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Part One, Chapter Three
The boy was concerned about the content of the Master's home after that. Were all the drawings in the tomes he marveled over representing florae just as menacing as the one he acquired in the Wood? The delicate leaves and soft roots he wrapped in cloth did not seem dangerous. When they returned to the City, he never saw the plant again. It simply disappeared, but the warning kept hampering at the child's mind. Suddenly, he was very cautious about his supper. The Daelish hunter said if he ate the plant, he would die.
One evening, as lessons came to a close and the Master was dosing over a book, Zevran plucked the courage to ask about the location of this herb to ease his own conscience.
"Why do you care?" The old man inquired with a sense of scrutiny.
The boy glanced over unsure, "Is it poisonous?"
The Master sat straight on his stool to stare down at Zevran. His beard contorted in some thought he was not willing to let go before slowly uttering his question, "And what would you do with this information if I told you the truth?"
He did not know how to reply. What was he supposed to do with such information?
His silence seemed to encourage the elder, "Plants have many purposes, boy. They are nigh just to eat or to refine into wine. For example, the Manuri Tribe in the heart of Qunari Lands uses a moss to treat deep wounds after battle. Without it, their warriors would succumb to exhaustion soon after."
He pulled at a book already open on his easel and turned the thick pages to a drawing of the moss he was describing. "This same plant, if ingested together with another benign herb, will inflict a flux upon the consumer such that if this person nigh seeks treatment quickly, he will likely die."
"Why would he eat it then?"
"He nigh would," The old man smirked, "Knowingly."
Zevran lacked experience to understand such sinister intonations. Instead, he turned back to the drawing with renewed curiosity, "Why does the moss do that?"
"That is a very astute question. Tomorrow, I will show you."
The next morning, the boy was pulled away from his normal chores and told to follow the old man into another small chamber beyond the front sitting area where the Master entertained his guests. Zevran felt both nervous and excited to have another room open to him in the villa. Drawing back a dark red curtain, the nook revealed itself. Dried plants hung on narrow strings above them, a small window to one side flushing the space with light. In the far corner stood a tidy desk, upon it a series of vials with handwritten labels.
He was ordered to touch nothing as the old man rummaged about in a cabinet to one side. In a moment, he retrieved himself and presented Zevran with a stone bowl, a pestle and a ginger root.
"I need this crushed. Finely."
The boy nearly dropped bowl it was so heavy and motioned over to the windowsill to regain balance. The root had long lost its character, and the shriveled husk started to flake off on his fingers as he lifted it up to the light.
"It is just ginger," the Master huffed. "Now, it needs to be crushed, boy."
Zevran did as told, although the job took more effort than he initially assumed. Once finished, he lugged the stonework back to the desk, now cleared and covered with a set of dried, thorny stalks from a plant he knew but could not place. The elder exchanged an expectant glare and pointed at the cuttings, "Now, I need the thorns removed. Keep the shoots though. We can use them later for supper."
Surprise flitted up to the old man snickering at his own joke. The boy peeked around the room again as he made his way back to the window, unsure if he really wanted to know what the purpose of the herbs above him were for. Carefully, he excised the thorns and placed them into another bowl and then set the stalks aside. Just as quickly as he finished, the old man reclaimed both parts of the plant to his desk.
Then the real work began. The master lit a candle within a large brass container lined with holes and set a flat, metal plate upon it. To Zevran, it looked like a simple incense lantern. A small pile of black powder to one side was mixed with water on the plate until it began to bubble. As the substance heated, the old man added a dollop of ginger powder, moments later pulling out a single thorn with a set of tweezers, gently squeezing it over the brown goo below until several drops fell. He promptly removed the plate from its heat source and poured the contents into a small stone flask.
"Come here," the old man motioned, filling the remainder of the flask with more water and swirling the mixture.
A pang of something ominous stirred in the boy's stomach. His attention was rapt the moment the old man lit the candle, noting every subtle movement he made from his position by the window. But, when summoned, Zevran suddenly did not want to be there anymore. Against his better instincts, he emerged by the Master's side.
The elder turned to the boy, handing over the stone flask, "Drink this."
His hazel eyes just about doubling, Zevran looked down into the contents of the cup. The brown liquid churned, and he could smell the stale woody note. He gulped and jerked back up to the old man with a shake of his head.
He showed no emotion, but his words were deadly solemn, "You will drink this, or I will force you."
Tears welled up. The boy could not fathom what he could have done to work up such ire in the Master. All he wanted to know was if the plant from the Wood was as dangerous as the hunters made it out to be. He whimpered, "Please, no."
"You wish to know the truth of such things," he raised scruffy eyebrows, "and now you will."
He sincerely did not want to take the elixir. As the flask was raised to his lips, waterworks flowing down his high cheeks, the boy continued to stare utterly silent pleas to the old man. The taste was bitter and left a lingering sense of charcoal in the back of his throat. The boy backed away from the desk gagging on the granular remains, heaving from the knowledge over what he had just done.
"Go out into the garden," The old man pointed. He looked over nonchalantly as a knock came at the door. "I will come get you later."
Normally, the boy would be expected to answer, but he was grateful to not have that option. The man waited for the child to back out slowly into the hallway before making his own steps to greet his guest.
Zevran ran to his room, closing the door. Panic encased him with deep dread, wondering what he just consumed and what was going to happen to him. The Daelish warnings rang in his ears like Chantry bells as he dug under his pillow for the only family item he had. Clutching the gloves closely, he cried and huddled on his covers, each huff seemingly drawing more life out of him than the next breath carried. It was a mistake to ask such questions, he admonished to himself. He trusted too openly.
He was going to be sick, he could already feel the argument in his stomach. Sitting up, dizziness took over his senses, however, and the boy never made it to the door.
Groggily, he opened an eye. He was lying on his side in bed. Sweat dripped from his forehead and every muscle was tense and sore. Slowly nudging the covers off his torso, Zevran latently caught motion beyond him in a chair. The old man turned to him, closing the book he was reading.
"I told you to go to the garden earlier." The Master motioned to the floor, "You made such a mess instead."
All he could do was grunt his angst. He thought he was dying. Licking chapped lips, it took all of his energy to sit up. The old man was already by his side, offering a cup of water. Little eyes flicked open, and the child backed away as best he could into the corner.
"Boy, stop!" the Master scolded, pulling him over, "It is just water, and it is the best thing to take after consuming raften weed."
The weed? That was a common stalk Zevran pulled in the garden. It tended to grow in bunches during the spring, and the boy always had to be careful not to catch his hands or clothes on the thorns, else rip deep cuts into him that would later threaten with infection. Unsure, he took the mug with both hands and tested the contents.
The old man was not finished. He drew out a cube of some green substance from the table beside him. Quickly with a paring knife, he peeled a narrow sheet of skin from its surface and handed it to the boy with a demand, "Chew on this. It will help your stomach."
He mouthed the word 'no,' but it was immediately rebuffed.
"You will eat this or you get nothing!" The old man was stern this time, pushing the remedy at the child. He wanted to fight, but all the strength in him was fading and he had little choice than nibble on the herb shoved in front of him.
Satisfied, he sat back in his chair, saying as he went, "Raften weed is common enough. If consumed, it will cause much discomfort, but," he nodded to the boy for added effect, "I can assure you, it is nigh lethal."
"Why!" He could barely cough out the feeling of betrayal.
"Because, boy." The Master paused, wording carefully and earnestly, "You are to understand your poisons if you are to make them."
So the hunters were right. The herb must have been a poison. He shook himself from the corner, straining around to find some sort of hasty exit. But the old man continued, "You want to know why I had you search for this herb in the Wood, yes?"
"No." He changed his mind. He did not want to know. He wanted things as they were before.
"The Daelish have used Ma'an for, some say, thousands of years. Probably before the Shem ever even came here. It is a rare plant that only grows under boulders of lime and is used in special ceremonies, usually to commemorate the dead."
The story quieted him, but it was still not enough.
"It is deadly, but only if taken in copious amounts," the old man acknowledged, "For them, it is used to invoke visions that might serve to help them – consumed with care, of course."
"Why did you want it?" The boy muttered.
The old man breathed deeply, brows arching high on his wrinkled forehead, "I have a client who wanted it."
It dawned on Zevran then the real reason for all of the visitors. They came and went to either drop items off for the old man, or more commonly, to retrieve items cleverly hidden within their coats.
"He wanted a special elixir for a shaman far to the south," The Master snuffed a laugh, "To be honest, I nigh know if it will work."
The entire evening, the old man sat with the boy as he lay nearly doubled over in his bed. Three times he was given the green herb, the last time it was forced down him because he refused, convinced it was making the cramping worse. But, by the following day, as the boy emerged from his room still sore but feeling better, the old man stood in the hallway to greet him with his friend's maid in the kitchen. Zevran was given some time to rest until he felt well enough to resume his chores.
In the mean time, lessons continued as normal, but the Master began to lecture on an entirely different subject matter. The old man actually worked for a living. The guests he received daily were his clients. And they came to him for a variety of reasons. Many were fairly benign, local and regional men of importance in need of remedies for common and obscure ailments alike. Most common people would head directly to the Chantry to find their cure in some form of prayer or magical offering, but the old man seemed to look down upon such response as superstition that tended to do more harm than good.
"Nigh let me speak ill of the Chantry, for there are some exceptional clerics in their Order, but most of it is a load of horse shit used to ease the mind of the already dying."
"What about the Circle?" Zevran had only read of the mages, but it was enough to inquire.
He laughed, "The Circle nigh concerns themselves over such trifle nonsense."
Others who came to the Master were of a completely different sort. These were agents, the old man said, whose job was to keep order in Antiva. There were a number of guilds that worked for the Royal Houses that dotted the City; political empires built upon centuries of manipulation and bloody warfare. The battlefield was not in the form of garrisons and armies, however. Sabotage, like merchantry, took finesse. Subtlety. The ongoing feuds took place behind closed doors, in bedrooms, and around the open forums of the City. The job of their Guild was to keep those Houses in line should another major conflict break out.
"Our kingdom is at peace because of the Crows."
For these people, the old man made much more sinister concoctions. These elixirs did not all kill or maim, though. Many were fashioned to urge honesty from people and others to coerce. The range of uses for these herbs seemed as endless as the drawings of them in the archive to the boy.
"How do you know the potions work the way you want?" Zevran asked hesitantly.
"It should be obvious." The old man scoffed, "You study it. You try them – in their safe forms – and you work out their properties."
Often through trial and error. The old man went on to tell the boy about some of the mishaps he got himself into when he was younger. He collected books and cuttings to help guide him to make better, more refined substances. Over the years, he became the sort of expert, or Master as most would call him, because of his vast knowledge of the subject. Everyone came to him. And it became a form of obsession for the old man, as he desired to better understand the beautiful and deadly complexities nature had to offer.
Over the following months, Zevran would continue his daily routine. He had a new appreciation for the visitors as they came and went, like he was in on their little secret. Still, he was advised to keep quiet and was banished from the sitting area once he offered drinks. Except now, he would avidly listen in on the conversations without his Master's knowledge.
At least at first he did. Most of the banter was tedious and boring to the boy. They always started with a story about the Old City and the people they knew back then. The wealthier appearing visitors seemed to want to talk about their greatness to the old man, perhaps offering a reason why he should help them. If the coin was not persuasive, that is. Other, more discrete, visitors chose not to chat much at all. They came and went with simple conversation and with no coin to exchange.
One such quiet guest was Vinter. When Zevran first came to the old man, Vinter was one of the few who acknowledged him, always leaving with a quick wink on his way out the door. He was tall, slender and middle aged. He had shoulder length brunette hair, now starting to grey around the crown. He carried no beard and was well kept, wearing only dark shades of russet linen and leather.
One day, curiosity got the better of him, and Zevran asked as Vinter was escorted to the landing, "Are you a Crow?"
The Shem stopped and turned back to the boy. His smile was gone, but he did not seem angered, "That is an interesting question, why do you ask?"
Zevran shrugged, regretting his query. Red reached his cheeks, and when he did not continue to walk away, the boy felt pressed to answer, "Master says that Guild members sometimes come here."
"Oh? And if I were to tell you, what would you do with such information?"
The boy nudged up to the response, recalling a similar question from the old man. Giving a confused look, he mumbled, "What does that even mean?"
A passive smile returned to his scarred face, "It means that if you must ask such questions, you must have a reason to know such answers."
A full season passed before he saw Vinter again.