Once more Hradian took to the air, smirking unto herself and saying, “They don’t call them a murder of crows for nought.” And then she burst into laughter and flew on into the gathering dark.
Sighting
Wakened by a cacophony, two Sprites scrambled to their feet on the leaf where they had bedded down for the night. Tiny they were, no more than two inches tall, and their diaphanous wings quivered, the Sprites ready to spring into flight. But for a scabbard belted at one Sprite’s waist and a speck of a moonstone on a miniscule chain ’round the neck of the other, male and female, they were completely unclothed. And at the sight of a black flock circling, the male drew a wee silver epee from the sheath at his side.
“Crows, Fleurette, crows! Quickly, cover Buzzer. Hide her from the crows.”
As the female snapped a leaf from a branch and used it to hide the bumblebee asleep on their green bed, she said, “What is it, Flic? What is going on?”
Away flew the ebon birds, scattering this way and that, and both Fleurette and Flic crouched down. Flic said, “I don’t know what this is all about, but there’s someone on the tor, and-” Of a sudden he gasped. “ ’Tis a witch, Fleurette. She just took to flight.”
Both watched as a dark figure, silhouetted against the twilight sky, soared upward, the lace and long danglers of her black dress flowing out like wisps of gloom.
“Oh, my,” said Fleurette. “I think that might be Hradian.”
“How know you this?”
“Camille once described Hradian’s flight as a sinister knot of darkness, streaming tatters and tendrils of shadow flapping in the wind behind.”
Flic’s eyes widened in remembrance. “Oui, but you are right, my love; Borel once described her to me. Oh, my, Hradian in the Springwood. We need warn Celeste of the witch in her demesne. Perhaps I should fly onward to the Castle of the Seasons, yet, with all these crows about, I cannot leave you behind.”
“Those murdering birds are gone,” said Fleurette, and she gestured toward the sleeping bee and added, “but it’s Buzzer we cannot leave behind.”
Flic glanced toward the nearby twilight border looming up in the darkness. “I could carry her across the bound and leave her in a safe place with you, and then fly on to the castle. The crows are not likely to come across, especially with night now falling.”
“Well and good,” said Fleurette. “And first thing in the dawning, Buzzer and I will take to wing and follow.” Cradling the sleeping bumblebee and struggling a bit to fly-
for the insect was nearly as large as the Sprite-Flic followed Fleurette through the dark marge, Buzzer shifting uneasily in the embrace yet not awakening. On the far side of the border, Fleurette led Flic to a broad oak, and out at the end of one arm of the tree she found a suitable leaf to settle on.
Flic set Buzzer down, and then offered Fleurette the epee, but Fleurette refused, saying, “Buzzer will be my protector, cheri. Go you now, and swiftly, for a witch to be in the Springwood is an ill omen.”
Flic nodded and kissed Fleurette and leapt into the air, and soon he was lost against the deepening purple of the failing twilight sky.
Traces
“Perhaps I am wrong,” said Celeste. “Mayhap the crow Scruff chased wasn’t Hradian, and she is yet on the grounds.” Regar turned to Camille. “This Hradian, she is the witch you spoke of?”
“Oui,” said Camille.
“And this crow: you think it was she?”
“Oui.”
“Mayhap you are correct, then, for as I stood with the onlookers on the hillside, all of us waiting for the joust, I did see a crow winging dawnwise, and it flew within a strange aura.”
“You can see auras?” asked Liaze.
“Oui. . ’round charmed things, that is. Perhaps it’s my grand-pere’s blood that lets me see.” Regar looked at Camille and added, “That wee bird in your pocket, my lady, he bears a faint red lambency, and I deem he is somehow enchanted.” Even as Camille frowned and looked down at sleeping Scruff-“And the crow. .?” asked Celeste.
“A dark glow,” said Regar.
Celeste sighed. “Still, the winging bird might not have been Hradian, hence she might yet be on the grounds; if so, we must find her.”
Alain turned to Borel. “Brother, your Wolves: they might be able to scent her.”
“Mais oui,” said Borel. “Come, Luc.”
“What of weapons and horses?” said Luc.
“We’ll deal with those,” said Roel, and he turned to his brothers. “Laurent, Blaise, fetch my sword and gather weapons for all-bows, arrows, blades-and meet me at the stables, for I go to ready the steeds.”
“My bow lies yon,” said Regar, pointing to where his goods lay at one side of the chamber. “And I’ll aid Roel with the mounts.”
As the men hied away, “Come, Alain,” said Borel. “The Bear can scent better than my Wolves, for they are sight hunters.”
“What of us?” asked Celeste. “I’m handy with a bow, as is Liaze.”
Camille shook her head. “We must not alarm the contestants, all of us rushing off at once. We three should remain and now and then pass among the players and try to look calm.”
“I must tell Father,” said Liaze, looking across the sundry pairs. “Ah, he is yon.”
“When he finishes his match, take him aside and speak softly,” said Celeste.
. .
In the mustering shadows of the gathering dusk, Luc and Borel and Alain stepped into the courtyard, and, as if anticipating the need, waiting stood Borel’s Wolves. Bearing a lantern, out over the bridge spanning the dry moat they went, and across the great grassy clearing toward the dawnwise end of the arena, where stood Luc’s tent, his pennant-a red rose on a blue field-flying in the twilight above.
When they reached it and stepped inside, Borel spoke strange words to the Wolves-a mixture of growls and half-formed gutturals-and he struck several postures. The pack spread wide, their noses in the air and to the ground.
“What did you tell them?” asked Alain.
“I reminded them of Rhensibe, and asked if there was a similar scent herein.”
“Ah,” said Alain, and he watched as ’round the interior the Wolves snuffled, their lantern-cast shadows sliding against canvas. Slate growled at the threshold of the entrance and looked up at Borel.
“He senses something,” said Luc. “Is it the smell of a sorceress?”
“Perhaps,” said Borel, and he growled another word.
Slate gave a deep-throated rumble.
Borel grunted and said, “Slate thinks it is somewhat like that of the witch he and the pack tore asunder.” Luc groaned.
Again Slate growled, and he rumbled and postured, Borel frowning, watching carefully. Finally, the Wolf fell silent.
“What did he say?” asked Alain.
“It is indeed Hradian,” said Borel.
Out from the tent loped the Wolves, and ’round to one side, with Borel and Alain and Luc following.
“How do they know it’s Hradian?” asked Luc.
“Slate said, ‘Bitch two-legs bad, rock den bad, trees bad, wind bad, leader gone, bitch two-legs gone.’ ”
“How does that point to Hradian?” asked Luc.
“It had slipped my mind,” said Borel, “but the pack had encountered Hradian before.” Alain’s eyes widened in recall. “Ah, oui, when you went to her cote near the blighted part of the Winterwood, and she used one of Orbane’s amulets to send you flying away on a black wind and into imprisonment in a Troll dungeon.”
“Then the ‘bitch two-legs bad’ is Hradian?” asked Luc.
Borel nodded. “Given the context, it can be no other.” At the side of the tent the pack milled about.
“Merde!” spat Borel. “They’ve lost the trail. Too many people have come this way, and their taints overlie Hradian’s.”