Raieve knelt by the ice-covered poplar and dug her hands into the snow at its base. The previous night's freezing rain had left a clear sheen over everything: the tents, the trees, even the snowy ground. The ice bit into her skin, its jagged edges scoring her already-red hands with white lines. The ground had an empty, wintry smell.
Her hands began to sting. She dug around the base of the poplar's trunk, creating a narrow trench. Just as the needles of cold reached beneath her skin more than she could stand, she found what she was looking for.
The mushrooms were tiny, lavender in color, with wide, flat heads and narrow stems. Icthula. She collected them in her aching palm and brushed them into a jar. The icthula was the final ingredient, joining the spittle, bitter herbs, and radish seed already inside. She scooped a handful of snow into the jar and covered it with a lid, placing it gently on a tiny brazier she'd secreted away from camp.
Above her, at the top of the slope, she could hear Silverdun complaining about his food. She tried to ignore him.
She watched the jar intently until it boiled, holding her hands over the brazier to warm them. As the fire worked the frost from her fingers, they began to sting in a different way, like sharp pinpricks all over her flesh.
She stirred the jar's contents with a stick, watching it bubble, until the mixture turned a purplish color. She lifted the jar using the hem of her cloak and poured it out into another jar with a strip of cloth over the top as a strainer. She let the solid ingredients fall away.
The filtered icthula mixture stank horribly. With a grimace, she lifted it to her lips and drank the whole thing, wincing as the hot liquid scalded her tongue and the roof of her mouth. Almost immediately the drug began to take hold of her, drawing her out of herself until her awareness perched just outside her body, ready to leap out and explore its surroundings.
She stood up, her stomach turning at the dizzying perspective. She climbed the slope awkwardly, cursing herself for her own stupidity. It would have been a lot easier if she had returned to camp first.
The climb seemed to last hours but could not have, because when she returned to camp no one appeared to notice that she'd left.
'It's time,' said Mauritane, as she appeared at the crest of the slope. 'Have a seat.'
Raieve took her place around a new fire, built upon the ashes of the fire from the night before. The flames wriggled and twisted like braids of light.
Mauritane let his eyes rest on her for a moment. The icthula drew her toward him and she held back, forcing herself to remain still for now. She gave him a silent nod and he turned away. The icthula had been her idea; the Hegest his. She'd seen the tiny mushrooms a few nights before and had told Mauritane about them during their ride through the shifting place. It was her mother's recipe she was using.
'Let's begin,' said Mauritane.
'Before we start, can someone please tell me what we're doing?' said Satterly, his voice petulant.
Mauritane sighed. 'The Hegest is a sharing of stories, but it is not simply words that we share. We speak of our history, our past, our vision for the future. These things bind us, each to the other. They remind us who we are and why we press forward, why we think and act as we do. The Hegest is a Self in words.'
Raieve became lost in Mauritane's speech, remembering how he'd whispered into her ear as they made love, remembering the touch of his hand on her thighs and around her waist. The icthula painted the memories as bright as day, depositing her within the circle of his arms by a stream somewhere in the past. She had to shake her head to make the vision vanish.
'So, what do we, uh, do?' said Satterly.
'Watch,' said Silverdun. 'You'll get the idea.'
Mauritane began. He took a handful of some cheap incense Silverdun had bought in Estacana and threw it into the fire.
'I am Mauritane, son of Ticumaura, son of Bael-La, son of Bael, son of Rumorgan, a child of the ancient Thule. On the day of my birth, an egret landed on my father's rooftop. I enlisted in Her Majesty's Royal Guard at the age of twelve. I saw the sun rise over the Plum Mountains on the longest day of the year. I killed an ogre with my bare hands when I was nineteen. I was made an officer in the Guard at the age of thirty, after leading my company to victory against the Unseelie at Midalel. I loved a woman, the Lady Anne, was married in the City Emerald. I was promoted to Captain of the Royal Guard after the death of Secon'anas.'
Mauritane took a deep breath. 'Now I am again in the Queen's service. That is an achievement I thought impossible only weeks ago. I am honored.'
Raieve forced herself to remain calm, while all around her, Mauritane's words tried to draw her back to the stream's edge. She closed her eyes against them.
Silverdun's turn was next. Relying on the icthula to conceal her presence, she moved her awareness forward and into him.
'I am Perrin Alt, Lord Silverdun,' he said, and the words were doubled in her mind as she heard them both from her own ears and within Silverdun's head. As he rattled off a list of ancestors that led backward through time toward the very first Lord Silverdun, she let herself ease into the stream of his mind and opened wide her awareness.
Silverdun's eyes were closed; she could see only blackness and splotches of red, tiny tracers of blue. It served as a soft screen against which Silverdun projected the images of his mind's theater, a cast of old, dusty portraits in a hallway, a single face in all of them, perhaps Silverdun's father. In the background of his mind played a repeating string motif that rose and fell in volume, repeating the same few measures over and over. Sometimes the violin was emphasized; sometimes there was a viola next to it, a cello. She recognized the tune as one he'd been whistling all morning.
As he spoke, she concentrated on the pictures displayed on his internal projection screen, like the silhouettes of puppets she'd seen in the markets of her youth. They were changing. Here was a woman holding Silverdun's hand, a mother.
'My mother converted to Arcadianism after I was born,' she heard him say. 'I was very young, and I remember only the singing.'
The violin was silenced and a chorus of singers appeared, chanting a complex aria of love and faith.
'She attempted to raise me in her belief, but my father would have none of it. He feared that Mother's religious predilection would interfere with his popularity at court, and it did. His influence began to wane as stories spread of her evangelism at our country estates.'
A hazy vision appeared, Silverdun's mother dressed in court finery, on her knees in a country town square, washing the feet of beggars. Then, Silverdun in his cell at Crete Sulace on his own knees, praying.
'During my last year at the Academy, my father was thrown by his horse and killed. I was the only son, and I was forced to return home to attend to my father's estate and appoint an overseer, for I was still too young to manage everything.'
Another sensation, this one of touch, cool hands on Silverdun's shoulders and hair, the sweet, light touch of a mother's love.
'My mother came to me after the funeral and asked me to give all of our family's possessions to the church. I was overwhelmed by my father's death. I thought perhaps I heard Aba's voice in my head telling me it was the correct thing.'
Raieve felt Silverdun's anger flow in his veins. 'I was now Lord Silverdun and it was my choice to make. Unfortunately, however, my father had two brothers, neither of whom saw me as anything more than an obstacle between themselves and the Lordship. When they heard of my mother's plan, they ran to their friends at court. Some constables and court officials were bribed; a member of the polity gave a judge some friendly advice. I don't know exactly how they did it, but they had me convicted of treason, for what I'm not exactly sure. Only my title saved my life. With me out of the way, they could run the lands as they wished.'
The flow of mental images came to a stop. Silverdun breathed deeply. 'For years I pretended that I did not care. Lately, though, as I peer at my reflection in my tiny looking glass, I realize that I have allowed my uncles' hatred to make me ugly. Perhaps my mother was simple for believing what she believed. Or perhaps I really did hear the voice of Aba that day. Either way, if I make it out of here alive I'm going to see to it that the Arcadians
