painful gasps through half-parted lips. The delicate skin beneath her closed eyes was darkened, almost bruised. Before I realized what I was doing, I had stepped forward and sat on the edge of the bed, my hands reaching out to cup her temples between them. I was hardly aware of Jorddyn moving quickly to give me room on the edge of the bed. I was completely focused on the dark smudges of the girl’s eyes.
I had been able to do nothing to save Rossah. Perhaps I could make it up in some small way by helping this girlchild—if this gift, or talent, or whatever it was, would work with others as it worked with me. All I could do was try. I owed it to Rossah, and I owed it to me. Perhaps I owed it to this girl, too.
Carefully, hesitantly, I reached for that quiet place deep within myself. I don’t remember what I was thinking as I pressed the palms of my hands against the unnaturally cool skin of the girl’s head, but I do remember that her hair felt like finest silk under my fingers.
It happened in an unexpected rush. Suddenly, I was swirling deep in pain that wasn’t mine. Images that weren’t my own flashed through my head, too fast to comprehend any of them. Mountains, tall and snow-capped even in the heat of summer. Placid blue lakes. White, boiling rivers. Gentle clear brooks. The sea breaking against the sheer faces of cliffs, throwing salt spume high into the air. Faces of people I didn’t know. Pictures of rooms I didn’t recognize. Voices singing songs I had never heard. Jumbled, tangled images, all tumbled together without order, without sequence. And through it all, a sense of rightness, of belonging. Whatever this wild fusion was, it was something completely and utterly right.
Carefully, I pulled back slightly from the jumble of confused images and concentrated on the pain. I located its centre and focused on it, fixing my attention on the pain, and only that. Slowly, a picture formed of showing me what the injury had to look like when healed. I pulled at the pain, drawing it away from the girl and into me. Slowly, gradually, I imposed my picture of the healed place on top of the injury. At first, I was afraid it would not work, that I would fail and the girl would die beneath my hands.
Behind me, I heard a man cry out as the girl began to thrash on the bed. Someone whimpered but I don’t know if it was I, or the girl. Her eyes opened, pupils wide and staring, leaving only a thin ring of glorious golden hazel around them. Her unfocused gaze fixed on mine and the link between us strengthened and solidified.
It began to work. I felt the injured place on the back of her head draw together, the bruising and swelling gradually disappear. I thought I could see the wound lose its angry, distended appearance and take on the healthy glow of normal tissue.
The staring expression left the girl’s eyes and she looked into mine calmly and serenely. A gentle tranquillity settled over her features as pink spread under her skin again. She closed her eyes. A deep sigh raised the thin chest before her breathing settled into the quiet rhythm of profound and natural slumber.
I could do no more. I hoped it would be enough. I staggered back from the bed, stumbled to my knees.
“She’ll be all right, I think,” I gasped, my own head throbbing with what might be the memory of her pain, or my own from simple reaction to the exertion of healing. Cullin caught me even as I began to slip to the floor. I was very near unconsciousness myself as he picked me up as easily as he might pick up a child of five.
From a long distance, I heard Rhegenn’s voice say, “A Healer, but untrained....”
Then Jorddyn said, “You must be proud of your son.”
“Yes,” Cullin replied. “I am.”
As he carried me from the room, the warm, soft darkness swept down to enfold me. Fuzzily, I mumbled, “Son? No, they’re confused because we both have red hair....”
“Vhair ne, ti’rhonai,” Cullin said, his voice fading into the dark
I had been able to do nothing to save Rossah. Perhaps I could make it up in some small way by helping this girlchild—if this gift, or talent, or whatever it was, would work with others as it worked with me. All I could do was try. I owed it to Rossah, and I owed it to me. Perhaps I owed it to this girl, too.
Carefully, hesitantly, I reached for that quiet place deep within myself. I don’t remember what I was thinking as I pressed the palms of my hands against the unnaturally cool skin of the girl’s head, but I do remember that her hair felt like finest silk under my fingers.
It happened in an unexpected rush. Suddenly, I was swirling deep in pain that wasn’t mine. Images that weren’t my own flashed through my head, too fast to comprehend any of them. Mountains, tall and snow-capped even in the heat of summer. Placid blue lakes. White, boiling rivers. Gentle clear brooks. The sea breaking against the sheer faces of cliffs, throwing salt spume high into the air. Faces of people I didn’t know. Pictures of rooms I didn’t recognize. Voices singing songs I had never heard. Jumbled, tangled images, all tumbled together without order, without sequence. And through it all, a sense of rightness, of belonging. Whatever this wild fusion was, it was something completely and utterly right.
Carefully, I pulled back slightly from the jumble of confused images and concentrated on the pain. I located its centre and focused on it, fixing my attention on the pain, and only that. Slowly, a picture formed of showing me what the injury had to look like when healed. I pulled at the pain, drawing it away from the girl and into me. Slowly, gradually, I imposed my picture of the healed place on top of the injury. At first, I was afraid it would not work, that I would fail and the girl would die beneath my hands.
Behind me, I heard a man cry out as the girl began to thrash on the bed. Someone whimpered but I don’t know if it was I, or the girl. Her eyes opened, pupils wide and staring, leaving only a thin ring of glorious golden hazel around them. Her unfocused gaze fixed on mine and the link between us strengthened and solidified.
It began to work. I felt the injured place on the back of her head draw together, the bruising and swelling gradually disappear. I thought I could see the wound lose its angry, distended appearance and take on the healthy glow of normal tissue.
The staring expression left the girl’s eyes and she looked into mine calmly and serenely. A gentle tranquillity settled over her features as pink spread under her skin again. She closed her eyes. A deep sigh raised the thin chest before her breathing settled into the quiet rhythm of profound and natural slumber.
I could do no more. I hoped it would be enough. I staggered back from the bed, stumbled to my knees.
“She’ll be all right, I think,” I gasped, my own head throbbing with what might be the memory of her pain, or my own from simple reaction to the exertion of healing. Cullin caught me even as I began to slip to the floor. I was very near unconsciousness myself as he picked me up as easily as he might pick up a child of five.
From a long distance, I heard Rhegenn’s voice say, “A Healer, but untrained....”
Then Jorddyn said, “You must be proud of your son.”
“Yes,” Cullin replied. “I am.”
As he carried me from the room, the warm, soft darkness swept down to enfold me. Fuzzily, I mumbled, “Son? No, they’re confused because we both have red hair....”
“Vhair ne, ti’rhonai,” Cullin said, his voice fading into the dark
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