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They’d come from the Valley of the Damned, and lightning had wracked the cloudless heavens above the Valley. They’d smitten Cragsend with fire and thunder. One of them, alone, had ripped the entire roof from his church. Another had shattered three heavy wagons. A third had blazed alive in the flames of Mother Church’s holiest oils and laughed—laughed! And when the smoke had wisped away, Stomald had stared at bubbled sheets of glass, flashing like gems under the morning sun, where the smithy had burned to less than ash.

Yet with all that inconceivable power, they’d killed no one. No one. Not a man, woman, or child. Not even an animal! Not even the men who’d wounded and captured their fellow and intended to burn her alive…

The Church taught love for one’s fellows, but demons should have slain—not simply frightened helpless mortals from their paths! And no demon could endure the Holy Tongue, far less speak it with its own mouth!

He opened his eyes, stroking the tunic once more, recalling the beauty of the woman who’d worn it, and faced the thought he’d fought. They had not—could not—have been mortals, and that should have made them demons. But demons couldn’t have spoken the Holy Tongue, and demons wouldn’t have spared where they might have slain. And if no woman might wear the vestments of Mother Church, these were not those of Mother Church, but finer and more mystical than anything Man might make even for the glory of God.

He closed his eyes and trembled with a different fear, like sunshine after the tempest, mingling with his terror in glory-shot wonder. No woman might wear Mother Church’s raiment, no, but there were other beings who might. Beings of supernal beauty who might enter even that accursed valley and smite its demonic powers with thunder more deadly than that of Hell itself. Beings who could speak the Holy Tongue … and would not speak another.

“Forgive me, Lord,” he whispered into the sunlight streaming through his window. His eyes sparkled as he raised his hands to the light, and he stood, opening his arms to embrace its radiance.

“Forgive my ignorance, Lord! Let not Your wrath fall upon my flock, for it was my blindness, not theirs. They saw only with their fear, but I—I should have seen with my heart and understood!”

* * *

Harriet MacIntyre opened her eyes and winced as dim light burned into her brain. There was no pain, but she’d never felt so weak. Her sluggish thoughts were blurred, and vertigo and nausea washed through her.

She moaned, trying to move, and quivered with terror when she could not. A shape bent over her, and she blinked. Half her vision was a terrible boil of featureless glare and the other half wavered, like heat shimmer or light through a sheet of water. Tears of frustration trickled as she fought in vain to focus and felt the world slipping away once more.

“Harry?” A hand touched hers, lifted it. “Harry, can you hear me?”

Sean’s rough-edged voice was raw with pain and worry. Worry for her, she realized muzzily, and her heart twisted at the exhaustion that filled it.

“Can you hear me?” he repeated gently, and she summoned all her strength to squeeze his hand. Once that grip would have crumpled steel; now her fingers barely twitched, but his hand tightened as he felt them move.

“You’re in sickbay, Harry.” His blurred shape came closer as he knelt by her bed, and a gentle hand touched her forehead. She felt his fingers tremble, and his voice fogged. “I know you can’t move, sweetheart, but that’s because the med section has your implants shut down. You’re going to be all right.” Her eyes slid shut once more, blotting out the confusion. “You’re going to be all right,” he repeated. “Do you understand, Harry?” The urgency in the words reached her, and she squeezed again. Her lips moved, and he leaned close, straining his enhanced hearing to the limit.

“Love … you … all…”

His eyes burned as the thready whisper faded, but her breathing was slow and regular. He watched her for a long, silent moment, and then he laid her hand beside her, patted it once, and sank back in his chair.

* * *

There were other moments of vague awareness over the next few days, periods of drifting disorientation which would have terrified her had her thoughts been even a little clearer. Harriet had been seriously injured once before—a grav-cycle accident that broke both legs and an arm before she’d been fully enhanced—and Imperial medicine had put her back on her feet in a week. Now whole days passed before she could hang onto consciousness for more than a minute, and that said horrifying volumes about her injuries. Worse, she couldn’t remember what had happened. She didn’t have the least idea how she’d been hurt, but she clung to Sean’s promise. She was all right. She was going to be all right if she just held on…

And then, at last, she woke and the bed beneath her was still, and the vertigo and nausea had vanished. Her lips were dry, and she licked them, staring up into near total darkness.

“Harriet?” It was Brashan this time, and she turned her head slowly, heart leaping as muscles obeyed her once more. She blinked, trying to focus on his face, and her forehead furrowed as she failed. Try as she might, half her field of vision was a gyrating electrical storm wrapped in a blazing fog.

“B-Brash?” Her voice was husky. She tried to clear her throat, then gasped as a six-fingered alien hand slipped under her. It cradled the back of her head, easing her up while the mattress rose behind her, and another hand held a glass. Her lips fumbled with the straw, and then she sighed as ice-cold water filled her mouth. The desiccated tissues seemed to suck it up instantly, yet nothing had ever tasted half so wonderful.

He let her drink a moment more, then set the glass aside and settled her back against the pillow. She closed her right eye, and sighed again as the tormenting glare vanished. Her left eye obeyed her, focusing on his saurian, long-snouted face and noting the half-flattened concern of his crest.

“Brash,” she repeated. Her hand rose, and his took it.

“Doctor Brash, please,” he said with a Narhani’s curled-lip smile.

“Should’ve guessed.” She smiled back, and if her voice was weak, it sounded like hers once more. “You always were better with the med computers.”

“Fortunately,” another voice said, and she turned her head as Sandy appeared on her other side. Her friend smiled, but her eyes glistened as she sank into the chair and took her free hand.

“Oh, Harry,” she whispered. Tears welled, and she brushed at them almost viciously. “You scared us, honey. God, how you scared us!”

Harriet’s hand tightened, and Sandy bent to lay her cheek against it. She stayed there for a moment, brown hair falling in a short, silky cloud about a too-thin wrist, and then she drew a deep breath and straightened.

“Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to go all mushy on you. But ‘Doctor Brashan’ damn well saved your life. I—” her voice wavered again before she got it back under control “—I didn’t think he was going to be able to.”

“Hush,” Harriet soothed. “Hush, Sandy. I’m all right.” She smiled a bit tremulously. “I know I am—Sean promised me.”

“Yes. Yes, he did.” Sandy produced a tissue and blew her nose, then managed a watery grin. “In fact, he’s gonna be ticked he wasn’t here when you woke up, but Brashan and I chased him back into bed less than an hour ago.”

“Is everyone else all right?”

“We’re fine, Harry. Fine. Sean’s got some damage to his left arm—he drove himself too hard—but it’s minor, and Tam’s fine. Just exhausted. With you out, Brashan stuck here in sickbay, and Sean ready to kill anybody who suggested he leave you, poor Tam’s been carrying most of the load.”