The entourage of Hadrian clip-clopped along the seemingly never-ending road, its passage heralded by the blare of a lone shawm, which might sound to a particularly imaginative ear like the melodic passing of bowel gas.

In the loving hands of Lady Fione of Cristoria, the shawm swung its tail to the jolly rhythm of her song. To complete the image, the lady was also perched astride a brown horse tethered to a supplies wagon.

All around, yeomen sneaked scandalized glances at the blissfully impervious Lady. At long last, Sir Christopher could stand the sight no more.

"Fione, you know it's improper for women to play the shawm and straddle a horse, don't you?"

The shawm's song petered out mid-note. Fione whipped around to the stern young squire, comically wide eyes glazed with faked innocence.

"Why so?"

"You know perfectly well why!" Christopher snapped. Fione hitched up a seductive smile. Tilting her head, she ran her hand slowly down the length of her shawm. Despite himself, Christopher found his eyes glued to the titillating movement, and his pulse quickening.

"Would you rather I blow on something else, then?" Fione's night-blue eyes sparkled with stars, as her tongue slithered around the shawm's double reed, "A bass shawm, perhaps? You know I love big shawms. The bigger the better."

Christopher's complexion deepened to the exact replica of Hadrian Red. Amidst the gawking yeomen, Simon hollered over a word of wisdom,

"Leave it, Chris. You'll never win."

As Christopher slumped back in his saddle, massaging his temples in defeat, Fione's shawm resumed blaring its triumphant march. Zier raised an eyebrow at Coris, who pointedly avoided his insinuating gaze and urged his horse away from his brother. Sir Jarl rode on at the far front, pretending not to have heard.

Meya stifled a roar of laughter as she lowered her face to the journal—Coris's journal—she had been scribbling and doodling on, hoping to hide her burning cheeks. She loved shawms as well, though she doubt she'd ever be as outspoken about it as Fione.

Meya's eyes swept the surroundings as she tapped her quill on the parchment, seeking a way around the figurative fallen tree on her path. Her gut was sure it had found Agnes's sister, but the nagging voice in her brain (which sounded very much like Coris) insisted she figure out a way to prove it first.

The scenery remained pretty much the same. Hillocks low and high covered with heath. A silent fox emerged from behind boulders, eyeing a doomed red grouse, who was still pecking obliviously, croaking ow ow ow. Gray hares pranced and scampered between the numerous entrances to their warrens. Seas of deer legs moved in the shadows of the forest. Overhead, a peck of skylarks flapped by.

Meya peered into the carriage behind her. Lady Agnes was sound asleep, her head on Gretella's lap, exhausted from all that crying. Gretella was knitting and humming. Arinel was embroidering silver thread onto a blue handkerchief. She shone Meya a quick smile, then refocused on her pastime.

Over in the next carriage, young Lord Frenix had a canvas propped up against the window, his tongue between his teeth as he sketched the landscape, with Lady Amara as his admiring patron. Behind them, Bishop Riddell sat with his head thrown back, snoring.

Across from the alchemist, Lady Heloise's hand reached out from the shadows, flipping the page of a novel. Her bracelet caught the beam of sunlight and gleamed rainbow.

Nothing new here as well.

Meya sighed and slumped back against the carriage. The dreary journey didn't provide much inspiration, and Fione's quirky shawm song wasn't helping her concentration. Deciding to put it aside for now, she turned to the nearby Jerald.

"Sir Jerald, you know Sir Klythe, right?"

The head guard turned to her, eyebrows raised.

"How old is he? What's he like? Is he handsome?"

Jerald cocked his head.

"Should be around twenty now." He gave a slight smile, then offered, "I could draw him for you, if you'd take the reins for a bit."

"Oh. Alright."

Flummoxed, Meya exchanged her journal and quill for Jerald's warm, sweaty reins. As she held the leather strip gingerly in her tense fingers, she watched as Jerald's hand pranced gracefully about on the journal page.

"Here you go."

After about a minute, he handed the journal back to her. Meya gratefully surrendered the reins. She looked down at the sketch on the page, and her eyes nearly popped out their sockets.

"What?" She gawked at the corpulent, smiling face of a bashful young man with fair, curly hair. "He's fat?"

"As fat as his heart. So don't you go belittling him." Jerald scolded with an affectionate chuckle. Meya dipped a hasty little bow in apology. Turning back to the portrait, she marveled at the mastery and the speed with which it was drawn.

"You draw so well. How come?"

"I was a church boy." Jerald shrugged, grinning. "Must have copied a hundred books and drawn a thousand herbs, animals and people in my decade of service."

"Ah." Meya nodded. A question popped unbidden into her head, then straight out of her mouth, "Say, who was fatter, Sir Klythe or young Lord Coris?"

"Did mine ears deceive me, or did I hear the words fat and Coris in the same sentence?"

A familiar voice chimed in from the left. Meya jolted and whirled around, and there he was—present-day Coris Hadrian; twig thin and so pale he seemed to blend into the afternoon sunlight.

At the sight of those twinkling silvery eyes, Meya blushed and turned sharply away,

"Yes, you did." She called back, then muttered to herself in annoyance, "Nosy donghead."

"Perfect, I'd say. Sir Klythe spent more time in Hadrian than Crosset. You'd do better to ask the Lord Hadrian." Jerald suggested. Meya turned to him, then to the staring Coris.

"You want to know about Klythe?" Coris asked. Meya blinked, frozen at the realization.

That's right. Perhaps Coris could help me figure something out. He's a prodigy, isn't he?

Meya eyed the parade of wagons and carriages surrounded by yeomen around her, then returned to Coris,

"How fast can she go?" She nodded at his horse, which was pure black save for a dab of white on its forehead. Coris smirked.

"Jetta? Fast enough to leave you untangling your hair for the whole afternoon." He boasted, "Why?"

"We need some privacy."

Meya rose cautiously to her feet, hands clinging to the carriage. Coris and Jerald obligingly halted their horses. Grasping Coris's outstretched hand, Meya slotted her foot firmly into the stirrup he had just vacated then crossed over.

As Coris ushered Meya sideways onto her back, Jetta neighed and huffed, kicking her hooves, sending the young lady gasping and clinging to her rider; this was her first time on a horse.

Coris secured Meya with an arm around her waist, then leaned down and smoothed the mare's mane with his free hand, whispering reassurances to both his ladies.

Just as Meya was loosening her grip on his tunic and getting comfortable, Coris sat back up, slapped his legs against the mare's sides, and Jetta shot forth like a carcass from a trebuchet.

"Eeeeeeeeeek!"

Coris whooped as Meya shrieked her lungs out and threw her whole weight against him.

"This is for calling me fat!" He yelled in her ear as the wind billowed past them.

"I hope your middle brother gets blisters on his bum cheeks!" Meya hissed through gritted teeth, as Coris slowed Jetta down to a trot; they were now riding far ahead, out of earshot of the entourage. Coris winced at the graphic blessing, then leaned down and whispered,

"Ouch. I thought you love kissing him? Ow!"

Meya rubbed her smarting knuckles, which had just made solid contact with Coris's shoulder. A swathe of black streaked by the corner of her eye, and she whirled around, ignoring her pervert husband's fake whimpers.

They were approaching the summit of the uphill road. The shrubbery on both sides of the sloping path gave way to a sea of queer trees with flat canopies like overturned plates.

The forest blanketed the hills, leading up to a town encircled by a steaming moat and midnight-black stone walls, adorned with similarly black banners and flags.

Beyond the town, a vast expanse of bald, bluish-gray dunes and valleys sprawled towards the shadows of a mountain range, whose summits were lost in lakes of gray-bellied clouds.

Those, Meya reckoned, would have to be the fabled desert at the heart of Hythe; the Sands of Caesonai, and the Blue Mountains.

Coris halted Jetta at the crest of the hill, as Meya strained in her saddle to see past the horse's head. The relentless black of the town's walls was an ominous signal.

"That's Manor Jaise?" She eked out an anxious whisper.

"Hm-hmm." Coris confirmed, a smile laced into his voice. He didn't seem at all alarmed. Meya stared unblinking at the eerie black flags, and the faint shroud of white smoke, growing ever more restless as the seconds tick by.

"Did their Lord die? Have they been sacked? Why are the walls all black? What's with all that smoke coming from the moat? It's been set on fire, it has!"

Coris rocked with suppressed laughter, then leaned down and nuzzled his nose into her cheek. Meya gasped and jolted. She felt her whole face flush. Yet, despite herself, she was privately flattered.

"Everything's fine, Meya." Coris chuckled. He jostled the reins, stirring Jetta to resume her trot,

"Jaise means black in ancient Latakian. It's their color. As for the fumes, Jaise's famous for their hot springs. And last I heard, Lady Winterwen is very much alive."

Meya blinked at the sound of that quaint name, and also the fact that a Lady, not Lord, held power in this town.

"Winterwen?" She repeated. Coris's arms tightened ever slightly around her.

"It means Winter's joy."

"Why, that's one name to kill for."

"So is yours."

Meya bit her lip and dipped her head. She could sense the wariness lurking in that tender voice, and as she recalled their exchange in the morning, she still wasn't sure how to act around Coris, after all the hurtful things she had said to him.

It wasn't that she was still angry with him, but with all the things that had transpired, she just didn't know where to start.

Desperate for a distraction, Meya glanced around. They had almost reached the forest of flat-topped trees. And now that they were approaching, Meya realized it wasn't a forest, but rather, an orchard; the trees were planted in neat rows, flanked by fuming irrigation trenches.

Dozens of farmers were scattered among the rows. They stood on tiptoes, reaching into the branches, plucking out bright orange, oddly-shaped blobs and squiggles that seemed to have blossomed right out of the bark, dropping handfuls of them into wicker baskets propped on their waists.

The farmers themselves were just as curious. Draped in black cloaks from head to toe. Faces covered in glossy black masks that had holes for only the nostrils, and a grille over the mouths. The sleeves of their tunics, the trousers of their pants and their boots were also black.

Some of them had decorated their veils with colorful beads and embroidery, and their masks with artistic dabs of bright paint, but some left their black unadulterated.

"What are they picking? What are these trees?" Meya asked out of the corner of her mouth.

"Gum trees." Coris whispered back, "They grow only in Jaise, and it's said they keep the Sands from creeping further. Jaise gum are exported all over Latakia. It's a staple in many industries."

"And why are they all dressed like that? Do we have to dress like that, too?" Meya lowered her voice even further. The sight of these eerie, eyeless masked men and women seemed to have sapped the air around her of heat, and she shivered in her cloak.

"Once we enter the wall, yes." Coris clasped her hand in his, holding the reins between them, as he prattled on airily,

"The creed of Jaise is that the world's problems are caused by the judgment of outside appearance. Having two eyes, humans couldn't help but be beguiled by physical beauty."

"So, by covering their bodies in a shapeless veil, and hiding their faces behind a mask, Jaisians rid themselves of vanity or shame towards their own bodies, and judge other people only from their words and actions. Marriages are based on mutual attraction of the heart. A most honest and equal town, in their words."

"But, once they lay together, they'd have to take off their masks, anyway, wouldn't they?" Meya pointed out.

"Ideally, by then they would have already been in love with each other. And, as they have never seen another face outside of their own before, they couldn't grasp the concept of beauty."

"Would it really work that way, though? The comparison would begin the moment they see a second face, anyway. First their wives, then their newborn babes."

"Exactly. There's also the theory that perception of beauty lies in our instincts. It couldn't be subdued unless one is blind from birth." Coris added, then steered away, his voice now lifeless,

"Still, a perfect town for Greeneyes to blend in, I'd say. Your mind is made, I take it?"

Meya froze. It took her a moment to grasp his hint. She turned around to find Coris downcast, slumped in his saddle, hands on his thighs, fingers loosely curled around the reins. Her chest tightened. It pained her to see him so blue, it always did. She reached for his hand and warmed it in hers.

"I'm sorry. About this morning. And last night." She mumbled. Coris remained silent. "I didn't actually mean what I said. I didn't mean to leave—you."

She confessed, the word a mere whisper on the cool breeze. Coris didn't respond with words, yet she could feel his chest against her back, all tensed up, his pulse drumming.

She looked up to meet those wavering silvery eyes. Before she knew it, Coris was leaning down, and she was closing her eyes. As the mare trotted on, as countless strangers looked on, Meya laid back and held Coris close, pressing her lips up against his as hard as he was pressing down. Mingled, salty tears trickled into the mix. Meya drew apart only slightly to take a breath,

"I'm fine now. I'm back." She murmured, shaking hands tucking strands of dark brown hair behind his ear.

"I've done nothing for you." Coris breathed, his voice trembling with guilt. Meya shook her head, rubbing her forehead against his.

"Don't say that. You know you have."

For a moment, they simply held each other. Gradually, their good senses returned. Coris straightened up, pulling Meya upright with him. He glanced nervously at both sides of the road, and Meya felt her cheeks heating up as well.

"You got over it so fast." Coris's voice sounded overly hearty. Meya nodded vigorously, both agreeing not to discuss what they had just done. "I was asking Zier about having Frenix talk to you. You know, as a fellow Greeneye."

"You meant to tell Frenix?" Meya gawked. Coris cocked his head.

"And Heloise, too. We've got to let all Greeneyes know anyway, haven't we? It's just a matter of time."

Heloise.

Oh, Freda.

Meya looked away, churning her lips as she dithered. She needed his help to form a plan. But before that, she must tell him about Lady Agnes. But where should she start? How did one even start telling one's husband his long-lost first love was still alive? And why would one even want to?

Tis no time for jealousy, Meya. You're a big dragon girl. Trust in Coris. He's with you now.

Meya leaned her head against Coris's chest, letting the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against her cheek calm her fraying nerves. As she busied herself picturing the various ways she could go about telling him, and his reactions, Coris nudged his arm softly against hers.

"So, what happened? How did you come to accept it so fast?"

"Just had a talk with Lady Arinel, is all." Meya tried to keep it short.

"What talk?" Coris wasn't easily placated.

Meya finally surrendered with a disgruntled puff of breath. Deciding she should just wing it, come what may, she turned to meet Coris's impatient gaze.

"You really want to know?"

Coris raised his eyebrows, wary, then dipped a few cautious nods. Shaking her head in resignation, Meya drew in a deep breath, hoped for the best, braced for the worst, then let loose,

"Agnesia Graye is alive. Both she and Persephia are hiding in our entourage. Klythe is lost at sea on the way to Everglen, and we need to find him."

Silence fell, interspersed by the sound of Jetta's hooves and snippets of harvest songs from the gum farmers. Meya held her breath, forcing herself to maintain eye contact, even as her eyes were beginning to water.

Coris sat petrified save for his blinking eyes. Then, his eyes rolled up in their sockets, and he toppled backwards in his saddle like a sack of potatoes.

"Coris!"

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A little pronunciation guide;

"Jaise" is derived from the French "le jais" which means "Jet (stone)" and is pronounced /jay/