Together, with Ephiny's help, Demophile and Haemerasia brought Autolycus to the makeshift camp the Amazons had set up in the Centaur village. Their friends, kin to Ephiny's son, had given them several huts for the injured.

Demophile directed that Autolycus be brought to a small room apart from the others, and then she began to assess more thoroughly just what had happened to the man. Haemerasia had cleaned off much of the blood and set the many broken bones, so that the traveling had not exacerbated the wounds, but—she shook her head. Tortured with wounds that would almost kill, but not quite—exactly Velaska's style, she recognized. The one who should never have had the right to call herself Amazon had intended a lingering death.

Yet, he was not now in pain—at least, physical pain, and he was warm, but—yes, her apprentice was correct, this "fever" was an enchantment. Demophile thought whose protection he might be under, suspecting Artemis as most likely.

Her first concern, though, was to find a way to get water and healing broth into him safely. She could certainly use a god's help here, she said to herself, grumbling, but knew she would have to make do with her own methods. Artemis' help was rare and always somewhat incomplete.

He spoke then, and she leaned close as he murmured a name—Malacus, it sounded like, and then more—the words not comprehensible, but she could hear grief and love and regret in his voice. Haemerasia was right—he spoke to the dead. His eyes were open then, bright with the enchanted fever, looking right at her—no, beyond her, not seeing anything in the room.

Demophile put a hand on his forehead and bowed her head in respect. She realized that what she must do then might be less agony to him than what he now felt—the fever had not protected him from despair. But it would not be easy. Knowing that the wounded man spoke to one who would be near, watching over him, she spoke low to that spirit so clearly beloved of this man. "Forgive me, but we must do this."

Then, she beckoned Haemerasia closer and explained. "We must wake him enough so that he can drink, or he will not recover. I fear that when we do this, the pain will return, so you must help me."

"I have the broth prepared," Haemerasia replied, practical.

They both carefully moved him so that sat upright against where the pallet touched the wall. Still unaware, he did not even flinch. Then Demophile nodded to Haemerasia, who picked up the small bowl.

Still supporting him with one arm, she put her hand to the side of his face and spoke, solemnly and loudly in the small space. "Autolycus. Autolycus. You must wake."

At first nothing. She tried again, urgent. Then something in his eyes changed, and he tensed and tried to scream, but it was only a hoarse and dry sound that he made. Demophile and Haemerasia held him gently so that he could not twist off the pallet, and Demophile spoke. "You must drink this. Here. You must drink."

Haemerasia held the bowl to him, and though his face was contorted in agony, as soon as the liquid touched his lips, he stilled, and then began to drink with eagerness and desperation. "Careful," Demophile said. "Slowly."

Much of the broth spilled down his face and neck, but he did take in some of it, and he did not choke. As they pulled the bowl away, he began trembling, and though he was still wracked with pain, Demophile caught a look of startled gratitude in his eyes. She wondered who in his mind had given him the broth—since he obviously was still not aware of where he was or who was with him.

His return to wakefulness was brief, Demophile was relieved to see. As they gently eased him back on the pallet, the shivering began to cease. Feeling his face, Demophile felt the protective warmth return.

He'd ingested enough of the broth to make sure healing could begin, though they would have to do this again, with broth and water, to insure his recovery, and there would be a price to pay—it was not good for him to be pulled back to the pain like this in such unpredictable ways, would insure that the terror of it would haunt him. Demophile would do what she could to assuage that, as well, she vowed to herself.

"Was it enough?" Haemerasia asked, looking curiously at the pale, sleeping figure.

"For now."

00000000

After a day, Demophile noted that the wounds had begun healing at a remarkable rate, just as she had seen in the ones who had been burned in Velaska's attack on their village.

They continued like this for several days, eventually able to offer water. Though he did not fully wake, each time he was able to drink more.

Once, after Haemerasia had helped her give him broth to drink, she saw the young woman looking puzzled at the man.

"What is your question?" Demophile asked, knowing her apprentice's expression well.

"I do not understand why. We all are Amazons, and we serve and defend our queen and each other. But this one—he has no such obligation. Why did he do it?"

Demophile smiled. "It was not obligation. I suspect it is simply because Our Queen, Gabrielle, is his friend."

"And, for that reason, alone?"

"Yes. Though, if you wish, you could ask him yourself when he is awake. He might say it in ways you would find enlightening."

Haemerasia looked thoughtful, and Demophile was pleased at this new lesson she was learning.

"Have you finished learning about those herbs the Centaur healer was showing you?" At her apprentice's no, she said, "Go, and do that, and see to the others who still need this broth. I will stay here."