We started by cataloging the damage. It was not pleasant, that half hour, I was glad more than once that Tisala was unconscious, both for her dignity and her pain. It was her left hand that was the worst—the initial damage, which was considerable, compounded by infection. Upon closer examination several of the broken scabs on her back were puffed up with pus. Bruises abounded on her hips and inner thighs; she’d been raped.

Oreg growled and muttered as we continued checking her carefully. Her feet were a mess. Oreg said finally that the damage was from walking so far in ill-fitting shoes rather than a torturer’s knife.

He set her foot down and turned to the smaller table that held various herbs and salves, hot water, and bandaging. “You think Jakoven did this?” With a wave of his hand he indicated Tisala’s damaged state.

I nodded. “I can’t think of any other reason she’d run all the way here.”

“She liked you.” Oreg used a clean knife to open one of the putrid places on Tisala’s back, sponging up the fluid that escaped with a clean wet cloth.

“True enough,” I agreed. “But I haven’t seen her since I was last in Oranstone.”

I’d helped Oreg heal before, and we worked as a team. Most of what we did was ordinary stuff, clean wounds, cover with mixtures of salves and powders that Oreg hoarded, then bandage.

But her left hand was swollen to twice its normal size and it was the source of the putrid smell. He soaked it first in hot seawater. Tisala must have really been in rough shape, because she didn’t even protest. When Oreg was through, he poured alcohol over it, and again she had no reaction. He reexamined her now-clean hand.

Healing was the most difficult of all magics to do because the mage must know as much about the body as he does about his magic. And even a little healing sucked up such power as most mages can only dream about.

In power I was the equal of many and better than most, with such ability as four years of Oreg’s tutoring could bring, but I would not have even known where to start to save the mess that remained of Tisala’s left hand.

“She might lose her fourth finger anyway,” commented Oreg, shaking his head. “There’s too much dead flesh.”

“She fights right-handed,” I said. “Would it be better to cut it off now?”

Oreg frowned and turned her hand this way and that. “I always hate to cut something off I can’t put back on. Let me try and heal this. If it doesn’t take, there will be plenty of time to cut it off later.”