He looked again at Alaric, feeling a wave of calm brush his mind as his kinsman’s right hand touched lightly on his forehead and then returned to the hilt of the dagger.

“It’s a serious wound,” the golden Deryni murmured, searching his eyes. “If you can stand the pain, I need you to stay conscious while I work. I’m not altogether certain I can do this alone.”

Duncan turned his head slightly to glance at the dagger again, his cheek resting momentarily against his kinsman’s hand.

“Go ahead,” he whispered. “I’ll do my best.”

He saw the gray eyes close once in agreement, then felt the arm beneath him raising him slightly so that he was resting against Alaric’s chest. The left hand was curved to stanch the wound now, once the dagger was withdrawn by the right. Duncan raised his right hand to Alaric’s left, ready to add whatever assistance he could, then braced himself for the withdrawal of the steel.

“Do it now,” he murmured.

He gasped at the scrape of metal against bone, the sear of steel in muscle, sinew, nerve, like fire. Then his life’s blood was pumping into the still night air, Alaric’s agile fingers pressing to the wound, his own right hand suddenly going wet to the feel of his own hot blood. But then Alaric’s mind was wrapping around his own, soothing, calming, damping and even quenching the agony.

Something deep inside him detached itself from the pain then. All at once he was able to open his eyes and gaze up into Alaric’s deep gray ones, losing himself in their depths. Rapport was found and established in a heartbeat, minds linked stronger than the link of hands could ever be.

Alaric closed his eyes then, and Duncan did the same, sinking to yet another level. Through some faculty far beyond mere hearing, he began to sense a deep, musical thrum. The bond deepened, and an all-pervading peace began to wrap itself around him, almost as though a shadowy hand, without form or substance, were laying itself across his feverish brow. Fleetingly he seemed to sense another Presence linked with him and Alaric, one he had never seen or heard before.

Then, very suddenly, he knew that it was done, that the bleeding stopped. He opened his eyes to find Alaric’s golden head still bowed over him, felt the bond begin to dissolve away. He stirred slightly against Alaric’s arm as his kinsman opened his eyes, lifting his head far enough to peer down at the three bloodstained hands that rested on his left shoulder. The top hand—Alaric’s—lifted; and simultaneously his own and Alaric’s other hand fell away.

The wound was gone! All he could see was a very faint line on the skin where the blade had entered—a line that was fast fading—but even of the monstrous quantity of blood that had escaped his body, there was little trace except on their hands. He held up his own bloodied hand, glanced at Alaric’s, then let his head loll back against Alaric’s shoulder to look up for the first time at the circle of watchers. Warin was closest—drawn, white, awestruck—and beside him Kelson and Cardiel, Warin’s men clumped in a scared, incredulous knot a little to the right. Duncan managed a weak smile and lowered his hand slowly, then glanced up at Alaric.