Midwinter

Satterly winced, looking to Mave for commiseration. Both of their backsides were beginning to ache from Mauritane's idea of quickness. They had been two days already in the Contested Lands, and Mauritane had allowed nothing faster than a trot. The gait caused no trouble for the more experienced riders, but Satterly and Gray Mave both had bruises on their thighs from the constant slapping of the saddle. When they complained, Mauritane said only, "Learn to ride properly and it won't be a problem."

Aside from a few bandits, who generally fled at the sight of five armed horsemen, and the current buggane encounter, they had encountered few living things of any kind in the Contested Lands. Their chief enemy, in fact, had been the weather.

"The air in many of the shifting places is much warmer than our current wintry clime," Silverdun had explained as they crossed into the Contested Lands. "That difference creates storms more massive than any you've ever seen."

He had not been exaggerating. The first night saw wind and hail, with stones the size of pebbles striking the tents, bringing Gray Mave's down on top of him. The second day it rained without cease, the storm carried in on a warm, humid breeze from some distant shifting place. The water soaked through even the best-oiled skins leaving their rations, their clothing, even their bedrolls damp. The second night had not been pleasant for anyone.

Now, as they rode away from the small valley, a brisk wind picked up from the south, drying the sweat from their foreheads, and the sun shone through the tangle of clouds overhead, lifting water vapor from every tunic and saddle blanket.

"Tell me again why we have to ride so slowly?" said Satterly, cursing under his breath. "Aren't we in a hurry here?"

Gray Mave nodded sympathetically. "Lord Silverdun must keep watch for the shifting places," he said.

Satterly winced. "I know, Mave. I was just complaining." He groaned. "Do you have anything in your bag for saddle sores?"

"Aye," said Mave. "A concoction my mother taught me the use of. It's effective enough, but it does smell very much like shit."

"I'll pass."

"Suit yourself."

"I don't know about the rest of you," said Raieve, "but I actually feel better. Anticipating an attack from an unknown enemy is worse than the fight itself, in my mind."

Silverdun nodded but said nothing. Since his encounter with Faella, he'd spoken little, hiding his disfigured face behind the hood of his cloak. When asked about it, he would say only, "I can't remove it," and something about that seemed to disturb him deeply.

Finally, Mauritane said, "I agree," though his thoughts seemed to be elsewhere as well.

Later in the afternoon they came upon a rocky outcropping with a flat top that had been kept free of snow and ice by the wind. Though darkness was still more than an hour away, he ordered the others to make camp while he and Silverdun studied the charts.

"I don't see how we can make Sylvan by Fourth Stag at this rate," Silverdun confessed, marking their estimated position on one of the maps. "It's Thirty-first Swan now. That leaves us only five days, and by this chart we're easily seven days out at our current speed."

"I feared as much," said Mauritane, lighting his pipe and drawing on it thoughtfully. "And that's assuming we cross the Contested Lands without further molestation."

"Right. I don't think we have any choice."

"You think we should try the shifting places?"

"I don't see how we can avoid it at this point. It's dangerous, but from the tone of the Chamberlain's letter, it would appear that our lot is even graver if we fail to reach Sylvan in time."

"Do you believe you can find the right places?"

Silverdun nodded slowly, the hood of his cloak hiding his eyes. "It will be difficult, and we'll have to ride even more slowly. But if we come across a suitable patch of torn land, we can make up the time in a few hours."

"Then I believe we have no other viable alternative. Start explaining to Mave and Satterly how to ride into a shifting place while I go for water with Raieve. There is a matter I must discuss with her."

Silverdun raised his head and looked directly at Mauritane. "A matter?" he said, his lip turned up in a mischievous grin.

"Don't be coy, Silverdun," said Mauritane. "It ill suits you."

He rose and called out to Raieve, who had just finished raising her tent. "Come with me, Raieve. Bring the water skins. I believe I saw a stream as we approached." He pointed down a sloping hillside.

When they were away from the camp, he said, "Raieve, there is something we must discuss."

Raieve nodded. "Yes, I've thought so as well."

"Really?" said Mauritane. "We must not be speaking of the same matter. What is yours?"

Raieve bit her lip. "I… perhaps now is not the best time. I may have been mistaken."

Mauritane nodded and they walked in silence. He watched her from the corner of his eye. Sharp, proud, beautiful. A part of him ached to watch her.

"Say it anyway," said Mauritane. "Perhaps now is the best time."