"I will," she insists. "You can't stop me."

"You can't marry Calmorien. He's dead."

"No!' she screams. "It's not true!" But somewhere deep within the pale blue moons of her eyes, her denial rings hollow. She must have heard rumor of his death on the streets. My sign must have had its intended effect.

"It is true. I cut his head off with this sickle."

"No," she says, weakly this time, the denial gone. "No." She channels all the agony a heartbroken child can feel into one word. "Why?"

"Because he was a bad elf," I say. "Because he wasn't a freedom fighter at all. He was a sick monster, a torturer and a murderer. He didn't send children on spy missions. He drugged them until they couldn't move, and then he sold them to a human, a sorcerer who cut them into tiny pieces while they were still living, helpless and screaming in silent agony until they died, to divine information on Elftown to sell to the human watch." 

I find myself getting angrier as I speak.

"He used you, you stupid little punk. He lied to you about everything. He was never going to marry you. When he had gotten all the little street rats he could out of you, he would have drugged you and tossed you in a barrel for dismemberment just like every kid you talked into going with him."

The girl starts rocking back against the wall, hitting her head against it, a little harder each time. 

"No," she repeats. "No."

"There won't be any dancing in the meadow for you and your friends," I snarl. "Alvar is dead. Ciana is dead. Landor is dead. And you are responsible." I hate myself for hurting her like this. But that self-loathing just makes me angrier.

"Are you happy?" I ask, raising my sword to end it. "Is this what you wanted?"

"No!" she cries. "No!" She bashes her head against the wall convulsively, with enough force to crack open the back of her skull, but instead of blood, light shoots out, turning the cave a searing, empty white and blinding me. The girl is a stinking sorcerer too. I can't see anything. Instinctively, I cover my eyes and swing my sword down, hoping to kill her before she moves. My blade slams into something hard with a jarring impact that staggers me. I pull my blade back, dislodging it with difficulty, and back up a couple paces, weapons slashing defensively, as the light abruptly ends.

I blink and the blurriness recedes. The girl is gone. In the spot where she huddled against the wall stands a scrubby thick-trunked tree, barely more than a shrub, with needle leaves and bright red berries. I have never seen one, but I know what it is. A yew, the tree of sorrow. The tree from whence free elves obtain the wood for their longbows. There is a deep gash in the trunk where my blade struck it.

The hell? I glance around the cave and pop my head out the entrance hole, but there is no sign of the girl. I look closer at the yew tree. Around the trunk are bits of rags, pieces of the clothes the girl was wearing. As though she transformed herself into the plant. How did she do this? Did she intend to?

The tree has no answers for me.

Damn it. I need to think more about this, to figure out exactly what's going on in this cave. But not here and not now. I turn to go, and Alvar's painting catches my eye. It's different now: the four dancing elves are gone, replaced by yew trees. One tree for Alvar, one for Ciana, one for Landor, and one for the nameless girl who betrayed them for love and the hope of a better life.

I look back at the yew, huddled against the wall in the shade of the cave. Is there enough light for it to live here, I wonder, and then decide that I don't care. It's time to go. This hole, which had once been my home, a safe place from the storms outside, now seems foreign and dangerous. The faint tinny taste of magic hangs in the air like smoke. I give the hole a last look for hidden threats before lifting myself out of the cave and into the gap between the houses. The smell of the nearby tannery, rotten as it is, feels safe and familiar. 

As I squeeze out into the backstreet, I know I should return to my warehouse hideaway and get some rest. But suddenly I have the urge to take a look at Calmorien's painting. After a moment's consideration, I decide to sleep first. I will visit his apartment tonight, before I go to the olive oil warehouse.