Free Strands of Starlight by Gael Baudino

someone said. “You run and get Varden. She needs a healer.”
    I am a healer.
    But she could not heal herself, and the darkness was taking her too far away in any case.
    Miriam opened her eyes. The room was quiet, and the only illumination was that of a fire burning on the hearth. Dark, carved beams crossed the ceiling, their shadows flickering as the flames crackled and snapped.
    The pain was gone, replaced by a warmth that had settled into her body as though flesh and bone were glowing with a soft, golden light. I've been healed, she thought. Healed by someone with great power.
    Somewhere in the distance, a door closed. Footsteps approached, then receded. Another door, and then once more only the crackling of the fire that warmed the room and echoed the light within her. She was almost inclined to close her eyes and drift off to sleep, but her memory was returning—the man, the sharp blows, the pain—and she shuddered.
    When she turned her head, she found she was not alone. A young man was sitting in a chair by the bed. He was dressed simply in green and gray, and his dark hair fell smoothly to his shoulders. His face was gentle, almost womanly.
    “Hello,” he said. “My name is Varden.”
    She was looking at his eyes. They reflected the firelight, but there was something more to them, something that seemed to fill their depths. Starlight, maybe. “Miriam,” she whispered, still staring. “You . . . healed me?”
    “I did,” said Varden. “I have that talent, among others.”
    She turned her face into the pillow for a moment and sighed. The pain was no longer with her, but the memory clung to her mind, a tangled montage of grasping hands and leering faces. She felt unclean and empty, both.
    Varden leaned forward. His tunic was open at the throat, and a pendant in the form of a moon and rayed star swung free, glittering in the firelight. “I understand,” he said. His voice was sad.
    “You can't understand.” Her hands clenched on the comforter. “I want to kill him. I want him dead. I'd just healed him, and to repay me—” She broke off suddenly, white-faced.
    “I know of your power,” he said simply. “And you know of mine. Why do you fear?”
    She was still wary. “Where am I?”
    “This village is called Saint Brigid. It is the southernmost of the Free Towns. You are in the priest's house.”
    Beyond Varden, she made out a bench, a table, chairs. Moonlight shone in through a window of glass, glinting on the lozenge-shaped panes and on a crucifix on one wall. “You don't look like a priest.”
    “Kay is the village priest. Andrew the carpenter brought you here.” Varden sat back, watching her. “Kay's attitudes about those who are . . . different . . . are much more enlightened than those of his Church, and many folk here are not unused to such powers as you possess. You will find this village a haven.”
    A few hours ago, she would have considered his words an invitation to paradise. But that was all gone now. The montage came back, and her hands shook with her rage. Eight years—and now this. Varden laid a cool hand on her forehead. “Peace.”
    The memory did not go away, but it eased, and she was able to master it. She wondered at him. Varden's touch was effortless, almost casual. He and his powers were one. His eyes held her, deep blue and filled with that strange starlight.
    “Who are you?” she whispered, mouth dry.
    “A healer, like yourself.”
    “That's not all you are.”
    A slight smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Maybe.” He withdrew his hand. “How do you feel?”
    He was evading her question by asking his own, but she did not press him any more than she would have prodded a lion. Held by those frighteningly gentle eyes, she looked away only with an effort.
    “How do I feel?” Her voice was harsh. “Angry. There's only one way I'm going to find healing.” Holding up her hands, she examined them. They were, like the rest of her, tiny. They were not used to