The Alloy of Law - Brandon Sanderson [65]
Wincing, he moved Wayne. His friend had fallen on them and blocked the brunt of the explosion from above. His duster had been shredded, his back exposed, blackened and burned, blood dribbling down his sides.
Marasi raised a hand to her mouth. She was still trembling, her dark brown hair tangled, eyes wide.
No, Waxillium thought, uncertain if he should try to turn his friend over or not. Please, no. Wayne had used a portion of his health to recover from the poison. And last night, he’d said he only had enough left for one bullet wound.…
Anxious, he felt at Wayne’s neck. There was a faint pulse. Waxillium closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. As he watched, the wounds on Wayne’s back began to draw closed. It was a slow process. A Bloodmaker using Feruchemical healing was limited by how fast he wanted the power to work—recovering quickly required a much greater expenditure of health. If Wayne didn’t have much left, he’d need to work at a slow pace.
Waxillium left him to it. Wayne would be suffering great pain, but there was nothing he could do. Instead, he took Marasi’s arm. She was still trembling.
“It’s all right,” Waxillium said, his voice sounding odd and muffled because of the explosion’s effect on his hearing. “Wayne is healing. Are you injured?”
“I…” She looked dazed. “Two in three sufferers of great trauma are unable to correctly identify their own injuries as a result of stress or the body’s own natural coping mechanisms covering the pain.”
“Tell me if any of this hurts,” Waxillium said, feeling at her ankles, then legs, then arms for breaks. He carefully prodded her sides for broken ribs, though it was difficult through the thick cloth of her dress.
She slowly came out of her daze, then looked at him and pulled him close, tucking her head against his chest. He hesitated, then wrapped his arms around her and held her as she steadied her breath, obviously trying to get hold of her emotions.
Behind them, Wayne started coughing. He stirred, then groaned and lay still, letting the healing continue. They’d fallen into a spare bedroom. The building was burning, but not too badly. Likely the constables would soon be called.
Nobody has come running, Waxillium thought. The other staff. Are they all right?
Or were they part of it? His mind was still trying to catch up. Tillaume—a man who, as far as he knew, had served his uncle faithfully for decades—had tried to kill him. Three times.
Marasi pulled back. “I think I … I think I’ve composed myself. Thank you.”
He nodded to her, pulling out his handkerchief and handing it over, then knelt by Wayne. The man’s back was crusted with blood and burned skin, but it had been lifted and raised as scabs, new skin forming underneath.
“Is it bad?” Wayne asked, eyes still closed.
“You’ll pull through.”
“I meant the duster.”
“Oh. Well … you’re gonna need a really big patch this time.”
Wayne snorted, then pushed himself up and moved into a sitting position. He winced several times during the process, then finally opened his eyes. Trails of tears were running down the side of his face. “I told you,” Wayne said. “Innocent things are always exploding around you, Wax.”
“You kept your fingers this time.”
“Great. I can still strangle you.”
Waxillium smiled, resting his hand on his friend’s arm. “Thanks.”
Wayne nodded. “I apologize for havin’ to fall on you two.”
“I’ll forgive you, under the circumstances.” Waxillium glanced at Marasi. She sat with her arms wrapped around herself, hunched forward, face pale. She saw his scrutiny, then lowered her arms, as if forcing herself to be strong, and began to stand up.
“It’s all right,” Waxillium said. “You can take more time.”
“I’ll be well,” she said, though it was hard to make out the words, as his hearing was still dulled. “I just … I’m unaccustomed to people trying to kill me.”
“You don’t ever get accustomed to it,” Wayne said. “Trust me.” He took a deep breath, then pulled off the remnants of his duster and shirt. Then he turned his burned back to Waxillium. “You mind?