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‘You want me to do what?’
‘You heard me.’ The elf cut a bunch of Spindleweed and tucked it into the pouch at his belt. ‘It’d be a lot quicker if you helped, you know.’
The mage frowned.
’So you lured me out of my tent — my warm, dry tent, may I add — for this? Picking weed?’
‘Spindleweed isn’t really a weed, Dorian. It’s a herb.’
‘Ha! Next, you’ll be telling me that elfroot isn’t really a root.’
‘Well, actually—‘
‘Whatever it is, I refuse to enter the water. It is wet.’
‘Yes, Dorian, this is a lake.’ Mahanon moved on to the next clump of Spindleweed and cut it with one clear stroke.
‘What do we need all these plants for, anyway?’
‘They are used to brew medicine. The healer at the Crossroads asked me to collect some.’
‘Running errands again, are we?’ Dorian made a thoughtful face. ‘Couldn’t we buy it? There must be a merchant nearby who has some in stock.’
Mahanon snorted and looked up at the mage.
‘Why in Mythal’s name would you buy herbs? They’re growing right here.’
‘To start, the mighty Inquisitor wouldn’t need to wallow in puddles. Wet as a drowned rat you are. If only word got out. Can’t we do it like civilised people?’
Mahanon froze, his grin faded. ‘Civilised, huh?’ he mumbled.
Dorian made a pained expression. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘No, I know you didn’t,’ the elf said quietly and stared down at the bundle of Spindleweed in his hand. He pocketed it and sat down on a nearby stump.
‘I am sorry, Amatus.’ Dorian joined him. Mahanon noticed he didn’t pull a face when he sat on the moss, like he usually does.
They rested awhile in silence.
‘Shall we go?’ Lavellan said at last. ‘The spindleweed I collected should be enough.’
‘Yes, let’s.’
As they stood up the elf took the mage’s hand.
Dorian let out the tiniest sound of relief.