Midwinter

by Matthew Sturges

  Mauritane looked at him. "Why do you think?" He pushed Mave forward and they began marching uphill.

  Silverdun thought, then nodded. "Of course. You thought I might be the spy. What about Raieve, then? Did you not think to suspect her? Or did your cock already do a thorough enough examination?"

  Mauritane stopped, then turned to Silverdun. "What did you say?"

  "Nothing more than what you said to me when I bedded Faella on the Estacana road." He stood his ground. "Or did you think no one noticed your little tryst?"

  Mauritane spat. "Fine, Silverdun. You've had your touche. Will there be anything else?"

  Silverdun opened his mouth, but Mauritane's look silenced him.

  With one of Silverdun's poultices applied to the wound, Gray Mave was able to rest by the fire, although his weeping had not slowed in the interim.

  "I'm sorry," he continued to mutter. "I had no choice."

  Mauritane knelt in front of him, gripping his sword by the forte, drawing in the snow with its tip. "I need answers, Mave," he said. "Will you tell me what I need to know?"

  "All is lost," said Mave. "I am finished."

  Mauritane took Mave by the chin. "Answers, Mave! Tell me!"

  Gray Mave read the anger on Mauritane's face and began to speak, haltingly.

  "I blamed you, Mauritane," he said. "I lost my position at the prison because of your stunt, attacking Purane-Es with my sword. Jem Alan laughed at me. He had me put out on the back road like a servant. I had twenty years service, Mauritane. Twenty years."

  "I'm sorry for that," said Mauritane.

  Gray Mave's lips drew down in a feeble snarl. "I had only ten years left before I started my pension."

  He sat up, struggling against the wound in his chest. His shirt was undone, and blood had already soaked through Silverdun's dressings.

  "Jem Alan refused me my wages, and the fee for my cottage was due the next day! He told me I should jump on the nearest fishing boat and go back to what Hawthorners do best."

  Gray Mave sniffled. "But I could not go on a fishing boat. I'm terrified of the water, you see. Every time I go near the sea I have terrible premonitions of death. This Gift of Foresight is no gift to me. It's a curse!" He spat, and what landed on the snow was marbled red.

  "So I did the only honorable thing. I made a noose and I stepped into it."

  "And that is when I arrived," said Mauritane.

  "No, no," said Mave, staring into the fire. "Much happened between those events.

  "I… shuffled out of my body and I rose upward. Up, up, into the sky, like a bird. The air around me grew dark as night and the stars came out. There was something swimming between the stars. Something awful, like a snake made of water, with a dragon's wings! It was hideous, this thing. And then it spoke to me in a woman's voice.

  She said I could not go on yet, said that she wanted me to do things. And she said if I did not do them, then I would be sent somewhere… somewhere evil. She showed me the place. I cannot describe it. Like a mouth, a great mouth. With eyes."

  Gray Mave looked at Mauritane and his eyes were glazed and unfocused. "I agreed," he said, sobbing again. "I agreed. Anything to avoid that mouth, those dripping eyes. She said you were coming to find me and that I should go with you. She said that I was to report to her master of our progress, our plans. She said if I gave you over to her master, she would let my spirit ride past the evil place."

  He sniffled. The sound was a quiet roar. "It was your fault, don't you see? It was your fault to begin with. I said yes. I agreed. And that is how I have betrayed you."

  Mauritane's jaw was set. "To whom have you betrayed us? Who is the creature's master?"

  Mave covered his eyes with his hands. "He is Hy Pezho, Black Artist of the city of Mab!"

  "Traitor!" Mauritane shouted. He drew back his sword and held it over Mave's head.

  "Yes. Please," said Mave. "Please do it."

  Mauritane hesitated. He looked across the campfire to Raieve, who was beginning to recover from her icthula trance. He thought he saw something in her face like pity. He lowered the weapon, deferring to her better nature.

  "I cannot kill you, Mave," he said. "You have dishonored yourself, but not of your own accord. Besides, there is nothing to be done about it now. Silverdun tells me you will be dead of your wounds in a few days. Perhaps you can make peace with yourself before then."

  Gray Mave fell backward onto the rocky ledge by the fire and rolled into a fetal position, cradling his bloody chest within his arms.

  They rode on, Mauritane holding Mave's reins while Silverdun continued his watch for dangerous shifting places along the road. The sun overhead was bleached white, distant.

  Past the river valley, the land grew more level. Mountains appeared in the distance, purple and indistinct.

  "Those are the Western Mountains," said Silverdun. "We're close. We should be at Sylvan with time to spare."

  Mauritane nodded. He divided his attentions between Gray Mave and Raieve. Mave rode slumped in the saddle, looking as though he might lose consciousness and fall to the ground at any moment. Raieve looked little better, though she did seem to be improving, however slowly. She swayed unsteadily in her seat, a faraway look in her eyes. Every few minutes she looked at Mauritane, her face flashing recognition, then looked away again.

  The path they followed skirted the same broad river they'd seen earlier in the day, following its bends across the land. Though the road was more level, the growth of trees and brush became denser and they made no better time than before.

  As the sun bent toward the west, something appeared ahead of them, a small figure seated atop a huge spherical boulder at the side of the path. They rode closer and Mauritane could see that it was a young Fae girl, perhaps eleven or twelve years of age. She was sitting on the rock with her legs drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around them. She wore loose-fitting garments of a pliable, smooth fabric: a pair of long blue breeches fell to her feet, holes torn in the knees, and her cloak was shiny and puffy, like a burgundy cloud.

  She spoke a greeting to them in a language unfamiliar to Mauritane's ears, waving shyly in their direction. When they were nearly upon her, she stepped down off of the rock and stood in the road. She spoke again, the same greeting. From here, Mauritane could see that the tips of her ears were badly injured; on either side of her head were tight-fitting bandages soaked through with blood, and the high points of the ears were missing entirely; they stopped well below the top of her head.

  To Mauritane's surprise, Satterly started and rode forward, speaking in what appeared to be the same tongue. The girl laughed, said something back. The two of them held a brief, rapid conversation, smiling and pointing both at the other riders and down a narrow trail that angled from the main path into the woods.

  "This is amazing," Satterly finally said, turning away from the girl. "She's human," he laughed. "And she's not alone. There's a settlement…"

  Satterly was cut off by the sound of several resolute clicks that emanated from the brush.

  "Don't move!" a voice bellowed in halting Common. Three human men stepped from the brush, dressed in a similar fashion as the girl, who now ran away giggling down the path. The men carried weapons of some kind, long metal tubes affixed to bases that resembled the wooden stocks of crossbows. "These weapons spit fire!" shouted one of the men, again in Common Fae. "So beware!" He was tall and lean, with a thin red beard and long hair tied back in a ponytail.

  Satterly spoke out again in the human tongue. It was fast and incomprehensible, slurred syllables that ran into one another making each sentence sound like a single improbable word. The man responded with a lengthy tirade, pointing toward the Fae members of the party with a dark look on his face.

  Satterly swallowed. He turned to Mauritane and said, "He says his name is Jim Broward, that we're all under arrest, and that you'd all better say your prayers."

  Chapter 25

  the familiar

  Hy Pezho was e
njoying tea in his new accommodations when the second sprite arrived. The tiny creature buzzed in through the thick damask drapes, drawing a line of sunshine across the splayed antique Thule rugs on the wooden floor. Hy Pezho's sitting room looked out over the violet hangings of the Royal Complex. From where he sat waiting for the sprite, he surveyed one of the most desirable fore views in the entire city, second only, perhaps, to Mab's. It was a fine thing.

  "A message I have," sang the sprite, when it was in speaking range. It continued singing, off key, "a message I have for Hy Pezho! For Hy Pezho- that's the person who gets this note! A message, a message, it's my job to deliver it. Hey, Hy Pezho, don't say no!" The sprite finished its song with a tiny flourish, landing on the huge oak table in front of Hy Pezho. A bowl of fruit sat on the table; the sprite did a back flip onto a pear and sat.

  Hy Pezho looked around carefully, then leaned toward the sprite. "Speak," he said.

  "This message is full of names and dates and things. I should probably have some of that tea to settle my little brain first."

  Hy Pezho reached into a pocket in his tunic and pulled out the tiny dried body of the first sprite the Awakened One had sent. He tossed the remains on the table.

  "Ay-yi-yi!" said the sprite. "Looks like she got on your bad side. What did she do?"

  "She kept asking for things and wouldn't shut up."

  The sprite bit its tiny lip. "So, just the message then?"

  Hy Pezho nodded.

  "This message is from the Awakened One. He says that he has confirmed that a meeting will take place between the one called Mauritane and a Seelie Guard called Kallmer in the Rye Grove of Sylvan. Highsun. Fourth Stag. He doesn't know yet what the purpose of the meeting is, nor does Mauritane. He does say that interesting secrets will be revealed about the cuteness of sprites!" The sprite winced. "That last bit may have been a tiny embellishment on my part."

  "Is that all?"

  The sprite looked uncomfortably at the corpse of its former colleague. "Yep. Gotta run!" It took off backward and flitted out the window before Hy Pezho could catch it.

  "Bacamar," said Hy Pezho. "Where are you?"

  The familiar descended through the overhead canopy. "I was bathing in the sunlight above, master. Do you have need of me?"

  "The prison guard suicide has given us what we need. They're meeting one of the Seelie Guard in Sylvan on Fourth Stag."

  "The Seelie Queen leads a merry chase," said Bacamar, her lithe tongue extending and receding. "One presumes that a fascinating business will take place on that day."

  Hy Pezho nodded absently. "I suppose," he said. "I don't really care, to be honest."

  "Nor I," said Bacamar. She glided down to the floor and curled at Hy Pezho's feet. "Master?" she said quietly

  "Yes, Bacamar?"

  "I do not wish to pester you with my own small wants, but I am eager to be with you in the flesh. Are you not as eager as I?"

  "I am," said Hy Pezho.

  "It occurs to me," said Bacamar, "that if I am to inhabit the body of Queen Mab, then perhaps you will not be attracted to me. At close range she is an old and withered thing. Could I not possess the shape of a comely ladyin-waiting and live with you as your concubine?"

  "In time, certainly." Hy Pezho was amused. "But we walk a very fine line. We will need a Queen who is… pliable, in order to execute our ultimate aims. Once I am enthroned, then all things are possible."

  "I long to touch you with real flesh, my lord," said Bacamar. She rose up on her leathery wings and looked him in the eye. "And I will not be kept waiting forever."

  "I will not keep you waiting, Bacamar." Hy Pezho rose and stroked her long body, his fingertips passing through her diaphanous skin.

  "I understand that you are a man and that you have needs," said Bacamar, petulant. "But I do not want the stink of your whores on you when you are mine. Perhaps you might stop bedding them now and save yourself a bath."

  "Jealousy does not become you, servant."

  "You wound me."

  "As you wound me with your mistrust."

  They eyed each other. Hy Pezho took his cape from behind his chair and hurried out of the room, whistling the sprite's tune. Bacamar watched him go, her eyes filled with inhuman lust.

  Queen Mab spread a chart on the wide oak table of her council chamber. She pointed to a spot on the map, a city poised at the base of a mountain range that occupied the map's western boundary. The city was within the Seelie Kingdom, less than a hair's breadth from that land's border with the Contested Lands.

  "The Contested Lands are narrowest near Sylvan," she said. "For years the Seelie have expected an attack from Us there. Regina Titania has historically garrisoned several thousand of the Seelie Army there, along with a phalanx of her Royal Guard. During Midwinter those numbers are increased. Do you see how she gives away a weakness in this manner? In a time when snow and ice would reduce the likelihood of a campaign's success, she fortifies." She looked around. "Laese'am, do you have a question?"

  "What weakness does Titania reveal by this?"

  Mab smiled. "We do not know. That is what We plan to discover when We take Sylvan on Fourth Stag."

  There was a shocked silence in the room, as each of the Prefects looked to the others, gaping. Only Hy Pezho was not surprised. He sat idly in his wide chair nearest the Queen, his arms folded across his chest.

  "There are two great enemies to the south, gentlemen," said Mab. "We dealt a crushing blow to one of them when we brought low the city of Gefi. The Arcadian cult will make no further headway with Our subjects this year. But their priests and monks will be planning future incursions even now, and We must take Our war against them to the source.

  "Our other foe is far less subtle and far better armed." A nervous chuckle ran through the chamber. "But We will tell you a secret about Regina Titania. When winter comes to the Seelie lands, she is weakened. We know this. We have scrutinized her carefully over the centuries, during our elongated cold war. She grows ever weaker as the season progresses and then one day, suddenly, she is renewed. The sun returns to the City Emerald. The ice cracks on the Ebe. All is well within the Great Seelie Keep. We would pay well to know what it is that rejuvenates her. Hy Pezho?"

  Hy Pezho rose and cleared his throat, looking out over the assembled Prefects, those high and mighty who only weeks ago would not have acknowledged his existence. They were all watching him now. It was beautiful.

  "My father had many spies within the Seelie Kingdom over the years. He lived a long time, and he had an excellent memory. He began to notice a recurring event that took place during the season the Seelie call Midwinter. The story is this: Titania sends out an emissary to some remote corner of her kingdom. The emissary returns to the City Emerald and within a day, the Queen is restored. The emissary and the location are never the same. Nothing else is known." He leaned forward, stabbing his finger on the map at Sylvan. "But this time we know who the emissary is. And this time we will be there waiting to discover his errand."

  "Thank you, Hy Pezho. You have done well." Mab looked around. "You have all served Us well over the years. We do not need to tell you your orders. Go now and prepare for a southward advance and an assault on the Seelie border. Our trials will soon be at an end!"

  Chapter 26

  the promenade route! butterflies

  On the day prior to Purane-Es's fete, the Lady Anne received a program booklet containing the promenade route, the seating chart, and the dance cards of the most prominent guests. She sorted through them happily, recalling the days when doing so was joyfully commonplace and dull. She traced the promenade route with her finger through Southmarket out the city wall to the Villa Diosa.

  For days, the name of Purane-Es had plagued her. She knew of a Lord Purane who had replaced Mauritane as Guard Captain. Purane-Es was, of course, his second son. But that was not it. What about the first son, PuraneLa? Was that name familiar?

  Purane-La.

  It was he that Mauritane had murdered, t
he commander in Beleriand. Of course.

  How could she be so foolish? How had she not remembered the name? Two years ago the name of Purane-La had been on many lips, spoken quietly behind waving fans. At her husband's tribunal in the Aeropagus, the elder Purane sat on the side of the kingdom, whispering back and forth with the Queen's solicitor. The high tribunal was a long smear in her memory, three months of shame and horror that culminated in her exile. She had not wanted to remember.

  Surely this Purane-Es was not as stupid as she. Certainly he had not forgotten. What, then, was his motivation? Was he an Arcadian convert, inviting her into his villa to offer forgiveness for her husband's act of cruelty? Certainly not. Arcadians did not throw lavish parties at their country villas; they gave away their villas to be used as monasteries and temples.

  What did he want with her? She could not be any further humiliated, and her husband was no longer a concern to anyone. So why?

  She considered not going, forgetting the whole thing. Then the courier arrived with her new dress from Cucu's and she knew that she would go, and that she would wear the dress, and the consequences be damned.

  The Villa Diosa was an heirloom of the Purane lordship, a long graceful structure of white granite with open terraces and marble fountains and vast acreage. It sat astride a hilltop overlooking the city's southern wall. Its facade opened to a vast garden of fruit trees and low shrubs, narrow winding pathways meandering throughout. A staff of a dozen man-sized clockwork rabbits served drinks to the lesser nobility from silver trays; they went on two legs and wore waistcoats and spectacles, their mechanisms whirring as they bowed. The grounds had been spellwarmed at enormous expense, and a botanical mage had been called in to tease the flowers and grasses into temporary livelihood, belying the frigid weather that held outside the villa's gates.

  About an hour before sunset, a horn sounded in the city below. From a garden overlook, a frail girl in pink clapped her hands and pointed down toward the city. The high noble promenade was beginning.