The Prince invited the city to his castle grounds, for food and drink, entertainments and dancing, on the day of the second night of the next full moon but one. Word spread quickly, like fire across a hayfield, until the talk of the market was only of the feast, and winter, winter and the feast. It would be spring then, and spring was cause for hope. Winter had no hope in it. Food was scarce, fuel was scarce, only sickness was plentiful. Disease spread in winter, not with the speed of summer fevers, but slowly, like a river rising. Sometimes, during those days of waiting, Birle was awakened from sleep by a quiet knocking at the door that led to the walled yard. In dire need a wife, or mother, child, even friend, would creep up along the riverbank where no guards watched, under cover of darkness, to ask the Philosopher for comfrey to knit a bone; a plaster to spread over someone’s chest; even a single spoonful of the ointment that, dropped into boiling water, made a healing vapor that eased a choking cough; or dwale to ease a death.
