Makers, Baraccus told her, first conceived of all those things and more. They created forms of magic that others then went on to mimic and copy and use. What was at first remarkable in this way became common, eventually acquiring rules and formulas and methods. But it was the creativity of makers that first showed the way. Makers created new recipes, as it were. Those who couldn’t wield magic creatively had to follow the recipe someone gave them.

Magda remembered the passion in his voice as he told her about such things. Making things was in his soul. Creating new things seemed to be his spark of life.

“Baraccus told me that without makers there would be no new conjuring and magic would be forever confined to simple things that were endlessly copied. He said that it takes makers to think up and create what never before existed.”

Isidore smiled as she nodded. “That’s the secret about magic that most people, even most of the gifted, don’t really understand. The things created by a maker are endlessly imitated and copied to the point where people cease to think about where such things originated. People who have lived with a particular form of magic their entire life tend to assume that it always existed.”

“I guess that’s because true makers, such as my husband, are so exceedingly rare.”

“You are a rare person as well, Magda Searus. You seem to know more on the subject than even most of the gifted I’ve ever encountered.”

“I would never have understood about makers, either, had it not been for Baraccus teaching me about them. It was a subject close to his heart.” Magda shook her head as she remembered some of the things Baraccus had done. “He made such beautiful things. I still have all his tools. Since he died, I sometimes go to his worktable and pick them up, trying to feel a bit of him.”

Isidore was smiling as she listened. “I wish I could have known him.”

Magda’s own smile ghosted away. “Some of the things he made, I feared.”

Isidore frowned. “Really? Like what?”

Magda stared off into her memories. “At the start of the war, Baraccus created an achingly handsome amulet of precious metals surrounding a bloodred ruby. Despite its mastery, its beauty, its intricacy, that amulet was at the same time invested with meaning I couldn’t begin to understand. Yet I knew how important its meaning had to be to Baraccus because he always wore it.

“One night, after a particularly disturbing report from some of his wizards, I found him again at the window, staring out at the moon. I knew that he was thinking, as he often did, about the Temple of the Winds off in the underworld. He was clutching that amulet in his fist. I asked him what the amulet meant to him, what its meaning was.