Penric and the Shaman (Penric & Desdemona Book 2) by Lois McMaster Bujold

naming the older fellow, who was gaping at Inglis in inexplicable amazement. “The very man you sought. Now that you have found him, what?”
    “I wanted to find what shaman in turn had cleansed Scuolla.” Inglis swallowed. “Discover if he could also free Tollin. Cleanse him so he is not sundered. We were both fools together, but Tollin does not deserve that .”
    Gallin stepped forward, looking pole-axed. “I prayed for a shaman. And here you are, right here —!”
    Penric, watching Inglis stare back in bewilderment, put in with a helpful air, “Scuolla has not been cleansed, because no other shaman could be found. But he is not yet sundered. I’m not sure what sustains him. I suspect he may be drawing some spiritual nourishment from his dogs.”
    Inglis’s black yelp was scarcely a laugh. “Then your prayers must have been heard by the Bastard, Acolyte Gallin. To bring you a shaman who can’t work his craft …!”
    The sorcerer-divine pursed his lips, as if seriously considering this jibe. “That just might be so. He is the god of murderers and outcasts, among His other gifts.” He added under his breath, “And vile humor. And rude songs.”
    “ I can’t cleanse anyone .” Too polluted himself by his crime…?
    “Not in your current state of mind, clearly,” said the sorcerer. His tone had grown easy, friendly. Had he understood any of this? “I think…”
    Everyone in the temple hall seemed to hang on his breath.
    “We should all go have dinner. And get a good night’s sleep. Yes.”
    Oswyl and the guardsmen stared at Penric in startled disbelief, as if he’d just proposed they all grow wings and fly to Carpagamo, or something equally bizarre.
    “That sounds very sensible.” A slight quaver in Acolyte Gallin’s voice undercut this endorsement. “The sun is already gone behind the mountains.”
    “Aren’t you going to magic him?” the lead guardsman asked Penric, nodding warily at Inglis. Inglis couldn’t tell if that was something he’d wanted to see, or to be far away from.
    “I don’t think I need to. Do I?” Penric, smiling, held out his hand to Inglis, palm up. Waiting for him to surrender his knife, which would be surrender indeed. “By the way, how are you keeping Tollin from fading?”
    For answer, Inglis mutely held up both arms, letting his sleeves fall back.
    “Oh,” said Penric, quietly.
    “Blood holds life even after it leaves the body,” said Inglis, his voice falling unwilled into the cadences of his teachers. His own despair added, “For a little while.”
    “Mm, yes, one sees why your Darthacan ancestors were frightened of the forest magics,” murmured Penric. “It’s written that the old shamans worked some very strange effects with blood. Rather a different affair if using someone else’s blood, and not one’s own, I imagine. Theologically speaking.” His smile was unwavering.
    Inglis’s weary will was not. With fumbling fingers, he picked out the rawhide ties securing his sheath to his belt, and handed the knife across. Penric touched forehead, lips, navel, groin, and spread his fingers over his heart, Daughter-Bastard-Mother-Father-Son , completing the blessing in full before taking it. Sorcerer he might be, possessed of fearsome powers, but in this moment the full-braid divine was clearly ascendant. He didn’t hold it like a weapon. He held it like a sacrament.
    He sees .
    Lightheaded to the point of passing out with this release from his deathly burden, Inglis fell to his knees, burying his face in the thick fur of Arrow’s neck, gasping against tears. The dog whined and tried to lick him.
    From outside the temple, a woman’s voice cried, “Blood, you fool beast! Come back here this instant!”
    A copper-colored dog with muddy paws rushed into the temple hall. Inglis nearly fell over as Arrow jerked away from him. For a moment, he gathered himself to break up a dog fight, but the two animals exchanged greetings with happy yips and whines, circling