Magic's Price

The “favors” turned out to be Healing an endless stream of ruffians and bandits who came to his door by night, each bearing “Master Dark's” token. Their injuries were always the kind gotten in combat - Brodie asked no questions, and they never said anything. But after the first two, when it became evident that these patients were never better, than thieves and often worse, Brodie began taking a twisted sort of satisfaction in his lack of skill where they were concerned. It only seemed right that in order to be Healed these cutthroats suffered twice the pain they would have if they'd recovered naturally.

Brodie was altogether glad that it was the dead of winter. He seldom saw more than two or three of them during the coldest months. ...

He squinted up at the sky; first quarter moon, and the sky as clear as crystal. It would be much colder, come dawn.

He heaved himself up the steep, slippery side of the cut, and onto the path that led to his hut.

And froze at the sound of a voice.

“About time, ye ol' bastid,” growled a shadow that separated itself from a tree trunk and strode ruthlessly toward him. “Time t' pay yer rent agin. Th' Master needs ye.”

Eighteen

“What in Kernos' name did you do to him?” Brodie spluttered, white and incoherent with rage. Having to patch up one of these bastards was bad enough - but being called on to save one of their half-dead victims, presumably so that they could deliver similar treatment to him again - it was more than Brodie was willing to take silently.

The man was catatonic and just barely alive. Raped, beaten to unconsciousness, a cursory examination told Brodie he was bleeding internally in a dozen places, and only a wiry toughness that gave the lie to his fragile appearance had saved him from death before Brodie ever got there.

The so-called “Lord” Rendan shrugged. “It's none of your concern, Healer,” he growled. “Master Dark wants this man, and he wants him alive and able to talk. You Heal him; that's all you need to know. You'd better do a good job, too, or else. . . .”

Rendan smirked, showing a set of teeth as rotten as his soul, and his less-than-subtle threat chilled Brodie's heart. This was more than simple risk of exposure, then, this was his life that was in danger now.

But if he showed his fear . . . working with beasts had taught him that displaying fear only makes the aggressor more inclined to attack.

“Get out of here, and let me work in peace,” he growled, hoping the flickering of the single candle Rendan had brought into the storeroom hid the shaking of his hands. “Animals, the lot of you. Worse than animals, not even a rabid pig would do something like this! Go on, get out, and I'll see if anything can be done. And leave the damned candle! You think I'm an owl? And send in the boy - I may need him. He's practically useless, but the rest of you are worse.”

Rendan lost his smirk, confronted by defiance where he didn't expect it, demands where he expected acquiescence, and reluctantly sidled out, leaving Brodie alone with his desperate work.

Gods of light - Brodie didn't have to touch the man to know that it was a good thing he was unconscious. Every nerve was afire with pain. Brodie removed the heap of rags covering him carefully, all too aware of how the least little movement would make what was agony into torture for both of them.

The man was already a strange one; hair streaked with silver as any old gaffer, yet plainly much younger, and under the bruises was a face that would set maidens swooning. When Brodie got down to his clothing he frowned, trying to remember where he'd heard of white garments like this man wore.

Something out of Valdemar wasn't it? Kingsmen of some kind. Not Harpers-Heralds? What's a Kingsman of Valdemar doing outside his borders?

Well, it didn't much matter; the man's labored breathing told Brodie that if he didn't do something quickly, this particular Kingsman would be serving from under the sod.

All right, you poor lad, Brodie thought, nerving himself for the plunge. Let's see how bad you really are. . . .

Stef's throat was raw, and his eyes swollen when he finally got control of himself again. He scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand, and carefully slowed his breathing.

Oh, gods, control yourself. Look at the facts, Stef; Van's gone. This isn't doing anybody any good.