She thought for a terrible moment that they'd chorus no, but then Yas, of all people, said, 'Yes. Fine. After all, you're such a careful sort. If you think he's safe, he's probably comatose.'
It hurt, but Jenny hid it and waited until they'd all agreed. Then she stood. 'All right. Let's do it.'
The easiest way out was through the storage basement of Gyrth's uncle's grocery. They'd used it as teenagers when sneaking outside had seemed like an adventure. It didn't take long to move the stack of heavy boxes, then work out the loose stones that blocked the tunnel through the thick wall. Wriggling down the rough, dusty hole wasn't Jenny's favorite thing, but right now it seemed a small challenge. She went backward so her feet went out first, hung on with her fingers a second longer than necessary, then dropped the six feet or so to the grass.
She was committed now.
Jenny waved at Gyrth, whose blond head was sticking out of the hole to make sure she was all right, then turned toward that glowing fire.
She shivered under the swamp of chill air and dark infinity. Once again she couldn't see the ground beneath her feet, and Dan wasn't guiding her. She made herself step forward. She knew this was smooth grass, but she still felt for each step as if an abrupt crevasse might pitch her into destruction.
Then light shimmered, forming a silvery path across the grass, a path to the fire. To that figure by the fire, even though he hadn't moved.
She froze. He could do this. What else could he do?
Then he turned. 'Hello, Jen.'
He was still just a shape against the glow, but it was Dan's voice for sure, just the same as before except for the tone. She searched that tone for welcome, for warmth, and found none. Something inside shrank, wanting to run away. What if he didn't even remember the night that was so important to her? Combat stress caused neural damage that could show in many ways.
'Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you.'
She walked forward, picking that apart. I won't hurt you. Not, I can't hurt you.
She'd known that — that he was controlled not by what he could do but by what he allowed himself to do — yet she was suddenly crushed by the mission she'd so carelessly chosen. Who was she to decide the fate of a town? Of a world, even. Who was she to assess Dan's capacity to harm and destroy?
When she arrived close to the fire and was touched by its light and warmth, she finally saw him clearly.
Changed. Very.
Dan. Still.
She realized what made him look harsher — his hair was drawn back in a plait, into that rope of hair hanging down his back.
Hair didn't grow that much in the time he'd been away.
'Would you like to sit,' he said, 'or did you just come to stare?'
She flinched at his tone, but then he added, 'I have tea, and two cups. It's not stewed.'
She sat suddenly on the grass, on the opposite side of the low fire. He remembered. 'How are you?' It was a stupid question, but it had to be asked.
'Better.' He poured tea into a cup she remembered so well and passed it to her.
Better than what? she wanted to ask, but she was groping through the dark here, afraid of rocks and crevasses.
'Have the governors sent you any message?' she asked, sipping. It was perfectly made tea, delicate and fresh. It made her want to laugh and cry.
'I thought perhaps you were it.'
'Unlikely.'
'Sometimes messages are judiciously indirect.'
It was a subtle point, made with a cynicism that was strange from him.
'So?' he asked. 'What's going on?'
'They've formed a committee.'
His lips didn't even twitch. He might as well know the truth. 'They're afraid of you, Dan. Grateful, mind, but afraid.'
'That's fair. I'm afraid of myself.'
Well, there was the answer to her question. She put down the cup because her hands had started to shake. 'Then why do you want to come back?'
'It's my home.'
'A person doesn't bring danger to their home.'
'Why are you here, then?'
Truth. 'A group of us — Tom, Yas, you know — thought we needed to find out about you. Before doing anything.'
'And you drew the short straw?'
She sighed. 'I was the only one willing.'
He suddenly smiled, a flickering hint of the old Dan. 'Ah, Jen. That's part of why I've come back.'
'For your doubting friends?'
'For you.'
Her heart missed a beat. 'Why?'
'Do you have to ask?'
'Yes.'
He looked down. 'Perhaps because you commanded me to.'
Coward that she was, she didn't want that burden. 'Really?'
'Partly.'
She realized then that he was being as painfully careful of truth as she was.
He looked back up, faced her. 'I need you, Jen, to have a chance of survival.'
'You have survived! The war's over. Isn't it?'
'I'm not sure wars are ever over. The repercussions rumble on and on.'
'You don't need me.' She meant it to be cheerful, bracing, but truth tumbled out after it. 'I don't want to be needed that way, Dan.'
'I don't want to need you that way. Sometimes we run out of choices.'
He reached into the fire and grasped a burning brand. He lifted it, flames licking his fingers. She waited for him to drop it, but he didn't.
'I can hold a burning brand, Jen. You can hold me.'
She tossed her remaining tea over the flames. They hissed, but then burned on undaunted.
Burning what?
He released the brand in midair, and it hung there as he showed her his unmarked hand. 'You'll survive, too. I think.'
When he'd left, a small piece of glowing wood had burned his fingers. Sharp as a knife, Jenny knew everyone was right. Dan was more dangerous than she'd ever imagined, too dangerous by far for a peaceful town. Or for her.
'You can't force me, Dan.'
'I can, in fact, but I'm trying not to.' Abruptly, the brand fell back into the fire, scattering golden sparks. 'I've learned many things, Jen, and one is that we do what we have to do to win.' Suddenly, he lowered his head, his fingers digging into his bound hair. 'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have put it like that. I've not talked to real people for a long time. Rusty skills…'
Oh, if he was looking for a weapon, he'd found a good one. It was as if she were back by the lake again, with Dan facing death and the ashes gritty in her mind. She longed to reach out and soothe those anguished hands, but she held back. She had taken on a greater role, had accepted the responsibility of judge. And she was scared. She felt a lick of fear that might be what a hellbane victim felt, and a pull toward him that was almost as bad.
'I need you, yes,' he said, with the kind of calm that takes great effort, 'but there's more to it than that.' He looked up, eyes densely dark in the fire's shadows. 'The world needs you. Needs both of us. You say you can't. You don't have that choice. You must.'
