27
Two hundred sixty-five blossoms gone, the two hundred sixty-sixth awither. Oh why does it take so long to “Yon,” said Rondalo, breaking Camille’s thoughts.
“Wh-what?”
“Yon is the firemountain, wherein the Dragon does lair,” said Rondalo, pointing, his breath blowing white in the cold mountain air.
Camille’s gaze followed his outstretched arm to where tendrils of smoke from a truncated mountain rose into the early-morning sky.
Their horses plodded onward through the snow, rounding a great looming frown of stone, and slowly more of the firemountain came into view, the whole of it a dark ruddy color streaked with ebony runs. Finally, just above a long and sheer rise topped with a ledge, there gaped a black hole.
“Is that it?” asked Camille, her heart hammering in sudden dread.
“Aye,” replied Rondalo, his voice grim.
They had been on the way some thirty-five days, travelling toward this place, and at last the goal was in view, there where a monster laired.
Thirty-five days of pleasant company. Thirty-five days of sleeping in forest campsites and crofters’ lofts and hunters’ cabins and in wayside inns.
Back trail some two days and a dawning ago, a mountain village lay; ’twas nought more than a dozen or so stone-sided, sod-roofed dwellings scattered along a narrow mountain road, with tiers of farmland carven in the slopes below. The villagers had spoken in a guttural language Camille did not know, for it was neither speech in the Old Tongue nor in that of the new. But Rondalo understood and he did converse with them, translating for the benefit of Camille. And when the villagers had discerned whither the twain were bound, their warnings were stark and forbidding.
Gjore ikke…
[Do not go into the mountains, for there a deadly Drake does abide.]
[We have no choice but to do so.]
[Many a brave and foolish warrior has gone, armed and armored, ready for battle, seeking fame, seeking glory. None have returned, and their names are not remembered.]
[We seek neither fame nor glory, but knowledge instead.]
[Knowledge of what?]
[Where lies a place east of the sun and west of the moon.]
The villagers had looked at one another, yet all had shrugged, for none had known where such a place might be. After a moment an eld and toothless woman had gazed up at the ice-clad mountains and said, [Only the north wind would know.] Then with faded blue eyes she had looked beyond a col leading deeper into the fastness and added, [Or mayhap a Dragon dire.]
[That is what we are hoping for, and that is where we go.]
[Then we will see you no more.]
The villagers had then turned their backs and walked away, for what profit was there in speaking unto the dead?
And so Camille and Rondalo, after spending the night in an abandoned, roofless ruin of a stone hut, had ridden out the next dawntide, and no one had watched them go.
And now, on the morn of the third day after, their goal was in sight.
Camille reined her horse to a halt and dismounted. “I will go on from here alone.”
Rondalo sprang down from his horse and stepped to her. “I cannot let you face Raseri single-handedly. It is entirely too dangerous.”
“I have Scruff, and what of your oath? I would not have you battle a Dragon, Firedrake that he is.”
“I shall keep my oath, and do battle with that foul murderer, but only after he has answered that which you need to know.”
“No, Rondalo. The Lady of the Mere said I must go alone”-Camille gestured at her shoulder, where Scruff perched, his feathers fluffed up against the cold-“Scruff and I, that is.”
“These past thirty-five days you have not been alone, Camille. And I have come to cherish you, mayhap more than you know.”
Camille blushed, remembering:
It had occurred in a wayside inn, just a fortnight past: After they had sung for the patrons, the innkeeper had sent a second bottle of wine to their table, and both Camille and Rondalo had overly imbibed. That was when Rondalo had leaned over and kissed Camille, and she, so very lonely for Alain and craving his intimacy, had fervently responded. It was only when Rondalo had paused and looked into her eyes that she caught her breath and saw deep within his gaze an ardor burning bright, and she was thrilled. But then, shocked at her own behavior, in a confusion of emotions, she had fled away from him and to her quarters, and in the next days they had ridden in uncomfortable silence, saying nought beyond the needs of the moment, or when making camp, or planning the morrow’s journey. And during this time Camille had wondered if there were room in a single heart for more than one love. As she had done so, unbidden there had come to mind the image of the Unicorn Thale, and this had made her wonder as well of virtue and purity and other such, and whether or no she had lost that which she once had.
But that was then and this was now, and Camille said, “I cherish you too, my friend, and no more than would you have me face Raseri, so would I not have you face him as well.”
Rondalo grasped the hilt of the sword at his waist and flashed it into the sky, calling out, “By the blade of my sire I-”
But then he fell into stunned silence, his eyes upon the gleaming bronze. And then he cried out, “Mother!” his voice slapping from vertical stone faces to echo among the peaks.
Camille stepped backward in startlement, for she knew not what was amiss, until Rondalo’s shoulders slumped and he said, “This is not my sire’s.”
“Not your-?”
“Nay, for his is silver-bright, and hammered runes of power run the length of the blade.”
And now Camille remembered Chemine’s words as she had handed the sheathed sword 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.”
Camille said, “Your mere knows you well, Rondalo. Yet she also knew I would need go on alone. And so she did that which had to be done to assure that it would be so, for you must not break your sword-oath.”
Tears sprang into Rondalo’s eyes, to run down his face. “Oh, my dearest Camille, I…”
“I know, Rondalo. I know.”
Rondalo wiped his cheeks with the heels of his hands, then cleared his throat and said, “Remember, look not into his gaze, else he will glamour you.”
“I remember,” said Camille, untying leather thongs from behind her saddle. “You told me often enough of the powers of Drakes, and so I think I will not fall unto a Dragon’s wiles.”
“They are quite crafty, quite cunning. Treacherous, too.”
“As I said, I shall remember. But you, Rondalo, must remember too that I shall take off my cloak and whirl it ’round my head if all seems to be going well. If at night, I shall swing my small lantern back and forth.” Camille glanced up toward the dark hole. “From here, you should be able to see either.”
Camille then took down her waterskin and bedroll and rucksack, the stave affixed in loops she had thought to sew thereon. She settled the sling straps over her shoulder and pulled loose the walking staff, the two hundred and sixty-sixth blossom awither. Finally, a tremor in her voice, she looked at Rondalo and said, “I now go.”
Rondalo stepped forward and he kissed her on the cheek. “I shall wait here a sevenday, and if you return not”-his eyes turned hard as flint-“I will fetch my sire’s sword and the Drake will not survive.”