“I had business in Fellsmarch,” she said. She gently examined his arm, and the touch of her hand was like cool water flowing over it, washing away the pain. Rising, she poured water from the pitcher into a cup and sprinkled the contents of a beaded pouch into it. “Here,” she said. “Drink. It’s willow bark. It will help with the pain.”

It was willow bark and turtleweed, and maybe something else, too, because then it seemed he began hallucinating.

A door opened and closed, and he thought he heard Dancer say, “What happened to Hunts Alone? Who did this? Let me see him.”

Then Willo’s voice, some kind of argument, like she was trying to persuade him to leave. Quick footsteps, then Dancer loomed over him, breathing hard, eyes wild, his face gleaming with sweat, his hair hanging in long damp strands. He wore a dedicate’s robe, bright against his dark skin.

“Hunts Alone,” he whispered, extending his hand toward Han’s face.

Dancer’s skin kindled and blazed, and flames pinwheeled out from his body. Han threw his good arm over his face to protect it. Then Willo and Jemson were dragging Dancer back, out of Han’s sight.

“You can’t help him, Dancer,” Willo was saying urgently. “Go with Jemson, and let me work. Please.”

“Dancer!” Han shouted, trying to rise, but the drug made him helpless. Dancer was sick. Dancer was on fire. Fire Dancer.

Moments later, Willo returned. He tried to speak to her, to ask her what was going on, but he couldn’t articulate the words. He was vaguely aware of Willo straightening his arm, saying words over it, splinting it, binding it to his body. And he knew nothing else after that.

He awoke in the late afternoon. Sunlight slanted through the windows, birds were singing, and the scent of flowers wafted through the open door. All good.

He looked down at himself. Somehow they’d bathed him and dressed him in a dedicate’s white robe. His purse was sitting on his bedside table, but his clothes seemed to be missing. The swelling in his arm had gone down dramatically. It was bound tightly to his chest, and there was only a dull ache to remind him of the blinding pain of the day before. With any luck he’d have full use of it by the end of the week. Willo had worked on him before.

Images swirled through his mind like smears of wet paint. Gillen’s club coming down on his head. Dancer on fire. Willo’s worried face.

He swung his legs off the bed and stood shakily, realizing he was starving. That was another thing about rapid healing—it left you ravenous. He shuffled barefoot to the door and peered out into the garden in time to see Dori heading his way with a likely-looking tray.