the healing down into tasks again, rather than viewing it in some holistic way as a shape. He tried again, blanking his mind, praying for some insight, some way to help. He had lost his parents to fire, had determined to become a healer to undo such damage. Instead, he had become the source of fire.
He could find no "shape" to the healing. Perhaps that was the most important lesson of his apprenticeship. He had wanted to be a healer, and he had failed. He had injured his friend, and now he could not help him.
Before him on the mak, Elizar's arm lay black and shiny. His chest continued to flutter in rapid, shallow pants. His gaze was fixed on Galen.
"I'm sorry," Galen said. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I can't fix it. I don't know how."
Galen felt Elric release the chrysalis, turned to see him walking away.
Ing-Radi leaned across Elizar's body and laid her hands on his arm. She wore her crystal on a long chain, and it hung over his body as she worked. After a few seconds, she closed her eyes and began to hum. Elizar's breathing began to slow, and some color returned to his face. Galen tried to follow the slight variations in pitch, in volume. The sound carried hints of patterns upon patterns upon patterns, overlapping and interfering with each other in such complexity that any overall pattern was lost. The humming seemed tuneless, shapeless, yet Galen found himself caught in it. He realized he had no idea how long he'd been listening to it.
Pale, hairless skin began to grow down from the shoulder over the charred arm, like a sleeve. Ing-Radi was not only stimulating the right types of cells to divide, but guiding them into the right pattern, an impossibly complex task. The skin spread down over the elbow, the forearm, the wrist, the fixed