“Will he be well enough to walk on his own?”
She nodded. “The wound is healing nicely. There will still be some discomfort remaining, and the limb will be weak, along with the rest of him, but he should have enough stamina to run without collapsing.”
“Good. The healing arts have served him well.”
Emelethana gazed out at the bubbling stream. It was late in the day already, and nightfall would be approaching again. “Yes, they have. He believes that he owes me a debt for what I have done for him.”
“Does he not?” Aspar asked.
She frowned and looked over at the old warrior. “Of course not, Aspar. It is clear that he was brought to us by the Mother’s hand. It is my duty to restore him to health.”
“Some might say that those arts should be reserved for your own people.”
“Those people would be wrong.”
Aspar turned to her, his dark eyes burning in the afternoon light. “Emelethana—”
“Priestess,” she corrected.