He meandered through the village and was frequently offered a hot brew or something to eat or simply a moment of conversation. All knew who he was and all offered their hope that he would be reunited with his brother soon. And all spoke of Ronan as if they knew him personally.
“Fine lad.”
“A strong one.”
“Determined.”
“Good to talk with.”
“Brave.”
He stopped after a while and settled under a large tree, resting against its thick, aged trunk, to think about his brother. They spoke of Ronan far differently than he had expected. He didn’t doubt his brother’s strength, but Ronan was the youngest, the one he himself and his brothers always looked out for, the one who always listened to their every command. To the villagers, however, he was a strong, independent man, and one with whom it was easy to talk.
This was a new Ronan to him, or perhaps he had just never noticed those aspects of his brother.
His attention caught by a flurry of activity around Bethane’s cottage, he decided to see what was going on and if he could be of assistance. After all, the villagers had been gracious to him right from the start, and it was only right that he return their kindness.
A young woman hurried past him, and he quickly asked, “What’s wrong?”
“An injured warrior has been brought in,” she said, and hurried off.
Artair didn’t think the village had warriors—sentinels, yes, but no full-fledged warriors. So where had this one come from? Curiosity and his warrior instincts had him headed straight for Bethane’s place.
He noticed people coming and going from around the side of the cottage, so that’s where he went. It appeared as if a small cottage had been attached to Bethane’s, and he assumed it was for the purpose of tending the ill.
He entered and was startled by what he saw, though he didn’t show it. On a long, narrow table, draped with a white linen sheet soaked with blood, lay a barely recognizable man.
Zia and Bethane worked frantically on him, their arms and the linen aprons they wore to protect their clothes covered in blood.
The man didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, and Artair knew it was better that way, for if he was conscious, he’d be screaming in pain. He turned around to leave the healers to their work when he caught sight of the man’s garments heaped in a bundle on the floor. Common sense had him rushing to the table.
“This man is a barbarian.”
“This man is injured,” Zia said firmly.
“He’s a barbarian,” Artair emphasized, thinking they hadn’t heard him clearly.
“It matters not who he is,” Bethane said. “He is a man in need of healing, and we are healers.”
“His kind does not honor life; they take it without thought or caring.”
“Perhaps, but we are not barbarians and we do not live by their creed,” Bethane said calmly. “Now please, we need no more distraction. We can speak of this later if you wish.”
She was dismissing him, though not his protest, and for a moment he simply stood there astounded, then he quickly turned and walked away.
Barbarians had been his enemy for as long as he could remember. They descended on villages like vultures, leaving nothing alive in their wake. The only way to combat them was to do away with them, and here he was waiting while Zia was trying to save a barbarian’s life. How did he make sense of it? Could he? Did he want to? What choice did he have? He sat amidst a healing village. He had to try and understand.
He remained where he was, Nessie having joined him, until shadows slipped across him and he realized several hours had passed and it had grown quiet around Bethane’s cottage. He was about to get up to see how the barbarian was doing when Zia walked out.
She was minus her apron and stood rolling her head and then squared her shoulders as if stretching out her aches. She spotted him, waved and walked to join him beneath the tree.
“How is he?” Artair asked, anxious to know.
“He’s alive, but it’s questionable that he will live through the night.”
He wanted to ask why she had even bothered to try and save the barbarian, but he knew she had fought a valiant fight, and thus he couldn’t simply dismiss it as senseless. He had to respect her position as a healer, for she had fought as valiantly to save his brother. That was the realization his solitary time had brought him. Zia was a healer and would heal whoever needed it. It was her way.
He knew she was weary, but there were questions he needed to ask. Questions he had failed to ask at the start. “Precisely, how bad was my brother when he was brought here? And how did he find his way here?”
She surprised him when she asked, “Would you find me too bold if I rested my head on your shoulder? I am quite weary, and if you recall, I have already pillowed my head on your chest.”