die, and neither, now, did she. He was only a boy, and the good side of his face reminded her of Nid, her oldest brother, though the ruin of the other side was grotesque—fire had stripped skin and fat from the muscle beneath and left the twisted features of a demon.
Signy shivered. This might so easily have been her, or any of them on Findnar.
“Come, child, it is time.” Gunnhilde spoke confidently, as if the girl understood each word. “His legs.” She clamped her lips into a colorless line; this would be agony for the boy. She pulled back the covering of old sheepskins.
Signy came closer and looked where the woman was pointing. Gunnhilde mimed gently placing a wooden stake on each side of the boy’s broken lower legs, and then wrapping the rope around to keep them in place. But each leg was swollen to twice its usual size, and the entire bottom half of his body was purple-black—shocking when joined to a chalk white torso. Abruptly the world reeled around Signy’s head.
“Do not faint—he needs you.” Gunnhilde spoke sharply. She, too, was sweating, and vomit clogged her throat, but there waswork to be done. “Hold his hands. Like this. Yes, above his head. Tight. Do not let go.”
Signy nodded; she understood. She lifted the boy’s arms up and back, gripping his hands with her own. If he’d been stronger, he’d have fought her, but nothing was working in his mind and body, and all he could do was groan.
“I’ll straighten the bones while you hold him. One leg at a time. Now!”
You can hear broken bone moving within its covering of flesh; you can hear the scraping click when two ends meet again.
The boy’s hands convulsed in Signy’s, frantic to be free, but she fought him, tried to hold his twisting upper body straight. They’d both heard pigs in autumn as they were killed; the boy made a sound like that as he tried to flail away from the agony. It was an assault inside Signy’s head, but she swallowed the red mist of transferred pain—and then he fainted. That was good.
“This, first.” Gunnhilde smeared more handfuls of plant slime on the broken, swollen shin. “And now this.” Long strips of clean linen were wound around and around from knee to ankle.
Signy stared. Where had the old woman found the cloth?
Tears dripped on the nun’s busy fingers; these had been spare shifts for the novices in her care. “Now the wood, then the ropes. They will hold everything.”
Signy turned her head away. With eyes closed, she could concentrate as minute after minute, strong and still, she held the boy because his pain was so much greater than her own.
“Good.” Gunnhilde looked up briefly. The girl was ash-pale, but white knuckles showed she had a grip like death.
And then it was done.
The old nun sat back on her heels and wiped green hands on the skirts of her habit. She was trembling. She gestured to Signy. “Let him go. You did well.” She found a smile.
Signy relaxed her grip. Carefully she placed the boy’s handsbeside his torso again. He did not move. Was he dead? She looked at Gunnhilde fearfully, patting his chest.
But the boy sobbed a breath, muttering.
“He’s still alive, praise be.” Gunnhilde picked up the sack she’d used to gather herbs. “No more plantain, though, and only a little shepherd’s purse.” She sighed with utter weariness. “Tomorrow. I’ll look for more tomorrow.”
Plantain. Shepherd’s purse. Signy saw an association between these words and the things they named as Gunnhilde drew out the last leaves in the sack. The nun had picked the current stock at dawn, when the dew was still on them; moon-infused water added greatly to the potency of the plants—everyone knew that.
Both were familiar to Signy, though her clan called them different names. She would find more, for the boy must have fresh green slime on his face and his legs. She surprised herself in a prayer. Let him live, Cruach. Help him . . .
CHAPTER 7
T HERE WERE
Signy shivered. This might so easily have been her, or any of them on Findnar.
“Come, child, it is time.” Gunnhilde spoke confidently, as if the girl understood each word. “His legs.” She clamped her lips into a colorless line; this would be agony for the boy. She pulled back the covering of old sheepskins.
Signy came closer and looked where the woman was pointing. Gunnhilde mimed gently placing a wooden stake on each side of the boy’s broken lower legs, and then wrapping the rope around to keep them in place. But each leg was swollen to twice its usual size, and the entire bottom half of his body was purple-black—shocking when joined to a chalk white torso. Abruptly the world reeled around Signy’s head.
“Do not faint—he needs you.” Gunnhilde spoke sharply. She, too, was sweating, and vomit clogged her throat, but there waswork to be done. “Hold his hands. Like this. Yes, above his head. Tight. Do not let go.”
Signy nodded; she understood. She lifted the boy’s arms up and back, gripping his hands with her own. If he’d been stronger, he’d have fought her, but nothing was working in his mind and body, and all he could do was groan.
“I’ll straighten the bones while you hold him. One leg at a time. Now!”
You can hear broken bone moving within its covering of flesh; you can hear the scraping click when two ends meet again.
The boy’s hands convulsed in Signy’s, frantic to be free, but she fought him, tried to hold his twisting upper body straight. They’d both heard pigs in autumn as they were killed; the boy made a sound like that as he tried to flail away from the agony. It was an assault inside Signy’s head, but she swallowed the red mist of transferred pain—and then he fainted. That was good.
“This, first.” Gunnhilde smeared more handfuls of plant slime on the broken, swollen shin. “And now this.” Long strips of clean linen were wound around and around from knee to ankle.
Signy stared. Where had the old woman found the cloth?
Tears dripped on the nun’s busy fingers; these had been spare shifts for the novices in her care. “Now the wood, then the ropes. They will hold everything.”
Signy turned her head away. With eyes closed, she could concentrate as minute after minute, strong and still, she held the boy because his pain was so much greater than her own.
“Good.” Gunnhilde looked up briefly. The girl was ash-pale, but white knuckles showed she had a grip like death.
And then it was done.
The old nun sat back on her heels and wiped green hands on the skirts of her habit. She was trembling. She gestured to Signy. “Let him go. You did well.” She found a smile.
Signy relaxed her grip. Carefully she placed the boy’s handsbeside his torso again. He did not move. Was he dead? She looked at Gunnhilde fearfully, patting his chest.
But the boy sobbed a breath, muttering.
“He’s still alive, praise be.” Gunnhilde picked up the sack she’d used to gather herbs. “No more plantain, though, and only a little shepherd’s purse.” She sighed with utter weariness. “Tomorrow. I’ll look for more tomorrow.”
Plantain. Shepherd’s purse. Signy saw an association between these words and the things they named as Gunnhilde drew out the last leaves in the sack. The nun had picked the current stock at dawn, when the dew was still on them; moon-infused water added greatly to the potency of the plants—everyone knew that.
Both were familiar to Signy, though her clan called them different names. She would find more, for the boy must have fresh green slime on his face and his legs. She surprised herself in a prayer. Let him live, Cruach. Help him . . .
CHAPTER 7
T HERE WERE
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