Uh-oh. “I promise.”

“I saw his death. When, where, how. All the gory details.”

“Oh, no. I’m so sorry, Flea.”

He shook his head. “Not your fault. I need to learn... But I’m not going to tell him or anyone else. Not now. Okay?”

“Yes. We’ll stop experimenting. Ryne has that book—”

“No. I need to know what else I can do. It’s too important.” He took my hand and relaxed a bit. “Touch is still okay.” He gave me a half smile. “Guess I need to concentrate in order to see. And, truthfully, I never want to do it again.”

“You don’t have to.” And at the moment, I couldn’t think of a reason he’d need to. Except... “Uh, Flea. Can you at least tell me...”

“Not soon. He’ll be annoying us for a while.”

I sagged against Flea. “Good. I don’t think I’d survive if I lost another friend.”

“Me, either.”

We sat together for a while. When we returned to the cave, the monkeys hustled over. Flea took a step back, but then recovered.

“What happened?” Loren asked.

“Flea threw up, but he’s okay,” I said.

“Why did you get sick?” Quain asked.

Flea shrugged, but wouldn’t meet Quain’s gaze. “I guess when I try to use my magic, it makes me sick.”

A lame excuse and Loren was too smart to fall for it. But I gave him a pointed look and he dropped the subject.

Flea accompanied me during my afternoon rounds.

“Another aspect of Sepp’s magic is he could tell if an injured or sick man would die from his injuries,” I said.

“Isn’t that what I just did with Quain?” Flea hugged his arms to his chest.

“Not quite. Quain’s healthy. Sepp called death a threshold. He said he could see what caused a person to cross over the threshold and also sense if they’re close to crossing. He never mentioned being able to see into a person’s future. And knowing Sepp, he would have bragged about it and used it to his advantage.”

“Oh.”

I checked on Private Davin. Color had returned to his face. In fact, a little too much color and his breathing was ragged. Probably a fever.

“Flea, touch his hand, but don’t concentrate on anything. Just see if you get a...feeling.”

He hesitated then placed his fingertips on Davin’s knuckles. Flea snatched his hand away as if burned. “Something...” He tapped his chest. “In here. A clot? It’s not good.”

Surprised, I took Davin’s hand. My magic flowed into him. This time, I waited, letting it seep in, ignoring the obvious injuries. I detected a small blockage in his lungs. If left untreated, it would grow and be fatal.

“What’s wrong?” Flea asked.

“It’s a pulmonary embolism. You just saved his life.”

“Me? No, you. You’re the healer. You would have figured it out.”

“I was going to give him fever powder. If you hadn’t spotted it, he would have died tonight.”

Flea stared at me a moment as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard. “You mean, this...magic might be a good thing?”