Yesterday's Kings by Angus Wells

benign. Light filtered down through the branches above and sparkled on the spring, which gurgled merrily, as if in accord with the gentle swaying of the ferns. Birds sang overhead, and insects buzzed through the lazy air, which was warm and soft, and rendered her sleepy.
    “I think,” she declared, “that I shall nap a while.” She felt tired after her restless night, and the warm air and the buzzing of the insects urged her to sleep. Indeed, the forest felt somnolent, as if all its sounds and patterns urged her to stretch out and close her eyes.
    Laurens nodded and settled against the bole of a massive oak. “I’ll keep watch,” he said.
    Abra stretched out on the springy grass and soon fell asleep.
    She wondered if she dreamed then, for it seemed that a soft voice whispered in her ear. It was not so different from the rustling of the leaves, or the lazy chatter of the insects, or the chuckling of the spring as it gurgled over the rocks. It was a comforting voice, and it called to her, urging that she rise and meet the speaker.
    It was so insistent that she rose—not sure if that were reality or dream—and walked toward the beckoning voice. She thought that she looked back and saw Laurens snoring against the oak. He held his sheathed sword in his arms, like a mother held her child, but he did not stir, and her feet seemed to make no sound on the forest sward as she followed the call.
    I must be dreaming, she thought.
    And then an entirely realistic voice, which at the same time was no more than the rustling of leaves, said, “No. I called you.”
    Abra started, knowing that she was now awake, and some distance from Laurens. She set a hand on the hilt of her belt knife and stared around.
    “Are you afraid of me? You shouldn’t be.”
    A face appeared, upside down, hanging from the branches of an oak. It was a handsome face, tanned brown as an autumn nut, surrounded by long brown hair, with startling eyes that glistened amusement to match the smile on the wide mouth. She drew her knife and opened her lips to shout for Laurens’s help.
    And bit off her cry as the face reversed itself, the owner swinging down from the confines of the tree to land lithely before her. He was still smiling as he bowed elegantly and said, “Welcome to the forest, my lady Abra.”
    “You know my name?” She held the dagger extended.
    He smiled—the gods knew, but his teeth were white—and said, “Cullyn told me. You are Abra, daughter of Bartram, who commands the stone place.”
    “Cullyn?” She remembered the young forester. “What does he know of me? And who are you?”
    “My name is Lofantyl.” This was accompanied by another extravagant bow. “I am the younger son of Isydrian, who is Vashinu of Kash’ma Hall, the southernmost of all Coim’na Drhu’s holdings.”
    “You’re a Durrym!” Abra held her knife firmer.
    “Indeed, I am,” Lofantyl agreed. “But I offer you no harm. In fact—”
    “Then why did you lure me away?” Abra gestured at the path she’d tracked through the bracken, and raised her blade.
    Lofantyl smiled. “Because I wished to talk with you.”
    His smile could dazzle. It was seductive, so Abra held her blade as she’d been taught, thumb to quillon so that the cut would go deep into the belly.
    “You should not fear me,” Lofantyl said. “I mean you no harm. I’ve seen you out riding, and …” He paused, his smile faltering for a moment. “I fell in love with you.”
    “What?” Abra stared at him, surprise overcoming fear. “You’re mad.”
    “With love. I’ve watched you, and …” An eloquent shrug.
    “But you don’t know me.” She shook her head, baffled and flattered and somewhat frightened. She wondered if he were mad, or played some game with her. Surely he’d used magic to speak into her dreams and bring her here, with Laurens sound asleep behind. So what might he plan? To carry her off, perhaps? Away into the fey lands, a captive? She held her blade