The food had been good and cards even better, if the hour Varric and Isabela had returned to camp was any indication. As such, it was a few hours past first light and well into the morning when they were finally underway to Lothering. The road between Ostagar and Lothering was a good one, and travel between the two tended to take between two and three days, depending on how heavy their load was, and depending on whether or not they had to avoid anything—or anyone—en route. Occasionally it took more.
The fist leg of the journey was off to a good start, despite their late beginning. The day was cool, with a pleasant breeze that carried with it the soft chirping tweets of birdsong. Isabela sat up front beside Varric, while Amelle rode alongside Falcon. No matter how smooth the road, it was a rough ride in the back of the wagon, and one Amelle was only inclined to take when she was too mana-drained to stay upright in a saddle. The warm sun and wind ruffling her hair paired with the horse's smooth, even gait was enough to make her eyes grow heavy. Her jaw cracked amidst a wide yawn when Varric reined the horses to a stop.
"You hear that?" he asked.
Amelle cocked her head; she hadn't heard anything, but that accounted for very little. Her mind had been otherwise occupied with sweet breezes, Falcon's measured steps, and thoughts of home lying just a little further down the road. But now that they were still, nothing but the wind blowing around them, the sound of gunfire was all too clear.
"Sounds like someone's in the middle of a disagreement up ahead," he observed, darkly.
"And not a friendly disagreement," murmured Amelle.
"Going around would put too much time on the trip," Varric said. "Quicker if we just wait for them to run out of bullets."
"Kitten and I will go check it out," announced Isabela, hopping down from the wagon; Amelle followed suit, but just as her feet hit the ground, a horse's scream tore through the air, sending a ripple of anxiety through the other animals. Falcon tossed his head and snorted, taking a few sudden, prancing steps to the side, pulling sharply on the reins she held. Amelle soothed him, but as soon as she was able, tethered the animal before freeing her staff from where it was secured against his side, and setting off with Isabela at a jog. There were ways around the main road, but not many, and Varric was entirely right— a new route would've added far too much time to the trip.
Together they crunched lightly through underbrush before reaching the tree line. Their vantage point overlooked the gully through which the main road ran. The source of the screams was evident at once: a man was trapped, pinned beneath his horse, which had clearly been injured. He had reasonable cover behind a formation of rocks, but not nearly good enough. Shots seemed to be aimed at him from nearly every direction.
"Mmm, if we wait for him to run out of bullets," whispered Isabela in an undertone, "I doubt I'll be a very long wait." She snorted with disgust. "I hate waiting for a slaughter to end. At least there's art to a duel. There's more to it than pure brawn and the winner being whoever's got the most bullets."
"You hate an unfair fight unless it's unfair to your benefit," Amelle pointed out easily, eyes scanning the gully.
"Well, obviously. Doesn't everybody? It's different when we've got the brawn." She let out a quiet hmm. "Looks like there's… about six of them."
"They don't… look like templars," Amelle murmured, taking in the dark-clad gunmen.
"No, I don't think so," returned Isabela. "Or, at least, if they are, I can't smell their self-righteousness on the breeze."
"Just wait for the wind to change," came Varric's voice from behind them.
Amelle looked over her shoulder. "We were coming back, you know."
Varric just shook his head and peered through the trees. "Six of 'em, you said?" At Isabela's affirmative, Varric nodded to himself. "Looks like it was a planned ambush. Do you figure getting him under the horse was luck or skill?"
"Luck for who, exactly?" Amelle retorted, frowning at the pinned man. He seemed to be doing as well as could be expected, all things considered, but Amelle didn't expect that to last for very much longer.
Varric sent her a sidelong glance. "Luck for them. Bad luck for their target."
Then, one of the men stood up from behind the rock formation that had been his cover, bellowing across the gully, "It's all the same to us, slave! Half-dead's good as alive, far as your reward goes!"
From below, a deep voice growled what Amelle could only surmise was a swear, though it was a language she'd never heard before.
Isabela's expression darkened. "Tevinters," she spat. "Slavers."
"All right, so maybe we won't be waiting for the gunfire to stop," Varric said, pulling Bianca from his back and assessing the ambush already well in progress. "Looks like they've got him pinned. In more ways than one."
"I count six," Isabela said. "Various points around."
Amelle nodded at the air rippling by the gunman that had called out to the other man; red light swirled into existence around his fingertips. "At least one's a mage—blood mage, from the looks of things—and my guess is there are probably at least two. One handling offensive spells, the other defensive and healing."
"I think we can take 'em," Varric said, sharp eyes assessing every possible spot the gunmen could have hidden themselves.
"Can you get to the other side of the gully?" Amelle asked. Isabela's grin was a more than sufficient answer to that particular question. "Good. I'll stay on this side and see if I can provide a little backup—maybe some cover. Stuck like that, he's a sitting duck out there."
"And it's still quicker than finding a different route around," Varric said, checking Bianca's trigger mechanism.
Sliding two deadly-sharp daggers from where they normally rested sheathed against her back, Isabela tossed them both an grin. "More fun, too," she said before fairly disappearing into the shadowy copse of trees.
"She's got an odd idea of fun," Amelle said to Varric's retreating back.
"You expect anything less from Rivaini?" he said before joining Isabela in the shadows.
Amelle had to admit, as she too stepped into the shadowy brush and crept closer to the gunfight, she did not.
As she hefted her stave, it awoke in her hands, as if sensing Amelle's need for it just then. Her staff was a formidable weapon, far more effective in her hands than any revolver or rifle, and though Amelle could shoot, her aim was far superior when funneled down the bladed staff. That said, it didn't get frequent use on the road, though it came with them every trip because it was far better not to need the thing than to be caught unprepared. Now it positively hummed with energy. She could hardly blame it; Amelle felt much the same way.
The horse screamed again and she took a breath, pushing a low-level healing spell its way. Not nearly enough to undo whatever damage had been done, but enough to keep it comfortable for a time. The less it thrashed, the less damage it did to itself and to the man pinned beneath it. And then, crouching down and pushing aside a branch heavy with pine needles, Amelle peered down across the gully. From here she saw three of the ambushers—one of them, as she'd thought, a blood mage.
No one had sensed her yet, but she knew it was just a matter of time before one of the other magic-wielders picked up the timbre of her power mingling with theirs. While the element of surprise was on her side, she adjusted her grip on the staff, breathing deeply and reaching deeper and deeper into herself, to that place where she was tethered to the Fade, the place where her energy pulsed and sparked and thrummed. She pulled at it, coaxing it upward, letting it expand and thrive beneath her skin, twisting and shaping her mana into a specific spell, and as she exhaled, it left her in a rush, charging through the staff and soaring forward.
The blood mage's mana guttered out suddenly as Amelle's disruption spell engulfed him, and the confusion on his face was almost comical, for all it was short-lived. There was a sudden spray of blood as a crossbow bolt shot out through his throat, the force of the blow from behind sending the now-dead man's head jerking sharply back before he toppled forward, Varric's bolt still in his neck.
Confidence wavered slightly under the surprise attack. Men shouted and gestured—nearly all of them revealing their hiding spots in the process—and several abandoned their posts to find their quarry's assistance.
Again she heard her father's voice. Don't get involved, Mely.
"Oh, it's too late for that, Daddy," she murmured under her breath. "Don't think I can get more involved than this." With that, Amelle hoisted her staff aloft and reached down once more, where fire and ice and lightning all twined about one another, sparks and frost bound together with bright white light. She breathed in deeply, letting her mana swim and jump through her veins, and it had been so long since she'd used anything but healing energy, the crackling elemental and spirit magics sang beneath her skin even as they made the fine hairs on her neck stand on end.
Skin tingling with heat—a fireball to start, I think— magic rushed down her arm and a tiny tornado of flame licked and swirled, growing and growing until a globe of fire hovered in Amelle's palm. She flung it forward, catching another gunman, one who'd so unwisely abandoned his hiding place. Amid his screams, the second mage, still well hidden, turned his attention away from offensive attacks, and toward healing his injured fellow. Amelle kept her own attacks similarly focused, dispelling the defensive mage's spells as she sent chain after chain of blinding lightning at the gunman, until he lay sprawled on the ground, smoke rising from his charred clothes, his body twitching in death throes.
If the ambushers were harboring any doubts regarding a potential counterattack, those doubts were promptly laid to rest.
Working from a distance, Amelle called upon lightning and ice—and more fire—distracting the gunmen, turning their attention away from the man and his horse. Then, crouching down to keep them both in her line of sight, She flung a hand forward and sent a barrier shimmering into place around the horse, and the man trapped beneath it; she couldn't see very much of the man, but the animal at least had stopped its wild thrashing.
The odds were hardly evened, even with their interference. Five, now, against… Amelle crept around and craned her neck; the animal had stopped thrashing, but the man was unmoving beneath it. She swore. Five against three, then, she thought, breathing in to send a another rush of healing energy to the man, provided, of course, he wasn't already dead. But as she inhaled and called on her magic, the soft snap of a branch behind her—loud enough to Amelle's ears to be a gunshot itself—made her turn, and then throw her body to the side when she saw the dark figure holding a pair of glinting daggers aloft. The ground was hard and rocky, and the impact knocked the breath from her lungs, but it was infinitely better than a blade or two in her back. She scrambled to her feet, turning her staff around her hands as her assailant circled, face nearly completely lost in shadow beneath the brim of his—no, her— hat.
"You're interfering with the recovery of missing property," the woman hissed, circling Amelle. For her part, Amelle, kept the bladed end of her staff up, turning as the other woman circled.
"Missing property?" Amelle wheezed, still trying to coax a full breath into her lungs. "You know, sometimes I lose socks in the laundry. Most of the time I just figure they want to be lost. I think the same principle should apply here."
"That slave's more valuable than a sock," the woman growled, rushing forward.
Amelle lifted the bladed end of her staff in time for it to clash sharply against the daggers, the force of the blow shuddering down her arms. "And yet still doesn't appear to want to be found."
Baring her teeth in a snarl, the rogue feinted forward, but as Amelle lifted her staff in defense she darted to the side. There was barely enough time to pivot, dirt and twigs crunching and grinding beneath her feet as she moved, barely blocking the woman's blades again. She was moving far too fast for Amelle to fight like this, that much was certain, and almost too fast for Amelle to focus a spell. And perhaps that was the whole point. She kept moving, darting and weaving, nimble enough to use the trees around them for cover and distraction, and agile enough that any of Amelle's spells hit just a fraction of a second too late. Bolts of ice shot up from the ground, sending dirt and rocks flying, but the woman was already on her other side.
Grinning. Tiring her out and, Amelle realized with a sick wave of dread, keeping her out of breath.
Elemental magic was the quickest for her to summon, beyond defensive, healing magic, which right now did her no good at all. Fire was out of the question; the whole forest this side of the gully would've gone up in flames, and ice was proving too slow, too blocky.
The key was to slow her down and avoid being used as a pincushion in the process.
This time it was Amelle who moved first, sprinting deeper into the wooded area—she knew too well that slavers didn't have a reputation for leaving survivors behind, so there was no question of the woman following her. As Amelle ran, the forest blurring green-grey around her, she breathed deep, pulling her mana up and up until it sang beneath her skin, cold, cold down to the marrow in her bones, almost colder than she could stand; she twisted and shaped it—impossibly, indescribably cold—then pushed it out behind her, hoping, praying the spell hit its mark.
Skidding to a stop and turning, Amelle saw the ice and frost spread out behind her, coating grass and saplings and wildflowers in shimmering crystal, but there was no sign of her pursuer.
The blade that plunged into her back, however, felt as if it too were coated in frost. Gasping—and it was such a sick, wet sound she was sure the dagger had pierced a lung—Amelle landed hard on her knees, frost melting through her trousers, cold and wet against her skin. The pain burned despite the cold, despite the frost and Amelle twisted her body, swinging the staff around even as she took the half breath still in her lungs and pushed every ounce of mana she had simmering in her body towards the wound. Her assailant stood above her, frost clinging to her clothes, wreathed in her hair, but the smile at her lips was one of cruel victory. One blade, Amelle saw, had red blood smeared and beaded upon it.
"Not quick enough," the woman said, stepping down hard upon the hand that held Amelle's staff. The bones ground together painfully and Amelle sucked a rattling breath into lungs straining to repair themselves. The assassin dropped to one knee and twisted a hand in Amelle's hair, yanking her head back and baring her throat.
"As if it weren't bad enough to be a mage defending a slave, you can hardly defend yourself. You're a blight upon your kind, mage." The blade rested against her throat. "Let your Maker know I did you a favor."
"I've got a better idea," wheezed Amelle, closing her eyes and breathing deep. It still ached to inhale, and she was certain her body was all but covered in bumps and bruises, but the wet rattle in her lungs was absent and with that breath mana grew bright in her veins. Amelle reached up where the dagger lay against her skin, brushing her fingers upon the metal blade. "Tell Him yourself."
As she exhaled, tiny threads of lightning jumped from her fingertips to the shining metal blade.
The moment those jagged lines of light touched the dagger, they wrapped around the blade, growing brighter, stronger, traveling up the would-be assassin's arm even as the force of the shock sent her reeling backwards, tumbling against a thick tree stump. The woman struggled to keep her footing as she gasped for breath. Wearily, Amelle pushed to her feet, watching as the woman's body finally fell to the ground, jerking and spasming as the lightning arced through her. Even once the spell dissipated, the woman's body twitched, her breaths quick and shallow.
She was still alive, though barely and not for much longer.
Pushing wearily to her feet, Amelle took up the staff and made her way to her assailant's side. "This blight upon her kind," she panted, "has decided to show you a little mercy." Without waiting for an reply, Amelle screwed her eyes shut and plunged the bladed end of her staff downward. When she opened them again, the blade was sunk deep into the ground, through the would-be assassin's chest. There was no life in the woman's body.
"More than you would've shown me, I think," Amelle murmured, shaking her head and pulling her staff free before heading back toward the sounds of gunfire. Every step sent little shockwaves of pain through her body, though the worst of it radiated outward from the dagger's entry point. Amelle had healed the wound enough that she wouldn't be drowning in her own blood anytime soon, but a full and proper healing took time she didn't have and mana that needed replenishing.
When Amelle came to a break in the trees, it was in time to see Isabela and Varric take down the final gunman together; she coaxed the slaver out of cover, feinting and darting, and miraculously avoiding getting shot while the slaver slowly ran out of bullets. When that finally happened, he drew a long, curved blade from a sheath and charged forward, blade raised. A crossbow bolt flew out of nowhere, landing solidly in the man's eye, throwing him back against the rock formation he'd been using as cover moments before.
All was—finally—quiet.
Amelle came out through the break in the trees and carefully skidded down the hill to the road.
"You look like death warmed over, Hawke," Varric said, shouldering Bianca and limping toward her.
"You should see the other guy. And you don't look so hot yourself."
Varric grimaced down at the wound. "Bright side is the road's clear." He frowned, nodding at where man and horse still lay. "The bullets quit coming from that corner a little while ago. Don't know if he just passed out or… if it's something a little more permanent."
Amelle sighed and nodded, turning her steps to the grey horse with its dappled hide and quiet, still rider. The man's head was turned away from her, his pale hair matted with sweat and dirt. As she walked around to his other side, she stopped short and sucked in a sudden breath—it hurt, and she winced, but didn't take her eyes off the man at her feet. It was the man they'd encountered in town the other day. The hard sell. The one Varric had called Broody. Without saying a word, she crouched down and pressed two fingers against his neck; a pulse beat, but it was faint and irregular.
"Well, shit," Isabela said, coming up behind her.
"He's alive," Amelle said quietly. "Though possibly not for much longer. Damn it." She had some lyrium potion in the wagon, but not much and—
"Found a few bottles of this on the bodies," Varric said, pressing a bottle into her hand. "Figured they weren't going to be using it."
"You're a lifesaver," she replied, tugging the cork free and downing the lyrium in several long swallows. For as pretty as the shimmering blue liquid was, lyrium potion tasted foul, like bitter almonds and licorice, a bite that tightened in the back of her throat at the same time that it made every breath Amelle inhaled rush cold and crisp into her lungs. Her connection to the Fade once again grew bright and sharp with light and energy. As she breathed in, mana rushed to the surface, ready to be set to work.
The first order of business was the horse. It had been shot and its front right leg was broken—a clean break, though, just below the knee. It lay on its side, nostrils flaring with each deep breath, watching Amelle with a wary glare that showed the whites of its eye.
Animals responded to magic in different ways—some of them, like Falcon seemed not to be bothered by it one way or another. Others, however, were far more sensitive, and made no secret of their dislike, and Amelle had a sinking feeling this horse was going to be more like the latter than the former. She crept forward, speaking in low, soft tones, until she was close enough to kneel where horse and rider were joined, pressing her hands against the animal's body. It jerked beneath her touch and she stroked its long neck slowly as she closed her eyes and reached down and past her connection to the Fade, deeper and deeper still, until a trickle of energy different than the rest bubbled forth, slowly at first, and then faster, growing and growing with a hot-cold pulse until Amelle knew she was aglow with blue-white light.
Phantom hands only she could feel rested over hers, and a voice only she could hear whispered in her ears, mimicking the soft, soothing sounds she made at the horse. Though she knew Fade spirits were bloodless, every time she reached out to summon this energy, it coursed through her like a pulse. Wave after wave of healing energy pushed forward and out in waves until she felt the horse's bone knitting together again, the bullet wound closing, slowly pushing the lead slug up and up and up and finally out. And, like a series of crashing waves, the energy of the Fade continued pushing and pushing, further and further, until Amelle became aware that she was breathing more easily, until she knew instinctively that Varric's wound had healed.
She was distantly aware of the horse moving, scrambling to its feet, and perhaps she ought to have been concerned with getting trampled, but that was a concern that felt too distant to matter just then. With a touch as light as any feather, the spirit's hands guided hers until they rested upon the dying man. She felt rather than saw every one of his injuries, and her stomach churned with the knowledge of the pain he'd undergone. One leg had been broken in several different places when the horse fell upon him and the other leg twisted beneath his body—he tried dismounting as the horse fell, she realized—with damage done to both the hip and knee. He'd been shot in the shoulder; the bullet had broken his left collarbone and was still lodged inside him. Another bullet had torn through his right arm, ruining muscle. He had lost blood—it was pooled around them and soaking into her pants.
For a moment, for a sudden, fleeting fraction of a moment, she was certain she could not heal him. But the spirit's touch sunk into her hands and in an instant those fears were groundless. Cold fire lit her fingertips, pushing and pulling and shifting, knitting bone and mending damage until every breath burned with exertion, as if she'd been running for miles.
Then it was over. The light flared off, leaving her hands stiff and numb, her lungs aching, her clothes drenched with sweat.
She looked up at Varric, blinking slowly. "He'll live," she said, taking care not to slur her words too much. "How's your leg?"
"Good as new, Hawke," he said, though his image appeared to waver strangely as he said it.
"Oh. Good," she said faintly, just before sliding bonelessly to one side. She tried to catch herself, but mostly succeeded in landing hard on one elbow. Blinking slowly, Amelle realized it wasn't just Varric that was wavering all over the place. Everything was.
Using her teeth, Isabela pulled the cork from another bottle of lyrium potion and spat it aside before putting the bottle to Amelle's lips.
"Bottom's up, kitten."
With clumsy fingers, Amelle grasped the bottle, swallowing greedily. It tasted as bad as ever, but her head eventually cleared and mana that had been so close to depleted slowly began to swirl again beneath her skin.
"I think I might be getting a little too used to running myself dry," Amelle said, her voice sounding thick to her own ears as she slowly pushed to her knees. "Should probably try to not do that so much." Running one hand over her face, she took a deep breath and let it out again.
"Should we be concerned he didn't wake up?" Varric asked.
"No," Amelle answered. "That was a damn lot of healing he got in one dose. Going to need more of it over a few days. Bones aren't shattered anymore, but nowhere near as strong as they ought to be." She closed her eyes, pressing the cool tips of her fingers against the lids and forced herself to focus. "Joints aren't twisted anymore, but they're going to be stiff and inflexible for a time. I can fix injuries, but I can't replace lost blood—and he lost a lot of that—and I can't rebuild muscle. Physical injuries like this, I can speed up the healing process, but it's not an instant thing."
"So what do we do about that?" he asked, though he was looking at her like he already knew what she was going to say.
She ran a hand through her hair, grimacing when her fingers got caught on something sticky that was probably better off not thought too hard about, and looked around them. "Did his horse—oh." The grey mare's reins were wrapped around a nearby sapling, and the animal was placidly grazing. "Didn't get away."
"Of course she didn't," Isabela replied with a snort. "The Rivaini are excellent horsemen, I'll have you know."
"Which is why you prefer life on a ship," Varric pointed out.
"I never said I liked horses. We're just good with them."
"Either way," Amelle said, pushing herself to her feet with a grunt, "I think we should probably tether the horse to the wagon and bring our new friend along to Lothering. Ostagar's too far behind us to turn back now, and we've already lost travel time. If he wakes en route and decides he wants to go another way, he'll be more than free to do that. But for now, probably best if we transport him to the wagon and get a move on. If there are more slavers coming to join this lot, I'd rather not be here when they arrive.
Rather than carrying the unconscious elf the whole distance back to the wagon, Amelle stayed with him while Isabela and Varric took the grey mare back up the road, and got it situated with Falcon and the other horses. Amelle needed a rest as well. For all the lyrium potion restored mana, she tended to feel lightheaded until things righted themselves normally. While she waited, she frowned down at her patient. It was definitely the same man, no doubt about that. And an escaped slave. An escaped slave who'd held off six gunmen while pinned under his horse.
Amelle was suddenly, desperately relieved she'd sold him a jar of the good stuff.
She knew little about the Tevinters—beyond the country being overwhelmingly inhabited and populated by mages, and their inclinations toward the slave trade. She knew they were dangerous. Ruthless. The sort of people one typically took great pains to avoid.
"Perhaps they won't come looking for you in Lothering," she murmured. She hoped she was right.
The wagon soon came trundling along the road and the moment it slowed to a stop, Amelle hoisted herself up and in through the back. Their supplies were low, so there was room enough for them to put together a makeshift bed of blankets for the unconscious man to lie upon. It was tricky work maneuvering him into the wagon and onto the pallet, but she and Isabela managed it, while Varric offered advice that wavered between remotely helpful and not at all.
"You staying back here, Hawke?" Varric asked her as Isabela crawled out to sit at the front of the wagon.
"I was considering it," she said. "Could be unpleasant if he wakes up disoriented."
Varric frowned, eyes flicking down to the stranger and back up again. "I thought you said Broody'd be out a while longer."
"Oh, he very likely will be. I'd rather not take chances, though."
"You think he could be trouble?"
She let out a soft bark of laughter at that. "I think I'd rather not irritate any man who can defend himself against six."
Varric's expressive face shifted from shrewd to wry as he chuckled in turn. "To say nothing of the pinned under a horse part, huh?"
"My thoughts exactly."
In the end, Amelle opted to stay in the wagon for a fair portion of the trip. Her patient—who she couldn't help but at least mentally refer to as Broody—woke, but only for brief intervals, surfacing from slumber long enough for her to determine he wasn't in any immediate danger, despite a stubborn fever that seemed intent on returning in between bouts of healing. That troubled her, but she eased back the heat burning upon his skin as often as it took. She hoped he was out of danger, at any rate. He did rouse occasionally, which Amelle found reassuring.
Only half a day's travel out of Lothering, darkness fell, so they found a quiet clearing off the main road with a gently trickling creek carving a winding path just beyond the tree line. It was a fine place to rest the horses and make camp before the final stretch of the trip. After they'd eaten, Varric and Isabela settled by the campfire and were soon entrenched in a particularly intense game of Diamondback. Amelle left them to their devices and crawled into the wagon to see to Broody's slow-healing injuries.
She lit the lantern with a flick of her fingers, and soon the warm amber glow chased away the dusky evening shadows. Her patient, still frustratingly nameless, save for the nickname, since none of his belongings bore any sort of name or label, lay still upon the bed of blankets.
She'd wiped away as much of the dirt and grime as possible from his face and hands, but grit dulled and darkened his pale hair—and she'd never seen strands so white on any man as young as he. For that matter, she'd never seen tattoos quite like his.
Head to toe, he was a walking—or in this case sleeping—mystery.
"Still so sure I have nothing you require?" she murmured as she knelt upon the wagon's knotted wood floor, running deft fingertips over one slow-healing leg and then the other; the bone that had been broken felt better than it had, but when she examined the knee of the other leg, the joint felt warm to the touch and swollen. Best to start there, then, she decided.
But as Amelle's hands flared to life with mana and healing magic, the man upon the pallet stirred, letting out a soft groan, barely audible, as his fingers twitched. His eyes were half open in the dim light, though he looked the furthest thing from alert.
"You're safe," she said quietly. There was a flask of fresh, cold water nearby, and she grabbed it, tilting the neck to his lips. "All right? You were injured in that fight, but you're safe, and your horse is fine."
He blinked slowly, swallowing the trickle of water. "…Safe," he finally managed, his voice low and rough.
"Yes." She remembered the furious desperation the slave hunters had shown, and it suddenly became imperative he understand that he was in no immediate danger. "You're safe. I swear it."
A faint frown furrowed his brow, making him look for all the world like he wanted to argue with her. She brushed the hair away from his forehead, fingertips skimming the furrow, and he subsided minutely.
"We're just outside of Lothering," she explained slowly, not completely sure if he was picking up any of what she told him, but explaining anyway. "That's where we're headed. You'll be safe there till you've fully recovered."
He seemed to nod, or at least it looked like it could have been a nod. Or he could have just tumbled back into unconsciousness. After a few seconds, Amelle realized that was exactly what had happened.
"And next time you open those eyes," she muttered, turning her attention back to his swollen and struggling knee, hands flaring to life as she took a breath of mana, "I'm finding out your blighted name, Broody."
