Steppe as he felt himself being lifted and carried. Then more drifting clouds, more pain. Time stretched and contracted in concert with the various agonies that wracked him, each respite a brief precious moment until the long hours of pain returned.
He could hear voices through the fog that enveloped him, speaking in Chu-Shin, which his distressed mind lacked the ability to translate. But he could hear the conflict in those voices, one rich in caution, the other in implacable purpose. It was the purposeful voice he recognised, along with the face that swam into view when the clouds parted one last time, the same face he had called to mind after Obvar’s cut left him bleeding his life away.
Sherin didn’t say anything. Nor did she offer a smile of reassurance. Her expression was one of grim determination, diminished only slightly by the glimmer of fear he saw in her eyes. Then the clouds closed in again, leaving only the pain until that too faded to a small angry flame.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
He awoke to Derka’s breath on his face, a hot and unpleasant blast that left him coughing. For a second he wondered why his vision was full of a slowly passing tract of earth and grass before realising he lay across Derka’s back, secured to the saddle by ropes about his wrists and ankles. The stallion came to a halt, continuing to twist his head round to nibble at Vaelin’s face, either in an expression of affection or, more likely, because he somehow divined how annoying it was.
“Get off, you bloody nag,” Vaelin groaned, moving his face clear of the stallion’s muzzle.
“Hold, he’s awake!”
Vaelin craned his neck to see Sherin cantering towards him on her pony. She dismounted and quickly moved to sever his bonds with a small knife, Vaelin sliding clear of the saddle. To his surprise he didn’t stagger as his boots met the ground, his legs apparently free of the expected weakness. Also, he felt no pain. If anything he found himself possessed of a refreshing vigour. He laughed at the feel of the Steppe wind on his skin, and raised his face to smile as the sunlight bathed it. His smile faded, however, when he lowered his head and caught sight of Sherin’s guarded gaze. There was a sunken look to her eyes that hadn’t been there before, a tension and paleness in her features that put him in mind of one recovered from a recent illness.
His hands went to his shirt as a suspicion began to build in his mind, drawing the fabric aside to reveal Obvar’s cut, finding only a pale line in otherwise unmarked flesh. Weaver’s gift, he recalled, thinking of the healing he had received all those years ago in the Fallen City. Weaver had been the most powerful Gifted he had ever met, even before draining the power from the Ally and ensuring all the sacrifice of the Liberation War hadn’t been in vain. But Weaver was not here, nor did Vaelin ever expect to see him again.
“What did you do?” he demanded of Sherin.
Her pale features formed a brief, tremulous smile. “What I had to.”
“We can’t linger.”
Vaelin’s gaze snapped to Luralyn, mounted on a white horse. Behind her rode the man and woman he had met on first arriving at the tor along with four others all clad in the garb of the artisans. Glancing around he saw only the empty Steppe with no sign of any Stahlhast.
“Here.”
Vaelin caught his sword as Luralyn tossed it to him, strapping it across his back. “How?” he pressed Sherin, who just shook her head and hurried back to her pony.
“My brother will have a thousand scouts ranging in every direction,” Luralyn said. “We have no time.”
She gathered her reins, preparing to kick her horse into a gallop, but paused as Vaelin reached out to catch hold of the bridle. “I must know,” he said. “How did she do this?”
Luralyn looked at Sherin, now climbing stiffly onto the back of her pony. Luralyn’s face was stern but Vaelin saw the shame in it. “She touched the stone,” she said.
Tugging her reins she jerked the bridle loose from his grip. “We must ride.” Spurring her horse forward she galloped off towards the west, her companions close behind.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Luralyn allowed no rest, only short intervals every few hours during which the horses were walked. They rode into the evening and through the night, finally stopping at noon the following day when