Once upon a Summer Day

13

The slender demoiselle stood across the chamber from him. She was dressed in a sapphire-blue gown with a white bodice. Her golden hair was twined with blue ribbons and white. Borel frowned, for there was a shadowy band across her eyes.

In the Old Tongue she said, “There is less than a moon remaining.”

Something tugged at Borel’s mind, something elusive, and then it was gone. “What do you mean, mademoiselle?” he asked, also in the Old Tongue. “Less than a moon till what?”

“I do not know, my lord. Yet something terrible looms, and you must help me, please.” She reached out toward him.

The prince crossed the floor and took her hands in his and felt the trembling of them. “I will aid you, my lady,” said Borel, and he raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them.

Even though frightened by whatever might threaten her, shyly she turned her face aside.

Thinking that he had embarrassed her, Borel released his grip and took a half step back, yet she reached out and caught one of his hands in hers and held tightly.

“I must escape,” she said.

“Escape?”

“From this tower, this turret.”

Again an ephemeral thought fled across Borel’s mind, yet ere he could catch it, it was gone.

“And it seems you must find me and help me get free,” she added.

“But I am here,” said Borel, frowning in puzzlement. “I have found you.”

“Indeed, you are here,” said the demoiselle, “yet you have not found me.”

“Why say you this?” asked Borel. “Can you not see I am here? Yet you tell me I have not found you?”

“I know not why it is true,” said the lady. “Nevertheless it is.”

Borel looked about the chamber. There were windows open to the air, and a stairwell going down, and there was a faint squeaking sound, though perhaps instead it was music. He moved toward one of the windows, and as he stepped away, she reluctantly released his hand, her fingers trailing against his.

The loss of her touch overwhelmed Borel, and he turned back and reached out and took her hand in his. “Come.”

“We cannot get out that way,” she replied.

Borel looked. Things hovered beyond the sill; things solid and dangerous and in shadows. What they might be, he had no idea, for they were too deep in the dark. Once more a critical thought skittered on the edge of revelation, yet again whatever it was escaped his grasp. “Then, my lady, if we cannot get out that way, we will go down the steps.” He started toward the stairwell, her hand firmly in his.

“No!” The demoiselle gasped and pulled back, and she tried to drag him hindward.

Borel turned and looked at her. “My lady?”

“Oh, my lord, not down the steps. Something dreadful lies below.”

“Something dreadful? What?” Borel reached for his long-knife. It was gone, his scabbard empty.

Of a sudden he was covered with bruises, and he felt as if he had been battered by all the hammers of the Gnomes.

Nevertheless, weaponless, he released her hand and hobbled toward the stairwell.

“No!” cried the demoiselle. “I will not let you go!”

In that moment the chamber vanished, and Borel awakened with a start to find himself lying on a grassy bed, a whisper of distant rapids wafting through the moonlit woodland upon a gentle breeze.