The Ghosts of Cartel - 1

         The sky was a clear, bright blue without the slightest hint of a cloud. Warm sunlight shone through the color-changing leaves of Autumn, speckling his path with golden drops of light. Birds sang, squirrels frolicked from branch to branch, and the trees seemed to be whispering happy secrets to each other as the breeze ruffled their leaves. It was the phantom day children longed for when the weather outside was cold and rainy, but the boy cursed it.
         What he wouldn't give for a drop of rain! He'd been almost two days without water and longer still without food. His legs felt weak and threatened to give out with every step, but he trudged onward, knowing his only hope was to cover as much ground as fast as he could and reach the city of Merith before he died.
         As if to remind him why he was so miserable, he felt a tingling in his chest; an sharp, burning sting, like a nest of fire ants had made their home in his lungs and then decided they would rather eat them than live in them. Pain shot through his entire body and he sat down to avoid falling face-first in the dirt. He bit back a scream as the pointed burning intensified and moved to his head, where it concentrated and multiplied. When the pain finally receded and the stars cleared from his eyes, he found himself curled up on his side, breathless.
         A long time passed before he had the energy or the heart to stand. The thought of giving up and dying where he lay wasn't unappealing, except for the fact that his body would become food for vermin; then again, what did that really matter? He would be happily dead.
         The boy forced himself to remember the reason behind his suffering and found the will to push on. Heat blistered the center of his chest and the cursed mark emblazoned there shone an angry shade of red. He did his best to ignore it, focusing instead on the minor burns on the rest of his body. As he walked, he attempted to channel what energy he could spare into healing them, but it was a wasted exercise, as he knew it would be. Every time he felt the charred tissues begin to knit themselves back together and smooth themselves out, he grew too faint to continue and they fell apart.
         It seemed like years, though it was only a matter of minutes, before he reached a break in the forest. He lifted his throbbing head and his eyes fell upon the sight he'd been searching for; a wide wooden wall and a pair of open gates. He breathed more easily and found a small reserve of strength to pull from as he worked to make himself look less startling. He combed his shaking fingers through his hair, smoothing out the tangles and banishing the pieces of nature that had embedded themselves there. He discarded everything remaining on his person that would give away his station; a golden band around his finger, containing one square opal; his woolen over-tunic, embroidered with silk thread; and the last piece of armor he'd held on to, a small dagger with a golden handle.
         The boy didn't even care to bury the items, he just kicked dirk and leaves on top of them. He mustered his strength and stumbled forward, his feet feeling like lead, his head threatening to explode with every jarring step. The guards called out a greeting to him as he passed through the gates, but his mind was so set on finding some place to drink water, buy food, and then curl up and sleep for a month, that he didn't even hear them.

#

         The explosion made Meg jump. A cloud of black smoke bubbled up in front of her and her master, raining ashes around them. They turned to look at each other and Meg choked on a laugh.
         “What?” the old woman barked. Where her face had scrunched up to protect itself from the blast, soot marked her face. Once she relaxed, hundreds of tanned wrinkles appeared.
         “I believe you said, 'There is no way it can explode this time',” mocked Meg. She dusted off the front of her earth-colored surcoat, happy her light blue linen tunic was protected underneath it. With a great deal of flattery, one might say Meg was a lousy seamstress, so she did her utmost to protect what few custom-made items she had. “Or did I just imagine it? Several times over?”
         The old apothecary pursed her lips and glowered at her apprentice, crossing her willowy arms over her deflated chest. “I'll kick you out, see if I won't,” she threatened. “I don't need an apprentice, Meg. I rather like being alone, especially when you are the alternative.”
         The girl turned and rolled her brown eyes, making her way to the opposite side of the kitchen where the much-used scrap cloth was located. She tucked her head into a fraying wicker cabinet and dug around for a large enough piece of cloth to clean the mess, while the apothecary continued to chide her.
         “I took you on, not because I wanted to, but because you begged and pleaded and would not leave me alone until I had,” said Aisha. She picked the still-smoking mixture off the table, walked to the counter, and submerged it into a large basin of water to snuff the flame out. It hissed as it hit the surface, and then Aisha dipped her hands in and washed her face.
         Meg returned and started wiping down the small round table. “I don't remember begging. I remember saying, 'Hey, woman, I need some medicine for my skinned knee,' then being dragged in here and forced to help you crush tree-bark.”
         Aisha waved a short, bony finger in the air, “No, no, no, you volunteered–and you loved it! Otherwise, you wouldn't have come back the next day.”
         “You said I could have the medicine then,” Meg replied, arching a well-formed eyebrow.
         “Did I?” Aisha asked, looking off to the side and furrowing her brow. Her voice switched from forceful to pensive. “I don't remember that.”
         “Well, that's what you said,” Meg grunted. “And you never did give me medicine for my knee.” She turned the now-black cloth over and wiped her face clean. “Though I kept coming back for it.”
         “Silly girl,” Aisha smiled. She took the cloth out of Meg's hands and balled it up under her arm. “You missed a spot. High on your left cheekbone.”
         “Oh,” Meg averted her gaze. “That's a bruise.”
         Aisha raised her eyebrows and then turned around, chucking the soiled cloth out the window. “You are the most accident prone girl I've ever met. Here,” she said, turning and plucking a raw onion from a shelf above her head. She chopped it in two and handed one half to Meg. “Put this on it.”
         Meg made a disgusted sound as the smell hit her nose and her eyes began to sting. She sniffled. “Don't you have any of that yellow, goopy stuff?”
         Aisha inhaled a calming breath. “Tincture of Mullein, child," she ground out, then added in an undertone to herself, "You'd think after eight years, something would stick.”
         Meg held the onion away from her face as she blinked back tears and spoke. "Right, the yellow-brownish goop. Do you have any?"
         “Yes, I do, but I am saving it for winter and for paying customers.”
         Meg pouted and slumped down into a small stool by the lone kitchen table. She propped her elbow on its surface and held the sliced onion to her bruised cheek. Her eyes traced the familiar swirls of the wood beneath her as Aisha wiped the counters down. While there were many shelves in the kitchen, there were only two counters. They sat on top of each other, separated by half a foot, and circled the whole room. The bottom counter jutted out further than the top, which made for lots of storage space, but clumsy functionality.
         Aisha glanced out the window, returned to scrubbing, and then jerked her eyes back to the window a second later. She lifted her heels off the ground and leaned over the counters to get a better look at something outside.
         Meg recognized the eager look on Aisha's face and abandoned her onion at the table, rushing to stand beside her tutor. She ducked her head down, peering through the round window frame. An excited, “Ooh,” escaped her as she saw what Aisha had been staring at.
         There was a young man across the street who wore foreign, tattered clothes and appeared to be in great physical distress. He was hunched over, clutching his chest as if he wanted to reach inside it and rip something out. His free hand held fast to the side of a trader's cart for support and even from their watch across the way, the women could see him trembling.
         “Where do you think he came from?” Meg asked as she pressed her nose to the glass.
         Aisha shrugged her wiry shoulders. “I've certainly never seen him before. I would have remembered a face like that,” she said with the hint of a smile in her brittle voice. The woman pushed her long white hair over her shoulder and stepped away from the window. “Go on, then,” she ordered, shoving Meg towards the front door. “It looks like he could use a friend.”
         “Alright, alright. Stop pushing,” Meg grumbled, taking her cloak off the peg and swinging it around her shoulders. At the sound of the door creaking closed behind her, the boy's posture changed. He adopted a casual, even bored expression while leaning against the cart and crossing his arms in front of his chest.
         “Good day,” Meg said as she approached. Up close she could see that the boy was covered in ashes and there were slight burns on his hands and face.
         He nodded, looking over her head, then off to the side.
         “You know, they won't open again today,” Meg said, pointing at the cart. “The marketplace is empty until tomorrow.”
         “Oh. Thank you,” the boy said, doing a remarkable job of sounding healthy and carefree.
         “Of course,” she replied with a polite bow of her head.
         A few moments passed and they both stood still, Meg observing him, he observing the cobbled road. She saw his pulse pounding at the base of his dirt-covered neck and watched as a line of sweat dripped down it, leaving a small clean streak. Underneath the grime, his skin was very pale.
         Meg took a step closer.
         “Is there something you want?” the stranger snapped, his voice turning hard.
         “Not really,” Meg replied, creeping forward.
         “Then would you leave me be?” he demanded, turning his eyes to her for the first time. Their striking blue color stood out behind the shadow of gray ashes, and the fierceness in them was surprising.
         Meg ignored his irritation. “Why are you leaning so hard against that pole? You're going to break it.”
         The boy looked taken aback. “What?”
         “Is that beam the only thing holding you up?” Meg asked as she scrutinized the rickety cart.
         “What?" he repeated, forcing injured disbelief into his voice. "Of course not.”
         Meg shoved him sideways with her hip and, as expected, the boy fell. Either the shock of being knocked over, or simple unfortunate timing, made him pass out at that moment. He hit the ground hard before Meg could even try to catch him.
         The door to Aisha's workshop flew open and the old woman stood in the doorway shouting, “What did you do to him!”
         “Nothing!” Meg cried back, gathering him up. “Well, maybe a little something, but this is not strictly my fault!”
         “Stupid girl!” the healer scolded. “Hurry up and bring him inside!”
         “I'm working on it,” Meg grunted, dragging the boy's inanimate body backwards on the ground. A man walked by and frowned as he watched her struggle with the stranger's dead weight. He shook his head as he hurried away. Meg made a face at his back. Aisha was a great apothecary, but the people of Merith had begun to suspect her skills to be of a dark nature. It was a new small-town rumor that would be forgotten as soon as people started catching colds, but still, Meg wasn't used to being frowned at. Her irritation gave her strength, and with a bit of skillful maneuvering, the two women found themselves looking down at an unconscious body on the rug-covered floor of Aisha's house.
         “Well,” said the healer over Meg's ragged breathing. “What are we to do now?”
         The girl stretched her aching back and tried to catch her breath. “Steal his belongings?” she suggested.
         The gray haired woman gasped, and then shouted, “Absolutely not!”
         Meg raised an eyebrow. “Why not? It's what you usually do.”
         “I never steal from babies, child, only from old, selfish fools who deserve it.” The woman's knees bent with several creaks and she took great care getting to the floor. “Now get me a scrap of cloth and a bucket of water so we can clean him up,” she ordered.
         Meg hurried back with the supplies and sat on the opposite side of the mysterious boy. She leaned over so her forehead touched her tutor's as they examined him. “He's covered in ashes and he smells like a fireplace,” she noted.
         “Yes, well, he fits right in, doesn't he,” Aisha said with a sly wink as she reached for the cloth. She dipped it in the bucket of water and began to clean his face. Meg tilted her head as she studied the young man's features.
         Underneath the caked-on grime, his skin was pallid and tinged with blue around the eyelids. His eyelashes and brows were fair, but the hair on his head appeared darker; perhaps because of the dirt and ash. He did not resemble the local men, with their black hair, square jaws and heavy-set eyebrows; rather, his features were an odd blend of masculine and feminine. “Do you think he'll be alright?” Meg asked.
         “Ha!” Aisha exclaimed. “Am I the best apothecary this land has ever known?”
         “Yes?” the girl answered.
         “YES!” the old woman shouted. “And are you the best apothecary's apprentice this land has ever known?”
         “Yes!” Meg exclaimed.
         “NO! But it doesn't matter because I am here,” she smiled. “So, of course he will be fine. We just have to figure out what's wrong with him. See here, these minor burns along his hands and arms? They've already begun to heal.”
         “So we just need to discover the real source of his problems,” Meg said, lifting his shirt to examine him. Both women gasped at what they saw.
         “I believe we've just discovered it,” Aisha breathed.
         In the center of the stranger's chest appeared a fresh burn, but unlike any they had seen before. The marks were crisp, clear, and arranged in an intricate circular pattern; definitely by design and not just a random lick of flame. Within the elegant motif his skin was peeling and full of angry blisters. Most alarming of all was the fact that the wound was glowing, highlighting their faces with a deep red color. Against her better judgment, Meg reached out and touched it.
         What followed was a searing pain through her arm and the whole right side of her body. It burned as if someone had lit her on fire or cut her in half. The pain only lasted a few seconds before Aisha knocked her over with a walking stick, but it felt like much longer. When the spots of white and black cleared from her eyesight, she saw her tutor's leathered face, full of anger bearing down on her.
         “Meghan Bronwyn Mabon, you are a fool!” she howled, pressing her nose to the girl's. “Collect yourself and get this boy off the floor, now! And don't touch that mark again, or I'll chop your fingers off!” Aisha's dark skin was flushed with red. She backed away from Meg and stood to her full height, which was two heads shorter than her pupil.
         As Meg struggled to get the boy's body off the ground the healer rushed around her workshop, sifting through tonics and herbs, stopping only to pick up a book and skim through it.
         Sweat glistened on Meg's brow and by the time she had the boy on the bed, she was panting for air. The healer's black and gray striped cat, Morph, jumped onto the mattress, curled up in the crook of the boy's arm and started to purr. Meg cocked her head sideways and the cat did the same.
         “Meg!” Aisha barked, causing the girl to jump.
         “Yes, Aisha!” she replied, spinning to face the sturdy old woman.
         “I need you to go and fetch these ingredients for me,” the healer said, handing Meg a piece of parchment with several items listed on it. She turned to glance at the bed and cried, “Oh, Morph! Get off the boy!”
         The catglared at her master with a challenge in her yellow eyes. Make me, the look seemed to say. She lowered her head and propped it on the boy's grimy forearm.
         Aisha shook her head and addressed the cat. “You forget that I am bigger than you.”
         Morph lifted her head and folded her war-torn ears back, no longer purring.
         “Exactly. Now get off of him.”
         The cat took her time rising to her feet, stretching her hind legs, and then arching her back. She walked in a circle, stepped on the boy's stomach, then strutted to the edge of the bed and made a perch for herself there. She cast a sidelong glance at Aisha and started purring even louder.
         The healer rolled her eyes then turned to Meg, her smile falling to a frown. “You're still here.”
         “Sorry,” Meg said, picking up her cloak again. “I'm leaving.”
         “Don't dawdle! His chances of life will increase when I have those supplies in my hands.”
         “I know. Don't do anything scandalous while I'm gone,” Meg warned. Aisha scoffed as her apprentice rushed out the door, shutting it so hard it bounced open again.