Midwinter

Streak pulled against the reins, testing him. "I want to believe you," he said.

Mauritane reined the horse in, patting his neck with his left hand. "I won't disappoint you," he said. "But you must mind me in all things."

"I shall," said Streak. "If you do prove worthy of it."

"Have no fear, beast," Mauritane said, stroking the creature's mane. "I am your master now."

"It is good to be a member of the herd once more," said Streak, shaking his mane.

Mauritane breathed deep and let the icy morning air sting his lungs. Overhead, stray seagulls and cormorants plied the winds from the ocean, beating their wings and screeching into the morning sun. As the day settled in, the starlets and purples of the sunrise coalesced into daylight, the risen sun warm on Mauritane's face despite the dimming of winter.

Mauritane nudged Streak and came flush with Honeywell and Satterly, who rode double file behind Raieve and Silverdun. Honeywell, ever the guardsman, rode with perfect posture, his borrowed clothing from the prison laundry providing him with a trim that nearly became an officer. He rode with pride, his gray eyes glinting in the morning sun. Though his expression was impassive, Mauritane knew from his many years in the Guard how to read the frank joy behind it. The freedom of someone who expected never to be free again.

Satterly rode poorly, but he improved with every mile. His expression was a human one, something akin to curiosity but more so. It was as though Satterly lived each waking moment in rapt fascination. His eyes followed everything, from the gulls overhead to the elk that capered back and forth in the wooded hills to the north.

Mauritane pulled forward to lead the group, casting a glance at Silverdun and Raieve as he passed. They were like bookends, both stone-faced, both unreadable. Silverdun had years at court to train him to look continually unimpressed. Raieve must have had her own history among dangerous people, or she was very well trained. Either way, the two of them revealed nothing of their individual moods, and Mauritane noted that he would need some other yardstick of their emotional condition if he were to lead them properly.

They were approaching the bottom of the slope that angled down from the mountains to a plateau that skirted the water's edge. Here the road widened and straightened so that they were able to ride in a line, with Mauritane a few yards ahead.

Wanting to lead, Streak strained against his bit. "It is good to lead the herd. I want to run!"

Mauritane turned back and made a forward motion with his free hand. "Let's give the horses their heads. We can be at Hawthorne by midday!"

At that, even Silverdun cracked a brief smile. He dug in his heels and urged his roan mare forward, following Mauritane's lead.

Streak fell into a smooth, flowing canter, his long head dipping into the wind with each stride. Despite the dark forebodings of the previous night, even Mauritane let the breeze and the sunlight work their way into him. As he leaned forward into the saddle, feeling the strong legs of the stallion pulse beneath him, he allowed himself a brief, broad smile that no one else could see.

The Hawthorne Road followed the base of the Olive Mountains to the southeast, eventually approaching the coastline and turning directly south toward the fishing port of Hawthorne that was the largest town in the region. The road opened onto a high bluff overlooking a rocky beach where black seals darted among the rocks a few yards out to sea. The languorous sigh of the ocean rode in on the wind, drenching them in noise and the smell of salt and the fine spray of seawater. Here the road narrowed again, and Mauritane slowed Streak to a trot in order to find his way across the now rocky trail.

After a minute of riding in silence, the human Satterly rode up beside him, standing poorly in his stirrups but, to his credit, not complaining about what must have been a very uncomfortable seat.

"Satterly," said Mauritane, in his best approximation of the human name.

"I'm just curious," said Satterly, trying to adjust his posture. "What can you tell me about these Contested Lands? All I know is that it's some kind of demilitarized zone between the Seelie and Unseelie kingdoms."

Mauritane nodded. "True, but it's more than that. Some jokingly refer to them as the UnContested Lands. If the Queen wanted them, the Contested Lands could be hers in a fortnight. Mab and the Unseelie could no doubt achieve the same goal, although neither would attempt it." Mauritane reached into his sabretache for a pipe and filled it methodically.

"Why not? What's so undesirable about them?"

Mauritane lit the pipe, and they both watched the smoke from it leap and catch in a gust of briny air. "There are shifting places there, for one," he said.

"Shifting places."

"Yes. They're areas that have come sort of unfastened from the world. Time and distance don't work properly there. It's easy to ride into one and never ride out again."