Carey never got enough air. His heart raced to make it happen, faltered when nothing helped. He sat propped up in his own bed, alternating between utter terror and a more comfortable haze of disbelief, no longer strong enough to do so much as wipe his own chin clean of the blood that came up with every cough and gurgle. Maybe he simply no longer saw the point.
Or maybe he was lost in other things. More important things. Jess, I'm sorry. Jess, I did my best . . . and we both know it wasn't enough.
He wouldn't have said it out loud if he could; he was never alone. Simney or Cesna or even Gertli; someone always sat by his bedside, sometimes in pairs. Sometimes they cried. Sometimes they murmured things they thought would comfort him, and sometimes Simney chanced using a simple pain relief spell—he recognized that one—or other spells, basic things nonetheless risky in Camolen's spell-twisted environment but which seemed to help make the breathing easier. They argued over it when they thought he wasn't listening, so Simney chanced to murmur fiercely, "I know it might go wrong and kill him! Do you think I'd do it if he weren't about to—" and then cut off, but her words had been obvious enough.
It didn't matter; they were right. And he wasn't listening, not really.
Jess, I'm sorry.
Until that hour after endless hours when Cesna sat holding his hand and said brokenly, softly, "It's all right, Carey. You've waited it out longer than any of us thought you could . . . but the basic spells aren't enough anymore, and we don't—we can't—" a hesitation, one entirely filled by the somehow still astonishing sensation of taking a breath and getting no air with it, over and over and he knew what she meant to say and he knew he was tired and he knew . . .
No more I'm sorry. Now, perhaps, time for good-bye. Exhausted and grieving and so full of regret that it welled up to trickle down the side of his face, mixing with blood. Gently, Cesna wiped it clean . . . but her hand trembled. He barely felt it. He felt his heart race, he felt his breathing hitch . . . slow . . .
"Carey!"
He was beyond recognizing voices, or knowing how many heartbeats had passed since Cesna stopped talking and started crying. This new voice came right to his ear, fierce and earnest. "We're cleared to work real magic, Carey—Linton just came in with the biggest collection of spellstones you'd ever hope to see, and Arlen's contacted Natt from the peacekeepers—he said things are stable enough that if we want to take the chance—"
She stopped, pulled herself together, and said simply, "It's going to be all right, Carey. Give me a few more moments, and we'll get you eased. It'll take awhile, but you're going to be all right. You have to be. I just promised Jess."
Jess . . . one more chance . . .
Awakening.
A long time coming, and slow.
Vague awareness came first, a sensation of warmth and then vague soreness. A healing kind of soreness, the kind that comes after exertion. He opened his eyes to the familiar view of his own ceiling, the unique patterns of carved stone over the bed. No one hailed the flicker of his eyelids; after a long moment of consideration, he turned his head to confirm that he was alone in his own bed, in his own bedroom. An unfamiliar table sat in the middle of the room; someone, until recently, had been keeping enough of a watch to take their meals here. On the short, tile-topped bedside table sat a glass pitcher and tumbler; cool moisture glinted on the outside of the pitcher, revealing the water's freshness. The room held the diffuse light of either dawn or twilight; he wasn't sure which. The room contained neither permalight nor normal glowspell, although a stubby candle sat on the bedside table.
Eventually, he sat up. Discovered he didn't tremble; he didn't cough. He didn't bleed. The dull ache remained. Healing left to go.
He slid out of bed, found himself clad in light sleeper bottoms, and wondered who'd had the honors. He gulped a tumbler of water, then half of another, and padded barefoot over old and comfortable rugs to the window. A touch confirmed what he thought he perceived—the window spells back in place. Anfeald couriers had spread the word . . . lights out in Camolen. Back to the glowspells that had served them so ably, so long.
Outside, light still filled the sky, more so than he would have guessed from the dim nature of the room; the stretching shadow of the hold across the road confirmed twilight. In the distance, two riders emerged from the woods, skirting the small blot of a meltdown and cantering easily for the hold.
He'd know that movement anywhere. Not the choppy nature of the dark bay's gaits, but the collected ease of the dun, and the quiet seat of her rider. After a moment he picked out the lanky frame and uneasy, elbow-flapping style of the second rider, and gave a short laugh. Arlen. Jaime had said he was alive, but somehow until this moment . . .
Eventually he'd learn how and why. For now it was enough to know it was true. Arlen was alive, and he'd come back—from the peacekeepers, most likely, and with Jaime and Lady at his side.
Lady. His stomach tightened suddenly, a frisson of unexpected emotion. He hadn't been sure he'd have this chance . . . that he'd live to try for it, or that she'd be here if he did. He needed to grab some pants, throw on a shirt, test his legs on a slow trip down the stairs to greet her—
But something kept him at the window. As the light faded, shadows disappearing into true twilight, he stood straight-armed against the sill, swaying just enough to remind himself it had been a close thing after all. And in the twilight, a lone horse cantered out again, stripped of her gear, scrubbed clean of her sweat and saddle marks. Cantered out in a leisurely fashion, carrying herself just as beautifully as under the guidance of Jaime's expert riding. His fingers tightened on the stone sill, struck by her beauty and by the fact—
She was leaving.
But not far out, she came to a light stop, and she raised her finely-molded head to look back over her shoulder. Not at the door to the barn from which she'd come, but higher. To this window.
For a moment, he stopped breathing, thinking—hoping—she might turn around.
She gave a little flip of her head—a challenge—and cantered on.
But he'd gotten the message.
His place, this time, to go to her.