Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [196]
“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 unlessIreallywanted 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 told 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