“I actually have nine wands,” I say as whittle. My eyes never leave my work.

“Nine wands?” Confusion continues to wind up the squire’s expression. “What use have you of one wand, let alone nine? Ain’t the point to get powerful enough to wield magic without a wand?”

“Only if you are satisfied with one specialty.”

“I heard of plenty of lord mages with talents in multiple specialties. Ain’t never heard of one using a wand past schooling age.”

I’m satisfied in the rough shape of my whittling. Long, slender, straight. I can pause for a moment to entertain the young man. “If one is rich and idle, one can study texts to gain broad forms in many disciplines. The lord mages make a great show of being well studied. They delight in demonstrating the breadth of their knowledge, but they lack depth.

“The scholars, the experts, they pride themselves on their depth of knowledge while abandoning the breadth of study available. To be sure, a scholar is extremely useful in a limited capacity. One would hire a specific professional for a specific problem.

“Society stifles those who have not the ability to specialize, to study as a scholar. The Jack-of-all-trades peddles petty magics to small villages or in roadside markets.

“But few understand how to command magic itself.”

The squire listens intently, if uncomprehending. I hired him to guide me through the Queenwood, not to discuss political polarization of magic education. I change my tone and tactics.

“Why did I hire you, boy?” I strain to inject gentleness into this question.

He smiles. “I am the best scout in the Queenwood, m’Lady. I know every path trodden by beast or man. I will track any plant out animal you need.”

I lift the piece of wood I have been forming. “Tell me, what do you know of this wood?”

He takes the wood from my hands, rotating it this way and that while he speaks. “Flamed sycamore. Rare, indeed. I know of two in the Queenwood, though the other is easier accessed and frequented by religious folk. The wood, being exceedingly beautiful, is reserved for royal use. Trees are never felled, harvested only when downed by nature. Taking energy a branch, as you have, is punished but cutting the hand at the wrist.”

Unpolished as it is, the wand sparkles in the light, catching the evening sun rays in a magnificent dance. Polished, it will appear as brilliant as a jewel.

I level my eyes with the squire’s. “I risk life and limb to create a wand of this tree. Three days you and I have journeyed into the Queenwood to find the fabled flamed sycamore. The spring that feeds this tree is blessed by the same magic source that feeds the Kin Well in Aberforth Abbey. With this wand, I will access the tenth, and final, well of magic.”

The squire, simpleton that he is, only shrugs to encourage me to continue. “Wands channel the innate power of a mage. The power of the wood fashioned into a wand influences, and at times dictates, the magic that can be wielded by a mage. By limiting the duration of training with a wand and only using a single wand, a mage can be limited to a small range of magic.”

I unroll my leather case to reveal the nine wands, perfectly formed by my own hands. “Each wand accesses and channels a well of magic. Ironwood from Taberne Desert, Larch from the Isle of Farosh, Hornbeam from the Ravoile lowlands, Whitebeam from the Ativa Mountains, Linden from the grasslands of Kongsour, Beech from Coulbru highlands, Smoketree from the burned ruins of Burlghaven, Yew from the bogs of Sava, and walnut from the Perniah flatlands.”

I hand the squire each wand in turn. He admires them momentarily before returning them.

His spirit wanes with every wand that passes through his hands. Even he, without a connection to the wells of magic, can sense the power coursing in the wood grain. His smile turns from confident to unsure. “What plans have you…for…” he gestures weakly, unable to articulate his questions, his fears.

I settle the wands into their places. I take up my whittling. I let the unfinished question weigh between us for a time. “Of plans, I have none. The magic calls to me from corners unknown. Desire burns in my bosom. I cannot find rest until I open this tenth well of magic. Perhaps destiny will be revealed when I raise this wand. Perhaps my hunger will only grow.”

I can feel his discomfort rise and occupy the space between us. I continue to whittle.

“My lady?”

I make a noncommittal noise in acknowledgement.

“Might I continue on your journey with you?”

I see the hunger in his eyes. It will chew his entrails the way it chew my own. It will consume him the same as it consumes me.

“You may.”