“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 Sorciere.”
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 mere 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 Iles.
As they came to the road, Camille said, “Tell me, Rondalo, if it pains you not overmuch, how did your pere 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 mere 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 pere?”
“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 mere’s memory from her, yet if your tale about the Keltoi is true, then mayhap that’s where your mere’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 Iles.
“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 Iles, 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.
Even as the children scrambled for the coins, Camille and Rondalo stepped onto the bridge and went out of Les Iles. Soon they came to the stables, where two riding horses and one packhorse stood waiting, and though Camille had protested she knew not how to ride, still she realized a deal more blossoms would wither away if she walked than if she rode. And so she mounted up, and off they went, away from the river and into the forest at hand, setting forth for a grim range of mountains somewhere in the far distance beyond, for deep in the foreboding fastness therein a murderous Firedrake did lair.