Esmeree stands at the center of the main room, Iall close to her side.  She knows the Lady prefers it this way.  Surrounded by her fellow guild members, Esmeree relates the events of the past as though they were the epic tales of one of the Fallen Lords.  Fry and fishers watch with eyes and mouths open wide in amazement—sticks nod and applaud in grudging respect—and high above, she knows, the Lady listens from her window.

“…and with a parting farewell, we left the dying seneschal to his own fate.  Perhaps I will never know if he was enemy or ally.”

There is a brief pause after she finishes.

At last, the Lady’s voice drifts down from her room.  “Excellent.  You have done well, my apprentice.”

The Mill explodes in excited applause as the Black Embers celebrate Esmeree’s adventures.  Fishers and fry cluster around her.  It seems, simply to touch her is all they desire—she remembers being a fry and having that look in her eye—and she happily allows them.

“And now, Esmeree,” the Lady speaks again.  At the first hint of her voice, the entire Mill stops in sudden silence.  “What are your plans now?”

Gently stepping through the throng of guild members, she looks up at the window.  “Lady, this city is no longer safe for me or this little girl, nor is this Mill safe if we remain.  With your permission, I and my mentor, Myrdd, and young Iall shall leave this place.  He is old.  I need to find a safe place for him.  This little girl needs protection and guidance.  And I need to find the boy-sorcerer and help him if I can.”

“You are going to train this young stone-summoner?  You?”  Andelliza almost sounds surprised.

“Yes,” Esmeree says flatly.

“Why not leave her with us.  Like you, she can be a fry.  Like you, she can be my apprentice.”

“Never,” Esmeree states.  “I would never leave a child in this place.  My days as your fisher are through.”

“Excellent,” Andelliza says, and somehow, Esmeree feels as though she passed some kind of test.  “Is there anything more you need of us?”

Esmeree thinks briefly, but she knows there is little the guild can offer her now.  Andelliza has already given her all she could—her knowledge, her strength, her guidance—Esmeree is eternally grateful.  It is too bad the sun is up and Drake has retired for the day.  She would have liked to resolve some things with him before she left.

“No,” she says finally, struggling to keep her emotions in check.

“Excellent,” Andelliza says, with only the subtlest of changes in her voice.  “Then leave.”

The caballos was a bargain.  Too old and lame for fieldwork, it is the perfect mount for Myrdd.  Setting the old man on its back and Iall on her marka, Esmeree checks their saddle bags one last time and then leads the horses quickly through the morning crowds towards the old stone wall.

Just outside the city-proper, villeins and cottars go about their daily business among the wattle and thatch huts of Cliffs Reach’s eastern fringes.  The air here is thick with the odor of the nearby Heap, and people do not linger here if they don’t need to.

Leaving the horses in Iall’s care, she curses quietly to herself as she searches the old wall for the loose stone.  Their flight from Cliffs Reach is poorly planned and poorly timed.  She wishes she wasn’t so hasty in her revenge against the Viscount.  Now, the whole city is in an uproar about it, and it will make their escape a bit more complicated.

This stone wall is all that remains of the ruins of an old dunum.  Standing on Cliffs Reach’s eastern neighborhoods, this fort and its occupants defended the mouth of the Brack river in the days long before Cliffs Reach and the Seven Kingdoms.  Today, a year-long bazaar occupies its shell.

Ideally, Esmeree would have slipped out of town through the northern gates of the Homestead Neighborhoods while under cover of darkness—or even departed in style onboard a fancy steamer—but now her hasty acts have prohibited that.  After she finishes here, they won’t even be able to risk the trip back through town.  They’ll have to head east and circle around the city.  It will be time-consuming, but she doesn’t see any other option.

Finding the loose stone at last, she pulls it out and reaches deep into the hole in the wall, cursing as the rough stone scratches her hand.  Her arms were so much smaller when she hid it here as a little girl!  Her fingertips find their prize and get it halfway out before dropping it.

“Gock DAMN it!” she spits.  She bumps her head against the wall and swears again.

Pulling her arm from the hole, she presses her forehead against the cool stone and tries to think.  She’s attracting attention.  She can’t stay here much longer.  There must be a better way to do this.

Maybe Iall can reach it?  No, she decides.  This is something she needs to do herself.

Checking around her to make sure no one is watching too closely, she slips her belt from around her trousers and feeds one end into the hole.  Closing her eyes, she rubs her ember and begins summoning.

The belt comes to life and glides snake-like into the wall.  She concentrates, feeling what it feels, whispering simple commands.  In seconds, the belt emerges, the prize locked in its coils.  Snapping it up, she leaps into her marka’s saddle behind Iall and quickly leads Myrdd’s caballos through the morning traffic.

“What is it?” Iall asks, and Esmeree shows her, though she is hesitant to let the girl touch it.

Her hand cups the woody stone.  Esmeree has no idea what she’ll do with it, but she promised herself, if she ever left Cliffs Reach, she would take it with her.  Dirty and grayed with age, the alf’s seed still engenders strong emotions in her.  She can barely remember the day he died, but what it represents and the feelings it evokes are still strong.

Keeping her head down, she leads Myrdd and Iall away from Cliffs Reach and down the main eastern road.  It was just over a month ago when she and Hiisi left by this road on their last trip together.  Shortly after, she was alone when she returned.  So much has happened since then!  So much has changed!  Esmeree isn’t sure if she will ever see the world the same way again.

The horses stop.  All around them stand the posts of the crucified martyrs.

“I don’t like it here,” Iall mumbles.

Esmeree looks up.  Crucified above her is the body of the painted man.  His body remains untouched by vermin or elements, as though God is still smiling down upon him.  Her eyes blink and water as the rising sun reflects off the mirrored sphere of his sword’s pommel.

The sword enema suddenly strikes her as reprehensibly offensive and insulting.  The Medianists have no right to make a mockery of this man, no matter who they are or what they think he did.  Without knowing why—and not caring if anyone sees—she quickly dismounts and takes hold of the sword’s hilt.  She gives it a single downward jerk.

Iall gasps in disgust as the blade easily slides free from the body.  Struggling with both hands, Esmeree finds it nearly too heavy to hold—heavier even than a Brackish spatha—but somehow, it feels right in her hands.  Despite the time in his body, the blade is clean and bloodless.  The blade shines like a mirror in the morning sunlight.  She spends precious time carefully wrapping the sword and securing it on her horse.

Blowing a kiss to the painted man, she swings back into the saddle.  They have a lot of ground to cover, and she hopes to be north of Cliffs Reach before nightfall.

“Who was that?” Iall whispers as Esmeree spurs her marka forward.

“A friend of mine,” Esmeree whispers back.  “Someday, I’ll tell you about him.”

As they ride away, a raven lands upon the corpse’s shoulder and begins picking at his eye.

* * *

A cold drizzle chills the riders as they slowly work their way along the muddy trail.  Wrapping her worn leather pelisse tighter around her and Iall, she hunches her shoulders and grits her teeth.  The pelisse, and her wimples, and their blankets, and their saddlebags, and in fact all the gear she bought from that trader, stink from livestock and manure.  Pressing her nose shut with her fingers, she sighs and looks over at Myrdd.

The old man sits on his horse, oblivious to the weather and mumbling happily to himself.  His ancient caballos plods obediently next to her marka.  Bought from the same trader, the placid, flatulent horse smells only slightly better than their gear.

She shakes her head.  Much to her disappointment, Myrdd hasn’t gotten better since his beating by the Crimson Rraakks over a year ago.  His time in that cell has only made things worse.  Now, she has to keep an eye on him all the time to make sure he hasn’t shrugged off his wraps and coat.

“Can you help him?” Esmeree asks silently.

“Perhaps” is the silent reply.  “It is his mind, his spirit, that is damaged.  Such things are difficult to restore.”

“But why don’t you try?”

Her ember doesn’t answer.  It never does.  On some level, she suspects it is waiting for him to die so it can steal his soul.

The roads connecting the city-states of the Palpi peninsula are well-traveled and relatively safe for villeins.  Commerce delivered by merchants and caravans are the life-blood of this territory, and the city-states protect it rabidly.  Unfortunately, Esmeree is no longer a villein.  She is an outcast now, a luct-marvos, a hunted witch, and she fears that every keep, every shire, and every dunum will be watching for her.  So they travel north via little-visited trails and farmer’s paths.  It is a more circuitous route, avoiding all major settlements, and they’ve become lost several times.  Inns are less frequent and less comfortable, and bagaudas, monsters, and other hazards are rumored to prey on the unwary.  However, Esmeree has been hardened by her travels with Hiisi, so the climate hardly troubles her, and as far as wayfarers are concerned, they’ve encountered only a few surly cottars and some refugees heading south.

Her biggest concern has been keeping Myrdd healthy and warm, a task that is becoming harder and harder in this weather.  Iall’s presence seems to have helped.  Old man and child sit together on the caballos, sharing stories for hours.  He calls her his daughter, and Esmeree wonders if he believes Iall is his second child or simply Esmeree at a younger age.

“Can you at least make him warmer?”

“Yes.”

“Then do it!”

Still, her ember doesn’t respond.  Damn this homunculus!

“I know why you’re doing this.”

“Yes, you do,” her ember agrees.

“You want him to die.”

“It is the natural course of things.  And his death will benefit us in several ways.  Shall I tell you how?”

“No.  I already know.”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you just kill him?  Speed things up?”

“You would permit such a thing?”  Her ember sounds shocked.

“No.  Of course not.  But I’m also not permitting your neglect of him, and you’re doing that too.  You don’t have to obey me.  You’re proving that now.  So kill him.”

Her ember hesitates.  “You want to be a homunculus,” she insists, “So take action.  Do it.”

“I cannot.  It would be wrong.”

“Yes.”

“Despite his weakness, despite the burden to our journey, he is helpless and in our mercy.  We cannot do him harm.”

“No.”

“And there is gratitude for the deeds he has done, the care he has given us.  Though he may not be able to understand it now, the care we give him is valuable and worthy.”

“Yes,” Esmeree agrees.

“Very well,” her stone concludes.  “I will warm him.”

Esmeree smiles as she shivers.  “Perhaps you can warm me as well?”

* * *

“Why did God do those things to Kahedin?” Iall asks.

Esmeree smiles as the girl nestles closer to her.  The barn is drafty, the hay filled with insects, but it is shelter, and she is grateful to the farmer for providing it.  Besides, her ember warms the drafts and drives away the vermin.

“That’s exactly what Kahedin asked when he finally met God.”

Iall looks up at Esmeree, “What did He say?”

Esmeree shakes her head.  “No, no,” she whispers, caressing the girl’s hair.  “Time to sleep now.  Maybe tomorrow, we’ll learn more about Kahedin.”

Iall pouts briefly as her eyes close.  Minutes later, she is whispering and humming in her sleep.  It took Esmeree a couple days before she realized that the little girl’s ember sings to her.  By laying down next to her and letting her magic drift across the girl, Esmeree can hear the music too.

Resting in this way, she’s learned of how stones can interact without the act of love.  The close proximity, the feelings, the magic, she can feel Iall’s tiny stone play with hers.  In the end, both part stronger and healthier.

Esmeree hopes her presence, her ember, is helping Iall.  Esmeree doesn’t remember losing her parents—if she ever really had them—but Iall does and did.  Yet, the child’s mood seems oblivious.  Could it be that the reality of the situation hasn’t occurred to her?  Or is it that her ember consumed the souls of her parents?  Esmeree looks down at the sleeping girl, her ember’s song soothing her dreams.  Could that be who’s singing to her now?  Perhaps she never really lost her parents after all.

Esmeree lays down between Iall and Myrdd and closes her eyes.  Tomorrow, or the next day, they will be in Green Bridge, the largest of the Palpi city-states and the capital of the Abaisd Territories.  Hopefully, they’ll be able to find passage there to Ceilbyrig.  Hopefully, they’ll be able to avoid capture.

She frowns in concern.  Why should they have to hide?  Why should they have to fear the intolerance of the Medianists?

“Intolerance is the lifeblood of the church.”  Her ember’s voice startles her.  “Resistance to change is the key to maintaining the Medianist’s identity.  Change is dangerous.”

“It’s like the Bracks,” answers Esmeree.  “They mutilate the women who fall under their control.  Purely in the name of maintaining their culture.”

“Yes.”  The tone seems to condone rather than condemn.

“But it is inconsistent!  The Church embraces change!”

“What could you mean?”

“Don’t you find it strange,” Esmeree asks, “that there have been four Prophets of God, and yet none of them agree with each other?  Why does the message from God change with each Prophet?”

“The message doesn’t change,” her ember assures.  “God is not imperfect.”

“Then it must be the Prophets who are!  It is the same argument I heard from the Inquisition.  God personally selected the Primates as His representatives.  For them to be imperfect, God must be imperfect.  The Prophets, too, were chosen by God.  For them to be imperfect, again, God must be imperfect!”

Her ember is silent.

“There can be only two solutions,” she continues, “Either God is imperfect and His messengers are imperfect, or God changes His mind over time.”

Much to her surprise, her ember still remains silent.  Esmeree isn’t used to winning arguments with her ember.  Relaxing between her two wards, she begins to drift off to sleep.

“There is a third possibility,” her ember whispers.  “Perhaps God did not choose the Prophets at all.”

* * *

The glory of Green Bridge stretches out as far as Esmeree can see.  The city covers all sides of a huge enclosed bay, including the massive natural bridge spanning its mouth.  At the bridge’s crest stands the huge fortified palace of the Superbus Tyrannus’s viceroy, the powerless symbolic ruler of the Abaisd Territories.  It’s pale towers stretch high into the sky.

Esmeree saw the city for the first time onboard the God’s Traveler.  It was the most magnificent place she has ever seen.  She is excited to be back again.

Spreading down the wings of the bridge are endless gardens and lesser palaces—Green Bridge’s versions of Marble Town, Esmeree assumes.  Below them, spread handsome merchant’s homes and apartments, shops, and churches.  Across the bay from the bridge are the countless docks, mooring huge steam and sail ships.

Looking from the docks up to the palaces, Esmeree leads the horses down towards the city.

Esmeree and Iall sit together in the darkened room.  It is a single room, with beds for Esmeree and Iall and Myrdd.  It was expensive by Cliffs Reach standards, but Esmeree was willing to pay a little extra for the comfort and privacy it provides.

“Your ember is here,” Esmeree says, pressing a place in Iall’s stomach just above her belly button.

Iall tugs up her jerkin to take a better look.  “How can you tell?” she asks with some awe.

Esmeree rubs the smooth skin with her thumb, and the little girl laughs.  She smiles.  “You can tell.  In time, you’ll be able to see them too.  There are little marks here… and here,” she touches them gently, but Iall laughs again anyway.

Esmeree sits back and waits.  “Not just other sorcerers can see them, Iall.  Bad people—monsters—can too.  There are people who will not like you, and if they see these marks, they will take you away.”  Esmeree’s tone is intentionally severe, and she hopes to frighten the girl into listening.

“Why don’t they like me?” Iall asks quietly, her hand touching her ear in the way she does whenever she wants the music to come.

Esmeree waves the question away.  “Not right now.  I’ll explain those things later.  Now, listen to me.”

Confused and frightened as she is, Iall obediently sits up and becomes attentive.

“You must make sure not to show your magic tricks to anyone, because you can never be sure who is a good person and who is not.”

“How will I know?”

“I will teach you how,” Esmeree promises, hoping she’s not making herself a liar.  How do you teach a child how to read the character of a man?  She wonders if there is a spell to do that?  “Until I do that, you’ll do no tricks unless I say it is OK.  Understand?”

Iall nods.

“You are lucky to have an ember,” Esmeree assures, “and soon you will learn to do many wonderful things.  Your ember is small, though it will probably grow bigger as you get older, but even if it does get bigger, it will still be hard to find.  I doubt any of the bad people will ever find it unless they deliberately look for it.”

“Is a small ember bad?” Iall asks timidly.

Esmeree weighs the answer carefully before speaking.  “No.  I don’t think so.  You won’t ever be able to cast the really big spells like the Medianist priests do, but I’m not sure why you’d want to anyway.  Yours is big enough to help you live and make you happy, and I think that’s all that really matters anyway.”

“Is your ember bigger than mine?”

Esmeree nods.  “Yes.”

“Can I see?”

Esmeree lifts off her blouse, and Iall sits up with surprise.  “I can see it!” she gasps.

Esmeree nods as she looks down at it.  “I’ve had to hide it all my life from the bad people,” she says.  “Sometimes, I’ve been caught and only barely got away.  In that way, you’re a lot luckier than I.”

“You can cast the big spells?” she asks in awe as she traces its dimensions with her fingers.

Esmeree shrugs, “Maybe one day.”

“What kind of spells will I be able to cast?”

Esmeree shakes her head.  “We don’t know yet.  Your ember is small, but like mine, it is well placed.”  Esmeree demonstrates on her own body.  “Having an ember in the middle of your body—like my chest or your tummy—is better than having one out on the edges—like a foot or hand.  Having an ember in the front is better than in the back—yours looks to be about in the middle—and having an ember higher is better than lower—again, yours looks to be about in the middle.”

Iall laughs and pats the top of her head.  “The best ember would be up here!”

Esmeree chuckles.  “On the forehead is best, I think.”

“A big fat one, right on top!” Iall continues, not to be deterred.

Esmeree smiles as she watches the young girl leaps to her feet and runs around the room.  Such energy!  But so little focus.  Esmeree’s forgotten when she was like that—if she ever was.  Somehow, she thinks, children weren’t meant to run bay or turn tricks or do other Mill jobs.  She supposes they were meant to play and learn and be protected and loved.  Such a strange concept!  She wonders what the Lady would think of it.

Esmeree was such a serious child, with so many responsibilities.  She hopes Iall can be spared such a life.

“What about her stone?” Esmeree’s ember asks.

Iall eventually collapses into Myrdd’s lap and busies herself with braiding his long, stringy beard.

“What about it?” Esmeree replies silently.

“Have you decided how to teach her?  Will she feed her stone’s anima?  Will she have an animus?  Will it become a homunculus?”

Esmeree hesitates.  “I don’t know.”

“You’ll need to decide soon if you mean to make her your apprentice.”

Esmeree leaps to her feet and claps her hands.  “Iall!  I need to get ready for tonight.  Would you please help me?”

Esmeree is unfamiliar with the territory of Green Bridge, but by means of her spells and her wiles, she manages to slip her way into the wellborn’s nightly festivities.  Sellâria and patrons push past her as she shuffles meekly through the crowds.

“Ugh!” one bored sellâria moans to her patron.  “I hate Gray Season parties.  They’re always so stolid.”

The equally bored Count—bored more so perhaps by his companion than of the party—shrugs and asks without interest, “What would you like to do?”

“Maybe we can go to the Viceroy’s palace?  He always has wonderful parties!”

The Count shrugs as he leads his sellâria away.  “I suppose.  It’s not like he has anything better to do than organize balls.”

Esmeree shakes her head as she moves away.  If that is what most Green Bridge sellâria are like, it’s no wonder that their patrons flock to Cliffs Reach.

It is late in the night when she finally finds her quarry.  The Viscount stands among a group of patrons and sellâria as they listen to a delicate minuet being played on a harpsichord.  Esmeree waits for a long time, patiently trying to catch his eye.  At long last, the handsome noble looks up at her, finally curious about the servant that had been trying to get his attention for so long.

When Esmeree drops her spell, his face pales.  She smiles.

Excusing himself frantically, he leaves his group and rushes to her.  “Esmeree!” he gasps quietly.  “What are you doing here?”  He looks down at her servant’s clothes.  “Why are you dressed like that?”

Esmeree bows in proper courtly fashion.  “Viscount Meliadus,” she drawls in perfect EroBernac, “I am hoping you could serve as my Hierophant one last time?”

“It is not an easy thing you ask, Esmeree.”  Meliadus sounds worried, and perhaps he has good reason to be.  His sudden departure from the party with a servant girl raised several eyebrows—of particular concern was his wife and the two sellâria accompanying him—and now he is within his household chapel, conversing with a known witch.

“Believe me, Meliadus,” she says softly, “I understand the difficult position I put you in.”

He leans heavily against the lavishly ornate misericords and buries his face in his hands.  Esmeree notes with interest the fine illumination on the shelves.  They portray the Prophet Hoël leading the fragmented tribes of EroBernd down to the Ash Fields.  It was a singular act of mercy that would ultimately bring about the downfall of Hoël’s own homeland of Mut hundreds of years later.

Esmeree wonders if the irony is lost on her new Viscount now.

“That was an ugly business down in Cliffs Reach, yes?” he mumbles through his hands.

Esmeree sits carefully on one of the pews and nods.  “Oh yes, very.  I imagine your peer, the Viscount Jacobus Robertus, is still an ugly business… if I know our good Inquisition, that is.”  She leans closer to him.  “I can give you the gory details… what I had to do for him and why, what I ultimately did to him… and why…”

“No,” Meliadus sighs as he looks back at her.  He smiles wearily.  “No, I think it would be best if I never knew.”

“I think that’s wise too.”

“Yes.”  He touches her cheek with one knuckle.  “Your letters never betrayed any unhappiness.  After that one night in the Court of Love, I looked forward to seeing you again… however…”

Esmeree pouts.  “Your behavior was beastly.”

“Yes, but you’ve already forgiven me for that.”

“I have?”

“Oh yes.  I have the letters to prove it too, oh jûris-consultus, so you may feel free to call upon the evidence.”

Esmeree laughs briefly.  She’s forgotten how much she liked this man.  His wife is a lucky woman, as are the sellâria fortunate enough to earn his attentions.  She touches his arm lightly.  “Meliadus, please,” she pleads softly.  “We have the money.  We need only find a ship.  Please.  Can you help us?”

Meliadus covers her hand with his.  “There is something special about you, Esmeree.  For a sellâria that I spent only one evening with—and never even laid with—I find my mind still turns to thoughts of you.  If only things could be different…”

“Meliadus,” she says softly, “I am an accused witch, a fugitive, and I have the blood of a Viscount and an Inquisitor on my hands.”  She shakes her head.  “I’m not even a sellâria anymore.”

He chuckles, “All the greater loss for me.”

“Will you help us?”

He pats her hand.  “I yield, I yield, oh Goddess of Love.  The sellâria has bested me again on the field of love.  Of course I’ll help you.  I’ll help you reach the Ymyl Gwland Baronies, and Hoël protect you when you get there.”