Once Upon a Dreadful Time Page 8

  In the first of the rounds, Luc had drawn Blaise, and Roél had drawn Laurent. And at the sound of the trumpets, Luc and Blaise were first in the lists, and they rode to take station. All eyes were on Queen Saissa, and she raised a hand holding a filmy scarf, and with it she signaled for the tilt to begin.

  With horses belling in excitement, shields up, lances lowered, Luc and Blaise charged one another. Each ran at a gallop, sawdust and wood curls flying up from hooves, and the crowd roared in anticipation. In spite of the padded tips, with thunderous clangs! lances met shields. Blaise’s shaft shivered into splinters, and Luc was rocked back, his own lance glancing awry ’gainst Blaise’s dark shield. And a great shout went up, for it looked as if Luc would be unhorsed. Yet Luc recovered even as the steeds hammered onward.

  Each rode to the end of the lists, and Blaise cast aside the remains of his broken lance and took up another from the attendant acting as his squire.

  ’Round they wheeled, did the knights, and again they charged, the blue chevalier against the gold, the black horse against the dark grey steed.

  Once more with a blang! the two crashed together, and this time Luc’s shaft struck the oakleaf square, while Blaise’s slid off the rose. Blaise was hammered back and, in spite of his efforts, he was knocked from his saddle to land in the sawdust and shavings below.

  Cheers sounded as well as groans, and a goodly number of coins changed hands.

  Luc rode ’round the end of the lists and back to Blaise, and he gave the unhorsed knight a stirrup and an arm, and Blaise swung up behind. They rode to where the dark grey steed had stopped. Blaise slid from the back of Nightshade, and bowed to Luc, then mounted his own animal.

  They both rode to opposite ends of the field, and dismounted to await the outcome of the next match.

  To great cheers, Roél unhorsed Laurent on the very first run.

  Once again coinage changed hands.

  Now came the concluding match—Prince Luc versus Sieur Roél—the same final pairing as at last year’s faire.

  Lance after lance they shattered against one another, and each was nearly unhorsed several times. Yet finally there were no more lances left, but for the one Roél held, and it was cracked.

  With a fanfare of trumpets, King Valeray stood, and when the onlookers quieted, the king called it a draw.

  The crowd groaned, and this time no coins changed hands. But as the two chevaliers rode about the field, a great cheer rose up in tribute.

  In spite of the draw at tilting, Luc was named Champion of Champions, for with a win at épées and a tie at jousting, he had more victory points than any of the other three knights.

  Laughing, they all rode for Luc’s tent, where, slapping one another on the back, they hoisted mugs of ale in salute to one another. Smiling, Laurent protested that, with his win in the mêlée, he should have been crowned champion, but Roél countered that Laurent’s ignominious showing in the joust completely nullified any win he might have “accidentally” gained. Blaise sighed and said that he had been entirely shut out this time, though he could have sworn that Luc had magical help to remain on his horse in the very first tilt.

  Liaze and Céleste entered this male domain, and they embraced each and kissed each on the cheek, and added another kiss to their husbands’ lips.

  “You must excuse us, chéri,” said Liaze, looking up into Luc’s eyes. “We go to change our clothes into gowns a bit less demure, less modest, than these high-collar fashions, and then hie to the grand ballroom. The échecs tournament has begun, and we each have a match to win.”

  “Why change clothes, my love?” asked Roél.

  Céleste grinned. “Our first opponents are men, and a femme must take every advantage.”

  The men burst into laughter, but finally Luc, yet smiling, looked down at Liaze and said, “As soon as I sluice some of this sweat and salt from me and change garb, I’ll be there to cheer you on, a more revealing gown or no.”

  “As will I cheer you,” said Roél, embracing Céleste.

  With one last peck, Liaze and Céleste withdrew.

  Blaise turned to Roél and Luc and said, “Oh, were Laurent and I as fortunate as you twain.”

  “Mais oui!” agreed Laurent.

  In the second round of échecs matches, by the luck of the draw Borel was pitted against Regar, the Wyldwood stranger. Swift did they make move after move, seeming somewhat reckless, yet they were both anything but. Still, spearmen were slain, chevaliers fought valiantly, and hierophants and towers slid this way and that, while queens reigned in violence, and kings fled a square at a time.

  “Your play is somewhat like that of another opponent I once faced,” said Borel, slipping his lone hierophant diagonally along two white squares.

  “Oh?” responded Regar, countering with a move of his remaining black chevalier. “And who was that?”

  “The Fairy King under the Hill,” said Borel. “He nearly defeated me.”

  Regar sat back, his eyes wide in wonder. “You won?”

  “Oui.”

  Regar shook his head and then leaned forward and studied the board. “I did not think any could best my grand-père in échecs, for his reputation is formidable, and in fact is why I wanted to learn the game.”

  Now it was Borel who leaned back in wonder. “The Fairy King is your grandsire?”

  Regar grinned. “So it is said. It seems he came upon my grand-maman, a beautiful woman, gathering herbs in the wood, and they found each other irresistible, and their dalliance produced my maman, and she in turn, me.”

  “Your grand-père is indeed a mighty master of échecs,” said Borel, advancing a spearman forward one square. “When did you play him last?”

  “I have never seen him, and only know him through the tales I have heard,” said Regar. “It seems his queen is most jealous, and after that dalliance with my grand-maman, to keep her safe, he left her.”

  “Oo, how cold.”

  “I think it was not done with a cold heart, for grand-maman said he wept bitterly.” Regar countered with a move of one of his own spearmen. “He did leave her very well off, yet I have always wished to meet him.”

  “Perhaps some day you will,” said Borel, “yet beware, for he is quite sly, quite tricky.”

  “Think you that he would attempt to deceive his own blood?” asked Regar.

  Borel turned up both hands. “That I cannot say. I think if he knew of your kinship, he would welcome you, though perhaps in secret.” Borel then moved a spearman and said, “Ward your queen.”

  Regar smiled and said, “Ah, I thought my lady would be a too-tempting target for you.” Regar slid his tower next to a hierophant-protected spearman and said, “I believe that is mate.”

  Borel looked at the board and burst into laughter and turned his king on its side. “Well played, Prince Regar. Very well played. I think should you ever duel your grand-père in échecs, it will be quite a game.”

  Regar cocked an eyebrow. “Prince? You name me prince?”

  “Indeed, for your grandsire is the Fairy King.”

  Regar nodded and ruefully smiled. “Ah, oui. But at best I am merely a bastard prince.”

  Borel grinned and stood. “Come, Regar, let us share a cup ere your next match.”

  As prince and bastard prince made their way toward the wine table, Roél and Luc, freshly bathed and clothed, entered the grand ballroom. They paused at the entrance and surveyed the tables where opponent and opponent studied the boards. “Ah, there is my Céleste,” said Roél.

  “And I see Liaze,” said Luc.

  “Let us not disturb them,” said Roél, gesturing at the table where a sommelier oversaw servants pouring wine, “but join my brothers for a drink.”

  Even as they walked past windows, beyond which twilight graced the sky, Camille, uncharacteristically distracted and having lost her match, came alongside them. A yet-disgruntled Scruff sat on her shoulder, though the wee sparrow now grew sleepy as dusk drew down on the land.

  �
��How fared you, sister?” asked Roél.

  The corner of Camille’s mouth twitched upward. She gestured toward a table where a corpulent man, looking somewhat stunned, sat and peered at the échiquier, most of the pieces thereon. “There is the victor.”

  “You lost?”

  “Oui. I simply couldn’t concentrate on the game.”

  “Why so?”

  “Scruff sensed danger, yet I could see nought. And then he flew at a crow, but it was too swift for him to overtake.”

  “Perhaps a good thing,” said Luc. “Crows are quite savage, and Scruff so small.”

  “Valeray thought it might be a Changeling,” said Camille.

  Both Roél and Luc’s eyebrows raised, and Luc asked, “Think you it has ought to do with these sensings you and the others have?”

  Camille sighed. “All I know is that Scruff was quite agitated. Still is, in fact.”

  As they reached the wine table, Roél asked, “Did you sense a malignancy?”

  Camille shook her head. “Non.”

  “Perhaps then it was nought but a crow,” said Luc.

  Camille turned up a hand, but otherwise did not reply.

  After receiving their goblets of wine, the trio joined Laurent and Blaise off to one side, and moments later Borel and Regar came to stand with the group.

  “How did you fare?” asked Camille.

  “Meet my conqueror,” said Borel, raising his goblet toward Regar. “Prince Regar trounced me handily.”

  “You are a prince?” asked Céleste, just then joining the cluster.

  “Ask Borel,” said Regar, with a sigh.

  “He is the grandson of the Fairy King,” said Borel. “Here, Regar, let me properly present you to all.”

  Even as the introductions were being made, Liaze joined the group and was formally presented to Regar as well.

  “How did you fare ’gainst your opponent?” asked Luc.

  Liaze smiled and said, “He seemed quite preoccupied in looking at something other than the board.”

  Céleste laughed and said, “As did the man I played.”

  Roél grinned. “I shouldn’t wonder, given your décolletage.”

  Luc smiled and looked at each of their low-cut gowns, the women bare from the throat down to the considerable cleavage shown. Then he frowned. “Liaze, where is the key?”

  “Key?”

  “The amulet. I gave it to you ere the jousting.”

  Liaze shook her head in bewilderment. “Non, chéri. You gave me no amulet.”

  “But you came to me in my tent and asked to keep it safe. And I willingly handed it over.”

  “Non, Luc. Though I did now and then change seats, I was in the stands the whole time.”

  Camille gasped and turned pale. “Oh, Mithras. That’s what Scruff was agitated about: the witch was here at the tourney! Somehow she fooled you, Luc.”

  The color drained from Luc’s face, and Blaise whispered, “Hradian?”

  “Oui, Hradian. By glamour or other spell, it wasn’t Liaze, but must have been Hradian instead, or so I deem.”

  Céleste blanched and looked at the sparrow, who now slept in Camille’s pocket. “Nor, I think, was it a crow he chased, but again ’twas Hradian.”

  Tears sprang into Liaze’s eyes. “Oh woe upon woe, for now she has the key to the Castle of Shadows and, can we not stop her, she will set Orbane free.”

  9

  Success!

  Laughing in glee, Hradian—to all eyes nought but a crow—flew on her broom through the darkening sky, and her hand clutched the amulet on the chain ’round her neck. “Fools, those fools, little did they know they could not stop you, my love. Your potion worked to perfection. Perfection! Ha! A simple glamour wouldn’t do, oh no. Instead you had to become that slattern Liaze, for you knew that her paramour would embrace you, and his arms would feel what his eyes saw not. And you, my sweet, now have the key, the key that will gain your master’s release! Oh, clever you. None of your sisters could do as did you.”

  Chortling and laughing, Hradian fled across the sky, her distant swamp cottage her initial goal, and then a realm afar and the Great Darkness beyond. But as she crossed the very first twilight border and entered the Springwood, she came to ground on a high, rocky tor and cast a calling spell. And soon, in spite of the growing dark, the air about was filled with a milling flock of cawing crows, and Hradian spoke to them in their very own tongue. What she said, they understood, though none but someone else versed in the cornix tongue could know the words of her command. Regardless, when she fell silent, in a great cawing racket, the flock flew up and ’round and then fragmented into individual birds hammering across the sky, heading toward the Summerwood and Winterwood and Autumnwood, and deeper into the Springwood as well.

  Once more Hradian took to the air, smirking unto herself and saying, “They don’t call them a murder of crows for nought.” And then she burst into laughter and flew on into the gathering dark.

  10

  Sighting

  Wakened by a cacophony, two Sprites scrambled to their feet on the leaf where they had bedded down for the night. Tiny they were, no more than two inches tall, and their diaphanous wings quivered, the Sprites ready to spring into flight. But for a scabbard belted at one Sprite’s waist and a speck of a moonstone on a miniscule chain ’round the neck of the other, male and female, they were completely unclothed. And at the sight of a black flock circling, the male drew a wee silver épée from the sheath at his side.

  “Crows, Fleurette, crows! Quickly, cover Buzzer. Hide her from the crows.”

  As the female snapped a leaf from a branch and used it to hide the bumblebee asleep on their green bed, she said, “What is it, Flic? What is going on?”

  Away flew the ebon birds, scattering this way and that, and both Fleurette and Flic crouched down. Flic said, “I don’t know what this is all about, but there’s someone on the tor, and—” Of a sudden he gasped. “ ’Tis a witch, Fleurette. She just took to flight.”

  Both watched as a dark figure, silhouetted against the twilight sky, soared upward, the lace and long danglers of her black dress flowing out like wisps of gloom.

  “Oh, my,” said Fleurette. “I think that might be Hradian.”

  “How know you this?”

  “Camille once described Hradian’s flight as a sinister knot of darkness, streaming tatters and tendrils of shadow flapping in the wind behind.”

  Flic’s eyes widened in remembrance. “Oui, but you are right, my love; Borel once described her to me. Oh, my, Hradian in the Springwood. We need warn Céleste of the witch in her demesne. Perhaps I should fly onward to the Castle of the Seasons, yet, with all these crows about, I cannot leave you behind.”

  “Those murdering birds are gone,” said Fleurette, and she gestured toward the sleeping bee and added, “but it’s Buzzer we cannot leave behind.”

  Flic glanced toward the nearby twilight border looming up in the darkness. “I could carry her across the bound and leave her in a safe place with you, and then fly on to the castle. The crows are not likely to come across, especially with night now falling.”

  “Well and good,” said Fleurette. “And first thing in the dawning, Buzzer and I will take to wing and follow.”

  Cradling the sleeping bumblebee and struggling a bit to fly—for the insect was nearly as large as the Sprite—Flic followed Fleurette through the dark marge, Buzzer shifting uneasily in the embrace yet not awakening. On the far side of the border, Fleurette led Flic to a broad oak, and out at the end of one arm of the tree she found a suitable leaf to settle on.

  Flic set Buzzer down, and then offered Fleurette the épée, but Fleurette refused, saying, “Buzzer will be my protector, chéri. Go you now, and swiftly, for a witch to be in the Springwood is an ill omen.”

  Flic nodded and kissed Fleurette and leapt into the air, and soon he was lost against the deepening purple of the failing twilight sky.

  11

  Traces

  “Perhaps
I am wrong,” said Céleste. “Mayhap the crow Scruff chased wasn’t Hradian, and she is yet on the grounds.”

  Regar turned to Camille. “This Hradian, she is the witch you spoke of?”

  “Oui,” said Camille.

  “And this crow: you think it was she?”

  “Oui.”

  “Mayhap you are correct, then, for as I stood with the onlookers on the hillside, all of us waiting for the joust, I did see a crow winging dawnwise, and it flew within a strange aura.”

  “You can see auras?” asked Liaze.

  “Oui . . . ’round charmed things, that is. Perhaps it’s my grand-père’s blood that lets me see.” Regar looked at Camille and added, “That wee bird in your pocket, my lady, he bears a faint red lambency, and I deem he is somehow enchanted.”

  Even as Camille frowned and looked down at sleeping Scruff—“And the crow . . . ?” asked Céleste.

  “A dark glow,” said Regar.

  Céleste sighed. “Still, the winging bird might not have been Hradian, hence she might yet be on the grounds; if so, we must find her.”

  Alain turned to Borel. “Brother, your Wolves: they might be able to scent her.”

  “Mais oui,” said Borel. “Come, Luc.”

  “What of weapons and horses?” said Luc.

  “We’ll deal with those,” said Roél, and he turned to his brothers. “Laurent, Blaise, fetch my sword and gather weapons for all—bows, arrows, blades—and meet me at the stables, for I go to ready the steeds.”

  “My bow lies yon,” said Regar, pointing to where his goods lay at one side of the chamber. “And I’ll aid Roél with the mounts.”

  As the men hied away, “Come, Alain,” said Borel. “The Bear can scent better than my Wolves, for they are sight hunters.”

  “What of us?” asked Céleste. “I’m handy with a bow, as is Liaze.”

  Camille shook her head. “We must not alarm the contestants, all of us rushing off at once. We three should remain and now and then pass among the players and try to look calm.”

  “I must tell Father,” said Liaze, looking across the sundry pairs. “Ah, he is yon.”