Sapphire Balm

Adelyra sat in the apothecary shop waiting for her father. He had been injured fighting in the training rings and was collecting a salve to heal and ward off infections.   The man behind the counter was amenable. Chatting while he made the strange concoction. "You've got impeccable timing. These weeds just came into bloom."   "That's wonderful news," Rhavaen mused. "We just ran out of the last batch you made us."   "As if it were fated. These weeds only bloom every third full moon. Do you know where they get their name from?" The man was looking at Adelyra for the answer.   "Spark weeds," she responded studiously. "They derive their name from the early wars when dragons would stomp them on their battle marches lighting bushes aflame. Luckily," she added as a bonus, "the weed isn't strong enough to light anything bigger, otherwise our forest may have been a wasteland during the dragon's first stand."   "Quite right, my dear," the alchemist sounded proud of her response. "You know your history well."   "The early wars were fascinating," she gushed. "Papa tells me stories every night. Did you know the sapphire dragons were especially adept at plucking the spark weeds and setting them ablaze mid-battle?"   "I did not," the man glanced at her father. "That does explain the technique for this salve." He used tongs to take some blue scales from a box beneath the counter. When they came into view Adelyra could see smoke rising off them.   "You have dragon scales?" Adelyra ran to the counter to watch more closely.   "Shh," he winked at her conspiratorially. "Let's keep that our little secret."   She nodded enthusiastically. "What are you going to do with them?" She could barely contain her excitement, but kept her voice low.   "Watch," he said before setting to work. He already had a pile of pale blue-green spark weeds in a stone bowl. As she watched he put three of the blue scales in with them. She could see the tiny flashes where they touched. The alchemist pulled a crystal rod out of a drawer and set to work crunching the scales and mushing the weeds, sparks dancing each time he brought the rod back down.   Instantly, all the other smells of the shop disappeared to be replaced by a smell she had never smelled so strongly before. Spicy, but with the sharpness of fresh snow. She looked up at her father. "What is that smell?" She asked him.   "It's the dragon ice," he tells her, "reacting to the fiery leaves." He doesn't elaborate, just motions for her to keep watching.   When she turns back the scales are almost completely powdered and have started absorbing the juices from the weeds.   "We call these scales dragon ice," the alchemist starts back into his lesson. "Do you know why?"   "No," she responds entranced by the motion of the rod working the matter to pulp.   "Because they're so cold when you touch them with bare hands they burn." He sets the rod aside, the bowl full of a gooey-looking substance. "So when we combine them with the spark weeds," he sticks a bare finger in the bowl fishing out some of the shimmering blue salve so she can see better. "It counteracts the fiery plant."   "What does it do?" She watched as he let the goop drop back into the bowl. She knew it was used on rounds, but she didn't understand how it healed.   "Put this salve on a cut, the dragon ice will reduce any swelling that's occurred. The spark weed draws out any infection, and together they seal the wound to ward off future risk." He started spooning the salve into bottles. "Just be careful," he turns his attention back to her father. "If you use too much, the dragon ice will start to burn again and it will leave scars."   Her father took the vials from the man with a nod. "Thank you, Cennar."