An apprentice healer he might be, Declan thought, but the boy had been taught the habits of cleanliness. Ma'el brought two sharpened, divided branches from the wagon which he pushed into the ground on opposite sides of the fire, and within a few minutes there was a large wood fowl, already plucked and gutted, rotating on a spit between them. The smell of the roasting bird was causing his stomach to remind him noisily that it was empty. His mouth was still watering when the boy tipped the boiling water from the pan onto the ground to allow the needle and dressing to cool, then held the top of Declan's head and chin between his small hands to look closely at the torn cheek.

'The cuts have bled themselves clean," said the boy in a strangely mature and self-assured voice, glancing across briefly at Ma'el. "No poultices or ointments will be needed to draw dirt or poisons from the wound and slow the healing. Seven, maybe eight stitches will suffice… You, hold still!"

Declan held his head still, teeth pressed tightly together and neck muscles tensed against the expected pain. But it was not as bad as he had expected. Although Sean was young and could not therefore be a fully tutored apprentice healer, the boy's hands were deft and sure and even gentle in their touch. Declan felt scarcely any pain at all and he began to relax. The work ended with a soft, sharp-smelling pad which, the boy said, contained herbs that would speed the healing, being applied to cover the closed wounds. A long strip of clean cloth was wound vertically around his head and chin to hold the covering firmly in position.

For the first time he was beginning to feel grateful and well-disposed towards young Sean, but the feeling lasted only until the boy spoke.