And since that time, she hadn’t been able to farcast.
Without the ability that was as much a part of her as breathing, Selena felt crippled, just as Taimin surely felt about his foot. She could only search for Taimin with her normal vision. She stared at every rock and cactus on the plain as dread squeezed at her chest.
Where was he?
She turned to glance back at the cave. The tall, jagged entrance was shadowed, but she knew that Ruth, Vance, and Lars were inside. She decided that when the golden sun touched the horizon, she would ask them to help her look for him. Taimin might be out there somewhere, in trouble, too far away to call for help.
He shouldn’t have gone out alone.
The yellow sun became orange as it fell, little by little. Selena glanced at the cave again. It was time. He should have been back long ago.
Her eyes caught movement on the plain.
She held her breath. A figure moved across the sun, heading at an angle toward her. Gradually a man’s shape became clearer, walking with a slight limp. The tension went out of her body. Taimin was burdened with something: a big weight on his shoulders. His limp was no worse than normal. Tall and broad-shouldered, with bristling brown hair and dark stubble on his cheeks, he was too far away for her to see his eyes, but she knew they were the same color as his hair. His eyes were kind and gentle, like him. His jaw was square, and his eyebrows gave him a curious, wistful expression.
Even distant, she caught the flash of his teeth as he saw her and waved. And there was Griff, a big creature, racing behind him to catch up.
Wait.
Griff was now a wyvern. He wasn’t with them anymore.
“Taimin!” she screamed. She waved her arms frantically. He smiled and waved back.
The creature was the size of a wherry, but it had horns, and wherries didn’t have horns. Selena’s heart beat out of time as she realized it was a firehound, charging toward Taimin from behind.
Taimin’s head turned sharply. Dropping his burden, he whirled.
The huge firehound slammed into him. As Taimin and the firehound rolled together, everything was confused.
Selena burst into a run. Her breath came in gulps. She saw Taimin on top, and then the firehound. A long knife was in Taimin’s hand. He plunged it into the firehound’s flank again and again.
The firehound stopped moving. Taimin tried to return to his feet, but all of a sudden he weaved. He wobbled for a moment, then crumpled.
Selena sprinted as fast as she could, her feet pounding at the dirt and rock. As the distance shrank, she saw Taimin’s face in profile. He was grimacing, sitting on the ground. Just a few paces away, the huge firehound lay dead with deep wounds in its side.
Taimin yanked at his right boot to pull it off. After a few grunts of pain, he focused on his foot and massaged it with both hands.
Selena came to a halt, red-faced and panting. “Taimin—”
“Don’t look,” he snapped. He tried to shuffle so he had his back to her.
Selena couldn’t stop herself from staring. Taimin always tried to keep his childhood injury hidden, even from her. The entire foot had a misshapen, right-angled look. His toes were squashed together and one bone was prominent along the top, forming a ridge. But as bad as his injury was, the firehound’s attack had made it worse. The side of Taimin’s foot was red and inflamed, the rest bruised blue and purple.
Taimin glanced over his shoulder and flushed with shame when he saw her. He returned his attention to his foot and rubbed at the flesh, gritting his teeth as pain contorted his face.
Selena crouched at his side. She couldn’t see any other wounds. “How bad is it?” she asked him, meeting his eyes.
“I’m fine,” he grunted.
“I’ll get help.”
Taimin shook his head. “I don’t need help,” he said briskly. When Selena frowned, he looked at her and softened his tone. “You have to trust me. I’m fine.”
For a moment she stared into his face, and as he stopped rubbing his foot, she saw that his breathing had evened out and his color had returned. Soon he was grabbing his boot and pulling it back on.
Selena wanted to help him, but instead she glanced at the firehound. “I’ve never seen one that big.”
“Me either,” he said, following her gaze. The creature’s horns were frightening. Taimin climbed to his feet, spurning her outstretched hand. “We should go before the scavengers come.”
He limped over to the sand lizard he had been carrying before the firehound struck. With a great heave, he threw it over his shoulder.
Selena drew in a sharp breath. “Are you sure—?”
He gave her a wry smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll be better by morning. Come on. We’re not safe out here.”
Selena shook her head but stayed silent. As they traveled in the direction of the cave—one of a multitude that lined the base of the towering cliffs—she turned her head to gaze up the heights, where a steep trail led up to the escarpment. Wyverns soared high above. The wasteland was never without danger.
Her thoughts were grim. If she had been able to farcast, she could have spoken in Taimin’s mind to warn him about the firehound. Today, Taimin was alive. But tomorrow he might not be.
“Don’t look so anxious,” Taimin said. He gave her a smile, a real one. “We’re alive. We have each other.”
Selena didn’t return his smile. “But we’ve still got a long way to go.”
2
Vance had his blades laid out in front of him on the cave’s sandy floor. He liked order and precision when it came to his weapons, and each was placed neatly beside the other: a long knife and a short knife, both with bone handles fixed to pale basalt wood, and beside them a thin steel skinning knife. His composite bow, as well-made as they came, rested on a cloth by his knees, and both the stock and the string glistened with freshly applied oil. His sword required the most attention of all. The hardwood blade lay across his lap as his hand made circles over the edge with a smooth stone.
As he honed the sword, he grimaced. Usually he found caring for his weapons something that relaxed him. With his neat flaxen hair and his trimmed beard and moustache, he liked civilized ways. But away from Zorn, not everyone was civilized.
An unpleasant scratching sound filled the cave, much louder than the singing whisper of the stone against the hardwood blade. Vance glared. The ragged sound came from Lars, who sat on a rock, tearing a rectangular piece of coarse leather into strips with his knife. Each long, drawn-out rasp made Vance’s skin crawl.
Lars was a burly man, hairy everywhere except his head, which was as bald as a wyvern’s egg. His eyes were dark and moody, and a thick black beard covered his chin. Vance often wondered about the rover’s past, surviving by his wits in the wasteland, trading skins as he roamed from place to place. But Lars wasn’t the type to share stories.
Lars noticed Vance watching him. The skinner’s eyes rested on the sword across Vance’s lap. “You ever going to finish? I could use some help turning this into cord.”
Vance scowled. “A good edge takes time,” he said. The stone in his hand kept moving, even as he spoke. “Why do you need cord?”
“If you hadn’t spent your life in a city, you’d know there’s always a need for cord. Tying meat. Wrapping skins. Bundling arrows.”