Ynguinian and I spoke long through the second night we were in Arimens, and it was through his reassurances that slowly my concerns of Decay and fate dwindled, practically forgotten in the next two years. It was because of him I was able to set my fear of yew, nightshade, and water hemlock aside when I took up the labor of apothecary once more. It would be two years until Luck happened upon me and I would begin my apprenticeship, and the first of those was prosperous. In our first weeks in the city yet to be tainted by the growing conflict in the east we chose to live together and paid monthly for shelter in the western quarter, for it was furthest from the war.

While I took up my duties as an apothecary once more, being more cautious as to not make my previous mistakes, Ynguinian was trained and assigned in the city guard on Raluros’s recommendation. Ynguinian was faithful to the oath he took when we had sought the widow by the creek along the muddy trail, and every threnit and bronze korint he earned beyond his needs set aside for my apprenticeship.

As I said, it was a hopeful and prosperous year, for the weather was not harsh, the waters of the river that ran through the city were healthy and clear, as the conflict had yet to infect the men and the cities of the west.

Daily, that year, I would walk the sun-draped cobbled streets to haggle for the ingredients of common herbal remedies and tinctures. Once my daily walk was done I would return home to dry out the extra herbs and plants in the small quarters Ynguinian and I shared, filling our residence with the musty scents of yet-finished remedies. This was a necessity, for I could not pay the fees for anything more than a small stall on the street if I hoped to one day apprentice under a mage, and it is common sense not to leave valuable things on the street overnight lest one wants them taken by thieves or drunks.

During the prosperous year that my fears of Decay and fate dwindled, I had established some renown in the western quarters of Arimens, as Synwye had trained me thoroughly in all manners of rare herbs and then-uncommon treatments. While I could not help all who came to me, for many wounds are beyond medicine, I could help those who would not have the threnits or hilants for the services of doctors or wizards. The tradition of apothecary I had trained in was rare in cities, and rarer among the poor (for despite our happiness and prosperity, Ynguinian and I were poor). This reputation I had gained as an apothecary of rare skill would bring Luck upon me in that second year of labor in Arimens.

My second year in Arimens, however, was not defined by Luck but by the wretched war Junumianis waged against Moringia. Silently, almost as first snow falls in the winter months, a consequence of that war of greed and power came to the city: plague. Recalling those days before the arrival of illness in that fatal second year, the pollution of that damnable war now appears the obvious harbinger. The clouds hung low in their dreadful grays, as Rats dragged filth from alley to alley. Each day more soldiers could be seen marching the dark and flooded streets full of refuse. Each day the criers of the city spoke more of the war. Each day more men and women, even some virtuous, left the city for the desecrated lands of slaughter past the blackened river Kalipaonin where Urostyne and his men were drowned. These were just portents of the fatal illness that wracked the autumnal city that had so far resisted the taint of that war.

Long nights I held, during that fatal year. Many came to seek the alms of my rare apothecary, and many did I fail. With my herbs and plants of the day exhausted, I returned home to the quarters where Ynguinian and I lived only to be driven to sleeplessness by the desperate ill who praised any saint who might hear their prayers. Daily I walked the streets that year in search of answers of illness. Daily I prayed to Kalitian for knowledge to save the ill, fearing it may befall Ynguinian and that I might lose him.

The most disheartening thing about plagues, is the noise of suffering. They begin silently, luring victims in until the coughing and screaming begins. People scream in pain, people scream in dehydration, and people scream in madness. At night you see desperate men in taverns drinking to quick deaths and singing dirges for lost friends. The bells of gathering are replaced by the constant chiming of recorded death in the temples. The stillness of the night is replaced with crying to the saints and symphonies of tolling bells of death, drowning out the desperation like a drunk drowns his sorrows in liquor and other poisons.

As the ill became louder with their pleading for alms and the streets were filled with pain and the bloody vomit of suffering, I remembered a sick woman Synwye and I had treated during my second year of apprenticeship, who bore similar illness. Her vomit was red, her body aflame with pain, and red pox lined her face, neck, and chest much like those of the city.

Synwye had gone to search a cave in order to aid the woman, for on the roof of some caves grows an ethereal blue moss, depths hanging-moss, said to be blessed by the ninth saint, Daristian, whose patron is Nature. It is a rare moss, many who traverse caves may see it very few times in their life. However, seeking knowledge to help those who came to me for healing, I bid to Ynguinian that we would travel several days outside of Arimens to a cave system in the north to scour deep for it.

For three days we journeyed northward on the road to the caves where depth’s hanging-moss grows. Much like our original journey to Arimens, the roads were full of liars, swindlers, bandits, and scoundrels for us to avoid. Fortunately, we were tougher and wiser and stayed clear of the trouble of the road, for poverty often makes one more wary of the dangers of travel.

Foolishly we descended into the caves, as we were unawares of that danger the veins of the earth presented. The darkness of those places encroached on the light of our torch, almost as to devour its light. The rocks were damp and sharp, for caves were meant to harm man. Some of the passages we tread required us to squeeze through jagged cracks that caught on our clothes and made it difficult to breathe. Heed my warning and heed it well: do not go into caves unless it is death you seek, for you will find nothing you are seeking. This was not the case for Ynguinian and I, but that was not a case of skill.

On the fourth day of delving, did we find depths hanging-moss. Ethereal, like the sky at twilight, it shone its gentle blues and purples of the small and damp room it grew. Only one larger plant of slightly shorter than myself descended through the dripping calcite overhead. Quickly we gathered it, and made our way to the surface and the road to Arimens.

Several weeks, nearly sleepless, I worked to recreate the tincture Synwye had made for the woman. Despite my failures I worked without frustration, for in seeking to help those in need I had finally begun to learn patience and to understand what knowledge is. I had assumed knowledge was simply to know things, but that is untrue. Knowledge is to understand things, just as I had come to understand the nature of nameless ethereal moss that grows in the dark caves of the world. However, despite the tincture heightening depths hanging-moss’s potency, it did not always work, and it did not prevent the illness in the first place.

For months I treated those who came to me with the tincture I concocted for the plague. For months I prayed to Hazilian for most who came to me lacked the threnits to pay me, for illness had eaten their purses and coffers. Ynguinian and I began to run low on monies by which to pay for shelter, and it was then I believed I would never have the funds to apprentice. It is the tragic truth that poverty begets illness and discomfort. If there was a second plague, or random misfortune, we would have less threnits available to us than when we had arrived at Arimens.

Realizing this, I told Ynguinian many times I would release him from his oath, for it is not fair to make a man work forever for nothing. Ynguinian, ever the optimist, remained steadfast in his oath as all virtuous men do.

For many months Ynguinian would tell me, “Nayinian, I have given an oath to you, and there is a plague about. I would be foolish to abandon this oath and to abandon you alone to this city. Luck will come our way next year, and the following year.”

Ynguinian was wrong, however, in the next two years the war and its portents had all but claimed the west. If it were not for an encounter with Luck, stuck in poverty to die in Arimens I would have been.

As the plague waned and we all gave prayers of thanks to the saints, a wealthy colonel happened at my stall one day. At first, the man stood to the side of the street to stare, for I was young and the wealthy and powerful do not expect young poor women to be skilled apothecarists. An hour or so passed until he deigned upon himself to finally speak his business to me.

“Nayinian,” he spoke “you have renown among the poor and misfortune of this city. They say you treated the plague that wracked the city more successfully than old doctors and other healers. Many people have come and gone to your stall this past hour, confirming to me these things. I come to you with no illness of myself, but rather to seek alms for my daughter. I have tried many things: healing magicks, doctors, surgeries, bathing in warm spring water, and prayer, but none of these have cured her of the vicious ailments of Decay she experiences. Her hearing is leaving her, and many days she wakes up with poor vision or blind. If you can help her, I will pay you handsomely.”

A condition like this I had not heard before, but intrigued I told the colonel, Colonel Haryne, I would help him and his family with this strange illness of the eyes and of the ears. For months I tried many tinctures and herbs I could think of. Most did nothing. Some would work for a short time, but her condition would worsen. I had requested the daughter spend more time in hot waters, for it helps with certain conditions, but instead her health worsened. Nightly I prayed to Kalitian, who did not respond. The daughter, Carmyne, however, was not saved by a saint or an apothecary, but by Borrinean.

Ynguinian was late to come home one evening, and when he did his mood was unusually foul.

“My sword was shattered because the blacksmith who forged it was an inexperienced swindler. The iron was not pure iron, instead containing lead! This is what the guard gets for hiring men who make pipes to make blades! Cheap trash!”

This struck me as odd, for lead is not good for pipes.

“Ynguinian, are you sure this smithy makes pipes of lead? Did you not know that lead can be poisonous? My father taught me to never use metal buckets, for they often have lead which dents easily and can be harmful to touch.”

Ynguinian confirmed to me: the man made pipes of lead. That very moment I left for Colonel Haryne’s manor, and upon arrival confirmed that the daughter bathed in heated water brought in through lead pipes.

“Replace the lead pipes with those of copper or iron, and your daughter’s condition might pass.” I told him. At first he rejected the idea, for it was expensive, but I was steadfast as if I were Ynguinian, keeping to his oath, and confident that I understood his daughter’s condition. Several weeks passed after Haryne changed the pipes to the bath in his house, and my suspicions were confirmed: the girl had suffered from metal poisoning, a little known condition. True to his word, Colonel Haryne offered me a handsome reward: many gold hilants, and a favor. Luck had hit me square in the face, and I wasn’t about to let it sit there.

“Sir, you are a powerful and honorable man,” I attempted to flatter him. “I understand that men like yourself have connections to certain individuals, and places. I understand my request to be large, but I wish to study with the mage Corindrian, the master of weather.”

Colonel Haryne thought of my request for an extended period, silently. Eventually the Colonel agreed to help me pursue magicks fully, under a condition that many years later I would realize was fatal.

“Nayinian, I will pay for your tutelage, and other fees, for I promised handsome pay. In turn, you will enlist to aid Moringian forces with your newfound knowledge, for the kingdom always needs mages in times of war. I am rich, yes, but I cannot afford Corindrian’s fees without outside aid. I will call a priest of Mentillian, and we will sign a contract.”

I did not then realize aid meant I would be summoned to kill.