“Brother Vaelin is here to learn how to heal,” Sherin informed him, leaning over the stocky man to examine his wound. “Twenty feet?” she enquired.

“Closer to thirty,” one of the guards sniffed proudly, hefting his crossbow. “And he was running.”

“Vaelin,” the sergeant murmured, his glance turning into a stare of scrutiny as he looked Vaelin up and down. “Al Sorna, right?”

“That’s my name.”

The three guards laughed, it wasn’t a pleasant sound and Vaelin instantly regretted leaving his sword in the cell that morning.

“The Boy Brother who beat ten Crows single handed,” the younger guard said. “You’re taller than they said.”

“It wasn’t ten…” Vaelin began.

“Wish I’d been there to see that,” the sergeant interrupted. “Can’t stand those bloody Crows, strutting about the place. Hear they’re making a plan of revenge though. You should watch your back.”

“I always do.”

“Brother,” Sherin cut in. “I need cat gut, needle, probe, a serrated knife, redflower and corr tree oil, the gel not the juice. Oh, and another bowl of water.”

He did as he was told, grateful for the chance to escape the guardsmen’s scrutiny. He went to the store room and filled a tray with the required items returning to the treatment room to find it in uproar. The stocky man was on his feet, backed into a corner, his meaty fist clamped around Sister Sherin’s throat. One of the Guardsmen was down, a knife buried in his thigh. The other two had their swords drawn, shouting threats and fury.

“I’m walking out of here!” the stocky man shouted back.

“You’re going nowhere!” the sergeant barked in response. “Let her go and you’ll live.”

“I go inside One Eye’ll have me done. Stand aside or I’ll wring this bitch’s n-”

The serrated knife Vaelin had fetched from the store room was heavier than he was used to but it wasn’t a difficult throw. The man’s throat was clearly open but his death spasm might have caused him to snap Sister Sherin’s neck. The blade sank into his forearm causing his hand to open by reflex, allowing Sherin to collapse to the floor. Vaelin vaulted the bed, scattering the tray’s contents across the room, and felled the stocky man with a few well placed punches to the nerve centres in his face and chest.

“Don’t,” Sherin gasped from the floor. “Don’t kill him.”

Vaelin watched the man slumping to the floor, his eyes vacant. “Why would I?” He helped her to her feet. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, pulling away. “Get him back on the bed,” she told him, her voice hoarse. “Sergeant, if you could help me get your comrade to another room.”

“Be doing the bastard a favour if you had killed him, brother,” the sergeant grunted as he and the other guardsman helped their fallen comrade to his feet. “Hanging day tomorrow.”

Vaelin had to struggle to get the man off the floor, he seemed to be composed mainly of muscle and weighed accordingly. He groaned in pain as Vaelin let him fall back onto the bed, his eyes flickering open.

“Unless you’ve got another knife hidden,” Vaelin told him. “I’d lie still.”

The man’s gaze was baleful but he said nothing.

“So who’s One Eye?” Vaelin asked him. “Why does he want you dead?”

“I owe him money,” the man said, his face slicked with sweat and lined with pain from his wounds.

He recalled Frentis’s tales of his time on the streets and the wayward throwing knife that had caused him to seek refuge in the Order. “Your tax?”

“Three golds. I’m in arrears. We’ve all gotta pay. And One Eye hates those that don’t pay with a passion.” The man coughed, staining his chin with blood. Vaelin poured a cup of water and held it to his lips.

“I have a friend who told me once about a man who lost his eye to a boy with a throwing knife,” Vaelin said.

The stocky man swallowed the water, his cough subsiding. “Frentis. If only the little sod had killed the bastard. One Eye says he’s gonna take a year to skin him alive when he finds him.”

Vaelin decided he would have to meet with One Eye sooner or later. He looked closely at the crossbow bolt still buried in the man’s shoulder. “Why did the Realm Guard do this?”

“Caught me coming out of a warehouse with a sack full of spice. Good stuff too, I’d’ve made meself six golds at least.”

He’s going to die for a sack full of spice, Vaelin realised. That and stabbing a Guardsman and trying to choke Sister Sherin. “What’s your name?”

“Gallis. Gallis the Climber they call me. Not a wall I can’t scale.” Wincing, he lifted his forearm, the serrated knife still embedded there. “Looks like I won’t be doing that again.” He laughed then convulsed with pain. “Any redflower going, brother?”

“Prepare a tincture,” Sister Sherin had returned with the sergeant in tow. “One part redflower to three parts water.”

Vaelin paused to look at her neck, red and bruised from Gallis’s grip. “You should have that seen to.”

Momentary anger flashed in her eyes and he could tell she was biting back a sharp retort. He couldn't tell if she was angry that she had been proved wrong or that he had saved her life. “Please prepare the tincture, brother,” she told him in a hard rasp.

She worked on Gallis for over an hour, administering the redflower then extracting the crossbow bolt from his shoulder, cutting the shaft in half then widening the wound and gently pulling the barbed point free, Gallis biting on a leather strap to stifle his cries. She worked on the knife in his arm next, it was more difficult being closer to major blood vessels but came free after ten minutes work. Finally she sewed the wounds shut after painting them with the corr tree gel. Gallis had lost consciousness by then and his colour had noticeably paled.

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Sherin told the Sergeant. “He can’t be moved yet.”

“Can’t wait too long, sister,” the sergeant said. “Got to have him in front of the magistrate for the morning.”

“No chance of clemency?” Vaelin asked.

“I’ve got a man with a knifed leg next door,” the sergeant replied. “And the bugger tried to kill the sister.”

“I don’t recall that,” Sherin said, washing her hands. “Do you brother?”

Is a sack full of spice worth a man’s life? “Not at all.”

The sergeant’s face took on a deeply angry tinge. “This man is a known thief, drunkard and redflower fiend. He would’ve killed us all to get out of here.”

“Brother Vaelin,” Sherin said. “When is it right to kill?”

“In defence of life,” Vaelin replied promptly. “To kill when not defending life is a denial of the Faith.”

The sergeant’s lip curled in disgust. “Soft hearted Order sods,” he muttered before stalking from the room.

“You know they’ll hang him anyway?” Vaelin asked her.

Sherin lifted her hands from the bloodied water and he passed her a towel. She met his eye for the first time that day, speaking with a certainty that was almost chilling: “No one is going to die on my account.”

He avoided the evening meal, knowing his actions would only have added to his celebrity and finding himself unable to face the torrent of questions and admiration. So he hid himself in the gatehouse with Brother Sellin, the aged gatekeeper who had greeted him the previous morning. The old brother seemed glad of the company and refrained from asking questions or mentioning the day’s events for which Vaelin was grateful. Instead, at Vaelin’s insistence, he told stories of his time in the Fifth Order, proving that a man did not have to be a warrior to see much of war.