Once Upon a Summer Day Read online

And farther on and past yet another twilight border lies a place of eternal springtime, where everlasting meltwater trickles across the ’scape, and trees are abud and blossoms abloom, where birds call for mates and beetles crawl through decaying leaves and mushrooms push up through soft loam, and where other such signs of a world coming awake manifest themselves in the gentle, cool breezes and delicate rains.

  These four provinces are the Summerwood and Autumnwood and Winterwood and Springwood, magical regions in the twilit world of Faery. They by no means make up the whole of that mystical realm. Oh, no, for it is an endless place, with uncounted domains all separated from one another by looming walls of shadowlight, and with Faery itself separated from the common world by twilight as well.

  But as to the four regions, a prince or a princess rules each—Alain, Liaze, Borel, and Céleste—brothers and sisters, Alain and Borel respectively having reign o’er the Summer- and Winterwoods; Liaze and Céleste, the Autumn- and Springwoods.

  They got along well, these siblings, and seldom did trouble come their way. Oh, there was that difficulty with the disappearance of Lord Valeray and Lady Saissa, and the two curses leveled upon Prince Alain, but Camille had come along to resolve those problems, and everything had then seemed well in order, at least for a while, though there yet was a portent of darker days to come. But at that time joy lay upon the land, with Camille and Alain betrothed, the banns posted, and preparations for the wedding under way.

  Yes, all was well in these four realms, or so it seemed.

  But then . . .

  . . . Once upon a summer day . . .

  Out in the gazebo upon the wide lawn of Summerwood Manor, Borel sat and watched four black swans majestically gliding upon the wide, slow-running stream, the graceful birds keeping a wary eye upon the Wolves lying asleep upon the sward, all but the one who kept watch and eyed the swans just as warily, though a predatory gleam seemed to glint in the eye of the grey hunter. A balmy breeze stirred the silver of Borel’s shoulder-length locks as he leaned back in the wickerwork chair, his long legs stretched out, his soft-booted feet resting upon a padded footstool. From somewhere nearby came the hum of bees buzzing among garden blooms, and lazy clouds towered aloft in the cerulean sky and cast their quiet shadows down.

  How peaceful it was on this gentle day, and Borel closed his ice-blue eyes, just for the nonce, his mind drifting along with the building clouds. How long he remained thus, he could not say, yet there came a muted sound of . . . he knew not what.

  Borel frowned and opened his eyes, and then sat bolt upright, for the gazebo was changing, the floor turning to flag, the open sides to stone walls, even as he looked on in amaze. And beyond the windows of the now-stone chamber a seemingly endless number of free-floating daggers filled the air and blocked the light and cast a gloom o’er all.

  Opposite from him in the dimness stood a slim young lady, as if in meditation or prayer. Her head was bowed and her long golden hair fell down across the white bodice of her flowing dress. Her delicate hands were clasped together just below her waist. Across her eyes lay a black, gauzy cloth or mayhap a band of shadow, as of a dark blindfold, or so it appeared.

  And the lady quietly wept.

  Borel stood and stepped closer. “Demoiselle, why do you weep?”

  “Aidez-moi,” she said, her voice but a whisper. “Aidez-moi.”

  Borel jerked awake and found he was on his feet, and the wind blew hard and moaned through the filigree, the late-afternoon sky dark with the oncoming storm. Then the summer rain came thundering down, and Borel’s Wolves took shelter within. And while black swans sought refuge in the overhang of a streamside willow, Borel looked about, seeking . . . seeking, but not finding, even though it seemed there came to his ears an ephemeral echo of a desperate whisper flying past on the weeping air: “Aidez-moi.”

  2

  Colloquium

  “I tell you, Alain, it seemed quite real.”

  Alain sighed. “A stone chamber surrounded by daggers and a blindfolded, golden-haired damsel within?”

  Borel nodded. “And she needs help.”

  They sat in the game room at a small table on which lay an échiquier, the pieces arrayed before them, the brothers only a few moves into the match, for, after Borel had unnecessarily lost one of his hierophants, Alain had asked what was it that distracted him, and Borel had told of the vision.

  From somewhere outside came the rumble of distant thunder as the remains of the storm moved away.

  “And you think it was a visitation and not a common dream?” asked Alain.

  “It seemed totally real at the time.”

  “And your Wolves . . . ?”

  “They were outside the gazebo and sensed nought, or so I deem, for they were not agitated.”

  “Hmm . . .” mused Alain, running his fingers through his dark hair. “One thing is certain: the gazebo did not remain stone, and perhaps never was. I think if there was a visitation, it was you going to her rather than the other way ’round.”

  Borel nodded and a silence fell upon the two of them, and once more distant thunder rumbled. Finally Borel said, “If it was but a dream . . . ?”

  “Then, Frère, there is nothing to worry about.”

  “Yet if she is real and in peril . . . ?”

  “Then I know not how you can help, for there is not enough to guide you.”

  Again they fell into silence, but then Alain said, “Let us consult Camille and see what she has to—”

  Chirping, a black-throated sparrow flew into the room, and three slender demoiselles followed: auburn-haired, amber-eyed Liaze in the lead; golden-haired, blue-eyed Camille next; pale-blond, green-eyed Céleste coming last.

  Even as Borel and Alain stood, and the wee bird settled on Alain’s shoulder, “Aha!” said Liaze. “We thought we might find you two hiding here. But, sit! Sit! We’ve come to ask about—Why, Borel, you look positively morose on this gloomy day.”

  Camille gave Alain a light kiss on the cheek, and then looked at Borel and asked, “Why so glum, Brother-to-be?”

  “I’ve had a vision,” said Borel.

  “Or a dream,” said Alain.

  Borel nodded. “Or a dream.”

  “Oh, my, Frère,” said Céleste, her face growing somber. She pointed at the large round game table with chairs all about and taroc cards strewn on its surface. “Let us sit, and then do tell us of this dream or vision of yours.”

  As soon as all had settled, Borel related his vision to them, and when he had come to the end, he once again stated that it might have just been a dream.

  Liaze shook her head. “Oh, no, Borel. I think it must have been a visitation, for if it were a mere rêve or songe, then it would not bother you so.”

  “She spoke in the Old Tongue?” asked Céleste.

  Borel nodded. “ ‘Aidez-moi,’ she said—‘Help me’—and no more. Yet how can I do so when I know not where she is?”

  In that moment the sparrow chirped and flew down to the table and pecked at one of the cards.

  “Mayhap Scruff has the right of it,” said Camille, pointing at the bird.

  “What do you mean?” asked Borel, as Céleste reached out and began drawing all the taroc cards to her, and Scruff flew across the room to the échecs table where he had first found the two men.

  “Just this,” said Camille. “Could we read the taroc, perhaps it has a clue as to what to do.”

  “Ah, but we are not seers, hence cannot read the cards,” said Céleste, as she gathered the last of the deck and began shuffling.

  Camille frowned and said, “Lisane can.”

  “Oui,” said Borel. “The Lady of the Bower. Even so, aren’t her messages rather vague, hard to interpret until after the fact?”

  Camille nodded. “It was only in hindsight that I understood.”

  “Then,” said Borel, “I think she cannot help, for if it is a true vision, then the lady in the stone tower needs help now.”

  “Perhaps so, Borel,” said Liaze.
“Yet there is nought you can do until you know more.”

  “Are you telling me to go about my business and forget the vision?” asked Borel.

  Liaze shook her head. “Borel, I think you must follow your heart. Even so, I deem that until you have more knowledge, there is little you can do . . . unless you happen upon someone who knows of a blindfolded lady in a stone tower surrounded by daggers.”

  A quietness fell in the chamber, and only Scruff across the room and scrabbling among the échecs pieces interrupted the still. Finally Camille said, “Perhaps she’ll send you another vision.”

  As Borel nodded glumly, somewhere in the distance a bell rang.

  “Dinner,” said Alain, standing.

  Céleste set the deck aside and stood as well, as did they all, and started out. Borel paused a moment and cut the cards and looked at the one turned up. It was the Tower, lightning striking the top, men plummeting down among the shattered and plunging stone. Borel sighed and shook his head and replaced the card and then joined the others.

  Camille took Alain’s arm, and Liaze and Céleste, one on each side, took Borel’s, and they all trooped out, and none noticed the board on which the wee sparrow had been scratching and pecking away at the pieces: nearly all were gathered in the center and lying on their sides: spearmen, warriors, hierophants, kings and one queen. On the other hand, the four towers yet sat upright in their corners. And in the midst of all the downed échecsmen, the white queen stood surrounded.

  3

  Counsel

  “ What about the Lady of the Mere?” said Camille, setting aside her spoon. She looked at Alain and added, “Without her aid I never would have found you.”

  “Lady Sorcière?” said Borel.

  “Yes,” said Camille. “That is one of her names. Another is Skuld, She Who Sees the Future.”

  “Lady Wyrd, you mean, one of the Fates,” said Borel.

  “Another of her names,” said Camille. “Regardless, perhaps she can help you with this vision of yours.”

  “If she is willing,” said Alain. “She doesn’t come at just anyone’s beck.”

  Céleste nodded in agreement. “It is told that something must be of vital import, else she will not appear.”

  Borel sighed and shook his head. “I do not think I will disturb Lady Wyrd at her mere unless the apparition comes once again and I am truly convinced she is real. After all, I might merely have had a dream.”

  Alain looked ’round the table, then took up the small bell and rang it, and servants swept in and removed the soup bowls, and others came with dishes and platters and crystal decanters of red wine and stemmed glasses, and moved about and served, and then quickly vanished again.

  Borel held his wine up to the light, as if seeking guidance within its ruby depths. “Besides, I would return to the Winterwood to see if the witch Hradian yet dwells therein.”

  “Wait, Borel,” said Camille. “Did you not propose to Lord Valeray that after the wedding we would get a warband together and run the witch down?”

  “Oui,” said Borel. “Even so, I would go and see if she yet stays in that cote of hers.”

  A grim look came into Alain’s eye. “Facing a witch alone is perilous. I will go with you.”

  “No, no, Frère,” said Borel, pushing out a hand of negation. “I do not intend to face her unless there is no other choice. Besides”—he smiled at Camille, then turned to Alain again—“you will be needed here to prepare for the wedding.” He glanced at Céleste and Liaze and added, “As will you two.”

  Camille sighed and took her knife to the veal cutlet. “I don’t know, Borel. I think you should wait. Hradian is a formidable foe. I agree with Alain: to go alone would be a mistake.”

  “But I will not be alone,” said Borel. “My Wolves—”

  “I think they cannot protect you from a curse,” said Liaze.

  Céleste frowned at Borel. “Heed, Frère: she is a witch and likely to have wards about.”

  Borel waved a negligent hand, then took a sip of his wine, and Céleste expelled her breath in exasperation.

  Camille set aside her knife. “From what the Lady of the Bower said, and from what I have deduced, she is a priestess of, or at least an acolyte of, the Wizard Orbane, the one who created those terrible tokens of power—the Seals of Orbane—perhaps in his strongholt on Troll Isle.”

  “I am told it is no longer called Troll Isle, Sister-to-be,” said Borel, grinning, “but L’île de Camille instead, so named in honor of you after your warband slew the Trolls and Goblins and set Alain and the captives free.”

  “Try not to distract me with flattery, Borel,” said Camille, “for no matter the name of the isle, still it once was Orbane’s strongholt, and it was there I believe Hradian found several of those dreadful seals. I am certain it was she who gave two of them to the Trolls, and they used them to lay the curses upon Alain. Too, Hradian mayhap used another when she ensorcelled your père and mère. And if she yet has some of them, indeed you will be in grave peril.”

  “If that be the case,” said Borel, “I would rather go alone than subject any of you to the hazard. Besides, I do not intend to confront her head-on, but rather to use stealth and guile, and one alone is certainly more stealthy than the five of us would be. Hence, with nought but my Wolves and me seeking her, I have better prospects of not being noted.”

  Ignoring Borel’s words, Liaze said, “Perhaps we should take Caldor or Malgan with us to counteract anything Hradian tries.”

  Alain snorted. “Those charlatans? Wizard and seer, pah! I think they could not protect anyone from ought.”

  Céleste sighed. “Do not be too hasty to name them mountebanks, Brother. They were, after all, trying to negate the effects of two of the seals when they came to lift the curses from you. Remember, Orbane was a mighty wizard—vile in intent, but puissant, nevertheless. It took two of his own seals and most of the Firsts to cast him into the Great Darkness beyond the Black Wall of the World. Hence, those clay amulets are powerful indeed, and not something to be taken lightly. And that Caldor and Malgan failed, along with many others, was perhaps to be expected, though we knew it not at the time.” Céleste then turned to Borel. “And as for you going alone—”

  Borel held up a hand. “Cease. Cease. I will consider what you have said. But for now, let us forget Hradian, and instead enjoy this fine meal, and afterward retire to the ballroom and hear Camille sing, Alain, too, and then perhaps all of us can round up some of the household and form an orchestra and partners and dance the night away.”

  “Splendid idea, Borel,” said Alain. He stood and stepped to the pull cord and gave it a tug. “Anything to take your mind off this mad plan of yours.” Moments later a slender, grey-haired man dressed all in black appeared. “Lanval,” said Alain, “please begin recruiting musicians and dancers from among the staff. We’re going to have a soirée this eve.” As Lanval bowed, a corner of his mouth briefly twitched upward, and he stepped out to gather folk for a spree. When Alain resumed his seat he said, “Besides, Borel, a frolic might well lift this darkness from you o’er that dream or sending you had.”

  In the ballroom of Summerwood Manor, lords and ladies and maids and lads all engaged in dancing the complex quadrille, and the slow and stately minuet, as well as the prancing rade, and the lively and vigorous caper of the reel. Before and after each dance, Camille sang arias, and she and Alain sang duets—she in her clear and pure soprano, and he in his flawless tenor. And highborn and low-alike all raised their voices in the cascading roundelays. The evening was filled with gaiety and laughter, yet in the early going oft did Camille and Liaze and Céleste and Alain glance at Borel to see if his glum mood persisted. As far as they could tell, he was enjoying the night immensely, and so they cast their concerns aside and gave over themselves to the merrymaking.

  Long did the festivity last, and it was in the wee hours when all finally went to bed.

  And none were awake in the faint dawnlight, when Borel and his Wolves sli
pped like grey ghosts through the mist of the morn and across the grounds of Summerwood Manor . . . and up the far slopes and beyond.

  4

  Summerwood

  As he reached the top of the rise, Borel paused and looked back at Summerwood Manor, where ethereal mist twined ’round the great mansion and across its widespread grounds in the silvery light of the oncoming dawn. His Wolves gathered about and pricked their ears and looked intently this way and that, or raised their muzzles into the air, seeking to know why their master had paused, seeking to hear or see or scent what he had sensed. Borel then turned and with an utterance somewhere between a word and a growl, he spoke to the pack, and then, Wolves to the fore and aflank and aft, they all set off at an easy lope through the summer woodland as day washed across the sky.

  Into the leafy forest they trotted at their customary pace for long journeys, one they could maintain for candlemarks on end. And long gleaming shafts of morning sunlight arrowed high across the tops of the trees and crept downward with the rising sun. Neither cloak nor vest did Borel wear, for here in the Summerwood the days were warm and the nights mild, and little was needed for comfort. Even so, those garments were rolled atop his pack, along with warmer gear, for Autumnwood lay ahead, with chill Winterwood beyond. Yet for now Borel went lightly dressed, as through the woodland they passed.

  All that morn they ran at the easy pace, with small game and large scattering before them or freezing motionless so as not to be seen, while limbrunners scolded down at them from the safety of the branches above. Borel and the pack passed among moss-laden trunks of great hoary trees and wee Fey Folk among the roots or behind the boles or in a scatter of stone looked up from their endeavors as the Prince of the Winterwood and his escort loped by. Across warm and bright fields and sunlit glades burdened with wild summer flowers did Borel and his entourage run, where the air was alive with the drone of bees flitting from blossom to blossom to burrow in and gather nectar and pollen. Butterflies, too, vividly danced across the meadows, occasionally stopping on petals to delicately sit and sip. Hummingbirds burred through the air and drank of the sweet liquid among floral bouquets, and now and again Borel did see a gossamer-winged sprite playing among the blooms. Yet all this was but glimpsed in passing, for the prince and his Wolves paused not in these burgeoning glades. Instead, they pressed on through forest and field alike, only stopping now and again at sparkling streams to slake their growing thirst.