The great bird circled twice more, as if surveying the surrounding land, and then swooped down into the gully. For lack of more suitable turf it came down in the water, its broad wings nearly touching the two stony banks. Something was in its talons, Damien observed, soft white feathers in the grip of crimson claws, but it was thrust underwater too quickly for him to make out what it was.
Coldfire blossomed in the stream bed. It was the first time Damien had seen the Hunter transform in water, and it was well worth the vision; ice speared out from the point of contact with a suddenness that was audible, crackling and splitting as it expanded against the sides of the narrow gully. Two of the horses, tethered by the bank, whinnied unhappily and pulled at their reins; Tarrant’s merely snorted as if to say, What took you so long? Blue flames—intense but unilluminating—seared the stream bed with a cold so intense that Damien’s breath fogged in the cool spring air, and frost rimmed the scraggly plants closest to the stream.
When the coldfire died, it left Tarrant on hard ice, and he quickly stepped to the shore. Frost shivered from his boots as he climbed to where the two had made camp, and ice crystals glimmered in his soft brown hair. It might be early spring in the eastern lands, but the Hunter traveled within his own private winter.
He looked at the two of them, at the horses, and at the camp. Damien could see the pale silver eyes taking it all in, sifting through what he saw for the information he wanted. At last he nodded, more to himself than to them. “You move quickly when you have to.” He threw something to Damien: soft and white and spattered with blood. “Here. I brought you dinner.”
Damien looked at the dead bird in his hands, dimly aware that Tarrant had thrown another to Hesseth. For a moment all that occurred to him was how utterly unlike Tarrant it was to hunt for them. Then he saw the harness. With reddened, sticky fingers he undid the tiny catch, pulling the leather contraption from the bird’s cooling body. Knowing in his gut what it was, what it had to be. Not liking that knowledge one damn bit.
“Carrier birds,” he muttered.
Tarrant nodded. “They were released at dusk to travel south, and crossed my path soon after. I killed the first because it seemed suspicious; after I realized what it was, I hunted down its companion.” He walked to a dry bit of ground and lowered himself onto it; the thickness of his mantle protected him from the dusty earth. “I searched for more, but there were none in that portion of the sky. Which doesn’t mean that no more were sent.”
“Yeah,” Damien muttered, pulling the message vellum free of its container. With care he unrolled it. “A good hundred or more, the way our luck’s running.”
The Matria’s seal was on the bottom. Even though deep inside he had known it was going to be there, it was still a shock to see it. It was even more of a shock to read the instructions outlined in the message: where, when, and how he and Hesseth were to be disposed of. Not why, he noted. Was that because the Protectors would understand her motives, or—more likely—because no one around here dared to ask questions? The procedures outlined in the letter were more typical of a police state than a thriving theocracy. He wondered how far that went. He wondered how the hell it had started.
“God in Heaven,” he muttered. “She’s a vicious one, that’s for sure.” He turned it so that he could read the heading by the fire’s light. “To the Kierstaad Protectorate.” He looked up at Hesseth.
“To the Chikung Protectorate,” she read from hers.
“Shit.” He read it again, wincing at the detailed instructions for disposing of the two travelers after capture. “Not much room for compromise here. It’s a good bet she’s warning all the Protectorates, and in that case . . . shit. It’ll mean the shore’s off limits all the way down the coast.”
He offered the letter to the Hunter, who read it. If he had any reaction to its source—or its tone—he didn’t show it. “Clearly they mean business.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“Our enemies are thorough,” he said coolly. “Did you expect any less?”
Damien glared. “I thought they’d want to capture us, yes, question us to find out who we really were, what we wanted—”
“They know who you really are,” Tarrant interrupted, “and they know what you want. These documents are no less than a declaration of war.” When Damien said nothing, he pressed, “Do you doubt their purpose? Do you question who sent them?”
“No,” he muttered. Fingering the seal of the Matria which was affixed to the last inch of the missive. Leaving a smear of crimson on the golden wax. “No. You were right. Whatever’s wrong here, the Matrias are part of it. And that means . . .” He couldn’t finish. The thought was too painful.
That means that the Church is involved.
“At least they think we’re coming by ship,” Hesseth said. “That’ll buy us some time, if nothing else.”
Damien looked again at the letter in his hand, seeking out the line that made reference to that. It is believed they may be traveling south on a Western ship named the Golden Glory. All ports should be alert. “We shouldn’t count on it,” he warned. Then added, thoughtfully, “Rozca’ll have a nasty time thanks to this.”
“Rozca can handle it,” Tarrant assured him. “All he has to do is let his ship be searched and he’s in the clear. Correct? Meanwhile he’s bought us what we needed most: time.” He nodded approvingly. “It was well planned, Vryce. Considering how quickly you threw it all together, it does you credit.”
“Thanks,” he muttered. He felt strangely uncomfortable receiving praise from the Hunter. “What now?”
Tarrant looked back toward the city. “The next step is to choose our destination.”
“South,” Hesseth said quickly.
The men both looked at her.
“If, as you say, the Matria is allied to our enemy . . . and if she knows our purpose . . . then by her own words, our enemy is to the south of here.” She held up the letter in her hand.
“Just so,” the Hunter agreed. “And I have some information that may bear on our route . . .” His gaze fixed suddenly on Damien; the gray eyes narrowed. “But I think there’s a need even more pressing than that,” he said softly. “How long since you’ve slept, priest?”
“Since dawn,” he muttered. He had been trying not to think about sleep, had tried to just keep going for as long as it took and deal with the need for rest when time and circumstances allowed, but the Hunter’s words were fresh reminder of just how long it had been. And once named, the specter of exhaustion could no longer be denied. “I didn’t sleep more than an hour or two last night, if you must know.”
“You probably owe your life to that,” he said dryly. “Hesseth?”
“I could go on if we had to,” she said. “But sleep would be welcome.”
He nodded. “We need to move on a bit farther, until we find safer ground—”
“You think they’d come after us tonight?” Damien asked sharply.
“No. But I do think that the walls of this gully were sculpted by water, and it would be a shame if all our plans were laid to waste by a flash flood. It is that season, you know.”
He gained his feet in a single fluid movement, like the uncoiling of a snake. “When we find higher ground, I’ll stand watch for the two of you. So that you can sleep in safety. Until dawn, at least.”
It was a good thing he was too tired to really think about their arrangement, Damien reflected as he helped Hesseth pack up their gear. Otherwise it might really scare him how comfortable he was with the thought of placing his safety in Tarrant’s hands.