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Rachel had never fully grasped magical healing. She understood the basics, the theory, but applying those lessons had always escaped her. The reverse came so naturally, tearing people down at the most elemental level, pulling their life right out of them and into herself. But healing even the simplest injury? Beyond her reach. Which is why what happened in that medical tent outside the Wardens’ forward camp was so surprising to everyone involved.
Two dragons lay dead, Ghilan’nain and Elgar’nan retreating to lick their wounds. The Wardens, Crows, and the ragtag band arrayed like a star around Rook stood in shock in the muck of the Hossberg Wetlands. And then the next work began. Gathering the dead, tending the injured, counting, counting, counting the losses.
Rachel was discussing next steps with Viago, Antoine, and Evka when Harding appeared at her elbow, looking pained.
“Rook...Rachel. I remembered you asking after your uncle after Weisshaupt, so I checked on him for you…”
Rachel inhaled sharply. “Don’t. Don’t you dare.”
Harding blinked rapidly. “You should be with him.”
Rachel swept away like a brewing storm toward the medical camp Flynn was overseeing. She was barely aware of the presence of Lucanis and Spite behind her.
Carver was a mess when she found him. Barely recognizable behind the blood and bandages. Barely breathing.
Flynn’s voice broke through her shocked stupor. She realized she was on her knees, clutching her uncle’s hand. “I’ve done what I can to make him comfortable. Maybe a spirit healer could help him, but the Wardens lost all of theirs at Weisshaupt. I’m so sorry.”
“He got through that mess without a fucking SCRATCH. He’s – how-” her voice broke on a sob.
“I can’t lose anyone else.” Danced through her thoughts, incomprehensible.
A stranger’s voice replied, “An ogre. He put himself between it and me. I don’t know why. I hardly knew him...” Their voice trailed away. Rachel forced herself to look up. The woman before her was the spitting image of Bethany Hawke, mage staff and all. Rachel had seen that face in a locket at her father’s neck every night growing up.
Inhaling in shock, she looked away. “I know why. And I know he wouldn’t regret it. But please leave.”
Lucanis had placed a hand on her shoulder at some point, unnoticed. “Maybe Emmrich-”
“You can ask, but I can see the answer all over him. If my parents were here...they’re the only spirit healers I’ve met who could stop this from happening.” She laughed bitterly. “Carver would hate owing his life to them, but at least he’d be alive to razz them about it.”
Gently, she climbed onto the narrow cot next to her unconscious uncle, reaching one arm across his chest. His breath caught under the sudden pressure, but then the presence or the body heat or the love in her embrace seemed to settle something in him and he breathed a little easier.
Lucanis sat companionably on the ground next to them. Spite seemed to be hovering uncertainly on the other side of the cot from its host.
“I hated losing him to the Wardens. He had promised to take care of my father in the Deep Roads. Didn’t occur to any of us that Carver might be the one to not come back.”
“You were close?”
Rachel smiled despite the grief she could feel swelling beneath her ribs. “He has this jig. He always did it to cheer up my aunt, his twin, when they were kids. And then he kept it up for me. Always willing to make a bit of a tit of himself to cheer up his family. Fiercely protective of us.”
There was a growing...something in the tent.
“That woman looks just like her. Like Bethany. She was killed by an ogre.”
“Mierda. No wonder.”
“Yeah.”
They lapsed into silence. The tension. Warmth? Whatever. Swelled in the silence.
Rook was more aware than ever of Spite’s presence. She was almost certain that his hand was covering hers where it lay on Carver’s chest. She glanced at Lucanis. His eyes were locked on her hand and Spite’s; slowly, hesitantly, he reached out and laid his hand on top of hers, interlacing with his spirit’s.
The effect was instantaneous: the tension, connection, magic, love, that had been growing in the tent collapsed into their entwined hands. Rachel could feel the veil whipping around her like a summer storm, the dull gray light of the Wetlands burned a violent shade of violet, and she felt magic pouring through her like she was but a conduit, into Carver’s unconscious body.
It ended as abruptly as it began. Rook had a brief glimpse of Spite standing next to the cot, looking shocked; the expression was mirrored on Lucanis’ face.
“Robin?” Carver’s voice was rough, hoarse, and so welcome.
“Uncle Carver? It’s Rachel. Are you...are you back?”
“Rachel?” His blue eyes peaked open and blearily surveyed the tent. “Felt like Robin’s magic.” He strained to look around behind him. “He isn’t here?” Carver’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. His eyes finally focused on Rachel’s tearstained face. “Back? Did I go somewhere?”
“I think.” Rachel shook her head and slowly climbed off the cot. “I think we healed you. But I’m not. I’m not a healer! I don’t-” She looked to Lucanis for reassurance.
“Don’t look at me. I’m as confused as you.”
“Spite.”
“Well yes, obviously. But how.”
Rachel began to pace. “Spirit healers get their abilities by forming trusting relationships with spirits but. He’s Spite. Not. I don’t know. Love or Compassion or whatever spirit healers usually work with.”
“That qunari seer called him Determination. Though I should probably mention that he looks more nonplussed than either of us.”
“I saw.”
“You what?”
“There was a brief moment when I saw him, Lucanis.”
Carver groaned. “Rachel Hawke. I love you dearly. But please take this mage talk somewhere else. You’re giving me a headache. Another headache.”
“Oh forget it. Who cares!” Rook dropped to her knees next to the cot again. “Something incredible just happened and it doesn’t matter if it never makes sense.”
Carver seemed to be waking up more thoroughly. “I was dying, huh?”
Rachel grimaced. Flynn chose that moment to appear in the flap of the tent, Emmrich behind them.
Emmrich’s voice was soft, clearly expecting to comfort his friend in her moment of loss. “Rook dear…”
“He’s okay! He’s going to be okay.”
“Maker’s breath.” Flynn approached the cot immediately and began peeling away bandages to inspect wounds that should have been fatal.
Emmrich’s eyes lit with academic interest. “I sensed the veil being disturbed around the tent and assumed...Did you heal him? You told me you never mastered that school of magic. You seemed...quite regretful about it.”
“I haven’t!” Rachel was beginning to feel somewhat manic from relief.
Spite took control of Lucanis’ voice for a moment. “We help Rook. So Rook can help us.”
“The implications of this are astounding!”
“Mage talk. Somewhere else.” Carver’s voice was stern, but he was smiling.
“Later. Or never!” Rachel giggled. She took his hand in hers. He squeezed her hand back, weakly, but reassuringly. “I was just telling Lucanis about your jig.”
Carver scowled. “Well I’m not going to do it for him. Even if he did help you save my life somehow. Do I even want to know who Spite is?”
“Erm. Remember Justice?”
Carver stared blankly back. His gaze traveled to Lucanis, who had his hand gently resting on Rachel’s shoulder. “No. Absolutely not. The apple does not fall that close to the tree.”
“I don’t know what you mean by that.” Rachel primly adjusted Carver’s blanket.
“Andraste’s ass, you don’t.”
Lucanis and Rachel exchanged an affectionate look. Carver resisted the urge to groan.