Once Upon a Summer Day Read Online Free PDF Page A

the apple tree. A waxing gibbous moon shone down through leaves shifting in a faint breeze, and a scatter of pale light rippled upon his face.
    Somewhere at hand chirped a cricket.
    Nearby, Trot and Shank stood ward, and they both looked toward Borel, sensing he was awake. Slate, too, roused and lifted his head, and he and the ward waited. Yet Borel gave no command, and soon Slate lowered his head and closed his eyes, and Trot and Shank shifted their attention to the darkness beyond the camp.
    With a sigh, Borel turned on his side, but it was a long while ere he once more fell adoze.

6
    Autumnwood

    S leeping but fitfully, at last Borel gave up his attempts at restful slumber and arose just ere the dawntime, and after a meal of apples and a bit of bread left over from the loaf he had taken from the bakery in Summerwood Manor, he and the Wolves set out.
    Dawn came and slowly vanished as the sun rose into the morning sky, and its angling light revealed an autumnal forest adorned in yellow and gold and amber and bronze, in scarlet and crimson, and in roan and russet and umber. Through this flamboyant woodland passed Borel and the pack, trotting at the steady pace Borel had set the day before.
    In midmorn they came to a long slope leading down into a wide meadow, and a rich stand of grain grew therein. High on the slope stood a massive oak, and ’neath its widespread limbs sat a large man with a great scythe across his knees. As Borel headed for the scarlet- and gold-leafed tree, the man stood and grounded the blade of his scythe and swept his hat from a shock of red hair and bowed.
    Borel called out, “Bonjour, Moissonneur.”
    “Bonjour, Seigneur Borel,” the reaper replied as he straightened up and donned his cap. Huge, he was, seven or eight feet tall, and he was dressed in coarse-spun garb, as would a crofter be.
    Borel called a halt to the run, and set his Wolves to hunting, though by growled word he forbade them to go into the field of grain, for he would not have any of the wee gleaners within accidentally taken for game. As the Wolves trotted away, Borel turned to the man and gestured to the ground and both sat beneath the autumn-clad oak. “How goes the day, Reaper?”
    “The sun rises, passes overhead, and then sets,” rumbled the large man, a grin twitching his lips.
    Borel laughed and shook his head. “Still the wit, I see.”
    “And you, my lord,” said the reaper, “how fare you?”
    “Well, I could say on two legs,” replied Borel, but then he sobered. “I have been having strange dreams of late.”
    “Dreams?”
    “Aye, of a demoiselle in some distress, but what that misfortune might be, I cannot say.”
    “Mayhap instead of a dream, Lord Borel, it is a sending.”
    “If it is, it is of little use, for I cannot aid when I know not where she is.”
    “Have you no inkling?”
    “She is in a stone chamber, and beyond the windows hover endless daggers.”
    “Daggers in the air? How can that be?”
    “Who knows the ways of dreams, Reaper?”
    “A seer, my lord, a seer.”
    “Aye, you are right, Reaper. Mayhap when I reach the Winterwood, I will consult with one.”
    The big man nodded. “A wise choice, Lord Borel.” He paused a moment and then asked, “And there is no more to this vision?”
    “In the dream I hear a cricket chirping, or a squeaking of some sort. Yet it simply could be that somewhere near my place of rest a real cricket sang for a mate.”
    “Hmm . . .” The reaper frowned. “A cricket does not seem to have a bearing on a maiden in trouble. Perhaps more will come if the sendings continue. On the other hand, if these are not sendings, perhaps there is something of import in recent days that could explain your dream, something dwelling on your mind.”
    Borel sighed. “The only thing of note is that Alain and Camille are to be married soon, and of late I have been pondering on whether or no I will ever find a truelove as did he. Yet if that has ought to do with this