Matthew Sturges - Midwinter

"Speak."

"Twice during this mission I have been called `He Who Clears the Path,' once by the Thule Man and again by an Arcadian."

"Ah, the Thule Man. We knew him once, when we were both much younger. And you wish to know what this means."

"I do."

Titania leaned forward in her throne and rested her chin in her hands. It was a girlish posture for a Queen.

"It is a prophecy, nothing more; prophecies surround Us like gnats. But We see that it troubles you."

"I do not wish to be the slave of fate," said Mauritane.

The Queen giggled. "We are all slaves," she said. "Not to fate, though, but to our own hearts. Not even your Queen is exempt from that."

"But if a prophet sets a path for me, then my own honor means nothing. I am a puppet."

"No, you misunderstand. The Prophet sees, yes. But to see is not to cause. The title of `He Who Clears the Path,' like any other such, is simply a pedestal upon which your own choices have placed you. Had you opted to be a coward or a fool, someone else would eventually have stood there."

She gestured him closer and almost whispered. "It is one thing you and I have in common. Greatness casts a long shadow; cast forward by the sun and backward by the moon."

"I still do not understand," said Mauritane looking down.

The Queen smiled gently, taking his chin in her hand. "It makes no difference to Us."

He met Raieve in the hallway outside the main dining hall. She, Satterly, and Silverdun were being feted there, the standard complement of nobility and would-be nobility hanging on their every word, laughing at their jokes and racing to fill their cups.

"I had to get away from them all," she said. "I want nothing more to do with this place."

"I was coming to find you," he said. "I'm about to go home."

"I see," she said flatly.

"I wanted to say goodbye."

She raised an eyebrow. "You haven't yet arranged my escort back to Avalon."

"Come to my office in the morning," Mauritane said, slowly. "I'll have someone there take care of you."

"Oh." She turned away.

"Raieve…"

"What? What do you want from me?"

"I just want you to know that I am glad to have known you."

She looked at him, and he looked back.

"I won't forget you," he said.

She nodded. "I…" she began, struggling with the words. "I'm sorry about everything."

"There's nothing to be sorry about," he whispered. He put his arms around her and clutched her to him.

"If you're ever in Avalon…" she began, but tears began to come, and she pushed him away. "You know how I feel." She ran off down the hallway and disappeared.

Silverdun walked with Mauritane to his home on the Boulevard Laurwelana. "I've spoken with Satterly," he said. "We're returning to Sylvan in the morning. There's much to be done there."

"You spoke of the temple," said Mauritane. "Have you become an Arcadian then?"

"I don't know," Silverdun said. "Let us say that I have reopened the option. For Satterly's part, I don't know if he's more excited about looking after lost changelings or the lost human woman he left there." He smiled briefly. "What will you do, Mauritane?"

"I'm going home," Mauritane said. "I'm going to talk to my wife, try to pick up the pieces of our marriage. There may yet be some love for me in her heart."

"Purane-Es was a liar and a fool," said Silverdun. "You mustn't take anything he said too seriously."

"We'll find out, won't we?" said Mauritane. They were at the door of Mauritane's building. "I am glad you were with me, Silverdun. I knew I could count on you, and you never disappointed me."

"If I recall correctly, you threatened to kill me if I did."

Mauritane nodded. "That's true," he said.

They embraced. "Come visit us up in Sylvan when you get the chance," he said.

"I'll do that. Goodbye, Silverdun."

"Goodbye."

Silverdun watched him go in and turned away from the building. The sun overhead was warm and bright, and he felt truly blessed for the first time in memory. He looked out over the Seelie Grove, its lush vegetation buried under a carpet of snow, and watched amazed as the first tiny patches of snow there began to melt, dripping away in tiny rivulets. It was beautiful.

Mauritane's keys had been taken from him years ago. He rang the bell, and when only a servant answered, his heart fell from his chest into his stomach. The steward made him wait in his own parlor. He sat uncomfortably in a high-backed chair. The furniture was different-he felt like a stranger here.

After too long of a wait, Lady Anne made her entrance, dressed neck to toe in black.

"Captain Mauritane," she said, curtseying. "Your unexpected presence is a pleasure."

Mauritane stood and dismissed the servant.

"Wait a moment," the Lady Anne called after the steward. "Captain Mauritane and I require an escort."

The servant glanced between Mauritane and the Lady Anne and cowered in a corner.

Mauritane reached for her hand. She pulled it gently from his grasp, her pleasant smile never moving.

"What is this? An escort? And you in widow's weeds?" he said.

The smile faltered a bit. "If you're here to pay your respects for my husband, there will be a formal ceremony in the Ash Grove tomorrow."

Mauritane's strength left him and he fell into the chair. "I am your husband," he said. "I am."

"Not any more," said the Lady Anne. "I am the wife of Purane-Es, and I am in mourning. So if you would please excuse me, I have much to do."

"You can't mean this," he whispered, his voice shaking.

"It was good of you to come, Captain. I will pass your respects along to my husband's family."

Mauritane stared at her, unable to move.

"Is there something else?" Her eyes and lips were as delicately positioned as her gown and her jewelry. She was a mask, impenetrable.

He said nothing.

"I see," she said. "Goodbye, then." She spun, her black skirts swirling around her, and hurried from the room.

Mauritane remained in the chair, staring at nothing, until the servant regained his composure and finally asked him to leave. As he stepped out of his home for the last time, he felt a splash on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw water dripping from the icicles above the door.

Queen Mab reclined on a floating platform overlooking the construction site of her new city. The platform was covered and decorated with flowers; a hundred different varieties. She plucked a purple foxglove from its stem and chewed it thoughtfully. Behind the chaise where she lay a servant fanned her in a steady rhythm.

The scene below pleased her. The new city of Mab would be larger than the last. Her architects had arrived at a design that was both pleasing to the eye and also more imposing, better to send forth into battle and easier to defend. Her apartments were now being installed over the superstructure. From them she could peer over the battlements, calling out orders to her troops below, the clouds near enough to touch.

All was on schedule; the base of the city would be finished before the summer quakes came to topple it. She would fly again soon.

Some of her ministers could still not understand why she preferred her flying cities. They were children; they whispered behind her back as if she could not hear every word spoken and they plotted as if their schemes were not as transparent as gossamer. But they were easy to manipulate and that was all that mattered.

They prattled on and on about finding new lands on which they could settle and build their staid villas. They wanted metropolises that would stand for millennia, never moving, testaments to the builders. Long ago she had tried to explain to them that nothing was ever built that did not one day fall to ruin. They pointed to the Great Seelie Keep in response and she only smiled behind her hand. That too, she told them, would one day fall, and the sound of its falling would be heard across many worlds. She would see to it.