Assassin's Shadow (Veiled Dagger Book 2) (5 page)

The evening sun was beginning to set as Rothar rode up to Harwin’s place. He jumped off Stormbringer and ran to the door, knocking urgently. Harwin answered quickly.

“Harwin! The herbs that Ariswold gave you, did you give them to Esme yet?”

Harwin looked confused. “No, not yet, why?”

“Can I see the pouch?” Rothar asked, relieved.

“Of course.” Harwin retrieved the small leather bag. “I was wary about giving it to her. Ariswold said to dissolve it in water… or smoke it like tobacco. It did not seem right to me, Esme being as little as she is.”

Rothar dumped some of the contents of the pouch out into his hand. It was a coarse powder, black as night. He rubbed it between his fingers, and it broke down like dried leaves. He sniffed it. It had the same odor as the pipe that he had pulled from the charred devastation of the castle stables.

“What is going on, Rothar?” asked Harwin.

Rothar caught Harwin up on all that had happened since he had left Taria in the Banewood. At the end of the story, he had to physically restrain the big blacksmith from heading straight to the apothecary’s house.

Once Harwin was calmed, Rothar began to head home. There was no point in trying to ply Ariswold for more information today. Rothar was now convinced that the old man was actively using whatever herb it was that he had prescribed for Esme, and speaking to him now would be fruitless. He would head back to see Ariswold in the morning, and if necessary, dunk him in the river.

Night was falling and normally the shops along market street would be closing down and dousing their lights for the evening, but something was wrong. Everywhere there were people arguing, men and women lay on the ground with their hands tied behind their backs, with low ranking soldiers standing over them.

“What is the meaning of all this?” Rothar asked one of the soldiers.

“Gang of thieves, I suppose,” he answered. “They’ve been looting shops all afternoon.”

Rothar dismounted and began walking the chaotic streets. At least one shop was on fire, and it’s owners were working frantically to douse the flames. People were running everywhere. Crazed looking villagers darted out of shops, carrying as much as their arms could hold, merchants chasing behind them.

Looking at the apprehended thieves, Rothar found that many of them were bedraggled and dirty, but some of them were villagers that he knew, farmers and tradesmen. Some of the thieves were even shopkeepers themselves.

Rothar reached into his pocket and pulled out one of the scraps of paper. He began walking down the line of bound villagers, holding out the card to show the people the black star and eye.

The sight of the symbol drew an instant response from each looter. Their eyes lit up at the sight of the star. Many tried to stand, only to be pushed back down by the watching soldiers. Some were unable to speak, but the one’s that could cried out, “Please!” or “Where do you have it?”

When Rothar reached the end of the market street he turned to survey the scene in it’s entirety. In spite of the people’s best efforts, the flames were spreading, jumping from shop to shop down the crowded merchant lane. The apprehended looters had begun to realize that they far outnumbered their captors, and they began to run. Some loosed their bindings and began to fight the soldiers.

On the hill above Witherington, rioters were beginning to ascend towards Castle Staghorn. Before night had fully fallen, the King’s City would be in a state of complete disruption and chaos, and Castle Staghorn would be locked down and ringed with sentries.

The city was unraveling.

Ariswold sat in his chambers, gazing blankly out the window. The dawn had arrived and he was not sure if he had slept or not throughout the night. The sunrise was a peculiar shade of murky red.

It must be foggy this morn,
thought Ariswold, though it was hard to tell the weather, as hazy as the room itself was. Tendrils of smoke drifted lazily about the chandelier and meandered across the ceiling, chased about by drafts. A pipe by the apothecary’s chair side still smoldered with an acrid smell.

Ariswold wondered if he should open up shop or go to bed… or smoke some more. There was a small sound behind him, but before he could look around his world was turned upside down. The old man crashed painfully to the floor and cried out. He rolled and tried to get to his feet, but a booted foot pressed into the middle of his back, holding him down.

“Take whatever you want, just please do not kill an old man!” Ariswold pleaded.

The voice that responded was grave and familiar.

“I am not hear to rob you, old man.”

Ariswold closed his eyes. For a moment he wished that he really was being robbed.

Rothar took his boot off of Ariswold’s back and jabbed it into his ribs. The apothecary rolled over reluctantly. The darkly clad man knelt over him, his clothes reeked of wood smoke.

Ariswold had always liked Rothar. The mysterious man had given him quite a bit of business over the years. He never knew for sure what Rothar did, but there were always whispers that he was aligned with Castle Staghorn, and could be seen coming and going from there at all hours of the day and night. If he truly had connections with the crown then it was a right good thing to be on his good side, and Ariswold had always maintained a congenial relationship with him, until now.

Rothar was holding a pouch in front of Ariswold’s face, right beneath his nose.

“What is this?” Rothar asked.

Ariswold sniffed at the pouch. His eyes widened but he said nothing.

“What is it?!” Rothar shouted, shaking the old man with his free hand.

“Where did you get that?”

The room was silent for a long moment as Rothar stared into Ariswold’s eyes. Ariswold felt as though the man was staring directly into his thoughts.

“You gave it to Harwin, for Esme.”

A look of horror and realization spread over Ariswold’s face.

“What? No… I did not… I… Oh heavens…”

Rothar lifted the old man by the neck of his tunic and planted him back in his chair. Ariswold was shaking and wringing his hands, staring again out the window at the menacing morning light. Rothar set another chair directly in front of him and sat down, leaning forward, staying very close to the apothecary. He removed one of the scraps of paper from his pocket and held it again in front of Ariswold.

“It is time for you to tell me what this means,” Rothar said gravely.

Ariswold looked down at the star and the eye. The image was blurred by tears that he wiped away before taking a shaky breath and forcing himself to meet Rothar’s gaze.

“I… I do know that mark,” he began. Ariswold rose and walked unsteadily to his large wooden desk. He took a key from a string around his neck and unlocked a drawer, removing a wooden box. He returned to his seat and set the box in front of Rothar.

The top of the box was emblazoned with the same star and eye as the note. Rothar cracked open the box and looked inside.

“The most powerful herb I have ever encountered,” Ariswold said. “It has the pain killing abilities of Silver Coral and twice the euphoric sensation of Fire Lily, not to mention it is mildly paralytic and causes the user to have visions.”

Rothar raised his eyebrows. “Anything else?”

“Yes… it is very addictive I am afraid.”

Ariswold was eyeing the pipe, still smoking next to him. He began to reach for it, but Rothar snatched it up and tossed it across the room. It landed in Ariswold’s chamber pot with a plunk.

Ariswold looked at Rothar with fire in his eyes, but he checked himself when he saw the look that he was getting in return.

“Why would you give this to Esme?” Rothar demanded.

“I did not mean to, I intended to give her Sparrow Root, to help her sleep,” Ariswold replied. “I must have… made a mistake… gotten confused…”

“I should say so. It is a good thing I got there before Harwin gave her any of it,” Rothar snapped. “By the looks of you, this foul weed may have killed the poor girl.”

Ariswold closed his eyes and felt himself begin to tremble again.

“Is it you who has spread this scourge throughout the city?!” Rothar demanded.

The old man looked up, confused.

“The city?” he asked. “I have given this to no one… not until Esme…”

It was true, the apothecary had been quite greedy with the herb, ever since he first sampled it.

“Well, someone has,” said Rothar. “And it is taking a dreadful toll.”

Ariswold must have looked perplexed, because Rothar stood up and led him, somewhat gentler now, to his own front door. The apothecary’s place sat on a rise, overlooking Witherington, with the rest of the King’s City beyond.

Ariswold put his hand over his mouth. The morning was not foggy, but choked with the smoke of a hundred burning homes and shops. Shouts and crying could be heard from the streets below, and horses and goats ran loose in the streets.

A realization set in: through the night, as he had sat and smoked, lost in revery and hallucination, the very substance he was clinging to with such greed and passion was tearing his city apart. He wondered how many friends and loved ones had lost their homes, their livelihoods… or their very lives in the chaotic mess below.

“I had no idea…” Ariswold trailed off.

“Help me find out where this is coming from.”

“Yes, Rothar. We must put an end to this.”

Rothar followed Ariswold back inside. He was very weary, the night had been long. Rothar had been all over the city, helping injured villagers, organizing a group of men to aid in fighting the rapidly spreading flames, and finding safe haven for Harwin and Esme. It was not until some semblance of order had been restored and the men began to contain the fire that he had come to visit Ariswold.

He demanded that the apothecary tell him how he had come into possession of the potent drug.

“It is quite a queer thing, really,” the old man began, fidgeting in his chair. “I was out in the Banewood, a fortnight or so ago. I was collecting supplies and a man appeared in the wood.”

“What did he look like?” asked Rothar.

Ariswold squinted his eyes and looked at the ceiling. It seemed as though he were trying to retrieve memories from some unseen place in the heavens.

“I could not see him well, dark as the Banewood is. Also, his face was veiled.”

Rothar thought it significant that a man would travel in the wood with his face covered. People in the kingdom seldom covered their faces unless necessitated by work or illness. It was considered very suspicious to hide one’s identity in such a way, and Rothar only did as such when he was out on a kill.

“His skin seemed dark, but not the color of sand, like a Southlander,” Ariswold continued. “Darker than that, like a bay horse. His eyes were black and sly. What was also odd was that he knew my name and vocation.”

“He called you by name, but you did not know him?”

“I am quite sure I did not, but he knew me. He said, ‘Are you not Ariswold, storied apothecary in the King’s City?’”

“Very flattering,” said Rothar.

“Indeed.”

Ariswold had commenced to gently rocking back and forth in his chair, his hands clasped between his knees. Rothar could see that the drug was wearing off and leaving the old man in an agitated state.

Ariswold continued, “He gave me a box of the herb, and told me that it was a powerful medicine. I asked him what it was intended to treat, and he said ‘anything.’ I told him that there was no plant in the world that could cure anything, and he said that I was wrong. He told me that there was no ailment, great or small, that could not be forgotten by smoking a pinch of the herb.”

“Do you know what it is made of?”

“I have not been able to ascertain, and the man would not tell me. He only said that the plant did not grow in the Banewood, that it grew only one place in the world.”

“Where?” asked Rothar.

Ariswold sat still a moment and looked at him queerly. “Do you think he would have told me that?”

Rothar said nothing.

“He told me to take the box with me and use it to treat my patients. If they were pleased with the results - and he assured me they would be - I could return to the same spot in the Banewood and more would be waiting.

“I decided he was mad, so I took the box to appease him and came home. The next morning I awoke with a bit of a pain in my head. I decided to test the man’s claims, for what harm could it do?”

Rothar looked at Ariswold pityingly.

“Lo and behold!” Ariswold was suddenly animated. “I was swept into such a state that I not only forgot that I had a pain, but I believe I forgot I had a body at all!”

The old man was grinning maniacally. The rapturous swing from sullen and contemplative to impassioned and crazed was unsettling.

“I felt as though I could touch the heavens, though I never left my seat!” he continued. “All of that first day I reveled and smoked behind my locked door. And I tell you, Rothar, I tell you with all sincerity… I believe I touched the very face of God!”

Rothar sat silent, baffled and angry all at once.

Finally, Ariswold seemed to come back into himself. His face fell and his shoulders slumped, his eyes darted about the room. A shudder shook the old man’s slight frame.

Rothar finally spoke. “And did you ever go back for more?”

Ariswold jolted a little and looked up, as though he had forgotten that Rothar was in the room.

“Oh, yes, yes.” he stammered. “Twice I did.”

“And the man met you?”

“The man? No, no.” Ariswold said. “He leaves the box in the hollow of an old tree.”

“Do you leave him payment?”

“Payment? No, he never asked for anything…”

Rothar leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees.

“And did you not find that odd, Ariswold?”

The old man frowned, the wrinkles on his face deepening. He glared at Rothar. There was a dark essence in his eyes that Rothar had never seen there before.

“He is a kind man, Rothar,” Ariswold growled.

Rothar pointed out the window, towards the smoldering city. “Kind indeed,” he said.

Ariswold’s face changed again, sadness and regret returned. Rothar felt as though he were watching two people trading places in front of him.

“Draw me a map to the tree,” Rothar told the apothecary.

Reluctantly, Ariswold scrawled out a crude map, detailing the spot in the Banewood where the hollow tree stood. When he was finished, Rothar folded the map and stood up.

“Eat something and go to bed. Lock the door, put out your sign, and stop being such an old fool,” he said, and turned to leave. Before he reached the door he stopped and turned again to Ariswold.

“Did the man say what the herb was called?” he asked.

Ariswold looked up at him and let out a long breath before he answered.

“
Obscura.
”

***

After Rothar had departed, Ariswold was still for a while. He could not stop thinking about the people in Witherington and on the opulent hills above. How many had been given the Obscura? How had they gotten it?

His nerves were rattled and his heart was pounding. His hands would not stop shaking. He needed something to calm his tormented soul. He reached for the box.

Where is the box?

The box was not on the table where he had left it. He began to rush about the rooms of the house to no avail. He overturned the table, the chair.

It was gone.

Standing alone in the middle of his chambers, the old apothecary began to scream.

“Rooothaaar!”