Up to his thighs rose the water, and the crone screeched that her feet were getting wet, and she climbed higher, her knees gripping his waist.
Onward waded Borel, while Flic circled above and shouted that the prince ought to simply dump the whining old hag. So what if she drowned, it would serve the ancient carp right.
And still she seemed to get heavier with every step.
“My shoe!” screamed the crone. “You’ve made me lose my shoe! Get it! Get it!”
Borel looked and saw the wooden-soled sandal drifting toward an eddy. “Madame, it is merely a sabot, a wooden clog, and easily replaced.”
“No, no, it’s my shoe, and your fault that it is floating away! Get it! Get it now!”
“Dump her!” shrilled Flic. “Let her bob along after it, or better yet, let her sink out of sight, never to be seen again.”
Sighing, Borel turned and waded after the sabot, the water deepening, the crone on his back and screaming at him that she was getting wet. Finally, Borel overtook the shoe and, waist-deep, he waded for the shore, while the hag on his back screeched, “Get me out! Get me out! I am like to drown!”
“Let her!” shrieked Flic, flying above, Buzzer circling alongside. “Let the old harridan drown!”
With the crone squalling and Flic screaming, at last Borel reached the far bank and trudged up out of the water.
The hag scrambled off his back, but held on to Borel while standing on the one foot still sandal-clad. “My shoe,” she demanded, “put my shoe on my foot!”
“Throw it back in the water instead,” shouted Flic.
With her yet holding on, Borel knelt and she raised her hammertoed, broken-nailed, dirt-encrusted, bunion-laden foot to receive the worn and wet sabot. And as he slipped it on, her foot became slender and graceful, and the shoe turned to silver. And even as Flic gasped and cried, “Oh, my,” Borel looked up to see not a withered crone, but instead a graceful silver-haired, silver-eyed demoiselle of surpassing beauty, arrayed in a silver gown.
And above the sound of the river and just on the edge of hearing, it seemed he could faintly detect the sound of a shuttle and loom, as if someone nearby were weaving.
“Lady Wyrd,” he said yet kneeling, and she canted her head in assent.
“Lady of the Mere,” he added, and once more she acknowledged the name.
“Lady Sorciere,” he said, and again she nodded.
Finally, he said, “Lady Skuld,” and she smiled.
“I am known by many names, Prince Borel,” she said, “those among them.” She turned her silver gaze toward a nearby frond on which Flic sat, his face in his hands, Buzzer at his side. “Sieur Flic,” she said.
Flic mumbled, “Didn’t I tell you, Lord Borel, when we first saw her waiting on the bank of this river that she might be one of the Fey? Well, she is, she certainly is. Too bad I didn’t listen to me.”
He dropped his hands from his face, and stood and bowed. “My Lady of the Yet to Come, I apologize for all I said. Had I but known-”
Skuld laughed, her voice as silver as her hair and eyes. “Ah, my Flic, I must play my games.” She turned to Borel. “You, Sieur, you did very well, for ere I can aid, a favor must be given, and you were tested sorely.” She held out her hand to him.
Borel stood and bowed and said, “My lady.” He took her hand and kissed her fingers.
“Ah me,” she said, smiling, “are you trying to turn my head?”
“No, my lady, though I would ask you for guidance in the quest I pursue.”
“I know your quest, Lord Borel, and it is worthy.”
“Will you help me, Lady Wyrd? I need aid, for I know not where my Chelle lies, nor where lies the manor of her pere, and there is little time left.”
Skuld sighed and said, “My sisters and I are bound by a rule: no answers of significance or gifts of worth can we give to anyone without first a service of value being rendered to us-which, in my case, you have certainly done, bearing me across the river as you did.”
“Um, begging your pardon, my lady,” said Flic, “but he gave you food as well.”
“Indeed, he did, and that’s two beaux gestes,” said Skuld. “Even so, my sisters and I, we cannot grant favors until a riddle we ask is correctly answered, and even then our answers will be couched in mystery.”
“My lady,” said Borel, “any answer is better than what we now have
… and to be fair, I know the riddles you and your sisters asked Camille, as well as their answers. Too, I know the answer to the riddle of the Sphinx.”
“Honorable,” murmured Skuld. Then she turned and looked at Flic and smiled. “Do you fly in races ’gainst other Sprites?”
“Oh, yes, and I’m quite good at it,” said Flic, beaming.
Now Skuld turned to Borel and said, “Here then is my riddle: “Were Flic in a Spritely contest
To see who was most fleet of his
Kind,
But in some manner unknown to him
He had fallen behind-”
“What?” Flic started to protest, but Skuld threw up a hand to stop him- “But through a furious burst of speed,
He passed the Sprite in second place,
Where then would our sprightly Flic
Now be in this incredibly fast race?”
“Oh, I know, I know!” cried Flic, jumping up and down on the frond, Buzzer bouncing beside him.
“ ’Tis not yours to answer, Flic,” warned Skuld.
Again she turned to Borel, and he said, “Flic would then be second.”
Skuld grinned and nodded. “Well answered, Borel.”
“What?” cried Flic. “Second? But I passed that one. Why not first?”
Borel smiled and said, “Flic, my lad, when you pass the second-place Sprite, you have not yet passed the one who is first, hence, you would be second.”
“Oh,” said Flic, his face falling. “I thought I would have been in first.” Then he sighed and said, “It’s a good thing it wasn’t my riddle to answer, for I seem to be no good at it. I mean, I didn’t know what women want, nor could I choose between night and day, and-”
“Flic, you are a valuable member of this quest,” said Borel. “Again I say, without you and Buzzer, I wouldn’t be here.”
Flic grinned and said, “That’s true. Besides, it wouldn’t have been but a moment before I would have passed that Sprite in first place anyway.”
Both Borel and Skuld laughed at Flic’s cockiness, but Borel then turned to Skuld. “My lady…?”
Skuld smiled. “Ah, yes. Aid.”
She pondered a moment and then said: “Heed me, Boreclass="underline" “Long is the journey lying ahead.
Give comfort to those in dire need,
And aid you will find along the way,
Yet hazard as well, but this I say:
Neither awake nor in a dark dream
Are perilous blades just as they seem.
“And this I will add for nought: you must triumph o’er a cunning, wicked, and most deadly steed to find the Endless Sands.”
Borel frowned, taken aback by her answer, and he said, “My lady, I do not under-”
But in that moment the persistent sound of the loom swelled, then vanished as did Lady Skuld.
27
“She’s gone,” said Borel.
“Vanished into thin air,” said Flic, his mouth yet agape. Then he scowled. “Isn’t it just like fate to strike unexpectedly and then as quickly disappear and leave the victim-or beneficiary-to deal with the consequences?”
“You are right, Flic. None knows when the Fates will come and go, nor whether they might bring good or ill.” Borel sighed and shook his head. “But this I wonder: whenever they speak, why can’t the Fates-the Ladies Wyrd and Lot and Doom-ever answer straight out? Why must they always couch their words in riddles?”