“Right, but what happened?” asked Mizuki.
“You pulled from her,” said Doreda. “There are mechanisms within a bard’s mind that affect the aether. They share some similarity to the constructs a wizard can build, though they’re much more tied to the individual and personal to them.”
Mizuki frowned. “So I didn’t just break the spell she was casting to power me up, I broke… her?”
“A piece of her, yes,” said Doreda. “It’s not advisable except in case of emergency, and as my sister said, it typically makes a bard useless until they recover. There’s also a chance that there won’t be a recovery. Sometimes a wound heals back wrong, not the same as it was before. It has to do with the party, which makes people exceptionally vulnerable to each other when it comes to magic.”
“It does?” asked Isra. This had not been mentioned to her when they’d asked her to join the party.
“Oh yes,” replied Floren. “There is a marking to magic, a way in which our magic is ours and not others’.”
“There is some defense against magic that is not your own,” said Doreda, “though it’s trivial to circumvent, in most cases. Your party members have no such protections against your magic, though they do gain some of the innate protections that you have against your own magic.”
“Meaning,” said Mizuki, “that I’d have a harder time killing Isra?”
“It would be difficult in the same ways that killing yourself with magic would be difficult,” said Floren. “By no means impossible.”
“So you’re saying that I touched some part of what it means to be a bard,” said Mizuki. “I… broke it open.”
Floren nodded. “Something that she’d likely been cultivating for a few years.”
“For nearly her whole life,” said Isra.
“Well, all the more impressive that she was able to bounce back,” said Floren. “Or it could be that the collapse was only partial, that you managed to stop what you were doing, or any number of other things.”
“Thinking about the damage, I find it unlikely I only took a part of it,” said Mizuki. She tapped her fingers on the table. “So all I need to do is never do that again, huh?”
“Unless it’s an emergency,” said Floren. “A matter of life and death that’s worth risking your bard.”
“We’re probably not going to run into that,” said Mizuki. She did a poor job of suppressing a smile. “Our party leader is a chrononaut.”
“I’m not sure he wants that to be public,” said Isra. He had not, after all, informed them of it until forced to.
“Yeah, I guess,” said Mizuki. She momentarily looked worried, but it passed quickly. “Well, it’s a real boon for us, and I’m still kind of trying to figure out what it means, but if we go into the dungeons, he can just undo everything if it goes wrong.”
“Unless he’s knocked unconscious,” said Floren.
“Or there’s a problem he doesn’t know about until it’s too late,” said Doreda.
“Well, okay,” said Mizuki. “But it’s nice to have, right?”
“Perhaps,” said Floren. “Opinions on chrononauts and their role in both society and our personal lives vary.”
“We’ve never met one,” said Doreda.
“Well, I’m excited,” said Mizuki, folding her arms.
The food was brought out, and the conversation quieted down as they ate. There was something to the presentation of the food that Isra couldn’t quite put her finger on, a way in which the things she requested had been laid out on the plate, that was unlike other meals she’d had before. The thinness of the plates and bowls that everything was served on seemed to be a part of it, though Isra couldn’t fathom why it was necessary for them to be that way, especially when they seemed so thin. Soft-boiled eggs, as it turned out, were eggs that had been boiled for less time, and Isra was pleased with herself for having figured that out without incident.
It was all delicious, and the oatmeal, while it had a strange texture, she enjoyed more than almost everything else. It was sweet in a way that her own cooking rarely was.
The clinking of utensils on plates and bowls was interrupted when a tall woman dressed in several bulky layers came in and took a quick seat.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said as she settled in. Her eyes moved to Isra. “You’re the baby druid?”
“I guess so,” said Isra.
“Odd for someone not to know,” said the woman, who was no doubt Dom. There was something masculine in her features and a depth to her voice. Isra found it somewhat alluring. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen,” said Isra. “I think my father knew. He must have.” That was something that had been on her mind. “I didn’t, until recently.”
“But you haven’t asked him about it?” asked Dom. She turned to the serving woman who had come in and said, “Three eggs, boiled soft, and a bowl of oats like the girl has.”
“I didn’t ask because he’s dead,” said Isra. “It happened five years ago.”
“Ah,” said Dom. “A shame, but I’m glad I didn’t stick my foot in it with a pain that’s fresh. Your mother?”
Isra hesitated. “She died in childbirth.”
Dom froze for a moment. “Hmm,” she said, her eyes burning a hole into Isra. “Do you know enough to understand why I would be suspicious of that?”
“Yes,” said Isra. “I was told a druid only comes from a child who has the company of her mother.”
Dom nodded. “And if your mother died in childbirth, you were then raised by…” She trailed off, allowing Isra to fill in the gap.
“My father,” said Isra.
“And what did you do for milk?” asked Dom.
Isra frowned. “I don’t know.”
“If you’re a druid, you can’t have a wet nurse, not unless it’s an animal wet nurse, and—” Dom paused, looking down at Isra’s plate. “Is that bacon on your plate?”
“Yes,” said Isra.
“You understand a pig is a sort of animal?” asked Dom.
“I do,” said Isra. She tried not to be insulted by the question and failed.
“Odd to meet a druid who hasn’t come to the same conclusions about the consumption of meat,” said Dom. “Not the oddest thing about you though.”
Isra frowned. “Sorry.”
“Well, don’t be sorry, it’s your own choice, but you’ve spoken with animals, haven’t you?” Dom frowned. She was moving fast, with a sort of impatience that Isra was unaccustomed to. “Have you?”
“I have,” said Isra. “They seem not to have the same minds that we do.”
“Well, no, I’ll grant that,” said Dom. “There’s nothing complex in the thinking of a pig, but there is quite a lot that’s simple. You almost wouldn’t call it talking, but it feels like talking, and of course when you have an animal with you, it takes on something of you.”
“It does?” asked Isra, not quite following.
“Certainly,” said Dom. “Haven’t you noticed that they have moods to match your own?”
Isra thought about that. “No,” she finally said. “I haven’t noticed. I’ll watch for it next time.”
“Druids are rare,” said Dom. “And we’re a poorly understood breed, even more than sorcs, where we find some common cause.”
“It’s impossible to make a sorcerer though,” said Floren. “That’s one of the primary places we differ.”
“As well as having completely different powers,” said Doreda, nodding.
“All the same, misunderstood,” said Dom, waving a hand. “Tell me, what do you do, aside from having lived in the woods alone for what seems to have been most of your life?”