ANTONIO

When Lasis approaches me and Simon about taking the day off and returning to help Soleil with the roofing that night, I can’t help but be intrigued. We haven’t seen Soleil yet in all the time that we’ve worked on the farm: Sybil’s elusive lover. Certainly, we all see Haven a lot of the time, but we’ve only ever heard whisperings of the amore. I also think about Tolstoy who stays in the bone-lodgings, and the sweet soreness from the night before. I wonder if it will take long and if I can sneak into his room and hold him another night.

“Yes, of course,” I tell Lasis after reading the board. Only Sybil can really talk to the skeletons. The skull nods thoughtfully and looks to Simon.

“I will, also.”

Lasis scrapes away and scribbles on their board with charcoal: Would you two be so kind as to bring him here? I will have a wagon prepared. Since it’s on your way back.

I shrug, looking over at my mentor. The man nods, “I would be honored.”

The bizarre clothed skeleton scrapes their fingerbones against the board, white coming away black, and they scribble again. It doesn’t do much in the way of clearing out the underlying charcoal, only leaving smudged words and clear words. Normally, Lasis carries a dry cloth with them for this purpose, but for some reason hasn’t brought it. Fantastic, I’ll be sure to put aside some extra for your pay. Please pick him up at sundown.

I nod and tuck my hands into my pockets, watching Lasis amble away, all creaking bone against bone and the swish of linen. “So, we’ve got some time to rest before tonight.”

Simon nods thoughtfully. “Before we go back to town, Tony, I think we should start your lessons.”

I grimace, remembering the uncomfortable conversation the night before after Jun’s commitment. “Simon, that wasn’t me.” But even I don’t believe the words from my mouth. I remembered the warm sensation of green twisting around my arms and bursting through the ground.

“It was.” He tells me firmly. “Was that the first time you’ve used magic?”

I shrug. “I didn’t use magic.”

Simon sighs. “It was. You’re foolish to ignore such power. It comes through you so naturally.” There’s a slight tone of envy that I ignore. I start walking to the edge of the farm to head back to town.

“I’m just going home to sleep,” I tell him. “We’ll be up all night.”

Simon sighs and grabs my arm, pulling me to a patch of grass on the edge of the yard, off of the road. “Sit down.”

There’s something in his commanding presence that makes me obey. He sits beside me. “Close your eyes and press your hands into the grass, tell me what you see.”

“What I see? With my eyes closed?” I grumble. All I can think of is the honey-wine sweetness of Tolstoy’s mouth and the glisten in his eyes, the warmth of his body curled into mine. I just want the day to end so that I can return to that.

“Yes, with your eyes closed. And then I’ll let you free for the day.”

I sigh and do as I’m told. “I see black.” I tell him after I close my eyes.

“Hands, grass,” Simon reminds me shortly.

I roll my eyes and press my fingertips into the crisscrossing blades of summer green. “Black.”

“Do you remember the feeling of the green magic from last night?” he asks to my right.

I recall it, the rose aroma that filled my nostrils and mind; the prickly green and black that curled down my arm and over my fingertips.

The moment I recall the sensation, another sensation fills me. Pinks and greens and yellows and blues cascade over my fingertips, toying and flexing against the green black. They meet me gently, jovially, pleasantly, in gentle humming noises.

“See it?” Simon asks me.

“What is this?”

“Druid magic.”

I open my eyes, and my vision blurs with the brilliant flashes of color glowing from each blade of grass, every stalk of wheat, every weed. I shut my eyes quickly, overwhelmed by bright light and thousands of little voices echoing in my mind. “How do I turn it off?” I ask weakly, fearfully.

“Pull your own color back into yourself, you’ve extended it too far,” he tells me patiently.

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I find it a difficult task, trying to untwine my magic from that around me. It feels like gently pruning the pieces of tangled ivy away from an errant garter snake trapped in the foliage. It takes time, but I manage it. When I open my eyes again, it has returned to its normal colors and sounds, except there is a long line of rose buds that have crawled across the ground, interspersed in the first rows of wheat and tangling with the wildflowers at the edge of the plowed land.

Simon grins greedily at me, and I feel sick. I stand, “Probably not good to leave these here,” I grumble, pulling my work gloves from my pocket and starting the painful work of uprooting the roses from the crops before they strangle their growth.

“You did good!” Simon calls as he walks to the path home, leaving me to clean up the mess of my magic on my own.

As I walk home, I feel out of my body with the new sensation, touching the leaves in the trees, the grass on the path–then panic when I can’t bring it in fast enough and the magic becomes too overwhelming for me to understand. I wonder distantly if this is what it is like for Simon and Sybil, albeit Sybil’s must be slightly different. Maybe she sees decay and dead trees and bones and their light, hear their voices, instead of the pretty little white flowers that sing to me. Every time I reach out with my green and black tendrils, I find myself becoming just a little more tired. In any case, I can’t help but enjoy it. I try to think back over my life to a time where I could do the same thing, but come up blank. If I had always had this in me, how had I not even known to use it? How had I not accidentally used it, if it was so easy to use?

Once I get to Reisau, I am so spent that I hobble up to my rented room and collapse into my bed. My thoughts turn to dreams of soft orange-yellow ears and blooming roses.

When I wake, the sunlight has taken on a late afternoon hue. I rub my tired eyes and throw my feet over the edge of the bed. I only had the time to grab some dinner before I met up with Simon to pick up Sybil’s amore. In many ways, I’m glad that I had the opportunity to sleep after a relatively sleepless night with Tolstoy the night before, and an early morning with the construction. From here, though, it would take some effort to get my sleep schedule back in order. At least the work would take a few days.

I change from one set of work clothes into another and make my way to the inn. Yvolstein has a pot roast going and was more than happy to serve me a plate. He was the nicest townsperson I’d met since I started working with Sybil; which hurt my pride even more, now that I knew he was a satyr. Had I really been so blind to be afraid of the kindest beastmen in the realm?

Simon slid into the seat across from me after I take my first bite, and I curse myself for having my back to the door. “Good morning,” he chimes and waves for Yvolstein to get him a bowl.

Apprehension fills my chest. “What exactly does teaching me look like?”

He smiles, the wrinkles in his leathery face creasing deeper. “Just like earlier. No gimmicks.”

“It felt gimmicky,” I retort, taking another bite of my food.

“Just be careful with your use,” he explains as Yvolstein sets pot roast in front of him. “It takes a lot out of you, especially when you’re new.” He chews on a shred of stewed beef thoughtfully. “Beyond that, I don’t have much to teach you.” He admits. “I’m not very magically inclined, as it is. Not like you or Lady Sybil.”

I smile wistfully, knowing the reluctant look her face twisted into from the titles he poured over her. “So what happens when I surpass your magic?”

“You already have.”

I blink. “Just like that?”

He nods. “I have a weak attachment to druid magic. I think dealing in necromantic rituals might have something to do with it. I know it’s not all bloodline.” He pauses, “To be honest, we don’t really know. There aren’t many druids around since the Great Wars.”

“How did the necromancers outlive the druids anyways?”

Simon shakes his head. “That’s not how it worked, kid. Traditions, druidic or necromantic, they all rely on people. They all need to pass it on to their children, or their protegees. The trouble is,” he rubbed his face self-consciously. “When you have a world that builds and eliminates its need for magic, the tradition fades away. The druid communities were so intertwined with politics and invention that they began to lose all relevance. The necromancy communities have always been more secluded–existing in a peaceful solitude on the countrysides. They operate as orphanages and other community assistance, so there are always an influx of interested protogees to cultivate and instruct.”

I frown, trying to think of the druids back in Cainern: great court magicians who portended the weather and harvests–things that I’d come to realize were pure poppycock–and fringe witch doctors. I wince at the thought, had the druidic tradition fallen away more than he’d realized? “Have you met Soleil?” I ask, changing the subject.

He shakes his head, “No one has met him, not from our group. The bones say that he’s not come around because of the laws. The glamour potions haven’t… erm, worked well on him.”

“Why is that?” I wonder aloud.

He shrugs, “They won’t tell me, something about needing to meet him for myself.”

I frown. “Are they playing a joke on us?” There have been few occasions where I’m not used to looking over my shoulder after Willard or Roderick scratch out something I take to be fact, only to stumble into a well-laid prank.

“Possibly, but it could also be that it isn’t their place to say.”

That was an easy enough explanation, and even as I’m wary about the potential prank, I’m still not prepared when the roofer’s door opens at dusk and I come face to face with the frumpiest nightmare I could have imagined.

At least he’s polite when Simon and I jump back in surprise. “Hello,” Soleil says in his crystal clear voice, pushing his spectacles up his nose so he can peer at us more easily in his lower four eyes. His black hair is pulled tightly back in a ponytail, and his shirt is folded up at the sleeves. “It seems they didn’t warn you ahead of time. Thank you for getting me,” he bows his head cordially.

I swallow tightly. “Yes, well.”

Simon coughs and chuckles. “It’s our pleasure,” he returns the bow. “Can’t say I’ve seen an arachne in many years.”

Soleil smiles, his teeth all pinpoints of sharp contrasting with the gentle awkwardness of his gait. “Neither have I.”

Feeling incredibly self conscious and needing to contribute something to the conversation, I gesture at the wagon behind us. “Are you ready to go?”