Laurell Hamilton - Nightseer

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.”