Page 6 of The Archer’s Wish

The healer’s house sat at the edge of the village green, its thatched roof and herb-laden windowsills a familiar sight. Camden, who was the village healer, kept the front room tidy, not a speck of dust to be seen, each jar labeled neatly, each bundle of dried plants hanging from the rafters in strict order. The front door, as always, was unlatched; sick folk arrived often, some too weak to knock.

She stepped inside. The room was quiet, the hearth cold. Not unusual, Camden was often away tending to those who couldn’t travel.

Beitris rolled up her sleeves and began selecting ingredients from the shelves: comfrey, mint, willow bark, a pinch of valerian. Her mind already working through proportions. The gentle scrape of clay jars and the soft rustle of dried leaves filled the silence.

A knock startled her.

The door creaked open, revealing a slender brunette peering inside. Her dark eyes were wide with worry, her thin fingers twisting nervously at the fabric of her skirt.

“I need a healer,” the woman said, voice trembling.

Beitris stepped forward. “I am the healer’s apprentice. Can I help ye?”

The woman swallowed hard, relief and desperation mingling in her expression. “I am called Anne. My brother, Gowan, is very ill. He needs a healer now.”

“What has befallen him?” Beitris asked, already gathering her satchel of supplies. “Camden is not here, but mayhap I can see to yer brother.”

Anne bobbed her head. “He lives alone. I brought him stew today but found him… unwell. He burned his right-side days ago, at the forge. The wound has festered. The smell…” Her voice broke, fear tightening her throat.

“We will go at once,” Beitris said gently.

The walk across the village took only minutes, though Anne’s anxious expression made it feel longer. Gowan’s cottage was a sturdy, well-built place, larger than most, with the blacksmith’s shop attached. The lingering scent of soot and metal clung to the air.

Anne pushed open the door without hesitation. The interior was dim, only a bit of fading light through the windows. Beitris followed her through the main room to a smaller chamber in the back.

There lay Gowan, a large man who dwarfed the narrow bed beneath him. He was utterly still. For one cold heartbeat, Beitris feared she had arrived too late, until she saw the rise and fall of his chest, shallow but steady.

She knelt beside him, pressing a hand to his brow. Heat radiated from him. The smell rising from his wound was unmistakably foul.

“We must work quickly,” she murmured.

The next hours blurred into steady, determined labor. Together, she and Anne cleaned the infected burn, washed the fevered man with cool water, and replaced soiled linens with fresh ones. Beitris brewed tea to ease his fever and coaxed the liquid between his lips.

By the time the sun dipped past the horizon, Gowan’s breathing had steadied. His eyes, bleary but aware, opened long enough for him to drink a few swallows of chicken broth.

“He is still very ill,” Beitris said quietly as she packed her satchel. “It will take days of constant care, perhaps longer.”

Anne followed her to the door, gratitude softening her strained expression. “I will remain here and care for him. Thank ye. Truly.”

“Wash the wound each day with clean water,” Beitris instructed, her tone firm. “Leave it open to the air. Keep the window cracked. If the fever breaks, only then can ye cover him for warmth, but dinnae let the room grow stale.”

“I will,” Anne promised. “I will do my best.”

“I will return in the morning,” Beitris assured her.

Anne insisted she take payment: a skinned rabbit, potatoes, onions, carrots, and a single silver coin pressed into her palm with trembling fingers. Beitris protested, but the woman would not be swayed.

Outside, evening settled over Tokavaig, the scent of hearth fires drifting through the cooling air. Beitris adjusted the bundle under her arm.

She would make stew for Camden tonight. For all his skill, her cousin ate poorly, always buried in his studies of herbs or healing treatments, the main reason he remained unwed, she suspected.

She headed toward the healer’s house, her shadow stretching long behind her. Her mind already turning toward poultices, healing, and a certain warrior whose face she could not stop thinking about.

Chapter Three

Spirits in the keep were brightening daily as preparations to go to the spring festival in the village swept through like a warm breeze. Everywhere Liam went, people chattered about it: food to be cooked, garlands to be woven, dances to be rehearsed. The air practically hummed with anticipation.

Liam felt none of it.