The Crafters Book One

by Christopher Stasheff

  “Precisely.”

  A gentle bubbling announced that the beaker was ready.

  Amer recited an incantation and peered into the fluid. “Now let me see. . .” He found it filled with a swirling of unearthly colors. He sighed patiently and muttered a refinement of the earlier spell—with no results. He tried a second and a third spell, and then, losing patience, slapped the side of the beaker. Instantly the colors swirled together, stretched and wriggled; and snapped into focus in the form of Samona.

  She was dressed in a low-cut, red velvet gown with a high Elizabethan collar that framed her head in a scarlet halo. The bodice was molded to her as though it had been born on her and had grown as she had grown, narrowing as her waist had narrowed and flaring out into the skirt as her hips had become wider and fuller, curving softly, and then sweeping up in a futile attempt to hide her high, swelling breasts. But where cloth had failed, long shimmering hair had succeeded, flowing down to hide her in soft, luxuriant black waves. Her face was smooth, gently tinted, with slanting black eyes and wide, full, blood-red lips.

  All this Amer noted, and had noted every day of his childhood and youth almost without knowing it. She’d changed her eyebrows again, and the mahogany highlights were back in her hair.

  “Still so easily bored,” he murmured, staring into the beaker.

  “Not you, Master!”

  “No, no! Samona.”

  “Master! You really shouldn’t!”

  “Fo,” Amer said, frowning at what he saw. “I think I should.”

  For the miniature Samona’s hands were moving lightly and quickly among the bottles on the shelves alongside her fireplace, measuring their contents into a small cauldron that boiled and chortled softly over an unearthly green flame. She stirred the brew, dropped in a pinch of a white, glittering powder, and stood counting her pulse-beats as she watched the thickening liquid.

  “What’s she doing, Master?”

  “I thought you said spying was wrong, Willow.”

  “Well, yes, but gossip is another matter. Tell me!”

  Amer smiled. “She’s making a potion, too. But what kind?

  Let’s see. . .she’s using essence of sweet zephyrs. . .powdered tears. . .rhadlakum. . . . What can it be?”

  “That’s what I was wonderin’,” Willow muttered.

  “My heavens!” Amer looked up, eyes wide. “Another aphrodisiac!”

  In the beaker, the miniature Samona, judging the time to be right, swung the cauldron off the flame, let it stand for a few minutes, and then skimmed the surface with a ladle and poured the skimmings into a small vial. She held it up to the light; it glittered with ruby liquid, steaming. Her eyes glowed; she eyed the vial with a smug smile, then began to laugh.

  Suddenly, there was a flash of green light, and she was gone.

  Amer stood looking into the beaker for a few seconds more.

  “What is it, Master?” Willow cried. “Master? Master!”

  For Amer had taken a clean beaker and started pulling powders off the shelves.

  “What kind of potion is an aphro-whatever?” Willow demanded.

  “An aphrodisiac, Willow.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “Me, I’m afraid.”

  “No, no! I mean, what does it do?”

  “Stra-a-a-a-ange things,” Amer said.

  “Like what?”

  “Well,” said Amer, and “well,” again. Then, “It will, uh . . . make me, uh . . . like her.”

  “Wonderful! Then you’ll be friends again?”

  “Well, something like that, yes.”

  “Master,” the will-o’-the-wisp accused, “you’re not bein’ honest with me.”

  “Very well, Willow.” Amer sighed, looking up from his work for a moment. “An aphrodisiac makes a man desire a woman carnally. And the particular kinds that Samona brews are also love philtres.”

  “A love filter? What’s it do, take the love out of the carnal—whatever?”

  “Desire. And no, a ‘philter’ adds love in to where it wasn’t before.”

  “That doesn’t make much sense to me.”

  “Nor to me, either,” Amer confessed. “But here’s the manner of it: if she can trick me into drinking that potion, I’ll become her slave.”

  “I thought you said her magic didn’t work on you.”

  “It hasn’t—so far. And only because I counter her spells and potions with my own. But there is always the possibility that she might be able to concoct a new potion that would work on me.”

  “So what’re you doin’?”

  “Making an anti-aphrodisiac, Willow.”

  “A what?”

  “A protective drug,” Amer explained. “It will ward me from the effects of her potion. Let’s see . . . where did I put the saltpeter?”

  “But,” said Willow, “don’t you want to fall in love with her?”

  “Willow,” said Amer, “don’t ask embarrassing questions.”

  “But I don’t understand.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “Why does she want to make you like her?”

  “Because she’s a woman.”

  “No, no! I mean, besides that!”

  “Willow,” Amer said between his teeth, “it is not tactful to remind a scholar of just how much he doesn’t know.”

  “Well, I’m sorry! Y’ know, this whole thing seems really silly to me. She mixes a potion so you’ll fall in love with her, and you mix one so you won’t. You could save a lot of time and trouble if neither of you mixed the potions.”

  “Very true,” Amer agreed. “Unfortunately, Samona doesn’t see it that way.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well…I suppose it’s that if she can’t enslave me one way, she’ll try another.”

  “And an aphro-whatsis will do that?”

  “It’s a good start,” Amer allowed.

  “I don’t understand,” said the poor, confused will-o’-the-wisp.

  “I only wish I did!” Amer said fervently. “Let’s see. . .wormwood. . .a pinch of gall. . .wolfbane. . . .”

  “Love potions.” Willow was engraving in her book of energy impulses, “Protective drugs. . . Wait till Harvard hears about this!” She spoke of the College that had been established for many years.

  Amer gave the potion a final stir, lifted it to his lips, and drank it off in a single draft. His face twisted in a wry grimace; he coughed, and came up smiling. “There! I’m safe!”

  A tone, so low that it was more felt than heard, filled the room. Willow vibrated with panic, but Amer breathed, “Just in time.”

  “Good afternoon, Amer,” murmured a low, husky voice.

  “Good afternoon, Samona.” Amer noted that her tones were deeper and fuller than usual, sending a shiver through his system; he reminded himself that his potion needed a few more minutes to take its full effect.

  She came over to the side of his chair, and the flowing skirts clung to her as she came.

  “You aren’t very polite,” she said. “A host usually offers his guest some refreshment after a long journey.”

  “Of course,” Amer said. “Forgive me.” He rose and took a decanter and two glasses from the mantel. “Will amontillado do?”

  “Quite well,” Samona said, and a smiled flickered for an instant over her lips. It lasted no longer than the tick of a watch, but that was long enough for Amer to be certain it had been there.

  He filled the glasses and gave her one. “To your power—may it increase.”

  “Hypocrite!” she said. “Toast something else, Amer, for you know as well as I that I’ll never be stronger than I am now.”

  “Oh, come,” Amer said. “You’re young yet.”

  “Yes, but I’ve reached my peak. You’re young, too, Amer, but somehow your power
keeps growing. I should know, I’ve been trying to defeat you long enough.”

  “Oh, now, Samona!” Amer protested. “You mustn’t give up so easily! You might win yet, you know.”

  “Indeed? It doesn’t seem very likely.”

  “Don’t believe her, Master!” Willow whispered, just behind his back. “Remember her potion!”

  That jarred Amer out of his shock. “Yes 1 Well, uh, Samona—I’m glad to see you’ve finally given up chasing a will-o’-the-wisp.”

  Someone cleared a miniature throat behind his back.

  “I beg your pardon, Willow,” Amer hissed out of the comer of his mouth.

  Samona didn’t notice; she had turned away, pacing toward the hearth. “You’re right, Amer. I’ve become wise in the hard school of frustration. I know when I’m beaten.”

  “Surely. . . .”

  “No,” she said, bowing her head forlornly, “I’ve come to admit defeat, Amer.”

  For a moment he panicked, thinking she meant it. But then he remembered the fleeting, gloating smile as he poured the wine, and said, “Well, I’m glad to see that you’ve finally become wise, Samona. It’s not good for you to keep wearing yourself out getting nowhere.”

  “So I’ve learned,” she said with a touch of bitterness. “No, I’ve come for a truce. And to prove that I mean you well, I’ve brought news of danger.”

  “Danger? From whom?”

  “From Death.”

  Amer smiled. “There’s always danger of that, Samona.”

  “You don’t understand.’ Samona turned away impatiently.

  “I’m willing to learn.”

  “Yes, and eager, too, I know,” she said, bitter again. But she smoothed her face with a smile. “Then learn, scholar, that in this eldritch world we inhabit, Death is not a force, but a being.”

  “Fantastic. . .”

  “But real enough, for us.” Samona turned to face him again. “Death doesn’t come in the usual way when he comes for a witch. He comes in person, and you may never know he’s there until you feel the cold, damp bones of his hand clutching your shoulder.”

  “Come now,” Amer said. “Surely, with all your powers, you could invent some sort of protection for yourselves.”

  “True,” she said, “but if we ever relax for so much as a second, he is upon us. If we forget ourselves in our delight with our own cleverness, if we lose our heads in glee as we watch a victim shudder, we will almost certainly feel the chill on our shoulders and feel it creep to our hearts, and will hear a cry of triumph as we sink to the depths of Hell.” She stood gazing at the fire, pale and trembling, as though she could see the hollow eyes of Death staring at her.

  “But if Death is always lying in wait, as you say,” said Amer, softly, “how is it that you have never thought it necessary to speak of him until now?”

  “Because he struck among us last night,” Samona said in a hushed, almost strangled voice. “This morning Goody Coister was found sitting in the old rocking chair in front of her fireplace. She was stone dead.” Samona’s eyes reflected the fire burning quietly on the hearth. “I saw her myself,” she whispered. “You could still see the marks of his fingers on her shoulder.”

  “Goody Coister?” Amer whispered in shock and disbelief.

  Samona smiled with malicious satisfaction. “Yes, Goody Coister, that virtuous old hag. That venerable symbol of New England purity. Shall 1 tell you how many bastards she and old Moggard have spawned?”

  “Moggard?”

  “Yes, Moggard. Warlock-General of New England and Vice-Chairman of the Universal Brotherhood of Sorcerers. He begat quite a few on the old biddy—not that any of them lived to know of it, of course.” For a moment, Samona seemed sad and forlorn.

  “But Goody Cloister taught me my catechism!”

  “Of course. The worst ones always look to be the most respectable. Shall I tell you about Sexton Karrier?”

  Amer shuddered. “Please don’t.”

  Samona’s eyes gleamed, and her smile deepened with satisfaction. She turned away, and when she turned back to face Amer again she looked quietly humble once more.

  “Ah, well,” she said, “I just wanted to warn you. Come, Amer, fill my glass again, and let’s drink to friendship.”

  Amer shook off the mood of apprehension and forced a smile. He nodded and took the decanter from the mantelpiece and poured them each a glass. “As red as your lips, my dear, and as sparkling as your eyes.”

  “Gallant,” she noted, and lifted her glass. “To our truce.”

  “Pax nobiscum,” Amer said, and drank.

  Samona nearly choked on her wine. “Please!” she said between splutters, “must you use Church language?”

  “I’m sorry,” Amer said. “Really I am.” He patted her back gently.

  “Don’t touch me!” she screamed, and turned on him like a cornered vixen. For a moment, Amer could have sworn that he saw the Devil looking out at him from her midnight eyes.

  But she regained her composure immediately. “I’m sorry, Amer. But you know I could never bear to be touched. And it’s become worse since I. . .joined the coven.”

  “Yes, quite so.” Amer had a brief, nightmarish vision of what her initiation must have been like, and how much of herself she had lost. He shuddered. “I’d forgotten. My apologies.”

  “Accepted,” she said, looking up at him, and, “Oh, Hell!” in a slightly reverent tone. “I’ve spilt my wine all over you.”

  ‘‘That’s all right,” Amer said, recovering himself with equal rapidity. “I’ve plenty more. Would you care for another glass?”

  “Yes, please,” she said. She put her hand to her forehead.

  “Yes, I—I think I need it.”

  “Why, you’re pale,” he said.

  “No, I’m all right,” she said. “It’s nothing.”

  “Sit down,” Amer said, pushing an armchair toward her.

  She all but fell into it. He picked up a notebook and fanned her gently.

  “Just a moment’s rest. . . .”

  “There, there,” Amer soothed. “Too much excitement, that’s all. . . .”

  “Yes. I—I’m fine now. Thank you.”

  Amer put the notebook down, took Samona’s glass to the mantel, and filled it from the decanter. He knelt and gave it to her.

  But as she took it, he noticed a ring on her hand, a ring with an exceptionally large stone—a huge emerald with a deep, almost liquid luster. In all the time he had known her Amer had never seen Samona wear such a ring. “What a beautiful gem!”

  “I—I’m glad you like it, Amer.” Her eyes were wide with. surprise and—was it alarm?

  “That—uh—friend I’ve heard you speak of. . .Lucretia . . .?”

  “Yes, it was a present from her.”

  He smiled sadly as he looked at it.

  “Amer. . . .”

  “Yes, of course.” He tore his gaze away and went over to a cabinet that stood next to the table on which Willow rested. “You’ll need something stronger than wine.”

  As soon as he’d turned away, Samona sat up, pressed the stone out of its setting with feverish haste, and emptied the drop of potion it contained into his glass of wine.

  “Master,” Willow hissed, “she’s pouring something into your wineglass.”

  “I thought she would,” Amer muttered. “Fortunate that I didn’t drink it all.”

  “Aren’t you worried?”

  “No, not especially, Willow. Let me see. . .I suppose I’ve given her enough time. . .”

  Only just; Samona had scarcely replaced the stone and fallen back into the chair before Amer returned.

  He took a glass from the mantel and filled it from the bottle of whiskey he’d taken out of the cabinet. “Here.” He pressed it into her hand, which trembled as she brought the glass t
o her lips. Amer took his wineglass from the table and raised it, wondering what kind of spell the potion was supposed to cast over him. ‘‘To your quick recovery,” he said, and downed it.

  Samona watched him out of the comer of her eye and muttered a short incantation as he drank. Then she leaned back in the armchair and sipped her whiskey slowly, waiting for the potion to take effect. Beneath the dark waves of hair that covered them, her breasts rose and fell softly with her breathing, and Amer was shocked when he realized that he’d been wondering just what the low-cut gown would reveal if she wore her hair back over her shoulders.

  Finally Samona set down her glass, took a deep breath, bit her lip, and said, “Amer, I—I don’t feel too well. Would you see how my pulse is?”

  “Certainly,” Amer said, and he took her wrist, frankly puzzled as to what she was up to. He probed for the large vein, probed again, and frowned. “I can’t seem to find it.”

  “I never seem to be able to, either,” she said, “not there.

  See if you can feel my heartbeat.” She slid his hand under the heavy black tresses, and Amer found that the gown was cut very low indeed.

  For a moment he was stunned, completely at a loss. Then, with a sort of numb amazement, he realized the purpose of the potion, and began to be very glad he’d taken the antidote. For one way or another, Samona meant to have his soul. He would play along to see if she had more tricks prepared.

  Amer caressed her, slowly moving his hand to part the rich black waves and stroke them away to her shoulders; then he let his hand slide over the swelling softness of her. He felt her shiver under his touch. He knelt and watched her cream-white breasts as they rose and fell, straining against their velvet prison.

  Then he looked at her face, and it was dead white. He realized with a shock that he was the first ever to touch her with tenderness, and that her trembling was not from passion alone. Finally, with a sense of awe, he realized her courage.

  Then she looked at him with fear in her eyes, and her trembling lips parted softly. He slid his free hand to her back, between her shoulders, and pressed her to him. Their lips met in moist sweetness.

  They broke apart, and he pulled her head down onto his shoulder. “So,” he said, with wonder, “that’s what it’s like. . . .”