Stellan had only nodded at the cryptic remark, not truly understanding its implications. “Well,” he’d said, “I’m going to leave now.”
“Wait!” cried the robed man. “I have something for you.” He produced an old earthen pot from his capacious robe, a pot spotted with age. “You said you needed herbs. This, I assure you, is far more potent than any plant.”
Confused, Stellan had frowned. “Why are you offering it to me, sir? I don’t know you and have nothing to offer in return.”
“Consider it a gift then,” the man said, “one to aid you in your magick. My bones are tired and old. I have need of it no more.”
Stellan was intrigued, so he stepped closer. “What is it?” he asked, bending over to study the mottled pot. He still hadn’t committed to accepting it. “Raven’s root? Calillon leaves?”
The stranger shook his cowled head. “The power to breach the walls of life and death.”
Now Stellan was definitely interested, for power was one possession he lacked. He reached for the container. The pot was smooth and warm in his hands. A thin slit of pulsing grayish light was visible where the lid met the body, but Stellan didn’t dare open it until he was back home. His heart rate sped up. This was a true find indeed!
Stellan looked up to thank the stranger, only to discover he was gone. He should have questioned the disappearance, but he was too excited about his new acquisition. Container in tow, Stellan turned and began the long journey back to icy Vandeborg.
* * * *
The memory faded. Stellan gasped at the sight of the jar in his hand. A shudder ran through him. He didn’t remember picking it up. As if it burned, he hastily returned it to the shelf.
Little had he known what unspeakable power dwelled within the dread container, but he’d been too eager to find out. Upon returning to Vandeborg, opening the lid was all he’d needed to do in order to unleash the power within. The result had been both magnificent and terrifying.
Yet the experience had nearly cost him his one true asset–his mind. No one could expect to survive such an encounter with their wits intact. Somehow, he’d managed to replace the lid and end the macabre parade before any more damage had been done. If it hadn’t been for Gretchen and her family, he would have succumbed to madness.
In retrospect, he should have questioned the stranger harder about his identity. Was he a rogue sorcerer? A demon? A spy sent by the Black Mage? Who knew what devil’s bargain he had unwittingly agreed to that day. Years passed before he’d realized such a “gift” came with a price. What price Stellan would yet pay remained to be seen.
Stellan bundled up his full vials. It was time to depart for Aldebaran. At the door of his workshop, he cast a rueful look toward the ominous glow on the topmost shelf.
“That’s not a mistake I’ll make twice,” he muttered, slamming the door behind him.
Chapter 12
Clarysa awoke and discovered she was in a cocoon of thick blankets. Only her face was exposed. She opened her bleary eyes and stared into the flames of a robust fire. Where was she? Then it all came rushing back–Stellan’s castle!
She crawled from the makeshift womb of brightly colored blankets. Looking down, she fingered the rough cloth of the nightgown she wore. It was a far cry from the silk and fine linen filling her wardrobes back home.
Clarysa shivered in the brisk air. She wrapped herself in a blanket. At the foot of the hearth, she discovered thick woolen socks and a pair of slippers. Guessing their worth in the frigid castle, she donned them quickly. She raked her fingers through her disheveled hair. I must look a fright.
There. Now it was time to find someone, anyone. She had no idea how long she had lain there, but she remembered Gretchen coming to wake her periodically to take more of the potion. Clarysa put a hand to her lips, her stomach churning at the memory. Stellan! Had he returned? What about the Pestilence threat? She had to find answers.
Clarysa grasped the door’s large iron handle. Opening it took all of her strength. A cool draft of air rushed in and sipped quietly at the room’s warmth. After a few moments’ rest, Clarysa stepped into the hallway.
Yawning, she crept down the murky passageway. A light shone at the far end, drawing her like a moth. She shivered despite the blanket. I can’t believe how cold it is here. Even in the dead of winter, her father would never allow his castle to be so uncomfortable. This would take some getting used to.
Winded, she stopped to rest against the base of a pillar. Clarysa braved a look around and upward. The vaulted ceilings disappeared into fathomless shadow. Statues lined the walls, their visages appearing ominous. Most were of men clad in ancient armor. Hideous beasts of stone reached outward with coiled tails and dangerous-looking claws. A scratching noise mysteriously emanated from behind one of them. Though faint, it sounded purposeful. Clarysa shuddered, and continued her search.
As she neared the source of the light, Clarysa heard voices. She hoped one of them belonged to Gretchen. Shuffling up to the doorway, she peered slowly around the frame.
Ahead of her lay the kitchen. While expansive and well lit, it was also smoky and cluttered. Mismatched tables and chairs centered around the large hearth. Pots and pans of all sizes hung from rusty hooks. Everything seemed to bear the stain of careworn age.
Garlic and onions hung in sacs along the walls, and potatoes spilled from a huge bin in one grimy nook. Liquid bubbled from the iron pot atop the fire. The air felt toasty and smelled like slow-cooked
