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into the man’s leg and purred reassurance. The soldier jumped away from the cat as if burned.
    “Because you refused to use your magic to heal a simple cut, the man nearly lost his life,” Myri reminded Moncriith. “Jessup would have died prematurely. His pregnant widow and two tiny children couldn’t fell timber to earn a living and keep a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. Because I saved Jessup, the family thrives once more.”
    Myri continued her binding spell, praying she wouldn’t have to go into a deep trance to restore her patient’s vitality. Already Moncriith’s fervor laid a taint of guilt upon her, weakening her power and control over the healing.
    What did he see in her and other women that was so very evil? He never singled out the wives of powerful men, nor did he accuse men—only women who lived alone, without the protection of husband, father, or son.
    “The timberman you cured limps painfully, clear evidence that he left his soul in the void when you dragged him back to this existence. Another soulless demon to aid you in your evil practices.” Moncriith’s voice took on tremors of righteousness.
    Silence spread through the hospital tent. Even the screams of the dying fell off.
    Myri ducked her head so the men wouldn’t see her tears of doubt. Her talent sprang from deep inside her without her conscious control. Did it come from demons?
    She had no arguments against Moncriith’s accusations.
    The three healers gazed suspiciously at Myri and Amaranth, who now circled the wounded man’s pallet. Blue light glowed beneath her hands where the lifeless arm sought to rejoin with the body.
    She had to stop Moncriith’s interference before the blue light totally engulfed her mind and body.
    “This witchwoman is possessed by demons. Burn her before she condemns this brave soldier to a soulless life!” Moncriith implored, reaching eager hands for Myri’s shoulders. He jerked back, repelled by the barrier her talent erected even as it dragged her deeper into a trance.
    Beneath her fingers, life pulsed into the dangling arm. The soldier moaned and clenched his fist. Then he fell back into unconsciousness.
    “Stargods!” Men whispered around the tent. More wards against evil, modern and ancient.
    The healers cleared the hovering crowd away to inspect Myri’s work. Gently, the quiet woman who held the injured limb in place lifted her fingers from the injury. She saw with her eyes what Myri knew in her mind. Muscles mended and bones knitted. The bleeding had stopped.
    “ ’Tis a miracle from the Stargods,” the healer whispered.
    “Or a trick of Simurgh, king of all demons,” Moncriith countered.
    Myri took a deep breath, trying desperately to stay alert. If she lost consciousness and fell into a full trance, as her magic demanded, Moncriith would have her removed and condemned. He’d done it before. Only Magretha’s good reputation in the village had saved her. But Magretha had died nearly two years ago.
    Power flowed out of her. Her shaking joints became too heavy to support her body. She sagged to the floor, still holding the wounded arm in place. She tried to remove herself and her talent from the healing. Like a living being the spell enveloped her and fed from her strength.
    “Look at the blackness in her aura!” Moncriith beseeched those around her. “Demons possess her. She taints us all with demons. Better to die blessed than live possessed!”
    “I know nothing of demons,” Myri whispered through numb lips as the void took her.
     
    Nimbulan listened to the wind whipping around his pavilion. Saturated canvas walls bulged inward and sighed slackly with each blow. The candle flames of a dozen lanterns placed around the tent bowed almost flat within mica shields and then wavered upright again in rhythm with the howling of the skies.
    Lord Kammeryl d’Astrismos and Lord Quinnault de Tanos argued almost as intensely inside. They paced and sat and shouted at each other