The Vampire & Her Witch Chapter 2019: An Artificer’s Lesson (Part One)

"Something precious?" Jocelynn repeated. Unconsciously, her hand drifted to the pouch that she always kept with her, whether it was worn at her waist or sitting on her nightstand while she slept. If Aspakos wanted the contents of that pouch...

"You went to see the Ancient Oak today," Aspakos said in a tone that wasn’t a question. "What did you carry back with you from that hill?"

"Oh," Jocelynn said as she momentarily relaxed at the realization that he wasn’t going to ask for the most precious thing she owned. Half a heartbeat later, however, she tensed all over again.

No one had said a word about the Ancient Oak since they’d stepped through the workshop door. Not her, not Ollie, not Eira. She hadn’t even looked at the handkerchief since she’d slipped it into the pocket of her cloak. And yet the sorcerer sat across the table from her, watching her with those black, glittering eyes as if he’d been standing on the hill beside her the whole time. He knew. Without being told, he knew where she’d gone and that she’d brought something back with her.

Jocelynn glanced at Ollie, uncertain how she should respond to the sorcerer’s request.

"It’s all right," Ollie said gently, pausing at the bellows. "You can show him, Jocelynn. If the Ancient Oak didn’t want you to carry away what it gave you, it would have crumbled to nothing before we left the hilltop. If Aspakos can use it to help you, then I don’t think the Ancient Oak would object."

Slowly, Jocelynn drew the handkerchief from her pocket and set it on the table. Her fingers fumbled at the knots. She’d been afraid of losing as much as a single shard of broken acorn, so she’d tied the knots so tightly that she had to work at them with her nails. A few moments later, when the last one finally came loose, she folded back the corners of the cloth one by one.

The twig lay across the middle of the handkerchief, no longer than her hand, still bearing its cluster of russet and gold leaves. Beside it lay what was left of the acorns. The battered one sat in two clean halves, pale and sound inside. The other was little more than a dark smear of crumbled rot that had stained the cloth beneath it along with a few remaining shards of perfectly smooth outer husk.

Aspakos leaned forward over the table. His gaze lingered on the acorns for a long moment, and Jocelynn braced herself for whatever he would say about them, but he said nothing at all.

Instead, he lowered his head until the gold seam of his beak hovered just above the twig. He reached out toward the twig and the leaves with one of his taloned hands, but he stopped just short of touching the twig, moving his talons as if he could feel and touch something that Jocelynn couldn’t see.

"Remarkable," he murmured. "The Ancient Oak doesn’t give away pieces of itself lightly. Not even a twig." He lifted his eyes to hers. "Would you be willing to give this up, Princess? To the making of a blade? I doubt any of the treasures Erkembalt has managed to collect on this side of the mountains could match up to this..."

"I managed to sweet-talk Jalal out of a piece of Star Metal, didn’t I?" Erkembalt said. "Plus the blood... er, never mind," Erkembalt said as his eyes bounced off a workbench that was covered by a heavy, black cloth before returning to the twig and leaves.

"The old buzzard is right," Erkembalt admitted. "My collection at home is much greater than this, but even there, I have fewer than three or four items that could compete with a piece of an Ancient Oak willingly offered. It may not be a large enough piece to make an artifact out of directly, but it’s perfect for this demonstration," he said.

From the glare that Erkembalt gave Aspakos, Jocelynn wasn’t certain whether the artificer was more frustrated at having attention called to his lack of supplies or the fact that his friend had offered an elegant solution. It was clear, however, that he agreed with Aspakos that the twig and leaves would be useful.

Jocelynn, however, still wasn’t certain about giving up the gift she’d been given. It felt wrong somehow, and she turned toward Ollie again without quite meaning to.

Ollie wiped his hands on his trousers and came over to the table. He looked down at the twig for several heartbeats before he turned to Jocelynn with a soft, certain smile.

"The Ancient Oak gave you more than just those acorns for a reason," he said. "It gave you a question, too. If using that twig and those leaves helps you find your answer..." He shrugged. "I’m sure it won’t mind. The Ancient Oak doesn’t give gifts so we can keep them in a drawer."

"I was there when the Ancient Oak gave your sister a branch to make her wand from," Ollie added. "It asked her to plant three of its acorns in exchange for the branch. Ashlynn is the Mother of Trees, and she could have demanded the branch from it if she wanted to, the Oak wouldn’t have defied her. But it was still willing to ask for something in return, even from her."

"If it wanted to restrict you, it wouldn’t have hesitated to," Ollie said confidently. "So long as you don’t try to use its gift to harm it, it should be fine."

Jocelynn looked down at the twig for a long moment. Then she nodded.

"All right."

"Good," Erkembalt grunted, plucking the twig from the handkerchief with two careful claws before she could change her mind. He held it up to his spectacles, turning it this way and that, and his ringed tail gave a sharp, excited twitch. "Hmpf. Would you look at that? Not a single leaf has dropped, cracked or split. Even in the middle of winter, there’s no brittleness to any of them."

He carried it over to the forge, where the deep iron pan of oil sat warming at the edge of the coals. A thin shimmer had begun to rise from its surface.

"Come here, Princess," Erkembalt said without looking back. "You can’t learn anything from over there."

Jocelynn rose and joined him beside the forge. The heat struck her face like an open oven door.

"Drop it in," Erkembalt said, holding out the twig. "Gently. Don’t splash."

She took the twig and lowered it reverently into the oil.

For a moment, she expected it to pop or sizzle, the way Ashlynn’s fish had when she lowered it into hot oil to make the dish she’d learned from the Sandbox Witch in the briar. Instead, the twig and leaves sank gently into the oil with only the slightest trace of steam.

Then the smell reached her.

It rose up through the intense scent of hot cinders, rich and dark and impossible to mistake. Freshly turned earth. Cut grass. Flowers, in the dead of winter and a hint of woodsmoke from a cottage hearth. It was the smell of the green ring beneath the Ancient Oak’s branches, and for a moment, Jocelynn could almost feel the soft grass beneath her knees again.

"There it is," Erkembalt said quietly. "It’s no different than what a cook does when he drops garlic and rosemary into a pan of warm oil. The heat draws out what’s inside and the oil holds onto it. Too hot and you scorch it. Too cool and you get nothing at all."

"Is that alchemy?" Jocelynn asked.

"That’s the beginning of it," Erkembalt said as he watched the oil carefully for a reaction. "Alchemy and a witch’s art of potion brewing aren’t far apart. We both use the same five liquids," he explained, giving an impromptu lesson while he watched the oil.

"Acids to remove the impure, alcohol to extract an essence, water to suspend and blend, blood to carry the vital essence of the living, and oils for gentle imbuing," he explained. "Witches claim that sap is different from blood, but I see it as the same," he added, glancing at Ollie to see if the young man intended to argue with him.

"Heila makes potions," Ollie shrugged as he returned to the bellows. "I just carve things."

"Good that you stick to what you know," Erkembalt said with a nod. "There, look," he said a moment later, pointing at the surface of the oil.

Like ink spilled into water, the russet and gold of the leaves had begun to leach into the oil, coating the surface of the oil in a faint, golden hue. The scent of autumn filled the air, as if hundreds of leaves were yielding to the season in great piles heaped where the winds had blown them.

"Now, we let it steep," Erkembalt said. "Just like tea," he added with a smile. "Come with me, Princess; we have other work to do."