"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.
Once in Crenyllice's office, Purane-Es removed his gloves and brushed snow from his shoulders and hair. He seated himself without being asked.
"May I offer you a drink?" said Crenyllice hopefully.
Purane-Es's face softened. "Aye, a brandy will do."
Crenyllice squirmed against the vague insult of "will do," but said nothing as he fixed the drink himself, waving the guards back, and handed it to the commander.
"We are a remote outpost of the Queen's Army, sire, doing our best with what we receive," said Crenyllice. "I'm afraid this brandy is the best I can offer, you see."
"Please spare me your homespun attempts at courtesy," said Purane-Es, bored. "It embarrasses both of us. In my presence you will simply do as I say and leave the formalities for your betters."
Crenyllice's face reddened, but he said nothing.
"I come with a letter from the Chamberlain Marcuse," said Purane-Es, finishing his drink. "The letter instructs you to release several inmates on my recognizance, to perform an errand for Her Majesty."
Crenyllice sputtered. "But sire. Surely the guard…"
Purane-Es waved his hand. "Even in this darkened corner of the world, I presume things do not always follow the straight path. It is not yours to question. You will do as you are instructed."
"Which prisoners?" Crenyllice managed.
"There is only one I have in mind: Mauritane. Do you know of him?"
"Aye, sir. He's been mine for two years now."
"Now he's mine. I want him brought to me, and I will allow him to choose the remainder of his party."
"What is the task for which he is summoned, sire?"
Purane-Es laughed. "I'm sure that's none of your concern. Only see that Mauritane is brought to me quickly."
Gray Mave knocked quietly on the door to Mauritane's cell. Once a grand bedroom, the space had been spellturned so many times that it seemed an echo of itself. Not even Gray Mave, who'd been a guard at Crete Sulace for twenty years, knew how many of it existed in the tower.
"Come," said Mauritane. He lay on his bunk, fully dressed, as though he were expecting to be disturbed. Around him, the gilt-edged walls angled blankly to the ceiling, the original wall coverings and paintings having been removed ages ago, light shapes on the tattered wallpaper their only legacy.
Gray Mave fitted his key into the lock and opened the door outward. "You're to come to the warden's office right away." Mave's fat face heaved as he strained to catch his breath.
"What is it?" Mauritane sat up warily.
"A lord from the City Emerald, sir. Rode in flying royal colors. Wanted to see you personally."
Mauritane rose and pulled on his fur cloak. "You don't have to call me sir,' you know," he said.
Gray Mave bowed his head. "I know, sir. But considering your history, it doesn't seem right to call you by name."
"Much lower men than you have called me worse," Mauritane said. "I don't see that it matters much these days, anyhow." He joined Gray Mave in the hall, accepting the manacles Mave placed on him without question.
"I should tell you," said Mave, as they walked the darkened hallway. "Since you've given me no trouble during your stay here and all."
"What?"
"I've had a premonition. Bad omen. The riders that have come."