Midwinter

by Matthew Sturges

  "What is it?" Mauritane sat up warily.

  "A lord from the City Emerald, sir. Rode in flying royal colors. Wanted to see you personally."

  Mauritane rose and pulled on his fur cloak. "You don't have to call me sir,' you know," he said.

  Gray Mave bowed his head. "I know, sir. But considering your history, it doesn't seem right to call you by name."

  "Much lower men than you have called me worse," Mauritane said. "I don't see that it matters much these days, anyhow." He joined Gray Mave in the hall, accepting the manacles Mave placed on him without question.

  "I should tell you," said Mave, as they walked the darkened hallway. "Since you've given me no trouble during your stay here and all."

  "What?"

  "I've had a premonition. Bad omen. The riders that have come."

  "I see," said Mauritane. "Is Premonition a Gift of yours?"

  "Aye," said Mave. "But you're having me on, aren't you? You don't believe that one such as me could have the Gifts. Jem Alan doesn't."

  "I'm built from coarser clay than you, Gray Mave," said Mauritane. "And I've got more Gifts than do me any good. I wouldn't put too much stock into what Jem Alan says."

  Gray Mave smiled, then frowned. "This sign was very dark. I fear for you to be caught in it."

  "If I am," said Mauritane, "then at least I've been forewarned."

  Gray Mave led Mauritane, shackled, into Crenyllice's office. The glow from the fire and the lamps in the warden's elaborate wall sconces were bright after the dim hallway, and Mauritane squinted against them briefly.

  "Hello, Mauritane," said a familiar voice. "I see that imprisonment agrees with you."

  When Mauritane looked up, it was into the eyes of Purane-Es, seated at the warden's desk across the room. For a moment, Mauritane stood completely still. No emotion showed on his face.

  With a single fluid movement, Mauritane twisted around Gray Mave and ducked behind him, pulling the larger man down to his knees. Dislodging his arms, he planted his leg on Mave's back and then drew the guard's sword with both hands. "Your premonition was correct," he whispered in Mave's ear.

  He turned the sword in his hands as he leaped, directing the blade's gleaming point at the throat of Purane-Es.

  Chapter 2

  the chamberlain's letter

  Purane-Es flinched and fell backward into his chair, raising his hands to his face. Mauritane's leap was carrying him far enough to compensate, but he was tackled before he reached the desk. The commander's Color Guard, who had flanked Purane-Es silently since Mauritane entered the room, moved with an impressive swiftness. One went for the body while the other went for his sword arm. Their attack was precise, calculated, seemingly rehearsed, though Mauritane had seen no signal pass between them. He wondered about it until his head made contact with the floor, and then he stopped wondering.

  It was less a loss of consciousness than a temporary withdrawal of the senses that quickly subsided, leaving Mauritane seated in a wooden chair across the warden's desk from Purane-Es, his still-manacled arms now restrained by means of a ring set into the stone floor. His chains did not allow him length enough to sit up straight, so he was forced into a bow that made his shoulders ache and his ears redden. His head throbbed from its blow, sending bright pulses of pain down into his left eye socket.

  Purane-Es was seated calmly at the warden's desk, while the warden himself, Jem Alan, and the Color Guard stood in a rough line behind him.

  "Well met, Mauritane," said Purane-Es, as though nothing had happened. "It seems I've made an impression on you after all."

  Mauritane spat on the floor. "I vowed I would kill you the next time we met."

  "And yet, you haven't."

  Mauritane said nothing.

  Purane-Es opened an ornate leather satchel, inset with colored metal studs, and withdrew an envelope sealed with bright blue wax. "But I say, 'He who forgives shall be forgiven.' Isn't that how the Arcadians put it?" He held the envelope aloft for Mauritane's eyes. "Do you recognize this? It's the seal of the Chamberlain," he said, breaking it.

  Mauritane nodded.

  "This is an ironic situation," said Purane-Es, tapping the letter on the desk. "You despise me, have even made an attempt on my life, and yet I am here to offer you deliverance from your current downcast state. I, for my part, have no love for you either, but I have been employed as a messenger from Her Majesty to you. I do not claim to understand the mind of Our Sovereign Lady, but I think, and this is merely my opinion you understand, that she appreciates ironies such as these. Perhaps she even orchestrates them. What do you think?"

  Mauritane only spat again, running his tongue over a bruised lip.

  "Here's what I think," Purane-Es continued. "I think you're very fortunate that you did not slay me just now, since the Queen herein orders you to receive instructions from me personally, and that would have been difficult with the Low Chief's blade in my throat, would it not?"

  "Read the letter," said Mauritane.

  "I will," said Purane-Es. "But we must clear up something first. You will get your opportunity against me, you have my word, for I've long awaited it myself. Until then, your errand requires that you refrain from assaulting me. Understood?"

  "If Her Majesty requires me, I am hers."

  "I'll take that as a yes. Guard," he said to Crenyllice, who grimaced at the insult, "remove the prisoner's manacles."

  Crenyllice waved at Jem Alan, who took a heavy ring of keys from his belt and removed the chains from Mauritane's hands and feet. Mauritane spat one last time, then sat up straight, stretching his shoulders and arching his back.

  Purane-Es took the letter from its envelope and unfolded it gracefully. He read:

  To Mauritane, Erstwhile Captain of Her Majesty's Royal Guard:

  Though you languish at Crete Sulace, your Queen is merciful; she has not forgotten your many years in Her Service. She regrets the unfortunate circumstances leading to your imprisonment there and wishes to offer an opportunity wherein you may earn parole.

  Your Queen requires that you perform an errand of the utmost importance and of the utmost delicacy. This task can be given to no one in Her Majesty's court yet must be undertaken by one whose trustworthiness is unquestioned. The Queen appreciates your loyalty to her State and to her Person and is certain that you will treat your assigned task with the dedication and discretion that has distinguished your efforts in the past. Upon successful completion of this errand, your imprisonment will cease, and your name shall be restored. You may then pursue any occupation within the realm with the exception of public service, from which you shall be permanently barred. The same offer is made to those whom you choose to assist you in your endeavor.

  Time is critical, Mauritane. You must make the City Emerald before the Sun enters the Lamb. Failure is death.

  You will receive your assignment from Commander Purane-Es. His instructions are to be obeyed to the letter.

  Her Majesty's wishes go with you.

  In the name of She whose word is law, She whose breath is the wind, She whose heart is that of Her kingdom, I am

  Marcuse, Lord Chamberlain of Faerie

  Purane-Es refolded the letter and slid it across the desk to Mauritane, who picked it up and stared at it.

  "I am shocked," he finally said.

  "And well you should be, Mauritane. Well you should be. That the Queen should choose you, a traitor and a liar, for such an important assignment proves only that Her ways are mysterious indeed. I trust you accept the assignment?"

  Mauritane saluted slowly, deliberately. "I await your command, sir."

  Purane-Es grinned. "Prison has eroded none of your natural charm, Mauritane." He turned to Crenyllice. "Leave us. What I have to say to Mauritane is for his ears only."

  Crenyllice moved to protest, but Purane-Es stared him down, and the warden allowed himself to be escorted from the room by Purane-Es's guards.

  "I haven't forgotten Beleriand or what happened there," Purane-Es said
, when they were alone, his smile vanishing. "I'll have my vengeance on you, and soon."

  "It's good that you haven't forgotten, only a pity that you take no lesson from it," Mauritane said. He stretched his arms and stood. "But that's not relevant right now. Our feud can wait; Her Majesty, apparently, cannot. What is my task?"

  Purane-Es rose as well, pacing as he spoke. "Your task is to retrieve an article of utmost importance to the security of the land and bring it to the City Emerald before the first day of Lamb. You are to form a party of four or five of your fellow inmates. Who you choose is irrelevant, but let it be known that any word breathed of this operation is suicide, swift and painful. You are to receive mounts and supplies from Crere Sulace, with provisions for three days. From Crere Sulace you will leave at sunrise tomorrow and proceed with all due haste to Sylvan, where you will rendezvous with Commander Kallmer in the Rye Grove, at highsun on Fourth Stag. You will travel without papers and without identification. If you are detained by the Seelie Army, or by local constabulary, all knowledge of you and of your mission will be disavowed and you will be eliminated. Are these orders understood?"

  "What am I to retrieve?" said Mauritane.

  The grin returned. "I have no idea. None of us knows the whole of it. Presumably Kallmer knows."

  "Does Kallmer know that it is I who will be meeting him?"

  "He does," Purane-Es said. "One assumes he is as eager to kill you as I am, although he must forswear it until your task is complete."

  "Most important, how am I to make Sylvan in so short a time? Traveling without papers will force us to skirt the border crossings at Obore and Reyns. Even at top speed it would be at least twenty days, and that's without this weather."

  "It should be no trouble for an accomplished strategist such as you. Don't you have the Gift of Leadership? I might remind you that since you will not be an official platoon of the Guard, there is no reason you cannot travel directly west."

  "You expect me to lead a group of untrained prisoners through the Contested Lands and survive? You overestimate my skills."

  "Your group's survival is not a requirement. Only the completion of your objective."

  "I see."

  Purane-Es sat. "I recommend you begin your preparations. In Midwinter, dawn comes all too quickly." Purane-Es took a pipe from his leathern satchel and lit it contemplatively. "I'd wish you luck, but of course I won't shed a tear if you fail." He smiled.

  "Of course you won't," said Mauritane, turning on him. "Your predisposition to place personal grudges over matters of state is what brought me here."

  "Spite is a luxury you cannot afford right now, Mauritane. You have work to do."

  "Fine. Tell the warden to give me two men and then get the hell out of my way."

  Mauritane saluted again, turned on his heel, and left the room. PuraneEs smoked his pipe and swore every curse he could think of.

  Outside, Mauritane nearly stumbled over Crenyllice and Jem Alan, who hovered by the door. Catching himself, he drew his shoulders high and spoke to Crenyllice for the first time not as a prisoner but as a commander. "Go inside. Purane-Es has orders for you," Mauritane told the warden. He took Jem Alan's shoulder. "You're coming with me. Time is short." Neither of them questioned him. The Gift of Leadership, he realized, had not fled him.

  Within an hour, Mauritane had two guards, as well as a number of prisoners, helping him make preparations. The overnight kitchen detail loaded dried meat and biscuits into folds of waxed paper, then into the saddlebags Mauritane requested. They filled skins with water and hung them alongside. In the prison armory, Jem Alan helped Mauritane select arms, all the while complaining in his rough voice about the breach of protocol it entailed. He did, however, compliment Mauritane's choice of sword: a long, curved saber with no adornments, but a wicked blade.

  "What is its lineage?" said Mauritane, swinging the sword gently, thrusting into the air. "It spoke to me."

  "None as I know of," said Jem Alan. "Perhaps you'll give it a start in life."

  "I rode into many battles with my Guard blade," said Mauritane. "Purane-Es's father wears it now. Perhaps it's time for a new one." He handed the sword to Jem Alan. "Give that to Gray Mave and have him sharpen it."

  Jem Alan took the blade. "Haven't you heard, Mauritane? Mave's been fired. They sent him packing after you took his sword. Worthless lump of dung, he was, anyway."

  Mauritane took the sword back, his eyes cast downward. "I'll sharpen it myself," he said.

  He paced the prison stables, asking the head groom about each beast in turn, ordering that his selections be spellwarmed and saddled by dawn.

  "Which of these horses is touched?" he asked the groom.

  "None, sir. We've no call for smart horses around here."

  Mauritane approached Purane-Es in the warden's office.

  "Give me your horse," he said.

  Purane-Es laughed out loud. "You're dreaming if you think…"

  "If I'm going through Contested Lands with four undrilled prisoners at my back, I'm doing it with a touched mount, or I may as well slit my own throat here and now and save some buggane the trouble."

  "Fine," said Purane-Es. "Take the horse. Just one more debt to collect on when you're through."

  Mauritane left the warden's office and found Jem Alan at the guard station, drinking chicory with the other guards. Mauritane took a page from the logbook and dipped a quill, writing out ten names. "Bring me these ten," he said, pushing the page into Jem Alan's hand without bothering to blot it.

  Jem Alan held up his fingers, black with ink and swore. "I much preferred him as a prisoner," he said.

  Chapter 3

  silverdun

  The cell was empty save for a cot, a chest of drawers, and a few personal items on the windowsill: a hairbrush, an opal ring, a long pipe and tobacco pouch. Moonlight, filtered through clouds, dusted the floor of the chamber in pale gray. The cell's occupant, Perrin Alt, Lord Silverdun, Master of Oarsbridge and Connaugh manors, knelt at the edge of his prison cot, his head bowed as if to pray. He often knelt this way, thinking of nothing, coming close to mouthing the words of his mother's Arcadian prayers, but he always stopped short, disbelieving, scowling. At times he wept bitterly for his wasted future, for his sisters and the ignominy they must face, for the loss of his title and deeds to his lands, those things that identified him as a peer and a nobleman. Other nights, such as tonight, he simply watched the moonbeams grow across the rough wooden floor until his knees ached and he stumbled into bed, his mind racing, but his sleep, when it came, was black and dreamless.

  When he heard the key sound in the lock of his door, he bolted upright, smoothing his tunic and running his hands through the waves of black hair that fell around his face as he stood.

  "Do you require something of me?" Silverdun asked, referring to the guard who stood in the doorway, a bright lamp in hand. The lamp cast long flickering shadows across the floor that evaporated the pools of moonlight there.

  "You're wanted in Jem Alan's office."

  Silverdun studiously avoided meeting the guard's gaze. "I didn't hear a milord' in there anywhere," he corrected. "You are not permitted to speak evenly with me."

  "Fine," said the guard. "You lordship is wanted. Now move your lordship's ass or I'll move it for you."

  Silverdun locked eyes with the guard. "Much better," he said.

  The guard frowned.

  "What does the old fool want with me at this hour? Am I about to be engaged in one of his drunken reveries? How much has he had to drink?"

  "I'm to say nothing about it."

  "Ah, intrigue! And here I was just moaning about how dull my life has become."

  The guard's frown intensified. "This way, milord."

  Silverdun followed the guard across the empty courtyard to the North Tower, wind from the sea catching his braids and lashing his face with them. The night air had a frozen tang to it that Silverdun could taste. It was not a wholesome flavor.

  "This is the las
t night I will spend at Crete Sulace," he suddenly said, and knew that he meant it, although he had no idea why. It was not uncommon, however, for his mouth to know things before his mind could consider them.

  When they reached Jem Alan's rooms in the North Tower, Silverdun pushed ahead and flung the double doors open with a shove.

  "By the Queen's tits, Jem Alan, do you never sleep?" he shouted. "One drink and one drink only." Silverdun drew up short when he realized it was Mauritane and not the Vice Warden, at the desk in Jem Alan's sitting room.

  "Promoted from prisoner to Vice Warden all of an evening? I'd say you've been busy tonight, Mauritane. Tell me, is it really all about who you know?"

  Mauritane waved the guard away. "Sit down," he said to Silverdun. "I'll be with you in a moment." Before him on the desk was a set of charts and maps and a compass, arranged neatly over the surface of the desk. In the center, Mauritane took notes with a long, black quill on a wide sheet of paper.

  Silverdun dropped into a chair opposite Mauritane and took a cigarette from the carved wooden box on the table, lighting it with a bit of witchlight from his fingertips. He glanced around the room with a disconcerting sense of finality still lingering from his moment of lightheadedness in the courtyard.

  Jem Alan's rooms were once those of the Prince himself, or at least a spellturned version of those rooms; it was impossible to tell. The fire burning in the enormous stone hearth seemed solid enough. The same moonlight that had quietly played in Silverdun's cell erupted here through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows on the far wall, their arched tops casting looming, rounded shadows on the double doors through which Silverdun had entered. The only other light came from the lamps Mauritane had on the desk, serving the dual purpose of illumination and of weighing down the scrolling maps.

  Mauritane circled a sum with his quill and looked up, catching Silverdun's eye for the first time.