Dryad Eyes, part 17
2,391.
This entry happens almost simultaneously with the previous, fyi. It also contains another Pari first. Hahahahahahaa....
Charis could not say exactly why it was that she felt the need to check up on the girl Lithia's story, but that was how she found herself, wearing a heavy black cloak and her customary mail shirt, standing outside a tiny building near the French settlement. The sign over the door read 'Bea the Apothecary,' and she could see the blonde woman that owned the establishment through one of the two narrow little windows that adorned the front of the shop. If pressed for an answer on the subject, Charis would admit that it was probably because, in spite of the kind words she had shared with the girl, she still could not quite bring herself to trust anything Lithuain. Perhaps, as Geran had suggested when they argued over the subject, the reputation the dryads had been saddled with was unearned. That of the Lithuain, however, was largely not. Historically, they were known for being manipulative in every sense of the word. Though she wanted to give Lithia a chance, and even liked her on some levels, that knowledge and a lifetime of being taught to be wary of them for a variety of reasons that probably were unfair did not simply disappear overnight.
The bell that was hung above the door rang, announcing her arrival as she entered the shop. The blonde woman, clad in blue, looked up with a cheerful smile in her eyes. "Hi! I'm Bea."
"Hello." Charis replied with a touch of uncertainty. Was she supposed to offer her name in return, or was this a simple greeting the woman offered every potential customer that wandered in? In Fyrendi, she would have been bidden good day and then offered a simple prayer for good fortune to the business owner. The first time she had responded thus in Keeper's Gateway, several months before the Great Battle, she had been treated almost as kindly as if she had been a representative of Kerim Thiath itself.
"It's short for Beatrice," the woman added, clearly flustered that she had not answered in the way that she had expected. So Bea had expected a name in response, then. Before Charis could speak to correct her error, however, the apothecary spoke first. "Can I help you with something?"
"Yes, actually." Being tall for a woman herself, Charis was surprised to note that she was shorter than the woman she faced as she drew near. Even as they stood, separated by a table full of various, aromatic herbs, it was obvious that Beatrice was taller by several inches. "A friend of mine, a girl named Lithia, came to see you recently. Do you remember her?"
"You mean that pretty red headed girl with the odd taste in clothing, yes?" Bea seemed moderately puzzled. "I thought she was from Lithia."
"No, no. Lithia is her name. She is born of a tribe called the Lithuain."
"I see. Well, how is she? In some sort of trouble, I take it?"
"What makes you say that?"
"You may call her your friend, but you come before me armed and wearing what served as a uniform for the local military before they came up with the new red-and-black number." Pointing two brightly painted fingernails at her own blue irises, she said, "I have eyes, you know. I am no fool."
"Well, for your information, Lithia is well. And no, she is not in trouble." The woman's haughty manner did not sit well with Charis. It set her teeth on edge, and led her to wonder if her vague suspicions were well founded. "She is staying with us at the Keep by Geran's invitation. I am simply--"
"Oh!" Beatrice exclaimed.
"Oh?"
"I nearly forgot," she spoke in a rush. "I have something brewing in the back and really must check on it. Another minute and it will be ruined. Will you excuse me for a moment?"
"Of course." Charis' tone was flat, and she sighed in frustration as the blonde apothecary disappeared through the curtains that that obscured the little shop's back room. This was getting her nowhere. The woman was likely acting the way she was, as if she had a guilty conscience, because she, like so many others that took up her profession, was selling certain mind-altering concoctions to people on the sly. While this practice was not expressly forbidden within Gateway, it probably would be eventually. Such laws were becoming more popular and common place throughout the Free Kingdoms. Charis, personally, did not particularly care about such things, and resolved to apologize and depart when the woman returned.
Then the back door slammed shut.
Rushing through the heart of the little building, inadvertently knocking over the pot of boiling tea that rested upon mystically heated rocks in the back room, Charis kicked the back door open and strode out, into the cold. Just down the street, to the south of where she stood, Beatrice paused and looked back. With a curse, she dashed around the nearest corner. Though she nearly lost her footing on a patch of ice just beyond the doorstep, Charis sprinted along after the fleeing woman. This, surely, was over more than a questionable business practice. It also almost certainly condemned Lithia. Surprising herself, she found that she was disappointed. She had, she realized, been hoping to clear her mind of any doubt concerning the girl and lay her own prejudiced fears to rest.
Up ahead, a flap of blue cloth was just disappearing into the double doors that led into the Silver Kettle, an upscale inn and tavern that, in Charis’ experience, was generally favored by those with more money than taste for alcohol. It was just as well, she thought, for should she catch her quarry inside she would rather not damage an establishment that she or her own husband-to-be particularly liked. Then, as she poured on the speed to reach the door just moments after losing sight of that cloth, she reconsidered that thought. She realized just then that she did not actually know what taverns Geran favored, for she had seen him in virtually all of them at one point or another. Putting it out of her mind, though it truly did bother her for a moment, she burst through the doors of the Silver Kettle.
The inside of the tavern was just as she remembered it. Every surface, from the floors to the tabletops to the very windows, was polished until it reflected the light of the many open-topped lamps that sat about the room. Paintings and plants decorated the walls. The girl who was just then watering them caught Charis' eye, for her 'uniform' was made from a fine, blue silk. She was not Beatrice, however, and so the armed-and-armored woman with the short blonde hair moved on.
"Charis?" A familiar voice asked at her side. There stood Pelessa, short and dark haired, a smile on her face. A short distance away, muscular Tach stood and waved from the table they had occupied. His welcoming grin gave lie to the long scar that gave his face such a severe look.
"You!" Charis winced at her own acknowledgement. Though she was certain that her friend would understand within moments, she made a mental note to find her and apologize properly as soon as she possibly could. "A tall woman just ran in here. Taller than me, with long blonde hair and a flowing blue dress. Did you see her?"
"Right there!" Without even a moment's pause, Pelessa pointed.
Turning in that direction, her line of sight falling in with her friend's finger, Charis spied Beatrice standing in an open space at the bottom of a wide set of steps that had been adorned with an expensive looking rug that ran up and down its length. The apothecary looked angry, scowling and holding her fists balled at her sides. This was almost certainly not going to end well.
"You should have minded your own business, whoever you are," Bea hissed from between clenched teeth. "And that red headed slut? I'm going to cut her tongue out when next I see her."
"You shouldn't have run," Charis countered. "I was prepared to depart, assuming that there was no reason for me to have paid you a visit in the first place. As it stands, however, you will not get a chance to take anyone's tongue. On my authority and honor as a Keeper of the Gate, I am placing you under arrest. Geran will decide your fate."
"Not this day!" Bea declared and flung one of her hand forward, fingers splayed. A cloud of orange, sparkling dust that had been concealed within her fist billowed forth from her outstretched fingertips. Charis dodged, dancing away from the cloud, only to realize that it had not been aimed at her, but at the lamp on the table beside her. The stuff ignited when it encountered that open flame, and spread across the entire table in an instant. A long tongue of flame licked out, following the dust's trail almost halfway back to the woman that had thrown it. With an upward sweep of her other arm, she tossed the second handful up and into the lamp mounted onto the wall beside her, and ran upstairs. Fire, again, belched forth and spilled across the floor as it followed the path her hand had taken.
The fire was spreading, hungry and very much alive. Shoving Pelessa in the direction of the exit, and shouting for her to get outside, Charis ran back toward where her quarry had been standing. Bunching the muscles in her legs, she leapt over the growing puddle of flames at the foot of the stairs. Though she had to cry out when she landed against the edges of the steps, she did not pause or allow herself to lie still for a moment. That would have been the death of her. Immediately, she was scrambling up, away from the fire and after Beatrice.
At the top of the stairs, a figure came at her from the side. Charis lashed out at it with her short sword, moments before another cloud, this one darker than the one's that had begun the fire, enveloped her fast. Her attacker, whom she was certain was Beatrice, cried out and fled as her eyes, face, and mouth began to sting and burn with an unholy vengeance. What had she been hit with? Praying that it would not ignite like the stuff the apothecary woman had been flinging below, Charis staggered forward. It was no use. Her eyes were bleary and swelling shut. The woman was as long gone as her wound, however severe it had been, would permit. Distantly, somewhere ahead, she heard a deep, growling boom that might have been thunder.
She would never be able to identify what sense it was that told her that there was somebody approaching behind her, but the second it came to her she swung her weapon. Steel rang against steel. Then, as she swung her sword a second time only to be blocked again, a familiar voice called out to her.
"Charis!" The man cried. "It is me!"
"Tach??"
"Yes!" His powerful hand closed on her arm. "Come! The fire is moving too quickly, we must get away!"
"She hit my face with something!"
"More dust??"
"Yes!"
He changed directions, pushing her down the hallway she had gotten only a glimpse of before being blindsided. "The window it is! Hurry!"
------------------
Mistress Alga rarely presented herself with the same look twice. Presently, she was wearing her hair long and white, bound back from falling into her face by a simple black ribbon. A simple, black nightgown was draped around her broad body, and fell to the floor. Her well-manicured toes were just visible beneath its hem. Standing once more at the table she had used to work her craft for Haron, she held her hand out with her fingers curved into hooks over the mirror that was filled with a pulsating, violet light.
"I most certainly will not kill her!" The witch exclaimed indignantly. "Especially after I went to all the trouble of saving her life. She is my son, and I will deal with her as I see fit."
Bea the Apothecary, former, knew full and well that she could not simply return to her place of business. That part of her life was over, ended by that shorthaired bitch with the sword and the girl called Lithia. She felt lost, hopeless. Sitting a short distance from Alga, on a long, red-and-gold sofa, she wrapped her arms around her knees and rested her chin against them as she listened to her mother's side of the argument that was taking place. Frightened enough already, she visibly flinched when the possibility of killing her was mentioned.
Alga appeared to be listening intently to some voice that only she could hear, and then chuckled. "Well, my advice would be to hire somebody that is a little more trust worthy next time. Not some loose lipped Lithuain runaway."
"Oh, be quiet." The witch snapped a moment later. "They will not learn of your involvement yet. You have my word on that. For one thing, Geran has a great deal on his mind just now."
There came another brief pause, during which she seemed to be listening to something that only she could here. Finally, she shook her head. "I am done arguing. Goodnight, Karl. I hope you are in a better mood when next we speak."
Flexing her fingers, she issued the unspoken command to sever the link. The mirror's surface went dark, returning it to its mundane, reflective existence. Mistress Alga growled, then. "You son of a worm that lives in a harpy's turd!"
Turning her attention, and then her body, away from the mirror and the table it rested upon, the old witch walked over to wear Bea sat. The younger woman tried to put on a stout face, but it did little to cover how upset she was. Alga lowered her bulk onto the couch beside her, drew her into an embrace, and stroked her golden locks with long, painted fingernails. Beatrice began crying in earnest.
"Shhhhh," the witch said, rocking her. "Shhh. My poor boy. I know. We will take revenge, I promise. I promise."
This entry happens almost simultaneously with the previous, fyi. It also contains another Pari first. Hahahahahahaa....
Charis could not say exactly why it was that she felt the need to check up on the girl Lithia's story, but that was how she found herself, wearing a heavy black cloak and her customary mail shirt, standing outside a tiny building near the French settlement. The sign over the door read 'Bea the Apothecary,' and she could see the blonde woman that owned the establishment through one of the two narrow little windows that adorned the front of the shop. If pressed for an answer on the subject, Charis would admit that it was probably because, in spite of the kind words she had shared with the girl, she still could not quite bring herself to trust anything Lithuain. Perhaps, as Geran had suggested when they argued over the subject, the reputation the dryads had been saddled with was unearned. That of the Lithuain, however, was largely not. Historically, they were known for being manipulative in every sense of the word. Though she wanted to give Lithia a chance, and even liked her on some levels, that knowledge and a lifetime of being taught to be wary of them for a variety of reasons that probably were unfair did not simply disappear overnight.
The bell that was hung above the door rang, announcing her arrival as she entered the shop. The blonde woman, clad in blue, looked up with a cheerful smile in her eyes. "Hi! I'm Bea."
"Hello." Charis replied with a touch of uncertainty. Was she supposed to offer her name in return, or was this a simple greeting the woman offered every potential customer that wandered in? In Fyrendi, she would have been bidden good day and then offered a simple prayer for good fortune to the business owner. The first time she had responded thus in Keeper's Gateway, several months before the Great Battle, she had been treated almost as kindly as if she had been a representative of Kerim Thiath itself.
"It's short for Beatrice," the woman added, clearly flustered that she had not answered in the way that she had expected. So Bea had expected a name in response, then. Before Charis could speak to correct her error, however, the apothecary spoke first. "Can I help you with something?"
"Yes, actually." Being tall for a woman herself, Charis was surprised to note that she was shorter than the woman she faced as she drew near. Even as they stood, separated by a table full of various, aromatic herbs, it was obvious that Beatrice was taller by several inches. "A friend of mine, a girl named Lithia, came to see you recently. Do you remember her?"
"You mean that pretty red headed girl with the odd taste in clothing, yes?" Bea seemed moderately puzzled. "I thought she was from Lithia."
"No, no. Lithia is her name. She is born of a tribe called the Lithuain."
"I see. Well, how is she? In some sort of trouble, I take it?"
"What makes you say that?"
"You may call her your friend, but you come before me armed and wearing what served as a uniform for the local military before they came up with the new red-and-black number." Pointing two brightly painted fingernails at her own blue irises, she said, "I have eyes, you know. I am no fool."
"Well, for your information, Lithia is well. And no, she is not in trouble." The woman's haughty manner did not sit well with Charis. It set her teeth on edge, and led her to wonder if her vague suspicions were well founded. "She is staying with us at the Keep by Geran's invitation. I am simply--"
"Oh!" Beatrice exclaimed.
"Oh?"
"I nearly forgot," she spoke in a rush. "I have something brewing in the back and really must check on it. Another minute and it will be ruined. Will you excuse me for a moment?"
"Of course." Charis' tone was flat, and she sighed in frustration as the blonde apothecary disappeared through the curtains that that obscured the little shop's back room. This was getting her nowhere. The woman was likely acting the way she was, as if she had a guilty conscience, because she, like so many others that took up her profession, was selling certain mind-altering concoctions to people on the sly. While this practice was not expressly forbidden within Gateway, it probably would be eventually. Such laws were becoming more popular and common place throughout the Free Kingdoms. Charis, personally, did not particularly care about such things, and resolved to apologize and depart when the woman returned.
Then the back door slammed shut.
Rushing through the heart of the little building, inadvertently knocking over the pot of boiling tea that rested upon mystically heated rocks in the back room, Charis kicked the back door open and strode out, into the cold. Just down the street, to the south of where she stood, Beatrice paused and looked back. With a curse, she dashed around the nearest corner. Though she nearly lost her footing on a patch of ice just beyond the doorstep, Charis sprinted along after the fleeing woman. This, surely, was over more than a questionable business practice. It also almost certainly condemned Lithia. Surprising herself, she found that she was disappointed. She had, she realized, been hoping to clear her mind of any doubt concerning the girl and lay her own prejudiced fears to rest.
Up ahead, a flap of blue cloth was just disappearing into the double doors that led into the Silver Kettle, an upscale inn and tavern that, in Charis’ experience, was generally favored by those with more money than taste for alcohol. It was just as well, she thought, for should she catch her quarry inside she would rather not damage an establishment that she or her own husband-to-be particularly liked. Then, as she poured on the speed to reach the door just moments after losing sight of that cloth, she reconsidered that thought. She realized just then that she did not actually know what taverns Geran favored, for she had seen him in virtually all of them at one point or another. Putting it out of her mind, though it truly did bother her for a moment, she burst through the doors of the Silver Kettle.
The inside of the tavern was just as she remembered it. Every surface, from the floors to the tabletops to the very windows, was polished until it reflected the light of the many open-topped lamps that sat about the room. Paintings and plants decorated the walls. The girl who was just then watering them caught Charis' eye, for her 'uniform' was made from a fine, blue silk. She was not Beatrice, however, and so the armed-and-armored woman with the short blonde hair moved on.
"Charis?" A familiar voice asked at her side. There stood Pelessa, short and dark haired, a smile on her face. A short distance away, muscular Tach stood and waved from the table they had occupied. His welcoming grin gave lie to the long scar that gave his face such a severe look.
"You!" Charis winced at her own acknowledgement. Though she was certain that her friend would understand within moments, she made a mental note to find her and apologize properly as soon as she possibly could. "A tall woman just ran in here. Taller than me, with long blonde hair and a flowing blue dress. Did you see her?"
"Right there!" Without even a moment's pause, Pelessa pointed.
Turning in that direction, her line of sight falling in with her friend's finger, Charis spied Beatrice standing in an open space at the bottom of a wide set of steps that had been adorned with an expensive looking rug that ran up and down its length. The apothecary looked angry, scowling and holding her fists balled at her sides. This was almost certainly not going to end well.
"You should have minded your own business, whoever you are," Bea hissed from between clenched teeth. "And that red headed slut? I'm going to cut her tongue out when next I see her."
"You shouldn't have run," Charis countered. "I was prepared to depart, assuming that there was no reason for me to have paid you a visit in the first place. As it stands, however, you will not get a chance to take anyone's tongue. On my authority and honor as a Keeper of the Gate, I am placing you under arrest. Geran will decide your fate."
"Not this day!" Bea declared and flung one of her hand forward, fingers splayed. A cloud of orange, sparkling dust that had been concealed within her fist billowed forth from her outstretched fingertips. Charis dodged, dancing away from the cloud, only to realize that it had not been aimed at her, but at the lamp on the table beside her. The stuff ignited when it encountered that open flame, and spread across the entire table in an instant. A long tongue of flame licked out, following the dust's trail almost halfway back to the woman that had thrown it. With an upward sweep of her other arm, she tossed the second handful up and into the lamp mounted onto the wall beside her, and ran upstairs. Fire, again, belched forth and spilled across the floor as it followed the path her hand had taken.
The fire was spreading, hungry and very much alive. Shoving Pelessa in the direction of the exit, and shouting for her to get outside, Charis ran back toward where her quarry had been standing. Bunching the muscles in her legs, she leapt over the growing puddle of flames at the foot of the stairs. Though she had to cry out when she landed against the edges of the steps, she did not pause or allow herself to lie still for a moment. That would have been the death of her. Immediately, she was scrambling up, away from the fire and after Beatrice.
At the top of the stairs, a figure came at her from the side. Charis lashed out at it with her short sword, moments before another cloud, this one darker than the one's that had begun the fire, enveloped her fast. Her attacker, whom she was certain was Beatrice, cried out and fled as her eyes, face, and mouth began to sting and burn with an unholy vengeance. What had she been hit with? Praying that it would not ignite like the stuff the apothecary woman had been flinging below, Charis staggered forward. It was no use. Her eyes were bleary and swelling shut. The woman was as long gone as her wound, however severe it had been, would permit. Distantly, somewhere ahead, she heard a deep, growling boom that might have been thunder.
She would never be able to identify what sense it was that told her that there was somebody approaching behind her, but the second it came to her she swung her weapon. Steel rang against steel. Then, as she swung her sword a second time only to be blocked again, a familiar voice called out to her.
"Charis!" The man cried. "It is me!"
"Tach??"
"Yes!" His powerful hand closed on her arm. "Come! The fire is moving too quickly, we must get away!"
"She hit my face with something!"
"More dust??"
"Yes!"
He changed directions, pushing her down the hallway she had gotten only a glimpse of before being blindsided. "The window it is! Hurry!"
------------------
Mistress Alga rarely presented herself with the same look twice. Presently, she was wearing her hair long and white, bound back from falling into her face by a simple black ribbon. A simple, black nightgown was draped around her broad body, and fell to the floor. Her well-manicured toes were just visible beneath its hem. Standing once more at the table she had used to work her craft for Haron, she held her hand out with her fingers curved into hooks over the mirror that was filled with a pulsating, violet light.
"I most certainly will not kill her!" The witch exclaimed indignantly. "Especially after I went to all the trouble of saving her life. She is my son, and I will deal with her as I see fit."
Bea the Apothecary, former, knew full and well that she could not simply return to her place of business. That part of her life was over, ended by that shorthaired bitch with the sword and the girl called Lithia. She felt lost, hopeless. Sitting a short distance from Alga, on a long, red-and-gold sofa, she wrapped her arms around her knees and rested her chin against them as she listened to her mother's side of the argument that was taking place. Frightened enough already, she visibly flinched when the possibility of killing her was mentioned.
Alga appeared to be listening intently to some voice that only she could hear, and then chuckled. "Well, my advice would be to hire somebody that is a little more trust worthy next time. Not some loose lipped Lithuain runaway."
"Oh, be quiet." The witch snapped a moment later. "They will not learn of your involvement yet. You have my word on that. For one thing, Geran has a great deal on his mind just now."
There came another brief pause, during which she seemed to be listening to something that only she could here. Finally, she shook her head. "I am done arguing. Goodnight, Karl. I hope you are in a better mood when next we speak."
Flexing her fingers, she issued the unspoken command to sever the link. The mirror's surface went dark, returning it to its mundane, reflective existence. Mistress Alga growled, then. "You son of a worm that lives in a harpy's turd!"
Turning her attention, and then her body, away from the mirror and the table it rested upon, the old witch walked over to wear Bea sat. The younger woman tried to put on a stout face, but it did little to cover how upset she was. Alga lowered her bulk onto the couch beside her, drew her into an embrace, and stroked her golden locks with long, painted fingernails. Beatrice began crying in earnest.
"Shhhhh," the witch said, rocking her. "Shhh. My poor boy. I know. We will take revenge, I promise. I promise."