Flic looked up at Borel and said, “Have you made love to her in your unfettered dreams?”
“Eh?”
“I asked if you and Chelle had yet made love in your unfettered dreams.”
“Do you mean, have I bedded her?”
“Oui,” said Flic, a Pixyish grin on his face.
“Non.”
“Non? Why not? It is only a dream, and anything can happen in a dream.”
“Flic, if it were an ordinary dream, then whatever happens happens. But this dream is not ordinary, for it is a dream she and I share. And in it I know I am dreaming, but she does not. And though I control aspects of the dream, I would not force myself upon her. You see, I do love her, and when or if we ever lie together, it will be a matter of free choice on both our parts. But for now, I am the only one who truly has free will, who truly is not subject to the heedless whims and wild emotions of a dream, and so I have not made love to her, and will not until she and I both choose to do so. Perhaps it will never be, but if it does so happen, then it will be when we meet in the flesh.”
Flic burst out giggling, and when Borel raised a questioning eyebrow, “Meet in the flesh, indeed,” gasped the Sprite, and giggled all the harder.
“Ah, Flic, you know what I mean,” said Borel, smiling in spite of himself.
They ate without speaking for long moments, and then Borel said, “Let me tell you a tale.”
“Oh, good! I love stories,” said Flic. Then he frowned and added, “Unless they’re bloody. This isn’t a bloody one, is it?”
“Non. It is quite mild, my wee friend.”
“Well, not too mild, I hope. I mean, an Ogre getting smashed to a pulp and squirting out in all directions, well that’s all right. Or a seven-headed Giant getting each of his heads chopped off, that’s acceptable, too. Gushing blood, if it comes from Goblins and the like, that I wouldn’t mind. Or ropelike guts spilling out from a gleaming sword cut, or sprayed wide from a swung axe, I find that quite to my liking, and-”
“Wait, wait,” said Borel, flinging up a hand, “just what do you mean when you say you don’t like bloody stories?”
“Oh, well, you know,” said Flic, shrugging one shoulder, “like, say, a bee getting smashed… or a Sprite. Now that would be entirely too bloody.”
Borel fell over backward, laughing, and Flic cried, “Well, it would be, you know!” And in a huff, the Sprite hitched around sideways to the laughing prince and crossed his arms and jutted out his chin, a glaring pout on his face.
Buzzer merely kept lapping at the honey.
Finally, Borel sat back up, and he held out a hand of apology to Flic, the Sprite to snort in response and turn his face ever further away.
The prince sighed and took another bite of jerky. He chewed a moment and swallowed and said, “Once upon a time there was a king in the West-that means duskwise-who heard of a princess of surpassing beauty and wisdom in the distant East-dawnwise. It was said that this princess had made up her mind that she would never marry unless the man who asked for her hand could answer her question. Her father decreed that if a suitor was unsuccessful, then his head would be forfeit and would rest on a pike outside the city gates. So far, many a man had tried, but all had failed, and all had died at the hands of her cruel sire, which pleased him much, for this way he would not lose the wisdom of his daughter in his rule of the kingdom.”
Borel paused and took another bite of jerky. The scowl had left Flic’s features the moment he heard of heads on pikes; even so, he yet remained with his face turned away from the prince. After a moment, Borel swallowed and said, “The king in the West, intrigued by this story, went to see for himself. He rode his gallant steed over many miles, crossing burning deserts, climbing snowy mountains, swimming deep rivers, and faring o’er endless plains, but at last he found himself at the gates of a great city in the East wherein it was said the princess dwelled. And outside the portals on hundreds of pikes, some with blood yet dripping, were impaled the heads of hundreds of would-be suitors, all who had failed to answer one simple question.”
Again Borel paused for a bite of jerky, and at mention of blood yet dripping, Flic had turned completely ’round and now faced Borel, eagerly awaiting the next part of the story.
“The king from the West then entered the city and rode his horse to the palace, where he dismounted and approached the guard and asked to pay his respects to the king in the East as well as to his daughter. Learning from the guard that this petitioner was a powerful king from the West, the king in the East bade him to enter, and all the courtiers and advisors made way, and into the audience chamber the Western king strode.
“There on a throne of her own near her sire’s chair of state sat the princess, the most lovely creature the king from the West had ever seen. For her part, the princess was taken by this handsome man, and once again she regretted the pledge she had made in a fit of pique so long past, a pledge that her cruel sire would not let her rescind and who enforced the consequences with the keen edge of a headsman’s sword.”
Borel paused, and Flic demanded, “What happened? What happened?”
After another bite and a long chew, with the Sprite fidgeting about and barely able to contain himself, Borel went on:
“ ‘I ask for the hand of your daughter,’ said the Western king, and all the courtiers gasped, and tears welled in the eyes of the princess, for she knew what fate awaited those who failed, and she would not have this man die on her account. And so she warned him that no man could answer that which she asked.
“Nevertheless, the Western king insisted, and so she had no choice but to pose the question to him.”
Borel took a bite of black bread and chewed, while Flic jumped to his feet and demanded, “The question, the question, what was the question?”
Borel smiled and chewed and Flic huffed and dithered from foot to foot, and finally the prince swallowed.
“And so, the Eastern king called his headsman to the chamber so that there would be no delay when this latest suitor failed. And when the black-hooded man entered bearing his great curved sword, the king turned to his daughter and bade her to pose the question.
“Sighing, the princess, her voice as lovely as that of a lark, again begged the Western king to reconsider, but he insisted, for she was even more lovely and wise than he had ever dreamed. And so she posed her question: ‘What is it that women want?’ ”
Borel paused once more, and Flic screamed, “The answer, the answer, what was his answer?”
Borel smiled and said, “Have you forgiven me, Flic?”
“Yes, yes, but I must have the answer! Tell me now or I will burst!”
“Oh, well,” said Borel, “we can’t have you bursting all over the place. Buzzer might take ill to such a thing, and I would not have her enraged.”
“Then tell me!” shrieked Flic.
“Why, what would your own answer be, my tiny friend?”
Flic flung his arms wide and shrilled, “How would I know? How would anyone know? Isn’t that the mystery of the ages?”
“Indeed it is, Flic, but you see, the Western king knew the answer.”
Flic hopped from foot to foot and demanded, “And…?”
“The Western king simply bowed gracefully to the princess and said, ‘My lady, what all women want is to be masters of their own fates.’
“Tears of relief sprang into the eyes of the princess, and she turned to her sire and said, ‘As you know, Father, that is the answer I am seeking.’ ”
Flic’s mouth flopped opened in surprise. “That’s it? That’s the answer to the mystery of the ages?” Then he knitted his brows together and plopped down and peered at the ground and said, “How utterly simple. I never would have thought of that.”