Suddenly the horse slowed and stopped, shaking its head. Ranira forced her legs to keep moving over the uneven ground. She stumbled and half-fell forward. She flung out her hand and found herself gripping the rope that stretched between the horse and Arelnath. Abandoning any attempt to keep her feet, she began sawing at the rope.
The chestnut reared as it felt the additional weight pulling at its saddle. Ranira clung grimly to the rope, afraid that if she let go she would never get close enough to catch it again. The rough, twisted fibers stung her blistered hands painfully, but she ignored them. As the chestnut came down, she hacked at the rope again. The fibers parted reluctantly, a little at a time. The horse reared once more and started to move. Ranira threw her weight onto the knife as she felt the rope slipping from her grasp.
The rope parted at last. With a sound like a scream, the chestnut sprang forward and vanished among the trees. Ranira lay panting on the ground, watching. Slowly her breath came back to her, and she climbed to her feet. She left the Temple dagger lying where she had dropped it and turned to Arelnath.
“Are you all…” Ranira stopped. The Cilhar woman’s face was twisted with pain. Ranira dropped to her knees and reached for the ropes that encircled Arelnath’s arms. As she started to tug at the knots, Arelnath gasped. Ranira stopped fumbling with the rope and bent to examine the other woman more closely. Both of Arelnath’s shoulders were bent at an unnatural angle.
Ranira sat back. Should she continue trying to untie the ropes or would it harm Arelnath even more? Her dilemma ended when Arelnath blinked painfully up at her and said through clenched teeth, “Untie me! Hurry!”
Ranira obeyed. The knots were stubbornly tight, and every pull made Arelnath shudder in pain. At last the bonds fell away. As her arms changed position, Arelnath gasped and fainted.
Not knowing what else to do, Ranira brushed the limp pieces of rope away from Arelnath’s hands and waited. After a moment, Arelnath stirred and winced. Her eyes opened. “Remind me to be more careful about moving. Can you help me?”
Ranira nodded uncertainly and reached out. “Not the arms!” Arelnath nearly screamed as Ranira touched her.
“I am sorry,” Ranira said. “I didn’t realize.”
“Sorry? What are you trying to do, cripple me? Don’t you know a dislocated shoulder when you see one?”
“Dislocated shoulder?”
“No, I suppose you wouldn’t, at that.” The anger drained out of Arelnath in a visible relaxation, leaving only a stubborn resistance to pain. “Go and get Mist. She’ll know what to do. Go! I don’t want to lie here forever.”
Ranira rose to her feet, automatically dusting the front of her robe as she looked around. She was surprised to see how far they had come; she could barely see the others. She shouted “Mist!”
The voice that answered was Shandy’s. “Renra! C’mere!”
Ranira picked up her dagger and plodded back toward the edge of the forest where she had left Mist and Shandy. The trees kept her from seeing either of the two clearly until she had almost reached them. Then she stopped short. “Shandy, what happened?”
Shandy looked up from beside Mist. “Renra, do something with Mist. I don’t know anything about sick witches.”
“What happened?” Ranira asked again. She walked over and knelt beside Shandy. Mist lay half-curled around herself, showing no signs of consciousness.
“I don’t know what happened. I think she was trying to do some more magic,” Shandy said disapprovingly. “She yelled something weird when that horse took off with Arelnath, and then she just sat there for a while with her eyes closed. And then she said ‘I can’t hold him,’ or something like that, and fell over. I don’t like magic.”
“I know,” Ranira said crossly. She looked at Mist again. “We have to wake her up somehow, Shandy. Arelnath did something to her shoulders, and she can’t move. She says Mist knows what to do about it.” She reached out to shake Mist, but recoiled as her hand touched the other woman’s shoulder. “Shandy! She feels like she’s frozen!”
“It’s not that cold,” Shandy said scornfully, “and she was fine a minute ago.”
“Well, she isn’t now,” Ranira snapped. She looked desperately for something to cover the healer with. Whatever the reason for the sudden chill in Mist’s flesh, Ranira was certain that the woman would die soon if nothing were done to stop the growing iciness. “Shandy, can you start a fire?”
“Arelnath’s got the firebox,” Shandy said. “And there’s no wood.”
“There’s plenty of wood. You’re in the middle of a forest, aren’t you? Arelnath is over that way. Get the firebox and tell her what’s happened. Hurry!”
As Shandy plunged into the trees, Ranira grabbed one of Mist’s hands and began rubbing the wrist. There was no response; if anything, the hand seemed to grow colder. She pulled at Mist’s arm. The tug moved the folds of Mist’s robe, and Ranira saw the moonstone dangling from the chain at Mist’s neck. It was glowing faintly, but even as she watched, the light dimmed.
Ranira hesitated. She knew nothing about her own magical abilities, much less Mist’s, and Arelnath had treated the stone with respect. An idea began to grow in her, and her eyes widened. “No,” she whispered. But the stone’s light was fading visibly and there was nothing else she could do. Ranira stretched herself on the ground beside Mist, holding the other woman’s body close to her own. Then she gritted her teeth and took the white stone in her hand.
Nothing happened. Ranira blinked and clenched her hand around the stone. “Do something, curse you!” she muttered. She closed her eyes. Deliberately, she called up memories of Mist working magic, trying to force her own power into action. For a moment, she thought nothing was going to happen. Then she became aware of a slow, growing warmth in the palm of her right hand.
Simultaneously, Ranira felt the heat of the invisible flames that warned her away from magic. This time she welcomed them, gripping the stone closer in hopes some of the warmth would penetrate the other woman’s iciness. Fire began to leap around Ranira. She could see it even through her closed eyelids. She clenched her teeth and held Mist tighter. Fear rose in her as she saw the fire come closer; it was moving faster than she remembered.
The heat intensified. Suddenly, Ranira realized that her right hand did not feel abnormally warm. Without knowing why, she shoved the hand closer to Mist’s face and opened her fingers. By now she could see nothing except flames, but she knew by the sudden wash of pain that the white moonstone had dropped free. Then the fire reached her.
Instinctively, Ranira jerked back, but she had nowhere to go. Pain flashed through every nerve of her body, and she screamed. Her purpose forgotten, she tried to reject the power that had brought the flames, so that the burning would stop. But she had called up her power for the sake of that fire, and it was too late to change her mind.
She screamed again. Her eyes flew open, but she was blinded by the light of the flames. She could not even tell whether she still lay beside Mist or not; she was no longer conscious of anything but pain. For an eternity, she hung suspended in a web of fire. Then, unexpectedly, the flames began to die. As they faded, the pain ebbed to a dull, constant ache. Her eyes began to clear.
The first thing Ranira saw was Mist, seated on the ground next to her with the moonstone cupped in one hand, watching her anxiously. “It worked,” Ranira croaked.
Mist smiled, but her eyes were stern. “Yes, and I thank you. But you must not try such a thing again! Without training in the use of magic, it is far too dangerous.”
Ranira started to shrug. Pain stabbed from her shoulders as her burns rubbed against the coarse cloth of the pilgrim’s robe. Ranira decided that it would be much better not to move. “I see what you mean. Can you do anything about it?”
“No more than I have already done,” Mist replied. “You are lucky to be alive. If that storm of power had not wakened me, you could have burnt to death.”
“Storm of power?” Ranira said, puzzled. “Al
l I saw were flames.”
“Did you think your fires came from ordinary flints?” Mist chided gently. “No one but you can see them. The fire is a token of your power, which your mind is forcing against you to keep you from learning to be a witch. It is a good thing I knew that your block behaves that way, or I doubt I could have reacted quickly enough to save you.”
“You stopped the flames?” Ranira asked, remembering how abruptly the heat had begun to die.
“Whatever you saw, I stopped,” Mist said. “I also managed to take in enough power to refresh myself somewhat. But how badly are you hurt?”
Ranira shifted an arm experimentally. The movement hurt, but not as much as she had expected. Evidently, the burns were not as bad as Mist had feared. Ranira puzzled for a moment: If the flames were real enough to burn her, why had they not hurt her more severely? She did not know how long she spent surrounded by the fires that only she could see, but it had seemed like a long, long time. She looked at Mist. “Not too badly, I think. It is uncomfortable to move, but that is mostly because this robe is so prickly.” She noticed as she spoke that the fire had not touched her garments—only her flesh had been burned.
Mist nodded, but insisted on examining Ranira more closely anyway. A narrow line appeared between her eyebrows as she worked. “You are very lucky indeed,” she said. “You will find it painful to move for a few days, but the burns are no worse than you would get from the sun at midsummer.”
The puzzled line did not disappear, though, and after a moment’s hesitation, Mist went on. “What were you trying to do that you would take such a chance? Why would you turn to magic when you knew something like this would happen?”
“I was trying to get the fire to come,” Ranira confessed. “I didn’t have any other way to make you warmer. I was afraid you would die if you didn’t wake up.”
Mist looked at her, aghast. “What a chance to take! And for nothing. I can no more feel your fires than see them.”
“Well it worked anyway, didn’t it?” Ranira said. “What else was I supposed to do? What happened to you?”
“I overextended myself, just as Arelnath feared I would,” Mist admitted. “I drained myself, first by trying to contact the Temple of the Third Moon, and then with Jaren… But I could not let Arelnath die in such a way without trying to do something, and the spell for controlling animals is a simple one. So, I tried to hold the horse in its place, but it was stronger than I had thought, and I did not realize how much of my power I had used up. I could not hold it long enough.” Her head bowed.
“Yes, you could. You did,” Ranira said as she extended her arm, forgetting her burns, and winced as her sleeve scraped her skin. “Arelnath is over in the woods a little way. I cut her free before the horse got away, but she couldn’t move because of her shoulders.”
Mist’s head came up. “Where is she?”
“That way,” Ranira said. “I told Shandy to go to her.” She quickly outlined what had happened, ending with, “She said you could do something about her shoulders.”
Mist hesitated. “I will do what I can. This way? Thank you, Ranira.” The healer rose and, following Ranira’s directions, quickly vanished among the trees.
Chapter 18
RANIRA LAY WHERE SHE was for a moment, then sat up cautiously, wincing as the pilgrim’s robe shifted across her back and shoulders. Mist was right, though—the pain was no worse than that of skin reddened by working in the midsummer sun all day. Somehow, thinking of it that way helped. Ranira was much more comfortable with a sunburn in midwinter than she was with a magic fire that burned whenever she thought about spells.
As she rose to her feet, she heard people approaching. A moment later, Shandy burst through the trees. Mist followed at a more sedate pace, one supporting arm about Arelnath.
“Renra, you wouldn’t believe it!” Shandy said excitedly as he skidded to a stop. “Arelnath was lying there, and Mist grabbed her arm and twisted, and it went pop! And then she grabbed the other arm, and…”
“I don’t think I want to hear any more about it,” Ranira said, looking toward Arelnath. The Cilhar woman was pale, and she seemed to be avoiding any movement of her arms.
“But it was real strange,” Shandy insisted.
Arelnath, with Mist’s help, seated herself at the base of a nearby tree. She looked up at Shandy’s comment. “Strange or not, you will refrain from discussing the matter further,” she said. “Or you will regret it greatly in a few days when my arms are healed.”
Shandy subsided into resentful mutterings. Ranira looked from Arelnath to Mist and back. “In a few days? Can’t you heal her now?”
“Do you remember what Arelnath told you of a healer who kills?” Mist asked tiredly. “I was in your mind when the High Priest died. I have been part of a killing, and it has warped my healing talent. You saw what happened when I tried to heal Jaren.”
“I should have guessed it, but none of us knew of the priest’s death then,” Arelnath said. She turned to Mist. “You will certainly be able to rechannel the power now that you know what is wrong, won’t you?”
“I think so,” Mist replied. “Thanks to Ranira, I am not so drained as I was. Even so, it will be a long, difficult job. I must begin soon, or I will not have strength to complete it.”
“Then do so!” Arelnath snapped. “The sooner you begin, the better your chances.”
Mist looked at Arelnath in surprise. Arelnath glared back for a moment; then her expression softened.
“I have no more power to give you,” the Cilhar woman went on more gently. “Nor can you ask Ranira to live through her nightmares again just to renew you. And you cannot simply let yourself die.”
“Die?” Ranira asked, but Arelnath motioned her to silence. Arelnath’s eyes were on Mist, and Ranira could see the tension in her. Slowly, Mist nodded.
“You are right,” the healer said. “There is no reason for me to delay.” She glanced around and then seated herself, shifting her position carefully until she was braced firmly against a tree. Arelnath watched intently until Mist looked up once more.
“I will begin now,” Mist said. Her eyes flickered across each of them in turn. “Do not try to rouse me, whatever happens. This will take much of the night, and perhaps longer, so do not be disturbed by the length of time. Do you understand?” She held their eyes with her own until each of them nodded.
With a deep breath that was almost a sigh, Mist settled back against the tree. She lifted the white stone in one hand, cupping it so that she held it less than a hands breadth from her own face. Her eyes unfocussed, and her breathing slowed. Ranira could see no other outward change; but for her open eyes and raised hand, Mist might have been asleep.
Arelnath relaxed. “Good. I was afraid she was going to delay until she was too weak to succeed. Now there is at least a chance.”
“What do you mean?” Ranira demanded.
“I think you know some of it already,” Arelnath said. “When a healer’s power is twisted, it begins to eat away at her—slowly if it is seldom used, rapidly if the healer attempts to cure. Eventually, if the healer waits too long to channel the power back into its proper path, the uncontrolled power will kill her. And the process of rechanneling is not easy; that too, can be fatal. Especially if the healer is already weak.”
“But why would Mist wait, if she knew it would make things harder?”
A thin smile touched Arelnath’s face briefly. “Mist is a very good and gentle person who believes very deeply that killing is a misuse of her talent and a betrayal of her calling. I was at Saranith when she killed Dal Mirren. If ever a man deserved death, it was he, but Mist could never accept that. She was ill for weeks afterward, in spite of all that her comrades of the Third Moon could do for her. They said the sickness was caused more by remorse than by the effects of the killing.”
Arelnath sighed. “Mist has never forgiven herself for her ‘betrayal.’ She still thinks she should have died at Saranith to atone for Dal Mirren’s
death at her hands. Now she has done it again; unwittingly, perhaps, but she was enough a part of this killing that her healing talent was warped by it. What would be easier than waiting until it was too late to move her power back into safe paths? She would have the death she feels she deserves, with no suggestion of blame attached to it.”
“She wouldn’t!” Ranira said. “Mist would never do such a thing! Even if you are right about the way she feels, it would be just as bad for her to kill herself as it would be for her to kill someone else.”
“Perhaps.” Arelnath started to shrug, then winced and stopped. “But Mist would not see it as killing herself. From her point of view, it would be only justice if her healing talent twisted to kill her.”
Ranira could not think of anything to say. She looked at Mist uneasily. It was hard to believe Arelnath’s words, but she could think of no way to refute them. She did not know what codes of honor governed a foreign witch. She felt a pang of guilt herself; if she had not reacted so strongly to the memories that the Temple attack had roused, perhaps the High Priest would not have died and Mist’s power would not have become so dangerously twisted.
She frowned suddenly and turned back to Arelnath. “What happens if the Temple of Chaldon attacks us again tonight?”
“We die.” Arelnath grinned wolfishly, without humor. “There is nothing you can do about it, though. Without Mist to cast the spells, you cannot link with either of us, and in any case, I doubt that your Temple priests would be fooled twice by the same trick. I think you are likely to survive, but I would not wish to be in your position then, either.”
Ranira had to agree. If Mist and Arelnath were both killed, she would be left with Jaren, who would soon be dead himself, and Shandy, who knew no more than she of the world beyond Drinn. Furthermore, Gadrath had already sent people out to search for them. With nowhere to go, she and Shandy would not evade them for long. Ranira shivered and tried to turn her thoughts away from the unpleasant picture.
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