The Black Magician

I can mix a hundred different herbs and get a thousand different poisons, but only a few will give me a cure. I'm on trial number three-hundred forty-four and the right mixture yet alludes me. The eyes of the old man in the corner of my lab bore into me as I tie my long hair back and roll the sleeves of my shirt up to my elbows. In the other room rests an eight-year-old girl. She's the focus of this project. I promised my best friend as he lay on his deathbed that I would take care of her, try to find a cure for her ailment. Over the last few months, I've extracted, separated, cut, sifted, wet, and dried several sprigs of hogweed, costus root, and vervain. The last few trials using these herbs proved as close to success as I've ever come. I'm convinced the secret lies in the quantity of each herb. Precise measurements are recorded, applied to the test subject, observations are made, and final results documented. My early results were often. less than favorable, but my subjects are always paid and sent home afterwards with a treatment plan. Even with some of the odd side effects, I always have a line of volunteers. I dump my herb mixture into a pan of water over a burning fire and wait for it to boil. When the tea is ready, I pour it into a mug and wave the old man over. His skin is pale, and a drop of sweat rolls down his face. He already feels the effects of Lyria's ailment. The beginning is always like this. Paleness of the skin, hot and cold flashes, trembling. After several days, red splotches cover the skin. If left untreated, the spots turn black, and sometimes fall off. I've discovered rubbing aloe on the red spots and drinking a tea made of basil, chamomile, and stinging nettle slows the effects drastically. This is why Lyria is still alive, but the concoction is no cure. Missing even one treatment can mean advancement in the disease. The old man takes the tea back to his stool, where I apply the shackles to his wrists and ankles. "Only a precaution." I smile at him reassuringly. He nods, drinking down his tea, headless of the scalding temperature. I grab my newest addition to the lab, a pencil made of some type of soft gray mineral, and a glob of sap I left out in the sun. Once it hardens, the mineral erases under the sticky residue. I alight upon my own stool, pencil hovering above a fresh sheet of paper. The old man's eyes shift from side to side, and he taps his feet. Some are talkative, most are not. They do this to feed their families, to make this year's taxes, to pay for their next fix. It's not my business why they do it, as long as someone's always willing. An hour into the experiment, the subject is still lucid. He shivers as a cold flash strikes his body. I note the reaction down. The last one was over twenty minutes ago. They are longer in between than before the tea. Two hours in and the subject is shivering uncontrollably. I pass him a blanket, and he chatters out a thanks. As he lifts his arm, the shirt sleeve falls back. There is something off. I catch his wrist and pull down the sleeve. A fungus that looks like black scales covers his forearm. His eyes grow wide, and he opens his mouth to scream, but I press my hand over his lips and shake my head. He doesn't make a noise, but his breath comes in irregular bursts. I cover his arm again, press the blanket to his chest, and make a note on my paper. Then I take the shackles from him. I've seen this effect before. He will live if he follows my instructions.

"Take this, follow it every day, and you will be fine." I write them on the bottom of my sheet, rip it off, and press it into his hand. He nods, and his eyes glaze over as he toddles from my lab in a trance. I shake my head and sit at my desk to finish recording the results. Those are the side effects of denial, nothing more. I sigh and run my fingers through my hair, pulling out the leather strap I use to keep it back. Another trial down. I'm one step closer to Lyria's cure. I gather my tinctures, my solvents, and my glass phials; labeling each and carefully storing them in the appropriate cupboards. Once my lab is clean, I lock the door, mount the stairs, and cross a hallway to Lyria's room. I open the door quietly, knowing even if I slammed it she wouldn't wake. Her ailment has progressed too far. She lays with her eyes closed, her breathing deep. Eyes dart back and forth beneath their lids. I hope she dreams of somewhere nice, nicer than this little town of Shadowrun, where we only get one full hour of sunlight a day because of the surrounding mountains. Her forehead is warm, but not feverish. I find no new red spots as a slather on the aloe. I dribble lukewarm tea into her mouth, followed by water. She is nothing but skin and bones now that she can no longer feed herself. Taking her hand, I lean my forehead to hers, mumbling softly of cures and better times. As always, she remains silent. I kiss her cheek, closing the door gingerly behind me as a leave. My apartment upstairs is as silent as the lab below. I slip into the washroom to splash water my on face. Behind the rough towel, a loud knock on my front door reaches my ears. My eyebrows come together. I have no more tests scheduled for today, and no one comes to my door anymore otherwise. Instead of going downstairs, I walk out onto the balcony, resting my elbows on the railing, and peering at the two kids below. One is a boy no older than fifteen or sixteen passes of the comet Yrridan. He scowls at the front door beneath a mop of orange hair and freckles, hands on his hips, and one foot tapping. Behind him stands a young woman not much younger than me. Her arms cross, and she tosses long hair with a deeper, more brilliant orange than the boys'. She wears leggings and a tunic, a short sword strapped around her waist. Wait. If she carries a sword, did the boy.? Dragging my eyes from the woman back to the boy, I note he also carries one on the opposite hip. "How can I help you two on this fine evening?" The boy jumps back, almost blundering into the woman, who sidesteps quickly. She flickers her eyes at me, more annoyed than surprised. "Come down here, sniveling coward, and fight me! I have come to rid the good people of this town of your evil ways." He flourishes his steel, pointing it at me. His stance is too wide, and he leaves his entire right side open. I also can't recall anyone ever holding a sword like he does now. "As you see, good sir, I am but unarmed, and you two have wicked looking swords." They aren't, but buttering up the opposition never hurts. "I'd rather stay up here if it's all the same to you." The kid's face goes red. "So you admit it! You are the Black Magician!" I keep a lazy smile on my face, but a frost coats my insides. "You seemed convinced already. Would you believe me if I said I don't know what you're talking about?" "I wouldn't believe a single word out of your mouth. Bring down your staff. I'll beat your magic with nothing but my sword!"

At that, the woman snatched the boy's arm and whispered urgently in his ear. Magic? These kids obviously confuse me for someone else. "A mere mortal such as I has no access to magic. Only the Ghosts have that power, and they are far and few between, but tell me who you seek, and maybe I can help." The girl sighs, letting go of the boy as he wrenches from her grasp. He straightens his tunic, nearly cutting off his own toe. "I am here for Vayden Kamir, the Black Magician who is turning the town he rules into monsters one by one!" Rule? Monsters? Where did this pair come from? "I must admit my name is Vayden Kamir, but as to ruling and turning people into monsters." I spread my hands. "I am but a humble alchemist, and I've seen grander castles than mine." The boy scowls and digs in his pocket, pulling out a piece of crumpled paper. "I am Ashtyn, the chosen one! This prophecy," he waves the paper, "proves it beyond any doubt." "Chosen one?" I get it now. "You don't happen to be adventurers, do you?" A triumphant smile spread across the kid's face. He opens his mouth to reply, but the woman whacks him. "My brother here was chosen to rise above the rest and bring honor to our home." The woman steps forward, placing a hand on Ashtyn's shoulder. Her voice is smooth and reminds me of a mountain stream. "He will bring honor by fighting me?" "By defeating you." "Does not seem a fair fight when I have no sword."

She pulls her sword from its sheath and flips it around, proffering the hilt. "Come down, and you may use mine." "How about I borrow his and fight you?" "My name is not in the prophecy." She frowns at me. I make a show of being disappointed. "So, terms. If he wins, I stop using my dark magic, and the people here go free. What if I win? A kiss from the fair lady?" Her eyes spark in anger. She starts to say something, but Ashtyn cuts her off. "Agreed, sir! Now come down here and let's have us a battle." The woman, I still haven't heard her name, snarls at her brother. I swing my legs over the railing and drop to the ground. The adventurers go pale as I stand, towering a good two hands above them. I reach into my pocket. They both flinch, but I only pull out my leather strap, tying my hair back in a loop. The woman steps back, gripping her sword tighter. She sees me glance at it, and her knuckles go white. I don't want to hurt these two. Adventurers are annoying, and can ruin a reputation, but mine has already fallen far, and doesn't need to drop farther. Instead of taking her sword, I go for the tree in my yard. I snap off a low branch, clear the twigs, and take a test swing. "You two keep your swords. I'll use this." They both eye the stick warily. "Second guessing?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. Ashtyn shakes himself. "No, of course not. Let's do this." I step up, holding the branch loosely in front of me. The sister steps back, tapping a finger against her leg as she says, "Begin!" Ashtyn attacks first, swinging wide. I take a step back. The blade passes through the

air, inches from my chest. He jabs, stepping forward. I twist, it misses. I haven't even brought my stick up yet. The boy glances behind me, and I duck. His sister's slash barely misses my head, instead catching my hair strap and cutting it free. The loose strands tumble over my shoulders as I tap Ashtyn's downward thrust, switching the direction away from me. I drop to my hands and kick out, sweeping sister off her feet. Ashtyn charges, and I rise to my feet, inches away from him. I'm too close for his sword, so I pop his wrist with my fist, catch the falling sword, and push him to the ground. I turn just as sister hops to her feet, block her thrust by twisting my blade around hers, and flick up. Her sword flips into the air, and I seize it with my other hand. Ashtyn still sits in the dirt, his jaw hanging open. Sister breathes heavily, rubbing her wrist. Her eyes flash. I step back and drop the swords. Neither of them move. "I suggest coming back after you learn how to fight." And I left them there in the dirt. I open my front door and lock it behind me. The next time I glance out a window, both are gone.

I run my hand through my hair; the fight leaving it in tangles. Before I do anything else, I check on Lyria. She lays quiet as always, so I shut the window and flip the latch, doing the same to the door on my way out. I'll know if anyone tries to get in. I set about chopping veggies from my garden out back and pulling out a few chunks of dry meat. I throw both into a pot of water boiling over the fire, add several herbs, and a pinch of gritty flower. A half loaf of bread sits on the table, and I tear a chunk off, placing it on the lid of the pot. It browns nicely, finishing at the same time as the stew. I ladle a large helping into a bowl, using the bread to scoop some into my mouth. A silence falls over Shadowrun as darkness descends. I never recognize the noise of the day until silence falls. The screaming merchants, barking dogs, laughing children are all separate from me, as if I'm watching as life moves around me. Several of the townsfolk watched as I took the swords of the Adventurers and threw them at their feet. I realize many of them fear me, fear what I do. Ashtyn had the right of it. I've heard Black Magician on the lips of children and their parents when they think I can't hear. Many of them were customers from back when I ran my shop. But not all of them are like that. There are more who know what I do and why. Sleep didn't come easy. I toss and turn, seeing my test subjects again, their deformations growing as they come for me. My blankets constrict me when I wake sweating and gasping. Extracting myself, I push open the window and let the cool breeze brush my face and neck. The young woman's face comes back to me, chasing away the nightmares. She never said her name, but with any luck, I'll never have to find out, even if I'd like to. I stay there until the sky lights up over the mountain. It will be some time yet before the town lightens, but my mornings have always started early. Drifting through the dark hallway, I start my routine with Lyria, then move to the lab, where I prepare my new mixture. I record the exact amount of each tincture, adding a dab more hogweed this time around. Once everything is ready, all that's left is for me to wait for my volunteer to show up. After waiting for twenty minutes, I wonder if she got nervous and decided not to show. Even as I think about it, a knock comes at my door. I straighten my shirt and tie back my hair before reaching for the knob.

It twirls on its own. I have half a second to step back, but too late. The heavy wooden door slams forward and clips my shoulder, sending me stumbling. Time slows. I understand what's happening, but have no power to stop it. Can't control my fall. My back hits one of the many cabinets lining my lab walls, but not just any cabinet. As sturdy as it is, I'm more so. And the wood cracks. Phials upon phials spill from the cupboard and splatter their contents on the ground. As my brain catches up with what's happening, I hold out my hands to catch one or two, anything, but all smashed. Aloe bursting against the floor, seeping into the grains of wood, and mixing with the leaves of chamomile, basil, and stinging nettle. I drop to the floor, heart thumping, and search on my hands and knees for any unbroken phial. The broken glass cuts my palms and aloe coats everything as my blood further contaminates Lyria's only chance at life. One phial of stinging nettle finds my fingers from under the cabinet. This is all that's left of the treatment, keeping my best friend's daughter alive, a measly cup of stinging nettle tea. I clutch it to my chest as my eyes burn. A gasp makes me look up. Ashtyn is flailing at the door, his sister holding him back with a hand to her mouth. She's staring at me. A snarl crosses my face and I rise, stalking to the door. Ashtyn's face loses all color. He stops struggling and allows his sister to pull him back. I slam the door, but not before the tears come. *** I've given Lyria the last dose of aloe and tea left over from this morning. Now I sit next to her bed as night approaches, holding her frail hand. On the bedside table sits the concoction meant for my volunteer. After tonight, I won't have need of them anymore.

Either the medicine will work, or it won't. I can't bring myself to give it to her, not yet. The tea and aloe will keep her alive for several hours, and as selfish as I may be, I can't let her go yet. I'll wait till the last minute. Salty tracks stain my cheeks, and I sway, humming to the dying girl. I don't know if she can hear me. With any luck, she can't, or else she will know what has happened. I've opened the window so she can feel the breeze one last night, smell the night air, hear the bugs whine. I haven't moved for a long time, but I must give her this last mixture of herbs. One last try. I drip the remedy into her mouth, like as I normally do, and sit back to wait. It's not long before the red patches deepen, and sweat runs off her brow. A whimper escapes my throat. When the window darkens, I don't react. I keep my eyes on Lyria, her hand between mine. "I only ask you to hold off till she's gone. She doesn't have much time left." My voice is raspy, barely above a whisper. "Who is she?" The gentle voice of the young woman. I risk a glance. Only her bright eyes stare at me through the dark, no sign of her brother. I drop my gaze back to Lyria. "My best friend's daughter. I promised to look after her, to find a cure, but now." I can't finish. She's shivering now, her teeth chattering. I tuck the blanket around her, pushing a loose strand of hair from her forehead. The first sign of black rot takes hold of a red splotch on her arm. My last, feeble hope of the concoction being the cure dwindles and a sob breaks through. The woman crouches next to me. The heat of her body soaking into my skin. One hand rests on my arm, the other on Lyria's covered form. She murmurs something, but the words are lost as I watch Lyria fade. The rot covers her arm now, and her shivering grows weak. Her breath rattles as she breathes in, out, in, out, and no more. A hole opens in my chest. I cry like I never have before. She is too young to die like this. Too young to have any worries other than where she's going to play next. The woman pulls me toward her. I let her, not caring if she kills me, I have nothing left to live for. I gave up everything to help this girl, and just like that, she's gone. I don't feel a knife in my back, though. Her slim arms hug me, and her fingers stroke my tangled hair as she whispers to me. When my chest stops heaving and my tears have dried up, a hand on my cheek brings my head up. The woman's eyes are bright. "Have you come to kill me?" I ask. "Me? No. You never claimed your prize for winning the duel." "Prize?" I don't remember what she's talking about until she kisses me. Joy and grief battle within me. I shouldn't be doing this moments after Lyria has gone, but the woman's lips are soft, and I feel as if I could drown my misery in her. I barely register when the door slams open behind us. The woman jumps up, screaming, "Ashtyn, no!" I turn too late. A deep burn starts inside me as cold steel bites through my side. I drop, and the sword slides from my body. I can no longer tell if I'm crying for grief or pain. I curl on my side, holding the wound as warm, thick blood gushes from it, soaking my shirt. There's a ringing in my ears and my vision blurs, but I can just make out the woman and her brother. "...he's evil, sis!"

"You heard the lady outside! He didn't force anyone, and he paid them!" "He turned them into monsters!" "He was trying to save a child! The only monster I can see is the Adventurer's Guild, targeting innocent people. Now, are you with me, or with them?" "But the prophecy, Reya. I can't ignore it or ignore them." "Then you are with them." "Yes, I." As I lose blood, my head spins, and all I can think about over the choking, gurgling noise is how pretty a name Reya is. There are warm hands on my side. A cool breeze makes me shiver. Shock is setting in. "Stay with me, Vayden," Reya says. There's a tightness on my side and glance down. She's bandaged my wound with strips of my shirt and her tunic. I can't see what she's doing now. Drawing something on the floor with blood, chanting. My eyes are heavy, they slip close, but a sharp pain on my cheek opens them again. Reya's face swims into focus, and I smile. I can't remember why I feel so sad with her here. My eyes slide sideways, and I realize someone else is in the room. He's tall from my vantage point on the floor, wearing a cloak. His face is covered. I can only see two white eyes. "Please, save him," Reya cries, turning to the man. "This isn't how it's done, girl." "But you can do it, can't you?" The man hesitates, but nods. "Be warned. I don't know what will happen. He may not remember you, or anything, before this moment."

"I don't care, please, just save him." Do I hear them right? What's happening? "I need a knife." A form runs out the door. It must be Reya. A shock of pain rushes through my body as the man drags me into the circle of blood on the floorboards. Words I don't recognize flow from his mouth. They are harsh, guttural, but also soothing in a way I can't describe except my brain trying to comfort me in my last moments of life. "Give it!" My eyes flutter open in time to see a glint of steel flash over my head. I gasp as the knife plunges into my chest, but there is no pain. Life flows into me in a rush of wind, like it's filling my body where my blood used to be. Then it's over. I open my eyes. The world is different, lighter, as if day has already come. Colors are more brilliant. Reya's orange hair shines like the sun, her hand feverish in my own. Sitting up, a knife drops to the floor, the same one I use to chop herbs. "You'll want to keep that," says the man. "Welcome back." And in a flourish of shadows, he’s gone.