The path turned behind the cliff, and I saw a narrow gap in the mountain, its walls completely sheer, as if someone had sliced through the rock with a colossal sword. We walked into it, stepping over gravel and rocks.

“Where are you folks from?” the man asked.

“Atlanta,” I said.

“Big city,” he said.

“Yes.” None of us mentioned the necklace choking the boy’s throat.

Ahead the sun shone through the gap. A moment and we passed through and stepped into the light. A valley lay in front of us, the ground gently sloping to the waters of a narrow lake. A watermill turned and creaked on the far shore. To the right a two-story house sat on the lawn of green grass. A few dozen yards to the side a smithy rose and behind it a garden stretched up the slope, enclosed by a chain-link fence. Further still, pale horses ran in a pasture.

The necklace clicked and fell off Roderick’s neck. The dark-haired man caught it and snapped it in half. “I’ll take that, then.”

Roderick drew a breath. Tiny red dots swelled on his neck, where the necklace had punctured skin.

“No worries,” the man said. “It will heal in the next magic wave.”

A shaggy gray dog trotted up to us, spat a tennis ball out of his mouth, and pondered Roderick with big eyes.

“That’s Ruckus,” the man said. “He’d like it if you threw the ball for him.”

Roderick picked up the tennis ball, looked at it for a moment, and then tossed it down the slope. The dog took off after it. The boy turned to us.

“Go ahead,” Doolittle told him.

Roderick dashed down the slope.

“So you’re Ivar,” I said.

“I am.”

It finally sank in. The necklace was gone. Roderick was safe. My legs gave a little bit and I leaned against the nearest tree.

Ivar studied me. “Oh now, that’s not good. Why don’t y’all come down to the house? Trisha was making iced tea before I left. It should be about done.”

As if in a dream I followed him down to the house. We sat on a covered porch, and Ivar brought a pitcher of tea and some glasses.

“Why make a necklace that would strangle a child?” Curran asked.

“It’s a long story.” Ivar sighed. “I take it you know what I am?”

“A dvergr,” I said.

“That’s right.” Ivar looked at his hands. They were large, out of proportion to his body. “I work with metal. As long as I can remember, the metal spoke to me. Some things I make are harmless. Plows, horseshoes, nails. Some are not. I have made a blade or two in my time. The thing is, once the blade is out of your hands, you can’t control what it’s used for. I try.”

“Like with Dagfinn?” I guessed.

Ivar nodded. “How is that boy doing?”