Midwinter

Mauritane took Mave by the chin. "Answers, Mave! Tell me!"

Gray Mave read the anger on Mauritane's face and began to speak, haltingly.

"I blamed you, Mauritane," he said. "I lost my position at the prison because of your stunt, attacking Purane-Es with my sword. Jem Alan laughed at me. He had me put out on the back road like a servant. I had twenty years service, Mauritane. Twenty years."

"I'm sorry for that," said Mauritane.

Gray Mave's lips drew down in a feeble snarl. "I had only ten years left before I started my pension."

He sat up, struggling against the wound in his chest. His shirt was undone, and blood had already soaked through Silverdun's dressings.

"Jem Alan refused me my wages, and the fee for my cottage was due the next day! He told me I should jump on the nearest fishing boat and go back to what Hawthorners do best."

Gray Mave sniffled. "But I could not go on a fishing boat. I'm terrified of the water, you see. Every time I go near the sea I have terrible premonitions of death. This Gift of Foresight is no gift to me. It's a curse!" He spat, and what landed on the snow was marbled red.

"So I did the only honorable thing. I made a noose and I stepped into it."

"And that is when I arrived," said Mauritane.

"No, no," said Mave, staring into the fire. "Much happened between those events.

"I… shuffled out of my body and I rose upward. Up, up, into the sky, like a bird. The air around me grew dark as night and the stars came out. There was something swimming between the stars. Something awful, like a snake made of water, with a dragon's wings! It was hideous, this thing. And then it spoke to me in a woman's voice.

She said I could not go on yet, said that she wanted me to do things. And she said if I did not do them, then I would be sent somewhere… somewhere evil. She showed me the place. I cannot describe it. Like a mouth, a great mouth. With eyes."

Gray Mave looked at Mauritane and his eyes were glazed and unfocused. "I agreed," he said, sobbing again. "I agreed. Anything to avoid that mouth, those dripping eyes. She said you were coming to find me and that I should go with you. She said that I was to report to her master of our progress, our plans. She said if I gave you over to her master, she would let my spirit ride past the evil place."

He sniffled. The sound was a quiet roar. "It was your fault, don't you see? It was your fault to begin with. I said yes. I agreed. And that is how I have betrayed you."

Mauritane's jaw was set. "To whom have you betrayed us? Who is the creature's master?"

Mave covered his eyes with his hands. "He is Hy Pezho, Black Artist of the city of Mab!"

"Traitor!" Mauritane shouted. He drew back his sword and held it over Mave's head.

"Yes. Please," said Mave. "Please do it."

Mauritane hesitated. He looked across the campfire to Raieve, who was beginning to recover from her icthula trance. He thought he saw something in her face like pity. He lowered the weapon, deferring to her better nature.

"I cannot kill you, Mave," he said. "You have dishonored yourself, but not of your own accord. Besides, there is nothing to be done about it now. Silverdun tells me you will be dead of your wounds in a few days. Perhaps you can make peace with yourself before then."

Gray Mave fell backward onto the rocky ledge by the fire and rolled into a fetal position, cradling his bloody chest within his arms.

They rode on, Mauritane holding Mave's reins while Silverdun continued his watch for dangerous shifting places along the road. The sun overhead was bleached white, distant.

Past the river valley, the land grew more level. Mountains appeared in the distance, purple and indistinct.

"Those are the Western Mountains," said Silverdun. "We're close. We should be at Sylvan with time to spare."

Mauritane nodded. He divided his attentions between Gray Mave and Raieve. Mave rode slumped in the saddle, looking as though he might lose consciousness and fall to the ground at any moment. Raieve looked little better, though she did seem to be improving, however slowly. She swayed unsteadily in her seat, a faraway look in her eyes. Every few minutes she looked at Mauritane, her face flashing recognition, then looked away again.

The path they followed skirted the same broad river they'd seen earlier in the day, following its bends across the land. Though the road was more level, the growth of trees and brush became denser and they made no better time than before.

As the sun bent toward the west, something appeared ahead of them, a small figure seated atop a huge spherical boulder at the side of the path. They rode closer and Mauritane could see that it was a young Fae girl, perhaps eleven or twelve years of age. She was sitting on the rock with her legs drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around them. She wore loose-fitting garments of a pliable, smooth fabric: a pair of long blue breeches fell to her feet, holes torn in the knees, and her cloak was shiny and puffy, like a burgundy cloud.