The little room was quiet, but the sound of the hearth. She unspooled his bandages and inspected the bruises, which had faded from blue to ugly yellow.
“Better this morn,” she murmured. “But it may be wise to let it—sift the rot, ken.”
“Englebere,” the druid said softly. “If you have it amongst your stock, grind it finely and mix with nectar. It will help the blood to thicken. Letting will only bleed me faster.”
The woman blinked at him. “A singr if I’ve ever heard one. Then the rumor is true. The Queen is forestkin.”
He writhed beneath the title.
“Englebere,” Litha said thoughtfully. “I will see if it grows about.” With a chuckle, she added, “Seems ye dinnae need me to tend ye.”
“Your skill is well-applied,” said the druid. “And I believe it gives the Vaich some peace.”
She grinned, spreading a thin layer of ointment over his skin. “It is good to hear the Vaich is a man of such compassion. How sweetly he tends his wife.”
She flashed a knowing look that made him squirm, but it wasn’t disgust within his heart.
“Sweetly…?”
Fresh bandages were wound around his ribs and she sheared off the excess linen.
“Good and tight?”
He nodded. “Thank you.”
She helped him to his feet. “Let’s get ye something to eat, hm? That color in your cheek is no good.”
The two descended the stairs together and had no sooner reached the landing when the door to the inn burst open, and some village men rushed in.
“Miss Litha, tis the Gormand’s boy!”
The woman straightened, her face twisting in concern. The men of the Féin perked up, but it was the Vaich who stood and asked, “Has there been some accident?”
“The boy’s had a fall and his leg’s a right mess,” said a villager.
“It’s the bloody mountain again!” roared another. “The damned thing is cursed!”
“Cursed?” said Jor. “What nonsense is this?”
“Tis an old story,” said Litha, “But boys… ye ken how they be.”
“It isnae a story!” the villager growled. “Good men go up and die! There’s a fell beast on that peak. It mangles em up, and spits em out! You cannae lie, Litha. How many corpses ye’ve seen… all these years and still it haunts us.”
The healer shook her head, but the way her lips pressed tight, it was as if she was swallowing the memories down.
“Dinnae spout nonsense! Tis men like you who steer those boys astray.” The woman turned to the Vaich. “They hear the old legends and go up to prove them wrong. But it’s treacherous, and most dinnae return. The ones that do come back in an awful way. Not from beast—but road. The path is jagged and terrible steep.”
“No beast?” said the villager, “Nae, it’s a monster, black and hungry! Travelers be lucky if all they find is the pusmoss.”
Pusmoss. Known around the high country as flesh-eaters’ mold, an unpleasant fungus that poisoned the brush around it. It would make an awful rash in a matter of hours, and if not dealt with, would leave the skin to peel itself raw.
The druid had only had the misfortune of seeing its effects but once in his life, and he would have been happy never to see it again.
“We try to keep them away,” said Litha, “but the wee ones dinnae learn.”
“Wee? Hamish was sixteen! Ken, Miss Litha lost her son to the—”
“That’s enough!” hissed Litha. “Take me to the boy.”
