Black Sun Rising

1

Damien Kilcannon Vryce looked like he was fully capable of handling trouble, for which reason trouble generally gave him a wide berth. His thick-set body was hard with muscle, his hands textured with calluses that spoke of fighting often, and well. His shoulders bore the weight of a sizable sword in a thick leather harness with no sign of strain, despite the fact that the dust stains on his woolen shirt and the mud which caked his riding boots said that he had been traveling long and hard, and ought to be tired. His skin had tanned and scarred and peeled and tanned again, over and over again with such constancy that it now gave the impression of roughly tanned leather. His hands, curled lightly about the thick leather reins, were still reddened from exposure to the dry, cold wind of the Divider Mountains. All in all a man to be reckoned with . . . and since the thieves and bravos of Jaggonath’s outskirts preferred less challenging prey, he passed unmolested through the crowded western districts, and entered the heart of the city.

Jaggonath. He breathed in its dusty air, the sound of its name, the fact of its existence. He was here. At last. After so many days on the road that he had almost forgotten he had a goal at all, that there was anything else but traveling . . . and then the city had appeared about him, first the timber houses of the outer districts, and then the brick structures and narrow cobbled streets of the inner city, rising up like stone crops to greet the dusty sunlight. It was almost enough to make him forget what it took to get here, or why they had chosen him and no one else to make this particular crossing.

Hell, he thought dryly, no one else was fool enough to try. He tried to picture one of the Ganji elders making the long trek from westlands to east—crossing the most treacherous of all mountain ranges, fighting off the nightmare beasts that made those cold peaks their home, braving the wild fae and all that it chose to manifest, their own souls’ nightmares given substance—but the diverse parts of such a picture, like the facets of a badly-worked Healing, wouldn’t come together. Oh, they might have agreed to come, provided they could use the sea for transport . . . but that had its own special risks, and Damien preferred the lesser terrors of things he could do battle with to the unalterable destructive power of Erna’s frequent tsunami.

He prodded his horse through the city streets with an easy touch, content to take his time, eager to see what manner of place he had come to. Though night was already falling, the city was as crowded as a Ganji marketplace at high noon. Strange habits indeed, he mused, for people who lived so near a focal point of malevolence. Back in Ganji, shopkeepers would already be shuttering their windows against the fall of night, and making ward-signs against the merest thought of Coreset. Already the season had hosted nights when no more light than that of a single moon shone down to the needy earth, and the first true night was soon to come; all the creatures that thrived on darkness would be most active in this season, seeking blood or sin or semen or despair or whatever special substance they required to sustain themselves, and seeking it with vigor. Only a fool would walk the night unarmed at such a time—or perhaps, Damien reflected, one who lived so close to the heart of that darkness that constant exposure had dulled all sense of danger.

Or was it that there was simply safety in numbers, in a city so large that no matter how many were taken in the night, the odds were good that it wouldn’t be you?

Then something caught his eye; he reined up suddenly, and his three-toed mount snorted with concern. Laughing softly, he patted it on the neck. “No danger here, old friend.” Then he considered, and added, “Not yet, anyway.”

He dismounted and led the dappled creature across the street, to the place that had caught his eye. It was a small shop, with a warded canopy set to guard the walkway just outside, and a marquee that caught the dying sunlight like drops of fire. Fae Shoppe it said, in gleaming gold letters. Resident loremaster. All hours.

He looked back over his shoulder, to the gradually darkening street. Night was coming on with vigor, and God alone knew what that would mean. The sensible thing to do would be to find an inn and drop off his things, get his mount under guard, and affix a few wards to his luggage . . . but when had he ever done the sensible thing, when curiosity was driving him? He took a moment to remove his most valuable bag from the horse’s back—his only valuable bag, in fact—locked the beast’s lead chain to a hitching rack, and went inside.

Into another world. The dying sunlight gave way to orange and amber, the flickering light of tinted lamps. Warm-toned wood added to the sense of harmony, possibly aided by a ward or two; he could feel his travel-weary muscles relax as he entered, but the Working that made them do so was too subtle to define.

All about him were things. Marvelous objects, no two of them alike, which filled to overflowing the multitude of shelves, display cases, and braces that lined the interior of the shop. Some were familiar to him, in form if not in detail. Weapons, for instance: his practiced eye took in everything from blades to pistols, from the simple swords of his own martial preference to the more complicated marvels that applied gunpowder in measured doses—and just as often misapplied it. Household items, of every kind imaginable. Books and bookmarks and bookstands, pen and paper. And some objects that were clearly Worked: talismans etched with ancient Earth symbols, intricately knotted wards, herbs and spices and perfumes and oils, and all the equipment necessary to maximize their effect.

A bizarre sort of gift shop, or general grocery? He read some of the labels, and shook his head in amazement. Was it possible—really possible—that the objects surrounding him were Worked? All of them? What a fantastic notion!

In the center of the room, dividing the public area from that space which clearly served as a reference library, a glass counter served to support several dozen books and the man who was perusing them. He was pale in a way that westerners rarely were, but Damien sensed nothing amiss about the coloring; despite its stark contrast with his dark hair, eyes, and clothing, it probably meant nothing more sinister than that he worked the late shift. In a city that remained active all night, anything was possible.

The man lifted up his wire-rimmed spectacles as he noticed his visitor, then removed them; Damien caught a flash of delicately etched sigils centered in the circles of clear glass. “Welcome,” he said pleasantly. “Can I help you with anything?”

The counter was filled with more whimsical objects, taffeta-quilt hearts and small calico bags with rosette bows, wards made up to look like massive locks and chalices engraved with sexually suggestive motifs. All of them labeled. And if the labels were accurate . . .

“Do they really Work?” he asked.

The pale man nodded pleasantly, as though he heard the question every day. “Lady Cee’s a certified adept. Each object in the shop has been fae-bound to a purpose. Results are guaranteed, in most cases. Can I show you something in particular?”

He was about to answer when a door in the back of the shop swung open—well camouflaged by the mountains of books that flanked it, or perhaps by a Working?—and a woman entered, her bright eyes jubilant. “Found it!” she announced.

Her associate sighed melodramatically and shut the thick volume before him. “Thank gods. At last.”

“If I hadn’t worked that damned Obscuring on it in the first place-” She stopped as she saw Damien, and a smile lit her face. “Hello, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize we had company.”

It was impossible not to return that infectious smile. “Lady Cee, I presume?”

“If you like. Ciani of Faraday.” She came forward and offered her hand, which he grasped with pleasure. Dark hair and soft brown skin served as a backdrop for wide, expressive eyes, and lips that seemed to find their natural placement in a broad grin of pleasure. Fine lines fanned out from the corners of her eyes, hinting at age, but the quality of her skin and the firmness of her figure told another story. It was impossible to read either her true age or her origin, which might have been intentional; whatever the case, he found himself more than marginally attracted to her.

Be honest, Damien. You’ve always been attracted to things faewise, and here’s a true adept; would her looks have made much of a difference?

“My pleasure,” he said with gusto. “Damien Kilcannon Vryce, lately of Ganji-on—the-Cliffs, at your service.” Her eyes crinkled with amusement, which hinted that she knew how many titles he was omitting. She must have worked a Knowing on him as soon as she saw him; that he had never noticed her doing it said much for her skill.

But that stands to reason. As an adept she isn’t simply more powerful than most, she’s immersed in the fae in a way no others can be. Then he remembered where he was, and thought in amazement, What must that mean for her, to have such awareness, living in the shadow of such a great Darkness . . .

“And are you the resident loremaster, as well?”

She bowed her head. “I have that honor.”

“Meaning . . . an archivist?”

“Meaning, I research, collect, Know, and disseminate information. As it is said our ancestors once used machines to do, before the Great Sacrifice. For a modest consultation fee, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Meaning also that my position is one of absolute neutrality, regarding the uses to which such data is put.” Her eyes sparkled mischievously, and she added, “Discretion assured.”

“That’s necessary, I assume.”

“Oh, yes. We learned that the hard way. Too many so-called Datalords were killed in the early days, by sorcerers seeking vengeance for one indiscretion or another. We learned not to take sides. And the populace learned to respect our neutrality, in order to benefit from our continued presence. Is there something I can show you? Or some service we can offer?”

He wondered just how deep within him her Knowing had searched. And watched her closely as he said, “I need a local fae-map. Do you carry them?”

Her eyes sparkled with amusement, reflecting the amber of the lamplight. “I think we may,” she answered simply. Not rising to the bait. “Current or historical?”

“Current.”

“Then I’m sure we do.” She stepped back to search through one of the book-strewn shelves, and after a few minutes chose and pulled forth a heavy vellum sheet. She laid it out on the counter before him and pinned its corners down with several unlabeled objects that had been lying about, allowing him to study it.

He whistled softly. Currents of fae flowed through the city in half a dozen directions, each carefully labeled as to its tenor and tidal discrepancies. North of the city, beyond the sheltered ports of Kale and Seth and across the twisted straits that separated two continents, a spiral of wild currents swirled to a focal point so thick with notes and measurements that he could hardly make out its position. The Forest? he wondered, seeking out the region’s name from among the myriad notes. Yes, the Forest. And smack dab in the middle of it was the wildest fae on any human continent, and by far the most dangerous. So close!

“Will it do?” she asked. In a tone of voice that said plainly that she knew it made the fae-maps of his home look like mere road maps of a few simple country paths. He had never seen, nor even imagined, anything like this.

“How much?”

“Fifty local, or its western equivalent. Or barter,” she added.

Intrigued, he looked up at her.

“We have very few visitors from your region, and fewer still who brave the Dividers. Your news and experience are worth quite a bit to me—professionally speaking, of course. I might be willing to trade to you what you want, in return for what you know.”

“Over dinner?” he asked smoothly.

She looked him over, from his mud-caked boots to his rough woolen shirt; he thought he felt the fae grow warm about him, and realized that she was Knowing him as well.

“Isn’t there someplace you’re supposed to be?” she asked, amused.

He shrugged. “In a week. They don’t know I’m here early—and won’t unless I tell them. No one’s waiting up for me,” he assured her.

She nodded slightly as she considered it. Then turned to the man beside her—who was already waiting with an answer.

“Go on, Cee.” He, too, was smiling. “I can hold the shop till midnight. Just get back before the-” He stopped in mid-sentence, looked uncomfortably at Damien. “Before they come, all right?”

She nodded. “Of course.” From under a pile of papers she drew out two objects, a ward on a ribbon and a small, clothbound notebook. These she gave to the man, explaining, “When Dez comes in, give him these charts. He wanted more . . . but I can do only so much, working with the Core stars. If he wants anything more, try to convince him to trust the earth-fae. I can do a more detailed Divining with that.”

“I will.”

“And Chelli keeps asking for a charm for her son, to ward against the perils of the true night. I’ve told her I can’t do that. No one can. She’s best off just keeping him inside . . . she might come in again to ask.”

“I’ll tell her.”

“That’s it, I think.” She lifted a jacket from the coatstand near the door, and smiled at Damien as she donned it. “Your treat?”

“My honor,” he responded.

“The New Sun, then. You’ll like it.” She glanced back, toward her assistant. “I’ll be there if you need me, Zen; just Send.”

He nodded.

Damien offered her his arm. She stared at it for a moment, clearly amused by the custom, then twined her own smaller limb about it. “You can stable your horse there,” she informed him. “And I think you’ll find the neighborhood . . . interesting.”

Interesting was an understatement.

The Inn of the New Sun was one of several buildings that bordered Jaggonath’s central plaza, as prime a piece of real estate as one could ask for. The restaurant’s front room looked out upon several neat acres of grass and trees, divided up into geometrical segments by well-maintained walkways. By its numerous pagodas and performance stands, Damien judged that the plaza hosted a score of diverse activities, probably lasting through all the warm-weather months. It was truly the center of the city, in more than just geography. And at the far side, gleaming silver in the moonlight . . .

A cathedral. The cathedral. Not surrounded by satellite buildings of its faith, as was the Great Cathedral in Ganji, but part and parcel of the bustling city life. He moved to where he could get a view clear of the trees, and exhaled noisily in admiration. If rumor was truth, it was the oldest extant church on the eastern continent. Built at the height of the Revival, it was a monument to the tremendous dramatic potential of the Neo-Gothic style. Archways and buttresses soared toward the heavens, creamy white numarble reflecting moonlight and lamplight both with pristine perfection. Set against the dark evening sky, the building glowed as though fae-lit, and drew worshipers to it like moths to a flame. On its broad steps milled dozens—no, hundreds of worshipers, and their faith tamed the wild fae that flowed about their feet, sending it out again laden with calmness, serenity, and hope. Damien stared at it, awed and amazed, and thought, Here, in this wild place, the Dream is alive. A core of order, making civilization possible. If only it could have been managed on a broader scale . . .

Her light touch on his sleeve reminded him of where he was and who he was with, and he nodded.

Later.

She ordered food for both of them. Local delicacies, she said. He decided not to ask what they’d looked like when they were alive. But despite his misgivings he found them delicious, and the thick, sweet ale that was Jaggonath’s specialty was a welcome change after months of dried rations and water.

They talked. He told her stories, in payment for the map, embroidering upon his true adventures until her gentle smile warned him that he bordered on genuine dishonesty. And gave her real news, in a more sober vein. Five ships wrecked on the Ganji cliffs, a diplomat from the Wetlands lost in the tragedy. Summer storms from out of the desert, as if the sandlands themselves would claim new territory. Tsunami. Earthquakes. Politics. She was interested in everything, no matter how trivial it seemed to him, and would give him no information in return until he had finished to her satisfaction.

By the time their dessert came the night was as dark as most nights ever got, the sun and Core wholly gone, one moon soon to follow, a few lingering stars barely visible above the horizon.

“So,” she said pleasantly, as she spooned black sugar—another Jaggonath specialty—into a thick, foamy drink. “Your turn. What is it you hunger most to know?”

He considered the several half-jesting answers he might have offered another woman, then reconsidered and discarded them. An open offer of information was just too valuable an opportunity to waste on social repartee.

“Forest or Rakh,” he answered, after very little thought. “Take your pick.”

For a moment—just the briefest moment—he saw something dark cross her countenance. Anger? Fear? Foreboding? But her voice was its usual light self as she leaned back and asked him, “Ambitious, aren’t you?”

“Those things are only legends where I come from. And shadowy legends, at that.”

“But you’re curious.”

“Who wouldn’t be?”

“About the Forest? When merely thinking about it opens up a channel for the dark fae to travel? Most men prefer to avoid that risk.”

The Forest. The fact that she had chosen that topic meant that it was the other one which had caused her such acute discomfort; he filed that fact away for future reference, and addressed himself to the issue she preferred. The Forest, called Forbidden in all the ancient texts. What did they know of it, even here? It was a focal point of the wildest fae, which in an earlier, less sophisticated age had been called evil. Now they knew better. Now they understood that the forces which swept across this planet’s surface were neither good nor evil in and of themselves, but simply responsive. To hopes and fears, wards and spells and all the patterns of a Working, dreams and nightmares and repressed desires. When tamed, it was useful. When responding to man’s darker urges, to the hungers and compulsions which he repressed in the light of day, it could be deadly. Witness the Landing, and the gruesome deaths of the first few colonists. Witness the monsters that Damian had fought in the Dividers, shards of man’s darkest imaginings given fresh life and solid bodies, laying traps for the unwary in the icy wilderness.

Witness the Forest.

“Sheer concentration makes the fae there too strong to tame,” she told him. “Manifestial response is almost instantaneous. In plainer English, merely worrying about something is enough to cause it to happen. Every man that’s dared to walk in those shadows, regardless of his intentions, has left some dark imprint behind him. Every death that’s taken place beneath those trees has bound the fae to more and greater violence. The Church once tried to master it by massive applications of faith—that was the last of the Great Wars, as I’m sure you know—but all it did was give them back their nightmares, with a dark religious gloss. Such power prefers the guarded secrets of the unconscious to the preferences of our conscious will.”

“Then how can man thrive so close to it? How can Jaggonath—and Kale, and Seth, and Gehann—how can those cities even exist, much less function?”

“Look at your map again. The Forest sits at the heart of a whirlpool, a focal point of dark fae that draws like to like, sucking all malevolent manifestations toward its, center. Most things that go in never come out again. If it were otherwise we could never live here, this close to its influence.”

“You said that most things never leave.”

She nodded, and her expression darkened. “There’s a creature that lives within the Forest—maybe a demon, maybe a man—which has forced a dark sort of order upon the wild fae there. Legend has it that he sits at the heart of the whirlpool like a spider in its web, waiting for victims to become trapped in its power. His minions can leave the Forest and do, in a constant search for victims to feed to him.”

“You’re talking about the Hunter.”

“You know the name?”

“I’ve heard it often enough, since coming east. Never with an explanation.”

“For good reason,” she assured him. “Merely mentioning the name opens a channel through the fae . . . people are terrified of such contact. It’s more than just the Hunter himself. He’s become our local bogeyman, the creature that lurks in dark corners and closets, whose name is used to scare children into obedience. Easterners are raised to fear the Hunter more than any other earthly power, save the Evil One himself. And don’t take me wrong—he is, genuinely, both powerful and evil. His minions hunt the shadows of the eastern cities for suitable prey, to take back to the Forest to feed to him. Women, always; mostly young, inevitably attractive. It’s said that he hunts them like wild animals there, in the heart of that land which responds to his every whim. A very few survive—or are permitted to survive, for whatever dark purpose suits him. All are insane. Most would be better off dead. They usually kill themselves, soon after.”

“Go on,” he said quietly.

“It’s said that his servants can walk the earth as men, once the sun is gone. For which reason you’ll rarely see women abroad alone after dark—they walk guarded, or in groups.”

“You call it he,” he said quietly. “You think it’s a man.”

“I do, myself. Others don’t.”

“An adept?”

“He would have to be, wouldn’t he?”

“Whom the Forest dominated.”

She studied him, as if choosing her words with care. “Maybe,” she said at last. Watching him. “I think not.”

Or he dominated the Forest. The thought was staggering. All the might of the Church had been pitted against the measureless evil in a war to end all wars . . . to no avail. Was it possible that one single man might dominate such a place, when thousands had given up their lives failing to do so?

With a start he realized that she had signaled for the bill, and was gathering her jacket about her shoulders. Had they been here that long?

“It’s getting late,” she said, apologetically. “I do have to get back.”

“To meet with them?” He tried to keep his tone light but there was an edge to it that he failed to disguise.

The bill was placed between them. He looked at it.

“There are ninety-six pagan churches in this city,” she warned him. “Nineteen adepts, and nearly a thousand more that style themselves sorcerers, or its equivalent. You won’t like any of them, or approve of what they do. So don’t ask.”

“I don’t know about that. I rather like this one.”

She looked at him, clearly bemused, and at last shoot her head. “You’re not half bad company, considering your livelihood. Far better than I expected.”

He grinned. “I try.”

“You’ll be in town for a while?”

“If they can tolerate me.”

She didn’t ask who he was referring to, which confirmed the fact that she already knew. Her Knowing had been thorough indeed—and little surprise, in such a place as this.

He looked out into the night-bound plaza, and thought of the things that such darkness might hide.

“Come on,” he told her, and he scattered eastern coins on the table. “I’ll walk you back.”

If the cathedral had seemed magnificent from a distance, it was even more impressive from up close. Greater archways soared above lesser ones, the space between them filled with a rich assortment of stylized carvings. Layer upon layer of ornamentation covered the vast edifice, as if its designer had suffered from a phobia of unadorned space; but if the whole of it was overworked, by modem standards, that too was part of its style. The strength of Revivalist architecture lay in its capacity to overwhelm the viewer.

Damien stood at the base of the massive front staircase and let himself open up to all that its presence implied: the faith of thousands bound together, serving one Law; the remnants of a great dream that had been damaged but not destroyed in one terrible war, that had fragmented man’s Church and left him at the mercy of what this strange planet called Nature; the hope that someday faith would conquer fae, and the whole of Erna could be colonized—safely—at last.

All those impressions filled him, joining with the warmth of his body: the coursing heat of rich ale in his veins, the triumph of his arrival, and the exhilaration of sexual diplomacy.

If I were not so dusty, he had said to her, when at last they returned to her shop, I might attempt to seduce you.

If you were not so dusty, she had answered with a smile, you might stand a chance of success.

An excellent omen for the future, he thought.

The last congregants of the night were descending on both sides of him, parting like a wave as they poured down the ivory steps. No women walked alone, he noted, but they stayed together in small groups, or were guarded by men; even here, on God’s own front steps, the shadow of the Hunter was felt.

Then the last well-wishers shook hands with their priest and made their descent, and the great ornate doors were swung slowly shut, closing out the night.

He looked at them for a while, admiring their intricate carvings, and then climbed the steps himself and knocked.

A sub-door opened and a robed man with a small lamp peeked out. Against the background of the gleaming white steps, in the wake of so many well-dressed attendants, Damien knew that he looked his grubbiest.

“Well?” the man asked, in a tone of voice that clearly stated: We are closed for the night. He shot a suspicious glance toward Damien’s sword.

“The building is open?”

With a sigh of exasperation the man stepped aside, allowing Damien to enter. Yes, technically the building was unlocked, and anyone could enter it to pray—that was Church custom, in east and west alike—and if some rough warrior wanted to do so at this time, the man had no right to turn him away. Damien had known that when he asked. But as he ducked beneath the lintel of the low, narrow sub-door, and entered the foyer of the cathedral itself, the man’s hand fell like a warning on his shoulder.

2

Image of a Patriarch: stark white hair above aquiline features, eyes a cold, piercing blue. Thin lips drawn back in a hard line, a fleeting glimpse of flawless teeth within. Pale brown skin dried and thickened by age. Lines of character deeply incised: tense, severe, disapproving. The body, like the face, toughened rather than weakened by seventy winters of life. Broad, strong shoulders, from which cascaded a waterfall of ivory silk, voluminous enough to obscure the body’s outline. Power—in every feature, even in his stance. Authority.

And something else, to be read in his face, his eyes, his very posture—and his voice, a rich baritone that any chorister would pray to possess. Anger. Resentment. Distaste.

Exactly what Damien had expected.

“You have a commission?” the Patriarch asked coldly.

Books lined every wall, punctuated by small, pierced-glass windows that broke up the city’s lights into a thousand jeweled sparks. What furniture there was, was rich: a heavy mahogova desk, crimson velvet cushions on the single matching chair, antique drapes and patterned carpets that spoke of wealth in careful, tasteful investment. Damien looked around for some convenient resting spot, at last chose a shelf edge to support his bag while he rummaged inside it for the Matriarch’s letter. Dust rose up from the travel-stained pack and settled on several of the nearer shelves; he could feel the Patriarch’s eyes on him, disapproving, even before he faced him.

“Her Holiness sends her best,” he announced, and he handed over the vellum envelope. The Patriarch regarded it for a moment, noting that the seal of the Church which granted it official status had been set to one side, so that the envelope remained open. He glanced up at Damien, briefly, cold blue eyes acknowledging the message: She trusts you. And adding his own: I don’t.

Then he removed the commission itself and read.

Power, Damien thought. He radiates power. When he was certain that the Patriarch’s attention was firmly fixed on the document, he whispered the key to a Knowing. Softly—very softly—knowing that if he were caught Working the fae at this time and place, he might well be throwing away everything he’d hoped to accomplish. But the words, barely spoken, went unheard. The fae gathered around him, softly, and wove a picture that his mind could interpret. And yes . . . it was as he had suspected. He wondered if the Patriarch even knew, or if the man attributed the force of his own presence to mere human concepts, like charisma. Bearing. Instead of recognizing the truth—which was that his every thought sent tiny ripples coursing through the fae, altering his environment to suit his will. A natural, in the vernacular. A born sorcerer, whose chosen profession forbade him from acknowledging the very source of his authority.

At last the Patriarch nodded, and with carefully manicured hands he folded the commission again, sliding it back into its vellum container. “She thinks highly of you,” he said, placing it on the desk beside him: statement of fact, with neither approval nor disapproval implied. “He is loyal, she writes, and wholly dedicated to our mission. You may depend upon his honor, his vigilance, and his discretion.” He glared, and the thin mouth tightened. “Very well. I won’t do you the dishonor of dissembling, Damien Kilcannon Vryce. Let me tell you just how welcome you are here—you and your sorcery.”

Four long steps took him to the nearest window; Damien caught the flash of jeweled rings as he swung it open, revealing the lights of the city. For a moment he simply stared at them, as though something in the view would help him choose his words. “Since my earliest years,” he said at last, “I’ve served this region. Since that day when I was first old enough to understand just what this planet was, and what it had done to mankind, I’ve devoted myself body and soul to our salvation. It meant adhering to one god, in a world where hundreds of would-be deities clamored for worship, promising cheap and easy miracles in return for minimal offerings. It meant clinging to a Church that still bled from the memory of its greatest defeat, in an age when triumphant temples rose up like wheat in springtime. I chose what was clearly the harder path because I believed in it—believe in it, Reverend Vryce!—and I have never once faltered in that faith. Or in my belief that such faith is necessary, in order to restore man to his Earth-born destiny.”

A cold evening breeze gusted in through the window; the Patriarch turned his face into it, let the chill wind brush back his hair. “Most difficult of all was Church custom regarding the fae. Especially in this city, where sorcery is so cheap that the poor can buy visions of plentiful food more easily than the real thing . . . and then they die of hunger, Reverend Vryce. Their bodies gutted by starvation, but a ghastly smile on their faces. Which is why I believe as I do—as my Church has believed, for nearly a thousand years. We won’t tame this tyrannical force by parceling it out to sorcerers, for their paltry spells and their squalid conjurations. The more we expose it to humankind’s greed, the more it stinks of our excesses. Gannon saw that very clearly, back in the Revival. He outlawed private sorcery for that very reason—and I agree with him, heart and soul. If you need an example of what the fae can do to a man, once it has hold of him . . . consider the Prophet’s Fall. Or the First Sacrifice. Witness all the monsters that the fae has brought to life, using man’s fear as a template . . . I swore to fight those things, Reverend Vryce. At any cost to myself. I swore that the fae would be tamed, according to the Prophet’s guidelines.”

“And then came a letter. From your Matriarch, your Holy Mother. Informing me that the west had begun an investigation into how the fae might be manipulated for Church purposes, by a chosen few trained toward that end. Sorcery! Dress it up in holy silks as you will, it still stinks. I argued with her, pleaded with her, I would have gone so far as to threaten her if I thought it would do any good . . . but your Holy Mother is a headstrong woman, and her mind was made up. And now I am watching my Church dissolve, Reverend Vryce, my dream of salvation corrupted . . .” He turned back to Damien, cold eyes narrowed. “And you are the vehicle of that corruption.”

“No one said you had to have me,” Damien snapped—and instantly regretted his lack of control. He’d been prepared for much worse than this; why was he overreacting? It was the fae that had affected him, responding to the Patriarch’s will. Why? What did he want?

For me to lose control, he realized. For me to act in such a way that he would have no choice but to cast me out. It staggered the imagination, that a man who neither accepted nor understood the fae could Work it so well—without ever knowing that he did. How much of the man’s intolerance was rooted in his own need to deny the truth?

“No,” the Patriarch agreed. “I could have fragmented the Church instead, given birth to a schism that might never heal . . . or begun a holy war, trying to avoid that. Those options were even more distasteful, in the end, and so I agreed. Send me your sorcerer, I told her. Let me see what he does. Let me see how he operates. Let me see for myself that his Working is no threat to our faith.” His expression was icy. “If you can demonstrate that to my satisfaction I’ll be a very surprised man.”

Mustering all his self-control, Damien answered coolly, “I’ll regard that as a goal, Holiness.”

The blue eyes fixed on him, pinpoints of azure fire. “Damien Kilcannon Vryce. Knight of King Gannon’s Order of the Golden Flame. Companion of the Earth-Star Ascendant. Reverend Father of the Church of the Unification of Human Faith on Erna. What is our calling, to you?”

Damien stiffened. “A dream—that I would die to uphold, or kill to defend.”

The Patriarch nodded slowly. “Yes. Well recited. The definition of your Order—first voiced in a more bloodthirsty time than this, I dare say. But you, Reverend Vryce—the man. The dreamer. What do you believe?”

“That you’re wrong,” Damien answered quietly. “That our traditional belief system is outdated. That our ancestors perceived of the world in terms of black and white, when nearly all of it is made up of shades of gray. That the Church must adapt to that truth, in order to remain a vital entity on this world. The survival of our dream,” he stressed, “depends upon it.”

For a long moment the Patriarch simply gazed upon him, silent. “She chose well,” he said at last. Ivory silk rippled in the breeze as he reached out to take hold of the window and shut it again. “But tell me this. When you work your sorcery—when you hold the essence of this world in your hands, and use your will to give it form—can you honestly tell me that the concept of, power, for its own sake, doesn’t tempt you? Have you never once Worked the fae for your own good—your own personal good, independent of the Church’s need? Never once changed the face of Nature for your own benefit? Or dreamed of doing so?”

“I’m as human as you are,” Damien answered curtly. “We all have our temptations. But our ability to rise above them—to serve an ideal, rather than the dictates of selfish instinct—is what defines us as a species.”

“Ah, yes.” The Patriarch nodded. “The Prophet’s words. He failed us, you’ll recall. And himself. As have all men, who tried to reconcile sorcery with our faith. Remember that.”

He walked to the heavy mahogova chair and sat down in it, smoothing the folds of his robe beneath him as he did so. And he sighed. “You’ll have your students, Reverend Vryce. Against my better judgment and despite my objections, but you’ll have them. A dozen of our most promising acolytes—chosen not because they have great sorcerous potential, but because their theological background is sound. You will not reach out beyond that group until I’m satisfied that this . . . experiment . . . can proceed without danger to my charges. Or my Church. Am I making myself clear?”

Damien bowed, and managed not to grin. Barely. “Very clear, Holiness.”

He clapped his hands twice. Barely a few seconds later the door swung open, and a young girl in servant’s livery entered.

“This is Kami. She’ll get you settled in. Kami, take Reverend Vryce to the rooms that have been prepared for him. See that he has a schedule of our services, and anything he needs for tonight. Breakfast is in the Annex, at eight,” he informed Damien. “A chance to meet the rest of our staff under slightly less . . . trying circumstances.” His mouth twitched slightly; a smile? “Is that too early for you?”

“I’ll manage it, Holiness.”

The Patriarch nodded to Kami, a clear gesture of dismissal. Damien gathered up his pack and turned to follow her—but when they reached the door the Patriarch called his name softly, and he turned back.

“When it comes time to die,” the Patriarch said, “—and the time will come, as it comes to all men—what will you do then? Bow down to Nature, to the patterns of Earth-life which are the core of our very existence? Help us to lay a foundation whereby our descendants can reclaim the stars? Or submit to the temptations of this alien magic, and sell your soul for another few years of life? As the Prophet tried to do? Consider that as you retire, Reverend Vryce.”

It was clearly a dismissal, but Damien stood his ground. “The fae isn’t magic.”

The Patriarch waved one ringed hand, dismissing the thought. “Semantic exercises. What’s the real difference?”

“Magic can be controlled,” Damien reminded him. He gave that a moment to sink in, then added, “Isn’t that what Erna’s problem is all about?”

And he bowed—with only a hint of defiance. “I’ll consider it. Holiness. Good night.”

3

The sun had set.

Narilka stood in the shop’s narrow doorway, eyes fixed on the western horizon. She was cold inside, just as the night was cold without. The sun had set while she was downstairs. Long ago, by the looks of it. How could she; have been so careless?

The stars were almost gone.

There was no strong light in the heavens, save one full moon that stood balanced along the eastern horizon. Soon even that would be gone, and only the stars of the Rim—sparse, insubstantial—would accompany a slender crescent in the west, lighting her way home.

For a moment she almost went back into the shop, panic tightening her throat. Help me, she would say, I’ve been at work longer than I should have, please walk me home . . . But home was a good distance away and Gresham would be busy—and besides, he had already expressed his total disdain for her fear of the night, often enough that she knew any plea to him would fall on deaf ears. You carry wards enough to supply the damned city with ‘em, he’d say scornfully. Women have walked the streets with less, and made it home all right. Where’s your sense, girl? I have work to do.

With one last deep breath of the shop’s dusty air, taken for courage, Narilka forced herself to step out into the night. The chill of the autumn evening wound around her neck like icy tendrils—or was that her fear manifesting?—and she drew her shawl closer about her, until its thick wool managed to ward off the worst of the cold.

Was she overreacting? Was she being unreasonable? Gresham had said it so often that now she was beginning I to doubt herself. Did she really have any concrete evidence that the risk to her was greater than that facing other women—which is to say, that a female should always be careful and keep moving, but most survived the night?

As she passed by the silversmith’s shop she stopped, long enough to catch sight of her reflection in the smooth glass storefront. Thick hair, onyx-black; smooth white skin, now flushed pink from the cold; lashes as thick as velvet, framing eyes nearly as dark. She was delicate and lovely, as a flower is lovely, and fragile as a porcelain doll. It was a face mortal women envied, men would die for, and one neither man nor mortal, but an evil thing, Erna’s darkness made incarnate would destroy, with relish.

Shivering, she hurried onward. The faster she went, the sooner she would get home. In the inner streets of Jaggonath there were still people about, crowds enough that she could imagine herself lost among them. But they thinned as she left the commercial districts, leaving her feeling naked in the night. She had to keep moving. Her parents must be worried sick by now—and with good reason. She looked about herself nervously, noting the abandoned streets of Jaggonath’s western district, the tiny houses set farther and farther apart. The road had turned to mud beneath her feet, cold enough to chill her through the soles of her shoes but not yet frozen enough to be solid; her feet made rhythmic sucking noises, painfully conspicuous, as she walked. She felt like a walking target.

The Hunter. That was what they called him. She wondered what he was, what he had once been. A man? That was what the tavern girls whispered, between giggles and mugs of warm beer, in the safety of their well-lit workplace. Once a man, they said, and now something else. But with a man’s lust still, corrupted though it might be. Why else were all his victims female, young, and inevitably attractive? Why would he have such a marked taste for beauty—and for delicate beauty, most of all—if some sort of male hunger didn’t still cling to his soul?

Stop it! she commanded herself. She shook her head rapidly, as if that could cast out the unwanted thoughts. The fear. Don’t! She would make it home all right, and everybody would be very relieved, and that was that. Her parents would be furious at Gresham for keeping her after dark and they would write him an angry letter, which he would promptly ignore—and then it would be over. Forever. No more than a memory. And she could say to her children that yes, she had been out after dark, and they would ask her what it was like, and she would tell them. A fireside story like any other. Right?

But you are what he wants, a voice whispered inside her. Exactly. You are what he sends his minions into Jaggonath to find.

“Damn you!” she cried suddenly—meaning her parents, her fears, the night itself. And her own looks, for that matter. Gods above, what might her life have been like if she were unattractive, or merely plain, or even of a sturdier type than she was? Might she have been allowed to play outside after sunset, as some other children were? Might she have grown accustomed to the night, ranking its terrors alongside other childhood fears, dealing with them simply and rationally? Come home on time, her parents would have cautioned. Don’t talk to strangers. Raise up a ward if some demon appears. And then they would have let her go out. Gods of Erna, what freedom, what freedom!

She reached up to wipe a tear, half frozen, from her cheek, and then stopped walking in order to dislodge a bit of mud that had oozed its way into her shoe. And as she did so, she became intensely aware of the silence that surrounded her. No other footsteps sounded in the night, though the road on all sides of her had been heavily trod. No birds sang, no insects chittered, no children cried in the distance. Nothing. It was as if the whole world had died, suddenly—as if she were the only creature left on Erna, and this section of road the last spot where life might exist, in the whole of creation.

Then a sound behind her made her start suddenly. Almost silent, a mere hint of movement, but set against the night’s backdrop of utter soundlessness it had the power of a scream. She whirled about, staring back the way she had come. At a man.

“Forgive me.” His voice was smooth, his carriage elegant. He bowed, soft brown hair catching the moonlight as he moved. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” “You didn’t,” she lied. Another bit of mud was trickling coldly into her shoe, but she didn’t want to take her eyes from him to dislodge it; she shifted her weight a bit, and almost fell as a result. Gods, was she that unsteady? She didn’t dare look as afraid as she felt. The Hunter was attracted to fear. “It just seemed so . . . quiet.”

“The night can be like that.” He walked toward her slowly, casually, his languid grace mesmeric in the moonlight. A tall man, lean, with delicate features, arresting eyes. Unadorned, save for a thin gold band that held back his hair from his face, the latter cut shoulder-length in a style several years out of date. His eyes were pale gray flecked with silver, and in the moonlight they flashed like diamonds. She sensed a cold amusement lurking just beneath his surface. “Forgive me,” he repeated, “but a young woman out alone? It seemed unusual. Are you all right?”

It occurred to her that she hadn’t heard him approach, that in the midst of all this sticky mud she should have had some warning—but then his eyes caught hers, held hers, and suddenly she couldn’t remember why that bothered her.

“Yes,” she stammered. “That is—I think so.” She felt breathless, as if she had been running instead of walking. She tried to step back, but her body wouldn’t obey. What kind of Working had he used to bind her?

But though he came close—too close—it was only to touch her chin with the tip of a well-manicured finger, turning her face up toward him. “So fragile,” he murmured. “So fine. And alone in the night. Not wise. Would you like an escort?” She whispered it. “Please.”

He offered his arm. After a moment, she took it. An antiquated gesture, straight out of the Revival period. Her hand shook slightly as it came to rest on the wool of his sleeve. No warmth came from the arm beneath, or any other part of him; he was cold—he radiated cold—like the night itself. Just as she, despite her best intentions, radiated fear.

Gods above, she prayed, just get me home. I’ll be more careful in the future, I swear it. Just get me home tonight. It seemed to her he smiled. “You’re afraid, child.” She didn’t dare respond. Just let me get through tonight. Please.

“Of what? The darkness? The night itself?”

She knew she shouldn’t speak of such things, but she couldn’t hold back; his voice compelled response. “The creatures that hunt in it,” she whispered.

“Ah.” He laughed softly. “And for good reason. They do value your kind, child, that feed on the living. But these—” and he touched the wards embroidered on her sleeve, the warding clasps that held back her hair “—don’t they bind enough fae to guard you?”

Enough to keep away demons, she thought. Or so it should have been. But now, suddenly, she wasn’t sure.

He put his hand beneath her chin, turning her gently to face him. Where his fingers touched her flesh there was cold, but not merely a human chill; it burned her, as a spark of fire might, and left her skin tingling as it faded. She felt strangely disassociated from the world around her, as if all of it was a dream. All of it except for him.

“Do I read you correctly?” he asked. “Have you never seen the night before?”

“It’s dangerous,” she whispered.

“And very beautiful.”

His eyes were pools of silver, molten, that drew her in. She shivered. “My parents thought it best.”

“Never been outside, when sun and Core had set. Never! I wasn’t aware the fear had reached such an extreme here. Even now . . . you don’t look. You won’t see.”

“See what?” she managed.

“The night. The beauty of it. The power. The so-called dark fae, a force so fragile that even the moonlight weakens it—and so strong in the darkness that death itself falls back before it. The tides of night, each with its own color and music. An entire world, child!—filled with things that can’t exist when the light in the heavens is too strong.”

“Things which the sun destroys.”

He smiled, but his eyes remained cold. “Just so.”

“I’ve never been allowed.”

“Then look now,” he whispered. “And see.”

She did—in his eyes, which had gone from pale gray to black, and from black to dizzying emptiness. Stars swirled about her, in a dance so complex that no human science could have explained it—but she felt the rhythms of it echo in her soul, in the pattern of mud beneath her feet, in the agitated pounding of her heart. All the same dance, earth and stars alike. This is Earth science, she thought with wonder. The Old Knowledge. Tendrils of fae seeped from the darkness to wind themselves about her, delicate strands of velvet purple that were drawn to her warmth like moths to flame. She shivered as they brushed against her, sensing the wild power within them. All about her the land was alive, with a thousand dark hues that the night had made its own: fragile fae, as he had said, nearly invisible in the moonlight—but strong in the shadows, and hauntingly beautiful. She tried to move toward it, to come closer to a tangle of those delicate, almost unseeable threads, but his hand on her arm stopped her, and a single word bound her. Dangerous, he cautioned; language without sound. For you.

“Yes,” she whispered. “But oh, please . . .”

Music filled the cool night air, and she shut her eyes in order to savor it. A music unlike any other she had ever heard, delicate as the fae itself, formless as the night that bound it. Jeweled notes that entered her not through her ears, as human music might, but through her hair and her skin and even her clothing; music that she took into her lungs with every breath, breathing out her own silver notes to add to their harmony. Is this what the night is? she wondered. Truly?

She felt, rather than saw, a faint smile cross his face. “For those who know how to look.”

I want to stay here.

He laughed, softly. You can’t.

Why? she demanded.

Child of the sunlight! Heir to life and all that it implies. There’s beauty in that world, too, although of a cruder sort. Are you really ready to give all that up? To give up the light? Forever?

The darkness withdrew into two obsidian pinpoints, surrounded by fields of cracked ice. His eyes. The dark fae was alive in there, too, and a music that was far more ominous—and darkly seductive. She nearly cried out, for wanting it.

“Quiet, child.” His voice was nearly human again.

“The cost of that’s too high, for you. But I know the temptation well.”

“It’s gone . . .”

“It’ll never be gone for you. Not entirely. Look.”

And though the night was dark again, and silent, slit was aware of something more. A tremor of deepest put pie, at the edges of her vision. Faint echoes of a music that came and went with the breeze. “So beautiful.”

“You avoided it.”

“I was afraid.”

“Of the darkness? Of its creatures? Such beings aren’t kept at bay by a simple closed door, child, or by lamplight. If they want to know of you, they do, and if they want to have you, they certainly will. Your charmed wards are enough to keep lesser demons at bay, and against the greater ones mere lamplight and human company won’t help you at all. So what’s the point in locking yourself away from half the wonders of the world?”

“None,” she breathed, and she knew it to be the truth

He took her arm and applied gentle pressure, forward. It took her a moment to realize what he meant by it and even then the gesture seemed strange. Too human. for this extrahuman night. In silence she let him walk her toward her home, his footsteps utterly silent beside her own. What else did she expect? All about them shadows danced, alien shapes given life by the moonlight. She shivered with pleasure, watching them. Was this her forever now, this marvelous vision? Would it stay when he was gone—his gift to her, in this unearthly night?

At last, eons later, they came to the last rise before her house. And stood on it, silently, gazing upon the all-too-human abode. There, in the light, the music would fade. The fae would be gone. Bright sanity, in all its dull glory, would reign supreme.

His nostrils flared as he studied the small house, as if testing the breeze that came from it. “They’re afraid,” he observed.

“They expected me home before dark.”

“They had good reason to fear.” He said it quietly, but she sensed the threat behind his words. “You know that.”

She looked into his eyes and saw in them such a mixture of coldness and power that she turned away, trembling. It was worth it, she thought. Worth it to see the night like that. To have such vision, if only once. Then the touch of his finger, cold against her skin, brought her back to face him.

“I won’t hurt you,” he promised. And a hint of a smile crossed his face—as if his own benevolence amused him. “As for what you do to yourself, for having known me . . . that’s in your own hands. Now, I think, you’d better go home.”

She stepped back, suddenly uncertain. Dazed, as the fae that had bound her will dissolved into the night. He laughed softly, a sound that was disconcertingly intimate; she sensed a glimmer of darkness behind it, and for a moment she could see all too clearly what was in his eyes. Black fae, utterly lightless. A silence that drank in all music. An unearthly chill, that hungered to consume living heat.

She took a step backward in sudden panic, felt the wet grass bunch beneath her feet. “Nari!”

She whirled around, toward the source of the sound. Her father’s form was silhouetted against the glowing house, as he ran up the rise to reach her. “Narilka! We’ve been so worried!” She wanted to run to him, greet him, to reassure him—to beg for his help, his protection—but suddenly she had no voice. It was as if his sudden appearance had shattered some intimate bond, and her body still ached for the lover it had lost. “Great gods, Nari, are you all right?”

He embraced her. Wordlessly. She couldn’t have spoken. She clung to him desperately, dimly aware of the tears that were streaming down her face. Of her mother, running out to join them.

“Nari! Baby, are you all right? We didn’t know what to do—we were so worried!”

“Fine,” she managed. “Fine.” She managed to disentangle herself from her father, and to stand alone with some degree of steadiness. “It was my fault. I’m sorry . . .”

She looked back toward where her escort had last stood, and wasn’t surprised to find him gone. Though the grass was crushed where she had been standing there were no such marks from beneath his feet, nor any other sign of his passage. Again, no surprise.

“Fine,” she murmured that single word, how little of the truth it conveyed!—and she let them lead her home across the farmland, into the negligible safety of the light. And she mourned for the beauty that faded about her as the shadows of night fell farther and farther behind. But that vision would be hers now, whenever she dared to look for it. His gift.

Whoever you are, I thank you. Whatever the cost, I accept it.

Reluctantly, she let them lead her inside.

4

They used the river to gain the coast, though the swift-running water made them feel an equivalent of human nausea. One was lost at sea, caught up in Casca’s evening tide and swept far beyond any hope of earthly purchase before his companions could reach him. His companions mourned, but only briefly; he had known the risk, as all of them had, and had signaled his acceptance when he entrusted himself to the cold, treacherous waters. To mourn him now—or to mourn anyone, at any time—would run counter to their very nature. Regret was not in their vocabulary, nor sorrow. They knew only hunger and—possibly—fear. And that special fealty which bound them together in purpose, which demanded that they brave the ultimate barrier and walk the human lands, in service to another.

By dawn they had found caves to hide in, ragged hidey holes gutted out of granite cliffs by wind and ice and time. Below them the surf raged as tidal patterns crossed and tangled, Casca and Domina and Prima battling for dominance of the sea, while Sun and Core together ruled the sky. They slept as the dead sleep, oblivious to such liquid disputes, resting on mounds of newly killed animals, that of the caves’ former occupants. Whose flesh did not interest them as such, though they licked at the dried blood once or twice upon awakening, as if to cleanse their palates. What little food such animals could supply had been drained from them quickly the night before, in battle, and flesh without purpose offered these creatures little sustenance. And no pleasure. Humankind, on the other hand, could offer both: pleasure and sustenance combined, more than even the rakh could offer. They knew that. They had tasted. They hungered for more, and their hunger was powerful enough to take the place of courage when it had to. As it often had to in those nights that they skirted the sea.

After three and a half days—eight moonfalls—they sighted a light far out on the water, that revealed the presence of a small trading craft. Using flares they had brought for just such a purpose, they signaled a desperate cry for help. The sudden splash of green light against the black sky illuminated a small vessel, riding the waves with difficulty. An answering flare—life-orange, hot with promise—was sent aloft, and they watched with nightwise eyes as a small rowboat was lowered to the water, presumably to brave the deadly shoreline and, if possible save them.

Food! one whispered.

Not yet, another cautioned.

We have a purpose, the third reminded them both.

They stood shoulder to shoulder on the cold northern shore, as they imagined real humans might stand, and cheered on their saviors in desperate voices—exactly as they imagined real humans might do. All the while arguing, in whispers, the value of food versus obedience.

There’ll be humans enough once we reach the humlands, the wisest one among them pointed out—and they savored that thought, while the ship’s men braved rock and surf to reach the shore.

5

The interior of the boutique was small, and crowded with a tangle of hanging garments and treelike accessory displays; Damien had to push aside a rack of beaded belts to get far enough back from the mirror that the whole of his bulk could be reflected within its narrow confines.

He glanced at Ciani—who was managing not to smile—and then at the fluttering moth of a proprietor who picked at his clothes periodically, as though searching for pollen between the patterned layers. And back at the mirror.

And at last said: “I hope you’re joking.”

“It’s the height of fashion.”

The image that stared back at him was draped in multiple layers of purple cloth, each of a slightly different hue. The layered ends of vest over half-shirt over shirt proper, triple-tiered upper sleeves and cuffed pants—each in a different shade of plum, or grape, or lavender, some in subtle prints of the same—made him look, to his own eyes, like a refugee from some dyer’s scrap heap.

“What all of those in the know are wearing,” the proprietor assured him. He plucked at Damien’s vest front, trying to pull the patterned cloth across the bulk of the stout man’s torso. The thick layers of muscle which comprised most of Damien’s bulk had been further padded by the eastland’s rich foods and seductively sweet ale; at last the man gave up and stepped back, diplomatically not pointing out that fashions such as these were designed for considerably smaller men. “Subtly contrasting hues are the fashion this season. But if your taste runs more to the traditional,” he stressed the word distastefully, as if to indicate that it wasn’t normally part of his vocabulary, “I can show you something with more color perhaps?”

“I doubt that would help.”

“Look,” Ciani was grinning. “You told me that you wanted to dress like a Jaggonath cleric—”

“A Jaggonath cleric with taste.”

“Ah. You didn’t say that.”

He tried to glare, but the obvious merriment in her eyes made it difficult. “Let me guess. You got paid by some pagan zealot to make me look like a fool?”

“Now, would I do that?”

“For the right price?”

“I’ll have you remember I’m a professional consultant; First coin, sound contracts, reliable service. You get what you pay for, Father.”

“I’m not paying you for this.”

“Yes.” Her brown eyes sparkled mischeviously. “There is that to consider.”

“Please!” the proprietor seemed genuinely distressed by their exchange. “The lady Ciani is well known to us, your Reverence. She’s helped clothe some of the most important people in Jaggonath—”

He stared at her in frank astonishment. “A fashion consultant? You?”

“I’m helping you, aren’t I?”

“But, for real? I mean—professionally?”

“You don’t think me capable?”

“Not at all! That is—yes, I do . . . but why? I mean, why would someone pay an adept’s consulting fee just to have you help pick out their clothing? One hardly needs the fae to get dressed in the morning.”

“Ah, you are a foreigner.” She shook her head sadly “Everything here involves the fae. The mayor runs for reelection, he wants his sartorial emanations assessed. Some power-hungry businessman itches to close the deal of a lifetime, he needs someone to tell him which outfit will best serve that cause. Or say that some notable from another district comes to town, he wants his potential read in everything that he might wear. I consult on everything, Damien because everything involves the fae, in one way or another. Now . . . do you want this outfit, or not?”

He regarded his reflection with renewed interest, if not with aesthetic enthusiasm. “What will it do for me?”

She folded her arms across her chest in mock severity. “I do usually get paid for this.”

“I’ll treat you to dinner.”

“Ah. Such generosity.”

“At an expensive restaurant.”

“You were going to do that anyway.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I thought you couldn’t read the future?”

“I didn’t. It was obvious.”

He sighed melodramatically. “Two dinners, then. Mercenary lady.”

“My middle name, you know.” She came up to where he stood and studied him casually. He tried to discover some hint of a Working in her demeanor—a whispered word, a subtle gesture, perhaps eyes tracking some visualized symbol used for a key, even some indication that she was concentrating—but there was nothing. If he hadn’t seen her Work before, he would have thought she was tricking him.

Reading: not the future, but the present. Not fate, but tendency. A true Divining was impossible, as there was no certain future, but the seeds of all possible futures existed in the present moment. If one had skill enough, one could read them.

“You’ll stand out in a crowd,” she assured him.

He laughed softly.

“Among strangers, men will be put off. Women will find you . . . intriguing.”

“I can live with that.”

“Among those who know you . . . there aren’t that many in Jaggonath, are there?” Her brown eyes twinkled. “I think you look charming. Your students will be even more terrified of you than they are now—no major change there. I read at least one barmaid who will find you unutterably attractive.”

“That’s appealing.”

Her eyes narrowed. “She’s married.”

“Too bad.”

“As for your superiors . . .” She hesitated. “Superior? Is there only one?”

He felt himself tense at the thought of the man. Easy, Damien. You’ve got months to go, here. Get a hold of yourself. “Only one that matters.”

She checked him out from head to foot, then did the same again. “In this outfit,” she proclaimed at last, “will irritate the hell out of him.”

He stared at her for a minute, then broke into a grin. And turned to face the proprietor, who was nervously twisting a red silk scarf between his fingers.

“I’ll take it,” he declared.

The street outside was gray upon gray, chill autumn sunlight slowly giving way to the shadows of Jaggonath’s dusk. Dark shapes shivered about the corners of an alleyway, the cavernous mouth of an open doorway, the scurrying feet of a dozen chilled pedestrians. Was it lamp shadows, tricking the eye? Or some force that genuinely desired life, and might seek it out in sunlight’s absence?

“Hey.” She prodded him. “Ease up. You’re not at work.”

“Sorry.” He caught up half his packages under his right arm, carried the rest with that hand. So that he might walk with her close to his other side, her body heat tangible through the coarse wool of his shirt. His hand brushing hers, in time to their walking.

“Your Patriarch doesn’t approve of this, does he?”

“What? Shopping?”

“Our being together.”

He chuckled. “Did you think he would?”

“I thought you might have charmed him into it.”

“The Patriarch is immune to charm. And most other human pleasantries, I suspect. As for us . . . suffice it to say that battle lines have been drawn, and we both are poised behind our armaments. He with his moral obsessions, and I with my fixation on rights to an independent private life. It’ll be quite a skirmish, once it starts.”

“You sound like you’re looking forward to it.”

He shrugged. “Open conflict is infinitely more attractive to me than fencing with hints and insinuations. I’m a lousy diplomat, Cee.”

“But a good teacher?”

“Trying to be.”

“Can I ask how that’s going? Or is it . . . classified?”

“Hardly.” He grimaced, and shifted his packages “I have twelve young fledglings, ranging in age eleven to fifteen. With marginal potential at best. I culled out two of the younger ones, who seemed to be in the worst throes of puberty. Damned rotten time to be teaching anyone to Work . . . and I think His Holiness knows it, too.” He remembered his own adolescence, and some very nasty things he had unconsciously created. His master had made him hunt them down and dispatch them, each and every one; it wasn’t one of his more pleasant memories. “Hard to say whether they’re more terrified of me or of the fae. Not a good way to start out. Still, they’re all positives on one scale or another, so there’s hope, right? As of yesterday—”

He saw her stiffen suddenly. “Ciani? What is it?”

“Current’s shifted,” she whispered. Her face was pale. “Can’t you see?”

Rather than state the obvious—that only an adept could see such things without conscious effort—he worked a quick Seeing and observed the earth-fae himself. But if there was any change in the leisurely flow of that force about their feet, it was far too subtle for his conjured vision to make out. “I can’t—”

She gripped his arm with fingers that were suddenly cold. “We need to warn—”

An alarm siren pierced the dusk. A horrendous screeching noise that wailed like a banshee down the narrow stone streets, and echoed from the brickwork and plaster that surrounded them until the very air was vibrating shrilly. Damien covered an ear with one hand, tried to reach the other without dropping all his purchases. The sound was a physical assault—and a painfully effective one.

Whoever designed that siren, he thought, must have served his apprenticeship in hell.

Then, just as quickly, the sound was gone. He took his hand down nervously, ready to hold it to his head again if anything even remotely similar started up. But she took his hand in hers and squeezed it. “Come on,” she whispered. He could barely hear over the ringing in his ears, but a gesture made it clear what she wanted. “Come with me.”

She urged him forward, and he went. Running by her side, down streets that were suddenly filled with people. Dozens of people, in all stages of dress and activity: working folk with their dinner plates in hand, children clutching at homework sheets, women with babies nursing at their breasts—even one woman with a hand full of playing cards, who rearranged them as she walked. Pouring out of the houses and shops that lined Jaggonath’s narrow streets like insects out of a collapsed hive. Which brought to mind other images.

He stopped, and forced her to stop with him. His eyes were still Worked enough to let him see the current that swirled about their feet, though the image was little more than a shadow of his former vision. He checked the flow again, felt his heart stop for an instant. It had changed. He could see it. Not in direction, nor in speed of flow, but in intensity . . . He gripped her hand tightly. There was less of it than there should have been, less of it than any natural tide could have prompted. It was as if the fae itself were withdrawing from this place, gathering itself elsewhere to break, with a tsunami’s sudden force—

“Earthquake?” he whispered. Aghast—and awed—by the revelation.

“Come on,” she answered. And dragged him forward.

They ran until they reached the north end of the street, where it widened into a sizable shopping plaza. She stopped there, breathless, and bade him do the same. There were already several hundred people gathered in the small cobblestoned square, and more were arriving each minute. The horses that were tethered there pulled nervously at their reins, nostrils twitching as if trying to catch the scent of danger. Even as Damien and Ciani entered the tiny square the hanging signs of several shops began to swing, and a crash of glass sounded through one open doorway. Shopkeepers exited the buildings hurriedly with precious items clutched in their arms—crystal, porcelain, delicate sculptures—as the signs above them swung even more wildly, and the panicked animals fought for their freedom.

“You had warning,” he whispered. What an incredible concept! He was accustomed to regarding Ernan history as a series of failures and losses—but here was real triumph, and over Nature herself! Their ancestors on Earth had had no way of knowing exactly when an earthquake would strike—when the concentrated pressure that had built up over months or years would suddenly burst into movement, breaking apart mountains and rerouting rivers before man even knew what had hit him—but here, on Erna, they had warning sirens. Warning sirens! And not on all of Erna, he reminded himself. Only in the east. Not in his homeland. Ganji had nothing to rival this.

He was about to speak—to share his awe with Ciani—when a sound even more terrible than the siren split the night. It took him a few seconds to realize that its source was human; it was a voice racked by such pain, warped by such terror, that Damien barely recognized it as such. Instinctively he turned toward its source, his free hand already grabbing for a weapon . . . but Ciani grabbed him by the arm and stopped him. “No, Damien. There’s nothing you can do. Let it be.”

The scream peaked suddenly, a sound so horrible it made his skin crawl—then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was cut short. Damien had fought some grotesque things in his life, and some of them had been long in dying, but nothing in his experience had ever made a sound like that.

“Someone Working when it hit,” she muttered. “Gods help him.”

“Shouldn’t we—”

“It’s too late to help. Stay here.” She grasped his arm tightly, as if afraid he would leave despite her warning. “The siren went off in plenty of time. He had his warning. That’s why we run the damn thing. But there’s always some poor fool who tries to tap into the earth-fae when it begins to surge . . .”

She didn’t finish.

“And they die? Like that?”

“They fry. Without exception. No human being can channel that kind of energy. Not even an adept. He must have wagered that the quake would be small, that he could control a small bit of what it released and dodge the rest. Or maybe he was drunk, and impaired in judgment. Or just stupid.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand. Only an idiot would bet his life against an earthquake. No one ever wins that game—no one. Why do they insist on trying? What can they possibly gain?” Something in his manner made her look up at him suddenly, and she asked, “You were warned about that in the west. Weren’t you?”

“In general terms.” His stomach tightened as his mind replayed that terrible scream. “We were warned. But not quite so . . . graphically.”

He was about to say something more when she squeezed his arm. “It’s starting. Watch.”

She pointed across the plaza, to a tailor’s shop that faced them. Sunken into the lintel of its arched doorway was a sizable ward, made up of intricate knotwork patterns etched into a bronze plate. The whole of it was glowing now, with a cold blue light that silhouetted its edge like the corona of an eclipsed sun. Even as he watched the display it increased in intensity, until cold blue fire burned the pattern of its warding sigil into his eyes and his brain.

“Quake wards,” she told him. “They’re dormant until the fae intensifies . . . then they tap into it, use it to reinforce the buildings they guard. But if it’s a big one, there’s more than they can handle. What you’re seeing is the excess energy bleeding off into the visible spectrum.”

On every building surrounding the plaza, similar wards were now firing. Awed, he watched as tendrils of silver fire shot across doorways, about windows, over walls, until the man-made structures were wholly enveloped in a shivering web of cold silver flame. And though the force of the earthquake was enough to make brickwork tremble, no buildings toppled. No windows shattered. Furniture crashed to the floor within one shop, glass shattered noisily inside another, but the buildings themselves—reinforced with that delicate, burning web—weathered the seismic storm.

“You’ve warded the whole city?” he whispered. Stunned by the scale of it.

She hesitated. “Mostly. Not all of it’s as well done as this. Sorcerers vary, as does their skill . . . and some people simply can’t afford the protection.” As if in illustration, a roar of falling brick sounded to the south of them. Dust and a cloud of silver-blue sparks mushroomed thickly over the rooftops. Damien could feel the ground tremble beneath his feet, could see brick—and stone-work shiver all about him as the force of the earthquake fought to bring the man-made structures down—and the Workings of man fought to keep it all intact. The smell of ozone filled the air, and a sharp undercurrent: sulfur? The smell of battle, between Nature and man’s will.

Our ancestors had nothing like this. Nothing! Venerate them we might, but in this one arena we have surpassed them. All the objective science on Earth could never have managed this . . .

Incredible, he thought. He must have voiced that, for she murmured, “You approve?”

He looked into her eyes and read the real question there, behind her words. “The Church should be using this, not fighting it.” The ground was singing to him, a deep, rumbling sound that he felt through his bones. “And I’ll see to it they do,” he promised.

The tremors were increasing in violence, and the wards—fighting to establish some sort of balance—filled the plaza with silver-blue light, as nearly bright as Core-light. Some of them began to fire skyward, releasing their pent-up energy in spurts of blue-white lightning, that leapt from rooftop to rooftop and then shot heavenward, splitting the night into a thousand burning fragments. Nearby a tree, unwarded, gave way to the tremors; a heavy branch crashed to the ground beside them, barely missing several townspeople. It seemed second nature for him to put his arm around Ciani, to protect her by drawing her against him. And it likewise seemed wholly natural that she lean against him, wordlessly, until her hip brushed against his groin and a fire took root there, every bit as intense as the faeborn flame which surrounded them.

He ran his hand down over the curve of her hip and whispered in her ear, “Is it safe to make love to a woman during an earthquake?”

She turned in his arms until she faced him, until he could feel the soft press of her breasts against his chest, the lingering play of her fingers against the back of his neck. Her heat against the ache in his loins.

“It’s never safe to make love to a woman,” she whispered.

She took him by the hand, and led him into the conflagration.

Senzei Reese thought: That was close.

Behind him, some precious bit of crystal that Allesha had collected—in deliberate defiance of earthquakes, it seemed to him—shivered off its perch and smashed noisily on the hardwood floor. One more treasured piece gone. He wondered why she would never let him bind them in place, with the same sort of Warding that reinforced their building. Wondered if her “mixed feelings” about using the fae might not translate into “mixed feelings” about him.

Don’t think about that.

Power: He could feel it all about him. Power thick enough to drown in, power like a raging fire that sucked the oxygen right out of his lungs, leaving him dizzy—breathless—trembling with hunger. For a moment it had nearly been visible—a sheer wall of earth-force, a tidal wave of liquid fire—but he had forced himself to cut the vision short, and now he was as fae-blind as Allesha herself. Only Ciani and her kind could maintain their fae-sight without a deliberate Working—and a Working, under these circumstances, meant certain death.

But what a way to go!

He had almost done it this time. Even knowing the risk, he had almost chanced it. Almost gritted his teeth against the bone-jarring pain of the warning siren and continued with his Work as if nothing was happening. What a moment that would have been, when the wild fae surged into Jaggonath—into him—burning down all the barriers that kept him from sharing Ciani’s skill, Ciani’s vision . . . the barriers that kept him human. Merely human.

Every few earthquakes some tormented soul took that chance, and added his dying scream to the siren’s din. Ciani couldn’t understand why—but Senzei could, all too well. He understood the hunger that consumed such people, the need that coursed through them like blood, until every living cell was saturated with it. Desire. For the one thing on Erna that Senzei might never have. The one precious thing that Nature had denied him.

In the other room another bit of crystal fell, and shattered noisily against the floor.

He wept.

Not until the sunlight was wholly gone and the worst of the tremors had subsided—the immediate tremors, at any rate—did the stranger come up out of his subterranean shelter. The fae still vibrated with tectonic echoes; it was the work of mere moments to read them, determine their origin, and speculate upon the implications.

The Forest will shake, he decided. Soon. Too big a seismic gap there to ignore. And the rakhlands . . . But there was no way to know that, for sure. No news had come out of the rakhlands for generations, of earthquakes or lack of them—or anything else, for that matter. He could do no more then speculate that the plate boundaries there would be stressed past endurance . . . but he had speculated that many times before, with no way of ever confirming his hypothesis. In a world where Nature’s law was not absolute, but rather reactive, one could never be certain.

Then he squatted down close to the earth and touched one gloved finger to its surface. Watching the earth-fae as it flowed about that obstacle, tasting its tenor through the contact.

The current had changed.

Impossible.

For a moment he simply watched it, aware that he might have erred. Then he sat back on his heels and looked off into the distance, watching the flow of his taint upon the current. And yes, it was different. A minute change, but it was noticeable.

He watched it for a moment more, then corrected himself: Improbable. But true. Any bit of the fae contaminated by his person should have scurried off toward the Forest, subject to that whirlpool of malignant power. It took effort for him not to travel there himself, not to unconsciously prefer that direction every time he made a decision to move. That the taint of his personal malevolence was being channeled elsewhere meant that some new factor was involved. A Working or a being—more likely the latter—headed in this direction. Focused upon Jaggonath in both its malevolence and its hunger.

It would have to be very focused, to come here against the current. And nasty as hell, to have the effect it did.

Nastier than the Hunter, perhaps?

The stranger laughed, softly.

If not for the siren—the damned warning be damned, he thought—Jaggonath’s Patriarch might never have known there was an earthquake. That, and the sloshing of tea over the side of his cup. He picked up the delicate porcelain piece and sipped it thoughtfully. While the siren screamed. And some damned fool of a sorcerer screamed, too—but that served him right. There was no free ride in this world, least of all with the fae. It was time they learned that, all of them.

It occurred to him briefly that he should have warned his visitor about that particular danger. Coming from the westlands, where quakes were less frequent and far less severe, he might not be aware of it. Might even try to harness that surging flow, to bend it to his sorcerous will.

Then there would be justice, he mused. And I would be free of this burden. But for how long? They would just send someone else. And I would have to start all over again.

He put his cup down carefully, watched for a moment to see that it didn’t slide, and then walked to the window. The floor trembled beneath his feet, and a low rumbling sound filled the air, but except for that there was little evidence of any disturbance. There never was, in Jaggonath’s great cathedral. The faith of thousands, year after year, had reinforced the ancient stonework with more power than any sorcerer could have harnessed. No wards guarded its doorways, no demonic fire would flash from its pinnacles and spires at the peak of seismic activity—but the building would stand, nonetheless. And those thousands of people who had gathered in Jaggonath’s central plaza would see it stand, an island of calm in a city gone mad. And a precious few would wander through the cathedral’s doors, and devote their lives to the faith that had made it possible.

The whole planet could be like this, he thought. Will be like this, one day.

He had to believe that. Had to maintain that belief, though sometimes his ministry seemed about to be swallowed up by the great maw of Erna’s cynicism. Had to remember, always, that the dream which he served would not be fulfilled in one lifetime, or five, or even a dozen. The damage which man had done here was too great to be corrected in a single generation . . . and it was still going on. Even now the wild fae, loosed in hideous quantity by the earthquake, would be gravitating toward the minds that could manifest it. A child’s brain, dreaming of monsters. A malicious adult, envisioning vengeance. A thousand and one hates and fears and paranoid visualizations, plucked from the human mind, that would all be given flesh before morning. His stomach turned at the thought. What could he say that would make them understand, that every day the odds against man’s survival increased geometrically? A single man could dream into being a thousand such monsters in a lifetime—and all those things would feed on man, because he was their source. Could any one sorcerer’s service, no matter how well-intended, compensate for such numbers?

He felt tired. He felt old. He was becoming aware, for the first time in his life, of a hope that had lived in him since his first moments in the Church: a desperate hope that the change would come now, in his lifetime. Not all of it—that was too much to ask for—but enough that he could see it started. Enough that he could know he had made a difference. To live as he had, to serve without question, then to die without knowing if there was a point to any of it . . . his hands clenched at his sides as he looked out over the blazing city. He wished there were truly no other choice. He wished the fae could not be used to maintain youth, and thus to prolong life. He wished he didn’t have to face that terrible decision every minute of his life: commitment to his faith versus the chance to court the fae, extend his life, and see what effect that faith would have upon future generations. Death itself was not nearly so daunting as the prospect of dying in ignorance.

Thus the Prophet was tempted, he thought darkly.

As for that blustering fool of a priest . . . his stomach tightened in anger at the thought of him. How easy it was, for him and his kind! How seemingly effortless, to take a piece of sharpened steel from the armory and simply go hack up the product of man’s indulgence. This is my faith, such a man could say, pointing to a heap of dismembered vampire-kin. Here is my service to God. An easier faith than the one the Patriarch had embraced, for sure. A faith that was continually reinforced by the adrenaline rush of violence, the thrill of daring. A faith that could be reckoned in numbers: Ghouls killed. Demons dispatched. Converts made. So that when his time of reckoning came such a man might say: This is how the world was bettered by my presence. Not through moral influence, or by teaching, but in these human nightmares which I have dispatched.

And I envy him that, the Patriarch thought bitterly.

6

When the Neoqueen Matilla finally pulled into harbor, it took two men to hold Yiles Jarrom back long enough for it to dock. And strong men, at that.

“Vulkin’ assholes!” he muttered—with venom enough that the two men backed off a bit, though they still held onto him. “I’ll teach ’em what it means, to break contract with me!”

The two men—dockhands, recruited by the Port Authority in order to avoid outright murder on the piers—held tightly to his arms, while the shallow-hulled snipping vessel that was the subject of his invectives settled itself into position. A bevy of dockworkers moved in quickly and made her fast in record time. And then the gangplank was set in place and the ship’s first mate, a young and rather lanky man, trekked the length of the pier toward where they stood. And the men let Jarrom go, which was good for them. Because in another few minutes he would surely have spouted fire and burned his way free of them, if they’d continued to hold onto him.

“Vulkin’ bastards!” His face was red with rage, his shaking hands clenched into fists. “Vulkin’ incompetents! Where you been, with my cargo? Where’s your coward-ass captain, who lied to make contract?”

The first mate didn’t look directly at him, but at his own feet. “Give me a minute, sir, and I’ll try to explain—”

Jarrom snorted derisively. “Give you a minute? I’ll give you my fist! I don’t have to waste my precious time talking to a lackey! Where’s your captain, boy? Or that damned best-eye-in—the-eastrealm pilot he’s so vulkin’ proud of? Bring those men out, and then we’ll talk!” When the young man didn’t answer him immediately, he added, “Two of Prima’s months, boy—that’s how long he said it would take. Two lesser months, come hell or white water or smashers from Novatlantis. And how long has it been, I ask you? A good three shortmonths, going on four—and my buyers threatening to blow my whole business to hell—so where the vulk have you been?”

In a carefully measured voice, the young man said, “It’s a dangerous route, Mer Jarrom. You know that. Orrin’s a damned good captain, and Jafe was as good a pilot as Erna’s ever seen. It’s still a nightmare of a trip, and you knew that when you hired us. Knew we might not make it at all, contract or no contract.” His voice faded away to a whisper. “Almost didn’t. Gods help us.”

“That’s through no fault of mine—eh? No big storms this way, no smashers out of the east, a small quake down south but that’d barely shake the waters, so what-” It struck him suddenly what the first mate had said. “What the hell do you mean, was? You lose a pilot, boy? Is that your excuse? Jafe Saccharat die on route?”

The first mate raised his head, and met Jarrom’s eyes at last. And Jarrom nearly took a step backward from the force of that gaze. He was a strong man, to be sure, and brave in the way that the strong can afford to be brave; he had seen his share of dockside violence and come out on top of most of it, had even wrestled a succubus once and not had his life sucked out in the process—which was as close to victory as anyone ever got with that kind. But though none of those situations had ever made him really afraid, the look in the boy’s eyes was enough to make his blood run cold. Bloodshot orbs stared out from a pale, hollowed face, underscored by purple crescents dark enough that they might have been bruises . . . but that wasn’t what shook him up so. A dozen men a day looked that bad, dockside, and Jarrom neither pitied nor feared them. No. It was something else that took him off guard, which he’d never seen before, not in man or demonling, or even dockhand. Not something in the first mate’s eyes, exactly. Perhaps . . . something absent?

“Not dead,” young man muttered. “The pilot’s alive. They’re all—we’re all—alive. I suppose.”

“You’d better explain yourself,” Jarrom warned. But the fire was out of his voice now, he could hear it. What had happened? What could happen, to put that look in a man’s eyes?

“It’s a dangerous route,” the first mate repeated. Empty of emotion, as if the explanation had been rehearsed so many times that it had lost all meaning to him. “First there’s the Shelf, y’see, and that’s safe enough unless a smasher comes, but who can take the chance? Then there’s the ridges where the Serpent turns—jagged mounts, that can rip a hull to pieces in a minute—and the bars of the eastern Straits, they’re murderous too, and the whitewaters just east of Sattin . . . You wanted us to rush your cargo in, Mr. Jarrom, and that means taking a lot of chances. Only a good pilot would dare it. Jafe was the best, y’see? And he took us to where we needed him most, in close to the shore of the rakhlands. All cliffs and boulders and treacherous shoreline, but he said it could save us time enough . . . and he knew the way. He said. Knew it all: every submerged mount and rock and how high each one sat, and how deep they’d be when the tides changed, and how much time between tide and countertide there was when a special way was open . . .” He blinked. “Knew it all, Jafe did.”

“So what happened?” Jarrom demanded. “Why the hell weren’t you here when you were supposed to be?”

The first mate drew in a deep breath, exhaled it slowly. When he spoke again, there was a faint tremor in his voice. “I . . . that is, he . . . forgot, sir.”

“Forgot?”

“That’s right, sir.”

Indignation heated Jarrom’s blood anew, rage coursing through his veins like cheap booze. “Forgot? Your vulkin’ pilot forgot the route?”

The first mate nodded. “That’s right, sir. Forgot . . . the whole Straits, I think he said. You see, there was this scream . . . that’s how we found out. We found him screaming like a looney on the forecastle, threatening to throw himself off. Said something had taken away all his landmarks, just wiped them clean out of his brain. Took three of us just to calm him down.”

Jarrom snorted. “That’s as likely the result of hard liquor as anything.”

The first mate glared, a look all the more accusatory for coming from those bloodshot eyes. Those terrible haunted eyes. “We don’t drink while doing the eastern stretch,” he said coldly. “No one does. The lay’s just too dangerous. Gets you killed faster than you can open a bottle.”

“All right, all right. So your saint of a pilot wasn’t drinking. He was . . . his landmarks were taken, all right? Taken right away. So what about his rutters? Were those snatched too? Or did the best Straits pilot in the east not bother taking notes?”

“Oh, he had ‘em,” the first mate assured him. “Brought them out and showed them to us. Fine leather volumes, copied in his own hand. A signed hand, all personal symbols and the like.”

“So you couldn’t read them.” The story got more and more preposterous. “And I suppose, he ‘forgot’ how to read?”

The first mate hesitated, seemed about to elaborate, Then he simply nodded, and looked down at his feet again. “Yessir,” he whispered. “That’s the lot of it.”

“And your captain? And the rest of that mangy crew? All their brains taken, as well? You look whole enough.”

“It was like something took a part of you out,” the first mate whispered. “While you were sleeping, it’d happen. And then when you woke, that part just wasn’t there. It never came back, either. The captain . . . it won’t do you much good to talk to him, Mr. Jarrom. I say just take your cargo and go, and feel lucky it got here at all. And hope that whatever got us isn’t contagious.” He looked up again, met Jarrom’s gaze with his own. “You catch my drift?”

He turned away, refused to meet that tortured gaze. “I had buyers, you know. With a contract. Gods alone know if they were willing to wait another night, when all I could give them were empty promises. If they-” He stopped, and scowled. Squinting, to see the Matilla more clearly in the early evening’s darkness. “Who the hell are they?”

Three men were disembarking from the shallow craft. They hadn’t been among the crew, Jarrom knew that. He had signed on the crew himself. “You pick up passengers, boy? That’s against all contract, and you know it.”

“I . . . know that.” He seemed to be struggling for words. His hands, Jarrom noticed, were trembling. “I think . . . they were marooned. We saved them. I think.”

“You’re not sure of much, are you?” They were pale men, and they moved with almost feral grace. Dressed like locals, but the cloth sat awkwardly on their bodies. They were used to something else, clearly. Something less? One of them turned toward Jarrom and grinned briefly—a cat’s grin, a hunter’s grin, lean and hungry—and above all else, amused. Though all his instinct said he should go and confront them, Jarrom suddenly found he didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to go toward them, not for any purpose.

“I remembered enough myself,” the boy was whispering. “Barely enough. We went north, a different route. Safer up there, if you strike ground; some hope of getting moving again. Had to take it slow, you understand? Couldn’t help the schedule, sir. We’d have died, otherwise. Had to take it slow, do you understand?”

The strange men were gone now—vanished like fae-wraiths into the deep evening shadows—but Jarrom felt as if their eyes were still on him, mocking him. Felt his skin crawl, in a way it never had before. “Well,” he said loudly—as if somehow mere volume could overcome his growing unease. “We’re lucky you didn’t forget also, aren’t we?”

The reddened eyes blinked once, slowly. “I didn’t forget the route,” he said softly. “No. Not that.”

Suddenly, an eruption of sound and color whirled across the dock toward the two of them. “Bassy!” Silk taffeta rustling like the wind, tiny feet beating a rushed staccato on the fog-dampened timbers. Perfume, in feminine quantity. “Bassy, honey! You made it!”

Then she was in his arms, a tiny girl even thinner than the boy was. And she was crying with joy, and kissing him, and leaving smears of lipstick all over his tan, weathered face. “I was so scared, honey, so scared! When they said you all hadn’t come in on time—and I know how prompt Captain Rawney is, but you can imagine all the terrible things I thought of, when no one knew where you were—”

And Yiles Jarrom would never forget the look in the first mate’s eyes, when the boy’s fiancée embraced him. Never. Though days and weeks and even months might occlude the rest of that awful night in his memory, it could never erase that terrible vision—of a glance which said, in a single instant, what volumes of prose could never have expressed so eloquently. So horribly.

Who is she? the reddened gaze begged him. Who?

Help me!

“Gods help us all,” Jarrom whispered.

7

“Mom?”

The house was quiet, preternaturally so. The boy hesitated at the doorway. “Mom?” No answer. He dropped off his school books in the hallway, on the heavy alteroak cabinet put there for that purpose. “Mom?” Suddenly he felt cold inside, and angry. Cold, because something was obviously very wrong. Angry, because he knew what it probably was.

“Mom!”

Damn it all, if she was doing that stuff again . . . he searched the house for signs of her presence, her self-indulgence: half-empty bottles lying wherever they happened to fall, thin foil wrappers with the remnants of cerebus powder—and the paraphernalia of her household tasks scattered about, left lying wherever the mood happened to strike her. But for once, all the obvious signs were absent. Whatever had happened, it wasn’t that. The tightness that had begun to build in the boy’s chest eased somewhat, and he thought: she’s still sober. Then added: maybe.

“Mom?”

The house was silent, except for a strange chittering sound that came from the kitchen. He walked that way, one hand nervously playing about the handle of his ward-knife. Any minute now his friends would start calling for him, impatient for his return. They might even come in after him, if they got bored enough with waiting. He had to find his mother before that happened, deal with her quickly, and get out. The shame of having them see her when she was doubly loaded was something he had no desire to experience. It had been bad enough with alcohol, when she was only doing that. Now that she had started mixing cerebus powder into her drinks, it was a hundred times worse.

That combination will kill you, the doctor had warned her. It’ll eat your brain right up. Is that what you want? Is that what you want for your family?

One of the boy’s friends hammered on the front door, impatient. The boy quickened his pace. He just had to find her, get permission to cross the river with the others, and then he could go. It didn’t even matter if she was wholly conscious of what she was saying when she gave him permission; as long as he did his duty and asked, he was covered. The important thing was, if he did it all quickly enough his friends would never have to see her. Oh, they could probably guess why they hadn’t been invited in . . . but that still wasn’t as bad as having them actually see. Not by a long shot.

As he put his hand on the kitchen doorknob he found that he was shaking. What if she was really in trouble? What if the doctor was right—that mixing illusory drugs and alcoholic disinhibition was really more than the human brain could handle? That someday she would fry her brain for good? What would he do, if that had finally happened?

Shaking, he forced himself to turn the doorknob. Not wanting to know what lay beyond.

Please, Mom. Be okay. Be sober . . . at least long enough to talk to me. Please.

He opened the door.

And saw.

And screamed.

Somewhere in the distance, a heavy alteroak door slammed open. He barely heard it. Terror had filled his throat so that it was impossible to breathe; he tried to step backward, but his hand was locked on the doorknob. In the kitchen, dozens of things chittered; dark things, wet things, things with shining claws and sharp teeth that dripped bright crimson on the Everclean tiles. Things that sat on his mother’s shoulders, dipping bright claws into her matted hair and bringing up soft, slimy tidbits to eat.

He managed to take a step backward. Heart pounding. Mind reeling. Two steps. Another.

It’ll eat up your brain, the doctor had said. He ran.

8

Never sleep through the true night, Damien’s master had taught him. Whether you mean to use its power or not, you should be awake to observe its passage. There are too many things in our world that draw their life from that ultimate Darkness, too many evils that can only be Worked when all sunlight is gone. So be awake, and take your enemy’s measure.

He sat on the wide ledge of his room’s northernmost window, looking out over the city. His nerves still jangled from the dream which the harsh mechanical alarm clock had dispelled. It was 3:05. The true darkness would last a mere three minutes tonight—and true to his training, he was awake to watch it happen. He pulled open the heavy curtains at his window, saw Casca’s yellow-green crescent sinking defiantly in the east. He watched as its light slowly faded from the night sky. Then: utter darkness. The Core was gone, and with it the millions of stars that marked the heart of the galaxy; Erna’s night sky looked out on desolation, across an emptiness so vast that it was easy to forget there were other stars at all, much less other planets where living things flourished and fought and gave birth and died . . . much less any place called Earth.

Damien breathed deeply, and patterned a Seeing so that his vision might respond to the fae’s special wavelengths. Below him, in the city streets, deep purple shadows stretched tentatively forth, as if testing their strength. Tendrils of deepest violet—so dark they could hardly be seen, so intense that to look on them was painful—began to creep their way into the city’s open spaces. Shopping plazas, city squares, even rooftops: places where the sunlight normally kept such things at bay, now made defenseless by the true night’s special darkness.

Damien watched the flow of it, muttered a prayer of thanksgiving that there were no people in the streets. Of all the forms the fae might take, this was the most dangerous. It could manifest in minutes what would otherwise take hours, if not days—and with a much more violent tenor. Thank God for the light of the Core, which kept the stuff at bay half the year, and the three moons, sun-reflecting, which guarded the darker nights. Most of the darker nights.

He tried to get some sense of the local currents—to read who might be Working this special darkness, and why—but it was like trying to focus on a single ripple in the midst of white-water rapids. At last, exhausted by the effort, he let his Vision fade. Back home he could have identified every sorcerer in town by now, and spotted those few who dared to Work the stuff—but the currents here were so volatile and so complex that his skill was barely more than a child’s by comparison.

He watched as the point of Domina’s crescent slipped over the eastern horizon, right on schedule. Watched the deep violet light thin out and dissipate, as if it were no more than an early morning ground fog scattered by sunlight. He watched it recede into the myriad cracks and crevices that would protect it from the light, while fresh moonlight scoured the streets and rooftops clean of its deadly presence. He watched until the moon was half-risen, then went back to bed.

3:35. He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Fifteen minutes later, the explosion came.

“What the hell?” He sat up groggily, still half-immersed in sleep. Remembering a loud, sudden noise that hadn’t been fully incorporated into his dream, which was gone before he was awake enough to identify it. Was it his imagination? He shook his head to clear it, and heard doors slam along the corridor of the Annex. Feet running in the hallway, slipper-shod. No. Not his imagination at all.

He threw on a cotton robe and, as an afterthought, grabbed for his sword. No telling what was going on, he’d best be prepared. Out into the corridor then, to quickly take his bearings. A sister-priest from Kale was just emerging from the room opposite his; her face was white. “Southwest,” she whispered, and he realized that the window of her room must face that way. “What is it?” he asked, but she shook her head: No, can’t help you, I don’t know.

Southwest. He ran down the corridor as quickly as he could, took the broad central stairs two at a time. The outer door was just closing as he reached it. There was too much light coming in through the windows, much more than the crescent Domina should have provided. A light that flickered, like flame gone mad. As he put his hand to the door and flung it open he realized, with a start, that even that was wrong. Fire should be yellow, orange, even yellow-white; this light was a chill blue, as if from some unnatural flame.

Outside the Annex, some two dozen guests of the Church stood with their heads thrown back, gaping at the sky. Damien didn’t stop to look. If the fire—or whatever it was—was to the southeast of here, he was in the wrong place to determine its source. He sprinted around the side of the Cathedral, until that building no longer blocked his view. And then saw—

Fire. Spurting heavenward. Not a natural fire, no; cold blue, like the quake-wards. Fae-spawned flame, without a doubt. Damien tried to visualize the city’s layout, to determine the fire’s source. And as he did so something tightened inside him, a mixture of dread and fear so cold and so intense that he trembled where he stood.

Ciani . . .

He ran. Down Commerce Street, pushing his way past frightened mothers and scurrying vendors and the inevitable rubber-necked tourists. Shoving them out of the way, when necessary. Past Market Lane, past Seven Corners, into the artisan’s district, then through it and beyond. Here, on this quiet street, the Fae Shoppe had done its business. And here, on this suddenly crowded street—

It burned. Burned with a fae-light so intense that it drove him back; he had to fight his every physical instinct to get within a block of it. It was impossible to look at, it burned like a thousand suns, it would surely sear the retinas of anyone who tried. He worked a Shielding for his eyes, felt the light about him dim, then tried to look again. Better. He forced himself forward, past the fire-wagons that were even now being pushed into place, past an adept in singed robes whose attention was fixed on the fire, past . . . there were too many people to count, running toward the fire or away from it. He got as close to it as he could, with all the force of the faeborn flames pushing back at him. Until he could feel its unnatural smoke in his lungs, and had to work a Shielding against that, too.

The shop was gone. His altered sight could see that now; what was left to burn was no more than the rubble of what had already been destroyed. Some monstrous explosion had ripped the place to pieces, along with the better part of two adjoining buildings. Now it was all gone, along with whoever had been tending shop at the time . . .

Fae Shoppe, the sign had said. Open all hours.

No one could have survived that blast. No one.

Ciani!

He tried to work a Divining, but the currents were in chaos, their patterns unreadable. All he could make out was that somehow a chain reaction had been triggered—that some malicious Working aimed at Ciani had ignited her wards, one after the other, until the whole place blew—

There were tears in his eyes; he wiped them away with his free hand, tried to breathe steadily. The smoke was thick in his lungs; he Shielded against that, too. It occurred to him that several adepts in the crowd were working hard to contain the faeborn flames, to keep them from spreading to neighboring buildings. He raised one hand as if he, too, would begin to pattern a Working—but another hand grasped his, and a familiar voice warned, “They can do it better than you or I.”

He turned, as if facing an attacker. It took him a moment to absorb the fact that the speaker was Senzei, and that the man was dressed in a thick cotton robe, his hair still tangled from sleeping. Slowly, painfully, the truth of it sank in. Senzei Reese: in a bathrobe, because he had rushed here in the middle of the night after hearing the explosion . . . because he hadn’t been there at the time it happened. Which meant Ciani had. Damien cursed fate, for making it so—and hated himself, for wishing it were otherwise.

Ciani!

He lowered his head and blinked forth new tears, to wash the smoke out of his eyes. Senzei was silent, which confirmed the horrible truth of it all. If she had survived, he would have spoken. If she had stood even a chance of survival . . . but she was inside the Fae Shoppe when it blew, and never had a chance. Senzei’s silence confirmed that.

With an anguished curse—at fate, himself, Jaggonath, the true night—Damien turned back into the crowd, and elbowed his way away from Loremaster Ciani’s crematory fire.

Loss. Like an empty wound, out of which all the blood had drained. Incapable of healing, because all its vital fluids were gone. Dried up by grief.

Alone in the still of the night, he struggled to come to terms with his feelings. He’d lost friends before, and even lovers; those were the risks which his chosen vocation entailed, and each loss was its own separate grief, an island of mourning, finite and comprehensible. Why was this so different? Was it the shock of what had happened, the suddenness of it—the terrible impotence of standing there, unable to do anything, while the last remnants of a woman’s life went up in smoke? Or . . . something more? Some feeling he hadn’t yet acknowledged, which had been growing between them along with the jokes and the entertainment and the loving? Some feeling which had been cut short now by the heat of the fire, as if it had never existed. As if some part of him that had never fully opened up had begun to, just briefly . . . and then slammed shut again, charred by the heat of that terrible fire.

Was this love? Was this what love would have felt like, had it lasted?

Alone in his room in the Annex, Damien Vryce wept silently.

Do you even know how old I am? she had asked him once. Bright eyes sparkling in amusement.

No. How old?

Nearly seventy.

He had thought then how wonderful it must be, to reach one’s seventieth birthday without aging a day past thirty. That number had seemed filled with wonder, because of her. Filled with vitality.

Now, it was just a rotten age to die.

The door creaked open slowly. Damien raised his head just enough to see who had entered, that much and no more. And when he saw, he lowered his head again.

“I’m sorry,” the Patriarch said softly. “Genuinely sorry.”

Are you? he wanted to snap. But for once, the anger was gone. Emptied out of him, by grief.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No.” He managed to shake his head; even that much movement took effort. “I can’t . . . I just need time. It was so sudden . . .”

“It’s always hard, losing those we care for. Especially in such a senseless accident.”

“It wasn’t an accident,” he whispered.

The Patriarch came into his room—slowly, quietly—and took a seat opposite him. When he spoke, his tone was gentler than it had ever been before. Gentler than Damien had imagined it could be. “You want to talk about it?”

“What’s the use? I couldn’t read it clearly enough. Something attacked either her or the shop, and her defenses . . . backfired. I couldn’t read what, or how, or why. I don’t know what I could do about it now, even if I knew. And I think . . .” He shut his eyes, tightly. “I think . . . I was falling in love with her.”

“I guessed that,” the Patriarch said softly.

“I feel so damned helpless!” He got up suddenly, upsetting a chair as he did so. And turned away, to stare at the weapons which hung on the wall behind him. “I stood there while it burned—while she burned, for all I know!—and what on Erna could I do to help? I couldn’t even get near the place . . .” He shook his head, was aware of new wetness on his cheeks. “You don’t know what it’s like, seeing something like that happen, feeling like you could stop it if you could just figure out what to do . . . and then not being able to. Standing there helplessly, unable to save someone you care about . . .”

“I do understand,” the Patriarch said quietly. “More than you know.”

He heard the Holy Father stand, and walk to where he stood. But unlike Senzei, the Patriarch made no physical contact.

“She was very active in this community. Very respected. There’ll be representatives sent from organizations in Jaggonath and beyond, to honor her passing.” He hesitated; Damien could hear in his voice just how much these words were costing him. “Given her community service, it wouldn’t be . . . unreasonable . . . if our Church made such a gesture.”

Surprised by the offer, Damien turned about to face him. And thought: If she had lived, they would be about the same age. Only how much longer would the Patriarch go on, without the benefit of sustained youth?

“No,” he muttered. “Thank you . . . but it isn’t appropriate. I do understand that.” He shut his eyes. “But thank you for offering.”

“Those who court the fae take certain chances. But knowing that doesn’t make it any easier, does it? Human loss is all the same in the end.” He seemed as if he was about to say more but then stopped. Considering what his feelings probably were on the matter, Damien was grateful.

“Whatever we can do to help,” the Patriarch said at last. “You let me know. I’ll see it done.”

9

It’s finished, the first one whispered.

Not well.

No. But it is finished.

Too bad we didn’t know the wards would blow. Hungrily: We could have killed her ourselves, in that case.

They were silent for a moment, savoring that concept.

She had a rich life, one said at last.

A full life, another agreed.

Delicious.

And we can go home, now. Yes?

They turned to the one who had become, for lack of a better title, their leader.

We go home, he told them. But not just yet . . .

10

Damien thought: I just can’t believe she’s dead.

A shapeless heap of blackened rubble was all that remained of the Fae Shoppe. Investigators had been sifting through it for almost 24 hours now, but still hadn’t offered any explanation of the blaze more plausible than their first hypothesis: Something had attacked the shop, powerful enough to set off a chain reaction in the protective wards. Ciani’s own defenses had killed her.

It can happen, he reminded himself. For all that we Work the stuff, it’s easy to forget just how unstable it is. Even in the hands of an adept.

Those who court the fae must pay the price.

He blinked the growing wetness from his eyes, and focused his senses on the ashes. Even knowing that half a dozen adepts had already done the same—and discovered nothing—he had to try. The pain of losing her was bad enough; the frustration of inaction was more than he could bear.

Though the ashes were cool to the eye, they were white-hot to his inner senses; it took only a minimal Working for Damien to see the power that remained there. It was as if all the tamed earth-fae that had been in the shop had been boiled down and concentrated into one hot spot of chaotic power. He wondered, distantly, how it would affect the local currents, to have such a channel of raw heat located here. Then wondered who would bother to map it, now that Ciani was gone.

Stop it. Now. You’re only making it worse on yourself.

How long before some idiot would try to harness that stuff? He looked for a telltale mark, saw a sigil chalked on a bit of brick. Ciani would have been outraged. Gods in heaven, she would have said, there nothing so dangerous some fool won’t try to Work it?

Once more, he tried to Divine just what had happened. Once more, the sheer mass of unfettered power clogged his senses, and his Working accomplished nothing. It was like trying to focus on the flicker of a candleflame, when that candle was in front of the sun. His head hurt from trying.

And then there were footsteps behind him, and he turned to see who else had come to this place.

Senzei.

The man looked terrible. Haggard. Drained. Damien guessed that he hadn’t slept since the accident, and wondered if he’d had the time to eat. Or the desire.

The man looked about nervously, as if checking for eavesdroppers. There were none. His bloodshot eyes fixed on Damien, then quickly looked away. In that instant, Damien thought he saw fear in them.

“I need to talk to you,” he said. His voice lacked substance, like that of a ghost. It took effort to hear him. “But not here.” He looked up and down the street again, a quick and nervous gesture.

“Where?”

“My place. Can you come? It’s . . .” He hesitated. Met Damien’s eyes. “It’s about Ciani.”

Wild hope lurched inside the priest. “She’s alive?”

Senzei looked thoroughly miserable; it struck Damien that he seemed afraid to speak. “Come with me,” was all he would say.”I . . . we can’t talk here.”

He wanted to shake him, to demand answers, but with effort he bested that instinct. Instead he nodded stiffly, and let Senzei lead the way.

Just beyond the narrow, stone-paved streets of the city’s mercantile district was a small residential neighborhood. The house that Senzei took them to was one of a dozen similar buildings, modest brickwork abodes whose narrow structure and lack of yard space made a clear statement about the cost of real estate in this district. Senzei led them to a corner house, and Damien took in details: neatly whitewashed brickwork, small porch, hanging plants. Sigil over the door—a quake-ward—and smaller symbols etched into each window, in the lower corners. Curtains in the downstairs window that seemed surprisingly feminine for Senzei’s taste . . . and then Damien remembered that he lived with a woman. Roommate? Girlfriend? It embarrassed him that he couldn’t remember the exact relationship.

The door opened as they approached. In the shadow of the doorway Damien made out the form and features of a woman. In many regards she resembled Senzei—pale, dark-haired, a little too thin for her height. And afraid. Very afraid. The same kind of fear that was in him.

“You found him,” she breathed.

“At the shop.” They passed quickly inside; she bolted the door behind them, two locks and a burglar-ward. Despite the afternoon’s relative warmth, Damien noticed that all the windows were shut tight.

“Were there insurance people—”

“No.” He shook his head emphatically. “No one.”

“Thank the gods for that, anyway.”

Senzei introduced them: Allesha Huyding, his fiancée, and Reverend Sir Damien Vryce. It might have been Damien’s imagination, but he seemed to stress the titles.

“I’ll get you something to drink,” she said, and before Damien could respond that it wasn’t necessary she was gone.

“The fae makes her nervous,” Senzei explained. “And this situation . . .” he sighed, raggedly. “I think more than anything she’s afraid our adjusters will find out what really happened.”

It took all of Damien’s self-control to keep his voice level as he demanded, “What about Ciani?”

The fear in Senzei’s eyes seemed to give way to something else. Sadness. Exhaustion. Desolation.

“She’s alive,” he whispered. But there was no joy in his voice. “Alive . . . but little more than that.”

“Where?”

Senzei hesitated, but his eyes flicked toward a door that led from the living room, and that was enough. Damien stepped toward it—

And Senzei caught his arm with surprising strength. And held on to him, tightly.

“She’s hurt. Badly. You need to understand, before you go see her—”

“I’m a Healer, man, I—”

“It isn’t that kind of pain.”

His hand, on Damien’s arm, was trembling. Something in his tone—or perhaps in his expression—kept Damien from pulling free.

“What is it?” he asked sharply.

“She was hurt,” Senzei repeated. “She’s . . .” He hesitated, searching for the right words. Or perhaps the courage to speak. “. . . not what she was.”

“You mean the explosion—”

“It wasn’t the explosion. I caused the explosion.” He released Damien’s arm, began to twist one hand nervously in the other, as if trying to cleanse himself. “To cover up what happened. To make whatever had hurt her think she had died . . . so it would leave her alone.”

Damien heard the door open behind him, the padding of footsteps, the tinkle of ice in glasses. And then the door closed, and they were alone again.

“Tell me,” he said quietly.

Senzei took a deep breath; Damien could see him tremble. “We had an appointment at three a.m. She wanted to try something in the true darkness, needed me to help. I came . . .” He shut his eyes, remembering. “I found her . . . that is . . . she had been attacked . . .”

“Physically?” Damien pressed.

Senzei shook his head. “No. There were no marks of any kind. No sign of any physical confrontation. But they had gotten to her—somehow—and she was lying curled up on the floor. Whimpering, like a wounded animal. I . . . tried to help her. Got her wrapped up in something, to keep her warm. I couldn’t tell if she was in physical shock or not, but it seemed practical. I didn’t know what else to do. She cried out a few words, then, and I tried to make sense out of what she was saying, but they were only fragments. Mostly incoherent. I don’t think she even knew I was there. There were three things, she said. And something about a demon in human form. She was hysterical by then, terrified that they were coming back. That’s what scared me most of all. Her reaction to it. I . . . well, you know Ciani. It wasn’t like her. She told me they were coming back for her, to take her away somewhere.” He bit his lower lip, remembering. “That she would rather die than go, and would I please kill her before it could happen . . .”

Damien looked toward the door, but said nothing.

“That was when I decided what had to be done. I figured I could make it seem like her defenses had overloaded, blown the place to hell . . . and no one would ask questions. Except the insurance people,” he added bitterly. “I figured I could use the shop’s contents as a sacrifice, leave everything in there to burn . . . there’s power in that kind of destruction, you know that. And if I did it right . . . whoever was after her, they would think she was dead. And leave her alone.” He drew in a deep breath, still shaking. “An adept could have done it and told you all about it. I couldn’t. In order to make it take right, I didn’t dare tell anyone . . .” He looked up at Damien, bloodshot eyes glistening. “That’s why I couldn’t tell you then. I’m sorry.”

“Go on,” he said quietly.

“I brought her here. No one saw us, praise fate; the true night had kept everyone indoors. No one—and no thing—bothered us. I managed to salvage some books that first trip, but the rest of it had to go; the value of what’s destroyed is what gives a sacrifice its power, you know.” He hesitated, as though waiting for the priest to criticize him; Damien said nothing. “I threw on a robe and ran back, and did it. Blew the place. But it worked, didn’t it?” He shut his eyes, and shivered. “All that knowledge. All those artifacts. If I had known then what I know now . . . it was more of a sacrifice than I was even aware of. Because I didn’t know about her.”

“What about her?”

He looked toward the door. “She’s in there,” he whispered. “Alive. Physically uninjured. Only . . . without memory. They took her memory. And the fae . . .” He turned away until Damien could no longer see his face. His shoulders shook. “She’s lost it! She’s like us, do you understand? You and me. Most of humanity. They took it away, took it all away, she can’t See any more . . .”

Damien put a hand on the man’s shoulder. Tried to steady them both. Inside, his thoughts were whirling. “She doesn’t remember anything?”

“She remembers who she is. What she is. What she was. But she hasn’t got the knowledge, you understand? All those million and one little facts that she had accumulated over the years—all the things that made her a loremaster—that’s gone now. You understand? This isn’t some godsawful accident that just happened to strike her with amnesia. They took her knowledge—they took her Vision!. And they left her with just enough to understand what had been lost. No wonder she wanted to die!”

It was only sinking in, what he was saying. The ramifications. “And now her research library—”

“Is gone!” Senzei said angrily. As if daring him to criticize. “I did what I thought was best. Sometimes you have to make decisions so godsdamned fast that there’s no real time to think. You do the best you can. I did the best I could. I thought maybe my arrival had interrupted them, that they might come back any minute to hurt her more . . . that’s what she thought. She was terrified—and I couldn’t think of any other way to protect her.” His hands had balled themselves into fists, knuckles white. “And it worked, didn’t it? You couldn’t read past it. The adepts can’t. They’ve called in consultants, but no one can make heads or tails of what happened. Even the godsdamned insurance people can’t read through it. You think I could have managed that, without one hell of a sacrifice?”

“Easy,” Damien said quietly. “No one’s blaming you.”

He drew in a deep breath, released it slowly. “They would if they knew,” he muttered. “The adjusters alone would have my head.”

“No one’s telling them.”

Senzei looked up at him. His face was a ghastly white. “She would have trusted you. That’s why I did.”

“Let me see her,” Damien said softly.

Senzei nodded.

The room Ciani was in was small and lined with books on every wall. A cot had been placed in the center of the room, and on it lay a figure so still, so colorless, that for a moment he feared she was indeed dead. He came to her side and sat on the edge of the cot, careful not to jar it. He had thought she was sleeping, but now that he was beside her he could see that her eyes were open. Empty. Staring into nothingness.

“Cee,” he said gently.

She turned toward him, slowly, but her eyes were unfocused. He could see now that her face was wet with tears, and her pillow was soaked with them. He took her nearer hand in both of his and squeezed it tightly; the flesh was pliant, unresponsive. As empty of life as her expression.

No longer an adept. Dear God, what a blow. How do you come to terms with that? How do you start over again, after such an incredible loss?

He brushed some stray hair out of her eyes; she might have been carved in marble, for all that she responded to him. Nevertheless he held her hand, as a devoted mother might cling to a child in coma, and talked to her. As if that could bring her back. As if anything could bring her back.

And fought with his own pain, his fury at being unable to help her.

We have to change this damned world, before it’s too late. We have to make some fate for ourselves, other than this.

“Father.”

A touch on his shoulder, feather-light. He turned to acknowledge Senzei’s presence, then looked back at her. Her eyes were half-shut, her breathing slow and even. Asleep, it seemed. He disentangled himself from her hands gently, careful not to wake her.

“I’ve Summoned help,” Senzei whispered. “I don’t know that there’s anything he can do to save her . . . but he might know something we don’t.”

Sick at heart, Damien nodded.

What good is it to play at Healing, if you can’t save the ones you care about?

Senzei led the priest upstairs, to what appeared to be his workroom: a semi-finished, cluttered space which took up half of the second story. The nearer wall was lined with shelves, on which all manner of books and artifacts rested; opposite it a broad, aged desk supported piles and piles of documents. Damien caught sight of ward specifications, and recognized a symbol that had once been in the shop. Clearly, Senzei was trying to determine who—or what—might have circumvented Ciani’s defenses.

In the center of the room stood a man . . . or rather, what appeared to be a man. He was bearded, husky, and dressed in a manner that seemed wholly inappropriate for such a gathering. A lush, fur-edged robe of emerald velvet hung open at the chest, and swept the floor behind his heels. It gave the impression of having been but loosely belted in place, with nothing underneath. From his summer sandals to his opulent jewelry, his every accessory was inappropriate for the time and the place he was in—and mismatched to each other as well, as if he had chosen each ring and necklace for its momentary appeal, without thought for its relationship to the whole of his appearance.

Damien keyed a Knowing, and what he saw made his hair stand on end. Instinctively he reached for his sword—and discovered that he didn’t have it on him.

The stranger nodded. “Your priest would slay demons.” He raised a brass goblet to his lips and drank—it hadn’t been in his hand a minute ago, Damien was sure of it—and nodded. “An admirable reflex. But speaking as one who prefers not to die, I hope he’ll get over it.”

“This is Karril,” Senzei said quietly. “An old . . . friend, of Ciani’s.”

Damien took a deep breath, reminded himself where he was, and managed to unclench his fists. Nevertheless his heart was pounding, and adrenaline rushed through his system as if he were heading into battle. It’s just reflex for him to consult the faeborn. He doesn’t understand that each such contact serves to reconfirm man’s vulnerability on this planet.

But where do we draw the line? When do we start controlling this world, instead of just accepting it?

“How is she?” the demon asked him.

Startled, Damien took a moment to respond. What kind of Summoning was this, that allowed the faeborn such autonomy? Then he found his voice, and answered, “Asleep. At least for now. Thank God for that, anyway.” He sighed, heavily. “I wish I knew what to do for her.”

“Karril healed her once before,” Senzei told Damien.

“I gave her peace,” the demon corrected. “An illusion, no more. At that time, it was enough. All she wanted was to forget. This time they maimed her—and I’m not a Healer.”

“But you know what happened?” Damien asked. “Do you know who did it?”

For a brief moment, the demon was very still. “I know,” he said at last. “Who hurt her, why they did it . . . and why she can’t be healed this time. And I’m sorry, but that is the case.”

“I don’t accept that.”

The demon seemed startled. “Unusual spirit,” he mused aloud. “I’m beginning to understand what she saw in you.”

Damien’s expression darkened. “If you have information, I’m ready to hear it. If you’re here to assess our relationship . . .”

Karril drank heavily from his goblet, then dropped it; it disappeared before it hit the ground. “Church manners are so atrocious, don’t you think, Senzei? They have no concept of how to deal with the faeborn. As if they could wish us out of existence merely by being rude.”

Damien glared. “Under the circumstances—”

“Enough! You’re quite right. I’ve been Summoned, after all.” For some reason that term seemed to amuse him. “I’ll tell you, priest. Everything I know. And later, Senzei can explain what it costs me to do that. Just being near such pain as hers weakens me considerably. Discussing it, in detail . . .” He shuddered melodramatically. “And in truth, I don’t know very much,” the demon warned. “But it’s more than you’ll get from any other source.”

He sighed heavily. “First I should explain that Ciani and I have known each other for a long time. She was the first to catalog my family line, and to raise certain questions regarding our existence.” He chuckled. “Don’t worry, priest—I’ll spare you the details. Suffice it to say that I knew her well. And when she decided to go off into the rakhlands—alone—I was one of the few whom she told. I tried to talk her out of it, of course. Any sensible entity would. But she was determined. It did no good to point out that although many explorers had braved that place, none had ever returned to talk about it. She wanted knowledge—hungered for it—and I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how strong that drive was in her. Had the rakh survived? she asked. Was it they who erected the barrier that we call the Canopy, or did that predate them? If they survived, what had they become? You see, she had to have answers. And there was only one way to obtain them.”

“I saw her off at the base of the Southern Pass, in the Worldsend Mountains. She was more alive than I had ever seen her, flush with the ecstasy of taking on a new challenge. Exquisite! I watched her as long as I could, but once she reached the edge of the Canopy my vision could no longer follow her. She passed through the barrier without looking back, into the fae-silence that has guarded the rakhlands for centuries.”

“Six years passed. And then she was brought to me. They had picked her out of the water by Kale, half drowned, more than half starved, battered by prolonged exposure to the elements. Shivering, even when her body was made warm. Terrified. They thought she was mad, or possessed, or worse. They did what they could to help her, using human skills—and then, when that failed, left it in the hands of the gods. In this case,” he bowed slightly, “myself.” Damien stiffened, but Senzei put a warning hand on his arm. “Like it or not,” the demon continued, “that is my status in this region. Take it up with my priests if it bothers you.”

“My domain is pleasure—human pleasure, in all its manifestations. There are few kinds of pain that I can tolerate, fewer still that I can feed on. But apathy is my true nemesis. It is anathema to my being: my negation, my opposite, my destruction. You should understand this when I say that I did what I could for her, but I know little of what happened to her. A few whispered words, a few fleeting images. No more. To delve into her memories would have meant my dissolution—my death—and it would have done her no good in the long run.”

“This much I learned from her: The rakh who fled to that land survived, and it was their need for protection from humanity’s aggression that caused the Canopy to exist. They affect the fae like all native species—unconsciously—and their psyche is wholly unlike the human template. Nevertheless, there are similarities—and the demons they’ve created are just as happy to feed on man, once the option is presented to them.”

“Ciani discovered an underground nest of such demons. She made the mistake of exploring it. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what kind of power lurks in the places where sunlight never reaches; there’s a reason that mines and wine cellars are ritually exposed to daylight once a year. They found her, and they trapped her, and they used her for food. But what they hungered for wasn’t blood, or flesh, or any other bodily matter. They wanted substance—depth— complexity— and they gained it at the expense of prisoners like Ciani, whom they kept entombed beneath the earth for that purpose. They fed on their memories for as long as they were sane, and then on the tide of their madness. At first, these creatures were little more than wraiths; later, as they established a permanent link with their hosts, they gained solidity at their expense. Eventually their food source would wither and die, and they would have to find another. For they were eternally hungry, forever requiring a fresh input of life to sustain their own existence. And I think, as well, that the feeding amused them.”

“These were the creatures that trapped Ciani and bound her away from the sunlight. This was the slow and terrible death they doomed her to, by making her feed one of their kind. And this was the prison she escaped from, against all odds. Killing her keeper so that her memories might be freed, because otherwise no time and no Working could ever heal her. Half-dead from her ordeal, more than a little mad, she fought her way back to the human lands—to be brought to my temple, where the pain could be soothed at last.”

He paused for a moment, giving his human listeners a chance to digest his words. Then added quietly, “That’s all I know. That’s all anyone knows. There was nothing I could do to help except bury the memories within her, so that was what I did. Maybe it was the wrong thing to do—I’m not sure—but she never could have regained her identity with her soul still trapped in the past.”

“You present her assailants as . . . primitive,” Damien challenged.

The demon hesitated. “I think that the beings Ciani dealt with were simple fae-constructs, primitive-minded, who knew only the promptings of hunger and sun-fear, and perhaps just a tad of sadism. I think some of them have become far more than that. Maybe it was their contact with her—or with humanity in general, once they passed beneath the Canopy. There’s no question that they’ve demonstrated a sadistic instinct right up there with humanity’s finest.” His eyes sparkled. “Quite an adversary.”

“I’ve killed demons before,” Damien said coldly.

Karril leaned back and studied him. “You want to help her, don’t you? But there’s only one way to do that. You’ll have to kill the one who hurt her. That specific creature. And he is, by definition, the most sophisticated of his kind.” His expression was grim. “He’s probably back home by now, on the other side of a barrier no human can Work through—so you can’t possibly prepare yourselves for what you’ll find there. As for the rakh . . . your people tried to eradicate them once before. Do you think they’ll bear you any fondness for it? Do you think your sorcery can stand up to theirs, when they Work the fae as naturally as you breathe? When their power is fueled by memories of humanity’s attempted genocide?”

For a moment Damien said nothing. Just sat there, remembering Ciani. As she had been. As she was now. Then he looked at Senzei—and saw, in the man’s eyes, exactly what he had hoped to find: pain overcome by determination, enough to equal his own.

“It’ll be tough,” he agreed. “So where do we start?”

11

The Temple of Pleasure was located just beyond the county line, which meant that Jaggonath’s strict laws regarding public intoxication were not in effect there. Accordingly, in response to the warmth of the night, seven of the eight walls had been rolled up. The breeze poured in, and worshipers poured out. Couples and triples and even a few determined loners sprawled on the steps outside the temple, energetically pursuing whatever passed, in their own minds, for pleasure. Warm air caught the scent of wine and drugged incense and human pheromones and gusted it out toward the city, along with the sharp aroma of several dozen torches. At the border of the temple’s influence, where the light grudgingly gave way to midnight’s darkness, figures milled about with the energetic restlessness of circling insects. The curious, come from Jaggonath to watch. The demonic, come from the depths of night to feast. A succubus flickered into female form at the edge of one such gathering, eyes hungrily searching for a safe way to approach the well-warded temple. A vampire in male form touched its tongue tip to its dry lips in anticipation, as a local woman accepted its advance. All forms of pleasure were deemed worship here, even such as theirs; as for the safety of those humans who fed them, the pleasure-god Karril protected only his own.

A tall man stood at the edge of the temple’s light. Lean, aristocratic, tastefully dressed, he clearly was no part of the voyeuristic entourage. In confirmation of which he stepped forward, and entered the temple’s circle of light. Women looked up as he passed by, intrigued by his beauty, and one reached out to him. But he failed to notice most of them, and the one whose hand had come too close met his eyes and faltered, then drew back shivering.

There was a fountain in the center of the temple—one might call it an altar—with sexually explicit carvings that spewed forth the drugged red wine of Karril’s worship. Leaning against it was a man of middle age, considerably shorter than the newcomer, whose disheveled clothing and hearty grin implied that he had just found fulfillment in someone’s embrace.

The stranger came to where he stood, and waited.

“Good guess,” the shorter man said pleasantly.

“You forget that I have demon-sight.”

“I meant, that I would be here.”

“You forget that I know you.”

The shorter man chuckled. “So it is.” He sighed, and looked out over the congregation. “They’ll make a god of me in truth someday—isn’t that the way it works? Rather awesome, to be at the receiving end of it. I keep wondering if I’ll feel it when it happens. Or if it will be a gradual conversion.”

“Spare me the pagan philosophy.”

“It’s your philosophy, my friend, not mine.” He dipped a jeweled goblet deep into the fountain, dripped red wine from his sleeve end as he drank from it.

“Can we talk?” the stranger asked.

“Of course.”

“Privately.”

He shrugged. “As much as there ever is privacy, in this place.” A room appeared about them, tastelessly luxurious in its trappings. “It’s all illusion anyway, but if it makes you more comfortable . . .”

“I find the sight of such worship . . . unpleasant.”

“Ah. Church sensibilities, once more. My theme for the week.” He chuckled. “Shame on you, my friend. I’d have thought you’d have outgrown all that by now.”

He reclined on a plush velvet couch and pointed to a matching stool opposite. “That one will support you.”

The stranger sat.

“Can I offer you something? Wine? Cerebus? Human blood?”

The stranger’s expression softened into something that was almost a smile. “I always refuse you, Karril.”

“I know. It pleases me to offer, just the same.” He drank deeply from his goblet, then vanished it when it was emptied. “So, what brings the Forest to Jaggonath?”

“A search for beauty. As always.”

“And did you find it?”

“A lovely, overprotected flower, growing in the mud of a farm.”

A shadow passed over the demon’s face. “To be hunted?”

“Curiously, no. She caught me in a rare moment of magnanimity, and I’m afraid I promised her safety.”

“You’re getting soft.” The demon grinned.

“My pleasures vary. Although this one, admittedly, was . . . odd.”

“You may lose your reputation for evil.”

The stranger chuckled. “Unlikely.”

“So what brings you to this place? To me? Or am I to believe that you simply desired my company?”

For a long moment the stranger just looked at him. Karril made himself another full goblet and drank from it, waiting him out; such a silence could mean anything.

“What do you know,” he said at last, “about the incident at the Fae Shoppe?”

The demon’s expression darkened perceptibly. He stood, and turned away from his visitor. Goblet and couch both disappeared; the passionate reds of the room’s interior were exchanged for blue, sullen and grayed. “Why do you want to know?”

“I was at the place earlier this evening. At what remained of it. I worked a Knowing—and a Seeing, and a Divining, and several more things whose titles you wouldn’t recognize. All blocked. It takes more than an apprentice’s skill to block my sight, Karril. Something about that shop was damned important to someone—and they must have worked one hell of a sacrifice to protect it.”

“It doesn’t concern you,” the demon said quietly.

“Everything concerns me.”

“This doesn’t.” He turned back; his expression was strained. “Trust me.”

“I could take it down, you understand. There isn’t an adept in Jaggonath whose Working could stand before me if I was determined enough. But then it would be down for good. And whatever it’s protecting . . .” He spread his hands suggestively.

Karril winced, but said nothing.

“Need I remind you that I could simply work a Summoning and bind you?” the stranger pressed. “That you would then have to tell me what I want to know? That’s a much more unpleasant relationship, Karril. Why don’t you spare us both the trouble.”

“Because there’s someone I don’t want hurt.”

The stranger’s eyes widened with sudden understanding. His voice, when it came, was a whisper. Seductive. “Do you really think I’d use you as an accessory to pain? After all these years, don’t you think I know better?”

“Your standards and mine differ somewhat.”

“You feed on the Hunt.”

“I feed on the Hunter. And if his pleasures changed tomorrow, I would celebrate.”

“Even if—”

“Why do you care?” the demon demanded. “What is this to you, that you bother?”

The stranger sat back, suddenly distant. “A loremaster has been attacked. I happen to be among those who respect the neutrality of such people. Shouldn’t I be upset? The currents in town have shifted—which hints at something much more nasty than a simple accident. Shouldn’t I be concerned? A nonadept sacrifices God knows what, to set up a blockage even I can’t Work through—”

“And something dark that isn’t of the Forest moves into Jaggonath. That’s what this is really all about, isn’t it? Territorialism. Defense of the Hunter’s turf. The loremaster and her mercantile enterprises have nothing to do with it.”

One corner of the stranger’s mouth twitched slightly: the hint of a smile without its substance. “There is that also,” he said quietly.

The blue of the room shifted through gray, to orange.

“I want your word,” the demon said.

“I recently gave that to a young girl,” he mused. “She didn’t know what it was worth.” He looked at the demon sharply. “You do.”

“That’s why I want it.”

“That I won’t hurt the lady Ciani? I have no reason—”

“Your word.”

“You can be very tiresome, Karril.” His tone was light, but his eyes were narrow, his gaze dark. “As you wish. I will neither harm Ciani of Faraday, nor cause her to be harmed, until this matter is dealt with.”

“Ever.”

“All right—ever. Are you satisfied now? Do you trust me?” He smiled, but his eyes were cold. “So few creatures would.”

“But we go back a long time, don’t we? I know where you came from. I know what you are. Even more importantly, I know what you were.”

“Then it’s time you made me equally well-informed.”

“There’s a priest involved,” the demon warned. “A Knight of the Flame. Do you care?”

He shrugged. “His problem, not mine.”

“I wonder if he’ll appreciate that fact.”

Again: an expression that was not quite a smile, a tone that was not quite humor. “It could make it . . . amusing.”

The demon smiled. And made himself a chair. And sat in it. The room faded slowly to red again; plush velvet, in quantity.

“You sure you wouldn’t like a drink?”

“Tell me,” the stranger demanded.

He did.

12

“This is a rakh.”

Senzei took hold of the ancient drawing with care and gently freed it from its tissue cocoon. The paper had yellowed with age and its ink had browned; he was infinitely careful as he turned it toward the lamplight, sensing just how fragile it was.

On it was sketched a mammal, four-legged and tailed as all Ernan mammals were. Visually unimpressive. He read the Latin name inscribed beneath it (Earth words, Earth terms, the species had been renamed so many times it hardly seemed to matter what it had originally been called) and then the date. And he looked up at Damien, startled. “2 a.s.?”

“The original. This is a copy. Done some two hundred years later, but supposedly an accurate reproduction. If the introduction is correct, the artist was copying from a sketchbook belonging to one of the original colonists. The landing crew,” Senzei breathed. Tasting the concept.

Damien leaned back in his leather-bound chair; overhead, the deeply shadowed vaults of the cathedral’s Rare Document Archives seemed to stretch toward infinity. “That’s the earliest representation we have. And, for quite some time, the only one. Evidently, the original settlers didn’t consider the species worthy of too much attention. Of course, they had other things to worry about.”

“Like survival.”

Damien nodded. “Look at these.” He pushed a pile of sketches—chronologically arranged—across the table. Silently, Senzei began to leaf through them. After a while his eyes narrowed slightly and he shook his head, amazed. Then he went through them again, more carefully.

“It’s incredible,” he said at last. “One can see why the settlers were frightened.” “Gods, yes. If they didn’t understand the fae . . .” “And this is before First Impression was verified. Before they really understood how man’s presence had altered the natural pattern here.” He picked up the first sketch and studied it. “Animal,” he muttered. “No more than that. Hardly worthy of notice, until Pravida Rakhi declared it to be the most sophisticated life-form native to this planet. That was forty-one years After Sacrifice. Man’s innocence lasted only that long.” He tipped the fragile paper toward the light, careful not to crease it. The creature that posed on its surface could have been related to any one of half a dozen species he knew—or even one that had ceased to exist. With but one aged sketch, it was hard to tell.

“You think they began to change after Rakhi’s announcement?”

Damien shook his head. “No. Before that. As near as I can tell, it started right after the Sacrifice. But when Rakhi declared that this species was man’s Ernan equivalent—that but for man’s presence, the species would have developed advanced intelligence and complex dexterity and eventually taken to the stars—the pace picked up alarmingly. Such is the power of the popular imagination.”

Senzei leafed through the sketches again, laid several out before him in chronological order. Though they were done in a variety of hands using dissimilar media, the overall pattern was clear. The species was changing.

“Of course, now we understand what happened. Now we know that evolution is a very different process here than it was on Earth. Here, if trees grow taller, the next gaffi calves are born with longer necks. If lakes dry up, the offspring of underwater creatures are born with rudimentary lungs. Their need affects their DNA, in precise and perfect balance. To us, it seems wholly natural; several adepts have even managed to Work the process, giving us our un-Earth species. But we understand this all now, after centuries of observation. Imagine what it must have meant for our ancestors, to see this happening before their eyes!”

Senzei looked up at him. “When did they guess where it was headed?”

“Not for a while. Not until Rakhi. The settlers observed that changes were occurring—but they were occurring in hundreds of species, in every ecological niche on the planet. And they had, as you say, much better things to worry about.”

“So now, imagine the rakh in that time. Moderately intelligent, seemingly self-aware, possessing opposable digits and thus a fair degree of manual dexterity. Inhabiting the very same ecological niche that man’s primitive ancestors did on Earth, in that evolutionary instant before he gained his true humanity. Changing, generation after generation—adapting to man’s presence, to the sudden appearance of a rival species. Slowly. Erna was feeling its way along genome by genome, testing out each new evolutionary concept before making the next adjustment. Keeping the ecosphere in balance.”

“And then, along comes Pravida Rakhi. Convincing all concerned that if man had never come here, these creatures would have been the natural monarchs of this planet. They would have become the local equivalent of us. The popular imagination is aroused, on all levels of consciousness. Intellectual curiosity, gut fear response, competitive instinct—you name it. Every possible mode of thought, every manner of instinct and emotion, every level of man’s mind, all are focused on the image of these creatures as pseudo-human. Is it any wonder that the fae was affected? That these natives, who were a natural part of this world, evolved accordingly?”

He shuffled through the sheets that were spread out before him until he found the one he wanted. And placed it before Senzei. “131 A. S.,” he said quietly.

Erna’s dominant natives had altered drastically in both shape and balance. The back legs were sturdier, the hindquarters more heavily muscled. The spine had bent so that the torso might be carried erect, although the front paws—hands?—were still being used as auxiliary feet. Most dramatic of all was the change in the skull, from the sharply angled profile of an animal predator to something that looked disturbingly human.

Senzei tapped the date on the drawing. “This was when they guessed what was happening.”

“This was when they began to suspect. You have to remember how alien such a concept was to their inherited way of thinking. It took five generations of close observation before anyone was sure. And several generations after that, to see if human sorcery could reverse the trend. It couldn’t. Erna had supplied us with a competitor, and one cast in our own image. We had accepted it as such. The work of a single sorcerer was hardly a drop in the bucket, compared to that. Generation after generation, the rakh were becoming more human.”

“And we answered with the crusades.”

“Wholesale slaughter of an innocent species. And the unwitting creation of a host of demons, as byproducts of man’s most murderous instincts. All feeding on his hatred, all savoring his intolerance. Is it any wonder that human society nearly devolved into total chaos? That the rigid social patterns of the Revivalist movement seemed to be man’s only hope of maintaining order?”

“And thus the Church was born.”

Damien looked at him but said nothing. For a moment, the room seemed unnaturally still.

“And thus the Church was born,” he agreed. At last he looked down at the table again, and unrolled a heavy parchment sheet atop the pile of drawings. A map.

“The rakhlands.”

Senzei looked it over, muttered, “Shit.”

Damien agreed.

The land that the rakh had retreated to was well fortified by nature to resist man’s most aggressive instincts. To the west, the Worldsend Mountains provided a daunting barrier of ice-clad peaks and frozen rivers. To the east, sheer basalt cliffs carved out by centuries of tsunami offered no easy landing site, no hope of shelter. The southlands were hardly more appealing, acre upon acre of treacherous swampland that harbored some of Erna’s deadliest species. Only in the north was there any hope of passage, between the jagged peaks and wind-carved cliffs that looked out onto the Serpent Straits.

Damien tapped a finger to the mouth of the Achron River, and muttered, “Only way.”

“What about the mountains?”

Damien looked up at him sharply—and realized, in an instant, how little the man had traveled. “Not with winter coming. Not if we want to live to get to the rakhlands. I traveled the Dividers in midsummer, and that was rough enough. Even if the cold doesn’t kill you outright, there are nasty things that inhabit those peaks—damned hungry things—and it’s hard to fight them when your body’s half frozen. Of course, if we wait until summer . . .”

“I can’t. She can’t.”

“Agreed—on all counts. River it is, then. Hell of a landing, but I think it can be done. And you can bet we’ll pay dearly for it. In cash, I mean.” He leaned forward in his chair, intent upon the display before them. “Where’s the Canopy?”

Senzei hesitated. “That depends. Roughly, there.” He sketched a rough circle with his finger: up through the center of the Worldsend range, east along the coast, to a curve that extended up to ten miles off the eastern shore, and back through the swamps. “Half a mile wide, in places—and as much as six, elsewhere. It moves, too. Sometimes it edges out into the Straits—which is why most boats avoid that shoreline like the plague. I have better maps at my place,” he added.

“Good. We’ll need them. Tell me about it.”

“We don’t know much. A wall of living fae, that first appeared shortly after the rakh fled into the Worldsend. No natural fae-current passes through it. No Working can pass from one side to the other. Tamed fae that’s Worked in the middle of it can go wild, and do anything. Ships that flounder into it discover that their instruments have suddenly gone haywire, that the very shoreline seems changed . . . but so much of our technology is fae-based, how can we be sure of what that means?”

“What’s it made of? Earth-fae? Tidal? Solar?”

Senzei shook his head. “None of those. Nothing we humans understand. Ciani thought there might be some sort of force inherent in the rakh themselves—we see similar things in other species—and that the Canopy is an extension of their communal existence. Their need for protection.”

“From man,” Damien said grimly.

There was no need for Senzei to comment.

“Do we know what the rakh are now? Did Ciani ever say?”

“We know they survived. We know they must be at least moderately intelligent in order to have manifested the kind of creatures that she encountered. And that there are large numbers of them—or the Canopy wouldn’t exist. That’s all. I can list a hundred rumors for you . . . but you know how reliable those are. There’s no way of knowing whether they followed through on their initial Impression, and eventually developed a human-compatible form, or went off in some other direction entirely. The fact that their demons can adopt human form seems to imply the former—but I wouldn’t bet my life on that conclusion. Some demons are very versatile.”

Wouldn’t a world without demons be better? Damien wanted to argue. Worth sacrificing for? But he bit back the words before they were spoken; this was neither the time nor the place for theosophy. Senzei and he would be spending a long time together, under very trying circumstances; anything that might add additional tension to the situation was a course to be avoided, at all costs.

“Let’s prepare for everything,” he said. “Once we get there, there’ll be no sending home for supplies. If it’s small and it might be useful, we take it with us. If it’s large and heavy . . . maybe we pack it anyway. Often it’s the little things that make a difference—especially when you don’t even know what it is you’re going to be facing.”

Senzei leaned back, but there was nothing relaxed about the posture; his body was stiffly erect, tense. “You really think we can do it?”

Damien hesitated. Met his eyes. Let him see the doubt that was there, inside him. “I think we have to try,” he said quietly. “As for the rest . . . there’s no way of knowing that until we’re inside, is there? Until we can see what we’re up against. The odds are certainly against us.” He shrugged. “But we won’t even know what they are until we get there.”

“We need an adept,” Senzei muttered.

Damien looked around, as if checking for eavesdroppers. The gesture reminded Senzei of where they were—as it was no doubt meant to do. “Not here,” he muttered. He began to gather the drawings. “Good enough for research, but for the rest . . . it isn’t appropriate.”

“I understand.”

“We’ll go to your place. All right? I’ll have copies made of the map, and sent there.” He glanced about, paused just long enough to draw Senzei’s attention to the two other priests, ritually clad, who were within hearing distance. “We need to have this worked out as well as we can before we take a single step toward the rakhlands, you know.”

“And gods help us then.”

Jarred by the plural, Damien looked up at him. “Pray long and hard, if you want your gods to interfere.” His voice and manner were strained. “And do it soon. Because once we get under the Canopy, and that silence stretches between us and Jaggonath . . . no god of this region is going to hear your prayers. Or anything else, for that matter.”

She lay still as death on Senzei’s guest cot, glazed eyes staring out into nothingness. The light of a single candle illuminated her face and hands in sharp relief, from the stark white highlights of her colorless flesh to shadows so sharp and deep that they might have been carved in stone. Even her eyes seemed paler, as though sorrow had leached the color from them. As though her assailants had drained her not only of memory, but of hue.

The food that had been placed beside her was untouched. Damien moved it carefully out of the way and then sat by her side.

“Cee.” His voice was no more than a whisper, but in the absolute silence of her chamber it might as well have been a shout. “Cee. We’re going after them. Do you understand?” He put a hand on her shoulder—ice-cold flesh, without response—and squeezed gently. “You’ve got to get hold of yourself.”

She turned to him slowly. Her face was dry of tears, but he could see the streaks of salt-stiffened flesh where they had coursed. The desolation in her eyes nearly broke his heart.

“What’s the point?” she whispered.

He Worked her then. Gently, praying that she wouldn’t notice. Worked a link between them that would keep her attention on him, keep her from falling back into unresponsive darkness. “We need you.”

For a moment it seemed as if she would turn away again, but something—perhaps the fae—held her steady. Her voice, when it came, was a dry, dehydrated whisper. “For what?”

“Ah, Cee. I thought you would have guessed that.” He took her nearer hand, prying it gently from the blanket’s edge to enfold it in his own. Cold flesh, nearly lifeless. How dilute was her vitality now—how fragile had that thread become, which binds such a woman to life? “You have to come with us.”

For a moment she looked startled; there was more vitality in that single expression than he had seen in all the days since the assault. He felt something in himself tighten, tried to quell the tide of hope rising inside him. Or at least, control it. So much depended on how she took this . . .

“We can’t leave you here,” he told her. “You’d be unprotected. There’s no ward Senzei or I could Work that would hold them off, if your own didn’t. And he’s not all that sure that the illusion he Worked at the shop would hold once he’s under the Canopy. They might suddenly realize that you’re alive . . . and we’d have no way of getting back to you. Or even knowing what had happened.” He took a deep breath, chose his next words carefully. “And without you, Cee . . . we can’t find the one who did this.” He felt her stiffen beneath his hand, saw the fear come into her eyes. He continued quickly, “If not for the Canopy we could rely on a Knowing, but with the Canopy between us . . . no one can read through it, Senzei said, not even an adept. And God knows, we’re not that. With you on one side and us on the other, locating your assailant would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Even worse: like trying to find one single blade of hay in that stack, when you don’t know which one you’re searching for. How would we even know where to start?” He squeezed her hand gently, wished he could will some of his own warmth into her flesh. His own vitality. “We need you, Cee.”

She shut her eyes; a tremor of remembered pain ran through her body. “You don’t understand,” she whispered. “You can’t possibly understand.” A tear gathered under her lashes, but lacked the substance to free itself; her body was too dehydrated to spare that much fluid. “What it’s like to live with the fae. Like adepts do. Zen thinks it’s like a constant Seeing, but it’s not that at all.” Her brow furrowed as she struggled for words. “It’s everywhere. In everything. There are so many different kinds that I don’t even have names for them all, some so fleeting that they’re just a spark out of the corner of your eye—a flash of light, of power—and then they’re gone, before you can focus on them. And the currents flow through it all—everything!— not just around it, like he Sees, but permeating every substance on this planet, living and unliving, solid and illusory. Sometimes you’ll be looking at the sky and the tidal-fae will flux for an instant and there it is—like a flaw in a crystal that suddenly catches the light, a spectrum of living color that’s gone before you can even draw a breath. And there’s music, too, so beautiful that it hurts just to listen to. Everywhere you look, everything you touch, it’s all permeated with living fae—all in a constant state of flux, changing hourly as the different tides course through it. And the result is a world so rich, so wonderful, that it makes you shiver just to live in it . . .” She drew in a shaky breath. “Do you understand? When I touch a stone, what I feel isn’t hard rock—I feel everything that stone has been, everything it might become, I feel how it channels the earth-fae and how it interacts with the tidal fae and how the power of the sun will affect it, and what it will be when true night falls . . . do you understand, Damien? That bit of rock is alive alive—everything is alive to us, even the air we breathe—only now-” She coughed raggedly, and he could hear the tears come into her voice. “Don’t you see? That’s what they took! It’s all dead now. I look around, and all I see are corpses. A universe of corpses. Like everything I see is sculpted out of rotting meat . . . except it’s not even rotting; there’s life in corruption, you know, even carrion has its own special music . . . and here there’s nothing. Nothing! I touch this bed—” and she grasped the bedframe with her free hand, and squeezed it until her knuckles were white with the pressure, “—and all I feel . . . gods, there’s no life in it . . . can you understand? It wasn’t me they drained, it was the whole of my world!”

“Cee.” He stroked her hair gently from her face, letting his fingers warm her skin. “Cee. We’re going to get it back for you. Do you understand? But we need your help. We need you to come with us. It’s all a waste if you don’t. Cee?” He continued to stroke her hair—gently, as one would a frightened kitten’s—but she only moaned softly, wordlessly. As the tears finally came.

“We’ll help you, Cee,” he whispered. “I swear it.”

The books and documents that had been brought to Senzei’s workroom had long since overflowed the confines of his desk; when Damien entered the room he found him sitting on the floor in the center of his sigil-rug, surrounded by carefully ordered stacks.

Damien waited until Ciani’s assistant looked up at him. “I’m going to kill them,” he hissed. “Going to kill those sons of bitches—hard, and slow. You hear me? I’m going to make them suffer.”

“Thus speaks the guardian of peace.”

“There’s nothing in my Order’s charter about peace. Or in the Church’s Manifesto, for that matter. That’s post-war PR.” He grabbed a free stool, put it down by the desk, and sat on it. “Find anything?”

“A simple question for a complex task.” Senzei began to point to the piles around him, naming them one after the other. “Things we should take with us. Things we should read before we go. Things we should take with us except they’re too large, fragile, or heavy to carry, so we should have the information in them copied into something else, preferably with waterproof ink. Things we—”

“I get the picture.” He flipped back the cover of a leather-bound volume that sat on the edge of the desk—Evolutionary Trends in Native Species: a Neo-Terran Analysis— “How about the manpower problem? Any progress there?”

Senzei hesitated. “I have her records, you know—one of the few things I saved. Detailed dossiers on all adepts living in this region. Depressing as hell, given our situation.”

“You don’t trust their power?”

Senzei sighed. “I don’t trust them. Need I remind you that the gift of adeptitude is utterly random, that we don’t understand the least thing about how it comes to those it does, or—more importantly—why? The adepts in Jaggonath are an utterly random sample of humanity: most of them are self-centered, unstable, intellectually limited . . . replete with all the flaws that define us as a species. One or two are marginally hopeful . . . but I don’t like it, Damien. I don’t like trusting a stranger in this, adept or no.”

“You were the one who wanted us to find someone.”

“I wanted Ciani,” he said bitterly. “Someone like her. Only there isn’t someone like her. She was the exception. I can’t imagine any of these people,” he waved his hand over three of the nearer piles, “taking on the cause of a stranger, like she would have done. Risking their lives just to find out what’s on the other side of those mountains. All right? I was wrong. So shoot me.”

“Easy.” Damien made himself a place on the rug and sat down, opposite Senzei. “You can’t let it get to you, Zen. Not this early in the game.” He picked up a piece of paper from the pile nearest—a fae-map of the Serpent Straits—and looked it over as he said, “I’d just as soon have an adept along, too, but if we can’t, we can’t. You and I have power enough, in our various fields. It’ll have to suffice.”

“I hope,” Senzei said miserably.

He put the map down again, tried to change the subject. “How about the rakh?”

He hesitated. “What exactly are you asking?”

“When can we find one? How can we do it?”

Senzei stared at him for a moment, clearly astonished. “You mad? We need to stay clear of them at all costs. Their hatred of humanity—”

“Was last documented almost a thousand years ago. I’m not saying it’s not still in effect—might even have worsened—but is it safe to assume that? I do know that we’ll be crossing their lands, and I’d be surprised if we can avoid any contact. Don’t you think we’d be better off approaching one or two under carefully controlled circumstances, than riding blindly into a city full of potential enemies?”

Senzei digested that concept. “I suppose. Once we’re inside the Canopy I could work a Calling; that might bring us something with a potentially sympathetic mindset. But we’d have to wait until we get inside to know for sure. If only some of the rakh were outside the Canopy—”

Ciani’s voice interrupted. “How do you know they’re not?”

The two men looked up to find her leaning in the doorway. Wrapped in a blanket and shivering, as though protecting herself from the chill autumn winds that blew outside the house. Despite that—despite her ghastly pallor, hollowed cheeks, and the thin red webbing that filmed her eyes—she looked better than she had in days. Since the accident.

Alive, Damien thought. She looks alive.

“How do you know where they are?” she pressed.

“The rakh never travel outside the Canopy. They—”

Her voice was a ragged whisper. “How do we know that?”

Senzei started to speak again, but Damien put a hand on his arm. Quieting him. On first impression it seemed that Ciani was asking for simple information: What facts had she forgotten which caused them to believe this about the rakh? But on second impression . . . He looked in her eyes, saw a brief glint of fire there. Intelligence. They had taken her memory, but they hadn’t dimmed her sagacity. They couldn’t.

“We don’t know,” he told her. “We assumed.”

“Ah.” She shook her head sadly; there was a hint of humor in the gesture, a mere shadow of her former self. Weakly, she whispered, “Bad move.”

Senzei stiffened. “You think they might travel? That one or more might be outside their own wall of protection?”

“I have no information on which to base such a guess,” she reminded him gently. Damien could see the pain of it in her eyes, the constant frustration of reaching inside for memories that weren’t there. Of not even knowing how much knowledge she had lost. “But it’s possible, isn’t it?” She hesitated. “Do we know any reason why it wouldn’t be?”

“None at all,” Damien assured her. And then he was up and by her side in an instant, to catch her as her spurt of strength finally died. As she fell. So light, so fragile . . .

“She needs food,” he said. “I’ll take her downstairs, try to feed her something. Zen-?”

“Working on it,” he responded. He climbed over several stacks of books to reach the desk; once there, he began to rummage through a stack of maps. “I can do a Converging, to draw whatever’s out there. If there’s anything out there. I’ll try to get it to meet up with us en route—that’s better than waiting for it here, don’t you think?”

“Much better.”

“We won’t know what it is, of course. Or where it’s coming from. Not until it gets to us.” He looked back at Damien. “You’re sure—”

“Yes,” he said quickly “A rakh contact this side of the Canopy is worth any risk. Do it.”

“It may not like us.”

“We may not like it,” Damien said dryly. “That’s life.”

And he carried Ciani downstairs.

Senzei found Allesha in the kitchen, washing out the last of their dinner dishes. He waited for a moment in strained silence, hoping that she would notice him. But if she did, she made no sign of it. It did seem to him that her body was somewhat tenser, that her hands were scrubbing more vigorously, as if using the household chore to vent some private anxiety . . . but that was probably his imagination. The stress. Not Allesha.

Finally, “Lesh,” he said softly. He saw her stiffen. She put down the dish she was working on, carefully, but didn’t otherwise acknowledge him. “Lesh? I need to talk to you. Can you spare a minute?”

She turned to him slowly; something in her disheveled manner, so utterly free of cosmetics or artifice, reminded him of when they had first met. How deeply he had been in love with her since that first moment. It made him all the more miserable that a breach had been growing between them. That for all his efforts he seemed unable to recover the joy of those innocent, happy days.

“Lesh? You want to sit?” He indicated the table with its delicately carved chairs. The whole of the kitchen was delicate, like her.

“I’m all right,” she said softly.

He hesitated. Not knowing how to start. Not knowing how to commit to speech all the things she must be aware of, which lacked only official pronouncement. “You know how bad it is with Cee. I mean . . . Damien thinks the only way to change that is to go into the rakhlands. To hunt down the creature that did this and destroy it.” The violent words felt strange on his tongue. Hunt. Destroy. Not words of study, or of quiet city life, but keys to a far darker universe. “I think . . . that is, I mean . . .”

“That you’re going,” she whispered.

Stiffly, he nodded.

She turned away.

“Lesh—”

She waved him to silence. He could see her shoulders trembling as she fought to hold back tears. Or anger? He moved toward her, his every instinct crying out for him to hold her, to use their physical closeness to blunt the edge of his announcement, but she drew away from him. Only inches—but it hinted at a much more vast gulf between them, that had been months in the making.

“Just like that,” she whispered. “So easy . . .”

His heart twisted inside him. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know when. It just sort of happened, all of it . . . Lesh, I’m sorry, I would have come to you earlier . . .”

She shook her head. “It isn’t that. It isn’t that at all.” She turned back to him. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and not just from the last few minutes. She had been crying. “And it isn’t just Ciani, either. Or the events of the last few days. I want you to understand that, Zen. It’s been going on for too long, and I . . . I can’t take it anymore.”

She turned away from him again; her voice became so low he could hardly hear it. “I think we should end it,” she whispered. “Give up. It’s not going anywhere, Zen—and it won’t get better. Maybe it was a mistake in the first place. Maybe there was a time when I could have changed things . . .” She looked back at him. “But I’m sorry. I failed you. Failed us both.”

She reached down to the edge of the sink where a slender gold ring lay in a dish of soap-suds. And wiped it clean as carefully and as delicately as if it were fine china. “I think you’d better have this,” she told him. She didn’t meet his eyes as she held it out to him. “You can keep mine. It’s okay. I don’t want it. I wouldn’t want to see it . . .”

He stared at the engagement ring in shock, not quite believing it. Not quite absorbing.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a long time,” she said hurriedly. “I want you to know that. Gods, I’ve been going over it in my mind for so long that I can hardly remember a time when I wasn’t. Isn’t that awful?” She took a deep breath. “Because I realized one day that though I can be many things to you, I can never be first in your life. Never. Oh, I tried to convince myself otherwise—I reasoned that if we only spent enough time together, if you cared enough about our commitment . . . we could work out our priorities, establish the kind of relationship I want. The kind of relationship I need. But we can’t. I understand that now. This incident didn’t start it, it just drove the lesson home. And it’s all right, Zen, it’s just the way you are, I have to deal with that—”

“If it’s Ciani—”

“It’s not Ciani! Don’t you think I know that? It’s not any other woman. Gods!” She laughed shortly; it was a bitter sound. “I wish it were another woman. I’d know how to compete with a woman. I don’t know how to compete with this.” She was facing him now, and her eyes, normally soft, blazed with anger. With pain. “I mean the fae, Zen. I mean your hunger for something you can never have. Don’t you think I see how it eats at you? Don’t you think I can feel it in you every time I’m with you? Every time we touch? Feel it in you every time we make love—how you wish it could be more, how you wish you could experience it on all those different levels—don’t you think I can sense your frustration? Your distraction?” she drew in a deep breath, shakily. “I can’t live with it any more. I’m sorry. I’ve tried and tried . . . and I just can’t do it any more.”

“Lesh . . . we can work it out. We can work on it—”

“When you come home again? Two, three years from now? Do you really think I should wait—for this?”

He could say nothing. The words were all choked up inside him. Words of anger, pleading, surprise . . . and guilt. Because he had seen it coming. Deep inside him, on levels he hated to probe. And he despised himself for not knowing how to stop it.

“I love you,” he said. Willing all his passion into his voice—wishing he could communicate his emotions directly, without need for such an artificial vehicle as words. “I love you more than anything, Lesh—”

“And I love you,” she whispered back. “I always have.” She shut her eyes tightly; a tear squeezed out from the corner of one of them. “I only wish that was enough to base a marriage on, Zen. But it isn’t. Can’t you see that?”

He wanted to argue with her. He wanted to beg her to stay, to tell her that soon he would be back again soon, they could start all over—he would change, she would see!—but the words caught in his throat and he just couldn’t voice them. Because she was right, and he knew it. He could make all the promises he wanted, and it wouldn’t change a thing. The hunger was first in his life, had always been. Would always be. Mere words couldn’t alter that. And if it wasn’t enough for her that he tried not to express that, that he worked to repress that terrible yearning while they were together, tried to hide it . . . then there was nothing he could do to fix things. Nothing at all.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped. Sensing clearly the vast gulf that had formed between them, not knowing how to reach across it. Feeling lost, as though suddenly he were surrounded by strangers. “I’m so sorry . . .”

“I just hope you find what you want,” she murmured. “Or make some kind of peace with yourself, at least. If there was anything I could do to help . . . I would. You know that.”

“I know it,” he whispered.

She came to where he stood, and kissed him gently. He put his arms around her and held her tightly. As if somehow that could make the problems go away. As if a mere demonstration of affection could make everything better. But they had passed that stage, long ago, while his attention was elsewhere. While he devoted the core of his attention to the fae, failing to see that all about him the pieces of his life were slowly dissolving. Withering, like houseplants that had been starved of water. While he failed to see their need.

Numbly he watched as she put the thin gold ring down on the kitchen table; it made a small puddle, mirror bright, with the water that dripped from her fingers.

“I’ll keep the house,” she said gently. “Take care of it, until you come back. So you don’t have to worry about your things . . . while you’re gone.” She looked toward the remaining dishes, then away from them. Away from him. “I’m sorry, Zen.” She whispered it, in a voice that echoed with fresh tears. “So sorry . . .”

She ran from the room. He moved as though to follow her—and then checked himself, with painful effort. What was he going to say to her? Where was he going to find the magic words to make it all better, so that somehow they might pretend it had never happened? So that somehow he could pretend that she wasn’t right, that he hadn’t failed her, that when he came back from the rakhlands everything would go back to normal?

He sat in the kitchen chair heavily. And fingered the thin gold ring, with its delicately engraved sigils of love.

And he wept.

13

“Holiness.”

The Patriarch closed the heavy volume before him and pushed it to one side. “Come in, Reverend Vryce.” He pointed to a cushioned chair set opposite the desk. “Have a seat.”

Damien tried to bring himself to sit, but couldn’t. His soul was wound too tight with tension; he felt that if he tried to bend his body, to relax in any way, something inside him would snap. “Holy Father. I . . . need to make a request.”

It could still go wrong here. It could all fall apart.

The Patriarch looked him over, from his rumpled hair and sleepless eyes to the simple beige shirt and brown woolen pants he had worn for the audience. And nodded, slowly. “Go on.”

“I need . . . that is, something has come up . . .” He heard the tremor in his voice, took a deep breath, and tried to steady himself. It’s not just that you’re afraid he’ll refuse you, remember that. It’s the way the fae responds to him. He started to speak again, but the Patriarch waved him to silence.

“Sit down, Reverend Vryce.” His voice was quiet but dominant; authority flowed forth from him, thickening the fae between them. “That’s an order.”

Damien forced himself to sit. He started to speak again, but again the Patriarch shushed him. He passed a goblet across the desk to him, scarlet glass with a darker liquid within. Damien took it and drank: sweet red wine, freshly chilled. With effort, he forced himself to relax. Took another drink. After a few minutes, the pounding of his heart subsided to a somewhat more normal rhythm.

“Now,” the Patriarch said, when he had set the glass aside. “Tell me.”

He did. Not the presentation he had planned, with its careful interweaving of truth and half-truth and insinuation, designed to manipulate the Patriarch into making the decision he required. Something in the Holy Father’s manner inspired him to do otherwise. Maybe it was the fae, communicating between them on levels Damien could hardly sense. Or maybe simply human instinct, which said that the Holy Father was ready to hear—and deserved to be told—the truth.

He told it all. The Holy Father interrupted once or twice, to request that a point be clarified, but otherwise he offered no response. His expression gave no hint of either sympathy or hostility, or of any wariness on his part. Any of the things that Damien might have expected.

“The end result,” he concluded—and he took a deep breath to steady himself—“is that I must request permission to leave my duties here in order to go east. A leave of absence, your Holiness. I believe that the situation merits it.”

For a long time the Patriarch looked at him, clear blue eyes taking the measure of his soul. Or so it seemed. At last he said, “If I refuse you?”

Damien stiffened. “This isn’t merely a personal concern. If these demons are able to leave the rakhlands—”

“Answer the question, please.”

He met those eyes—so hard, so cold—and answered in the only way possible. Though it tore him apart inside to do it. “I swore an oath, your Holiness. To give the Prophet’s dream precedence over my own life. To serve the patterns which he declared were necessary . . . including the hierarchy of my Church. If you’re asking me if I understand my duty, that’s my answer. If you mean to use this situation to test me . . .” He felt his hands tighten on the chair’s wooden arms, forced them to relax. Forced the anger out of his voice. It is his right. In some ways, his duty. “Please don’t. I implore you. As a man, and as your servant.”

For a long time the Patriarch was silent. Damien met his gaze for as long as he could, but at last turned away. He felt helpless, not being able to Work the fae to his advantage. Doubly helpless—because the Patriarch, just by existing, did.

“Come,” the Holy Father said at last. He stood. “I want to show you something.”

He led Damien through the western wing in silence, the whispering of his hem against the smooth mosaic floors the only sound to accompany their footsteps down the long, vaulted corridors. Soon they came to a heavily barred door, whose steel lock was inscribed with passages from the Book of Law. A thick tapestry ribbon depended from the ceiling, and this the Patriarch pulled. They waited. Soon, hurried footsteps could be heard coming from down the hall, and the tinkling of metal upon metal. A priest appeared, still shuffling through the key ring that depended from a gold chain around his neck. He bowed his obeisance to the Patriarch even as he managed to single out the key he wanted. Damien turned toward his Holiness—and saw a similar key cradled in his hand, its grip made of fine gold filigree, fragments of bloodstone set in a spiral pattern.

Together, synchronized, they unlocked the heavy door. The Patriarch nodded for Damien to pass through, then took down a lamp that hung by the threshold and followed. The door was then shut behind them and locked.

“This way,” he said.

Down stairs. Into the depths of the building, into the very foundation of the structure—into the earth itself—until they were far enough beneath Erna’s surface that the earth-fae grew thin and feeble. Damien cautiously worked a Seeing, could barely see it clinging to the rock that surrounded them. Curiously—or perhaps ominously—there was no dark fae present. There should have been in such a place, this far beneath the prayers that safeguarded Church property. Was there some sort of Warding here? Or . . . something else?

At last they came to another door, with a single keyhole. A sigil was inscribed in the aged wood, and Damien thought, A ward? Is that possible? The floor creaked as they approached, and Damien heard machinery shift behind the walls; an alarm system of some kind. He imagined a thief being trapped in this place; it wasn’t a pretty picture.

The Patriarch touched the engraved sign with reverence, then carefully unlocked the door. Despite its weight, he pulled it open without assistance—and power washed over them like a tidal wave, tamed fae in such concentration that it was impossible not to feel it, even without a Working; impossible not to see it, a light that glistened like molten gold sprayed into the air, a fine mist of luminescence that glittered like the stars of the outer Core, making the flame of the Patriarch’s lamp seem dull and dark by comparison.

“Relics of the Holy War,” he said quietly. He set the lamp on a table by the door and stepped aside, nodding for Damien to enter. “Take a look. See, if you need to.”

He did so. Carefully. Despite the relative lack of earth-fae underground, his vision burst into full being the moment he Worked it. And suddenly he could barely see the objects that surrounded him, so bright was their power; the intensity of it brought tears to his eyes. After a moment he was forced to desist, and let the Working fade. The world returned—very slowly—to normal.

“Light was, of course, their primary weapon. Their tool of invasion. There are other things bound into each item here . . . but always light. They thought they could conquer the Forest with it.” The Patriarch reached out to the wall beside him, fingered the edge of a rotting tapestry. “Sometimes, I think, that’s what was responsible for our defeat. When we play by the rules of the enemy, we inherit his weaknesses.”

“Go ahead,” he urged. “Look around.”

The chamber was large, its high, vaulted ceiling more reminiscent of the cathedral that towered high above it than the rough stone tunnels which led to its entrance. Niches had been carved into the walls and sealed with glass; the more delicate relics had been protected thus, safe from the moisture that might otherwise damage them. Most of these were mere fragments—a scrap of cloth, a few golden threads, a bit of rusted metal—but power poured forth from all of them equally, as if the fae that had been bound to them in the days of their use was unaffected by their material state. On the walls, warded shields bore mute witness to the desperate fervor of those days, in which priests served as sorcerers and soldiers simultaneously—and eventually, as martyrs. For the Forest had triumphed. The creatures which humanity had given birth to in its violent years had accumulated far more power than a single army of sorcerer-priests could hope to conjure.

At the far end of the room, in a gilt-edged case, a crystal flask filled with golden liquid glowed richly with internal light. The Patriarch walked to it, gestured for Damien to follow. “Solar fae,” he explained. “Bound well enough to survive even in this place, where no sun ever shines. No single adept could have managed it; only the prayer of thousands has that kind of power. Imagine a time when that kind of unity was possible . . .” His voice trailed off into silence, but Damien continued the thought: When our dream was that close to completion. When consummation of our Purpose was still within sight. Then the Patriarch reached out and opened the case, and lifted the flask up from its velveteen bed. “They bound it to water. Such a simple substance . . . they reasoned that since all living things consume water, and ultimately incorporate it into their physical being, this would be the perfect tool of invasion.” He held it up so that the crystalline facets [garbled text here] it back in a thousand scintillating fragments. “In here is all the power of sunlight. All the force of that heavenly warmth. Whatever it is in the solar fae that weakens night’s power, this fluid contains it. If a thing runs from light, this will hurt it. If it can’t bear the heat of life, this will burn it. All this . . . bound to the most common substance on Erna.” He turned the flask slowly, watched the light revolve around it. “They meant to seed the Forest with it. They meant to give it to the ground and let every living thing that took root there suck it up for nourishment. In time, it would have infected the entire ecosystem. In time, it might have defeated even that great Darkness.”

When he fell silent, Damien asked, “So what happened?”

The Patriarch bit his lip, considering the flask. And shrugged, wearily. “Who knows? No one ever returned from that expedition. In the battle that followed, our armies were slaughtered. The tide of the War turned against us.” He looked at the priest, his eyes feline-green in the golden light. “God alone knows what happened to the rest of it. This is all that remains.”

He turned the flask gently, and shards of light coursed the room. Eyes still fixed on it, he said quietly, “Your Order wasn’t founded to provide nursemaids for fledgling sorcerers, Reverend Vryce. It exists because violent times sometimes require violent acts. And because a single man can sometimes succeed where an army of men might fail.”

He lowered the cover of the case and set the flask on top of it. From the pocket of his robe he drew out a square of cloth—white silk, thickly woven—and this he wrapped about the precious bottle, until the light that came from it was no longer visible.

He held it out to Damien. And waited. The priest hesitated. Finally the Patriarch took his hand and placed the silken package in it. Not until Damien had folded his fingers securely over it did the Holy Father let go.

A faint hint of a smile crossed his face. “I thought you might have some need of this, where you’re going.”

Then he looked about the room, at the tattered remnants of his faith, and shook his head sadly.

“May you have better luck than its creators,” he whispered.

14

It was a chill, bleak morning when the last of the bags were finally packed and secured onto the horses. In the distance, stormclouds threatened; Senzei glanced at them uneasily and muttered the key to a Knowing, making sure that nothing had changed since his Divining that morning. But no, it still appeared that the worst of the storm would pass them by. And the rest of it—they had all agreed—was not worth delaying for.

“We should make Briand well before sunset,” Damien said. “As for whether we choose to put up there, or push on after nightfall . . .” He looked up at Ciani for a response. But although she was feeling somewhat better—almost in high spirits, compared to her previous state—she wasn’t about to bear the weight of such a decision.

And rightfully so, he reminded himself. She’s forgotten the very things that make such decisions important. Like what kind of creatures are out there, in the night.

We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

Her appearance had changed. They had changed it. Not with the fae, but by simple cosmetic art. Looking at her now, Damien was pleased by their efforts. They had bleached her hair to a golden blonde and added an olive tint to her skin. Between the features which she had redrawn and the deep hollows that her suffering had added to her face, she looked as unlike her former self as was reasonably possible. Bulkier clothing and heeled boots had altered her size and stance as well, and Damien was reasonably sure that no one—not even her tormentors—would recognize her now. But just in case, he had added an Obscuring. To cover all bases.

The Canopy will probably cancel it out. But until then, every little bit helps.

Senzei was reading off the last few items on their checklist, crossing each off as he verified that it had indeed been packed. Anything of vital importance was with one of the three travelers; additional items—and duplicates—were secured to one of the three extra horses the small group was taking with them. The checklist was four pages long, in small print; Damien wondered what they had managed to forget, despite it. Senzei had accused him of packing everything but the kitchen sink. (Did we forget that? he’d asked), but Damien had learned from experience that it was better to pack too much than too little for a journey such as this. There’d be time enough later to strip down their outfits, and they could always sell off the extra horses and supplies if they needed to. He had been on too many journeys in which a missing item or a disabled horse had ground the whole expedition to a halt. When they needed to travel light, they would; until then, they were prepared for anything.

At last Senzei looked up. His eyes met Damien’s, and the priest thought he saw a flicker of pain in them. He’d been unusually quiet ever since they started packing—quiet and morose. Was it trouble with Allesha, perhaps? Damien didn’t know the man well enough to draw him out on it, much less to help him cope, but he knew from experience just how hard it was to establish a relationship that could weather such a departure. He’d never quite gotten the hang of it himself.

“That’s it,” Senzei told him. “It’s all here. We’re ready.”

Damien looked out into the early morning light—gray mists gathering to the north, stormclouds heavy and black in the east, western horizon still veiled in night’s darkness—and muttered, “All right. Let’s get moving.” The sooner we get where we’re going, the sooner those bastards die.

In the foothills of the Worldsend Mountains, a figure stood very still. She had been still like that for hours since the call had first come to her. Since her sleep had first been disturbed by human sorcery, in a manner unprecedented among her kind.

For hours now, she had studied the currents. She had watched as the ripples birthed by that alien call had dashed themselves against the stolid earth-fae of the mountains. Had watched while that alien message was absorbed into the fae-tides of early morning, to course outward again in delicately altered patterns. From such patterns, she could read much of the sorcerer who had sent that call, and why he did so. She could also read what other patterns were moving to converge with his, and how her own presence might alter that balance. The situation was complicated. The danger was real. And as for traveling with humans . . . she shuddered.

After several hours, she decided that she was more intrigued than wary. A very strange feeling.

She chose a path that would intersect with theirs, and began to hike along it.