19

The Dark Agrestal

WYNN QUIETLY BREATHED IN THE cool dusk air. She gazed at the wild streaks of gold, orange and red light that dappled the tops of trees.

It is with weariness in this sea of shrub and thorn that I am perturbed, she thought.

As I wander through endless wonders of vegetation and horror—in pursuit of the seemingly elusive promise of the end. But what is an end?

She pulled her cloak closer, as a cold gust rattled the trees.

Is it met when the sun reaches its glorious descent?

Where a stream flows into the vast sea?

At the tip of a sword with a last breath drawn?

Or do we simply entertain ourselves with the idea—

“Hey, what are you doing?” Beryl asked.

Wynn jumped, startled. She turned to see the Beryl hovering nearby.

“Do you mind!” Wynn snapped. “I’m trying to have a soliloquy!”

Beryl landed. “A sillio-what?”

“A soliloquy,” Wynn explained. “It’s when an actor monologues deep stuff to themselves.”

“You’re an actor?” Beryl asked.

“No-no,” Wynn admitted, “but I may become one someday—so I need to practice.” Her heart raced at the thought. She’d never admitted it out loud—especially not to her family—but she adored the thought of becoming an actor. It was such a secret that only her dear friend Olive knew back in Tallstalks.

“Well, sorry for interrupting,” Beryl said. “It’s boring waiting for dinner, so I wanted to see what you were doing.”

“Well…” The gears in Wynn’s head started to turn. “I usually act alone…” But I could use some practice with another actor—though first, I need to gauge his familiarity with the arts and theater.

“What’s your favorite play?” Wynn asked him.

Beryl shrugged. “Don’t have one. Plays are boring.”

Wynn was horrified. “Look, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” She crossed her arms. “I mean, have you seen any?”

Beryl scratched his head. “I think two—but I can’t really remember their names.”

Wynn sighed. “All right.”

We’ll work with that knowledge. Now she felt some pressure. Now I have to pick a play that’s sure to get his attention. Oh how I wish we could act out The Crimson Crown of the Mad Bard, or Flight of a Thousand Greenmoths, or Cruel Dawn of the Redwhiskers! But he’s probably too clueless for an important role, even Aspen-ears. No way. As Olive would say, those roles needed proper “emotional depth.”

Then it hit her.

“The Harrowed Hunt!” Wynn determined. I should’ve thought of that first. Sure, that play wasn’t a favorite of hers, but it was short and didn’t call for many lines. It mostly relied on the character’s reactions to things and a dread-filled atmosphere of mystery.

“It’s a thrilling short play about a stubborn old swirl-ear who has to hunt down a deadly beast that’s been picking off these villagers who live near a cursed riverbed,” she said to herself.

She turned to tell Beryl her idea, only to find the pale-blue beetle-wark had already left.

She spotted him a few feet away watching a splotched caterpillar inch along the ground.

“Never mind,” Wynn said with a sigh. Not every lark is art-minded.

Still, Wynn now had a familiar nagging urge to discuss the arts with someone. Anyone interested.

Maybe even…

A LITTLE WAYS AWAY, WYNN found Lance. He sat near a small dell of ivory and blue-thorned poppies.

The lark had not seen her approach. He sat, legs crossed, in the middle of strewn piles of parchment, an open book of notes, a copper compass, and a ruler made of aged red blotted bark.

Wynn walked closer and saw him dip a quill into a small glass of ink. He traced it over the faded sketch of a map.

Wynn gazed at the sprawling illustrations of mountains, isles, and peninsulas, all inked in painstaking detail. Each one displayed a part of the world Wynn was unfamiliar with.

Lance looked up, startled, nearly knocking over the ink.

“Wynn!?” he said as if it was a question.

Wynn put up her paws. “Sorry! Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” She looked back at the maps. Did you make all of these?”

Lance glanced away. “Some. Others are references.”

Wynn picked one up, studying the intricate details and designs. “This is amazing, Lance! I mean, you’re an artist!”

Lance shrugged. “Ah, it’s not that good. And the spacing is off since my caliper broke.”

Wynn realized that where one map ended, another seemed to begin.

As Wynn reached for another, Lance put his arm out. “Not that one! The ink is still drying.” He sighed. “And ink is expensive.”

Wynn watched as he went back to sketching over the map’s thin lines. Her eyes drifted over to some maps that had been marked with x’s and notes in the margins.

“Have you been to all these places?” she asked in awe.

“A few,” Lance said without looking up. Wynn watched him work a little longer before he finally glanced up. “It’s kind of hard to concentrate when someone’s looking over your shoulder,” he grumbled.

“Sorry,” Wynn apologized. She sat and scooted a little way away.

As he worked, Wynn’s gaze drifted to the silverwood staff in the grass, and a nagging thought crossed her mind.

“Lance, how did you become a caster?” she asked.

Lance gave her a give a funny look. “What do you mean?”

“Like do you get powers after drinking from an enchanted chalice or stream—or do you have to go through a dangerous trial to prove your worth? Or—”

“You don’t choose,” Lance said, cutting her off. “Either you are, or you aren’t. Every lark has the potential to be a caster, usually till your twelfth year. If you haven’t gained any magic ability by then, you’re not a caster.”

Wynn was surprised. “Every lark?”

“Yep,” he said.

Wynn shook her head. “That can’t be right.”

“It is,” Lance said.

“Swirl-ears can’t be casters,” Wynn said.

“By what book?” Lance said.

“Well, no one from my village is a caster,” Wynn said. “And there are quite a lot of us there, hundreds.” She also wanted to add that it was a known fact: swirl-ears and magic didn’t mix, and to ask how could he—a caster—miss that? But she held her tongue. Best not to squabble with someone with magic abilities.

Lance paused his sketching to study her. He furrowed his brow. “That is weird. So you’ve never met any magical larks?”

“Just one, or, er—two now,” Wynn said. “You and the malignant shadow.”

“Well that certainly explains a lot,” Lance said.

“Wait, what’s that supposed to mean?” Wynn asked defensively.

“Nothing—nothing.” He turned back to his map and dipped his quill into the ink, giving a wry grin. “You seem like a lark that’s never seen magic before.”

“Not true!” Wynn protested, her tail kicking up poppy petals. “I know quite a bit about magic.”

“Really?” Lance asked.

“Yeah,” Wynn said.

He looked at her, placing down his quill. “You just asked me how one becomes a caster.”

“Well okay, maybe not entirely. But I think I got the gist of it.”

Lance stood up. “So if I said you’ve been talking to a fake light-double of myself, would it be true?”

Wynn squinted at him. “Umm.” She glanced around. “No, nope. It would be false.”

“You just glanced around,” Lance pointed out.

“Pssh, no I didn’t,” Wynn said.

Lance glowered. “You just did!”

Wynn rubbed her eye. “You know, I think I got some pollen stuck in there.”

“Lance! Wynn!” Beryl yelled. “Get over here! Quick!”

THE TWO FOUND HIM BENEATH the dappled-brown branches of the immense sage-oak.

“What, what happened?” Lance’s staff glowed as he scanned for danger.

“Are you okay?” Wynn wheezed as she ran over.

Beryl pointed at the other side of the tree trunk. They rounded it and saw a large mass of dead lichen. Unlike the healthy red sheen of the Agrestal lichen they’d spotted along the way, this one was a sickly purple and black.

Wynn backed away as she was hit with an immense headache.

“You think it was him?” Beryl asked.

Wynn gave her head a shake. “Why would Brume do that?”

“Because he uses Pall magic,” Lance said. “It’s a demanding magic that drains the caster of their energy. The only way to keep up with casting spells is to take energy from others.”

Wynn frowned. “Others?”

“Wilders, larks, fungi, plants. Though usually things with a pulse yield greater energy.”

Wynn bristled, the tension in her head growing. “Wait, larks?”

“Luckily, it’s quite easy to see this spell coming. He uses wisps.”

Lance picked up a piece of the lichen, which crumbled away in his hand.

“I’m not worried. I’ve seen him use the spell. He uses wisps, so it’s easy to avoid. If this matches the exact direction of the Awlt,” he observed, pointing up ahead into the brush, “tomorrow we head off that way.”

“Easy,” Beryl said, as he balled up his hand into a fist. “I can’t wait to catch that jest off guard, show ‘em what for.”

Lance gave him a look. “Unless you have a death wish, you’ll stand back and let me handle this.”

Beryl vehemently shook his head. “No way, last time—”

“Last time he got lucky,” Lance cut him off. “He got me off guard, but this time we’ll have the element of surprise.”

Wynn coughed. The air seemed full of the stench of dead marigolds and burning sulfur. She backed away further as her eyes watered.

“You okay Wynn?” Lance asked, eyeing her curiously.

Wynn nodded, her throat hoarse. “Maybe that pollen from earlier,” she lied. “Just need some water.”

Beryl sniffled, not over the argument. “If anything, maybe I should lead the ambush. You’re not the only one with wit.”

Lance looked at him, “I think you’re standing in poison-nettle.”

Beryl looked down at the small, tangled patch of thin violet nettle.

AS THE SMALL POT OF water boiled over the fire, Wynn felt a stab of guilt in her belly. She studied her paws. It’s not like I don’t want to tell them. She looked up as the others argued near a bowl of crushed poppy and another frilled plant Wynn didn’t recognize.

“If you scratch, the paste won’t work,” Lance told him.

“Well, maybe it just doesn’t work,” Beryl hollered as he scratched his leg.

Wynn glanced up at the thin outline of the moon against the dark blue backdrop of trees. The truth was, even now she didn’t quite understand her reaction to magic, especially the kind Brume had. She didn’t understand why it sometimes overwhelmed her like that.

She sighed.

But maybe they don’t need to know. After all, once this journey is over, we’ll never speak to each other again.