Thom watches the gem glimmer at the base of the hill, blinking in surprise. He scrambles down to retrieve it, turning the little eye-like stone in his palm. Vim vis? Imaginem vis? He slips it safely away, brow furrowing in thought.
By the time he reaches the Oak Circle, the notion has taken shape. If every glamour goat leaves such a trace… perhaps there’s a pattern to be found. A seasonal tithe? A recurring vis source? Could the chapterhouse work it into a regular source of vis?
That evening in the common hall, Thom sets down his cup and speaks up. “Another goat lost—but its semblance left behind a pawn of vis. If this repeats, we may have the makings of a seasonal source. I’m considering setting a warded circle about the pens to watch for future mischief.”
He looks around the table. “Thoughts? If we’re clever, we might yet turn this nuisance into a fair bargain.”
"Hum... A vis source of Vim for some goat, if I understand good. That could be a good deal, yes. But, we need to have more goat, then, to have enough for faeries and for magi. Because we cannot eat vis. Maybe a circle where we put the herd and sometimes let one walk outside, for the forest."
"I like that idea, Sionag. As long as we can maintain the circle and train the covenfolk not to disturb it.. or our Nisse friend," says Thom. "I'll get to work on that in the morning."
"It's going to need to be re cast with some frequency until we figure out a longer term solution," says Thom after a while. "I'll work on figuring that out."
Cath'rinne will suggest: "The boundary of the oak circle is a circle of about 50 paces accross, where an aegis can cover a square boundary of 100 paces accross, or equivalent in surface area. The marsh area arround the grove is too large to be covered, unless I invent an Aegis with a larger size. Which I'm not keen on doing. I don't know that we'd want the goats within the circle itself either. But would lodging them on the inside on the marsh circle be doable? That's roughly a standard boundary, which I might be able to cover with the next spell, and weak faeries should stay out of the aegis."
Thom nods to Cath'rinne. "That's an excellent idea! I'm sure we could work up a goat pen in the marsh circle. But... can you cast it to allow our Nisse to pass through? He's been such a gift to us and the goat herd, I wouldn't want to lose him. He's been with us since... Well since I left Mildred."
"If Nisse is doing the Aegis with us, or even happens to be in the Aegis's covered area when we do it, he'll be able to come and go as he pleases. And if not, just invite him. As long as no one cancels their invitation, there's no problem."
As the morning sun filters gently through the branches of the Oak Circle, Thom claps the dust from his hands and surveys the stretch of dry land just beyond the tree line, where the marsh begins to swallow the forest floor. It’s here, at Cath’rinne’s wise suggestion, that the goat pen will be raised—a stout ring of dry-stone and timber to house the herd when the stars are out and the shadows grow too bold.
The spot lies comfortably within the boundary where the next casting of the Aegis will reach, and Thom has already spoken the invitation aloud by the hearth to the Nisse and the goatherds both. “You’re family, now,” he had said, smiling gently to the little fae with leaves in his hair and the grizzled herder who still muttered about stolen animals. “You deserve a place that’s safe when the night’s tricks come creeping.”
For his part, Thom throws himself into the work with infectious cheer. He coaxes roots from the path with whispered Muto rhymes and clears stubborn stones with a murmured push of Rego. He hums old songs while shaping planks, flits between workers with helpful hands and a ready grin, and always, always keeps one eye on the goats as if they might vanish the moment no one is looking.
At dusk, leaning against a half-finished wall and sipping water from a clay mug, he speaks aloud to no one in particular: “I’m grateful to you all, truly. To Sionag, for her sharp eye and quick senses. To Cath’rinne, for seeing what I’d missed. To Ruedi, whose instincts run deeper than roots. And to Turold, who speaks goat better than I do.”
He pauses, then chuckles. “Which is saying something.”
"Now where is Leofric and Edwin. I want to talk about bees and mead."
With the goat pen construction underway, by first light a few days later, Thom has set his intention clearly. If the Oak Circle is to thrive—and if the honey-sweet gifts he’s promised to faerie and friend alike are ever to be real—he must begin learning who keeps bees in these hills.
Thom slips into the treeline beyond the goat pen and draws a slow breath, steadying the slight thrill in his chest. In a clear voice, quiet but sure, he speaks the familiar words of concealment. A shimmer passes over his skin, and the morning mist swallows him. Where he stood, there is only the hush of wind moving through the grass.
Invisible, he sets off down the old track toward Aysgarth. He passes hedgerows still heavy with dew and watches farmyards from the edge of their fields. He looks for the telltale shapes of bee skeps—straw domes perched by garden walls or tucked under lean-tos. Now and then, he pauses to study a cottage roof for a wisp of smoke or the glint of wax drying on boards.
By midmorning, he turns his steps to the outlying farms and hamlets within a day’s walk—West Burton with its quiet lanes and mossy roofs, Thoralby folded close along the beck, and the scattered holdings between Bainbridge and Redmire. Each place has the feel of old things and small histories, and Thom takes his time, moving slowly, always watching for any sign of bees or the folk who tend them. Also liberally using his Second Sight to see what faeries might be about.
Though he says not a word aloud, his thoughts drift easily as he moves. Find the right keeper, he tells himself, and you’ll have sweetness enough for all the work ahead.
Leofric spends most of his time in the hamlet near the covenant, Ayesgarth, sleeping there most nights. He comes to the Oak Circle once or twice a week at the most.
Invisible Thom makes his way behind the homes to the smithy. When he gets there, he watches Leofric for a bit, looking for the right moment to speak with him.
Leofric seems to be working on some sort of short blade, rather triangular un shape, except that it has a longer tang than one would expect from such a short blade.
Apparently satisfied with the shape of the blade, the monk sets it down on a rock to cool down, then inspects an still-unshaped piece of iron. It seems like a good time to interrup, if Thom intends to.
Startled, Leofric turns, knocking down some tools that fall to the ground. He looks around for a bit, before the words sink into his mind. "What...?"
Taking a deep breath, he puts down the bar of iron he'd been inspecting, then straightens his apron and wipes his brow with a scrap of cloth. "Thom? Why are you sneaking in on me like that? Beekeepers? What about them?"
"People react ... to me. So I'm just avoiding the trouble. I think our little growing community needs to keep bees. Honey, wax, mead! So much potential. I thought perhaps you might know of anyone that keeps bees around the villages in the area. Who builds and keeps the skeps? So I'm on a bit of a walk about to see what I can see, and I thought I would drop in on you... without anyone noticing."
"Beekeepers? Around here? I'm afraid I don't know of any here in Ayesgarth. There might be one in one of the other hamlets, or at least near Middleham. Give me a few days to ask around, and I'll let you know."
Taking up the damp scrap of cloth again, he dips it into a small bucket of water. He wrings most of the water out of it before wiping his monkly pate and face with it, then his bare arms. Quite muscular arms for a monk, Thom notices (if not for the first time), but considering his occupation perhaps not that much.
He waves at one of the women who passes by, "The peace of God be with you, my good Gytha," he calls out. "Might I trouble but fer a moment?"
When she approaches, a bit hesitantly perhaps, the monk speaks to her. "A friend was asking me about something just recently, and I was a bit stumped about it. Mayhaps you could help me?" He ignores the slight frown, continuing, "Just a curiosity, really. My friend, he was asking about bees, honey and wax. Would you by any chance know anyone around these parts that do harvest these? For the church on Middleham or anybody else?"