"I told myself I had found another reason to live." He fell silent, his shoulder brushing mine, his mind reaching out. We dared not exchange names, not in danger such as had found us, but I knew that if I met him elsewhere on the Planes, a hundred lifetimes from now, I should recognize the touch of his mind.
"You know the stories in our world of the Wild Hunt," he said. "This place has a Hunt of its own. Its Master—" he shuddered "—is not one whose hospitality I crave. He wanted a tame mage or, better yet, two from which to breed an army he can use to enter our world and upset its balance."
"How does he know about our world—or about its balance?" I asked.
He looked down. "Lady, you are not the only one of the Wise who has been a fool. I thought I was wise in appealing to you, but you have given me another cause for fear. Forgive me for dragging you after me into this world."
His shoulder flinched away from mine. Once, I had thought I had found a companion with whom I could stand side by side, neither mastering nor mastered. This man's voice had made me dream a second time. False dawns, both times.
I huddled in upon myself.
"How long do you think we can hide here?" I was proud that my voice did not shake.
"The days are very short in this place. One man, alone, could dodge the pack, but with you here and the Master aware of you, I fear those days are numbered." He knelt to rummage among his meager belongings. Then he turned back to me, holding a battered blanket, shaped to make a crude cape.
"You deserve far finer, but this is all I have," he said.
"I am your debtor in the other world," I made myself say. "Your house has been a refuge to me."
"Aye, and once I return, I shall never leave it—" he laughed. "That is what I say. But, lady, you tremble. I wish I had wine for you or a fire."
He spread the blanket over my shoulders, his hands pressing my shoulders briefly, his breath stirring my hair. A lump filled my throat.
"Oh, this is so good," he went on, and I realized that he spoke as much from relief at having companionship as from a need to explain. "One watches; one sleeps. Rest, my... lady. You are weary from the passage between worlds."
A howl from outside our fragile keep had waked me, the wizard's fingers at my lips lest I cry out, betraying us both. Now, my companion rested, his face turned toward me.
"Forgive me if I stare. It has been so long since I have seen another face," he apologized. Gradually, he drifted into sleep. The lines of strain, the lines of craft smoothed out until the sleeping man, his head so close to my knees, might have been a young scholar or fighting man. If he were such a man and I a weaver, say, or a broidress, or even a real lady... I sighed.
His eyes opened again, and he smiled. Then he flung an arm over his face—disappointed at the sight of me rather than another, or reminded of our danger? A silver bracelet gleamed on his wrist, where my wrist was braceleted with scars.
He reached for a covered vessel and offered me water in which herbs had steeped. I wrinkled my nose at the unfamiliar scent. How long could I go without drinking? Sighing, he exchanged the container for another, this one of clear water.
"We must get you back," he said. "There is a fane, less than half the night's travel from here. I found it when I escaped. It is near a river... near, too, to where the Master holds his court."
"Is there danger in venturing so close?"
"Lady, this land teems with danger! I was mad to venture here, madder still to draw another after me. We shall get you home."
"We? And then?" I hated myself for asking, as if I taunted him with the preservation of his life and soul.
"Perhaps by then I shall prove that you can trust me." He shrugged off what meant his return home and bent to scoop up dried pine needles. He crouched, shaping them into a small map of the land we must cross; we studied it, illumined by our own silvery life force.
We took the blanket-cloak with us when we left the tree, but left all else behind, silently aware that, come success or defeat, we would not pass that way again. I had Cup and Blade tucked into my belt. He had a club to which he had bound a sharp-edged stone that looked like flint.
The silver cords—mine vivid, his diminished by his long stay in this place—that marked our lives glowed about us.
And ultimately, they were what betrayed us to the Hunt.