Healers are teachers as well as therapists. They teach their clients to fight back.

Healers are braver than the most valorous warrior, because they make themselves vulnerable. They open channels between them and those they treat.

Leontus was a wire-haired zealot preaching to the unconverted, and students made fun of him each time he turned his back.

Han recalled only remnants of charms—both to help the patient and protect the healer. He spoke them aloud, hoping he could recapture them that way.

Rebecca stiffened against him, then trembled as a seizure rolled through her body. Once again, Han pressed his fingers against the wound, sending power in. The area around the wound had gone icy.

The poison was doing its work. Han knew she would not make it to Marisa Pines.

Ragger lurched forward, responding to the sudden grip of Han’s knees. Making soothing noises at the gelding, Han opened his coat and shirt, ignoring the rapidly dropping temperature. Lifting Rebecca’s shirt, he pulled her body tight against his bare chest, wrapping his coat around her to hold the heat in.

Gripping his amulet, he whispered the opening charm for healing. Then he tentatively reached out for her with his mind. That much, he remembered—how to get hold of the thoughts of others for a purpose.

He’d halfheartedly participated in the exercises in class. They’d paired off, and…

The channel opened, and he was through. She was cold, so cold, the poisoned wound like an open window that drew the heat and life of her body away.

Healers nudged the patient, convincing them to fight back. Shivering, he burrowed deeper, cautiously making his way toward the spark of life that smoldered at her center.

Come on, Rebecca. Fight back. Don’t go down on the bricks for them. Stick with me. Don’t give in. Don’t let them win.

It was as if he’d wandered into a cold cave without a map, bumping into memories and emotions in the dark. Images slid through his mind, from a different life—much of which made no sense to him. A vast expanse of water—an ocean he’d never seen. A pair of red dancing shoes. Opulent palace interiors. An emerald necklace in the shape of a serpent. A view of Fellsmarch at night through a wall of glass, the wizard lamps pricking out the streets below.

And people: Amon Byrne in a fancy dress uniform, standing at rigid attention in an entryway. Averill Lightfoot Demonai, his face softened by an affection meant for someone else.

Lord Demonai? Rebecca knows Lord Demonai?

Well, she is of clan blood.

An elegant blond-haired lady cradling a newborn baby, singing a lullaby in a high, clear voice. Micah Bayar, clad in black and white, extending his hands, the black eyes glittering with lust and triumph.