He nodded gravely. “You’re a birdfriend, then.”

  “I’m no mage of any kind,” she said. “I just get along with birds.”

  “Birdfriend,” he said, “but I won’t tell.”

  “It’s one of the reasons it’s so hard for them to find servants here. Nobody likes to admit they’ve got no magery, not even a scrap. First thing people do is show off, or brag if they’ve got nought to show. Even though birdmagery has nothing to do with stone, and birdmages aren’t forbidden to enter Mitherhome anyway. Makes no sense and does no harm, but Demwor won’t have a mage of any kind in the household.”

  “For fear they’ll learn stonemagic?”

  “It’s because of the great war,” she said. “When the soldiers of Veryllydd came to try to force Mitherhome to become part of the empire of Yllydd again, and the watermages here said no, for when Yllydd was a great empire, it was Mydderllydd that ruled it, and Veryllydd was subject to them then.”

  Runnel could tell that it was a story she had committed to memory, especially because she pronounced the “ll” of Yllydd in the old way, that hissing sound from the sides of the tongue when it was forming an “L.” It was the language of stories. Though he hoped it wouldn’t be too long. He was very tired. Also, having drunk much at supper, he needed to pee.

  “The armies of Veryllydd had their mages of light and mages of metal, for in those days Mitherhome had only swords of obsidian to raise in battle. Thus in the day, the blood of the holy forest was soaked with the blood of heroes. And at night, the lightmages made the night of their tunnels into day, so they sapped under the mighty western walls of Mitherhome.”

  Runnel felt a chill as he realized that this was the explanation for the broken walls he had seen, approaching the city from the west. The blood of heroes: That was why the western forest was sacred, and no one built there.

  “The elders of the city knew the western approach was their great weakness, so they built the second wall at the foot of the Mitherjut. This, too, the Verylludden sapped, and the doom of the Mitherfolk was plain for all to see.

  “Now came the stonemages of Mitherhome, who had once ruled all of Mydderyllyd before the waterfolk conquered them long before. ‘We do not wish to be ruled by Veryllydd,’ they said. ‘We can stop them: Rockbrother and cobblefriend, we shall do it.’

  “Then the stonemages went to the peak of Mitherjut, where once their ancient temple stood. They bared again the rocks of the holy place and lay naked upon the stone, and the rockbrothers sank into it as the cobblefriends sang. First their temple arose, new and whole, made not of blocks like the temples of all other folk but of living stone thrust up until rockbrother and cobblefriend were entirely surrounded by their temple, with neither door nor window in the dome. Now they were surrounded by stone, almost as if they were stonefathers who can move within the living rock.

  “The Verylludden sappers set fire to the beams in their tunnels, and the inner wall of the city trembled and began to fall. But as it fell, lo! A great cleft opened in the earth, from the Mitherlough to the river below, cleaving the Veryllydd army in twain. Many fell into the great crevice, including all the lightmages, as the waters of the lake swept into the breach, forming a new channel, the Stonemages’ Ditch, flowing down to the river, making Mitherhome into an island with water on all sides. Now no need of walls! The portion of the Verylludden on this side of the crevice were pushed back and cast into the cleft; the army on the other side screamed and wept and pleaded as the ground beneath them shook so no man could stand.

  “A great bridge grew from the hither side of the Stonemages’ Ditch to the yon, and the army of Mydderllydd crossed over to wreak havoc on those who would have destroyed them. Now, with the hearts of the stonemages in them, the stone swords of the Mydderfolk cut the bronze swords of the mighty Veryllydd like new cheese, and their blood flowed like water, until ten times as many Verylludden died there as they had killed before. So many were dead within the broken outer walls of the city that you could walk from wall to Ditch without stepping on the ground.” She stopped and bowed her head, for all the world like a traveling talespinner. For such a tale as that, a traveler could earn a meal and a bed for the night; she had told it well.

  “I walked that ground just yesterday, and slept there, and woke this morning in that wood,” said Runnel in reverent tones.

  She looked at him wide-eyed. “Were the bodies there?”

  “Covered with leaves and soil, maybe,” he said. “I didn’t see any. But, Lark, if the stonemages saved the city, why have they been banned? Why are they not welcomed as brothers?”

  “That’s the sad part of the story,” said Lark. “I never like to hear it, but I learned it, if you must have the telling.”

  “Please,” he said.

  “The rulers of the city went to the great cleft, and saw the torrent of water that formed a little lake, then tumbled down the canyon to the river below, and they said, ‘This new outflow will drain our lake and leave Yeggut diminished so he will no longer bless us.’

  “Now it happened that the stonemages had foreseen this, and raised stone on the other side to reduce the outflow there, so the lake level was unchanged. The watermages knew this, for the water told them so, but they feared the power of the stonemages to steal their water. ‘Today they were our friends,’ said the watermages. ‘But tomorrow, what if they remember that Mitherhome was once Mydderstane, built by stonemages and conquered by latecome watermen? They will say, “It is ours by right,” and they will destroy us as they destroyed the Verylludden.’

  “So in fear of the power of the stonemages, the rulers caused great heaps of wood to be piled all round the solid living temple that contained the great mages who had saved them, and they lighted the fire, which heated the temple until the stone glowed red. Nothing could live inside it. For two days the fire burned, then it died, yet for five more days no man could touch the stone.

  “When the rock at last was cool, the rulers of the city caused the dome to be broken open, and inside were found ashes in the shape of each of the stonemages; even their bones were ash. The watermages called water up through the rock and it flowed from the center of the temple, so it became a spring, holy to Yeggut, and not an outcropping of stone.

  “Then the temple was broken entirely apart and the pieces carried down and cast into the cleft. The bridge of living stone was broken apart, for it was said that the stonemages had done this to turn the new channel into a tunnel, with living stone all around it. It was decreed that forever no bridge would span that cleft.” She broke off the narrative. “That’s why Hetterferry came to exist.”

  “It’s a sad story,” said Runnel. “And it doesn’t make the watermages of the city sound very noble, to murder the very folk who saved them.”

  “That’s not how the tale is told in Mitherhome, I’m sure,” said Lark. “But it’s how I learned it, back in the—”

  “It’s a pack of lies,” said Demwor.

  Runnel whirled to look at him. He was very angry.

  “She only told it as she learned it, sir,” said Runnel.

  “She doesn’t need you to defend her,” said Demwor. “I see now why she came to work at a stonemage’s house.”

  “No, sir,” she said. “I came because the work was good and safe. I learned this story as a child, it’s a children’s tale.”

  “Then listen to me well, children. Tell this tale no more, not to anyone. It’s a slander of the stonemages against our city. They were traitors, that’s the truth, in league with our enemies.”

  “Then why would they make the cleft that keeps the city safe?” asked Runnel.

  “They didn’t!” shouted Demwor. Then, more softly: “It has always been there. Their plot was to deepen it until it drained the lake and our enemies could get through on dry land. They were barely stopped in time.”

  “Thank you for telling us the truth, sir,” said Runnel. Well he knew that the only way to stave off a beating was to agree quickly with the man who was raging. “We’ll never tell it the other way again. Forgive us for being ignorant children from far away, where truth disappears inside extravagant tales.” It was something his mother had once said, that bit about truth disappearing inside tales—only she had said it about gossip that had a village girl pregnant by a god, instead of by a traveler who gave her a golden fruit that was full of sweet water.

  Demwor peered into Runnel’s face, and then Lark’s, looking for something—defiance, perhaps. But both of them looked as abject as any ruler could ask, and finally he said, “Your chatter has made you late to bed. I’ll have you up as early as ever tomorrow, you understand? And still you must finish washing and wringing and hanging the master’s linens.”

  “Almost done,” said Lark. “I kept working while I talked.”

  “I saw you from the second story of the house, and you were working slowly. That’s why I came out here.”

  Runnel said nothing more, only bowed. He half expected Demwor to cuff him once or twice, just because he had been angry—that was what Father did. Runnel even placed himself between Demwor and Lark, so that if he was one who struck out in his wrath, the blows would fall only on Runnel.

  But there were no blows. Demwor walked away, and Runnel and Lark hurriedly finished the rinsing and wringing and hanging. Then Runnel carried what was left of the water back to the cistern, where he poured it back into the top, where it could join the water yet to be filtered. Nothing wasted…only the soapy water had been poured out onto the stones; the rinse water was cast into the vegetable garden. “We grow the cleanest radishes and yams,” said Lark, but her smile was wan.

  “We’ll speak no more of your tale,” said Runnel. “Your malicious, false, and unbelievable slander. Except to say that I looked down into the crevice, and some malicious, false, and deceptive slanderer has cast stones into the canyon and created the ruins of a nonexistent bridge, just so people will think your version of the tale is true.”

  She smiled at him. “You’re a complete fool, Runnel. I forgive you for mocking me even after we took an oath.”

  “I meant no mockery…”

  But she was already gone.

  Runnel went to the pissery, where urine was saved, and contributed his few ounces to some future slab of soap. Then he went to the cistern and drank again, so he wouldn’t waken with thirst in the night. But not too much, so he wouldn’t waken with a full bladder.

  Mostly, though, he was putting off the climb up those stairs, to try to sleep at the top of a swaying, shaking building. I know how those Verylludden felt, with the ground shaking under them and their bronze swords turning to cheese.

  Inside the house, though, all was still. Wherever Lark slept, she must be there; Ebb, he knew, slept by the door in the outer wall. Demwor might be awake but he wasn’t on watch on the lower floor.

  I can say that I didn’t want to wake anybody by climbing the stair as they were trying to sleep.

  It was a feeble plan, and he knew it—but having formed the idea, he acted on it at once. He found the steps leading down into the cellar.

  It was dark, like a cloudy, moonless night. Even after waiting, his eyes still could not find light enough to make out anything at all.

  His toes, though, found the stone flags of the floor easily enough. But there was something wrong—the stones were trembling almost as much as the wood of the upper stories had been. They also gave under his feet, shifting with his weight. Finally he realized: They had been laid across wood.

  The watermages are so frightened even of this one stonemage that not only do they have Demwor to keep watch over the house, but also they have cut off the stone of the house from the living rock of the earth.

  They’re afraid that even from here, Lord Brickel might be able to do some terrible thing to the stone underlying their city—or, more to the point, the channels through which their precious water flowed.

  Well, it is precious water, thought Runnel. Six hours without water, and I begin to thirst. But when have I ever needed stone to slake my desire? If you have to choose between Tewstan and Yeggut, it was Yeggut who sustained life minute by minute and hour by hour.

  Though if Tewstan hated you, where would you be safe from his wrath?

  Not here in this cellar. You could put wood between the flagstones and the living stone below, but they could not have done that with the walls of the cellar, because they were holding up the upper floors. Walls had to touch the living stone, or the house could not stand.

  Sure enough, the foundation of the great hearth of the common room above was stone that connected fully to the living rock; it was here that Runnel made his bed, his hand touching the stone of the foundation. Here alone the house did not tremble. Here alone he could sleep with the same ease he felt on the packed-earth floor of the hovel he had shared with his family all his life.

  Yesternight I slept in the woods among the moldered corpses of heroes and invaders. And only the night before, with my family. So close is my village, almost a near neighbor of Mitherhome. Yet except for the soldiers who went away to the wars, which man of Farzibeck has traveled as far as I, or learned as much as I’ve already learned?

  He could hear Father’s voice answering him. “Learn? You’ve learned nothing, except how to be a slave in a fool’s house, where a southerman lords it over you and a girl mocks you and you will grow nothing in the earth, only carry water and pour water, and chop vegetables for others to eat.”

  “Shut up,” he said to his father.

  How many times had he thought it, but dared not say the words? He had been slapped and shoved and punched and kicked a hundred times or more, as if he had spoken with such insolence. It was about time he finally said the things that he had already been punished for. He could swear at his father every day for a year and not be caught up with what the man owed him.

  And as he went to sleep, he thought of Lark, so prudish, but so generous; so angry, but such a good storyteller. She talks to the birds, and the birds obey her, yet she doesn’t think that she’s a birdfriend; what could a birdfriend do more than she did, keeping the birds away from the house because she could not serve them well here? A strange world, where someone could be a mage and yet deny it so thoroughly that she did not believe in her own power and therefore could never use it.

  It would be wonderful to be a birdfriend, for it was said that beast-mages could choose a clant, an animal that was like a second self to them. And having chosen a clant, they could learn to put their soul inside the creature, and see through its eyes, and feel all that it felt, and hear all that it heard. A birdfriend could use her clant to spy on people, or just to soar above the earth, or perhaps to take a hare or rabbit and bring it home, if the bird was a raptor. A birdmage would never have to starve.

  But since Lark did not think she was a mage, she would have no clant, and thus would never fly or hunt or spy, but just do laundry and keep the birds away more thoroughly than any scarecrow.

  If I were a beastmage, I would ride with my clant every night while my own body slept. I would come to think of my walking hours as a dream, and my sleeping hours as my true life, soaring through clouds or, as a lion or wolf, stalking through the forest or grassland, free and strong and fearless.

  With my luck, though, I’d be a mousemage, and spend my clant-hours fleeing from every predator.

  He slept and dreamed himself a mouse living inside the walls of the kitchen, scampering out in the darkness to steal food.

  And all the night, his palm pressed against the wall of the hearthroot stones, and he could feel the earth beneath, all the deep stone of it, cool and hard near the surface of the earth, but hotter and softer as you went deep, until it flowed like honey, a vast sweet fiery ocean of molten rock a thousand times more voluminous and ten thousand times heavier than the sea. It felt to him as if it were his own blood, and his heart pumped it.

  THE awkwardness of the first day soon faded. Each day Runnel arose before dawn and went to the fountain before most of the women of Hetterferry were up. There he filled the jar and carried it back, returned and filled it again, and then again—enough water for most days’ work. There were even days when he made only two trips, because the cistern was full.

  At first Lark was grateful, for this was her heaviest duty, and since she filled the jar only half-full, she used to take six trips. But after days and weeks of it, she simply took it for granted—as Runnel had meant that she should. Let her work at tasks that required the skill of her clever hands. Runnel had no great skill. The best he achieved was adequacy—but at most household tasks, that was enough.

  He continued in the kitchen, because Nikwiz and Sourwell were good and patient teachers. He soon abandoned their expensive metal knives and used the chipped obsidian that everyone used in Farzibeck. The knives were constantly dulled on the cutting stones and had to be sharpened, but the obsidian never seemed to lose its edge, and it fit into his hand more comfortably than any metal blade, however well wrapped in leather the hilt might be.

  Lark and he became friends, but not eager ones. When they were together on a task, they worked harmoniously, and even bantered together in a comfortable way. But whole days would go by in which they did not see each other, since Lark’s work was mostly indoors, now that Runnel was doing most of the outdoor tasks. Only the laundry brought her out, and Runnel found himself looking forward to laundry days, not because he had any particular yearning for her but because compared to the perfect dance between Nikwiz and Sourwell, which shut out all others, her company was the best to be had in the stonemage’s house.

  Every week or so, there would be visitors who stayed for a night or two, then went on. Many of them were traders and merchants, and Lord Brickel would dine with them and then keep them company as they went out into the Hetterferry market to trade with the downriver, crossriver, and landbound merchants.

  Runnel soon learned that Lord Brickel never did stonework of any kind, not for sale and not for gifts—the Mithermages paid him to work only for them, so that between tasks he was idle. Demwor was ever vigilant.