Cempa sat with Hoff and Mésia Tessel in their hut, keeping an eye on a bored Weard, unable to think of anything to say. How have I managed to know Weard for a whole year, without knowing anything about him?

Everything in the hut had been returned to its place and broken goods had been removed. All that remained of the disastrous phenomenon were the bits of kettle stuck in the walls, like sharp, mocking metal tongues - a visible reminder of how ridiculous his situation was.

Hoff poked at the tiny central fire, sending sparks up to the roof. He coughed, and spat at the feeble flames.

“Do that outside!” said Mésia.

Hoff coughed again and swallowed.

Mésia had ensconced herself in a high chair. A large wad of wool draped over her shoulder. She fed it into her drop spindle. Loose wool passed through her right hand as she spun the newly wound thread with the other until the spindle reached the floor.

Cempa found the process quite hypnotic.

Mésia wound the new thread around the drop spindle and started again. As she repeated the process over and over again, the central stick slowly filled with thread. Mésia finally filled the drop spindle, removed the central stick, and shoved it in a drawer with several others.

Cempa stared at Weard.

Everything is the Ælfscíene’s fault. Cempa corrected himself - Weard’s fault. The lad had practically admitted he’d set Cempa up, sending them both away, but how had Weard known what would happen? He couldn’t have, it was impossible, yet everything had fallen neatly into place.

“Don’t stare at me,” said Weard. “It’s creepy.”

“You’re creepy,” said Cempa.

Weard leered.

The Misthliþ sisters crashed through the door. Cempa twitched.

“Development,” said Milde, gasping.

“Spirit house,” said Clæfre.

Cempa finally regained his focus, “Alright, alright, quit your braying. Tell me what happened.”

Cempa became more and more restless as he listened to the sisters’ story, “I need to see this for myself. We’ll grab Sir Wulfslæd and Leth on the way. Behave yourself, Aelfsc-,” Cempa cleared his throat, “Weard.”

“Like I have a choice,” said Weard.

Cempa, Leth, and Sir Wulfslæd followed the sisters to the house. The sisters stared at the rubble and shivered.

The ruin was draped in thick, grubby mist. Cracked, soot stained walls were scattered over the street and charred timbers littered the burnt, mud floor.

“Bugger me,” said Cempa. “You went in there?”

“The house was supposed to be in once piece!” said Clæfre.

“I believe you know what you think you saw,” said Sir Wulfslæd, “but it’s difficult to confirm when presented with such a fine ruin.”

“I’m starting to think we imagined the whole thing too,” said Milde, “but the ghost’s smile? I’m going to forget that in a hurry.”

“Why is there only mist around the house?” said Cempa.

“For a sprinkling of extra terror?” said Clæfre. “There must be some mystical reason for it, but damned if I know.”

“Letholdus, any further insight you can give us?” said Sir Wulfslæd. “Perhaps without destroying the village green this time.”

“I can try,” said Leth. He sounded petulant. Leth settled on a burnt log in the ruin’s centre. He swayed from side to side, the movement inched his seat forward until it rolled from under him. Leth slid off with a yelp.

“Everything in order?” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“I hope so,” said Leth. He rubbed his temples, “It’s beautiful. There’s energy everywhere, all twisting and turning in random directions.”

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“Could you see where it was coming from?” said Cempa.

“No, there’s even more magic around than yesterday.”

“Can it explain what we saw?” said Milde.

Leth tapped his finger against the broken wall, “There’s enough power here to make almost anything you want and sustain it indefinitely.”

“Then why did the house disappear?” Clæfre said.

“There’s nothing directing it,” said Leth. “I think the magic takes an imprint from what was there before, and once it fades, so does the image. The longer the object was in one place, the stronger the imprint would be, extending the life of the image or even turning it into a true, physical object.”

“Then why did the kettle explode?” said Clæfre.

Irregular steps shuffled towards them. Weard hobbled into the light, supported by Mésia, “I expect, when the power and impression are great enough to make the image solid, both the physical object and the imaginary try to displace each other. As two physical objects cannot exist in the same space, the image disintegrates and the physical object explodes.”

“How did you come up with that?” said Cempa.

“Not much to do but think when you are lying down all day. Milde and Clæfre’s story helped.”

“Letholdus?” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“It’s possible, Sir.”

“Doesn’t help us solve anything,” said Cempa.

“Maybe,” said Weard. “Leth, what colours were the magic?”

“Blue, black, green and yellow.”

“What do colours have to do with it?” said Milde.

“Different colours can mean all sorts of things,” said Leth. “They represent the different elements and help determine the origin of each strand of magic. For example, in a dry area like this, I’d expect to see lots of black, earth-based colours, and few blue, water-based, or yellow, life-based, colours.”

“What’s filled with life, water, and earth, and grows ridiculously big?” said Weard.

“A tree,” said Mésia.

“The Wúduwésten,” said Cempa. “Damn it.”

Weard smiled.

“Then we have our destination,” said Sir Wulfslæd. “I refuse to return to Éabrycg without trying to find out what the problem is. Cempa, ensure we’re ready to leave tomorrow morning.”

“What about me,” said Weard.

“You and Cottrell hold down the fort. We have no idea what’s going on, and given a choice, I’d rather not travel with injured soldiers. Help the villagers as much as you can.”

“I’d rather come with you,” said Weard.

“That’s not going to happen, Tigern. You can barely walk.”

Weard sighed, “I know, Sir.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you that time won’t fix,” said Sir Wulfslæd, “and we’re not in a situation that requires drastic measures. I don’t consider you and Cottrell staying here a waste.”

“You’re going to a place where no-one visits because it’s considered too dangerous. It’s possibly the only chance I’ll ever have to visit the Wúduwésten and I’ll be stuck in bed for the duration. You could find anything: unknown creatures, forgotten spirits, ancient relics, and who knows what else. Doesn’t that excite you?”

“No, Tigern, for I must take my son there, and it fills me with dread.”

Leth stiffened.

The wind picked up, swirling the dust filled mist about their feet. Cempa had to clamp his mouth to stop his teeth from chattering.

“Then perhaps you should have a guide,” said Mésia.

“Are you volunteering?” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“I am.”

“Can you follow orders?”

“If I must.”

“Then I would welcome your assistance, Mrs Tessel.”

Mésia nodded, “Let’s go back, Weard. If you lean on me anymore, I’ll topple.”

“Sorry,” said Weard.

“Would you like me to help?” said Cempa.

“No, thank you,” said Mésia. “I think you’ve done enough.” What has Weard told her? I guess he hasn’t forgiven me yet.

Weard and Mésia left.

“Not sure I can take more excitement,” said Clæfre. “May we be dismissed, Sir?”

“I think we could all do with a little rest,” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“I’ll go with you,” said Leth.

Milde laughed, “Dream on, lovey. Our quarters are the other direction to yours. I’m sure Sir Wulfslæd will keep you company.”

“Come, Letholdus. Surely you won’t refuse a stroll with your old man?”

Leth didn’t reply for a whole ten seconds, “No, Sir, father. I won’t.”

The pair strode into the darkness. A light appeared above Leth’s head. Cempa watched them go. Leth almost had to jog to match Sir Wulfslæd’s pace.

Cempa stared at the stars. Weard did it again, neatly leading me to the conclusion he wants and how the hell did he know about the magic colours?