At the Queen_s command

Exactly why Mugwump had gone after the reanimated corpse remained a mystery. None of the Prince's books explained that behavior. Mugwump had resumed his normal diet and ate with his usual enthusiasm.

Three days after the storm had begun to blow, it broke. As the stablehands were hitching a team to the Prince's coach, a lone rider, his horse steaming, galloped into the yard. He leaped from the saddle, tossing Nathaniel his reins, and dropped to a knee. "Forgive me, Highness. I've just come from Temperance."

Vlad flicked a finger. "Up, please. You're Caleb Frost."

"I am, Highness." Caleb caught his breath. "Please, sir, I have a message. It's Captain Strake, sir."

The Prince nodded. "We know."

Caleb blinked in surprise. "You do?"

"Mr. Woods brought the news. Terrible thing. Tragedy." The Prince shook his head. "We were just heading into Temperance to let your family know he's dead."

"No, sir, that's not it." Caleb laughed aloud. "Captain Strake. He's come back to us. He's alive!"

Chapter Forty-Four

Otherwhen

The Winding Path

O ne step onto the winding path and the world changed. The wind's whisper became the unceasing crash of breaking glass. With every footfall the powdery snow hissed and popped as if it were burning coals. The sky, where it peeked through between trees, became a luminous grey the likes of which Owen had only seen once before, on the voyage to Mystria. Sailors had pointed at the horizon, paled, and prayed.

Left arm tucked tightly against the hole in his side, he draped his right arm over Quarante-neuf's left shoulder. The pasmorte supported him with an arm across his back. Owen remembered to close his left eye. "Only use your right eye."

The pasmorte' s voice came listlessly. "It doesn't matter. Their magick does not affect me."

Behind him came shouting and two more shots. One hit Quarante-neuf in the lower back. He grunted. He twisted, putting his body between the Tharyngian soldiers and Owen. Owen peeked past and continued sidling along the winding path.

The Tharyngians spread out, their faces serious. An officer snapped orders. The two men who had shot reloaded their muskets with quick and efficient motions. But as they came to reinsert their ramrods beneath their barrels they slowed. Their intensity slackened, their ferocity melted into wonder. Their hands opened and guns fell forgotten.

Owen dared not open his left eye for fear of being seduced by whatever the Ryngians saw. Small creatures with spindly limbs, woven from branches and decorated with moss and mushrooms, played coy games of hide and seek. They peered from behind trees, the light melody of giggles playing through the air. Men laughed and darted forward, stumbling. They emerged from the snow, faces covered, laughing all the more in that tone men reserve for acknowledging their foolishness before women they desire.

Military discipline vanished. The officer bowed, sweeping off his hat, then straightening. He offered a gloved hand to a gnarled dryad. He took the creature into his arms as he might a Duchess at some grand Feris gala. They began to dance-he, surprisingly well for wearing snowshoes. His men scattered, chasing other phantom lovers further into the woods.

"We have to get away from them." Owen turned back south, then stopped.

Another of the creatures had emerged. Whereas the others had been made of sticks, this one had stout saplings for limbs and the bole of a tree for a body. Where branches might have topped it, lightning-blasted wooden spikes formed a crown. The creature sat there, knees drawn up, arms wide, eyeless and yet clearly watching them.

Words formed in low murmurs, seeming to vibrate up through the ground. "You know the dangers, yet you come. You do not seem stupid."

Owen removed his arm from Quarante-neuf's shoulder and stood as straight as he could. "There are things outside the path which are worse than whatever fate awaits me here."

"The abomination."

The creature referred to du Malphias' fortress, and a moment's thought revealed why. The walls were formed of this thing's bones, and its creation ate into his domain. The pasmortes, mindlessly pursuing directives, might well have carved into places men would have avoided by instinct alone.

"The abomination's creator is my sworn enemy." Owen chose his words carefully, not sure how Quarante-neuf would react. He wondered if du Malphias' magick could hold sway on the winding path, but Quarante-neuf's continued existence and the hints of pain in Owen's legs gave him a very clear answer. Or did it? He felt more the gunshot wound and the piercing of the nails than the shooting pains his steps had produced before.

"You came to my realm. What is it you wanted from me?"

"We came wanting nothing."

Bass notes thrummed through Owen. Laughter?

"Men always want something."

"I just want to go home."

"Of course you do." The creature climbed to one knee, towering over them. "You brought my children playthings."