WESTERN.

1

he stagecoach driver was a wizened, squinty-eyed little man they called Puck, with slightly pointed ears and furry hands.  How in the world a creature like him, three and a half feet tall and thin as a rail, could manage a full team of horses was beyond her, but the glimpses she caught of him, dousing himself in the river at one of their frequent rest stops, revealed a body of old scars and knotted muscle.  Except for the stomach, of course, which was pot-bellied and rimmed with a belt of old leather.  Hobbits didn't stray towards the frontier baronies very often, though Puck was surlier than the complacent dandies she was familiar with.  But Eilune was finding that travel west was hardly predictable and nothing at all like home.

The sun was cold and remote in the afternoon sky when they reached the narrow valley between the two towering Sentinels, following the rough road through the mountain canyon toward the town of Refuge .  Cold enough to burn in her lungs and start the fires of illness creeping through her body again, now that she'd crossed the vast plains dividing the warmer climates of home from the mountainous frontier of the Western Marches .  They followed the old road through patchy forests and rolling hills, their progress marked by the squat granite tablets at the trail's edge, cut and inscribed by one of the older kingdoms, their carvings incomprehensible even when wind and rain left them near-legible.  Puck told her they marched into the wilderness and through the mountains, long past where human civilization ended, though no one since the dwarves had been there to confirm the truth of this.

            Eilune squinted into the blue glare outside the coach windows, trying to ignore the dull throb of a headache that built behind her eyes, and wrapped her cloak tight around her body for the nth time.  The cloak was grey felt, the color of her eyes, trimmed in white fur.  A little worn and faded with use, but still possessed of the dignity which once marked the eastern kingdoms.  Before the war came, riders would have accompanied the coach on its route, but gold for security was in short supply these days, and capable – and whole – soldiers were even rarer.  Most who remained behind were either scarred or fleeing the hardships back home, preferring the uncertainty of the wilds against the burned-out husks of the mercantile cities.

            Closing her eyes, the young woman leaned back into the corner of the seat where there was shade and took in the air with shallow breaths.  Behind the shadow of her hood, Eilune was a delicate figure, her porcelain features tinged blue from sickness and cold.  Dark brown curls swept down on either side of her face, the only part of her that didn't yet bear the stain of illness.  But there was still great life in her eyes, wide and almond-shaped, always curious.  Watching the craggy rock faces drifting lazily by outside the window, Eilune played the old ballads in her head where once she would have sang, and studied her fellow passengers as they dozed rather than engage in conversation.  Anything to while away the hours.  It wasn't long before the rocking of the stage and the constant rumble of their passage lulled her into a fitful, exhausted sleep.

            The carriage's rattle as it ground to a halt, accompanied by shouting voices, woke Eilune some time later.  It was early evening, the sky shifting purple as the sun set, and it was colder and darker here in the shadow of the Sentinels.   Her joints ached as she stiffly sat up in her seat and glanced around.  The town was small but well-established, with homes and shops radiating out from the central road, and a scattering of sentries strolled the streets in their patchy armor and coats.  Mostly older men brought under the local sheriff's authority now that the young had gone east to fight, but there were a few women and others, barely more than boys, among them, looking bored as they watched the passengers disembark.  The equality of desperate times.

            Refuge sat in the midst of a broad, circular hollow in the earth, surrounded by snowy peaks and frosted evergreen forests which clung tenaciously into the rocky soil in virtually every direction.  Blue ice and the white powder of fresh snow covered everything the population didn't regularly keep clear.  The stage was parked under the eaves of a fair-sized inn and tavern, the White Steed, a two story structure of brick with heavy wooden shutters across the windows.  Smoke billowed out of a chimney in the rear, trailing out into the vast grey sky.  Puck was briskly unloading the passengers' baggage with a gruff, business-like air.  Snow crunched underfoot as Eilune stepped out of the coach, assisted by Roscoe Underwood, a youngish man with curly black hair and several days worth of beard, the proprietor of the establishment.  His dark skin and hair made him a welcome reminder of the warm lands closer to home.  Though back home in the dales he would've been considered disreputable, if not downright dirty; here he was apparently the voice of the town. 

Roscoe was careful not to crush the woman's delicate fingers in his grip as he eased her off the step, and she flashed a grateful smile from the shadow of her hood.  Eilune was startlingly out of place amidst the cluster of wooden and brick buildings that formed the heart of Refuge.  Her cloak and fur trim gleamed in the hazy Winter sun, marking her with the wealth and grace of an eastern lady.  Most of the citizens watching the coach's arrival from the sidelines wore faded dungarees, coats and hats.  Those who wore cloaks of the old style had only wraps of coarse wool.  There was a faint muttering at her appearance, which Eilune carefully ignored – she had little energy to waste on their dour looks and questioning voices – but it faded with a few pointed glances from the young man at her side.

Eilune inhaled the cold dry air of the mountains, and her breath caught in her throat as she restrained the wheezy cough it tickled in her chest.  Initially the arid climate of these territories seemed to alleviate her illness, though by now it weighed heavily on her regardless of the climate or conditions.  Her breath frosted before her as she took shallow, careful breaths, and gripped the dingy surface of the coach for support.  Looking at these people, in their thin garments and ruddy faces, she was desperately thankful for the thick warmth of her cloak, for the comforts that former wealth and a bit of power could offer. 

"Are you alright, m'lady?" Roscoe inquired in the rolling accent of the southern kingdoms.  Eilune thought he was handsome in that rugged, rather grim manner of the people on the frontier.  And far better company than Forberg and old Puck, who shuffled by and thrust her belongings toward her, which Roscoe immediately took from him with a reproachful scowl.  To her chagrin, Eilune had to cough to clear her voice, reaching anxiously for her things.  "I'm fine, thank you," she murmured.

"You're quite welcome," Roscoe replied, trying a smile, "Let me help you with this."

Shaking her head, Eilune retrieved the bag from the man's arms.  "No, thank you."

"As you like," Roscoe conceded, tipping his hat in a gentlemanly gesture of respect.  And well he should; the loveliest woman he'd seen in the seven years since he'd bought the inn and way station was standing in front of him.  Reason enough to dust off some of his old courtly mannerisms and charm.  Running a hand over his chin, the young man glanced over to make sure her companions were safely on their way indoors.  Forberg stopped under the shade of the White Steed's porch, scanning the town with a weary, vaguely perplexed expression, and smoothed out his bristly white hair before ducking inside.  Puck hopped down from the driver's seat with a grunt, shielding his eyes as he took in the sight of the town, marching past them on short, pumping legs. 

Roscoe turned to say something to her, to make small talk about her companions and his establishment, and sucked in his breath.  Eilune had drawn back her hood to survey their surroundings with a tired, faintly anxious expression.  Long brown hair fell in sheets around a narrow, gently angled face, with skin like fresh snow, powder soft.  Her lips and ears, which tapered to a slight point – the mark of Faerie blood – were tinged with a faint, unhealthy shade of blue.  In this light, the young woman had a translucent quality to her, as if she weren't entirely real.  She met his gaze with wounded, pale grey eyes, and ran a gloved hand back over her hair.  Beautiful as she was, there was something obviously wrong about her.  Her cheekbones were too prominent, and the fragility of her body spoke of starvation or illness. Her voice remained at a whisper. "What are you looking at?"

Roscoe caught himself and, tapping his chest, he bowed his head in the formal gesture of respect.  Eilune was surprised to find anyone here who remembered the custom, let alone performed it.  "I'm sorry, m'lady.  I didn't mean to stare.  Have you had a rough journey?  You don't look well . . . "

"They're all difficult anymore," she replied lightly.

The young man shook his head with a slim smile, stretching an inviting arm out toward the White Steed with something like a flourish.  "Then may I offer you a warm drink and something to eat?"

"I'd like that," Eilune smiled wanly, drawing her cloak more tightly around her body as a chill breeze whistled between the squat buildings.  Roscoe thought he saw the young woman grit her teeth in pain as it blew through, and steadied her with a hand on her slender shoulder.  If she appeared delicate, then she felt absolutely frail, her small frame shuddering under his fingertips.  This time, she did not refuse his assistance, even offering him a slight nod of thanks and a hopeful look.  "I don't suppose you have hot tea?"

"No, ma'am," Roscoe answered regretfully, "There's no call for tea out here, and it's too expensive to obtain from the south.  We're just poor mining folk and ranchers out this way."  He offered her a quick, disarming smile.  "But I can at least offer you coffee and a hot meal, such as it is.  At no cost to yourself, of course.  You seem ill and I would hate for you to suffer while under my roof."

Too tired to argue for politeness and appearance's sake, Eilune nodded her agreement and allowed Roscoe to lead her inside the weathered building.  After the long journey in the icy carriage and freezing wind, the heat and smoky air of the common room struck her forcefully, leaving her momentarily numb.  In the orange, flickering light of the fire, she could make out Forberg, cleaning the lenses on his dark classes with his shirt, and perhaps a half-dozen men gathered together at a large table, muttering over a thin meal and drinks.  From the looks of their clothing and features, she guessed the eldest and best dressed to be one of the local ranchers and the younger men to be his sons or hired hands.  The elder gestured to Eilune with a mug of steaming coffee and the others turned to glance at her over their shoulders with a mixture of roguish grins and leers. 

"May I sit, please?" Eilune sighed, looking away, "I'm quite tired."

"Yes, of course," Roscoe blinked and led her toward a table close to the fireplace, calling to the blonde girl behind the bar to bring coffee and breakfast.  The men at the table snorted and grinned knowingly at the young man as he took Eilune's hand like a proper courtier and helped her into the chair.  The barmaid gave them a dirty look in passing, advising them to return to their own business, but shook her head in amusement at Roscoe as she poured black coffee into a large ceramic cup.  "You should take off the cloak," she advised Eilune in a light voice, "You'll be burning up in a minute."

Eilune shook her head, smiling back.  "I get cold easily."

Shrugging, the girl sauntered back behind the counter to rouse the cook.  Roscoe hovered indecisively over the table before inviting himself to sit.  As he did, he caught the young woman's reserved, questioning gaze.  "I hope you don't mind?"

Eilune slowly shook her head, looking away from him, and pulled off her gloves to warm her hands on the sides of the cup.  The bitter, hot fragrance of the drink wafted about them, mingling with the spicy scent of food cooking in the back, and she closed her eyes meditatively.  Roscoe took the opportunity to study her further, watching her long, slender fingers as they stroked the sides of the carafe.  They appeared quite fragile, like the rest of her.  In the firelight, there was more color to her features, offering the illusion of fair health.  "Don't stare," she said hoarsely, followed by a weak cough, and opened her eyes to fix him with a weary, irritable look.  To his surprise, her eyes had shifted from grey to a light, warm brown, as if absorbing the colors around her.  "Ask if you will or let it be."

"I'm only concerned," he commented, thick eyebrows coming together.

"Yes," she returned softly, "I know."

With a slight frown, Roscoe looked down at the wooden tabletop in front of them, searching for something else to say.  The woman took a sip of coffee and grimaced at the sharp, spicy flavor.  It seemed to strengthen her voice, however, which was clear and softly accented when clear.  "I'm sorry," she offered, "You have been very kind, and I don't mean to be rude."  A faint sigh.  "It has been some time since I spoke meaningfully with anyone, and my manners have suffered for it.  Please forgive me."

Roscoe nodded, curls flopping against his brow.  The heat of the fire here brought out beads of sweat on his forehead, but the young woman seemed untouched.  "What is your name?"

The young woman's lips drew into a careful smile, studying the young man.  "Eilune Danaen," she answered faintly, her accent more pronounced, and sipped again at the thick, rather oily coffee.  The taste of the stuff was awful, but at least it brought a bit of warmth back to her, and the heat on her fingertips was soothing.  Emotion began trickling back into her as she regained feeling in her aching hands, softening her voice.  "From Stonegate," she added, "I'm looking for my brother, Tristan, and his family, they have land toward the Glass Mountains . . . "

"I wish I could help you, but we don't have many visitors from the frontiers," Roscoe told her, "Most simply pass through Refuge on their way out of Westmarch.  We see a few rough riders through here, and sometimes soldiers of the Corynthian Guard returning from patrols, but they have little to say to the likes of us.  News from the far west has been sketchy at best for the past few years, especially since the war started . . . "

"Rough riders?" she echoed distantly.

Roscoe grinned and wiped the sweat from his brow.  "Mercenary types, mostly, and treasure-hunters . . . Lots of wide open land west of here.  Raiders are pretty common, and the Orog and Gnolls are everywhere farther out, so coalitions of land-owners will occasionally hire them to protect their animals or holdings since the Guard don't bother to venture that far out.  And there's always some fool looking for plunder.  The frontier has always been pretty lawless, but it's only gotten worse as of late.  If you're heading in that direction, Refuge is about the last of civilization that you'll see for some ways."

"Charming," Eilune murmured, rubbing her lower lip against the rim of the cup in a thinking gesture.  Her eyelids had grown heavy and drowsy as she breathed in the steam from her drink.  Comfortable from the heat of the room and the coffee, the tension was slowly draining out of the young woman, leaving her weakened body hungry for rest.  "What is there to be found, farther west?  Does the stage route continue past Refuge?"

"There's no reason for it to," Roscoe shrugged, eyeing the young woman thoughtfully, "There's a small town called Flamruin past Spiderhaunt Wood, but it offers nothing in the way of lodging or supplies aside from what you might get from the ranchers there, and they aren't terribly friendly.  Past that there is nothing but family farms, ranches and scattered encampments.  Most of them come into town every couple of months or so to stock up on provisions and enjoy the 'city life' here." 

The young man smiled grimly.  "Your brother must've been eager to escape the war if we went as far as the Glass.  That's farther than most anyone out here goes.  There's still supposed to be dwarves in those mountains and they do some trade occasionally, I hear, but most folk won't take the risk of going that far into the wilds."  Roscoe pointed to the elder man at the large table in the corner, but lowered his finger quickly before the men gathered there could catch the gesture.  He was a little afraid of them, Eilune thought.  "Dodger there owns one of the big ranches past Spiderhaunt, and he's bought a few dwarf guns for protection, though they're mostly for show.  Arrows are far easier to replace."

Eilune nodded slowly with a faint frown, keeping her back to the men behind her.  An audible sigh came out of her as she took another sip of coffee, meeting Roscoe's eyes.  The young man's eyes were slightly sad, even pained, as he studied her.  "Is there anyone who can guide me to the mountains then, if the stage doesn't run that far?  I have to find my brother."  She smiled weakly, averting her eyes.  "While I'm still well enough to travel."

"Not to the Glass themselves," Roscoe replied gently, with an apologetic smile, "Unless you're willing and able to afford mercenaries – and then I don't know if you should trust any such person around here.  Rough riders work for gold or the promise of treasure, and most of them would be just as likely to slit your throat and take whatever you owned rather than do honest work.  You could accompany Dodger and his boys out to their ranch – "  He caught the disdainful look this produced from her.  " – but I doubt you care for that idea.  And even then you'd be stranded again unless you found someone willing to help, which wouldn't be an easy matter . . . If you like, I could ask around and see if there is anybody who could help you, but it will take a little time."

"I would very much appreciate it," Eilune agreed in a husky voice.

"Food's up," the barmaid interjected, swinging up to their table to set down a bowl of soup – mostly broth, Eilune noted, and a few gristly chunks of beef – and a platter of black bread, butter, cheese and what looked to be sausage.  Hardly a feast, but it was hot and after the long, cold journey across Westmarch, it looked delicious to her weary eyes.  Eilune smiled her thanks to the girl, not trusting her ability to speak audibly at that moment.  "I'll bring you some more coffee in a moment," the girl added with a brief grin at the two of them, dancing away with a toss of her head.

"Thank you, Tessa," Roscoe called after her, but was ignored as she ducked behind the bar.  Dodger and his men would be demanding more drink soon, and the girl was wise enough to serve them early rather than endure their complaints and leering taunts.  Turning back to Eilune, he watched in silence as she began to eat with the languid pace of the sick and the old.  Tessa was a good girl and pretty with bored youth, but this fragile woman was more beautiful than anything he'd seen since going west.  Beautiful in the same way as the mountains and the forests – distant, cool, somehow lonely.  She seemed thin, barely there at all; the flame of her personality burning low.

Wiping the sweat and lank hair from his brow, Roscoe murmured, "You said you were looking for your brother.  Are you fleeing the war as well?"

Sipping at the broth, Eilune's brow furrowed and she set the wooden bowl down ever so carefully, as if it were fine porcelain that she might break with a sudden movement.  And with good reason, perhaps, as Roscoe saw that her hands were trembling.  The young woman turned her head to one side, thinking, and the shadows under her eyes became more vivid in the dim firelight.  His gaze drifted to her ears, peeking through the thick, dark waves of her hair.  For a moment, Roscoe thought she would not answer him, perhaps offended by the intrusion into her privacy.  But then she cleared her throat to offer, "Not entirely."

"Then why?"

The two of them were quiet for a moment, and there was steel in the woman's voice when she spoke, slowly and without looking at him.  "To die, in peace and some small measure of comfort, with my brother and his family around me."  Eilune's face was a hard mask of control when she turned back to him, but pain was more than evident in her eyes, and she softened under his hesitant, rueful gaze.  "I will spare you the trouble of asking what ails me," she sighed, "Since you've been asking me with your eyes since I arrived . . . "  Eilune took a deep, rasping breath.  "Before the civil war, my family often had dealings with the Joumin, who we call the Faerie, as a matter of diplomacy.  We were a noble house of some importance, but our lands were by tradition a part of the Faerie domain, claimed by humans in the Concordat.  In principle we held the land only by the grace of the nobles, the Sidhe of the Glimmering Forest ."

Roscoe nodded, rubbing his chin.  The young woman spoke of these things as if they were forgotten history, though it was only the tenth year of the war.  Eilune looked up as Tessa returned and poured fresh, steaming coffee into her mug before flitting away again, in the direction of solitary Forberg's table.  "Like most humans, we were considered shyrinn – 'Not People' – by the Faerie, and particularly by the Sidhe, who would have little to do with us aside from matters of trade, the health of the wood, and things of that nature.  In truth, the Sidhe hated us.  The Glimmering Forest was isolated, surrounded by the empire, and the Faerie remember well when our fathers took the land by force.  It is an embarrassment to them, and though the janesu, the common people, also held grudges against humans, they were more accepting of us.  After all, the men and women who stole their land are all dead now."

"I heard stories about this," Roscoe said, "When I lived in Myrrh.  But please go on."

Eilune nodded distractedly, clasping the warm mug in her hands.  She obviously hadn't spoken of these things in some time, and was uncomfortable with doing so.  Her eyelids drooped as she stared into the reflective surface of the coffee, slowly swirling it around in the cup.  "Obviously, I am not fully human," she breathed, shyly brushing an ear with her long fingers, "My father was one of the janesu, a keeper of the wood, and my mother a respected noblewoman, the eldest of three daughters.  Unfortunately, I know very little about either of them beyond what little I was told.  My mother died in childbirth, and my father – who named me – was forbidden to bring me into the Faerie domain.  Indeed, I'm sure he was punished for what happened, and so my mother's family raised me as a human."

"I'm telling you this because of the way you and the others here look at me," she continued, her voice sliding lower as her eyes fell closed, "Since the Faerie destroyed the Dales, few of them travel anywhere in the lands of men.  Obviously, I am often mistaken for one of their people, and hated because of the deaths the Desolation caused.  Even before the war, though, I was considered an aberration because the tale of my birth was well known.  Love between Faerie and Dakhini is unknown except in legend, and to my knowledge, no children have ever been produced from such a union.  And I believe I know why."

"Your illness," Roscoe observed.  Blinking, he realized that he had leaned over the table until he was quite close to her, and sat back in his chair, smoothing his sweat-damp hair back.  The movement seemed to startle her, and her grey eyes snapped open to study his reaction.  The young man's brow was furrowed in a pensive expression, and under her stare, he nervously rubbed his stubbly chin before looking away.  

"I don't think that such a child is meant to exist," Eilune whispered, shaking her head with a hoarse laugh, "So I suppose I'm both a miracle and an abomination.  Something in the blood, I suppose, or a flaw in the spirit.  I was always a delicate child, but I began to sicken in my fifteenth year.  Gradually growing weaker, year by year.  Part of me suspected the Sidhe."  She smiled mirthlessly.  "Since no medicine or magic would help.  But they would have none of it.  My accusation alone nearly severed ties between us and the Sidhe of the Glimmering Wood, and I thought of leaving then to protect my family.  But it was the war and the Desolation which forced me to go."

"I'm so sorry," Roscoe offered in a soft voice, unsure of what else to say.  Living under a death sentence was nothing new to he or anyone else on the frontier – enough had died already from war or raiders that the fear of such a possibility had faded – but to be sick and dying because of your very nature was a strange thing.  That Eilune had known her fate and accepted it long ago was the true sadness, he thought.  A quiet smile touched the young woman's lips as she saw the thoughts crossing his eyes, and she quietly sipped the last of her broth before nudging the bowl away.

"Don't be overly concerned about me, Mr. Underwood," the woman murmured lightly, turning her attention to the sausage, "I am only one person in a large world, and if I am not meant to be then I am not meant to be.  There is little else I can do but follow this to the end with grace and dignity, enjoying what time remains."  Smiling, Eilune touched her forehead and lower lip in the old gesture of deference.  "The rest of our family is either dead or held ransom by Corynth.  My only desire is that I not die alone and without seeing Tristan again. "

"Then I'll help you any way I can," Roscoe assured her.

Eilune stopped eating and looked up at him with a warm, tired smile.  "Thank you."

2

t was late in the morning of the next day when Eilune was awakened by a loud knocking at her door, and she lifted her head with a weak moan, brushing long, dark hair out of her eyes.  Through the room's only window, her aching eyes made out the snowy Spiderhaunt Woods and the Glass Mountains on the horizon beyond.  The air was warmed somewhat by the heat from the kitchen downstairs, but her breath still frosted before her as she blinked away the remnants of sleep from her eyes, and she was reluctant to leave the comparatively warm cocoon of her bed.  After a moment, the knocking repeated itself, followed by the girl Tessa's exasperated voice, calling, "Ma'am?  Ma'am, are you alright?"

            "Yes," Eilune called in a thick voice, coughing, "What is it?"

            "Ma'am," Tessa returned sharply, as if surprised, and raised her voice, "I've been trying to wake you for five minutes.  Are you alright?"

            "As well as may be expected," Eilune replied dryly, rubbing her eyes.

            The girl sounded relieved.  Eilune wondered briefly whether Roscoe had told Tessa something of her story, but quickly dismissed such thoughts; it made little difference either way.  "Well, if you're interested, there's a hot bath – or it was hot anyway – waiting for you down the hall, just for you.  Also, Mr. Roscoe says that if you want breakfast, you'd better hurry.  And he'd like to talk to you as soon as you're through.  I think he's brought somebody for you to meet."

            "Very well," Eilune sighed, "Thank you, Tessa."

            "You're welcome, ma'ma," Tessa replied, "Hurry if you want your bath now."

            Nodding absently, Eilune listened as the girl's footsteps danced away back down the hall, taking shallow breaths to avoid another coughing fit.  Her joints ached dully, causing her to tremble as she propped herself into a sitting position, and her eyes felt sore and dry.  Flexing her fingers to work the stiffness out, Eilune found herself envying the young woman for her health and brightness of spirit, a grim thought that weighed heavily upon her as she stiffly rose from bed, wrapping herself tightly in the thick blankets.  She tried to banish such thoughts and the old memories they conjured up.  Mornings were difficult enough without letting the past burden her even further. 

The bath was in a small, slightly rusting iron tub set within a windowless chamber lit by an oil lamp on a wooden table.  Hardly luxurious, but the water was warm and there was soap, and this was welcome enough to her cold, aching limbs.  By the time she emerged, clean and dressed in fresh clothing, her pains and cough had settled to a manageable level, and her mind was clear enough to face the day. 

The common room was a brighter place this morning, with the sun streaming in from the windows, whose shutters had been opened to greet the light, in smoky shafts.  It was also largely empty, as the hour was between breakfast and lunch, and most of the townsfolk were busily engaged with the work of the day.  The stage had already departed for the day, returning eastward to Dasherville across the mountains, and there would be no travelers in need of the White Steed's services until late in the afternoon.  Still, Eilune spotted Forberg engaged in solemn conversation with another old gentleman by the window, sipping coffee and pouring over sheaves of coarse brown paper.  At the bar, Roscoe was seated with a tall, dark-skinned woman in a long, dusty grey coat, whose worn hat sat on the countertop beside her.  She wore her thick black hair in many long braids that fell around her face, vaguely reminding Eilune of the meduse of old legends.

Roscoe stood up sharply with a polite smile when he noticed Eilune descending the stairs, and the black woman turned to look over her shoulder at the newcomer.  A wry smile played across Eilune's face as she noticed that Roscoe had shaved and cleaned himself up for this meeting, dressed in a loose blue shirt and black trousers, making himself up to be a perfect gentleman.  Even his hair was drawn back into a tidy chignon, in imitation of the courtly fashions of the Western Marches .  Tessa could be heard arguing with the cook in the back.  "Good morning, ma'am," Roscoe offered, turning to his companion, "Miss Waynolds, I'd like you to meet Lady Eilune Danaen of Stonegate."

"Nice meeting you, ma'am," the woman offered in a low, serious voice, firmly shaking Eilune's hand.  She did not smile or stand, but nodded as Eilune returned the greeting, her dark eyes taking in the details of the other woman's appearance.  "My name is Jani Waynolds, and I'd prefer it if you called me Jani or Waynolds rather than Miss.  I don't stand on formalities."

"I will keep that in mind," Eilune replied gingerly, trying to get the measure of this woman's character.  Jani was at least a foot taller than she was, and rather masculine in dress, even compared to the other women of Refuge.  Under the coat, she wore furred boots, dungarees, a white blouse and a leather vest – though it was the dwarf-crafted pistol at her waist which caught Eilune's attention the most.  Certainly a woman of colorful history, she thought, if not some wealth and importance.  "I am pleased to meet you as well.  And Eilune is fine for myself.  Whatever titles I may have once held are obsolete with the war, and I doubt I will have use of them again under Corynthian rule."

"Let's use one of the tables," Roscoe gestured, "It'll be more comfortable."  He smiled and nodded to Eilune as he turned to head into the kitchen.  "I'll be right back with some coffee and breakfast for you, ma'am."

"Thank you very much," Eilune smiled back.

"Mr. Underwood tells me that you are looking for a guide to take you out west, in the vicinity of the Glass," Jani observed as the two women seated themselves, dropping her hat on the table, "There aren't many who go out that way, least of all on casual business.  I'm a fur trapper myself, and I make regular trades with the Thiirgard dwarves there and some other folks, so I know the land better than most.  But there's no roads, ma'am, save a few the Thiirgard made way back, and it's rough travel, especially since the war started.  With the Guard busy in the east, the raiders and bogles have been running wild, and there's been more than a few families slaughtered or forced off their land.  I hope yours is not one of them, ma'am.  Hell, even I've had to hire a few mercenaries lately for protection."

"I'm aware of the situation," Eilune nodded, speaking lightly, "And I would greatly appreciate your help.  At the very least, I would like to learn what has become of my brother and his family, though I pray for their safety."

"Pray for ours as well," Jani smiled – a grim, businesslike smile.  "If you're coming with us.  We're not a coach line, we make a roundabout route through the valley, stopping off for days or weeks at a time in Flamruin, the Diamaunt Forest , Thiirgard, and Spiderhaunt Wood.  That's a lot of ground to cover, ma'am, and plenty of opportunity for trouble along the way.  It will be months before we reach the Glass, and unless you know exactly where your brother's homestead is located, it'll take even longer to find it."

"Unfortunately, I don't," Eilune frowned.

"The Thiirgard might be able to help," Jani observed thoughtfully, brushing a gloved finger over the brim of her hat, "Or some of the bigger ranches out that way, depending on how much trade your brother does.  I'm not averse to taking you there, if we find out where it's at, so long as it's not too far out of our way.  And since we run through the area all the time, I won't even ask you for gold in exchange for coming with us, so long as you bring your own horse and your own supplies."  She paused, looking up to meet Eilune's gaze with dark, intent eyes.  "Mr. Underwood told me that you're sick, and I know you won't like the idea of such a long journey.  We may even need you to fight, if it comes down to it.  If you don't think you can make it, then don't come.  It's as simple as that.  But I think you'd have damn better luck with us than alone or trying to hitch rides from the folks around here."

At that moment, Roscoe returned, bearing a platter of beef, eggs and bread along with a cup of the inn's stout coffee.  These he set before Eilune as unobtrusively as possible before taking a seat on her right.  Eilune managed a small smile of thanks, taking a sip of coffee as she bleakly considered what Jani had said.  A few months in the wilderness certainly did not appeal to the young woman, especially not in the frigid climate of the northern frontier.  Even the jarring, cold ride on the stage had offered occasional stops at warm inns and way stations, and she had come to depend on those to keep her illness from growing dramatically worse.  The thought of sleeping on the icy cold ground, or even having to fight off bandits – and worse, put a hard, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. 

But Jani was right.  Beyond Refuge, travel would be a harsh experience, and Eilune didn't dare venture out into the frontier on her own.  Nor did she much care for the idea of begging aid from men like Dodger, having to obtain a new guide every step of the way, nor for being at the mercy of such men far from civilization.  At least Jani was a woman and would look out for her in that respect at least, and she seemed too forthright and plainspoken to stir Eilune's distrust.  Women who displayed Jani's strength and confidence had usually wrested control of their lives by force of will, and cared little to control others.  Besides, Roscoe seemed to think she was a worthy guide, and with no other friends to call upon, Eilune felt she had little choice but to accept his counsel. 

Eilune sighed.  "When do you leave?"

"We have business in town," Jani replied mildly, "So two days from now, given good weather.  We always set off in the morning, as soon as the light is good.  That will give you time to make any necessary arrangements.  Mr. Underwood can tell you where you might find horses and such.  Pack as lightly as you're able, ma'am, but bring at least three weeks worth of food rations.  Water is not of great concern at this time of year, but hunting can sometimes be scarce.  Plenty of warm clothing is also essential, especially for someone of weakened constitution.  And whether you care for them or not, you might also want to bring brandywine or spirits to help keep you warm."

"I will do as you suggest," Eilune nodded, grimacing as she took another sip of coffee.

"That would be a good idea, ma'am," Jani replied with a small smile, "We're staying here at the White Steed as well, so you'll have no trouble finding us if there is anything further to discuss.  I'll also ask around and see if anyone knows of your brother's homestead.  Some of my friends have been all over the frontier, and may have useful information.  If I discover anything, I will let you know."

"Thank you, Jani," Eilune murmured, "You have been most gracious."  

*                    *                    *  

The weather was clear and cold on the morning of the second day, with frost in the ground and a light covering of snow dusting everything white.  Eilune arrived on a young grey-white mare she purchased from a gentleman Roscoe recommended, and she was tersely introduced to Jani Waynolds’ company before setting out.  There were seven of them all total, including Jani, astride upon a huge chestnut warhorse she claimed to have acquired from a deserting Westmarch soldier, and who tipped her hat in greeting.  She kept a long spear on her saddle and her pistol in plain sight to impress the locals and deter would-be bandits.  The remaining six were heavily in the midst of preparations for travel, and Jani named each one for Eilune while they waited.

Handling a large two-horse wagon, for storing the group’s supplies and trade goods, was a tall, swarthy man named Edward Janson, ably assisted by a scarecrow of a hobbit woman, a middle-aged figure called Lilian.  Around the wagon would ride Jani’s guards, all trusted men by her account: Jon, a blond, fair-skinned man in furs; Duncan, an amiable-looking man with long dark hair, and Fraigan, a shrewd and crafty looking mercenary in leather armors.  Fraigan, Jani explained, was a veteran of Westmarch and ably skilled at war.  Jon was a woodsman and hunter from the Grey Forest to the east.  Duncan came from the southeast, past even Gilead and the reach of the Dakhini Empire, a loner and wanderer from the city-state of Talon, a place Eilune had only heard of from merchants and sailors. 

“A trade city,” Jani explained, “They deal with the people of Myrrh and the desert nomads who live in the mountains close by.  Friendly, warm-blooded people like Mr. Underwood.”  She flirted with a smile as she glanced over Eilune.  “You’ll like Duncan , I think.”

“I’m sure,” she replied distantly.

But Eilune was far more interested in the last of the group, a tall and slender figure dressed in a long black coat with the hood pulled down over his eyes.  An ornate longbow was on his horse, seemingly his only weapon.  He remained aloof from the others and finished packing earliest, trotting away a short distance on his white horse to await his companions.  Though he tried to conceal his appearance, Eilune easily recognized by the dusky tint of his skin and the preternatural grace of his movements that he was one of the Faerie, the first of his people she had encountered since Glimmering Wood back home.

“My best hunter,” Jani explained dryly, “He is shyrinn, an exile from the north.  I found him in the forests of the Mirwood north and west of here – beaten, stripped of all his possessions and left for dead.”

“What did he do?” Eilune murmured.  In the Low Speech, the language of the commoners of Faerie, shyrinn meant “Not Person”, a term used for humans, dwarves, hobbits and all those not of the elven blood.  And for exiles as well, though the young woman had never met one.  The Faerie were xenophobic and extremely protective of their own kind, even criminals.  The loss of any Faerie was a diminishment of their declining race, and even the most grievous offences were punished by exile rather than death. 

“I don’t know, ma’am,” Jani smirked, “I actually don’t know much about him.  He stays with me because I saved his life – and because the money is good.  I imagine he has nowhere else to go anyway.”

Eilune nodded, shivering as the frigid wind whispered down the street, the sign on the stagecoach landing creaking sullenly on its chains.  Pulling her heavy cloak more tightly around her body, the young woman’s thoughts flitted grimly over the weeks of travel ahead of them.  “What is his name?”

Jani chuckled.  “I don’t rightly know, ma’am.  He won’t dirty himself by translating his name into our language.  He calls himself Eban.”

“Raven,” Eilune echoed.

 “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m surprised you speak elvish,” Eilune commented softly, studying her.

Jani smiled slightly, tilting her head to one side.  “Only a little bit, Ms. Danaen.  There’s a small cluster of Faerie who live in the Whitestone Forest near the Glass, looking after one of their cities – or I should say, the ruins of one of their cities – from the old times.  They’re allied with the dwarves there.  We do some trade occasionally, and their leader taught me enough to get by in conversation.”

“That’s interesting,” Eilune murmured distantly, “They didn’t try to drive you away?”

“They’re a hospitable enough group,” Jani shrugged, “More so than our friend Eban.  They’re katirin, remnants of the forest-dwelling elves who used to rule these parts.  They showed us paths through the wood, and we make damn sure not to venture off the trail.  It shaves days off the ride to the Glass, and it keeps us away from what they don’t want us to see.”  The woman smiled thinly.  “A far arrangement, if you ask me.  We’ll be riding through the Whitestone on this trip, too, so you can meet them for yourself, ma’am.”

Jani paused, giving Eilune’s frail, wan figure a once-over.  “Mind my advice, ma’am, and keep your distance from Eban.  He’s of the Faerie noble class, and if he doesn’t care much for the katirin – which he doesn’t – he won’t take kindly to your presence either.”

“I will keep that in mind,” Eilune nodded.

            While she waited for Jani’s company to finish their preparations, Eilune was approached by Roscoe, wearing a troubled expression with his simple yet neat attire.  For the first time since Eilune met him, he wore a plain brown hat with a black band, shading his eyes from the harsh winter sun.  “I wish you a safe journey, ma’am,” he offered with a courtly bow and a gentle smile, removing his hat out of respect, “You’ve been fine company to the miserable likes of us, and I hope you find your brother and his family in good health and spirits.  Times are hard enough for ordinary folk these days, and you deserve some cheer.”

A smile tugged at her mouth.  His presence was a sliver of warmth in this wintry place. 

            "Thank you, Mr. Underwood," Eilune nodded, "You've been very kind, and I appreciate everything you've done for me."

            "No, no," the young man deferred, "It was no trouble at all, ma'am.  I only hope you mind your health and your safety out in the wilderness, and that you find your brother's family safe.  The frontier is harsh, but I have every hope of seeing you again."

            To her surprise, Roscoe took her gloved hand and planted a discreet kiss atop it.  Eilune couldn't recall the last time any man had treated her this way, and the chivalrous gesture gained a touch of intimacy because of it.  Her smile widened, and his dark eyes sparkled under his hat when he straightened again.

            "Good luck, Ms. Danaen."

§                    §                    § 

"My parents were killed during what the Dakhini call the Faege War."

Shivering, Eilune looked up from her cup of bitter coffee, breathing deeply of the steam to try and warm herself in the frigid night air. It was the only comfort she had tonight, despite the crackling fire and the heavy fur cloak she wore, wrapped tightly around her body. The cold air sliced through her, making every bone ache dully, even with the shelter the trees offered against the sighing winds of the plains. Though the others were sleeping soundly - somehow! - the chill of Spiderhaunt Wood would not let her rest. Eilune suspected it would be like this for the rest of their journey, and she wondered how she would endure it all.

For the moment, however, her attention fixed on Eban, sitting deathly still across from her. The Faerie had not drawn back the hood on his cloak, pitching his sharply angled features into deep shadows, but the flames danced in his eyes and traced what she thought was a faint smile on his lips. She hadn't seriously expected him to answer her. In fact, aside from the occasional murmured conversation between he and Jani on the road, this was the first time Eilune had ever heard him speak. His voice was melodic in the Low Speech, higher in pitch than the other men but with a solemn, bitter ring to it.

"That was over three hundred years ago," she whispered.

"Of course it was," Eban replied sarcastically, "But that would mean nothing to me were I not shyrinn, an exile in mortal lands. I feel the years only because of my punishment, like a wound that will not heal. That was," he chuckled softly, "the reason for it, after all. To feel time slipping away, separated from my homeland and my People. To become one of you in a way, since I could no longer be one of us."

Eilune frowned. "What happened?"

"We were departing Glimmering Wood at the end of the war when soldiers of Dakhin, aided by the Dragon-Blooded and Baalat Sisters descended upon us. They knew that we could easily escape them to our homelands far to the north and that if they did not strike us then they would lose any opportunity to gain vengeance for the so-called 'atrocities' we committed against them." He laughed bitterly. "Such things happen in war. The Dakhini were claiming our lands, realms which we had held for hundreds if not thousands of years, so flush with arrogance were they. We defended ourselves. But like rats, there were always more Men to fight us while we ever dwindled in number."

"We were simply leaving. My parents had no true involvement in the war, though of course I fought in our family's name. I was one of very few young Sidhe in our city, a rare newborn star in the long twilight. And these were our homes that the armies of Men sought to destroy. The Dakhini attacked and slaughtered many of us before we could repel them. Most of our number were able to flee, but my parents were not among them. When I learned of the attack, I sought out my parents. When I found them dead, my heart twisted with a rage you could never understand."

Brow furrowed, Eilune sipped her coffee rather than meet his burning violet eyes. There was hatred in his voice now, smoldering in the lovely curl and roll of his words. Like a knife concealed in the velvet folds of a cloak. But there was also sadness as well. A loneliness the likes of which the young woman had never known except in herself.

"What did you do?" she asked.

"I sought out those responsible for the attack and killed them," Eban said softly, "It took many years. Not just the leaders of the Dakhini party. I killed each of the soldiers who had been there, who had taken part in the annihilation of my home. Each of the accursed Sisters with their poisoned tongues and hateful visions. The sorcerers who rained fire and misery down upon the heads of my People. The generals who led the army. I would have killed the Dakhini emperor and all his progeny if I were able. Perhaps I thought I could bring the reign of Men down by myself. I was beyond reason then. I had ezan-drelath. The Blood Fever."

"Eventually, after many years alone in the wild places and mortal cities, I found myself at a loss for further enemies. But my rage was unsated. I turned upon my own kind then like a mindless animal. Those who were there and allowed the attack to happen, who did nothing to save my parents, fell by my blade. It was senseless. For this I was banished and became shyrinn, left for dead in the cold forests north of here, bereft of everything. Only then did clarity descend upon me and the Fever broke. I was deserving of my punishment, I knew, for I had betrayed my own People. I wanted to do what my People could not. I wanted to die."

"Jani says she found you," Eilune murmured.

"And I hate her for it," Eban smiled thinly.

"Then why do you serve her? Why let her save you?"

The Faerie's voice was a soft sneer. "Because death is beneath us. Dakhini may throw their lives away senselessly for their time on this world is short and they are as common as stones. We are eternal, the very Wyld given voice and breath and thought. We are irreplaceable. No, life calls us to continue no matter the suffering involved. You know this already from your own sickness. And in the end, I will be what I choose to be, Eilune Danaen. Not what the Dakhini murderers or my People would have me become. I am still one of the People, even if I am forever apart from them. I will embrace that void. I am my own master. And the wound that forever bleeds lets me know I am still alive."

Reaching up, the Sidhe drew back the hood on his long, black coat. Eilune's breath caught in her throat, for he always concealed his face and she hadn't seen one of the Fair Folk since the Desolation of Stonegate and the Grey Forest. His hair shone like spun silver in the firelight, gleaming with the metallic sheen of a polished blade or pistol, and his violet eyes glimmered from his dusky face like gemstones. His delicately fashioned, angular features were both beautiful and inhuman, giving a cruel look to his smile. "Jeiban Kan'es'ujin is my name."

Eilune nodded slowly. "'Hunter of the Winter Moon'."

A thin smile. "Yes. You know the High Speech?"

"A little."

"Do you know the meaning of your own name?"

Frowning, the young woman had to admit she did not.

"It is given in a dialect of the Low Speech used by the Katirin," Eban explained patiently, clasping his thin, narrow hands in front of him, "In the original High Speech it would be Eiju Daizen'anel. 'Eldest Daughter of Autumn'. Names speak our identities. They define us from the moment we are born."

Eilune's grey eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Yesterday on the ridge, when you saw me hunting, you understood me as a killer. I could see it in your eyes. But I was not always this way, as I just explained to you. The name changed me. It was inescapable." He smiled softly. "To my eyes I see clearly you are dying, fading like the leaves in autumn and fields long since harvested. You are growing thin to my sight. Have you not already faded from the youth that was once yours? Your hair is greying, the color is gone from your eyes. The very richness of life turns to ashes in your mouth. That is the name and the future given to you."

"I may die because of my illness," Eilune returned coolly, "But I don't believe in fate."

"You live your name. It becomes part of you, like a knife in your heart every time it is spoken. It cannot be avoided. Do you think it was my desire to become shyrinn or to stain my hands with so much blood? We are a proud People but we are not savages. Though Dakhini may view us only as legends, the time of the Wyld claiming dominion over Men has passed, at least in this country."

Eilune shook her head, her voice growing weak as she drew in a lungful of cold air. "Though I am shyrinn, despite my Fey blood, I was friends with the Wylder of Grey Forest, where Faerie and Dakhini lived in peace. An uneasy peace to be sure, but I wouldn't be here without it. You needn't lecture me on history."

The Faerie's breath frosted in the air as he chuckled soundlessly.

"I'm curious about something."

"Ask," he offered in an amused tone, "You have proven yourself to be above the Dakhini here, and I will answer some questions if it pleases me to do so."

The young woman frowned, wondering what it was which had changed his mind. Had it been the healing of Fraigar the day before, despite the strain it caused her to pull the threads of magic? Eban had given no outward sign, for he was always watching their company from a distance with cold, inscrutable eyes. Like many of the Fair Folk, he had no love of the Dakhini or anyone else who was not of the People, herself included. Eilune doubted he ever spoke in this much depth with Jani, let alone anyone else.

"You have Katirin blood," he murmured, seeing the questions in her eyes, and shrugged. "And you are more like my cousins than any of the mortals here. Your company and your thoughts interest me, Eldest Daughter, for now."

Nodding, Eilune took a sip of coffee to clear her throat. The pain in her chest was rising and she felt the beginnings of a cough clotting in her breast, but the hot drink would hold it off for a little while yet. "Why do you call yourself Raven?"

The Faerie smiled a thin sneer of a smile. "That should be obvious."

Eilune grunted. "Indulge me then, since I am dying."

This earned her a surprisingly gracious little bow. "It is for my amusement mostly. My name, Jeiban, is phonetically similar to the Low Speech word Eban, which means 'raven'. Outcasts of the People are usually stripped of their names and regarded as non-entities, thus the name seemed a fitting replacement for my own." His lips drew into a sardonic smile. "And I think you would feel, given my character, that it is a rather appropriate one."

"Among the Haibane," Eilune murmured in a softly challenging fashion, "Crows and ravens are regarded as spirit guides. They're treated with great respect. Even humans are loathe to kill them, for their myths say the birds are the embodiment of those souls who have recently died and are passing on to the next world. They are one of the few who pass freely between the Gate of Archon and Selune," she glanced upwards at the two moons, "into the realms beyond."

Eban shrugged but said nothing.

"Which are you?" she inquired, "A scavenger? A carrion feeder? Or a living spirit?"

Violet eyes glimmered. "Perhaps a hungry ghost?"

"The choice is yours," she replied.

Eban chuckled darkly. "So disapproving of fate are you. So eager to save others as you would save yourself. Have you ever considered there may be comfort in the destiny of names? Embracing your true nature, you slip through the passing of days as a stream flows between cracks in the earth. Strong, inexorable, true to your purpose in this world. I do not blame you for resisting the flow, for you do not want to die, though you might as well try to halt the wheel of the heavens above."

§                    §                    §  

            Eilune huddled within her furred cloak, glancing about uncertainly at the impassible rock walls rising up on either side of them.  As weak as she was, she dared not work any further magick to warm herself, particularly here in this shadowed place.  At least the brutal artic winds had abated, but a light snow continued to fall in the valley.  It seemed to glow in the silvery-white radiance of Ariel’s crystal, and for a moment the three women stood in silence before the granite wall blocking the end of the pass. 

            The Sidhe plucked the crystal sphere out of the air, extinguishing the witchlight and plunging them into near total darkness.  By what faint light was available, Eilune observed as Ariel walked forward a short distance and knelt down on the smooth stone road they had been following, stretching her arms out on either side with her fingertips barely touching the ground.  She caught Kaitlin’s eye beside her, but the Faerie woman merely shook her head slightly and offered a reassuring smile.

            “Moban, akeri ze kaimon aith s’kei.  Matadai shinke eben Sidhe.  Akeri!”

            Ariel’s voice was startlingly loud in the confined space, resounding off of the towering walls.  She remained perfectly still, her long black hair falling forward as she bowed her head in supplication.  Eilune felt the inward tug again, the presence of magick, just as she had when Ariel summoned the Road of Tears.  It pulled at her, aching in her breast, and she released a faint moan as the feeling grew in intensity, dizzying and almost painful.  Kaitlin caught her by the arm with a fierce grip and held her upright, and as they watched, the granite wall blurred and faded from view.  The dizziness only increased as she beheld the twisted blur, as if her eyes simply refused to see what lay before them.

            Eilune squeezed her eyes shut and leaned against Kaitlin, who held her tight.

            When she looked up again, the glamer had gone, revealing what Ariel assured her had always been there – the Veil of Never.  It stood at least as tall as the granite wall had before it, a fortification of grey-blue stone which seemed grown out of the living rock of the mountains around them.  In the center of this stood an arched portal rimmed in runic symbols of the High Speech, beyond which Eilune could see a vast, green valley of tall trees and far-away spires, untouched by the frigid cold around them.

            On either side of the portal there were Sidhe warriors dressed in mirror-polished wooden armor and helmets, one male and one female, both with silver hair and dusky skin.  They carried elegant, curving swords of a make Eilune had never seen before, which they drew immediately upon seeing her.  They were as long as the Corynthian swords in West March and made of a substance resembling polished obsidian.  These swords were pointed toward the three women, but the Sidhe soldiers did not move from their posts.  Though their weapons and armor looked brittle, Eilune was sure they were more than capable of cutting them down.

            Through all of this Ariel remained kneeling.

            She looked up only as another figure emerged on the other side of the portal, a Sidhe dressed in dark green robes, carrying a plain wooden staff, little more than a slender tree branch by all appearances.  This woman had jet black hair and violet eyes like Ariel, and moved with unhurried grace, walking past the two soldiers, neither of whom moved.  She gestured for Ariel to rise, and Eilune’s companion complied immediately.

            “Announce yourselves,” the woman said in the Low Speech.

            “Aori Kanen Mouseiko,” Ariel replied in the High Speech.

            “Kougeisu Musemeiko,” Kaitlin stated immediately after.

            Eilune cleared her throat, but her voice was still raspy when she spoke, offering the High Speech version of her name, as Ariel had instructed her.  “Eihu Daishizen Aneko.”

            “You are Shyrinn,” the woman replied calmly, speaking the Low Speech for her benefit.  “You are not of the People.  By the laws of the People, you are forbidden from entering the Twilight Country and the Kingdom of Never .”  She paused, shaking her head slightly.  “Your companions should not have brought you here, child.  You are unwelcome, and unless you turn back now you will be slain even for seeing these lands.”