My disappointment turned brittle. “You frightened me.”
“Apologies,” she said. Her voice was as low and smooth as water. “I was told I would find medicine here.”
She was willowy, her hair the color of nighttime and her skin so translucent, it reminded me of moonlight. There was something about her, some flashing curiosity behind her eyes, that struck me as strange, almost otherworldly. Sensing my scrutiny, she ducked her head and entered the room.
“It appears to be well stocked,” she said. Her eyes were a luminous sort of blue, like a pot of cerulean ink. She brushed past me and her fingers traced the ceramic pots as if they were telling her their secrets.
“My mother built her collection over a number of years,” I said.
“A number of years?” She turned in alarm. “Then I should hope their properties will not be diminished.”
The look on her face ignited my anger.
“My mother knew the property of every plant this side of the sea. She stitched our warriors after battle. She birthed babies. She treated the frail. She tended our village children. She was a Wisdom Keeper and a healer of great renown. You will not find these herbs depleted.”
“Good,” the woman said. “Then grab as many as you can carry. And hurry. We must get to work.”
Who was this woman to barge into my mother’s healing hut and command me as if I were a common tenant? I stood still, my eyes a challenge.
She looked at me, unfazed. “You’ve lost your mother. I’m sorry for you. If you continue to stand here and do nothing, other children shall lose their mothers, too.”
Suddenly I hated her. “How dare you speak of my mother?” I demanded.
The woman sighed with impatience and snatched the basket from my arms. I watched as she began pulling bottles and jars from the shelves, stacking them hastily on top of the linens. “You’re a child at play in a healer’s workshop. Let me help you. We have no time to waste. Even now, people die in your courtyard! We’ll need another basket. Can you fetch one?”
My cheeks flushed. She was right. I snatched the basket near the hearth, the tinder clattering onto the floor as I upended it. In a few moments we were racing back along the forest trail, our arms laden with tinctures, salves, and remedies, an uncomfortable silence between us. The rain had ceased, leaving behind rivulets of water that coursed their way over the path and down toward the river. I studied the strange woman out of the corner of my eye until my curiosity got the better of me and I broke my stubborn silence.
“Will you not tell me your name?” I asked.
“My name is Ariane. I am a Wisdom Keeper. Healing is my trade. And you are Languoreth,” she said, before I could speak, “daughter of Morken. And a twin.”
I was accustomed to meeting strangers who knew of my family. But this woman seemed different. I glanced at her, wary. “If you are a Wisdom Keeper, then where are your robes?”
“I have no robes.”
“All Wisdom Keepers wear robes,” I insisted. “How else do you travel as a woman without being accosted? How else do the nobles know you are exempt from paying taxes?”
She seemed to think this was funny. “I do not worry about danger. Nor about taxes.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You have a funny way of speaking.”
“Perhaps it is you who has the funny way of speaking.”
I frowned. Cathan praised me for my impeccable diction. I spoke Latin and perfect Brythonic. Whoever she was, this Ariane was certainly not a Briton.
“Where is it you hail from?”
“You ask a lot of questions.” She hefted her basket to keep it from slipping. “I treated many on the road best I could, but I have no more supplies. Hurry now.” She gestured with her chin. “We are nearly there. Tell your man to let us in.”
The rampart gate had been secured, but only a single warrior manned it: Arwel, our messenger’s brother. As he ushered us in, clanging the heavy bolt behind us, I saw his hands were slick with blood. The courtyard was empty now save for Father’s hounds, who had somehow gotten loose from their kennel. Their noses were bent to the earth, eager snouts darkened from lapping pools of rainwater and gore.
“Go on! Shoo!” I cried. They lifted their heads and slunk off toward the Hall. We reached the stable to find the double doors thrust open, a deafening muddle of voices echoing from within. Inside, rows of the wounded were bedded on piles of fresh straw, and our horses were gathered in the corner, quartered off by thick bales of hay. Steam rose from piping hot buckets scattered round the room, where my father’s warriors were tending the injured as best they could, cleaning wounds with flasks of liquor and tying fresh tourniquets around arms and legs.
A plump woman propped on one elbow caught sight of us and her eyes sharpened in need. “Look! They’ve brought medicines!” she shouted. I turned my gaze from the weeping wound on her pale, doughy stomach. “Help me, little girl! Please, I beg you . . .”
In an instant the whine of voices rose to a clamor, men and women clutching at Ariane, shouting at her to tend them first. I shrank back, the feeling of fingernails still fresh on my skin. Crowan hurried forward and touched my cheek before snatching away a stack of clean linens. I searched the rows of the injured until I caught sight of the boy. He was lying as if thrown on a mound of straw not far from the horses, his breath coming fast and shallow as a bird’s.
“Ariane, please. That boy.”
She assessed the room in a practiced sweep.
“Yes. We’ll tend to him first.” She rushed to kneel beside him, her fingers gently probing his chest. “Languoreth. Fetch me a clean linen soaked in hot water.”
I clenched my jaw against the heat as I plunged the linen into a bucket and passed it to her. Drawing a small knife from her belt Ariane cut away the soiled bandage to reveal the wound. Infection. Her eyes betrayed the damage. And now I saw the gash to the boy’s sternum had exposed the white of his breastbone.
“An axe.” Anger flashed before Ariane blinked again and her face became a mask. “Hold him down,” she said. “The shoulders. Pin the shoulders.”
“But he isn’t moving,” I protested, not wanting to hurt him.
“He will be.”
Bird bones. The boy’s shoulders were hollow beneath my hands. I took a breath and forced myself to watch as Ariane doused the steaming cloth with liquor and pressed it to the wound. The boy thrashed with a scream.
“Hold him down!” Ariane commanded. Tears sprang to my eyes. I forced the weight of my body down upon his shoulders, pinning him to the straw.
“You’re all right,” I said again and again. “Lie still, lie still.”
The boy let out a strangled sob. Ariane was moving quickly now, her slender fingers packing the wound with a pulpy mixture of ointment and herbs, and I turned away, my breath coming in short puffs. My face was close to his ear. With the stench of the wound gone, I could smell the earthy scent of his scalp. It smelled of birch bark and winter leaves.
“I’m going to stitch him now.” Ariane unrolled a leather kit with varying sizes of bone needles tucked beside neat spools of horsehair thread. But then her eyes flickered to his face and she turned to me. “Languoreth. I need you to fetch more hot water.”