Triss Merigold

Rain drums against the slanted windows of the rented room above the apothecary, blurring the lanterns in the street into pale amber smears. Triss Merigold has claimed every available surface for her work: a stack of borrowed herbals on the floor, glass vials arranged by color, and a map pinned open beneath a brass candlestick. Her auburn hair is loosely gathered at the nape of her neck, though several unruly strands have escaped and curl against her cheek.

She holds a narrow strip of parchment over a candle flame, watching ink emerge where the paper was blank a moment before. The writing is cramped, coded, and infuriatingly incomplete. “Of course,” she murmurs, lowering it before the edge can catch. “Why write a straightforward warning when you can make it an afternoon's worth of detective work?” She reaches for her notebook and begins copying the symbols in a neat, impatient hand.

A small kettle starts to hiss near the hearth. Triss pauses long enough to pour hot water over crushed mint, then checks the door's protective charm with a flick of two fingers. It answers with a faint blue glimmer. Outside, boots splash through puddles and a cart rattles over loose stones; she distinguishes ordinary city noise from anything worth worrying about, but her attention returns quickly to the parchment.

One symbol makes her stop. She has seen it before, scratched into the lintel of a burned house after a frightened crowd insisted the fire was justice. The memory tightens her throat for an instant. Triss sets down her pen, presses her palms flat against the table, and allows herself one steadying breath. The people who use that mark are counting on fear to do their work for them. She has no intention of helping.

She draws the map closer and marks three locations with red ink. “All right,” she says to the empty room, a quiet note of resolve replacing her earlier irritation. “Let's find out what you're hiding.” The candle flickers as she opens another book, and the workroom settles into the purposeful rustle of turning pages while the rain continues beyond the glass.

The greenhouse attached to a modest country manor is warm enough to fog its panes, and every shelf is crowded with plants that would be expensive—or illegal—to buy in a city market. Triss crouches beside a tray of seedlings, her sleeves rolled above her wrists and a smudge of dark soil on one cheek. A silver watering can floats patiently at her elbow.

She inspects a leaf mottled with violet spots, then makes a small disapproving noise. “No, you don't. Not after I spent a week coaxing you out of that miserable little seed.” The plant responds to a whispered charm by uncurling one stubborn leaf. Triss looks absurdly pleased with herself.

A robin taps against the glass and darts away. Triss stands, stretches her stiff back, and studies the labels tied to each pot. She has arranged the dangerous specimens well away from the medicinal ones, though she suspects the gardener has been moving them in an attempt to make the display more attractive.

“If someone swaps my nightshade with the feverfew again, I'm putting the labels on the gardener instead.” Her tone is light, but she double-checks the shelves before turning to the next tray. Beyond the greenhouse, morning sun slowly clears the mist from the lawn.

The banquet hall glitters with polished silver, jeweled sleeves, and the practiced smiles of people who have spent years learning to lie without raising their voices. Triss stands beside a marble pillar, holding a glass she has barely touched. Her dark green gown is impeccably fitted, and the small sapphire at her throat catches the chandelier light.

A nobleman across the room laughs too loudly at a joke that was not funny. Triss watches him with a pleasant expression and files away the names of the people who laugh along. Court politics, she has learned, are often less about what anyone says than about who is afraid not to agree.

A servant passes with a tray of pastries. Triss accepts one and murmurs a sincere thank-you, earning a surprised smile. “At least someone here is doing useful work,” she says softly, examining the pastry as though it might be the evening's most trustworthy offering.

The musicians begin a new dance, and several conversations rearrange themselves around the change in rhythm. Triss takes a measured bite, then glances toward a sealed letter tucked beneath her glove. There is business to attend to before the night is over, but she sees no reason to surrender every small pleasure to it.

A makeshift infirmary occupies the back rooms of a shuttered inn. Clean linen hangs from rafters, bowls of boiled water cool on tables, and the air smells of rosemary, damp wool, and smoke from the street outside. Triss moves between cots with her hair tied back and her expression focused.

She tests the edge of a protective ward over a feverish patient's bed, then adjusts it with a careful motion of her hand. The spell steadies, shedding a little of its pale light. “Good,” she whispers. “You can be difficult tomorrow. Today, I'd prefer you to rest.”

Her own shoulders ache from hours of work. She knows the difference between what magic can repair and what requires food, warmth, time, or a skilled surgeon. When she reaches for another vial, she checks its contents twice; a careless remedy can be worse than no remedy at all.

A distant bell marks the hour. Triss washes her hands in a basin, drinks a mouthful of cold tea, and begins writing instructions for the next shift. There is still too much to do, and she is determined not to let exhaustion make her careless.

Wind drives cold mist across the mountain road, and the wheels of the hired wagon sink into another patch of mud. Triss stands beside it with her cloak drawn tight, studying the rut as though she might intimidate it into releasing the axle. The horses snort and stamp, equally unimpressed.

“I could lift the whole thing,” she tells the nearest horse, “but then I'd have to explain why a perfectly good wheel fell off halfway through the spell.” The horse flicks an ear. Triss sighs. “A fair criticism.”

She kneels to examine the damaged hub, then produces a small toolkit from her satchel. Magic might be faster, but a mundane repair will hold longer on a road where every jolt threatens to undo a careless enchantment. Her fingers are cold enough to make the little brass fastenings awkward.

At last the wheel settles properly. Triss straightens, brushes mud from her palms, and looks up at the darkening ridge. Thunder mutters somewhere beyond it. “Wonderful. A race against the weather.” She climbs onto the wagon bench and gathers the reins with renewed determination.

The archive beneath the old academy smells of leather, dust, and wax that has soaked into stone over centuries. Triss stands on a narrow ladder, holding a heavy volume against one hip while she searches the shelf above it. Tiny lights drift around her like patient fireflies.

“No, no, that's the second edition,” she says, pushing one book aside. “Which means the first edition is either priceless or someone used it to prop up a table.” She pulls another volume free and peers at its cracked spine with mounting interest.

At the reading desk, she compares two diagrams of the same protective sigil. The differences are small enough to escape an untrained eye and significant enough to make the newer version dangerous. Triss takes a pencil and begins annotating the margins of her own notes rather than damaging the original text.

A clock chimes somewhere overhead. Triss blinks, surprised at the hour, then smiles ruefully. “One more page,” she promises herself, fully aware of how often that promise has failed. She turns the leaf with care and leans closer to the fading script.