For a short while he rested, his Vision maintained, watching as the whole system beat more perfectly than it had since its original creation. Then, when he felt his strength was up to it, he fashioned a diuretic out of the materials at hand and set that loose in the bloodstream, making sure that any waste products he created in the process would be safely expelled. And then, at last, it was time to withdraw. It wasn’t without fear that he let his Knowing fade, and his Seeing, and all those other tools which he had conjured. He had been willing to die to Heal Tarrari; must that vow now be fulfilled? But there was no dark power waiting to devour him as he withdrew his senses from Tarrant’s flesh, and nothing felt any different about his own body its attendant consciousness. Unless it was the sudden need to urinate. That was pretty urgent. With a muttered curse he got to his feet and walked a few feet away, to where a sharp overhang looked out over the valley. Good enough. He added his bodily excretions to the realm of the dead, and then turned back to look at Tarrant.
The man was sitting up, albeit weakly, and already his color looked better. His breathing sounded labored but not nearly so bad as before, and Damien had faith that the diuretic he had created would dry his lungs out in short order. There had been no lasting damage to the heart muscle itself, which meant that as soon as his condition stabilized, he should be as good as new. Whatever the hell that meant.
“It seems,” the Hunter whispered hoarsely, “that I owe you once again.”
“Yeah.” He shrugged off what promised to be an awkward expression of gratitude. “And you took me traveling to new and exciting places. Let’s just call it even, okay?”
But there was a dark edge to Tarrant’s expression that warned him something was seriously wrong. For a moment—just a moment—he wished he wouldn t tell him what it was. “I tried to watch you Heal,” the Hunter said quietly. “I couldn’t.”
He shrugged. “You were in pretty bad shape. What did you expect?”
“That shouldn’t have stopped me,” the adept insisted. “I’ve Worked during worse.” His voice was low, and tinged with fear. “Something’s wrong, Vryce.”
His first instinct was to dismiss that thought and any similar fears as a symptom of Tarrant’s condition. It was a known fact that heart failure tended to bring on a sense of dread in its victims, and while that emotion normally focused on the event itself, there was no reason why it couldn’t spill over into other areas. There was also a possibility that the adept had simply met his limit, and was so drained by his condition that not even Working was possible. That last was the most appealing explanation, and he tried hard to believe it. But honesty forced him to remember how much trouble he’d had accessing the fae for his own Working, and the feeling he’d had at the time that using the fae might cost him his life. “Maybe it’s just the currents in this place,” he offered. But he knew even as he spoke that it had to be something more.
The Hunter shook his head sharply. “The currents may be stronger here, but earth-fae is earth-fae. And I tried other Workings while you were busy.” He nodded toward the overhang. “None had any effect at all. I’ve Worked the fae for nearly a thousand years, Vryce, and it never failed to respond like that. Yet you Worked it,” he said; the words were almost an accusation.
“Yeah. Barely.” He turned away, not wanting to meet Tarrant’s eyes. That was one experience he didn’t feel like sharing. “I’m not sure I could do it again." Not unless I really wanted to, he thought. Not unless I was willing to pay a hell of a price for it. “You may be right,” he admitted. “But if so, then what—”
Tarrant began to shift position as he spoke, but a sudden spasm turned his words into a groan. It took no magician to know what that meant; Damien had been expecting it. “I Worked a diuretic to drain your lungs,” Damien told him, “so you’ll be voiding excess fluid pretty steadily for a while. May I recommend the view over that way?” He indicated the overhang, then couldn’t resist adding, “You do remember how to piss, I assume?
With a wordless glare the Hunter got to his feet and headed toward the scenic spot. Damien watched him for a moment, then-when he was satisfied that he was steady enough on his feet not to go tumbling down the mountainside-he looked at Karril. “Well?”
“Well what?"
“Your kind can see the fae, can’t it? So I assume you saw what happened. Any guesses?"
“I was quite involved with my own assignment, thank you very much. You were the one who didn’t want to be drowned in the local power, remember?—But yes, I saw what happened. And it was ... He hesitated. “Strange."
“In what way?"
“The fae responds naturally to humans, you know that. Every human thought, every dream, even a man’s passing fancy will leave its mark on that power. Oh, sometimes there’s no more than a quiver in the current-hardly enough to affect the material world—but the response is always there. Always. Except when you tried to Work before,” he tola Damien. “When you first tried to Heal Tarrant, there was no response at all. And he’s trying to Work right now-” he looked pointedly at Tarrant, "—and it’s the same as it was with you. No response at all.”
Tarrant’s concentration was focused on the ground at his feet, and he was clearly trying to mold the local currents to his will. His brow had tightened into a hard line. His eyes were narrowed to slits. He even cursed, perhaps the first time that Damien had ever heard him do so. Clearly, his chosen tests had failed.
With one last glance at the ruddy sunset to the west of them (and Damien didn’t have to be psychic to know how much Tarrant wanted to study it longer, his first sight of the sun in over nine centuries) the adept rejoined them. “Something’s changed, no doubt about it.” His tone and his expression were both grim. “I can’t tell for certain what happened without some more specific tests, but I don’t think either you or I should count on being able to Work until we get out of here. Once we get back, I can figure out what happened, and hopefully discover a way to work around it.”
Hopefully. There was a stress on that word, ever so subtle, which underscored a fear neither man would voice. If something had changed in the currents, what if that change were permanent? What if it turned out to be a problem not with the fae, but with them?
And then the other words hit him. So casually voiced, but they resounded in his brain all the more powerfully for their lack of emphasis. Once we get back. Such a simple, disarming phrase! As if getting back were something they had always expected to do. As if they hadn’t thought they would die on this journey, and thus had made no plans for ever going home. Damien felt his heart lurch as he acknowledged that the possibility was suddenly very real. Tarrant was alive. The enemy they thought they could never vanquish was dead and gone. They were going home——