Crown of Shadows

14

The main temple of Saris was at the edge of town, just beyond one of Jaggonath’s better neighborhoods. Though the goddess had other temples elsewhere in the city-one on the Street of Gods, even one in the slums of the south side-this was by far her most prosperous, and the best attended. Little wonder. The worship of Beauty is a luxury for most, and is ill attended to in areas where such basic needs as food, shelter, and safety are still at issue.

Narilka walked to the temple. It was a good five-mile hike from where she lived, but she thought of the walk as part of her worship. It gave her time to relax her mind, to focus it on the issue she wished to address. Normally that was some artistic project for which she hoped to gain special inspiration, Saris’ most precious gift. Sometimes it was an offering, the joy of a project completed or a moment of aesthetic inspiration realized. But today . ..

I shouldn’t be going here. This isn’t right.

Today she was far from calm, and far from certain that she was doing the right thing. She had discovered Saris in her youth, when she was still working on her parents’ farm; it was the goddess who had made her acknowledge the spark of an artist in her soul, and who had helped her to see that her restlessness was the result of stifling that inner fire. It was Saris who had granted her the courage to confront her parents, and to demand a situation that would give outlet to her innate talent. Thus, after much teary-eyed debate, her apprenticeship with Gresham had been arranged. And she had learned the joy of molding liquid silver into forms so beautiful that they might have graced this very temple.

But today it was not art that drove her here, but need; need for the kind of reassurance that only a god could offer. Would Saris respond? She was a minor goddess, as such beings were measured, and her domain was a limited one. Was it right to bring these problems to her, when there were at least a dozen other gods dedicated to that kind of turmoil?

You are the patron of my soul, she thought, gazing upon the gleaming temple. Even now, tormented by doubts, she felt a sense of serenity at the sight of the familiar building. It was simple, clean-lined, conspicuously undecorated; only Saris’ faithful would understand how its plain columns and carefully sculpted empty spaces were like a blank canvas to the mind, supporting a greater beauty than any human architect could achieve.

Slowly she walked up the broad stairs and entered the temple proper. Like the facade the sanctuary was plain, but infinitely beautiful. Sunlight fell in shafts from the pierced-work roof, that wove amongst themselves to sculpt shifting patterns on the floor. Open spaces in the walls allowed the breeze to play through, carrying with it all the scents of spring. Water flowed within, a natural fountain over which the temple had been built, and she paused to scoop up a mouthful in her palm and taste it. Would that it could calm her. Would that it could convince her that she’d been right to come here, to place her inner torments before a goddess of beauty and peace.

She looked up for a priest or priestess, and found one waiting in the shadows. As soon as Narilka began to move toward him (her?), the figure glided forward, silken robes in delicate mottled hues fluttering in the sunlight. The mask the figure wore was of silver, finely polished, and gave no hint of gender or identity. Anonymity and grace, in perfect combination.

“I’ve come for communion,” she said quickly; could the priest hear how hard her heart was pounding? “If that’s possible.”

Wordlessly the wraithlike figure turned to lead her to a communion chamber; she fell into step behind him. They left the main sanctuary and entered the part of the temple reserved for private offerings. She tried not to think of Andrys Tarrant or the Hunter as she walked, but struggled instead to focus on images that the goddess would find pleasing. It was no use. Images of her finest work faded into images of the coronet, and Andrys’ hand testing its substance; abstract images reformed themselves, becoming images of the young nobleman. By the time they reached an empty communion chamber she was trembling, wondering if she could manage the self-control that prayer required. How would Saris respond to such images?

Goddess, help me. I don’t know where else to turn.

The priest left her alone in the communion chamber. Grateful for privacy, she shut the door behind him and locked it. There was a robe laid out in the antechamber, of soft white linen, and a basin of water beside it. She took off her clothes and laid them aside, her hands shaking as she undressed. The white robe was soft against her skin, the water cool and bracing as she rinsed her face and hands. Dressed thus, cleansed thus, she left all the cares of the real world behind her, and entered into the goddess’ presence a blank slate, an open soul. At least that was the theory. But her memories and her need were too powerful today, and the ritual failed to calm her.

Sam, I’m sorry. I tried.

Slowly, hesitantly, she moved into the communion chamber. There a low brazier filled with charcoal awaited her, with a circle of cushions about it. She chose one of the cushions and settled herself onto it, heart pounding. Beside the brazier were small bowls of dried herbs, and she chose a few handfuls of the ones that pleased her. Rosewort. Briarwood. Nuviola. Opening her hand slowly, she let the leaves and bark bits fall onto the glowing charcoal. Scented smoke began to rise, twining in tendrils as it worked its way up to the ceiling vent. Stare at the smoke, she thought. Let the visions come.

She prayed. Not in words but in images, because words could never capture all that she felt. The Hunter in all his dark and terrible glory, with the music of the night surging up about him and a secret world so rich in beauty it was painful to behold. And Andrys Tarrant in his need. So wounded, so irresistible, so like the Hunter in outer aspect and utterly unlike him in spirit. She saw them take form in the smoke, and suddenly was unsure of herself. Why had she come here? What did she expect the goddess to do? She shivered and wrapped her arms about herself; the faces in the smoke faded and were gone.

If I let myself love him, I’ll lose myself forever. It was a thrilling, terrifying thought. Guide me, she begged. Not knowing who else or what else to turn to, not even sure that her goddess would listen. Help me!

Slowly an image began to form within the smoke, that was not of her own making. The heady scent of nuviola filled her lungs as she watched it, trembling. Wisps of silver danced in the smoke, twining about each other like serpents. Slowly, sensuously they knotted, melded, re-formed, redefined themselves ... with a start she realized that the vision had begun to take on human form, neither male nor female but a wispy, slender figure that might be either. Or both. The image looked so solid that she felt as if she could reach out and touch it, and yet it seemed utterly weightless as it floated there before her. Silver eyes. Silver face. Silver hair like fine-spun silk, that wafted weightless in an unseen breeze. The smoke became a silken veil that rippled across the figure’s surface, adorning rather than concealing its form. It was so detailed, so lustrous, so real.... With a start she realized that she couldn’t see the far wall through it, as she should have been able to do with a normal vision. Nor did the walls at her sides frame the vision with clean white plaster, as they should have done. The entire room seemed to have faded-walls and pillows, brazier and herbs and yes, even the smoke-leaving her alone in a sweet-scented darkness with a figure that gleamed like moonlight.

“Saris?” She whispered. She barely got the name out past the tightness in her throat. “Is it ... ?”

Tell me your need.

She opened her mouth to speak—and emotion poured out, raw and primitive, unfettered by the bonds of language. All the hope and fear and lust and need and love (was that love?) in a flood tide of memory that she could neither control nor comprehend. Pouring out of her blindly, into the surrounding darkness. When it was over, she fell back shaking, and her eyes squeezed forth hot tears. “Saris?”

For a moment the figure just stared at her. Digesting her response? At last it said, in an even voice, Andrys Tarrant is doomed.

It took the words a moment to sink in, and then it was a few seconds more before she found her voice. “What?”

He’s fighting a war he does not understand, for stakes he cannot begin to comprehend. He has given himself to one who will use him and then discard him, taking pleasure from the destruction of so tender a soul. He is a pawn, Narilka Lessing, nothing more. A blind, unwitting soldier in a war of gods and demons. The figure paused. A sacrifice.

“No,” she whispered.

I speak the truth, it assured her. Its tone was cool, emotionless. I have no vested interest in this matter to cause me to lie.

“No!”

If you bind yourself to him, you will make yourself part of his war.

“What war?” she demanded. “Who’s he fighting? Tell me that.”

The figure seemed to hesitate. A cloud of silk twisted about its thighs.

He means to kill the Hunter, it said at last.

The words were a cold thrill in her flesh. “He can’t,” she whispered. “No man can.”

A single man, no. But a man with a demonic ally and an army behind him ... perhaps.

“An army? What army?”

The figure hesitated again, then shook its head. 7 can’t tell you that. “What demon?" I can’t tell you that. “Why? Because I know the Hunter?” The figure didn’t answer.

Wrapping her arms even tighter about herself, Narilka shivered. Andrys or the Hunter. If the two of them pitted all their strength against each other, one would surely die. Maybe both. The thought of that loss was an ache within her. The thought that the loser would probably be Andrys-desolate, wounded Andrys—was almost more than she could bear. “What can I do?” she whispered. “Anything?" In terms of affecting the outcome of the conflict? The figure hesitated. I can’t counsel you on that issue. Such interference with another . . . it’s forbidden. As for Andrys Tarrant, I will tell you this: he would be fortunate to lose his life in this endeavor, for his ally intends to destroy him in soul as surely as he means to destroy the Hunter in body. Even more softly: “What can I do?" You know the options. Now you know the risk. Make your choices accordingly. “What would you do?”

The figure drew back; if it had been more human in countenance, Narilka might have thought it was startled. I lack the emotions that would make such a question meaningful. The Hunter has created great beauty in his time, though of a cold and inhuman sort; part of me would regret his passing. As for his enemy ... we do not share priorities, he and I. And I think that in a world where he ruled, I would have no comfortable place. But the concept of taking sides is meaningless, when I am forbidden to interfere. Only to protect my own may I act.

Her heart was pounding so loudly she could barely hear the whispering voice above its beat; her hands twisted nervously, one about the other. “You can protect me?”

From his ally. From the illusions that are his power. No more than that.

“How?”

It seemed to her the figure smiled. The same rules bind us all, it said. Silken veils swirled about its thighs. For as long as you are mine, he cannot touch you.

She shut her eyes; the figure was still bright in her vision. “I’ve always been yours. I always will be.”

For now. Until this war is over.

“Always!”

You may choose differently when this is finished.

“I won’t.”

We shall see, the figure said quietly. Until then, however you choose, know that I am watching you. Always.

The figure began to fade slowly, becoming translucent first so that the walls (there were walls again!) showed through it. Then the veils misted into smoke, and were scattered by the air; the gleaming flesh dissolved into random glitter, then dissipated before her eyes. Nothing was left of the image of the goddess, save the memory which even now made her tremble.

“Thank you, Saris.” She could barely find enough voice to shape the words. “Thank you.”

She managed to get to her feet somehow. Managed to get to where her clothing lay and put it back on, piece by piece. How few mortals ever saw a god incarnate, much less were counseled by one? Her hands were shaking as she put the communion robe aside. Saris was watching, she told herself. She would always be watching. For whatever reason, the goddess seemed to care about the outcome of this ... what had she called it? A war.

Fully dressed now, she shivered. Oh, Narilka. What are you getting yourself into?

Had she looked behind her as she left the temple, she would have seen nothing unusual, for Saris no longer maintained the illusion of a solid form. Had she listened closely, she would have heard nothing unusual, for Saris no longer couched her words in cadences the fleshborn might hear. But there was a presence behind her, and there were words, and both were echoed by the fae as it flowed about her feet.

Careful, my brother, the Iezu/goddess whispered. We are all watching now.

15

The Snake is black, and its eyes are drops of blood. At one end its many necks twine like tentacles, promising to enmesh the unwary in a living web of cold flesh and sharp teeth. At the other end is a face out of Hell, whose hot breath stinks of sulfur and carrion as it lunges for him, jaws snapping shut mere inches from his throat as he throws himself backward—

Damien awoke suddenly, heart pounding. He was lying on the couch of his rented apartment, and his body was drenched with sweat. What a nightmare! He tried to sit up, but his muscles were like knots and he had to work them loose before they would obey him. What the hell had brought that on?

He would have suspected Tarrant, but the dream wasn’t his style at all; the Hunter generally preferred a more complex scenario, a sophisticated blend of fear and despair that was light-years beyond the primitive biochemical terror of this experience. What was that thing anyway? It reminded him of representations of the Evil One that the Church favored, only far more real and terrifying than those formalized portraits. And why would he suddenly start dreaming about the Evil One now, after all he’d been through in the last two years? Certainly there were more concrete fears to occupy his mind.

He froze suddenly as a particularly nasty thought hit him. For a moment he couldn’t move, but sat rigid on the worn couch as his sweat chilled to ice on his skin. No, he whispered silently. Willing it not to be. What words had Tarrant used when he referred to his patron?

Divided into parts, it can be petty and unpredictable. Unified, it is a ruthless evil.

Divided and unified, both at once. He thought of the creature in his dream, and cold certainty filled him. What other image would his mind choose to represent such a Power?

Where the hell was Tarrant now? He’d been supposed to come up as soon as the sun set, so that they could compare notes and discuss future strategy. But it was well past sunset now and the Hunter hadn’t shown his face. Damien could think of only two reasons why he wouldn’t show up on time, and the simpler one—forgetfulness-just wasn’t like him.

Someone-or something-must have interfered.

With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach Damien caught up his keys and exited the small apartment. By the time the door slammed shut behind him he was already running down the narrow stairs to the first floor, his hand skimming along the demon-wards that had been inscribed into the banister. His feet hammered on the worn stairs in a rhythm only slightly louder than his heartbeat. A voice inside him warned, Even if it is what you think, what can you possibly do? but he forced himself to ignore it as he darted to the next staircase, the one that led down beneath ground level.

Tarrant’s door was shut, and looked just as it would if nothing were wrong. He banged on it with a heavy fist, calling out the Hunter’s name. Again. His blows were hard enough to make the door vibrate, but still there was no response.

“Who’s down there?” The voice came from behind him, a woman’s. He heard her steps descending the narrow stairs as he banged on the door again, with force enough that even the frame shivered. No response. Damn Tarrant to Hell, what was going on?

“Is something wrong?” It was the landlady, an older woman whom Damien had met but once. Her tone was more suspicious than concerned, and her tone made it clear that he looked more like a raving madman than a reliable tenant. He spared her a quick glance, trying for one moment to look calm enough to reassure her. He doubted it worked.

“I think my friend’s in trouble.” He banged on the door again, hard enough to shake the frame. “Gerald! Are you in there?” There was cold sweat beading on his brow now, and his hands had started shaking. He tried to remember what the windows of the apartment were like, which he had boarded up only two days ago. Too narrow for him to slide through, he decided at last, even if he could kick the boards free. Worse and worse. He was about to start banging again when the landlady pushed him aside. Her expression was harsh and frankly suspicious, but she had a large ring of keys in her hand and was reaching toward the lock with it. He let her. The brass key entered the lock and turned, and he heard the metallic snap of a bolt being withdrawn. With one last glance at him she turned the door handle and pulled. Nothing. He pushed her aside and pulled himself, but the door wouldn’t budge. Clearly it was bolted from the inside.

Damn!

“What did you expect?” she demanded.

He tried to work a Knowing aimed at the apartment within, despite the fact that fear and frustration combined made it hard to concentrate. The Working he conjured was a weak thing, that barely made it past the wood of the door. Images took shape before his eyes: dark shapes, bloodstained and evil, whose chill power constricted his lungs until it was hard to breathe. Great. That could be Tarrant himself, for all he knew. How did you distinguish the Hunter from true demons, when the two were so very similar?

“Look,” he told her, “I’m going to have to break in—”

“Oh, no, you don’t!” She forced herself between Damien and the door. “Your friend wanted a secure apartment, and that’s what he got. Already I’ve put up with gods know how many nails and such being hammered in the windows, and now—”

“I’ll pay for it,” he said quickly. “I’ll pay for any damages in cash, right now.” He dug hurriedly into his pocket, praying that he had enough money on him. There were coins in the bottom, large ones by the feel of them; he pulled them out quickly and offered them to her. “Here.” They’d pay for the door three times over, he estimated; even so she was reluctant to accept them. “Take them!”

“I never had such trouble like this before,” she muttered. But she got out of the way. He stepped forward and ran his hands over the door, trying to Know its substance. After a few seconds he cursed in frustration, stepped back, and tried to think clearly.

The bolt was a solid one, affixed in a steel chamber that was firmly attached to the wood. It wasn’t going to come loose easily, not by virtue of any Working he knew how to do. Damn the Church, which had limited his training to the sorceries it approved of, making him helpless in the face of such a simple mechanism! He drew in a deep breath and tried to think calmly, tried to reason his way through the problem the way Tarrant would have done. The lock was steel through and through. Steel was hard to Work. The slot that received it was also steel, and well fortified against a forced assault. But where the steel parts were affixed to the wood, and within the wood itself ...

He Knew the door and the wall beside it, and chose the wall as the more vulnerable of the two. Then he reached inside it with carefully focused fae, in the same way that he had done to a tree in the Black Lands so long ago. Insinuating himself into its cells, smelling out the microbes that crouched between the woody fibers, analyzing their hunger. At last he found what he wanted, and he Healed. The microbes grew and multiplied, their life cycles accelerated by his Working. As they grew, they digested the wood that surrounded them, breaking down the hard cell walls, rotting the powerful fibers. Two generations of microbes, then three. He guided them through their newly paced life cycles, making sure their hunger was focused on the one part of the wall he meant to weaken; there was no point in causing more damage than he had to.

At last he sensed that the process had done as much good as it was likely to. Despite his rush, he took care to stabilize the hungry microbes at a normal level before he withdrew his senses from the wall; otherwise the rest of the house could be undermined in a fortnight. Then he stepped back, drew in a deep breath, and pulled on the door as though his life depended on it. At first it didn’t move. He persisted. At last, slowly, the wood of the door frame began to give way. Softly at first, then with a splintering crack that made the landlady step back with a gasp. He gave the door a good jerk, as hard as he could muster, and the wood gave way utterly: the steel housing of the deadbolt tore through the wall and the door was open at last, the mechanism of its closure dangling from its edge like a broken limb.

“Gods’ Earth,” the woman muttered, but Damien had no time to coddle her. As soon as the door was open, he moved into the dark apartment—

—and malevolence swirled up about his legs with such force that he nearly crashed to his knees, cold fae invading his flesh with a power that made bile rise up in his gut, his stomach spasming as if it could vomit up this repulsive evil. Loathsome, unspeakably loathsome; it took all his self-control not to abandon his search and desperately try to find a Working that would scrub his flesh clean of the sickening power. Go ahead, the power seemed to urge, in a voice that stabbed like knives into his flesh. Try it. He could feel it sucking him down that path, toward that insane, doomed effort, and he knew in that moment that more than one living man had scrubbed his body raw in response to its presence, until skin and muscles both were abraded like cheap rope and even the hot blood which flowed freely was not enough to guarantee a cleansing.

With a sinking heart he staggered toward the bedroom, and somehow gathered enough strength to call the Hunter’s name. He no longer questioned what had happened here; the fae itself made it clear what type of creature had visited, and there was only one thing a creature like that would want. “Gerald?” He searched the bedroom quickly, desperately, but he knew even as he did so that the Hunter wasn’t here. Cold fae stabbed into his flesh like knives as he searched the living room and the small kitchen; he felt as if his limbs were rotting away beneath him, infected by every wound. It’s illusion, he thought desperately. It has to be. Ignore it. As he verified that the last room was empty, and gazed upon the basement window he had boarded up himself, he felt a black despair rise up inside him. It was still sealed from the inside, just as he had left it. Just like the other two had been. That and the bolted door guaranteed that the Hunter had been caught inside, and had been taken ... where? What kind of creature had the power to kidnap him out of this place against his will, despite such solid barriers?

With effort he managed to stagger out of the apartment, past where the malignant force now lapped hungrily at the doorsill, to the tiled floor beyond where cool, clean air flowed. He fell to his knees there, and the vomit surged up in him, his stomach spasming as if somehow such activity might exorcise the terrible unclean presence from his flesh. For a few gut-wrenching minutes he was not aware of the landlady standing beside him, or of any other normal feature of the building. Then her voice brought him back to reality.

“It’ll take more than a few coins to clean up this mess,” she said acidly.

Shuddering, he looked up at her; his eyes would hardly focus. “Shut the door,” he gasped. When she didn’t move, he squeezed his eyes shut in the hopes that forcing tears would clear them. “Shut the door!” She took one step toward the small apartment, and then he heard her gasp. Even without a Knowing she could sense what was in there, and despite the urgency in his voice she clearly wasn’t willing to risk contact with it. At last, half-blinded by the tears he had forced, he lunged forward toward the door. Malevolence stabbed into him as he braced himself with one hand on the floor, grabbing at the door with the other. He narrowly missing smashing his fingers in the door frame as he slammed it shut. For a moment he feared that the presence inside the room would flow under and around that simple barrier, but whatever wards Tarrant had put on the apartment were clearly enough to keep it enclosed now that the door was shut. Thank God for that.

Shuddering, he struggled to his feet. There was fluid on his shirt, and a hot bitterness in his throat. Numbly he wiped a shirtsleeve across his mouth, drying it. His whole body was shaking, and for a moment he could barely catch his breath, much less speak.

At last he looked up at the landlady. If she was afraid of the presence she had sensed in the room, that emotion was swamped by a far greater one: rage.

“I want you out of here,” she growled. “You and your friend both, right away. I’ll keep your deposit to pay for damages, and for cleaning. You get out of here tonight, and don’t come back! I don’t ever want to see you here again, not you or that—”

“You’ll have to break open the windows,” he interrupted. “From the outside. Let the sunlight in. That’ll do most of the work, and then you can bring in mirrors—”

“I know how to do an exposing,” she snapped. “Damn you to hells for making it necessary!” She looked down at the pool of vomit, then at him, in disgust. “Now get your things and get out of here. And gods help you if you ever cross this threshold again.”

Legs shaking, he forced himself up the stairs. Got to find Tarrant, he thought. Got to. But even if he did, then what? Could he help him? Did he have the kind of power it took to stand up to a demon who left such malignance as its calling card?

Have to try, he thought grimly. Not questioning his own motives, for once. Not asking himself whether it wouldn’t be better to let the Hunter stew in Hell at last while the world went on in innocence, a better place for his absence. Because Damien needed him. The Church needed him. And therefore-though most didn’t know it, and would probably deny it if asked—the very world that he had haunted so ruthlessly needed him.

We’re fighting for man’s survival, he thought.

Remembering Calesta’s work in the east, and its loathsome harvest. We’re fighting for humankind’s soul.

Pulling on a clean shirt as hurriedly as he could, sweeping up what little cash he had left and forcing it into his pockets, he hurried out into the night in search of his dark companion.

It was a warm night, a sticky night, and half the walls in the Temple of Pleasure had been rolled up in hopes of admitting a cooling breeze. On the broad steps which surrounded the temple some singles and couples sprawled languidly, and it was impossible to tell if the sweat which glistened on their skin resulted from their “worship"-which ranged from half-naked petting to the delights contained in wine bottles and water pipes-or from the night itself.

There was a circle delineated by the temple light, and Damien stood just beyond it. He could feel its presence before him almost as a physical barrier, and for a moment he lacked the courage to cross it. If the Patriarch knew of his search, if somehow he knew that a priest had come here ... well, his reaction wouldn’t be a pretty one, that was sure. And it damned well might prove the last straw between them, one transgression too many for the Holy Father to tolerate.

He was trying not to think about that. He was trying not to think about what he would do with himself if the Patriarch really did cast him out of the Church. Such considerations belonged to the future, and right now the future itself was in jeopardy. Would he want to remain a priest if he knew that the cost was the sacrifice of everything he believed in? Could he value the robes he wore and the ritual sword he carried if he knew that the price of maintaining them was the submission of this world to Calesta’s hunger? And yet ... stepping into that circle of light was a commitment such as he had never made before, to a mode of operation he had hitherto rejected. Only sorcerers bargained with demons. Only the damned. Never the Chureh, whose very existence was dedicated to making such bargains impossible. Never, never one of the Church’s priests.

Trembling, he shut his eyes. So the Patriarch does find out, he told himself. So what? Which do you value more, this avocation you’ve grown so accustomed to, or the chance to do something to help save your world? Is one man’s comfort such a great sacrifice for God to require, in order that His people might be defended?

But despite all his internal arguments he felt sick as he stepped into the light, and as he approached the temple he could feel his heart pounding in his chest with such power that it seemed to make his whole body shake.

He hadn’t been inside a pagan temple since his childhood, since the day when his mother had taken him to Yoshti’s house of worship in the hope that it would appeal to him. Even then he had found it uncomfortable, though it would be many years before he could articulate the reasons. Now all that discomfort was back again, and more. He looked at the intertwined couples, at the sweaty groups who sprawled on rugs and couches and wherever the inclination struck them, and thought, This is not worship. He watched an old man blissfully accepting a wad of gummy substance from a priest and stuffing it into his water pipe, and he thought, There is no god in this place. He walked stiffly through what seemed like chaos, dozens of men and women who had nothing in common but a hunger for immediate gratification, and he reminded himself, This is a Iezu they worship. They feed him with their lusts, and he gives them illusions of ecstasy. A simple contract, easily comprehended, readily fulfilled. It’s really a wonder that men follow the One God at all, with such relationships available.

There were priests in the temple, male and female both, but they wore no special costume to identify themselves, merely a silver neckpiece with Kami’s blatantly phallic symbol engraved upon it. He began to approach one, but suddenly hesitated. What was he supposed to say? Excuse me, I really need to talk to your god in private, could you arrange an interview? How did you make contact with a godling, other than through prayer? He flushed as he considered what manner of worship Karril might require, and for the first time since coming gave serious consideration to turning back. He even glanced back the way he had come, as if to assure himself that his way out was unimpeded—

—and the worshipers were gone. All of them. The walls had been replaced by tapestried hangings, and a cool breeze flowed between them. Even the priests were gone, and the buffet table that had been set up by the back wall banished as if by sorcery. Only the central fountain remained, and the wine that poured from its ornate spigots was no longer red but crystal gold, and smelled like champagne.

“Well, well.” The voice came from behind him. “Look who’s come to be a guest at our festivities.”

He turned around to face the source of the voice, a woman of thirty or so clad in a few meager bits of silk. A lot of woman, and all in the right places. Shaggy blonde hair half-obscured the priest’s necklace she wore, but-like her clothing-obscured little else. He found his eyes wandering of their own accord to vistas that were better left unstudied, and at last managed to focus on an ornate piece of jewelry hanging precariously from her shoulder. “I need to find Karril,” he muttered. Bright jewelry glittered on a bed of tanned flesh at her waist, on her breast, down her arm. “I need to talk to him.” Did he sound as awkward as he felt? Her perfume came to him on the breeze and he felt an involuntary stiffening in his groin; given the gravity of his mission here, the response was doubly embarrassing. What kind of power did this woman have, that so easily overbore his self-control, his fears for Tarrant, his revulsion for the very temple that surrounded them?

And then it all came together. The jewelry. The illusion. His response to this woman ... and the woman herself. He forced himself to look upward, to meet her eyes. It was no easy task, given the alternatives.

“Karril?”

With a soft chuckle the woman bowed; it was a precarious angle for certain parts of her clothing. “At your service, Reverend. Whatever that service might be.”

“I didn’t ... that is ... I thought you were male.”

“Neither male nor female, as humans know gender. And either one, as the need of the moment dictates.” Her eyes sparkled flirtatiously. “Given the Hunter’s attitude toward women, I usually avoid the feminine in his presence. Too distracting. As for you . . .” She glanced down at Damien’s crotch, imperfectly curtained by the hem of his shirt, and smiled. “Perhaps as a good host I should make things more comfortable. ...”

He never saw the change happen, though he watched it from start to finish. There was no surging of the earth-fae, as with Tarrant, and no melding of flesh from one form to another. One instant the woman was standing before him, and the next instant a man stood in her place. That simple. He was shorter than Damien, stouter, and slightly older. The tasteless brooches fastening his full velvet robe at the waist were the same ones the woman had worn, and jeweled rings flashed on his fingers as he gestured broadly to a couch some few yards away. “Will you be seated, Reverend? I can offer you refreshment, at least.”

He breathed in deeply and exhaled, trying to clear his head of the cloying perfume the woman had worn. “What about the others?”

“Who?” He saw Damien look around the temple—now empty—and he chuckled. “What, my faithful? They’re still there. Surrounded by curtains of illusion so fine that each one imagines himself truly alone, in an environment that caters to ...” He grinned. “Shall we say, to individual taste? I try to be an obliging god.”

“I saw them all.”

“You wanted to see them all, my dear Reverend. You needed to despise them—and me-in order to set yourself at ease here.” He shrugged. “As I say, I try to be a good host.”

He walked to the fountain and dipped a hand beneath its surface; when he withdrew, there was a chalice of finely engraved silver in his hand. “I would love to think you came here for a simple diversion, but, alas, I’m not so naive. Though the illusion is tempting.” He sipped from the chalice as if assessing its contents, and nodded his approval. “So what brings a Knight of the Church to this den of unholy indulgence? Surely not an attempt at proselytizing.” Again he chuckled. “My worshipers are too loyal for that game.”

He forced the words out somehow, past the knot in his throat. “Gerald Tarrant’s gone.”

The demon’s expression darkened. Damien thought he saw him stiffen.

“So?” His voice was low now, and quiet, and all humor was gone from his tone. “What does that have to do with me?”

“I need help finding him.”

Karril snorted, then drained the chalice of its contents and cast it into the fountain; it disappeared before it hit the surface. “I’m not a Locater, you know that. There are some in the town. Go to them.”

“I know what you are,” he said sharply. “And I know how close you were to him. Close enough that I’d think you’d want to help if-” He couldn’t finish the sentence. Dared not give the threat a name, for fear of making it real. “I’ve tried every Working I know, consulted everyone I dared. You would think with the channel between us, a Locating would be easy, but...” He shook his head. “Nothing, Karril. Nothing! What do I do? How do I find him? You’re my only hope.”

“Then I’m sorry.” He turned away. “I can’t help you.”

“He called you a friend.”

It seemed to him the demon winced. “Did he?” he whispered. “Shame on him. He was usually more careful with his choice of words.” His robes were black now, and the bright jewels were muted as if by smoke. “I’m not a friend to him, or to anyone else. Not as humans know the word. Friendship implies a full range of emotions, a wide assortment of bonding criteria. Humans can do that. Iezu can’t.” He looked at Damien; his expression was strained. “All I am, my dear Reverend, is the hunger for pleasure that resides in your own soul, given a face and a voice and enough knowledge of etiquette to mimic human interaction. That’s all. No love, no loyalty, only a ghost of self-interest in human guise. So you see,” he said, turning away again, “you came to the wrong place.”

“He didn’t believe that,” Damien challenged. “And I’m not sure I do.”

“Oh?” The demon’s voice was strained. “Is the Church claiming a monopoly on demon lore, now?”

“You came to warn us about Calesta,” he reminded him. “Was that self-interest? You said that you liked humankind, that its foibles ...” he struggled for the proper word, "... amused you. Was that just hunger speaking? I don’t think so.” He walked to where the demon stood and grabbed him by the shoulders, as he might any man; Kami’s “flesh” was comfortably solid, utterly human in temperature. "You saved Ciani’s life." He forced the demon to turn toward him, forced him to meet his eyes. “I don’t remember all the details of that incident, but I seem to remember you saying it wasn’t easy. You could barely stand the pain of it, I recall. Was that hunger that drove you then? Or was it something else? Maybe a more human emotion.”

For a long moment Karril was silent. At last he pulled himself loose from Damien’s grasp, and turned away; the priest let him go.

“He knew the risk all those years ago.” Was that pain in his voice, or some demonic emotion? “Knew it and accepted it. Let him go, Reverend Vryce. He made his own fate. You make yours.”

“Where is he?”

For a long time Karril was silent. Damien waited him out, though his hands were shaking from impatience. At last the demon said, in a voice that was little more than a whisper, “Where Gerald Tarrant has gone, no living man can follow.”

Damien breathed in sharply. “Where?”

“To be judged.” As the demon turned back to him, Damien saw that now even his jewelry was black. “By those whom he feared the most.”

“The Unnamed?”

He hesitated only a moment, then nodded. “There’s nothing you can do, Reverend Vryce. You have to believe that. His own word gives them the power to judge him, his own blood makes him vulnerable——”

“How do I get there?” he demanded. His heart was like ice as he heard his own words, as he felt the power of his own commitment. “Tell me!”

The demon shut his eyes as if in pain. “Through the nightmare of his own fears. That’s the only path left, now that he’s in their hands. But no fleshborn being can travel that road safely. Even my kind—”

He stopped, but not soon enough.

“You can go there.”

He hesitated.

“Karril. Please."

“I can go there,” he admitted. “I can also die there. I’m not willing to risk that.”

“Gerald told me that no Iezu has ever died.”

“Because we don’t take chances! Because we’re selfish spirits, who trade illusions for food in our neat little houses and mind our own business when meaner demons come calling!”

“Is that what Calesta’s doing?” he demanded. “Minding his own business?”

The demon winced. “I don’t ... leave him out of this.”

“He can’t be out of it! He’s part and parcel of this whole mess, and you know it!” He took a step closer to the demon, into what would have been his personal territory had he been truly human. “Or don’t you care if he has his way? Don’t you care if the whole human species is remade to suit his taste, bred and winnowed like animals until all they can do is eat and sleep and suffer. Is that what you want, Karril? Is that what any of the Iezu want? Where will you find your worshipers then?”

“I’ll survive,” he muttered. “But some of the others ...” He shook his head and whispered hoarsely, “I can’t get involved. It’s simply not allowed. The penalty—”

“Is worse than what I just described?” he demanded. “All right, so I was wrong. Maybe you and Calesta aren’t so different after all.” He made his tone as venomous as he could, hoping scorn might stir the demon where loyalty and compassion had failed. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

A shudder seemed to pass through the demon’s body. “That way is pain, and worse,” he whispered. His voice was strained, barely audible. “Don’t you understand? I couldn’t endure it. Even if I wanted to, even if I were willing to risk her displeasure ... I’m not human. I can’t absorb emotions which run counter to my aspect. No Iezu could survive such an assault.”

“So I’ll masturbate for you,” he said harshly. “Is that good enough? In the midst of Tarrant’s nightmares I’ll dream acts of pleasure, so you can stay on your feet. Hell, it worked for him, it should damn well work for you.”

The demon turned away. “I’m not human,” he whispered. The hanging tapestries had all turned black; even the wine in the fountain was dark. “The rules for us are ... different.”

“Yeah. I guess so.” Rage and despair churned in his gut at the thought of this, too, being a dead end. Where else was there to turn? He forced himself to turn away, while adding bitterly, “Sony to bother you.”

He began to walk away from the demon, assuming the illusion surrounding him would fade when he tried to leave. It didn’t.

“Even if you survived the journey,” Karril pressed, “what would you do once you got there? Do battle with the Unnamed? Try to reason with it? It’s too powerful for the former, and far too unstable for the latter. And it might make things even worse for Gerald Tarrant, that a man of your stature cared enough to try to save him. Have you thought about that?”

“I’ve thought about everything,” he said sharply. “Most of all about what this world will be like if

Calesta goes unopposed, and how little chance I have of stopping him without Tarrant’s help. As for the rest ...” He shrugged stiffly; despair was a cold knot within him. “I guess it doesn’t matter much, does it?” And he snapped, “Hope the new order works out for you.”

He turned to leave then, and the tapestries did fade. The amorous couples were visible once more, but thinly, like ghosts. The half-clad priests and priestesses fluttered like wraiths about the borders of his vision.

“Reverend Vryce.”

He didn’t turn back, but he did stop walking. The entire room seemed frozen in time, as if the very walls were waiting.

“True night falls for an hour tomorrow.” The demon’s voice was low and even; there was only the faintest tremor of fear in it. “Eat well and drink well before that, and rest with a pitcher of water by your side. In a secure room,” he added quickly, “so that no one disturbs your flesh.” He whispered, “It can’t make the journey.”

And then the tapestries were gone and the demon also, and the warm smell of the temple filled his nostrils and his head. “Can I help you?” a priestess asked, approaching him. He shook his head and waved her away. His legs felt weak beneath him. What had just happened? Did Karril mean to help him, or merely point him on his way and say good-bye? Either way—

Either way I have to go, he thought grimly. Because there is no other option. May God have mercy on my soul.

Then he thought of the risk that Karril had already taken, of the rules the Iezu had broken just to talk to him-of the pain that he might yet endure, in order to betray his own brother—and he added, May God have mercy on us both.

16

The Patriarch dreamed:

Armies on a plain, arrayed in Church regalia. Beyond them lies the Forbidden Forest, whose trees even now cast blackened shadows before the setting sun. He lifts his hand to bless them and the armies start forward, into that haunted darkness....

... and the Forest is alive, it tears them apart, it strews their blood upon the ground to nurture its foul growth....

Armies on a plain. He lifts his hand to bless them and a chosen few start forward, armored with sigils of fire——

... and the Forest swallows them whole, so that not even the light of their Worked weapons shines forth, so that not even their fellow soldiers can find them....

Armies on a plain. He lifts his hand to bless their purpose and a few men move forward with firebrands, setting them against the nearest trees....

... and rain lashes down from the heavens in fury, sun-bright lightning striking in the midst of their encampment with thunderous fury while the downpour douses their flames... .

Armies on a plain. He lifts his hand to bless them and one man rides forward, accoutred in the Prophet’s glory. . ..

. . . and the Forest parts before him. Tall he rides in the saddle, and proud, and his armor glints in the dying light like molten gold. He is an image out of mural splendor, this brave soldier, with the coronet of Merentha holding back his golden hair, and the armor of that doomed neocounty glittering upon his chest and limbs. He is the living image of the Prophet himself, and as he approaches the twisted trees of the Forest, they give way before him, thinking him their master. Safely he rides into its depths, making a path where none have been able to before.

The Patriarch lifts his hand in blessing and the troops begin to follow. Riding in the wake of the false Neocount, they encounter no opposition, but make their way toward the heart of the Forest with a prayer upon their lips and the song of the One God loud within their hearts. The Forest thinks that they belong to him, its master, and it makes no move against them. Wave after wave moves into the preternatural darkness, as the spear of the Church is leveled against the Hunter’s throne....

He awoke in a cold sweat, his heart pounding. The last moments of his dream were as fresh in his brain as if he had really lived them, and the implications of it were so stunning that as he rose to a sitting position, he noticed that his hands were shaking.

Was this what all “his war-dreams had been leading up to? He reached over to his lamp and cracked open the hood slightly, letting a faint light into the room. God in Heaven. Was there really a man like that, whose mere presence could disarm the Forest’s defenses? If so ... He breathed in deeply, trying to accept the implications. The Church had lost its Great War when its armies turned against the Forest; that cursed land was more powerful than mere human troops could ever hope to be. But if there were a key to that realm, a way of entering and traveling through it without setting off its defensive sorceries ... then they might indeed make it to the heart of the Hunter’s domain, and make war with him outright. They might then destroy the tyrant who had dominated that land for centuries, and thus free the human lands of his predations forever.

As spokesman for the One God’s Church, the Patriarch knew the power of symbols all too well, and this one reverberated in his soul with stunning force. A symbolic victory over the Forest’s prince would affect the fae in a way that generations of sorcerers could never manage, winning a far greater battle in the long run. It wouldn’t be necessary for men to make war against the Forest itself, or even try to contain it; that was the mistake the Patriarch’s predecessors had made, which had resulted in the Church’s greatest defeat. No, if they made war against the symbol of the Forest, by attacking its demonic monarch, and if they won, the planet itself would be their ally.

It could be done, he thought. Numbed by the concept. It could really be done.

For a moment he shut his eyes and prayed, opening himself up to the wisdom of his God. If this is foolishness, he begged, then tell me now. Could there possibly be a man like the one he saw in his dream, who so resembled the Hunter in outer aspect that he might pretend to be him, and lead Church troops to victory? It would take more than mere physical resemblance, the Patriarch suspected. What kind of man would be able to take on the Hunter’s persona-become him, in essence—and still serve the Church’s purpose in attacking his stronghold?

He’d have to be crazy, he thought. And if he wasn’t crazy to start with, he sure as hell would be by the time it was over.

With a sigh, he forced himself to lay back down. What were the odds that someone like that could be found, even if he existed? A million to one, if that. It was a dream, nothing more. Not a vision this time. Just a dream, like other men had. Just that.

But the image wouldn’t leave him. And even when he forced himself to shut his eyes-even as sleep shuttered his restless brain once more-he couldn’t help but imagine what it might mean to his Church if this dream, like so many others, proved true.

17

He ate a big meal at the end of the day, just as Karril had advised. It was hard for him. His appetite had faded long ago, and it went against all his best instincts to load himself up just at the moment when danger was beckoning most strongly. But if he couldn’t trust Karril then he figured the whole game was lost anyway, so what the hell.

He rented a small room in one of the poorer neighborhoods, using Church credit for the deposit. Having given the better part of his remaining cash to his previous landlady, he had no other option. He winced at the thought of the Patriarch hearing about it, but then, if the Holy Father heard about this incident at all, Damien would be in such deep shit anyway that a little bit of cash more or less would hardly matter. If the Patriarch found out that he was traveling with demons now, and knew what he planned to do ... he didn’t like to think about that possibility.

In the small, dingy room, by the light of a single lamp, he lay back on the worn coverlet of the bed and tried to relax. Beside him lay his sword, its leather-wrapped grip reassuringly familiar in the gloom. Outside the window Casca was setting, and the Core had yet to rise. True night would come soon, whether he was ready or not. He, dreaded what kind of power Karril might be conjuring, that required such a forum. Or was it Tarrant’s own nature that gave the true night special power over his affairs?

He lay still for a few minutes, and then it occurred to him that the lamplight, dim though it was, might hinder whatever process Karril meant to initiate. He turned the wick down nearly all the way and closed the hood tightly, leaving the room in nearly perfect darkness. Good time for demonlings to strike, he thought grimly, resting one hand upon the grip of his sword. God, what he Wouldn’t give to be back in the days when the worst of his worries was that some hungry brainless thing would try to snatch a bite of his flesh while he slept! That seemed like heaven, compared to the dangers he was courting now. He could hear little things scrabbling under the bed and for a moment he tensed, but then he realized they were probably no worse than bugs and rodents, arguing over some choice bit of refuse a previous occupant had left behind.

Damn it all, I hate waiting. He trained his vision on where the ceiling must be, darkness within darkness within darkness. There was no longer moonlight coming into the room, or any other light that could help him. His hand closed reflexively about the hilt of his sword as the thick, surreal blackness of the true night closed in around him. Now what? Was he supposed to change, or the room, or ... what? He listened to the scrabbling for another few minutes, until he thought he would go insane from doing nothing. Maybe Karril had chickened out, he thought; given the demon’s state of mind, that was a real possibility. If so, what was his next step? He tried to work out some kind of plan in his mind, but the close-lying darkness made organized thought difficult and, besides, he had already exhausted every plan he could think of. If Karril failed him now, then Tarrant was gone for good. In which case Calesta might as well chow down on the whole western continent, because there was nothing Damien could do to stop him.

He sensed several hungry things flitting outside the window, no doubt spawned by the brief bout of true darkness. Fortunately for them, none mistook him for prey and tried to enter. He almost regretted it. It would feel good to cut something to pieces-anything-for the sheer physical relief of such action.

Then, slowly, it dawned on him that he could see again. A rectangle of dull light where the window had been. A shadow in place of the back of a chair. With a muttered curse he rose up to a sitting position, and

Stopped moving. Stopped breathing. Stared.

The walls were gone now, and in their place was something far less substantial, through which he could see the lights of the town beyond. The floor of his room was still dark, but beneath it-through it-he could see currents of fae-light coursing like water over the ground, sparkling here and there with silver and silver-blue highlights. The rest of his room was gone, simply gone-all the furniture, the rug, even the sad little picture that hung crookedly on the far wall—and only shadows of those things remained, some clear to his eye, others barely discernible.

“Ready to go?”

He started to hear Karril’s voice from right beside him, and grabbed reflexively for his sword as he turned to acknowledge him. The demon had exchanged his velvet robes for a tight-fitting jacket and breeches not unlike Damien’s own; a short cloak was clasped to his shoulders by jeweled brooches the size of a man’s fist. He seemed unarmed, but who was Damien to judge the nature of a demon’s arsenal? He also seemed tense, which was so uncharacteristic that it heightened Damien’s own sense of impending danger.

“Where?”

“Following the path Gerald Tarrant left for us. Or for you, more specifically. It’s the channel between you two that gives us any hope of finding him.” A dark smile crossed his face, a bleak attempt at humor. “Not exactly a road your Church would approve of, but it’s the one you ordered.”

Damien stood. The action was surprisingly difficult, as though something were being wrenched from his flesh as he moved. He swayed a bit afterward, made vertiginous by the sight of the earth-fae less than a yard beneath his feet. Was that dim shadow the floor? He tried to focus on it, to gain a sense of solidity.

“Don’t look down,” the demon instructed. “Follow me, and trust your footing. It’s solid enough.”

“Where are we?”

“Exactly where we were. But you’re seeing it like I do now . .. and like your enemy does. Don’t stare at the floor,” he said sharply, as Damien stumbled over some shadowy obstacle “Look at me. Only me.”

He did as He was told and fixed his eyes on the demon. Even by this light he could see how nervous Karril was, how agitated. If he took time to think about the implications of that, it would probably scare the hell out of him. Drawing in a deep breath, he forced himself to place one foot ahead of the other without looking down. It seemed to him that some kind of power was prying at the edges of his brain, trying to get in. In answer to his unspoken question the demon nodded slightly, and Damien tried to relax and let it happen. He had committed himself to this alliance back in the temple; there was no point in holding back now. God alone knew what kind of power the demon had to apply to bring a living man into this surreal place.

God help me if the Patriarch ever finds out about this.

Walking as if in a dream, he followed Karril out onto the street. Only this wasn’t the real street, the one he had seen on his way to the lodging house. This was a place of dreamlike images, where silver earth-fae lapped up against walls of misty shadow in forms that implied houses, wagons, storefronts. Bright power swirled up about his legs and he could feel the current pulling him forward as he walked, stunned, past buildings with walls of smoke and crystal, through which ghostly interiors might be glimpsed. There was light in some places, lamps and hearthfires glowing with a brightness that shone through the nearer walls. The view made for an eerie sense of dizziness, and he had to shut his eyes for a moment to regain his sense of balance.

“What is this?” he whispered. A wave of earth-fae crested near his knee, sending a cascade of shimmering sparks up his thigh. He looked down at his body, expecting to find it also changed, but to his surprise his flesh was wholly normal; except for the droplets of power that clung to his legs, he looked as if he had just come in from a mundane walk in the park. “What’s going on?”

“This is the world the Iezu inhabit.” The demon’s voice was surprisingly real, a lifeline of sound in a domain of dreams. “Defined not by boundaries of matter but by human perception.” He brushed his hand against a nearby wall as he walked; the ghostly substance gave way like water to his flesh, and ripples coursed outward to the edges of the structure. “This is how the Iezu see.”

Despite his tension, Damien was fascinated. “Is that why you take on human form? So you can see the world as we do?”

“We never see as you do. At best we glimpse reflections of the material universe, filtered through your minds. Some of us learn to interpret these forms and can then interact with your kind. Some never gain that skill, and your world remains a mystery to them.”

He looked from the misty walls to the demon’s rather solid form. “Your body seems real enough,” he challenged.

“Merely illusion, produced for your benefit. Like your own body. Figments I plucked from your imagination, to clothe you in comfort while you brave the nether regions. Humans,” he said dryly, “require such things.”

His mind raced as he considered the implications of that. “Then if this body is hurt—”

“The wounds won’t translate, no. Your real flesh is still in that bed,” he nodded back the way they had come, toward the boarding house, “with just enough spirit remaining to keep it alive. But that doesn’t make the danger any less real,” he warned.

“Why? If I can’t be ,hurt in any permanent sense, what’s the risk? No more than in a dream, I’d think.”

“Don’t kid yourself.” The glowing fae whirlpooled around the demon’s feet, then settled back into its natural current. “First of all, any pain you experience in this form will be real enough as far as your brain is concerned. And if your spirit expires in this place, your body will never reanimate. Death is death, Reverend Vryce. Here and everywhere else.” They passed what must have been a tree, a shadowy shape which glowed with a soft light where lover’s initials had been carved into it: human perception, leaving its trace upon the Iezu’s reality. All about them the world was a fairy landscape, with objects and buildings and even living creatures more or less visible as humans accorded them focus. And through it all flowed the fae, more clearly visible than Damien had ever seen it before. Far more powerful. Was this what Tarrant saw, when he viewed the world through an adept’s eyes? It was wonderful, but also terrifying.

“And,” the demon added, “there is one other very real danger.”

He made the mistake of looking down, and stumbled. The ground is solid only when 1 perceive it to be. He forced himself to look ahead, to take his footing for granted. It took enough effort that for long minutes he could not respond to the demon’s warning, could only concentrate on his immediate physical need. When at last he felt sure of his balance once more, he asked him, “What?”

“Time is your enemy,” the demon warned him. “In the shadow of the real world its passage is easy enough to define; we still have the sun and the fae-tides to go by, as well as the actions of living creatures surrounding us. But what happens when we leave those things behind?” Even as he spoke, the walls about them seemed to grow mistier, less substantial, as if responding to his words. “Your perception will be our only timepiece, my friend. And human perception is notoriously subjective.”

“So what? Say my time-sense gets stretched out for a while, or whatever. What difference does that—”

And then he knew. He realized what the demon meant. The knowledge was a cold knot inside him, that clenched even tighter as he contemplated how easy it would be to fail in this arena, and what the cost would be.

His body still lay on the bed, helpless now that he had abandoned it. It would require certain things to maintain its viability, so that he might return to it. Air and energy, food and water ... how long could a body survive without some kind of liquid? It seemed to him that three days was the maximum, but perhaps that was only when it exerted itself. Was there a wider margin when flesh was thus suspended, requiring little maintenance to keep its minimal processes working?

Three days. Not measured by a clock, but by his own internal sense. Three days in the real world might seem to be minutes here, or an eternity. And once that time had passed, his body would wither and die, and the soul that it anchored would follow.

“I see you understand,” Karril said quietly.

“Yeah.” He grimaced. “I’m afraid so.” They were moving through a different kind of neighborhood now; the shadow houses were farther apart, the sinewy tree shapes more common. “So what should I do?”

“Only be careful. That’s all I know how to tell you. No other human has willingly gone where I’m about to take you. And those who went unwillingly . . .” he shrugged stiffly. “They had other problems.”

He looked at Karril. “Tarrant never came here?”

For a moment the demon said nothing. “Not willingly,” he answered at last. Refusing to meet Damien’s eyes.

The demon turned toward an arching form, and motioned for Damien to follow. Sparks glittered overhead as they passed beneath what must have been a door frame, and over a smoky threshold. If being in the street had been disorienting, being inside this building was a thousand times more so. Damien had to stop for a moment to get his bearings, sorting out the path ahead from the lights and objects that bled in from adjoining rooms. There were people here, and their images seemed almost as solid as Damien’s own. “Self-perceptions,” Karril muttered, in answer to his unspoken question. They passed beneath a glowing disk incised with glittering lines-a quake-ward, it looked like—and then another, with a sign in the lower left quarter that he knew to be Ciani’s own sigil. Suddenly the two seemed familiar, and their height above his head. ... He turned to Karril and asked, in a whisper, “His apartment?”

“Of course,” the demon confirmed. “What did you expect?”

From out of the shadows a human figure emerged, headed straight toward them. Damien moved to step aside, but Karril grabbed his arm and shook his head. In amazement he watched as the figure approached, its heeled shoes striking the floor silently, silver power lapping about its ankles. It was a woman, heavily made up and just a little past her prime. Her body was a parody of sexual attractiveness, from her aggressively protruding breasts to her incredibly padded buttocks, to the tight cinch belt which threatened to separate those two parts from each other. It was a surreal image, too grotesque in proportion to be human, too solid to be otherwise. When she had passed by, Damien looked at Karril in amazement. The demon was smiling faintly.

“Your former landlady, I believe.”

“What?”

“As she sees herself.” The brief smile faded. “Come on.”

They went down the stairs into the basement, a trial all its own; Damien tried not to think about where the stairs were, or what they were made of, just trusted his feet to the surging waterfall of earth-fae where he knew that stairs should be. He stumbled once, but otherwise it worked. At the base of the stairs was a place filled with memories so sickening that Damien felt the bile rise in his throat again just to approach it. (Could he vomit here, he wondered? Would it do any good if he did?) Through the smoky film that was a door he could see a glistening blackness, like an oil slick, that covered most of the floor. As the earth-fae flowed into it, it, too, turned black, and its passage sent ripples flowing thickly through the black stuff’s substance. Hungry, it seemed. Terribly hungry. Despite the door’s seeming barrier, a cold wind flowed from that place toward Damien, the first he had felt since true night fell. It tasted of blood and bile, and worse.

“Your perception,” the demon said quietly. “I only make it easier to see.”

He could feel the dark power sucking him forward like a rip tide, and it took all his strength to fight its drag. Though he would have guessed it to be inanimate, it seemed to be aware of his presence, and bulged at the end that was nearest to him. Slowly the oily blackness seeped forward over unseen floorboards, making its way toward them. Toward him.

“They didn’t expose it to the sun,” he whispered.

“I’m afraid they did.”

He stared in horror at the thing. His skin crawled at the thought of touching it again.

“They banished the Presence that had come for Gerald Tarrant,” Karril explained, “But they couldn’t erase its footsteps. That’s all this is, Reverend-a faint echo of what came here before.” He looked at the priest. “You’re still sure you want to follow it?”

He whispered: “Is that what we have to do?”

The demon nodded. “Gerald Tarrant probably took a more direct route, but his struggle left a path marked in his soul’s blood. That, and the residue you see here, are the only ways I know of to find him.” He paused. “Are you still sure you want to go? Because if you’re not, I would be all too happy to abandon this little pleasure trip, I assure you.”

For a moment Damien faltered. For a moment it seemed so impossible that he could survive this crazy mission that he almost stepped back, almost said the words, almost ended their doomed venture then and there. Had he really thought that he could stand up to a Power that even Tarrant feared, and emerge unscathed? The mere thought of touching this thing before him, no more than its residue, made him sick; how would it feel to plunge into it body and soul, without knowing if he ever would rise up again?

But then he thought of Calesta, and of the holocaust that demon had deliberately provoked in the east. He thought of Calesta’s plans for his world, and of what would happen to his species if the demon should ever triumph. And he knew in that moment that it wasn’t death which frightened him most, or even the thought of facing the Unnamed. It was the prospect of failure.

God, when I first took my vows, I said that I would be willing to give my life to serve You. I meant it. He breathed in deeply, shaking. But don’t let that sacrifice be in vain. I beg of You. Use me however You will, take my life if it pleases You to do so, but help me free this planet from Calesta’s grasp. I beg You, God.

“I have to try,” he whispered.

For a long moment the demon just looked at him. Could he read into his heart, see all the doubts that were there? Tarrant had said the Iezu had that kind of power. “The path we have to take,” he warned Damien, “lies through the substance of the Hunter’s own fear. Are you ready for that?”

It seemed to him that the blackness was closer now. A foul odor rose up from its surface, a stink of blood and carrion ... and worse. “He feared sunlight. Heat. Healing. All the things that life is made of.”

“Don’t be naive, Reverend Vryce.”

The blackness was extending an oily finger now, that oozed slowly toward him. If he stayed where he was it would soon make contact. “Death,” he said sharply. “He feared that more than anything.” How could he face death without dying himself? Karril must know some special trick, or he wouldn’t have brought him here.

“Not death,” the demon said.

Startled, he looked at Karril. The Iezu’s eyes were dark, unreadable.

“Death isn’t a thing or a place,” Karril told him. “It’s a transition. A doorway, not a destination. Think,” he urged. “You know the answer.”

And he did, suddenly. He knew it, and grew weak at the thought. Was that what lay ahead of them? No wonder Karril didn’t want to get involved.

“Hell,” he whispered. “He feared Hell.”

“His own perception of it.” Could this Iezu experience gut-wrenching fear, or was that not part of his aspect? Some people mix passion and terror, he thought.

So the emotion should be in his repertoire. “You still mean to follow him?”

“There’s no other choice for me.” Damien drew in a deep breath, exhaled it slowly. “You know that.”

“Yeah.” He sighed. “I know.”

He shut his eyes for a moment, and tried to still the rising tide of terror in his soul. Damn you, Tarrant! Damn you for making me go through this, just to save your murderous hide. But in the face of such a journey his accustomed curse was rendered powerless, even ludicrous. Tarrant was in Hell already, or someplace beyond it. And he was going there to save him.

He drew in a deep breath, and didn’t look down at his feet. He could feel how close the evil stuff was to him without needing to look, could feel its hunger sucking at his legs with growing force. Instead he looked to the demon, and tried to steady his voice long enough to manage two words without sounding as afraid as he felt.

“You coming?”

The demon hesitated. And sighed. And then, to his great relief, nodded. “Can’t let you go in there alone, can I?”

He offered his hand. After a moment, Damien grasped it. And then, with only the briefest grimace, the priest stepped forward. Onto the path that Tarrant’s soul-blood had marked. Into the blackness that waited there.

Damn you, Calesta.

18

MORDRETH: Police have confirmed reports that forty-three men were killed last night by a pack of animals that came out of the region known as the Forbidden Forest. The men, who had established temporary residence just outside Johanna’s borders, were taken by surprise shortly after midnight when the Forest beasts stormed their camp without warning. Although a few men managed to arm themselves before being struck down, the sheer ferocity of the assault quickly overwhelmed their defenses. Less than an hour after the pack’s arrival, every man inside the camp was dead.

Lestar Vannik, who was returning to the area when the attack took place, managed to flee the camp before the animals caught his scent. According to a press release from Darvish Sanitarium, he described them as “white monsters, with hands instead of real paws, and eyes that glowed bright blood red.” The beasts were apparently accompanied by a swarm of demonlings, who descended upon the camp’s would-be protectors and blinded them so that they could not fight back effectively. Sanitarium officials will not confirm rumors that Vannik also saw a human figure running with the pack, whose coloration and ferocity matched those of the animals.

It is not yet known what prompted the attack, but communities throughout the region are concerned that the border truce between the Forest and its neighbors may no longer be protection enough. Several have begun collecting arms and training men, in order to defend themselves against similar assaults. The mayor of Sheva, a prosperous city which borders on Johanna to the east, is negotiating for special troops to guard its periphery, and it is expected that neighboring cities will do likewise. A special meeting of mayors is expected to be convened within the month, to discuss the financing of such operations.

The informal truce which has been observed in the region for nearly five hundred years has permitted the commercial development of areas surrounding the Forest, notably in the fertile Raksha Valley to its east. Tradition has it that the arrangement was originally established by the Hunter, a demon or sorcerer who came to the region at approximately that time. Under the terms of the truce, communities who offered no threat to the Forest would themselves not be threatened, although individuals of either side were fair game. The truce was broken only twice: in 1047, when an expedition of twenty men breached the Forest borders with intent to find and destroy its sorcerous ruler, and in 1182, when a radical faction from Mordreth set fire to the Forest in the dry season, in hopes of burning it to the ground. In both cases vengeance was swift. In the fall of 1047, twenty heads minus eyes and tongues were impaled on stakes outside the gates of their city. In 1183 the Mordreth Massacre, now infamous, turned a thriving port town into a ghost city overnight. Historians are quick to note that both these incidents were in response to real provocation, and that neither was succeeded by any further acts of violence.

It is not yet clear in what way, if any, the men of this camp provoked their sorcerous neighbor to new atrocity. But amidst rumors of the Hunter’s disappearance, the border cities are doing what they can to protect themselves. Authorities hope that as Vannik recovers he can shed further light on the details of this conflict, but for now all concerned must assume that the ancient truce is no longer being honored by its Forest patron, and defend themselves accordingly.

“He’s here.”

The priest who spoke was a short man, round in the belly, red-faced, congenial. The words he spoke so sharply seemed ill-suited to him, as if some other mouth had formed them. Or was that only the Patriarch’s perception, knowing as he did what those words implied?

“Are you sure?” the Holy Father asked.

The double chin bobbed as he nodded. “Elerin spotted him in the foyer. I can have him come in if you want.”

“Please do.”

As the priest went to the door to summon his acolyte, the Patriarch reached into his desk to pull out the sketch he kept there. It was a pencil drawing on low-quality paper, well worn from handling. He studied it once more as the priest fetched his acolyte, filled with wonder and more than a little misgiving. If he really had seen this man ... He shook his head, banishing the thought. One thing at a time. Confirm the sighting first.

The acolyte Elerin was a freckled teenager with bright red hair and a line of pimples along his chin. The Patriarch couldn’t remember having seen him before, but that was hardly a surprise; lesser priests handled the training of such boys until they took their vows in his presence.

The youth bowed clumsily, clearly anxious about this interview, and mumbled something that might have been, “Your Holiness.”

The Patriarch handed him the drawing. “Have you seen this man?”

The boy glanced at the picture and then back toward the priest, who nodded his encouragement. “I think so, Your Holiness. The drawing I saw was a little different, though.”

“That was a copy. This is the original.”

He looked at it again and then nodded, somewhat stiffly. Clearly he wasn’t comfortable in such august company. “He was at the afternoon service, I think. On Tuesday. Yesterday,” he added helpfully. “I was watching in the foyer, like Father Renalds told me to. This guy came out of the sanctuary right after the service, almost the first one out. He was in a real hurry.” He looked down at the picture again, then nodded. “I’m pretty sure it was him. His hair was a little shorter, and he wasn’t quite this thin, but the face looked about the same.”

“Did you find out who he was?”

He shook his head, scattering the red hair out of its embankments. “I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t stop. I asked a few people who were there if they knew who he was, but no one did.”

“Did you follow him?”

The boy looked stricken. “No, Holy Father, I... I’m sorry.” His face had flushed so bright a red that it almost rivaled his hair. “I didn’t think of it. I didn’t realize.... Please, forgive me.”

“It’s all right.” He took the drawing back from the boy. “There’s no reason you should have thought to do that. We’re not training you as a spy.” He tried to keep his tone as beneficent as possible; the boy was so nervous he looked as if a light breeze would knock him over. “Thank you, Elerin. You may go now.”

He did so anxiously, bowing repeatedly as he backed his way toward the door. Not until he was gone did the Patriarch let his smile fade, and a more businesslike expression take its place.

“I want to know who this man is,” he told the priest, tapping the drawing. “If that means following him, then do it. If our people lack the skill to pull that off gracefully, then hire someone who can.” He glanced at the picture again. “Get one of our priestesses to keep watch outside the sanctuary during services. Someone young and pretty, whom he might be willing to talk to. Unmarried,” he added sharply.

Would that be bait enough? The face in the picture, though roughly sketched, was clearly a handsome one. Such a man might stop to talk to a pretty woman, while ignoring the man right beside her.

“Are you sure he’ll come back, Your Holiness?”

He shut his eyes for a moment; visions rose unbidden before his inner eye. “A vision showed, me that he would come here, and he did. It also showed me that he would return.”

“Of course, Your Holiness.” The priest’s voice trembled with awe as he bowed deeply before his religious master; clearly he was of the faction that considered the Patriarch’s visions to come directly from God. “We’ll find out who he is, I promise you.”

I am a prophet in their eyes, the Patriarch mused, as the priest made his way out of the chamber. Would that I could be so sure of it myself.

As he gazed down at the drawing in his hands, he could not help but shiver. And a chill wind of awe coursed up his back as it seemed to him, for one fleeting instant, that Reverend Vryce’s sketch of Gerald Tarrant was looking back at him.

The Patriarch looked at the letters written before him as though they were foreign shapes, sounding them out one by one, tasting their meaning. So few symbols. So potent a message.

ANDRYS TARRANT.

A shiver ran up his spine as he considered the implications of that name. The Prophet had killed his children, or so the Church taught. Was it possible that one had survived? Was this Andrys Tarrant not only a man who looked like the Hunter, but who bore the Hunter’s blood within his veins as well? A man so like him in the substance of his being that the very patterns of his DNA were echoes of the Prophet’s own?

If so-Dear God!

Help me, Lord, he begged. Guide me, so that I may serve You more perfectly.

Tarrant. There was a wealth of power in that name, a power that might save or destroy. He remembered the man who had led his dream-army into the Forest-so bright a symbol, the focus of all their hopes—and for the first time since his war dreams began, he felt the stirring of hope. This was the key they needed, this stranger with history running in his veins. That he had suddenly appeared in Jaggonath’s cathedral now, when their need was greatest, only served to confirm his purpose in the Patriarch’s mind. With him, they could fight this war and win it: They could break the Forest’s hold upon this region and send its ruler up in smoke. The centuries would resound with their triumph. But did they dare?

Help me, Lord. Give me the wisdom to deal with this.

By night, he dreamed of holy war.

By day, he dreamed of Gerald Tarrant’s offering.

MORDRETH: The murder of two brothers that took place in the city last night has all inhabitants of this northern city bolting their doors and cleaning their weapons. Benjin and Sorrie Heldt were found by their housekeeper at eight a.m. this morning, having been murdered in their beds less than three hours before. The bodies had been savaged by one or more large animals who apparently gained entrance through a window, but no flesh was eaten.

While police will not confirm a link between this incident and last week’s slaughter in Johanna, many locals are convinced that the Forest’s inhabitants are moving to expand their territory. Sales of small arms are already up 400% in the region, and a continued increase is expected.

The blue stone lay within its box, deep cobalt light reflecting from the polished alteroak.

Help me, Lord. Guide me.

The Patriarch bowed his head before the altar, and his body trembled like a branch in a high wind. Was it sin to take up this gift, if all it offered him was knowledge? Was it wrong to use the Hunter’s power, if in the end that power was to be turned against him?

For a long time he remained as he was, bowed before the hateful object. Since the moment when it had been placed here he had been continually aware of it, as if it had already established some kind of link to his mind. He felt its presence while eating, while reading, even while conducting services in the sanctified hall of the cathedral. But most acutely of all, he felt it when reports of escalating violence were brought to him. Violence within his church, that must be cleansed. Violence surrounding the Forest, that must be answered.

The dreams were so tempting, with their dramatic solution: a war against the Forest, in which the growing violence in his people could be channeled toward a positive end. A second Great War, in which the Church would at last be triumphant. The spirit of his people was ready for it. The means existed. The funds could be assigned.

The consequences were terrifying. He had prayed for nights on end for some new insight, but none had come to him. It was so tempting, those dreams of triumph. But if he obeyed his visions and started a war, how would he end it? Violence begets violence, he despaired. How could he encourage it among his people, and then expect it to disperse at the campaign’s end? What kind of act or symbol would be powerful enough to disrupt such a cycle?

Through it all, silent witness to his torment, was the Hunter’s gift. The ultimate temptation. Not power, but something far more subtle. Not sorcery, but something even richer. Knowledge.

He took the blue crystal up in his hand, and held it out toward the candlelight. It was so cool in his palm, and so very still. He had half-expected that it would show its power by radiating heat, or vibrating, or in some other way indicating that the fae contained within it waited only for the proper sign before it could break out. But there was nothing. Except for its eerie light, the crystal could have been no more than glass, a finely faceted paperweight.

There was no other way, he told himself. No other way. God would understand that, wouldn’t He? And if He didn’t (he told himself), then He would damn only the Patriarch, and spare those innocents who followed him. Wouldn’t He?

Slowly, hesitantly, his fingers closed around the stone. His hand was shaking so badly that the cobalt light shimmered across the altar like waves. Then, with a sudden spasm of determination, he clenched his fist shut about the crystal, trapping its light.

In Your Name, God of Earth. For the sake of Your people.

A roaring filled the chapel, and light flooded the small room. The sudden brilliance was stunning, blinding; he fell back with a cry and threw an arm up across his eyes, as if that could protect them. But the vision stayed with him even when his eyes were closed, as if it were burned into his eyelids. Light on the floor, like liquid fire; light on the altar, sizzling as it spread out from the blessed candle flames; light that seeped in from under the door frame, light from the distant windows, light from his very flesh. The blue crystal fell from his hand and was lost in the swirling tide as bright as the sun itself, that lapped at his legs and left shimmering rivulets to run down his robe.

Power. It was power. The raw power of the planet itself, made visible by the Hunter’s ward. Fae. He fell back from it in horror and saw the currents stir as if in response to his fear, saw the patterns of light draw back from him as though in obedience to some unspoken command. No! The light was taking shape, gaining color and substance and solidity, and mother lies on the floor, and the earth-fae gathers up about her, forming itself into dark little creatures that reach with sharpened claws toward her skull

No!

cathedral and he stands there praying, and the fae takes his words and gives them life and makes the people breathe them in, so that his faith becomes part of their flesh

No!

anger like a fist about Vryce, earth-fae squeezing hard to provoke the desired reaction

He screamed. Not to be heard, not to be saved, but to empty himself of the terror which was choking him. Still the visions pounded at his brain; memories, hopes, and fears rushing through his head in one vast chaotic onslaught, and beyond that the knowledge that the power had always been there, that he had always controlled it, that the price of denial had been to lose a part of his soul. Until now ...

Something slammed behind him. A door, struck open? It seemed a universe away to him. So did the footsteps that ran toward him from behind, and the hot hands that lifted him up from the floor, struggling to make him stand. Another world, another time. He couldn’t go back to it now.

He saw the future. The futures. He saw his war won, and the Church triumphant. He saw it lost, and watched the Church wither away in the shadow of that failure. He watched the Church triumph again and again, and he watched it fail also, and each time it was different: future after future unveiled before him in one blinding flood of raw potential. The war was won, but the violence continued; the war was won, but his people’s faith was poisoned; the war was lost and all, all was lost with it....

He was aware of a hand pressed against his throat to catch his pulse, and the fevered concern of the men at his side fluttered about his head like ballings. They were saying something to him, but their words couldn’t make it through the roar of the fae in his ears. Where was the future with hope in it? he despaired. Where was the path to salvation? Symbols and human figures and fears that had wings swirled wildly about him as he struggled to find some focus. Father? they chittered. Holy Father, are you all right? He saw a demon with the eyes of an insect cut open his head and place dreams inside. Holy Father? Faster and faster now, visions of the past and future tumbling over one other, pouring into his soul faster than he could sort them out. What’s wrong? He needed the right future. Someone call a doctor, fast! The war was over and the Patriarch called his soldiers together, and the fae gathered at his feet in response to him just as it always had, obeying this man who had been a sorcerer since the day of his birth—

There was terror in that image, but also exultation, for it was a new pattern, a new path. This was the one way he could save his people; this was their only hope. He saw it acted out, he watched it replayed a thousand times within each second as his heart pounded, shaking his body, sending ripples out through the fae

Hold him still!

and there was a stabbing in his arm, not fire now but cold, icy cold. He could feel his heart struggling against it, and the visions began to shatter like glass about him. Pain spread through his veins and the fae turned to ice and cracked from his skin, and a darkness descended from the ceiling and a weight came crashing up from the floor—

Fine. He’s fine.

What happened?

I don’t know.

What did you give him?

Hard to hear. Hard to see. Impossible to move.

Is the ambulance—

Coming.

Pulse is strong.

What the hell happened?

Cling to the vision. Don’t forget!

Hold on.

Help’s coming.

Darkness.

19

The color of pain was red. A raw, ugly red, that stank like rotting meat and oozed inward through his pores until he was filled with it. A red that flayed his nerves alive and then scraped along their surfaces, arousing pain beyond that which any living body could endure. A pain so total that it stripped him of his humanity, it bled him of all intelligence, it left him no more than a core of terror and agony in a universe gone mad, in which waves of pain were the only marker of time.

And then, in that madness: a human hand, grasping his. The touch was like fire, but Damien gripped it desperately, allowing the contact to define him. Fingers. Palm. Soul. It became the focus of his universe, the single point about which worlds revolved, the core of his private galaxy. Fire blazed along his arm as his muscles split from the strain, bloody strips curling back upon themselves, laying the moist bones beneath bare and vulnerable. Skin, he needed skin, nature’s own armor: he fixed his mind upon that one need until it seemed to him that his muscles were no longer bare, clothing them with the power of his imagination. It was instinct that drove him rather than knowledge, but the instinct seemed true and he clung to it desperately, unwilling to sink back into formless agony again.

Arm: define it, feel it, believe in it. Shoulder. Chest. Fire lanced across his torso like whip strokes, and in those seconds when his concentration wavered he could feel his newly imagined skin peeling from his body in heat-blackened strips, edges charred to a glowing ash ... the hand that held his gripped him tighter as he fought to regain consciousness of self, and another clasped his shoulder. Good. That made for two points of contact in a universe of burning blood. Two points defined a line. Three points defined a plane. Four points defined a solid.. ..

And then the redness was gone and he was on his knees, choking on air that reeked of sulfur and burning meat. The hands that held him helped him to his feet, and he accepted their aid with gratitude. The ground was so hot that already his breeches had begun to smoke, and the stink of burning wool added new strength to the noxious melange surrounding him.

“What was that?” he whispered. He didn’t expect an answer, so much as he needed to test his voice. To his surprise the words indeed sounded, though he distinctly remembered his vocal cords having burned to bloody ribbons at least twice.

“Did you think the transition would be easy?” a voice from behind him asked. The hands that were gripping him released him, and a wave of panic nearly overcame him at the sudden loss of contact. There was no doubt in his mind that without Karril’s touch he would have been lost in that pain forever. A numbing fear grew in him, that perhaps he had indeed taken on more than he could handle this time. If that was just the gateway to Hell, what lay beyond?

And then he grew aware of the voice that had spoken. Not Kami’s, nor anything like it. A more musical voice, higher-pitched, that was painfully but indefinably familiar. He turned around suddenly, so focused on the source of that voice that he hardly saw the surreal landscape surrounding it.

It was Rasya. No, not Rasya exactly. It was a woman of Rasya’s height and coloring and general form: sunbaked bronze skin, short-cropped platinum hair, long, lean limbs with capable muscles playing visibly beneath. But the face was different, and the clothing also, and this woman’s eyes were so like Kami’s that he shivered to see them set in a body so like that of his lost lover.

“Why?” he gasped. The stink of sulfur was stronger now, and it was getting difficult to breathe. It was hard to say whether anger or mourning played louder in his voice as he demanded, “Why, Karril?”

“My life is on the line here, too,” he said. She said. “And I can’t change form in this place, any more than you can. I needed a body that would be strong, enduring, and versatile. Given your orientation, it had to be female. Given your memories. . . .” The woman shrugged stiffly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch the mourning until it was too late. I meant no disrespect.”

He shut his eyes for a moment, painfully aware of the heat that was baking through his boot soles. “Do you expect some kind of response from me?” he whispered hoarsely. “Is that what this is about?”

“If I required that to survive, would you be so quick to deny me?” She reached forward and took Damien’s hand again, in a grip more reassuring than affectionate. “Like you, I try to keep all options open.” She pulled his hand, gently but firmly, forcing him to move. “Come on. Time matters.”

He forced himself to look away from her, toward the bizarre landscape that surrounded them. The land all about was black and glassy, and it smoked with a heat that made the very air shimmer. Overhead a sun blazed, not the wholesome white star of Erna but a bloated yellow shape that “sent streamers of flame down almost to the landscape, sparking explosions which in turn sent gouts of lava spouting into the air. The sky surrounding it was as dark as night, as were the shadows its harsh light etched upon the landscape. Beneath his feet the ground seemed to tremble, and as he watched, it cracked not ten feet to the right of him, revealing a glowing red subsurface.

“Damn,” he breathed.

“What?”

“Too vulking realistic for my taste.” He glanced toward the demon, then quickly away. “Which way’s out?”

"Out’s the way we came. Which route I will gladly point out to you, whenever you’ve had enough. As for what we came here to do ...” She looked out over the landscape, and at last indicated a direction. Thank God, it was away from the crack. “That way, I think.”

“You think?"

“This isn’t my realm,” Karril said testily. “I wonder if it would even exist without your Church doing constant publicity for it. Come on.”

He needed no urging to move, and he moved quickly. He had been in a place like this once and had almost gotten killed, and that was just on its border. How much of the black rock beneath them was solid, and how much was a paper-thin shell hiding rivers of molten lava beneath? Any one footstep might prove the difference. And if the similarity between this place and the real world was unnerving, the discrepancy was downright terrifying. In the real world, if the shell lava cracked beneath your feet, you fell and you cooked and you died. But here, in this unearthly place, where death was a threshold more distant with every step ... could one burn forever? Choking on molten rock, drowning in it, as the flesh was seared from one’s bones over and over again? It wasn’t a theory he was anxious to test.

“What about Tarrant?”

“You mean, is he still here?” The Rasya-thing glanced at him. “If he were, there’d be no trail.”

He looked out over the landscape ahead of them, squinting against the sickening yellow light. “I don’t see a damned thing.”

“Then it’s lucky I came along, isn’t it?” She nodded ahead and toward the right, to an area pockmarked by pools of glowing lava. “That way.”

He followed her more by touch than by sight, across a landscape where any step might be his last. The ground split as they passed, but though his heart lurched with every new fissure it was only to vent clouds of burning ash and noxious gas, to fill the air with poison. It clogged his lungs as he breathed it in and set off a spasm of coughing so violent that he feared the vibrations of his body might do more damage to the ground beneath them than the weight of his footsteps. He tried not to remember the time in the westlands when he had almost gotten killed, traversing a lava field all too much like this one.

... ground giving way beneath his feet with a sudden crack and he throws himself sideways as the rock beneath his feet shatters, fragments raining down into a heat so terrible that the hairs on his head sizzle and curl as he grasps at a nearby protrusion ... rock so hot that he can feel the palms of his skin burning, but if he lets go more than that will burn, and he pulls himself across rock no more solid than that which just failed him, praying that the vagaries of Luck will protect him one moment longer....

“Don’t,” Karril whispered hoarsely. “Stop.”

Her hand had released his. Her face was white.

He stared at her in amazement, as it hit home just what he had done. Her life is dependent on my state of mind, he thought. Awed—and also frightened-by the concept. Must he not only endure the rigors of Tarrant’s Hell, but do so without undue suffering? He didn’t know if he could manage that. Suddenly it hit home just what Karril had risked by coming here. And what depth of friendship there must be between Tarrant and the Iezu—however well-disguised-to inspire such a journey.

A geyser of flame spurted suddenly behind them. They sprinted forward across the black rock, but not fast enough to escape its downpour. Molten drops rained across the landscape, and where they struck Damien, a blinding pain stabbed into him; it took all his strength to keep running even as his flesh burned, the stink of woolen ash mixed with smoking meat as he choked on the fumes of his own destruction. Then one foot came down too hard, or else the ground was especially weak; he felt the rock giving way beneath him and threw himself forward in utter desperation, praying for solid rock ahead of him. In that instant of utter panic he thought he had lost Karril forever, but the demon had chosen his form well; the light, lithe body that so mimicked Rasya’s was still by his side as the rock gave way behind him, freeing a blast of heat so violent that it almost knocked him down.

“This way,” she said. Urging him onward.

Gasping, he struggled to follow her. The soles of his feet felt as if they were on fire; the leather which hardly protected them had begun to smoke, promising even greater pain in the future. I was a fool to come here! he despaired. What had he hoped to accomplish? Tarrant, you’d better be worth this! Then a fit of coughing overcame him and he staggered forward blindly, guided only by her hand.

“A little late now,” she said dryly. As if he had spoken aloud.

The ground was giving way all around them now, and more and more often they were forced to break into a run despite the risk, to keep themselves from falling with it. This is Tarrant’s true Hell. Damien thought, unbridled fear. What more fitting torment could there be for such a man, who had made fear into an elixir of immortality, and turned the whole world into his hunting ground? Then another sulfurous cloud enveloped him and he fell to the ground, choking; his hands and back were seared by the hot rock like meat on a grill.

“Come on.” Strong arms were gripping him, fighting to raise him up. “There’s a cool spot ahead, I think.”

Yeah, he thought dully, an oasis in Hell. I believe that. But even that weak fantasy was enough to give him focus, and he struggled to his feet again. The clouds of ash were so thick about them that he could hardly see, but the sound of rock splitting just behind them was warning enough to keep him moving. He followed Karril blindly, clasping her hand in a grip that was sticky with blood, and prayed that the demon’s sight was better than his own.

And then, incredibly, the heat did abate somewhat. The ground felt more solid beneath his feet. (That could have been because the nerves in his feet had been seared to numbness, he told himself, but then again, it could be real.) He took the opportunity to stop and bend over, gasping for breath in the sulfurous air. Since Karril didn’t urge him to keep moving, he assumed that they were safe. For the moment.

When at last burning tears had cleared his eyes of dust, and his shaking muscles had loosened enough to let him stand upright, he looked back at the way they had just come and shuddered. Bright streamers of lava had broken through the ground in so many places that he could hardly trace their path; red fountains of molten rock spewed up like geysers where they had only recently been running. He had been near volcanoes in his life-too near, on occasion-but he had never gone through any realm like this. No living man could, he realized. Only in a place where life and death were meaningless could man traverse such a hell.

“Please,” he gasped. “Tell me we don’t have to go back that way.”

“No need to worry,” the demon assured him. “Personally, I think the odds are very slim of us going back at all-He glared at the demon and opened his mouth to voice a nasty response to his wisecrack, but when he saw what the Rasya-body looked like the words died in his throat. Karril was paler than the real Rasya had ever been, and his (her?) skin was an ashen gray. There was fear in the demon’s eyes now, and exhaustion so human that for a moment Damien thought that it, too, was just part of the masquerade.

My pain is draining him, he realized. Sickened by the thought. Can I kill him, just by suffering?

There was a sudden crack beside them; instinctively he grabbed Karril by the arm and jerked her away from it, breaking into a run as soon as he was sure that the demon wouldn’t lose her balance. The seemingly solid rock they had been standing on collapsed into a swirling orange river beneath; a gust of heat slammed into them with hurricane force, flames licking at their backs.

Another island of cool rock beckoned, and they stopped there just long enough for Damien to catch his breath. His muscles ached as though he had been running for days, and his parched throat struggled to draw in enough air to support him. He raised a hand to his forehead to wipe away the sweat that was streaming into his eyes, and to his surprise found that it was whole, unbloodied. Uncooked. Was he healing even as he ran? For a moment it seemed impossible ... and then, with a chill, he recognize the pattern. Yes, his flesh would heal itself, just fast enough to allow it to suffer more. Like the Hunter’s own flesh had done when the enemy trapped him in fire, forcing him to regenerate just fast enough to burn anew. To burn eternally.

Had those eight days in the rakhlands been so traumatic that they had etched their way into Tarrant’s soul, carving out a niche in his private Hell in which the fire would always burn him? Or did the nightmare already exist within him, and Calesta merely tapped into it when he bound Tarrant within the flames? Either way, it was a terrifying concept. How could a man experience such a thing, and not lose his sanity altogether?

Whoever said he was sane?

“Look.” Karril pointed into the distance. “Something’s changing.”

Despite the harsh light-or perhaps because of it-he found it hard to make out anything in that direction. Nevertheless, it seemed to him that there was a difference. After a moment he realized what it was. No lava spurted from the region ahead of them. No clouds of choking ash arose from the landscape. Try as he might, he could see no bright red rivers coursing across the terrain where Karril pointed.

For some reason, that scared him more than everything which had come before. He started to speak, to try to voice his misgiving, but then a gust of noxious gas filled his throat and his nose, setting off a new round of coughing; his stomach heaved as if somehow that could cleanse the delicate membranes. Behind them the rock was giving way again in long, thin sections, bright lava eating away at the shelf they stood upon, inch by inch, whittling down their haven. Soon nothing would be left to stand upon. There was no alternative but to run, and nowhere to run but to that still region up ahead ... and it scared him.

“Vryce?”

“Is that the right way?” he gasped. To his relief Karril nodded. What would he have done if it weren’t? Dived into the lava stream, and swum through the boiling currents to their destination? It didn’t bear thinking about.

They sprinted forward, just in time. With a roar like thunder, the very ground they were standing on shattered like glass and collapsed into the current beneath; fire lapped at their heels as they ran for the refuge which seemed to beckon, just ahead. The whole land was in flux now, and Damien could feel the ground trembling beneath his feet as it buckled in waves, sending red fountains spouting into the air on all sides of them. Molten droplets gouged his flesh as he struggled to keep on his feet. It seemed impossible that he could keep moving, but he did. Somehow.

Falter now, priest, and you’ll be stuck here forever.

Finally they came to a place where the ground was still steady, and Damien paused for a brief instant to catch his breath. Ahead of them the black rock had crumbled and fallen, providing a sloping path down to the region beyond. Despite his misgivings, Damien began to scramble down the precarious slope, scoring his flesh on the razor-sharp rocks that lined it. Was there pain ahead? More fear? Anything was better than the glowing rivers and burning rain that were closing in behind them. Wasn’t it?

At the bottom of the slope he paused, and lay back upon the harsh gravel, trying to catch his breath. But his lungs, constricted by cloud-borne poisons, would not relax enough to draw in air. For a moment he debated the relative risk of trying to Heal himself, and at last decided he had nothing to lose by trying. He took hold of the current with his mind and began to weave it, drawing together the wild power into a Workable whole—

Or he tried to. But there was no fae here, or perhaps just no way to Work it. Earth, he thought, looking up at the swollen yellow star that shone down on them, recognizing it at last. Earth was his passion, and also his nightmare. He remembered the Hunter sharing his dreams of Earth with Damien to make him afraid, and there was no denying their power. Had the Prophet feared the very world he idolized, and mourned the concept of a world without sorcery even as he worked to bring it into being?

“Look,” Karril whispered.

He got to his feet quickly, prepared for some new assault. But the rock beneath his wounded feet was steady, and the air down on this plain was almost breathable. He looked in the distance, following Kami’s own gaze, and saw what looked like the ground moving up ahead. No, not the ground, but something on top of it that shifted and writhed like a living blanket. It was lighter than the ground itself, a sickly yellowish color that might, in a gentler light, have looked like flesh. Human flesh, discolored by the unrelenting sun.

Filled with misgivings, he nonetheless started forward toward it. If the path leads that way, we have no alternative. He disciplined his mind by recounting all the various ways he would make Tarrant pay for forcing him to come here, and thus managed to keep his fear under tight rein. But as he drew closer, as he saw the strange realm for what it was, that strategy failed him utterly.

It was bodies. Human bodies, stretching ahead to the horizon and beyond. Women’s bodies, strewn across the landscape like discarded refuse, gathered together in such numbers that in places they were stacked in mounds, like heaps of living garbage. As he watched, they twitched and shivered, and their combined motion gave the illusion of waves passing across the surface. He saw thin limbs, pale skin, fingers that clutched at air and then withdrew again, burrowing deep down into the flesh-blanket that seemed to cover the whole planet like crabs seeking shelter.

“What is it?” he whispered.

Karril breathed in sharply, for once without a pat rejoinder. “Damned if I know.”

With a wrenching sensation in his gut he realized that the living blanket was parting, ever so slowly. Limbs contracted to draw the nearer bodies out of their path; their motion was crablike and horrible, not at all human. What is this place? he thought desperately. A narrow path was forming, flanked by twitching limbs. It was just wide enough for them to walk single file, if they watched where they were going. Just narrow enough to make him feel sick at the thought of such a passage.

But ...

That was the path, without question; he didn’t need Karril to tell him that. Tarrant’s own fear had marked it for them. How many miles did this horror stretch onward, glazed eyes staring out of undead faces as spider-fingers struggled to clear the way? His stomach churned at the thought that one wrong step might put him in contact with those gruesomely contorted bodies, but a hissing behind him, like steam off approaching lava, warned him that to stay where he was might prove an even worse alternative.

There’s no other choice, he told himself grimly. Not unless we want to go back the way we came. And that was out of the question.

“All right,” he muttered. “Let’s do it.”

He went first, moving toward the narrow path the bodies had made for them. On both sides the mounds of flesh still twitched and writhed, and periodically a leg or a hand would be flung across their path, a gruesome reminder that their new-made road might disappear as quickly as it had begun. The thought made hot bile rise in his throat, but still he forced himself forward. There’s no other way, he told himself, repeating the words over and over again, a mantra of endurance. Behind him he could hear the hiss of lava as it flowed down the rocky slope and enveloped the nearest bodies, and the stink of burnt flesh filled the air like a choking perfume. He could see details of the bodies now, faces and breasts and buttocks made waxen and distorted by death, undead eyes gazing out of hollowed sockets as if facing some unseen horror. The movements of their limbs were not random, he could see now, but each body twitched as if running, or striving to run, while the weight of all its neighbors trapped it in place and turned the motion into a mockery of flight.

His foot landed close to the head of one, then by the clutching hand of another. It took almost balletic skill to avoid coming in contact with them, a trial his burned and aching body was no longer up to. It seemed to him that every step must surely be his last, and only the sheer horror of the bodies surrounding him gave him the strength to keep going. Karril followed silently behind him, wrapped in her own Iezu thoughts. Were these unalive creatures human enough to disturb her? Did they give off waves of pain of their own, or some other, more virulent suffering? He glanced back now and then to check on the demon, but though Kami’s expression was grim her short nod told Damien that all was well with her. For the moment.

And then he stopped and stared, as one human fragment among many caught his eye. A dark arm atop the paler ones. Thick hair, as black as night. Eyes that he knew, staring into the sky like eyes of the dead even as the dark limbs twitched in a mockery of life.

“Sisa,” he whispered.

He heard the Iezu curse softly as she, too, realized who this body belonged to. Tarrant’s latest victim, strewn atop this lake of human remains like so much garbage. How many others here were his victims, or at least vivid simulacra of the same? He looked out upon the acres and acres of twitching flesh and shuddered. They were all women, and from what he could see they were all within a narrow age range. Mostly pale, as befit the Hunter’s taste in victims. Doubtless attractive during their lives, although now that quality made them seem doubly gruesome.

Then: “Move!” the demon hissed from behind him, and he did so without thought, trusting Kami’s warning. Fingers scratched his ankle as he moved just beyond the reach of something, and for a moment a wave of fear surged through his blood with such force that his limbs bound up like a frozen motor. Frightened, he struggled to keep moving. From behind him the demon hissed sharply as if in pain, but when he stopped to turn around, a hand shoved him from behind as if to say, I’m fine! Keep going! Glancing down at the ground before his feet, trying to locate the safest ground, he saw with horror that human limbs were closing in on the path from both sides. Arms grasped at him as he lurched past, some closing on air behind him, some coming close enough to scrape his boots. For some reason that sight made him more afraid than all of Tarrant’s lava hell combined, and he broke into a run. Forcing his way past the grasping arms, whose fingers sent waves of terror coursing through his soul whenever they made contact. Where was the end of this path? he thought desperately. How many bodies were there? He found it impossible to believe that so many women could have fallen victim to one man’s hunger, but what did he really know about the Hunter? How many numberless atrocities had the man indulged in, in the years before his semi-retirement in the Forest?

And then one of the arms grabbed his ankle and held it. His own weight sent him plunging forward and down, into the hands and the arms and the legs that were waiting for him, and—

—running. Tree branches spreading across the path like spider silk, dark webs catching her as she runs, she struggles, she convulses madly, desperately, as the black thing that has chased her for three days and nights closes in—

—running while the ground comes alive, crawly things oozing out of the very pores of the earth to trip at her ankles, sending her facedown into a bed of hungry worms—

—running from the thing that has chased her for days, manlike but demon-strong, whose hunger licks at her flesh as she stumbles, as she feels sharp talons piercing her skin, setting hot blood to flow free—

Strong hands took hold of his hair and his collar and yanked upward; it was the pain more than anything which made the visions scatter, allowing him one precious instant in which he could gasp for breath. The hands about his ankles shifted grip, and the visions began to close in once more-but the demon dragged him forward, hard enough and fast enough for them to be thrown lose. Left behind.

Shuddering, he gasped, “Tarrant’s victims—”

“I know,” Karril said grimly. “Keep moving!” He knew in that moment, as he struggled to his feet once more, that the demon had experienced those awful visions through him. And he knew with dread certainty that if he should fall again, if those bodies should overwhelm him, the demon would be trapped alongside him in an endless hell of suffering, reliving the last moments of each of the Hunter’s victims over and over and over again....

He ran. Fast enough that the hands couldn’t take hold of him, or so he prayed. Hard enough that any which did would be shaken loose by his momentum, before the memories they stored within their flesh could take hold. One arm lashed out across the path and he landed on it, crushing its dead flesh into the rock ground beneath; a spear of memory burned up through his leg and he felt cold teeth bite into his throat, the hot wound of despair as his lifeblood gushed out. It took everything he had not to stumble, but terror lent him a strength that cold logic could never have inspired, and he managed to stay on his feet. There were moans all about him now, and while some were echoes of pain and fear, others seemed to be sounds of hunger. Were the bodies aware of him? Did they think he was Tarrant? Ahead of him the path was closing up now, and he realized in horror that to get beyond this region he was going to have to wade through a sea of bodies, each of which had the power to send him spiraling down into unending nightmare. Panic assailed him, and he glanced back over his shoulder-stumbling as he did so-to assess the odds of retreat. There were none. The path in the distance was already gone, and as they ran forward, a wave of flesh came at them from behind, threatening to submerge them utterly. And then he reached the wall of limbs and he surged into it, knowing even as he did so that no human velocity could possibly overwhelm such an obstacle, that a realm which had been designed to overwhelm the great Gerald Tarrant could easily overcome a mere human like himself—

—running/falling/fearing into darkness darkness, running DESPAIR! and the great bird closes in, talons red, feathers white—and the man with eyes of blue flame—and the wolves/spiders/snakes/shadows/HUNTER!—

A hand grasped hold of his shoulder; he felt it distantly, like a thing from another world, as the terror of the Hunter’s victims reverberated through his flesh, drawing strength and solidity in each new second.

-face like a ghost and hunger a palpable force that licks at her with an icy tongue—

He struggled to surface and failed. Struggled to define himself, to divide himself from the tsunami of pain and fear that surged through his brain, but the memories were too strong, too compelling ... too many. He was drowning in terror.

-face of a monster—

Another hand grasped him, held him tightly.

-face of a god, too dark and terrible to behold. She lies transfixed as he bends down over her, her heart pounding like a frightened animal’s ... and then, suddenly, there is something besides fear in her. A rising heat, sharp and shameful, that makes her stretch back her throat as his shadow embraces her, baring it for the kill-

—secret, shameful thrill—

—power all around her, throbbing like a living thing, HIS power—

—raw and terrible and magnificent—

—ecstasy as flesh is to,rn from her bone, one last glorious moment in which she shares his pleasure and is willing to die for this terrible embrace—

With a gasp he surfaced long enough to see Rasya’s face just above his own, expression drawn and strained as if by some private agony. “Can you move?” it whispered. A dead hand grasped at his thigh as he nodded, and it sent him plummeting down into nightmare once more. But they were no longer cold dreams of horror and despair; this was a hot sea he sank into, fear transmuted into desire, horror made into beauty, resistance giving way to a blissful acquiescence. He could sense the real terror behind it, masked by Kami’s hedonistic illusions, but its edge had been blunted. Just enough, he thought, to give him a fighting chance.

Panting, he struggled to his feet. His groin was painfully swollen, and when an undead hand brushed against it from beneath he cried out, waves of pain and pleasure radiating out from that point in stunning, shameful confusion. He held onto Kami’s arm and let the demon guide him, accepting the transformed memories as they washed over him like a wave. Once, for a brief instant, his sight of the real world grew clear enough that he could study the land ahead of them, searching for some end to this trial. But the ground was covered in flesh as far as he could see, bodies piling upon bodies in all the directions he might choose to turn. There was no end to this, he realized. Already it seemed like he had been here forever. Each memory that took hold of him seemed to last forever, and the journey yet to come—

With a strangled cry he acknowledged an even greater danger facing him, and as the next memory dragged him down into the past he fought the time-numbing power of its imagery, and struggled to regain some kind of temporal framework. At last he was reduced to counting seconds in his brain even as he ran, on remembered legs, through the Hunter’s Forest. Time and time again, in the dreams of the Hunter’s victims, he ran and suffered and desired and died—and all the while the counting ticked in his skull like some vast spring-wound clock, marking the parameters of his body’s survival. One minute. Two. Ten. An hour ...

It’ll never end, he thought grimly, unless I make it end. He struggled to win free of the nightmares that assaulted him long enough to get a good, hard look at his situation. If he had managed to gain any forward ground thus far, it wasn’t visible. There was still no end in sight. And Karril, whose bizarre ministrations had allowed him to cling to sanity, was clearly weakening from the strain of such sustained effort.

With the kind of courage that only sheer desperation could muster, he drew himself upright and raised up his fist against the black sky. “Damn you!” he screamed, in a voice so hoarse it hardly sounded human. “You know we’re here! You know why we’re here! Why play these games?” A cold hand closed around his ankle and he began to sink into memories once more; he struggled to cling to consciousness long enough to voice the challenge that his heart was screaming. “Are you afraid?” he demanded. “Afraid of one man and a Iezu? Afraid that if we get through this nightmare, we’ll lay waste to all your plans?”

“Don’t,” Karril whispered fiercely. “You don’t know what they’ll do—”

But I know what’ll happen if they don’t do anything, he thought grimly, as the horrific images began to flood his brain anew. Already the black sky was fading, and his image of the swollen sun, and the bodies on the ground were giving way to night-black, Forest-spawned underbrush—

And then there was a rumbling beneath his feet, so like that of a volcano’s flank that he nearly turned back to see if some new eruption had followed them here. But Karril was clutching him too tightly for him to turn. Another quake shook the ground, and it seemed to him that the bodies before him were beginning to withdraw, clearing the way ahead. The one that grasped his leg let loose, and he felt an almost unbearable relief when, for the first time in hours, his mind was wholly his own.

“Karril-” he began.

“You’re suicidal, you know that?” Amazed and exasperated, the demon shook her head. “How on Erna did you manage to survive this long?”

The ground split before them with a roar, and a vast, black chasm opened just before their feet. The bodies on its edges spilled down into the guts of the earth, still twitching their death-dance as they fell. It seemed to

Damien that the bodies moaned as they fell, or perhaps some hellish wind that scoured the chasm’s depths merely mimicked the sound. Instinctively he stepped back, but the demon would not permit him to retreat.

“You summoned it,” she growled. “You deal with it.”

Something in the chasm’s blackness made his stomach clench in terror, but he knew in his heart that Karril was right. Tarrant’s captors were clearly aware of their journey here-as he had guessed—and they had answered his challenge. It was too late to undo that. All he could accomplish now, by refusing their invitation, was to anger them enough that they closed the way out of here forever.

He walked slowly to the edge of the chasm and gazed down into it. Though his human eyes could make out no details in the blackness, other senses picked out motion within the lightless depths, of things that slithered and flew and ... waited. A sickening reek rose up to his nostrils, all too like the one that had been in Tarrant’s apartment. He had barely been able to tolerate that assault; how well would he handle this, its hellish source? As he stared down into the abyss, he suddenly wasn’t sure.

Well, you should have thought of that before you came here, priest. It’s too late now.

The lip of the chasm near his feet wasn’t a sheer drop, as elsewhere, but an angled and rocky slope. Clearly it was the only way down, short of jumping. With a last glance at Karril and a pounding in his heart, Damien slipped free of the demon’s grasp and began the precarious descent. Into the black, rent earth. Into a darkness so total that despite the light from above, sharp yellow shafts making the lips of the chasm glow as if they were burning, he couldn’t make out the shape of his own hand in front of his face, much less any detail of his surroundings.

Then the darkness closed in overhead, and all sight of the world above was gone. He breathed in deeply, trying not to give way to the claustrophobia that suddenly gripped his heart. At last, when he felt capable of moving again, he began to work his way down the slope by feel alone. When the path seemed to dissolve beneath his hands, he fought hard not to panic, and waited it out. The blackness surrounding him was close and thick and evil-smelling, but his sense of impending danger had become so great that those things took a back seat in his consciousness. As did the pain of his many wounds, now burning anew as the darkness rubbed against them.

“Karril?” he whispered. “You with me?”

“Unfortunately.” He felt the demon brush against him and reached out to take her hand; from the strength of her returning grip he judged that she wasn’t any happier about this place than he was. He was suddenly glad that she had come here in a female form. It didn’t matter worth a damn in reality-a demon was a demon-but he would have felt like an idiot squeezing hands with a man in this darkness, even knowing the truth. Thank God for Kami’s insight.

Something brushed against his leg—and a wave of loathing rose up in his gut, clogged his throat, made his brain fill with images of hatred and destruction. An instant later it was gone. What—? Then another thing slithered against his back, and for an instant he was consumed by such jealous rage that all conscious thought gave way before it. That, too, passed quickly, fading into the darkness that surrounded as soon as its messenger lost contact with them.

“Hate-wraiths,” Karril whispered. “Rage-wraiths. And more. Every species of evil that man has ever produced is here, given independent life by the force of the planet. Congregating in this one place, like drawn to like, until their sheer mass gave them a kind of consciousness no lone demon could ever enjoy.” Damien could sense her eyes fixed on him; could her Iezu senses function in this darkness? “That’s your Unnamed, priest. Erna’s great devil. Like everything else, a creation of your own species.” Damien could feel her twisting, as if to look about them. “And a damn lousy host, besides.”

He was about to respond when a voice whispered,

See. Others echoed it, fragments of speech that entered his skull not through his ears, as human speech might, but through his very skin. Whispers that etched their way into his brain matter without ever making a real sound.

See

Intruders!

No place

Go

Go

See

Invasion!

Strike out

Destroy

And then a deeper voice, more resonant, that seemed to contain a thousand others: See what it is you came to see, priest. Know your own helplessness.

A figure some ten yards distant from Damien was made visible, but not by any natural light. Eerie phosphorescence illuminated the form of a man hanging as if bound to some frame, but gave no view of his supporting device. It gleamed off the polished surfaces of belt buckles, buttons, and embroidery, but was swallowed by the darkness surrounding those things before it could illuminate any details of the chamber surrounding. It etched in harsh relief the visage of a man so wracked by pain that his features were almost unrecognizable, and the shreds of his clothing where they hung from his lean frame were little more than wisps of dying color, bleached by the unnatural light.

“Gerald,” he whispered.

He was bound as he had been in the fire of the earth so long ago: cruciform, his arms stretched out tautly to his sides, his legs separated just far enough to make room for the bonds at his ankles. But where the Master of Lema had used plain iron to bind the Hunter, the Unnamed had more gruesome tools. The ropes that were wrapped about him glowed with an unwholesome light all their own, and they shifted and twitched as Damien watched, like living creatures. Horrified, he saw one raise its head as if noting his approach; when it decided at last that Damien was no threat to it, it returned to the work at hand, burrowing down between the tendons of the Hunter’s forearm like some hungry animal, leaving a band of sizzling flesh wherever it passed. Now that he knew what to look for, Damien could see that the other “ropes” were much the same, serpentine creatures that twined inside and out of the Hunter’s body, their flesh burning into the man’s own like acid every time they moved.

He wasn’t surprised that Karril let go of his hand and refused to approach with him. Gazing at Tarrant’s tortured visage, sensing a man so lost in pain that he wasn’t even aware of their presence, he wondered that the Iezu had managed to come even this close.

You see? a slithering voice pressed, and another whispered, Your Church would approve.

He tried to focus on why he had come here, on the arguments he had been running through his mind since his discovery of Tarrant’s disappearance. It was hard, with that horrific display hanging just overhead. He flinched inside each time he heard one of the serpent-things move, guessing at the pain they caused. “Is this some kind of punishment?” he demanded. This is his judgment, many-voices-in-one answered him.

“For what crime?”

He could sense agitation in the darkness around him; one or two of the damned creatures flitted near him, but none made contact. For the act of forgetting who he is, and what power sustains him. For the crime of pretending to be human.

“It must have been a terrible thing he did, that over-weighs nine centuries of service. Tell me what it was." You were there, priest.

Was that anger in its voice? He tried to keep the fear out of his own as he urged it, “Tell me how you see it.”

He saved a civilization from ruin, one voice whispered into his brain.

He circumvented a holocaust that would have fed us all, another proclaimed.

He gave your Patriarch a weapon no man of the Church should ever have.

“What-?” He looked up at Tarrant, eyes narrowing in anger as he realized what the voices must be referring to. You son of a bitch. You did it! It was hard to say if he was more amazed or angry, now that he knew. What kind of desperation must the man have felt, to have risked such a thing?

He forced himself to turn away from the Hunter’s body, to face the unseen creatures once more. He had an answer for that argument, and for any other they might come up with. “Each thing you name, he did for his own purposes. Each thing he did, he did to stay alive so that he could serve you." Doesn’t matter Doesn’t matter Doesn’t matter Traitor!

His mind racing, Damien struggled to regain control of their interview. “And so what? You’ll keep him here forever? Is that your intention?" Until judgment is rendered Until the compact is broken Traitor!

“A death sentence,” he mused. “Is that what nine centuries of service are worth to you?”

He could feel something swelling in the darkness, like a wave gathering overhead, preparing to crash down on him. The next voice was deeper and infinitely more resonant, and played against a background of utter silence; the whispering voices had been sucked into a greater whole.

We reclaim a gift he no longer deserves, it told Damien. What he does after that is his own concern. “You’re sentencing him to death.” Again there was the dizzying sensation of something gathering just beyond his sight, drawing back like an incipient bore wave. Panic shot through his flesh like hot spears, but he sensed that it was some kind of assault from that presence, and he struggled to stand his ground.

Whether he lives or dies is not Our concern. “Your sentence means his death,” he persisted. Sensing that there was an intelligence behind the voice now, and a malevolence, far greater than anything it had contained before. “You know that. He knows it.” And he dared, “Taste the knowledge inside him, if you doubt me.”

Something dark and unwholesome moved close by his cheek, almost touching him as it passed; it took everything he had not to collapse in a heap of gibbering panic at the near-contact. God in Heaven! What would happen if it had actually touched him, like the others had? Then he heard a sharp cry behind him, and the straining of flesh against living bonds. Whatever method of Knowing the owner of that voice was using, it was clearly painful.

I’m sorry, he thought to Tarrant. Wishing the man could hear him. There was no other way.

At last the struggling behind him subsided, and he was aware of the dark thing withdrawing to its place. What you say is true, it rumbled. It’s still no concern of Ours.

“He served you for nine centuries,” Damien challenged. “He tortured and killed and maimed and corrupted whole generations, all in your name. He warped an entire region so that it would serve his hunger—your hunger—and made himself into a legend that’ll feed you with fear long after he’s dead.” He paused dramatically; his heart was pounding. “For all that service he should deserve some kind of chance for survival, don’t you think?”

Perhaps, a lighter voice whispered, and others echoed the thought. The sense of overwhelming malevolence had faded ever so slightly, for which Damien was grateful. Would that greater being have accepted his argument? For the first time he sensed what Tarrant must have gone through, putting his soul in the hands of a creature who changed its very definition with each passing second. Or perhaps instead We should judge him by the company he keeps. You defend him as if he were one of your own, priest. If he were truly as evil as you claim, no living man would stand up for him like that.

“I need him!” he snarled. Making his voice as callous as it could become, smothering every last bit of sentiment his human heart might nurture. “I need him as a tool, and when that’s done I couldn’t give a damn what happens to him. Let Hell have him if it wants. God knows, he’s earned it.”

Silence. Damien glanced over desperately to where Karril must be, but saw no sign of her in the darkness. Would his argument work? Clearly the Unnamed’s response to such things had as much to do with the form it was in at the moment, as any inherent merit his argument might have. Was it in Damien’s favor that the voices had stayed joined together through most of their interview, or would the fragmented whispers that flitted about like insects have been easier to convince?

At last, after long minutes of silence, the voices whispered, Judgment is rendered.

He looked back at Tarrant, then into the heart of the darkness once more. “What is it?” he demanded.

Death may take him, another voice whispered. But not by Our hands. There was a pause; Damien could feel the blood pounding hot in his head, and it felt near to bursting. One longmonth from today, the compact that sustains him will be dissolved. If he can find an alternate means of survival before that, so be it. If not, then Hell may have him.

You will see that he understands Our terms.

“Yes,” he whispered. Numbed by the seeming victory. “Of course.”

A stench of foulness spilled into the space surrounding Tarrant, a smell so unclean that it made Damien’s stomach heave in protest. A hot, bitter fluid filled his mouth; he forced himself to swallow it down as the living ropes unwound themselves from about the Hunter’s limbs, withdrawing themselves from his flesh. One by one they slithered off into the stink and the darkness, and became invisible. One and one only remained, coiling about Tarrant’s neck like a restless serpent.

We leave him with this, the voices whispered, as a reminder of Our power.

The snakelike creature lashed out at Tarrant’s face suddenly, and such was its speed and its force that it cracked like a whip as it struck his flesh. The Hunter cried out sharply, and his body bent back in agony. Then that creature also slithered away, leaving Tarrant’s body to fall from its unseen frame to a lifeless heap on the floor. A shapeless sack of bones, no more, so tortured and starved and exhausted by fear that it lacked even the strength to cry out as it struck.

The light was beginning to fade, but it seemed to Damien that the source of the whispers was also gone. “Karril?” he dared. “Can you do something?”

He heard something move toward him, and then the demon was by his side. “Here.” She handed him a candle-or the illusion of a candle, more likely—whose feeble light was just enough to illuminate Tarrant’s face. Damien rolled the Hunter gently onto his back. Where the serpentine creature had struck him there was now a scar that glistened wetly as it coursed from his jawline to the corner of his eye. The flesh was puckered about it as if it were a wound badly healed, enhancing its disfiguring power tenfold. He’ll love that, he thought grimly. Tarrant’s eyes were open but glazed, unseeing, their pupils so distended by pain that no hint of the iris was visible. Just as well, Damien thought. Not much worth looking at around here.

He readied himself to lift the man’s limp form up onto his shoulders—and then shuddered, at the thought of where he had to carry it. “Tell me the way back is easier,” he begged Karril.

“It’s easier,” the demon assured him.

He looked up at her.

“It really is. I swear it.” She reached out to the Hunter’s face as if to touch it gently, but then drew back before contact was made. Afraid to share his pain? “You have him now. I can lead you home directly.”

“Thank God for that,” he muttered. For a moment longer he crouched by Tarrant’s side, his body aching from its many wounds. Then, with a practiced grip, he heaved the unprotesting body up onto his left shoulder, and rose with it. The weight hurt like hell-so to speak-but that pain was ameliorated by the knowledge of his victory.

Well—he cautioned himself—partial victory, anyway.

As he turned to follow Karril, the weight of Tarrant’s limp form heavy on his shoulder, he thought, Pray God it will be enough.

20

“Well, Well. Look who’s here.”

Narilka looked up from the window display she was working on and blanched as she saw who was approaching the shop. Gresham must have seen her stiffen, for he asked, “What is it, Nari? Something wrong?”

“No.” She whispered the word, wishing she could make it sound convincing. “I was just ... surprised.”

She hadn’t seen Andrys since that day outside her apartment. She hadn’t heard from him at all, other than to process his payments for the work in progress. She was frightened by the lack of contact, frustrated, mystified. Hadn’t he felt something for her that night, that should surely draw him back to her? Could a man expose his soul like that and then just close it up again, as if nothing had ever happened? Or was the whole thing just an act, part of the game his kind played so well—and if so, why had he never come to take advantage of his gains?

It frightened her how upset she was, and how out of control she felt. If any other man had acted like this she would have written him off, or taken matters into her own hands and initiated some new contact. With this man she couldn’t do either. At night she lay awake, hopelessly sleepless, aching with a need that was as much pure sexual hunger as any more civilized drive. She had sensed a like need in him when he had kissed her. So why hadn’t he returned? And if it was just a fleeting moment’s pleasure for him, a brief sidetrack in his sport, why couldn’t she call it that and forget it?

He was coming across the street now, and there was no denying where he was headed. Her heart pounding wildly, she pushed the last few cake knives into place and stood up straight again. Her hands smoothed her clothing with a desperate need to have everything in place, even as she chided herself for such foolishness. Did she really think a few wrinkles would make a difference?

Then the door swung open, its silver bells jingling, and he stepped inside. He met her eyes for an instant, then quickly looked away. Was that shame in his expression, or fear, or simply disinterest? Suddenly panicked, she realized she had lost all ability to read him.

“Mer Tarrant. A pleasure.” Gresham came around the end of the counter and offered his hand. He glanced at Narilka with some concern as he did so, and she could read his expression clearly enough. Is something wrong? Did he hurt you? She shook her head ever so slightly, her heart aching. No, he hadn’t hurt her. She’d hurt herself.

“I got your note.” He nodded a token greeting to Narilka (and how distant he was! Like a stranger again, as if their last meeting had never taken place) and then he clasped Gresham’s hand, accepting his welcome. “Is it really finished?”

“I think you’ll be very pleased.” Again Gresham glanced at Narilka, but she turned away. Andrys Tarrant’s presence in the room made her feel strangely naked, painfully vulnerable. Blessed Saris! How had he done so much to her by doing so little? “Come into the back. I’ve got it all laid out for you.”

They went through the door at the rear of the shop, letting it swing shut behind them. After a moment of hesitation, Narilka followed. She snapped the inner lock shut on the front door out of habit, so that no one might enter the shop while it was unattended. Did it really matter? she wondered. Did anything matter, when he treated her like a stranger?

She caught up with them just as they reached the polishing bench; Gresham was explaining to Andrys all the fine points of the work they had done, as if expecting that his appreciation of the coronet and armor would somehow fall short if he were uninformed. Even from behind him, she could see him stiffen as he saw the finished product. She ached to reach out to him, to tell him with a touch on his shoulder, his hand, that no, he wasn’t alone, she knew his pain and she would help him bear it. But that gesture belonged to another world, a place of dreams where their fragile connection had flourished. Not here.

“It is ...” He breathed in deeply, as if struggling for courage. “Magnificent.”

It was indeed. Gresham had put the breastplate on a body form, with its matching bracers and greaves arranged in their proper positions. A golden sun blazed on the breastplate with a brilliance that rivaled the Core itself, and the delicate inlaid forms that spiraled around it were without doubt the finest work Gresham Alder had ever produced. The curve of the breastplate did not mimic the shape of a human torso, but improved upon it. Picturing Andrys’ strong shoulders encased in that steel, his full flowing sleeves caught up in polished bracers at the wrist, Narilka felt tears come to her eyes.

Gresham had fixed a wire to the form to support the coronet in its proper position, and as Andrys’ attention turned to it, she felt herself flush with pride. It was, without question, the best work she had ever done. Its delicate form embodied not only a talent that had been finely developed through the years, but a sensuality that paid homage to the feelings he had stirred within her. Now, watching as he studied her work, imagining him as cold as a stranger to her, she hurt more than ever to have her feelings so exposed.

“Just magnificent,” he breathed. “Far beyond the original.” She saw Gresham draw himself up with pride, and wished she had the heart to do the same. Why couldn’t she hear only his words, and not sense the pain behind them? Why couldn’t she stop caring?

“Would you like to try it on?” Gresham asked. She saw Andrys stiffen, and could guess at the turmoil within him, but there was no way he could deny such an offer. He nodded, and moved as if to help Gresham remove the pieces from the body form. But no, the master indicated, he was the guest, the beloved patron, and such a man was meant to be served. He stood still while the pieces were removed from their places one by one, and Narilka came around to where she could see his profile. Hurting for him. Hating him. Wishing she could be anywhere other than where she was, or that the time could be made to move faster so that there was some hope of escape.

She saw him shiver as the breastplate was fitted to him, but only because she knew to look for such a response; Gresham would never notice. She watched as the bracers were fitted on his arms, their straps buckled tightly over his shirt sleeves. She knew that to him they felt like manacles, binding him to a past he would far rather forget. She bled for him as the greaves were fitted about his lower legs, and hated herself for doing so. This man had done everything but reject her to her face; why couldn’t she force him out of her heart?

And then the coronet was lifted and offered, and Andrys took it up in his own hands and set it upon his head. She could see him quake as the band of finely worked sterling settled down about his forehead, and his eyes fell shut in a manner that made her fear he would faint-but Gresham was busy getting a mirror into place for him, and didn’t notice. The glass was turned toward him, reflecting a figure so finely adorned that it might have stepped out of the pages of a fairy tale. Or a romance novel. Or a horror tale, she thought, sensing what he saw when he looked into that mirror. Knowing the courage he must have nurtured over these past few weeks, to be able to endure this moment in front of strangers.

“I have no words,” he murmured, and Gresham glowed at the perceived compliment. Andrys’ hand touched the golden sun at the center of his chest, fingers splayed along its rays. “This is beyond anything I could have expected.” And then he turned to Narilka, and for an instant she saw, in his eyes, the torment that was in his soul. She could hear his silent screaming, as he forced his voice and body to obey the forms of gratitude without any hint of the pain that was inside. “More beautiful than the original,” he whispered, and then he quickly looked away. As if he feared, looking longer, what he might see in her eyes.

She turned away herself as the two men divested him of his shell, unable to look at him any longer. She felt faint herself, and frightened by her own reactions. Why did she feel like every word was a knife in her flesh? When had he gained the power to hurt her like this? After a moment she realized that Gresham wanted her to do something, and she went and got his leather-bound notebook for him. Yes, he would be happy to have the pieces delivered. Of course, that date would be fine. And if there was anything else that Mer wanted, anything at all, Gresham would be happy to get it for him or make it for him, whichever he preferred.

She took his check without making eye contact and wrote a receipt with a trembling hand. This is it, she thought. I’ll never see him again. It was better that way, wasn’t it? Did she really want to get involved with a man like this? Let him play his games with the women who enjoyed them. There were enough of those in the world, weren’t there?

But she ached inside to see him go, crumpling Gresham’s copy of the receipt into a shapeless wad in her hand. And as he walked down the narrow street, out of her life forever, a thin voice began to scream inside her. How can you let him go like this? Without a word of explanation, a hint of apology? Don’t you deserve better than that? Isn’t this just another kind of abuse, albeit more subtle than the rest? Why do you just stand there and take it?

She looked up at her boss, shaken. “Gresham—”

“Go ahead,” he told her. His expression was dark, his disapproval clear, but he nodded his permission. No more words were needed. She started toward the door, then remembered the receipt in her hand. Fingers trembling, she struggled to straighten it out. But he came to where she was and took it from her crumpled, and kissed her gently on the forehead. “Go,” he whispered.

She went.

He had gone a block by the time she caught up to him; rather than touch him, she ran up beside him and willed him to notice her. He did, and his face grew suddenly pale. He stopped walking, but she had the impression it was more because his legs had failed him than because he really wanted to talk to her.

“Why?” she demanded. “Just tell me that, all right? No pretty lies, no petty excuses. Just tell me."

He opened his mouth, then shut it again. She could see the tension in his jaw, in the tightening of his brow. At last he turned away and whispered, almost inaudibly, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“And what the hell do you think you’ve been doing?” There were tears coming to her eyes now; she wished she knew how to stop them. “Did you think you weren’t hurting me with your silence, back there? Did you think I wouldn’t hurt all those days that you avoided me? Was that all for my sake?”

He flinched, but didn’t turn back to her. “You don’t know my life,” he whispered hoarsely. “You don’t understand the risk involved—”

“Then explain it to me!” She reached out and grabbed him by the nearer sleeve, pulling him back to face her; her strength in doing so seemed to surprise both of them. “Let me make my own decisions, damn it! I’m a grown woman, not some empty-headed doll that can’t think for itself! Give me a little credit for intelligence, will you?”

A fruit vendor from down the street was watching them. She didn’t care. The only thing in the world that mattered to her now was the man before her, and the tear she thought she saw forming in his eye. Good, she thought fiercely, so you can hurt, too. Maybe when you’ve hurt as much as I have, then we can do something about it.

“Look.” His voice was tender as he took her by the shoulders, his fingers warm about her arms. “I’ve been ... cursed. Do you understand? Everything that I touch falls to ruin. Everyone that I love dies. I don’t want that to happen to you.”

“Andrys—”

“I can’t ask you to share in that kind of risk. I can’t let you be involved—”

“I love you.” The words came unbidden to her lips, but as soon as she spoke them she knew they were true. “Don’t push me away. Please.”

“Oh, God.” He turned from her, and lowered his head into his hand. Where his sleeve pulled back from his wrist she could see a narrow scar, freshly healed, right above the vein. “Don’t do this. You don’t want me. You don’t want my burdens.”

She put a hand on his arm, ever so gently. “You don’t have to face them alone,” she told him. A passing woman with a dog stared at them for a moment, then walked quickly past. “Not if you don’t want to.” He drew in a deep breath, shaking, and wiped his hand across his eyes, smearing their wetness across his cheek. “You don’t know where I’m going,” he whispered hoarsely. “You don’t know what I’m doing, how dangerous it is—”

She hesitated for only a moment. “I know you want to kill the Hunter. I know he’s your own flesh and blood, the man in the painting you showed me. I know....” she thought of his pain in the shop, and his panic the first time he tried on the armor. “I know it’s tearing you apart to even think about it.”

His eyes widened in surprise, and she could sense the unvoiced question behind them; How did you find that out? But instead of voicing it, he said, “Then you know the risk. You can understand that when he finds out what I’m planning, he’s sure to strike out at me, and anyone who gets in the way—”

“He can’t hurt me,” she told him. Feeling her heart pounding anew, as she sensed the power of those words.

“What? What do you mean?”

“He promised that he would never hurt me. And he keeps his word, Andrys. I know that for a fact.” There were tears in her eyes now, too; with the back of a hand she quickly wiped them away. “So you see? I’m safe." Safer than you, my love. “But how-?”

She told him all of it. The chance encounter on a lonely road so long ago. Her abduction from the city by men whose faces she never saw. The three nights in which she was hunted, only to find that the Hunter, once recognizing her, stood by his promise.

“He won’t hurt me,” she said quietly. “So don’t push me away from you for my own protection. If you don’t want me, that’s something else ... but don’t do it because of that.”

He brought up a hand to the side of her face; the touch brought back memories so powerful that she had to take a step back to the wall of a building behind her, for support. “I want you,” he whispered, and he moved closer to her. Pressing her back against the coarse brick as he kissed her, his entire soul focused upon the act. It wasn’t a gentle kiss, like last time, but something hard and desperate and hungry. It was fear and loneliness and desire all wrapped up together, and when he finally drew back from her she could feel herself shaking from the force of it, and from the heat of response in her own body.

“You’re making a big mistake,” he warned her. Running a finger down the line of her throat. She trembled as he touched her, and wondered just what she was getting herself into.

“Maybe,” she whispered. She was dimly aware of a couple walking by them, muttering in low tones of their disapproval of such a public display. The fruit vendor was still watching. “I’ll try to learn from it, all right? So I can do better the next time.”

Then he kissed her again, and this time there were no passersby. No street vendors. No Hunter. No anything.

Only him.

21

Tarrant lay on a velvet couch in the basement of Kami’s temple, not breathing. His torn silk clothing had been replaced by a heavy robe, rich and plush and festooned with embroidery. Somehow it made him seem that much paler, that much more fragile, to be in such an overdecorated garment. His eyes were shut and his brow slightly drawn, as if in tension, but that was the only sign of life about him. That, and the fact that his hands grasped the sides of the couch as if fearing separation from it.

The scar still cut across his face, an ugly wound made uglier still by the aesthetic perfection which surrounded it. No other wound had remained on his body but that one. He had healed even as Damien had healed, the marks of imprisonment and torture fading from their flesh as they wended their way back to the world of the living. All except that one.

“I had blood brought for him,” Karril told Damien. “and I think he drank enough to keep him going. If he needs more, I can get it. Don’t offer him yours.”

“Why? Is there some special danger in that?”

The demon looked sharply at him. “War’s been declared, you know. Maybe not in words as such, but it’s no less real for all that. Keep your strength up, and your guard. You’ll need them both.” He reached down to Tarrant’s face and laid a hand against his forehead. “He’ll wake up soon, I think. I’ll leave you two alone to talk about ... whatever.”

“There’s no need for that.”

“Maybe not for you, Reverend. But for me?” He sighed. “I’ve broken so many rules it’s a wonder I’m still here to talk about them. Let’s leave it at that, all right? From here on you’re on your own. I’ve taken on enough risks these last few days to last me a lifetime.”

With a nod of leavetaking he turned away, and started toward the stairs.

“Karril.” He drew in a deep breath. “Thank you.”

The demon stopped. He didn’t turn back. It seemed from his posture that the words had shaken him.

“He was a friend,” he said at last. “I wish I could do more.”

His velvet robe brushing the stairs as he ascended, he exited the cellar and shut the heavy door behind him. The silence he left behind was thick and heavy, and Damien breathed in deeply, trying to ignore its ominous weight. On all sides of him, racks of bottles rose from floor to ceiling, punctuated by ironbound casks and small wooden crates. He hadn’t asked what the latter were for. He didn’t want to know. It was bad enough taking shelter in the cellar of a pagan temple, without also implying approval of its contents.

There was nowhere else to go, he explained silently. To Tarrant, to the Patriarch, to himself. Nowhere else we could be safe, for the hours it would take him to recover.

Hell. There was a time when even that argument couldn’t have gotten him to stay down here, when he would have safeguarded the sanctity of his person as vehemently as he now protected the Hunter’s flesh. When had the last vestiges of that righteous dedication faded? When had he come to regard such things so lightly, that it no longer bothered him where he was or who his allies were, as long as they served his purpose?

With a heavy sigh he reached for the pitcher Karril had left beside him, and poured himself yet another drink. Since the moment when he had first awakened in his hotel room his thirst had been insatiable, yet drink after drink failed to moisten the dryness in his throat. Was that thirst born of fear, perhaps, instead of bodily need? Had a clear view of Hell and the creatures who thrived there given him a new perspective on their conflict with Calesta, and made him realize just how unlikely it was that a war like this could be won?

Gerald Tarrant groaned, and shifted upon the plush couch as though in the grip of a nightmare. Seeing him, Damien couldn’t help but remember the thousands of women who inhabited his private Hell, and his stomach tightened in loathing at the thought. What kind of man was this, that he had made his ally? What kind of man was he, to have accepted him?

With a sharp moan the Hunter stiffened, and his eyes shot open. For a moment it seemed that he wasn’t focused on the room, but upon some internal vision; then, with a shudder, he looked at Damien, and the truth seemed to sink in.

“Where am I?” he whispered. His voice was barely audible.

“Kami’s temple. Storage cellar.”

“Karril?” His brow furrowed tightly as he struggled to make sense of that. “Kami’s Iezu. Why would he ... ?”

“You don’t remember?”

“I don’t ... not him ... I remember you. You came for me.” His tone was one of amazement as he whispered, “Through ...”

“Yeah,” he said quickly. Not anxious to rehash it. “Through all that.”

The Hunter shut his eyes and leaned back weakly. One hand moved up to his face, to where the newly-made scar cut across his skin; his slender fingers explored the damage, and Damien thought he saw him shiver. “We’re back,” he whispered. A question.

“You were given a month’s reprieve. Don’t you remember?”

“Not clearly. I wasn’t ... wholly cognizant.” Again his hand raised up to his face, seemingly of its own accord, and traced the disfiguring scar. Then his eyes unlidded, and fixed on Damien. “Why, Vryce?” The words were a whisper, hardly loud enough for the priest to hear. “Not that I’m not grateful for the brief reprieve, mind you. But it is only that. Was that worth risking your status for?”

He stiffened at the reminder of his professional vulnerability; it wasn’t a welcome thought. “I need you,” he said curtly. “We’re fighting a Iezu, remember? I can’t do that alone.”

Wearily he shut his eyes once more; his tired flesh seemed to sink back into the cushions, as though soon it would fade away entirely. “And I’m to give you all the answers? In one month? You should have just left me there.”

“Maybe I should have,” he snapped, suddenly angry. “Maybe the man I went through Hell to rescue didn’t make it back. Oh, his flesh is alive enough-as much as it ever was-but where’s the spark that drove it? I must have lost track of it, somewhere on the way back.”

“He’s a Iezu," Tarrant whispered hoarsely. “We don’t even know what they are, much less how to fight them. If we had unlimited time to come up with new theories and test them, time to do research, then maybe, maybe, we’d have a chance. But one month? You’re going to figure out how to destroy the indestructible in one month? Not to mention,” he added hoarsely, “that if I don’t find another means of sustaining my life by the end of that time ...” He winced, and the shadow of remembered pain passed across his face. “Can’t be done,” he whispered. “Not like that.”

With a snort Damien rose from his side and walked away, moving toward the door that Karril had used for his exit. Heavy planks banded with cast iron, now securely shut. He listened to see if any sound could make it through that barrier, and at last decided they were safe enough. Karril could hear them if he wanted to, he suspected, but he didn’t think that demon was the eavesdropping kind.

“What would you think,” he said quietly, “if I told you that I knew how to kill a Iezu?”

He heard the couch creak behind him, and guessed that Tarrant was struggling to a sitting position. Given the man’s condition, it was little wonder that long seconds passed before he finally managed, “What?”

“You heard me.”

“How could you have gained knowledge like that? After all my research failed, and yours as well?”

He glanced once more at the solid door, satisfying himself that it was fully shut, and then turned back to Tarrant. The Hunter looked ghastly even by comparison with his normal state.

He said it simply, knowing the power that was in such a statement. “Karril told me.”

“When?” he demanded.

“Before we came after you. I went to his temple to ask for his help, and we argued. He told me then.”

“Why?” he asked in amazement. “Oh, he might have rendered Calesta vulnerable, but also himself as well. He’s too practiced a survivor for that.”

“Oh, I don’t think he was aware of doing it. Not in so many words.”

The Hunter’s eyes were fixed on him now, and there was a brightness in their depths that Damien had feared he’d lost forever. A hunger, but not for triumph. Not even for survival. For knowledge. “Tell me,” he whispered.

And he did. He told him what the Iezu had said to him, back when he’d first come to the temple. How he had expressed his own fear of what the journey might mean to him.

The way is pain, and worse. I can’t endure it. Even if I wanted to, even if I were willing to risk her displeasure ... I’m not human. I can’t absorb emotions which run counter to my aspect. No Iezu could survive such an assault.

“Well?” he said at last. “Does that mean what I think it does, or not?"

The Hunter’s eyes were focused elsewhere, beyond Damien, as he digested the thought. “Yes,” he said at last. “You’re right. I’ve heard Iezu express similar fears before, but voiced as a question of discomfort, rather than survival. This would seem to imply there’s more to it.”

“So there’s hope, then.”

“A long shot at best. What runs counter to Calesta’s aspect? Perfectly counter, so that he can’t adapt? Karril can deal with pain if he must, so the matter’s not a simple one.”

It came to him, then, from the fields of memory, so quickly and so clearly that he wondered if the fae weren’t responsible. “Apathy.”

“What?”

“Kami’s negative factor is apathy. The absence of all pleasure. The absence of ability to experience pleasure.”

“Where the hell did you come up with that?”

“He told us. Back at Senzei’s place, when Ciani was first attacked.” Good God! The memory seemed so distant now, half a lifetime away. He struggled to remember what the demon had said, at last had to resort to a Remembering. The fae took shape in response to his will, forming a misty simulacrum of Karril before them. There are few kinds of pain I can tolerate, it said, fewer still that I can feed on. But apathy is my true nemesis. It is anathema to my being: my negation, my opposite, my destruction. Then, its duty accomplished, the image faded. The room’s cool air was heavy with silence.

“Apathy,” the Hunter mused.

“There’s got to be something like that for Calesta, right? Something similar, that we can use as a weapon.”

The Hunter shook his head. “Karril was talking about trying to endure something, not having it forced upon him. How would you inundate a spirit with apathy? If it were deadly to him, he would surely flee from it, like any living creature. And apathy isn’t something you can nock to a bow, or insert into the wood of a quarrel. It can’t be made into a blade, to cut and pierce on its own.”

“Not yet,” Damien agreed. “But that doesn’t mean there isn’t some way to use it. You and I just have to figure out how.” Exhaustion seemed to cloud the Hunter’s expression; he turned away and whispered, in a voice without emotion, “In a month?”

“If that’s all we have.”

Though the Remembering had faded from sight, some vestige of its power must still have remained in the room; Damien could see bits and pieces of the Hunter’s recollections taking form about his head. Images of pain and horror and terror beyond bearing, still as alive in his memory as they were in that dark place inside his soul. Hell was waiting for him. So was the Unnamed. Thirty-one days.

“Not enough,” he whispered. “Not enough.”

Anger welled up inside Damien with unexpected force. He walked to where the Hunter sat and dropped down beside him, grabbing his shoulders, pulling him around to face him. “I went to Hell and beyond to bring you back, and so help me God you’ll earn it. You understand? I don’t care how little time it seems to you, or how vulking depressed you get, or even whether or not you’re going to make it past that last day. What we’re talking about is the future of all of humankind, and that’s a hell of a lot more important than my fate, or even yours. Even yours." He paused. “You understand me?”

The Hunter glared at him. “Easy enough words, from your perspective.”

“Damn you, Gerald! Why are you doing this?” He rose up from the couch and stepped away, afraid he would hit the man if he remained too close. “Do I have to tell you what the answer is? You’re a free agent for the first time in nine hundred years. Take advantage of that!”

“I am what they made me to be,” he said bitterly. “None of that has been undone. Going against their will means going against my own nature—”

“Damn it, man, no one said redemption would be easy! But isn’t it worth a try? Isn’t that better than handing yourself over to them in a longmonth, without so much as a whimper of protest?”

“You don’t know,” he whispered. There was pain in his voice. “You can’t possibly understand." ,

“Try me.”

The pale eyes narrowed; his expression was strained. “Those sins you saw,” he breathed. “Would you forgive them so quickly, if the matter were in your hands? Would you wipe clean a slate of nine hundred years, for one single month of good intentions? For a vow made in the shadow of such fear that its true motivation could never be judged?”

“I wouldn’t,” he said shortly. “God might. That’s the difference between us.”

"Might is a hell of a thing to bet one’s eternity on.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “About as shaky as trying to stay alive forever. Only in the latter case, you know it has to end someday.” He paused. “You did know that, didn’t you? That it had to end sometime. Today it’s Calesta and tomorrow it might be something else, but you can’t run forever.”

The Hunter turned away from him. Though Damien waited, he said nothing.

“All right,” the priest said at last. “You think about it. I’ll be back in my room if you decide you want my help. Karril has the address.”

He turned toward the stairs and was about to leave, but a single sound, voiced quiet as a breeze, stopped him.

“Damien.”

He didn’t turn back, but he did stop. Waiting.

“Thank you,” the Hunter whispered.

For a moment longer he stood where he was. Then, without voicing a response, he climbed the short flight of stairs and pushed open the heavy door. The sounds and smells of Kami’s temple greeted him, unwelcome reminders of the world that surrounded. Millions upon millions of men and women and helpless children, whose futures were all at risk.

I saved you, he thought bitterly to Tarrant. Now you do your job, and help me save them.

22

Pleasure was to apathy as sadism was to ...

What?

The analogy ran through Damien’s head obsessively, forever uncompleted. And though he tried to satisfy the pattern with over a dozen words, none of them were quite right. The answer continued to elude him, and only the knowledge that it must surely exist gave him the strength to rise above his frustration and keep searching.

The key to it all was the insight that Karril had given them, regarding his own counter-aspect. Pleasure was the opposite of pain, and yet a man’s soul could be filled with both things at once. Apathy was Kami’s true nemesis, the absence of any strong feeling, a state in which pleasure could not even be experienced. Yet it wasn’t an opposite exactly, or a compliment, or any other type of thing which Damien’s language had a name for. That made dictionaries all but useless, and even more sophisticated linguistic tools confusing at best.

It didn’t help to know that Tarrant had indeed confronted the Patriarch. Even after the Hunter had finally admitted that fact, even after the emotional storm that was inevitable had played itself out and subsided to a sullen resentment, Damien couldn’t stop thinking about the incident long enough to focus clearly on anything else. What had the Hunter said to the Patriarch, and how had the Patriarch reacted? Tarrant would say only that he had offered the Holy Father knowledge, and that whether or not the man chose to use it was his own concern. Damien could only guess at the torment such an offer would cause. Worst of all was the guilt in the priest’s own heart, the certain knowledge that if he had only come up with some better plan, if only he had initiated some milder contact on his own . .. then what? What could he have said or done that the Patriarch would accept? The man’s heart was so set against Damien that maybe the Hunter, with his ages of experience, stood a better chance with him. Maybe this was, in its own painful way, a more merciful form of disclosure.

He struggled to believe that, as he applied himself to the challenge at hand. He had to believe it, if he was to think about anything else.

Thirty days left now. He had no doubt that the hours were counting down inside Tarrant’s skull, in much the same way that he had counted seconds when traversing Tarrant’s Hell. And for much the same reason, he thought. It was all too easy to let such small units of time slip by one after the other, until suddenly they were all gone.

Thirty days.

Help him, God, he begged. If he is to die, help him to make the best of that. Now that the last barrier is being removed, help him rediscover his humanity. But though he wished for the best for his dark companion, he knew Gerald Tarrant’s stubbornness well enough to guess that such a prayer was futile. The habit of nine hundred years was not a thing to be discarded lightly. And the Unnamed had indeed remade him to suit its own special hunger; the Hunter still required blood and cruelty to live, every bit as much as Damien required food and water. How did you fight a thing like that? How did you win redemption against such odds?

I’ll get you through this, he promised silently. Somehow.

He prayed there would be a way.

“He’ll see you now, Reverend Vryce.” A servant in Church livery opened the door of the Patriarch’s study as he approached; another stood at attention by the outer door, prepared to serve the Holy Father’s every whim. In the distance Damien could hear the cathedral bells signaling the call to evening service. It all seemed normal, so utterly normal ... but it wasn’t. He knew that. The rules had changed, and while the men and women who served the Patriarch might not yet be aware of it, it made his own game doubly dangerous.

What did Tarrant do? he thought desperately. As he walked across the polished threshold, he felt his stomach tighten in dread, and as the door shut softly behind him, he was aware that his body had gone rigid as if expecting some physical punishment. That wasn’t good at all. Even the old Patriarch would have noticed such a thing, and as for the new one.... He tried to relax, or at least mimic relaxation, and then dared to look up at the man. His superior. God’s servant.

A sorcerer?

The Patriarch was dressed in his accustomed robes, but they hung about his lean form in deeper folds than before, accentuating his thinness. His face was ashen and drawn, and the circles under his eyes spoke eloquently of sleepless nights. Whatever change Tarrant had wrought, it had clearly not been an easy one for the Holy Father. But he had survived. In their bed of wrinkled flesh the man’s clear blue eyes stood out like jewels, and they fixed on Damien with a strange, calm sort of power. It wasn’t at all what the priest had expected, and therefore it was doubly unnerving.

“Reverend Vryce.” The Patriarch bowed his head ever so slightly, a formal greeting. It was a far more mild reception than Damien had expected, and he tried not to look flustered as he returned the gesture. What was going on here? “Have a seat.” The Patriarch indicated a tufted chair set opposite his desk. Damien hesitated, then moved forward and sat as directed. Was this some other creature that had taken over the Holy Father’s body? In that moment it seemed that anything was possible.

Then the blue eyes fixed on him, and the fae stirred between them, and he saw what was truly behind that measured gaze: not calm, nor any other kind of human peace, but a pain so intense that it hovered near the brink of madness. And he knew in that moment that he had seen it because the Patriarch had wanted him to see it, that the man’s natural power would have masked such a weakness from Damien’s sight unless he willed it otherwise.

He began to shiver, deep inside, without quite knowing why. He had prepared himself for the Patriarch’s rage, or worse; how was he supposed to deal with this stranger?

The Holy Father sat down opposite him, behind the broad mahogova desk, and for a moment said nothing. Damien was intensely aware of that stern gaze fixed on him, studying him, assessing him. At last the Patriarch said quietly, “I believe we have some things to discuss.”

Damien nodded stiffly, but said nothing.

“Your recent activities.” He paused, perhaps waiting for a response, but Damien didn’t dare commit himself without first knowing how much the Patriarch had discovered. “Your journey of a night ago,” he prompted. Damien felt his throat tighten in dread but he said nothing. At last the Patriarch leaned forward and accused, “A trip through Hell, Reverend Vryce, to rescue its darkest prince.”

“How do you know that?” The words were out of him before he could stop them. That would never have happened with the old Patriarch, but this man unnerved him in ways his former self never had. “Where do you get such information?”

The Patriarch leaned back in his chair. There was an infinite weariness about the movement that made him seem suddenly fragile, as though a strong word might cause him to shatter into a thousand fragments. “I have dreams,” he said quietly. “Visions of the truth, that take place in real time. I thought once that they were clairvoyancies. I thought that God had blessed me with a gift-or perhaps cursed me-so that I might serve my people better. Now . . .” He paused; a muscle tensed along the line of his jaw. “Now I know them for what they are. Visions crafted by a demon, to herd me along his chosen path. He thought me blinded by my faith, and thus never tried to hide his marks. Only now ... I see them. Now I know.”

“And you trust these dreams?” He had expected anger in response-at least a hint of it-but the hollowed face was maddeningly calm, perfectly controlled. Whatever terror raged inside the Patriarch as a result of the changes Tarrant had wrought, he kept it well hidden. “Thus far all his visions have been true, at least as far as I can test them. But that could change at any moment. Perhaps it has now.” He leaned forward and placed his arms upon the desk. “I saw you call a demon for a guide and then walk through Hell, all to save the soul of a man that God himself reviles. Was that a true vision, Reverend Vryce, or a demon’s lie? You tell me.”

For a brief instant he considered lying. Then, an instant later, his face flushed hot with shame. A year ago he would never have considered lying to the Patriarch, not for any reason. That he had done so now, for no better cause than to evade just punishment, was a jarring reminder of how much the last year had changed him. He had been ready to cast aside his vows of obedience for no more than a moment’s comfort; how much else might he be willing to sacrifice, if the moment’s temptation were right? For the first time he saw himself through the Patriarch’s eyes, and realized just how far he had fallen. He couldn’t meet his gaze, but looked away. “It’s true,” he whispered. “All true.”

For a moment the Patriarch just stared at him; Damien could feel the scrutiny as if it were a physical assault. “Such an incredible dream,” he mused aloud. “I didn’t want to believe it. I told myself, this time the demon has gone too far. This is beyond the scope of Vryce’s transgressions.” A pause. “I prayed, Reverend Vryce. I asked to be shown that the vision was a lie. For your sake.”

Shamed, he lowered his head.

“But it isn’t.” His long fingers steepled on the desk before him; Damien focused on his heavy ring as a way of avoiding his eyes. “What I should do now is ask you to tell me what kind of judgment is suitable for such a crime. What should be done to a priest whose every action defies the vows he made to God? But we both know where that kind of question leads, don’t we? We both know what the end result would be. And the fact is . . .” Was that a tremor in his voice? “The fact is, these dreams were given to me for a reason. It was Calesta’s intention that I should react in anger and cast you out from the Church, thus breaking your spirit and rendering you vulnerable to his assaults. And for that reason-that reason alone-I won’t do it.”

Damien looked up at last, and met the Holy Father’s gaze. There was pain in the man’s eyes, and a moral exhaustion so immense that it seemed impossible any human soul could contain it. How long had he tormented himself over this decision? How many hours had he gone sleepless, while Calesta tried to push him to the breaking point? “I won’t give him that victory, Vryce. I won’t serve a demon’s will in any way. Even when he’s right.”

Shame flushed his face. “I’ve tried to serve the Church.”

“Yes. As have thousands of unordained worshipers, each in his own way. Loyalty isn’t an issue here. Or even judgment. I thought once that it was, but now ...” He hesitated. “I have a somewhat broader perspective.” He shut his eyes for a second, and Damien thought he saw him shiver. “The issue isn’t loyalty, or the quality of your service. The issue isn’t even whether or not a man must do terrible things to serve his God. Obviously, there are times he must. The only issue is whether or not a man who has defied Church tradition should represent that Church, and so cast doubt upon its teachings in the public mind. That’s an issue I can’t judge, Vryce. Not when condemning you means that I strengthen our enemy’s hand.”

He said nothing. It seemed amazing to him that the thing he had feared most, his expulsion from the

Church, now was overwhelmed by a horror more subtle, but infinitely more terrifying. The Holy Father of the Eastern Autarchy, the living representative of the One God, must now hesitate in performing his duty for fear of pleasing a demon! Is that what the Church had come to? Is that what Calesta had done to them? He despaired to see this sign of it, and to feel it echo in his own soul.

“I see you understand,” the Patriarch said, after some time of silence had passed. He slid open a drawer by his side and drew out an envelope from it. “As of today, you have no more duties in this autarchy. You’ll still be granted full access to all Church facilities; the campaign which you’re fighting deserves no less. Other than that, I think it best for all concerned that you act as an independent.”

He could feel the weight of that icy gaze upon him, and he nodded. “Yes, Your Holiness.” The words barely made it past the knot in his throat. “I understand.”

The Patriarch studied him for a moment longer—was he using the fae in some way, Knowing him as well?—and then handed him the envelope. “This will provide you with some revenue for room and board, and other basic necessities. Whatever remains may be addressed to your cause as you see fit. You needn’t bring me an accounting of it, unless you intend to ask for more.”

Surprised, Damien looked up from the envelope, searching for some hint of purpose in the Patriarch’s expression. He can’t officially approve of me, he realized, but he doesn’t dare drive me away. Not only because it would please Calesta, but because I’m one of the few people who really understand what’s at stake here. Had the Patriarch looked into the future and decided that Damien’s role was vital to the Church’s survival, or was the inspiration less focused than that? Damien folded the envelope in his hand; the pulse in his palm made the paper tremble. “Thank you, Your Holiness.”

“It leaves open the question of what your role should be in larger issues, of course. But you can address that in your own conscience far better than I can. You were trained as a priest, Damien Vryce, and ordained in a centuries-old tradition of sanctity and obedience. I pray that you will reflect upon that tradition during the trials yet to come, and consider how your actions reflect upon us all.” He paused, as if to ascertain that his point had hit home, and then said quietly, “That’s all. You are dismissed.”

Stunned, Damien managed to get to his feet. He wanted to say something, to protest, anything-but the Patriarch’s attention had already turned elsewhere, cutting that option short. And what was he going to say to him anyway? How would his petty trials of conscience measure up to this man’s, whose shoulders had taken on a burden so terrible that God’s own Church might topple if he stumbled? What were one priest’s paltry misgivings, compared to that?

Shaken, he pushed the folded envelope into his pants pocket without looking at it. The Patriarch’s words had given him freedom to act as he saw fit, yet he felt more bound than ever. The man had acknowledged that conscience must sometimes give way to expediency, and yet Damien’s conscience burned even hotter as a result. Had he done right, he wondered suddenly, to cling to the priesthood with such desperation? Was that true service to God, in the face of all he had done, or service to himself?

Swallowing hard, he forced himself to bow. Deeply: a motion not only of ritual obeisance, but of heartfelt respect. You had the right to judge me, he thought somberly. Only you, of all men. I would have respected it. 1 would have obeyed. Now, instead, the Patriarch had left that judgment in Damien’s hands. It wasn’t a burden as heavy as his own, but it was heavy enough. The priest flinched as he accepted it.

“May God be with you,” he whispered, bowing again. Meeting the Patriarch’s eyes for one fleeting second as he rose, sensing the torment behind them.

And may the fae be merciful.

33

24

The waiting room outside the Patriarch’s study was exactly ten paces by six. Long paces, hurriedly measured, with a pounding heart for accompaniment. As he completed his tenth circuit-or was it his twelfth?-Andrys wondered if he might not be better off fleeing right now, rather than waiting for the Father of the Church to frighten him into doing so.

What did he want with him anyway? In another time and place he might have imagined it had something to do with the perceived importance of his family (he had told that priestess his name, after all) or some other matter connected with the fact that the Tarrants had been avid Church supporters for longer than most families had even been in existence. But to take refuge in such a story now, no matter how tempting, was to be hopelessly naive. Calesta had brought him to Jaggonath, and had ordered him to attend services here. Now, less than two weeks after he had begun to establish a pattern of regular attendance, the single most important man in the Eastern Autarchy had asked him to come here for a private interview. Obviously it had something to do with Calesta’s plan. What he couldn’t figure out was why the demon hadn’t given him some kind of guidance-what he should say, how he should act-or even some warning that this might happen.

The door at the far end of the chamber opened suddenly; startled, he quickly brushed his hair back in place and turned to face it. The servant who had brought him here smiled pleasantly and told him, “He’ll see you now.” She held the door wide for him as he passed through it, and then shut it quietly behind him. She was a pretty thing, and ordinarily he might have regretted that he had no chance to make her acquaintance. Now, however, his focus was elsewhere.

The Patriarch had been sick, it was said, struck down for a day and a night with a malady so serious that they had thought he might die. The harsh notes of illness still echoed in his flesh, clearly enough that even Andrys, a stranger, could see it. Yet beneath that the man was undeniably powerful, with a physical presence that belied his years and an aura of dignity that no sickness could compromise. He looked like what a Patriarch should look like, Andrys thought: a leader of men, a spokesman of God. Never before had he been in a presence that so totally defined itself.

With a faint smile of greeting the Holy Father moved toward him, and suddenly Andrys realized that he had no idea how one was supposed to greet such a personage. Did you bow, or maybe kneel, or just nod and mutter something suitably acquiescent? Samiel would have known what to do, or Betrise, but he had no idea. He was acutely aware of his own lack of religious background as the Patriarch studied him, nodded, and then deliberately offered a hand. Thank God. He shook it, and the man’s firm grip lent him newfound strength. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

“Mer Tarrant. I’m glad you could come.”

“The honor is mine, Your Holiness.” Now that the first awful moment was over with, some bit of his accustomed ease was coming back to him. “Although it was a bit unexpected, I must admit.”

The Patriarch’s eyes-a startling blue, as bright and clear as sapphires-fixed on him with unnerving intensity. For a brief moment he had the impression that not only his physical person was being judged, but his very soul. At last, after what seemed like an eternity, the man turned away and gestured toward a pair of chairs arranged beside a window. “Please,” he said. “Will you join me?”

He nodded, and hoped the motion looked natural. He felt like a bug pinned to a dissection board when the

Patriarch looked at him, and he hoped those piercing eyes would find other things to focus on while they spoke. The chairs, heavily upholstered, flanked a small table outfitted with a plate of confections, crystal glasses, and a-chilled pitcher. What on Erna did this man want with him, that he had taken such obvious trouble to set up an environment conducive to casual conversation?

The pitcher apparently contained a light wine, and he accepted a glass of it gratefully, glad to have an object to hold in his hands, another focus for his attention. The wine was cold and sweet and delicate in flavor; not a vintage that he recognized, but clearly an expensive one. As Andrys looked around the chamber, taking in its paintings and its rugs and its gold-embossed books, he realized that for the first time he was seeing the Church as his ancestors had known it—rich, proud, and timeless.

“It’s rare we have guests from so far away,” the Patriarch said. An obvious lie, Andrys thought; the center of the Eastern Autarchy must surely draw tourists from all the human cities, some that would make Merentha seem like a close neighbor. “And rarer still, from so illustrious a family. Our cathedral is honored.”

It was obviously the time for him to say something complimentary, and he did. The words of social concourse flowed like honey across his tongue, while all the while he wondered, with increasing alarm, Why did he bring me here? What’s this all about? He didn’t believe for a minute that the mere presence of a Merenthan noble had prompted this interview. He hoped the Patriarch didn’t expect him to believe it. But the forms must be observed, and so Andrys gave over control of his speech to the part of his brain so well versed in social repartee that he could hold a conversation like this in his sleep. While all the while another part fluttered in panic like a caged bird, waiting for the blow to fall.

Was the Church thriving in Merentha? Was that city still populous? Had it made successful conversion from a port city to something less ambitious, when the

Stekkis River shifted its course five centuries ago and left it high and dry? These were all questions that any history book could answer, and Andrys had no doubt that the Patriarch had read them all. Was his family still a patron of the Church, as it had been in the early days? He hesitated over that one; the words my family is dead almost came to his lips, but instead he said simply, the Tarrants have always been devout. He didn’t add, as honestly prompted, except for me, but the Patriarch’s piercing gaze and slow, knowing nod suggested that he knew that as well.

Two glasses of cool wine lubricated his tongue, and by the end of the second, against his will, he could feel himself starting to relax. The Patriarch seemed to sense it, for he leaned back into his chair with seeming casualness and said, in a voice that was artfully calm, “There are some issues I would like to discuss with you, Mer Tarrant, that I think are of mutual interest.”

Heart pounding anew, he poured himself another glass. If he could have exchanged it for a hypodermic full of tranquilizer right now, he would have done so. “Oh?” He tried to make his voice sound equally casual, but instead it had the forced ingenuousness of bad melodrama.

The Patriarch said nothing for a moment; Andrys had the distinct impression that he was waiting for him to compose himself, so he drew in a deep breath and tried to do so. When his heartbeat had slowed enough that he could make out its individual strokes again, the Holy Father said, “You’ve heard, no doubt, of our troubles in the north.”

Feeling that he was expected to say something, he offered, “I’ve read the papers.”

“The Forest has always been a thorn in our side. I’m sure you know that the Church once tried an all-out effort to cleanse the place, once and for all. It failed, of course. You can’t do battle with the planet itself, and that’s what the Forest is: a whirlpool of fae that no act of man can unmake. They didn’t understand that then, or perhaps they simply chose not to believe it. It cost them dearly.”

He nodded, and muttered something meant to indicate that yes, he knew Church history, he remembered the salient details of the Great War and its devastating finale.

“For years now the Forest has been a reasonable neighbor: evil, but civilized. Its neighbors enjoyed a tense and wary peace, and it in return has been permitted to flourish unopposed for more than five centuries.” He laid his own glass down on the table and seemed to be studying its rim thoughtfully as he said, “Obviously, that truce no longer exists.”

“Are you sure about that?” he dared. He wished he had read the newspapers more closely, so that he had a better understanding of the matter to draw upon. “After all, there have only been a few incidents.”

The blue eyes were a cold fire that sucked in his soul. “I’m sure,” he said quietly. “What we’ve seen is only the beginning. The Forest will devour its neighbors-body by body, acre by acre-until in time it has the strength to do battle with us upon our own holy ground. That is,” he added, “if it goes unopposed.”

Fear was a sharp thrill inside him. “You’re going to make war against the Forest?”

“I’m going to make war against the Hunter,” he answered coolly. “Once the prince of that domain has been humbled, his unholy construction will topple from the center outward. His most fearsome creations will become no more than nature meant them to be: simple demons, subject to the sword or to prayer or to any of a thousand other simple tools. With our triumphant song resonating from mountaintop to river shore, with our victory echoing in a million human souls, we will do the Forest more damage than all the armies of our greatest age could manage in their time.” He paused then, perhaps waiting to see what Andrys’ reaction would be. Could he sense the hunger in him, Andrys wondered, the fear, the sense of standing balanced on the edge of a pit, so precariously that a light breeze might cause him to topple forward into the darkness? “I was told,” he said at last, “that you might have an interest in serving this cause.”

Heart pounding, he struggled to keep his face and voice calm as he answered, “I might.”

“You have a special connection to all of this, Mer Tarrant.” He stressed the last name ever so slightly, as if testing its veracity. “One that you and I must explore a bit, before I can offer you your place in our enterprise." With your permission, his eyes seemed to say. As though they were discussing some mundane bit of business over afternoon tea.

“Of course,” he murmured, and he nodded.

He picked up his glass and sipped from it again, studying Andrys over its rim. When at last he was done, he placed it carefully before him, sculpting the moment of silence so that it lent double weight to the words which followed. “How much do you know about your ancestor, the first Neocount of Merentha?”

The only Neocount of Merentha. The words echoed in his memory with stunning power, voiced in the inhuman tones of his family’s murderer. For a moment it was hard not to lose touch with the present moment and return to that time; the scent of fresh blood was thick in his nostrils as he tried to force out some kind of coherent response. “I don’t ... what is it you want to know?”

“Do you know that he lives today?”

He hesitated, knowing that the crux of his future lay in this one moment. If he meant to feign ignorance in order to back out of this enterprise, this was his last chance to do so.

He thought of his family lying dead upon the ancient stone floor. The fire dying in the hearth while he wept, unmanned and unfutured, in a heap in the corner. He thought of all the months that he had suffered after that, the accusations leading to a nightmarish trial, hallucinations driving him to the brink of madness ... and the girl. She knew what was going on. What would she say, if he had his chance and backed away? How could he face her again?

“I know,” he whispered.

Something in the Patriarch’s posture seemed to relax ever so slightly, as if he, too, knew what that acknowledgment signified. “The man once called Gerald Tarrant became transformed at the end of his mortal life, into the creature we now know as the Hunter. He moved into the Forest soon after our last assault against that realm failed, and remade it to suit his own needs. To reflect back upon him his own damned nature.”

He nodded slowly, trying to see where this all was leading. What was it they wanted him to do?

“The Forest in Jahanna is now so perfectly ordered that it functions like a living body, with all its parts in harmony. Like a construct of natural flesh it depends upon its center, its brain, for purpose and for balance. And like a body of flesh it defends its brain with utmost vigor. Anything of foreign origin which breaches its borders would be subject to immediate attack, much as a microbe which invades human flesh would be set upon by antibodies. Only in this case, the antibodies are the stuff of our own nightmares, turned against us by a man who can sculpt our very fears.”

He nodded ever so slightly-afraid of what was coming next, but unwilling to cut the narrative short. Calesta, he begged silently, give me strength. Give me courage.

“The Hunter can come and go as he pleases. So can his minions, who are but an extension of his own will, and his beasts, and all his infernal creations. But any creature which has its origin in the world outside-or any army composed of such-would no sooner step into his realm than the earth itself would move against them, and every living thing from microbe to man would become their enemy.” He paused, then added quietly, “Unless the Forest believed that such creatures were also a part of him. Then and only then could they proceed.”

The Patriarch’s plan hit him so suddenly that it drove the breath from his body; his numbed hand dropped the glass as he pushed himself up and away from the man, overturning the chair in his panic. “No!”

The Patriarch did not respond. If he had-if he had said anything at all-Andrys would surely have bolted from the room at a dead run and never looked back. His nerves were trigger-taut, and any word-even one of intended comfort-would set them off. But the Holy Father said nothing. Time passed. After a small eternity had come and gone, Andrys found that he could breathe again. Several millennia later, the urge to flee subsided somewhat. Terror maintained its painful edge, but it no longer mastered his flesh.

“I see you understand the situation,” the Patriarch said quietly.

“I ... I think so,” he managed. His voice was hoarse and strained, and seemed to him like the voice of a stranger. “You want me to ... lead ... some kind of group? Is that it?”

“More than that, I’m afraid.” His eyes were coolly sympathetic, and their message was clear: We understand the pain we cause but cannot turn aside. This mission is greater than both of us. “I need you to stand in for the Hunter. I need you to be him. Not in truth—not in your heart or in your soul-but in those aspects which his creatures will recognize.” He paused, as if waiting to see if his guest would flee at this new revelation. Though he was afraid to hear more, Andrys nodded. “The resemblance between you is uncanny. With the proper accoutrements—”

“I have his armor,” Andrys said quickly. “And I have his crown. Like the things he wore into war. In the mural,” he stammered, and he nodded stiffly in the direction of the sanctuary, toward where that hateful painting hung. He had thought that the Patriarch would be startled by such a revelation, but the man only nodded, as if he had expected to hear it. The local Church was rife with rumors of his visionary power, and some murmured that God’s own prophecies came to him in the night and showed him what was to be. Had he foreseen Andrys’ coming, and the role he was to play? Was he weighing every moment now against a host of futures revealed to him, trying to choose the one that would not send his guest running away in a fit of panic, never to return? He remembered the Patriarch’s long silence, so perfectly measured against his own fear, and began to tremble deep inside. What kind of power did this man wield, that gave him such terrible control?

“Then you’re with us?” the Holy Father asked.

He shut his eyes, and felt his very soul quake. “Yes,” he whispered. The sound was barely loud enough for a man to hear, so he said it louder. “Yes. I’m with you.”

Was this the fate you meant for me, Calesta? Was this why you wouldn’t tell me what the crown and the armor were for? For fear that sheer terror would drive me back to Merentha before your arrangements could be completed? He lowered his head and thought dully, How well you anticipated everything. How well you controlled it all.

“I’m very grateful for that, Mer Tarrant. With your assistance we may yet triumph over Erna’s most vicious demon. Praised be God, who in His wisdom brought us both to this point.”

“Praised be God,” he muttered weakly. Suddenly needing to escape this place, and all the plans within it. Suddenly needing clear air and room to move ... and the healing arms of a woman. Narilka was waiting for him back at the hotel, he knew that. More loyal a woman than he deserved by far, but now as necessary to him as the very air he breathed. Could he make it through all this without her quiet strength supporting him? He hoped he never had to find that out.

He muttered a leavetaking, hoping it was polite. Evidently the Patriarch sensed his need-or had he foreseen it?-for he made no attempt to convince him to stay longer. And why should he anyway? The deed was done. The contract was all but signed. Andrys Tarrant belonged to the Church now, proud soldier in its maddest enterprise.

But at the door he stopped, unable to leave the room, There was still something unspoken here, something the Patriarch should know. Something he needed to know, if Andrys was to play his role effectively.

He turned partway back, not far enough that he had to meet the Patriarch’s eyes but enough that his words would be clearly audible. “Gerald Tarrant killed my family,” he whispered hoarsely. Choking on the words, and on the painful memories they conjured. “I want him to pay for that. I ... I would do anything to hurt him.”

It seemed to him that the Patriarch sighed. Then, with a soft whisper of silk on silk, the Holy Father rose from his seat and came over to where Andrys stood. He put a hand upon the young man’s shoulder, and it seemed to Andrys in that instant that the man’s own strength and certainty flowed through the contact, bolstering his own fragile hopes.

“He’ll pay for that sin in Hell,” the Holy Father assured him. “And so many others. We’ll see to it.”

25

"Tell me about Senzei Reese.”

Startled, Damien looked up from the volume he was studying. “What? Why?”

“Tell me about him.”

He stared at the Hunter for a moment as if that action might net him some information, but as usual Tarrant’s expression was unreadable. At last, with a sigh, he closed the book. “What do you want to know?”

“The man. His habits, his beliefs. Tell me.”

“May I ask why?”

“Later. Just tell me.”

So he did. It wasn’t the easiest task in the world, but after half a night’s frustrating dedication to dusty tomes and wan hopes, it was as good an assignment as any. He tried to remember Ciani’s assistant, and to describe him for Tarrant. Thin. Pale. Studious. Utterly devoted to Ciani, and to their work. What was it that Tarrant wanted? he wondered. Why did a man who’d been dead for nearly two years suddenly matter so much? Not knowing what his focus of interest was, Damien floundered through a description. Meticulous. Focused. Frustrated. He went through the easy adjectives first, and then he came to the painful part. He was obsessed by the desire to become an adept. He was convinced that somehow it could be managed. He believed ... He struggled to remember, to find the right words. He thought that the potential was there inside him, waiting to be let out. That somehow, if he could only “set it free,” he’d be the equal of Ciani.

He remembered what that obsession had cost Senzei, and pain welled up inside him as fresh as the day it had happened. He saw Senzei’s body, twisted and tortured, lying on the mountain grass where it had been struck down. And beside him the flask of holy Fire, which he had tried to take into his body to burn through his inner barriers. Though they hadn’t recognized it at the time, that was Calesta’s first victory over their small party. The first death in a war that had now claimed thousands in the east, and threatened to do the same here.

“Earthquakes,” Tarrant prompted. “Did he talk about them?”

Puzzled by the request, he tried to remember. They had discussed so much on that journey, desperate to pass the time in something other than silence. “He was so fascinated by the fae-surge,” he said at last. Struggling to remember. “I think he wanted to harness it, but didn’t dare try.”

Tarrant hissed softly. There was an alertness about him that reminded Damien of a hunting animal. “He thought it might make him an adept?”

“He thought a lot of things,” Damien said warily. “The last one got him killed. What’s on your mind?”

The Hunter looked at him. His eyes were black and hungry. “Did he take notes?”

“I think so. Why?”

“Might they still exist?”

He considered. “He lived with a woman before we left. I sent back word to her of what happened, when we got out of the rakhlands. Your guess is as good as mine what she did with his things, after that. Why?” he asked suddenly. “What are you thinking?”

“A possible plan,” he said softly. “But I need more data before I can assess its practicality. I think Mer Reese would have collected that data. I mink that some of it may be in his notes.”

“You won’t tell me what it is?”

He shook his head. “Not now. It’s too great a long shot. Let me confirm what I suspect, and then ...” He drew in a deep breath. “I’ll tell you as soon as I know for certain. I promise.”

“Yeah. Thanks. I live for secondhand research.”

If the sarcasm in his tone bothered Tarrant, the Hunter gave no sign of it. “Come,” he said, rising. “Let’s see if his notes are still around.”

Out of habit, Damien glanced at the clock. “Isn’t it a little late to go visiting?”

The Hunter’s gaze was venomous. “I have twenty-nine days left,” he said icily. “In the face of that, do you think I care if I inconvenience someone?”

“No,” he muttered, embarrassed. “No reason you should. I’m sorry.”

“Do you remember where this woman lives?”

“Not exactly. But that’s what the fae’s for, isn’t it?” Then he hesitated. “Are you sure she’ll be willing to help us this late?”

“No.” The Hunter smiled coldly. “Not at all. But that’s what the fae’s for, isn’t it?”

The house was just as he remembered it: small and warm and utterly domestic. There were more quake-wards on the front porch now, as well as several new sigils etched into the window; he felt a pang of mourning at the irony of that. When Senzei Reese had lived here, his fiancée had been wary of such devices. Now that he was gone, and the house was free of his obsession, Worked items became acceptable again. It surprised him how bitter he felt about that.

“All right.” He sighed, and started toward the stairs. “Let’s do it.”

“One moment.” Tarrant’s eyes were focused on the ground before the house; Damien sensed him grow tense as he took hold of the currents with his will and began to mold them. As always, he found it eerie that a human being could Work without any sign or incantation to focus concentration.

When it seemed to him that Tarrant was done, he asked, “What are you doing?”

“Merely compensating for the late hour. I understand that anything more would be offensive to you.

You see?” The pale eyes fixed on him, a spark of sardonic humor in their depths. “I do learn, Reverend Vryce.”

“About time,” he muttered, as they climbed up the porch stairs together.

It was Tarrant who rapped on the door, and Damien could sense his power woven into the sound, making it reverberate inside any human brain within hearing range. He waited a moment and then knocked again, and suddenly a light came on near the back of the house. She had been sleeping, no doubt. Damien wondered how effective Tarrant’s Working would be if she were barely awake.

After a minute they could see a figure padding through the house, a lamp in its hand. It came to the door and fumbled with the latch, then opened it. A short chain stretched taut as the door was pulled open a few inches.

“Yes?” It was a man. “What do you want?”

Damien couldn’t find his voice; it was Tarrant who filled in. “We’re looking for Allesha Huyding.”

“What’s it about?” he demanded. “And why can’t it wait until morning?”

Damien was about to risk an answer when a female voice sounded from the back of the house. “What is it, Rick?”

“Two men,” he answered curtly. “I don’t know either of them.”

There was movement in the room behind him now, as someone else approached. “Let me see,” she said softly. She peered over his arm and studied Tarrant, then turned to look at Damien. And gasped.

“Sorry to bother you-” the priest began.

“No bother,” she answered quickly. She nodded to the man. “Let them in.”

“But, Lesh—”

“It’s okay. Let them come in.”

He clearly thought otherwise, but he pushed the door closed for a moment, undid the chain, and then opened it wide. Whatever Tarrant had done to keep her calm and cooperative, it had clearly not worked on him.

“Hell of an hour,” he muttered, as they stepped into the small, neat living room. He radiated hostility.

Memories. They rose up about Damien as the lamplight flickered, picking out details of a room that was painfully familiar. Here, on that chair, he had waited to see Ciani. There, in the room beyond, she had lain in a state near death. There, in that place, the demon Karril had started them on a journey more terrible than any could predict....

He forced his awareness back to the present time, and to the matter at hand. Allesha’s new boyfriend was regarding them with the kind of hostility a wolf would exhibit upon finding that another wolf had pissed in its den. He was a thick-set man, heavy with muscle, and Damien suspected that he harbored a violent temper. A dark man, bearded, who was the opposite of Senzei Reese in every way. Again the priest felt a sense of acute mourning for the loss of his friend, and the manner in which this house had been so thoroughly cleansed of his presence.

“My name is Gerald Tarrant,” the Hunter said, focusing his attention on Allesha. “I was a companion of Senzei Reese during his recent travels, as was Reverend Vryce.”

She nodded slightly to Damien. “Yes. I remember you.”

“I’m sorry to bring up what must be painful memories, Mes Huyding, but we have great need of some notes that were in your fiancé’s possession. I was wondering if you could tell us what became of his things.”

“What the hell is this?” her new boyfriend sputtered. “Can’t it wait until morning? Who the hell are you, to show up on our doorstep at this hour and—”

“It’s all right,” she told him. To Damien’s surprise, the words seemed to quiet him. “I don’t mind. You go back to sleep if you want. I’ll be there as soon as we’re finished.”

“I’ll be damned if I’m going to bed while you—”

Tarrant caught his eyes then. And held them. Something passed between them that Damien could sense, an invisible power that soothed, smothered, silenced.

“Yes,” he said quietly. His eyes were half-lidded, as if sleep were already reclaiming him. “I’ll do that.”

They were silent as he turned and left, walking as slowly as if he had never awakened. At last, when he was safely behind the bedroom door and well out of hearing, Allesha said softly, “I’m sorry. He’s protective, that’s all.”

“We understand,” Damien assured her.

“The truth is, I didn’t really know what to do with Zen’s things when he died. He didn’t have any family that I knew of, and as for friends ... he was close to Ciani. You know that. But there weren’t many other people in his life.” She picked up a lamp from a nearby table and lit it with her own; the flickering light picked out warm shadows amidst the furniture. “I kept the things that looked important, notes and such, and a few valuables. They’re upstairs.” She handed the second lamp to Damien and gestured toward the staircase. “This way.”

The two men followed her up into the attic, into a room that brought back painful memories to Damien. There was the rug Senzei had knelt on while they planned their trip to the rakhlands; there was a box of Ciani’s papers he had rescued from the Fae Shoppe fire. The rest was stacked in boxes in a corner of the room, books and notebooks and papers and charms that filled their wooden crates to overflowing. “There’s no order to it, really.” She sounded apologetic. “I didn’t know what to do with it all—”

“You did fine,” Damien assured her.

“I wouldn’t know where to look for anything. I—”

“It’s fine,” Tarrant said. The power behind his words was musical, compelling. “Everything’s fine. Leave us here, and go back to sleep. We’ll lock the house behind us when we go."

For a moment it seemed as if she might make some protest, but then the fae that Tarrant had conjured took hold at last and she nodded. Wraithlike, silent, she made her way downstairs again.

When she was out of hearing Damien said softly, “That would have bothered me once.”

“And you would have been a pain in the ass about it. Fortunately for us both, you changed.” He knelt down by the nearest pile of crates, running a hand along the rough surfaces. “Can you Locate what we need, or do I have to do this alone?”

“If you tell me what I’m looking for.”

“Any notes he might have made regarding the use of earthquake surges. Or volcanic hotspots, for that matter. Any fae-current too intense for human skill to Work.”

“And you want notes on Working it.”

“Exactly.”

Apparently he didn’t see the contradiction in that statement, and Damien wasn’t in the mood to argue with him. Drawing in a deep breath, he focussed his own attention on the fae, and envisioned the mental patterns that would allow him to control it. When he had impressed it with his need, he went over to the nearest pile of crates and began to search through them, using the fae to stroke each page, each book, searching for a connection.

It took nearly an hour. They had to rearrange the room twice, to gain access to the crates that were buried in the rear. But at last Tarrant stiffened and breathed, “This is it.” And together they managed to unearth the crate in question and free its contents.

“Why don’t we just take it all?” Damien whispered. He felt like an intruder, acutely conscious of the innocent people sleeping just downstairs from them. “We can carry it.”

“I want to make sure we have what we’re looking for.” He was rummaging through a stack of clothbound books-ledgers, from the look of them—and at last he pulled out one that seemed to please him. It was a large volume, leatherbound, that had seen much handling in its life. An inkstain marked its spine and spread across one cover, from some accident long in the past. Tarrant put it down on the floor and set the lamp beside it. As Damien crouched nearby, he began to turn the pages.

God in heaven....

It was the scrapbook of a man obsessed, maintained for more than two decades. Newspaper articles were glued to the pages with meticulous care, chronicling every attempt that humankind had made to harness the wild power of the earth. Every sorcerer who had tried to Work the earthquake surge was in there, along with a description of each gruesome demise. Damien would have guessed that few men were stupid enough to attempt such a thing, but apparently there were hundreds. As Tarrant turned page after page, as the volume of human tragedy gained in weight and horror before them, Damien could only wonder at the lunacy of such men, who would give their lives to test themselves against a force that no human will had ever harnessed.

Senzei would have done it, he thought grimly. Given enough time, enough frustration, he would have tried the same thing. And he would have died the same way.

“This is it,” Tarrant said at last. “The rest can go back.”

Damien lifted up the nearest crate and hauled it back to where it belonged. “Is it time to tell me what all this is about?”

He could hear Tarrant hesitate. “Not yet. Let me go through this in detail. I need one piece of information, and I’m more likely to find it in here than in any other source. If it’s here, if it says what I think it does ... there’ll be time enough then to discuss things. If not, why waste the effort?”

“I don’t know what you have in mind,” Damien said sharply, “but remember: none of those people survived. None of them, Gerald.”

“None of them survived,” he agreed. “But that doesn’t mean that all of them failed, does it?”

“What does that mean?”

But the Hunter didn’t answer. And at last, realizing that nothing he could say was going to change that, Damien resigned himself to putting the room back in order.

It was nearly dawn. Domina’s light shone down through the window of the rented room, illuminating well-worn pages. There was weariness in Damien’s body, and in his soul.

Then the Hunter—closed the book and said, “It’s here.”

Sleep, which had been closing in about Damien, was banished in an instant. He sat up in the chair and demanded, “What is?”

“The data I was looking for. He found it.” He put his hand on the leather cover and shut his eyes; Damien thought he saw him tremble slightly. “All through human history men have tried to harness the fae-surge that precedes earthquakes. It’s common knowledge that it can’t be done, yet they keep trying. The thought of that much power outweighs all natural caution, it seems, and not until the fae fries their brains to ash does it become clear that there are some things men were never meant to do.” His hand spread out across the mottled leather of the scrapbook, as if drinking in its contents through that contact. “Likewise there are those who try to Work at the site of an active volcano, for the same reason. The results there are identical. Man can’t channel that kind of power and live to talk about it.”

“You needed Zen’s notes to tell you that? Hell, I could have saved you the trouble.”

Instead of being irritated, the Hunter smiled faintly. “But you see, there were other questions left to be asked. Questions no one thought of, except our obsessed friend Mer Reese.”

“Such as?”

He indicated the volume before him. “These men and women all died Working. What happened to their Workings when they perished? Were they obliterated alongside their makers, dispersed in that one fatal instant? Or did they take hold of the wild current, impressing the fae with their purpose even as their owners burned?”

“Does it matter?”

“It might.” Though his voice was calm, his posture was rigid, as if all his tension had been channeled into that one outlet. “It might matter very much.”

“Why?”

In answer the Hunter pushed the heavy book away from him, and forced himself to lean back in his chair. For a moment he was still, his eyes fixed on a distant, imaginary horizon. At last, in a tense voice, he said, “The negative of sadism is altruism."

Damien inhaled sharply. “Are you sure about that?”

“Is it possible to be sure? I think it likely.”

Altruism. Unselfish concern for the welfare of others. Damien tried to fit it into the Iezu pattern, to see if it would work. Could one want to spare others from pain, and at the same time take delight in hurting them? “It feels right,” he said at last. “Better than anything else we’ve come up with, that’s for sure.”

The Hunter nodded.

“But how does that help us? I mean, we can hardly force Calesta to do charity work.”

“With enough power,” the Hunter said evenly, “we can force him to do anything.”

It took a second for Tarrant’s meaning to sink in; when it did so, he felt his gut tighten in dread. “Gerald, you can’t. No man has ever survived that kind of Working—”

“And what is altruism, if not the sacrifice of one’s self for the common good?”

“So you’ll burn out like the others? For what? How does that help us?”

“Read this,” he said, pushing the heavy book toward Damien. “Read the articles that Senzei Reese put in here, and the notes he made. These men who risked their lives to Work—”

“They all died, Gerald!"

"But they didn’t all fail Read it! In three separate cases he was able to demonstrate that their Workings survived them. Think of that, Vryce! Think of the power!”

“Three out of how many?” he demanded. “You’re talking about odds so low I can’t even do the math. Be real, Gerald.”

The Hunter looked out the window; the morning sky was brilliant with starlight, and a faint band of gray marked the eastern horizon.

“Beyond my home in the Forest,” he told Damien, “is a source of power so immense that if there weren’t mountains bounding it, no human being could live on this continent. You’ve seen its power active in the Forest itself, and yet that’s but its edge. Its shadow. Its focus is Mount Shaitan, an active volcano, and its fae is so wild that few men dare to even approach it.”

Shaitan? It sounded strangely familiar to him, but he couldn’t place it. “I’ve heard the name.”

“I’m not surprised; it’s legendary. Every now and then some sorcerer makes a pilgrimage to its slopes; a few live to talk about it. I’ve been to its valley myself, and seen that awesome power. Nothing on Erna can rival it, Vryce. No earthquake surge, no sorcerer’s will ... no demon.”

“But the Iezu aren’t normal demons.” He was suddenly afraid of where this was heading. “Remember?”

“Kami’s first memory is of Shaitan. I know of at least two other Iezu for whom that’s also true. There’s a link between them that goes deeper than a simple question of power. What better way to destroy a Iezu than at the place of his birth?”

“And what about the creature that gave birth to him?”

A muscle tensed along the line of his jaw. “There’s no record of any such creature active in that realm.”

“No one ever tried to kill its children before.”

The Hunter turned toward him; a shadow sculpted the scar on his face in vivid relief. “So there’s risk, Reverend Vryce. Did you think there wouldn’t be? Did you think we’d find an easy answer? Some simple incantation that would allow us to unmake our Iezu enemy without effort, without loss?” He shook his head sadly. “I’d have thought you wiser than that.”

“You’re talking about almost certain death, and damned little chance of success. It seems like one hell of a long shot to me.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But what if that’s all we have?”

Damien started to protest, then swallowed the words. Because Tarrant was right, damn it. As usual.

The Hunter rose to his feet. Damien knew him well enough to see the underlying tension in his body, and to guess at the inner turmoil that inspired it. But the polished facade was perfectly emotionless, and Tarrant’s voice likewise betrayed no human weakness as he recounted the details of his fate. “As of this dawn I have only twenty-nine days left. At the end of that time the Unnamed will dissolve our compact, and I will, in all probability, die. So you see, Reverend Vryce, I have nothing to lose by taking such a chance. Perhaps the earth-fae will claim me, as it has with so many others, but if I can impress it with one last Working ... I would like to take that bastard with me,” he said, his voice suddenly fierce. “I would like my death to mean that much. Can you understand that?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I understand.”

“It’ll be a long and dangerous journey, and not one I would ordinarily relish. Few living men have survived it. And if Calesta should guess at my purpose, and turn his full illusory skill against me ...” He drew in a deep breath, and exhaled it slowly. Damien thought he saw him tremble. “You don’t have to go. I’ll understand.”

“Of course—”

“You have a life here, and duties, and a future—”

"Gerald." He waited until the Hunter was silent, then said sharply, “Don’t be a fool. Of course I’m going.”

Backlit by the light of early dawn, the Hunter stared at him. What was that emotion in his eyes, so hard to see against the light? Fear? Determination? Dread? Perhaps a mixture of all three, but something else besides. Something that was easier to identify. Something very human.

Gratitude.

With a glance toward the window, as if gauging the sun’s progress, Tarrant nodded. “All right, then.” His voice was little more than a whisper, as if the growing light had leached it of volume. “Purchase whatever provisions you need. There won’t be food available in Shaitan’s valley, so pack enough for several weeks. We’ll have to change horses to make good time; don’t invest too much in that area. Do you have money?”

In answer, he took out the draft that the Patriarch had given him, and handed it to him. Tarrant’s eyes grew wide with astonishment as he read it. In all the time Damien had known him, he had never seen him so taken aback.

“Ten thousand? From the Church?”

“And more if I can justify it.”

“So they ... approve of you?”

He snorted. “Hardly.”

“But this draft—”

“The Patriarch’s a practical man. He knows there are things I can do as a free agent which he, because of his rank, can’t even try. And he knows that if we don’t stop Calesta now, the Church he loves may have no future. That’s all.” He laughed shortly, harshly. “Believe me, I wish there were more to it.”

He said it quietly, with rare compassion: “They didn’t turn you out?”

“Not yet,” he muttered. Color rising in his cheeks. They’re leaving that to me.

Leaving the draft on the table beside him, the Hunter came to where he stood, and put a hand on his shoulder. Just for a moment, and then it was gone. A faint chill remained in Damien’s flesh where he had touched him, and he nodded ever so slightly in appreciation of the supportive gesture. Then, without a word, Tarrant walked to the door and let himself out. The sky outside the window was a paler gray than before; he had little time to take shelter.

Cutting it close, Damien thought, but it didn’t surprise him. With Tarrant’s remaining lifespan measurable in hours, it was little wonder that he squeezed out every minute he could.

Alone in the rented room, his hand clenched tightly about the Patriarch’s draft, Damien tried hard not to think about the future.

26

It was nearly dawn. The city’s central square was all but deserted, its myriad muggers banished by the growing light, its hidden lovers long since gone to bed. At its far end the great cathedral glowed with soft brilliance, its smooth white surface as fluid and ethereal as a dream.

Damien stood for some time, just staring at it, not thinking or planning or even fearing ... just being. Drinking in the human hopes that had polished the ancient stone, the soft music of faith that answered every whisper of breeze. Then, as Erna’s white sun rose from the horizon, he climbed up the stairs and rapped softly upon the door, alerting those within to his presence. After a moment he heard footsteps approach and a bolt was withdrawn along one of the smaller doors; he stood before it as it was opened, presenting himself for inspection.

“Reverend Vryce.” It was one of the Church’s acolytes, working off his required service hours as night guard. A thin and gangly teenager, he seemed strangely familiar to Damien. “Do you have business here?” Ah, yes. A face out of memory. One of the dozen lads whom the Patriarch had assigned to him as a student, several eternities ago when he had first come to Jaggonath. His fledgling sorcerers.

He nodded in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. “I came to pray.” The boy looked considerably relieved, and stood aside to let him enter. What did you think, that I would ask you to rouse your Patriarch near dawn so I could discuss sorcery with him? Then he looked at the boy’s young face and thought soberly, You did think exactly that, didn’t you?

“I won’t be long,” he promised.

The sanctuary was empty, as he had hoped. The night crew had finished its cleaning and retired long ago. His footsteps echoed eerily in the empty space as he approached the altar. A familiar path. A familiar focus.

The altar. There was nothing on it to worship, really, as there would be on a pagan altar. The Prophet had dreamed of a Church without such symbols, in which the center of worship would be something greater than a silk-clad table, something less solid and more inspiring than a block of earthly matter. But Gerald Tarrant had lost that battle, like so many others. The children of Earth expected an altar, and their descendants did likewise. The baggage of humanity’s Terran inheritance was not to be discarded so lightly.

He knelt before the ancient symbol of faith, feeling the vast emptiness gathering around him as he shut his eyes, preparing his soul. He wished that any words could ease the tightness in his chest, or dull the sharp point of his despair. He wished mere prayer had that kind of power.

God, he prayed, I have loved You and served You all my life. Your Law gave meaning to my existence. Your Dream gave me purpose. In Your service I grew to manhood, measuring myself against Your eternal ideals, striving to set standards for myself that would please You. I live and breathe and struggle and Work—and accept the inevitability of my own death—all in Your Name, Lord God of Earth and Erna. Only and always in Your Name.

He sighed deeply. The weight of centuries was on his shoulders, past and present combined into a numbing burden. If he died here and now, with this prayer upon his lips, there would be a kind of justice in that, he thought. And an easement, that he had been spared one final test.

Unto my dying day I will serve Your Will, obey Your Law. No matter how much it hurts, my God. No matter how hard it is. That was the vow I made so many years ago, when I first came into the Church; that’s the oath I serve today.

He knelt a moment longer, head bowed, soul aching. The pain of despair was sharp within him now, and when he rose up to leave, it stabbed into his flesh with brutal force as if trying to bring him to his knees again. Trying to put off that most terrible moment, which beckoned to him like a spectre. He bore the protest silently, without complaint, knowing that it was a kind of communion with his conscience, and therefore the most perfect prayer of all.

Slowly he walked back down the length of the aisle. At the end of the sanctuary he paused, and he fingered the opening to the offering receptacle, the protective flap which would allow departing worshipers to commit a coin or two to the Church’s coffers, without giving them access to the offerings of others. Human nature being what it is, he thought grimly. For a moment he fingered the flap without thought, moving it back and forth along its hinges. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope.

For His Holiness, it said. Only that. He held it in his hand for a minute, trembling slightly, and then slid it beneath the flap. He could hear it fall to the smooth metal bottom of the offering case, and then there was silence. It would wait until the next well-attended service, when an attendant would take it up and deliver it. By then, he hoped, he and Gerald Tarrant would be long gone.

In Your Name, my God. Only and always in Your Name.

His formal resignation in its place, Damien Vryce began the long and lonely walk back to his apartment.

27

Her children were coming.

She sensed their presence as she brooded within her sanctuary, and wondered at the sudden stirring of activity. Most of her children never bothered to look in upon her once they were set free in the world. They preferred to make their own fates, and she had no argument with that. It was what she had intended so very long ago, when she had brought the first of them into existence.

But now they were coming here. All of them. The ones who could speak to her, and the ones who could not. The few who could share her memories directly, and the hundreds who were all but unaware of her existence. They were coming because several of their number had defied her, coming to see if she would accept their transgressions,-or punish them ... or what?

What indeed, she thought.

She had made rules for them so that they might live and learn and grow, and ultimately serve her purpose. For a thousand solar cycles those rules had gone unquestioned. That was as it should be: a mother giving life had every right to define what paths her children would take, and to eradicate those few who failed to accept her guidance. But what about a child who did understand, but who consciously chose to defy her? The concept was so alien to her that she could scarcely comprehend it. It would never have happened in her homeland, that was certain.

You don’t know what’s driving them. You cannot judge.

She had given them orders. They had disobeyed. She had set forth the laws of their existence, which was her right as their creator. They had chosen to ignore her.

They should die.

It was her right, without question. Some might have argued that it was even her duty. Certainly her first family, who had accompanied her to this place, would have been quick to condemn any of their own number who defied her will so openly. But these new children of hers ... these wild, defiant infants ... might they not have something to teach her, before they died? Had she not sent them out into the world for precisely that purpose?

They are only half mine, she reminded herself. Remembering that act which was neither passion nor pain, but simple desperation. So many matings. So many failures. She had thought once that by choosing the right mate she could ensure a successful brood, but that plan had gone awry so often she despaired of ever making it succeed. In fact she had lost nearly all of her hope, nearly all of what little strength remained to her ... until now.

Her children were coming! So many, all at once. They had never gathered together like this before, not for any one purpose. Would it make a difference? she wondered. Would there be a power in the sheer mass of their gathering, a force born of their limitless variety, that might shed a ray of hope into the void of her despair? If she killed the disobedient ones now, she would never know. They would disperse again, the strong ones and the weak ones and the ones so distant that it seemed none could speak to them at all. What would it take to bring them together again after that? What kind of tragedy would she have to invoke? It was far easier to withhold her punishment now, she thought. Far easier to let them all come here first, and then cleanse the family as tradition required.

Hope. It was almost an alien concept to her now. She savored it, reflecting.

And waited.