Chapter Three

"She has the tattoos." Bors reminded them.

She rolled her eyes. "Come inside and I will answer all of your questions. I must tend to my patient," she said before returning to the confines of her hut.

Arthur looked at his Knights, dismounting and stabling his horse. Inside, the Dark Child washed her hands in the bowl of hot water on the table, before checking a bubbling pot over the fire. Grabbing a cup from the cupboard, she filled it up and set it on the table by the bed. Galahad groaned. "No, Nazneen, not again."

"Yes again. It's working. This could very well be the last time," she soothed in Sarmatian, her hands running like liquid through his ebony curls.

"You promise?" he pleaded, green eyes frightened.

"There are no promises in medicine, Sarmatian, but I do believe that this will be the last application."

Unwrapping the bandages, she gently took his wrist and elbow, working the muscles to prevent any atrophy. Galahad grimaced as she straightened it out, lifting it up over his head, pulling at the shoulder joint and stretching the still-healing wounds. Reaching for the cup, she inquired, "Ready?"

He slipped a leather gag between his teeth and turned away, before nodding resolutely. The remaining Knights joined a fascinated and watchful Gawain as the Dark Child slipped her fingers into the cup and scooped out a handful of thick red paste. Her free hand came around him, locking him to her frame, fingers buried in his hair. Galahad closed his eyes and took a deep breath, before her slender fingers slipped into the wounds. At the intrusion, Galahad arched away with an agonized scream, his eyes squeezing shut tightly. Gawain and Gareth both rushed to pull her away, but were stopped by the violent shake of Galahad's head. "No! Let her finish!" he sobbed, moaning in anguish as her fingers slipped gently into the exit wound as well.

She spoke softly in Sarmatian as she worked. "Good boy. The worst of it is over. You're all right. You're a good boy. The best boy."

Galahad sagged, shudders running through his body like mercury as she wiped her hand on a towel at the side of the bed. Filling another goblet with a cool, murky white liquid, she tipped it to his lips. "Drink, Sarmatian. Drink and sleep well," she soothed, hand rubbing the back of his head in an attempt to comfort.

Galahad sipped from the goblet, feeling his eyes start to grow heavy. Releasing him for a moment, leaving him sitting up and swaying, she created a thick wedge with three extra blankets. "Come on, dove, lay down. On your belly," she instructed gently, slipping the wedge between his stomach and the bed, keeping most of his weight on the front part of his uninjured side. The injured arm was drawn up and folded carefully on top of the wedge. "Good boy. All the way," she reminded as he resisted the position for a second, before slumping onto the wedge in exhaustion, "Good boy. Sleep, Sarmatian. May the Gods bless you with a dreamless sleep," she whispered, with a tender, motherly kiss to his brow as he fell into oblivion.

Pulling up the covers, she situated them about his chest and pulled a curtain closed about the enclave, leaving him in sequestered solitude. Turning to her guests, she gestured at the cushions and chairs about the room, speaking in a gentle tone, "Please, be seated."

"What was that?" Arthur asked curiously, nodding his head at the half-full cup on the table.

She dumped what remained into the fire, before answering. "It's called Fire-Root."

"Fire-Root brings on a drenching fever," Gawain snapped, taking a menacing step forward.

She showed no fear of him, causing him to stop in surprise. Her face was serene and calm. "Yes, I know. So does Galahad; I explained the symptoms of Fire-Root usage to him before I used it. I wanted his consent to do so. The best way to rid his body of its poison is to burn it out. He agreed to undergo the treatment, though he hates its application. I put him to sleep directly after administering the poultice and he sleeps through the fever, waking every five hours or so. When the fever quits itself, the poison is that much closer to being gone."

"Tell me who you are." Arthur ordered.

"I was born the daughter of a Sarmatian Knight and a Romano-Briton. When I was very young, the Romans came. They burnt my mother at the stake, using the now burnt-out tree behind the hut, and took my father away. I was sent to the shelter of the woods by my mother when Father told us they were coming. I watched my mother burn, unable to help her. Merlin found me wandering, and took me to his village. He taught me everything he would teach a daughter about herbs and healing, while his people taught me archery and swordplay. 'If I was able to kill, I had better be able to heal as well,' was his lesson to me. I was good at killing, but I relished the pride healing the sick and injured gave me."

"How old were you when Merlin took you in?"

"I was only four summers old, by a Sarmatian accounting anyway. When I was 11 winters old, by a Briton accounting, I was deemed old enough to take my place among the Woads. I refused. Merlin knew that they would have killed me for that refusal and told me that I was old enough to care for myself. I ran. I've been here, in the hut my father built for my mother and me, ever since."

"How old are you now?"

"By Briton standards, I just passed my 14th cycle. I was formally forgiven by my Dark Father and I am the heir to Merlin's power and prestige."

Just then the door opened and Merlin stepped inside the gloomy hut.