Page 63 of Boy of Chaotic Making

“That branches into alteration,” Merritt pointed out.

“In that story,” Morgance cut in, “the hart is the progenitor of both. But he fell in love with a human woman and gave the ability of earth-speech to her, splitting the magic.”

“Intriguing.” And it was. Merritt found himself leaning closer. “And the elements? That’s also Druid magic, is it not?”

Sean nodded. “The first elementist possessed ability with all four. Some say she completed four great tasks from the gods to earn each one, others say her mother gave birth to her at the center of the earth, with all four infused into her skin.”

Merritt cocked an eyebrow. “I find that unlikely.”

“Because the modern world limits your beliefs,” Morgance said. “Were we able to stand with the progenitors, their abilities would astound us. The first soothsayer could not only see the future at will, butchangeit, even assign different fates to those around her. The first conjurer could create anything; he made ships to sail the oceans and balms to heal the sick. He even created beads for each of the first—beads that would absorb the ailments magic created so the progenitors could cast spells without consequence.”

“That would be incredibly handy,” Merritt said. “I wonder what he had to sacrifice to make them.” The consequence of conjury was the loss of something of equal value.

“What I wouldn’t give to know.” Sean went on, “The first wardist made the seas. Hostilities between men grew so severe he erected a great wall that split the land into a dozen pieces, and into those chasms flowed rivers and rain.”

“The first necromancer,” Morgance said, “received her powers after the grave, and used them to bring herself back. She ferried lost souls back and forth, between the mortal realm and the realm beyond.”

Merritt whistled. “Please tell me you have these stories written down.”

“Of course.” The question seemed to almost offend Morgance. “Our stories are protected, orally and in writing, writ on paper and in stone. There is much to learn among our kin. But first”—she touched his hand, the one still pressed to the oak root beneath him—“I want to show you. Speak to this tree. Cast out anything else. Focus only on it.”

Merritt hesitated, but getting an encouraging nod from Sean, he did. He listened first. The oak was stirring, sensing the onslaughtof spring. It moved water inside of it, readying leaves for sunshine.Raaaaiiiinnnn,it whispered. It had rained last night.Driiiiiinnnnnk.

“Close your eyes,” Morgance whispered. “Sense the spirit of the tree, from its highest branches to its deepest roots.” She placed her hand beside Merritt’s and closed her eyes, following her own advice. Merritt followed suit. It took a moment—first, for him to take it seriously, and then for him to expand his thoughts the way she’d instructed. After several minutes, he got a sense of depth, of dark moisture. It was unlike anything he’d experienced before. Almost like ... a voice without sound, but also without words.

“This tree’s roots overlap with the next’s.” Morgance’s whispers sounded far away. “Find where they touch. Where they harmonize.”

Gradually, the sound of Merritt’s breathing, of his heartbeat, melted away. He thought he’d found the place—no, two—Morgance had mentioned. Deep, dark, wet, cold. The pattern repeated over and over in his thoughts.

There was something else, a dogwood, perhaps—something with deep roots but not nearly as tall as the oaks, tangled in the underground web. Its voice blended into the trio.Reeeaaach,it drawled.Reeeaaaach.

Beings moved amidst the tangle. Merritt focused on the rhythm of their movement. Earthworms, again speaking in a manner he was unable to translate into human terms. They slid toward other roots, thick roots. A tree. Not an oak, something else. And beyond that, a fungus, singing a melody so haunting and strange he could barely understand—

His ears rang loud enough to hurt.

Gasping, Merritt ripped his hand from the tree and brought both up to cover his ears, but the ringing came from within. He winced, urging the side effect to die down.

Sean was gone. The sun was a little lower, warmer. Good heavens, how long had he been doing this? It had felt like only minutes ...

With one cold hand he fished out his pocket watch. Gaped.Two hours?

How?he tried to ask, but even the ability to whisper had been stripped from him.

Morgance slowly opened her eyes and smiled. They sat like that for a full minute until her own voice returned. “It will go a little easier, with practice,” she rasped.

Merritt didn’t respond. He literally couldn’t. So he did not point out that no amount of practice could multiply the slivers of communion in his blood, in his spirit. Nor could he explain the strange concoction of emotions swelling through him—the fear of utterly losing his voice, his hearing, the passage of time. The elation of having discovered an ability so novel and different. The uncertainty of what any of it meant or could mean, and if that was really a path he wanted to go down. It seemed like one a man could lose himself on, and Merritt had only just found so muchaboveground that brought him happiness.

Perhaps it was fortunate that he could not speak. He’d already chosen his path, and he did not think the Druid Morgance would agree with it.

Owein tumbled through the damp grass, then lay on his back, front legs curled, to stare up at the sky. It was just an off-white sheet, but if he stared long enough, there seemed to be subtle twinkles in it, like the entirety of heaven was covered in a thick coating of salt.

Kegan toppled next to him, laughing, and set his head on Owein’s belly. Fallon flew above them, arced around, and flapped hard to land on the grass, where she pecked at Kegan’s leg. Without comment, Kegan sat up and reached into a parcel slung over his shoulders, pulling out a homespun dress. He gathered it in his hands as though he were goingto put it on, then set it next to the hawk instead. Fallon jumped into its collar and shimmied her wings into the armholes.

The bird began to grow, darken, and pop. Owein shot up to his legs—he knew that feeling. Alteration. Though he’d never used it to such an extent.

In a matter of seconds, the bird’s head enlarged, wings coalesced and grew, legs thickened and stretched. Then there was a girl there, probably about Cora’s age, a little odd angled, but that was the effect of the changing spell. She had dark skin, though not nearly so dark as Beth’s, and long, wild black hair. Vivid green eyes. Green like the forest around them, green like melting winter and budding spring, though not quite so vibrant as the greens of summer.

After a moment, the angle in her neck popped back to place, and she looked wholly human.

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