Daughter of Rebels

Chapter 8 - Metaphysical Debate

They walked in silence for perhaps an hour before Eli called a break, at which point they sat against the damp walls and drank from their water flasks in yet more studied silence. Mara chewed obediently on the apple Eli handed her. Around when she finished the apple, Eli declared the break over and they climbed to their feet. They walked another hour. Took another break. Mara's mind freed from the perilous monotony of the stairs, churned relentlessly through what-if and what-next as her feet carried her through the darkness. Her fear, at least, seemed to have eased now that they were no longer descending so relentlessly.

As the hours ticked by, their breaks came more frequently, for which Mara was grateful. Her feet ached, unaccustomed to so much walking. Her back ached, unaccustomed to the weight of her pack.

"I think I've gone a little soft," she mused during their seventh rest break, sighing as she shrugged out of the straps and leaned forward to stretch her legs.

Eli responded with a little snort of amusement, setting Nick down between them. A few breaks back, he'd given Nick charge of the light, and her son cradled it now in his hands, face aglow, transfixed by slight pulsation of the crystal's liquid contents. She hated to see him this way, his clever mind dulled to a drunken fog.

"I hate this," she said, reaching out to brush a lock of hair from her son's forehead. "He's like a barfly at last call."

Eli shrugged out of his own pack and twisted to pop his back.

"We can try to wean him off it," he said, sinking to the ground and leaning back against the wall with a sigh. "I've tried it a few times, with wounded or battle-bound officers. After the initial shock passes and their minds have a moment to adjust to the trauma, I can usually ease up without them falling back into panic."

He tipped his head back, eyes closed, and she frowned at the sheen of sweat on his face.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

He cracked one eye to frown at her. "Of course."

Something about the way he said it, though... "If something's wrong, I can help. I may not be a level-unknown healer, but I am a physik. I brought some potions and tonics with me, and I can--"

"I'm fine, Mara."

"I don't believe you." Now that she'd sunk her teeth into this bone, she was noticing things she ought to have noticed hours ago. The lines of strain bracketing his mouth, the sweat, the minute tremble in his hands. What kind of physik was she that it had taken her so long to note such obvious signs of distress? "Look, if you're hurt you need to tell me. If not for your own sake, for ours. We need you. I don't even know where we're meant to be going."

"I'm not hurt."

"But you admit something is wrong."

He cracked an eye again, then opened both, sitting up a little straighter with a resigned sigh. "It's just the spellwork," he admitted, tipping his chin at Nick. "Emotional persuasion is sort of like trying to bail out a rowboat without plugging the leak first. Planting ideas, like I did with the lieutenant, is easy enough. It's a one time effort, unless there are contrary stimuli in the environment telling the mind to reject the idea. All you have to do is erase one memory and replace it with another. But emotions come from within and the magic doesn't touch the source so they just keep welling up."

"That's why you just made him sleep last night," she guessed, "instead of calming both of us. Is sleep easier?"

He smiled and nodded. "Generally. Sleep is a natural inclination. It's easier to force than a false thought or a counterintuitive emotion. And once the mind is asleep it likes to stay that way."