concentration.
With what he knows.
He understood that well too. He had asked the questions for years. His turn now.
He thought of a dozen of his own cases and had no illusions about himself. He
tried to die. He thought of it as hard as he could. Probably his own cases had
thought the identical thought at some stage.
“He wants to leave us,” the one voice said. A feathery touch came at Strat’s
throat, over the great artery. “That won’t do.” A warmth spread out from it, his
heart sped, a hateful, momentary surge of strength, like a tide carrying him up
out of the dark. “Wake up, come on. We’re not even started yet. Open the eyes.
Or just think about what I’d like to know about your friends. Where they are,
what they’ll do-it’s awfully hard, isn’t it, not to think about a thing?”
Crit. 0 gods. Crit. Was it you after all?
“We can take him into the kitchen,” one suggested. “Plenty of room to work in
there.”
“No,” a woman cried.
“Let’s not be difficult, shall we? There’s a love. Go wash. You’d rather be
taking a bath than stay for this, wouldn’t you? You do look a mess, Moria.”
THE SMALL POWERS THAT ENDURE
Lynn Abbey
Battlefield chaos reigned in what had once been Molin Torchholder’s private
retreat from disorder. Niko lay on the worktable while Jihan brought her healing
energies to bear on one tortured joint after another. Now and again the
mercenary’s eyes would bulge open and the sounds of hell would explode from his
mouth. The others would cease their arguings until the Froth Daughter had him
quiet; then the frantic bickering would begin again.