Herblore

Ealstan's master of herblore droned on and on about the mystical properties of plants.

“Then I have a proposal for you,” she said, and withdrew a sheaf of skins from her satchel, filled with all the herblore she could remember from before Dian Cecht threw her work to the wind.

He seemed fascinated. “There is one other thing,” she said. “How much herblore do you know?” He bit his lower lip. “Not much.” “More than me, though, I'm sure.”

They are yours if you kill a man for me.” I perused a few of the pages and realized that the herblore set down therein was far beyond my ken.