Skyre growled, “Who the fuck are you?”
“My name hardly means much, but if you’d like to have it—Gowan.”
His voice had a youthful, confident lilt.
“What are you doing here?” asked Skyre. “Robbing stragglers deep in the pines?”
Another chuckle. “One could ask the same of you. Not many wanderers about in the Fáoth.”
“He’s a druid.” Skyre cut his eyes to the unconscious form upon the pelts. “He came to visit his kin.”
“And it seems it did not end well for him.” He withdrew one of his blades and the king tensed. “Aye now.” Gowan sheathed the dagger and pulled his satchel free, holding it up in offering. “I ken something of herbs and he’s in a bad way. If you allow me to tend to him, I can ease his pain.”
Skyre tightened his grip on his sword. “You can… save him?”
“There’s not much that can help its gather, but I’ve bandages, and some sweet for the heat.”
Skyre did not lower his blade. If he let the man go… he could harm the druid. But if he did nothing…
“Will he…?” The words slipped passed his lips, and for the first time, the man’s smile faltered.
“If he wakes, he’ll likely fight it off. If we cannae draw him out of this, it is likely he succumbs.”
“And you can give him something to… to wake him?”
“A mix of incense could stir him up, but it’s for him to decide.”
Skyre’s knuckles were white on the hilt, but he knew… there was nothing else to be done. Scoffing, he pulled his blade away.
He didn’t trust Gowan. But it was the only help he could give. If he did nothing, the druid was good as dead.
“Do whatever you can,” he muttered. “But if you hurt him—”
“Don’t you worry about that.”
Skyre twitched, watching the man lower next to the druid’s motionless form. He hated his decision more with every second. He went and calmed Saorla, but the words, he knew, were for him.
The man laid out his satchel and began to mix tinctures.
“What is that?” Skyre barked.
“Meadowsweet, as I said, and englebere.”
Skyre knew of neither.
“Is it some poison?”
Gowan laughed. “No.”
He cradled the druid’s head, and every pore in Skyre’s skin ignited. He started forwards, but leashed himself, letting the man drip the mixture between the druid’s lips. He could not deny Gowan’s hands were gentle. And he both appreciated… and loathed it. The man lay him carefully back against his makeshift pillow, then, tediously, bound the wounds.
Skyre was rigid as stone.
“Isn’t that too tight? You’ll hurt him like that.”
“It ought be a bit tight,” said Gowan. “You’ve got to keep the blood from swelling.”
He didn’t know if that was true, but he thought of Greyv’s accident in the grove and stayed still. “Very well.”
