other riders forgot about Mauritane and his companions and concentrated on the more immediate problem in their midst.
Mauritane reached the river first. Streak hit the ice at a run but slid quickly to a stop and resumed with a tall, prancing gait that resembled the trot of a parade pony. 'Drop your reins!' shouted Mauritane.
Streak called out in the language of horses to the other mounts, instructing them to follow his lead. With some difficulty, they copied his gait, and they began to make progress across the slick ice.
Mauritane looked back again. At some point in the intervening seconds, Honeywell had fallen. He lay on his back at the top of the hill, a spear in his chest, his mount bolting for the hills above. His maneuver had bought them even more time than Mauritane would have expected; they would be halfway across the river before the guardsmen reached its banks. Only now were they resuming the chase. Without a leader, they had little hope of mounting an effective pursuit. Mauritane urged Streak faster anyhow.
The guardsmen took the slope at a gallop, jumping their horses onto the ice and spurring them on. It was a critical error. The running horses lost their footing on the frozen surface of the Ebe and most of them went down, throwing their riders. They few that remained standing slowed to a walk and began to pick their way carefully. The rest would eventually recover, but by then it would be too late.
Mauritane led them to the far side, prodding Streak up the steep western bank. They stood on the bank briefly, looking across the river, all of them hoping for a glimpse of Honeywell. But he was too far away, and the snow was beginning to fall again.
'Let's ride north for a few minutes,' said Mauritane. 'Then double back through the trees and rejoin the road a few miles south. 'It'll confuse them.'
As they rode off, Gray Mave remained in the rear, hiding his eyes, hoping that no one would catch him crying.
Chapter 13
Deep into the night and through the forests near Miday they rode, skirting the few towns and villages they came across, running the horses to the point of exhaustion. The trees swept by in a blur of white, gray, and brown, sometimes whipping their faces with tiny branches and dead leaves. The bitter southern wind reddened their faces and hands and stung their eyes. Fortunately, their flight left no opportunity for conversation; no one felt much like talking.
Finally, Streak begged to be allowed to rest. The other horses, he said, were dangerously fatigued and desperate for water. Mauritane ordered a stop and saw to the horses himself, anything to further delay speech. While Silverdun started the fire and Raieve and Satterly began cooking, Mauritane took the horses two at a time and walked them. Just downhill from the campsite, a trickle of a stream ran past some brown grass, and Mauritane left the horses there to feed and water themselves, ordering Streak to keep them nearby.
Mauritane returned slowly to camp, his limbs aching and his head low, unable to put it off any longer. 'All of you sit,' he said. 'It is time to remember our friend.'
They gathered around the growing campfire. Gray Mave took five white tapers from his pack and passed them out. Confused, but not wishing to tread on anyone's feelings by asking, Satterly simply did what the others did, lowering the wick of his candle to the fire until it lit, holding it out before him.
'We are mortal creatures,' Mauritane began, reciting from memory, 'and our time of living is brief. As children we gather our light and as children we release it, each of us, when we give up the flame of self and return it to the fire of creation. The candles we bear are a symbol of the man Geuna Eled, called Honeywell. We hold them to remember the light that was his, and to take his mark upon us, that we may remember.'
Mauritane held his candle up. 'Honeywell was, to me, a loyal friend and officer. I will remember him as the man who stood up in the Seelie Court to defend me when everyone else turned away. He paid for that choice with his life.'
Mauritane pulled up the sleeve of his tunic. His arm was covered with dozens of perfectly arranged circular red scars. He lowered the flame of Honeywell's candle to his flesh, let it burn there for a moment, the briefest instant, then the candle went out, leaving its impression on Mauritane's skin.
Raieve was next. 'He was kind to me. I will remember him as the man who brought me food when I was ill, the week after I arrived at Crete Sulace. I didn't even know his name.' She, too, raised her sleeve and stubbed out a candle on her arm.
Silverdun took his turn. 'I regret that I hardly knew him,' he said. 'I will remember him as one well loved by others.'
Gray Mave muttered something gently to himself and burned his arm quickly, his head bowed.
Satterly stammered. 'I, uh, Honeywell was a decent guy. I'll remember him as the only guileless person I ever met.' When he brought the candle to his arm, his hand shaking, he was surprised at how much it hurt.
The next day dawned warmer than usual, and the wind was low and at their backs. Mauritane ordered a casual pace to give the horses a rest from their ordeal the day before. At midday they crossed a series of low hills and found themselves on a dirt road that ran relatively straight toward the south. In the distance, a pair of brightly colored wagons, traveling southward, rounded a corner and disappeared from view.
'What do you think, Mauritane?' said Silverdun. 'Are we far enough south to strike west into the Contested Lands?'
Mauritane consulted his charts. 'No, I believe if we went west now, we'd come dangerously close to Unseelie lands. Better to take another day's ride to be certain.' He pointed to a line on one of the charts. 'If this is the road we're on,' he said, 'then Sylvan is another day's ride to the south of our current latitude anyway, so we lose nothing by hedging that bet.'
'What do you make of that caravan?' said Satterly, pointing down the road to where the wagons had been.
'Most likely merchants trading between Saurdest and Estacana. They don't seem a likely threat. But keep your eyes open, just in case; we'll ride past them quickly.'
They started down the road, and Mauritane was glad to be back on level ground again. Streak's constant protestations about the quality of the terrain were beginning to make him question his decision to bring a touched animal.
They rounded the first bend and the road continued on straight, down into a wooded valley. There was no sign of the wagons.
Mauritane came to a halt. 'What happened to that caravan?' he said.
Silverdun searched the trees with his eyes. 'I don't see them.'
'Could they have left the road? Hiding from us, perhaps?'
'It's possible. This area is notorious for its highwaymen. I doubt they saw us, unless they were being cautious to begin with.'
'I don't like it,' said Mauritane. 'There's something about this that bothers me.'
'You really think they might have been frightened of us?' said Satterly.
'Listen to him,' said Raieve, 'he sounds like he enjoys the thought.'
'Look at us,' said Silverdun. 'We certainly have the cut of a group of brigands.'
'We sure as hell don't look like soldiers,' said Raieve.
'Hm,' said Mauritane. 'I'll take suggestions. Shall we continue along the road or strike out again into the trees? I fear we may be somewhat too exposed, even this far west.'
'I hate to say it,' said Silverdun, 'but I agree with you. Perhaps we should stay off the roads for a while longer.'
A tree by the side of the road rustled, a pine the height of a man. 'Perhaps I may offer another suggestion?' the tree said, in a deep booming voice.
'More talking trees,' said Silverdun. 'Wonderful.'
Satterly gulped. 'I didn't say anything. I swear to God.'
