Chapter 11 Vir
Vir
Iam still smiling as I mosey along the rows of stalls a half hour later.
Jasmeen was more helpful than she even knew.
And she invited me back—I thought to ask her more questions, about the script on the dagger, about whether she knows Mavick, about the elixir I gave my father, but I didn’t want to push my luck.
I will look around and if I come to another dead end, I’ll take her up on her offer.
The confidence our meeting gives me is gift enough.
She’s lived here for years without pissing anyone off.
She even has a successful business. Maybe I’ve been overthinking my approach to communicating with the fae.
Mavick taught me to stay on my guard. Nothing wrong with being cautious—but perhaps I could relax a bit.
The Sanctuarian sun is high in the square, but it’s not hot. The orange light makes everything appear warmer, but there’s a nice breeze. I find a bench along a less busy side street and sit, unfolding the list of elixirs that Jasmeen compiled for me.
There are five total, and she wrote a short description of each by color and consistency to easily identify which is which.
Firstly, Miridium. Under bad side effects she wrote can cause forgetfulness.
So, you learn the path forward, but you may forget some of the path left behind? Sounds just like a fae trick.
I push down the nagging question polluting my thoughts now—if the mystery elixir given to my father had any negative side effects, Mavick would have shared.
Four other summaries are written in Jasmeen’s tidy handwriting:
Slapstick: Red, thick, blood-like consistency. Better than any spirits or drugs. Gives the taker the best trip they’ve ever experienced, with no hangover. Bad side effects: you probably want to forget everything you did while under its influence, but you’ll remember it all.
Philm: White powder substance, sparkles pink in flamelight.
Glamours in a bottle. Use it to disguise yourself for a short while.
Do not ingest, use it as you would a blush.
Bad side effects: doesn’t smell great, short duration, may hurt your self-esteem if you find people like you better under its effects.
Clot: Green and sticky. Common ointment used for slices or cuts. Works like a magical bandage, aptly named—it will clot even heavy bleeding. Fast acting. Put it directly ON the wound. Bad side effects: sometimes causes allergic reactions, but it’s only bad if you eat it. I repeat, DO NOT INGEST.
Ringbane: Maroon in color, iridescent even without light.
Don’t let the name fool you, it’s not technically poison.
But it will knock out a foe for a spell.
Named Ringbane after the ringing it causes in the takers’ ears.
Bad side effects: a single drop goes a long way, heavy-hand it and you’ll put your target into a 100-year coma.
Tears form at the corners of my eyes from the much-needed laughter coupled with overwhelming gratitude—I will certainly be revisiting Jasmeen.
I stand, again basking in an optimism I have no right to feel, and walk a ways farther before pausing in front of a bookstore. The sign reads Brittle’s Books. If anyone were able to tell me what the dagger says, I imagine it would be a librarian or bookseller.
Upon entering the shop, deja vu seizes me.
The books are stacked precariously everywhere, on the floor, on small tables, on shelves.
Stacks reach such a height that they appear to support the buckling ceiling.
Piles even block the windows, making the light scarce.
There seems to be very little rhyme or reason to the chaos, much like Mavick’s living room.
I peer between the overflowing rows but do not see a soul.
Then—I hear the unmistakable sound of pages turning. I follow it deeper into the disorder.
After winding through aisles and aisles of shelves, a literal maze of mess, I come across a man with his back to me. His long, dark hair appears wet, and he wears a simple robe. He’s not much taller than me.
“Excuse me,” I whisper, so as to not scare him.
He starts—thankfully not as dramatically as Jasmeen—and turns to face me.
It’s a fish person. Or a fish-headed person.
He’s got the body of a normal man, but it looks like someone has placed an entire anglerfish atop his neck.
The fins sit where a human’s ears would rest. His stringy hair only covers the back of his fishy head, reminiscent of a balding man’s receding hairline.
A faint light hangs on a fleshy appendage protruding from his forehead—great for reading in this near dark, I suppose.
Its glow reflects infinitely in his glossy fish eyes.
His mouth is not as scary as an actual anglerfish, there’s no razor-sharp teeth, but he does wear a permanently confused, open-mouthed expression.
He speaks and my heart sinks. The noise that escapes his maw barely sounds like speech—it’s best described as bubbly.
I’m reminded of inhaling water while swimming and the unpleasant choking splutters that come after.
It’s hard to read his expression, but he does not seem angry or aggressive. I stand straighter, steeling myself.
“I was hoping you might translate something for me. Perhaps you could write it down?” To my surprise, my voice remains steady.
He doesn’t speak again, offering a small nod instead.
At least he seems to understand me. Slowly, I pull the dagger from my belt, very much aware he may assume I’m pulling a weapon on him.
His expression does not show any alarm, though.
I hold it by the blade, again careful not to lose a finger, and point at the small inscription on the leather hilt below the crossguard.
He steps closer to examine it. To my relief, he does not reach for it.
His eyes narrow, but after a few seconds of study, he shakes his head, the built-in reading light swinging back and forth.
“VIR!” is what I think he chokes out.
“It says veer?” I ask, confused.
He holds his hand above his head in a gesture I don’t quite understand and repeats with conviction, “Vir.”
When I blink at him, he shakes his head again, looking quite vexed. He digs a quill from his pocket and scribbles on a corner of the book he holds open. He points a stiff finger at it. It reads V-I-R.
“Vir,” he repeats.
This is as much as I’m going to glean here, but at least it’s something, I guess.
“I appreciate your time,” I say, praying he overlooks that he helped me without receiving anything in return.
He nods and waves, dismissing me. With a sigh of relief, I tuck the dagger back into my belt. After some wandering around—unable to recall the twists and turns made to get to the fish-man—I finally locate the shop’s exit.
Vir. Vir. Why does that sound… familiar?
I stroll back to the center of the market, pondering if it’s worth asking once more.
Luck has been on my side so far, despite not fully understanding the librarian’s translation yet.
At least he didn’t require anything in return.
This time I will confirm it’s someone who speaks the common tongue first.
For another half hour or so, I study a seller who stands at a table of odd jewelry and trinkets.
She appears cordial enough, engaging in polite conversation with the occasional passerby.
She’s not human—she has pointed ears and the slightest green tinge to her skin.
Perhaps an elf of some kind? I approach her table, feigning interest in her wares.
Upon closer inspection, they are magic wards of all different varieties.
Some are pendants with random ingredients stuffed inside to ward off various ailments, bad luck, or entire species altogether.
There’s a circular one stuffed with garlic cloves—to protect the wearer from vampires, I presume.
I don’t know her well yet, but I imagine Jasmeen would think it all a crock of nonsense.
“Good day, girl,” the woman says at last. I freeze, the memory of those drunks in Aston flooding my mind. Girl. I bite back a twinge of dread. Her tone is mostly unreadable, albeit blunt. It’s fine. I bear no title here. I might prefer ‘girl’ over Your Highness, anyway.
“Good day, ma’am,” I say in return, smoothing out my expression.
“Are you interested in warding magic?” she asks. My gaze lifts to her face. It sounds like a simple seller’s question, a go at small talk, but she seems mildly curious, nonetheless. Her pale eyes size me up, too.
“In honesty, I know nothing about it,” I say, hoping this truth somehow gains her trust. “They are pretty, though, aren’t they?”
She scoffs, alerting me that this was not the right thing to say. “Mortals and their pretty trinkets. These are useful, girl.”
“I’m—yes, yes,” I agree, choking on the apology that tried to escape my lips. I clear my throat. “Pretty and useful.”
She continues to survey me, suspicion creasing her brow. She’s too sharp—she watches me struggle to decide my next words more carefully. It’s obvious. She will not offer me information on the dagger unless I give her something in return.
“I—I don’t carry pieces or gold. But I was hoping I could ask you a question. I have a potion that might interest you—to offer in trade,” I declare. She wears distrust like one of her pendants, but does not look disinterested.
“What potion do you offer, girl?” she asks, her mouth a thin line.
I hoped to ask about the dagger first and judge which vial she receives depending on her helpfulness, but I concede—it’s clear I do not hold the upper hand here.
I reach inside my satchel in search of the maroon liquid.
I’d rather not risk knocking anyone out for 100 years, even if they are a foe. Hopefully it’s not too valuable.
“Ringbane,” I say, presenting it to her. Recognition flashes across her stony features, but I cannot discern whether she believes it worth whatever I may ask. She holds my gaze, the silence stretching between us.
“Question,” she barks, her expression guarded. Teeth show now—her canines are awfully sharp.
“I inherited a dagger from a friend,” I say in a rush.
I get the impression that she would feel threatened if I whipped it out unannounced.
She nods, and I draw the dagger from its place on my hip.
Just as for the librarian, I hold it by the blade and point at the inscription on the hilt.
Much like him, she does not grab it, but she does lean forward over the table for better inspection.
“I am trying to translate this. I do not recognize the language. Do you know what it says?”
The woman studies it, weighing her thoughts. Finally, she shakes her head and says, “Vir.”
“Come again?”
“You heard me, girl. Vir,” she repeats, disgust written plainly on her face.
Vir. Again. Is that the language? A specific alphabet?
“What does that mean?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“‘I was hoping I could ask you a question. I have a potion that might interest you—to offer in trade,’” she recites, mocking me with a painfully accurate mirror of my voice. “You asked for a question in trade, girl. You asked your question. Consider yourself lucky to get any answer.”
Shit. She shakes her head again and holds out a greenish palm, demanding her payment. Stubbornness rising, I debate whether fleeing is worth it. But that would be idiotic. Fuming, I hand over the Ringbane. I blame myself for mucking this one up.
“I appreciate it,” I mutter, ever careful not to say thanks despite my vexation. She offers a sneer in return, stuffing the small vial into the bosom of her top. I turn from her table and stalk away.
Well. Two out of three smooth interactions are better than striking out completely.
I still know more than I did—I think. But how do I get my hands on some gold?
I’m not as willing to trade the other vials, as they could all prove handy.
They seem more valuable than the help I have thus far received on the inscription…
Maybe I could outright sell the Slapstick.
If I must choose, it’s the least appealing of what’s left.
But what if it’s more useful than I think? I huff at my own indecisiveness.
By the positioning of the copper orb above, it’s likely midafternoon.
The bazaar crowd has thinned, perhaps in a late lunchtime lull.
There are fewer fae buzzing around and even less mortals.
I take another walkabout to shake my frustrations.
Perhaps returning to Jasmeen to ask if she has any clue what Vir means is my best bet.
I attempt to shrug off my chagrin, but it’s as obnoxious as a hungry stray cat.
I sigh, stepping in the direction of Jasmeen’s stall.
A sight stops me dead in my tracks.
About thirty yards away stands Brynn. Deep in conversation with the angry minotaur from yesterday. I duck into the nearest side street before he can spot me. Comprehension hits me like a rock to the head—
Icun lure blist mor, Vir, the minotaur had said once Brynn intervened. The fish-man’s gesture—describing someone very tall. The elven lady’s disgust, much like what I observed on some of the faces of those who gawked on our way to the tavern—
Vir. It was not a language. It was a name. A person. Not just any person.
Brynn.