But I now notice details about the rings. They are all very different. Some are pewter. Some are silver. One is platinum. About a dozen of them are copper. There are dull, almost brassy ones. And one very soft high-content gold ring that, when I slip on my finger, expands to my monster-size hands.
I quickly take it off and set it back onto the table because that feels weird. These rings are not for me, they are for Pie. I’m sure of it. They are part of her magic, not mine.
This realization leads me to a new thought. What if we don’t want to seal them up? What if we want to use them?
My eyes wander over to another table where the book I took from the apothecary lies open. I walk over, sit down, and read the section on bags and rings. Then recite the poem out loud:
“Rings and bags are hard to tame
They must be sealed with dragon’s flame
Blackened iron, ammolite
Nuts and bolts and smote and smite.”
It’s a spelling, obviously. And now I’m wondering if my breath is necessary. The poem doesn’t say anything about breath. It says ‘sealed with dragon’s flame.’ And that’s Tomas.
I should maybe not fuck with this spelling by adding something new. I will need to talk this over with Pie. But this bag has to be better than the old one so I get back up, walk over to the rings, push them all into a little pile, scoop them up, and sprinkle them inside the new iron bag.
The bag is different when full. It’s even more supple, and smooth, and soft. It feels heavy and substantial now that the rings are inside. Like by itself it was one thing and filled up it is something else.
I stare at it, holding it in my hand, tilting it this way and that to get every angle, to see every tiny ring of chainmail, and smile. Surely more than a thousand years have passed since I’ve made something so beautiful.
A glint of firelight sparkles off to my right and my gaze wanders to the table where a single gold ring is sitting.
Did I miss it?
No. I picked it up. I saw it in my cupped hand. I watched it fall into the bag.
But there it is. The soft gold ring I had slipped onto my finger.
I pick it up, put it in the bag, and look at the table.
Where it still sits.
“Fuck,” I mutter. I, of all people, should know better than to put rings on. “No,” I growl at it. “No.” I point at it. “I’m not interested in ring magic. Get back in the bag.”
It, of course, does nothing.
I pluck it up, drop it into the bag, then look back at the table.
“Ha!” It’s gone.
But then I notice a glint of light coming off my hand and—“Fuck.”
There it is. On my finger!
I’m about to start tugging it off when a shimmering portal appears off to my right.
I take a step back, momentarily startled. Then squint my eyes, trying to see past the door’s frame.
Is that my tomb?
I walk towards it, but not through it. I know better than that. And sure enough, it is the woods inside my tomb.
Maybe this door and the door we saw this morning are the same one?
This thought intrigues me. Because it means that Pie and I both control the same door.