Midwinter

Gray Mave's home was at the end of an unpaved street on the edge of Hawthorne. The roadway straddled the coastline beneath a sheer granite cliff that formed the southern wall of the city. Mave's house nestled in a row of similar structures, anonymous and aging, a sagging willow tree before it.

Mauritane knocked on the heavy oak door and waited. There was no response. Then, from inside, there was a sharp crack of wood against wood and a brief, choked cry. Mauritane threw his shoulder against the door and broke it down, splintering the wood around the latch.

In the middle of the front room, hanging from the rafter by his neck, was Gray Mave. He swung slowly from side to side, facing toward the ocean. A toppled stool lay beside his twisting legs.

Mauritane rushed into the room, pulling his blade from its sheath. He struck the rope above Gray Mave's head, severing it almost completely, but not quite. The body recoiled at the blow and swung in the other direction, nearly knocking Mauritane off of his feet. He swiped again with the cutlass, and Gray Mave fell to the floor.

Mauritane knelt beside the man and listened at his chest for breathing, loosening the coil of rope from around his neck and throwing it on the floor. There was no breath in the man. He felt for a pulse-nothing. Or was there? He reached out again and detected a heartbeat, weak and uneven, but evident. As Mauritane held his fingers against Mave's neck, he felt the man's pulse grow stronger and stronger until it beat normally.

Mave's body shuddered and he took a deep rasping breath, then coughed, choking. His body came to life then, all at once. He twisted onto his stomach, his large frame moving more quickly than Mauritane would have imagined. With a fierce spasm, Mave vomited on the floor, then pushed himself backward and sat up. His eyes were wide open and crosshatched with red.

"Where have I gone?" said Gray Mave after a moment, his voice thick and hoarse.

"You're alive. Barely," said Mauritane. There was a pitcher of water on the sideboard. Mauritane poured Mave a cup and sat down next to him.

Mave felt around his neck. "My throat hurts."

"You're fortunate that you're a poor executioner."

Mave looked at him for the first time. "You. What are you doing here? Were you pardoned?"

"Not exactly. My reason for coming was to apologize for last night. While I do not regret that I made the attempt on Purane-Es, I deeply regret that it was you that suffered as a result. I am responsible for this." Mauritane held up the remnants of the noose.

Mave looked at him for a long moment, the focus steadily returning to his eyes. "You should have let me hang there," he finally said. "When the town finds out what I've done, I'll be a laughingstock. I'll never get on one of the boats."

"Why does anyone need to find out?" said Mauritane. He toyed with the pommel of his sword idly.

"It's no good, Mauritane. I can't face these folk anymore. I can't go back onto the fishing boats; I'm too old and out of practice with the nets. I scan my future for something bright, sir, and I see nothing but blackness."

Mauritane stood and faced the window that looked out upon the sea. "If that's so then you have nothing to lose by coming with me."

Gray Mave took a sip of water and choked but managed to keep it down. He chuckled. "Come with you? Where are you going that I would be useful to you?"

"I've been charged with a task for the Queen," said Mauritane. "I need to be in Sylvan by Fourth Stag. That means riding through the Contested Lands."

"A suicide mission," said Gray Mave, taking the noose from Mauritane and throwing it on the floor.

"Not on my watch it won't be," said Mauritane. "Anyway, at least come as far as the Ebe. If you don't care to join us crossing the Contested Lands, you can find work as a guard somewhere."

"I don't know, sir. This is too much for me. I just… yesterday everything was so simple!" Mave pounded the floor with meaty fists.

"Come on," said Mauritane. "Bring your horse around front and saddle her. We need to be off quickly."

Gray Mave let a few tears fall onto the dusty wooden floor of his nearly empty home. "All right," he said. "Let me get my things."

They had just retrieved the maps from the cartographer when Gray Mave took Mauritane's arm and pointed into the sky over the market. "Look," he said.

It was Mauritane's signal flare, bursting into glistening trails of red fire.

"Are your men in trouble?" said Mave.

"They'd better be," answered Mauritane. "That was my only flare."

life is fragile

"You are under arrest! Dismount and lay down your weapons."