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Seth pulled it from Raider’s weakened grip and slung it over his shoulder. “I’m a fucking pack mule.”
“You’re a something mule,” Raider grumbled as he limped onward.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that too.”
Raider glanced at Seth. Scraped and bruised, laden down like, yes, a pack mule, the Curator tromped doggedly onward. So damn determined. So damn strong.
And handsome. And good.
Too goddamn good.
After another hour, Seth said, “Birds.” He had his arcane scope trained on a craggy mound of hills about a mile out. “Can you make it?”
Raider grunted in confirmation.
Seth glanced down at Raider’s leg, where fresh blood gleamed redly on the already bloodstained silk.
“Yes, I can make it,” Raider forced himself to say, even though the words cost him some of his dwindling energy. He didn’t want Seth stopping early for him. It was better if they made it to the water source that the birds indicated.
Raider did make it, though just barely.
At the sight of a craggy arm of stone sheltering a shallow pool surrounded by tall, spiky cheffah grass, Raider sat down abruptly. At least, that was what he meant to do. Instead he found himself flat on his back in the dirt. Briefly, he saw the clear sky above him. Then even that was gone.
***
Raider was walking down a long palace corridor. It seemed to go on forever, endless miles of pillars and indistinct mosaics, latticed windows and closed doors.
He had a vague sense of being both lost and trapped. Then a different feeling grew within him, a new awareness. Someone was behind him in the corridor. Someone bad.
Raider tried to run, but no matter how hard he strained, he couldn’t pick up speed. He was stuck in agonizingly slow motion with his pursuer right behind him, catching up.
Panicked, Raider looked over his shoulder—and saw himself. A version of himself anyway, one that was pearlescent and gleaming, made entirely of quicksilver. Him but not him.
A hand of liquid metal reached out and closed on Raider’s shoulder—
“Wake up! Raider, wake up!”
Raider bolted upright. When a hand touched his shoulder, quicksilver burst from the joint, cascading down his arm with a metallic shhhhkt! Raider struck out without thinking—and sent Seth flying to the edge of the blankets.
Blankets?
The scene took a moment to clarify. The silvery awning shaded him and Seth and their gear. Beyond, the sun beat down on the vast openness of the desert. There was no palace corridor. There was no quicksilver version of himself.
Wincing, Seth levered himself up and rubbed at his chest—where Raider had slammed a quicksilver palm into him.
Raider tried to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. His throat was too tight. He couldn’t breathe.
Seth crept forward cautiously. “Raider?”
Raider closed his eyes, hating the sight of Seth’s caution, hating that he’d struck out at him. It was too much like his dream of waking entwined with Seth, of Seth being dead, impaled by quicksilver.
When Seth tugged at Raider’s shoulder, he flinched. But Seth didn’t draw back. He just waited. After a moment, the quicksilver retracted, vanishing into Raider’s body with a shhhhkt, leaving only its usual wound.
Seth tugged again. This time Raider gave in. As he lay down, Seth laid a hand on Raider’s chest, settling it over his pounding heart. He rubbed a circle there until Raider’s throat loosened and he could breathe.
After a while, when Raider had calmed down, Seth asked quietly, “Will you tell me?”
Raider’s eyes squeezed shut.
