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"You already know." He smiled. "I'm simply here to tell you that you're right."
I shifted on the bench. "I'm no good with puzzles."
"Then don't make this into one. Your scholars and your experts tell you this is not any known form of magic. They also tell you that it most closely resembles something else."
"Human magic. Which is impossible."
"Why impossible?"
Aratron leaned back, that tiny smile on his lips, not mocking but encouraging, like a patient teacher who wanted me to succeed at this lesson. I always preferred the sarcastic teachers, the bored teachers--the ones who expected little from me. Impossible to disappoint.
"This is not a graded assignment, Jaime."
I started, as if he'd read my mind.
And what made me think he hadn't?
"If you'd like me to give you the answers, I will," he said, the rich timbre of his voice muted, "but I think you'd prefer to work it out yourself. They aren't riddles or trick questions. You haven't missed any clue. You've simply overlooked a possibility that I don't blame you for overlooking. The pos
sibility of the impossible."
"I don't understand."
"Why is human magic impossible?"
"Because it doesn't work."
"Ah."
I looked sharply at him. "Does it?"
"It's never been known to, aside from the occasional minor spell mastered by a nonspellcaster. But even then, the caster almost always had some diluted magical or demonic blood. And the spells were only the simplest. Certainly nothing that would drain or fragment a soul."
"Then it is impossible."
"Fifty years ago, man had never set foot on the moon. Does that mean such a thing was impossible?"
"Of course not. Science just hadn't evolved..."
I stopped.
"Evolution..." Aratron mused. "Funny thing."
He twisted and snapped a rose from the bush, severing the stem with his thumbnail. He caught his thumb on a thorn and a drop of blood slid down his wrist. He followed the path of the blood, then examined the bloodied thorn with the cool scrutiny of a scientist examining cause and effect.
He turned his hand over and touched his index finger to the puncture on his thumb. "Hurts, I suppose."
"You don't feel it?"
"I do, but it doesn't mean anything to me. Were you to have done that, you'd have learned to handle the rose more carefully."
He wrapped his hand around the rose and I shivered, imagining the thorns driving in. When he opened his fist, his palm was smeared with blood.
"To me?" He lifted his palm. "Merely interesting. Now, I am sure that the man who owns this body will not appreciate me having done that, but if what you call pain doesn't bother me, how am I to take pity on him? Yet, although I cannot feel the pain, I understand that it exists, and that explains to me the purpose of these thorns."
"To defend the flower. To increase its chances of survival."
"Evolution. As men might evolve so that they may turn into wolves, to better hunt, find food, defend themselves. An aberration, to be sure, but is that not the point of aberrations? The root of evolution? A man who is part wolf, with superior strength, superior sensory abilities. An advanced predator. It works and yet--" He lifted his bloodied finger. "There are drawbacks, flaws, imperfections in the design. A world of werewolves alone would destroy itself. As an aberration, though, it works...for now."
