Chapter 2: Immersed

Chapter 2: Immersed

Tuvos, Day 14 of Rhexia

Blind Moons

Year 602

Brilliantwort grows close to the ground in shady and forested areas.

The foliage is complex, spongy, and bright green; cuttings may be

steeped into a mild tea that fortifies the body’s defences,

helping to fight infections and colds.

—Arcane Herbs and Their Uses, Vol. 1

For the next few hours, only working class citizens and merchants in the settlement of Liminey came to the Wheel and Well for supplies; the little shop fairly hummed with the brisk custom. The nobility wouldn't begin arriving until a little later and when they did, Master Stacia and her apprentices would be busier than ever, for that type of customer was interested in a very different type of brew. And they usually wanted it made more quickly. And they were always slightly dissatisfied with the product.

Another customer approached the back counter, and Evin knew by her clothing that she was a domestic servant. The woman wore a floor-length burgundy kirtle with long sleeves, and a rough, white eborel apron over that. Her long hair was tied back into a tail. She ordered Energy, a less expensive but still useful brew that would bolster her reserves as she went about her day. Evin wondered which of the great houses the woman worked for—House Watkyn was likely.

The woman put a coin—a silver shin—on the counter and Stacia took it, kneeling in front of the wooden cash bucket stored just underneath. She fished out five copper eccats and put them in the customer’s hands, then reached for a clean earthen mug.

"May I take it with me?" the woman asked quickly. “I’m short on time.”

Stacia nodded to her kindly, saying, "Of course." She put the mug down on the counter and turned to take something from another shelf—but found it empty. She glanced about, exasperated.

Evin happened to be standing nearby, stoking the ovens beneath the cast-iron counterpiece with a bundle of freshly split carelwood.

"Evin," Stacia said sharply. "There's a box of new vials in the store room. Fetch it, please?"

Evin turned to go.

"The small-sized ones," Stacia added, and Evin nodded and departed.

The store room was strangely quiet after the relative din of the service area. Evin quickly scanned the pile of deliveries that had been left in the center of the floor. She found a set of crates filled with the little glass vials she sought, all neatly lined up; a wooden grid drilled full of holes saw to that. The merchandise was packed tightly with straw to protect against breakage, but several of them hadn't survived the journey from the blower anyway. It was a process the staff at Wheel and Well was forever attempting to refine. Evin selected one of the crates containing only undamaged vials and brought it back out to the floor.

As soon as she entered the busy main room again, the chatter of customers and clink of flatware resumed, and she felt her steps hasten as if in answer.

Stacia leaned over to peer into the crate Evin bore, inspecting the vials. "Thank you," she said absently, and slipped one of the vials from its sheath. It was a simple glass tube with a cork fitted into the top. She set it down before her.

This would be a quick brew. Stacia centered the earthen mug in front of herself and then carefully added two pinches of powdered gigella mushroom to it. The pile of brownish material seemed to blend in with the neutral colour of the vessel.

Gigella grew in forested areas—especially on tree trunks—at high altitudes, so it was often expensive to import. But it was unparalleled as a natural energy supplement.

Stacia handed the mug to Evin, who prepared to pour boiling water over the stuff.

The woman interjected, eyeing the steaming tea kettle behind the group of brewers. "It'll be awhile before I have a chance to drink it,” she said. “How is the taste when it cools?"

Evin nodded. "It goes down well. It’s sort of meaty and rich. The taste isn't unpleasant."

The servant nodded her assent.

Using a clean cloth to protect her hands, Evin cautiously filled the mug with hot water from the kettle, instantly muddying the concoction. Then she gave the liquid a gentle stir, watching the steam rise in tendrils from the surface. She picked up the waiting glass vial and uncorked it. Then she poured the mixture from the mug—through the strainer—and into the fragile bottle, holding it with her apron to protect her hands from the scaling water. She corked the vial and gave it to Guiote, warning her that it was hot.

Guiote used her apron to insulate her hands as well. She corked the tiny bottle and shook it a few times, then held it up to inspect it. She shook it a bit more, then bowed her head and spoke a few quiet words over it. Finally, she handed it to the customer, who received the potion by utilizing her own apron to dull the heat.

Gingerly yet quickly, the woman slipped the piping vial quickly into a side pocket of her kirtle where it wouldn’t touch her skin.

Evin knew the next face to approach Stacia at the counter. It was Tak. His hair was unkempt-looking, and he still seemed cross.

Stacia, her face carefully blank, turned to Evin and waved her over.

Evin traded spots with Stacia and leaned toward him, her elbows on the bar. "Are you alright?" she asked. "How many bells is it?"

"One bell," he answered sullenly.

Evin dropped her head and groaned. She was laughably late to work. Tak had stayed much too late to cover for her. How had Stacia not dismissed her already? "I mean it," she said. "Get whatever you want. I'll buy."

Tak licked his lips. "I want two things," he said. "First, I want a mug of that new beer."

Evin nodded. The brew was fragrant and incredible—infused with lady’s grace. It would be tight financially for her, but Tak had earned it.

"Also," he added, "I want a Calm Draught."

Evin blew out a breath. There it was. Draughts were more expensive than remedies since they were made with a different caliber of raw materials. The only types of potions more expensive than draughts were philters and elixirs. But she had promised.

Guiote, who had overheard, drew a mug of infused beer for Tak and set it down in front of him. Little flecks from the substantial head of foam splashed onto on the polished wooden counter.

In the meantime, Stacia pulled another mug and approached the set of premium powders on the wall. She poured in generous amounts of ground ammeves, ruveo seeds, and roundleaf, then added half a teaspoon of dried chicken marrow.

The price for both orders would be a gem and a half, all that was left of Evin's earnings from last week.

She dropped the coins into the bucket, defeated.

I'm sorry, she mouthed at Tak, who nodded reproachfully at her and picked up his mugs, heading for an empty table in the cafe.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned. It was Stacia.

"That was kind of you to do,” the older woman told her.

The sounds of the potions shop seemed to melt away into nothingness, and Evin chewed on her lower lip. Was this the part where she lost her place as an apprentice?

“You already know how I feel about tardiness,” Master Stacia continued, her serious green eyes peering into Evin’s. She gave her apprentice a little shake to punctuate her next words. “You must do better,” she said. “You’ve got to do better. I believe you show great promise. Don’t make me a fool.”

Tears pricked at the corner of Evin’s eyes, but she blinked them furiously back, refusing the temptation to look away.

There was a moment of quiet in the shop, and she took the opportunity to murmur, “I’m sorry.”

Stacia pulled her close suddenly, squeezing her tightly in a hug. Into Evin’s ear, she whispered, “Let’s talk no more of it.”

Evin breathed in her scent, feeling warm and comforted. Her master smelt of cinniswood and lady’s grace. She enjoyed the feeling of having the breath squished from her.

“How are you holding up?" asked the older woman in quite a different tone, pushing Evin back so she could take an appraising visual look at her from the messy top knot to the scuffed shoes. "That must have been quite the night."

Evin grinned at her.

* * *

Beynon was dreaming again.

His dreams were lengthy, tortuous things. In them, he always seemed to be very young and absolutely powerless. And, as usual, he was dreaming about his mother.

“Come, Bryn,” she was admonishing him. They had just arrived in his quarters. “They may be our servants, but they are people just like us. There’s no reason to be unkind.”

“I want respect,” he said, and it felt strange to watch himself utter this as a young boy. I want respect. Grown up Bryn Beynon shook his head at his own naïveté, even in his sleep. Respect. That was a stupid thing to want.

His mother petted his cowlick, licking her fingers before smoothing his dark, short hair.

He still wore it that way.

“People respect those who are kind to them,” she told him. “Do you see how the court responds to me?”

Little Beynon nodded his head. He must have been ten summers old in the dream.

His mother smiled. “I always put the kingdom first.”

He nodded again. That was true.

She bent down to look into his eyes. “In everything I do, I put the kingdom first. Don’t I?”

Beynon looked up at her, and suddenly her hands were wrapped about his neck, vice-like. He tried to gasp, but couldn’t seem to make any noise at all. Or free himself. Or move.

Her smile was terrible. “In a way, we are their servants,” she said. “So we must give of our own spirits freely.”

The corners of his vision were beginning to darken.

“Are you ready to give of your spirit—freely? Bryn?”

He didn’t answer her. He never did. He couldn’t. Instead, he focused on her bright eyes and her smooth skin. She was so young when she left.

Finally, Beynon woke himself up. His eyes adjusted to the dark and his breathing stilled.

The room was quiet. The large double doors that separated Beynon’s chamber from Alisia’s were firmly shut.

He was used to seeing the moons outside his large casement window, but they were blind tonight. The stars glittered brightly instead, almost singing their brilliance to anyone who cared to listen.

He displaced the coverlet and slid his legs out of bed, his bare feet touching down on the priceless Urdinese-woven carpet. As though the moons were calling to him, Beynon made his way to the terrace and opened the door.

The night air was cool on his face, and he let a small shiver overtake him. The stones of the terrace were chilling and rough on his skin. Folding his arms about himself, Beynon looked out over the courtyard below, and beyond that, the whispering trees and rolling hills of Daitak North—the Capital. The Seat of the World.

Then, he absently put a hand to the side of his head where his right ear should have been.

A soft sound startled him, and he turned to find Alisia, awake after all.

“Are you alright?”

He was half irritated with the intrusion, but a secret part of him rejoiced. At least he wasn’t quite alone. “Of course,” he told her.

“You were dreaming again.”

Beynon shrugged.

“Was it the same one?”

Truthfully, they were all a little different, but the thin, silvery thread of unease was woven consistently throughout the landscape of Beynon’s sleep. “Much the same,” he replied, and added, “Sorry to wake you.”

Alisia followed his gaze over the terrace and to the forested hills. “I’m a light sleeper.”

Beynon nodded. “You are.”

A moment passed, and Alisia offered, “I don’t remember any of my dreams, even the bad ones. I suppose that’s a fortunate after all.” Her words seemed to slide together into one another, her slippery accent familiar now. Maybe even comforting.

“Perhaps,” he said noncommittally.

The two of them fell silent, and Beynon studied her.

Alisia’s silky, straw-coloured hair fell past her shoulders in sheets, constantly caught up in the breeze. Her green-grey eyes were deep and serious, framed by strong brows. Her long, straight nose caught the feeble starlight, and she brushed a strand of loose hair behind her ear. She was perfect, he thought to himself. In every way. Physically, financially, politically. He just wished he could stand her.

He remembered the day he met Alisia. She was pale and trembling, a tiny, scared little thing, and her Eralian accent was strange to his ears. He had been to her country before. The Beynon line had a summer home in northern Eral, just off the coast of the Rolling Sea—but in general, he had no reason to encounter the populace at large.

Bryn had been pleasantly surprised by her appearance. His family obviously had many facets to consider; he wondered that they would choose someone as attractive as Alisia. But it didn’t matter. It was still a marriage of convenience. That was why whores existed.

“Is there something I can do for you?” he asked her. His tone was formal, and as gentle as he could manage under the circumstances.

The flinch, if there, was completely internalized. This was how their interactions usually went. “I just thought you might like company,” she replied. “I know you don’t sleep well.”

A tiny muscle moved in Beynon’s jaw. “Thank you for the thought.”

Her clear eyes caught his gaze. “Shall I call for something? A hot drink?”

“No.”

Alisia’s fingers reached out, touched the stone railing of the terrace. He found himself watching them.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible, he thought, as he did so often. You could try her. Talk to her. She’d probably listen; offer new perspectives.

But Beynon wouldn’t know where to begin.

And there it was, like a slap in the face. He couldn’t trust her. Who was she in contact with? Anyone could be influencing her.

She was still watching him.

“You should go back to sleep if you can,” he told her. “I’m a lost cause, I’m afraid.”

Alisia lifted her head. “I’ve never quite believed that,” she said quietly. Then, with a light step, she left him on the balcony with the ghost of his mother.

* * *

Bricot sat toiling at the desk in his quarters at the university. It was a pleasant room, small without managing to be cramped. He had finished teaching for the day and was working on his residency project.

He  allowed his mind to wander back two summers to the day he received his invitation; Craestor had extended a generous offer that brought him across the sea from his own snowy Boradîn. His new purpose would be to share his alchemical expertise with the next crop of potions students, but in the meantime, he would be expected to translate the priceless document that now lay before him. The great Facerum.

It was a masterwork. He looked down at the impossibly perfect lettering.

The Facerum was written in Ruqa, a dead language now, but once used by the ancients in southern Urda. Bricot had studied Ruqa intensively during his time at the University of Tengue in Boradîn. In addition to brilliant commentary on the relationship between magic and philosophy, the Facerum boasted many creation myths that were beautiful to imagine. It was a work at once scholarly and romantic, didactic and lyrical, phrenic and imaginative.  

At this moment he was working on a passage about how the Five Deities of Healing came into being. This story was sung at many a hearth or bonfire, but it seemed to morph in each teller’s mouth. It was a privilege to read the original version.

Once, when trees could speak, the gods regularly visited humans and interacted with them.

A human woman named Jora caught the eye of Calumn. She was beautiful, and it was said by many that she was fair of heart as well. And Calumn fell in love with her; great Calumn, true Calumn, Calumn the God of the Cosmos. He visited her home in the guise of another human and courted her.

When it was clear that Jora returned his feelings, Calumn revealed himself to her and she was amazed.

Then as now, humans and gods could not live together, but it was agreed upon that Calumn and Jora would marry, and he would continue to visit her in her home.

After a few months, Jora grew tired of the arrangement, and her eyes began to wander. She bestowed her love on a human man in her village, and was unfaithful to Calumn.

For a time the development was a secret, but then the Goddess of Mysteries in the Divine Pantheon revealed Jora’s secret to Calumn.

Calumn, unable to believe initially that his beloved Jora had been unfaithful, went to her home and saw Jora and her lover together.

Immediately, Calumn fell ill. His blood stopped flowing in his veins, his bones weakened, his stomach shriveled, his muscles slackened, and his mind failed him.

The entire Divine Pantheon was in chaos. Without the God of the Cosmos, the universe would cease to exist, and Calumn was dying; little by little, his life force draining away.

Ydos, the God of Protection, had five daughters. They were very young at the time, and their names were Orena, Udea, Ceftyx, Seltia, and Dota. It was said by many that they were exceedingly clever. When the Divine Pantheon had nearly given up hope of saving Calumn’s life, the daughters of Ydos stepped forward and offered to help.

Orena went to work on Calumn’s heart and blood. Udea focused on strengthening his bones with her powers. Ceftyx laid hands on Calumn’s belly and tried to get him to accept food. Seltia worked on his muscles, and Dota prayed for his wandering mind. It took ten days, but Calumn survived.

Because the daughters of Ydos had saved his life, Calumn named them the Five Deities of Healing, and this is why today, we pray to a specific deity depending on which function we are most concerned with. Calumn still loved Jora, but quietly left her to spend her days on earth as she pleased. He never looked at another woman in that way again.

Bricot sat back in his chair. Such a beautiful story, he thought, but sad. Perhaps that’s what it took when you loved someone; giving them the freedom to pursue their own wishes, even if those contradict your own.

Then he thought ruefully that he wished the five deities of healing were around ten years ago—when he’d needed them the most.

* * *

The Wheel and Well was humming with activity. It was mid-morning, mid-week, and rainy. Evin and Tak found themselves manning the shop alone today, and normally neither would have minded. But guests had a way of taking in the breathless attendants and sloppy bent of the store, and then going right ahead and making everything more complicated with inane requests.

At the moment, a well-dressed woman was blinking her wide eyes at Evin.

“What do you mean, I can’t have my Glamour powdered?” she asked.

Evin sighed. This was complicated. “You could…” she started.

“Well do it, then!” The woman snapped.

“...but it isn’t company policy,” Evin insisted. “For best results, the Wheel and Well recommends that you allow the attendants to brew it for you. The one complication is the inclusion of organic matter…”

“Which I have right here!” the woman finished. She wore a pair of feathers in her dark, glossy hair, and they were quivering angrily, echoing her righteous indignation. “I still don’t understand what the problem is. And you’re taking your time about this; don’t think I haven’t noticed!”

Evin did her best to regulate her own breathing. “Miss, the problem is that if we leave customers to add the organic matter themselves, the potion often doesn’t work. It has nothing to do with the contents. It’s the imbuing process. I can give this to you just as you ask, but you’ll most likely be back here tomorrow to report that the brew simply didn’t work.”

The woman’s head twitched in response, and it reminded Evin of some sort of molting bird. At this point, some customers would push on ahead despite precautions, but this lady seemed to consider. A potion that didn’t work was a wasted trip—two, at least.

So she’s not stupid, Evin thought. Merely shrewish. Is one better than the other though? Really?

The woman pursed her lips and nodded curtly. “Very well. Though it would have been vastly more convenient to have the brew powdered.”

Evin smiled without letting the expression touch her eyes. “My apologies, miss.” She turned to Tak, who had a mug in each hand and a line of decanters simmering merrily along the back wall. “Glamour,” she said to him.

“Another one?”

“Yes,” she whispered. To the woman, Evin said brightly, “That’ll just be two and twenty-five gems.”

The lady placed two gold coins and one silver coin on the front counter.

“Thank you,” said Evin. “And the organic matter?”

The woman seemed to come to herself. “Ah,” she said. “Here,” and she reached into her décolleteé to retrieve a small eborel pouch that was, unhappily, warm to the touch.

Evin schooled her face to remain neutral as she accepted the pouch and handed it to Tak. He emptied them into a clean mug and Evin saw what the contents were. Toenail clippings. She had brought in a man’s toenail clippings. “Thank you, miss,” Evin told her. “Now if you wouldn’t mind stepping to one side; we’ll have your Glamour made up shortly.”

The woman nodded grandly and put herself out of the way.

Glamours may have been the Wheel and Well’s most popular item, and it certainly was among the upper-class clientele. It made Evin shudder to think of it, but there were actually Glamour marriages these days; unions where one partner or the other was under the effects of a Glamour constantly, since even before the wedding took place. If that person’s brew happened to wear off before they could replenish their supply, their spouse might not even be able to recognize them.

Out of the corner of her eye, Evin watched Tak prepare the philter.

The main ingredients in a Glamour were cinniswood, bloodbloom, and lady’s grace, with a few other snitches and snatches thrown in.

And of course, there were the toenails.

A Glamour needed to contain a small piece of organic matter harvested from the person the brew was for. The drinker, or buffer, upon consumption, would take on characteristics the source found to be attractive. Less the organic matter, the lady’s grace, bloodbloom, and cinniswood gave off a distinct floral, tantalizing smell when heated. It was easy to guess if a Glamour was in process by the scent that hung in the air.

Evin was able to help two more customers while Tak worked. When he tapped on her shoulder and handed her the small glass vial, Evin took it. The liquid inside a mostly clear but with a brownish cast—that would be the cinniswood—and steaming.

Now for the the imbuement. She did her best to clear her mind and bowed her head over the philter.

The peripheral noise in the Wheel and Well seemed suddenly far away, and Evin drew in a deep breath. Glamour, she thought. Glamour. Beautiful, gracious. Lithe. Kind, true, pretty. Glamour. Evin threw in all of the trigger words she could think of, willing it to be as strong a potion as any brewed in the shop. It didn’t matter if she thought the customer deserved it or not. It was about commerce.

When she opened her eyes, the woman with the feathers in her hair was staring straight at her.

“For me?” the woman cried over the din.

Evin nodded wearily. She handed the philter over to the woman, who left hastily without thanking anyone.

In the end, she was disappointed that this shrew of a lady had not consumed the Glamour right there in the shop. That was always fascinating. And startling. Definitely startling.

The next few hours were busy. Evin only spilled two potions, which was rather good considering her record.

She and Tak took orders for just about everything she could imagine. There were the popular brews, Menstrual Cramp Cure—by Calumn, what a lot of those!—For General Pain, and Haste. But there were also a couple of martial brews as well, sold to dippers and slingers in the emperor’s army. When this happened, the attendants at the Wheel and Well needed to see identification papers, though the thick green eborel cloaks often gave it away.

One such man strode up to the counter at nearly three bells or so.

“Yes, how may I serve you?” Evin asked.

The man was thin but wiry-looking. He wore a dark cloak over a black shirt and light-coloured breeches. He had two days’ growth on his chin.

“Good day, Miss,” the man said quietly. “I’d like to purchase an immersion.”

Evin’s eyebrows rose.

An immersion was not for buffing—drinking. An immersion was made for coating the tips of swords, spears and arrows. Blunt objects could be dipped as well. An immersion was brewed specifically for the infliction of pain—or death.

She eyed him. He did not appear to be in the emperor’s guard. “I’ll need to see your papers,” she told him. It felt a little strange to address a customer thus—she at seventeen summers to his, what? Forty?
Tak came up behind her protectively. This didn’t happen a lot, and when it did, Stacia was usually in the shop.

The man nodded. “Of course.” He produced two sheets of stained, wrinkled parchment.

Evin took them and glanced over the scrawled handwriting, reading under her breath; “Emerick Bane, Journeyman Combatant, 4th Defence Battalion in Employ of Emperor Bryn Beynon 2nd under Lieutenant Colonel Jayce.” At the bottom of the first page was the seal of Emperor Beynon and the signature of the man’s lieutenant. Evin looked at the second page, which was merely the stock acceptance letter given every soldier who completed their training.

She could find nothing wrong with the paperwork.

“An immersion, I heard?” Tak asked her. She nodded.

“Thank you,” she said to the man—Bane—and handed the papers back. “We can’t be too careful.”

“I understand,” he said.

He explained that he wanted an immersion which would paralyze the recipient for at least two hours. “For distribution with a blade, of course,” he told her.

Evin recorded the sale. She would speak with Stacia about it later.

Tak shrugged, and together, they made the immersion.