The competitors buzzed with excitement. Wine, thank God. The woman dropped her jug and scuttled into the sanctuary, dragging the benches into a line and forcing the men to sit. Tobias and Flynn followed her lead, situating themselves among the others.
“And with the wine, a demonstration. Allow me to introduce an esteemed member of the palace staff.”
An old man hobbled in from the labyrinth, his entire appearance worn and gnarled from his wiry, grey beard to his stained, ragged robes. He pushed a wooden table mounted on wheels, its surface covered in rattling bowls and vials, and parked it in the center of the sanctuary.
“Gentlemen, please welcome Diccus, the palace apothecary,” the Proctor said. “He’s here to demonstrate the ancient art of mixing herbal remedies.”
Bowls of leaves, seeds, and colorful liquids littered the apothecary’s station, enveloping the room in their powerful funk. Flynn turned to Tobias, his brow furrowed. “This is entertainment? Is the Proctor unfamiliar with the term?”
Tobias said nothing, far more interested in the court girl passing chalices of wine down the line. A chalice finally reached him, and he took a swig, savoring the feeling of it warming his chest and belly on its way down.
“Please relax and enjoy the day’s festivities.” The Proctor’s expression was grim, hardly mirroring his words. “I bid you farewell.”
With a nod, the Proctor, the court girl, and Beau headed off, leaving the others with the apothecary—and the wine, the only company Tobias needed.
Diccus smiled, exposing a variety of crooked teeth. “Greetings, fine men, and welcome to the marvelous world of herbal remedies! Join me as I mix and muddle unique and fascinating ingredients in order to create a single solution. Today, we’ll learn how to make a very special compound. Now, it’s rather complex, so you’ll want to pay extra close attention.”
The room groaned in unanimous dread, and Flynn rested his face in his hands. “God, already this is torture.”
“Shut up,” Tobias hissed. “Such a whiner, you are.”
Flynn chuckled, grabbing the jug making its way down the line. “Here.” He topped off Tobias’s chalice. “You need this more than I do. You’re tighter than a virgin asshole.”
Tobias yanked his drink away, shooting Flynn a glare before taking a gulp.
“Now, this particular concoction has five ingredients.” Diccus shuffled through his things, raising a cluster of leaves with a single blue bud. “This here is a starflower. Absolutely beautiful, named for the starlike shape of the flower itself…”
Instructions poured from the apothecary’s mouth while his knotted hands flew across his station. Tobias listened half-attentively, but his focus drifted to the wine, his welcome escape. Diccus moved on from boiling flowers to grinding seeds, delight beaming from his clouded eyes—but soon the entire room was clouded, as Tobias finished off his chalice. And the next.
“God, you drink like a fish.” Flynn laughed, cocking his head at Diccus. “Eager to numb yourself to him?”
Milo’s crushed body flashed through Tobias’s mind. “To everything.”
“Of course. Let us toast, then.” Flynn raised his chalice and clinked it against Tobias’s. “To the Artist, with his piss-poor scowl and his sad, sad heart.”
“Oh, fuck off.”
The apothecary tensed, a pair of tongs in one hand and a latched box in the other. “Our next ingredient is a bit precarious…” He opened the box and thrust his tongs inside, grinning victoriously while pulling out a wriggling, yellow frog. “This here is a golden fire frog. Cute little fellow, isn’t he? But be careful, its skin is quite toxic. You’d be wise not to touch it. The resulting rash is very painful. Burns some, as its name suggests.”
He plucked a blade from his station and swiped it across the frog’s throat, severing its head from its body.
“Oh, that’s just cruel,” the Poet muttered.
Diccus drained his headless frog, and while some men grimaced in disgust, many others were lost in their stupor. Caesar and Neil snickered at nothing, their cheeks clammy and red, and Tobias admittedly longed for the same state.
“Onto our fourth ingredient.” Diccus raised a vial of a cloudy, yellow fluid. “A bit unconventional, here we have the urine of a castrated bovine.”
“Ox piss?” Caesar laughed. “The man’s holding a vial of ox piss!”
“God, that’s foul.” Flynn chuckled, elbowing Tobias in the ribs. “Are you watching, Artist?”
Tobias didn’t answer. His vision was a haze of Diccus mixing and straining, but his mind was with Milo, his family. He yanked the jug from the line and refilled his chalice.
“And now, our final ingredient.” Diccus held a bright-blue vial for the men to see.