It did not surprise me that they took the Healer's death ill. Those who had been there—Rikard, the students, a few of the townsfolk who were sifting the ruins of the College—knew the truth. The rest of those gathered knew only that a Healer had been killed by a dragon. I had cleaned my talons of his blood as best I could, but there was no water nearby. Dark stains remained, testimony that could not be denied.

To my surprise I noted that many of them bore small weapons—tiny blades, or slightly larger ones that must surely be swords. I had heard of swords but never seen one close to. The largest was not the length of my least talon, and it was thin and weak beyond belief. Some carried what looked to be thick tree branches, others had long sticks with many-pronged heads. I breathed a sigh to the Winds that they might not descend to an attack. It would dishearten them so.

Rikard explained again and again, but there were some in the growing crowd that would not believe him. "He is in thrall to the dragon!" some idiot cried out. "Rikard is corrupted!"

"Rikard is one of the few who isn't," retorted Lanen, loudly. She and Varien led the others, as they all came to stand by my side. Rikard let out his breath. I think he had been growing anxious.

"Haven't you been listening?" asked Lanen, her voice laden with scorn. I was most impressed at the sheer volume she managed to achieve. It was—arresting, and that was what was needed, a moment to stop and reflect.

"Most of you weren't here. I was. I saw the demon using Donal's body," said Lanen, only the slightest quiver in her voice showing her remembered revulsion. "When Magister Rikard banished it and Donal returned for a brief moment—my soul to the Lady, he begged desperately for death ere the demon could take him over once more." She raised her head, frowning, her arms straight down at her sides and her hands curled tight. "I have been at the mercy of demons. It is a terrible thing—and I was not taken over as Donal was. For a Healer to be in the same body as something so obscene, so opposed to everything in the soul of the Lady's chosen ones, and to know of no end and no way out... I can well understand that death would be welcome. Even desirable."

There was a moment of silence. Perhaps she has touched them, I thought in wonder. She is a truth-speaker, Lanen, and such truths can be very powerful—but then a strident voice from somewhere in the crowd called out, "Is the dragon to get clean away with it, then? It killed a Healer! Donal's blood yet stains its claws, and it would talk its way out of paying for murder!"

To my surprise, Salera bespoke me. Quite clearly, too. Aside even from her words, I could not restrain a surge of pride in her ability, so newly won and already so well controlled.

"Lord Shikrar, do you focus their attention on you. The Raksha smell is strong now, where it was not before. I go to find its source. Distract them!"

Very well. I would distract them.

I rose up on my back legs, spreading my wings wide, in the Attitude of Defiance. Not appropriate, perhaps, but it most certainly caught their attention.

"What would you of me?" I cried loudly. Some raised their hands to their ears. Ha, I thought, let you ignore that. For sheer volume, we of the Kantri are difficult to surpass. "I and my people are the life-enemies of the Rakshasa: you may have forgotten that, but it is as true now as it was thousands of winters past.

Healer Donal confessed his corruption, he admitted before witnesses that he had sold his soul to Berys the demon-master and Marik of the House of Gundar." Quickly, Solera, I can only bluster for so long no matter what Akhor says. "The Lady Lanen has the right of it, he longed for—"

Towards the back of the crowd, a man cried out as Salera wrapped her tail about his waist. "Thiss isss anotherrr," she hissed, her voice sliding out of the difficult Gedri speech, her wings rattling with anger, her deep blue eyes blazing. "Rakshadakh!"

The people round about her scuttled away. Just as well, perhaps.

"Don't hurt him, Salera!" cried Varien. Vilkas and Aral were fighting their way through the crowd, as was Rikard. Rikard reached them first.

The man, held helpless in the coils of Salera's tail, was very young even to my eyes, but he bared his teeth in a snarl at Rikard. "Will you destroy me as well, then?" he spat. "You and your pet dragons! Who have you sold your soul to, Rikard?"

"No one, Rathen," Rikard sighed. "Which is more than you can say." Rikard raised his power about him and sent a shaft of purest blue to surround the man, who cried out. "Rathen of Eli-mar, Rathen of the South Kingdom, Rathen ta-Seren, speak to me, in the name of the Lady!" said Rikard. His power blazed. Rathen gave a great shuddering cry and wilted.

"Let him down gently please, Salera," said Aral as she and Vilkas arrived. They caught Rathen as Salera loosed him from her tail, and lowered him carefully to the ground. "Rathen?" called Aral.

There was no response, though the body twitched. "Come on, man, fight it!" urged Aral.

Rathen moaned, opened his eyes, and sat up. "Mistress Aral?" he said, frowning. "Rikard? Name of the Lady, where am I?"

"You're in Verfaren," said Rikard harshly. "And I know you have made pact with Berys. Have you not even realised that you have been worn by a demon?"

Rathen went white. "No," he whispered. "Mother Shia, I thought that a nightmare."

"It is truth. I have called you back but I do not know how long the creature may be banished."

"Save me!" cried Rathen, grasping at Rikard's robes. "I swear, Rikard, I only ever used the power when I was desperate. I used it to heal, in the Lady's name! Surely that is not so terrible?"

No, I thought. The terrible part is that I know you, Rathen. You only got your warrant last year, as a Healer of the first rank. A low level, to be sure, the lowest warrant there is, but sufficient for most ills. I never knew you were so desperate for greater power. "Rathen, was mention ever made of what you might do should you wish to break the pact?" I asked.

"No," he replied miserably. He started to shake as with an ague and gazed up at me, imploring. "Vil, you've studied demons, I know it. What can I do?" He began to weep. "Vil, how shall I ever escape?"

"You can begin by renouncing the power you have received," I said sternly, and without much real hope. At least it would be a start.

"I do! I renounce, in the name of Mother Shia, the power granted me by this pact!" he cried aloud. For a moment he looked a little better. For a moment.

Then, horribly, he began to shrivel. Before our eyes he grew weak and starveling, his eyes sunken, as if he had not eaten in a year. "Vilkas!" he screamed, his suddenly bony hand clutching desperately at my robes. "Help me!"

I summoned my power and poured it into him. The drain, and his need, were terrible. It was as if every act of healing he had performed in the last year, each of which had its own cost in strength of body and will, were being taken out of him again, all at once. I sustained him as best I might, but I had never known so arduous a task. I had always been proud of my inherent power. In my years at Verfaren I had never truly been taxed by any effort required by my studies.

This was exhausting. No matter how much I gave, it was not enough. Like pouring water through a sieve.

Ah!

I used my Sight to look deep into Rathen, and there it was. A wound in his soul, a link, sustaining something. The demon? No, there it was, fighting to regain the mastery over him, nothing to do with that wound. No, the link went elsewhere ...

Berys.

Without stopping to think I cried out, "Blessed Mother, Shia, Goddess, sever this bond and deliver your servant!"