A rest in a chamber as privileged as this one, perched atop the Commandery, was anything but peaceful.
With no water available to even rinse her face, Hermi's skin remained a gritty mask of sweat and mountain dust. The sheer filth of the journey made her loath even to sit on the bed, though the mattress looked no cleaner than she was.
On her way here, Hermi had spotted a stone cistern that stored the clean water the men retrieved every day from the Black Fortress. However, given how little there was, the supply had been reserved for drinking, cooking, and perhaps for the injured in the infirmary.
Shedding her gambeson at last, she stripped off her linen shirt to inspect the wound she had neglected for far too long. As she had feared, the white bandages were soaked a deep crimson.
The only mercy was that her shirt was black. Between the dark fabric and the thick padding of her gambeson, the stain had remained a secret from the men.
