“Isn’t it?” He looked at me quizzically. Then he said, “Bone magic is a particularly powerful form of magic, of course, so someone’s interest in resurrecting it might not be entirely philanthropic. When I was a much younger man, I had some idea that I might be the one to wield it …” He fiddled with his spectacles. “Hubris, I’m afraid. I was a member of a certain society even then, and I imagined that together we might use bone magic to overthrow the Temple—the hierarchy and structure that they had forced upon magic.”
I stared at him wide-eyed. He flushed a little.
“As I have said, I was very young and foolish.”
“You were going tooverthrow the Temple?”
“Well,” he said self-deprecatingly, “‘overthrow’ is a strong word. I suppose I did imagine that we might be able to establish a better way. I believed—still do—that people who had a minor affinity of whatever kind should be able to practice without stigma or restriction, and that the rigid controlof incarnist mages and their spellbooks was doing more harm than good. To the kingdom as well as to the mages themselves. I abhorred—still do—the idea that pain and sacrifice are necessary for the practice. The only power that seemed to have any hope of standing against the might of the Temple was bone magic.”
“So what did you do?” I said.
“I had a young apprentice at the time, another bone magic enthusiast—perhaps even a zealot, I’m sorry to say. I had imagined that they, like me, saw it as a means to an end—an end that would benefit everyone. As it turned out, however …” His voice trailed off.
He cleared his throat before continuing, “When I decided that bone magic wastoopowerful, too potentially harmful, for one person—or even two—to wield, I’m afraid they did not respond well. I decided to burn all my notes, you see. They wanted to keep them—to continue the work alone. We argued. I destroyed the notes. I thought that we would reconcile, that we both just needed some time to cool off, but they absconded during the night, taking all our remaining research with them. Their own notes, and several volumes on the subject.”
“What happened to them?”
He stared down at his hands. “I suppose they either continued their research, or decided to give it up, as I did.”
I sat silently, trying to absorb it all. My mind seemed unwilling to allow the thoughts in—they skittered over its surface, struggling to find purchase.Resurrecting bone magic.My Hair brushed against my ears, the strands rustling together like a hundred tiny voices whispering excitedly. Something in me responded to the idea, even as I wanted to reject it. Was thatsomethingthe magic itself? Was it shivering in my bones even now?
“Magic needs us as much as we need it,” the Book Man said almost dreamily. “We are its only channel. Bone magic still exists—can even start to stir and move—but it would require a human mage in order to fully return.”
He stopped, suddenly intent. I had not noticed, but the embroidery I had been working on while the Book Man spoke about bone magic had started to take on its own life. My hand had ceased to be a hand and the needle to be a needle. I was a silver fish darting upstream, a bright bird zig-zagging across the clouds. I reached the end of the pattern that I was repairing, and I did not stop.
“Netta …” said the Book Man, a note of caution in his voice.
I paused, swimming now in that strange dream-state I entered when I was embroidering, and reluctant to stop. “Please,” I managed to say. “It feels right.”
The Book Man looked hard at me. He pressed his lips together, nodded, and sat back.
My Hair stirred against my back, restless as it always was when my emotions ran high. Tonight, though, it was more than restless; it felt alive, humming with energy. The design now felt wrong—too mundane, too limited for the potential I felt thrumming beneath my fingertips. The book needed more.
Deservedmore.
A new design took shape in my mind, unbidden and wild. The first stitches were small and careful, a test of my daring, but soon the thread moved faster, weaving shapes and symbols I didn’t fully recognize.
The air in the room seemed to thicken. My Hair began to float. I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. The thread shimmered unnaturally now, colors shifting and blending in ways that defied logic. Gold bled into silver, then into deep, abyssal black, forming spirals and curves that moved like living things. I wasn’t just repairing the spellbook, now—I was stitching its cover into a better, more complex pattern. When I stopped, it looked … different, in an indefinable way, quite separate from the original design.
“Remarkable,” the Book Man breathed when I had finished. He touched the book reverently, barely letting the pads of his fingers make contact with the cover. It shivered faintlyunder his touch. With his affinity, he persuaded it to open—tentatively, as if something inside might jump out and bite him—but then became absorbed in studying the spellscript inside. It, too, seemed changed, but of course I couldn’t tell exactly how.
“What … what have you done?” the Book Man whispered, but there was no accusation in his tone.
I swallowed hard. “I—” I began, but the words caught in my throat. I didn’t know how to explain it. I couldn’t.
The Book Man’s fingers trembled slightly as they brushed the edge of the cover. “This is unlike any power I’ve ever seen.” His gaze shifted to me. “You’ve done something extraordinary. You have … Somehow you have strengthened the spell itself.”
“You’re not angry?” I asked hesitantly.
“Angry?” He gave a small, incredulous laugh. “This isn’t something to be angry about. This is remarkable.”
A flush crept up my neck, and I looked down.
“I’ll need to study it,” the Book Man said, his tone still reverent. “To understand exactly what you’ve done, other than strengthening the enchantment. Absolutely fascinating.”
I realized now that my Hair was now floating freely about my face. I put my hands up to it, trying to hold it down, but the Book Man shook his head.
“No need, my dear. I already suspected. But I didn’t want to make you say anything before you felt comfortable enough.”
