123 – The Truth

“Oh, it was... Sorry, what was the question again?”

“I asked what spell you used to save my life. You drew something on the floor, remember?”

Mal laughed, the noise a little bit too long and a little bit too sharp to be considered natural. They were still in the middle of one of the walkways going to the spellcasting department. There were a handful of students shuffling about. One passed by Mal and Lusia and nodded at them, then continued on.

"It's just been a while," Mal rubbed the back of his neck. "It's hard to recall, you know?"

"No."

"No, you don't know, or no—"

"I find it unlikely that you forgot," she said.

Mal strained a smile. "That's the truth."

She stared at him for several seconds, then narrowed her eyes.

"You're lying to me."

Mal flinched, the motion obvious and visible and utterly humiliating.

I was a dark lord, and I'm seriously on edge over a conversation like this? Get it together.

"Lusia, why does this matter to you?" he asked. "We managed to give you a core. Isn't that the only thing that matters?"

"I would think so." She tilted her head. "But I'm beginning to think that it matters more than I'd initially thought. If I were to show the professors a drawing of the ritual circle, what would they say?"

What is this crap? Damn it, how is she so sharp?!

"They would say nothing, because you're not going to say anything." Mal put every inch of authority he had into his voice. "Don't forget that you serve me, not the other way around. What I do with my magic is my business, not yours."

A beat of silence. She bowed. "Of course, master. My apologies."

Mal clenched his right fist before he loosened it. "Good," he said, voice devoid of energy. "Don't talk to me about this again."

"Yes, master."

Mal had been unable to stop thinking about that conversation. Even while working and reviewing what he would do for the autumn equinox the next morning, it didn't escape him.

He thought about just telling her the truth. But every answer would only lead to more questions. Where did he learn a dark magic ritual from? The future? If he's from the future, what was the future like? What happened to him?

What happened to her?

All of these were unacceptable. He couldn't tell anyone of that, both for practical reasons, and because the idea of talking about his crimes in detail made him want to vomit.

He woke up the next morning, sore all over and eyes aching from a sleepless night. He crawled out of bed, walked out of the dorm, then circled back around to the back of the building, where his raised garden bed was.

"Let's get this over with," he muttered.

He reached into his satchel and pulled out the Cup of Tears. Once again, he'd already filled it up with water the night before. He stood next to some of his fully grown basil herbs.

One by one, he started harvesting all the plants that were fully mature, until he arrived at the last one. Using his Nettleleaf dagger, he sliced off the elder root growths, then whispered a few words under his breath.

"I—" He grit his teeth and forced his way through the rest of the speech. "I honor you, children of mana. I honor your growth, and now your fruit. Thanks."

He'd bungled the ending, but couldn't bring himself to care. He tipped over the water and it impacted the base of the elder root.

Blue sparks kicked off from where the water met the soil and shaped into thin ribbons, sharp and tattered at the ends, that swirled around the plant.

Okay, that's not normal.

They circled up until they reached the top of the plant, then erupted into a shower of sparkles. As soon as one of the sparks hit him, his skin erupted in pain.

It was like he'd been set on fire.

He tumbled over backwards and hissed, spine contorted and flexed backward in a frozen lock.

All at once, the information hit him like a brick. Foreign. An injection into his brain.

The plants—they were irritated. They were angry, frustrated about something.

"What?" He banged his fist against the soil. "Did I not give you enough fertilizer, you pricks?"

The pain running up and down his skin seared deep into his muscles.

I've been through worse, he thought. This is nothing compared to getting stabbed through the heart.

Minutes passed. Maybe an hour? It was hard to tell.

The sensation of irritation, those foreign thoughts, drifted away until his mind was as clear as ever.

He double-checked his Total Awareness. There'd been a radius increase. Nothing dramatic, only about an extra half a foot.

"Well, wasn't that helpful?" He shook his head. "I guess I've hit diminishing returns when it comes to this."

He supposed that it was inevitable. He pushed himself and stood up. His knees quivered and he forced them to stand still. He stumbled his way back into his dormitory and collapsed into his bed.

"Ape?" A knock at the door. "Ape, how long do you plan to sleep in?"

Mal groaned. The door clicked and Philo strode through.

"You look like you lost a fight with a horse-drawn carriage," Philo said. "And lost."

"Worse. I got my ass kicked by a bunch of plants," he said.

"What?"

"Nothing." Mal shifted his head and looked over at Philo. "What is it?"

Philo's forked tongue poked out and tasted the air.

"Philo just wanted to ask about your plans for Spiritseason."

Mal's brain was blurry. "What the hell is Spiritseason?"

"Oh, humans don't practice it, I forgot." He crossed his arms. "Both Rolam and I practice it, though his version of it goes by another name. It's a time to honor the dead."

"Okay." A spike of pain stabbed through Mal's head. "And do I give a crap?"

"Rude. Philo was just being polite."

Mal groaned into his pillow for a second time.

Finally, he sat up properly on his bed and rubbed his eyes. "Sorry. Just had a bad night."

"It's fine. So I take it that you won't be participating?"

"I don't have anyone important to me who's died yet. Besides, I'm unfamiliar with the traditions."

Technically, Mal wouldn't have been opposed to mourning for all those he'd murdered in another timeline. However, as far as he knew, those souls were only a potentiality—they didn't exist. What was the point in mourning for something that hadn't ever lived?

"Understandable. Philo will be out for the day."

"What about Rolam?"

"Hmm..." Philo scratched his scales with one of his claws. "Philo thinks that Rolam was having some trouble collecting materials for his family shrine. Philo thinks that the half-elf could use some help."

"No."

"Philo didn't even say anything!"

"I know what you were going to say. You were going to suggest that I should use the opportunity to get along with him."

Philo leaned against the door frame. "And why are you so opposed to that? We're not blind, you know. Lusia and Philo have been discussing how you two have been acting around one another."

"So?"

"So it's not sustainable. You two need to make up and get over yourselves. Our circle can't function with you two on eggshells all the time around each other."

Mal clicked his tongue. He brought his forehead into the palm of his hand and rubbed it.

"Fine." He brought his arm back down. "I'll try. But no promises."

Philo brightened. "Excellent! I had all the faith in the world, Mal."

Mal's foot caught on a branch.

He brought his hand back and gripped the trunk of a near-barren tree. His feet tumbled forward and slipped out from under him along the red leaves that covered the ground in droves

Using the trunk as an anchor, he brought his feet back to a steady position.

He'd received directions from Rolam. Apparently, Spiritseason involved traveling into the wilderness—or at least the closest approximation to it—for some ungodly reason. Philo was doing his personal ritual in some deserted back alley. Rolam had elected to do it on the side of the mountain where Exodi Academy was located.

Mal had descended halfway down using a set of old, abandoned staircases and platforms that had been set up probably hundreds of years ago. A few trees and bushes had sprouted up along and inside of the former path.

Mal slid his foot along the dirt. Calling it a path was a bit generous, honestly. There were one or two stone steps that had been buried by sand and destroyed through erosion that indicated a path might have once existed. It was easier than just tumbling down via gravity, so Mal supposed that it was better than nothing.

Mal came to what could be considered a valley and sighed. He used the bushes to aid as handholds for his next couple of steps. The path continued up the hillside, then came to a level area where a grove of trees had sprouted.

He ran his hands along the bark, and the wind whistled a tune that reminded him of a whisper.

Mal took a few more steps—

A hum.

A figure was crouched down in a bush, head halfway inside.

A yelp came out of the figure, and Mal instantly placed the voice.

"Damn it, where is this flower?!" Rolam shouted.

"I think it's safe to say it's not there."

Rolam jerked forward and shoved his head even further into the bush. He scrambled backward, then turned and glared at Mal. "Funny." He squinted. "What are you doing here?"

"Apparently, I'm here to help you find a flower."

Rolam looked like he'd sucked a sour lemon, lips puckered up and eyes narrowed. "Did Holam tell you what I was doing?"

"He said that you were honoring the dead. Spiritseason, right?"

"Right." Rolam stared at Mal for a little bit longer, then shrugged. "Fine. Let's work together."

Mal got the feeling this was about to be a very awkward experience.