“But it’s gone through your wrist.” Tristan frowned. “It needs to be closed.”
“There are other ways.” The shaman placed several herbs in the mortar, with little regard for precise amounts. “If you would please crush these into a fine powder.”
Tristan perched at the dining table and set to grinding the herbs, asking no further questions.
“We’re going to make a poultice to put on it. Then we shall pack it with this.” Inari pointed to the moss-like substance. “I say some words, draw some runes.” He strode back to the workbench, returning with strips of cloth. “Finally, we bandage it.”
“Well, it’s your arm. Your loss.” Aloisia shrugged, still hovering by the door.
“So it is.” The shaman breathed a laugh.
Tristan continued to make the poultice under Inari’s instruction, what little knowledge he had of such things from the Temple coming in useful. The shaman sank into a seat opposite him, adding more herbs to the bowl at intervals. Aloisia paced back and forth. As small as the hut was, she could barely step more than three or four times in each direction before encountering a table, a bed, or a wall.
Inari squinted her way every so often, his hazel gaze wary.
Aloisia puffed a sigh.
“You are like a caged animal,ro suda,” he said.
Her brow furrowed at his words, foreign to her, and she wondered what language he spoke. “I don’t particularly want to be here.”
“Then why are you? You did not have to accept our deal. You do not strike me as someone who often does something against her own will.”
She glowered at him. “I am only here because he asked it of me. And because I want information on those shadow monsters you call gods.”
“And you shall have your answers as soon as my hand is bandaged.”
Aloisia peered at his wrist, the arrow still protruding from it. The shaft was darkening with his blood. A pang of guilt tugged at her and she pushed it away.
“Does it hurt?” she asked.
“You care?” Inari raised a brow. “Of course it does. And it’s about to hurt a lot more once this arrow is removed.”
“Is everything prepared?” Tristan examined the supplies gathered on the table.
Inari gave a nod. “That’s everything.” He spread a cloth across the surface, placing his injured arm upon it. “The arrow needs to be cut so you can force it through.”
Aloisia unsheathed a dagger, advancing on him. Alarm lit Inari’s eyes and she smirked. “If I wanted you dead, shaman, you would be.”
“I believe you.”
“Hold him still, Tristan.” She grinned at the shaman. “This won’t be pleasant.”
“Just do it.”
“As you say.”
Tristan clasped Inari’s arm, pinning it to the table edge so Aloisia could easily reach the arrow’s shaft. She didn’t think Tristan could keep him restrained, anyhow, as strong as the shaman appeared. She gripped the arrow to keep it steady and began to saw through it. Inari fisted his other hand, bracing himself against the table. A low growl escaped him as the tremors from the blade moved the arrow tip in his wrist. The shaft snapped off and Aloisia sheathed her blade.
“There’s that bit done. Not so bad, right?” She clapped Inari on the shoulder.
He only grunted in response.
“Now to get the arrow out.” Aloisia reached for him, but Inari jerked his hand away, cradling it to his chest.
“I’d rather the priest did it,” Inari said.
“I don’t think he’d have the strength.” She glanced at Tristan. “No offence.”
