Syla was about to do so when Fel grumbled again and asked, “Can I bash his head against the rocks a few times on the way?”
“He’s already concussed.”
“Then he won’t feel more bashing.” Fel lowered his arms and hefted Vorik up over his shoulder, staggering and wincing before adjusting his load enough to find his balance.
“You’re going to carry him up that cliff like that?” Tibby asked him.
“Someone healed me yesterday, and I’m feeling magically compelled to help her.” Fel glowered at Syla.
Hm, maybe shewouldn’toffer to heal Fel again later. He wouldn’t want to feel further bound. For that matter, if Vorik remained unconscious, how would she get his permission to use her magic on him?
“Does your compulsion preclude you from making a travois or a stretcher?” Tibby asked.
Fel looked around.
“A cart would be better,” Tibby said, “but it’s hard to make wheels out of driftwood.”
Without waiting for agreement or permission, Tibby walked about, finding long pieces of wood that they could use. When Syla got the gist of what she intended to make, she helped, pulling kelp over to use as ropes. Perhaps thanks to her engineering background, Tibby laid out a design that looked like it would be quite sturdy, despite the substandard materials.
When Fel set Vorik down to help tie the frame together, Vorik groaned faintly.
Syla looked at him, hoping he would waken, though even if he did, she doubted he would be able to walk. His eyes didn’t open, and he didn’t groan again. She patted his hand, in case he sensed it on a subconscious level and found it comforting.
Though his clothing was torn, the black leather gloves that he always wore remained unscathed, other than sand stuck to them. Curious, she let her fingers linger on one. Though the power she’d witnessed suggested it, she wanted to see for herself if he had a dragon tattoo. While the others weren’t looking, she tugged the glove down to reveal the back of his hand.
Yes, the likeness of Agrevlari in flight, wings outstretched, was magically inked into his skin in almost the same place that the family moon symbol forever marked her hand. She’d been born with her mark, but, from what she’d heard, the riders were granted theirs in a ceremony with the dragons who deemed them worthy of being bonded. Reputedly, only one in six or seven riders had the mark and the power granted by their kind. The rest were simply allowed to ride and serve in the Sixteen Talons because they had goals that aligned with the dragons’ goals. But Vorik… he had a stronger link. And greater power.
Syla nodded to herself. She’d known. No mundane human fought with the prowess that he possessed.
When Fel returned with more wood, Syla tugged the glove back into place to hide the mark. Her bodyguard probably suspected too, but she didn’t need to intentionally give away Vorik’s secrets.
When it was done, they lifted him onto a travois made from driftwood and kelp. Fel took the lead, dragging it toward the path, and Syla and Tibby did their best to help lessen his burden. The bumpy ride couldn’t have been comfortable for Vorik, so maybe it was for the best that he remained unconscious.
At one point, however, Syla caught his eyelids flickering. Asthey neared the top of the cliff, he blinked and looked blearily around. He focused on her, his pupils uneven, and she wasn’t sure if he was present in his head or not.
Chance did not favor him because the travois bumped hard against a rock. Vorik slumped, his eyelids closing as he lost consciousness again.
“Rest for now,” Syla murmured, her own exhaustion making her wish that she could. “I’ll heal you later.”
She’d spoken softly and doubted Fel or her aunt had heard more than a mutter, and she didn’t think they’d noticed Vorik’s eyes opening, but Tibby looked over at her. The slump to her shoulders promised she was also exhausted.
“I admit I’ve not needed healing that often in my life,” Tibby said. Maybe she’d caught that word and had injuries she hoped could be tended later. “How long does the magical compulsion that someone feels toward the healer last?”
“Some people don’t feel anything at all,” Syla said, “and since you’re also moon-marked, I think you’d be protected. But some people will feel… kindly toward the healer for weeks afterward.”
“Kindly.” Fel grunted.
“With some people, it’s more that they feel compelled to obey,” Syla admitted. “Sergeant Fel is the first person I’ve witnessed feeling resentful because of the compulsion.”
“I think that’s just his normal personality. He’s an abrasive sort, isn’t he?” Tibby hadn’t lowered her voice, and she glared at the back of Fel’s head as she spoke.
“He was supposed to retire this month.”
“We’reallinconvenienced—or much worse—by these awful events.” Tibby glared at Vorik again, but she didn’t suggest leaving him behind. She did quietly mutter, “I hope you know what you’re doing, Syla.”
“I do too.”
Even though her beliefs and vows as a healer told her that tending the wounded wasalwaysthe right thing, Syla did worry that it was a mistake not to take this opportunity to get away from Vorik. Would she regret it later?
