It was a tribute to the onsite Healers that Destria was still among the living. The last person Talia had seen with burns like hers had been Vostel, who had taken the full fury of an angry firebird on his fragile flesh. Where her burns had been relatively light—though the skin was red, puffed, and blistering—she was unbandaged. But her arms and hands were wrapped in special poultices of herbs and the thinnest and most fragile of tanned rabbit and calfskin, and Talia knew that beneath those bandages the skin was gone, and the flesh left raw. They had laid her on a pallet of lambskin, tanned with the wool on; the fibers would cushion her burned skin and prevent too much pressure from being exerted on it. Talia knelt at the head of the pallet and rested both her hands on Destria’s forehead. Destria’s face and head were the only portions of her that were relatively untouched. As Talia reached into the whirlwind of pain, delirium, and guilt with her Gift, she knew that this was likely to be the hardest such fight she’d ever faced.

Guilt, black and full of despair, surrounded Talia from all directions. Pain, physical and mental, lanced through the guilt like red lightning. Talia knew her first priority was to find out why the guilt existed in the first place, and where it was coming from—

That was easy enough; she simply lowered her shielding a fraction more, and let herself be drawn in where the negative emotions were the thickest.

The fading core that was Destria spun an ever-tightening cocoon of bleakness around herself. Talia reached for that cocoon with a softly glowing mental “hand” and withered it until that which was Destria stood cringing before her.

Talia paid no heed to her attempts at escape, but drew her into a rapport in which nothing was hidden; not from her—and not from Destria. And she let Destria read her as she strove to begin the Healing of the other Herald’s mental hurts.

I failed— that was the most overwhelming. They counted on me, and I failed.

But there was something more, something that kept the guilt feeding on itself until Destria loathed her own being. And Talia found it, hiding underneath, festering. And I failed because I wanted something for me. I failed because I was selfish; I don’t deserve my Whites—I deserve to die.

This was something Talia was only too familiar with; and was something Rynee wouldn’t understand. Healers were firm believers in a little honest selfishness; it kept a person sane and healthy. Heralds, though—well. Heralds were supposed to be completely unselfish, totally devoted to duty. That was nonsense, of course; Heralds were only people. But sometimes they started to believe in that nonsense, and when something went wrong, because of their natures, the first people they tended to blame were themselves.