Tales of Ravenloft

The House of a Hundred Windows

"Three. . four. . five. ." Clarisse Harrowing murmured, counting windows as she wandered through the ancient, dust-dim air of Evenore's grand hall.

It was here that her game always began, in the gloomy, rambling room that sprawled across the entire front half of the manor's first floor. Here the high, narrow windows were easy to count, each opening like a keyhole onto a leaden sky, nestled between smoke-stained beams arching overhead like the ribs of some dread leviathan from the deepest sea. Seven windows on the west side of the hall, seven on the east. Fourteen in all. But that was just the beginning.

The House of a Hundred Windows. That was what the old Vistana woman in the village below — the woman with eyes as small and black as a raven's — had called the manor, even though Clarisse had only ever been able to count ninety-nine. Of course, had it been so simple, it would not have been a game at all.

Clarisse moved into the library, her gown of dove-gray silk whispering across the worn stone floor. Heads of boars, stags, bears, and feral beasts she could not name snarled down at her from high walls, each draped in a shroud of cobweb and dust, as though wearing a funeral veil. She tried not to look at them. She concentrated on the windows. They were smaller here, trickier. Some hid behind the corners of overburdened bookcases, and others were all but obscured by tarnished suits of armor or tapestries whose idyllic hunting scenes had been darkened by years of soot and dust. Carefully she counted each window, making certain she peered into every alcove, every recess. The dreary afternoon light made her game difficult. It looked as if a storm was brewing.

After some moments she nodded. Yes, nine more. That was what she always counted in the library. But then, it might be that there was a window here she had yet to find.

Clarisse sank into a chair of blood-red velvet to consider this thought. She had played the game a dozen times or so — always when Lord Harrowing was away, of course — and at first, each time she searched, she had found more windows than the time before. Many of them were small and obscure, and easily overlooked. But on the last few occasions, Clarisse had counted only the same windows she had discovered before. Ninety-nine of them.

She frowned, a fine line casting a shadow across her smooth, pale forehead. She thought of her encounter with the old Vistana, as she did with curious frequency of late. It was the day Clarisse had dared to tell Ranya, Lord Harrowing's red-faced housekeeper, that she would walk to the village herself to purchase candles and salt. On her way back, in the middle of the village's one muddy street, she had come upon the old woman, clad in shabby rags that swirled on the cold wind like dirty feathers. The shriveled Vistana had gazed at Clarisse with those hard black eyes, and had pointed with a crooked finger toward the manor house, perched like a dark bird on the tor above the village.

A window lets in darkness as easily as light, the old woman's cracked voice whispered once again in Clarisse's mind. Forget that not, child, if you would dare live in the House of a Hundred Windows.

Clarisse sighed, wondering if she should give up her game. Perhaps the old woman was mad. Gareff had often said that all the wandering Vistani were, what with their fate-scrying cards and their magic crystals and their strange, wild music. But no, she couldn't give up. Not yet, at least. The game was all she had to stave off the vast loneliness of this place when Gareff was away.

And he was so often away, doing what she did not know, for he never spoke of it.

Clarisse wondered if this was what her father had meant for her, this desolate existence in a country manor, so far from the bright, candlelit ballrooms and opulently gilded opera houses of the great city of Il Aluk. But no, all that had mattered was that his daughter married a lord of ancient and honorable lineage. Clarisse's father was one of the wealthiest merchants in all of Il Aluk, but he had learned that there was one thing all his gold could not purchase — noble blood. Thus it was that when Lord Gareff Harrowing came to call at their fashionable city redstone nearly a year ago, Clarisse's father had welcomed the suit for his daughter's hand, even though the suitor himself was more than twice her age, and lord of a provincial estate over a fortnight's journey from the city.

Clarisse, of course, had been given no voice in the matter.

"The choice of whom to marry is not ours to make," her mother had explained as she had basted up the hem of Clarisse's antique lace wedding gown.

"I don't see why," Clarisse had replied crossly.

"Men are better at making decisions, Clarisse. "Her mother's voice had sounded flat and weary. A look of resignation had shone in her eyes — eyes that years of meekness and subservience had washed utterly of all color and emotion. "Men are stronger and smarter than we are, Clarisse. Do try not to forget that."

Clarisse had only bit her tongue. She knew she was smarter by far than most of the flighty, foppish noblemen who frequented the city's ballrooms and theaters — and most likely stronger than half of them. But there was no use in saying it. Her mother had given up long ago. Now Clarisse supposed she would do the same. It was, after all, what was expected of her.

The next day Clarisse had wed Lord Harrowing in the largest cathedral in Il Aluk. Then, while her mother wept silently, her father had lifted Clarisse into a carriage with her new husband. As the horses lurched into motion, Clarisse had gazed back through the carriage's small, tear-drop-shaped window to see her father smile. With a start, she had recognized the satisfied expression. It was the same smile her father always wore after a profitable business venture. Apparently he had finally bought himself-what he had always desired. A spark of hatred had flared in Clarisse's heart then, so hot and sudden that it frightened her. She had turned her gaze from the window, trembling.

Now Clarisse stood and smoothed her gown, as if the memories could be brushed away like dust. The gloom was steadily gathering in the library. What little light the day had managed would fade to night soon, and then her game would be over. Swiftly she moved through the parlor, the ballroom, and the kitchen, with its cavernous stone fireplace large enough to cook an entire roe deer. She made her way quickly up the great, sweeping staircase to the manor's second floor and there went from bedchamber to bedchamber, pausing to count the windows in each. Finally her game brought her up to the attic rooms. Here Ranya and Evenore's few servants resided, though most of the small, haphazardly arranged chambers had been given over to storage, each filled with a maze of shabby furniture, ancient trunks, and portraits of long-forgotten Harrowing ancestors.

In the last of the storage rooms, Clarisse sat upon an ironbound chest and ciphered in the thick dust that covered a worm-eaten mahogany serving table. Fourteen windows in the grand hall, and nine in the library. Six for the parlor, and twenty for the ballroom, and five more for the kitchen. Then all the bedchambers, and the servants'quarters, and the storage rooms. Carefully she checked her numbers. At last she leaned back, brushing the dust from her hands, gazing at the numbers drawn upon the table.

Once again, she had counted ninety-nine.

Clarisse sighed, and for the first time found that her game had left her lonelier than before. She caught a pale glimmer out of the corner of her eye and turned to find herself gazing into an old mirror with a gilt frame. A pretty young woman stared back at her with wide green eyes. Her dark hair was pulled back from her high fore- head, and a tear-drop pearl glistened at her throat. The mirror's ornate frame made her face look like a painting — just one more object of delicate beauty purchased to decorate the rambling manor called Evenore.

Sudden rage flashed through Clarisse's breast. Was that all she was, then? A mere thing to be bought and sold? Without thinking, she snatched up the mirror and smashed it against the floor. The gilt frame cracked and splintered, and the glass shattered into a dozen jagged shards. Clarisse clapped a hand to her mouth, her anger turning into cold horror. From each of the shards, a fragment of a pale, wide-eyed face stared up at her in mute shock. What had she done?

Quickly she snatched up an old rug and threw it over the broken glass, concealing the disturbing images. Then she moved toward the door. She needed to wash her face. Gareff could return at any moment, and she didn't want him to wonder why there were cobwebs in her hair and dust on her gown. She reached to turn the porcelain doorknob.

A single spark of ruby light touched her hand.

She gasped, snatching her arm back. Then, tentatively, she reached out once more. A small circle of crimson light danced across the back of her hand. Small motes of dust swirled on the air, transformed briefly into tiny glowing suns before vanishing. It was a beam of sunlight.

Clarisse looked up at the storage room's sole window. It was utterly overgrown with ivy, letting in only a dusky green illumination. But that meant the light must come from. .

"The hundredth window," Clarisse whispered, her pulse quickening.

Fascinated, she stood and began moving slowly through the room, keeping the ruby spark of light on her hand, tracing the beam to its source. It led her to the far side of the chamber. Here the wall was covered by a faded tapestry, its images so murky with time and neglect that Clarisse could not make them out. The edges of a small, moth-eaten hole in the tapestry glowed as if on fire. Holding her breath, hardly daring to let her- self hope, Clarisse reached out a trembling hand to lift the tapestry.

Suddenly a voice rang out from far below.

"Clarisse!"

She froze. Footsteps sounded on the stairway.

"Clarisse, where have you gone?"

Gareff! Swiftly, Clarisse let the tapestry fall back. She whirled and sped from the room, brushing the cobwebs from her hair. She dared not keep Lord Harrowing waiting. He might ask what she had been doing, and she would have no choice but to tell him. And she did not want to tell him. The game was hers, a private thing. Smoothing her gown, she dashed down the stairs to greet her husband.

She found him standing before a window in the parlor, handsome despite his gray hair and mustaches, elegant in his old-fashioned frock coat and breeches. He gazed outside through rain-spattered glass.

She knelt beside him and clasped his hand, as was expected of a wife. "Welcome home, my lord," she murmured softly.

"Ah, there you are, Clarisse. "He stroked her dark hair with the same absent fondness he always displayed when petting his favorite hounds. She tried to suppress a shiver, and did her best not to recoil from his touch. Then he turned his gaze back out the window as the storm that had threatened all afternoon finally loosed its fury over Evenore.

It was only then that a queer thought occurred to Clarisse. If it was raining outside, from where had come the crimson ray of sunlight in the attic room?

Clarisse reined the gray stallion to a halt at the top of the heather-blanketed ridge. The beast tossed its head and snorted, its hot breath casting faint ghosts on the damp air. Countless droplets of mist, glistening like tiny pearls, beaded the woolen cloak she had thrown over her riding gown. The somber landscape marched below her in endless, dun-colored waves, broken only here and there by a hedge of dark thorn or a crumbling stone wall.

Crimson blossomed in her pale cheeks as she dared to laugh. She knew she was a fool to have spurred her mount so swiftly. Riding sidesaddle was precarious enough, and the irregular ground made it absolutely treacherous. Yet that was a great part of the excitement. Sometimes there was a part of her that secretly, almost darkly, hoped she would have a horrible accident. She knew that a throw from the back of a horse and a hard landing on cold ground could snap the bones of her neck like dry kindling. It would be a terrible price for freedom, but one she was not entirely certain she would be unwilling to pay.

Of late, the airs she took about the countryside were all that gave Clarisse a sense that she was alive. Even her game had given her no comfort these past weeks. After that day she had discovered the strange beam of sunlight in the attic storage room, it was nearly a fortnight before Gareff's mysterious business once more took him away, and she was able to resume her search. To her dismay, she had found the storage room door locked. Somehow, Gareff must have learned of her private amusement. No doubt the hateful Ranya had told him.

Whatever the cause, Clarisse knew it was best that she forget her window-counting game. True, she had learned where Gareff kept a skeleton key that worked all the locks in the manor — she had spied Ranya stealing it once to open the wine cellar and snitch a bottle — but Clarisse did not dare use it. In his wrath, a lord might rightly punish his wife for such a disobedience. Of course, Clarisse thought with disgust, a lady had no such recourse should her husband betray her.

The gray stallion gave a snort, pawing the damp ground with a hoof in agitation. Startled, Clarisse looked up to see a man approaching. By his ragged clothes and the bundle of firewood slung over his back, she took him to be a villager. He doffed his cap when he reached her and smiled, baring a handful of yellowed teeth.

"Milady is a brave one, yes?"

Clarisse frowned. The villager's thick country brogue was difficult to fathom.

"I wouldn't know what you mean," she answered coolly.

"Aye, don't you, milady?" The man winked with one bulbous, palsied eye. "Lord Harrowing is gone wandering. And so has milady, yes?"

Clarisse's slender eyebrows knit in a scowl. "Lord Harrowing's affairs are his concern," she said sternly. "As my own affairs are mine."

The villager hopped a step backward, his peculiar eyes bulging in alarm. "Aye, milady, just as you say. Begging your pardon and not meaning to presume. It's just. . "The man clutched nervously at his threadbare cap. "It's just that it isn't safe for you to be out riding by your own, what with the shadows and all."

"Shadows?" Curious, Clarisse leaned forward in her saddle.

"Aye, shadows. "He lowered his voice to a coarse whisper. "The kind as sneak up on a foolish man who sets out for home too late to make it afore sundown, and then he never makes it at all. I heard old Madam Senda say a goblyn lord conjured them, and her being Vistana and all, I suppose I'd tend to listen."

Clarisse shivered and drew her cloak more tightly about her shoulders. "It's just a story," she said flatly. But she felt a strange tingling of excitement in her chest all the same.

The haggard man pulled his cap back over his head and hefted his load of firewood. "As milady wishes," he said. "I'm certain she'll be troubled not by man or shadow this day. "He nodded his head in farewell. But as the villager turned away, Clarisse saw a strange look in his eyes. It was a fearful look, and one of pity.

Finding the dwindling afternoon light suddenly menacing, Clarisse spurred her mount and rode in the direction of Evenore.

She returned to find Gareff pacing before the fireplace in the library. Three black mastiffs lay sprawled asleep by the hearth. He spun around at the rustling of her silk gown.

"Clarisse!" He set down a glass of wine and strode toward her, his snow-white eyebrows bristling. "Where have you been? "

"Why, out riding," she said breathlessly, taking off her mist-damp cloak.

Lord Harrowing shook his head. "I should have known. "He sighed deeply and took her by the shoulders. "Clarisse," he said sternly, as if speaking to a child. "You must promise me that you will not go riding out on the moor any longer."

"By why?" Her heart fluttered in her chest. "Is it because. . "Her voice trailed off. Is it because of the goblyn lord? she had almost said. But she didn't dare. Gareff would laugh at such foolishness.

"Please, Clarisse. You must promise me."

For a giddy moment she almost considered defying him. Without her sojourns across the moor, she had nothing. But the fierceness of his blue eyes seemed to bore into her. Finally she cast her face downward. "Of course, my lord."

Gareff lifted her chin with a finger and smiled at her. Then he leaned down and roughly kissed her forehead. "Corne," he said briskly. "Let us see what Ranya has set out for our supper."

Clarisse swallowed the bitter taste of bile in her throat and followed after him as the shadows gathered outside the library's windows.

The days that followed seemed as dreary to Clarisse as the ancient air that filled Evenore's chambers. She tried to content herself with matters about the house, but to little avail. A day of trying to tame the manor's garden left her hands burning with nettle stings, and she quickly gave up that pursuit. Nor, she found, did she have the patience for embroidery or sewing or other domestic pursuits. It helped matters little that Lord Harrowing was away more than ever, at times leaving in the middle of the night and not returning for days on end. When he did return, he seemed haggard and distracted, hardly noticing Clarisse except to kiss her cheek fondly now and again.

Finally, one chill autumn day, Clarisse sat down to pen a letter to her father. Gareff was off on one of his mysterious journeys again, and Ranya had walked to the village that morning to visit an aunt taken ill.

The storm-swept sky outside the library's windows was dark and angry, and Clarisse was forced to light a candle to work by, though it was only midafternoon. In smooth, delicate script, she wrote of how lonely the country was, and how dark the manor, and how desolate she felt so far from the city. But when she lay down her quill, she knew she could not post the letter. Her feelings meant nothing to her father. He had bought his nobility with her, and he had obviously found the price more than fair.

Slowly, she stood and carried the parchment to the fireplace and placed it carefully in the flames. She watched as its edges darkened and then caught fire. The letter blackened and curled in on itself like a dying spider. Then it was gone.

Clarisse stood, sighing. She paced despondently before the fire for a time. Then, almost without thinking, she moved to a bookcase on the far wall. She counted five shelves up from the floor and then ran her finger along the gilded spines of the tomes. She pulled a small volume bound in green leather from the shelf and undid the brass hasp. Inside, the pages of the book had been cleverly hollowed out into a small recess. Nestled within was an iron key.

Gareff's skeleton key.

Clarisse did not allow herself a moment to pause and consider what she was doing. Suddenly she was burning to know what lay behind the tapestry in the attic. She grasped the key and returned the book to the shelf. Swiftly she ascended the stairway, glancing back over her shoulder. She had to be careful. Ranya might return at any time.

Moments later found her breathless before the attic storage room. Hand trembling, she fit the key into the door's lock. It turned easily. She slipped within and pressed the portal quietly shut. A flash of crimson light caught her eye. There — she had not imagined it. The ray of sunlight danced across the bodice of her gown as she approached the tapestry. Swiftly she pushed aside the threadbare weaving.

It was a keyhole.

She could see no doorway, but there in the middle of the stone wall was a lock. It was from this that the ray of light emanated. A thought struck her.

"It can't be. . "she whispered to the silent air.

She lifted the skeleton key and brought it to the keyhole. It slipped easily within. She held her breath for several heartbeats, then turned the key. There was a faint click. With a gust of stale air, a section of the wall swung inward. She blinked against the flood of crimson light that poured forth. Hesitating only for a moment, she stepped inside.

Clarisse had found the hundredth window.

It dominated the entire far wall of the small room, a chaotic mosaic of jagged, colored shards that made her dizzy to gaze upon. Sunlight streamed through the nightmarish stained-glass window, tainted by the colored glass, and only dimly did Clarisse remember that, when last she looked, the sky outside had been dark and brooding, concealing the sun. The writhing patterns of the window dazed her. Then her gaze locked upon an image in the center of the window. It was a man.

Slowly she approached, fascinated. He seemed a noble, clad in a coat of black velvet and golden breeches. A red ribbon held back his long, raven-dark hair. The portrait was exquisitely done, tiny fragments of glass rendering his grave, handsome features in perfect detail. She supposed it was only a trick of the light, but there was a fire in his eyes of smoked glass. It was almost as if he were gazing at her. . gazing at her with passion. She shook her head. It was a look she had never seen in Gareff's eyes.

"Who can this have been?" Clarisse mused aloud. "He seems so. . so melancholy."

"Indeed, my lady," a rich, masculine voice spoke behind her," he has good cause to be."

Clasping a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream, Clarisse spun around. There was no one else in the room. All she saw were the patterns of light thrown upon the far wall by the stained-glass window.

"Who's there?" she called out, trying to keep the fear from her voice. "Where are you? "

"Why, I stand here before you. . Clarisse."

Impossibly, Clarisse watched the patterns of colored sunlight on the wall swirl and move. Suddenly she realized what she was seeing. It was the man. The light coming through the stained-glass window cast an image of him upon the wall. And that image was moving. Even as she watched, the ghostly man on the wall bowed to her. He straightened then, and smiled. Clarisse felt her heart racing — from fear, yes, but something else quickened her blood as well. A strangely disconnected thought passed through her mind. She had never before seen a man so handsome.

"Who. . who are you?" she managed to speak. She took a step toward the wall. "How is it that you know my name? "

"I am Domenic," the glowing image of the man answered. His smile deepened. "And I know much about you, Clarisse. I have waited so long for you to find me here. But I knew that one day you would come, that one day you would free me from this prison in which I am wrongfully bound."

Clarisse shook her head. This was maddening. Yet she felt a powerful, dizzying excitement as well. "How can this be?" She gazed to the window, and then to the image of the man on the opposite wall. "Your portrait in the glass does not move, but your image upon the wall does."

Domenic spread his hands. "Glass is brittle, Clarisse. It does not flow. But sunlight. . "He laughed, a sound like horns. "Ah, sunlight flows like water."

His laughter seemed to catch her, buoy her, and set her adrift. She found herself laughing as well, for the first time she could remember since coming to Evenore.

Domenic's laughter faded. "Now, Clarisse, will you release me?" he asked intently. "There is a way."

She shook her head. Why was it so hard to think? The crimson light seemed to fill her mind. "I. . I don't know."

He appeared to reach a hand toward her, though his image was confined to the flat plane of the wall. "Set me free, Clarisse, and I will set you free as well. I can take you away from this — from this lonely manor, this bleak countryside. "Her heart skipped a beat. "And yes, Clarisse, away from him. I'll take you back to Il Aluk, if you wish it, and each night we will dance in a different ballroom, until we have made them all our own."

She took a step nearer the glowing wall. "But how. .how did you come to be imprisoned so? "

"It was a wicked man, Clarisse. "He shook his head sadly. "A man of evil, and a wizard. I dared to stand against him, and he bound me in the glass with a spell. But do not fear. When you free me, I will deal with him." Domenic's smoldering eyes bored into her. "Go to the window, Clarisse."

Before she even thought of whether to do as he asked, she found herself standing once more before the hundredth window.

"Look through the glass, Clarisse. Tell me, what do you see?"

Clarisse leaned forward and peered through the colored shards. She expected to see the village huddling meagerly at the foot of the tor below, or the endless, rolling moor. She saw neither.

It was a sea of monsters.

She felt a scream claw at her chest, but her throat, constricted by horror, strangled it. A thin sheen of sweat broke out on her forehead.

She should look away. She knew she should look away. But somehow she could not. The creatures beyond the glass held her morbidly in thrall. She could see no land, if indeed the beasts stood upon such, for the throng of creatures blotted it out entirely. They were shaped like people, but people from a nightmare, for their skin was a sickly green, and their bloated heads far too big for their twisted bodies. Those closest to the window turned as if they could see Clarisse, glaring at her with mindless, hungry eyes as hot as coals, baring fangs as sharp as shattered glass. Some were clad in rags that might once have been clothes, and here and there Clarisse saw the glint of a silver ring or a gold necklace. It was enough to make her wonder if these things had once been. . human.

"What. . what are they?" she finally managed to whisper.

"You needn't fear them, Clarisse," Domenic answered from behind. "Every great lord must have servants. These are mine. "His voice seemed to coil around her like a soft cloak. "Now, Clarisse. Reach up to the window. Take my hand."

She shook her head. "But how?" Fear made her entire body tremble. Or was it desire?

"Just reach into the window, Clarisse," Domenic urged gently. "Take my hand. Do it, Clarisse — if you love me."

She could resist no longer. The fear in her breast melted into a powerful, heady warmth. Domenic was so handsome, so compelling. . so utterly unlike Gareff.

She reached toward the window. Her fingers brushed strangely slick glass. Then suddenly her hand closed about warm, living flesh. She backed away, not loosening her grip, and as though he was surfacing from deep, murky water, Domenic stepped from the glass, a living man.

"Ah, my Clarisse!" he cried. "At last, I am free!" He swept her into his strong, encircling arms and kissed her passionately. His burning eyes seemed to light a fire in her. She clung to him fiercely, kissing him back again, and again.

Domenic whirled her about, and a faint, disconnected fragment of Clarisse's mind noticed that they were no longer in the attic chamber, but in the ballroom downstairs. Yet too much had happened for this small thing to disturb her. Domenic waved his hand, and suddenly a quartet of musicians played upon the dais, clad in coats of the finest red velvet. The musicians began a lovely, lilting waltz, and Domenic spun her about the ballroom in a sweeping, dizzying dance.

"We shall dance together forever, Clarisse," he said joyously. "Forever!" For a terrible moment, his smile was the mirror image of her father's.

"What have I done?" Clarisse whispered, but her words were snatched away by the sweet strains of music. She gripped Domenic tighter as they danced, spinning about the ballroom until she forgot herself in a sweet, burning dream.

"Clarisse!"

The cry shattered the air of the ballroom. Domenic halted the dance abruptly, and Clarisse's momentum spun her breathlessly away. She looked up to see Gareff in the doorway, his blue eyes blazing. He threw down his rain-soaked riding cape and strode into the hall.

"Domenic," he hissed with contempt. "I should have known you would find a way to free yourself. And I see you have brought your foul goblyns with you."

Clarisse followed Gareff's gaze and gasped in horror. She saw now that the four musicians upon the dais were not men at all, but creatures like those she had seen beyond the glass. The beasts threw down their instruments and leapt to their feet, baring jagged teeth in hungry leers.

"Begone with you!" Gareff cried, waving his hand in an intricate gesture. The four goblyns screamed as each burst into flame. They writhed for a moment in agony. Then the flames died, leaving only four small piles of greasy soot.

"Clarisse, come to me," Domenic beckoned urgently, holding out a hand toward her.

Gareff quickly interposed himself between them. "Stay back, Clarisse," he warned. "I know you have heard rumors from the villagers, rumors of a goblyn lord. Know, then, that Domenic is he."

"In the flesh," Domenic bowed with a flourish. He and Gareff began to circle each other warily.

"Years ago Domenic ruled these lands with fear, Clarisse, capturing villagers and transforming them by unspeakable means into goblyns. "Gareff's voice shook with loathing. "But finally I put a stop to him, imprisoning him in the window. Since that time I've traveled the land, hunting down and destroying the last of his vile creations. I tried to conceal it from you Clarisse, to protect you. I see now that I was in error."

"You defeated me once with your trickery, Harrowing," Domenic spat. "You will not do so again. "He spread his hands apart. Crimson light crackled between them. "This time you'll discover what it feels like to be transformed into a goblyn yourself. "The shimmering energy between his hands arced toward Gareff. Clarisse screamed, backing up against the wall.

Just as the livid, blood-red fire reached him, Lord Harrowing crossed his wrists and chanted in a strange, dissonant tongue. A circle of green light flashed into being before him, blocking the crimson radiance. Domenic swore violently.

"Your magic has diminished during your confinement," Gareff goaded. He muttered the queer incantation again, and the circle of green light grew until it surrounded him completely. Then an emerald tendril began to reach out, pushing back the searing crimson magic streaming from the hands of the handsome goblyn lord.

"And you are a weak old fool," Domenic said between gritted teeth. Scarlet fire crackled around his entire body now, reaching out to entwine itself about the green glow conjured by Gareff's incantation. Clarisse shook her head in horror, watching as the two wizards assailed each other with all their powers. Sweat poured down Lord Harrowing's face, and Domenic's brow was furrowed in supreme effort. Halfway between them, emerald magic met crimson in a sizzling fount of sparks. Gareff was growing paler, his bushy eyebrows knit in concentration, and Domenic was trembling. Yet the violent juncture of their magics stayed even between them. It was a stalemate.

"Clarisse!" Domenic cried. "You must help me!"

The anguish in his voice rent her heart. She took a hesitating step toward him.

"No, Clarisse!" Gareff shouted. "You must not listen to him. I beg you, come to me. You can help me defeat him once and for all."

Clarisse froze, gazing from man to man. Magic charged the air with the acrid scent of lightning.

"You are my wife, Clarisse," Gareff grunted sternly. "You must do as I tell you. Come to me!"

"No, Harrowing, she is yours no longer," Domenic gasped. "Her soul is mine. I own her now."

Clarisse shook her head. "No. . "she whispered, backing away from the two wizards.

"You will never have her, Domenic!" Lord Harrowing cried furiously. The emerald magic surged forward. "Clarisse is mine!"

Crimson fire leapt from Domenic's hands, countering the green incandescence. "No, Harrowing. She is mine!"

Clarisse let out a wordless cry of anguish. Clutching her gown up above her ankles, she turned and fled the room. She ran down shadowed corridors, leaving the desperate shouts of the two men behind. She made her way through the grand hall. Portraits of Harrowing ancestors seemed to glare down accusingly at her from the walls. Afraid she had gone mad, she ran on.

Abruptly she stopped, blinking in surprise. The stained-glass window shone before her. She didn't remember coming here. But that wasn't important, for now a thought struck her, a horrifying thought, yet terribly compelling ail the same. She knew she could not choose between Lord Harrowing and Domenic. One form of imprisonment was no better than another. Each man believed he owned her soul.

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.