managed to find the place.'
'Oh, no. One at a time. My partner here is no grand magus, you know.'
'Stop there!' cried a voice behind him. Satterly turned to see a pair of guardsmen at the edge of the meadow, both of them holding crossbows aimed at his chest. Behind them stood a gaunt man with a flowing gray beard.
'We will see that the girl gets where she needs to go,' said Pilest. He and Jindo vanished, Leila struggling in Pilest's arms.
Satterly shouted, 'Wait!'
The guardsmen approached slowly. One of them spoke to the bearded man. 'Is this the one?'
'That's him!' the man shouted. 'That's the man who stole my little girl!'
'You are under arrest,' the soldier said. He spat. 'Changeling trader.'
Needless to say, he'd never seen Pilest, Jindo, or his home world again. The thought of little Leila on her own out there in the wilderness had haunted him for two years.
Satterly felt a rough kick. He opened his eyes and looked around wildly. Mauritane was standing over him. 'Sleep on your own time,' Mauritane said. 'We're leaving.'
Satterly sat up; he'd dozed off next to the brazier in the stables. Silverdun, Honeywell, and Raieve were all mounted. Everyone was waiting for him.
'Great,' he said, pulling himself to his feet. 'The human comes up short yet again.'
Chapter 7
Mauritane's party picked its way down the steep road to Hawthorne in the early morning light. The sky was a dozen shades of blue and pink, with a gold polish in the east, where the riders were headed, fading to indigo in the west. Purane-Es stood on a bluff overlooking the Hawthorne Road, his eyes tracing Mauritane's route across the switchbacks, through the winter-shorn trees that rose like clawed hands from the snowbound earth.
The bridle on Purane-Es's borrowed mare was loose, and one of his men was seeing to it. The delay gave Purane-Es a moment to watch Mauritane go, and he allowed himself to hope, despite his threat, that it would be the last he saw of the man. If the Queen's errand were to fail due to Mauritane's death, he would not shed a tear. If, for that matter, the Royal Guard were disbanded tomorrow, he wouldn't even frown.
It had never been his intention to join the Guard, certainly never to rise to such a prominent position there. As second son of the Lord Purane, nothing had been expected of him but to carouse with the other courtiers in the sumptuous playgrounds of the City Emerald, writing poetry and singing lays accompanied by the mandolin and balalaika. The palace grounds were majestic swirls of intrigue and artistry, each day promising new adventures. His only real worry in those days had been the nagging task of someday selecting a bride. He longed for the willowy ladies in waiting who cooed at the sound of his voice and clapped appreciatively when he sat with them by a fountain and played them tunes he'd written for someone else.
Building strong families, that was what second sons were for. Marriage to wealthy daughters, beautiful, silly Fae daughters whose only purpose in life was to smile delicate smiles and bear a first son. If a second son came out of the arrangement, it was looked upon as an insurance policy.
Some of these second, third, even fourth sons were despondent over their lot in life. They joined the priesthood, arranged sorties against the Unseelie across the Contested Lands, looking for honor and value in their fathers' eyes. Not so Purane-Es. He'd never been happier than when his father was ignoring him, never felt freer than when his elder brother had been held up again and again to his father's standards instead of him. It had been PuraneLa's place to stand out in their parents' garden, practicing at rapier and dagger from dawn until dusk, feeling the flat of Father's blade against his thigh if he slipped or let down his guard. And Purane-La had wanted it. He'd lived for Father's approval, ached and bled and led entire campaigns against the Unseelie and the rebels in Beleriand in order to make Father proud.
And look where it had gotten both of them.
Purane-Es turned at his lieutenant's signal and rechecked his bridle.
'Now it's too tight, you idiot,' he said. 'Get down here and fix it or I'll saddle you and ride you back to the City Emerald.'
On the slope below, Mauritane let the others ride ahead while he became acquainted with his mount, a touched Arlon stallion named Streak.
'You are not the leader,' said Streak in Elvish, his horse-voice strained and high pitched.
'I am the new leader,' said Mauritane, putting as much authority in his voice as possible. 'You will do as I say.'
Streak pulled against the reins, testing him. 'I want to believe you,' he said.
Mauritane reined the horse in, patting his neck with his left hand. 'I won't disappoint you,' he said. 'But you must mind me in all things.'
'I shall,' said Streak. 'If you do prove worthy of it.'
'Have no fear, beast,' Mauritane said, stroking the creature's mane. 'I am your master now.'
'It is good to be a member of the herd once more,' said Streak, shaking his mane.
Mauritane breathed deep and let the icy morning air sting his lungs. Overhead, stray seagulls and cormorants plied the winds from the ocean, beating their wings and screeching into the morning sun. As the day settled in, the starlets and purples of the sunrise coalesced into daylight, the risen sun warm on Mauritane's face despite the dimming of winter.
Mauritane nudged Streak and came flush with Honeywell and Satterly, who rode double file behind Raieve and Silverdun. Honeywell, ever the guardsman, rode with perfect posture, his borrowed clothing from the prison laundry providing him with a trim that nearly became an officer. He rode with pride, his gray eyes glinting in the morning sun. Though his expression was impassive, Mauritane knew from his many years in the Guard how to read the frank joy behind it. The freedom of someone who expected never to be free again.
Satterly rode poorly, but he improved with every mile. His expression was a human one, something akin to curiosity but more so. It was as though Satterly lived each waking moment in rapt fascination. His eyes followed everything, from the gulls overhead to the elk that capered back and forth in the wooded hills to the north.
Mauritane pulled forward to lead the group, casting a glance at Silverdun and Raieve as he passed. They were like bookends, both stone-faced, both unreadable. Silverdun had years at court to train him to look continually unimpressed. Raieve must have had her own history among dangerous people, or she was very well trained. Either way, the two of them revealed nothing of their individual moods, and Mauritane noted that he would need some other yardstick of their emotional condition if he were to lead them properly.
They were approaching the bottom of the slope that angled down from the mountains to a plateau that skirted the water's edge. Here the road widened and straightened so that they were able to ride in a line, with Mauritane a few yards ahead.
Wanting to lead, Streak strained against his bit. 'It is good to lead the herd. I want to run!'
Mauritane turned back and made a forward motion with his free hand. 'Let's give the horses their heads. We can be at Hawthorne by midday!'
At that, even Silverdun cracked a brief smile. He dug in his heels and urged his roan mare forward, following Mauritane's lead.
Streak fell into a smooth, flowing canter, his long head dipping into the wind with each stride. Despite the dark forebodings of the previous night, even Mauritane let the breeze and the sunlight work their way into him. As he leaned forward into the saddle, feeling the strong legs of the stallion pulse beneath him, he allowed himself a brief, broad smile that no one else could see.
The Hawthorne Road followed the base of the Olive Mountains to the southeast, eventually approaching the coastline and turning directly south toward the fishing port of Hawthorne that was the largest town in the region. The road opened onto a high bluff overlooking a rocky beach where black seals darted among the rocks a few yards out to sea. The languorous sigh of the ocean rode in on the wind, drenching them in noise and the smell of salt and
