‘Remember true and remember well/ The guiding words of your love Michelle.’ Did she give me guiding words?
Borel frowned in thought.
I remember none whatsoever. Guiding words . . . guiding words . . . What guiding words?

Borel unslung his bow and drew an arrow, and as he looked at the shaft, the Fairy King smiled and said, “It is archery, then?” He turned to signal an Elfin page.

“I—” Borel started to say, but of a sudden he seemed to hear Chelle’s voice:
“My, do you have Fairy arrows, Borel? ’Tis not fair if so. . . . They are magique, my love, and only miss should a greater spell come along to deflect them.”

Borel looked up and said, “Non, my lord,” and he placed the arrow back into his quiver and reslung his bow. “ ’Tis échecs I choose.”

“As you will, Prince Borel,” said the Fairy King, and he signalled for an échiquier to be brought forth.

A table and two chairs were set in the very center of the chamber, and Fairies gathered ’round as the Fairy Queen held out two enclosed hands to Borel. “You are the guest within these halls, Prince Borel, and so you have first choice.”

Borel drew the white, and therefore had first move.

“White king’s spearman two paces forward,” said Borel, moving the piece.

“Black king’s spearman two paces forward as well,” said the Fairy King, smiling in anticipation.

And the game began, with Fairies crowding about and murmuring after every move, sometimes
Ooh
ing, sometimes
Ahh
ing, sometimes gasping at a bold move by either player.

Borel and the Fairy King both seemed engaged in reckless play, yet it was anything but. Swiftly were moves made and countered, with pieces captured, chevaliers falling, and towers brought to crashing ruin. Hierophants fell in diagonal flight. Kings fled, and queens were slain in spite of the valiant efforts of the spearmen. A great slaughter took place on that grid-marked board, but at last the Fairy King said, “Although the material is fairly balanced, I have the advantage, and it is certain that I will win, for you cannot stop at least one of my black spearmen from reaching the final row and transforming into a black queen.”

Borel studied the board. He had a king and a spearman and one tower left, whereas the High Lord had a king at one edge of the board with six spearmen at hand, all of them threatening Borel’s king and his spearman.

At last, Borel said, “Tower to white king’s tower’s three. Check.”

The High Lord said, “My prince, are you certain you want to make that move?”

“Indeed,” said Borel.

“Very well,” said the Fairy King. “Spearman takes tower. Check. And now you have nought but a king and a single spearman left, whereas I yet have all my pieces. Surely you must concede.”

“Nay, my lord,” said Borel, “I do not concede. White king to white king’s hierophant’s three.”

“Hmm . . .” said the Fairy King. “Black spearman to black king’s chevalier’s five. Check.”

Borel nodded and said, “I avoid the check thus: white king to white king’s hierophant’s four, taking a blocking black spearman.”

Now the Fairy King studied the board long. “I have but one move,” he said. “Black spearman to black king’s chevalier’s six.”

Borel laughed and said, “And my lone remaining white spearman takes that black spearman. Check.”

The Fairy King said, “Ah, Borel, I must make a move and yet cannot, for I am completely thwarted; my black king cannot move to the open space nor capture your single spearman, for to do either would bring him adjacent to your white king, and, of course, that cannot be. Ah, me, I must concede.” And he lay his black king on its side.

The gathered Fairies gasped, for seldom did the High Lord lose.