Midwinter

Mauritane held his tongue so he would not speak without thinking. Her words made him furious, but Silverdun was right. She was beautiful. Her long, metal-tipped braids framed an angular face, blue eyes inlaid over high cheekbones, arched eyebrows in a permanent slant of anger. There was something wild about her.

"You may hold what opinions you wish," he said. "But in my presence you will refer to the Queen as Her Majesty or Regina Titania. If not out of respect for her, then out of respect for me."

Raieve had been standing, pacing across the floor as Mauritane delivered his pitch. Now she sat, pulling her braids forward and peering down at them. "As you wish."

"You have the offer, parole in exchange for your services. How do you answer?"

Raieve pursed her lips. "The only thing you could offer me is guaranteed transport back to Avalon when this is finished and the arms that I came here to purchase. Then I might accept."

"I can probably guarantee your return to Avalon, but beyond that I make no promises," said Mauritane.

"You can promise to do your level best. I would accept that." She glared at him.

"I've watched you since your arrival here," said Mauritane. "I believe you can be of great value to me. I'll do what I can to help you when our task is complete, but it may not be possible."

"You said it yourself," she said. "The alternative is dying here. I don't hate your queen enough to punish myself for spite. You have my word; I will fight by your side. I'll take what you can offer."

"I'm pleased," said Mauritane. "Perhaps when this is done you will not think so badly of us."

"I hardly see how it matters either way," she said.

Mauritane started to say something else but stopped. "Fine. The guard at the door will take you for provisions. Move quickly; we leave in an hour."

Mauritane watched her leave, feeling the curve of her legs with his eyes as she left. He forced himself to remember his wife, the Lady Anne, and put Raieve out of his mind for the moment.

He opened his mouth to speak to Silverdun and heard the scream again, even louder this time, definitely from the south. Could it be one of the Edani? They usually had lower voices and did not often allow their young to be taken captive. Raieve was one of four female inmates. The other three were locked in their cells on the other side of the prison.

"I'll be right back," said Mauritane. Silverdun nodded wearily, reviewing the list of provisions for the fourth time in an hour.

He picked up one of the guards at the door. "Where are we going, sir?" the guard said.

"Do you hear that sound?" said Mauritane. The girl's cries were insistent, pleading. Mauritane wondered for a moment that a woman's cries of pleasure and pain could sound so similar. Raieve's face flashed unbidden across his mind. He frowned.

"I don't hear anything," said the guard.

"Come with me," Mauritane said.

They passed from the North Tower into the main yard, where a trio from the night watch warmed their hands in the guardhouse. Snow continued to fall in its angled sweep, casting irregular diagonal lines across the faces of the guards.

"No!" the girl's voice cried. The sound emanated from the South Tower.

"Come," said Mauritane, taking his guard by the shoulder. "Don't you hear this?" They approached the tower's interior gate. Here, the wind caught the falling snow in an updraft and it swirled in tight ovals in the portico.

"Can you unlock this door?" said Mauritane.

"Um, sir, we're not to go in there. Only Jem Alan goes to monitor the sealamps."

"Do you have the rune or don't you?"

"Yes, but…"

"But nothing!" Mauritane gripped the guard at both shoulders. "Did Jem Alan tell you to give me full run of the place, or didn't he?"

"Uh, yes, but…"

"But nothing! Don't say `but' again. You have your orders. Open the door."

Cowering, the guard took a set of runes from his belt and fitted one into the enormous metal door's latch with a shaky hand.

"I'll wait here," he said.

"Fine." Mauritane took a torch from the inside wall and lit it from the grate that burned there.

The door opened onto a wide hall with a curved stairway on the left, or east, side and a number of doors on the north wall. A dusty iron chandelier hung overhead, its candles burnt to tiny stumps, blackened and sooty. Besides the torch, the only other illumination was the dim green witchlight from irregularly placed globes along the stairwell. Their light glimmered on the damp gray stones of the walls.

"No! No! Father, help me!" It was the girl's voice again, coming from above. Mauritane leapt for the stairs, noticing the curious antiquity of the girl's accent, similar to that of the oldest men and women in his village, those who'd been raised centuries before his own time.