Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [138]
Closing her eyes now, breathing in the scent of his presence, she could almost see him as he rode northward, every beat of his horse’s hooves carrying him closer and closer to what he feared the most. How powerfully he must hate the Hunter, to commit himself to such a venture! They had never discussed his ancestor at length, partly because of her own mixed feelings about him. Now he was alone, headed toward a confrontation that only one of them would survive. If even one.
Time to choose, Nari.
The Hunter wouldn’t hurt her, she knew that. His Forest was no threat to her. She didn’t know enough about Andrys’ demonic ally to predict what he would do, but the goddess Saris had promised to protect her in that arena. So she wouldn’t need an army to protect her if she went north. Hells, she wouldn’t even need weapons—although of course she would bring them, just in case—and she could make better time riding alone than the Church troops would be able to, with their wagons of supplies and their overladen horses slowing them down. If she played it right and made good enough time, she could follow them in secret, to be there when he needed her. . . . Or maybe even enter their camp openly and demand her proper place in it. And if their god didn’t like it, to hells with him. Let him protest the move in person if he cared so damned much, and explain to all concerned why the suffering of one man was so important to him that his precious war could not be waged without it.
Oh, Andri. She shut her eyes and trembled, but not from fear this time. It was exhilaration coursing through her veins now, the sure high of certainty. This was right. This was what she was meant to do. And soon—within days, if all went well—she would be where she belonged, joining the man she loved in battle. Waging war not only for his Church, but for his very soul.
“Hang in there, my love,” she whispered. “I’m on my way.”
Thirty-one
They Couldn’t make it to shore before daybreak. Tarrant said that was just as well. At best they would have been rushed through a dangerous landing, with barely enough time left to find suitable shelter before the sun rendered him helpless. At worst their enemy would find a way to mobilize neighboring towns against them before they had a chance to lose themselves in the lands to the north. No, despite the risk of remaining at sea, this was surely the safest course.
Which was all well and good, Damien thought, but Tarrant wasn’t the one who had to sail the vulking boat alone for twelve hours, with enemies to the north and south and a damned ugly weather system taking shape on the horizon. By dawn’s cold light, and then by the mixed light of sun and Core, he watched as ominously dark clouds gathered to the west of him, and wrapped his jacket tightly about his chest as winds gusted heavily across the bow. Tarrant had raised a storm, all right; the only question was how long it would take to reach them, and whether Damien could ride out the fringes of the squall long enough to drown them both in the heart of it.
He dared to leave the wheel long enough to feed the horses from their store of special grain, not because he thought they couldn’t make it a day without food but because he was afraid that hunger might disrupt the Working that kept them calm. There was water in the galley, too, and he gave them some of that, although the motion of the ship on the waves turned that normally simple exercise into a test of both agility and nerves. He checked their wounds to see that they were clean and that the bleeding had stopped, but he could do no more to help them; the fae he would have used for Healing was hundreds of feet beneath the surface of the water, inaccessible. He stoked up the furnace anew and fed it as much fuel as it would hold, not wanting to think about what would happen if it went out while he was trapped at the helm. By the time he regained his post there was land clearly visible to the north of him, and he steered away