“Actually, it hasn’t really happened yet,” Marek admitted sheepishly. Feeling the Healer’s disappointment tangibly, he poured out an explanation. “I plan on telling him today when I get back. I promise. Things have been complicated. Mirrin had another fit last night and is probably still sleeping.”

Tilda inhaled, nostrils flaring, and Marek imagined she was preparing to bolster Marek’s courage and remind him of the necessity of honesty. She’d have been right, of course, and considering she didn’t know his secret, likely thought him irresponsible. Marek blundered forward before she could speak.

“I promise I’ll let him know,” he said more firmly. “Just as soon as I’m home today. But will you please hear me out? I didn’t come to talk about Mirrin.”

“Bold of you, Mr. Theeras. I expect more from a grown man and active apprentice. Now you’ve come on another errand without completing the simple, albeit uncomfortable task I gave you?”

Marek felt his cheeks heat with a flush of anger. He held his emotions in check and continued calmly, “There wasn’t an opportunity, I assure you.”

Tilda sighed, and the tension abated. “Very well. If you say so, I’ll take your word, Marek. What is it you want, then?”

Anger turned to anxiety. It wasn’t hard to guess what the Healer’s reaction would be. Tilda spent her days and nights preserving the lives of the townsfolk, yet Marek was about to risk life and limb on what most would consider a fool’s mission. Regardless, he knew no one else as qualified to ask. She could react how she wished, but Marek’s mind was fixed. Or, as Rauld sometimes said, the cobblestones had already been paved.

“I’m leaving town in a few days. I’ll travel north and then veer west into the hills near Shirgrim. Once there, I’ll—”

“You mustn’t!” Tilda cut in, brow furrowed in worry. “A journey like that will be extreme. Marek, with your health, you—”

“My health,” he said, reclaiming the thread of conversation, “is my own concern. I’ve given it a great deal of thought lately, and there’s simply no other way to amend my predicament.” Marek’s gaze softened, and he added, “It should comfort you to know I’ve undergone an improvement recently. I’m stronger than I have been in years.”

Tilda didn’t look the slightest bit convinced. Marek sighed and dropped the formalities. This woman had seen him back from the brink of death several times. She’d earned his bluntness if not complete honesty. “Tilda, you have to trust me. I don’t take unwarranted risks—you know that! Besides, I didn’t come for your blessing.”

The woman folded her arms. “Then why did you come? Thought I needed one more thing to keep me up at night? I’ve enough to worry about as it is.”

Marek paused only briefly before answering. In a level tone, he laid it all out. “My Intuit Skill can aid me in a wide variety of tasks, but it’s useless without information. I’ve come to ask about the herbs. Which can be found in the wilds near Misthearth? Are any more or less critical to Mirrin’s health? How can I recognize the plants when I see them? Oh, and I need to know how to harvest them.”

The Healer chewed her lip so intently Marek thought it might bleed at any moment. Her eyes dipped, face screwing up tighter. She was thinking it over, which gave Marek some sense of relief. He’d expected more argument. Something had shifted in her mind, though—perhaps the realization that he was more stubborn than a mule. Either way, he suspected she’d no longer try to dissuade him. Or else she’ll approach Mirrin later. Doesn’t matter as long as she tells me what I need to know.

“Your request is anything but simple,” she said at last. “Your uncle’s tincture is more complex than your own. I include six lesser herbs just to bolster Mirrin’s health enough that he might endure the primary medicine!”

Marek held his breath, watching the wheels turn in Tilda’s sharp eyes. “If you’re set on this goose hunt, then you must focus on the few mandatory reagents. The rest, I can come up with on my own. I’ve used Wither Marrow and Duskleaf as the backbone of the tincture for years now. Ask any tradesmen you come across if they’re willing to sell any. I doubt you’ll have success for the reasons I mentioned yesterday, yet it is worth a try. Don’t waste your time searching for them, though. Neither grow within five hundred leagues of Misthearth.”

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“I’ll travel five hundred leagues if I must. Mirrin’s still young, and I have no other family in this world, Tilda. I’d do anything for my uncle.”

Tilda held up a hand, silently asking for patience. “I don’t need convincing, young man. Being willing to travel five hundred leagues is one thing. Hoping your uncle will live long enough to see you again is quite another. Be quiet and let me speak. What I was going to say is that I know of a handful of items you might be able to find within a reasonable amount of time.” She paused, eyes flicking to his hands. “Well, are you going to write anything down or rely on your memory?”

Marek smiled, the last of his anxiety ebbing. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out the small notebook he used when taking orders for sigilcraft. “I’m ready when you are.”

Tilda held out her hand and snatched the book when Marek offered it. Kneeling on the porch, she scrawled on a blank page. “Frosthorn. They look like the antlers of a deer. Red to purple in color, the fungus grows no higher than two or three inches. Take care to move slowly when searching for them.” The Healer drew a simple sketch below the description before turning the page. “Whiskers of Yalfan is next. You know those wispy clusters of lichen that grow from the branches of red pines in the mountains? Principalities, why would I ask that? I know full well you’ve never traveled so far from Misthearth! Anyhow, when combined, these two create a viable substitute for Wither Marrow. Rather than enhance the flow of one’s mana, they stabilize and prevent mana decay within the Core. Ostensibly, this should have the same effect in preserving your uncle. In fact, I rather think it might improve on my original formula.”

The woman sighed and glanced up at Marek. She blinked, seeming suddenly self-conscious. “What? Never seen a frantic woman before? Take it in, Marek. Take it in… Onyx Chanterelle,” she said, drawing out the words as she drove onward. “It’s a damn well dangerous reagent to work with, yet so is Duskleaf if not utilized with care. The mushroom grows in highly acidic soil and, like the other two, prefers colder climates at high altitudes. The red pines shed their needles year-round, which creates soil so acidic most other trees or shrubs can’t flourish beneath them. Quickleaf is the last of the items you’ll need to find. Little knee-high bushes with three leaves per stem. Leaves of three, leave them be, right? Well, not these ones. Mountain folk coat their boots in Quickleaf pitch. They’re so resinous that the frost, snow, or even mild forest fires can’t harm them. You’ll know you have the right plant if it smells like sage and dog piss.”

She blew on the parchment, drying the ink on the last page. Marek observed Tilda, thinking she’d make a fine wife one day, if she ever found the right person. For his sake, he was only grateful to have the Healer’s aid. She’d do anything and everything for the people she cared for. Not enough credit, he amended. Tilda has done everything.

Satisfied, she handed back Marek’s notepad. “All four can be found in the mountains north of here. That should give you a reasonable chance of gathering them and returning in time. Nothing fancy needed to harvest them. Take the fungus whole and store them separately. The lichen and the Quickleaf are less volatile. Just be sure to grab enough to fill a salad bowl. Might as well be thorough while you’re at it.”

“Thank you,” Marek said, feeling a knot form in his throat. “Appreciate your trust—I really do.”

Tilda scoffed. “Don’t thank me yet. It’ll be a hellish trip, I’m sure. If you’re lucky, you might locate them in Ardea, far to the north, yet I believe you’ll need to travel into Western Casteras if you’re to be successful.”

“But the war,” Marek said impotently. “Won’t it be hard to cross over?”

Tilda shrugged. “I can’t image you surviving a trek into Shirgrim either. The mountains of the pass are brimming with beast kin, and though they’re folk like you and I, many survive by preying on travelers between the two kingdoms. Casteras is your safest bet; I promise you that.”

Marek nodded, his stomach twisting in on itself. The notebook seemed like it weighed ten pounds. Tilda’s strategy wasn’t hard to surmise. She was a right clever woman. Knowing she couldn’t dissuade him with words, she’d instead highlighted the magnitude of his project and the inevitable risks. It served the purpose of dulling the edge of his optimism. It wouldn’t make him back down, though. “I’ll keep all this in mind when I leave town. Thank you so very much.”

“When do you leave?” she asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

“A week at most. Soon as I can, really, but I have a few things to do before I’m off.”

Tilda drew in a sharp breath. Tears glistening in her eyes, she darted forward and placed a kiss on Marek’s forehead. “Take care to return, young man. You’re needed in Misthearth.”

Then she brushed past him, boots clacking on the cobblestones as she turned left on the street.

A throbbing pounded in his ears as he returned to Northshore. His footfalls marched along to the rhythm of his own terrified heart as he headed back to his uncle’s house.

By the Principalities, he thought grimly, how will I ever pull this off?