He hated to use one of the few people he trusted like this, but in the end, it wasn’t a good idea to bring Hadiza with him to go looking for herbs. She was nearly an adult, but she was still playful and curious. She still had a tendency to stick her nose into stinging nettle, or try to rip out a poisonous plant with her mouth rather than using her hooves—well, her claws, in her case—to pull it out. Someday, he hoped to teach his daughter how to be safe while looking for plants, but he wasn’t sure she was going to need to know how to do any of that. In the end, Martyn’s daughter may have been curious about the world, but she had no interest in the herbalist’s art beyond helping her father pick his herbs and berries.But that was fine, there were many hobbies she could have instead. Martyn would keep to his plants, though, healing—or harming—without the need for a unicorn’s horn or a shifter’s teeth. He had his own weapons up his sleeve, every bit as dangerous—or miraculous—as any natural weapon.
He wasn’t looking for very much today. Mostly he was just looking around to see what he could find. It had been raining heavily lately, and he wanted to see what had sprouted up in the wake of the rains. Mushrooms and fungus? Strange slimes and molds? Or maybe plants that only bloomed in late winter rains, leaves that turned a different color in the moisture, or parasitic plants that grew only in high tree tops, dropped down by heavy winds. No, he wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just going for a walk and seeing what he could find.’
In a dark glade, all movement still and serene, Martyn found something he did not expect to find.
A small plant grew in the lee of an old and gnarled yew tree, nearly invisible in the dark, damp moss, but for the tiny white flowers that almost seemed to glow a pale blue in the dark. Martyn’s breath stilled in his chest, and he stepped forward cautiously, as if it were a creature that he didn’t want to startle. He’d never seen this plant before, but he knew it. He’d heard of it. And once he’d delicately sniffed the tiny blooms, their scent a strange mixture of softest sweet and dainty bitter, he was sure he knew what it was.
“Ghostberry,” he whispered.
He’d heard about it, early on, when he’d first started out as an herbalist. Every plant expert he’d spoken to who had heard of it had said something different. Some said it was the most deadly poison, others said that the fresh berries, gently mashed, slipped into the mouth of a stillborn foal could coax it back to life. Others said it could make the mind go odd, bringing visions and hallucinations, both sweet and sour. Martyn didn’t know which one to believe—he’d never seen a ghostberry bush before, so he’d never had a chance to experiment with it.
This plant was small, just large enough to bloom for the first time, but it was clearly too early in the season to expect berries. It was too small to take samples of its leaves, either, which were tiny in any case. To collect them, he’d need to ask the help of someone with more delicate hands than he had. He sighed, careful to aim his nostrils so that his breath didn’t damage the delicate-seeming plant. “You are a beauty,” he said softly. “But you’re too young to share your secrets yet.” He turned and left the glade, sneaking a last glance over his shoulder. “I’ll be back,” he said. “I promise. Maybe we can talk then, if you’re ready.” He memorized this place so that he could find it again, and set off back home again.
