Herbalists' Cache Tēähkomeûnts

Sharp-scented tarragon is folded into tidy clusters. Ayovi’s ears are drawn toward the chief’s rolling breaths as the clearing goes silent save for the pacing of the dark man and woman just beyond sight.
“My husband came to you. Did you hear him speak?” She asks, not yet knowing if Skorpa had been able to pass the brigade of Sun Eater’s sentries. She assumes he did not, for in sex and stature alone the norseman would not fly above suspicion so easily as his wife does.
“The glacier bribed us for an allegiance,” Ayovi goes on, “and we refused.” But this did not mean others followed suit. Saatsine’s chief would now know an army marched toward the cache, and what the leader decided to do with the knowledge was his choice.
The huntress’ gaze holds over the single sharp eye, as if trying to read him; to see the callous husband Star Eater had spoken of. The chieftain seemed tame enough, but she was not going to give him the chance to prove her wrong. Ayovi reaches for the first cut: a long, puss-embedded gash along the strong neck, and prises open the scabbed skin. She clears away infection, sterilizes the raw flesh with witch hazel, and packs threads of strongly-scented tarragon into the wound.
“These must be re-dressed each day to prevent infection.”