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.