“And what about you?” Glerk said. “Will the siphoning of your magic stop?”
Xan shrugged. “It will slow, I expect.” She pressed her lips together. “Little bit by bit by bit. And then she will turn thirteen and it will flow out all at once. No more magic. I will be an empty vessel with nothing left to keep these old bones moving. And then I’ll be gone.” Xan’s voice was quiet and smooth, like the surface of the swamp—and lovely, as the swamp is lovely. Glerk felt an ache in his chest. Xan attempted to smile. “Still, if I had my druthers, it’s better to leave her orphaned after I can teach her a thing or two. Get her raised up properly. Prepare her. And I’d rather go all at once instead of wasting away like poor Zosimos.”
“Death is always sudden,” Glerk said. His eyes had begun to itch. “Even when it isn’t.” He wanted to clasp Xan in his third and fourth arms, but he knew the Witch wouldn’t stand for it, so he held Luna a little bit closer instead, as Xan began to unwind the magical cocoon. The little girl smacked her lips together a few times and cuddled in close to his damp chest, warming him through. Her black hair shone like the night sky. She slept deeply. Glerk looked at the shape on the ground. There was still an open walkway for him to pass through with the girl. Once Luna was in place and Glerk was safely outside the chalk rim, Xan would complete the circle, and the spell would begin.
He hesitated.
“You’re sure, Xan?” he said. “Are you very, very sure?”
“Yes. Assuming I’ve done this right, the seed of magic will open on her thirteenth birthday. We don’t know the exact day, of course, but we can make our guesses. That’s when her magic will come. And that’s when I will go. It’s enough. I’ve already outlasted any reasonable allotment of life on this earth. And I’m ever so curious to know what comes next. Come. Let’s begin.”
And the air smelled of milk and sweat and baking bread. Then sharp spice and skinned knees and damp hair. Then working muscles and soapy skin and clear mountain pools. And something else, too. A dark, strange, earthy smell.
And Luna cried out, just once.
And Glerk felt a crack in his heart, as thin as a pencil line. He pressed his four hands to his chest, trying to keep it from breaking in half.
12.
In Which a Child Learns About the Bog
No, child. The Witch does not live in the Bog. What a thing to say! All good things come from the Bog. Where else would we gather our Zirin stalks and our Zirin flowers and our Zirin bulbs? Where else would I gather the water spinach and muck-eating fish for your dinner or the duck eggs and frog spawn for your breakfast? If it weren’t for the Bog your parents would have no work at all, and you would starve.
Besides, if the Witch lived in the Bog, I would have seen her.
Well, no. Of course I haven’t seen the whole Bog. No one has. The Bog covers half the world, and the forest covers the other half. Everyone knows that.
But if the Witch was in the Bog, I would have seen the waters ripple with her cursed footsteps. I would have heard the reeds whisper her name. If the Witch was in the Bog, it would cough her out, the way a dying man coughs out his life.
Besides, the Bog loves us. It has always loved us. It is from the Bog that the world was made. Each mountain, each tree, each rock and animal and skittering insect. Even the wind was dreamed by the Bog.
Oh, of course you know this story. Everyone knows this story.
Fine. I will tell it if you must hear it one more time.
In the beginning, there was only Bog, and Bog, and Bog. There were no people. There were no fish. There were no birds or beasts or mountains or forest or sky.
The Bog was everything, and everything was the Bog.
The muck of the Bog ran from one edge of reality to the other. It curved and warbled through time. There were no words; there was no learning; there was no music or poetry or thought. There were just the sigh of the Bog and the quake of the Bog and the endless rustle of the reeds.
But the Bog was lonely. It wanted eyes with which to see the world. It wanted a strong back with which to carry itself from place to place. It wanted legs to walk and hands to touch and a mouth that could sing.
And so the Bog created a Body: a great Beast that walked out of the Bog on its own strong, boggy legs. The Beast was the Bog, and the Bog was the Beast. The Beast loved the Bog and the Bog loved the Beast, just as a person loves the image of himself in a quiet pond of water, and looks upon it with tenderness. The Beast’s chest was full of warm and life-giving compassion. He felt the shine of love radiating outward. And the Beast wanted words to explain how he felt.
And so there were words.
And the Beast wanted those words to fit together just so, to explain his meaning. He opened his mouth and a poem came out.
“Round and yellow, yellow and round,” the Beast said, and the sun was born, hanging just overhead.
“Blue and white and black and gray and a burst of color at dawn,” the Beast said. And the sky was born.
“The creak of wood and the softness of moss and the rustle and whisper of green and green and green,” the Beast sang. And there were forests.
Everything you see, everything you know, was called into being by the Bog. The Bog loves us and we love it.
The Witch in the Bog? Please. I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in all my life.
13.
In Which Antain Pays a Visit
The Sisters of the Star always had an apprentice—always a young boy. Well, he wasn’t much of an apprentice—more of a serving boy, really. They hired him when he was nine and kept him on until he was dispatched with a single note.
Every boy received the same note. Every single time.
“We had high hopes,” it always said, “but this one has disappointed us.”
Some boys served only a week or two. Antain knew of one from school who had only stayed a single day. Most were sent packing at the age of twelve—right when they had begun to get comfortable. Once they became aware of how much learning there was to be had in the libraries of the Tower and they became hungry for it, they were sent away.
Antain had been twelve when he received his note—one day after he had been granted (after years of asking) the privilege of the library. It was a crushing blow.
The Sisters of the Star lived in the Tower, a massive structure that unsettled the eye and confounded the mind. The Tower stood in the very center of the Protectorate—it cast its shadow everywhere.