Prologue ... 1 ... 2 ... 3 ... 4 ... 5 ... 6 ... 7 ... 8 ... 9 ... 10 ... 11 ... 12 ... 13 ... 14 ... 15 ... 16 ... 17 ... 18 ... 19 ... 20 ... 21 ... 22 ... 23 ... 24 ... 25 ... 26 ... 27... 28... 29... 30 ... Epilouge ... Glossary

Chapter 2: Myrdd the Mentor

Esmeree hugs her knees beneath the pews of the main room. Next to her, Candy does his best to wedge his bulk under with her. His long lashes bat in confusion. Esmeree’s been watching the other fishers for a long time. Usually, she gives up long before now–and she and Candy go and play dress-up or "The Princess and the Queen" or beg on the streets–but today is different.

Esmeree tilts her head and watches the show playing out before her. This morning, Drake’s bay dealers came with the latest batch of their drug, and sticks and fishers are falling over themselves to buy what they can. Some are buying for their own use, but some are risking everything in the hopes of selling it for a big profit. The air is thick with its heavy odor, and Esmeree craves just a tiny taste.

But getting high is really the least of her concerns right now. Becoming a fisher has been a rude awakening for her. It is a lot of responsibility for such a little girl. She needs to earn her keep if she wants to stay in the Mill, and this week, she is dangerously close to coming up short again. Every time she comes up short, Drake sends her to the brothels to make up the difference. Eventually, they will just throw her out–or worse, send her to the factories–she’s sure of it.

The brothels and expulsion are the least of the Lady’s punishments. She saves the factories for those fry who misbehave or are too small or dumb to do other work. Fishers go there when they can’t earn their keep. They say you work in the factories until you die, and then they chop you up and make automata out of you so you can keep working.

Compared to the threat of the factories, the dock brothels are merely a nuisance, yet after several nights with the strange men of Cliffs Reach, Esmeree has learned to miss Craig’s more tender ministrations.

The first weeks after becoming a fisher were the worst. She begged, stole, and ran bay leaves for the Black Embers, but despite her best efforts, every week she failed to earn her share of the Guilders. Frequently, the bigger fishers just stole the money from hers, but most of the time, she just didn’t know how to earn her share.

But that was before she found Candy. Since she hooked up with him, things have improved enormously. Normally, his pretty face easily earns enough money on the docks, but this week has been bad. The weather has been foul, ships have been rare, and sailors and merchants interested in what Candy has to offer have been in short supply.

Today, Esmeree considers a new opportunity. She’s heard from some beggars about a tavern that wants to buy bay leaves, but so far, no one wants to run the delivery. Esmeree fingers the copper Guilders she and Candy have already earned this week. It’s probably enough to buy the bay. Esmeree suspects that selling it to the tavern keeper would cover their marker with the Lady and maybe even have enough left over for a little party.

Candy tugs on Esmeree’s ragged smock. "Easy? What’re we doin’ here? C’mon, let’s play!"

Straightening her legs, she rolls onto her stomach and crawls out from under the pews. Candy tries to follow, gets himself stuck, and eventually has to back his way out.

Esmeree stalks across the main room and tugs on the bay dealer’s pant leg. The big Ulbandi trader looks around and eventually down at Esmeree. He wears rraakk skin armor–quite a prize in his homeland–but his face is scarred like a Mynyddi. Esmeree wonders if Drake grows the drug in Ulbandus or Mynydd.

The dealer’s eyebrows rise. "What’s this, baala, khat? I have navât coppers to give away, fry."

Esmeree glares and raises her fist full of coppers. "Got coppers. What I wants is bay."

The man frowns, but his rebuke stalls in his throat when Candy trots up. The boy is hardly an impressive sight, but he’s better than nothing. Nearly half again Esmeree’s age, he’s old enough to be a fisher, maybe even a stick. He has newly begun showing muscles in his chest and shoulders, he’s just begun growing hair in interesting new places, and his voice varies between a croaking squeak and a rumbling bass. At best, one could say that Candy appears pleasing and gentle–but hardly threatening–however, the sudden arrival of reinforcements softens the dealer’s reaction. "Kumaarii, that’s a bit more than you’ll need for a night’s pleasure…"

"Don’t want tä take it," she sneers, "Want tä sell it. Got a buyer, got the coppers, just need the bay, uh?"

The dealer blinks and licks his lips, glancing over at Candy and possibly wondering why the older boy isn’t doing the negotiations. Reaching out, he gently opens Esmeree’s hand and counts the Guilders she offers. He shakes his head. "For that much, I can give you half a brick. Deal, khat?"

"Kirze!" Esmeree nods grimly, and the trade is made. Her hands shake slightly as she cradles the dark block of compressed bay. About half the size of her fist, she wonders how many days she and Candy could make it last. She quickly stuffs it into her deepest pocket before other thoughts come to mind.

The trader is slowly shaking his head when Esmeree pipes up. "Hey, trader, yä Ulbandi, yäh?"

He looks down at her and blinks in confusion. "What, khat? Yes, so, khat?"

She gestures over her shoulder to Candy. "Candy is a good boy, yäh? Pretty. Soft lips. Popular with the sailors from Ulbandus. Fer just a couple Guilders, he can be popular with yä too!"

The dealer looks at Candy, who lowers his eyes and blushes. "You’re kidding me." Frowning, he makes to box Esmeree’s ears, but she’s already running for the door. "Get the Hells out of here, you capalas! Mâ!"

Laughing, Esmeree calls over her shoulder, "Maybe later, yäh? Just ask fer Easy when yä gets lonely!"

Candy isn’t necessarily weak of mind–he’s no cuall–he’s more like weak of spirit. He arrived in Cliffs Reach on board an Ulbandi merchantman, and its crew had made rather harsh use of him. Esmeree found him huddling in the Heap, sharing fish trimmings with the seagulls and lepers. To say even then that he was the most beautiful boy she had ever seen would have been an understatement, but it took a lot of work to get him back on the streets and earning coppers.

Since then, they’ve become close playmates. Candy’s size and strength help protect them and their money from the other fishers, and when they’re short, he is always eager to help earn his share. In turn, Esmeree serves as an anchor and guide. It seems all Candy needs is someone to tell him what to do. Since she became a fisher, he is her first fry.

Candy’s long legs keep easy pace with Esmeree, and he giggles childishly. "He seemed very nice, uh?"

Esmeree shrugs as she skips past some non-guild beggars. "Nicer than most, I guess."

"Yä gonna share the bay leaves with Candy, Easy?"

Esmeree scowls and shakes her head. "Nage, Candy. None of us is goin’ tä get this. It’s fer us tä sell."

Candy falls silent for a while. The run up from the Mill is a long one, and the trip will probably take the whole day. Laid out over a rocky hill on three sides–the fourth side consisting of steep cliffs dropping down to the Brack River–Cliffs Reach rises steadily uphill. The Heap and docks mark its lowest points. Rising upwards are the mills, warehouses, and factories of the Foreman Neighborhoods, followed by a thick band of merchants, inns, taverns, and markets in the Guilders, and ending with the rich mansions and churches of Marble Town at the top. The crown is the Citadel, with the Medianist cathedral (under construction) and the Doge’s palace. Esmeree’s path requires her to run almost all the way up to the Citadel and then down the other side, towards the most inland portions of the city. Lots of farmers and Bracks over there.

"Sä," Candy speaks up again, "Yä gonna take all the bay yerself then?"

"Nage! Not unless yä want lots of people tä jam somethin’ up yer butt lots of times!"

Candy falls silent again as he ponders this.

Esmeree isn’t real familiar with this part of town. Called the Homestead Neighborhoods by the sticks, the faces and streets are different than around the Mill. The smells in the air are all wrong. She doesn’t even recognize the beggars in the street. Children wearing long Brackish braids play alien street games with their crèabag balls or chase tourc’h swine. They stop as she passes and watch her with dark eyes.

Candy’s hand is strong and reassuring, and she grips it tightly as she hurries through streets and alleys, looking for their destination. In the end, she has to offer a beggar a pinch of bay off her block for directions, only to find their destination is just a couple doors away.

The exchange with the beggar leaves her morose and angry, so when she spots another one–an old man reading a battered scroll–she can’t resist the impulse to spread around a little misery. Quick as an alf in his greens, she scoops up his copper begging bowl and makes a break for it.

It is much to her surprise that somehow he too gets a grip on his bowl. With nowhere to go, her legs sweep out from under her, and she lands hard on her back. Copper Guilders go spinning in all directions. The beggar peers down at her with concerned, friendly eyes. "Child, what could you have been thinking?"

Esmeree’s retort is cut short when Candy’s knee impacts the man’s chest. "Yä don’t touch her!" he screams, nearly in tears. His fists pinwheel against the beggar’s back and head, "Leave her alone!"

Esmeree leaps to her feet and quickly pushes Candy away from the gasping old man. "C’mon, let’s get the money and go."

They spend several seconds collecting the spilled coins. It results in a pittance, mostly half and quarter coppers. As they begin to leave, the old man pushes himself up and calls after her, "Wait!"

Against her better judgement, Esmeree hesitates, restraining Candy from commencing another beating. "What is it, odocos?"

He waves his scroll at her. "It is money or wealth you’re looking for?"

"They’re the same thing!"

The old man smiles and shakes his head, "Child, the wealth of this scroll is worth more than a million Guilders."

Esmeree gawks at the old man. Already a bruise is growing beneath one of his eyes, and yet he still smiles at her. The encounter has unnerved her, and she doesn’t want to stay any longer. With a rude noise, she flashes the sign of the fig at him and runs for the tavern. Candy pauses just long enough to snort and spit something heavy in his begging bowl before following.

The old man shouts after her, "Beware child! Beware where you go! Watch your back!"

The tavern is dark and spacious, almost as though it was designed to accommodate the livestock belonging to the farmers it caters to. Tables are wide apart, and the floor is covered with straw. Esmeree wonders why building space down by the docks is always so precious, but up here they seem eager to waste it.

Behind the bar, in line with the doorway, is a tall stack of heavy barrels. Esmeree figures it’s easiest to just roll them in from the street that way. She wonders what’s in them.

Three boys of Candy’s age and older are in one corner playing tiles with real Söderkarl runes. She hears them curse and mutter with each toss.

Hearing her enter, the barkeep walks in from a doorway behind the barrels. He’s a hairy man, his beard heavily braided in the Brackish way. He squints down at her, "What’s this, uh?" His burr makes him hard to understand.

Bolstered by Candy’s presence behind her, Esmeree screws up her courage and announces, "Yä lookin’ fer bay leaves, yäh?"

The man’s jaw drops, and the boys in the corner grow silent. "Why do yä ask such things? Who sent yä, inigena?"

"Na one sent me. I just have the bay yä want."

The barkeep looks skeptical and glances at the boys in the corner, "Let’s see this bay of yers."

Esmeree shakes her head, "Money first, yäh?"

He smiles at the boys. "Yäh, she’s quite the salesman, isn’t she? Will be right back, inigena, we will." Scratching at his beard, he slowly circles his bar and disappears among the barrels.

When he returns, he has a thick leather bag that hangs heavy with money. He drops it on the bar with a solid clink of many coins. "Here’s the money. Let’s see the bay."

Smiling, she produces the block, now a little frayed at the edges. The barkeeper seems genuinely surprised as he walks forward and inspects it. "By the rix, she has the stuff, yäh me mosacs?"

The boys quit their game and approach for a better look. With a deft flick of his wrist, he throws the bay into the hands of the largest. Suddenly, Esmeree is feeling very uncomfortable. "Give me the money now!" she demands.

The Brack shakes his head and points at the bag on the bar. "There’s the money, but it’s not fer yä, me inigena."

"Gimmie the money, please," she asks, beginning to sound desperate.

"This is what that bitch Andelliza sends our way, uh? This?" He reaches out and grabs her, staring hard at the tiny girl. "By Pennenc, she’s just a smarach! A baby!" He shakes her hard, "I’ve taken shits that’re older than yä!"

"Yä let Easy go!" growls Candy.

The Brack barks back, "Yä just watch yer tongue!" He smiles back down at Esmeree, "Else, little Easy here might get bit, uh?"

The lead boy growls something in Brack, glaring at Candy. Candy surges forward, viciously shoving the barkeep. The blow moves the bigger man very little, but at least it breaks his grip on Esmeree. She backs away towards the door with Candy, the Bracks following them slowly. "OK, listen here, me smarach. The bay is ours. That’s the price fer enterin’ our neighborhood. Understand, boduus?" he spits. "But inigenas have their uses, uh? If yä wants tä join us, yä can."

He snorts as the boys move closer, circling to block the exit, "But that cuall eunuch of yers, we’re goin’ tä have tä hurt."

Esmeree swallows. "Mr. barkeeper, is there anythin’ in those barrels?"

This seems to surprise the Brack, and he glances back at them. "Courmi beer, the best. Perhaps after we’re done here, yä and I can have some up in me room, yäh? Or maybe yä’d like some uinom?" He laughs. Esmeree thinks, beer fizzes when you shake it. Those barrels look real heavy. She remembers Craig laughing at her when she tried to stack the geOl logs last Grey Season and they kept rolling apart.

Already, she can feel her ember trembling. Rubbing it through her smock, she hopes it understands what she’s thinking. She backs away from the barkeeper until she feels the hands of one of the boys grab her shoulders from behind.

With a sudden scream, Candy leaps at the largest boy, driving his fingers into his eyes. The second boy falls in on him. The barkeep smiles, "Come, me inigena, let’s go upstairs. I promise I’ll–"

Something thumps one of the barrels so hard, the whole stack shudders. The barkeep looks over at the bar and then back at the boy holding Esmeree. "By the Ice, what was that?"

There’s another thump, and thin jets of white foam begin shooting from between the slats of the bottom barrels. With the third thump, the bungholes of three bottom barrels explode, sending yellow-white geysers of foam spraying onto the floor.

Eyes wide with surprise and fear, the barkeep rushes for the pyramid, bellowing, "Quick! Help me with these!"

With the bulk of the beer inside them gone, the bottom barrels can no longer support the weight above. The endmost bottom barrel launches itself horizontally over the wooden wedge as the full barrels collapse downwards. With a terrific roar, barrels both empty and full crash into and over the barkeep.

The boy behind Esmeree hesitates and then flees.

Turning to check on Candy, all Esmeree sees is the largest boy, his face covered with vicious scratches and blood. He leaps on her, driving her head into the floor. Fists smash into her face, crushing her nose, closing her eyes. Blows rain down on her. The world begins to dim.

With a crash, the beating stops, and the boy is dead weight on top of her. The back of her clothes and hair become damp with beer and blood.

Weakly, she pulls herself out from under the boy, and welcome hands help her to her wobbly feet. Wiping blood and beer from her eyes, her vision finally focuses on the old beggar. One hand holds his scroll, now ruined from its impact with the boy’s skull.

Looking a little puzzled, he examines the girl standing before him. Her nose bludgeoned, her eyes blackened, soaked in beer, tears, and blood, this ragged barefoot girl still stands defiant, her fists clenched, though a little unsure of where the next assault will come from. "Child," he murmurs quietly and raises his scroll, "Worth more than a million Guilders." She raises her chin slightly, though her lip quivers. "You should look to your friend," he nods to the crumpled heap where the Bracks left him.

Her mouth drops open, and she scrambles to Candy’s side. Though his face is crushed and barely recognizable, his eyes open and focus on her. A gurgling noise bubbles from his mouth, and somehow Esmeree recognizes it as her name.

"Oh, Candy," she blubbers, "It’s OK! It’s OK! I’ll make yä better!"

The old man kneels next to her and begins examining him. With the discovery of each new injury, his throat makes grimmer and grimmer noises. When he investigates the widening pool of blood beneath his body, he finds several deep gashes in his side and back. One of the boys had a knife.

The old man tries to talk to Esmeree, but she doesn’t listen. She bends over Candy, cradling his head and dabbing at the wounds on his face. Her tears and blood mix with his. She tells him over and over how she’s going to make him better, and she rubs at her ember in a desperate effort to fulfill that promise. There is no sensation, no sense of the ember awakening. Esmeree rubs harder. Candy’s finger rises up and touches her cheek and lips. He tries to say something, but she can’t understand him. She’s sure it’s something dumb and silly, like it always is, and she laughs through her tears and tells him so.

Her ember begins to burn, hotter and hotter as her grief and panic builds, but this doesn’t seem like healing magic. The room darkens, the walls, the old man, and even the straw on the floor becoming harder and harder to discern. All she sees is poor Candy’s body, his clothes bloody and rumpled as she clutches at them. His fine skin and beautiful face seem to glow in that darkness. Brightest in his eyes and everywhere his blood flows, the glow bathes Esmeree’s body, soaking into her skin and fueling the fire that burns in her ember.

Slowly, her ember consumes that fuel, and as the glow slowly fades, Candy’s eyes become dimmer and dimmer, until they close and do not open again. Esmeree doesn’t notice until the old man lifts her from his body. She screams, clawing at Candy’s face and hair until she can’t reach him any more, then she directs her sorrow to the old man.

He weathers her storm, carrying her from the tavern.

Esmeree comes to her senses much later. The sky is darkened, the air chilled. The pain in her nose and mouth rages, and it is hard for her to breathe. She wakes on a bed of threadbare rugs, lying in an alley in a part of town she is unfamiliar with. Wherever she is, she is far from the tavern. Her face and arms and legs are clean, but her clothes are sticky with thickened blood. Candy’s blood. She immediately bursts into tears, covering her face in an effort to hide from her grief, and is momentarily terrified by how swollen and alien her face feels.

A comforting hand rubs her back, and calm words soothe her. Swallowing her tears, she rolls over and sees the old beggar sitting next to her. At his feet is a bag of thick leather, much like the tavern-keeper’s. "Where am I?"

"We’re in a part of Marble Town. Far from that tavern. The Crimson Rraakks don’t come here. Too many libraries." His smile fades. "Child, I am so sorry about your loss. He seemed to be a good boy."

She rubs her eyes, "Where… where is he?"

He shakes his head sadly, "We left him where he laid. I could not take both of you, and there was little I could do for him. I am sorry."

Esmeree begins to cry anew, "Nage! We have tä get him! Lady Andelliza can make him better! She can do anythin’!"

The old man looks surprised, "Andelliza? The Lady of the Mill? While I am sure she is powerful, I doubt she can return life to the lifeless…" He examines Esmeree closely. It is not the calculating leer of a fisher, but something kindly that she is not used to.

"However, if she can, well…" He slaps his knees and rolls his eyes at the concept, "You must take my word that, with such power, she wouldn’t need his body to bring him back."

Her eyes widen as the images coming to her mind temporarily suppress her sorrow. Candy’s body delivered to Andelliza, carried upon the shoulders of glowing Fée. Candy’s mindless enraged corpse rising from the tavern floor and lurching its way back to Andelliza, rending limb-from-limb all that oppose it. Candy, materializing happy and whole from a cocoon of pure magic.

"How do yä know?" she demands.

He smiles, "I know something of magic?"

Her eyes widen, "Are yä a wizard?"

He chuckles. "No, I’m no wizard. I just know about magic. I cannot cast it, but I know many things."

He reaches out and pats Esmeree’s knee in a friendly way. When she instinctively shies away, his wrinkled eyes frown with concern, "What life are you living, little one?"

A little embarrassed by her reaction, she shrugs and doesn’t reply.

"What is your name?"

"Easy," she replies.

He shakes his head, "That’s the kind of name I’d expect to hear in some brothel down on the docks." He is so close to the truth, Esmeree nearly smiles. "What is your real name?"

"Esmeree."

He smiles and nods. "A much nicer name. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl. Esmeree, what were you doing in that tavern?"

She shrugs. "Had tä sell the bay."

He sounds surprised, "In Crimson Rraakk territory?"

Esmeree doesn’t understand. Instead, she begins to cry again. The beggar makes a clucking noise and edges closer to her. "Not a safe place for a little girl and her consort. Not a safe neighborhood for anyone from Andelliza’s guild. Not with as much bay as you were carrying."

"Candy protects me," she states defiantly, ignoring the recent evidence to the contrary.

The old man nods. "He was loyal and honorable. I forgive him for the blows he laid upon me."

Esmeree is about to snap a retort when she remembers her theft of the begging bowl and Candy’s subsequent assault. Even in the darkness of the alleyway, she can see the bruise under his eye. "I’m sorry," she murmurs pathetically, "I didn’t mean fer him tä hurt yä."

He smiles, "He did what he thought was best for you. That, I understand and forgive. Besides, I like to think I haven’t become too fragile with my old age," his smiles fades a little, "but I do find it hard to forgive you stealing my money."

"But we needed the money," she wails, pulling at her hair, "Bad things’ll happen!"

"Now, what could…" His voice trails away, perhaps remembering for whom she works and where she lives. Instead, he fingers the heavy leather bag that sits on the ground in front of him. "How much money did you need?"

Esmeree gingerly examines her swollen nose and thinks. "Nearly 50 Guilders."

The beggar purses his lips and nods, examining the interior of the bag. She hears the clink of coins as he searches. Eventually, he extracts one and holds it up, examining it in the dim night air. At last, he hands it to Esmeree. "This should do it."

Esmeree cradles the heavy coin. It’s made of pale metal, the color of the full moon. She’s heard of silver money, but she’s never seen it. "What is it?" she asks in awe.

"Half a silver Guilder, Esmeree. Most people will give you 50 coppers for it. Pretty isn’t it?"

She nods mutely as she admires it. But nothing comes for free, this Esmeree knows very well. Her head snaps up, eye suspicious, "Do yä want me tä…"

"No, no, no!" The old man waves quickly, desperately. "Come any time, Esmeree," he adds, "Any time you need money, and I will have it here."

She looks at him in shock, unsure if he really means it. His kind old face is open and honest, and she wonders what kind of a man he is. The coin vanishes quickly into her clothing. There will be time enough later to admire it. "This would have made Candy happy. He’da liked yer coin." Every time the tears fade, they threaten to return.

"’Candy’ is an odd name for a young man, however…"

Esmeree shrugs and smiles at the memory. "I called him that because he was sweet and fun tä have around." The old man nods. "And," she adds, "because the sailors like tä suck his–"

The old man cuts her off with his hand, "I prefer not to know, thank you."

Esmeree shrugs and fidgets with her pauper’s smock. "Bratos, old man."

"You can call me Myrdd, Esmeree."

Esmeree sits quietly for a long time, struggling with her emotions. She is torn between her fear and loneliness and her need to act grownup in front of an adult. Myrdd watches her patiently. "Master Myrdd," she asks quietly, "Can I stay with yä fer a while? It’s dark, an’ it’s cold, an’…"

"Of course, Esmeree." Myrdd opens his arms and lets her snuggle close. His old body is warm and smells good. Wrapping his blankets around them, he adds, "But only if you let me tell you a story."

Esmeree closes her eyes and nods.

"OK. Once there was a man named Pennenc. He was just a little boy, living far to the south in a land called Ehre, when God first spoke to him…"

***

"What is this? What’s goin’ on?"

It is Esmeree’s first Harvest Celebration, at least the first she could remember–certainly her first since becoming a fisher–and the crowds and noise and colors are enchanting. Holding her hand gently but firmly, Myrdd guides her through the press of villeins as they wind their way towards Ascension Square.

"Child," Myrdd chuckles, "It’s the Harvest Festival!" He kneels in front of her, his eyes sparkling. "A day of celebration and fun. A day for children like you!"

Despite his efforts to be joyous, there is something melancholy about him today, but Esmeree is barely in the frame of mind to notice. She is practically bursting with excitement as she claps her hands. "What can we do? I’ve never had a Harvest Festival before! The Lady never had a Harvest Festival before! What’s happenin’ over there? That smells good!"

Chuckling, Myrdd leads the skipping girl through the press of brightly colored, outrageously masked celebrants. They walk past lines of canvas tents, pyramids of autumn melons, and bound stacks of hay. Flags of every color ripple from their fringes like blossoms. Music and laughter spill from their mouths. Everything and everyone is adorned with bundles of dry straw, nets of swollen fruit, and fresh cuttings of ivy and grape. Men walk around with codpieces so huge, Esmeree figures they have to be fakes, but Myrdd refuses to explain their purpose.

Esmeree’s head spins with over-stimulation. Never, in all her life, has she seen anything like this. She vaguely remembers earlier years, when the fishers would lock the fry up in the Mill, and they would huddle in the darkness, listening to the distant festivities through the wooden walls. Today, she must be very special to be allowed out.

She notes many fry in the crowd, some so much cleaner and better dressed than she is; others, however, are poor like her. They’re all with grown ups–maybe even their tatas and mam’as–and seem to be moving towards the big castle on the top of the hill. Hand-in-hand, Myrdd takes her in that direction too. He is saying something to her–partly serious, partly sad, mostly excited–but she doesn’t really listen to him. There is just too much to see and do!

When they enter Ascension Square, a soldier stops Myrdd, the two of them talk for a little while. Esmeree strains to see around and through the legs of the taller people around her. She’s disappointed that she can’t see the pretty picture on the ground around the fountain; there are just too many people and fry packed inside. Music is playing all around her, and colorful flags are flying from every window in the Doge’s big palace. Lots of people are here without children, and they all are pressing around something near the palace. All the fry, though, are being taken into God’s big church on the other side of the Square.

She figures she’ll see what’s in the church soon enough, since that’s probably where Myrdd is taking her. Right now, she wants to see what the other people are looking at. Deftly, she squirms out of Myrdd’s distracted grip and vanishes into the crowd. She hears him calling after her, but she pays him no heed. She’ll find him again eventually.

Squeezing, crawling, and pinching her way through the press, she comes to a place cordoned off by a fence of fresh-cut pine boards, backed by the walls of the Doge’s palace and the doors of his stables. A pyre of branches has been collected in the center. Looking up, she sees people watching that stack with hungry eyes.

She nicks an inviting bag hanging inside someone’s jacket and melts away from the outraged cries.

Quickly, she makes her away around the fence, closer to the stables. Slipping past a guard dozing from bay, she scrambles over some bales of hay and into an area outside the Doge’s private stables. She’s never been in here before, so she makes sure there’s no one about to kick her out before she investigates closer.

Running the length of the palace, the stables are big enough for lots and lots of horses. She appears to be in some kind of alley, between the stables and some other building, and based on the amount of trash here, not often visited by the grooms. There are windows in each stall–Esmeree supposes for the horses to look through–though there’s not much for them see out here. At the far end, splashes of green hint at the Doge’s wondrous gardens.

She kicks away some ancient horse dung and peeks into the first couple stalls. By their smell, they are usually occupied, though they are empty now. Esmeree wonders if the noises of the crowd would upset the horses. She doesn’t know much about horses beyond how they taste.

As she peeks into subsequent stalls, voices catch her attention. "…fucking pompous cowards."

"They say Lord Douglas is as empty as an alf. Same for his wet uncle, Valven." There is humorless laughter.

The two men are talking in one of the nearby stalls. Creeping closer, she peeks in. The stall is larger than the others, and some sort of wagon is parked in it. Dark drapes hang from the wagon’s roof, but as they drift in the breeze, she gets glimpses of rusty bars behind. Two knights, Medianist Templars by their armor, stand guard at the front of the stall. Their silly feather hats hang from their muskets, left leaning against the far wall. By the way the men are lounging against the wall, and by the amount of tobacco ash on the ground, they’ve been standing here for a long time.

Esmeree wonders what kind of wonderful animal is caged inside the wagon.

"Some day, someone should march into EroBernd and teach those honorless cowards a lesson."

"Shhh! Don’t say those things. It’s not the way. Besides, it’s been tried."

The first knight just spits in disgust. "Not recently enough."

She can tell by the blazons their tabards that the angry knight is from Mut and the other from Ehre. Myrdd’s told her that these duchies really hate the EroBernd Empire and Duke Valven, even though he’s the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms right now. Myrdd has told her that the three duchies are always fighting with each other about something.

Quietly, Esmeree climbs into the stall and approaches the shrouded wagon. She’s aware a monster like a rraakk or lion could just reach out and nab her with its claws if she gets too close, so she risks only a quick peek. The shape inside shifts and looks up at her.

She’s not prepared for what she sees. There’s no monster of tooth and craw inside, no marauding rraakk. Instead, there is a hollow man, woven as though of living wicker. The two of them stare at each other for several long moments.

"…So long as that sinner borrows foreign money and grows armies from his mother’s palace, any time would be ripe to shed EroBernac blood."

Ehre grunts, "Not while the Fée march. We need to look to our borders first."

"I hear they took Baron Cador’s lands."

"They take many lands. It is an Ehrech issue, at least until EroBernd wakes and sends reinforcements."

"Primate Klemm won’t tolerate much more Medianist lands falling to the Fée. He’ll persuade the Superbus Tyrannus–"

The knight grunts, "The good Primate is ambitious. He is too busy petitioning the Council of Beaks for recognition as the fifth Prophet to care how many Ehrech knights fall at the hands of the alfs."

"It’s Harvest Season now," the other knight says, clearing his throat and quickly changing the subject. "They’re smart, but weak. ‘With Autumn’s withered blossom, rises alf’s wisdom’…"

"At least our boys grow to men faster. For every tree we fell…"

Esmeree’s ember begins to tingle.

Both Esmeree and the wicker man appear to be listening to the knights. Slowly, she raises her hand in greeting to the figure in the cage. The man inside raises his, mirroring her. She smiles and waves, and he copies. Esmeree gags, fighting back the giggles. Her contortions seem to entertain the wicker man.

She opens the curtain more, allowing more light to enter. He is bright green, woven it seems of living vines and branches, but his leaves have turned the autumn colors. He’s just a little bit bigger than she is. He has bits of bark for fingernails and teeth. She can see right through parts of him, and some kind of pulpy, fruity things hover in his chest. She wonders if they are his guts and heart.

His eyes are beautiful, like flowers, but liquid and changing, with a distinct mischievous edge.

Esmeree is delighted. She’s never seen a real alf before.

He shuffles closer to her and settles near the bars. Closer now, she sees several linear burns on his body. Myrdd once told her that Fée like the alfs hate iron, that it burns them like fire. That must be why they put him in this rusty old cage, but she still wonders how he burned himself in there.

He reaches out, being very careful not to touch the bars, and gently pinches her lips. She nods and covers her mouth with her hand. She will be quiet. He smiles and extends fingers. Esmeree reaches out and touches them, peeking her small digits into the gaps of his weave. It doesn’t seem to bother him.

Small shoots sprout from his hand, living creepers and ivy that wrap around her fingers, each end bursting into a colorful flower. The flowers pop off their stems, spinning through the air like tiny parasols. Surrounded in the colorful flurry, she giggles and abruptly stops short, clamping her hands over her mouth. She and the alf tense, listening carefully. The two knights have since stopped talking, but they don’t appear to have heard her.

He’s so pretty! Why would he be in this cage? Esmeree entertains the idea of approaching the knights on the matter, but somehow the alf senses it. Becoming nearly frantic, he grabs her wrist in a frighteningly tight grip and waves his other hand at her. She almost becomes frightened before she realizes that he is trying to protect her–the men out there are bad. She quickly nods her understanding, and he lets go.

There is a quick tang of smoke in the air, like that of burning leaves. Looking at the alf’s arm, she sees that it touched the bars during their brief struggle, and now an angry sappy wound mars his forearm. Black char flakes off as he moves. Esmeree is horrified and apologizes with signs and expressions. He smiles sadly and shrugs, as if to say what’s one more burn?

Esmeree realizes with horror that the pyre in the courtyard is meant for him.

She takes a bar in each hand and tests their strength. Rusty as they are, they are also nearly as thick as her wrists and well set into the wood of the wagon. She realizes that she’ll have to use her ember to get him out. Once she gets her ember to summon, she’s not sure what it will do, but she imagines the iron melting away or the wagon exploding into smithereens. She’s never accomplished anything like that before, but it’s worth a try to save her new friend. She begins rubbing with earnest, but there is no response–the power always comes so easily when she doesn’t need it!

Nothing happens. Silently, she begs her ember for its magic. She rubs herself raw as tears begin streaming down her face, and still nothing happens. Gently, his arms reach from the cage and restrain her efforts. Her terrified eyes try to convey her apologies, but he just smiles and touches her face. A bud coils from his breast and opens into a beautiful flower. She’s never seen anything like it, and she could never imagine it growing in her home here.

He snaps it off with a slight flinch and offers it to her. With trembling hands she takes it, cradling it as if it were made of the most fragile crystal.

The alf glances in the direction of the knights and then back to her. He gestures in the general area of his chest, and Esmeree automatically touches her ember. He smiles and presses his hands together and bows in simulation of prayer. She frowns and shakes her head in confusion. He smiles patiently, glancing again towards the guards, and pantomimes burial and then prayer. Esmeree clutches the flower to her breast but is still baffled. The alf smiles sadly and nods, reluctantly acknowledging defeat. His hand caresses her cheek and wipes away a tear.

"By the name of Hoël, what in the Hells is this!" The voice is so loud, so close, that Esmeree screams when she hears it. The Muttese knight stands right beside her, having walked around the wagon unheard and unseen.

Esmeree doesn’t hesitate. Throwing the curtain up in his face, she ducks under his grasp, scrambling first under the wagon and then out the other side. Before he gets his bearings and is able to peer under the wagon, she’s already out the stall’s window and into the alley. He lunges a beefy arm out the window, but she easily backs away from his reach. He snarls at her and without warning wheels back around upon the cage and the alf.

"You talking to little girls, demon?" he roars, "I’ll teach you, you hellborne Fée!" His voice is filled with loathing and fear.

The alf is fast, but not fast enough. The knight’s mailed fingers get a good grip on his vines and jerks the alf off his feet. Esmeree learns where he got all his burn, as the Muttese knight pulls and drags him up against the iron bars and holds him there. There is horrible crackling and hissing. Smoke coils up wherever the bars touch the alf’s body. For the first time, he makes a noise, a cry of agony much like that of many branches being broken. Esmeree presses her hands against her ears, but she cannot drown out the terrible sounds.

"NAGE! YÄ LEAVE HIM ALONE!" she screams, and suddenly her ember summons. The knight smacks up against the cage with a resound crash. Releasing the alf, he staggers backwards and turns. The blow has crushed one side of his face, along with his nose. Bright red blood spurts from his eye and mouth before he falls to the ground with a moan. The Ehrech knight runs around the wagon, responding to the commotion, but Esmeree is already fleeing for the safety of the Square and its crowds. Her last vision is of the alf raising his hand in farewell before the curtains fall back into place. Despite his sad face, his eyes seem delighted.

Heedless of being seen, she darts past the dozing guard and plunges into the forest of knees and legs beneath the crowd. Her tears make it hard to see, but somehow instinct guides her. She finds Myrdd waiting for her by the fountain.

While neither worried nor angry, he does seem relieved to see her. She plunges into him, burying her face into his robes. "Myrdd! Myrdd!" she cries, "Yä have tä help me!"

"Ah, child," he murmurs, "Were you caught stealing again?" He absentmindedly plucks the alf’s flower from her hand and examines it with a frown. "Where did you find this?"

She looks up at him. "Yä have tä help me save him!"

"Save who? Child, where did you get this? This doesn’t grow around here… Looks like a wood rose from the Raucholle Mountains…"

She points towards the pyre in front of the stables, "They’re goin’ tä burn him! Yä have tä help me!"

Myrdd surveys the scene and then looks down at Esmeree, "Child, no one’s going to be burned. That’s there for the cleansing of the demons."

Esmeree looks up at him with confused eyes. He kneels down. "It is as Guiot the Virgin said, ‘Only by scourging with fire may the demon be excised and the spirit purified.’ It is the sacrifice of a dark soul, the only way a creature like that can return to the bosom of God. But we’re not here for that, child." He gestures back towards the cathedral, where children and their guardians continue to file in. "We must get you Dedicated."

Esmeree cannot believe her ears and snatches her flower back, "W–what?"

"Esmeree my sweet child, I am old. I cannot take care of you, and I do not trust that Andelliza lady. By Dedicating you, the church will provide you with everything a beautiful girl needs. Food, shelter, studies of the holy Medianist word, a husband, and more…"

Esmeree shakes her head and the tears begin again. Myrdd wants to hand her over to the same people who want to burn her friend? "Please help me," she whispers, "Please help me save him."

"Child," Myrdd looks into her eyes with kindness, "These things, you will understand better when you are older."

She backs away, shaking her head. The passing laity bump and jostle her, threatening to knock the little girl over. Myrdd steps forward to take her hand again, "Come, child. Let’s end this foolishness."

She looks past him, towards the stables. Already, Templars are raising torches. Soon, the demon will be brought out.

Without a second glance, she evades Myrdd’s weak grab and vanishes into the crowd. Her chest threatens to crush her lungs. She is sobbing too hard to breathe, and the world is a blur through the tears and swollen eyes. Somehow, she navigates her way out of the Citadel. Minutes later, she huddles in a safe, dark place, holding her precious flower and bawling as if her heart were bursting.

There is a throbbing in her ember, and a sudden blast of wind swirls around her body. Not disturbing her hair or clothes, she nevertheless feels it throughout her being, especially in her ember. The flower bursts into flames, smoke rising from its leaves, and its petals begin to curl and char. Esmeree drops it as the heat and smoke coil around her. Her ember burns, drawing in the flame of the flower. Her nose and lungs fill with the fecund scent of the alf–or perhaps it is just the memory of her friend. She watches the fragile flower twist and blacken and eventually turn to ash. Gradually, her ember cools and calms, and she knows her friend is gone.

All that remains of the flower is a woody, walnut-sized nut. Even though it is hot to the touch, Esmeree clutches it and, curling into a ball, cries herself to sleep.

This is the last year Myrdd suggests Dedicating Esmeree the Medianist church. It is the last year that Esmeree celebrates the Harvest Festival.

***

"Name for me the seven kingdoms circling the Skudd Sea."

Esmeree isn’t really listening. Sitting at the base of Hoël’s Gate, she only has eyes for the pretty farm boys pushing their wagons into town. Many of them are poor Brackish cottars from the Ducci city-state.

"Esmeree?"

She envies their lives. Simple, clean, uncomplicated, and best of all, if her ater was a farmer, he’d pick one of these studs to be her man forever.

"Esmeree? The seven kingdoms, please?"

Seven Kingdoms. Disciples of Kahedin the Pure. Dances of the EroBernd court. Reading, writing, speaking dumb foreign languages. Medianist ethics, morality, theology, geometry, biology.

Biology? Hmmn. A little voice in her head suggests intriguing ideas for the incoming mosacs. In response, her ember buzzes pleasantly within her breast.

"Esmeree!"

Esmeree’s head snaps up, and she grimaces petulantly. Rolling her eyes, she rattles them off quickly, automatically, "Duchy of Ulbandus, EroBernd Empire, Duchy of Mynydd, Southern Territories, Duchy of Mut, Duchy of Ehre, Ymyl Gwland Baronies." When finished, she sighs and looks back at the boys. Four years with the Mill–two years as a fisher–and this old man still tells her what to do. The other fishers from the Mill don’t have to deal with this.

"That was seven, Esmeree. You forgot the eighth and newest member of the Seven Kingdoms."

Esmeree grinds her teeth, her patience almost at an end, "The Abaisd Territories! Us. This rotten city and all the other dumb cities on this shitty pile of Brackish rock!"

Myrdd looks hurt, and a small, mean part of Esmeree relishes it.

She’s not really sure why she keeps coming to him. The money he stole from the Crimson Rraakks ran out years ago, and she’s been back to working for her keep at the Mill ever since. At least now she’s better at it. All Myrdd does is talk about boring things, ask questions that make her head hurt, and waste time she could be spending hustling or running bay. She can’t see where all this will come in handy.

"Esmeree, my teachings will eventually come in handy, you must know that."

Esmeree starts, almost wondering if he read her mind. "This is borin’, old man! I want tä get out of here! I’ve got too much tä do tä just sit around here talkin’ about stupid wellborn things!"

Myrdd sighs sadly, "Then go, Esmeree. You’ve long grown beyond the age where I could out-run you. But if you ever want a life larger than that miserable Mill, if you ever want to look at the world beyond the walls of Cliffs Reach–"

Esmeree interrupts, "Why would the church punish us if yä were caught teachin’ me?"

Myrdd pauses, as though struck by the sudden question. "We’ve discussed this before. It is a complicated issue, Esmeree–"

"Yäh! It must be, because yä never answer it!"

His hands busy themselves smoothing his frayed robes. "Ah, magic, writing, knowledge, they are all akin, my child. This above all else, I have tried to teach you. These things, they must be known only by a select few."

"Yäh? Sä?"

When she glares at him, he smiles and rubs at a smudge of dirt on her cheek. "What are the three forms of magic sanctioned by the church?"

Esmeree rolls her eyes and answers, "Education, tools, and sorcery."

"And the ‘sources’ in sorcery?"

"The embers of the wizard-priests."

"Yes! The prophet Pennenc the Wise defined these three forms of magic for us. These forms of magic are power. If everyone were to have it, it would be common… like dirt. So says Pennenc."

She scowls, "Sounds like buachar tä me."

"Why?"

"The Primate of the Medianists chooses tä tell us what we’re allowed tä teach and learn? Fer what? Tä save our souls?"

Myrdd shrugs, "I don’t presume to interpret the Primate’s dictates."

"But yä interpret the teachin’s of the Prophets! Isn’t the Certu more sacred? More powerful? Isn’t it more important than the words of some dumb old priest in EroBernd?"

Myrdd hesitates, and Esmeree realizes with mild joy that she may have stumped him. "Esmeree," he says finally, "The Prophets left the Certu as a legacy to their descendants. Their words are intended to be lessons, to be taught and learned by others, hundreds of years after their passing."

He sighs, "Perhaps it is a perfect example of why knowledge is a dangerous thing, something to be controlled. Imagine the confusion if the wrong people misinterpreted the Prophets’ words and taught it to people unprepared for what they may hear. Such is the way heresies begin."

"But yä teach me!" she snaps. "Yä interpret the words of the Prophets."

"Which is exactly why it is illegal," he says quietly, almost to himself. His eyes wander into the cloudless Green Season sky. Soon it will be New Years, and everyone will be celebrating the Superbus Tyrannus’s birthday. "I’m an old man. You’re a young woman. The wrong man teaching the wrong things to the wrong person."

She slumps against the wall, no longer interested in the mosacs, no longer interested in the world. "What’s the point of teachin’ me anythin’ then?"

He smoothes her hair and sits closer to her. "It is a big world, Esmeree. I’d love to see you grow beyond this terrible city and see some of it."

"What do yä mean? Like, travellin’?"

Myrdd nods hesitantly. There is something in her voice that worries him. "Yes, I suppose. With education, I hope to give you the tools to handle any situation. Find safe-haven in strange lands. Survive the elements… Find a wealthy husband to support you."

She sits up and her voice suddenly comes alive, "All this dumb stuff will help?" She laughs as she looks through the gate. "Oh, tä leave this place!"

"No, Esmeree," Myrdd stammers, "I was thinking a fine husband could be found–"

"Maybe one day I could see a rraakk or traellern or ahrounoi!" Her eyes widen, as she thinks back to her friend in the iron cage, "Hey! Maybe I can find the alfs, and–"

"No, Esmeree! I am not teaching you so you can consort with demons!" His voice is hard and maybe a little frightened. "Such things are beneath your contempt! Do not think of it!"

"What’s wrong with them?" she yells, attracting attention from bystanders, "What’s wrong with the Fée? Why do people hate them sä much!"

Myrdd switches to the lesser-known Ehrech tongue. "They’re dark, Esmeree! They’re anti-life, anti-God!"

Visions of Drake flash in Esmeree’s mind. "I know something of darkness, old man," she says quietly, answering back in Ehrech, "and I hardly think of it as evil."

Myrdd clutches her arm, lowering his voice in the hopes of dissuading spectators. "Listen, girl! The Fée–the demons–are the ungrateful children of God! After God created the world, He allowed darkness and chaos to vomit them upon the virgin firmament. They grew upon the world like mold on fruit. When the Lord saw the corruption of this plane, He created us, Man, to cleanse it of evil." He makes a sweeping gesture with his arm. "It is mankind’s mandate to purge the evils of the world in the name of God. By the Ice."

Her mouth drops open with surprise. "By the Fire," she replies.

She glares at the last remaining eavesdroppers. Tongueless Brack dowagers make the sign of the fig at her and stalk away. "Then what…"

"What I teach will help you pass through the worlds of Man with ease, child. To help you move through the courts of any country, to speak eloquently without risk of insult, to help you detect deceit or ignorance or danger."

She sighs, unimpressed and uninterested. Myrdd sighs for a different reason, "Esmeree. What you fail to understand is the happy side effect of these things. Security, education, diction, charm. Only they can allow the finer things in life."

"Like what?"

"Love? Perhaps. Luxury? Imagine the life of Doge Marius."

Esmeree shrugs. "Posh. Fancy. People waitin’ on yä hand and foot. But there ain’t ever goin’ tä be a girl Doge."

"Now imagine his wife."

At first she frowns, and then her eyes widen. "Oh, yes!"

He nods wearily. "My dream is to fill you with the high culture of the Seven Kingdoms. My hope is for you to enter the courts of the most distinguished noble families and join them as a member. These things will bring you closer to health, wealth, power, and–"

She embraces him tightly, "Oh, yes, Myrdd! This is what I want!"

He holds her and whispers, "and a long, long life, I pray."

© John Lawson 2001