Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Foreword
Chapter 1 - Knock
Chapter 2 - Offer
Chapter 3 - Decision
Chapter 4 - Springwood
Chapter 5 - Winterwood
Chapter 6 - Deliverance
Chapter 7 - Autumnwood
Chapter 8 - Summerwood
Chapter 9 - Mansion
Chapter 10 - Masque
Chapter 11 - Alain
Chapter 12 - Idyll
Chapter 13 - Siblings
Chapter 14 - Journey
Chapter 15 - Homecoming
Chapter 16 - Candle
Chapter 17 - Desolation
Chapter 18 - Mere
Chapter 19 - Grass
Chapter 20 - Giant
Chapter 21 - Staff
Chapter 22 - Everted
Chapter 23 - Bower
Chapter 24 - Images
Chapter 25 - City
Chapter 26 - Bard
Chapter 27 - Firedrake
Chapter 28 - Future
Chapter 29 - Present
Chapter 30 - Past
Chapter 31 - Winds
Chapter 32 - Commission
Chapter 33 - Asea
Chapter 34 - Citadel
Chapter 35 - Challenge
Chapter 36 - Pledge
Chapter 37 - Restoration
Chapter 38 - Mazes
Epilogue: Afterthoughts
Praise for Silver Wolf, Black Falcon . . .
“McKiernan brings his Mithgar series to a triumphant conclusion. . . . McKiernan’s fans—as well as those of Terry Brooks and Terry Goodkind—will enjoy his usual array of thin-skinned, power-mad evildoers; hearty, honorable good guys; and grand magical fireworks.”
—Publishers Weekly
“In the tradition of Tolkien, the author blends lore and prophecy with vivid battle scenes and emotional drama. A tale of high fantasy that should appeal to most fans of epic fiction.”—Library Journal
“A page-turner.”
—VOYA
. . . and for Dennis L. McKiernan’s other bestselling Mithgar novels
“Once McKiernan’s got you, he never lets go.”
—Jennifer Roberson
“Some of the finest imaginative action. . . . There are no lulls in McKiernan’s story.”
—The Columbus Dispatch
“McKiernan brews magic with an insightful blend of laughter, tears, and high courage.”
—Janny Wurts, author of Grand Conspiracy: Alliance of Light
“McKiernan’s narratives have heart and fire and drive. His images and characters bring the power of the archetypes to his exciting adventure stories.”
—Katherine Kerr, author of Days of Blood and Fire
“Heroic fantasy on the grandest possible scale.”
—Susan Shwartz, author of Cross and Crescent
“Romance and disaster and plenty of magic—everything that makes a good, old-fashioned adventure story.”
—Kate Elliott, author of Child of Flame
“Provocative. . . . Appeals to lovers of classic fantasy—the audience for David Eddings and Terry Brooks.”
—Booklist
By Dennis L. McKiernan
Caverns of Socrates
The Mithgar Series
The Dragonstone
Voyage of the Fox Rider
HÈL’S CRUCIBLE:
Book 1: Into the Forge
Book 2: Into the Fire
Dragondoom
THE IRON TOWER:
Book 1: The Dark Tide
Book 2: Shadows of Doom
Book 3: The Darkest Day
THE SILVER CALL:
Book 1: Trek to Kraggen-cor
Book 2: The Brega Path
Tales of Mithgar (a story collection)
The Vulgmaster (the graphic novel)
The Eye of the Hunter
Silver Wolf, Black Falcon
ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England
Published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.
Copyright © Dennis L. McKiernan, 2001
All rights reserved
Designer: Ray Lundgren
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
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eISBN : 978-1-101-11926-6
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To all lovers, As well as to lovers of fairy tales
And to the many folks who grace
The Encyclopedia Mithgar,
The Halls of Mithgar,
and
The One-Eyed Crow
Acknowledgments
My dear Martha Lee, my heart, I appreciate and am grateful for your enduring support, careful reading, patience, and love.
Additionally, thank you, Tanque Wordies Writers’ Group, for your encouragement throughout the writing of Once Upon a Winter’s Night.
Lastly, thanks goes to Christine J. McDowell for her help with the French language. I would add, though, that in all the various words and phrases of the several languages the reader will find herein—Arabic, Irish, Japanese, Latin, and Norwegian, as well as French—any errors in usage are entirely mine. Of course, the errors in English are mine as well.
Foreword
I don’t remember when I heard my first fairy tale or even what it was. It could have been Hansel and Gretel, for I did act the part of Hansel in a school play when I was but six.
Nor do I recall when I actually read my first fairy tale, though I do remember checking out fairy-tale books from the library when I was nine or so. I read through the full spectrum of the Andrew-Lang-edited fairy-tale books, and I do mean “spectrum,” for the books were called The Crimson Fairy Book, The Red Fairy Book, The Pink Fairy Book, and on through Orange, Yellow, Olive, Green, Lilac, Blue, Violet, Grey, and Brown: i.e., the spectrum.
I loved those books, for, just as a Captain Future Quarterly had launched me into science fiction, these launched me into fantasy.
But, you know, it is my contention that many of the old fairy stories were severely shortened as the number of bards dwindled, and the people who were left to remember and pass on the tales simply didn’t have the o
ratory skills to tell stories of epic scope. Too, we also know they were altered to help promote different religions from those in the societies where told, hence they were shortened merely to get the point across.
And so, it is my thesis that back when bards and poets and minstrels and the like sat in castles or in hovels or mansions or by campfires, or entertained patrons as they travelled along the way, surely the original stories were much longer, with many more wondrous encounters than the later, altered versions would have them be. After all, in the case of a bardic storyteller, she or he would hold audiences enthralled for long whiles with accounts of love and seduction and copious sex and bloody fights and knights and witches and dragons and ogres and giants and other fantastic beings all littering the landscape of the tale as the hero or heroine struggled on.
Don’t get me wrong, I am not putting down the altered versions of the fairy tales; after all, I loved them. What I am saying instead is I’ve always felt that many wonders were lost by the shortening and altering of each folk and fairy tale to fit a different song from that which the old bards and my Celtic ancestors would sing.
For this reason, I decided to tell a fairy tale (in the traditional manner and style) as I would like for it to have been told had I either been one of those bards or one of those in the audience. Consequently, in telling the story herein, just as I think did happen in the past, I too have amended the tale, adding back those things—sex and fights and other such trappings—which might or might not have been in the original telling once upon a time long, long ago in a castle far, far away.
The tale I chose is one of my favorites, one you can find in The Blue Fairy Book, one that is said to have come from the Norse. But, you know, I always thought that this particular story should have come from the vales of France—it is a romance, after all, and who better than the French to have started it? Hence, sprinkled here and there throughout my telling, you’ll find French words to give it that flavor. You’ll also find other languages scattered therein, but the seasoning of French is strong.
By the bye, in my version of The Blue Fairy Book this story is but eleven pages long. I thought that much too short, and, as is apparent, I did lengthen it a bit.
Dennis L. McKiernan
Tucson, Arizona, 2000
It seems one cannot see the full flow of time lest one starts at the beginning.
1
Knock
They lived in a one-room, stone cottage on the edge of Faery, there where the world ends and the mystical realm begins, there where golden sunshine abruptly becomes twilight all silver and grey, there where night on one side instead on the other is darkness, sometimes absolute, sometimes illumined with a glorious scatter of bright stars and silvery moonlight, sometimes illumined by small, dancing luminosities atwinkle among hoary trees, there where low, swampy lands and crofters’ fields and shadowed forests on this side change on that side into misty fens and untilled meadows and deep, dark, mysterious woods.
There at the edge of Faery . . .
There at the edge of the world . . .
There where they lived in days long past, when the mystical yet touched the real.
They were a large family—father, mother, six daughters, and a son—scratching out a mean living from a meager plot of land on this side of the marge where the world ended and Faery began. Yet the meek father and bitter mother and their six daughters—ranging in age from twenty to sixteen and in manner from whining to cheerful and sweet—and their uncomplaining young son of nine managed to eke out a bare existence from the scant land and to make do with what they had. Although they had enough to eat, beyond that they did not live well, working the poor soil, laboring hard, father and mother and daughters. As to the son, he was quite sickly, yet even he did what he could, though he did tire most easily and seemed always out of breath. It was but a scrape of land, standing remote at the edge of the world, and passed down through generations from poor fathers to equally poor sons. Neighbors they had none, the nearest croft miles away, the town even farther. None of the daughters was married, and no dowry did any have, and no suitors came to call, living in poverty and isolation as the daughters did. And so they were yet maidens all, though in face and form quite fair, especially the youngest with her golden hair, who often sang in a voice that would put the larks to shame as she worked in the field near the woods, there on the edge of Faery.
But then . . .
. . . Once upon a winter’s night . . .
“Oh, Papa, listen to the wind howl,” said Camille, raising her head from the hand-carved game of échecs over which she and Giles pondered, some of the shaped pieces arrayed on the squares of the board, other pieces sitting to one side, captured and no longer in play.
“Howl indeed, and I am freezing,” grumbled dark-haired Lisette, eldest of the six sisters, hitching the blanket tighter ’round her shoulders, then huddling closer to the meager fire and reaching out with her cold hands.
The chimney moaned as would a lost wraith, and the bound thatch across the sparse beams above rattled and thumped and shook like a rat in a terrier’s jaws, and dust drifted down to swirl about in the darts of air whistling in through chinks in between stones in the walls.
“Move back, Lisette,” snapped Joie and Gai nearly together, the twins in their shared blanket crowding inward, Gai adding, “you are taking all the heat for yourself.” Colette and Felise chimed in, agreeing, at the same time crowding inward as well.
“Now, now, mes filles,” began the father, “do not bicker. Instead—” but his words were cut short.
“Complain they should, Henri,” snapped the mother, Aigrette, her downturned mouth disapproving, her glaring blue eyes full of ire as she pulled at the blanket she shared with him. “I told you time and again this summer to mortar the gaps, but you didn’t, and now the wind blows as fiercely within this hovel as it does without.”
As the tempest rattled the plank door, through the firelight the father looked about the mean dwelling, with its hard-packed clay floor and rough, field-rock walls and its aging and thinning reed roof. This single room was all they had, a fireplace in one corner, now crowded ’round by the family on three mismatched chairs and a wobbly, three-legged stool and a small, splintery bench. Near the fireplace stood an inadequate worktable for the preparation of meals, such as they were, with a wretched few pots and pans and utensils hanging from the beams above. Several rude shelves on the wall at hand held a small number of wooden bowls and dishes and spoons. A water bucket sat on a shelf as well, a hollowed-out gourd for a dipper hanging down from the bail. To one side of the fireplace stood a tripod holding a lidded iron kettle dangling empty. Swaying in the shadows above, strings of beans and roots and turnips and onions and leeks and other such fare depended from the joists. Ranged along the walls stood a cot for the boy and three beds, two of which were stacked—upper and lower, shared by three girls each—and in the center of the room stood the table on which they ate, one short leg propped on a flat stone to keep the whole of it from rocking. Pegs here and there jammed into wall cracks held what few garments they owned, and by the door a meager coat for braving the cold hung over a single pair of large boots. In one corner a coarse burlap curtain draped from a rough hemp cord, behind which sat a wooden chamber pot, in truth nought but a bucket, though it did have a lid.
The father sighed and stroked his care-lined face, for they would spend much of the remainder of the winter jammed together in this insufficient, single room—bickering, fighting, glowering at one another in sullen ire, or sunk in moody silences—for in the cold season the out-of-doors was brutal, and the meager clothes they wore would not protect them from the bone-deep, bitter chill. Even indoors as they were, they kept warm only by huddling within well-worn blankets, and these they had to share.
As the wind shrieked ’round the house and battered as if for admittance, in the dim shadows beyond the clustered fireside arc of family Camille said, “Giles, I shall win in four moves.”
“W
hat?” exclaimed the lad, staring at the board, perplexity in his hazel eyes. “You will? Four moves?”
Reaching out from the blanket they shared, Camille slid a miter-topped piece diagonally along three unoccupied squares and into the occupied fourth. “Hierophant takes spearman. Check. Now, Frère, what is the only move you have?”
Giles studied the board and finally said, “King takes hierophant,” and he smiled his crookedy smile.
“Yes,” replied Camille. “Then my warrior takes this spearman. Check.”
After a moment, Giles said, “This spearman takes your warrior.”
Camille nodded. “Now, with that spearman moved, tower takes tower. Check.”
“Oh, I see,” said Giles. “Then I have no choice but to move my king here, but then you reveal the mate by—” Of a sudden, Giles broke into racking coughs.
Camille wrapped the blanket tighter around Giles’s narrow shoulders, yet he gasped and wheezed, unable to gain his breath. “Here,” said Camille, helping the boy to stand, “let me get you closer to the fire.”
As Camille shepherded Giles toward the hearth, “You just want to steal our warmth,” declared Lisette. “Well, I for one do not intend to move.” An immediate squabbling broke out among the girls, the mother joining in.
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