“This way, all right?” He started across the rocky ground.
“One moment.”
He stopped, and then after a second turned back. The Hunter was standing with his eyes shut, his brow furrowed as if in intense concentration. One hand was on the hilt of his sword, and though the powerful blade had not been drawn it clearly served as a necessary reassurance.
Cool silver flame spurted up from the ground around his feet. Not with its usual force, but still cold enough to chill the air around him. The unfire licked at his flesh with silver-blue tongues, conjured flames twining about his flesh until the whole of his body was immersed in it. A chill wind swept over Damien, and the scent of winter ice.
And then the flame was gone. A thin frost rimmed the Hunter’s body, that shivered free of him when he moved. Fine white ice crystals cascaded to the ground, along with something else. Something brown. It took him a moment to recognize it.
Damn your vanity, he thought, as the Hunter nodded his readyness and began to walk. There was no mud on him now, nor any sign of dirt or blood. What little moonlight there was gleamed on smooth silk and on spotless hair, perfectly arranged. Even the man’s leather boots were clean. Why did I know you’d do that?
“Come on,” he said. Brushing back his own sweat-slicked hair. “Let’s find Hesseth.”
They found the rakh-woman’s camp soon after midnight. The gap hadn’t taken her far, but it had taken her there safely; she and the two horses were gathered around a minimal campfire about a half-mile from the crevasse’s eastern end.
Two horses. That meant fewer supplies, missing maps, and one less animal to ride. Damien wondered which of the two remaining saddles would best allow him to ride double with Hesseth; his groin had no desire to repeat last night’s experience. Of course it would be Hesseth and him together, and Tarrant would ride alone; he never questioned that. He couldn’t picture the aristocratic sorcerer sharing his saddle with anyone, even if it would be the most practical distribution of weight. Some things you just didn’t ask.
There was a bandage on her arm, he noticed as they came into the small camp, and a patch of smelly ointment on her mare’s flank. Thank God the animal hadn’t bolted when it was hit. Tarrant’s black mount seemed unharmed and unflustered. I guess if you come from the Hunter’s Forest, Damien mused, even a place like this looks good.
There was no surprise on her face when they came into camp—armed and wary, she had probably spotted them coming some time ago—but the joy that suffused her face was a welcome greeting after hours of painful hiking. She came up to Damien and put a hand to the side of his face, rubbing gently. Sharing her scent, he realized; it must be a rakhene custom. He grinned at her in turn, not quite knowing how to respond. She even vouchsafed a minimal smile for Tarrant, a rare and precious gesture. He responded with a nod that said yes, he knew just what she meant by it, and yes, he was appropriately moved.
They traded their tales over the campfire, while Hesseth brewed warm tea and dug out the freshest of their rations. Damien could have eaten a horse. As for Tarrant, he stood apart from them while they ate and talked, scanning the darkness for danger. It was not a role Damien would have chosen for him in his current state, but he was glad to have him do it. He was so stiff by now that it was all he could do to lower himself to a sitting position and take the food that Hesseth offered. It was going to hurt like hell in the morning, he thought miserably, as he bit into a strip of dried meat.
He was acutely aware of Tarrant listening to him as he described their exploits of the night before, rediscovering his own actions through Damien’s words. A strange concept. How much they had come to depend on each other on this trip!
Danger makes strange bedfellows.
When he had told her everything, and when she had shared her own journey through the narrow gap, he set his food aside and applied his attention to their wounds. His groin ached like hell as he stretched forward to reach her arm, but thank God physical infirmity didn’t affect one’s Working. His own arm throbbed hotly as he studied her rakhene flesh, then used the fae to knit the broken cells together once more. After that he applied his skills to himself, and though his concentration was less than perfect, the currents were strong in this region; half an hour later, when he was secure that all the serious damage had been repaired, he relaxed and let the Working fade. His body still hurt like hell, but that was something he couldn’t fix. Pain is the brain’s way of signaling that something is wrong, his master had taught him. Alter that system and you’re messing with the brain itself. In time his throbbing nerves would figure out that the source of the problem was gone, and would quiet down.
It was partly his own fault, of course. He hadn’t Healed himself completely. But when earthquakes were as frequent as they were here, you didn’t waste precious time cleaning out a leftover hematoma; it was just too risky to Work that long. And besides (he told himself, wincing as he shifted position), no one ever died from a black—and-blue mark. Right?
When they were done with all that, Tarrant rejoined them. He looked slightly better than before, but that might have been the lighting; the warm light of the campfire was kinder to him than the moonlight. Certainly he was still weak, and when he lowered himself to the earth beside them, Damien saw his balance wavering.
“We’re still far from the valley,” he said. His voice sounded better, at least. “The map shows another two ridges between us and it, although what that translates to in terms of real-life mountains is anyone’s guess.”
“It’s a climb,” Hesseth agreed. “What about pursuit?”
“Unlikely, I think. They can’t follow your trail through the gap; I saw to that. And I’ve Obscured ours since dusk, so that it will be next to impossible to find.”
Given his condition, Damien was surprised. “Did you?”
The pale eyes fixed on him. “I only make a mistake once, priest.”
“Then we should get moving as soon as night falls.” Hesseth rewrapped the dried meat so that it would keep. “By then we should all be rested enough, anyway.”
The Hunter seemed to hesitate. “You can move when night falls,” he said quietly. “Or even before that, if you like. But I would recommend not entering the valley until I’m with you again; the Terata are said to hunt there.”
“What-” Hesseth began. Though she was clearly surprised by his intentions, Damien wasn’t. He’d been expecting something like this since Tarrant had climbed out of the cave.
“He needs food,” he said. He could hear the edge in his own voice. “That means humans. And there aren’t any where we’re going.”
“I could hold out for long enough to make it down south,” Tarrant explained, “but not in this condition. Nor would I be of any use to your—or to our—communal purpose without substantial healing.”
“Which requires killing,” Hesseth challenged.
Tarrant didn’t answer. No words were necessary.
“You’ll have to be careful,” Damien muttered. “They’re looking for us.”
“They won’t expect me to return, least of all on wing. I can fly right over their traps and their armies, into villages where no one lies in wait for me. The land is full of people,” he said evenly. His eyes were fixed on Damien, daring him to protest. “I’ll be safe enough.”
“How long?” the priest managed. Not meeting his gaze.
“At least a day or two. I’ll want to go far enough that no act of mine is linked to our presence; it would be a shame to escape their clutches now, only to inspire them to new pursuit later. I’ll be careful. Trust me.”