I studied him, the tightness around his eyes, the stiffness of his shoulders. “You’re suspicious of me.”
He studied me a little too long before replying. “I will judge you by your actions, not your heritage. But I recommend you keep your fire hidden. Not everyone is as accepting as I am, pledge or no.”
“You don’t need to tell me that.”
He nodded and gestured at my ankle. “I am Brother Gamut. It is said I have a talent with herbs. If you will show me your injuries, perhaps I can ease some of your pain.”
Reluctantly, I unwrapped the cloth under my cuff. The monk sucked in a breath as he saw the reddened shank that was once an ankle. He seemed to forget his distrust, moving closer to frown at the metal.
“We must remove that at once.” He turned and shuffled to the door.
“No swords!” I begged.
He turned back, amusement crinkling the edges of his eyes. “No, child. I have a set of keys that may work. I will return shortly.”
I wasn’t sure I believed him, but true to his word, he was back in minutes with a set of keys, a bundle of cloth, and a tray that held a cup, a bowl of water, and a mortar and pestle, which he placed on a three-legged stool. His palsied hand trembled as he tried each key, until one of them opened my ankle cuff with a decisive snick. After setting the metal aside, he untied a bunch of herbs from his belt. Carefully separating the stems and selecting certain leaves and flowers, he ground and mixed them with the mortar and pestle, put them in the bowl with water, and placed the linen strips in to soak. I hissed in protest as he cleaned the wound and wrapped the linen strips around my stinging ankle.
He looked at me from under his white brows. “There are signs of infection, but you are fortunate. It is not far advanced. I have herbs that will prevent any poisoning of the blood and ease your pain.”
When it numbed, I went light-headed with relief.
“What did you use?” I asked.
“Many plants grow on the mountain. I have been experimenting with what is most effective. This is a mixture of birch leaf, wintergreen, and icetail. My tea will also help.”
He reached toward the tray and handed me a steaming cup. A few minutes earlier, I would have looked suspiciously at the brew, but the monk had proved his abilities with my ankle. I took a sip. The minty taste of wintergreen was laced with an unfamiliar tang that must have been icetail. When the cup was empty, I handed it back.
“May I take a bath?” I asked as he gathered his bowl and herbs. Despite bone-deep fatigue, I longed for the impossible luxury of cleanliness.
“Tomorrow,” he answered. “The tincture and the tea are working together to make you drowsy. Relief from pain is a blessing, is it not?”
My eyes were closing, my head lolling onto the pillow. “But Arcus the Angry has decreed I’m to be cleaned up. Do you not fear his wrath?”
He smiled, his hand on the door. “There are things I fear much more.”
Light poured through the infirmary window, searing my unaccustomed eyes. I hadn’t seen more than dull, indirect light from my small, barred, north-facing window for months. I had become some nocturnal, burrowing animal that cringes back into the velvet darkness of its den.
Currently, my den consisted of a mattress stuffed with straw, a soft quilt, and a thin, down-filled pillow. It seemed a dream: to be free from cold, free from pain, free from being doused with foul water. Thank Tempus it wasn’t gruel that sat on the three-legged stool, but a bowl of thick porridge, a slice of cheese, and a glass of water. Squinting against the light, I threw off my covers and crawled over, shivering beneath the wavy glass of the window.
The porridge had a dash of molasses. The cheese was salty and soft. Bliss.
I was back in bed by the time Brother Gamut bustled in with a cup of his healing tea. He bent over, carefully unwinding the linen around my ankle, a task my mother had performed on many a wounded man or woman or child from our village. My chest grew tight, and a strange vulnerability stole over me, as if it were my mother’s touch in the monk’s gentle hands. I fought against it, desperate for the numbness that had protected me from grief for so many months.
When he was done, I again broached the subject of a bath—a hot one, as I had little energy to heat the water myself. A battered metal tub was carried in by two monks—a tall, thin woman and a stout man—both glancing at me suspiciously.
I ignored their looks, instead watching as bucket after gloriously steaming bucket was brought and poured into the tub.
“Remember to keep your ankle dry,” Brother Gamut warned as he and the other two left.
As I sank into the bath, warmth made my blood sing. My power, so long kept limp and weak with poor food, damp cold, and despair, surged outward from my heart. I dangled my injured leg over the edge of the tub and lathered up the soap, my spirit caught between conflicting emotions. The lightness and relief seemed too good to be true.
When I was done, I stepped out of the grime-blackened water and dried off, leaning on the tub for support. Brother Gamut had left a pile of modest clothes. I pulled on the linen underclothes, brown robe, and leather sandals, and was hit by the contrast of my clean self with the stench of the dress I had chucked off. Months in prison had turned my simple blue dress and underclothes into a handful of tattered rags. I picked them up and moved toward a lit brazier near the far wall, then changed my mind and headed for the door.
I had a better method of disposal in mind.
As I turned the knob, I hesitated. Was I allowed to leave? What would they do if I disobeyed their rules? The prison guards might have been afraid to touch me, but Arcus had already threatened me more than once. His frost would protect him from my heat, and he might turn out to be as brutal as the guards.