To fly highest of his Kind,
But in some manner unknown to him
He had fallen behind-”
“What? Me fall behind?”
“Quiet, Flic,” ordered Verdandi. “But if with a furious burst of speed
He shot into the sky
What assuredly would happen to him
Should he fly much too high?”
“Oh, oh,” cried Flic, waving his hand, but abruptly fell silent at a glance from Verdandi.
“He would swoon, Lady Lot,” said Borel, touching the brim of his hat in a casual salute to Flic, “from lack of air to breathe.”
Verdandi smiled. “Well and good, Prince Borel.”
“Now the aid, my lady?” said Borel.
Verdandi nodded and said, “There is but barely time to rectify the mistake you made, yet here is what I can say: “The king will offer five different games,
Play the one you played with your dame.
Remember true and remember well
The guiding words of your love
Michelle.
“And this I will tell you for nought: ask for the High Lord’s favorite horse, else you will not see the sands ere the full moon rises, yet beware, for the King Under the Hill is quite tricky, and you must recall what you know.”
Borel nodded and said, “My Lady Lot, I would that you-”
But in that moment the persistent sound of the loom swelled, and then vanished as did Lady Verdandi.
As Borel trotted across another stream, Flic said, “Why must these Fates always say that I fall behind, when anyone knows that would never happen?”
Borel laughed. “Ah, Flic, ever humble, I see. Were I you, I would not question the Sisters Three.”
“You’re not one to talk, my prince,” said Flic. “After all, she said you are the one who ‘would dare flirt with Destiny. ’ ”
Borel laughed and kept running.
After a while, Flic said, “What’s all this about Skuld being the older? Why, anyone can see that she is a demoiselle, whereas Verdandi is a matronly lady.”
Borel said, “Some call them the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone, where Skuld is the Maiden, Verdandi the Mother, and Urd the Crone, for they do resemble those three. And Skuld is the one who sees the future and weaves it into the tapestry of events, yet, even as it leaves her loom, that weaving is not then immutable; for when it gets to Verdandi, whatever changes have been made through the extraordinary deeds of men and others, she alters the pattern set down by Skuld and weaves those changes into the Present; finally, Urd fixes all events forever into the Past. And so, Flic, the one who sees the events of time first is the one considered Eldest, and the one who sees the events last is the one considered Youngest.”
“Ah, then,” said Flic. “Skuld the Maiden sees things first, and so she is eldest of the three; Verdandi the Mother is the middle child; and Urd the Crone is the baby of the family-eh? — for things come to her dead last.”
“Yes,” said Borel, smiling at Flic’s choice of the words “dead last.”
“It still doesn’t make sense, though,” said Flic. “I mean, if that be the case, why wouldn’t Skuld be the Crone and Urd the Maiden?”
“Because, Flic, I think they take on the visage that others give them, and most others think the Past is the oldest, and the Future the youngest.”
“Well, isn’t that true?” asked the Sprite, frowning.
“It’s relative, Flic, and it depends on whether you think of yourself as moving through time, or whether you think of time as moving through you.”
“Huh?” said the Sprite, now confused.
“I believe I’ll let you ponder that, Flic, while I continue to run.”
And Borel did run throughout the rest of the day, and as the sun began to set, they came to another twilight border.
“This is the third and last bound spoken of by King Arle of the Riders Who Cannot Dismount,” said Borel.
Through the marge they pressed, and they came in among grassy downs. Buzzer then alighted on Borel’s tricorn, for with the night drawing nigh, she would sleep.
But Flic took to wing, and up he flew and scouted among the myriad green knolls, and a quarter candlemark later, as dusk came on, he darted back to Borel.
“My lord, yon,” he cried, pointing. “A light glows, just as Arle said. Therein should be the halls of the King Under the Hill.”
Flic led Borel to a great grassy mound, atop which sat a dolmen, with three upright, twice-man-tall megaliths equidistant from one another, and a great flat capstone atop. And within that triangular setting a large hole yawned, with stairs and a wagon ramp leading down and in.
Flic said, “My lord, if you will, I shall stay here with Buzzer, for the Lord of the Fey is quite capricious, and if I go in he is likely to assign me some onerous and lengthy task, and I would much rather stay at your side until we have your lady free.”
Borel nodded and removed his tricorn with the bee aboard and said, “Very well, Flic, I leave Buzzer with you.” And he set his hat to the ground nigh one megalith of the dolmen.
Then Borel shed his rucksack and laid it beside the hat.
He uncapped the honey jar and put it down, saying, “In case dawn comes ere I return.” He then unstrapped the long-knife scabbard and set it there as well and said, “Even though the blade within is nought but rust, I would not take iron in any form within the High Lord’s demesne.”
“Remember, my prince,” said Flic, “eat no food and drink no wine nor take any other form of refreshment from them… not even water. And remember Lady Verdandi’s words, even though I cannot fathom what they might mean.”
As Borel checked his bow and quiver and waterskin, all yet borne by him, Flic added, “And may Fortune’s beaming face be turned your way.”
Borel smiled grimly and said, “May it be so.” Then he spun on his heel and strode under the capstone and into the light below.
43
Down the steps alongside the wagon ramp went Borel, both stairs and road sweeping in wide and shallow spiral turns as into the hollow hills they went. At last Borel came to the bottom, and there to one side were stables with magnificent steeds- For Fairy rades, no doubt — and opposite the stables and up three steps was a long corridor leading toward light and music beyond.
Into the passageway went Borel, and he came into a great banquet hall, and therein gracefully danced men and women of exotic beauty, their faces long and narrow, their ears tipped, their eyes aslant, their forms lithe and lissome.
And as Borel entered the chamber, some turned to see this human who had come uninvited into the hall, while others simply continued their elegant dance and paid him little or no heed.
Yet from the throne on which he sat, one looked up and smiled in welcome. “Prince Borel of the Forests of the Seasons, hail and well met.”
A corridor opened up among the dancers, and Borel walked through and to the foot of the dais, where he bowed low and said, “Your Highness.”
Beside the redheaded, green-eyed king sat a woman of incredible loveliness, her hair raven-black, her eyes sapphire blue, her flawless skin tinged with just a hint of gold, a tint held by all the Folk within the hall but Borel.
Again Borel bowed and said, “My lady.”
Both the King Under the Hill and his queen tilted their heads in acknowledgement, and the High Lord signalled for silence, and the music stopped, as did the dancers. When quiet fell, he smiled and said, “Won’t you join us in banquet and ball? Let me get you a glass of wine.”
As the king turned to signal a page, Borel said, “I must decline, my lord, for I am on an urgent mission, and I beg a boon.”
The High Lord frowned. “A mission? A boon? Then tell me, what mission, what boon brings the Prince of the Winterwood unto my demesne?”
“My lord, I would find the Endless Sands.”