They followed the Hunter for what seemed like miles, until at last the man seemed to find what he was looking for. They had skirted what looked like the center of town, and were now far beyond the main clustering of houses and shops. Trees loomed high on either side of a muddy road, cutting the wind until it could almost be dealt with.
Damien’s limbs ached from the cold and the exertion, but he kept on moving. And he kept on carrying the child as well, though her weight made walking twice as hard. There was no way she could have gone on.
At last Tarrant turned from the road, following a path that led deep into the woods. Too tired to question him, Damien simply followed. He could see Hesseth beside, wearily keeping the pace. The narrow path was overgrown, and drowned grass squelched beneath their feet as they walked. Once he almost tripped, but the Hunter’s chill grip steadied him. Hardly colder than his own skin, now. That was unnerving.
And then the path opened up to reveal a small clearing, inches deep in rainwater. In its center sat a primitive cabin, high enough on its log foundations that the groundwater hadn’t flooded it. Yet. Without hesitation Tarrant walked up to the front door and lowered his lamp so that he might make out its details. There was a heavy padlock on it which he studied for a moment, then held it in his hand and silently conjured power. Silver-blue light flickered in and about the lock. He gave it a moment to do its work, then pulled back, hard. The lock’s bar shattered like glass and fell in icy bits to his feet.
He kicked the door hard and it opened, granting access to a pitch-black space. As the lanterns were brought inside, Damien could make out details: rough walls, a coarsely-made table and chairs, two cots, a fireplace. Not much, but right now it looked like heaven. Despite his misgivings he moved inside, and lowered the girl gently to one of the cots. She collapsed on it trembling, her body limp as a rag doll.
He turned to find Tarrant setting their lanterns on the rough wooden mantel. Dust clouded up about the glass, stirred by his motion. Whoever owned this place, they hadn’t cleaned it for a good long time.
He took a moment to catch his breath, then said what had to be said. “This place belongs to someone.”
“Obviously.”
“They might come back—”
“They won’t. Not right away. I don’t know all the details, but my Working indicated that this place is only used in the summer. Which it isn’t quite, yet.”
He looked about, and couldn’t help but mutter, “Breaking and entering?”
“Would you rather camp outside?”
He looked at the small girl shivering on the cot, and over at Hesseth; the khrast-woman looked equally miserable. “No,” he said at last. “I guess not. We can pay for anything we use.”
A faint smile flitted across the Hunter’s face. “If that makes you more comfortable.”
It was Hesseth who made them a fire, digging through her pack to reach the one dry square inch where her matches were stored, tightly wrapped in layers of waxed paper. Bless her for it. Soon the cabin’s interior was glowing amber and orange from the flames, and though the heat of the fire was minimal at first Damien knew it would soon fill the small space.
Outside the wind whistled angrily; inside, the only sound was the crackle of the flames and the slow drip of water as it seeped down from their hair, their clothes, their possessions.
“You’ll need to get the girl dry,” Tarrant told them. “At her age children take sick easily. And she’s never been outside before, which means her immune system is mostly untested; best not to subject it to too much stress.”
He moved toward the door then, as if to leave.
“You’re going out?” Damien asked. Incredulous.
“It’ll be dawn soon.” He looked out the window, as if searching for a hint of sunlight. If there was any, Damien couldn’t make it out. “I need shelter, too, priest.”
He moved as if to grasp the door handle.
“Gerald. Please.” When he said nothing in response, Damien added gently, “Don’t be an ass.”
The pale eyes narrowed.
“There’s a trapdoor in the corner that must lead down to some kind of cellar. If that’s flooded, we can easily cover the one window.” He nodded toward the thick glass, to the rain and the wind that shrieked beyond. “There’s no need to go outside in that mess.”
The Hunter hesitated. Water dripped from the hem of his tunic.
“We’re all in this together,” Damien said quietly. “Aren’t we?”
Something flickered in the depths of Tarrant’s eyes—some dark and secret emotion, that was gone too quickly for Damien to analyze it. When it was gone, the man’s accustomed mask was back in place: perfectly controlled, utterly unreadable.
Slowly, Tarrant took his hand from the handle. Slowly, after a moment more, he stepped away from the door.
“Yes,” he said softly. As if savoring the words. “We’re all in this together, aren’t we?”
Outside, the wind was still rising.
35
Damien dreamed. Not in cohesive images which held true to some internal narrative, but chaotic fragments, layered one over the other with no sense of unity. Images of a dark and sterile land where the earth was black and the trees were white and the sky burned crimson and orange overhead. Images of running, of terrible thirst, of a paralysis that came upon him muscle by muscle, limb by limb, until he could do no more than lie helplessly on the ground, his every breath a struggle for survival. And then there was rakhene laughter. Always that: gales of rakhene laughter, as cruel and as bloodthirsty as any he had heard in Hesseth’s homeland. Sometimes there were crystals, too, glistening black columns like the citadel they had seen in Lema—the Master’s citadel, which they had destroyed—only now there were thousands of them, more than thousands, large ones and small ones and carved ones and broken ones . . . some of the carved ones were in the shape of skulls, but instead of empty sockets they had vast, glaring eyes. Faceted eyes, insect-bright, that reflected the fiery skies in a thousand molten bits. No need to ask where that image came from; he would never forget that baleful glare as long as he lived.
Maybe torture will loosen his tongue, the crystal skull urged. Bug-eyes glistening. Certainly worth a try . . .
He awakened in a cold sweat, and for a moment couldn’t remember where he was. Then it all came back to him: the rain, the cold, the frightened child in his arms. His shoulders throbbed painfully as he levered himself to a sitting position and his feet felt cold and sore, but at least everything was in working order. After more than a decade on the road you learned to be grateful for that and ignore the rest.
Outside the storm was still raging, and the light coming in through the one window was so feeble that Tarrant probably could have stayed upstairs without danger. So much for traveling tonight, he thought grimly. Hesseth had nurtured a fire in the small fireplace and its golden flames dispelled some of the gloom inside, but there were limits to what a mere fire could accomplish. As he eased himself gingerly onto his feet, hoping they would support him, he could feel the weight of the storm outside pressing against the walls and roof of the tiny cabin, and it was as if the pressure made their dimensions shrink. Suddenly the room seemed very dank and close, and it took considerable effort on his part to resist its depressive power.
Hesseth’s voice broke into his reverie, a welcome distraction. “You up to breakfast?”