Flic stroked his chin. “Next time you find yourself in that chamber, why don’t you take her somewhere else? Somewhere out of that chamber. Perhaps down those steps you spoke of.”
“Dreams are strange, Flic. It’s not as if I can control them.”
“Ah, but you can, Lord Borel, to some extent, that is.”
“How so?”
“A seer once told me that if in the midst of a dream I somehow discovered I was dreaming, then I could change the dream to an extent.”
“Hmm…” mused Borel. “And you think I can in some way use this knowledge?”
“Indeed, Prince Borel, for can you guide your dream, perhaps you can turn the conversation in a way that will aid you in your task.”
“Maybe so,” said Borel. “Yet tell me this: just how would I go about discovering I am dreaming?”
“Ah, there is the rub,” said Flic. “What is required is some sort of trip or trigger or stratagem that will let the dreamer know he is dreaming. In your case, I suggest you fix on something extraordinary about the setting-say, the band across her eyes, or better yet those strange, floating daggers-so that when you see them you can then become aware that you are in a dream and take steps to guide the dream into channels other than the one you find yourself in.”
“And how do I do that, Flic?”
“I’ll tell you what I was told: when you settle down to sleep, try to fix the triggering sight-say, the daggers-in your mind, and the thought that when you see them you will know you are dreaming. If successful, you can then change the dream.”
“Have you ever done this, Flic? — Guided your own dreams?”
“Well, no. But you see, I’ve never had a need, never found myself in a dream as important as yours. I mean, after all, perhaps by guiding your dream and speaking with the demoiselle, she can aid you in setting her free.”
Borel sighed and said, “I cannot promise I will succeed, nevertheless I will try. Yet it seems to me that I have a larger problem than guiding my dreams. You see, although I have been to Lord Roulan’s estate, at the moment I do not know where we are, hence I know not where his lands lie from here, and yet I must get to them ere the full moon comes again.”
Flic frowned and said, “What are his gardens like?”
“What?”
“Lord Roulan: what kind of flowers does he grow?”
Though he was lying down, Borel managed a shrug. “I don’t know. Besides, what has that to do with ought?”
“I believe we can take you there,” said Flic, glancing at Buzzer.
Surprised, Borel sat up, nearly dumping Flic. But the Sprite took to flight and settled atop the stanchion of the aft steering sweep. Holding out a hand of apology, Borel said, “Know you where Roulan’s estate lies?”
“Nay, my lord, I do not, but mayhap Buzzer does.”
Borel frowned. “Your bee knows of Roulan?”
“Nay, Prince, but mayhap she knows of Roulan’s gardens.”
“His gardens?”
“Aye. You see, unlike most bees, Buzzer is not deterred by twilight borders, and she wandered into Faery from the mortal world quite long apast, and she has been here ever since. She has plundered more blooms than anyone can count, and when it comes to flowers, she remembers where blossoming fields and beds lie. And so, all I need from you is a description of Roulan’s gardens, and if Buzzer has been there, well… So again I ask, what kinds of flowers does Lord Roulan grow?”
Borel turned up his hands. “It has been long since I was there. Besides, I do not know much of flowers, for I am of the Winterwood, where flowers are all but nonexistent.”
“Regardless, Prince, this is important if we are to aid you. So try to remember.”
Borel closed his eyes, attempting to visualize Roulan’s estate. “I don’t… um-Oh, wait, I do remember a strange little flower. Clumps of green leaves, three to a stem straight from the ground, and several tiny blossoms on separate stems.”
“Clover, my lord?”
“I don’t think so.” Borel held out a hand and spread his fingers wide. “Unlike the nubs of clover heads, I seem to recall that the flowers had petals straight out that went all the way ’round.”
“How many petals?”
His eyes yet closed, Borel said, “Five, six, seven-Ah, I do not remember.”
“What color?”
Borel sighed and shook his head. “Yellow, I think-No, wait, pink. Chelle-she was but a child at the time-plucked a blossom and held it up saying, ‘Pink as my lips.’ ”
“Pink as your lips?”
“No. Pink as hers.”
“Ah, then. Three leaves on a stem, growing in clumps, tiny pink blossoms, most likely with five petals if I have guessed right: shamrock, I think. Not exactly rare in Faery, yet not common either. Even so, shamrock alone is not enough to go on.”
Borel opened his eyes. “I recall something else, Flic. Chelle also had a flower in her hair, a rose, I believe, white with a pale pink tinge.”
“Good. Pink-flowering shamrock and white roses with a faint blush. What other blossoms were about?”
“I don’t recall any others.”
“None at all?”
Dejected, Borel shook his head.
“Do not despair, Lord Borel, for there are yet ways to explore.”
Borel looked up. “Such as…?”
“What fruit did you eat while there?”
“None I recall. Oh, we did have a blackberry torte, but I think that’s not exactly-”
“Fresh blackberries, or preserves?” Flic interjected.
Borel closed his eyes and frowned, then said, “Was it fresh-picked that day? Yes. I remember now. We spent part of the morning plucking them from a rather large patch of briars. Chelle’s mouth was stained purple, for she ate one of every two she gathered.”
“You seem to recall much of Demoiselle Chelle, Lord Borel,” said Flic, grinning.
“I found her quite a nuisance,” said Borel, opening his eyes and smiling. “Even so, she was very bright. Yet that is neither here nor there. What else would you ask concerning flowers?”
In that moment, Buzzer came winging to Flic, and agitatedly flew about the Sprite. How they conversed, Borel could not say, but Flic looked startled and peered downstream and said, “Prince Borel, Buzzer says there is noisy water ahead. I think she means rapids.”
“Rapids?” Grimacing in pain, Borel stood and peered downstream.
The river narrowed and the banks grew higher and the current grew swifter, and from ’round a turn in the flow he now could hear a distant roar. Even as he hobbled aft, Borel glanced at the single undamaged arrow he had left, and then the line, and shook his head; rope was entirely too weighty for an arrow to bear; besides, the nearest shore was yet some hundred or so paces away, and any trees still farther. Taking up the sweep, he pulled for the closest bank. The rear of the float swung sideways.
Borel stepped to the front sweep and again hauled for the shore. The raft swung about once more, this time opposite, though it did not come closer to land for, with a fore and aft sweep, it was meant to be steered by two oars-men, who, pulling together, could have reached either bank at will.
Using the sweep, Borel stopped the slow-turning spin and oriented the float so that one end was aimed toward the shore, the banks ever steepening, and then he used the sweep in a fishtailing fashion as a sculling oar. But the raft was ponderous and progress slow; surely it would not reach land in time.
Borel took up one of the poles and thrust against the deep bottom, but the shaft went in nigh its full length, and he got little purchase, and the ever-swiftening current now had the raft in its grip, and Borel’s efforts proved futile.
’Round the bend they went and, ahead between rising walls, Borel could see rapids falling away, their end beyond seeing past a distant turn, the roaring white water crashing among and over great boulders.
“Ah, Mithras,” he groaned, “more rocks.”
He took up his bow and slung it across his back by its carrying thong, and then he looped his quiver over his head and across one shoulder.