"State your business, son of Pezho. Then begone and do not trouble me again."

"Majesty, I bear news of great import to the Unseelie." With a supreme effort, Hy Pezho reached for the locket at his breast and forced it open, spilling the desiccated body of the message sprite onto the divan before him.

"What is that?" said the Queen, nudging it with her finger.

"Right now, there is Midwinter in the Seelie land," said Hy Pezho, "and Titania has sent out her emissary."

The Queen frowned. "How do you know of such things?"

"My father had a loose tongue, especially near the time of his death." Hy Pezho smiled.

"What of it?" Mab frowned.

"I have tracked the party of the emissary," he said. "And what's more, I have placed an operative among them."

Now the Queen smiled. "Hy Pezho, perhaps you are your father's son after all."

"No," said Hy Pezho. "I am better."

A moment later, a tiny bell rang overhead. The Queen reached up her hand and silenced it.

the city emerald.

It is called the jewel of Faerie and the Dragon's Heart. It is the oldest place in the known world, the beginning of history and the source of all power in the Seelie Kingdom. It is thousands of centuries old, its cobbled stones worn from the treads of millions, its buildings moaning with the sighs of countless generations. It is the setting of legend and myth. It is the City Emerald, the eternal city, the capital of the Faerie Kingdom and the self-proclaimed center of the world.

At its heart is the Seelie Grove, Her Majesty Regina Titania's ancient pleasure garden, the perfectly landscaped, verdantly green center that gives the city its name. It is accessible only to the Queen and to her groundskeepers, handpicked eunuchs from across the Channel Sea. Each morning the Queen can be seen there, her head bowed in meditation.

The Royal Palace borders the Seelie Grove to the east and south; opposite the palace the Boulevard Laurwelana runs the length of the grove's wall, its sidewalks glowing with high silver witchlights. Rising above the Boulevard are the town homes of Fae lords and the Aldermen of the prominent guilds, their wide windows overlooking the Seelie Grove and the palace beyond. It is the most exclusive street in the most exclusive city in all the known world.

During Midwinter, it is customary for the Forthel, the Guild of the Magi, to decorate Laurwelana with streamers of illusory fire and spiraling glamoured hawks that circle overhead and sing, in harmony, praises to Her Majesty Regina Titania. The Lady Anne watched them idly from her window three stories up, waiting for the mail. It was her daily ritual; she curled in the window seat of the parlor, watching the snow fall and waiting. She longed for the gaily-decorated invitations that no longer came, the letters from her friends at court that slowed to a trickle when Mauritane was arrested and stopped completely when he was sentenced to life at Crete Sulace. It was as though she had vanished; it was as though she'd become a ghost haunting her own home, invisible to the outside world.

Though no one came to call on her, she was dressed and glamoured for visitors, her hair delicately balanced in a fashionable scooped bun, her makeup and jewelry perfect. Though there was no one but her to drink it, she had the servants prepare tea in the kitchen every afternoon at teatime. The furniture in the parlor was dusted and polished to a shine, the pillows plumped and fluffed, the flowers arranged artfully in crystal vases throughout the room. When night fell, the servants would pour the tea down the drain, drape the tote-a-tete in its silk cover, and throw the flowers in the trash. It had become almost normal, happening as it had every day for the past two years, without exception. Almost.

The postman appeared on the street walking from the south as he always did, his bag stuffed with tiny parcels and brightly colored envelopes, his cloak pulled tight against the cold. He entered the first building on the block, number fourteen, and disappeared from her sight.

She sighed and thought of her husband. If the postman brought a letter, it would no doubt be one of his. They were all the same, written in his tightly scripted hand on cheap paper borrowed from the prison office, filled with awkward, distant affirmations of love and hope. She had stopped reading them months ago; they only depressed her. When maid brought them to her on her silver tray, she simply picked them up between gloved thumb and forefinger and dropped them in the fire, watching them burn with a dim satisfaction.

The postman reappeared at the door of number fourteen, his bag only slightly less full. Despite herself, she eyed the bright envelopes he carried and felt a pang of desire that one of them might be hers. He checked his inventory, skipped number twelve altogether, and went for number ten instead.

How had things gone so wrong?

When her father had insisted that she marry a man whose only rank was military, she'd balked. Mauritane came to Nyfaesa to court her and she'd run away from home in the middle of the night, not knowing where she was going, only away. Mauritane had ridden after her on his white stallion, finding her at dawn at the edge of a stream, her feet in the water. It was a warm summer morning and it felt good standing there with him watching over her. She'd realized with a start that he was handsome, that he was not crude or base, and that he truly desired her company. In those days there had been a gentleness in his eyes, a smile that he carried with him wherever he went. She'd fallen in love with him then. After a fashion.

It was his marriage to her that catapulted him to the captaincy of the Royal Guard. Well liked and well regarded by the Queen's cabinet, he'd lacked only noble blood to bring him so high, and he'd found it in her. For a short time, things were happy for them. They'd moved here to Laurwelana, and Mauritane had presented her with the gift of a great mahogany fourposter bed. He'd carved it himself at his father's home in distant Nest Ce'Ana. They'd made love on the bed that night; it was the last time she remembered being happy.

When the Beleriand uprisings began, Mauritane was called away more and more often to lead peacekeeping forays into the Western Valley. Mauritane called them "buggane hunts," scowling every time the Seelie Army asked him to provide troops and weapons to assist in the fighting.

"These people have done nothing wrong," he said, again and again. "They wish only to be left alone."

She responded the only way a lady could, by making a joke and scolding him for bringing his work home with him. The first time he laughed with her, shaking his head and holding her tight. The second time he laughed at her, then asked her to be serious. He stopped laughing after that. With each mission he grew more distant, and for the six months leading up to his arrest, they hardly spoke at all. He came in late, if at all, and spent his suppers poring over charts and ship manifests and all sorts of dreary things. The Lady Anne was not accustomed to being ignored, and she let him know in no uncertain terms over a late dinner that had grown cold in his absence. Her mother had told her years before that men need to be whipped sometimes, like horses, and that afterward they would show respect, however fleeting. But mother's advice did not apply to Mauritane. He simply stopped coming home at night, sleeping instead on a cot in his palace office.

Then everything had gone wrong. He killed the other officer, the son of some powerful and well-connected lord. The crown had spared no time, nor any of the Lady Anne's dignity, in bringing Mauritane down. The trial had been long, sensational, and worst of all, public. She'd hidden from it all as much as she'd been able. She shuddered now to think of those days.

The postman appeared again and walked to the door of the Lady Anne's building, passing beneath the veranda. A few seconds later, she heard the bell ring downstairs. Like it did each time the postman rang, Anne's heart leapt into her throat. It was best not to hope, because hope only bred disappointment. This would be another of her husband's letters, and she would drop it in the fire like all the others. Perhaps she would tear this one up first. Yes, that would be the thing for it.

Maid entered, carrying the silver tray. Anne blinked and looked again. Could she be imagining things?

No, it was no illusion. Resting there on the silver tray was a bright blue party invitation, handmade paper folded in the shape of a swan, perfectly preserved by the postman, who'd no doubt been bribed heavily to keep these works of art intact. With trembling fingers she reached for the invitation and snatched it off the tray as though it might disappear if she were not quick enough.

She unfolded the swan gently, careful not to rip the paper or dislodge one of the bright ribbons affixed to its wings. The invitation fell neatly into a flat shape and, somehow, the unfolded paper was still swan shaped.

She read aloud. "The presence of the honorable Lady Anne is requested at the homecoming fete of a commander returned home from the far northeast. The gracious lady shall be serenaded by musicians and delighted by glamourists from parts east. The location shall be the city home of Commander Purane-Es, of Her Majesty's Royal Guard. The date shall be Third Stag. Dress and glamour shall be formal."

An answer to a prayer. She read it to herself three more times.

Who, though, was this Purane-Es? The name sounded familiar. Perhaps he was an old friend of her father's? Yes, that was it. The gala had been arranged as her reintroduction to Fae society, signaling her return to life at court and the end of her mourning and exile. It was everything she could have hoped for.

The Lady Anne held the invitation to her breast, caressing it beneath her fingers.

"Maid," she said, biting down a smile. "Have driver make ready my carriage. I'm going to need a new dress and a fresh glamour. And bring my stationery at once; I must write my reply!"

honeywell.

After nearly another full day of riding, the River Ebe gave itself up to them and began to grow nearer. The road wound down a broad slope and terminated at an abandoned ferry landing, its icebound wooden struts overgrown with brown, dead weeds. Another half hour's ride would bring them there, giving them a few hours of daylight beyond.

Mauritane cautioned them about riding across the river. "These shoes are designed for footing on rock and snow, not ice. When we cross the river, ride no faster than a trot if you value your neck. I'll take the lead and let Streak find the safest path across the ice."

The others nodded, but none of them spoke. The tedious downhill ride had given them all the opportunity to consider the larger purpose of their errand and their possible fate upon its successful completion.

"Mauritane," said Honeywell, pulling alongside him. "I would never question your leadership, but you've always said that a soldier's best weapon is knowledge."

"Yes," said Mauritane. "I've said that." He looked askance at Honeywell, smiling. "What is it you want to know, Lieutenant?"

"Well," Honeywell began, searching carefully for his words, "in my Guard career, my judgments and opinions were rarely sought. I didn't mind it; I even appreciated it. I'm not a great decision maker. I always trusted you, and I always trusted the Crown. It never occurred to me to think otherwise."

"And now you're not sure," said Mauritane. He kept his eyes forward.

"Yes ... I mean, I trust you yet, Captain, and I know you would never lead me astray." Honeywell's wide brow was furrowed in confusion.

"But you're having doubts about the trustworthiness of the Crown."

"I ... yes, I suppose I am. What should I do?"

Mauritane thought for a moment. "Honeywell, do you remember Commander Baede'ed from Selafae?"

"Yes, he was the Guard detachment commander there."

Mauritane nodded. "He was my first commanding officer. He used to do a training exercise at the barracks. He would have a recruit scale the climbing wall, then he would stand beneath them with his arms outstretched and shout, 'Jump down, and I'll catch you.' The first one would jump, and he'd step out of the way at the last second. He'd laugh and say, 'That is to teach you never to take things at face value." He'd order the next recruit up the wall, while the first was carried away, and give the same order. Invariably, the second recruit would jump, and Baede'ed would step away at the last moment. 'That is to teach you that continuing unsuccessful tactics is the surest path to defeat,' he'd say."

Honeywell chuckled at the notion.

"The third soldier up the wall was always carefully chosen by Baede'ed as the most loyal man in the company. When he jumped, Baede'ed would catch him and give him a day's leave. I watched him do it at least ten times. It always made an impression.

Honeywell scowled. "What was the lesson of the third recruit?"

"That loyalty and trust are two different things."

Honeywell pondered for a long moment. "So you're saying that I should be loyal to the Crown, regardless of my personal feelings?"

Mauritane shook his head. "No, I'm not saying that. I'm just saying that loyalty and trust are two different things."

They rode a little farther, Honeywell looking out over the trees.

"But if none of us trusts the Crown entirely, why are we even here?"

Mauritane smiled again, and this smile had an edge to it. "Perhaps because we are soldiers, and loyalty is all we know."

Honeywell opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out. Eventually he drifted back to join the others, who'd remained silent through the entire exchange.

As they neared the river, Mauritane suddenly brought the company to a stop, holding up his hand for silence. "Do you hear that?" he whispered to Silverdun.

Silverdun focused on his hearing and nodded slowly. "There are riders coming. More than a few, from what I can tell."

"From which direction?" said Honeywell drawing his sword.

"Over there." Silverdun pointed at a low rise to the south, downriver, where a narrow trail ran parallel to the water's edge. The rise was high enough that whatever lay beyond it was completely hidden from view.

"Who'd be riding out here during Midwinter?" asked Gray Mave, drawing his own weapon.

Mauritane set his jaw. "I can think of two possibilities. Either a band of highwaymen or a Guard detachment searching for escaped prisoners."

Silverdun listened harder. "They're riding in step," he said, frowning.

"Then it's a detachment."

"Could they really be looking for us?" said Mave.

"It's safe to assume so," said Mauritane. "There's no other reason for them to be patrolling this far from the city."

A line of riders appeared over the rise, at least twenty in number, some in the blue-spangled colors of the Hawthorne Guard, some in the red of Colthorn. Their leader was an officer of the Colthorn Guard, wearing the long mustache popular with men in that city.

"Wonderful," said Silverdun.

The riders stopped upon seeing them. Their leader raised his hand and waved it twice overhead.

Honeywell gawked. "He wants to parlay? Why? They outnumber us four to one!"

"You know these country folk," said Silverdun, examining his blade. "They hate dying. Avoid it at all costs."

Mauritane cut him off with a glance. "I'll ride out to parlay with them. The rest of you wait for my signal and make for the river when I give it."

"But sir!" said Honeywell.

"Honeywell," warned Mauritane.

"Yes sir," said Honeywell.

"You know what to do," said Mauritane. "I'll ..."

He stopped short. Without speaking, Honeywell had ridden ahead without him.

"Lieutenant!" Mauritane barked.

Honeywell turned to face him. "Don't follow me, Mauritane. It will make us look weak." The riders on the hilltop, outside of hearing range, watched their leader intently.

"What are you doing?" Mauritane's face was red.

"We both know that capture is not an option, and we both know that whoever rides up there isn't riding down again. If you're to make it across the river under pursuit, you'll need that touched horse. And if you're to make the City Emerald," he said, "you're going to need a captain. I've decided that if I'm going to jump from a wall, I'm doing it on my own terms for once." With that, he turned again and rode to meet the Colthornan.

Mauritane's knuckles whitened from his grip on Streak's reins.

"What are we going to do?" said Mave, his voice shaking.

Mauritane said nothing for a long minute, watching Honeywell ride up the hillside. Finally he said, "You heard the man. Let us respect his wishes."

"What will he do?" said Silverdun.

"He'll wait until his opponent raises his hand to begin the parlay and then he'll run the man through. Then he'll ride directly for the first man who comes after him. It will buy us some time to escape."

"How do you know all that?" asked Silverdun.

"Because that's what I would do," Mauritane said. "And Honeywell knows it. When you see the Colthornan raise his hand, break for the river at top speed. When we hit the ice, drop your reins. Streak will guide the horses across." Mauritane bent down and whispered to the beast, his eyes never leaving Honeywell.

They watched the two riders approach each other warily, the Guard leader suspicious of Honeywell's every move. The Colthornan stopped his mount a few paces from Honeywell and said something none of them could hear. Honeywell raised his arm in the salutation of parlay, his unsheathed sword hidden behind his back.