Midwinter

Raieve had come to the City Emerald in the hopes that the Seelie Fae would prove to be the opposite of their counterparts to the North, but as yet they'd turned out to be as frivolous and untrustworthy as any Unseelie she'd ever encountered. Until she met Mauritane.

At Crere Sulace, Mauritane had been gloomy and taciturn. He'd never said a single word to her until the day he interposed himself between Raieve and Dumesne, may he be damned to a thousand hells. And yet she'd been drawn to Mauritane even then. He was not charming or easy with words. He wasn't particularly handsome. But he had something, an inner strength-a solidity-that had shown through his guarded demeanor at Crere Sulace and practically blazed now that he was back in command of something.

And yes, she was attracted to him. She wanted him. Raieve had never wanted or needed the protection of any man. But if he were to put his arms around her and whisper, "Everything will be fine," she feared that she would listen and believe.

Worse, she feared that she would like it.

How he felt about her, however, was impossible to tell. There had been moments since they'd left Crere Sulace that she'd been certain that he reciprocated her desire, but only moments. He was married, so he'd said. But was he loved, and did he return that love? Somehow she thought not. Intuition told her that a pampered lady from the City Emerald could never be a match for him. Raieve, however, was up to the task.

Most men were so transparent that she might as well have the Fae Gift of Empathy. But she was not Fae, not entirely, and the half of her that carried Fae blood did not carry the Gifts along with it. And so Mauritane remained a knot in her mind, one that she itched to undo.

As night began to fall, they reached a stepped incline over which the stream fell in a small waterfall. Mauritane went ahead, taking Streak lightly up the rise, but then froze and motioned them all to stop. With slow movements, he nudged the horse back down and rejoined them. He dismounted, indicating that they should do the same.

"There's a camp ahead," he whispered. "Six or seven men. Soldiers with mounts."

"Theirs or ours?" asked Silverdun.

"It's hard to say in this light, but my guess would be Unseelie. We're closer to their border than ours, and in all my years in the Guard, I never knew the Seelie Army to send men this far north."

"Things may have changed in your absence," said Silverdun.

"Too much has changed in my absence," Mauritane said.

"Does it matter either way?" Satterly asked. "No matter which side they're on, it's not like we can just walk up to them and say hello, given our… peculiar circumstances."

"True," said Mauritane, "but if they are Unseelie, I'll be much less concerned about killing them."

Mave gaped at him. "Will you truly kill Seelie men?"

"Not if I don't have to," said Mauritane.

"So what do we do?" said Satterly. "Do we double back and try to go another way?"

"No," said Mauritane. "We've lost too much time as it is, and there's no guarantee that there's another pass through these mountains anywhere near here. We go through."

Mauritane pulled out his pipe and stared at it, then tucked it away again with an annoyed grimace, looking toward the hill. "But first, let's be certain who we're dealing with. We need someone to reconnoiter. Silverdun, you do possess Poise?"

Silverdun sighed. "Not a shred. I can barely dance a quadrille."

Raieve stood up to her full height. "I don't claim any Gifts, but I damn well know how to move quietly. I spent my entire childhood avoiding Unseelie soldiers."

Mauritane nodded. "Fine. But be careful. And if you're spotted, signal us with a whistle and run."

Raieve smiled, tying back her braids with a bit of string. "If I'm spotted, your signal will be the scream of the first man I kill."

"A whistle will suffice," said Mauritane.

She gave Mauritane a curt salute and started up over the rise. Silverdun hissed after her, "Try not to kill them all before we get there."

* * * *

Raieve crept along the side of the valley, moving from shadow to shadow. Here the valley narrowed, becoming almost a ravine, and it become more and more difficult to skirt its edge. The valley's bottom here sloped up gently for about thirty feet, then became nearly vertical, its rim at least a hundred feet above her head. As she approached the firelight ahead of her, she felt something akin to nostalgia overtake her. Tracking the Unseelie across dusty terrain, looking for an opportunity to strike; it was just the way she remembered. It was comfortable. It made sense to her.