The wake was an austere ceremony held the day after they returned to Machen. Ben watched among the throngs of spirits that had gathered to mourn the loss of their loved ones. Ben was accompanied by Briacco and Corin. Ben, Briacco, and Corin stood in a tranquil garden nestled within one of the treetop village’s high vantage points. Below, Ben could see the village’s empty streets through the foliage.

Everyone must be here, Ben mused. He scanned the gathered crowd and spotted his other friends, recognizing several faces from last night’s revelry. Lunden and Murley stood by the last rows in the back, hands behind their backs and heads inclined in respect. Amycus and Meda, along with the other local warriors, helped keep order from the sides, as a choir of dryads guided the memorial rites.

Said dryads gathered in a solemn arc before their fellow spirits, sylvan silhouettes draped in robes that flowed with the wind. They were almost human in appearance, if one ignored the soft bark of their skin and the leaves they had for hair, and Ben beheld the spectacle in a state of captivation.

They broke the quietude that hung over them in concert. With a faint timbre at first, their voices harmoniously rose into a chant. His skin prickled with goosebumps; the song was sorrowful and jovial at equal turns, both lament and celebration. Those in the front were the first to join the rustic spirits, and like a wave, the chorus washed over them.

The crowd parted, and a compact figure emerged from the crowd. Ben noticed it was Robin, who held a heap of dirt cupped between her miniscule hands with a reverence that bordered on the sacred. She approached the dryads with delicate steps, kneeled in front of a mound of soil specially prepared for the occasion, and mixed it with the one she carried.

The song intensified, and magic surged through the crowd like electricity. He had never felt such an immense concentration of magic before. He remembered the Lupari using Trap Rune against the barghest and realized that it was only logical: the more casters involved, the stronger the spell would be. The dryads raised their hands skyward, an exhortation to the heavens. An expression of utter focus lined their faces. Then, the ground trembled.

Elder Garland? No, this feels different, he thought. Robin took a step backward, and from the soil she had fiddled with, a tree seedling sprouted forth. Ben was no gardener, but he knew that plants weren’t supposed to grow that fast.

Ben watched in awe as the seedling continued to grow before his very eyes. It gained size with every passing moment. Its stem turned into a trunk; a smooth surface replaced by rugged bark. Its leaves spread like tendrils as they turned into branches, and from them, beautiful lilac leaves flowered at the tempo of the dryads’ intonation. Now a sapling, it continued to get larger at an otherworldly pace. Instead of reaching up straightforwardly, the tree’s trunk spiraled, a botanical sculpture in its own right.

The wisteria tree, having reached maturity in a matter of minutes, finally halted its growth. The song ended as softly as it had begun, a mere susurration. The fairest dryad of them all, positioned in the middle, took a step forward and stood next to Robin, examining the tree with a motherly fondness. She moved with a grace that seemed to defy gravity, as if she were moving underwater.

Placing one hand on the tree and the other on the small piskie, she proceeded to address the crowd. “For many moons, we endured the scourge of the barghest. For many moons, we lost loved ones: parents, siblings, friends, and lovers. It caught us unprepared; we had grown accustomed to the bounty of peace ushered in by Elder Garland’s protection. We hadn’t perceived such losses since our righteous war against the sorcerers, almost two decades ago.” She extended an open hand in their direction, singling out Ben and Corin from amidst the crowd. He blushed as their attention turned to them, whereas Corin remained unfazed. His mind, however, was already one step ahead. What was this war she had mentioned?

The dryad continued to speak. “And yet today we have our peace again, thanks to sorcerers, no less. Fortune works in mysterious ways, and as they say, there is no wound that will not mend with time. Let this tree be an evergreen reminder of those that were lost. Spirits and sorcerers alike. Let it be a bridge among our peoples.”

As the speech ended, the spirits erupted into a prolonged round of applause. Hands clapped and voices rang out in praise, the air an uproar of gratitude. Ben and Corin joined in, overtaken by the emotional display.

As the ceremony concluded, the commotion dissipated along with it. The crowd dispersed. Relatives of the fallen approached the wisteria tree, there to have a more private moment of mourning for themselves. The choir of dryads, their task completed, went to them in order to offer words of solace.

Lunden and Murley approached Ben and company, their solemn expressions replaced with a warm glimmer. Lunden tossed a leather pouch at Ben out of the blue, who caught it with a subconscious motion. It rattled with a metallic sound that piqued Ben’s curiosity.

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“That’s your cut from the hunt,” Lunden offered, straight to the point, as always. “You’ve more than earned your keep. Also, don’t think I’ve forgotten about our other bargain—we’ll escort you to the Two-Faced Man in three days’ time, alright? In the meantime, I suggest taking it easy and resting. Fortune knows we’ve earned the right to do so.”

“Yessir!” Ben weighed the pouch in his hand. This was the first time in his life that he had received money of any kind, dollar or groat. He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of exhilaration.

Lunden turned to Corin. “Come on, son, we’re to pay our respects to Humbert and Ruffa as soon as the spirits are done doing the same. Ben, Briacco, if you’ll excuse us.”

Corin nodded and said his farewells. He joined the other two Lupari, leaving Ben alone with the satyr. After he watched them walk away, he wasted no time grilling Briacco with questions. “Hey Briacco,” he started tentatively. “What’s this war that the dryad mentioned? You told me before that sorcerers and spirits haven’t always seen eye to eye. I believe this is somehow related, if I’m not mistaken.”

Briacco pulled at his goatee, his gaze thoughtful. Then, with a nod, he motioned for Ben to follow him. “Alas you are not, Master Umber. Come hither. I’ll provide you with answers, but not here. Let’s put those groats to use, shall we?”

⦶⦶⦶

“Two chaiberry lattes are coming up!”

The server, a perky dwarfess with a beard that would put Murley’s mustache to shame, artfully set the beverages on the table without spilling a single drop. She bowed and excused herself with a broad smile.

Ben and Briacco sat in the corner of a café terrace located on the village’s main street. The wake was now over, and Machen had recovered its usual air of activity. He regarded the hot beverage before him. A floral aroma that immediately soothed him wafted from it.

Briacco took a hearty chug, his lips frothy with foam. After a satisfied sigh, he settled on his chair and regarded Ben with an arched eyebrow. “Full of questions, aren’t you, Master Umber?”

He imitated the satyr by sipping at his chaiberry latte. It packed an explosion of flavors, strong and bitter, sweet and spicy in equal turns. He took an instant liking to it. The satyr chuckled and nodded wisely, as if he had already known that Ben would love the drink.

Then he finally unraveled his explanation. “The World That Is and the World That Is Not. Sundered by the Rive, these two planes of existence co-habit one over the other, two separate entities and a single one at the same time. Without turning to the metaphysical, let’s say this wasn’t always the case. Our world’s been in this sorry state for about half a millennium now, the result of a certain madman’s ambitions. But that’s a story for another time.” Briacco gulped down half of his chaiberry latte in a single go as he mulled over how to proceed.

“Chaos ensued after the Rive crystallized into being. Influential sorcerers and spirits gathered for a year and a day in the city of Dool—yes, your destination—where the laws that would govern the World That Is Not were drawn. These so-called Treaties have been observed ever since. However…”

Briacco trailed off, a troubled expression hanging over his brow.

“However?” Ben entreated, completely engrossed in the tale.

“Hmph. I apologize, Master Umber. Memories flooded back, and not particularly good ones at that. However, as the centuries passed, it was the bastions and their sorcerers who mostly benefited from these Treaties. We spirits were slowly but surely edged out into being second-class citizens, subservient to your own ilk. This situation came to a boiling point almost forty years ago, when the centaur known as Macha the Fair banded together fellow-minded spirits and broke apart from the Circle. Spirits from every bastion worldwide joined the conflict soon after, spreading like wildfire. Our own village of Machen is named after him, by the way.”

“Macha the Fair.” Ben echoed. He imagined a figure akin to Amycus leading such a revolt, easily picturing him at the forefront.

Briacco let out a dry laugh devoid of mirth. “Yes. As heroic and just as they come, Macha was. You may imagine how the officials of the Circle and other bastions took to the news. It was not a pretty sight, let me tell you. A lengthy and gruesome conflict known as Macha’s Rebellion ensued, which lasted for the better part of three decades. The wounds inflicted on either side still fester to this day, and while the Treaties remain intact, it transformed the relationship between sorcerers and spirits forevermore.”

The story filled Ben with unease. Dool was the capital of the Circle, and he was headed straight to it. Was he to expect allies over there or more tyrannical figures such as Miss Wormwood?

Briacco picked out his uneasiness and dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “You don’t have anything to worry about, Master Umber, sorcerer that you are. The war ended fifteen years ago, and events like the one that transpired here have helped bury the hatchet, so to speak. It is up to the new generations—such as yourself and little Robin—to look forward to the future and not backward into the past.”

The satyr finished his chaiberry latte and excused himself. Ben remained in his seat, pondering over the new pieces of the puzzle that was the World That Is Not. After finishing his drink, he left three groats on the table for the dwarfess server before departing. Fatigue overtook him; after all, they hadn’t properly rested since their arrival from the hunt.

Ben headed straight back to his hut, collapsing on the reed bed as soon as he arrived. Tired as he was, he could not conciliate sleep. His mind swirled with his new understanding of the dynamics between sorcerers and spirits.

The three days before their departure slowly passed by. These he spent in relative peace. Ben whiled away his time either training with the Lupari or playing with Robin and her fairy friends; it did wonders for Ben’s dark mood and thoughts after the travails of the past week.

And so, the moment to leave finally arrived. Taking one long, last look at the hut that had served as his home, Ben tore his gaze away and made his way to Machen’s entrance.