The boy sat hunched on the pallet, his back to us. For all his defiant words and angry looks, the set of his shoulders reminded me of a small creature chastised too hard, who retreats into himself in bewilderment at a world turned wrong.

“His wounds must be cleaned and dressed,” said Father Brien in our own tongue. “I’ve managed quite well while he was half asleep, despite his fear of my touch. But now…”

“He must come off these herbs,” I said, “if you want any chance of returning him home in his right mind. We should clear the air completely, and he should be taken outside in the warmth of the day, if we can manage it. Can he walk?”

A look crossed Father Brien’s placid face briefly; a chilling look that mingled disgust and pity.

“I have not dared to move him, save to tend to his injuries,” he said carefully. “He is still in great pain, and withdrawing the soporifics too quickly will be hard for him to bear. Without them, sleep will be difficult, for he fears his dreams.”

My vision still bright before my eyes, I felt a strong sense of what must be done, though truth to tell, the lady had given me little by way of practical instructions. But something within me knew the path.

“Tomorrow,” I said. “Tomorrow he must be shown the sun, and the open sky. From now on, just the one herb, just goldenwood, and it must be cut at night. I’ll do that later. Now what about dressing these wounds?”

I moved toward the pallet. Linn slipped past me and padded trustingly up to the boy on her large hound paws. She knew that he was not Cormack; but he was close enough. She sidled forward and thrust her cold nose into his hand.

“Easy, Linn,” I said in the language the boy knew. After the first instinctive clenching of his fist, he let his fingers relax and she licked them enthusiastically. He watched her through narrowed eyes, giving nothing away.

Father Brien had prepared a bowl of warm water with chamomile and mallow root; and soft cloths. There had perhaps been an attempt to start the task while I was outdoors, for the bedding was disarranged and more water had been spilled. He moved toward the bed.

“I said, no.” The boy spoke with finality.

“You must know,” replied Father Brien, unperturbed, “as a soldier, what happens if such wounds are left untreated; how they attract evil humors, and turn foul, and how fevers then overtake the man so that he sees apparitions and, burning, dies. Would you invite such an end for yourself?” His tone was mild as he washed his hands with care and dried them on the cloth.

“Let her do it.” The boy threw a glance at me without turning his head. “Let her see what her people have done, and so pay penance for it. I spoke plain truth. My body is witness to that.”