This was exactly the guild-dictated price for such an injury for healers in remote villages like Mistpine, and decidedly less than what one would have to pay in Winterstone, and the man seemed relieved.
“Oh. Good. Go on then!”
Treating a broken bone, while not exactly pleasant for the patient, was easy for Kraghtol, and after just half an hour, he had not only splinted the patient’s arm and sent him home again, but also had earned as much money as for a whole evening in the warehouse.
“You really like doing that, hmm?”
Aniriel, who had watched the whole thing silently, was smiling.
“Hm? How do you mean that?”
“You were humming. I’ve never seen you do that in class.”
Was that true? He hadn’t even noticed. But now that she mentioned it, he realized he had subconsciously mimicked what his foster father always did when treating patients. When he washappy. The memory made him smile.
This second patient of his wasn’t the only one to visit him this Freeday. By the end of the day, he had treated half a dozen different ailments and injuries, and earned more than for a full week of movingcrates in the evening. But the most important part was that he found it made him genuinely happy, like a childhood joy he never knew he had missed.
Nobody who came to a healer was happy. And nobody who left, left completely healed. But that didn’t matter: contrary to the name of his profession, Kraghtol didn’t sell healing. He sold treatment and hope — and just enabled the bodies of his patients to heal on their own.
Even though he had never planned for it to happen, it also felt good to let in Aniriel on his secret practice. It was one secret he didn’t have to bear alone, and it felt like the burden had lessened ever so slightly. She had left soon after the first patient, but promised she would keep her word, and when she smiled, Kraghtol was inclined to believe her.
He didn’t know if he just got lucky to have so many patients today, but as he was lying in bed that night, he couldn’t help but count the coins he earned in his head. Sure, he would have to spend some of them on supplies. Bandages, dried herbs, and so on. But all in all, if he could keep up this momentum, or even get a few more patients next week, he would be able to quit his warehouse job and concentrate more on his practice and his studies, all while being able to afford his tuition effortlessly.
Word had gotten around fast, as it seemed, and the next Freeday, even more of the working people of Winterstone knocked on the hidden door at the foot of the clock, hoping for treatment that Kraghtol did his best to provide. Most times, even though unpleasant otherwise, his service wasn’t strictlynecessary. But there were a few cases, like a small child with a high fever who was carried into his practice, that made it clear that what he was doing was not only good for his pocket but also made a lasting difference for people unable to afford the hefty price tag of the guild-approved healers in the city.
However, that he had no way of heating water was quickly becoming a problem. Teas and poultices were difficult to prepare, and he mostly had to tell his patients what to do at home instead. But being unable to boil bandages and scalpels was outright irresponsible, and he needed to find a solution quickly. And that solution had to be alchemical in nature, since there was simply no way to sustain a cooking fire in an enclosed room like that. At least not without either suffocating or giving away clear signs of the practice to the outside world.
His first idea was the library, but that quickly turned out to be a disappointment. In the small part of the school library available to him, there were only books about mundane topics, ranging from thehistory of Wardenreach to treaties on arithmetic. Notably absent were any alchemical theories or recipes, and Kraghtol guessed that those were kept in a part of the library open for teachers and more experienced students only. Which left him no choice but to ask someone about it. And his best bet seemed to be Mrs. Hawke again.
“You are correct, Mr. Krasen,” the older woman answered when he asked her.
“There are indeed no recipes accessible to students in the library.”
“Wait. None? At all? I thought perhaps in the advanced parts…”
Mrs. Hawke shook her head resolutely, making her gray hairs fly.
“No. The only recipes made available to you are the ones you learn in the lessons. So, I would advise you to pay attention there.”
“But why? I mean, we’ve only tried two recipes, and it’s already the second quarter. Shouldn’t an alchemist be able to brew all kinds of potions?”
Kraghtol had intercepted his teacher after class again, and the uncomfortable look around seemed to suggest she would have wanted to be somewhere else now.
“Look, Krasen… I can see that you are a curious young man, with a bright mind. And your results in class are… good. But…”
Kraghtol didn’t miss the fact that she had omitted the formal ‘Mr.’, as well as almost praising his work, which appeared to go against everything Mrs. Hawke stood for.
“But?” he encouraged her.
“…but I think you don’t understand the reality of our craft. Recipes are commodities to be sold and bought. Do you think the guild would give them away for free? Good recipes are worth a lot of gold.”
He had never thought about it this way. But it made sense in a cold, practical way. However, something still didn’t sit right.
“Didn’t you say people can create their own recipes? Later on, with knowledge in higher alchemy?”
“Well, yes. In theory. However, even if you knew about the Principles, it would still be very hard to do so, and —”
“The Principles?”
