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It was too much. Oblivious to Beldyn or anyone else, Cathan fell forward onto the bed, buried his face in the blankets, and sobbed.
Wentha MarSevrin was only the first. Ilista and Beldyn spent the rest of the night in Luciel, and all of the following day. There were only a few dozen people left in the village- the rest lost to the plague, fled, or gone to join the bandits- and the young monk insisted on visiting them all. More to the point, so did Lord Tavarre, and as he held their lives, and the Knights’ in his grasp, the baron had final say. He and his men led Beldyn from home to home, and again and again the holy light fell upon the wretched forms of men, women, and children. Each time, when it faded, all traces of disease were gone, and the once-doomed fell into a peaceful, life-giving sleep.
Beldyn weakened as the hours passed, falling into a deeper trance every time he invoked the god’s power. Each time it took him longer to regain his strength, and each time the glow that hung about him afterward seemed to linger longer. By midmoraing his debility lasted an hour with each healing. By the afternoon it was two. Ilista pleaded with Tavarre to put a halt to it, but the baron refused. So did Beldyn. Stubbornly he pressed on, spurning food and drink, intent only on healing everyone that he could.
Finally, as the sun set behind the distant Khalkists, the light did not die as he lifted his hand from an old man who had once been the town weaver. Even as the man-the tenth he had seen since he began-lay slumbering peacefully, a smile on his swarthy face, Beldyn collapsed, slumping to the ground without a sound. Ilista hurried to his side, probing his wrist for the lifebeat, then turned on the baron, her mouth a hard line.
“Enough,” she said, and to her surprise the lord of Luciel agreed.
The silver moon rose at midwatch that night. Its light found Ilista in an upper room of the village’s sole tavern, dozing on a stool beside the chamber’s simple bed. Beldyn lay beneath the blankets, his face drawn and wan, his eyes moving rapidly beneath their closed lids. The light had finally begun to fade, but it still surrounded him like a mist, its eerie glow making her shadow loom large on the wall.
The door’s latch rattled, rousing her with a jolt, and she turned to see Tavarre come in. In his hands were two steaming mugs. The aroma of tarbean tea filled the air. He crossed to her, glancing at the plate of cabbage and rabbit meat that sat untouched on the floor next to a full cup of watered wine, then offered one of the mugs. She took it gladly, cupping her hands around it to warm herself. The autumn nights were cold in the highlands.
The baron stood silent beside her, drinking his tea and gazing at the young monk. He made no apologies for slaving Beldyn until he passed out, and Dista knew he might well do it again as soon as the monk regained his senses. She couldn’t blame him either. These were his people, and finally he had a chance to save them. Would she do the same, in his place? Probably, she thought.
“This changes things,” he said after a time. “I had hoped to keep you captive. The First Daughter of Paladine would make as fine a hostage as the Little Emperor-perhaps better. Now, though…” He broke off, sighing, and brushed a hand across his eyes. “I only wish you had come sooner.”
He has lost someone dear to him, Ilista thought, studying his stricken face. That’s why he threw in with the bandits.
“What will you do now?” she asked.
Tavarre came back to himself slowly. “Keep you here,” he said, “until the last of my people are healed. I must do that much. After that you can go, but…” He trailed off, looking at the floor.
“But what?”
He shrugged. “We’re not the only village in the highlands, and the Lottgosai’s all over Govi
Ilista shook her head firmly. “All is not well in the Lordcity. The Kingpriest is dying, and his power can save him.” She gestured at Beldyn, who lay still, the strange light diminished to a few glittering motes. “If we can heal Symeon, I can convince him to send help to Taol. If he dies, Kurnos will take the throne-and I fear all hell send are soldiers.”
Tavarre made a face, clearly not liking any part of that, but he was a practical man, and nodded. “Another few days,” he said. “Then you can go. I hope that, when the Kingpriest is cured, one of the things he sends back to us is him.”
They drank their tea in silence, both lost in thought, until gradually the light around Beldyn went out. He stirred, shifting in the bed, then his eyes opened. They pierced the dark, bright and clear in the moonlight. Seeing them, Ilista felt an unreasoning stab of fear. There was something new in the bright gaze, a zeal she hadn’t seen before, and at once she knew why. He had spent much of his life in the monastery. Now, out in the world, he could use his powers as he never had before. He was helping people, and he reveled in the act, as some men lived for drink or the dreamseed they smoked in Karthay.
He sat up, pushing off the blankets. “I am ready,” he said. “We can begin again.”
Tavarre gave him no argument, and while Ilista had a mind to, she didn’t get the chance. Beldyn was on his feet already, straightening his habit as he made his way to the door. Both she and the baron had to hurry to keep up with him as he headed out into the hall, then down the steps.
The baron’s hulking man-at-arms was waiting in the dim common room. When they appeared, he leaped to his feet, striding quickly toward them. Ilista drew back, grabbing Beldyn’s sleeve and pulling him back, but Vedro ignored them, drawing close to Tavarre instead and whispering in his ear.
“They are?” Tavarre asked, scowling. “Who?”
“MarSevrin, of course,” Vedro replied. “A few others. I told them to shove off, but-”
“What’s the trouble?” Ilista asked.
Tavarre and Vedro glanced up, their eyes sliding past the First Daughter, to Beldyn.
“Nothing,” the baron replied. “A few of the lads are waiting outside, is all.”
“Waiting… for me?” the monk asked. His eyebrows rose. “Why?”
“To thank you, they say,” Vedro replied.
Though she couldn’t say why, Ilista suddenly felt cold. She didn’t think the bandits had harm in mind. Tavarre and his man didn’t seem worried about that, and besides, it would make no sense. Nonetheless, a shiver of apprehension ran through her.
“Don’t,” she told Beldyn. “I don’t like this. We can go out the back.”
The monk looked at her, though, and her protests died before his glittering gaze. He smiled at her. “No, Efisa. If they wish to show gratitude, I will not deny them.”
When they emerged from the tavern, they found a small crowd standing in the street. Most were bandits, although there were also villagers-those who had been spared the plague. At the fore was Cathan, whose sister had been the first Beldyn healed. He smiled when he saw the monk, wearing a look of utter admiration.
“All right,” said Tavarre. “What’s this about?”
Cathan’s face all but glowed as he stepped forward. He reached across his body and started to draw his sword.
Hissing between his teeth, Vedro leaped forward, and Tavarre followed a heartbeat later. Beldyn raised his hand, however.
“Be easy, my friends,” he said. “He means no harm. Do you, my son?”
The young bandit had stopped in his tracks, taken aback by the sudden movement of the baron and his man. He shook his head, and warily Tavarre and Vedro drew back. Despite Beldyn’s assurances, however, Ilista held her breath as Cathan’s blade rasped from its scabbard. It flashed in the moonlight as he raised it, pressing its quillons to his lips. Carefully, he laid it on the ground before Beldyn’s feet, then dropped to his knees in the dust.