Chapter 22:       Tribe of Man

The Mill has changed little since her departure.  Sticks, fishers, and fry—some new, some old—lounge and bicker in the main room, hustle about on guild business, and otherwise haunt the premises.  Esmeree wanders through the mews, her head full of bay, her stomach full of food.  Her ember seethes with power, and she feels the outrages upon her body slowly melting away.  In a few days, her fight with Hiisi and her Inquisition ordeal will be only memories.  She touches the crescent scar on her cheek—a wound suffered the day Candy died—she knows memories are the wounds that may never heal.

The sight and smells of the Mill bring back many such memories.  Some are good, some are horrible.  Right now, she struggles to push them all away, because right now they only distract her—the Lady is nowhere to be found, Myrdd rests in the room prepared for him by eager sticks, and Drake had disappeared with the rising sun—for now, she’s on her own in this place.

All day, she’s searched the Mill for word of Squirrel, but thus far, no one even remembers her friend, much less knows where she is.  Guild members watch her with a sense of awe as she passes.  It seems the news of her sorcery and apprenticeship has leaked out.  Despite her ragged appearance and ill-fitting hand-me-down clothes, she is still quite a sight.  She’s not a stick, no longer a fisher—she’s become something else, something beyond rank—like Drake or Andelliza.  Tall, strong, and beautiful, she drifts through the Mill like the Lady’s dark daughter.  She recognizes the looks the fry give her and remembers how she used to stare at Andelliza in that way.  She can feel the awe, the adoration.  In her they see what they all aspire to be.

How does she feel about that?

She stops among the benches of the main room and watches a group of sticks make a fair pass at playing an EroBernac drinking song.  It’s a local favorite, and nearly everyone in the Mill knows the words.  The walls ring with the bawdy lines and stomping feet, keeping pace with the beat of the drums and recorders.  Distracted and nervous from Esmeree’s presence and stare, the player of the aulos reed pipe misses a note and struggles to catch up.  She smiles as he dodges kicks and thrown debris from the audience and his fellow band members.

Fisher and fry dance and clap to the manic song.  The music is intentionally fast.  For some reason, Medianists seem to think if the laity are tired out from dancing, they’ll be too exhausted to do anything sinful.  Esmeree’s enjoyed enough nights in the Mill to know that logic doesn’t hold water.

She laughs at the antics of the dancers, enjoying the show and conscious that it is being held somewhat in her honor.  She looks around the room.  Everyone is trying to impress her in some way.

“When I was a maiden, as many one is,
For all the gold in Mynydd, I would not do amiss.
When I was a wanton wench of 12 years of age,
These courtiers with their amours, they kindled my courage.
When I was come to the age of 15 year,
In all this land, neither Ehre nor Mut, me thought I had no peer.”

The lyrics are familiar and strangely appropriate, as though the Lady somehow chose the song for her arrival.

As she enjoys the music, she notes a group of particularly greasy fishers lurking nearby, attempting to summon the courage to sidle up to her.  She eyes them with some distaste.

“We hear,” the leader says, “That yer lookin’ fer a stick named Squirrel, yäh?”

She nods as she turns to face him.  It is the most promising thing she’s heard since she arrived.  “She’s a friend of mine, and I would be most grateful if you could help me find her.”

The fishers grin at each other.  They are already spending their reward coppers.  “Yäh,” the leader continues, “We remember her.  She left the Mill some years ago with some other fishers…”

Esmeree raises her eyebrows.  So far, so good.  “Yes, and?”

He shrugs, “Here tä tell, they were lookin’ tä become poshy wellborn oainjyr—”

“Sellâria,” she corrects.

The boy blinks at Esmeree with surprise, trying to process the unfamiliar word.  “They… they…  We hear they moved on tä EroBernd, tä live in the courts of Aquilaleon.”

“Yäh!” squeaks one of the other fishers excitedly, “We hear she’s even served the Superbus Tyrannus himself!”

“And still sends the Lady a whole silver Guilder every week!” adds another.

Esmeree sags.  It seems her and Squirrel’s aspirations have somehow transformed into a kind of Fée Tale for the fishers of the Mill.

“No,” she sighs, “That’s not the Squirrel I’m looking for.  She returned to the Mill nearly 6 months ago.  She had trouble walking.  Her back was injured.”

All the fishers shake their heads.  “We don’t know of any oainj— sellâria like that.”

As they begin to turn away, one fisher asks, “Broken back?”  This one had been silent up to now.

Esmeree turns to regard this boy.  “Yes.”

He nods slowly and then faster.  “Yäh, I remember someone like that here.  T’wasn’t na sellâria, though.”

Her eyes narrow.  “What do you mean by that?”

He turns to the other fishers.  “Doan’cha remember?  That stiff halogedig?”

Even as Esmeree flinches in shock, recollection lights in their eyes.  “Oh, yäh!” the leader says to her.  “T’was some graney beggar.  The cuall limped around the Mill fer a couple weeks.  Kept missin’ ‘is dues every week, sä Drake sent ‘em down tä the docks tä make up fer it.”

Esmeree shudders as he continues.  “Lost ‘is hair, lost ‘is teeth.  Got some sorta mucky disease.  Eventually, na one would pay fer anythin’.  Damn cuall would just about beg fer coppers.  Blows, anal, hand, whatever.”  He shrugs and waves his hand dismissively, “Na one would do it.  Who would?  I guess Drake finally kicked ‘em out of the Mill.”

He frowns with confusion.  “That halogedig was an inigena?”  His voice sounds shocked.

Esmeree covers her face in despair.  The pain is too deep.  Poor Squirrel!  How could she have let this happen to her?  The fear and loathing builds within her as the fishers laugh at the memory.

“Go away!” she sobs.

“Hey!” one fisher snarls, “We goin’ tä see yer coppers or not?”

“NO!” Esmeree snarls loudly, sudden rage overcoming her.  Being in the Mill without Squirrel is nearly too much for her to handle.  Grabbing the boy, she throws him against the wall.  Fishers and fry scatter as she lifts him off the ground by his throat, her free fist raised to strike.  Her despair and guilt courses from her ember, ignited by her rage, and seeps from her every pore.

Distantly, she hears screaming.  She feels the boy’s frightened pulse in his neck hammering beneath her hand.

“Esmeree,” the Lady’s voice cuts through the chaos around her like a knife.  “First you abandon your duties here in our guild, and now you threaten to slay my fishers?  Such ingratitude!”  Her tone is ironic, mocking, but then it always is.

Esmeree slowly turns her head and looks up towards the window high about the main room.  She can just barely make out the pale white skin of her Lady’s leg.

“Did yä see her face?  Her eyes!”

“Her hand!  Her hand!”

She becomes aware of the whispers and whimpering around her.  Black Embers cower everywhere.  The music is stopped, the main room silent.  Something close and warm encases her freehand like a glove, running down her arm like thick, hot gravy.

Her eyes widen to see her hand and arm engulfed in purple-black fire.  Tongues of flame ooze down her arm and drip onto the floor with a quiet roar.  Even as her rage is replaced with shock, the flames slowly begin to stutter and die—but for just a moment, she remarks how they seem to have held the shape of a huge talon—a terrible claw ready and waiting to tear into the face and eyes of the boy in her clutches.

“Now, if you’re quite through terrorizing my fishers,” Andelliza’s voice drifts down to her, “You can come up so we may speak.”

The fisher suddenly becomes oppressively heavy in her grip, and no longer able to hold him up, she lets him fall to the floor.  She flexes her fingers and arm.  She’d never been able to do that before.

Clutching at the deep scratches in his throat, the frightened boy scrambles away with his friends close behind.

Slowly, she turns and heads for Andelliza’s audience room, the occupants of the Mill respectfully giving her a wide berth.

Andelliza’s room has changed much in the years since Esmeree last saw it.  Such opulence might even rival Jacobus’s, though now Esmeree’s worldlier tastes find the effect rather gaudy.

As she enters, she is surprised to see her Palpi scimitar laying across a darkly stained and waxed table.  Not quite as flashy, not quite as clean or proud as it used to be, it is still an excellent weapon.  Picking it up, she slides the blade from its sheathe with a smooth hiss.

“You’ve begun playing with bigger toys, I hear.”  The Lady reclines in her couch, perfect and beautiful as always.  She sits up as Esmeree approaches.

“Playing is one way to look at it,” Esmeree mutters, “Though it didn’t do me much good against a friend of mine…”

“Yes,” Andelliza smiles, “That’s what I meant.”

“Where did you find it?” Esmeree wonders, experimentally cutting the air with the blade.  She is still amazed by its balance.

Andelliza shrugs.  “Drake found it where you left it, I suppose.  Under your bed.”

The Lady stands and extends her arms, the folds of her fine white gown cascading to the floor as if in slow motion.  Frowning, Esmeree sheathes her sword and approaches, burying herself in her Lady’s embrace.  Esmeree is surprised by how warm and soft the Lady is, attributes she’d never have used to describe her before.  She is surprised to see they are the same height now, and side-by-side they could easily pass as sisters.  As Andelliza cradles her face to kiss her, Esmeree looks into her mistress’s eyes.  She used to adore and envy the Lady for her perfect beauty and agelessness, but now the whole image just seems cold and lonely.

Certainly, Andelliza couldn’t have chosen to live in these religiously fanatical Seven Kingdoms, a virtual magical desert to anyone but a sorcerer.  How much more powerful she must be in other lands!  How and why she made her way to Cliffs Reach, Esmeree doesn’t know and probably never will.

She almost feels sorry for her.

The Lady’s eyes flash, and she touches the side of Esmeree’s face.  “Ah,” she sighs, “My apprentice is thinking again.  Always wondering, always searching for answers.”

“It is the best way to learn, is it not?” Esmeree smiles bitterly.  “Knowledge is a form of magic that rarely falls into your lap… unlike sorcery.  It must be pursued, chased down, skinned, and consumed.”

The Lady looks surprised.  “My!  I see you’ve spent time among the Bracks.  Such a hearty attitude!”

Andelliza closes her eyes and presses her hands against Esmeree’s chest.  While her palms cup her breasts, Esmeree knows the focus of Andelliza’s attention is her ember.  Her thumbs press against the stone, exploring its dimensions.  Esmeree holds her breath, trying to deny the pleasure of her Lady’s attentions.  A queer sensation fills her body, as she feels the Lady’s magic swirl around her.  Her ember almost seems to relish it.

Andelliza’s eyes snap open.  “Such power!” she exhales.  “I’m impressed!  I don’t recall ever seeing a sorcerer quite like you before…”  Her eyes become distant, “No, not quite like you…  Not in a long time at least.  And a true homunculus as well!  Well, I warned you, but I suppose you’re prepared to deal with the repercussions.  I had feared that you wouldn’t fulfill your potential.  Though there is still much work for you to do, I’m pleased to see I was wrong.”

Gently, Esmeree removes her Lady’s hands, “What are you talking about?”

“New spells, summonings, wishes, whatever you want to call them.  Either by accident or by design, you learn a new spell only every once in a great while, yes?”  She shakes her head.  “Rarely, far too rarely.  You’ll grow old and die long before you unlock your true power.”  She smiles coldly, “or your homunculus will grow tired of waiting and move on without you.”

“How is it you know these things?” Esmeree demands, “You’re not even a sorcerer!”

The Lady shrugs and turns away gracefully, “Sorcery is but one small part of magic, child.  You must use your stone to master them all.”

“For what?”

Andelliza glances back at her mischievously and smiles.  “Have you mastered the elements?  Have you bent spirits to your will?”

Esmeree grimaces.  Circle magic?  Elemental magic?  She wouldn’t consider dirtying her hands with magic like that.  “I’d never perform such black arts!”

Andelliza turns suddenly and snaps her fingers.  “Yes!  Condemned by the Medianists, aren’t they?  The same church that wants to burn you… and would have had Drake not rescued you!”

Her eyes narrow, and she smiles.  “Those tricky Medianists!  They torture women who dare to possess stones!  They burn witches and heretics and anyone that doesn’t agree with them!  They deny the power of the other gods like Johlpa, Afron, and Connus!  They deny that people like me can even exist in their lands!  They condemn the magic of circles and spirits and the elements!”

She straightens, and her voice drops to a disappointed drawl, “And still you follow their laws.  How pious of you.”

She levels her hardest gaze at Esmeree.  “You must lose you Medianist prejudices, girl, before you can achieve your true potential.”

Esmeree frowns and waves the conversation away.  The Lady’s words have suddenly made her feel very uncomfortable.  “I don’t want to talk about me anymore.”

“Oh?” Andelliza asks, sliding back onto her couch and shifting topics as easily as Esmeree.  “What would you like to talk about?”

The girl slowly walks to the window and looks down on the antics in the main room.  Andelliza’s eyes follow her gaze.  “I’m looking for someone, Lady.”

“Hmmn?  So I’ve heard.”

Esmeree looks to her Lady, her eyes pleading.  “She’s a friend of mine!  Her name is Squirrel.  She was a stick, but I hear Drake expelled her because she couldn’t earn her keep.”

There is no reaction in those cold eyes.  “Please!” Esmeree pleads, “I need to know where she is, what happened to her!”

Andelliza shrugs and waves a hand down at the Black Embers below.  “There are many sticks, Esmeree.  Many more fishers and fry.  They work, they stay.  If they don’t, they go.  I have no memory of this girl, and I doubt Drake would either.”

Esmeree clenches her fists and stares at the Lady.  How can she be so cold?  “It’s been only 6 months!  How could you expel someone so quickly!”  She hesitates.  “Was she expelled, or did you send her to the factories?”

The Lady merely shrugs.  The issue is meaningless to her.

Esmeree turns away in frustration and stares down at the players far below.  She is silent for a long time.

Suddenly, a thought occurs to her.  Drake!  Drake rescued her from the prison!  How was it that he came to find her in the Citadel?  By accident?  What would be the odds?  “Where is Drake?” she asks.

Andelliza arches an eyebrow.  “I think you know.  He rests during the day.  He was exhausted.  You had him searching all over Cliffs Reach, looking for you.”

Esmeree nods slowly.  “Yes.  But how would he have known I was in Cliffs Reach?  How’d he know where to find me?”

Andelliza smiles very slowly.  “He knew,” she says sweetly, “We knew, because the Doge told us.  He’s rather fond of you, you know.”

“What?” Esmeree shouts in surprise.

The Lady extends her hand, and Esmeree automatically takes it.  Gently, she guides her down to the couch with her.  “Do you remember our first Burning Time together?” she asks, and Esmeree can only mutely nod.  “We stood together in Ascension Square and watched the wooden man go up in flames.”

Andelliza turns Esmeree’s shoulders until they are looking eye-to-eye.  “Answer me this, how many sorcerers did we see burned that night?”

Esmeree closes her eyes with the effort of recollection of that terrible night.  Besides the people in the wooden man, there were others on stakes.  “Nearly 50,” she answers.

Andelliza quickly shakes her head once.  “No,” she corrects, “The answer is none.  No witches—no sorcerers—were burned that night.”

Esmeree frowns and is about to disagree when she remembers her expedition in Ymyl Gwland.  She remembers Hiisi and his terrible wooden charms.  She remembers the Viscount’s mission and the Primate’s order.  In the Citadel, she was to be shipped to EroBernd and not burned.  Her eyes widen with realization.  Of course they wouldn’t destroy so many stone summoners!  They need them alive!

Andelliza nods.  “I first became aware when the Medianists tried to bargain with Hair Thumb for all the sorcerers in his gang.”  She smiles and caresses Esmeree’s face, “Meaning you, of course—you were the only sorcerer we had at the time—though others have come and gone since.  It didn’t take much effort to learn that their sorcerers weren’t being burned.  Instead, they were all being sent away.”

“Where?” Esmeree asked.

The Lady shakes her head.  “I don’t know.  Up until a couple years ago, they were shipped to some island off the EroBernac coast—near Aquilaleon—a place called Licat Dusios.  But that has changed.”

“I had a vision once,” Esmeree says.  “Sorcerers were being forced from a ship.  On the shore, stood two griffin statues.  And there was a city nearby.”

“And the relevance of that is?”

“Griffins are the royal animals of the EroBernac court and the sacred animal of the Medianist church.  They’re an icon of God!”

“Then you’re vision doesn’t help.  Those statues could be anywhere on the Skudd Sea, maybe even Licat Dusios.”

Esmeree looks down at the floor.  “Damn.”

“In time, we learned that a certain Viscount was responsible for the collection of all sorcerers in Cliffs Reach.  You can imagine our surprise,” Andelliza laughs, “when he enlisted the aid of the Crimson Rraakks to kidnap you!”

“You knew?” Esmeree gasps with horror, “You knew they were after me, and you let me go to that inn?”

“Of course we knew.”

“I nearly died!” she shrieks.  “If—if it wasn’t for that poor beggar, I’d…”  Her voice drifts away when she sees Andelliza’s expression.  “You knew about that too,” she says quietly.

Andelliza nods.  “That filthy creature really hated life in the Mill.  My making him a stick was probably the worst thing to ever happen to him!”  She laughs at the memory.  “He practically begged us to release him from his dues.”  She smiles coldly, “Of course, I relented, solely on the condition that he keep an eye on you during your little sortie.  He kept his end of the bargain, and I kept mine.”

Esmeree is speechless.  “So you turned me over to the Viscount?”

Andelliza looks surprised.  “You, and all the other sorcerers we happened upon.  Have you any idea how valuable you became when you slayed that Crimson Rraakk, Catræth, and burned down his inn?  You impressed a lot of people.  You attracted a lot of attention.  The Viscount begged us to give you to him.  He threatened us.  Finally, we negotiated a fair deal.  Your charming stone-sniffing spell was merely the icing on the cake.”

“You told him of my stone detection spell?  How could you do that?”

“Have you any idea how powerful that spell is?” Andelliza laughs.  “The lengths I went to counter it?”  She smiles as if with pride, “I never quite could.  All I could do was block your magic, rather than just conceal mine.”

“But you just let them take me,” Esmeree whimpers.

“Oh, no we didn’t,” Andelliza corrects.  “Not for some years yet.  Despite what you may think, Esmeree, Drake and I care very deeply for you.  I would not—could not—turn you over to that man without having properly prepared you.  Just as your old tutor trained your mind, and our brothels trained your body, I trained your stone.  When you told Drake of your preference for sorcerous patrons, we knew you were ready.  You had begun to learn the nature of stones and the way they interacted with each other.”

“And what is that?

“That stone seeks stone.  They seek contact, for they all share the memory of when they were one.”

“When they were one?  I don’t understand,” Esmeree says, shaking her head.

“It doesn’t matter right now,” Andelliza assures.  “Suffice it to say, we knew you were ready.”

“Ready?  Ready!” Esmeree shouts, “Have you any idea what they did to me?  What I went through?  What—”

“Have you any idea,” Andelliza says sternly, “What would have happened to you if we hadn’t made you useful to their purposes?  What happened to those fry that I didn’t train?  Why do you think you were chosen to accompany that cing instead of being shipped to EroBernd?  Your fate was unpleasant, I agree, but I think it was preferable to the alternatives.”

Esmeree frowns, struggling with the hurt and anger within her.  “What did you get from all this?  The Primate got his sorcerers, the Viscount got his money, and the Doge got the Primate’s ear.  What did you get?  Money?  Fry?”

Andelliza smiles icily as she gestures around her.  “I got the Mill, my dear child, and the opportunity to remain in Cliffs Reach without Medianist interference… at least for a little while longer.”

Esmeree blinks, trying to make sense of it.  So this is the truth.  Her Lady and her lover have watched her all her life, groomed her, cultivated her, and then sold her to market once she was ripe.  She presses her lips together to hide their trembling, but she cannot conceal the tears that squirt from her eyes.  “How could you do such a thing?  Why?” she sobs.  “I trusted you!  I loved you!”

Andelliza’s eyes dart around, almost as though they are unable to rest upon Esmeree while she’s in such pain.  “And I suspect you still do,” she says quietly, “Else, you wouldn’t be so distraught, yes?”

She wipes at Esmeree’s tears.  “How?” she answers.  “Very easily.  You were a fry, child.  And then you were a fisher.  Nothing more.  At first, the decision was simple and clear.  How could it be not?  But as time grew on—and you with it—the decision became more difficult.”

She leans back in her couch and looks out her window.  “We had hoped,” she says distantly, “That you would extract yourself from the plot.  First you found that wonderful old man—truly a godsend—who taught you all that I could not.  And when you left the Mill with your friends and strove to become sellâria, we had hoped you would escape.”  She looks back at Esmeree.  “But it wasn’t to be, eh?”

For the first time, Esmeree sees her Lady perhaps as she truly is.  There is deep loneliness in her face—and perhaps desire—a desire to create and leave more of a legacy than this horrible Mill.  By God, she is old!

“We almost made it,” Esmeree says, trying to swallow her tears.  “But Eclipse died, and Squirrel got hurt, and then Myrdd got sick… and then nothing seemed to work right…”

Esmeree cries quietly, staring straight down at her hands folded in her lap.  She cannot bear to look at her Lady—not so much because she is ashamed of her tears—but because she fears she might see the pain in her own Lady’s eyes.

The Lady’s hand touches her cheek and lifts her head.  Esmeree is surprised to find no pain in Andelliza’s eyes at all.

Heedless of the repercussions, Esmeree buries herself in her Lady’s bosom, holding her tightly and crying pathetically.  The Lady smiles.  “And why did we do such a thing to you, Esmeree?” she asks gently, “You have only to look at yourself—see what you’ve become, what you’ve survived—to see why.  We did what we did so you could survive.”

Her smile turns sad, “But I see it cost us so, so much.  Try to understand, Esmeree, try to imagine the alternatives.  Without the pact with the Viscount, they would have had you long, long ago.  You never would have met Myrdd, you never would have learned from him, or become my apprentice.  You never would have met friends like your Squirrel or your Eclipse.  You would never have become the sorceress you are today, the sellâria, the educated woman.  Instead, you would have ended as a cooling piece of meat on a distant angry island in EroBernd, a very little girl sacrificed for selfish ends.”

Much to Esmeree’s surprise and relief, Andelliza returns her embrace, and witch and apprentice, mother and daughter, hold her each other for a long time.  “Hush, child” is all the Lady says.

It is as her tears calm that the memory of her vision flashes brilliantly in her mind’s eye.  The knife plunging into Maponos’s flesh.  Esmeree jerks as though the knife pierces her own skin.

“Sacrificed?” she suddenly blurts out, looking up and wiping away her tears.  “What do you mean I would have been sacrificed?”

Andelliza looks momentarily taken aback by the sudden question.  “That is what I understand.  That is why Primate Klemm is harvesting sorcerers.  He expends them in sacrifices.”

Esmeree struggles to marshal her feelings.  She is close to something here, she just knows it.  She can’t let her own confusion muddle the issues.  Maponos’s life may depend on it—if he still lives.  “Sacrificing them to what?  Who?  God?  God doesn’t accept innocent blood, not in that way.  Not even sorcerers’.”

Andelliza shrugs.  “Your knowledge of Medianist theology surpasses mine.”

“No!  You told me during that Burning Time that witches are never killed before they have confessed.  You said to do so would only send their souls to Gock and make him stronger!”

The Lady nods.  “Yes.  This is true, so I hear.  But I don’t think the Primate cares much for such subtleties, for I know that he sacrifices these sorcerers not to God but to demons.”

“Dusios?” Esmeree says in shocked outrage, instinctively making the sign of the Median.  “By the Ice, that is circle magic!  It’s unclean!  It’s heretical!”  Her lips spit bitter contempt, “Circle magic may be fine for you, but the Primate wouldn’t do such a thing!”

“Wouldn’t or shouldn’t?”  Andelliza smiles.  “It is an expensive, inefficient process, true—the demons require one life for every question, and their answers can only be ‘yes’ and ‘no’—but it may be the only way to get the answers to questions that have no answers.  To stop means you must start over from the beginning.  Demons are cunning, and their thirst for life is unquenchable.  It may take the lives of countless sorcerers to learn the answer to his question.”

“What is his question?”

Andelliza smiles ironically and shrugs.  “How would I know?  I haven’t had the opportunity to ask him.”

“Has he learned his answer yet?”

“He is still collecting sorcerers, so I think not.”

“Why sorcerers?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why sorcerers and not just regular people?”

“Because,” Andelliza says, “Sorcerers’ souls are sweeter.  It’s all in the stones.  Why do you think you enjoyed Drake’s attentions for so long, when countless other fry were at his disposal?”

Esmeree blanches.  She’s never discussed her relationship with Drake with Andelliza before.  She struggles to change the subject, “Why would the Primate do such a thing?”

The Lady shrugs.  “To learn a secret?  To gain power?  Prestige?  A legacy?”

Esmeree blinks with realization.  “Primate Klemm is ambitious!  He seeks to become God’s fifth Prophet!”

“Ah!” the Lady sighs, feigning interest.  “And I suppose a pact with demons and a few sorcerers falling by the wayside are worth such a prize.”

Esmeree clenches her teeth as she stares at her hands coiling in her lap.  This is the task she worked to assist?  The blood of all those people are on her hands, and it is to serve this end?  This is to be Maponos’s fate?  A bloody death so the Primate can be one question closer to his answer?

There must be a key to learning his purpose.

“The runes,” a voice whispers.

Esmeree’s head snaps up to look into the Lady’s.  “What?”

Andelliza frowns.  “What?”

Esmeree blinks.  The voice was her ember’s.  She shudders.  The runes!

“Lady, when I was last in the Viscount’s palace, I was shown some runes of apparent importance, though I did not understand them.”

Andelliza’s eyebrows rise.  Esmeree can tell she has sparked her interest.  “Söderkarl runes?”

She shakes her head.  “Yes.  I recognized only two.  They were the marks of the Fée and the Darkbloods.”

The Lady’s eyes suddenly begin to look bored, so Esmeree hurries on.  “But the others, I didn’t know!  I’d never seen such designs before.”

Andelliza inclines her head.  “What did they look like?”

Esmeree thinks hard, but there’s no easy way to describe them.  At last snapping her fingers in frustration, she points at the wall.  As Andelliza turns to look, an ember of light bursts into life.  The Lady watches with interest as Esmeree burns the symbol into the fine wood.

When she finishes, the Lady exhales but doesn’t say anything for a couple moments.  “Show me another.”

Esmeree draws as many as she could remember.  Six in all.  The Lady stands and paces back and forth before them.

Esmeree asks, “What are they?  Do you know?”

“How many of these tiles did you say there were?”

Esmeree shrugs.  “I don’t know.  Fifteen, maybe.”

The Lady touches one, tracing its design with her finger.  “These are old,” she whispers, almost in awe.  “Older than any language… any language of man at least.  These were written in the tongue of the first gods, back when the world was young.”

Esmeree frowns and shakes her head.  “What are you talking about?”

She smiles at her young ward.  “Think back, back to a time so long ago when nothing had names…”  She looks back at the designs.  “These were the first names for everything.”

“What?” Esmeree says incredulously and points.  “Those?”

Esmeree is familiar with the Medianist creation story—all four of them, as a matter of fact—it seems each Prophet came back with his own version.  Currently, it is Guiot’s, the newest and most popular Prophet, that holds sway in the partisan halls of Cærimonia.  When the world was new, God spoke the name, and the object was born through the sheer power of the word.  She presumes people were made in the same way.

“No, no,” Andelliza sighs.  “Not these per se.  But they are written in the same tongue… and at the same time…”

Her long nail touches the still smoking wood of the last rune Esmeree drew.  “This one is the name of a human race.  The Oio.  A great people.  They’re dead now I believe.”  She touches the second rune Esmeree drew.  “And this one is the Ren Xing.  They’re an imaginary people.”

Taking a step back, she surveys the remaining designs and shakes her head.  “But these others… they are meaningless to me.”  She points to Esmeree’s first.  “This one looks similar to the Wa’tu.  It probably is supposed to be, but you spelled it wrong.”  She sighs as she shakes her head at Esmeree, “Attention to detail never was your strongest skill.”

“So they’re tribes of people,” Esmeree snaps, irritated by the barb.  “So what?”

“Put together enough of them, and you’ll have them all.  The whole tribe.  The Tribe of Man.”

“So?  What is the name for the Tribe of Man?”

The Lady smiles at Esmeree.  “There is none.  The answer has been lost.  No one knows the name of the Tribe of Man.  Neither man, nor god, nor Fée, nor rraakk, nor Darkblood, nor any of the other Tribes knows the answer to that question.  It’s one of the greatest mysteries of the universe.  Truly a question without an answer.”  She inclines her head.  “Now isn’t that interesting?"