"Now, if you'd just let me talk to him—," said Wulfric.
"He was in pain. He's in less pain now, but I want him in no pain. Then you can muddle his poor head with questions," replied the healer.
"I wonder…" murmured Sandry, thinking aloud. "Could something fight your power? Another magic?"
"Something you may not recognize," Wulfric added. "I certainly don't."
The healer glared at them. "If it's a magic I haven't seen before, how would I know if I were fighting it?" he demanded. "I admit, Gury here should be resistant to healing, but not like this. The more I pour in, the less it helps."
Sandry opened her mouth, then closed it. She wasn't sure that either of these men would let her do something.
"Speak up, my dear," the duke said from his seat beside Lebua.
"Master healer, might I try something?" she inquired. The longer she looked at that shadow, the queasier it made her feel. She wanted it off the injured Gury and his partner Lebua as well.
The healer raised his brows. "What did you have in mind, my lady?"
She stepped forward. "Take your magic out of him. All of it." Guryil's eyes flew open. "I'm sorry, Guardsman," Sandry told him, "but I really think this must be done."
Guryil nodded reluctantly.
The healer laid his hands on the broken leg. Sandry watched as all of his magic flowed out of his patient and back into him. Guryil whimpered, and sweat poured off his forehead. His pain had returned.
Sandry rested her hands against his foot, her fingers just missing the shadow. She closed her eyes and fell into the heart of her magic. Swiftly she collected what she needed, sorting her power into a thousand hair-fine strands.
She opened her eyes. Looking through her power, she could see the healer's magic, Wulfric's blaze—accented by bright spots that were the spelled tools he carried—and the glow from the steady-heart charm the duke's healer had made for Vedris. Against all that brightness, the shadow was still just a thin layer of grime.
She spread her fingers on Guryils foot, and carefully slipped a thread under that layer. The feel of it against her magic made her skin creep. She had to get every shred of it.
Once her thread was under the shadow, she let it grow until she saw it emerge from under the darkness at Gury's thigh. She chose more threads, running them under the smear. Once she had a solid layer of vertical strands, she paid out a fresh thread along the bottom of the strip, at right angles to her vertical ones. The new thread became the smear's lower border. She thrust it then, setting it flying in and out among the vertical threads, weaving tight and fast. This was easy; she some times thought she'd spent most of the last four years weaving pure magic.
She felt it when her moving thread hit empty air. Now her woven power lay solidly between that shadow and the injured man. She held her left hand over it and called the free end of the thread back to her. It came, folding the magical cloth in half. She looped her thread around it three times, tying the whole into a tight bundle. Only then did she let her thread break
"Here," Wulfric said. "I carry these in my kit, just in case." He held up a silk bag that gleamed with signs to enclose and protect. "I'd thought to scrape it off, once you showed it to me. I've got a little spatula that might have done the job."
"I was afraid to miss any." Sandry dumped the bundle into his sack, then called all the power that was hers back into herself. It came away clean, — she made certain of that. When she nodded to Wulfric, he tied the silk bag shut. "Go ahead," Sandry told the healer.
He was already hovering. Now he sat and, poured his power into Gury. The man sighed; his head fell back on his pillow. The healer looked at Sandry, shocked. "I could feel the difference! Nice work, my lady, very nice."
Sandry blushed. "There's some of that stuff on his partner, too." she told Wulfric. He nodded, and they went over to Lebua. Gathering the darkness on him went quickly.
As soon as Wulfric had that second piece of shadow in one of his protected bags, he told Sandry and the duke, "I'm off to play with this. I'll let you know what I find." He strode briskly out of the infirmary.
"What an odd man," Sandry remarked, wiping her forehead on her sleeve. The duke frowned, watching her, then offered his arm. Sandry let him walk her out into the cool night air. A gentle mist was falling. When Sandry turned her face up to it, Duke Vedris paused.
"He is the best of the provosts mages," he said, his velvety voice easy on her ears. "He knows more about the spells used to commit and study crime than anyone else alive. If he can't pick apart what you found, then it must be fare indeed. You could do with supper, I think. So could I."
Sandry nodded, and they returned to the duke's residence. She would have to wash her hands before she ate. Maybe a scrubbing would erase the sense that she had touched something dreadful in handling those smears.
The next morning Pasco arrived after breakfast. When Sandry met him in the great entrance hall, the boy had the look of a hunted fawn. "This place is so big" he told Sandry, bowing jerkily. "Don't you get lost, my lady? Should I be here?"
She looked him over. Gone were the sandals, breeches, and worn shirt of the last two days—at Zahra Acalon's command, Sandry guessed. Now he was dressed in what had to be his best clothes: neat brown cotton breeches, a spotless yellow linen shirt, and a thigh-length brown coat that he wore unbuttoned. His feet were neatly shod.
"Don't be silly," she informed him. "Yes, you should be here. I told you to be here. No, I never get lost. Let's find someplace quiet." She led him upstairs and opened a door to one of the sitting rooms. A pair of maids had rolled up the carpets and were busily scrubbing the floor. They started to get up, but Sandry shook her head at them and closed the door. "By the way, Pasco, you look nice."
"Mama said I couldn't come here in normal clothes," he explained as they walked down the hall. "She even scrubbed me behind the ears, and me twelve years old! Does his grace really need so many rooms?"
Sandry opened another door, to find it was one of the side entrances to the chancellory. Scribes turned to stare at her. She closed the door. "His grace's officials need the rooms," she told Pasco severely. "We'd better go outside." And I had better think of someplace else for us to meet, she realized. Pasco just isn't comfortable here.
A stair led them out into the gardens. They found a seat on a stone bench that was tucked out of the day's brisk wind. Sandry perched crosswise on it and drew her legs up in a tailor's seat under her skirts. She pointed sternly to the bare spot on the bench in front of her. Pasco sat. "Do you remember how we meditate?" she wanted to know.
"You have to ward us," he said, mischief in his eyes.
Sandry drew herself up and got off the bench with great dignity. "So you do remember yesterday's lesson, at least a bit." Let him think she had meant it as a test. He didn't need to know that mentally she was yelling at her self for almost forgetting such an important thing.
She had to calm down to place the thread circle and enclose them in her power. By the time she rejoined him on the bench, she had to admit that, since she did ward them before his magic could spill, it was funny. Not that she would tell him so, but she thought that the duke might laugh at the tale.
"What next?" she asked.
"I close my eyes and breathe and count and think of nothing," he replied promptly. "Even if I'm bored."
"Very good," she approved. "And today I want you to imagine you're fitting yourself into something small—,"