done in the military style of the Kingdom, unlike Raieve's, which she'd tied herself without the aid of a mirror, standing over the men she'd killed to earn them. Built compactly, Mauritane was only a finger taller than she, but he carried himself the way a taller man stands, and his shoulders were wide and strong.
'Do I meet with your approval?' Mauritane asked, not looking at her.
She scowled and turned away, breathing a curse only when she knew he could not hear it.
The prison was once the summer home of Prince Crere Sulace, the Faerie lord of Twin Birch Torn, but the Queen appropriated it in the distant past over some forgotten sin, and its lord was incarcerated there. Over the years, Crere Sulace became the Queen's favorite dumping ground, home to those not fated for the hangman's noose or the executioner's ax. It was a gulag for lords who no longer found favor at court, ranking officials in the polity who were caught with their hands in the coffers, and visiting dignitaries from worlds who managed to earn the Queen's spite. Those prisoners of the lower classes were lumped in with them, it was rumored, simply out of spite.
The setting for Crete Sulace, among the granite cliffs and the weeping heather of the Channel Sea lands, is dreary enough in the fair years, but in Midwinter the snow-clad peaks and ashen parapets sing of gloom and frustration. In Midwinter the prisoners can see their own breath; they must wear scavenged heavy furs out in the courtyard; they linger by the braziers at the guardhouse gates, swapping stories with the grizzled deputy wardens and guards.
The South Tower was once the primary residence of the Prince Crete Sulace in the time of the Unseelie Wars. Old prisoners believed that the Prince could still be found there, wandering the spellturned halls of the tower, singing spirit songs of death and decay. The towers had been turned dozens, if not hundreds, of times in years past, and now it was no easy thing to say which room was next to which other or what distance separated any two places in the tower. In recent years, the ghostly apparitions and vertiginous twisting hallways finally caused enough harm that the Chief Warden was forced to take notice. He shut down the tower for all but bulk storage and the maintenance of the sea lamp in the cupola.
In the highest floor of the tower, Jem Alan, the Vice Warden, checked the lamp oil for the sea lamp and tilted the reflector out a bit in case some fishermen from Hawthorne were north this evening, hunting the dark northern lanes for sturgeon and salmon. The hour was approaching sunset, or what passed for it in this icy hell of a season, and he didn't want to get caught in the South Tower after dark. Buttoning his fur cloak, he edged his way carefully down the slick steps along the tower's inner wall. Tired green witchlight cast multiple shadows over the steps, and as there was no rail, Jem Alan hugged the wall, holding his torch before him like a ward. He tried to ignore the heaving, moaning sounds that came from the barred doors at each landing.
He closed the tower's inner door and sealed it with its rune before opening the outer door. Across the main yard he saw a cluster of inmates singing shanties with Gray Mave, the Low Chief of Watch. Mave was a local, one of the Hawthorne natives who eschewed fishing in the cold Channel Sea waters for lighter duty at Crete Sulace.
'Enough, Low Chief,' called Jem Alan from across the yard. He marched to the guardhouse and leaned on the cord for the Evening Watch bell. The snow that had begun earlier in the day was erratic now, coming in fits and starts, visible only in the slowly growing halo around the fire. 'Get up and relieve Drinkwater; the Evening Watch is upon us.'
Mave reached slowly into his pockets for a pair of gloves, his heavy frame causing his own cloak to billow around him comically.
'And have someone brought in to recharge the witchlight on the tower steps,' added Jem Alan. 'I nearly killed myself coming down just now.' Jem Alan removed his own gloves, tired brown things with holes cut for the fingers, and held them over the fire.
'Riders will come tonight,' said Mave suddenly, his eyes pondering the firelight around the grill. 'It will be the beginning of bad things.'
'Don't be superstitious,' said Jem Alan. 'Are you a witch woman, that you can see things in fire?'
Gray Mave shrugged. 'I only know it, is all.'
Jem Alan rolled his eyes. 'Get to your post.'
Night had nearly fallen on the mountains when the riders appeared in the Longmont Pass. Even from a distance it was clear that this was a royal emissary, sporting the blue and gold griffon standard of the Seelie Court. Gray Mave, keeping the Evening Watch, sent up the spot flare and rang the visitors' bell in the guard tower.
Chief Warden Crenyllice summoned Jem Alan to his office, which comprised the entire second floor of the North Tower.
'Vice Warden, did I just hear the visitors' bell?'
'Aye, sir.' Jem Alan struggled to fasten the straps of his dress tunic around his barrel chest.
'This is unexpected.'
'Aye, sir. The supply train isn't due for a fortnight. This party flies royal colors, sir.' Jem Alan chose to omit his hearing of Mave's prediction earlier in the evening.
The Chief Warden ran his fingers through his hair, drawing his single braid forward so that it brushed against the medals on his chest.
'If they're here out of turn then it'll be a special prisoner or a pardon. Have the guards come to line in the yard, and be quick about it. And by the Queen's tits, have the men in uniform.'
Five riders in formation approached the crest of the pass, which was a knife's edge crevice that received snow year-round during Midwinter. Framed neatly between the nearly vertical rock faces that composed the pass, the Prison Crere Sulace rose from its plateau of rough basalt and granite like an embedded snowflake, its spellturned towers and crumbling spires forming a ghostlike symmetry against the darker rock face from which it projected.
The lead rider was the color point, carrying two standards cross-armed. One was the blue and gold griffon of the Queen. The other, smaller flag was the purple sign of the Royal Guard, the Queen's personal army. Flanking the center rider was a pair of Standard Guards, bearing the insignia of their companies on their capes, their lances slung at their backs. The post rider was the junior officer, a lieutenant by rank.
In the center of the formation, riding an armored mount, was the party's leader, wearing the cape of a commander in the Royal Guard. He rode in the chill wind with the hood of his cloak pushed back, his nine victory braids whipping behind him in the wind. He stood his mount with perfect poise, even over the slick terrain of the rocky pass, his eyes fixed on Crere Sulace.
The commander, whose name was Purane-Es, motioned the party to stop just past the summit of the pass. The road dipped gently here down to the flat plateau abreast of the ocean. At the far end of the plateau, the road led up a steep incline to the gates of Crere Sulace and ended there.
From Purane-Es's vantage point, it was clear that Crere Sulace was no longer the summer estate of a grand lord of Faerie, nor had been for many, many years. The walls showed signs of age and disrepair. The balconies along the rooftop of the structure's South Tower had been replaced with rough crenellations and archery nests. Around the main wall, a coil of iron wire angled down toward the palace; a measure meant to keep people in rather than out.
Originating in the South Tower, a spot flare sparked in the sky, reaching an altitude that brought it over the ocean. It crackled three times in a welcome of tenacious recognition. It was now Purane-Es's turn. He nodded to his lieutenant, who retrieved a signaling flare from his saddlebags and sent it into the air. Three more cracks signaled the party's friendly intentions. Purane-Es dug in his spurs and urged the party forward.
A trio of mounted guards, including Jem Alan, rode out from the gates to meet them. They quickly exchanged formal courtesies (a process much accelerated due to the cold) and rode through the gates together.
Chief Warden Crenyllice stood at attention in the loggia that lined the main yard's south wall. When Purane- Es dismounted, Crenyllice bowed deeply to him and quickly waved to the grooms to fetch the party's horses.
'Welcome to Crete Sulace, Commander,' said Crenyllice, bowing again. 'It is indeed an honor for us to receive a guest of your rank. May your children meet you in Arcadia.'
Purane-Es nodded. 'Take me to your office,' he said. 'I'm here on important business.' His silver braids fell around his face.
Crenyllice frowned at the lack of etiquette but had no room to show his displeasure. The commander outranked him by orders of magnitude, and his impropriety would have to pass without comment.
