had met somewhere in the midst of a broad tor as each dug along the same vein of ore starting from opposite ends.
And he and Arnot and the various commis went over book after book of accounts, each clerk in turn stepping forward with his ledger of tallies, Arnot and Borel certifying that the tots therein of grain and livestock and goods of other sorts were properly balanced.
“I don’t know why you have me do this, Arnot,” said Borel. “I have yet to find even a single thing out of order.”
“Nevertheless, my lord,” said Arnot, “should something happen to me, you will know how ’tis done.”
“But I already know how ’tis done, Arnot.”
“Still, my lord…”
They had had this discussion every year, and always did Borel yield to his steward’s wishes.
Every eve, Chelle, wearing a new dress and new shoes and stockings and linens, and adorned with different gems, dined with Borel, the prince also in finery. And afterward they vied at echecs or taroc or read to one another or danced to music played by members of the staff, other members making up the fours and eights and sixteens needed for a complete minuet or quadrille or reel.
Never had Winterwood Manor been so gay.
And in the depths of the nights, never had Winterwood Manor been so tender, so passionate, so loving, not only in the bed shared by Borel and Chelle, but in beds shared by others throughout the manse as well.
Some seventeen days after arriving at the Winterwood, again the mansion was abustle, for on the morrow the prince and his lady would leave for Summerwood Manor, the wedding of Prince Alain and Lady Camille now but twelve days hence.
Horses were gathered and the next morn were laden with what would be needed for the trek and for the gala, including much of Chelle’s completely new wardrobe, and many garments for the prince as well.
And they set out in a rade, horses in cavalcade, riders on some, goods on others, Wolves in escort, and off for the Summerwood they rode.
Sprites raced through planes of ice all along the route, and Borel did see the one who had aided him just two months, a fortnight, and three days past there at Hradian’s cote. And Borel saluted the tiny being, and it bounced in glee from ice-coated tree to frozen pool to icicles galore dangling down. And Borel and Chelle laughed at its antics as it played hide-and-seek with them.
It was a leisurely ride through the winter ’scape of the woodland, and only light snow fell in the midst of the first day, and none thereafter.
They rode by day and camped by night, and midmorn of the third day they passed through a twilight border and came unto the Autumnwood.
They paused and shed their winter gear and donned clothes suited for cool days and brisk nights. Then they rode on, now accompanied by unseen gigglers down among the underbrush and running from tree to rock to tree.
Chelle was astounded by the abundance within this woodland, and when they camped that eve she simply had to see if what she had dreamed with Borel was true. And so she plucked an apple from a tree in a nearby orchard, and tied a ribbon about the particular twig whence it came. The apple itself was delectable, and within a candlemark she returned to the tree and looked at the beribboned twig, and thereon a ripe apple dangled, just like the one she had eaten. When she returned to camp, Borel looked up, a question in his eyes. “I had to make certain that I had not been befooled by a mischievous tease,” said Chelle, by way of explanation.
“Mischievous tease?” said Borel, frowning, looking about, clearly perplexed. “Who might that be?”
Chelle leaned over and kissed him, but she otherwise didn’t enlighten him.
All the next day it rained, and the rade went a bit slower, the footing more difficult in places along the way, and they rode with their cloaks held close and with the hoods pulled up, as the rain fell from the overcast above.
Past cascading waterfalls and along high-running streams they fared, and through woodlands adrip. And that night they camped on a bit of a knoll, for down lower it was quite wet.
The next day dawned clear, as did the day after, and onward they went, and in midafternoon of the sixth day of travel they rode past a field of grain and up the long slope, and nigh the top sat a huge man beneath an oak, a great scythe across his knees.
As the prince approached, the man stood and doffed his hat, revealing a shock of red hair, and he bowed low.
“Afternoon, Reaper,” said Borel, riding past.
“Afternoon, Prince Borel,” said the man, but he remained bowed.
Borel growled something unto Slate, and Slate in turn spoke the same language to Trot and Loll and Blue-eye, and that trio broke away from the escort and went hunting.
“Conies on the way, Reaper,” said Borel.
“Thank you, my lord,” said the huge man, but he didn’t straighten from his bow until the entire cavalcade had ridden by.
“Who was that?” asked Chelle, when she and Borel were out of earshot.
“I call him the Reaper, for he scythes grain for any who need it. Yet beyond that I don’t know. It seems he has always been there, sitting under that tree, and none I know can tell me his tale, and I feel it improper to ask him, for I sense there is a great sorrow involved.”
They rode a bit farther, and then Chelle said, “Perhaps Camille is right, and sometime long past a bard of the Keltoi told a tale about a reaper sitting under an oak, and he has been there ever since.”
“If so,” said Borel, “then that would make him one of the Firsts.”
“First of his Kind, you mean?”
Borel nodded and said, “And perhaps the last.”
On they rode and on, and Trot and Loll and Blue-eye came running and rejoined the escort, and Borel growled a word and Trot answered.
“Three,” said Borel.
“Three?”
“Conies,” said Borel.
“Your Wolves can count?” asked Chelle.
Borel frowned. “Perhaps. But I know it was three because Trot said they each caught one.”
“Ah,” said Chelle. “Three for the Reaper.”
“Two only,” said Borel. “They ate the other themselves.”
As sunset drew near, they came unto another twilight marge, and they crossed over to come into the Summerwood.
The night was balmy and they changed into still lighter clothes even as they made camp.
The next morn they set out across this forest, the summer day warming, birds singing, insects humming, among them bumblebees. And Borel and Chelle looked for Buzzer, but finally Borel said, “Love, without Flic alongside, these all look like Buzzer to me.”
Chelle ruefully grinned and said, “Me, too.” Then she frowned and added, “I wonder if all humans look alike to bees?”
Borel said, “I think Buzzer came to recognize us as separate individuals.”
Chelle nodded. “We should ask Flic.”
All that day they rode, and toward evening Gerard spurred nigh. “My lord,” he said, “shall we press on, or instead make camp?”
Borel looked at Chelle, and she said, “If I understand the meaning beneath Gerard’s question, I advise we camp, else we’ll arrive at Summerwood Manor in the depths of night. I think that not appropriate for either our staff or that of Prince Alain.”
“We camp, Gerard,” said Borel.
The next day in midmorn they came to a long slope leading to Summerwood Manor below. Gerard sounded a resonant call on a horn, and as the cry echoed throughout the woodland, the rade progressed downward.
As they rode, Michelle studied the estate: the mansion itself stood some four or five storeys in height, though here and there it rose above even that; it was broad and deep with many wings, and even courtyards within. The
