“What happened to your leg?” Lacey asked him gently. Then: “Brace yourself,” she warned him, and placed a warm, dripping cloth onto his knee. He gave a shudder and went paler, but refrained from making a sound. He drank some more milk.

“An arrow,” he said at last. “It was just damnably bad luck that it struck where it did. Right where that boar ripped me, so many years ago. And it lodged against the bone. Verity cut it out for me.” He leaned back suddenly in the chair, as if the memory sickened him. “Right on top of the old scar,” he said faintly. “And every time I bent my knee, it pulled open and bled some more.”

“You should have kept the leg still,” Patience observed sagely. All three of us stared at her. “Oh, I suppose you couldn’t, really,” she amended.

“Let’s take a look at it now,” Lacey suggested, and reached for the wet cloth.

Burrich fended her off with a gesture. “Leave it. I’ll see to it myself, after I’ve eaten.”

“After you’ve eaten, you’ll rest,” Patience informed him. “Lacey, please move aside.”

To my amazement, Burrich said nothing more. Lacey stepped back, out of the way, and Lady Patience knelt before the stablemaster. He watched her, a strange expression on his face, as she lifted the cloth away. She damped the corner of the cloth in clean water, wrung it out, and deftly sponged the wound. The warm wet cloth had loosened the crusted blood. Cleaned, it did not look as evil as it had at first. It was still a nasty injury, and the hardships that Burrich had endured would complicate its healing. The parted flesh gaped and proud flesh had formed where it should have closed. But everyone visibly relaxed as Patience cleaned it. There was redness, and swelling, and infection at one end. But there was no putrefaction, no darkening of the flesh around it. Patience studied it a moment. “What do you think?” she asked aloud, of no one in particular. “Devil’s-club root? Hot, mashed in a poultice? Do we have any, Lacey?”

“Some, my lady,” and Lacey turned to the basket they had brought and began to sort through it.

Burrich turned to me. “Are those pots from my room?”

At my nod, he nodded in return. “I thought so. That fat little brown one. Bring it here.”

He took it from my hands and lifted the stopper from its mouth. “This. I had some of this, when I set out from Buckkeep, but it was lost with the pack animals, during the first ambush.”

“What is it?” Patience asked. She came, devil’s-club root in hand, to gaze curiously.

“Chickweed and plantain leaves. Simmered in oil, then worked with beeswax into a salve.”

“That should work well,” she conceded. “After the root poultice.”

I braced myself for his argument, but he only nodded. He suddenly looked very tired. He leaned back and pulled the blanket more closely about himself. His eyes sagged shut.

There was a knock at my door. I went to answer it, and found Kettricken standing there, with Rosemary at her elbow. “One of my ladies told me there was a rumor Burrich had returned,” she began. Then she looked past me into the room. “It’s true, then. And he’s hurt? What of my lord, oh, what of Verity?” She went suddenly paler than I thought she could be.

“He’s fine,” I reassured her. “Come in.” I cursed myself for my thoughtlessness. I should have sent word to her immediately of Burrich’s return and of the tidings he carried. I should have known that otherwise she would not be told. As she entered, Patience and Lacey looked up from the devil’s-club root they were steaming to welcome her with quick curtsies and murmurs of greeting.

“What’s happened to him?” Kettricken demanded. And so I told her, reporting all that Burrich had told King Shrewd, for I thought she had as much right to word of her husband as Shrewd had to word of his son. She blanched again at mention of the attack on Verity, but kept silent until my telling was done. “Thank all our gods that he draws closer to my Mountains. There he will be safe, from men at least.” That said, she drew closer to where Patience and Lacey were preparing the root. It had been steamed soft enough to crush into a pliable mass, and they were letting it cool before applying it to the infection.

“Mountain ash berry makes an excellent wash for such an injury,” she suggested aloud.

Patience looked up at her shyly. “I have heard of that. But this warmed root will do much to draw the infection from the wound. Another good wash for proud flesh such as this is raspberry leaf and slippery elm. Or as a poultice.”