Once Upon a Winter's Night (17 page)

Alain said, “I am not at all certain that I would like to know the future, predetermined, potential, or no.”

“Why not?” asked Liaze, puzzlement in her amber gaze.

Alain pushed forth a hand, palm out. “For then I would perhaps try to change the outcome and make things even worse.”

“How so, Brother?” asked Borel.

“Well, if one knew what the future held, say, defeat or even victory, would he try less hard, or instead more so, depending on what he knew? And if he changed his conduct because of knowing, and thereby changed the outcome, would he not thwart Destiny, and thus perhaps upset the balance of all?” Alain fell silent and looked ’round the table at pondering faces. Then he reached out and laid his hand atop Camille’s and grinned, saying, “Besides, instead of knowing the future, I’d much rather be surprised.”

Camille felt her face flush, though she knew not why. As she reddened, Borel laughed, and Liaze tapped him on the wrist with her closed, yellow fan, though she, too, smiled. “Pay these crude men no heed, Sister mine. And you, Borel, shut up and deal.”

 

After dinner that night, to teach Camille a new dance they had Lanval gather up enough men and women of the household to make it more complete. The dance was called the Rade; it had much hand-to-hand, two-by-two graceful skipping and prancing about the floor in paired columns, as if travelling ahorse side by side, the women in one line, the men in another, hands between palm to palm. But they halted now and again, as if stopping to rest or water or feed the horses, or to take a meal of their own, or perhaps merely to stretch their legs, or simply to stop for pleasure, and here they stepped about in small circles in groups of four, two men and two women in each group, with much circling and bowing and curtseying involved. And the hall was filled with music and gaiety, for not often did such entertainment come.

 

That night in bed, Alain simply held Camille closely. “There is one more attempt on the morrow,” he whispered. “That of Hradian the witch.”

He said no more, and Camille did not ask.

 

The next afternoon, Hradian rode away, her shoulders sagging down.

 

The following day, in early morn, so did Celeste and Liaze and Borel go, setting out for their respective demesnes: they embraced Camille and whispered their farewells and then rode forth, defeat in their postures also. Whatever they had come for, whatever they had hoped for, it had not occurred, for all had said good-bye to Alain the eve before, unshed tears glittering in their eyes.

With the Bear at her side, Camille stood on the portico and watched as they made their way up the slope and beyond. And when she could see them no longer, she sighed and briefly hugged the Bear, then turned and went within, and Lanval closed the door behind. The Bear stood a long while after, looking at the far hill where they had gone. Finally he, too, took in a deep breath and let it out, then turned and went away toward the maze.

O
ver the next several months as mortals would count the days, more masters of the arcane came—some wearing rune-scribed robes, others dressed in splendid finery, still others in nought but rags. Some were haughty, some were meek, some were placid or wistful, and yet others muttered unto themselves and peered about in suspicion, and some were atwitch and flinched away from things only they could see. And when they came, Camille would watch Alain’s expectations rise, only to plummet again, and she knew that whatever was afoot, it had to do with the dilemma he faced—perhaps related to the masks he wore, perhaps to the disappearance of his sire and dam, perhaps something else altogether—but of which he would reveal nought. Whatever it was, it seemed to be a secret everyone knew but her.

And yet, though each of these wizards and seers and sorcerers and witches and warlocks and other such magi came bearing promise—be they haughty or meek or given to fits or other strange oddities—each went away slumped in defeat.

Alain would fall into a state of dejection as well, and Camille would fret about him, yet by no manner did she allow her concern to show, hoping instead her cheerful normalcy would break his glum mood.

And as for the Bear, he would disappear whenever these enchanters came—
Ever since that terrible person Caldor scared him, I think he doesn’t trust folk of this ilk. No wonder he’s not about.
The next day, though, he would show up again, as if he knew when they were gone.

It was a great enigma as to what the magi might be attempting, and ordinarily, given a riddle, a puzzle, or a mystery, Camille would be delving for an answer. Yet because of what Alain had said in the past, and because she trusted him without reservation, she deliberately did not seek resolution, but instead set it apart, such that most of the time she did not think of it at all.

And so the months passed and visitors came and went, and the affairs of the estate carried on:

Camille and the Bear continued to take lunch together at her favorite gazebo, she speaking of this and that. Camille also spent time with various members of the household staff, planting or sewing or occasionally overseeing other tasks; in general, though, Lanval kept things in order, including the sending of the annual stipend of gold to Camille’s family, along with her spoken message of love, for none in her family could read or write, and so a letter was not sent. And Camille and Alain took pleasure together, or, now and again, attended to the solemn affairs of the Summerwood Principality, and in all that time Alain had to deal with but one quite serious case. . . .

 

“My lord, I have come before you to see justice done,” said the woman, down on her knees in the candlelit chamber, the prince sitting on his throne on the dais above, with Camille seated at his side. “They slaughtered my man.”

At these words Camille gasped, though Alain glanced at Lanval, who nodded.

“Murdered Fricor outright and for no reason at all, but that of the skin of a cat,” added the woman, bitterly.

“Killers seldom slay without cause, Lady,” said Alain, his grey eyes gone flinty within the black mask he wore, “and you have named the skin of a cat. Who did this thing?”

“They, them, those without,” spat the woman, jabbing a thumb over her shoulder. “Those outside this hall.”

Now Alain turned to Lanval. “The accused are here?”

“Yes, my prince,” replied the steward. “ ’Tis Lord Kelmot and his sons.”

“Bring them forth.”

Lanval tapped a small gong, and at its sound two liveried footmen swung wide the doors to the throne chamber, and Camille gasped again, for marching inward came three tiny beings, no taller than a foot or so. And they were accoutered in brown leather breeks and brown leather boots, straps of leather crisscrossing their otherwise bare chests. Brown was their hair and hanging down their backs, with a strip of leather across each brow to hold it out of their eyes. Quivers of arrows were strapped to their thighs, and bows were affixed across their backs, and each one carried a spear in hand. In spite of their diminutive stature, quite savage they looked, and their strides conveyed a feral fierceness.

The woman on her knees scuttled aside. “Protect me, my lord,” she wailed.

Yet the three tiny beings marched straight to the foot of the dais and looked up at the prince, their eyes widening at the sight of the mask, but the one in the center glanced at Lanval and received a nod of assurance.

And now Camille could see that ritual tattoos of swirls and lines adorned their arms and chests and faces; what they meant, she could not say, yet it added to their savage aspect.

“You slew her man?” asked Alain.

“Aye, my lord,” replied the one in the center, his hand tapping the arrows at his hip.

“I told you,” screeched the woman, then flinched as all three tiny beings glowered at her. “See, even now they would slay me, too, and I haven’t done—”

A raised finger from Alain silenced the dame. “Lord Kelmot,” said Alain, addressing the one who had spoken, “you slew him because . . . ?”

“Because, Prince Alain, he slaughtered three of our lynx: at the first one, we said to him that he might have made a mistake. At the second one, we told him ‘No more.’ At the third one, we killed him.”

“See, I told you!” wailed the woman. “All for the skin of a cat, all for—”

Again the prince silenced her with a raised finger. “My lady, the lynx is protected within the Summerwood. In fact, in all the Forests of the Seasons. Your husband Fricor, if I recall, was a poacher brought before me apast.” Alain glanced at Lanval, who nodded. The prince turned back to the woman. “I told him at that time to forgo such ways, and it seems he did not heed. I deem justice here has been done by the Lynx Riders.”

“Oh, but what’ll I do?” moaned the woman. “Why should
I
have to go without for the disobedience of my man?”

Kelmot turned toward the dame. “You are the one who skinned the cats and scraped and cured the hides.”

“And
cooked
and
ate
the meat,” spat another of the tiny folk.

“And these were lynx!”
exclaimed the third, then hissed and raised a clawed hand at the woman, who scuttled farther away.

“Ah, Madam,” said Alain, “so then you are not completely innocent in this.”

“Would you have me starve?” wailed the dame.

“None starve in the Summerwood,” declared Lord Kelmot, “not with the bounty of the Autumnwood at hand.”

Now Alain turned to Camille. “My lady, what punishment would you advise I should decree against this dame?”

Camille but barely contained her dismay at being asked to judge the woman, down on her knees and wringing her hands and moaning. Furiously, Camille thought, and then she said, “My Lord Prince Alain, I would have you give her a gold piece”—protests rose to the lips of the Lynx Riders, but Camille spoke on—“and banish her from all the Forests of the Seasons.”

“No!” wailed the dame. “I would then have to work for my food and—”

“Silence, woman,” said Alain. He gestured toward Camille. “So she has said; so shall it be. You are banished forever from the Forests of the Seasons. You may take with you only those things which you can carry.” He then looked at tiny Kelmot. “My lord, would you and yours see that she is gone from these borders within a twelveday?”

“Gladly, my lord,” replied Kelmot, then he glanced at Camille and smiled, revealing a mouthful of catlike teeth. “A most fair judgement, my lady.”

And thus was justice done.

“Love,” said Camille down the length of the table, “altogether a year and some months have passed since the Bear brought me here, and yet it seems but yester, for these have been the happiest days of my life.”

“A year and some months? I didn’t know, and I am quite happy, too.”

Camille smiled, but silently added,
Save for the cloud which hangs over thee.

“Speaking of the months that have passed, have you ever wondered about time?” asked Alain.

“Time, my lord?”

“ ’Tis a great mystery to dwellers of Faery, for here it holds no sway.”

“How so, my lord, for do not events occur, things grow, days pass in Faery? And if so, then what is that but a measure of time?”

Alain laughed. “Ah, Camille, you are too clever by far, yet this is what I mean: indeed things do grow and days pass, but nought in Faery becomes overly aged, with the attendant infirmities that does bring. People do not wither and die of time’s rade, do not pass away into the dust of the years. All things in Faery simply are.”

Camille frowned. “But Alain, people do grow old in Faery. Look at Andre; he is a man of age.”

“Ah, but that is because he spent overlong in a place outside Faery, out in a mortal land where time does rule, and his age caught up to his years.”

“Oh,” replied Camille. “But what of those such as Jules? He is but a lad. Will he not age in Faery, not grow into his manhood?”

“Ah, there is the mystery of it, Camille. Jules will indeed age—though at a slower rate than in the mortal lands—up until he reaches his prime, and then he will not go beyond.”

“All part of the magic of Faery?”

Alain nodded. “Indeed.”

Camille paused and laid down her fork beside her plate. “Which reminds me, Alain: is the harvest eternal in the Autumnwood? If so, then how can that be? When grain is reaped, when crops are picked, what happens then? I mean, without winter to rest, spring to renew and seeds to be sown, and summer to ripen, how can autumn bring forth a harvest?”

“ ’Tis another mystery, that, my love,” replied Alain. “I think Borel’s winter demesne does somehow allow
all
the Forests of the Seasons to rest, and that Celeste’s Springwood somehow permits the renewal of all, as well as the sowing of—what?—not seeds, but rather
crop.
Too, my Summerwood somehow allows the ripening of the bounty that is to come, while Liaze’s demesne takes from them all and provides an eternal harvest. Things plucked or reaped in the Autumnwood—or in the other Forests of the Seasons as well—simply seem to . . . reappear.—Oh, not instantly, but after some while, and not as long as anyone is watching; but one day it will be there, as if it had been there all along, somehow overlooked or unseen. Beyond that, I cannot say aught, for ’tis of Faery in the Forests of the Seasons we speak; I add, however, that elsewhere in Faery, across its far-flung realms, other conditions apply, some of them quite uncanny.”