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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/books/item_id/1410472-The-Gem-Caster--Chapter-1
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by Swann Author IconMail Icon
Rated: E · Book · Fantasy · #1410472
The first of a series that tells of the world of Erridel. This is Syrisha's story.
         The fire crackled and popped in the hearth as the flames began to shrink and die.  Small gemstones and polished rocks caught its reflection in their facets.  They helped to spread its light throughout the long narrow room.  It was a modest shop, large enough for only three, perhaps four patrons at a time.  However, there was never more than one.  This was the type of establishment where people glanced over their shoulders before entering.  Few wanted to be noticed entering a place of such as this.
None would ever admit it but most of the residents of Knave’s Crosse were frequent visitors to the humble establishment.  They knew the moment they entered they would soon part with their money.  This was not a place for bartering or negotiation.  Fees were set firm and there was never an argument.  The price of discretion in a town like this was never too high and, in dealing with the gem caster, one got exactly what they paid for. 
She was a strange woman, the gem caster.  Her origins remained a mystery even to her.  As a child, abandoned in the streets of Knave's Crosse, it was nothing short of a miracle that she made it to adulthood.  Most in her position would have been taken and sold to the brothels or as slaves. It was a fate that befell many of her fellow miscreants, but not Syrisha.  No, the young gem caster was more clever than that.  Her youth was spent on the outskirts of the village, venturing into the marketplace only to sell the small stones she found near the battlements.  They never brought in much coin but it was enough to keep her on the healthier side of starvation.
So many rumors surrounded her now it seemed a bother even for her to sift the fact from the fiction.  Some called her a witch, others called her a sorceress, and still others thought her a demon.  She claimed to be each of them and was, of course, none of them.  No, Syrisha was something different – that was clear to her.  It had been for many years.  Her youthful appearance was her first clue.  At the age of seventy-one, the gem caster looked no older than twenty.  Not a single strand of silver-gray marred the pitch-black perfection of her curls.  No crow’s feet or laugh lines or even a blemish spoiled her white iridescent skin.  Her complexion made most people look twice.  Something was so different, but still achingly familiar.  Like a childhood memory that has been nearly lost to time.  She had a face like that -- with sapphire eyes that could look through to another plane and thin pale lips that, on occasion, twisted into a devious smirk. 
Syrisha’s exotic beauty, however, was no concern of hers.  It would fade soon enough.  She knew better than to get attached to it.  So many of her patrons had become slaves to their vanity.  Syrisha welcomed their stupidity.  It brought her much wealth.  She smiled to herself as she blew out the candle in her front window signifying the close of business for the day.  Her last patron could still be seen scurrying out of the alley and onto the main street.  The brothel next door seemed slow tonight.  It was the full moon, the one night a month when the many knaves of Knave’s Crosse bent their knees in supplication to whichever god or goddess they revered. 
Syrisha paid no mind to the act of worship.  She found dogma, commandments and doctrine far too binding, and the thought of understanding one’s place in the world was much too great.  She had better ways to spend her time. 
The fire was nearly dead now.  Only a few tiny blue flames peeked out above the embers.  Syrisha poked at it as she tossed a few small sticks in to rekindle the bright orange blaze.  She reclined in a small wooden rocker.  Her bare feet inched dangerously close to the hearth.  She sat quietly staring at the fire and twirled a sizable bloodstone medallion between her thumb and forefinger. 
The origin of the medallion was as much a mystery as she was.  The thick gold chain hung from her neck for as long as she could remember.  It had no clasp, as if the gold was mined in that form.  As she matured from a child into an adult so did the medallion. The magic that surrounded the stones and precious metal seemed vaguely familiar to her.  Yet, she could not grasp it, like a thought that is trapped between the brain and lips and then is gone.  Each time she thought she had an answer the magic presented her with a new challenge. 
She sighed.  Tonight was not the night to crack its secret.  Her eyelids began to droop and she caught herself nodding off once or twice.  The fire wrapped her snuggly in its warmth and finally she gave in to her body’s need for rest. 
Not more than a few minutes passed when a loud rapping startled her awake.  Her breath caught in her chest, for a moment, as she looked frantically around the shop trying to identify the source of the noise.  When it came again, she breathed an irritated sigh and approached the front door.  She took her time getting there. The rapping became more frantic the longer she waited.  Syrisha wondered if the patron had enough courage to try bursting in.  Had the knocking not been so annoying she would have sat back and waited to find out.  But, instead she unlatched the heavy oak door and saw before her a small boy.  Unexpected, she thought.  He looked frightened.  She enjoyed that. 
“Are you the g-g-gem caster?” he stuttered, looking up at her with wide brown eyes.  His expression was not so different from a doe caught in a hunter’s sights. 
“I am,” Syrisha replied in her low, rhythmic voice. 
The child’s eyes grew even wider as she answered.  “M-m-my grandm-m-mother,” he started, “she’s, she’s dying.”
Syrisha paused waiting for him to say more but he did not.  “Death is not my business, boy.  If your grandmother is in it’s arms, then there is nothing I can do.” She turned and closed the door on him.
The knocking resumed immediately, yet this time more frantic.  Syrisha had no patience for such bothersome children.  She flung the door open so quickly the boy fell to his knees over her threshold.  She snatched him up by the collar and brought him to eye level.  His feet dangled nearly a foot and a half from the ground. 
“I though I was clear with you boy,” she hissed.  “I cannot help your grandmother.” Syrisha released his collar and he dropped hard onto the floor with a dull thud. 
“She does not want help,” he shouted, as Syrisha physically kicked him out into the alley.  “She has information – about your mother!”
Syrisha slammed the door just as the boy finished his message.  She stood for a moment.  Her back pressed against oak.  She wondered if she had heard him correctly.  The door opened a crack. 
“What are you playing at, boy?” she asked staring hard at him with narrow eyes.  “Terrible things befall children who lie – to me.”
The boy’s eyes widened again as he tried to speak, “No lie, Ma’am.”  That was all he could squeeze out.  His chest was paralyzed with fear.  He tried but he could not look away from her gaze.  Like he fell into a sapphire pool and forgot how to swim. 
Syrisha slammed the door in his face once again.  The trance was broken.  The boy put his hand, bruised from knocking, on the weathered wood in front of him.  For a moment he entertained the idea of trying again, but then quickly reconsidered.  He let out a heavy sigh, and with shoulders hunched in defeat, began to walk down the dark alley.  Silent tears ran down his cheek.  Knowing he failed to fulfill an old woman’s dying wish weighed heavy on his young heart.  As he got out to the main road, he heard the faint creek of old wood.  He turned to see a figure in silhouette.  He squinted, unable to discern who lurked behind him.  The voice gave her away.
“I suppose I am to find your mother’s house on my own, then?” Syrisha remarked as she approached the, once again, frozen boy. “Come on, boy.  I haven’t time for dawdling.”
They walked for a while in silence.  Then finally, the boy drew up enough courage to speak.
“Grandmother,” he said.
“Pardon me?” Syrisha replied puzzled.
“It is my grandmother’s house we are going to – not my mother’s,” he said with more confidence than before.
Syrisha stopped and twirled around to face the boy.  She bent down so she was only inches from his face. 
“If you are wise, child, you will never correct me again.”
They continued their journey
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