“But you have magic in you. If you have magic, you don’t have to do hard work. I wish I had magic.”

“Magic can be hard work in itself, Likari. But work, even hard work, can give a man pleasure if he does it willingly and well.”

That, I thought to myself, smacked of Sergeant Duril. I wondered if that old Gernian value was one that the Specks shared with us, or if Soldier’s Boy was more Gernian than he knew.

The meat was gone but the smell of it lingered sweetly in the air. The fire burned well on the cleaned hearth, and the smoke found the smoke hole effortlessly. Likari had done his tasks well. Soldier’s Boy mused on the hearthstones. Lisana had chosen them as much for their beauty as their imperviousness to heat. They were all the same deep green, smoothed by the valley’s river and hardened by her ancient fires. Looking down at them, Soldier’s Boy could pretend her lodge was as tidy and cozy as it had been when she was alive.

He looked at the Speck boy staring so intently into the flames. Likari crouched close to the comfort of the fire, obviously still uneasy at being inside the Great One’s old lodge. The boy seemed to feel his gaze. He glanced up fearfully and looked back at the fire. Soldier’s Boy frowned, and then looked around the room, trying to see it as the boy might. The pale roots that hung down or roped over the walls reminded him of the hare’s bared entrails. Or perhaps of dangling snakes. The interior of the lodge was damp and musty. Beetles and insects were much in evidence.

“Where will we sleep?” Likari asked.

Soldier’s Boy glanced over his shoulder. For an instant, he saw with Lisana’s eyes. There was a wooden bedstead, stoutly built to be a Great One’s resting place. It was lush with furs, heaped with woolen trade blankets, a warm and comfortable retreat at day’s end. Then he blinked and there was only a rumpled carpet of moss and ancient debris on the floor. Soldier’s Boy stood up. An emotion rose in him, filling his chest and dimming his sight with tears.

Then he extended his hands toward the collapsed bed and dangling roots.

I had done magic: I thought I knew how it felt. But I had wielded the magic in much the same way that Soldier’s Boy had used my sling, without skill or efficiency. I had flung magic ruthlessly, profligately. The way Soldier’s Boy used it reminded me of my mother’s deft hands when she embroidered; stitch, stitch, stitch, stitch, stitch, and a green leaf appeared on a linen handkerchief. She never wasted a moment or an inch of floss. Soldier’s Boy used the magic in that way, with precision and economy. He gave no general command. Instead, he gestured at first this rootlet and then that hummock of moss. The root stirred, squirmed, and then braided itself neatly with three other roots before twisting upward and tucking itself back into the decaying roof beams. The moss clump crept over a fragment of old wood, devoured it, and then joined itself to a fellow hummock of moss. Root after root, moss clump after moss clump followed the examples of the others. I recognized what he was doing. He was drawing on my knowledge of engineering and structure. The dangling mat of roots over the old bed became ropes that wove themselves through the roof beams, reinforcing them. The moss devoured what little remained of Lisana’s old bed and bedding and fashioned itself into a plump green pallet.

Likari’s hushed voice came from behind me. “I thought you were saving your magic.”

Soldier’s Boy gave his head a shake as if awakening. “I didn’t use that much,” he said, almost apologizing to himself.

“Will we sleep there?” the boy asked.

“Yes,” Soldier’s Boy said decisively. “Where’s the blanket?”

“Outside.” When Soldier’s Boy turned to look at him, the boy was staring stubbornly at his feet.

“What is it?”

“I don’t want to sleep in here,” Likari admitted in a hoarse whisper.

“But I do,” Soldier’s Boy said firmly. “So we shall. Bring my blanket here.”

“Yes, Great One,” he replied in a subdued voice. He went outside.

Soldier’s Boy gave a great sigh, perhaps of resignation. Then he walked slowly around the inside of the lodge, studying the walls and ceiling and the framing of the windows. The rolled-hide window covers that had once existed to be pegged in place against winter’s chill were long gone. I wondered why he was bothering about window coverings when there was an obvious bulge in one of the walls. Would this lodge stand for another winter? I felt he pushed the question at me. I tried to ignore him, but the engineer in me could not stand the unstable wall. I focused on it until he shared my impression of it. He nodded gravely, perhaps to me, and then with studied flicks of his fingers, he reinforced it with roots. The logs were too soft to be pulled back into alignment, but he could stabilize them. Dangling roots wove themselves into networks and attached themselves to the ceiling and the walls. The limber webbing strengthened the existing structure. By the time Likari returned with my old blanket, the ceiling of Lisana’s lodge was reinforced and tidied. Likari glanced about in surprise, then smiled gratefully at the change. The light from the hearth fire now lit the room evenly. I had not realized how intimidating the fingery shadows of the roots had been until they were gone.

Soldier’s Boy took the old blanket from Likari and shook it vigorously. The wind of its passage fanned the fire and dust hung thick in the air afterward. Soldier’s Boy regarded it sternly. “Tomorrow,” he announced, “you will wash the blanket and hang it near the fire to dry. For tonight, shall we sleep on it or under it?”

“Under it,” the boy replied decisively. Then he added carefully, “At least, you will. It is not a very large blanket. I wish there were more.”

“We will get more when we go to trade. Lisana used to have many thick rugs and colorful blankets.” Soldier’s Boy spoke the words as if they were a spell. I suddenly knew that he said them out loud simply because he missed her so badly. Talking about her made her seem more present, even if his only audience was a small, sleepy boy.

He spread the blanket on the bed of moss. Then he moved slowly around the room, carefully recalling it as it once had been. Likari remained by the hearth fire, sucking on a bone and regarding him curiously.

Moss and mildew covered the cedar chest that he tried to drag closer to the firelight. It fell into splintered fragments when he tried to open it. He pushed aside the white webbed remnants of the lid. Insects had long ago loosened the lush fur from the hides. Even the leather was holed and green. Woven woolen blankets had been devoured by moths into threads and rags, the bright colors lost to decay. Their hearts had rotted into a solid, smelly mass. With a grunt of disgust, he dropped the corner he had tried to lift and wiped his hands on the floor.

“You can go to sleep if you want to,” he told the watching boy. Likari was happy to scurry to the moss bed and crawl under the blanket. But he didn’t go to sleep. He regarded me with bright, curious eyes as Soldier’s Boy prowled the room, unearthing more remnants of Lisana’s possessions.

A heavy copper bowl had gone green and black with verdigris; the pattern hammered into it had been lost forever. The few wooden artifacts that had not vanished were riddled with wormholes or spongy with age. The more decayed bits of Lisana’s life that he uncovered, the more sad and rotten the derelict lodge seemed. He could not pretend she had been here just yesterday. Decades, if not generations, had passed.

Resignation and sorrow rose in him like a tide; I could not tell how much of the emotion was his and how much belonged to Lisana’s shade. He put more wood on the fire. In that circle of light, he set out the few possessions he had salvaged as if he were arranging a memorial to her. Two glass bowls. The soapstone lamp. A tiny jade spoon for cosmetics. He put them in a row. It reminded me horribly of how we had set out the plague bodies to await burial.