Once Upon a Summer Day Read Free

the land, with Camille and Alain betrothed, the banns posted, and preparations for the wedding under way.
    Yes, all was well in these four realms, or so it seemed.
    But then . . .
    . . . Once upon a summer day . . .
     
    Out in the gazebo upon the wide lawn of Summerwood Manor, Borel sat and watched four black swans majestically gliding upon the wide, slow-running stream, the graceful birds keeping a wary eye upon the Wolves lying asleep upon the sward, all but the one who kept watch and eyed the swans just as warily, though a predatory gleam seemed to glint in the eye of the grey hunter. A balmy breeze stirred the silver of Borel’s shoulder-length locks as he leaned back in the wickerwork chair, his long legs stretched out, his soft-booted feet resting upon a padded footstool. From somewhere nearby came the hum of bees buzzing among garden blooms, and lazy clouds towered aloft in the cerulean sky and cast their quiet shadows down.
    How peaceful it was on this gentle day, and Borel closed his ice-blue eyes, just for the nonce, his mind drifting along with the building clouds. How long he remained thus, he could not say, yet there came a muted sound of . . . he knew not what.
    Borel frowned and opened his eyes, and then sat bolt upright, for the gazebo was changing, the floor turning to flag, the open sides to stone walls, even as he looked on in amaze. And beyond the windows of the now-stone chamber a seemingly endless number of free-floating daggers filled the air and blocked the light and cast a gloom o’er all.
    Opposite from him in the dimness stood a slim young lady, as if in meditation or prayer. Her head was bowed and her long golden hair fell down across the white bodice of her flowing dress. Her delicate hands were clasped together just below her waist. Across her eyes lay a black, gauzy cloth or mayhap a band of shadow, as of a dark blindfold, or so it appeared.
    And the lady quietly wept.
    Borel stood and stepped closer. “Demoiselle, why do you weep?”
    “Aidez-moi,” she said, her voice but a whisper. “Aidez-moi.”
    Borel jerked awake and found he was on his feet, and the wind blew hard and moaned through the filigree, the late-afternoon sky dark with the oncoming storm. Then the summer rain came thundering down, and Borel’s Wolves took shelter within. And while black swans sought refuge in the overhang of a streamside willow, Borel looked about, seeking . . . seeking, but not finding, even though it seemed there came to his ears an ephemeral echo of a desperate whisper flying past on the weeping air: “Aidez-moi.”

2
    Colloquium

    “I tell you, Alain, it seemed quite real.”
    Alain sighed. “A stone chamber surrounded by daggers and a blindfolded, golden-haired damsel within?”
    Borel nodded. “And she needs help.”
    They sat in the game room at a small table on which lay an échiquier, the pieces arrayed before them, the brothers only a few moves into the match, for, after Borel had unnecessarily lost one of his hierophants, Alain had asked what was it that distracted him, and Borel had told of the vision.
    From somewhere outside came the rumble of distant thunder as the remains of the storm moved away.
    “And you think it was a visitation and not a common dream?” asked Alain.
    “It seemed totally real at the time.”
    “And your Wolves . . . ?”
    “They were outside the gazebo and sensed nought, or so I deem, for they were not agitated.”
    “Hmm . . .” mused Alain, running his fingers through his dark hair. “One thing is certain: the gazebo did not remain stone, and perhaps never was. I think if there was a visitation, it was you going to her rather than the other way ’round.”
    Borel nodded and a silence fell upon the two of them, and once more distant thunder rumbled. Finally Borel said, “If it was but a dream . . . ?”
    “Then, Frère, there is nothing to worry about.”
    “Yet if she is real and in peril . . . ?”
    “Then I know not how you can help, for there is