The Spell Merchant

Lyursa dropped the rat tail into the cauldron and it began to bubble. She reached into the basket to her left and stripped a sprig of rosemary leaves from it’s stem. She gently crushed the leaves in her hand, releasing the earthy fragrance, before adding them to the mixture. Grasping the wooden spoon leaning in the cauldron, she stirred precisely three times counter-clockwise, and the water calmed. 

Next, she added the carefully weighed strips of pale cedar bark. She pulled the spoon from the concoction and used it to tap the surface of the liquid until the ripples reached the edge of the cauldron. She pulled back and waited until the water bubbled once more. Only then did she take her eyes off the potion and turn to her mother.

“The potion will need to boil for two hours before you add the last ingredient. I’ll trust you to watch it while I visit the shops,” her mother said before turning on her heel and exiting the apothecary.

Lyursa knew that was the closest thing to approval that she would get from her mother. 

She sighed and glanced to her grimoire, the book where she listed ingredients and potion recipes she’d learned. She paused and eyed the door before flipping the book to the back. She smiled brightly and ran her fingers over the runes she had sketched on its pages. This was her true passion. 

Lyursa had repeated the incantations she recorded until she could recite them in her sleep. Every time she went to the shops, she would stop by the spell merchant and try to overhear an incantation. She would inscribe it into her grimoire and repeat it in her head the whole way home. Sometimes, if she couldn’t glean the purpose of the incantation, she would dare to ask the scribe what it did. 

He was an elderly man who lived alone, and would gladly share his knowledge with her, even sketching the accompanying runes on scraps of parchment that she would slip into her pocket and copy in her grimoire before returning home. The way the scribe smiled at her, she was fairly certain he knew she was interested in the art of magic scrolls, but she was still cautious. To have word get out that she was curious would be one thing, but to have news reach her mother that she was studying and investing so much time on the art would be a disaster. She needed to keep it a secret until she made her choice. 

Lyursa pulled out a piece of parchment and chose one of the newer runes in her book. She began copying it until she felt confident in her ability to recreate the rune with no mistakes. Then, she burned the paper and started reciting the accompanying incantation. Before she knew it, two hours was nearly up. 

She flipped her grimoire back to the potion she was working on and made sure the bowl of lemongrass was within reach. Her mother returned just as she was adding the grass to the potion. She gave it one final clockwise stir, and the cauldron gave off a fragrant smoke, the sign that she had correctly brewed the potion. 

…

The door to the storefront jingled. Lyursa followed her mother out of the back room, a bottle of the freshly-brewed potion in her hands. Her mother greeted the customer and gestured for Lyursa to bring the potion forward. 

“This potion will effectively repel any beast from your property,” her mother said, handing over the bottle with a flourish. 

The man gripped his coins with a sweaty palm. “Even…” he hesitated.

“Even a banshee,” her mother finished for him.

Lyursa cut her mother a sharp gaze, but she ignored it. The man dropped the coins into her mother’s palm and rushed from the store. The second the door closed, Lyursa whirled on her mother.

“You know very well that a banshee is an omen. Banishing her will not stop the death that is coming for that man, or one of his kin. How could you take his money like that?” she asked.

“My sweet daughter,” her mother replied with a sneer, “the man knows this as well. He simply needs to try something, anything, so he will not feel guilty when the marked person dies. I am giving him comfort. If I make a profit off of it, so be it.”

Lyursa made a sound of disgust and turned away.

“You will learn to make the same choices, when this shop is yours.”

“I will never be like you,” she swore, whipping around to face her mother. “I will not take over the apothecary.”

There was a moment of silence, of shock. But Lyursa knew in that moment that she had made the right choice. She lifted her chin and locked eyes with her mother.

Her mother let out a hollow laugh. “And what will you do?”

“I will become a scribe.”

“You will trade potions for scrolls? Will that make you happy?” her mother mocked her. 

“Yes,” she finally confessed. 

“Do you know how difficult the art of magic scrolls is? I’m simply looking out for you. I don’t want you to fail, dear.” 

Her words strung like nettle, but Lyursa knew what her heart desired. Everything came tumbling out. Her visits to the spell merchant. How she had been learning the runes and incantations for years now. 

“Fine,” her mother said, “see if the old man will have you, a novice potioneer, as his apprentice. Don’t worry. When he sends you away, you can come back and resume your work.” She crossed her arms as if she had won.

Lyursa started to doubt. What would the old man say if she showed up at his door? She had nothing to offer him except her passion. She didn’t let any of her insecurity show on her face; she wouldn’t give her mother the satisfaction. She walked to the back, grabbed her grimoire and a few belongings she shoved into a pack, and exited the apothecary without another word. She would seize this chance at a new life.

…

She passed the shop three times before she got up the courage to enter. She stepped inside and took a deep breath, the smell of ink and old parchment steadying her. The wizened man took in the grimoire she clutched tightly to her chest, and the pack slung across her back.

“Did you come here because you need a home?” he asked.

“No, I left my home so I could come here. To learn from you. To learn the art.”

Because making magic scrolls was an art. Everyone knew that. It was why this man was the only scribe in the region. Unlike potions, it wasn’t enough to just learn the right steps. You had to have something else, something special that couldn’t be explained. And neither of them would know whether she had it, unless she tried. 

The man pondered her. 

“I know you have been studying the incantations and runes, and you clearly have passion.” He straightened, reaching his decision. “Who am I to deny you the chance to prove yourself?”

…

The first days she spent showing Kavarus what she had learned. He would correct her punctuation, and even her pitch and tone, when reciting certain parts of an incantation. She hadn’t known that such details could affect the spell. She drew runes until her hands were cramping. Kavarus said she had a lot of catching up to do, but he was gentle in his corrections.

Eventually, they moved on to new spells. She found these were easier to learn, as she hadn’t been practicing them wrong. She even began to sense what type of tone a spell might require: soft whispers for healing, firmness to ward off negative spirits, venom, not unlike her mother’s tone, for harming. But she knew there were more steps to imparting the spells onto a scroll. She also knew it was a dangerous process, so Kavarus would not let her attempt it until he was sure that she would be ready. 

For most of the day, she would attend her lessons and watch Kavarus create scrolls for his shop. When he closed the doors, he gave her a bit of time to herself. She would often wander the outskirts of town and pluck some of her favorite herbs to keep in her pockets. Although she didn’t miss potion-making, or her mother, the scents of the herbs still comforted her. She would pause to inhale them whenever her self-doubt threatened to take over, usually in the form of her mother’s words. I don’t want you to fail, dear.

She returned to the spell merchant at dusk with some bunches of lavender. She planned to place them in her room for relaxation. As she walked up the stairs, she decided to offer some to Kavarus. She walked past her room and rounded the corner leading to Kavarus’ room. A chill settled over her, as she beheld what waited at the end of the hall.

A woman with skin pale as death floated there, gray hair spread out behind her. She was wrapped in a grey cloak, hands clasped before her and an expression of sadness on her face. A banshee.

Lyursa nearly dropped to her knees. She was too young to die. She cried out, and the banshee echoed her pain. Kavarus flung open his door at the sound. He saw her first, and knelt beside her, grasping her shoulders. She pointed behind him, and he turned to behold the banshee.

When Kavarus looked back at her, his face did not hold surprise or fear, only sadness.

“The banshee is not here for you my child; she has come to warn me that my time is near now.”

“I…” I swallowed. “How do you know?” I whispered into the dim hall.

“This is not the first time she has appeared to me.”

Once Kavarus had sat her at their small kitchen table and given her a mug of chamomile tea, he began to explain. The first time the banshee appeared to him was the night before Lyursa came to his shop to become his apprentice. That is why he agreed to train her; he knew the banshee was warning him to find a successor. It was a gift to have the banshee visit, he told her. The banshee gave you the chance to right your wrongs, to tie up loose ends. Now that the banshee appeared again, he knew his time was nearly up. 

Kavarus turned to her with a grave face. “Tomorrow you will make your first scroll.”

…

Lyursa unrolled the scroll that Kavarus had sat before her. She ran her hand across the parchment, inhaling it’s scent. Her grimoire lay beside her, open to the incantation she had to copy onto the scroll. The quill scratched lightly across the parchment as she wrote. She looked to Kavarus when she had finished. He nodded. 

On the bottom portion of the scroll, she began to inscribe the runes. They needed to be precise, for they would absorb her spell and bind it to the parchment. She allowed her mind to quiet, and let her hand draw in sweeping motions the runes she had practiced so many times. She set the quill aside, again looking to Kavarus. Another nod of approval. 

She scooted back her chair and stood. Fingers splayed just above the runes, she began the incantation for a healing spell. Her voice lilted and fell. She kept her tone soft and sweet. As silence fell, the rune began to glow. She looked at Kavarus, and they both smiled.

Lyursa began the final preparations. She rolled the scroll and sealed it with wax, imprinting it with Kavarus’ seal of the spell merchant. Then, she placed a simple ward upon the wax, so that only one with magic in their veins could break the seal. This prevented a normal person from attempting to use the scroll, something very dangerous for anyone nearby. She slid the scroll into a tube, and on a whim placed a sprig of oregano inside, an herb she used often in healing potions. 

That afternoon, a man arrived to pick up the scroll Lyusra had made. He paid his coins and thanked them. His daughter was sick, he told them. He was a wizard, but no healer. He had power, but no knowledge of the spells to save her. 

After he left, they went back to their lessons. Lyursa felt light as she practiced the runes for the next commission, which she would attempt tomorrow. Just before closing, the shop door opened. The man from earlier had returned, scroll in hand.

“Who made this magic scroll?” he asked, as he glanced between them.

“I did,” Lyursa replied as she stood, bracing for his criticism. She only hoped his daughter hadn’t been hurt badly.

The man rushed toward her.

Lyursa froze, as he wrapped his arms around her.

He pulled back, hands resting on her shoulders, and looked her in the eye. “That was the most powerful scroll I have ever used. My daughter is truly well.”

He looked to Kavarus, as if that meant something. She didn’t understand. His daughter should be well. That is the point of the spell. But when she glanced at Kavarus, his face was full of wonder.

“My daughter has been ill for most of her life. The healing spells sustain her, but she is never cured. I come here regularly, whenever she gets worse. This time, it was different. She is better now. I’m sure of it.”

The man embraced her again and kissed her on the head, before leaving the shop.

She turned to Kavarus, who wore an expression of pride and something else. Relief, she thought. She felt suddenly sad. She had found a mentor, a home, and he would be gone soon.

“Don’t be sad,” he said. “You have given me peace. I knew you would succeed. When the banshee came to me, her face was serene, which meant I would be at peace when I left this world. I knew I could never die in peace unless I had someone to take over my life’s work. So, you had to succeed.”

Tears fell down Lyursa’s face. She didn’t know what to say.

“But you are better than I ever could have imagined,” Kavarus told her. “My shop is yours, my dear.”

And the way he called her dear was nothing like the way her mother said it. It was filled with everything good.

…

What Do You Think?

Did you enjoy Lyursa’s story? Would you rather be a potioneer or a scribe? If you enjoyed this short story, we would love for you to leave a comment, or even buy us a cup of coffee! We promise to share!

In honor of Women’s History Month, we’re sharing a series of posts celebrating women. Be sure to check out the next post Best Fantasy Heroines! If you would like to read another short story with a fierce heroine, we think you would enjoy The Voyage.

Thanks so much for reading!

-Clever and WTF