One Rune coin per Greenchou plant.
The price was already higher than the open-market rate at ordinary herbalist shops.
"Agreed."
Tjalfe considered a moment. "Greenchou isn't common. I can't promise quantity. I may not find any for a while—possibly a long while."
"That's fine. I'll come here every day at noon. Whenever you have Greenchou, sell it to me. I'll take whatever you bring." Haldryn smiled. "My name is Haldryn."
Tjalfe nodded. "All right."
"Thank you."
Back home from Landveti, Haldryn opened the Tome and donated several dozen large gold coins for Piety, keeping a little over four Rune coins in reserve for future Greenchou purchases.
Although the official exchange rate was one Rune to one hundred large gold, the Tome valued Rune coins far below that ratio. Converting them to gold before donating was always more efficient.
He had noticed the same pattern with almost every priced item. Anything with a clear market value yielded better Piety when first turned into gold. The Tome seemed especially fond of the metal.
Once the donation was complete he bought more than ninety Holy Strike fragments in a single sweep. Combined with what he already possessed, the total reached exactly one hundred.
Golden light shimmered across the Tome. When he turned the page, the full spellbook for Holy Strike had appeared.
He smiled.
At last he could learn a genuinely useful ability—even if it was only the most basic of paladin spells.
He threw himself into the study at once. Soft golden light flickered between his hands from time to time.
…
The next day at noon he returned to the Brave Hunter Tavern, ordered four plates of roasted mutton ribs, and settled in to wait for Tjalfe while reviewing what he had learned of Holy Strike.
Intuitively the difficulty felt similar to Call of the Holy Light. At the pace he had managed that earlier ability, mastering Holy Strike would probably take another ten days or more.
Before long Tjalfe arrived with two goats across his shoulders.
"Any luck with Greenchou?" Haldryn asked.
"Good luck today. Two plants." Tjalfe took a cloth pouch from his belt and handed it over.
Haldryn opened it, confirmed the fresh green stalks, and paid two Rune coins. "May your luck hold every day."
While they spoke, the four plates of ribs arrived. Tjalfe raised an eyebrow at the quantity.
"I usually eat two," Haldryn said. "A man of your build shouldn't eat less than I do."
Tjalfe gave a small smile. "Thanks."
They talked while they ate.
"Are there many wolves in the Landveti Forest?" Haldryn asked.
"Not many, and they rarely attack people. About as aggressive as the goats."
"Why?"
"Because of the forest god." Tjalfe's voice was even. "Vidar lives in the forest. He's the finest wolf-hunter among the gods. Every so often he thins their numbers—most creatures in Landveti grow extremely fast. The wolves have an instinctive fear of anyone who resembles him."
Haldryn nodded.
After parting with Tjalfe he hurried home and set to work on more tonic. Greenchou was expensive and scarce; to guarantee success he bought another Contemplation fragment and processed the plants while under its effect.
Several hours later both plants were ready. He finished the Starflash and produced two full bottles of Andorov's Hair Growth Tonic.
Looking at them, however, he frowned.
After curing Taylor he had begun to suspect the standard dose was excessive. Most cases of baldness did not require a full bottle; using one was simply wasteful—of both medicine and the patient's money.
It made sense. A tonic designed to cure baldness in any living creature was calibrated for the most severe, most resistant cases.
Even Aesir baldness, while harder to treat than ordinary mortal baldness, still fell short of that upper limit. A full dose was overkill.
Waste was shameful.
After a moment's thought he fetched ten empty bottles and divided the two full doses evenly among twelve smaller ones.
One-sixth of the original dose should be enough for ordinary cases. He set the new unit price at two Rune coins.
Mild thinning could be fixed with one or two bottles; severe cases would simply buy more. At that price almost no one would refuse, and demand should remain steady.
…
The next morning at breakfast Haldryn spoke abruptly.
"I want to become a field medic."
"What did you say?" Uncle Peter's brow furrowed.
"I want to join the Asgardian forces as a field medic and see more of the cosmos."
The physical requirements for Asgardian field medics were deliberately loose: twenty-five years of age and all four limbs intact—roughly the same threshold as the youth auxiliaries.
Staying an apprentice in a small herbalist shop offered almost no opportunity to sanction evil and even less in the way of income or future. Only by leaving the greenhouse of Asgard could he truly grow.
Elle spoke before Peter could. "Why would you think of something like that? You're not even thirty."
"Field medics only need to be twenty-five."
"You're not twenty-five either."
"Three months short."
Elle placed a hand on his shoulder. "Haldryn, you don't know what's out there. Listen to me. Don't go—at least not before you're of age."
He felt the weight of her worry. In her eyes he was still fifteen. That worry had once been justified: the original Haldryn had been immature and frail, unsafe even in Lifia Town.
The situation was different now. Once Verigan's Fist was finished, a field medic of his skill would have little trouble protecting himself—and might even find opportunities on the edges of a battlefield.
Peter's voice cut in, cold. "Your father was ten times stronger than you. If you want to follow the same road he did, go ahead."
"I'm not going as a warrior—not yet. Medics don't fight. There's little danger. I only want to see more of the world."
"Not yet?"
Peter laughed, the sound sharp with anger and sarcasm. "My dear nephew, you have a remarkably optimistic view of your future."
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