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“I’m sorry,” Xan says. “I need to use it to stop you bleeding. I will not look at you.”

Jemel is sobbing behind his hands as Xan rips the thin fabric into two strips, knots them together and ties the binding around Jemel’s thigh, above the bloody wound. Xan can see nothing of his face, hidden behind those beautiful hands and a fall of silver hair.

“No,” Jemel says, sounding distressed and weak. “I need my veil. You cannot. Don’t.”

“Shush. Quiet. Stay still. Keep your hands on your face. You need a physician. Where can I find one?”

“No,” Jemel says. “No one can see me like this.”

“Then what?” Xan says through his teeth.

“Get me salix.”

Xan does not know the word and when he frowns Jemel says, “White willow. There was a willow near where we came in. White willow bark.”

Xan jumps up. He takes the oil lamp and finds the tree quickly, then races back to Jemel.

Jemel takes the bark gratefully with one hand. Xan looks away so as not to glimpse the priest’s face as he brings the bark to his mouth and chews on it.

Xan does not know this tree bark cure. But when he looks around he sees a honeywort plant growing just beside where Jemel lies. Big flat green leaves. Is this garden truly magical? Is it giving him the plants he needs? He mutters words of thanks to the Mother of Men and then adds further thanks for the fae, in case they planted this garden and watch over him too.

He picks a honeywort leaf and turns back to Jemel. Who has recovered his face with his hands.

“I…” Jemel says through his fingers. “What you did with my veil helped. Thank you.”

Xan looks. The bleeding has certainly slowed.

Xan chews up two large leaves and spits the paste into his palm, then smears it on the wound. Jemel yelps. “What is that?”

“Honeywort. This will be uncomfortable, but it will work.” He rubs the paste into the bloody puncture, feeling Jemel tense and then tears off some fabric from the bottom of the priest’s robes and binds the paste firmly against the wound.

“I hope you know what you are doing.” They are the first words from Jemel that sound like himself. Xan is glad to hear them.

“If this is truly the same plant that grows on Pluma, growing somehow in this strange place, then I have done this many times, cured worse wounds than this.”

Xan sits down beside Jemel, still doing his best not to look at him. “If you will not let me bring a physician here, you should stay still for a while. Be sure that the bleeding has ceased.”

Jemel shifts his hands so he covers most of his face with one of them, then reaches out and picks up the dagger that was stuck in his thigh. He peers at it through gaps in his fingers. Xan sees his eyes, glittering pure silver. He has never seen eyes like it. “I think this is what we came here for? The blade that killed Pershel.”

“You think it was the Plumian that did it? She wanted to kill you. She believed you were some kind of demon. Perhaps she thought the same of Pershel.”

“Perhaps,” Jemel says, “but I heard what she said to you. And we know what she wrote. She thinks the demon killed Pershel.”

“You think this is related to your demon? The one in the old writings? The one you think will end the world of men?” Xan says. He sees no reason to believe in any demon from ancient writing. There are many demons in old tales. Including the one Jemel speaks of. The Bellator destroyed by Five Fae Princes. There are many more. All old tales.

Jemel turns the blade over in his elegant hand. It seems to fit him somehow. His slender, pale fingers and the pearl-handled blade. “There is something written here,” he says. “These glyphs. They are Ur-Ambolk.”

“What does it say?”

“It says Blade of the Fifth.” Jemel pauses. “I think it belongs to me.”

Xan frowns. “It was yours?”

“No, I have never seen it before but I feel something. It is mine.”

Xan does not know what Jemel means by that. He checks the wound again. The blood has slowed to almost nothing. Although a lot of it came out of him. He needs to be somewhere he can stay warm. Eat and drink. “I should take you back to your chambers.”

Jemel is still enthralled by the dagger. Xan cannot see what the attraction is. It is a pretty weapon, but he has seen prettier. Perhaps this priest has truly never seen a dagger made to look decorative. Even when he lives in Attar. The heart of an empire that is itself a weapon made to look decorative. “I am not sure I can walk so far,” Jemel says, a soft whisper, one hand still covering his face.