Alchemy, that was something going far beyond what a healer or apothecary could mix. Granted, Kraghtol didn’treallyknow what an alchemist could do, but the stories were endless. From ever-burning lamp oils and potions that made time stand still to making gold and mixtures that brought a person back from the dead. According to the stories, there was nothing alchemy couldnotachieve.
“Ah, yes, no, it might be expensive, might it not be?” The old patient was now constantly squirming around, tapping his fingers or moving his healthy foot, as if trying to keep himself from laughing out loud.
“But imagine, think, dream. What if, instead of buying from an alchemist, what if you could be one? Become one? You have talent, my big green friend. I can see that clearly. Frostmint and Bitterleaf. You know your herbs. Alchemy might not be as different as you think, might it be?”
“Do you… are you an alchemist?” Kraghtol asked cautiously, but couldn’t deny the spark of interest that had sprung over.
“Me? No, I am not an alchemist, am I? Not with the guild, not without it, certainly not. But I know a thing or two, the basics, the principles, merely enough to get by.”
“And you want to… teach me?”
“Teach you? Me? No, no, my friend, I will not. Besides, what would the guild think? No, you deserve a proper education, more than any old wanderer can teach you. No,youshould go to Winterstone. They have a school there, the guild. To educate new alchemists.”
That wasn’t very surprising. Winterstone was the second-largest city in Wardenreach, after the capital, and it was the center of commerce for the whole north of the country. Every big guild was active in Winterstone, so it made sense that the Alchemists’ Guild would place their school there.
“Do you think they would let me study there? Are there others like me?” Kraghtol asked hopefully.
His patient stopped and looked at him sharply.
“No. And doubtful. I have never seen another one like you in all my travels, have I? There are no orcs in our country, and no Orcish half-bloods, either. You are unique, as far as I can tell, my big green friend, are you not? Perhaps they would let you in because of that. Or deny you because of it. Or deny you because you cannot afford the fees. Most probably. Very unlikely. No, these dreams are foolish. You will not become an alchemist, not like this.”
That hit Kraghtol harder than a punch to the stomach from Fennew and his friends. Of course. How could he have been so stupid as to believe for just a second that he might have a future beyond that of a village thug? Fists clenched without his doing, and he had to wield every bit of willpower he had not to cry out loud in frustration. Merrick had told him about the guilds and the alchemists. And as a boy, he had often dreamed how it might be like tobeone, to mix mystical potions and perform minor miracles. But as he grew up, hehad accepted that all he could hope for was a village healer. And not even that was very likely.
“Kragh, the mug.”
Only now that Merrick mentioned it, Kraghtol noticed he had grabbed the empty tin mug and compressed it into a dull metal ball. Frustrated, he threw the remains of the drinking vessel to the ground.
The patient was eyeing Kraghtol curiously, and it was just the fact that he had stopped cackling after his latest revelation that saved him from a fist to the wrinkly face. That was just cruel. Why tell him all of that? Why build up his hopes of becoming someone else, only to destroy everything vilely just a minute later? It was hard to calm down again, but eventually, Kraghtol succeeded. Their visitor was crazy; that was all. He didn’t know what he said, and he probably didn’t mean to mock him like that. He probably hadn’t even realized. Kraghtol took a few deep breaths before picking up the ex-mug from the ground.
“You should rest now to give your ankle time to heal,” he suggested, and nodding towards Merrick, left the house.
Luckily, the small village forge had always enough heavy work to do, and this time, Kraghtol enjoyed moving the heavy sacks of coal and ore, as it allowed him to use up all the rage inside of him until his muscles and bruises were aching and the day was over. He had only asked the blacksmith to fix the mug for his work, but he received two copper pieces as well, which was probably fair, considering that he had just rearranged their whole storage.
His mood was better as well. After all, nothing had changed. He was still in the same position, hoping to one day be respected enough to practice healing in Mistpine. Being an alchemist was a childishdream, a dream he had put aside years ago, once he had understood that nobody in the stories wasgreen. He shouldn’t have allowed himself to get carried away by what the crazy old fool was muttering like that.
He spent the evening with his foster father, as usual, and went to bed early. The day had been exhausting, and even though his body healed quickly, he was still not entirely well.
The next morning came with a surprise: when Kraghtol climbed down the ladder from his bedroom, the weird old man was already up and preparing for departure.
“Ah yes, my strong green friend. You have done really well, have you not? I feel much better, yes, and there is no pain anymore.”
Again, something seemed to amuse the old man beyond measure. Kraghtol looked confused to Merrick, but his foster father just shrugged.
“Your ankle healed quickly, then,” Kraghtol said, although that was only half the truth. An injury like that normally took at least half a week to heal, not a single night. But there was no denying it: the crazy old man put his weight on both of his feet normally and showed no sign of pain.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Merrick chimed in, obviously not wanting to dwell on the mystery any longer. “Let us just talk about the payment for your treatment, and then you can be on your way again.”
Even though it was Kraghtol who had treated him, Merrick was the one who had to take the money, for the simple reason that he was the guild-approved healer of the village, and not Kraghtol. Only physicians who were approved members of the Guild of Healing and Bodycraft were allowed to ply their trade for money.
“Payment, coins. Of course, you must compensate for treatment of this quality, right?” the old man replied happily.
“Yes. According to the guild charter, healing a minor injury like this will cost you 5 copper pieces.”
The guilds dictated prices for all goods and services throughout the country and were rather adamant that these prices were adhered to. If word got out that a member asked for more or less than what the guild deemed appropriate, a hefty fee was the best possible outcome for them. Still, Merrick rarely asked for the full list price, especially if he knew that the patient wouldn’t be able to afford it easily. Since Mistpine was such a remote village, though, the guild seemed to care little as long as they got their tax money. Here, however, the rate he asked for was exactly the list price, and Kraghtol understood why. It was one thing to give illegal discounts to villagers you had known for years, but a wanderer who might tell others about it was a whole different risk.
“A reasonable price, yes. But I can’t give you the coins, for I possess none.”
Both the tall half-orc and the shorter human healer looked expectantly at the patient. It happened from time to time that the customer could not pay a guild-dictated price, and the Guild of Healing and Bodycraft, in particular, was open to allowing for other forms of payment if necessary. Nobody wanted to get on the bad side of their healer, so, usually, patients who couldn’t pay in coins offered something to trade on their own initiative. And this patient was no exception.
