Raieve pulled herself out of his mind, reeling from the overload of sensations. His thoughts were rapid and overwhelming, full of colors and details, sights and sounds. Her own thoughts were simple and direct by comparison. She took a few deep breaths within her own skin, trying to fight the sensations of the icthula for a moment of clear thought. She found herself unable to ward off the sensory glut and for a moment began to panic, nearly vomiting into the fire.

It was her turn next. She spoke carefully, trying to appear if not calm, then at least sane. "I am Raieve, daughter of Raelin. I am a daughter of the Heavy Sky Clan of Avalon. Our clan is one of the few remaining matriarchal clans on the steppes. I've been called a mongrel and half-breed all my life and shamed for it. I've done everything I can to prove myself a pure-hearted Avalona, if not pure in blood. Was it my mother's fault that an Unseelie soldier wrested her innocence from her when she was merely a girl? Was she any less of a woman for that? Am I?"

She realized she was getting carried away, the force of the icthula dragging her emotions upward and outward, like a cloud of anger. She told the rest of her story through gritted teeth, of the Unseelie invasion and the chaos of their withdrawal. She told of her failed voyage to the Seelie Kingdom to recruit men and purchase supplies for her clan's bid for peace. And she told of her murder of the Seelie official and her arrest.

When she was finished, she heard Satterly whisper, "This is supposed to make us feel better?" She almost laughed.

It was Gray Mave's turn next. She sent out her awareness and nestled around him, searching for a path inward to his mind's core. She found her way in through his eyes and as soon as she was inside, she could tell something was very wrong.

Inside Mave's mind there was a single word repeating over and over, like the sound of a windmill or waterwheel. The word was "Why?" It tumbled through every thought. "Why, why, why, why, why?"

As he leaned forward to begin his story, he clutched at his chest. Raieve could feel the burning soreness of the wound, the deep hot ache of it. The buggane's sword had been poisoned. Gray Mave was dying and he knew it. "I deserve this," he thought to himself.

A memory appeared in his mind, growing slowly from the blankness of his empty stare. Superimposed over the blurred image of the fire there came a creature, a hideous snaking thing that was translucent, nearly transparent, with pale leathery wings and sharp teeth. It called itself Bacamar.

"Look down," said Bacamar in the memory. Mave's internal viewpoint tilted downward and he stared into the mouth of something beyond death. It was the size of a world, the mouth, with lips like continents, red and burning. It had teeth, millions of them, and the teeth had eyes. The eyes were thick with mucous, scaly and green. They peered longingly toward Gray Mave.

"Do something for me," said Bacamar, "and I will let you live again."

Gray Mave swam toward Bacamar in the ice-cold ether of death and nodded. "Yes, anything, only do not let me fall into the mouth."

In the miasma of memory, Raieve could not hear the words that Bacamar spoke as the creature led Mave back down to the world of familiar things, back into himself, where he regained consciousness. He was lying on the floor of his home in Hawthorne with a terrible pain in his throat and Mauritane standing over him with a noose in his hands.

Raieve cried out, and it sounded strange to hear her own voice from across a campfire. Gray Mave's eyes turned to meet hers and she found herself suddenly back in her own body, staring back at him.

His eyes widened. He clutched at his head, clawing at his hair, then stood. She could see him wince from the pain in his chest.

"I'm sorry," he said. Then he ran.

Raieve said something to Mauritane, she was not sure what. But it resulted in Mauritane and Silverdun leaping to their feet and drawing their swords. So it made sense, whatever she'd said. They hurried after Mave, down the steep slope beyond which she'd found the icthula.

"What happened?" said Satterly.

Raieve ignored him. She leaned backward and looked at the sky, fascinated by the shapes of clouds and the brightness of the sun. They all seemed to be saying something to her, but their words were just beyond her vocabulary.

gray mave.

Mauritane rushed after Mave, Silverdun at his side, down the snowclad slope to the north where a wide river bowed across the valley below. Gray Mave ran ahead of them, clutching his chest either from lack of breath or from the sting of the buggane's wound. He stumbled on the root of a giant oak, fell to his knees, then pitched face forward into the snow. The morning sun glinted from the blade of his sword, the weapon lying useless at his feet.

"Is it a trick?" said Silverdun as they sidestepped down the slope.

"I don't know," said Mauritane. "Keep your weapon drawn anyway."

Gray Mave lay on his wide chest, huffing miserably, his face buried in the snow. "I'm sorry," he whimpered. When he lifted his face, a line of mucous dribbled from his nose onto the ground. He was sobbing.

Silverdun, his cloak wrapped around his head like a shawl, prodded the man with his sword. "Hold, Mave. Mauritane, what is the meaning of all this?"

Mauritane took one of the empty message jars from the pocket of his cloak and held it out to Silverdun. "Someone's been stealing these from my saddlebags at night. Raieve and I came up with a plan to catch him during our ride through the shifting place yesterday."

Silverdun eyed the jar suspiciously. "Who's been receiving these messages and to what end?"

"That's what we're about to find out. Sit up, Mave." Mauritane grabbed Mave's shoulder and tugged. Gray Mave winced at the pain in his chest and stood slowly, resting his hands on his knees halfway up.

"The wound from the buggane's sword," he chuffed, out of breath. "I think it's done me in. It's what I deserve, at least."

"Come back to camp, Mave," said Mauritane, without inflection. "We'll talk there."

Silverdun scowled behind his hood. "Why did you and Raieve not include me in your spy hunt?"

Mauritane looked at him. "Why do you think?" He pushed Mave forward and they began marching uphill.

Silverdun thought, then nodded. "Of course. You thought I might be the spy. What about Raieve, then? Did you not think to suspect her? Or did your cock already do a thorough enough examination?"

Mauritane stopped, then turned to Silverdun. "What did you say?"

"Nothing more than what you said to me when I bedded Faella on the Estacana road." He stood his ground. "Or did you think no one noticed your little tryst?"

Mauritane spat. "Fine, Silverdun. You've had your touche. Will there be anything else?"

Silverdun opened his mouth, but Mauritane's look silenced him.

With one of Silverdun's poultices applied to the wound, Gray Mave was able to rest by the fire, although his weeping had not slowed in the interim.

"I'm sorry," he continued to mutter. "I had no choice."

Mauritane knelt in front of him, gripping his sword by the forte, drawing in the snow with its tip. "I need answers, Mave," he said. "Will you tell me what I need to know?"

"All is lost," said Mave. "I am finished."

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.

She spoke a greeting to them in a language unfamiliar to Mauritane's ears, waving shyly in their direction. When they were nearly upon her, she stepped down off of the rock and stood in the road. She spoke again, the same greeting. From here, Mauritane could see that the tips of her ears were badly injured; on either side of her head were tight-fitting bandages soaked through with blood, and the high points of the ears were missing entirely; they stopped well below the top of her head.

To Mauritane's surprise, Satterly started and rode forward, speaking in what appeared to be the same tongue. The girl laughed, said something back. The two of them held a brief, rapid conversation, smiling and pointing both at the other riders and down a narrow trail that angled from the main path into the woods.

"This is amazing," Satterly finally said, turning away from the girl. "She's human," he laughed. "And she's not alone. There's a settlement ..."

Satterly was cut off by the sound of several resolute clicks that emanated from the brush.

"Don't move!" a voice bellowed in halting Common. Three human men stepped from the brush, dressed in a similar fashion as the girl, who now ran away giggling down the path. The men carried weapons of some kind, long metal tubes affixed to bases that resembled the wooden stocks of crossbows. "These weapons spit fire!" shouted one of the men, again in Common Fae. "So beware!" He was tall and lean, with a thin red beard and long hair tied back in a ponytail.

Satterly spoke out again in the human tongue. It was fast and incomprehensible, slurred syllables that ran into one another making each sentence sound like a single improbable word. The man responded with a lengthy tirade, pointing toward the Fae members of the party with a dark look on his face.

Satterly swallowed. He turned to Mauritane and said, "He says his name is Jim Broward, that we're all under arrest, and that you'd all better say your prayers."

the familiar.

Hy Pezho was enjoying tea in his new accommodations when the second sprite arrived. The tiny creature buzzed in through the thick damask drapes, drawing a line of sunshine across the splayed antique Thule rugs on the wooden floor. Hy Pezho's sitting room looked out over the violet hangings of the Royal Complex. From where he sat waiting for the sprite, he surveyed one of the most desirable fore views in the entire city, second only, perhaps, to Mab's. It was a fine thing.

"A message I have," sang the sprite, when it was in speaking range. It continued singing, off key, "a message I have for Hy Pezho! For Hy Pezho- that's the person who gets this note! A message, a message, it's my job to deliver it. Hey, Hy Pezho, don't say no!" The sprite finished its song with a tiny flourish, landing on the huge oak table in front of Hy Pezho. A bowl of fruit sat on the table; the sprite did a back flip onto a pear and sat.

Hy Pezho looked around carefully, then leaned toward the sprite. "Speak," he said.

"This message is full of names and dates and things. I should probably have some of that tea to settle my little brain first."

Hy Pezho reached into a pocket in his tunic and pulled out the tiny dried body of the first sprite the Awakened One had sent. He tossed the remains on the table.

"Ay-yi-yi!" said the sprite. "Looks like she got on your bad side. What did she do?"

"She kept asking for things and wouldn't shut up."

The sprite bit its tiny lip. "So, just the message then?"

Hy Pezho nodded.

"This message is from the Awakened One. He says that he has confirmed that a meeting will take place between the one called Mauritane and a Seelie Guard called Kallmer in the Rye Grove of Sylvan. Highsun. Fourth Stag. He doesn't know yet what the purpose of the meeting is, nor does Mauritane. He does say that interesting secrets will be revealed about the cuteness of sprites!" The sprite winced. "That last bit may have been a tiny embellishment on my part."

"Is that all?"

The sprite looked uncomfortably at the corpse of its former colleague. "Yep. Gotta run!" It took off backward and flitted out the window before Hy Pezho could catch it.

"Bacamar," said Hy Pezho. "Where are you?"

The familiar descended through the overhead canopy. "I was bathing in the sunlight above, master. Do you have need of me?"

"The prison guard suicide has given us what we need. They're meeting one of the Seelie Guard in Sylvan on Fourth Stag."

"The Seelie Queen leads a merry chase," said Bacamar, her lithe tongue extending and receding. "One presumes that a fascinating business will take place on that day."

Hy Pezho nodded absently. "I suppose," he said. "I don't really care, to be honest."