Alanna knelt beside Hassam, smiling at him. A wide-eyed girl, not long a wife, hurried to stand beside her with a basin of hot water and clean bandages. Alanna dipped one in the water, using it to carefully rinse Hassam’s wound clean. “What happened to the hillman who gave you this?” she asked jokingly. “Is his spirit looking for a place to rest?”
“Coram cut him down while I fought him,” the boy replied, wincing as she gently pulled his hair away from the wound. “He said honor is not necessary when fighting thieves.”
“I’ll need healing salve, thread, and a very fine needle. Tell Farda,” Alanna instructed the waiting girl, who nodded and hurried off. Alanna examined the wound closely. “I think Coram told me the same thing when I was your age—and that wasn’t so long ago. Hold still.” She closed her eyes and reached out into his body, searching out the full extent of the wound’s damage. She grimaced inwardly at the sick feeling in the boy’s skull: he had a bad concussion. Still, it could have been far worse: the bone was uncracked, and there was no bleeding in his brain. She squeezed the boy’s hand. “You bruised your head,” she told him, knowing he would have no idea what “concussion” meant. “You’ll be dizzy and sick for a while, and you’ll have trouble standing—so don’t try it. Now. I’m helping you to sleep so I can sew your wound in peace. All right?” Hassam nodded, his large eyes full of trust. She placed her hands on his once more, reaching for the warm fire of her Gift. This time it flowed softly and peacefully down her arms, making her feel nearly as relaxed as the boy, who went to sleep instantly. She stopped for a moment and sighed, before pulling her mind back to her surroundings. The girl had returned with the materials she needed. Deftly Alanna thrust undyed thread through the needle’s eye. Glancing at the watching Ishak, she said, “Make yourself useful, will you? Hold him.”
The young Bazhir obeyed, holding the sleeping boy’s head gently but firmly between his hands. “Won’t it hurt?” he asked apprehensively as Alanna tested the needle’s point.
“Ouch! Not now—not after I’ve used the Gift to put him to sleep. Steady.” Quickly she set her stitches, thanking the gods yet again for the training she had received from the palace Healers during the Tusaine War. The stitches in, she cut the thread and bandaged the wound, using healing salve and a clean bandage. Finally she replaced Ishak’s hands with her own. Hassam never stirred. His slumber deepened as she used her Gift again, shoving back the damage done by a hillman’s axe. Dimly she could hear Faithful yowling behind her, but her mind was fixed on her work. When she had aided nature all she could, she released Hassam into a real sleep. With luck he would be well soon, with an interesting scar for the maidens to admire.
She stood, her ears roaring. Preoccupied by Hassam’s injury, she thought at first she had risen too quickly. Then the sick, weak feeling swelled up from her midsection, and she swore even as her legs buckled. In the excitement of fighting, of keeping control over the crystal sword, of her worry over the tribe’s young ones, she had overextended, using more of her Gift than she could afford to give away.
I’ll never learn, she thought ruefully as she fainted.
It was fully dark when she woke. Faithful was howling urgently right into her ear, and a slim hand gripped her shoulder, shaking her. Wearily she opened her eyes, trying to focus without much success. “It’s really better if you let me rest,” she muttered. “I just overdid a little, that’s all.”
“Faithful says to wake you,” Kara apologized. “He says it’s Ishak.”
A bolt of alarm shot through Alanna, and she fought to sit up. Bone-deep weariness tugged at her like chains, trying to drag her down. “Ishak? Bless him, what’s he doing now?” Her alarm was even greater when she realized that the ember at her neck was warm—no, hot.
He has the sword, Faithful cried. While the tribe met with the Voice, he came here and took the sword!
Her heart thudding sickly, Alanna lurched to her feet. Her head spun. She held it, forcing her eyes to remain open. She was in no shape for a showdown. Gripping the ember-stone, she sent a plea to the Goddess, for Ishak’s sake. Strength washed into her, steadying her shaking limbs.
Closing her eyes, she reached out, searching for a sign—any sign—of her wayward apprentice. Her mind touched the web of magic that was the crystal sword as it vibrated with new heights of fury. The weapon had come to accept her commands, just barely, but it would never accept Ishak. Opening her eyes, she raced toward the hill where they had faced the raiders that morning.
He was shining in his own red fire, the sheathed sword in his hand. An orange glow surrounded the weapon, battling with the young man’s magic.
For a second Alanna’s mind flickered, and Ishak was replaced by a vision: