The Heart of the Hound
By Lindsay Morgan Lockhart

 

Erollisi day approached at first swiftly, and then fell straight into his life with a crash of flower petals and strong perfume, and Rhinehart Nasin knew that in order to capture Finella's heart, drastic measures were necessary. He'd heard rumor of a musty apothecary shop in East Freeport that all spurned lovers regarded as their truest of friends, but he'd never considered visiting it -- until today. He'd awoken to find the bundle of graveblooms he had sent her through a beggar boy crushed on his front step; their delicate petals ground to a paste beneath, no doubt, the fine heel of her boot.

He coughed on the acrid smoke that drifted in curled wisps up from a claw-footed brazier standing just within the store's entry. An old man stooped above a table full of vials and bottles, glancing up with his one good eye as Rhinehart stepped into the room. The other, Rhinehart noted with a cringe, was patterned with savage red welts and scarred over.

"Can I help you with something?" The apothecary's voice came out in a high screech.

Rhinehart swallowed his distaste and said, "Yes, actually, I hear that, well, you are able to help one with... matters of the heart."

"So it's a love potion you're after, then?" asked the apothecary, bluntly.

"Yes," said Rhinehart with a nod. "I've done all I can to win her... that is, Finella, her name is Finella... I've done all I can to win her heart, but she refuses to give."

"So you figure it's time to take it."

"Yes. In a manner of speaking." He fiddled with the ends of his leather gloves nervously, watching the old man.

The apothecary tongued a blackened tooth at the front of his mouth, and gazed at Rhinehart with that one eye of his. The young man couldn't help but feel as if the other were oriented at him as well, penetrating through the scarred flesh. The apothecary moved suddenly, and with surprising speed, toward a warped wooden cabinet on the opposite side of the room.

"I'm fresh out of love potions," said the old man. "They're not easy to make, and it's the busy season. You should've moved quicker if you wanted one."

"Well, I..." Rhinehart began, but the old man silenced him with one, withering look.

"I may have something else for you," said the old man. "I took this as trade for one of my more potent concoctions just last night. The kerra who traded it swore that it was very old, and very valuable -- unique to this world." The apothecary turned, and with him, he carried a scroll that seemed to crumble at the touch. "It's a poem."

"A poem?" asked Rhinehart, not even attempting to hide his disbelief. "I come for a love potion, and you offer me poetry? I have tried poetry! I have tried flowers! I have tried candies! I even had her overbearing aunt removed permanently, if you will, from her life. None of it has done a thing to win her! Why would some tired old bard's hackneyed verses be any different?"

The apothecary moved toward Rhinehart, and the flesh around his nose and mouth wrinkled at the smell of years of acids and bases soaked into the old man's skin. Despite his recoiling backward, the scroll was pushed straight into his chest.

"This is not tired, and not hackneyed," said the apothecary. "It hasn't been heard for thousands of years. If she can't appreciate that hers are the first spoiled ears to hear these verses spoken to her, then I suggest you find yourself another trollop, because nothing will please this Finella."

Rhinehart fumbled for words, but found himself only able to grip the scroll tightly. The apothecary turned, the hunch of his black-clothed back looming in Rhinehart's vision. "What will you charge for it then?" he asked.

"Nothing," said the apothecary, over his shoulder and without turning.

Next Page >>