Voedale, Old Rose Harbor
“Fine,” Niccolette exhaled, sharply, crumpling the bloody handkerchief in her hand. She glanced up at the passive, and made a little face again, glancing back over her shoulder at Aremu. He thought he could read the question in her eyes, in the way she scrunched up her nose – did she have to?
Aremu felt a sudden blooming of warmth in his chest. He nodded, once, and Niccolette made another little face, but she turned back to Cailan, took a deep breath, and began to cast. Aremu watched her, and although his own injury was beginning to weigh on him – he could feel the heaviness of it all through his body, the slow spreading ache – he could not help but feel a little lighter. This, he thought; this was Niccolette. So she had not died with Uzoji, after all. He had not been so sure.
Niccolette was chanting in steady even monite, her body still, her breaths rhythmic between the syllables. There was steam rising from her again; Aremu wished that he could edge back out of the range of her field, out from the spreading bright heat that eased through it as she cast. He had been on the receiving end of her healing before, and well he knew that she was not the gentle sort of healer. She blazed through your injuries; she pushed back the infections and the wounds with the sheer strength of her will. And, Aremu thought, that was very much how it felt.
There was a trickle of blood from Niccolette’s nose again, when the spell finished. But she reached forward with one hand and wiped the blood from Cailan’s side with the handkerchief once more. The skin underneath had closed up – draw together, as if she had stitched him shut, and the flow of blood was gone. It was not healed entirely – it would scar, too, Aremu thought. But there was no flow of blood, and while it looked as if it would be thoroughly tender, it was as if he had been stabbed a week or two ago, not tonight.
Niccolette stepped back – and wobbled, gasping sharply.
Aremu went forward into the depths of her field, and wrapped his arm around her, holding her upright. He said nothing for a long moment, worried that perhaps he had overstepped – and Niccolette groaned, softly, and leaned her head against his shoulder, her eyes fluttering closed. “Thank you,” she mumbled.
Aremu stiffened, glancing at the slender Bastian, her face pale beneath the smear of blood. She should not, he thought, have taxed herself so. She should have told him – but he knew her better than that.
“Sit for a minute,” Aremu said, gently, and kept the worry from his voice. He eased her back towards the wall, and knelt with her, lowering her back against it until she was sitting, and he was crouched next to her.
Niccolette drew her knees up, and rested her arms over the top of them, and buried her face against all of it. If Aremu suspected from the trembling of her shoulders, that she was crying, he said nothing. He rose, carefully, and took the key from his pocket; he had taken the knife too, after Niccolette had finished with it, because he did not know Cailan and he did not think it wise to let the other man have it.
Aremu knew that he was walking a little more stiffly now; he felt himself beginning to drag further. He did what he could through it and made his way across the room to the chest. All that blood, he thought, glancing down at the key in his hand. He set it to the lock and turned – twisted. He was turned away from Cailan, but he kept him in the corner of his gaze as he let go of the key and raised the lid.
A small, half-open bag sat inside; a handful of uncut diamonds gleamed inside, sparkling in the distant dim yellow light. Aremu could not help himself; he reached forward, slowly, and dragged the fingers of his hand through them, a shiver running itself through him. There was a closed bag next to it, with a drawstring, larger; Aremu opened it, and eased the top wide, and checked the pieces of jewelry inside – two broaches, a necklace, two rings. He nodded, satisfied, and shuddered, jerking his hand back and clutching the side of the chest tightly. He took a deep breath, gathering himself, and held there another moment until the cloudiness in his head began to clear.