Once upon a dreadful time

Disaster

Disgruntled and chirping querulously, Scruff returned to Camille’s shoulder, the wee bird agitated to a degree she had not seen since a time seasons past when she and the bird had found themselves on an island infested by Redcap Goblins and monstrous Trolls.

“My lord,” said Camille to Valeray, “I think Scruff would not be this disturbed were that a mere crow.”

“Think you it was a Changeling?”

“I know not, my lord, but whatever it was, it upset Scruff mightily.”

A second flourish of trumpets sounded, and Camille turned to see Luc, Roel, Blaise, and Laurent rein up before the royal box. Still troubled, she sat in deference to the formalities.

Colorful were the knights: a blue surcoat graced Luc, and he bore a blue shield with a red rose emblem thereon, both colors marking his demesne, but his black horse-Deadly Nightshade-was caparisoned in scarlet, to represent the Autumnwood; Roel and his pale grey horse were garbed in light green to mark the Springwood, and Roel bore a like-hued green shield embellished with a pale cherry blossom; Laurent wore a white surcoat, and his white horse was draped in white as well, and he bore a dark shield marked with a white snow crystal, and he represented the Winterwood; finally, Blaise was garbed in yellow, as was his dark grey steed, and his yellow shield bore the emblem of an oak leaf, representing the Summerwood.

“My lord, my lady,” said Luc, and he dipped his lance in salute, as did the other three chevaliers.

The king and queen both inclined their heads in acknowledgement, and Valeray said, “Knights, you honor us with your combat. Take your positions, ride with pride and nobility, and may the best man”-Valeray grinned-“or perhaps the luckiest, prevail on this day.” Raising their lances, they wheeled their steeds and rode to opposite ends of the field: Luc and Laurent to the dawnwise end; Roel and Blaise, duskwise.

And the crowd cheered lustily, various voices therein calling out white, or gold, or green, or blue.

In the first of the rounds, Luc had drawn Blaise, and Roel had drawn Laurent. And at the sound of the trumpets, Luc and Blaise were first in the lists, and they rode to take station. All eyes were on Queen Saissa, and she raised a hand holding a filmy scarf, and with it she signaled for the tilt to begin.

With horses belling in excitement, shields up, lances lowered, Luc and Blaise charged one another. Each ran at a gallop, sawdust and wood curls flying up from hooves, and the crowd roared in anticipation. In spite of the padded tips, with thunderous clangs! lances met shields. Blaise’s shaft shivered into splinters, and Luc was rocked back, his own lance glancing awry ’gainst Blaise’s dark shield. And a great shout went up, for it looked as if Luc would be unhorsed. Yet Luc recovered even as the steeds hammered onward.

Each rode to the end of the lists, and Blaise cast aside the remains of his broken lance and took up another from the attendant acting as his squire.

’Round they wheeled, did the knights, and again they charged, the blue chevalier against the gold, the black horse against the dark grey steed.

Once more with a blang! the two crashed together, and this time Luc’s shaft struck the oakleaf square, while Blaise’s slid off the rose. Blaise was hammered back and, in spite of his efforts, he was knocked from his saddle to land in the sawdust and shavings below.

Cheers sounded as well as groans, and a goodly number of coins changed hands.

Luc rode ’round the end of the lists and back to Blaise, and he gave the unhorsed knight a stirrup and an arm, and Blaise swung up behind. They rode to where the dark grey steed had stopped. Blaise slid from the back of Nightshade, and bowed to Luc, then mounted his own animal.

They both rode to opposite ends of the field, and dismounted to await the outcome of the next match.

To great cheers, Roel unhorsed Laurent on the very first run.

Once again coinage changed hands.

Now came the concluding match-Prince Luc versus Sieur Roel-the same final pairing as at last year’s faire.

Lance after lance they shattered against one another, and each was nearly unhorsed several times. Yet finally there were no more lances left, but for the one Roel held, and it was cracked.

With a fanfare of trumpets, King Valeray stood, and when the onlookers quieted, the king called it a draw.

The crowd groaned, and this time no coins changed hands.

But as the two chevaliers rode about the field, a great cheer rose up in tribute.

In spite of the draw at tilting, Luc was named Champion of Champions, for with a win at epees and a tie at jousting, he had more victory points than any of the other three knights.

Laughing, they all rode for Luc’s tent, where, slapping one another on the back, they hoisted mugs of ale in salute to one another. Smiling, Laurent protested that, with his win in the melee, he should have been crowned champion, but Roel countered that Laurent’s ignominious showing in the joust completely nullified any win he might have “accidentally” gained.

Blaise sighed and said that he had been entirely shut out this time, though he could have sworn that Luc had magical help to remain on his horse in the very first tilt.

Liaze and Celeste entered this male domain, and they embraced each and kissed each on the cheek, and added another kiss to their husbands’ lips.

“You must excuse us, cheri,” said Liaze, looking up into Luc’s eyes. “We go to change our clothes into gowns a bit less demure, less modest, than these high-collar fashions, and then hie to the grand ballroom. The echecs tournament has begun, and we each have a match to win.”

“Why change clothes, my love?” asked Roel.

Celeste grinned. “Our first opponents are men, and a femme must take every advantage.”

The men burst into laughter, but finally Luc, yet smiling, looked down at Liaze and said, “As soon as I sluice some of this sweat and salt from me and change garb, I’ll be there to cheer you on, a more revealing gown or no.”

“As will I cheer you,” said Roel, embracing Celeste.

With one last peck, Liaze and Celeste withdrew.

Blaise turned to Roel and Luc and said, “Oh, were Laurent and I as fortunate as you twain.”

“Mais oui!” agreed Laurent.

. .

In the second round of echecs matches, by the luck of the draw Borel was pitted against Regar, the Wyldwood stranger. Swift did they make move after move, seeming somewhat reckless, yet they were both anything but. Still, spearmen were slain, chevaliers fought valiantly, and hierophants and towers slid this way and that, while queens reigned in violence, and kings fled a square at a time.

“Your play is somewhat like that of another opponent I once faced,” said Borel, slipping his lone hierophant diagonally along two white squares.

“Oh?” responded Regar, countering with a move of his remaining black chevalier. “And who was that?”

“The Fairy King under the Hill,” said Borel. “He nearly defeated me.” Regar sat back, his eyes wide in wonder. “You won?”

“Oui.”

Regar shook his head and then leaned forward and studied the board. “I did not think any could best my grand-pere in echecs, for his reputation is formidable, and in fact is why I wanted to learn the game.”

Now it was Borel who leaned back in wonder. “The Fairy King is your grandsire?”

Regar grinned. “So it is said. It seems he came upon my grand-maman, a beautiful woman, gathering herbs in the wood, and they found each other irresistible, and their dalliance produced my maman, and she in turn, me.”

“Your grand-pere is indeed a mighty master of echecs,” said Borel, advancing a spearman forward one square. “When did you play him last?”

“I have never seen him, and only know him through the tales I have heard,” said Regar. “It seems his queen is most jealous, and after that dalliance with my grand-maman, to keep her safe, he left her.”

“Oo, how cold.”

“I think it was not done with a cold heart, for grand-maman said he wept bitterly.” Regar countered with a move of one of his own spearmen. “He did leave her very well off, yet I have always wished to meet him.”

“Perhaps some day you will,” said Borel, “yet beware, for he is quite sly, quite tricky.”

“Think you that he would attempt to deceive his own blood?” asked Regar.

Borel turned up both hands. “That I cannot say. I think if he knew of your kinship, he would welcome you, though perhaps in secret.” Borel then moved a spearman and said, “Ward your queen.”

Regar smiled and said, “Ah, I thought my lady would be a too-tempting target for you.” Regar slid his tower next to a hierophant-protected spearman and said, “I believe that is mate.”

Borel looked at the board and burst into laughter and turned his king on its side. “Well played, Prince Regar. Very well played. I think should you ever duel your grand-pere in echecs, it will be quite a game.”

Regar cocked an eyebrow. “Prince? You name me prince?”

“Indeed, for your grandsire is the Fairy King.” Regar nodded and ruefully smiled. “Ah, oui. But at best I am merely a bastard prince.”

Borel grinned and stood. “Come, Regar, let us share a cup ere your next match.”

As prince and bastard prince made their way toward the wine table, Roel and Luc, freshly bathed and clothed, entered the grand ballroom. They paused at the entrance and surveyed the tables where opponent and opponent studied the boards.

“Ah, there is my Celeste,” said Roel.

“And I see Liaze,” said Luc.

“Let us not disturb them,” said Roel, gesturing at the table where a sommelier oversaw servants pouring wine, “but join my brothers for a drink.”

Even as they walked past windows, beyond which twilight graced the sky, Camille, uncharacteristically distracted and having lost her match, came alongside them. A yet-disgruntled Scruff sat on her shoulder, though the wee sparrow now grew sleepy as dusk drew down on the land.

“How fared you, sister?” asked Roel.

The corner of Camille’s mouth twitched upward. She ges shy;

tured toward a table where a corpulent man, looking somewhat stunned, sat and peered at the echiquier, most of the pieces thereon. “There is the victor.”

“You lost?”

“Oui. I simply couldn’t concentrate on the game.”

“Why so?”

“Scruff sensed danger, yet I could see nought. And then he flew at a crow, but it was too swift for him to overtake.”

“Perhaps a good thing,” said Luc. “Crows are quite savage, and Scruff so small.”

“Valeray thought it might be a Changeling,” said Camille.

Both Roel and Luc’s eyebrows raised, and Luc asked, “Think you it has ought to do with these sensings you and the others have?”

Camille sighed. “All I know is that Scruff was quite agitated. Still is, in fact.” As they reached the wine table, Roel asked, “Did you sense a malignancy?”

Camille shook her head. “Non.”

“Perhaps then it was nought but a crow,” said Luc.

Camille turned up a hand, but otherwise did not reply.

After receiving their goblets of wine, the trio joined Laurent and Blaise off to one side, and moments later Borel and Regar came to stand with the group.

“How did you fare?” asked Camille.

“Meet my conqueror,” said Borel, raising his goblet toward Regar. “Prince Regar trounced me handily.”

“You are a prince?” asked Celeste, just then joining the cluster.

“Ask Borel,” said Regar, with a sigh.

“He is the grandson of the Fairy King,” said Borel. “Here, Regar, let me properly present you to all.” Even as the introductions were being made, Liaze joined the group and was formally presented to Regar as well.

“How did you fare ’gainst your opponent?” asked Luc.

Liaze smiled and said, “He seemed quite preoccupied in looking at something other than the board.” Celeste laughed and said, “As did the man I played.” Roel grinned. “I shouldn’t wonder, given your decolletage.” Luc smiled and looked at each of their low-cut gowns, the women bare from the throat down to the considerable cleavage shown. Then he frowned. “Liaze, where is the key?”

“Key?”

“The amulet. I gave it to you ere the jousting.” Liaze shook her head in bewilderment. “Non, cheri. You gave me no amulet.”

“But you came to me in my tent and asked to keep it safe.

And I willingly handed it over.”

“Non, Luc. Though I did now and then change seats, I was in the stands the whole time.”

Camille gasped and turned pale. “Oh, Mithras. That’s what Scruff was agitated about: the witch was here at the tourney!

Somehow she fooled you, Luc.”

The color drained from Luc’s face, and Blaise whispered,

“Hradian?”

“Oui, Hradian. By glamour or other spell, it wasn’t Liaze, but must have been Hradian instead, or so I deem.” Celeste blanched and looked at the sparrow, who now slept in Camille’s pocket. “Nor, I think, was it a crow he chased, but again ’twas Hradian.”

Tears sprang into Liaze’s eyes. “Oh woe upon woe, for now she has the key to the Castle of Shadows and, can we not stop her, she will set Orbane free.”

Success!

Laughing in glee, Hradian-to all eyes nought but a crow- flew on her broom through the darkening sky, and her hand clutched the amulet on the chain ’round her neck. “Fools, those fools, little did they know they could not stop you, my love. Your potion worked to perfection. Perfection! Ha! A simple glamour wouldn’t do, oh no. Instead you had to become that slattern Liaze, for you knew that her paramour would embrace you, and his arms would feel what his eyes saw not. And you, my sweet, now have the key, the key that will gain your master’s release! Oh, clever you. None of your sisters could do as did you.”

Chortling and laughing, Hradian fled across the sky, her distant swamp cottage her initial goal, and then a realm afar and the Great Darkness beyond. But as she crossed the very first twilight border and entered the Springwood, she came to ground on a high, rocky tor and cast a calling spell. And soon, in spite of the growing dark, the air about was filled with a milling flock of cawing crows, and Hradian spoke to them in their very own tongue. What she said, they understood, though none but someone else versed in the cornix tongue could know the words of her command. Regardless, when she fell silent, in a great cawing racket, the flock flew up and ’round and then fragmented into individual birds hammering across the sky, heading toward the Summerwood and Winterwood and Autumnwood, and deeper into the Springwood as well.

Once more Hradian took to the air, smirking unto herself and saying, “They don’t call them a murder of crows for nought.” And then she burst into laughter and flew on into the gathering dark.