Nightseer

There was a dragon thundering somewhere high above. A hot close darkness shielded her. She opened her eyes to the muted shade of a cloak hood. A bar of greyish sunlight hinted round the edges. One hand lay free of the covering; it stretched experimentally in the grey-and-white-flecked ash. Ash? The hand squeezed the stuff together and opened, stained with wood death. Ash?

The stink of smoke was everywhere, bitter and acrid. An image flashed in her mind of the keep engulfed in flames. The keep had fallen last night. Beyond that she wasn't sure what she remembered. She did know who she was, and that was an important thing to know. She mouthed the words, "I am Keleios Incantare, and I am not dead."

There was the hum of magic nearby -- not her own magic, though. Keleios had been stripped last night of all weapons, enchanted or otherwise. She had no strength left for sorcery, and herb-witchery took more time than she had been permitted last night. Whose magic then? She was inside a protective shield, that much she could feel in the air, a strong one. Keleios rolled slowly onto one side, supporting on an elbow. The day seemed to roll and shimmer. The jagged black beams merged with the rising smoke into a fog untouched by sun. Pain seeped back slowly, and with its touch, she remembered more, Feltan was dead. Poula -- she was dead, too.

Dead. Gone. Never coming back. Those were the words that she had heard so long ago, about her own mother. She whispered, "Poula." Her throat tightened. She swallowed hard against the rising tears. "No." There was no time for this, not yet. Grief would make her helpless, and this was no time to be helpless.

She eased to her back, and the sky still rode summer blue overhead. The last clear thing she remembered was being in the dragon yard. The devils were fighting. Luckweaver was gone. Its death was an empty ache. It was as if a part of herself had gone missing. The magic of the bracers had been breached; they no longer hummed. Great white clouds moved above, and smoke rose lazily into the sky. Keleios turned her head slowly. There was a painful stiffness to the right side of her face. Two lengths from her sat Tobin. His golden armor was ripped from one arm, rusted with blood, black with soot and dirt. His reddish-brown hair was stiff with blood on one side, but it was he. His back was to her, and he was hunched cross-legged in a position of power, but even then she began to feel his weariness. Keleios mouthed his name but dared not disturb him. She lay and drifted on the growing wave of pain. She was afraid of how hurt she might be. Tobin was near exhaustion, and the shield would not still be up if danger were past.

Then far off in the ruins she glimpsed something green, moving. It traveled like water with skin, flowing, and yet it flickered and changed like flame. Where it moved, even the charred boards crumbled into dust and clumps of blackened rock were sand. Flames of corruption. She remembered that Velen had brought the thing in as a token to the fire devil. The master was gone, but the hound had not gone home.

Keleios watched the thing flow toward them, destroying everything in its path. Would Tobin's shield hold against it? She should have been terrified, afraid, but the pain was too much for fear. If the shield did not hold, then there was nothing Keleios could do about it.

It flowed over the shield, showing the world through green glass, glass that flickered and wavered and hungered.

Tobin moaned, and the shield bowed, then steadied. The flame slid off and flowed the direction it had come.

Keleios could not remember using all her sorcery last night, but it was gone. Perhaps she was simply too hurt to use it. Given a day or two of rest and a healer, she might be able to escape the corruptions with sorcery. Tobin would last only hours, not days. The only power left to her was herb-witchery. What ingredients were there? Ash, burned wood, dried blood, and from the feel, fresh blood if she wanted it that badly. She lay on burned stone. Ash for the circle, stone for the base, blood for the symbols, or perhaps soot. It could work.

She levered herself up and sat, cradling her right hand and arm. The hand was blood encrusted; the two smallest fingers looked twisted. Every movement sent sharp pains through it. She didn't need a healer to tell her the hand was badly broken. Tiny pieces of bone ground against each other; the hand was nearly crushed. Try as she would, she couldn't remember it happening. The flesh of arm and leg, glimpsed through the torn and blackened armor, was thick with huge watery blisters. The bracer on her right arm was melted to the armor and the skin beneath. The bracers were a pair, and when one was destroyed, the magic was gone. There was something wrong with the right side of her face, a painful something. It felt too much like the leg and arm to be anything less than a burn. Her good hand rose toward it then stopped. There was time enough later to be horrified. If she didn't find a healer, she would remember Luckweaver's passing in more than just memory. Sitting up had started a trickle of crimson from a shallow belly wound, but it shouldn't have been shallow. The dagger thrust had been deep; she should have bled to death by now. Her fingers told her that the wound was closing. It must have been Jodda. She had had a brand burned into her skin once. But this was a new measure of pain. The pain was a nauseating, all-consuming thing. She couldn't give over to it. It hurt just as much lying still as it did moving, so she could move if she had to.

By the angle of the sun it was afternoon. Tobin had done very well to maintain his shield. If the spell had only been against evil, it would not have been so taxing. There must have been harm other than evil for the boy to waste such energy on a shield to keep out everything. Or he acted in haste and was trapped into his mistake.

She moved cautiously to her left knee; not so much pain yet, the left side of her body seemed to be unhurt. She reached her good hand to a half-burned beam and pulled to her feet. She screamed and almost fell as her right leg took weight. The world spun, then steadied. Keleios stood breathing deeply, concentrating on each movement. She whispered, "Cia, have mercy. Let me walk this circle."

She stood away from the support beam and stood panting, swallowing past the nausea of broken bones and burns. She took a limping step, then another, and another. Even as she began, the green menace flowed toward them. She could walk the circle because she had to. Keleios half-fell to her knees, letting the left arm catch her weight. The first part could be done from here. She crawled round the circle, sweeping ash and debris clear with her left hand. The right side of her body was a painful drag. The thing approached once more. The chanting and clearing of ash from the stone was all important. The flame reared in a wave and fell upon the domed top of the spell as she dragged to her feet, clutching ash in her good hand. She began the ash circle. The shield bulged inward, and Tobin cried out. The thing's weight was a heavy closeness above her head. All thoughts went to chanting; she could not stop now. The thing raged, feeding on Tobin's weakness. The sides gave a little, and the sunshine turned to green as the monster engulfed the shield. The ash circle closed. Tobin gained something from it; the shield pushed outward to its original form.

Keleios eased herself down in the center of the circle, near a smoking beam. Still chanting, Keleios smeared her finger in the blood from her belly and began the first symbol. There were words that could be used, but the symbols were shorter. They were of an ancient tongue. Truth be known, they were not commonly used. Many people had perished by being unable to correctly decipher what sort of warding they were up against.

She was clumsier with her left hand, and it took longer than she wanted it to. The flame seemed to feel the nearness of the spell and rose against the shield. It threw its great bulk against the faint luminosity again and again. Tobin began to keen in a high, thin voice. The shield began to collapse. There were only two more symbols left. The stick man was easy, but the circle that rolled into infinity was more difficult. It smudged, and she had to scrape it away and try again. The shield roof was a hand's breadth above her head, and the weight of the flame made it seem lower, First the outer rim of the circle. There was a disturbance outside, a muffled sound of a dragon's trumpeting call. Keleios ignored it; the third rim was done. The flame began to lift, but the shield stayed small and misshapen. The seventh rim was a mere dot and finished. The spell took effect with a skin-prickling surge. Tobin raised his head, and with a small cry collapsed, his shield vanishing.

Outside was a copper dragon, baiting the flame. The dragon flew just out of reach but close enough to give hope and endanger herself. It was Brigette, one of Malcolm the Conjure-master's female dragons. He was a member of the council of Astrantha, and the only one who had spoken for Keleios when they took away her master rank. The dragon's scales flashed reddish-brown rainbows. Keleios sought mindlink with the dragon, wondering if she had the strength. The Astranthians bred their dragons dumb and safe. They retained the hard scales, but the magic sense, the intelligence, was ruthlessly culled to make a more manageable beast.

The dragon's mind was a jumble of chaotic thoughts, an animal's mind. Having touched Master Eroar's mind, she knew it for the blasphemy it was. Keleios projected an image of herself and Tobin, stressing the glowing ward and safety; an image of Brigette leaving the monster alone and flying high and safe followed. *Brigette, we are safe. Thank you for helping us, but leave the monster alone now, please. I have a shield up.*

The dragon gave an image of Malcolm smiling, then an image of herself flaming the monster and it dying. She swooped upon the green flame, then veered away a finger's breadth from the curling death.

Keleios gave an image of the flame beast devouring rock, fire, and people. She painted an image of a touch of green fire on dragon's wing and the result. Keleios was sweat drenched when she finished. It took control and great thought to project clear images to an alien mind.

The dragon rose a little higher.

As the dragon wheeled, her shadow fluttered over the ground. Keleios caught a glint of something. It winked again as the dragon passed overhead, a glass bottle. She concentrated and, yes, it glowed with a blaze of enchantment. Only one person made bottles to shine so: Shannie. She had been a peasant enchanter, and had made bottles to contain anything from the demon on Fidelis' shelf to storm spells. Shannie would have graduated this year.

Keleios gave an image of the bottle to Brigette. The dragon acknowledged it. Keleios formed an image of the dragon bringing the bottle near the shield.

The dragon swooped lower. Keleios sent a frantic image of the dragon flying away and coming back after the green flame had gone elsewhere.

The dragon rose above the angry flame and whirled to the east. One glistening wing showed a black burn on the webbing. Keleios was sweating and beginning to tremble from the mind contact. It was a low-energy use, but the effort of concentrating past the pain was almost too much. All she wanted was to lie down and cry and give herself over to the pain. No, she would not let Tobin die with help so close.

She half-crawled, half-dragged herself the short distance to him. He lay in a crumpled heap upon his side, his hair mostly obscuring his face. Keleios stumbled against him, pressing the broken hand into his back. She screamed and struggled to prop herself up on her left hand. She sat beside him, breathing in great draughts of air. Nausea and blackness threatened. The green flame came creeping to try her circle of warding.

It approached slowly, showing more intelligence than she had credited it with. It reached a tendril to touch the circle and jerked it away with a writhing that sent lines of orange through its green surface. Fire could not kill it, but it could stop it for a while. Keleios wasn't sure if it could ignore the pain and force the protect spell eventually or not. It stretched upward until it was thin as glass, then with a rush brought itself down to engulf them.

She watched the green wave fall. Would the fire ward hold it? A prayer whispered from her lips. "Urle, god of the eternal flame, let this warding be hot. Let it burn the monster. Let it withstand his charge. Let it steam his . . . " It hit.

For a moment the green lay on the tallest standing beam, draped like a tent. She thought the magic of Verm's pit was too strong. Fire. The world was suddenly flaming with good orange fire. The heat of it singed her hair. She felt in her mind the thing's screaming, a sound so high that it was like an insect's buzzing. The burned boards flamed to life again, and Keleios began to wonder if they would all die with the monster. It rolled away and began to tumble over the ground. But it did not die. She had not really expected it to, just to leave them alone.

"Thanks be to Urle, god of the eternal flame, that we are delivered and that this spell held back the destroyer of Verm."

The corruptor began to ease away as if in pain. It had evidently decided they weren't worth the effort.

Yet Keleios wasn't sure if the warding would hold against another such attack. Every warding had its breaking point.

Where was everybody? Jodda, Eroar, Belor, the children? Even the black healer, where were they?

She wanted to lie down and do nothing, just rest if the pain would let her, but Tobin needed her. He lay terribly still and was that peculiar grey color that sorcerers get when they've done too much magic at once. He had a wound on his right cheek, shallow, nothing to worry about. There was a second scalp wound, not as serious as the one Lothor had healed, but serious enough. Scalp wounds always bled a great deal, so he looked much worse than he was. There was a bandage of sorts around his right upper arm. It revealed a sword wound that had pierced his arm. Keleios was no healer to judge damage, but muscles felt torn and the main arm bones had been broken. It was the kind of wound that could deprive a fighter of the use of his arm.

Keleios began a prayer to Mother Blessen when a great flapping of wings arrived. Brigette hovered, then alit beside the bottle. She picked it up in a massive claw, gently.

Obedient to the earlier image, the dragon came closer, scuttling on three legs. The bottle was whole, undamaged, complete with a stopper. Perhaps the gods had decided to be kind.

Keleios searched for the green flame, but it was not in sight. She tested her own strength, reaching down inside to see if she could do this. The fact that she doubted it at all was a bad sign. But she had to do it, and that meant she could do it. Didn't it?

There was a flicker of green creeping over the ruins. But it was far enough away for what she had planned. She canceled the warding with one sign in the ash. The creature must have had limited magic sense because it sped its pace. Keleios used a wooden beam to drag herself to her feet, took the bottle from the dragon's claw, and removed the stopper with a word.

The creature barreled in, unheeding. Brigette took wing, but the monster was intent upon only one prey. It flowed toward Keleios in a rush of green fury, the scent of corruption riding before it like a private wind. Keleios stood, legs braced as much as possible to steady herself. She held the bottle out in front of her and spoke the words of entrapment. The thing did not slow but reared above her, a wave of green doom. The stench made her eyes water and her throat constrict. Keleios whispered the entrapment spell once more through clamped teeth. The creature hung suspended for a moment. Stretched thin as glass, blocking out the sky, it waited. She spoke the words again, and, like a high buzzing in her ear, the thing screamed. It seemed to collapse upon itself, folding inward until it was a narrow band of thick luminous green. The top of it began to bend toward the bottle.

Keleios watched the flame enter the bottle through tearing eyes. She held her breath as long as she could as the endless green line rolled into the impossibly small bottle. The clear bottle flowed green. Keleios capped it and spoke a word of strengthening.

She dropped to her knees and cried out in pain. Someone called her name. She turned slowly, the bottle gripped in her good hand.

Malcolm the Conjure-master clambered over the broken rock, his strong hands helping him where his dwarf-short legs did not. Healers followed him like a flock of carrion crows. Malcolm's face was plain as only a beardless dwarf can be, but when he smiled, his face was beautiful. He smiled at Keleios now. "Here I come to help you and you don't need any help."

She tried to smile but the right side of her face wouldn't do it. "I don't know, Malcolm. I might need a little help."

With her kneeling and him standing, they were almost the same height. His brown eyes shone with unshed tears and for a moment his face flinched as he looked at her. A familiar, freckled face appeared over Malcolm's shoulder -- Larsen, Malcolm's son, his brown eyes intent on her wounds. His hands sure and deft as any healer. "Excuse me, Father, but if she can walk, we must take her to the healing area."

The dwarf nodded, looking up at his tall and very human-looking son.

"I can walk, but Tobin . . . " She tried to stand, but with nothing to hold onto, she fell heavily and screamed.

Larsen supported her, and Malcolm took the green-filled bottle from her hand. "It wouldn't do to drop it now, would it?"

She started to say, "No," but the world spun, the darkness swallowed the summer sky.

When Keleios woke again, she was lying on a blanket. The summer sky still blew overhead, but the smell of smoke was much less. Pain woke with her. The right side of her body felt as if someone had taken all the blood from her veins and poured molten fire in its place. The burn seemed to sink right to the bone. Without meaning to, she twitched her body, struggling against the pain. Someone was whimpering softly, and Keleios discovered that it was herself.

Larsen bent over her, his face concerned but with that constant cheerfulness of most healers. "I know it hurts, but I have some salve that will help the pain. You are very lucky you didn't lose the sight of your right eye." He smeared oily white cream on some clean linen and applied the cloth to her arm until the limb was wrapped in it. He laid a rectangular piece across her face, covering her right eye as well. "I have a potion brewing that will help you sleep."

The salve eased the burning, giving a measure of comfort. The whimpering could stop.

She found it easier with both eyes closed against the cloth. "Tobin, how is he?"

"He may lose the use of his sword arm without the aid of a white healer, but he will live."

She opened her left eye. " Where are the Astranthian school's healers?"

His voice came from a distance. There was the sound of a pot lid being lifted and replaced. "The High Councilman has forbidden them to aid this disaster."

"What!" She turned her head and screamed in pain. Larsen came and replaced the fallen cloth. "Please, Keleios, no violent movements."

She lay back panting. "Gladly, but how can Nesbit forbid the white healers to follow their oath?"

"Officially, the High Councilman controls the school, though it has been centuries since council has interfered with the healers. I have heard that Verrna is holding a council of her own with her fellow healers; they are taking a vote."

"If they come?"

"It will mean exile for them."

"The entire school of Astranthian healers, exiled. Every country on the continent will want them."

He agreed with her, vanishing from her sight line to stir pots once more. Keleios felt a dreaming touch -- Master Eroar. She called his name and heard a sleepy grunt, but nothing more.

Larsen came back into view. "The Dragonmage is in a drugged sleep, in dragon form. He takes up quite a bit of room that way."

Keleios almost smiled at Larsen 's wide-stretched arms showing just how much room, but pain was more important than smiling. "He is all right, then?"

"Breena had a look at him. She was the only one who knew enough about dragons to have a go at it."

"Where . . . " Keleios tried to look for her friend -- Breena the Witch, herb healer, herb-witch, warrior, and a horrible archer. Keleios had spent most of one summer trying to teach the tall witch archery. Even Keleios had finally given up.

Larsen touched hand to her good shoulder. "Don't try looking around. Breena is out helping search for . . . bodies."

There was a sound coming from behind, and she fought warrior's training to allow someone unseen to come upon her.

Larsen tensed, demanding, "Who are you?"

Lothor bent over Keleios. His helmet was gone, and his platinum hair swung free in the wind, straying across his face like mist. He looked drained; circles like bruises were under his silver eyes. His skin looked almost yellow. Dried blood stiffened part of his hair and still clung in dry flakes to his face. "Will you please tell him who I am?"

"Larsen Herbhealer, this is Lothor Gorewielder . . . my consort."

Larsen stared down at her, his face paling leaving his freckles stranded on pasty flesh. "But Keleios, he's a black healer."

"I know." She closed her left eye, hoping it would make things easier; it didn't. "He healed me last night; he helped us banish a devil," Keleios opened her eye and asked, "What happened, Lothor? Which devil won?"

"The white, but Velen had regrouped his remaining soldiers, and we were overrun." He let his head fall forward, hair hiding his face, then came up like a man clearing deep water. "Velen used magic on Belor; he was knocked out of the fight early. A sword blow stunned me. He left me for dead and dragged off the healer."

"Belor?"

"He took him, too."

Keleios tried to think of something that could be done, but the pain wouldn't let her think clearly. It was enough of a struggle not to whimper aloud, like a child, or an animal.

Larsen said quietly, "I must set that hand."

"I know."

"It will hurt a great deal."

"It already hurts a great deal."

Larsen looked across her at the black healer. "You are something like a white healer, aren't you?"

The strained ivory face smiled. "Something like, yes."

"Can you do any more healing today?"

"I had to do major healing on myself; that leaves me with very little power. I could heal very minor wounds, or I could take pain, if that's what you're thinking."

"It is."

She heard the herb healer walk away, then return. He spread a cloth on the grass and began laying tilings upon it, "Come over to this side, healer," Lothor stood wearily and was lost to her sight. "Grip her here." A hand settled on her shoulder just above the burns. A spreading warmth began, like a small candle against the dark. Larsen began putting the bones in place. Keleios opened her mouth to scream, and the pain leaked to Lothor.

Keleios was aware of the pain, a grinding nausea, but it was distant, muted, as if happening to someone else. A sickly sweat began on Lothor's upper lip. By the time the hand was set, his skin was almost totally yellow, a sick unhealthy shade. Larsen forced him to sip a restorative tea.

Larsen pressed an herb poultice to her side wound, exclaiming, "This is healing."

"I think a white healer did something to it while I was unconscious."

"No, Keleios, your body is healing it."

"That's impossible."

Lothor said from somewhere to her right, "Limited self-healing is sometimes a side effect of using a demonmark. It will pass."

"You're trying to make me into one of you, aren't you?"

"Don't be silly. Women can't be black healers; it's a rule."

"But I'm healing myself."

"It is temporary and will not last long enough to close the wound."

What was happening to her? The dark book, Ice, she felt the same. Keleios gathered her strength and searched herself, unbelievably weak at it. There was something more, a center of warmth. Why did something evil feel so good?

Larsen knelt over her. "You need rest to heal."

Keleios closed her eye and tried to rest, but the burns and chasing thoughts would not allow it.

A soft caressing voice came through the dark. "Keleios Incantare, so you survived."

Her stomach tightened, and fear crawled up her spine. The voice was unmistakable. She greeted without opening her eye. Keleios took a deep breath and forced her voice calm. Here was a man who hated her, and she lay nearly helpless. "Barely, High Councilman Nesbit."

She looked up. He stood tall, slim, every inch an Astranthian lord, with wavy blond curls past his shoulders, clean-shaven, this year's style in court. His doublet was black with yellow and green embroidery worked into the shapes of fantastic beasts. A square collar of white lace spilled over his shoulders. As he knelt, the edge of his dark cloak swept over her leg. "I am glad that you live, Keleios. Believe that."

Keleios found anger was stronger than fear. "Believe you? You must think me a fool."

"No, I think you a traitor to Astrantha."

"Well, High Councilman, you would know a traitor better than anyone I know."

His face flushed scarlet, then he smiled. "I hold your life in my hand."

"No, it is one thing to have me killed in a raid that you chose not to stop. It is another to have a princess executed." She turned her head with an effort to face him, choking back a scream. The cloth slid from her burn. He gasped and, as all Astranthians faced with ugliness, looked away. "You don't really want war with Calthu and Wrythe, do you?"

He spoke without looking at her. "Do not tempt me."

Groth, his healer, was just behind him. She asked, "How would you like to be a rabbit again, Groth?"

The man backed away rapidly.

Nesbit snapped at him, "She is too weak to do any harm."

Larsen came and picked up the dropped cloth. "Now you've dirtied it." He replaced it with a clean rag and admonished her not to move. "I would remind you not to upset the sick, High Councilman."

"Do you want to be exiled as well, healer?"

Larsen stood very straight. "If this is the benevolent care of council, I would be safer elsewhere."

"You could join this one in prison somewhere off the island. I have no intention of you and your compatriots being made a rallying point for the masses. Rest easy; I want no martyrs."

Keleios answered quietly, "But you already have them: everyone who died in the keep last night, everyone who was taken prisoner to be sold as a slave. In a few years your term will be up, and it is the aristocracy that votes in or out. If one keep can fall, so can others. Let them think upon it awhile, and they will fear you in office. They will seek a more trustworthy shepherd for their lands."

"That is my concern, not yours."

"Oh, but it is my concern." She wanted to look at him, but the effort was too much, so she talked looking up into the smoke-hazed sky. "You made it my concern when you destroyed this keep and killed my friends and teachers. You mark me a traitor. How can it not be my concern? You will die for this night's work, Nesbit."

"You're threatening me." He laughed, throwing his head back like a baying hound. "I will miss you, Keleios, but do not threaten me. I could still have you killed."

"I am not threatening." She struggled into a sitting position, tears streaming down her face, gasping and hating her weakness. "But you are a dead man from today on. It may not be by my hand, but someone will do it because of what you did here."

"Do you prophesy?"

She thought for a moment, trying to think through the pain and the weariness. "Yes, Nesbit, I prophesy for the High Councilman of Astrantha. I see death like a black shadow across your face." She screamed as the vision slipped away and the pain returned. "Nagosidhe, Nesbit, Nagosidhe," She collapsed to the pallet.

"Nagosidhe, what is that? Is it part of the prophecy?"

Larsen came in, forcing her to lie still. "I must ask you to leave; you are upsetting her."

Lothor's voice came smooth; only Keleios could detect the weariness in it. "Nagosidhe, High Councilman, are Wrythian warriors trained as assassins."

Nesbit left her vision and said, "What do you know of the Nagosidhe, Loltun prince?"

"Our country borders Wrythe, Councilman Nesbit. We lost three lords to the Nagosidhe before my father outlawed all raids on the elves."

"I do not believe it."

Lothor shrugged. "Believe what you like."

"But was it part of the prophecy? Will the Nagosidhe be my death?"

"I do not think so. She screamed in pain; her vision had left her. Call it a promise."

"A promise, what does that mean?"

"It means she is of elven royalty and can call out the Nagosidhe."

Keleios half-smiled. Call out the Nagosidhe -- no, she could not do that. Only a pure-blooded elf could call the elven assassins. And she could never be real Nagosidhe herself, for the same reason. Balasaros Death's Master thought it unseemly that any half-elf be a Nagosidhe, even his own niece, but there were other problems to deal with before she ever saw the elven kingdoms again. And when the time came, she wanted to see Nesbit die -- yes, that was what she wanted. She would not use Nagosidhe. She would do her own hunting. Keleios spoke slowly. "Where is Zeln? What have you done with him?"

Malcolm entered the clearing and answered her. "Imprisoned, but unharmed, so no laws have been broken by the High Councilman."

Keleios half-laughed and winced. "No laws broken, Malcolm."

He knelt beside her. "I know, Keleios, I know."

The councilman's smooth voice came, "You are obviously in pain. Let Groth help you, half-elf."

The grey-dressed figure knelt hesitantly, afraid. Keleios scuttled backward off the blanket, crying out in pain, "Get him away from me!"

Larsen stepped in, "High Councilman Nesbit, as you will give us no real aid, I call healer's right and ask you to leave. And take that charlatan with you."

Groth made a small protesting sound. Nesbit silenced him and said, "Very well, I will leave and take my healer. But Groth is the only help you will get on Astranthian soil, for I have forbidden any other."

A deep voice behind him spoke, "The High Councilman forgets once more that he is not a monarch."

Nesbit whirled, "Garland, how dare you?"

"How dare I." Lord Garland looked around the devastation near at hand and turned his white-bearded face to Nesbit. "How dare you force a vote on the council. I was silenced, but no more." Three healers were at his back: one white, one grey, and one black. Lord Garland worshipped Ardath and played no favorites.

Nesbit turned to look at Keleios. "Prophecy or not, half-elf, you will be imprisoned at dusk tonight; heal quickly," He turned and vanished, taking Groth with him.

Larsen helped Keleios back to her pallet and replaced the cloths. "The healing potion is ready for you."

Lord Garland asked, "Where can my healers be of greatest use?"

"Your healers are all most welcome, Council-lord." Larsen knelt beside Keleios with a warm cup. He supported her head while she drank, forcing her not to move any more than necessary. "This boy will lose his arm without quick white healing. We have found very few survivors. The other healers are out helping search for bodies."

Keleios' stomach began to knot and churn. "Larsen, I feel ill."

"I know, but the potion will help ease you."

"No, it . . . " Her spine went rigid, arching her body grotesquely. She was looking at the world through frosted glass and pain. A face hovered over her. "Jodda?" But the healer's eyes were brown as wood; her black hair, braided. Not Jodda, no one she knew.

An unusually gruff voice came from the woman's body. "Hold her so I can work."

Hands held her down, faces floating above her. There was death in her stomach, flowing through her veins in a way she had never experienced. She knew she was dying. They weren't helping her. "Aklan, tac morl, frintic aklan, aklan!"

A man's voice, "Herb healer, what did you give her?"

Larsen said in haste, "A potion for relaxation, sleep."

"What was in it?"

"Veldra, peppermint, goddess mantle . . . "

"Goddess mantle, also known as demon's bane?"

"Yes."

"You have poisoned her."

"But it isn't a poison."

"To her it is. First healer, you must remove poison from her body."

The brown-eyed healer didn't argue but laid hands on Keleios' struggling body. The arching spine and rigidity were lasting longer each time. Every sound, every movement, went through her body, jerked her muscles, sent her spine rigid. Keleios couldn't breathe until her body relaxed, and each spasm lasted longer than the last, until she could not breathe at all. The warmth of healing flowed through her body, chasing the poison. She could feel the poison being drawn from her body.

She muttered, half-gone, in pain, "Aklan."

The man's voice whispered, "Nor ac morl, nor ac morl."

The uninvited magic in her body responded to the words, calmed. Someone had understood; someone was helping.

Keleios lay still and panting, her breathing loud, her body sweat-coated.

She blinked up into a pale face lined with brown hair; two green-grey eyes stared at her, "When you are rested, I would like to speak with you in private." It was the strange male voice in the garb of a black healer.

Keleios tried to speak, but the white healer shooed them all away. "I must heal your burns and that hand. You seem to have a small ability to heal yourself. I have never touched anything like it." She shook her head. "But I will heal you, then we may talk."

Larsen was beside her. "Keleios, I didn't know. I've used the compound many times without harm."

She answered, finding her voice hoarse. "You could not have known; be at peace about it, Larsen."

Cool fingertips touched her cheek, and magic chased along the ruined skin. For a moment the pain scorched across her face. Keleios screamed and was echoed by the white healer. The healer was Meltaanian trained. No Astranthian-trained healer would have allowed the pain to increase before disappearing.

The woman sat back in meditation, and Keleios watched the burns fade from the pale face. The blackened, blistered flesh changed to angry red, then faded to pink and was gone.

The hands moved to her arm. The fire ate flesh and the pain vanished. The healer broke contact and meditated.

The broken hand was cradled between the healer's own hands. Awake, Keleios remembered the pain -- rock falling, crushing, such weight, her screaming as the pain brought her back, then dropped her in darkness.

The healer sat cross-legged for several minutes. Her face was pasty and a sick sweat dripped from her. The leg was next with its burns.

When the healer opened her eyes from the last meditation, Keleios asked, "What is your name, so I may thank you properly?"

"I am Radella of Crisna."

"'Thank you, white healer Radella of Crisna."

She bent forward swiftly over Keleios' side wound. "It is a small thing, but if you go to prison tonight, I would not send you half-healed." There was a burst of warmth and pain vanished. "You will be weak for some hours, but rest and feel better."

Radella rose, leaving Keleios to marvel at her returned body.

The pain was gone; only a bone-numbing tiredness remained. She flexed her right hand, marveling at how easily it moved. Her arm bent at the elbow, raised at the shoulder; her fingers touched her face, smooth once again.

The grey-green-eyed black healer knelt with a cup. Keleios refused it politely, a part of her responding to him. He had saved her.

"It will send you into a deep healing sleep for some hours. You will wake refreshed and healed. I prepared it myself, so there will be no more inadvertent poisoning. I would greatly love to take speech with you about the demons, but you must heal now."

"I do not wish to go to prison in my sleep."

He smiled. "My lord Garland works that you may not have to go at all. But if you must go, take this so you go healed. Without this it could take days for you to strengthen."

She drank it carefully, supporting herself on one elbow. Against her will each muscle relaxed until she sank back into the pallet. Her body weighed a thousand unicorns weight. It was such an effort to move. She forced one finger to twitch and it felt as heavy and bulky as a practice sword. Keleios drifted on the verge of deep dreamless sleep.

Someone touched her. Keleios forced her eyes open. The black healer laid hands upon her, checking her breathing. The touch was a white healer's touch, healthy and good. Keleios was being forced to accept that the only difference was in the masters served, and the use made of the gift.

Breena the Witch strode into the healing station. Though only an herb healer, she seemed to bring health and heartiness with her. She was dressed in leather armor, brown hair free-flowing round her shoulders. She knelt rapidly beside Keleios.

Keleios tried to keep her eyes open, but could not. She heard the woman's rich voice from a distance. "There isn't much alive out there." She spoke an old Calthuian proverb. "The only thing more sad than a battle won is a battle lost."

Keleios let the drugged sleep sweep her under. The last thing she heard was, "Two more bodies. Where do you want us to put them?"