Midwinter

They gathered around the growing campfire. Gray Mave took five white tapers from his pack and passed them out. Confused, but not wishing to tread on anyone's feelings by asking, Satterly simply did what the others did, lowering the wick of his candle to the fire until it lit, holding it out before him.

"We are mortal creatures," Mauritane began, reciting from memory, "and our time of living is brief. As children we gather our light and as children we release it, each of us, when we give up the flame of self and return it to the fire of creation. The candles we bear are a symbol of the man Geuna Eled, called Honeywell. We hold them to remember the light that was his, and to take his mark upon us, that we may remember."

Mauritane held his candle up. "Honeywell was, to me, a loyal friend and officer. I will remember him as the man who stood up in the Seelie Court to defend me when everyone else turned away. He paid for that choice with his life."

Mauritane pulled up the sleeve of his tunic. His arm was covered with dozens of perfectly arranged circular red scars. He lowered the flame of Honeywell's candle to his flesh, let it burn there for a moment, the briefest instant, then the candle went out, leaving its impression on Mauritane's skin.

Raieve was next. "He was kind to me. I will remember him as the man who brought me food when I was ill, the week after I arrived at Crete Sulace. I didn't even know his name." She, too, raised her sleeve and stubbed out a candle on her arm.

Silverdun took his turn. "I regret that I hardly knew him," he said. "I will remember him as one well loved by others."

Gray Mave muttered something gently to himself and burned his arm quickly, his head bowed.

Satterly stammered. "I, uh, Honeywell was a decent guy. I'll remember him as the only guileless person I ever met." When he brought the candle to his arm, his hand shaking, he was surprised at how much it hurt.

The next day dawned warmer than usual, and the wind was low and at their backs. Mauritane ordered a casual pace to give the horses a rest from their ordeal the day before. At midday they crossed a series of low hills and found themselves on a dirt road that ran relatively straight toward the south. In the distance, a pair of brightly colored wagons, traveling southward, rounded a corner and disappeared from view.

"What do you think, Mauritane?" said Silverdun. "Are we far enough south to strike west into the Contested Lands?"

Mauritane consulted his charts. "No, I believe if we went west now, we'd come dangerously close to Unseelie lands. Better to take another day's ride to be certain." He pointed to a line on one of the charts. "If this is the road we're on," he said, "then Sylvan is another day's ride to the south of our current latitude anyway, so we lose nothing by hedging that bet."

"What do you make of that caravan?" said Satterly, pointing down the road to where the wagons had been.

"Most likely merchants trading between Saurdest and Estacana. They don't seem a likely threat. But keep your eyes open, just in case; we'll ride past them quickly."

They started down the road, and Mauritane was glad to be back on level ground again. Streak's constant protestations about the quality of the terrain were beginning to make him question his decision to bring a touched animal.

They rounded the first bend and the road continued on straight, down into a wooded valley. There was no sign of the wagons.

Mauritane came to a halt. "What happened to that caravan?" he said.

Silverdun searched the trees with his eyes. "I don't see them."

"Could they have left the road? Hiding from us, perhaps?"

"It's possible. This area is notorious for its highwaymen. I doubt they saw us, unless they were being cautious to begin with."

"I don't like it," said Mauritane. "There's something about this that bothers me."

"You really think they might have been frightened of us?" said Satterly.

"Listen to him," said Raieve, "he sounds like he enjoys the thought."

"Look at us," said Silverdun. "We certainly have the cut of a group of brigands."

"We sure as hell don't look like soldiers," said Raieve.

"Hm," said Mauritane. "I'll take suggestions. Shall we continue along the road or strike out again into the trees? I fear we may be somewhat too exposed, even this far west."

"I hate to say it," said Silverdun, "but I agree with you. Perhaps we should stay off the roads for a while longer."

A tree by the side of the road rustled, a pine the height of a man. "Perhaps I may offer another suggestion?" the tree said, in a deep booming voice.

"More talking trees," said Silverdun. "Wonderful."

Satterly gulped. "I didn't say anything. I swear to God."

"Nay, young lord," the tree said, its form beginning to shimmer. "No tree am I." The branches of the pine shook and folded in on themselves, merging to form arms and legs. After a moment, a man stood in place of the tree, graying and somewhat overweight but an imposing figure nonetheless.