by Barb Hendee
At first, her father refused, calling this suitor a shiftless mountebank, but Gabrielle begged and pleaded. When her father wouldn’t relent, she refused to eat until he did. And of course, he gave in.
“You will weep bitter tears over this man,” her father warned. “He is a trickster and will abandon you once he has what he wants.”
Gabrielle was too happy to listen. A large dowry had been placed aside for her wedding day. For a few moons after that day, she was gloriously happy. Then her new husband announced that the wool business wasn’t for him. Investing in wine was more appealing and profitable. He wanted to travel to Stravina with her dowry to buy partnership in a vineyard.
“And I’ll come back for you,” he promised.
As his wife, Gabrielle had little say in the matter but insisted on accompanying him. Something about being left behind frightened her. When they reached the first small town in Stravina, he lodged her at an inn, took the dowry, and left to go purchase his partnership, saying he would be back before dinner.
She never saw him again.
Though she had not told him, Gabrielle was with child. She had chosen to wait and surprise him when he returned.
She couldn’t bring herself to go back to her family. For she was proud, and her father’s taunts still rang in her ears. Nothing could have induced her to crawl home to him, abandoned and pregnant, and let him crow over her foolish choice. No man of wealth or position would have her now, and to go home would mean spending the rest of her life under her father’s scorn—not to mention her sisters’ triumph.
Again, this was the story Heil had been told, though she never told him his father’s name. She used her own family name of Tavakovich.
She’d hidden a ruby necklace in her bags and sold this for a quarter of its value. Then she bought herself a shack on the edge of town—with a bit of coin left over. There were moons of weeping and tearing of clothing as she spent the last of the money, but during this time, she thought over and over of stories told her by the Móndyalítko woman who had looked after her as a girl.
These traveling women earned a living for themselves. She remembered the old woman grasping her hand as if reading the days ahead in her palm.
Gabrielle had no wish, or means, to travel, but she was lovely and charming and cultured. She spoke Belaskian with a Droevinkan accent, and this made her even more exotic. She set up shop in her shack as a “seer.”
Of course she had no real gift for prophecy.
It was simply a matter of telling people what they wanted or needed to hear.
After a few moons, villagers came from as far as ten leagues to visit—and to pay—for the sight of the “seer” called simply “Gabrielle.”
And then Heil was born, and his mother had his keeping as well as her own.
This was the childhood that Heil knew, watching from behind a curtain as his mother touched people’s hands, spun tales of their aching dreams, and finally took their coins. She told him the story of her life over and over, of the beautiful home of her youth, of her heartless father and jealous sisters, and the one man she’d ever loved and let betray her.
As a child, he believed every word.
She’d been wronged by so many that he forgave her every sharp word, calling him her “burden” when at her worst, or forgetting to feed him when she sank into past sorrows. He loved her no matter all of this, in the beginning.
By the time he was eleven, he began to see her more clearly.
She was still astonishingly beautiful with smooth skin, green eyes, and long, thick blond hair. She was also selfish, saw herself as the victim in all things, and never wondered at the part she may have played in her own fate. She spoke several languages, and he learned Droevinkan in multiple dialects as well as the “old” Stravinan of the noble classes.
About this time in Heil’s life, suddenly fewer and fewer people began coming to see her. He was never certain why. Maybe her novelty had worn off after a decade. No one came looking for an exotic blond “seer” anymore. So she started looking for ways to enhance her allure and her perceived abilities.
The Móndyalítko woman of her youth had told her of enchanted objects.
Gabrielle bought a donkey and hauled Heil off on a journey. At first, he had no idea what they were doing, but it was still an adventure waiting to happen. Upon reaching a town in northern Belaski, she took him to a small house in the middle of the night.
“A woman here possesses a velvet choker with a stone that allows her to speak in other voices, both male and female.”
At eleven years old, Heil had no idea where she’d learned of such a thing or why she told him.
“You must crawl through that window and steal it,” she said.
Frightened at the prospect, he found he couldn’t refuse upon looking in her desperate eyes. His stomach knotted, but he still did as she asked. Once through the window, he sneaked past a sleeping elderly woman and began searching her home. It took a while to find the choker inside a wooden box in a big chest in a back room. As he’d never done anything like this before, he was in too much of a hurry and made noise getting back out of that house. By sheer luck, he wasn’t caught.
“Oh, my darling,” Mother whispered before kissing both of his cheeks. “How clever you are!”
He did not feel clever. He felt like a thief.
Upon returning home, his mother began using the choker. The number of voices that came out of her was astonishing, more so to those who believed she spoke for dead loved ones, ancient spirits with secrets, or even obscure oracles and demigods. More and more people heard the rumors; more and more coin was dropped in her palm. And over the next two years, by the secrets she tricked out of others, she asked Heil to repeat his thievery again and again.
Whenever she learned of some desirable object, another journey would follow and another night of sneaking through a house or shop, seeking her next obsession.
He came to hate his life even more each passing season.
When he was thirteen, she brought him to a small town called Strîbrov in southwest Stravina. At its far end was a three-story building with a shop on the main floor.
“Inside that shop is a crystal globe resting in an iron pedestal shaped like a claw,” she said. “Within the globe are mists that change colors by the movement of a hand. A silly toy but can dazzle those who don’t know its truth.”
Heil hesitated. Before now, most of what she had made him steal came from those who had little chance to track what they had lost or had other reasons not to report what was taken. This shop looked different, a respectable place, small as it was in this wilderness town. And what his mother described sounded somewhat valuable unto itself and not just for what she could do with it.
“What are you waiting for?” she asked. “Go on! Find a way in.”
Stealing for her was all he had to contribute to their lives, and experience had made him much better at it. She’d even purchased a small set of lockpicks for him. He never asked her where she’d bought them, but he’d learned to use them.
After sneaking around back, he picked the back door’s lock, and crept inside.
He made his way down a dark, narrow passage through the building and rightward toward a curtained entrance that led into the shop. Once he’d brushed past the curtain, he could see better as front windows allowed light to stream in from street lanterns outside.
Jars, urns, bottles, pestles and mortars, brass scales, and wooden bowls were everywhere. What kind of shop was this? Then he spotted a small table near the back, and sitting atop it, in plain sight, was a clear globe in an iron claw stand.
Crossing over to see it more closely, he knew he should grab it and run, but he hesitated. This was too easy.
The globe was about the size of his two fists. The iron claw stand was elegantly crafted. Remembering what his mother had said about the globe,
he waved a hand before and over it. Nothing happened.
“It will not work for you, young thief,” said a calm voice. “So there is no point in taking it.”
Heil whirled around, ready to run, but a man about fifty years old stood before the curtained doorway. Short of stature with a slightly bulging belly and thinning hair, he was unimpressive overall, though he stood there, as if nothing were wrong.
Heil had not heard the shopkeeper enter, but Heil didn’t run. Instead, he couldn’t help blurting out, “Why won’t it work?”
The man assessed him in mild surprise. “Most such creations function only for those who created them.” He paused. “Care to see?”
Heil should’ve run—could have run—right past that older man. Instead, he nodded.
This brought a smile to the face of the pudgy man, who walked over, closed his eyes as he paused, and then waved a hand like a whip along one side of the globe. A glowing green mist appeared and roiled inside the crystal ball.
Heil drew in a breath.
The man passed his other hand over the ball’s top, and a sapphire blue bled through the mists turning in the glass. Another wave of the first hand brought red and then yellow.
“What else does it do?” Heil asked, still watching the crystal globe.
“Do?”
And then Heil looked. “I mean, why did you make it?”
The man smiled openly this time. “For the enjoyment of it. It does nothing more and it’s harmless, so I leave it out in view to entertain visitors.”
Suddenly Heil grew anxious and took a quick glance to see how he might get around and reach the curtained door. The front door was in sight toward the left corner of the shop, but that was probably locked.
“How does it work?” he asked as a possible distraction.
The man’s smile faded.
Heil didn’t like the way that man appeared to study him.
“Don’t you believe in magic?” the shopkeeper asked flatly.
Heil stalled at this. Was that a real question to be answered?
“You made this?” he asked instead. “How?”
“That is a bit . . . complicated. Would you care to learn?”
Heil was suddenly desperate to know, but his mother was waiting outside in the dark.
“What is your name, boy?”
Heil hesitated, and then surprised himself by answering, “Heilman Tavakovich.”
“I am Römhild.” The man walked off to the front door and opened it. “Come and see me again, at a more appropriate time.”
A strange, sad desperation took Heil in that moment. He knew he’d never see this Römhild again. But what else could he do? He eyed the curtain doorway, thinking to run off the way he’d sneaked in. Certainly, his mother had seen the front door open.
Römhild merely smiled with another wave of his hand and ushered Heil out into the night. By the time Heil was halfway along the next building, his mother appeared.
“What are you doing?” she whispered. “Why the front door?” When she saw his empty hands, her expression hardened. “Where is it?”
How could he explain? She would never believe the globe would not work for her.
“I was caught,” he answered.
She slapped him.
She’d never done that before.
But he barely thought on her harsh reaction. His thoughts were too busy with the globe itself, with Römhild, with the colored clouds inside the glass. And the longer this went on, the more unhappy he was in not knowing more about such things.
He felt trapped in his life. Sooner or later, someone would hear of a “seer” using a power—or an item—familiar to them or to someone they knew.
Ten days following the visit to Strîbrov, a knock came at the door of the little house Heil shared with his mother. She didn’t get up, so he opened the door.
Römhild stood on the other side, tipped his felt cap, and nodded.
He carried the globe and claw pedestal in one hand, and his other hand held a small pouch.
“May I come in?” Römhild asked.
Trying to slow his breaths, Heil nodded. The shopkeeper entered and took off his cap. At the sounds, Heil’s mother came into the front room. She stopped when she saw what their visitor carried in his hands.
“Have no fear,” Römhild assured. “I came to see if we might strike a bargain.”
Her gaze flitted to the globe. “What bargain?”
He set his burdens on the table out front that she used in serving her “clients” and held up the pouch.
“I will give you the globe and twenty silver pennies for the boy.”
Her eyes narrowed and flew up to Römhild’s face.
“As an apprentice,” Römhild added quickly. “Though it’s more usual for parents to purchase such and not the other way around. You can come see him as you wish, and I will train him to make such things as that.”
He gestured to the globe, and the room appeared to spin before Heil’s eyes, all around that globe so still and empty at the moment. He never heard nor remembered what was said next by anyone.
In the end, Römhild and not his mother asked, “What is your choice? To stay here or come with me?”
“I’ll go with you,” Heil answered instantly, but then he turned to his mother. “To learn, just to learn . . . more.”
That would keep her satisfied that he hadn’t abandoned her. It would leave her believing he might gain something more she could use. Of course, the globe would never work for her—which might be why Römhild also offered a sum of money.
She wanted both, but one was as good as the other to her.
How had Römhild known?
Before midday, Heil was packed and boarded the mule cart the elder shopkeeper had left outside. On the road with his new teacher, as they headed for his new home, it was a while before something more settled upon him.
He was finally free, at least a little, with more to come later.
Over the following years, in addition to learning the skills of an apothecary, came more precious secrets. He came to know the art, craft, and science of alchemy. In more years, he surpassed his beloved teacher, and Römhild found this joyful enough for outright laughter at any time.
As a young man, Heil embarked on some of his own adventures, but he never resided anywhere except the shop. He was always available when his mother came, though eventually she stopped coming when she found she couldn’t get anything more from him. Upon Römhild’s passing, he learned that the shop—the whole building and all within it—had been left to him.
Heil had never discovered where Römhild had come from, where he’d learned his alchemy, or if anyone else might come looking for his old master. Heil lived there alone in the shop until one night when he’d been called to a town named Ceskú and saw . . .
—
Fist pounding on the shop’s front door broke Heil’s reminiscing, and it didn’t stop. The door sounded as if it might break inward. Someone was going to regret that. He strode over, jerked the door open, and—
He froze, as did the scowl on his face.
A disheveled soldier in a white tabard and padded armor stood before him. The man wore no helmet, and his hair stood up in the front as if it had been blown in the wind for days. He gripped one side of the doorframe as if needing support to stay on his feet.
Heil leaned aside and saw a sweat-frothed horse three strides off, its head down as it sucked air through its nostrils.
“Are you . . . Heilman . . . Tavakovich?” the soldier panted.
Now puzzled as well as irritated, Heil asked. “What of it?”
The soldier dug inside the wool shirt beneath his tabard and pulled out a folded paper and a small pouch, held out both.
Now what?
Heil grabbed both and snapped open the paper.
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I am at the northern barracks of Soladran. This courier bears coin for you to change horses along the way. Bring the disk and the conch and stop for nothing.
—Tris
Heil read the short note again.
This raised even more questions than it answered and left him grinding his teeth. Brevity was a vice rather than a virtue with that brooding ex-baronet.
But Heil moved into action without delay. If Tris had gone so far as to send a Soladran guard with a message, he was in difficulty.
“Come in,” he said, stepping aside. “There’s a pitcher of water on the counter.”
“I need to see to my horse,” the guard said.
“In a moment. Let me fetch a few things, and I’ll take you to the stable. I need to hire a horse for myself.”
He did not stop moving as he spoke. Quickly, he packed a water flask and some food. Then he went to his room and packed the silver disk. Finally, he knelt and lifted a loose floorboard.
Carefully, he lifted out an object he kept hidden there: the brown and white striped conch of a sea snail. Tris had rarely asked him to use this particular weapon, as it was unpredictable and they had rarely needed it. Heil wrapped it in cloth and packed it.
After crouching there for a moment, he decided to pack one more object from among his alchemical possessions—just in case. This one was also wrapped in cloth. Without unwrapping it, he stowed it in his satchel.
Jogging back out, he found the soldier gulping water. The man had clearly ridden hard.
“Come,” Heil said. “We’ll settle your horse, and then I’ll direct you to the inn before I ride out. You should eat supper and spend the night before starting back. I’ll pay.”
At first, he thought he might face an argument, but the man had done his duty. He’d gotten the message to Heil. With a weary nod, he followed.
—
Lying in a bunk, just before dawn, Tris was so tired it was difficult for him to think. Three days had passed since he had sent the note to Heil, and they had been a long three days . . . and nights.