found herself on a headland, looking out upon a deep blue indigo sea.
“Oh, my, Scruff,” breathed Camille, “an ocean.”
Camille was taken by the wonder of the sea, the first she had ever seen, and her gaze was irresistibly drawn to the horizon afar, the waters reaching on beyond. And she stood a good long while, taking in the salt air and staring out at the endless and vasty deep. Finally, she said, “Oh, Scruff, is this where time spreads out over the mortal world, and if so, then does the deep blue ocean we now see from above become the sky if seen from below?”
Scruff did not answer, and long, rushing waves rolled across the water to thunder and thunder against the base of the cliff, spray flying up to be caught on the wind.
Of a sudden Camille gasped. “Or is this instead the Sea of Oblivion, where all of time does flow?”
Camille slumped down to the sward on the headland high, and she said, “Regardless, I have come to the end of Time’s River, and time is running out, for there are but thirty-nine blossoms yet on the stave. Thirty-nine days and a whole moon beyond, that’s all the time that remains.”
Camille looked to the left and drew in a sharp breath, for the shoreline below lay unbroken for as far as the eye could see. Then she looked back the way she had come; the River of Time was gone.
And down in the sea, waves rolled in and in, unheeding of the girl above.
31
Camille sat awhile on the headland above the thundering sea, Scruff clinging to her shoulder and facing into the stiff breeze. Long moments passed as the sun edged further up the sky. Finally, she roused herself and glanced at the growing day. “Well, Scruff, Lady Verdandi did say that when I left the banks of time’s flow, I would lose the stream, and of that I am glad, for time out of joint is not to my taste.”
“ Chp! ” chirped Scruff, as if he totally agreed.
Camille stood. “Though I cannot answer the riddles posed by Lady Urd, still we must press on… but which way, my friend? Which way? Left? Right? Inland?”
Camille scanned the shoreline as far as she could see in either direction, but she espied no sign of habitation whatsoever. Of a sudden, Scruff chp! — chp! — chp! ed, and, rising over the horizon, sails appeared, swiftly growing taller, and then a hull came into view. And driven by the wind abaft, over the sea it rode.
“A ship, Scruff. A ship. Oh, how glorious.”
Camille watched awhile as it hove across the water.
“It seems to be heading somewhere off to our right, Scruff. Perchance ’tis an omen telling us which way to go, for perhaps…”
Camille pulled the stave from the rucksack loops, taking care to not snag a splinter on the cloth. “Lady Sorciere, were it any stave but yours, I would wrap it tightly with leather or cloth, or bind it with straps, all to deal with the splits and cracks and splinters. Yet I deem you meant it to be thus, and so wrap it I shall not. Instead I shall again walk with it, for mayhap, contrarily, it cracks from disuse.”
And, stave in hand, off Camille set, following the rightward shoreline, as the ship asea plunged across the rolling brine, the wind driving her swiftly. And rising across the horizon after, came a seething, dark wall of clouds.
“A storm is coming, Scruff,” said Camille, her cloak flying in the wind. Onward she strode across flowing grass on cliffs above the sea, hoping to find shelter ere the blow came.
On she walked and on, a candlemark and then two, the land rising and falling, the storm drawing nigh, and just as she topped a long upward slope, with a hard-driven blast the tempest did blow ashore at last. And through thickening gray sheets of rain hurled by a pummelling wind, Camille saw spread out before her a broad harbor sheltered by seaward hills, ships riding at anchor within, and a seaport town arcing ’round.
The hard rain pelting down, the wind moaning among the buildings, Camille saw ahead a signboard swinging wildly in the squall, a leaping fish depicted thereon, the words Le Marlin Bleu circling ’round. It marked the very first inn she had come across after entering the town. In the rain and wind she ran for the door and lifted the latch, and a hard gust snatched the handle from her grip and slammed the panel wide.
“Shut the door, boy,” shouted a man above the howl of the storm, scrambling for papers swirling about behind the counter as the panel slapped to and fro. “I said shut the door, else the storm itself’ll blow us all away.”
Camille lunged to catch hold of the panel madly swinging. Then she struggled against the wind to shut the wild thing, pushing it to with her shoulder. Finally, she got it closed and latched, and relative quietness descended, the moaning wind shut out. Thoroughly drenched and dripping, she cast back her hood and turned toward the man at the counter, who yet chased after paper. Shedding her cloak, she looked at Scruff in the high vest pocket, his feathers soaked. Bedraggled, he looked up at her and grumped a short, sharp “ chp! ” Camille laughed and said, “You look like a wet dog, my friend.”
“Who you callin’ a wet dog, boy?” came the voice from low, the man down on hands and knees and reaching under a desk for a loose receipt.
“Oh, sieur, I meant not you,” said Camille, stepping forward. “I was speaking to my companion.”
“I didn’t see you come in with any-” Voucher in hand, the man rose to his feet. “Oh, pardon, ma’amselle, I thought you were, um-”
“My companion is here in my pocket, good sieur, and we would like a room, and a hot meal, too, and warm bath, and a good long drink of water.”
“ Chp! ”
“Oh, and some grain for my friend. Oats, rye, barley, if you please. He is a bit tired of millet.”
The man cocked a skeptical eyebrow at Camille and the sparrow, and Camille fished about in her rucksack and then plunked a gold coin down to the counter.
The man’s eyes lit up and he quickly said, “Right away, ma’amselle.” He turned and called out, “Aicelina, a moi cet instant!”
There came a soft knock on the door, barely heard above the moan of the wind and the drumming of rain on the shingled roof.
“Entre!”
Dressed in a borrowed robe, Camille looked up from her just-finished meal of haddock and red cabbage and green beans and black bread. A dark-haired young maiden, certainly no older than Camille, and perhaps a year or two less, stood at the doorway looking in.
“Mademoiselle, your bath is ready.”
“Merci, Aicelina.” Camille took a last sip of tea, then stood. “Keep guard, Scruff,” she said to the dozing, wee bird, perched on the back of the chair before the red coals on the hearth, wind groaning down the chimney.
“Mademoiselle, shall I add another brick of peat to the fire?”
Camille glanced at the hearth and then at Scruff. “Non, Aicelina. I believe the room is now warm enough. Besides, he is quite comfortable as it is.-Now where is the bathing room?”
“This way, mademoiselle.”
Camille, barefooted, followed Aicelina down the hall-doors on the right, windows on the left-and gusts and rain rattled pane and sash. And Camille said, “Aicelina, I have been pondering a riddle given me. Know you of winds that do not blow, but flow across the sea? The reason I ask is that I have been advised to seek a master of such.”
Aicelina opened the door at the end of the hall. She turned to Camille and said, “Non, mademoiselle, I know of no such thing.” And as wind whistled ’round a corner outside, the maiden’s brown eyes widened and she glanced through the windows at the storm without. “Mayhap ’tis a mage, for ’tis said some are masters of the wind.-Oh, but wait, that would be a wind that blows, rather than one that does not.” Aicelina frowned and fell into momentary thought, but then realizing where she was, she moved aside. “Your bath, mademoiselle.”
Camille stepped into the chamber; a tub of steaming water sat waiting. Aicelina followed and said, “Fresh
