“Nought but liaisons, eh?” said Flic.
Borel frowned and then brightened and said, “Ah. With the fair sex, you mean?”
Now Flic frowned. “Fair sex?”
“Women,” said Borel. “Females. Ladies. Mademoiselles and demoiselles. Femmes fatales.”
“Oh, I see,” said Flic. “Yes, they are who I meant.”
“Oui, liaisons is all I have had with members of the fair sex,” said Borel.
Flic sighed. “Me, too. Ah, but as I said before, I wish I had someone to love and someone who loves me.”
“A lady Sprite, eh? Someone from the fields?”
“That would be my choice,” said Flic, “though I suppose a Woodland Sprite would do.”
Borel frowned. “There’s a difference?”
“Oh, indeed. A great difference. They live in the woods, you see, whereas I and my kind live in the fields.”
Borel strode forward several steps before asking, “Are you of a size: Field Sprites and those of the woods? Do you more or less resemble one another?”
“Um, yes,” said Flic.
“Then why would there be any problem in such a union?”
Flic pondered a moment. “Well, I, uh… Hmm. I suppose we could live in the woods some of the time and in the fields at others. That or live in a field on the edge of a woodland.”
Borel smiled. “What of living in a woodland on the edge of a field?”
“Hmm…” Flic mused. “I suppose that would work as well, though surely the other way ’round is better.”
Borel laughed. “It never occurred to me that where one lives might keep lovers apart. I would think that the important thing is whether or no one has found his truelove and she has found him. Then from that moment on, they would seek to overcome whatever obstacles lay in their way so that they could be together.”
Flic fell silent, and Borel strode on, following the path that Buzzer flew, the bee keeping to the vales rather than flying up over any of the mountains hemming them in.
At times Borel waded streams and rivulets and deep flows. At other times he trudged up long slopes, or down. Through laurel hells he went, and groves of aspen and birch. Whin oft stood in his way, and this he passed ’round when he could, or pushed through when he could not. Stony ways he sometimes followed, or whisked among tall grasses springing forth from rich loam. Yet no matter the terrain, always there were flowers along the way: Buzzer’s larder.
And as Borel strode and Flic rode and Buzzer flew, the prince and the Sprite talked of the mysteries of amour and ardor and passion and affairs of the heart, and they both bemoaned the fact that each had yet to find his very own truelove.
They were yet in the high mountain valleys when they came to the wall of twilight marking the border into the next realm of Faery. And as the sun set, hearkening to the words of Hegwith the Gnome, they set camp in a coppice this side of that marge and planned on passing through and into the mire the next morn.
Altogether, they had gone some twenty-seven miles that day, for with the ministrations of Flic’s medicines, Borel’s hurts had considerably eased.
Once again Borel knapped flint arrowheads as he sat beside the fire. He had seen no game that day, and so he would be without meat for his meal. Had I my loyal Wolves, I would set them on a hunt. I do hope they escaped Hradian’s wrath. Though he had not felled game, he had managed to dig up a tuber-something akin to a parsnip-from one of the meadows, and Flic had assured him that certain grass grains were nutritious, at least to grazing animals, that is, and so whenever they had passed through thigh-high grass, Borel had plucked and chewed the heads. And so he roasted the tuber and knapped flint, while he and Flic spoke of liaisons and love and lovers.
That eve, when Borel settled down to sleep, Flic reminded the prince that he needed some way to change the setting of the turret, should he happen to find Chelle in his dreams again.
Yet Borel did not know how to do such a thing, and even as he concentrated upon remembering that daggers meant that he was dreaming, still the quandary of how to escape the stone chamber lurked on the edge of his thoughts.
17
“My lady, what is it across your eyes?”
“There is something across my eyes?”
“A dark band.”
“Then I know not what it might be, my prince, for I see you clearly, and you, my love, are just as I remember.”
Borel took her hand and bowed and kissed her fingers. As he straightened, he glanced about the deeply shadowed chamber. The room was round and seemed somehow vaguely familiar, as if he had been there before. The walls were of stone, and the floor of wood, as was the conical ceiling above. To one side, stone steps led downward to somewhere below, and there were windows opening out onto — Daggers! Floating daggers! I am in the dream.
“My lady, I must get you away from here.”
“How, Lord Borel? The windows are warded, and something dreadful lies down below. It isn’t as if we have a magical doorway to lead us to safety.”
Magical doorway?
Flic’s words echoed in Borel’s mind: “… you must remember that if you are aware you are dreaming, you control aspects of the vision.”
Again Borel looked about. Perhaps in the deepest shadow opposite the stairwell. He closed his eyes, concentrating, and when he opened them again- There!
“My lady, if I have done this right, I have a surprise for you. If you please.” Borel offered Chelle his arm.
Hesitantly she took it, and Borel led her to the hidden door in the wall, and when he swung it wide — Music and gaiety filled the air, and they entered a large chamber full of people waiting their turn to dance the minuet: the women in silks and satins, their long, flowing gowns of yellow, of peach, of lavender, pale jade, deep red, of puce and rust and umber, and of white. Chelle was the only one wearing a gown of sapphire blue and white. The men were arrayed in silken tights and knee hose and buckled shoes, with doublets and waistcoats and silken shirts and ruffles galore, their colors in darker shades than those of the women, but running throughout the same range. Only Borel was dressed in leathers. And violins and violas and cellos and a harpsichord sounded out the stately air, while a single pair in the center of the floor gracefully paced out the courtly steps.
“How utterly wonderful,” breathed Chelle.
“My lady, does this suit?”
“Oh, yes,” replied Chelle, a glorious smile lighting her face, though the dark band yet remained.
And she and Borel moved in to take their place among the elegant circle of waiting couples “Where are we?” asked Chelle.
“In Summerwood Manor. Here it was I last danced.”
“Who is the man in the mask?” asked Chelle.
“My brother, Alain,” said Borel.
“And his partner?”
“Camille, his truelove.”
“Why does he wear a mask?”
“He is cur-” Borel frowned. “No, wait. He was cursed, but no longer.”
Of a sudden the mask vanished, yet none in the gathering seemed to notice that ought had changed, not even Chelle.
The music segued into an interlude, and amid applause Alain and Camille stepped to the edge of the floor, and from across the circle Alain gestured to Borel. All eyes turned toward the Prince of the Winterwood.
And as the violins and viols and cellos and the harpsichord continued the interlude, “My lady,” said Borel, stepping onto the dance floor and bowing to Chelle and then straightening and holding out a hand to her.
Chelle smiled and curtseyed, and then took Borel’s hand and he led her to the center of the floor. And as the prince and his lady took position, the musicians played an introductory refrain, followed by the dignified air of the minuet.