[Bêthberry]

A soft voice in a dark cloak spoke out, in hushed tones, to the bloodied figure and the prostrate form on the ground.

"You are lucky Wyrd sees what others cannot. What has this wild chance cost you and what must I now pray I be able to accomplish?"

Bethberry rushed forward in sombre measure, looking over Rimbaud and seeing countless cuts, hurts and bruises which of themself would not account for the greatest hurt she saw in his eyes. She then kneeled beside the almost unconscious Princess, whose breathing was erratic and whose eyes, beneath the dark lids, were darting wildly. Estelyn's face was hot, even flaming, and her forehead was coated with beads of perspiration. A check with her hands brought forth coagulated, sticky fluid from the woman's side while her fingers prodded gently the area around the broken arrow. Bethberry bent low and smelled the wound and rose again, greater concern in her eyes. "It was poisoned; it reaks of monkshood. Perhaps the only saving grace is that she has bled so much."

"Here, I have brought my mare Riverdance and a small cart. Help me lift the Princess into it, and then you yourself lie down as well."

With trouble and some effort, for the Innkeeper was more hurt than he would admit, the two lifted Estelyn onto the cart, who moaned loudly several times and who then began to thrash about. Bethberry held a small vial to the woman's nose and she became calmed, but the action cost precious moments. She cut the tunic aside and washed the wound with water and agrimony before pressing a small knife into the punctured skin, to extricate the tip of the arrow. Estylyn cried out and shuddered, but Bethberry, wincing, held on until the arrow was out. Blood ran more freely, but at least that was a good sign. She shook over the wound dried bugleweed and horsetail and then covered it lightly.

"That's all I can do now." She stood up and regarded the Innkeeper, who the rising sun showed to be wan, even ashen and covered with slashes and crusted blood.

"Can your care wait until we return to the Seventh Star?" Bethberry inquired of him. He signified his agreement with barely a nod.

"No, wait," she said, reaching yet once more into the leather bag hooked on the side of the cart. "You must chew some of this, slowly, savouring it, and swallow." She offered Rimbaud a cloth, doused with water from the small bottle, and wiped away the dirt, sweat, exhaustion from his face. He was too tired to take the borage himself; she had to hold it up to his mouth before he would take it.

She helped him climb into the cart, on the side away from Estelyn's wound, and he fell with a heavy thud, almost senseless. She covered them both with heavy blankets until they could barely be seen. If she moved fast, Bethberry could have them both back to the Inn unseen by the early morning sun. But it would be a long, grim day before she could ascertain if the two would be fine.

[ December 17, 2002: Message edited by: Rimbaud ]