Who knows truly the face of Gokh?  Where does Gokh live?  What is Her face?  We know Her only by the wake of Her passing, by the tread of Her foot, the whisper of Her breath, the love of Her heart.  Who here will declare that they know Gokh the fullest?  None, for She is an unfathomable abyss. She was the first discharge of thought, the link between the existent to the nonexistent, the heart of wisdom.  Her line was extended across.  What was below, what was above?  She is the impregnator and the impregnated. The powers, the impulses, they are the dreams of Gokh.  Six gifts for Her first six offspring.  First born were the elements.  Immature yet powerful, they refuse to leave Her bosom, and still they remain at the seats of the world.  Next born were the Old Gods, but they were arrogant, and they turned away from Her.  Their power is fleeting, for they need others to affirm it.  Third born were the mists and the spirits, the gatherers and tormentors of the dead.  The whisperers.  They were stillborn from the womb and know not their heritage.  Fifth were the talents of creativity and invention, the tool-makers.  They believe they can one day recreate the world themselves, and so they deny Gokh’s very existence.  Last born were the products of rape and theft.  Knowledge and sorcery they were.  Yet, they remain constant and loyal to that which bore them. Truth:  Of Gokh’s six gifts to the world, only Her stones and Her knowledge remain constant.  All other powers diminish in Her absence. Asp hymn of Gokh

* * *

Esmeree stands among the saplings, Llydaw at her side.  He still wears his surprised mask, and perhaps that is what surprises her most of all.  “It is amazing,” he sighs.

She smiles and nods.  Throughout, within, and all around the dunum, the oak saplings are growing.  Everywhere she spread the alf’s soil, trees have grown.  It is only a precious few hours since yesterday’s battle and rainstorm, and already some are twice the height of a man.

Llydaw reaches out and touches one.

“And we can’t cut them down?” moans Twrch.

Esmeree shakes her head and looks back at the distraught châtelain.  “No, I don’t think that’s wise.”

“Then we’ll have to move on.  If we can’t clear the land, then we can’t stay here,” he grumbles in frustration, and Esmeree can only sympathize.  The alf’s assistance yesterday was timely, for Twrch and Gronw and the rest of the cings couldn’t have held out much longer—the alf’s arrows decimated the Medianist army—but it came at a high cost.  This is alf land now.  She cannot see them, but she senses their presence everywhere.  In accepting their aid, Gronw’s clan has surrendered its ownership of the dunum.  Not that there is much of the dunum left anyway.

The handful of survivors continues to scavenge through the new forest.  When the Seven Kingdoms army fled, downcast, undone, and overcome, they didn’t spend much time packing.  Among the new trees and the crushed remains of the dunum’s crops, they’ve found horses, livestock, hard rations, weapons, and armor.  Cottars work tirelessly, stacking the dead and gathering wood in preparation for their burning.  In preparing the pyres for the countless dead, however, Esmeree has forbidden them from harvesting the trees.  They must use whatever dead wood they can find but not these new saplings.

The dead are everywhere.  Hundreds of bodies still litter the grounds of the dunum alone.  Beyond, where most of the forest grew, there are many, many more.  Nearly the whole of sweet Guiromélans’s army.

Taking Llydaw’s hand, Esmeree returns to the ruined enceintes.  Little is left standing.  The destruction of the battle was nearly total.  Of the original dunum, all that remains untouched was their simple oak sapling—the grave marker for the victims of the rraakks—though now that small oak is just one of many.  In just a few short years, all signs of man’s presence in this place will be gone.

She looks around her and sighs.  All that will be left are the legends and the stories.  She smiles as she touches the tree’s young bark.  How else will people like Koljo and Naw and Hailoken and Llydaw and countless others be remembered?  How else would leaders like Gronw be remembered?

As if reading her mind, Llydaw embraces her from behind.  His powerful arms make her feel safe.  “Many died last night, Esmeree.  You must try to focus on those who lived.”

“It is hard,” she sighs and shakes her head.  “Many strange things happened yesterday, but one thing in particular troubles me.”

“And what is that?”

“I wielded the asp’s sword.”

“You called the rain.  You called the alfs.  You resurrected Iall.  Wielding the asp’s sword may have been the least of your miracles.”

“But how did I do it?” she asks in wonder.  “I was spent, Llydaw!  I was finished.  I couldn’t walk another step!  Where did I find the strength to lift the asp’s sword?  Where did I find the skill to use it?”

“Why would you ask such a thing?” he asks, sounding shocked.  Esmeree smiles and tries to imagine which mask he is wearing based simply on his voice.  It is a game she plays.

“Why?  Because you told me I’d never be able to use it until I learned its true name.  That was what you said to me on the plains of Ymyl Gwland.”

“Ah,” he sighs with realization.  “Tell me, what were you doing when you used that sword?”

“I was defending myself…”  She pauses.  “I was defending Iall, my daughter.”

“Yes,” Llydaw whispers reassuringly, “Then you are well on your way.  You must remember that in that moment, you were true to your heart.  You lived for the moment, just as I said you would.  You protected what was yours.  You stood your ground.  Both Iall and Guiromélans owe their lives to you for that.”

Esmeree smiles at the thought of Iall.  Closing her eyes she seeks and finds her charm—neither of them can bare to be without it now—and she briefly watches as the fry runs through the infant forest, helping the others collect wood and scavenge for goods.  She is young, she is spirited.  Her scars will heal quickly.

Guiromélans is another matter, however.  The events at the New Mill have deeply shaken the Raven.  Just before dawn, he slipped away with only the briefest of thanks and farewells, presumably to catch up with the remnants of his fleeing army.  Esmeree hopes he is well.

“You know,” Llydaw remarks, “I hear tell, during the darkest moments just before the alfs came, that some saw a griffin in the dunum.  Nowadays, griffins are rather rare, and they say this one was of black flame, and it cut through the Medianists like a scythe.”

The two of them are quiet for a long time.  Esmeree’s hand caresses the bark of the young tree.

“Yes,” she sighs at last, “I protected what was mine.”

“And you were rewarded for it.”

She feels him tugging at her collar, and she obediently bows her head.  While her bayonet wound is still painful, no trace of Naw’s attack can be found on her throat or shoulder.  Instead, where wound and scar should be, dark blue tattoos swirl across her white skin.  Llydaw coos with admiration as his finger traces their design.

Giggling, Esmeree slaps his hand away and turns to face him.  “Someday, you must tell me how you earned all your coils,” she laughs.

He switches to his Trickster mask.  “Well, I must confess, it will be a long and painful story!”

Gronw fusses with his new armor, scavenged from a fallen Ehrech knight.  In his new mail hauberk, he presents quite the striking figure.  Thirty cings survived the battle—and many more villeins—though the loss of innocent blood was tragic.  Now, as the sun sets, the survivors of the Logan clan gather at their wrecked hall to see their cings off one more time.

Gronw looks from Twrch to Esmeree and scratches at his beard.  “It is a shame,” he sighs, “that me dunum is in such a sorry state.  Truly, I am in the mood fer a celebration.”

“For me,” says Esmeree, “Every day is a celebration.  Every breath.”

The Rix erupts in laughter.  “True!  True!”

Twrch clears his throat impatiently.  Gronw rolls his eyes towards his châtelain.  “Yäh, me rhyswr,” he sighs.

Esmeree hands him his new Ehrech helmet and worn spatha.  He eyes the edge of the blade before sliding it into its sheathe.  He looks at Esmeree.  “Yä’ll not be comin’ with us?”

She shakes her head.  “As you pursue your destiny, I must pursue mine.  Guiromélans and his army are gone, and I know not if they will return.  The Primate is an ambitious man, and he fancies himself the fifth Prophet of God.  There are… promises I must keep before I have to confront him again.”

The Rix nods, and he and his men move from the hall.  The women have gathered their steeds and wait patiently.  Gronw adjusts the fit of his helm before swinging himself into the saddle.  He looks down at Esmeree with affection.  “Naw’s cings have some hours head start on us, but they’re tired and wounded and without food.  We’ll catch them before they reach Ve’coDusios.”

Twrch laughs as he leaps onto his huge epos.  “And then we’ll visit that dunum ourselves.”

“I pray,” Esmeree stresses, resting her hand on Gronw’s leg, “that you’ll be more generous with them than Naw was with us.”

“Yäh, Esmeree,” Gronw pledges, “We shall.  We haven’t forgotten that our sweet inigenas are in that dunum.”

“There shall be joyous reunions,” Esmeree promises.  “Do me one favor, however?”

“Anythin’.”

“Seek out a bna and her family in Ve’coDusios.  She is the widow of a gwledig named Usk.  If she lives, offer her and her family sanctuary with us in your dunum.”

“Yäh, I’ll do that easily.  Sä yä’ll be returnin’ tä us then?” Gronw’s voice sounds helpful.

She smiles.  “Yäh.  Look for me at the Orphan’s Bag.  Iall and I will wait there until you find a new dunum.”

“Mol!”  He points down at her as he spurs his epos, “I’ll hold yä tä that!  Every rix needs a caragus, Esmeree!  I shan’t want tä find another!”

Esmeree laughs and waves as the cings gallop from the ruined dunum.  When she feels Llydaw’s arm close around her waist, she automatically molds her body against his.  “Promises, promises,” he murmurs.

“Yes.”

She turns and looks up at him.  “And you?  What are your plans?”

Llydaw’s happy mask beams at her.  “I’ve pledged to guard these fair folk here, at least until the good Rix returns.  After that?”  He shrugs.  “I am asp!  Who knows what will happen?”

She sighs as she looks around at the trees invading the dunum.  “The rainstorm and the battle…  They fell on an auspicious night.”

“Really?” Llydaw sounds more surprised than she thinks he really is.

She nods.  “One year ago today, I was taken from the streets of Cliffs Reach and brought into the life of a sellâria.  One year ago, I began the path that would lead me here.”

“Ah.  Happy New Year’s,” he says.

“Yes,” she sighs.  “It is also my birthday.  Eighteen years today.”

“What?” the asp exclaims.  Now he truly does sound surprised.  “You were born on New Year’s?  How do you know that?”

She smiles and touches her ember.  “I have a reliable source.”

* * *

Hailoken stumbles down the gentle slope.  He’s been wandering these moors for days.  He pauses and looks around.  The rugged terrain stretches unchanging for as far as he can see.  It’s been unchanging for days.  Damn this Ymyl Gwland!  Only in the east can he see the vague layer of mist that suggests the proximity of the Skudd.

How many days south of Ceilbyrig did that boduus bitch say it was?  Fourteen days?  He’s been on the move for at least that long.  The moment that witch called the rainstorm, and sent the boduus Medianists into disarray, he knew it was time to leave.  Never trust a bunch of cowardly knights to wrestle with a gwrach.  Better a dignified retreat than a pointless death.

He smiles as he tests his nearly empty pack.  He’s sure Naw and that Raven dealt with the traitors swiftly anyway.  The witch either lies dead or is on her way to a painful fate with her Primate.  He shrugs.  It doesn’t matter to him.  She took something from him—his precious stone—but he gained something from her as well.  Something perhaps that is much more valuable.

The Locus Amoenus!  The Place of Wonders!  Home of the asps!

Again, he looks around him.  Fourteen days by foot.  The Locus should be nearby—if it even exists—if that bitch wasn’t lying to him.  He sets off again, muttering.  That boduus whore better not have been lying.

Suddenly, the sound of running water draws his attention.  Turning around, he finds a wide stream of clear water making its way to the ocean.  Fat esok cruise lazily, hunting for nymphs and smaller fish.  He frowns.  He never crossed this stream.  How could it be behind him?

Birds call in the sky, and a small animal rustles in some nearby bushes.  Even as he turns, Hailoken sees trees and vines and a beautiful garden of elegant statues.  Flowers dot the grasses, and fruit hangs heavy from the trees.  The Locus takes his breath away, and dropping his pack, he runs through the garden.  It is all so much more beautiful than he could ever imagine!

He stops to take in the view, and the sound of running water catches his ear.  Looking down, he finds the creek again but this time in front of him.  His pack lays nearby on the opposite bank.

Frowning, he crosses the running water and picks it up, looking back where he came.  Are there two streams?  And how did his pack get over here?

A sudden chill of fear pierces his heart, though he isn’t sure why.

Dropping his pack at his feet, he takes measured steps east, following the stream towards the coast.  Minutes later, he sees his pack laying ahead of him on the banks.  He seems no closer to the ocean.

There is something about the Locus, his memory belatedly recalls.  Something…

He breaks from the stream, fleeing across the grassy hills.  He passes through the small forest of fruit trees and statues only to stumble and fall into the stream again.  Rising slowly, he sees his pack laying on the banks.  Rushing forward, he dumps its contents out and confirms it is, indeed, his pack.  “What is this?” he screams at the sky.

“The Joy of the Court has chosen you,” the voice of the Locus answers.  “You shall not leave until you find a champion you cannot best.”

Hailoken slowly rises and walks into the garden on uncertain legs.  He looks up at the nearby statues.  Leaning against one is a tremendous long sword.

* * *

In the darkness of the bedroom, Drake moves silently.  His body is filled with blood from this night’s feeding, his senses heightened.  As he approaches his casket, he hesitates.  There is something familiar in the room, something hidden.

Flipping open the chest, he is surprised to find his skin missing.

Torches ignite all around him.  “Hello, Drake.”

He turns to find Esmeree seated in his chair.  His eyes narrow.  Did she just slip past him, or was she always there?  “Esmeree,” he purrs.  “You look… different.”

“A year can do that,” she smiles.  He can’t help but note his neatly folded skin resting in her lap.  “You look, well…” she frowns, “I guess I just can’t tell for sure until you put this back on…”

He takes a step forward.  “So, please enlighten me,” he says carefully, watching her movements closely.  “Who are we to each other now?  Lovers?  Friends?  Enemies?”

She raises her eyebrows.  “Enemies?  Could a year have changed us so much?”

“Perhaps,” he says, taking another step closer.  Suddenly, her hand snaps up.  Something metallic shines in the torchlight.  It is a Medianist bisected circle.

He smiles.  “You must know that holy symbols have no affect on Darkbloods.  That’s an old wives’ tale.”

“An anîlibus fâbellîs?  Yes, of course,” she says casually, but she still holds it up for him to see.  It is an Inquisitor’s Median, formed of two twisted cords of iron and silver.

“Do you know,” she asks as she admires it, “why Inquisitors have Medians made of iron and silver?”

Drake hesitates.  He can no longer read the girl.  There is something distinctly different about her now.  Will she return his skin?  Will he have to fight for it?  He doubts now that he could win.  He feels the power that emanates from her.  Certainly, if he doesn’t get his skin back and get into his casket by dawn, he will die.  “No, I don’t,” he answers.

She looks directly at him and smiles.  The edge of the Median passes close over his skin.  “So it can be used as a weapon.  The iron serves well against the Fée…  The silver serves well against Darkbloods.”

Drake freezes.  “How would you know that?”

“A close friend told me.”

Drake clears his throat and looks at the floor.  He’s dripping on it again.  The Lady will kill him for making a mess.  “So,” he hazards, “Do you intend to kill me?  I admit while our last parting wasn’t ideal, I didn’t think it left you with such animosity.”

“Where’s Squirrel?”

“What?”

“Squirrel.  She was a stick.  A close friend of mine.  Eighteen months ago, you expelled her from the Mill.  What happened to her?”

Drake blinks.  “I’m sure I don’t know.”

Again the Median passes over his skin.  “Now, I happen to know of the particular attention you and the Lady paid to my upbringing.  I’m sure you watched me and the people I associated with very carefully.  So tell me.  What happened to Squirrel?”

Drake smiles, a particularly terrifying expression coming from a vampire with no skin.  “The Heap,” he says.  “Last I heard, she caught the rot and moved to the Heap.”

Esmeree’s mouth drops.  The Heap?  A year and a half there?  Could she still be alive?

“So…” Drake hazards.  “My skin?  What are your intentions?”

Esmeree looks back up at him and shakes her head.  “I don’t know.  I don’t think you could say our relationship in the past has always been as equals, yäh?  I think you’ve been hiding the truth from me for a long time...”

Drake smiles and crosses his arms.  “Yeah?  And so?  You were a fry and a fisher.  How would you expect me to treat you?”

She lifts an object wrapped in silk from the desk and slowly begins to unwrap it.  Drake watches with interest as she slowly unveils Andelliza’s maru-catu deck.  She looks back up at him as she begins to shuffle.  “Let’s let fate decide?  We’ll let the cards decide your future, yäh?”

He watches carefully as she cuts the deck and then draws the top card.  She smiles as she shows it to him.  His eyes widen.  “Death?”

Esmeree’s smile fades, and she looks at the card herself.  “Oh, fuck,” she sighs.

She shakes her head as she searches the cards by hand.  “I’ve never been much at stacking these damn decks,” she mutters.

When she at last finds the card she wants and shows it to him, Drake relaxes and laughs.  “The Five of Man.”

“I’ve always believed Largesse is an underrated card,” she says as she rises and tosses him his skin.

She waits as he puts it on, and suddenly the bloody creature before her transforms into the Drake she’s always known.  After he finishes testing the fit of his fingers, she offers him the card.  As he takes it, she slips into his arms.  “Thank you, Drake.  I forgive you and the Lady for any harms you’ve done me, and I thank you for all your love and support.”

“Love?” he snorts, “I’d not think you’ll find such a thing in this guild.”

She smiles, because the warmth of his embrace belies his words.

The Heap at night is one of the most dangerous places within Cliffs Reach, but Esmeree moves through its thick darkness without fear.  Its occupants have nothing in their future—they are nothing—and so they have nothing to lose.  People lost in the Heap are rarely seen again, though sometimes some scraps of cloth or bone are found.  Dark shadows shuffle at her passing, but she pays them no mind.  Her ember guides her way.  The charms cast upon her friend may be years old, but she is so much more powerful now.  She catches the smallest scent on the wind and follows it unerringly.

At last, she stands above a group of squalid wretches.  Something about her strikes fear in these lepers, and they struggle to get away from her.  One leper in particular, however, she stops.  “Nage,” she says, “Not you.”

The hunched, shaking creature cowers before her, but something about her voice gives it pause.  Both of its eyes are gone, as are its feet.  One hand, swollen with rot, reaches out for her.  “Do we knows yä?” it asks.

Esmeree takes the hand in hers and kneels.  Peering into that bloated face, she can still see the beautiful girl she’s always known.  “Squirrel?  It’s me, Easy!”

The halogedig shudders and lurches away with a wail.  “Nooooo!  Don’t use that name!  She died!  She died!”

Esmeree clings to the hand and pulls the leper back to her.  “No,” she says softly.  “She didn’t, and neither have you.”

“Yer voice,” it croaks.  Its foul hand reaches up to touch her face and hair.  “Ooohh,” it whispers, “Sä soft!  I remember she was sä soft!”

“Squirrel,” Esmeree asks, “If we could do it all over again, would yä still do the same thing?  What would yä want now?”

The leper sighs.  “Sä long ago!  Those dreams were sä long ago!  I remember the dreams.  I had friends in them.  Warmth.  Comfort durin’ the rainy nights.  There was laughter.  I remember the dream when me and me friends teased the old Ulbandi fisherman.  I remember a dream…  We were havin’ good times in Rat Face’s.  CC got drunk and tried tä beat me up.  Easy stood up tä her, took the beatin’ fer me.”  It looks away and begins to cry, “Sä lonely…  I want Easy back.”

Esmeree smiles and pulls the halogedig to her.  She presses her lips against its—their tongues touch—and they sigh in unison as her ember summons.  Squirrel shudders as the spell embraces her, coursing through her body.  Bones grind and crack.  Her halogrwydd shrinks and fades away.  Her eyes clear.

At last, Esmeree pulls away from the blonde girl’s perfect lips, and the two stare into each other’s eyes.  “I’m back,” Esmeree says.  “And I’ll never leave you again.”

Squirrel cries out with joy as Esmeree embraces her.  They rise together, Squirrel standing without pain for the first time in years.  Her back is perfect, her hands and face and eyes and feet are restored.  She sighs with amazement as she examines her fingers and then looks back at Esmeree.  She leaps into her arms.  “Oh, Easy!  It’s yä!  It’s really yä!  How did yä do such a thing?”

They hold each other for a long time.  As the sun rises over the western Skudd, Esmeree looks south, across the Skudd, towards the EroBernd Empire, and the voice of God sings in her stone.