Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [128]
Face it, man. You’ve gotten used to him.
On the far side of the river there was no town, no road, only a rough dirt path that led away from the river. There would be settlements arrayed between there and the coast, but they would be few and far between and their inhabitants would be wary of strangers. Since the road west of the river offered both comfort and safety, anyone choosing the eastern bank would be highly suspect.
As the ferryman poled his way back home, Damien came to where Tarrant stood, one hand resting against the black flank of his horse. It was clear from his expression that he was Working, and not until Damien saw him move and judged him finished did he speak to him.
“Anything useful?”
Tarrant’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “The Patriarch intends to lead his people into the Forest itself, straight to my keep. They mean to confront me in my lair, confident that God will favor them in their mission and lead them to victory.”
No more. After a moment of silence, Damien pressed, “And?”
He shook his head; clearly he was perplexed. “There are futures in which they succeed. Only a few ... but how could they make it through my domain? Do they think I have no defenses? The very ground will rise up against them, the species I nurtured will—”
“Gerald.” He put a hand on the other man’s shoulder, for once not noticing the chill of his undead flesh. “It doesn’t matter any more. Not the Forest, not any of it.” He didn’t say the words, but let them hang between them in the chill autumn air, unspoken: You have twenty-nine days left. That’s all. You can’t afford to lose your focus now. “As long as Calesta’s alive and kicking, everything’s at risk.”
The Hunter hesitated; Damien could see something dark flash in those cold, cold eyes. Anger? Frustration? Tarrant glanced northward toward the Forest, as though he wanted to Know what was going on there, but the strong northerly flow of the current wouldn’t allow it. With a muttered curse he forced his eyes away and took up the reins of his horse once more. “You’re right, Reverend Vryce. Much as I hate to admit it.”
He mounted his horse and swung it around so that it faced east. But Damien didn’t mount up, and after a moment Tarrant looked back at him, to see what was wrong.
“I’m not,” Damien said hoarsely. “Reverend, I mean.” He swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “Not a priest anymore.”
For a moment there was silence.
“They cast you out?”
“No.” He shook his head stiffly. “I quit. I was ...” God, he wished there were an easy way to end this conversation. But Tarrant had a right to know. “It was my choice. Really. I ...” Whom was he trying to convince, Tarrant or himself? “It was right,” he whispered hoarsely. “The right thing to do.”
For a long time the Hunter said nothing. Then: “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.” He shut his eyes, trying not to feel the pain of it all over again. How long would it be before the healing started, before he could think about his choice and not feel sick inside? “Let’s just go on, okay?” He vaulted up onto his horse’s back and grabbed up the reins. “We’ve got things to do.” He kneed his horse into motion, hoping Tarrant would just follow. He didn’t want to look at him again, for fear that he would see something all too human in those death-pale eyes. Something he couldn’t deal with right now.
Pity.
They rode hard, pausing only to rest the horses when they had to in order to keep going. There were no stables midway along this route at which one could trade for fresher mounts, hence the animals would have to keep their strength up until they reached the coast. That meant three days at the very least,