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 the fine spray of seawater. Here the road narrowed again, and Mauritane slowed Streak to a trot in order to find his way across the now rocky trail.
After a minute of riding in silence, the human Satterly rode up beside him, standing poorly in his stirrups but, to his credit, not complaining about what must have been a very uncomfortable seat.
"Satterly," said Mauritane, in his best approximation of the human name.
"I'm just curious," said Satterly, trying to adjust his posture. "What can you tell me about these Contested Lands? All I know is that it's some kind of demilitarized zone between the Seelie and Unseelie kingdoms."
Mauritane nodded. "True, but it's more than that. Some jokingly refer to them as the UnContested Lands. If the Queen wanted them, the Contested Lands could be hers in a fortnight. Mab and the Unseelie could no doubt achieve the same goal, although neither would attempt it." Mauritane reached into his sabretache for a pipe and filled it methodically.
"Why not? What's so undesirable about them?"
Mauritane lit the pipe, and they both watched the smoke from it leap and catch in a gust of briny air. "There are shifting places there, for one," he said.
"Shifting places."
"Yes. They're areas that have come sort of unfastened from the world. Time and distance don't work properly there. It's easy to ride into one and never ride out again."
"How do we navigate around them?" asked Satterly, concerned.
"They're difficult to detect, although I believe with Silverdun's Insight and Elements we can avoid most of them."
"So that's why no one goes there-these shifting places."
"That's part of it." Mauritane dragged on his pipe. "You see, because the Seelie Court does not enforce its rule in the Contested Lands, those criminal elements and monstrous creatures who can't abide Fairy law tend to congregate there. We're sure to encounter some of them, though it's hard to say exactly who or what we'll run into."
Satterly screwed up his face. "Wow, I'm sorry I asked."
They rode another moment in silence, then Satterly said, "Mauritane?"
"Hm."
"How do you know the rest of us won't make a break for it as soon as you turn your back on us in Hawthorne?"
Mauritane blew out a thin stream of smoke. "Are you planning it?"
Satterly flushed. "No! No, I'm just curious."
Mauritane waved at the others. "Honeywell, Silverdun, and Raieve are Fae. Whatever their faults, their honor remains intact. And if honor proves insufficient, I have the fastest horse and the quickest blade."
"What about me?" said Satterly. "You don't think I have honor?"
"I don't know," Mauritane said coolly. "Do you?"
After an hour the sun rose, bringing light but no warmth. Satterly's hindquarters were already beginning to feel sore from the steady trot they maintained down the increasing slope of the Hawthorne road. Mauritane called a stop for breakfast and they dismounted by a bridge over a sluggish stream that was nearly icebound. On the seaward side of the road, the steam tumbled over the bluff and vanished in a spray of mist.
Satterly walked gingerly back and forth near the road, stretching his legs. Noticing his discomfort, Raieve joined him, handing him a cold sausage wrapped in greasy paper. "You must remember to move your hips in the saddle when you're sitting a trot," she said. "It's hell on the thighs but if you keep bouncing up and down like that you're going to hurt the horse's back." She cracked a thin smile. "It also doesn't hurt your ass as much."
Satterly made a halfhearted attempt to smile back. "I'll keep that in mind," he said.
"So," said Silverdun, leading his horse back from the stream, Honeywell at his side. "Your first time in the Contested Lands, eh, human?"
"That's right," said Satterly.
"Lots to be wary of in that forsaken place," Silverdun said.
"Aye," Honeywell agreed. "The shifting places, for one."
"True," said Silverdun. "Bugganes as well. Unseelie raids are always a fear. And of course," he paused, looking at Satterly with a frown, "there's the Thule Man."
"What's the Thule Man?" Satterly asked, skeptical.
"He's forty feet high," Honeywell said, "with eyes of flame. Fists like boulders, capable of crushing a man's head." Honeywell slowly closed his own fist around an imaginary victim."
Satterly felt his stomach sink. "But that's just a superstition, right?"
Honeywell and Silverdun looked at each other, then back at Satterly. "No," said Silverdun, looking confused. "Why would you say that?"
"Because it sounds like something out of a fairy tale or something. A big monster with eyes of flame. Come on."
"Perhaps in your world," said Silverdun. "But in ours, such creatures are quite common. Remnants of the Great Reshaping."
"Aye," said Honeywell. "I once had a teacher who claimed that it was beasts such as that who gave rise to the fairy stories in the human world, so closely joined were the two worlds in the past."
"Jesus Christ," said Satterly, running his hands through his hair. Why had he agreed to this? This world was insane; there was no telling what they might encounter on this trip. He didn't know anything about violence! He'd never killed anything more threatening than a cockroach.
Honeywell's serious expression began to melt, then he burst out laughing. "I'm sorry, Silverdun. I can't help myselfl"
Silverdun caught Honeywell's eye, then he too began to laugh. He doubled over, clutching his stomach.
"What's so funny?" said Satterly, feeling his face and ears grow hot despite the cold.