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time?” asked one of the barons; others shushed him.
    “
She
did nothing,” the Marshal-General said. “It is that blow to the head. Send for the physician and any Marshal in the palace. My lord Verrakai, I ask you to lend your aid, as a Falkian would.”
    “Certainly,” Dorrin said. Every instinct told her they had little time, that something was wrong inside Marrakai’s head. She had seen the same in battlefield wounds.
    “Help me lift him from the chair to the floor.” The other peers shuffled back as two palace servants came forward. Together with the Marshal-General and Dorrin, they lifted Marrakai—no easy task—and laid him on the floor; someone hastily handed them a folded cloak to put under his head. “Duke Verrakai, lay your hand on his shoulder—like that, yes—and one on his chest; I will hold his head. And now I ask all Girdsmen to pray with me for the healing of this peer of your realm, while I also pray and Duke Verrakai calls on Falk.”
    Dorrin felt hands on her own shoulders and glanced back to see Duke Mahieran and the king both standing there, as if guarding her back and joining her effort at the same time. Others, behind them, reached to form a human chain. She closed her eyes, calling on Falk and trying to feel what the Marshal-General was doing so she might aid. Power rose in her, as it had before without her bidding. She opened her eyes and looked at Marrakai’s face. He had gone pale again, almost gray around the mouth. It wasn’t fair—he had done nothing wrong—he had defended her; he must not die for that.
    Her power moved along her arms; they first itched, then tingled, a sensation she had not felt when healing the well. She felt she could see the power moving up to his head, joining with something the Marshal-General was doing, though she could not say what that was. Something urged her to shift the power a little this way, a little that. She was unaware of time passing, of anything at all, until her power cut off suddenly and Marrakai opened his eyes and blinked. His color was healthy again, his lips pink, his eyes clear.
    “What happened?” he asked in a more normal voice. “Did I faint?” He glanced from one to the other.
    “Somewhat more than that, my lord,” the Marshal-General said. “The blow to your head—”
    “Blow to my head?” He frowned, put a hand to it. “When? How?”
    Everyone started talking at once, telling what each had seen, a risinggabble of voices, until the king said, “Silence, my lords and ladies. This noise will not serve him.”
    Into the silence that followed, the king said, “You were attacked, my lord duke, and, when you fell, hit your head on the stones of the courtyard. You woke and were put to rest by the physician for a while but then lost consciousness again. You were healed by the Marshal-General and Duke Verrakai. You remember nothing?”
    “No,” Marrakai said. “Not clearly, at least, since—since the coronation ceremony. I feel well now.” He moved his head on the folded cloak beneath it. “No headache—if only I could remember.”
    “Juris can tell you about it later,” the king said with a warning look to the other peers. Kirgan Marrakai nodded to his father; the Duke shrugged and extended a hand; the Kirgan reached down, and Marrakai stood. He was steady on his feet, his gaze clear and focused. He, the Kirgan, the physician, and two Marshals both withdrew briefly.
    This time the physician and the Marshals all agreed that Marrakai was as fit as he said he felt. The banquet started. Dorrin took her seat as instructed, but it seemed unreal. Too much had happened too fast. Too many people—still strangers, but now her fellow nobles—eyed her with a mixture of awe and concern. Marrakai, apparently now in perfect health, sat across from her, chatting with Duke Serrostin; Duke Mahieran sat next to Dorrin. At the head of the table, the king and his younger brother Camwyn—the boy looking uncomfortable—sat alone and at