The Hunter nodded; a bit of singed skin fell from his temple. “True night falls for half an hour tomorrow; if I’m not whole by then, that will heal me.”
He stopped and turned and regarded Jenseny. The tired girl was sound asleep. “Does she really have information?” he challenged. “Something useful?”
Damien hesitated. “She might. And she seems to have Vision of some kind.” She knew I was a priest. Who knows what else she Saw? He looked sharply at Tarrant. “Why? Did you think I said that just to save her?”
Tarrant’s lips tightened, loosening bits of burned skin. It was hard to say if his expression was a smile or a sneer.
“I wouldn’t put it past you,” the Hunter muttered.
They made their camp long after midnight. Damien could no longer remember how many miles they’d traveled, or how long they’d been moving. He remembered passing the thornbushes, Hesseth holding the girl tight against her while he drove back the branches with smoke, as he had seen the Terata do. They weren’t quite as efficient as the children had been, having had less practice, Tarrant’s horse was badly scratched going through. But it was almost a pleasure to Heal again, a kind of cleansing, and Damien took care to make sure he had cleaned the wound of poison before he used the forest’s earth-fae to knit it safely shut again.
Throughout it all the girl watched them. She was still wary of Damien, though her initial terror seemed to have subsided somewhat. Tarrant seemed to both fascinate and repel her. For his part the Hunter attempted to ignore her existence, and when he did look her way it was with great irritation, as if to say that his life had enough complications without a crazy child being dropped in the middle of it. Damien sensed that as soon as they were alone, or as soon as the girl was safely asleep, Tarrant was going to let him have it for bringing her.
But she could be useful, he thought to himself. She could have information. And behind that lay another thought, even more compelling. I just couldn’t leave her there.
By the time they made camp his whole body ached, and he thought that once he sat down he would surely never move again. For which reason he saw that the girl was down from her mount and working at unpacking the horses before he even tried it. They had lost a lot. Not the large items, the important ones, but all the hundred and one tiny items that he had packed against the day of their unexpected need. Oh, well. On a trip like this you prepared as best you could and then made do with the cards that fate dealt you. At least they had blankets and the crude tent which Hesseth had assembled. At least they had food.
When those were in place—and a fire had been started, and water gathered from the stream nearby to be heated over it, and the horses brushed down and hobbled for the night, and Jenseny huddled inside the tent for some much-needed sleep—he finally allowed himself to ease his weary flesh down to the ground and rest. Hardly a moment after he had done so, Tarrant sat down opposite him.
He met those eyes, so pale, so cold, without wondering what was in them. He knew.
The Hunter spoke first. “You don’t know who she is. You don’t know what she is. The danger of having her with us—”
“In this forest? What’s she going to do?” With a weary hand he wiped a crust of dirt from his forehead. He could taste the salt of sweat on his lips. “She’s a child, Hunter. A very tired, very frightened child. I want to get her out of this dismal place. When we get to the coastal cities, then we can talk about alternative plans.” He rubbed his hands one against the other; his fingernails were dirt-encrusted, his skin little better. “Not here. Not now. Not when I’m so tired I can barely think.”
“She’s not just a child and you know it. If she has Vision—of any kind—then she may have power. She knew you were a priest, Hesseth tells me. Don’t you realize what that implies?”
“I know. I know. But even if she were a full adept—”
“Not all adepts are sane,” Tarrant reminded him. “In fact, very few are. Even in a normal environment the pressures of such a life are almost beyond bearing, and here . . .” He shook his head. “And she is, as you say, a child. Unstable to start with, even more so under these circumstances. Who can say what goes on in the darker corridors of that brain, or how and when madness might manifest itself? You’re playing with fire here.”
“Then let’s just say I’m prepared to be burned.”
He could see the Hunter’s jawline tighten; reflected firelight burned in his eyes. “Maybe you are, Reverend Vryce. Brave and foolhardy man that you are. But I’m part of this expedition, too, and so is Mes Hesseth. And our mission here is far too important and dangerous for us to take chances like this—even to satisfy your nurturing instincts.” With a fluid motion he stood, and settled his cloak more comfortably about his shoulders. “Think about it.”
“You going somewhere?”
“I have business to attend to.”
“I’d have thought you killed enough for one night.”
The Hunter’s expression was frigid. “The currents will move in their course whether you choose to notice them or not. We’re far enough south that there’s a chance I can read them now, get some kind of bearing on the enemy. And I’d prefer not to Work too close to your guest, if that’s all right with you.”
Damien wondered just what it was about the tone of his voice that set him on edge. The words were certainly no more arrogant and condescending than Tarrant’s usual ripostes, but the tone was . . . odd. Too subtle in its difference for him to pinpoint, but the difference was definitely there. For some reason it was unnerving.
“Yeah,” he managed. “Sure. Go ahead.”
As the Hunter left the camp he thought: He’s hiding something.
In the darkness of the forest, in a small clearing sheltered over by trees so thick that even the moonlight, was dim, Gerald Tarrant stopped. He took a moment to gather himself, then whispered a Iezu name. As he had anticipated, no formal Summoning was necessary. Even as the last syllable left his lips the demon came to him, drawing its substance from the night.
“So,” Karril said. “You’ve decided?”
His mouth set tightly, the Hunter nodded.
The demon held out a hand to him. In his palm was cradled a tiny star, a bit of Worked light that glimmered and pulsed against his illusory flesh. “Kind of tasteless, given your preferences, but he said it was the best he could do without a physical ward to contain it. And I couldn’t have carried that back with me.”
“It’ll do,” the Hunter said shortly.
He held out his own hand to receive it. The tiny star moved from Karril’s palm to his own, shimmering brightly against the whiteness of his flesh.
“You want me to go?” the demon asked.
“I want you to stay.”
Slowly he closed his fingers over the thing. Power pulsed out from it, fanning out along the current. None of it went to the south, he noted, which was a good sign. Or at least a safe sign. He was still wary of a trap.
Slowly an image formed in the clearing before him. First the shape of a man imprinted itself upon the darkness: not quite as tall as Tarrant, not nearly as young. Then color spilled from its shoulders, became crimson robes. Silk, Tarrant noted, unadorned but finely woven. Jewelry glittered on age-weathered hands. A crown took shape above graying temples.
When the image was complete, it portrayed a man perhaps fifty years of age, light-skinned, mildly athletic. A man who had taken care of his flesh. The figure waited a moment before beginning to speak, perhaps to give Tarrant a moment in which to study it. Then it began.
“Greetings, Neocount of Merentha.” It bowed its head ever so slightly, a gesture of carefully measured respect. “My servant brings me word of your history and your exploits. May I say what a pleasure it is to have a man of your power come here.”