Crown of Shadows

43

The wedding was held in Merentha, beneath suitably sunny skies. There were storm clouds to the west, but no one saw them. There was a faint whiff of ozone in the air, harbinger of trouble to come, but no one smelled it. There were even a few drops of rain that fell upon the crowd during the ceremony itself, but no one noticed them, and the spots of wetness that lingered for some time afterward went likewise unregarded. All in all, despite the true weather, it seemed a beautiful day.

From his vantage point at the edge of the milling crowd, Karril grinned at the figure by his side. “Nice going, Sis.”

Saris smiled.

There were flowers strewn about the ancient estate in such profusion that the air was a heady perfume, the scents of roses, carnations, lilacs, and a dozen other varieties all mingling in the afternoon breeze. True Earth-flowers, all of them, rushed to Merentha from gardens and hothouses all over the continent. They were gathered in pots by the front of the house, they twined up the trellis supports of the bridal canopy, they festooned the silk canopy itself in carefully orchestrated profusion. On the great wall they had been arranged so as to cover the sections of new mortar and stone which had recently been added, making it seem that the antique barrier was as perfect on this day as it had been when erected, nearly five hundred years ago. And if the scent of the flowers lacked perfect balance in any one place, if the cloying sweetness of one bloom interfered with the delicate fragrance of another

... well, that was one problem easily corrected. It paid to have Iezu among the wedding guests.

“How many of us are here, do you think?” Saris whispered.

Karril looked over the multitude and ventured a quick count. “Ten that I can see. Maybe more. Hard to pick them out in this crowd.”

“All in human form,” she mused. Her tone that made it clear that she found the thought incredible.

“Of course.” He chuckled. “Wouldn’t want to detract from the proceedings, would we?” He patted her gently on the shoulder-flesh-toned, not silver, and as flawless in texture as one would expect from a Iezu of her aspect—and whispered, “It’s more fun this way, isn’t it?”

"Fun is your department, not mine.” But she smiled as she said it, and he sensed her relaxing at last into the unfamiliar masquerade.

A bridal canopy had been raised in the middle of the courtyard, in accordance with some ancient Earth-custom whose purpose had been forgotten even as its aesthetic details were faithfully preserved. Sunlight shone through the fine white silk, rendering it aglow against the azure brilliance of the afternoon sky. White was the color of weddings, according to Earth tradition, and despite the fact that most of Erna preferred more festive colors, the Tarrant clan had always been Earth-reverent in its practices. Today was no exception.

And Andrys Tarrant looked fine in white, there was no doubt about that. White velvet ribbed in white satin cording for a jacket, full white sleeves of a silk so light that it fluttered in the breeze like fine gauze, white leather gloves and boots so supple that they clung to his body like a second skin, fringed and embroidered with silken threads of the same hue. Against such a background his skin, normally so pale in aspect, took on the bronze sheen of a healthy tan, and the sun picked out Core-gold highlights in his newly trimmed hair. He looked good and he knew it, and his self-confidence, as always, was irresistible to those who surrounded him. Karril chuckled as waves of lust rose from the crowd that gathered around him, mostly (but not all) from women. As for the ladies he had courted and seduced in the past, there were dozens of them here today, and not all had come to wish him well. For the most part they crowded around the wedding lawn with an impatient mixture of curiosity and resentment, waiting to see the waiflike foreigner who had stolen the prize they had so coveted.

She was beautiful, there was no doubt of that. There was no Iezu illusion active here, nor any need for it. The soft silk gown of graduated layers, Revival-inspired, made her slender form seem almost wraith-like, angelic, and her jet-black hair, hanging loose about her shoulders, cascaded down her back like a second veil. When the wedding crowns were placed upon their heads (of her own design, it was whispered, sculpted and polished by those same slender hands that now offered and received a pair of rings) the fine silver filigree glittered against the jet-black strands like stars on a clear night.

“Flat as a board,” one woman whispered, drawing up her own considerable endowment into a position of prominence. “Pale as a ghost,” another observed, lightly stroking her own cocoa skin. “Won’t last a week,” a third muttered, and they all nodded their agreement that yes, they knew Andrys Tarrant’s taste in women, and no, this stick of a ghost-child wasn’t going to keep him amused for long.

It was a priest of the One God who bound the two together, and Saris nodded her approval as the second rings were exchanged, the bonds of Earth joining those of secular marriage in a tradition as ancient as the Tarrant name. She had known, as Narilka had not, the tradition of that family, and as much as she would miss the girl as a worshiper she knew there were times that even a “goddess” had to give way to fate. Would she have signed on to his faith so willingly if I hadn’t released her back then, when all this started? she wondered. Either way, she had no regrets. The difference between a true godling and a Iezu was that the latter wasn’t dependent upon worship. And love, besides, was a very special kind of beauty.

“Come on,” Karril urged, nudging her forward. “We’ll miss the fun.”

A reception line was forming now, and it stretched across the courtyard and back again; officials first, then neighbors, friends, and whoever else cared to greet the host and hostess of the afternoon’s festivities. In that Andrys Tarrant was claiming the ancient title of Neocount with all its prerogatives and responsibilities, there were more than a few men and women of local importance who had seized this opportunity to introduce themselves. Most of them clearly had their doubts about the situation-a few even had the bad manners to mutter that it would have been better for them all if Samiel had survived, rather than this irresponsible playboy-but one by one, as they shook Andrys’ hand, they saw in his eyes an indefinable something which said that yes, this man had changed, and if they would give him a chance, he might surprise them. That, too, was a Iezu gift, but one so subtle that neither side noticed its oddness.

“I don’t understand-” Saris began, and Karril whispered, “Shhh!”

There were past lovers coming to the head of the line now, buxom women with temptation in their gait and a knowing sparkle in their eyes. Coolly the first one took Narilka’s hand and offered her congratulations, her eyes never leaving those of Andrys. Acknowledge me, they urged him, if you dare. To her delight he caught up her hand and kissed it, his manner as flirtatious as ever, and introduced her to his bride in a way that made it clear he still found her utterly desirable. Smugly she glanced at the new bride, her face warm with triumph. You can,marry him if you like, my dear, but you’ll never change him. And when he tires of your meager pleasures, we’ll have him back again, and teach him just how poor his judgment was when he bound himself to you. But if she expected the black-haired girl to respond with embarrassment, or (even better) with jealousy, she was to be disappointed. The bride greeted her graciously, even gladly. Amazing! Was she that blind to her husband’s proclivities, or was she simply living in a fantasy in which marriage, like a magical spell, would suddenly and completely alter his behavior? But then she looked at Andrys again, and she saw the way he regarded his bride, and a flush rose to her own cheeks as the truth hit home. The habits of a lifetime could not be shed in a single afternoon, and thus it was with this playboy’s surface mannerisms. But deep within his eyes an adoration glowed that put all his former lovers to shame. And his bride, however young, however inexperienced, understood that. She endured his flirtation because she knew it for what it was: a habit, no more, now empty of meaning, no more to be criticized in him than the way he walked, or the casual elegance with which he dressed. It was all show without substance now, and she was too savvy to feel threatened by it. Andrys’ former lover slunk away with chastened mien, and another, eyes glowing with anticipated triumph, took her place.

“You’re a voyeur,” Saris accused.

Karril chuckled. “No argument there.”

Tables were set out laden with rich foods, a lavish spread such as only the rich could conjure. Karril walked behind the tables while servants doled out portions to the guests, checking the quality of each offering, prepared to intervene should any one item come up short. But it was all perfect, from hors d’oeuvres to wine to the inevitable wedding cake, and at last he retired in the shade of a tree to feast himself on the enjoyment of those who were eating.

“They’re gone,” Saris noted.

“What?” He followed her gaze toward the main gate of the keep, then chuckled anew as he realized what she meant. “Their guests are satisfied. The requisite ceremony’s been performed. Why not sneak off for a few minutes to celebrate in private, while attention is fixed elsewhere?” He shot her an appraising glance and noted, “You don’t hang out with humans a lot, do you?”

“This is the first time I’ve put on a really human form.”

“It looks good.”

“Thank you,” she said, startled.

He leaned back against the tree trunk and crossed his arms, to all appearances a well-sated guest who was waiting for his food to digest. “There’ll be more of that now, you know. Curiosity will win out over fear in all but a few of our kind. New emotions to learn, new experiences to court ... we might even try that one in time,” he said with a smile, nodding toward the keep where the two lovers had disappeared.

“What? You can’t mean-” She looked at him in astonishment. “It’s just an illusion, Karril, you know that. The fact that this time you chose a male form and I chose a female—”

“I didn’t meant that,” he said quickly. “Obviously we’re not human in fact, that goes without saying. But think about it, Saris: surely our mother did more than spawn a few random demons when she conceived us. She meant to create a species, according to the rules of life as she knew them. Clearly she wanted us to be self-sustaining. Doesn’t that imply some kind of reproductive capacity? And doesn’t that in turn imply some kind of ... interactive potential?”

She stared at him in disbelief, unable to muster words. At last she laughed, a silver sound. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

He grinned. “It’s been said.”

“You’ve spent too many hours in human form. It’s addled your mind.”

“And you’re too mired in your aspect for your own good. Break loose! Experiment! I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

“I have a religion to run. Worshipers to entertain—”

“You think they’ll complain if we give them a new godling? Ah, Saris, think of it! What kind of a child would the gods of beauty and ecstasy produce? I shiver just to imagine the possibilities.”

She looked at him in amazement. “Is that a proposition?”

He chuckled. “I guess it is.”

“You don’t even know what reproduction entails, for us.”

“No,” he admitted. “But I think that figuring it out could be a lot of fun.” He winked at her. “Reproduction usually is.”

“That’s your aspect, not mine.”

“Ah, Saris!” He caught up her hand in his; through the veil of fine flesh he could feel the throb of living energy, the true substance of the Iezu. " ‘Aspect’ is just preference, not a prison. Don’t you see that? We’re the children of living creatures, with the capacity to be just as versatile as our parents. Why not give it a try?”

“I don’t see you reaching outside your aspect in this experience.”

With a soft laugh he let loose her hand, and struck at his chest as though marking the entrance point of an arrow. “Touche’

A sudden commotion among the guests drew their attention. Someone was proposing a toast, it seemed, raising a glass of perfect wine to catch the sunlight, in dedication to the newlyweds. Others joined in, and the fine wine was sipped and savored. A hundred souls resonating in perfect unison, relishing the moment: a symphony of pleasure. Karril leaned against the tree in contentment, drinking it in as a toast of his own, and shut his eyes as the waves of human enjoyment washed over him.

She watched him for a moment, observing his reaction, and then a faint smile softened her expression. She relaxed a bit and leaned against the tree beside him, watching the guests as they feasted.

“I’ll think about it,” she promised.

44

The shop was in a quiet part of town, and despite the fame it had quickly earned since opening-or one could say, the notoriety-its facade was modest and unassuming. HUNT SHOPPE, the sign said, its typeface and proportion suggesting a modest business. There was a display of fishing rods in one corner of the window, bows and crossbows in the other. In the center a finely tanned skin served as backdrop for all the accoutrements of the hunter’s art: compasses and maps, backpacks and canteens, and a selection of heavy-bladed knives guaranteed (so the sign read) to gut with a simple twist of the wrist, and skin with the ease of slicing butter.

The man looked in the window a long, long while, and wondered about why he had come here. He’d never cared for the sport much in general, and the thought of gutting a living animal-or at least one very recently dead-made his stomach turn. For a moment he almost turned back and went home. Then he remembered how lonely it was there, how empty the spacious house was without the sound of other voices. And he drew himself up and pushed open the heavy wooden door, bracing for what was inside.

The shop’s interior was larger than he would have guessed, and every inch of it was filled with hunting apparati. There were other customers there, half a dozen of them, and he watched for a moment while a man hefted a brass-butted springbok to his shoulder, testing its balance. Another bent the length of a fishing rod in a wide U-shape and harrumphed that yes, it would probably do.

Once more, he almost turned and left. Almost.

“Can I help you?”

The clerk was a young man, about his own height and build. Nondescript, just as he was. For a moment he hesitated. “Riven Forrest?” It couldn’t be him, could it? Surely a man capable of helping him would be more ... more ... well, more something.

To his relief the clerk nodded toward a door at one side of the shop. “Probably in the office. Just go on through, you’ll find him.”

The door led to another room, smaller than the first, less crowded. There were paintings in this room and other forms of art as well, all depicting objects of the hunt. Skerrels, nudeer, lynkesets ... some were wandering through their native habitat in a wholly natural mode, the kind of nature-loving art that would be hung over the couch in a family room, or by the fireplace. Others were less natural, and oddly disturbing. A mar-mosa frozen atop a fallen log, its large ears cocked forward with desperate intensity, its eyes wide and anxious. Nudeer crouching in the high grass, preparing to bolt for their lives. And a waterfowl of some kind, floating on the rippled surface of a lake. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was about that last one that bothered him so, until at last he realized that the shadow of an armed human loomed over the water, its reflection barely visible among the reeds. Animals caught in their last living moments; the passion of the hunt as seen through the eyes of those who must die to consummate it. He felt uncomfortable viewing those paintings, but it was hard to look away. Involuntary voyeurism: the fascination of Death. For the first time coming here, he believed that he might be in the right place after all.

There were rooms beyond that one, small corridors that twisted back on themselves, even a walk-in closet that had been made to house a Hunt Shoppe display. There were tools he didn’t recognize, and restraining devices that seemed better proportioned to human limbs than to any animal he had ever seen. There were traps of all shapes and all sizes, deadly and humane, and wax images demonstrating how some of them were meant to be used. There was a lot more art, and not only of animals. One lithograph, finely rendered, depicted the final showdown between the Selenzy Slasher and the police who ran him down; the bright red ink was particularly effective. Another showed the last moments of Karth Steele as he plunged through the southern swamps, the head of his latest victim still in his hands. Convicts and torturers, criminals turned prey ... he felt somehow unclean as he viewed their last moments on Erna, as if something voyeuristic had awakened in his soul that he would far, far rather pretend wasn’t there in the first place.

At last, with effort, he forced himself away from those pictures and through the next doorway. Beyond it was a small room, unmistakably outfitted as an office. He felt a wave of relief wash over him, as if he, too, had been fleeing from some unseen pursuer, and had finally, here, found sanctuary. Even the furniture was normal, and the only painting-a portrait of an attractive man hung over the small fireplace—was blessedly unthreatening.

The man behind the desk said nothing as he entered, but looked up at him and waited. He was pale of skin, dark-haired, and his sharp, angular features reminded the man of a predatory bird. His eyes might have been a human color-brown or gray or maybe even a dark blue-but in the hooded lamplight which was the room’s only illumination they appeared black, a limitless black that sucked in the lampglow and swallowed it whole.

“Forrest?” he stammered, finding his voice at last. “Riven Forrest?”

The man behind the desk nodded, and indicated a chair by his visitor’s side. It was a welcome offering, and he fell into it heavily.

“I’m Riven Forrest. And you are?”

He started to speak his name, then hesitated. Gods, this is crazy. He can’t help you if he doesn’t know who you are, now can he? “My name is Helder. Allen Helder.” He had to force the words out; beads of sweat were beginning to form on his brow. “I have a ... an unusual problem. I was told you might be able to help me.”

Crazy, crazy, crazy. If this man turns me in, then what do I do? The law doesn’t take kindly to this kind of thing.

But Forrest was utterly calm; his voice, when he spoke, was more suggestive of casual visitation than of secretive negotiations. “I’m familiar with your problem, Mer Helder. I believe we may be able to do business.” He leaned forward on the desk, steepling his fingers. “Why don’t you give me the details?”

He knew, the man thought wildly. He knew! That meant that the person who had given him Forrest’s name must have also told him ... how much? Oddly, the thought didn’t inspire panic, only a strange sort of calm. He was committed now. Forrest knew his business. What could he do under such circumstances, other than proceed?

"My wife and I divorced two years ago.” He said the words quickly, forcing them out before he could think about them. Before the pain could take hold again. “We had three children. I got custody. A girl, Sofie, and two boys, Ron and Tonio. I have all the particulars here——”

He reached into his jacket and brought out a small packet of papers; he cradled it in his hands as he spoke as if it were itself some precious living thing. “My wife was ... abusive. Not toward me, but when she was angry, or when she was frustrated, she used to take it out on the kids.” He paused, biting his lip. Gods, how the memories hurt! “I had to prove that to get custody of all three. I had to ... there were bruises ... I had to discuss some things——” He shook his head, feeling the tears come again. Hating himself for being that weak in front of a stranger. “She was furious about the judgment. She spent a year trying to fight it in court, then finally gave up and left Jaggonath. I don’t know where she went. Things were so bad between us then ... we couldn’t talk. Not about anything. She was so bitter. So angry.” He looked up and found the black eyes fixed on him; hungry, hungry eyes. “I don’t know what happened,” he whispered. “I was so careful....”

“You think she kidnapped your children.”

His eyes squeezed shut as he remembered. The empty house. The closets and drawers in disarray, so obviously ransacked for supplies. The open door, swinging in the wind. “I know it,” he choked out. “I’d left them in Toni’s care-he was so proud of being old enough to take care of the others, a little man of the family!—and then, when I came home . .. nothing! What else could have happened? He would never have opened the door to a stranger. There wasn’t any sign of a struggle. Who could have done it, other than her?”

The pale man regarded him as he reached for a cup by his side. His eyes never leaving the man’s, he sipped from it, then set it aside. “You’ve gone through legal channels.”

“Oh, yes. First the police. They were no help at all. I’ve been through three private investigators, and they keep coming up with promising leads, but each time they get to a place they find out that she just left it. Once, it turned out she was never there at all.”

Forrest nodded thoughtfully. “She’s running. And she has the sense to set a false trail, or at least make an effort at it.”

“They can’t help me,” he stammered. “I was told . .. maybe you can. I’ll do anything," he added quickly. “Just get them back for me, and you can name your price. If I have it, it’s yours.”

For a long time Forrest looked at him. In the silence the man could hear his own heart pounding; did he look as desperate as he felt? If you fail me now, he thought, what other hope is there? But he didn’t dare move. He didn’t dare speak. The black gaze had him frozen, like a nudeer in a predator’s jaws.

“I can track her,” Forrest said at last. “I can get your children and bring them back to you. I can see that she never interferes in your life again. The price is one hundred fifty a day, plus expenses. Do you care if your ex-wife is injured?”

“I-” For a moment the words wouldn’t come; he had to force them out. “I’d rather not. If that’s possible.”

“One hundred and sixty, then. Payment due in full when the children are returned to you.”

He offered his hand. The man stared at it for a moment, then took it. And shook it, hard.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

“Thank me when the work is done, Mer Helder.”

He indicated the packet of papers in his hand. “I have all the information written down here, including the reports of the men I hired. Charcoal portraits of the children—”

“Leave it,” Forrest said quietly. “I’ll go through it tonight. For now, go home. Forget you ever came here. The next time you see me will be when I bring you your children. If you seek me out before that, I’ll consider our contract null and void. Do you understand that?”

“I understand,” he whispered. Trying not to think about what special techniques this man must employ, that he took such care to keep his workings secret.

“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Mer Helder.” Forrest nodded what was obviously a dismissal.

But the man didn’t move. “Do you think-” he dared. “I mean, can you—”

“Prey is prey,” he said. “The fact that it’s human in this case makes the game more interesting, but not necessarily more difficult. Intelligence, like instinct, can be anticipated. Manipulated.” He took another sip from the cup, his gaze never leaving the man. “If your children are still alive, then I guarantee results. If not ... then you haven’t spent anything, have you?” The black eyes glittered; in the lamplight they seemed strangely inhuman. “Good night, Mer Helder.”

He managed to get to his feet and head toward the door, even though he longed to beg for better reassurance. Was there really a chance for him to be reunited with his children? Could this strange man succeed where so many had failed? But it was clear from Forrest’s manner that he was no longer welcome in the office, and so he hurried out. The last thing he wanted to do was anger the only man who could help him.

He’ll get them for me, he thought desperately. He will. I know it.

Repeating that thought like a mantra, he made his way out of the strange shop, and started the long walk home.

For a long time after his visitor left, the man called Riven Forrest was still. Waiting for the air to clear, it seemed. Waiting for the psychic dust to settle. At last, when he judged that the atmosphere was right, he reached out and put his hand on the packet the man had left behind. Just that. He could breathe in its contents in images, which was faster and far more satisfying than reading. What were words, anyway? At best they only hinted at the exhilaration of the hunt; at worst, they muddled and obscured it.

Leaning back, he shut his eyes and envisioned the task at hand. She would be afraid even now, after all these months. He would dissect that fear. Fear was what made animals run, and the shape of that fear was what you used to divine their path. Do it right, and the fae itself would vibrate in harmony with your pursuit. There was no escape after that. Not when the planet itself was your collaborator, and every living thing on it an extension of your will.

At last, when he was satisfied that he had absorbed the emotional essence of this new case, he smiled. Plans were already forming in his brain. Patterns were already being sketched out, tested, and adjusted within him, in a process far more natural than breathing. He was in his element now, and he loved every minute of it. Was there any sweeter challenge to court than the hunt of intelligent prey?

He picked up the cup before him. The liquid inside was thick and red, and carefully heated to body temperature. He liked it best that way. Traditional.

The painting which loomed over the fireplace was a portrait of the Hunter. With a smile, the creature called Riven Forrest raised the cup up toward it; the red liquid sloshed thickly inside.

“Here’s to you, Dad,” he whispered.

And he drank.

45

Damien thought, I can’t believe he’s dead.

People were shouldering their way past Damien in anxious haste, as if afraid that the world might change again before they could profit from it. Newsmongers and merchants and sorcerers and tourists and even one or two who labeled themselves “Earth scientists,” going from south to north in search of new knowledge, or north to south seeking profit for what they had already gleaned, or else staying here, at the midpoint of the journey, to sell their fellow travelers whatever they’d be willing to buy. Human enterprise at its best.

Let it go, Vryce. Just let it go.

The first week he had been here he’d told himself it was because he didn’t know what else to do with himself. In a way, that was true. The priesthood was closed to him, not because he couldn’t get himself reinstated if he wanted to—the Holy Mother in the West would surely respond positively to a heartfelt appeal-but because the Patriarch had been right, damn him. The clarity of faith which had once been Damien Vryce’s hallmark was gone now, and what had taken its place might be made to serve the Church in a thousand ways, but it wasn’t appropriate for a priest. There were other things he could do, of course, such as bodyguarding couriers and explorers or taking on such commissions himself. For all that the fae was “tame” now, there were enough demons left over from the time before that it would be quite a few generations before anyone felt safe traveling alone. In token of which ... he half rose out of his seat as something dark and winged swept down from the smoke-filled sky, swinging his springbok up as he thumbed off the safety-but it pulled up sharply into the thin winds and was lost behind a cloud before he could track it and fire. Lucky beastie. Between his own sure aim and the handful of trigger-happy tourists who fished for demons in the smoke-filled valleys, damn few things made it through. He had shot down over a dozen himself this week, and collected a fair bounty on each from the tavern’s owner. A good deal, all around. That and the free ale made it possible for him to put off certain decisions that he would rather not make ... like what he was going to do with himself when this was all over. Like when the hell he was going to acknowledge that it was all over, and get his shit together and start living again.

With a sigh he emptied the mug of ale, and waved away the server who offered to bring him another. Black Ridge Tavern. He looked about it in amazement, at walls and chairs and beer-taps that would have been unthinkable mere weeks before. The place was crowded as always, and the rough space was filled with the smell of fire, sweat, and sawdust as tourists and tabloid artists and self-appointed ambassadors to the Iezu made their best attempt at conversation. Overhead roof beams were being nailed in place even now, and the sounds of saw and hammer added to the overall din. With a sigh he finally rose up from his seat, and made his way out of the crowded common room. Onto the deck which wound over and about the mountain’s crest, offering men a firm path where once even horses feared to tread.

Black Ridge Pass. Once it had been a windswept corridor from one world into the next, known only to those who cared about such desolate places. Now it was a veritable hothouse of human activity. On the northern flank of the ridge there were already three inns finished and two more under construction, and never mind that the walls weren’t painted yet and the indoor toilets weren’t working. How many people got to hike past a live volcano on their way to the outhouse? On the south side there was little permanent construction, for the most interesting part of the view wouldn’t last more than a few months at best, but a narrow wooden deck had been constructed that led half a mile along the sloping mountainside, so that tourists could drink their fill of the spectacle at hand before it died down forever.

The Forest was burning. Its enemies had waited until the dry season prepared it properly, then set fire to it in a dozen places along its border, so that the purifying conflagration would work its way inward from all sides at once. That way only, they explained, could man be certain that all the degenerate life-forms within the Forest died forever, rather than fleeing to adjacent regions. It was a good plan, and it would almost certainly succeed, and if Damien Vryce took a moment to mourn the loss of the Hunter’s prize horses, or the fact that no man would ever again wield the kind of power that would make it possible to evolve new ones ... well, that was his own human weakness speaking. Progress had its price. In the long run mankind would benefit from this act of destruction, and that was what mattered.

Wasn’t it?

He walked to where the narrow deck began and leaned against its railing, watching as the great fire miles away lit up the land with roaring brilliance, clouds of ash whipping about its head with whirlwind fury. For two weeks now it had burned that brightly, and the winds in the Raksha Valley had roared west instead of east, sucked in by its insatiable hunger for oxygen. A massive thunderhead cloud had reared up from the fire, impossibly high, a vast mushroom of water and ash that towered over the Black Ridge’s walkways like God’s own vengeance made manifest. The great cloud blotted out the sun at times, at other times filtered its light so that dense, bloody shadows played across the walkways. The tourists loved it. The scientists were in seventh heaven, explaining to anyone who would listen—and many who wouldn’t-that this was fire weather, a natural phenomenon, wholly predictable by their Earth-born art. He watched them drink themselves into joyful oblivion over the fact that they now lived in a world where such things could be measured, understood, predicted-while later that night a sorcerer cast himself from off the very place where Damien now stood, unable to adapt to a world that now declared his kind powerless.

He understood how a man could do that. He didn’t share the man’s despair, exactly-no matter what the Patriarch might have thought, he had never been that addicted to power-but in the secret recesses of his heart he nursed his own, gentler regret. He wanted to See the fae again. Just once more. He wanted to See the corrupt Forest currents surge beneath that cleansing fire, and taste their essence as they came out the other side. He wanted to See what the currents of the shadowlands looked like now that the Mother of the Iezu was active there, now that her children were meeting with journalists on the very trails he and Gerald Tarrant had forged. The loss of his Vision was like a wound that refused to heal, doubly painful because he had done it to himself ... and yes, he knew that what they had done was good, and necessary, even if they hadn’t understood all the implications at the time ... but that didn’t quell the longing inside him. He was, after all, only human.

How would you be dealing with all this, Gerald? They say that adepts can still see the fae, although they can no longer Work it; would you come to terms with that as the price of man’s salvation, or rage against the bonds that your own sacrifice forged for us? Or would you find some new way around the rules, carving out a niche for yourself in this new world as surely as you did in the old?

He wanted the man to be here now, to see all this, to witness the bad and the good and pass judgment on it all with cool sardonic indifference. He had seen him die, but he still couldn’t accept it. Maybe that was what was keeping him here. Maybe until he came to terms with the Hunter’s death-no, with Gerald Tarrant’s death, which was a different thing entirely-he wouldn’t be free to start his own life moving again.

Something dark moved against the clouds, that didn’t follow the pattern of ash and wind; without thinking he drew up his springbok to the ready and prepared to fire—

And there was a crack right by his ear, as loud as if the very mountainside had split open beside him. Startled, he missed the shot. Someone else didn’t. An unseen projectile slammed into the winged thing, hard enough that its scaled wings nearly snapped off as it was thrown back from them. A moment later it exploded into a mist of blood and fire, to the delight of those tourists who had been present to see the shot. Some of them applauded.

His left ear ringing, he turned around to see who the marksman was. A young man nodded back at him, not warmly but apologetically, as one damned well should after firing off a pistol that close without warning. For a moment he almost said something sharp, but he managed to swallow the words before they came out. Never mind that the guy looked like some spoiled brat from a rich house, out to play with explosives now that he could do so without risking his own pretty skin; there was nothing inherently wrong about using a pistol, or killing demonlings, and Erna wasn’t experienced enough in firearms etiquette to make deafening one’s neighbors a mortal offense. He managed to nod stiffly himself and hoped it looked forgiving, then turned back to the view. On both sides of him tourists were gathering at the rail now, straining to see down into the depths below. He wondered how many of them understood the significance of the killing they had just witnessed. Like legions of demonlings killed in the past this creature was now dead and gone, but unlike its predecessors, it would never be replaced. The minds of men no longer had the power to give life to such creatures. Which meant that someday, when enough demons and wraiths and hate-constructs had been dispatched, there would come a time when men and women could walk about safely in the night, as they did on other planets.

It was an awesome thought, and an oddly unnerving one. He wondered if he would recognize that world as his own.

Tarrant would.

He shut his eyes, trying not to feel that loss. The tourists at the rail had kept their distance from him, thank God, perhaps sensing the darkness of his mood. He could hear them chattering on all sides of him, but the sound had no meaning to him. In this one spot, in this one single moment in time, he was alone with his memories. Just him and the Forest.

“Hard to believe that he’s gone, isn’t it?”

Startled, he turned back to see the young man watching him. “What?”

“The Hunter.” The youth resheathed his pistol in a worked leather holster that hung from his belt. Both pieces looked expensive. “I assume that’s who you’re thinking about.”

He shook his head, unable to believe the man’s audacity. “You assume a hell of a lot.”

“You don’t act like one of the tourists. You’ve been here too long to be an ambassador to the Iezu, self-declared or otherwise, and you don’t talk to the news service people.” He nodded toward the fire beneath them. “Why else would a man be here, if not to contemplate the Hunter’s demise?”

Arrogant, he thought, as well as spoiled. He judged the man to be twenty-two, if that, and from the look of him he had never done anything more strenuous than clean and oil Daddy’s firearms collection. Smooth olive skin, without pockmark or blemish, was molded into features that were delicate, unseasoned. Untested. Thick black hair, nearly waist-length, was caught up in a braid at the back of his neck so perfect that there must surely be some expensive pomade keeping it all in place. A body shorter than Damien’s own-but not by much-served as a lean and elegant frame for an outfit of expensive finery. Pants of glove-soft black leather. Knee high riding boots. A doeskin vest embroidered in layers of gold-probably the real thing—and a shirt of fine crimson silk that more than one exotic caterpillar had given its life for. All of that was topped off by dark eyes, thick-lashed, that languidly gazed upon the world as if they owned it—

Not twenty-two, he reassessed suddenly. Something in the youth’s gaze made him shiver inside, but he was careful not to let it show. Not that young by a long shot.

“They say you were there,” the youth said quietly.

“So what? You want my autograph?” He turned back to face the fire, wishing the man would go away. “I have better things to do with my time." And I don’t need new mysteries.

“They say you saw him burn.”

That did it. He needed this scene like he needed another trip to Hell. “They say a lot-” he began angrily.

And then he stopped. Because it was wrong, the whole conversation was wrong. Who the hell was this guy? No one up here knew what Damien had done; he had kept it a secret precisely because he didn’t want to go through this kind of interrogation. He hadn’t even given out his proper name, lest someone figure out where that name had been recently and what it had done. The result was that no one here knew who he was, or what he had done. No one.

“Who the vulk are you?”

A faint glimmer of a smile ghosted across the youth’s face. “One who has an interest in legends.” He nodded toward the fire. “Come to see the heart of all legends burn.”

“Yeah, well, the view’s free.” He turned back toward it himself, and wondered just what it would take to make this intruder go away. Maybe if he ignored him.

“They say you saw him die.”

He sighed, and shut his eyes. What the hell. “I saw.”

“They burned his head.”

The memory was surprisingly vivid. “I saw that.”

“And you’re certain it was his?”

Andrys Tarrant holds the grisly trophy aloft, fingers clasped about its golden hair, and holds it still for all to see. For all to identify. “Whose else would it be?”

“Any man’s, if the illusion were right.”

He snorted derisively. “There is no more illusion.”

“There are the Iezu.”

He shook his head. “I asked them. Or rather, I asked one of them who I think would have given me an honest answer. They wouldn’t interfere, he said. Their Mother forbade it.”

“There is always sorcery,” the youth said quietly.

“No.” His hand fisted tightly about the rail. Damn it, did he have to go through all this again, as if he had never done so the first time? The Hunter was dead. He had seen him die. He had felt him die, as the channel between Vryce and the Hunter was severed by Andrys Tarrant’s bloody sword. Wasn’t that enough? “There’s no more sorcery—”

“No more easy sorcery,” the youth agreed. “But for a man willing to give up enough, there’s still a Pattern to follow.”

“He’d have to give up his life then, in order to fake his death. What the hell kind of sense does that make?”

“Perhaps not his life,” the youth suggested. “Perhaps only part of it.”

A shaft of Corelight breached the great mushroom cloud and reached the platform where they stood. Damien heard tourists murmur in delight as the brilliant light, stained crimson by the cloud, edged the rough wooden walkway in fire.

“What are you suggesting?” he demanded.

“What if the Hunter wanted to stage his own death? What if his would-be killer agreed that that was the best course? What if it was enough for both of them that the Hunter died—the legend-but something of the man at its core survived? That would be death of a kind, wouldn’t it? Surely the sacrifice of one’s identity could be seen as a kind of suicide. Perhaps enough to wield some power even in this altered forum. Think about it,” the youth urged. “It would have to be a sacrifice that came from the soul itself, not just a surface gesture. A true death, from which there could be no resurrection. The body that walked away from that night might never lay claim to its true name again, or connect itself to its previous life in word or deed.” He paused. “It couldn’t even discuss its own fate in any manner except the most impersonal. To do otherwise would be to join itself to the part that had died, and thus consummate the destruction of the whole.”

It took Damien a minute to find his voice. The thought was so incredible——But no, he thought, not incredible at all. Not if you knew Gerald Tarrant, and what he was capable of.

He asked it quietly: “Do you believe that’s what happened?”

The youth shrugged. “I merely suggest a course the Hunter might have followed. Who can say what the truth is? Think of it as an exercise for the imagination, if you like. I thought that as a fellow sorcerer-” he smiled faintly, "-or rather, as a fellow ex-sorcerer, you might find it ... amusing.”

A gust of wind blew toward them from the Forest, carrying on it a dusting of ash. As it blew across them it dusted featherweight fragments across the youth’s shoulder and hair. Slim gloved fingers rose up and brushed at the soft bits as soon as they landed, in a gesture as reflexive as that of a cat licking its soiled fur. A minimal gesture, chillingly familiar, that should have trailed fae in its wake. It would have, once.

He looked into those eyes-dark, so dark, and not a young man’s at all, not by a long shot—and managed, “Your name.” Finding his voice somewhere, managing to shape it into words. “You never did tell me what it was.”

For a long, silent time the youth looked at him. Just looked at him. As if the look was a kind of dare, Damien thought. As if he wanted to give him time to try to see another man in his eyes, to superimpose another man’s life over his own.

“No,” he said at last. Glancing once more toward the burning Forest, as if the answer were there. “I didn’t, did I?” Once more a faint smile touched the corner of his lips; the fleeting minimalism of the expression was so familiar that Damien didn’t know how to respond. Did one celebrate such a resemblance, or mourn what it implied? “Does it matter?”

“No,” he whispered. “Not really.”

An expression that Damien couldn’t begin to read flickered across the youth’s face. Something strange, intensely human, an emotion that would have been ill-suited to the Hunter’s former mien. Affection? Regret? “Good-bye, Damien Vryce.” The youth bowed ever so slightly, his eyes never leaving Vryce’s own. “Good luck.”

And then he turned with easy grace and began to walk back toward the pass, silken sleeves fluttering in the wind. Damien almost ran after him. There were things he needed to say, farewells and gratitudes and hopes for the future that he’d never had a chance to express in the Hunter’s lifetime. But he didn’t go after him. Nor did he call out the name that was on his lips, though it took all his self control not to. Because if what the youth said was true, then such words could prove fatal. Instead he watched the young man walk away in silence as if he were truly a stranger, feeling something inside himself twist into a knot as the distance between them grew. Not until a little girl brushed against the stranger, leaving a smear of dirt on that crimson sleeve-not until a gloved hand rose up to brush off the offending stain, and once more came short of succeeding-did a new thought, a startling thought, take shape within Damien’s brain.

If the Hunter had made a bid for life (he reasoned), and if he had talked Andrys Tarrant into going along with it ... if he had sacrificed himself in the way this youth suggested, and done so successfully, so that he now walked the earth as another man, no longer a sorcerer because the Patriarch’s sacrifice had stripped them all of power ... then that man, if he happened to get dirty now, would have to take a bath to get himself clean. Just like everybody else.

In the dawn of a new world, Damien Vryce smiled.