MAUSREALM

Nettle had discovered that there were two kinds of assignments given to apprentice wizards.

The first kind involved books, dust, copying runes, polishing instruments, fetching water, organizing dried herbs, and pretending not to notice when Mistress Thistlewick forgot where she had placed something only moments before.

The second kind usually began with Mistress Thistlewick saying, “This should be simple.”

Nettle had grown suspicious of the word simple.

She stood beside the broad worktable in Thistlewick’s study with both paws resting on the edge while her teacher searched through a wooden cabinet built directly into the wall of Heartroot.

The study occupied a chamber in the Scholar’s Tier of Mausrealm, where several of the great oak’s roots curved together and created naturally enclosed rooms. Generations of mice had shaped those chambers carefully rather than cutting through the living wood. Shelves followed the bends of the root walls. Small brass lanterns hung from hooks driven into old stone between the roots. Books filled nearly every available surface.

Nettle had been told several times that a wizard could never own too many books.

She had also learned that a wizard could certainly own too few shelves.

Mistress Thistlewick disappeared farther into the cabinet.

Several jars rattled.

Something fell.

Nettle heard a muttered word she was fairly certain apprentices were not supposed to hear from teachers.

“Do you need help?”

“No.”

Another object fell.

Nettle waited.

“No,” Thistlewick repeated.

“I did not move.”

“I heard you thinking about it.”

Nettle folded her paws.

Mistress Thistlewick finally emerged holding a small leather case.

She was an older grey mouse with white fur around her muzzle and an unfortunate habit of pushing her spectacles onto the top of her head and then accusing other people of moving them. Her robes were dark green, clean at the beginning of most mornings, and usually stained with ink by noon.

It was not yet noon.

There was already ink on one sleeve.

Thistlewick placed the case on the table.

“Lowroot.”

Nettle looked at the case.

Then at her teacher.

“What about it?”

“You are going there.”

“Why?”

“To fix a lantern.”

Nettle waited.

Thistlewick waited longer.

“That is all?”

“That is generally what one does when a lantern needs fixing.”

“You said Lowroot.”

“I did.”

“There must be fifty lanterns in Lowroot.”

“More than that.”

“And you know which one is broken?”

“I should hope so.”

Nettle narrowed her eyes.

Mistress Thistlewick slid the leather case across the table.

“This should be simple.”

Nettle closed her eyes.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“That word.”

“What word?”

“Simple.”

Thistlewick reached up, found her spectacles already on her head, and pulled them down onto her nose.

“You have developed a distressing mistrust of perfectly ordinary vocabulary.”

“The last simple assignment involved a centipede.”

“A small centipede.”

“It was longer than I am tall.”

“Only because you insist on being short.”

Nettle stared at her.

Thistlewick’s whiskers twitched.

Nettle took the case.

“What is wrong with the lantern?”

“The wardlight flickers. The wickstone has been replaced twice. The housing has been cleaned. The local lamplighter believes the enchantment is failing.”

“Why does he not bring it here?”

“Because it is mounted into a root junction that supplies several neighboring lamps.”

Nettle opened the leather case.

Inside were three small tools, a coil of copper thread, two pieces of polished quartz, a tin of binding wax, and a narrow wand carved from pale ash.

She looked up.

“You are sending me into an active conduit?”

“I am sending you to inspect one.”

“That is different?”

“Very.”

“How?”

“If I were sending you into one, I would have given you thicker gloves.”

Nettle looked back into the case.

There were no gloves.

She shut it.

“Comforting.”

“You know the binding sequence.”

“Yes.”

“You know how to disconnect a wardlight.”

“Yes.”

“You know what happens if you touch a live conduit with both paws.”

Nettle hesitated.

Thistlewick raised an eyebrow.

“I know what you told me happens.”

“That will do.”

Nettle slipped the case into the satchel hanging at her side.

Her staff rested beside the door. It was slightly taller than she was, made from a straight branch of Heartroot that had fallen naturally during a storm many years before her birth. The wood had been polished smooth, though she had already managed to scratch the lower section against several doorframes.

A small amber crystal sat within a simple brass cradle at the top.

She collected it.

“Which lantern?”

“Lowroot Lane. Third bridge below Millcross. Ask for Mister Cobble.”

“The lamplighter?”

“The baker.”

Nettle frowned.

“Why am I asking a baker about a broken lantern?”

“Because he reported it.”

“Where is the lamplighter?”

“He reported the baker.”

Nettle stopped halfway through fastening her cloak.

“For what?”

“Interfering with the lantern.”

“Did he?”

“I do not know. That is why you are going.”

Nettle stared at her teacher.

Thistlewick had already returned to her workbench.

“You knew there was more to this.”

“I knew there was a lantern.”

“And an argument.”

“There is always an argument in Lowroot.”

Nettle opened the door.

“Nettle.”

She looked back.

Thistlewick pointed toward her staff.

“Do not use fire magic inside the rootworks.”

“I know.”

“You knew last time.”

“That was different.”

“You set a curtain on fire.”

“The spider was large.”

“The curtain was larger.”

Nettle left before the conversation could become less favorable.

The Scholar’s Tier occupied one of the quieter portions of Mausrealm.

Lowroot did not.

She crossed the first of the narrow root bridges leading away from the schools and archives, descending gradually into the central city. Mausrealm opened around her in layers.

Heartroot’s roots formed the foundation of nearly everything.

Some descended straight through the earth. Others curved outward, crossed one another, or rose high enough to create natural arches. Mouse builders had spent generations filling the spaces between them with timber platforms, stone supports, suspended bridges, stairways, homes, halls, shops, mills, storerooms, and public chambers.

Very little was level.

Nettle descended twenty-seven steps, crossed a bridge, climbed eleven steps, passed beneath another root, then descended again.

She knew this because she had counted them as a child.

She still counted them when nobody was watching.

Above her, lanterns hung along the main walkways. Their soft golden glow illuminated carved signs over shop doors and reflected from polished copper pipes carrying water through the city.

Mice hurried in both directions.

A porter pushed a two-wheeled cart loaded with acorns.

Two young mice in red school cloaks argued over a slate.

A mother carried a sleeping pup against her shoulder while balancing a basket of dried mushrooms on one hip.

Somewhere below, a hammer struck metal repeatedly.

Somewhere above, a bell rang twice.

Mausrealm did not wake in the morning because it never entirely slept.

Nettle passed into Marketcross.

The air changed immediately.

She smelled fresh bread, dried berries, toasted seeds, beeswax, damp wood, mushroom broth, and whatever Mister Fenwick was cooking at his corner stall.

Nettle had never asked what it was.

She had made that mistake once.

The answer had involved beetles.

She continued walking.

“Nettle!”

She stopped.

A young brown mouse leaned across a market counter.

Pip wore the pale apron of an apprentice healer, though the collection of seed cakes in front of him suggested healing was not currently his priority.

“Where are you going?”

“Lowroot.”

Pip’s expression changed.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you being sent to Lowroot?”

“I am repairing a lantern.”

Pip considered this.

“That sounds dull.”

“It should be simple.”

He immediately looked concerned.

Nettle pointed at him.

“Exactly.”

“You want me to come?”

“No.”

“I have bandages.”

“I am repairing a lantern.”

“You said simple.”

Nettle continued walking.

Pip called after her.

“I will keep the bandages ready.”

She lifted one paw without turning around.

Marketcross ended at a broad stairway descending between two massive roots.

The architecture changed as Nettle went lower.

Upper Mausrealm had been expanded carefully over the centuries with clean timberwork and newer stone. Lowroot was older.

Much older.

Some of its walls had been carved directly from packed earth and reinforced with wood darkened by age. Walkways were narrower. Homes crowded against one another. Bridges crossed overhead in several layers, joining chambers wherever builders had found space.

Laundry hung from lines between balconies.

Children ran through alleys barely wide enough for Nettle’s shoulders.

A mouse carrying three baskets nearly collided with her and blamed her immediately.

“Wizard.”

“Basket.”

He stopped.

Nettle stopped.

They looked at one another.

The mouse grunted and continued on.

Nettle decided she had won.

She reached Millcross and found the third bridge.

A sign hung beneath it.

COBBLE’S OVENS.

Nettle entered.

Heat reached her immediately.

The bakery occupied a wide chamber tucked beneath one of the bridge supports. Three clay ovens filled the rear wall. Shelves held loaves made from seed flour and ground grain. Small berry pies cooled on wooden trays.

A thickset mouse with flour covering both forearms looked up from kneading dough.

“You the wizard?”

“Apprentice wizard.”

His expression became less pleased.

“I asked for a wizard.”

“You received one.”

“You said apprentice.”

“It is still part of the word.”

Mister Cobble wiped his paws on his apron.

“The lamp is outside.”

Nettle followed him.

The lantern stood at the corner where Lowroot Lane crossed beneath the bridge.

It was an old iron housing mounted directly against one of Heartroot’s secondary roots. A yellow wardlight glowed behind cloudy glass.

Nettle watched it.

Nothing happened.

She looked at Cobble.

“What is wrong with it?”

“Wait.”

She waited.

The lantern flickered.

Then steadied.

Nettle leaned closer.

“It does that?”

“All day.”

She opened her satchel.

The lantern went dark.

Nettle stopped.

Mister Cobble folded his arms.

“Told you.”

Nettle stepped closer and raised her staff.

The amber crystal brightened enough for her to inspect the housing.

Something clicked faintly inside the wall.

Then the lantern across the lane went out.

Nettle turned.

A second lantern farther down flickered.

It died.

Another followed.

One by one, the lights along Lowroot Lane disappeared.

Conversation stopped around them.

Mice emerged from shops.

Windows opened.

Nettle watched the darkness advance along the street until the final visible lantern vanished around the bend.

Mister Cobble looked at her.

“So.”

Nettle tightened her grip around her staff.

From somewhere beneath the wooden walkway came a faint scratching sound.

Then another.

Nettle looked down.

Mister Cobble did the same.

“That,” he said quietly, “is new.”

Nettle lowered the end of her staff toward the wooden walkway.

The scratching stopped.

Mister Cobble leaned forward beside her.

“Did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Make it stop.”

“No.”

“Can you?”

“I can make you stop talking.”

Cobble looked at her.

Nettle looked back.

“I was asking about the scratching.”

“So was I.”

The scratching started again.

This time it came from farther down the walkway.

Nettle straightened.

Lowroot Lane had changed considerably in the few moments since the lanterns failed. The shops were still there. The bridges still crossed between the thick roots overhead. Laundry remained suspended from lines between balconies, and the smell of Cobble’s bread still came through the bakery door.

The light was gone.

Only the amber crystal at the end of Nettle’s staff illuminated the immediate street. A few shopkeepers had brought candles to their doors. Others held oil lamps or small pieces of glowstone.

Those lights were made for homes.

They did little for a street.

Mice gathered beneath them anyway.

Nettle walked to the first dead lantern.

“Where are you going?”

She glanced over her shoulder.

Cobble had followed her.

“To the lantern.”

“You were already at a lantern.”

“There are now several broken lanterns.”

“That seems worse.”

“Thank you, Mister Cobble.”

“For what?”

“Confirming my suspicions.”

He grunted.

Nettle reached the second lantern.

It was mounted against the side of a thick root where the lane narrowed between two buildings. She raised her staff and examined the iron housing.

No broken glass.

No damage.

No scorch marks.

She placed her satchel on the walkway and removed the pale ash wand Mistress Thistlewick had given her.

Cobble bent closer.

“What does that do?”

“It detects residual magic.”

“Oh.”

Nettle touched the wand to the iron housing.

Nothing happened.

She frowned.

Cobble cleared his throat.

“Very impressive.”

“It should glow.”

“It did not.”

“I noticed.”

“So it is broken?”

“No.”

“The lantern?”

“The wand.”

“You have a broken wand?”

Nettle gave him a look.

“The wand is not broken.”

Cobble folded his arms.

“Then I am confused.”

“I am aware.”

Nettle touched the wand to the amber crystal on her staff.

A thin blue light appeared along the wand’s carved markings.

She touched it to the lantern again.

Nothing.

Nettle’s irritation disappeared.

That was wrong.

Even a failed wardlight should retain some magical residue. The enchantments used throughout Mausrealm were designed to maintain themselves for years. Their energy faded slowly when damaged. A completely exhausted wickstone might produce only a faint response, but it would produce something.

This lantern was empty.

Nettle returned to the first lantern outside Cobble’s bakery.

She tested it.

Nothing.

“Both?”

She nodded.

Cobble rubbed his chin.

“Someone stole the magic?”

“That is not how magic works.”

“Someone took it.”

“That might be how this magic is working.”

Cobble appeared satisfied.

Nettle was not.

A voice called from farther up the lane.

“Make way.”

The gathering mice separated.

A thin mouse wearing a brown work coat came toward them carrying a ladder over one shoulder and a heavy leather tool bag in the opposite paw. A brass badge in the shape of a lantern was pinned to his collar.

He put the ladder down.

Then he looked at Cobble.

“You.”

Cobble sighed.

“Here we go.”

The newcomer pointed at him.

“I told you not to touch the housing.”

“I did not touch your precious housing.”

“You hang your bakery sign from the same root.”

“I have been hanging that sign there for nineteen years.”

“And I have been telling you for nineteen years not to.”

Nettle stepped between them.

“Are you the lamplighter?”

The mouse looked down at her.

“Master Wick.”

“Nettle.”

“I know.”

Nettle waited.

Master Wick looked at her blue cloak, then at the staff.

“Thistlewick sent an apprentice?”

“Yes.”

He looked displeased.

Nettle was becoming accustomed to that reaction.

“Do you want the lantern fixed?”

“I want all of them fixed.”

“Then perhaps we could begin without discussing my age.”

Cobble laughed.

Master Wick turned on him.

“You can go back to your ovens.”

“They are my lanterns too.”

“They belong to Mausrealm.”

“My taxes pay for them.”

“Your taxes barely pay for the amount of flour you track into the street.”

Nettle put two fingers against her forehead.

“Both of you stop.”

They did.

She was mildly surprised.

Nettle pointed to the lantern.

“I tested the wardlight. There is no residual magic.”

Master Wick’s expression changed.

“None?”

“Nothing.”

He crouched beside the housing.

“That is impossible.”

“So I have been told.”

Master Wick removed a narrow iron key from his coat and unlocked the lantern.

The front panel swung open.

Inside sat a polished piece of quartz surrounded by thin copper wire. The wickstone appeared undamaged.

Master Wick removed it carefully.

Nettle touched the ash wand to its surface.

Nothing.

Master Wick looked down the dark lane.

“There are twenty-eight lamps on this conduit.”

“How many are out?”

“Seven that I can see.”

“Eight,” Cobble said.

Master Wick frowned.

“The corner lamp is gone.”

They turned.

The light at the far intersection flickered twice.

Then died.

Nine.

Nettle put the ash wand away.

“Show me where the conduit enters Lowroot.”

Master Wick stared at her.

“You think it is the feed?”

“I think standing here watching lanterns go dark is not repairing them.”

That was enough.

Master Wick collected his ladder.

They headed deeper into Lowroot.

Cobble followed.

Master Wick looked back.

“Why are you coming?”

“Because I live here.”

“You have bread in the oven.”

“My daughter is minding it.”

“You trust her with three ovens?”

“I trust her more than I trust you with lanterns.”

Nettle walked faster.

Lowroot Lane descended sharply after the bakery.

The district became denser as they went.

Nettle had visited Lowroot before, but never this far into its older neighborhoods. Houses filled nearly every usable hollow between Heartroot’s secondary roots. Some had round wooden doors painted red, green, or blue. Others had stone fronts fitted carefully into the packed earth.

Small bridges connected upper homes.

Wooden gutters carried water alongside the streets.

A wheel turned slowly beneath a narrow waterfall and drove a series of belts disappearing through the wall of a workshop.

Nettle could hear machinery inside.

The darkness had altered everything.

Shopkeepers were closing shutters.

Parents called children indoors.

A mouse stood on a stool lighting candles along the front of a vegetable stall while his wife packed baskets.

Nettle stopped.

“Why are you closing?”

The merchant looked at her as though the answer were obvious.

“The wardlights are failing.”

“They are lights.”

“They are wards.”

Nettle knew that.

She also knew she had not considered what that meant to the mice who lived here.

Master Wick set down his ladder.

“Lowroot is close to the old service tunnels.”

Cobble nodded toward the dark spaces beneath the walkways.

“Things come through sometimes.”

“What things?”

The vegetable merchant answered.

“Things that belong outside.”

Nettle looked toward Master Wick.

“Insects?”

“Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

Master Wick picked up the ladder.

“You wanted to see the conduit.”

Nettle followed.

The street continued downward until it reached a broad circular platform built around one of Heartroot’s roots. Three roads separated from there. A public fountain stood at the center, its water spilling from an acorn-shaped copper pipe into a stone basin.

The fountain had stopped.

Nettle noticed immediately.

“Is that connected to the lanterns?”

“No,” Master Wick said.

“Then why is it not running?”

“It was this morning.”

Nettle approached the basin.

There was still water in it.

She touched the surface.

Cold.

She examined the copper outlet.

Something dark clung to its edge.

Nettle rubbed it between her fingers.

Dirt.

No.

Not dirt.

Fine pieces of bark.

She looked toward the enormous root beside the fountain.

A narrow crack ran along its lower edge.

Nettle raised her staff.

The amber light illuminated fresh scratches in the wood.

Master Wick crouched beside her.

“Those were not there yesterday.”

Cobble leaned over both of them.

“What made them?”

Nettle studied the marks.

They were too small for claws.

There were dozens of them.

Possibly hundreds.

“Something has been chewing.”

Cobble stepped away from the root.

Master Wick stood.

“That conduit is on the other side.”

Nettle followed the direction of his paw.

A narrow passage led beneath an old stone arch.

The lantern at its entrance flickered.

All three watched.

The glow weakened.

Brightened.

Then disappeared.

Ten.

A murmur spread through the mice gathered behind them.

Nettle heard a child begin to cry.

She tightened her grip on the staff.

“Take me to the main junction.”

Master Wick did not argue this time.

They passed beneath the arch.

The lane beyond was considerably older.

The wooden bridges were lower. Some roots had grown around their supports, trapping sections of railing inside living wood. Doorways had been altered where roots had thickened. Old carvings remained visible on stone walls between newer repairs.

Nettle slowed.

She saw mice standing in their doorways.

They were not watching Master Wick.

They were watching her.

The blue cloak.

The staff.

The apprentice wizard.

Nettle suddenly wished Mistress Thistlewick had sent someone else.

A lantern died overhead.

Eleven.

Then another.

Twelve.

The darkness continued ahead of them.

Nettle's staff became the strongest light on the street.

Master Wick stopped before a round iron plate set into a root wall.

“Main junction.”

The plate was nearly as tall as Nettle.

Three copper lines entered it from above. Four more disappeared beneath the walkway.

She knelt and opened her satchel.

“Everyone move back.”

Cobble moved back immediately.

Master Wick did not.

“I maintain this system.”

“And I am about to open the magical conduit you maintain.”

He considered that.

Then he took two steps back.

Nettle removed the binding wax, copper thread, and ash wand.

She touched the wand to the iron plate.

Blue light raced across the carvings.

Nettle exhaled.

“There is still power here.”

Master Wick leaned closer.

“How much?”

“Enough.”

“For what?”

“I do not know yet.”

“That is not reassuring.”

“You are welcome to return to arguing with Mister Cobble.”

“I heard that,” Cobble said.

“You were intended to.”

Nettle fitted the ash wand into a small opening near the center of the plate and turned it.

The lock released.

She pulled.

The iron plate opened several inches.

Warm golden light escaped through the gap.

Then something moved inside.

Nettle stopped.

Master Wick saw it too.

“What was that?”

Nettle opened the plate farther.

The interior contained a dense network of copper threads woven around a central piece of quartz. The stone glowed weakly.

Several of the copper threads were black.

Not burned.

Empty.

Nettle raised the staff.

There were tiny scratches along the interior wood.

The same marks they had found beside the fountain.

Something clicked below them.

Nettle looked down.

A second click answered from beneath the walkway.

Then came the scratching.

Louder now.

Mice began backing away.

Master Wick whispered, “Close it.”

Nettle did not.

The quartz dimmed.

Another lantern died behind them.

Then another.

The golden light inside the junction weakened until only Nettle's staff remained.

A mouse called from somewhere farther down the street.

“My lamp!”

Another voice answered.

Then another.

The darkness was spreading faster.

Nettle shut the junction plate and stood.

She turned toward the growing crowd.

There were shopkeepers, workers, parents and children. Some held candles. Others carried household lamps. Several had nothing.

Every one of them was looking at her.

Nettle swallowed.

She was an apprentice.

She had come to Lowroot expecting to repair one lantern.

Now an entire district was losing power.

Master Wick stepped beside her.

“What do we do?”

Nettle looked at him.

He was not asking Mistress Thistlewick.

He was asking her.

Nettle raised her staff higher.

“Get every household off the lower walkways. Nobody goes into the service passages. Have the shops distribute whatever candles and oil they can spare.”

Cobble nodded.

“What about you?”

Nettle looked toward the dark opening beneath the walkway.

The scratching came again.

Whatever was moving below them had found the magical conduit.

And it was still feeding.

“I am going underneath.”

Cobble stared at her.

“Alone?”

Nettle opened her satchel and checked the tools Mistress Thistlewick had given her.

She finally understood why her teacher had packed them.

“I am the wizard.”

Another lantern went out.

Lowroot grew darker.

Master Wick found the maintenance entrance beneath the public fountain.

Nettle had expected a door.

She got a hole.

A section of wooden skirting had been removed from beneath the lower walkway, revealing a narrow opening between two of Heartroot’s secondary roots. Iron brackets lined the sides. A small ladder descended into darkness.

Nettle stood at the edge and looked down.

“How far?”

Master Wick held his lamp over the opening.

“Twenty feet.”

“You said this was a maintenance passage.”

“It is.”

“For whom?”

“Mice.”

“Very thin mice?”

Cobble crouched beside them.

“You will fit.”

Nettle looked at him.

“Thank you.”

“I meant because you are small.”

“I understood.”

Cobble apparently recognized his mistake and returned to helping Lowroot residents move away from the darkened streets.

The evacuation was proceeding quickly.

Candles had appeared in windows. Oil lamps hung from hooks outside several homes. Families from the lower walkways climbed toward the upper streets carrying baskets, blankets, sleeping pups, and whatever possessions they considered too important to leave behind.

Nettle watched an elderly mouse trying to carry a chair.

“Why is he taking that?”

Master Wick glanced over.

“That is Mister Barley.”

“I asked about the chair.”

“He always sits in it.”

“There are chairs elsewhere.”

“Tell him.”

Nettle considered it.

“No.”

Master Wick handed her a small iron key.

“There are three access plates between here and the eastern junction. This opens all of them.”

Nettle slipped it into her satchel.

“Anything else?”

“Do not damage the copper.”

“I was thinking more about dangers.”

“Oh.”

Master Wick rubbed his muzzle.

“Beetles sometimes get into the service tunnels.”

“What kind?”

“Various.”

“That is not a kind.”

“Silverbacks. Grain beetles. Burrow beetles.”

“Anything that bites?”

“Everything bites if you annoy it enough.”

Nettle stared at him.

“That is very useful.”

“There should not be anything large down there.”

“Should not?”

“The wardlights keep them away.”

Nettle looked along the darkened street.

“Yes. Those.”

Master Wick followed her gaze.

“Right.”

Nettle sat on the edge of the opening.

Her staff presented an immediate problem.

She lowered it first.

The amber crystal illuminated the bottom of the shaft.

Packed earth.

A narrow platform.

Nothing moving.

Good.

Nettle climbed onto the ladder.

Master Wick leaned over the opening.

“If you find damage to the main conduit, do not attempt a complete repair.”

“Why?”

“Because you are an apprentice.”

Nettle looked up.

“You waited until I was halfway down to remember that?”

“You seemed sensitive about it earlier.”

She continued descending.

The sounds of Lowroot faded as she went.

By the time her feet reached the bottom, she could barely hear the mice above.

Nettle lifted her staff.

The maintenance passage extended in both directions.

It was barely high enough for her to stand upright. Heartroot’s roots formed much of the walls and ceiling, with packed earth filling the gaps between them. Mouse builders had reinforced weak sections with timber braces and flat stones.

Copper wire ran along the ceiling.

Water pipes followed the left wall.

A shallow drainage channel had been cut into the floor.

Nettle looked up.

“I am down.”

Master Wick’s face appeared in the opening.

“I can see that.”

“Then why did I tell you?”

“I was wondering.”

Nettle stepped away from the ladder.

“Close the panel.”

His expression changed.

“You want it closed?”

“If whatever is down here tries to climb into Lowroot, I would rather it meet a door.”

Master Wick considered that.

The panel slid into place.

Nettle was alone.

She stood quietly.

The amber crystal illuminated perhaps twenty feet of tunnel in either direction.

Water dripped somewhere ahead.

A pipe gave a soft metallic knock.

Nothing else moved.

Nettle adjusted the strap of her satchel and checked the copper conduit overhead.

The line running west still carried magic. She could see a faint golden light within the small quartz junctions positioned at regular intervals.

The eastern line was dark.

That decided her direction.

Nettle walked east.

The passage narrowed.

Her cloak brushed the wall.

She stopped after several steps and pulled the fabric tighter around herself.

“Excellent adventuring garment,” she muttered.

The cloak caught again.

Nettle tugged it free.

She understood why Mistress Thistlewick preferred robes.

She did not understand how Mistress Thistlewick managed to go anywhere in them.

Nettle continued.

The first access plate appeared ahead.

She knelt.

The iron cover was scratched.

Nettle touched the marks.

They matched those beside the fountain.

Small.

Numerous.

Fresh.

She removed Master Wick’s key and opened the plate.

A weak golden glow came from inside.

The copper lines were intact.

Nettle took out the ash wand.

It glowed blue when she touched the first line.

The second produced a weaker response.

The third produced none.

She examined it closely.

The copper itself was undamaged.

No break.

No burn.

No corrosion.

The magic was simply gone.

Nettle closed the plate.

Something scratched ahead.

She froze.

The sound lasted only a moment.

Nettle raised her staff.

“Hello?”

Nothing answered.

She immediately felt foolish.

If something living in a dark service tunnel understood polite greetings, she doubted Lowroot needed wardlights to keep it away.

Nettle moved forward.

The tunnel turned sharply around a thick root.

Beyond it, the floor dropped several inches.

She stepped down.

Her foot landed in water.

Nettle stopped.

Cold water covered her toes.

She looked at the drainage channel.

It had overflowed.

Leaves, bark and dirt blocked a narrow grate.

Nettle crouched and pulled the debris free.

Water rushed through.

Something pale moved beneath the leaves.

Nettle jerked her paw away.

A small white grub wriggled across the floor.

She stared at it.

The grub continued toward the wall.

Nettle exhaled.

“You are fortunate I am disciplined.”

The grub disappeared into a crack.

Nettle stood.

A hard clicking sound came from behind her.

She turned.

Nothing.

Another click.

Closer.

Nettle backed against the root.

The light from her staff moved across the passage.

A dark shape clung to the ceiling.

Nettle saw legs.

Six of them.

The creature dropped.

She jumped aside.

A beetle landed where she had been standing.

It was almost half her size.

Its shell was dark brown, with a broad black stripe running along its back. Thick mandibles opened beneath its head.

Nettle recognized it.

“Burrow beetle.”

The beetle advanced.

Nettle backed away.

“I am not food.”

The beetle continued.

“That information was for you.”

Its mandibles snapped.

Nettle raised her staff.

The amber crystal brightened.

The beetle stopped.

Nettle remembered Mistress Thistlewick’s warning.

No fire.

That eliminated three spells she knew.

Two others required more room.

One would probably collapse the tunnel.

Nettle had been specifically instructed not to do that again.

The beetle moved.

Nettle struck the floor with the base of her staff.

A sharp pulse of blue-white light filled the passage.

The beetle recoiled.

Nettle struck again.

Another flash.

The creature turned away.

“Good.”

The beetle stopped.

“No.”

It turned back.

Nettle reached into her satchel.

Her paw closed around the tin of binding wax.

She threw it.

The tin struck the wall beyond the beetle and clattered along the floor.

The creature spun toward the sound.

Nettle struck her staff against the ground again.

Light flashed behind it.

The beetle scurried forward, following the noise of the rolling tin.

Nettle waited until it disappeared around the bend.

She lowered her staff.

“Disciplined.”

Something clicked behind her.

Nettle slowly turned.

A second beetle stood in the tunnel.

Then a third crawled from behind a timber support.

Nettle's ears lowered.

“Oh.”

The beetles advanced.

Nettle backed away.

She could not return the way she had come without passing them.

The nearest beetle opened its mandibles.

Nettle looked at the conduit overhead.

Quartz junction.

Copper.

Magic.

Light.

She raised the ash wand and touched it to the conduit.

“Sorry, Master Wick.”

The wand glowed.

Nettle twisted it.

The junction opened.

Golden light spilled into the tunnel.

The beetles stopped.

Nettle drew a short length of copper thread from her satchel and wrapped it around the wand.

She touched the other end to her staff.

The amber crystal became painfully bright.

Nettle shut her eyes.

She pushed magic through the crystal.

The passage filled with intense golden light.

The beetles retreated immediately.

Their legs scraped against wood and stone as they fled.

Nettle held the spell.

One second.

Two.

Three.

The copper thread grew hot.

She released it.

The light returned to normal.

Nettle opened her eyes.

The beetles were gone.

The copper thread smoked.

She dropped it.

“Very disciplined.”

Nettle closed the junction and continued.

She found the second access plate twenty yards farther along.

It was completely dead.

The third was worse.

The scratches covered nearly the entire housing.

Nettle crouched beside it.

Something had been here for some time.

She opened the plate.

Empty.

Not damaged.

Not broken.

Drained.

Nettle touched the wood beside the conduit.

Warm.

She followed the warmth along the root.

The passage ended at what appeared to be a solid wall.

Nettle lifted her staff.

A section of the root had grown across an older tunnel.

At least, that was what she thought at first.

Then she noticed a narrow opening near the floor.

Scratches surrounded it.

Nettle knelt.

Warm air came through.

So did a faint golden light.

She lowered herself onto her stomach and pushed the staff ahead.

The opening was narrow.

Nettle squeezed through.

Her satchel caught.

She pulled.

Nothing.

She pulled harder.

The buckle scraped against the root.

Nettle stopped.

“This is why adventurers wear fewer bags.”

She backed out, removed the satchel, pushed it through first, and followed.

The passage beyond was wider.

Much wider.

Nettle stood.

Her staff was no longer the brightest thing in the chamber.

Tiny points of golden-green light covered the walls.

Hundreds.

Nettle did not move.

The lights shifted.

Some climbed across the roots.

Others hung beneath leaves and pieces of bark gathered into small clusters.

Nettle stepped closer.

One of the lights moved toward her.

A tiny beetle crawled onto a root.

Its abdomen glowed softly.

Another appeared.

Then another.

Nettle raised her staff.

The chamber became visible.

The floor was covered with bark, dried leaves and pieces of moss.

Small beetles moved everywhere.

Dozens became hundreds as her eyes adjusted.

They crowded around a copper conduit running directly through the chamber.

The wire was almost completely dark.

Several beetles clung to it.

Others gathered around tiny pale shapes nestled beneath the moss.

Nettle leaned closer.

Eggs.

A nest.

No.

Not one nest.

A colony.

She slowly lowered her staff.

The scratching sound that had frightened Lowroot came from hundreds of tiny legs moving across bark and wood.

Nettle looked at the dead conduit.

Then at the glowing beetles.

One crawled onto the end of her staff.

Its abdomen brightened.

Nettle stared at it.

“You.”

The beetle cleaned one antenna with its front legs.

Nettle looked around the chamber.

“You are eating our lanterns.”

Hundreds of tiny lights continued moving around her.

Nettle reached for her satchel.

Then she noticed something beyond the colony.

The rear wall of the chamber was broken.

A massive section of Heartroot had split near the base, crushing what had once been another passage. Fresh wood showed inside the fracture. Pieces of an old nest lay scattered beneath it.

Nettle looked back at the beetles.

They had not come here because of the lanterns.

They had come because their home was gone.

A low hum passed through the conduit.

Every beetle in the chamber stopped moving.

Nettle did too.

The remaining golden light in the copper line faded.

One by one, the glow beetles brightened.

Above her, somewhere beyond the roots, another section of Lowroot went dark.

Nettle stood in the middle of the colony and realized exactly where the missing magic had gone.

Nettle counted twenty-three glow beetles before deciding that counting them was pointless.

There were hundreds.

Perhaps thousands.

They covered the roots above her, moved through the moss beneath her feet, and clustered around the copper conduit that supplied Lowroot's lanterns. Their glowing abdomens filled the chamber with enough pale gold light for Nettle to lower her staff.

She watched one beetle settle against the conduit.

Its abdomen brightened.

The copper beneath it dimmed.

Nettle frowned.

“Well, that answers one question.”

The beetle continued feeding.

“You are definitely stealing our magic.”

Several more joined it.

Nettle stepped closer.

The creatures were smaller than the burrow beetles she had encountered in the maintenance tunnel. Most were barely larger than her paw. Their shells were smooth and dark, with thin yellow markings along their sides. The light came from beneath the rear portions of their bodies.

They were not aggressive.

That was helpful.

Nettle crouched beside the conduit.

She opened her satchel and removed the ash wand.

The moment she touched it to the copper, blue light flashed across the wand.

Weak.

Very weak.

She moved farther along the line and tested it again.

Almost nothing.

The colony had drained nearly everything.

Nettle sat back.

“That is inconvenient.”

A beetle crawled across the toe of her boot.

Nettle waited for it to pass.

She had read about glow beetles.

Mistress Thistlewick had an entire book concerning insects found around the upper roots of Heartroot. Nettle remembered several illustrations and a long section about breeding habits that had been considerably less interesting than the illustrations.

Glow beetles preferred warmth.

They ate fungus, soft bark, decaying leaves and small insects.

They did not eat magic.

At least the book had never mentioned it.

Nettle looked at the beetle on the conduit.

“You have apparently expanded your diet.”

She pulled her notebook from the satchel.

A glow beetle crawled onto it.

Nettle lifted the book.

The beetle remained.

“I need that.”

It cleaned its antenna.

Nettle gently pushed it onto the root.

She opened the notebook and began writing.

Glow beetles. Large colony. Eastern Lowroot conduit. Feeding directly from wardlight enchantment.

She paused.

Why?

Nettle looked toward the rear of the chamber.

The broken root was large enough to have crushed most of the old nesting area. Pieces of bark and moss remained beneath it. She could see small tunnels bored into the damaged wood.

She closed the notebook.

The easy solution was obvious.

Remove the beetles.

The fastest solution was even more obvious.

Nettle knew three spells that could kill most of the colony before the insects understood they were in danger.

One involved fire.

Mistress Thistlewick would kill her herself if she used that one beneath Heartroot.

The second produced a violent burst of magical force.

That would probably damage the conduit.

The third created a poisonous vapor.

Nettle had never used it.

She did not particularly want to.

There were eggs in the moss.

Larvae moved among the pieces of soft bark.

This was not a group of insects feeding on a convenient source of magic.

This was their home.

Or it was now.

Nettle sighed.

“Why could you not have been horrible?”

A beetle flew past her ear.

“That would have made this considerably easier.”

She crossed the chamber.

The damaged section of root was worse than she had first thought.

Heartroot had grown around older damage, leaving a thick ridge of hardened wood. A newer fracture had broken through that section. The collapse had crushed the original beetle chambers and forced the colony toward the maintenance tunnels.

Nettle ran her paw over the exposed wood.

Still damp.

Recent.

She looked upward.

The root disappeared into darkness.

The tremors beneath Mausrealm might have caused it.

She did not know.

For now, she had an entire district without wardlights.

Nettle turned back toward the colony.

“You need somewhere else to live.”

The beetles ignored her.

“I am pleased we agree.”

She searched the chamber.

There were two exits.

The narrow opening through which she had entered led back toward Lowroot. A second passage disappeared behind the collapsed nesting chamber, but most of it was blocked.

Nettle pushed aside a piece of bark.

Cool air touched her whiskers.

There was space beyond it.

She raised her staff.

“Lumen.”

The amber crystal brightened.

Nettle squeezed between the damaged root and the packed-earth wall.

The passage was narrow for several feet before opening again.

She emerged into another chamber.

This one was empty.

Nettle lifted her staff higher.

It was smaller than the beetle colony's current home but large enough to hold them. Dry moss covered part of the floor. Several pieces of decayed wood lay against one wall.

More importantly, no active conduit passed through it.

Nettle smiled.

“There you are.”

She walked around the chamber.

There was enough warmth.

Enough space.

The beetles could nest here.

She only needed to convince hundreds of insects to move.

Nettle's smile disappeared.

“Right.”

She walked toward the rear wall.

Her staff illuminated a section of exposed stone between Heartroot's roots.

Nettle stopped.

The stone did not belong there.

Mausrealm's builders used stone wherever roots could not safely support structures, but this section was far older than anything she had seen in Lowroot.

Large blocks had been fitted together without mortar.

Their surfaces were worn smooth.

Nettle moved closer.

The wall continued behind the root on both sides.

This had once been part of something larger.

She touched the stone.

Cold.

A layer of dirt covered it.

Nettle brushed the dirt away.

Lines appeared.

She cleaned more of the surface.

A carving emerged.

Nettle leaned closer.

It consisted of a circle surrounding four curved lines. Each line turned inward but stopped before reaching the center. Beneath the circle were three smaller marks arranged in a row.

Nettle had never seen it before.

She traced the outer edge with one finger.

Nothing happened.

“Old.”

She removed her notebook again.

Nettle copied the symbol carefully.

Circle.

Four curved lines.

Three marks.

She checked the stone and corrected the angle of one line.

There.

Nettle closed the notebook.

She would show Mistress Thistlewick.

Probably.

First she had to keep Lowroot from being eaten.

Nettle returned to the colony.

The beetles were more active now.

Many had left the conduit and moved toward the center of the chamber.

Nettle watched them.

Something was wrong.

The insects nearest the eggs had begun clicking their mandibles.

Others raised their wings.

Nettle stopped.

“All right.”

She slowly lowered her staff.

“I am not touching anything.”

The beetles continued clicking.

Nettle looked behind her.

Nothing.

She looked toward the narrow entrance.

Still nothing.

Then she felt it.

A faint vibration passed through the floor.

The beetles reacted immediately.

They crowded around the eggs.

Another vibration followed.

Nettle placed one paw against the root.

The wood trembled.

A low cracking sound came from somewhere above.

Nettle's ears flattened.

“No.”

The damaged root shifted.

Pieces of bark fell.

The beetles scattered.

Nettle stepped back.

A section of the collapsed nesting chamber dropped several inches.

The conduit bent with it.

Nettle lunged forward.

She grabbed the copper line with both paws.

Magic snapped through her arms.

She cried out and released it.

The conduit struck the floor.

The remaining golden light vanished.

Nettle sat hard against the wall.

Her fingers tingled.

She stared at them.

“Thicker gloves.”

Mistress Thistlewick had mentioned thicker gloves.

Nettle flexed her paws.

Everything still worked.

Good.

The beetles began moving again.

Their lights brightened.

Without the conduit, the chamber should have become darker.

Instead it grew brighter.

Nettle watched the insects.

They had stored the magic.

Not simply consumed it.

Stored it.

She stood slowly.

“That is interesting.”

Another tremor passed through the chamber.

The damaged root groaned.

Nettle looked toward the eggs.

The colony could not remain here.

Not even if she repaired the conduit.

The chamber was becoming unstable.

She needed to move them now.

Nettle opened her satchel.

Copper thread.

Quartz.

Binding wax.

Ash wand.

She could build a temporary magical source in the empty chamber.

The beetles had already demonstrated what attracted them.

The problem was moving enough magic to lure an entire colony without draining what remained of Lowroot's system.

Nettle thought.

Then she smiled.

“You like wardlight.”

A beetle landed on her sleeve.

“Let us see how much.”

She returned to the empty chamber.

Nettle placed one piece of quartz on the floor.

She wrapped copper thread around it.

The first attempt looked terrible.

She unwound it.

The second was better.

Nettle pressed binding wax over the connection and held the ash wand against the quartz.

She closed her eyes.

Magic moved through the wand.

The quartz flickered.

Then went dark.

Nettle opened one eye.

“No.”

She adjusted the copper.

Tried again.

The quartz glowed.

Weakly.

Nettle smiled.

“Yes.”

The light faded.

“No.”

She sat back.

The spell needed a continuous source.

Her staff could provide one temporarily, but she could not leave it here.

Nettle looked at the old stone wall.

Then at the symbol.

Something caught her attention.

A thin line of light had appeared inside one of the carved grooves.

Nettle stood.

The glow disappeared.

She stared.

“Did you just do that?”

The wall remained dark.

Nettle stepped closer.

She touched the ash wand to the symbol.

Nothing.

She touched the staff to it.

The amber crystal flickered.

A faint golden line traveled around the carved circle.

Nettle stopped breathing.

The four curved marks illuminated.

Then the three marks beneath them.

The light vanished.

Nettle pulled her staff away.

She looked at the carving.

That was not ordinary stonework.

There was magic inside it.

Old magic.

Very old magic.

Nettle opened her notebook and wrote beneath her sketch.

Responds to Heartroot staff.

She underlined it.

Twice.

A loud crack came from the neighboring chamber.

Nettle snapped the notebook shut.

Mysteries would have to wait.

She hurried back.

A section of root had fallen across the old nest.

The colony swarmed through the chamber.

Hundreds of tiny golden lights moved around Nettle.

She raised both paws.

“Everyone remain calm.”

The beetles did not.

Nettle doubted she would have listened either.

Another lantern conduit above them gave a final weak hum.

Then silence.

Nettle knew what that meant.

The main reserve was failing.

If it emptied completely, every wardlight connected to the eastern network would go dark.

Not one street.

Not one neighborhood.

A large portion of Lowroot.

Nettle looked at the eggs.

Then the damaged conduit.

Then toward the chamber she had found.

She could restore the lanterns quickly.

All she had to do was remove the beetles permanently.

She knew the spells.

Nobody above would blame her.

Most would probably praise her.

Nettle tightened her grip around the staff.

“No.”

A beetle landed on the brass cradle surrounding the amber crystal.

Its abdomen glowed.

Nettle watched it.

“You are moving.”

The beetle remained where it was.

“All of you.”

She looked around the chamber.

She needed a stronger lure.

She needed another source of magic.

And she needed it before the last of Lowroot's wardlights failed.

Nettle picked up her satchel.

Somewhere above, a bell began ringing.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

The Lowroot warning bell.

Nettle knew what three rings meant.

Complete ward failure.

She looked up.

The final trace of magic disappeared from the conduit.

Every glow beetle in the chamber brightened at once.

Lowroot had gone dark.

The warning bell rang a fourth time.

Nettle stood beneath Lowroot and listened.

Three rings meant complete ward failure.

The fourth was not part of the signal.

Someone above was frightened.

A fifth ring followed.

Nettle sighed.

“Or they have given Mister Cobble the rope.”

The glow beetles filled the chamber with pale golden light. Hundreds moved across the roots and broken pieces of their former nest. Their stored magic made the underground chamber brighter than it had been when Nettle entered.

Lowroot had lost that same magic.

The problem was no longer finding the missing power.

The problem was persuading several hundred beetles to give it back.

Nettle looked toward the eggs.

The colony had crowded around them after the root shifted. Several larger beetles remained near the center while others moved around the damaged chamber.

One was considerably larger than the rest.

Nettle crouched.

The large beetle had a broader abdomen and shorter wings. Smaller beetles continually approached it, touched antennae, then moved away.

Nettle smiled.

“There you are.”

She had found the queen.

That helped.

Possibly.

Nettle removed the remaining quartz from her satchel.

She had two pieces.

One was already in the empty chamber, wrapped with copper thread. The second remained unused.

She needed a continuous magical source strong enough to attract the colony.

Her staff could provide it, but only while she held the spell.

Unless she gave the magic somewhere else to go.

Nettle looked at the beetles.

Then she looked at the queen.

Then at the broken conduit.

She had an idea.

It was not a particularly sensible idea.

Those were often the only ideas available after the sensible ones failed.

Nettle picked up the severed copper line.

A faint sting passed through her fingers.

Almost nothing remained in it.

She pulled several feet of copper thread from her satchel and connected it to the damaged line. Binding wax sealed the joint.

Nettle tugged it.

The connection held.

“Good.”

She carried the other end through the narrow opening into the empty chamber.

The quartz she had prepared earlier still sat on the floor.

Nettle wound the new thread around it.

She now had a crude extension running from the damaged Lowroot conduit into the empty chamber.

It was ugly.

Master Wick would hate it.

Nettle found that encouraging.

She placed her staff beside the quartz.

The ancient symbol remained carved into the stone wall behind her.

Nettle glanced at it.

Not now.

She touched the staff to the quartz.

“Lumen.”

The crystal in her staff brightened.

Magic traveled down the copper thread.

The quartz glowed.

Nettle smiled.

The light held.

She removed her staff.

The quartz immediately went dark.

Nettle's smile disappeared.

“Of course.”

She crouched.

The problem was not the spell.

It was the source.

A wardlight normally drew a small amount of energy from the root network beneath Mausrealm. The network itself was old. Older than Mistress Thistlewick. Older than the Scholar’s Tier. Some of its original conduits had been installed when Lowroot was still considered the outer edge of the city.

Nettle looked at the stone wall again.

The symbol had responded to her staff.

There was magic there.

She did not know what kind.

Using unknown magic was one of the first things Mistress Thistlewick had told her never to do.

Nettle had written the rule down.

She remembered the exact page.

She looked toward the chamber containing the glow beetles.

The warning bell rang again.

“Sorry, Mistress.”

Nettle carried the quartz to the stone wall.

She placed it beneath the symbol.

Then she touched her staff to the outer circle.

The carving illuminated.

Golden light followed the four curved lines.

The three marks beneath them appeared last.

Nettle pressed the quartz against the lowest mark.

Nothing happened.

She adjusted it.

Still nothing.

Nettle frowned.

“Come on.”

She pushed a small amount of magic through her staff.

The symbol brightened.

The quartz flashed.

Nettle pulled her paw back.

The stone remained illuminated.

So did the quartz.

She stared.

The light continued.

Nettle slowly removed her staff.

Nothing changed.

The quartz was drawing magic from somewhere inside the wall.

Nettle leaned closer.

“Interesting.”

She immediately corrected herself.

“Terrible idea. Very dangerous. Absolutely not something I intend to repeat.”

The quartz grew brighter.

Nettle picked it up.

The light remained.

She carried it toward the center of the empty chamber.

The copper thread trailed behind it.

She placed the quartz onto a flat piece of stone and stepped back.

It produced a warm golden glow.

Not enough.

Nettle lifted her staff and touched the amber crystal to it.

She concentrated.

The quartz brightened considerably.

Nettle held the spell for several seconds.

When she withdrew her staff, the quartz retained the stronger glow.

“Better.”

A tiny clicking sound came from the passage.

Nettle turned.

A glow beetle stood at the entrance.

Its antennae moved.

It crawled forward.

Nettle remained still.

The beetle crossed the floor.

It stopped beside the quartz.

Its abdomen brightened.

Nettle grinned.

“Yes.”

Another beetle appeared.

Then another.

Three became six.

Six became ten.

Nettle backed toward the wall.

The insects gathered around the quartz.

Her lure worked.

Now she needed the queen.

Nettle returned to the old chamber.

The colony remained agitated.

She could hear movement above them through the roots. Mice hurried across Lowroot's streets. Doors closed. Furniture scraped against floors.

The wardlights had been gone only minutes, but the city was already reacting.

Nettle crouched beside the queen.

Several larger beetles moved toward her.

“I am not taking her.”

They continued.

Nettle raised both paws.

“I am inviting her somewhere.”

The beetles clicked their mandibles.

Nettle backed away.

She needed the colony to move naturally.

The queen would follow food, warmth or safety.

Nettle could provide two.

She looked at the destroyed nest.

Safety would not be difficult to improve.

The warmth was another matter.

Then Nettle remembered the drainage pipe.

Water from the upper city passed through Lowroot before reaching the mill channels. Some pipes carried warm water from kitchens, bakeries and bathhouses.

She crossed the chamber.

A narrow copper pipe ran behind the broken root.

Nettle touched it.

Warm.

She smiled.

“Thank you, Mausrealm.”

The pipe continued toward the empty chamber but turned away several feet before reaching it.

Nettle could not move the pipe.

She could move the heat.

At least temporarily.

She removed the final length of copper thread from her satchel.

Nettle wrapped one end around the warm pipe.

She carried the other into the new chamber and wound it around the glowing quartz.

Heat traveled slowly through the copper.

The stone warmed.

More beetles entered.

Nettle waited.

A dozen.

Two dozen.

Then more.

The colony began responding.

Beetles left the damaged nest and followed the others through the opening.

Nettle returned to the queen.

The larger beetles around her had begun moving.

The queen remained.

Nettle sat on the floor.

“Of course.”

The queen cleaned one antenna.

“You have hundreds of children leaving.”

No response.

“There is warmth.”

Nothing.

“Magic.”

Nothing.

“A structurally sound ceiling.”

The queen moved one leg.

Nettle pointed toward the opening.

“I am offering excellent accommodations.”

The root cracked above them.

Nettle looked up.

The queen finally moved.

“Apparently that helped.”

The large beetle crawled forward.

Several attendants followed.

Nettle backed away.

The queen reached the opening.

Stopped.

Nettle held her breath.

The queen's antennae moved.

Then she entered.

The remaining colony followed.

Nettle allowed herself one satisfied breath.

Then the damaged conduit sparked.

She spun around.

The temporary copper connection had shifted.

Golden light snapped across the exposed wire.

Several beetles scattered.

“No.”

Nettle hurried toward it.

The wire sparked again.

She reached for it.

Then remembered what had happened the last time she grabbed a live conduit.

“Thicker gloves.”

Nettle pulled off her cloak.

She folded part of the fabric around her paws and seized the copper.

Magic snapped through the cloth.

She held on.

Nettle forced the wire back against the junction.

The connection would not stay.

She needed binding wax.

Her tin was still somewhere in the maintenance passage where she had thrown it at the burrow beetle.

Nettle looked around.

Nothing.

She needed something sticky.

Her eyes settled on the old nest.

Sap had leaked from the damaged root.

Nettle ran to it.

She scraped a pawful from the wood and hurried back.

The copper line sparked again.

She pressed the wire into place and packed sap around the connection.

The spark stopped.

Nettle waited.

The line hummed.

Held.

“Master Wick is going to hate this.”

She smiled.

The last of the colony disappeared into the new chamber.

Nettle followed.

The sight stopped her.

The glow beetles covered the walls and roots.

Hundreds of tiny lights illuminated the chamber. The queen had settled near the warm quartz. Workers carried pieces of moss through the passage. Others gathered around the old wood.

The colony was already rebuilding.

Nettle lowered her staff.

“Good.”

She turned back toward the conduit.

Now came the difficult part.

Lowroot needed its magic.

The beetles still carried a considerable amount of it.

Nettle could not force them to release what they had absorbed.

But she could stop them taking more.

She disconnected the temporary line from the original conduit.

The glowing quartz remained powered by the ancient stone.

Nettle stared at it.

She still had no idea how.

That could wait.

She returned through the maintenance passage.

The burrow beetles were gone.

Her tin of binding wax lay against the wall.

Nettle retrieved it.

“Missed you.”

At the main junction she opened the iron plate.

The central quartz was dark.

She repaired the broken connection first.

Then she replaced two damaged copper threads.

The work required both paws, her ash wand, and several words she hoped Mistress Thistlewick would never hear.

Finally, Nettle placed the wand against the central quartz.

“Wake.”

Nothing happened.

She frowned.

“Wake.”

The quartz flickered.

“Thank you.”

Golden light spread through the first copper line.

Then the second.

Then the third.

Nettle watched the magic travel outward.

Above her, something clicked.

A lantern ignited.

Another followed.

Nettle climbed toward the maintenance entrance.

By the time she pushed open the wooden panel, Lowroot Lane was returning.

Wardlights illuminated the bridges.

Lanterns glowed outside shops.

The fountain began running again.

Mice emerged from their homes.

A cheer rose from farther down the street.

Nettle climbed out.

Master Wick was waiting.

He grabbed her forearm and pulled her onto the walkway.

“You were down there for nearly two hours.”

Nettle brushed dirt from her cloak.

“I was busy.”

Cobble pushed through the crowd.

“You fixed it.”

“I noticed.”

Master Wick inspected her cloak.

“What happened to that?”

“Electrical insulation.”

He stared at her.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The lantern above them brightened.

Master Wick looked toward it.

Then down the street.

Every wardlight was burning.

“How?”

“Glow beetles.”

Cobble frowned.

“Glow beetles broke the lanterns?”

“They were feeding on the enchantments.”

Master Wick looked alarmed.

“Where are they now?”

“I moved them.”

“You moved an entire colony?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere they will not eat your lanterns.”

Master Wick stared at her.

Cobble laughed.

“You could have killed them.”

Nettle looked at him.

“Yes.”

Cobble's laughter stopped.

Nettle adjusted her satchel.

“They lost their nest. They found warmth and magic in the conduit. They were not attacking anyone.”

Master Wick looked toward the maintenance entrance.

“They could come back.”

“They will not.”

“How do you know?”

Nettle hesitated.

Because she had connected their new home to an ancient magical symbol she did not understand.

That explanation seemed unlikely to improve anyone's evening.

“I gave them something better.”

Master Wick studied her.

Then he looked at the lanterns.

“I will inspect your repairs tomorrow.”

“You will complain about them.”

“I probably will.”

“They work.”

“That will make the complaining less urgent.”

Nettle smiled.

Cobble placed something into her paw.

A small berry pie.

Nettle looked down.

“What is this?”

“Payment.”

“Mausrealm pays me.”

“Mausrealm did not bake that.”

Nettle examined the pie.

“Fair.”

She took a bite.

It was excellent.

Mice began returning to the lower streets.

Shop shutters opened.

Children emerged from doorways.

The ordinary sounds of Lowroot gradually returned.

Nettle stood beneath the repaired lantern and watched.

She had come here to fix one light.

She had fixed considerably more.

Then she remembered the symbol.

Nettle reached into her satchel and pulled out her notebook.

She opened it to the sketch.

Circle.

Four curved lines.

Three marks.

She looked toward the maintenance entrance.

Nobody else knew it was there.

Not yet.

Nettle closed the notebook.

Tomorrow she would show Mistress Thistlewick.

Tonight, Lowroot had its light back.

Deep beneath the street, inside the chamber Nettle had left behind, hundreds of glow beetles settled into their new home.

Their lights slowly dimmed as the colony became still.

Everything became quiet.

Except the ancient carving.

The circle remained illuminated.

For the first time in generations, all four lines inside it glowed.

Then the first of the three marks beneath them lit.

Mistress Thistlewick was waiting for Nettle when she returned to the Scholar’s Tier.

That was unfortunate.

Nettle had hoped to arrive quietly, wash the dirt from her paws, clean the sap from her cloak, eat the remaining half of Mister Cobble’s berry pie, and decide exactly how much of the afternoon needed to be included in her report.

Instead, she opened the door to Thistlewick’s study and found her teacher seated behind the worktable.

A cup of tea rested beside her.

A second cup waited across from her.

Nettle stopped in the doorway.

Thistlewick looked up.

“You are late.”

“The lantern was complicated.”

“So I heard.”

Nettle glanced around the room.

“From whom?”

“Master Wick.”

“He got here before I did?”

“No. He sent a messenger.”

Nettle closed the door.

“What did he say?”

Thistlewick picked up a folded piece of paper.

“He said that the eastern ward network suffered a complete failure, Lowroot was evacuated from several lower streets, something damaged the main conduit, and my apprentice disappeared beneath the district alone for nearly two hours.”

Nettle placed her staff against the wall.

“That is mostly accurate.”

“Mostly?”

“The conduit was not damaged when I went down there.”

Thistlewick lowered the paper.

Nettle removed her satchel.

“Technically.”

“Nettle.”

“It became damaged afterward.”

“I see.”

“There was a tremor.”

“I see.”

“And beetles.”

Thistlewick took a drink of tea.

Nettle sat across from her.

“Glow beetles.”

“Of course.”

“A large colony.”

“How large?”

“I stopped counting.”

“Why?”

“Because there were too many.”

Thistlewick placed her cup down.

“Start at the beginning.”

Nettle did.

She told her about Mister Cobble and Master Wick. She explained how the lanterns had failed one after another and how the wardlight enchantments had been completely drained.

Thistlewick interrupted twice.

The first time was to ask about the damaged water channel.

The second was when Nettle mentioned the burrow beetles.

“You fought three burrow beetles?”

“I discouraged them.”

“How?”

“Light.”

“Only light?”

“And a tin.”

Thistlewick looked at her.

“I threw the binding wax.”

“At the beetles?”

“Near the beetles.”

“Why?”

“They followed it.”

Thistlewick considered this.

“That was actually sensible.”

Nettle smiled.

“Do not become pleased with yourself. Continue.”

Nettle's smile disappeared.

She explained the colony.

She told Thistlewick about the destroyed nest, the eggs, the damaged root and the insects feeding directly from the conduit.

Thistlewick listened without interruption.

When Nettle finished that portion, her teacher folded her paws.

“You could have destroyed them.”

Nettle had expected the question.

“Yes.”

“Why did you not?”

“They were not attacking Mausrealm.”

“They disabled the wards protecting an entire district.”

“They were feeding.”

“That distinction would have meant very little if something had entered Lowroot while the wards were down.”

Nettle shifted in her chair.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

Thistlewick watched her.

Nettle refused to look away.

“Their nest had collapsed,” she said. “They had eggs. There were larvae. They found a source of warmth and magic, so they moved closer to it. They did not know what the lanterns were.”

“You are certain?”

“They are beetles.”

“That is not an answer.”

Nettle thought about it.

“Yes. I am certain.”

Thistlewick leaned back.

“So you moved them.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Nettle hesitated.

There it was.

She reached for her tea.

It had gone cold.

She drank anyway.

“Nettle.”

“I made a lure.”

“With what?”

“Quartz.”

“And?”

“Copper thread.”

“And?”

Nettle placed the cup down.

“Magic.”

Thistlewick waited.

Nettle had known the old mouse long enough to understand that silence was one of her more effective teaching methods.

“I found another chamber.”

“And?”

“It had a magical source.”

Thistlewick's expression changed slightly.

“What sort of magical source?”

“I do not know.”

The study became very quiet.

Thistlewick sat forward.

“You used unidentified magic?”

“I tested it first.”

“With what?”

“My staff.”

Thistlewick closed her eyes.

Nettle continued quickly.

“It was stable.”

“You determined that with your staff?”

“It did not explode.”

Thistlewick opened her eyes.

“That is not the accepted test for magical stability.”

“It is a useful one.”

“No.”

“It did work.”

“Nettle.”

“The beetles are alive.”

“Nettle.”

“The lanterns are working.”

“Nettle.”

Nettle stopped.

Thistlewick extended one paw.

“What did you find?”

Nettle reached for her satchel.

Her notebook was wedged between two tools and the remains of her binding wax. She pulled it free and opened to the drawing.

She placed it on the table.

Thistlewick looked down.

Nothing happened for several seconds.

Then she reached for her spectacles.

They were already on her nose.

Her paw stopped halfway to her face.

Nettle noticed.

Thistlewick picked up the notebook.

“Where?”

“Behind the old beetle nest.”

“Exactly where?”

“East of the main Lowroot junction. There is an older chamber beyond the maintenance passage. The carving is on a stone wall behind one of Heartroot’s roots.”

Thistlewick examined the drawing.

“You copied this yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Exactly?”

“I think so.”

“You think so?”

“I went over it twice.”

Thistlewick stood.

She carried the notebook to one of the bookshelves.

Nettle watched her.

“What is it?”

Thistlewick did not answer.

She removed a thick volume bound in faded brown leather and placed it on the worktable.

Dust lifted from the cover.

Nettle sneezed.

Thistlewick opened the book.

The pages were yellow and brittle.

She turned several carefully.

Nettle moved around the table.

“What are you looking for?”

“A reason to tell you that you drew it incorrectly.”

“That seems unfair.”

“It would be considerably more convenient.”

Thistlewick turned another page.

Then another.

She stopped.

The page was blank.

Not entirely blank.

The edges contained faded writing, but the center had been cut away.

Nettle leaned closer.

“Someone removed it.”

“Yes.”

“Recently?”

“No.”

“How long ago?”

Thistlewick ran one finger along the cut edge.

“Before you were born.”

“That does not narrow it down very much.”

“Before I was born.”

That did.

Nettle looked at the damaged book.

“What was on the page?”

Thistlewick closed it.

“I do not know.”

“You knew where to look.”

“I suspected.”

“Suspected what?”

Thistlewick carried the book back to the shelf.

Nettle followed.

“You recognized the symbol.”

“I recognized part of it.”

“What part?”

“The circle.”

Nettle waited.

Thistlewick began rearranging books that did not need rearranging.

“Mistress.”

“Do not use that tone.”

“What tone?”

“The one that suggests you intend to stand there until I answer.”

“I do intend to stand here until you answer.”

“I know.”

Thistlewick sighed.

She selected another book.

This one was smaller and considerably older.

Nettle returned to the table with her.

The cover bore no title.

Thistlewick opened it.

The first pages contained maps of Mausrealm.

Nettle recognized the Scholar’s Tier.

The next showed Marketcross.

Then Lowroot.

Except it did not.

Nettle leaned closer.

“That is wrong.”

“No.”

“The eastern road does not end there.”

“It did when this was drawn.”

Nettle studied the map.

Much of modern Lowroot did not exist.

The outer neighborhoods had not yet been constructed. The old root passages continued far beyond what were now the city limits.

One tunnel caught Nettle's attention.

It descended beneath the future location of Lowroot.

At its end was a circle.

Four curved lines had been drawn inside.

Nettle's ears rose.

“That is it.”

“Part of it.”

“Where are the three marks?”

“They are not shown.”

“What is the tunnel?”

Thistlewick looked at the faded writing beside it.

Nettle tried to read over her arm.

The script was archaic.

She recognized only two words.

Lower.

Road.

“Lower Road?” Nettle asked.

Thistlewick closed the book.

“Enough.”

Nettle stared at her.

“You cannot close the book there.”

“I just did.”

“There is an ancient magical wall under Lowroot.”

“Yes.”

“It is connected to a road that Mausrealm no longer uses.”

“Apparently.”

“And someone cut information about it out of another book.”

Thistlewick picked up her tea.

“Yes.”

Nettle waited.

“That is all you are going to say?”

“For tonight.”

Nettle's tail twitched.

“That is terrible teaching.”

“That is excellent teaching.”

“How?”

“You are learning patience.”

“I am learning irritation.”

“They are closely associated.”

Nettle took her notebook.

“What should I do?”

“Nothing.”

Nettle frowned.

“Nothing?”

“You will not return to that chamber.”

“But the beetles.”

“Master Wick will monitor the lanterns. I will send someone to inspect the colony tomorrow.”

“I know where it is.”

“Which is precisely why you will not go.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense to me.”

Nettle crossed her arms.

Thistlewick looked at the dirt on her cloak.

“Go home.”

“I live upstairs.”

“Then your journey should be manageable.”

Nettle gathered her things.

She reached the door.

“Nettle.”

She turned.

Thistlewick's expression had lost its usual amusement.

“The old parts of Mausrealm are not abandoned simply because our ancestors forgot them.”

Nettle waited.

“Some were closed deliberately.”

“Why?”

“If I knew, I would tell you.”

Nettle was not entirely convinced.

Thistlewick looked at the notebook in her paw.

“Do not go looking for that mark tonight.”

“I was going to bed.”

“Good.”

Nettle opened the door.

“And Nettle?”

“Yes?”

“You did well in Lowroot.”

Nettle stopped.

Praise from Mistress Thistlewick was rare enough to deserve careful attention.

“With the lanterns?”

“With the beetles.”

Nettle looked back.

Thistlewick returned to her worktable.

“Destroying something is usually the quickest answer available to a wizard. That does not make it the correct one.”

Nettle smiled.

“Thank you.”

“Your conduit repair is apparently dreadful.”

Nettle's smile faded.

“Master Wick said that?”

“In considerable detail.”

“It works.”

“That was also mentioned.”

Nettle left.

The Scholar’s Tier was quieter at night.

Most of the study halls had closed. Lanterns remained lit outside the archives, but the smaller classrooms were dark.

Nettle climbed the stairs toward her room.

She should have been exhausted.

She was exhausted.

Unfortunately, curiosity was not.

She reached her door.

Stopped.

Looked at the notebook.

“No.”

She opened the door.

Her room was small.

A bed occupied one wall. Books occupied most of the others. A narrow desk sat beneath a round window overlooking the lower levels of Mausrealm.

Nettle placed her staff beside the bed.

She removed her cloak.

She sat down.

Then she opened the notebook.

The symbol waited on the page.

Circle.

Four curved lines.

Three marks.

Nettle stared at it.

She could still remember the magic moving through the stone when her staff touched it.

That bothered her.

Heartroot wood had been used for wizard staffs for generations. It responded well to magic and was easy to bind to enchantments.

But the wall had not merely responded to magic.

It had responded to her staff.

Why?

Nettle turned the page.

She wrote:

Ancient Lower Road.

Closed before modern Lowroot.

Records altered.

Symbol still active.

She tapped the end of her pencil against the paper.

Then added:

Why?

Nettle closed the notebook.

She would not return tonight.

Mistress Thistlewick had been very clear.

Nettle got into bed.

She closed her eyes.

She opened them again.

“No.”

She rolled over.

The city beyond her window remained quiet.

Far below, Lowroot's restored lanterns illuminated its streets.

Families returned home.

Shops closed.

Master Wick inspected Nettle's repair and found several new reasons to complain about it.

Mister Cobble removed the last loaves from his ovens.

Mausrealm settled beneath the great Heartroot Oak.

Deeper down, the glow beetles rested in their new chamber.

The ancient wall remained behind them.

The circle glowed faintly.

All four curved lines remained illuminated.

The first mark beneath them burned steadily.

The second mark flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Then it remained lit.

Something shifted behind the wall.

The third mark stayed dark.

END