Laurell Hamilton - Nightseer

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?”

Keleios’ eyes opened to dusk. The sky had been bled dark. The forest was a black bulk against a grey-silver sky where the last light of day struggled against the dark. Keleios felt refreshed. Magic was there for the calling again. Her body felt good, as if she had slept for a week. She wondered what had been in the potion the black healer gave her, for she felt remarkably well, better than she had expected.

She could see Eroar the Dragonmage curled head over tail, asleep, deep, past dreaming. She marveled at his true form. This would be only the third time she had seen it. His scales were a rich blue like the ocean far from land. His spine ridge was black, as were his claws; his true form bulked large and frightening.

Poth was a warm weight across her legs. Keleios lay still, trying not to disturb the cat. Her black and white fur was matted and dirty. She had been too tired even to groom. The cat flexed in her sleep, one ear twitching as if it caught a distant sound.

Keleios smiled in the dusk. Most wizards did not care for animals that did not earn their keep as familiar or worker. Even Keleios would never admit how much the cat meant to her.

Breena was tending the two fires, one for cooking and one for brewing potions. She fed sticks to the fire, the orange glow showing her face drawn and tired.

Carrick’s nearly bald head showed above blankets. The rise and fall of his chest told Keleios he was alive. Keleios wondered if he too had been given a potion or if he would be allowed to sleep until healed. How Carrick hated magic potions.

Two men appeared, wearing the livery of the High Councilman, a black background with a

red demon-spitting fire. Breena stood and was joined by the brown-haired black healer. The tallest one gave a rolled parchment to them. The witch took it. The paper sounded stiff, crinkling when she touched it, very official.

The tall one spoke in formal correct tones. “High Councilman Nesbit has decreed all surviving journeymen or teachers, traitors. We have come to ask you to ready the prisoners for moving.”

Keleios had seen Breena truly angry only twice, each time glad that it was directed elsewhere. “I can read. Let me understand that the High Councilman of Astrantha has ordered injured and unconscious people imprisoned.”

The guards shifted uneasily, for it was considered ill luck to interfere with a healer.

“Why doesn’t he take the children, too?”

“They are young and can be reconditioned in the proper Astranthian school.”

“And the weapons master, Carrick, is he to be imprisoned also?”

“No, he was doing the job he was paid to do. There is no treachery in that.”

Keleios sought outward with her mind. A teleport block had gone up around the area. Teleporting was not one of her better spells but she would have risked appearing inside a tree, or another person, to escape Nesbit’s net. A teleport gone wrong was a very bad way to die, but the High Councilman’s dungeons were famous for making you wish for death, any sort of death. She felt strong enough to take the two guards and fight her way free. If magic were useless, then there was always steel.

Three more guards appeared.

Breena let her hand fall to her short sword. “You are not taking them like this, all unknowing.”

“Please, healer, do not make us fight you.”

The black healer stepped forward. “I promised the half-elf she would not go into captivity asleep.” He pushed his cloak behind his shoulder and rested his hand on his sword pommel.

“I am not asleep.”

Everyone jumped at the unexpected words and turned. Keleios sat up and said, “I thank you both for defending me, but I am quite able to defend myself.” Poth, who had been awake for some time, stretched and leapt to the ground, yellow eyes regarding the men.

A deep rumbling voice sounded. “I, too, am awake.”

Eroar’s eyes caught the firelight as he raised his head. The eyes sparkled orange and fire-filled, and the dragon blew a questing breath of smoke.