“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 Iles, 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 Iles, 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’ams
elle,” 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-”
Again the horn sounded, and again Scruff chirped in response.
“-only that we were man and wife. And so I took the name Clarisse”-she turned toward the man, and smiled into his eyes of brown-“and he, a master smith, it seems, took the name Georges. But in truth, as anyone in Lis will attest, we have not set one foot from this town in all the days following, and so, ma’amselle, you are mistaken in thinking we are those who we clearly are not. But if we have twins at Summerwood Manor, mayhap ’tis a link to our unknown past. We should go, Georges, to wherever this Summerwood Manor lies.”
The horn sounded for the third time, and the red coach began to roll.
“I am sorry to tell you this,” said Camille, “but a trip to the manor will gain you nought, for no one lives there now; they have all gone missing.”
“Missing?” said the woman, her face falling.
The man, the smith, looked at Camille’s rucksack and stave and waterskin and bedroll and said, “Mademoiselle, if you are to go on that coach…” He gestured.
Groaning in frustration, Camille turned and stepped into the road and held up an arm to the oncoming coach. It slowed.
“I am searching for my love,” said Camille over her shoulder to the pair, “somewhere east of the sun and west of the moon. When I find him, together we will seek all the others, those who vanished as well. And when we find them, then perhaps we will resolve the dilemma of exactly who you are.”
The red coach rolled to a stop. One of the lads jumped down and opened the near-side door and lowered the drop-step. “Ma’amselle.”
Camille looked up at the driver, and held up a golden coin and two silvers. “The lad will take it,” said Louis. “Your luggage, too.”
Camille gave the footman the coins and her bedroll and rucksack. He tossed the goods up to the lad atop, then handed her into the coach and closed the door after. Once inside, Camille turned and leaned out the door window. “I shall return, I promise.-And, oh, do you know of a place east of the sun and west of the moon, or know you a bard named Rondalo?”
The woman who called herself Clarisse and the man who named himself Georges shook their heads Non, then each raised a hand in au revoir, the smith calling out, “Bon voyage, and may you find what you seek.”
With a chrk of tongue and a crack of whip, Louis urged the eight horses forward, and the red coach surged into motion.
Inside, even as the passengers stared at this fille with a sparrow on her shoulder, Camille found a place among them. Judging that Camille was a bona fide passenger, the others introduced themselves, though Camille remembered not a single name, for her thoughts were quite occupied o’er the paradox of Blanche and Renaud.
Of a sudden Lisane’s words came back to her: “Here is the two of cups upright; it indicates harmony between two souls… its position in the array seems to point to two souls you do know, yet mayhap in truth do not… your intuition, or mayhap your first thought, may be wrong.”
How did Lisane know? Rather, how did the cards know? Yet I would swear those two are indeed Blanche and Renaud, for I could not mistake them-each of the same shape, the same hair, the same eye “Non!” Camille blurted aloud. “Not the same eyes! Hers were dark blue, not black! His were brown, not grey! They are truly not my dear Blanche and Renaud.”
At her outburst, the other passengers looked at Camille as if she had gone quite mad. But one, a rather gaunt and pasty-complexioned man, made a sacramental gesture and said, “Mithras knows, my dear, the eyes are the windows of the soul.”
And toward distant walls of twilight the red coach rolled on and on.
25
City
Forty-two days altogether did Camille and Scruff spend in the company of the red coach, forty-two days and six twilight crossings to go from the village of Lis to the city of Les Iles. Two of those days had been lost because of broken wheels, and another day while waiting for a fresh team. An additional handful of days were lost owing to a daylong drenching downpour that had turned the road into a mire, and the horses had been hard-pressed to go but a mile or two to reach the very next town. There did Louis lay over until the road had dried out enough to press on.
All along the way-from Lis to Les Iles-Louis had often stopped to water and feed the horses and to allow the passengers and coachmen alike to stretch their legs and relieve themselves among the trees or within thickets or beyond rock outcroppings. At times on steep slopes to lighten the load and ease the haul, Louis had called for the passengers and footmen-Girard and Thoreau, both fourteen, both quite skinny, both madly smitten with Camille-to disembark and walk up the long hills, at other times to walk down; when this had occurred, Gautier, the obnoxious stout man-the one who had invited Camille to his bedchamber-complained that he had not spent good coin to slog all the way to Les Iles; and while the others had suffered his diatribes in silence, Scruff had chattered scoldingly, as if telling him to move along, and quietly, if you please.
They had passed through a succession of woodland hamlets and small towns, where they had taken meals and spent overnight in a variety of lodgings-from quaint to primitive to homelike. At each of the those stops, Gautier would imbibe entirely too much wine, and would then single out Camille and make quite lewd remarks; she had found ways to avoid him, though occasionally she was then afflicted with Eudes, the gaunt, pasty-faced man; he would find her and expound upon the evils besetting the world-mortal and Fey alike-and call for rigorous abstinence in all things, for surely that’s the way Mithras meant it to be, except, of course, for the purpose of bearing young, which no doubt Mithras desired. Much of the time in these various towns Camille had gone about and had spoken with the elders and others, but none knew of the place she sought, nor knew of the bard she named, and none had any maps whatsoever of Faery and in fact thought the notion quite odd. The red coach would leave next morn and press onward, and Camille’s spirits had fallen with each day, for nought would stay the wi
thered blossom vanishing from the stave.
As to the other passengers, in general they had been pleasant, though at times they had complained of the jolting, or one or two had debated long and at times loudly with the pasty-faced disciple of Mithras over Truth and Devotion and the Meaning of Life.
Occasionally, Louis had told the passengers that there would be no town to stop in for a midday meal, and that he planned on pausing somewhere along the road for such, and he had bidden each of them to arrange for a small luncheon to carry on board. Gautier had always managed to acquire a bottle of wine to imbibe during these pauses, and then only the glares of all the passengers had quelled his lascivious remarks.
Along the route, some passengers had reached their destinations, and they had alighted and gone on their way with hardly a fare-thee-well. Occasionally new passengers had gotten on the red coach to travel the road to a village or town or sometimes just to a distant stead.
And so did passengers come and go, some pleasant, some silent, some quite loquacious.
During one part of the journey, they had come into a rather darkling forest, and Scruff had chirped and had grabbed a tress of Camille’s hair and had taken to the high vest pocket. There Louis had whipped up the horses, and they had flown through the region, jouncing and rattling bones, Gautier complaining loudly. Sometime later, although the horses yet sped, Scruff had emerged and had scrambled to his usual perch, and in but moments Louis had slowed the coach, allowing the lathered horses to plod. Shortly after, he had stopped for a while, allowing the passengers to stretch their legs, while he and Albert and Girard and Thoreau wiped the horses down and fed them a bit of grain, as well as bore buckets of water to them from a nearby stream. Of the woodland hindward, Louis had said nought, though the lads-Girard and Thoreau-kept eyeing the way aft.
Once Upon a Winter's Night fs-1 Page 25