Midwinter

They rode in silence for what seemed like many hours, though it was difficult to tell the duration with any precision. As they rode, the scenery beyond the shifting place moved with a bizarre rapidity, as though they were traveling much faster than Mauritane's other senses told him. The sun, however, barely moved in the sky overhead. The time that passed for them, whether ten hours or twelve, could not have been more than an hour or two in the outside world, for the sun was barely at its zenith when Mauritane's internal clock told him it should be night.

They stopped for a brief dinner. Only necessary words were spoken. It was obvious to Mauritane that the others were still thinking about the sight of Satterly's horse and how easily it could have been one of them. The meal was a grim one.

They mounted and rode again for another seemingly endless stretch. From beyond the shifting place, the sounds of the world were slow and eerie, muffled as though the entire world were buried beneath a pile of blankets.

They stopped again. As the hours wore on and became first one full day, then another, then perhaps a third, the silence among them became overwhelming, as though it were mandated. Each of them seemed lost in thought, pondering the world outside the shifting place as it caromed by in a hazy blur. When they stopped, they watched leaves fall from the trees in slow motion, examined with rapt expressions the fascinating properties of a stream whose waters intersected the shifting place, how it created a bizarre waterfall, the current flowing over some invisible obstacle which, Satterly pointed out in muttered tones, appeared to be the stream's own water.

Mauritane looked into the sky and at some point the sun had moved past its apex and was now nearing the horizon. He felt as though he could not stand another moment in that timeless space. Just ahead in the real world, for so Mauritane had begun to think of it, was a flat, grassy clearing between two dense stands of pine, suitable for a campsite.

"That's enough," he said. "Silverdun, get us out of here."

The relief was evident on every face. "Come along," said Silverdun quietly. "Getting out should be much easier than getting in. Just ride at a quick, steady pace." He pointed to the left. "That way."

Mauritane led Streak out of the shifting place and the world sped up again, taking on its usual sights and sounds. The others followed him out and the shift in their overall mood was palpable. Satterly breathed an audible sigh of release.

"Congratulations," said Mauritane, consulting his charts. "We covered four days' worth of ground in a single day."

"I, for one, felt all four of those days," said Silverdun wearily.

"We'll be in Sylvan ahead of schedule," said Mauritane, attempting to leaven the overall mood.

Only Gray Mave managed a smile. "Well, that's good, isn't it?"

Silverdun slung his tent from behind his saddle and stumbled around it. "It might sound that way after about ten hours of sleep. If anyone asks me to take the first watch, I'll cut his throat."

"I'll take first watch," said Raieve. "Then I plan to sleep for a very, very long time."

"Let's all get some rest," said Mauritane. "Once we've all rested, I want to speak to you. I believe a Hegest is long overdue."

Silverdun nodded soberly. "Yes, Mauritane. You're right. A Hegest would do us all some good."

"What's a Hegest?" said Satterly, his voice slow and tired.

"Wait until tomorrow," said Raieve. "You'll find out."

Mauritane watched her crawl into her tent. She looked back at him for a moment, pursed her lips, then turned and went inside.

hegest

Raieve knelt by the ice-covered poplar and dug her hands into the snow at its base. The previous night's freezing rain had left a clear sheen over everything: the tents, the trees, even the snowy ground. The ice bit into her skin, its jagged edges scoring her already-red hands with white lines. The ground had an empty, wintry smell.

Her hands began to sting. She dug around the base of the poplar's trunk, creating a narrow trench. Just as the needles of cold reached beneath her skin more than she could stand, she found what she was looking for.

The mushrooms were tiny, lavender in color, with wide, flat heads and narrow stems. Icthula. She collected them in her aching palm and brushed them into a jar. The icthula was the final ingredient, joining the spittle, bitter herbs, and radish seed already inside. She scooped a handful of snow into the jar and covered it with a lid, placing it gently on a tiny brazier she'd secreted away from camp.

Above her, at the top of the slope, she could hear Silverdun complaining about his food. She tried to ignore him.

She watched the jar intently until it boiled, holding her hands over the brazier to warm them. As the fire worked the frost from her fingers, they began to sting in a different way, like sharp pinpricks all over her flesh.