He sits cross-legged in the dirt, a crude mask of wood bark depicting simple joy covering his face.  A bandoleer of other masks is slung around his shoulders—anger, fear, sorrow, and others that she cannot discern—and his impossibly long sword stands behind him, planted point first into the ground.

At first she freezes in shock, but the asp makes no move.  The chill wind blows his long hair wildly and adds more dust to the varied layers of dirt already covering him.  He’s been sitting here for a very long time.

Esmeree steps closer.  Perhaps he’s dead?

She reaches out and touches the rough wood of his mask—and leaps backwards in surprise when his head snaps in her direction.  “So you’ve come at last, Esmeree!” the asp says happily as she struggles to calm her heart and catch her breath.  “Been a long time!  I wasn’t told when to expect you!  So I waits, and I waits!”

She takes several cautious steps backwards as he rises to his feet.  “Expecting me?” she asks.  “How in the Hells do you know who I am?  How’d you know where to find me?  Who told you I was coming?”

He begins brushing away the dirt caked onto his skin but then pauses to regard her.  Almost too quickly for her to see, he swaps his mask of happiness with one portraying what Esmeree can only presume is mischievousness.  “So many questions,” he quips.  “I dream!  I dance in my dreams, and the world sings to me.  Dreams tell me to expect you.  Dreams tell me of your coming.”  He flicks bits of dirt off his arm as he begins a manic dance around his sword.  “They sing of Esmeree’s coming.  Pretty, pretty Esmeree!”

She crosses her arms as she watches the strange man skip around.  “So you’re the asp I’ve heard about, uh?  You’re not as old as I expected.  I was told you’d be a withered old odocos.”

He freezes in place, and quite suddenly, he’s wearing a mask with a calm, thoughtful expression.  How does he switch them so quickly?  “Old odocos?” he ponders, “Hmmn…  Well, I suppose I am.  It is the nature of this place, I guess.  Time passes strangely here, though I rarely notice.  The Locus sustains me and fulfills most of my needs, but ennui has been largely my greatest enemy.”

Then he is happy mask again.  “But now you’re here!”

“Yes.  Now I’m here.”  Esmeree slowly circles the asp, and he obediently stands still, only his head and that foolish mask following her movement.  The resemblance is startling, but this asp behaves so much differently than the one she saw in Cliffs Reach.  Plus, the other one didn’t have all those masks.

He is a beautiful man—a perfect physical specimen—and Esmeree surveys this terrain with relish.  Somehow, she finds that his dark blue dragon’s coils and long black hair enhance those physical assets laid bare by his sky-clad nature.

“So, asp,” she sighs, “How can it be that you know of me, but I know nothing of you?”

“You know I am an asp,” he corrects, now wearing a solemn mask.  “You knew to find me in the Locus Amoenus…”

“I found you?” she exclaims.  “What do you mean I found you?  I was just walking home!  And you appeared right in front of me!  It looks to me like you found me!”

“Did not your vision lay the clues of my presence?”

“Well, yes…” she shakes her head, suddenly confused, “but how would you know—”

“And you set out in search of the Locus Amoenus?”

“Yes, but,” she stammers, suddenly off balance.  “I don’t understand.  How would you know about my visions?”

“And so you found me!” he exclaims, suddenly happy again.  “Here in the Locus Amoenus, I have stayed all along.”

She blinks in bafflement, staring into the face of that manic mask.  At last, she shakes her head.  “Wait a minute, cuall.  This is the Locus Amoenus?”  She looks around at the cold, desolate Ymyl Gwland scrub.  “This is the Wonderful Place?”

He raises one finger and corrects brightly, “Cuall you may call me, for fool is what I am!  But I am not foolish.  This is the Place of Wonders!  But I wouldn’t necessarily call it a wonderful place!”

“Place of Wonders,” Esmeree says slowly.  Again, she looks around.  Wonderful or full of wonders, it still looks cold and barren.  She shakes her head, “How do you live here?”

“The Locus provides all I need,” he says.

“What?” she snaps.  “Truly!  You’re as mad as you are painted!”

The asp laughs.  “The water of the stream is sweet, Esmeree!”

“What stream?” she shouts.  “There is no stream!”

Even as she finishes, she hears the trickle of running water.

She stares at the asp, stubbornly refusing to look in the direction of the water, and he simply stares back—that mask grinning like a madman—his head tilted to one side curiously.  Exhaling explosively, she finally gives in and pushes past him.  She finds the narrow stream of clear water winding its way down towards the Skudd.  Fat esok crowd each other as they cruise up and down its length.  She stares at it briefly before crouching and dipping in her hand.  Once she has confirmed its materiality, she submerges her head and drinks deeply.

The asp claps his hands excitedly when she finally surfaces.  The madman is right.  The water is sweet and refreshing.  She hasn’t had anything to drink in days.

“And,” he continues as he sits down next to her, dangling his feet in the water, “The aballo trees nourish me with their fruit and feed my fire with their branches.  The flesh of the hare and squirrel and esok fill my belly.  The soft grass eases my body at night.”

Even as he speaks, Esmeree sees details that she somehow had missed before.  Great swathes of brilliant green grass.  Stands of trees, their branches heavy with fruit.  Birds, hares, and other wildlife scurry among the underbrush.  The sun beats warmly upon her shoulders, despite the winter season.

She gasps in surprise and wonder.  “It is beautiful!”

“Yes!” the asp exclaims as he leaps to his feet and begins pinwheeling among the aballos.  “You took a long time to find me!  So I bided my time as I waited, and I cared for my statues.”

Esmeree walks among the collection of statues and admires their intricate detail.  Formed of pure white stone, some choked with vines of grape, most of them portray warriors from a variety of lands.  Some look like simple pilgrims, though, and Esmeree wonders why anyone would waste their time carving them.

“Asp,” she exclaims, “You did all this?”

“Yes!” he whoops.

She turns and regards him as he dances.  “I don’t even know your name.”

“Llydaw!” he laughs.

Esmeree sighs and smiles.  “Llydaw, are all asps like you?”

He giggles and twirls among the trees and statues.  “I know of no other asps like me, Esmeree!  I know of no other asps at all!”

Esmeree reclines against the trunk of an aballo, watching as Llydaw works on one of his statues.  She is fed, warm, and content.  The asp and this place seem to have that kind of effect on her.  It is as though all the weights of her problems have been temporarily lifted from her shoulders.  She hasn’t felt this at ease since... when?  Surely before Maponos was taken away from her.

Slowly, Llydaw circles his statue, making meticulous changes with that ludicrous sword of his.  He wears a mask of thoughtful concentration as he checks his work.  Beneath that blade, pieces of white stone fall away like curls of butter.  If he can use that sword to create such objects of beauty, what is he capable of when he wants to destroy?

And where do these pillars of stone come from anyway?

Esmeree is reminded of the old Synesi tale of the man who sought the perfect bride by carving her from stone.  Is that what he's doing?  Has he been here for so long, he now needs to create companions of his own?

“Llydaw?” she calls.

The asp pauses in his work to look over at Esmeree.  He turns away briefly to plant his sword in the ground, and when he turns back, he is wearing a new mask—one of curiosity.  “Yes, Esmeree?”

She hugs her legs, resting her chin on her knees.  “Have you always been known as Llydaw?”

The asp considers the question, and she watches with fascination as he switches masks from thoughtful to mischievous to curious and back to mischievous again.  She wonders if the masks he wears reflect his feelings or determine them.

“Why do you ask?” he says as he trots over and crouches in front of her.

She shrugs.  “Well, in Brackish, llydaw means ‘half-silent’.  An appropriate name for a man who wears masks, but a strange one to give an infant—especially one who isn’t Brackish.”

“Maybe I am Brackish?”

Esmeree laughs, “Oh, please!”

He inclines his head and switches to his solemn mask.  “I once heard a tale,” he says, as if reciting an old Ehrech poem, “of a magical castle so well hidden, it could never be found by those who sought it.  Nobody could find it—it found them.  This castle was occupied by an order of knights.  Heroic and magical these knights were, and their might and deeds became as legend.  The origin of their powers was a ward they called the ‘Joy of the Court’.  It protected them and kept the castle hidden—but it demanded a terrible price—for it granted the knights their powers only so long as their identities remained secret and they stayed within its walls.”

Esmeree frowns.  “Are you saying you were one of these knights?  Are you the last of this order, and is this place the Joy?”

He switches back to his mischievous mask, but Esmeree is ready for it.  She’s been getting better at watching him change his masks, and she gets a glimpse of what he hides underneath.  The expression behind the masks portrays empty, placid tranquility, as if the face beneath is yet another mask.  “Who is to tell?” he laughs, “Is Llydaw asp or knight?  What comes first, his name or his masks?  Are we fated for emptiness or fulfillment, Esmeree?  The game of castles is still being played!”  He leans closer to her.  “The stakes of the first game was your life, Esmeree.  What are stakes of this game?”

Esmeree straightens, all lightness lost in her voice.  “What do you mean by that?”

His trickster mask corkscrews in her face.  There is something distinctly unpleasant—almost cruel—about the leering thing, but perhaps it is the way he carries himself when he wears it.  “Spill any water lately?”

She leaps to her feet.  “Where did you hear such things?” she demands.

“What do you fear, stick?” he giggles.  “Do you fear the visions?  Or just the responsibilities they imply?”

She tries to get away from him, but he follows closely, that mask mocking her.  “I fear nothing!” she shouts.  “NOTHING!  I fulfill my obligations!  I keep my promises!”

“Oh, yes,” he hisses, grabbing her and spinning her around to face him.  “Like your promise to Usk?  Poor gwledig.  Died knowing your betrayal, yes?  Have you found his pektus yet?  Have you yet made his sorry death mean something?”

She freezes in Llydaw’s strong grip, paralyzed by that mask’s leer.  “Usk?” she whispers.  “Poor Usk.”

“Poor Usk, yes.”

“I try.  I will try!  But there is only so much I can do alone!” she pleads.  “His children live in my enemy’s dunum.  Rixueramos Naw would never let me that close again!”

“Aw, poor Esmeree!” Llydaw sobs, “And whose fault is that?  Who shall we blame this time?  The Viscount?  Or Hiisi?”

“Stop it!”

“Too hard?  OK, then what about little Iall and old man Myrdd?  How will you keep your promise to them?”

“I am keeping my promise!” she shouts.  She points a shaking finger in the mask’s face.  “I’m going to take care of them for as long as she can—I’ll protect them for as long as I can—in life and in death.”

“And what about sweet Maponos?” he coos.  “What are you doing for him, brinneal-Esmeree?”

“He’s dead already!” she insists through her tears.  “I’ll avenge him as best I can!  I will!”

“Is he really dead?” Llydaw asks, “Or is it that finding him is just too much trouble?”

“No!”

He laughs cruelly, “Tell me something.  Did you enjoy fucking him?  Using him?  It fed your ember didn’t it?”

“I loved him!” she wails.

“No, you used him.  Do you think your abuse of him is any different from what the Primate plans?  Was it any less selfish?”

She covers her face with her hands.  Anything to hide from that mask.  “I don’t want to talk to you any more!  I don’t want to talk to you with that mask on!”

“What about Squirrel, Easy?”

“Shut up!  SHUT UP!”  She swings hard, striking him across the face and sending his mask askew.

As he carefully straightens his face, she runs away.  He finds her crying among some grape vines.  She looks up to see him wearing his solemn mask.  “Why—why do you do this to me?”

“There are many loose threads in the tapestry of your life, Esmeree.  Before you look to deal with me, you need to decide how many more you want to add.  The future is uncertain.”

“What do you mean?”

He looks at the Locus Amoenus around them.  “I am a door, a gateway.  You may choose to cross through me, or you may choose to allow me to bar your way.  But you must choose.  Through me, things become uncertain, things become dangerous.  Some threads may be lost, abandoned, new ones found, others mended.  Do you continue, or do you retreat?  It is your choice to make.”

She frowns and wipes away her tears.  “What are you talking about?”

Deadly serious, he shakes his head and says, “I have no idea.”

“Do I have to decide now?” she asks as she laughs.

“No,” he extends his hand down to her.  “You may rest a bit longer.  There is no hurry.  Not yet.”

Smiling, she takes his hand and rises to her feet.  When she looks back up at him, he is wearing his happy mask.  “Enjoy the party while you can, Esmeree, because things get complicated from here.”

***

Esmeree and Llydaw lay in the grass together, staring up at the night sky.  The night is quiet, and the sky is filled with stars.

“The Medianists say the stars are the lights of fallen souls, staring down at the world.”

Llydaw shifts slightly.  “Really?” he sounds surprised, “That is unusual.”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Most beliefs say the stars are in Heaven.”

“Heaven is at the center,” Esmeree says, patting the ground between them, “at the Median.  The stars are far from the center, banished, exiled.  Luct-marvos.  They are jealous and cold, forever waiting for the chance to rain down upon the living.”

They are quiet for a long time.  “How do you know?” Llydaw asks suddenly.

“How do I know what?”

“How do you know the stars are far from the Median?”

“What kind of question is that?” Esmeree asks with shock.

He points up at the constellation of Hoël’s Ordeal.  “Maybe the Median is out there somewhere.  Then we’d be the fallen souls looking down on them.”

Esmeree rolls over and stares at the asp for a long time.  From this angle, she can’t tell what mask he’s wearing but supposes it is either his Trickster or thoughtful masks.  Her eyes narrow.  “Those are heretical words.  What god do you worship, Llydaw?  Surely, it isn’t God from the Seven Kingdoms.”

He turns his head to look at her, and she is surprised to see him wearing his curious mask.  “My god?”

“Yes.”

He switches to solemn and looks back at the stars.  “I worship Gokh.”

“Gock?”

“Gokh.”

“Gokh?”

“Gokh.”

She frowns.  “Sounds like Gock.”

“Who is Gock?”

“Gock is the Devil!” she exclaims, scandalized.  “He is the destroyer of the world—a symbol of chaos and corruption—the enemy of God!  Gock is the Dragon!”

She suddenly falls silent as she considers what she said.  “Who is Gokh?” she asks tentatively.

“Gokh is the prime mover,” he answers.  “She is the creator of the world—the harbinger of change, fertility, and freedom—She is the enemy of emptiness and stagnation.  Gokh is the Dragon.”

Esmeree looks at him for a long time.  She can’t tell if his feelings are hurt or not.  “Gock.  Gokh…  Do you think they are the same?”

He looks back at her.  The eyes of his mask are black shadows.  “Considering the history of your God and your Seven Kingdoms, do you think they are the same?”

“What do you mean?”

“Think of Johlpa and Rhiadaf and Dikastis and all the gods of the other lands.  How does the Seven Kingdoms look upon them?”

Esmeree thinks.  “They are known as aspects,” she says carefully.

“Aspects?  A very neutral word.  A very diplomatic word coming from a very undiplomatic land.  Are they good aspects or bad aspects, Esmeree?”

She fingers the long grass between them.  Do you talk to the man, or do you talk to the gun?  “They are bad aspects.  Demons and devils.  At best, they are mindless ones.”

“Yes,” Llydaw sighs, “and of them all, Gokh is the worst.”

“Gock is.”

“Whatever.”

She lays next to him, feeling the warmth radiating from his body, as she thinks about what he said.  If Gock really is Gokh, then why do the Medianists hate Her so much?

“The Dragon destroys the world, Esmeree,” her ember whispers.

According to Llydaw, the Dragon created the world!

Slowly, the great window of the Ice Hell rises in the east, shining its silvery fire upon the Locus Amoenus.

She rolls back over and touches his shoulder.  “Llydaw?” she asks tentatively, “Tell me about Gokh.”

“Gock?”

“Gokh!”

“Yes, I know,” he giggles.  In the light of the moon, she can see he is wearing his wood bark mask of happiness.  He sighs.  “Gokh is the caretaker of the world,” he says dreamily.  “Her breath began the first winds.  She makes the seasons come and go, causes man and beast to mate, and offspring to be born.  She created the world, and everything upon it—”

“So you say She created God?”

“Some would say She is God.”  He chuckles, “or that God is merely an… aspect of Her.”

Esmeree punches him in the shoulder, and he laughs.

“The world is a machine… or a game… or a puzzle… or a musical composition.  However you want to look at it, it is a very precise, delicate piece of work.  Gokh makes sure everything is working properly.  We are all under Her care.”

“We?”

“The world.”

“The Medianists say the Dragon will eat world one day.”

Llydaw shrugs.  “I suppose when the time comes, She will.  But by then, I suppose we won’t see it as a bad thing.  If there is anyone left at all.”

“So She will destroy the world?  Doesn’t that bother you?”

He looks at her.  “Man plants the seed.  Man reaps the wheat.  Man doesn’t bother asking how the wheat feels about it.  I imagine Gokh operates much in the same way.  Who are we to question Her judgement?”

“Maybe God does.”

“Yes.  Someone should.  Maybe God is Gokh’s conscience.”

“Or Gokh is God’s irresponsibility!” she snaps.

“Yes.”

Esmeree grumbles.  She hates how he refuses to be baited into arguments.  Inching closer to him, she asks, “And you worship Her?”

Llydaw hesitates, and he switches masks.  Esmeree gets only the briefest glimpse of his face before he covers it again—in the moonlight, it shone like Lady Andelliza’s—porcelain smooth and white.  She can’t quite tell what mask he wears now.  “I serve Her.”

“How do you do that?”

He shakes his head and shrugs.  “I don’t know.  I try to be a good man.  I try to protect others, to serve a greater good.  She rewards me in my times of need.”

One finger traces the patterns on his chest.  “With the coils?”

Llydaw falls silent for a very long time.  After a while, she wonders if he fell asleep.  Esmeree is about to try waking him when he says, “Yes, with the coils.  I eat, but I don’t need to eat.  I drink, but I don’t need to drink.  I sleep, but I don’t need to sleep.  And, other things.”

Rolling back on her back, their shoulders touching, she looks back at the night sky.  “What must it be like to be an asp!”

He sits up to look at her, his happy mask staring down.  His hand touches her cheek.  “It is not beyond you.”

She takes his fingers and kisses them and then closes her eyes as she feels them caress her cheek and throat.  She lets her hand wander up to explore the rough bark of his mask and the silky softness of his waist-length hair.

She freezes when his hand touches her breast and she feels the hardness of his erection against her leg.

“Esmeree?” he asks softly, his face now wearing his mask of curiosity.

Esmeree stares up at him, struggling with her emotions.  He wants her—and she most definitely wants him—so what is the problem?

Suddenly, she pushes him off and scrambles away.  Thrusting one hand out to fend him off, she shakes her head sadly.  “I’m sorry, Llydaw!  I really am!”

Quicker than she’s ever seen before, his mask changes to one she’s never seen before.  It is sooth, city-made, with the remnants of paint still on it.  It portrays shock and surprise.  “It is my apologies, Esmeree!” he exclaims.  “Please pardon my offense!  I had feelings and thought you shared the same!  I am sorry!”

“No, Llydaw, please!” she says, feeling tears of shame and embarrassment rising.  “I do feel the same, I really do!”

Llydaw reaches for his mask, is about to remove it, and then leaves it in place.  “I don’t understand.”

Esmeree shakes her head.  “I swore a long time ago, Llydaw, that I would be no man’s sellâria—no man’s whore—ever again.”

He seems more confused than ever.  “Who ever said you would be my whore, Esmeree?”

“No!  You don’t understand!” she says miserably.  “It must be my choice.  Mine!”

“Yes, it was your choice, and you chose not to.”

“No!  I must choose you!  You can’t choose me!”

Llydaw sits back on his heels and ponders this for a while.

“Please try to understand,” Esmeree pleads.  “Please don’t be angry or upset.”

He shakes his head but at last switches to his happy mask.  “There is no harm done to me, pretty Esmeree, so long as no harm was done to you.  These things must be right for both of us.  They weren’t right for you, and that’s OK.  You are a strange lady—and I make no claims to understand your reasons—but I am a strange man, so I suppose that makes us a good fit!”

Esmeree laughs and shakes her head, frustrated with her own foolishness.  Even if she did change her mind, this man is no Hiisi, and she doubts he would try laying with her again tonight.  She sighs.  The moment is lost.

Why does she do things like this?

When he extends his arms, Esmeree rushes into them, and he holds her close.  “Perhaps some other time, pretty Esmeree.”

She looks up into his mask’s grin.  “You know, I am a Palpi girl, and Palpi girls like to kiss.  You can’t have me until you’re willing to kiss me.”

“Uh,” he grunts, contemplating this as they rock together.  “I suppose I’ll have to make a new mask.  One that only covers my eyes, huh?”

“Yeah,” she laughs, “Something like that!”

In those arms, for a while at least, she feels safe.

The following morning, she wakes and realizes it is time for her to go.  She has no idea how she knows this.  She just does.

Time passed strangely with the alfs.  Llydaw said time passes strangely in the Locus.  She has no idea how long she’s been gone from Iall and Myrdd.  She has no idea how long it will take to get back to them.

When Llydaw finds her, she is crouching in the cool water of the stream, cleaning herself and the remains of her clothes.

“So you are leaving for home today, yes?” he asks.

“W—well, yes, but—” she stammers, taken aback.  Much to her surprise, he is wearing his solemn mask.  “How did you know?”

“The Locus told me.”

She frowns as she climbs from the stream and stares at him as she squeezes the water from her clothes, concerned that he is still wearing that emotionless mask.  Is it because he’s hurt that she is leaving him and he’s trying to put on a brave front?  But if that was the case, wouldn’t he be wearing a sad mask?

She shakes her head.  There is so much about him that she doesn’t understand.

As she shrugs on her rags, still heavy from the water, a thought occurs to her.  She smiles.  “Llydaw!  Why don’t you come with me?”

“Why would you ask such a thing?”

She hesitates, surprised by his cold tone.  “Because I like you.  Because I think we have fun together.”  She shrugs, “Because I think there is much I could learn from you—”

“You could learn from me here.  You could like me here.  We can have fun together here.  These are not reasons for you or me to leave.”

“Llydaw!” she snaps, getting irritated, “I have to leave.  You know about my visions!  You know the vision sent me here to find you!  And you know that you are important in whatever future I have to face!  There are people waiting for me.  There are things I have to do!”

“Are they really so important?” he asks.  There is almost a tremor in his voice.

“Yes, they’re important!” she shouts.  “Just a couple days ago, didn’t you berate me for my lack of conviction?  You taunted me!  You tormented me about Iall and Myrdd and Maponos and Squirrel, and now you want me to turn my back on them?  What is this?  What is this that you’re doing?  What kind of game are you playing?”

He looks down at the ground.  “Yes, I remember that day,” he says flatly.  “It is good that you remember it too.  Yes, I remember the position I played in your visions.  But that is simply one possible outcome.  Do you also remember that I told you that I am a door, a gateway.  You must choose to cross me through me, or you may choose to allow me to bar your way.”

“Yes, but I still don’t know what that means!”

“You can choose to leave me here—to allow me to bar your way—or you must choose to cross through me and take me with you.”

She shakes her head, his stoic expression and flat voice disconcerting her more than anything else.  “I don’t understand.  How can leaving you here be my being barred?”

“Because the Locus Amoenus will not let me leave easily.  There is a heavy price to pay.”

“You’re a prisoner here?” she exclaims.

“Yes.”

She frowns in outrage.  “This can’t be!  How can this place keep you!  I will take you with me!  I will get you out of here!  No matter what the price.”

Llydaw nods and turns to walk up the rise of the hill.  “Then it is decided.  Oh, how I wish you hadn’t said those words.”

She jogs to catch up.  “You and I are powerful!  We’re smart!  We can face this place!  We can beat it!”

Reaching the top of the hill, she realizes this is where he left his sword.  Without enthusiasm, he pulls it up from the ground.  On his face is a new mask, one she’s never seen him wear before.  Made of coiled and braided aballo branches, it is smooth and polished from frequent use.  It depicts abject sorrow.

“The price of the Locus, Esmeree,” he says sadly, “Is me.”

Slowly with one hand, he lifts his huge sword until the tip touches the point in her breast just above her heart.  “Many have come here before and tried to rescue me.  But I cannot leave here, Esmeree, until I meet a warrior I cannot defeat in battle.”

Esmeree’s blood runs cold as she backs away from that horrible sword.  Llydaw follows her slowly.

“It doesn’t have to be this way!” she exclaims.  Her hand rises to her breast, touching her ember.

He nods.  “The choice was yours.  I was the gate.  Allow me to block you or pass through me, and you chose to attempt to pass through.  Unfortunately, I fear you can only pass through me by running me through, eh?”  He doesn’t even bother laughing at his joke.

“I didn’t know the terms,” she stammers, desperately trying to remember where she left her scimitar.

Again he nods.  “Yes, but you also said that you would take me from here, no matter what the cost.  The die was cast with those words, Esmeree.”

“No!” she sighs.  Staggering backwards, she trips and tumbles to the ground.  Rolling to her feet, she flees.  Looking over her shoulder as she ducks through the trees, she sees him shake his head sadly, couch his sword, and follow.

She finds her rusted scimitar forgotten among the tall grass.  Picking it up, she turns just in time to block a cut across her throat.  Her parry manages to stop Llydaw’s keen edge just inches from her skin.  She blinks at him in shock.

One of his hands fingers his mask.  “I never had this mask until I came here, Esmeree.”

Withdrawing his sword, he takes its long hilt in a wide, two-handed grip.  Its tip hovers just inches from the ground by her toes.  “The days, the years passed so slowly,” he sighs.  “I soon needed a mask just for this place, a mask for emptiness and sorrow.  I wore it frequently.  And then the people came to rescue me.”

He sweeps the blade upwards.  Esmeree leaps backwards, blocking the cut, and before she can recover, she has to defend herself again and again and again.  Llydaw spins the long sword like a scythe, somehow bringing it around and around his body, blocking every avenue for escape and still bringing its edge and point up to attack her.  He moves slowly, lazily, and yet his sword seems to be everywhere.  Esmeree quickly becomes confused in her terror, swinging her little scimitar madly in a fruitless attempt to defend herself.

Llydaw cuts his blade backwards, and as Esmeree steps forward to take advantage of the opening, she is blinded by sunlight reflected from the mirrored globe on the pommel.  She reels backwards, but it is too late.  Llydaw catches her across the back of her knees with the flat of his sword and flips her onto her back.

When she can finally see straight, she finds the point of his sword at her throat.  “I had to kill them all, Esmeree.”

“All of them?” she swallows, and he nods.  “Where are they, Llydaw?  What did you do with them?”

She sees him blink behind his mask.  “The Locus turned their bodies into pillars of stone, Esmeree.”

Her mouth opens in surprise.  Slowly, she looks to one side and sees the forest of white statues scattered across the Locus Amoenus.  There must be scores of them.  So many are of impressive-looking heroes, but her stomach knots when she sees the statues of the simple folk— bnas, odocos, pektus—and she realizes how deadly earnest Llydaw is.  “After they changed,” he says, “I tried to recreate them in the way that I remembered them.  It was the least I could do, I suppose.”

Esmeree looks back up at Llydaw and sees that he’s distracted, also staring at the statues.

Two can play at the blinding game.  Esmeree’s ember summons, and bright light flashes inside his mask.  As the asp jerks back in surprise, Esmeree leaps to her feet, laying a swift draw cut across his exposed stomach.  Rising up behind him, she drops her sword hard across the back of his neck and shoulder in a fatal cut.

Llydaw turns and looks at her.  Not a drop of blood falls to the ground.

His coils protected him.

Esmeree shouts in terror and frustration as she backs away.

“I’m sorry, Esmeree,” Llydaw sighs.  “I love you.”

She backs away quickly—holding her sword high, trying to concentrate on the fight—but now struggling with the words he just spoke and they way they make her feel.  He loves her, and in her heart, she recognizes the same.  The enormity of her feelings threatens to overwhelm her.  It is an alien sensation for her and totally novel.  Beyond sexual attraction, beyond friendship, beyond mere loyalty.  So this is what is to love!

How tragic that her love is now trying to kill her.

Through tears of fear and irony, she gasps, “I— I love you too, asp, but I won’t let you kill me.”

He nods.  “That is good, Esmeree.”  Faster than she can see, he whirls his sword up and around.  No longer do his arms move lazily.  They snap around with blinding speed.  The artistry of his skill is awesome.  “We need to finish this game.”

Esmeree stops in the face of this onslaught.  Game?  What is that about games?

Her ember trembles.  The ahrounoi know the castles game.

Black asps cannot capture white asps.

Even as Llydaw closes in, she raises her hand.  “Stop, Llydaw.”

The blade freezes, touching but not quite cutting the skin of her hand.  He trembles and then quickly switches to his curious mask.  “What is it, Esmeree?  I don’t wish to draw this out.”

She blinks and then smiles.  “This fight is over.  You’re leaving with me.”

He switches back to sorrow and shakes his head.  “Esmeree, you know it cannot be this way.  You know—”

“You cannot leave until you meet a warrior you cannot defeat.  And you cannot defeat me.”

“What?”  Suddenly, he is wearing his shocked mask.

“Asp cannot take asp in castles, and asp cannot harm asp in battle.”

“You’re not asp, Esmeree.  Not yet.”

“No, not yet,” she smiles.  “But the asp in Cliffs Reach left his spirit with me.  To harm me is to harm him.”

Llydaw straightens and lowers his sword as he considers this.  Esmeree shakes her head.  “The fight is over, Llydaw.  You cannot beat me.”

He hesitates.  At last, he drops his sword and puts on his happy mask.

vvv

Esmeree and Llydaw find the body on their tenth day away from the Locus Amoenus.  It was the ravens circling overhead that betrayed its location.

Esmeree wades through the tall grass, scattering the big black birds in all directions.  In the shadows of a distant castle, the cing lays on his stomach, his body ruined by a single blow that separated his shoulder from his ribs.  The weapon’s huge handle still juts from his rotting flesh.

As Llydaw approaches, she turns to regard the massive Citadel.  It couldn’t be more than a mile away, and it must be hundreds of years old.  Its smooth, featureless walls rise high into the sky, its turrets shrouded by winter fog and mist.  A fire has collapsed one corner of its walls, and a single light burns in its highest tower.  Even at this distance, she can see its only ornaments are the bodies hanging from its battlements.

Looking down at the body, the asp mutters, “We shouldn’t stay here.”

Esmeree frowns at the castle.  “Who would build such a place?  It is beautiful and yet horrible.”

Llydaw plants his sword in the ground, and his solemn mask regards the distant fortress.  “Not the same people who stay there now.”

“What happened to the builders?  Why aren’t there any windows?”

He kneels and with both hands, wrenches the huge weapon from the cing’s body.  Holding it up, he shows her the heavy, serrated blade.  It is a rraakk’s scramasax.  “No one knows how to escape the rraakks.  Some people do foolish things.  Some people think a home with no windows and strong doors will protect them.”

Esmeree takes the scramasax from Llydaw but has difficulty lifting it.  “And it doesn’t?”

Llydaw looks at her and then down at the cing.  “No.”

Esmeree drops the blade and wipes her hands together.  “The Bracks call that thing a scramasax.  Even Bàs wields one.”

Llydaw is silent.

“Do you know what the rraakks call them?”

Llydaw nods and taking up his sword, begins walking again.  “Yes.  By their true names.”

She frowns.  He can be so obtuse sometimes!  Shouldering her scimitar and bag of alf dirt, she chases after him.  “Always full of secrets!  Why can’t you just give me the answers I want?”

“Why don’t you ask the right questions?”

They walk together in silence for a long time.  Esmeree occasionally looks behind them to check on the castle as it retreats into the distance.  There is no indication anyone or anything noticed their passing.

“OK,” she says at last, taking Llydaw by the arm.  She points at the sword couched in his arm.  “What is the true name of that weapon?”

He looks at his sword and then back at Esmeree.  Suddenly, switching to his thoughtful mask, he thrusts its hilt towards her.  “Here,” he says, “Take it.”

Frowning at him, she drops her equipment and takes the sword.  It is only slightly less heavy than the rraakk blade.  “OK,” she says as she struggles with its weight, “Now what?”

“You tell me what its true name is.”

Esmeree grimaces and finally lets the tip drop to the ground.  “How am I supposed to know?” she snaps.  “I can’t even swing the damn thing!  I have one at home, you remember!  Couldn’t lift that one either.”

Llydaw nods as he takes his sword back.  “To learn its name is to master its anima.  Until you learn it, Esmeree, you won’t be able to master it.”

vvv

The welcome shape of the Orphan’s Bag slowly materializes out of the nighttime fog.  They gave Ceilbyrig a wide berth—there was no reason to stop there—Ongram would have retrieved her marka from its public stables a long time ago.  The walk through Ymyl Gwland and the Brackland moors was exhausting, but now it’s over.

“This is home?”  Llydaw’s curious mask shines in the moonlight.

She sighs and nods, already thinking about the hot bath, fresh food, and thick courmi waiting for her inside.  “For the time being, yes, I suppose.”

“Huh,” he mutters, looking around.

Laughing, Esmeree leads him into the tavern.  It is filled with Bracks, laughing and jostling each other loudly.  A caravan must be passing through.  That would account for all the Brackish epos she saw by the stables.

She pushes through the press, homing in on Ongram’s familiar face behind the bar.  She beams and extends her arms.  “Ongram!  I’ve made it home!”

She frowns at his dark expression.  “Inigena,” he mutters, “Yä shoulda taken’ more care in comin’ back.”

She takes a step back, “What do you mean—”

The room explodes in a riot, as every Brack leaps to his feet and charges.  Llydaw tries to yell a warning, but he gets tackled by several cings, his sword and skills useless.  Esmeree draws her scimitar and lashes out at the nearest body.  There is a brilliant flash, and her vision fills with images of bloody Brackish cings, outraged at being pulled from their eternal struggles in Johlpa's court.  The ghosts mix with the visages of the living, and Esmeree becomes confused with which is which.  One at a time, her ember detects and dismisses the phantom warriors, but it is too slow.  She swings at phantoms, connecting with neither flesh nor bone.

Strong hands grab her by the shoulders, and a fist strikes her across the jaw.  Her knees give way, and she sags to the floor.  A thick arm wraps around her throat, and slowly the breath is choked from her lungs.

Her ember tries to summon, but with a sickeningly familiar sensation, all her power slips away.  In her dimming sight, a cing dangles a wooden charm in front of her face.

She sobs in despair as the hateful thing is tied around her neck.  As quickly as her power disappears, so do the phantom warriors.  She is left with a room full of cings and the gwrach, Aggteb.  She leers toothlessly at Esmeree before turning her head to regard Llydaw.

“Be kind to the honored asp,” she hisses.  “He is merely caught up in events that are not his concern.”

The warriors grunt in obedience as they drag the bound asp from the tavern.

She turns to another cing, “Find the outcast.  The walkin’ dog may be hidin’ outside, uh?”

“Yes, holy-one!” barks the cing.

She stops him before he leaves.  “Do not underestimate this man,” she warns.  “In battle, he is worth 10 of you.”

The cing sneers at the implication but nods before leaving with the others.

Slowly, Aggteb turns her antlered head towards Esmeree and smiles down at her.

“You won’t find Hiisi,” Esmeree mutters.

“We shall see.”

“He’s dead.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Witch, I have no reason to lie to you.  Not any longer.”

The gwrach glares down at her.  “To me, it seems you do, uh?”

Esmeree grits her teeth but says nothing.  She wishes she had been more careful.  She hopes Ongram was able to hide Myrdd and the fry before these Bracks arrived.

Aggteb lifts Llydaw’s long sword and examines the blade closely.  “An asp, uh?  Improved the company you’re travelling with, yes?”

“If there is any sense of justice within you,” Esmeree snaps, “You’ll leave him unharmed!”

Aggteb sneers as she drops the sword on a nearby table.  “High King Naw has no quarrel with the asps, and I have no wish to incur their wrath.”  She smiles at Esmeree, “but you and my lord have unfinished business, yes?"