Dagan just stared, twin urges to punch and kiss Hendrik, either one right on the mouth, warring inside him with such violence he nearly shuddered.
“Dags—”
“Shut up,” he cut in again. “I fucking love you more than life itself, Hendrik, I swear by all the gods. I would die for you. I want to live for you. I’ve never known it more certainly than I do right fucking now just how much.
“But shut up or I will lose what’s left of my mind, and we can’t afford that right now.”
Hen nodded, eyelids drooping to veil his expression. Even in the dark, his face was too white, his eyes colorless, his hands shaking. Even in the dark, it was impossible not to see that he was barely alive.
Dagan’s rage began to crumble, sliding into the pit below like so much rocky debris. He crawled beside him again and leaned against his arm. His eyes were still hot and dripping, but if he was sobbing it didn’t feel like anything. He leaned his cheek against Hen’s shoulder, sliding an arm around his carefully, and waited in silence for Innan’s verdict.
It came what felt like an hour later, but was probably only minutes. Innan stirred, shook their hair out, ran fingers through it as best they could. Then they said, “I can do this. There’s a tunnel. It’s a long haul, but I think it’s clear once we get past this block.”
Dagan sat up and eyed their face, still streaked with sweat and blood. “Should you rest again? Last time you moved the earth, your face almost exploded.” He gestured to the dried trickle of blood beneath their nose.
Innan shook their head. “No time. I’ll rest up after, I promise. And we need to get Hen’s leg taken care of. That bone could get infected.”
Dagan winced, since that was precisely the thought he’d been trying not to articulate.
“This won’t be subtle,” they warned.
“Was the last time subtle?” Dagan wondered, glancing around at the endless blackness of the cavern Innan had collapsed entirely.
“No,” they admitted. “The first time was, though. When I ripped a hole in the wall. So it’ll be like that but worse.”
“Right, sounds lovely, darling.” It did not, but Dagan didn’t care. If they could actually open up a tunnel, somehow…if they could actually get out of this cavern…
He couldn’t bring himself to finish the thoughts, so he just braced Hen against him. Hen put an arm over his shoulders, pulled him in tight against his chest, and kissed his forehead, his hair. The ground quaked beneath them in a way that was growing sickeningly familiar. Funny to think he’d never seen Innan do this before today, and now he’d seen it three times. If it was even the same day. Though his mind was numb and his body strangely cold, except where Hen pressed against it, Dagan couldn’t help but be a little impressed.
The moment the tunnel revealed itself, about four feet down from the platform they’d sheltered on, Innan and Dagan hopped into it. Hen made to swing his legs around but turned white as a chamomile petal. Finally, after a few strategic rocks were propped up to help, he slid down on his ass, then hiked himself up on one leg, hand against the wall, tottering precariously.
Dagan ducked under his right arm, fitting as if they’d been designed that way. Innan, though they were pale and staggering too, slid under the other, more for balance than to carry any weight. After about a hundred feet, they stumbled over a rickety wagon, obviously used to ferry something back and forth from the cavern back when this had been a true entryway. With the application of some oil from Dagan’s pack, they got the wheels moving enough that he could pull Hendrik in it. Innan struggled to help too, but Dagan finally told them to get behind and push rather than pulling on one of the hitches. In truth, Innan should’ve been in the wagon, too; they looked dead on their feet. But they pressed on. And on. And up.
“Earthsingers made this tunnel,” Innan murmured at some point.
This surprised Dagan out of his numbness for a moment. “How can you tell?”
“Because they’re split apart like rocks split under natural pressures. That’s how I would do it.” Their voice was half of what it had been, rough and spent. And yet full of wonder.
Dagan couldn’t give it too much thought. Hendrik was white as sun-bleached paper in the wagon, his eyes closed, and looking back at him nearly made Dagan’s knees give out. So he turned and carried on pulling. His body was on fire, his stomach still oddly heavy, and his mind a wash of blackness. They were doing it. They were rising upward, toward the sun again, toward the City and who fucking knew what they’d meet there. But they were alive. They were alive, and so was the City. So was the Blue Bird. So was the Heart Wood.
So was Hendrik. Beautiful, brave, ridiculous, strong, loyal, idiotic Hendrik. Nothing else mattered.
Nothing at all.
*
When they emerged, it was into a dark cellar through a creaky stone entryway that clearly hadn’t been moved in a century. They’d long since burned through the first little beeswax candle and onto the next, which meant they’d been walking for hours. They had to leave the wagon behind and heave Hendrik up a set of stairs and into a slightly less dark bakery, where the warm smells and sights caused Dagan’s stomach to rumble dangerously. He snagged a roll from a shelf and inhaled it as they staggered out into what seemed like evening sunshine.
“The High City,” Hendrik said, eyelids drooping, face pallid. “We’re not far from the Great See. What in all the hells…?”
Armed soldiers wandered by in clumps, but without the black tabard emblazoned with the white Guardhall; they wore green scarves tied around their thighs or upper arms. From the windows and balconies up and down the street, green flags fluttered, the same color as new leaves on an old tree.
“You!” someone shouted. “What happened there?”
Dagan groaned inwardly. Innan visibly slumped beneath Hen’s other arm. “Apologies, my friend,” Dagan tried, suddenly very aware he’d never spoken to anyone in the City who didn’t already know he wasn’t from there. Fuck. “Our friend was injured in a rockslide—uh, near the mines.” Damn it all, the mines were nowhere near the High City. He was too tired to think of anything cleverer, though, and just stared at the woman who’d questioned them.
She came nearer, eying Hendrik’s leg with pursed lips. “That looks bad. You all look bad, if you don’t mind my saying. There’s a healer set up near the See to deal with triage. Come on, we’ll help.”
“Jena?” Hendrik said.
The soldier’s eyes widened. “Hendrik? Fire and stone, where have you—? What happened? I haven’t seen you since Elvi and Kass inherited!”
Hen replied through clenched teeth, “I need to find Jak. You know Jak? From the Red Lantern?”
“Oh, I know just where to find him. Come on. Here, you look beat to shit, let us help.”
The soldiers led them through the cobblestone warren of the High City and to a large, open square filled with tents. The faded brown fabrics of the pavilions were punctuated with flapping strips of green everywhere. People crawled all over the little tent-town, so many that Dagan couldn’t begin to count them. His mind was just so tired. So completely and utterly exhausted, in a way he’d never experienced before—
“Hen! Dagan! Innan!” a high voice shrieked.
Kajja, her face scrubbed a clean pink, her eyes bright and wide and so, so sweet, came flying out of a pavilion toward them. Behind her came Sister Eva, well and whole, if a bit wobbly on her feet.
And then all the rest of them. Everyone…except, Dagan noticed with a sharp spike of pain, Bartolo and Gareth.
*
“Incredible.” Jak shook his head and eyed Hendrik’s pale, too-still form against the garish silks of his bed. Dagan and several healers had overseen the cleaning and care of Hen’s wounds, and of course the resetting of his leg, to make certain the risk of infection was as little as possible. But he still looked like death barely warmed over.
