“Yeah, let’s hope…”
It was difficult for Kraghtol to put his thoughts in order with all that had happened today, but right now, he was just glad to have a friend to celebrate with. So, he got a drink and something to eat and waited for the new year in comfortable silence. It was going to be the best year of his life; he was sure about that. After all, his dream was finally coming true.
The clock struck midnight, and the whole marketplace erupted in cheers and shouts, and Liva practically jumped into a friendly hug. But that wasn’t everything. Kraghtol watched, wide-eyed, as glimmering lights ascended from all around the marketplace, and the now well-known alchemical Activation flames momentarily tinted the entire area blue. And then, a spectacle unfolded right over his speechless head.
The lights exploded into hundreds, no, thousands of fireflies, as they started whirring and buzzing in every direction, forming shapes and figures in the sky. Some looked like letters, others like animals or objects. One moment, a large glowing flower erupted, only to turn into a swarm of butterflies, which then, in turn, formed a flaming bird in the air. The bird flew in a circle over the marketplace and exploded in a shower of sparks, raining down on the cheering crowd.
Kraghtol was stunned. It was like a dream. He had seen nothing like this before.
“It’s an alchemical light show,” Liva whispered, as if not to break the spell. “I’m surprised you don’t know about it, given your new profession. They have one every year, but only in Winterstone and Ironwatch.”
“I had no idea,” he said truthfully, the light of the alchemical miracles in the sky still reflecting in his eyes, while his hand closed around the tiny vial he wore under his shirt. Miracles he would soon learn to create himself. And at this very moment, he knew he wanted nothing else.
Chapter 7
Practice
Luckily, the first day of the new year had no courses, which was probably as much a gesture of goodwill towards the students as it was towards the teachers. Kraghtol had talked most of the night to Liva, enjoying the feeling of being able to be himself and of having someone to tell everything. Well, almost everything. While he could tell her all about his teachers, the other students and even the architecture and furniture of the school’s rooms, whenever he tried to mention something he had been taught, he found himself unable to. It was as if something in his mind was afraid to go on and downright refused cooperation. Only near morning, and with Liva’s help, he suddenly understood — and was glad he had not tried to will through this blockade. It had to be the education contract he sealed with the guild master. That contract explicitly forbade him from revealing any secret knowledge he learned at the guild, and apparently, the mysterious workings of the alchemical contract prevented him from doing so involuntarily. Still, it was scary how close he had come to unknowingly breaking the contract, risking his life in the process.
Unfortunately, that also meant he could not ask Liva what she thought of the strange encounter at the puppet show. It gnawed at Kraghtol, but apparently, the contract in his head considered what he had heard guild secrets as well, so he would have to figure it out by himself. The teacher of historical alchemy and the local guild master were conspiring. Or at the very least, discussing things nobody was supposed to hear. And then, there was this mysterious third person listening in on the two, of whom Kraghtol only saw the shadowy outline.
These thoughts kept Kraghtol awake even after Liva had left to continue her travels south and only shortly before the time he normally got up, sleep finally claimed him.
It was past noon when he finally woke up, and a slight headache reminded him of the festivities last night. On his way downstairs to the well, he ran into Mrs. Brott again, who didn’t appear to be completely healthy, either.
“Good morning, Krasen! Did you enjoy the festivities?”
“It was good. And too long. How about you?”
“Same here. I’m getting too old for these things. I’m afraid I sang too much. My voice is all hoarse now.”
Kraghtol chuckled. “Well, you could try a spoonful of honey with the mashed leaves of narrow leaf plantain. You can find it most anywhere; you just have to make sure not to —”
He interrupted himself at the thought of Mrs. Brott venturing outside the city borders to pick some herbs, after having perhaps understood half the description.
“You know, I will just get some for you. There’s no school today, anyway.”
“Oh, thank you, Krasen. You are such a nice young man. And so knowledgeable. I will be at the shop all day. Just knock.”
The clear cold air was helping Kraghtol’s own ailment as well, and soon, he found himself humming a cheerful tune as he searched the snow-covered field borders outside the city for the familiar plant. He had not noticed how much he had missed the quiet purpose of going out and picking herbs since he had left Mistpine. Of course, it being winter made the task somewhat more complicated. Narrow leaf plantain grew pretty much everywhere, but most of its leaves withered in the fall, leaving behind only the roots, which didn’t help a sore throat. But usually, one or two dried leaves survived under the snowy cover, which would be more than enough for Mrs. Brott.
Just as he bent down to pick them up, suddenly everything fell into place and Kraghtol had to laugh out loud. It was like the entire world had been yelling at him how to solve all his money troubles for the last days, and he had been too dense to listen.
While he was lifting crates for a few meager copper coins, there were so many sick and injured people in Winterstone, and not enough healers to treat them. Now that he thought about it, there were many people in the city who couldn’t afford the hefty guild fees and never even went to a healer. If he just kept a low profile and didn’t involve the guild — he had to grin as he imagined what Liva would say — he could treat a few people here and there for far less than the guild-approved prices, and they would still be willing to pay far more than what he earned right now. And he could even do that on Freedays. It justfit perfectly. He could do what he liked, earn enough money for his tuition, and also help people at the same time. Of course, it was not entirely without risk. But then again, what was the worst thing that could happen? It wasn’t as if he was planning something big. Just a few patients like the ferrywoman would be more than enough.
His mind was on fire, planning the whole thing out as he carried the herbs back to his landlady. Getting fresh healing herbs would be difficult in the winter, but he knew he could just buy dried ones on the market. And come next summer, he could dry his own herbs. Now, there was just the matter of location. He couldn’t very well treat patients in his small bedchamber — both for practical reasons and for the rather strong guild presence in the Crafters Quarter. That was a hard nut to crack, and only as he heard the clock tower bells strike noon, did the last piece fall into place. He did know of a place.
It wasn’t difficult to find the half-hidden door again, but he had to wait for a patrol of orderkeepers to go by, making his heart beat faster. What he was doing now was illegal, and he knew it. Was that how Liva felt all the time? Only after the patrol in their clean guild uniforms was long gone, Kraghtol dared to vanish into the side alley and open the door.
The room behind was just as deserted as he remembered. The clock tower was right on the border to the Oldport district — close enough to be accessible by everyone without having to venture into the dangerous part of the city, but also far enough away from the center and the guild’s eyes to avoid unwanted attention. As during his first visit, almost complete darkness filled the large room, which had probably served as a workshop. That would be a problem, sincehe couldn’t just open the windows without drawing attention, but it was a solvable one. And the place was, there was no better word for it, filthy. Even in the small bits of light, it was clear that it had been decades since someone had lived or worked here. He would have to clean up thoroughly before he could treat anyone here. But that wasn’t much of a problem either. He was no Valir, who was probably afraid to break his nails. He had cleaned and repaired a lot of things in his life. Yes, he would make it work.
For the next few weeks, he was busy. Under the guise of practicing his Activation concentration — which really could use the training — he frequented the student laboratory and produced as much of the glowing potion he knew the recipe of as he could, and filled it up into glass jars he had bought from the market. The guild was adamant that students could not sell their alchemical products, but it was neither forbidden nor unusual to use them for themselves. He did notice, however, that no matter how well he concentrated and measured every ingredient, every batch of the potion was somehow different from the last.
Some were more viscous; some flickered slightly, like candlelight. And no two colors were entirely alike. On one occasion, even though he was certain he had changed nothing about the recipe, the mixture suddenly burst into red-hot flames, almost singeing his eyebrows away before he could throw it to the ground and stomp it out. In the end, he ended up with two dozen different shades of yellow in jars, ranging from a reddish orange to an almost green color.
These results came as a surprise, and since the question was innocent enough, he decided to ask Mrs. Hawke about it after the next lesson.
“Yes, very observant of you, Mr. Krasen,” she said, her voice flat and drained as usual.
