The blow strengthened, the cold rain thickened- Is this a storm called up by the Spriggans? Camille did not know.
Onward she pressed through lashing limbs and driven rain and the howling wind, the gale worsening with every stride.
I must find shelter, she thought, but where?
Camille was by then thoroughly turned about, and she knew not whether she went away from the Spriggans or toward them or even circled ’round.
And she was chilled to the bone and stumbling about in the darkness.
Around her feet frigid water began to rise, and she sought higher ground, but every way she turned, it seemed, she went to ground even lower. And fighting the blow and the icy rain she became exhausted, benumbed, barely able to stand, battered on all sides by the now-thundering wind and hammered by the frigid downpour.
Still the water rose: up to her knees it now came. Freezing, dully Camille realized her peril, yet she had not the wit to conceive even a simple plan, so terribly cold was she.
And then something blocked her way. Camille turned and stumbled but a step, only to be blocked again. Once more she turned, and once more she was blocked.
Barely able to think, Camille shook the water from her eyes. Something but dimly seen, something perhaps white or grey, stood directly before her, barring the way. Above the scream of the wind, someone or something turned and nickered in her ear.
Horse… blocking.
Camille started to slump down, but again came the nicker, and from within the pocket of her inside-out vest she heard a frantic chirping.
Scruff.
Dimly, she realized he was telling her something, but what? She clutched at the large animal and pulled herself upright, and one thing penetrated her mind:
Save Scruff.
And then at last, pummeled by howling wind and hurled ice-the rain had turned to sleet-with her inside-out-gloved fingers, she clutched the mane of the creature and managed to crawl onto its back, all the while instinctively clasping Lady Sorciere’s staff.
With Camille hanging on and leaning forward, the animal set off through the shrieking wind and the battering ice hurtling through the air, and Camille knew not where the creature was taking her nor did she have the will to care or the wit to do naught but cling.
A time later-a candlemark, a day, a fortnight, a moon? Camille could not even form the thought-she felt gentle hands pulling her from the mount and bearing her into somewhere. Her ice-laden clothes were taken from her, and she was put in a brick-warmed bed.
She roused long enough to hear Scruff chirping, and she saw in the candlelight the fair face of a red-haired maiden hovering above, who whispered, “Sleep, Camille; here you are safe, for I am the Lady of the Bower.”
23
Camille fell into chills and fits of shivering, alternating with spells of torrid fever. She was drenched in cold sweat one instant, then hot and parched the next, and dry coughing racked her frame. Lucid moments she seemed to have, but then babbled quite madly, yet most of the time she was seized by unconsciousness, for surely it could not be called sleep. Days passed with her in this condition, but finally her illness broke, and then she truly slept. And at last she awoke to sunlight and Scruff off chirping elsewhere, and the sound of someone moving about and quietly humming.
She was in a soft bed within a small room, and the day shone through a window; slender shadows wafted to and fro, made by long and hanging-down branches beyond, swaying gently in the air. Past the foot of the bed, an open doorway led to another room, and ’twas from that place the sound of humming came, the sound of chirping as well.
Camille tried to sit up, yet-“Oh, my”-she fell back, quite dizzy.
Footsteps neared, and in the doorway stood a lithe, redheaded woman. Her face was narrow, her eyes emerald-green and aslant, her skin alabaster, tinged with gold.
“Ah, Camille, you are awake.” She smiled, her mouth generous, her teeth white and even.
Again Camille tried to rise, and the woman stepped forward. “Let me help.” And she plumped pillows and aided Camille to sit, then propped her up in place.
“How do you know my name?” asked Camille, her voice faint.
The woman smiled. “ ’Tis a gift I have.”
Camille started to ask another question, but the woman held out a staying hand. “One moment, Camille.” She stepped from the room, and Camille could hear water being poured and the stirring of a spoon in a cup.
But then from beside the bed: “ Chp-chp-chp-pip…! ”
“Scruff,” said Camille, glancing over the edge at the tiny sparrow, who had hopped into the room. “I’d take you up, but I’m afraid that I’d fall out on my head.”
“ Chp-pip-pip-chp-chp…! ”
“Take this, Camille,” said the lady, stepping once again into the room, cup in hand. “ ’Tis a tisane of mint to restore the heart and mind.”
Camille received the cup and inhaled deeply, the keen aroma refreshing.
Still, Scruff chirped insistently, and the lady took him up on one of her long, slender fingers and set him to the bed. The sparrow hopped across the cover to come before Camille, then he cocked his head and peered at her, as if examining a patient.
“Oh, Scruff, I think I am well,” said Camille, “or at least on the mend.”
Apparently satisfied, Scruff scratched up a small mound of cloth and settled down, as if nesting.
The woman laughed, and Camille smiled and sipped the minty tea.
“Camille, indeed you are on the mend, though ’twas touch-and-go for a while.”
“How long have I been sick?”
The lady frowned. “A sixday or seven, I deem. I am uncertain as to which. Time means so little to me.”
“A sevenday?” Camille sighed and looked to see Lady Sorciere’s staff leaning in a corner. “More blossoms withered,” she glumly said.
The lady arched an eyebrow, but Camille said nought.
A momentary silence fell between them, but then Camille said, “I’m sorry, my lady, but I know not who you are.”
The woman smiled, her tilted green eyes aglitter. “Many know me as the Lady of the Bower, yet my name is Lisane.”
Hope flooded Camille. “Lady of the Bower, Lisane, it is you I came seeking.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
Lisane sat on the edge of the bed. “Aye. You did come seeking answers, yet I speak not with just anyone.”
Camille’s face fell. “But I sorely do need your help.”
“Camille, fear not, for well did you pass the test.”
“Test?”
“Indeed, for I tried you sorely, yet you showed me an uncommon patience and goodness of heart.”
“Tried me?”
“Aye. A test to see if you were worthy of my aid.”
“How so? — I mean, how did you test me?”
“Oh, la, Camille, I was the crone with the horse.”
Camille’s eyes widened in shock. “You were the crone?”
“Indeed.” Lisane made a small negating gesture. “ ’Twas but a minor glamour I cast ’pon me and Thale, though he did not like playing the part of a broken-down, swayback mare.”
“Thale?”
“The one who rescued you nights past.” Lisane gestured.
“Look without. You will see him.”
Camille raised a bit and peered out through the cote window. Past hanging-down willow branches, there on a sward a splendid white creature cropped grass; horselike, it was, but smaller and with cloven hooves and a pearlescent horn jutting from its forehead, a thin spiral groove running up from its base to its very sharp tip.
Camille gasped. “A Unicorn.”
The Lady of the Bower nodded. “ ’Twas he who saved you.” Lisane gestured at nesting Scruff. “You and your tiny sparrow.”
“Saved us? Saved me? But I thought Unicorns would have nought to do with those who are impure, sullied, those of us who are no longer maidens, who no longer have our virgin’s blood. To have a Unicorn rescue me is a wonder, then.” Camille shook her head in rueful memory. “I was spurned by one once; with a flick of its tail it turned and trotted away.”