4: The Apothecary

 

She peered in the window, hoping this was the place Alphonse had mentioned. A bell hanging over the door made a jangling noise as Noir entered. The room was wrapped floor to ceiling with dark wood shelves crowded not just with books, but with stacks of loose papers, and an odd assortment of paraphernalia. There were rows and rows of bottles. Some held dried herbs, some had odd colored fungi, some were filled with bits of crystals or brightly colored powders. One whole shelf had clear boxes of bones—everything from tiny bird vertebrae to a selection of hands sorted by size. One large box held a ribcage and the skull of what looked like some large carnivore. A large glass jar held shed snake skins. Another seemed to be filled with black pebbles that, on closer inspection, turned out to be dried black beetles. 

There was a large desk in the center of the room where a woman sat looking at a beautifully tooled, leather-bound volume. Delicate fingers traced the gilding on the spine of the book she was holding. The woman was middle-aged, thin, almost bony. She had the wispy silver hair and slanted eyes typical of elven blood, but her ears did not have the classic pointed tips. Her wire-rimmed spectacles held thick lenses tinted pale pink. She looked up as Noir stepped nearer. Her smile was warm and genuine. “Can I help you?” she asked. “What exactly are you looking for, my dear?” Noir felt a pulling sensation, as if something was touching her shields, and she had an intense urge to smile back at woman.

“Do you have or do you know where I could find any census records of the area? I am looking for information about my father. He grew up somewhere near here.” Noir knew it was a long shot. All she knew of her father was that he’d left her and her mother when she was a toddler. She had only a vague memory of a tall man who picked her up and bounced her on his knee, tickled her and made her laugh. She remembered the lace trim on his shirt, on the collar and cuffs, and the silk cord with which he tied his long, wavy black hair back.

The woman rose and her long purple taffeta skirts made a swishing noise as she made her way out from behind the desk. She held out her hands for Noir to take. “May I read you? Take my hands. It will be faster that way.” Noir looked into the woman’s clear blue eyes and felt an instant urgency. This was the person she needed.

She laid her fingers lightly into the woman’s hands. As she did, she felt that pulling sensation again. She looked into the woman’s eyes and the memory surfaced again, the one she had dreamed over and over for years, but clearer now and far more vivid than she’d ever had it before. It felt real.

                                                                 ***

They all sat in the grass by the side of the river. Mama was singing a sweet sad tune as she wove reeds into a basket. Da was twisting daisies into a crown for six-year-old Noir. He placed it on her head and then looked in her eyes and said, “You will take good care of your Mama for me, won’t you, princess?” He hugged her tight and she could hear her mother’s singing falter and turn to soft sobbing. “Ah, pulu, don’t cry. The King needs me, but I will be back before you know it.”

“You say you will, but I fear I will never see you again. I fear you will lose track of the years and forget us. I will be gone when you return. If you return.” Noir wasn’t quite sure what was upsetting her mother, but she hated the tears.

“You can have the crown, mama. Don’t cry!” Noir’s tiny hands pulled off the daisy crown and tried to put it on her mother. Then in a swirl of multicolored lights the vision was gone.

                                                             ***

Noir opened her eyes and saw she was lying on a wine-colored couch, wrapped in a thick embroidered quilt. The Apothecary stood over her and was stroking her face with a cool wet cloth that smelled of witch hazel. “How do you feel, girl? You have been out for over an hour. You went very deep.” Her dark blue eyes frowned with concern. “I did not expect that.”

“I saw my parents! I have had dreams with them before, but nothing this real! Do it again!” Noir struggled to sit up, but her head was pounding, and she could not get her balance. “What is wrong with me?”

“You are not fully human, are you?” queried the woman looking closely at Noir. She took Noir’s left hand in hers and began tracing the lines of her palm with one elegant finger. “You would not have had such an intense reaction if you were a human.” She moved to a shelf full of very old books. Selected one embossed tome with locking clasps. After she perused a few pages, she looked at Noir again. “What do you know of dragons, my dear?”

 

3: Black Thorne Tavern










As the warmth of the tavern began to soak into her bones, Noir finally relaxed. Not that the journey here had been too arduous. Once she had crossed the mountains, the roads were well traveled and the conflicts in the north had made most bandits move away from the paths of the armies. Still, the stress of not knowing what had happened to her Baba had worn on her. Barely a month ago she had been contentedly studying in her rooms at the academy; only three weeks ago she was looking at the burnt out ruins of her grandmother’s house. 

When she first heard about the trouble in the Marche, she had packed her bag, left her college, and rushed home. All she found was ashes. Her grandmother's once beautiful treehouse was nothing but charred stumps. The town nearby had been razed. All burned, everything of value gone. No one living, no people, no livestock, but also no bodies. Baba was gone, too, but whether she had fled or been captured by the Usurper's men there was no clue. She had found little when she combed through the debris of Baba's house. A small obsidian mirror, a thin copper bracelet, a polished red sphere made of some sort of stone. She'd stowed all that in her pack and moved on. Lost in her memories, she took another sip of the wine. 

"Hello there. Enjoying your drink? What's that you're reading?" The woman who plopped into the seat across from Noir was very pretty with large violet eyes and two tiny horns peeking through her thick dark curls. Her voluptuous curves were barely covered by a diaphanous gown and her fingers sparkled with numerous rings. Noir felt a frisson of sexual energy shiver around the room with the sound of the woman's low and seductive voice. There was just the barest hint of compulsion there. She raised her mental shields. Someone less aware would likely want to tell this woman anything, do anything she asked. Someone with no shields would be at a risk of falling hopelessly in love. 

Noir smiled and sipped her wine slowly before answering. "Hello yourself. So, are you truly curious or is this an opening line in a seduction attempt?" She closed the book, laid it on the table, one hand on it protectively, and looked the woman in the eye. 

A tinkling laugh spilled out of the woman, drawing the attention of several male customers around the bar. "Awww, Sugar, you can't blame a girl for trying!" she said with a wink. "I'm Doxryllia ap Illyianiish, but you can call me Doxy. I run the brothel upstairs. So if you are lonely, I can find you anyone, either to seduce or be seduced by! But really I am just curious. We don't get a lot of people who come here to read." 

Noir laughed. "Well, I'll warn you, I am always reading something. This time it's an herbal by a fellow named Culpepper. Lots of good recipes." 

"Like cooking recipes? I am not much for cooking." 

"Healing tisanes and poultices, beauty treatments, love philters. You name it. Mind you, Culpepper doesn't have a patch on Grieve for love potions. She is better by far." Noir grinned and felt herself relaxing. This is what she loved best, talking about her craft. 

"Recipes for beauty treatments is just what I need. You have anything for making the skin smooth and removing pimples? I have this one girl . . ." At that point a large dark-skinned fellow wearing a loincloth and not much else pushed open the door and made a beeline for Doxy. He grabbed her by the arm and lifted her out of the chair. Noir was on her feet in a flash, sparks beginning to drip from her fingertips as she raised a hand, making her momentarily wonder at how easily the power came to her fingers. But Doxy just smacked the man hard and shook him loose. "Knock it off, Dozzer! You only touch when I say you can touch!" She gave Noir a sideways glance with a wink, "You got anything in that book that will shrivel up a penis and make it never stiffen again?" She glared at the big man. 

The color drained from his face. He took three steps back and whined, "But Doxy, Sweetie, Baby! I got a powerful need! I got my pay, see?" He held out a gold coin. Noir dropped the energy she had instinctively pulled from somewhere nearby. She wondered again at how easily the power had come to her fingers. 

Doxy patted the big man on the cheek and took the coin. "C'mon with then me, Hon." She wrapped herself around his arm, but as she moved with him toward the stairs she flashed a smile over one shoulder at Noir. "I'll be back, Sugar. You find me that pimple cream recipe!" 

Noir stood there for a bemused second, then sat down again. She looked at her own fingertips, rubbed thumb and forefinger together and felt the warming spark of energy. She should investigate this new power, she thought. Maybe somewhere nearby she could find a way to repair her broken spells. But that was for later. For now she picked up her goblet, drained it then lifted it, signaling Alphonse to pour her another spiced wine. 

* * *

The shadowy figure in the corner leaned forward to watch the girl. She had been instinctively about to fry the big half-orc. He had felt the tug on his ley lines, felt her draw in the power. Did she know where the current she had raised came from? Now this was a fine twist. How did a little human witch come to be able to manipulate dragon magic. She would bear watching. Perhaps he needed an even closer look. 


2: Lost Maiden

 


The cold rain was not hard, but it was steady. It made the stones slick and slippery. Her fingers were freezing. She pulled the leather coat tighter around her, the fur at its cuffs and neck kept in her body heat some, but it was rapidly getting soaked. She needed to find shelter soon. There must be some civilization near here somewhere, the path was far too wide and clear for a game trail. The silence of the forest, with its thin white trees, was unnerving. She stopped and looked at the endless rows of ghostly trees that seemed, in the falling dusk, like skeletal arms. She began to mutter to herself as she continued down the path, “Birch, deciduous trees with simple petioled leaves. Good for firewood. Bark can be used as paper. Sap is drinkable. Oil from the leaves is astringent and antiseptic, good for rashes. Useful trees. Not scary at all.” The forest did not answer back. No animal sounds in the underbrush, not a single bird. She shifted her pack, shivered, and picked up her pace. High stone cliffs rose on her left bordered by more of the thin trees. Then she saw the iron gate.

Something woke him. There was a someone in his forest. He could hear a soft low female voice. Lifting his huge draconian head from the rocks, he sniffed. Lavender and burnt sugar and . . . ashes? The scent was to the west, he thought. On the old road. Now what would a human be doing walking the old road?

The road ended at a huge ornate gate, which opened easily, not a single creak. It was a graveyard. She could just make out the headstones like broken rows of teeth in the ground. She stepped softly past. “Pardon me,” she whispered to the stones. “Just passing through. Don’t mean to disturb your rest.”  As if in response, the green phosphorescence on the headstones seemed to flicker. It was close on to full dark now. Hard to make out anything in the gloom around her, but were those brighter lights up ahead? She hurried toward the lights. A town, the hope of food and drink? Maybe a room.

He uncoiled his great bulk from the ledge and watched her work her way out of the cemetery and into the town. Curiosity, a thing which hadn’t moved him in ages, prompted him to rise and follow her. His scales made very little noise as they slid along the rock. He watched as she entered the town and hurried along the street toward lights that meant safety and warmth. He chuckled to himself as he shifted into smoke and followed the girl.

                                                                           ***

Heads turned toward her as the tavern door swung open. She stood for a moment, her eyes adjusting to the light. Then she stepped across the threshold. The conversation, that had stopped as she came in, immediately resumed and everyone turned back to their drinks. Still talking to herself, she stomped over to the bar. “Food first. Need to dry off. Need a room.” She looked up at the tall thin man behind the counter. “Cheese. Bread. A bowl of whatever that is in the pot that smells so good," she pointed at the cauldron on the hearth. "And a goblet of warm mulled wine, please,” she said laying three small silver coins on the counter.

“Done. And for that you can also get a piece of Mama’s Zu's pie!” The tavern keeper, a tall thin man with sallow skin, was wearing a lace-cuffed shirt with the sleeves pushed up and an embroidered weskit. “Best pie in town. Made with the last peaches of the summer!” She grinned as she watched him slice a piece of pie and add it to a plate with thick slices of cheese, and bread. “Have a seat, Miss. I will bring the stew and wine.”

She perused the room and, carrying her plate over, selected an empty table by the fireplace. Across the room there was a game of some sort going on with much laughter and friendly back-slapping between a hefty green-skinned fellow and a tiny rabbit-featured young man. A gaggle of scantily clad girls giggled as they watched. In a corner by the bar a voluptuous purple-haired girl was whispering to a dark-cloaked fellow in a floppy hat. A huge woman with tiny tusks was wiping the bar and setting out clean glasses. Settling into her chair the traveler pulled a battered book from her bag and began to read.

When the barman brought her a tray with a bowl of stew and a goblet of wine, she thanked him without looking up. After a minute she realized he was still there, looking at her. She did a mental check of herself. Her pale shortly cropped hair was a bit mussed from the wind. Her black pants and tunic a bit damp, but not so much as to cling to her figure. “Was the coin not enough?” she asked him.

“Oh no, Miss,” he smiled. “It was quite sufficient. But I was wondering. You are human, yes? What brings you to this place. We do not get many humans here. And it can be dangerous to be . . . unescorted.”

She paused before replying. “I am,” she paused looking around again, “. . . human. I am just a traveler. Is this town so very dangerous? Where exactly am I?”

He pulled up a chair across from her and began to speak in a low conspiratorial whisper. “This is the village of Lost Maiden, Miss.”

She held out her hand, “Noir. My name is Noir. And you are?”

“Alphonse, Miss. This is my tavern. We do not get many humans in these parts. Not since the Goblin King claimed the realm. This tavern is neutral ground. All the races meet here in peace . . . mostly. I just wanted to let you know that you need to be careful. There are some as don’t care much for humans. Not since the wars ended.” As he spoke a side door blew open and a cold wind filled the room. Noir looked up but saw nothing. The Tavern Keeper rose and hurriedly went to shut the door.

                                                                                  ***

He slid into the tavern on a draft. A mist of black smoke. Took a seat in a corner by the window where the shadows were deep. He saw the female sitting alone, food before her, legs crossed and a book in her lap. She was sipping slowly at a goblet that steamed and smelled of cinnamon. By elf or even human standards, she was not pretty. Her features were symmetrical, but ordinary. Button nose. Big grey eyes. Pale, nearly white, hair--cropped short and messy as if someone had cut it in a hurry. She had draped her damp coat over a chair. Beneath it she wore a black linen vest with multiple pockets, tight black leather pants tucked into boots. He stared. Those boots. Red leather, with intricate tooling in multiple colors. Slightly turned up toes. Where had he seen boots like that before?


   #3 Black Thorne Tavern >>


1: On the road

The snow was thick and her fingers were numb, but she had found a tiny cave; actually more of a dent in the mountainside. Night was falling and she had to get off the road and rest. The trek from the capital city had been quick and mostly along well-traveled roads, until she reached the mountains. Just the other side of these mountains was the village where she grew up. Her journey had been quiet, the road empty except for a few farmers going the other way, bringing their late crops to town. She had only stopped in one Inn because she didn't want to spend her coin. She didn't know when she would return to school, if at all.

Meister Ilbin had forbidden her to leave. Told her the roads were not safe. Told her to wait until spring, until she could hook up with a caravan. She had left that night, silently, stealthily, so no one could stop her. This was probably stupid. She would have been safer remaining at the academy, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she had to get home. She needed to get home. There was something wrong at home.

She set down her pack carefully as it had all her worldly goods in it, limited as those were. A couple books, her handwritten grimoire and her pens, a change of clothing, two changes of under garments, her knife and her mug, one blanket.

Her hands shook with the cold as she gathered up twigs and moss, and several dead branches from a nearby pine. She scraped the ground in front of her niche clear of snow, then she constructed her fire. A circle first, then tinder, on top of that kindling and fuel. Now for the tricky part. Holding her hands on either side of the pile of kindling she prepared to call for fire. Fire is always such an elusive element. Half the time at school she could barely call a spark, the other half she might as well set a forest ablaze. The Meisters all said be patient, go slow, but she was never one to wait. Now it suddenly struck her how dangerous this cold could be if her magic failed her.

She positioned her hands again. She reached deep in her mind and saw the fire. She envisioned the red spark, the curl of smoke, the lick of flame as it swept around the logs she had stacked. There was a loud whoosh and she opened her eyes. A huge grin split her face. She wanted to dance with glee. She had done it. Now to control it. Moving her fingers in complicated patterns she dimmed the light of the fire, but turned up the heat. With another sweep of her fingers she set a stasis spell. That should hold the flames through the night allowing her to get some sleep without having to replenish the wood or freeze to death. She relaxed her shoulders letting go of the tension she had been carrying.

From her pack she retrieved a hunk of cheese and a piece of candied ginger. She poured water into the tin cup and set it near the flames. She crumbled a handful of the mint she had gathered along the way into the cup and dropped in the ginger. While she waited for the water to warm, she nibbled on pieces of the cheese.

It wasn't so much that she was bad at magic, she reflected. It was just that her magic did not always come when she called. As if it were a recalcitrant creature with a mind of its own. For all the other students at the Academy it was just a matter of learning the right words and the right gestures. Everyone there had magic. They were the privileged ones, gifted humans touched by the divine—or so said the instructors. To be honest, Noir thought, it was more likely some accidental combination of blood and ancestry. Meister Tobin, who was the best at water magic and who could call any beast, had slightly more pointed ears than most humans. She saw his ears once when the wind snatched his hat from his head. She wanted to ask him if he had Elven blood in his family, but that was not the kind of question that was considered acceptable among the polite society of Norrebrox. When she was first brought to the school by her grandmother, she had had it drilled into her that one did not ask personal questions. There were punishments—being slapped was the least of these, losing a meal, hard chores, and having her reading privileges cut were the worst. Especially having access to the library taken away.

In her first year at the school she had gone hungry a lot until she learned not to speak out of turn. In her second and third years her tutor was Meistra Cerrida, who took it as a personal affront when Noir’s magic went awry. Noir suffered the slaps, but started to notice who among the students were never or rarely slapped. What did they have that she did not? Most of the students had registered an affinity for some form of magic by year two. The girls who had a way with plants and making things grow, almost always came from one of the seven witching families. The boys who could move metal and stone were invariably shorter and sturdier, and probably had dwarf or goblin blood, albeit diluted by generations, mixed with their human. Noir was the daughter of a witch, who was also the daughter of a witch and although she knew all the Magica Medica, the encyclopedia of plants and their properties, she would be as likely to wither an herb as to force it to bloom if she called on her magic.

In her fourth year, Noir got Meister Ilbin as her tutor. He was would never harsh and never restricted her reading, but she knew she was a disappointment to him. She could command the elements—sometimes. “Focus, Noir. Focus!” he would say. “You have the magic, you just need to concentrate on the forms!”

Magic was either in your bones, your blood, or it was not. If you had magic, you could learn to use that magic. She had magic. She felt it singing inside her. The Meisters were stunned at the level of her power—when she could get it to rise. But sometimes no matter how hard she concentrated, no matter how perfect her gestures and chants were, she could not make fire, not even light a candle. Other times when she called the flames, she got wind, or water. It was so frustrating. 

Maybe this time it was her need that brought out the fire. She did have a great need. To get to her village. To find her grandmother, Baba. To save . . . to save something. . . . She didn't yet know what it was, but it was nagging at the back of her mind. It would come, eventually. 

She rolled up in her coat, tucked her hands in the sleeves, and using her pack as a backrest she fell asleep to the dancing of the firelight. 

Her dreams as usual were of her childhood.

                                                                                               >> 2: Lost Maiden