'Nay, young lord,' the tree said, its form beginning to shimmer. 'No tree am I.' The branches of the pine shook and folded in on themselves, merging to form arms and legs. After a moment, a man stood in place of the tree, graying and somewhat overweight but an imposing figure nonetheless.
'I am Nafaeel, of the Bittersweet Wayward Mestina. I am at your service, lords.' The man bowed deep, his cap scraping the ground.
'Come out, my precious ones. These are not the highwaymen who attacked us.'
Mauritane looked around and saw trees and boulders on each side of the road begin to melt and form into people, horses, and carriages. All of the men and women were brightly dressed and the horses gaily caparisoned. The wagons were filled to overflowing with enormous wooden apparatuses, planks joined with metal struts, pulleys, and hinges and devices Mauritane did not recognize.
'No,' said Mauritane, once the transformation was complete. 'We are no threat to you. Go in peace.'
The men and women of the Bittersweet Wayward Mestina gathered behind Nafaeel.
'Gentles,' said Nafaeel, bowing again, slightly. 'I was about to offer a suggestion. May I inquire your name, sir?'
'I am called Mauritane. What is your suggestion?'
'You'll forgive me for eavesdropping on your conversation a moment ago. The lovely lady there mentioned that you are soldiers of some stripe?'
Mauritane frowned. 'We are eel merchants from Hawthorne.'
Nafaeel nodded knowingly. 'Of course, of course. Eel merchants.' He smiled. 'I was not aware that the transportation of eel had become so perilous.' He raised an eyebrow, indicating Mauritane's sword.
'These are dangerous times,' said Mauritane.
'Just so! Just so, good sir. You treat upon my point precisely. You see, we are but a poor band of traveling entertainers, and the proceeds from our most recent performance were taken from us at knifepoint by a band of ruffians this very morning. I believe we could use a few, er, eel merchants to keep us company and provide a bit of protection for the rest of our journey.'
'I see,' said Mauritane. 'And why would we do such a thing?'
Nafaeel tapped his lips with a finger. 'Why, indeed? Hm. Let's say that I were a captain of the local constabulary and I were searching for five purveyors of eel, four men and a woman on horseback, carrying swords. Just hypothetically, of course. It seems to me that if those eel merchants were, shall we say, commingled in a company of traveling entertainers, they would become much more difficult to spot. Wouldn't you agree?'
Mauritane patted Streak's neck. 'I take your point,' he said. 'But I do not feel it would be a beneficial pairing. I do, however, appreciate the offer.' He began to turn away.
'Wait!' said one of the women, coming forward and taking Nafaeel's hand. They were roughly the same age, though her hair and makeup conspired to give her the appearance of youth. 'My husband means well, gentlemen, but he's rarely able to speak without orating. The matter is this: we have been stopped by highwaymen twice since Saurdest, and some of the girls have been poorly treated by them. We need help, and while we have no money now, we can pay you well when we reach Estacana. Please.'
'Woman!' said Nafaeel angrily.
Gray Mave nudged his horse toward Mauritane and leaned in to him. 'We must ride with them,' he whispered.
'It wouldn't be wise,' whispered Mauritane.
'Please, Captain.' Mave's eyes were wide and a single bead of sweat trickled down his forehead despite the cold. 'Trouble comes for them.'
'You've seen this,' Mauritane frowned. 'With your Gift.'
'Aye, sir.' Mave shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. 'You believe me, don't you?'
Mauritane sighed. 'All right,' he said to Nafaeel. 'We'll ride with you to Estacana. But we won't accept payment, and you'll ask nothing about us or where we're going. Are we agreed?'
Nafaeel nodded gratefully. Many of the Fae behind them breathed sighs of relief, although some appeared skeptical.
'Urn, what's a mestina?' Satterly said to Raieve.
'What is a mestina?' said Nafaeel, overhearing. 'My children, this oddly flat-eared gentleman has never heard of a mestina!' That brought smiles and laughter from the troupe.
'They're glamourists,' said Mauritane. 'Actors.'
'Glamourists, yes,' said Nafaeel. 'Actors, no. We purvey the dewdrops of reality the way others purvey, well, eel. We are the precise opposite of those who strut and preen on the stage pretending, reciting lines written by another; we are the voice of what is true. Only larger.'
'Much larger,' said one of the women, stepping forward. She was young and beautiful, her features sharp and her body graceful and petite. A sultriness burned in her eyes as they passed over Mauritane's group, finally resting on Silverdun. She peered at him for a moment before speaking again. Then she turned to Nafaeel. 'Father, may I offer a demonstration?'
'By all means, Faella.'
The girl removed her outer robe and stood in the road wearing only a skintight body suit of a dark, flexible fabric.
'This is called Snowflake,' she said, 'in honor of the recent weather.' Her companions applauded.
Faella lifted her hands above her head and began to sing, a high-pitched lyrical chant that repeated itself with odd variations and harmonics. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then it began to snow, gently at first, then harder. Soon white flakes were blanketing everything, the horses, the riders, the mestina's wagons.
'Look up,' Faella sang, pausing between chants.
Mauritane raised his eyes to the sky and his attention fixed on a single snowflake, swirling in the maelstrom overhead. Something about that single point of white captivated him. It looped and whirled in a pattern that reminded Mauritane of something, something that was made of longing and regret and lost hope. The snowflake moved toward him, growing in size. It was the largest snowflake Mauritane had ever seen. It expanded to fill his vision, then hovered over him, rotating gently in the sunlight. It consisted of six perfect spokes, radiating an endless progression of ever-smaller crystalline lines. Whichever point Mauritane focused his attention on, that section of the structure grew larger, its tiny angled projections expanding, and Mauritane saw that the succession of ever smaller lines never stopped; it continued forever, spiraling down into the darkness of the infinite.
Faella let them watch the snowflake for a minute or so, then closed her hands in front of her and curtsied again, letting the vision disappear gradually.
Mauritane was stunned by the beauty of it. The image remained in his mind, the ever-descending spokes, the brightness of the smooth crystal edges. Those in his company were equally rapt, especially Silverdun, who sat astride his horse with his eyes closed, savoring the experience. Even some of the mestina players were taken aback.
'My darling daughter!' cried Nafaeel. 'Your talent grows with each passing day.' He took her in his arms and held her. 'Someday you will surpass even your mother!'
'Wow,' said Satterly, after a pause. 'I've never seen anything like that before in my life.'
'That, my uninformed friend,' said Nafaeel, 'is mestina.'
Chapter 14
Traveling with the mestina, Silverdun found himself more often than not riding alongside Faella who, unlike many of the performers, had her own horse. They seemed to gravitate toward each other, and they passed the time talking about the weather, or the famous mestina of the past, or the City Emerald. Their banter had no subject, and they spent as much time watching the steam of their breath in the cold air as they did each other. He'd introduced himself simply as Perrin, hoping that none of his companions would slip up and give away his title.
'Do you like these boots?' she asked, lifting her heel out of its stirrup. They were riding a few yards ahead of
