Alain tossed Dame Chance onto the table. “Shall we have another go?”
As they gathered the cards for the next game, Camille took one up-the one called the Naif-and considered it, then held it out for the others to see. “These trumps-the choices of names and their depictions-are quite strange, one might even say arcane.”
Celeste smiled faintly. “Arcane indeed, Camille, for ’tis said that one can see the future through the use of these cards, though not clearly.”
Camille raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
Celeste pursed her lips and shook her head. “I am not certain, yet I believe one lays out the cards in a special arrangement and interprets each fall of a card, for by its suit and rank, its orientation, where it stands in the array, and other such signs it is said the future can be divined.”
“Sounds like a mage art,” said Liaze.
“Or the trick of a mountebank,” said Borel, then gestured at the card Camille held, “or the belief of a naif.”
Camille dropped the trump onto the pile and frowned. “If a simple spread of cards can portend what is to come, would that not mean all is predetermined, that all that has ever been and will ever be is already set in stone?”
Celeste held up a finger. “Mayhap the fall of the cards simply shows a possible future, one that is potential.”
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.
14
Over 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
