The alfs cluster around her, gesturing at each other excitedly.  She is not clear how they are healing her—she is not clear how long she’s been in this ruined dunum—but she suspects her alf’s seed was the only thing that saved her life.

She steps carefully around the rapidly decaying bodies of the fallen pirates.  Most were mysteriously torn limb from limb, something she doesn’t think the alfs are capable of, not at this time of year at least.  For those who were not, the alf’s arrows felled them.  Those arrows have already taken root in their flesh, and green buds sprout from the new saplings’ shafts.

This clearing is a strange place.  The day never seems to end—she never grows hungry or tired—and yet her clothes have begun rotting right off her body.  A heavy snow has fallen—nearly a full foot—and yet the cold and ice doesn’t bother her or burn her feet.  Already, her hair has grown noticeably longer, and her wounds seem to be healing quickly, quicker even than her ember could manage.  The alfs have packed it with some kind of moss.  Though it disturbs her to think about it, it seems to her that the moss is somehow growing inside her.

The alfs of this place are different from the gentle creature she met as a child.  They are woodier, harder—almost shaggy from their deep red bark—fierce and angry, and yet despite their relatively few numbers, Esmeree can’t shake the sense that there are many, many more watching from somewhere nearby.

Since she arrived, Esmeree has been given the run of the ruined dunum.  There is little she can do, and nowhere for her to go.

But then without warning, the alfs suddenly become intent on hustling her away.  She allows them to guide her into the ruins of the chapel, where they leave her.  Wrapping her arms around herself, she sits and waits as it seems the alfs are requesting.

How long will they keep her here, she reflects as she waits.  Are they truly grateful for the return of their seed?  Or are they simply biding their time for the opportunity to kill her in a more imaginative way?

Is this their version of the Harvest Festival’s iron cage?

She startles as the forest roars to life around her.  Branches writhe and twist violently though there is no wind to move them.  The clearing is suddenly empty of alfs.

Slowly, Esmeree reaches for her scimitar and waits.  In this strange place, the expensive blade has begun to rust badly, but it is still better than nothing at all.

She leaps to her feet when she hears the sound of approaching horses.

Horses?  Men must be approaching.  Will this be her opportunity to escape?  Can this be a company of Ehrech knights charging to her rescue?

She ducks behind the walls of the ruined chapel as she glimpses the first hint of the riders through the trees.  She looks at the clearing around her.  All is silent.  She looks up to see a squad of Ehrech dragoons charging into the clearing.  They are splendidly dressed in their bright uniforms, and their ermine-lined black cloaks mark them as Ravens, EroBernd’s elite company of knights.  The silver raven’s head brooches flash in the broken sunlight.  As they wheel and turn, she hears them shout in confusion.

Her stomach sinks.  They are as surprised to find this dunum as she was.

Drawing saber and wheel-lock pistol, their commander barks orders for retreat.  As they turn to flee, they find the forest closed to them.  As quickly as it appeared, their path through the trees is gone.  The riders are thrown into further disarray.

The commander’s voice is disconcertingly familiar to Esmeree.  The blazons on his mantle indicate him to be a Vavasour of Ehre.  He stands beautiful and strong in his saddle, ordering his men to regroup and sound off.

The alfs spring their trap.  Materializing seemingly from thin air, the alf warriors level their bows and fire.  The air fills with the crude shafts, shattering against armor, plunging into horse and human flesh alike.  Scarlet blood stains the pure white snow.

The commander roars in fury—these Ravens are made of sterner stuff than Messer’s pirates—and rallying a handful of men, he leads them in a cavalry charge.  Lead bullets, steel blades, and horses’ hooves shatter the bodies of the alfs that don’t get out of their way in time.

The scene of carnage stuns Esmeree.  Man and alf fly at each other in primal, murderous fury.

Scimitar held in one limp hand, she walks out among the battle as though in a trance.  Softly, she sings the old child’s rhyme to herself:  “In Spring’s green vastness, comes alf’s fastness…”

Five more Ravens fall to the alfs’ arrows.  Injured in the shoulder and leg, their commander leads the knights to the cover provided by the old barracks.  There, they reload their firearms as the alfs cautiously advance.

“…Come Summer’s golden light, alf’s might…”

The knights finally discover her.  They point and shout in surprise as the alf warriors shoulder past her, ignoring her in favor of their knightly prey.  Her presence seems to be of particular concern to the commander.

Remounting their remaining steeds, they charge from the barracks.  Arrows and bullets fly, littering the ground with more bodies.  The powerful warhorses charge over and through the alf skirmishing line.

Esmeree doesn’t notice until it is too late that the commander has separated from the others.  With one powerful motion, he scoops her from the ground and hauls her onto his horse.  Turning hard, he urges his horse back towards the barracks.

She looks up into the facies of his helm’s visor.  The solemn expression on the mirrored steel face belies the panic of the battle.  Blood is smeared across one cheek.

“…With Autumn’s colors running, rises alf’s cunning…”

“What?” he demands, looking down at her.

The distraction proves fatal.  A hail of arrows fells his horse, and Esmeree and knight crash to the frozen ground.  He rises instantly, raising his saber and lifting Esmeree to her feet.  He is immediately struck in the chest by an arrow.  Spun partly around, he sags to his knee, and Esmeree helps steady him.

His helmet is knocked askew, and Esmeree lifts it off.  Her heart freezes when her eyes meet his.

“Esmeree, my sellâria,” Sir Guiromélans says in wonder, blood flecking his lips.

Seeing the plight of their leader, the remaining Ravens cease their pursuit of the alfs and turn for the rescue.  They don’t see the forest reaching out for them until it is too late.  With a roar of snapping wood, the massive creature lashes out with tree branch limbs and pulls men and horse apart.  The survivors scream in terror, swinging madly with their sabers.  Bark and needles fall along with thick blood and flesh.

Esmeree stares at the animate tree in awe.  It towers hundreds of feet above the ground.  “…In Winter’s frozen bloom, man’s doom,” she whispers.

Tossing aside the last knight’s carcass, the monstrous alf-beast thunders forward on tree-trunk legs.  Soil clings to the tangled roots beneath its feet.  The tiny alf warriors shy away from its presence, but they keep a close eye on the last living knight.

Guiromélans roars in outraged fury, violently swinging his saber in the air, and Esmeree has to hold him back.  She can feel him shuddering from the sight of his men’s violent deaths, and she knows his broken heart is eager to join them.

The tree-creature bellows its challenge, its trunk splitting in a grotesque mockery of a mouth, and Esmeree screams and covers her ears against the roar.  The alfs are all around them, watching their plight with reverence, watching as the tree moves in for the kill.  Leaping to her feet, she stands between it and the fallen knight.  It doesn’t seem to pay her any attention, instead preparing to sweep past her and fall upon Guiromélans.

Can it really be time for one more of her friends to die?

“NAGE!” she screams, and black flame erupts skyward.

Alf and tree-beast stagger backwards, reeling as Esmeree’s flame takes shape over her.  Great black talons shroud her arms, and massive wings rise high above her head.  The great flaming figure sits on its haunches, staring up at the animated tree, and snaps its tail in irritation.

She has succeeded in attracting the alfs’ attention.  They are in disarray, surprised that Esmeree would defend this knight.  Turning, she carves a circle of fire in the soil around Guiromélans, and makes it known that none will be allowed to cross.

The alfs cluster around their monstrous familiar, urging it, pleading with it.  It shifts its weight from side to side, considering this new obstacle in its blood-lust.  By its attitude, it seems as though only curiosity prevents it from striking her down.  Her eyes narrow, and her fire beast shrieks a challenge, inviting the tree to try.

The alfs begin rocking, praying, and the tree seems to respond, seems to actually draw strength from its worshippers.  Esmeree hesitates as she realizes the terrible truth.  This place, this battle, was all focussed around it, the tree.  The knights were its sacrificial lambs, and it is protecting its worshippers.  This beast is their god—the alf’s god—or at least one of them.  To look upon this tree is to look upon Afron or Johlpa incarnate, and she—puny Esmeree—now stands in defiance of it.

How can she deal with an entity of such power?

The words of Myrdd come back to her.  The puny gods of the Bracks and the other barbarians are all merely aspects of the one true God.  Would she talk to the man or talk to his gun?

The alf god seems to make up its mind, but even as it surges forward, she kneels and prays.  Her flames disappear as she opens her heart and her ember in humble supplication to God.  She prays for understanding and mercy.  She prays for forgiveness for the ignorance and intolerance of mankind.  She prays to express the love she has for her friends, for the alf long dead, and for the knight she now protects.  She expresses her desire to lay down her own life for a just cause, a just cause such as bringing her alf’s seed home or protecting this honorable knight.

Hands clutched in prayer, she bows her head.  The earth shakes as the alf god’s foot lands heavily next to her.  She feels its presence all around her and waits patiently for the end to come.

The end doesn’t come.

“Esmeree!  Esmeree!”  Guiromélans shakes her.  “You did it!  It’s a miracle!  A miracle from God!”

Esmeree opens her eyes and looks up.  The massive red-barked tree rises hundreds of feet in the air, it’s twin trunks set solidly into the ground just feet from where she kneels, almost as though it has always grown there.  The only hints betraying its earlier violence is the churned soil and snow around its trunks and the blood dripping from its branches.

Crying quietly, Esmeree touches the soft red bark and thanks God.

***

“Let me get this straight, Esmeree…” Guiromélans paces around the ruined chapel.  The alfs are still plentiful in the dunum, so he hasn’t felt comfortable enough to venture outside this hallowed place’s ruined walls.  “The charming sellâria I knew in Cliffs Reach…”

“Yes,” she says softly.

“…who just saved my life and healed my wounds through an unprecedented act of God…”

“Yes.”

“…now tells me she is a confessed witch—a practitioner of heresy—a consort of Bracks, Darkbloods, and demons—and the probable murderer of the Viscount Jacobus Robertus and a pious Medianist Deacon!”

Esmeree shrugs.  “Well, in a nutshell, yes, I suppose…”

“And now I find you here, in Ehre, a naked wild woman living with alfs!”

“Well,” she hazards, looking down at her rags, “I’d hardly call me naked.”  She looks around the dunum.  “And I’d hardly call this living.”

“You take this so casually?”  He sounds shocked.  “This is a war, Esmeree!  A war between good and evil—light and darkness—man and alf!”

“I’m sure the alfs would feel differently about that.”

“Fée are a plague!” he says with quiet fury, “A blight God wants burned from the world!”

She shakes her head.  “There are some who say the world was created for the Fée.  They say man is the newcomer—the disease—merely an afterthought.  Did you know that war was unknown in the world until God made man?  We do it better than any other.”

“God made man to wage war on the unclean races!”

“Is that what you really believe?  Or are you just reciting Guiot’s lessons by rote?  We destroy so much, and yet we create so much!  Can’t you see that we are a people at odds with itself?  How can you look upon the palaces of Ulbandi or read the riddarasögur of the Southern Territories or hear the music of Ehre and say man was created solely for war?  And yet, we created war!  Or it was created for us.”

Guiromélans shakes his head and sits heavily on a crumbling rafter.  Already his armor shows signs of rust.

“How did you get here?  How did you find this place?” she asks.

He shakes his head.  “Some of the hamlets north of Seven Circles were complaining of alf raids.”

“Seven Circles?” she exclaims.  “But that’s in southern Ehrech!”

“Yes?  So?” he frowns.  Esmeree just shakes her head.  He entered from the south, she from the north.  How could she explain to him that somehow both of them were transported hundreds of miles to this place?

Shrugging, he continues, “My company investigated.  We saw the alfs and pursued them into the forest.”  He looks around, “And we found ourselves here.”

“That was foolish, you know that?” she asks softly, “Chasing those alfs into a wood.  It is Winter, Guiromélans.  The alfs are few but very powerful.”

“Powerful, aye,” he nods, staring up at the sky.  After a long pause, he says, “Today is the Burning Time, Esmeree, did you know that?”

Esmeree feels a chill that has nothing to do with the snow around her.  “Already?  No, I guess I didn’t.”

He nods.  “Today, I witnessed a witch do battle with a Fée god.  Tell me, did God or Gock carry this day?”  When she doesn’t answer, he buries his face in his hands.  “This is difficult for me, lady,” he says grimly.

“Guiromélans,” she says pleadingly, “I understand, believe me!  But nothing about me has changed.  I am the same person you knew before!  I am the same person you wagered again during Schliem’s Court of Love.  The same person who wrote you during that long campaign here in Ehre.  The same person for whom you wrote such beautiful poetry!  Can’t you remember that person?”

He looks up at her and nods.  “The same person, aye.  You were just never the person I thought you were.  You are a stranger to me, and I wonder now about the deceptions you orchestrated upon me and the others in Cliffs Reach.”

She looks away, “I’m sure you can understand my reasons why.”

“I’m not sure I do.  If it were anyone but you, I would condemn you as a heretic and pray for the Inquisition to find you so they may cleanse your soul.”  He shakes his head as he looks up at the tree that now stands in the center of the ruins.  “But to see the things you did!  To tame this living tree!  To summon the fire!  To lay before the feet of God and plead for our salvation!  Are these the acts of a Hells-condemned witch?”

Esmeree shakes her head in honest bafflement.  “I don’t know.”

***

The alf leads her away from the clearing.  Guiromélans seems to need some time alone to think, so she was happy to follow when invited.

She’s noted with little surprise a marked change in the alfs’ behavior around her since her encounter with their god.  No longer do scores of alfs accompany her everywhere she goes.  They now seem to need only one alf for the job.

Never has she heard them speak a word she can understand.  Everything has been done in simple, eloquent hand gestures and expressions.  She doesn’t even know how they speak among themselves.

Pondering this, she nearly brushes aside a sapling in her path.  She stops short before she does and stares.  It is a typical specimin of the strange needle-trees common in this land, except this one has, hanging heavily from its branches, a distended leathery sack.  Within, she can see the nearly perfect outline of a tiny alf.

She looks around herself.  Saplings are everywhere, each with its own bag.  Her alf guide seems to swell with pride.  He has brought her to their nursery.  She walks carefully in wonder.  In some ways, it is one of the most beautiful places she has ever seen.  In other ways, it is the most terrible.  She realizes that these alfs will one day join the war against humanity.

She wonders what Guiromélans would do if brought to his place.  She doesn’t need to wonder very long.  His response would be clear and immediate.  And terribly, terribly final.

Taking her by the hand, her guide leads her deeper into the nursery.  Soon, she sees a plant that is different from the others.  It is smaller, with broad leaves rather than needles.  Somehow, the sun seems to shine down on it with greater warmth than on the others, and even in the depths of winter, this small vine-like plant is thriving.  Hanging from its branches, Esmeree can see a tiny sack.  Inside are the beginnings of an alf.

This was why they were keeping her in the dunum.  They wanted to see if her seed was still viable.

Tears come to her eyes.  She’s done it.  She brought her friend home at last.

Smiling a human smile, her guide bows to her.

***

The two humans stand together in the ruined chapel, surrounded by alfs.  She can feel Guiromélans’s tension beneath her steadying hand—these have been his blood enemies for most of his life—but Esmeree is confident that they don’t intend to kill them.

The alfs form two paths through their numbers.  Each leads into new openings in the forest.

Esmeree looks up at Guiromélans.  “Sire, you see?  We are free to go.”

He eyes each of the paths suspiciously.  “Why two then?  Is it a test?”

She shakes her head.  “No, I believe one is for you, and one is for me.  We are each a long ways from our homes.”

He looks up at the huge tree towering overhead.  “I shall come back here.  With fire and axes, I shall come back here.”

“No,” she says softly.  “No.  Don’t.”

“No?  This is war.”

“Even wars must end.  See the way EroBernd, Mut, and Ehre have survived.  See how the Southern Counties have survived.  Then look to the Brack tribes—their clan wars will never end, and they will never be powerful.  Every war must end first by an act peace.”  She touches his shoulder.  “The alfs here showed you a great mercy, Guiromélans.  They spared your life.  Please show them the same consideration.”

He grunts.  “You saved my life, lady.  Not these creatures.”

“Very well, then, for my sake, please don’t wage any more war against them.”

“I am only one man, Esmeree.  The war will rage on with or without me.”

“Yes, but you don’t have to be in it.  You are a good man, Guiromélans, and the world is a better place with you alive in it.”

He shakes his head.  “This is war, Esmeree.  I am bound by duty and honor to serve my lord.  There is little I can do—”

“Certainly there is!” she shouts.  “You have become a Raven of the Seven Kingdoms!  The elite!  A paladin of God!  You are the sole survivor of an alf ambush!  You are a Vavasour, royal blood!  When you return home, you will be a war hero!”  She steps closer to him.  “Just ask to be moved.  Go to EroBernd.  Go to Palpin.  Just go anywhere but here.”

“I—” he hazards.

“There is a petition before the Court of Love, Guiromélans.  We have a knight who has dedicated his life to the cause of Superbus Tyrannus, God, and country.  Glory and honor are heaped upon his name, and no one man in the Seven Kingdoms can dare speak ill of him.  Such is his skill, that he has been awarded the title of Raven—a Champion of God—the highest honor a knight could ever hope for…”

“Esmeree, I have no interest in playing games now—”

“And yet,” she continues, “He seeks more.  He pursues higher deeds.  He risks his life in pointless struggles.”

“Esmeree!”

“And there is a lady—one among many, she imagines—who cares deeply for him.  It is all she wants to see him live another day, to live a long life and have a family.  And still, he risks his life…”

Guiromélans is silent.

“Tell me, sir knight, how much honor must one man have before he has enough?  How much must he have, before he can stop?  Because this lady very much wants to know.”

Guiromélans stares at the ground for a long time.  At last, he says, “Tell me, who is this lady that asks such a question?  Is she a pious woman or a Gock-worshipping witch?”

Tears spring to her eyes.  “For me!” she shouts, “If you ever loved me, do it for me!  For your savior, do this.  You are an Ehrech knight, a man of honor.  Make me a vow!  As I have saved you, please do this for me!”

He turns on her suddenly and takes her shoulders.  “Come with me!  I shall take you to the Cathedral of Peiné Païen in Castitasdecus!  We can absolve you!  The Inquisition—”

She can see in his eyes the struggle, the conflict between duty and honor and love.  She presses her hand against his lips.  “No.  I will not be going back to them.  I have no interest in their absolution or their approval.  I believe, Guiromélans, that I have my own path to follow with God.  I believe that sincerely.”

He presses his lips together, and she can see the muscles of his jaw flex in frustration.  “I’ll pray for you, Esmeree, but I fear you are tragically, disastrously mislead.”

Taking her hand, he performs a perfect Ehrech bow as he kisses it.  The touch is cold, and it wrenches at her heart.  Snapping to attention, he draws his rusting saber and salutes the alf’s tree.  Without another word, he marches down the line of alfs and disappears into the forest.  The trees rustle and close behind him.

Esmeree watches after him sadly until something tugs at her hair.  Looking down, she sees an alf that she recognizes as her guide through the nursery.  She frowns.  They all look the same, so she wonders how it is she recognizes this one?

Grinning awkwardly like a human, it presents a bloody bag to her.  It seems to have once belonged to one of the knights.  Though the oiled leather is now cracked and worn with age, she expects it will last long enough for her to get it out of the influence of this strange clearing.  Fearing what she’ll find inside upon opening it, she is surprised to see nothing but rich dirt.  She digs her hand inside, but still finds nothing but dirt.  Dirt!

The alf nods and pantomimes the act of spreading the soil across the ground.  Esmeree frowns and shrugs.  Shouldering the bag, she thanks the alf for the gift.  Passing the divine tree, she touches its trunk reverentially and feels the warmth radiating from it.  She whispers silent thanks and then moves on through the path made for her by the alfs.  Turning once, she blows a kiss in the direction of Guiromélans’s departure, and then enters the trees.

***

Esmeree is sore and tired.  She is hungry and cold.  Though she’d like to blame the alfs for this, she knows she shouldn’t.  They’ve done more for her than she could have ever hoped.  Somehow, they transported her from Ehre, across the Fists of Gock, to the forests of Ymyl Gwland.  It’s a long walk home, but at least she doesn’t have to swim the Skudd.

The alf moss covering her bullet wound has dried up and fallen away, leaving a minor injury that her ember can easily take care of.

Her ember feeds her, warms her, comforts her as much as it can, but Ymyl Gwland in the depths of Hard Winter is a harsh place.  Her rags hardly provide any protection.  Tucking her hands tighter under her armpits, she hunches her shoulders and keeps heading north.  As the days pass, she has many long discussions with her ember.  She is continually surprised when it expresses philosophies and beliefs different from hers and wonders how such a thing could be.

The eerie ruins of ancient castles and dunums haunt the distant hills of Ymyl Gwland with disconcerting frequency, but Esmeree doesn’t stray from the coastline.  If those places were worth visiting, then they’re probably already occupied.  Esmeree doesn’t want to make or meet trouble right now.  She doesn’t want to get sidetracked.  She knows, if she sticks to the eastern coastline, she’ll eventually find Ceilbyrig.

The rocky landscape is treacherous, and she keeps her eyes on her feet.  It is thus quite a surprise when she looks up to see a naked man sitting in her path.