He sat there for a long time in silence; so long that I had time to tidy up, and fetch water, and ready the cloths and salves for the dressing of his wounds. Finally he spoke.

“You make it hard to say no.”

“You made a promise,” I said. “Remember? You cannot say no.”

“How long must I do your bidding?” he asked, half joking. “Years?”

“Well,” I said, “I’ve been keeping my big brothers in line since I was pretty small. You just might have to get used to it. Until you are well, at least.” And we began, again, the cruel task of washing, and salving, and bandaging.

As it grew dark outside I told the tale of a warrior queen who had men after her like flies, but she never kept one for long; and Simon, who had heard it several times before, offered a dry commentary on the more unsavory parts of the action. And eventually the job was over, the linen cleared away, and Father Brien came with soup and elderflower wine. There was a sort of peace around the three of us that night as we sat quietly by the fire with our simple meal; and later, Simon fell asleep like a child, cheek pillowed on one hand.

It wasn’t like this in the stories. In the old tales, when a young man went forth to have adventures, he endured his trials and came forth triumphant. He became a leader, or acquired a magical skill, or at the very least wed a princess. Maybe all three. There was never any question, not even in the darkest moment, that the hero would conquer both his enemies and his self-doubt. Perhaps that was why I had been angry with Simon, because I wanted the ending of his story to be the good one he deserved. For I had become fond of him, despite his oaths and his tales of death and misery. Somewhere, beneath that darkness, I had seen both strength and honor. But his words of despair mocked my efforts at healing. I was pondering this, deep in my thoughts, when Father Brien spoke, startling me.

“I’ll have to leave you for the day tomorrow,” said Father Brien. “I need to call at the village to the west, for one of my brothers will be there awaiting papers from me; and we need supplies. I won’t ask if you can manage without me, for you have done so all along. But I will make sure to be back by nightfall. I will not have you left alone after dark.”

“He is doing well,” I said. “Another moon or two, and he may be ready to go on—but where?”

“I’ll set that in train tomorrow,” said Father Brien. “The brothers in the west will take him, I think. He can stay there awhile, and when he is ready they will conduct him safely to his home, wherever that is.”

“How?”

“It can be arranged. But you are right; he cannot go while he is a risk to himself. And he cannot ride; by the time you suggest, he may perhaps be able to withstand the jolting of a cart. I will know more tomorrow night.”