“He’ll be bound for Hadrumal again before the year’s out. You do know?” I said quietly over the donkey’s woolly back. “The Wizards’ Isle?”

“As I will be bound for the southern reaches of the Forest.” She was unperturbed. “With all manner of new cuttings to take root in warmer soil.”

“Is that what you came traveling for?” I was increasingly curious about this woman.

“Among other things.” She looked fondly at Usara’s back, laying a hand on her belt. “A herbalist should always look to bring long separated strains back to her garden.”

“That’s—” began Zenela but a spasm of coughing cut her short. Orial pulled a little vial from a pocket and held it for the girl to sniff.

“Do you want help with your sura?” asked Rusia with a hint of impatience.

“I’ll tell them to hurry.” I realized Sorgrad was mixing tisanes while ’Gren foraged among the pots and pans for something to eat.

“We’re supposed to be packing up,” I announced as I reached them.

“Drink this.” Sorgrad handed me a cup that I sniffed suspiciously. “Halcarion’s Heal-All.”

I drank it down and looked around. “Is there any flat-bread left?”

“Stale as stones but you can have it if you want it,” Gren offered generously. He was chewing on a strip of cold meat, dipping it in a bowl of congealed nut sauce. I took the flat-bread, dipping it in the tisane to soften it.

Usara came over and Sorgrad wordlessly handed him a cup.

“Are you all right?” I looked at him with some concern, but his color was improving

Usara wrapped his hands around the warmth of his cup, breathing in the steam. “Well enough, just weary. I think I’ve done more magic since Equinox than in the past half-year,” he said with a rueful smile. “It’s really not the same as just exploring the theories of wizardry. Still, one of the reasons I wanted to come with you was to test my skills.”

“We need to decide what we’re about here,” Sorgrad stated firmly. “Has anyone found so much as a sniff of aetheric lore among these folk?”

Usara shook his head. “Even supposing it was something they were keeping secret, I feel sure someone would have let something slip by now, given how open they are.”

I studied my bread for a moment. “I still think there’s something to this jalquezan. And there was the hunt today; that Iamris was finding game with something more than a good eye and a sharp nose, I’m sure of it. How did word of the trouble get back to the camp so quick? No one could have run that fast! What about Zenela? When did you see anyone heal so fast and so fully from putrid lungs? I’ve finally found someone who knows a ballad where someone uses a charm to light a fire like me—”

“Livak, I’ve spent the last three days listening to ballad after ballad after ballad,” said Usara, exasperated. “Every second person has a different version, some minstrel’s variant on the words or the order of narrative. It seems to be a point of honor to fiddle about with the tune and add embellishments. I’m sorry, believe me, but these stories are so fluid, so much changes from year to year, that whatever knowledge they might have once held is lost beyond retrieval. I could give you five different versions of ‘The Hunt of the White Stag’ for a start.” He shut his mouth with an obstinate snap.

“We’re not here to write a treatise on the history of the Folk.” I tried to contain my own annoyance. “Stop trying to pin down facts and look at the stories! Look at the unexpected, the remarkable, and the impossible and tell me you don’t think there’s magic involved. And where there is magic, there’s the jalquezan, every time.”

“Perhaps.” The skepticism in Usara’s voice left little doubt as to his opinion. “But how are they doing it? How do we test their abilities, determine the efficacy of whatever lore they might have?”

“Why do you wizards always have to pick and pry and pull things apart? Can’t you just believe it?” I glared at the mage.

“If we don’t know how they are doing something, how are we to repeat it?” demanded Usara.

I waved him to silence as an idea jumped up and bit me. “It was your own work that identified the collective belief of a group of people as the source of the power that Artifice draws on, wasn’t it?”

Usara looked perplexed. “The main credit belongs to Geris Armiger—”

I raised a hand, frowning as I struggled to find words for my new notion. “What if enough people believing a person can do something is enough to make it happen? What if that’s sufficient to bring aetheric influence to bear on someone’s abilities?” Now that I said it, it all made sense, the pieces falling into place like a child’s puzzle.

“I don’t follow you,” said Usara in weary tones.

“Everyone tells me Rusia is the best at reading the runes. She believes it and so does everyone else. That belief is enough to make it true. Orial is a noted healer; she sings the songs that she believes will add luck to her medicines. The words of the jalquezan don’t matter so much as the fact she believes in what she’s doing. That’s what makes it happen. Everyone knows that Iamris will find game, so he does. Every time it happens, it strengthens the belief, the expectation that it will happen next time, so it does!”

“Self-fulfilling prophecy,” murmured Sorgrad thoughtfully.

“But Guinalle and her Adepts studied Artifice back in the Tormalin Empire’s height,” protested Usara. “Her skills are born of discipline, not just blind belief.”

“Where does learning stop and belief begin?” countered Sorgrad. “Which comes first and then supports the other?”

I picked a twig from the ground, dead wood with a spray of parched and brown leaves still clinging to it. I’d spent too long with these mages with their questions and insatiable curiosity. “Talmia megrala eldrin fres.” The leaves crackled as they were instantly consumed, the dry bark split, the wood beneath charred. I dropped the twig to the ground and stamped on it, grinding it down beneath the top layer of dry litter into the damp leaf mold beneath. The sharp smell of smoke hovered in the air. “That’s Artifice. Tell me how I did it, wizard! I don’t know how but I believe I can and it’s never failed me yet.”

Usara opened his mouth and then shut it again. The mage’s essential honesty and scholarly training made it impossible for him to dismiss my idea out of hand, however much he might want to. “But how do we test the notion? We have to have some proof, if we’re to take anything to the Council or the Archmage.”

“Presumably, if someone started doubting their abilities they could lose them,” said Sorgrad slowly. “A bit like losing your place in a dance when you suddenly become conscious of what your feet are doing.”

I frowned. “How could you just choose to stop believing in something?”

“We could fuzz the runes in a game with Barben,” said ’Gren with feeling. “Or break his fingers. I wouldn’t mind seeing him learning it’s possible to lose. Everyone’s certainly convinced he can’t be beaten.”

“There’s another one,” I nodded to Usara. “He believes he’s lucky, and all the others believe it too; that invokes some unconscious element of Artifice and the runes run his way.”

“He’s certainly not cheating,” remarked Sorgrad. “Trust me, we’d know if he was.”

Usara brought his hands together, fingertips touching, tucking them beneath his chin. His eyes were distant among the bustle of the disintegrating camp. “It’s an interesting notion and who’s to say it’s wrong, we know so little of Artifice. But where’s the proof, where’s the trial?”

“Why do you need that?” I shook my head. “Does every mage in Hadrumal reduce a timepiece to cogs and springs before they accept it’ll mark the passing chimes?”

Usara grimaced. “We could find ourselves risking apples against ashes, couldn’t we? If we ask questions of Guinalle that start her doubting her own abilities, we’ve not only lost our most advanced practitioner of Artifice but also one of the main defenses the Kellarin colony has against Elietimm raids.”