“Then the second son tackles the problem, customarily following directly in the footsteps of the eldest, with nearly identical results.
“Finally, the third son, fool that he is, begs the father to let him try. With his sire expecting no better results, and with his brothers-assuming they survived and returned home-demeaning him, he is allowed to go out to deal with the trouble, and no one in his family or among his neighbors or among the townsfolk-if there is a town in the tale-believes he has even the slimmest of chances.
“But what the others don’t know is that he is truly quite clever, and either through stealth and guile, or through various ingenious means, he triumphs where others have failed. Oh, occasionally a third son is truly a fool, yet he succeeds in spite of himself, but a third son being an actual simpleton is the exception to the rule.
“By the bye, Flic, many tales take on this form, though mayhap only a handful are true. People, you see, find them amusing or sometimes useful to make a point, and so they embellish them to suit the occasion of the telling.
“Regardless, in all of these tales a third son is oft considered foolish when he is quite clever instead.”
“I see,” said Flic, grinning. “So, when you walked toward the Pooka’s hindquarters saying that you had to see his teeth, you were acting as would a so-called third son, right?”
“Exactly so, my friend, and for that you can credit my sire. There is an adage he always stressed: ‘Clever trumps Force nearly every time.’ ”
“Oui,” said Flic, yawning. “As it did when Valeray dressed as an old crone of a soothsayer to fool Nefasi into showing him where Orbane’s weakness lay.”
“Stealth, cunning, and guile,” said Borel. “My sire is renowned for all. Even so, there are times when force is the only option, and then my sire says, ‘Strike first and strike hard, and if you don’t get to strike first, then strike even harder.’ ”
“That saying does not sound like a hero’s way to me,” said Flic, his eyelids beginning to droop. He yawned again and added, “Oh, the last part about striking harder, that’s all right. But the part about striking first, well, it seems somehow… low.”
“Perhaps so,” said Borel, “yet it’s quite effective against vile foe.” He paused and poked at the small fire and lay on another branch. “Let me ask you this, Flic, if faced with a hulking Troll or a vicious Redcap or a wild Ogre or even a malevolent, seven-headed Giant, if you had the means to do any one of them in, would you strike first or would you let him have the initial blow?”
Flic didn’t answer, for he was sound asleep.
Borel smiled and picked up the wee Sprite and placed him on the leaf beside Buzzer, then he settled down and drifted into slumber himself.
37
Borel stepped across the stone floor of the dark turret and took Chelle’s hands in his and kissed her fingers. Yet holding on, he said, “Tonight, ma cherie, I would have you choose what to do, though it is I who must choose where to go, for the secret door opens only to those places.”
“As to what to do, Borel, I have enjoyed all your choices. The flight on the back of the Great Eagle was marvelous. And the strolls through the Summerwood and Autumnwood and Springwood were lovely. And I liked the lake and the boat and the island.”
“Nevertheless, my darling,” said Borel, “what would you have?” He released her hands and made a sweeping gesture toward the deeply shadowed wall. “Our hidden door awaits.”
Chelle canted her head, her brow furrowed in thought, though Borel could not say what look dwelled in her eyes, hidden as they were by a shadowy band. “Archery,” she said at last. “Either that or echecs.”
“You play echecs?”
“I do.”
“Tres bien!” exclaimed Borel.
“My pere taught me long past,” said Chelle.
“So did my pere teach me,” said Borel, smiling. “My sisters and my brother as well. My mere plays, too, as does Camille, my soon-to-be sister-in-law. Occasionally, we have tournaments, and there is much laughter, especially when we play heartbeat echecs.”
Chelle’s brow furrowed. “Heartbeat echecs?”
“Oui. Each player must move within ten heartbeats following the other’s move. If you and I were to play, Chelle, I would count for your moves, and you would count for mine.”
“A very fast game, I see,” said Chelle.
“Indeed, and with many blunders,” replied Borel, grinning. “It is much fun.”
Chelle smiled. “It sounds quite gay. Even so, I think I’d rather test your skill first.”
“Oho! You would then duel?”
“I would,” replied Chelle.
“Very well, Demoiselle,” said Borel, and he bowed.
“Then, Sieur, let us have at it,” said Chelle, curtseying.
“Have you a setting, Mademoiselle, where you would like to hold this contest? Perhaps I can conjure one up.”
Chelle said in mock haughtiness, “I remind you, Sieur, it is a duel; I named the weapons, hence you must choose the site.” Then she broke into laughter.
Borel’s laughter joined hers, and he said, “Very well.” He stood a long moment in thought, and then looked up and smiled and said, “I have just the place, where hunters and hunted do dwell-a site most fitting for our deadly duel.”
He closed his eyes in concentration a brief moment, and then offered his arm and said, “My lady.”
Grinning, Chelle hooked her arm through his and said, “Let us away, my lord.”
They stepped through the enshadowed door to emerge — in a small clearing in a thorn grove on a savanna, where bright stars wheeled through the black sky overhead, and a narrow crescent of a waning moon rode above the far horizon. A modest campfire burned bright in an earthen ring, and on the yellow grass beside the fire sat an echiquier, the pieces thereon of ivory and ebony.
“Oh, Borel, how unique. Where are we?”
“I am not certain, Chelle, but it is a wondrous place. In daylight you can see thousands of animals aroam in vast herds, with perilous predators lurking ’round the fringes.”
As if to underscore Borel’s words, a deep roar sounded in the distance, as of a beast enraged afar.
Chelle turned in the direction of the bellow. “A hunter?” she asked.
“Perhaps,” said Borel. “Yet here we are well protected by the thorns; do not be afraid, my love.”
“I’m not,” Chelle replied calmly. But then she gasped. “Oh, look, Borel, a winged Sprite asleep on a leaf next to a bumblebee.”
“They are my companions,” said Borel. “It is the bee that the Sprite and I follow, for she is our guide.”
“And where is it you are going?” asked Chelle, turning to face Borel.
He took her hands in his. “We are looking for you, my love.” Before she could reply, he kissed her fingers and released her and said, “Come, let us play.” Borel stooped and took up the white and black queens, one in each hand, and put them behind his back and pretended to shuffle them. He held out both hands, a queen hidden in each fist. “Choose.”
“Dextral,” said Chelle.
Borel opened his right fist; in it lay the ivory queen. “You move first,” he said, smiling. He gave her the white queen and handed her down to the grass on the ivory side of the board, and then stepped to the ebony side and sat.
“King’s spearman advances two paces,” said Chelle, moving the piece.
Borel leapt his king’s chevalier over the spearmen ranks and leftward one square in response. “King’s chevalier two paces before king’s tower,” he said.
And the game was under way.
Out in the darkness of the veldt, a beast giggled in seeming glee, and Chelle looked up from the board and said, “What is that laughing creature? — And, no, my prince, I am not afraid, but instead just curious.”
Borel grinned at her and shrugged. “Were I to stay here long, perhaps I would find out. Though to me it sounds rather like a mad loon’s hilarity or the joy of a jackass being tickled.”