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“Hexes don’t take apprentices, is what I heard.”

“Yet here you are, nonetheless — come to learn from one you think knows more than you do, without even bringing me proper payment, and having left him behind. Did you not think he might benefit from a lesson or two as well, once his true nature is revealed?”

“Well, it ain’t done that just yet, and I don’t aim to enlighten him, either. He’s hard enough to handle as it is.”

“Mmmh. Selfish, secretive. Spoken like a true . . . hex.”

Rook shrugged. “Takes one to know one,” he suggested.

Again, Grandma glanced down at the fire. “The bird has minutes yet to cook,” she said, “which leaves time for one question.”

Rook had to smile. Carefully: “I’d consider it a kindness to be allowed to know my teacher’s name.”

She clapped her hands. “Ah, more manners! How I love the bilagaana way, so long as greed outweighs the fear which makes you burn down everything you do not recognize. But here is a thing you should know already, and do not: no smart Hataalii ever tells their name, to anyone. Most especially not to their own kind.”

“You know my name.”

Grandma nodded. “Exactly so. The more fool you, for telling me.”

Sparks flew up, and the moon blinked like an eye. Then Rook and she sat opposite each other, cross-legged on the dirt, while each tore at the meat they held, firm and hot and full of juice. The swiftness of it all disturbed Rook a tad, as it was probably meant to.

Grandma gave a small belch and licked her fingers, neatly, ’til they shone clean, while Rook wiped his on the tail of his coat.

“So,” she said, abruptly natural, as though their conversation had never been interrupted, “since you present yourself as my student, you will earn the knowledge of my name — until then, I shall stay Grand-mother. Now . . . let me ask you a question.”

“Ma’am.”

“I told you ‘climb,’ and you climbed. Did you forget how to fly?”

“Well . . .” Rook paused. “Seemed . . . I couldn’t think of quite the right way to put it, if I wanted to.” He saw endless flickering telegraph-transcriptions of Bible-verse fragments scoring its way through his brain’s centre-slice, tendrils digging bright hooks into either lobe, and shivered. “Just couldn’t — find the words.”

“From that Book of yours? Though you yourself know you have done without them, before.”

“True enough. But — ” That was when I had Chess with me.

The sudden truth of it stopped him mid-breath. With blessed courtesy, she gave him a moment to ride it out before answering.

“You still think of yourself as what you were, grandson . . . tied to your bilagaana One-God, even when you know yourself to have already gone beyond His narrow way out into the wider world, where the threads of true Balance may be woven. So when His Book failed you, you climbed. You forgot your own powers, because you thought yourself unworthy of them. That is the first truth.

“The second truth? Your powers are not all you are. To believe you are nothing without them is to be nothing but your own magic. And no Hataalii who makes himself so hollow can still retain his soul.”

“All right, then — yes. It does seem . . . right, somehow.”

“

Even though I might be lying.”

Rook stared at her, hard. “Why would you?” he asked, at last.

A shrug. “Why indeed?”

Those flat eyes, so unreadable in the reddish ebb and flow. Rook made himself meet them nonetheless, thinking: Liked you better by far when you were just one more voice in my head, woman — when you had to tempt, not browbeat, in order to get whatever it was you wanted. But that’s just what always happens, I guess, when the honeymoon’s over.

And with that, sure as iron to a magnet, his thoughts went skittering on back to Chess.

If he was here, this old lady’d be no match for us — it’d be Bewelcome all over again, and she and Mesach Love could lick each other’s wounds in Hell. But, then again — maybe she ain’t lying. Maybe she does want to help. And what am I, in the end, if I need Chess to fight all my worst battles for me?

With deliberate care, he took another small bite of the fowl, chewing it slowly before swallowing — then another, and another. Musing, as his vised stomach began to gradually unclench: Been a long time, for her, I expect — out here, all on her own, no other hex to feed from. She must be starved for company indeed. And yeah, could be she really does mean me well, just has a funny way of showin’ it . . . but even if she don’t, well — I think I can take her.