“What’s for supper?” said Clæfre.

“Venison.”

“Chef it up, Péton,” said Milde.

“Flame grilled venison, smoked in dried, digested grass.”

“Seriously?” said Milde.

“Seasoned with salt and pepper,” said Péton.

“That’s more like it,” said Clæfre. She presented a wooden bowl. Milde tickled Clæfre’s ribs. Clæfre yelped and dropped her bowl.

“Ladies first,” said Milde.

“There’s enough for everyone,” said Péton. He hacked off half a back leg, “Congratulations on your successful hunt.”

“Thanks!” said Clæfre. She snatched the proffered cut.

“There’s no way you can eat all of that by yourself.” Milde brandished her spoon at Clæfre, “Hand it over, lady.”

Leth leaned towards Cempa, “Are they always like this?”

“Looks like it.”

The tempo of the Misthliþ sisters’ leg and spoon fencing increased. Cempa and Leth sat and watched.

“I don’t understand them,” said Leth.

“You’re an only child, right?” said Cempa.

“Yes.”

“Siblings compete for affection from their parents. The pecking order is important too, it’s a prerequisite to ordering the other ones about.”

“Sounds awful,” said Leth.

“Depends on the family.”

Clæfre thwacked Milde’s hand with the deer leg.

Milde dropped her spoon “Fuck!” She licked the back of her hand, “That’s hot!”

“Of course it’s bloody hot,” said Péton. “It’s been on the fire for two hours. Do you want your damned food or not?”

“Sure, sure,” said Milde. She recovered her spoon and threatened Clæfre, “I will have my revenge.”

Clæfre snorted, “Fat chance, porky.” She strutted to the big rock. Milde gaped, then stalked off in the opposite direction.

“Cempa?” said Leth.

“Huh? What?”

“How many brothers and sisters do you have?” said Leth.

“Three brothers and two sisters. Could have changed though, I haven’t been home in years.”

“Why not?”

“I was the top sibling, I left to give the others a chance,” said Cempa.

“How convincing,” said Leth.

Cempa laughed.

“I’m going to grab some food for father,” said Leth. “He’s staring into the wilderness by himself.”

“Before you go, I have a question. Can you make magic traps?”

Leth smiled, “Are you sure you want to know?”

“I need to know what you can do,” said Cempa, “in case those creatures come for us.”

“I’ve been thinking about that too,” said Leth. “Traps are tricky. It’s possible to create a spell in advance, but they decay after a few hours. The rate depends on how deep an impression you’re able to make in the aether and the complexity of the spell. Also, I’d need an object to double as a trigger and a focus.”

“What’s ‘aether’?” said Cempa.

“Aether is like gelatine,” said Leth. “If the physical world is solid and the magical one is like smoke, then aether is the state between the two. A Drýmann pokes patterns through the aether, allowing the physical and magical halves to mix. The moment they mix, the spell is triggered.”

“All I can think of now is pink blancmange,” said Cempa. “What’s a focus?”

“I’m going to regret using that as an example. A focus directs magic. If I want more than a spark, I have to collect sufficient magic to power the spell construct without letting stray magic touch the imprinted aether before I finish ‘poking holes’. Small amounts can be directed ‘by hand’, but trying to guide a large quantity of magic manually is like holding water in your hands with your fingers splayed: by the time it’s where you want it, most of it is gone.

“That sounds infuriating,” said Cempa.

“It is,” said Leth, “unfortunately, foci are both useful and dangerous.”

“There’s more?” said Cempa.

“You’re the one who asked,” said Leth. “Do you want me to continue?” He sounded disappointed.

Damn it, I can’t ask him to stop now, “Please.”

“I can guide magic away while I ‘poke holes’, but it is better to engrave spells onto physical objects. Any object will do, but objects with a high heat tolerance are better. If I use a focus, I can gather magic first, then use the engraved object to imprint the whole spell in the aether almost simultaneously, like a mould. This means both the pattern and the power will be ready at the same time, without me having to guide the magic too much.”

Cempa scratched his head, “I get it. Why are foci dangerous?”

Leth removed his gloves and put them on his knee, “Did you see the hole and split stone in Éaggemeare?”

Cempa nodded.

“That particular work of art was a result of too much power being collected by a poor quality focus, then burning through a construct that was too small to contain it.”

Leth handed Cempa a ring. Cempa held it against the firelight. It was light blue and semi-transparent. He flicked it. A shower of blue sparks sprayed onto his lap and vanished. Cempa jerked back and almost fell on his back. Leth laughed. Cempa recovered and inspected his chasseurs - they were unmarked. Leth held out his hand. Cempa returned the ring.

“That’s where the stone in my ring comes in,” said Leth. “It’s called Feorhhord Gimcynn, it’s an artificial stone formed from condensed magic. Feorhhord Gimcynn can channel more magic than steel, copper, or any other materials before it fails.”

“Fails?” said Cempa.

“A staff is like a pipe. I draw magic in through one end, impress a complete construct in the aether as the magic passes through, then the spell comes out the other end. However, metals melt when you push too much magic through them. When Feorhhord Gimcynn is oversaturated, it disintegrates, rather than burn the Drýmann’s hands. Either way, once stuff starts melting or disintegrating, the symbols lose definition and the spell stops working.”

Leth put his ring and gloves back on, “The gloves help, but they only block a little heat for a short time. I could make my gloves thicker, or the symbols larger, but then I wouldn’t be able to identify the symbols by touch, or have as many spells available. I could also have a thicker staff, but this one is already heavy.”

“What’s the point of Feorhhord Gimcynn?” said Cempa.

“Feorhhord Gimcynn’s makes the best foci as well as the best engraving material. Having a different coloured piece for each element would be the ideal setup, or even a staff composed entirely of the stuff. However, it takes years to collect enough magic to make a tiny gem like this, let alone six large pieces. I don’t have any on my staff.”

“I held a piece of magic?” said Cempa.

Leth smiled, “You did. It’s the only form you’re likely to see it in. Magic always tries to spread itself out. When it’s a liquid, it continuously diffuses like boiling water, and once it’s in the air, most people can’t see it anymore. The solid form is stable, but doesn’t form naturally, as magic will never condense itself to the point where Feorhhord Gimcynn can form.”

“Is it safe to keep on your finger?”

“You do see a few Drýmenn with missing fingers, but not from Feorhhord Gimcynn. I use mine as a training aid. It has a single spell pattern and a tiny, active focus. It is always on and acts like a lighthouse to stop me getting lost,” he waved his hand upwards, “out there.”

Out of body experiences? No wonder the lad spends half his time in a daze.

“To summarise,” said Leth. “I cannot make traps and leave them without spending a ridiculous amount of time with a chisel and a sheet of metal, but I can make traps and activate them if I’m close.”

“What happens if you make a mistake, like draw a shape badly, or put the symbols in the wrong order?”

“The spell fails, explodes, or you discover something new.”

“Is that why you keep a sæx and shield nearby?”

“It is, I could use my staff, but I wouldn’t want to risk distorting the engravings unless I had no choice. Sometimes, a normal weapon is better.”

“Now that’s something I understand,” said Cempa.

Leth shuddered, “I can’t forget the mess I made of the Nihtgengan. Blowing stuff up is fun and I enjoy discovering new patterns, but seeing them in action is horrible.”

Cempa grimaced, “They were ripe little buggers.”

Leth tore a handful of dry grass and let it drift off on the wind.

Cempa pointed at the empty bowl next to Leth, “Are you forgetting something?”

“Right, right. I need to take some food to my father. Please, excuse me.” Leth left.

Cempa grabbed his own bowl from his pack. Péton served him a quarter rack of ribs and a large chunk of seed-filled bread. Cempa returned to his pack and rummaged inside. With a satisfied and secretive flourish, Cempa drew out his secret sauce, a small bottle of black, spicy liquid that made everything taste better. He sprinkled it onto the seared venison and tucked the diminutive bottle back into the bottom of his bag before anyone tried to nick it.

He savoured each bite, taking care not to drop any food. Cempa licked his bowl clean and re-wrapped it in its rag. He lay against his pack, stared at the stars – magic requires time, we don’t know what we’re facing and we don’t know where we’re going. How am I supposed to keep everyone alive?