Dennis McKiernan - Once upon a dreadful time

“Oui,” said Luc. “When I told him we would need all the aid we could summon, he said, ‘My lord, I will come when the time is right.’ It was as if he would be waiting for some unknown event ere joining us. Do you know what it might be?”

“Non,” replied Zacharie, “but Princess Liaze might.”

“Or even King Valeray,” said Maurice, ’round a mouthful of roast duck.

“What know you of him?” asked Luc.

“The Reaper, you mean?” said Zacharie, and at Luc’s nod, the steward went on: “Very little, I’m afraid. It seems he has always been under that oak, waiting for someone to need grain from the field below. It is only then he leaves the tree and takes that great scythe of his and with a few strokes- swish, swash -

the yield is ready to be sheaved.”

“And otherwise he never goes away from the oak?”

“Non, my lord, at least not to my knowledge.”

“Then what does he eat and drink, and how does he obtain it?”

Zacharie turned up his hands. “I know not, my lord.”

“Did he participate in the last war against Orbane?”

“I think not, my lord,” said Zacharie. “Some say there is an old Keltoi legend that the Reaper waits for some event, just as you have surmised.”

“Hmm. .” mused Luc. Then he took a deep breath and dug into the green beans.

. .

In the bathing house of Summerwood Manor, with their bellies full, Blaise and Jerome and Regar luxuriated in hot water, soaking the soreness of the long, swift ride from their bones.

On the tub’s edge sat tiny Flic, with Buzzer adoze on a soft towel nearby. At hand stood grey-haired Lanval, steward of this demesne. Also close by sat a young man at a small table, with quill and inkpot and parchment ready. “And what would you have in this message, Sieur Blaise?” asked Lanval.

“Ah,” replied the knight. “We need to tell all the others just what it is that Lady Verdandi said, for perhaps they can unravel the riddle. Now let me see, how does it go? Ah, oui:

. .

“ ‘Grim are the dark days looming ahead Now that the die is cast.

Fight for the living, weep for the dead; Those who are first must come last.

Summon them not ere the final day

For his limit to be found.

Great is his power all order to slay, Yet even his might has a bound.’ ”

The steward nodded at the young man, and the youth began scribbling, pausing now and again for clarification from Blaise.

Flic frowned and asked, “I say, will all of that writing fit on a falcon-borne message, or will the bird have to walk all the way under the load?”

The men laughed, and Lanval said, “Fear not for the falcon, Sieur Flic, for the message will be transcribed in diminutive script on the thin strip of tissue the birds customarily bear in their message capsules.”

“Are all four missives to be the same?” asked the youth.

“Oui, Randin,” said Blaise. “-Oh, and add that we arrived safely.”

“Won’t they deduce that from the mere fact that you dispatched a message?” asked Flic.

“Oh, right,” said Blaise. “Scratch that, Randin.”

“You might add,” said Regar, “that Flic, Fleurette, Buzzer, and I are pushing on for the halls of the Fairy King.”

“When?” asked the youth.

“On the morrow,” said Regar. Then he looked at Flic.

“Right?”

“Oui,” replied the Sprite. “We cannot delay in something such as this. I’ll get Buzzer to dance out a course for us.” Regar frowned. “Dance out a course?”

“Oui,” said Flic. “You see, Buzzer can fly the most direct line to anywhere she has been. All we need to do is describe the type of flowers there, and some of the terrain. And she will do a honeybee dance to tell me the direction we must go. It will surely be shorter than the one Borel, Buzzer, and I followed when we were on the quest to rescue Lady Michelle.” Blaise glanced at Buzzer and said, “Honeybee dance? But she is not a honeybee.”

“Non, she is not,” said Flic, “but I taught her the dance and she adopted it immediately.”

“There is a story here for the telling,” said Regar. “But I must say that I don’t know any of the kinds of flowers that grow in my father’s domain.”

Flic grinned. “You forget, my prince, that both Buzzer and I have been there ere now.”

. .

In the Springwood, as Roel dried off, he said, “I wonder if any of the others ran afoul of the Three Sisters?” Vidal frowned and said, “Sieur Roel, I would not characterize coming across any of the Fates as ‘running afoul’ of them.” Roel smiled at the dignified, silver-haired steward. “Think you they might take offense?”

“Who knows?” asked Vidal, casting his eyes skyward.

Roel laughed, then sobered. “Still, I wonder.”

“If others did indeed receive redes from the Ladies Wyrd and Lot and Doom, then surely things are dire,” said Vidal.

Roel frowned. “Hmm. . Isn’t it true that they only appear when one or more of Valeray’s get are present? If so, then why did Lady Doom appear to Devereau and me?” Vidal shook his head. “Non, Valeray’s get are not necessary for the Fates to show themselves, for they aided Lady Camille, and she was alone.”

“Oui, I had forgotten about Camille, but every other time-

Look, they did appear before Celeste and me on our quest to rescue Avelaine, and they did manifest in front of Camille and Alain and the staff of Summerwood Manor along with the Dwarves of the Nordavind on what was then Troll Isle, as well as at several other gatherings where many were present. And so, setting aside the early part of Camille’s quest, in all of those cases, the get of Valeray were on hand.” Roel paused, his gaze lost in thought. Finally he said, “I wonder why this might be different?”

Vidal shrugged. “None knows the ways of the Fates, Sieur Roel. Certainly not I.”

Roel sighed and laid the towel aside and slipped into a silken robe. “Regardless, if the others think to send messages, we will soon know whether or not any other Sister appeared.” Vidal nodded. “Come the dawn, falcons will fly, and then we shall see.”

Roel yawned and stepped through the doorway and toward the bed. “Even if none else received a cryptic message, at least the Sprite-borne warnings are spreading and the muster has begun.”

Vidal nodded and stepped to the chamber door, where he took up a glass-chimneyed candle to see his way to his own rooms. “Let us pray to Mithras that one of them has found Raseri and Rondalo, and that they have intercepted the witch so that it won’t come to another war with Orbane.”

“Indeed,” said Roel, yawning again as he crawled into the canopied bed.

As the knight pulled the covers about himself, Vidal said,

“ Bonne nuit, Sieur, et bon repos , for tomorrow promises to be demanding.”

Roel did not reply, for he was quite sound asleep.

Vidal withdrew and softly closed the door and went into the darkness beyond.

The sun had long set, followed by the moon, and in the darkness of the Springwood and the Summerwood, as well as the Autumnwood and the Winterwood, from within the embraces of the roots of the trees along a key portion of the starwise bounds of each forest, small beings emerged in the night and stealthily climbed upward. And they had with them razor-sharp shards of flint and obsidian, and slender barbs and nooses and other such weaponry, all of a size for the Root Dwellers, and all silent when compared to brute-force smashing weapons, such as hammers and mauls. Out along the limbs the tiny people crept, searching, seeking, hunting for crows, and death came mutely among the birds.