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The next morning, Bemere was in the royal household’s stables looking over the horses on offer. The stable master had begun with the largest of the war horses, but after a single glance at the massive hotbloods, she asked to see something a little less…interesting. She described the journey she needed to make to the stable master, stressing that she didn’t want to attract more attention than necessary. He tapped his chin for a moment and then led her to another stable.
This line of stalls was full of much quieter animals and he explained that these were the horses normally reserved for the principality’s messengers. After some discussion about saddles and the like, she ended up with a pair of mares, one roan, and the other grey, both familiar with the climb over the landward pass. He’d wanted her to look at the pack horses as well, but Bemere’s luggage wasn’t nearly extensive enough. Thanking the man with a three coin tip, Bemere took her leave and climbed the flights of stairs, up to the keep’s highest tower.
There were always watchers stationed there; a recruit and an older veteran, judging by the scars and missing arm. The older man was evidently accustomed to, or unimpressed by, high ranking visitors and welcomed her with a simple nod. The youth leaped from his chair and stood at quivering attention. The older guard chuckled and told him to sit back down.
She chatted for a moment before climbing the ladder to the large reflector mounted at the very top. She was just as impressed with the view as she’d been back when she’d helped design the signaling system. That had been for the previous prince, Cal’s great uncle.
The clouds rushing in from seaward looked to be slowing down as they were blown over the Thunder Haven mountains. Far inland, at the top of the pass, the Gateman’s Notch was still hidden by haze. She stared at the clouds for a long time, seeing hints of the otherwise unseen torrents of wind in their constantly shifting patterns.
Bemere frowned and took an oddly twisted piece of glass with a rainbow sheened fluid from the bag on her shoulder. She placed it carefully on a flat spot on the reflector, before removing two small stoppers. The colorful liquid swirled chaotically for a few moments, then slowly separated into complex bands of color. She studied the patterns carefully before replacing the stoppers.
“Anything to worry about?” The older of the pair asked, as Bemere packed the apparatus away again.
“The skies will clear tonight,” she said. “A day or two of warm sun before the next cycle of storms arrive.”
He thanked her and Bemere headed back down, pretending not to notice the stare of the younger guard. She really tried not to, but she had probably just added another rumor about the uncanny fae. When he got to the barracks, he’d probably be saying she’d talked to the wind, or something equally silly.
Even a few few weather glasses would have helped the humans immensely, avoiding disastrous crop losses from various tragedies brought on by weather. But, since they employed magic, the weather glasses were forbidden to trade, or even gift, to a human. That was yet another raft of High Elf nonsense because, other than the unbreakable glass, all the magic the instrument contained was in the informational fluid that even most fae were baffled by. It didn’t have any purpose beyond harmless weather prediction and every trip she made to the human lands increased the temptation to “lose” a weatherglass, leaving it behind with trusted friends.
But her Plenilune were the smallest kingdom of the fae and hadn’t achieved the respect they had by defying the wishes of their more numerous kin. Instead, Bemere employed another trait of her people, patient and subtle countermining. She wasn’t the sole rebel in Allworld and their cabal would eventually find the right levers to raise the race of humans away from their halfcivilized turmoil.
~~~
Princess Madeline was in the study, reading letters aloud, when Bemere snuck past to return the weatherglass to her baggage. Several of her ladiesinwaiting were gathered around her, writing on tablets as she spoke. As she began to sneak back out, Madeline saw her and waved for Bemere to join them. The elf waited as the princess finished reading the letter, before adding her own commentary. When she was done, Bemere gave her an abbreviated bow.
“Good morning, your highness,” Bemere said.
With a glint in her eye, the princess stood up from her chair, and after a moment, the other women got up as well.
“May the blessed light of the selenic kingdom shine on your path, Your Plenilunic Ladyship,” the princess said, dipping in a curtsy.
Bemere saw the other ladies trying to hide grins as they followed Madeline’s example.
“I beg your pardon and stand corrected. Good morning, Madeline.”
“Ah, much better! Good morning, Bemere,” the princess replied. “Sit down with us. I’d like to introduce Halcyon and Jera to my left. On my right, the redheaded trollop is Lanette, and the very pretty blonde next to her is Constance. She’s the one plotting against my shiny metal hat.”
“Hello, Bemere,” Constance said, leaning forward to touch her fingertips to Bemere’s. “She’s as full of crap as she ever was about the circlet. Now, her husband on the other hand….”
The rest of the women, Madeline included, laughed and the other women touched fingers to Bemere’s, welcoming her to the Brynjarl Sands.
“What did the sky tell you?” Madeline asked.
“There’s a gap between the storms coming. If I ride out tomorrow morning, I’ll be able to be through the notch before the winds return.”
The princess frowned, looking adorable. “I do not love the fact that you are going over the north pass. If you were my subject, you’d be taking a safer route or staying put until the skies are clear again.”
“Madeline, this isn’t my first trip across,” Bemere reminded her gently. “And the safer routes take six or seven tendays longer than going through the Slope Counties.”
“And, if we’re honest, Maddy, if she was your subject, you’d have her tied to a bed somewhere,” the redhead added. “At least, that’s what I would do.”
“Hussy!” The princess exclaimed, laughing as hard as the other women. “Darling Bemere, before you get too scandalized, these ladiesinwaiting are very old friends and even less inhibited libertines than I am.”
“That’s true, Maddy has always been the most proper of us,” Constance said. “That’s why we decided that she should be the princess. Even if it meant I had to give up Cal.”
“Give him up?” Madeline laughed. “As often as we catch you two sneaking around, I don’t think you can claim that you’ve ever given him up. Enough about my poor, abused prince. Bemere, the Goddess sent a gift of inspiration in my dreams last night.”
Bemere raised her eyebrows. “When were you asleep last night?”
“Ooh, I like her,” Jera told the others.
Madeline put an arm around Bemere’s shoulders. “Don’t be overly analytical, my elvish love. I have two things worrying me. First, you know that I’m loath to offer any offense to our oldest and dearest friends in the Selenic Court. Your mother requested a traveling companion and I would very much appreciate the opportunity to return her letter with one of my own, reassuring her that I’ve taken every precaution with her lovely daughter.”
“Would it help if I included a note to say ‘I’m fine, mom’?”
“Shh, you. There’s a princess talking.”
Bemere smiled. “Apologies. Please continue.”
“My second problem is another guest we’ve had under our roof for quite a while. She’s not nearly as entertaining, a new maestra daos that’s here searching through our archives. She’s been here for the last two seasons, per their request. Oddly, the Pale College seems to have completely forgotten about her presence here.”
“But there have been signs that Osh Caernon has recently suffered through another succession,” Jera said. “I have cousins who do business there and they wrote of new faces abruptly replacing the mages they’ve always dealt with. All of them clueless about previous agreements, and supposedly their predecessors.”
“The current Prior would be quite old, so it makes sense,” Constance added. “Some newly made maestra, and her research, would quickly be forgotten in the chaos of a succession battle.”
Madeline sighed. “And, of course, our guest has chosen now as the best time to return to her college. She arrived by ship, but nothing will be sailing until the end of season storms end. She mentioned the overland route, over the pass and down through the counties. From Grand Locks, I’ve arranged for a private room on whatever canal boat is bound for Osh Caernon, so you wouldn’t have to babysit her for very long.”
“I would be glad of the company, although maestiri do not always enjoy the company of the fae,” Bemere said.
“Let’s introduce you and see how she reacts,” Madeline said. “You four, remember the rule; no bouncing on the bed.”
“If Cal shows up, can we bounce on him?” Jera asked, a wicked smile on her face.
“If Constance allows it,” Madeline said as she led Bemere out.
Behind them, there was renewed laughter. But as Bemere glanced back, the women were already returning to their notes.
“I am ever more impressed with your rule here,” Bemere said. “You have excellent friends in addition to a formidable prince.”
Madeline smiled at her, opening the hidden door they had arrived by last night. “Thank you, Bemere, that’s quite a compliment. The four of us grew up together and began to learn that, eventually, one of us would be the next princess. The idea of being cooped up in the keep, not to mention being forced to deal with a boy, caused all four of us to swear off the idea. Of course, a few years later, boys became rather fascinating and we decided that having our own prince was an okay thing in theory, but no one wanted to be the old woman we hardly ever saw. She seemed very lonely and we were careful to maintain our friendships so that whoever of us took the circlet wouldn’t suffer the same fate.”
“It was a sound plan,” Bemere agreed.
“Truth be told, we try hard to rule as little as possible, it’s like riding a fast horse with threads for the reins. But I am blessed by the Goddess with my friendships, and my marriage. That makes a difficult task more enjoyable anyway.”
“Tell me more about this maestra,” Bemere said, as they set off down the narrow passage.
“You’ve heard the title ‘daos’ before? They are the actual scholars in that pestilential madhouse of a college. As opposed to the Tiras Maestri, who are the ones they let loose to blow up the landscape and themselves.”
“That’s new. I suppose the Priory became weary of everyone’s terror at encountering their mages?”
“Just so,” Madeline agreed.
When the pair reached the bottom of a long flight of narrow stairs, Madeline opened an unmarked doorway and they turned down a passage that Bemere wasn’t familiar with.
“We tried to make her comfortable here,” Madeline continued. ” Visits, invitations to dinner, that kind of thing. Finally, I told Cal that we were just terrorizing the poor little mouse and we let her be. I check in every few days, but she seems quite happy to be left wandering around the archives alone. I know that she is nothing at all like your mother had in mind, but as you so excitingly proved last night, you can deal with your urges on your own.”
Bemere simply smiled. A heat began to spread from her belly as the elf considered the fun they’d had last night.
Madeline stopped outside of an unmarked door. “We’re there. You know how the college mages are with protocol and precedence. Do you carry titles of your own?”
“Madeline, I’ve been a member of the court for the last seven or eight human generations and you know how we get with that same kind of nonsense. How many would you like?”
“As many as will impress a maestra, of course. But our little mouse is the backside type, two or three would be fine.”
Bemere chuckled. “I thought you said she was shy?”
Madeline grinned back at her. “I meant backside as the backside of the curtain or a public house. Not her bottom, perverted lovely.”
“Oh, I stand corrected. I thought the trip might get interesting after all.”
Madeline laughed. “Now I’m beginning to wonder if my grand scheme is really as good as I thought it was.”
“I promise to be the soul of discretion then.”
After Bemere had explained a few titles, they went through the heavy door and emerged in the royal library, a massive space that had been the throne hall when the Sands keep had first been built. Shelves full of books and scrolls took most of the space, and since Bemere had been here last, a wooden floor had been added, adding a second floor of storage.
The center of the archive was a slightly wider aisle with tables set in a line. Most were covered with more books and scroll cases, but the one furthest into the stacks was occupied. There was a woman, much younger than Bemere had expected, in the middle of an island of bluewhite light cast by her earthlamp on the table. Her hair was ashblonde and when she looked up with a startled gasp, Bemere saw that her eyes were a deep green.
“I’m sorry to startle you, maestra,” Madeline said. “If you have a moment, I would like to introduce a close friend of mine.”
The woman hurriedly stood up and tugged her scholar’s robes into place. “Yes, of course, your highness.”
“Maestra Twylillian ap Tur, may I present Her Plenilunic Grace, KnightCommander of the Silver Leaf, and Dame Emissary of the Selenic Court, Adda Bemere Gwynnestra Abchenel”
Twyla nodded deeply, just short of a bow. “Your Grace, I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“And I am honored to be in the presence of a maestra daos of the Pale College. If you would prefer, my friends call me Bemere.”
The woman smiled nervously. “Thank you. I’m not really…I mean Maestra isn’t…I just go by Twyla.”
“Then I will insist that you both call me Madeline. Twyla, you may be able help me with a frustrating problem. If so, I would be eternally grateful.”
“What? Yes, of course. I mean, I’m at your service, your majesty.”
Bemere noted the inadvertent promotion the maestra had given Madeline and wondered how she could possibly make the woman any more anxious than the princess already was.
“That’s so kind of you, maestra,” the princess said. “Bemere is bound for the northern kingdoms by way of the slopes and you had asked about the overland route. I thought a maestra would be a fitting travel companion for her.”
The maestra looked at the elf with something like terror. Bemere took pity on her and studied the book that she’d been reading. But she immediately looked back up in surprise.
“You’re studying the valour cycles?”
The woman was startled out of her paralysis. “Oh! Yes, that’s why I am here. All of the references in the Caernon library are poor copies of copies that were made here. You’ve seen this book before?”
“I’m very familiar with it. I don’t mean to pry, but how are you finding it?”
Twyla flushed. “It’s been heavy going. For the last several days I’ve been racking my brain for a reason I can’t follow the author’s main thesis.”
“That’s probably because he is a lunatic drunkard,” Bemere said. “One of my father’s uncles, in fact. If I were to offer advice, it would be to enjoy a pot of nightclover tea, or even chewing a bit of waxleaf before you attempt to read this nonsense. It won’t aid in your comprehension, but at least you’ll be more entertained by old Cejum Orpharides and his mad fantasies.”
“More than a cup or two of nightclover and I’m entertained by my own toes,” Madeline said. “Twyla, I must warn you that Lady Bemere can have an odd sense of humor at times.”
“Who’s making jokes? That’s how we got through this nonsense every time someone made us read it. Which was a lot, since he was family and all.”
Twyla relaxed enough for an actual laugh. “I had the same idea yesterday but dismissed it as irreverent. If we were to travel together, could you perhaps explain where Cejum Orpharides has gone astray?”
Bemere grinned at her. “It would be simpler to point out where he spoke accurately. But it would be my pleasure to answer whatever questions you have,” Bemere said.
“That would be amazing! When do you plan on leaving?”
“There’s a break in the highup weather coming soon, to get through the pass I will have to ride at dawn tomorrow.”
“That soon…of course. I’d best start packing.” Twyla said.
“I’ll send someone to wake you before dawn,” Madeline assured the woman.
The maestra got up and closed the book, knocking her inkwell over in the process. The black pool spread out across the table, headed for the mage’s notes, as well as the ancient book. The mage made a sound of dismay but before she could do more, Bemere’s hands moved as though she was shaping something unseen. A small current of air swept past them and whirled the ink off the table. Both women were staring as Bemere reached over and righted the inkwell. The black blob then poured itself back into the clay jar and the eddy of air vanished.
“You’re a mage?” Twyla breathed.
“No, nothing like that,” Bemere said firmly. “I’ve just picked up a few stage tricks over the years. Tomorrow morning then?”
They left her frantically rolling up scrolls as they stepped back into the private corridors.
“What do you think?” Bemere asked, once they were back in the passage that led to the stairs.
“She was coherent when I asked about her research. I think she’ll calm down. In any event, getting a single baby maestra to Grand Locks still isn’t too much of a challenge.”
“Are you certain?” Madeline asked, doubt obvious in her voice.
Bemere touched her arm. “Seriously, she won’t be a problem.”
“Then thank you, I will send my reply to the Selenic Court with a clear conscience.” Madeline said, stepping close. “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”
“Obviously I am at your service, Madeline.”
“And I am at yours. So, I propose we return to the apartments and find some novel ways to service each other. If the rest of them are still there, they can watch. Or perhaps even help us.”
Bemere grinned. “You’re quite insatiable, my lady. Are you perhaps half elf?”
Madeline chuckled. “Didn’t anyone tell you, lovely one? Lust and perversion are human inventions.”
As an answer, Bemere pulled on the sash that held up Madeline’s pants, untying the knot. The light silk fluttered to the floor and underneath, the princess was bare. Bemere put a hand on the princess’s warm hip, making her shudder as the elf gently, but firmly, turned her to face the wall.
“If you’ll bend forward and put your hands against the wall there, your highness, I’ll begin my rebuttal to your obviously flawed theory.”
Madeline sighed as she leaned forward against the wall. “I’m eagerly waiting to be taught the truth then.”
Bemere knelt behind her and Madeline moaned softly as the elf’s hands tightened on her hips. A moment later, her tongue ran along Madeline’s , pushing the princess into an immediate orgasm. After another minute of the elf’s lips and tongue on her cunt, Madeline shuddered and pulled away.
“If you make me scream in here, there will be rumors of a specter in the castle,” the princess gasped.
Bemere smiled, lifting Madeline’s trousers back up her legs. “And it would probably be bad manners to leave your keep full of ghosts. Your apartments then?”
“Goddess, yes. I’m eager for the rest of your lesson.”
~~~~
Early the next morning, the prince and princess walked Bemere down to a door into the stables. Cal unlocked it and then took her hand.
“I do hope you’ll pass this way again soon,” he said, kissing the soft flesh of the inside of her wrist.
Bemere squirmed at little at the sensation of his stubble on her skin. “No more than a year, your highness. If I can stay away for that long.”
“Then here you are always welcome, whenever you come,” Cal intoned, voice falling into an archaic form of songchant. “Beggar or ruler, you are always called friend and kinswoman at my hearth.”
“Here stands my arm, blade, and fortune, to keep your fires warm and bright,” she answered, completing the ancient exchange of blessings.
Madeline put her arms around Bemere and held her closely. “You are a delightful surprise, my newest sister and friend. Travel swiftly back to us.”
“Like I was the darkdays wind,” Bemere promised, kissing them both once more before disappearing through the door into the gray halflight of early dawn.
The maestra didn’t look like she’d slept much, if at all. Her notes and supplies took up three entire packhorses and even then, the large leather cases were double stacked.
“They’re just scroll cases,” Twyla said, seeing the look on Bemere’s face. “They’re very light, I don’t want all of my hard work crushed and smudged.”
“Chests are light as feathers,” the royal hostler confirmed. “Them ‘uns not carrying half the usual weight.”
“Then we’re on our way,” Bemere said, beginning to check the saddle the hostlers had put on the gray that she’d be riding first.
Minutes later, the travelers rode through the castle gate and down into the twisting city streets. They were narrow, the upper stories overhung the street, making it seem like more of a tunnel. But the houses and streets were clean and free from stink. A few early risers even waved in silent greeting as the horses clopped past.
The city gates were just opening as they arrived, and the night guard was marching away to their barracks. The day watch waved them through the archway and Bemere’s practiced eye took in the wellmaintained masonry, the relaxed, but professional postures of the guards, and the boltthrowers that looked new. The Sands were fortunate to have custodians that understood wealth. Now, if the rest of the human kingdoms could become as enlightened.
Their horses slowed a bit as they began the long climb up the towering mountain ridge that sheltered the city from the landward side. Bemere glanced at her companion. Twyla had added a blanket to her long coat, huddling inside as they rode through the morning mists. Bemere half closed her eyes and entered the moment’s valour, a complex contemplative state the fae used as sleep.
When she felt the horse slow again, Bemere stretched her arms and sighed contentedly. She looked around, realizing that they’d made much better time than she’d expected. They had arrived at the last wayhouse before Gateman’s Notch, but it was only a little past sunsheight. Far above, the wind called Breath of the World, roared over the mountains.
Bemere shuddered at the sound and dismounted, leading her horse into a kind of courtyard in the middle of the low stone huts. Twyla did the same, looking mystified at the buildings. The tops of them were no higher than her waist.
“Is this for Understone folk?”
Bemere smiled. “This is a caravan wayhouse. These are built halfunderground to make them stronger and warmer.”
Twyla looked back down the steep track they’d come up. “There are actual caravans using this road?”
“There has always been a lot of trade between the Sands and the Downslope Counties. Right now, the canal takes most of the cargo. Cheap, but very slow. For smaller items or things required in a rush, this is still the best way.”
“And are we stopping for the night? It’s barely past midday.”
“Yes, this is the last stop before we come to the pass. It’s not a climb to risk at night, even when the weather is good.”
Twyla began unloading her horses as Bemere led her pair down the wide stone ramp, down into the stable. She unloaded her gear and went back outside to help Twyla. The boxes were as light as she’d promised, and it didn’t take long to get them stacked inside one of the sleeping shelters and the rest of the horses into the stables. After another hour, the horses had been curried and their hooves checked. Then the pair carried their own gear down into another shelter. The walls were massive stone blocks and a slab of stone provided the roof over their heads.
“The wind up here must be terrific,” Twyla said.
“You will live a fortunate life if you never find out,” Bemere said, getting her weather glass out of its case. The fluid inside bubbled and sloshed itself around, disturbed by the jostling of the ride. “I’ll be outside for a bit.”
Twyla followed, watching curiously as Bemere put the device on a stone bench. Then she realized what she was looking at.
“That’s a real weatherglass!”
“You’ve seen them before? This one is a little grumpy, but the sunlight will help some. It’ll take a while before it can manage a coherent prediction,” Bemere said, settling onto the thick grass on the ground.
“Is it possible for the weather to change so much in a single day?” Twyla asked.
Bemere shrugged. “It’s not likely, but possible. I will not chance another meeting with the Breath of the World.”
“How bad is it?”
Bemere didn’t answer at first, just leaned back against the sunwarmed stone wall. She sighed, as though she was falling asleep, although her eyes remained open. Twyla was embarrassed, wondering if she’d asked too much. She contented herself with the view down the mountain and out over the islandstrewn sea far below.
“My first visit to these lands was during Straum’s Rebellion,” Bemere said quietly. “I was a horsearcher for the Companions of the Leaf. We fought in the highlands, keeping the Veracti clans penned within their own borders.”
Twyla found herself staring at the elf again. The Companions were halfmythical, and she’d heard scholars argue if they’d ever existed. But here she was, sitting beside one of those Companions, who casually mentioned taking part in a war more than fivehundred years in the past. Then she realized her staring was rude and looked away again. Thankfully, Bemere hadn’t noticed. Her eyes were lost in the sky as she relived her memories.
“We rejoiced when the pretender finally abandoned his claim. My company had been in Tulamere, the human lands, long enough for our hearts to ache for the woodlands and steppes of our home. Word finally came that ships were waiting at Brynjarl Sands to carry us home. I don’t know if the human kingdoms have created the like, but elfish archers take great pride in their speed. Even more so for the mounted archers, our bows kept the rest of the legion safe. Our company had been given the vanguard because our captain, Utsil, had gotten word that his wife was near the end of her pregnancy. It was well understood that he was in a hurry to be with her. Children are exceeding rare for us and we all rejoiced with him, pressing forward as quickly as we could, wanting him to be there for the birth of his child.”
Twyla looked at the elf curiously but didn’t ask any of the questions that crowded her mind. After a few more minutes, Bemere continued her memory.
“We left during darkdays in the highlands. It is a long, harsh season there, full of violent weather. But as we came down, signs of the darkday’s retreat began to appear. By the time we’d reached the borders of the Slope Counties, the sunwake was well underway. The vivid green and pale colors of emerging treeflower were bandages for our memories of the bitter cold and dark…”
Bemere paused again, thinking back.
“It sounds beautiful,” Twyla said quietly.
The elf smiled. “It was indeed beautiful, and I know that my affection for these lands began there. We knew we were close to the Sands and abandoned all pretense of riding vanguard and raced upslope, full of pride and urgency to take our captain home. Along the way, we were warned about the winds in Gateman’s Notch repeatedly. Darkdays still lingered in the Thunder Havens and the winds were said to be violent and unpredictable. To my shame, we made jokes about those who tried to warn us, saying among ourselves that only a human could fear the very air around them. We continued to ignore all their warnings, climbing into the colder air. I convinced myself that darkdays had gone from those heights, we were simply seeing an earlier time in the sunwake season.”
Bemere shook her head sadly. “What fools we were. Near the top of the slope, Utsil saw that bad weather was coming and challenged us to move even faster. The sunwake storms could last a week or more and while they blow, ships do not stir from anywhere within the Brynjarl Sands. He could not stomach the idea of waiting that long, so we climbed even faster, eating and contemplating valour in our saddles, stopping only long enough to change mounts.”
Bemere sat up and checked the weatherglass. The liquid inside had calmed a little, but still bubbled and frothed in its reservoir.
“There was wind in our faces when we arrived at the beginning of the notch. It was as much as we’d guessed, about the same as a storm at sea. Unpleasant but bearable. We rode ahead, and about halfway across the first of the Breath came. It was strong, nearly beyond comprehension, and the bitter cold made my head pound. One of the horses spun and tried to flee. The unfortunate beast only went a couple of spans before being swept off its feet and tumbled along like a leaf. Mercifully, it was soon killed and its screaming was silenced. Then the Breath faded away.
“We rode hard for the far end of the notch until the Breath returned. We stopped where the stone had split into a large crack in the cliff wall. It was enough of a shelter from the wind that we could hear each other if we screamed. The captain and his lieutenants were certain that our only hope was to race forward when the gale lessened. Me, and a few others, were just as sure that our only hope was staying put until the storm had subsided. None of us could convince the others, so we said farewell. When it became eerily silent again, most of the company rode hard for the exit. We loosed our horses and they fled in the opposite direction. It didn’t take long for the wind to return this time, not nearly enough time for Utsil and the others to make it out of the notch. It blew for three days and two nights like that, a pause long enough to make you think it was over, followed by the screaming roar enveloping us again.”
Bemere stirred and checked the weatherglass. “I heard that sound fivehundred and sixtythree human years past. And I swear that I can still hear the sound like it was yesterday. That is the strength of World’s Breath.”
~~~
The next morning, Bemere was moving around before the sun. After washing her face, the weatherglass was next to occupy her attention. She watched a wide aquamarine band twitch and spin for half a minute before nodding to herself. Picking up the complicated glass shape, she returned to the hut she’d shared with the mage last night. And at the moment, Twyla was a mess of ashblonde hair at one end of a roll of blankets.
“On your feet, maestra,” Bemere called. “We’ve a long way to travel and the sun is shining.”
Twyla managed to sit up. “Ooh, I haven’t ridden a horse since I left Osh Caernon.”
Bemere grinned. “Only one way to fix that, maestra.”
“Don’t remind me,” she groaned.
A few hours later, the horses were picking their way through the low, twisted pines that made up the high forests. The sun beat down on them, heating the gap between trees to a temperature closer to longdays instead of sunwake and Bemere was grateful whenever they crossed the open breaks between the trees. The wind was stronger out here and Twyla began to fidget. When Bemere called a stop to break their overnight fast, the mage worried more about the weather than eating.
“Perhaps we should press on?” She asked as the elf swung down out of the saddle.
Bemere seemed amused at her worry and motioned Twyla to dismount. “I promise, the skies are clear, and the sun is warm. We will be through the notch two hours from now and it’s still a half day to the first wayhouse on the Slopes. Also, I am hungry.”
Twyla ate some bread and cheese, watching as Bemere took flat bread and smeared some sort of paste on it. She added two large pickled peppers and rolled it up and took a large bite. Even a few paces away, the scent of the peppers made Twyla’s eyes water and a moment later she sneezed. Bemere swallowed and moved to the mage’s other side.
“I forget that lady peppers don’t agree with very many people. My apologies.”
“I didn’t realize that elf stomachs were made of cast iron,” Twyla laughed.
“Until we eat flesh at least,” Bemere agreed. “I was tempted by the smell of cooking bacon once. As soon as I began to chew, my stomach…a rebellion is the least uncouth description. And it maintained its insurrection for the rest of the day. As wonderful as bacon smells, I am no longer tempted to sample it.”
Twyla’s stomach rumbled loudly at the mention of bacon and they both laughed.
“Why is it called a lady pepper?” Twyla asked, flushing slightly.
“Have you ever seen a fresh one?”
When Twyla shook her head, Bemere went to her horse. It whinnied and backed away from her, eyes wide. The elf sighed and walked back to carefully put her meal on a flat rock. She tried again, and although it huffed, the mare allowed Bemere to take a leatherbound book from a saddlebag.
Opening the clasps, the elf sat beside Twyla and opened the thick book. She paged through it until she found the illustration she was looking for. Twyla looked closer and then blushed. Bemere noticed her discomfit and wondered why.
“What volume of botany is that?” Twyla asked, noticing the other plants recorded on the opposite pages. “The illustrations are very well executed.”
Bemere smiled. “Thank you, that is my handiwork. But these are my travel notes. Since the things I like to eat can be called different names, it’s often easier to show a sketch.”
“Your skill is admirable,” Twyla said. “I’m envious of your drawings and clear writing hand.”
“I’ve had a long time in which to practice,” Bemere said. She went to put her notes back and retrieved her breakfast. It disappeared after a few bites and she sat on the ground and began to stretch.
“This would help your sore muscles,” she explained.
Twyla tried to copy Bemere, but the unfamiliar exercises made her clumsy. Bemere watched, trying to describe the movements but saw that she was just making the confusion worse and finally asked permission to touch the maestra. Twyla nodded and the elf gently pushed her arms and legs into the proper positions. The human woman sighed in relief and discomfort at the same time.
“That’s the way,” Bemere said. “It’s part of a larger sequence of movements that stretch and exercise your body. I’ll teach you, if you like. Doing them every day will keep you fit and strong, and if you ever bear children, the exercises will help your birthing pains.”
Twyla laughed. “I’d very much like to learn that. But I won’t be giving birth to anyone in this life.”
Bemere gave her another curious look but didn’t ask. “We’ll start this evening then. And it will likely aid your studies of valour. Both practices come from the same greater knowledge.”
“Humans can actually learn the valour?”
“Of course. Learning the proper contemplation of valour is a lifelong process but they are simple enough to understand. I judge that you are more than intelligent enough to understand the principles.”
Half an hour later, they emerged from the last of the high forest. This high, the evergreens were twisted into fantastic shapes by the constant wind. Both travelers sighed in relief as they emerged out of the growth and into an open moss and stone covered expanse. A cool breeze quickly blew the sweat and discomfort away. Above them, a slope made up of the stones and gravel led up to solid grayyellow stone. Twyla was uncomfortable in the open air and glanced up at the sky often enough the Bemere noticed.
“We’re safe, Twyla. There are always clouds when the Breath comes. And we’re close enough that we’d hear the sound it makes blowing through the notch.”
After a short time, they had arrived at a path that consisted of wide stairs carved into the living rock. Bemere dismounted.
“We’ll lead them from here. Horse folk dislike these heights even more than we do and there is less air for their lungs here.”
Twyla followed her example and the pair checked to make sure all of the leads to the spare mounts were secure. When that was finished, they began climbing the steps. Looking above and ahead, Twyla could see where the ridgeline had a large bite out of it. Her horse whickered as she stumbled over a stair and Twyla focused all of her attention on the stairs. So, she was surprised when the climb was abruptly ended, and they emerged onto the floor of the notch. Tall cliffs fenced in the cut to either side, bare stone sculpted into weird shapes by the force of the wind. Thankfully, the floor was just as bare and, despite their complaints, the horses pranced a bit, knowing they’d passed the hardest part of the journey. Bemere’s face was drawn and anxious and, without saying anything, she began leading her horses toward the distant opening.
Twyla followed her and the scuff of their feet on the stone echoed as loudly as the horses’ hooves. After half an hour, Bemere paused beside a crack in the cliff wall. She dropped her reins and climbed into the space. Twyla went and stuck her head in but saw that the elf was speaking quietly, touching the stone walls. It wasn’t much more than a shallow alcove and Twyla shuddered as she imagined being jammed in there for days. Quietly, she left the elf to her remembrances and returned to the horses. When she emerged again, Bemere looked sad but was composed. She took the reins of her horse and they led them toward the eastern end of the cut.
“How many of you stayed behind?” Twyla asked quietly.
“Fourteen to start. Beryn and Chloe disappeared at some point, but no one could say when. I like to think that they succumbed to the cold rather than being plucked away by the wind. It would have been a far kinder death. Twelve of us walked down to the waiting ships from here.”
“What of Utsil’s child?”
Bemere smiled. “That’s a far happier postscript to the tale; he had a daughter. She was named Herron, and all twelve of us have adopted her in our own ways. She lives nearby and I’ve been fortunate enough to watch Herron grow into the strength of her father, tempered by the gentle humor of her mother.”
“Do you have any children?” Twyla asked.
“Thankfully, no. Among the fae, I am not considered much older than you are. I am in the stage of life for travel and learning, I would make a terrible mother just now.”
When they reached the eastern end of Gateman’s Notch, the view was of a seemingly endless slope falling away, green with grass and nothing like the western end. To the south, they could see the beginnings of the northern plains. At the eastern extent of their view, a smudge marked the town of Grand Locks. And to the north, the land climbed into the first of the craggy ridges that were so common a feature in the highlands.
“I’ve always wanted to go out and see the world,” Twyla said. “I didn’t imagine there were places you could see it all at once.”
“What places do you most want to visit?”
“I don’t know, this has been my first journey away from Osh Caernon. Probably my last as well, but at least I have seen this.”
Bemere looked concerned. “Why won’t you be able to leave again?”
“My family name is ap Tur. Are you aware of what that means?”
“I’m familiar with the word ap, or I used to be. It means of, or from, if I recall correctly?”
Twyla nodded, looking away from her. “That’s correct. And tur is an old highland word for tower. From the tower means that I’m a foundling. I was left beside the scullery door when I was only a few months old. The Pale College is my home, and, unfortunately, my family. I do not know what my teacher has planned next, but I’m certain it won’t be further travels.”
There was a deep sadness in her voice that pulled at Bemere.
“Well, my learned maestra, you’re here now, seeing great swaths of the Allworld. At least this part of it.”
Twyla did smile then. “That was amazing, yes.”
“There is something here, a sadness, that I do not fully understand,” Bemere said.
The mage shook her head. “It’s not important.”
“We have different interpretations of relative importance then. If the topic distresses you, we can speak of other things. But this is the first time I’ve seen you truly happy.”
“You didn’t see me in the archives then,” Twyla said. “Not really, I mean. All of that knowledge in a single place! I was very happy during my visit, in spite of being sent there as a punishment.”
“Punishment?”
Twyla flushed and sighed. “Maestro Johann finally decided that I had taxed his patience with my constant questions. Somehow, he had me named a full maestra daos, without the exams or trials, and then sent me off to the Brynjarl Sands. He said that it was to give him some time to study, free of my constant pestering.”
Bemere went through her memories of human relationships and the Pale College. “Was he an impatient teacher?”
Twyla shook her head. “We had become something like friends, talking for hours about the hi of Allworld, or geomancy, or any other number of research ideas that we pursued. Until I finally pushed him too far.”
“Hmm. Princess Madeline mentioned a rumor she’d heard recently; there was some unrest among the senior mathmagicians?”
“There’s no way to be sure, but that’s a very common rumor,” Twyla said. “Maestro Johann isn’t part of the Priory, so it’s not as much of a concern for us. It’s odd to visit Brynjarl Sands where everything is done so efficiently, so I don’t see why there has to be a big upset every time the Prior gets too old.”
“That’s true for most kingdoms as well,” Bemere said. “And you’re right, there is no need for it. Ready to move on?”
They arrived at the first wayhouse an hour before night. Here, the shelters were more conventional, although the walls and doors were thicker than normal. After the horses had been attended to, Twyla cooked her dinner, Bemere got her own food out, chanting silent blessings on stewards who understood her stomach. They ate, feeling the fatigue of the day settle on their shoulders.
“I am going to work my muscles,” Bemere said. “If you would like to join me, we could discuss the valour.”
After shedding her heavy scholar’s robes, Twyla was ready and soon the pair were laying on the grass outside. Bemere led Twyla through several different poses, adjusting the mage’s posture and limbs as they went.
“The word valour comes from old elfish and it simply indicates the fullness of a cycle of time,” Bemere explained as they stretched out. “The practice is made up of five parts and we’ll begin with two of the most familiar, gwiddha and kyickmur.
“Gwiddha is the contemplation that provides the opportunity to rest and compose the mind. Its closest human counterpart is sleep, but we do not completely lose consciousness.”
“You never dream?” Twyla asked.
“Not the same way that you might. The idea of a nightmare is terrifying, and we won’t even go into the horror that a loss of consciousness would be. So, after gwiddha there is kyickmur. That is what we are doing right now, strengthening the body and spirit.”
“That’s far simpler than Cejum already.”
Bemere chuckled. “I know. There are fifteen mental states that the practice moves through, at the individual’s own pace. However, once the valour cycle is entered, all of it must be completed, eventually. To stop, or skip, any of the fifteen states is a very wrong thing, only excusable by the death of the practitioner….”
As she spoke, Bemere kept an eye on Twyla’s stretching. Under the heavy, shapeless robes, the mage wore the same style of long shirt that Bemere wore, although it was a light linen opposed the elf’s cobweblight silk. But even through the thicker shirt, she saw the bumps of Twyla’s nipples, standing up in the cool early evening air. She tried to ignore the feelings the sight was stirring up, concentrating on her lecture.
When they’d finished the kyickmur, Twyla was breathing hard and there was sweat on her face.
“How can something so graceful be such hard work?” The mage asked as they got up.
“I used to think the same thing,” Bemere admitted. “You are doing very well though.”
They went back inside the bunkhouse and Twyla picked at her sweatdamp shirt. “This is going to be clammy if I leave it on,” she decided.
Bemere picked out one of the bunks and put her bedroll on the frame. As she turned, she saw Twyla pull her linen shirt over her head, half turned away. Mouth suddenly dry, she watched the other woman roll up her shirt and toss it on top of her pack. The mage’s skin was pale and smooth and as she bent down to find a replacement to wear, Bemere even caught a glimpse of her nipples. She made herself look away, not wanting to panic the mage, or, more importantly, stir up her own desires to the point where she’d do, or say, something foolish. Thankfully unaware of the scrutiny, Twyla unrolled her blankets on one of the shelflike bunks near the hearth.
“Do we need to keep watch?” She asked.
“We’re too far up for casual banditry and these doors have bars. It doesn’t matter though. Remember that my sleep is very different than yours, I will know if anyone comes close.”
“The large boxes are full of copies and notes from the archives, if you become bored,” Twyla yawned.
“That is a kind offer, thank you. I have enough to keep me occupied while you rest.”
Twyla nodded and then yawned again, hugely. “Apologies! I’ve been sitting idle, exercising only my mind for the last three months.”
“Sleep well, maestra.”
Bemere tried to submerge herself in the valour but couldn’t get past the distraction provided by her own body. She’d been able to skip yesterday’s milking without much problem since she’d exhausted herself with Madeline and the others the night before.
But, the gland had been slowly swelling since then, pushing the elf’s mind and body into a state of desire and fierce arousal. And seeing Twyla’s body hadn’t helped at all. She’d thought the woman was stout but under her outer robes, she’d been revealed as breathtakingly curved, so enticingly different than Bemere’s own smaller breasts and lithe frame.
It had been so hard to look away from her body, and she wanted to do so much more than looking. Her body so soft and warm that Bemere could imagine it against her lips. Or, better yet, her tongue. The maestra was sure to appreciate how good Bemere would make her feel…
With a sigh, she realized that she wouldn’t get a moments peace without draining the arousal gland. As she sat up in the bunk, Bemere’s overly sensitive skin sang to her of the tight breeches pressing between her legs and across her backside. She kept her eyes firmly away from where Twyla lay sleeping, and padded across the floor instead, going to her bags and retrieving the case with her necessaries. She’d use one of the other bunkhouses, there was no way she’d be able to keep quiet when the waves of pleasure started. Picking up her lantern, the elf slipped noiselessly out into the night.
The door of the furthest wayhouse was reassuringly tight in its frame. Inside, it smelled of longago fires, but it was free of everything else. Bemere turned her tiny lantern down to a point of light the size of a firefly and unrolled her blanket on the bare boards of bunk. Opening the leather case, she regarded the implements inside. Though they’d been carefully cleaned, her sensitive nose still caught a hint of Madeline’s .
That last night, the princess had begged to explore herself with several different pegos. Bemere’s nostrils flared, hungrily inhaling the scent. She hurriedly pulled her boots and breeches off and stretched out on the wool covered boards, only her long shirt between her maddeningly sensitive skin and the faintly scratchy fabric.
The princess had turned her selfpleasure into a performance for Bemere and Cal, along with Constance and Jera, and their spouses. Not surprising Bemere in the least, the darkhaired and plump Jera had taken charge of the taller blonde as they had watched.
And after Madeline had sated her lust, she’d languorously beckoned for Bemere to join her. That had been what the rest of them had been waiting for, and as Bemere stripped off her clothes, Jera already had Constance on her knees in front of the prince. The blonde had effortlessly taken him down her throat.
Breathing harder at the memory, Bemere slowly pulled at the ties of her silken shirt, one by one, teasing herself. She moaned quietly as the fabric rustled against her aching nipples. After she had fingered Bemere’s , the princess had claimed Cal’s cock. She’d led him to the bed where Bemere was laying sprawled out and guided his prick between the elf’s legs. Then, the rest of them watched as the prince fucked Bemere with powerful thrusts. Cal was a very nice size, her cunt gripped his length perfectly. His eyes had widened, cock getting even harder as she met every thrust with her own inner caresses.
Shirt open to her waist, Bemere twisted to let the silk slide down over her sides, whimpering again as it slid over her nipples. She fumbled for the long pego, the one with the curve perfect for shoving against her yehni, the Seat of Life gland, and the source of all her exquisite tortures. She rubbed the pego against the wet lips of her , moaning. Her legs spread wide and Bemere’s pelvis rose, searching for the prick that would give her release. The first orgasm erupted as the hardness slid into her wet heat.
The shirt had been pushed up high enough that the blanket scratched the sensitive skin of her buttocks as Bemere spread her legs even wider. The pego pushed deeper in and she whimpered as it pressed her seed of life. Taking a deep breath, the elf shoved the curved end against the engorged gland, forcing the buildup of the last two days into her body.
Her large dark eyes rolled back in her head as she cried out, muscles tight and back arched. With her other hand, Bemere fumbled for the rings that pierced her nipples, twisting until they were bright spikes of painpleasure against the thunderclaps of agonizing pleasure coursing through her body.
Finally, she flopped back against the blanket, gasping but also knowing that she hadn’t managed to squeeze out quite all of the lust humor. Instead of a long hard push, she began thrusting the pego in and out of her , hammering it against the gland. The repeated shoves drove her into a haze of continual orgasms. It was only when she’d gotten too sensitive that she’d let the pego fall to the blanket. Her hands pulled at her nipples, coaxing out one more orgasm.
Then there was a scuff in the direction of the heavy door. Startled, Bemere froze for several seconds, trying to see into the heavy shadows pressing around her tiny light.
“Twyla?” She finally asked.
“Yes,” the woman replied. “I heard you cry out and thought you might be hurt….”
“I really tried to stay quiet. I’m sorry,” Bemere said. “My body is in a fertility cycle, so I need to occasionally sneak off and get some relief.”
“Those are real? I’ve read…excuse me. I didn’t mean to intrude on your privacy. I apologize.”
“And I apologize for intruding on your rest. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Twyla stammered an apology and Bemere heard the mage thump against the door as she tried to rush out. “I’m okay,” she yelped, and the door scraped shut a moment later.
Bemere grinned up at the ceiling, wondering how the woman had ever managed to sneak up on her. Then it dawned on her that it had to have been during that first screaming release. Twyla hadn’t just come in, she’d been standing there for at least a few minutes. Watching.
“If I’d know that’s what she liked, I wouldn’t have had to leave the warm wayhouse,” Bemere chuckled, sitting up. She was a little embarrassed, she hadn’t paid any attention to the pleas and fucktalk that she’d been babbling and had no idea if it had included the mage’s name. Still, the idea of performing for an audience was making her wet again.
“I am never traveling during this nonsense again,” Bemere vowed, taking a different pego from the case and spreading her legs again.
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