The two men both had shaved heads and the same pointed ears as the child in his arms. They were both tall, but one was burly and the other was thin, almost emaciated. The burly one looked Satterly in the eye, but the other one only looked down, kicking his feet sullenly in the dirt.
"My name is Pilest," the stout Fae said, his eyes sparkling. "You are the human named Brian Satterly, I hope?" Then he reached out and patted Satterly's shoulder. "I'm kidding, of course. My partner Jindo is never wrong." Pilest held up his hand and Satterly realized that the two men were joined together with manacles made of what appeared to be silver.
"Okay," Satterly said.
Jindo roughly took the gym bag from Satterly's hands and hefted it a few times, then unzipped it. He took one of the Krugerrands and held it up to the moonlight, bit it, then replaced it in the bag.
Jindo said nothing, but Pilest said, "Good. Then let's be on our way."
Instantly, Satterly was somewhere else. A meadow in broad daylight. The air was sweet, almost perfumed, but clear and fresh. It was as though he'd never breathed before. A feeling of deep joy rushed through him and then he remembered where he was and what he was doing and the warm feeling became a chill.
"Welcome to Faerie," said Pilest. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you."
With that, Pilest kicked Jindo harshly and the two of them disappeared.
The rest of it had been like a dream. Traveling to Sylvan, meeting up with Evelyn. The real Leila had already been rescued by the time Satterly arrived at Evelyn's house in the Fae city. Leila ran to him, squeezed him tight, sobbing. The changeling girl was whisked away by one of Evelyn's assistants, her eyes blank.
"What will happen to her?" asked Satterly, after Leila had fallen asleep in his arms. "The little Fae girl?"
"We'll try to find her a good home," said Evelyn. "Adoption isn't common here, but it's not unheard of, either."
"You're very lucky, you know," she said. "We got to her in time."
"In time for what?" said Satterly, pulling Leila close to his chest.
Evelyn gave him a measured stare. "You don't want to know."
Back in the meadow a few hours later, Pilest and Jindo reappeared. Pilest reached out his hands for Leila.
"Can't we go together?" said Satterly. "My sister's meeting us on the other side, but I don't know if she managed to find the place."
"Oh, no. One at a time. My partner here is no grand magus, you know."
"Stop there!" cried a voice behind him. Satterly turned to see a pair of guardsmen at the edge of the meadow, both of them holding crossbows aimed at his chest. Behind them stood a gaunt man with a flowing gray beard.
"We will see that the girl gets where she needs to go," said Pilest. He and Jindo vanished, Leila struggling in Pilest's arms.
Satterly shouted, "Wait!"
The guardsmen approached slowly. One of them spoke to the bearded man. "Is this the one?"
"That's him!" the man shouted. "That's the man who stole my little girl!"
"You are under arrest," the soldier said. He spat. "Changeling trader."
Needless to say, he'd never seen Pilest, Jindo, or his home world again. The thought of little Leila on her own out there in the wilderness had haunted him for two years.
Satterly felt a rough kick. He opened his eyes and looked around wildly. Mauritane was standing over him. "Sleep on your own time," Mauritane said. "We're leaving."
Satterly sat up; he'd dozed off next to the brazier in the stables. Silverdun, Honeywell, and Raieve were all mounted. Everyone was waiting for him.
"Great," he said, pulling himself to his feet. "The human comes up short yet again."
Chapter 7
ruminations upon freedom! a stool and a sturdy roof beam
Mauritane's party picked its way down the steep road to Hawthorne in the early morning light. The sky was a dozen shades of blue and pink, with a gold polish in the east, where the riders were headed, fading to indigo in the west. Purane-Es stood on a bluff overlooking the Hawthorne Road, his eyes tracing Mauritane's route across the switchbacks, through the winter-shorn trees that rose like clawed hands from the snowbound earth.
The bridle on Purane-Es's borrowed mare was loose, and one of his men was seeing to it. The delay gave Purane-Es a moment to watch Mauritane go, and he allowed himself to hope, despite his threat, that it would be the last he saw of the man. If the Queen's errand were to fail due to Mauritane's death, he would not shed a tear. If, for that matter, the Royal Guard were disbanded tomorrow, he wouldn't even frown.
It had never been his intention to join the Guard, certainly never to rise to such a prominent position there. As second son of the Lord Purane, nothing had been expected of him but to carouse with the other courtiers in the sumptuous playgrounds of the City Emerald, writing poetry and singing lays accompanied by the mandolin and balalaika. The palace grounds were majestic swirls of intrigue and artistry, each day promising new adventures. His only real worry in those days had been the nagging task of someday selecting a bride. He longed for the willowy ladies in waiting who cooed at the sound of his voice and clapped appreciatively when he sat with them by a fountain and played them tunes he'd written for someone else.
Building strong families, that was what second sons were for. Marriage to wealthy daughters, beautiful, silly Fae daughters whose only purpose in life was to smile delicate smiles and bear a first son. If a second son came out of the arrangement, it was looked upon as an insurance policy.
Some of these second, third, even fourth sons were despondent over their lot in life. They joined the priesthood, arranged sorties against the Unseelie across the Contested Lands, looking for honor and value in their fathers' eyes. Not so Purane-Es. He'd never been happier than when his father was ignoring him, never felt freer than when his elder brother had been held up again and again to his father's standards instead of him. It had been PuraneLa's place to stand out in their parents' garden, practicing at rapier and dagger from dawn until dusk, feeling the flat of Father's blade against his thigh if he slipped or let down his guard. And Purane-La had wanted it. He'd lived for Father's approval, ached and bled and led entire campaigns against the Unseelie and the rebels in Beleriand in order to make Father proud.
And look where it had gotten both of them.
Purane-Es turned at his lieutenant's signal and rechecked his bridle.
"Now it's too tight, you idiot," he said. "Get down here and fix it or I'll saddle you and ride you back to the City Emerald."
On the slope below, Mauritane let the others ride ahead while he became acquainted with his mount, a touched Arlon stallion named Streak.
"You are not the leader," said Streak in Elvish, his horse-voice strained and high pitched.
"I am the new leader," said Mauritane, putting as much authority in his voice as possible. "You will do as I say."
Streak pulled against the reins, testing him. "I want to believe you," he said.
Mauritane reined the horse in, patting his neck with his left hand. "I won't disappoint you," he said. "But you must mind me in all things."
"I shall," said Streak. "If you do prove worthy of it."
"Have no fear, beast," Mauritane said, stroking the creature's mane. "I am your master now."
"It is good to be a member of the herd once more," said Streak, shaking his mane.
Mauritane breathed deep and let the icy morning air sting his lungs. Overhead, stray seagulls and cormorants plied the winds from the ocean, beating their wings and screeching into the morning sun. As the day settled in, the starlets and purples of the sunrise coalesced into daylight, the risen sun warm on Mauritane's face despite the dimming of winter.
Mauritane nudged Streak and came flush with Honeywell and Satterly, who rode double file behind Raieve and Silverdun. Honeywell, ever the guardsman, rode with perfect posture, his borrowed clothing from the prison laundry providing him with a trim that nearly became an officer. He rode with pride, his gray eyes glinting in the morn
ing sun. Though his expression was impassive, Mauritane knew from his many years in the Guard how to read the frank joy behind it. The freedom of someone who expected never to be free again.
Satterly rode poorly, but he improved with every mile. His expression was a human one, something akin to curiosity but more so. It was as though Satterly lived each waking moment in rapt fascination. His eyes followed everything, from the gulls overhead to the elk that capered back and forth in the wooded hills to the north.
Mauritane pulled forward to lead the group, casting a glance at Silverdun and Raieve as he passed. They were like bookends, both stone-faced, both unreadable. Silverdun had years at court to train him to look continually unimpressed. Raieve must have had her own history among dangerous people, or she was very well trained. Either way, the two of them revealed nothing of their individual moods, and Mauritane noted that he would need some other yardstick of their emotional condition if he were to lead them properly.
They were approaching the bottom of the slope that angled down from the mountains to a plateau that skirted the water's edge. Here the road widened and straightened so that they were able to ride in a line, with Mauritane a few yards ahead.
Wanting to lead, Streak strained against his bit. "It is good to lead the herd. I want to run!"
Mauritane turned back and made a forward motion with his free hand. "Let's give the horses their heads. We can be at Hawthorne by midday!"
At that, even Silverdun cracked a brief smile. He dug in his heels and urged his roan mare forward, following Mauritane's lead.
Streak fell into a smooth, flowing canter, his long head dipping into the wind with each stride. Despite the dark forebodings of the previous night, even Mauritane let the breeze and the sunlight work their way into him. As he leaned forward into the saddle, feeling the strong legs of the stallion pulse beneath him, he allowed himself a brief, broad smile that no one else could see.
The Hawthorne Road followed the base of the Olive Mountains to the southeast, eventually approaching the coastline and turning directly south toward the fishing port of Hawthorne that was the largest town in the region. The road opened onto a high bluff overlooking a rocky beach where black seals darted among the rocks a few yards out to sea. The languorous sigh of the ocean rode in on the wind, drenching them in noise and the smell of salt and the fine spray of seawater. Here the road narrowed again, and Mauritane slowed Streak to a trot in order to find his way across the now rocky trail.
After a minute of riding in silence, the human Satterly rode up beside him, standing poorly in his stirrups but, to his credit, not complaining about what must have been a very uncomfortable seat.
"Satterly," said Mauritane, in his best approximation of the human name.
"I'm just curious," said Satterly, trying to adjust his posture. "What can you tell me about these Contested Lands? All I know is that it's some kind of demilitarized zone between the Seelie and Unseelie kingdoms."
Mauritane nodded. "True, but it's more than that. Some jokingly refer to them as the UnContested Lands. If the Queen wanted them, the Contested Lands could be hers in a fortnight. Mab and the Unseelie could no doubt achieve the same goal, although neither would attempt it." Mauritane reached into his sabretache for a pipe and filled it methodically.
"Why not? What's so undesirable about them?"
Mauritane lit the pipe, and they both watched the smoke from it leap and catch in a gust of briny air. "There are shifting places there, for one," he said.
"Shifting places."
"Yes. They're areas that have come sort of unfastened from the world. Time and distance don't work properly there. It's easy to ride into one and never ride out again."
"How do we navigate around them?" asked Satterly, concerned.
"They're difficult to detect, although I believe with Silverdun's Insight and Elements we can avoid most of them."
"So that's why no one goes there-these shifting places."
"That's part of it." Mauritane dragged on his pipe. "You see, because the Seelie Court does not enforce its rule in the Contested Lands, those criminal elements and monstrous creatures who can't abide Fairy law tend to congregate there. We're sure to encounter some of them, though it's hard to say exactly who or what we'll run into."
Satterly screwed up his face. "Wow, I'm sorry I asked."
They rode another moment in silence, then Satterly said, "Mauritane?"
"Hm."
"How do you know the rest of us won't make a break for it as soon as you turn your back on us in Hawthorne?"
Mauritane blew out a thin stream of smoke. "Are you planning it?"
Satterly flushed. "No! No, I'm just curious."
Mauritane waved at the others. "Honeywell, Silverdun, and Raieve are Fae. Whatever their faults, their honor remains intact. And if honor proves insufficient, I have the fastest horse and the quickest blade."
"What about me?" said Satterly. "You don't think I have honor?"
"I don't know," Mauritane said coolly. "Do you?"
After an hour the sun rose, bringing light but no warmth. Satterly's hindquarters were already beginning to feel sore from the steady trot they maintained down the increasing slope of the Hawthorne road. Mauritane called a stop for breakfast and they dismounted by a bridge over a sluggish stream that was nearly icebound. On the seaward side of the road, the steam tumbled over the bluff and vanished in a spray of mist.
Satterly walked gingerly back and forth near the road, stretching his legs. Noticing his discomfort, Raieve joined him, handing him a cold sausage wrapped in greasy paper. "You must remember to move your hips in the saddle when you're sitting a trot," she said. "It's hell on the thighs but if you keep bouncing up and down like that you're going to hurt the horse's back." She cracked a thin smile. "It also doesn't hurt your ass as much."
Satterly made a halfhearted attempt to smile back. "I'll keep that in mind," he said.
"So," said Silverdun, leading his horse back from the stream, Honeywell at his side. "Your first time in the Contested Lands, eh, human?"
"That's right," said Satterly.
"Lots to be wary of in that forsaken place," Silverdun said.
"Aye," Honeywell agreed. "The shifting places, for one."
"True," said Silverdun. "Bugganes as well. Unseelie raids are always a fear. And of course," he paused, looking at Satterly with a frown, "there's the Thule Man."
"What's the Thule Man?" Satterly asked, skeptical.
"He's forty feet high," Honeywell said, "with eyes of flame. Fists like boulders, capable of crushing a man's head." Honeywell slowly closed his own fist around an imaginary victim."
Satterly felt his stomach sink. "But that's just a superstition, right?"
Honeywell and Silverdun looked at each other, then back at Satterly. "No," said Silverdun, looking confused. "Why would you say that?"
"Because it sounds like something out of a fairy tale or something. A big monster with eyes of flame. Come on."
"Perhaps in your world," said Silverdun. "But in ours, such creatures are quite common. Remnants of the Great Reshaping."
"Aye," said Honeywell. "I once had a teacher who claimed that it was beasts such as that who gave rise to the fairy stories in the human world, so closely joined were the two worlds in the past."
"Jesus Christ," said Satterly, running his hands through his hair. Why had he agreed to this? This world was insane; there was no telling what they might encounter on this trip. He didn't know anything about violence! He'd never killed anything more threatening than a cockroach.
Honeywell's serious expression began to melt, then he burst out laughing. "I'm sorry, Silverdun. I can't help myselfl"
Silverdun caught Honeywell's eye, then he too began to laugh. He doubled over, clutching his stomach.
"What's so funny?" said Satterly, feeling his face and ears grow hot despite the cold.
"Oh, you poor bastard," Honeywell managed through his chuckles.
Silverdun tried to contain hims
elf. "Did you see the look on his face?" he cackled. "I thought he was going to piss himself!"
"There's no such thing as the Thule Man," said Satterly. "You guys are assholes."
Honeywell slapped Satterly on the back. "The Thule Man's just an old tale that mothers tell their misbehaving children. A fairy tale, as you put it."
Silverdun's laughter ceased and his smile began to fade. "Yes," he said. Then he shrugged. "Probably."
"That's enough, you two," said Mauritane, mounting Streak. "You're clearly finished eating, so let's be on our way."
Raieve, who'd remained silent during the conversation, muttered, "I hate this world," and went to fetch her own horse.
The fishing port of Hawthorne nestled around a natural harbor, surrounded on three sides by rock formations jutting from the foot of the Olive Mountains. Perhaps the oldest city east of the Ebe, Hawthorne sported the white stucco walls and blue tiled roofs of the antebellum east, from an era before the southern architecture of rounded spires and granite walls rendered such places quaint. The Hawthorne Road cut a gently curved path between the hills and into the city, ending at the docks themselves.
From above Hawthorne, Mauritane watched the fishing boats coming in from their morning runs, blowing their horns. He could just make out the shouts of the fishermen calling out their catches to the vendors on the docks, their cries mixed in with those of the gulls and the crash of the waves from beyond the harbor. There was something enviable about that life, Mauritane thought. He'd been told by the guards at Crete Sulace that the Channel Sea was a harsh mistress, but she couldn't be any harsher than Regina Titania, nor half as cold.
"What's the matter?" said Silverdun, coming up next to him on the bluff. "You've stopped."
Mauritane looked around. The others were waiting for him on the road, their horses shifting back and forth on eager legs.
"Sorry," he said. "The only faces I've seen in years are those of my jailers and my fellow inmates. It's not an easy thing."
"No more easy for any of us," Silverdun whispered, leaning in. "But you're their leader. You can't let them see that it bothers you."
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