Bastien's Arc

Chapter 1 of 9

Bastien knelt in the dust, his herb satchel pressed against his hip. Soldiers had dragged him from his garden in Aragon at dawn. Now he stood among fallen crusaders and broken spears. He was a healer, not a soldier. But his Moorish remedies had earned him a reputation that crossed borders. A spearman in red-crested armor shoved him toward a simple tent at the edge of the field. Inside, a wounded man lay on a rough wooden cot. A deep gash split his ribs. Blood soaked the linen beneath him. "You are the herbalist," the wounded man said. His voice was calm, measured. "They say you learned from our physicians. Prove it." Bastien opened his satchel. He pulled out clusters of small white flowers with feathery leaves. He crushed the blossoms between his palms and pressed them into the wound. The bleeding slowed. He stitched the skin with careful hands, the way a Moorish teacher had once shown him. The wounded man watched him work without flinching. "I am Zain," he said quietly. "General of this army. I owe you a debt now." He paused, studying Bastien's face. "Stay. My men will not let you leave until I can stand." Bastien tied off the last stitch. The general would live. But the tent flap closed behind him, and two guards took their places at the door. He had saved a life and lost his freedom in the same breath.