Midwinter

Faella lifted her hands above her head and began to sing, a high-pitched lyrical chant that repeated itself with odd variations and harmonics. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then it began to snow, gently at first, then harder. Soon white flakes were blanketing everything, the horses, the riders, the mestina's wagons.

"Look up," Faella sang, pausing between chants.

Mauritane raised his eyes to the sky and his attention fixed on a single snowflake, swirling in the maelstrom overhead. Something about that single point of white captivated him. It looped and whirled in a pattern that reminded Mauritane of something, something that was made of longing and regret and lost hope. The snowflake moved toward him, growing in size. It was the largest snowflake Mauritane had ever seen. It expanded to fill his vision, then hovered over him, rotating gently in the sunlight. It consisted of six perfect spokes, radiating an endless progression of ever-smaller crystalline lines. Whichever point Mauritane focused his attention on, that section of the structure grew larger, its tiny angled projections expanding, and Mauritane saw that the succession of ever smaller lines never stopped; it continued forever, spiraling down into the darkness of the infinite.

Faella let them watch the snowflake for a minute or so, then closed her hands in front of her and curtsied again, letting the vision disappear gradually.

Mauritane was stunned by the beauty of it. The image remained in his mind, the ever-descending spokes, the brightness of the smooth crystal edges. Those in his company were equally rapt, especially Silverdun, who sat astride his horse with his eyes closed, savoring the experience. Even some of the mestina players were taken aback.

"My darling daughter!" cried Nafaeel. "Your talent grows with each passing day." He took her in his arms and held her. "Someday you will surpass even your mother!"

"Wow," said Satterly, after a pause. "I've never seen anything like that before in my life."

"That, my uninformed friend," said Nafaeel, "is mestina."

the fate of highwaymen

on the stacana road

Traveling with the mestina, Silverdun found himself more often than not riding alongside Faella who, unlike many of the performers, had her own horse. They seemed to gravitate toward each other, and they passed the time talking about the weather, or the famous mestina of the past, or the City Emerald. Their banter had no subject, and they spent as much time watching the steam of their breath in the cold air as they did each other. He'd introduced himself simply as Perrin, hoping that none of his companions would slip up and give away his title.

"Do you like these boots?" she asked, lifting her heel out of its stirrup. They were riding a few yards ahead of everyone else.

"They're delightful," he said, admiring them. "The ladies at court are no doubt wearing something similar this winter?"

Faella smiled. "So, you've been at court?"

Silverdun raised an eyebrow. "I've heard about such things," he finally said.

"Aha! I knew it. I can't tell about your friends, but I knew you had noble blood from the moment I laid eyes on you. I have a talent for such things." She tossed her deep red hair, and Silverdun had to concentrate not to stare at her.

"Well, perhaps I do and perhaps I don't, but it's no concern of yours either way. Another topic, if you please, miss?"

"Do you have Glamour yourself?"

"Another talent of yours? Intuiting people's Gifts?"

"Just a guess."

"A lucky one then. My focus at university was in Glamour."

"I thought so. And no, I won't ask which university you attended because I'm certain it was either Estaena or Nycuel."

"If you say so." Silverdun kept the eyebrow raised.

"Will you indulge me with the fruits of your studies? A small illusion to impress a lady?"

Silverdun laughed. "I'm no mestine," he said. "I'm certain I'd disappoint you."

"Oh, don't be coy," she sighed. "I detest coyness. All of the little girls my father has working with us are full of calculated sweetness and false modesty. It makes me ill; no wonder none of them can stand me."

"Perhaps they're jealous," said Silverdun.

"Perhaps," she said. "But no changing the subject. I want to see what you're capable of."

Silverdun cleared his throat. "All right," he said. "But I'm very much out of practice."

"Understood."

Silverdun watched her breathing, the flaring of her nostrils as she inhaled, the twin puffs of steam as she exhaled. He whispered a few syllables of the language of change and on her next exhalation, the vapor of her breath became a pair of small silver dragons that twirled around each other in flight, producing tiny jets of blue flame from their own noses. They twisted around each other and dissolved again into mist.

Faella clapped her hands. "Not bad at all, Perrin Alt. With a few lessons, you could be a mestine." She pouted at his laughter. "I'm serious. Why are you laughing?"