Midwinter

by Matthew Sturges

  Mauritane smiled again, and this smile had an edge to it. "Perhaps because we are soldiers, and loyalty is all we know."

  Honeywell opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out. Eventually he drifted back to join the others, who'd remained silent through the entire exchange.

  As they neared the river, Mauritane suddenly brought the company to a stop, holding up his hand for silence. "Do you hear that?" he whispered to Silverdun.

  Silverdun focused on his hearing and nodded slowly. "There are riders coming. More than a few, from what I can tell."

  "From which direction?" said Honeywell drawing his sword.

  "Over there." Silverdun pointed at a low rise to the south, downriver, where a narrow trail ran parallel to the water's edge. The rise was high enough that whatever lay beyond it was completely hidden from view.

  "Who'd be riding out here during Midwinter?" asked Gray Mave, drawing his own weapon.

  Mauritane set his jaw. "I can think of two possibilities. Either a band of highwaymen or a Guard detachment searching for escaped prisoners."

  Silverdun listened harder. "They're riding in step," he said, frowning.

  "Then it's a detachment."

  "Could they really be looking for us?" said Mave.

  "It's safe to assume so," said Mauritane. "There's no other reason for them to be patrolling this far from the city."

  A line of riders appeared over the rise, at least twenty in number, some in the blue-spangled colors of the Hawthorne Guard, some in the red of Colthorn. Their leader was an officer of the Colthorn Guard, wearing the long mustache popular with men in that city.

  "Wonderful," said Silverdun.

  The riders stopped upon seeing them. Their leader raised his hand and waved it twice overhead.

  Honeywell gawked. "He wants to parlay? Why? They outnumber us four to one!"

  "You know these country folk," said Silverdun, examining his blade. "They hate dying. Avoid it at all costs."

  Mauritane cut him off with a glance. "I'll ride out to parlay with them. The rest of you wait for my signal and make for the river when I give it."

  "But sir!" said Honeywell.

  "Honeywell," warned Mauritane.

  "Yes sir," said Honeywell.

  "You know what to do," said Mauritane. "I'll…"

  He stopped short. Without speaking, Honeywell had ridden ahead without him.

  "Lieutenant!" Mauritane barked.

  Honeywell turned to face him. "Don't follow me, Mauritane. It will make us look weak." The riders on the hilltop, outside of hearing range, watched their leader intently.

  "What are you doing?" Mauritane's face was red.

  "We both know that capture is not an option, and we both know that whoever rides up there isn't riding down again. If you're to make it across the river under pursuit, you'll need that touched horse. And if you're to make the City Emerald," he said, "you're going to need a captain. I've decided that if I'm going to jump from a wall, I'm doing it on my own terms for once." With that, he turned again and rode to meet the Colthornan.

  Mauritane's knuckles whitened from his grip on Streak's reins.

  "What are we going to do?" said Mave, his voice shaking.

  Mauritane said nothing for a long minute, watching Honeywell ride up the hillside. Finally he said, "You heard the man. Let us respect his wishes."

  "What will he do?" said Silverdun.

  "He'll wait until his opponent raises his hand to begin the parlay and then he'll run the man through. Then he'll ride directly for the first man who comes after him. It will buy us some time to escape."

  "How do you know all that?" asked Silverdun.

  "Because that's what I would do," Mauritane said. "And Honeywell knows it. When you see the Colthornan raise his hand, break for the river at top speed. When we hit the ice, drop your reins. Streak will guide the horses across." Mauritane bent down and whispered to the beast, his eyes never leaving Honeywell.

  They watched the two riders approach each other warily, the Guard leader suspicious of Honeywell's every move. The Colthornan stopped his mount a few paces from Honeywell and said something none of them could hear. Honeywell raised his arm in the salutation of parlay, his unsheathed sword hidden behind his back.

  The Colthornan raised his hand in answer and Honeywell dug in his spurs, his horse rearing beneath him. The horse leapt at the Colthornan, and before the man could lower his arm, Honeywell's sword had already pierced his chest. Honeywell rode past him, pulling his weapon from the Colthornan's body without looking back.

  "Go! Now!" shouted Mauritane. As one, they spurred their mounts and raced for the water's edge.

  Mauritane spared a glance back toward Honeywell. The guardsmen had responded admirably; some of them already had their blades drawn when Honeywell engaged them. The first to gain his wits was one of the Hawthorne Guard. Honeywell rode straight for him and managed to unseat him with a bold thrust. Unsure what to do next, the other riders forgot about Mauritane and his companions and concentrated on the more immediate problem in their midst.

  Mauritane reached the river first. Streak hit the ice at a run but slid quickly to a stop and resumed with a tall, prancing gait that resembled the trot of a parade pony. "Drop your reins!" shouted Mauritane.

  Streak called out in the language of horses to the other mounts, instructing them to follow his lead. With some difficulty, they copied his gait, and they began to make progress across the slick ice.

  Mauritane looked back again. At some point in the intervening seconds, Honeywell had fallen. He lay on his back at the top of the hill, a spear in his chest, his mount bolting for the hills above. His maneuver had bought them even more time than Mauritane would have expected; they would be halfway across the river before the guardsmen reached its banks. Only now were they resuming the chase. Without a leader, they had little hope of mounting an effective pursuit. Mauritane urged Streak faster anyhow.

  The guardsmen took the slope at a gallop, jumping their horses onto the ice and spurring them on. It was a critical error. The running horses lost their footing on the frozen surface of the Ebe and most of them went down, throwing their riders. They few that remained standing slowed to a walk and began to pick their way carefully. The rest would eventually recover, but by then it would be too late.

  Mauritane led them to the far side, prodding Streak up the steep western bank. They stood on the bank briefly, looking across the river, all of them hoping for a glimpse of Honeywell. But he was too far away, and the snow was beginning to fall again.

  "Let's ride north for a few minutes," said Mauritane. "Then double back through the trees and rejoin the road a few miles south. "It'll confuse them."

  As they rode off, Gray Mave remained in the rear, hiding his eyes, hoping that no one would catch him crying.

  Chapter 13

  mortal creatures! the bittersweet wayward mestina

  Deep into the night and through the forests near Miday they rode, skirting the few towns and villages they came across, running the horses to the point of exhaustion. The trees swept by in a blur of white, gray, and brown, sometimes whipping their faces with tiny branches and dead leaves. The bitter southern wind reddened their faces and hands and stung their eyes. Fortunately, their flight left no opportunity for conversation; no one felt much like talking.

  Finally, Streak begged to be allowed to rest. The other horses, he said, were dangerously fatigued and desperate for water. Mauritane ordered a stop and saw to the horses himself, anything to further delay speech. While Silverdun started the fire and Raieve and Satterly began cooking, Mauritane took the horses two at a time and walked them. Just downhill from the campsite, a trickle of a stream ran past some brown grass, and Mauritane left the horses there to feed and water themselves, ordering Streak to keep them nearby.

  Mauritane returned slowly to camp, his limbs aching and his head low, unable to put it off any longer. "All of you sit," he said. "It is time to remember our friend."

  They gath
ered around the growing campfire. Gray Mave took five white tapers from his pack and passed them out. Confused, but not wishing to tread on anyone's feelings by asking, Satterly simply did what the others did, lowering the wick of his candle to the fire until it lit, holding it out before him.

  "We are mortal creatures," Mauritane began, reciting from memory, "and our time of living is brief. As children we gather our light and as children we release it, each of us, when we give up the flame of self and return it to the fire of creation. The candles we bear are a symbol of the man Geuna Eled, called Honeywell. We hold them to remember the light that was his, and to take his mark upon us, that we may remember."

  Mauritane held his candle up. "Honeywell was, to me, a loyal friend and officer. I will remember him as the man who stood up in the Seelie Court to defend me when everyone else turned away. He paid for that choice with his life."

  Mauritane pulled up the sleeve of his tunic. His arm was covered with dozens of perfectly arranged circular red scars. He lowered the flame of Honeywell's candle to his flesh, let it burn there for a moment, the briefest instant, then the candle went out, leaving its impression on Mauritane's skin.

  Raieve was next. "He was kind to me. I will remember him as the man who brought me food when I was ill, the week after I arrived at Crete Sulace. I didn't even know his name." She, too, raised her sleeve and stubbed out a candle on her arm.

  Silverdun took his turn. "I regret that I hardly knew him," he said. "I will remember him as one well loved by others."

  Gray Mave muttered something gently to himself and burned his arm quickly, his head bowed.

  Satterly stammered. "I, uh, Honeywell was a decent guy. I'll remember him as the only guileless person I ever met." When he brought the candle to his arm, his hand shaking, he was surprised at how much it hurt.

  The next day dawned warmer than usual, and the wind was low and at their backs. Mauritane ordered a casual pace to give the horses a rest from their ordeal the day before. At midday they crossed a series of low hills and found themselves on a dirt road that ran relatively straight toward the south. In the distance, a pair of brightly colored wagons, traveling southward, rounded a corner and disappeared from view.

  "What do you think, Mauritane?" said Silverdun. "Are we far enough south to strike west into the Contested Lands?"

  Mauritane consulted his charts. "No, I believe if we went west now, we'd come dangerously close to Unseelie lands. Better to take another day's ride to be certain." He pointed to a line on one of the charts. "If this is the road we're on," he said, "then Sylvan is another day's ride to the south of our current latitude anyway, so we lose nothing by hedging that bet."

  "What do you make of that caravan?" said Satterly, pointing down the road to where the wagons had been.

  "Most likely merchants trading between Saurdest and Estacana. They don't seem a likely threat. But keep your eyes open, just in case; we'll ride past them quickly."

  They started down the road, and Mauritane was glad to be back on level ground again. Streak's constant protestations about the quality of the terrain were beginning to make him question his decision to bring a touched animal.

  They rounded the first bend and the road continued on straight, down into a wooded valley. There was no sign of the wagons.

  Mauritane came to a halt. "What happened to that caravan?" he said.

  Silverdun searched the trees with his eyes. "I don't see them."

  "Could they have left the road? Hiding from us, perhaps?"

  "It's possible. This area is notorious for its highwaymen. I doubt they saw us, unless they were being cautious to begin with."

  "I don't like it," said Mauritane. "There's something about this that bothers me."

  "You really think they might have been frightened of us?" said Satterly.

  "Listen to him," said Raieve, "he sounds like he enjoys the thought."

  "Look at us," said Silverdun. "We certainly have the cut of a group of brigands."

  "We sure as hell don't look like soldiers," said Raieve.

  "Hm," said Mauritane. "I'll take suggestions. Shall we continue along the road or strike out again into the trees? I fear we may be somewhat too exposed, even this far west."

  "I hate to say it," said Silverdun, "but I agree with you. Perhaps we should stay off the roads for a while longer."

  A tree by the side of the road rustled, a pine the height of a man. "Perhaps I may offer another suggestion?" the tree said, in a deep booming voice.

  "More talking trees," said Silverdun. "Wonderful."

  Satterly gulped. "I didn't say anything. I swear to God."

  "Nay, young lord," the tree said, its form beginning to shimmer. "No tree am I." The branches of the pine shook and folded in on themselves, merging to form arms and legs. After a moment, a man stood in place of the tree, graying and somewhat overweight but an imposing figure nonetheless.

  "I am Nafaeel, of the Bittersweet Wayward Mestina. I am at your service, lords." The man bowed deep, his cap scraping the ground.

  "Come out, my precious ones. These are not the highwaymen who attacked us."

  Mauritane looked around and saw trees and boulders on each side of the road begin to melt and form into people, horses, and carriages. All of the men and women were brightly dressed and the horses gaily caparisoned. The wagons were filled to overflowing with enormous wooden apparatuses, planks joined with metal struts, pulleys, and hinges and devices Mauritane did not recognize.

  "No," said Mauritane, once the transformation was complete. "We are no threat to you. Go in peace."

  The men and women of the Bittersweet Wayward Mestina gathered behind Nafaeel.

  "Gentles," said Nafaeel, bowing again, slightly. "I was about to offer a suggestion. May I inquire your name, sir?"

  "I am called Mauritane. What is your suggestion?"

  "You'll forgive me for eavesdropping on your conversation a moment ago. The lovely lady there mentioned that you are soldiers of some stripe?"

  Mauritane frowned. "We are eel merchants from Hawthorne."

  Nafaeel nodded knowingly. "Of course, of course. Eel merchants." He smiled. "I was not aware that the transportation of eel had become so perilous." He raised an eyebrow, indicating Mauritane's sword.

  "These are dangerous times," said Mauritane.

  "Just so! Just so, good sir. You treat upon my point precisely. You see, we are but a poor band of traveling entertainers, and the proceeds from our most recent performance were taken from us at knifepoint by a band of ruffians this very morning. I believe we could use a few, er, eel merchants to keep us company and provide a bit of protection for the rest of our journey."

  "I see," said Mauritane. "And why would we do such a thing?"

  Nafaeel tapped his lips with a finger. "Why, indeed? Hm. Let's say that I were a captain of the local constabulary and I were searching for five purveyors of eel, four men and a woman on horseback, carrying swords. Just hypothetically, of course. It seems to me that if those eel merchants were, shall we say, commingled in a company of traveling entertainers, they would become much more difficult to spot. Wouldn't you agree?"

  Mauritane patted Streak's neck. "I take your point," he said. "But I do not feel it would be a beneficial pairing. I do, however, appreciate the offer." He began to turn away.

  "Wait!" said one of the women, coming forward and taking Nafaeel's hand. They were roughly the same age, though her hair and makeup conspired to give her the appearance of youth. "My husband means well, gentlemen, but he's rarely able to speak without orating. The matter is this: we have been stopped by highwaymen twice since Saurdest, and some of the girls have been poorly treated by them. We need help, and while we have no money now, we can pay you well when we reach Estacana. Please."

  "Woman!" said Nafaeel angrily.

  Gray Mave nudged his horse toward Mauritane and leaned in to him. "We must ride with them," he whispered.

  "It wouldn't be wise," whispered Mauritane.

  "Please, Captain.
" Mave's eyes were wide and a single bead of sweat trickled down his forehead despite the cold. "Trouble comes for them."

  "You've seen this," Mauritane frowned. "With your Gift."

  "Aye, sir." Mave shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. "You believe me, don't you?"

  Mauritane sighed. "All right," he said to Nafaeel. "We'll ride with you to Estacana. But we won't accept payment, and you'll ask nothing about us or where we're going. Are we agreed?"

  Nafaeel nodded gratefully. Many of the Fae behind them breathed sighs of relief, although some appeared skeptical.

  "Urn, what's a mestina?" Satterly said to Raieve.

  "What is a mestina?" said Nafaeel, overhearing. "My children, this oddly flat-eared gentleman has never heard of a mestina!" That brought smiles and laughter from the troupe.

  "They're glamourists," said Mauritane. "Actors."

  "Glamourists, yes," said Nafaeel. "Actors, no. We purvey the dewdrops of reality the way others purvey, well, eel. We are the precise opposite of those who strut and preen on the stage pretending, reciting lines written by another; we are the voice of what is true. Only larger."

  "Much larger," said one of the women, stepping forward. She was young and beautiful, her features sharp and her body graceful and petite. A sultriness burned in her eyes as they passed over Mauritane's group, finally resting on Silverdun. She peered at him for a moment before speaking again. Then she turned to Nafaeel. "Father, may I offer a demonstration?"

  "By all means, Faella."

  The girl removed her outer robe and stood in the road wearing only a skintight body suit of a dark, flexible fabric.

  "This is called Snowflake," she said, "in honor of the recent weather." Her companions applauded.

  Faella lifted her hands above her head and began to sing, a high-pitched lyrical chant that repeated itself with odd variations and harmonics. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then it began to snow, gently at first, then harder. Soon white flakes were blanketing everything, the horses, the riders, the mestina's wagons.

  "Look up," Faella sang, pausing between chants.