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still time to save a valuable member of your tribe.”
    And because that’s what doctors do .
    McCoy watched as Usaak stared pensively into the flames of the brazier. He hoped it meant that the subteer was reassessing his options—preferably one that didn’t involve confiscating the medikits as he had the rest of the landing party’s equipment.
    â€œOnly the strong should survive,” Keer hissed into his leader’s ear. “Such is the will of Skyfather Gaar. Only He may decide the fate of those who lodge in the Tent of Dying. To allow this . . . Meh-di-sihn to interfere would be to defy the will of both Skyfather Gaar and Baan, His only son.”
    â€œAre your gods not powerful enough to enforce their will no matter what we do?” McCoy asked.
    He ignored Wieland’s disapproving scowl, though he understood his mentor’s wordless criticism. McCoy had directly challenged the authority of the local gods, not to mention the faith of the adherents of those gods.
    After a seeming eternity, Usaak looked up from the fire. He met McCoy’s gaze directly.
    â€œGaar’s will shall be made manifest, regardless of what others may do,” Usaak said with a shrug of his massive shoulders. “Go ahead then. Try your Meh-di-sihn on Efeer.”

Six
    McCoy entered the Tent of Dying just ahead of Doctor Wieland. He found the semidarkened, enclosed space significantly less spacious than the one in which he had awakened. It had room for little other than the single large rectangular platform that dominated its center. McCoy saw that Naheer stood beside the platform, where he maintained a solitary vigil.
    An adult male Capellan, decked out in a warrior’s fringed tunic, fur leggings, and cloak—all of which showed evidence of burn damage consistent with a high-voltage electrical discharge—lay on his back atop the sturdy wooden structure. The man’s heavily muscled arms were crossed over his bloodied chest, like the corpse of an ancient Viking raider laid out on a funeral pyre, patiently awaiting his fiery passage to Valhalla. His right hand clutched the haft of a round-handled blade whose three razor-sharp sides gleamed balefully in the low light of a nearby brazier.
    The motionless warrior showed no obvious sign of life whatsoever.
    â€œDamn it. I think we may be too late,” McCoy said, dispirited. Wieland moved to the side of the bier opposite from Naheer and began checking the body for vital signs.
    Deciding that his duty lay with the living, McCoy stepped quietly toward Naheer. The boy started slightly when McCoy drew close, as though he’d been lost in thought or meditating.
    â€œI wish we’d been allowed in here sooner, Naheer,” McCoy said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
    Naheer smiled. “But you are here now, Mak-Koy. It is an answer to my many prayers for Skyfather Gaar’s mercy. I have refreshed my offerings of quickblossoms three times just today to implore Skyfather Gaar to soften Subteer Usaak’s heart.”
    The boy’s faith felt like a heavy iron chain wrapped around McCoy’s neck, weighing him down. Like Usaak, Naheer obviously credited the landing party’s doctors with supernatural abilities.
    â€œI’m sorry, Naheer,” McCoy said. “I’m afraid your uncle is beyond help now.”
    Naheer blinked in confusion. “But you strangers wield the power of life itself. Mak-Koy, everyone who has seen you two days ago, and then again today, knows this to be true.”
    â€œLeonard, come take a look at this,” Wieland said, adopting the no-nonsense demeanor of a disciplined trauma surgeon.
    McCoy began to scrutinize the body on the bier. Though Naheer’s uncle seemed no less dead than he had before, McCoy noticed something new: A dark, orchidlike flower lay on the man’s abdomen—no doubt one of Naheer’s quickblossoms.
    â€œI have spent most of the past two days