“Come on over, sis,” he whispered to it. The gold flared a brilliant white before returning to its soft shine. Standing in front of Tarlak, her hands on her hips, appeared Delysia.

“I wish I didn’t have to stay behind so often,” she complained.

“We’ve gone over this,” Tarlak said. “I would be an awful brother to risk you being hurt in a melee.”

Delysia rolled her eyes. When she caught sight of the wounded rogue, she winced. “Oh, you poor dear. What’d you do to him?”

“I might have stabbed him,” Haern whispered.

“Might?” the rogue gasped before falling unconscious. Delysia knelt beside him, her hands on his chest and her eyes closed in prayer. Qurrah slid beside Tarlak and said softly to him, “He would talk easier if he was dead.”

“All men have a chance to be redeemed,” Tarlak said back. “Killing in combat is one thing, but I will not finish off a helpless man I can save. Delysia would furious, otherwise.”

White light surrounded Delysia’s hands and then poured into the dying man. The wound closed, ending the flow of blood. Strength poured into him, stirring him back to consciousness.

“Wakey-wakey,” Brug greeted. “Care to answer a few questions?”

“I’d rather die,” the rogue said.

“You almost did,” Delysia said, frowning at him. “Glad to know my aid is appreciated.”

He sneered at her but said nothing.

“Haern, we need an attitude adjustment,” Tarlak said. He snapped his fingers. The assassin walked over, knelt down, and then buried a saber into the thief’s right wrist. He screamed and struggled, but the location of the saber was perfect, in between the bones so the blade could not tear free. Finally, the man calmed, wincing against the pain. Delysia pointedly turned away, her face disgusted.

“You do not approve?” Qurrah asked her.

“There are always better ways,” she said. “Violence is rarely the best.”