Ćdhral, true to her worth, had indeed gone to tell the Healer of a sick boy in the Tavern. She had found the woman at her desk, pounding and grinding plants in a large marble bowl with a heavy stick. Ćdhral did not know the words for these dishes, just as she did not know many of the words which the Healer used, yet she found that no barrier to understanding the woman. Each word was clearly explained, not too much, not too little.
"The bowl is a mortar," the woman said, "and this is a pestle. It is a heavy object, for it helps to turn leaves into a fine powder." She stopped and stretched her fingers, for they were stiff from the incessant pounding. "And you have come to relieve me of my task?"
"Yes, mistress, for Finian told me to tell you we have a very sick boy in the Tavern. He is ugly with burns; his skin rippled red like roast mutton. "
"Well, burns heal poorly if the body is not covered in salve; that is no fault of the boy."
"Yes, ma'am, but will you come?"
The woman nodded and rose, wrapping a large brown shawl around her shoulders, the fringes of which gently swayed back and forth over her hips as she walked.
"Can he eat?" she inquired of the girl.
"Barely, he has sipped some cider." The woman made a noncommital shake of her head and peered into the hall while Ćdhral disappeared into the kitchen. Finian then met her glance and told her what he could of the lad. The boy was slumped into a chair, gingerishly leaning against the back and talking with Rochadan. She smiled to herself, for she knew Rochadan well and could imagine what the man might be attempting.
"There are stories of ill treatment, of beatings. You know what we hear of Harstan."
"Aye. And if we wish to find the boy other employ, that man will demand recompense for the loss of his labour."
Finian sighed. "First, find out how hurt the boy is, Bethberry. Then we shall see what plans we need to put into effect."
"He looks starved. I doubt he can for the moment eat much. Let me bring him some thin gruel." From Cook Bethberry got a tray with a bowl and the gruel, mixed in with some sugar and cream, but not too richly. And then she approached the lad.
"Rochadan, I'll wager you are making a proposition here," she said with a lilt to her voice. He smiled at her.
"Bethberry, meet young Andhun here. He's going to help me in the stable."
"Is he now? Don't be hasty, for perhaps he has someone else he needs to help first."
The lad looked up at her, the black rings around his eyes appearing even more quizzical than they had at first.
"Who would you send me out to work with, lady? I must get back to master."
"Nay, none other than yourself, lad. Here, tell me if Cook has made this well. And by name I am called Bethberry."
His one arm hung by his side but with his other he slowly scooped up the gruel, panting between sips. While he ate, Bethberry looked over the many miserable signs of torment and pain on his small frame. Yet in her face she held a warm smile, so that her very look seemed to banish worry and concern from his heart. When he was finished the meagre breakfast, she sat back to let him talk. She would win his trust before she attempted to see to his wounds.
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