11:59pm, 23 July 2009
Manchester, New Hampshire

The wind blew gently as Meno sailed over the hurdle. Summer was on the wane, barely, but already night-time was cool and fresh. Memories of the work of the past few months--midnight councils with Ennea, meetings with speechwriters, flights to Washington and back, nights in the library putting together a sketch of Vermont's politics--drifted away with the wind. Now was not the time for that.

His light silk jacket flapped in the breeze. He stood up in the stirrups, letting the wind enfold him. Slowly, he eased one bare foot out of the stirrup and set it on the saddle, and then the other. He shifted his balance to his toes, his knees absorbing Meno's bouncing. Then he slowly extended his knees until he was standing atop the saddle, arms out to either side. Meno maintained a gentle trot, content to go around in circles for a while.

With practiced elegance, Clayton walked up to Meno's shoulders, then quickly pivoted around to face backward. This part was always more difficult for him because of the perspective difference. He deepened the flex in his knees so he could adjust more quickly.

The bouncing was too rough facing this direction. He stepped to the middle of the saddle and pivoted quickly again, wobbling, but catching his balance. He slowly bent his knees and put his hands onto the horn, using them as a support as he lowered himself back into the saddle.

Clayton hopped off Meno as the horse trotted into the stable. He took a brush and gave him a good once-over, and spent some time conversing with the animal, both hands on his nose.

Leaving the stable felt like rising up from a pool of water after immersion.

Back inside the ranch house, Clayton flipped through some of the correpondence from that day. None of it caught his eye. None of the games he had been working on for the past months was pressing tonight.

Something else was calling. Clayton knew enough about Art to know that it was a Muse. And Muses were not to be denied.

On any other night, a couple of centuries ago, he would head down to the tavern and spin stories. But the Squirrel hardly seemed like the place for it. So he grabbed a small digital recorder that he used for these purposes and went out on the balcony, so he didn't disturb Ennea, asleep in the guest bedroom.

The wind picked up and stirred the leaves on the trees nearby, and Clayton let the wind take the words from him and out into the world.

5:39am, 24 July 2009
Manchester, New Hampshire

Clayton's eyes widened as the words he had spoken this night spilled out from the recorder onto the computer screen. He did not recall saying any of them. The wind took him, then the fire of inspiration burned and the words flew like sparks. None of them remained in his mind long enough to imprint on his memory. The feeling was familiar. It had happened many times around the Gypsy fires outside of Paris.

But never with results like this. Most of it was indecipherable--even the voice-recognition algorithm interpreted it as extended ASCII characters--but enough was recognizable that he knew that Someone was pointing directly at him.

Apparently, History had come calling.

Crown of Ivy
Crown of Violet
Crown of Thorn
Crown of Nightshade

Does the War end for warriors who have left the field?
The Raven watches, and knows it does not.

The Crown of Ivy and Thorn rests upon the brow of the Victor,
For in a flash, the Way shall be lit before him with a blazing fire.

And on the field, the Fallen King lies in a pool of blood,
Soaking into the earth. All around, a circle of Violet and Nightshade,
In turn encircled by flames.

The Raven sits where two paths meet, but knows not where they end.