Once upon a Summer Day

41

“Ah, I see you brought your bow again,” said Chelle.

“And, Sieur, I would string it if I might.”

Borel grinned and handed her the weapon.

Somewhere, just on the edge of hearing, a squeaking sounded, or perhaps it was music; it was entirely too faint to tell.

Chelle set the lower bowstring loop into the nock at the end of the lower limb. She grounded that end against the floor and grasped the upper limb and stepped her right leg in between the body of the bow and the string. Taking the upper loop in her left hand, with her right she began to bend the bow. The gap between the upper-limb nock and the loop narrowed and narrowed, yet not enough for her to set the string in place. She relaxed and looked at Borel, the smile still on his face. She blew a stray lock of her golden hair up from her forehead and took a deep breath and gritted her teeth and bent the bow again… and again… and yet again, but try as she might, she simply could not set the upper loop in place.

The squeaking grew, or mayhap the music grew, and now clearly but faintly sounded.

Borel frowned and looked about for the source, but he found nought.

Finally, after repeated attempts, Chelle laughed and relaxed and gave the bow back to Borel. “You said I might find it difficult to string, and I thought I would try.”

The squeaking, the music, was no longer faint, yet Chelle seemed to pay it no heed.

Borel slung the bow by its carrying thong and said, “Well, Cherie, what would you have us do this eve? I am certain I can find a suitable setting, but I would have you choose the deeds.”

In spite of the shadows, Borel could see a shade of red creeping up Chelle’s face. “My lord, often have we come close to making lo-”

From below there came up the stairwell the sound of a door opening.

Now the squeaking became a squeal, or the music grew shrill, and echoed up the stairwell and down.

Chelle gasped, and glanced at one of the windows. “Oh, my Borel, you must flee.”

A door closed somewhere below.

“Flee?”

“ ’Tis the dark of the moon, and Rhensibe said she would come.”

“Rhensibe?” said Borel. “She is here?” He unslung his bow and strung it.

Above the growing shrill music, the growing squeal, footsteps sounded, as if someone crossed a stone floor far below.

“She said she would come on the day of the dark of the moon, to gloat and tell me that there was but a fortnight and one ere the moon rises full.”

Borel pulled a flint-tipped arrow from his quiver.

Now the footsteps started up the stairs.

“You cannot face her, my lord.” Chelle pressed her hands against Borel’s chest and pled, “Flee through your secret door.”

“Let her come,” gritted Borel, “for I will not take flight.”

Much like a wagon wheel grown rusty and needing grease, the squealing, the music, sounded loudly, but above that shrill din the footsteps sounded even louder as they came up the spiral stairway.

Borel moved to the side and nocked the arrow and started toward the well opening, but Chelle flung herself in front of him. “My lord, she is too powerful a sorciere. I beg you to fly through the door.”

“Go,” said Borel, “seek safety beyond the door, while I deal with Rhensibe,” and again he moved to one side, and he drew the arrow to the full and took aim at the opening where Rhensibe would first appear.

“I cannot, my love, for if I do, she will discover that very door and use it to-”

The strident screeching drowned out Chelle’s words, but the footsteps thudded on upward, closer, ever closer, now just a — the screeching rose — the steps grew louder Chelle said softly but clearly, “Find me, Borel. Please find me. And hurry.”

— and of a sudden the walls began to fade, and Borel cried out, “No! Chelle, do not take the dream away! Do not-”

— Borel jolted awake on his feet in the dawn, and in his hands he held his strung bow, with an arrow nocked and drawn to the full.