stepped back, along with Simone and Emile. The men and the two ladies mounted up, and, with a sliding of massive bars and the creaking of hinges, the gates of the castle were opened. With waves and calls of
And as the two ladies and their escorts rode away on their separate paths, through the early morning light on glittering wings came Sprites to report to the king.
. .
It was midmorning when Michelle and Jules and the warband crossed over into the Winterwood. Foxes looked up from their feasting, and scattered away into the snow-laden ’scape.
Michelle marveled at the litter of crows, yet she and the others paused not, but pressed on toward a number of small fires glimmering not far ahead, around which tiny folk clustered.
. .
Past the crow-slaughter at the starwise bound of the Springwood rode Avelaine and her entourage. And they came among small beings, the wee Root Dwellers, where birds roasting on spits filled the air with a meaty aroma. These diminutive fey folk, some unclothed, others not, many now adorned with black feathers, bowed and curtseyed gracefully as the sparse cavalcade fared by. As always, Avelaine marveled at the sight of them, with their quite exotic elfin features-long tipped ears and tilted eyes, eyes usually filled with mischievous gaiety. And she listened to their tiny, piping voices, sometimes mistaken for bird twitters by those who did not know better. Some doffed crudely stitched hats, revealing nearly bald heads, while others sported hair to the waist, or even to the anklebone. And as they bowed and curtseyed to Avelaine, she nodded and smiled in return, giving them their due. And through the long gauntlet of Root Dwellers, some yet bearing the weapons used in the slaughter, rode the lady and her escort, while spitted crows roasted above flames.
When the warband had passed out of earshot, Captain Anton turned to Avelaine and said, “Remind me, m’lady, never to make enemies of the wee ones, else I am a dead bird.” Then he roared with laughter, as did all his men, Avelaine joining in.
. .
And so as the sun rode up and across the sky and started its slow descent, in the Winterwood and the Springwood, warbands of men escorted ladies toward home, while elsewhere in Faery and riding across the sky a figure, streaming danglers and tatters like ephemeral shadows, flew swiftly toward her goal.
Pilgrimage
Leaving Crapaud behind to ward the cote, up and up above the swamp did Hradian fly, her besom firmly grasped as she straddled the long, thick shaft. No sidesaddle rider she, for it gave her no pleasure to do so, and instead she fully reveled in the joy of flight, riding as she did.
High up above the foetid morass she soared, above the miasma of rot and stench, and away sunward she darted, the Black Wall of the World her aim, though it lay far, far away.
Across the world of Faery did Hradian soar through the dark, the starry skies witness to her flight. O’er the swamp she flew, and leagues fell away behind her. Finally a twilight wall she crossed, and out from the realm of her mire. And still she flew onward as the night wheeled above, until came the faint light of dawn.
Still onward she pressed through twilight bound after bound, morning now lighting the way. And she soared o’er dark mountains and rivers and steads and cities, villages and forests and lakes, and barren wastes of ice or sand or rock all passing
’neath her broom. And yet to these she but barely paid attention, for she had flown since childhood, and all was as familiar as treading the same road over and over again. And so she little noted the clouds like foreign castles and great chateaus rising all ’round, nor other strange shapes these billows of the sky
took on-shaggy animals, long dragons, boars, horses, cattle, and droll faces of women and men. Nor did she see
And still through looming walls of twilight she flew, Faery borders, one after another, so many she lost count as the sun slid up the sky and across and down. Yet Hradian pressed on, her flight draining her of energy, for it took much out of her to maintain the spell. And besides, she had flown very far the past three days-all the way to and from Valeray’s demesne, and now, with but a short rest, onward to the Black Wall.
But at last, as the sinking sun touched the distant horizon, Hradian began to circle down, for in the distance ahead and looming up into the sky an ebon barrier stood; it seemed a black beyond black, so dark it was. Yet even though it was within easy flight, she had not the vigor to broach it this eve, for flying into the Great Darkness required almost as much arcane power as did her flight to come unto this place. Instead she spiralled down toward a small town below, where she would spend the night, resting and regaining her strength.
Down coiled Hradian and down, to finally come alight upon a knoll, the village a short walk beyond. She cast a glamour upon herself, and a young man with a stave in hand and pack on his back headed downslope through the dusk and toward the only hostel in the hamlet.
Bee Dance
After an overnight stay at Summerwood Manor, early the following morn Blaise and Regar and Flic and Fleurette and Buzzer took breakfast in one of the white gazebos sprinkled across the broad estate. The two men downed eggs and rashers and toast and butter and jams and good strong hot tea, while the Sprites and the bee alternated between honey and preserves, though both Flic and Fleurette also ate tiny bits of toast dipped in the sweets. The day was cloudless, the sky blue, and alongside the gazebo a clear and slow-flowing stream meandered, passing under the branches of a large willow overhanging the lucid water. A small cluster of black swans awkwardly waddled down the bank and entered the drift, where it seemed elegance overtook them as they coursed away downcurrent on an errand of their own.
As he watched the graceful dark birds, “The messenger falcons flew at dawn,” said Blaise. “Mayhap soon we’ll know whether others met up with one or more of the Fates.”
“If so,” said Fleurette, “we can expect more redes to confound us.”
“Non,” said Regar, “for you and Flic and Buzzer and I will be away by then.”
“Then you’re leaving for the halls of the Fairy King ere any falcons arrive?” asked Blaise.
Regar turned and looked past the manse and toward the stables beyond, where four horses were being readied for travel.
“Oui, for as Flic said yester, our mission cannot wait.”
“Even so,” said Flic, “I could tarry here for part of the day and learn the contents of whatever missives might come from one of the other demesnes.”
Fleurette shook her head. “Oh, Flic, you know Buzzer will not fly a course unless you are along. Besides, neither Regar nor I can speak Bee, and should we need to change direction, well, we’d be at a loss. Still, I could wait for messages to arrive and catch up with you later.”
As Flic’s face fell at the thought of leaving Fleurette behind, Regar said, “Non, Wee Flower, I think we should all go, for who knows whether or no falcons will ever come? There is this as well: with you starting out to find us a half day or more behind, you could easily stray from whatever line Buzzer takes, and even a small error can lead to a wide miss; non, Fleurette, I would not have you flitting about seeking us in a woodland, especially one where the witch’s crows are at large.”
“But most are massed at the starwise border,” said Fleurette.
Regar shook his head. “Even so, we know not what lies before us. Mayhap there are more along the way we will travel.” Fleurette glanced at the silver epee at Flic’s side and said,
“I could carry a thorn. Too, given the nature of our kindred Sprites, mayhap by now no crows remain
