“Five of my men have perished, for they could not bear what they were becoming, nor could they forget what they had been and what they had lost, d’Strait just the last of them.”
King Arle fell silent, and Borel looked at the dog and said, “You say the dog must jump down of its own will?”
“Oui,” replied Arle.
“This then is my bargain, King Arle,” said Borel. “I will tell you how to break the curse, and you will tell me how to find the King Under the Hill.”
King Arle said, “Prince Borel, even if it is as you say-that your truelove’s life is at stake, the King Under the Hill is not to be trusted.”
“Nevertheless, I insist,” said Borel.
King Arle looked at his men, and for the first time saw that they now had hope in their eyes, and he turned to Borel and said, “Very well. From here to reach the King Under the Hill you must go across three twilight borders always in the direction where the sun sets and only in that direction and do not deviate; then, beyond the third border, look for the hills, and amid them find the one with a great dolmen on top; at dusk a hole like a cavern will open within the dolmen and light will shine out. Down a steep slope twisting ’round within you will find the King Under the Hill, for therein is where he dwells.
“This I would offer, were we ordinary men: that you mount up behind one of us and we would take you there; yet we are not commonplace men, and as long as we are cursed, it would mean that you yourself perhaps would take on that curse were you to ride with us as we are; and so we can only lead you to that place.”
“Thank you, my lord,” replied Borel, “but I have no need to be led, for I have an unerring guide who takes her direction from the sun. Instead I would have you break your curse and find your way to your goal, whatever it might be, once the curse is done.”
“Say on, Prince Borel,” cried one of the men. “Tell us how to lay aside this bane.”
“The dog, is it male or female?”
“Male,” replied Arle.
“Then here is the way of it,” said Borel. “Ride to the nearest town where people abide, no matter their fear of you, a town where many dogs do dwell. Find a bitch in heat, and surely will your dog leap down of its own accord to mate with her.”
The king looked at his men in amaze and they in turn at him. “How simple,” breathed Arle. “How very simple.” He turned to Borel. “Surely, my prince, this is the solution. We are deeply in your debt.”
“No more than I in yours,” replied Borel, bowing.
“My Lord Borel,” said one of the men, reining near, “take care, take care, and beware this High Lord. Eat not his food nor drink his wine nor cross him in any manner. Take no iron into his realm, else you will find yourself in dire straits.”
“I heed and thank you,” said Borel. He stepped back a pace or two and called out, “Now go, for you have a curse to break.”
At a signal from King Arle, all the men wheeled their horses and into the forest surround they rode, and just ere they vanished from sight among the trees, a horn sounded in gratitude and farewell.
Borel strode around the mere and began to break camp, drowning the remaining coals of his fire with water and then replenishing his waterskin. As he strapped on his rucksack and slung his bow and shouldered his quiver, Flic and Buzzer came flying back.
“Well…?” said the Sprite.
“Come,” said Borel, “we must go to where I spoke to the riders, and then Buzzer need take a sighting and guide us toward the exact place where the sun sets, for three twilight borders hence is where the King Under the Hill dwells. I will tell all as we fare about the mere.”
And so Borel strode and Flic and Buzzer rode to the opposite side of the mere, and Borel told of what the men had done and what they had said, and when he reached the far side he pointed out the pile of ashes and rust and aged tack and tattered cloth and timeworn splinters that had once been a man and a horse and their accoutrements.
Flic said, “A dreadful fate, yet he and the others pursued the White Hart and brought the Agony of Iron into Faery.” Then the Sprite frowned and asked, “What I wonder, though, is what do the riders and their horses eat, how do they sleep, and when they have to relieve themselves, how do they, um, go?”
Borel shrugged his shoulders and said, “I didn’t ask.”
Flic groaned in frustration.
“Come,” said Borel, “we’ve more important things to do than to worry about the daily lives of the riders. Tell Buzzer what it is we want. Go directly to where the sun sets, Arle said, and no deviation.”
Flic sighed and, with Buzzer, flew to the ground. Somehow Flic spoke to the bee, using that silent language of theirs. After a moment the bee did a short waggle dance, and Flic replied. Finally, Buzzer took to wing and sighted on the morning sun, and then shot off at an angle.
Flic flew to Borel’s tricorn. “She wanted to know if you would be any faster. I told her no, and in fact perhaps a bit slower, after your Pooka ride. Next chance we get, I’ll see if I can find flowers for another tisane or two; I mean, given your ways so far, it seems you are certain to suffer damage again.”
Borel smiled and nodded distractedly, for his gaze was locked upon the hilt jutting out from the pile of ashes and rust. “All blades are not what they seem,” he murmured, and he bent down and took hold of the sword and lifted it free. It came up in its decrepit sheath, and as ash and dust drifted down he drew out the weapon, and the scabbard, baldric, and edge alike crumbled, and all that was left was the hilt and a short, jagged piece of rusted blade.
“Does this bother you, Flic?”
“Non,” said the Sprite. “Only iron in a near pure form twists aethyr enough to pain the Fey. That or steel. It seems the blade you have in your hand-including its tang-is wholly rust and it is no more hurtful than the ore from which it comes.”
“Good,” said Borel, and he sheathed the jagged remainder in his empty long-knife scabbard.
“Well, are we going to stand around all day?” asked Flic.
Borel barked a laugh and began his loping Wolftrot, following the beeline Buzzer had flown.
34
Through the forest they hastened, Buzzer awing, Borel afoot, and Flic aseat on the hat. Past great old oaks they went, and across flowering glades, and up and down wooded slopes, some steep, others not. Through streams Borel splashed, ever following the course set by Buzzer. In less than half a candlemark, his soreness from yestereve’s harrowing ride upon the Pooka diminished to the point that Borel’s lope was nigh his usual rate.
And they came upon a wide glen, wherein a herd of Unicorns-of silver-sheened grey and pearlescent white and lightly brushed gold-did graze, and they scattered before Borel as he loped across, and they fled into the woods.
“Oh, my,” said Flic, “so beautiful they are. See how they run: so graceful.”
Borel paused and watched, for even in Faery Unicorns are rare, and to see an entire herd rarer still. Soon these single-horned, cloven-hoofed, nimble creatures passed from view, running as they did among the trees. When the last one disappeared, Borel took up again his own run.
“Much nicer than the Pooka, eh?” said Flic.
“Oui,” replied Borel, and then added, “Speaking of the Pooka, perhaps I should have asked Chelle about him before going after that Dark Fey.”
“How so?” asked Flic.
“In my dream of last night I asked her what she knew of Pookas, and she related to me the legend of the ride of the king of the Keltoi. It seems he had a much easier time of it than did I.”
“Did she tell you the tale? If so, I would have you refresh my own memory.”
Borel said, “Her version had no Elf weaving three Pooka hairs through an Elf-made rope. She said that twining them thus would mute their power.”
“I wondered about that,” said Flic. “But, you know how Elves are: they tend to insert themselves into all manner of stories… at least the several Elves I’ve met do.”