The strain began to take its toll as Tris struggled to keep his concentration. Once, the thread flickered dangerously, and Tris lunged for it with all his will. He imagined that he felt the thread surge toward him in response, and clung to the hope of that faint sign of life. Time meant nothing there in the blackness, cut off from all senses but the presence of the clear blue light. Gradually, Tris felt a growing warmth, which began from the very edges of his perception, warming the chill of the blackness as it advanced resolutely.
Just a little longer, Tris heard Carina urge, tired but steady. He redoubled his own flagging efforts, and found, to his relief, that the glimmering thread that was Vahanian no longer flickered, but pulsed a dim, steady blue.
After what seemed like an eternity, Tris heard Carina's voice again. Break the contact, she urged. Tris imagined himself gently letting go of the strengthened blue thread, easing his way back through the darkness, which by now had lightened to pale twilight. With a lurch, he came back to himself, and opened his eyes, painfully aware that both his feet had gone to sleep and his back cramped uncomfortably.
Vahanian groaned and heaved a deep breath. Tris dared a look at the swordsman. Vahanian's breathing was measured and deep, and color had returned to his face.
"Well done, healer," Tarren said appraisingly. "You there," he hailed two of the slavers who were among the small crowd that gathered to watch the healing, "tie him up and make sure it's secure," he said with a nod toward Vahanian.
The slavers took a step back, fear plain in their faces. "Vayash moru," they murmured, and the murmur spread among the small crowd.
Tarren looked at them with contempt. "Rubbish. Wives' tales, all of it." He looked levelly at the two again, and the slavers seemed to shrink in on themselves, torn between their fear of Vahanian and their fear of their commander. "Now, tie him and make it tight," Tarren repeated in a voice that threatened worse than any vengeance of the undead. Pale but obedient, the slavers did as they were bid, binding Vahanian to a stake in the ground between Tris and Carina. Carroway, to Tris's right, gave Tris a silent nod of approval. On Carina's left, Alyzza, still hooded, rocked back and forth, humming a haunting melody.
Once Tarren and the others left, Tris glanced over to Carina. The healer slumped against the stake to which she was tied, eyes on the ground. "You were fantastic," Tris praised. "I never believed in miracles, but that was close."
Carina barely managed a wan smile in acknowledgment. "I couldn't have done it without you. Truly," she said in a voice barely above a whisper. The life had gone out of her voice, leaving it flat and tired. He guessed that she was thinking about Cam, and feeling his loss even more potently than before, having lost her healing partner as well as her brother.
"We don't know for sure about Cam and the others," he said as hopefully as he could muster. "Ban and Tov are resourceful. Maybe they were able to slip away, get help," he suggested, although in his heart, he feared the worst.
Carina shook her head. "I want to believe that," she whispered, her voice catching. "But I think we're just fooling ourselves. And we were so close to Dhasson."
"Somehow, we're going to make it," Tris swore, although his resolve far surpassed any ideas of how he might make good his oath. "We have to. I have to."
Carina looked up and held his gaze for a long moment, as if she were taking his measure anew. "I shouldn't dare to hope," she whispered finally. "But I wish I could."
Vahanian roused from his spot between them, then settled back into an uneasy rest. "What about him?" Tris asked, worriedly. He knew how close Vahanian had been to death. Any escape attempt would hinge on the swordsman's recovery.
"I don't know," Carina answered honestly. "He's much better than before, but it was pretty bad. I didn't sense any permanent damage, but then again, there wasn't a lot of time."
Tris nodded. Carroway leaned as close to Tris as the bard could and hissed through his teeth to get Tris's attention. "What's the plan?" Carroway whispered, keeping a wary eye on their distant guards.
Tris grimaced. "Watch and wait, at least for now," he replied with as much of a shrug as his bonds would permit. "And hope for an opening."
"There aren't many of us left," Carroway observed soberly. "Fewer to rescue, but on the other hand, fewer to help fight."
"I know," Tris replied, closing his eyes as the bruises and wounds of the day began to ache in earnest. "It will have to do."
At dawn, the rest of the slavers' camp joined them. Provision wagons rolled noisily into the remains of the caravan grounds, followed by pack mules and finally two wagons filled with another dozen manacled slaves. The slaves on the wagon regarded the new captives with studied disinterest, avoiding eye contact.
They've given up, Tris thought. Not a one of them looks like he's spoiling for a fight. Another omen that any reprieve would have to be of their own making. Tris shut his eyes, willing himself to find a steady center and review his last lessons with Carina. This time he must be ready, he thought. When the time came, his powers—new as they might be—must be under his control. He glanced at Vahanian's slumped form. Sleep well, my friend, Tris thought. I'm going to need time.
Tris watched the slavers closely throughout the next morning. The band appeared to number no more than thirty. They made camp efficiently and were well provisioned. Tris's spirits sank. It was unlikely that these slavers would provide them with an easy opportunity.
He first caught sight of the young girl at breakfast, slipping quickly among the slavers, dodging them like an experienced scullery maid. Just a few years younger than Kait, he thought, but with a glint to her eyes much more worldly than his sister had acquired. Her brown hair was dirty and matted, caught back with a piece of string. The tattered dress might once have been of good cloth, but was now far too ragged and stained to do more than barely protect her from the cold.
Still, there was quickness in her movement that suggested intelligence, Tris thought with curiosity, although during the first two candlemarks that he watched, the girl appeared to be a disaster in action. She spilled hot karif on one slaver, earning herself an incidental cuffing, which she took without a word. She kicked loose two coals from the fire and set a small patch of grass on fire, disrupting breakfast, for which she apologized abjectly, sparing herself another blow.
But when she tripped over a guywire and tipped Tarren's breakfast onto the ground, Tris happened to catch her eye and, to his surprise, caught the barest of winks before she scrambled to clean up the mess. Not inept, he thought, smothering a smile. Intentionally destructive, with an impish humor. Before he could guess more, she disappeared inside the cook's tent.
Just before the breakfast fires were banked, Vahanian stirred. "What hit me?" he moaned to no one in particular, and struggled to open his eyes, then blinked and squinted against the sun.
"From the blood, I imagine the edge of a broadsword," Tris answered dryly.
Vahanian shifted, seemed to become aware of his bonds for the first time and struggled briefly, then leaned back in surrender against the post that secured him. "Let me guess," he murmured. "We lost."
"Uh huh," Tris replied.
Just then, the girl appeared with a loaf of bread under her arm and a pitcher and cup in her other hand. She began to work her way down the line of bound prisoners, giving each an ample slice of the bread and holding the cup for them to drink. She caught Tris's eye knowingly, as if they shared a secret, then moved on to Vahanian.