True Love and Necromancy [Featured Story!]

Chapter II

THIS WAS ALL BACK IN THE OLDEN DAYS, you see, when folk relied on the hearth fire for their cookery and the king for their law. We won't hear much about him—the king, I mean, what a bore—but it gives a good sense of the setting: ye olde kingdom, land of lamentably poor dentistry, low rates of literacy, and porcine pedestrians on every street.

Theodosius's tiny storefront was squeezed in between two taverns down near the docks of Barenn. The shop looked small from the outside. From the inside, it looked minuscule. And Theodosius was a poor housekeeper. In his shop, the dirty floor could barely be glimpsed between randomly-organized shelves upon which flickering lanterns warred for space with magic-working materials, instruments from distant parts of the world, stacks of dusty books, and the resident spiders. Leaning against one such shelf was an artistic stack of skulls (assorted). Pinned to the wall near the door was a poster of a scowling Nostradamus, with additional copies rolled up in a basket beneath.

These had been an ill-advised purchase from a peddler; Theodosius had hoped to sell them to a young, hip crowd that never seemed to come by.

Near the back of the shop, a long work counter stood jumbled with the makings of potions, possets and charms. The workspace was curtained by a variety of hanging dried herbs. A strange scent hung in the air: the bewildering aroma of unwashed magic.

The sense of claustrophobia in the shop was enhanced by bone-rattling noise from the neighboring taverns and the frequent visits from their patrons, who came to Theodosius's shop seeking hangover remedies. If the hubbub from the Hiccoughing Pony didn't give Theodosius a headache by six o' the clock, the stream of bilious drunkards from the Friendly Harpy was certain to do so by nine. But the custom was good, and he made a tidy living.

It was on one of these stressful evenings that Theodosius's life was changed mostly for the worse: he fell in love.

The sun had already bidden the world good night, and the moon was high. Theodosius was working away in his shop, carefully measuring eye-wateringly noxious snake venom into a potion for a client whose boils were uncommonly persistent. As he worked, he heard the tinkle of the bell above his door.

At first, the sorcerer did not raise his head; he expected another clumsy patron sopping with wine.

"Stomach elixirs are on your left, middle shelf. Headache cures just above," he called over his shoulder, carefully pouring his measure of venom into a tiny cauldron. The boil cure, already bubbling merrily away, made a burping sound.

A low, feminine voice called from the doorway of the shop: "Actually, I'm here for my grandfather, and it isn't his head or his stomach that ails him."

Theodosius blinked, sat up, and turned his head. He removed the ridiculous pince nez he wore for delicate work and blinked his fume-watered eyes. He saw a stranger standing in the shadowy shop, her braided halo of hair afire with the light that filtered through his windows from the street lamps outside.

Rising politely, Theodosius bid her good evening in the traditional manner of Barennites.

"Good evening," said Theodosius.

Mostly without looking, he stoppered the snake phial and set it aside. In his distraction, he entirely missed the counter. The phial shattered on the floor, but he did not notice. Then he took a few steps toward his visitor, ducking under the curtain of herbs hanging from the ceiling. "How can I help you, miss?"

"Well ... perhaps it is his head," the woman mused. She edged toward Theodosius through the crowded shop, managing to look graceful and casual as she moved through the jumbled nonsense. As she walked, she looked around at the hanging bunches of dried herbs, the wall of glass containers filled with mysterious materials, the artsy stack of skulls. She trailed her fingertips carefully along closer shelves that held little bottles of cures, each one with a painstakingly drawn and oft-misspelled label.