When he reached the canyon floor, he whistled for Ragger. To his amazement, the gelding came, though he snorted at all the blood and bodies lying about.

One-handed, Han untied his blanket roll and dropped it in a spot next to the canyon wall where the snow had been scoured away by the wind. He set Rebecca down atop it and wrestled off her coat. By then, despite his patter, she’d drifted into unconsciousness, lashes dark against bloodless skin. So pale, he pressed his fingers under her chin to feel her pulse and make sure she still lived.

As he worked, Han sorted through his worries. He didn’t know how many assassins there were to begin with, and whether more might show up at any moment. But he was more worried Rebecca might bleed to death before they made it to Marisa Pines.

Using her knife, he cut the bloody shirt away. Supporting her with one arm, he looked her over. The rose tattoo below her collarbone shone bloodred against her pallor.

She’d taken an arrow beneath her left shoulder blade. It must have knocked her off her horse. She’d managed to break off the shaft close to the skin, but the tip was deep inside.

The wound had quit bleeding. The flesh had swollen up around the shaft, closing it off. She might be bleeding inside, though. He laid his ear against her breast, her skin soft against his bristled cheek. Her breathing sounded normal, not wet, at least, and there was no evidence of air coming through the wound. So perhaps the lung had been spared. She hadn’t bled out all that much. The wound looked survivable if he could get her to a healer.

But something wasn’t right. She seemed muddy and confused, almost like the wound had begun to fester. Could she be in shock from loss of blood? She was a small person, after all.

He studied the flesh about the arrow shaft, pressing his fingers against the wound. Rebecca moaned and tried to shift away. Taking hold of his amulet, he sent a whisper of power in, exploring. It disappeared immediately. He tried again, and the same thing happened. A third time, stronger than ever, and power hissed off his fingers like smoke in a strong wind.

What the…? It was like something was sucking up the power before it could take effect. But he’d never noticed anything magical about Rebecca before.

It reminded him of the silver cuffs he’d worn until Elena Cennestre took them off eight months ago. The clans had fastened them around his wrists when he was just a baby. They were like magical darbies—handcuffs of sorts. They suppressed his magic and prevented others from using their magic on him.

Several times, charmcasters had tried flaming him, or spelling him, and the cuffs had sucked the power away. Just like this.