“My lord?”
Kelmot took a deep breath and let it out. “Orbane was a great wizard, yet evil grasped his heart. As to that which you thought was but a clay amulet, it was a seal holding within a great and fearsome power; there were seven seals in all, each one capable of invoking a terrible curse when broken—speak the curse, break the seal, and such will it be.”
“Though you numbered them seven, I saw but one. What of the other six seals?”
“Two were destroyed when we trapped Orbane in the Castle of Shadows in the Great Darkness beyond the Black Wall of the World. The missing five: we thought them gone, used up by Orbane or perhaps lost. But it seems we were wrong, for nought else I know of has the power to do that which you described—the wind, the vanishment, Prince Alain cursed to be the Bear in the day. Too, it would explain how Olot, and indeed his daughter, could cause such great harm, and it’s just like a Troll and his spawn to use such for their own vengeful ends. Most certainly they had at least two of the seals: the daughter one, the sire another. Wherefrom, I cannot say.”
Camille frowned. “Lord Kelmot, you say Alain was cursed to be the Bear in the day, but on our journeys he was the Bear in the night as well; even so, at Summerwood Manor, he was Alain at night, and not the Bear.”
In the moonlight, Kelmot shrugged. “Mayhap at night he had a choice as to which he would be; while in the day he had none.”
Camille frowned and added, “Then again, perhaps it is only Summerwood Manor where he could become Alai—No, wait. He was also Alain when he was on the ridge with Olot in the Winterwood, or at least I think it was Alain.”
“And that was nighttime as well?”
“Yes.”
They fell silent for a moment, but the lynx suddenly stood and faced away, its ears twitching.
“Something is amiss,” said Kelmot. He called the cat to him and mounted. “I will see.” And up a tall pine went the lynx, Kelmot riding.
After a while, down they came. Kelmot pointed and said, “Yon lies the manor, and toward it across the grounds I saw black shapes scuttling: Goblins, I ween.”
Camille’s heart lurched. “Oh, my. I was right. Olot sent his Redcaps to fetch me.”
“Fear not, Lady Camille. I and mine will handle these interlopers.” At a word from Kelmot, somewhat between a spit and a growl, the cat bounded into the tall grass.
“But wait, my lord,” called Camille after, “what of the Lady of the Mere?”
“I shall return,” came Kelmot’s cry, and then he was gone.
Moments after he vanished, Camille heard a forlorn calling, and she looked up to see silhouetted against the glowing half-moon, five great birds winging away; they were the black swans of Summerwood Manor, and two were missing from the flight. Distressed, Camille sat for long moments, certain that the Goblins had slain two of the swans out of hand.
Even so, weary as she was, at last she nodded off to sleep. How long she was aslumber she did not know, yet something awakened her, but what, she could not say. Still, she had a foreboding, as if something evil were afoot. She glanced all about in the silvery light shedding down from above, yet no Goblin or aught else did she spy. And she glanced up at the moon, now three-quarters down the sky, and of a sudden she gasped, for another black silhouette crossed the half-lit face, yet no swan was this, but a sinister knot of darkness, streaming tatters and tendrils of shadow flapping in the wind behind. And though Camille knew not what she had just seen, shudders ran up her spine.
In the last candlemark ere dawn, Camille was awakened by a soft call. Riding his lynx, Lord Kelmot had returned. “Hurry, my lady,” said Kelmot, dismounting. “The Lady of the Mere: if there, she is only present between the first sign of dawn and the full coming day.”
As Camille rolled her bedroll by the light of her small lantern, the diminutive Lynx Rider said, “ ’Twas indeed Goblins at Summerwood Manor, my lady”—Kelmot touched his bow—“yet they no longer live.”
“Were they Redcaps?”
“Aye. Just as you suspected.”
“You slew them all?” asked Camille, pausing and looking at the wee person, wondering how such a small one could be so deadly.
“Not alone,” replied Kelmot. “Other Lynx Riders came at my call, for Goblins in Summerwood are an abomination—especially Redcaps—and we will not abide their presence.—And, yes, we slew them all, though something or someone with them fled—escaped—something dark and sinister, though I know not what or whom.”
“I think I saw it,” said Camille, “flying across the moon. A dreadful thing of streaming shadows.”
Kelmot nodded.
Camille looked across at the wee Lynx Rider. “The swans: they flew across the moon as well, but two were missing.”
“Goblin-slain,” said Kelmot.
Camille sighed. “I had feared it so.”
“We took revenge,” said the tiny lord. “The Goblins all lie dead.”
“Oh, but I do hope their ghosts will not haunt my beloved’s mansion,” said Camille, tying the last of the knots.
“Fear not, my lady, for even now my riders are fetching others to come, other dwellers of Faery, those who can see that the bodies are burned and the spirits banished.”
Camille stood and shouldered her bedroll and rucksack, and Kelmot mounted up, and through the woodland they went, Camille pressing hard to keep pace with the Lynx Rider.
Light had seeped well into the sky when they finally came to the marge of a woodland glade. There it was Kelmot stopped. “Straight ahead, Lady Camille, that’s where you’ll find the mere and perhaps the lady as well.”
“Aren’t you coming with me?”
Kelmot shook his head. “Nay, Lady, for, if she appears at all, she will not do so if more than one stand along her shore. Yet I will wait for you here. Now hurry, for day is nigh upon the land.”
Taking a deep breath and exhaling, Camille said, “Merci, Lord Kelmot.”
“Go,” he replied, glancing at the oncoming light of day.
Camille hurried into the glade, and in its midst she came upon a crystalline mere of still water. Vapor rose from the surface, tendrils of mist to waft upward and twine out over the mossy banks, or to curl among a small cluster of reeds along the near shoreline. Across the limpid pool stood a huge oak, its great limbs shading above, its large roots reaching into the water. In the base of the oak Camille could see a hollow, and her eyes widened in revelation, for within the darkness therein sat a robed, hooded figure.
Of a sudden, Camille realized she was totally unprepared, for she had not considered what she would ask of the seer.
Oh, why hadn’t I—Stop it, you goose of a girl! Now think!
Thoughts swiftly raced through Camille’s mind.
As a seer, she can tell me of the future. Perhaps I should ask, Where will I find Alain? But wait, what if it is not my fate to find him, but someone else’s instead? Then it would be a wasted question, a lost opportunity. What if instead—Oh, my, I remember what Alain said about knowing the future: that one would perhaps try to change the outcome and thereby thwart Destiny, and thus perhaps upset the balance of all and make things even worse.
Nonplused, Camille glanced at the sky; the sun would break the horizon in but moments. She took a deep breath and asked, “Where can Alain be found?”
And still the sky brightened, for, despite Camille’s desperation, the oncoming day did not falter, and her spirit fell, for only silence reigned. But at last a whisper came across the mere, and Camille’s heart leapt with hope, but then fell, for the lady said, “What service have you given me?”
“Service, my lady? How can I have performed a service when I knew you not?”
“You must serve me in some manner: a favor, an aid, a duty.”
“Then, my lady, this I pledge on my heart: if there is aught I can do for you, then so I will.”
“Any service? Ponder well ere you answer.”
Camille glanced at the horizon. The sun was nigh at hand. Only moments remained ere it would rise. Though frantic, Camille considered deeply then said, “I will do no service which goes against my conscience.”
A sigh came across the mere, yet whether in satisfaction, relief, or disappointment, Camille did not know. Yet the lady murmured, “Well answered, Camille. Now riddle me this:
“I open the eyes of the world,
So wide-awake I be,
I close the eyes of the world,
Name me, I be three.”
Silence fell, and in desperation Camille again glanced at the ever-brightening horizon. Then, of a sudden, she knew, and she smiled and said, “You are dawn and midday and dusk.”
“Indeed, I am,” came the whisper.
“Oh, lady, please, where can Alain be found?”
Long silence reigned, but at last: “East of the sun and west of the moon is where your prince does lie. And this I will tell you for nought: a year and a day and a whole moon more from the time you betrayed him is all you have to seek him out, and you have already wasted seven days. Take my two gifts and go, and go alone, but for one of my gifts. Unlooked-for aid will come along the way.”
“But I would have the aid of Borel and Celeste and Liaze,” cried Camille. “The aid of Lord Kelmot, too.”
Only silence answered.
“But I don’t know where east of the sun and west of the moon might be. Oh, please, my lady, tell me where I should be bound.”
But the figure remained silent.
Frustrated, Camille circled ’round the water to confront the Lady of the Mere, yet when she came to the massive oak, all she found was a strange burl in the dark hollow at the base of the tree, a gnarled stick within.
“Where are you, Lady?” called Camille, tears stinging her eyes. “I am in desperate need.”
But an onset of chatter of a nearby bird was all that answered her anguished cry.
All ’round did Camille turn, seeking the seer somewhere in the glade or among the trees of the Summerwood. And then her shoulders slumped in defeat, for she knew she would not find the lady, for the glowing limb of the sun had risen above the horizon.
And still, nearby, a bird chattered.
“Oh, Lady,” groaned Camille, leaning her head against the oak, “you were no aid at all.”
Suddenly the bird fell silent.
“Was she here?” came a query.
Camille looked down. Lord Kelmot and his lynx now stood at her side. “The sun had risen,” said Kelmot, dismounting, “so I came to find you. And again I ask, was she here, the Lady of the Mere?”
Camille nodded. “She was. And she told me Alain lay east of the sun and west of the moon.”
Kelmot blanched, his catlike eyes widening in alarm. “Oh, my lady, how dreadful.”
Sudden hope blooming, Camille asked, “Know you of this place?”
Kelmot shook his head. “Nay, I do not.”
Camille frowned and turned up her hands. “Then why did you say—?”
“Camille, that the Lady of the Mere was here at all means that dire events are afoot, and we must gather a warband and find that place east of the sun and west of—” Kelmot’s words abruptly stopped, for Camille had pushed out a hand to halt his speech, and she was shaking her head. “What?” he asked.
“She told me that I must go alone,” said Camille. “That unlooked-for help would come along the way.”
“Were those her exact words?”
Camille’s brow furrowed. “Her exact words were, ‘East of the sun and west of the moon is where your prince does lie. And this I will tell you for nought: a year and a day and a whole moon more from the time you betrayed him is all you have to seek him out, and you have already wasted seven days. Take my two gifts and go, and go alone, but for one of my gifts. Unlooked-for aid will come along the way.’ ” Camille’s eyes widened in remembrance. “Oh, two gifts. But where—?”
Camille looked about the glade, seeing nought but things natural to the Summerwood: the sward, the water of the mere, the cluster of reeds within, a small patch of briars nearby, a silent bird in among the thorns, and the trees ’round the marge of the mead. Then she looked in the hollow of the oak. Nothing therein but the strange burl and the gnarled sti—
Wait!
Camille reached in and took up the stick. It was a walking staff, and it had a carved festoon of flowers winding ’round the shaft and up to a dark disk just below the grip at the top.
“This is surely one of the gifts,” said Camille, showing the ornate find to Kelmot.
“No doubt,” agreed the Lynx Rider. “But she said there were two.”
A flurry sounded nearby, and the bird in the thorns—a sparrow—chattered frantically, alarmed by Kelmot’s lynx, the cat, belly low, now creeping through the grass toward the briars. Yet the bird did not fly.
Suddenly Camille gasped. “Lord Kelmot, call off your lynx!”
Kelmot frowned, but spat a hissing word, and the lynx flattened in the grass, but did not take its eyes from its would-be prey.
Camille strode to the briar patch, Kelmot following, and all the while the bird chattered. “ ’Tis a wee, black-throated house sparrow and trapped,” said Camille as she worked her way inward. “Oh, my, but he is injured, his wing caught on a thorn. Mithras, it has stabbed right through a wing joint.”
Kelmot stood outside the briars. “What has the bird to do with aught?”
As Camille carefully eased the bird’s wing from the thorn, she said, “Remember the words of the seer, Lord Kelmot: ‘Take my two gifts and go, and go alone, but for one of my gifts.’ From her words I deem one of her gifts is a companion.”
“Ah, I see,” said Kelmot, nodding in agreement. “Alone, but for one of her gifts. Yet, Camille, what makes you think this bird is that gift?”
“Well, there is this: I heard not the sparrow until after the Lady of the Mere was gone. Ere, then, I deem he was absent.” The sparrow now in hand, Camille worked her way out from among the briars. As she stepped forth, she glanced at the lynx, and then frowned at Kelmot. “Will you, can you, keep your cat away from the bird while I tend to him?”