Gaborn walked among the herbs for a long hour, examining plants. It was not as marvelous as Binnesman’s garden had been, nowhere near as sprawling and wild and diverse. Gaborn had a little knowledge of herb lore, as much as most princes learned. So as Gaborn wandered about, he could not help but find things he’d need: dogbane growing on a trellis on the south wall of the manor, a bit of shepherd’s purse for stanching wounds, nightcap poppy to help him sleep. There were so many herbs, and Gaborn did not know what to do with them.

He was so involved in harvesting the root of mallow to treat burns, that at first he did not notice when Binnesman arrived just before dinner.

“Hello,” Binnesman said at Gaborn’s back, startling him. “So, you gather herbs now?”

Gaborn nodded, afraid that to a master herbalist such as Binnesman, his efforts would seem feeble. Gaborn knelt near the aromatic, serrated leaves by the ground, and suddenly felt unsure, wondered if these rose-pink petals really were mallow, or if he’d been mistaken.

Binnesman only nodded kindly, and smiled, then knelt beside Gaborn and helped him dig. “The root of mallow is best for burns when it is still fresh,” he said, “though vendors hawk it dried. It is the cooling sap that you need, not some desiccated twig. But a dried mallow root, once soaked in water, can still give some relief.”

Gaborn stopped digging, but Binnesman urged him to keep on. “Look to the tops of the roots, the thickest parts. It’s good that you do this, learn which parts to use.”

He pulled at the mallow, then broke off its purplish-brown root for Gaborn to see. The sap oozed onto Binnesman’s fingers, and the old wizard touched the cool stuff to Gaborn’s forehead. “See?”

“Yes, I see,” Gaborn answered.

There was an uncomfortable silence between them, and the wizard stared into Gaborn’s eyes. Gaborn could see flecks of green in the old man’s skin, but his robes had gone a ruddy flame, the color of maple leaves in autumn.

“You think I have some great powers,” Binnesman said, “but it is only the power that comes from serving the Earth.”

“No, your herbs are far more potent than any I’ve seen in Mystarria,” Gaborn said.

“Would you like to know the secret of it?” the wizard asked.

Gaborn nodded dumbly, hardly daring believe the wizard would tell him.

“Plant the seeds yourself, My King,” Binnesman said, “in soil fertilized and turned by your own hands. Water them with your own sweat. Serve them—fulfill their every need—and they’ll serve you fully in return. Few men, even among the wise, understand the great power one can gain from service.”

“There is nothing more?” Gaborn asked.