"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."
"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."