Once more silence fell between them, but then Lisane said, “Thale has agreed to bear you to a town, where you can continue your quest.”
“But I know not how to ride aught,” said Camille, “much less a Unicorn.”
“Did you not ride the Bear? And did you not ride Thale from the wrath of the Spriggans unto here?”
“Yes, but—”
Lisane smiled. “Fear not, Camille, for a Unicorn will not let fall one who is pure of heart. You do not need to know how to ride, for Thale will bear you securely.”
They sat until lavender twilight turned to star-laden cobalt night, and then went inside. But ere she crawled into bed, Camille took up Lady Sorcière’s stave and by candlelight counted the days:
Two hundred eighty-seven blossoms remain; seventy-nine dints where blossoms once were. A fortnight lost to illness. Oh, Alain, will I find you ere all the blossoms are gone?
In the silvery light of the onset of dawn, Camille and Lisane hugged and kissed one another, tears standing in the eyes of each. Then Camille mounted up, Thale whinnying and tossing his head as if anxious to be away. Lisanne stepped forward and handed up Camille’s goods, and then she lifted up chirping Scruff, who, until he was safely perched in his customary spot on Camille’s shoulder, seemed to think he was being left behind. And when all was settled in place, “Seek the Minstrel, Camille, whoever he or she might be,” said Lisane, and then she stepped back.
“I shall,” replied Camille, and with a final au revoir, she rode away on the back of a Unicorn, leaving the vast willow behind, it with its dwelling within.
Lisane watched until they were gone from sight, then she turned and went inside to once again lay out the cards to see if aught had changed. She found on the table awaiting her—
What’s this? Gifts from Camille? Fourteen silver pennies: one for each day of her stay. But what need have I for coin? . . . Ah, but this white-pearl ring, a symbol of purity . . .
Lisane took up the ring and slipped it onto a finger, where it softly shone in the oncoming light of the newly arriving morn.
Two days later in the waning afternoon, Thale halted just within the edge of the forest. Down a long slope beyond, and across a narrow bridge above a swift river, stood a modest town of five hundred dwellings or so.
Quietly, Thale whickered and Camille dismounted. She embraced the Unicorn about the neck and said, “Merci, mon ami, not only for bearing Scruff and me here, but also for showing me that I am not sullied for having loved and been loved.”
Camille stroked Thale’s muzzle one last time, and he blew softly into her hand, then he looked up at Scruff and snorted.
“
Chp!
” protested the sparrow, but Camille laughed.
Tossing his head, again Thale whickered, his pearlescent, spiral-wound horn agleam in the slanting rays of the sun.
Camille sighed and turned and started down the long slope. When she looked back the Unicorn was gone, and on down toward the town she went to whatever lay within.
24
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A
s Camille crossed the narrow footbridge over the river, sounding above the shush of swift-running water she heard a clarion call, and along the road just beyond the buildings lining the far bank came a great, enclosed red coach, eight horses hauling. A driver and another man, both in red coats, sat on a high seat at the fore, with luggage strapped atop the roof behind. Standing on a footboard arear, and hanging on to a rail, were two lads—footmen—also wearing red coats. Again came the clarion call, and ’twas the man beside the driver sounding the trump, announcing the arrival of the great red coach into town. Here and there, through gaps between buildings, Camille saw folks stepping out from their dwellings and businesses, all to watch as the coach rumbled in, with some of its passengers lowering sashes and leaning out to see to what place they had come.
“Oh, Scruff, travellers. Mayhap one will know of that we do seek, or even perhaps of the Elf Rondalo, the bard Lisane did name.” Camille hurried on across and along the pathway between a pair of buildings and to the main thoroughfare. When she reached the street, a short way to the left she saw the red coach now standing, horses fretting in their traces, while the driver held tightly to the reins, his foot on the long brake lever. The footmen had alighted to the ground and now handed passengers out, while the man who had sounded the trumpet tossed down luggage to a pair of youths below. Standing on the walkway, a woman welcomed passengers—seven altogether, five men and two women—and directed them into a substantial, two-storey building.
“Mayhap an inn, Scruff.”
As the wayfarers trooped inside, Camille hurried toward the structure; nearing, she saw hanging from eyelets a signboard naming the place as L’Auberge du Taureau Bleu, its namesake—a blue bull—depicted thereon. “Ah, Scruff, have they a spare bedchamber, here we will spend the night.”
Reaching the inn, Camille stepped in the foyer and waited patiently amid the bustle of rooms being assigned and luggage being claimed and people declaring just how good it was to be out of the coach at last.
“I need a bath,” said one of the women.
“Me too,” murmured Camille to Scruff. “If there is one thing I did come to appreciate at Summerwood Manor, it was the taking of daily baths, a luxury quite unavailable, it seems, when one takes on a quest . . .” She glanced sideways at the sparrow, who peered with beady eyes back at her. “But not unavailable to you, my wee little friend,” Camille added in afterthought, “you who can bathe in nought but a cup, or flop about in fine dust.”
In that moment—“Ma’amselle, you are next”—she was called forward by the lady of the inn.
“If you’ll come with me, my little poppet,” slurred the portly man, leering at her, and then at the serving maid as she delivered another bottle of wine, “perhaps then I’ll remember.”
“Ah, non, m’sieur,” declined Camille, sighing and stepping away, for he was the last of the passengers. She had asked all the others, some hesitant to respond, peering at her suspiciously. What would a fille like you want with such? some had asked, while others simply shook their heads and kept on eating.
Camille finally returned to her own table, and as the serving girl set a plate of bread and cheese and scallions and beef before her, Camille said. “Ma’amselle, would you know where the driver of the coach might be? It occurs to me that he may have travelled far in his life and seen much.”
“Call me Lili, my lady. And you are correct: Louis has travelled far, and he might know of this place you seek.” She made an apologetic gesture. “I could not but help overhear. As to Louis’ whereabouts, I would suggest you try L’Auge d’Or.”
“Where might this Golden Trough be?”
Lili pointed. “Down the street, just across from the stables. That’s where Louis and the others go after they see to the horses. But rather than waiting for the morrow, ma’amselle, you should ask him this eve, for he and his coach with its passengers will be off just after first light.”
“How often do coaches come through?”
“Lili!” called the innkeeper.
Lili glanced over her shoulder at the man, then took up her tray and said, “Once every fortnight or thereabout, at times more often, at other times less, though Louis comes through but once every six moons or so, for he makes quite long runs. Pardonnez-moi, ma’amselle, but I must go.”
“Merci, Lili.”
The serving girl grinned and curtseyed, then hurried away.
Louis, a stocky man with shag of brown hair hanging down, peered deeply into his tankard of ale, then shook his head. “Non, I know of no such place. But if you ask me, this is not a town where you are likely to find an answer to where it might be, ma’amselle. Too small and out of the way, this village, more of a hamlet to my way of thinking.” He took a swig, and then fixed Camille with his dark brown eyes. “If I were you, I’d go to a notable city, where you are more likely to come across those who can aid you: mapmakers, loremasters at the academies, merchants who import goods from afar as well as the folk who bring those goods, traders and travellers and other such world-wise sorts. Too, you’ll find Elves and Dwarves and other Fey, as well as those of us who are of the common salt, and surely among such an assortment, your answer will be found.”
“Sieur, I am newly come unto Faery, and I know little of cities herein. I would appreciate any advice you might have.”
“Well, my coach is bound for Les Îles, a city of some noteworthiness.”
“The Isles?”
“Aye. So named for it is built entirely on a number of islands at the confluence of four grand rivers. ’Tis these rivers which make it one of the great trading centers of Faery.”
“Might there be minstrels there?” asked Camille.
Louis laughed. “Oh, yes, minstrels galore, for there are more inns and taverns and theaters there than you can shake a stick at. Many minstrels on street corners, too, singing for a copper or three, minstrels in the parks as well . . . perhaps even this bard you name, um . . .”
“Rondalo,” said Camille.
“Yes. Mayhap he would be there as well, though if he is a true bard, ’tis not likely will you find him on a street corner, but in a great inn, or a music hall, or such.”
“Ah, then, I shall go, if you have room in your coach.”
“I do, for it will bear ten, and there are but seven now.” Then Louis took a deep breath and frowned. “About the fare, ma’amselle, it is quite expensive to travel so far.”
“Expensive?”
“Albert,” called Louis, “the fare from here to Les Îles, how much?”
Across the common room, Albert, the coachman’s aid, the one who had sounded the trumpet, consulted a small book. “Twelve silvers,” he called back.
Louis waved his thanks. “There you have it, ma’amselle: twelve silvers, or a gold and two, or the equivalent in bronzes, or however you can manage your funds.—Oh, and you are responsible for your own meals and lodging along the way. It is, as I said, quite expensive in all.”
Camille smiled. “I can pay. Yet would you charge me for my sparrow?”
“You travel with a sparrow? A true sparrow?” Louis held thumb and finger some three or four inches apart.
Camille nodded. “He is in my chamber at the Blue Bull and quite sound asleep, I believe.”
Louis grinned. “For the sparrow, nought, but mind you, I would not have him disturb the other passengers.”
Camille grinned in return. “I assure you, sieur, he is quite well-behaved.”
“Then, Ma’amselle, um ah . . .”
“Camille.”
“Then, Ma’amselle Camille, you must be on hand just after break of fast on the morrow, for we leave in the early morn.”
Camille stood. “I shall be ready, sieur, and merci. The advice you have given is quite good.”
Louis raised his tankard in a toast to Camille, then quaffed all down.
After she and Scruff broke their fast, Camille settled her bill with the innkeeper. And just as the red coach pulled up in front of the Blue Bull, through the open door, Camille saw an ample, black-haired woman hasten past, her head down in her hurry.
As Camille took up her gear from the floor before the counter, suddenly her eyes widened in recognition.
Blanche!
Camille turned and called out. “Blanche! It’s Camille!”
Quickly, Camille ran to the door and out. The woman, bearing a small basket, hastened down the street.
“Blanche!”
The woman hurried on without pausing.
Camille rushed after, calling out, “Blanche! Oh, Blanche!”
Just at the doorway to the stables, Camille caught the woman by the arm, and, startled, she turned. With Scruff scrambling to retain his perch, Camille fiercely embraced the woman. “Oh, Blanche, I’ve missed you so, and—”
“Ma’amselle,” said the woman, struggling, pulling away, looking with apprehensive eyes at this madwoman with a chattering sparrow on her shoulder, “I know you not.”
“But Blanche, it’s me, Camille. Do you not recogni—?”
“Is aught amiss, wife?” came a deep voice. Wearing a leather apron and holding a horseshoe in one hand and a hammer in another, a portly, dark-haired man stepped out from the very first stall.
“Renaud!” Camille started toward the smith, but he threw up a staying hand.
“I am sorry, mademoiselle, but you have me at a disadvantage. And my name is Georges, not Renaud.”
“Nor am I this Blanche you name me,” said the woman, edging past Camille to stand behind her husband.
Camille could not believe what they said, for her eyes told her differently. “But you
are
Renaud and Blanche! Don’t you know me? We are good friends, and we all lived together at Summerwood Manor for more than a year, until just”—Camille glanced at her stave—“some eighty-two days past.”
“Nay, mademoiselle,” said the man. “You have mistaken us for someone else. We have lived in Lis for nigh seventeen years, as time would be measured in the mortal realm, and have never been elsewhere in all those days.”
“Then you are twins to those I know,” declared Camille.
The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh, ma’amselle, is it true? Twins? We did not know.” She turned to the smith. “Oh, Georges, mayhap we have kith after all.”
“How can you not know whether you have kindred?” asked Camille.
A horn sounded. Camille stepped to the opening and looked toward the inn. Passengers were boarding.
“
Chpp!
” chirped Scruff, as if to call Camille’s attention to the coach.
The man sighed. “We have no memory beyond our village life here.”
Camille frowned. “No memory?”
The woman’s dark blue eyes filled with sadness. “It is as Georges has said, for it seems that one day some sixteen years past we were simply here. Neither of us knew how we had come, or where from, or even who we were—”