He held it out. Geste took it and neatly tore open one end.

Steam swirled out, though the packet had felt cool in his hand, and a rich, savory odor filled Bredon's nostrils. Geste handed the packet back to him; he stared at it in wonder, then cautiously lifted it to his face.

The smell was irresistable. He took a bite of the brown gel inside the foil.

He had never tasted anything even remotely like it. He had no words to describe the taste, nothing he could compare it to. It was warm, spicy, meaty, with an oily texture that seemed to vanish into dry crumbliness in his mouth.

It was absolutely delicious, and only after he had devoured every last trace did he pause to ask, “What did I just eat?"

Geste glanced at the empty wrapper before tossing it up into the air, where it vanished with a brief flicker of white light.

“Michaud's Delectation #3, Burgundy style,” he said.

“What's Mish… Misho's Delegation #3?"

“What you just ate."

Bredon was not satisfied by this answer, but before he could ask anything more, Geste said, “I'll take care of those injuries, if you like."

“Injuries?” Bredon was sincerely startled; he had already forgotten the various scrapes and bruises, which were far less serious than he could expect to receive any time he went after big game.

“Yes, the bruises on your nose, and those cuts, and that shoulder looks stiff, the way you're holding it. Here, take my hand."

Cautiously, Bredon reached out and took Geste's right hand in his own.

A strange tingling sensation brushed lightly across his palm, and then vanished.

“There,” Geste said, smiling. “That should take care of it; I've put a whole microscopic repair crew in your bloodstream."

Bredon had no idea what he was talking about, but thought better of inquiring.

For one thing, he had just noticed that the platform had not remained still while he ate, and while Geste did whatever it was he had done to Bredon's hand.

He had felt no motion, no acceleration, but when Bredon looked down he saw that they were flying over the grasslands, a dozen meters above the ground, so fast that the land beneath was a blur.

They were streaking westward, toward the mountains, and moving so swiftly that the mountains were growing perceptibly larger with each passing instant.

Not only that, but the soreness in his shoulder was dissolving, and his nose had suddenly stopped hurting; he had no longer been consciously aware of any pain, but its abrupt cessation certainly registered. A tentative touch found no tenderness at all, in either his nose or his shoulder. He glanced at his left arm where he had scraped it on a root and saw the red marks fading away, as were all his other injuries, major or minor.

He blinked, blinked again, and then turned away and simply watched the scenery flying by; he was too frightened to ask any more questions.

Besides, he knew that if he did ask, his voice would tremble, and he refused to give Geste the satisfaction of knowing how frightened he was.

Chapter Six

“The Lady of the Seasons spends every year in search of her lover-though who that lover might be differs depending on who tells the tale, I fear, for the facts are not known to those of us condemned to someday die. Some say that it's Geste the Trickster, whose wandering soul cannot be held even by the love of a Power greater than himself. Others maintain that it's Rawl the Adjuster, and that his sense of justice drives him forth for three seasons each year, to correct the wrongs of mankind and to return only during those bright wakes of spring when all's right with the world. Still others say that it's not one lover she wants, but many, and mortal-that each year she picks anew, but that those she chooses cannot survive her attentions for long.

"Whatever the truth is, in the summer she dwells in the north, holding back the cold and wind, waiting patiently for her love to return. When he comes not, and she grows angry at his dawdling, she moves to her western home, and her rage blasts the leaves from the trees, withers the crops, and drives the sun away, bringing autumn upon us.

"When her fury can no longer be sustained she yields to despair and flees to the south, where she can weep unseen, and the whole world lies cold and dead beneath unchecked winter.

"And there, at last, her love finds her again, and takes her to their bower in the east, where their love brings springtime back to the land…"

– from the tales of Kithen the Storyteller

“Where are we?” Bredon asked shakily as the platform finally slowed and began its descent. They had soared up across the mountains, across peaks wrapped in snow despite the lingering summer, across heights Bredon had never imagined and drops-into canyons, over cliffs, down rubble-strewn slopes-that he had only considered in his worst nightmares. He had lived his entire life on the plains; to be able to look down at treetops, without so much as a railing between himself and kilometers of empty space, was terrifying-but oddly exhilarating, as well.

Most strange and wonderful of all, he had felt not the slightest gust of wind or change in temperature the entire time. This dealing with Powers was an awesome thing.

“That's Autumn House ahead,” Geste said, pointing. “It's just about the time of year when Sheila opens it for the season, and I thought Sunlight might have come to help. She often does. And if she hasn't, Sheila still might know where Sunlight is. If Sheila's here, that is."

Bredon followed the pointing finger and saw a rambling structure that straggled down from a hilltop in a succession of wings and terraces. Autumn House was larger than his entire village. Even if Lady Sunlight were somewhere in it, he thought, it might take hours to find her.

The prospect of seeing Lady Sunlight again, of perhaps speaking to her, was, like the ride through the air, both frightening and exhilarating. His memory of her beauty stirred his lust for her anew, and he forced himself to stay calm and think of other things. “Who is Sheila?” he asked, his voice a little steadier this time.

“I believe you call her the Lady of the Seasons,” Geste replied.

“Ah.” Even Bredon had, of course, heard of her. She was a major Power, who lived in the east in the spring, the north in summer, the west in autumn, and the south in winter. She was said to control the weather, among other things; the spring rains did not come until she had moved from south to east, the grass did not turn brown until she had gone from north to west, and so forth.

Bredon had always considered this to be unlikely, but he had never argued the matter or come up with a better explanation for the turning seasons. He had accepted the Lady of the Seasons as a metaphor or a symbol, and had left the question of her existence open.

It had never occurred to him that she might not only exist, but would have a name, as well as a title, and he would certainly never have guessed she might bear so simple a name as Sheila.

Of course, that name might just be a nickname Geste used.

It had also never occurred to Bredon that he might someday meet her.

He was reminded again that he was here, in mid-air, dealing with the Powers directly and familiarly-not just people with mysterious powers, but the Powers. This was not just an immense mansion, it was the supposed home of autumn itself. He stared at Autumn House for a moment longer, then stole a glance at Geste.

Geste was whispering, though there was no one on the platform save the two of them. Bredon thought for an instant that Geste was talking to him, then that Geste was talking to himself, and finally decided that he was talking to someone or something that mere mortals could not see or hear, a familiar or spirit of some sort.