Chapter One #2
Ever since Bran began his training within the army ranks, I pleaded for him to teach me everything that he learned.
Eventually, my incessant begging wore him down, he had never been able to deny me whatever I wanted anyway.
So the exercises he learned, I too learned.
The survival and stealth training he was taught, he taught to me.
The swordsmanship, dagger handling, hand to hand, and archery lessons he took—he reiterated them for me.
While gaining adequacy in each skill over the years, it was the daggers I took to the most, the steel light and perfect in my quick hands.
We practiced with his fathers weapons hidden away in a closet, unbeknownst to Merle.
It was on my eighteenth birthday when Bran gifted me my very own daggers.
A worn golden pair, made of strong Solerian steel, the handle intricately laid with fading opals.
When I asked where he had gotten the funds, he merely shrugged.
Merle’s shop earned well, but not well enough that she would have given him the coin for such a gift.
I later learned, from Merle, that he spent months taking side jobs scrubbing the kitchen floors of the barracks and polishing the silverware of the palace to earn it.
I hadn’t loved anyone more than I did Bran that day. My cousin, my brother, my best friend.
So potions I learned by trade, but the art of fighting is what I waited for, what I craved. I made a vow to myself once, as a little girl shaking before a blazing fire and wrapped in blankets, that I would never again allow another to make me feel powerless. To never again feel weak or helpless.
“By the Goddess,” Bran grumbled, rubbing tiredly between his brows as if I was causing him some immense stress. “You’re drunk, Sy. We’re not going brawling through the woods. My mother will have my head and the barracks curfew is soon.”
Indignation burned through me as I thrust a pointed finger into his muscled chest, my eyes narrowing. “I’m not drunk you bumbling prick, you’re the one who’s drunk.”
Sighing, Bran stood, large hands scooping beneath my arms as he pulled me to my feet. “On that note, I believe it’s time to go home. I’ll walk you back.”
His voice was teasing, despite his exasperation, but that just annoyed me all the further. I wasn’t a child to keep an eye upon. He carved a path through the tavern patrons as I followed sullenly behind.
A soft gasp escaped my lips when the chilly breeze of autumn hit my skin, goosebumps sprouting instantly along my tanned arms. The cold air chased away the warmth that had settled heavily upon my alcohol-ridden body, my steps stumbling as we started down the cobbled street.
I felt the weight of a heavy arm settle over my shoulders, both warming and steadying me all at once.
“I don’t need you to babysit me home,” the words came out muttered, my voice icy as the wind that blew over us.
“Have I ever told you that firemead makes you mean, Sy?” I frowned at my words from earlier being thrown back at me. Squirming out from beneath his arm, I shoved him lightly away as his laughter broke across the frosty night air.
“For the love of Soli, can you shut up?” My grumbled response had him laughing all the harder as he jogged to catch up with my quick, albeit shaky, steps.
By the time we made it back to the shop, the air had grown far colder, both of us cursing our lack of coat or cloak. We puffed breath into our hands, trying to warm our frozen fingers. It was Bran who pulled a key from his pocket, fumbling as he tried to unlock the shop door.
I stared up at the sign hung above the entrance, eyes watery against the wind that pelted me now. I read the familiar script, The Golden Apothecary, the same as it always was.
“Soli’s wrath,” I cursed as he finally unlocked the door. Shoving past him, I attempted to dance the cold from my limbs, steps shuffling upon the wooden floor. “Why couldn’t you have been blessed with fire magic, at least then our walks home would be warm.”
The familiar scent of rich spices and herbs filled my nose, a sense of comfort settling over me as Bran scoffed. “The Sun Goddess knew that if she blessed me with a face this handsome and fire magic, I’d simply be irresistible.”
Rolling my eyes and unable to stop my laughter, I shoved at his arm, the shit eating grin upon his face only deepening my mirth.
A creak of floorboards had it abruptly ceasing, my eyes trailing to the second floor landing where Merle looked down on us, hands upon her hips.
I winced at the fury written across her face. “Do you two have any idea what time it is?”
I backed into Bran as she came down the stairs.
My gaze flitted from the shelves of bottled potions along the walls, to the counter where customers paid, to the entrance at the back of the shop where we brewed potions.
Anywhere but the wrath that I knew lay within those brown eyes, so similar to her son’s.
Her usual tangle of loose black curls was frizzed as if she had been tugging it all night. She pointed a threatening finger at Bran, who stood behind me. Practically using me as a shield from his mothers wrath. Coward.
“I will deal with you this weekend, Branson. It’s far too late and you’ll miss barracks curfew if you don’t hurry back,” she seethed, and I felt my cheeks burn with anger as he scurried out the door without a word.
A coward and a traitor.
Merle whirled to me then, eyes narrowed.
It always struck me how similar Bran and Merle appeared.
The same caramel brown eyes that were always quick to spark with whatever emotion was currently consuming them.
Usually mischief or joy, but tonight it was pure ire and perhaps a hint of worry.
They were both so easy to read, their emotions laid open like a book to peruse, whereas I kept everything so tucked away, so hidden from prying eyes.
They had the same high cheekbones, broad noses, and full lips.
Yet where Merle’s skin was a deep brown, full of golden hues that shone under the sun, Bran had the darker skin of his father.
All cool tones that glittered like diamonds.
Merle’s skin was also speckled in freckles, marks that she claimed were kisses of the Sun Goddess herself.
A trait I shared with her despite there being no real blood relation between us.I never took that small likeness for granted, there was something comforting in seeing a piece of myself reflected in someone I loved so dearly—a kinship that came from it.
I never met Bran’s father, only ever saw drawings that Merle had sketched when he was still alive and well.
She never knew we had snuck through her things, never knew we had spent hours pouring over those drawings as children, trying to decipher what features Bran had gained from the father he lost.
Did I too look like my mother? Despite the inky black of my hair now, I knew we shared the same silver color.
Yet her features grew hazy in my mind the older I became.
I knew she had blue eyes, but was the almond shape of my grey ones inherited from her?
Was the dip of my full upper lip hers? I knew my olive skin and the rosy hues beneath belonged to her too. But what about my sharp nose or jaw?
I had never seen my father, so I had absolutely nothing to compare myself to there. I couldn’t even remember my mother mentioning him, other than the night of The Cleansing when she ordered me to tell everyone that they had both died of The Fever. A lie. Or was it a half truth?
Had he truly died from the sickness that plagued this Kingdom?
Or was he alive somewhere out there right now? If he was, did he know I existed or had he no idea that he had a daughter, that the mother of his child had burned upon the stake?
“Are you drunk, Syra?” The question was sharp, her eyes roaming over my features with the sort of intensity only a mother could muster.
I knew what was coming next, my stomach revolting as she walked to one of the shelves that housed our brewed potions, plucking an all too familiar vial from it.
A gag clawed its way up my throat, nose wrinkling as she uncorked and handed it over to me.
“Name, use, and the components," she demanded, as I pressed the vial to my lips and threw back my head.
This time I truly did gag as the thick substance hit my tongue, struggling to swallow it down lest I be in even more trouble.
The taste of salt and sulfur burned through my nasal passages and down my throat, my wince deepening as I struggled for a moment to keep it down.
When the nausea finally passed, I tossed the vial back to her.
“Drunk Man’s Elixir," I answered, the words heavy upon my tongue as I tried to remember every detail I could with its lingering taste in my mouth. “Used to cause near immediate sobriety when one’s had too much drink, or in emergency cases, such as alcohol poisoning.” As I spoke, the elixir began to take its effect, the warmth in my belly and veins slowly ebbing away.
It no longer felt like such a feat to stand straight, or such a struggle to find my words.
“It's made by stewing two thistle roots, four goddess flower petals, and a fermented Tavarrian sea star for four days. For a more potent dose, adding a slurry of spiced flour to the mixture will help thicken and increase the absorption of the alcohol within the body.”
Merle leaned back against the counter, her arms crossing as the anger seemed to drain from her. That nagging, ever constant guilt wormed its way through my gut at her tired expression.