“Peace, my friend. This is not the coup. I fear it will cost you your breeches, but I pray not your life. Bear with me.”

As the man lay back, stunned, Warin caught the blade of the dagger under the bottom of one scuffed and bloodstained leather legging and began to cut, extending the gap all the way to the man’s waist. At his first touch, Owen cried out in pain as the shattered limb was moved; then he mercifully passed out. The second legging was opened in the same manner to reveal the twisted, bloody limbs.

Warin dropped the knife on the bed beside Owen and silently gazed down at the injuries for a moment, then motioned for Marcus and Paul to help him straighten out first one leg, then the other. When it was done, he paused for just an instant, hands clasped together, then addressed the three men watching.

“He is very badly injured,” he said in a low voice. “If he is not helped soon, he will die.” There was a long silence in which the only sounds were their breathing, before Warin continued.

“I have never attempted to heal so great a hurt before.” He paused. “Will you pray with me, my friends? Even if it is God’s will that this man be made whole again, I shall need your support.”

As one man, Paul, Marcus, and the sergeant dropped to their knees to watch in awe, hands clasped fervently at their breasts. Warin continued to stare at his patient for a moment, almost as though there were no one else in the room, then looked up and spread his arms to either side.

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen. Oremus.”

As Warin began to pray, shifting to the common tongue, his eyes closed and a faint aura began to take form around his head. His words were murmured, hushed, in the stillness of the chamber, so that the watchers behind the panels could not hear all that he said. But they could not mistake the aura surrounding the rebel leader as he prayed, or ignore his calm assurance as he stretched forth his hands over the injured man’s legs and touched them.

In silence they watched as Warin’s hands passed along the surface of the man’s legs, watched as the jagged breaks, discernible even from across the room, grew smooth under his touch.

Then the rebel leader was murmuring an end to his prayers, lifting the man’s legs—first one and then the other. The legs were whole again, straight, as though they had never felt the ruin of the crushing stones.

“Per Ipsum, et cum Ipsum, et in Ipso, est tibi Deo Patri omnipotenti in unitate Spiritus Sancti, omnis honor et gloria. Per omnia saecula saeculorum, Amen.”

As Warin’s words whispered into silence, Owen’s eyes flicked open and he carefully sat up. He stared in amazement at his legs, running his hands up and down them in anxious reassurance as the others rose from their knees. Warin watched him for a moment in silence, then crossed himself piously and murmured, “Deo gratias.” The miracle was complete.