Bending to wet the cloth yet again, D'Abjan wondered if Pritt possessed healing magic. Was that why he had become a healer in the first place? Was he capable of saving the woman with his magic, if only he were permitted to wield it? D'Abjan knew that people had died in the healer's care. No doubt this happened to healers all the time. But if Pritt did have healing power, how did it make him feel, watching those in his care die, knowing that he might have been able to heal them? Of all Qirsi magics, surely here was one that Qirsar had to have intended for them to use. How could the god want the Y'Qatt to let others suffer, simply so that his children would preserve their V'Tol for another day? Where was the sense in that? Where was the compassion, the justice?

He was still considering this when the woman finally stirred, another low moan escaping her as her eyes opened slowly. She reached a hand up to her head, and D'Abjan removed the cloth.

"Water?" she whispered.

He jumped up. "Yes, of course." He found a cup in Pritt's kitchen and filled it with cold water from the bucket. He started to hand it to her but then realized she was in no condition to drink it on her own. Unsure of what else to do, D'Abjan put his hand behind her head and gently lifted her while holding the cup to her lips. Her hair felt thick and rough, and with her eyes open, staring sightlessly over the rim of the cup, she looked odd, even vaguely frightening. She took a sip or two before nodding that she had drunk enough. He lowered her head once more.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"You're welcome, good lady."

She looked around the cabin. "What happened to me?"

"I don't know. I saw you on the road leading into our village. You were already hurt. You made a noise, and then you fell down. My father and I brought you here."

"And where is here?"

"This is Pritt's home. He's our healer."

A faint smile touched her lips. "I meant what village."

D'Abjan felt his face color. "My pardon. This is Greenrill."

She shook her head and closed her eyes for a moment. "I don't know that name." After a moment she lifted a hand to her head again, and touched the bruise gingerly. "I take it we're waiting for your healer to come."

"No, good lady. He's already seen you." He lifted up the poultice that had been on her wound. "He prepared this."

"But you look Qirsi," she said.

"We are, good lady."

"So then, your healer has refused to tend to me."

Again he felt his face turning red. Why should it fall to him to explain this, when he had just been asking himself the same question? Was this Qirsar's way of punishing him? Was the god testing his faith by making him explain to this woman what it meant to be Y'Qatt?

"It's not our way to use magic, good lady. We are Y'Qatt. We… we believe that the god did not intend for us to use any of our powers."

She watched him with a strange expression-something akin to anger flashed in her dark eyes, and though she said nothing, D'Abjan felt compelled to explain more.

"The more power we use the shorter our lives," he said. "Our V'Tol-that's what we call our magic-it isn't supposed to be used. It's part of our life." He knew he wasn't explaining it well, but still he didn't stop. "We find other ways. We can shape wood with magic, but we use tools instead. We can light fires, but we use a tinder and flint instead. We can heal with magic, but we use herbs and poultices instead." He held up the poultice again, and then the wet cloth he'd been holding to her head. "We haven't neglected you, good lady. We've done our best."

"But without magic."

"Yes." He nodded. "Without magic."

"And what if your herbs and your cloth hadn't helped me?"

He just gaped at her, not knowing how to answer, afraid even to try. For several moments, neither of them spoke, and D'Abjan found himself glancing toward the door, wishing Pritt would return.

"But they did help me, didn't they?" she finally said, smiling at him. He grinned, his relief as welcome as sleep after a long day of work.

"Yes, good lady."

She closed her eyes for a short time, before suddenly opening them again. "Where are my things?"

"Just over there, good lady," D'Abjan said, pointing to her baskets and carry sack, which sat by the wall near the door.

"Ah, good. Good." She closed her eyes again. "What's your name, boy?" she asked.

"D'Abjan, my lady."

"I'm Licaldi."

"Do you live near here?" he asked.

"I told you, I don't know where here is. But I've lived in the highlands all my life." She opened one eye and looked at him. "I'm Mettai." He felt his eyes widen.

"You know what that means?"

D'Abjan nodded. He did know, or at least he thought he did. His father had explained to him once about blood magic and the Eandi conjurers and witches who wielded it. He'd listened as he would to a legend told beside a fire during the Festival Moon, but for a long time he'd wondered if such people truly existed. As he'd grown older he'd come to understand that there was truth to the stories, but until now, he'd never met an Eandi sorcerer.

"You fear me now," she said softly, smiling slightly.

"No, good lady. Forgive me. I merely… I've never met one of your people before."

"Are we Mettai that odd then? Are Eandi sorcerers any stranger from Qirsi who forswear their magic?"

Before he could answer, the door opened, and Pritt stepped into the house.

"Ah!" he said, seeing that her eyes were open. "You're awake! Excellent!"

"This is the healer," D'Abjan said. "Pritt, this is Licaldi."

"Licaldi, is it?" he asked, crossing to the bed. He glanced at D'Abjan, who stood and got out of the healer's way. Pritt sat and examined her wound. "How are you feeling, Licaldi?"

"A bit dizzy," she said. "And my head aches."

"I imagine. Do you remember what happened?"

"No, I-" She stopped, staring at him. "Yes. Yes, I do. There was a man. No, wait. Two men. One in front of me on the road. The other behind me. They took my gold and they hit me with… with something."

"A rock, I'd say, from the look of the wound."

She shook her head, looking like she might cry. "I don't remember. I just know that they took my gold. I've been traveling through the highlands, selling my baskets, living off what I could earn from the trades I made. Now I've nothing again." Her eyes met Pritt's. "I can't pay you, healer. Even without your magic, you've been kind and you've helped me. But I have no gold for you."

Pritt shrugged. "That's all right."

Her face brightened. "But I still have my baskets." She sat up straighter. "Bring me one of those baskets, D'Abjan," she said, motioning for him to hurry.

The healer offered an indulgent smile, even as he shook his head. "Really, there's no need."

D'Abjan carried one of the large baskets to the pallet and laid it on Licaldi's lap. She removed the blanket and started looking through the smaller baskets as if trying to decide which one to give the healer.

Pritt stared at them. "You made all of these?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, not bothering to look up.

D'Abjan stood beside Pritt, also gazing at the treasures in her basket. "They're beautiful."

"Thank you, boy. You can have one, as well. Take it home to your mother and father, and tell them that you earned it with your kindness and good manners."

He smiled. "Yes, good lady." After looking over the baskets for a few moments, D'Abjan selected a deep, oval-shaped one with a braided handle. The rushes from which it had been woven were dyed green and blue-his mother's favorite colors.

"A fine choice," Licaldi said. She looked up at the healer. "And you, healer?"

Pritt shrugged slightly, but then reached for a shallow round basket that had no handle. "This will hold my healing herbs," he said. "And each day I use it, I'll think of you, kind madam."