Only with my eyes.
While Barrick puzzled over this, Ferras Vansen rode up beside them again—as close as Vansen’s mortal horse would come, anyway: even after a tennight traveling together, the animal always stayed at the stretched end of his tether when the company made camp, keeping as distant from the fairy-horse as he could. “Your Highness, are you ill?” the soldier asked. “You almost fell out of your saddle...”
“There is nothing wrong with me. Let me be.” He wanted to talk to Gyir again, not swap braying mortal speech with this...peasant.
A peasant who came with you when he didn’t have to, an inner voice reminded him, and for once he was hearing himself, not Gyir. A peasant who came to this wretched place with full knowledge of what it was like.
Barrick took a breath. “I do not mean to be...I am well enough, Captain Vansen.” He could not bring himself to apologize. “You and I will talk later.”
The soldier nodded and reined up a little, letting Barrick’s horse take the lead again. As they fell back, the scruffy black bird crouching on Vansen’s saddle watched the prince with disconcertingly shrewd eyes, like Chaven the physician seeing through one of Barrick’s tantrums to the real matter beneath. For a moment the prince was painfully lonely again for Southmarch, for familiar faces and familiar things.
You said blind. Why? he asked. Your eyes work, don’t they?
Gyir would not speak for long moments. I am the Storm Lantern, he said finally. It is given to me to see in darkness, to see what is behind the light, to see things that are far away. I have an eye inside me, inside my head. Never before would three Longskulls have crept so close to me. Never before would I have to learn of it from a mere raven! But now I am blind.
There was so much misery in this thought, so much fury, that for a moment, as the sensations buffeted him, Barrick felt as though he would vomit. He put one hand on the saddle to steady himself—he did not want Vansen riding up again, prying at him with questions.
Because of the wound to your head?
Yes. Yes, and now I am all but helpless—forced to hide and skulk in terror in my own country, like a forest elemental caught out by Whitefire in the naked sunlands!
Barrick didn’t know what Gyir meant, but he knew that sort of rage and despair when he heard it—knew it all too well.
Will you get better?
I do not know. The wound is healed, at least the flesh is. How can I say?
Barrick took a breath. It does no good to fight against what the gods have done, he told Gyir, repeating without realizing it something Briony had often said to him.
Perhaps we should find a place to hide, a place to wait and see if your wound finally heals? Wouldn’t that be better than riding across this place you think is so dangerous, with those creatures out hunting?
You do not understand, Gyir said. We cannot afford so much time. As it is, we may be too late.
Too late? For what? I...I carry something. My mistress gave it to me, and I must take it to Qul-na-Qar, and soon. If I arrive too late—or do not arrive at all—many will die.
What are you talking about?
Many of your race and many of mine will die, little sunlander. There was no mistaking the grim certainty of the silent words. At the very least, every human remaining in that castle of yours, and likely countless more—of both our kinds. I have been tasked to outrun doom.
“I don’t understand.” Vansen’s legs ached. They had been riding fast without a break for what must have been a few hours. “What are we running from?”
“Longskulls.” Skurn was huddled so low against the horse’s neck that he looked like little more than a particularly ugly growth. “Like the dead ’uns you saw.” “You said that already. Why are they after us?”
“Not after us’n, after whatever they can find—meat and slaves for Jack Chain.”
“You keep talking about him? Who is he?”
“Not a him, not like you mean. An Old One. Does no good talking. Save your breath.”
“But where are we? Where are we going?”
“Not our patch, this.” The raven closed his eyes again and lowered his head near the horse’s rolling shoulders and would not be roused to say any more.
Vansen knew that whatever small control he had maintained over this doomed expedition was long gone. Gyir was armed again, they were on the run from something Vansen could not understand, and now the fairy-warrior was actually leading them. All this in a place that Ferras Vansen had intended never even to approach again in his life—a place which had all but killed him once already. Yet here they were, careening along the ancient, overgrown road, heading...where? Deeper into the Twilight Lands, that was all he knew. So even if he could have forced himself to desert the prince, Vansen could no longer turn back—he would never find his way back to the sunlands on his own. Doomed, doomed, he mourned. Why did I ever swear myself to these cursed, lost, mad Eddons?
Half a day seemed to have gone by when they finally stopped to let the two horses drink. Vansen stood as his mount lapped water from a muddy streamlet that crossed the road. The trees were thinner here, the land ahead hilly but a bit more open, and even in unending twilight it was good at least to be able to see a little distance.
Skurn was drinking too, but farther downstream, since Vansen’s horse had startled when he had fluttered down next to it. Some yards away from both of them, Barrick’s gray steed drank with the same silent concentration it brought to everything else. Vansen’s horse’s ribs were still heaving as it caught its breath, but the fairy-horse seemed as fresh as when they had begun.
Is it truly stronger, Vansen wondered, or is it merely that it is at home here and mine is not? The same question, he reflected, could be asked about Gyir, who stood impatiently waiting while the horses drank their fill. Barrick had not even bothered to dismount, but sat and stared out at the road ahead, which was little more than a trail between rows of ghostly white trees of a sort Vansen had never seen, a tangle stretching away on either side like the traceries of frost on a window. The track itself looked considerably less magical, a lumpy swath of mud and pale grass, the stones of the old human road long since carried away by water or some more intentional pilferage.
“Highness,” Vansen called—but not too loudly: it was easy to imagine those trees listening to the unfamiliar sound of human speech like coldly curious phantoms. “When will we stop and make camp? It must be day again, if we can call it such, and both you and I need food even if the fairy doesn’t. In fact, we have used everything in my saddlebags, so before we can eat, we must also find something worth eating.”
“Gyir says it is indeed day, but he does not want to stop until we have crossed the...the...Whisperfall.”
“What is that?”
“A river. He says that Longskulls do not like the water. They can’t swim.”
Vansen laughed despite himself. “Perin’s fiery bolts, what a world! Very well, then, we’ll camp by the river. But we must eat before then, Highness.”
“Us will catch summat for you,” offered Skurn. “No, we will find our own.” He’d seen too much already of what Skurn thought edible. He and Barrick had struggled by so far on a few unfamiliar-looking birds and an injured black rabbit, all caught by Vansen with his bare hands—they could survive without the raven’s help a little longer. “Unless you can find us something wholesome—eggs, maybe.” He looked at the spotty old bird and decided he needed to be more specific. “Bird’s eggs.”