Dennis McKiernan: Once upon a dreadful time

“I have been practicing,” said Roel, “but even so. .”

“Ha!” barked Sieur Emile. “The prince is quite accomplished. ’Twas that armsmaster from his childhood, um-”

“Leon,” supplied Celeste.

Emile nodded at Celeste. “Ah, oui, Leon, who drilled him from infancy on. A more skilled man I have not seen.”

“Leon or Luc, Papa?” asked Blaise.

“Either one,” replied Emile, “though Luc is a shade faster.” Armsmaster Anton came striding, and as they turned toward him, “My lords and ladies,” he said, “the horses are fed and watered. We should leave if we expect to reach Auberville ere sundown.”

. .

As they rode, Lady Simone, who had not yet travelled extensively in Faery, shifted about on her sidesaddle and said, “I just don’t understand it, Celeste, how can we in the Springwood and those in the Summerwood and Autumnwood and Winterwood all be riding starwise-which I still think of as being northerly-when it is said that Valeray’s palace lies central to the four Forests of the Seasons?”

“ ’Tis Faery,” grunted Emile.

“Oh, Papa,” admonished Avelaine, “that’s no explanation.”

“It’s as good as we’ll get, I ween,” said Emile, cocking an eye at his beautiful black-haired daughter, then swinging his gaze toward Celeste.

Celeste grinned and said, “Sieur Emile is not far off in his opinion.”

“Oh, Maman,” said Avelaine, “do you not remember what Reydeau said?”

“He taught us many things, Avi,” said Simone.

“I mean about Faery being like a great jigsaw puzzle, all the pieces separated from one another by the twilight walls.”

“Oui. He said that like a jigsaw, some pieces touch upon many others while some touch upon few. . and some just one.”

“Well, there you have it,” said Avelaine. “It means that King Valeray’s realm touches upon just four other realms: the four Forests of the Seasons.”

“Even so,” said Simone, “how can Valeray’s demesne be surrounded when no matter which of the four forests we cross from, we ride through them starwise bound?” Avelaine shrugged and turned to Celeste, but before the princess could comment, Blaise said, “In Faery, when one crosses a border bearings oft seem to shift-this way and that and the other-and sometimes not at all, and one never knows which direction one will be facing after passing through a bound.”

“Even so,” said Simone, “for a demesne to be completely surrounded when everyone comes at it from the same direction, well, do you not find that odd?”

“It does seem passing strange, Maman,” agreed Blaise.

Celeste smiled and said, “Papa calls his demesne ‘Le Coeur des Saisons.’ ”

“The Heart of the Seasons? Whatever for?” asked Avelaine.

“Because it stands central to the Forests of the Seasons, hence it is the heart, the core, the hub, lying amid all four. The only way in is through one of the four and there are but four ways out. Papa also believes that it is his demesne that somehow allows the four forests to remain as they are: everlasting spring, summer, autumn, and winter.”

“Ooh, then it is the source of the magic?” asked Avelaine.

Celeste turned up her hands. “ ’Tis a mystery, that.”

“Non, not a mystery,” growled Emile, though he was smiling, “but instead, as I said, ’tis Faery.”

“Papa is right,” said Laurent, running a hand through his red hair, red but shading toward auburn. “Faery is a strange place with its twilight walls and creatures and marvel and magic and peril.”

Blaise laughed. “Ah, brother, mayhap I have seen enough of peril, but of mythical and mystical creatures and uncommon beings, I can never get my fill.”

“Speaking of uncommon beings. .” whispered Avelaine, pointing.

From under shrubbery and from behind clumps of grasses and from among tree roots, tiny folk, no more than a foot tall at most and many quite a bit smaller, stepped out from hiding and took off wee hats and stood and bowed or curtseyed as Princess Celeste rode by. And in one place they passed by an Homme de Vert , a twelve-foot-high manlike being all covered in leaves who respectfully bowed as well. Celeste acknowledged his and the others’ obeisance with inclinations of her head.

“Where are the common folk?” asked Simone.

“Oh, la !” exclaimed Avelaine. “Can anyone who lives in Faery be said to be common?”

Celeste laughed and said, “We will pass through several villages and by farmsteads along the way, Lady Simone.”

“Tended by humans?” asked Simone.

“Some, but not all,” replied Celeste.

They rode in silence for a while, but as they fared down into a vale, with a plunging white waterfall of snowmelt to their right cascading down into a tumbling stream to feed the dell crowded with cherry trees in full pink bloom, Avelaine swept her arms wide and said, “Look about you; isn’t it marvelous? I mean, even the lands are numinous. We ride in a realm of everlasting spring.”

Blaise smiled. “Clearly, Avi, you are besotted with this world.”

“To be sure, I am, now that I’ve escaped the clutches of that dreadful Lord of the Changelings.”

“Thanks to Celeste and Roel,” said Laurent.

They passed along the dell humming with bees harvesting nectar and pollen from blossoms on branches reaching forth to fill the air with gentle fragrance. Hummingbirds, too, flitted among the blooms along with gossamer-winged Sprites and gentle butterflies, all sipping nectar.

On they rode passing across high bluffs and along meandering streams and down long slopes and up sharp rises, and everywhere they went, spring lay on the land: from the chill onset stirrings of the season to the warm days leading into summer, the forest ran the entire gamut. In places there was snow yet clinging to deep shadow, while in other places flowers were in full bloom and warm zephyrs caressed the passersby. Birds sang for mates, and mushrooms pushed up through layers of leaves.

Stags bounded away from their paths, some with their antlers nought but buds agrowing, while others had velvety coverings over tines, and still others had full racks with shreds of velvet dangling or gone altogether.

“Give me a good pack of dogs and my bow,” said Laurent,

“and I would have us our dinner.”

They rode onward moments more, passing through a grove of bourne-side willows leafed out in green as if in late spring.

And as they cleared the dangling strands, a wood grouse sprang up from a tuft of grass nigh underfoot and hammered away.

The horses snorted and shied, yet firm hands kept them under control. “Ah, there is the game of my choice,” said Emile, his gaze following the flight of the bird. “Hard to bring down, but oh so good on the table.”

“I prefer pheasant to grouse,” said Simone.

“ Mere always claimed she could tell the difference,” said Laurent.

“Well, I can,” replied Simone, “and if you ever took the time to savor the meal instead of wolfing it down, you could too.”

“They eat like I do,” said Emile. “On the battlefield, it is an advantage.”

“But most of the time you are not on the field,” said Simone.

“And there is indeed a difference between grouse and pheasant, though both are quite delicious.”

“Me, I like spit-roasted boar,” said Blaise. “A good hearty joint and a mug of ale and a bit of bread, that’s all I ask for.” Roel laughed and said, “Given the dining habits of you and Laurent and our sire, the entire hog would vanish in but moments.”

Blaise broke out in laughter and nodded his agreement.

As onward they rode they spoke of game and hunting and good meals and other such talk, and they stopped occasionally to water the steeds and give them a bit of grain, as well as to take a bite of food or drink and to stretch their legs and otherwise relieve themselves.