Through driving rain, past weed-laden gardens and overgrown flower beds they splashed, and beyond a broken fountain and a staved-in gazebo. Behind and off to one side of the manor sat a neglected stable, and casting back their hoods the better to see, they dismounted and led the horses in, Roel with his sword in hand, Celeste bearing her long-knife.
Rain pelted down onto the roof, filling the shelter with its drumming.
But for shadows, the place was deserted.
As vapor rose from the animals, Celeste sheathed her long-knife and said, “Roel, until we see what’s afoot, let us leave the horses be, in case we need take quick flight.”
“Oui. My thoughts exactly,” he replied, slipping Coeur d’Acier into its scabbard.
They loosely tied their mounts to a hitching post, while leaving the packhorses tethered to the saddles.
Roel took up his crossbow and cocked and loaded it, and Celeste strapped on a quiver and readied her bow and nocked an arrow to string.
Roel glanced at Celeste and received a nod, and out into the storm they went.
Angling across the overgrown yard behind the house, they strode to a service entrance. The door flapped back and forth in the swirling wind. Into the manor they stepped, and a hallway stretched out before them, its dust-laden floor unmarked by track other than those of mice. Doors and archways stood to left and right, and no sound other than that of the rain disturbed the silence.
Along this way they quietly walked, past storerooms and a kitchen, its hearths unfired, gray ashes lying within. The chamber across the hall held a large pantry, its shelves yet laden with goods, these dusty as well. Past a laundry room they went, its ironing boards standing unmanned, its tubs empty, and nought but a few tattered jerkins hanging from the strung lines. More doors they passed, and all chambers lay untended; all were unoccupied. They came to a door, and beyond they found a welcoming hall, its marble floor covered with trackless dust and leaf litter. Sweeping staircases led upward to the floor above. ’Round the welcoming hall itself, doorways led to a music room, a parlor, a chamber with a desk and bookshelves, a dining room, a ballroom, and other such places where people gathered.
But all was in disarray, chairs o’erturned, tables smashed, leaves stirring in the wafts from the storm, and all the windows seemed broken inward as if by a great force from without.
“What shambles,” said Celeste, looking about and sighing.
“Oui,” said Roel.
Up the stairs they went, where they found bedrooms awry, some large, others modest, and some small. For here were the household and guest quarters, and dust lay thickly, and again the windows were smashed inward, even in the bathing rooms and privies.
“Something dreadful happened here,” said Celeste, and Roel only nodded.
Back downstairs they went, and they came across an entry into the cellars, wherein they discovered dust shy; covered kegs of ale and casks of brandy and bottles of wine. But in one corner they also found an upturned open cask and dried human feces within, as if it had been used as a chamber pot.
“Perhaps some group took shelter in this cellar to escape the disaster above,” said Roel, surveying the scene.
“It looks as if they lived here for a while in isolation. Yet there are no bones of any occupants, so they must have eventually fled.”
Celeste looked about as well. “Roel, there are no windows to the outside, and so whatever befell this manor, this is the only protected place.”
Roel nodded. “Love, although there are beds above, beds we could make habitable, I say we spend the night in the stables.”
“I agree,” said Celeste. “Let us go from this damaged place now.”
They unladed and unsaddled the horses, and they brushed the animals thoroughly to take away as much moisture as they could, and then took a currycomb to them. Then, as the steeds munched on their rations of grain, Celeste and Roel dried themselves, for in spite of the cloaks and hoods, their heads and necks and hands and forearms were quite drenched.
Roel built a fire, and together they made a hot meal of tea and gruel honey-sweetened, along with hardtack and jerky.
And the rain yet drummed on the roof as they made ready to sleep. Celeste insisted on taking first watch, and Roel nodded and lay down, the knight yet ruing the fact that he hadn’t thought to bring along a nervous but plucky dog.
Some candlemarks later Celeste wakened Roel and whispered, “Listen.”
Above the now-gentle patter of rain there came the strains of music.
It was the quadrille.
Too, there was soft laughter.
“Come, let us see,” said Roel, taking up Coeur d’Acier and his shield. Celeste grabbed up a hooded lantern and lit it, then took her long-knife in hand.
With the lantern all but shuttered, together they crossed the yard and entered the service door. The house was dark, but the music yet played and the voices sounded as down the hallway they went.
Through the door at the end of the hall they crept, and the sounds-harpsichord, flute, violin, along with gentle chatter and the rustle of gowns and the measured steps of dancers-came from the direction of the ballroom, whence an aetheric glow emanated.
Moving quietly through the litter, Roel and Celeste eased across the marble floor and to the archway. But the moment they peered within, the light and sounds vanished. Celeste threw the lantern hood wide, and the luminance filled the chamber, but no one whatsoever did they see. The room was yet litter filled, and the dust and leaves stirred not. No tracks could be seen, and when Celeste walked to the harpsichord and looked at the keys, they had not been disturbed.
Roel frowned. “Ghosts? Spirits?”
Celeste took a deep breath and shook her head. “I know not. But whatever it is let us leave it in peace.” Back to the stables they trod, and even as they left the house, again music and gentle voices came from within.
“I’ll take the watch,” said Roel, and he stirred up the fire and brewed tea, while Celeste fell into slumber.
Again some candlemarks passed, and this time Celeste was awakened by Roel. “Hsst!” he cautioned.
“Something large comes.”
Above the sound of music and voices, the ground thudded with heavy tread, more felt than heard, and Celeste quickly strung her bow and nocked an arrow.
Together they stepped to the doors of the stable. The storm was gone, and the drifting clouds were riven with ONCE UPON A SPRING MORN / 211
great swaths of starry sky, and a full moon looked down through the rifts and shone upon the abandoned estate.
“Though the steps come closer, I see nought,” said Roel.
“Neither do-”
Glass shattered and screams rent the air, and running footsteps clattered. Something or someone roared and shouted in triumph, and more glass crashed, and wood splintered, and shrieks ripped out from fear-filled throats and split the night.
But nothing and no one could be seen tearing at the manor, though the moon shone brightly.
Again came a triumphant roar, and a crunching.
“Lokar,” spat Celeste. “I know the voice.”
“But Lokar is dead. You slew him.”
“Yes, and of that I am glad.”
“Are you saying that his ghost, his spirit, has come calling upon the ghosts of those who dwelled here?” Even as the crashing of glass and the screams yet sounded, Celeste gazed through the moonlight at the once-stately manor, and her eyes filled with tears.
“Non, Roel, not spirits, not ghosts. It is the house, my love. It is the house itself remembering.” They spent the rest of the night holding one another, each taking turns dozing.
And the next morn they saddled and laded the horses and rode away from a place where both gentle and terrible memories yet clung.
26
Le Bastion
Through the forest they rode, the leaves adrip with rainwater from yester eve’s storm. The air smelled fresh and clean, as if the world had been washed and now sparkled anew. Th
e azure dome of a cloudless sky arched above, and birds sang and small creatures scampered, and a deer and fawn broke from cover and bounded away. In spite of the bright morn, both Roel and Celeste rode in glum silence, their thoughts dwelling upon the occurrences in the night.
Finally Celeste sighed and said, “That poor house-
perhaps cursed forever to recall a terrible eve.” Roel nodded but said nought.
After a moment, Celeste added, “Yet if someone lived therein, the manor might store new memories to displace the old.” As if in deep thought, again Roel nodded without speaking.
They rode in silence awhile, and then Roel asked,
“Do you think most so-called haunted houses are simply ones who remember a tragedy?”
“No ghosts, no spirits, you mean?”
“Oui. Just events recalled.”
Celeste shook her head. “I think spirits do roam abroad, as well as remain attached to a place. Yet I also believe we witnessed memories long held by that troubled dwelling; hence some so-called hauntings are of that ilk.”
“And you think with new occupants those memories would be displaced?”
“Oui. Or at least I believe there is a possibility that will happen. For I would not like to think someone moving in would have that terrible event visited upon them every night.”
Roel nodded and said, “Perhaps as long as the scars remain, so will the memory.”
Celeste looked at him. “Your meaning?”
“Well, once the doors are rehung and the windows replaced and the manor repainted and swept and cleaned and set aright, then the vestiges of that night will be gone from the dwelling. In my own case I have scars, and when I look upon them, I am put in mind of deeds done in battle. Too, my companions and I-as well as many others-have scars of the mind, and they recall dread deeds done as well. Were these scars to vanish, both those in mind and form, then mayhap I would not recall those dire events, or at least not as vividly.”
“But, Roel, would not that require taking away some memories entirely?”
“Oui, it would, and that is my point, for perhaps if the scars visited upon that manor were wholly removed-
repairs made, painting done, and a loving family settled in-then gone would be the residual leftovers of that terrible eve.”
“I suppose, but I think we’ll never know,” said Celeste.
And onward they rode.
As they passed through the woodland, they came upon a wide swath of destruction: trees downed and cast aside, as if something huge had passed this way, leaving wrack in its wake. Starwise to sunwise through the forest it ran for as far as the eye could see. Roel dismounted and looked for sign, yet he found no track to tell him what had made this waste.
Roel gestured at the run. “It’s as if someone had started a road through the woods, but then abandoned the effort. Yet I think it not neglected, for if that were true, then weeds would have sprung up and saplings would be agrowing.”
Celeste glanced about. “The uprooted trees have long been lying to the side; hence I deem this was done some time in the past, yet the way is still being used by something or someone.”
“I agree,” said Roel as he remounted. “Nevertheless, let us follow this windrow to make our way through the forest, for it seems to be going in our direction and will ease the ride.”
Celeste strung her bow, adding, “As long as whatever uses it does not dispute our passage.” On they rode, following the wide path, and the sun climbed up the sky and across and down, and nothing and no one challenged them. As sunset approached, Roel and Celeste moved well off the swath, where they made camp in a small glade.
The next morn, once more they took to the path, and with the sun mounting the sky, they followed the way, pausing now and again to feed and water the horses.
As the noontide wheeled past, they emerged from the woodland, and came unto derelict fields where crofters had once cared for the land.
And they passed abandoned farmhouses, some in nought but ruins, and Celeste gritted her teeth and said,
“Lokar. It was Lokar who made the windrow through the forest. He used it as a way to fetch his dreadful fare.”
Roel looked back toward the woodland. “Oui. I think you are right, cherie.”
On they went, and more abandoned farms they passed. But in midafternoon they came to a roadway, and it led them across the fallow land to finally come in among tended fields. Along this way they went, and after some while and in the distance ahead they saw crofters driving herds and wagons in through the gates of a modest town, the settlement walled all ’round with a high palisade.
“Protection against Lokar,” said Roel. “Mayhap against other enemy as well.”
On they rode, and as they drew closer, Roel said,
“Look! Along the wall they have huge ballistas.”
“Ballistas?”
“Great, heavy bows. And these are arrow casters, or perhaps instead I should say spear casters.”
“More protection against Ogres,” said Celeste.
Roel nodded and said, “Those and other foes. But come, Celeste, let us pick up the pace. If Lokar be the only one who raids these environs, we have good tidings for them. Besides, the ville looks prosperous, and I have a taste for a good hot meal and a frothy mug of ale.”
Celeste laughed and said, “Ah, men, always thinking of their stomachs.”
“Only our stomachs?”
Again Celeste laughed. “Ah, not always, for they would have other pleasures to sate their needs. For me I would have a hot bath as well as a good meal and a fine goblet of wine. -Oh, and a soft bed to sleep in, for last eve I swear I slept on a rock the size of a boulder-
grinding into my back it was-yet this morn when I found the stony culprit, it was no larger than a pea.” Roel broke into guffaws and managed to say, “Ah, the true test of a princess, eh?” And then he spurred forward into a trot, Celeste following, the princess laughing as well.
Closer they drew, and closer, and now they could see the very tall logs of the high palisade were sharpened to wicked points. Roel also pointed out that some of the wagons among the train moving toward the town were equipped with ballistas to guard the crofters and their herds.
Celeste and Roel reached the gates just as the last of the herds were being driven through. And as they waited for sheep to flock in, followed by a gaggle of geese, a guardsman came and, raising his voice above the bleating of lambs and honking of fowl, asked Roel, “Your names and your business here in Le Bastion?”
“I am Chevalier Roel, and my companion is Celeste de la Foret de Printemps. Our business is to seek lodging for the night.”
“And have you a smith or an armorer?” asked Celeste.
The ward of the gate canted his head in assent. “Oui, demoiselle, Monsieur Galdon; he is a fine smith as well as a gifted armorer.”
“And where might we find Monsieur Galdon?”
“We would see your mayor, too,” added Roel.
“You have a need to see our mayor?”
“Oui,” replied Roel. “We might have some welcome news.”
“Welcome news?”
Gesturing at the palisade and the ballistas above, Roel said, “I note you are well defended. Is it perchance to ward off a giant Ogre?”
The man nodded. “Oui.”
“More than one?”
“Non, Chevalier Roel. Just one.”
“Would his name be Lokar?”
Alarm filled the man’s face, and he looked over the fields in the direction of the unseen woodland. “Oui, that is his name. He shouted it often when he came to our walls.”
“Stay calm, Sieur,” said Roel. “You have nought to fear.” He gestured at Celeste and added, “For my companion slew Lokar three days past.” A look of disbelief filled the guard’s features. “Non.
That cannot be. A mere demoiselle slay such a monster?
Non. You are making a mockery of me.”
“I swear on my honor as a chevalier it is true
,” said Roel, “and that is why we would see your mayor.” Celeste growled, “And this ‘mere demoiselle’ would also see your armorer.”
The guardsman called his captain, and Roel repeated to him that Lokar had been slain by Celeste. The captain shook his head in disbelief; nevertheless he escorted the two to the town hall. Mayor Breton of Le Bastion was a tall yet portly man, bald-headed but for a ruddy fringe of hair running ’round the back of his head from one ear to the other. He invited them into his humble chamber, and there Roel introduced Celeste as la Princesse de la Foret de Printemps.
A gleam of skepticism shone in the mayor’s eye; even so he bowed to Celeste and treated her with deference.
When they were seated, Celeste told of her capture by Lokar, and her subsequent slaying of him.
Making noncommittal comments throughout the telling, the mayor clearly did not believe her. And when she was finished, Breton said, “Your tale is very interesting, Princess, and you describe him well, but perhaps you slew someone else, for Lokar is a giant of an Ogre.” Celeste sighed in exasperation, and before Roel could reassure the mayor, Breton said, “Tell me, what brings you two to my ville?”
Stifling his own frustration, Roel said, “We are on our way to rescue my sister and my two brothers.” The mayor frowned as if searching for an elusive memory. “And where might they be?”
“In the Changeling realm,” replied Roel.
“The Changeling realm? I warn you, Chevalier Roel, no one ever returns from- Wait! Wait! Now I remember. You are the third knight to come through my town seeking the land of the Changelings.”
“Laurent nearly seven years past? Blaise nearly four years agone?”
“Oui, those were their names.”
“Hai!” exclaimed Roel, clenching his fist in joy. “They are my brothers, and they went seeking my sister, Avelaine, stolen by the Lord of the Changelings himself.” Breton looked closely at Roel. “I see the resemblance now, for you do favor them. Ah, me, but they were brave, these brothers of yours, for each in turn helped repel Lokar from our very walls. And each promised to make an end to him upon returning from the Changeling realm. But, alas, they did not heed my warning, and I fear both are lost.”
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