Black Sun Rising

28

They left the gloomy replica of Merentha Castle promptly at dusk. Or so they were told. High up on the ramparts it might have been possible to see the sun, possible to verify that day had indeed ended and the reign of night begun. But in the closed corridors of the castle’s interior and beneath the Forest’s thickly woven canopy, one had to take such things on faith. The Hunter’s faith.

They had no other choice.

Tarrant provided horses for Ciani and himself, jet-black creatures with muscular limbs and rich, glossy coats. They left behind them a trail of crescent indentations, as unlike the three-toed marks left by Damien’s mounts as those of another species would be. Their proportion, likewise, seemed strange to the eye, almost but not quite identical to that of their southern brethren. Damien was hard pressed to put his finger on the difference—but he knew, whatever it was, that it was both controlled and intentional. With a thousand years of leisure time on his hands and the nearly unlimited potential of the Forest’s fae, the Neocount of Merentha had completed his most ambitious task. Erna now had true horses.

Without a word, as if they feared that the noise of speech might somehow put them in danger, the party rode east. The foliage of the Forest parted before them like a living thing—and on those occasions when it failed to do so, the Hunter’s coldfire would flare in the path ahead of them, clearing the way. When they passed, then, they would find the plant life frozen and brittle; the tree branches that had previously hindered them shattered into frigid dust at the mere sound of their passage.

They rode for hours. At last it was Damien who called a halt, judging that the horses would need a breather if they were to continue at pace until dawn. He looked at Tarrant and gestured toward the ground, as if questioning its safety. After a moment the Hunter smiled—faintly, ever so faintly, as if traveling with mere humans had sapped him of humor—and then drew his sword. Silver-blue light filled the air, and a gust of frigid wind went sweeping past Damien, sucked toward the Worked steel. Then the Hunter thrust downward, casting his weapon into the earth. The ground seemed to shudder and cracks appeared, jagged lines that radiated out from the invading swordpoint. The front end of a wormlike creature broke ground and then stiffened—and shivered into a thousand bits of crystal that sparkled like fresh snow on the frozen ground. After that, there was no further movement.

“You can dismount,” the Hunter assured them.

Damien and Senzei fed their mounts from the stores they had brought with them; the Hunter’s black horses, weaned on the Forest’s vegetation, seemed content to crop the leafless stalks that flanked the cleared area. Damien wondered what adjustments he had made to their digestive systems that allowed them to thrive in this dismal place. Did their massive hooves keep them safe from Forest predators who might otherwise track them through the heat of their trail? What adaptive purpose had such thick armor plates served on Earth, where a beast might tread the ground without fear of heatseekers?

“When we reach Sheva,” Tarrant told them, “and from then on, I would prefer you not use my title. Or refer to my true identity.”

“They seemed to recognize you outside Mordreth,” Senzei challenged.

“As a servant of the Hunter. Not as the Hunter himself.”

“It makes so much difference?”

“Enough. When a man thinks of killing the Hunter’s servant—or even disobeying him—he must take into account what the master’s reaction will be. Which is very different from how he will act if he imagines that he might, through the luck of a single kill, dispense with the master altogether.” And he added dryly, “It spares me the inconvenience of killing every time I travel. Surely you find that appealing.”

Through gritted teeth, Damien muttered. “Surely.”

Night. True night reigned below, blind to what was happening in the heavens; even Domina’s light couldn’t pierce the thick canopy, which had been designed to keep the sunlight out. Thick, white-skinned vines glittered in the lamplight as they passed, their leafless lengths twining upward about the tree trunks until they reached a height where sunlight was available. Research in the castle’s library had revealed that the Forest was once a fairly normal place, unique only in that it was located near a natural focus of the Earth-fae. The Hunter had changed that. It was he who had evolved the Forest’s special trees, which trapped their own dead leaves in a webwork of hair-fine branches, so that even in the dead of winter no light would reach the ground below. But what other adjustments must have been made to this ecosystem to keep it functioning? The perpetual darkness would have killed any light-dependent species within the Forest’s confines, throwing the whole ecosystem out of balance. He must have Worked it all—plant by plant, animal, insect, and bush alike—until he had stabilized thousands of species in a new, light-starved balance. And created a few new ones, to facilitate its functioning. Damien thought of the wormlike creatures, and realized that even they must play their part. A biosphere with so little energy input had no room for waste.

What kind of a mind did it take to think on that scale? To take on such a project and then succeed with it, rather than making the Forest into a lifeless wasteland, whose survival was compromised by the lack of one special insect, or one minute step in the food chain ladder? The sheer scope of the project was staggering. But with a thousand years of spare time on his hands, a very special man could succeed. A man like the Neocount of Merentha, who had spent his last living years redefining man and God, evolving human society with the same precise attention to detail that he gave to horses and Forest flora . . .

And then there was light on the path ahead of them, ever so little—but it silhouetted the Hunter as he passed between the final trees and flooded the land beyond with the clean, subtle promise of dawn.

“Almost daylight,” Tarrant said distastefully. He gestured toward the east. “Sheva’s five miles further, at most. You can find shelter there.”

“Not as dismal as Mordreth, I hope,” Senzei muttered.

It seemed that the Hunter might have smiled, but a quick glance at the lightening sky sobered whatever humor he might otherwise have exhibited. “Mordreth is a special case,” he assured them. “But the autumn nights end too quickly for prolonged conversation. Save your questions for the darker hours, and they may get answered.”

“This much light doesn’t seem to be hurting you,” Damien challenged.

Tarrant shot him a quick, searing glare—and it was hard to tell exactly what was behind it. Exasperation, irritation, disdain . . . or all three. “Any man who can stand under the stars can survive the touch of sunlight, priest. It’s simply a matter of degree.” He dismounted gracefully, making no sound as his boots struck the earth. “I have no desire to test my limits.”

He held his reins out to Damien. After a moment, the priest took them. “Feed the animal with your own,” the Hunter instructed. “Give it whatever you imagine horses eat. It’ll survive.”

“You mean you’re not joining us for breakfast?”

“I doubt that witnessing my appetite would do much for yours.” He glanced again at the eastern sky; Damien thought he saw him tense. “Do as you will with the daylight hours,” he said softly. “I’ll be back soon enough.”

“How will you-” Senzei began. But the man had stepped into the shadows of the Forest once more, and its darkness closed about him like the folds of a cloak.

“Not much of a morning person,” Damien observed.

It was good to be in a city again, surrounded by live human beings. Good to be in whitewashed rooms inside brick buildings, with bright quilt coverlets on modern beds and thin curtains that failed to block out all of the glorious, wonderful sunlight. Good to be surrounded by the bustle of human activity once more—even if it meant that getting to sleep was a little bit harder for all the noise. Not to mention the sunlight.

It was good for a few hours. Only that. By the time the sun set they were anxious to move again, and when Gerald Tarrant finally rejoined them there was almost an air of relief about the party.

We want to be there, Damien thought. We want to get it done.

They rode east. Soon Sheva gave way to open ground, the floor of the Raksha Valley. They found the river Lethe and followed it southeast, through some dozen small settlements that had been established along its banks. When they needed a break, they ate real food in real restaurants. While Tarrant watched silently, delicately sipping a glass of fresh blood, or—if that was lacking—a northern wine. What he did for his main sustenance, in the short time after each sunset that he assigned to his own needs, Damien had no desire to know. But during the day he dreamed of a thousand possibilities and often awoke in a cold sweat, his hand groping for his sword, aware that he had just witnessed some terrible dreambound atrocity, and that Tarrant was the cause. And he wondered how much longer he could be the cause of that man coming to his region, without feeling responsible for the human suffering that must be littering their trail in the Hunter’s wake.

And then they came to it. A small city encircling a tiny harbor, whose business was not in trade so much as tourism. Sattin: close enough to the rakhland border that on a clear day it was possible to gaze out across the Serpent and see the jagged cliffs guarding that secret land and—just possibly—the curtain of power that protected it. The city overflowed with tourists, even in this harsh season, who had paid good money and traveled many days in the hopes of seeing what one pamphlet described as the last bastion of native power. Which it wasn’t, by any strict definition of native, or even bastion. But the phrase made good press.

There were sorcerers here, enough to populate a minor colony on their own, and as a record of their presence they left headlines splashed in bold print across the gray of cheap northern paper: Southern Sore Feeds the Serpent: Suicide or Sacrifice? Sorceress finds Hunter’s Mark Carved on Bedpost. And, inevitably, The Ghost of Casca is Back—Local sorcerer Reveals the Terrifying Truth. Their advertisements lined the streets, and filled the windows of shops and taverns. Offers to Share a Seeing, boat rides to Take you close enough to touch the Canopy, and Seer Reads the Future—Reasonable Rates.

If Sattin’s tasteless commercialization of the rakhland’s defense system amused Damien, it seemed to irritate Gerald Tarrant no end. Either that, or something else was eating at the nightbound adept. More than once he snapped at Damien in a manner unbefitting his normally smooth demeanor; once the priest thought he even saw an emotion flash in those quicksilver eyes that might have been fear, or something akin to it—but the expression was gone so quickly, and was so out of character for the Hunter they had come to know, that in the end he decided he’d been mistaken. What was there in a place like this for the Hunter to fear?

It was while they were sampling what passed for dinner in one of the city’s many restaurants—overpriced fare with no pretensions of quality, hardly preferable to their own dried traveling rations—that Tarrant went seeking a vessel to take them to the rakhland’s rocky shoreline. It took him a surprisingly long time, given his past record with such things, and several dismal courses had come and gone before he returned to join them.

“They’re cowards, all,” he informed them. “Ready to risk the Canopy’s edge for a handful of tourist gold, but ask them to sail through it . . .” His fingers tapped the tabletop as he spoke, a gesture of tension that was uncharacteristic of him; Damien wondered what prompted it. “I found a man who’d risk the trip. His price is high. If I were of a mind to criticize such business practices, I would call it robbery—but never mind that.” He saw Damien about to speak, waved short his interruption. “I have the funds. And my Jahanna coinage may cause him to think twice before dumping us into the Serpent.”

Startled, Ciani asked, “You think that’s possible?”

“My lady, the human soul’s a dark place—who knows that better than I?—and greed is a powerful master. Add to that man’s passion for self-preservation . . . and yes, I think it very possible that a man we hire to take us to the Achron’s mouth might find it expedient to . . . shall we say, lighten his load before reaching shore? I would even call it likely. There’s a real danger in that landing, and not all men like the smell of risk. I suggest we be careful.”

“I could Work-” Damien began.

“So could I. More efficiently than you. And then, when we passed under the Canopy, all that would be gone. Do you want our pilot’s murderous instincts suddenly unleashed at the very moment we’re least able to defend ourselves? When even an unconscious Working might backfire on us all?” He shrugged; there was a weariness in the gesture that seemed oddly human. “I chose the best man I could. I paid well and threatened carefully. Coercion is one of my skills. Let’s hope it works.” He turned to Ciani. “Lady, I’ve scanned the city three times over—and its environs, and the Serpent, and each and every current of power that passes through or near this place. You have no enemies here. Our pilot says we must wait two nights for a suitable syzygy—a high tide will make the rakhland shore considerably more accessible—and that means waiting here. Which I regret. The place is . . .” he scowled. “Distasteful, to say the least. But it is safe. I want you to know that. Your enemies passed through here days ago, and they left neither ward nor watcher behind. I made certain of that.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. “That’s worth . . . a lot. Thank you.”

“And now.” He pushed his chair back from the table and stood; his pale eyes fixed on Damien, their depths brimming with hostility. “You’re not my ideal of a traveling companion, priest, and I know I’m not yours. Since the lady is safe and our transport assured, may I assume that you would have no objection to my passing my time in other company until we depart?”

“None whatsoever,” Damien assured him.

And he wondered: What the hell’s eating him?

The hill was some distance from town, and not easy to climb. Which was why it was empty of tourists, despite its position overlooking the water. It took her some time to reach the top, and when at last she did she rested for a moment, trying to catch her breath.

He stood at the crest, utterly still. Dark cloak rippling slowly in the night breeze, pale eyes fixed on a point somewhere across the water. Or perhaps on nothing. Coming closer, she saw no other motion about him, nothing that hinted at life. Not even breathing. Did he need to breathe, she wondered, when he wasn’t speaking? Exactly where was he balanced, in that dark gulf between life and unlife?

And then he turned and saw her. Surprise glittered briefly in his eyes—then there was only control once more, and his expression was unreadable. “Lady.” He bowed. “Alone?”

“You said it was safe here.”

“I said your enemies were gone. There are still the assorted muggers, rapists . . . etcetera. It is a city,” he reminded her.

“I’m city born and bred,” she told him. “And well armed, as you may recall. Even without the fae, I think I could give a mugger a run for his money.”

He studied her for a moment; something that was almost a smile softened the corners of his mouth. “Yes. I believe you could.”

Then he looked out over the water again, and the softness fled from his expression. His nostrils flared, as if testing the air.

“You came to find me,” he challenged her.

She nodded.

“They let you come here?”

“They don’t know.”

He looked surprised. “They think I’m in my room,” she said defiantly. As though daring him to criticize her. “You said I was safe.”

For a moment he said nothing. Then, very quietly, he told her, “You understand that it’s somewhat jarring for me to hear a woman refer to my presence as safe.”

“Isn’t it?”

“For you? Absolutely. But your men don’t seem too certain of that.”

“They haven’t seen inside you. I have.”

He stiffened, turned away from her. Gazed out across the water. “How did you find me?”

“It wasn’t hard. There aren’t many places in this region where one can be alone . . . and an adept would want a view of the Canopy. I asked the same questions I thought you would have, to find such a place. They brought me here.” She followed his gaze across the water, to the blackness of the nightbound horizon. “What do you See?”

He hesitated—then answered, “Nothing.”

“Maybe when we get closer—”

He shook his head. “You misunderstand me. I can see the Canopy quite clearly from here. There’s no mistaking it. It’s as if the world ends suddenly at that point, as if there’s a line beyond which nothing exists. Oh, I can see the water beyond, and mountains in the distance . . . but those forces which are visible only to the adept’s eye come to a halt in midair, and beyond it is—nothing. Absolute nothingness. A wall of nonexistence, beneath which the water flows.”

“And you think it’ll kill you.”

He stiffened. She saw him about to respond in his usual manner—eloquent and misleading, dryly evasive—but then, his voice strained, he answered simply. “It may. I don’t know. I can’t read into it at all. If no fae can be Worked in that zone . . . then the power which keeps me alive may well be inaccessible there.” He shrugged; it was a stiff gesture, clearly forced. “Your priest knows this? Your sorcerer friend?”

“They might have guessed. I didn’t tell them.”

“Please don’t.”

She nodded.

“Is that what you came to find out?”

Instead of answering him, she asked, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

He looked at her, and she could sense him trying to read her. Trying to keep himself from using the fae to do it. “Just keep them away from me,” he said at last. “The boat has a secure cabin, and I have the key. It was one of the requirements. But who can say what damage they might do if they tried to interfere? Even if they meant to help.” He laughed; it was a mirthless sound. “Unlikely as that is.”

“I’ll try,” she promised. And she nodded, gently, “That’s what I came to find out.”

She turned from him, then, and began to make her way down the rocky slope, heading back toward the city.

“Lady.”

She stopped where she was, and turned to him.

“You could have the fae back.”

For a moment she just stared at him. Then, in a voice that trembled slightly, she asked, “How?”

“Not as an adept—even I can’t give you that. But you could still learn to Work, as sorcerers do. It wouldn’t be the same as before. It wouldn’t restore your Vision. It would require keys and symbols, volumes of catch-phrases and mental exercises—”

“Are you offering to teach me?” she breathed.

His pale eyes burned like coldfire in the moonlight; it hurt to look directly at them. “And what if I were?”

She met his eyes—and drank in the pain, the power, all of it. “What would you say,” she asked him, “if, when you were dying, someone offered you life? Would you question the terms—or simply grasp at the bargain with all your strength, and live each moment as it came?”

“That’s a loaded simile,” he warned her. “And I don’t think I have to tell you what my own answer would be. What it was, when I had to make that choice.”

“Then you know my response.”

He held out his hand. Without hesitation, she took it. The chill of his touch shocked her flesh, but the cold of it was pleasure—promise—and she smiled as it filled her.

“When can we start?” she whispered.

They left for the rakhlands as soon as the sun set. Their captain grumbled about the time of their departure, and about the horses, and the weather, and a thousand other things that weren’t exactly as they should be . . . and then Gerald Tarrant came to where he stood and simply looked at him, as eloquent in his silence as a snake about to strike. The complaints quickly ceased.

But there were some very real problems, with no easy solutions. The matter of the horses, for example. This boat was smaller than the one that had taken them across to Morgot, and its shallow draft and simpler deck meant that there was really no place to stand where one was not acutely aware of the water just underfoot, and no place to safely shelter the animals. Damien found himself wishing for a deeper vessel with more enclosed cargo space, even though he knew damned well that such a boat couldn’t navigate the treacherous shallows of the rakhland shore. Tarrant couldn’t even Work to calm the animals, as he had done before, without risking that his efforts would be negated—or even worse, reversed—as their ship passed under the Canopy. There were drugs made that could render the animals more tractable, and the party had discussed the possibility of using them, but that entailed its own special risk; their landing might prove dangerous, and any drug-induced lethargy on the part of the animals might cost them dearly. So they had settled for blindfolding them according to the captain’s instructions, in preparation for crossing the Canopy, and binding them as securely as they could, in a place where they would hurt no one if they tried to break free.

We have to be prepared to lose them, Damien told himself. In anticipation of which they had already taken their most precious possessions from the horses’ packs and affixed them to their own bodies, feeling more in control that way. But how much good would that do if they had to swim? Given the choice between approaching their enemy unarmed and trying to avoid drowning with two heavy weapons strapped to his back, Damien would be hard put to choose the better course.

The situation’s bad. There’s no way around that. We’ll do the best we can. And pray for luck, he added.

For now, things seemed to be going well enough. Despite the captain’s muttered complaints the Serpent was reassuringly calm, and it gleamed like quicksilver in Domina’s light. In the east Prima had already risen, and her quick pace rapidly consumed the degrees of the sky that stood between her and her more massive sister. Syzygy would occur at midnight, or thereabouts: Erna’s two larger moons would pull at the tides in conjunction, deepening the Serpent until the worst hazards of the rakhland coast were buried under several feet of water. Or so they hoped. It was all a matter of degree, and inches might well mean the difference between safety and disaster. Damien hoped that their captain knew the deadly coastline as well as he claimed. And that it hadn’t changed too much; in this geologically active zone, no feature was permanent.

And then, looking out over the water, he thought he saw something. A wisp of fae-light, rising from the surface. He tried to focus on it, to make out what it was, but its form eluded him. Each time he tried to fix his gaze on it his eyes would start to wander, or—when he managed to hold them still—his mind.

“The Canopy’s edge,” Tarrant said from behind him. For once, he didn’t start to find the man so close; it made sense that the adept would be here, eyes as still and as glisteningly cold as the water they gazed out upon. After a moment Ciani touched Damien’s arm lightly, letting him know she had also come up beside him. To her left was Senzei, face flushed pink from his recent Healing, hands resting lightly on the thick brass railing that guarded the vessel’s bow.

“Don’t try to See,” the Hunter warned. Softly, as if cautioning a child. For some reason Damien had the impression that his words weren’t meant for him and Senzei, but for Ciani. He looked up sharply at the adept, meaning to question him—but before he could speak the Hunter stiffened, like a wolf catching the scent of prey. His eyes narrowed, and his hands clenched at his sides. In fear? Was that possible? Or was Damien reading his own unease into the adept’s manner, injecting a dose of human emotion into a man who had left his humanity behind long ago?

He looked out toward the south, following the Hunter’s gaze. And the Canopy was there, or at least its leading edge; clearly visible, even to their unWorked sight. Not as a physical object would be visible, nor even something so substantial as a cloud. It wasn’t so much a thing as an impression, that touched the brain quickly and then fled, leaving a bright afterimage etched into one’s mind. Wisps of it danced about the surface of the water, and Damien was reminded of the mirrored surface of lake water, when seen from underneath: crystal clear, gently rippling, a fluid, fickle reflector. Like the stars at the border of the galaxy, they sparkled in and out of sight, teasing the edges of his vision. If one looked closely enough, it was possible to make out more solid images in the distance, viewed through that glittering filter: the rakhland’s shoreline, jagged rocks and looming cliffs edged in double moonlight, and the whitewater surf of its shallows. For a moment it was reassuring, to see anything so solid. But then, as Damien watched, even the outlines of the cliffs seemed to alter—as though the shoreline itself were transforming, as if the rocks were no more solid than the veil of rakh-fae that hung before his eyes. Illusion, he told himself, The thought was cold, fear-filled. If the Canopy could affect their vision across miles of open water, how were they to navigate? How were they to land? It would be impossible, he realized. They would have to reach the other side of this barrier before trying to wend their way through the shallows, or else there was no way on Erna they could manage it. He tried to remember what the Canopy’s parameters were in this region: its width, its rhythm of fluctuation, its average distance from shore. But the knowledge wouldn’t come. He turned to Tarrant, certain that the adept would know—he seemed to collect all manner of arcane knowledge, why not that?—but when he looked back to where the Hunter had been, he found only undisturbed air. Neither shadow nor chill to witness that the man (if man he could be called) had ever stood there, or to explain why he had left.

The captain joined them where they stood. He was grinning. “It’s said that when fish swim from one side to the other, they come out different from what they started,” He wiped his hands one against the other, smearing streaks of dark oil on both. He seemed about to say something else—equally reassuring, no doubt—but Damien interrupted him.

“Where’s Mer Tarrant?”

“You mean his Lordship?” He nodded sharply toward the center of the vessel, where a locked door guarded his own private cabin. “He’s just taking a rest, of sorts. You don’t go bothering him now, see? That’s the deal.”

Damien glared, and began to move toward the cabin. Ciani grabbed his arm and held it.

“Let him be,” she said quietly.

“What’s he pulling now—”

“Please, Damien. Just stay here. He’ll be all right.”

He stared at her for a moment, not comprehending. And then it all came together for him. The Canopy. The Hunter. The constant Working that must be required, to maintain that unnatural life. What the Canopy would do to such a Working, and to the man who required it—

He must have started to move again; Ciani’s grip tightened on his arm, and kept him from leaving her.

“Let him be,” she insisted. Quietly, but firmly. “Please. There’s nothing we can do except make it worse.”

“How bad?” he said hoarsely. God in Heaven, he had just come to terms with that man’s presence. How like Tarrant it would be, to leave them just when he was becoming useful . . .

He saw the concern in her eyes, the unvoiced fear. Not just for a faceless adept, an ancient evil, but a man. Jealousy flared in him—and he bit back on it, hard. No place for that now. No time for it, not for days to come. Better get used to that right now.

And then the Canopy touched them. Gently at first, disarmingly, like a breeze that whispered at the leading edge of a hurricane. He saw Ciani’s face waver in his vision, no longer the solid, dependable picture he had grown accustomed to, but a foggy duplicate that wavered as the night air passed through it and grew thin upon the breeze until it was possible to see through the back of her eyes, to the shoreline in the distance. He drew in a breath—and the air was fluid, molten, stinging his lungs as it passed into his body, igniting his blood as he absorbed it. There was a music in the air, it seemed, but even that was inconstant: subtle one moment, complex and cacophonous the next, passing from delicate chimes in perfect harmony to a brassy, earsplitting screech, like that of an orchestra attempting a crescendo with all its instruments warped out of tune. Damien found himself shaking, more from confusion than discomfort. Behind him one of the horses whinnied, its voice pitched high in panic, and hooves struck noisily against the varnished wood of the deck. And that, too, became a sort of music, and the glittering fae struck up a harmony, as if zoofuls of animals had begun screaming in sympathy. The gravity beneath Damien’s feet began to shift, so that it pulled at him from beyond the bow, from out in the depths of the Canopy’s power; it took effort for him to stay where he was, to resist its strange siren song of weight and stability. It was no longer possible to see anything clearly, least of all Ciani. He was no longer certain if her hand—or both her hands, or perhaps more than two of them—still rested on his arm. He reached out for the ship’s railing, found it shifting lithely beneath his hand, like the body of a snake in motion. Behind him a horse screamed in terror, another in pain as the first struck out blindly about him. He thought he felt Ciani fall into his arms—or was that a wisp of fog, taking her shape?—and suddenly he was no longer even certain that she was with him, or that the deck of the boat was underfoot. Something coursed about his feet, chill as the Serpent’s waters, and began to pull at him. Sweet-smelling, sweet-sounding, seductive as a woman’s embrace. He had to fight to maintain his grip on reality—limited as that had become—and remain firmly rooted on the boat’s deck where he belonged. As the Canopy thickened, it became harder and harder. His survival instinct said he should Work to save himself—but he knew that would be dangerous and might well cost him his life. At best, the Canopy would simply negate his efforts; at worst, it would turn them against him. He closed his eyes, trying to close out the chaos that surrounded him—how lucky the horses were, to enter this region blindfolded!—but he saw through the lids of his eyes as though they were glass, as a storm of discordant colors descended on the small ship. No! He forced himself to close his eyes, inside and out. Forced himself to believe that he had closed them. He worked to remember darkness, how it felt and tasted and what the smell of it was, the feel of it against his skin; he recreated it within his brain until it began to seep outward from him, conquering the intrusive vision. And at last darkness came, responding to his summons: cool as night, it soothed his fevered brain. Never had he thought it would be so welcome.

After what seemed like an eternity—and it might have been, who could say how time progressed in such a place?—the deck began to grow solid again beneath his feet. With tortuous slowness, gravity resumed its natural balance and its accustomed force. The fog by Damien’s side became more solid, and took on a familiar form and scent: Ciani. The strange lights faded. Music withered. The fear which had gripped him loosened its hold, enough that he could breathe again. He closed an arm about Ciani, protectively, and felt no more than the flesh of a woman, her heat and her trembling. She whimpered softly, and he whispered, “Shhh”—gently, meaning to comfort her. But the sound came out a hiss, distorted by the power of the Canopy’s fringe; she tensed in his embrace. By the cabin he could make out a form that might be Senzei, but the visual distortion engendered by the Canopy made it impossible to be sure. It might as easily be the captain—or something wholly fantastic, which the wild fae had conjured.

Just wait it out, he thought. There’s nothing you can do to hurry it along. The worst is over. Just wait.

And for a moment he was so glad to be seeing normally again that he forgot the danger they were in, and how quickly they needed to get in control of things again. As Tarrant had suggested, this was the most effective moment for treachery on the captain’s part; if he meant to unencumber himself by casting them into the Serpent, he would do so while they were still partially incapacitated. He forced himself to open his eyes and look around—but it was like coming to a stop after spinning in circles. The world spun about him with dizzying speed, he found himself losing his balance . . . then his foot banged into a brass railing post, and he was falling. He hit the edge of the waist-high rail and was about to go over into the dark, churning water, when a warm weight fell on him, brought him back down inside the rail, bore him down to the wooden deck with force enough that the world about him settled, illusion driven from his mind by the presence of real and immediate pain, of his head striking the hard wooden planking.

He dared to look up, saw a sky without stars. His head throbbed sharply. Ciani’s face came into focus, her expression taut with worry.

“You almost went over,” she whispered.

He twisted onto his side, searching for the captain. This time he found him. The man was in the back with one of his crewmen, checking on the turbine. Discussing in low tones whether the crossing had affected its mechanism. When he saw Damien looking at him, he grinned mischieviously and winked, as if he were aware of exactly what was going through the priest’s mind. As if the whole thing had been staged to amuse him.

“Rough passage,” he called over to him. “Just about over. Sit tight.”

Senzei staggered over to where they lay, and helped the two of them to their feet. That meant everyone was accounted for—except for one man.

“Where’s the vulk’s Tarrant?” Damien muttered.

Ciani hesitated. “He’ll be out,” she promised. But she sounded less than certain. She glanced at the cabin door and then away again, as if somehow her fear might adversely affect the adept. “Soon,” she whispered.

“Land ho!” the captain called over to them. And he added: “Looks like your horses made it through.”

Damien looked toward where the animals were bound. His practiced eyes found the man’s optimism a bit premature. One of the horses was covered in sweat, panting heavily, and another was clearly favoring a hind leg. But still, they were alive. They were here. It could have been worse, he told himself. Much worse.

He looked to Ciani and saw her eyes still fixed on the cabin door. She seemed to be shivering. He touched her cheek gently, felt her start at the contact.

She’s afraid. Of him, or for him?

He forced his voice to be gentle, his tone to be nonconfrontational. “Is he hurt?”

She hesitated. “He could be,” she said at last. Lowering her eyes, as if somehow saying that was a betrayal. “He said the Canopy might kill him. He was willing to chance it, to help me . . .”

He was willing to chance it to save himself, he thought irritably. But he managed to keep his voice neutral. If Tarrant was dead, so be it. If he was alive—or whatever passed for alive, in his state—there was nothing to be gained by adding further tension to their already strained relationship. “Maybe you’d better check,” he suggested.

It was then that the door opened. And Tarrant stepped forth, blinking as if the moonlight hurt his eyes. For a moment he just stood in the doorway, hands gripping the edges of its frame as though he required such support in order to stand. He looked terrible—which is to say, as he should have under normal circumstances: haggard, drawn, unnaturally pale. It occurred to Damien that for the first time since he had met the man, he genuinely looked undead. The thought was strangely unnerving.

“You’re all right?” Ciani asked.

It took him a moment to find his voice. “I’m alive,” he said hoarsely. “As much as that word can apply.” He started to say something else, then shook his head. His head dropped slightly, as if he barely had the strength to hold it up; his hands tightened on the doorframe. “That’s all that matters—eh, priest?”

“You need help?” Damien asked quietly.

“What would you do—Heal me? That kind of power would be more deadly than the Canopy, to my kind.”

The adept looked to where the horses were milling nervously about their bonds. He seemed to flinch at the thought of having to Work them, but nontheless forced himself away from the doorframe. Slowly, somewhat unsteadily, he walked to where he might touch the animals. His movements were agile enough that they might have seemed natural in another man, but Damien had traveled with him long enough to see the awkwardness that haunted his gestures, to guess at the pain that shortened his steps, that made his footfall uncharacteristically heavy on the damp wooden planking.

As he had done in Kale, Tarrant tried to Work the horses. But this wasn’t Kale, and he clearly wasn’t at full strength. Each Working seemed to cost him, in strength and energy; each effort was preceded by a moment of silence and a long, deeply drawn breath, and accompanied by an almost indiscernible shiver that might have been born of exhaustion, or pain.

Damien walked to his side, watched as the horses lowered their heads one by one to graze on imaginary lush fields of grass. At last he said, conversationally, “Water’s deep, here. The fae must be hard to access.”

For a moment the Hunter said nothing, merely stared out at the water. Finally he whispered, “That, too.”

“You all right?”

“I’m surprised you care.”

“Ciani was concerned.”

The Hunter’s eyes fixed on him, hollowed and bloodshot. “I’ve been through worse.” Then a faint smile touched his lips, a pale, sardonic shadow of humor that did little to soften his expression. “Not recently,” he amended.

At the bow of the ship Senzei had begun to Work, his attention fixed on the water that flowed before them. The captain had brought them in to the east of the Achron’s mouth, which was the smoothest stretch of shoreline in this region—but even that was peppered with hundreds of unseen obstacles, pinnacles of rock that rose from the Serpent’s bottom, carved by the conflicting tides of Erna’s three-moon system and split into jagged shards by the tremors that repeatedly shook this region. Some were avoidable, most were not. But all were visible to a Worker’s Sight, by virtue of the earth-fae that clung to them. Shallow waters would glow with power, deeper recesses shadowed in insulating darkness. One by one Senzei noted the obstacles and pointed them out to the vessel’s pilot, who made subtle adjustments to his course to compensate. Under normal circumstances no ship of this size would brave such waters; that job would be left to the smaller canoes and rowboats—at most to tugs—whose safety lay in their maneuverability. But the party’s desire to bring their mounts to the rakhlands had made that option unviable; a horse could hardly be expected to balance itself in a canoe.

Inch by inch, yard by yard, they approached the shore. The splashing of the twin paddlewheels had slackened to near-silence, and the boat drifted forward with agonizing slowness. The captain stood by Senzei’s side, nodding approval as each new instruction was passed on to his crew. And Ciani stood by his other side, her eyes fixed steadily upon the waves. To see her there like that nearly brought tears of pain to Damien’s eyes. How like a sorcerer she stood at that moment!—how like a Worker she concentrated all her energy on studying the shallow waters, as if she might somehow See the fae-light that coursed beneath it. Like a blind man might stare at the sun, he thought—as if doing that might burn the darkness from out of his eyes.

I can’t even imagine her pain, he thought. Can’t even pretend to understand what it means to her, to have lost what she had. But so help me God, we’ll get it back for her. I swear it.

At last the captain seemed to see something promising in the distance; he pointed toward the east, and nodded for Senzei to take a look. The sorcerer squinted, trying to focus—and then nodded, hesitantly at first but then with greater confidence as they drew nearer to the point in question.

“You ought to hire out,” the captain told him. “There’s good money for that kind of skill, around these parts.”

“You found a place we can land?” Damien asked.

“I found a place we can come in damned close without tearing the hull to bits . . . and that’s as good as we’re going to get in this region. Let’s hope it’s good enough.” He nodded toward the lifeboat. “I can give you that to take you in, with one of my men to bring her back. The horses will be a problem—”

“They can swim,” Tarrant said coldly.

“You sure of that?”

The pale eyes fixed on him with clear, if tired, disdain. “You mean, am I sure they were born with that instinct? I made certain of it.”

He left the captain standing there openmouthed—not unlike a beached fish—as he went to the bow to watch their progress. And Damien thought—somewhat guiltily—that it was nice to see Tarrant’s arrogance directed at someone else for a change.

The shoreline passed by in jagged bits. Repeated tremors had split the cliff walls in at least a dozen places, and the cascades of sharp-edged boulders that had fallen to the earth blurred the borderline between water and shore until distinguishing between the two was all but impossible. Not a hospitable place, Damien thought. And it was probably worse when the tide was out. How many dangers were passing submerged beneath their feet, that another few hours might uncover?

The Captain knew what he was doing, when he scheduled us to come in during syzygy. In that it reflected on the man’s general competence, it was a reassuring thought.

What the captain had spotted, and Senzei had confirmed, was a ledge of rock that stretched out into the water, a diagonal shelf flat enough to be safe and just deep enough to suit their purposes. The water over it was relatively still, without the whitewater eddies that dominated so much of the shoreline. As they came in closer the captain nodded his approval, and exchanged a few words with Senzei that seemed to satisfy him further. Seeing the relative calm on the man’s face—knowing just how worried he had been about this part of the journey, Damien thought, We’re going to make it. And then added, somewhat more soberly, This far, anyway.

It was about time something went right.

Suddenly something brilliant flashed from a clifftop, a brief glint of light that was gone almost before he noticed it. He turned toward where he thought it had been and scanned the cliff with wary eyes—but he could see nothing other than jagged rock walls and the trees that clung to them, their roots trailing down to the water like thirsty serpents. He Worked his sight, carefully. It was hard to contact the earth-fae through the water, but with effort he managed it. And Knew—

Metal ornaments—light glinting off glass beads—human eyes that mirrored nonhuman thoughts, and the acrid smell of hatred-

He shivered, and broke off the contact before the creature he saw could Work it against him. Clearly, their efforts were being observed. By what he couldn’t say—the contact had been too brief, his touch too wary—but it wasn’t human, and he didn’t think that it was friendly. After a moment he steeled himself, and dared to Know again. But the watcher was already gone, and any fae-mark he might have left behind was too far away, or else too weak for Damien to identify.

He was suddenly very glad that they’d gotten a good night’s sleep in Sattin. He suspected they weren’t going to get one again for some time to come.

“Something wrong?” It was Tarrant.

He nodded toward the cliff wall, looming tall in the double moonlight. “Some sort of lookout, I think. Not human.”

“Rakh,” the Hunter whispered.

Damien looked at him sharply. “You Know that? Or are you guessing?”

“Who else would guard these cliffs so carefully? Who else would know the very spot where a safe landing might be made, and set a sentry to watch over it?” He paused, considering the site in question. “This land is the rakh’s last refuge, priest—I would be very surprised if under those circumstances they didn’t at least set a watch over it. And defend it with vigor, against man’s intrusion.”

“You think they’ll attack us?”

“I don’t think there’s any doubt about that. Our only question is when.”

“You can’t Divine that?”

“If you mean read the future, no one can do that. And as for reading the present clearly enough to make a reliable prediction . . . not now. That takes strength, clarity of mind . . .” His voice trailed off into the darkness, his silence proclaiming his weakness more eloquently than any words could. Damien looked at him, wished he had some scale against which to judge his condition. How long did it take the undead to heal themselves? For as long as Tarrant was incapacitated, the danger to all of them was increased.

“Coming in!” the captain called; the tone of relief in his voice reassured Damien. The man watched while his crew prepared to disengage the turbine and drop anchor, and then, when he was satisfied that all was going well, came to where the priest and the Hunter stood. And looked out at the shoreline flanking them, whose deepening shadows might hide any number of dangers.

“This is safe as it gets,” he assured them. “You could practically walk in from here. Wish I could take you in closer—but if I run aground in this tide, I won’t get off till doomsday.”

“You did well,” Tarrant said quietly. He took a small leather purse from his pocket and held it out to him; if the coins inside were of gold, there was an impressive amount of them. He offered it to the man. It was a gratuity, Damien knew. Tarrant had paid for the trip in advance.

The captain made no move to take the purse—but he bowed ever so slightly, acknowledging the offer. “Tell the Hunter I served him.”

“When I return, I’ll do that. Until then . . .” He took the man’s hand in his own and turned it palm up, then placed the small purse in his palm and closed his fingers over it. “Say that he is pleased with your service.”

The man bowed deeply—a formal gesture that his sincerity made graceful—and then took his leave, to oversee the last moments of their journey.

When he was safely out of hearing, Damien said to Tarrant, “I know heads of state who would give their lives to have half your influence.”

The Hunter smiled—and for the first time since the Canopy there was life in his eyes, and a hint of genuine humor.

“If they truly gave their lives,” he said, “they might have it all.”

The disembarkation went no worse than they had anticipated—which was to say that it was tense and strenuous and very, very difficult, but they finally made it ashore. So did the horses. Tarrant had Worked them again, and though his strength was clearly waning—or perhaps the fae was harder to access here, it was hard to be certain—he did manage to get them off the ship and into the water. By the time they had been driven ashore the horses had managed to get everyone thoroughly soaked, but that was a small inconvenience when weighed against their need for having mounts for the long journey ahead.

They stood on the shore and watched as the small ship withdrew, watched until the night swallowed it once more and the moons shone on nothing but the Serpent’s froth. And Damien thought, We’re here. Praise God—we made it. They were wet and they were tired and they were freezing cold, but they were inside the Canopy at last, and that was all that mattered.

He turned back to study the cliffs again—to see if their watcher had returned, or if some other danger had taken its place—but before he could complete the motion a terrified screech from one of the horses forced his attention back to the shoreline once more. It was Ciani’s horse, a magnificent black animal that had so far come through the journey unscathed. Something had shifted underfoot as it waded through the shallows and it was down, thrashing at the water as it tried in vain to stand up again. From the sharp angle of its forward leg Damien judged that the bone had broken, and badly. In pain and fear it lashed out at Senzei, who fell back just in time to keep his face from being crushed by its flailing hooves.

Tarrant and Ciani were there in an instant. She helped Senzei out of the water, safely away from the terrified animal. Between the horse’s dark coat and the water it was impossible to see the extent of the wound, but Damien thought he smelled blood. He started into the water himself, to try to reach the beast, but Tarrant’s hand held him back.

“Wait.”

The adept’s brow was furrowed in tension as he tried to Work the earth-fae at their feet so that it would serve his will above the surface of the water. Not an easy task under any circumstances, and the Hunter was clearly not in the best of shape. Damien heard the sharp intake of breath, almost a gasp of pain, but the adept’s attention never wavered. The horse’s body jerked spasmodically, as if from seizure, and then stiffened. Froze, as though its skeleton had locked in place. Damien could see its forelimbs trembling, the gleam of terror in its eyes.

“Go,” the Hunter whispered.

He waded to the animal’s side, cold water chilling his flesh anew. The leg in question was underwater. He looked back at Tarrant, who nodded slowly, his eyes narrow with the force of his effort. Damien grasped the damaged leg. The horse shuddered and snorted once, but otherwise seemed incapable of motion. He moved the leg gently, to bring the break above the water’s surface. It was bad: a compound fracture that had broken through the skin in two places. Probably worsened by the horse’s own fear, Damien thought; the fae could do that.

Carefully, he began to Work. It was difficult reaching down through the water to tap the earth-fae, unlike anything he had ever experienced before. And even allowing for the interference of the water—which clung to the fae like glue, making it almost impossible to manipulate the stuff—the current itself seemed weak. Insubstantial. As though somehow the earth-fae had been drained from this place, leaving little more than a shadow of what had once been.

As for Tarrant’s holding the horse steady for him . . . he tried not to think about that. Tried not to think how much was riding on that man’s power right now—his power, and his “honor.” Tried not to think about how easy it would be for him to ease up just a little—just for an instant—and let fate take care of the only member of his party who seemed willing to challenge him.

He’s left us alive this long because he perceives that Ciani needs us. What happens if he changes his mind?

With effort, he concentrated on Working. He could feel the horse’s flesh trembling as it fought Tarrant’s control, and knew it would take only a momentary slip on the part of the adept for the creature to strike out at him. As he manipulated the bone fragments, first by hand and then by Touch, he could feel the pain coursing up the animal’s leg. But with the current as weak as it was and the water interfering, there was simply no way to anesthetize the beast. Relying upon his Seeing to show him what must be done, he wound strands of healing fae about the bone ends and slowly drew them together. The horse screamed once, in agony—and then Tarrant’s power silenced it. Damien prompted the equine flesh to deposit calcium where he needed it, and accelerated the production of new bone a thousandfold. Hold onto him, please. Just a short while longer. Spongy tissue filled the gap and then hardened; bone chips were absorbed by the body, to fuel the new construction. Damien felt a cold sweat break out on his face, and channels of that and the Serpent’s spray coursed down his neck as he Worked. Just a little bit longer. He felt the horse shudder beneath his hands as the adept’s control slipped, just a little. One more minute! And then the leg was whole again and he jumped back—just in time. The muscular animal staggered to its feet, nostrils distended in outrage. But its leg was whole and the pain was gone, and the whole experience was fading rapidly from its memory. That was part of the Healing, too, and Damien was relieved to see it take.

Shivering in the chill of the night, he finally led the animal ashore. Ciani had opened his oilcloth-wrapped pack and laid out dry clothes for him; with no thought for modesty, he changed into them, glancing at the cliff only once as he used an extra dry shirt to wring the water from his hair.

Then he looked for Gerald Tarrant.

The adept was nowhere in sight. Ciani saw Damien searching and nodded toward the west, where an outcropping of rock hid part of the shoreline from view. But when he passed by her on the way there, she grasped his arm and held it.

“He’s in bad shape,” she said quietly. “Has been since the Canopy. The horse took a lot out of him. Just give him time, Damien.”

He disengaged himself from her gently. With a last glance toward the clifftop to check for enemies—there were none—he walked cautiously in the direction she had indicated, to where a boulder, grotesquely carved by wind and water, hid some of the shoreline from view.

He was there, behind it. Eyes shut, leaning against the rock as if, without its support, he would surely go down. He didn’t hear Damien approach—or perhaps he simply lacked the strength to respond. A delicate shudder ran through his body as he watched, a glissando of weakness. Or pain.

“You all right?” Damien asked softly.

The adept stiffened—but if there was a curt response on his lips, he failed to voice it. After a moment the tension bled out of his frame; his shoulders slumped against the rock.

“No,” he said. “No, I’m not.” His voice was little more than a whisper. “Does it matter to you, priest?”

“If it didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”

Gerald Tarrant said nothing.

“You’re hurt.”

“How observant.”

Damien felt himself stiffening in anger—and forced himself to relax, his voice and body to be calm. “You’re making it pretty damned hard for me to help you.”

The Hunter looked at him, hollowed eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “Is that what you came to do? Help me?”

“Part of it.”

He looked out into the night. Shut his eyes once more. “The Canopy drained me,” he whispered. “Is that what you want to hear? The Working that sustains my life had to be renewed minute by minute, against a turbulent and unpredictable current. Is it any surprise I’m exhausted? I almost didn’t make it.”

“So what you need is rest?”

He sighed. “When you do strenuous work, priest, you eat to sustain yourself. My chosen fare may have changed, but the need remains the same. Is that what concerns you? Be reassured—I have no intentions of feeding on your party. God alone knows if the rakh are sophisticated enough to offer me what I need, but the currents speak of other human life inside the Canopy. I have no intention of starving to death,” he assured him.

“What is it that you need?” Damien asked quietly.

He looked at the priest. A flicker of evil stirred in the depths of his eyes, and a cold breeze stirred in the air between them.

“Does it really matter?” he whispered.

“It does if I want to help.”

“I doubt you would be willing to do that.”

“Try me. What is it?” When the adept said nothing, he pressed, “Blood?”

“That? Merely an aperitif. The power that sustains me is demonic in nature—and I feed as the true demons do, upon the vital energy of man. Upon his negative emotions: Anguish. Despair. Fear. Especially fear, priest; that is, by far, the most delectable.”

“Thus the Hunt.”

His voice was a whisper. “Exactly.”

“And that’s what you need now?”

He nodded weakly. “Blood will suffice for a while—but in the end, I require human suffering to stay alive.” The cold eyes fixed on him. “Are you offering that?”

“I might,” Damien said evenly.

“Then you’re a brave man,” he breathed. “And a foolish one.”

“It’s been said.”

“You trust me?”

“No,” he said bluntly. “But I don’t think you want me dead just now. Or incapacitated. And I don’t see that you’re much good to us, the way you’re going.” And I want you on your feet before the others think of trying to help you. Senzei couldn’t handle it. Ciani isn’t strong enough. “Is there a way it could be done, just this once, without . . .” He floundered for the proper phrase.

“Without you dying?” He nodded. There was a new note in his voice, a sharper undercurrent. Hunger? “There are dreams. Nightmares. I could fashion them in your mind, to inspire the emotions I require . . . but it would take a special link between us to allow me to feed off them. And that wouldn’t fade when the sun came up. Are you willing to have such a channel established—for life?”

He hesitated. “Tell me what it would entail.”

“What any channel does. A path of least resistance for the fae, that any Working might draw upon. Such a thing could never be banished, priest. Not by either of us.”

“But if it wasn’t used?”

“It has no power of its own, if that’s the question. Nor would it fade with time. Only death can sever that kind of link—and sometimes not even that.”

He thought about that. Thought about the alternatives. And asked, grimly, “Is there any other way?”

“Not for me,” the Hunter whispered. “Not now. And without sustenance my strength would continue to fade . . . but I’m surprised you don’t find that preferable.”

“You’re part of our company now,” Damien said sharply. “And from the moment we passed under the Canopy until we get out from under it, we’re all in this together. That’s how I see it. If you have any trouble with that attitude, now’s the time to let me know.”

Tarrant stared at him. “No. None at all.”

“You obviously can’t feed off the horses or you would have done that already—and I won’t let you touch Ciani or Senzei. Period. That leaves me. Or else you stay as you are, and we all suffer from the loss of your power. Right? As far as I’m concerned, your company isn’t so pleasant that I would keep you around just for conversation. So are you going to tell me what you need to establish this link between us, or do I have to guess at it?”

For a moment the Hunter was still. Then he said, in a voice as cool as the Serpent’s water. “You never do cease to surprise me. I accept your offer. As for the channel we’ll be establishing . . . that’s potentially as deadly for me as it is for you. If it’s any consolation.”

He pushed himself away from the boulder, and managed to stand unsupported. It clearly took effort. “Before we deal with that, I suggest we move on. Find somewhere where there’s shelter, from prying eyes and sunlight both. A place where we can camp in safety. Then . . .”

He looked at Damien curiously. The hunger in his eyes was undisguised.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve tasted a cleric’s blood,” he mused.

29

Deep within the House of Storms, in a room reserved for Working, the Master of Lema halted in mid-invocation, startled by a sudden change in the current. A quick movement of a gloved hand and a well-trained mind served to Dispel the entity that was slowly taking form in the warded circle, and a muttered key established a Knowing in its place.

After a moment—a long moment—there was a nod. A hungry nod.

“Calesta.” The name was a whisper—an incantation—a command. “Take form, Calesta. Now.”

Out of the darkness a figure formed, a shadow made solid by the power of sorcerous will. The shape it wore resembled that of a man, but no single detail was wholly human. Its skin bore the hard black gloss of obsidian, and its clothing flowed like smoke over its limbs. Its features were somewhat human in shape—if carved volcanic glass might be said to resemble humanity—but where human eyes should have been were faceted orbs, mirror-surfaced, which reflected back the object of the figure’s attention in a thousand fractured bits.

The demon called Calesta bowed but made no sound. In its silence all things might be read, all manners of obeisance to the one it served—to the one who was called Master of Lema, Keeper of Souls, The One Who Binds.

“Taste it, Calesta.” A hungry whisper, tense with anticipation. “She’s entered the Canopy. Can you feel it? And another, with her. An adept. Two adepts . . .”

“Shall I send the Dark Ones after them?” The demon’s voice was something more felt than heard: a whisper of fingernails against a dry slateboard, the feel of teeth scraping on chalk.

“Worthless fools!” the sorcerer spat. “What good are they? I gave them the richness of an adept’s soul to feed on and they acted like children at a banquet—dropping their food as soon as there was some new game afoot! No. This time you’ll do it, Calesta. First find out who they are. Where they’re going. Tell me that. Then we can make our plans.”

The One Who Binds tasted the current again. And shivered as the anticipation of conquest, like a newly-injected drug, prompted a torrent of adrenaline within.

“The adepts are mine,” the Master whispered.

30

Dusk. A swollen, sallow sunset. Dust strewn across a barren landscape, naked hills swelling lifeless in the distance. Sharp cracks that split the air: rhythmic, like a drumbeat. Death.

He staggers onto the field of battle, exhaustion a sharp pain in his side. To his left thunder roars, and the ground explodes in mayhem. Explosives. They’re using explosives. In the distance another patch of ground erupts, and a cloud of dust rises to fill the murky air. Warded explosives, he decides. Designed to ignite when some living thing comes too close. A very dangerous Working, rarely dared; that the enemy has applied it says much for their skill, and for their confidence.

Another hundred yards, and he comes upon the bodies. They litter the ground like volcanic debris spewed from a festering cone. Bits of arms and legs and fragments of shattered skull pepper the ground as far as the eye can see—some bodies still twitching, whole enough to feel pain as they bleed out their last life into the dusty ground. He staggers to one of those and prays for strength: the strength to persevere, the power to Heal. Explosives fire like a sharp drumroll in the distance, the crack of a hundred pistols perfectly synchronized. He feels a sharp bite of fear at the sound, at the unnaturalness of it. What kind of Working must it take, to make it possible for so many guns to fire successfully; with such planned precision? More than he has ever witnessed, or imagined possible.

The swollen sun, storm-yellow, watches in silence as he kneels by the side of the fallen, as he gathers himself to Work. The woman lying before him moans softly, her face half-covered in blood. It’s a painful wound, but not a deadly one; if he can master enough fae to stop the bleeding, the odds are good she will survive.

He Works.

Or tries to.

Nothing responds.

Shaken, he looks over the battlefield. To the south of him black earth spouts upward suddenly, accompanied by the thunderclap of explosives. He tries to Work his sight, to See what the currents are like here—the place is strange, unfamiliar to him, maybe the patterns of the fae need to be interpreted before they can be Worked—but he sees no fae, he Works no vision, there are only the dead and the dying about him. Nothing that speaks to him of power—or hope.

He shivers, though the air is warm.

With effort, he forces himself to his feet again, and staggers over to the next body. A man, with his left hand blown off. Thousands of small wounds pepper his body, sharp metal shards still lodged in some of them. He touches the tender flesh and wills all the power to come and serve him, using all the skill that the years have given him. He focuses on his own hunger to Work and the need to Heal—the desperate need to Heal—and the faith that has sustained him past pain, past death, into realms where only the holy may enter-

And nothing responds. Absolutely nothing. The planet is dead, unresponsive to his will. He feels the first cold bite of despair, then, a kind of fear he’s never experienced before. Danger he can deal with, death he’s confronted on at least a dozen occasions, but there’s never been anything like this before—never such absolute helplessness in the face of human suffering, such sudden awareness that his will doesn’t matter, he doesn’t matter, he has no more power to affect the patterns of fate than the dismembered limbs on this field, or the cooling blood that turns the dry earth to mud under his feet.

For the first time in his life, he knows the rank taste of terror. Not the quantifiable fear of assessed risk, but the unbounded horror of total immersion in the unknown. Guns fire once more in the distance, and for the first time since coming here he realizes why they can function with such regularity. Man’s will has no power here—not to kill and not to heal, not to alter the world and not to adapt to it. The whole of this world is dead to man, dead to his dreams, impassive to his needs and his pleas and even his fears. The concept is awesome, terrifying. He feels himself falling to his knees, muttering a key as he tries once more to Work the fae, to find some point of stability in this alien universe. Anything. But there is no response. No fae that he might use, to bind his will to the rest of the universe. The world is closing in around him, like a dead hand closing about his flesh. The claustrophobia of total despair chokes him. He cannot breathe. He-

Woke. Gasping for breath, shivering. Cold sweat beaded his forehead, and his heart pounded like that distantly remembered gunfire. It took him a moment to remember where he was. Another long, painful moment to realize what had happened.

“Zen?” His voice was hoarse. “Cee?”

There was no response. He looked about, saw their bedrolls neatly bundled by the cavern’s entrance. There was little light, which meant the sun was setting—had set?—which meant, in turn, that he had slept for hours. Too many hours. Despite the fact that he had retired from his last watch well before noon, he felt as though he had never closed his eyes. As though he had spent his daylight hours in constant battle, his muscles and his soul still aching from the effort.

He forced himself to his feet and stood with one hand against the cavern wall until the worst of the shaking subsided and he felt he could walk again. As the Hunter had instructed, he had told Ciani and Zen that he should be allowed to sleep until he awakened naturally. He had never thought that it would take so long.

They must be worried as hell. How much should he tell them of what had passed between the Hunter and himself? On the one hand, it would upset them to no purpose—and on the other, if some kind of permanent channel had been established, didn’t they have the right to know? His head swam with trying to decide.

Steady, Vryce. One step at a time. Time to move again.

His will gripping his unsteady legs like a vice, he sought the cavern’s entrance. There, sheltered beneath a lip of granite, Gerald Tarrant sat—eyes shut, utterly relaxed, breathing steadily in contentment. From further down on the beach (if beach it could be called) a tiny cookfire flickered, a dark figure huddled over it. Ciani, he guessed. Senzei would be on watch.

He looked down at the Hunter, found that the man’s obvious contentment grated on his nerves more than all his nightmares combined. “I hope you’re satisfied,” he whispered hoarsely.

“It was adequate.” Tarrant turned to him, pale eyes brimming with languid malevolence. Damien was reminded of a sated predator, lazily contemplating his prey. “You seem surprised, priest. That I could inspire such fear in you? If so, you fail to give yourself credit. That was my seventh attempt, and by far the most complex. My victims are usually more . . . vulnerable.” Then his voice dropped to a whisper and he added, with soft intensity, “That was Earth, you know.”

“Your vision of it.”

“It’s the dream you serve. A future the Church hopes to make possible. A land in which the fae has no power, to alter fate or man . . . how do you like the taste of it, priest? The special savor of Terran impotence.”

“They got to the stars,” he retorted. “In less than twelve centuries, our Terran ancestors went from barbarism to galactic colonization. And what have we done in that much time? Settled two continents on a single planet—and barely that. And you dare to ask me if it’s worth a price to regain our lost heritage? Any price, Hunter. Anything.”

“Your faith is strong,” he mused.

“Damned right. Your legacy, Neocount. Your dream. Some of us were foolish enough to stick with it. Now, are you feeling better, or was all that effort wasted?”

“It wasn’t wasted,” the Hunter said softly. “Given three more nights and total control over your environment I could have managed better . . . but for what it was, it served well enough.”

“You can Work now?”

“If the currents allow. The fae was fairly weak as I recall—or at least it seemed so when we landed. I wasn’t in the best of shape then.”

“But you’re all right now.”

“Yes.” For a moment he seemed to hesitate. Searching for the right words? How many centuries had it been, since he had last been indebted to a mere human being?

“Thank you,” he whispered at last. The words clearly came hard to him. “I am . . . very grateful.”

Somehow, Damien managed to shrug.

“All in a day work” he assured him.

The watcher hadn’t come back. That was the first piece of news that greeted them when they made their way down from their protective niche in the cliff wall. Whatever manner of creature had watched them as they made their way to shore, it had not returned. Damien wished he could read something optimistic into that, but it was still too early to judge. And optimism could be dangerous, when it was founded on mere guesswork.

While they ate—a haphazard stew of dried rations and the meat of some reptilian creature Senzei had managed to shoot during his first watch—Gerald Tarrant withdrew, ostensibly to test the currents. When he returned to them, his expression was grim. Yes, he said, the earth-fae was sparse here, and the currents that governed its motion weak and insubstantial. Which made no sense, he told them. No sense at all. He seemed almost angry, as though the fae were somehow consciously plotting to frustrate him. When Senzei started to question him further, he went wordlessly to where their packs were stored and withdrew a thick tube of maps from among his own possessions. The heavy vellum sheets had come through undamaged, rolled tightly inside waterproof, wax-sealed containers.

“Here,” he said, and he unrolled one of the precious maps before them. Firelight flickered on its surface as he weighted its corners down with stones. “See for yourselves.”

The map—undeniably ancient, certainly from the time before the Canopy had been raised—depicted local currents in the region they were now traversing. They could see rich currents of earth-fae flowing along the fault lines, eddies of power that swirled about the foothills of the Worldsend Mountains and the eastern range, just as it should be. Tarrant stared at the maps, as though trying to reconcile them with the reality he himself had observed, and at last shook his head in frustration.

“The fae here is weaker than it should be,” he said finally. “There’s no natural law I know of that would account for its being so—but it is. Unquestionably. Which means that all our Workings—including my own—will be that much less effective.”

“What about our enemy?” Senzei asked.

“Probably the same for him. But I wouldn’t bet my survival on that,” he warned.

“You don’t think this could have occurred naturally?”

“The earth-fae is, and always has been, a predictable, ordered force. Faithful to its own laws of motion and power which, when understood, can be manipulated. Or have you forgotten your Prophet’s teachings?” he asked dryly.

“Excuse me for challenging your canon.”

His pale eyes glittered with amusement.

“What about its reactive power?” Ciani asked him. “That’s not predictable, is it?”

He hesitated—as if a dry, mocking answer was ready upon his lips, about to be launched into their company. Then he swallowed that, with effort, and said simply, “It is. Utterly predictable. The complication with man’s Working it is that there are too many levels to human consciousness, and the earth-fae doesn’t distinguish between them. If man’s fears resound louder than his prayers, the former is what will manifest results. The fault lies within ourselves, lady—not with the fae.” He looked down at the ground beside him and touched a slender finger to it: observing the current, Damien decided. Using his adept’s sight to determine its strength. “With every new seismic event, earth-fae rises to the surface of the planet. Eventually it congregates, in pools and eddies and currents that we can map. Except that here those aren’t what they should be. Not at all.” He paused, and looked at each of them in turn—studying them for reaction? “To my mind, that hints at outside interference.”

But the scale of it! Damien thought. What kind of creature—or force—could be responsible? He envisioned that vast atomic furnace which was the planet’s core, tons of magma thrusting upward against the crust of the planet until the continents themselves shifted in response, earth buckling and cracking from the pressure of the assault—seismic shockwaves releasing that power which they had come to call the earth-fae, in quantities so vast that no human being dared touch it, so powerful in its pure form that the merest attempt to Work it was enough to fry a man to cinders. And here it was weakened. How? By what process? What had happened here, in the centuries since the rakh had claimed these lands, that had altered the very nature of Erna?

Or is it simply our understanding that’s lacking? Damien wondered. What clue is here we’re not seeing? That we perhaps don’t even know how to look for?

Carefully, Gerald Tarrant withdrew another sheet from its protective tube. Its value was evident in the way he handled it, in the reverence of his motions as he carefully unrolled it and weighted its corners down with smooth, water-polished stones.

At first, Damien couldn’t make out what it was. He moved one of the lamps in closer, saw the tenuous outline of a continent subdivided by several sharp red lines. The shoreline was unfamiliar to him, but after a while, by looking only at the larger forms, he began to make out familiar shapes. The eastlands. The rakhlands. The Serpent. With a start he realized that the Stekkis River coursed westward rather than to the north, and met the sea at Merentha. The Lethe had also shifted, and the coastline by Seth was markedly different.

“It’s old,” he murmured.

The Hunter nodded. “Over twelve hundred years. And not designed for permanence, even then. If not for my Working, it would have crumbled to dust long ago.”

“Over twelve centuries?” Senzei asked sharply. “That would mean—”

“It’s a survey map,” the Hunter informed him. “A tectonic extrapolation. Done on board the Earth-ship, before the Landing. According to one document in my possession, that was standard procedure aboard such vessels. They would scan each possible landing site for seismic activity—and other variables—to assess the dangers that the colonists might face. It normally took five to ten Earth-years to determine whether or not a planet was suitable for colonization. In the case of Erna, nearly ninety were invested.” He tapped the map with a slender forefinger. “This was the reason.”

“Seismic activity.” Damien’s tone was bitter.

The Hunter nodded. “Enough to make colonization difficult, if not downright impossible. Maybe if there’d been an alternative, the ship would have moved on. Maybe somehow it knew that there was nothing beyond this—that it had come so far, rejecting so many planets along the way, that if it rejected this one there was nowhere left to go. It was balanced on the brink of the galaxy, with nothing but darkness ahead of it, and it knew only two options: wake up the colonists and settle them here, or move on. No turning back. No going home. Those were the rules.”

“They were crazy,” Senzei whispered

“Maybe so. As were those men and women who braved the eastern sea to find out what lay beyond it, and those who traveled to Novatlantis despite the constant eruptions in that place . . . and the lady here, who passed through the Canopy unattended, to explore forbidden lands. It’s a human craziness, the need to explore. The hunger for a new frontier. But since we are its children, I would say we have little right to criticize.”

He tapped the map with a slender forefinger, indicating a point some three hundred miles to the east of them. “Assuming we do indeed have an enemy,” he said quietly, “this is where he will be located.”

“How can you be so sure?” Damien demanded.

“Simply put: because there is no better place.” His finger traced a red line that coursed upward through the eastern mountain range to where another, sharply angled, intersected it. “Look at the fault lines. Three continental plates meet here, each forced against the other by earthly powers too vast to contemplate. The plates collide, continents crumple into mountain ranges, rivers are rerouted . . . and a vast amount of raw power is released each time it happens.” He sketched a circle around the intersection of the fault lines, approximately forty miles in diameter. “This is what we call a point of power— a wellspring of the earth-fae—and if there’s anything in this land that feeds on the fae, or Works it . . . it will be here. Somewhere within this periphery.”

“Why not on the point itself?” Ciani asked.

He looked up at her, and there was something in his eyes that made Damien tense. Not his usual amusement at an ignorant question, or his customary derision toward the rest of the party. Something far more subtle. More intimate. Damien was reminded of the seductive undulations of a snake, as it mesmerized its prey.

“Only a fool builds his fortress on a fault line,” Tarrant assured her. “It’s one thing to ward against the tremors of an earthquake—and quite another to try to maintain a structure when half the ground beneath it suddenly rises, or sinks, or moves to the west of that which remains. Even an adept will die if the roof falls in and crushes his head, lady. Especially if it happens at the one time he dares not Work to save himself.”

“I see,” she whispered.

“What it means,” he said, rerolling the map, “is that we have a difficult journey ahead of us.”

“And an enemy who knows we’ve arrived,” Senzei added soberly.

Tarrant looked up at the cliffs; his eyes narrowed as if somehow he might see the watcher again if he looked carefully enough.

“Impossible to read that trace,” he muttered. “Damn the weakness of the currents here! In the Forest I could have told you who it was that saw us, and what his or her intentions were . . .”

“Or its,” Damien reminded him.

A cold breeze gusted in across the Serpent. For a moment there was silence, broken only by the sound of the horses feeding. The shifting of sand as Ciani began to douse the fire.

“Yes,” Tarrant said at last. Clearly not liking the taste of the word, or its implications. “His, her, or its.”

“Come on,” the priest said. “Let’s get moving.”

It had never occurred to Senzei that he might wind up the most powerful of them all. No, not powerful exactly . . . more like useful. Adaptable.

Maybe it came from all those years of watching the currents at home, of focusing on their intensity with a desperate need to perceive minute changes, as an affirmation of his skill. Maybe it was from all those years of watching Ciani Work, of honing his Sight while she refined more concrete skills, knowing that whatever else he might choose to do she could do better and more easily. Whatever. The end result was that here and now, in this special place, Senzei Reese had exactly the skills required to get his companions from one point to another in safety.

Trudging through the chill autumn waters, mostly on horseback, sometimes on foot, his eyes fixed on the swirling liquid before them, he used his Sight to feel out the currents that lay beneath that saline froth. Used his Sight to ferret out the rock formations that might cause them to stumble, the hairline faults and pebble-filled hollows that would cause the ground to shift if too much weight was put on it. Each was reflected in the earth-fae as it shimmered up through the water, each had its own special flavor, its own peculiar light. As he had guided their boat through the rakhland’s shallows, he now guided his party along the shoreline, across terrain that shifted from pebbled beach to half-submerged boulders to waist-high waters in a matter of minutes. And no one else could do it as well as he could. That was simple fact. The priest specialized in Healing skills, the arts of Life; the adept Gerald Tarrant, for all his awesome power, seemed ill at ease Working through the water, and preferred to leave that duty to another. And Ciani . . . it hurt him to think he was benefiting from her disability, but the truth was that he had never experienced this kind of pleasure before—this absolute certainty of being needed, of having the skills which the moment required and needing to use them. Of being the only one who could use them. His years with her had been rich ones, in both experience and friendship, but he realized now just what it had cost him to function in her shadow all these years. How much of him had never lived, before this moment.

Step by step, obstacle by obstacle, the four of them worked their way westward, toward the Achron’s outlet. At times the shoreline was almost hospitable, a narrow beach of worn pebbles and broken shells overlaid with thick strands of seaweed that allowed them to ride as quickly as their horses could find footing. But then it would drop away suddenly and the sheer palisades would meet the water without junction, leaving them to work their way through pools of deep, ice-cold water, their horses struggling to find firm footing amidst the potholes and the undertow that were invisible beneath the black waters. It was a dangerous route, rife with tension—but he, Senzei Reese, led them through. Skirting deadly pits which the tides had carved at the base of the cliff walls, finding the one solid path across a mud-covered landscape, sensing the hollows in which venemous creatures hid, obscured beneath mounds of rotting seaweed . . . with a constant Working on his lips to support his special senses he read the oh-so-subtle variations in the earth-fae, and then used that vision to find the one safe path amidst a thousand deadly ones. It was exhausting work, and by the end of the night his head rang with pain from the exertion. But it was a wonderful pain. An exhilarating pain. A pain that was as exquisitely sexual as the first time he had entered a woman, all the heat and the giddy fear and the sense of Tightness combined, in one blinding agony of exhaustion.

This is what I was born to do, he thought, as he lifted a hand to rub one throbbing temple. Persevere, where the adepts falter.

They paused once along the way, for food and a brief respite. The horses nibbled uneasily at the rations they were offered, grainy cakes that combined nutrition with a high-calorie supplement; it was better than nothing, but the animals clearly weren’t happy about it. Damien muttered something about hoping they found proper grazing ground before their limited supply of the stuff ran out. They discussed stopping for a while while they were still on hospitable ground, but it was no real option; Tarrant’s presence among them meant they couldn’t travel during the daylight hours, which in turn meant they needed to cover as much ground as possible during the night. So they wrung out their clothing and waited while the priest tamed enough earth-fae to ward off sickness and stabilize the temperature of their flesh—not a sure thing in these currents, he warned them, but better than no effort at all—and they continued.

Their first indication that they were nearing their objective was a faint roaring sound in the distance, not unlike the noise one might hear cupping a shell to one’s ear to catch the sound of blood surging within the body. It had no rhythm, unlike the waters at their side, no heartbeat of surf breaking over an inconstant shore, but was more like the rush of water surging through a confined space: river rapids, Senzei thought. He saw Damien’s head snap up as he first became aware of the sound, and the priest’s expression darkened slightly. Not good? he thought despairingly. He didn’t dare ask. Even his own skills would be of little use in river whitewater, and the footing . . . he shivered as he envisioned it. Gods willing, the land there would be solid enough to serve them.

It took nearly another hour to reach the mouth of the river, across such difficult terrain that for a while Senzei thought they might not make it. But then, when the roar of whitewater had grown so loud that they could hardly speak to one another without shouting, they came around a bend and it was there before them, in all its violent glory. A break in the cliff wall to their left, through which the river poured like a herd of wild beasts in desperate stampede, casting themselves upon the mounds and mudbars that time and the tides had erected. Roaring white surf capped the Serpent’s waters, and moonlight shattered into a million sparks on its wild, frothing surface. A fog of spray rose for yards above the water, and eddies of mist curled like phantoms within it, ghostly forms that were barely born before the water and the wind swallowed them up again.

Senzei moved closer to the cliff wall, blinking the spray from his eyes. It was hard to see, hard to get any sense of where they were, or where they needed to be. He tried to Work, but he had always depended upon vision for his focus—and here, clear vision was impossible.

“There!” He heard Tarrant’s shout with unexpected clarity—but of course, the adept would have augmented his voice. He tried to respond, but his horse had begun to back away from the spectacle before them, and he had to fight to bring it under control before he could look where the Hunter was pointing. Damien’s hand was on Ciani’s reins and he could see that her mount was ready to bolt, might have done so moments ago if not for that restraint.

“There,” the Hunter told them, and he pointed to the cliff wall.

For a moment, it was impossible to see. Then—perhaps by chance, perhaps in response to Tarrant’s will—the worst of the fog parted before them. It was now possible to see the gap where the river poured out, to a short but violent waterfall that met the Serpent in thunder. It was also possible to see that the river had once been higher—or might be again, in a wetter season—and that a narrow ridge, erosion-carved, paralleled the course of the waters. Ten yards above them, perhaps half a mile away. It might as well have been on another planet.

“How are you at parting the waters?” Damien yelled to Tarrant—and it must have been some kind of religious joke, because the Hunter smiled dryly.

There’s no going back, Senzei thought grimly. And this is the only way forward.

As if in answer to his thoughts, Damien slid from his mount’s back, to stand on the pebbled ground. He fumbled for a moment among the horse’s several packs, withdrew one, and strapped it to his own shoulder. And looked toward his companions. His expression was dark but determined, and in it Senzei read his absolute certainty that somehow, with or without a horse beside him, he was going to get himself up to that ridge. Were they with him? Senzei looked at Ciani, felt his heart lurch as he saw the determination in her eyes—and recognized its source. Not courage, or even resolution; she simply had nothing left to lose.

They dismounted. Tarrant had packed few special possessions for the journey, but his horse had been carrying a share of the camping equipment for the party; Damien removed those bags which were the most important and, without a word, shouldered them as well. Ciani’s horse reared back as it felt her weight leave its back—but a sharp word from Tarrant, that carried above the roar of the water, made it shudder into submission.

Leading the horses, they walked with care, blinking constantly against the force of the spray. They felt their way across the narrow bit of solid ground by touch even more than by sight. The roar of the water was like thunder, an utter cacophony that made speech impossible, thinking nearly so. Somehow, Senzei managed to keep his feet. Ciani stumbled once, but he managed to reach out and grab her by the arm, holding her steady until she managed to get her feet back under her. It amazed him that the horses were still with them, though the animals were clearly unhappy about their destination. Maybe Tarrant had helped with that, somehow; gods knew, they needed all the help they could get.

At last they were at the base of the cliff wall, as near as they could get to the break itself without swimming. Senzei saw Damien point upward, but he couldn’t make out what the priest was pointing at. Blindly, he followed. Stumbling up an incline made slippery by water and algae, trying to guide his mount to safe footing when he could scarcely find it himself. He could feel panic building in the animal, powerful enough to affect the fae and manifest before him: a cloud of equine fear that engulfed him as he tried to move forward, driving spears of animal terror into his own flesh. He stumbled, felt his ankle twist and nearly slide out from under him. Desperately, he tried, to Work—there was solid ground under him, therefore there must be earth-fae accessible—and he managed the ghost of a Banishing, barely enough to dissipate the fear directly before him, not enough to keep its fringes from affecting the rest of his party. Not good enough. Gritting his teeth against the tides of fear that were rising within him—his own and the animal’s, and gods alone knew who else’s—he threw all his will into his Working, every last bit of power that he could possibly manifest. And the dank cloud of terror wavered, thinned, and dispersed at last into the mist.

Exhausted, he climbed. And somehow managed to get both himself and the frightened horse up to the top of the incline, to a narrow ledge of rock that looked over the Achron. Damien grasped him by the arm and helped him along—was the man ever bothered by anything?—and then the spray was behind him, the thunder dimming to a mere roar, and smooth, solid ground was underfoot once more. He tightened his hand about his horse’s reins—and then doubled over and retched, helplessly, as though that might somehow cast the fear and the exhaustion out of him.

When he finally straightened up again he found his companions with him, as soaked and exhausted as he was but yes, every one of them had made it. Even the horses. He saw Damien strap his pack back onto his mount’s back, and managed weakly to grin in acknowledgment.

They had made it. The worst part was over. This worst part, anyway.

Tarrant took some minutes to soothe the last of their mounts’ fears—perhaps blinding the animals to the dangers of their path, perhaps merely numbing their emotional response—and Ciani seemed as grateful for the break as Senzei was. She wrung the water from her hair and tried not to look down at the river beneath them. There, mere yards below their feet, the glassy current had already begun to froth, as if anticipating the drop soon to come.

Senzei looked out over the seething waterfall, toward the Serpent. He could see nothing but clouds—white clouds, silver clouds—rising like steam from the water’s surface. And perhaps, ever so elusive, sparks of liquid illusion that shimmered in the air like sea-spray. The Canopy. This close?

He turned back and found Damien watching him. When the priest saw that he was all right, the concern in his eyes gave way to wry humor; the grimace of tension softened to a smile.

“Welcome to the rakhlands,” he told him.

The Achron had carved its meandering path through the rakhlands over the course of eons, and now was seated in a twisting, steep-walled canyon, whose eroded strata made for narrow ledges that flanked the water like roads. They followed one, single file, until at last it widened to a more hospitable proportion. Then, when they could move about without the constant fear of falling into the swift current beneath them, they finally stopped to catch their breath. Ciani was pale, and her body shook as she lowered herself to sit on the ground, legs unsteady beneath her. Senzei felt little better. Even the tireless Damien Vryce looked exhausted, wrung out by hours of fighting the cold waves and the treacherous rocks, and the fears that had crowded about them like specters ever since nightfall.

“That,” he gasped, “was one hell of a climb.”

“We should build a fire,” Ciani said.

“Dry out,” Senzei agreed.

“Find shelter,” Tarrant said quietly—and something in his tone drew their attention to him, so that their eyes followed his up the rock wall beside them, to a point some twenty yards above their heads.

“We’re being watched?” Damien whispered tensely.

The Hunter shook his head. “Not now. But the trace is there.” He narrowed his eyes in concentration, then murmured, “The same trace. But old.”

“How old?” Damien demanded.

“One day. Maybe two. I would guess it was part of the same watch system that spotted us when we landed; perhaps even the same individual, riding from one post to another. The impression is very similar.”

“But not identifiable?” Damien pressed.

The Hunter looked at him. His expression was unreadable.

“Not human,” he said quietly. “Isn’t that enough?”

Damien stared up at the sheer wall and cursed softly. “They set the watch right here,” he muttered darkly. “It’s the first place any traveler could rest in safety, after getting to the canyon.”

“Our enemy chose his vantage points well,” the Hunter agreed. “I only wish . . .”

His voice trailed off into darkness.

“What?” the priest demanded.

Tarrant seemed to hesitate. “In another place, I might . . . but not here. Not with the fae this weak.”

“See, you mean?”

“That, too. I meant reconnaissance. But the point is moot,” he said quickly, waving short Damien’s response. “I can’t do it. And certainly none of you can.”

“I can’t make it much further,” Ciani whispered.

“And neither can the horses,” Tarrant agreed. “I’ve been supplementing their strength up until now . . . but my own has its limits, as you know.” And he looked at Damien—very strangely, Senzei thought—as if reminding him of some secret knowledge that the two of them alone shared.

“We’ll camp as soon as we can,” the priest told them.

Somehow, they managed to get to their feet. Managed to move again, though all their flesh screamed in protest of further exertion. As they progressed, the walls of the canyon grew closer overhead, the river deeper. Mica glistened erratically in the stratified rock, like spirits trying to manifest upon its surface. Already the moons had dropped low enough that no light shone directly into the canyon; the lanterns they had lit might banish mere darkness, but it was hardly enough to dispel the dark fae that was slowly gathering about them. Once Senzei thought he saw a face begin to form on a glistening outcropping of rock—but he quickly muttered the key to a Banishing, and the face disappeared. Once or twice he heard Damien whisper a word that might been meant to key a Working, and his stomach lurched in fear as he envisioned what manner of things might manifest in such a place as this. He even thought he heard a whisper of Working from Ciani—but that just said how frightened he was, how potentially irrational. How could Ciani be Working? Only Tarrant was silent, clearly at peace with the night and its darkness. And why not? Half the things that might hunger for their life, that might take on familiar form to gain access to their blood and their vitality, were kin to him. What did he have to fear?

As if in answer, Tarrant reined up his horse. Peering, and then pointing, into the darkness ahead.

“There’s shelter, of sorts.” He looked up at the cliff wall that towered over them, as if searching for something. A hint of daylight? “The sun will be up soon.”

Damien peered into the darkness ahead of them, saw nothing. “Your eyes are better than mine, Hunter.”

“That goes without saying.” He pointed slightly ahead and to the left. “That crevice, there.”

Squinting into the darkness, Senzei could barely make out the form of a cleft in the rock. It was narrow, but passable, and might open into a larger space within.

“You think it’s safe?” he asked.

“I think nothing here is safe,” he said shortly. “But to continue onward in your current condition avails us nothing—except greater risk. Our enemy is waiting for us. The sun is about to rise. And I, for one, have no intention of confronting either at this time. You may do as you will.”

He dismounted and walked toward the opening. His horse was either too well-trained or too numb from exhaustion to do anything other than stand there and wait for him; he made no attempt to secure it. Senzei watched with growing despair as Tarrant approached the dark crevice, studied it, and then slipped within. It was as if he could feel the jaws of a trap closing about them, the eyes of an unseen watcher fixed on their backs as they went about securing shelter, hordes of unseen warrior-creatures awaiting only a word to strike . . . he shivered, from cold and misgivings both, and wrapped his arms tightly around himself. As if that could somehow still the tide of fear inside him.

Think rationally, Zen. Like the enemy does. They knew where we would stop to rest—but they weren’t there when we arrived, were they? They don’t know that we have to travel only at night, therefore they can’t second-guess our schedule. And they also don’t know that we need an absolute shelter from the sun, that a cavern would draw us in like honey in an insect trap . . . The words sounded good, but they did little to quell the fear inside him.

Suddenly a snarl sounded from beyond the cavern’s mouth, followed by a wild, bestial howling that made his skin crawl in horror. He saw Damien start forward, then stop himself, forcibly. The priest’s expression was grim. The howling rose in pitch, a war cry of pain and terror and territorial urges—all cut short, suddenly. Sucked up into the utter silence of the night.

Tarrant reappeared. Brushing lightly at one shoulder, he dislodged a bit of cave-dirt that had stuck to his clothing. “Shelter enough for one day,” he announced—and it might have been Senzei’s imagination, but it seemed there was a glint of red about his teeth as he spoke.

“Unoccupied?” Damien asked.

Tarrant’s eyes glistened coldly. “It is now. You may help yourself to . . . dinner, if you like. There’s meat for it.” And he added, with an ominous smile, “I’ve already dined.”

They stared at him for a moment, all three of them. No one more anxious than any other to see what manner of place he had found for them, or what manner of carrion it now harbored.

Then: “What the hells,” Ciani muttered. She slid from her horse’s back, and somehow managed to stand steadily despite the obvious weakness in her legs. Gods, they were all near collapse. “As long as it’s dry,” she said.

There was something going on between them, Damien decided—something happening between Ciani and Gerald Tarrant that he didn’t like at all. He couldn’t quite identify what it was—but it was there, without doubt. Like a channel had been established between them. He could almost See it.

As they made their preparations for the day’s encampment, he kept half an eye on each of them. Tarrant explored the back recesses of the narrow cavern, making certain there were no hidden dangers there—and Ciani accompanied him. Tarrant took it upon himself in the last hour of relative darkness to see that the horses were rubbed dry and calmed, and tethered within reach of edible brush—and Ciani, who had little experience with such duties, went to help him. Damien was aware of whispers passing between them, things more felt than heard: a subvocal purring of conspiracy, of coalition. But what purpose could it possibly serve? Without knowing, he told himself, he had no right to interfere. Ciani had every reason to be curious about the adept, and if Tarrant was answering her questions, the more power to her. And if that was all it was, Damien had no right to interfere. But what if it wasn’t? Did Ciani really understand how dangerous the Hunter was—how utterly corrupt a soul must be, to sink from the Prophet’s heights to such a murdering, parasitic existence? The thought of prolonged contact between the two of them made Damien’s stomach turn, and he watched them carefully. Trying to stay within hearing distance. Hoping for any excuse he might reasonably use to keep her away from their deadly companion.

The cavern which Tarrant had found them—little more than a cleft in the cliff wall, six feet wide at its broadest point and considerably less than that as it angled back into the stratified rock—had clearly been occupied, and for some time. It reeked of generations of animal occupancy: the oils of mating, the exudations of birth, the pungent spray of territorial markings. Not to mention the carrion that Tarrant had provided, a tangle of bloody fur and moist meat that still stank of animal terror. But it was dry and safe, and the floor was layered in insulating dirt, and at this point that was all any of them wanted. They unpacked their bedrolls along its length, rendered Tarrant’s kill down for its edible portions and threw the rest into the Achron, and laid their wet clothing—which was most of what they owned—out on the ledge by the cavern’s mouth, to be dried by the rising sun. Watches were scheduled. A minimal fire was kindled. The cave’s former occupant became a satisfying, if somewhat gamy, repast. And they waited for the sun to rise, knowing that only for a few hours would it shine directly down into the gorge which the Achron’s current had scoured into the land—waiting to see what manner of place they had come to, what patterns of promise and danger the light of day might reveal.

Once, when his watch had ended, Damien made his way to the rear of the cavern, where Tarrant had isolated himself, to see how the adept was doing. A slab of rock that had fallen from the ceiling in some past earthquake concealed the back recesses of their shelter from immediate view; when he made his way past it, he found that a wall of coldfire had been erected in the lightless recess. Utterly frigid. Utterly impassable.

“Well, fine,” he muttered. “Just fine.”

And then—hoping the Hunter could hear him—he added, “I trust you, too.”

The land through which the Achron coursed was a rich, three-dimensional tapestry of geological history, whose cross-section had been revealed by the cutting action of the river’s progress. From a layer of granite through which the water coursed, up through layers of black basalt and alluvial sediment and compressed volcanic ash, it was possible to read the history of this region in the patterns that decorated the cliff walls—volcanic eruption and glacial invasion and always, as elsewhere, the violent geo-signatures of earthquakes. Where the narrow strata had once comprised an ordered map of geohistory, it had now been split by successive upheavals into a jagged mosaic that lined the walls of the gorge like some immense, grotesquely abstract artwork. Winds had grooved the junctures of strata, widened fissures, and eroded away the underpinning of various outcroppings, so that ragged columns and angular arches loomed overhead, a giant surreal sculpture that had been abandoned to the elements. Vegetation had taken root wherever it could, but for the most part the upper reaches of the walls were utterly lifeless: a bit of lichen, a patch of coarse grass, perhaps a few dried roots to mark the place where a desperate tree had once tried to grasp hold. No more than that. Unclimbable, at any rate. Which meant that they were doomed to traverse the river’s bed until some variation in the canyon’s structure allowed them to ascend to the rich lands surrounding it.

At sunset they moved again, Senzei concluding the last watch of the day as they urged their horses back onto the narrow path. There was still no sight of the watcher, or any other attempt at surveillance. Damien was beginning to think that maybe something positive might be read into that. Maybe whoever had seen them land was merely an independent observer who had chanced upon the spot, with no lasting interest in what became of them, no dangerous allies to mobilize—

Right. Damned likely. Dream on, priest.

They rode. The horses were clearly less than thrilled about their chosen road, but a good day’s rest in a relatively dry place—not to mention fresh food and water—had given them back something of their accustomed spirit. Damien had little trouble convincing his mount to lead the way along the narrow ledge, and the struggles of the previous night receded into hazy memory as the rhythm of travel engulfed them all.

When Casca’s three-quarter face cleared the western wall, they stopped for a short while. In the shadow of the grotesque natural sculptures they nibbled at bits of meat and cake and discussed, in guarded murmurs, the possibility of finding a way out of the canyon in the nights to come. Tarrant took out his maps again and located several points of possible egress: tributary junctions in the Achron’s course, which might or might not involve some variation in the canyon’s structure. He seemed to feel that the odds were good—and since it was the first real optimism the man had expressed about this journey, Damien found it doubly comforting. For once, things seemed to be going their way.

But then he thought: When we get up to the plateau, that’s when the real work begins. The real danger. It was a sobering thought, and one that he didn’t share with his companions. Let them enjoy this last bit of security while it lasted; such things would become rare soon enough.

In time Casca set behind the eastern wall, and a nearly-full Prima took her place in the skies. The presence of any moon above them weakened the dark fae which might otherwise harass them, and Damien was grateful for the current lunar schedule. Not long from now there would be a period of true night, when no natural light was available; by that time, he hoped, they would be out of the canyon, not trapped on some twisting path beneath walls that were prone to fracture, with the angry black water waiting just beneath them, and all their fears manifested by the power of the ultimate Night.

Tarrant will gain strength, then, he thought. He’ll come into his true power for the first time since our landing. It was a chilling thought, but somehow it lacked the power of his previous fears. Was it possible that Tarrant’s usefulness was beginning to outweigh the abhorrence of his nature, in Damien’s mind? That was dangerous, the priest reflected. That was truly frightening. That worried him more than the true night itself—more than all the rest of it combined. Could one become inured to the presence of such an evil? So much so that one lost sight of what it truly was, and saw no further than the elegant facade which housed it? He shivered at the thought, and swore he would keep it from happening. Prayed to his God that he could keep it from happening.

Gradually, the canyon narrowed. The water could be heard to course northward with a far more violent current than before, and although he hesitated to look down—the view was dizzying—Damien knew from the sound of it that there was now white water below their feet, that the walls here had fragmented and fallen often enough to place a thousand obstacles in the river’s path—obstacles over which the water now coursed angrily, obstacles against which any fallen creature would certainly be crushed. All the more reason not to fall from the ledge. He eased his horse farther from the edge and hoped his companions would follow suit. As long as they were careful—and the ledge grew no narrower—they should be in little danger.

Then they came around a bend, and his heart went cold within him. He signaled for a stop, forced his own horse to stand steady as he studied the road ahead as well as he could by moonlight. The apprehension of his fellow travelers was like a tangible thing, a cloud of pessimism so thick that he could hardly breathe through it.

Finally he gestured to Tarrant, signaled for him to come to the front. “Your night vision is best of anyone’s,” he said. “What do you make out?”

The Hunter dismounted, and made his way on foot to the front of the procession. There he gazed into the darkness for some time before responding.

“The path continues to narrow,” he said. “And I don’t like the look of it. The water has eaten its way underneath that shelf, and there are visible damages . . . it’s not as solid as what we’ve been traveling on, by any means.”

“Can it support us?” Senzei asked tensely.

Tarrant’s expression tightened, and the concentration that Damien had come to associate with his Working flashed briefly in his eyes. “As it is now, it will,” he responded. “If nothing interferes.”

“Are there alternatives?” Ciani asked him.

He looked up to her, cold eyes fluid, like quicksilver. “None that I see here, lady. Except going back, of course. That’s always an option.”

She stiffened. “No,” she whispered. “Not while I have the strength left to move.”

“Then there are none.”

“We go on,” she said firmly.

The Hunter nodded and remounted. Without a word, they began to move forward onto a section of ledge that was scored by faults. They moved slowly, carefully, ever aware that a single overemphatic hoofbeat might crack something loose underfoot and send them plummeting to the white water below. As they rode, the ledge narrowed. After a time Damien could no longer keep his horse to the path without his left leg scraping against the wall of the gorge periodically; small bits of rock showered to the ground beneath him after each such contact, and bounced off the ledge down into the shadows beneath to disappear into the hungry river.

Even if we wanted to turn back now, we couldn’t. Not without backing the horses up for miles—and they’d rather jump into the water than put up with that.

God help us if the ledge peters out, he thought—and then, because there was no constructive way to think about such a possibility, he put it forcibly out of his mind. The ledge would continue, it would be sound enough to support them, and if it wasn’t they would manage to do . . . something.

They traveled in tense silence, each cocooned in his fears. Beneath them the river coursed, noisily now, and white froth glittered in Prima’s light. The edge of that moon had already dropped behind the eastern wall of the gorge, with the rest soon to follow. What would they do when its light was gone? Could they traverse a path this dangerous, with nothing but lamplight to guide them? Damien felt like he had been traveling forever, leading the way along a path so narrow, with a surface so irregular, that it seemed only a matter of time before one of them stumbled and fell. His own horse was unlikely to lose its footing; that animal was experienced in handling such situations and knew what it meant to test each footstep in advance. But would Senzei’s animal, city-bred, slip from the path? Or the Forest beasts, which had known only packed, level earth before this? If anyone went down into that angry water . . . it was better not to think about such things. Better just to keep the mind blank and hope the horses got them through.

Finally—after what seemed like an eternity—the ledge began to widen. Slowly, almost imperceptibly—but at last the point came when the travelers’ legs no longer brushed against the wall, when his horse’s easier gait informed him that the animal now felt more secure about the ground underfoot. “On our way,” he whispered. He began to think they would really make it through. Damien allowed himself the luxury of a few deep breaths, and stretched his cramped feet in their stirrups to bring life back into them—

“Heads up!” The Hunter called. “And don’t Work, whatever you do!”

The urgency in his voice made Damien twist back quickly. The adept had one hand raised as if to shield his eyes from light. But there was nothing in the canyon that Damien could see, and Senzei and Ciani seemed similarly confused. What force had the adept’s vision disclosed, which would suddenly become so bright—

“Hells!” he heard Ciani whisper as she realized what was happening. A rumbling filled the air around them—which meant an earthquake, very close and very bad. Damn it! Not now! The rock overhead began to tremble visibly, and he could feel his horse shift its weight nervously, responding to signals half-sensed, half-felt, from the ground beneath its feet. He tightened his hands on the reins, spasmodically—but there was nothing he could do, absolutely nothing. They were utterly at the mercy of Nature, and she was known for her ruthlessness. He tried to urge his horse a step closer to the cliff face, but either the animal didn’t like that strategy or it was so far gone in its own mounting terror that it simply didn’t acknowledge the command. He decided he would be safer on his own two feet and began to dismount. Suddenly the cliff wall overhead split, with a sound like thunder, and segments of rock the size of a man’s head crashed to the path right before them. The horse reared back, squealing in terror, and nearly crushed Damien against the jagged wall behind them. He didn’t dare let go lest the animal trample him, but nor did he have a secure hold on its saddle; as falling rocks pelted them like hailstones he struggled to stay in control, tried to calm the beast. But all his practiced words and signs could do nothing to lessen its terror. Maybe it could sense from him just how dangerous their position was. Maybe the fae had taken his own fear and injected that into the animal, so that it must deal with human terror along with its own. Or maybe the tremendous surge of earth-fae that had blinded Gerald Tarrant was capable of amplifying all their reactions so that logical decisions were drowned out in a deluge of primal fright.

Something struck Damien. Hard. Sharp rock cut deeply into his skull, as though he had struck the wall—or the wall had struck him. He felt something massive come down onto him, crushing him against his saddle, driving both him and the horse to the ground. Only the ground wasn’t there anymore. His horse’s feet struck wildly at where the ledge should have been and found only emptiness. The flawed rock had crumbled—and they were tumbling downward, the two of them, blood pouring down into Damien’s eyes as the river rushed up hungrily to meet them. He felt darkness closing in on him and fought it, fought it back with everything in him that hungered for life—because to lose consciousness now was to die, plain and simple. Head pounding in pain, hands shaking, he somehow managed to yank his foot out of its stirrup and twist himself so that when the animal landed he wouldn’t be beneath it. They struck with a force that sent water flying high up onto the cavern walls. The horse screamed in pain as it landed, began flailing out wildly. Rock rained down like hail about them as Damien struggled to get out of range of the animal’s hooves. Then the current grabbed him and he went under; ice-cold water filled his mouth as the river’s angry force slammed him against rock—once, twice, again. He reached out for anything to serve as anchor, to fight against the current, but his fingers met only slick rock and slid off, leaving him to the mercy of the water. Dimly he was aware that the current had dragged him down deep, very deep, and was taking him out into the middle of the river. His lungs already throbbed with pain, and he had to struggle not to try to breathe as he tried to determine which way was up. But all was chaos about him, a churning hell of icy water and rock that had neither direction nor order. He felt one shoulder strike bottom with a force that nearly drove the last air out of his lungs, and for one desperate moment he thought that he might Work to save himself—but the ground was still trembling, and the rumble of the earthquake still sounded even below the water, which meant that a Working meant death. Absolutely. Only a fool would even try it.

Or a dead man.

He gathered himself, knowing with one portion of his mind that he was about to be fried to a crisp—and knowing with another that if he did nothing he would certainly die. The river was too strong to fight. He needed air. Blood-red stars exploded before his eyes as his lungs began to convulse spasmodically, but he kept his throat closed as he gathered himself for a Working. The cold of the water had numbed him with a chill that was strangely warm. Was this what dying was? Time, now. Grasp the power—

And then something jerked him, hard. The stale air burst from his lungs and before he could stop himself he breathed in; water poured into him, drowning out his life. But something had taken hold of his harness, was dragging him back. Stars were swimming in his vision as he reached out toward the source of the movement. A strong arm grasped him, hand to wrist, and held. He was yanked upward—and he broke the surface gasping, water pouring out of his nose and mouth as he retched helplessly, dragged above the level of the river’s surf by a grip even colder than the water, colder than the river and the freezing wind and all his fear combined. He stumbled as he was pulled through the icy current. The grip on his wrist was so steady it could have been made of solid rock; the hand that drew him upward was the center of his universe, the only thing he saw as the red stars slowly receded into blackness, as his lungs finally acknowledged the presence of air and drew it in, aching from the effort.

He looked up, saw Tarrant’s visage highlighted by moonlight. The man’s expression was strained, his hair plastered down about his face like wet seaweed. But despite the whitewater current that threatened to drag them both under again, his grip was like steel as he drew Damien up, inch by inch, until he was safely above the level of the water. The priest gasped for breath, tried to mouth something useful. Like, Thank you. Or, Thank God. Or perhaps, What took you so damned long? But it took too much effort just to breathe; he had to settle for gasping like a beached fish as the tall man held him, while the current swept hungrily about their knees.

“It’s over,” the Hunter told him. “That one, anyway.” By which he meant, of course, the first shock wave. With a quake of that intensity, there could be several. Many. It could go on for days. “We need to move.”

He managed to nod, felt his head explode with raw pain. Something red ran down into his left eye. “Zen—Ciani-” He managed to twist so that he could see back the way he had come, toward the figures that still clung to that precarious ledge. He caught the glint of moonlight on Ciani’s hair, recognized Senzei’s lanky frame. Both safe, then. Thank God. The figures were hazy, masked by a distance that was greater than he had expected; the river must have swept him far downstream before Tarrant had managed to save him. He counted the horses—or tried to, the dark figures bled into each other at this distance—and it seemed to him that one was missing. But whose? And with what equipment? Their lives might well depend on the answer to that.

And then he sensed Tarrant’s stillness, and looked down. At the river about them. At the three figures who stood in it, knee-high in the swirling water. All were human, in general form—and anything but human, in the details of their features. Golden eyes stared out of faces that were insulated in matching fur, and tufted ears swung forward to test the breeze, as a cat’s might. He was aware of thick manes that covered both the shoulders and chests of the creatures, and trinkets of metal and shell that had been knotted into them. Aware most of all of the weapons they were holding, sharp-tipped spears that were aimed at the humans’ midsections with obviously hostile intent. Hatred glimmered in the golden eyes, far more intense than anything the moment should warrant. It was the hatred of an entire people, that had been festering for decades. The hatred of an entire species, for Damien’s own.

As for Tarrant . . . he was staring at the spearpoint directed at him with an expression that was half bemusement—was someone daring to threaten him?—and half something darker. Anger? Fear? Would the Hunter die if his heart were pierced? A knife through the heart is as fatal to an adept as it is to anyone else, he had said. And with the earth-fae still surging in the quake’s deadly aftermath, he didn’t dare Work to save himself. For one dizzying instant Damien thought that this was indeed what Gerald Tarrant would look like when facing his own mortality. When facing the fact that in one moment all the work of centuries might be thrown away, and a single spear-stroke commit his soul to the hell he had been determined to avoid.

Then the Hunter looked at him—and something that was almost a smile passed across the man’s lips. Something that was almost humor glittered in his eyes.

“I do believe,” he said quietly, “that we have found the rakh.”

31

The demon Calesta took form slowly, like blood congealing in open air. The scent of the river still clung to him, and it clashed with the musty closeness of the Citadel’s confines until at last the former was abolished, freshwater breezes choked out of existence by the cloying sweetness of the Master of Lema’s favorite incense.

“You found them,” came the whisper.

The demon bowed.

“Tell me.”

“There are four: the woman, an adept, and two others. The adept is the most dangerous.”

“Of course.” Hunger was an echo behind the words. “Also the most satisfying. Their purpose?”

“To kill you. And, en route, your servants. As well as any other hungry thing foolish enough to cross their path.”

“An ambitious plan.”

“It is the priest’s. He dominates.”

“And the adept?”

“He endures.”

A chuckle sounded. “You’ll take care of them, yes? It’s so easy, with that kind. You’ll read what’s in their hearts, and know what to do. As always.”

The demon bowed.

“Spare the adept, of course. And the woman. Weaken them if you can, by all means, bring them as near to death as you like—but bring them to me intact. I . . . hunger for them.”

The demon’s voice was a hiss, a low screech, the sound of metal on metal. “I understand.”

“As for the others . . . it’s no concern of mine whether they live or die. Do what pleases you, Calesta—provided their power is neutralized. You have such marvelous instincts regarding these things. And they’re coming here, yes? Marching here right into our hands. How very convenient.”

“The adept, my lord, is sun-sensitive.”

The One Who Binds stiffened. And nodded, slowly. Anticipation, like a drug, coursed through veins that had been jaded by time; the thought of conquest surged through ancient flesh like orgasm.

“That’s sweet news indeed,” came the whisper. “And power enough, for any who know how to use it. He was a fool to come here! And the woman—more than a fool, that one. I had her once. I will have her again. And when I am done . . . you, Calesta, may have what remains. Serve me well, and I promise it.”

The demon bowed. The hint of a smile played across its obsidian visage; the mirrored eyes flashed hunger.

“As you command,” it hissed.

32

For a moment, no one made a sound. The tension was eloquent enough, with its accompanying kinesthetic signals: a rakhene hand tightening on a spear haft. A rakhene body testing the river bottom for stability, preparing to thrust. Rakhene eyes filled with a terrible hatred, that looked simultaneously upon the present moment and a horrifying past: the attempted obliteration of an entire intelligent species. In the shadow of such a holocaust there was nothing to say, no way to say it. Attempts to bargain would have been an insult. Pleas for mercy would have seemed a joke. Man’s own actions had provided him with a far more ruthless enemy than anything the fae might invent.

Breath ragged, water surging about his knees, Damien itched to reach for his sword. Not so much to bring it into play as to make sure it was still there; the harness was loose about his shoulders, clearly damaged from the fall, which meant that the river might well have disarmed him. He flexed his shoulders ever so slightly, trying to judge the weight—and a spear point bit into his flesh, deeply enough to draw blood. He checked his motion, glanced up at Tarrant. The man understood—and nodded carefully, an almost imperceptible gesture. Yes, it said, you’re armed. But the grim expression on his face told an additional story, and when Damien looked down he saw that the man’s Worked sword—and its scabbard, and the heavy belt that supported it—were gone. He must have taken it off before entrusting himself to the river. Shit! How good was the Hunter at hand-to-spear combat? With his sorcerous skills made off-limits by the earthquake—

A call sounded from the cliffs high above: half speech, half animal yowling. Damien’s captors tensed. The one holding a spear to Tarrant’s torso glanced up at the cliff just long enough to bark out an answer—and Damien could see the Hunter gathering himself, muscles tensing secretly in that precious, unguarded instant. But then he checked himself, and his mouth tightened in anger and frustration as the furred warrior turned back to him. Not moving. Not saying a word.

Because of us, Damien thought. He could have saved himself—but not Ciani. Not when the fae is still too hot to handle.

He could see dark figures gathering about the ex-adept, could see Senzei tense as if he were about to fight them. Not now, he begged silently. There are too many of them. Our position is too desperate. Even while he prayed, he saw the figure fall back. Saw the dark figures closing in on it. And he wondered at the man’s inner courage—or was it blind devotion to Ciani?—that would allow him to even consider resistance under such overwhelming circumstances.

There’s a strength in him that’s never really been tested, he thought grimly. And: God willing, that’ll never be necessary.

Something flew down the cliff wall toward them, and then snapped to a stop mere feet from the bottom. A rope, of sorts—more like a tapestry, or an intricate knot-work sampler. Mere seconds later a figure slipped over the edge and climbed rapidly down toward them, fingers—or claws?—slipping in between the knots and out again with fluid efficiency. It dropped the last few feet in silence, landing on the ledge above them. Smaller than its fellows, it was dressed in layers of patterned cloth that swathed its limbs tightly to the wrist and ankle. No place for a shoulder-mane beneath those garments, nor any need for it. What this rakh lacked in raw mass it made up for in feline agility. And as it shifted its weight in the moonlight, so that the shadows no longer obscured its form—female, undeniably female—Damien realized why this one seemed so familiar.

“Morgot,” he whispered. And the Hunter answered softly, “Just so.”

She called out toward them—and though the words were unintelligible to Damien, the sharpness of the sound made it clear that its message was either a warning or a command. Or both. The language the creature used was one of hissed consonants and sharp vowels, utterly foreign to Damien’s ears—and yet, without question, the cadence of it was familiar. Somewhere, sometime in the distant past, his own language had influenced this one.

They had no language when they left the human lands. That must have evolved here, in isolation. What else did they develop, that humankind knows nothing about?

One of their captors barked out a response, in tones so harsh that it was clear what manner of action he would prefer. Damien was aware of a cold wind blowing across his body, freezing his soaking clothes and hair until they felt like ice against his skin. A shivering had begun deep inside him, a last desperate attempt on the part of his body to generate warmth. The current that pushed at his legs was frigid, insistent. He was afraid—and also angry. At having to feel his life bleed away into the cold, when he could be spending his last moments in battle. Taking some of them with him.

If these bastards argue long enough, I’ll die of hypothermia. But he could do no more than fight to keep his teeth from chattering—they’d probably use the sound as an excuse to kill him—as they continued in their conversation. Because there was, as always, Ciani to consider. And if her presence had tied the Hunter’s hands in this situation, it did the same to Damien ten times over. He dared take no action that would bring rakhene wrath down on her head.

At last some manner of conclusion seemed to have been reached. One of their captors barked out an order toward them and prodded Damien sharply in the chest. Blood began to spread from the point of contact, staining his jacket carmine. But if the wound was meant to anger him, to make him lose control, it accomplished just the opposite. He held himself utterly still—as much as was possible in the swift river current—as one of the rakh jerked his arms behind his back and bound them together, coarse rope biting into his wrists. A jerk to his harness strap from behind told him that he had also been disarmed. He saw Gerald Tarrant being bound in the same manner. The look in the adept’s eyes was one of pure murder—but he endured it, just as Damien did. There was no other choice.

In a nightmare journey they were forced upriver, back to where their companions waited. And then beyond that point, with Senzei and Ciani prodded forward on a course parallel to theirs, picking their way carefully along the broken ledge. Stumbling, often slipping, without their hands to steady themselves, the priest and the Hunter were forced to rely on their captors’ occasional supportive grasp to keep them on their feet. Often it came too late, and several times Damien fell to his knees, hard, water swirling cold about his chest. Once he lost his balance entirely, and it was a clawed, alien hand that pulled him out of the water, jerking him up by the neck of his jacket as though it were the scruff of a cub’s neck, meant for that purpose.

The look in Tarrant’s eyes was murderous. What must it be like, Damien wondered, to have a soul that could command the ages, trapped in a body that could be made so vulnerable? He imagined the force of the rage and fear that must be building inside the man—and was glad he wasn’t going to be at the receiving end of it when it broke. The man who killed sadistically for a hobby must be even more vicious when dealing with his enemies.

At last there was a shore, of sorts, and they were prodded toward it. The ledge which they had once traveled upon had dropped to nearly the level of the water, and widened also. Ciani and Senzei had been bound, he saw, and the two surviving horses were being led by rakhene warriors. Damien recognized Senzei’s mount and one of Tarrant’s animals. Which one of the true horses had they lost—and with it, which supplies? He thought of his own horse, fallen screaming to the rocks, and his gut tightened in anger. And sorrow. That animal had crossed through the Dividers with him, had seen vampires and smashers and an earthquake that leveled half a city, and come through it all unharmed. And now . . . the loss was an emptiness, an aching pain that stabbed at him even through the numbness of his frozen flesh.

Damn you! he thought, as a frigid wind gusted over him. As if somehow the horse could hear him. You picked a hell of a time to die, you know that?

They were forced up against the edge of the ridge, and then strong, clawed hands lifted them up onto it. Talons biting into cloth and flesh alike, like meat hooks digging into a fresh carcass. Damien saw Ciani’s face was white with shock, Senzei’s driven equally pale from fear. Hell, at least those two were dry. He felt like a fish on ice.

Then the rakh-woman was before them, alien eyes glaring out at them from a harsh, fur-sculpted visage. “You come,” she hissed, “or you die. Simple. You understand?”

He nodded stiffly, was aware of his companions doing the same. Then she pointed to the Hunter and snapped a sharp command in her own tongue. The rakh standing behind Tarrant pulled a strip of cloth from out of his belt—heavily decorated, some kind of ornament—and before the adept could respond, bound it across his eyes. Damien heard Tarrant draw in a sharp breath, saw the muscles in his shoulders tense as he tested the ropes binding his arms, felt his rage engulf them all like a dark cloud—but whatever he might have tried to do to free himself, he didn’t manage it. The blindfold was fastened tightly about his head, denying him both his earthly vision and his Sight. Damien wondered if an adept could Work the fae without seeing it . . . and then realized what the answer had to be. The woman had seen him in Morgot, and knew his power. She had bound him well.

Grimmer and grimmer, Damien thought.

She turned, then, to guide them south. A rakh dug his claws into Tarrant’s collar and forced him forward; a sharp prod in the center of Damien’s back, that bit through cloth to break his flesh, forced the priest to do the same. Give me half a chance and you’ll eat that vulking spear, he promised silently. He could feel Ciani and Senzei behind him—the heat of their bodies, the sharp tang of their fear. They should never have come this way, should never have been so unguarded . . . but what choice had they had? They’d taken every possible precaution. In the end, the land itself had turned against them. How could a man defend against that?

Limbs nearly frozen, he staggered onward. To the left of them the river gradually widened, until it formed a small lake between the steep canyon walls. From ahead came the sound of water falling, and Damien pictured the first tributary marked on Gerald Tarrant’s map. A sheer drop from the surface of the plateau to the Achron, he guessed. No way up, then, for horses or men. How long would they have had to continue on, without ever gaining the plateau?

But as they came around one final bend, a new landscape revealed itself. A portion of the canyon wall had split off and fallen into the river, and on the resulting slope of rubble a crude road had been built. No, hardly a road; a slender path, that wound its way through hairpin turns on the side of the towering cliff wall, just barely wide enough for a horse to travel. Damien glanced behind him once as they ascended, to where an impatient rakh forced the blinded Hunter forward. A good thing the adept didn’t know just how narrow the path was. Damien thought. It was a bad enough climb with one’s eyes open—the thought of having to trust one’s enemies to guide one along it was enough to make his stomach turn. He managed to make fleeting eye contact with Senzei, who nodded stiffly in grim encouragement, but Ciani’s eyes were fixed on the hazardous road ahead of them. He thought he could see her trembling.

At last they reached the top, and the humans were allowed a few brief seconds to catch their breath. Damien was shivering violently, knew he wouldn’t last much longer if he didn’t get his body temperature up. Did he dare Work, this soon after a quake? How long did the earth-fae take to subside in this place? Damn it, he needed Tarrant’s Sight . . . With a muttered curse, he decided to wait. At least a short while longer. Every second that passed made it safer.

There were beasts waiting for them at the top of their climb, horselike in general form, but as unlike true horses in the finer details of their anatomy as the rakh warriors were unlike men. They tossed their heads impatiently as the party approached: silk-fine fur rippled in the cold autumn breeze, pearlescent horns gleaming with reflected moonlight. Xandu, he thought, awed by their wild beauty. They shied away from Tarrant distastefully, as if somehow they could sense what role he had played in their history. And sniffed at the humans’ horses with gentler mien, as if pitying them for the grandeur they had lost.

Roughly, Damien was jostled toward one of the horses. He wasn’t sure whether they meant for him to mount it as he was—a dubious endeavor—or whether they intended to unbind him temporarily. He never found out. Because in that moment, Tarrant moved. Blue flame flickered first at the edges of his blindfold, then consumed the fabric utterly. An unearthly chill swept through Damien, as if somehow all remaining warmth had been leached from the air around him; when he breathed, his breath turned to white fog that misted toward Tarrant. Then the adept stepped away from the rest of the company, and as he did so the blue fire died—and the blindfold shattered like glass and fell to the cold earth around him in a thousand tiny slivers.

Cold silver eyes regarded the rakh, and Damien knew from experience just how much power was behind them. Half of him was jubilant to see a member of his party freed—and the other half of him shuddered at the thought of the slaughter that might take place if Tarrant’s fury was fully unleashed. Was there any way to stop that from happening? Did he have any right to stop it from happening? Coldfire flashed again, and coarse rope snapped into a thousand brittle fragments: Tarrant’s hands were freed. One of the rakh began to move toward him, spear raised into an aggressive position; Tarrant’s eyes narrowed and he dropped the spear with a sudden cry of fear and pain. There was flesh adhering to it, frozen to its surface; from his hand, dark blood dripped slowly.

Tarrant turned to the rakh-woman; his expression was dark. “If you meant to kill us, you waited too long. If you have any other intention, now’s the time to make it known. I find myself short of patience.”

One of the other warriors started to move forward, but she warned him back with a quick gesture. “You live because you saved his life.” She nodded sharply toward Damien. “Because somewhere in that wretched thing you call a soul, that much of value still exists.” She looked at them all, with varying degrees of disapproval. “My people are torn between wanting to know why you came here, and wanting your heads for souvenirs. I’ve convinced them to swallow their death-hunger long enough for you to answer questions. That’s why the rest of you have been spared. Whether you remain alive after they have their answers . . . is up to you.”

“Untie my companions,” Tarrant said quietly.

She made no response, other than to step back a bit. Giving him room.

After a moment the Hunter stepped forward and applied himself to Damien’s bonds. The priest’s flesh was so numb from the cold that he couldn’t even feel it when his hands were at last freed, but observed them as they swung down by his sides as though they were strange to him, the limbs of some other creature. He forced himself to acknowledge them, to use one to try to rub warmth into the other, as Tarrant untied the two other humans.

Then the adept turned, and faced the rakh-woman again. Even soaking wet—his hair plastered messily to the side of his face, his clothing torn in a dozen places by the application of claws and spearpoint—he was possessed of a regality that commanded a power all its own. A dark charisma, which even the rakh must respond to.

“You touch my companions again,” he warned—and his eyes scanned the warriors as he spoke—and you die. Instantly.” His eyes fixed on the rakh-woman. “Tell them,” he commanded.

For a moment the woman just stared at him. Then, without answering, she walked to where her xandu stood. With a motion as fluid and unpredictable as a cat pouncing suddenly on its prey, she gained its back. And twisted one hand into its mane, sharp claws entangled in gleaming silk.

“They understand you,” she told the Hunter.

And she smiled coldly, displaying pointed teeth. “They understand more than you think.”

The xandu rode like the wind. The horses rode like overtired, overwrought horses, who’d had enough of earthquakes and waterfalls and long rides without rest, and who hadn’t collapsed before now only because no one had let them stand still long enough to do so. It didn’t help that Senzei and Ciani were sharing a mount, or that Damien—a heavy man to start with—was carrying twice his weight in water-logged clothing. But at least they’d been spared a fourth rider. Damien looked up at the sky, at the great white predatory bird that soared high above their company, and felt a cold, unaccustomed awe fill him. Shapechanging wasn’t supposed to be possible, at least not for the flesh-born—but he had seen it done, and the memory chilled his blood more than weather and river-water combined. Against his will, he recalled it: a sudden burst of coldfire brilliance, so frigid that it blinded, human flesh dissolving as if in an acid bath, features running together like water in a whirlpool—and then, in that last instant, white wings rising up out of the conflagration, bearing the Hunter’s new body into a moonlit sky. But it wasn’t the transformation itself that made Damien’s blood turn to ice in his veins, or even the memory of human flesh dissolving before his eyes. It was the look on Tarrant’s face, in that last moment before he entrusted his life to the earth-fae. Utter discipline, total submission—and an echo of pain and fear so intense that Damien, remembering the man’s expression, still shivered before the force of it.

I couldn’t have managed it, he thought. Not for all the power in the world. No sane man could.

Unsane, unconquerable, the Hunter soared high above them. Periodically a rakhene warrior would glance up at him, and the fur-bordered eyes would narrow. In defiance? In fear? It wasn’t unreasonable to hope for the latter. Damien’s small party needed every advantage it could get in dealing with these creatures—and if the rakh decided that Tarrant was a man to be feared, so much the better.

He’d feed on that, too. Draw strength from it.

He nodded grimly, and thought, Good for him.

Miles passed beneath the pounding hooves, flat land layered in thick black soil and the dying remnants of summer’s bounty. In places the browning grass was so deep that the horses’ legs sank into it a foot or more, before withdrawing; In other places it was so sparse that a shoulder of granite might be seen, forcing its way through the moist black cover of the earth. Damien wrapped himself as tightly as he could in the thick woolen blanket he had taken from their stores, which did little to raise his body temperature but at least kept the wind off his soaked hair and clothing. Just a little bit farther, he promised himself. Body heat is an easy thing to conjure, once you’re standing still. No damage has been done that you can’t undo, if they’ll just leave you alone to Work. But the likelihood of them doing that was very small indeed, and the dry clothing he would have liked to change into must be halfway down the Achron by now, still strapped to his horse’s corpse.

It was Tarrant who first spotted the rakhene encampment—and he let out a shrill shriek to warn his companions as he circled down lower, overseeing their arrival. Seconds later the leader of the rakh drew a finely engraved horn from out of his belt and blew on it, presumably to alert the camp to their presence. The rakhene formation pulled in tighter about the humans, spear-points nearly touching the horses’ flanks, forcing them to a halt. After a few minutes Damien could see a second company riding toward them, maned warriors who gripped their weapons tightly as they approached, as if impatient to use them. They glared at the humans as they approached the raiding party, and angry words passed between the leaders of the two groups. The cadence of the newcomer’s speech resonated with fury as he indicated Damien’s unbound hands, and those of the other humans. Their captors responded defiantly, and Damien could only guess at his argument: the humans were disarmed, they were wounded and exhausted, they were sharing two mounts among three of them—how much damage could they possibly do? At last, with an angry nod, the leader of the second group agreed to lead them in. His companions went galloping on ahead, presumably to warn the camp that they were coming.

The great white bird swooped low overhead: a warning to the rakhene warriors, a gesture of support to the three humans. Despite his anxiety, Damien smiled.

Never thought I’d be this glad to have you around, you son of a bitch.

They rode to the top of a gentle swell, where thick autumn growths crowded about their horses’ ankles. From here it was possible to see the rakhene encampment, a village of tents and lightweight structures that stretched as far as the eye could see. Xandu grazed between the primitive dwellings, with no hobble or leash to bind them in place. Despite the lateness of the hour there were numerous people about, going about the day’s business as if the sun were still high in the sky. Children darted out into the moonlight and then were gone again, small golden forms as naked as the xandu who indulgently made way for them. Full-grown rakh tended cookfires, carved new weapons, sat around low-banked fires with bowls of steaming drink in their hands and made noises that might have been laughter. There were warrior-rakh like the ones who had captured Ciani’s party, broad-shouldered, heavily maned males with glittering ornaments woven into their fur; slender females, clothed from neck to ankle in finely gathered cloth, layered necklaces cascading down the front of their tabards; other females, aggressively naked, whose few, carefully chosen ornaments served only to highlight full rounded breasts, a sensitive strip of hairless skin that ran the length of their abdomen, hips and thighs that swayed as they walked in a motion at once exotic and familiar: the timeless dance of sexual desire. There were others, too, whose dress or manner blurred the dividing line between those groups, but they were gone too quickly for Damien to identify. Castes? Genders? What manner of society did these creatures develop, when human-style intelligence first began to stir within them?

With a brusque, barking sound, one of the rakh ordered him to dismount. Damien tried to obey. But his legs, weakened by the exertions of the night and numbed by the searing cold, were barely able to support him. He held onto the horse for support and breathed deeply, trying to will the feeling back into his flesh, praying for the strength not to look as weak as he felt in front of his enemies. Ciani and Senzei dismounted quickly, without being ordered to, and came running toward him. There were spears placed in their path, but Zen shoved them aside; for once he seemed more angry than afraid. Then, suddenly, a shadow swept cross Damien’s face. The rakh nearest to him drew back—fearfully, it seemed to him. Then, in the space that they had cleared, the great predator-bird landed. Feathers gave way to burning coldfire.

Which melted into flesh; Tarrant caught Damien before he could fall, and for once his skin was no colder than the priest’s own.

“Good flight, I hope,” the priest whispered.

“I’ve had better.” He held Damien steady while Senzei rewrapped the blanket around his shoulders. “You need to get warm, fast.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

A group of rakh were approaching from the camp. Damien managed to stand up straight, though he could feel the strain of it pounding in his heart. Beneath the blanket he grasped at Tarrant’s arm, hoping such weakness went unseen. Whoever thought that man’s presence would be so reassuring?

They waited, side by side, as the strangers approached. Seven in all: three males, two females, and two that might have been either—slender figures, fully clothed, whose form and manner offered no hint of gender or social status. Eunuchs? Adolescents? Not knowing their society, Damien couldn’t begin to theorize.

The newcomers seemed to command some special respect, and warriors hurried out of their way as they joined the raiding party. They came to within several paces of where the humans stood and studied them. So focused was he upon staying on his feet, denying his own weakness, that Damien almost missed it when the rakh-woman joined them. Clearly, she was one of their number.

It was Tarrant who spoke first; his tone was harsh. “If you mean to kill us, now’s the time to try it. If you intend anything else, I think it’s time you told us about it.” It was hardly a speech calculated to make friends—but there was very little time left for diplomacy, Damien realized. In less than an hour’s time the sun would begin to rise, and Tarrant would have to leave them. He was trying to force some kind of confrontation before that happened.

It was the rakh-woman who responded. “It’s your intentions that need to be judged—not ours.”

“We came to heal one of our own kind. Not to do battle with the rakh.”

“Our peoples are at war,” a male challenged him. “Do you deny that?”

Damien stiffened. “That war ended centuries ago.”

The woman hissed softly. “Not for us, human. Not for us.”

Damien was about to respond when Ciani broke in. “Please . . .” she said softly. “We’re exhausted. Can’t you see that? We don’t have the strength left to hurt you, even if we wanted to.” Damien felt Tarrant stiffen at his side, as aghast as he was at her admission of weakness. What in hell’s name did she think she was doing? “Please. We need . . . a fire. Something to drink. A minute to breathe. Just that,” she begged. “We’ll do what you want. Whatever you want, after that. Please.”

For a moment, utter silence reigned. Damien trembled—in disbelief, and apprehension. He’d never imagined that such words would ever come from her lips, such an abject admission of weakness . . . and not here! Not now! Not when they needed so desperately to establish themselves on strong ground. But because she was Ciani—because she must have something in mind, some reason to act this way—he bit back on the defiant words that were half-formed on his lips, and forced himself to be silent. To wait. To let her speak for the four of them.

The rakh conferred among themselves, sharp phonemes passing like animal hisses between them. At last the woman looked back at them. For a few seconds she just waited, perhaps to see if one of the men would protest Ciani’s message. But Senzei and Tarrant had clearly come to the same decision that Damien had—in fact, Tarrant was nodding slightly in approval.

“Come with us,” the rakh-woman said. “You’ll be fed, and given warmth—and then you can explain yourselves.”

The woman’s small group surrounded them in guard formation, herding them to the north. As for the real guards, the rakhene warriors, they hissed disapprovingly as their prisoners were taken from them—but they did let them go, which said much for the status of the woman’s group.

Damien glanced up at Tarrant, who put a slender finger to the side of his face. Through the contact of flesh-on-flesh a Working formed, that widened the channel between them until words could pass along it.

Very clever of her, don’t you think? Assuming that animal instincts would still be active among them. Enough so that a display of abject submission might be enough to short-circuit their aggressive instincts. She seems to have earned us a place—however low—within their hierarchy.

Which means the hierarchy may now afford us some protection.

Quite a woman, he thought, and his words resonated with admiration. She’s put us all to shame, for not having thought of it before.

It surprises me that the Hunter can still experience shame, Damien thought back.

Very rarely, he admitted. It’s not my favorite emotion.

The hand fell away from his cheek, fine skin grating on several days’ stubble. Time to shave, Damien thought—or maybe time to give up on it and just let the beard grow. Sometimes that was the best thing to do, while traveling. It occurred to him that Gerald Tarrant seemed to have no such problem—and it was faintly amusing that a man of such power should have devoted a portion of his skills to something as inconsequential as facial hair. But then he glanced at Tarrant—at the clean, delicate profile, the perfect skin, the eyes brimming with vanity—and thought. No big surprise. The man’s got his priorities straight. Appearance tops the list. And he smiled to note that the adept’s hair, though still wet, had been Worked back into a smooth, gleaming mass; the holes that the rakh had poked in his finely woven garments had been cleaned of blood and repaired, with similar finesse. He looked like a refugee from a garden party.

The tent that the woman led them to was a large one, situated at the western face of the encampment. As they ducked beneath the flap she raised to enter it, Damien was aware of faces peering at them from behind the protection of its bulk: young faces, mostly, anxious and curious and clearly fascinated by the presence of these strangers among them. In some there was no hostility, merely a desire to learn what these strange creatures were—which meant that the former trait was learned, not faeborn.

What was learned can be unlearned, Damien thought. It was a promising sign.

The tent was a large one, that easily accommodated both the humans and their self-appointed guards. In its center was a low fire, mere glowing embers beneath a blanket of ash. But that was more heat than Damien had seen in hours, and when the woman gestured toward it he settled himself gratefully on a coarse rug laid before it, and shivered in relief and pain as the unaccustomed warmth of it began to drive the deadly cold from his body.

The tent itself was made of the skins of various animals, stitched together with painstaking care. But that surface was nearly invisible from the inside; tapestries and arrases, richly worked, hung from the tent-poles in carefully orchestrated layers, trapping warmed air between them. Rugs were scattered across the floor, so numerous and so carefully overlapped that not a hint of grass was visible. Small sculptures hung from the juncture of tentpoles—wards, perhaps, or some rakhene equivalent—and they rattled like wind chimes whenever some harsh wind shook the structure. There was furniture—short tables engraved with intricate designs, screens and mirrors, chests and shelves—and bits of jewelry, shell and colored glass, that lay strewn about the interior like fallen leaves. These people might have had nomadic roots, Damien reflected, but he doubted that they traveled much now; there was enough stuff here to keep a moving company busy for days.

They settled themselves in a circle about the fire, humans on one side and rakh on the other. A constant tinkling accompanied the movement of their hosts, delicate necklaces and hair ornaments and mane-beads striking against each other as the rakh took their positions about the fire. Such noise would alert prey or enemies from quite a distance; the warriors must shed enough decoration to move silently in the field, before they left the camp.

Drink was passed, a hot, bitter brew reminiscent of tea. Damien gulped it down with relish, felt its heat spread quickly through his veins. The aching relief of it nearly brought tears to his eyes. There was food, mostly meat, and Damien registered the fact that the early rakh had been carnivores; any taste for plant life that they might have developed would have come after man’s Impression had begun to alter them.

Their hosts waited until they had eaten their fill, as silent and still as a beast stalking game. No words had passed among them since the time they entered the tent, yet it was clear that a hierarchy had somehow been established. When the last cup of steaming drink had been emptied, when nothing remained of the strips of roasted meat but a thin puddle of juice on carved wooden plates, one of the maned rakh stirred, and with an air of obvious authority addressed the humans.

“You should know what we are, before you begin. Our rank among this people—that of khrast— has no translation in your tongue. It’s a rakh-thing, born of the persecution time—”

The woman hissed sharply. A few words of the rakhene language passed between the two of them, sharp, biting phonemes with obvious anger behind them. Damien sensed a wealth of emotion that reached back into the rakh’s early years, when a species torn between human potential and bestial inheritance was forced to flee from the very race that had brought it into being. The male’s tone, when he spoke again, was filled with anger and resentment. And something else, perhaps, that lurked about the edges of his words, nearly hidden behind his facade of racial aggression. Fear? Awe?

“What I mean to say,” he amended gruffly, “is that although our people are familiar with your tongue, we seven alone are fluent. Our ancestors foresaw a time when we might need such fluency, perhaps to bargain for our lives—and so they captured women of your tribes, and sometimes men, and forced them to interact with our young. Until your English took root here, and our few khrast families were established.” With a short, sharp gesture he indicated his companions. “Each one of us has spent time in the human lands, among your kind, absorbing the vernacular. Some have passed as demons, some as visions, some—occasionally—as humans. We’ve traveled in your world; we know your ways. We seven can interpret your words so that our people will understand what you have to say. That’s all. We have no other rank but that; nothing in common as individuals, beyond the khrast tradition. No authority as a group, beyond that which we may wield as individuals.”

“We understand,” Ciani said.

The rakh-woman leaned forward; her eyes flashed iridescent, like a cat’s. “Tell us why you came here,” she commanded.

It was Senzei who answered. In a voice that trembled only slightly, he told them what manner of creatures had come to Jaggonath, and with what intention. He described the attack upon Ciani—and its devastating result—in terms so passionate that Damien felt as though he had witnessed the incident himself. Then, for a moment, Senzei’s overpowering grief at Ciani’s loss stopped the words from coming. For a moment he shook silently, the pent-up anger and frustration of the preceding days finally getting the better of him. That, too, seemed to communicate something to the rakh. When he spoke again, they seemed . . . different. More receptive, somehow. As if he had finally reached them on a level they could relate to.

“They came from your lands,” he concluded. “Demons that feed on the memories of others, and keep intelligent beings like farm animals to feed on. We came here hunting them. One demon in particular. All we ask is the right to pass through your territory in order to reach it. In order to free our companion from that curse.”

Damien glanced at Ciani, saw that she was trembling. Merciful God . . . if it was hard for Senzei to describe these things, how much harder for her, who had suffered in ways he could barely comprehend? He longed to take her hand, to offer her that minimal comfort, but dared not. Who could say what manner of interaction might anger these creatures?

After a silence that seemed painfully drawn out, one of the slender rakh spoke. “I’ve seen such things,” he muttered. “In the east, near the House of Storms. Seen, but not believed.”

“Human demons,” a maned male spat. “Born of human fears.”

“Inside the Canopy?” a female challenged him.

“Humanity is like a disease. It spreads without limit.”

With sharp rakhene syllables, the male who had spoken first silenced their bickering. “It’s not our place to make decisions for our people,” he said firmly, “merely to interpret for them.” He looked the small group over; his expression was cold. “We’ll pass on what you’ve told us and let the others decide. But you should know this: We’re not a forgiving people, and our hatred of your kind runs very deep. The punishment for humans who trespass in our lands has always been death. In all my years, I’ve only known of one exception to that rule. One human who managed to bridge the gap between our species, and earn the respect of a southern tribe, so that they permitted her to live. One.”

He stood. His amber eyes were fixed on Ciani. “I remember that woman. I remember her scent.” His voice dropped to a soft hiss. “And the fact that you don’t remember me, Lady Faraday, says more for your suffering than a volume of human arguments ever could.”

He drew back a tent flap, allowing the warrior-rakh who were waiting outside to enter. The other khrast gathered themselves to leave. Clearly, the interview was over.

“I’ll do what I can,” he promised.

The camp of the rakh did not lend itself to the maintenance of prisoners. As negotiations between their captors were hissed in low tones, Damien reflected upon what the maned rakh had said, and the implications of it. The punishment for humans who trespass in our lands is death. It meant that the rakh had no experience in dealing with human prisoners—and if they handled their political affairs with the same animal instincts that they used to establish their local hierarchy, they might not even have experience in holding rakhene captives.

He glanced at Ciani as they were led from the tent, herded like milk-beasts. He expected to see fresh pain evident in her face, the anguish of lost memory suddenly brought to light. And there was certainly that, in considerable measure. But something more, also. Something that gleamed in her eyes with aggressive fervor, as she watched the rakh respond to unspoken, almost unseeable signals. Something that was coming to life in her, here . . . as it must have come to life the first time, so many years ago. They had sensed it in her, and it had saved her.

Hunger. A thirst for knowledge, as powerful as Senzei’s yearning for power—or Tarrant’s hunger for life. Or my—my what?

What did he hunger for? If his life were to be rendered down to one ultimate statement of purpose, if the energy that kept him fighting were to be attributed to one driving force, what would it be?

To know, when I died, that my descendants would inherit Earth’s dream. To know that my children’s children would possess the stars. To believe that I’ve changed the world that much.

Then: Nice thought, he reflected dryly. You need to stay in one place long enough to have children, if you want all that.

They were driven through a good part of the rakhene camp, to a modest tent some distance from the center of things. In response to a barked command the tent’s owner came forth from its confines, ducking in order to pass through the minimal opening. He was a slender rakh, maneless, and not dressed for company; he hurriedly wrapped a patterned robe about him as he emerged, allowing one brief flash of a minimal loinskirt adorning a thin, lanky body.

The warrior-rakh’s mane-beads rattled as he issued a command, the hair about his shoulders rising so that considerable bulk was added to his already sizable frame. Looking at the two of them, it was hard to imagine them being from the same species. As the thin rakh protested—weakly—Damien thought he caught sight of a small ruff of fur about the neck that might be the remnants of a mane. Or the undeveloped promise of one? Male, then, most likely, and either young or poorly formed. Such a creature would rank low in any animal hierarchy.

And—let’s be honest—among humans, too. Would I have gotten half as far as I did without the physical capacity to back up my intentions?

Clearly resentful, the rakh finally relented. As he ducked back into the tent to collect a few treasured belongings his back was rigid with resentment, and his teeth were bared in a whispered hiss—but all that was gone when he faced the maned one, defiance giving way to the power of a pecking order he lacked the strength—and courage—to challenge.

Prodded by spear-point, the party was forced into the small tent. All but Tarrant, who paused by the door flap and turned east, to look at the sky. Dark gray, Damien noted; still somber in tone, but no longer lightless. There was perhaps half an hour left.

“You stay here,” he said sharply. “I’m going hunting.”

The maned one stiffened as he tried to withdraw, and blocked his way with the shaft of a spear. “You all stay here until we release you,” he said sharply. The rakhene accent made his words hard to decipher, but his intentions were clear. His fur bristled stiffly, mane ornaments jingling like wind chimes. “You understand? You go in, with others.”

A spear was leveled, poised to strike through Tarrant’s heart at a moment’s notice. Damien tensed—and wished he had his sword, his springbolt, even a heavy rock—but with a tight knot building in his gut he realized he was more weaponless than he had ever been in his life. Tarrant had damned well better know what he was doing—because three unarmed humans against eight of these sturdy rakh wouldn’t even buy him a moment’s time. Not when every weapon was already leveled against them.

In answer to the rakh, Tarrant simply stared. Something in his expression warned Damien to look away . . . but fascination overrode that instinct, and he watched as the pale gray eyes seemed to take on a light of their own. An unnatural light, that seared one’s vision but offered no real illumination: coldfire. For a moment even the rakh were fascinated, and though no weapon was lowered it was clear that, for the moment, no one would strike. Like animals led to the slaughter, Damien thought grimly, mesmerized by a flash of sunlight on the butcher’s knife blade. Then, suddenly, the lead rakh cried out. His body convulsed in wavelike spasms, which rippled through his flesh with almost audible force. A cry escaped his lips—pain and terror and fury all combined, a wordless screech of agony that made Damien’s flesh crawl—a sound so like the death cry of Tarrant’s last kill that for a moment it was almost as though they were down in the canyon, listening to that cry again. And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. The rakh’s body fell to the ground, spasmed once, and then was still. Thick blood, blue-black, stained the fur about its mouth, oozed from the eyes and ears. And its groin. Damien felt his own testicles draw up in cold dread as he forced himself to look away, tried not to consider what manner of internal damage might give birth to such a seepage.

For several seconds the remaining rakh were too stunned to move. Damien wondered if they had even seen human-style sorcery before, or if this kind of killing had been made doubly horrible by their ignorance of the power that caused it. Either way, it was now clear to them that Tarrant was a force to be reckoned with. Damien could see their fear and their anger warring with hierarchical instinct, hatred and awe comprising a volatile mixture in their half-bestial, half-human brains.

“Any other objections?” Tarrant asked quietly.

If there were, no one dared to voice them.

Coldfire flared about the adept’s form, close enough to Damien that he could feel its flame—a thousand times colder than mere ice, or winter’s chill—lick his flesh. Then the man’s body was suddenly gone, and in its place a glorious hunting bird rose from the ground. Black this time, with feathers that gleamed like shards of obsidian and claws that glittered like garnets. It was a powerful form, and one clearly designed to impress the rakh; they backed away as the glistening wings beat hard above them, and a thick smell that might have been fear rose from the place where they stood.

Damien saw Ciani slip her hand into Senzei’s, saw the man squeeze it tightly in reassurance. And he felt something inside himself tighten as if in loss, to see her turning to another man. Jealousy? That isn’t rational, he told himself. Certainly not with Zen. But he wondered in that moment if he had ever known so close a friendship as the two of them shared—or if he could ever establish one, for as long as he kept moving. That simple contact—so slight, yet so eloquent—was years in the making.

He forced his thoughts back onto their circumstances, and forced his gaze to follow theirs, to the fallen rakh’s body. Already it had begun to decompose, as if the flesh itself was anxious to decay. As they watched, deep purple carrion larvae crawled in the body’s shadowed contours. He looked up at Tarrant and shivered, despite himself. Guessed at the death-anger which must burn inside the man, to foster a power of that nature. So carefully controlled. So masked, by that elegant facade.

Thank God he’s on our side, he thought.

And then added, with grim honesty: For now.

It was light outside when the delegation came to them, and the three humans winced as they exchanged the close darkness of their prison-tent for the searing light of day. All about them the camp was still; the few figures that moved about did so with obvious reluctance, doing their chores quickly and then disappearing once more into the shadowy confines of a patchwork tent. Occasionally, several children would scamper out into the open. Then the sharp cry of an adult would ring out, and the youngsters would disappear again, into their parents’ dark haven. Clearly, the rakh were nocturnal creatures.

“You come,” an aged female announced. Her fur was yellow-white, stripped of its color by her many years, or perhaps by stress. The khrast female was with her, as was a male of that group. There were several others as well, but their attitude made it clear that they were subservient; Damien focused his attention on the dominant threesome.

They were led through the camp to a large and ornate tent near its center. The older rakh hissed a few short words into the doorway and received an equally short response. She stood aside and beckoned for the humans to enter. From the doorway wafted a familiar odor, animal musk tinged with a vinegar scent. Fear? Damien ducked within—and saw a tableau of mourning, a sorrow so passionate that despite its alien form the full force of it was communicated, and set his priest’s soul vibrating in sympathy. He glanced around the tent as Ciani and Senzei entered behind him, noted ornaments draped in soot-blackened cloth, tapestries turned to the wall, rugs rolled up to reveal dry, dead earth. A woman knelt in the center of the room, and she looked up as Damien studied her; her fur was caked with thick black mud in what was obviously mourning-custom, and her eyes were red-rimmed from sleeplessness. By her side, on a plain woven mat, the figure of a maned male lay still. But for his shallow breathing, one might have assumed him to be dead. But for his open eyes, that gazed out into nothingness, one might have thought him asleep.

Damien’s first instinct was that they had brought him here to Heal—and then he realized that these people knew nothing of his vocation, and must therefore have some other purpose. He looked at the khrast female for explanation—and saw a measureless anger fill her eyes. It was not directed at him.

The older rakh muttered something to him, hissed phonemes and whispered gutturals; the khrast woman translated. “She says, do you see, this one has been emptied. Totally. In humans there are many parts of thinking, so that when they eat your thoughts maybe only one part of the soul is consumed; the rest remains, and can function. But when they eat from the rakh, all is one: one brain, one soul, one heart. One meal, for the eaters. Everything is gone, but life.” “When did it happen?” Damien asked. The khrast questioned the older woman briefly, then answered, “Five nights ago. He was on watch, by the river. The next watch found him . . . like this.”

He felt Ciani close behind him, felt her fear like a palpable thing between them. And her fascination. So: the demons that had consumed her memory had struck here, too. Fresh from the human lands, they had stopped off for a snack on their way to . . . wherever.

He looked into the male’s eyes—empty, so empty!—and wondered how many others there were. Empty bodies strewn along the path of these demons, marking the way to their homeland. God in heaven, how long had this thing been going on? How much more suffering would they discover, as they came ever closer to its demonic source?

“We came to kill them,” he told her. “We have reason to believe that when they die, their victims may recover. Whether that will hold true for your people, as well as for ours . . .” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. The rakh might seem alien to him, but they were certainly intelligent enough to realize what was at stake here: not only Ciani’s health, Ciani’s recovery, but that of their own people. And ultimately, the safety of their species.

“This is your purpose?” the older woman asked.

“It is.”

“This is reason you come here?”

“Our only reason,” Ciani assured her.

“And Mer Tarrant’s, as well,” Senzei added.

She considered that. She considered each of them, in turn—and her face shadowed briefly as she considered their absent companion. At last she indicated the soulless body that lay before them, and demanded, “You help this.”

Damien hesitated. “If we kill these demons, he may heal. But we can only do that if you let us go free.”

“And your . . . friend” she said coldly. “The one who kills rakh. Speak of him.”

“Tarrant’s a weapon,” Damien answered sharply. “He can turn the fae against these creatures, better than any of us. If you want these demons killed, this man freed . . .” he indicated the body on the mat. “Then we need him. We four must work together.”

She hissed softly, but made no other response. Clearly, Damien’s answer was not to her liking.

“We think,” she said at last. Harshly. “We talk, to rakh hris. Own kind.” She looked to the younger woman, who explained, “Your fate is no longer in the hands of our fighting males. No longer subject to their temper. That is, for as long as you behave as you should . . . there’ll be no harm done to you. You understand? Not to you, or your possessions. If you behave.”

“We understand,” Ciani said quietly.

“When does the killer return?”

It took him a moment to realize whom she meant. “Tarrant?” He hesitated. “Maybe this afternoon—maybe not until tonight.” He wondered just how much the woman knew about them. Whether she knew that Tarrant could be killed by sunlight, a fact he was trying to obscure. “Certainly no later than that.”

“You come then,” the older rakh commanded. “We talk, all rakh and human four. Together.”

She looked at the body on the mat—at the mud-covered figure mourning by its side—and whispered, “There is maybe something here we hate, even more than you”

33

“Our purpose in coming here,” Gerald Tarrant said, “is to kill one demon, and free our companion. Nothing more.”

Damien had known him long enough to sense the fury that lay behind those words, but the Hunter masked it well. There was no way for his rakhene audience to know how close he was to killing them all, how much it infuriated him to negotiate with them like this, bargaining for freedom rather than simply claiming it. Damien didn’t doubt for a minute that the man’s tainted soul would much rather rend their flesh and spirit and leave their camp a shattered ruin, for the audacity of having interfered with him. And he blessed whatever remnants of honor still existed in the man, for forcing him to follow a gentler course.

At least they were according him—and his party—some small measure of respect. His display of murderous sorcery seemed to have earned not only their fear but a grudging deference; now, when the humans were herded about they were no longer treated like animals, more like . . . loaded weapons, he decided. And yes—that’s exactly what Tarrant was. Loaded, cocked, and itching to fire.

With one half of his mind he listened to the adept describe their travels to date, a version that he diplomatically edited to suit their current purpose. With the other half he studied their audience. A good portion of the village must be gathered here tonight, ranged around them in concentric ranks so numerous that the outermost rakh were beyond the reach of the firelight; only the occasional flash of green eyes betrayed their presence at the edge of the gathering. In the center, grouped about the bonfire, were the humans and their rakhene judges: elders, a handful of heavily maned males, and of course the seven bilingual khrast. A gathering so disparate that it was hard to imagine them coming to any manner of agreement, least of all on a matter as complex as this one.

Then: Not complex at all, he thought grimly. They want us dead. Period. We’re fighting to earn the right to live. The fact that we’re using words rather than weapons doesn’t make it any less of a battle.

Quietly, he tried to shift his weight into a more comfortable position. The ground was rocky, and the rakhene clothing they had given him did little to cushion him from its assault. He stopped himself from cursing the shortcomings of his hosts, decided to be grateful that they had accorded him even this much hospitality. His personal possessions were God alone knew where, swept downriver along with his horse. His only clothes had been those on his person when he arrived, soaked through and nearly frozen solid. Once the rakhene elders had decided they were going to wait for Tarrant’s return, they had outfitted him as best they could . . . and it was hardly their fault that none of the rakh were of his stature. The largest garment that could be procured—a kimonolike robe decorated with colorful pictoglyphs—fell several inches short of covering his chest, and ultimately it had to be combined with with an underrobe and female tabard to do its job. He must have looked extremely odd, judged by their custom . . . but that was still an improvement over displaying his bare chest to the winds. Not to mention exhibiting his relative hairlessness in a tribe where such a quality was associated with females and runt males.

Holding all those layers in place was his thick leather belt, which he refused to relinquish even for a moment. He hadn’t dared to check on its contents for some time after their capture—he was afraid that if the rakh observed how much he valued it they might take it away from him, as they had his sword—but as soon as the humans had been left to their own devices he had unlaced its closure, and drawn out the two precious containers. Both were still intact—thank God!—though neither was wholly undamaged. The silver flask had a dent in one side, which spoke of some severe impact; the crystal flask, still glowing with the pure golden light of the Fire, had developed a jagged flaw that followed the line of its engraved surface pattern, but was still apparently airtight enough to safeguard the few drops of moisture remaining within it. Relief was so strong in him when he saw that the Fire was safe, he could taste it in his mouth. God help them all if that most precious weapon were ever lost.

Tarrant had finished with his narration now, and there was no way to tell whether it had fallen on sympathetic ears or not. The rakhene faces were unreadable.

“You came to kill one demon,” an elder female challenged them.

It was Damien who spoke. “We came to see to it that one demon dies, in order for our friend to be freed. As for the rest of them . . .” he hesitated. What was it they wanted to hear? What words would buy his party safe passage? “I think we would all rather see them dead than feeding on the living. Wouldn’t you? But whether that’s something we four can accomplish remains to be seen.”

The high-ranking rakh whispered among themselves in their native tongue, an occasional English word thrown in—usually mispronounced—to clarify a given point. Damien noted that one of the khrast women was nearly naked now, her few minimal garments adorning rather than concealing full, heavy breasts, dark nipples, rounded hips and thighs. She fidgeted restlessly as she listened to the proceedings, unable to concentrate on any one focus for more than a minute or two. Periodically her eyes would wander over to one of the inner circle’s males, and fix on him with candid hunger. In heat? Damien wondered. The thought was oddly disquieting.

“There is more than demons in our east,” an elder female announced at last. “There is a human also.”

Across the circle, he saw Senzei stiffen. His own heart doubled its pace excitedly as this new information hit home.

“What manner of human?” he asked her. “Where?”

It was clear that she lacked the words she needed to answer his question efficiently. “In Lema,” she offered.

“Which is place most east, before water. In the place of storms. Assst!”

Clearly frustrated, she turned to the khrast. The female they knew from Morgot took over. “Our people call it the House of Storms, because when the human first came and built his citadel there were great storms that gathered there—lightning that filled the sky for months on end, thunder so loud it made speaking impossible. There are still more storms than there should be, in that region. No one knows why.”

“Who is this human?” Damien asked. “What’s he doing here?”

The khrast woman exchanged quick words with her elder, then explained, “They call him the One Who Binds. And other names, equally descriptive. He came here over a century ago and established himself in the region we call Lema. No rakh has ever seen him—but we can taste his human taint on the currents, and smell his stink along the eastern Canopy.”

“Over a century,” Ciani whispered.

“More than a single lifetime,” Tarrant agreed. And he explained to the rakh, “Avoiding death takes more than mere sorcery, among our kind. What we’re dealing with here is either an adept . . . or he’s made one hell of a Sacrifice.”

“Or both,” Damien said grimly.

The rakh spoke among themselves in quick, sharp syllables; no doubt considering how much they would tell the humans, and in what manner.

At last: “Bring her,” an elder ordered, and a lesser male sped from the circle to obey.

A few minutes later he returned, a small female in tow. Unlike all the others she was dressed in unpatterned cloth, and her fur was thin and matted. Her fearful, darting gaze made her seem more animal than any of the others—indeed, when judged against her standard, they seemed doubly human by contrast.

“This one came from the east many greatmonths ago,” the khrast woman explained. “She’s been sheltering with one of our southern tribes, here in the plains. Our hris sent for her last morning.”

The woman came nervously into their circle; Damien had the impression she was ready to bolt for cover at the first sign of danger. He felt driven to comfort her, to ease her terror—but he knew that he lacked the custom, the language, and the knowledge needed to do so. If she would even let a human that close to her, which was doubtful. He forced himself to stay where he was as she approached, and to say nothing to her—but he fumed at his own enforced impotence.

She knelt near the center of the circle, facing the tribal elders. A female addressed her gently. “You are from Lema,”

The girl hesitated, then nodded. Damien guessed that her English was poor.

“Tell us,” an elder male prompted. “Tell us, in human speech, what you saw there.”

She looked around the circle, seemed to notice the humans for the first time. She almost cried out—but the sound seemed to die on her lips, and though she started as though to flee the motion was cut short, aborted before it began. Damien glanced at Tarrant, saw his pale eyes focused in a Working. A Tranquilizing? No. Probably something more malevolent, that accomplished the same end. Anything that close to a Healing would be too out of character for him.

“I see . . . in Lema . . .” She drew in a deep, shaky breath; there was moisture under her eyes. “I see . . . my people are in fear. Many go to feed the hungry ones, disappear from family. Large years, it so. Many of those, eaters of souls. All hungry. Always hungry.” She shivered, and a gust of fear wafted over Damien; rakh emotion, tainting the earth-fae. “All rakh fear. All work in day, unnatural, live in sun to be free from fear. Is pain in day, sisst?— but safe. Yes? More safe than dark. They hunt in dark.”

“Tell us about the hungry ones.” Tarrant’s voice was low and even, filled with quiet power. Damien could almost see the link he had established with the terrified woman—perhaps because of his own link to the Hunter, quiescent though it was. He felt the adept’s mesmerism as though it were directed at him. As though the man’s knowledge of English was flowing into him, not the woman—and with it, the Hunter’s enforced calm.

“They came from the east,” she whispered. “In big ships, like the humans use. From across the Sea of Fire. Many, many years ago. There were few of them then. For a long time, there were few. They hunt like animals, in night. Some rakh die, but not many. Some rakh . . .” She hesitated, shivering as some particularly painful memory passed through her. “They eat rakh thoughts. They leave the body, eat the mind. Sometimes rakh hunt them like animals, kill them. But the hungry ones hide. Hide good. Come again, later. But always, before, there were few of them. In the past.”

She looked about the circle, studying her audience. Her eyes fixed on Tarrant for a long, silent moment, and suddenly Damien knew what manner of Working had quieted her. No: what manner of mesmerism made her seem so calm, while the Hunter drank in the sweet savor of her terror. Damien started forward instinctively, stopped himself only with great effort. There’s nothing you can do, he told himself bitterly. And: He needs it. He’s got to feed. If he doesn’t live off the fear he finds here, he’ll have to go out and inspire some of his own. And that’s even worse—isn’t it? But his soul ached to free her from that malignant bond, and only by reminding himself, Tarrant’s power is the only thing keeping her lucid, did he manage to keep himself from interfering.

Damn you, Hunter. For making us need you. Damn you for everything.

“Tell us about the human,” an elder prompted.

“I . . .” She hesitated, struggling with her fear. Damien didn’t dare look at Tarrant, for fear of seeing the pleasure that must light his eyes. He might kill him if he did. “I think . . . it was when the human came. That there were more of the eaters. Suddenly many more, and they begin to hunt in groups. Whole families of rakh disappear. I see . . . I see . . .” she shook her head in frustration, unable to find the proper word. “Rakh with no mind, rakh with half-mind, dead and damaged and wounded, so many . . .” Her voice shook; her shoulders were trembling. “Lema is half dead, many try leaving, but the hungry ones hunt the borders . . .”

“You escaped,” a female elder said gently.

She shook her head stiffly: yes. “Very few get out,” she whispered. “Very hard. No riding animals in Lema, like you have, must walk . . . more than one day to walk that way, and in night they come . . .”

She lowered her face to her hands and shook; short gasping sounds that might have been rakhene weeping came from beneath the muffling fur.

After a brief consultation with the elders, the khrast-woman told the humans, “She can’t tell you any more than that, not even in our own tongue. All she has left are fragments of memory—and fear.”

“We understand.” Damien said quietly. He watched as Tarrant dissolved the bond between them—regretfully, it seemed—and waited until the male who had brought her to the circle escorted her out of it once more. Waited till she was safely out of hearing, so that their conference might cause her no further pain.

Then he challenged, “They’ve taken over a whole district.”

The khrast-woman’s amber eyes fixed on him. Her expression was alien, unreadable. “It would appear so,” she hissed softly.

“With the aid of a human. As protector? Servant? Probably the former, if he’s an adept.” He exhaled noisily. “No wonder you hate our kind so much.”

“This incident is the least of it,” she assured him.

Senzei spoke up, unaccustomed strength in his voice. “Look. You all want the same things we do. The death of these creatures. The fouling of their plans. If you would just let us go, let us do what we came to do—wouldn’t that help your people?” He hesitated. “Isn’t that what you want?”

“Is not easy, now,” the elder’s spokeswoman informed him. “Before, yes. Four humans, four horses, weapons, supplies, plans. You go east, and maybe die. Or maybe not. Maybe you kill the ones who eat rakh soul. But now . . .” She paused meaningfully. “Is not enough, just humans go. Just be free. Four humans with two horses, half of supplies, few weapons. If you go now, like that, you die sure. You fail.” It was clear from her voice that the latter was what disturbed her. “You understand? My words enough good? Need translate?”

“No,” he said quietly. “We understand.”

“To make you free now, no more than this, is same as to kill you. Why not just kill? More easy, yes? And we keep supplies. But if humans go free—if humans go to kill Dark Ones—then rakh must help. And to help humans . . .” She shivered dramatically.

It was Ciani who spoke. “You’ve already decided.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “We have decided.”

“And?” Damien pressed.

She looked at the khrast woman. Who told them, coolly, “You’ll need fresh mounts. We have xandu. You’ll need weapons. Ours are primitive by your standards, but they’ll spill blood readily enough. We have food and cloth to spare, and oil for your lamps.” She looked at Damien. And added, somewhat stiffly, “You’ll need a guide.”

He nodded his understanding. “A rakh.”

“A khrast. One who knows your people as well as ours—and the land itself, which few of our people travel. Someone to get you safely to the east, so you can do what you came to do . . . and liberate our people from this horror, as well as your own. That’s the deal,” she concluded. “Serve us as you serve yourselves—or die, and fail us both.”

“Not much of a choice,” he pointed out.

She grinned, displaying sharp teeth. “It wasn’t meant to be, human. So what do you say?”

He looked at his companions, saw in their eyes exactly what he expected. He nodded, and turned back to face the khrast woman.

“We accept,” he said. “Thank you.”

“This is debt,” an elder male warned him. “You come back here, tell what you see. Understand?”

“We do,” he assured him. “And we’ll do whatever we can, against these demons. I promise it.”

He looked around at the various khrast, saw the half-clad woman rubbing against a thickly maned male. Saw amber rakh-eyes, narrow and resentful, luminous with species hatred.

“So who’s the guide?” he asked.

“Who should it be?” the khrast-woman countered. “One who knows you better than any. One who’s seen you in the human lands, among your own kind. One who’s recently tolerated the combined stink of your species, so that her senses are numb to the reek of a few individuals.”

“In other words, you.”

Her thin nostrils flared. “Unless you have someone else in mind.”

From somewhere he dredged up a hint of a smile. “I wouldn’t presume.”

She turned to face the others of his party. “Is this acceptable?” One by one, they assented—Senzei with vigor, Ciani with relief, Gerald Tarrant with . . . hell, did he ever look agreeable? At least he nodded. But there was hatred burning just behind the surface of that carefully controlled facade, and Damien suspected he knew just how little it would take to fan it to a full-blown conflagration.

Not now, Hunter. Just hold out a little bit longer. Please. We’ll be out of here soon enough.

“I believe,” the rakh-woman said, “we have a bargain.”

The springbolt was a mess of battered wood and bent fixtures, and under normal circumstances he would simply have replaced it. But the nearest supply outlet was a good two hundred miles away, and so he took the damned thing apart, piece by piece, and filed and clipped and sanded—and prayed—and then put it carefully back together, in the hopes that it would work again.

The rakh-woman watched silently while he worked, still as a statue. Or a hunting animal, he thought. He flexed the loading pin once, twice, and was at last satisfied with its performance. The stock clipped into place with a reassuring snap. To his left he saw Senzei wiping down his sword blade, Ciani oiling their other remaining springbolt. That their weapons had finally been returned to them should have been cause for rejoicing—but instead it had driven home just how much they’d lost at the river, and how very unprepared they were going to be when they reached their enemy’s stronghold at last. As for Tarrant . . . he was off wherever adepts went to, when they wanted to Work in privacy. Or maybe he just didn’t like the company.

I still have the Fire. That’s something our enemy can’t possibly anticipate—and a power no single sorcerer can negate. As long as we’re armed with that, there’s still a chance we might succeed in this.

Albeit a slim one, he forced himself to add.

The special bolts were gone, along with the rest of his personal arsenal. For the tenth time that night, he tried not to resent that fact that it was his horse which was lost—along with his notes, his clothing, and all his special traveling gear. He had made a few replacement bolts, but hesitated to commit too much of the Fire to that one purpose; with only two springbolts between them, it was unlikely they were going to rely too heavily upon such ammunition.

With practiced care he braced the reassembled springbolt against his shoulder and pulled back on the trigger; the sharp crack of its mechanism assured him that it was, for the moment, in perfect working order. With a sigh of relief he lowered it. At least they had two of the powerful weapons left; things could have been much worse. He tried not to think about the loss of his horse as he wound back the tightened spring, forcing its lever up the length of the stock. And then he cursed, loudly and creatively, as the pulley system broke and the lever went flying forward.

“Problem?” the rakh-woman questioned.

“Damned draw system. The thing’ll fire—and I can cock it—but as for Cee and Zen . . .” He shook his head, his expression grim. There were no finely milled parts here to replace those which were damaged, nor even the kind of steel he would need to jury-rig a replacement. Damn it to hell! What good would it do them to have the vulking thing in working order, if half their party couldn’t load it?

The rakh-woman reached out for the weapon; he let her take it. Her tufted ears pricked forward as she studied the half-open mechanism, her eyes as bright and curious as a cat’s. “What’s the problem?”

He indicated the cocking lever with a disgusted gesture and muttered, “Damn thing will only draw straight, now. Fine lot of good that does us! I suppose I could ease up on the pull . . . but it wouldn’t have much power then. Hell! I-” She had curled one claw around the lever, and now she pulled it. Backward, in a motion as fluid and graceful as a dancer’s extension. Her layered sleeves and loose tabard hid whatever play of muscle and bone supported her as she drew the lever back, far back, all the way to its primed position. And locked it there. Effortlessly. And looked at him.

“Damn,” he whispered.

“Is that good enough?” Her expression was fierce. “Good enough for killing?” There was an edge of hunger in her tone so primal, so intense, that it seemed to fill the small tent; he felt something primitive deep within him spark to life in response, and quelled it forcibly.

“Oh, yes,” he assured her. His muscles ached in sympathy as he considered her strength. Considered her ferocity. “More than enough.”

And God help the creature that gets in your way, he added silently.

The Hunter stood alone on a gentle rise, black against black in the night. Staring into the distance as if somehow mere concentration could bridge the hundreds of miles between him and his object. And perhaps it could; Damien wouldn’t put anything past him, at this point.

He came to his side and waited there, silently, certain that Tarrant was aware of his presence. And after a moment the adept stirred, and drew in a deep breath. The first breath he had taken since Damien’s arrival.

“Things are going well?” The Hunter asked.

“Well enough. We lost a lot at the river . . . but how much that will cripple us remains to be seen. I meant to ask you—your maps—”

“Are probably in the Serpent by now.”

He drew in a slow breath. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I. Very. They were priceless relics.”

“I know collectors who would have killed for them.”

“I did,” the Hunter said coolly.

Damien looked at him, bit back his first response. At last he offered, “You were hard to find.”

“I apologize for that. It was necessary for me to get away. Not from you,” he amended quickly. “From the rakh. They overwhelm the currents, making it impossible to Work cleanly. I needed to get clear of their influence.”

Damien looked toward the east, saw nothing but darkness. “You’re trying to Know the enemy?”

He affirmed it with a nod. “And trying to keep the enemy from Knowing us. The current flows east here, which means that our every intention is carried toward him. Like a scent of confrontation on the wind: easy to read, simple to interpret. I tried to Obscure it. Whether I’ve succeeded . . .” He shrugged, somewhat stiffly. “Time will tell. I did what I could.”

Then he turned to face Damien, and the pale gray eyes fixed on him. Silver pools of limitless depth that sucked in all knowledge: for a moment Damien nearly staggered, made dizzy by the contact. Then the eyes were merely eyes again, and the channel between the two men subsided into quiescence once more.

“Why did you come here?” the adept asked.

He had considered many different approaches, a host of varied words and phrases that differed in degrees of diplomacy. But when the moment came, he chose the simplest of his repertoire—and the most straightforward. “I need to know what you are,” he said quietly.

“Ah,” he whispered. “That.”

“This trip is getting more dangerous each night. It’s difficult enough planning for four instead of one; I won’t pretend it comes easily to me, or that I like it. But it has to be done. And I can’t do it efficiently when I don’t even know what I’m traveling with. Already we’ve been in one situation when I didn’t know what the hell to do, to try to help you or just leave you alone . . . I don’t like feeling helpless. And I did, back at the river. I don’t like traveling with ciphers, either—but you’re forcing me to do just that. And it makes everything that much harder for all of us.” He waited for a moment, hoping for a response; when he received none, he continued. “I think they could have killed you, back at the river. I don’t think you could have stopped them. Am I wrong? Centuries of life, more power than other men dare to dream of—and I think they could have ended it all with a single spearthrust. You tell me, Hunter—do I misjudge you?”

The adept’s eyes narrowed somewhat; the memory of that night clearly disturbed him. “If I’d had only myself to consider, they could never have taken me. But being indebted to the lady, and therefore you . . .” he hesitated. “Complicates things.”

“We’ve got a job to do, together. You and I may not like that fact, but we’ve both chosen to accept it. I’ve done my share to make that partnership work—you know that, Hunter. Now it’s your turn.”

Tarrant’s voice was low but tense. “You’re asking to know my weaknesses.”

“I’m asking what you are. Is that so unreasonable? What manner of man—or creature—we’re traveling with. Damn it, man, I’m tired of guessing! Tired of hoping that we won’t get caught up in some situation where my ignorance might really cost us. I might have been able to help you, back at the river—but how was I to know what you needed? What really might bind your power, as opposed to what they thought might bind it? The closer we get to our enemy, the more powerful he looks. Some day very soon we’re going to face the bastard head-on, and you may have to count on one of us for support. God help us then, if all we have to go on then is my guesswork. You want to bank your life on that?”

The Hunter looked at him. Cold eyes, and an even colder expression; his words slid forth like ice. “A man doesn’t explain his vulnerabilities to one who intends to destroy him.”

Damien drew in a sharp breath, held it for a minute. Exhaled it, slowly. “I never said that.”

A faint smile—or almost-smile—softened the Hunter’s expression. “Do you really think you can hide that from me? After what’s passed between us? I know what your intentions are.”

“Not here,” Damien said firmly. “Not now. Not while we’re traveling together. I can’t answer for what happens later, after we leave the rakhlands—but for now, the four of us have to function as a unit. I accept it. Can’t you read the truth in that?”

“And afterward?” the adept asked softly.

“What do you want me to say?” Damien snapped. “That I approve of what you are? That it’s in my nature to sit back and watch while women are slaughtered for your amusement? I swore I’d be your undoing long before I met you. But that vow belongs to another time and place—another world entirely. The rules are different here. And if we both want to get home, we’d damn well better cooperate. After that . . . I imagine you know how to take care of yourself once you’re back in the Forest. Do you really think mere words can change that?”

For a moment, Tarrant just stared at him. It was impossible to read what was in those eyes or to otherwise taste of the tenor of his intentions; he had put up a thorough block on all levels, and the mask was firmly in place.

“Bluntness is one of your few redeeming traits,” he observed at last. “Sometimes irritating . . . but never unenlightening.” The wind gusted suddenly, flattening the grass about their feet. Somewhere in the distance, a predator-bird screeched its hunger. “You ask what I am—as though there’s a simple answer. As though I haven’t spent centuries exploring that very issue.” He turned away so that Damien might not see his expression; his words addressed the night. “Ten centuries ago, I sacrificed my humanity to seal a bargain. There are forces in this world so evil that they have no name, so all-encompassing that no single image can contain them. And I spoke to them across a channel etched in my family’s blood. Keep me alive, I said to them, and I will serve your purpose. I’ll take whatever form that requires, adapt my flesh to suit your will—you may have it all, except for my soul. That alone remains my own. And they responded—not with words, but with transformation. I became something other than the man I was, a creature whose hungers and instincts served that darker will. And that compact has sustained me ever since.”

“What are the rules of my existence? I learned them one by one. Like an actor who finds himself on an unfamiliar stage, mouthing lines he doesn’t know in a play he’s never read, I felt my way through the centuries. Did you think it was different? Did you imagine that when I made my sacrifice, someone handed me a guidebook and said, ‘Here, these are the new rules. Make sure you follow them.’ Sorry to disappoint you, priest.” He chuckled coldly. “I live. I hunger. I find things that will feed the hunger and learn to procure them. In the beginning my knowledge was crude, and I found crude answers: blood. Violence. The convulsions of dying flesh. As my understanding grew more sophisticated, so did my appetite. But the old things will still sustain me,” he warned. “Human blood alone will do that if nothing else is available. Does that answer your question?”

“You were a vampire.”

“For a time. When I first changed. Before I discovered that there were other options. A pitiful half-life, that . . . and gross physical assault has never appealed to me. I find the delicate pleasures of psychological manipulation much more . . . satisfying. As for the power that keeps me alive . . . call it an amalgamation of those forces which on Earth were mere negatives—but which have real substance here, and a potential for power that Earth never dreamed of. Cold, which is the absence of heat. Darkness, which is the absence of light. Death, which is the absence of life. Those forces comprise my being—they keep me alive—they determine my strengths and my weaknesses, my hungers, even my manner of thinking. As for how that power manifests itself . . .” He paused. “I take on whatever form inspires fear in those around me.”

“As you did in Morgot.”

“As I do even now.”

Damien stiffened.

“The lady knows that I can mimic the creatures that attacked her, make her relive that pain any time it pleases me. That’s fear enough, don’t you think? With Mer Reese the matter is much more subtle. Say that I embody the power he hungers for, the temptation to cast aside everything he values and plunge into darkness—and the fear that he will do so only to come up with empty hands, and a soul seared raw by evil.”

“And myself?” Damien asked tightly.

“You?” He laughed softly. “For you I’ve become the most subtle creature of all: a civilized evil, genteel and seductive. An evil you endure because you need its service—even though that very endurance plucks loose the underpinnings of your morality. An evil that causes you to question the very definitions of your identity, that blurs the line between dark and light until you’re no longer certain which is which, or how the two are divided. That’s what you fear most of all, priest. Waking up one morning and no longer knowing who or what you are.” Pale gray eyes glittered hungrily in the moonlight. “Does that satisfy you? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

For a moment, Damien said nothing; emotion was too hot in his brain for him to voice it effectively. Then at last, carefully, he chose his words. “When all this is over—when our enemy has been dealt with and we’re safely out of the rakhlands—I will kill you, Hunter. And rid the world of your taint forever. I swear it.”

It was hard to say just what wry expression flickered across the Hunter’s face. Sadness? Amusement?

“I never doubted that you’d try,” he whispered.

They left at sunset. A tremor struck the camp as they were mounting up, which made tent ornaments jingle like windchimes and rakh children run howling about like banshees—but despite the noise of the small quake, it did little real damage. And since it meant that for a short while there would be fresh earth-fae—strong currents—Damien considered it an excellent omen.

On the surface, they seemed a well-supplied company: five travelers, five mounts, and supplies enough to get them all to the east coast and back again. None of them had discussed how likely it was that not all would survive the round trip journey; packing a full store for each of them had been a ritual of hope, a gesture of denial—a necessary armoring against the presence of Death, as they began a journey into his domain. Nevertheless, Damien could not help but notice how the various elements of their small company seemed a composite of opposites: Ciani and Senzei seated on xandus, the rakh-woman clutching a springbolt, himself dressed in clothes made from quickly-woven cloth, fashioned in the rakhene style.

He ought to have been grateful for the thick woolen shirt, for it kept out the autumn chill far better than his human wardrobe, but the vivid pictures that had been hurriedly painted onto it seemed somehow . . . conspicuous. Mere color had never bothered him, of course, and he had worn the stuffed and padded styles of Ganji-on—the-Cliffs without reserve, but to have his exploits—as the rakh understood them—splashed in vivid hues across his person . . . he wondered if there wasn’t just a hint of sarcasm hidden in those cryptic pictoglyphs, some little bit of rakhene humor at his expense. Or was the sight of his personal history splayed across his belly humor enough for their kind?

As for Tarrant, he was . . . well, Tarrant. Tall and elegant and fastidiously arrogant, he rode the last remaining Forest steed as though it always had been and always would be his mount. There had been no question of his taking a xandu, of course; the animals wouldn’t have him, and he clearly considered them to be inferior stock. Much to Damien’s surprise, the party had no sooner left the rakhene camp than the adept urged his black horse forward into a point position. It was as if he was wordlessly daring their enemy to strike at the party through him.

Which means he knows damn well that no one’s going to attack us now, Damien thought. The man’s not a fool.

Then: Not fair, priest. Not fair at all. He reminded himself what the adept had done for him. Not only saved his life at the river, but later cleansed him of the illness that had taken hold in those terrible, frozen hours. He shivered to remember the touch of coldfire in his veins, the pain and terror that racked his body (no doubt feeding the Hunter as it did so) while the killing cure took hold—but the end result was more than he could have managed himself, in his weakened state.

Call it what you like, he thought to the Hunter. It looked like a Healing to me.

Technicalities. He knew now what a true Healing would do to the adept’s compact. Any act of life—or fire, or true light—would negate the power that kept him alive. A hell of a price to pay, for a single act of compassion.

What a thin line you must have to walk in order to travel with us.

Then he looked at the adept’s back—and beyond it, into the darkness that obscured their enemy’s domain. And he shuddered.

What a thin line we’re all walking, now.

34

It scared Senzei, that their enemy might See them coming. It scared the hells out of him. Sometimes he found it hard to control his fear, to go about the motions of traveling and camping and foraging and guarding without the fear taking hold of him utterly, making it impossible for him to do anything other than crawl into his bedroll and shiver in terror. How did his companions deal with it? Did they not experience such feelings at all, or were they simply better at hiding it?

For a while he’d been all right. On the way to Kale, through the Forest itself, right up to the border of the Canopy. Because their enemy had been not a man, then, but a measureless abstraction. A faint whiff of evil, a shadow of threat—not a creature with a name and a homeland, a being with armies and citadels and weapons that one could only guess at. An enemy who knew how to read the currents, who might well be watching their every move as they progressed slowly across his realm. Tarrant’s Obscurings might give them some cover, but was it enough? Their presence in the rakhlands, so alien to the local currents, sent out waves of identification so clear and intense that only a blind man could fail to read them. Or so Tarrant told them.

Damn him, for sharing that truth.

There was no other way; that was what Damien told them. No other path to take to get them where they were going, and no better way to travel it. The risk was real but unavoidable. Tarrant Worked each morning and night to reinforce the patterns that would keep their enemy from reading their true identities, the extent of their arsenal, their intentions . . . but whether such a subterfuge was possible, or just a wasted effort, only the gods could say. They did what they could. And hoped it was enough.

And prayed.

For days there was nothing but grassy plains to cross, a seemingly endless expanse of flat land that was host to a thousand varieties of life. Wild xandu grazed on autumn’s browning stalks, and eyed their domesticated brethren warily as the party moved past them. Small tufted scavengers leapt through the grass, then fell to the lightning strike of a sharp-toothed predator. When the company was silent, they could hear that the air was filled with chirpings and duckings and a thousand varieties of rustling; nature’s kingdom, winding down for winter. Periodically Senzei would Work his vision and See the patterns that dominated this land: even, steady currents, delicate in design, whose gentle whorls and eddies linked predator to prey to carrion hunter, and all those beasts in turn to the fauna around them, the sunlight that warmed them, the weather that supplied them with moisture. Against such a landscape, the humans’ own presence stood out like a fresh wound—livid, swollen, seething with intended violence. It was impossible to imagine that Tarrant could Obscure such a mark—or even mask it in any way. If their enemy had Sight, he could certainly See them—and there was no doubt, in any of their minds, that this was indeed the case.

Gods help us, Senzei thought feverishly. Gods help us all.

At night the demons would come out, bloodsuckers and their kin—but they were mild creatures compared to the denizens of the Forest, or even Jaggonath’s demonagerie: constructs of the party’s fears that had manifested enough flesh to make a fleeting appeal for sustenance, but little more than that. They lacked the substance it would take to withstand even a mild Dispelling, the kind of solidity that comes only from years of feeding on one’s host/creators, of drawing life from the pit of darkness that resides in every man’s soul. Even Senzei could banish them, with hardly a whispered word to focus his Working. Clearly, whatever convolutions of human character created such demons, the rakhene mind had no equivalent. The land Erna’s natives had settled was more peaceful than any the travelers had seen, nearly free of the nightmares that had devoured the first colonists.

So where did the memory-eaters come from? Senzei wondered. Surely one mind couldn’t be strong enough to manifest horrors on that scale.

Mile after mile of featureless terrain passed beneath their mounts’ hooves, each one indistiguishable from the last. Slowly, gradually, the distance behind them blanketed the Worldsend peaks in a haze of soft blue fog. One morning Senzei looked about and discovered he could no longer see any landmarks: not the mountains behind them, nor the eastern range ahead of them, nor any feature to mar the perfect flatness of the earth. In that moment it seemed they might travel forever without seeing any variety in earth or sky, only a few wispy clouds that floated languidly, casting fleeting shadows upon the ground beneath.

Then, without warning, a call came. A whistle, followed by an animal cry—or perhaps a voice crying words, that were almost but not quite English. The thick grass parted to make way for a rakhene warrior, who established himself before them with a bristling mane and obviously hostile intentions. Others followed—a hunting party—fierce nomadic warriors clearly ready to deal with any humans who happened to cross their path. Their tempers were so animal, so volatile, that the one time Senzei dared to See them they left their afterimage seared into his retina, as if he had stared too long into the sun.

It was their rakhene guide who saved them, who bargained for their lives. Hissing commands and arguments in the native dialect, posturing herself to convey a plethora of kinesthetic signals: territorial combat fought with words and hisses, hierarchical issues resolved with the ruffling of fur, the stiffening of neck muscles. Eventually, resentfully, the hostile tribes parted to let them pass. Deep growls sounded low in rakhene throats as the hated odor of humankind drifted past their sensitive nostrils, but they made no move to harm their chosen enemies—and soon enough they, too, were gone, swallowed up by the endless sea of grass that stretched from horizon to horizon, without surcease.

They encountered other tribes, with much the same result. And Senzei came to realize just how lucky they were that the khrast-woman was with them. They had survived the Forest’s worst, they had maneuvered through deadly surf and earthquakes and an ambush by their enemies, but they would never have made it through the plains without her. The rakh were simply too many, too hot-tempered, too eager to kill humankind. They would have been spitted like shish kebob before the first words of parley came out of their mouths.

Tedium began to eat at their nerves, an all too human response to the endless, identical miles. Tempers flared hotly in the featureless days, petty annoyances transformed into grievous trespasses by the joint powers of fear and boredom. How many hours could one ride thus, sandwiched between terrible dangers but unable to address oneself to them—riding endless miles in the constant company of others, without even a moment of true privacy in which change one’s clothes, or bathe, or defecate, or even just get away? At least Tarrant left each morning. That helped. Senzei could almost see the cloud lift from about Damien when the Hunter finally transformed, adopting the broad feathered wings that would bear him to a daytime shelter. Tarrant refused to take shelter with the rest of the company, and clearly that was the wisest course; who could say when the temptation of an easy kill might overwhelm all prior agreements in the priest’s mind, when all that was required to rid the world of the Hunter forever was the lifting of a single tent flap? The land was riddled with shelters, Tarrant told them, and his adept’s vision easily picked out the subtle variation in earth-fae currents that betrayed the presence of a suitable cavern. So he rested in the earth, like the dead, while they camped and slept and stood uneasy watches. And when he returned each night there was as much regret as relief in Damien’s eyes, that he had managed to get through the day safely.

Nightmares began to plague them—violent images, full of dire, unnatural symbols. More often than not the humans would awaken with pounding hearts, pulses throbbing hot with terror, all hope of sleep banished for that day. Even the rakh-woman wasn’t immune, but shivered in the grip of some half-bestial nightmare that brought snarls and hisses to her lips as she thrashed about angrily, cocooned in her blankets. True rest became nearly impossible, something garnered in fevered snatches between the dreambound assaults.

And assaults they well might be, in a very literal sense. That was the most frightening thought of all. That their enemy might be watching them so closely that he was able to Send these images to torment them, to rob them of sleep until they arrived in his realm mere shadows of their former selves. Because that was a real possibility—and a frightening one—they fought it. All of it. The nightmares, the fear, the growing claustrophobia that came from being too close to other people too long, the burning need to be alone. It was Tarrant who unWorked the nightmares themselves, burning some precious document he had tucked about his person; the value of his sacrifice flared hot, like sunlight, and seared the vicinity clean of whatever taint might have formed about them. Perhaps it would last for a day, or two; Senzei had his doubts.

They traveled southeast, as the rakh-woman advised. It would bring them to a break in the eastern range where the mountains folded upon themselves to create a lowland pass. They debated long and hard the efficacy of such a route—wasn’t it exactly what the enemy would expect of them?—but in the end they decided that they had no choice; in this harsh season, there was no other viable crossing. Besides, did they really think secrecy was possible in this place? Did they really imagine they weren’t being Known anyway, every step they took, regardless of where they went?

At last it was Tarrant who convinced them to take the lowland course. The current will be strongest in the mountains, he said, and it flows toward our enemy. Thus far, that’s been to our detriment; it takes all my strength just to block the flow, to keep our intentions from reaching him. But when we get to the mountains, and the earth-fae is stronger, I can turn that same current against him. Create a simulacrum of our party, to take our place and draw his attention. So that we can move unobserved. A Distracting, Damien mused.

Far more complex than that, Tarrant assured him. But the results are much the same. Are you sure it will work? Senzei had demanded.

The pale eyes turned on him—utterly lifeless, utterly cold. It has once already, he said dryly. And he left them to wonder just what manner of imposture had taken place at the Forest’s edge, that had saved their fragile flesh.

Senzei wanted power like that. He wanted to taste it, just once in his life. Feel what it would be like, to have the fae pour through his soul like light through glass: focused, pure, powerful. Once would be enough, he told himself—but he knew even as he thought that it wouldn’t be, it couldn’t be, he could never give up such a glorious vision. Never! Never suffer as Ciani had, to have it taken from him . . .

I would die first, he thought. And he shivered, to imagine it.

Then, at long last, the eastern mountains appeared before them. Misty purple peaks contrasted against a glistening dawn, velvet blue and gray slopes to frame the rising sun. The company stood there for a short time in silence, each mouthing his own prayers of thankfulness. The mountains were not of naked granite, like so much of the Worldsend range, nor covered with the spotty brush and narrow pines that typified so many northern ranges; these were lush, fertile hills, whose slopes were still stained orange and red and sunlight gold by the palette of late autumn, whose thickly forested heights gave way to snowy peaks with obvious reluctance, high in the distance.

“Beautiful,” Senzei whispered. He heard the priest mutter something; a thanks to his god, perhaps, that they had succeeded in getting this far. The rakh-woman—who had given her full name as Hesseth sa-Restrath— hissed something in her native tongue, and for once the coarse rakhene words seemed gentle in tone. Almost loving.

We made it, Senzei thought, as he urged his mount forward.

And then he added, in unhappy honesty, This far, anyway.

They camped in the shadow of trees, by the side of a small stream. It was the rakhene woman who chose their campsite, using senses Senzei could only guess at to find them a source of water. Smell, perhaps? Or perhaps some rakhene Working. He remembered her manipulation of the tidal fae in Morgot and shuddered, despite himself. She has more skills than she’s admitted to, he thought. What does that mean, for the rest of us? Will she help us if we need it—or leave us to sink or swim, as our human limitations dictate? He strongly suspected the latter. To date she had spoken little to the party, and when she did her conversation was limited to practical concerns: estimations of travel time, course advisement, foraging instructions. No, he thought. Correct that. The rakh-woman had spoken little to the men. To Ciani she vouchsafed a few parcels of genuine conversation, even went so far as to ride beside the woman several times in order to converse while traveling. Now and then Senzei caught snippets of their conversation, tidbits carried back to him on the evening breeze: Rakhene history. Rakhene custom. Rakhene legends.

Alien knowledge, he thought, with awe. Even without her knowledge, her confidence, the skills of an adept, Ciani was very much the same person she had been—hungry for knowledge the way most men are hungry for food.

Or power.

He wondered what it was like, to want something that could be obtained so easily. His own hunger had become a hole in him, an emptiness, a vast wound incapable of healing. The adepts spoke of the music of life; which filled every living thing with song and echoed from each molecule of inanimate matter, an endless symphony of being; he ached to hear it for himself. The rakh-woman could see tidal fae flicker into being across an evening sky, a vast aurora of power shimmering like the light of a thousand jewels; he yearned to possess that vision. Ciani had Shared her special senses with him once, but that wasn’t the same thing. That had been as much pain as ecstacy, as much wanting as having. He had withdrawn from it confused and hurt, too shaken to manage his own Workings for some days afterward. They had never tried it again.

What I want, no one human being can give me. It was the truth of his existence—but it hurt no less for being familiar to him.

At sunset, promptly, Gerald Tarrant rejoined them. That he did so when the sun had barely dropped below the horizon warned his companions that something was amiss; generally he hunted for his own sustenance before returning to them.

He wasted no time on preliminaries, but addressed the group as soon as his form was human enough to allow for speech. “Do you know the date?” he demanded, as the last of his feathers melted back into flesh, hair, the intricate weave of clothing. “Do you realize what happens in a few hours?”

For a moment, no one responded. Then Damien stiffened—and Senzei likewise, as he realized what Tarrant was driving at. Like the rest of them, he had lost track of human calendrical reckoning in their trek across the rakhlands; now he looked up at the sky, his blood running cold in his veins as he realized what the Hunter was driving at.

In the east, half-veiled by trees, Casca was already setting. In the west, following the sun in its course, Domina and Prima would soon do the same. And the last stars of the Core would be gone within the hour. Then: darkness. Utter darkness.

“True night,” someone whispered.

“Just so,” the Hunter agreed.

They had forgotten. They had all forgotten. Even in the autumn such times were rare, and the last few true nights had been so short . . . Senzei thought of how long this one might last, with all three moons just now setting, and he shivered in dread. It was madness to be outdoors at such a time. Absolute madness. But what other choice was there?

“How long will it last?” Damien asked.

“Hours,” Tarrant told him. “No way to know the precise time without a good lunar chart—and mine was lost back at the river. But Casca will have to rise again before the dark fae is driven back—and a good part of the night will pass before that happens.”

Senzei tried to keep the fear from his voice as he asked, “Do you think they’ll attack us?”

“Our enemy, you mean?” Tarrant considered it, then shook his head. “Not now, I think. Not here. There’ll be enough nights like this later on, when we’re in a position more favorable to assault. But we can certainly expect to be hit with a Knowing, or similar probing. Something of unusual strength. But I can block those easily enough, once the sunlight is gone.” An expression that was almost a smile flitted across his face. “The true night is my time, also.”

“So is there anything you do feel we need to watch out for?” Damien asked tightly.

“Not so much watch out for, as do.” The Hunter turned to Ciani; his pale eyes gleamed silver in the moonlight. “Lady?”

She drew in a deep breath, slowly. There was a strange intensity about her—fear and desire combined, an almost sexual excitement. Something about it made Senzei’s skin crawl. “Is it time?” she whispered.

“If you’re ready for it.”

She shut her eyes tightly. And nodded, a barely perceptible motion. Senzei thought he saw her trembling.

“Time for what?” Damien demanded. “Now’s not a good time to play at mysteries, Hunter.”

“No such thing was intended. The lady and I have discussed some . . . arrangements. I think tonight would be a good time to test them. It’ll take some courage on her part—but I’ve never found the lady to be lacking in that.”

“You wouldn’t care to be more specific, would you?” The priest’s voice was carefully controlled, but not so much so that Senzei didn’t hear the edge of violence in it. As if the mere threat of the true night had begun to dissolve his inhibitions, those precious checks and balances that must exist in order for him to tolerate Tarrant’s presence among them. Or pretend to tolerate it.

The Hunter explained, “You know that there’s a bond between Ciani and her attacker, which was established in the initial attack. You yourselves intended to manipulate that link once you reached the enemy’s domain. Wasn’t that the very reason you brought her along? With a simple Knowing, carefully planned, you would be able to locate her attacker, pick him out from among the dozens of his kind . . . an admirable scheme, given your knowledge and your power. But tonight, in the true darkness, I can do much more than that. Give us an advantage that the enemy can’t foresee.” He bowed toward Ciani. “If the lady is willing.”

Senzei saw Ciani’s hands clench and unclench, her flesh made colorless by fear. Damien saw it too, and said harshly, “You won’t do anything that increases the risk to her. Understand? She’s in danger enough.”

Tarrant’s eyes flashed angrily. “Don’t be a fool, priest. The risk is already tremendous. She’s the one that our enemy wants, not us—and he’s going to try to claim her as soon as we cross these mountains. By bringing her this near to his domain you’ve placed her in greater danger than any other course could have done. And yes—you had your reasons. I agree with them. But now it’s time to use the tools our enemy has provided, Because to fail to use them, to fail to turn them against him by whatever means possible . . . is to fail her, Reverend Vryce. And I remind you that I have a very strong personal interest in the success of this mission. One which I will not allow you to jeopardize.” He paused. “Am I making myself clear?”

For a moment there was silence between the two men: chill, acidic, sharp with hatred. Then Damien found his voice, and managed to make it civil. “Go on.”

The Hunter looked at Ciani. “Through her,” he told them, “I can reach the mind of her tormentor. It’s a dangerous process. Using earth-fae alone I would never chance it—our enemy is clearly as fluent in that domain as I am, and could easily turn such a Working against us. But using the dark fae, in those few precious hours when it dominates this land . . . that force is my substance, priest. My life. No mere man can best me in that arena, without first making a Sacrifice to equal mine.”

“Damned unlikely, that,” Damien muttered. His reaction to what the Hunter had done was strong enough to taint the earth-fae surrounding him; the valley was filled with the scent of blood, the heat of his revulsion. “So what will this accomplish? If you succeed?”

“If I succeed—and the odds of that are excellent—we will have far more information regarding our enemy than any other technique might procure. We’ll learn his whereabouts, his intentions, perhaps even his weaknesses. We’ll know what this link with Ciani means to him, and how he might use it against us.”

“And if you fail?” Damien challenged.

“If I fail?” He looked at Ciani—and she met his eyes boldly, a faint nod saying that yes, she knew the risk, and yes, she was willing to try it. But her hands were trembling violently, and Senzei thought he saw a tear glitter wetly in the corner of one eye.

“If I fail,” the Hunter said softly, “then there will be no point in continuing this expedition. Because he will have her. I will have given her to him.”

For a moment, there was nothing in the camp but stillness. The fire, dying, crackled in its embers and spewed forth a few meager sparks. The rakh-woman tensed as if in anticipation of combat, but there was no way to read her intentions. Damien looked toward Ciani—and read something in her eyes that made his expression darken, deep furrows across his brow giving silent voice to his misgivings.

“All right, then,” he said at last. “If Ciani’s willing. If there’s no better way.”

“I am,” she whispered.

And Tarrant assured them, “There isn’t.”

Dark fae. Strands of it, fine as spider’s silk, drifting out from the secret places in the earth. Deep violet power that twined like slender serpents out from the shadows, snaking along the ground in rhythmic patterns as primal—and as complex—as human brainwaves. Power so responsive that the mere act of watching it was enough to make it shiver in its course. Power so volatile that it could manifest human fears long after their original cause had faded from memory. Power so hungry that it fed on darkness, devouring the very essence of the night in order to reproduce itself over and over again, filling the night with its violent substance.

“Ready?” the Hunter whispered. His voice was little louder than the breeze, and as chill as the night which was swiftly descending on them. Senzei shivered as he watched him prepare to Work, and not merely because the air was cold.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Ciani murmured.

With care he bound her, wrists and ankles tightly affixed to stakes driven deep into the ground. Another rope, tightened across her chest, would keep her from rising up. Such preparation was necessary, Tarrant had explained, in case her attacker should gain control of her body—but it made Senzei queasy to see her like that. Damien had told him how the Neocount’s wife was bound, when they found her body. Too similar, he thought. It made his gut knot just to think of it.

“All right,” the Hunter said. He looked at each of them in turn—and though Damien managed to meet his gaze without flinching, Senzei couldn’t. It was as if something in those pale gray eyes had come to life, something dark and terrible. And hungry. “I need silence. Absolute. And you mustn’t interfere—no matter what happens. No matter what the cost may be of completing this Working. Because to interrupt it midway is to give her soul to the enemy. You all understand that?” His words might have been meant for all of them, but his eyes were fixed on Damien. After a moment the priest nodded stiffly and muttered, “Go on.”

No matter what happens. Already Senzei could see forms taking shape about the circle of their campsite, the company’s fears given life and substance by the malignant fae of the sunless hours. Tarrant had assured them that nothing would approach—his own nature fed on the dark fae, and would devour any manifestation that made it past his wards—but even so Senzei shivered, as the legions of creatures that their fears had spawned flitted about the warded circle, seeking entrance. He was tempted to unWork his vision, to let that terrible vision fade . . . but the alternative was far, far worse. This way at least there was light; the deep violet essence of true night’s power might not be wholesome illumination, but at least it was something. Without it, the autumn night would be utterly lightless: cave-black, cellar-dark, in which a man might raise his hand before his face without seeing it—in which the darkness seemed to close in until one could hardly breathe, until one wanted to run desperately for light, any light . . . only this time, in this place, there was nowhere to run. And the darkness would last for hours. Even the minimal illumination of night’s special fae was preferable to that. Slowly, like wisps of smoke, the fae began to gather about Ciani’s body. Senzei saw her shiver, though whether it was in pain or simply in dread he had no way to see. She certainly had cause enough for the latter. As she breathed in, thin violet strands caught hold of the breath and followed it into her lungs, her flesh; the air she breathed out was merely dark, liquid swirls of onyx blackness that had been leached of all power. She slowly closed her eyes, but even as she did so Senzei could see the violet light that shimmered in their depths, radiant as the green that would sometimes flash in a cat’s eyes at night. She had absorbed the dark fae.

“Submit to me,” the Hunter whispered. His voice was a chill caress, that made Senzei’s flesh crawl. “With every thought, in every cell of your being.” And then he added, in a tone that was almost tender, “You know I’d do nothing to hurt you.”

She nodded. Then a shudder seemed to pass through her body, and Senzei thought he heard a faint sound—a moan?—escape from her lips. Tarrant’s Worked fae was thickening about her, and he could see it connect to the wild fae beyond—creating what might be a lifeline, an umbilical cord. A connection that pulsed with its own special life, in time to some unheard heartbeat.

“You hunger,” Tarrant commanded. Chanting the words: a mantra of possession. “For memory. For life. For fragments of the past, which you draw from the souls of others. The hunger is constant, all-consuming. It torments you. It strengthens you. It drives you to feed—and gives you the power to do so.” In his voice was promise, commiseration, a dark seduction that went beyond mere recitation of demonic qualities. How much of his own nature was he drawing on in order to establish this rapport? As he reached down to touch Ciani, to lay one slender hand over her heart, it struck Senzei for the first time just how like their enemy he was. The Hunter and Ciani’s tormentor might feed on different emotions, but they both served the same dark Pattern.

When Tarrant touched her, Ciani cried out—and then was suddenly still, so much so that Senzei feared for her.

For a moment she lay like one dead, so utterly unmoving that Senzei found himself searching in vain for any sign of breathing, any tremor of a heartbeat. There was none. Then she trembled, and her eyes shot open. Black, utterly black, with no sign of iris or white. Pits of emptiness, which anything might fill.

“Who are you?” the Hunter demanded.

In a voice that was Ciani’s but not Ciani’s, she answered, “Essistat sa-Lema. Tehirra sa-Steyat. Ciani sa-Faraday. Others.” A ghastly sound escaped her lips, that might have been intended as laughter. “I don’t remember all the names.”

Tarrant looked up at Hesseth, who nodded shortly. Rakh names, the gesture indicated. For once, the khrast-woman seemed as tense as the human company.

The Hunter turned his attention back to Ciani. “Where are you?” he asked.

Again the ghostly laugh—then, in a cryptic tone, “Night’s turf. Hunter’s den. The basement of storms.”

“Where?” Tarrant pressed.

The thing that was Ciani shut her eyes. “In darkness,” she whispered at last. “Beneath the House of Storms.”

“In the earth?”

“No. Yes.”

“In caverns? Tunnels? Man-made structures?”

Her eyes shot open, fixed on him. “Rakh-made,” she corrected fiercely. “Where the Lost Ones dwelled until we drove them out. We fed on their memories, too—but those were narrow things, all tunnels and hunger and brainless mating. Not like the memories of the other rakh.” She closed her eyes, and a shudder passed through her frame; strangely sexual, like the first shiver of orgasm. “Not like with the humans,” she whispered. “Nothing like that.”

Again Tarrant glanced at Hesseth, and this time he mouthed the words. Lost Ones? Her brief nod sufficed to indicate that she knew the reference, would be willing to explain it later. Or so Senzei hoped.

Tarrant returned his attention to Ciani. The black depths of her eyes gleamed like obsidian as she watched him.

“Do you fear?” he asked her.

“Fear?”

“As the rakh do. As humans do.”

“Fear? As in ‘for my life’? No. Why should I?”

“You feel safe.”

“I am safe.”

“Protected,” the Hunter probed.

“Yes.”

“Efficiently.”

The empty eyes opened; a hint of violet light stirred in their depths. “Without question.”

“How?”

She seemed to hesitate. “Lema protects. The Keeper shields.”

“Against what?” When there was no answer, he pressed, “Against the rakh?”

“The humans,” she whispered. “They’re coming for us. That’s what Lema said. They’re coming, with a Fire that can burn away the night. Can burn us.”

“But you’re not afraid.”

“No.” The voice was a hiss. “Lema protects. The Keeper is thorough. Even now—”

She hesitated. Gasped suddenly, as if in pain. Tarrant said quickly, “It took a lot of planning.”

“Not much,” she answered. Her body seem to sag into the ground, as if in relief, and her voice was strong once more. Senzei sensed that some barrier had been not overcome, nor destroyed, but somehow sidestepped. “Only a misKnowing. The rest is up to us.”

Senzei saw something flicker in Tarrant’s eyes, too subtle and too quick for him to identify. Fear? Surprise?

“A misKnowing?” he whispered.

“Yes. The demon said that would be best. To turn their own Workings against them. To let them feel confident in their knowledge, while all the while they were walking into a trap. That’s the only way to take an adept, Calesta says. Trick them, using their own vision.”

For a moment, there was silence. Shadows of forms began to shiver into existence about the Hunter’s body, bits of misgivings seeping out from his soul, given shape by the night. A death-mask. A spear. A drop of fire. In another time and place such images might have gained real substance, but his hungry nature swallowed them up again as quickly as they were formed. Only a brief afterimage remained, black against black in the night.

“Tell me,” he whispered tightly. “The misKnowing. What is it?”

Ciani seemed about to speak, then hesitated. “Tell me.”

She gasped soundlessly, like a fish out of water. Seemed incapable of making the words come.

He reached forward and grasped her by the upper arms; his power flowed into her like a torrent, purple fae marked with his hunger, his purpose. “Tell me!” he demanded. She tried to resist, tried to pull away—and then cried out, as the cold power wrapped itself around her soul. Senzei saw Damien start forward, then force himself back. Because she might die if he interfered. Only because of that. But there was murder in his eyes. “Tell me,” the Hunter commanded—and Senzei could feel him using the dark fae to squeeze the information out of her, like juice from a pulped fruit.

“Sansha Crater!” she gasped. There were tears running down her face, and she was shaking violently in his grip. Information began to pour out as if it had a life of its own, words and concepts struggling to get free. “The humans’ Knowings will lead them there in search of us. They’ll believe that our stronghold is there, beneath the House of Storms. Most important, he will believe it—their adept—because Calesta took the image from his mind. When he looked at his maps and said this is where the enemy will be, the Hungry One noted it. And the Keeper will let them think that he was right, warp his Knowings to serve that end . . . and the adept’s own Workings will lead them into ambush.”

For a moment Tarrant was still, and utterly silent. The look in his eyes was terrible—shame and fury and blind, raw hatred, intermingled with even less pleasant emotions that Senzei didn’t dare identify—but Ciani, or whatever manner of creature now inhabited her body, seemed oblivious to it. Had his own word not bound him to protect her, Senzei was pretty sure the Hunter would have struck out at the body before him, Working the dark fae so that it would transmit the damage to Ciani’s possessor; but he was bound, and by his own will, and so his rage went unexpressed.

“Where is the House of Storms?” he hissed. Dark purple tendrils swirled about his rage, dissolved into the night. “Where is your people’s stronghold?” When she didn’t answer him his eyes narrowed coldly, and she gasped; Senzei could see the last of her resistance crumble.

“On the point of power,” she whispered. “Where the earth-fae flows in torrents, hungry for taming. Where the plates sing in pain as they crush the power out. Where the Keeper—”

Ciani’s body went rigid. She mouthed a few words, soundlessly—and then a spasm of pain racked her body, traveling from head to foot like a wave. “No!” she cried out—Ciani’s voice, Ciani’s pain. She pulled against her bonds with a force that almost dragged the tent pegs from the earth. “Gerald!” But the adept did nothing to help her.

“Stop it!” Damien hissed. He started forward—and then forced himself to halt, though his fists were clenched in fury. To interrupt this Working is to give her soul to the enemy. “Stop it, damn you! She can’t take any more!” As if in answer to him, blood trickled from Ciani’s mouth. And Tarrant did move, at last. He put his hands to the sides of her face—and she tried to bite him, wild as a wounded animal—but he grasped her firmly and held her head back against the earth, while her body struggled against its bonds. Fixing his eyes on hers, pinioning her to the ground by the power of his gaze. A power that Senzei could see, a vivid purple that vibrated with the force of his hatred.

“Let go,” he whispered fiercely. “This is not your flesh, not your place. Obey me!” She struggled in his grasp—helplessly, like an infant. Blood poured down her cheek and smeared on his hand, deep purple in the fae-light. It dripped to the ground. He took no notice of it. “Obey me,” he whispered. And the power that flowed from him was so bright, so blinding, that Senzei had to turn away.

For a brief moment, the whole of Ciani’s body went rigid; her bonds creaked as she strained against them. Then, suddenly, all the strength went out of her. She lay on the bloodied earth like a shattered doll, her intermittent gasping for breath the only sign of her survival. After a moment, Tarrant released her. Her eyes—now human, heavily bloodshot—shut. She shivered, as if from cold.

“Take out the Fire,” the Hunter said quietly to Damien.

“You’re sure—”

“Take it out!”

He stood as the priest complied with his command, and put a few hurried steps between himself and the rest of the party. Nevertheless, he was clearly loath to go too far from Ciani; he remained close enough that when the Fire was uncovered its light burned a swath across his face that blistered an angry red as he watched her.

For a moment, Senzei could see nothing: the Fire’s light was brilliant, blinding. He felt his Seeing fade, knew that it would be long minutes before he could conjure such vision again. But there was no need for it. The dark fae was gone, consumed in an instant by the force of that Church-spawned blaze. And with it, whatever remnants of the night’s power that had clung to Ciani. She whimpered softly as Damien went to her, clung to him as he severed her bonds and gathered her up in his arms, the light of the Fire pressed into her back.

“She’ll be all right,” the Hunter promised. “Keep the Fire out until Casca rises. No. Until the sun comes up. She’ll be safe, once she’s exposed to true sunlight; neither his power nor mine can cling to her then.”

“But if you-” Damien began.

“You’ll have to function without me,” he said sharply. “There are several things that want looking into, and I can handle them best alone.”

“Not to mention the Fire,” Damien said quietly.

Tarrant turned toward him, slowly, and let him watch as the sanctified light spread across his features. The skin of his face and hands reddened, tightened, began to peel—but his cold eyes gazed steadily at Damien, and there was no hint in his manner of any pain or hesitancy.

“Don’t underestimate me,” he warned. Blood pooled in the corner of one eye, and he blinked it free; it traveled down the side of his face like a tear. Still he did not turn away, nor shield himself from the Fire’s light. “Don’t ever underestimate me.”

“I’m sorry,” Damien said at last.

“You should be,” he agreed. And he bowed to Ciani—a minimal gesture, hurried but graceful. “It’s vital that you don’t discuss what happened here tonight—any of it—until the sun rises. Otherwise your attacker might learn . . . too much. Lady?”

She whispered it. “I understand.”

He stepped—and was gone, more quickly than the eye could follow. Reddened flesh fading into blackness, burnt skin swallowed up by darkness. Salved, by the true night’s special power.

“The Fire didn’t hurt him,” Senzei whispered, “Not like it should have.”

“Of course it hurt him,” Damien said sharply. “And it would have killed him if he’d stayed here long enough.”

“But he didn’t seem—”

“No, he didn’t, did he? And what gets to me is that he would have stayed there, endured the pain—till the Fire fried him to a crisp, if that’s what it took. Just to prove a point.”

He drew in a ragged breath, and closed his arms tightly about Ciani.

“That’s what makes him so vulking dangerous,” he muttered.

Rain fell. Not the gentle rain of days before, a chill but tolerable mist that wet the land without truly soaking it, but a downpour that swept in from the East, borne on winds that had coursed over thousands of miles of open sea, scooping up foam and spray and converting them into thick, black storm clouds. If Casca rose, they never saw it. Water fell in sheets, interspersed with bits of hail and clumps of crystal, as if it couldn’t decide what form it wanted to take—but it was all cold, and dark, and drenching.

They huddled inside the rakhene tent, thick hides stretched across hollow poles to form a cone-shaped shelter. The women, that was. Senzei and Damien stayed outside long enough to fashion a primitive shelter for their animals. Already the real horses were straining at their tethers, and the xandu, unbound, milled nervously about the campsite as if they were beginning to regret their faebound allegiance to the rakh-woman and her companions. But the two men managed to find a granite overhang near the camp, and jam enough branches into a crevice above it that when soaking leaves were stuffed in between them they stayed in place. The downpour became a trickle within the shelter, a turbulent sheet at its edge. Good enough, Damien indicated. They led the drenched animals inside, the light of the Fire casting harsh shadows across jagged granite walls, and saw that they were safely settled there before returning to the camp.

Tarrant, perhaps predictably, did not return. Damien muttered something about him not wanting to get his hair wet, which Senzei assumed was facetious. The men wrung out their clothing as well as they could, exchanging their soaked cloth for cold but dryer garments. In the tent’s narrow interior comfort was difficult, privacy impossible—but four warm living bodies in that narrow space slowly warmed it until the air was tolerable, and by the time dawn came at last Senzei discovered that he had fallen asleep sometime in that interminable darkness.

Dawn. They assumed it came, because the sky grew slowly lighter. But the sun was hidden by deep gray storm clouds, and its light was filtered through sheets of rain. Several times Senzei saw Damien hunch over toward the tent’s small opening, studying the sky with narrowed eyes. Waiting for sunlight to break through the cloudcover. Because until Ciani was exposed to the sun’s cleansing power, none of them dared talk about what they had seen, or heard, or feared in the night. Nor could they make plans.

It was the longest day they had ever spent together.

Toward sunset, a break came at last. A glimmer of light in the distance, that broke up the downpour into a thousand glittering jewels. A break in the clouds that showed first the sun, then the Core. White light commingled with gold warmed the frozen land slowly, and broke up the rain into a fine silver mist. Soon a patch of clear sky passed overhead, and then another; nevertheless, it was many long hours before Ciani could stand in the full light of day, shivering in pain as the solar fae burned the last vestiges of true night’s Working from her flesh.

Gerald Tarrant returned at sunset. By then they had reclaimed their mounts—the animals were skittish and hungry, but otherwise unharmed by the downpour—and found enough dry twigs beneath the tent, and in other places, to kindle a feeble fire. The four of them sat about it, silent, while Tarrant reestablished his wards. Guarding against eavesdroppers, Senzei guessed. At last he seemed satisfied, and lowered himself to a place by the fire. His hair, Senzei noted, was not only dry but perfectly groomed.

“I had hoped for several more nights of travel before certain decisions were necessary,” he told the group. “We need more information than we have, and I’d hoped to find it in Lema. But I think it’s clear we’ve run out of time. Our enemy has anticipated us, and the result is that we nearly walked right into his hands. So we have to decide a few things here and now—what we’re doing, and how we mean to do it—so that we can set everything in motion now, before our enemy realizes that we’re on to him.”

“Without knowing the land we’re traveling to?” Senzei asked.

“One doesn’t win a war by letting one’s enemy write the rules. And he’s trying to do just that. We need to plan—quickly, and thoroughly. Otherwise we may as well march into Sansha Crater and deliver the lady to him ourselves.”

“What are the chances he’s aware of what you did last night?” Damien asked.

Tarrant hesitated. “In a general sense, that’s unavoidable. No sorcerer could miss it. In a specific sense . . . I was very, very careful. And the dark fae is my element, remember; its manipulation is as natural to me as breathing is to you. If he investigates the matter, he’ll discover that we tried to use the link between Ciani and himself to facilitate a direct assault. And failed. Not that information flowed in the opposite direction, toward us.” He turned to the rakh-woman. “There are some facts we need, before we make any decisions. He mentioned some names that were unfamiliar to me. They may be crucial. And you seemed to recognize them.”

“The Lost Ones.”

“And Calesta.”

She shook her head. “That name is unfamiliar to me. But the Lost Ones . . . that’s a rakhene term for a tribe of our people that disappeared back in the years of the Changing. You understand, we had no language then, and our form was still unstable; each generation differed from the last, making social continuity nearly impossible. We have only oral records from those times, and even those are uncertain. Bear that in mind as I speak.”

“The rakh who came here—the ones who survived the Worldsend crossing—spread out across the land, each group establishing its own territory. They weren’t even tribes then, more like . . . extended families. Many settled in the plains because that land was so hospitable. Others went south, into the swamplands. Or east. Our ancestors were territorial creatures, who needed their own space as much as your people need food and water; it was humanity’s intrusion into our lands in the first place that caused-” She drew herself up sharply, inhaled through gritted teeth. “That’s dead and gone, now. Our people spread out. They changed. We gained language. Sophistication. Civilization. Eventually the plains rakh began to travel, to see what our world had become, and learn more of yours—thus the khrast tradition—and slowly, warily, the scattered tribes made contact once again. We discovered two things: that even though man’s Impression still dictated our general evolution, we had adapted to our chosen lands. The rakh who hunt for sustenance in the southern swamplands bear little resemblance to my people, or any other tribe; in some cases the differences are so great as to preclude intermating, implying—according to your science—that we have become several species.”

“Second, we discovered that during the time of our dispersal a large number of rakh were lost. They had chosen to settle in the mountains—these mountains—and had lived there during the early stages of their development. We found artifacts of their civilization—tools, trash heaps, broken ornaments—but never any hint of where they had gone. Legend says,”—and here she breathed in deeply—“that they went underground. That there was a time of terrible cold, when debris from an upland volcano cut us off from the sun’s warmth, and the mountains were covered in ice. Certainly, most rakh would rather seek shelter under their territory than abandon it utterly. If so, they never came out again. Only legends remain.”

“And now this testimony,” Damien said. “Where the Lost Ones dwelled, until we drove them out. If we knew how long ago that was—”

“Three centuries,” Tarrant said coolly, “give or take a decade or two.”

Damien stared at him in astonishment. “How do you know that?”

“The rakh-girl from Lema. Remember? I . . . interrogated her.”

For a moment, Damien was speechless. Then he hissed, “You bastard.”

Tarrant shrugged. “We needed information. She had it.” His eyes glittered darkly. “I assure you, any interest in her emotional state was strictly . . . secondary.”

Damien made as if to rise, but Ciani put a hand on his shoulder. Firmly. “It’s over,” she said. “You can’t help her now. We have to work together.”

He forced himself to sit back; it clearly took effort.

“Go on,” he growled.

“Three centuries ago,” Tarrant repeated. “The Lost Ones were alive and thriving then, and they built their tunnels. Or adapted them from existing caves—our informant seemed to indicate both. Then came this foreign sorcerer. Lema’s human Master, who built his citadel above their warren. And the demons who served him took refuge in the caves beneath, driving out their former inhabitants. So that they might be protected from sunlight.”

“Three centuries,” Ciani mused. “The lost rakh might still be alive.”

“Adapted to the darkness—and thus very photosensitive. I doubt that they care much for sunlight themselves—in fact, it stands to reason that their underground domiciles would be interlinked. So that they might go from one to the other without ever coming aboveground.”

“Including-” Senzei began.

Tarrant nodded. “That one.”

“Underground access,” Damien whispered.

“If their tunnels were rakh-made, no. The new tenants would have sealed those off, for defensive purposes. Or they’d have them guarded. But if we’re talking about natural caverns, with all their infinite variety . . . there’s a real possibility of finding some way in that our enemies don’t know about. Or creating one, through adjoining chambers.”

“Coming in through the back door,” Senzei mused.

“Just so.”

Damien turned to the khrast-woman. “What’s the chance of finding these underground rakh? Of communicating with them, if we do?”

“Who can say where they are—or even if they still exist? No one’s seen them for centuries. As for communication . . . they wouldn’t speak English, I’m sure; that was a later development. They might still speak fragments of the rakhene tongue . . . or they might not. Too much time has passed to be certain.”

“But the tunnels will be there, regardless,” Tarrant said.

Damien turned to him. “You think you can find them?”

He chuckled. “Just what do you think I do every morning, when it comes time to find shelter? Locating caves is child’s play for anyone who can See the currents. It’s much the same skill that Senzei used, bringing us to shore. But locating the right caverns . . .” He nodded thoughtfully. “That will take some effort.”

“All right, then,” Damien said. “Let’s say that we may have a way to sneak up on them. And we have an effective weapon, if they’re sun-sensitive.” He patted the pouch at his hip. “There’s time enough ahead to decide how best to use it. As for our enemy’s ambush . . . now that we know what game he’s playing, we should be able to counter it. Which leaves us with only one question left—”

“Where the hell we’re going,” Senzei supplied.

Tarrant withdrew a sheet of vellum from his pocket; it had been folded so many times that it was barely as wide as two fingers, yet it opened up to display a sizable map of the area. “I sketched this from memory, soon after losing the original. I can’t guarantee its accuracy, but I believe that the general form is right.” He spread it out before them. It was a map of the rakhlands and its surrounding regions, superimposed over a webwork of jagged ink lines.

“Fault lines,” Damien whispered. Tarrant nodded. “Missing a few minor ones, no doubt, but I believe the major plate boundaries are all in place.” This map, unlike the first, was labeled. Greater Novatlantic plate. Eastern Serpentine. Lesser Continental. He pointed to where those three plates met. “Here’s the single point of power for this region,” he mused. “I assumed he would have settled somewhat near it. According to our informant, however, he’s sitting right on top of it.”

“I thought you said-” Damien began. “That only a fool would do that? I did. And I’ll stand by it. Don’t ask me how he’s kept his citadel standing, in a region this seismically active. Wards alone won’t do it. He must be counting on something else. Maybe luck. The girl said there hadn’t been a quake in this area for a long time. Years.” “That’s impossible,” Damien muttered. He nodded. “Certainly odd, to say the least. The small ones sometimes go unnoticed, of course . . . but even so, we’re talking about a considerable seismic gap in this region. I just hope it holds long enough for us to get where we’re going.”

“Speaking of which,” Damien said, “is there any way to keep the Master of Lema from tracking us? He seemed to read through your Obscuring—”

“You can’t blind a man to the obvious,” Tarrant said sharply. “But you can divert his focus. Last night I prepared a Working that should do that. It will take effect . . . here.” He indicated a point on the map some two days’ journey east of them. “We have to stay with the pass this far to get to Lema; he knows that. But once the five of us reach this point, I’ve arranged for simulacra to take our place. They will continue along this path,”—his finger traced a line through the mountains, into Lema, toward the place where the three plates met—“to here.” He indicated a point some twenty miles to the east of that place of power, and looked at the rakhene woman for confirmation. She reached out and moved his hand a few inches southward. And nodded. “The crater is there.” She looked up at him. “And the ambush.”

“While they travel toward it, his Workings will be drawn to them. We will be all but invisible.”

Damien stared at him. Something in his expression made Senzei’s skin crawl.

“You used people,” he said quietly. “Rakh.”

“A good simulacrum can’t be created out of thin air. Such an illusion wouldn’t fool an adept for an instant. There has to be enough substance that when one probes beneath the surface—”

“Innocent rakh.”

The Hunter’s expression darkened. “This is a war, priest—and in a war, there are casualties. The innocent are sometimes among them.”

“You have no right!”

“But I have the power. And that’s all there is to it. I won’t argue this point. Not when my own survival is at stake. I have far too much already invested in that, and one hell of a reception awaiting me if I die. The Working exists. I’ve already warded it. When you reach this point,” and he tapped the map aggressively, “five simulacra will leave for Sansha Crater. And because my Working was bound to living flesh they will be convincing, and our enemy will watch them, not us, until they die.” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t intend to perish here, priest. Certainly not for your morals. You’d better come to terms with that.”

Speechless, Damien turned to Ciani. “Cee—”

“Please. Damien. He’s right.” She put a hand on his arm; he seemed to flinch at the contact. “We have no choice, don’t you see? We need this Working, or something like it. Otherwise, we might as well just give up now. And I can’t do that, Damien. Can’t give up. Can you?”

Wordlessly, he pulled away from her. His expression was unreadable—but there was a coldness in it that made Senzei shiver.

“You have me,” he muttered at last. “I won’t interfere. I can’t. But you’ll pay for those lives—in blood. I swear it.”

The Hunter laughed softly; it was an ominous sound.

“Those and a thousand others,” he agreed.

Morning. Next day. She came to Senzei while he was gathering wood. And startled him so badly that he nearly dropped his bundle.

“Ciani?”

Sunlight poured down through the half-stripped branches above them, illuminating her pallor. Her weakness. The possession of two nights before had taken more out of her than any of them wanted to admit.

“I thought you might like company,” she offered.

The words were out of him before he could stop them. “You shouldn’t have left camp.”

She shrugged; the gesture, like all her gestures, was a mere shadow of her former state. Even her gaze seemed weakened. “You worry as much as he does.” She looked about for something to sit down on, settled on a broken stump. “Which is a little too much, sometimes.” She lowered herself onto it with a sigh. “Sometimes you have to get away . . . from fears, from people.” She met his eyes, held them. “You know what I mean?”

He could feel the color come to his face; he fought the impulse to turn away from her. “It’s too dangerous, Cee. You shouldn’t be alone, not even for a few minutes.”

“I know,” she told him. “And yet . . . it’s as if too much risk numbs the mind to danger. Is that possible? Sometimes I have to consciously remind myself how close we are to our enemy, how much power he has . . . but even then it’s distant, somehow. Unreal. As if I have to work to be afraid.”

She looked down at her hands, as if studying them for answers. And at last said, quietly, “I never had a chance to tell you. About the memories. Just bits and pieces . . . but I had them again, for a time. During Gerald’s Working. As if, while that creature used my body, I could sense something of his. My memories, stored in his flesh.” She looked up at him; her brown eyes glistened in the sunlight. “I relived . . . when you came to me. Do you remember, Zen?”

It had been so long ago—and was so much a part of a different world, to which he no longer belonged—that it took him a minute to recall it. To recall himself, at that age.

“Yes,” he said softly. And he winced, remembering.

“You were young. So young. Do you remember? That was the image I got when we made contact. Your face—what I saw in it—what I Knew of you. But what I remembered most of all was your youth. Gods, you were so young . . .”

“I’m only thirty-four now,” he said defensively.

“Yes. Still young. Body not aging yet—not irrevocably, anyway. Still at an age where the fae can regenerate flesh . . .” She let the thought trail off into silence. Let him finish it for himself. “Do you remember why you came to me? What you wanted?”

The color was hot in his face now, and he did turn away. “Cee, please . . .”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

He shook his head slowly, and bit his lower lip; it alarmed him that the memory could still awaken such pain. “It’s not shame, Cee. It’s . . . I didn’t understand. That’s all. I wanted the world to be something that it wasn’t.”

“You came to me seeking vision,” she said softly. “Not power, not wealth, not even immortality . . . not any of the things that other men seek. Just the Sight.”

He kept his voice even, but it took all his self-control; beneath that surface he could feel himself trembling, his whole soul shivering with humiliation. “And you explained the truth. That I couldn’t ever have it.”

“Yes. I had to. Dedication like yours deserved honesty, no matter how much the truth might hurt. And maybe, if the knowledge hurt that much, it was in part because so many people had lied to you—had led you to believe that there was some kind of hope, when there wasn’t—”

“They weren’t adepts,” he said quickly. “They couldn’t know.”

“It’s just—I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He shut his eyes; his soul ached with regret, with the pain of shattered dreams. “You did what you had to.”

“It was what I believed. What we all believed. That adeptitude was an inborn trait; one either had it or one didn’t. That no act of man, no manner of Working, might cause the Sight to exist in one who hadn’t been born with it.”

He heard her draw in a deep breath. Gathering her courage? “I was wrong, Zen.”

He turned to her. Not quite absorbing her words, or what they might mean. The shock was too great.

“I believed what I told you,” she assured him. “And any adept would have said the same—any honest one. But that’s only because none of us had lived long enough to understand—”

She stopped herself suddenly, as if her own confession distressed her. He could feel his hands shaking, with need and fear combined, and he felt as if he stood on the edge of a precipice. Balanced at the edge of a great yawning Pit, about to topple into it.

“Long enough for what?” He could barely manage the words. “What are you saying, Cee?”

She whispered it—furtively, as if afraid that some other might hear. “No act of man could do it, I told you. No act of man could wield enough power to break down the soul’s own barriers . . . no act of a single man,” she stressed. “But what if hundreds of sorcerers were to combine their skills—what if thousands were to pour all their vital energy, all their hopes and dreams, into one all-powerful Working—wouldn’t that be enough? Couldn’t the laws of Erna be altered with such a force as that?”

He stared at her in disbelief, could find no words to say.

“Gerald made me aware of the pattern. Showed me what to look for. He was around when that kind of power was first conjured, saw with his own eyes what it could do . . . but I don’t think even he thought of this. Or would have told you, if he did.” She leaned forward, hands on her knees. Her voice was couched low, but there was fever in her tone. “The Fire, Zen. That’s what it is. The power of thousands, concentrated in that one tiny flask. Tamed, to serve man’s will.” She paused, giving the words time to sink in. Their meaning burned like flame. “I believe it could free you. I believe it could give you what you want.”

She rose from where she sat and came to him; not close enough to touch, but nearly. “I don’t have all my old knowledge,” she told him. “I can’t know for sure that it’ll work. But the more Gerald tells me about the kind of power that was wielded in the days of the Holy Wars, the more I think . . .” She drew in a deep breath. “It could change you, Senzei. Give you what you dreamed of, in those days. You still want it, don’t you?”

“Gods, yes . . .” Was it really possible? He had worked so hard to bury that hope, so that he might not destroy his life with it. Now, to consider it again, after all those years . . . For a moment he could hardly speak in answer. He was afraid that in the place of words might come something less dignified, like tears, or gasping, or simply speechless trembling. The emotion was almost too much to bear.

“Does he know?” he managed. “Damien. Did you tell him?”

“How could I?” she said gently. “He’d never let you have it. Such a use would be . . . blasphemy, to him.”

“Then isn’t this—your being here—isn’t that a kind of betrayal?”

“I don’t share his faith,” she reminded him.

“But doesn’t that mean—I mean, Damien—”

“Don’t mistake me. I care for him, deeply. But philosophically . . .” She seemed to hesitate. “We’re from different worlds, it seems sometimes. The faith he serves . . .” She shook her head. “It’s not that I don’t respect it, or him. But gods! They’re living in a dreamworld, filled with misty hopes and misguided passions . . . and I’m simply a pragmatist. A realist. This is my world. I accept it. I live in it. And if you give me a source of power, I’ll use it—as the gods intended.”

She touched a hand to his cheek, gently; the storm of emotion inside him made the contact seem an almost alien thing, oddly distant from him. “Romance between man and woman is such a fleeting thing,” she said softly. “You of all people should know that. But the devotion of a true friend . . . that endures forever. My loyalties are just what they should be, Zen. And I’ll stand by them to my grave.”

He should have had so many misgivings, so many fears—but the pounding of his heart drowned them all out, until it was hard to focus on any one thought. Feebly—mechanically—he protested, “It’s his weapon. Our weapon.”

“And do you think this will lessen it? Would the whole pint of Fire be so diminished by a few drops? He spared that much to Work his weapons, back in Mordreth. And again in the rakhene camp.” Her voice was a whisper, barely audible above the sound of the breeze stirring the leaves—but he heard every word as though it were a shout, felt her meaning etched in fire upon his soul. “One drop, maybe two,” she whispered. “That’s all it would take. I know it. And think, Zen, if it worked . . . then you’d be our weapon. You’d be able to use everything that’s inside you, instead of keeping it all pent up in your brain. Take the hunger of all those years and turn it into power . . . and he’d still have nearly a pint left. He’d never even know it was gone! And Zen . . . you’d be able to help us, like you never could before. Wouldn’t that be a fair trade? If you could only manage that, then we wouldn’t have to rely so much on—”

She stopped suddenly, and wrapped her arms around herself as if her own words had chilled her.

“The Hunter?”

She whispered it. “Yes.”

He chose his words carefully, tried to keep his voice steady. “Damien wouldn’t give it to me.”

“No. Not willingly.”

“Is there any other way?”

She hesitated. He felt mixed emotions—elation, terror, need—flood his soul. “Please, Cee.”

“I can Distract him,” she said softly. “Gerald taught me how. He didn’t mean it for this purpose . . . but he wouldn’t have to know, will he? I can give Damien dreams while he’s sleeping. Keep his attention fixed on them, so that he doesn’t wake up. You’d only need minutes. Later . . .” She breathed in deeply. “Later you could Work him yourself. Like an adept, Zen. You’d be an adept.”

He shut his eyes, felt a violent trembling course through his body. The dream, the need . . . it was almost too much to bear. The hope itself was too powerful, too overwhelming; like an ocean tide, it threatened to drag him under.

“Dangerous . . .” he whispered.

“The sun-power? The church’s fae? How could it be? That’s a force born of pure benevolence, bound together for cleansing purposes. What could be possibly be safer? You saw him use it last night—saw him hold it against me, to protect me from the dark fae. Did it burn me? Could it burn me?” When he said nothing, she pressed, “What’s the only Working that his church will tolerate, even now? Healing. Because that’s what his faith is all about, Zen—that’s where their power lies. That’s what the Fire is.”

He had lost his voice, and with it his resistance. The dream had hold of him again, and the hunger that had burned in him for so long had become something else—a lover, a seduction—no longer fever-hot but cool, blissfully cool, like the touch of a woman whose skin had been chilled by the night, all fluid ice and liquid passion and burning need at once . . .

Then she touched a finger to his lips and whispered—so low that he could hardly hear her—“We can’t discuss this again, you understand that? There’s a link between Damien and me, strong enough that he might read your intentions through it. And as for Gerald . . .” She turned away from him; a shiver seemed to pass through her flesh. “There’s nothing I can keep from him now. Nothing. Not after I submitted my soul to him.” She shook her head. “It would be too dangerous, you understand that? He depends on his adept’s skills to control the party. And me. If he thought for a moment that there was a way you could challenge his dominance—”

He shivered in fear—but the fear was enticing. Challenge Gerald Tarrant? “I understand,” he whispered.

“I think I can keep him from knowing, for a time. Despite . . . what’s between us. But I can only manage that if I can pretend that nothing’s happening. Pretend I don’t know myself what you’re planning. So we can’t discuss it again, ever.”

“But if you do that—I mean, how can you—”

“Help you?” She turned back to face him. Her eyes were bright. “I can Work Damien’s dreaming ahead of time. Gerald taught me how. If I do that, and then you go to his side when he’s sleeping, nothing short of a quake would wake him up. I promise it. You don’t even have to tell me your decision. It would be safer if you didn’t—for both of us. Only . . .” she hesitated. “If you do it, it has to be soon. We don’t have many more days before . . . before . . . gods.” She lowered her head, and he thought he saw her tremble. “We’ll be in their territory,” she breathed. Her voice so soft that he could hardly hear it. “Soon.”

“Cee. You’ll be all right. I promise you.” He put his arm around her—her flesh was cold, her skin so pale—and she cupped his nearer hand in hers and squeezed it. So much love in that simple gesture. So much support. He ached to know how to return such emotion. If he only had the skills of an adept, with which to Work a suitable response . . . he ached with longing, just thinking of it. The old dreams were taking hold of him again. The old recklessness. Soon, he promised himself. Soon. If the Fire freed him, then all the rules could change. For the better.

“Be careful, Senzei,” she whispered.

In a party of four, only so many duty combinations were possible. With two of the company sleeping and two sharing watch at any given time—and at least three days’ travel left before they reached Lema’s western border—the odds were good that chance would favor Senzei, and give him the opportunity he required.

Or so he told himself. Because waiting and hoping was easier—and safer—than doing.

I don’t want the power just for myself, he told himself, as the cold sweat of guilt kept him from sleeping. I want to be able to help Ciani. I want to be able to do my share, like she said. And I could, if the Fire would free me.

He wanted it so desperately. And feared it, with equal fervor. Most of all he wanted the decision to be out of his hands; wanted the dreadful balance of need versus betrayal to swing one way or the other without him, so that he might be spared such an awesome responsibility.

It’s not betrayal. Not if I take what the Fire gives me and use it to help others. Is it?

Ciani, I need your counsel! But her warning had been a sound one: to speak of anything, in this company, was to risk being heard by all. And he couldn’t afford that. Not if he meant to do it. Any of them would stop him. Any one of them . . .

Damien, I wish I could confide in you. I wish your faith would allow it.

On the second day, during the late afternoon shift, his chance came at last. Hesseth and Ciani took the watch together, removing themselves to a nearby promontory from which they might view the surrounding area. Damien and Senzei were left to get what rest they could . . . but there was no question of Senzei sleeping. Long after Damien had wrapped himself in blankets against the chill of the afternoon, long after his husky snoring indicated that he, at least, had found some respite, Senzei’s pounding heart kept him awake, and the rush of adrenaline through his body made him tremble with need.

Now. Do it now.

Carefully, he pushed back his own blankets. Quietly, he dressed himself. Thick shirt and jacket, worn leather boots. The weeks of traveling had taken their toll on his wardrobe; nearly every layer was patched or repaired in some place.

When he was done, he crept to where Damien lay and settled there, watching him. The priest slept clothed, as always, and his sword was laid out by his side. Ready for battle, even in slumber. Ready to respond to the slightest disturbance with a lunge for that sharpened steel, and—

Stop it!

A cold sweat filmed his forehead as he studied the sleeping form. Would Ciani’s Working take? Would it hold? How would he know when—or if—it was happening? But even as he watched, a change in the priest’s demeanor became apparent. His eyes flickered rapidly beneath closed lids, as if scanning some dreambound horizon. A soft hiss escaped his lips, and his brow furrowed tightly. His hands began to flex, like a sleeping animal’s, and the muscles across his shoulders tightened as if in preparation for combat. Whatever dream had him in its thrall, he was wholly its creature.

Now. Do it.

Gently he folded the priest’s blanket down to his waist, then crouched back nervously to see if there was any response. None. With trembling hands, then, he reached out to where the small leather pouch was bound to the man’s belt and somehow managed to slide open its clasp. Damien groaned once, noisily, but the sound was clearly in response to some dreamworld menace, not Senzei. Carefully, gently, he slid the silver flask from its housing. Golden light warmed his hand, made his skin tingle with anticipation. Even the few drops of moisture still trapped in the crystal vial had that much power; how much more was in his hands, in that precious pint of fluid?

Shaking, he managed to get the pouch closed again. It was important to leave things just as they should be, so that if Damien awoke too soon he wouldn’t suspect what had happened. Would Ciani’s Distracting work again so that Senzei could return the Fire to its housing? He didn’t know; he should have asked. But that was the least of his concerns. By that time—gods willing—he would be an adept himself, capable of protecting his own secrets.

For a moment he simply sat there and cradled the silver flask in his hands; its warmth soothed his nerves, drove out the chill that had been part of him for longer than he cared to remember. If he had feared that the Fire might harm him, the touch of its light was utter reassurance. Like the sunlight that it mimicked, it had no power to harm an ordinary man; the force of its venom was directed at the nightborn, the demonic, creatures that shied away from the source of life even as they fed upon its bounty.

With care he crept from the camp. Gods alone knew what would happen to him when he took in the Fire, what form such a transformation of the soul might take; he didn’t want to risk waking Damien and facing both his rage and the Fire at once. Hand closed tightly about the precious flask, he found his way through an insulating thicket of trees, and did not stop until he was safely out of sight of his companions’ camp. Only then, safe in a tiny clearing, did he dare to unfold his fingers and regard the smooth polished metal, and the light that seemed to radiate even through its substance.

“Gods of Erna protect me,” he whispered. And with shaking hands, he unstoppered the small container.

Light spilled out from it, a cloud of purest gold. Even in the brilliant sunlight it was visible, driving back the afternoon shadows that filled the tiny clearing and suffusing the air with clear, molten luminescence. For a moment he just stared at it, at its effect, drinking in the promise of its power. And fearing it. The hunger was so strong in him that he could barely hold his hand steady, and it was several minutes before he dared to pour out a few drops of the precious elixir. With utmost care, he gentled them into his palm. And raised his hand to his lips, that his body might drink and absorb that cleansing power.

I willingly accept change, in whatever form it comes. I willingly accept the destruction of everything I have been, in order to create what I must become.

He touched his tongue to the precious drops and shivered in fear and need as his flesh drew the moisture in. Heat surged through him, not the essence of the Fire yet, but something from a far more human source: a heat in his loins that made him stiffen with need, the hunger of his soul made manifest in his flesh. His heart pounded wildly as he swallowed the church-Worked water, its beat so loud in his ears that he couldn’t have heard his companions if they’d called to him. For a moment, sheer anticipation surged through his veins—and with it a giddy ecstacy a thousand times more intense than sexual excitement, more intoxicating than a gram of pure cerebus. He nearly cried out from the force of it. Pure hunger, pure need, coursing through his veins like blood; he shook from the onslaught, embraced the pain of it, felt tears come to his eyes as the desperate need of an entire lifetime was coalesced in one burning instant.

Do whatever you want to me, he thought—to his gods, to the Fire, to whatever would listen. He felt tears coursing down his cheeks—and they were hot, like flame. Whatever it takes. Whatever will change me.

Please . . .

The Fire was inside him now, and its sorcerous heat took root in his flesh. His muscles contracted in sudden pain as the burning lanced outward, heat stabbing into his flesh like white-hot knives. The pain pulsed hotter and hotter with each new heartbeat: the agony of sorcerous assault, of transformation. With effort he gritted his teeth and endured it, though his whole body shook with the effort. Tears burned his face like acid as they coursed from his eyes to his cheeks, and then dropped to the ground; he thought he heard them sizzling as they struck the grass, and the thick smell of dry leaves smoking filled his nostrils, crowding out all oxygen. Inside him, he could feel his heart laboring desperately to keep pace with the transformation, and its beat was a fevered drum-roll inside his ears.

He had shut his eyes in the first onslaught of pain; now, somehow, he managed to open them. The trees about him had been stripped bare as if by fire, and he could see between their blackened trunks to the sun beyond, a thousand times more bright and more terrible than any mere sun should be. With one part of his mind he acknowledged how deadly it was to gaze upon that blazing sphere for more than an instant—but then he knew with utter certainty that it had changed, that he had changed, and that no mere light could harm him. And so he stared at it defiantly even as new pain racked his flesh; kept his vision fixed on it as his muscles spasmed erratically, pain overwhelming him in spurts of fire. The very woods about him seemed to be burning now, with a flame as pure and as white as that of the sun itself; he heard its roaring eclipse the sound of his racing pulse, felt the song of its burning invade the very marrow of his bones. The clearing he was in was surrounded by fire, and white flames licked at him, smoking his clothing, scalding his flesh. He fought the urge to flee, to scream, to try to unmake the bond that was transforming him. Whatever it takes! he repeated, as fresh pain speared through his flesh. Blood sizzled in his ears, his fingers, its red substance boiling within his flesh. Whatever is required! The whole sky was ablaze with light, the whole forest filled with fire—and he was a part of it, his flesh peeling back in blackened strips as he embraced the flames, his blood steaming thickly in the superheated air. A sudden pain burst in his eyes and his vision was suddenly gone; thick fluid, hot as acid, poured down his cheeks.

It was then that he began to fear. Not as he had before, but with a new and terrible clarity. What if he didn’t consume the Fire, but rather, it consumed him? What if its power was simply too vast, too untempered, for mere human flesh to contain it? He tried to move his body, but the roasted meat that his flesh had become would not respond. Daylight can’t hurt you, Ciani had said—but it could, he realized suddenly, in enough quantity. It could burn, and dehydrate, and inspire killing cancers . . . he struggled to move again, to gain any sense of control over his flesh, but the precious nerves that connected thought to purpose had sizzled into impotence, and his body would not respond. Uncontrolled, his body spasmed helplessly on the dry, cracked earth. Flame roared skyward with a sound like an earthquake—and then was suddenly silenced, as the mechanism that allowed him to hear split open and curled back in blackened tatters, releasing one last bit of moisture into the conflagration.

And somewhere, amidst his last fevered thoughts—somewhere in that storm of pain, that endless burning—the knowledge came to him. Not a knowing of his own devising, but one placed there: a last sharp bit of suffering to make the dying that much more painful, so that the creature who fed on it might be wholly sated. Knowledge: sharp, hot, and terrifying. Despair burned like acid inside him as he saw her approach—as he submitted to the vision that was placed in his brain, in the absence of true eyes to see it with.

Ciani. Cold, and dark against the fire. She came to his side and knelt there. Not concerned, not upset . . . only hungry. And he could feel the hot tongue of her hunger lapping at his suffering, as he slid down into the fevered blackness of utter despair.

The last thing he saw was her eyes. Backlit by fire.

Gleaming, faceted eyes. Insect eyes.

Ciani!

Damien scanned the sky anxiously. In the west the sun had already set, and the bloodstained bellies of the farthest clouds were the last vestige of a short but dramatic sunset. Soon the last of the stars would follow, leaving Domina’s crescent alone in the heavens. Dark, it was nearly dark. So where the hell was he?

“There.” Ciani pointed. “See?”

In the distance: white wings, gleaming like silver against the evening sky. Not for the first time, Damien wondered at the Hunter’s choice of color; black seemed much more his style, both for its ominous overtones and its very real value as camouflage. Of course, it was always possible that he did it just to irritate the priest. That would be very much his style.

While the three of them waited anxiously, Tarrant circled twice above the camp, checking out the surrounding terrain before he landed. Damien wondered what he would find. Would his bird’s-eye view give him some insight into what had happened, and make explanations unnecessary? Or would he come to ground as ignorant as they were, and thus dispel the last of their fevered hopes? Something in Damien’s chest tightened as he watched. He doesn’t know what happened, he told himself. So if he doesn’t see anything special in the currents, it might be because he doesn’t know what to look for.

The Hunter came to ground before them, wings curling so fluidly to brake his flight that the action seemed a ballet, a dance of triumph of one man’s will over mere avian flesh. Then coldfire blossomed, consumed him; white features melted into flesh with practiced efficiency, a display that never ceased to awe. But this time Damien had other more important things on his mind, and the few minutes that it took for the Hunter’s flesh to readopt its human form seemed a small eternity. At last, when the coldfire finally faded, he searched the Hunter’s face anxiously, looking for some hint of what the man might have discovered. But the adept’s expression was the same as always: cool, collected, a smooth stone mask meant to frustrate prying eyes. If he had seen anything useful, it couldn’t be told from his face.

So he said the words, and made it official—the act, and the fact of their ignorance. “Senzei’s gone.”

The Hunter drew in a breath, sharply; he didn’t like it any more than they did, though probably for other reasons. “Dead?”

Damien felt that bitter sense of helplessness rising in him again, which he had been fighting all afternoon. The frustration of total ignorance. The shame of forced inaction. “Missing. Sometime in the afternoon. He was in the camp with me, sleeping . . . and when I awoke he was gone.” He shook his head tightly. “No sign of why or where.”

“Did you track him with the fae?”

Damien’s face darkened in irritation. “Of course. And we found a trail leading to the edge of the forest. That ended there. Abruptly. As if-” He hesitated.

“Something had erased it,” the Hunter supplied.

Damien felt something cold stir inside him, that was half fear and half anger. “Possibly.”

“Did you search for him? Bodily?”

It was Ciani who spoke. “As much as we dared.” Hearing the tremor in her voice, Damien took her hand and squeezed it. Her flesh was nearly as cold as his own. He explained, “It meant dividing the party so that one of us would be alone. Or leaving the camp unguarded. We didn’t dare—”

“No,” the Hunter said shortly. “Because if something had waylaid Mer Reese for the express purpose of rendering you vulnerable, you would be playing right into its hands.” He glanced at the party’s mounts—packed and dressed and ready to go—and at the campsite, already scrubbed clean of any sign of human habitation. “Did you find—”

“Nothing,” Ciani whispered. She lowered her head. “No sign of him beyond that which led to the edge of the camp. No trail.”

“We could hardly scour the woods at random,” Damien said.

“You did exactly what you should have done, and—more important—you avoided doing those things which might have gotten you killed.” The silver eyes fixed on Damien and seemed to bore into him. “To feel any guilt over the matter—”

“That’s my business,” the priest said harshly. “And if I want to feel lousy because a friend of mine might have been in danger—dying, possibly—while I had to sit here and twiddle my thumbs until night fell . . . you just stay out of it, all right? That’s part of being human.”

The breeze had shifted direction, bringing a gust of cold toward them from the east. Tarrant blinked a few times, as if something in the chill air had caught in his eyes. “As you wish,” he said quietly. “As for the trail, or lack thereof . . .” He turned to the rakh-woman. “Did you search with them?”

Her lips parted slightly, displaying sharpened teeth. “I packed the camp,” she told him.

“She hasn’t tracked in the woods before,” Damien said. “I asked. She wouldn’t know the kind of sign—”

“Maybe not. But there are senses which atrophied in humankind that may still function among the rakh. And if our enemy doesn’t yet know that a nonhuman travels with us, he might not have allowed for them.”

“You mean, that a trail might still exist for her.”

“Precisely. His attempts to obscure—”

He coughed suddenly, and brought his hand up to his mouth in unconscious reflex, to mask the rasping sound. Such behavior was so uncharacteristic for him that no one said anything, merely watched as he breathed once, heavily, as though testing the air. And then coughed again. When at last it seemed that the spasm had ended, he lowered his hand from his mouth and seemed about to speak. And then he looked down at his hand, and all speech left him. What little color he had faded into white—the hue of fragile vellum, of corpses. It made Damien’s blood run cold.

“Gerald?” It was Ciani. “What is it?”

Silently he opened his hand, and turned it so they could see. Moonlight illuminated a smear of deep carmine. Blood. His.

“Something’s very wrong,” he whispered. He looked up, and out into the night. His manner reminded Damien of a hunting dog, testing the air for a scent of its prey. Or perhaps of a deer, seeking the smell of predators.

At last he turned to the priest. His eyes were bloodshot, their pupils shrunk to mere pinpoints. His face was flushed, as if from fever. Or sunburn?

In a voice that was tense, he asked, “Where’s the Fire?”

It took Damien a moment to realize what he was asking, and why. When he did so, he reached to the pouch at his side and hefted it slightly in answer. But the weight that should have been in it wasn’t. He fumbled with the catch, finally got the small pouch open. The crystal vial was still intact, and it glowed with reassuring light—but the silver flask, its companion, was gone.

Gone.

He looked up at the Hunter. The man had one hand raised, while the other was shielding his eyes. It was clear that he was Working—or trying to. His breathing was labored, and obviously painful. After a moment, the wind shifted direction. After several moments, it held.

The Hunter lowered his hand from before his eyes—they were red, a terrible red, like balls of congealed blood—and asked, in a hoarse whisper, “Is it possible that Mer Reese would betray you?”

“Never!” Ciani cried, and Damien muttered, “No. Not that.”

“Are you sure?” He looked at each of them in turn, fixing them with his bloodshot gaze. “So very sure? What if our enemy offered him what he wanted most of all—an adept’s vision, in return for one simple betrayal of trust? Wouldn’t that tempt him?”

Damien shook his head—but something in him tightened, something cold and uncertain. “Tempt him, maybe. Seduce him, no. Not Senzei.” His voice was firm, as if he was trying to convince not only Tarrant but himself. Was he? “Not like that.”

Ciani offered, “He might have gone off alone if he thought there was something he could do that way, to help—”

“He didn’t have that kind of courage,” the Hunter said harshly.

“He had courage enough to put his life on the line for a friend,” Damien said sharply. “That counts in my book.”

“Can you find him?” Ciani asked. “Can you use the Fire?”

He turned his eyes on her; already the redness was receding, but he was still a terrible sight. “I can’t, in any form, shape, or manner, use the Fire. But we do have a direction in which to search, now.” He looked eastward, toward the source of the Fire-laden breeze. “With that, and Hesseth’s senses, we may succeed in picking up his trail.” He looked at the rakh-woman; she nodded. “Only one thing worries me—”

“That the wind was no accident,” Damien supplied.

He looked at him sharply. “You felt that?”

Damien shook his head. “Call it good guesswork.”

“There’s the touch of a foreign hand on the weather patterns. Fleeting, evasive . . . and the Fire burns too brightly. I can’t read its origin. But it’s a good bet that someone—or something—wants us to go after him.”

The priest walked to where his horse was tethered and patted it once on the neck. He removed the springbolt from its pack, and pulled back on it hard, to load. “Then we go armed,” he said. “And we go damned carefully. Right?”

For once, they all agreed.

They found him in a small clearing perhaps a mile from the camp. Hesseth had picked out the smell of death and led them toward it, so they already knew what they might find. Nevertheless it was a shock to see him lying there—lifeless, so utterly, obviously lifeless—that for a moment no one could say anything, only stare at the corpse of their companion in terrible, mute silence, as the magnitude of the loss only slowly hit home.

Senzei was dead. And he had not died easily; that much was clear from the condition of his corpse. His mouth was open, as if in a scream. The eyes were wide, and rolled up into his head so that the pupils—mere pinpoints, hardly visible—lay at their upper edge, against the lid. Every muscle of his body was rigid, as if death had merely frozen him in his suffering; his muscles stood out like gnarled ropes along his neck, wrists, and face, giving his skin the striated texture of a mummy. His body was arched back in the manner of corpses left in the sun to dry, and his fingers were splayed apart in a grotesque mockery of a Working-sign.

“He died in terror,” the Hunter told them. “Or perhaps, of terror.”

Damien approached. Behind him, he heard the soft scrunch of grass as Ciani did the same. She went to the body. He went to the place some feet distant from it, where a single glint of silver in the moonlight hinted at an even more terrible loss.

It was there, lying on a bed of browning leaves. The silver flask, unstoppered. Open. Empty. There was still a faint shimmer about the ground where it had fallen, but the light was so dim compared to the Fire itself that it was clear the thirsty earth had drawn the water down, deep down, where no simple act of man might retrieve it. What little had remained for the air to claim had been carried to them on the wind, and was now dissipated. The Fire was gone.

He picked up the emptied container, and its metal was cold to the touch. Almost as cold as his flesh. Inside him was a bleak and terrible emptiness, as if all the accustomed warmth of his soul had deserted him. Sorrow took its place. And in its wake, shame.

He turned back to the body. Ciani was kneeling by its side, clasping Senzei’s hand in hers as though somehow the contact could bring him back to life. But the emptiness in her eyes told a different story.

“He’s gone,” she whispered. Her voice, shaking, was barely audible. Her hands tightened about Senzei’s. “I did . . . I can’t . . .” She looked up at him; her eyes were wet with tears. “For me,” she whispered. “He died because of me.”

“He did what he felt he had to.” The words of comfort came automatically, dredged up from some distant storehouse of priestly wisdom. “That’s all any of us can do, Cee. You can’t blame yourself.”

“The Fire’s gone?” It was the Hunter.

He shut his eyes, felt the shame rising again. Damn you, Tarrant. Damn you. “Yes,” he said quietly. “The Fire’s gone.” He looked at Ciani, felt a wetness on his cheeks to match her own. “We’ll bury him,” he said softly.

It was the Hunter who responded. “There’s no soul here to do honor to—surely we all know that. To waste time administering to empty flesh—”

“Burial isn’t for the dead.” He looked up at Tarrant, found the man’s eyes and skin already healing. He wondered if the wounds in his own soul would heal as fast. “It’s for the living,” he whispered. “Part of the healing.”

“Even so, we can’t—”

“Hunter!” He could feel the coldness come into his own gaze, like ice, could hear it in his voice. “You don’t understand. You can’t understand. That part of you’s been dead for so long you couldn’t remember it if you tried. And you don’t want it back,” he whispered hoarsely. “You willed it to die. All right. You succeeded. The living have their needs. You have yours. So just go, and leave us alone. Stand guard if you want—or go kill something if it makes you happy. Anything. Just leave. You have no place here.”

Tarrant’s expression was unreadable—and for once, Damien had no desire for insight. Then he turned, and with a swirl of his cloak disappeared into the deepening shadows. The depths of the forest hid him from sight.

A soft noise from Hesseth caused him to look in her direction. The rakh-woman had taken out a small shovel from among their camping supplies, and was offering it to him. Wordlessly, he took it. And began to dig.

And he prayed: Forgive me, God. Forgive me, for my human weaknesses. Forgive me, for my failure to rise above the distractions of day-to-day life, and keep my spirit fixed on Your higher ideals. Forgive me, that in that moment of shock I forgot Your most important lesson: that a lost object might be replaced, a lost work recreated, a lost battle rejoined . . . but a human life, once lost, can never be restored. Forgive me, that I forgot that primal truth. Forgive me that when I came here my first thought was for the Fire—a mere object!—and not for the loss of a human life, or the sorrow of the living.

He dug his blade deep into the chill earth, pressed onto it with a booted foot to drive it even deeper.

And help me to forgive myself, he pleaded.

35

Gerald Tarrant thought: It has to be here. Somewhere.

Beneath his wings the vast expanse of the eastern divide rippled with the currents of fae pouring over rocks: brilliant blue earth-power, the rainbow flicker of tidal forces, strands of vibrant purple that licked forth from the deepest shadows as if testing the air for sunlight. To the east of him the sky was already lightening, midnight black and navy blue giving way to a sullen gray, first harbinger of the dawn. He should be in hiding by now. He should have found some place deep beneath the earth and already be settling himself into it. So that the powers that hid from sunlight might wrap him in their soothing chill, and renew his failing strength.

But not yet. Another few minutes, another few miles. It must be here, somewhere...

In the east, slowly, deep gray gave way to a sickly green; he winced as the light burned his feathers but kept on flying. He had chosen a white form, and that should protect him for a while; nothing short of direct sunlight would make it past that reflective coat. Nevertheless, his eyes felt hot and tender, and his talons throbbed painfully in time with each wingbeat. Time to land, soon. Time to take shelter. How many minutes left till sunrise? He was cutting it damned close, that was certain.

Taking chances, Hunter? Not like you.

Hell. This whole damned trip isn’t like you.

With careful eyes he scanned the ground beneath him, searching for . . . what? What shape would the Lost Ones’ caverns take, that would be reflected in the currents above? What kind of sign would there be, and would he know how to read it? Most important of all—would he find such a sign before the sun’s hateful light drove him underground once more, so that he might return to his companions with some measure of hope?

Damn them all, he thought darkly. And: Damn the fate that brought me to this place.

He would be hard put to say exactly what drove him to continue, as dawn’s increasing light made each wingstroke harder to manage, each rational thought that much harder to muster. He had already found two caverns that would have been more than adequate shelter for the coming day, but had entered neither of them. Instead he had turned toward the north and begun to search for some sign of the Lost Ones, some gesture of hope that he might bring back to his grieving party. And even while he searched, it irritated him that he cared enough to bother. Cared enough to risk the pain of sunlight in service to their cause. That was dangerous. That was human. But the feeling was there, too strong to ignore. Not born of sympathy, however, but of anger.

My failure, he thought grimly, recalling Senzei’s body. It wasn’t the man’s death that bothered him so much; that life was as valueless as any other, and in another place and time he might have snuffed it out himself, with no more passing thought than one gave to the squashing of an insect. No—what bothered him was simply the fact that he, Gerald Tarrant, had been bested. Tricked. His own Working had been turned against him, without him even sensing it. That burned him, more than Domina’s light and the coming dawn combined.

You’re going to die, my enemy, and not pleasantly. I promise you that.

He searched the land with an adept’s eye, reading the currents that coursed beneath him. It was no hard task to locate mere caverns; the eddies that formed above them made them as visible as rocks in running water, and he easily assigned to each a location, size, and probable shape. But he was looking for something different this time. A smoother flow, perhaps, or staccato burst of turbulence; something that would indicate a cave-but-not-cave, an underground structure that rakh, not nature, had created.

And then, just as the sky turned a forbidding gold at its lower edge—just as he knew that he must take shelter immediately, with or without reaching his goal—he saw it. His attention fixed wholly on the ground ahead of him, he banked to a lower altitude. And studied the area closely. Yes. There.

A unique pattern of earth-fae marked the western slope of the mountain beneath him, a succession of whorls and eddies too uniform to be wholly natural. The ground above tunnels might look like that, if the tunnels were uniform enough. He looked about, saw other slopes with the same pattern; the whole area must be riddled with tunnels. He fought the urge to explore further and dropped down to the earth, seeking shelter. His muscles burned from the light of dawn; overhead, the stars of the Rim were already fading from sight. He searched the ground about him quickly, looking for some sign of the enemy’s presence; there was none. At last, satisfied that he was safe—for the moment—he let the current take him. Let his flesh dissolve, so that no more than his faith remained to maintain the spark of his life. It was terrifying, never ceased to be terrifying, not in all the years he had practiced it. And it was made no easier by the rakhland’s currents, which were barely strong enough to support a simple Working, much less one of such vital complexity. But one did what one had to, in the name of survival. There was no other option.

The changing drained him of the last of his strength, and because the humans weren’t present he allowed himself to be drained, to take a precious second and indulge in the sheer exhaustion of it. He had been growing weaker nightly, forced to rely upon primitive rakh and sometimes even more primitive animals for his sustenance. If the fae had to come from within him instead of being garnered from without, he would have been forced to stop Working long ago. The humans had no idea how much this trip was draining him—and they damned well weren’t going to find out, either. It wasn’t that he was afraid, exactly. Certainly not of that brash, swaggering fool of a priest. It was more a question of . . . pride. Stubbornness. And of course, self-defense.

Fat lot of good that’ll do you if you stay outside past dawn.

He searched for the patterns of earth-fae that would indicate some sort of entrance. This was where the tunnels began, so didn’t it stand to reason that there was some kind of opening here? He searched for long minutes, using all his skill and all his strength, and at last he found it. Barely in time. Already the rising sun had cast its first blazing spears across the sky, to light up the western peaks in warning. Even that much reflected light was enough to burn him, and he felt his exposed skin redden and peel as he tore away the tangled brush that hid the entrance to the rakhene tunnels. Barely in time, he crept inside. And worked his way to where a large protruding rock cast shadows of true darkness beyond. There he rested while dawn slowly claimed the valley he had just left, and the mouth of the tunnel behind him.

Playing it close, Hunter. He put a hand up to his face, felt a blister split beneath his fingertip. Too damned close. Ahead of him, cool darkness beckoned. Utter blackness, soothing and sweet; the healing power of total lightlessness. For the first time since he had overseen Ciani’s possession, he felt something akin to optimism. And when some of his strength had returned to him—not all of it, by any means, but enough—he pushed himself away from the rock at his back and began to make his way into the lightless labyrinth.

Soon dark fae began to gather around his feet, humming with the power of the underearth. The song of it was a subtle symphony compared to the blazing cacophony of day, and he drank in the delicate harmonies with relish. Behind him the last notes of dawn crashed their way through fissures and passages, but the light—and the sound—could not penetrate this far. He breathed a sigh of relief, knowing himself safe at last. And penetrated further, into the Lost Ones’ ancient lair.

The underground rakh had settled themselves in a system of interlinked caverns, altering the natural pattern only when necessary. The larger rooms were thus exactly as nature had carved them, vaulted cathedrals filled with the limestone residue of a million years of erosion. The tunnels connecting them, on the other hand, had clearly been enlarged, and chisel marks scoured the rock where ceiling and walls had been altered to allow for easy passage. There was no sign, anywhere, of recent occupancy. On the contrary, the one relic Tarrant found—a slender knife blade chipped from obsidian—was affixed to the floor by a thin film of limestone, that told of centuries passing since its deposition.

A good enough place to rest, at least. And I do need that. Sleeping in this secure a place would give him a chance to renew himself, and he needed that desperately. Time enough later to explore, when the darkness had healed his wounds.

Suddenly, there was a sound behind him. A faint whisper only, like the breath of silk against flesh. But it was enough. He had Seen that there was nothing alive in these caverns, would never have taken shelter here otherwise. So whatever might greet him here was not alive, neither human nor rakh—and therefore, it was likely to be dangerous. He braced himself to Work, took a precious second to bind the wild power to his will, then turned—

And froze. Only for an instant—but that was enough. His concentration shattered. The fae he had bound broke free of his will, and dispersed into the pool of its making. In that instant, that terrible instant, he knew just how much danger he was in, and he drew his sword in a last attempt to save himself; coldfire blazed forth from the Worked steel, filling the cavern with icy light.

And she stepped forward. Flawless in beauty, as she had been the day he’d killed her. Red-gold hair gathered about her shoulders like an aurora of light, warm skin and delicate blush defying the harsh illumination of the fae. Almea . . . It couldn’t be. It wasn’t. The dead never returned once Death had claimed them; at best this was a Sending, mindless and soulless, that had taken on her face in order to gain access to him. Or a demon, with some even darker intent. He forced himself to move, to strike—but it was too late already, he saw that in her eyes. Even as he unfroze, she moved. Delicate hands turning, canting forward an object whose surface flashed purple and blue as it moved. A mirror. Even as he raised his sword it fell into position, caught hold of a slender beam that had filtered down somehow through a crack in the earth—

Sunlight. It struck him full in the face, hard enough to send him reeling back against the rock. He shut his eyes against the terrible pain of it, felt his hands spasm helplessly as they burned, his sword dropping noisily to the rock beneath his feet. The dark fae sizzled and smoked about him, the reek of its dying thick in his nostrils. He tried to move, to find some kind of shelter—anything!—but the beam of light followed him. He tried to Work, gritting his teeth against the pain of it—but the earth-fae was too weak here, or else he was simply incapable, the pain of it was making concentration impossible . . . He reached back with numbed hands to the rock beneath him, and closed his shaking fingers about the thick folds of his cloak. And raised it, so that the cloth might cover his eyes. At least he might have that much darkness. But even as he did so, the light was diverted upward. A prism hidden deep in a fissure caught the beam, and divided it. Mirrors set in the rock reflected it once again—a thousand times—until the whole of the cavern was filled with it: a vast cacaphony of light, a symphony of burning. It wrapped about him like a web and speared through his skin at every unguarded point—pierced through the cloth itself and seared his flesh within, so that his muscles refused to obey him and he fell helplessly to the wet stone floor, unable to protect himself.

The lines of light connected, bent, became a terrible prison of pain that surrounded him on all sides. Gleaming mirrors reflecting the killing light of the sun down onto him, prisms dividing it into a thousand beams, a thousand colors, each one a separate note of agony, a separate flame in his flesh. Slowly, his struggles subsided. His body, incapacitated by the light, refused to respond to him; only his will remained, trapped within it like a caged animal. But even that was being drained of strength. The light was like a massive jewel, and he was in its center; there was no escape. Slowly darkness came to him—hot darkness, desolate of comfort—and the brimstone scent that lurked behind it was almost enough to start him struggling again. Almost. But the sun had burned him dry of life, and nothing remained but fear. Pain. And the absolute certainty of what awaited him, on the other side of death. The last thing he heard was his dead wife’s laughter.

36

“He’s not coming back.”

For a moment, silence. Only the words, hanging in the air between them like a knife. Sharp arid chill. Even in his absence the Hunter had that kind of power.

Ciani wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. “Or he’d be here by now,” she whispered. She stared out into the night as if daring it to contradict her. Her voice was shaking. “He’s not coming back, Damien.”

The priest bit back at least a dozen responses—sharp answers, empty optimisms, they were unworthy of her. Something cold was uncoiling inside him. Dread? Fear? He fought it back with effort, tried to keep the sound of it out of his voice. “Something must have happened,” he agreed. He forced his tone to remain even, unimpassioned. Now, most of all, they needed his strength. Now, most of all, she needed him.

Dusk. Twilight. Nightfall. They had waited through it all, the various stages of evening, and had received no word or sign from the Hunter that might explain his absence. How long did one wait, before finally giving up hope? Before admitting that the enemy’s divide and conquer policy seemed perfectly capable of taking on a single man and destroying him? Even such a man as Tarrant was. Preternaturally fae-fluent. Utterly cautious. If the enemy could take on someone like that, what hope did that leave for the rest of them?

He was trying not to think about that. And failing, miserably.

“What now?” Ciani whispered. “What do we do now, Damien?”

He forced his voice to be calm, though the rest of him was anything but. “We go on,” he said quietly. He reached out to touch her, gently—and then took her into his arms. He felt her soften, as if her flesh was a hard clay warmed by the heat of human contact. Slowly the stiffness of her fear gave way to the weakness of utter desolation, and finally exhaustion. Her face buried in the thick wool of his jacket, she wept. Gave way to the pressure of the last few weeks at last and let it all pour out, all the terror and the hope and the striving and the loss. Too much, he thought, as he tightened his arms around her. Too much for anyone. He could feel the tears building inside himself, tears of frustration and rage, but fought them back; she needed him now, too much for him to let go. First Senzei’s death. Then the loss of the Fire. Now . . . this. His thoughts were a jumble, fear and mourning and hatred and dread all tangled up so thoroughly that it was impossible for him to isolate any one emotion, to analyze its source. Which was just as well. Some things didn’t stand close inspection.

“We go on,” he repeated.

“Can we?” She drew her head back and looked at him. Her eyes were bloodshot, red-rimmed from lack of sleep. It struck him suddenly how very fragile she looked—not like Ciani at all. When had her strength given way to this? Or was that only a trick of his mind, that insisted on seeing her vulnerability plastered across her face? “If they could get to Gerald-” she began.

“That means nothing,” he said firmly. Keeping the doubt carefully out of his voice. He had to sound confident for her sake. “Tarrant was vulnerable,” he told her. “Powerful, yes, and manipulative, ruthless . . . but fatally flawed, in the Working that sustained his flesh. Remember what the Fire did to him, even from a distance? All our enemy would have had to do was keep him from finding shelter before daylight and he would be finished. That simple. It wouldn’t even require a direct confrontation.” He drew in a breath, sharply, “If he knew how to do that.” How did one entrap the Hunter? It frightened him more than anything that their enemy had figured out how.

“He should have stayed with us. We could have protected him.”

“Yes. Well.” He drew in a slow breath, tried to calm his own shaking nerves. “There wasn’t much likelihood of that, was there? He trusted me only slightly less than I trusted him. And now we’re both paying the price for it.”

Him more than me. A thousand times more. What kind of hell awaits a man like that? He tried to imagine it, and shivered. I wouldn’t wish that on any man. Not even him.

“What now?” the rakh-woman asked. “What plans, without the killer?”

He turned to face her. In the light of Prima’s crescent she looked particularly fierce, blue-white light glinting off her teeth like sparks of coldfire. His stomach tightened, to think of that power lost. That deadly potential.

“We wait out the night,” he told her. “Let him have that much time before we give up on him for good. If by morning he hasn’t come . . . then we make other plans.” Plans that don’t include him or the Fire. Or Senzei. He tried not to let his face betray his misgivings. Too much. Too quickly. How does one compensate for something like this?

He pulled his sword from its sheath, felt its leather grip warm to the touch of his hand. Already there were shadows gathering about the edges of their camp that were more than mere darkness: bits of the night given independent will—and hunger—by the party’s misgivings. How solid would such things become in the rakh-lands’ inferior currents? How many such creatures would come to hover about the camp, thirsting for a taste of the human minds that had helped birth them? Ever since Tarrant had joined the company in Kale his presence had driven off such threats, in a manner they had come to take for granted. Now, how many of their own fears would Damien have to kill—or at least frustrate—before the light of dawn scoured the landscape clean of such monstrosities?

Damn you, Tarrant, he thought grimly, as he hefted his sword. You picked a lousy time to die.

Maps. Spread out in the sunlight, dappled leaf-shadows mottling their surface like lichen. The breeze stirred and their edges lifted, struggling against stone paperweights. “These are all we have left,” Damien said grimly.

“Not the survey map.”

“No. He must have had that on him when . . . whatever.” It was safest not to speak of what had happened. Speaking led to questioning, which led to wanting to Know. And Knowing was dangerous. Whatever force had bested Tarrant might be waiting for them to establish just such a channel, in order to take them all. They dared not risk it. Not even to lessen the sting of ignorance.

“I’ve copied the important information, so we can each have a copy. In case we get separated.” He saw the fear coalescing in Ciani’s eyes, reached out to squeeze her hand in reassurance. Her flesh was cold, her eyes red. Her face was dry with exhaustion; had she slept at all since Senzei’s death? It bothered him that he didn’t know.

“We have to plan for it,” he told her, gently. “We have to plan for everything. I don’t like that any more than you do, but it’s suicide to do otherwise. The enemy’s strategy is clear: pick us off one by one, before we can get to his stronghold.” Leaving only the one he wants, he thought. You. But he didn’t say that. “God alone knows how he got to Tarrant, but with Senzei we can venture a guess. And when you’ve got an enemy that can play on your weaknesses like that . . . we’ve got to be prepared, Cee. For anything.”

“Do you still think there’s hope?” Her voice was a whisper, utterly desolate. “Even after all this?”

He met her eyes, and held them. Tried to will strength into his gaze, that she might draw on it for courage. “Very little,” he admitted. He wished he had the heart to lie to her. “But that’s as much as there ever was, on this trip. As for our chances now . . . remember, we planned this journey before we even met Tarrant. We’ll manage without him.”

“And Zen?” she asked softly. “And the Fire?”

He looked away. Forced his voice to be steady. “Yes. Well. We’ll have to, won’t we?”

He pulled the nearest map toward him and studied it, hoping she would do the same. Hesseth was silent, but her alien eyes followed his every movement. Carefully, he circled a few vital landmarks. Sansha Crater. Northern Lema’s focus of power. The trigger-point that Tarrant had Worked, so that when they reached it their duplicates—their simulacra—would begin the hazardous journey into ambush. The taste of that plan was bitter, but there was no stopping it now. And part of him was grateful. God knows, they needed a good Obscuring now. More than ever. He hated himself for feeling such gratitude.

Damn you, Hunter. Even in your death you haunt me.

“According to this, we’ve reached the point Tarrant meant us to.” He looked eastward—as though somehow mere vision could pierce through rock and span the miles, so that he might see that doomed quintet of doppelgangers. Quartet? Trio? How many? “Which means that even now the simulacra are setting out, to take our place.”

“So the enemy will focus his attention on them.”

“We can only hope so.”

He said it would be automatic. Said that when we reached this point, five rakh would depart for the Crater, wearing our forms. But we’re no longer five ourselves. Did he allow for that possibility? He was a thorough man, who anticipated so much . . . but would he ever make allowance for his own death?

He couldn’t imagine Tarrant doing that. And if not, then the whole scheme was wasted: five innocent rakh were marching toward death for no purpose. Because the minute their enemy saw that the numbers didn’t match, he would know that something was wrong. The thought of it made Damien sick inside—and he tried not to think about whether it was the death of five innocents that bothered him most of all, or the failure of Tarrant’s deception.

Carefully, he folded the maps. “We go north,” he said. “Toward the House of Storms. And we try to make contact with the Lost Ones. If we’re lucky—and Tarrant’s Working is a good one—we won’t be watched on the way.”

“And if not?” the rakh-woman asked.

He looked at her. And cursed the alien nature of her face, which made it impossible to read. “You tell me.”

“Can you back it up?” Ciani asked. “Do an Obscuring independent of Tarrant’s, in case the simulacra . . .” She hesitated.

“Don’t work?” he said gently.

She nodded.

“That would be very dangerous,” he said. Not meeting her eyes. “There was a . . . a channel, between the Hunter and myself.” Don’t ask me about it, he begged silently. Don’t ask me to explain. “If I were to attempt such a Working, while the fragments of his own still clung to the party . . . I could very well open up a clear channel between ourselves and the force that killed him.” And anything that could take on the Hunter could probably destroy us without pausing for breath.

“So all we have is what he did,” she said quietly. Eyes downcast; voice trembling slightly.

“Maybe.”

She looked up at him.

“I can’t do it. And neither can you. But that leaves one other person.” He looked at Hesseth meaningfully. “And I think she might have exactly the skill we need.”

The khrast-woman’s lips parted slightly; a soft hiss escaped between the sharp teeth. “I don’t do human sorcery.”

“But it wouldn’t be human sorcery, would it? And it wouldn’t involve the kind of fae that humans could manipulate. Would it?”

“The rakh don’t Work,” she said coldly.

“Don’t they?” He turned back to Ciani. “Let me tell you something I discovered about the rakh. I was going through Zen’s notes last night, you see, and I found a bit of early text he’d dredged up somewhere and copied. About the rakh’s ancestors. They were true carnivores, it seems. Unlike our own omnivorous ancestors, they were utterly dependent upon hunting for their foodstuffs. No agriculture for them, or the complex social interaction that farming inspires.” He glanced at the rakh-woman. “They were pack animals. As we were. But with a markedly different social structure. The males spent their lives in competition with each other, expending most of their energy in sexual display and combat. When they hunted they did so in large groups, and only went after dangerous game. The risk seemed to be much more important than the food, and their social hierarchy was reshuffled—or reinforced—with each hunt. What they killed they ate on the spot, or left to rot.”

“Sounds like some men I know,” Ciani said, and Damien thought he saw something that might be a smile flit across Hesseth’s face. Briefly. Then it was gone again, replaced by guarded hostility.

“The females hunted for the rest of the pack,” he explained. “And fed them, in accordance with the local hierarchy. Dominant males first, then children, then themselves. With scraps for the lesser males, if any remained. Mammalian social order at its finest.”

He leaned forward tensely. “Do you see it? The females did the hunting. Not for show, but for sustenance. Not to display their animal machismo, but to feed their young. And the fae would have responded to their need, as it does with all native species. And what two skills does that kind of hunter need the most? Location and obscuring. The ability to find one’s prey, and the capacity to sneak up on it unobserved.” He looked to the rakh-woman, met her eyes. There was challenge in his tone. “If a rakh female were to Work the fae, wouldn’t those be the two areas in which her skills would be strongest? The two very skills we need so desperately right now.”

The khrast-woman’s voice was quiet but tense. “The rakh don’t Work.”

“Not like we do. Not with keys, pictures and phrases and all the other hardware of the imagination. They don’t need that, any more than a human adept does.” He paused, watching her. “But it isn’t wholly unconscious anymore. Is it? Somewhere along the line your people ceased to take the fae for granted and began to manipulate it. Improved intellect demands improved control. Maybe on a day-to-day basis the old ways were enough . . . but I know what I saw in Morgot,” he told her. “And that was deliberate, precise, and damned powerful. A true Working, in every sense of the word.” When she said nothing he pressed, “Do you deny it?”

“No,” she said quietly. “As you define your terms . . . no.”

“Hesseth.” It was Ciani. “If you could work an Obscuring—”

Her eyes narrowed. “That’s a sorcerer’s concept, I can’t—”

“Call it whatever you like,” Damien interrupted. “We’ll find a rakhene word for it, if that makes you happy. Or make one up. Damn it, can’t you see how much is riding on this?” Careful, Damien. Calm down. Don’t alienate her. He forced himself to draw in a deep breath, slowly. “Tarrant’s gone,” he said quietly. “So’s Senzei. Even if I could Work this myself, my skills in this area are limited; sneaking up on enemies isn’t a regular part of Church service. Whatever cover the Hunter Worked for us is going to fade away now that he’s dead—if our enemy doesn’t Banish it outright.”

“Could you help us?” Ciani asked her. “If you wanted to? Could you keep the enemy from finding us?”

She looked them over, one after the other. Reviewing her natural hostility to their kind, perhaps, and seeing how far it would give.

She picked her words carefully. “If you were my kin,” she told them. “My blood-kin. Then I could protect you.”

“Not otherwise?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Would you, if you could?” Damien challenged her.

She looked at him. Into him: past the surface, past his social conscience, into the heart of his soul. The animal part of him, primitive and pure. Something unfamiliar licked at his consciousness, warm and curious. Tidal fae?

“Yes,” she said at last. “If that comforts you. But you’re not my blood-kin. You’re not even rakh. The fae that answers to me wouldn’t even acknowledge your existence.”

“Then force it to,” Damien told her.

She shook her head. “Not possible.”

“Why?”

“The tidal fae never has —”

“—and never will? I don’t buy that kind of reasoning.” He leaned forward, hands tense on his knees. “Listen to me. I know what the rakh were, when humans first came here. I understand that those animal roots are still a part of you. Have to be a part of you. But you’re also an intelligent, self-aware being. You can override those instincts.”

“Like the humans do?”

“Yes. Like the humans do. How else do you think we got here, ten thousand light-years from our native planet? Of all the species of Earth, we alone learned to override our animal instinct. Oh, it wasn’t easy, and it isn’t always reliable. I don’t have to tell you what a jury-rigged mess the human brain is, as a result. But if there’s any one definition of humanity, that’s it: the triumph of intelligence over an animal heritage. And you inherited our intellect! Your people could be everything to this planet that we were to ours. All you have to do is learn to cast off the limitations of a more primitive time—”

“And look where that got you!” she said scornfully. “Is this supposed to be our goal? To have our souls divided, with each part pulling in a different direction? Like yours? Vampires don’t haunt us in the night; ghosts don’t disturb our sleep. Those things are humanity’s creation—the echoes of that part of you which you’ve buried. Denied. The ‘animal instinct’ which screams for freedom, locked in the lightless depths of your unconscious mind.” She shook her head; there was pity in her eyes. “We live at peace with this world and with ourselves. You don’t. That’s our definition of humanity.”

She stood. The motion was smooth and unhuman, silken as a cat’s. “I’ll do what I can—on my own terms. Rakh terms. And if the fae will respond to me . . . then I guarantee you, no human sorcerer will read through it.”

“And if it doesn’t?” he asked quietly.

She looked northward, towards the point of power still far in the distance. Observing the currents? Or imagining the House of Storms, and its human master?

“Then your own Workings had better be good,” she said. “Damned good. Or we’ll be walking right into his hands.”

37

Power. Hot power, rising up from the foundations of the earth. Sweet power, filtered through the terror of an adept’s soul. Raw power, that reverberated with pain and fear and priceless agony of utter helplessness. The taste of it was ecstacy. Almost beyond bearing.

The demon asked: “It pleases?”

“Oh, yes.” A whisper of delight, borne on the winds of pain. That delicious pain. “Will it last, Calesta? Can you make it last?”

The faceted eyes blinked slowly; in the dim lamplight they looked like blood. “A thousand times longer than any other.” His voice was the screech of metal on glass, the slow scraping of a rust-edged knife against a window. “His fear and the pain are perfectly balanced. The earth itself supplies the fuel. It could last . . . indefinitely.”

“And he’ll cling to life.”

“He’s terrified of death.”

“Ah.” A deep breath, drawn in slowly and savored. “How marvelous. You do know how to please, Calesta.”

“The pleasure is mine,” the demon hissed.

“Yes. I’m sure it is.” A low chuckle, half humor and half lust, sounded from the Master’s lips. As raw power lapped against the smooth stone walls, staining them with blood-colored fae. The color of pain. The color of delight.

“See that you have something equally suitable arranged for when she gets here.”

38

Snow. It wasn’t unexpected—Hesseth had smelled it coming, and even Damien had made note of the ominous color of the sky that morning—but that was little consolation. The last thing they needed now was for winter to begin in earnest. Damien cursed himself for failing to anticipate such weather, even as he beat the powdery white stuff from his jacket. He should have checked for it regularly. Weather was hard to predict, but not impossible—general trends betrayed themselves some days in advance—and he could have turned this choice bit of misery into something else, if only he had Seen it coming. A little push to the wind pattern there, perhaps a little shove to the jet stream . . . there were a dozen and one ways in which the weather might be Worked, but all of them involved advance planning. And Damien had been too wrapped up in other things to remember that a good winter storm might lay ruin to all their plans.

The snow deepened to ankle height, gusted in billowy dunes to the level of their mounts’ knees, caught in their collars and their boot-cuffs and trickled down inside their clothing as ice-cold water. Still they pressed onward, making what progress they could. They couldn’t afford to slow down, not now. Once or twice the snow turned to hail, or hail mixed with freezing rain, and they were forced to stop. Battered, disheartened, they took what shelter they could find and waited for the downpour to abate. And began moving again as soon as they could, anxious to make up for lost time.

He wondered, in those cold times of waiting, if their enemy might not have sent the storm. Certainly it seemed the perfect tool for his purposes, in that it struck at both their strength and their spirit. And there was damned little Damien could do about it, either way. Oh, he tried. But weather-Working had never been his forte, and trying to alter a storm once it had actually begun was a task that would have given an adept nightmares. The best he could do was to Know it carefully, which allowed him to reassure his party that the worst of it had in fact passed them by; the flatlands east of the mountains had received a tempest ten times worse. But as cold, dark days gave way to icy nights, that was little consolation.

Tarrant could have shifted it away from us, he thought. Tarrant would have seen it coming, and known what to do. Bitterly he tried to drive such thoughts from his head, but they kept returning. It bothered him that he had any positive feelings about the Hunter, even so vague a one as that. Whatever worth the man had once possessed had become buried beneath so many centuries of corruption and cruelty that the resulting creature was more demon than man, and hardly a suitable subject for admiration. Especially for one of Damien’s calling.

But he was of my calling, too. A founder of my faith. How do you reconcile those two identities?

They traveled in somber silence, their passage soundless but for the crunching of fresh snow and ice beneath their animals’ hooves. The xandu were growing restless, in a way that made Damien uneasy. Apparently it bothered Hesseth, too, for when they finally made camp she tethered the animals as though they were horses, so that they might not wander off. Over dinner she explained that the mountain snows of the Worldsend often triggered a migration instinct in the beasts, driving them to lower ground. Perhaps they were responding to that ingrained mandate. All night Damien could hear the xandu struggling against the pull of the leather leashes, snorting in indignation at their bondage. When it came his turn to sleep, he tried to shut out both the noise and the cold with a thick cocoon of blankets, but he was unsuccessful. The best he could manage was a restless half-slumber that refreshed his body but did little for his nerves.

Through calf-deep snow they resumed their travels in the morning. The clouds parted just long enough to confirm that the sun had risen, then closed overhead and plunged them into a timeless dusk of cold, white flurries alternating with sleet. Once Damien’s horse slipped and nearly fell, while precariously close to the edge of a sheer drop—but it managed to stay on its feet somehow and edged past the dangerous spot.

I feel like a jinxer, the priest thought. Like some poor fool who Works the earth-fae without even knowing it—only it does the exact opposite of what he wants. Isn’t this how it works with that kind? You just manage to figure how bad things really are, and just then another disaster crops up.

Would it be possible to use that as a Cursing? To take a mind that affected the currents naturally, and warp it so that its effect was negative? After several hours’ contemplation—and a cold lunch, eaten hurriedly beneath the half-shelter of a rocky overhang—he decided that it would be impossible. There were too many variables to account for; too much was still unknown about the relationship of brain and fae. If you tried to Work a system like that, the whole thing would come crashing down around your ears. Only nature could alter biology on that scale and get it right.

But then he remembered the trees of the Forest—a whole ecosystem, redesigned to suit its human master—and he shivered, thinking of the kind of man it took to Work that. And what manner of sacrifice he had made, to conjure that kind of power.

A man who could Work the Forest could do it. A man like that could do anything, Then: Anything except save himself, he added grimly. And he tightened his knees about his horse’s cold flanks, and tried not to think about how much this weather—cold and lightless—would have pleased the Hunter.

He’s dead. And you wanted him dead. So forget him. But the memory of the man hung about him like a ghost. Was that because of the channel that had been established between them? Or simply the force of the man’s personality? It was impossible to say. But sometimes when he looked at Ciani he saw the ghost there, too—a fleeting image, in the back of her eyes. What had gone on between the two of them, in the Hunter’s last days? Damien hungered to know—and didn’t dare ask. It was dangerous to pose questions, when you weren’t sure you could handle the answers.

All day, the snow continued to fall. They rode. And somewhere in the distance, an unknown number of unknown rakh hiked northward, snow blinding them to the sight of their destination. Five of them, or perhaps three. Wearing alien faces, marching to an alien purpose. Struggling their way through this very storm. To their deaths.

Or—Damien thought suddenly—had that Working dispersed when its maker died? That was a frightening thought. What if the simulacra had never started out in the first place? What if, now that Tarrant was dead, the party had no cover at all?

Then we must depend on Hesseth’s skill, he thought. And he looked at the rakh-woman, and wondered just how strong her power was. And how willing she would be to harness it to their need if all other defenses failed them.

Fire. Brilliant, like sunlight: white-hot, molten, filling the air with a blazing heat. Senzei’s face, like wax: melting, sizzling, running down into the grass like Fire, sucked down into the soil. Flesh running free like water, blood and bones dissolving into liquid fire, essence burning, dissolving . . . transforming. Until the hair is Core-golden, soft strands tangling in the thermal gusts. Until the eyes are silver-white, hot as metal freshly poured into a wound. Until the mouth is solid enough to voice a scream—and it screams, and the screams resound along with the roar of the flames, across the burning heavens, and as far beneath as the gates of hell and beyond.

The Hunter’s face.

The Hunter’s eyes.

The Hunter’s screams . . .

He awoke. Suddenly. Not because of the dream. He was too exhausted for a mere nightmare to awaken him, too in need of the sleep that had been shattered. Besides, he’d seen those images before. Never in that form, never with such terrible clarity . . . but ever since Tarrant’s disappearance he had been envisioning fire, both waking and sleeping. Had dreamed of Tarrant, in fire. Ciani had also. He’d had to reassure her that such dreams were only natural, given their recent experiences. Her dreaming brain was combining the elements of Senzei’s and Tarrant’s deaths, fusing the two disasters into a single, gut-wrenching nightmare. It was frightening, but only that. Not meaningful, he assured her. It couldn’t possibly be meaningful.

Could it?

Carefully, he freed himself from his blankets. More than anything else he hated this weather because of the vulnerability it fostered. The tight cocoon of blankets which he needed to combat the cold was the last thing he wanted to be trapped inside if danger came calling. Even fully clothed it was bad enough—and he knew damned well that if he really wanted to be warm he should be naked inside that cocoon, his body heat warming the blankets and the air inside it rather than lost to his clothing. But that was where he drew the line. He’d once had to fight off a pack of ghouls in below-zero weather with nothing on but a pair of socks, and it wasn’t an experience he was anxious to repeat.

He looked about the campsite, quickly took in details: Ciani, curled tight in uneasy slumber; Hesseth crouching by the campfire, springbolt in claw; the mounts half-asleep, restless. Nothing else amiss—or at least, nothing that was immediately obvious. Thank God, the snow had stopped at last.

He came to where Hesseth was and crouched down beside her. But the position which came so naturally to her rakhene form was painful for his cold-stiffened limbs, and after a moment he simply sat.

“How goes it?” he asked quietly.

She nodded toward where their mounts were tethered. “The horses are starting to get edgy now.”

“And the xandu?”

She shook her head. “Increasingly restless. There’s obviously something here they’re responding to . . . but damned if I know what it is.”

“Scent of a predator, perhaps? If something were following us—”

“I’d smell that,” she reminded him.

He drew in a sharp breath. “Of course. That was . . . human of me.” He managed a halfhearted grin. “Sorry.”

She shrugged.

He looked out into the night, wondered what unseen dangers the darkness was obscuring. As he had done each night since Tarrant’s death—and each day, and morning and evening besides—he Worked his sight and studied the currents. They were harder than ever to see now, faint blue veins of shadowy light barely bright enough to shine through the blanket of snow that covered them. But after a few minutes he was able to focus on them and discern their current state. Which was just what it had been yesterday, and the day before, and probably countless days before this as well. Weaker than earth-fae should be here. Weaker than earth-fae should be in any mountain range.

It’s as if there was no seismic activity here, he thought. None at all. But that simply wasn’t possible. Even on Earth the mountains weren’t that quiescent. Or so logic dictated. Certainly the colonists had been familiar enough with the nature of seismic disruptions to scan for such activity when they arrived—which said that they understood the nature of that particular danger, because they had experience in dealing with it.

Weak currents. Inexplicably stable terrain. A nest of demons. And a human adept who had settled himself right at the juncture of three crustal plates, heedless of the risk which that entailed. How did those elements fit together? It seemed to Damien that if he could only determine how they were interlinked, he could find the answers they so desperately needed. But the more he studied the puzzle, the more it seemed as if there was a vital piece missing. One single fact, which might make the whole pattern fall into place.

If we knew how they trapped Tarrant we might understand them better. We might understand them enough.

With effort he forced himself away from that train of thought and turned his attention back to his companion. Animal-alert, she was scanning the brush around their camp for any sign of movement.

“How’s your Working?” he asked her.

She shrugged. “As humans would say, I Called. Last night, when the moons passed overhead and the tidal power was strong. If the Lost Ones are anywhere within hearing, they’ll come to us—or we’ll go to them. Either way, we’ll meet.” She shook her head slowly, as her eyes scanned the white-shrouded land encircling their camp. “There’s no saying how, of course. Or when.”

“Or if?”

Again she shrugged.

“Is that how Zen called you to us?”

“Very similar. In my case I read his message directly, and decided to respond to it. But the result is much the same. If this attempt succeeds, my call will fix on a Lost One whose path might cross our own—if such is available—and the currents will shift in response, to maximize the odds of our meeting. If the Lost One is conscious of the currents she may be aware of that process. I was. If not . . .” She raised her hands, palms open, suggestively.

“You say yes?”

The corner of her mouth twisted upward in a slight smile. “They are rakh,” she pointed out. “If they have anything similar to a Worker, it will be a female. Our men generally lack the . . . time for such pursuits.”

“And the interest?”

“Their interests are quite limited,” she agreed. She looked him over, top to bottom; it was an appraising glance, clearly meant to assess the features of his manhood. “But they do have their uses,” she told him finally.

“It’s nice to be good for something,” he said dryly.

“I meant rakh men,” she corrected. “Who knows what humans are good for?”

She stood, in one fluid movement that belied the discomfort of her previous posture. And threw the springbolt to him so that he caught it in his lap.

“Your turn to stand guard,” she told him. “I’m going to try to get some sleep.”

Then she looked over to where their mounts were tethered, and her whole body suddenly tensed. Eyes narrowed, her attention focused on . . . what? What special signs were visible to her rakhene senses, that went unnoticed by his human sight?

“Watch the xandu,” she said quietly. “If anything happens . . . it seems to be focusing on them. Watch them carefully.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “But I don’t like the feel of it.” She shook her head slowly. “I don’t like the feel of it at all.”

Nightmares. Of Tarrant and conflagration, and the two combined. Of pain, bright and molten, that shot through the brain like burning spears. And fear—so primal, so intense, that they shook from the force of it long after their bodies had awakened, their minds still vibrating with otherworld terror.

Nightmares. Identical. Every time he and Ciani shut their eyes, every time they tried to rest. The same dreams for both of them. But only for both of them. Neither their rakhene guide nor the animals were bothered. It seemed that only humans could dream such dreams . . . or perhaps, only those who had established a blood-link with the Hunter.

And it was Ciani who first voiced the fear. Or was it a hope?

“I don’t think he’s dead,” she whispered.

Riding. Endless miles of snow-shrouded earth. And questions that needed to be asked, no matter how painful the answers might be.

“What happened between you two?” he asked Ciani. He spoke softly, but even he could hear the strain in his voice. How could he keep his tone light when his spirit was anything but?

The ice underfoot crunched beneath the horses’ hooves, broke beneath the xandu’s toenails. It made for a complex rhythm, not unpleasing.

“You really want to know?” she asked him.

“I think I should.”

White ground, snow-shrouded trees. The creaking, tinkling sound of limbs overburdened with ice. Periodically a bough would crack loose and fall to the path before them, scattering snow in its wake. The worst of the storm had passed to the east of the mountains, but it would be long before the destruction truly ended.

“He apprenticed me,” she said quietly.

He felt something tight and cold coiling inside him, forced it to loosen its death-grip on his heart. She was desperate for sorcery, in any form. It would have been worth the price . . .

“Anything else?” he asked stiffly.

And she answered gently: “Isn’t that enough?”

There was no more intimate link in the world than that. A true apprenticeship would color one’s development for the rest of one’s life—long after the training period itself ended. Even if her memory was returned to her now, all her Workings would bear the Hunter’s mark. His taint.

The woman I loved will never come back now. Even if her memories are restored to her, she’ll be . . . different. Darker. That taint will always be there.

And the part that hurt most was not that it had happened. It was knowing that she didn’t care—knowing that the very aspects of the Hunter which made him so abhorrent to Damien were little more than items of curiosity to her. Never before had the gap between them seemed so wide, so utterly impassable. Never before had he so clearly understood its nature.

“And you?” she asked him. “What was there between the two of you?”

He shut his eyes and told her, “I bled for him.”

Even now, I bleed.

It was Hesseth’s warning cry that woke him up. He came to with the reflexes born of a decade of living with danger—fully awake, fully armed, and half free of the blankets that bound him before he even paused to take in his surroundings. Domina’s light filled the camp, which meant it was near midnight; the full orb of Erna’s largest moon made it easy to locate the source of the disturbance, to see—

The xandu. They seemed to have gone mad, were striking out at everything in their vicinity. Pale manes flying, sharp horn tips stained with blood. He could see where one of the horses had gone down, and the other was straining at its tethers, trying to get as far away from the maddened animals as possible. The fallen horse was lying still, and blood pooled thickly about its chest; nevertheless the nearer xandu impaled it once—twice—again with its horns, as if maddened by its refusal to fight back.

Hesseth was drawing near the creatures, as if intending to calm them. “Stay back!” he ordered. The maddened squealing of the animals made it hard for him to make himself heard. “Back!” She glared at him but at last gave ground, springbolt braced against her shoulder. As he approached the horses, she scanned the surrounding woods quickly for danger. A good move. The screams of the animals were deafening; anything that hadn’t known they were in this part of the mountains sure as hell knew it now.

His practiced eye picked out details of the fight, and he struggled to make some sense of it. The horses seemed terrified, but no more than was reasonable under the circumstances; any attempt on their part to break free seemed to be survival-motivated. And it seemed that one of the xandu—the louder one—was fighting to defend its flesh, rather than struggling for freedom. That left only one out of four to be causing the trouble, and with only three riders to be carried—

He swung his sword in a powerful moulinet, stepping in quickly on the downstroke. Gleaming horns passed within inches of his chest even as the steel blade struck leather and parted it, and he jumped back quickly. The xandu reared back in rage, as if intending to crush him—but when it realized that it was free it turned about and bolted from the camp, almost toppling itself in its mad rush for freedom.

Hesseth looked at the other animals, then at him. “Follow?” she asked.

He glanced at the remaining animals—somewhat calmer, but still agitated—and nodded curtly. “But we don’t separate, under any circumstances. And we don’t leave without our gear. For all we know this is some new gambit to split us up . . . or to separate us from our possessions. We’ve got good light; there’ll be a visible trail. Let’s pack it fast and move.”

“It could be a trap,” Ciani said. Her voice trembling, ever so slightly.

“It could be,” he agreed. “And we’re going to be damned careful because of that.” He nodded in the direction the xandu had fled mere seconds before. “But if we don’t find out what the hell happened here—and why—it may happen again, later. And that would leave us with too few mounts. Not to mention no answers.”

They broke camp quickly. Within minutes their possessions were bundled onto the three remaining animals, pack straps carefully tightened. It took longer to affix the saddles, as the animals were still highly nervous; Damien had to spare a precious moment to do a Calming, in order that they might be mounted.

Then he knelt by the side of the fallen animal and took its measure. A large, ragged hole had gouged it through one side; the froth that formed on its lips as it struggled to breathe was stained deep red. He put down his sword long enough to draw a knife from his belt, and with one quick motion sliced across the animal’s neck. Quickly, and deeply. There was no struggle, no cry, only a gush of blood that stained his blade and the surrounding snow crimson as the animal died.

He caught Ciani’s eyes on him as grabbed the reins of Tarrant’s horse—the only true horse remaining—and mounted. “Carotid artery,” he muttered. “Kills almost instantly.”

He gestured to his two companions, assigning them positions behind him. “You in the middle,” he told Ciani, “and stay there. Because if you get picked off . . .” Then there’s no point in any of this, he finished silently. Her grim nod said she understood, and she pulled in behind him. Followed by Hesseth, and then—

Into the woods. Ice-laden branches creaking as they passed, miniature avalanches spilling to the ground before and after them. Damien had his springbolt out, braced against his shoulder in a one-handed grip. He could fire it that way if he had to, with his other hand tight on the reins. Not for the first time he wished for his own mount, that had drowned in the river. That animal could have been guided by his knees alone, leaving both his hands free for battle . . . but it was dead and gone now, and wishing for it was no use to anyone. This was what he had to work with, and at least it was a proper horse. And probably a damned good one, given that Gerald Tarrant had raised it.

The trail was easy to see but hard to follow, a furrow gouged into the snow that wheeled erratically between the rocks and trees as if the xandu itself had no idea where it was going. And maybe it didn’t. Maybe some Working had stung it on the ass—so to speak—and it was fleeing blindly, with no particular destination in mind. Which was marginally reassuring. If the xandu was supposed to lead them into ambush it would probably be following a more direct course, one designed to bring them in at the right angle, at the right time, and in the right frame of mind.

He shouldered his springbolt and aimed at the treetops ahead, watching for motion. But unlike the trees of the Forbidden Forest these had been stripped of their mass by the coming of winter; moonlight clearly illuminated a canopy bereft of life, that offered neither threat nor cover.

And then they came upon it. In a clearing, spacious and well-lit by moonlight. Damien heard his horse’s hooves break through ice as he approached, felt the cold spray of water about his ankles. A stream, frozen over by winter’s chill. He warned the others with a wave of his hand, heard them fording it carefully. The xandu was before him, and it snorted as if in rage—but its eyes were fixed on nothingness, its hot gaze utterly empty. It seemed to be struggling—but with what, Damien couldn’t say. It was almost as if some unseen rope was pulling it backward, while all its brute instinct urged it to flee; animal flesh versus some unseen power, with the latter slowly winning. There was foam on its lip, speckled with red, and when it struck the ground with its front feet Damien could see that it had sprained an ankle, or worse. He glanced back worriedly at the other xandu . . . but whatever madness had claimed this one, it did not extend to the others. It was almost as if whatever power had focussed in on it was content to claim one animal and leave them the rest. A truly chilling concept.

Then the xandu staggered backward, and the ground gave way beneath its feet. First the area directly beneath it, then the ground surrounding—as if the earth itself had lost all support and was falling in on itself. It screamed and struck out blindly—but there was no solid footing, not within reach, and as the ground opened up it fell, limbs flailing, into the lightless hole beneath.

And then a scream pierced the night. One scream, utterly horrible. It was pain and fear and confusion combined, the dying scream of a soul drowning in terror. Damien’s skin crawled to hear it, and he had to pull back on his reins to hold his mount steady. Beside him he could hear the others doing likewise, and he glanced at them briefly to see how they were doing. Hesseth’s eyes were scanning the clearing with fevered urgency, her hand tight on the springbolt’s stock. Ciani’s face was white, but her sword was drawn; fear hadn’t immobilized her. Good.

And then: silence. Utter silence, unbroken by anything save the ragged breathing of their three mounts.

After a moment Damien slid from his saddle; his boots sank deeply into the snow as his horse snorted anxiously, concerned. Ciani’s eyes met his, and she seemed about to say something—and then simply nodded and took his reins from his hand.

He walked forward slowly, utterly cautious. Long sword probing the ground ahead, testing for weakness. The snow was deep here, which made for uncertain footing, but he made certain of each step before he committed himself to the next one; he couldn’t afford to be off-balance, not for a moment.

He could hear sound now, from the place where the xandu had fallen. A soft scraping sound, like that of cloth against snow. Or flesh? Something about it made his skin crawl. Inch by inch, he worked his way to the place where the earth had given way.

And stared down into a massive pit, splattered with blood. There were wooden stakes set in the bottom, a good six feet long, perhaps two feet apart from each other. Easily as thick as a man’s arm, but narrowing to a slender point. The sharpened tips pointed upward, as neatly arrayed as soldiers in formation; waiting for some animal to fall through the earth and impale itself, with such utter finality that struggle was meaningless.

And in the center of the pit, their xandu. Or rather, the collection of meat and hide that had once been a xandu. Now, blood-splattered, it was barely the shell of its former self, a mere parody of life; its rainbow horns, coated with blood, were stripped not only of beauty but purpose, and its flesh was so ruptured by its brutal impalement that it was hard to imagine its owner running free on the ground above only moments before.

A hunting call, Damien thought. That’s what got it. Something needed food, and its hunger Worked the fae. He stared down at the trap and corrected himself. Not something—someone.

“Damien?” It was Ciani.

“Come look,” he murmured. “Carefully.”

Something was moving in the depths of the pit, between those sharpened stakes. Something that dipped in and out of shadow, its form utterly elusive. And then another one. They were clearly mammalian, though something about their skin reminded Damien of a slug. Then one of them looked up at him. He was dimly aware of details: a long tail, hairless, like a rat’s. Immense pale eyes, filmed with a thick mucus. Hands shaped like the human extremity, but with fingers that seemed stretched to twice their accustomed length, that twined like nervous serpents as their owner looked up at him.

Not skin, no. Fur, short and close-lying. Ears flattened down against the skull, but a small tuft was still visible at their tips. And in those eyes . . . a hint of amber?

He looked up as Ciani and Hesseth came up beside him, their horses tethered to trees far behind them. “What is it?” Ciani asked, as she came to the edge of the pit. But his eyes were on the woman. She came to where the earth had caved in, and gazed at the tableau below—and then drew back, hissing, her claws unsheathing as she braced herself for conflict. Her ears had flattened, in self-defense, and there was no mistaking the shape. Or the resemblance.

“It’s the rakh,” he told her. “The Lost Ones.”

There were five of the creatures in all. The sight of their dead-white eyes and altered limbs made Damien’s skin crawl, but he managed to bury his revulsion deep inside him. Jelly eyes, tentacle fingers . . . he looked at Hesseth, saw her body go taut with hostility. A reaction to the scent of the strangers, no doubt—an instinctive response to the right-but-not-right odor of their presence.

“Hesseth.” He hissed the name softly, and as a result it sounded truly rakhene. He waited until she looked at him before he spoke again. “You can’t follow your instinct here. You can’t. It’s fine for territorial conflict, but it won’t get us where we’re going.” The eyes were gleaming with feral hostility. “Hesseth. You understand me?”

After a moment, she nodded. Stiffly. A shudder seemed to pass through her flesh, as though pain had suddenly racked it. Her lips drew back from her teeth and she hissed: a warning. But then her ears seem to relax somewhat, and they lifted slightly. The fire in her eyes became a mere smolder. Her claws sheathed—halfway.

“Human tricks,” she hissed.

He nodded grimly. “It’s the name of the game right now.”

Beneath them, four of the five misshapen rakh crouched tensely, waiting for them to make a move. The fifth had gone forward to the xandu carcass, and was beginning to carve it up into manageable chunks with a crude obsidian blade; but even she was wary, and she cast frequent glances at the travelers standing above her to make sure that they were keeping their distance.

She. Four of them were female. The fifth was male, but nearly as slight of build as his companions. A lesser male, Damien guessed, who had adopted a female role in order to get access to food. He hoped for all their sakes that the male was firmly ensconced in his new role; that way, they might get through this meeting with no need for macho heroics.

“Talk to them,” he urged Hesseth. “See if they understand you.”

For a moment, she seemed incapable of speaking. Then, quickly, she barked out a few sharp phonemes. It was obviously taking great effort for her to speak at all, much less in a civil manner. The lone male looked up at her, his alien face utterly unreadable. After a moment he stepped back to where his companions stood, his tentacular fingers wrapped tightly about the base of his blade.

“Try hello,” Damien prompted.

She shot him a searing glance, then turned back to the Lost Ones. And rasped out some other sounds, that sounded like a cross between a command and an invective.

This time they reacted. The male glanced at his companions, then handed his knife to one of them. And dropped back into the shadows that veiled the back of the pit, and from there into darkness.

“Not good,” Damien muttered. “Gone back for reinforcements?”

“How bad can it be?” Ciani asked. “We’re armed, and it would take them time to climb from the pit—”

“No need to. You saw what they did to the xandu.” His expression was grim. “Their enemies come to them.”

Ciani turned to Hesseth. “What did you say to them?”

“What had to be said,” she answered sharply. “With words, since they lack all the other signs.”

Damien looked down at the agitated foursome and realized, suddenly, just how much of a barrier there was to communication. Their alien physique would certainly alter their body language, and it was clear that they lacked the right scents . . . that left only words, and words were a poor second in rakhene communication. No wonder Hesseth was edgy.

That, and her instinct. God give her strength to override it . . . and the desire.

They waited. In silence, the nervous pawing and snorting of their mounts the only sound within hearing. Damien shifted his weight cautiously, as the wet snow began to invade one boot; otherwise, there was no movement.

And then the shadows in the back of the pit stirred to life, and several figures emerged from it. The lesser male. Two others, like him. And a figure nearly twice their height, a male who was clearly decades past his prime. His fur hung in patches on wrinkled skin, folds of loose flesh hanging from his bones like an oversized tunic. His skin was pierced: not merely in one place, or a dozen, but all over the surface of his body. Thorns, sharpened twigs, thin blades whittled from bone, pins carved from precious stone, all those had been thrust through the soft folds of skin to serve as a gruesome adornment. A thin shaft of shell, clearly precious, had been thrust through one cheek, and tiny beads dangled from its larger end; delicate needles of carved jet had been passed through the skin of his penis. It made Damien’s skin itch just to look at him.

The pierced male addressed them—and there was no mistaking his authority, even without a common tongue between them. It surrounded him like an aura; it seeped forth from him, like blood from his manifold wounds.

Without consulting the humans, Hesseth answered. She had no time to translate before the next question came, or the one after that; the ghastly figure voiced his challenges too quickly, and she dared not hesitate in answering. But though he understood none of the words and even less of the kinesthetics, Damien grasped what was happening. Who are you? the pierced rakh was asking. What are you? Why are you here? He wondered what Hesseth considered suitable answers to be—and wished that it were possible for her to confer with him before she answered.

Watch it, he told himself. She’s smarter than you give her credit for, and she knows her people better than you ever will. He studied the pierced rakh as he spoke, and he shivered in sympathy. What was his position in the social hierarchy, and why was he . . . like that? Damien had seen no equivalent among the plains rakh that he might compare it to. He envied his ancestors, whose knowledge-base had encompassed an entire planet with thousands of diverse cultures; how much easier this would have been for them, with so many different examples of primitive behavior to draw on!

At last the pierced one gestured shortly. There was a scurrying sound behind him, in the shadows. Then footsteps. Then the slow scraping of metal on rock as something was dragged out of the shadows. And into the open, where they might see it.

Tarrant’s sword.

It was every bit as brilliant as he remembered it, and every bit as malevolent. Its vivid unlight filled the pit’s interior with disarming color, turning human skin a pasty white and the Lost One’s skin an even less wholesome color—and yet it did nothing to dispel the shadows that ranged close behind it, or to otherwise illuminate the scene. The darkness that had gathered beneath the lip of the pit seemed to draw fresh life from the sword’s presence and became even blacker. The shadows became sharper-edged, unyielding. A cold wind swept upward from where the Lost Ones stood, and Damien shivered as it touched him—not wholly because of the temperature.

The pierced one spoke to them. It was a short question, harshly voiced. Hesseth turned to them to translate.

“He asks, is this yours?”

Damien drew in a deep breath, glanced toward Ciani. But her eyes—and her attention—were fixed on the sword. On what it meant, that the sword was here.

“Tell him . . . that it belongs to one of my people. One of my blood-kin,” he chanced.

He thought he saw her nod slightly in approval as she translated. It was clear that the Lost Ones’ dialect differed greatly from her own—which was only to be expected, given their isolation—but there seemed to be enough common ground that the pierced one understood her.

“Ask him where he found it,” Damien said quietly.

She did.

“He says, far south of here. Many one-walks. His people . . . sensed that it was there and went to investigate.” She hesitated. “The language is very different, I’m not sure of that one. Perhaps, heard it?”

“Ask if there was a body nearby when they found it.”

It all centered on that. He wished he knew what answer it was that he wanted to hear.

“He says, no.”

Beside him, he felt Ciani stiffen. He forced himself to speak again, to keep his voice even.,

“Or anywhere near it?”

She asked, and the pierced one answered. “No.”

“Did you find any part of a body? Or . . . personal equipment?”

She conversed at length with the pierced rakh; it seemed they were defining terms. At last she turned back to Damien, and told him, “Nothing. Only the sword. No a sign of how it had gotten there.”

“That means he’s alive,” Ciani whispered,

“Or was, when they took him,” Damien corrected.

Hesseth looked at them sharply. “Can you be sure?”

He shook his head. “No. But it’s only logical. If their only concern was to kill him, they would have left the body where it fell. Or whatever remained of it. If they wanted the kind of power you can conjure from a corpse—or needed his flesh for some symbolic purpose—can you think of anything more powerful, or more personal to him, that that?” He indicated the sword. “Even if they killed him and then got rid of the body, they would have included the sword in their plans. Would have had to, to keep his spirit from wielding further influence. But if all they wanted was him, alive . . . what would it matter that his weapon of choice was left behind? It only meant that much less danger for them.”

Hesseth’s tongue tip touched the edges of her teeth as she considered that. Ran over them, lightly. It was a ferocious expression.

The pierced one spoke again; clearly some sort of command. Hesseth stiffened, and barked back a sharp response.

The pierced one snarled. The rakh in the pit tensed, as though readying themselves for battle.

“What was that?” Damien demanded.

“He says that if this is a thing of your blood-kin, then it’s now yours. You must come and take it.”

He looked at the glowing blade, felt something inside his gut go ice-cold at the thought of touching it. “Okay,” he said quietly. “That’s fair enough.”

“He means . . .” She floundered for the proper English words to describe it. “That is . . . he challenges you to come get it.”

And suddenly he understood. Understood all the levels of status that were involved, all the crucial posturing. And the risk.

Their females hunt for food. Their males hunt for status. And the more dangerous the prey, the better.

“All right,” he said at last. He began to move toward the edge of the pit, looking for a way down. And hoped he was guessing right about their customs.

“Unarmed,” Hesseth added.

He looked up at her and said sharply, “What?”

“Unarmed,” she repeated. “He said that. Actually, naked of threat is what he said.”

He looked at the pierced one. And something in him darkened—some part that had had its fill of tact and diplomacy and was very near the breaking point.

“Tell him I’ll be happy to disarm,” he said coldly. “Provided he removes his teeth and claws.”

“They have no claws.”

“Then translate the rest.”

She looked at him somewhat oddly, then did so. The pierced one snarled but otherwise said nothing.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” the priest told her.

“Damien-” Ciani began. She hesitated, then whispered, “Be careful.”

From somewhere he dredged up a hint of a smile; it cracked ice crystals from his beard, that had set in a harder line. “I think we’re past that point.”

He found a place where the nearest stake was several feet distant from the wall of the pit, and lowered himself down. But the seemingly firm earth crumbled to bits beneath his fingertips and he was forced to drop the last few feet, landing unceremoniously on his side as the icy ground refused him purchase.

The Lost Ones watched.

He gained his feet quickly, noting for future reference that the ground down here offered little traction. Undoubtedly the snow drained into this area when it melted, only to freeze again come nightfall. He made his way carefully between the sharpened stakes, noting that their bases were set deep into the ice; a permanent hunting site, then, or at least semipermanent. Coarse wood caught at the wool of his coat as he passed; sometimes he had to press the stakes aside in order to squeeze his bulk between them.

Couldn’t draw a sword in here even if I wanted to. He passed by the carcass of the xandu, felt a momentary pang of loss at seeing such an elegant creature reduced to formless carrion. And then he was clear of the deep-rooted spears and opposite the Lost Ones. They seemed larger from up close than they had from the ground above, and their smell was rank and musty, the reek of enclosed spaces. He could see now that their fur was edged with green, as if some species of mold had adopted them as its habitat; rosettes of pale gray marked the shoulder of one and muddy brown the haunches of another. Those growths added their own smell to that of their hosts, the odor of mildew and decay. In addition it seemed that some of the pierced one’s ornaments were olfactory in nature; the sharp smell of pine needles and the pungence of musk drifted about his person like fog, a miasma of adornment.

He came as close as he could to his challenger and postured himself opposite the creature. Though the Lost One was taller he was also considerably thinner, and he lacked Damien’s layers of insulating wool and fur. Though he tried to provide an imposing presence, he was no match for the priest’s hefty bulk—and his ritual hostility was nothing compared to the potential for violence that lurked beneath the priest’s carefully controlled facade, waiting for its first excuse to surface.

“You make one wrong move,” Damien growled, “and I’ll cut your vulking head off. Don’t translate that,” he warned.

“No chance of it,” Hesseth assured him.

The pierced one hissed angrily, but made no move to harm the priest. Instead he stepped aside, so that the sword behind him was visible. The malevolent power of it blasted Damien in the face like an arctic wind; it took everything he had not to react visibly, so that the Lost Ones wouldn’t know his weakness. With a cold, tight clenching in the pit of his stomach he went to where the sword lay. And regarded it. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure the Lost Ones were keeping their distance from him—they were—and then reached down to where it lay, and closed his hand about the grip—and pain exploded in his hand, like spears of ice thrust suddenly into his flesh. He could feel all the warmth in his arm coursing down toward his hand, through it, drawn out to feed that hungry steel. He gritted his teeth and raised the weapon up, his fingers numb from the searing cold of it—but he held on, despite the pain, despite the panic that was rising up inside him. The Hunter feeds on fear, he told himself. His weapons would be Worked to inspire it. He fought the panic down, forced his fingers to stay wrapped about the leather-bound grip even as the killing power flowed into his flesh—his lungs—his heart. He had submitted to Tarrant’s coldfire once, and this felt much the same—a hundred times more powerful, a thousand times more terrifying, but its nature was clearly similar. He closed his eyes and remembered that ordeal, used it to fortify himself as the power filled him, remade him—tested him, against some dark and terrible template—and then withdrew, until the pain became bearable. Somewhat. Until the cold, though still piercing, was no longer a direct threat to his survival.

He turned to the Lost Ones, fingers still wrapped tightly about the sword’s grip. His hand was still numb from the cold of it, but the blade seemed to have a life of its own; he had no doubt that if he had to wield it, he could.

And it will drink in life, like its owner does. It will drink in the terror of the wounded . . .

The pierced one spoke. His tone was challenging.

“He says, that thing has killed many.”

Yes, Damien thought. He noted the rope still wrapped about its quillons, which they had used to drag it here. And the only reason it didn’t kill me just now is my link to Tarrant. The sword knows its own.

“It belongs to my blood-kin,” he repeated. The weight of it was like ice in his hand, but he refused the temptation to put it down.

The pierced one spoke again.

“He says, it eats souls.”

Damien drew in a deep breath, forced himself to think before answering. “Tell him . . . that we came to kill an eater of souls. An eater of rakhene souls. Tell him . . . sometimes it takes power of the same sort to kill one like that.”

He could see them react as Hesseth translated. He waited. Dark power flowed up his arm, wrapped itself around the circuitry of his brain. Kill, it whispered. Kill, and be done with them.

He shifted his grip on it and tried to block out its message. Tendrils of malevolence continued to seep into his brain, but he refused to acknowledge them.

“There is only one eater of souls here,” Hesseth translated for them. “In the . . .” she hesitated. “I think he means, the House of Storms.”

“What did he say, exactly?”

“I’m not sure. Their speech is so different . . .”

“Then don’t try to translate the concept—just give me the words.”

Her brow furrowed tightly as she considered. “The place of . . . blue lightning?”

“Blue lightning?”

“I’m not sure. I—”

“Blue lightning?”

“I think that’s the word. Why?” she demanded. “Is it so significant?”

He was remembering the sky over Jaggonath, when the earthquake struck. The blinding spears that had shot up from the earth, filling the heavens with light. So much like nature’s lightning, only a hundred times more intense. And, of course, silver-blue—earth-fae blue—as opposed to nature’s white.

He tried to recall what it was that Hesseth had described, back at her people’s encampment. Lightning, she’d said, that filled the sky for months on end. Thunder so loud it made speaking impossible.

That’s what it was. That’s what the storms were. Not real lightning at all. Power; bound power.

My God, the implications . . .

“Tell him what we need,” he ordered. He could hear his voice shaking as he spoke, tried to steady it. So much seemed to depend upon a display of strength, with these people. “Ask him if he’ll help us.”

An overload, firing heavenward. But an overload of what? There are no earthquakes in this region. And the currents here are so weak . . . It was hard to think clearly with the power of the Hunter’s sword chilling his brain. Even so, he sensed that he had glimpsed the last piece of the puzzle. Finally. He had only to see where it fit into the whole picture, and then they would know where to strike . . .

Tarrant would have understood it. Then he corrected himself, grimly: Tarrant still may.

“He’ll lead us,” Hesseth told them. “As far as the . . . region of no, is the phrase.”

“Forbidden zone?” Ciani offered.

“I don’t know. What he says . . . it’s not a concept I’m familiar with.”

“Can we get from there to the House of Storms?” Damien asked. “To the tunnels underneath them? That’s all that matters.”

“He says . . . that region is a place of dying. The tunnels beneath the House of Storms are filled with dying. Those are the . . . the places of no.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

“Taboo,” Damien guessed. “As any dwelling place would be, once demons moved in.” He looked at the pierced one. “Tell him yes. Tell him that’s what we want. What we need.”

He looked to the dirt wall behind the Lost Ones, to the tunnel mouth that waited there. Somewhere at the far end was their human enemy. Ciani’s assailant. And—just possibly—Gerald Tarrant.

“That’s our entrance,” he whispered.

39

The winter wind howled across the eastern flatlands, flinging snow across everyone and everything in its path. It was a bitter wind, fresh from the arctic regions, and the moisture it had picked up while crossing the Tri-Lakes area and the Serpent made it doubly vicious. There was nothing to do but find shelter from the storm and stay there, and the various inhabitants of eastern Lema had done just that. The local rakh huddled in their tents, gathered tightly about their fires, and waited for the storm to pass. Flatland browsers were packed tightly in their caves and their tunnels, yawning as the first waves of hibernation dulled their minds with drowsiness. Even winter’s predators had taken shelter, and they paced restlessly in their cramped hiding places as they waited for the worst of the storm to pass, so that they could follow the trails made by their prey in the smooth, white snow.

It was no time for animals or rakh to be abroad, and all the inhabitants of Lema seemed to know this.

All but three.

They walked like humans, though their anatomy was clearly rakhene. It was a mismatch of body and purpose, as though somehow a human persona had been welded to native flesh. They were furred, like most rakh, and heavily clothed, but the wind that whipped across the open plains was more than a single coat could ward against. Beneath the thin fur, warm flesh was already turning white with death. Extremities first: the fingers and toes, then nose, lips, cheeks . . . in the frigid cold of winter’s first storm they labored for breath, and the moisture of their lungs gathered like frost on their lips as they exhaled, gasping, into the wind.

Mindlessly they staggered forward, their legs knee-deep in snow. Driven to stagger forward, by a force they could neither comprehend nor fight. It had taken their memories, this alien force, and replaced them with others. Foreign pictures; alien recall. Names and places and hungers and needs, feelings so intense that their own memories were mere shadows beside them. Shadows that faded as day turned into night turned into day again, as the hours of travel became endless and the goal ahead—if there was one—seemed forever beyond their reach.

The wind gusted suddenly. And one of them fell. It was the youngest of the three, a female barely old enough to mate. Exhaustion had robbed her limbs of strength and she lay in the snow, her face cracked and bleeding from the cold. Panting lightly, as if she lacked even the strength to breathe.

The other two looked at her. They were her father and sister, blood-kin to her flesh . . . and they looked at her now, and were unaware of any kinship. Were unaware of anything save the force that drove them northward, and its demands.

For a moment was silence. Within them, and without; a precious moment of non-being in which the alien memories ceased their clamor, and the flesh was emptied of all thought. A single instant of peace, in the midst of their nightmare journey.

And then it came, as a whisper. Invading their flesh, their souls.

Two is enough, it said. Move on. Leave the dying one here.

The female hesitated, then turned away. The male looked down at his daughter. Some memory stirred in the back of his mind that might have involved warmth and paternal devotion . . . but then it was gone, crowded out by alien images. Human images. He fought them for a moment, but the force that had implanted them was stronger than he was—and at last he gave way, and the old memories died within him.

Slowly, he, too, turned away. Slowly they began to move again, breaking a trail through the knee-deep snow. Two of them, now. But two was enough. The force that had bound their wills made that clear.

In the snow behind them, in a shallow grave of crystal and ice, the simulacrum who had once been their blood-kin breathed her last.

40

They let the horse and the xandu go free. They could hardly take them underground, and had no way to lodge them safely until they returned. If they returned. So they let them go. The xandu were born to the wild, and could easily return to it. As for the Forest steed . . . Damien debated killing it, to spare it a slower death by freezing or starvation. But the horse had ridden beside the xandu for so long that when they were freed to go it tried to go off with them, like one of their number. Well enough, Damien decided. It was the Hunter’s stock, after all; doubtless it could manage to fend for itself.

The sword was another matter. That had to come with them, there was no question about it. But even wrapped in multiple blankets it radiated power, and its aura of malevolence was so intense that Damien wondered how long he would be able to carry it. The mere thought of contact with the Worked steel made his blood run cold with dread, and revived echoes of a voice—and a person—he would rather forget.

Just like him, too. Even in death his evil affects us.

Or in imprisonment, he corrected grimly.

Carrying their most vital possessions on them—the rest had been buried, or given to the Lost Ones—they entered the narrow tunnel that led from the back of the hunting pit. Dark earth closed in about them, walls too close and ceiling too low and the whole of it damp, rank with the smell of that mildewed species. Damien could see Hesseth shiver in revulsion as they descended, deep into the reeking earth, and he prayed that she could hold out. Her sense of smell was stronger than all the humans’ put together, and the odor seemed to awaken some primal fight-or-flight instinct within her. He hoped she had the strength—and the desire—to overcome that response. For all their sakes.

As the moonlight faded far behind them, no light took its place that unaltered humans might see by. The pierced one seemed to wend his way by the light of the earth-fae, his pale eyes split wide to reveal a glistening pupil, as broad as Damien’s palm. If the tunnels descended deep enough, Damien thought, only the dark fae would be available for illumination. He debated using the Fire to facilitate his own sight, or even kindling a small lamp. But in the end he simply Worked his own vision and saw as the natives did. He turned to check on Ciani, to offer her a similar service—and found to his surprise that it wasn’t necessary. She had Worked her own vision, using the techniques that Tarrant had taught her.

Good for her, he thought. But his soul was sick as he contemplated the cost of that Working, the darkness that would slowly be taking root inside her.

She’ll never be what she was, he thought grimly. And what bothered him most of all was not that it was happening, or that he didn’t know how to stop it. It was that she didn’t care. Didn’t even recognize the problem.

It’s all the same power to her. He’s just another adept. More interesting than most, perhaps—but that only makes him more desirable. The cost of it means . . . nothing.

By the light of the dark fae alone they descended, so deep into the earth that only a few wisps of earth-fae coursed about them; Damien felt strangely naked, in a world without that omnipresent power. He cast about with a cautious Working, anxious to catch wind of any threat to his party before it manifested. But he found himself incapable of Working on that level, and the truth of what Tarrant had said to them earlier finally hit home: The power does not come from within us, but from without. Which meant that in a place where the earth-fae was scarce, there was no Working. Period. It was all he could do to maintain his altered vision, and who knew how long he could keep that up? If their Workings should fail them they would be trapped here in true darkness, hundreds of feet beneath the earth. Totally helpless. He reached back instinctively to feel the haft of his sword, to comfort himself that even facing such adversity he could hold his own. But his fingers closed about the grip of Tarrant’s sword instead—he had strapped it to the same harness, as a means of carrying it without having to look at it—and its chill power shot up his arm with stunning force. He tried to release it immediately, but his hand was slow to respond. Ice-cold power slammed into him, and the tunnel errupted in violet iridescence. Twisting threads of light filled the air about him, too bright to look at directly. They tangled about his feet, clung to his clothes as though seeking the flesh beneath. And burned, with a purple brilliance that was blinding. He forced himself to release the sword, and after a moment—a very long moment—the power subsided. And with it, the vision. He forced himself to breathe steadily, slowly.

The dark fae, he thought. Awed by the vision, so unlike anything he had ever seen. Is that how it looks to him? It was an incredible concept, that the man who seemingly thrived on darkness lived in a world of such brilliant light. Never lacking illumination, because his vision was always Worked.

Ciani was like that. That’s what she lost. And his hands clenched at his sides, remembering what the loss had done to her. That’s what we’re getting back for her.

The pierced rakh led them onward without a word, through an underground labyrinth of dizzying complexity. Natural tunnels met and merged in combination with rakh-carved corridors, that twisted back on themselves and merged again and opened out into natural chambers, with a thousand nooks and crannies in which the dark fae lurked . . . Damien tried to memorize the pattern of their progress, but it was impossible. Which meant they had no hope of finding their way back, or of locating any other exit, without the pierced one’s help. It was a kind of helplessness he despised—and it was all the more frustrating because there was nothing he could do about it.

After a time the rakh-made caverns altered in nature. The ceiling became more even, the cave floor more regular. And the walls . . . they had been reinforced with the bones of the Lost Ones’ prey—long, sweeping femurs and radia cemented into place beneath fragile stone formations, like the armature of some ghastly sculpture. These increased in number as they progressed, their sheer profusion giving the tunnels the aspect of a behemoth’s rib cage seen from within. Those gave way in turn to larger spaces, in which Nature had seen to the decorating: huge vaulted chambers whose ceilings dripped limestone formations like icicles, waterfalls of crystalline calcite that gleamed like fresh snow in the dark fae’s light, underground lakes that were no more than an inch or two deep, but that seemed fathoms in depth—and always there were the veils of memory that the dark fae conjured, that parted like silk curtains at their approach and fluttered slowly into misty darkness behind them. Evidently their fears had no power to manifest in the pierced one’s presence, which was fortunate for all of them.

Damien was exhausted—from walking, from Working. When they at last stopped to rest, he kindled a small tin lamp and let his eyes take a break. Ciani dropped down by his side, equally exhausted, and he saw her rub her eyes as if they hurt her. He put his arm around her, tenderly, but there was little comfort he could offer. Except to whisper that he would keep the lamp out from now on, that its light was inferior but they would have to make do with it. They couldn’t keep Working forever.

“But we tried, yes?” she whispered. And despite their redness her eyes gleamed with pride, because she had Worked as long and as well as he had.

It was hard for them to get moving again. Even Hesseth seemed to bend beneath the weight of her pack, as though it had doubled in weight since she had last borne it. The pierced one watched them in silence, and seemed to need no rest; his own body was clearly more accustomed than theirs to the rigors of underground hiking. And in the end it was his searching gaze that got them moving again, the sight of his mucus-filmed eyes searching for weakness in them. Any weakness.

And then—hours later, miles later, who could say how far they’d come, or how long they’d been traveling?—there was life. At last. First the smell of it: musty and close, like the Lost Ones themselves. Then a faint whiff of smoke, that drifted tantalizingly past them and then, just when they had noticed it, disappeared. Followed by the pungent aroma of the rakh’s fur-mold, which they could now see clinging to the damp cave walls, as well as to the pelt of their host. And the scent of warmth—of fire—of blessed heat, that drove the last of winter’s chill from their weary limbs and promised at least a brief respite from their exertions.

The corridor turned, and widened. And opened into a vast chamber filled with the wide-eyed Lost Ones. They were gathered in small groupings—families?—whose members huddled close together as they stoked their small fires, scraped and polished bones, carved ornaments, picked at each other for parasites. The nearer heads shot up as the party entered the vast common chamber, and Damien caught the glint of firelight on ornaments, thin needles of stone and shell thrust through cheeks, nostrils, even eyelids. Mostly on the men, he noted. And the stronger ones wore more of them and courted more painful placement. What manner of rakh did that make their guide? Damien glanced at the pierced one, saw him studying the inhabitants of the chamber with clear authority. Some sort of leader, then. Or priest. Did the cave-rakh have priests?

The walls were ornate, albeit primitive in design, and had been painted with charcoal and bits of lichen in crude but intricate patterns. Once more, the Lost Ones had used the bones of their food-animals to reinforce the walls, but here the effect seemed more decorative than structural. Polished to a gleaming white, the bones glittered like candleflames in the relative brilliance of the rakhene cookfires. Toe bones and hand bones and slender fingers, worked like mosaic tiles into some sort of native cement—

And then he looked closely at those gleaming bits and hissed softly, rakhlike, as he recognized some of them. He felt his arm muscles tensing as if for battle, had to forcibly keep himself from reaching for his sword.

Not here. Not yet. Find your way out of this warren first.

He took care to position himself so that the women had no chance to see the wall behind him; he could only hope there were no similar displays elsewhere. He felt despair growing inside him, the impotence that came of feeling totally powerless. And he was, indeed, made powerless: by the darkness, by the labyrinth, by the lack of Workable fae in this place—but most of all by their enemy’s all-Seeing power, which was probably even now scouring the rakhlands in search of them. There was some small comfort in that, at least—as long as they were this far underground, not even he would be able to find them.

The cave-rakh began to gather around them, half-crawling, half-walking, coming as close as they dared and then sniffing noisily, white nostrils distended as they tried to catch the strangers’ scents. Tails whipped urgently behind them, twining about each other like serpents in the darkness. How they could smell anything over the moldy reek of their own bodies was beyond Damien; this close, their odor was nigh on overwhelming. He gathered Ciani close to him, a protective arm about her shoulder; Hesseth he kept behind him, lest the like-but-unlike quality of her scent should trigger some violence among these creatures.

The pierced male spoke to them. After a moment of waiting, he snapped another few phrases in the rakhene tongue, hurling them at Hesseth like knives. With effort she composed herself, barely enough to translate, “He says these are the fringe-folk, who live on the borders of the . . . the no-place. He says . . .” She drew in a deep breath, shaking; it was hard for her to translate calmly when all her animal senses were screaming at her to flee. “He is the dream-one, the seeing-one, and they’ll respect his wishes. Because he asks it, they’ll keep us here, so that we may sleep in—in—I’m sorry,” she said, flustered. “I just don’t know that one.”

The pierced one continued. “From here they can show us the House of—the place of blue light,” she corrected herself. Damien could hear the strain in her voice, echo of a self-control that was alien to her and her kind. That’s it, he thought approvingly. Keep it up. “He says that the tunnels we want are under this place, but they are not easy tunnels. The small ways are too narrow, and the walls are . . . falling-threat, he says. Which is why the tunnels were abandoned.” He saw her nostrils flare in terror, innate response to some half-sensed threat. Once more she drew in a deep, slow breath, as if struggling for air. “Very dangerous,” she gasped. Was she translating the dream-one’s words, now, or referring to their general situation? “In past times there was much death, in the no-place. No rakh ever goes there, now. No rakh will ever go there.” The pierced one grinned, displaying crooked teeth. “But I will go there,” she translated, as he slapped his breast proudly. A thin drop of blood welled forth from the base of a pectoral ornament he had struck. “I, the seeing-one, the dream-one, who dares the places of no, I will take you there.” The filmy eyes fixed on Damien with clear hostility. “I think this is some kind of male statement—”

“I understand it,” he told her. Oh, yes: the social pattern was very familiar. Primitive, even bestial . . . and not without its congruent among human males. He remembered one young boy braving the true night alone, in order to achieve the status that only foolhardy courage could earn. Because of a dare, he remembered. It was always because of a dare.

“Tell him yes,” he said brusquely. “Tell him I want to see if he can lead us there, to the place where no rakh go. I want to see if his . . . if his seeing is stronger than his fear. Say it that way,” he urged her.

He watched the pierced one’s face as his challenge was voiced. And therefore did not see the faces surrounding them, as several rakh gasped in response to his audacity.

But the pierced one merely nodded, once, tightly, as he accepted the challenge. “After sleep, then,” he told them through the khrast-woman. “After you have seen the lightning-place. We go then.” He waved to one of the local females, who scurried off ratlike into the darkness. “The fringe-folk give you shelter, for resting in. You will not be sleeping together, so—”

“We stay together,” Damien said sharply. And he sensed, rather than saw, relief in Hesseth’s eyes. “At all times.”

The pierced one fixed wide black eyes on him, as if trying to stare him down. Fat chance, Damien thought. He stared back with equal vigor. At last the rakh nodded, somewhat stiffly. “All three together,” he pronounced. The myriad impalements of his face made his expression particularly grotesque. “You come, then, and the fringe-folk will bring food—”

“No food,” Damien said sharply. He said it again, when the pierced one hesitated. “No food.”

It seemed to him that several of the smaller rakh giggled—or some gurgly equivalent—and for a brief moment nausea washed over him, as he recognized the source of their mirth. But he kept his expression stern, puffing himself up in his best rakhene-male manner. And after a moment of silent confrontation, the pierced one nodded stiffly.

“There will be no food,” he agreed. “Come,” He waved back the mildewed crowd, giving them room to move. Just in time, Damien reflected; the air had become nearly unbreathable. He kept a protective arm about Ciani as they fell in behind him, and a close eye on Hesseth.

“I gather you got the upper hand,” Ciani murmured to him, as they were led from the common chamber. “I don’t suppose you’d care to explain what that last little bit was about?”

He glanced back toward the vast cavern, towards its ornamented walls, and shivered. “Don’t ask,” he muttered. “Not till we’re out of here, at least.” Don’t ever ask, he pleaded silently.

And he remembered the polished bones that he had seen on the cavern wall, remnants of the Lost Ones’ meat-animals applied to decoration. Much as a man might make a rug from the hide of his kill, he thought, or hang its head on the wall. There had been hundreds of bones in that place, all of them smooth and gleaming, some of them carved in intricate patterns . . . and among them at least one hand, nearly human-sized, that was not from a beast. He remembered the fingers of that one—remembered them very clearly—slender bones with rakhene claws at the tip. The retractable talons of the plains-rakh, without doubt. Glued to the wall like some grizzly trophy, a memento of past feasts relished.

He hoped with all his heart that Hesseth hadn’t seen it. He wished with all his heart that he hadn’t, either.

“I didn’t think their food would agree with us,” he muttered.

Darkness. Closeness. The chill of stone, close about them. Packed earth, at their backs. In a sleeping-crevice so narrow that the three of them were forced to huddle together, like a family of Lost Ones might have done. It was not uncomforting, under the circumstances. But it was a bad position to be in, should they be attacked.

Damien cradled the clear vial of Fire against his chest, and let its light drive back the dark fae that even now was trying to reach them. As soon as the cave-rakh had left them, that dark force had begun to manifest their fears, with the result that several amorphous shapes were now lying in sliced-up bits around the party. But that was before. The golden light of the Fire was enough to keep it at bay, and Damien meant to keep it out until the Lost Ones returned to them. After one-sleep, they had said. Whatever the hell that meant.

Beside him, cradled against his chest, Ciani moaned softly, trapped in the grip of some nightmare. He nudged her gently, hoping to urge her out of the dream state without quite awakening her. On his other side Hesseth slept fitfully, deep growls and animal hisses punctuating the soft, whistling snore that counterpointed her slumber. And he . . . he needed sleep desperately, but didn’t dare succumb to it. There was too much here that was unknown—too much that was dangerous. If the Lost Ones considered their cousins to be food-animals, what would they make of the humans, who were even more unlike them? He was acutely aware of the stone shelf close overhead, of his inability to swing a sword without first climbing down from the sleeping-crevice. But to take up guard elsewhere meant that either he or his companions must be without the Firelight, and that was simply unacceptable; the dark fae was too responsive, their fearful imaginations too fertile. They would be overwhelmed in moments. So the best he could do for them was to remain where he was and doze as he had in the Dividers: mere moments of sleep, quickly claimed and quickly abandoned. Mere moments of darkness, punctuating long hours of alertness

Too many hours. Too long a vigil. But who could say how long the night took to pass, in a place where the whole world was darkness?

“There it is.”

They stood upon a ridge of naked granite which the wind had scrubbed clean of snow, and tried to adjust to the harsh morning light. In the distance, barely visible to the naked eye, the House of Storms rose from the ground like some sharp, malignant growth. All about it the land had been flattened, a no-man’s waste of barren ground that made their enemy’s tower all the more visible by contrast. Whatever defenses their enemy might value, invisibility was clearly not one of them.

“Don’t Work,” Damien warned Ciani. “Whatever you do, don’t Work to see it. Or for any other reason.” Not knowing how much she remembered—or, more accurately, how little—he explained, “Any channel we establish can be used against us, no matter what its purpose. We’re too close now to chance that.”

“And it would let him know we’ve arrived?”

“If he doesn’t already know,” he said grimly.

“What’s the chance of that?” Hesseth asked.

“Hard to say. We’ve had nothing happen since Tarrant’s death, to further thin the ranks of our party . . . but that could just mean that he considers us sufficiently weakened already.”

“Or that his attention’s fixed on the simulacra instead.”

He hesitated. All his gut instinct warned him not to bank his hopes on that one deception—never count on anything you can’t See yourself, his master had cautioned him—but to deny Ciani such a small hope now was little less than cruelty. “Let’s hope so,” he muttered. And he raised the small farseer to his eye.

The fortress seemed to leap toward him: slowly he coaxed it into focus. And drew in his breath sharply as its bizarre design gradually became clear.

“Damien?”

“No windows,” he muttered. “No windows at all.” But even those words couldn’t capture the oddity of it. The utterly alien quality of its design. “He’s a paranoid bastard, that’s for sure.”

What rose up from the distant ground was a polished obelisk of native stone, whose slick surface betrayed no hint of doorway, viewport, or any structural joining. It was as if it had not been raised up from the earth, but rather carved from the mountainside itself. A massive sculpture of cold, unliving stone that required no petty adornments—such as entrances or windows—to proclaim its purpose. He studied its surface for many long minutes, and had to bite back on his urge to Work his sight further. That would be too dangerous. He sought mortar lines, the thin shadows of juncture, any hint that mere mortals might have erected that eerie sculpture, but there were none. Not a single crack in the polished surface, that might serve as handhold to an invader. Not even a tiny viewport, through which weapons or gas might enter. Or an agile invader, he thought. Fear of attack was written across every inch of the structure.

“Utterly defensive,” he muttered. “To say the least.” He handed the farseer to Ciani, heard her gasp as she brought the strange edifice into focus. For a moment he looked at her, concerned; was it possible that old memories were surfacing, this close to her tormentor’s fortress? Her hands shook slightly as she held the farseer, and she drew in a long, ragged breath as she stared through it. But no, that was impossible. Her memories weren’t buried, but wholly absent. Taken from her. And if he made the same mistake Senzei had—of confusing absence with suppression— he might well be courting a similar fate.

“Cee?”

“I’m all right. It’s just that it’s so . . .” She fumbled for an adjective, shivering. “That’s it, isn’t it? Where we’re going.”

“That, or somewhere beneath it.” He took the farseer back from her and handed it to Hesseth. Who looked it over with catlike curiosity before finally raising it to her eye to look through it.

Naked stone, polished to an ice-slick surface. A six-sided tower that rose up from the earth like a basalt column, as though Erna herself had vomited it up from the volcanic depths of her core. A structure that widened as it rose so that the walls were forced outward, doubly discouraging anyone who might try to scale it.

It was structurally impossible, plain and simple. Earthquakes might not strike here, but the sun still shone and the seasons still progressed, as in any normal place. And any mass that huge, that solid, was bound to develop flaws as Nature went through her paces. Uneven expansion and contractions, the erosion of wind and ice, the deforming pressure of its own top-heavy mass . . . such a monument could not exist and therefore it did not, simple as that. Not even a Warding would hold it together, against such complex forces. Which meant that something else was involved.

“Illusion?” he mused aloud.

The women looked at him. “You think?” Ciani asked.

“‘When one is in the presence of the seemingly impossible, that which is merely unlikely becomes more plausible by contrast.’ That’s a quote, you know, from-” He stopped suddenly, even as the words came to his lips. And forced himself to voice them. “The Prophet,” he told them. “His writings.”

“Gerald,” Ciani whispered.

He said nothing.

“He’s in there, isn’t he?” Her voice was low and even, but in it was such yearning, such hurting, that it made his soul ache to hear it. “Trapped in there.”

“That’s likely,” he agreed. Knowing, even as he spoke, that it was more than likely. It was certain. He could feel that in his bones, as if his link to the Hunter had allowed knowledge to take root there, without his even knowing it. “Whatever’s left of him,” he said quietly. “Remember the dreams of fire.”

She nodded, remembering. More than mere dreams, but less than true Knowings. How much could they trust such visions?

She stared at the distant citadel, and whispered, “He’s in pain.”

“Yeah.” He forced himself to look away, toward the citadel in the distance. “So are a lot of other people, whose lives he destroyed. Not to mention the hundreds he’s killed.”

“Damien—”

“Ciani. Please.” He knew what was coming, and dreaded it. “He took his chances. If he’s—”

“We have to help him,” she whispered.

He could feel his chest tighten—in anguish, in fury. But before he could speak she added quickly, “It’s not just because he needs help. That wouldn’t be enough for you, I understand that. It’s because we need him.” With slender hands she turned him to face her, so that his eyes were forced to meet hers. “In that citadel—or beneath it—are three things. A human sorcerer, who’s already proven himself capable of killing our best. A high-order demon who may be defended by dozens—if not hundreds—of his kind. And a single man who can wield more power than you and I could ever dream of—and will wield it, in our defense, if he’s free to do so. Don’t you see?” She shook her head tensely, her bright eyes fixed on him. There was wetness gathering in the outer corner of one of them. “It’s not a matter of sentiment, Damien, or even ethical judgment. It’s the odds against us, plain and simple. Gods, I want to come out of this alive. I want to come out of this whole. And now, with your Fire gone, Senzei murdered . . . don’t we stand a better chance of success, with Tarrant’s power on our side?”

“I would sooner walk through the gates of hell,” he told her, “than loose that man on the world again. Do you realize what he is? Do you realize what he does? The hundreds of people who will suffer because of him—the thousands!—because we set him free?”

“You had an agreement with him. You said that for as long as we were traveling together—”

“And I damned well stood by that agreement, though every minute I encouraged him rather than cutting him down will count against me at my day of judgment. No, I wouldn’t have made a move against him while we were traveling together—but God in heaven, Cee, am I supposed to go in after him now that someone else has? Risk my life to save him?”

“He’s trapped in there because of me-”

“He’s in there because he values his own vulking life more than fifty of yours—and mine—combined! Because some little footnote in his survival contract dictated that he come here in order to safeguard his own existence. Nothing more than that—nothing, Cee! The man’s a monster—even worse than that, a monster who once was human. That’s far more dangerous than your average demonkind. Do you think he really cares for you? Do you think he cares for anything, other than his own continued existence? He’d sacrifice you in a minute if you stood in his way.” The words were pouring from him like a flood tide, and with it poured all his anger. All his hatred for the man and what he represented. Everything he had been suppressing for weeks. “Do you know what he did to his wife, his family? Do you imagine you’d rate any better, if he thought that it would profit him to kill you? Do you think he values you more than he valued those of his own blood? He would kill you without a second thought—and worse, if he stood to gain from it.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” she said quietly. “I have no illusions about his nature. I think maybe I even understand him a little better than you can”—and her eyes narrowed—“seeing as I’m not half-blinded by theological prejudice. Let me tell you what he is. Strip away the sword and the collar, and all the accoutrements of his evil . . . and what you come up with is an adept, plain and simple. What I was.” She just stared at him for a moment, giving the words time to sink in. “We’re the same,” she whispered, “he and I.”

“Cee, you’re not—”

“Listen to me. Try to understand. It’s not what you want to hear, I know that. Why do you think I never said it before? For all our closeness, there’s a part of me you never really knew. A part you didn’t want to know. A part no nonadept could ever understand . . . except maybe Zen. I think, sometimes, that he did.”

She put a hand on his arm—but the contact felt cold, and strangely distant. Uncomforting. “We were born the same way, Gerald Tarrant and I. Not like your kind, in the midst of a comprehensible world, born to parents who could foresee your troubles and prepare for them. Most born adepts don’t make it past infancy. Or if they grow up, they grow up insane. The infant brain just can’t handle that kind of input—it’s too much, too chaotic, they can’t sort it out. We spend our lives trying to adapt, fighting to impose some kind of order on the universe. He did it. So did I. Different paths, but the end goal was the same: stability. Of ourselves, and of our world.”

“And now, suddenly, you remember all this?” he asked sharply. He hated himself the minute the words left his mouth, for how they might hurt her. But it was as if the hatred had opened a floodgate; he could do nothing to stop the words from coming.

“I Shared his memories. He offered,” she said quickly. “And why not? It’s a means of learning, isn’t it? They weren’t memories from the . . . not from the time after he changed. Not that, oh no. But from his human years. And gods, the richness of them, the depth . . .”

He closed his eyes, understanding at last. The darkness within her. The taint he had sensed, without knowing how to define it. Tarrant had poured his soul into her, to fill the empty places in hers. And in the short term it had probably assuaged her pain, somewhat. It had certainly given her a knowledge base to replace what she had lost, something to draw on. But in the long run . . . he had to turn away from her, lest she see the rage in his eyes. The hate. And the mourning . . .

She would be unable to leave him behind. Physically unable, due to his influence. Period. No matter what he said or did, it could be no other way.

“As for what he is, that’s just his adaptation,” she said. “Don’t you see? To you it means something else, it’s all tied up with questions of faith and honor—but to me it’s just that. A terrible adaptation, it’s true—I don’t deny that—but does that make it any less of an accomplishment? He’s alive. He’s sane. Not many of our kind can lay claim to that much.”

“I wonder about the sanity,” he muttered, bitterly.

“Damien.” She said it softly, her tone so gentle that it awakened memories of other places, better times. She touched the side of his face with a soft hand, chilled by the morning breezes. “Don’t you want him on our side? Don’t you want that kind of power on our side?”

And live with that, all the rest of my life? He shuddered at the thought. The knowledge that I was the one who made it possible for the Hunter to feed again. All the hundreds he would torment, feast upon, kill . . . their deaths would be on my head, all of them. A multitude of innocents who would have been alive, but for me.

“I can’t,” he whispered. “I can’t do it.”

For a moment there was silence. Then a hand touched his arm. Strong, and with sharp nails that pierced through his sleeve. Not Ciani.

He opened his eyes, and saw Hesseth standing before him.

“Listen to me,” she said softly. Her voice a half-whisper, half-hissing. “It’s not just your species at risk here, remember? I was sent with you because rakh are dying, in every part of this region. People every bit as real and as ‘innocent’ as the humans you ache so to protect. Suffering, no less than the victims of your Hunter. Are all those lives worth nothing to you?” She glanced back at Ciani. “I despise your killer companion. I sympathize with your hatred of him. But I also tell you this: Our chances of success in this are next to nothing without him.” She bared her teeth, an expression of warning. “You tell me to bury my primitive instincts, act with my head. Now it’s time for you to do that. Because if we fail here, we doom my people to more and more attacks like the ones that take place in Lema now. Maybe even outside the Canopy, later, among your own people. Is that what you want? To waste all our effort?” She growled softly. “I say we go to this place and see what our options are. If we have a clear shot at our enemy, we use it. But if not, and we think we can liberate this Hunter of yours . . . then we’d be fools not to, priest, and that’s the simple truth. And I have no tolerance for foolishness when it threatens my life.”

For a moment he couldn’t answer. For a moment the words were all bottled up inside him, like a wine under pressure. Waiting to explode. And then he exhaled slowly, slowly; an exercise in self-control. Two breaths. Another. At last he spoke, in the low monotone of one who has choked back so hard on his feelings that nothing, not even normal emotions, can surface in his speech.

“All right,” he said. “As you say. We’ll see what the situation is, first, and then decide. The three of us.” He felt somehow polluted, shamed by his betrayal of . . . what? His people? The rakh? The matter was too complex for simple answers, and he knew it. But he felt as though he had betrayed his faith—himself—and the shame of that burned like fire. He turned away from them both, lest they see the hot reddening of his cheeks. Lest they guess at his shame. Lest they realize that beneath his bitter hatred of Tarrant there ran an undercurrent of something else. A sharp sense of relief, that when they finally went into battle they might have Tarrant’s power backing them. And that shamed him more than anything.

Damn you, Tarrant. Damn you to hell. “All right,” he whispered. Hoarsely, as though the words hurt his throat. “Let’s do it.” You’d better be worth it, you bastard.

41

Caverns. Not like the tunnels of the Lost Ones, which had been carved and plastered and buttressed and adorned for rakhene convenience; these were empty spaces, utterly lifeless, whose silence was broken only by the slow drip of water as it wended its way down from the surface, chamber by chamber. Tunnels that were comfortably six feet in height would shrink to a mere crawlspace yards later. Room-sized chambers that accommodated four people would be reduced to mere crevices at their farther end, requiring a painstaking divestment of all supply packs before the party could pass through. Steep inclines dead-ended against blank walls and pits dropped down into seeming nothingness, while shallow lakes, mirror-surfaced, made it all but impossible to guess at the hazards that lay underneath.

Under the best of circumstances, progress would have been slow. With what they had to deal with—inadequate lighting, lack of proper tools, and an enemy who might turn their own Workings against them—it was maddeningly frustrating. Though they knew that they were only a short distance from their objective, it was impossible to travel a straight line in the torturous underground system. Sometimes the most promising route would double back on itself, returning them to a point they had passed by hours ago. The pierced one was doing what he could to guide them, but even his rakhene sense of direction could do them little good in such a place. They could only fight their way forward step by step, chamber by chamber, and hope that ground gained exceeded ground lost in the long run.

What kept them going was the knowledge that there was, for them, no other way. Unless they were ready to break into the citadel itself, this was the only known entrance to the labyrinth beneath it. And so they fought on, and kept their weapons tightly in hand as they wended their way through the underearth—ever aware that if the demons attacked them, it would be without light, without warning, and without mercy.

At last, wary of the weakness that exhaustion would conjure, they found themselves a chamber more defensible than most and slept. Briefly. Having no knowledge of how many hours had passed since they had first entered the random tunnels, or whether sunlight or darkness reigned in the world above. They stood guard in teams, as they had above ground, but silently Damien questioned the efficacy of such an arrangement. If the demons they sought could shed their human form, then there was no truly defensible place; the earth was too full of mysterious cracks and crevices, and dark pits that extended to other levels of the labyrinth. So he made sure that his sword was close at hand and napped in a sitting position, springbolt braced against his knees.

How much time did they have to search? He wished he knew. Even if Tarrant’s Working had succeeded in buying them cover it would only work for as long as the party’s doppelgangers were alive. The minute those poor doomed souls reached Sansha Crater and the ambush took them, the deception was ended forever. And in that moment their enemy, who very likely knew the party’s purpose—or at least guessed at it—would begin to search his domain with a fine-toothed comb, searching for them.

He hoped that the simulacra would take longer than expected to reach their goal. And hated himself for doing so. He hated himself for wanting the deception to work at all; for being grateful that five innocents had been doomed to a grisly death, instead of his own party. But worst of all were those rare instants when he was honest enough to admit that he was grateful to Tarrant for making that move without asking him. Without giving him the chance to stop it. That gratitude was like a cancer on his soul, a growing uncleanliness which he lacked the knowledge—or perhaps the will—to eradicate.

It’s what he said he would do to me, he thought darkly. Exactly what he described. The thought of going in to rescue the man was doubly abhorrent because of it. But the longer they traveled, the closer their destination loomed in his mind, the more Damien was forced to admit that they needed him. Plain and simple. As for the ramifications of that . . . he would deal with them later.

When he slept he dreamed of fire, and it burned in his brain with such an intensity that his skin was actually flushed with fever when he awakened, as though the fire burned within him. From the place where Ciani lay curled up, asleep, he heard soft moans of anguish, and he knew without needing to ask that the same dream had her in thrall. Neither Hesseth nor the pierced one seemed troubled by such visions, but who could say whether the mechanism of their sleep bore any similarity to a human standard? There was no way to judge whether something was in the currents that only humans might respond to, or—a far more alarming possibility—whether Tarrant himself was the source of those visions, using his links with Damien and Ciani to communicate in symbols what he lacked the ability to send in words. But fire? From the Hunter? He considered many possible causes for that, in the hours they traveled, and all of them were chilling.

It wasn’t until long after their sleep break—when they were taking a brief rest in a large, dry chamber—that he thought to mention it to his rakhene companions. To his surprise the pierced one responded immediately.

“It is the fire of the earth,” Hesseth translated. Suggesting by her hesitation a far more complex phrase, with connotations that had no parallel in her own dialect. “It lives in this place.”

Damien heard Ciani’s sudden indrawn breath, felt excitement stir within him. “Fire of the earth? What is that? Ask him?”

She did so. And listened to the answer at length, and questioned him about it, before turning again to her human listeners. “I’m not sure of this,” she warned them. “His language is very unclear. Highly symbolic. But what I make of it is that here, somewhere in these caverns, is a fire which the earth itself supplies with fuel. He says it burned when his people first came here, and kept burning in all the time they occupied this region. Before the falling-threat finally drove them away. It has some kind of . . . spiritual significance, I think.”

“The word is religious,” Damien said quietly. “Go on.”

“That’s all he knows. They don’t have the kind of oral tradition we do; all he remembers are snatches of stories, that were retold because of their dramatic value.” She smiled slightly. “I gather the young of his kind are threatened with being thrown into this fire if they misbehave too often.”

“A fire of the earth,” Ciani whispered.

And he nodded. Not in response to what she said, but to what she was thinking. Because there was no question about it: the fire of the earth was Tarrant’s fire, the same yellow flame that haunted their dreams and their thoughts, which seemed to guard the secret of their dark companion’s disappearance. As soon as he even considered that connection he knew it for the truth. It was as though some some vital circuit in his brain had finally closed—or as though the channel between Tarrant and himself allowed that much knowledge to flow, before distance and distaste could occlude it. And he knew, without asking Ciani, that her experience was the same.

“Tarrant’s fire,” he muttered. “Fed by the earth? I’d guess fossil fuel, in some form. Probably solid, or a shifting of the earth would have cut the supply channel at some point.”

“Except that the earth hasn’t moved here,” Ciani reminded him.

“It’s moved some. Maybe not enough to shake the ground hard—maybe so little that no one’s ever aware of it—but it moves. It has to.” He turned to Hesseth. “Ask him if he knows where it is. Ask him if he can tell us anything of how to find it.”

She talked to the pierced one again, and this time it was clear he was the one having difficulty. After a time he answered her, haltingly, and she told the humans, “Deep down. Very deep down. I’m not sure whether he means the lowest caverns in this system, or the lowest caverns not underwater. Or even the lowest caverns not rakh-made; there might be tunnels that were dug below that level, later.”

“Good enough,” Damien muttered.

“Damien?” Ciani put a hand on his arm; he noted that she was trembling slightly. “What are you thinking?”

“That it may be a safe way in,” he told her. He put his own hand over hers, and squeezed it tightly in reassurance. “We can’t Know the caverns, because then our enemy would See exactly where we are. We can’t Locate Tarrant, because the minute we tried we’d be opening up a channel that our enemy could use to strike at us. But a fire? A simple fire? A straightforward Working, fixed on that . . . it would be doubly safe, because he’d never anticipate it. How could he know that we’d even heard of the fire of the earth? How could he anticipate that we would understand its significance? It just might work, Cee. Safely. We just might get away with it.”

In a voice very still, very fragile, she asked, “You’ll go after him?”

For a moment there was only the darkness around them, and the chill silence of the underworld. Then, choosing his words very carefully, he told her, “I said I’d take the best way in, didn’t I? I said if it turned out the best thing to do, I’d go with it.” You have no idea what it’s going to cost me to save that man, he thought grimly. Or of what it will cost our world, to have him free in it. But Hesseth was right. If his strength and his knowledge can help end this plague, then I have no real choice, do I? We use the tools we must. “If nothing else, it gives us a clear road in. And God knows, we need that.”

Then he took her hand in both of his, warmed it between his palm. “The relationship you had with him means that you know him better than I can,” he said softly. Trying to keep his voice utterly neutral, trying not to let his tone and manner betray how appalling he found that fact. “He knows how abhorrent I found him. He knows how much I despised him, for everything he represented. Tell me this, if you can . . . if he were in trouble—captured, let’s say, and in pain, incapable of helping himself—does he think that I would come after him?” When she hesitated, he added, “Or that I would let our party come to help him? Or does he think I would leave him to die—perhaps even be grateful to our enemy for arranging it?”

For a long time she stared at him, as if by doing so she could read what was in his mind. But he was careful to keep his expression neutral, and at last she answered, “There’s not any real question about that, is there?”

“He believes it.”

She hesitated, then nodded.

“He believes it utterly.”

This time the nod came faster.

“What is it?” Hesseth asked. “What does that mean?”

“If our enemy were rakhene, nothing. But it has to do with the way human sorcery works—with the way that our enemy would naturally use Gerald Tarrant as a focus for any Working that concerned us.”

“He would take the knowledge of our plans from his mind?”

“Either that, or use it as a . . . say, a filter of sorts, for a more general Knowing. But either way . . .” His hands tightened about Ciani’s. A familiar excitement was beginning to course through his veins, driving out all memory of fatigue and frustration. This was the approach they needed, at last; it felt right, in a way that years of experience had taught him to trust. “He wouldn’t see us coming,” he whispered fiercely. “If Tarrant thinks what you say he does, if he’s that certain of it . . . why would the enemy assume him wrong? It means that way would would be only lightly guarded, if at all. And probably not Worked against us. But most important . . . it means we have a way to find our way through this damned labyrinth without being caught at it. Praise God,” he breathed. “Now, let’s just hope that when we get that bastard back . . .”

He released Ciani and lifted his springbolt. And tested the draw, to make sure it was tightly cocked.

“Let’s just say he’d better earn his keep,” he warned her.

Caverns. So deep within the earth that the earth-fae itself faded to a whisper: a mere hint of power with no sense of motion about it. A shallow pool of unWorked potential, utterly unlike the swift-flowing currents that coursed on the planet’s surface. But for what Damien intended, it was enough. He cast his will out upon the mirror stillness of its surface and shaped it slowly, carefully, to serve his intentions. After a moment, there was a ripple—more felt than seen, like a shadow of thought that flitted through the mind without taking form—and then the fae began to flow. Slowly. Not as it would have done on the surface of the planet, where the power born of seismic disruption was constantly pouring into it, stirring it to life. But moving nonetheless, with clear direction. It was enough.

“Toward the fire,” Damien whispered. And they Worked their sight—with effort—and followed it. Wading downcurrent, following the whispery power as it clung to the edges of water-carved stone, marking a path that they might tread. The pierced one was silent now, his jangling ornaments bound up with bits of cloth so that they might not betray the party. Nor did he speak, but climbed through the caverns lost in the web of his own thoughts. Communing with his gods, perhaps, or contemplating his masculine bravado. Whatever it was, it served their purpose well enough; Damien encouraged it.

And then they came to a place where the last chamber narrowed, until all that led from it was a low-ceilinged crawlspace, barely wide enough to accommodate a man. Small formations edged its upper surface like teeth, and two stalagmites the thickness of a man’s wrist rose from its mud-covered floor. Damien looked at it dubiously, was about to speak—and then heard a gasp behind him that caused him to whip about with his weapon at the ready.

It was Ciani. Pale as a ghost, shivering as though she had just seen—or heard—something utterly terrifying. She had her hands up before her face as if trying to ward off some terrible danger—but when Damien turned back in response to that gesture, to seek out the cause of her terror, he saw nothing more than he had previously. Only empty stone corridors, weakly coursing fae, and glistening of moisture on slender calcite branches.

“The smell,” she whispered. “Gods, I remember . . .”

He came to her then, handed his weapon to Hesseth—who understood, and was ready to take it—and took the ex-adept into his arms. And held her tightly, making his body into a shield that might protect her from all dangers.

“I smell it,” she whispered. “Can’t you? I remember running . . . Gods, I must have come this way. There were places . . . I thought . . . but I had so little light, then, and so little strength . . . and these caves all look the same, don’t they? But I thought . . . oh gods, don’t you see, I’ve been here . . .”

Then she lowered her head to his chest and sobbed softly there; he stroked her hair gently and wished he could will some of his own strength into her. It had been bound to happen, this outburst, and he’d been expecting it . . . but he knew that there was even worse to come, and so he just held her, gently, and let her have her tears. God knows, she’d been holding them in long enough.

Soon she’ll remember all of it. All of it! Her capture, her captivity, whatever torture she endured at the hands of these creatures . . . it’ll all return to her in an instant. A single blow. What will that be like? So much terror pouring back into her, all those years of suffering relived in an instant . . . this is nothing, compared to it. Her hardest moment will be the one in which we restore her to what she was.

When he thought she was capable of listening to him, he said to her gently, “You couldn’t have come this way, Cee. Think about it. You’d have had to come through that tunnel, and you’d have had to break the formations to do it. Right? They’re still there.”

“It’s the smell,” she whispered. Her whole body was shaking. She clung to him desperately “It’s like that all through their tunnels. Can’t you smell it? I couldn’t escape it. I ran and ran, and I couldn’t get away from it . . .”

He tested the air, caught a faint whiff of sourness coming from the tunnel. Too faint, or else too unfamiliar, for him to identify; he looked to Hesseth and saw her nod grimly.

“Carrion,” she hissed softly. And the pierced one concurred. “Rotting carrion,” she translated for him.

The region of no, he thought. The place of dying.

“All right,” he muttered. “We’re going through. The fae’ll guide us to the fire all right, so if we see anything move we shoot—or swing, or whatever—and worry about what it was later. Agreed?”

Ciani nodded, as did Hesseth. When the khrast woman translated for their pierced companion, he bared his teeth and hissed aggressively, his naked tail curling at the tip. I’ll take that for a yes, Damien thought.

He approached the narrow passageway and studied it. Had it been clear of mud and monuments it might have been wide enough for him—barely—but as it was, there was no clear way through.

“How strong are those things?” he asked the pierced one, pointing to one of the slender stalagmites.

It took the Lost One a moment to realize what he was driving at. Then he answered, “When small, very brittle. When that large,”—and he pointed to the two stalagmites rising from the mud-covered floor—“they will still crack, if much force is applied.”

“Good enough,” he muttered. He opened the buckles on his sword’s harness and lowered the sheathed weapon from his back. “Hand this through as soon as I’m out,” he said, giving it to Ciani. Tarrant’s sword had been affixed to the same harness, but he unfastened it so that it would come through separately. All he needed in a moment of trouble was to grab the wrong one. Even through its multiple layers of wrapping the cold sword throbbed with malevolence, and Damien thought he perceived a certain . . . call it hunger. Was that because it sensed it was close to its master/creator? Or because it knew that soon it might be going into battle, with all the mayhem that implied?

He divested himself of all the layers he could: outer jacket, fleece vest, thick overshirt. He left on the thick leather undervest which had saved his life on so many occasions, and hoped that its bulk wasn’t too excessive. “Leave the general supplies here,” he ordered. “Take weapons, tools, some food and water. We’ll come back here when we’re done.” If we can. “Take light,” he added. And he removed the precious pouch of Fire from his belt and hung it about his neck instead, so that it might not impede him in the narrow passageway.

Then: head first, shoulders brushing the uneven walls as he crawled slowly through. He had a long knife clasped in his teeth so that whatever danger might lurk on the other side would not find him unarmed, or unready. Thin calcite spines caught on his shut as he passed, snapped off like burrs as he pressed onward. Good enough. He elbowed his way forward, through a tunnel that grew narrower and narrower, until he could feel the stone walls pressing close on both sides of him. Then he came to the first of the slender formations, and he leaned all his weight against it; it snapped off cleanly near the base, and he set it to one side. The same with the second. The tunnel widened somewhat, enough that he could crawl through. And then opened suddenly, without warning, into a much larger chamber.

He thrust himself into it and rolled to his feet, and then reached back the way he had come. Ciani had followed after him, close enough that when she extended his long sword toward him he was able to grasp its hilt and draw it. Thus armed, he surveyed his surroundings. A large room, empty of adversaries but filled with the reek of their presence. He saw where a tunnel opposite had been widened to allow for more comfortable passage, and he thought with grim satisfaction, This is it. This is where they’ll be.

“Come through,” he whispered. “Carefully.”

They did, with considerably less difficulty than he’d had. He noted that if they fled this way he would need to make sure he went through last, in order that they might not be delayed while he squeezed his bulk through the passage. Not a cheery thought.

“Can you See?” he asked Ciani. And even more than listening for her answer, he watched for her response. But she seemed to be somewhat under control, and she nodded as she gazed down at the fae. “Barely,” she whispered. “It’s very weak.”

“But it’ll have to do. We can’t use real light in here; they’d see it coming miles away.” Again she nodded, and he extinguished their illumination. It had only been minimal to start with, a bare spark of fire in a mostly hooded lantern, but now it was gone. He handed the lantern to Ciani, who hooked it to her belt. And looked down at the earth-fae, to see which way his guiding current was flowing.

“This way,” he whispered, and he led them into the heart of the demons’ lair.

It was dark, and cold, and rank with the smell of death. The chill of it seemed to exceed the natural cold of the underneath, as though some force had leached the heat from the very stone about them; Damien thought of the Hunter’s sword—now strapped again to his harness—and wondered at the similarity. An eater of souls, the pierced rakh had called it. Like the ones they were hunting. How similar were they, really?

And then Hesseth whispered Hsssst! in warning, and Damien fell back. The cold stone behind him pressed Tarrant’s sword even closer, so that its unnatural chill lanced into his back muscles; he had to fight not to alter his position, to remain utterly still and utterly silent while his companions also hid, waiting for any sight or sound that might tell him what the danger was. And after a moment, it came. The padding of flesh on stone, the whisper of clothing. The hoarse breathing of one who has no need to be silent, the muttered conversation of one who knows no reason to fear.

Then they came around the corner, and Damien paused just long enough to ascertain that there were only two of them before he swung. He put all his strength into it, knowing that the unWorked steel was all but invisible to their fae-sight. And the full force of it hit the first creature at neck level and sliced through muscle and bone with a crack, coming out the other side with some speed still left in it. The creature’s head struck the wall, bloodily, and caromed off it to the floor; its body sank slowly, as if not yet fully cognizant of the fact of its death. Damien turned to the other one, quickly, ready to face whatever manner of defense the surprised creature could muster—but the face that stared at him had a black hole in the place of one eye, from which acrid smoke and golden sparks issued as he watched. He caught sight of the rear metal band of a bolt as the creature twitched, the Fire spreading in its veins like poison. And he turned back to see Ciani standing with springbolt in hand, an expression that was half fear and half pride suffusing her countenance.

“It seemed like the thing to do,” she whispered.

Damien leaned down to inspect the headless body. Vaguely human in shape, it was dressed in an assortment of mismatched garments, haphazardly arranged. Barefoot. After a moment he placed his hand on its flesh and muttered “Warm. The body’s alive. Not just a demon, then. Truly embodied.”

“What does that mean?” Hesseth asked.

“It means they bleed. It means they die.” He looked up at her; he could feel the fierceness in his own expression. “It means that whatever these things are, the odds in our favor just got a little better.”

They hid the bodies as well as they could. They couldn’t wash the blood from the ground or drive the reek of burning flesh from the area, but at least if someone passed through quickly they wouldn’t see what had happened. The earth-fae was faint enough here that whoever relied upon it for sight might miss seeing details. The dark fae, though far more intense, clearly had no love of carrion; it withdrew from the corpses as it would withdraw from cold, unliving stone, and therefore offered no illumination.

“Good enough,” Damien muttered at last.

They went on. Damien in the lead, with Hesseth right beside him. Her senses of hearing and smell were clearly more accurate than his, so he trusted her to be on guard for approaching danger. He studied the current, and the walls, and tried to get some feel for the lay of the land. At least this cavern system had been modified so that a man might walk through it upright. He had given one springbolt to the rakh-woman, and Ciani carried the other. Damien preferred his sword, not because it was more efficient—it wasn’t—or even because it was marginally quieter—it was—but because it was . . . well, familiar. A weapon he had wielded through so many battles, relied upon in so many tight situations, that using it was like using part of his body. Second nature. And besides, he told himself, it doesn’t need reloading. The pierced one carried a slender wooden spear, brought with him from his home caverns. If the look on his face was any guide, he knew how to use it.

Well armed and more than ready, he thought grimly.

They passed through a number of chambers and passageways, including some where several routes intersected. At each of these he paused, and worked to commit the place to memory. He didn’t dare mark the walls here as he had during their descent; the marks he made would be as likely to lead their enemies to them as serve any purpose of theirs.

And then they came to it. It was the pierced one who felt it first, and hissed sharp sounds to Hesseth in warning. “Heat,” she translated. “From up ahead.” They looked at each other. “I don’t feel it,” the rakh-woman whispered.

“You wouldn’t, necessarily,” Damien whispered back. “Specialized senses. The temperature belowground is so constant, any change would have significance.” He nodded his approval—and his admiration—to the pierced one. And checked the current carefully before he moved again.

Now, if possible, they were doubly alert. If there were guards at all, they would be here. Damien felt a breeze brush by his face, something far more suited to open spaces than this underground warren. And then he understood: the fire. Drawing oxygen, and with it air. Creating suction as it burned, so that fresh air would be drawn to it. How else could it keep burning so long, regardless of its fuel?

“Very close,” he whispered. He signaled for them to stop, and strained his senses to the utmost. The fetid stink of the demons’ lair was stronger here, perhaps concentrated by the fire’s pull. Not certain that Hesseth would pick up any smell besides that foul odor, he listened for a hint of movement. None. Not a sound or a smell to hint at the presence of any other being in this chamber, or in any adjoining passage. It was almost too good to be true.

He doesn’t expect us here, he reminded himself. There was a chance—just a chance—that the fire wasn’t guarded. At all. If so, they might even make contact with Tarrant before anyone realized they were there . . .

And then all hell breaks loose. Because no matter what their enemy was doing with Tarrant, he’d damn well be monitoring the results. Which meant that the moment they interfered with his plans, he’d be aware of both their presence and their purpose. They’d be lucky if he didn’t blast them right on the spot; if he lacked that kind of power he’d certainly send his people after them, and it was a good bet the resident soul-eaters knew this labyrinth better than Damien and his company.

We’ll deal with that when we get to it.

There was light, now, flickering and faint—but real light, golden light, like the kind that came from a natural fire. It seemed to Damien that now he, too, could feel heat on his face, as if each few steps brought him into a place where the air was noticeably warmer. He felt a cold buzz course up his back, as though Tarrant’s sword was somehow upset by the concept of warmth. Tough shit, he thought to it. He turned a sharp corner and squeezed around an obstruction—the light was much brighter now, and it seemed that in the distance he could hear the roar of flames—and then Fire. Burning so brightly that he had to turn away from it. Burning so hot that the skin of his face reddened, just from standing before it. For a moment he saw nothing but the fire itself, a narrow-based bonfire that blazed upward a good fifty feet before licking even farther into a wide crack in the cavern’s upper surface. The chamber it was in was a good forty feet wide, if not more, and a jagged crack ran down the center of the floor; it was the middle of that which had broken open, giving access to the limitless fuel beneath. Sometime in the distant past someone or something must have ignited it—but that moment was little more than legend now, if that. As far as the Lost Ones were concerned, the fire had burned forever.

He forced himself away from the entrance so that the others might follow. And scanned the chamber as well as he could, for any sign of enemy activity. But for as much as his darkness-adapted eyes could see past the blazing fire, it seemed they were alone. Except for a pile of fabric against the far wall, and a long, slender object that lay atop it . . .

He walked toward it, half-aware that the others were following. He had a terrible feeling about what it was and fervently hoped he was wrong. But when he got to the pile at last, he saw that it was indeed what he had feared. Midnight blue silk and fine gray worsted, in layers that were all too familiar. And atop it all an empty sheath, its surface inscribed with at least a dozen ancient symbols . . . Tarrant’s sheath. Tarrant’s clothing. He felt sick, realizing why they were here.

He looked at the bonfire—squinted against its glare, and tried to make out details—and at last muttered, “He’s there. In that.”

Ciani shivered, and looked at the fire. And then said, “But it isn’t Worked. How could it hold him—”

“He can’t Work fire,” Damien said tightly. “Or anything connected to it.” It seemed to him that for a moment he understood what that meant, what it felt like for a being that powerful to be rendered impotent—utterly neutralized—by so simple a means. And the pain of it, the utter humiliation of it, was so intense that he nearly staggered back, as though struck. For a man of the Hunter’s arrogance to be trapped thus . . . he wondered if that fierce pride could survive such an experience. If the identity he knew as Gerald Tarrant could emerge from it unscathed—or even recognizable.

“I think,” he said slowly, “if there’s any one facet of our enemy that terrifies me . . . it’s how well he knows us. How well he knows how to get to each of us.”

He walked toward the fire slowly, his eyes filling with tears as the heat of it seared his face. He came as close as he dared and then stopped and stared into it. Into the brutal heart of it, the blazing core of its heat.

And he could barely make out, amidst the dancing flames, the black figure of a man. Stretched out across the opening, arms spread out in a cruciform arrangement. The fingers—if there still were fingers—would be just inches short of the fire’s edge. Damien looked for some kind of support, saw the blunt ends of coarse steel bars resting on both sides of the crevice. The metal glowed with heat where it lay against the stone floor. If he lay on that framework, perhaps bound to it . . . merciful God. No doubt it was the powerful air currents, fire-stirred, that kept the smell of roasting flesh from reaching them. Damien had no doubt that it was there, in quantity.

“We have to turn it off,” he muttered. His mind racing as it considered—and discarded—at least a dozen options. “I can’t get to him while it burns.”

“Smother it?” Ciani asked. She was by his side, a hand shielding her eyes as if from bright sunlight.

“Can’t. There’s air coming in, all along there.” He indicated the narrower portions of the crevice. “If not from underneath, too.”

“Block it?” Hesseth asked.

He bit his lower lip as he considered that. “Going to have to try,” he said at last. “The earth-fae’s weak, but I can’t think of another good option.” He turned back toward the chamber’s one entrance, saw that the pierced one had taken up guard there. “They’ll be on us the minute I Work. It may take them time to get down here, but they’ll come. In force. As soon as I alter the fire.”

“Then we’ll just have to be ready for them,” the rakh-woman said fiercely, and she braced the springbolt against her shoulder.

He went back where Tarrant’s possessions lay, and considered them. Then he removed the coldfire blade and unwrapped it, carefully. The Worked steel blazed with a chill blue light, as blinding as snow—and then was extinguished, as he thrust it deep into its warded container. He tested the handle, and sensed no active malevolence. Thank heaven for that, anyway.

He positioned the other members of their small company as best he could, to prepare for the arrival of the enemy’s servants. But: Our best won’t be good enough, he thought darkly. Without Tarrant’s power behind them they were no match for a horde of demons, flesh-dependent or no; they would have to work fast and get out quickly, and hope that Tarrant could be restored before battle commenced.

He looked at the body within the flames, and felt despair uncoiling within him. If he can be restored, he thought grimly. What if we’re doing all this for nothing?

He gathered himself for Working, and stared into the fire. Stared beneath it, to where the sharp lips of rock gaped wide above the earth’s store of fuel. He Worked his sight—no easy task, with the earth-fae so thin—and tried to look deep down into that opening, to assess its structure. But there was no place immediately below where the walls of the crevice drew any closer together. With a sigh he resigned himself to Working its upper edges, and braced himself for the effort.

And air roared past him, sucked up by the conflagration. Earth-fae swept past him, too thin to grasp. He tried to enclose it in his will, to force a form and purpose upon its tenuous substance—but it ran through his fingers like smoke and was sucked up into the inferno. Not enough of it, he despaired. Not enough! He was used to the currents of Erna’s surface, so deep and rich that the simplest thought was enough to shape it, the simplest Working enough to master it . . . but here, Working the fae was like trying to breathe in a vacuum. There simply wasn’t enough power for what he needed to do.

But there has to be, he thought darkly. Because we have no other choice. Already he could feel the malignant thoughts of their enemy closing in around him, like a fist being clenched. How long did they have before he struck? Mere minutes, he guessed. He poured everything he had into his Working: all the force of his hatred for Tarrant, his love for Ciani, his despair at losing her twice—first to the assault in Jaggonath, then to Tarrant’s corruption. If raw emotion could master the earth-fae, then he would use that as his fuel. His will blazed forth in need, in pain, and he grasped at the elusive power. And fought to weave it into a barrier, that might bridge the mouth of the crevice. But there simply wasn’t enough fae there to do what he needed. Again and again he tried, until his soul was scraped raw by remembered anguish, until his whole body shook from the force of his exertion. But his Bindings dissolved even as he made them, and the force of the fire broke through his every Working.

“I can’t” he gasped at last. “Can’t do it.” His brain was on fire, his whole body shaking, his plans in chaos. What now? he thought desperately. What now? Behind him he could sense Ciani’s despair, and it cut into him like a knife. I failed her. I failed them all.

How much time had passed, while he wrestled with the earth-fae? He didn’t dare ask. But every second they spent here increased their danger. Already their only escape route might be cut off—

Think, man. Think! The earth-fae isn’t strong enough here. The dark fae can’t be used to bind fire. There’s nothing we can do by physical means alone. What else is there? What? Think!

He knew, suddenly. And turned to Hesseth.

“Tidal power,” he gasped. “Can you—”

“Not stable,” she warned. “Not for solid work. There would be danger—”

“To hell with the danger! It’s that or nothing.” He was drenched with sweat but refused to move back from the fire. “Can you do it?”

For a moment her eyes unfocused, and she stared not at him, but past him. Through him. He remembered the tidal fae fluxing over Morgot, the brief rainbow power that had suddenly filled the sky with brilliance, then vanished with equal rapidity. It was a fickle power, utterly impermanent. Dangerously unstable. And right now, it was the only hope they had left.

“I can try,” she said at last. “But you understand—”

“Just do it!” He was counting down the seconds in his mind, wondering how long it would take their enemy’s soldiers to reach them. “Do it fast,” he whispered. Was it possible that the enemy’s attention had been elsewhere when they struck, delaying his response? He prayed that it was so. Every minute counted now.

Hesseth turned her attention to the fire, and he followed her gaze. He tried to See the forces she was summoning, but the delicate power eluded him. How much fae would be available to her, and how long would it last? The tidal patterns altered minute by minute, as time and tides progressed about the planet. Even if she could conjure a barrier for them, would it remain solid long enough for them to do what they had to?

“There it is,” Ciani whispered. Pointing to the crevice. It could be seen at one edge of the opening, now: a fog, a darkness, that grew solid even as they watched, and eclipsed the fire behind it. He felt his heart pounding as he watched it extend—several inches into the crevice, a foot, two feet, now halfway across it—and he wiped the sweat from his face with a salt-soaked sleeve. Go for it, Hesseth. You can do it. The remaining fire was ragged now, as if struggling against some unseen bond. Smoke was beginning to seep from other places along the crevice, desperately seeking egress from the pit of its birth. For a moment he feared that the fire would break out elsewhere, that Hesseth’s Working might force it to break through the very rock beneath their feet. Then the last of the Fire spurted upward, licking the ceiling with its orange tongue—and was suddenly gone, vanished beneath the shadowy blockage.

It wasn’t hard to see what the enemy had done to Gerald Tarrant; the grating that supported him still glowed red-hot, supplying them with more than enough light. Atop the thick steel bars lay a body that had been burned and healed and burned again, so many times that its surface was little more than a blackened mass of scar tissue. Where cracks appeared red blood oozed forth, and it sizzled as it made contact with the superheated skin. Damien didn’t look at the face—or what was left of it—but he felt hot bile rise in his throat as he studied the man’s bonds. Wide metal bands bound the Hunter to his rack at the wrist, upper arm, ankle and neck; they, too, glowed with heat, and had burned their way deep into his flesh until the edges of bones were visible.

“How long-” he began.

“Eight days,” Ciani whispered. “If they brought him right here.” She looked up at him; her face was drenched with sweat, or tears. Or both. “What do we do?” she begged him. “How do we get him off it?”

He fought back his growing sickness and tried to Work. It wouldn’t take much fae to break those bonds; that was a simple exercise, a straightforward molecular repulsion. But either Hesseth’s Working had affected the earth-fae or he was simply too exhausted to Work it. He fought with the fae until his vision began to darken about the edges, the whole of the room swimming about him. And then knew, at last, that he was defeated. The best of his efforts couldn’t conjure more power than there was in this place, and there simply wasn’t enough. Tarrant might have been able to do it. He couldn’t.

He looked up, and saw Ciani’s eyes fixed on him. Not despairing, now, but filled with a feverish excitement. And with a terrible fear. The combination was chilling.

“The coldfire,” she whispered. “The sword.”

It took him a moment to realize what she meant. “Too dangerous—”

“Not for me.”

He remembered the malevolence housed within that blade, and shuddered. “Can you?” he whispered. “Can you control it?”

She hesitated. “He controls it,” she said hoarsely. “But I think I can use it. For him.”

She went to get the blade. He tried to fight back his growing sickness, his sense of horror at what she was attempting. If she tried to master that power and failed, what would the cost be? He remembered the hunger he had sensed while handling it, that had so horrified him. What had the Lost Ones called it—the Eater of Souls?

And then she was back, and the sword was in her hands. She hesitated just an instant—and he knew in that moment that she feared it every bit as much as he did—and then drew it from its sheath. The containment wards let loose their hold, and the chill power of Tarrant’s coldfire blazed forth freely.

Hot versus cold. Expansion and contraction. If she could gain control of that frigid force, if she could focus it finely enough . . . it might be enough to break through those bonds and free the Hunter. But if not . . .

He saw the barrier flicker for an instant; a burst of flame shot through it, enveloping Tarrant’s torso, and then was gone. He looked at Hesseth, saw her whole body tense with the effort of Working. Hang in there, he begged her. Hold onto it . . .

Ciani touched a hand to the blade—and cried out as the blue-white power shot up that extremity, up to her shoulder. Her skin took on the ghostly pallor of long-dead flesh, and frost rimmed her fingernails. Then she grasped the shaft of it with that hand, and it seemed that her fingers froze closed about the grip. Slowly she extended the Worked weapon toward the nearest of Tarrant’s bonds; he could see her struggling to bind its power, fighting to impose her own focus on its chaotic essence. Then the tip of the sword touched the red-hot metal, and sparks flew. Coldfire arced upward with electrical brilliance, and snapped like lightning in the charged atmosphere. Then it was gone, and the sword was withdrawn . . . and the steel band that had bound his wrist was shattered, its frosted pieces falling like shrapnel to the fae-worked barrier beneath.

Smoke spurted and curled upward through Hesseth’s Working as she struggled to move the sword again. Hold onto it! Ciani’s face had taken on the same ghastly pallor as her hand, and he could almost hear her heart laboring to maintain its beat as the Hunter’s killing cold invaded her flesh. Damn the man! Would they free him from death, only to lose her? He watched her face as a second metal strap shattered into frozen crystals, saw the pain—and the fear—that was etched across her brow. Still she continued. Tarrant’s neck was freed now, and Damien’s hand closed tightly about the grip of his own sword. They could cut through the man’s other wrist if they had to, and even his ankles; let him regenerate the flesh at his leisure, once they were out of here. He thought he could hear footsteps now, a distant pounding as if from running feet. The fourth bond shattered. The sweat on Ciani’s face had frozen, and ice crystals rimmed the bottoms of her eyes. Five. He started to move forward, saw a wall of flame erupt before him. Ciani! But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and though her hair was singed and the skin of her face burned, Ciani seemed unharmed.

Hang in there, Hesseth. Just a few minutes longer!

He moved as the sixth bond shattered, so that by the time Ciani reached to free Tarrant’s second ankle he had hold of the man’s flesh, was grasping him tightly about the wrist. Hot blood scalded his hand, but he knew there was no time to experiment with less direct measures. As soon as Ciani had broken the last steel band, he pulled with all his strength. The body moved like a broken doll, burned flesh pulling loose from it as it was jerked from the red-hot framework, scar tissue sizzling as it was dragged across the grating—and then they were both out of the danger zone, and just in time. Thin flames licked upward through Hesseth’s barrier and then suddenly, with a roar, shot upward toward the ceiling, burning with newfound energy. He felt his own hair curling from the force of the heat, could only pray that Ciani had made it back in time.

He dragged the body back from the flames, tried to wipe some of the sweat from his eyes so that he could see. There was blood on his sleeve; his, or Tarrant’s? It no longer seemed to matter. He was dimly aware of blisters all along his palm, from where he had grasped the body. His sword—hand, too—damn, that was careless!

“They’re coming!” Hesseth hissed.

He took up his sword in his right hand, wincing as his burned palm closed about the rough grip. And saw Ciani throw a length of cloth about the body—Tarrant’s cloak?—so that when they wanted to move it they might do so safely.

And then they came. In numbers, as he had feared.

Not a trained guard, but six of the soul-eating creatures who inhabited this underground lair. They were only the first wave, no doubt, the ones who had been closest to the fire when the enemy spotted their activity; there would be others to follow, dozens more, better armed and far more dangerous. But for now, these were enough.

The heat of the fire blazed across his back as he turned to face his attackers. A bolt shot past his head, from Ciani, but she had fired from too far back; it missed its intended target and struck the wall, wooden shaft splintering from the impact. Hesseth had picked up the other springbolt and she fired it point-blank into the gut of one of the creatures; even as it pierced his abdomen and came out through his back he grabbed at the weapon, long claws scoring her arm as he fought to claim it. A second bolt whistled past Damien’s ear, and this one struck; a shot to the arm that began to smolder in the pale flesh. Only two of the creatures were armed, but though they bore sizable swords they used them clumsily, like men unaccustomed to armed combat. As Damien engaged the first, trying to keep his back close enough to the fire that none would circle behind him, he wondered what manner of contact was required for their most deadly mode of attack. Mere touch? Bodily penetration? He parried his opponent’s sword down to the stone floor and slammed his foot down on it, hard; the cheap steel snapped with a crack, and the momentum of it made the creature stagger off-balance, into his own waiting blade. He wrenched the steel from between the creature’s ribs and swung about just in time to duck a blow that was coming at him from the side; it cut his arm, but not deeply, and he moved to take control of their interplay. Where the hell was the pierced one? He saw Hesseth struggling hand-to-hand with an attacker, was dimly aware that one was burning, one had gone off after Ciani, and he could account for two . . . that left a creature missing, as well as one of his own party. He prayed fervently that the pierced one knew how to take care of himself; the thought of trying to find a way out of these caverns without him was terrifying indeed.

He heard a sudden scream from somewhere behind him—it didn’t sound like one of his companions—and the smashing of a heavy object into a metal grate. The screaming became a shrieking as flesh began to sizzle, as the creature Ciani had forced into the fire roasted in its core.

Good for her. He parried a cut that was meant to decapitate him and managed to get his back against a wall. One, two, three accounted for . . . there was still one missing, by his reckoning. Gone for help? That was bad. He saw Hesseth go down, her assailant on top of her, and knew with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach what manner of attack was taking place. But there was no way he could help her, not with sharp steel thrusting at his gut from one side and sharp claws threatening his face from the other. He brought his own blade around two-handed, forcing the thrust aside—and kicked out at his other attacker, taking him right in the kneecap. Whatever manner of flesh they wore, it was as fragile in that joint as its human counterpart; the creature went down, howling, and it was no hard work to follow through with a second sharp kick, into the face. Bone snapped and blood gushed and he was down for good—and then Damien’s other opponent left himself open along one side of his rib cage and he was down, too, blood spurting from a gaping wound in his side.

He looked about, saw nothing but blood and dead flesh about him. He stepped over one of the bodies and ran to where Hesseth lay, her assailant only now coming to his feet by her side. Her eyes were dilated, glazed, like the empty stare of a fish stranded on dry land. Her attacker’s glee made it quite clear what manner of exchange had taken place between them, and the eyes that gazed out from that death-white pallor were so like Hesseth’s in shape and expression that Damien felt fresh horror take hold of him as he raised his sword to strike—and light blazed past him as a Fire-laden bolt hit home, piercing the creature’s eye and driving deep into his brain. He screamed and fell back; dark blood gushed from the socket, and other less wholesome fluids as well. With a twitching motion he fell, and as the Fire began to consume his brain the whole of his body shuddered, ripples of pain coursing through his flesh as he soundlessly mouthed screams of agony.

Ciani came to where Hesseth lay and helped her up; dazed, the rakh-woman seemed uncertain as to where she was, or exactly what had happened. Then she saw the body of her assailant, and memory returned to her. All of it. As Ciani helped her to her feet, she whimpered softly in terror.

“The Lost One-” Damien began. But before he could finish Ciani directed his attention upward, to the wall of the cavern just over its entranceway. There, clinging to the jagged stone surface, the pierced one displayed the body of the last attacker to them proudly. It hung by one ankle, which was wrapped in the cave-rakh’s prehensile tail. Its throat had been torn out. When he saw that they had witnessed his kill, the Lost One released the body; it fell to the floor like a bag of wet cement, bones snapping as it struck. The cave-rakh then climbed down, serpentine fingers taking purchase in the tiniest of crevices, tail grasping at convenient stone protrusions for support.

Damien looked about, and counted the bodies. Six. All accounted for—but there’d be more, soon enough. “Let’s get out of here,” he muttered. He went back to where Tarrant’s body lay, now covered in the folds of his cloak, and hefted the weight of it up to his shoulder. It was impossible to tell if any life was left in that limp form, but at least the heat of it had cooled somewhat. Time enough later to analyze its condition.

They ran. As well as they could, considering Hesseth’s wounds and Damien’s burden. The rakh-woman turned back once or twice briefly as if to Work, but whether she had the strength to do so effectively was something Damien couldn’t begin to guess at. He held his own wounded arm tightly against him as he wended his way through the demons’ labyrinth, hoping that no blood was dripping to the floor—because if they left a trail that distinct, all the Workings in the world couldn’t hide it.

At last they came to the narrow tunnel that had been their entrance into this area. Ciani, who had caught up Tarrant’s possessions in her flight, now threw down a long silk tunic to cover the rough stone bottom and crawled through. Tarrant’s sword went with her, now safely sheathed. Hesseth followed, her bright blood staining the folded silk as she crawled over it. Then the pierced one. By now Damien though he could hear the faint sounds of pursuit from the area they had just left.

He lowered Tarrant’s body down from his shoulder—still warm, still bleeding, still utterly lifeless—and, with great effort, managed to get it far enough into the tunnel that the pierced one could pull it through. The cloak Ciani had wrapped around it kept the broken flesh from tearing on the sharp formations, but he could see at the end of the tunnel where dark blood, seeping through the wool, had stained the stone beneath. Quickly Damien divested himself of his weapons and passed them through the narrow space, then balled up Tarrant’s bloodstained tunic and threw that after it. Then, somewhat awkwardly, he began to back himself into the passageway. Voices sounded from a nearby corridor as he forced himself through the narrow space. As his feet reached the other side he felt hands close about his ankles, meaning to pull him through—but he kicked them off and halted midway, fumbling in the darkness for the two stalagmites he had broken earlier.

The earth-fae was weak here, but this Working was a minor one; it took only seconds for him to use that force to bind the two slender spires back in place, so that the passage was once more impassable. Then he thrust out his feet behind him and let his companions grab hold and pull; stone edges scraped his sides as the neck of the tunnel finally let him pass, and he was through—not a second too soon. Even as he dropped below the lip of the tunnel he saw a flash of light coming from its opposite end, and clearly heard voices from the adjoining room.

They crouched there, hearts pounding, and waited. Hesseth had Obscured their path, but how well? Had they made it through without leaving a telltale path of blood behind them, or a more subtle trail of sweat and scent that the demon-creatures might follow? It was because Damien had considered that possible that he had risked a few precious seconds to Work the two stone pinnacles back in place. Now, as best they could make out, it appeared to be that move which turned the trick. The creatures stared down the tunnel for some time, evidently considering it a viable exit from the area. But it was clear that no man-sized being could have made it through that space and left the formations intact, and so at last they moved on.

“They’ll be back,” Ciani whispered. “They don’t understand how we got away, but their master will.”

“That’ll take time,” he whispered back, hoarsely. “First, we bind up these wounds so we don’t leave a trail of blood behind us.” He nodded toward Hesseth—whose golden fur was scored with at least a dozen deep, bloody gashes—and indicated his own injured arm. “Then we get as far from this place as we can, preferably high up enough to work a good Obscuring. If that’s possible. Then . . .” He felt fresh pain wash over him, and the weakness of exhaustion. How deep was his wound? How much blood had he lost? “We see what we rescued,” he whispered. “We see if Gerald Tarrant still exists. We see if he can help us.”

“And then?” Ciani asked.

From somewhere, he dredged up a grin. Or at least, the hint of one. It hurt his face.

“Then the real work starts,” he told her.

42

“Calesta!” The voice rang out imperiously, echoing in rage. “Calesta! Attend me, now!”

Slowly the demon’s form congealed, drawing its substance from the nearby shadows; when the figure was solid enough to bow, it did so. “My Master commands.”

“They took him, Calesta. Out of the fire! You said he would burn there forever. You said they would never come—never!—that they would let him burn. And I believed you. I believed you!”

“You commanded me to look into his heart,” the demon responded. “I did that. You told me to read his weaknesses. I did that. You bade me devise a way of binding him to your purpose, so that he would be helpless to free himself. I did that also. As for the others, you said, Leave them to me . . .”

“They came for him, Calesta! How? They were miles from here when last I Knew them—miles! I—”

“They were never there,” the demon said coolly.

Blood drained from the enraged face, turning it a ghastly white. “What? What does that mean?”

“It means that you were wrong. It means that your Knowing was misdirected. It means that these humans anticipated you, and made false replicas of themselves to draw your attention.”

The word came, a whisper: “Simulacra.”

The demon bowed its head.

“Why didn’t you see it happening? Why didn’t you warn me?”

“I serve,” the demon answered. “I obey. Those were the parameters you set when you first Conjured me. Had you ordered me to inspect the strangers, I would have done so. You didn’t.”

“So you stayed in the caverns, to feed on the adept’s pain—”

“I never fed on the adept. I’ve never fed on any of your victims.” The faceted eyes glittered maliciously. “I think perhaps you mistake my nature.”

Pacing: quickly, angrily, to the window and back again. “I must have him back. You understand that? Him, and the woman. And I want no room for error this time—none at all. You hear me, Calesta? We work out the best way to go after them, and—”

“That won’t be necessary,” the demon interrupted.

“Meaning what?”

The demon chuckled. “You need only wait. They’ll come here by themselves.”

The pacing stopped. The tone was one of suspicion. “You’re sure of that?”

“Their nature demands it.”

“After me? Not after the woman’s assailant?”

“They understand now that the two are linked. They recognize you as the stronger force. The priest will insist that they deal with you first. And the adept will demand your death—or worse—for what you did to him.” The demon paused. “Do you require more than that?”

“No,” came the answer. “That’s enough.” The voice grew harsh. “They’re coming here? Good. Then we’ll be ready. That’s an order, Calesta. You understand? Watch them. Neutralize them. Take them prisoner. No taking chances, this time. Nothing fancy. Just bind them and bring them to me. To me. I’ll deal with them.”

Calesta bowed. And it seemed that a hint of a smile creased the obsidian face, gashing its mirrored surface.

“As you command,” the demon responded.

43

Not until they were near the surface did the four travelers stop, and lower their various burdens to the muddy floor beneath them. As soon as it was clear that they would be staying in one place for more than a few minutes Hesseth sank to the ground, and sat with her head lowered between her knees, her breathing hoarse and labored. Ciani came to where Damien stood and helped him lower Tarrant’s body to the ground. It was a dead weight, cold now, and though neither would voice such a thought they both feared that the Hunter’s spirit might truly have deserted them.

And what then? Damien thought. What if all this was for nothing?

Carefully, the two of them unwrapped the battered form. Bits of burned flesh and crusted blood adhered to the wool, tearing loose from the Hunter as the cloak was removed from him; fresh blood dripped from the resulting wounds, making his flesh slick and hard to handle. By the time Damien had freed him from his wrappings the priest’s hands were coated in blood, and the black ash of burnt flesh stuck to his skin as though glued there.

“Look,” Ciani urged. She pointed to where the Hunter’s arm lay exposed, to the deep gash seared into it by the band of red-hot steel. Blackened skin curled back from the wound, displaying muscles and nerves that had been seared to a bloody ash. But the bone itself was no longer visible. Damien drew in a sharp breath as he realized that, and he turned the man’s arm over, to make sure of it. “My God . . .”

“He’s healing,” she whispered.

He looked at the body—which displayed no other sign of life, and numerous signs of death—and felt awe creep over him. And horror. “He must have had to repair his flesh constantly in order to survive. Drawing on what little fae there was, to replace what the fire destroyed . . . my God.” He looked at the man’s face—or what was left of it—and felt his sticky hands clenching into fists at his side. “It could have gone on forever. He could never have Worked the fire itself, never have freed himself . . . only this.” He worked himself a Knowing, with care; the mere act of Working was painful. “He’s trapped in it,” he whispered. “Lost in a desperate race against the fire. He doesn’t even know he’s out of there.”

“Can you Work through to him?”

He shook his head. “He would suck me in, as fuel. Never even know who or what I was.”

“So what do we do?” she demanded. There was an edge of hysteria in her voice that he had to force himself not to respond to. It was all too easy to abandon reason, and let blind emotion reign.

He reached up to where his sleeve had been sliced open, over his wound. The makeshift bandage was already soaked with blood, and as he wound it off it dripped carmine spots on the floor. He felt dizzy and his arm throbbed hot with pain, but that had been the case for so long now that he had grown accustomed to it. He gritted his teeth as he pulled the bloodsoaked length free at last and flexed his arm to keep fresh blood from flowing. With his other hand he bunched up the cloth and brought it to Tarrant’s lips. What remained of his lips. And squeezed.

Red blood, warm and thick. It dribbled onto the corner of his mouth, coated his lips with glistening wetness. He squeezed again, and forced a trickle between the parted teeth.

“Drink it,” he urged. His voice was a hoarse whisper, half hate and half anxiety. “Drink, damn you!”

“Damien, he’s not a—”

“He is. Or at least, he was. And he said he could feed this way again, if he had to. I’d say he has to.” He pressed the bunched-up cloth against his arm again; it soaked up the fresh blood like a sponge. “Drink,” he whispered, squeezing the precious fluid out into Tarrant’s mouth. “Or so help me God, I’ll take you back down there and stick you in the fire myself . . .”

He thought he saw movement, then. A flicker of wetness, within the mouth: a tongue tip? He squeezed harder, and saw the lips move slightly. The skin of Tarrant’s throat contracted slightly, and crusted flesh cracked off from its surface. Beneath, the tissue was pale and moist.

Damien began to collect more blood—and then cast the bandage aside, and lowered his gashed arm to the Hunter’s mouth. Sharp teeth bit into his flesh, a blind and desperate response to the presence of food; he bore the pain of it with gritted teeth as the cavern swayed about him, telling himself, He doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t know who you are.

And then, at last, with a shudder, the teeth withdrew. He pulled back and pressed the wound closed, watching the man’s face closely. The blackened crust was flaking off, and beneath it new tissue gleamed moistly in the lamplight. The process reminded Damien of a snake shedding its skin.

“Come on,” he muttered. “Come back to us.” He Worked his vision and saw the dark fae gathering about the Hunter’s body, saw it weaving a web about the man’s flesh that acted as a buffer between him and the light. Between him and the world. Cutting him off from the source of his pain—and with it, the rest of the living universe. “Tarrant!” He grasped him by the shoulder, but his blood-slicked hand slid off—and took with it a layer of burned flesh, revealing the newmade skin beneath. Cell by cell, layer by layer, the Hunter was restoring his body.

Hesseth hissed softly to get his attention and held out a flask of waxed leather toward him. He took it, somewhat perplexed, and smelled the stopper. And then nodded gratefully. The smell was familiar to him, the same odor that had clung to his flesh after their fight on Morgot. He poured a bit of the rakhene ointment into his right palm and rubbed it into and around his wound. And thanked her.

Then Tarrant stirred. A shiver passed through his frame, as though somewhere inside that battered flesh a spark of life was fighting to manifest itself. Damien reached out to him—and then, remembering what the Forest’s monarch had said about Healing, used the hand that was free of ointment to grasp him by the shoulder.

No telling what the rakhene liniment might do to a man who thrived on death.

“It’s over,” he told him. “Over.”

“The fire . . .” It was hoarsely voiced, barely a whisper—but it was speech, and it was audible, and he used it as a lifeline to reach the man.

“Gone. Left behind.” He dared a comforting lie: “Extinguished.”

The eyes opened, slowly. Fresh new lids of smooth, pale flesh, smeared with blood and black ash. For a moment he gazed emptily at the ceiling; then he shivered, and moaned softly. His eyes fell closed again.

“Tarrant. Listen to me. You’re out of there. Safe. It’s over. You’re with us now.” He paused. “Do you understand?”

The lids blinked open, tears of blood in their outer corners. For a minute or two the Hunter stared without seeing, silver eyes fixed on nothing. Then he turned, slowly—painfully—and met Damien’s eyes. There was an emptiness in his gaze that made the priest’s flesh crawl.

“Where?” the Hunter gasped. “Where is this?”

“We’re in a cave, near the surface. Judging from the earth-fae, that is.” He hesitated. “Tell me what you need. Tell us how to help you.”

The pale eyes shut again, as if keeping them opened required more strength than the Hunter had. “More blood,” he whispered. “But you can’t give me that. I’ve already taken as much as your body can spare.”

“Gerald.” It was Ciani. She crawled over to where the Hunter lay and seemed to be about to reach out to him, but Damien warned her back. “I can supply—”

“Don’t,” the priest warned her.

“But I wasn’t wounded. I haven’t lost—”

“Don’t.”

“Damien—”

“Ciani, think! He takes on the form of whatever his victims fear the most. That means that if he feeds on you, he’ll become more like them. The ones who hurt you; the ones we’re hunting. I don’t think he’s strong enough to fight it now. I don’t think we can afford to risk it.”

“But if we don’t—”

“He’s right,” the Hunter whispered. “Too much risk . . .” He shivered, as if from some secret pain. “I would hurt you. I might even kill you. And . . . I would rather die, than do that.”

Damien watched for a moment as he lay there—his breathing labored, his movements weak—and then asked, “You going to make it?”

The Hunter raised a hand to his face, rubbed his eyes. The fingers were whole, but stained with blood. Flakes of charred skin fell from his face as he rubbed, revealing smooth white skin beneath. “I think . . . yes. They didn’t do anything that time won’t heal. Not to my flesh, anyway.” He tried to force himself to a sitting position but fell back, weakly. “How long?” he gasped.

“In the fire? Eight days, Ciani figured.”

“It seemed like so much longer . . .” He looked about weakly—at Ciani—at Hesseth—at the pierced one. His gaze lingered on the latter, and for a moment curiosity flared in those silver eyes. Then exhaustion took its place, and he turned away. “You saved my life,” he whispered. The pale eyes fixed on Damien—and in the back of them, deep in the shadows, was a flicker of something familiar. A faint spark of sardonic humor, reassuringly familiar in tenor. “I didn’t expect it of you.”

“Yeah. Well. That makes two of us.” He got to his feet, and brushed at some of the caked mud which clung to his clothing. “You get some rest, all right? Finish putting yourself back together, if you can.” He looked at Hesseth. “Will the Lost One stand guard? I think he’s the only one of us left with the strength to do it.”

She murmured rakhene sounds to the pierced one, who grunted. And then assented, in phonemes that were becoming familiar to Damien.

“All right.” He turned down the lantern wick as far as it would go, trying to save oil; of the store of fuel they had brought, only half a flask remained. When that was gone . . . he shuddered to think of it. One could only Work one’s sight for so long.

“Let’s all get some sleep while we can,” he urged his party. “It may be our last chance.” His body felt weak and drained, almost incapable of moving; the combined fatigue of loss of blood and too many nights without slumber. He lay back on a tangle of clothing and blankets, and listened to his heart pounding in his chest: a metronome of exhaustion. Then, slowly, he slid down into darkness. Warm and sweet and utterly welcome.

For the first time in eight days, he didn’t dream of fire.

When he awakened, things weren’t where they should be. It took him a moment to place the wrongness, to fight off the dizziness of his recent blood loss and think clearly. The light wasn’t coming from where it should, he decided. Which meant that the lantern wasn’t where he’d left it. He looked around the cavern, saw a spark of light at the far side of the chamber. And a tall figure who held it, whose body eclipsed its minimal light as he moved, casting Damien into utter darkness.

Tarrant.

The man had apparently found his clothes—what few items Ciani had salvaged—and had managed to pull on a silk shirt and woolen leggings, which hid most of his ravaged skin from sight. Where his hands and feet were visible his flesh was a chalky white, utterly bereft of living color; it bothered Damien that he couldn’t remember whether that was his normal hue or not.

The Hunter had unhooded the lamp and turned up its wick, and was casting its bright light upon the length of an oddly twisted column. As Damien approached, he reached out and touched the glistening stone, running his hand down its finely grooved surface. And then did so again, more carefully.

“Not right,” he whispered, as the priest came to his side. “Not possible.”

Damien studied the formation. It seemed to be oddly shaped for its kind, and there were tiny ridges up and down its length, but otherwise it looked like all the others. And he had seen enough cave formations in the last few days to last him a lifetime.

“It isn’t just this one,” the Hunter whispered. “They’re all wrong. Every column in this chamber, every formation that bridges between two surfaces. So wrong . . .” He shook his head in amazement—and even in that simple gesture, so sparingly performed, Damien could read his weakness.

“What is it?” the priest asked quietly.

He turned down the lantern’s wick again, to save the last of the oil. Then he put one hand against the gnarled formation: his fingers, like the rest of him, were lean and wasted. “See these ridges,” he whispered. “Each of these is where the column cracked when the earth shifted beneath it. Slowly new minerals would seep in and fill the cracks . . . but they left scars. Thousands of scars.” He gestured with the lantern, toward formations Damien had never noticed before. Fallen stalactites. Severed columns. Jagged shapes, all of them, that defied the normal pattern. “Do you see?” the Hunter whispered. He turned the lantern until its light shone on a slender column nearby; looking closely, Damien could see that it had been split cleanly through the middle, and its upper and lower halves no longer lined up with each other. “This isn’t the result of secondary vibration. We must be right in the fault zone. The earth is deforming right here, all about us, and the cave formations reflect it. Lateral movement along a major fault line. To be reflected in the stone . . .” His hand closed about the narrow column as if he needed it for support. Damien had to fight the urge to reach out and hold him upright.

“There’s nothing recent,” the adept whispered. “Nothing at all. Not here, not in any place I could look . . . and that’s just not possible. Not possible! But all the fractures have been filled in, and that takes centuries . . .” He shook his head in amazement. “Am I to believe there’s been no movement here? For that long? That defies all science.”

“The rakh said there have been no earthquakes here. Not for a century, at least.”

“That’s not what I mean. Not at all. What’s an earthquake? A series of vibrations that informs us the crust of the planet has shifted beneath our feet. We measure it by how much it inconveniences us—how much we’re aware of it. The earth could move so slowly that all our instruments would never detect it—and it would still add up to the same motion, in the end. The crust of the planet acts in response to the currents of Erna’s core. How could that simply cease? And cease only in one place, while all surrounding areas continued on as normal? Because they do, I know that; I monitor these things. The land all about here is normal, utterly normal. Except in this one place. How?”

“Our enemy built his citadel right on the fault line,” Damien pointed out. “You said only a fool would do that. But if he wanted the power of this place at his disposal, and could keep the earth from shaking . . .”

For a moment the adept looked at him strangely. “No one man could ever bind the earth like that,” he said. “No one man could ever hope to conjure enough power to offset the pressures of the planet’s core. And besides . . .”

He turned away. And shut his eyes. And whispered, “The Master of Lema is a woman.”

“What?”

“The Keeper of Souls is a woman,” he breathed. “Our enemy. My torturer. The architect of the House of Storms. A woman.”

For a moment Damien couldn’t respond. Then, with effort, he managed to get out, “That doesn’t make a difference.”

The Hunter turned on him angrily; his eyes were red-rimmed, bloodshot. “Don’t be a fool,” he snapped. “Of course it makes a difference. Not because of gender, but because of power. Raw physicality. What can you know of it—you, who were born with the size and the strength to defend yourself from any physical threat? What can you know of the mindset of the weak, whose lives are centered around vulnerability? When you hear footsteps behind you in a darkened street, do you fear being kidnapped? Raped? Overcome by the sheer physical strength of your attackers? Or do you feel confident that with firm ground and a reliable weapon in your hands you could hold your own against any reasonable threat? How can you possibly understand what it means to lack that confidence—or what it can drive a human to do, to try to gain it?”

“And you do, I suppose?”

The Hunter glared. “I was the youngest of nine sons, priest. My brothers took after their father, in form and spirit: a hulking, crude beast of a man, who believed that there wasn’t an enemy on Erna he couldn’t bring to his knees if only he swung his fist hard enough. I grew up among them, sole inheritor of our mother’s mien—and I didn’t come into my height until late, or my power. Now, you think about the cruelty of that kind—and of sibling youths, in general—and the brutality of my age, which was at the end of the Dark Ages—and then tell me how much I don’t understand.” He turned away. “I think I understand it very well.”

“They died,” Damien said. “Within five years of your disappearance. All of them.”

“It was the first thing I did, once I had gained the power—and the moral freedom—to work my will upon the world. And those eight murders are among my most pleasurable memories.” The cold eyes fixed on Damien, piercing him to the core. “What they were to me, you and I are to her. The whole world is that, to her: a thing to be mastered, defeated. Broken. Do you understand? Power has become an end unto itself; she feeds on it, demanding more and more . . . it’s like a drug that has slowly taken over her body. Until she lives only to assuage its demands, to do whatever will blunt the edge of that terrible hunger.” His brow was furrowed as if in pain. As if even the memories burned him. “And I’ll tell you something else, priest. I’ve seen that hunger before. Not in such a blind, unbalanced form . . . but it might have become that, in time. In fact, I believe that it would have become that, if not for Ciani’s influence.”

It took him a moment to realize what Tarrant meant. He felt something tighten inside, when he did. “You mean Senzei?”

Tarrant nodded. “I think so. I think this is what a man can become, when that kind of hunger goes unchecked—when it continues to grow, like some malignant cancer, until it devours the very soul that houses it. Until all that’s left is an addiction so terrible that the flesh lives only to serve it.”

“But that would imply that he . . . that she isn’t an adept.”

“I don’t believe she is,” Tarrant said quietly, “and I wonder if-” He swayed, and shut his eyes for a moment. “Not now,” he whispered. “Not here.” He looked up, as if seeking some opening in the water-etched ceiling. “Up on the surface, I could be sure. If there’s any Working in this region, it would be where the currents were strongest. I could read it there.”

“What are you thinking?”

He hesitated. “Something so insane that I wouldn’t even suggest it,” he whispered. “Except that I’ve seen with my own eyes just how insane she is. God in heaven, if she were that blind—but no. I shouldn’t talk about it until I can test my suspicions.” His silver eyes were ablaze with hatred—and he seemed to draw strength from the emotion. Slowly he released the slender column at his side, so that he stood unaided. And it seemed to Damien that he trembled only slightly as he did so.

“She was able to take us because she knew what we were,” Tarrant said. “She knew what the flaw was in each of us. And if I’m correct in what I’m thinking . . . then I may know hers, as well.” The pale eyes fixed on Damien, and in their depths was a flicker of power. Faint, weak, barely discernible—but it was there, and that was more than Damien had seen in him since the rescue.

“And I will be no less ruthless in exploiting it,” the Hunter promised.

The surface of the planet was bitterly cold, and windswept snowdrifts coursed down from the peaks like waves of sea froth, frozen in mid-motion. In the distance it was possible to see the enemy’s tower, a gleaming black chancre on the white landscape. Tarrant looked about, then pointed away from it. His eyes were narrowed, as if trying to focus on something in the distance. What? Domina’s light was strong enough that the dark fae would have withdrawn from the surface of the planet, and Damien’s Worked sight revealed no other special power. What had the adept’s vision uncovered, that merely human sight was incapable of making out?

They followed him, struggling across the snowbound landscape. Tarrant seemed somewhat stronger than before, but that could simply be the force of his hunger for revenge making itself felt. Damien wondered how long it would support him.

He led them through knee-high dunes and ice-clad gullies, hesitating after each obstacle was passed to study the lay of the land again, and perhaps shift their direction slightly. He gave no hint of what he was seeking or how long it might take them to reach it. Though Damien knew that the Hunter’s cold flesh thrived on the chill of the icy peaks, he nevertheless shivered as the wind whipped Tarrant’s thin shirt about his haggard frame. How much longer could the man go on, with no more than a single draft of blood to sustain him?

And then the Hunter stopped, and stiffened. His sudden alertness reminded Damien of an animal, ears pricked forward to catch the sound of danger. The adept began to walk forward, more quickly now, stumbling through the ankle-deep snow that cloaked this part of the mountain. And then he knelt and touched one hand to its whiteness. Again there was the sense of utter alertness. As if his whole body was tensed to respond to the slightest sound. Then he began to brush the snow away. After a moment, Damien knelt beside him and helped. He Worked his vision in the hope of catching some glimpse of what the adept had seen, but though the currents coursed clearly beneath the insulating snow—more and more visibly now, as they cleared away that obstacle—Damien was forced to admit that he could make out no sign of what was drawing his companion.

And then his fingers touched something which was neither earth nor stone nor frozen brush. “Here,” he muttered, and the Hunter’s efforts joined his own in clearing the snow from it. Slowly a disk came into view: black onyx, carved with an intricate motif. The snow which caught in its etchings made its pattern doubly visible, and Damien struggled to place the design in his memory.

When he did, at last, he looked up at Tarrant. And said—not quite believing his own words—“A quake-ward?”

Ciani knelt down by his side; her fingers, cold-whitened, touched the etched surface delicately. “But what would it protect?” she whispered. “The citadel’s too far away.”

For a moment the Hunter just stared at it, as if not believing his own find. Then, slowly, he reached for his sword. And drew it. Coldfire blazed along its length, doubly bright against the whiteness of the snow. Damien remembered the last time he had seen that power used, and flinched. But Ciani was gazing at it—and the Hunter—with hunger.

“You had better all stand back,” Tarrant said quietly. “You might need to move rather quickly.”

“What are you going to do?” Ciani asked.

“See what this is linked to. See where it leads.” He touched a hand to the ward’s icy surface; snow clung to his fingertip, unmelting. “See what it’s warding,” he whispered.

They stood back. Too fascinated to feel the cold, or the bite of the wind on their faces. Damien heard Hesseth whispering explanations to the pierced one—but how much did she really understand herself? He watched as the Hunter took his sword in both hands, watched as he bound its power to his purpose, to trace the lines of Warding—and light shot out from it, brilliant and blinding. Pale blue fire, that blazed about the etched tile and then arced out from it, coursing over the surface of the earth like streamers of azure lightning. A branch of light struck the earth some distance from them, and snow shot up in a thick white plume, baring the ground beneath. When the air had cleared they could see the glint of moonlight on another ward-stone, its etched patterns filled with the gleaming coldfire. And south of that, yet another. Soon the land was alive with ward-fires, and the gleaming network of power that bound them together in purpose.

Damien looked at Tarrant, could see his haggard face rigid with strain as he fought to control the coldfire. The power may come from outside us, the priest thought, but the order we impose on it must come from within. And then, apparently, the strain was too much. The Hunter shut his eyes and fell to his knees. The sword in his hand blazed bright as an unsun as it struck the earth, and all the power that had gone out from it slammed back into the Worked steel with a force that made the man reel visibly, trying to control it. Damien had to stop himself from moving forward to help, knowing the cold power would drain him of life before he could get close enough to touch the man. What had the Lost Ones called the blade—the Eater of Souls? He looked at Ciani, worried that she might move forward to help the Hunter without realizing how dangerous it was. But though her eyes were on him, she did not approach. Instead she reached into her jacket pocket as though seeking something. After a moment she pulled out two small items: a folded knife, and a piece of notpaper. Damien recognized Senzei’s handwriting on the latter as she twisted it tightly with trembling fingers into a funnel formation. He started to object as he realized what she was doing—and stopped himself. And forced himself to take the paper cone from her hand, that she might be free to open the knife. To use it.

She sliced quickly across the ball of her thumb, a cut that slid just beneath the skin. Maximum blood, with minimum damage. He held the makeshift cup for her as she squeezed out a thin stream of red into it, and wondered that his own hand wasn’t shaking. Could one become so inured to the Hunter’s needs that they no longer seemed unreasonable?

When the cup was full, she took it from him and knelt by Tarrant’s side. His nostrils flared as he caught the scent of her offering, and hunger flashed in those silver eyes. Then he turned away, and whispered hoarsely, “Please don’t. I can’t.”

“The cut’s already been made,” she said quietly. “The blood’s already been shed. You wouldn’t be hurting me by taking it.” When he didn’t respond, she whispered, “Gerald. Please. There’d be no risk this way.” Blood dripped from her hand to the snow, staining it purple in the coldfire’s glare. “I need you.”

“Don’t you understand?” he gasped. “I gave my word. And keeping it is the only thing that keeps me from becoming like she is.” He nodded back toward the citadel, shivering. “Don’t you realize what an addiction power is? Any power? If you don’t impose some order on it, it consumes you—”

“Honor is one thing,” Damien told him. “Stupidity is another. Take the blood, man—or do I have to pour it down your goddamned throat?”

The pale eyes fixed on him. And the Hunter nodded slowly. “I believe you would,” he whispered.

“Take it.”

Slowly he raised one hand from the grip of the sword and closed it about Ciani’s. And raised the makeshift cup to his lips, and drank. Damien could see a tremor pass through him as he absorbed the precious fluid. Pleasure? Pain? Tarrant made no protest while she filled the cup again, and made no effort to resist the second offering. While he drank, Damien took out one of the cloth strips he had prepared for bandages, so many nights ago, and offered it to Ciani. She wound it tightly about her hand, forcing the wound closed.

Slowly, when he was done, the Hunter moved. With effort he managed at last to sheathe his sword, sliding it into the heavily Worked enclosure that would confine its power. And he sighed—in relief, it seemed—as the coldfire faded from sight.

“Now tell us: what was that all about?” Damien indicated the carved ward before them. “What are those things?”

The Hunter drew in a deep breath, then said, in a voice that shook slightly, “Our enemy has warded the crust of the planet.”

“To do what?” Ciani asked.

“To Bind the fault, I assume.” His voice was a whisper. “To freeze the earth in its motion.”

“I thought you said that wasn’t possible.”

“It isn’t, in the long run. But if one’s vision were limited enough—or blinded, by dreams of power . . .” He looked out across the snow-clad mountains, where a vast webwork of coldfire had so recently burned. Where a vast network of wards had been revealed, that stretched across miles of earth in perfect alignment. A thousand or more quiescent Workings that waited to tap the energy of the earth itself, when the tides of the planet’s core released it. “I said she was insane,” he whispered. “I meant it. But insanity on such a scale . . . my God. When it fails—and it must fail, some day—what does she think will happen? To her, and to everything she’s built here?”

“You mean the wards won’t hold.”

“How can they? The power of the fae is constant. The pressure along the fault is building. There must have been enough fae in the beginning to make such a Binding possible in the first place . . . but now? After pressure has been building up here for a century, unrelieved? It would require more and more fae just to maintain the status quo—and you see how weak the currents are in this region. Where is the power to come from if the earth isn’t moving?”

Damien looked at Hesseth. “What was it your people said? That the storms here were constant, when the Master of Lema first came. And then, after a time, there were fewer.” He turned to the Hunter. “The reference was to lightning, apparently. Ward-lightning. Overload.”

“There would have been more than enough fae at first for her purposes,” he murmured. “When the earth began to shift, the wild power would have surged . . . and then her wards would Bind it, and the excess fae would bleed off into the sky. What remained would be safely tamed. Consumable.”

“But why?” Ciani asked. “What purpose did it serve?”

The silver eyes fixed on her. “Why did Senzei steal the Fire? Why does any non-adept take in a power wild enough to kill him, if not to satisfy that most primal of all hungers? Every time a quake strikes Jaggonath there’s someone fool enough to try to Work it. Here’s a woman who tamed the earth itself so that she could drink in its power in safety. But only for as long as her wards hold; that’s the catch. Remember what the rakh said? The storms are fewer, now. Not because there’s less power, but because more and more of it is required to maintain the Binding. And as pressure continues to build within the earth, that imbalance will increase geometrically, until one day soon mere wards will no longer be sufficient . . .”

Slowly, he got to his feet. “We are standing on a time bomb,” he whispered. “Of such immense proportion that it defies description. And if what the rakh say is true . . . then it’s very near to going off.”

“You’re thinking you can trigger it,” Damien said quietly.

He looked out over the snow-shrouded earth, at the places where the quake-wards lay.

“It’s a simple series,” he said at last. “Break one, and the rest would go. But would the earth respond immediately? There are so many variables . . .”

“But the odds are high.”

“Oh, yes. The odds are very high. Higher than they could ever get without man’s interference.” He shook his head in amazement. “Only someone with a complete disregard for seismic law would dare something so intrinsically stupid as this . . .”

“Or someone so addicted to the rush of power that she can’t think clearly any more. Isn’t that what we’re dealing with?”

“She fed on me,” he whispered. Wrapping his arms about himself, as if that could protect him from the memory. “She used my pain as a filter, to tame the raw earth-fae. That’s what she wants Ciani for. As a living refinery for the kind of power she lusts after. As if by using us in this manner she can somehow break through the barriers inside herself, give herself an adept’s capacity . . .”

“I thought that wasn’t possible,” Damien challenged.

“It isn’t. But it’s a powerful fantasy, nonetheless. Man has always been loath to accept his limitations. How much easier it is to deny the truth altogether—to imagine that Nature has given us all the same potential, and that a single act of will can suddenly cause all limitations to vanish.” He laughed bitterly. “As if Nature were just. As if evolution hadn’t designed us to compete with each other, so that only the strong would survive.”

“What about the Dark Ones?” Ciani asked. “Where do they fit in?”

“Servants. Symbiotes. She has to remain at the heart of her web in order to maintain its power. They serve as her eyes and ears and hands, to scour the land in search of what she needs . . . and in return they have her protection. Which is no small thing, in a land with no other human sorcery.” His eyes narrowed, and a new edge of coldness entered his voice. “If we mean to destroy one of her creatures, then we must deal with her first. That, or have her strike us from behind at a crucial moment.”

“If we could release the earth from her Binding, would that do it?”

He hesitated. “There were wards in her citadel. I remember seeing them when I was brought in. But I have no way of knowing what they were, exactly. Quake-wards? If so, the building might endure for a time. Only a few minutes, at most—but that would be enough. Because she’d have warning, remember. The surge of earth-fae that precedes an earthquake would have reached her minutes before, with all its power intact. She would have known then that her precious system had failed her, and if she could get away from the citadel in time—”

Then he stopped. And said, very quietly, “Unless she was Working when it happened. In that case, there would be no escape.”

“Can we force that?” Damien asked. “Set her up, so that she doesn’t see it coming?”

“How?” the Hunter whispered.

“Some sort of attack. Something she would have to defend against—”

Tarrant shook his head, sharply. “That would require an active assault, which would mean that when the surge hit . . . it would be fatal for both parties. No, she would have to be the only one Working, and I don’t see how . . .”

He stopped suddenly. And drew in a long, slow breath.

“Gerald?” Ciani asked. “What is it?”

His arms tightened about his body. But he said nothing.

“You know a way,” Damien said quietly.

“Maybe,” he whispered. “The risk would be tremendous. If she were sane, if we could predict her response . . . but she isn’t, and we can’t.” He shook his head. “Too dangerous, priest. Even for this expedition.”

“Tell me.”

The pale eyes fixed on him. Silver in white, with hardly a trace of red; the man was healing.

“You would have come here alone,” he said softly. A challenge. “If we had not been available—or necessary—you would have traveled to this place by yourself, and dealt with her unaided. Gone into the heart of her citadel, if that’s what it took, with nothing but your own wits and a small handful of weapons. Am I correct?”

“If I judged it to be worth the risk,” Damien said warily.

“The rakhlands won’t support her forever. Already the currents are too weak to truly satisfy her, drained as they are by her Wardings. Soon she would begin to draw on the Canopy itself, and after that . . . I imagine she would move into the human lands. Utterly mad, forever hungry, and backed by a horde of demons capable of reducing her enemies to brainless husks. Would that be worth the risk, Reverend Vryce? Would you brave her citadel alone, for that—risk her rage, and that of the earth itself, to gain the upper hand in this war? Because I think I know a way that she might be rendered vulnerable, but it would have to be done by a single man. Human, and not an adept. There’s only one of us who fits that description. How great is your courage now?

“If I’d come alone, as you say, I would expect to do no less,” he said tightly. “What are you thinking?”

“It wouldn’t be pleasant, I warn you.”

“As opposed to the rest of this trip?”

Despite himself, the Hunter smiled; the expression was edged with pain. “You’re a brave man, Reverend Vryce, and true courage is rare. I respect you for it. But there’s more than simple risk at issue here.” The silver eyes burned like fire. Coldfire, unwarm and uncomforting. “Could you trust me, priest? Without reservation? Could you give yourself to me, for the lady’s sake? Entrust your soul to me, for safekeeping?”

Damien remembered the touch of the man’s soul against his own, which he had endured once in order to feed him. The mere memory of it made his skin crawl—and that had been but a fleeting contact, with no real depth to it. Even the Hunter’s coldfire in his veins, for all the pain and horror it had inspired, had been nothing compared to that. The utter revulsion. The soul-searing chill. The touch of a mind so infinitely unclean that everything it fixed upon was polluted by the contact. He shivered to recall it . . . but said nothing in response. The man hadn’t asked if he would enjoy such contact, but if he could endure it. If he would trust him.

He looked at the man’s face, at the taut tissue so recently ravaged by fire. At the weakness that lurked just beneath his facade of arrogance, which had so nearly consumed his life just now. All this, in a man who feared death more than any other single thing. All these things he had risked, and suffered, for the sake of one promise. One word. One single vow, which his present companions had not even witnessed.

“I assume it would be temporary,” he said quietly.

“Of course.” The Hunter nodded. “Assuming we both survive to undo it.”

“I have your word on that?”

“You do.” The pale gray eyes glittered with malevolence; toward him, or toward their enemy? “And I think you know what that’s worth, Reverend Vryce.”

He felt himself on the brink of a vast cliff, balancing precariously on its crumbling edge. But the darkness of the citadel which loomed overhead was even more threatening than the imagined depths beneath, and at last he heard himself say, in a voice that seemed strangely distant, “All right, Hunter. Tell me what you have in mind.”

Tarrant nodded. And turned to the pierced one. In all the time he had been awake, he had made no move to acknowledge the Lost One’s presence. Now he gazed upon the crouching form, whose cave-pale fur protected it from the night’s chill, and seemed to consider what the others had told him about it.

“Go back to your people,” he told the cave-rakh. Gesturing for Hesseth to translate his words. “Tell them they must leave this region quickly. The earth will move soon, and the caves here are too fragile to protect them. Tell them they must go down to the plains, or else head west. Away from the fault zone, as quickly as possible. Their lives depend on it.” He glanced up at the night sky as if trying to judge the time by it. “They’ll have till tomorrow night,” he said. “Tell them that. We won’t begin until nightfall, and even then it may take some time.” He looked at the rakh-woman. “But not much,” he warned. “Make that clear.”

She stared at him for a minute—suspiciously, it seemed—and then finished translating his words. It took some time for their meaning to sink in; when at last it did, the Lost One rasped a few hurried questions at Hesseth. Her answers were short hisses, and the hostility in them was clear even to those who didn’t speak her language. Finally the Lost One stood, stiffly, and looked at the party—looked long and intently at Tarrant with an expression that was unreadable—and then turned away sharply, and moved off into the night. Motion silent in the soft snow, long tail curled tightly in foreboding.

Damien waited until the Lost One was out of sight—and, presumably, out of hearing—and then said to Tarrant, “That wasn’t like you.”

“No,” the Hunter said softly. “I find myself doing a lot of things that aren’t like me, these days.”

“I wouldn’t have thought their lives mattered to you,” Hesseth challenged.

The silver eyes fixed on her, filled with a languid malevolence. “They don’t. But I do recognize my obligations.” He turned back to Damien. “You saved my life. All of you did. But in the Reverend’s case . . . I know what that meant for you,” he told Damien. “We share the same background, you and I—and I remember enough of it to understand what that cost you.” The pain of it, his expression seemed to say. The guilt. He nodded toward where the Lost One had gone, now rendered invisible by the shadows of night. “Consider this my small gesture of gratitude. A few hundred less deaths to darken your conscience, Reverend Vryce. It won’t outweigh the evil of my existence, in the long run . . . but it’s all I can offer you without hazarding my own survival. I regret that.”

“Just get us through this, and you’ll have done enough,” Damien said tightly. “That’s what I brought you back for.”

Gerald Tarrant bowed. And if there was weakness in him now, it was overlaid by such hatred for the enemy that it was hard to make out. The hunger for revenge, combined with Ciani’s blood, had replenished not only body but spirit.

“As you command,” the Hunter whispered.

44

The tunnel was long and dark, and filled with the smell of mold. Which told Damien two things: that life passed this way often enough to deposit the fragile spores, and that the tunnel was deep enough to be protected from the worst of winter’s chill.

He was dressed in a woolen shirt and breeches, his only other protection a tough leather vest that was concealed by the loose folds of his garments, and matching bracers strapped about his wrists. His heavy jacket had been left at the tunnel’s entrance, along with the knitted scarves and overshirts of winter’s travel. Such garments might have kept him warmer, but they also added to his bulk—and for once that wasn’t desirable. His sheath was no longer strapped to his back but harnessed to the side of his belt: he fervently hoped he would remember it was there when the time came to draw it. Other than that he carried only a single long knife, a length of rope, two folding hooks, a number of small locksmithing tools, and several amulets. Those last were compliments of Gerald Tarrant, who had Worked them with just enough power to justify their presence on his person. He had no springbolt. That had been the hardest thing to leave behind, but it was a bulky weapon, not quickly drawn, and a man bent on assassination couldn’t afford to slow himself down. Or so he told himself, as he mourned the loss of its reassuring weight on his arm.

At his hip lay the flask of Fire, safely cushioned in its leather pouch. He should have left that behind, as well . . . but if the first stage of their plan went askew—or any other part, for that matter—he might well need some weapon that could drive back the enemy’s demonic guard. And he had stripped himself of anything else that might serve.

He felt naked, thus weaponless. But also exhilarated. Because for the first time since leaving Jaggonath, he was on his own. Oh, he still had Ciani’s safety to worry about, and Tarrant’s Workings were wrapped tightly about him, a cocoon of malevolence that shadowed his every step . . . but that still wasn’t the same thing as having them here, as knowing that he must watch out for them every time he planned, every time he took a step . . . no, this was much better. This was the way it was meant to be. Every sound that he heard was important because it concerned him—or unimportant because it didn’t. There was no middle ground. His progress was a study in black and white, threat and nonthreat, and no other concern existed in his mind but that he must get from here to there in safety. And then manage what he came to do, with minimal damage to his person.

If that last is possible, he thought grimly. And he remembered what Tarrant had told him about their enemy, running the details through his mind as he crept slowly forward, eyes and ears alert for any sign of danger. He prayed that Tarrant’s guesses were right, prayed that he had arrayed himself properly for this foray . . . and then prayed in general, just for good measure. Not because his God would interfere in such a thing—or even care about the short-term consequences—but such prayer was a reminder of his identity. And with Tarrant’s taint wrapped about him like a shroud, darkening his every thought, he needed all the reminders he could get.

I only hope he’s right, I only hope he understands her as well as he thinks he does. And then he added, somewhat dryly, The ruthless, analyzing the mad . . .

Periodically another tunnel would merge with the one he was following, and he would pause to check it out. Egresses from the lower caverns, Tarrant had told him, that merge with the citadel’s escape route. They were fortunate that the underground system was close enough to Erna’s surface to affect the currents above it: otherwise the Hunter might never have managed to locate it at all. As it was he knew only the location of its entrance, and its general route beneath the eastern mountains. It wasn’t enough, he told himself. Except that it had to be. Because it was all they had.

At each intersection the priest paused, hooding his lantern with his hand so that no light would precede him. And he listened—ears alert, eyes narrowed, his whole soul focused on perceiving. But not with Worked senses. That was impossible, because of what Tarrant had done to him. That was why he’d had to submit to the man, choking on the blackness of that warped morality as the Hunter’s mind wrapped about his own, picking at his brain like an old woman picking out the stitches of some tightly sewn embroidery—

Don’t think about that, he warned himself. His heart was pounding: he breathed deeply, trying to still the trembling of his hands. All the trust in the world couldn’t have staved off the terror of that experience, and Damien’s stomach turned as he recalled how the Hunter drank in his fear, sucking the terror out of him as surely as he had once drawn out the blood that ran in his veins. The difference was that this time something had been left behind. A coiling malignance, serpentlike, that slithered in the dark recesses of Damien’s mind and licked at his thoughts as they flickered from neuron to neuron—

Stop it!

He moved swiftly between intersections, knowing that the smooth, rakh-made tunnels offered no concealment between those junctures. Time after time he felt himself reaching for his sword, and he had to force his hand to drop back to his side, empty. It was important that he remain unarmed. Every detail of this was important, he knew, which was why every move had been planned out in advance . . . but that was little comfort as he advanced toward certain danger, his palm itching to close about a sword-grip, his arm tensing as if to balance the weight of that defending steel.

And then: he heard it. A noise that whispered behind him in the endless passage. Footsteps? He forced himself to keep moving forward, tensing his ears to catch the sound. Soft, rhythmic . . . yes, footsteps. Unshod, he guessed. Since there were no signs of any large animal in this place, that left only one possibility—

He turned. Too late. He knew it even as he reached for his sword, even as he cursed himself for going to his shoulder instead of his hip to draw it. Cold, clawed hands tore at him from the darkness, and one grabbed his sword arm and twisted it brutally behind him. His sheath swung into the dirt wall as he struggled, dislodging clumps of earth. He fought to break free, desperately, but pain clouded his vision as his arm was twisted even more tightly behind him, and he knew it was within inches of breaking. Another assailant grabbed him by the throat and squeezed, sharp claws drawing blood through the collar of his shirt. There were too many of them, and they were too fast, too strong. The fetid stink of them filled his nostrils, choking him, as he felt the long dagger drawn from his belt even as the reassuring weight of his sword was snapped from his side. Cold hands felt along the length of his body, and one by one his tools and weapons were located and removed from him. The hooks. The rope. The amulets. The latter were broken free with a hiss of amusement, thin gold chains snapping with a sound like a pennant in the wind. Then sharp fingers pried at the pouch at his belt, opening it—and a cry of pain burst forth from one of the creatures as it backed away from the church-Worked light. There was an instant of chaos that Damien tried to take advantage of, but the Dark One who held him prisoner was on the other side of him, and thus sheltered from the light. He twisted the priest’s arm brutally as he struggled, forcing the man to fall to his knees in order to keep it from breaking; a foot forced the leather pouch closed again and pressed down on him as his assailant forced him lower, into the earthen floor. “Let her deal with it!” he heard one hiss. He tried to struggle free, choking on dirt, felt the bite of cold claws digging into his face. Drawing his face upward, forcing his eyes to meet—

Dizzying. Blinding. A whirlpool of raw malevolence, its walls glittering with hunger. He felt himself being sucked down into it, felt the thoughts and memories being torn loose from him as he fell, the rush of them past his ears as the power of the Dark One dismembered, devoured—

And then it ended. Suddenly. As though an impenetrable wall had been slammed down between himself and the Dark One. Damien gasped for breath, heard the demon curse in frustration. Then the cold hand that gripped him squeezed his face even tighter, and he felt that boundless hunger reaching out to him again, the maelstrom forming . . . and it slid from him like claws on ice, unable to take hold.

“Can’t do it,” he heard a voice rasp. And another, hungry, hissed, “Let me try!” He felt his head turned forcibly to one side, as blood from a claw-wound dripped into one eye. For a moment there was the sensation of falling, of a power so vast that it must surely overwhelm the barrier Tarrant had established in him . . . and then that, too, dispersed, and he was left shivering in pain as they debated, hotly, the cause of their failure.

“Let her deal with him,” one hissed at last, and the others agreed. Damien felt himself jerked to his feet, his other arm pulled up sharply behind him. Then the pressure on the first mercifully let up, and through his fog of pain and confusion he could tell that they were binding him, using the very rope he had been carrying on his person. They tied tight knots about his leather wristlets, binding wrists that he made taut with tension as he tried to fight them. But the creatures knew by his weakness that though they had failed to drain him of memory, they had severed his flesh from his spirit; bereft of passion, securely bound, he appeared all but helpless in their hands. He snarled fevered curses as they dragged him forward, but his words were impotent weapons; the creatures chittered sharply as they gathered up his steel and the rest of his equipment, in some dark equivalent of laughter. And one stopped to lick the blood from his face—as if to remind him that they fed on his kind, that once they managed to break through the barrier which Tarrant had Worked in him, he would be no better than an evening’s snack to them.

They dragged him down the length of the corridor, his neck leashed like an angry dog’s. And as he stumbled along behind them—weaponless, bleeding, his face and arms stinging from the prick of their foul claws—it was all he could do to reflect upon his purpose, and keep from pitting his full strength against the bonds that had rendered him helpless. Because helplessness was what he needed right now. It went against his every instinct to accept that, to play along with it, but Tarrant was right; if the Dark Ones could not have rendered him helpless, they would have been forced to kill him. Their primitive minds knew no middle ground.

As he stumbled towards the enemy’s stronghold, he thought grimly, So far, so good.

The citadel was a jewel, a prism, a multifaceted crystalline structure that divided up the night into a thousand glittering bits, turning the sky and the landscape beneath into a cubist’s nightmare of disjointed angles and broken curves. Domina’s cold blue radiance reflected from the mirror-bright surfaces in seemingly random splinters, making it impossible for Damien to isolate any one structure as cohesive as a wall, or a doorway. When they walked he was forced to rely upon his feet to feel out the structure of the floor; stairs and inclines were all but invisible, masked by that visual chaos.

A reflection of her madness, he thought. He was appalled, but also impressed. What would the place be like in the sunlight? Or in Corelight? Brilliant, he decided. Disturbingly beautiful. It was clear to him that the Master of Lema was no creature of the night, as her servants were.

She came, then, down a staircase that glittered like diamonds in the fractured moonlight. He couldn’t make out the edges of the stairs beneath her feet, but judged their size and shape by the action of her long robe upon their surface. Silk sliding over glass, a waterfall of color. Mesmerized, he watched until the delicate fabric was level with his own feet, until that signal informed him that the Keeper of Souls had entered the very chamber he was in.

A taloned hand forced him to his knees; he didn’t fight, but dropped down as though beaten. And watched her intently, as she approached.

She was not a young woman any more, though her skill with the fae had kept her from aging too badly. She might have been beautiful once, but decades of obsession and the relentless power of her addiction had robbed her face of whatever natural elegance it might once have possessed. Her eyes were deeply hollowed, underscored with carmine lines where the bone edges pressed against the sallow tissue. Her skin was dry and taut with the inelasticity of enforced youth. Her lips, once full, were textured with a webwork of fine lines, that left only a hint of what must have once been vital sensuality. Only her eyes blazed forth with life, and they were so filled with hunger—with raw, uncaring need— that despite all he had known of her nature, Damien shuddered as he met her gaze.

“So you’re the one,” she said shortly. Her eyes flickered up to meet those of her captors; it seemed to him that the Dark Ones flinched before her. “What were my orders?”

“To claim his memories, Keeper.”

She hooked a hand beneath Damien’s chin and forced his head upward, to face hers. Studied his eyes, and all that was behind them.

“You disobeyed me,” she said softly. “Is there a reason?”

“We couldn’t do it,” one of Damien’s captors rasped, and another offered, “There was a barrier . . .”

“Ah.” The eyes pierced into him, burning his brain—then withdrew, and were merely eyes once more. “A Shielding. Very good. They have both intelligence and power.” She let go of his head. “But not enough.”

She stood back. “Get him up.”

Sharp claws bit into his upper arms as two of the creatures jerked him to his feet. He was careful to appear unsteady, as if from pain or weakness, but feared it would do little good. Carmine cloth swept from her shoulders to the floor, draped over an armature of padding that was clearly meant to lend aggressive mass to her frame. Even so, she was considerably smaller than he was, and he knew to his despair that no feigned emotions could counteract the sheer power of his bulk—or the threat she would read into it.

She nodded to one side, and the Dark Ones scurried to lay out Damien’s weapons before her. She waited until they were done and then said in a disdainful tone, “Is that all?” She reached down and took up a handful of amulets; thin gold chains slithered down between her fingers, like serpents. “Did you really think these would affect me?” She opened her hands and let the precious medallions slip through her fingers like so much refuse. “I think you underestimate me.” And a smile, faint and unpleasant, wrinkled her lips. “I know that he did.”

She came back to him and cupped a cold hand beneath his face. Sharpened nails bit into his skin, not unlike the talons of her servants. “I want him,” she said. “And I want the woman. Tell me where they are, and I’ll let you go.”

Elation filled him, at the realization that Hesseth’s efforts had paid off; the human sorceress couldn’t read through her tidal Workings. But he kept it carefully from his face as he said, in a tone edged with fear, “I won’t betray my friends.”

She smiled coldly. “Oh, you will do that. No question about it. All that’s at issue is how long it will take . . . and how much pain has to be applied in the process.” An odd hunger flickered in the depths of her eyes; her tongue tip touched her lips briefly, as if in anticipation. “Well? Will you answer me now? Or do I have to break you to get what I want?”

Damien’s heart was pounding so loudly he wondered that she couldn’t hear it. What was the safest way to answer? He had to goad her into specific action, without bringing down the full weight of her wrath upon his head. He tried to remember what Tarrant had told him, tried to weigh all his alternatives—and at last he gasped, in a tone that he hoped was more fearful than defiant, “I can’t. Please. Don’t ask that.”

Her expression hardened. She reached out to him again, and took his face in her hands. Gripped him tightly, so that his blood pounded beneath her fingers. So that he was incapable of looking away. “You’ll serve me,” she told him. “Like it or not, you will.” She willed him to look up at her, into her eyes; fae wrapped about him like a vice, forcing obedience. “I need to know where they are and what they’re doing. You’re going to tell me that.” Hot thoughts slithered into his mind, wrapping about his brainstem like serpents. Stroking the centers of pleasure and pain within him as she practiced her control. “Submit to me,” she whispered. He shut his eyes, tried to fight her off—but she was inside him, her hunger filling his flesh, her thoughts stabbing into his brain. Where the hell was Tarrant’s barrier now? He tried with all his will to force her out of his mind—to sever her control—but without a Working to focus his efforts he didn’t have a prayer. And he didn’t dare Work, not now.

Amused by his struggles, she stroked his brain anew; waves of sensation, shamefully erotic, reverberated through his body, followed by a pain so intense that it would have doubled him over if not for the fae that bound him upright. She was playing his flesh like an instrument, there was no place he could hide, no way he could stop it . . . but he knew that if he gave in, even for a moment, if he let his human intellect be swept away by the tide of her madness, that he was lost forever. Her hunger knew no middle ground.

And then, suddenly, the sea turned cold. The lust became darkness, and ice shot through his veins. His body shook as the essence of the Hunter filled him—unclean, inhuman, but oh, so welcome!—forcing out the foreign influence, chilling his burning flesh. His stomach spasmed as the force of Tarrant’s unlife filled it and he vomited suddenly, as if by casting out the bitter liquids within him he might also cast out that influence. Never before was the Hunter’s essence so alien, so physically intolerable. And never before was it so welcome.

When he came to himself he saw her standing back from him, rage burning like wildfire in her eyes. Somewhere in the back of his numbed brain he remembered something about a signal, his link to Gerald Tarrant . . . what was it? He grasped at the fact, used it as a lifeline to restore his reason. Something about a sign, and the wards . . . that was it. This was what they’d set up, as the trigger: their enemy, trying to break through Tarrant’s barrier. The Hunter would have sensed that and taken it for his starting sign. Even now, the quake-wards were being broken.

Which left very little time. Minutes, perhaps. Or so he hoped. He tried to focus on what he needed to do and how fast he needed to do it, tried not to think about what might happen if the earth failed to respond to its newfound freedom. Because that possibility was enough to chill him to the bone. The longer it took, the less was the likelihood that this woman would be Working when the wave hit—and for him to be here, bound and helpless, with her still alive and whole, and knowing what they had intended . . . it was unthinkable. She would destroy him. She would destroy them all.

“You’re a fool,” she said angrily. “Do you really think your precious adept can protect you? After I broke him? He couldn’t even save himself—how on Erna is he going to help you?” The voice became seductive, cloying. “Tell me what I want to know, and you can go free. Isn’t that the easiest way? Or else . . . I might have to dissect your mind, thought by thought, until I find what I need. Until there’s nothing left in you, but that one bit of information and enough strength to voice it. Not a pleasant prospect.” Her eyes narrowed to slits, her expression drawn. “The choice is yours, priest.”

And he took his chance. Daring her rage. Daring her hatred. Because it was her obsession he wanted, and that must be directed at him. Quickly, before the quake-wards failed.

“Go to hell,” he spat.

He was struck from behind on the head, hard enough to draw blood. He allowed the blow to drive him to his knees, gasping audibly as a thin, warm trickle began to seep down the back of his collar. Defiance, laced with weakness: that was the winning formula. Play it right, and he would goad her into Working him without doing him permanent harm. Play it wrong . . . he shuddered. She was perfectly capable of maiming him—or worse. He had put himself in her power. If she had been sane he would have been confident, but she wasn’t—and the victims of addiction, any addiction, were notoriously unstable.

The taloned fingers caught in his hair and jerked his head up, so that he was forced to meet her eyes. Hatred was hot in her gaze, and a disdain so absolute that he knew for a fact she would never see the blow coming. Not if he could get her Working. Not if he could keep her involved.

“You made a fatal error,” she informed him. “Not just in coming here, but in guarding yourself against my pets. That interrogation would have been far more merciful than this one will be.”

And her power hit him, full in the face, a wall of searing force that drove the breath from his body and left him stunned, half-blinded. The fire of her addiction focused in on him, became a red-hot spearpoint that probed deep inside his flesh, testing for weaknesses. If she had used a real blade, she couldn’t have made the pain any greater; his nerves rang out as though scraped by sharpened steel, his body shaking uncontrollably as pain consumed his universe.

He struggled not to fight back. That was harder than all the rest combined: forcing himself not to respond, as she played his body like some terrible instrument. It went against every instinct in him, against all his years of learning and experience. But any Working now might mean death, if luck and Erna turned against him. And so he swallowed back on all the ingrained keys that might unlock his defenses, and banished the images that floated in front of his eyes, before they could Work the fae to save him. And he drank in the bitter draught of utter defenselessness as her will probed sharp within him.

And then—an eternity later—she released him. He would have fallen, but clawed hands had taken hold of his shoulders and they held him upright. The woman’s face was a mask of rage and indignation—How dare you defy me!— with a desperate edge that might well blossom into something more dangerous.

“Please,” he whispered. Daring a subterfuge. “I can’t. Don’t you understand? I can’t!”

The burning eyes narrowed suspiciously. She turned to regard a figure who stood just behind her left shoulder—he had not been there before, Damien was certain of that—and demanded, “Well?”

Faceted eyes in an ink-black face. Glassy surface that refracted the light, like chipped obsidian. Damien had seen figures in his nightmares that looked more forbidding—but not many. And not often.

“The adept has Worked a barrier,” the surreal figure rasped. The quality of his voice—like sandpaper on an open wound—made Damien’s skin crawl. “And he’s Warded it into this man’s flesh, so that it requires no sustaining power. In fact, you empower it every time you try to break through it.” The glistening eyes fixed on Damien, and seemed to pierce through him. What was that creature? What if it could read the truth in him? “Well Worked,” the dark figure rasped.

“Spare me your admiration,” she snapped, “just tell me how to break it.”

“You can’t. Not directly. Its power feeds off yours. The more force you use, the stronger it gets.”

“You’re telling me I can’t get inside him?”

“I’m telling you that mere force won’t succeed here. You’ll have to dismantle it, step by step. Reversing the process he used to erect it in the first place. Assuming you can,” he added.

“I can do anything,” she said acidly.

She took hold of Damien again, sharpened nails tangling in his sweat-soaked hair. “You’ll regret the day you decided to serve him,” she promised the priest.

“Or of course,” the black figure interjected, “there’s always physical torture.”

She looked back sharply at him. And Damien could barely hear her words, so loud was the pounding of his heart. “Would that work?” she demanded. Hunger echoed in her voice.

“Who can say? It would certainly be . . . interesting.”

“I can’t,” Damien whispered. Trying to will as much fear into his voice as he could muster. In the face of possible torture, it wasn’t hard. “He said the barrier wouldn’t permit it. Said that his blockage was absolute, from both directions . . .”

“So that you can’t betray him,” she concluded. “Not even to save yourself from pain.” Disappointment flashed briefly in those hollow eyes. “A shame.” Then her expression hardened once more; the grip on his hair tightened, pulling his head back. “Not that it will help you,” she whispered.

He shut his eyes this time, so that he didn’t have to see the inhuman depths in hers. There was something in her so blindly ravenous that the mere thought of contact with her made his stomach tighten in dread. This wasn’t just a hunger for vision, like Senzei had known, or even an obsession with power. It had gone beyond that—far beyond that—into realms so utterly corrupted that barely a fragment of her human soul remained, clinging to the flesh that housed it as if somehow the two could be reunited. Could mere hunger do that to a woman? Or would it take something more—some outside influence, that fed on the soul’s dissolution? He thought of the obsidian figure standing beside her and wondered at its source. At their relationship.

Then: Her hunger enveloped him. Dark, unwholesome, utterly revolting—and focused, this time, in a way it hadn’t been before. He felt her mental fingers prying at the edges of Tarrant’s barrier, trying to Work it loose from his flesh. Though he didn’t doubt the Hunter’s skill, he knew that her tenacity went far beyond anything a sane mind might conjure—and he shivered to think of what would become of him if she managed to dismantle Tarrant’s Warding before the fae-surge struck her.

Where’s your earthquake, Hunter? He imagined all the things that might have gone wrong—Gerald Tarrant too weak to Work, the quake-wards too strong to be broken, some secondary defense system, hitherto unnoticed, coming into play—but nothing frightened him more than the simple fact that the earth might not move. Period. Even if all their planning had been perfect, even if Tarrant had succeeded in all he set out to do . . . the nature of seismic activity was random, and all the Workings in the world wouldn’t make it otherwise. The odds had been in their favor, true—but what if odds weren’t enough? What if the earth betrayed them, and took its sweet time in responding?

Then I’m dead, he thought darkly. Behind his back, his fingers played with the edges of his bracers. Thick leather, but soft; he unsnapped them. The Keeper’s thoughts burrowed inside his mind—like so many worms—but her attention was fixed on Tarrant’s Warding.

Keep Working, he begged her silently. Just keep Working. It seemed that time had slowed down for him, that something in the enemy’s assault had altered his temporal functioning; he was aware of long minutes passing as he pushed at the forward edge of his bracers, forcing the leather back through the ropes that bound his wrists. Buying himself additional slack, through that action. He told himself that he had to be ready, in case their plan failed. Had to be ready to free himself and move quickly. He tucked one thumb against his palm and tested his hand against his rope, seeing if he had gained enough slack to force his hand through. Coarse rope bit into his skin, but the fit was promising. One good jerk—and the loss of some skin—and he might be free. He gauged the distance between himself and the woman, reached out with his senses to Know the whereabouts of her servants—and then stopped himself, sickened by his carelessness, and forced himself not to Work. Not to Work at all. It seemed to him that hours had passed, that while he had been lost in the mechanics of bodily defense she had launched whole offensives against the structure of Tarrant’s Warding. And still the earth hadn’t moved. Had Tarrant managed to dispel the quake-wards, or was he still struggling with them? Was there still some hope that the adept might succeed, and trigger the surge they required?

And then she drew back from him, and the world spiraled out into her eyes. And he saw the anger there, and knew with dread certainty that she had sensed some hidden purpose in the barrier. Enough to stop her from Working.

Which meant that it was over. It was all over . . . and they had lost.

“I think,” she said coldly, “we may try torture after all.”

He looked about himself, desperately, as his hands prepared to pull loose from their bonds. As he steeled himself to move, and move quickly, in a sudden bid for freedom. But then his eyes fell on the eastern wall, at the soft glow rising up from its base—and he flinched, as the meaning of that became clear. As the full measure of his vulnerability hit home.

Light. Gray light, rising in the east.

Dawn.

He was suddenly aware that the Dark Ones had left them, no doubt withdrawing to some protective recess deep within the earth. Tarrant was powerless now. If he hadn’t broken the quake-wards yet, he wasn’t going to. Not in time to help Damien. The priest’s last hope had died with the night.

“What is it?” she demanded. Sensing that something was amiss with him, not knowing what. She turned toward the eastern wall, back to Damien. “What new trick . . .” Her eyes grew hard, and he heard her mutter something; a key? He felt a Knowing taking shape around him, felt it working to squeeze the information out of him, examining his link to the dawn, to Tarrant—

And then it struck. He saw it, for an instant, through her eyes—for one terrible instant, in which the whole world was ablaze. Power surged through the crystalline walls, dashed against the mirrored steps, cycloned fiercely about them. Earth-fae fresh from the depths of Erna, hot as the magma that spawned it. She screamed as it struck her, screamed in terror as it blasted its way into her, its power filling and then bursting each cell in her brain.

He threw himself back. The distance somehow seemed to sever the contact between them, and the terrible vision was gone—but her screaming went on, rising in pitch to a fevered shriek as the earth-power poured through her. He tried not to listen as he jerked hard at his bonds, fighting to free himself. The coarse rope cut into him as he tried to force his hand through it, drawing blood—but with that lubrication, and a near-dislocation of his thumb, he managed to pull one hand free. Burning suns swam in his vision, an afterimage from the fae; he blinked as though that could cool their glare and tried to see past them to locate an exit. The shrieking numbed his brain, made it all but impossible to think clearly. How had he come in? He had no hope of finding a true exit from the citadel, not in time; his only chance lay in getting himself underground, and in hoping that the coming quake was merciful to whatever space housed him. With luck he could find his way back to the entrance tunnel—which would lead him down to the plains, and relative safety . . .

He grabbed his sword as he ran, sweeping it up from the crystalline floor—now spattered with blood and vomit, therefore visible. He didn’t dare be unarmed, not now. Thank God mere steel was enough to dispatch the Dark Ones. He ran, trusting to blind instinct to guide him. Stumbling, as unseen steps trapped his feet, hitting one mirrored wall hard enough to shatter it. Where was the exit? Where was the passage down? He tried to remember all the turnings they had taken on the way in, tried to reason his way through the glassy labyrinth—and then he took his sword and slammed its pommel into an obstructing wall, hard. Crystal shivered into bits, revealing the dark mouth of a tunnel beyond. Praise God, he thought feverishly. Please, let it be in time. Bits of mirror crunched underfoot as he fought his way toward the entrance, slipping and sliding on the glassy fragments. And then the earthen wall was beside him, and his hand was upon it, and he was stumbling down into the depths—

And the earth convulsed, with force enough that he was thrown from his feet, headfirst into a hard dirt wall. Overhead the citadel tinkled, like a thousand wind chimes in a stormy sky—and then began to shatter, wall by wall, staircase by staircase, as the ground swelled up and broke beneath it. Huge chunks of crystal crashed to the earth behind him, sending fragments like spears down into the tunnel at his feet. Half-stunned, he forced himself to move again, to work his way down into the heart of the trembling earth. To his side, a wooden support snapped and came loose; chunks of rock and dirt hailed down on him as bits of crystal caromed into the depths. Too close to the surface, he thought, despairing. Too close! A shockwave threw him off his feet, and dirt rained down on him as he struggled to recover his balance. Must get deeper . . . He struggled on blindly, not pausing to consider whether greater depth would really mean safety—not stopping to question whether any place could be truly safe, in such an utter upheaval.

It should only last seconds. Shouldn’t it? What were the parameters of a quake like this, that had been decades in the making?

The tunnel grew dark about him, dawn’s dim light filtered through a rain of dirt and gravel that fell from its ceiling. He staggered down the length of it by feel, praying for enough time to save himself. But even as he did so he knew that if the quake had already begun, his time was just about up.

And then a support overhead broke loose, and swung down into him. It knocked him against the far wall, hard, leaving him stunned where he fell. The motion loosed a fresh avalanche of dirt and rock that rained on him as he struggled to right himself. All around him he could hear the tunnel collapsing, the roar of the earthquake as it raged through the planet’s crust. His hand clenched tightly about his sword grip as he struggled to his feet—as if that weapon could somehow protect him from the fury of the earth itself—but then the ground beneath him spasmed furiously, and the whole of the ceiling gave way at last. Pounds upon pounds of dirt and rock poured down upon him, battering him into the ground. He tried to fight free, but the torrent of earth overwhelmed him. Gasping for breath, he choked on dirt—and as he struggled to clear his lungs, something large and sharp struck him hard on the head. Driving him down, deep down, into the suffocating depths of Nature’s vengeance.

45

Light. Blinding. He shrank back from it—or tried to—but a strong hand had hold of him, long fingers entangled in his shirt. It jerked him up, forcing his mouth above the level of the earth. He gasped for breath, winced from the pain of the effort. Then his lungs spasmed suddenly, and he began to cough up the dirt that had filled them. Retching helplessly, as the strong hands continued to pull him out of his earthbound tomb.

The light faded slowly to a mere star, to a tiny lamp flame. By its glow he could see that the tunnel was mostly gone, and what little that remained was filled with dust. Even while he watched, a fresh trickle of gravel began to course down from what remained of the ceiling.

“Can you move?” Tarrant asked.

His limbs felt numb, but they responded. He nodded.

“Then let’s go. This place is death.”

The Hunter wrapped an arm about his shoulder—so cold, so very cold, who could ever have thought that the man’s chill could be so comforting?—and with his help, Damien somehow managed to make his way to open space. He paused there for a minute, shivering.

“Close?” Tarrant asked softly.

“Too close,” he whispered. A wave of sudden weakness washed over him; he let the Hunter support him. “Ciani,” he breathed. “Where—”

“Right ahead of us. With Hesseth. No one’s being left alone anymore till this is over.”

“Did she-” He was afraid to voice the words. Afraid of what a negative answer would mean. “Is she—”

“Whole? Recovered?” He shook his head, grimly. “Not yet. But this is just the beginning. If her assailant isn’t killed in a cavern collapse, I’ll hunt him down later. Now that his protector is dead, it should be easy enough.”

He looked up at him, sharply. “You know that?”

“She fed on me,” he answered quietly. “A channel like that works both ways, you know. Did you think I wouldn’t drink in her terror when she died? She owed me that much.”

He struggled to get his feet firmly beneath him. “Good meal, I hope.”

“Damned good meal,” the Hunter assured him. “Let’s move.”

Together they crept through the remains of the access tunnel, through passages made dangerously narrow by earthfall. At times they had to dig their way through, heaving aside rocks and mounds of earth to make enough room for a body to squeeze through.

“You came in this way?” Damien asked.

“It’s still collapsing, if that’s your question.” He grasped a fallen support beam and pulled; a narrow passage opened up to receive them. “Somewhat less violently, farther along. That’s where the women are. But I wouldn’t like to be here when the next shock wave hits,” he added.

“I’m surprised it hasn’t yet.”

The Hunter looked at him; there was a faint smile on his lips. “That may be because I left some of the quake-wards intact. I Worked them to kick in again after the first tremors ended. They won’t hold long, of course, not without the rest of the series . . . but every minute counts.”

“You’re very thorough.”

“I try to be.” He wiped dirt from his eyes with the back of a sleeve. Damien tried to do the same, and his hand came away from his face sticky with blood. The quantity of it unnerved him. “Much further?”

The Hunter glanced at him. “You’ll make it.”

He thought of the dawn light he had seen from the citadel. How much time had passed since then? What kind of safety was there for his dark companion, if the sun had risen? “What about you?”

He jerked loose a piece of splintered wood that blocked their path; dirt showered down in the narrow passageway. “I’m strong enough, if that’s the question.”

“I meant the sun.”

For a moment the Hunter was still. Damien thought he saw a muscle tense along his jaw, and the pale eyes narrowed. “Let’s deal with that problem when we get to it,” he said at last—and he heaved the broken timber from him, hard enough that it gouged the far wall.

“If you think—”

“Talk won’t make the sun set,” he said sharply. “And we’re still far from getting out of here. Look.” He pointed to the far side of the passageway, to a hole that yawned in the far wall. “Can you see it? In the currents. They’re stirring, underground. The ones that survived the first shockwave will be coming to the surface, where they imagine things are safer. Idiots! If they knew their science, they’d stay where they are, where the surface waves can’t reach—”

“You’re afraid,” Damien said quietly.

The Hunter began to protest, then stopped himself. “Of course I’m afraid,” he muttered. “I’d be a fool if I weren’t. Does that satisfy you?” He kicked loose a thick clod of earth, clearing the passage ahead of them. “I suggest we get to the lady and Hesseth before our subterranean friends do—and worry about fear later. There’ll be time for it, I assure you.”

He gave the lamp to Damien—his own sight didn’t require it—and led the way eastward, through the ruins of their enemy’s escape passage. As the tunnel cut deeper into the earth the damage seemed to be lessened, but it was still a struggle to make good time through the ravaged warren.

Periodically Tarrant would turn and look back, his eyes narrowed as he focused on the weak underground currents. But if he saw anything specific that disturbed him, he kept it to himself. Once, at the mouth of a narrow tunnel that led down to the Dark Ones’ realm, he paused to listen—senses alert as a hunting animal’s, nerves trigger-taut in tension—but he said nothing. His expression grim, he nodded eastward, urging the priest away from the citadel.

And then they came across the body. It was half-buried in dirt, as though in its fall it had loosed some new, private avalanche. Tarrant turned it over, brushed the dirt from its face—and breathed in sharply as the charred hole of a Fire-laden bolt became visible, right where one eye should be.

He looked up, lips drawn tight, and muttered, “Come on.” And ran. In time they passed another body—this one’s chest had a gaping hole, with fresh smoke rising from its Fire-seared edges—but they didn’t stop to examine it. The smell of burning flesh was thick and sharp, doubly acrid in the tunnel’s claustrophobic confines. They passed a turn where the earth had fallen, kicked a hurried path through loose clods of dirt that barred their way—

And found them. Springbolts in their hands, determination in their eyes. There were bodies here, too, and the scent of their blood was fresh. Tarrant had been right: the Dark Ones were surfacing.

Damien went to where Ciani stood—her back braced firmly against the wall, her hands gripped tightly about the weapon—and put one bruised arm around her. She softened, slightly, just enough to lean against him, barely enough to accept the reassuring gesture. Then she put her free arm around him, too, and squeezed.

“Thank the gods you’re still alive,” she whispered.

He glanced back at the adept. “Thank Tarrant, in this case.”

“We’d better move,” the Hunter warned them. He grabbed up supply pack that had been left by Hesseth’s feet, swung it to his back. “And fast.”

“How much ammunition is left?” Damien asked the women.

“Plenty,” Hesseth responded. “But only three with the Fire.” Her teeth were half-bared, as if in a dominance display. “You think there’ll be more of them?”

“I think there’s no doubt of it,” Tarrant assured her. “The only question is how fast they’ll come.”

“He hasn’t died yet,” Ciani whispered. “I would know that . . . wouldn’t I?”

My God, will you know it. The memories will smash into you like a tidal wave—like the surge of fae that killed your enemy. The experience of an entire lifetime, reabsorbed in an instant. He hated himself for dreading that moment. Hated himself for wondering, with steel-edged calculation, whether that moment might not be the most dangerous of all.

They ran. And they were not alone. Close behind them, back the way they had come, something else was moving through the tunnels. Something that chittered in half-human speech, as it followed the path they had cleared. One demon—or many? With a sudden start Damien realized that his sword was still buried near the citadel, the rest of his weapons inside it. All he had left was the flask of Fire—if that was still intact—and he couldn’t draw that out without burning Tarrant. Still, if Tarrant could survive it, and if it could drive back their enemies . . . he fingered the flap of the pouch as he ran, made sure that it was free to open. Tarrant would understand. Strategy demanded it. Survival might demand it.

And then they came around a turn, and there were the Dark Ones. A good four of them at least, and perhaps more in the shadows beyond. They were bruised and bleeding, and more than a little disoriented—but their eyes blazed with hatred, and hunger, and their nostrils flared as they caught the scent of human fear. Of food.

“Don’t let them touch you,” Hesseth whispered. A tremor of fear was in her voice; was she remembering when she’d been drained, back at the earthfire? Damien stepped to Ciani’s side and took the springbolt from her. “Get back,” he whispered. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tarrant reach out to her—for a moment he was lost in Morgot again, as the tidal power Hesseth had conjured dissolved all their barriers, and set loose the Hunter’s evil—and then he nodded, and gestured for her to go to him, knowing that there was no place where she would be safer than by the adept’s side.

And then the creatures fell upon them. Mindless as animals gone rabid, and ten times as deadly. He brought one down with a shot to the gut, fired point-blank into the demonic flesh. And then cursed himself as he brought the second bolt into line, for failing to ask which one of the weapons had only one Worked bolt in it.

And then one was upon him, and his weapon was still uncocked—so he brought the brass butt up into its face, hard, cursing it as he did so. There was blood, and the sharp crack of bone splitting, but the blow did nothing to slow the creature down. One clawed hand grasped the barrel of the springbolt, another grabbed at Damien’s arm. He tried to throw the creature off, but a strange numbness had invaded his arm; he found it hard to move. Shadows began to fill his mind, and his thoughts were slow in coming. He needed to fight it. Didn’t he? He needed to drive it back from him, before it . . . what? What would it do? He found himself shaking as the numbness claimed more of his flesh, found himself filled with a dread and a fear that was all the more terrible because he couldn’t remember its cause.

And then the Dark One howled, and fell back. In its chest was a smoking hole, where the point of a Fire-laden bolt had pierced through the flesh. Hesseth was ready behind it, her blade poised as if to decapitate the creature, but the Fire made that unnecessary. With a last desperate cry, the Dark One fell—and memories flooded Damien’s brain like some wild dream, a thousand and one disjointed bits pouring into him with nightmare intensity. He staggered, trying to absorb the onslaught. Trying to brace himself for further battle, even as he reclaimed his humanity. But beside him the cold blue light of Tarrant’s sword filled the tunnel, and he could see by its glow that an icy path had been etched through the flesh of two of their assailants. Carmine crystals glittered where the great veins had been severed, and a frosty steam arose from the newly chilled flesh.

“Let’s go-” Damien began, but Tarrant ordered, “Wait.”

He walked several yards down the tunnel, back the way they had come. And studied the ceiling overhead as if searching for something. After a minute had passed he seemed to find it, and he raised up his sword so that the glowing tip brushed the packed earth overhead. And then thrust up, suddenly. Chunks of dirt burst outward from the point of contact in an explosion that echoed down the length of the tunnel. And when the dust cleared, they could see that passageway behind them was filled. There might be Dark Ones still ahead of them, but none would be coming from behind. Not without a digging crew.

The Hunter resheathed his sword. “Now we go,” he whispered. His posture was tense, in a way that Damien had never seen before. Had the enemy touched him, as well? Or was it just that the odds against them were growing, too swiftly for the adept’s liking?

If he’s afraid of them, Damien thought grimly, what does that mean for the rest of us?

They passed other openings that offered access to the lower regions. Half of them were already filled with rubble, rendering them useless to the Dark Ones. The other ones they left alone. There were simply too many, and each one that Tarrant chose to seal meant another delay, another chance that their enemies would get ahead of them . . . Damien caught sight of the adept’s expression as they passed by a particularly large opening, and it was utterly colorless and grim. And he remembered the sunlight that awaited them all, if they ever did reach the end of this passage, and wondered what the man could do to save himself. Was it safe for him to stay down here until sunset? With so many Dark Ones coming to the surface, half-mad with rage and hunger?

I won’t let him do it alone, Damien thought darkly. Remembering the hands that had pulled him from the earth, which might just as easily have left him there. Feeling a loyalty which might have shamed him, in another time and place, but which now felt as natural as breathing.

“They’re coming,” Tarrant whispered, and he turned to look behind them. There was nobody visible there, not yet, but Damien knew enough to trust the man’s senses. He was about to speak when Ciani cried out, sharply—and the look on her face was one of such abject terror, such utter despair, that Damien’s blood chilled as he recognized what the cause must be.

“He’s there,” the Hunter said. Giving voice to her fear. “He’s coming.”

“Is he aware of us?” Damien asked him.

The pale eyes narrowed as Tarrant studied the fae. “Not yet,” he whispered. “But he will be soon. He listened for a moment longer, then added, “There are many of them together. Too many to fight.”

“Then we move,” Damien told him. “The entrance can’t be much farther. If we can make it out before they get to us—”

He stopped. Met the pale eyes squarely. “Then Ciani can be safe in the sunlight,” he concluded, “while you and I deal with her assailant.”

They had just started to move again when it seemed, for an instant, that the earth trembled beneath them. Damien felt his heart skip a beat, and he prayed wildly, Not now. Please! Just a few minutes more. As if his God might really interfere. As if the guiding force of the universe was concerned with a handful of human Wardings, or the lives that might depend on them.

They ran. The walls and ceiling of the earthbound passage began to rain down fresh dirt on their heads, but they shielded their eyes with their hands and continued onward. Knowing how close they must be to the tunnel’s eastern exit, knowing how close that exit was to the relative safety of the plains, they pressed on—through dirtfall, over rock-strewn drifts, across huge heaps of splintered wood and boulders—they scrambled over obstacles as quickly as they could, not daring to take the time to study their surroundings. Again the earth trembled, and this time a dull roar could be heard. “They’re going,” Tarrant muttered, and Damien whispered, “God help us all.” The tunnel seemed at least twice as long in this direction as it had been when Damien first entered it; where the hell was that exit?

And then the worst of it struck. Not nearly as violent as its predecessor—but such violence was no longer necessary. The supporting structure of the tunnel had already been weakened, and its walls were riddled with gaping holes. It didn’t take much to shake loose what was left, so that the remaining ceiling fell in huge chunks behind them, on top of them, directly in their path. Damien threw himself at Ciani just as a massive shard of stone hurtled down from the ceiling above her; he managed to roll them both out of its path, barely in time. Gravel pelted them, and earth that had been packed to a bricklike consistency. He sheltered Ciani with his body and prayed that the other two were all right. And that their enemies weren’t. Wouldn’t that be convenient, if the earth itself swallowed up Ciani’s assailant?

But when he finally raised himself up from where he lay, and looked at her, he knew that they’d had no such luck. Her face betrayed none of the joy—or the disorientation—that returning memories would have brought.

He felt sharp nails bite into his shoulder, heard Hesseth hiss softly. “I think you’d better look at this,” the rakh-woman told him. She nodded toward the east, down to where the tunnel turned. He paused for a second to make sure the tremors had ceased—they had—and then got to his feet and followed her. The space remaining was barely large enough to admit him, and his shoulder pressed against damp earth as he forced his way through. To where the passageway turned, just prior to its ascension . . .

It was filled. Completely. The weight of the earth had collapsed a whole segment of the tunnel, rendering it impassable. Damien felt despair bite into him, hard, as he regarded the solid mound before him. They, might dig through it, given enough time and the right tools . . . but they had neither, and there was no telling how far the blockage went. If the whole tunnel between here and the surface had caved in ahead of them, then there was simply no way to get through it. No way at all.

He made his way back to the others and prepared to tell them the bad news—and then saw that it wasn’t necessary. Tarrant had read the truth in the currents, and Ciani’s eyes were bright with despair. The single lantern which remained to them shed just enough light to show him that her hands were trembling.

“We’re stuck,” he muttered.

“Can we dig out?” Ciani’s voice was a whisper, hoarse and fragile. “Dig up, I mean.”

Damien glanced at the ceiling. And then at Tarrant.

“We’re near the surface,” he said quietly. “I can hear the solar fae as it strikes the earth. Can almost feel it . . .” He paused, and then Damien thought he saw him shiver. “If the earth above is soft enough to dig, but solid enough not to bury us when we begin to disturb it . . . it would still take time,” he said. “A lot of time.” He looked back the way they had come. “I’m not sure we have that,” he said tensely.

Damien listened—and it seemed to him that he could hear a scrabbling in the distance, like rodents. “They survived.”

“Enough of them,” the Hunter said grimly. “More than we can handle, without using the earth-fae.”

Damien glanced at Hesseth, but she shook her head. Whatever combination of tides she required in order to Work simply wasn’t available now. It might be, in the future . . . if they lasted that long. If there was any future for them.

Louder, now; the sounds were approaching. Damien heard voices among them, hissing human phonemes. He looked about desperately, trying to think of some way out, or some new way in which they could defend themselves—but there was nothing. They were trapped. Even if they could fight off the Dark Ones for a time, they were still too close to the surface; the next quake would bury them.

And then the Hunter turned away from them. And put one hand up against the dirt at his side, as though he required its support.

“There is a way,” he whispered hoarsely. “One way only, that I can think of. It would save the lady.”

The voices were getting louder. Damien came close to where the adept stood so that they might talk quietly. “Tell me.”

Tarrant looked up at the ceiling, as if searching for some sort of sign. It occurred to Damien with a start that this was how he had searched before, in the moments before he brought down a whole section of the tunnel.

“I could blast a way out,” the Hunter muttered. “There’s enough tamed fae in the sword that I could do it, without having to use the currents. Only . . .”

“The sunlight,” Damien said softly.

Tarrant turned away again.

“You can’t,” Ciani whispered. “Gerald . . .”

“I appreciate your concern,” the adept breathed, “but there’s no real alternative. Other than dying here beneath the earth, our souls gone to feed those . . . creatures.” He shook his head, stiffly. “Even I can’t Work an adequate defense, without the earth-fae to draw on. There are so many of them, and we have so few weapons left . . . it would only be a matter of time.”

“Until nightfall?” Damien asked.

The Hunter shook his head, grimly. “Not that long, I regret.” He turned to Ciani. “This would free you,” he whispered. “I could open this part of the passage to the sunlight, and if your assailant was here at the time . . . it would free you.”

“And you?” Damien asked. “Could you survive it?”

He hesitated. “Probably not. Sunlight is relative, of course; I’ve stood in the light of three moons, and beneath a galaxy of stars . . . but this is different.” A tremor seemed to pass through his flesh. Damien recalled the fire underground, and what it had done to him. If a mere earthly blaze could wreak that kind of damage, what chance would the Hunter have when facing the sun itself?

Then: “I see no other way,” he said grimly. And he drew the coldfire sword from its sheath.

The voices were coming closer now. Ciani moved to his side, reached out as if to touch him—and then drew back, trembling. “Gerald.”

“Lady Ciani.” He caught up her hand in his free one and touched it quickly to his lips. If she had any sort of negative response to the chill of his flesh, Damien didn’t see it. “I owe you a debt of honor. I’ve risked much to fulfill it. If this succeeds, and your memory is restored—”

“Then I would say your honor is satisfied,” she whispered. “And I free you from any further obligation.”

He let go of her hand. And bowed. “Thank you, lady.”

“If you can find shelter-” Damien began.

“There’ll be no shelter when I’m done.” He gestured for them to move back, clearing the space nearest to him. And studied the ceiling again, looking for a workable fault. “You’ll have to move quickly. Gain the surface as fast as you can, and then get away from here. Fast. You don’t know how long those things will take to die, or what damage they might do to you in their death throes. The best defense is distance. Don’t even pause to look back,” he warned them—and Damien wondered if his concern was for their lives, or that they might see the Hunter burning.

“Now,” he hissed. “Get ready.”

The voices were approaching. Damien stood back, and gathered Ciani to him. Hesseth pressed close by his other side, springbok at the ready. He began to shield his eyes—and saw Tarrant’s pale gaze fixed on him.

“Good luck, Hunter,” he said quietly.

And they came. Climbing over the mounds of earth like oversized rodents, inhuman eyes blazing with hunger. The first one saw them there and pulled up, hissing a sharp warning to its fellows. Then they came into the lamplight as well, swarming about him like hungry insects, filling the far end of the tunnel. Wary, because Tarrant’s sword was drawn and they clearly sensed its power.

And then one of them fixed its eyes on Ciani and hissed softly, in pleasure. A sharp tongue tip stroked the points of its teeth, and Damien knew by the tremor that ran through her that this was the one, the demon who attacked her in Jaggonath. The one who contained her memories.

“Now,” the Hunter whispered.

The demons began to move.

He thrust. Up into the earth, deep into the fault he had located. The force of the coldfire-bound steel took root and expanded, exploding outward with all the force of a bomb. Dirt bits slammed into Damien and his companions, and the force of the compression struck them like a fist. For a moment there was nothing but a hailing of dirt and rocks, like shrapnel. And then: light. Blinding. The brilliance of the morning sun, to eyes that had spent days in darkness. He threw up his arm across his eyes, as the pain of it seared his vision. The whole world was white, formless, utterly blinding . . . he forced his arm down, remembered Tarrant’s last warning. Get away from here. Fast. Against the glare of sunlight he could barely make out shapes, now, hot white against the hotter white of the morning sky. He clambered toward one of them, felt a newly-formed wall of earth take shape beneath his fingertips. He pulled Ciani over to it and guided Hesseth to follow. “Climb!” he whispered fiercely. He could barely see the ground beneath him, but trusted his hands to guide him. The earth here sloped back in smoothly curved walls, like that of a meteoric crater; he tried not to think of Tarrant as he struggled up that slope, as he tried to gain solid purchase in the shifting, inconstant earth, helping the others to climb along with him—

Ciani screamed. It was a sound of pain and terror combined, so utterly chilling in its tenor that for a moment Damien froze, stunned by the sound. Then he saw her slipping as her body convulsed, and he grabbed out for her. Caught her by the sleeve of her shirt, and tried to keep her from sliding back down to the tunnel below.

“Can’t,” she gasped. “Gods, I can’t—”

“Help me!” he cried—and Hesseth reached out from the other side, grabbing Ciani’s arm. Together they held their ground as she shivered from the onslaught of her own forgotten memories, all the pain and fear of a lifetime compressed into one burning instant. Her skin was hot to the touch, but that might have been because of the sun. After weeks among the nonhuman and the semi-human, wounded and tired in cold, dark tunnels, Damien would be hard pressed to remember what normal body temperature felt like.

They began to drag her upward. Slowly. Afraid to move on the treacherous slope, but even more afraid to stay where they were. That Ciani’s assailant was now dead was all but certain. But how many others remained, who might find a short climb into sunlight an acceptable price for revenge? Inch by inch, carefully, the two of them worked their way up the earthen slope. Beneath them clods of earth broke loose and tumbled down into the crater’s depths. They fought not to tumble down with them. The slope grew steeper, and Damien had to drive his hands deep into the soil to get the support he needed. Ciani moaned softly, utterly limp beneath his grasp, and he could only hope that the climb was doing her no damage. He reached into the crumbling earth, and caught hold of something solid at last. A root. He looked up, and against the glare of the sun he could make out the form of trees, not far above them. With a prayer of thanksgiving on his lips he grabbed at the firm root, and used it to pull himself up the slope. Hesseth, on the other side of Ciani, saw what he was doing and followed suit. The soft earth gave way to a tangle of vegetation, gave way to the underearth limbs of mature trees . . .

And they were over. All three of them. Damien lay gasping on the ground for a moment, his legs still resting on the edge of Tarrant’s crater. Then, with effort, he forced himself to his feet. Ciani was utterly still, but the look on her face was one of peace; lowering his head to her chest, he could hear her measured breathing. He lifted her up into his arms, gently, and murmured, “She’s all right.” Cradling her, as one might a child. “She’s going to be all right.”

And the winter chill was nothing to them as they staggered away from the site of their recent trials. Because the sunlight was streaming down on them, and that was life itself.

The series of earthquakes which Tarrant had triggered continued for nearly three days, but none were as violent as those first few had been. Trees had been torn down, mountains reshaped, whole cavern systems refigured—but in the end the land survived, and that was all that really mattered.

They camped on the plains, on open ground, until the worst of the aftershocks had ended. Only then did Damien dare to climb back up, to that place where they had so recently escaped from the earth’s confines. The landmarks had all changed, and massive rockslides made climbing all but impossible . . . but in the end he found it, a circle of land devoid of trees, where the ground sloped down in a gentle arena of freshly-turned earth.

It had been filled in, almost to the brim. The repeated tremors must have done it, shaking the broken earth until it sought its own level, like water. Whatever Tarrant had done to the demons—and to himself—it was buried forever in the mountainside, along with the remains of his body.

He tried not to think of what that burning must have been like, as he knelt in the soft earth to pray. Tried not to remember the Hunter’s charred flesh as it had been in his hands, as he softly intoned the Prayer for the Dead. Pleading mercy for a soul that had never earned mercy, for a man who had so committed himself to hell that a thousand prayers a day, offered up for a thousand years, would not negate one instant of his suffering.

“Rest in peace, Prophet,” he whispered.

He hoped that someday it would be possible.

46

Winter had come early to the plains—but it was nothing compared to the frigid abuse of autumn in the mountains, and Damien was grateful for it. After nearly two hundred miles of travel it was good to be clean again and in fresh clothes, and knowing that he and Ciani were safe was a luxury he had begun to despair of ever experiencing. And if she had changed somewhat, if she was no longer the woman he had known . . . hadn’t he seen that coming, in the last few days? Hadn’t he seen it building in her, all the way back from the eastern range?

That doesn’t help, he told himself, bitterly. It doesn’t help at all.

He looked toward the center of the rakhene camp, where even now a celebration was taking place. The night was dark, almost moonless, but the jubilant rakh had set it alight with over a hundred torches, and their triumphal bonfire blazed like a sun in miniature from the center of their camp. And she danced among them—not like one of them, exactly, but not like a human woman, either. An adept who had chosen to suspend herself between two worlds, so that she might bridge the gap between them. A loremaster. He turned away, remembering the word. Resenting it. And hating himself, for the unfairness of his reaction.

She was never really yours. You never really knew her.

It didn’t help. Not a bit. But then, cold reason never did.

He felt restless. Confined, by the nearness of so many tents. So many rakh. The ranks of Hesseth’s tribe had been swelled by numerous visitors who had come to hear the tales and see the relics and gaze in fascination upon the hated, fearsome humans. He sensed power games going on all about him, on levels too complex for him to interpret, as tribes who normally avoided each other tried to sort themselves out into a new, all-inclusive order. Human society, he thought. We’ve planted the seeds. In time there would be nations, and treaties, and all the ills that came of such things . . . he didn’t know whether to feel glad or guilty, but he suspected the latter was more appropriate. God willing the Canopy would remain intact so that the rakh could make their own fate, in peace, before having to deal with humankind again. God willing.

Slowly, he turned from the camp. It was cold outside, but the heavy garments which the rakh had made for him were more than sufficient to ward off the wintry chill. He tucked his hands into his pockets and began to walk eastward, away from the starkly lit celebration. The noise of rakhene chanting faded behind him, as well as the occasional burst of human laughter that sparkled in its midst. Her laughter. He pulled his jacket tightly about him and increased his pace. The trampled earth of the rakhene encampment gave way to half-frozen slush, which in turn gave way to snow: pristine, unsullied, a glistening white blanket that draped over the plains like the softest wool, cushioning the land in silence.

He walked. Away from the camp, from the noise. Away from all signs of life, and all protestations of joy. He had put in one hard night’s celebration, and now he was ready to move again. Restless, as always. To the west of him the Worldsend Mountains loomed, sterile and foreboding. He knew that all its passes were frozen by now, would remain frozen for months to come, and that its slopes were ripe with avalanches in the making, and a thousand other hazards of winter. He would never have risked such a route in this season, not with others by his side—but he might do so alone. Now that Senzei had found his peace, and Ciani had found . . . other things.

And then a movement caught his eye, back the way he had come. And he turned, to see who had followed him from the camp, what rakhene business would disturb his solitude.

When he saw, he froze.

The figure stood with the moon to its back, so that all of its front was in shadow. Thick fabric fell from its shoulders, enveloping it like a cloak, rendering its form doubly invisible. Its face was no more than an oval of blackness, its body an amorphous shadow. But there was no mistaking its shape. Or its identity. “I see that the lady is well,” the Hunter whispered. Relief surged up inside him—and moral revulsion also, as fresh within him as the day on which he’d learned the Hunter’s name. The force of the admixture was stunning, and it rendered him utterly speechless. He was grateful that he had no weapon on him—glad that he was thus spared the trauma of having to sort out his feelings, having to decide whether or not this was an appropriate moment to remind the Hunter of their natural enmity.

At last he found his voice. “You survived. The sunlight . . .”

“It’s all a question of degree, Reverend Vryce, as I told you. Fortunately, the Dark Ones lack such sophistication. Since they had no knowledge of any other option, they died.” His voice was a mere breath, hardly louder than the breezes of the night. It seemed also to be coarser than usual—but it was so hard to hear him at all that Damien couldn’t be certain of that. “I thought you would want to know that I lived. I thought you had that right.”

“Thank you. I’m . . . glad.” “That I survived?” he asked dryly. “That you didn’t die . . . like that.” He meant it sincerely and knew that could be heard in his voice. “I intended . . . something cleaner.”

“So you’ll still be coming after me when you leave the rakhlands. I regret that, priest. There’s a quality in you that I would hate to destroy. A certain . . . recklessness?”

“But you’ll manage it anyway.” “If you try to kill me? With relish.” “Then I’m sorry to ruin your sport,” he said, “but I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait for that particular pleasure.” He watched the dark figure carefully as he spoke, wondering what it was about it that seemed so strained, so very . . . wrong. “I’m going east.”

The voice was a whisper, no louder than the wind. “East is the ocean. Novatlantis. The deathlands.”

“And more than that, I’m afraid.” He nodded toward the camp; its fires were invisible in the distance. “The Lost Ones returned, you know. The males, that is. I think the risk appealed to them. They’re cleaning out the last of the Keeper’s warren, braving rock falls and tunnel collapse in order to hunt down her servants. For food, they told me. The last of the Dark Ones will be their winter sustenance.”

“That’s impossible,” the cloaked figure muttered. “Demonic flesh wouldn’t be—”

“It isn’t demonic flesh,” the priest said quietly. “Because the Dark Ones aren’t constructs.” He looked east: toward the mountains, toward the fallen citadel. “Hesseth found a body. We examined it. We thought we could determine what sort of construct it was, maybe find out how it had come into being . . . only it wasn’t a construct at all. Hesseth was the first to suspect it, and Ciani confirmed it. The truth.” He drew in a deep breath, remembering that moment. Reliving it, as he spoke. “It was rakh,” he told Tarrant. His own voice little more than a whisper. “The Dark Ones are rakh.”

For a moment, Tarrant’s form was utterly still; Damien imagined he could hear the man’s thoughts racing, aligning fact with fact like the pieces of some vast puzzle. “Not possible,” he said at last. “That would mean—”

“Someone—or something—has been evolving them. Like you did to the Forest, Hunter. Only this time on a grander scale. This time with high-order intelligence.” He felt the tightness growing inside him again, the same restless tension he had felt when the truth first became apparent. His hands in his pockets tightened into fists. “Nature couldn’t do it. Nature wouldn’t. Take a tribe of intelligent, adaptable creatures, and bind them to the night like that? Suppress their own vitality, so that they could only live by torturing others? Those Dark Ones died when you exposed them, Hunter and you didn’t. You, who’ve spent a thousand years avoiding the sun—whose very existence depends upon constant darkness—you survived. Why would Erna imbue one of her creatures with such a terrible weakness? What point could it possibly serve?”

“You think someone’s done it,” he whispered. “Deliberately.”

“There’s no question in my mind,” he said grimly.

“And it would have to be on a massive scale, to succeed like that—the corruption of a whole environment. There’s nothing like that in the human lands. Remember what the rakh-girl said? They came from the east.”

“So you’re going after them.”

“Five expeditions have tried to cross that ocean. Two in your own age, three in the centuries after. None were ever heard from again. But that doesn’t mean that they failed, does it? For all we know, humankind managed to populate those regions . . . and gave birth to something which has warped the very patterns of Nature. I think that what we saw here . . . that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I think we need to know what the hell is going on over there before something far worse comes over.” He looked at the dark figure before him, and felt something stir in him that was not quite revulsion. Not wholly abhorrence.

“Come with me,” he whispered. “Come east with me.”

The figure stiffened. “Are you serious? Do you know what you’re asking?”

“A chance to strike at your real enemy. The one behind all this; the force responsible. Doesn’t that appeal to you?”

“In the past few weeks,” Tarrant said darkly, “I have been bound, humiliated, starved, burned, blasted with sunlight, tortured in ways I will not describe, and nearly killed on several occasions. I, who have spent the last five hundred years building myself a safe refuge from such threats! Are you suggesting that I should court such disasters again? Truly, I shouldn’t have taken so much of your blood,” the dark figure mused. “The shortage clearly affected your brain.”

“You have no curiosity? Or even . . . hunger for vengeance?”

“What I have, Reverend Vryce, is a haven of absolute safety. A domain that I have built for myself, stone by stone, tree by tree, until the land itself exists only to indulge my pleasure. Should I give that up? Commit myself to the eastern ocean, with all the risk that entails? I’m amazed you want me with you in the first place.”

“Your power’s unquestionable. Your insight—”

“And it would keep me out of trouble, eh? For as long as I was with you, there would be no hunting in the Forest. No innocent women suffering for my pleasure. Isn’t that part of it? Isn’t that how your conscience would deal with the fact of my continued existence, when you’ve sworn on your honor to kill me?”

Despite himself, Damien smiled. “It has its appeal.”

“Let me tell you what that ocean means, to my kind. Thousands upon thousands of miles of open water, too deep for the earth-fae to penetrate. Do you understand? The very force that keeps me alive, that I require for most of my Workings, would be inaccessible. Which means I couldn’t help you, or myself, if anything happened. One good eruption out of Novatlantis when we’re in that region and no power of mine or yours could do anything to save us. Why do you think no one crosses that water? Why do you think it was only attempted five times, in all the years that man has been here? And, I would be all but helpless. At your mercy. Do you think that appeals to me? Such vulnerability is unthinkable, for one of my kind.”

“I gave you my word before. You know I was good for it. Try me,” he dared him.

The figure stared at him in silence for a moment; unable to see the Hunter’s expression, Damien was unable to read its cause.

“I thought you traveled alone,” Tarrant said at last.

“Yes. Well.” He looked back toward the camp. “Hesseth’s going. She insisted. You should have seen her when we learned the truth, when she realized that her own species was being corrupted . . .”

“And the lady Ciani?”

His expression tightened; it took him a moment to find I the proper words. “This is her life’s work,” he told the Hunter. “The rakhlands. Their culture. I didn’t know that before because she didn’t have the memory . . . but then, I didn’t know so much about her.”

For a moment there was silence, then: “I’m sorry,” the figure said softly.

He forced a shrug. “It was good while it lasted. That’s the most you can ask for, isn’t it?” He forced his hands to unclench inside his pockets. Forced his voice to be steady. “We’re from two different worlds, she and I. Sometimes you forget that. Sometimes you pretend it doesn’t matter. But it’s always there.” He looked up at the figure, toward where his face would be. Like all of him, it was sheathed in darkness. “There’s something growing in the east,” he said. “Something very powerful, and very evil. Something that’s had both the time and the patience to rework the very patterns of this planet, until Nature was forced to respond to it. Don’t you want to know what that is? Don’t you want to make it pay for what it did to you?”

“Set evil against evil, is that it? In the hope that they might destroy each other.”

“You were the one who recommended that. Or don’t you remember?”

“I was very young, then. Inexperienced. Naive.”

“You were the voice of my faith.”

“Past tense, Reverend Vryce. Things have changed. I have changed.” The figure stepped back, breathing in sharply as it did so. In pain? “Years ago, I decided that I would sacrifice anything and everything in the name of survival. My blood. My kin. My humanity. Should I render all that meaningless now, by courting death at this late age? I think not.”

Damien shrugged. “We’ll be leaving from Faraday if you change your mind. In late March or April, probably; it will take at least that long to work out the practical details. I’ll save you a private berth,” he promised. “With no windows, and a lock on the door.”

For a long moment, the dark figure just stared at him. Though the silver eyes were lost in shadow, Damien could feel them fixed on him.

“What makes you think you know me so well?” the Hunter asked hoarsely. “What makes you think you can anticipate me, in ways that go against my nature?”

“I know who you were,” Damien answered. “I know what that man stood for. And I’m willing to bet that somewhere in the heart of that malignant thing you call a soul is a spark of what that man was—and the boundless curiosity that drove him. I think your hunger to know is every bit as great as your hunger for life, Neocount. I’m offering you knowledge—as well as vengeance. Are you telling me that combination has no appeal?”

The figure lifted one arm, so that the folds of his cloak fell free of it. “Appeal or no,” he whispered. “The price is too high.”

Moonlight shimmered on the wetness of bloody flesh, on muscle and veins stripped bare by the force of the sun’s assault. Sharp bone edges poked through strands of shrunken flesh, their tips charred black by fire and crusted with dried blood. The fingers were no more than seared bits of meat, strung together along the slender phalanges like some macabre shish kebob. If a scrap of silk or wool adhered to that flesh, or any other bit of clothing, it had been so torn and so bloodied that it was now indistinguishable from the man’s own tissue.

“Enough is enough,” the Hunter whispered. The arm dropped down, and the cloak fell to cover it. The voice echoed with pain, and with the soft gurgle of blood. “The answer is no, Reverend Vryce. And it will stay no, through all the years that you remain alive.” He gestured toward the distant camp, across the field of spotless snow. “You may consider the life of these tribes my parting gift, if you like—I had once sworn to kill them all, for their audacity in binding me.”

“A few less souls to darken my conscience?” he asked sharply.

“Exactly.”

The Hunter bowed. And the effort that it took was so apparent, his pain throughout the motion so obvious, that Damien winced to see it. How many muscles had been burned to ragged strands, that a man would require for such a gesture? How much blood was being made to flow, for that last show of elegance?

“Good luck, Reverend Vryce,” the Hunter whispered. “I suspect you’ll need it.”