It was a drop of perhaps twelve feet. He managed to avoid landing on his companion, which was an accomplishment all on its own. Tarrant lay limp and unconscious, and for all he knew might have been dead. Time enough later to figure that out. He dragged his body away from the opening, until sunlight no longer shone directly on him.
The cavern was floored with mud, and by the time he found a dark nook to serve as shelter they were both covered in it. But darkness meant safety. That was all that mattered right?
He unclasped Tarrant’s cloak and managed to get it off him, then used it to cover his body like a blanket. The Hunter’s skin was cold, utterly unlifelike, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad sign. He took care that the man’s hands and face were safely covered, then leaned back at last and drew in a deep breath. Another. Something cold and scared finally unknotted in his gut. Even the pain in his arm began to subside.
They’d be all right. They’d find Hesseth when night fell, and Damien would Heal the living, and . . . they’d be all right. The worst was over.
Secure in the darkness of their muddy haven, Damien Vryce slept.
21
The Hunter didn’t awake at dusk. Even though the cave was black, even though the sun outside had long since set behind the mountains, still his body did not stir. Damien tried the taste of blood to bring him back—not a hard thing to supply, as his hands were scored with scratches and puncture wounds—but even that didn’t work. He tried not to worry. He had seen the Hunter recover from worse—that is, from what he assumed was worse—and somewhere deep inside he did have faith that the man was going to make it, that it was just some idiosyncracy of his alive-but-not-alive flesh that had kept him asleep this long. He extinguished the tiny fire he had lit inside the cave, just in case total darkness was what the man needed. How did he heal himself, anyway? He had already said that the Workings he used were unlike those of a true Healing. What manner of power did he require? And did he have the strength to conjure it? Those were the thoughts that ran through Damien’s mind as he waited in the inky blackness, listening to the trickle of rain aboveground and the occasional rustling of insects. What was it the Hunter had said to him? I have no power over fire, or light, or life. Did the earth-fae count as fire? Did the images of magmal heat and searing light that accompanied its surge the night before reflect its true essence, or was that just a visual trapping which his own human mind applied?
Damn it, Hunter, wake up. We’ve got work to do.
Coreset passed. He knew because he climbed up to check on it, using the linen strip he’d knotted together for their dangerous ascent. It had taken him a good half hour to get it into place; dark caverns were far easier to drop down into than they were to climb out of. But he’d had nothing to do with the daylight hours besides collect firewood, look for food, and arrange for an easier way out of the cave. And pray, of course. So very hard. So many times.
God, there’s so much wrong in this land. So much pain and grief and suffering I don’t know where to start. I never felt like I was overwhelmed before, but this time I do. Give me strength, please. Renew my faith in this mission. Help me protect my companions, because without them I am nothing. The evil in this land is too vast, too firmly entrenched, for a single man to defeat it.
After Coreset, at last, the Hunter stirred. The first thing Damien heard was a moan from underneath the cloak. He was up in an instant, and managed to feel his way over to where the Neocount lay. There was the rustling of fabric as the Hunter freed himself, then a long, laborious breath.
“You all right?” Damien asked.
“I’ve been better,” the Hunter whispered. Hoarsely. Weakly.
“If you need blood—”
“Not from you,” he said quickly. Then added, “Not tonight, anyway. I’ll make it.”
The shadows stirred as Tarrant struggled to his feet. “What time is it?” he managed.
“I don’t know. The Core set a while ago.”
“Ah,” he said. “The darkness. Of course.”
He walked over to where the linen strip hung. He seemed to have no trouble seeing in the dark, but his step sounded unsteady. Hesitant. “I’m not sure I can do this.”
And that said it all. Because on any other night the Hunter could simply have changed form and flown out, or crawled out, or whatever else it took to get up there. To be trapped in his human flesh . . . that meant that he was far from healed. Not a good sign at all.
“Here,” Damien said. “I’ll help you.”
He felt his way over to where the Hunter stood. He’d had plenty of time to explore the small space during the day, so the darkness was only a small hindrance. He cupped his hands and braced himself, fighting for traction in the mud. When he was steady, he felt a cold hand on his shoulder, and the instep of a muddy boot slipped into his grip. He held it tightly as the Neocount stepped up, trying to time his support with the man’s rise so that together they might gain as much height as possible. It wasn’t quite enough to get him to the opening, but when he had gotten a secure grip on the linen strip Damien shifted his position and pushed him higher. There was a scrabbling on the dirt above then, and the weight was gone.
He stopped a minute to catch his breath, then climbed up himself.
The Hunter was standing to one side of the hole, waiting. As Damien gained the top, he saw him looking about, taking in the lay of the land. Damien wondered how much he remembered from the night before.
“Where’s our rakh friend?” Tarrant asked. His voice was raspy and harsh, as though his throat had been wounded. And perhaps it had. Who could say what damage the wild fae had caused, when it burned its way through his flesh?
“Gone east through the gap.” Damien brushed at the mud on his breeches. A useless gesture. His whole body was encrusted with dark brown muck, and the only thing that made it tolerable was the fact that Tarrant was likewise covered. It shouldn’t have pleased him that the man was dirty, but it did. It seemed so . . . well, human.
“And our pursuers?”
The Neocount’s words startled him. He doesn’t know, he realized. He doesn’t remember. “You stopped them,” he said shortly. “You brought the wall down right on their heads. Even if others try to follow us, you made the gap impassable. They’d have to climb the mountain to find our trail again.”
He considered that. “I remember . . . planning that,” he said at last. “I remember . . . fear. And fire. And climbing—that dimly, as though it were a dream. No more.”
“You tapped into the earth-fae after the quake. Not right after, but soon enough. It almost killed you.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I can see that.”
“You going to be all right?”
“Nothing’s damaged that won’t heal. It will take time, though, and-” He stopped himself, but not before Damien had finished the thought in his own mind. Fresh food, he thought. Fear. Blood. Human suffering.
“We should regroup first,” Tarrant said quietly.
“Yeah. I thought we should parallel the gap as long as possible, since that’s the way she went. It’d be hard to work a Locating for her on this side of the crest.”
The Hunter nodded. “The ridge most likely divides the current. Once we cross that, it should be easy.”
“Can you walk that far?”
“I’m standing, aren’t I?”
“But if your strength—”
“Did you bring the horses?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Then I have no alternative, have I? Strength or no strength.”
Damien bit back a sharp rejoinder. He should be glad that Tarrant was irritating him once more. It showed the man was recovering.