“ ’Twas not a gasp of fear, Rondalo, but one of wonder instead, for glamours are strange and marvelous: they turn beautiful Elves into crones, Unicorns into nags, and doors into stone.”
“And sometimes just the opposite,” replied Rondalo, smiling.
In spite of the illusion, the door was locked, but Rondalo produced a silver key, and in but moments, by the light of a newly lit lantern found on a peg just inside, they descended a long, spiral stair down into stone depths below. At last they came to the bottom, and a tunnel stretched into darkness before them, and along this way they went, their footsteps echoing hollowly down the long, granite corridor.
There it was that Scruff peeped drowsily a time or two within the shadowy hall, and Camille carefully slipped him into the high vest pocket, where, after another peep or two, the sparrow settled down to sleep.
As they continued on, Camille asked, “Who made this?”
“ ’Twas here from the first.”
“A Keltoi creation, eh?”
“Them or the gods.”
Finally, they came to the foot of another stair spiralling upward into the darkness above, and up this way they went nearly three hundred steps altogether. They came to another door, this one locked as well, but the silver key opened it, too.
As Rondalo blew out the lantern and hung it on a peg, Camille stepped outward into the early twilight beyond, for dusk was drawing down o’er the land, and she came into a splendid garden, flowers everywhere. A pillared gazebo sat centermost, beyond which stood a white-stone cottage. Pathways wended among blossoms. “Shall we?” asked Rondalo, offering his arm.
As Camille slipped her arm through his, she looked back toward the door, yet ’twas nought but a stone boulder she saw, like the one on the shore opposite.
Through the gloaming they trod along one of the pathways, but as they circled ’round the gazebo, a gentle voice said, “Would you pass me by?”
Rondalo laughed. “Mother, I saw you not.”
“ ’Tis no wonder, son, for what man would have eyes for aught but the beauty who walks at your side?”
Even as Camille blushed, Rondalo said, “Mother, may I present Lady Camille; she has come for your aid. Lady Camille, my mother Chemine, the Lady of the River.”
Camille curtseyed low, and Chemine rose and curtseyed as well. She was tall and graceful and had an ethereal quality about her, yet a quality of sadness as well. Her eyes were grey-blue and held a tilt, and her skin, like that of Rondalo, was alabaster touched by gold. Her hair was fair, though a trace of copper shone here and there among the flax.
“Come and sit and have some tea. I have been waiting for you.”
“You have been looking into the water again, eh, Mother?”
Chemine canted her head and made a small gesture toward a stone bowl, which seemed to be filled with ink.
Rondalo turned to Camille. “Mother is a Gwaragedd Annwn, or as mortals sometimes say, a Water Fairy, though ’tis a misnomer, for the Gwaragedd Annwn are of Elvenkind rather than of the Fairies.”
“I’ve heard of Water Fairies,” said Camille, setting her cup aside, “yet I thought they were creatures such as those I saw in the Spring- and Autumnwood. Small, they were, nearly transparent, a long, graceful fin running from wrist to ankle.—Oh, and they can change into otters, or at least so did the males, as I discovered while swimming unclothed.”
Rondalo laughed, and Camille blushed, and Chemine smiled and said, “La, child, those were Water Sprites. A curious folk, and playful. But not the so-called Water Fairies of lore, the Gwaragedd Annwn.”
“Why do they name you so?—Water Fairy, I mean.”
Chemine glanced at Rondalo, then said, “We have certain power over water.”
“And that would have something to do with, um”—Camille glanced at the bowl—“ ‘looking into the water’? And, by the bye, is that ink?”
Chemine smiled softly. “Not ink, but incanted water instead. And through it I can see far, though not without limits.”
“Indeed, Mother, I brought Camille here so that you might see for her.”
Chemine set down her own teacup and turned to Camille. “What is it, child? What would you have me espy?”
Chemine looked up from the ebon water. “There is a strong spell here, barring the way. I can see nought of this place you seek, nor aught of your true love.”
Tears welled in Camille’s eyes. “Is there nothing you can do?”
Chemine shook her head. “The only other time I could not see what I sought was when I and others of the Firsts were after the terrible Wizard Orbane; yet he is now beyond the Black Wall of the World, and so it could not be his hand at work, else we would know of it, or so I do deem.”
“What of Lanval or Blanche, or any of the others?”
Chemine’s eyes widened. “Blanche and Lanval?”
“My friends at Summerwood Manor. They’ve gone missing as well.”
Chemine reached out and took Camille’s hand. “Mayhap you had better tell me the entire tale. Perhaps therein will lie a clue as to that which might help.”
Wearily, Chemine slumped back. “Again I cannot see. Whatever happed to your Alain might have happed to them as well. The great wind you spoke of . . . a powerful spell, I deem, one that might have borne them all to this place east of the sun and west of the moon, and I do not know nor can I see where it is.”
Silence fell over the three in the gazebo, now lanternlit in the night. But then Camille asked, “Can you look at all the places in Faery where you
can
see, and by elimination find the place you cannot?”
Chemine sighed and shook her head. “Child, it drains me to see through the black water, and to look over all of Faery to find the place I cannot see would take much more than I have to give. What you ask could perhaps be done, but certainly not in the time you have left, nor in a thousand thousand times, for the Faery I know of is quite extensive, and, in truth, the whole of it might be without end.”
Camille sighed. “Then I suppose I’ll have to keep asking, especially among those with much lore.” She looked at Chemine. “Tell me, is there among the Firsts, someone with deep knowledge of that which has gone before, someone who might know?”
Chemine looked first at Camille and then at Rondalo, and suddenly she burst into tears. In spite of her weariness, she leapt to her feet and rushed into the garden. Rondalo sprang after, and when he caught her he held her in his arms as she quietly wept. After long moments she gained control of herself and sent him back to the gazebo. And Rondalo and Camille sat watching as Chemine paced the grounds, as if trying to come to a difficult decision. Finally she came and took Camille by the hands and haltingly said, “There is one who might help, for he is eldest in all Faery, the First of the Firsts. He has travelled far and knows much, yet he is a murderer.”
“Murderer?”
blurted Camille.
Rondalo sucked air in through gritted teeth and clenched his fists and said, “Name him, Mother,” yet he was braced as if he already knew the answer.
“You know who he is, my son.”
“Raseri,” hissed Rondalo.
Camille frowned, for she had heard that name somewhere before.
Rondalo turned to Camille. “He is a—”
“—A Firedrake,” said Camille. “Lisane named him during the reading.”
Again tears streamed down Chemine’s face. “He slew Audane.”
“Audane?”
“My heart, my love, Rondalo’s sire. He was to me as your Alain is to you.”
“Oh, I am so sorry,” said Camille, embracing Chemine.
Moments passed, and finally Chemine regained her composure. Gently disengaging from Camille, she turned to Rondalo. “You must guide Camille to Raseri.”
“What? To my enemy? To the one who slew my sire? He of monstrous guile and loathsome treachery?”
“My son, we have no choice. If Camille is to find her Alain, she must speak with the eldest in the land.”
“But Mother, I swore that if I ever went to his lair, I would take my sire’s sword and slay him.”
“Then leave the sword behind.”
“Break my oath?”
Chemine sighed. “No, I would not have you break an oath sworn upon the sword of your sire.”
“Then what you ask cannot be done,” said Rondalo.
They sat in silence a moment, but then Camille said, “Would it break your oath to guide me to a place from which I could go on alone?”
“But Camille, I would not have you face that monster without someone at your side.”
Camille smiled and gently touched the sleeping sparrow, and, as he gave a tiny “
chp,
” she said, “Scruff will be with me, a gift of Lady Sorcière.”
Long did they debate, Chemine saying that this might be Camille’s only chance, and Rondalo admitting that he would not break his oath if he but guided her nigh, yet he would not abandon her to face Raseri alone, foul murderer that the Drake was. Yet Camille would not be swayed, arguing that without Rondalo’s help, Alain and the others would be lost forever; and as for facing Raseri, it was a risk that she and mayhap Scruff were willing to take.
A glum silence fell over them all, yet at last Rondalo agreed, saying to Camille, “Your persuasion is almost as golden as your singing.”
At this, Chemine raised an eyebrow. “You sing?”
“Oh, Mother, you must listen,” said Rondalo. “Let us to the cote, and you take up your harp, and then you will hear.”
Camille glanced at Chemine’s weary posture and started to demur, but Chemine said, “Music is restorative. Besides, it will break this somber mood fallen o’er all our hearts.”
It was mid of night when Camille and Rondalo took their leave of Chemine. She embraced them both, and said to Rondalo, “Let not this child sing to Goblins and Trolls.” And to Camille she said, “May you find what lies east of the sun and west of the moon, and may it be your true heart.”
Then she took up a sheathed sword and handed it to Rondalo. “Just in case, my son. Yet draw it not until the mountain comes into view, and then only if you believe you need go on, for, heed! you must not break the oath sworn upon your father’s blade.”
Rondalo nodded, his look grim, and he said nought as he buckled the weapon on.
Then Chemine kissed each and stepped back, and Camille and Rondalo went through the silver-bound door in the stone and down to the tunnel below.
As they started along the passageway, to break the brooding silence, Camille asked, “What did your mère mean, ‘Let not this child sing to Goblins and Trolls’?”
Rondalo looked at her. “You do not know?”
“No.”
“Then heed: ’tis said because of their own hideous, froglike croakings neither Goblins nor Trolls can abide the sound of sweet singing, for what they cannot have, they revile. The sweeter the singing, the greater their fury, and with a voice as pure as yours . . . I dread to think of what they might do. Regardless, that’s what my dam meant when she spoke to me, but in truth was cautioning you.”
“I did not know.”
“I ween she suspected as much,” said Rondalo.
They reached the end of the long corridor, where the spiral stairway led upward, and Rondalo paused and said, “My dear, you should not venture about Faery without someone of knowledge, someone of lore at your side.”
“Would that I could,” replied Camille, “but the Lady of the Mere said I must go alone, but for one of her gifts—Scruff, I believe. She did say unexpected help would come along the way, and it has. Even so, I deem Scruff and I must see this Raseri alone, but let us not argue that point again.”
Rondalo sighed, then began the ascent.
They climbed up the long spiral to come to the glamoured door in the boulder, and they stepped out into the woods along the high, riverside bluff. The waxing moon rode high in the sky, and by its gentle light they passed among the trees of the forest along the rim, aiming for Les Îles.
As they came to the road, Camille said, “Tell me, Rondalo, if it pains you not overmuch, how did your père die?”
“I am not certain, for it did occur ere I was born. I only know that he was slain by Raseri.”
“What does your mère say?”
“She knows not how it came about either, for her own memories ere coming unto Faery are all but nonexistent. All she says is that my sire Audane was her true love, and that he was slain by the villainous Raseri.”
“And you have the sword of your père?”
“Aye. ’Tis all of his that I do have. ’Twas one of the few things my dam bore with her into Faery, the sword in her hand, with me in her womb straining to get out.”
They walked in silence for a while, passing by the stables and paddock where horses slept in the night. Just ere coming to the rope-and-board bridge, Camille said, “Mayhap ’twas grief drove your mère’s memory from her, yet if your tale about the Keltoi is true, then mayhap that’s where your mère’s story begins, with the death of Audane and the birth of you. Mayhap there
is
no story before that. Mayhap that’s all the Keltoi told, or all of that tale the gods did hear, hence ’twas but a fragment they did make manifest.”
Rondalo did not reply as they made their way across the span and into Les Îles.
“Ah, Camille, I shall miss you greatly,” said Robert. Then he frowned. “What should I do with the gowns?”
Dressed for travel, her rucksack and waterskin and bedroll slung, her stave in hand, Scruff on her shoulder, Camille said, “Perhaps another singer will come along who can use them.”
“And mayhap you yourself will return one day,” said Robert, hope glimmering.
“Perhaps,” said Camille, “and merci for all you did, Robert.”
She turned toward Rondalo, he, too, ready for travel, and he said, “Shall we?”
With a final au revoir, Camille and Rondalo departed, and they made their way through the bustle of Les Îles, Camille’s troop of urchins laughing and darting among the stir, yet keeping pace with their patron. At last they reached the final bridge, and here did Camille stop and call the children together. With a smile she said adieu, then flung a handful of copper pennies high into the air, scattering them widely, and with wild whoops the urchins dove after.