shot in the leg by one of the captains as he tried to flee. In return for the guarantee of a life sentence he sang loud and long, but his officers were well connected so the trial has gone nowhere."
The girl was seventeen, on the high side of average height, and with long hair and a fine-boned but angular face. She lay with her eyes closed, and her brother, Reclor, was sitting on a chair beside her.
"Rector, Fras Torumasen is here to treat Velesti," said Harren.
His son looked up, then stood.
"Eleven other medicians have been able to do nothing," he said grimly.
"Then at least I can do no less," Torumasen replied.
Reclor left, and Torumasen examined Velesti. She was completely unresisting and limp, but Harren said that she would swallow when soup was put in her mouth.
"She has been like this since she was carried from the burning stables, and nothing has been able to stop her slow decline. Sometimes I think it would have been better if her throat had been cut, like poor Elsile's."
Torumasen straightened. "Harren, I want to give hope, but there is none to give," he concluded. "Her pulse is weak, she barely breathes, and her eyes are unseeing."
"Then what is to be done? Do you know anyone who can help? A doctor, edutor, sorcerer, priest?"
"No doctor or edutor can help. As for sorcerers or priests, I am in no better position to make judgments than you. Velesti may be aware of us from deep within her head, but she is retreating from life to escape the nightmare of what was done to her. Tend her well, give her absolute security and comfort. Try to let her know that the horrors of that night will never return."
"But we have done all that, Fras."
"Then you are already doing all there is to be done."
Torumasen bent over again and examined Velesti's throat. "Was there bruising on her neck?"
"There was bruising all over her body, her neck included."
"They may have tried to strangle her. Sometimes a loss of blood to the head can kill the mind while leaving the body alive."
Like most people, Torumasen had secrets to hide. He had once been the lover of the famous hero of the Milderellen Invasion, Do-lorian, and had been with her when she had died over two decades earlier. Ten years later, Overmayor Zarvora had visited him in secret, about moving Dolorian's grave to a shrine in Rochester. Just before she left she had presented the medician with a flaccid, brown band, whose texture was rather like that of kid leather. "If ever again someone is as precious to you as Dolorian was, and is in the grip of death, put this around their neck," Zarvora had said. Now he was married with two children. He had intended to save the band for his own loved ones . . . but here was Harren, and his daughter was dying. Harren, his oldest friend. Harren, whose father had paid for Torumasen to go to university.
"I need to do one last test," said the medician. "Can you fetch a pitcher of cold water and a facecloth?"
As soon as Harren was out of the room Torumasen took the band from his pocket. Written on its inner surface in precise, angular letters were words in one of the ancient languages: SERIES 2 PROTOTYPE. He slipped the band around Velesti's neck and pressed the ends together. Almost at once he noticed that it was growing warm. Very warm. Velesti did not move. Within moments the band was too hot to touch. It was going to kill her! Its mechanism had probably failed in the two thousand years since it had been fashioned. He wrapped a handkerchief around his fingers and tried to tear it away, but it was changing color and melting into her skin. All that he could do was gently replace her head on the pillow. He felt for a pulse, but there was none.
Torumasen slumped to the floor beside the bed. What else could he have expected? The device had been two thousand years old, of course it would malfunction. Velsti was dead, he had killed her. . . but at least he had been trying to help. Harren appeared at the door, holding the pitcher and a
The girl was seventeen, on the high side of average height, and with long hair and a fine-boned but angular face. She lay with her eyes closed, and her brother, Reclor, was sitting on a chair beside her.
"Rector, Fras Torumasen is here to treat Velesti," said Harren.
His son looked up, then stood.
"Eleven other medicians have been able to do nothing," he said grimly.
"Then at least I can do no less," Torumasen replied.
Reclor left, and Torumasen examined Velesti. She was completely unresisting and limp, but Harren said that she would swallow when soup was put in her mouth.
"She has been like this since she was carried from the burning stables, and nothing has been able to stop her slow decline. Sometimes I think it would have been better if her throat had been cut, like poor Elsile's."
Torumasen straightened. "Harren, I want to give hope, but there is none to give," he concluded. "Her pulse is weak, she barely breathes, and her eyes are unseeing."
"Then what is to be done? Do you know anyone who can help? A doctor, edutor, sorcerer, priest?"
"No doctor or edutor can help. As for sorcerers or priests, I am in no better position to make judgments than you. Velesti may be aware of us from deep within her head, but she is retreating from life to escape the nightmare of what was done to her. Tend her well, give her absolute security and comfort. Try to let her know that the horrors of that night will never return."
"But we have done all that, Fras."
"Then you are already doing all there is to be done."
Torumasen bent over again and examined Velesti's throat. "Was there bruising on her neck?"
"There was bruising all over her body, her neck included."
"They may have tried to strangle her. Sometimes a loss of blood to the head can kill the mind while leaving the body alive."
Like most people, Torumasen had secrets to hide. He had once been the lover of the famous hero of the Milderellen Invasion, Do-lorian, and had been with her when she had died over two decades earlier. Ten years later, Overmayor Zarvora had visited him in secret, about moving Dolorian's grave to a shrine in Rochester. Just before she left she had presented the medician with a flaccid, brown band, whose texture was rather like that of kid leather. "If ever again someone is as precious to you as Dolorian was, and is in the grip of death, put this around their neck," Zarvora had said. Now he was married with two children. He had intended to save the band for his own loved ones . . . but here was Harren, and his daughter was dying. Harren, his oldest friend. Harren, whose father had paid for Torumasen to go to university.
"I need to do one last test," said the medician. "Can you fetch a pitcher of cold water and a facecloth?"
As soon as Harren was out of the room Torumasen took the band from his pocket. Written on its inner surface in precise, angular letters were words in one of the ancient languages: SERIES 2 PROTOTYPE. He slipped the band around Velesti's neck and pressed the ends together. Almost at once he noticed that it was growing warm. Very warm. Velesti did not move. Within moments the band was too hot to touch. It was going to kill her! Its mechanism had probably failed in the two thousand years since it had been fashioned. He wrapped a handkerchief around his fingers and tried to tear it away, but it was changing color and melting into her skin. All that he could do was gently replace her head on the pillow. He felt for a pulse, but there was none.
Torumasen slumped to the floor beside the bed. What else could he have expected? The device had been two thousand years old, of course it would malfunction. Velsti was dead, he had killed her. . . but at least he had been trying to help. Harren appeared at the door, holding the pitcher and a
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