He’d never tried spelling Rebecca before, save for a little wizardly leakage, but…

Frantically, Han searched her for something—an amulet, a token—anything that could be interfering with the magic. When he picked up her right hand, the gold wolf ring on her forefinger felt blazing hot.

“Hmm,” he said, examining the ring. It was the one that matched Captain Byrne’s, tucked away in his purse. And the one Corporal Byrne was likely still wearing.

Clanwork, they must be, since they were magical.

“Where did you get this?” he murmured. Gritting his teeth against the heat, Han tugged at the ring, finally managing to wrench it off her finger. “Sorry,” he said. Carefully, he tucked it into his purse next to Byrne’s. “I’ll give it back, I promise,” he said.

Once again, he pressed his fingers against the wound, sending power in, a diagnostic he’d learned in Master Leontus’s healing class. There was an unnatural cold all around the shaft, and it was spreading. It was too soon for it to be infection. Infection was hot anyway, right?

Poison. Likely a clan brew. They were widely available from clan traders and in the markets.

Han swore, feeling cheated—like all his hard work had been for nothing.

It was well that Rebecca had bled some, or she’d be dead already. If Merkle and his cronies had known she was wounded, they could have ridden away and left her to die without a worry.

Han knew one thing—there was nothing he could do for her here. He might be gifted, but he was no healer. He had to get her into more capable hands, and quickly. And that meant Marisa Pines. He had to hope that Willo was there. If she wasn’t, Rebecca would die.

Likely, she’d die anyway.

Fetching an old woolen shirt from his saddlebag, he dropped it over her head, without bothering to put her arms into the sleeves. It was huge on her, reaching to her knees, but it would keep her warm, at least.

He thought of constructing a litter, but knew that would take too much time. They’d have to ride double. The trip would be hard on her, perhaps fatal, but he had no choice. The bile rose in his throat, and he swallowed it down.

He would not lose her. He refused. He prayed to the Maker. Just let something work out for once. Let me save someone before this war begins.

It occurred to him that maybe his prayers were like curses—they simply drew the attention of vengeful gods.

Despite the urgency he felt, he took the time to put Rebecca’s horse and one of the assassins’ mounts onto a lead line. The horses were clues—evidence of the crime that had been committed. He pushed away the thought that Rebecca wouldn’t be able to tell what had happened because she’d be dead.