face and dark, diamond-shaped tattoos framing
her eyes. The vision faded as the cool, sweet water trickled down his throat, but not the memory. He'd know her, if he
ever saw her again, especially if she smiled.
Rest, Pavek. Sleep quietly while your body heals.
He resisted because he was a man and did not like to be compelled, however gently or wisely. Then his eyes
closed and he obeyed.
* * *
There were other awakenings, some when Pavek's left arm seethed with inner fire. His back would arch tight at
those times, and he'd remember the words every drill-field instructor barked at the end of a training session: Heal quick
or heal forever. Pavek had left his wounds malingering for nearly two weeks-had no choice, really. A competent healer
could seal a cut with a finger's touch, but Pavek couldn't purge poison or regenerate muscle overnight. His body
informed his mind that this healing wasn't finished and sometimes it told him that he must open his mouth to scream.
There was never light, never a clear memory of the healcraft that must be taking place while he slept. And mostly
he did sleep, without dreams, without time. He was grateful, but it wasn't natural; nothing about this underground
chamber was natural. The water tasted pristine, but the broth could hide a dozen concoctions beneath its robust
flavor, including one that left him in calm and blissful acceptance of very strange circumstances.
* * *
Pavek awoke again and found the chamber awash in the shadowy light of a small oil-lamp. The drowse that had
insulated him from worry was gone, as was the stone weight around his elbow. He needed no help to raise his head or
sit-though he regretted the latter. He'd been on his back too long. Blood drained from his head. The chamber spun in
spirals, dimmed to a charcoal fog.
"Easy there, Pavek my friend. Be a bit more considerate of my hard work."
A man's voice, probably human and speaking with a familiar Urik accent, drifted through the fog. A man's hand,
big-knuckled and callused, clapped between his shoulders, pushing his head forward and down until his forehead
banged against his knee. Blood reversed its flow, and he got an odd-angled look at the cleric who'd healed him: unruly
hair atop a round, soft-featured face, ropes of mottled clay beads clattering against a barrel chest, and a robe the exact
color of the chamber walls.
Pavek shrugged free of the helping hand. He sat up with no further ill effects, looking straight into guileless
brown eyes. "Are we friends? I don't know you. You know my name; what else do you know about me?" His neck was
naked; the medallion was missing, where or when he couldn't begin to guess. The rest of him was naked, too, although
a linen sheet allowed the pretext of decency.
"Everything mat's worth knowing." The cleric's grin was as merry as any Pavek had seen on a sober man.
"Oelus," he added, offering his hand, which Pavek regarded with undisguised suspicion.
"You are a healer, a cleric bound to some temple or sanctuary? You aren't... hidden?"
"Veiled?" Oelus spoke the word with raised eyebrows; his hand remained outstretched. "No more than you. But,
if you're asking if the Alliance knows where you are, the answer is yes."
"I remember a boy. Was there a boy?"
"Very definitely-and scared out of his wits. He'd got you halfway to safety, then had to leave you where you fell.
Worst place to be, my friend, halfway to safety. Very exposed and a risk to all concerned. You can be sure our veiled
friends moved quick to get you here, no questions asked 'til much later."
Oelus's words percolated through Pavek's skull. By implication, the boy had, indeed, been leading him to an
Alliance bolt-hole, which wouldn't have been safety-not for a templar. The templarate hunted Veiled mages as vermin,
and the vermin returned the favor. No quarter was asked or given from either side. He wouldn't have drawn two
breaths inside an Alliance bolt-hole; the boy, himself, would have
her eyes. The vision faded as the cool, sweet water trickled down his throat, but not the memory. He'd know her, if he
ever saw her again, especially if she smiled.
Rest, Pavek. Sleep quietly while your body heals.
He resisted because he was a man and did not like to be compelled, however gently or wisely. Then his eyes
closed and he obeyed.
* * *
There were other awakenings, some when Pavek's left arm seethed with inner fire. His back would arch tight at
those times, and he'd remember the words every drill-field instructor barked at the end of a training session: Heal quick
or heal forever. Pavek had left his wounds malingering for nearly two weeks-had no choice, really. A competent healer
could seal a cut with a finger's touch, but Pavek couldn't purge poison or regenerate muscle overnight. His body
informed his mind that this healing wasn't finished and sometimes it told him that he must open his mouth to scream.
There was never light, never a clear memory of the healcraft that must be taking place while he slept. And mostly
he did sleep, without dreams, without time. He was grateful, but it wasn't natural; nothing about this underground
chamber was natural. The water tasted pristine, but the broth could hide a dozen concoctions beneath its robust
flavor, including one that left him in calm and blissful acceptance of very strange circumstances.
* * *
Pavek awoke again and found the chamber awash in the shadowy light of a small oil-lamp. The drowse that had
insulated him from worry was gone, as was the stone weight around his elbow. He needed no help to raise his head or
sit-though he regretted the latter. He'd been on his back too long. Blood drained from his head. The chamber spun in
spirals, dimmed to a charcoal fog.
"Easy there, Pavek my friend. Be a bit more considerate of my hard work."
A man's voice, probably human and speaking with a familiar Urik accent, drifted through the fog. A man's hand,
big-knuckled and callused, clapped between his shoulders, pushing his head forward and down until his forehead
banged against his knee. Blood reversed its flow, and he got an odd-angled look at the cleric who'd healed him: unruly
hair atop a round, soft-featured face, ropes of mottled clay beads clattering against a barrel chest, and a robe the exact
color of the chamber walls.
Pavek shrugged free of the helping hand. He sat up with no further ill effects, looking straight into guileless
brown eyes. "Are we friends? I don't know you. You know my name; what else do you know about me?" His neck was
naked; the medallion was missing, where or when he couldn't begin to guess. The rest of him was naked, too, although
a linen sheet allowed the pretext of decency.
"Everything mat's worth knowing." The cleric's grin was as merry as any Pavek had seen on a sober man.
"Oelus," he added, offering his hand, which Pavek regarded with undisguised suspicion.
"You are a healer, a cleric bound to some temple or sanctuary? You aren't... hidden?"
"Veiled?" Oelus spoke the word with raised eyebrows; his hand remained outstretched. "No more than you. But,
if you're asking if the Alliance knows where you are, the answer is yes."
"I remember a boy. Was there a boy?"
"Very definitely-and scared out of his wits. He'd got you halfway to safety, then had to leave you where you fell.
Worst place to be, my friend, halfway to safety. Very exposed and a risk to all concerned. You can be sure our veiled
friends moved quick to get you here, no questions asked 'til much later."
Oelus's words percolated through Pavek's skull. By implication, the boy had, indeed, been leading him to an
Alliance bolt-hole, which wouldn't have been safety-not for a templar. The templarate hunted Veiled mages as vermin,
and the vermin returned the favor. No quarter was asked or given from either side. He wouldn't have drawn two
breaths inside an Alliance bolt-hole; the boy, himself, would have
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