Hard to know does that bode good or ill for the absent enchanter; better he not be wherever the Templars are, probably, unless where he is instead is 'down a ravine somewhere he won't soon be found'. A thought that she gives no voice, imagining Marcus hardly needs the idea put in his head.

The flames in front of them flicker strange, snatches of memories tangled between the crackling, sparking. She says,

“Where are you?” and isn't truly expecting him to give her any better an answer than she had been able to give him. Less, probably, lacking her deft control over the landscape of the Fade—but this is a start. Any more that she can wring out of it will get her far. Where they had intended to go, how far they got, if she is swift enough when she wakes then...

She will be. The alternative is impossible.