FIRE AND WINE
Deep in the fertile Valley of Flowers on the road to Adharin, lit by the pale moon, was a tavern. Its hearth was alight, spreading a glow across the bare floor, all the way to the thick stone walls where it cast tall shadows and spilled through windows into the cool, blue evening.
The warm smell of smoke and drink suffused the air. Only one man sat within, and with him was a fairy.
The man was young, tall and lean but strong, dark of hair and skin and clad in green. He carried a sword on his belt beside a heavy pouch of coin, and nothing else. His eyes were like a storm and his bare shoulders were broad, and the serving-girl blushed as she brought him his wine.
He thanked her and sat the drink before his companion, who was not quite as tall as the goblet itself.
The fairy’s skin shone like bronze in the firelight as she rose up on fluttering wings to take a sip, long legs dangling below her. She wore a white dress made from a scrap of fine cloth, and her hair was as thick curls of dark copper.
“I can see now why you like it so much, Nettle,” said she, landing daintily back down on the table, before stumbling slightly and catching herself with a small hiccup.
“I’ll show you how it’s done, little Thorn,” the man laughed, taking the goblet in one large, strong hand and gulping it down.
“Careful,” admonished the fairy. “I can mend your injuries, but I cannot cure your drunkenness.”
“If you could, I’d bid you cure yourself first!” chuckled Nettle. Thorn staggered and burped, a tiny flicker of flame issuing from her lips.
With no other patrons in the tavern so late, the workers were free to watch the pair in fascination. They were all of them women, priestesses in long, rose-coloured robes that enshrouded them everywhere but their faces.
For this tavern was a temple, its acolytes renowned for crafting the greatest wine in all the World’s Edge, and that was why the warrior and the fairy were here.
“Oi! Priestess, another!” called the little spirit. “My friend has claimed the last cup all to himself.”
“What my friend means to say,” said the man, over-chewing his words, “is that we are grateful for your hospitality. And that we would perhaps trouble you, if you have it, for more of your delicious wine.”
The girl who had served them shuffled up to take the cup and shyly backed away and scurried down a flight of stairs to fill it, leaving the others to whisper and giggle amongst themselves.
But when the cup came back it was held by a new figure in robes trimmed with cloth-of-gold, and at the sight of her the other priestesses ceased their gossiping and busied themselves about the tavern floor.
This woman’s face was very dark and beautiful with an elegant nose, her flowing robes falling so as to suggest a slender figure and graceful bearing. Her deep eyes soon fixed the stormy gaze of the warrior, which she held as she spoke.
“I am the abbess Salune,” said she, and her voice was low and gentle. She sat beside them and produced a second cup. “Might I trouble you for a tale? I am told you have travelled far, you must have many. And I must confess, I have never before met a fairy,” she said, looking Thorn over with no small amount of awe.
Nettle obliged, regaling the abbess to her delight with the exploits of a travelling warrior and his fairy companion, all about the ocean called the World’s Edge. Thorn interrupted frequently, to remind Nettle of his own bravery, or to joke at his expense.
Salune was enraptured, not merely by the dangers and wonders of which the man spoke, but the sound of his voice, the way he leaned in and became quiet when the telling grew tense, or how his wide shoulders and dark curls shook when he laughed at the fairy’s jesting.
It was late into the night by the time Nettle ran out of stories, at least of those he could remember through the sweet cloud of wine that now filled his head.
“If half your tales are true,” said Salune, “then yours is a stranger life than any I’ve heard tell of yet. And I have heard many a telling, working here.”
“Have you been at the temple all your life?” asked Thorn. “You ought to come along with us on one of our grand adventures!”
Salune smiled, and she looked to her fellow priestesses. “In truth I love my life here,” she said, “and my work, and would never leave. This is my home. But I do thank you most graciously for visiting.”
The abbess cleared her throat and stood, a little clumsily from the wine. “Might I offer you a look around our cellar? And then, perhaps, a room for the night?”
Nettle nodded. “We will gladly accept, with our thanks.”
“Then please,” said Salune, looking to Nettle and gesturing towards the stairwell. The man stood to follow, before turning to see that his companion had not done the same.
The fairy flew up to his ear. “I have a feeling that invitation was aimed particularly at the handsome stranger,” she whispered, then announced “I’ll stay here and, ah, watch the wine.” Alighting precariously at the goblet’s edge, she scooped the dark liquid with her little hands.
Nettle, a little flushed, left with Salune alone. The other priestesses eyed them silently, sharing glances as they passed.
The abbess lit a torch at the hearth, and by its light she led them down the stair and to a narrow passage carved into the rock below. Nettle stooped beneath the low ceiling, following close behind.
On either side were great barrels set into sepulchres in the walls, alongside thick glass bottles sealed with cork and wax, all blanketed in dust. The air was old and heady, and the sounds of the room upstairs had faded away. Nettle noticed the faintest smell of flowers drifting in the gloom.
“We worship the spirit of this valley, who blesses our harvest. And from those blessings we may study our craft, and make our wine.”
They soon came upon a chamber, filled too with barrels, and in their midst a simple stone idol encircled by pink and purple flowers. Its form was curved and delicate, and by the torchlight cast swaying shapes along the embowed walls.
“Here are our oldest vintages,” said Salune, excitement seeping into her soft voice. “And here! These are something very special.”
She proffered Nettle the torch and reached into an alcove to produce one of a series of little glass vials, deep green with something dark within.
“An elixir, the secret of which is known only to us.” Salune’s eyes danced, and Nettle leaned closer. “Careful,” she warned, nodding at the torch. “This is stronger stuff, and the fire likes it a little too well.”
Nettle positioned the torch at his side, and Salune lifted the vial. The light caught in the glass and in her dark eyes, which Nettle noticed now were very close in this small room.
“Would you care to taste?” she asked, her low voice almost a whisper.
Nettle swallowed, his mouth dry.
Salune’s eyes didn’t leave his as she unstoppered the bottle and pressed it to her lips, tilting it back to sip. Then she shivered, pretty nose wrinkling.
“Ah! Sometimes I forget just how strong.” She smiled, embarrassed, and took the torch from Nettle before handing him the bottle.
He sipped, noticing the dew where her lips had been just a moment before. The elixir burned! But it was a pleasant fire, which surged through his chest and seemed to warm him to his fingertips.
“You have impressed me yet again, priestess,” he said. “We must buy a few bottles from you before we leave.”
“Indeed,” she replied, her voice low again. Keeping the torch at her side, she moved subtly closer to him. “And as for things you ought to do before you leave...”
There was a sudden crash from the tavern above, so loud that it reverberated down the tunnel. Salune’s eyes widened in worry and she followed Nettle, who was already running to the stairs, hand at the hilt of his blade.
They burst out onto the tavern floor, which lay in disarray. Chairs were toppled and tables cast about, one split across its surface by a long, curved sword.
The man attempting to wrench it free by its jewel-encrusted handle was large and dark-skinned, clad in a fine tunic and breeches and sporting an oiled moustache. He snapped and growled, finally pulling the blade loose. The priestesses all cowered near the hearth in the far wall, the whole scene lit by the roaring flames.
Between the man and the acolytes was Thorn, buzzing tipsily about in the air. The man swatted at her with his sword, but she looped around the blade and pulled a face, which only served to make him angrier.
“What devilry is this?!” he bellowed. “A fell spirit, here to torment me?” There was fear woven through his words, and the thick fingers of his free hand nervously played with his rings.
He rose to swing again, but now Salune was rushing to interpose herself between him and the others, and his arm stayed and face softened in shock as she cried out.
The man’s stunned silence turned once again to rage. “There you are, wayward daughter! End this insolence at once! You will come home with me.”
“I’ll do no such thing!” Salune’s once delicate voice was full of fire. “My place is here, now leave and trouble us no longer!”
Nettle looked on, perplexed. “What in the heavens has happened here?” he asked Thorn, who had fluttered to his side and sat upon his shoulder.
“This cockerel came strutting in, demanding to see Salune. The lovely ladies refused, but the bastard said if he couldn’t have her, he’d take one of them! So I stepped in,” she said proudly. “Told him to keep his hands to himself, and that the abbess was otherwise occupied.”
Thorn winked, and Nettle rolled his eyes. “So you provoked him?”
“He let himself get provoked!” pouted Thorn. “And now it seems Salune is his daughter? Well! Isn’t this a tale unto itself.”
“I’ll not go,” Salune was insisting. Her father reached his paw to grab her by the arm, but faltered. There was Nettle, bronze blade drawn, the point of it at the man’s quivering throat.
“Nettle, no!” said Salune, rushing to his side, throwing her arms around his. From the hearthside, her acolytes cried in fear.
“Do not meddle, boy!” said the man, though there was little authority left in his tone. “I am the girl’s father!”
“Father or no,” came the warrior’s steady voice, “her choice is made. You have been asked to leave.” Thorn, still using his broad, bare shoulder as a seat, stuck out her tongue.
The man stepped back away from the sword, but no further, eyes darting fearfully between the shining bronze of both the blade and the fairy. “... And if I do not?”
Nettle looked the man over and quickly hatched a plan. “Then may you be haunted to the ends of this world!” he cried, then whispered something to the spirit at his shoulder.
Then from his other hand he tossed the glass vial of elixir which shattered upon the stone, and in its wake flew Thorn as quick as a flaming arrow. She clapped her hands together and made a spark, which caught, and the spilt liquor was all at once ablaze.
It burned tall and yellow, flaring up at the man’s feet, and in the leaping tongues of fire Thorn danced and jeered at him, her tiny features somehow terrible by the sudden light.
This all proved too much for the man who stumbled and fell back, sword clattering beside him. He scrambled on his hands to the doorway, and ran screaming into the night.
Nettle sheathed his sword, and Thorn flew up beside him, beaming.
Salune gripped Nettle’s strong arm to her chest, looking up at him in wonder. Then the other priestesses all crowded them, relieved and joyful to see her safe.
The abbess smiled warmly and looked to her saviours. “Thank you, both of you. He is a superstitious man,” she said, and couldn’t help but laugh to herself. “I doubt he will return again soon. But I owe you some explanation...”
Nettle stopped her. “You owe us nothing.”
Thorn piped up. “But we’ll take some wine!”
All of them laughed, relieved, and Salune placed her hand upon Nettle’s chest. Her eyes shone, and Thorn smirked to see the warrior’s courage seemingly desert him once again.
Salune kissed Nettle, and the others cooed and cheered, and all of them drank together until the first rays of morning began to shine in through the open doorway, the last embers fading in the hearth.
NETTLE AND THORN WILL RETURN IN...
TREASURE AT THE WORLD’S EDGE
