The healer offered him, after a great deal of rummaging, the relief of a glass bottle. It was tonic and from the smell of it the most wretched kind. Though his arm was thoroughly bandaged. The healer had done good work. From the table's arrangement he could see she was in the blackest of moods. He considered asking where his weaponry was, but she was not in the mood to answer questions. It was strange to see how quickly you could be entranced and entrenched in the moods of a person. She was not a mystery to him. Not in the way she should have been. Either he was becoming used to her moods, or she was trying very hard to be obvious. Which was not something she ordinarily did.
"Where are Lady Cithia and her father?" Eragos asked quietly, sizing up the drink with a narrowed pair of eyes.
Yet another question she most likely would not feel like answering. It wasn't Galatin's face that he saw in his dreams. It was his mother's face, begging him not to weep, telling him to be strong. As the fires raged around them. She had courage in the face of something so terrible that it would drink in a soul. Eragos didn't know what sort of courage he was supposed to have. In the here and now killing a man was the only thing he could do, and the only thing he did not want to do. The paradox would go on forever if he let it. He didn't.
She was still angry about it, all the same, but he wasn't going to mention it first.