“Perhaps we need to slay it,” said Roel.
“Or perhaps capture it,” countered Celeste.
“Or perhaps let it go altogether,” replied Roel.
“What if it isn’t a person or a being, but an object, a thing?” said Celeste.
“Such as. .?”
“A gem, a crown, a weapon, a flower, a painting: something, anything, we might think beautiful, but could be wicked instead.”
Roel sighed. “There are so many things in the world and in Faery that are beautiful, my love, at the pinnacle of which are you.”
Celeste smiled and said, “I can be quite wicked, you know.”
“Indeed,” said Roel, grinning, and on they rode.
It rained all that darktide, but the next morning dawned clear and bright. Leaves were adrip and the air freshly washed, and Roel looked on in amazement as a troop of tiny beings-each person no more than an inch tall-came marching out from among the roots of a nearby grove and paid homage to Princess Celeste. They did so at the edge of the coppice, some bowing, others curtseying, and they presented her with a bouquet of tiny lavender flowers. One hung back to keep a wary eye on the men and the horses, for a single misplaced boot or hoof could easily destroy at least half of their wee band.
Celeste set the tiny bouquet behind her right ear, the soft violet hue in contrast to her pale blond hair. The princess in turn presented the tiny folk with a thimbleful of pepper poured upon a leaf. They bowed and curtseyed, and then several of them lifted the leaf up above their heads, and they all marched back among the roots whence they had first appeared.
“What were they, my love?” asked Roel.
“They have their own name for themselves,” said Celeste. “Twyllyth Twyg, it is, but most folk call them Twig Men. They prize pepper above all.” Roel looked toward the place where they had gone and shook his head. “Why, they could ride mice or voles as their steeds, could they tame them.”
“They sometimes do, Roel,” said Celeste.
“Twig Men. .,” mused Roel, and again he shook his head with the wonder of it all.
The cavalcade rode onward, the band pausing at the noontide to feed and water the horses and take a meal ONCE UPON A SPRING MORN / 81
of their own. It was in midafternoon when they came upon the twilight border looming upward among the trees of the Springwood.
Anton sent scouts left- and rightward, and then the remainder of the cavalcade rode nigh the marge and dismounted.
“Now we must find the proper crossing point, my love,” said Celeste, “for, if you’ll recall Vidal’s words, this bound is particularly complex.”
“I believe he said it was ‘tricky,’ ” replied Roel.
“Tricky indeed,” said Celeste. “To reach Port Mizon, we must find the lightning-struck remains of a large black oak; ’tis there we need cross. We will wait here while the scouts fare along the bound. A bugle will sound when one finds the tree.”
“Why not simply ride through and then, if it is the wrong place, ride back?”
“Oh, cheri, one of the crossings leads to a land of flowing molten stone; another leads to a great fall; still others lead to realms just as perilous. We need cross at the place that will not put us in jeopardy, and-” Celeste’s voice was lost under ululation, and a flood of Goblins and Bogles and monstrous Trolls came charging from the shadowlight. Above the onrush flew a crow crying, “Revenge, revenge.” Celeste sounded her silver horn, even as men leapt to the backs of their steeds. Roel on his black drew Coeur d’Acier and took his shield in hand. Celeste drew her bow from its saddle scabbard, and nocked an arrow and let fly. It pierced the breast of one of the eight-foot-tall Goblinlike Bogles.
Even as the creature crashed to the ground, a monstrous Troll leapt over the corpse and rushed at Celeste.
Roel charged forward, Coeur d’Acier cutting a bloody swath through the Goblins. He intercepted the Troll and gutted the twelve-foot-high monster.
Men of the warband lanced and hacked and flew arrows, only to be met in turn by cudgel and warbar and spear and arrows in return.
“Revenge, revenge,” skreighed the crow, now circling above Celeste, and here the Goblins and Bogles and Trolls charged, surrounding the men protecting the princess, and clawed their way toward her.
“Celeste! Celeste!” cried Roel, and he turned and drove his black toward her grey, taking down a Troll in his way, Coeur d’Acier keen and bloody.
With men all about her in melee, Celeste did not chance loosing an arrow, and she slipped the bow across her shoulders and drew her long-knife.
Now a Bogle crashed its way through the men, and with a massive smash of his great club he slew Celeste’s horse. She leapt free even as the grey tumbled to the ground. The Bogle loomed above her; he swung his bludgeon up to strike, but the blow never fell, for Coeur d’Acier took off his head.
“Celeste,” cried Roel. He reached down and she grabbed on to his sword arm and swung up behind him.
Now with sword hewing and shield bashing and Celeste’s long-knife slashing, Roel spurred his black forward through the melee and up a slope toward the shadowlight border, seeking higher ground.
Above them, “Revenge! Revenge!” cried the crow, yet marking the princess’s whereabouts.
Roel’s black screamed, and fell to its knees, a Goblin arrow jutting from one eye. Roel and Celeste sprang free, and they fought their way through Goblins and on up the slope, but Trolls and Bogles lumbered after, their great strides overtaking.
“Revenge!” cried the crow above, but of a sudden it squawked and tumbled from the air, a crossbow quarrel through its breast.
Still Roel and Celeste fled onward, a horde in pursuit.
“Know you where this goes?” cried Roel.
“Nay, I do not,” cried Celeste in return.
“Celeste, we must chance it,” called Roel, bashing a Goblin aside and running onward, with the princess slightly arear and on his flank, her long-knife slathered with dark grume.
Up the slope they ran and into the twilight, Goblins and Bogles and Trolls in chase.
Dim it became and then darker, and Roel hissed,
“Angle leftward-we’ll lose them in the gloom.” On they ran, deeper into the border, the shadowlight becoming ebon as they blindly fled.
Headlong they ran, recklessly, shouting pursuit behind them. Now rightward they angled and raced straight on and past the pitch-dark midpoint, to hurtle out into empty space and plummet downward, plunging into blackness below.
10
Gone
Princess! cried the searchers. Princess Celeste!
“Did no one see where she went?” called Anton.
Men looked at one another in concern, yet none had followed her flight, for they had been caught up in the battle.
“Here is her horse,” shouted Deverel, scrambling upslope toward the downed mare. Quickly he reached it and called, “Its skull is crushed.”
Anton made his way among slain Goblins and Bogles and past a massive and gutted Troll. As he reached the dead horse, nearby a weak voice called out,
“C–Captain.”
Some yards away young Marlon lay wounded, and Anton stepped to him and shouted for Gilles.
“Captain,” whispered Marlon, “she leapt free of her grey, and Sieur Roel fought his way to her, and she swung up behind. They went on toward the bound.” The youth pointed.
Bearing his kit, Gilles arrived, his hands bloodied from treating others. He knelt beside Marlon. “Deverel, help Gilles,” snapped Anton.
As Deverel moved to aid the healer, Anton strode in the direction Marlon had pointed. Within yards he came upon Roel’s caparisoned steed lying dead. He swept his gaze wide, but he saw nought immediate to indicate where Celeste and Roel had gone. Then Anton knelt and closely examined the ground. Ah, tracks, and many.