"Tired," she whispered. Her voice was just a thread of sound, and her eyes seemed dull. "Thirsty."
He quickly poured her a cup of water and boosted her up to sip at it. Not too much. He wasn't sure what would be good for her, and there was no one to ask. "Better?"
She nodded a little, and shivered. He tucked the blankets around her, and her grip on his hand suddenly tightened. Tingled.
Burned.
"Morgan?"
He looked up, and she was staring at him with that fixed, unfocused stare he recognized as her accessing her Obscurist talents. She was still shivering; he could feel the convulsions of it through her fingers.
He suddenly felt a cough explode in his lungs, and turned aside to let it out. The coughing didn't stop. It got worse, doubling him over, and the liquid in his lungs that had been receding seemed to come out of nowhere, flooding up, suffocating, and he spat out one mouthful, two, three, each one redder than the last, and he couldn't get his breath, and Morgan's hand was holding his so tightly that he couldn't shake her loose . . .
And then Askuwheteau burst through the tent flap, took one look at them, and stepped forward to grab Morgan's arm and twist it, breaking her hold on him. She cried out, and Jess nearly fell trying to turn to defend her, but he wasn't hurting her, she was saying I'm sorry, I'm sorry, and Askuwheteau, his face a grim mask, injected her with a solution of bluish liquid and held her down until she quieted again.
Once she was still, eyes closed, breathing steadily, he turned to Jess, who was still fighting to catch his breath. The dirt on the floor by his chair was soaked with liquid, and the liquid looked terribly like blood.
"What's wrong with her?"
"She's trying to heal you. That's what her instincts tell her she must do. It will kill you both if she tries just now," Askuwheteau said. He rummaged in his bag and came up with another small glass vial. He pitched it to Jess. "Drink this."
"What is it?"
"Drink it or I'll hold you down and inject you with it."
Jess tipped it up and swallowed. It tasted faintly of berries, and something bitter beneath, and he felt the constriction and pressure in his chest begin to ease. "That's not half-bad-"
The darkness was already descending when he heard the doctor say, from a great distance, "Better than the alternatives."
///
Waking up came with a fierce, walnut-sized headache buried deep in his skull, a surging feeling of dizziness, and . . . no cough. Jess took in two or three breaths before he recognized that he was breathing easily and normally again. His memory seemed cheerily out of focus, and it took time for it all to trickle back to him . . . Philadelphia, burning. Morgan, coming awake, and the burning tingle in his hand where she gripped it. The helpless coughing fit.
Askuwheteau's potion. Bloody man tricked me. But he had to admit, though his chest and throat still ached a bit, he felt much better. Except for the headache, and even that was starting to slowly unwind and vanish as he opened his eyes and sat up.
Well, tried to. He couldn't. He was tied down. The most he could do was lift his head, and he did, straining to see, but it was very dark. He was in some kind of room, and it smelled of oil, metal, sweat. A hint of blood. The ground under him shuddered and rattled, and as he jerked against the restraints, he heard someone in the shadows say, "Sleeping Beauty's up. Might want to cut him loose before he bruises." Dario's voice, dryly amused.
"Jess, I'm going to let you loose," said Glain's voice close to his ear. "And if you try to take my knife away, I will punch you so hard you'll never wake up. Understand?"
"Glain?" The fog was lifting. The close, stinking room wasn't a room. The ground wasn't shaking. He was in a High Garda transport, and they were moving at a good rate of speed over rough ground, and he was safe. "Why the hell am I tied up?"
"Because nobody wanted to cradle you like an oversized baby while you slept," Dario said. "Surprisingly enough."
"You'd have cracked your head open bouncing around, as rough as the travel is," Glain observed, and he felt his left wrist come loose, then the warmth of her body as she bent over him. "I wasn't going to be the one washing your brains off the floor. There. Sit up and do the rest yourself."
His eyes were adjusting now to the very low lights. It was just enough of a pale glow to see shadows, hints of faces, and the glint on the edge of the knife she was holding out to him.
Jess sat up, took it, and cut through the restraints around his ankles. He'd been lying on a stretcher, taking up space in the middle of the floor. As he tried to get up, the transport lurched and nearly sent him pitching at the wall; hands from either side steadied him. "Thanks," he muttered, and sank down into an empty seat along the side. He passed Glain's knife back to her, then snapped the restraints in place for the seat. It didn't make the ride more comfortable, but it did make it safer. "How long was I out?"