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.
Although I trembled a little, I pushed the door open. I refused to let fear rule my actions. I was no longer a prisoner, and if they treated me like one, I would escape as soon as I was healed enough to do so.
After trailing down the corridor, avoiding the curious eyes of hooded figures, I leaned a hand against the cold stone wall and cursed the unsteadiness of my legs. I reminded myself that only the day before I'd had trouble standing. This was progress.