Shit.
He raised a hand to his head and rubbed his temples wearily. He didn’t have a headache yet, but one was surely on the way. The body had to do something to protest such utter lunacy.
It’s safe, right? Doors locked and warded. Books safely hidden. One quick visit and then it’s all over. And Tarrant would go with or without him, that much was clear. Did Damien want that newborn soul running head-on into the Patriarch’s troops without someone there to support him? Such a confrontation could well send him spiraling down into darkness again. And after all the time and effort he had put into saving the man, he could hardly allow that. Could he?
“All right,” he muttered. Sighing heavily. “What the hell. Let’s do it.”
Tarrant nodded. “I thought you might feel that way.”
He sounded relieved, Damien thought. As well he should.
It could be worse. At least we don’t have to get on a boat again.
Shaitan rumbled in the distance.
39
Catesta was gone.
At first Andrys fried to deny it. He told himself a hundred reasons why the demon might be unwilling to respond to him, or unable to respond to him, and he managed to half-believe one or two. But then, as hours passed and his desperate entreaties brought no response, fear began to take hold. He fought the emotion off as long as he could, but now, hours later-days later, perhaps, who could judge time in this place?—certainty set in, and with it a dread so cold that he shivered inside his blood-spattered armor, not knowing how he could go on.
Calesta was gone, without question.
Andrys was on his own.
They were forging through a hostile Forest now, and every turn held new threats. More than once they were attacked by creatures that called the Forest their home, and if thus far those assailants were too few or too weak to pose any real danger, that was just the luck of the draw. The next time they were attacked it might be the white pack again ... or worse.
More than half the horses had been lost in that battle, either killed or maimed or run off in terror. The tethers of those that fled had been burned through in some cases, cut through cleanly in others, as if somehow their fear had managed an equine Working and freed them. More likely it was the fears of their riders which had done exactly that. Before they left the battle site the Patriarch had led them in prayer for a few minutes, trying to focus their energies in a positive manner, but how much good was that going to do? In the back of all their minds was a new awareness of the power of the Forest’s fae, and a growing fear that it would betray them. What happened to tethers could just as easily happen to explosives.
A good portion of the remaining horses were now carrying the wounded, with the result that all had to take their turn at walking. Andrys preferred it. His role as pathfinder required continued sensitivity to the Forest’s fae, a terrifying immersion in its power; he used the act of walking as a focus for his sanity, the pain of his blistered feet as an anchor to the world of solid things. Though the Hunter was no longer actively mated to the Forest, yet his essence still permeated it, and if the younger Tarrant relaxed his guard even for an instant, the chill power of that corrupt soul would come pouring into him, drowning out the warmth of his living spirit and replacing it with something in its own dark image. Step by step he fought its influence, but despair was growing inside him. How long could he keep this up, without some kind of assistance? What hope did he have of coming out of this sane, if Calesta had truly abandoned him?
His only comfort lay in a black silk scarf, now wound about his waist beneath the armor. Her scarf. He still felt shame about stealing it from her and, in fact, had tried to bring himself to ask for it on at least three separate occasions, but each time his courage had failed him. Was he afraid she would withhold such a gift? That she would laugh at him for wanting it? Or was it that putting such a request into words would be as good as admitting that he lacked the strength within himself to succeed in this mission without such a token? Now that scarf was his only comfort, and the sweat-soaked silk tugged at his waist with every movement, reminding him of the brief time they had spent together.
Hour after hour, mile by mile, they fought their way through the Hunter’s domain. Even the plant life seemed determined to resist them now, and more than once they had to hack their way through a tangle of thorn bushes and tree limbs in order to move forward.
It hadn’t been like that before, Andrys noted. When they stopped for a meal and the ground began to stir beneath their feet, forcing them to move on, that was new, too. Clearly whatever power he had provided as the company’s talisman was at an end, now that the Hunter was no longer in control here. And that was a terrifying thought indeed.
They broke march three more times to water the horses and see to their own bodily needs-always in rocky areas, where the underground scavengers couldn’t reach them—and once to rest in short shifts, restless and fearful. Try as he might, Andrys couldn’t sleep; he wondered how many could. These weren’t soldiers, trained to pursue combat in the face of enervating exhaustion, but simple men and women whose concept of exertion before today was a short stint in a gym, followed by a hot bath and dinner. Not this.
His own strength was wearing thin from exhaustion, and his nerves, continually stretched to the breaking point, were beginning to give way at last. How much longer could he last?
Calesta, help me! I can’t make it alone. I’m not strong enough.
No answer.
Rats. There were rats. She could hear them scrabbling in the darkness, searching for food along the muddy floor. Periodically one would come up to her to see if she was food. Sharp teeth would nip her skin and she would kick out wildly, hysterically, and maybe she hurt it or maybe it just went away. For a while. They all came back.
She didn’t know how long she had been in this place. It was long enough for her to have crawled along the length and breadth of her prison and explored with her fingers every inch of its surface. The walls were of roughly carved stone, wet with slime, and the muddy water that pooled on the floor was ankle-deep in places, barely a film in others. There was no sign of a door that she could make out, and as for the soft lumps she landed on as she moved, several of which squirmed underfoot ... she’d rather not know.
She was hungry now, so hungry that even her terror had weakened, and though her mouth was parched, she dared not drink from the water that was available, or even lick the moisture that clung to the wall by her side. She had wept until she had no more strength left with which to weep, and now she curled up in the dank puddle, shivering, and tried to accept her fate.
Oh, Andrys——
She’d only wanted to help him. She would have done anything to accomplish that, would willingly have accepted any fate in order to make his burden easier. But now she was here and he was gods knew where and every time she dozed off from exhaustion, something sharp or slimy would crawl across her and she would start slapping it away hysterically before sleep had even fully released her—
It was just a nightmare, she told herself. Some nightmares happened while you dreamed and some happened while you were awake, but they all ended sometime, right? She licked at her lips with a dry tongue, wondering how long she would last. Was this all the white man had wanted her for, to waste away in this foul pit without even knowing where she was? Was he feeding on her despair, or on some other part of her emotional substance? She wouldn’t give him that pleasure, she decided. For as long as she had the strength to dream, she would relive memories of life, and of love. She would fantasize about Andrys Tarrant until his image was so set in her brain that even in her last moments, even while the rats and lizards gnawed at her dying flesh, her soul would still be joyful. Let that albino bastard feed on her love if he wanted to; it would probably give him heartburn.