Dennis McKiernan: Once upon a Summer Day

As he ran, Borel glanced at the Sprites and smiled, and thereby acknowledged their presence. For they were of his demesne and subject to his command, though he seldom asked ought of them.

It seems that in all the Forests of the Seasons, wee beings love to pace alongside travellers passing by, though now and again something or someone comes along that causes them to flee in terror. Yet in this case it was Borel and his Wolves running through the Winterwood, and Sprites accompanied them by passing from iced rock to clad tree to coated limb to frozen stream to anywhere ice clung, and they did so without seeming to have to travel the distance between: they simply were here, and then were there, all as if there were no intervening space. And as far as Borel knew, they spent their entire existence within layers of ice.

The sun rose into the clear blue sky above, and tiny gleamings of shifting color were cast from the crystalline snow unto the eye. And across this ’scape trotted Borel and his pack, now and again passing through stark shadows cast by boulder and limb and bole to come again into the glitterbright day. And crows and ravens called through the woodland, for oft did they spend days or even weeks in the winterland. Treerunners, too, chattered and scolded and scampered along barren limbs, for they as well often came through the twilight borders unto this realm. It was as if they were compelled to bring nuts and other fare from the Autumnwood and place these stores in hollows and holes within this cold forest.

As he had done in the Summer- and Autumnwoods, oft did Borel pause at streams and, with Ice-Sprites scattering aside, he would break through the frozen surface and quench his thirst, Wolves at his side lapping. But then he would take up the trot again, and continue on deeper into the snow-laden forest.

He stopped as the sun gained the zenith, and all rested for a while, but before the sun had travelled two fists along its arc, Borel was up and running again.

At times his progress was slowed by deep snow, and often did he break trail for the Wolves, though at other times they broke trail for him. On the prince and the pack ran as the sun fell through the sky, and at last dusk came upon the land, yet Borel did not pause, but kept going.

Night came upon them, and still they coursed onward for a candlemark or so, and in the glow of a luminous full moon rising they passed across the ice of a river and followed a trail up a long slope leading to a great flat atop a bluff overlooking the wide vale below.

As Borel and the Wolves crested the rise, they came into the lights of a great mansion. Yet, unlike stone-sided Summerwood Manor, the walls of this hall were fashioned of massive dark timbers cut square, and its roof was steeply pitched. A full three storeys high, with many chimneys scattered along its considerable length, the manse spanned the entire width of the flat. All along its breadth the windows were protected with heavy-planked shutters, most of them closed as if for a blow. Even so, enough were open so that warm and yellow lanternlight shone out onto a stone courtyard cleared of snow. Atop the high river bluff it sat like a great aerie for surveying the wide world below.

As the prince and the pack crossed the flat and came unto the courtyard, ’neath a sheltering portico great double doors were flung wide, and some ten bundled servants, all men, stepped forth and formed a double line.

Borel and the Wolves slowed to a walk, and as he passed through the short gauntlet all the men bowed, and Borel nodded in return, while the Wolves, noses in the air, tails wagging, scented friends of old. At the head of the line a slender, dark-haired man dressed all in black straightened and stepped forth and smiled. “The Sprites told us you were coming, my prince. Welcome home.”

“Arnot,” said Borel, acknowledging the steward of Winterwood Manor.

Borel strode inside, followed by his Wolves and then the men, the great double doors swinging to after, and they passed along a short corridor to come to a great welcoming hall. And there assembled were the rest of the mansion household-maids, servants, footmen, seamstresses, bakers, kitchen- and wait-staff, laundresses, gamekeepers, and others-men to the left, women to the right, and they smiled in welcome and bowed or curtseyed accordingly.

Borel stepped across the heavy-planked floor to a wide marble circle inset in the wood, within which was a great hexagonal silver inlay depicting a delicate snowflake. As his Wolves gathered about, smelling the air, their tails yet awag for here were many friends as well, Borel said, “Thank you for this warm welcome,” and all within the hall applauded his return.

After a moment, to one side Arnot raised a hand, and when silence fell he asked, “What would you have of us, my lord?”

“For my Wolves a fair bit of cooked meat will do, not overdone, mind you, along with a few bones to gnaw,” replied the prince. “As for me, I would have a warm bath and a good hot meal and then a pleasant bed, for I have come far these last four days and need a good long sleep.”

At these words, and with a gesture from Arnot, the staff bustled off-some to the kitchen, others to Lord Borel’s quarters, and still more to the sculleries and other chambers-for there was work to be done.

The prince and his Wolves were home at last.

Gingerly, Borel eased into the hot water. Nearby, Gerard, laying out the towels, paused long enough to pour dark red wine into a crystal goblet, and when the prince was well immersed and had leaned back with a sigh, “My lord,” said the small redheaded man, and he held out the drink to Borel.

“Thank you, Gerard,” said Borel, accepting the glass and swirling the contents about. He took a sip. “Ah, some of Liaze’s finest.” He set the crystal on the flange of the bronze tub and glanced up at the valet. “I just realized: I’m famished. What does Madame Chef have in mind as tonight’s creation?”

“I believe, Sieur, when the Sprites came and said you were on the way, Madame Mille began marinating venison.”

“Ah. The dish with the white cream sauce?”

“She said it was your favorite.”

“Your mother knows me well, Gerard.” Borel took up the goblet again and in one long gulp downed the drink. “Tell her I will be ready in a candlemark or so.”

“Yes, my prince,” said the manservant. “Will you have more wine?”

“At dinner, I think. But now I just want to soak away the toil of travel.”

“As you wish, Sieur.” Over a rod on the fireguard Gerard draped a towel to warm it for the prince to use, and placed a washcloth on the edge of the tub and said, “Along with your linens, I have laid out a white silk shirt with pearl buttons and a grey doublet with black trim, black trews with a silver-buckled black belt, and black stockings and black boots. I have also included a crimson sleeve-kerchief. Will they do?”

“Ah, Gerard, you would make me into a dandy. Even so, it will be nice to wear something other than my leathers. Indeed, they will do.”

“Very good, Sieur.” Gerard took up the empty goblet and the bottle of wine. “I will inform Madame Mille as to when you will be down, and then I shall return to dress you.”

As Gerard left the bathing room, Borel smiled and shook his head. Dress me. Though I always don my own clothes, he insists he must “dress” me.

Borel settled lower into the hot water, and relaxation slowly eased into his muscles. It was only after long moments that he realized just how tense he had been.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the metal slope of the tub…

… And in but moments, it seemed, he awoke in water gone tepid to see Gerard standing silently and patiently by.