That evening, the common room of the High-Fen village inn was quiet, warm. Then he filled with the comfort of finished labor.
A fire of dry birch logs crackled in the wide stone hearth. It cast dancing orange light across the heavy timber ceiling beams. Tomas, Sile, and Nessa sat at a corner table near the chimney, their heavy mud-caked boots replaced with dry felt slippers.
Tomas had removed his leather coat and unbuckled the calfskin brace from his left forearm.
The old injury was swollen and red from the brutal crushing strain of Load Share in the flooded sump, the skin stretched tight over the scarred tendon sheath. His middle and ring fingers were stiff, curling inward like dry oak leaves.
Beside him on the bench sat a pot of warm animal fat liniment infused with wintergreen and camphored vinegar. Sile Rook sat beside him, working a generous dollop of the pungent grease into Tomas’s scarred forearm with his thick, calloused thumbs.
Sile’s thumbs were rough as sandstone. But his touch was surprisingly gentle as he kneaded the tight, knotty gristle along the forearm bone. Tomas winced, his breath catching in his throat, then slowly exhaled as the healing heat seeped deep down to the bone surface.
