The healer knelt beside the child and the sunlight fell directly across her hands as she worked, and it seemed somehow that this was no accident, that the light itself was a tool she was permitted to use. The fever had been high that morning. By midday, she could feel it breaking. She had learned the prayers to Pelor when she was young, but she had learned something more important since. The god did not work through words but through the simple transmission of will and steady hands. She pressed a cool cloth to the child's forehead and whispered the blessing because it was expected, but the real work was in the competence of her touch. 'Will she live?' the mother asked, and there was nothing of hope in the question, only the bare necessity of knowing. 'Yes,' the healer said, and it was true because she had decided it would be true, and her hands knew the way. The sunlight moved across the room as the afternoon progressed, and the child slept, and her breathing eased into something like peace. The healer rose and touched the mother's shoulder briefly, the only comfort she offered, because Pelor did not require elaborate consolation. He required only that you do the work well and let the light fall where it would. When the child woke, she asked for water and broth. The healer smiled, and for a moment, the light caught her face and made it luminous...