Curse of the Bloodmage

She finally seemed to notice Miriamor, who had not moved inside her stall during the entire performance. She looked up and Miriamor was not surprised, though she was a little taken aback, to see the woman had the same eyes as the boy. The woman was a beauty, something the shawl did little to hide.

She was not surprised because there were more and more of these Northerners washing up on their shores. She had heard stories of the unstoppable Spreechen force, an army with an unquenchable hunger that was devouring the northern armies. But Miriamor cared little for matters that occurred so many hundreds of leagues away. What business was it of hers?

"I am sorry," the woman said, "He's like his father, prone to running off without thinking first. I hope he didn't disturb you."

Miriamor made dismissive gestures, but could not help a small smile. The love been between mother and son was a special thing to see and they were such a lovely little family. As they turned to go she called out to the boy. He spun and looked back at her with his huge, luminous eyes.

Miriamor broke one of her golden rules then, she lifted the very finest of the sangra fruit the boy had been eyeing earlier off the top of the pile. She placed it on her board and in one precise chop she removed the top of the fruit. With practiced skill, she quickly lifted the dripping fruit and held it over a small wooden cup. She squeezed it and watched the boy's eyes widen as a dark red liquid poured out of the fruit. The sangra fruit was mostly liquid and just this one was enough the nearly fill the cup.

When she had drained it to its last drop Miriamor tossed the skin into her waste pile and held out the cup to the boy.

He glanced to his mother, who nodded and gave him a warm smile. Tentatively he stepped forward to reach out for the proffered vessel. Miriamor was in the process of placing it in his hand when she caught a glimpse of something. She dropped the cup into the boy's hand and he just barely caught it. Miriamor's hand grabbed the boy's wrist. He cried out and tried to twist away, but all he achieved was to upset the liquid in the cup. It sloshed over the side and poured down to coat both his and Miraomor's hands in a sticky juice, as red as blood.

The moment seemed to drag on an age, the liquid in the cup flowed out like it would never stop. Miriamor ignore all of it though as pulled back the long sleeve of the boy's jacket. She had not considered until now what a strange garment it was to wear in a city this hot.

What she saw made her blood run cold. "What is this?" She demanded, not realizing that she had reverted back to her native tongue. The boy looked panic, tears welled in his eyes and he struggled against her strong grip, the cup fell from his hand and clattered to the cobblestones, sending up a spray of the red liquid.

Miriamor would have demanded to know more but the mother stepped in. She pried her son loose from the stall keeper's grip and, taking him under one arm, turned to hurry off. She looked back only once before she rounded the corner again, this time with her crying son held firmly to her side. It was the look of the hunted. It gave Miriamor a moment's pause before the pair disappeared completely.

She looked down at her red-stained hand and gave a small, involuntary shudder. She wondered if what she had seen was real. She did not know what it was, but such a sign warned of dark things to come.

She tried to remember exactly what she had seen. The marks on the boy's hand been thin and black. She thought they might be a spider's web drawn on his pale skin but as she reflected on it more she realized it was not a web. They were more like roots, many branching roots, twisting around his arms as high up as she could see. And they were black, black as the darkest night.