Camille frowned. “Has no one asked these men of the emerald isle? It should be easy enough to find the truth of the matter.”
Rondalo shook his head. “Alas, the true Keltoi are no more, vanished from the worlds, and only their stone circles and dolmens remain.”
“Then what of their descendants? Cannot they shed some light?”
“ ’Tis said that many of those have silver tongues and some have golden pens, yet they are no wiser as to how Faery came to be than I.”
“Then mayhap your mere will know,” said Camille.
“Alas, my dam has but one memory of aught ere I was born, and that a grievous one: the death of my sire.”
“Oh,” said Camille, and fell silent.
The sun was just beginning to set, high white clouds turning golden in the foredusk sky, when at last they stood on the bluff straight across from the solitary isle. As Camille gazed at the distant white cottage within the walled grounds atop the sheer-sided river mesa, she said, “Now that we are here, how do we proceed?”
Rondalo grinned. “I will show you.” Pulling Camille after, he stepped through the long shadows cast by the trees to come to a great white boulder. And on the side away from the river, he placed his hand to the stone and whispered a word, and lo! a silver-bound, oaken door appeared. At Camille’s gasp, Rondalo said, “Fear not, lady, for my dam tells me ’tis but a simple glamour.”
“ ’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.”