At first, Frisha was confused that Rezkin did not defend his desire to court her, but when he mentioned her intentions to marry one of the nobles, she was distraught. She had thought he understood after their previous conversation about going to the tournament that she really wanted him. Now that she thought back on it, she realized she had never actually expressed her feelings for him. She had only said that she wanted to go to the tournament and that she did not want to marry a noble. She had never said she wouldn’t marry a noble or that she would chose Rezkin instead.

Rezkin, for his part, had not asked for any promises or show of interest. He had simply accepted her company for what it was and seemed happy with what he could get. On top of that, she knew from the general’s reaction to her gifts that Rezkin had paid handsomely. Frisha felt terrible.

For the rest of the day, the three companions strolled along the streets and gawked at fancy things in expensive shops. Most of the shop owners were opposed to the idea of people perusing their wares without making any purchases, so they relegated themselves to peering through windows. Rezkin purchased another fine quality but serviceable tunic to replace the one that had been stained with blood from the battle with the bandits.

He saved the herbalist’s shop for last since it was where he would need to procure the most items. Tam and Frisha followed him inside, wrinkling their noses at the strong scents that mingled in the small confines. Their eyes roved over the countless bottles and packets and pouches labeled with strange names that meant nothing to them. Rezkin was talking to the shop owner and seemed miffed.

“This is a ridiculous price for sparywort. I could go just outside the walls and collect bushels of the stuff,” Rezkin asserted.

“But, you’re paying for the quality. This sparywort was grown with the freshest water collected from the last winter ice in the light of the afternoon sun. The plant was then snipped with silver sheers on the eve of the full moon,” the shopkeeper replied.

Rezkin scoffed. “This herb is used by apothecaries, not alchemists. None of those things matter for its healing properties, and it would be ridiculous for anyone to bother with performing those useless rituals. You most likely had your apprentice go out and gather this from the patch I saw growing near the bridge.”

The shopkeeper, a sour-faced, middle-aged woman with dull, stringy blonde hair, sputtered, “I assure you, boy, I am a master herbalist, and I know what I am talking about. I did no such thing.”