Songs of the Dying Earth

Phyllis Eisenstein THE LAST GOLDEN THREAD

As the elder son of the house — by half an hour — it was Bosk Septentrion’s privilege to sit beside his father at dinner. Generally, he avoided that privilege, having long since lost interest in his father’s unending supply of advice, but this night they had a guest, and it was only common courtesy to share a meal with a traveler bound home to Ascolais. He knew his father’s only concern was to create another mercantile connection with the south; Bosk’s concern was the sapling that Turjan of Miir had caused to sprout from their dining table.

“A charming gift,” said Bosk’s father, passing Turjan another serving of succulent three-mushroom stew.

“A bagatelle,” said Turjan. “It will live on the scraps of your meals and bear fruit in a year.”

Bosk could not keep his eyes from the tree, its graceful bole and nodding leaves like a dancer with feathery hair waiting for the music to begin. He had never desired to be a merchant, though for ten generations that had been the fate of every Septentrion son. Now, fifteen winters into his life, he finally knew what he did desire. He looked at his father, speaking earnestly to Turjan of business. He looked at his younger brother Fluvio, at the other end of the table, stabbing the mushrooms in his stew as if they were small animals that might escape. Fluvio, he knew, enjoyed sitting next to their father; Fluvio was the true Septentrion heir.

Bosk reached out to touch the tree. The pale bark was as smooth as the timeworn surface from which it had sprung. Under the table, his father’s buskined foot nudged his ankle, and he drew his hand back to take up his crystalline goblet and sip at the aromatic infusion of fermented mushrooms which was the culmination of the meal as well as the current topic of conversation.

“It may be an acquired taste,” said Turjan.

“As so many things are,” said Bosk’s father. He lifted his own goblet high to show the warm bronze color. “We’ve also found it a useful anodyne for the headaches of overindulgence.” He smiled at Turjan. “You’ll take a flask home with you.”

Turjan set his goblet down and lounged back in his chair. “You’ve laden me with gifts enough already, Master Septentrion.”

Bosk’s father waved that aside. “Dried mushrooms weigh nearly nothing. I merely wish you to remember the friendship you know here.” He inclined his head toward Bosk, though his eyes remained on Turjan. “You have made an impression upon my boys that they will not soon forget.”

Bosk noted that he did not even glance in Fluvio’s direction.

With scarcely a pause, he went on. “Perhaps my eldest can show you around the estate. It has a few vistas worthy of attention. The gorge, of course.”

“Of course,” said Turjan. “And the mines themselves, possibly?”

Bosk’s father shook his head with every evidence of regret. “Much too long a ride for an afternoon, I fear, and the miners are not eager for strangers. They barely tolerate our own visits.”

“A shame,” murmured Turjan. “Well, the gorge then, young Bosk?” He turned to the boy. “I think I would enjoy some exercise after such a satisfying meal.” He pushed his chair away from the table, rose, and gave a small bow to his host.

Outside, they rambled the meticulously manicured grounds, and Turjan praised the lawn, the hedges, and even the ornamental rocks that flanked the long, eastward-curving path.

“The miners care for the grounds,” Bosk told him. “That’s part of our pact with them.”

Turjan nodded. “I trust that, in return, they live well. Your delicacies certainly fetch high enough prices in the south.”

“They live well,” said Bosk. “Better in some ways than we do. Their halls never echo hollow in the night, and their fires warm their chambers better than ours.”

Turjan looked back to the manse, which sprawled, wing upon wing, over a series of eminences. “Your halls are impressive. Your family has wealth that many would envy.”

Bosk clasped his hands behind his back. “We have gained it all through serving our customers,” he said, and he could hear his father’s voice in the words.

“A fine merchant’s attitude,” observed Turjan.

They passed through a scatter of trees, and beyond, abruptly, lay the gorge of the River Derna, nearly a mile deep. At the bottom, the river was a narrow bronze ribbon, its flow glinting dully in the ruddy afternoon sunlight.

“Ah,” said Turjan, and like other visitors, he paused with one leg closer to the chasm, the knee bent as if to push off backward, his whole weight swaying uncertainly from front leg to back. “At Miir, the river is bounded by heights, but none like this.” He peered downward. “Not a sight for the faint of heart.”

Bosk stood a single pace from the brink. He could not recall being afraid of the gorge, so early in life had his father brought him here. He watched Turjan flirt with it, fear showing in the damp sheen of his forehead, and he did not smile, though he knew Fluvio would have done so.

“Was there never a bridge nearby?” Turjan wondered.

Bosk pointed to the south. “They say there was, in the old days, and great conveyances crossed on a frequent schedule. A few stones still marked the approach on this side when my father was a boy, but they have crumbled away since.”

Turjan drew back, leaving a comfortable margin between himself and the chasm. He motioned for Bosk to join him. “Has anyone ever fallen?”

The answer his father always insisted upon was negative, but Bosk had decided he would not lie to Turjan. “My mother,” he said. “She fell, or perhaps jumped.”

Turjan laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I am sorry to have asked such a painful question. I beg your forgiveness.”

Bosk shook his head. “I don’t remember her. It was soon after Fluvio and I were born.”

“Hard to grow up without a mother,” Turjan murmured.

Bosk took a deep breath. “Hard to grow up a Septentrion.” Knowing only two ways to ask for anything — to beg, as he did with his father, or to negotiate, as he did with the miners — he chose to beg. He dropped to one knee. “Sir, whatever you require, I will do it with my whole heart. Only let me apprentice to you and learn the lore of sorcery.”

Turjan crossed his arms over his chest and gazed at the boy for a long moment. “It seems exciting, doesn’t it? To conjure a tree out of a table.”

“I know there is more,” said Bosk. “There is wisdom beyond measure and a thousand miracles to be wrought. How can any trade in mushrooms compare?”

Turjan shook his head. “None who practice sorcery today know more than a fraction of the edifice Phandaal once commanded. We spend our lives in frustration, trying to retrieve so much that has been lost. Better to be a traveling acrobat, young Bosk, than commit yourself to the lore we seek.”

Bosk swallowed hard. “I ask only a small corner of the whole, sir. I would not presume to think myself capable of more than that.”

Turjan glanced back toward the manse. “Why would you give up a soft life with a firm future for a world of endless questions?”

“Sir…”

“Bosk.” He turned to the boy once more. “You are young to make such an important change.”

“Is your answer no, then?”

“Your father would surely say so. I would guess that you have not discussed this with him.”

The boy shook his head.

“Do so, then,” said Turjan. “And if he approves, we can speak again someday. Possibly next year, when you have had time to consider this matter further.”

Bosk felt his shoulders sag. “You doubt he will approve.”

“As do you, or you would never have asked me first.” Turjan gripped the boy’s shoulder and urged him to rise. “Come, let’s walk a little closer to the manse and speak of mushrooms. That’s the lore you know already, after all.”

Bosk sighed and nodded.

For ten generations, the Septentrions had dealt in mushrooms from Boreal Verge, and their knowledge of their wares was as deep as the gorge itself. Countless times, Bosk had gone with his father and brother on the day-long journey to the north, where the western face of the gorge was pocked by tunnel openings, and perilous trails of green serpentine, cut by centuries of miners, slanted down to those entrances. In the tunnels, the miners nourished their pale bounty and dried a dozen varieties that could only thus survive the journey to the south. Twice a year, the Septentrions transported this produce and returned with golden coins and foodstuffs that southerners took for granted but which were delicacies in the north — flour, dried fruit, vegetables preserved in oil.

It was a commerce that made Bosk feel trapped.

Turjan had been gone almost a month when the boy finally broached the subject of sorcery.

“What nonsense is this?” thundered his father. The family was at dinner with a newly carpentered table, the one with the tree having been consigned to a windowed alcove. “You will do as we all have done, and there’s an end to it!”

Bosk pushed his plate of gratineed mushrooms away. “Father, please. Fluvio can serve the family as well as I can.”

“Let him go, Father,” said Fluvio.

“Be silent!” said their father. “We will not discuss this further.”

Two nights later, after family and servants had retired, Bosk tucked a few coins into his waistband, packed panniers with clothing, provisions, a handful of fresh mushrooms for himself, and a sack of dried mushrooms for trade, and crept out of the manse. He was in the stable, saddling his favorite horse, when he heard a step behind him. A chill ran up his spine as he turned to face his father’s wrath, but instead, there was his brother, in robe and slippers.

“He’ll never change his mind,” said Bosk.

“I’ll tell him you went to the mines. That should be good for at least three days.”

Bosk nodded. “You’re welcome to every part of it.”

Fluvio smiled slowly. “I was wondering when you would finally say that.”

“He’ll be as hard on you as he has been on me.”

“I doubt that. He doesn’t have another child waiting behind me.”

Bosk turned back to the horse and sealed the pannier on the near side of the saddle. “I’m sorry it’s been that way.”

“I doubt that, too. But it won’t matter once you’re gone.” Without another word, he turned and left the stable.

Bosk moved south by starlight, following the familiar route toward the markets of Ascolais. There was a road of sorts, and with dawn its fragmentary pavement was occasionally visible beneath the vigorous undergrowth. Bosk knew that road, knew the isolated dwellings that dotted it, some in ruins, some still inhabited. He stopped at a few of the latter and traded mushrooms for hospitality, a long-established custom. The householders would tell his father he had passed, but that mattered little, for his father would surely guess his destination. He was surprised to see that the last of the ruins, which, in his memory, was a crumbling hovel half hidden by tall grass, had been transformed. It was whole now, the grass trimmed back into a broad esplanade.

The door was open a hand’s breadth, and someone was peering out.

“Good afternoon!” Bosk shouted.

The door closed.

He glanced at the low sun. He had planned on camping in the shelter of the ruins. There was a brook nearby where he could fill his water bottle and catch a fish for his supper, and dry wood in plenty within a dozen paces of the road. Now he hoped he could still stop here, set his camp on the mown grass and sleep in the open on a night that promised to be fine. He led his horse to the water, then looped the reins over a low branch a respectful distance from the hut and removed the saddle to serve as his pillow.

The door opened again, not far enough to let him see inside, and a woman’s voice called out, “Go away!”

He drew a fishing line from one of his panniers, baited it with a fragment of yesterday’s supper, and soon had a fish, which he filleted with his dagger and set aside while he kindled his fire. He had a slick-surfaced pan for the fish, and a few fresh mushrooms left for adding to it, and soon the scent of supper wreathed him. When it was ready, he carried the pan to the door of the hut, knocked once, and said loudly, “You’re welcome to join me.”

Suddenly, the pan was wrested from him, and hard hands swept him off his feet and slung him over a surface as solid as a fence rail, knocking the breath from him. As he hung head downward, gasping, he realized he was doubled over the naked, muscular shoulder of a Deodand. His sheathed dagger was pinned between their bodies, unreachable; but the miners, who fought often for sport, had taught him a few things, and he managed to lodge one hand in the creature’s armpit for leverage and hook his other arm around its neck. He wrenched fiercely. The Deodand made a guttural sound and clawed at his legs, and Bosk fought to curl his knees into its chest and use that purchase to increase the pressure on its head. The creature was strong, but Bosk’s desire to avoid being eaten was strong as well, and the contest continued until, abruptly, the two of them were on the grass. The Deodand’s grip relaxed, and Bosk scrambled away from it, pulling his knife.

There was a golden arrow lodged in the creature’s back.

“No need to run,” said the woman’s voice. “It’s dead.”

He looked up and saw her standing in the doorway of the hut, a golden bow in her hands, and for a moment he could not speak. She was a woman such as he had never seen before, beautiful, slender, and graceful, her hair and eyes as golden as the coins in his waistband, her skin a paler, creamy gold. Still breathing raggedly, he said, “I wasn’t running,” and he sheathed the blade once more.

“I see you were not,” she said. And more softly, “You’re just a child.”

He straightened and felt the throb of strained muscles in his arms, shoulders, and thighs. “I am the heir of Boreal Verge,” he said, though after saying it he remembered it was no longer exactly true.

“I don’t know that land.”

“To the north.” He waved vaguely in that direction. He was surprised, when his hand passed before his eyes, to see it shaking. He swayed a little.

“You’re injured,” said the woman.

“Battered,” he admitted.

She seemed to consider the matter. “Come inside,” she said at last. “You would have shared your supper with me.” She bent to retrieve his pan. The fish was nowhere to be seen. “I have enough for two.”

“That is kind of you. But I should do something about that first.” He nodded at the Deodand. “Before the scavengers come.”

“I’ll deal with it.”

He shook his head. “I’ll dig a trench for it over that way.” He pointed down the road.

She circled the corpse and caught his arm. “Come.”

At her touch, a thrill surged through him. She was a trifle shorter than he was, and her eyes, looking up at him, were wide and slightly tilted, and her bright hair brushed his skin like silken thread. He let her help him to the hut.

Inside, four globes shed yellow light from the corners of the room, showing a round table flanked by two armless chairs, a small cupboard against the near wall, and a narrow couch beyond. She pressed him into one of the chairs and set his pan and her bow on the table beside him. At the cupboard, she selected a small jar and took it outside, where she opened it and spilled perhaps a thimbleful of dark, heavy dust over the Deodand’s body. The dust expanded to a cloud cloaking the corpse entirely, and a few heartbeats later, it dissipated, leaving nothing behind but a faintly depressed spot on the grass, and the golden arrow.

Bosk stared, openmouthed, as she returned to the hut.

“It has no effect on the living,” she said. She put the jar away and took a loaf and a plate of sliced cheese from a higher shelf and set them on the table. “Are you afraid to stay for supper?”

He shook his head and with awe in his voice said, “That was powerful sorcery.”

She inclined her head. “I have some small knowledge.” She took the other chair and tore a chunk of bread for herself.

“I am Bosk,” he said.

“And I am Lith.” She smiled the faintest of smiles and raised one finger beside her cheek. The lowest door of the cupboard opened of its own accord, and a carafe and two golden goblets floated out and settled on the table beside the loaf. She curled her finger, and the carafe poured pale, golden wine into the goblets.

Bosk picked up the nearer goblet. “I am bound to Ascolais to apprentice to a sorcerer,” he said. “I hope to learn such things.” The aroma of the wine was light, fruity, and appealing. Still, he waited for her to drink before he tried it, waited for her to eat before choosing from the plate himself. He did not want to think ill of her, but he was his merchant father’s son, and he knew that no gift was without its price. He had wanted campfire space on her lawn in exchange for a fish supper. Now he was in her debt not only for a meal but for his life, and her golden beauty did not cause him to forget that.

“There is no poison in the food or wine,” she said. She sipped from her goblet. “But suspicion can be a healthy habit. You would have done well to keep a better watch a little while ago.”

“This was a safe enough place a few months past.”

“There are very few truly safe places,” she said, and she glanced over her shoulder, toward the far wall of the hut.

He followed her gaze. Above the couch hung a tapestry that shone in the light of the globes, a tapestry worked of every possible shade of golden thread, the tones rich and subtle, making a landscape of a broad river valley, a small village, and boundary mountains so real-seeming that they might almost have existed under some impossibly golden sun. The bottom of the tapestry was frayed, as if someone had torn it from the loom just before it could be finished. Perhaps, he thought, she was still working on it.

She turned away from it and drank from her goblet again.

“That’s a beautiful piece,” he said. “Your own work?”

She nodded. “A powerful piece of sorcery.”

“Sorcery,” he said with interest. “Of what sort?”

“A doorway to Ariventa. Or it would be if it were undamaged.”

“Ariventa?”

“My home.” She blinked a few times, and he could see the wetness of tears on her golden lashes. She took a deep breath. “But that’s in the past, as so many things are.” She drank again.

“A doorway?” he asked.

She lowered her eyes. “When I was very young, I had a great desire to travel to exotic lands. I studied the art, and finally I was able to create the tapestry and step through it to a place you might visit on your horse, but remote for me. And I had my travel. Oh, I had my fill of it. And then someone hacked the tapestry and stole away the finishing thread, and Ariventa became much too far away…” Now the tears began to trickle down her cheeks, and she wiped them away with the back of one hand. “Sorry,” she whispered. “It’s just so long since I’ve been home.”

He glanced at the tapestry again. “Is there no other way to make the journey?”

She sighed deeply. “None that I know. None that anyone I’ve met here knows.”

He wanted to reach out and stroke her hair reassuringly. “Will mending the tapestry allow you to return?”

“With the original thread, it will.”

“And the thief — do you know anything about him?”

“Oh yes.” She set her elbows on the table and leaned her forehead against her clasped hands. “It is Chun the Unavoidable.”

He frowned. “Who?”

“He lives in the ruins north of Kaiin and keeps the finishing thread wrapped about the neck of an antique tourmaline vase. He finds amusement in withholding it from me. We are not friends, you see. He is…an unpleasant creature.”

Hesitantly, Bosk touched her arm. “Is there some way I can get it back for you? If he loves mushrooms, I carry a supply of the north’s finest, worth more than any golden thread.”

She shook her head. “He has other tastes in food. I prefer not to think of them.”

He took a deep breath, drawing strength from the feel of her smooth skin under his fingers. “I will find a potent weapon and force this Chun.”

She shook her head again and eased her arm away from him. “You are a dreamer, young Bosk. Chun is much more dangerous than any Deodand. You won’t even be able to enter his hall. Powerful spells keep out all but the golden-eyed, and your eyes are blue as the sky.”

“I will hire a cadre of bravos, all golden-eyed, to enter for me.”

One of her eyebrows rose a trifle. “You carry more mushrooms than I would have guessed.”

He thought of his waistband, his panniers, and realized his assets were woefully deficient for that plan. “Well, perhaps not,” he murmured.

“Never mind. I will be no worse off when you leave than I am now.” She leaned back in her chair. “You have a long journey still ahead of you. You should rest. There is a mat stored under my couch, not uncomfortable, and the night promises fair. Take the bread and cheese with you.”

He knew a dismissal when he heard it. Outside, the darkness was profound, but he traced his horse by its welcoming nicker and bedded down with Lith’s mat and his own blanket beside his saddle. As he closed his eyes, he thought of the silken skin of her arm and the brightness of her hair, and his waking merged with a dream of her bending over him, smiling that faint smile.

In the morning, the hut was a ruin once more, and there was no trace of Lith, not even the mat upon which he had slept. Only the grassy esplanade remained to show that the place had been recently occupied. The pan, scrubbed clean, lay beside his saddle.

Bosk thought of her often during the remainder of his journey — when he lay down four nights later at an inn, the harbinger of more settled territory, when he asked at a farmyard for directions to Miir, as he rode down the causeway that led to the castle gate. His heart quickened in his chest as the gate responded to his knock, opening of its own accord, for he knew at that moment there must be something he could learn in sorcery to help her.

Turjan himself stood within the arched entry. “I wondered how soon you would undertake the journey.”

Bosk descended from his mount. “My father forbade it.”

“He will forgive you when you return home.”

“Will I return?”

“We all return, someday,” said Turjan. “Exactly when will be your own decision.” He gestured for Bosk to enter.

The stable was near the gate and housed several fine horses and a groom who took over Bosk’s own.

“An uneventful journey, I trust.” Turjan guided his guest across a small courtyard to the main hall, a high-ceilinged chamber of marble floors and rich hangings, of tables inlaid with precious woods and chairs cushioned in crimson velvet.

“There was one event,” the boy said. “A somewhat strenuous encounter with a Deodand, followed by a pleasant meal with a beautiful golden-haired witch named Lith. She had a magical dwelling that vanished in the night. Perhaps you know the lady?”

Turjan studied the boy’s face. “You were lucky to be born with blue eyes. Were they golden, I doubt we’d be speaking now. Lith has a habit of sending golden-eyed men to an unpleasant fate in the home of Chun the Unavoidable. I believe she has quite depleted the golden-eyed population of Ascolais.”

Bosk weighed that information against his own experience of her. “She seemed very unhappy.”

“She has been unhappy for some time. A wise man would leave her to it. Ah, here is a much happier lady, and a sweeter one, too.”

A child had emerged from a doorway on one side of the hall, a girl of perhaps nine years, wearing long, raven-dark braids and a tunic and hose that mimicked Turjan’s. She strode up to Bosk with a cordial smile, and offered him her hand. The top of her head was barely higher than his waist.

“Welcome to Miir, Master Bosk. I am Rianna.”

“My daughter,” said Turjan.

Bosk bowed deeply and kissed her hand.

“We shall apprentice together,” said Rianna.

“I consider that a privilege,” said Bosk.

“You’ll meet her mother at supper,” said Turjan. “But first we’ll show you your quarters.”

His room was reached by climbing the broad staircase at the rear of the hall, and it was nearly as large as his bedchamber at Boreal Verge, with a lush carpet, a soft bed, and a window that looked out onto the courtyard. His belongings had been delivered already and the contents tucked into one corner of a wardrobe that occupied most of a wall. New clothes were laid out on the bed, and in an alcove at the far end of the room lay a private bath, with steaming water waiting.

“One of the servants will escort you to dinner,” said Rianna, and she and her father closed the door as they left.

The hot bath was welcome after so many days of cold brook water or none at all. He tried not to dawdle, but by the time he was dressed, the servant was already tapping at the door. In the main hall, the table was set for four, with three places occupied. The woman opposite Turjan was obviously the child’s mother.

“My dear, this is the new apprentice,” Turjan said to her. “Bosk, this is T’sain, my wife.”

She was dark-haired and pale-skinned, as beautiful in her way as Lith, but completely different, for she had a quick, full smile. Turjan and Rianna were smiling as well, and Bosk nodded to all of them, feeling faintly jealous that there had been so few smiles at Boreal Verge’s table. The meal, which included no mushrooms of any variety, was excellent, and the conversation flowed easily from one topic to another, from gardening to sorcery to the latest addition to Rianna’s dollhouse.

“You shall see it later. You won’t be disappointed,” she promised.

The tale of the Deodand was drawn from him, and appropriate exclamations were forthcoming from the distaff sides of the table.

“She knew about it,” said Rianna, with blunt indignation. “She should have killed it before it could attack an innocent traveler. I would have.”

Turjan patted her hand. “I don’t doubt you would have tried. But they are dangerous creatures. I suppose she thought an innocent traveler would distract it enough to provide an opportunity for the bow.”

“It was a magical bow, wasn’t it, Father?”

“Probably. But even with magic, a Deodand is a formidable adversary.” He looked at Bosk. “That’s the first lesson of apprenticeship — that you cannot escape unscathed every time.”

“I won’t forget it,” said the boy. As he spoke, he felt himself beginning to yawn, and he tried to stifle it, but with little success.

Turjan pushed his chair back from the table. “The second lesson will be tomorrow.” He gestured to the servant who had scurried forward to clear the table. “This can wait. Show Master Bosk back to his bedchamber.”

In the morning, there was fruit and porridge at the same table, and then Turjan took him to the library where he would be studying. Rianna was there already, sitting at a long table, reading from a book as thick as her fist. She had a pad of vellum under her right hand and was copying a diagram to it in a meticulous hand. There were many tomes in the bookcases lining the walls, and a variety of pads and writing implements on the table.

“There is considerable wisdom in this room,” said Turjan. “For now, you will spend your mornings investigating it, and after the midday meal each day, we will test what you have absorbed and determine what other techniques may enhance it. The collection has been laid out to begin with the simplest principles, here.” He pointed to the highest shelf closest to the door. “You will work your way to the right on this first bookcase, and when you reach the end of the shelf, you will begin on the next lower. The first case should require approximately a year.”

Bosk looked around the room with some dismay. He counted twelve cases.

“Did you think an apprenticeship in sorcery would be brief, young Bosk?” said Turjan.

Bosk straightened his shoulders and went to the first shelf to take down the initial volume. It was heavy. He set it on the table. “I see from the vacant place that your daughter is more than a year ahead of me.”

“So she is. That is one of the advantages of being born to sorcery.”

“Then, with your permission, I will endeavor to learn from her as well as from yourself.”

Rianna looked up from her book, but said nothing.

Turjan smiled. “Well, we’ll see what sort of teacher she makes.” At the door, he said, “The midday meal will be in the tower garden. Rianna will show you. And Bosk — the books are by many different authors, and after a time you will find a certain repetition in them, though with variation. That, too, will be important to you.” Then he was gone.

Bosk settled at the opposite end of the table from Rianna and ran his hands over the leather tooling of his book’s cover. The script was so ornate that at first he could not read it, but by following its curves with a finger, he managed to spell out “Laccodel.” He opened it to the first page. It was handwritten, but readable enough, and proved to be a history of Laccodel’s attempts to reproduce the work of an older mage, part diary, part exercise book. Bosk chose a pad and stylus and made a few notes, though he did not at all understand what the notes meant. After a time, he looked at Rianna, who was annotating her diagrams with arcane sigils and tinted inks. She seemed so intent on her work that he hesitated to disturb her. Yet soon enough she glanced up at him, and he thought he might offer a bit of polite conversation.

“What are you studying?” he said.

She added a stroke to the top of her drawing. “The Third Evolution of Mazirian’s Diminution.”

“Ah,” he said, not knowing what else might be appropriate.

“My goal is to perfect it before my tenth birthday.”

“And that will be…?

“Not long. Has Laccodel bored you already? His prose is turgid in the extreme.”

“Not bored. Merely mystified,” said Bosk.

She smiled with pursed lips. “He is a foundation of sorcery. He knew Phandaal himself.”

“Your father spoke of Phandaal when he was at Boreal Verge. Who was he?”

“One cannot study sorcery without studying Phandaal.” She turned to her book once more. “You’ll learn about him and the rest of the great ones if you keep reading.”

He took a deep breath and opened his book at the beginning. Instead of notes, this time he wrote queries on his pad. When he had filled three pages with them, he heard Rianna close her book with a thump. He looked up and saw her gazing at him with her chin cupped in one hand.

“Hungry?” she said.

Only then did he realize that his stomach was clamoring.

The tower garden was at the highest extremity of the castle, a place of multicolored flowers that tilted their petals to face Bosk as he passed, as if they were curious about their visitor. The view from their midst was impressive — the Derna green within its steep banks, the forest stretching north and west, the towers of Kaiin gleaming like a pale mirage on the southern horizon. The meal was set out on a trestle table — cold meats, jellied broths, vegetables steamed with four distinct spices. Bosk sampled them all, pleased that not a single mushroom appeared on any platter.

“We do eat mushrooms,” said Rianna, “but Father thought they would bore you even more than Laccodel.”

Turjan arrived after they finished and asked Bosk what he had learned that morning. Bosk offered his queries, and the three spent the afternoon discussing them, Turjan deftly leading Bosk through concepts he had not quite comprehended and calling on Rianna to expand upon them. Bosk found his zest for the lore of sorcery increasing as every answer provoked new questions. He scarcely noticed the ruddy sun sinking toward the west until it shone in his eyes.

Turjan leaned back from the table. “You’ll do well enough, young Bosk. You have the desire, without which learning is mere rote.” He gazed out at the shadowed landscape. “Have you had enough for today?”

Bosk considered the length of the evening that lay before him. “If you’ll allow it, I’ll look at the book again before supper.”

Turjan smiled at him. “I think you’ll be better served just now by something else.” He turned to his daughter. “You’ve been chafing to show him the doll house.”

She rose eagerly.

“An introduction only,” her father said. “As we decided.”

She was already gesturing for Bosk to follow her.

One flight below was a high-ceilinged chamber that occupied the whole breadth of the tower, with tall windows and glowing sconces alternating on every wall. The center of the space was occupied by a duplicate in miniature of Castle Miir, complete to the roof garden paved with tiny replica flowers. At his first sight of it, Bosk was astonished by the detail of architecture, and even more astonished when, at Rianna’s touch, the outer wall split and swung open to reveal an interior as meticulously executed as the exterior. He knelt to peer at elaborately furnished cubicles, tapestries no larger than kerchiefs covering their walls, delicate chandeliers dangling from their ceilings. He found his own quarters, the bed and wardrobe and even the bath reproduced in toy size, a manikin no larger than his littlest finger standing at the door.

“Two years work,” said Rianna, pride in her voice. “Every bit of it crafted by my hands. I even wove the linens. And watch.” She spoke a phrase that Bosk could not quite make out, and draperies pulled themselves over the windows and the sconces went out, leaving a darkness so profound that he dared not move for fear of damaging something, possibly even himself. Then she spoke another phrase, and hundreds of tiny yellow-green lights, like so many fireflies, sprang into being in chandeliers and candelabra all through the doll house and in tiny lanterns outlining the gate, the courtyard, and the crenellations. There was light enough to allow Bosk to rise from his knees and walk surefooted all around the structure.

“How beautiful,” he said. “And after it is all complete…?”

She crossed her arms and smiled. “Then I’ll learn to make dolls that walk. And perhaps even talk.” She plucked the manikin from his room and showed it to him. It had yielding skin and limbs that flexed, and it could be bent into a sitting position and perched in a tiny chair. Rianna left it so in the main hall, where three other dolls sat at a table much like the one where last night’s meal had been served. One of the dolls was smaller than the others and had long black braids. She straightened that one and set it on a bed in another room. “I tried to convince some of the Twk people to live here. It’s much more comfortable than their gourds.” She took the two remaining original figures from the dining table and set them on a bed on the opposite side of the building. “But they refused.”

“The Twk people?”

“You’ll meet them.” She stepped back and touched the gate, and the miniature castle swung shut.

“You left me at the table,” Bosk remarked.

Rianna laughed softly. “They’re only dolls, Bosk.” A phrase made the wall sconces spring to life, and another extinguished the miniature lights.

He followed her downstairs to supper, which again included no mushrooms.

Laccodel’s book occupied Bosk for many days, and then there was a second volume of Laccodel, and a third. By the time he had finished them and discussed their contents with Turjan and Rianna countless times, he felt he would know and hate Laccodel’s prose style any time he encountered it. Yet his first magical effort arose from Laccodel, a transformation of citrine dust into amethyst, and he could not help feeling triumph at the simple change from yellow to purple.

“Well done,” said Turjan. “And now back again.”

It took Bosk two weeks to manage that.

“Sometimes undoing is the more important of the two,” said Turjan.

“I prefer the purple,” said Bosk, and he changed the dust again and stored it in a vial to remind himself that he had learned something. It seemed very little for the many weeks he had been studying,

The next day, a Twk-man arrived during the midday meal. He was a tiny creature, no larger than Bosk’s littlest finger, greenish of skin, wearing a gauzy smock, and mounted on a dragonfly. As she did occasionally, Rianna’s mother had joined the apprentices in the roof garden, and all the flowers had turned their petals to her, but when the Twk-man alighted, they tilted to him instead. T’sain offered her hand, the dragonfly leaped to it, and she held it close to her ear and nodded at something its rider said in a soft, buzzing voice. Then steed and rider flashed to the flowers, where the tiny man gathered pollen from a dozen blossoms and stowed it in two sacks behind his legs.

“Dandanflores,” T’sain explained to Bosk. “Chieftain of the Twk people. They know all of the news of Ascolais.”

“The last time he visited,” said Rianna, “he told us you were coming.”

The Twk chieftain made a circle around Bosk’s head and flew off.

“Do they range far north?” Bosk asked.

“Not as far as Boreal Verge,” said T’sain.

“Ah.”

“Your family is too far away, Bosk.”

“Oh, I was just curious.” He did feel a twinge of disappointment, though.

“If you ever do want news from the Twk,” said Rianna, “you must pay for it.”

T’sain nodded. “They are as much merchants as your family, though their goods are less tangible.”

He considered that. “What sort of payment would be appropriate for such a small creature?”

“They like our pollen,” said T’sain, “as you saw.”

“And I make them clothes of spider silk, the softest in the world,” said her daughter. She frowned. “Now that you’ve seen one, don’t you think they would enjoy living in my doll house?”

“If I were one of them, I would.”

“We have discussed this before,” Rianna’s mother said, and her words were directed at Bosk rather than at her daughter. “The Twk have their own lives, and what they choose must be respected. They are neither toys nor slaves.”

Rianna bent her head over her food. “You’re right, of course. It’s just that…creating living toys is so difficult.”

Later, in the library, where both of them spent far more than the mornings Turjan required, Rianna said to Bosk, “Would you like to visit my doll house again?”

“Perhaps this evening. Just now, I’m trying to unravel one of Phandaal’s simpler spells.”

“Which?” She craned to see his book.

“The Insinuating Eye.”

“That is advanced for your stage of knowledge.”

“I’ve been reading ahead, trying to discern some overall structure to sorcery.”

“Father says there is no overall structure, that all is haphazard.”

“Phandaal thought there was structure.”

“Laccodel says Phandaal thought there was structure, which is not at all the same.”

Bosk sighed. “There are principles.”

“I see no great connections among them.”

“You are not even ten years old!” Bosk exclaimed. And then, at her injured expression, he said, “Forgive me. We are both very young in sorcery. What can we know?”

“You are younger than I,” she said in a low voice, and she slammed her book shut and left the room.

When she did not return, he descended to the doll house chamber and found her sitting crosslegged on the floor, the miniature castle open before her. She was arranging tiny platters in the drawers of a tiny sideboard. She did not look up at him.

He sat down beside her. “I truly am sorry.”

She did not speak.

He shifted to one knee. “I beg your forgiveness, Lady Rianna.”

After a long moment, she said, “I know a great deal more than you do.”

“Of course you do. It’s why I depend upon you to help me.” He eased back to a sitting position and gestured toward the sideboard. “Can I help you with this?”

She shook her head. “Your hands are too clumsy.”

“I wish they were not.”

She shut the last drawer with the tip of one finger. “Do you really want to do something for me?”

“I’ll do whatever you ask.”

She looked at him at last, sullenness fading from her lips. “I’ll teach you a spell if you’ll promise not to tell Father. He’d say you’re not ready for it.”

“You have my promise,” said Bosk.

“It’s Mazirian’s Diminution.”

“The one you are studying.”

“Yes. I’ll teach you the First and Second Evolutions, and you must commit both to memory. Both.”

“And they will accomplish…?”

She smiled just a trifle then. “A visit to my doll house.”

“Ah,” he said. “Diminution. Of course.”

“Will you do it?”

He thought of the amethyst dust he had taken such pride in creating. It seemed like nothing now. “Yes!”

The spells were complex, requiring certain pauses, certain intonations, and a few sounds that did not quite seem human. Memorizing them was by no means simple. Yet after little more than an hour of drill, Bosk felt he had them. To be certain, he wrote them on a scrap of vellum, following Laccodel’s model syllabary, and tucked it into his pocket.

“I’ll go first,” said Rianna, and in a matter of heartbeats, she had shrunk to the size of the Twk-man.

Bosk gasped. Knowing it would be effective and seeing it happen were very different things.

Rianna’s voice was tiny, piping, though he knew she must be shouting. “Come along!”

He took a deep breath and uttered the spell. He began to feel dizzy. As the walls of the tower chamber seemed to rush upward all around him, he fell to his knees, fighting to control his churning stomach. In a moment, though, the room steadied, the dizziness faded, and Rianna was beside him, helping him stagger to his feet. Nearby, the miniature castle was huge, and the ceiling of the chamber was as far away as the sky. Bosk took a few wobbling steps and laughed with the sheer joy of accomplishment. His stride was as firm as ever by the time he and Rianna entered the doll house version of Miir.

Bosk found their exploration beguiling. Everything was familiar yet simultaneously strange and wonderful. He would have lost himself in the place and stayed until dark to see the lights bloom, but Rianna was concerned that one of her parents might appear to fetch them to supper, and she fairly dragged him out. He was glad, then, that he had the scrap of vellum, for he had forgotten some of the reversal spell. Rianna cautioned him to stand well away from the gate for the process, and she herself trotted even farther off. While she sprouted upward like some impossible plant, he went over the sounds silently half a dozen times, listening to them in his mind.

“Bosk, we have to go to supper,” said Rianna, and her voice was so loud he had to press his hands over his ears to bear it.

He needed three tries to get the spell right, but he finally saw the duplicate of Castle Miir shrink away from him and the ceiling of the tower chamber slam downward. He lost his balance again, and Rianna pulled at him with both hands to keep him from tumbling into her creation.

“The dizziness will be less with practice,” she said. “Now tell me, apprentice Bosk, what do you truly think of my doll house?”

“Rianna,” he said, “you and your doll house are astonishing.”

She seemed pleased with that answer, and he guessed that he had finally been forgiven for his affront. He went to supper smiling, and when Turjan asked why he was so cheerful, he said only that he thought his studies were going well.

He liked Mazirian’s Diminution, his first major spell, and over the next few weeks, he practiced to perfect both Evolutions, at first only when Rianna was present, but eventually alone in his bedchamber. There, too, he worked on the Spell of the Insinuating Eye. Turjan knew about the latter and let him continue, as long as he also spent time with the appropriate preceding books. The Insinuating Eye had little potential for damaging the practitioner; it simply allowed him to see things that were far away.

At the creator’s end, the Eye occupied an onyx ring the size of the circle made by the tips of his thumb and forefinger set together, and at the far end it manifested as a fuzzy loop floating in air. His initial attempts to control it resulted in wild oscillations of the view from the forest to the river to the sky. Soon, though, he learned to hold it steady no matter how quickly he moved it, and to adjust distance and direction with delicate precision. In most places, the smoky loop appeared to go unnoticed. Certainly, when he practiced spying on Boreal Verge, neither his father nor Fluvio paid it any attention.

Bosk led Turjan to believe that homesickness was his motive for generating the Eye, but his true goal was the hall of Chun the Unavoidable. He had little trouble locating the ruins north of Kaiin, and the hall, the only undamaged structure there, was easy enough to identify. He circumnavigated the exterior, watching for Chun to emerge, and when twice he glimpsed the creature from afar, he immediately terminated the spell, each time allowing some days to pass before taking up his vigil again. When the singularly grotesque Chun, wearing a cape studded with golden-irised eyeballs, came forth a third time, Bosk observed him recede beyond the city before attempting to slide the Eye inside.

The hall was a surprisingly spare dwelling, with a few pillars supporting the roof and walls as pale and blank as alabaster. There was no couch, no hearth, no curio cabinet; its sole furnishing was a small, round table set in an alcove opposite the entrance. Upon the table rested a graceful tourmaline vase, green below and magenta above. But there was no golden thread wrapped about its slender neck.

Sharply disappointed, Bosk searched the hall again, to no avail.

At supper that night, Turjan looked so long and so silently at Bosk that the boy squirmed in his chair. “Have I done something wrong, sir?”

“I received a visitor this afternoon,” said Turjan.

Bosk waited, both curious and apprehensive.

“I believe you know something of him. Chun the Unavoidable.”

Bosk stopped breathing.

“He asked that you leave off spying on him. He said it in stronger terms, but that is the gist. We spoke of Chun when you first arrived, and now I realize that I did not sufficiently warn you against him. Fortunately, you are safe within these walls. However, he did require payment for his discomfiture. Breathe, boy, else you’ll fall over in a faint.”

Bosk gulped air. “Sir…do you intend to dismiss me?”

“We all do foolish things occasionally. We can hope none of them cost us more than a vat-grown golden eye.” One side of his mouth quirked. “It seemed an appropriate exchange for your use of that other Eye.”

“Then…you don’t intend to dismiss me?”

Turjan leaned back in his chair. “On the contrary, I am pleased you were able to use the Eye so well. Therefore, this is not such a negative as you might think. Now, what were you seeking at Chun’s hall”

“Nothing,” said Bosk. “It was simply experimentation.”

Turjan sighed. “It is early in your apprenticeship to lie to your master. Subterfuge, I expect.” He glanced at his daughter, who immediately looked down at her plate. “But outright lying is a poor basis for a master-student alliance.”

Bosk straightened his back. “Sir, I was seeking a golden thread ripped from a tapestry.”

“Ah. Lith.”

Bosk nodded. “But he did not seem to have it.”

“I believe I suggested that Lith was a lady to be avoided.”

“I owe her my life, sir. I would prefer not to remain in her debt.”

“Or perhaps she saved you in order to establish that debt?”

Bosk turned that over in his mind, and he did not find it an outrageous suggestion. Even so, he could not forget the sadness in Lith’s eyes as she spoke of Ariventa. “At any rate,” he murmured,” I don’t know what else I can do for her. Unless Chun can be persuaded to reveal its location, the thread is gone.” He gazed at Turjan hopefully. “Perhaps another golden eye?”

“I would prefer not to deal with Chun again, young Bosk.”

“The Twk will know where the thread is,” said Rianna.

Bosk turned to her.

“You’ll have to pay them, of course.”

The boy looked back at Turjan. “You know the things they covet. I will repay you, I swear it.”

“This is your endeavor, young Bosk,” said Turjan. “Continue your studies. Perhaps someday you will find a way to achieve your desire.”

“Perhaps,” said Bosk, but he felt helpless.

He thought of Lith that night, as he had on many a night. But recalling the fear he had felt at the possibility of dismissal, he also thought of his own home. Would they have welcomed him back, as Turjan once assured him, or was his father as glad as Fluvio to be rid of him? As the ageing sun was just beginning to illuminate his bedchamber, he decided to send the Insinuating Eye to Boreal Verge, perhaps to find some evidence one way or the other. Morning twilight showed his old room just as he had left it; not even dust had accumulated, as if the place were being held in readiness for his return. For a moment, that made him feel better; then he realized that the servants would never allow any part of the manse to become dusty.

He did feel the touch of homesickness then. The memories of his childhood were in that room — a handful of green serpentine pebbles, collected on his first journey to the mines, a few fragile bird skulls, found under a shrub on the estate, a cup he had molded from clay and fired in a makeshift kiln. The cup was blackened and cracked, remnant of the flames that had spread from the kiln and destroyed the outbuilding he had been using as his workshop. His father had not been happy about that.

He shifted the Eye close to the pebbles. He wished now he had taken one with him. Such a small thing, it would have fit easily in his pocket. Through the Eye, it seemed close enough to touch. With the tip of one finger, he tapped at the space within the onyx ring, expecting some sort of resistance, but there was none. He pressed his finger into it, and when he withdrew, the finger seemed unharmed, and so he pushed more boldly, trying to touch the pebbles, but they were farther away than they seemed. He pulled out his knife and slipped it through the ring, but the point fell short. He ran downstairs to the kitchen, where a sleepy cook was just beginning to prepare rolls for the morning meal and had no objection to lending him a pair of kitchen tongs and a skewer the length of a sword. Both fit through the ring, but only the skewer could reach the pebbles, and it was so difficult to control that it knocked several to the floor. He pulled it back, wondering if he could fasten a pouch to its tip or daub it with some sort of glue. Neither notion seemed likely to work. He could think of only one other possibility.

He propped the onyx ring against his pillow and slid his copy of the Second Evolution of Mazirian’s Diminution into his pocket. Then he shrank himself to doll size and stepped through the ring. He only had to dip his head slightly to fit.

That single step revealed a tunnel, cool and dark, with walls slick as polished metal. The far end was no longer the clear view of his old room that had been visible to full-size Bosk; rather, it was merely a speck of light in the far distance. He moved toward it, hands braced against the walls, the curved floor making for uncertain footing in the darkness. The speck expanded slowly, and after a time he could discern a blur of green within it, which he guessed must be the pebbles. He walked faster and finally began to run. The light loomed, and he emerged from the tunnel and fell headlong over one of the pebbles, boulder-size to his shrunken self. He clutched at it, the breath knocked out of him. The pebble had not moved at the impact, and he realized that he did not have the strength to transport any of the stones back to Miir. But he did not care. He felt triumphant at merely making the journey. He was a true sorcerer now. He pulled himself up to sit on the pebble and contemplate his old room grown huge.

A soft noise startled him. It might have been the door opening, perhaps a servant coming in to clean. He did not wait to find out. He turned to the faint gray ring of the Eye, dived into it, and ran. He stumbled a few times on the curve of the tunnel floor, and once his head grazed the ceiling, but he managed to reach Miir. Leaning against the pillow, he reached into his pocket for the Second Evolution.

It was gone.

He thought it must have fallen in the tunnel or among the pebbles at Boreal Verge, a speck of paper that no one would ever notice. He was not greatly concerned, though, for the spell was clear in his memory. He spoke it.

Nothing happened.

He tried several more times before admitting to himself that he truly needed the written version. With a sigh, he pushed the onyx ring under the pillow and settled himself over it, hoping that Rianna would be the one to find him. He was disappointed in that. Turjan himself read the Fourth Evolution from the book of spells and restored him to his normal size.

“These are difficult spells,” Turjan said, closing the book. “Even the greatest of us have some difficulty maintaining more than three or four of them in our memories at any one time. You are fresh at the lore to recall even two.”

“Which is why I wrote down the Second Evolution.”

“Perhaps you should have inked it on your arm instead of on paper.”

Bosk brightened. “I’ll do that next time.”

Turjan laughed. “As you wish, young Bosk. Then you’ll have no trouble restoring yourself at either end of the Eye.” At Bosk’s wary expression, he added, “Oh come now — don’t you think I know every instance of sorcery within these walls? Now, if you intend to range so far at the size of a caterpillar, you should know another spell to keep you safe. I would not wish to tell your father that a house cat ate his son.”

Bosk swallowed hard.

For the rest of the day, he and Turjan were cloistered in the anteroom to Turjan’s own quarters while Bosk learned the spell of the Omnipotent Sphere. When he was certain he had it, Turjan tested him again and again. In the end, Bosk did write it on his arm in indelible ink.

“Write it and rewrite it,” said Turjan. “Until you have it so committed to memory that you will never forget it.”

Bosk nodded.

“We will repeat the test from time to time.”

Bosk nodded again.

“Now go ask the Twk where your golden thread can be found.”

“But sir, I have nothing with which to pay them.”

Turjan smiled at him. “Are you so sure of that?”

Bosk raised his hands in perplexity.

“Well, young Bosk, perhaps it will help you to know that the Twk are very fond of mushrooms.”

“But I have none,” said Bosk.

“Indeed? What a shame.”

And then it was time for dinner, which included no mushrooms at all.

In his bedchamber that night, Bosk searched through his panniers, but as he had thought, his mushrooms had all been used up in the journey to Ascolais. He climbed into bed, and when he slid his hand beneath the pillow to tuck it against his cheek, there was the onyx ring of the Insinuating Eye.

And he realized that mushrooms, even fresh ones, weighed far less than pebbles.

With the dawn, he was in the cold pantry of Boreal Verge, where the family’s private stock of fresh mushrooms was kept. He could only carry one at a time, and so he made half a dozen trips from there to his bedchamber at Miir.

At the morning meal, he asked how one of the Twk could be summoned.

“They visit when it suits them,” T’sain said. “They answer no one’s call.”

“Then I must go to them,” said Bosk. “Can someone give me directions for the journey?” He looked to Turjan.

Turjan glanced at Rianna.

“I’ve been to Twk town,” she admitted.

In the library, she drew a map. The Twk lived in the forest, with no signposts showing the way, but there was an unmistakable pattern of boulders and trees leading to them, with the largest tree of all the destination. “If you stand below and call for Dandanflores, he will come,” she said. “Tell him you’re there at Rianna’s request.”

That afternoon, in his bedchamber, he guided the Eye to the Twk town, a cluster of perhaps a hundred hollowed-out gourds set high in the branches of that enormous tree. For a time, he watched the Twk and their dragonfly mounts ferrying goods to homes that were as large to them as his room was to him. He peeked inside a few gourds and found Twk families gathered at tiny tables and chairs, searching in tiny chests and cabinets, or napping in silky hammocks, each no larger than the finger of a glove. Seeing them so, he could well understand Rianna’s wish for Twk to live in her doll house.

He set the far end of the Eye near the round entrance of one of the larger gourds, shrank himself to Twk size, and perched at the terminus of the tunnel, legs dangling over the edge of the smoky ring. Presently, a dragonfly emerged from the gourd and hovered beside him, and the draft from its wings was strong enough to make him hold tight to his seat. At his size, the rider’s voice seemed deep as any human’s.

“Who are you,” said the Twk-man.

“Rianna sent me. I am Bosk, and I seek Dandanflores.”

The dragonfly darted away. Shortly, another rider arrived. “I remember you,” he said. “You were formerly larger.”

“It’s Rianna’s spell,” said Bosk.

“Oh, has she put you in her doll house?”

“I have visited it.”

“A vile place,” said the Twk chieftain. “No Twk would consent to inhabit it.”

“So I understand. But I have not come to ask it of you. Rather, I seek information.”

“Many do. And what do you have to offer in exchange?”

“I am Bosk Septentrion. Perhaps you have heard of my family.”

“I have,” said the Twk-man.

Bosk leaned back into the tunnel and brought forth a mushroom larger than his head. “This is an excellent example of our wares,” he said, “and fresh, not dried, with all the nuances of its flavor intact. Steamed, sautéed, or even raw dipped in mustard sauce, it makes a royal dish. It is my gift to the chieftain of the Twk.” He held it out. “I have others to offer if you and I can strike a bargain.”

Dandanflores curved an arm around the mushroom, pinched off a fragment, and popped it into his mouth. He chewed it with a thoughtful expression. After a moment, he said, “Now what could a creature who emerges from nothingness and sits on its edge want from me?”

“The location of a certain golden thread,” said Bosk, “formerly in the possession of Chun the Unavoidable but the property of one Lith, a witch with golden hair and eyes.”

“Oh, that,” said Dandanflores.

Bosk nodded. “I seek to return it to the lady.”

The Twk-man shifted the mushroom to a net behind his left hip. “The thread changed hands in most equitable fashion.”

“Yet it was stolen property.”

“The new owner did not steal it. That fault was Chun’s.”

“If the new owner will not surrender it for the sake of conscience, then I will buy it. To whom shall I make the offer?”

The Twk chieftain cocked his head to one side. “Let us discuss the situation in more detail. My home is nearby, and my steed is strong enough to carry two.”

The chieftain’s home was one of the larger gourds. Within, it was like the other Twk dwellings, the space illuminated by windows cut in the walls and partitioned by shelf-like platforms that held the furniture. A Twk-woman and several children were there. Dandanflores and Bosk dismounted from the dragonfly at the lowest platform and climbed several ladders to the uppermost. From there, the family’s sleeping quarters were within easy reach, a hammock for each suspended from the rounded ceiling, loosely woven of thick fibers and padded with dandelion fluff. The largest hammock was trimmed with spiral-wound golden rope.

“It’s handsome, is it not?” said the Twk chieftain

Bosk made no reply. He knew what he was looking at.

“Part of my bargain with Chun was that I would never return the thread to Lith. So you can see my dilemma.”

“I am not Lith,” said Bosk. “In fact, the thread has so struck my fancy that I would prefer to keep it for myself. It would make a handsome ornament for my hat.”

“You wear no hat,” observed the Twk-man.

“That can be remedied. What will you exchange for the thread?”

Dandanflores contemplated the hammock. “I am reluctant to part with it.”

“I can offer a large quantity of fresh mushrooms of many varieties.”

“Yet how many mushrooms could my family consume before they spoiled?”

“There could be an ongoing supply over a period of weeks or months.”

“Even so. After a time they would surely pall.”

Bosk had to admit that he understood the complaint. In his memory, he could see his father at the dining table, happily eating his own mushrooms and urging his sons to eat theirs. He wondered if his father had been told of the missing mushrooms. Probably no one had noticed, they were so few. An ongoing supply, though, would have been more obvious, and some servant at Boreal Verge would have been blamed for the theft. Bosk felt suddenly guilty for having no way to pay for the mushrooms he had so blithely offered. Sorcerer or no, he was still a merchant’s son and he had not been raised to cheat the family.

And then, the merchant’s son truly awoke in him. The Twk, small enough to live in Rianna’s doll house, were small enough to pass through the Insinuating Eye.

“I have a proposition for you,” he said, and he outlined a partnership between the house of Septentrion and the Twk-folk. With the Eye as their highway, the Twk would convey fresh mushrooms from the north to the city of Kaiin, where Bosk would purvey them to the jaded appetites of the rich. The Twk would receive a commission for their labors, Bosk would take one for his enterprise, and the Septentrion family would profit from a previously nonexistent commerce.

Dandanflores looked dubious.

“Dried mushroom are excellent,” said Bosk, “but as you yourself so recently observed, the fresh are superior. They will command a premium, but are unlikely to diminish sales of the dried significantly, if they are only available in a limited supply, let us say, once a month.”

“I was thinking more of your magical tunnel,” said Dandanflores. “Magic has its dangers and is generally best avoided.”

“I have come to no harm,” said Bosk.

“You are a sorcerer.”

Bosk thought of the spells written on his arms, covered by his loose sleeves. “I am a mere apprentice. If there were danger, it would have found me.” When Dandanflores made no reply, Bosk pushed harder. “I thought the chieftain of the Twk would be wise and brave in the service of his people. Would you deny them such profit as would enhance their lives?”

Dandanflores crossed his arms and looked past Bosk. The children had climbed to the platform below and were listening to the conversation. One of them shouted, “Take me along, Da!”

His father glared at him. “Boys,” he muttered, and shifted the glare to Bosk. “You are all alike.”

Bosk shrugged. “Someone has to dare.”

“Very well,” said the Twk chieftain. “Show me this Eye, and I’ll judge for myself.”

They mounted the dragonfly and returned to the smoky ring floating among the branches. Bosk dismounted first, stepping into the tunnel. He braced his back against one side and held a hand out to the Twk-man. Dandanflores did not take it but rather ran his own hands around the ring until he seemed satisfied with its solidity. Only then did he test it with one foot. Bosk eased back to allow him into the tunnel.

“Once inside the ring, you became a wraith of thinnest smoke,” said the Twk chieftain. “I suppose the same has happened to me.”

“It only appears so from the outside,” said Bosk.

“Obviously,” said Dandanflores. “Let us continue this adventure.”

They reached the opposite end of the Eye and emerged into Bosk’s bedchamber.

“The tunnel can be shifted until its two ends are anywhere I choose,” said Bosk.

The Twk-man flexed his hands and looked down at his body. “I am unharmed,” he said, “and therefore we have a bargain. When does our commerce begin?”

“As soon as I make the arrangements with my father. And may I suggest that your payment will be due after the first consignment of mushrooms is sold in Kaiin.”

“That seems satisfactory.”

Bosk conducted him back to the Twk town.

Bosk’s father and Fluvio were at supper when Bosk descended the main stairway at Boreal Verge. Fluvio occupied the chair that once had been Bosk’s, and he had been listening to some fatherly declamation before his father stopped speaking in mid-sentence. They both stared as Bosk approached the table.

“Good evening, Father, Fluvio.” He pulled out a chair for himself. “I hope I find you well. Ah, I see the evening meal is based upon mushrooms again.”

His father found voice first. “Shall I order some for you?”

“No need, Father. I’ll sup at Miir.” He nodded. “Yes, I travel in magical fashion these days. I have spent a most productive time at Miir and expect to learn more in years to come.”

His father cleared his throat. “Master Turjan sent us word. He has been pleased with your progress. I still disapprove, but you do seem to have an aptitude for it.”

“True as that may be,” said Bosk, and he laced his fingers together upon the table, “I have not forgotten what I learned at your side.” He outlined his plan to employ the Twk, citing unspecified sorcery as the means rather than giving any details of the Eye. “The family will profit from this. All we need to begin the operation is a small amount of silver for rental of a modest shop in the heart of the city and a sufficient supply of the commodity for our first consignment, which will be limited but choice. Once the wealthy of Kaiin sample our wares, they will not hesitate to purchase. Possibly we will gift the Prince with a selection, given his penchant for setting the fashion. Does this appeal to you, Father?”

“The price must be high,” said his father. “Commensurate with the complexity of the transport.”

“Exactly my thinking.”

His father regarded him with narrowed eyes. “I did not expect you to use sorcery to profit the family.”

Bosk met his gaze. “I am a Septentrion.”

His father nodded. “This is a good plan. We will implement it.” He turned to Fluvio. “You will help your brother as necessary. I will fetch the silver.”

Fluvio watched their father leave. “We should talk,” he said. “Shall we walk out on the grounds where we cannot be overheard?”

“As you wish,” said Bosk.

Outside, Fluvio spoke in a low voice. “We have two new servants. What you have said already will fly back to the mines, and the miners will want higher pay for their goods. Father should have thought of that. Perhaps his age is beginning to tell on him.”

“Father is hardly old. And there is no reason why the miners should not share in this new source of income.”

Fluvio shook his head. “For doing nothing more than they have always done? I think not.”

Bosk shrugged. “Father will decide.”

“We should unite in our opinion. Then he will listen.”

“Perhaps,” Bosk said, though he doubted it.

“We are the new generation of Septentrions,” said Fluvio. “The family commerce will be ours.”

Bosk laughed softly. “Yours,” he said. “I have made another choice.”

“Then why have you come back? Why have you brought this proposal?”

“I have my reasons.”

They walked in silence for a time, Fluvio looking down at the grass, Bosk waiting for him to speak again, for he was sure there would be more speaking.

Instead, Fluvio turned and struck him, and the blow was so hard that Bosk did not even feel himself fall. When he came to his senses, head spinning and sour bile filling his nose and throat, he found himself slung over something that moved, and for a moment he thought the Deodand had him once more. He coughed the bitterness away and clutched at his captor’s back. It seemed to be covered with cloth, and he was certain that was wrong; the Deodand’s back should be naked. Then reality returned, and he knew Fluvio was carrying him.

He had written the Spell of the Omnipotent Sphere on his arm in indelible ink, but he was too dizzy to read it. Dozens of repetitions, however, had engraved themselves on his memory. He began to murmur the spell, and by the time Fluvio did as he expected, the Sphere was springing into being around him, and instead of falling, he floated into the gorge of the Derna light as dandelion fluff, rebounding gently from the near wall as the Sphere repelled anything that might harm him. For the first few seconds, he could see Fluvio standing at the verge, staring, and then all he could see was rock and sky.

The dizziness had passed by the time he settled beside the river. By then his jaw had begun to ache fiercely, and he had been forced to press his sleeve into his mouth to stop the bleeding of his bitten tongue. He opened the Sphere and knelt to scoop up some water to rinse his mouth. There was no easy returning to Boreal Verge from this location. Upriver, though, at the mines, at least one of the green serpentine trails extended all the way to the bottom. It would take him two days of walking to reach it.

He was tired and hungry when he arrived at the mines, so hungry that he was glad to eat mushrooms. A few days later, three miners escorted him back to Boreal Verge, where he told his father only that he had decided to visit them before returning to Miir. He made no reference to the unpleasantness with Fluvio, nor to the bruise so evident on his jaw. For his part, Fluvio stayed well away from his brother and spoke little, though Bosk fancied he saw fear in Fluvio’s eyes every time their gazes met. That seemed like a very good thing to Bosk.

His father had the silver ready, as well as a suggestion for a good location in Kaiin. As expected, Mazirian’s spells worked as well on the coins as they had on Bosk, and he returned to Miir wealthier than he had left. No one asked where he had been, though Rianna did look long at the bruise, nor did they question his new enterprise.

“I thought you might find some simpler bargain,” said Turjan, “but you are, after all, a Septentrion. Does this mean your apprenticeship has ended?”

“That is not my intention,” said Bosk.

“So we speak of compromise. You will serve both your father and me.”

“As I hope.”

Turjan shook his head. “She does not deserve all of this.”

“I am doing it for myself and my family, not for her.”

Turjan’s expression was enough to show his doubt.

Once the shop was secured, a dozen Twk-men became mushroom haulers. Bosk had already dispatched a gaudily wrapped packet of fresh mushrooms to the Prince, and now he posted a notice on the shop door that the goods would be available on a certain date. That morning, when he restored himself to his proper size on the premises, a crowd of satisfying proportions was already waiting outside the door. Many coins changed hands before the stock was exhausted, and Bosk noted all in a small account book. He closed the empty shop at noon, and after locking the door, he went back to Miir and shared the midday meal with Turjan, Rianna, and T’sain.

The next morning, the mushrooms haulers carried one silver coin each through the Eye, and Bosk helped Dandanflores unwind the golden thread from his hammock.

“I understand you have no intention of visiting her,” said the Twik chieftain, “but you might find it interesting that Lith has established herself in Thamber Meadow.” Casually, he suggested a route to the place.

“It is unlikely that she and I will ever meet again,” Bosk agreed. He coiled the golden thread and slung it over his shoulder. It was quite heavy. He considered using Mazirian’s spell to shrink it, but decided that he would not chance the effect on its intrinsic magic.

Back at Miir, he regained his true size, and the rope became a glittering thread. He looped it about his neck and tucked it under his shirt.

His horse was saddled and waiting at the gate. A brief sortie, he had told his master’s family, though he had known from their faces that he was not deceiving them. He had left a sealed envelope on his pillow, with instructions for his father, for Fluvio, for Turjan, to continue the commerce with the Twk in his absence. As he rode away, he looked back more than once and saw Rianna watching from the tower garden. The last time, distance made her seem small enough to visit her own doll house, and he almost went back to thank her because everything he had accomplished would have been impossible without her. But he did not.

He found Thamber Meadow easily enough, on the second day of travel, near dusk. The house was small, with a thatched roof and ivy-covered walls, and it stood close beside a brook. Lith was in the water, her gown gathered up around her knees, and as he approached, she scooped up a fish, which struggled vigorously until she gave it a quietus with her fist.

She looked up as he dismounted, and her beauty was all that he remembered and more. “The boy from the north,” she observed.

“I brought you gifts.” He drew a sack of mushrooms from one of his panniers. “The finest the north has to offer. And bread fresh from the kitchens of Castle Miir.” Another sack.

“You are kind. With such additions, I would be inhospitable if I did not share my supper with you. Bosk, was it not?”

He nodded, and his heart quickened at the sound of his name in her mouth.

As he helped her prepare the fish and the mushrooms, they exchanged scant information — he had begun his apprenticeship, and she had traveled a trifle, but nowhere that mattered. When their meal was finished, he did not wait for the dishes to be cleared away to show his other gift.

At the sight of the thread, her hand went to her mouth, and her cheeks paled. Her fingers trembled as she accepted it. “How?” she whispered.

“Too long a tale,” he said. “Let it be enough that you have it back.”

She bowed her head then, and her shoulders shook with weeping.

He reached across the table and touched her arm gently. “This should be a happy time for you.”

She covered her face with her hands. “You don’t understand. Leave me, please. Please.”

Uncertainly, he stood, not knowing what to say. She did not look up at him. Finally, he went outside, led his horse some distance from the house, and tied it where the grass was plentiful. With the saddle for a pillow, he curled up in his blanket and watched the stars until he fell asleep.

In the morning, the hut still stood in Thamber Meadow, but when he called her name, she did not answer. He tried the door. It was not locked, and so he went in. The supper dishes were still on the table, and he took them to the brook to wash, dried them with a cloth from the cupboard, and put them away. He saw that the golden tapestry was complete, and he leaned close to peer at the village, the mountains, the river. From one angle, the golden sunlight seemed to glint on the water as if the current were actually moving within the weave.

At the couch, he stacked all the cushions atop one another, pushing them hard against the tapestry, and they reached as high as a tiny path just visible in the gold. He knelt on them and spoke the First Evolution of Mazirian’s Diminution, but doll-size he was still too large and had to use the spell a second time. This time, the cushion was a vast plain stretching behind him, and he could leap from its edge to the path, through a membrane thin as a soap bubble.

Ariventa surrounded him, bathing him in golden light. The village was farther off than he expected, but he reached it at last and marveled at its dwellings, every one as small as Lith’s own but made of precious metal, reflecting the golden light with dazzling intensity.

Among the closed doors and shuttered windows was not a single sign of life.

He found Lith in the village square, sitting on a golden bench, her hands folded on her knee. He sat down beside her.

“They are all gone,” she said. “Everyone I knew, everyone who called me family. Everyone who lived here. Gone.” She was staring down at her hands.

“Perhaps they are farther down the river. Or in the mountains.”

She shook her head.

“How can you be certain?”

“This is my land. I am very certain.”

“Then Lady Lith…come back to my world.”

Slowly, she turned her head and looked at him with her great golden eyes. She seemed older suddenly, fine lines showing at the corners of those eyes and dark smudges beneath. Or perhaps, he thought, that was only because she had been awake all night. “Ariventa is mine,” she said. “I will not abandon it.”

“But if no one is here—”

“I will not abandon it!” she shouted, and she slapped him full across the face, her nails raking his cheek like so many talons. “Go away! Ariventa is mine!”

He leaped up, one hand pressed against the starting blood. “I only meant to help you.”

“Go away, boy!”

Without another word, he began to back down the golden path, and at the edge of the village, he turned and ran. By the time he burst through the tapestry, his lungs were afire, and he fell to his knees, gasping, on the plain that was the cushion. Two repetitions of the Second Evolution restored his full height, and he rolled to the floor. When he looked up at the tapestry, it had already dwindled to the size of his thumb, and a moment later, it disappeared entirely. Around him, the house began to shake as in a high wind, and he was barely able to stumble out the door before the entire place collapsed into a pile of rubble.

Two nights later, he was at Miir, and this time Rianna was waiting for him at the gate.

“Is it over?” she asked as he handed his reins to the groom.

“Yes,” he murmured.

“Truly over?”

He nodded.

“Good. Now you can begin to wait for me.”

“To wait for you?”

She tucked her hand into the bend of his elbow. “To grow up, of course.” She smiled with just a corner of her mouth. “Come along now. We’ve saved some supper for you. With no mushrooms at all.”

He took a deep breath and answered her smile with his own. Together, they walked into Castle Miir.