But neither did, Clarisse knew now. Her soul was her own, to do with what she would. She would pretend to be weak no longer.
"There is one more choice," she murmured softly, approaching the hundredth window.
She gazed through the shining, colored glass — glass she sensed was older than Lord Harrowing, older than Evenore, ancient as the bleak and shadowed countryside itself. She reached out and thrust her hand into the window. The glass did not shatter. Instead, it was as if she had plunged her arm into warm, ruby-colored water. She felt the touch of a dozen cold, clawed hands on her own.
Clarisse smiled.
Moments later, she stepped through the door of the ballroom to see the two men still locked in their magical duel. Both were gray and haggard with exhaustion.
"Clarisse, you must choose between us!" Lord Harrowing gasped grimly when he saw her.
"Yes, Clarisse. "Domenic's rich voice was now hoarse.
"Who will you give yourself to? Him or me? You have to choose!"
Clarisse approached the two men, her silk gown rustling. "Indeed?" she said mockingly. "I must choose which of you will possess me like a common brood mare?"
The two men stared at her in shock. "Isn't that all I am to you?" she went on, her voice hard. The men shook their heads, dumbfounded. Their shimmering magic wavered. "All my life I have been treated as so much chattel — by my father, by you, Lord Harrowing, and yes, by you, Domenic. An object to be sold and bought, or a prize to be seduced, won, and used. But no more. "She laughed, a cold, crystalline sound. "You wished to hear my choice, gentlemen. This then, is it: I choose neither of you."
Before either man could react, Clarisse held her arms aloft. "Come to me, my friends!" she called exultantly.
Suddenly a chill mist poured through the doors and windows of the ballroom. From the fog leaped dozens of hunched, twisted forms, eyes glowing ravenously. Goblyns. The creatures circled about the two wizards. Both crimson and emerald magic flickered and faded as Clarisse watched in satisfaction.
"Clarisse, no!" Gareff shouted.
"Please, my love!" Domenic cried.
Their words turned to screams as the goblyns fell upon them.
The day hung drearily over Evenore, but Clarisse did not mind.
She banished a knot of trembling peasants from the doorstep of the manor, though not before throwing the wretched throng a few coins. She shut the massive mahogany door and turned to wander through the grand hall, running her hands lightly over ancient vases and expensive tapestries. She reveled in the ornate beauty of the hall. It was hers now. All of it. The folk in the village below had taken to calling her the Lady of Evenore. Clarisse supposed the title suited her well enough.
Humming dreamily to herself, she made her way upstairs. She found herself in a room on the third floor, a chamber that had only recently been enlarged and furnished. She approached a black velvet curtain and pulled a golden cord. The curtain lifted, and crimson light poured forth, shimmering off the pearl at Clarisse's throat.
The stained-glass window glowed despite the dimness of the day outside. In the window, intricately portrayed in glass mosaic, two men struggled, locked in a mortal embrace, their faces wearing expressions of frozen, ceaseless anguish.
Clarisse laughed softly as she released the golden cord. The curtain fell back in place, concealing the window, as the Lady of Evenore turned to leave the chamber.
Song Snatcher
Larson had been a traveling bard for fourteen years, almost half his life, but none of the lands he'd visited could rival the dark beauty of Kartakass. From his perch aboard the riverboat's top deck, he had a fine view of the rugged landscape. Forests of deep, velvety pine covered much of the land, punctuated by a scattering of snug villages. In small, well-tended holdings, farmers wrested crops from rock-strewn soil. Watching over all were the Balinok Mountains. Purple clouds gathered around the craggy peaks even on the fairest of days, brooding over the mountains as if trying to fathom the secrets hidden within a labyrinth of caverns. Larson's hazel eyes drank in the wild beauty with an appreciation that was deep and passionate. He sang softly to himself as the riverboat made its way north.
The sun hung low over the mountains when the village of Skald Finally came into view. The young bard let out a whoop of delight at the sight of his long-awaited goal. Grabbing a passing sailor by the waist, he spun her around the deck in an exuberant dance. After her first startled shriek and salty oath, the woman fell into step with the ease of frequent practice.
"And what might we be celebrating this time?" she demanded when the dance spun to a finish.
"What else?" replied Larson gaily. "We're almost to Skald!"
The sailor turned and squinted upriver. High stone walls surrounded the town and cast long shadows onto the silver water. Beyond the walls loomed the ruins of an ancient, fire-ravaged keep. She harumphed and stepped back, folding her arms and regarding the young bard with a mixture of exasperation and amusement.
"Aye, that rubble heap has long been a favorite of mine, too," she said dryly. "Now get below, afore the night falls."
Larson grinned and picked up his viola da braccio, a small viol slightly longer than his forearm. "I'll go to my cabin," he agreed slyly," but only if you'll join me. You Kartakans need to stop fearing the nights and start enjoying them!" He tucked the instrument into the crook of his elbow and began to play a bawdy little ballad.
The sailor harumphed again and stalked off, trying to hide her amused chuckle. Larson blew her a kiss, then he brushed back a lock of his wind-tossed, dark hair and once again set his bow to the strings.
The sound of a single distant fiddle stilled his arm.
Larson lowered his viol and hurried to the rail. Tangled vines and bushes lined the shore and hid the musician from his view, but, oh, the music! Melody that throbbed with acute, searing pain, then soared into a wordless song of such hope and longing that even the gruff sailor paused to listen, her eyes moist with remembered dreams. Larson hummed along as best he could. When the song ended, he took up his viol and tentatively began to play. He captured most of the melody, if not the magic or the pathos. As he played, the haunting song again reached out to him from across the water, joining him in an impassioned duet.
The music faded into a moment's silence. Bushes parted near the shore, and a dark-eyed woman stepped out onto the rocks. A mass of black curls tumbled over her bared shoulders, and a battered gypsy fiddle was tucked under her arm. She smiled at her handsome partner. Larson returned the smile with a roguish wink and a courtly bow.
"When the moon rises, we will dance," she said casually. She turned and disappeared into the forest.
Larson shook his head in disbelief. "Am I dreaming, or was I just invited to a Vistana campfire?" he murmured incredulously. The gypsies — or Vistani, as they preferred to be called — were as wild and elusive as their music. They could not bear to remain within walls, nor would most villagers welcome them. Finding the camp would not be easy, but Larson vowed to try. Outsiders were seldom permitted into the Vistani's circle. An opportunity to learn Vistana music was nearly as precious as the one that had brought him to Skald.
In Kartakass, almost everyone sang. There were songs for all occasions, and each season had its own musical contests and festivals. For many months, Larson had been content to wander from village to village, collecting songs and stories. In recent months, however, all talk had turned to the spring festival at Skald. Of even greater interest to Larson was news of a notable bard and teacher who had retired to the village. Larson was eager to learn all he could from such a man.