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

So far, Esmeree has been less than encouraged by her career as a sellâria. She has to admit she never really understood what life as a sellâria would be like–all she’s seen of them, she’s seen from a distance–but now she knows it’s not the same as hocking their wares in the Foreman Neighborhoods. It is far more suble than that. Sellâria and patron do not approach each other–they are introduced–and then arrangements are made to meet elsewhere. Esmeree isn’t clear on exactly how it’s all done yet, but she’s reasonably certain it doesn’t involve their assault, kidnapping, and imprisonment.

It robs the profession of its glamour.

The Viscount’s invitation to be a sellâria in his house was exactly what she always wanted–and the money he offered is more than she could ever imagine–but if they continue to keep her in the palace, she wonders what good it will do her. They can’t expect her to live here the rest of her life. Can they?

Obviously, this situation is still developing, and while things can either get better or worse, they will most definitely change.

There is one possibility she hadn’t considered: What if all sellâria live such cloistered lives? What if this really is all she can expect? She’ll never know the answers until she meets some other sellâria, and she’ll never meet any until she begins to play the part herself. For now, she sees no recourse other than attending Jacobus’s nightly parties and entertaining his guests.

Esmeree thought she understood the nature of Cliffs Reach at night–she couldn’t imagine anything stranger than the manic predator and prey struggles within the Mill–but with the Viscount, she’s been introduced to a whole new world. Endless parties rotate throughout the palaces of Marble Town and the Citadel. They merge and splinter as participants arrive, retire, return.

Men with real occupations attend at their leisure. Esmeree meets many such wellborns, men who serve important positions within organizations like the Doge’s cabinet or the Shiphandlers Guild or the Mercantile Exchange. Such men attend these parties infrequently, as time and responsibilities allow. Other men however–men like Viscount Jacobus and Verole–are lords with titles from EroBernd and have nothing to do with their time but act royal. Hosting and attending parties appears to be their favorite pastimes, bored cruelty their tools-of-the-trade, and human lives their commodities.

Esmeree drifts through the galleries of Jacobus’s palace, looking to catch the eye of a prospective patron. Normally, either Jacobus or Verole chooses her companion for the evening, but tonight for some reason she is left to her own devices. If she was in a better mood, she’d check to see if any sorcerers are in attendance and link up with them as she’d usually do, but she just doesn’t feel up to pursuing such game right now. Summoning can be exhausting sometimes, and renegade sorcerers are always a bit jumpy.

It is a difficult task. Most men worth the effort already have a sellâria on their arm. She could try to steal them away, of course–she gathers that it’s not an unheard of practise–but it is difficult and can create enemies among the very women she is looking to join. Untimately, she decides not to try too hard. Instead, she decides simply to enjoy herself tonight.

Brisk music jangles from a nearby foyer, accompanying laughter and excited conversation. Counts, viscounts, barons, and vavasours mix with untitled but wealthy laity from across the Palpi peninsula. She watches them meet, mingle, and part like clots of foam floating on the Brack River.

A handsome man in simple black and white linen catches her eye and smiles. His heels are low, making him appear shorter than average, and the long blade he wears at this hip is obviously ceremonial. Only the fine silver medallions adorning the breasts of his jacket and the miniver lining his cuffs and cloak seem to indicate his importance. He raises his glass to her, and the delicate diamond ring on his index finger flashes in the gaslight.

Inclining her head, she smiles back and acknowledges his salute with a wave. Is he alone? She glances around the gallery for likely sellâria and sees none. Such luck! As she approaches, the man straightens to greet her. She admires his looks. He is an older man–perhaps a peer of the Viscount–and seems willing to forego the towering powdered wigs, heels, and makeup so popular among Palpi and EroBernac nobles.

Another man nearby catches her eye. He is lean, wearing common but still appropriate clothes and boots. He watches her with wary care, one hand resting on the polished wood pistol grip projecting from his leather belt. Esmeree slows, realizing this inviting man may have other bodyguards.

Setting his glass down, he steps towards her and proffers his hand again. The ring is beautiful, and its gem unusually large. Esmeree couldn’t guess at its value in the Mill. "You like?" he asks as he admires it himself.

"Well, yes," she answers awkwardly, "It is beautiful."

"Yes," he agrees. "It is old. An heirloom of Cliffs Reach."

He turns his hand, palm up, and she automatically reaches for it. In a practiced maneuver, he encloses her hand in his and kisses her fingers as he bows.

"I hear the Viscount is grooming you to be a collector of rare and precious stones," he croons. "In fact, I hear you already possess one yourself."

He is comfortable and familiar with the customs being practiced here. His touch is pleasant and warm, but his words are confusing.

"Excuse me, my lord?" she asks as she pulls away, "I’m afraid I don’t understand."

He shrugs and smiles just as a woman steps between them. The sellâria is beautiful, her gown and jewels perfect and nearly priceless. She spares Esmeree not a word, but if they had been in the Mill, the look they shared would have sparked a blood duel. As she sweeps him away, he looks back at Esmeree with some regret. "Enjoy the party while you can, Esmeree," he says as he retrieves his glass and drinks from it, "Things get complicated from here."

Her encounter with the noble unsettles her, and afterwards she wanders the rooms of the Viscount’s palace deep in thought, keeping to the fringes of the party. How could he know about her ember? Verole or the Viscount must have told him. So many people know about her ember, it hardly seems worth the effort keeping it a secret.

She finds herself in an anteroom where the walls are lined with huge wooden panels, gilt at the edges with gold and painted with scenes of romanticized courtly life. The murals portray knights and ladies meeting and dancing in a forest. It is done in an awkward Ehrech style where there aren’t always enough arms and legs for all the people.

Esmeree slowly passes beneath them, her hand lightly touching the ancient wood, and she reads the captions in the banderoles across the tops and bottoms. The more she looks, the more she sees. Each panel contains little hidden surprises. A knight finds a cache of Fée gold. Nymphs and fawns frolic in a hidden glen. A knight and his lady share a private moment apart from the others, though looking at the maid’s expression, Esmeree wonders if it is more of a rape.

There is a click, and Esmeree steps back as one of the panels swings open. A drunken wellborn lurches into the room. There is vomit on his sleeves and collar, and a stain of urine spreads across his trousers. Smiling amiably at Esmeree, he staggers away.

Men’s voices and laughter echo through the hidden door. With a glance towards the retreating noble, Esmeree steps inside. The room beyond is a bedroom of sorts. A small but elegant bed stands in one corner, but it hasn’t been used in years. From two other closed doors, she can hear noises from elsewhere in the party. Five men drink and talk around a central table. A naked girl lays across it, and as they talk and laugh, the men drop coins on her. Esmeree can see she is doing her best to remain immobile–so as not to disturb the small stacks of coins on her–but tiny changes in her body language seem to indicate she is enjoying their attentions. She is drunk on bay, and Esmeree surmises they could do just about anything they wanted to her and she’d still enjoy it. Occasionally, the man seated at her head bends to kiss her lips.

Near the girl’s head is a golden bowl filled with bright green leaves. The effects of fresh bay are deliciously more potent than those of the scabby dried variety, but it is also oh so much more expensive–too expensive still for Esmeree to afford–but being a sellâria does seem to have its advantages.

All conversation ceases once the men realize Esmeree is present. They stare at her silently, apparently willing to wait her out. Esmeree stares back, becoming more and more uncomfortable as the seconds tick by. An apology begins to form on her lips, and she prepares to back out of the room, when the man at the head of the table slips the salt stick out of his mouth and says, "Esmeree! If you’re going to join us, close the door and sit down."

She recognizes him. He’s Verole’s particularly wet companion, Schliem. She hasn’t seen him since the night he helped Verole kidnap her. He smiles at her and runs his salt stick across the girl’s tongue before inserting it back into his mouth. One of the other men pulls out a vacant chair for her.

Reaching behind her, she closes the panel door and crosses the room to her seat. The men shuffle about nervously as she sits, and she pushes away a tureen of alcoholic vomit with her slipper. Her place is roughly adjacent to the girl’s stomach. The men are spaced evenly around the naked sellâria, with one at the girl’s belly opposite Esmeree, one at each breast, one at her crotch, and Schliem at her head. Esmeree wonders if the seating arrangement has any importance. She summons with her ember and is disappointed to discover that no one else in the room is a sorcerer. Several men shiver but do not comment on the sudden chill in the air.

With a gesture from Schliem, the men quickly gather up their coins, and the girl writhes beneath their touch. A quiet moan escapes her lips, and Schliem raps her gently on the chin with his salt stick.

He leans towards Esmeree, grinning, "Have you ever served within a Court of Love?"

"No. Is this some sort of game?" She glances at the men seated around her. One or two refuse to meet her eyes. Despite the fact that a naked girl lays on a table before them, Esmeree’s presence seems to have some of them flustered.

"A game of sorts," says the man seated across from her. "An intellectual parlor game. A game of logic, refinement, and manners."

Esmeree looks back at Schliem, who says, "Problems of love are proposed. Wagers are made. The subject is cross-examined. If the solution is sound and within the proper jurisdiction of courtly love, he wins. We are an exclusive club, Esmeree. We don’t usually allow sellâria to join us, but since the good Baron saw fit to vacate his seat, we’ll make this exception." He gestures down to the tureen as explanation.

Some of the men chuckle, some of them nod. Some clear their throats and look away.

Esmeree licks her lips as she glances around the table. Each of the men has a coin purse in easy reach. They’ve been playing for a while. Now each watches her with expressions ranging from eager anticipation to detached curiosity. One of them sets a goblet in front of her and fills it with strong wine. She takes a long drink. The vintage is a fine Mynyddi one and is so, so much better than the sour uinom she’s had in the Mill. She savors the rich, woody flavor as it glides down her throat.

The strong alcohol and the thick scent of the girl’s excited musk make her feel lightheaded. She smiles, "OK. Let’s play."

Schliem smiles and speaks quickly, "Oyay, oyay! All attend! I am Agape, patron saint of selfless, hopeless, pathetic love, and you are petitioners in My court!"

Some of the men chuckle and applaud at his pomposity. The well-groomed Brack at the girl’s groin mutters into this drink, "Damn fool, Agape. Why’s he gotta pick some moon-eyed, braidless whore’s son who’ll get his cock and calliacus cut off as soon as look at an bna…"

The lord to Esmeree’s left leans closer to her, "You should have been here when he was playing at being Connus. Much more interesting."

"Whoever wishes to serve in the Court of Love should greatly revere and honor Me," Schliem continues pointedly. He gestures to a man on his left. The noble carefully caresses the table girl’s nipple as he watches Esmeree, "The honorable Viscount Meliadus of Green Bridge shall be your hierophant. The honorable Sir Guiromélans, Vavasour of Ehre, shall act as jûris-consultus in this matter." The man adjacent to the other breast–the origin of the Connus remark–nods to her.

"Are there rules to this game?" asks Esmeree.

"Of course," Vavasour Guiromélans says, "There are certain fundamental principles that we all must adhere to. There are certain principles that we must assume to be true and are henceforth inadmissible as evidence."

"Such as?" asks Esmeree.

"Love and marriage are incompatible," says Schliem.

"A true lover eats and sleeps very little," says the Brack.

"A lover can love only one but may be loved by many," says Guiromélans sagely, and several men nod in agreement, muttering "Tragically, tragically."

"And he should provide faithful service to his love with no thought of his own welfare," says the man across from Esmeree.

"And thinks only of his lady," adds Schliem.

"Yes, yes," sighs Esmeree impatiently, "and always turns pale in her presence."

"Ah!" says Guiromélans with some surprise, "The connus sellâria is familiar with the practice of courtly love!"

"Connus?" exclaims Esmeree.

"Ignore the rudeness of our good Vavasour," Schliem says, waving the remark away like a bad odor, "He takes his position as jûris-consultus very seriously. Rest assured, my lady," he bows, "I turn pale in your presence."

"As do I," announces Meliadus. He checks his sleeves and the inside of his shirt. "I’m pale somewhere around here, I assure you."

Soon, all of them short of Guiromélans are bowing to her and laughing, and Esmeree laughs with them.

"What is this?" Meliadus laughingly demands of the Vavasour. "You’ll even deny the smallest affection to this fair maid?"

Guiromélans laughs and shrugs, "‘Maid’ is doubtful, and I shall reserve judgement on ‘fair’ until I hear her price." The men groan, but he continues, "But to top it off, this bastard, Schliem, has labeled me her cursed jûris-consultus. Thus there being no chance to curry her favors or steal her pitch-black heart, what point is there to kiss her ass?"

Esmeree applauds. "My lord, on behalf of my much maligned, weaker sex, I must thank you for your persistence in your duties and constancy in your character. Rest assured, your behavior here epitomizes the kind of courtly love this game claims to promote. I salute you on your goal to die a virgin."

"Hear, hear!" echoes Meliadus, pounding what little of the table the girl doesn’t occupy. Guiromélans salutes her with his cup and drinks deeply as the table explodes in laughter.

Esmeree looks from Meliadus to Guiromélans with some affection. She has decided she likes both these men.

"Order! Order!" Schliem demands at last. "I am prepared to hear Esmeree’s petition!" Producing a silver Guilder, he deposits it in the crotch of the girl’s throat. Meliadus and Guiromélans each place a coin on a breast. The noble across from her applies a silver to her belly, just next to her navel. Lastly, the Brack licks his coin and runs it through the cleft of the girl’s inner lips, before leaving it on the mound of her pubis.

Esmeree drinks deeply from her cup. Just a couple weeks ago, such an extravagant wager would be unimaginable. A silver Guilder. 100 copper Guilders! Even now, each of these men probably has more money on their persons than she’s had her entire life. Reaching into her purse, she extracts a silver Guilder and lays it on the girl. The skin reflexes against the weight of the cold coin.

Schliem nods and points at Esmeree. "Sellâria Esmeree, you who claim to be wise in the ways of Love, who faithfully accedes to the customs and forms of His Court, and have never violated His injunctions no matter what the consequences, tell me this: A knight’s maiden fair has been accused of infidelity and imprisoned in a guarded castle. The only way the knight can see his lady is by disguising himself as a criminal and riding a prisoner’s wagon inside… at great personal risk, obviously."

Schliem leans back in his chair and sucks on his salt stick. "What should yon noble knight do? The court waits to hear your answer."

"Kill the cuall bitch and find a new one, uh?" mutters the Brack.

"Silence!" snaps Schliem. "The sellâria has the floor."

Esmeree frowns. "The situation lacks depth," she complains. "May I ask a question?"

"No!" snaps Vavasour Guiromélans, "Only the jûris-consultus and your hierophant may ask questions."

"Part of the rules," agrees Meliadus.

Esmeree thinks. This is a game of diction and persuasion. How she phrases her answer is as important as what she says. "True love prevents the abandonment of your lover," she begins, "The knight should risk the shame of being seen as a criminal and risk the threat of death by stealing into the castle. Even if rescue or escape is not an option, he would at least get one last moment with this love."

Guiromélans smiles and tosses another coin on the breast. "I challenge."

Around the table, the others add new coins. Esmeree adds another as well. Guiromélans looks her in the eye, "Have you forgotten the man is a knight? Wouldn’t the journey in a criminal’s wagon be too great of a stigma against a true knight’s character? Even if he was never discovered, the knight himself would bear the shame for the rest of his life. How do you resolve this?"

Esmeree realizes now why the situations are made so deliberately vague. It gives her the option of providing a general answer and enduring possibly endless cross-examinations or giving a highly specific response and risk getting trapped by her own arguments.

But this time, Guiromélans’s cross-examination is welcome. She nods. "I must thank you, jûris-consultus. In part, you have asked the question I tried to raise earlier." Guiromélans smiles as the others chuckle. "The fact that he was a knight did not escape me. I believe the solution is dependent on what kind of knight he is. A knight of Ehre would most certainly refuse to ride in the cart of shame; hence, he must abandon his love, for his oaths of chivalry would prevent him from debasing himself in that manner. This is something his lover would know and expect. Instead, he might be forced to attempt another solution, such as prayer, or single-handedly tilting against the castle, or something else equally tragic."

She nods towards the Brack, "However, if he was a Brack cing, perhaps our fellow’s earlier suggestion would be appropriate. Let her die and find a new one. Practical. Honorable. Equally tragic. A Muttese knight might issue a challenge for the release of the lady. So it becomes an issue of who the knight is."

"Are you saying knights of Ehre love differently than Brack cings or the Muttese or anyone else?"

Esmeree is about to respond when her hierophant interrupts. "I object, Saint Agape," Meliadus says, "In the Court of Love, the quality of love is never in question. All subjects love equally, whether they are Ehrech, Brack, or Muttese."

Schliem thinks briefly and then nods. "Agreed. This line of challenge is ended. The jûris-consultus must pay the penalty."

Muttering, Guiromélans tosses an extra coin on the girl.

"Have you another challenge?"

"Oh yes," the Vavasour assures, placing a third and a fourth coin on the girl’s breast. Everyone around the table adds two coins to the ante. Esmeree is beginning to become concerned. This is quickly becoming expensive. Already, she’s wagered 6 weeks’ worth of Mill work. If this game continues, she may be reduced to the humiliation of contributing mere coppers, and Guiromélans appears ready to up the ante all night.

"What if the knight himself is the accuser of infidelity? How then can you say he would risk his life and reputation to visit his lady in prison?"

Esmeree hesitates. This was a complication she didn’t anticipate. Schliem nods as he sucks on his stick. Some of the players smile at Guiromélans as the silence lengthens.

"Esmeree?" Schliem asks, "Have you a response?"

At last, she smiles. "Of course. An accusation of infidelity is not a relinquishment of love or even an estimation of the quality of love. It can be purely a statement of fact. In fact, it can be a declaration of love!"

"Excuse me?" asks Guiromélans as he straightens.

"Was it not said in the laws of your Court of Love that love and marriage are incompatible?"

"Yes…" Guiromélans looks wary.

"Then the issue is settled. The woman is married. By definition, there is no love between her and her husband, but there can be love between her and her lover, the knight. As a matter of fact, his claim of her infidelity would actually be a declaration of the true love they hold for each other." She smiles at Guiromélans. "Love is a beautiful thing."

Guiromélans thinks for a long time.

"Jûris-consultus?" Schliem asks, "Have you a response or another challenge?"

Finally, Guiromélans chuckles as he raises his hands in surrender, "I yield! I yield! The sellâria has bested me on the field of love." He searches around the table and grumbles. "I need more drink."

The men applaud Esmeree.

"Mol! Excellent, excellent, Esmeree!" Schliem exclaims. He gestures to the girl on the table, and Esmeree is allowed to collect the coins. Sixteen silver Guilders!

There is much laughter in the room, and warming to the game, Esmeree takes another drink and volunteers to be jûris-consultus for the next petition.

The night sky is turning gray with an impending Gold Season dawn. Esmeree staggers through the trees of Jacobus’s garden, feeling warm from alcohol and laughter. She suspects the nobles were going easy on her in those first games. She learned this lesson well when she nearly lost everything on her third try as jûris-consultus. Schliem proved devastating as the Brack’s hierophant, and Meliadus was less than sympathetic to her arguments as the God of Love. Fortunately, on the promise of future patronage, Guiromélans loaned her enough Guilders to keep her in the game.

In the end, through more prudent arguments and conservative wagering, she made all her money back. She even came away with a modest profit of five silver Guilders–a pittance to a sellâria, but a ransom by Mill standards–and as the newest player, they even gave her the table girl as a prize, a gift she demurred. More importantly, however, she left with five men interested in her services as a sellâria. She most certainly hopes she can repay her debt to Guiromélans soon–likewise, she looks forward to settling the score with Meliadus–both seem to be men of quality.

She inhales the cool morning air, rich with the perfume of flowers and something else… a familiar, nagging aroma. Steadying herself against a tree, she closes her eyes and searches the air for the scent. Courmi beer.

"The Court of Love adjourned fer the night, yäh?"

Her eyes snap open as Jacobus’s Brackish cing steps out of the shadows. The shock finds her too drunk to think properly. "Ah, ah… Excuse me, my lord. I–I’m sorry."

He shakes his head, "Sorry? What have yä done, uh?"

She takes a step backwards as she struggles for an explanation. Somewhere she’s lost her slippers, and the grass is damp and cool beneath her feet. Losing her footing, she trips over nothing, and lands hard on her backside. She struggles to find her feet and is surprised to find a huge hand offered to help her back up. Lifting her easily, the Brack settles her onto a white marble bench. "Perhaps it is a good thing the court has closed fer the night, uh?"

The alcohol makes the whole world swirl around her. Her hands flutter around helplessly. "I don’t recall bein’ this dumb in there!" she wails, "I was doin’ sä well!"

The Brack grunts. "That’s always the case, uh?"

She notes how she’s suddenly unable to speak like a courtier. All that spills from her mouth is her gutter street-talk. She starts giggling helplessly. "Yä shoulda seen me! Mind like a rraakk!" She snaps her fingers for emphasis. "Nä case too difficult, nä argument too… ah… argued. I had them all in the palm of me hand!"

The Brack grumbles as he scratches beneath his shirt. "Did they convince yä tä take yer turn on the table?"

Esmeree hesitates and frowns with the effort of recollection, "Nage, I don’t think sä. Should I have?"

"Na."

"Ah. That’s probably good then. Always a good thing tä make a good impression. That’s what I always say. It never pays tä show-off, though that’s kinda hard, seein’ as that’s sorta what a sellâria is supposed tä do. Do yä think I’m a good sellâria? I just can’t tell. I just don’t know. Men need such odd things!"

"Really?"

She nods expansively. "Did yä know that Jacobus fellow is a fuckin’ draucus? Keeps wantin’ me tä fuck these horrid men. Man has na taste in patrons. Do yä know, he seems tä choose the ugliest, rudest, most vile draucus just fer me?"

She drops her voice to an exaggerated whisper. "The man must hate me. We’ve had the worst fights. I just refuse tä serve his patrons sometimes."

"Is that wise?"

She shakes her head sadly and shrugs. "I don’t know. Yä know, he once tried tä order me tä fuck me handmaids… and not just the oldest one. He wanted tä watch me with the little girls. The man has sick tastes. He likes findin’ couples who loathe each other and then watch them fuck. Bastard."

"Well, he is the Viscount, uh?"

She makes a rude noise and waves him away. "I ain’t gonna fuck na little girls. I remember what I had tä do when I was that age." She shakes her head firmly, "Ain’t gonna do that tä na one."

After a long pause, she grins up at him, "Of course, I’da fucked the oldest one… Drwg… in a second!"

The Brack’s eyes are piercing. "Yäh, at least yä stick to yer principles. Yer na normal oainjyr, that’s fer sure."

Esmeree nods, but then her face falls. Looking down at her toes in the grass, she sighs deeply. "I just don’t know what Jacobus wants from me. Do yä know how much money I’ve made sä far? Lots! But I can’t spend any of it because Jacobus never lets me leave. Why does he want me here? I don’t know." She cups her face in her hands and moans, "Oooh… I don’t feel sä good."

The Brack crosses his arms and watches impassively as she abruptly voids her stomach of expensive wine. Esmeree demurely attempts to protect her gown as she heaves.

"Yä never seem at a loss fer words," he sighs, perhaps with admiration.

She spits and wipes her mouth, waiting to make sure no more is coming up. "Yeah, well na one’s ever said I was as chatty as a Brackish dona."

"Hmmn…"

She spits again and then makes a weak effort to fix her hair and bodice. She looks up at the Brack. "Who are yä, anyway? Yer always creepin’ around here, but I never hear about what yä do."

"Call me Hiisi, inigena. Cing Hiisi mosaius Manannan mosaius Colleen mosaius Glewlwyd. What I do will be clear tä yä soon enough. Viscount Jacobus will tell yä want yä needs tä know when yä needs tä know it." Hooking a hand under her armpit, he lifts her to her feet. "Now let’s get yä back tä yer room. It does na one any good seein’ a sellâria in this state."

He guides her back to her chambers, holding her so tightly her toes barely skip across the ground. Stopping at her doors, he props her against the wall and pushes them open. Somewhere in the darkened room, she hears her three handmaids softly sleeping.

Setting Esmeree on her bed, Hiisi shuts her door and then claps his hands loudly. "Awake! Awake, yä lazy inigenas!"

Gwæth and Gwæthaf Oll nearly scream as they leap off their pallets. The oldest sister rises with more composure and merely courtesies to the cing.

He points to Esmeree, "Yer lady needs tä be cleaned, and regardless of whether or not she wants it, she needs food. Feed her. If she throws it up, feed her some more. She’s had a long night, and she shows it."

"Hey!" she slurs, "I’m sittin’ right here!"

As the maids scurry to do his bidding, Hiisi turns on Esmeree, grabbing her face painfully with one hand. "Listen tä me!" he hisses, "Yä likes the Court of Love? Well, I have a case fer yä: A lady is made tä serve a lord with the understandin’ that after much hard work she’ll be rewarded with her life’s ambition. Then she learns the work she does is contrary tä who she is and what she believes, but should she quit, not only will she lose her reward, but everythin’ that gave her joy before will be stripped from her as well."

Esmeree swallows as she stares up at him. "Why do yä say this? Why do yä say these things?"

Hiisi steps away as Gwæth and Drwg approach. "This is the case before yä, inigena. Tell me, how do yä resolve it, uh?"

As the girls lead her towards the bath, he turns and stalks from the room.

Esmeree vomits twice more before the handmaids can put her to bed. Afterwards, she lapses into an unconscious stupor and remembers very little of her conversation with Hiisi the next day.

© John Lawson 2001