By the time Idris stirred, it was dark outside. Willard was lighting a lantern by the door, humming to himself beneath the continual mournful death aria, and he smiled broadly when he saw Idris move.

“Bright dreams?” he said as he crossed the room.

Idris shook his head, rubbed his eyes. He often did not dream after a raising, especially not one as troubling as that one. His shoulders and neck burned; his throat was dry and raw.

“Nobody’s come back,” said Willard, settling on the trunk again. “Just your grey friends guarding the perimeter. No weird green light, either.”

Idris tapped his throat, indicating that talking was difficult, and Willard nodded and picked up a jug.

“Made you a tea. I think it’ll help. ‘S nice and cool, now, too, so it won’t hurt your voice no more.”

The tea tasted like a crystal-clear stream on a warm summer’s day, soothing the whole way down. Idris felt it settle in his stomach and spread through his arms.

“So, I’ve been a-thinking,” said Willard. “Just nod if I’m talking true. You, Idris, you somehow… have a skill for death-magic.”

It was the politest way anyone had ever called Idris a necromancer. He nodded.

“You don’t have no brother at court, right?” said Willard with a wince. Idris nodded again. “But your friends are alive. At least, the soldier said they left, and we saw the tracks. Whatever came through here is likely gone.”

“You…” Idris frowned, and Willard waited patiently. “You are not upset with me.”

“With you? Oh, no, Idris. This, what happened here? Don’t think I’d’ve trusted the first folk I saw, neither.” He smiled his untroubled smile and pulled his long, curly hair into a high bun, securing it with a strip of fabric. “Now you’re awake, let’s look at that ankle again, eh?”

When Idris sat, he saw that Willard had cleaned the room up and simultaneously made it look more like the inside of his forest hut. All of Idris’s books were piled by the desk and the clothes were back in the trunk, and the desk now had some bowls, jugs and cups that Willard must have collected from the barracks. Some dripping bandages were hanging on the back of the chair, freshly medicated, and there were potions and brews and powders in every receptacle that the hedge witch placed on the edge of the bed.

“I got busy,” said Willard. “There’s a brew for your exhaustion, and some more mash for the swelling. I made good soothing wraps, too. Almost cleared me fresh out of my herbs but you need to be fighting fit, huh? The… dead-talking, it gave you a real pounding.”

It had been a long time since Idris had felt this beaten up by aria magic, but he supposed it was more on-the-fly than he was used to in the palace and in a relatively short span, he did three very different things. He had barely eaten or slept. Dutifully, he sipped Willard’s broth to wash down the mash. Surprisingly, he did feel much better than he thought he should.

“You’re going to need a bath, too,” said Willard. “But we’ll start with the ankle.”

“A bath?”

“Something smells. No offence,” he added. “There’s a funk.”

My stump.

Idris sniffed, and he smelled it, too – sweat, mixed with the old herbs and the leather smell, alongside… the other thing.

“If you can find a place to draw water from,” said Idris, his voice husky still but the words easier, “I will bathe.”

“Good. Me too.” Willard got up. “Then we’ll do that first, before I treat your sprain. Lemme see if I can find a bath and bucket.”

He bounded off, leaving Idris alone, in the dark.

Idris frowned, looked at his throbbing palm. No bells, and no aria magic, either, unless he wanted to split his skin irreparably. Blood and aria magic did not mix. If he had an aria healer, it would not be a problem.

If Lila were here, his stump would not be a problem, either.

He could tend to it himself, but he did not have the correct apparatus – the medicinal bandage that Lila collected daily from the palace healers and the treated water that soothed; no clean towels, no sack to wrap it in. The heavy boot had been on for far too long.

More, though, he was worried about his pride. He did not want Willard to see his shame. It was bad enough that the palace regulars had long memories, and occasionally cast Idris a puzzled look when they saw him walking on two feet. His secrecy over his foot was a personal failing that he fully embraced. Willard’s herb magic could do nothing to fix what years of aria magic could not. What would happen if the hedge witch saw the loss?

Idris shifted his thoughts – they were not useful. Captain Farley’s corpse had given him much to think about. If Lila and Kurellan did escape on a black mare, where had they gone? Back down the road to the inn? Did the black figure and the green glow follow them and cause more damage like this to other towns?

And then…

Necromancer. Assassins. Betrayer.

Did Farley honestly believe that Idris turned on them? Did Kurellan believe that?

Idris tried to remember the green glow, what it felt like, but it had been so far from him and his attention had been so focused on the raising of the thralls that there was no way he could identify its timbre. It was only light, so how did it kill all of these men?

Did the black figure control the glow?

He needed to find Lila. More importantly, he had to contact Cressida.

He could do neither of these unless Willard helped him.

Sighing, he rubbed his eyes and tugged his trouser hems out of both of his boots. If Willard was going to help, he had to see.

Carefully, he lifted his heavy metal foot to his left knee and began unbuckling the straps. Even before the prosthetic came off, he could smell it: sweat, dirty skin, old herbs, and the sweet, rancid smell of –

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Idris dry heaved, but he swallowed and rested his shin on his thigh, and he tugged the boot off. The velvet and a handful of herbs fell away, revealing the stump beneath. Without the boot’s weight, his leg still felt cumbersome.

“So I found –“ Willard started, and stopped instantly.

Idris placed the prosthetic down and did not look up. He knew what Willard’s face would look like. Confusion and shock and pity, and a poorly-veiled desire to ask what had happened. He knew it from years of seeing it.

“This is the smell,” he whispered.

Willard was quiet. He pulled the trunk away from the wall, sat on it and held out his hands.

“Is it sore?” he said, with real, warm kindness.

“Yes.”

“Let me. I’ll be gentle.”

Idris glanced past Willard to the door, where a tin bath sat and two buckets of water.

“Have your bath,” Idris said, shuffling slightly out of Willard’s reach, towards the medicated bandage that he had already prepared. “I can do this.”

“You don’t have to, Idris.”

“This is none of your concern.”

“I’ve seen amputations before,” said Willard, with a little smile. “I’m not squeamish.”

“It is… not like other amputations.”

“Then it’ll be a good learning experience for me, eh?” Willard grabbed the bandage before Idris could reach it, and he held out his hands again, his knee ready to receive the stump. Idris sighed irritably and fixed Willard with as much scorn as he could muster. “Now, let me show you what a few leaves and berries can do, eh?”

Idris tutted, closed his eyes and gave up.

“All right.”

He felt Willard’s warm, large hands lift the stump across, and then it was quiet, again.

“The skin here,” said Willard, “it… what happened to it?”

Idris shifted his jaw, shrugged, opened his eyes.

“I happened to it,” he said.

Willard’s eyebrows rose; he wrapped the skin regardless. The healing salve imbued in the wrappings felt different to those Idris was used to, oilier, but cool and refreshing, and it hardly hurt at all. Willard’s fingers, though, followed the shin an inch above the amputation. Idris watched him.

“What makes skin go… grey, like that?” the hedge witch said.

“I told you already.”

“You did this.”

“Yes.”

“On… purpose?”

“No.” Idris sucked his bottom lip. “I doubt anyone necrotises their own skin on purpose.”

“Necrotise.” Willard frowned. “This, it’s all dead?”

“Technically, no. The term is ‘undead.’”

He pulled the wrappings off, revealing the patchy mess of Idris’s shin stump. The grey, scaly, stinking skin lay where young Idris’s hands had gripped. The rest was raw, pink and peeling where the prosthetic tried to make callouses and failed. The healing magic that was applied daily to Idris’s leg was never going to reverse what he had done; all it could do was stop it from getting worse, from rotting away to the bone. Willard touched the edges gently, picked up one of the jugs of water.

“The magic you do,” said Willard, “it’s… it looks hard. You must have done a lot of reading. Don’t see how you’d do this by accident.”

“I was not trained, when I did this.” Idris supposed he should tell the whole story. “I was eleven.” Willard rubbed some ointment between his palms. “What is that?”

“Some ice pine sap. It’ll get rid of the knotty smell and numb the feeling. Sniff.” Idris inhaled a fragrant, floral scent. “Eleven and doing magic like this?”

“It was not meant to be ‘magic like this.’ It was meant to be healing.” The sap tingled; Idris hissed, but Willard did not stop. “I come from a bloodline of prominent healers. They serve in palaces and kingdoms across the sea and beyond. Healing magic runs in my family. Or rather, it did, until I came along. They thought I would be a healer. So did I. We were all wrong.”

“You hear the songs,” Willard said. “In the wind. The special songs.”

“Correct. Aria healers, though, they can only hear healing arias.”

“And you don’t hear none of those.”

“Apparently not.”

“If it makes you feel much better, I don’t hear ‘em, neither. How does that feel?”

“Soothed. Thank you.” Idris massaged above his knee, trying to assuage the ache. “I trained like a healer. I lived with them, read their texts, made salves and pastes, learned the movements and techniques. I was ready to apprentice with my uncle when… when this happened.”

“Didn’t you never tell your uncle you couldn’t hear the songs?” said Willard.

“I heard… something,” said Idris, thinking back. “I thought what I heard was what he heard, too, was what they all heard. When I did the motions and the breathing, I felt something there. Aria magic is difficult to explain to others, even to other aria users. The songs I hear, they are not easy to describe.”

“That… moaning noise,” said Willard, nodding to the open window.

“To me, it is not moaning. It is… like a low string instrument, humming in my bones. It is sad, but it is beautiful. Like a mournful lullaby.”

“You talk nice, Idris. Where’d you learn to talk like that?”

“It is the way I have always talked.” Idris watched Willard inspect the skin again. “If I had not interfered, I think I might have lost my foot anyway.”

“You cut it?”

“Badly. A rogue hunting trap, in the woods around the complex. It cut right into the bone.”

Idris remembered the feeling, the snap against his ankle, the sudden stab of agony and warmth and the way his whole body gave in to the pain and how he fell to his knees, unable to move. The trap cut deeper the more he struggled; he sliced his fingers trying to pull it off. Staring at his foot as the blood soaked his thin cloth boot, his chest heaving, his eyes prickling with terrified tears…

“I did what I was taught,” he said softly. “I listened to the song and I placed my hands just so against the wound and…”

And the song sang itself through his body, and the pain stopped, but the blood darkened as it passed his fingers and the skin started turning green, then grey, and the grey ran up his leg like thin paint, and…

“Nobody at the complex could help,” he said into the silence. “Not one herb, or tincture, or bandage. The healer arias, they did nothing. The foot died on the end of my leg and blood rot set in. My uncle put a tourniquet on it and tied me to his back, and rode me to the palace in Veridia. Rode for a whole week, through day and night. He said it was the only place that could help.”

“That was awful brave of your uncle,” said Willard.

“It was. I am thankful for him every day.”

“The blood rot must’ve risen quick,” the hedge witch said.

“It did. The fever was vicious. I do not remember the journey and I do not remember my uncle petitioning the king for his aid. I spent four weeks in the care of His Majesty’s best healers and when I woke…” Idris gestured to the remains of his shin. “It was gone.”

“King and Circle, that’s terrible. I’m sorry, Idris.”

“It could have been much, much worse. Any longer and I might have lost my knee. The weavers and blacksmiths started making me prosthetics when I was fourteen. I used a peg and crutches until then, or I stayed at my desk and did not go anywhere. The palace saved my life, so I gave them my life in service.”

“You work at the palace, eh?” said Willard, tightly swaddling the stump in fresh, clean bandage.

“I do.”

“There. That’ll feel better in the morning, without any fake leg on. It’s the fanciest fake leg I’ve ever seen, friend. The ankle moves so nice!” Willard waggled the boot, watching the ankle move back and forth. “They must like you up there.”

“They must.”

“Now, let me see your proper ankle, hmm?”

“Willard…” Idris, defeated, exhausted, did not know what to say to express his gratitude. “When we find my friends, Willard, I will pay you. I swear it. Whatever you want, I will get for you.”

Willard smiled. It was an honest, gentle smile, with no pity or disgust. Idris had no idea how anyone could be so kind to him when all he had done was lie and deceive.

“I’m just right glad to be here with you, Idris,” he said. “Glad to help, glad to work. I don’t need nothing.” When Idris did not reply, Willard shrugged and let his leg down to resting position. “My mam and grandma, they told me every day that the reason I came into being was to help others. To do good and be good. That’s the hedge witch’s way. Good to the land, good to the fae, good to the creatures around me.” He took Idris’s wrist, looked at the reopened glass cuts. “’S’been lonely in the woods these last couple of years, and I couldn’t do nothing in the war. I’m right glad to be of use. While you have your bath, I’ll go replenish my herbs.”

“I did not deserve to bump into you, Willard.”

“Nonsense.” Willard stood, winked. “I think the fae gave me a little direction towards where I had to be this morning, eh? I’ll be back. No fake leg, y’hear?”

“Heard.”

“And…” Willard darted outside, then brought in two sticks. “Use these to move around. Sleep. Have bright dreams. In the morning, we’ll go a-searching for your friends.”

Idris always considered himself a good patient, even when he woke with a single foot. He vowed, as Willard left for the second time, to always be his best patient.