Over the next several days, Camille spent time in the great library reading of magic and spells, of curses and geases, and of numerous other things arcane. Many were the legends and tales, and several fables told of heroes and heroines who, through their wits, resolved dilemmas dire. And one or two of the legends spoke of mysteries which required a lad or lass to solve a problem on their own by revealing an answer that was staring them in the face all along.
What if this is one of those? What if it is I who have to find an answer, something plain to all others but me? Most certainly, the folks here at Summerwood, Alain’s kindred, the mages and witches and warlocks and such, they all know what’s afoot; indeed, everyone does know but me.
Every day, on she read, gleaning for clues as to what she might do on her own to resolve whatever curse, or geas, lay over Summerwood Manor. And she said nought to any as to what she was about, not to Alain, not to Blanche, not even to her beloved Bear.
Every night she and Alain played echecs or dames or croquet by lanternlight, or sang to one another or read poetry or danced. And they made love tenderly and passionately and even wildly at times.
And she shared with him all the details of her visit to her parents-both the joys and the disappointments-speaking of everything but the discussions pertaining to Alain’s masks and her mere’s idea concerning the stub of a candle and matches. These she kept to herself, for a glimmer of a notion was taking place in her mind.
The resolutions to many of the fables are quite simple at base. What if my mere was unwittingly right concerning Alain not being able to show me his visage, but rather my seeing his face for myself? What if he has given me the only clue he can, and now it’s up to me to act? What if my seeing his face on my own would break the curse which hangs over my beloved? Mayhap it would return his parents to the Summerwood from wherever it is they’ve vanished. But even if that is not the case, mayhap my mere is right, and by my seeing Alain’s face he could abandon his masks altogether.
Camille dithered, not knowing if she were right or wrong, not knowing whether such a simple act would bring about the alleviation of the curse… or perhaps make it worse. And then one day, her heart beating frantically, she took up her drawstring purse in which was held the fat candle stub and box of matches, and she went along the corridors to Alain’s quarters and slipped them into the bedchamber. There she secreted them away, then slipped back out and ran lightly down the hall, praying to Mithras that none would see.
Several nights running, she waited until Alain was asleep, but she could not summon the courage to fetch the stub from its hiding place and light it. Two nights, though, she held it in her hands, and yet put it away unlit, for she felt as if it were somehow a betrayal of his trust.
But then one night- It is such a simple plan, just like the ones in the fables; what, pray tell, can go wrong? — she struck the match and set the wick aflame and in the glimmering light turned toward her beloved Alain…
… and gasped…
… and tears sprang to her eyes…
… for he was beautiful, so very beautifuclass="underline" no scars, no wens, no gapes, no pits, no birthmarks, no-Camille smiled through her tears-no, ooo, bony skull; his features were completely unmarred by anything whatsoever, lest marred by beauty instead. And he lay innocently sleeping.
She sat on the edge of the bed next to him, Alain on her left, the candle in her left hand the better to see, and somewhere a wind began softly to moan. And she sat beside him a long while, studying his beautiful face, as if to store up the sight of it for all time. And still there came the sound of the wind slowly rising, as if a storm brewed.
Long did she look, but at last, unable to resist, Camille leaned over to kiss his sweet lips, and as she did so, a great blob of hot wax spilled from the hollow of the fat candle stub and splashed onto Alain’s bare chest, and he bolted upright and looked at her in horror. “Oh my love, what have you-? What have you done? The curse, the geas. Now I must-” But his words were chopped off, and there came the moan of a great wind rushing throughout the manor, a wind filled with screams of the living, a wind filled with screams of the damned. A churning darkness came over Alain, as of shadows alive swirling all about his form, and within the dimness his shape began to change, to alter. Camille stumbled up from the bed and hindward, her own mouth gaping wide in shock. And the raging wind shrieked along the halls and hammered upon the doors, the very walls shuddering under the thunderous blows. And all about Alain, blackness swirled, and then he was gone, the huge brown Bear now in his place. And he roared in rage, and Camille reeled back, a soundless scream trapped in her throat. His ashen eyes mad with fury, the Bear rose up and raised a massive claw as if to strike her. Camille shrilled in terror and cowered down, throwing up an arm in futile protection, the candle falling from her grasp to roll and lie on its side. In the flickering shadows the Bear loomed above her, his deafening roars bellowing out over the howl of the wind, and in that moment Camille knew that she was going to die at his claws, just as had the Redcap Goblins. But then the Bear turned and dropped to all fours and crashed out through the door, and the howl of the wind yawled as if in victory, the wails within shrilling in terror. The shrieking wind rose in screaming crescendo, up and up and — Of a sudden the terrible wind vanished and a profound silence fell as the candle guttered and went out, leaving nought but blackness and weeping Camille trembling in the still room behind.
17
Yet weeping in the darkness, Camille fumbled her way to the mantel, to find the lantern there and a striker. A yellow glow illuminated the sleeping chamber, the bed curtains torn where the Bear had ripped his way free, the satin covers ajumble.
Sobbing and barefooted and in nought but a negligee, Camille stumbled across the broken-down door and into the corridor beyond, and there she found more wreckage: hallway and alcove furniture lay atumble; plants were overturned, their pots shattered and dirt strewn along the passage; tapestries lay where they had been ripped from the walls, along with paintings, frames broken and lying askew.
“Lanval!” she cried out amid the wrack as she made her unsteady way along the hall. Down a stairwell she went, only to find devastation there, too.
A profound silence filled the manor.
“Lanval! Blanche!”
No one answered, the stillness oppressive, broken only by her anguished cries of distress. On into the darkness she struggled, lanternlight revealing nought but ruin.
“Lanval! Blanche! Anyone!”
Camille began to run, and as she ran she called out for someone to answer, someone to be alive in the ruin, and everywhere she went, every room she burst into, every corridor she fled down, every hall and chamber she entered, there was nought but total disarray, terrible damage done by the terrible wind that had howled throughout the manor:
Chairs were overturned; tables displaced; pottery smashed-wreckage and litter and shatter.
Books and papers and pamphlets and journals were strewn about the great library, and many of the freestanding shelves had toppled, their volumes and tomes and manuscripts and scrolls flung wide.