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?”
