This short piece continues to add to the story started in Marked. For the first time, you follow Tara rather than Davon. I wrote this for Elegant Literature for the challenge on “mundane magic.”
These shorts make the most sense read in order! If you have not yet read Marked or its follow up short, do so first.
Happy reading,
Rebecca
Tara wrinkled her nose as the herbsman dropped an especially putrid scent gland into the vat. Its unique odor wafted into her nostrils in the steam, and she sneezed.
“Master Rondle, what was that?”
The herbsman chuckled, his middle-aged face contorting into that cryptic expression that was neither smirk nor scowl. “Spotted groundpig, my young apprentice. Freshly trapped and slaughtered for this particular potion. One gland will make at least twenty doses, you know.”
Tara leaned away from the roiling vat, thrusting her nose toward the window where crisp autumn air battled to enter against the apothecary’s dank humidity. “Sir, how does spotted groundpig have anything to do with sheep health?”
Again, Master Rondle laughed. “Stir that,” he ordered as he turned to rummage through a shelf. He spoke absentmindedly to the glass vials and ceramic jars on the wall. “Oh, some say it has to do with antioxidants; some attribute it entirely to the immeasurable magika of undomesticated creatures. I myself tend to believe it is merely the offensive smell, which undoubtedly drives the ghastwolves away.”
Tara stirred obediently, striving not to turn her lips down at the corners. Master Rondle appreciated a positive attitude, regardless of how nasty the potions and magicks’ ingredients might be. “But, sir, a single dose wouldn’t be enough to make the entire animal smell, would it?”
“Indeed it could,” Master Rondle asserted, turning back with a scoop of white powder. “Haven’t you ever eaten a large volume of garlic or onion?”
Tara opened her mouth, then shut it. Garlic was almost humiliating with how it stuck to one’s tongue and lingered on the breath. She never ate it if she knew she was going to see someone she liked.
They finished the potion, bottling it in small glass tubes, and Tara put her hand to labeling as Master Rondle began a new process. Rondle had taught her the basics of script, a wonderful skill that made her almost as educated as her pa.
“What say you to a bit of mischief?” he said. “Lover’s Whisper? Ah yes, a mixture of green and black magika, just enough metal to get the blood running hot.”
Tara felt her cheeks alight as she watched the master herbsman. She had heard of Lover’s Whisper, a powerful potion of eloquence in the face of terror at seeing one’s romantic interest. Of course, she had never touched it, being a younger girl years from adulthood. Plus, the customers who bought it didn’t tend to be women.
Rondle beckoned her close. “Come now, you must learn. It’s one of our biggest sellers. A simple luck potion, really. What is infatuation but a lucky turn of words and hearts, a chance from mischance, a moment of near-accidental connection to bridge lost souls in their lonely wanderings?”
Tara smiled as her master gesticulated, sweeping a red powder—perhaps iron oxide—into the vat with an exaggerated flourish.
“I suppose a little luck is helpful when trying to fall in love,” she offered.
Master Rondle’s carefree dance faltered, and his enigmatic expression returned. “Naïve apprentice, I said nothing of love.”
“But I thought—”
“Half of this business is truly herbsmanship, Tara; complex weavings of the natural fibers of the world, gifted to us by I’ya for medicine and healing. Like the livestock medicines and preventatives.” Master Rondle straightened, suddenly serious. “The other half is showmanship. No amount of metal shavings, rock powders, or plant extracts will change the course of someone’s future, nor make someone’s heart melt from ice to fire. Don’t ever forget that.”
Tara swallowed hard. “But luck is real, Master. Isn’t it?”
Rondle snorted, then returned to his odd, dancing demonstration of potionmaking, being sure to show her each ingredient as it entered the glittering swill. He finally answered.
“The only luck is the luck you make.”
Tara proffered the philtre to the gawky man across the counter. He was grown compared to her, and apparently madly in love.
He grasped at the stoppered vial like a starving orphan grasps at bread in the winter streets, and Tara shivered a little inside. What if it didn’t work? What if it did work, but on the wrong person? What if—
The young man smiled, revealing long dimples on either side of his mouth, and he sighed long. “Thank your master for me, Apprentice ol’Campen.” He turned the philtre in the bright light streaming through the window. It sparkled, seeming to shimmer with magical imbuement.
Tara knew it was merely the mineral powders, but instead mumbled, “Thank you, sir, I made it myself.”
The young man hesitated only a moment at that admission, then grinned, slapped coins on the counter, and departed with a new swagger in his step.
Master Rondle peered from the back room. “Well done, Tara. Your first sale of Lover’s Whisper crafted by your own hand. Now, attend me with something new.”
Tara obeyed, and she thought little more of the sale for the rest of the afternoon. It never crossed her mind as she nestled into her apprentice’s loft, nor as she crafted more remedies for Ms. ol’Lannery’s flock the following day. Truth be told, the only person she wished to tell about her accomplishment was her friend Davy, and he didn’t live in town, so she wouldn’t be able to tell him until rest day.
Thus, she put it out of mind.
Until the young man burst into the apothecary, flushed and frantic.
“It didn’t work,” he cried, slamming the philtre hard enough onto the counter as to threaten the glass. “I demand compensation.”
Master Rondle appeared suddenly. He inspected the remnant liquid, then quietly pushed it back. “I assure you it adheres to the standard formula and works as well as any other.”
“Shoddy apprentice dribble,” the man answered. “I paid for master’s work.” His burning cheeks paled, and he glowered through bright, blinking eyes. “You don’t understand; I am ruined. This potion tangled my tongue, confused my words so she’ll never speak to me again. I’m a damned fool.”
Tara watched in horror as her master reimbursed the distraught customer, expression tight. When the customer left, Rondle spun to her and pushed the half-empty vial into her palm, leaning in. “Half of this is showmanship,” he warned. “It’s a farce of magic, but if you don’t make them believe it, you will fail.”
“I know Master Rondle believes in me—that I didn’t mess it up—but if I made it correctly, it would’ve worked,” Tara moaned. She buried her face in her hands, battling frustrated tears.
Davy nudged her, forcing her to look up. The younger boy sat close on their shared log bench, appealing with those dark, concerned eyes. “What is it?”
Tara took the cursed vial from her cloak pocket and sighed. “Lover’s Whisper…but I think I put the wrong blossom in. If I swapped violet laceflower for purplehedge, it would have been closer to a potion of charisma and charm used by traders.” She gasped and buried her face again. “Oh, that’s exactly what I did.”
Davy stifled a giggle. “Sorry…Lover’s Whisper?”
She glared at him until he sobered, which took some time. He finally held out a hand for the vial. Unstoppering it, he breathed the philtre in, then shrugged. “Smells like violet laceflower to me.”
Tara scowled. “No, I’m certain—”
“That’s what I brought you from the mountains last time, remember?” Davy raised his eyebrows in query. “I sold the apothecary violet laceflower, gingerroot, petalwings, and fresh glacier water from the mountaintop.”
“What else could it be?” Tara threw her hands in the air, then squeaked with dismay as Davy tipped the philtre back. The shimmering liquid disappeared down his throat.
He swallowed loudly and gestured wide. “Tastes like violet laceflower, Tara. Plus, I’m sure you did it right because you know what you’re doing. You’re a natural at herbsmanship, and you’re smart. You always have been.”
“I’m only an apprentice—”
“And Rondle already depends on you, relies on you for everything,” Davy continued. His admiration was a wave of warmth in the cool autumn breeze, although his smile was sad as it often was. He nodded assuredly. “You’ll be the best master herbswoman our kingdom has ever seen some day. I just know it.”
Despite everything, Tara’s heart lightened as she accepted the empty vial back. Maybe Davy was right. Maybe the customer had simply used it incorrectly, or at the wrong time. Maybe she, Tara ol’Campen, apprentice to Master Herbsman Rondle ol’Danich, was not without some talent.
But then she faltered and hung her head. “But Davy, you know luck is real. If I did it right, it should have worked.”
For that, Davy had no answer.
Tara returned to her work with renewed dedication, giving every creation no matter how pedestrian all her attention. Her measurements were meticulous, her timing precise, even for the innumerable livestock medicines. She studied and practiced late into the night, every night, and begged more supplies from Davy when she ran low on anything. Master Rondle noticed and praised her rapid progress, declaring he’d lose her to journeymanship before he was ready.
Nevertheless, her heart remained heavy at her failure for the love-addled young man.
Until he burst through the door one day, a brilliant smile painting his face and deepening his dimples. He headed straight toward Tara, who backed against the wall despite the counter between them. The ceramic lids jingled on their pots, and glass tinkled against glass as vials jittered on the shelves, and she was forced to halt her retreat.
He smacked both palms on the counter. “Thank you, Apprentice ol’Campen. She accepted my request to court.”
“I…I thought it didn’t work,” she stammered, but he shushed her with a hand.
“All she wanted was someone real, who made her smile. Someone she could be herself with, and not have to pretend to be perfect and well-behaved all the time.” He paused, then grinned fondly at the shelves behind Tara, and she became quite sure he wasn’t really talking to her. He continued, raking a hand over his hair absentmindedly and sighing. “She’s quite silly, in her own way. Loves to laugh, full of joy at the strangest things…” He cleared his throat, returning his distant gaze to Tara. “Anyway, I came to apologize. If not for that little potion, I wouldn’t have had the fool confidence to approach her in the first place, nor stumbled so egregiously in my attempts to woo her as to make myself memorable.”
Tara searched for words, then instead curtsied as smoothly as she could. “It’s what we do, sir.”
He left a pile of coins in his wake, and Rondle appeared beside her. He stared pensively at the door until the young man’s footsteps faded.
“Well done, Apprentice,” he said, handing her a fresh vial of Lover’s Whisper, yet another of her own creations. “You’ve only just begun in this business, but you make a master proud.”
Tara turned it in her fingers, thoughtful as he retreated to his back room. The silvery ribbons spun and danced within, alive with a strange power that never allowed them to fully settle in the pinkish concoction.
Was there real magic at work here?
She dared not believe, but she likewise dared not doubt, and a small smile tugged at the edges of her lips.