A moment’ s incredulous silence was followed by a man’s hoarse scream.

They threw him down from the edge.

Moonhawk broke his fall with her body and he rolled away, coiled around his ruined hand, sobbing.

“Lute.” She touched him and he shuddered, sob catching on a gasp.

Witch-sense questing, she found a mangled chord of clarity within his terror, caught it and wound it round with calm, feeding comfort in a riverflow until he let her touch the pain and share it.

“Lute. I am Healer.” She did not force trust; did not stint on what she gave.

Slowly, the coiled body unbound. He flopped to his back, eyes stabbing hers.

“Good. Now it is my turn to give a gift… I must touch it. Lute, I am Healer. Through me flows the love of our Mother. Through me flows Her strength—to you, Her son…”

She held the mangled member now; felt and knew utter destruction: the tiny bones ground and shattered and hopeless. Around them, the highly trained muscles mourned.

Moonhawk took breath, drawing in strength, and crossed over into that gray space from which all Healing takes place.

The man beneath her hand screamed; she exerted the will necessary to quiet him. The Inner Eyes saw bone shards reform, fit together, settle into the cradle of tissue, seal into wholeness—into health.

She let breath escape; removed will and hand and sat back, face dripping sweat, body shuddering.

“In Her Name it is done.”

Lute caught her with two good hands as she toppled sideways, and laid her gently down, head pillowed on his thigh.

* * *

MOONHAWK BLINKED IN the gash of sunlight and tried not to breathe through her nose. The one called Kat held her arms twisted behind her back and he stank like last week’s slaughter.

Lute’s hands hung free. He faced Lady Drudae over a dull blue tube and smiled as if the terror in him was no more real than dreams.