“Where are the others?” whispered Camille.
“Many stopped just inside the gate,” said Lanval, “there to pitch camp and tend the horses, which will be stabled outside.”
“Outside?”
“Outside the walls.”
“Because . . .?”
“The Bear, my lady. The horses will not abide.”
“Oh. I remember. Renaud said such. But what about these steeds that come?”
“They will be stabled without as well.”
In that moment, grey shapes loped out from the shadows of the oaks, and another rider came, two or three more in his wake.
“Borel?” whispered Camille.
“Aye.”
“Are the horses not afraid of the Wolves?”
“Nay, my lady. Methinks they simply believe them to be large dogs.”
No more came from the lane, and Camille sighed in minor disappointment, for she would have liked to see the entire rade up close and in cavalcade.
As onward came the lead riders, “My lady . . .” said Lanval, canting his head toward the entry hall.
“All right, all right.” As Lanval stepped outward, Camille hurried back to the malachite-and-granite inlay and stood in the very center, and she pulled at the top of her gown, wondering at its low cut and the bustier beneath, which thrust her breasts up and closer together, accentuating the cleavage. But then she stood straight and waited, for, out through the hallway and beyond the corridor of servants, she could see the riders arrive, their horses skittish and sidle-stepping and footmen rushing to aid.
Moments later—“My Lady Camille,” called Lanval, now standing just inside the hall, “the Lady Celeste, Princess of the Springwood.”
As Celeste stepped down onto the marble floor, Camille saw before her a slender, willowy, seemingly fragile lady with light yellow hair and dressed in pale green riding garb, the hue nearly the match of Camille’s own jade gown. Celeste stepped to the granite root of the oak inlay and she and Camille curtseyed deeply to one another. Then Celeste straightened, her green eyes peering into Camille’s eyes of blue. “Oh, Camille, you are so beautiful,” she softly said, then stepped forward and gently embraced the girl, Camille returning in kind, and Celeste carried about her the faint fragrance of spring mint, which mingled with and somehow enhanced the subtle scent of roses clinging to Camille.
As Celeste released Camille and stepped aside, Lanval called, “My Lady Camille, the Lady Liaze, Princess of the Autumnwood.”
Smiling, auburn-haired Liaze, dressed in russet garb, stepped onto the floor of the hall. Taller and appearing more robust than Celeste, Liaze strode to the root of the oak, her amber eyes sparkling. Again Camille curtseyed deeply, Liaze likewise, and then they did embrace, the air about Liaze faintly adrift with the fragrance of apples, and Liaze whispered, “My Lady Camille, I am so glad to meet you at last.” Camille remained silent, for she had not been told nor did she know what to say.
As Liaze stepped aflank of Camille, Lanval called, “My Lady Camille, Lord Borel, Prince of the Winterwood.”
Dressed in grey, Borel stepped in, Wolves padding at his side. He stopped at the root of the oak and bowed low, his silver-white hair cascading. Camille curtseyed in turn. And about him was the aroma of . . . what?—snow? frost? He stepped forward, and took her hand and kissed it, his ice-blue eyes again appraised her face and form, just as he had done in the Winterwood, and Camille felt her cheeks flush as his gaze lingered on her décolletage. “My lady, you are even more stunning than I thought when first we met. And once more I say, ’tis no wonder Alain was smitten.”
To cover her embarrassment, “My lord,” she said, unable to think of ought else.
“My Lady Camille,” announced Lanval, “the Wizard Caldor, the Seer Malgan, the Witch Hradian.”
Camille’s eyes widened in alarm at these titles, and she looked up to see a tall, bald man in rune-marked blue robes step forward, a supercilious sneer on his face. He was flanked on one side by a reed-thin, sallow-faced man with lank, straw-colored hair, his hands tucked across and within the sleeves of his red-satin, buttoned gown, a man who whispered to unseen companions as he approached. Flanking the other side came a sly-eyed, leering crone accoutered in black, with black-lace frills and trim and danglers.
As they approached, Celeste murmured, “Fear not, Camille. They are here to help.”
When the introductions were complete, feeling quite awkward and unlearned, Camille said, “You must be weary after your journey.” She turned to find Lanval at hand. “Lanval, would you see the guests to their quarters?”
“Yes, my lady.”
But ere they departed, Liaze said, “What say in a candlemark or so, we all get together for a game of croquet?”
Camille frowned in puzzlement. “Croquet? Shepherd’s crook? Or do you mean the small cake?”
Liaze laughed. “No, no. ’Tis a game of long-handled mallets and wooden balls and wickets and the like.”
Turning away to cover her embarrassment, “Do we have such, Lanval?”
“Indeed, my lady. I will have the wickets and stakes set on the lawn.”
Camille turned back to Liaze. “I have never played such, yet I am willing to try.”
“Oh, it was great fun, Alain,” said Camille. “Would that you had been there to—”
“You should have seen her croquet Borel,” interjected Liaze, grinning.
Celeste’s green eyes twinkled. “Borel ended up chasing his ball down the center of the stream, your black swans highly upset at the intrusion.”
Camille’s hand flew to her mouth, but behind her fingers she grinned. “I didn’t mean to drive it there, truly, Borel.”
“Hmpfh,” snorted Borel, yet he smiled. “Next time I’ll send one of the Wolves, rather than jumping in myself. If truth be known, I didn’t realize it was that deep.”
The table rang with laughter, and finally Alain, masked this evening in white, shook his head. “Would that I had been there.”
Celeste’s gentle smile faded, and she softly said, “Perhaps soon, dear Brother, on the morrow or the next or the one after, for I have brought Caldor—”
“And I Malgan,” interposed Liaze, “and Borel finally found Hradian.”
Camille looked from face to face along the length of the board, yet a somber silence fell, and none said aught until Alain finally spoke: “After this meal is done, let us to the lavender room, where I shall play, and Camille and I will sing, that is if my love agrees.” He then looked at Camille at the foot of the table, and all eyes turned toward her. Somewhat flustered, she canted her head in mute assent.
“This is the way, dear,” said Liaze. She placed Camille’s hand slightly higher up on the bow. “Yes. Now these three fingers go here, one above the nock of the arrow, two below. Good. Now then . . .”
They stood on the lawn in the afternoon light, a shock of hay some twenty paces away, a broad target of concentric rings fixed thereon.
“Well and good, Camille. Now draw the arrow . . . all the way . . . yes, now inhale full and exhale half, then aim . . . and loose.”
Thnn!
The arrow missed target, haycock, and all, and flew past some twenty or thirty paces to skid through the sward. As Jules raced across the grass to fetch the shaft, Camille burst into giggles. “I think I’ll never master this, Liaze. I seem to be all—”
Whoom!
“What was that?” Camille turned about, seeking the source of the noise. Beyond the mansion, a violet cloud rose into the air.
Liaze frowned. “One of the mages—Caldor I believe.”
In that moment the Bear came dashing ’round the corner of the manor house and running toward the hedge maze. “Oh, my,” cried Camille, casting aside the bow and lifting her skirts and starting out after. “They’ve frightened my Bear.”
Later that day and after soothing the Bear, Camille saw gentle Celeste at a distance with Caldor, and they seemed to be arguing. Caldor made a violent gesture of negation, and, haughtily, he strode off. A time after, she saw Caldor and two attendants riding up the slopes and away from Summerwood Manor. What Celeste and the mage might have quarreled about, Camille could not say, for they had been too remote for her to catch their words, and Celeste did not enlighten her, though at dinner that eve . . .
“He failed, Alain. That’s all.” Celeste sighed. “Mayhap he is not as powerful as we’ve been led to believe.”
“I think it was he who scared my Bear,” added Camille. “And if so, then I, for one, am glad to see him go.”
“I was hoping he would succeed,” said Alain, softly.
Liaze growled. “So was I, dear Brother. So were we all.”
Again a pall fell across dinner. But finally Borel said, “I hear you play échecs, Camille. If so, then I challenge you to a game.”
“ ’Ware, my Sister,” said Celeste. “Borel is the best of us.”
“Then I shall just have to be on my guard,” said Camille, grinning.
Oh, my, she called me her ‘sister.’
“You were right, Alain,” said Borel, as he turned his king on its side. “She is quite good at this.” Then he looked at Camille. “I thought to win by dash and bold, but you out-bolded me.”
Camille turned up a hand. “Playing with Alain has sharpened my skills, for he has taught me much.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” quipped Liaze, casting a jaunty eye at Alain.
At Camille’s blush, Liaze broke into quite infectious laughter, and all joined in but Camille, though she did grin.
That evening in bed, Alain said, “Pay them no heed, my love, for they do mean no harm.”
“I know, Alain. Yet I seem to be the one who puts my foot in my mouth.”
“Just one of the things I adore about you, for innocence becomes you, my dear.”
“Innocent? Me? Come here, love, and we’ll just see who is the innocent.”
The next eve, it was Seer Malgan who rode away, his shoulders slumped in defeat, his retainers in his wake.
As Camille watched him go, she whispered to herself, “Well, whatever it is he tried, dear Bear, wherever you are, at least he didn’t frighten you.”
“Wands, cups, pentacles, swords, and trumps,” said Celeste. “We shuffle and deal a card to each person about the table, and continue to deal the cards until they are all dealt out. Then we each look only at our own cards and estimate how many tricks we can capture—”
“Tricks?” asked Camille.
“How many other cards we can capture,” interjected Liaze.
“How does one go about capturing cards?” asked Camille.
“Each person ’round the table in turn plays a card, until all have played one, and the highest card wins that trick, wins all those cards just played, that is.”
“I see,” said Camille.
“Now here is the best part,” said Celeste. “The highest bidder has a secret partner, one she may not know about, but a partner nonetheless.”
“How so?”
“The highest bidder names a king—the king of cups, or the king of swords, or of wands, or pentacles—and whoever has that king is the secret partner, none else knowing who might be the secret partner, not even the high bidder, until that particular king is played.”
“But what if the high bidder has all four kings?”
“Then he or she simply names one of the kings and plays alone.”
They sat in the game room, the five of them, at the taroc table, as Celeste explained the game to Camille. The others chimed in with advice at odd moments, all but Alain, who, behind his scarlet mask, seemed morosely quiet this eve. Still, Camille managed to concentrate on what Celeste was saying, for she hoped that the game would break Alain’s glum demeanor.
Finally, the dealing and bidding and play began, and slowly Alain did become somewhat more cheerful.
After many hands were played—Camille being the secret partner but once, and that with Liaze—Borel reached the winning tally and took the first game.
Again they played, and again Borel won, and then the third game as well, though Celeste was close on his heels.
“Argh!” said Alain, and he took up a particular trump and held it to face Borel. “I think you must have Dame Chance on your side, brother mine, for never have I seen the cards run so one-sided.”
Borel feigned nonchalance. “ ’Tis simply my due, dear fellow.”
Liaze grinned and said, “Mayhap, dear Brother, you keep a card or two up those floppy lace cuffs of yours.”
As the others laughed, Borel feigned outrage, and thumped his elbows onto the table, his wrists upright, and the pearl-grey lace flopped down all ’round to reveal nothing hidden therein.
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 Naïf—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 naïf.”
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.”