Fanfic:The Apothecary
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With his soft, boyish features and clean-shaven cheeks, Stefan al’Vyron seemed a little too young for his profession. Yet when he opened his little apothecary on the corner of Alley Dent and Queen’s Lane, no one asked questions. The people of South Caemlyn knew better than to pry. Sticking your nose into bad business was the quickest way to end up dead. No one bothered the mysterious young newcomer. And that was just the way Stefan liked it.
His little apothecary fared surprisingly well next to the more typical businesses of South Caemlyn: shady taverns, tabac stores, tattoo parlors, and brothels. It seemed that the poor needed cough syrups and fever-quelling teas just as much as the wealthy. His proximity to a few infamous establishments generated additional demand for contraceptives and male enhancement powders that proved very lucrative. Furthermore, Stefan sold his medicines for a discount provided that his customers behaved themselves. By the end of the year, he had established a large and loyal customer base.
But even his most loyal customers did not shop during a storm.
Tap tap tap.
Raindrops fell against the storefront window in rhythmless staccato. The street could hardly be seen through the sheets of water that ran down the glass panes. It was one of those cold autumn storms that forewarned the coming of winter. The fireplace kept away the worst of the chill, but it was a day of inescapable wetness. Even the fire wasn’t immune. As Stefan watched, a few errant drops of water fell into the fireplace and evaporated with quiet sizzles.
He flipped the sign that hung in the window to the side that said ‘CLOSED’ and locked the front door. Then he retreated to the back room that he used as a laboratory and storage space. Hundreds of jars filled with dried herbs and mineral powders lined the shelves. Each was labeled with its contents and expiration date. Blue goatflowers. Chainleaf. Feverbane. Gheandin powder.
And of course, there was a cabinet full of good, strong brandy.
The young apothecary poured himself a glass of amber liquid and settled into a chair with a sigh. He tilted back in his chair so that it stood on two legs. His long hair was tied back in a neat tail at the nape of his neck. Despite his efforts at a beard, he looked younger than his twenty years.
Stefan yawned and closed his eyes. Soon, he began to doze off.
Knock knock knock.
Ugh! It was just his luck that someone would come right when he settled down for a nice nap. He rubbed at his eyes.
“We’re closed!” he shouted.
But the knocking did not stop. Perhaps the visitor could not hear him past the noise of the storm. Stefan groaned and roused himself. He went to the front and peered suspiciously through the storefront window, but the rain blocked his view. Surely it wasn’t a vagrant seeking shelter? There was an inn right across the street!
He unlocked the door. Then he gasped and caught the body that fell through the door.
It was a boy, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years of age. He had a pale, triangular face and short brown hair matted by rain. His eyes were half-closed and unfocused. Stefan placed a hand on the boy’s forehead. Light! He was burning up!
Stefan slung the boy’s arm over his shoulder and lifted. His visitor was lighter than he looked, perhaps because he was bundled in layers of baggy clothing.
“T-thank you,” whispered the boy. Then his eyes fluttered shut and his head lolled back over Stefan’s arm.
“Hey, wake up!”
He did not wake. Stefan cursed. He kicked the door shut and rushed upstairs to set the boy down in the bed. Then he ran back down the stairs to the storeroom to find a medicine for fever.
When he walked back into the main room to lock the front door, he noticed that the floor felt strangely sticky. Then he saw the trail of blood.
Blast it all. Of course! How could he have been so boneheaded? Stefan raced upstairs and began peeling away the boy’s damp clothing. When the jacket came off, he gasped. There was a cut across the boy’s throat, so deep that he could see the cartilage of the windpipe. He seized a piece of clean cloth and gently dabbed away the blood to examine the wound. Somehow the cut had missed the most important arteries and veins.
He wrapped the neck with gauze to slow the bleeding. Then he continued to search for more urgent injuries. With a knife, Stefan cut away the shirt.
His mouth dropped open. A girl?! The young apothecary’s cheeks reddened, but there was no time for modesty. He quickly undressed the young woman, treating each wound as he found it. Several deep wounds in the abdomen that, like the cut across her throat, had miraculously missed vital organs. A deep gash in the thigh. Minor abrasions on the arms. Countless bruises colored her skin black and blue. She had been beaten, badly. He felt along her limbs for broken bones and luckily found none.
Stefan washed the wounds with water and a clean cloth. He breathed a prayer to the Creator. Then he threaded a needle with catgut and began to sew.
The next morning, Stefan startled awake to a piercing scream. His patient was yelling and clawing at her bandages. Stefan restrained her with ropes and earned a black eye for his trouble.
He looked under her dressings and was pleased to see no redness or swelling around her stitches. At least she had improved in some aspects. The willowbark tea forced down her throat had reduced her fever. Her bruises had faded, slightly. Yet the pain had not abated. Well, he thought that she was writhing in pain. It was hard to tell past her delirium.
Stefan tried not to think about the Shaking Sickness, a syndrome of alternating fevers and chills that even the best healers could not cure. It struck mostly young men and women, often without warning. Healing required the help of an Aes Sedai. And Aes Sedai never visited South Caemlyn. It was simply not the part of town that welcomed such guests. Why come here when High Lords and Ladies sought their advice and showered them with gifts? Why come here when the doors to the Royal Palace itself opened to them?
But without help from an Aes Sedai, a victim of the Shaking Sickness would die in pain and screaming in agony.
Stefan listened to the screams of the woman in his bed and shook his head. There was nothing to do but wait.
Stefan dipped a rag into the tub of warm water. He wrung it out and gently washed his patient’s body. Then, he covered her wounds with bandages soaked in a poultice of healall and dogwort.
He was leaning over her head to tend to the scar on her neck when he suddenly cried out in surprise and leapt out of his chair. Her eyes were open! Stefan’s face burned with embarrassment. Had she been watching him the entire time? Why hadn’t she moved while he was washing her? Quickly, he covered her body with a blanket.
“F-forgive me,” he stammered. “I did not realize that you were awake.”
She did not reply and only continued to watch as he smoothed the bandage over her neck. Her hair, cleaned and dried, framed her face in soft, brown waves. Large, grey eyes and long lashes softened the sharp angles of her face. Stefan could hardly look away from her. How could he have ever mistaken her for a boy? He hoped that her return to consciousness would begin the exchange of words that might shed some light on her mysterious appearance on his doorstep.
When he was done, he helped her sit up and dress in one of his old shirts. She grimaced as she moved, and Stefan rushed to assure her that the tea on her bedside stand would help ease the pain. Then finally she spoke, softly but very clear.
“How long have I been here?”
“Four days.”
“What is your name?”
“Stefan al’Vyron. I am an apothecary.”
“Ah, yes,” she said. Her voice was quiet and husky. “On the corner of Alley Dent and Queen’s Lane. I remember. Some of it. It was like a fog... What did I say to you? Did I tell you who I am? And what I’ve done?”
Stefan hesitated. After a moment, her lips thinned.
“I have intruded on your hospitality for too long,” she said. “Please accept my apologies. I will leave as soon as possible.”
The young apothecary chewed nervously at his lower lip. He felt as though she had judged him and found him wanting. Desperately, he tried to make up for his hesitation.
“You told me that your name was Kaira Darrow,” he said in a low tone. “And that you were from Hama Valon, where Aes Sedai are trained. You said that you killed a girl. A friend, I think. You begged me to hide you. Then you asked for your father and wished to go home. I haven't told anyone about you, Kaira. You are safe here. If you like, I can help you find your way back to Hama Valon. When you have healed, of course.”
“I was quite coherent in my fever, wasn’t I?” Kaira muttered. Aloud, she said, “Thank you, Master al’Vyron, but I do not want to go home. Too much has happened. I cannot bear to face my father and tell him what I have done. No, I can’t go home!”
“Please, call me Stefan. If not home, then where would you go?”
Despite her hardships, Kaira’s eyes were wide and innocent. At his question, her expression softened. Stefan thought that he could lose himself in the depths of her eyes.
“I don’t know,” she said, quietly. “But I will manage. I will find work as a maid. Or perhaps I could go back to... my old profession. No! No, I cannot go back. I suffered too much to escape it. I must strengthen my resolve. No matter how tempting, I will not go back!”
Kaira lapsed into silence. Then abruptly, she said, “Master al’Vyron? I mean… Stefan. Do you live alone?”
He nodded. She seemed to take this answer as encouragement.
“I went to school in Hama Valon. I can read and write and do numbers. Perhaps I could help you with the store. May I stay?”
His heart nearly burst out of his chest. He smiled.
“You may,” he said, gently. He held up a finger. “On one condition.”
“What is it?”
“Tell me how you ended up here.”
