Lisane frowned. “But he is imprisoned and cannot get free, and so I think this must be a spurious reading. Perhaps I’d better try again.” She reached toward the layout to take up the cards, but hesitated. “What if it’s not spurious? Perhaps I’d better continue.” Again she began touching each card. “If Orbane somehow again threatens Faery, there seems to be hope, given the Chariot as well as the Star. Yet by their positions, it is such a slim hope.”
On she spoke, reading the wheels-the rings within rings within rings-but at last she reached the center of the circles.
Even so, she was not finished, for four cards were yet to come.
Lisane looked at the remainder of the deck, the cards not yet dealt, and said, “Now for the four primes, first the two which speak of things to be nigh the end.
“Cardinal premier,” said Lisane, and she turned up a card and laid it directly before her, just below the wheel; the card pointed toward the center. Even so, she sucked in air between clenched teeth, saying, “Devil, upright: a terrible omen, for it means ravage, violence, vehemence. It could be a dweller without, someone not permitted within.” Lisane glanced at the Magician in the center of the array. “Can it be Orbane?” Lisane took a deep breath and dealt the second card. “Cardinal deux,” and this time she laid it directly opposite and just above the wheel. “Death, reversed. This can mean death just escaped, partial change, or transformation. Even so, it can also suggest great destruction as well, and coupled with the Devil upright, I deem it signals a disaster none can avoid.” Lisane turned up another card and placed it just outside the left of the wheel. “Cardinal trois, Judgment, droit. Follow guidance to forge ahead. Yet, with the array laid out as it is, the guidance is most obscure. And here it is adjacent to the Naif, which would indicate one must think wisely and make the right choice. Ah, me, I wonder whether the destruction can be avoided if the choice is wrong and the guidance remains unresolved.”
Lisane took a deep breath and drew the last card and set it down outside the wheel to the right. “Cardinal quatre, the World upright. Triumph, but whose? The Devil or those who oppose? The Magician or the Knights? Yet with this King of Swords in the pattern, that could mean victory or defeat for the Knights, depending with whom the King is allied.” She studied the layout a bit longer, and then said, “Spurious or no, you are quite a puzzle.”
. .
It was just after dawn when a large bee buzzed down the length of the main street in the village of Ardon, followed by a man ahorse, galloping, with three steeds in tow: one was fitted with a small rack, several modest bags of provisions affixed thereon, and two were completely unladen. Down the main street they thundered, people rushing aside to get out of the way. And in a moment they were gone, leaving a wondering populace behind.
“Do you think this has anything to do with the message the Sprites brought?” asked one.
“Mayhap it was a kingsman on a mission dire,” said another.
“He wasn’t wearing a tabard, like most kingsmen do. Instead, sporting a tricorn, he was, and on a metal helm, no less.” Two beautiful and buxom, dark-haired, blue-eyed sisters who lived at the far edge of the village watched as the horseman galloped away.
“Oh, Romy, I do believe it was a knight errant, for I saw armor ’neath his cloak.”
“You are right, Vivette: armor indeed he wore. I wonder why he did not stop to dally?”
“Mayhap the other knight errants did not tell him of us.” Romy sighed. “Perhaps none told him of the manner of our. . hmm. . entertainment.”
“His loss,” said Vivette, plucking flowers to weave into her very long hair.
Romy, plucking flowers as well, sighed and said, “Ours too.”
. .
Nigh the noontide, Regar and Flic and Fleurette passed through a twilight border to come into a dismal mire, bogland left and right of the road, with cypresses and black willows and dark, gnarled oaks twisting up out from the quag, some trees alive, others quite dead. And from these latter, long strands of lifeless gray moss hung adrip from withered branches, as if the parasite had sucked every last bit of sustenance from the limbs, hence, not only murdering the host, but killing itself as well. ’Round the roots and boles of the trees and past sodden hummocks, scum-laden water receded deep into the dimness beyond, the yellow-green surface faintly undulating, as if some vast creature slowly breathed in the turgid muck below. Ocherous reeds grew in clumps and clusters, and here and there rotting logs covered with pallid toadstools and brownish ooze jutted out at shallow angles from the dark sludge, the swamp slowly ingesting slain trees. Mounded above the fen, the road itself twisted onward, into the shadowy morass ahead.
Within these miserable environs Regar stopped to change mounts, and he paid little heed to the surroundings, as he moved the black to the end of the line and switched the saddle to the bay.
But Flic nervously eyed the bog as from within there came soft ploppings and slitherings. What made these sounds, Flic could not see.
“Why are you uneasy?” asked Fleurette.
“Because this reminds me of the swamp that Lord Borel and I passed through on our way to rescue Lady Michelle. If it is anything like that one, we best be on our way, for there could be an invisible monster living herein.”
“It’s not invisible monsters we should worry about,” said Fleurette, pointing, “but those.”
Gnats and bloodsuckers and biting flies came swarming out from the bog, drawn by the odor of lathered horses.
But just as they reached the road, Regar jerked the cinch tight and leapt into the saddle, and with a “Yah!” away from the oncoming cloud he cantered, the road more or less following the line of the bee.
Slowly the way ascended, and the mire to either side diminished. Walking, trotting, cantering, varying the gaits to preserve the horses, by midafternoon Regar’s small group broke free of the swamp to come into low rolling hills. They paused by a clear-running stream to water the horses and to give them some grain and to feed Buzzer some honey.
Shortly, though, once again they took up the trek, and the sun slowly slid down the sky. As eve drew on, Buzzer flew back to the tricorn and landed. Flic said, “Time to find a good place to camp, for with night coming, Buzzer will soon be asleep.”
“How about under that great willow up ahead and off to the left,” said Fleurette.
“If it has a stream, well and good,” said Regar.
And so they rode toward the massive tree, the willow fully 192 / DENNIS L. MCKIERNAN
a hundred feet tall, its long swaying branches hanging down all
’round, highlighted by the red light of the setting sun. Beyond the dangling branches they could see the massive girth of the bole, perhaps fifteen or twenty human strides across, and some three times that around.
“Oh, look!” cried Fleurette. “A door and windows. Oh, my, what a place of wonder.”
There was indeed a door into the trunk, and it of a pale yellow hue; two windows on either side looked out on the world.
Willow-bark shutters, standing wide, graced both windows and the door.
Regar stopped just outside the long limbs, and dismounted.
Even as he did so, the door opened, and therein stood a lithe, redheaded woman. Her face was narrow, her eyes emerald green and aslant, her skin alabaster, tinged with gold.
“Bon soir,” she said. “I have been expecting you.” Regar stepped ’round from the opposite side of the horse to greet her, and at one and the same time, both he and she drew in sharp breaths.
Never had he seen someone so beautiful.