Matthew Sturges - Midwinter

Mauritane sighed. "I knew Olifen, though not very well. He is a political appointee, a nephew of some lord or another. A nobleman's son dallying in governance. A fool."

"You don't seem to think much of noblemen."

"Not the incompetent ones. What transpired between you and Olifen?"

"He sympathized. He made a show of raising money for arms and claimed to have contacted the Seelie Army for the loan of a detachment of battle mages. Then one evening he invited me to his private apartments. There was a bright red dress laid out, a bottle of rose wine. He told me that all would be arranged, but that I-how did he put it-might "show my gratitude" first."

"And you refused."

Raieve bristled. "Of course! Politely, at first, with all the decorum I could muster. I was the emissary of my people. Lives were at stake. For a moment I even considered it. Given a bit more time to consider his proposal I might even have accepted it. But he forced himself on me and I… reacted."

"You slit his throat," said Mauritane, without emotion.

"I did," she said, hurling the last of her stones, this one farther than the others. "A detachment of the guard arrested me. I was tried in the Aeropagus, if you can call it a trial, and within two days I was in Crete Sulace, sentenced to live out my natural life there."

"It could have been worse. Had you not been a foreign emissary they would have had you drawn and quartered."

"Small comfort," she said.

She looked at Mauritane, her eyes searching him. "You're a queer one," she said. "Not much like the other Seelie I've met."

"Yes," he said, looking back. "And you see where it's gotten me."

They stood there, silently, for a long moment. Mauritane felt a sudden, unexpected desire to reach out for her and draw her close to him.

"It's getting light," she said, finally breaking the spell that was of an older kind of magic than is taught in universities. "We should be on our way."

Silverdun was stirring, not yet awake. The others were still asleep, huddled beneath the thick cloaks they'd purchased in Hawthorne. Streak stood tied near the tiny stream, nodding and chuffing at Mauritane urgently.

Mauritane took a handful of oats from a saddlebag and held them beneath the horse's nose. Streak's thick tongue darted expertly and took the entire handful in a swallow.

"Many thanks, master. Oats are delicious."

"You're welcome." Mauritane patted the horse's neck.

"Master, a man came to me last night. He put his forelegs in my saddlebag. It was not you, master. His smell was not yours."

Mauritane stopped cold. "Was it one of the men traveling with me?"

"Master, there are many smells. I do not know them all. It was not the female smell."

Mauritane looked at the two bags on Streak's left side, casting a glance at the camp, where no one had yet to rise. He quickly inventoried their contents. Everything was in place: fish hooks, whetstone, flint, and silver. The extra dagger remained in its sheath.

He crossed in front of the horse to the right side, realizing there was only one thing he had that the others did not, only one thing worth taking. He opened the front leather pouch and counted his message sprite jars. One of them was missing.

Quietly, Mauritane circled the camp, searching for the empty jar. He whispered an old finding spell his mother had taught him, a little rhyming cantrip in Elvish that would have made him chuckle under other circumstances. After a few moments he felt a slight tug that drew him across the stream and down a steep slope to one of the strange rock formations, this one vaguely shaped like a woman's body, her arms stretched above her. At the foot of the formation was the missing sprite jar, its lid lying on the ground near it, the sprite long gone, its message and recipient unknown. Mauritane collected the jar and screwed on the lid, placing it in the pocket of his cloak.

He made his way back to camp to find Silverdun awake and washing his face in the stream. "Where did you get off to?" he said, stretching and groaning from a night's sleep on cold ground.

Mauritane looked up and saw Raieve still perched above the camp, her face like chiseled stone.

"Just getting some air," said Mauritane.

It was not a pleasant morning. Neither Mauritane nor anyone else had slept well and the cold which had at first been a nuisance was now becoming a serious problem for all but Gray Mave, who seemed immune to it. The horses were slow to move and stubborn, reacting against their exposure to the elements and their rationed foodstuffs. Keeping enough food on hand for six working horses traveling over frozen soil was an irritating reminder of troop movement tactics from Mauritane and Honeywell's Academy days. Little was said as they mounted and began their descent into the Ebe River valley.

The river always seemed near to hand, but through some trick of geographical perspective, it appeared to grow no nearer, even after a full morning's ride. Regardless, Mauritane's spirits began to lift as the sun rose, taking some of the chill from the air. The wind shifted to their backs. Mauritane began to relax in his saddle, letting Streak find his own way, and the others fell in line behind him. For several hours they simply rode, without speaking, letting Streak guide them toward the ever-distant Ebe.

Honeywell was the first to hear the trees. As the road descended into the valley, groves of pine and spruce became more and more frequent, until eventually the path was lined on both sides by dusty green branches, some tall enough to block out the sun.

"Did you say something?" asked Honeywell, pulling forward to pose the question to Mauritane.

"No," said Mauritane.

Honeywell pricked his long, pointed ears. "That. Do you hear it?"

Mauritane cocked his head to the side and listened. There were soft voices speaking, but they were coming from the side of the road and not any of the travelers. Mauritane squinted into the trees and frowned. "It's just the trees," he said.

Satterly rode up alongside them. "What are those voices?" he said. "It sounds like there's a whole crowd out there, but I can't see anyone."

"It's the trees," said Honeywell. "They're talking."

"Are you serious?" said Satterly, a wide grin appearing on his face.

"Yes," said Mauritane, "but don't talk to them."

Satterly slowed his horse to a walk and peered at some branches that hung over the road.

"Hello," said the tree. "Isn't it a nice day?"

"It is a nice day, isn't it?" said Satterly. "What's your name?"

He felt Mauritane's hand on his wrist. "Didn't I just say not to speak to the trees?"

"Yes, but they're… trees. What's the problem?"

Mauritane sighed. "You'll see."

"My name is Tree!" said the tree. "Isn't that a nice name? Isn't the sun pretty?"

"Good morning!" said another tree. "So nice to see you!"

"Have a wonderful day!" the first tree said, waving a branch. "Lovely to meet you!"

"The air is fantastic this morning," observed a third.

Other trees joined in, wishing Satterly well, offering kind words of support, inquiring after his family. Soon the entire forest was a cacophony of arboreal babbling and branch fluttering, loud enough to drown out any conversation the travelers might have had. Their one-sided conversations followed the six riders the full length of the forest, their volume never decreasing until the pines and spruce gave way to more rocks and the voices faded into the wind.

"See you another time!" offered a fir on the tree line. "It was so nice to meet you!"

"I am so sorry," muttered Satterly once they were out of range.

"You should be sorry," said Mauritane. "When I give an order, you follow it. The next time you blithely disregard a direct order from me, I'll drag you the rest of the way to the City Emerald. Are we clear?"