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“Two days?” Dawsyn confirms with Hector, who hovers over Dawsyn’s shoulder.

“Thereabouts,” Hector answers. “She’s weakening. We didn’t know…” his voice trails off, and he sighs. “She did not say she was hurt.”

Dawsyn gently unties the snowpack, made from whatever shirt was generously given and torn to pieces. Abertha’s lips part as Dawsyn’s fingers work, but the sound that escapes is so faint, Dawsyn cannot be sure it is one of pain or the murmurings of sleep. The girl smells of death already.

The fabric of her pants is badly stained in blood and dried puss – so much so, the fabric has melded to the wound. Dawsyn sighs.

“Must you remove it?” Hector asks. “Can you heal her first?”

Dawsyn considers. “I’d rather see the magic working, so I might know the extent of the wound, and know when to stop.”

Hector grimaces back, but nods. “Do it quick.”

Dawsyn pulls out a knife and carefully makes a cut at the hem. Then, with one swift movement, she tears the fabric, splitting it up Abertha’s calf, and separating it from the wound.

Abertha’s leg jerks, and she moans pitifully, new sweat beads forming along her brow, but the fever keeps her sedated.

The wound is… ghastly. It makes a wretched mess of her skin, mottling the flesh. The cut has yellowed with a foul-smelling excretion, while the surrounding skin remains bright red. It stretches from the inside of her knee and disappears into her boot.

Abertha’s shoes are already unlaced, but it would be madness to leave her without boots, even for a short time. The cold finds its way to the skin without provocation, which is why Dawsyn blanches to find the seam of Abertha’s boot broken – the sole peeling away. Such an easy route for the cold.

“Mother mercy.”

“What is it?” Esra asks.

As an answer, Dawsyn slowly pulls the ruined boot from Abertha’s foot. The insides are well insulated with layers of hide and fur-lining, and if it weren’t for the gaping seam at the toe, it would have made a fine boot for long-wear. Dawsyn cringes. How long had she walked through the snow? What havoc has the frost wrecked on her?

“Shit,” Dawsyn breathes.

“Holy Mother,” Esra gapes.

Hector curses and backs away, as though it is catching.

Frostbite.

Two of Abertha’s toes have blackened, as though dipped in ink. The others are ominously white and bubbled in blisters, the flesh slower to die.

“Idiot,” Dawsyn mutters, though her throat closes for the girl. “Why would she say nothing?” The wound, the ruined shoe – why travel in silence rather than alert them? “Close your eyes,” Dawsyn says roughly, and presses her palms to the burning flesh of Abertha’s leg, avoiding the wound. “Cristique.”

Light fills the cave, and she urges magic into Abertha. Dawsyn cleans the wound first, clears the blood of infection. Then she mutters the spell to repair it and feels the power ebb. The wound begins to stitch slowly, the flesh resisting the effort to rejoin. Dawsyn can feel it pulling back but coaxes it to continue.A little longer,she thinks, feeling the fever dissipate from Abertha’s skin.

Release me,Dawsyn hears, and feels the pressure of resistance intensify.

Dawsyn lets it go. She feels the magic sprint back through her veins, thin and feeble. But the wound at Abertha’s leg is now a fresh pink scar. It is not completely healed, but Abertha’s eyes are open and searching. Her cheeks pinken delicately with the chill in the cave.

Dawsyn feels an intense pounding in her head, and her vision swims.

“Bertie?” Hector says, grasping her shoulders. “Are you well?”

Abertha looks at him, then Dawsyn. “I… Yes. I think so.”

But Dawsyn’s waning gaze has found Abertha’s toes once more, and though the white-tipped smaller toes have returned to their healthy pink, the first two remain black as coal.

“Dawsyn…Thank you,” Abertha says, leaning up on her elbows. She bends her leg to view the scar better and winces.

“Do not thank me,” Dawsyn says, sighing sadly.

Abertha frowns. “Without you, I would have died.”