Once upon a dreadful time

uninvited into the hall, while others simply continued their elegant dance and paid him little or no heed.

Yet from the throne on which he sat, a redheaded male looked to see Regar enter, and his green eyes flew wide in astonishment, and he peered overhead as if seeing through the stone above. Then he gazed back at Regar and frowned in perplexity.

A corridor opened up among the dancers, and Regar walked through and to the foot of the dais, where he bowed low and said, “Your Highness,” for Regar’s grandmother had described this homme, and he could be none other than the King Under the Hill.

To the right of the Fey Lord sat a femme of incredible loveliness, her hair raven-black, her eyes sapphire blue, her flawless skin tinged with just a hint of gold, a tint held by all the Folk within the hall, a bit more so than Regar’s own hue.

Again Regar bowed and said, “My lady.”

Both King Auberon and Queen Gloriana inclined their heads in acknowledgment, and the High Lord signalled for silence, and the music stopped, as did the dancers. When quiet fell, he smiled and said, “I am surprised for ’tis yet daylight without, ONCE UPON A DREADFUL TIME / 231

and still you entered. Only those of great power might do so. I would have your name, Stranger.”

“I am Regar, of the Wyldwood, son of Lady Mirabelle and grandson of Lady Alisette, both of the Wyldwood as well.” At these words, the Fey Lord’s eyes again flew wide, this time in understanding, but the queen’s eyes narrowed, in understanding as well.

Auberon turned to his queen and said, “Do not hold him responsible for my misdeeds.”

A cold stare was her only response.

The king then turned back to Regar. “Now I realize how you could enter even though daylight graces the land above.”

“It is my blood, then?” said Regar.

“Indeed.”

“Quart-sang,” spat Gloriana.

Auberon glowered at her and then took a deep breath and turned toward his court and in a loud voice proclaimed, “I present to you Prince Regar, of the seed of my loins.” A surprised whisper muttered through the assembly, and, in spite of the queen’s icy mien, the lords and ladies bowed and curtseyed, many smiling, and some of the ladies cast covetous gazes upon the handsome prince.

“Take care they do not steal your heart away,” murmured the king.

“Fear not, my lord,” said Regar, “for it belongs to another.” At these words a gleam came into Gloriana’s eye, and she called out, “Let us have wine to welcome our guest.” Regar sighed and said, “I do apologize, my lady, but my mission is urgent and to partake of food and drink must wait, for time passes upon Faery above, and I would not be late to the war.”

The king frowned. “War?”

A stillness fell upon the court.

“Pah!” snapped the queen. “What have we to do with the petty squabbles of your kind? Nought, I say, nought. Nought whatsoever. Let you mongrels and humans slay one another until you are all dead. Perhaps then the mortal world will return to what it should be, to what it was before any of you came.”

Regar was stunned by the accusative bitterness of her words and the murmurs of agreement rippling through the court. Nevertheless, he said, “My lord, my lady, have you not heard?”

“Heard what?” demanded the queen.

“Oh, my lady, if war does come, it is not only humankind and the mortal world in peril, but the whole of Faery, too.” A gasp of horror now replaced the murmurs, and the Fey Lord said, “Your meaning?”

Regar sighed, then took a deep breath and plunged on: “A sevenday past, the witch Hradian, by cunning and guile, stole a key to the Castle of Shadows. She intends-” Regar’s words were drowned out by shouts of alarm and denial. The Fey Lord’s face blanched, and the queen looked at Regar agape.

Auberon held his hands up for silence, but it was a long while coming. When the uproar had run its course, Regar continued: “She intends to set Orbane free. Yet there is hope, for Sprites search for Raseri and Rondalo, and they might be able to intercept her. But, if the Drake and Elf are not found, and if the witch succeeds, then I am sent by King Valeray to urge you to arms, for surely the wizard will raise his armies of old and once again seek to master the whole of Faery.” Auberon turned to Gloriana, but ere he could speak, she called out, “My mirror! I must look in my mirror.” And she sprang to her feet and rushed away.

The Fey Lord motioned to Regar and commanded,

“Follow.”

Through long corridors they went, to finally come unto the queen’s chamber, and as they entered, Regar saw her standing before a tall silver mirror, her head bowed in deep concentration. Regar and Auberon stepped forward to flank the queen, her reflection between their two.

Of a sudden the image wavered, and slowly another formed.

It showed a tall, dark, hawk-faced homme who was speaking to a sly-eyed femme dressed in black, with trim and danglers hanging down like shadows streaming away.

Gloriana gasped and clutched Auberon’s arm, her face pale, nearly white. “Our son, our son. ’Tis our son.” But even as the likenesses formed, the man glanced up and

’round, and then he made a gesture, and the mirror went dark.

Auberon, his features grim, looked at Regar and said, “It is Orbane, and he is free.”

Visions

“Princess?”

Michelle turned to see Steward Arnot standing in the snow.

“Oui?”

“My lady, Vadun is here. He came with Armsmaster Jules.”

“Ah, then, I’ll be right there.”

As Arnot trudged away, Michelle signaled the pack au revoir, though what they interpreted was I go, for what the princess and the Wolves said to one another, though understandable, had slightly different meanings, such as Michelle’s posture for femme was taken as bitch by the pack, and vice versa.

Regardless, for the past three days not only had Michelle been intensely acquiring Wolfspeak, she had also learned from the pack some of the human words and silent hand-signals Borel had taught them all. In the beginning it had been painfully slow, but as her Wolfspeak vocabulary had grown, it had gone much faster. At times the entire pack had been involved; even Slate had deigned to speak with her.

As Michelle bade the Wolves “au revoir,” Slate turned to Dark and said: Master’s bitch two-legs cub-smart. Tears brimmed in Michelle’s eyes, and yet she had a great smile on her face, for never had any praise from her former human tutors made her as proud as Slate’s casual aside to Dark.

. .

Chelle hurried through the corridors to come to the blue room, where Jules and Arnot and Laurent waited with the guest. And as she entered, the princess paused, for Vadun was not like anyone Chelle had ever seen before: small, he was, child sized, and seemed to be dressed in nought but leaves and twigs. His hair, while clean, was unruly and long, reaching unto his waist, and though it was brown it had a greenish tint shimmering among the strands. His tilted eyes were green as well, though pale and translucent, as of the most delicate of jade. His face was narrow and his form slender, and his arms and legs lean. His smooth light brown skin seemed to match that of a young tree sprout, and his feet were shod in bark shoes. It was almost as if some small woodland being akin to a bush or a tree had somehow come to animate life. That such a creature lived in a realm of ice and snow was a mystery, one that Michelle, for reasons unknown, felt she had no right to delve into.

And as the princess entered the chamber, Vadun stood and bowed and said, “My lady.” His voice was soft, almost a whisper, as of a zephyr gently stirring foliage.

Michelle inclined her head and replied, “Voyant Vadun.” She took a comfortable chair and gestured to the