Once upon a dreadful time

“Stay with the mounts,” said Blaise, and he and Regar set off upstream, Flic and Fleurette and Buzzer again riding the tricorn.

Jerome sighed and sheathed his blade and watched them until they vanished beyond the turn.

’Round the bend fared the knight and bastard prince, along with two Sprites and a bee, and aseat on a low limb of a widespread oak sat a distressed, yellow-haired demoiselle, a small basket in hand. She was clad in a gingham dress, though her feet were bare. Relief swept over her face at the sight of the men coming to rescue her.

“Oh, sieurs, I am so glad to see you, for I need aid in getting to the ground.”

“What are you doing up this tree, m’lady?” asked Regar.

“Collecting birds’ eggs, Sieur, for my sisters and me.”

“Your sisters?”

“Oui, I have two.”

Blaise sheathed his sword and stepped among the great gnarled roots spreading out from the bole and across the ground.

“Mademoiselle, if you would trust me, please lower the basket first, and then yourself afterward. I will catch you.”

“Oh, Sieur, but I am afraid.”

“Then I will climb up, and ease you down to my friend.” He turned to Regar. “N’est ce pas?”

Regar nodded, and as Blaise climbed, the prince sheathed his arrow and slipped his bow across his back.

Blaise took the basket with its grass-cushioned eggs and gave it into Regar’s upstretched hands, and the prince set it to the ground.

Then Blaise grasped the mademoiselle by the wrists and, with her emitting small whimpers, he lowered her to Regar’s embrace.

Blaise leapt down as Regar eased the femme to earth, the prince saying, “There, my lady. Safely done.” And in that moment the basket and eggs vanished and a shimmering came over the mademoiselle, and there before them stood a matronly woman with golden hair and golden eyes and dressed in a gold-limned ebon robe, and the air was filled with the sound of looms weaving.

As Regar stepped back in surprise, “Lady Verdandi,” said Flic, even as Blaise knelt and said, “Lady Lot.” Following Blaise’s action, Regar knelt as well.

“Blaise, Regar, Flic, Fleurette, Buzzer,” said Verdandi, smiling.

“So much for Fey sight,” said Fleurette.

Verdandi laughed. “Not even Fey sight can pierce the disguises my sisters and I wear.” Blaise said, “My Lady Who Sees the Everlasting Now, have you come to give us a rede?”

“Oui, I have, and, since you have helped me, I can do so, but only if you answer a riddle.”

Flic groaned, but otherwise didn’t speak.

“A riddle?” asked Regar.

“By the rules my sisters and I follow, you must do so ere any of us can render aid.”

Blaise sighed in resignation, but then he seemed to brace himself. He looked up at her. “Say on, Lady Lot.” Verdandi nodded and took a deep breath. And as the sound of weaving intensified, she said:

“You will find me in beds, in friendship, in love, But not in enmity or cold winds above.

I come from without, and I come from within; I am oft shared among good women and men.

From hearts and hearths, though not quite same, You will say I arrive; now tell me my name.” As the clack of shuttles and thud of battens diminished, Fleurette cried, “I know, I know,” yet Verdandi pushed out a hand to silence the Sprite.

As Blaise’s heart fell, Verdandi said, “It is Sieur Blaise’s to answer here in the Summerwood.”

Here in the Summerwood? What is it about the Summerwood that makes it another clue? Blaise looked about, seeing full-leafed trees amid lush and verdant undergrowth, and a greensward leading down to the stream, and he heard birds singing in the distance, and the sound of the brook as the clear water tumbled o’er rocks on its way to a distant sea. Yet none of these fit the words of the rhyme. This domain, where everlasting summer lies on the-

“Warmth, my lady,” said Blaise. “It is found in beds, in friendship, in love, but not in enmity or cold winds above. It arrives from hearths without and hearts within, and is often shared by good women and men.” Blaise fell silent, and waited with bated breath for Lady Lot to speak.

“Indeed,” said Verdandi.

Even as Blaise gave a sigh of relief, “I knew the answer,” whispered Fleurette to Flic.

“I didn’t,” said Flic.

“My lady Lot,” said Regar, “the rede you are to give us, is it a riddle as well?”

“Oui. By the rules my sisters and I follow, we can do nought else.”

Again Flic groaned and Blaise braced himself, as did Regar.

Only Fleurette seemed eager to hear the rede.

Once more the sound of weaving intensified, and Verdandi intoned:

“Grim are the dark days looming ahead Now that the die is cast.

Fight for the living, weep for the dead; Those who are first must come last.

Summon them not ere the final day

For his limit to be found.

Great is his power all order to slay, Yet even his might has a bound.”

Verdandi fell silent, and the clacks and thuds diminished.

And Blaise looked at Regar in confusion, and received a shrug in return. Flic shook his head in bewilderment, and Fleurette turned up her hands in puzzlement.

“My lady Lot,” said Blaise, “can you not-?”

“Non, I cannot,” said Verdandi. “Yet this I can tell you for nought: Heed my rede, all of it, and make certain you do not send word prematurely, else the world will be fallen to ruin.” And with that dreadful utterance, again the sound of shuttles and battens intensified, and then vanished as did Lady Lot.

Reaper

Just after the noontide, Luc and Maurice came to a long slope leading down into a wide meadow, in which a rich stand of grain grew. High on the slope stood a massive oak, and ’neath its widespread limbs sat a very large man with a great scythe across his knees. As Luc and Maurice slowed to a trot and headed for the scarlet- and gold-leafed tree, the man stood and grounded the blade of his scythe and swept his hat from a shock of red hair and bowed.

Luc called out, “Bonjour, Reaper.”

“Bonjour, Prince Luc,” the Reaper replied as he straightened up and donned his cap. Huge, he was, seven or eight feet tall, and he was dressed in coarse-spun garb, as would a crofter be.

Luc reined to a halt next to the large man and dismounted, and Maurice followed suit, and both knight and guide began changing saddles to remounts.

“What news, my lord?” asked the Reaper.

“Ill word, I’m afraid, Moissonneur.”

“Ill word?”

“Oui. It seems the witch Hradian has come into possession of a token to set free the wizard Orbane from his imprisonment.”

“That is ill news indeed,” said the Reaper.

“If so,” replied Luc, “we will need all the aid we can summon.”

“My lord, I will come when the time is right.” Luc frowned at this odd turn of phrase, yet he said, “We will