One man, not much older than Damion and riddled with pain, sat gingerly on the bed in front of him, but when Damion asked him to lie back, he shook his head as if he weren’t ready.
“This is Gar. He’s very sick,” Meera said softly, her eyes troubled, her lips tight. “His wife died last month,” she explained. “He misses her.”
Damion placed one hand over the man’s heart and one on his back, easing him down gently. He didn’t have the time or empathy for indecision. The man began to weep, and Damion ignored him, searching and finding the mellow strains of the man’s healing song easily. But when he tried to capture it, it changed, becoming a dissonant chord. Damion didn’t know which note to sing. He hesitated, unsure, and the chord rose from the man’s skin, fluttered through Damion’s fingers,
