“Tell me,” said Borel, “what happened that day?”
“Well,” said Maurice, “Charite and I, we took two of these very chairs to the yard and sat and watched as the lords and ladies and their attendants all rode past on their fine horses or in their splendid carriages, all heading up the road toward the manor. Brun was a pup at the time, and he was quite excited by all the doings going by.”
“Tell him about the Fey ladies on the horses with silver bells,” said Charite.
“I was just getting to it,” replied Maurice. He turned to Borel and said, “As Charite says, there were a number of Fey ladies on horses bedecked with silver bells that rode past, the ladies laughing together as if sharing a great secret.”
“They were magical, I think,” said Charite. “Fairies or some such, I would guess, what with their silky gowns flowing in the wind and such, the silver bells all achime. I believe they were the same ones who attended the birth, though we didn’t see them at that time.”
“The birth?” said Borel.
“Oui, of the duke’s daughter,” replied Charite. “It is said that Fey women came then.”
“Regardless,” said Maurice, “there was many a rich lord and lady went past, as well as the Fey Folk with their tilted eyes and golden hair and delicate ways.”
There came a lowing from without, and Maurice said, “Oh, my, what with all the talk, I forgot to milk Madame Vache. I will go do it now.” Maurice stood and added, “Much like that day, I was milking when it happened.”
“When what happened?” asked Borel.
“Why, Charite called me to come and see,” said Maurice. “When I stepped out from the byre, Charite screamed and pointed up toward the duke’s vale, and I turned and looked.” Maurice’s eyes widened in memory, and he thumped the table and said, “And that’s when the great black wind came, and the valley turned to stone; either that, or the entire dell just up and flew away, dirt, plants, manor and all.”
Jolted awake by the thump, “Hradian?” asked Flic, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, the Sprite hearking back to the story Borel had told him. “I mean, with a black wind and all, it seems the same sort of thing to me.”
“No, not Hradian,” said Borel, grimly, “but her sister instead. I deem this is her curse, the one I read of in Hradian’s journal.”
“Could Hradian’s sister be this Rhensibe?” asked Flic.
“Mayhap,” said Borel.
“Rhensibe?” hoarsely whispered the crofter, and both he and his wife made warding signs.
24
“They say she’s a sorciere, this Rhensibe,” whispered Charite.
“Oui. In town there are some who claim she has some sort of grievance against the duke,” said Maurice, “or she did, until the valley turned to stone.”
“You know this for a fact?” asked Borel.
“Well, rumor would have it be so,” said Maurice.
Charite nodded her agreement and said, “I think someone-perhaps one of those Fey ladies-anyway, someone said-’round the time of Lady Chelle’s birth I think-that Rhensibe’s rancor against the duke goes back to a distant time.”
Flic looked at Borel. “What was it Hradian wrote in her journal about her sister?”
Borel took a deep breath and intoned, “ ‘On this same day in a linked act, my elder sister cast a great spell upon Roulan and his entire estate through his daughter Chelle, on this the day of her majority’-”
Maurice and Charite gasped, and Maurice said, “Ominous words, them.”
“That great spell had to be the black wind,” said Flic. “But we interrupted you, Lord Borel. There was more.”
“Oui,” said the prince, “there was more. ‘This vengeance is so very sweet, for Roulan was the accomplice of Valeray the Thief. And now all are ensorcelled and well warded; and since none can find Roulan’s daughter-or even if they do, all attempts to rescue her from the turret will fail-then when the rising full moon sits on the horizon eleven years and eleven moons from now…’ ” Borel paused, then added, “That’s as far as I read in the journal ere Hradian came.”
“And Hradian is…?” asked Maurice.
“A witch,” replied Borel. “A very powerful witch.”
Maurice and Charite nodded and looked at one another, and Charite said, “Another sorciere.”
“Like Rhensibe is said to be,” added Maurice.
“Perhaps sisters,” said Flic.
“They must have had a pact,” said Borel. “My sire and the duke were both cursed, all for what they did during the struggle against Orbane.”
“Orbane!” exclaimed Maurice and Charite together, making warding signs. And Maurice pled, “Oh, Lord Borel, speak of him no more, for we would not sear our minds with thoughts of that foul magicien nor have his name uttered in this house. It might draw him here.”
“But he is cast out,” said Borel, “banished to the Castle of Shadows beyond the Black Wall of the World.”
Both Maurice and Charite moaned in fear, and from under the table, Brun whined, the dog sensing his masters’ dread. Charite said, “Oh, my lord prince, we will not hear any more, else he himself is likely to appear.” And she grabbed Maurice by the arm and together they fled to their bedchamber and slammed the door to, and left Brun sitting without and whimpering.
The dog looked over his shoulder at Borel, seeking reassurance. Borel growled a word or two, and Brun settled down.
A moment later, the door opened a crack and Brun jumped to his feet. Through the gap a blanket was tossed into the main room, and Charite called, “Sieur, you may sleep in the loft,” and she slammed shut the door again, abandoning Brun. The dog came to Borel and looked up at him, and the prince reached down and stroked the animal’s head.
From outside, there came a persistent lowing, and Borel and Flic heard the slide of a window sash. Borel looked at Flic and said, “It is Maurice. He’s gone out through the window to milk the cow.”
Flic yawned and said, “Speaking of windows, would you open that one a bit?”
“Ah, yes, fresh air,” said Borel.
“Or something of the sort,” said Flic.
As Borel stepped to the sash and lowered it, the jamb sliding into the recess below, Flic lay back down near dormant Buzzer and pulled the kerchief to his chin and yawned and said, “Good night.” Then he grinned and added, “Pleasant dreams.”
“Good night,” said Borel, and he took up the blanket and climbed the ladder to the loft. And even as Madame Vache out in the byre quit bellowing now that Maurice had come to relieve her of her milk, and as Brun took station under the table and turned ’round several times before flopping down, Borel fell fast asleep.
In the faint breeze, water lapped softly against the shore. The just-risen half-moon cast a long glimmer of light across the rippling surface. “I thought we might take a stroll by this lakeside,” said Borel.
“Oh,” said Chelle. “I was rather hoping this night I would see the Winterwood.”
“Perhaps another time, my love,” said Borel. “You see, I would rather take you there when I find you at last.”
Chelle laughed. “But I am not lost, my lord. Must we play hide-and-seek ere you show me your demesne?”
Borel’s laughter joined hers. Still, he did not dare say more, else she might wrench them both back into the turret, wherever it might be. He closed his eyes a moment, and then opened them again. “I think there is a small skiff just past this stand of reeds. Would you join me in a row?”
“Oh, yes, my Borel. I would.”
Borel frowned a moment. “Ere we go out onto the water, I need to ask: can you swim?”
“Indeed,” said Chelle, and of a sudden she stood unclothed on a bluff above the lake, her golden hair gleaming in the moonlight, her firm young breasts high, her aureoles pale, her narrow waist gracefully flaring into slim rounded hips tapering down to her long slender legs, a golden triangle at her cleft. Borel’s breath shuddered inward, for she was splendid. Laughing, she dived outward and down into the pellucid waters of the lake.