I want you, dad. She prayed it desperately in her heart. She whispered it into the night. I need you. Come back to me. Please.
There was no answer. No one came.
Given the nature of Erna, that was probably fortunate.
She was sleeping when the Light came, so it invaded her dreams. Rainbow filaments that dissolved her current fantasy and drew her high, high up, so that she was looking down onto the mountains like a bird might. There was her own body, sheltered under a granite overhang, jacket balled up over her ears to cut out the noise of day. There was the crevasse that had turned her aside from her chosen route, deep and ragged and filled with shadows. And there, in the distance-
She awoke. Suddenly. The vision was still with her, framed by shimmering filaments.
People.
People.
She should get up. She should greet them. No, she should hide. They could be enemies. They could be the enemy. They could be . . .
But they weren’t.
They were children.
The vision was fading now, along with the Light; she struggled to maintain it. Five, six, seven children—no, even more than that—she couldn’t see how old they were, the vision was fading too fast, damn damn damn! She sobbed in frustration as it faded out entirely, her hands shaking.
Children.
The enemy? No. That thing had killed her father because he was important; on some visceral level she understood that. It wouldn’t want mere children. They must be from some nearby city, or maybe a Protectorate . . .
Only there weren’t any of those near here. She knew that.
So who were they? Where were they from?
Shivering, she waited. Terrified of meeting them. Terrified that they might pass her by. The loneliness in her was screaming so loudly she was amazed they couldn’t hear it . . . or maybe they could. Maybe that was why they were coming for her.
Children. Like her. They wouldn’t hurt her, would they?
There was a sound above her, farther up the hillside. She dared to peek out from under her shelter. And then she stepped out, there in front of them, and let her jacket fall.
No shelter now. No safety. Only a terrible need, and the barest ray of hope inside her. More than she had felt in days.
There were twelve of them, arrayed along the hillside. The oldest few were armed with crude spears and leather-hilted knives, and some carried bows across their backs. The youngest only had knives. All were dressed in a motley assortment of garments, some clearly woven in the fashionable cities, some crudely cut from untanned skins by less experienced hands. Rought-cut fringes and tiny shell ornaments adorned every edge, and here and there some dye had been painted across a shirt or pants leg in coarse zigzag patterns. It took no trick of the Light to see that though many of them had come from well-off homes, they had been on their own for some time now.
The tallest among them—a pale boy with dark straggly hair—held out his hand toward her. An offer. A welcome.
She started forward toward them, trying to ignore the painful cymbal-crash of sunlight about her feet. The pale boy nodded encouragement. A few of the younger ones grinned openly. Though she couldn’t hear their words of welcome—the sunlight’s noise was too loud, their words were lost in the chaos of it—she saw in their expressions that they were glad to have found her. Almost as glad as she was to be found.
And she knew, then and there, that it was going to be all right. Everything was going to be all right.
She climbed up the hillside to join them.
The Light wasn’t strong again for nearly two days. So she couldn’t see what they really were, not until then. By then it was too late to run.
Valley of Mists
14
The Hunter didn’t join them right after sunset. He didn’t join them after Coreset either, though the setting of the luminous galactic center took place more than two hours after the sun was gone. A bad omen, Damien thought. But what could they do?
They had traveled a few miles along the rock-lined gully in which Mels and Tyria had found Hesseth. It was hard going, what with the loose ground and a stream they sometimes had to wade through, but it seemed to be the only path available. In this region all the comfortable terrain had been claimed by the cities or the farms; land that would favor fugitives was by definition unpleasant. Damien cursed as he pried the third stone from between his horse’s hoofed toes, knowing even as he did so that he was being unfair. They should be grateful for the scraggly trees that sheltered them, and for the landscape that had dropped them below the eye level of any casual observer. And they should be doubly grateful that none of the demons who clustered about the city’s gates had taken notice of them. Yet.
They finally made camp during Coreset. The process was not one of pitching tents and tending a fire as much as going through the assorted bits and pieces that the Lester siblings had brought them and seeing what they had. The collection included a good bit of blanketry and warm clothing, an assortment of knives and small tools, rope, some food, a few cooking aids, and first aid supplies. Damien blessed them for the first aid; he hadn’t thought to mention it. The food consisted of the kind of things noncampers might purchase for a camping expedition—mostly sugared snacks and mixes for soups—but there was some dried meat and cheese and a flat, hard bread that promised to travel well, as well as several pounds of feed for the horses.
Could have been worse, he thought, repacking it. Could have been much worse.
They lit a very small fire and heated some water, while he scanned the skies for any shape that might be Tarrant. But the same twisted trees that gave them partial cover also hid most of the night sky, and at last he gave it up.
“You think they’ll come after us?” Hesseth asked.
He broke open a package of crackers—Honey Ginger Nugrams, the wrapper said—and handed one to her. They were chewy and sweet, the kind of thing good parents wouldn’t let their kids eat too often. He had planned to put cheese on top of his, but the taste dissuaded him. “I think we’d know it by now if they did,” he answered. “We’re not that far from the city gates, and there weren’t a lot of paths to choose from. If they look this way, they’ll find us.”
“Would they leave the city after sunset?” she wondered aloud.
“Let’s hope not.”
They’d have to move quickly in the morning, just in case the Matria’s hordes did indeed come after them. Their horses would be an advantage in the long run, but only on open ground, and only after they had worked the stiffness out of their legs. Damien wondered how long it would be before Toshida had a mount of his own and learned how to ride it. Not long at all, he suspected. Not nearly long enough. If he decided to come after the fugitives himself, it could be a close pursuit. They needed open ground in the very near future if they were to make the most of their current advantage.
And then Hesseth looked up sharply at the sky. Her soft hiss was one that Damien had come to associate with sudden alertness; his hand went to his sword as he followed her gaze. For a moment he saw nothing. Then the broad sweep of a predatory wing blacked out a line of stars, and he felt his own breath catch. Something with very large wings was circling overhead, just above the tops of the trees. The form was familiar, but he didn’t relax his guard. Nor would he until the Hunter—if that was indeed who it was—proved his true identity.