Strange. He had never experienced anything like it before, could come up with no explanation for the odd effect. Tarrant had once turned his Workings aside, back when they had first met, but the sensation was nothing like this. Was this how the Hunter had felt when his best attempts at a Knowing had netted impossible results? Ominous.
The lead boy had reached the end of the mud bar, but though water seemed to lap at his ankles the ground was as solid as ever. He turned slightly to the left as he stepped off into the water, and the others were careful to follow. Damien braced himself as he came to the end of the bar, knowing that if these children were willing to wade in the cold mountain water, then it was probably quite safe-
And then he stepped down, and didn’t get wet. Nor did the ground beneath him feel like it now looked: a treacherous surface of pitted gravel and water-polished stones, slicked by slime and algae and sported about by thousands of tiny fish. No, it felt more like . . . wood. Was that possible? Old wood, weatherworn and mist-dampened. He tried to Work his sight again—nearly stumbled doing so—but if the water beneath his feet was some kind of illusion, he damned well couldn’t See through it. Nor could he See any sign of the region having been Worked, although there should have been something. Every Working leaves its mark, Damien thought, as he followed carefully in the children’s footsteps. Without exception. But if there was a Worker’s mark on this, he damned well couldn’t see it.
Tarrant could make it out. Tarrant could make sense of this. He glanced up at the sky—or rather, up at the mist overhead—and judged it to be very near nightfall. A sense of relief flooded his nerves at the thought, and he felt his muscles relax a tiny bit.
All we have to do is make it till he gets here.
At the end of the unseen bridge was a visible line of stairs, crudely cut into the base of the island. Damien climbed them carefully, knowing that his bound hands would be unable to afford him balance should anything go wrong. Behind him he could hear the children struggling with the horses, who were clearly, unhappy about the route. But in the end the animals were coerced into climbing—with sorcery, perhaps?—and soon they had all gained the top of the island, to gaze out upon the Terata camp.
It was, as the Terata themselves were, fragmented and ill-executed. Skin tents betrayed by their shapes that the staffs upholding them were less than perfectly arranged, and indeed several had collapsed; there were children working on them even as Damien watched. A foul smell came and went with the breeze, from skins that were less than perfectly tanned, and the odor of long-dead meat seemed to hang about the camp like a haze. And the children! There were at least two dozen here, in addition to Damien’s band of captors, including several that were mere babes, hardly able to walk. Without their masks and fierce weapons they looked strangely vulnerable, and though their flesh seemed healthy enough, Damien thought he caught a hint of past abuse in their eyes, the haunted look of bruised souls.
When they saw his party, the children turned and cheered, and gathered about them every bit as gaily as youngsters begging candy from adults. The little faces were dirt-smeared and sunburned, but they looked healthy enough. If you didn’t look in their eyes.
Flanked by cavorting youngsters, the prisoners were led to the center of the rocky isle. There a cave mouth gaped, its root-fringed darkness leading down into the depths of the island. The children pushed Damien forward, and clearly meant for him to enter it. He glanced back at Hesseth. She wasn’t any more happy about it than he was, but she seemed reasonably confident. At last he nodded and ducked through the opening, to the accompaniment of blows. The ground was slick beneath his feet and he almost fell, but he managed to stay upright and get out of the way before Hesseth slipped down into the darkness. When they were both inside, a thick grate of wood was put into place over the opening, and Damien heard some kind of latch being fixed in place around it. Thick tree limbs, bound together with coarse rope. Hard to break through, but not impossible. He was glad that the children hadn’t taken up metalworking.
“Turn around,” Hesseth whispered softly. When he did so, he felt her lean down to where his hands were bound; the damaged skin of her face rubbed against his wrist as she gnawed him free of his bonds. He untied her then, and rubbed some life back into his hands. Good enough for now. It would only be hours before Tarrant returned to them, and he felt confident they could protect themselves that long.
By the fading light of the sun which filtered down through the grate, he studied their prison. It was a rough space, muddy, replete with the nooks and crannies that nature delighted in. For a brief moment he considered crawling into one of those narrow passageways in the hopes that it would lead to freedom, but then he remembered the children. Tiny, lithe, and insatiably curious, they would have followed every path to its end long before declaring this space a prison, and if there were an opening they would have sealed it long ago. So much for that. He shifted slightly so that his own shadow didn’t blacken the rock face before him, turned to the left-
And saw eyes.
Hesseth must have seen them at the same time that he did, for he felt her sharp intake of breath beside him. For a moment he thought that the two gleaming points were the eyes of an animal, but then he remembered the size and scale of his hosts. And yes, it was a child. No doubt about that. A frightened child who scrabbled backward as he approached, keening terror low in its throat. A girl? Hard to say in this darkness, but the voice sounded female.
“Get away from me!” she shrieked. Her voice was hoarse and broken, as if she had bruised it by screaming too much. “Get back! I know your God. He can’t have me!”
He froze where he was. The cave was suddenly so silent that he could hear his heart pounding. Then, slowly, he took a step backward. The eyes didn’t move. Another step. When there were perhaps twelve feet of distance between himself and the owner of those eyes, it seemed to him that she relaxed somewhat.
“Who are you?” he asked gently. Her strange accusation still ringing in his ears. Your God can’t have me. “Why are you here?”
“Keep away!” she gasped. “Keep them away from me!”
Them.
The children?
What was going on here?
He looked at Hesseth. The rakh-woman’s face—and thus her expression—were lost in shadow. But he thought he saw her nod.
“All right,” he said gently. “We won’t come near you.” He chose a spot on the muddy ground that was smoother than most, and sat. A cool wind blew in through the grating, chilling his sweat. He could sense those eyes fixed on him, studying him, but he tried not to meet them. Animals sometimes needed time to accustom themselves to the smell of a newcomer; perhaps in her fear she was subject to a similar instinct. Let her take her time, then. Time was one thing they had.
After many long minutes of shadowy silence, a rustling from outside the gate alerted Damien to someone’s approach. It was a young boy, maskless but coated with war paint and mud, carrying a carved wooden spear. He came over to the grate and stared inside the makeshift prison—and something burst from the far corner, something small and filthy and very, very scared, moving with a suddenness that made Damien jump. The small girl ran to the grate and fell to her knees before it, clutching its bars, her whole body shaking with terror. “Take them away,” she gasped. “Please! He’s a priest, can’t you see? They’ll kill you all!”