“Daggers, my lord,” said Flic, “that’s what we’ll face, whatever they might be.”
“Oui, Flic, whatever they might be,” said Borel. Then he glanced at the woodland nearby. “And you are certain that there are no black oaks between here and the place we started?”
“None whatsoever,” said Flic. “Do you know what a black oak looks like?”
“Non, Flic, for I am of the Winterwood, where all trees but evergreens are barren and snow- or ice-laden. Though I do know pine and yew and fir and the like, I simply did not pay heed to the differences among the barren trees.”
“No matter, my lord, for I do know the black oak.”
Borel looked at Buzzer asleep in his hand. “Then let us hie, and as I run, you rest, sleep if you can, for Urd has said we’ve a long journey ahead, and I would have you afresh when we reach the place where we began.”
“Oui, Prince Borel,” said Flic, even then yawning. “But let us away, and now, for the moon stays not her course for any.”
Borel set dormant Buzzer within the tricocked brim of his hat, and Flic took a seat there as well, and back the way they had come did Borel begin his run.
Throughout the moon- and starlit night the prince loped alongside the twilight bound, while the heavens above wheeled slowly ’round, and the moon sailed serenely on, and neither the stars nor the argent orb paused even a jot in deference to the desperate drama unfolding below. On Borel ran and on, occasionally pausing briefly for a drink at a stream or from his waterskin.
All night he ran, growing ever more weary, and as first light began to grace the skies he came to the place where the Fairy horse had brought them in the dawn of the day before.
“Waken, Flic, waken!” called Borel. “I am back where we began.”
Roused by Borel, Flic said, “I’m up, I’m up,” and clambered to his feet. He took station in the prow and looked about as he yawned. “The sun is not yet risen,” he muttered, “nor is the gibbous moon set.”
“The moon will set in a candlemark or so,” said Borel, “and the sun will rise shortly after. But we must press on and begin the run sinister, for Lady Doom’s words tell us that I cannot rest.”
“Then away, my lord,” said Flic.
“Can you recognize and name trees in the dimness of dawn and the moonlight shining aglance?” said Borel.
“Though I am a Field Sprite, woodlands border meadows, and well did my mere tutor me in the lore of the verging forests, and, so, trees I know, by sunlight or moonlight or even by starlight. Hence, my lord, dally no more.”
And so again Borel took up the run along the twilight bound, and the moon set and the sun rose, and Buzzer wakened, even as they came to a stream. Borel stopped for a drink, and as he gobbled down a biscuit, he uncapped the honey jar and poured a small dollop down in the brim of his hat along the cocked back. And while Buzzer and Flic broke their fast, Borel took up the run once more.
A candlemark after sunrise Borel called out, “Flic, I see a tree standing beside the border. Is it a black oak?”
Flic looked at the deep purple leaves and the smooth silver-grey bark and said, “Nay, my lord, ’tis a copper beech. Run on, my prince, run on.”
And so Borel ran on, now and then momentarily stopping at a streamside for a drink, then splashing on across the flow and over the land, a marge of twilight always on his right, a woodland on his left, though no black oaks did Flic espy therein.
Just ere the noontide, Borel called out, “Flic, another tree alongside the border.”
Flic eyed the green leaves and the grey-white trunk and said, “Nay, my lord, ’tis a silver maple. Run on, my prince, run on.”
At the next stream, Borel gobbled down another biscuit, and once more he set a dollop of honey on the brim of his hat. And then he started running again.
Two candlemarks or so after the sun passed through the zenith, Borel called out, “Another tree, Flic, standing by the border.”
“Nay, my lord, ’tis not what we seek but a golden ash instead.”
As he loped onward Borel growled and said, “I’m beginning to wonder if Lady Doom has arranged this apurpose.”
“My lord?”
“Three trees have we seen standing alongside the marge: copper, silver, and gold,” said Borel, “a timeless progression in fables. But usually when the gold of that trio is encountered, so too is success at hand.”
“That might be the case in hearthtales, my lord,” said Flic, looking back, “and perhaps here as well, for each of those trees-the copper, the silver, and the gold-might signify that something marvelous lies across the border and in the sands beyond. Yet we cannot pause to see, for no black oak is nigh, and the sun ever sinks toward his setting, and the unseen moon ever nears her rise.”
Borel ran onward, up slopes and down, splashing across streams and shssh ing through tall grasses, woodlands ever on the left, the twilight bound on the right.
And in late afternoon, “A tree alongside the border, Flic.”
Flic looked at the broad limbs with their nine-lobed leaves, and the dark, dark trunk, and cried out in glee, “ ’Tis a black oak, my lord, a black oak! We have come to the black oak at last!”
Weary beyond measure, Borel ran to the dark tree and stopped, and his breath came harsh and heavy. As Flic took to wing with Buzzer following, Borel glanced at the remains of the day, and his heart fell, for there was but a single candlemark left ere the sun would begin to set and the full moon begin to rise.
46
“Come,” said Borel, straightening up, “let us hurry, for time is-”
“Wait, my lord,” said Flic. “Remember Urd’s warning: “ ‘Seek the black oak sinister
Beside the twilight wall,
Behind it a narrow portal,
Yet beware the fall.’
“That’s what she said. And so, my lord, before you go through, let me first see what lies beyond.”
“Hurry,” said Borel, again glancing at the sun, “we’ve no time to tarry.”
With Buzzer following, Flic turned and darted into the twilight marge.
Long moments passed, and long moments more, and Borel could wait no longer, for the sun itself would not delay, nor would the as-yet-unseen full moon. But just as he started to step within, Flic and Buzzer returned.
“Beware, my lord. Lady Urd was right. Straight through and you’ll plunge to your doom, for when I emerged out the far side, I was in the air above a great drop. To both the left and right there are outjuts along the face of a sheer cliff, with pathways down to the sands below. Yet these are not to be trusted, for when I tried to return by flying across one of those outjuts, Buzzer and I ended above bubbling molten stone within a hollow mountain. We fled back, and I tried the other outjut, with the very same results. And so, Lady Urd was right when she spoke of the black oak: ‘Behind it a narrow portal,’ she said, and narrow it is. This marge is tricky, my lord, a perfect place for Rhensibe to set a trap. I would think that from this side of the bound, should you step left or right of the portal, who knows where you would end? Perhaps above that same pool of molten stone.”
“Nevertheless, I must enter,” said Borel.
“How, my lord? You cannot fly.”
“There must be a way,” said Borel. “I will try to find it.” And without further delay, Borel pulled from his rucksack the rope he had purchased in Riverbend and tied one end to the tree. Paying it out, he stepped into the twilight directly behind the oak.
As Flic and Buzzer flew past, into the dimness Borel went, testing each step before taking it. Darker and darker grew the marge, and in the depths of the blackness, he came to the lip of a sheer precipice.
