The Rixueramos smiles nastily down at Esmeree.  He sits proudly upon a faldstool, surrounded by the bare walls of his new dunum.  Evidently, Hiisi’s vandalism was thorough.  This hall is brand new, its walls and ceiling unstained by smoke and still smelling of sawdust.

Esmeree keeps her head bowed.  Her new iron collar is tight around her neck, the basket protecting her hateful charm pressing coldly against her skin.  At least they didn’t beat her as much this time.

The new hall is filled with angry Bracks—hundreds are present to witness her punishment—but she already knows this cast of characters.  The maimed sacardd lurks behind his Rixueramos—Esmeree doesn’t need to see the raw hatred in Hailoken’s eyes to know it’s there—she can feel it.  The leprous rix, Gronw, and his retinue watch from a distance, segregated from the others by their fetid aura.  Aggteb is also present, triumphant with the humiliating ease of Esmeree’s capture.

The one face that Esmeree expected and doesn’t find is the cing champion, Twrch.  His is absent from the ranks of young warriors gathered in the dunum, conspicuous replacements for the seasoned warriors Hiisi dispatched months ago.

“To just kill this bitch is simply too easy!” Rixueramos Naw declares giddily as he twirls the uinom wine in his heavy silver goblet.  His cultured Brackish is clipped and powerful in his fury.  He leans forward on his stool for a closer look at the prostrate girl.  “I am wondering if there are more creative ways?”

“My lord, Naw,” Hailoken mutters angrily, “She is a witch and has escaped your company before.  She has companions, not the least of whom is the mercenary that inflicted so much unhappiness upon this hall the last time.”

“Yesss,” Naw nods.

“My lord, I suggest you kill her without delay.”

Naw chuckles.

“My lord,” Esmeree whispers, “I know I have done you and yours harm in the past.”

Naw freezes in surprise as he glares down at Esmeree.  “What!” he bellows.  “This little whore presumes to speak to me?”

“I can only pray,” she continues, “that you understand that I was coerced into performing those acts—that I have exacted revenge against their designers—and that I would continue to do so should you see fit to release me.  Our enemies are the same, Rixueramos.  The Primate, the Superbus Tyrannus, and the Medianists.  It is they who desired your sorcerers.  I was merely a girl in their power.”

Naw and Hailoken exchange looks.  “Aggteb says she travels with an asp now,” the sacardd mutters.  There is a strange gleam in his eye.

“An asp?” Naw sounds surprised.  “The asp of the Joy?”

“The very one,” Hailoken nods.  His eyes watch Esmeree eagerly.  What does he want now she wonders?

“Witch,” Naw barks.  “How was it you came upon this asp?  How was it you bewitched such a sacred creature and twisted him into your evil schemes?  Are stone-summoners so worthless to you that you now hunt asps?”

“No!” she exclaims.  “He found me!  We found each other!”

“You found him wandering?” Hailoken asks, almost sounding disappointed.

“No!  He was in this magical place, a placed called the Locus Amoenus!  He drew me to it.  He—”

“You found the Place of Wonders?” the sacardd asks with surprise.  “You were there?”

“Yes,” she answers cautiously.

“Where is it?”

Esmeree hesitates.

“TELL ME!” Hailoken yells, surprising both her and the Rixueramos.

She shrugs as she struggles to remember.  “On the eastern coast of Ymyl Gwland, no more than 14 days by foot south of Ceilbyrig.”

Hailoken stares at her in shock.  His eyes become distant.  “South of Ceilbyrig?  Can it be that easy?” he wonders out loud.

Naw stares at her in silence and then begins laughing heartily.  “Locus Amoenus?  Asps?  Entertaining,” he sighs as he wipes his eyes.  “Yes.  Very well.  We kill her immediately.”

Esmeree screams in surprise as cings grab her and drag her towards Naw’s stool.  He shakes his head as he beckons towards a nearby mosac.  “I will waste no more time with you, witch.  We shall make an example of you, so no more of me stone-summoners are lost to your Primate.  Your carcass shall decorate these walls—the first of many to replace the tapestries lost in the fire, yes?”

The boy hustles forward with a large spatha in his hands.

Seeing the sword and the way Naw tests its weight, Esmeree screams, “My lord, Naw!  Don’t be so hasty in your revenge!  There are others who would pay handsomely for the privilege of killing me!”

“What?” Naw asks.  Even as Hailoken moves to object, the Rixueramos raises his hand.

“My lord,” Hailoken hisses, “Do not listen to her!”

“Now, I do not for a second believe,” Naw agrees, lowering his sword, “that this is anything but an attempt to delay your inevitable end.  However, you have sparked my curiosity.  Tell me, who could possibly hate you so much more than I?  Who do you propose would be willing to meet my price for ransom?  Who is this phantom enemy of yours?  Tell me, and possibly as consolation, I will send them your head and entrails.  At least they can take comfort from the knowledge of your passing.”

Esmeree glances up at the two cings bracketing her and then back to Naw and his sword.  “My lord, I stand accused of witchcraft in the city of Cliffs Reach.  My crimes have included the murder of a Medianist Inquisitor, the corruption and torture of a Viscount, the practice and willful spread of heresy among the laity of Cliffs Reach, and copulation with the Devil.  My infamy has attracted the attention of the Primate himself, and he has called for my immediate capture and delivery to Cærimonia, so he may administer the ordeal personally.  Towards this end, he has dispatched soldiers and bounty hunters to Ceilbyrig in the hopes of finding me there.  I had been in Ehre—in hiding among the Fée there—and your witch caught me upon my return.”

Naw laughs.  “First you say you worked with the Primate of Cærimonia, and now you say you’re hunted by him!  An entertaining story, but—”

“The Primate hunts me because I now refuse to serve him—I know the nature of his plans, and I refuse to be a party to them—they are cold and black, and they do harm to innocents such as you and your people.  But this doesn’t matter!  Whether or not you believe my story—whether or not you believe that the Primate is indeed the source of your troubles—if you wish to curry his favors, then perhaps you can bargain with him for me.”

“Uh,” Naw snorts.  “Very nice.  The Primate himself, yes?”  He gestures to his cings.  “Proceed.”

Even as they force her head down for the fatal blow, she sees Hailoken screw up his face with distaste and then whisper into the Rixueramos’s ear.  Naw listens carefully before growling, “Wait!  Let her back up.”

The two cings glance at each other and then let her rise to her knees again.  Hailoken is red-faced and fuming, glaring down at the floor.  Naw is regarding Esmeree with new interest, his thumb testing the edge of his spatha.

“My priest tells me—much to his distress—that he in fact does know of increased Seven Kingdoms interest in Ceilbyrig.  Perhaps increased interest in you, yes?”

“It would seem so,” she mumbles.

“It is not enough, my Lord,” Hailoken mutters, “We can’t just ship her off to EroBernd based solely on this hearsay.  I still recommend you kill her.”

Naw shakes his head and waves his sacardd away.  “Dispatch a query to Ceilbyrig.  Ask the boduus Medianists there if they’re looking for this witch.”

“The walking dogs’ll have to send word to Cærimonia!” the sacardd exclaims.  “It could take weeks to get an answer back!”

The Rixueramos nods and leans closer to Esmeree.  “So you’re thinking maybe you’ve bought yourself some time, yes?  Yes, perhaps.”  He leans back and pulls contemplatively on his braided beard.  “We’ll keep you here, oh yes, until we get word from EroBernd.”

“She doesn’t deserve such a stay.  What if she lies?  It is too much of a reward for her deception!”

Naw twists a braid of his beard between thumb and forefinger.  “Yes…  We need to make her stay suitably uncomfortable, uh?  Perhaps she may wish she had elected for the speedy death?”

His eyes wander throughout the hall, taking in each eager face and feature.  Suddenly, his gaze snaps to the back of the dunum, and he smiles unpleasantly.  “Methinks, as I recall, I had originally promised you to my loyal vassal, Gronw?  Your outcast companion and his hypocritical challenge interrupted that gift.  Shame.”  He smiles broadly.  “I think we should correct that oversight.”

Esmeree looks behind her, where the leprous Rix and his cings have waited quietly at the back of the hall.  Sensing the increased attention being paid to them, they shuffle closer together and wrap their filthy cucullus around them a little tighter.

“Gronw!” the Rixueramos bellows, “Step forward, my rotting friend!  Step forward!”

Esmeree watches carefully as the hunched figure shuffles towards his rixueramos.  She observes the way the other members of Naw’s court recoil in horror at Gronw’s passing.  She hears the whispers and the titters, and if she can hear them, she knows Gronw can hear them all the better.

Nausea fills her as a wave of putrescence accompanies his passing.  She has known the lepers from the Heap in Cliffs Reach, but none were so foul as this!

Naw gestures quickly at Gronw’s approach.  “That is close enough, vassal!  Keep your distance, leper.  You are filthy and unclean to my eyes.”

The leper sways to a leisurely stop.  The Rixueramos fidgets uncomfortably with his proximity, and Esmeree notes the subtle curl that appears on the afflicted rix’s swollen lips.  “I desire only to serve,” Gronw mutters as he bows and backs away.

“You know, my loyal Rix Gronw, that you are much loved and valued in this court,” Naw announces, every word dripping with sarcasm.  “But your state of defilement makes courting our ladies difficult, yes?”

Gronw shifts from one swollen foot to another but doesn’t say anything.  Esmeree looks up at the Rixueramos with quiet hatred.  Naw’s cruelty to Gronw reminds her all too well of her abuse of the lepers in the Heap.  She feels ashamed and angry.

“I can only hope,” mocks Naw, “that this gentle flower I offer you can at last quench the heat in your eager rod, yes?  Just don’t corrupt her too quickly, lest you loose that beauty.”

Gronw bows again.  “My lord is too kind,” he says, pretending to ignore the insults.

Naw laughs, projecting his voice to the entire hall.  “Just imagine!  That smooth white skin pressed against your rotting flesh!  The whore of a leper!  The whore of a leper!”  He laughs contemptuously, and most of the hall joins him.

Gronw simply turns and looks down at Esmeree.  Esmeree gets her first good look at her new master, and it is hardly as horrible as she expected.  His nose is collapsed and misshapen, like a rotten melon.  His lips and ears are swollen and strangely colored, but she can still see the striking man that he used to be.  Buried within a mass of pale cauliflower-like lesions, one eye is milky white, but the other is sharp and clear.  In that one eye, Esmeree sees a strange mixture of emotions… and also a glimmer of hope.

Handed over to their custody, the lepers hustle her out of Ve’coDusios and manhandle her onto the back of a sickly caballos.  After nearly an hour of painful riding, her destination appears before her.  It is less than encouraging.

Gronw and his cings are not permitted to live within the confines of Naw’s dunum—Esmeree supposes this was why none of them were slain during Hiisi’s bloodbath—though she does wonder why none answered the call for help.  What she sees before her now is a squalid tent city.  The ragged shelters huddle together in a muddy valley as though they, too, suffer from the bitterly cold Hard Winter winds that scream through these Brackland hills.

Robbed of her ember’s power, and still wearing her alf forest rags, Esmeree shivers pathetically.

Arriving at the largest tent, Gronw dismounts painfully as two cings rush forward to take his horse.  As other lepers drag Esmeree from her mount, a third approaches and bows to his rix.

“And what honor does our benefactor lend to us now?” the tall cing spits bitterly in fine Southern Brackish.  His voice is familiar to Esmeree, but his face is covered—as all the lepers’ are—against the wind and freezing rain.

Gronw grunts and gestures towards Esmeree.  “Watch what you say,” he answers as he limps into his tent, “This one understands our tongue.”

The tall leper looks at Esmeree for the first time, and his whole body jerks in surprise.  “By Bàs’s Lists!” he exclaims as he rushes forward to take possession of her.  Grabbing her by the arm, he jerks her painfully.  “I never thought you would cross my path again!”

Even as he drags her roughly into the tent, she exclaims with rising panic, “My lord!  I assure you, while your voice and figure are familiar to me, I have no knowledge of our ever meeting!  And I deeply regret any wrongs I committed to you at that time!”

Inside the tent, she is suddenly awash with such heat that her knees nearly buckle in surprise.  The leper throws her to the floor with disgust.  “No memory, uh?” he spits.  “You destroy a man and carry no memory of it with you?”

Esmeree frantically struggles to recall the times she assaulted or harassed lepers.  In her youth, there were countless times—as she and her Black Ember friends would stalk the Heap for easy prey—but that was years ago!

Esmeree looks up at him pathetically, “My lord, I have no recollection of our meeting, I’m sorry.”

He grunts, as though she just confirmed what he already suspected.  “Then let me remind you.”

Stripping away his layers of cold weather rags, soon the rhyswr Twrch stands before her.  To Esmeree’s shock and dismay, his face is marred by a series of copper-colored nodules across his cheeks and around his eyes.

“To lose to you, witch, was to admit my own guilt, yes?  Naw felt it to be a fitting punishment for me to join Gronw’s court in their defilement.”  He levels an accusatory finger down upon her.  “Your stroke of mercy did me more harm than the edge of any blade, bitch.”

The heat of this tent is thick—as is the stench of decay—and it makes it hard for Esmeree to think.  Looking around, she realizes she is in someone’s living quarters—probably Gronw’s—and while the accommodations are crude by dunum standards, they are far better than she expected.

Peeling away his many layers of clothing, Gronw observes, effortlessly switching from Brackish to EroBernac, “Yäh, Naw sent the fallen Twrch tä me as his penance.  It seems me very existence serves only as me rixueramos’s means of punishment.”  The Rix looks back at her as he removes his cucullus.  “There are 100 men and na women here among the remains of me Logan clan.  If we are tä pass yä around as me Rixueramos demands, life will be very hard on yä.  Yä can expect each cing tä require at least two turns a day—perhaps more—but as yä begin tä lose that mirain blush of yers, I imagine things will taper off, yäh?”  He shrugs.  “Of course, we might be able tä make other accommodations… should yä prove tractable, uh?”

Esmeree’s eyes widen as Gronw removes the last of his winter mantles, and she sees the source of his foul odor.  Around his neck, tied to a rope, is a dead isean fowl.  By the looks of it—and by its smell—Esmeree can see that it is far along the road to putrefaction.  He removes it with distaste and hands it off to a waiting cing, who rushes it from the tent.

“Why would you fake such a thing?” she gasps, “Why would you make others believe your defilement was worse than it was?”

Twrch grunts humorlessly, but Gronw attempts an honest smile.  “Never underestimate the power of a rixueramos’s fear of the unknown,” he sighs as he shuffles towards her.  “In time, yä may have tä learn from yer own state of halogrwydd.”

Without the benefit of his cowls and bulky cucullus, Esmeree can now see the scope of her new master’s affliction.  His face is scarred and bloated horribly, patches of hair missing on his scalp.  One hand is nearly perfect, while the other has become twisted and shapeless.  Some fingers are missing or swollen from badly infected wounds.  She can’t see his feet or legs beneath his trousers and wraps, but one appears grotesquely enlarged.

The corner of his mouth twitches slightly.  “Am I horrible tä look upon?”

She rises to a more comfortable sitting position and smiles.  “No.  Not hardly by half, my lord.  I have seen others in my home whose state of halogrwydd was much, much worse.”

Gronw chuckles.  “Sä I am tä be grateful, uh?”

“No, my lord.  I wouldn’t say that.”

“Na,” he agrees.  He points a pussy finger at Esmeree.  “And neither should yä be.”

Limping over to a table laden with jugs, he gestures towards Twrch.  “This cing joined me a scant few months ago.  Already he shows the signs.”

“Halogrwydd doesn’t work that fast!” she exclaims.

Gronw nods as he pours a rich red liquid into a cup.  Turning, he drinks deeply.  Uinom wine runs down his cheek and chin.  “Mine does,” he exhales as he finishes.

“How could this happen?”

Gronw shakes his head.  “Some say it was a curse.  Laid by Aggteb?  Perhaps.  By the rraakks?  Perhaps.  Some say I sinned.  Sinned against Johlpa or Bàs or Mwarree.  Perhaps I offended the graney Medianist god, uh?”  He shakes his head again.  “I do not know.  It came suddenly.  Only the cings and the mosacs got it.  Soon, the inigenas fled our dunum tä Ve’coDusios, and we were left alone.”

“Don’t you have a sacardd?  An adgarios?  A caragus to lift the curse?”

Gronw laughs.  “Aye.  He was a fine sacardd—a pious man—but not very powerful.  Not as powerful as Aggteb or Hailoken.”  His remaining eye becomes flinty.  “Not near as powerful as yä.”

He sets his mug down with finality.  “He died months ago.  An infection in his leg fouled his blood.”

“And what has Rixueramos Naw proposed to do about it?”

Gronw smiles again, although this time it is bitter.  “He cut the tongues from our inigenas.  Married me own daughter.  And accepted my clan into his auspicious protection.”  He looks down at the ground.  “Fer that, we are eternally grateful.”

“Yäh,” grunts Twrch.

Esmeree leans forward.  “My lord, Gronw, Rixueramos Naw does not love you.  He—he…  You are just his plaything!”  She slaps the canvas floor of the tent for emphasis.  “To him, you are little more than a deformed calf he displays for Harvest Festival!  Why do you allow this humiliation?”

“Yä hardly knows us well enough tä speak sä, caragus!” Twrch snaps.  “Guard yer tongue!”

“Easy, Twrch,” Gronw assures.  “Her words are rash but well said.  Besides, considerin’ the chore laid out before her, yä might want tä think upon her as our dunum’s rixa, yäh?  Perhaps she is allowed such questions, uh?”

Twrch chuckles and shakes his head.

“There is na love fer us in Naw’s heart,” Gronw agrees.  “He bears nothin’ but contempt and fear fer me and me cings.”

He limps closer and crouches in front of Esmeree.  It is everything she can do to keep from shying away.  “We neither need nor want his love.  But sadly we need his pity.  Without it, he may simply take me lands and expel me and me men from his court.  Sä long as I play his fool—his plague-carrier, his leper—I serve the needs of me cings.”  He chuckles.  “If I was any less vile, Naw may have nothing tä do but look into the deeper ugliness within his own heart.  Such a task may prove disastrous for all within his power.”

It is quiet in the tent for a long time as Esmeree and Gronw stare at each other.

Gronw’s head snaps up as excited voices rise from outside the tent.  “News of yer arrival has spread among the men,” he growls.  “Yä will be expected tä perform soon.  I hopes yer rested.  It will be a long night fer yä, I’m sure.”

Her eyes narrow.  “You fake the severity of your halogrwydd—you hold the Rixueramos in such contempt—and yet you will still proceed with this buachar sentence?”

Twrch chuckles nastily.  “At last, we come tä the subject of Esmeree.”

“When was the last time you laid with a lady?” she asks the Rix.

Gronw shakes his head.  “Since before me halogrwydd, and never with a lady as fine as yä.”

Her lips tremble, “So I am to be offered up to 100 lepers?”

Gronw stares at her in silence.  She can see the conflict in his eye.  “The expectations of me rixueramos must be met.  Yet… me heart is not intä this travesty.  I have na real interest in rapin’ yä or subjectin’ yer body to me illness.”

Esmeree clutches at this straw.  “Then don’t!  Don’t be Naw’s puppet!  Don’t let his cruel illusions become your reality!”

He smiles.  “We shall see.”

Esmeree blinks and looks away.  “If it must be, then lay with me as a rix and not as a halogrwydd leper.”

He frowns.  “What do yä mean by that?”

“You are a rix, you are a man.  Don’t play Naw’s halogrwydd leper for me.  Do not wallow in your own filth and self-pity!  There is no rixueramos to see it.  I have been a sellâria to the highest houses of Cliffs Reach.  When next shall you have an opportunity like this?  What would best serve your men?  Shall they be the unwashed minions of a Leper King or the fearsome cings of a proud rix?  Lay with me as a rix would, Gronw—as a man—not as a filthy dog.”

Gronw looks over to Twrch, but the tall cing only turns his head away.  Rising to his feet a lot quicker than Esmeree thought possible in his condition, Gronw’s face is impassive, but she sees a fire blazing in his eye.  “It will be a long night, sellâria.  What will yä need before yä begin?”

Esmeree’s heart sinks.  Perhaps in time, she can win her freedom.  Looking down at her rags, at her dirty hands and feet, there is only one thing she can think of.  “A bath, my lord.”

“What?” Twrch guffaws.

“Please draw me a bath.”  She looks up into Gronw’s face.  “I have been on forced march from Ceilbyrig for days—I had been wandering in Ymyl Gwland for even longer—and I need to be clean.”  She stands and raises her chin.  “I wish to receive you and your cings as a sellâria and not as a filthy oainjyr.”

Gronw bows.  “It shall be done.”

“And then, if it be your pleasure, let you bathe.  Wash away the stench of that rotting isean.  Cleanse your scars and clean your wounds.  Prepare your bed with fresh linens, and let your men see you approach me in your finest robes.”

Gronw laughs at first, but the laughter has no spirit and it fades away.  Finally, he bows again.  “Yä do me honor, inigena.  Yer words stir me heart and shame me weakened spirit.  Of course, yer correct.  I have allowed Naw tä make me his dog.  I have done me cings and the spirits of me ancestors a disservice.”

“My lord, the damage may yet be undone!”

He shakes his head sadly as he shuffles to the tent’s flap.  “That, in part, is up to yä.”

“Me?” she asks, shocked.  “What can I do?”

“That,” he sighs, “remains to be seen.”

Esmeree watches his eye carefully.  As always, there are games being played other than the one right in front of her, but she has yet to learn the rules.

Throwing open the tent flaps, he bellows to the cings outside for a tub and hot water to be brought in.  A bracingly cold breeze gusts inside.  Esmeree notes several of the halogedigs outside straining to catch a glimpse of her.  Her heart sinks.  Oh God, she wonders, this will really happen!  She should have given herself to Llydaw when she had the chance.

“A fine plan, inigena,” Twrch growls.  “But do yä really think these delays will help?”

Esmeree looks back at him.  “They help me.”

“A bath?” he snorts.

“It helps me, but more so, I believe it helps our lord and master, Gronw.”

“Fuckin’ yä will help our lord, sure!  But bein’ fucked by the rest of us?”  He laughs.  “A bath will do yä little good.”

Her eyes narrow.  “Why do you despise me so much?  What is it you resent more?  That I beat a man twice my size and 10 times my skill?  Or that your lord punished you for that loss?”

Twrch looks taken aback, and then his face darkens with true rage.  Before he can step towards her, Gronw stays him with a gesture.  “Do not take such offense,” he says.  “The sellâria speaks the truth, Twrch, though it may pain yä tä hear it.  Yer defeat may have been the occasion fer yer exile among us, but yä can hardly blame the inigena for defendin’ herself or hold her responsible fer Naw’s lack of fealty.”

Twrch scowls and turns away towards the table with the uinom wine.

Esmeree looks back at Gronw.  “I know I have committed acts against Rixueramos Naw.  I understand my fate here is punishment for those acts, and I’m prepared to see it through.”

“How pious of yä!” Twrch mutters as he drinks the wine.  “Spoken like a good boduus Medianist.”

Gronw steps aside as a group of heavily wrapped men bring in a wooden bathing tub and several buckets of hot water.  Setting the tub down in the center of the tent, they pour in the water and leave.  Esmeree shudders beneath their hungry leers.  She hasn’t seen eyes like those since the Mill.

She approaches the tub and runs her hand across its sides.  It is formed from rough wood, but its insides have been worn smooth by use.  These halogedig must be bathing at all hours, hence the ready availability of the hot water.  It seems Gronw’s lepers are well scrubbed.  He is a wise leader.

She sighs deeply and then reaches up to begin removing her rags.  Gronw rests his good hand on her shoulder.  “I am prepared to make yä an offer, dewines.  Yer fate is up tä yä.  A long life?  A quick death?  Or a slow one as a leper?”

She looks into his eye and realizes these are the final plays of his game.  “What is it you’re proposing?” she asks cautiously.

“I am a fair man, inigena.  Fer the sake of me men, I am willing tä take some risks.”  He slowly turns her so she is facing him.  With one finger, he presses her ember.  “I understand yer a caragus.  A powerful one.  More powerful than Aggteb maybe, uh?  Certainly more powerful than me late sacardd.”

“Yes,” she says slowly.  “I have been told I have great potential, but I must admit that Rixueramos Naw’s gwrach, Aggteb, has captured me twice without much trouble.”

“Powerful but young, weak but experienced.  In me place, I will take what I can get, yäh?”  Gronw shrugs, his finger toying with her wooden talisman’s iron basket.  “I am prepared tä make yä an offer, Esmeree.  A long life, free of our halogrwydd.  A quick death by our sword.  Or a simple life among us lepers.”

“What must I do?”

He looks deeply into her eyes.  “Heal us, dewines,” his voice takes a plaintive note.  “Lift this curse.”

“If I do?”

“We will release yä from Naw’s retribution.  Yä will be free.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Yä remain here with us and die a halogedig.”

“No,” she shakes her head.  “I mean, what if I try and fail?”

Gronw’s face becomes grim.  “If yä fails tä cleanse us—or if yä attempts tä deceive us—then I promise a quick death by our swords.”

Esmeree turns to look at Twrch.  The tall cing carries a heavy spatha at the hip, as does Gronw.  She may have a chance against one of them, but certainly not both, and most definitely not against the scores of cings outside.

She looks back at Gronw.  “Of course you know I have no power now.  You’ll have to remove this charm.”

“Yäh,” he agrees.  “And at the first sign of betrayal, yä dies.  I am desperate, Esmeree—and for me cings, I’m willin’ tä take chances—but I’ll gut yä like a tourc’h if I think yer playin’ games, uh?”

Esmeree swallows.  She’s never considered—much less attempted—a summoning of this magnitude, though she doesn’t question it is within her abilities…

She winces.  Such arrogance!  It was over-confidence like this that got her into this mess!  That and the fact she forgot Naw still had all those charms he took from Hiisi.

Looking down into the steaming bath, she considers the fates Gronw is offering her.  Succeed or fail, either would be better than a life as a halogedig.  She realizes Gronw is a very generous man.

Looking back up at him, she nods as she looses the ties to her rags.  “I will do this for you, my lord,” she says as her clothes drop the to the floor.  “I will attempt to heal you.”

Gronw hesitates, temporarily taken aback by the figure she presents to him, but at last, he nods.  “Tell me what yä need.  What preparations do yä require?”

She shakes her head and smiles.  “Nothing more than the removal of this charm.”

Licking his lips with a swollen tongue, he gestures to Twrch, who draws and throws a large gully knife to him.  Snatching it neatly from the air with his good hand, Gronw takes the iron basket hanging from her collar and drives the knife’s blade through its slats.  She hears the wooden charm crack and split, and suddenly, her power begins to return.

She can feel his hands trembling before he draws away.  His eyes dance up and down her naked body, and he licks his lips again.  He gestures with the gully.  “Proceed.”

Smiling, she gracefully steps into the steaming bath, and kneeling in the water, much to the amazement of the Bracks, begins to clean herself.  She is meticulous, making sure every part of her is attended to, as if her hands belonged to her Cliffs Reach handmaids.  As much as she can, she tries to block out the circumstances leading up to this moment.  She tries to forget her past sorrows and her future fears.  She attempts to live only in the moment, focussing on the touch of her hands and the feel of the hot water against her skin.  As she bathes, her ember’s power builds.

Gronw and Twrch watch in rapt fascination, their eyes following this water nymph’s every move.  When she calls for the uinom, Twrch jumps as if pinched and rushes to bring the jug to her.  Taking it in both hands, she drinks deeply and carelessly, allowing much of the blood-red wine to spill down her throat, staining the white skin of her breasts and belly and tingeing the bath water pink.

On her empty stomach, the strong wine has immediate effect.  She drinks until she feels it throughout her whole body, especially her ember.  With the wine doing its work, her hands slowly caress her skin.  First her breasts, then her thighs, and lower.  She closes her eyes and rocks against the rhythm of her fingers, thinking of Drake and Maponos and Llydaw.  She thinks of Squirrel.

She remembers the lessons Lady Andelliza taught her.  The act of summoning can be enhanced through the use of drugs, alcohol, and sex.  This is the most powerful spell she’s ever attempted, and she knows she needs all the help she can get.  The power in her ember rises with her passion, and when she climaxes, her ember summons massively.

The water of the tub seems to steam a little more when she rises on shaking knees.  Both of the men stare at her, silent and slack-jawed.  Shrouded and bedewed in steam, her body seems to shimmer and glow.

Extending one fine hand to Gronw, she beckons.  “Come, my lord.  Join me.”

The rix hesitates, inhaling nervously, but with a glance at Twrch, he sheds his garments and takes her hand.  Denuded of clothing, his figure is sallow and thin—evidence of his halogrwydd and the deprivations of this tent-city—and yet his body is crisscrossed with the scars of an experienced and valliant warrior.  A terrible wound mars his left foot, the flesh hugely swollen and rancid with infection.

Taking both his hands, Esmeree helps him step into the water.  He immediately stiffens and gasps in shock.

“The heat!” he cries.  “The water burns!”

Moving closer, she nods as she eases him down into the water, “Yes.  It burns.”

Cradling his disfigured foot in her lap, she dips the uinom jug into the water and pours it’s contents over the limb.  Gronw bellows as the water seethes and boils against his corrupted flesh.

Working steadily, methodically, she washes him as she washed herself.  Beneath her hands and water, his scars and welts melt away.  His limbs straighten and strengthen.  His infections clear, and his wounds close.  His blinded eye is restored to sight.  Taking his face in her hands, she kisses him at last, and his healing is complete.

She stands with difficulty—completely drained and weak—and staggers from the tub, sagging against a table for support.  Twrch gasps in surprise and rushes to his rix’s side.  “Me lord!” he exclaims.  “Yer face!”

Gronw rises easily, staring at his perfect hands and legs in awe.  “I can feel them!” he sighs.  “Me fingers!  Me toes!  The bones are whole!”  His hands press against his face, and he laughs.

As Twrch helps him from the basin and wraps a thick cucullus around him, Gronw turns to Esmeree joyously.  His body restored, the Rix is an impressive figure, powerful and handsome.  “Bratos, Esmeree!  Mol!  Truly, yä are a powerful caragus!”

She smiles wanly and sags.  The spell infusing the water is still active, and it continues to drain her strength.  With a cry of concern, Gronw rushes forward and catches her before she falls.  She looks up at him as he cradles her.  “The bath will cleanse your cings, Rix.  But you must hurry, because I don’t know how much longer I can maintain the spell.”

He looks at her with concern.  “Yer weak!  What can I do?”

She smiles.  “For so long as you need the bath, keep me warm.  I need food and drink.”

Gronw snaps his fingers to Twrch, who hurries over with thick blankets and soft furs.  As he bundles Esmeree tightly, he says, “Twrch!  First yä bathe.  When yer clean and free of halogrwydd, summon the others.”  Lifting Esmeree easily from the floor, he says with satisfaction, “Everyone must bathe tonight!”

The party within the largest tent is raucous and loud—typical of Brack festivities Esmeree has attended before—the only difference is this one is in her honor.  So many excited, happy Bracks pressed into such a small space.  Dressed in the rough homespuns and boots of a cing, Esmeree endures good-naturedly the attentions of Gronw and his men.  Every cing requests a dance, every cing demands a toast and a cheer.  Tired as she is, she claps her hands to the music and agrees to everything.  These men have been delivered from a terrible curse.  It would be rude to refuse their gratitude.

Even Twrch has softened his demeanor towards her, and Esmeree hopes she can foster a closer relationship with the rhyswr.

Gronw leaps to his feet without warning and drags Esmeree up with him.  Spreading his arms for silence, he addresses these assembled warriors.  “Me cings!  Me loyal friends and brothers!  Lend me yer hearts and ears!  Johlpa has delivered tä us an ysbryd, an angel, tä lead us from the darkness of our halogrwydd!”

The cings cheer as Gronw draws his spatha and kneels before Esmeree.  “Me lady—”

She extends her hand, as though to ward him off.  “Gronw, no.  Don’t do what I’m thinking you’re about to...”

“Yä came tä us as a slug, an oainjyr tä halogedigs.”  Holding his spatha by the blade, he offers its handle to her and he pledges, “Yä have served us well and tä completion, lady.  We are forever in yer debt, and we are forever yer servants.  Mol!”

Esmeree holds the sword and looks around the tent as the wassailing cings cheer.

The hour is late, and most of the cings have retired.  Esmeree and Gronw sit outside on a hill overlooking the tent dunum and watch the growing blush of dawn.  It’s been a long night—the days before have been even longer—and she is exhausted.  Wrapped in furs of capalus and vair against the bitter weather, she huddles next the Rix and shakes her head in frustration.

“I can’t accept this!” she hisses.  “I am on a dark path, Gronw, a dangerous one.”

“What kind of cings would we be tä allow a fair inigena tä brave the dark alone?” he grins.

“Gronw!” she snaps, “The forces of the Primate are arrayed against me!  I fear I am fated for a terrible fall, and all those around me will die as well!”

“Yer fate is our fate, lady,” Gronw pledges with deadly severity.

“Don’t you want to avenge yourselves against Rixueramos Naw?” she yells.

“Don’t yä?”

She looks around at the tents below and shakes her head.  “Twice I have fallen into his possession.  Twice I have escaped.  If he wishes to pursue matters, I’m sure I’ll be hearing from him.”

“I admire yer forgivin’ nature,” Gronw nods.  “We will follow yer example.”

“It may not be as easy for you, my lord,” she corrects.  “I am one girl—it is easy for Naw to overlook me—but you and your dunum are many cings.  The whole of the Logan clan.  When Naw hears of your purification, you can be certain it will draw his attention.”

“Yäh,” Gronw grins.  “He will come, and we are still weak.  Me cings need food, clothing, weapons.  Fer too long we have been Naw’s dogs.  Maybe one day we will face each other on the battlefield, and me clan will win its freedom, uh?”

“Well, if you’re going to be following me around—and Naw will be out looking for you—then we can’t stay here for long.”

“Na.  There is na defense in these tents.  We cannot protect yä, we cannot serve ourselves.”

She shudders as the wind gusts.  “Where should we go?  Ceilbyrig is out.  When the Medianists come, they will arrive there first.  There is a dunum there, the Orphan’s Bag.  I know the proprietor, so we can stay there for a little while, but…”

Gronw wraps a friendly arm around her shoulder and squeezes.  “Don’t yä worry, inigena.  I knows of a place we can go, a place me and me men are very familiar with.”

“Where’s that?”

“Why, our dunum, of course!”

“You have a dunum?” she asks in surprise.

“Of course, me inigena!  What kind of rix would I be without a dunum?”  He nods his head as he looks down on the tents and the sleeping cings inside.  “It was a fine place.  Strong walls.  A mighty hall.  Fair bnas.  When the halogrwydd came, and the Rixueramos took us into his possession, we had tä abandon it and come here.  Yäh,” he nods, “Our dunum should still be standin’.”

“Then we’ll go there, I suppose,” she says quietly.

“If we are tä meet the Rixueramos or the Seven Kingdoms in battle, it should be there.”

Esmeree bows to the rising sun and performs her Morning Prayer.

* * *

The five riders approach the dunum cautiously.  Esmeree is inexperienced in these matters and trusts Twrch’s judgement when he halts and dismounts.  Leaving one cing behind to tend to the epos, the others close the rest of the distance on foot.

Torches burn brightly in front of each door of the Orphan’s Bag.  The horses in the stables wicker to each other drowsily.  The bell next to the well hums in the wind.

Twrch warns Esmeree to stay hidden while he and the others slip into the stables.  He returns and reports.  Her marka is still there, as well as seven epos and caballos of various qualities.  It hardly seems to represent a Seven Kingdoms or Brackish hunting party, but Twrch doesn’t want to take any chances.  “Yä stay here, inigena,” he warns, “while we go inside.  We’ll come and get yä if it’s safe.”

She looks past him to the dunum beyond.  This place had been her home so many times during the past months, and now she needs to have someone else check it out for her?  Such strategies sounded reasonable as they rode across the moors, but now that she’s here, it just sounds foolish.

Her eyes narrow.  “No.”

“What?” Twrch blurts as she pushes past him and stalks towards the tavern.  “It’s not safe!”

“Then protect me,” she calls over she shoulder, “but I’ll not hide.”  She looks back at the dunum.  “Not here, at least.”

She forms a spell and summons, casting across the entire compound.  Her spell reveals no sorcerers other than one tiny stone in an upper floor—Iall, she presumes—and no other unusual magic in the area.  Whatever she might face inside, it will not be Aggteb or some Medianist wizard.

Lowered voices meet her ears as she reaches the tavern’s doors.  She checks her scimitar briefly, making sure it is loose in its sheath; Gronw’s men did their best to repair the blade, but it will never be the same after its time in the alf’s clearing.  Pushing the doors open, she slips into the darkness inside.  Some heads turn in her direction—perhaps surprised because no one heard the arrival of horses—but for the most part, patrons of the Orphan’s Bag don’t ask questions and mind their businesses.  After some cursory looks, most people turn back to their drinks and conversations.

Even as Twrch and his cings press in behind her, she rushes forward.  Sitting cross-legged atop a table all his own, is a naked man wearing a mask.  His sword stands before him, planted point down into the wooden floor.  Esmeree notes with humor that the so-called hardened patrons of the Orphan’s Bag seem to be giving the asp a wide berth.

She takes up an unoccupied stool and sits down in front of him.  Behind his sorrowful mask, his eyes are closed, and he doesn’t move.

“He just sits there,” Ongram says behind her.  “Hasn’t moved since yä were taken.”

Esmeree stands and turns.  The old mercenary smiles.  “It is good tä see that yer well, inigena.”

She embraces him tightly.  “I’ve missed you, too.”  Pulling away, she looks at him intently.  “And Iall and Myrdd?”

Ongram smiles and nods.  “They are well.  The bagaudas didn’t harm them.  They took what they wanted and left in peace.”

“Whoosh!” she exhales with relief.  “Bratos, Ongram!  Thank you!”

He glances towards the stairs.  “The fair inigena is asleep upstairs, but I’m sure she’d be happy tä know yer home.”

She nods.  “In a moment.”  She gestures to the three cings behind her.  “Ongram, these cings are from Rix Gronw’s dunum.”

Ongram frowns.  “Gronw?  I’ve not heard the name before.”

“Yä will,” Twrch promises.

Esmeree stifles a laugh, but then sobers when she looks back at Llydaw.  “What’s wrong with him?  Is it some kind of spell?”

Ongram shrugs.  “I don’t claim tä fully understand the ways of the asps, and this one is a bit stranger than any others I’ve heard of.  He’s sat here for days.  Na food, na drink.  That’s all I know.”

Esmeree leans closer to Llydaw, staring into his mask.  “Llydaw?”  She shakes his shoulder gently.  “Are you OK?”

His eyes flutter open, and he looks around at the faces before him before finally settling on Esmeree’s.  After a brief pause, he quickly swaps maps.  “Esmeree!” he exclaims happily.  “You’ve returned!”

She smiles with relief.  “I was worried about you, just sitting there like that!  What were you doing?”

“In the Locus, I waited, you came!  Figured, it worked the first time, maybe it would work again!”

Moving his sword out of the way, she jumps onto the table and embraces him tightly.  “What was that?  Was that some kind of trance?  Were you praying?”

“No,” laughs Llydaw.  “I just fell asleep.  Even asps can sleep, you know!”