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He toppled inside, hissing as he hit the bottom.
Truly climbed in after him, and crouching behind his bent knees, grabbed the rope attached to the top of bucket.
She met his gaze. “When I saynow, take a deep breath and hold it.”
Westvane nodded. He didn’t have much more in him. The journey across the cave had hurt. Hitting the bottom of the bucket had felt worse. And as he looked up and saw water rippling overhead, he knew whatever came next wasn’t going to be any better. Now all he needed to do was hope he held his breath long enough to survive the ascent back to the surface.
34
DEAD IN THE WATER
The bucket moved slower going up than coming down. Westvane’s fault. He was a big guy, huge by human standards, no slouch when measured by an Azlandian yardstick either. The fact he fit in the bucket at all counted as a minor miracle.
The kind she appreciated right now.
Even so, Truly prayed a bigger one hung on the horizon. One that moved her into warp speed. She needed to reach the top of the well soon. Her lungs weren’t holding up. Pain, worse than before, burned inside her chest. She was running out of air. Running out of time. Running out of hope while water swirled and the chill took chunks out of her willpower.
Palm pressed to her breastbone, she glanced at Westvane. He wasn’t faring any better. Under normal circumstances, the well wouldn’t have fazed him. He’d have spiraled up to the surface without the bucket’s help, then stood in the moonlight and snarled at the forest, disgusted by its attempt to kill him.
In the weak light thrown by glowing hummingbirds, Truly couldn’t see a hint of his usual arrogance. The Slayer’s brashness was long gone. He was struggling to hold on. She felt his pain, sensed his weakness, saw the awful burns on his body and what the Hollow had done to his wings. Now, she was forcing him to hold his breath, pushing his limits, adding insult to injury.
Come on.
Come on.
Gripping the frayed edge of Westvane’s coat, she reached up. Her hand found the rope attached to the bucket. She yanked, trying to speed their ascent. Her efforts didn’t make the bucket move any faster. Lungs burning, stomach churning, she looked up. Water streamed over her as she peered into the darkness, desperate for a glimpse of light above her.
Stone walls whirled past. Well water rippled and flowed. Cold needled into her skin, drilling into her bones and…
There.Just there. Beyond the blur, a glimmer reaching through the gloom.
She shook Westvane.
His eyes cracked open.
“Almost there,” she mouthed.
Black eyelashes nothing but dark slashes against his pale face, he nodded. The movement hardly signified. More flinch than actual acknowledgement, but at least, it was something. An indication he was still alive.
The glow widened, brightened.
Truly glimpsed the shadowed slash of a straight line. Seconds later, the bucket broke the surface of the water. Half submerged, listing to one side, she grabbed the wooden side to keep the box upright. Sucking in a raspy breath, she blinked water out of her eyes and searched for Azalea. She found her at the edge of a gathering crowd.
“Got him,” she said, the words scraping the back of her sore throat. Truly cleared the rawness away, but… God. She sounded terrible, like someone who’d spent years smoking three packs a day. “He’s hurt.”
Her brow furrowed, Azalea stepped up to the well. Those gathered behind her followed, crowding in like looky-loos, curious and clustered, wanting to see an injured Slayer.
“How bad?” Azalea asked, peering inside the bucket.
“It isn’t good.” Climbing onto the stone ledge, she dragged the bucket closer to the side wall. Droplets splattered over the ground. Wood bumped against stone. Westvane snarled. The group jumped back. “I need help hauling him out.”
The looky-loos beat a fast retreat.
Azalea wrung her hands. “No one will —”
“I don’t care that you’re afraid of him,” she said, keeping her gaze level and her tone firm. “Here’s what I need, and you’re going to give me — someone to help lift him out, a warm place to stay and —”
“A hut has been prepared for you.”
