“Charming fellow,” I said to the monk as he lit a sconce on the wall.
The monk looked at me sharply, but then he nodded. “He can be abrupt, to be sure. But with his history, it is understandable.”
“And what is this history that makes his rudeness excusable?”
He turned to me. “Time for questions tomorrow. For now we must tend to your physical state.”
I wrapped my arms around myself and eyed him with alarm. The guards had been all too eager to amputate infected limbs. I had threatened their filthy excuse for a healer with blistering burns if he so much as entered my cell.
“Now, now,” the monk said, his look softening. “You are in a strange place and you have no doubt suffered much, but this is Forwind Abbey. The brothers and sisters of the Order of Fors have pledged to take in those wrongly persecuted and in need of sanctuary. They may be suspicious of you, but you will not be harmed.”
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.