Someone pitched a bucket of water onto him. Slowly, Tris roused, his lungs aching, hacking and gasping. He was dimly aware of the burns on his arms and calves. He struggled to see, blinded by the ash and smoke.

The hospital building lay in ruins, burning fast. Along the perimeter of the camp, the screams of horses and the clash of blades rang in the night air. But the fight was further away, no longer in the heart of the camp, and as Tris gasped for breath, he saw Vahanian nod.

"They've pushed the bandits back. Good thing. I can't breathe, let alone fight," Vahanian rasped.

At Tris's elbow, the old grannywitch emerged from the smoke bearing a rough-hewn cup. "Drink this," she said, pressing a mug into his hands. Tris drank it gratefully, feeling the liquid burn down his raw throat. Whatever the potion was, it began to work immediately, clearing his head and fortifying him enough to stand.

Carina dragged herself to her knees and bent over one of the patients they had pulled from the burning building. She hammered on his chest with all her strength. "By the Lady, breathe, damn it, breathe!" she sobbed.

Vahanian made his way over to where she knelt. "Carina—"

"He was breathing fine just before the fire," Carina argued with no one in particular. Her soot-covered robes were scorched and her arms were dotted with burns from falling embers. Tears streaked through the ashes on her face, and her hair fell limply into her eyes as she bent across her charge. "Breathe, dammit!"

Vahanian reached down to take her by the shoulders, but she struggled free. "No!" she cried, reaching toward her patient. "I have to help him."

"He's gone," Vahanian said gently. "Look at him. It's too late."

Carina sat back on her haunches and buried her face in her hands. "It's not your fault," Vahanian said quietly. "Look at where his wound was, right through his ribs. Would have been hard for him to breathe anyway, even with healing, but then the smoke..."

She lifted her head enough to glare at him. "You don't understand what it is to lose a patient."

"No," he conceded quietly. "Just soldiers under my command."

"You must have the eye of the Lady on you, to have made it out alive," the grannywitch observed, taking the cup from Tris. She filled it once more and offered it to Soterius, who accepted it gratefully. Tris could see the burns that peppered Soterius's arms and face, and imagined he was in no better shape himself.

"Thanks for dragging me out of there," Tris said.

Soterius looked at him for a moment without saying anything, and Tris knew his friend saw him use magic to hurl aside the beam. "Glad to do it," Soterius said, and while his tone was sincere, he looked away. He doesn't know what to think of me any more, Tris thought, still feeling the witch's potion burning in his throat. He never bargained to be liegeman to a mage.

The old crone took back the cup and offered it to Vahanian, who waved it away, gesturing for her to attend to Carina. The crone knelt beside Carina and took her in her arms, letting the healer sob against her shoulder like a brokenhearted child.

Vahanian was looking at Tris. Ashen and shaking, Tris met his eyes. They both knew the beam had changed its course at Tris's command. He hates magic even more than Soterius does, Tris thought at the look in Vahanian's eyes. His outlaw prince is an untrained mageling. One more thing to worry about.

"If you'd have taken my advice, none of this would have happened," a voice cut caustically through the smoke. Tris looked up to see Kaine dogging Maynard Linton as the caravan master picked his way through the ruins.

"Where's the healer?" Kaine demanded, stopping where they rested. "I've been wounded."

"The lady's busy. Go away," Vahanian said, interposing himself between Kaine and Carina.

Kaine moved to shoulder past him. "She's a healer, let her heal," Kaine snapped. This time, Vahanian's blade blocked Kaine's path.

"I said, the lady's busy," Vahanian rasped. He looked as if he were beginning to feel the day's battle in every aching muscle and was considering taking it out on Kaine. "Go away."

"You're a fine protector, Jonmarc Vahanian," Kaine shot back. "Like as not 'twas bandit friends of yours what did this," Kaine sneered, but he backed up a step from the glinting blade. "I told Linton that taking you on would mean trouble. None of this would have happened if we hadn't taken on your thieving hide."

Vahanian took a step toward Kaine, his blade raised higher. "I still have the strength to run you through, Kaine, and I'll do it if you're here by the time I count to five. One..."

"See what I mean?" Kaine whined, taking another step back. "Cut me down in cold blood, he would—"

"Two..." Vahanian growled, advancing.

"I've no desire to be run through, Vahanian," Kaine retorted, licking the blood from his split lip. "But mark my words," he said, looking to Tris and the others, "we won't be rid of bad luck until we're rid of him."

"Three..."

With an uncertain glance at the mercenary and his sword, Kaine raised his hands in surrender and backed away, disappearing in the throng as the caravaners returned to their ruined camp.

"I wouldn't have minded seeing that troublemaker run through," Soterius remarked darkly as Vahanian sheathed his sword.

"Not worth the effort," Vahanian replied. Tris glanced back at Carina, who still sobbed in the crone's arms.

"I'll see to her," the old grannywitch said, patting Carina's back. "Be about your business."

Vahanian walked a few paces and stopped. Tris caught up to him and looked down at the dead bandit at Vahanian's feet. Vahanian looked from the dead man to Carina and back again. "That's the same thief I ran out of camp yesterday, the one I thought was our prowler," Vahanian said tonelessly. "Looks like we got him." He swore. "I hate being right some times." Vahanian started to turn away, only to see Carina watching them. The look of loss and regret in her eyes silenced any comment he might have made. "Come on," he said tiredly to the others. "It's clean-up time."

By sunset, the ruined camp was quiet. Groggy with fatigue and still feeling the effects of the smoke, Tris kicked at a charred scrap of wood as he headed up the slope toward the caravan from the worker's tents. His head itched below the bandage that covered his scalp wound, and the wound itself throbbed. Soterius and the others piled the bandits' bodies to burn. The smell of burning flesh made Tris want to retch.

The caravan lay in complete disarray. Charred heaps were all that remained of many wagons. In the center of the clearing, the main tent smoldered, its remaining posts like burned bones thrusting up from the ground. Maynard Linton was wandering among the ruins, shaking his head.

"They cost us most of a season's profit," Linton said sadly, his jowled face the picture of misery. "Whole wagons gone. I don't know how many dead or injured. All this and winter coming on." He shook his head once more. "Not good," he said, worried. "Not good."

Tris spotted Carroway, weighed down by two buckets of water. His tunic was torn, one sleeve ripped shoulder to wrist. Soot-streaked and splashed with blood, the bard smiled tiredly as he spotted Tris. "Good to see you in one piece," Carroway hailed him, stopping. "Why don't you come with me? Carina needs all the help she can get over at the tent."

Tris accepted one of the buckets and headed toward the largest remaining tent. Burns in its roof opened it to the sun. Tris ducked under the sagging tent flap. The tent was a sick ward, with the injured laid out in neat rows on blankets. Of the nearly one hundred caravanners, it appeared that nearly half awaited Carina's ministrations.

Night fell. Tris and Carroway brought in torches to light the healer's work. The old hearth witch, Alyzza, worked alongside Carina, making poultices and mixing healing teas. Both Cam and the old lady kept a protective eye on Carina, forcing the healer to rest, eat and drink. As Tris watched Carina, he realized that she and Cam shared an uncanny resemblance. Brother and sister, perhaps, he thought, not lovers?