Once upon a dreadful time ou-4 Page 6
Another croak, this one with a needy edge.
“Oui, you may seek your breakfast, but return quickly; I have a duty for you.”
The monstrous toad-nearly the size of a bushel basket-
hitched about and waddled to the verge of the flet and toppled off to plop into the scum-laden water.
Hradian swung her attention back to the garment and sniffed the cloth. She didn’t smell ought, for her nose was completely inured to the reek of swamp bottom, and if the same malodor clung to the gown, it would escape her notice. “Bah,” she growled, “whether or no, it’ll air out on my flight, especially if I ride low o’er the desert.”
Down the wall-ladder she clambered, the gown over her shoulder. When she reached the floor, she slipped into the black dress and covered her nakedness. For perhaps the third time in her life she wished she had a mirror to admire herself, but mirrors are tricky things, and open to someone spying in upon her. Of course the surface could be covered with the right kind of impenetrable cloth, or the mirror could be turned to face the wall, or kept in a tight closet by itself for occasional and limited viewing; but still if a mage were powerful enough, he could launch an attack through the speculum itself whether or no the device was hidden, or covered, or in use. No, no mirror had she nor would she ever, except for a bowl filled with inky liquid, and that but a temporary tool to spy upon her enemies.
Instead she had to be content with looking down at herself only to see-“This won’t do”-that her grimy toes peeked out from the hem. “Shoes, yes shoes.” Hradian found her cracked leather slippers and tied the laces and hissed, “One day, and soon, my love, you’ll have nought but the finest soft footwear, of fur and satin and cloth and suede and whatever else you wish.” Hradian then scrabbled through her belongings and finally found what she wanted: a small pouch on a thong. She slipped the potion vial into it and secured the top and hung it about her neck.
Then, because the journey would be a lengthy one, she shoved a wedge of cheese and a loaf of bread into a small rucksack and looped the strap over her head and shoulder. Looking about and deciding she needed to carry nothing else, she took up her besom.
“Crapaud! Crapaud! Where are you?”
There came a squashy splop out on the flet, and the bloated toad, dripping water, waddled to the doorway. Part of something wiggling and slimy-the hindquarters and tail of a large newt?
a lizard? something else altogether? — dangled from the corner of Crapaud’s wide mouth, the toad trying to gulp it down, while the partly swallowed thing fought to extract itself.
“Crapaud, watch over the house,” commanded Hradian.
Crapaud emitted a croak, and in that same moment the thing escaped. But as it darted for the water- schlakk! — Crapaud’s long tongue snatched it up.
Without waiting to see if the thing was swallowed or not, Hradian mounted her twiggy broom and flew away, the trim and danglers from her dress flowing out behind her like ragged shadows melting away.
As soon as she was above the drifting miasma of the swamp, Hradian took a quick glance at the morning sun. “Must hurry, must hurry,” she muttered, and she goaded her besom to greater speed. “They will be well started by the time I arrive. A simple glamour will do at first, but then. .” With the wind of her passage whipping through her black hair, Hradian broke into laughter as she sped toward her destination.
. .
Twilight bound after twilight bound she crossed, and the sun rose up the sky. And in the marks after the sun passed through the zenith, Hradian cast her first glamour and then crossed another bound. In the forest below were any observing, unless they had Fey sight, they would see nought but a crow winging starwise. And even had they Fey sight, still they might see nought but a tremulous aura about the dark bird.
. .
A candlemark or so and a twilight bound later, in midafternoon the crow spiralled down to come to rest in a leafy forest.
Moments later, with a second glamour cast, a small girl, bearing a bouquet of wildflowers, stepped out from the trees and onto the green grassy field.
Faire
As Emile shoveled eggs onto his plate to go with the rashers and toast and jam, he asked, “Valeray, is there anyone else, other than this Hradian witch, and perhaps her master Orbane, who might wish to see you and your get dead?” Valeray shrugged. “None I can think of.” Then he looked at Saissa and grinned. “Oh, there are some lords and ladies and mayors and such who might yet hold a grudge against me for deeds long past when I was yet a thief. But I would think those resentments not enough to send someone or something spying, especially someone or something unseen.”
They sat outside on a balcony overlooking the tournament field, with its many tents where jongleurs and merchants and participants and fest-goers had come to entertain, to sell their wares, to enter the contests, or to otherwise engage in the faire.
Smoke from fires rose in the morning air as those gathered broke their own fasts, or cooked specialties to sell to others-
with hogs on spits and slabs of ribs and sides of beef roasting; with various fish and fowl turning and frying as well; with pots of beans and meats and soups dangling above the fires and bubbling; and breads and sweets and other such fare baking-all of them wafting their aromas across the way to entice the milling throng. A minstrel’s voice rose in distant song accompanied by a lute, and a piccolo ran a rising scale and then fell silent.
Midst the tents lay a large open arena with tiers of seats on one side for the king and his invited guests. Opposite the tiers and on a gentle rise a fence set the boundary for others to gather and watch and cheer for their favorites. In between lay the tourney field, where most of the events would be held: archery, dueling, the caber toss, the hammer throw, the discus, the foot races, and others. On the field as well stood the lists, where knights mounted on chargers would run-shields up, lances couched-in attempts to unseat one another.
And overlooking it all from their distant high terrace, King Valeray, Queen Saissa, Sieur Emile, and Lady Simone sat at breakfast.
“What about the Changelings?” asked Simone. “Because Roel slew their lord, and Celeste killed the witch, and they freed Laurent and Blaise and rescued Avelaine, wouldn’t the Changelings seek revenge?”
“Perhaps,” replied Valeray. “Mayhap some of them can make themselves invisible or change into something so small as to be overlooked-a fly, a flea, a gnat, or some such. But it would take more than one Changeling-in fact at least five altogether; one for each manor, that is-for at times some of these occurrences happen leagues upon leagues apart within but moments of one another.” He turned to Saissa. “Isn’t that correct, my dear?”
“Oui. Certainly within a candlemark of one another, or so my daughters and daughters-in-law and I do say.” Emile frowned. “And you know this how. .?”
“We fly the messenger falcons, and in the message we usually note when the feeling of malignancy occurred. At times it is ’round the mid of night. At other times it is just after dusk.
And at still other times it is in the moments ere dawn. Seldom does it occur when the sun is up. But even were these sensings to happen a candlemark or so apart, there is not enough time for a single spy to get from one manor to another. Perhaps, as Valeray says, if several Changelings worked in concert, we would all sense the malignancy nigh the same moment, yet I believe instead it is Hradian-and only Hradian-using some sort of magic to spy on us, for her motives are strongest.” Emile nodded and took another bite of jam-slathered toast.
“Well then, let us suppose it is Hradian,” said Simone, “is there ought we or anyone can do to counteract it?” Valeray shook his head. “For the moment, non. Yet mayhap one of magekind can suggest a way. Even so, the nearest mage of worth is days distant; it would take time to fetch him. But even then, if no occurrence happens in his presence, I think he would be as puzzled as are we.”
“But he might have a suggestion,” said Simone.
“Oui, he might,” replied Saiss
a. “Yet I believe that what we said yestereve still holds: after Rhensibe was slain, the Fates warned us that the remaining acolytes would seek revenge, and they certainly did so. And now there is but one acolyte left.
And so there seems to be nought for it but to do as the Fates have advised: stand ready, and be on guard.”
“On guard against what?” asked Avelaine, as she and Liaze and Celeste swept onto the balcony.
Valeray and Emile got to their feet, and Valeray said, “What else, my dear, but Hradian?”
“Oh, poo!” said Avelaine, making a moue. “Can’t we forget about the witch on this day?” She cast a wide gesture toward the arena. “I mean, it’s tourney day, a time for joy and not brooding.” She looked about the balcony and added, “And where are the bright chevaliers?”
“In the armory,” said Borel, as he and Alain stepped onto the terrace, Michelle on Borel’s arm, Camille on Alain’s.
“They choose their weaponry,” said Alain. He gave Saissa a kiss on the cheek, and then took up a plate for himself.
“You do not join them?” asked Emile.
“Non, Sieur Emile,” said Alain. “I’m afraid the Bear would take offense at someone thrusting a weapon at me.”
“The Bear?”
Alain smiled. “I’ll explain later.”
Emile then swung his gaze toward Borel, and the prince said,
“Likewise my Wolves,” as if that told all.
“Our combat this day will be in archery,” said Alain.
“Do not forget echecs,” said Camille.
“Oh, indeed, in echecs too,” said Borel.
“And what about you, Sieur Emile?” asked Celeste. “You do not joust this day?”
Emile sighed and looked at Simone. “Their mother will not let me take a run at my own sons nor lift a weapon ’gainst them. But I, too, will take up bow and arrow and stand on the field and compete.”
“And you, Papa?” asked Michelle.
Valeray shook his head. “No warrior am I. Ah, but if you have a lock to pick. .”
The balcony rang with laughter.
. .
After breaking fast, they all strolled toward the arena, passing jesters and jugglers, minstrels and stilt-walkers, bards and fortune-tellers, hawkers and merchants purveying their wares.
Booths of food-sellers tried to tempt them to partake of their fare, and various hucksters called out for good gentlemen and ladies to try their games: axe throwing, mad archery, toss the ball, and other such diversions.
“Why do they call it ‘mad archery’?” asked Simone, as they strolled by the bow-and-arrow booth.
“Ah. The arrows are bent and curved and crooked and the fletching twisted,” said Celeste. “The fun comes in watching their flight toward the many targets. Trying to strike the central bull’s eye and win a prize is quite challenging.”
“Are none of the shafts straight?” asked Emile.
“Straight as a sand viper,” said Borel, laughing.
On they went, pausing a moment before the puppet theater, where the crowd laughed as one of the puppets-a female with a skillet-beat upon a poor, hapless, masked burglar, driving him howling around the tiny stage. As the playlet ended, Borel dropped a coin or two into the passing hat. Then he and the family moved on.
And as they threaded among the throng, the citizens bowed and curtseyed in deference to the royalty, and the royalty acknowledged such with smiles and nods and hand gestures.
At last they reached the arena, and entered the central box.
Horns sounded and Valeray and Saissa took the thrones, while the others took seats alongside or down a tier or two before the royal couple. Across the field and beyond a stout fence running the width of the rise, spectators bowed and curtseyed. When the king and queen were seated and the horns sounded again, the citizenry straightened and waited in anticipation.
A herald rode to the ground before the king’s box and saluted and said, “My lord?”
And Valeray replied, “Let the games begin.” The herald blew a blast on his trump, and the crowd cheered.
. .
After the caber toss-won by a giant of a man, a crofter from the fields in the Summerwood-the herald rode out and about the floor of the arena and cried out, “Mon Roi, ma Reine, et Membres de la Famille Royale, et Sieurs, Mesdames, et Hommes et Femmes et Enfants, I warn you the hammer throw can be quite dangerous, with an errant toss occasionally known to maim or kill an onlooker. So be prepared to flee should one come your way.”
Simone turned to Avelaine. “Is that true? Have people been maimed, even killed?”
“Oh, Maman, worry not, for the hammer throwers are very good.”
Simone frowned and huffed, “Well, someone”-she glanced at Valeray-“should provide high, loosely woven wicker walls along each side of the hammer-throw ring. That way, should the thrower lose control of the hammer, then it would simply strike one of the barriers and fall to the ground and not fly into the onlookers.”
“Ah, but wouldn’t that take some of the thrill out of the sport, Maman?”
“Better a safe wife than a grieving widow,” said Simone.
They watched as throws were made, and as each toss was hurled the crowd roared, Avelaine cheering alongside the men, with Simone frowning at this unseemly behavior of her daughter, even though Celeste and Liaze and Camille and Michelle were shouting just as lustily.
And they laughed as one of the garishly clad and painted jesters ran onto the field and took up the hammer and swung it about and tossed it no farther than a half stride. Jumping up and down in seeming anger, he took it up again and swung it
’round and appeared to drop it onto his foot, and he howled and hopped about, holding the injured extremity, while pointing at it and bawling. And then he fell to the ground, and two more gaudy jesters rushed out with a litter, and laid it alongside the
“injured” one and rolled him in between the poles. And when they took it up to bear him away, it seems that it wasn’t really a litter at all, but merely two poles. And as they trundled off, the jester on the ground looked up and about and then leapt to his feet and ran after the others, shouting, while the crowd howled in glee.
“Oh, isn’t this just splendid, Maman?” asked Avelaine.
Maman, laughing and trying to catch her breath, turned to her daughter and nodded, completely unable to speak.
. .
The hammer throw was followed by the discus, and then the running events, and they were followed by a show of horsemanship, with the animals dancing and prancing and sidling and turning to the oohs and ahhs of the appreciative crowd.
After that display, men on horseback and bearing light lances ran races where they speared small rings from atop willowy wands stuck in the ground. The swiftest one with the most rings would be declared the winner. Rider after rider vied, and time was kept by water draining through a hole in a bucket and through a funnel and into a measuring cup. As each rider started, a judge pulled a plug, and the water began to pour.
When the rider rang a bell at the end of the course, the cup was whisked from under the spout and the amount noted-the less liquid the faster the run. The plug was replaced and the bucket refilled and the measuring cup once again set under, and the next rider made his try.
Halfway through the event, the jester entered the contest, and before he finished his single ride, the cup overflowed and the judges replaced it with a pail, and the container above had to be refilled. Amid hoots and laughter and jeers of the crowd, as the water continued to run, the jester yelled, “Oh, oh, help, help, my bucket runneth over!” This brought the other two jesters running onto the field and, amid many pratfalls, they took the rings from the willow wands and, dropping them and retrieving them several times, they at last placed them on the mounted jester’s lance, who then rode back in gleeful triumph, to discover he hadn’t rung the gong. He galloped back to the bell and swung his lance at it, only to miss and fall off his horse, and the animal promptly ran away, with the t
hree jesters shouting and chasing after.
As soon as the whooping crowd settled, again the serious contestants vied for the victory. In the end a young lad of no more than eleven summers was declared champion of that event.
When the archery contest came about, many a man took up the challenge, including Emile and Borel and Alain, and they were joined by Luc and Roel and Blaise and Laurent. In the competition as well, stood Celeste and Liaze and Michelle and Saissa.
Long did the contest last, for there were many vying, yet the number remaining dwindled and dwindled, until at last there were but four: Borel and Luc and Celeste and a man from a place called the Wyldwood-Regar by name, tall and lithe and uncommonly handsome, and many thought he might be one of the Fey, perhaps even an Elf.
Back moved the targets and back, and still none was a clear winner. But finally the range was such that Celeste and her smaller bow, with a pull not equal to those of the three men, at last fell out of the competition.
And now it was Luc and Borel and Regar, and the judges moved the targets one more time, the range now uncommonly distant, and the onlookers gasped at the skill involved. Arrows flew to strike the small central circle afar, yet in the end Borel prevailed by nought but a single shaft. And the crowd roared its approval.
“Well played,” said Regar, running a hand through his yellow hair. “I had not been bested erenow.”
“Who knows?” said Borel. “Were we to have another go, it could readily be you or Luc who would be the champion crowned; and forget not Celeste, for she could just as easily have won as well.”
“Oui,” said Luc. “Last summer it was I who prevailed, and the summer before it was she.”
“Then let us gather her up and share a glass of wine,” said Regar.
“Non, Regar, not for me, but surely you and Borel and Celeste can do so,” said Luc. “I must excuse myself, for I will need all my wits and skill in the knightly competition to come.”
“You are a chevalier, then?”
“Oui. And three contests remain: dueling with epees, the melee, and jousting. And I am opposed by three brothers-Roel, Blaise, and Laurent-boon companions and worthy knights all.”