The speed with which the news of my attempted mugging reached the keep, demonstrated of the usefulness of my cycles. I was met by the familiar bobbing form of an unreasonably angry Chord before I could negotiate ascension to the tower grounds. He insisted on my waiting until Harold's sons arrived to help me limp my way up the hill, then floated behind me on his damned magical boots, haranguing my steps the whole way.

"What part of 'be careful' did you not understand? How many times do you intend to appear collapsed, stabbed or beaten at my keep? In a few days we leave for Corbell. Do you intend to make the trip on a litter? With so little time to prepare, I suddenly find myself needing to negotiate with Nublin, called to confer at a town trade council meeting, dealing with a God-struck Blacksmith, and now this! If you were not so valuable to me, I'd kill you myself!"

The tirade went on the whole way up hill. At the top, wringing her hands, Dimanda stood before the tower. At our arrival, she rushed forward, reaching out to touch the seeping stain on my new shirt.

"Oh gods! You have the worst luck!"

Her eyes searched my face and then hardened. "You walked back? With this?" She bit her lip, scowled, and turned away. "Men and their stupidity! No concern for themselves or anyone else, apparently. Idiots, all of you!"

With that she stormed back into the keep. I prayed silently for the grace to survive the concern of my friends. I felt faint from the climb, even supported as I had been, possibly from blood loss. The two boys half-carried me into the keep, and laid me on the table of the lower hall.

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Chord retreated to his tower workroom, reappearing later carrying a large sack. He moved quickly to tower over the table and shook the bag angrily over my recumbent body. "Do you know what this is? Burlie dust! It is the only way any but the tiniest of magics can be done, outside of a full demonic summoning and all that entails. Can you guess the cost of this? The effort and time required to harvest and prepare it? You may think you can now look forward to a few pleasant days of lying on your backside while you knit and heal, eh?"

My eyes strayed to the two boys, who now stood eyes downcast, uncomfortably shifting from foot to foot. No help from that quarter, apparently.

Chord tersely addressed the two. "Hold him down, or try, at least.."

Einte moved to my shoulders, Dwayne to my feet. The mage produced a small knife, and unconcerned by the pain it caused me, carefully undid some of the tailor's grisly stitching. Chord flashed me an evil smile, and opened the bag.

"We begin," he said.

Chord started a whispered chant, and carefully upended the bag over my wound.

I could not quite make out the words he spoke. The powder descended in a smoky rivulet, an occasional wisp curling back on itself as the stream fell softly towards the open gash in my side. My hands gripped tightly to the table's edge, and I held my breath, not knowing quite what to expect. I have a few insights into magic to share. First, in the hands of a master, it is highly specific. When used to speed healing, it speeds that, but affects nothing else.

Pain.

If I tried, I could, I suppose, imagine all the pain and discomfort of healing, suffered by a person over the full time of his recuperation, compressed into the space of a few minutes of unrelenting, unbelievable agony. Unfortunately, I do not have to imagine it. About this incident also, I wish to say no more.