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It had occurred to him, the first time he had done such a thing, that housing the sick and wounded was a costly endeavor. Enkiel was a healer, however, and he had no qualms about taking care of those who needed aid. Both leaders he had served under respected this wish. “You are wounded,” the jackal said flatly. “If you would rather risk the wolves, I can send you away.” This he knew would likely end poorly; Anathema had proven they were made up of savages, and she would not cross the mountain the way she was now.
Behind him, the water began to steam. He turned his back to the halfbreed. Enkiel sifted through the various jars located around the wood-burning stove, taking pinches of herbs from these as he went. The infusions would be similar, though he added the opium seeds to her bowl. Along with the lavender, the mixture would help her sleep through the night—something any healing body would need. Carefully, he tipped the hot water from the damaged pot and into the bowls he used to drink from. “For tonight,” he added suddenly. “You are a patient. What you do tomorrow is entirely your choice, Vesper.”
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