When True Night Falls

1

A study in anger: speechlessly, restlessly, Jaggonath’s Holy Father paced once from his desk to the window, then back again. Barely glancing at Damien before he began the course anew. Body rigid with tension, ivory robes rippling sharply with the force of his stride, snapping like pennants, in an angry wind.

And then the dam burst. At last.

“How dare you,” he hissed. His voice was not loud, but the rage that it communicated was deafening. “How dare you go off on your own, sending this in your stead . . . as if I would accept it as a substitute!” He slapped the package that lay on his desk with accusatory vehemence. Damien’s letter. Damien’s notes. A pile nearly an inch thick, made up of all his records from the rakhlands. All his notes on the Hunter. “As if mere paper could excuse you from your duty! As if mere notes and pictures could serve as a substitute for proper procedure!”

“Your Holiness.” Damien swallowed hard, biting back on his own growing anger. It was a struggle for him to keep his voice calm, to keep from exploding in indignation. Right or wrong, he deserved better treatment than this . . . but he also knew that the fae which surrounded them was partly responsible for his response, that its currents had been altered by the Patriarch’s rage so that its power was abrading his temper to the breaking point. Not that knowing that makes it any easier to deal with, he thought grimly. If he gave in and responded in kind—or even worse, dared to work a Shielding in the Patriarch’s presence—it would be tantamount to vocational suicide. And so he forced his voice to be steady, low, even submissive. “I beg of you, consider—”

“I have considered,” the Patriarch interrupted sharply. “For weeks now. Since your message first arrived. Every waking moment, I have considered . . . and the situation looks worse each time.” He shook his head in mock amazement. “Did you really think I wouldn’t guess what you intended? Did you think I wouldn’t understand why you sent this?”

“I felt there was a chance that I might not come back,” Damien said stiffly. “I thought you should have all the facts you would need to deal with the Hunter, in case he returned without me—”

The blue eyes were fixed on him, their depths unforgiving. “That’s not the issue and you know it. The issue is your failure to return here. The issue is your summary dismissal of my authority. The issue is not whether you sent me a report, but the fact that you sent it in lieu of a personal audience. And I think we both know why you did that.”

Accusation, plain and simple. Damien’s hands clenched at his sides; his heart began to pound, so loud it was hard to concentrate. He could lose it all here. Everything. All he had to do was say the wrong word, lie the wrong lie, and his whole life might come crashing down around him. The Patriarch had that kind of power.

“Time was of the essence,” he said at last. Choosing his words with care. “I tried to explain that in my letter. What I intended—”

The Patriarch cut him off with a sharp gesture. “What you intended, Reverend Vryce, was to avoid any personal contact with me. Do you think I don’t know why? You were afraid that if you petitioned for leave to pursue this matter—as you should have done, as the hierarchy of our Church demands that you do—that I would have denied it. And rightfully so.” His gaze was fixed on the priest, as chill and as piercing as coldfire. “Or perhaps you were afraid that I would permit you to go . . . but demand that you choose more suitable allies.”

Damien drew in a deep breath slowly, and thought: There it is. That’s what this is all about. Not that Damien had failed to return to Jaggonath, not that his report was insufficient, not even that he had acted without sanction from his superior . . . but that he had chosen to travel with one of the greatest evils his world had ever produced. An evil so subtle and so sophisticated that it might corrupt even a priest’s soul, a priest’s dreams. And through that priest—just perhaps—the Church.

Was that possible? Had it begun already, deep inside him, where he refused to look? In his mind’s eye he could see the Hunter grinning, a drop of fresh blood gleaming at the corner of his mouth. And he recoiled inwardly at the memory of that polluted soul, the touch of its malignancy against his own being. But Gerald Tarrant represented power, plain and simple, and they needed that kind o force. It was worth any price, he told himself, to have it. Even the risk of corruption.

Wasn’t it?

We need his power on our side, he told himself. Otherwise an even greater evil will take control of us all. Doesn’t thai mandate some kind of alliance? But suddenly he wasn’t sure of that. Suddenly he wasn’t sure of anything. It was one thing to dismiss such a creature in mere words, especially as it had been months since he had last seen Gerald Tarrant. But the Patriarch’s words, fae-reinforced, awakened memories far more direct, more horrifying. The Hunter’s soul, caressing his own. The Hunter’s vileness invading the deepest recesses of his heart, his soul, his faith. Leaving behind a channel that clung to him like a parasite, a reminder of the power that linked them. What would the Patriarch say if he knew about that? If he understood that Damien had submitted to a bond with the Hunter, which would endure for as long as they both lived?

“That was your real fear,” the Patriarch accused “Wasn’t it? That I would recognize your lies for what they were—”

“There are no lies—”

“Half-truths, then! Evasions. Deceptions. It all amounts to the same thing, Vryce!” He slammed his hand down on the report. “You write that Senzei Reese died, but never mention how! Never mention that in his last moments he destroyed a holy relic I had entrusted to you. That this treasure from our past was wasted. Wasted! And then there is the matter of the Hunter—”

“I can explain—”

“What? That fate flung the two of you together? That for the sake of your partnership he committed no sins while in your presence?” The cold eyes burned with condemnation, intense as the Hunter’s coldfire. “You saved his life,” the Patriarch accused. “When the enemy had captured him, and bound him, and sentenced him to destruction, you freed him. You. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” he demanded. “Is that why you sent me this . . . this . . .” He struggled to find a suitable phrase, at last spat out, “This travesty of a report? Hoping I would never learn the truth?”

He desperately tried to think of something to say—a protest, a plea, anything—but how could he answer such a charge? When he had written his report (agonizing over each and every word, analyzing every turn of phrase a thousand times over) he had never imagined that the Patriarch would learn the truth. Never. But now he realized that he had underestimated the man. The Patriarch was a natural sorcerer, even though he refused to acknowledge the fact. It stood to reason that the fae, altering the laws of probability in response to his will, should cause him to meet up with a source of information. Damien should have seen it coming. He should have prepared . . .

“You saved his life,” the Patriarch repeated. Utter condemnation, spiced with a more personal venom. “In his name you betrayed your vows, your people. And God Himself, who sits judgment on all of us! Every evil which the Hunter commits, from now until the moment of his demise, will be because of you. Every wound the Church must suffer because of his influence, it will suffer because you freed him. Because you encouraged him to endure.”

He stepped forward, an openly aggressive move. Startled, Damien stepped back. The thick white wool of his ritual robe tangled about his ankles, an unfamiliar obstacle. About his neck the heavy gold collar of his Order pricked his skin with etched flame-points, sharp metal edges hot against the chill of his skin. Why had he worn these things? Had he thought that the regalia of his Order might shield him from the Patriarch’s anger? If so, they had failed utterly.

“In the name of the One God,” the Patriarch pronounced, “I have been given authority over this region—and you.” He paused, giving the fact of his absolute authority a moment to sink in. “And in the name of God I now exercise it. In the name of those thousands who gave their lives to redeem this world, choosing death before corruption. In the name of the martyrs of our faith, who served the Church in its darkest hours—and never wavered in their service, though they faced more terrible trials than you or I can imagine. In their name, Reverend Sir Damien Vryce, in their most holy memory do I now divorce you from our service—”

Fear took hold of him as he recognized the ritual. “Holy Father, no—”

“In their name I now declare you cast out from the society of priests, and from the Orders that initiated you—”

“Don’t-”

The Patriarch reached forward too quickly for Damien to respond, and his hand closed tightly about the golden collar. “Damien Kilcannon Vryce, I hereby dismiss you from our Church and from all its Orders, now and forever.” And he pulled back, hard, with the kind of strength that only rage could conjure. Metal cut into the back of Damien’s neck as the decorative links strained to part, drawing blood as they finally gave way. The Patriarch pulled the heavy collar from him. “You are unfit for our society.” He threw the collar to the floor, and ground his foot into the delicate metalwork. “If not for any human society,” he added venomously.

For a moment Damien just stared at the Patriarch, unable to respond. Despair overwhelmed him, and a sense of utter helplessness. What could he say now that would make a difference? The Patriarch’s authority was absolute. Even the Holy Mother, Matriarch of the westlands, would respect and honor such a dismissal. Which meant that he was no longer a priest. Which meant in turn that he was . . . nothing. Because he suddenly realized that he had no identity that was not Church-born; there was no fragment of his psyche that did not define itself according to the Prophet’s dream, the Prophet’s hierarchy.

What could he do now? What could he be? The walls seemed to be closing in around him; the air was hard to breathe. Blood dripped from the wounds on his neck, staining his white robe crimson as it seeped down about his shoulders. It gathered in a stain that mimicked the spread of his collar. Why had he worn it here, this emblem that he so rarely donned? What had moved him to make such a gesture? Usually he scorned such regalia . . .

Usually . . .

His thoughts were a whirlwind. He struggled to think clearly.

It’s wrong. Somehow. Wrong . . . He tried to remember how this meeting had come about, but he couldn’t. His past was a void. His present was a sea of despair. He couldn’t focus.

How did I get here? Why did I come?

Things began to swim in his vision: the collar. The Patriarch. The gleaming white robes he never wore. And some fact that lay hidden among those things, something he could sense but not define, . . .

It’s wrong, he thought. All of it.

And the room began to fade. Slowly at first, like a tapestry that was frayed at the edges. Then more rapidly. The collar shimmered where it lay, then vanished. The Patriarch’s ivory silk became a curtain of light, then nothing. The chamber . . .

. . . became a room on a ship. His ship. The Golden Glory.

“Oh, my God,” he whispered. His heart was pounding with the force of a timpani; his throat still tight with fear. He lay there for a moment in utter silence, shaking, letting the real world seep in, waiting for it to banish the terror. Listening for sounds that would link him to the present: the creak of tarred timbers, the soft splash of ocean waves against the prow, the snap of sails in the wind. Comforting, familiar sounds. They had roused him from similar nightmares before, on similar nights. But this time it didn’t seem to help. This time the fear that had hold of him wouldn’t go away. The trembling wouldn’t stop.

Because it hit too close to home, he thought. Because this nightmare might yet come true. What did the Patriarch really think when he read Damien’s report? Did he take it at face value, or did he discern the subtle subterfuge with which it had been crafted? What kind of welcome would await Damien when at last he returned to Jaggonath?

I shouldn’t have risked it. Shouldn’t have dissembled. If he ever finds out . . .

Fear lay heavy on his chest, a thick, suffocating darkness. He tried to reason it away—as he had done so many times before, night after night on this endless journey—but reason alone wasn’t enough this time. Because this fear had real substance. This nightmare might yet come to pass.

After a while he gave up, exhausted. And sank back into his fear, letting it possess him utterly. It was a gift to the one who traveled with him, whose hunger licked at the borders of his soul even now. The one who had inspired his dream, and therefore deserved to benefit from it.

Damn you, Tarrant.

Quiet night. Domina bright overhead, waves washing softly against the alteroak hull. Peace—outside, if not within him. He went to where the washbucket lay and splashed his face with the cool desalinized water, washing the sweat of his fear from his skin. His shirt was damp against his body and the night wind quickly chilled him; he took down a woolen blanket from a masthook and wrapped it about his shoulders, shivering.

Drenched in Domina’s light, the deck glittered with ocean spray. Overhead the sails stirred slightly, responding to a shifting breeze. For a moment Damien just stared out across the sea, breathing deeply. Waves black as ink rippled across the water, peaceful and predictable. He tried to Work his Sight, and—as usual—failed. There was no earth-fae on the ocean’s surface for him to tap into.

We could be on Earth now, he thought. For all this lack of power . . . would we even know the difference? But the comparison was flawed and he knew it. On Earth they would be speeding across the water, abetted by the kind of technology that this planet would never support. Blind technology, mysterious power. Here on Erna it would have doomed them long before they left port, when the doubts and fears of the passengers first seeped into the waterproofed hull and began their disruptive influence. Long before they set sail the fae would have worked its first subtle distortions, affecting the friction of various parts, the microfine clearance of others. On Earth that kind of psychic debris had no power. Here, it would have doomed them before they even left port.

Wrapping the blanket closer about his shoulders, he headed toward the prow of the ship. He had no doubt that the Hunter was there, just as he had no doubt that the man was trying—yet again—to find some hint of earth-fae beneath the ink-black waves. The channel between them had become so strong that at times it was almost like telepathy. And though the Hunter had assured him that it would subside again in time—that it was their isolation from the earth-currents which made any hint of power seem a thousand times more powerful—Damien nursed a private nightmare in which the man’s malignance clung to him with parasitic vigor for the rest of his life.

I volunteered for it, he reminded himself.

Not that there was any real choice.

Tarrant stood at the prow of the ship, a proud and elegant figurehead. Even after five midmonths of travel he looked as clean and as freshly pressed as he had on the night they set out from Faraday. Which was no small thing in a realm without earth-fae, Damien reflected. How many precious bits of power had the Hunter budgeted himself for maintaining that fastidious image? As he came to the prow he saw that Tarrant had drawn his sword, and one hand grasped it about the coldfire blade. Absorbing its Worked fae into himself, to support his unnatural life. Even from across the deck Damien could see that the malevolent light, once blinding, had been reduced to a hazy glow, and he managed to come within three feet of Tarrant before he felt its chill power freeze the spray on his hands. Whatever store of malevolent energy that thing had once contained, it was now nearly empty.

Tarrant turned to him, and for a moment his expression was unguarded: hunger whirlpooled in his eyes, black and malevolent. Then it was gone—the polished mask was back in place—and with a brief nod of acknowledgment the Hunter slid the length of Worked steel back into its warded sheath, dousing its light. In the moonlight it was possible to see just how much this trip had drained him, of color and energy both. Or was that ghastly tint his normal hue? Damien found he couldn’t remember.

He took up a place beside the man, leaning against the waist-high railing. Staring out at the ocean in mute companionship. At last he muttered, “That was a bad one.”

“You know that I require fear.”

“Worse than most.”

The Hunter chuckled softly. “You’ve grown immune to most of my tricks, Reverend Vryce. In the beginning it was enough to plant suggestions in your mind and let them blossom into nightmares on their own. Now if I mean to make you afraid—and keep you dreambound long enough for that fear to strengthen me—I must be more . . . creative.”

“Yeah. I know.” He sighed heavily. “I just wish you didn’t enjoy it so goddamned much.”

Below them the ocean was smooth and calm; only a gentle swell and a hint of foam marked the place where the prow of the Golden Glory sliced through it. The Hunter turned back to study the water, searching for some hint of power.

“See anything?” Damien asked at last.

Tarrant hesitated. “A light so faint that it might be no more than my imagination. Or perhaps the first glimpse of a foreign current, rising to the surface. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say that we are now above the continental shelf, where the waters are shallower. Not shallow enough for Working,” he added. “Not even for me.”

“But soon.”

“Soon,” he agreed. “And if there are people here-” He left the thought unfinished. But hunger echoed in his voice.

You’ll feed, Damien supplied silently. Torturing and killing women here, as you once did in the Forest. How many innocents will suffer because I brought you here? Because I convinced you to come?

But for once the guilt echoed emptily inside him, without its accustomed force. Because when he looked at the Hunter now, he saw not only a creature who fed on the fear of the living, but a sorcerer who had committed himself body and soul to a dangerous undertaking. And he remembered the storm that had overtaken them in mid-journey—hearing its winds lash the decks anew, seeing the storm-driven waves curl over the prow, angry froth cascading down forty, fifty, sixty feet to smash onto the deck with a tsunami’s force—and he remembered thinking then that it was all over, that they had taken one chance too many, that this monster of the equatorial regions would surely devour them before nightfall. And then Tarrant had emerged. Daring the unnatural darkness of the storm, his skin reddened by the few spears of sunlight that managed to pierce the cloudcover. Fine silks whipped and torn by the wind, long fingers tangled in the rigging for support. And then his sword was drawn—that sword—and a Working born of pure coldfire blazed upward, into the heart of the storm. The next wave that struck the ship became a wall of sleet as it slammed into the deck, coating the planks with ice as it withdrew. Overhead a rope cracked with a sound like a gunshot, and fragments of it fell to the deck like shattered glass. To the Hunter they were mere distractions. Frost rimmed his hair like a halo as he forced the Worked fae upward, higher and higher, into the heart of the storm—seeking that one weak spot in its pattern which would allow him to turn it aside, or to otherwise lessen its fury. It was an almost impossible feat, Damien knew—but if anyone could do it, Tarrant could.

And slowly, incredibly, the storm abated. Not banished, by any means—a storm of such ferocity could hardly be unmade by a single Working—but altered in its course, so that the worst of it passed to the north of them. Icy waves no longer broke over the deck. Torn rigging hung limply, rather than whipping about in the wind. And Tarrant-

Fell as the cloudcover overhead gave way at last, seared by a sudden shaft of sunlight. Damien struggled to his side, half-running, half-sliding on the treacherous ice. He used his body to shield Tarrant from the sunlight while he fought to disentangle his hand from the rigging. But the man’s grip was like steel, and in the end Damien had to draw out his knife and slice through the precious ropes to free him. He dragged the adept belowdecks as quickly as he could, while overhead the sky slowly brightened with killing light . . .

He remembered that day now as he looked at Tarrant, and he thought, But for you we would all be dead. Four dozen bodies rotting at the bottom of the sea, our mission in ruins. And our enemy would be unopposed, free to work his will upon the world. Isn’t that worth the sacrifice of a life or two? And he despaired, Where is the balance in it? How do you judge such a thing?

The pale eyes were fixed on him. Cold, so cold. Testing his limits. Weighing his soul.

“I knew what the price was when I brought you here,” he said at last. As the waves lapped softly at the hull beneath them.

God willing, I can come to terms with it.

2

Land. It rose from the sea with volcanic splendor, sharp peaks crowned in bald granite, tangles of vegetation cascading down the lower slopes like a verdant waterfall. There was no beach, nor any other gentle margin that the travelers might discern: sheer cliffs met the ocean in a sharp, jagged line, softened only by the spray of foam as waves dashed themselves against the rocks. Inhospitable to say the least . . . but that was hardly a surprise. Erna was not known for gentle beaches.

Land. Even at this distance it filled the air with scent, with sound: evergreens preparing their seeds, spring’s first flowers budding, the cries of seabirds as they circled overhead, seeking a moment of liquid respite in which to dive for food. The passengers of the Golden Glory were gathered at the bow, some forty or more of them, and they squinted eagerly into the morning glare as they studied the features of the promised land. A few of them cradled the slender telescopes which Tarrant had supplied for the journey—and they handled them like priceless relics, if not out of reverence for the Old Science which created them, then out of fear of Tarrant. Their farseers had failed them months ago, along with many other ship’s instruments; the lack of earth-power on the high seas had drained everything dry. It had surprised—and frightened—everyone but the Hunter.

How terrifying that must have been for the first explorers, Damien thought. They’d have thought that because they disdained sorcery, their tools would function even here. Not realizing that even unconscious thought affects the earth-fae . . . and therefore no tool that man makes on land can be wholly free of its taint. Was that why none of those ships were ever heard from again? Had they lost their way in mid-ocean, when their instruments failed them? Or staggered into some port by blind guesswork, perhaps, knowing that a return journey would be next to impossible? He hungered to know. Five expeditions, hundreds of men and women . . . and something had spawned an Evil here, more deadly and more subtle than anything the west had produced. He hungered to uncover it. He ached to destroy it.

Soon, he promised himself. Soon. One step at a time.

He stood in the wheelhouse of the Golden Glory, Tarrant’s own telescope in hand. Beside him was a table overlaid with maps, the topmost a copy of one of the Hunter’s. It showed the eastern continent as viewed from above, with elevations clearly marked in the neat mechanical printing of the colony’s founders. A survey map, no doubt—or more likely a copy of one. Tarrant had lost enough things of value on the last trip to be wary of traveling with originals. On top of it were scattered the instruments which the pilot had used to establish their position, and Damien watched as she pushed aside a polished brass astrolabe in order to scrutinize a new section of coast. It said a lot about her current state of mind that she had chosen that tool over the more sophisticated instruments available; when Rasya was tense, she liked her tools primitive and simple.

At last she said, “If we’re where I think we are, then there’s an island missing.”

“Ocean’s risen,” the captain reminded her. His own eye remained fixed on the distant cliffs. “Figure a lot’ll be missing, from the time that map was made. Don’t sweat it.”

“Thanks,” she said dryly. “You’re not the one whose job it is to see that we don’t run aground.”

They were a study in opposites—so much so that it was hard to imagine them getting along, much less working together as closely and as efficiently as they did. Rasya Maradez was tall and lean, with clear blue eyes, sun-bronzed skin, and short hair bleached platinum by the unremitting sun. Smooth muscles played along her slender limbs as she moved, obscured only by a pair of cut-off breeches and an improvised halter top. Irresistible, if you liked the athletic type. Damien did. The captain, by contrast, was a swarthy man, dark-skinned and dark-featured, solid enough in his massive frame to act as a back-up anchor if they needed it. His face and hands were battle-scarred—from street brawls, Damien suspected—and though he handled his own gold-chased instrument with obvious reverence, his tough, lined fingers seemed more suited to a brigand than the person of an officer. Their temperaments were likewise mismatched but surprisingly compatible, resulting in a tense but efficient partnership that had successfully tamed Erna’s most dangerous waters.

The captain turned slowly, scanning the length and breadth of the shoreline through his own instrument. Between his fingers delicately engraved figures adorned the golden barrel, studded with precious gems. Tarrant had given it to him as a gift when they first left port, and Damien remembered wondering at its design. He shouldn’t have. Its message of value, tasteless but eloquent, had won the captain over in an instant. What good will the Hunter could not inspire in this crew, he clearly intended to purchase.

Carefully Damien studied the lay of the land beyond, breakwater and cliff face and an occasional rocky slope that might through some stretch of the imagination be termed a beach . . . he scanned the salt-frothed shoreline, wishing he had Tarrant’s Sight. By now the Hunter would have analyzed every current in the region and picked them apart for the messages they carried. Yes, he would have said, there’s human life, just south of here. Unaware of our presence. Sail on with the wind . . .

And then Damien drew in a sharp breath, as he caught sight of a pattern that wasn’t wholly natural. It took him a moment to focus on it: a pale line, mostly straight, that wound upward from the base of the cliff to its summit several hundred feet above. Artificial, he thought. Without a doubt. His fingers tightened about the slender tube as he focused in on the line itself, on the rhythm of tiny shadows that peppered its length. Trying to identify them.

And for a moment he stopped breathing, as he realized what they were. What they had to be. Dear God. That’s it.

The captain turned to him. “You see something?” He nodded. His heart was pounding so loudly from excitement he was amazed that the others couldn’t hear it. “There.” He directed the man’s gaze to the thing he had seen, then handed his own telescope to Rasya. Not wanting to say anything more until they had seen it for themselves. Until they had confirmed it.

The captain spotted it first, and swore softly. “Vulkin’ ninth messiah. Stairs?”

“Barely footholds,” Rasya corrected. “Slope’s too steep for more than that.”

“Humans carved ’em, though. That’s for sure.”

Humans, Damien thought, or something that looks human. Something that wears a human form and therefore uses human tools. Are we looking at the work of a possible ally . . . or is this the mark of our enemy? The uncertainty made him cold inside. He tried to work a Knowing, to settle his doubts, but the power that clung to the planet’s surface was still too far below them. Inaccessible. Tarrant might be able to Work through this much water, but he sure as hell couldn’t.

“Ras?” the captain prompted.

“Be bad for a landing,” she said quietly, “even for a rowboat. And there’s no place nearby to harbor the Glory - at least not that we’ve seen yet. That means we’d have to leave you here and move on, maybe ten, maybe a hundred miles down the coast. Not good.”

“But if you want it, we’ll do it,” the captain assured Damien. “That was the deal. Set you down wherever you want . . . even if it is in the middle of just about nowhere.”

“And against our better judgment,” Rasya added.

Damien studied the coast for a long minute, as if somehow that could settle his unease. “Can we wait here? Until the sun sets? That’s—”

“Seven hours,” Rasya supplied, and the captain asked, “Because of his Lordship?”

“I’d like him to take a look at this. Before any decisions are made.”

“Can’t stay here,” Rasya warned. “Not unless you want to be a sitting duck for the next smasher. Look there: that shore’s been hit hard and often. Staying here is asking for trouble.” She ran a hand thoughtfully through her short hair. “We could head out to sea for a while instead, come back in with Domina’s tide . . . risky at night, but if the wind holds steady I’d chance it.”

The captain looked to Damien for approval, then nodded. “All right. Do it.”

She nodded, laid down the slim black telescope, and left them to give the orders that would adjust their course. Damien moved to follow her. But the captain’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Not yet,” he muttered. “Not just yet.”

He gestured for Damien to retrieve the telescope. He did so, and focused once more on the distant shoreline.

“By the top of the stairs,” the captain directed. His voice was tense. “About two hundred yards to the right. Back from the edge a bit.”

Shadows. Boulders. And a circular form that gleamed darkly in the sunlight, a ring of blue-black metal that looked out over the surf like a vast, nightbound eye. It was not hard to make out, once he had found it. It took him a while longer to make out the shape that was behind it. The long metal tube and its supporting frame, coarse timber fastened with heavy iron bolts. Iron balls beside it, stacked with geometric precision. Canisters.

He lowered the telescope. And swore softly.

“Now mind you,” the captain said, “I haven’t seen a lot of ’em . . . but that damn sure looks like a cannon to me.”

Night fell, but it brought no true darkness. The cloudless sky was still half-filled with stars, a thousand brilliant points of light that twinkled in the cobalt heavens like diamonds on jeweler’s velvet. Toward the west there were so many of them that their light ran together, pooling like molten gold along the horizon, crowning the sea with fire. Soon Erna’s second sun would set—a false sun, made up of a million stars—but until then the Ernan colonists need have no fear of darkness. Only the creatures who feared true sunlight would call this time night.

Tarrant stood at the bow of the ship, his pale eyes narrowed against the Corelight. His gloved hands were tight about the railing, and Damien was sure that if he could have seen his knuckles they would have been white with tension. The man’s whole body was rigid, his attention wholly fixed on the shore beyond. Trying to Know? At last he relaxed, and exhaled heavily. Frustrated.

“Still too deep,” he murmured. “I had hoped . . .” He shook his head.

“You can’t tell anything?”

The silver eyes flashed with irritation. “I didn’t say that.” He stared at the shoreline for a moment longer, nostrils distended as if to sift scents from the evening breeze. “Life,” he murmured at last. Hungrily. “There’s human life there, in quantity. The currents are full of it. Rich with fear . . .” His lips tensed slightly. A smile? “But that’s not your concern, is it?”

“What else?” Damien asked stiffly.

“Civilization. But you guessed that, of course—from the cannon. They’re organized enough to defend themselves, and disciplined enough to use gunpowder.”

“And they have something to defend themselves from.”

The pale eyes fixed on him, molten gold in the Corelight. “Yes. There is that.”

“Our enemy?”

“Perhaps. But who can say what form that evil has taken, here in its native land? I would be wary of anything—even civilization—until we discover its foundation.”

“You can’t tell?”

“All I can do now is look at the currents of power, and guess at the forces that molded them. If I could draw on the earth-fae, I might be able to conjure a more comprehensible image . . . but as of now, those are my limits. One might look at a river current and guess at its origins, based upon the sediment it carries, but one could hardly tell from that what manner of boat last sailed in it. These currents are no different.”

“We’ll have to wait until we land, then. Damn.”

Tarrant glanced at him, then back out toward the shore. “Yes,” he said softly. “You will have to wait.”

Damien stiffened. He knew the Hunter well enough to become alert when his tone changed like that, and to listen very carefully to his exact choice of words. Five midmonths at sea had taught him a lot. “You’re leaving us?”

“That seems prudent,” he whispered.

“Not to me.”

“You need answers.” His voice was quiet, but hunger resonated in his tone. “I need . . . food.”

He drew in a deep breath, slowly. Trying to sound calmer than he felt. “You’re going ashore to kill.”

The Hunter said nothing.

“Tarrant—”

“I am what I am,” he interrupted sharply. “You knew my nature when you invited me to join you. You knew than I would kill, and kill often. That I require killing in order to sustain my own life. You knew that, and still you chose to invite me. Don’t play at hypocrisy now,” he warned, shaking his head. “It doesn’t suit you.”

Damien’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. He tried to force his voice to be steady. “When?”

“As soon as we’re out of surveillance.” He nodded toward the distant cliffs. “They’re watching us, you know. They’ve been watching us since we first arrived. By now there will have been messengers sent, defenses mobilizing . . . they will assume us to be a vanguard of their enemy, until proven otherwise.”

“All the more reason for us not to separate.”

“I’m no good to you here,” he said sharply. “If a war fleet surrounded us tomorrow, I could do nothing to save us. On land I can follow your progress, Know the enemy, utilize the power of the earth-fae—”

“And feed.” The silver eyes fixed on him. Diamondine, piercing. “I am what I am,” he repeated. “That issue is not open to debate.” He turned from the bow. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, there are things to be taken care of before I leave. I need to prepare.” He bowed, a minimal gesture, and left Damien’s side. A short walk took him past the wheelhouse, to the recessed midship section. There were people there, crew and passengers both, and they parted like a magicked sea at his approach. Some gazed at him in awe as he passed; others superstitiously averted their eyes, as they might do for a passing demon. He ignored them all. They had feared him once, as men will always fear the demonic, and some had even muttered that the ship would be better off if they exposed him to the sun and then scattered his dust upon the waves. But his performance during the storm had changed all that. Four dozen men and women who might once have turned against the Hunter now regarded him with a reverence just short of worship, and any who found that mode distasteful had learned to keep their silence.

If this were a pagan mob, they’d have turned him into a god by now, Damien thought darkly. He wondered if the Hunter’s nature would allow him to accept that. Or did enough of the Church’s philosophy still cling to his soul that even power, in such a form, would be abhorrent? Thank God we’ll never find out.

He looked at the Hunter’s retreating form—at the worshipful faces that surrounded him—and corrected himself grimly.

Pray God we never have to.

Tarrant’s cabin was belowdecks, in the dark and crowded space normally allotted to cargo, livestock, and machinery. It had been by his own preference. Damien had originally provided him with a cabin alongside his own, whose tiny windows had been carefully barricaded against the sunlight . . . but Tarrant preferred a truly lightless demesne, where no living man might put his life in jeopardy by opening a single door. And Damien really couldn’t blame him. If anything, the incident drove home just how vulnerable the Hunter was during the daylight hours.

Now an alteroak door guarded the jury-rigged sanctuary, reinforced with iron bands and—Damien had no doubt—as much dark fae as the coarse wood could absorb. That power would have been growing down here since the light of the sun was first shut out, seeded by the darkness in Tarrant’s own soul. Not a pretty thought.

He was bracing himself to knock when the heavy door swung open. The light of a single candle backlit the Hunter, its corona like a halo about his light brown hair. For a moment Damien thought he could feel the dark fae swirling about him, a hungry, malevolent power that drew its strength from darkness and isolation. Imagination, of course. He couldn’t See that power—or any other—without first adjusting his senses.

“Come in,” the Hunter bade him, and for the first time since the chamber had been sealed months ago the priest entered.

The hold of the Golden Glory was a stifling place, its still air thick with the reek of animal droppings, stale smoke, and oversalted fish. Damien knew that such a stink was unavoidable—you can only shovel shit so often, the captain had assured him—but he had often wondered how Gerald Tarrant, normally so fastidious, endured it. Now, as he passed over the Hunter’s threshold, he stepped into another world. Here, in this nightbound sanctuary, all was sterile. Here the power of the dark fae had been used to leach all the scents of life—and death—from the air. The Hunter might not have access to power that would serve him on the moonlit deck, but here in this carefully nurtured darkness he was lord and master of his own.

On the bed lay Hesseth, and the light of the single candle by her side was enough to illuminate a body rigid with tension, fur drawn erect like a cat’s. A thin membrane had drawn across the interior corner of each eye, giving her face a truly alien appearance. Long, tufted ears were flattened tight against her skull, in terror. Or hostility. Or both.

“You okay?” Damien asked softly. She nodded, and even managed something that might have been intended as a smile. Her sharp, carnivorous teeth made the expression particularly feral.

Tarrant pulled over a stool to the side of the bed, and motioned for the priest to sit. As he did so he noticed that Hesseth’s wrists had been tied to the sides of the bedframe. He looked up sharply at Tarrant.

“She has claws,” the adept reminded him. “I considered such precautions . . . prudent.”

The slender furred hands were balled into fists, tightly clenched. He could see the muscles inside her arms tense as she tested the strength of the bonds. “You really think she’d strike at you?”

“I prefer to be prepared. For everything.” He glanced at Damien, and the priest sensed just how much was being left unsaid. Her species is still primitive. Still possessed of a bestial soul. Who can say whether instinct or intelligence will rule, when she perceives herself to be threatened? But there was more than that also: a darker undercurrent that flickered momentarily in the pale eyes, and then was carefully hidden again.

He still hates her, he thought. All her people. They bound him once, and he’ll never forget it.

God help her if he ever decides she’s expendable.

“Now,” the Hunter said softly. The familiar warning was all the more powerful for not being voiced: Don’t interfere.

Tarrant sat by her side on the narrow bed, and for a moment was still. Gathering himself. Then he reached out and placed his hands on her face, slender fingers splayed out across her features like the legs of a hungry spider. She stiffened and gasped and a soft moan of pain escaped her, but she made no struggle to escape. Not that it would have done her any good. The dark fae bound her now, more perfectly than mere ropes ever could. Damien was sickened, envisioning it.

“Now,” the Hunter whispered. Coaxing the power. Seducing it. Meticulously manicured fingers stroked the sleek fur of her face with what seemed like loving tenderness, but Damien had seen the man Work often enough to know his power for what it was. Killing, always killing. The object of his attention might be a lone, frightened woman or a swarm of bacteria—or the follicles on a rakhene woman’s face—but the pattern was always the same. The Hunter drew his power from Death.

Beneath his fingers the fine fur was coming loose, and it fell from her cheeks in a fine cloud of gold as he ran his hands across her skin. It was clear that the process was painful; Hesseth hissed as he Worked, her long claws biting deeply into the wood of the bedframe. Once she cried out, a keening note of suffering more bestial than human—and Damien knew Gerald Tarrant well enough to see the distaste flicker in his eyes. But she offered no pleas, despite the pain, and was clearly doing her best not to draw back from him. She had asked for this, after all. It had been her idea. And—as much as Damien hated to admit it—it was a damned good one.

It’s not just fur she’s sacrificing, he reminded himself. It’s her heritage. Her people. Because they hate humans too much to take her back like this. It was, for her kind, the ultimate disfigurement. And he longed to take her hand, to squeeze it, to try to reassure her as he would reassure a human woman—but the inch-long claws that had already gouged deep furrows in the bed’s frame made such a gesture impossible. And would she accept such a gesture? She had kept to herself for most of the voyage, disdaining the company of humans—even her own traveling companions—for many long months at sea. Would an offer of human contact comfort her now, or merely insult her?

Slowly, carefully, Gerald Tarrant remade her face. Ignoring her soft moans of suffering, ignoring the cries that periodically emanated from her, like the yelp of a wounded animal, pausing only briefly when a spasm of pain wracked her body—and then only because the motion made it hard for him to work—he stripped her face of its natural covering and laid bare the tender skin beneath. Cheeks. Forehead. Eyelids. Nose. The fur fell from her in patches, as though she were being skinned alive. And yet she made no complaint, though her arms had spasmed against the coarse rope bonds often enough and hard enough to draw blood. Is that a bestial nature, you bastard? At last it seemed that Tarrant was finished. He brushed a few loose hairs from her face and sat back to regard his handiwork. Hesseth lay still, helpless and exhausted, panting like a winded animal. And her face . . . was striking. Exotic. Beautiful. Tarrant had left behind thin lines of fur to serve as eyebrows and lashes, and they framed her eyes with graceful symmetry. The eyes were exotic, with a soft fold at the inner corner reminiscent of the human epicanthic. The hairline had been subtly graded, so that it appeared to give way not to fur but to long hair, thick and golden. The cheekbones were high and fine, the nose was more human than Damien would have thought possible, and the lips . . . Tarrant had done something to contract the muscles above and below them, so that they were pulled back into a human fullness. The result was perfectly balanced, breathtakingly beautiful. And awesome, in that its perfection had been sculpted in blood and pain. Even in destruction the Hunter was aesthetic. It was easy to forget that side of him, Damien thought. Just like it was easy to forget that beneath that brutal exterior lived the creative genius who had breathed life into his faith. God of Earth, if only that facet of him could be brought back to life . . .

“The hands won’t pass,” Tarrant said shortly. “Not with claws instead of fingernails. Best to count on gloves for that, and leave the fur to soften the effect if they have to come off. But there is one more thing . . .”

He placed his fingers upon her eyes, touching the inner corners. Her cry of pain was short and ragged, and it seemed to burst loose some dam inside her. When he withdrew from her, there was blood in her eyes in the place of the inner membrane, and tears also. She began to shake uncontrollably. “That’s all,” Tarrant assessed. Oblivious to her suffering.

“If she’s careful she should pass.” He nodded, clearly pleased with his work. “You may release her now.”

Carefully, Damien loosened her bonds. Gently he folded her bruised wrists across her chest and gathered her up in his arms, as he would a child. She moaned softly and pressed her face against his chest, burying herself in his warmth. He wished he had a third hand, that he might stroke her with. He wished he had something to say that could ease the pain, or lessen the humiliation of her disfigurement. But all he could whisper was, “It’s all right.” All he could think to say was, “We’ll get him, Hesseth. We’ll kill the one who started all this. I swear it.”

Carefully, tenderly, he carried her out of the Hunter’s lair, and up into the healing night.

It was midnight when Tarrant left, A bright night, with Domina’s full disk and Casca’s three-quarter face lighting the sky. A brisk night, with uneasy waves that trembled white at their upper edges, as if undecided about whether or not to break into froth. But Tarrant had assured them that the wind would grow no worse for an hour at least—although how he knew that without the earth-fae to draw on was beyond Damien—and so they were setting sail despite it. Or setting oars, more accurately.

Damien strained to make out the form of an island to the east of them, but could see only water. Which didn’t mean it wasn’t there, of course. He had the utmost faith in Rasya’s observations, and if she said there was an island due east of them he wouldn’t think to doubt it. Ever.

An island. That meant land, cresting above the waves.

Earth-fae.

Beneath them the lifeboat struck water, with the deep, resounding slap of a nuwhale’s tail. Rasya swung herself over the side of the ship and began to clamber down toward it. Damien briefly considered insisting that he take her place, that he should be the one to transport the Hunter to shore . . . but they’d had that argument before, several times already, and he’d lost each time. Rasya wanted it this way and Tarrant had agreed, so who was he to interfere? What was he afraid of, anyway—that she’d see his power in action and instantly be corrupted? Give her more credit than that.

He felt strangely out of control, with Tarrant leaving. A curious feeling. As if he had ever really controlled the Hunter. As if anyone ever could.

At last the two men who had helped lower the lifeboat withdrew, leaving Damien and his dark ally alone on the deck. For a moment Tarrant just watched the sea, moonlit waves rippling like mercury beneath a haze of silver spray. Waiting. At last the men’s footsteps were distant enough and faint enough that they could be certain of their privacy.

“You never asked why I came on this trip,” the Hunter said quietly.

“I assumed you had your reasons.”

“And never wondered what they were?”

Despite himself he smiled. “You’re not an easy man to pry information out of.”

“That never stopped you from trying.”

Damien shrugged.

Tarrant looked downward to where Rasya was waiting. Damien knew better than to press him. At last he said, in a voice hardly louder than the breeze, “He came to me, you know. Our enemy’s pet demon, the one she called Calesta. He came to me in the Forest, when I was done healing. I remembered him from her citadel . . .” Damien saw the muscles along the line of his jaw tighten momentarily. Remembering the eight days and nights of his captivity, when he had been at the mercy of a being even more sadistic than himself? “It was he who’d revealed that his mistress had trapped me not with sunlight, as I’d perceived, but with simple illusion. A sorcerer’s trick! It was my own fear that defeated me . . .” The pale eyes were narrowed in hatred; Damien thought he saw him tremble. “He came to make peace, as demons will do when their masters die. I felt myself safe, being in my own domain at last, and made the mistake of listening.” He shook his head, remembering. “He nearly caused me to betray myself. There in my own land, where the very earth serves my will . . . he almost bested me.” His expression was tight, but the emotion causing it was hard to read. Anger? Humiliation? The Hunter had never handled defeat well. “I spent five hundred years making the Forest into a haven which neither man nor godling might threaten. It survived wars and crusades and natural disasters and was as much a part of me as the flesh that I wore . . . and he took me on there. There! Tricked me, and put my very soul in jeopardy . . .”

He drew in a deep breath, slowly. Trying to calm himself. “If the Forest is no longer my refuge, then no place will ever be. I could hide myself away with my books and my conjurings for a month, a year, a century . . . but the threat would always be there. Will always be there, until I deal with it.” The pale eyes fixed on Damien. “You understand?”

“I think so.”

“You’ve always distrusted me . . . which is appropriate, I assure you. But the day may come when that will be a dangerous luxury. Our relationship has been strained even here, on this ship, and I know you’ve had your doubts about the wisdom of our alliance. That’ll only get worse as time goes on. Our enemy seems adept at reading our fears and turning them against us—perhaps even feeding on them—and so I thought it best if you understood why I was here. How much is at stake for me in this venture. I thought that knowledge would be worth more than anything I could say about trustworthiness, or loyalty.”

He could feel the power in those pale eyes as they studied him, weighing his soul for reaction. And for an instant—just an instant—it seemed to him that he could sense the uncertainty that lay hidden within their depths, the terrible vulnerability within the man. Because when all was said and done, the Hunter was no more comfortable with their alliance than he was. It was a sobering thought.

“I understand,” he said quietly.

I swore I’d kill him. He knows that when this is over I’ll try. How fragile is the thread that binds us together? Even more important: how fragile does he perceive it to be?

With consummate grace the Neocount swung himself over the ship’s railing and onto the narrow rope ladder beneath. The natural grace of a predator, Damien thought. As repelled as he was fascinated by the insight. When Tarrant’s feet had caught a rung he paused, and looked at Damien. “Expose my quarters,” he commanded. “Tear down the walls that guard it. Bring my possessions into the daylight and expose them as well, so that nothing remains of my power.”

“I imagine we’ll expose the whole ship when we reach port—”

“Now, priest. Before the locals contact us. Our enemies also shun the sunlight, remember? Best not to confuse that issue.” A hint of a smile, ever so faint, creased his lips, “Trust me.”

“You once cautioned me never to do that,” he reminded him. “But I’ll take care of it.”

“At dawn.”

He winced, and counteroffered, “Early. I promise.”

Tarrant chuckled. “Good enough.” He began to make his descent—carefully, lest his ankle-length garments get caught between his feet and the rungs—but Damien stopped him.

“Tarrant.”

The Hunter looked up at him. And for a moment Damien saw in him not the cold-blooded murderer he was, but the man he once had been. A man of infinite vision. A man of faith.

That’s still there, inside him. It has to be. But how to bring, it out?

“Thank you,” he said at last. “For telling me.” And he added, “It helps.”

The Hunter nodded. His expression was grim.

“Let’s hope it’s enough.”

Rasya. He dreamed of her, and woke to find himself stiff with longing. They’d had such a good time together when the journey had first begun, what with his energy and her? exuberance and a good bit of sexual know-how on both their parts. A perfect match, it had seemed. He’d hoped it would last. But then, as their navigational instruments began to fail, she grew increasingly restless. Tense. He made the mistake of thinking it was because of her work, By the time he realized the true cause, it was too late to salvage what they’d shared.

I’ve got wards to keep me from getting pregnant, she’d told him, but what if they go, too? Hell of a time and place to be having kids, don’t you think?

And then there were the volcanos of Novatlantis and the flood tides of the Eastern Gate and the time never seemed quite right to suggest that there were more mechanical means they could resort to. Because they were beyond that, really. They’d fought enough over trivial things before her real fears came out in the open that recapturing those moments of intimacy would be all but impossible. Women were like that.

Too bad, he thought. It was good while it lasted. That’s all you could really ask for, wasn’t it?

He turned over to go back to sleep, half hoping his dream would pick up where it left off. Then a soft knocking on his cabin door reminded him of what had woken him up in the first place.

He fumbled for the lamp, managed to get it lit without setting himself on fire. Then bunched up the blankets where it mattered most and called out softly. “What? Who is it?”

The door creaked open, ever so slightly. A slender figure slipped inside, draped in a coarse seaman’s coat. With bare legs, he noted. Shorts, in this weather? How like her.

“You up?” Rasya asked.

It took all his self-control not to make the obvious wisecrack. “I am now,” he managed. “Tarrant gone?”

She nodded. “Dissolved into night, as the poet would say. Quite an impressive display.”

“Yeah. He’s an impressive guy.”

Her blue eyes were fixed on him. Sparkling. Mischievous. God, he still wanted her. “You up to some company?” she asked softly.

“Why? Has something happened?”

“Not yet.” She smiled, somewhat tentatively. “But I was thinking maybe it might.”

She came to the bed and sat down on it. By his side. Close enough that he could feel her warmth through the blanket.

“What about your wards?” he managed.

She grinned. “His ex gave them a boost for me when we reached shore. Why else do you think I rowed him there?” The coat slid off one shoulder as she spoke; she wasn’t wearing very much under it. Maybe nothing at all. “The way I figure it, we’ve just about completed the second most dangerous voyage on the face of this planet, and so I’m about due for a little celebrating. Right?” She cocked her head and studied him. “Of course, if you’re not interested . . .”

Women. Don’t even try to understand them. You’re just not equipped.

“Hell I’m not,” he muttered, and he reached for her.

It was only later, in the depths of the night—much later and after considerable exertion—that he thought to ask her “What’s the first most dangerous voyage?”

It was too dark to see, but he thought he sensed her smile.

“Going home,” she whispered.

3

It was Sara’s first time out.

Behind her, before her, all about her, the grim sentinels of the One God kept watch for faeborn dangers. As they did so they prodded her forward, pushing her when necessary, cursing her stubbornness under their breath even as they muttered the prayers of the Hunt. She was so afraid it was hard to move, the terror constricted her limbs, she found it hard to breathe . . . but that was good, she knew. Fear would draw the nightborn. Fear would manifest demons who were otherwise invisible. Fear would enable the Church to do its holiest work . . . and she understood all that, she understood the value of it, she just wished it didn’t have to be her in the center of all this, marching numbly at the heart of this macabre procession while the faeborn gathered just beyond the reach of their torchlight, eager for the promised feast.

Her.

With a constant litany of prayers upon their lips, the hunters of the Church wended their way through the depths of the untamed forest. The thick darkness parted grudgingly before their light and closed up behind them, hungrily, as soon as they had passed. She had never seen such a darkness before, a dank, heavy blackness that clung to the trees like syrup, dripping thickly to pool about their feet. The mere touch of her feet against the nightclad ground made her shiver in revulsion. And in fear. Always, always fear . . .

At last the man in front signaled for them to stop. She did so, shivering. They had sent her out with only a woolen smock to guard against the evening’s chill, and it was proving hopelessly inadequate. Perhaps they would have given her more had she asked for it, but how was she to know what she needed? She had never been outside before, save in the Church’s sheltered confines. How could she possibly anticipate the rigors of such a journey—she, who had spent twelve sheltered years behind the high walls of the Church, who knew no more of nightborn dangers than the secondhand tales of cathedral matrons, whispered over the daily chores?

What does it matter? she thought despairingly. What does any of it matter? I’m not coming back from this, am I? Oh, they had told her otherwise. And she knew that some children did indeed come back from the Hunt, because she had seen them. Empty-eyed. Spirits bleeding. Souls screaming out in ceaseless horror, behind a glassy countenance that had lost all capacity for human expression. That was what these men hoped she might become some day. That was their true goal. They would have denied it had she asked them—had she dared to ask them—but she knew it nonetheless, with the absolute certainty of youth. And that thought frightened her more than all the monsters of the dark combined.

“This is the place,” the man in front announced. The others murmured their assent—their voices filled with hunger, she thought, a hunger for killing, a hunger for her pain—and urged her forward, into a clearing which Nature had provided for their sport. Suddenly the men at her side seemed far more terrifying than whatever evils the night might shelter, and in a sudden burst of panic she turned and tried to run from them. But strong, cold hands were on her shoulders before she could take three steps, and a chill voice warned her, “Not now, little one. You just wait. We’re not ready for that yet.”

They took her to the center of the clearing, where it waited. A low granite boulder. A steel ring, driven into it. A chain . . .

“Please,” she whispered. “Please take me home. Please.” They were too busy praying to listen. Prayers for the living, prayers to conjure wisdom, prayers to consacrate the Hunt. A heavy steel band was set about her slender ankle and snapped shut. It fit her, as it had fit a thousand girl-children before her; the measurements of the Chosen didn’t vary much.

“Please,” she sobbed. Her voice and body shaking. “Take me home . . .”

“In the morning,” one of the men uttered shortly, testing the strength of her chain. As if she could find her way out through some subtle flaw in the steel. “All in good time.” The rest of them said nothing. They were forbidden to comfort her, she knew that—but it was terrifying nonetheless, to have the men she knew so well suddenly transformed into these emotionless statues. Statues who might curse the loss of a bolt or the escape of a night-wraith, but who would not blink an eye if she were torn to shreds before their very eyes.

Not true, she told herself desperately. They have to care! They’re my people, aren’t they? But it frightened her more than anything that suddenly she wasn’t sure of that. She felt like an animal surrounded by strangers, being sacrificed for something she could barely comprehend.

Prey.

They had withdrawn to the shadows of the forest, black and concealing, so that she could no longer see them. The lantern which they had used to light their way through the forest had been hooded now, so that the faint stars of the rim and Casca’s quarter-disk were the only illumination. Hardly enough to see by. Not nearly enough to drive away the hordes of monsters who took shelter in night’s darkness, whose hunger she could sense just beyond those hard-edged shadows . . .

“Please,” she whimpered. “Oh, God, please. No.”

She heard them before she saw them. Heard them chittering among the trees while their forms were still masked by the shadows. Heard their scrabblings, as they fought for a prime vantage point. High above a vast shadow circled: razor-sharp wings, crowding out the moon. She sobbed, and jerked her foot against the chain, desperately trying to break free; the thick steel band didn’t give.

“Let me go!” she screamed. As if the men would listen to her. As if they would care. “Oh, God, please, let me go . . . I’ll be good, I swear it. I’ll do anything you want! Just get me out of here!” She jerked at the chain again and again, pulled herself along the half-frozen earth until the steel links were strained to their utmost—as if a child’s strength could somehow break such a bond, if she only tried hard enough. And she prayed, with a passion born of utter terror. Knowing even as she did so that the God of her faith would never help her. The Hunt was His device—His plan, His ritual—and why would He set aside His plan for her, why would He break His own rules for the comfort of one tiny soul? But to pray when one was frightened was a reflexive response, and so she muttered the ritual words of supplication even while her eyes darted from shadow to shadow, searching for movement.

At last she found it. She whimpered as the shadows opposite her stirred, as the liquid darkness coalesced into a long, scaled body. Something leapt at her. Long body, scaled flesh, horns set just above the eyes—it was upon her so quickly that she barely had time to scream before its claws raked her skin, its carrion breath choking her-

And then something struck it, hard. The creature made a noise that was half shriek, half gurgle, and fell back. She was dimly aware of a black shaft that transfixed its flesh, and of noxious blood that poured forth from it as it clawed at its chest, trying to pull the barbed shaft loose. Then another quarrel struck it, and another. It howled in pain and rage and fell back again, almost to the line of the trees. There were small things coming from the shadows now, faeborn parasites that thrived on dying flesh; they fixed their sharp teeth into it and began to feast, even while it thrashed about in pain. Even as she watched the blood that gushed from it slowed to a trickle, sizzling as it struck the ground. The desperate thrashing ceased. Only the tiny scavengers continued to move, and she could hear the gurgling sounds they made as they tore loose bits of the faeborn flesh and swallowed it.

She was shivering. Uncontrollably. Her face stung from where the beast’s claws had raked her, and when she rubbed the spot with her hand her fingers came away bright red and sticky. That thing had almost gotten her. One more second and it might have ripped her throat out, or torn out her heart, or done something even worse, that left her alive to suffer. Suddenly mere death didn’t seem so terrible anymore. At least it would end this suffering. At least it would quell the fear. She looked up at the sky, at the position of the moon, and sobbed. Mere minutes had passed since they had chained her here. Out of how many yet to pass? How many hours of fear and pain and utter despair must she endure, before the dawn released her? And if she survived this night—if her body survived, if some fragment of her mind retained the capacity to fear - how many more nights would there be, in which her God would use her to draw out the nightborn, in order that His servants might destroy them?

Suddenly she understood what had happened to the other children. And she envied them their utter withdrawal. Their peace.

Take me, she begged her God. Take me away from this. I’ll do anything . . .

No response. Not from Him. But overhead a dark shape eclipsed the moon briefly; she glanced up in time to see black wings outlined against Casca’s brilliance, talons that gleamed like rubies in the moonlight. Then, as if in response to her scrutiny, the dark thing which had been circling overhead began its descent. Sharp claws flexed in anticipation as the broad, night-black wings lowered it slowly to the ground. She was suddenly aware of how utterly still the night had become; even the faeborn demons who had been whispering in the shadows were silent now, as if they recognized something in this creature that even they feared. Then its eyes fixed on her—quicksilver, diamondine—and the hunger that was in them brought a soft moan to her lips. Of terror. Submission. Desire.

The chain no longer chafed at her ankle. The cuts on her face no longer burned. There was nothing in her universe but those eyes, those terrible eyes, and the cold burning hunger behind them. As the great bird scanned the surrounding countryside once more—taking the measure of its enemies, it seemed—she knew with utter certainty that the men of her city were as frozen as she was. Mesmerized by the force of this demon’s presence.

“Take me home,” she whispered. No longer certain who she was talking to. No longer sure what she wanted.

Wingtips curled to catch the night air, it lowered itself with consummate grace to the boulder at the clearing’s center. She caught the flash of ruby talons closing about about the thick steel ring, silver eyes scanning the woods for enemies. Transfixing them? Then a chill light seemed to rise up from about its feet, so bright that she had to shield her eyes or be blinded; silver-blue flames, that licked about the creature’s flesh. She felt a thrill of pure terror as the mass that was within those flames melted, transformed, reshaped itself. Into-

A man. Or rather, a demon in man’s form, whose flesh embodied the very chill of the night. The silver-blue power poured down from him like water, lapped at the base of the rock that supported him, ran outward in a thousand tiny rivulets that laced the ground like veins, until the whole of the clearing was caught up in the web of his power. The form he wore was breathtakingly beautiful, features as fine. and as delicate as the numarble statues which flanked the I great arch of the cathedral—but cold, as a statue’s substance is cold, and utterly unhuman. She shivered, knowing that her fear had summoned something as far beyond the mere beasts of the Dark as the angels were above mere men. Wondering if the Church’s hunters would dare to fire at such a creature.

Apparently one of the men had found his courage, for a dark, slim shape shot forth from the darkness. The demon did not turn to confront his attacker, nor otherwise acknowledge the assault—but power, brilliant, laced up from the ground like lightning, and sizzled as it struck the blessed shaft. A moment later the quarrel reached the place where he stood, but its course had been altered so that it missed its intended object by inches and continued onward, into the thick darkness of the forest beyond.

The clearing was silent now. Utterly silent. She could feel her heart pounding as the demon-man stepped down from his perch, coming toward her—and she knew that he could hear it, that its fevered rhythm drew him like sugar would draw an insect. Helpless, fascinated, she made no effort to flee, but lay frozen in a reverie that was as much yearning as it was pure terror.

Then something stirred at the edge of the clearing—and she nearly cried out, recognizing its source. One of the men was going to try to save her. She knew in an instant that his sword would be as ineffectual as his quarrels, that by entering the clearing he was opening himself up to attack . . . but her voice was frozen in her throat, and she lacked the power to warn him.

The demon’s eyes never left hers, but they narrowed. Something in them flickered, and power shot up from the ground like lightning. It consumed the man in an instant, licking at his flesh like fire—and leaving frozen flesh in the place of ash, that shattered into a thousand glassy bits as he fell to the ground at the demon’s feet.

All around her unnatural bonfires flared, leafless trees silhouetted against silver-blue unfire. She heard one of the men scream out, another trying to flee—but the demon’s power claimed them all, and at last there was nothing left of the Church’s special warriors but a silver flicker that played across the ground, outlining bodies as still as the earth itself.

Then, slowly, he came toward her.

His eyes were mirrors that reflected back at her all the terrors of her childhood. His essence was hunger that drank in her fear. His presence embodied the night, with all its special threats: The faespawned. The undying. The Dark. And something else, that she now hungered for as desperately as she had once hungered for freedom.

Eyes shut, lips parted, she sank down into the sea of his hunger, and the bittersweet ecstacy of dying.

4

Pounding. Rhythmic. Pervasive. It dissolved the dream from around Damien and substituted reality, in all its claustrophobic glory. The closeness of his cabin. The creaking of the deck. And a banging on his door, too forceful to ignore.

“Time to get up, Rev!” Pounding. On the door, or in his head? The dream fog dissolved slowly. “Captain said to get you out here if I value my hide, so rise n’ shine! Time to go to work!”

With a muttered curse he grabbed his blanket from off the bed and wrapped it around himself in an improvised toga. He’d just as soon answer the door stark naked—it’d serve the man right if it bothered him—but there were a few passengers on board who wouldn’t handle it well if they saw that, and diplomacy, as always, won out. Sunlight streamed through the porthole, piercing through the thick lawn curtain: early morning, he guessed, although he couldn’t have said whether it was the angle of the sunlight or its hue which gave that away. He’d been keeping Tarrant’s hours for long enough that even with the bastard gone he still missed the best of the daylight hours. That’s got to stop, he told himself firmly, blinking the sleep from his eyes. Soon.

“Coming,” he muttered, even as he pulled the door open.

The first mate was stopped in mid-motion, his fist raised high. “Good morn, Rev.” The fist opened slowly, as if only gradually becoming aware that the door was no longer within reach. He was wearing his uniform jacket, a stiff woolen shortcoat that smelled strongly of mothballs. And shoes. He was wearing shoes. Damien shook his head, trying to absorb that fact. When was the last time he’d seen the crew shod? “He said to wake you up as soon as we were sure, and it looks like we’re sure now, so you need to get on deck.”

“Sure about what?”

“Company.” A nervous grin betrayed two missing teeth. “Just come into sight half a hour ago, but the captain said to wait until we knew what it was for sure—”

And suddenly it all made sense. The shoes, the uniform . . . full port dress, the captain would have called it. But there couldn’t be a port on this stretch of coast, could there? If not . . . then what?

“A ship?” he asked. Hearing the excitement in his own voice. And the tension. “Another fortress? What?”

“Aye, all sails and steam and armed to the teeth. A ship, Rev,” he added, as though Damien hadn’t just figured that out. “You’d best come and look for yourself as soon as you’re decent. Captain’s wanting you now for sure. Up at the bow.” He nodded sharply toward the middeck. “I got to go.”

A ship.

God in heaven . . . enemies, allies, what?

He pulled on the nearest pair of breeches—yesterday’s, not really clean, but that couldn’t be helped—and a fresh linen shirt that he’d laid out the night before. Not fancy, but it would do for the moment. In deference to the morning’s style he pulled on a pair of soft boots as well, though he had long since adopted the crew’s custom of going barefoot on the rough wooden planks. Then the deck canted beneath his feet and for a moment he slid as the smooth leather soles fought for purchase; it took him a minute to steady himself, and then a few minutes more to learn to walk steadily again without the reassuring grip of ten toes to anchor him. Stunned, he managed to make his way from the cabin.

A ship!

The other passengers were gathered at the port rail, grouped predictably. In the long months they’d spent together, Damien had learned to recognize all their little cliques, and to draw voyeuristic amusement from watching how each little outbreak of emotion—a lover’s spat, a partner’s suspicion, even the fallout from a particularly ruthless game of poker—reshuffled the forty of them into new configurations, each with its own special stresses. The pettiness of it all was part of the reason he’d preferred to keep Tarrant’s hours, feeding on the man’s special knowledge as surely as the adept fed upon his dreams. And it was addictive, there was no denying that. He would never have thought of knowledge in those terms before, but Tarrant had taught him otherwise. A dangerous addiction, all the more so because it seemed so benign . . .

He wondered why all these men and women weren’t crowding at the front of the ship, since the object of their scrutiny clearly lay in that direction. Perhaps the captain had threatened them back from the bow, to reserve that space for himself. If so, it served them right. He had once likened the Golden Glory’s passengers to a passel of kittens, who tended to be underfoot no matter where you went. Overhead, Damien caught sight of the Glory’s few sailors scurrying about like so many spiders, their hands and feet grasping the knotted rigging only long enough to get their bearings, then scrambling free across the hempen webs again. A figure clung to the mast itself, fingers and toes gripping salt-cured wood without visible support. He grinned, noting that Hesseth had found herself the best vantage point of all. White sails snapped in the wind all about her as the complex winch—and-wire system that controlled their position began to draw them in, denying them a grasp on the westerly breeze. Also giving her a clearer view. At moments like these he envied her the claws and agility that gave her such freedom. How much simpler and safer would his life have been if he had been armed likewise?

The captain was in uniform, and on him it seemed even more alien. Woolen jacket, black breeches, high leather boots; the clean, formal line of his garments did nothing to refine him, merely made him look coarser by contrast. And yet powerful, doubly powerful, with a raw, unfettered agression that was its own authority. Little wonder he had managed to scare the passengers back from the bow.

“She’s armed,” he said, as Damien came to his side. “No doubt of it. Take a look.”

Did you expect any different? he wondered, remembering the cannon they had seen a few days earlier. He raised his own telescope up to his eyes and scanned the sea before them. By now they must be within . . . what, forty miles to the gateway of the inland sea? Fifty at the most. That made contact very likely. It surprised him, in a way, that it hadn’t occurred before.

At last he found the object of the captain’s attentions and focused his own lenses upon it. And gazed upon the face of their welcoming committee.

It was a ship, all right, and a damned big one. Even to his untrained eye it looked impressive; others would no doubt find it intimidating. He scanned its twenty-odd sails, wishing he knew enough of ship-lore to read meaning into their various shapes and settings. He studied the deck, looking for things that he could interpret. There were columns rising from the middeck that might lead down to a furnace: steam power for backup? Few cabins meant it wasn’t a passenger liner, which left at least a dozen possibilities. The smooth, sleek hull cut through the waves with fine precision, but was that any better or worse than his own ship’s performance? He couldn’t begin to judge. He had never liked sea travel, had assiduously avoided it most of his life; now he was paying the price for that.

Tarrant would have known. Wasn’t Merentha a port in his time? He probably has every fact we’d need, right at his fingertips.

And then, scanning lower, he noticed the holes which pierced the ship’s side: perfectly square, evenly spaced. Distinctly ominous, even to his untrained eye. He felt something inside him tighten as he recognized the only thing they could possibly be, as he finally voiced the impossible.

“Cannon,” he whispered. The word was cold on his tongue. Cannon, on a ship. “Is that it?”

“Figure so,” the captain confirmed. “Never seen ’em like that myself, but I imagine that’s how they’d be placed. If one was going to fight,” he added.

Cannon on a ship. That one phrase embodied the impossible. Gunpowder might have limited use on land—mostly in the hands of those whose luck or power permitted them to control it—but it had no place on the open sea, not where a single mishap might doom a ship full of men and goods to a sudden watery grave. Misfires happened with the best of guns; the early wars had taught them that. Naval warfare had been rare and piracy all but unknown for how long now . . . six hundred years? Eight hundred?

But not here, Damien thought. An unaccustomed chill began to take root in his soul. Any culture that armed its ships Earth-style must be very foolhardy, or very confident . . . or both. And deadly. That was without question. And it had enemies. Powerful enemies.

He swung his sight upward, to the pennant that fluttered atop the mizzenmast, and waited for wind to favor him by stretching the fabric taut so he could see. The emblem of the foreign ship fluttered, folded . . . and then snapped westward and held. Just long enough. His breath caught in his throat.

“Reverend?”

Two circles, interlocking. In one was a shape that might have been the Northamerican continent. An Earth-disk? In the other was a serpentine form that it took him a minute to identify. He struggled to remember the shapes on Tarrant’s map, and tried to reconcile the distortions of the space-born probe with the viewpoint of land-bound cartographers. Yes. That was it. Without a doubt. He recognized it now.

This land. This continent. Bound to the Earth (if he read it right) by the same kind of symbol that his Church would use to signify the One God, the One Faith . . . what else could that flag be, but a symbol of his calling?

A fervent prayer echoed in his soul, one he had never dared voice in all the long months of their travel. Oh, God, let this land be Yours. Let its people be sanctified unto You, keepers of Your Law. Let them but serve the same dream that I do, and I know that we will prevail - we will triumph! - we will scour the evil from this planet so that Your followers may worship in peace and safety forever . . .

“Father?”

“Might be Church-sign,” he murmured. “Or might not.” Now that the first flush of optimism was fading, cold pragmatism took its place. Our enemy has tricked us before. What if this sign is but another example of his scheming? Or if (it is possible) you’re reading it wrong? Be careful, Damien. Don’t let your own hope make you careless. “Can’t be sure.” He looked up from the telescope, saw that Rasya had joined them. Against the deep blue of her pilot’s uniform her sun-bleached hair burned like fire.

“It’s a coastline vessel,” she informed him. “Those sails’d give it good maneuverability, but it can’t net the ocean wind like this can.” She nodded back toward their own square sails, now tightly reefed to their spars. “Of course, here by the coast that’s to their advantage. No way we could outrun them. And if I’m right about the engine . . .” She hesitated.

“What?” Damien asked, and the captain prompted, “Go on.”

She glanced back at their own midship section, where two slender columns would serve to vent the turbine’s smoke high above the deck. Only two columns. Slender. She gazed out at the alien ship, whose four thick columns seemed to dominate the entire deck. Was that fear in her eyes, or envy? “I’d guess that it’s more than a backup,” she said at last. “In fact, judging by the design . . . I’d guess that sailpower is secondary.”

“Gods’v Earth,” the captain murmured. “A true steamship? She’s under sail now, sure enough—”

“The wind’s with her,” Rasya supplied. “But I’d venture a guess she doesn’t slow down when it turns. Wouldn’t have to.”

“Gunpowder over water,” Damien murmured. “Dependable engines. Mechanized travel.” Tasting the words. Testing the concepts.

“It’s like a different world,” Rasya agreed.

“A world your people hoped to create—eh, Reverend?” The captain’s eyes, narrowed against the sun, were fixed on him. Tell me these are your people, they seemed to beg. Tell me you know how to talk to them.

“I don’t know,” Damien whispered. Afraid to commit himself. Was it possible that in this isolated community the Church had finally achieved its goals, albeit on a limited scale? Or could their enemy fake those signs as well? “I just don’t know.”

“We’re going to have to talk to them,” Rasya said quietly. “On their terms, I’d say.”

The captain nodded. “No doubt about that.” With effort he looked away from the distant ship, and back at her. “How long ago were our signals standardized? Will they know our flags if they see ’em?”

“Not if they’re from the first two expeditions. Too early.” Her eyes were narrowed in thought as she fought to recall the fine points of naval history. “When did the third group set sail? Fifth century?”

“536,” Damien supplied.

“Might, then. I think it was all regulated by then. And, of course, Jansen’s expedition—”

Her words were drowned out in the roar of an explosion. Damien tensed instinctively, felt himself reach for his sword—and then cursed himself for a damned fool, and a senseless one at that. What the hell was he going to fight? They couldn’t even run for cover here, much less fend off cannonballs with their swords. That foreign ship could chew them up and spit them out without pausing to reset its sails. But he saw Rasya tense and glance back, as if wondering how quickly her own sails might be let down again. Not quick enough, he thought grimly. He braced himself for impact—and possibly death—as yet another explosion pounded from the foreign vessel. Never had he felt so utterly helpless.

A third, then. A fourth. A fifth. All perfectly timed, flawlessly executed. It reminded Damien of a nightmare Tarrant had once designed for him, of a world on which the fae didn’t function. There, firearms were reliable. There they might be timed, and fired, with just such terrible precision . . .

Silence lay heavy in the air, thick with the smell of fear. Smoke curled upward from the holes in the foreign ship’s side, wrapping about the masts like a pennant. Damien waited, tense, for the impact that was sure to come. Iron on water, or—God forbid—iron on wood, the splintering sound of the hull giving way as all their plans were nullified in an instant . . . but there was nothing. Nothing. He waited, breath held, praying silently. Nothing happened. The distant smoke coiled like serpents, then dispersed. There was no other sign. No other sound.

He looked at the captain—and saw a visage so transformed by fear that he hardly recognized it. Was this the man he’d met in Faraday, whose record bore witness to a fierce, indestructible courage? Was this the indomitable master of the wild seas, who had saved two ships from a smasher and killed a dockwraith barehanded, and God only knew what other exploits? Afraid?

And then he looked deep into the captain’s eyes and saw something else there, too. Something more unnerving than mere fear. Something more powerful than terror.

Awe.

“Not a beat missed,” he whispered. “Gods, can you imagine? If we tried to set off half a dozen guns like that—half a dozen anything—can you imagine?” He shook his head slowly. “All five gone off right, and in perfect time . . .” His voice was trembling. “Is it possible, Reverend? That men could do a thing like that?”

“We believe so,” he said. Choosing his words with care. He glanced back at Rasya, who seemed equally stunned. In the distance he could hear other sounds, coming from where the passengers stood. Whispers. Moans. Prayers. They knew enough of how Erna worked to recognize those five shots for what they were: a statement of utter control, indisputable power. If cannonballs had struck the deck, it could not have inspired more fear than this. “The Church believes that such things would become possible, if enough souls devoted themselves to our cause.” Had that happened here? Had enough prayers, enough religious devotions, finally fulfilled the Prophet’s vision? Was the fae and its constructs no threat to these people? It was almost too much to hope for. The mere thought made his head spin.

Careful, Damien, careful. You don’t know anything yet.

“Talk to them,” the captain told Rasya. “Tell them we come in peace.” She slipped away to see to it. After a moment, high overhead, signal flags blazed from the top of the mizzenmast. Red and black, precisely wielded. Damien watched the configurations for a moment, then—when they began to repeat—fixed his eyes on the distant ship once more. And held his breath, waiting for a response.

There was none.

“Someone’s going to have to go over there,” the captain said at last. “Face-to-face. It’s the only way.”

“Dangerous as hell,” Damien muttered.

“Yeah. Tell me about it.”

Silence. Then: “All right,” Damien said. “I stand the best chance of speaking their language. Signal them I’m coming over.”

“They probably don’t understand—”

“Or they do, and they’re keeping their silence. Tell them anyway.” He looked down at his clothes, which seemed ten times as dirty as when he’d put them on. “I’ll need a few minutes to change, and . . . to prepare.”

“I’m going with you.”

“Hell you are.”

“It’s my ship, dammit.”

“Which is why you need to stay. If anything happens to me—”

“Then we’re all dead men anyway, Reverend, and it might as well be there as here. Now the way I figure it, I’ve got nothing to lose by going, right? And maybe—just maybe—these paranoid bastards’ll soften up a bit when they see that we’ve put ourselves wholly in their power. As if we aren’t anyway, no matter what we do.” When Damien said nothing, he pressed, “Make sense?”

“Yeah,” he said at last. And something cold deep inside him loosened its stranglehold on his heart at the thought that the captain would be coming. “Rasya and Tor won’t like it, you know.”

“That’s why they take orders and I give ’em.”

He nodded meaningfully toward the distant ship. “There are worse things than death, you know.”

“Trying to scare me won’t work, Reverend.” A faint smile creased the sun-dried lips. “I’m already as scared as I’m going to get today. Anything else?”

He looked at the man’s scarred face, and wondered if all those marks were from simple barroom fights. Rumor said no. “All right,” he said at last. “You’ve got guts, Captain, I’ll give you that.”

“Men with guts live hard and die young.” He managed a smile, not totally without humor. “Let’s hope it’s the former in this case, eh, Reverend? I’ll see to the ship. You go get dressed for company.”

Damien nodded and turned to leave. Then he hesitated. “You might want to remind the crew—”

“That we’re all Church faithful, from now until the day we leave this place? Don’t worry, Reverend.” His dark eyes sparkled. “I’ll see that all the nasty pagans behave.” Including myself, his expression promised.

“Good enough,” Damien whispered. He hoped it was. The merchants were all of his faith, more or less, but it had been impossible to sign on a crew to match. He just hoped that they understood how much might be at stake if religious prejudice held sway here. Erna had been host to enough religious slaughters in her brief history that he didn’t feel like adding another one to the list.

He started to leave, but the captain’s voice stopped him, “Father Vryce.”

Startled by his use of the more familiar title, Damien turned back. The captain had closed his telescope, and was now studying Damien in much the same manner that he had the foreign ship.

“I didn’t ask your real business before we left,” he reminded the priest. “Not in detail, anyway. I figured it suited me fine to sign on for the reasons you gave, and if you had some kind of personal crusade in mind once we landed, that wasn’t my business. Right? And it still isn’t. So I’m not going to ask. But it’s clear to me that there’s a lot not being said here, and as we head on over there,” he nodded toward the warship, “I think you should mull over the fact that we’d all be a good bit safer here if I knew what the vulk was going on. It’s hard to play the game right when you haven’t been told the rules, Reverend. Think about that, will you?”

His robe was where he had packed it, underneath all his possessions in the bottom of a small steel-bound trunk. He uncovered it gently, reverently, not out of concern for its material substance—he had commissioned it out of wool, not silk, so that it would travel better—but in humble regard for its spiritual value. Carefully he unfolded it, laying it out across his bunk. Fine worsted, singed and polished, bleached to a creamy white: it caught the sunlight and held it, adding the blue glow of morning to its substance. About the neckline a wide band of embroidery proclaimed his rank with a pattern of overlapping flames, the mark of his Order. It wasn’t the best workmanship, that was true, but it was the best that he’d been able to afford back in Faraday, when he’d paid for the thing out of his own pocket. He could hardly have sent to Jaggonath for his good robes without having to confront the Patriarch, and that had been out of the question. The gold was slightly tarnished now and a few of the threads had become unwrapped, betraying their yellow silk core, but the whole of it sparkled golden in the sunlight and it was doubtful that any onlooker would notice such details in the midst of formal ceremony.

He slid the robe on over his head; wool so fine it might have been silk whispered down over his hair, his shoulders, his linen shirt, his leggings. Its hem fell just short of his ankles, revealing soft kid boots. Too long, he thought, picturing the journey ahead of him, but he was hardly about to cut it. He took his harness down from the wall, sword and all, and considered it. It was traditional for members of his Order to be armed at all times—even when armaments would normally be forbidden—but they might not know that on board the other ship, and he didn’t dare make a gesture that might be perceived as hostile. Finally he unlinked the baldrick from its anchoring belt and donned only the latter, folding the robe underneath it at his waist so that the hem fell no lower than his knees. Much better.

He drew out the Fire then, sliding it free of its won leather sheath, closing his palm about it so that he might feel its heat. It was a precious talisman, a symbol of his Patriarch’s trust . . . but no more than that, now. The crystal vial which contained the Worked fluid had cracked while he was in the rakhlands, and by the time he’d discovered the hairline flaw the few drops that remained had all but evaporated. He’d varnished the glass then, several times over, hoping to preserve what little was left—but all that he’d saved was a faint glow, a fleeting warmth, a mere ghost of the Church’s most powerful Working. He held it for a moment, drawing strength from the memories it conjured—then put it away carefully, reverently, deep within the folds of clothing inside his trunk.

Then: clean hair, neatly brushed. Spotless fingernails, Fresh shave. He ran down the checklist in his mind, the do’s and don’t’s that a man must observe when going from the field to the court. Damien had done it so many times now that he could no longer remember whether the list had been one of his own devising, or the parting gift of a well-meaning tutor.

At last he was finished. There was a crude mirror among his possessions, a polished flat of tin twice the length of his hand; he held it so that it reflected his face, then moved it slowly so that he might observe the whole length of his person. Which was as it should be: the person of a priest not a warrior. He stood transformed.

Now, he thought, Now I’m ready.

With a prayer on his lips, he went to join the captain.

The ship was even larger than it had seemed from a distance, with a span that dwarfed the Golden Glory and made its small rowboat seem like a minnow flitting about its prow. If they meant for it to impress us, Damien thought, it’s working. The graceful curve of the hull as it swept clear of the water hinted at structural dynamics more complex than anything the Glory’s designers had been familiar with; when Damien looked at the captain he saw stark envy in the man’s eyes, and a cold calculation that said if they survived, if they were permitted to make contact with the natives, he was damned well going to get a look at the schematics for the thing.

A ladder was dropped from the starboard side, along with grappling lines of braided steel. The sailor who had rowed them across brought them in with such precision that it was no trial to catch the lowest rung, and no great challenge to affix the great hooks—foreign in form though they were—to the iron rings provided for that purpose.

“You first,” the captain said, holding the ladder taut.

“Don’t you think—”

“I’ve done this more times than you have, Reverend. Go up while I’m bracing it and count your blessings.”

He did so, not mentioning that if he had climbed ice-clad ropes with his bare hands over Death’s Gorge in Atria he could certainly handle this. It didn’t seem a good time to argue.

They were waiting on the deck, a crowd of people as still and silent as the wood they stood upon. As Damien gave the captain and his crewmen a hand up, he studied them, trying to do it as unobtrusively as possible. Twelve guards, in meticulously tailored uniforms ill-suited to naval service; that meant Someone Important was probably on board, who had brought his soldiers with him. They were all armed, and ready for trouble. Four men and a woman, in uniforms not unlike that of the Glory’s crew: officers of this ship, perhaps? Three men and two women who could not be identified by their dress, save that it looked expensive; their stance proclaimed them to be civilians. Several figures moving in the background, swathed in dun robes that covered them from neck to wrist and ankle. And one man in the center of it all, whose bearing would have proclaimed his power even if his attire had not. Tall, proud, openly suspicious, he wore the robes of Damien’s Church as if he had been born to them. White silk split open down the front to reveal close-fitting civilian garments, a mixture of priest’s regalia and common attire that might have seemed blasphemous but for his attitude, which made it clear that everything he did and everything he wore was utterly correct. His skin was a rich brown, doubly dramatic against the white of his outer robe, and the sun picked out copper highlights along high cheekbones, a stem forehead, a strong jawline. His features were broad and well-formed and his black hair, closely cropped, did nothing to distract from them. Energy rippled from him in almost visible waves, and Damien guessed that he was the kind that was addicted to hard exercise—not for its own sake, or even to improve his flesh, so much as a need to give that energy an outlet, to channel it safely within a gym’s controlled confines so that it did not consume him elsewhere. He was the kind of man who became a leader or destroyed himself trying—and in the former he had clearly succeeded.

“My name is Andir Toshida,” he said. His accent was liquid, strangely at odds with the harshness of his tone. It did little to hinder comprehension, for which Damien was grateful; given a possible eight hundred years of isolation, there was no telling what English might have become here. “It is my duty to assess your origin and your intentions, and to render judgment accordingly. You will speak,” he commanded, and he looked first at Damien, then to the captain, “and you will explain yourselves.”

There was no question of who should begin, and Damien did not hesitate. “My name is Damien Kilcannon Vryce, Reverend Father twice knighted of the Eastern Autocracy of the One God.” He was watching the man for a reaction—any reaction—but the dark-skinned face was like stone. Utterly unreadable. “This is Lio Rozca, Captain-General of the Golden Glory, and Halen Orswath, of his crew.” We come in peace, he wanted to say, but words like that meant nothing; they were cheap, they were easy, the legions of Hell could have voiced them with impunity. This man had too much substance to be taken in by empty platitudes. “We came here from the west to determine if humans had settled here, to make contact with them if they had, and to establish trade with them when and where that was appropriate.”

One of the civilians whispered to another; a sharp look from Toshida cut the exchange short. “A mercantile expedition.”

“Some came for that purpose.”

“Verda? Not to colonize?”

The captain exhaled noisily. “We all have homes to go back to, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“We knew that five expeditions had already attempted the crossing,” Damien said. He saw neither surprise nor confirmation in Toshida’s eyes, nothing that might say or unsay whether he knew about all five or not. How many had landed? How many were lost? “We assumed at least one of them made it, and that therefore this land would be occupied. And since the most recent expedition was launched nearly four hundred years ago-” again, no hint of surprise in the man’s eyes, “-we believed it likely that by now mankind had settled here. We hoped that you would welcome contact with your kin, and permit us to learn from your trials.”

“The crossing was made, verda. And mankind has . . . flourished.” A slight hesitation there, fleeting but eloquent. “As to whether we would welcome contact . . .” His expression hardened. “That has yet to be determined.”

He looked out toward the Golden Glory, now close enough to the other ship that some details were apparent to the naked eye. “You fly no flag,” he challenged.

“The ship’s mine,” the captain said, “and I’m an independent. The crew’s a mixed lot, from half a dozen cities at least. Likewise the passengers.” He paused. “I can run my initials up the mizzenmast if it’ll make you happy.”

If he heard the challenge in his tone, Toshida didn’t react to it. If anything he looked pleased, and nodded his head slightly as though in approval. The woman nearest him gestured for his attention; he leaned down so that she might whisper in his ear, then nodded again.

“My adviser says that you must be genuine. An enemy ship would have presented itself better.”

There were smiles at that, albeit minimal ones. Damien allowed himself the luxury of a long, deep breath, and wondered if it was his imagination or if the atmosphere had just lightened measurably. He decided to chance a question of his own.

“How many expeditions made it here?”

For a moment Toshida said nothing; he knew as well as Damien did that once this inquisition turned into an equal exchange its texture would have been altered permanently.

At last he offered, “Of the five ships that set sail with Lopescu, one reached these shores. The Nyquist expedition arrived ten years later, entodo. Those were our ancestors.”

“And the others?”

“No other westerners settled here,” he said smoothly. And then, before Damien could question him anew, “This land belongs to the One God, as do all the people in it. Our land is governed by the Prophet’s Law; our politics are structured in accordance with our faith. May I assume that was the quera verda, Reverend Vryce?”

He bowed his head in affirmation. “And the answer is what I’d hoped for.”

Again the woman whispered to Toshida. He glanced about at the other civilians—his advisers?—and took quiet council from one of the men as well. Damien glanced over at the captain, noted that he was visibly calmer. Good. The man’s instincts, unlike his own, would not be clouded by religious optimism. If he thought all was going well, it very probably was.

He could hear his heart pounding as he waited, and wished he had the fae to draw on for insight. This Toshida clearly had the power to grant them official sanction, or consign them to an ocean-bound grave. He would have given anything to Know the man better.

At last he spoke to them. “I will see this ship, of yours for myself, before I render my verdict. Verda?” He paused, as if waiting for a response. “Unless you object.”

Without hesitation—because he had picked up enough of what was going on to recognize that hesitation would be damning—Damien bowed his assent. “In God’s Name.” And he added, “We are your servants.” Just for good measure.

“But Your Eminence-” one of the civilians protested, and another began, “Lord Regent—”

Toshida held up a hand in warning and the protests were silenced. “The first trade mission from west to east deserves no less,” he said. “If that’s what this is. I came out here precisely because I felt the situation merited it. Would you have me make my decision without seeing the truth for myself?”

The advisers were silent. They didn’t look happy.

He turned to the captain. “I’ll need to inspect your vessel: its crew, its cargo, its passengers, every nook and cranny and packing crate within its hull. If you are what you say you are, then you have nothing to fear. If not . . .” He shrugged suggestively.

“The merchants wonn’t be happy,” he warned.

“Merchants rarely are.”

“They’ll want reassurance that their goods won’t be fooled with.”

“If all we find are simple trade goods, then they have it.”

“On whose authority?” he challenged.

Far from being insulted by the captain’s tone, Toshida seemed almost to approve of it. The captain’s protecting his own, Damien thought. That’s a good sign in any decent company. For some reason that exchange, more than any other which had preceded, reassured him as to their captors’ intentions.

“On the authority of the Lord Regent of Mercia. Who is high priest and ruler enfacto of the capital city of this region, and therefore of its ruling center. Bien basta?”

The captain looked at Damien, who nodded slightly in approval. The exchange did not go unnoted. “If they’re at war,” Damien dared, “they need to know we’re not the enemy. You and I would do no less under the circumstances.”

The captain winced but nodded. “Aye,” he agreed. And then to Toshida: “You can tour the ship all you like, for that purpose. Just make sure it doesn’t go beyond that, okay?”

“You have my word,” the Regent promised.

We are not at war, the Regent told him, as they rowed their way back to the Golden Glory. A half-dozen guards sat erect in each of the two boats, as tense and alert as if they feared something might leap from the sea to devour them. Damien was glad they were beyond the reach of the earth-fae, which might have created just such a creature for them. We are not at war, but we have an enemy to the south. And sometimes the best way to avoid a war is by preparing to fight it.

I understand, Damien assured him. And he did, more than the Regent could possibly know.

I understand exactly.

The inspection was precise, efficient, and ruthless. It was also—viewed from the Regent’s perspective—absolutely necessary. Who could say what evil thing might not crouch hidden in a dark corner, might not nestle behind sleeping livestock, might not take up its shelter in a crate of canned goods bound for distant markets? Their enemy feared the sunlight, and therefore any place that might serve as a shelter against the light must be uncovered, opened up, searched.

They gathered the passengers together on the open deck, so that the Regent might see them. “Is this all?” he demanded. Damien was halfway through a head count when Tyria Lester informed them that her brother Mels was laid out with a hangover, and had not managed to get out of bed that morning. “Get him,” the Regent commanded, and Damien could almost hear the unspoken command that went with it: Let me see him in the sunlight. The man studied each of them in turn while the captain explained to all his rank, his power, his purpose. Damien could see the fear in their eyes, and he sympathized; since they didn’t know what the Regent was looking for, how could they be certain that he wouldn’t discover it in them? But his eyes passed over them quickly, one after another, and he nodded a curt approval to indicate that the lot of them had passed muster,

Then he turned to Hesseth.

She was dressed in her traveling garb, which is to say in layers that covered her from head to foot and then some, Only her face was visible—her altered face—and that was blistered from exposure to the sunlight, with angry red patches that ran across her cheekbones and down the ridge of her nose. It hadn’t occurred to any of them at the time that her tender rakhene skin, normally protected by a layer of fur, would have no mechanism for tanning. He wondered what the Regent would make of such a burn. Was that one sign enough to condemn her in his eyes? He tensed wondering if this was the moment when all their work would come to naught. Wondering what he could do to save her, if it was.

And then the Regent stepped back from her and bowed. Bowed! Deeply and reverently, as one might to an equal. She managed to maintain her poise somehow, but her frightened eyes met Damien’s and begged him, why! To which he could only shake his head in mute response: I don’t know.

The cabins were searched then, quickly and efficiently. The protests of the passengers and crew went unheeded. A phalanx of guards protected Toshida while he went through each room, while a handful more took up watch on the deck, to make sure that no people or weapons were shuffled from cabin to cabin ahead of him. He was as polite as he could be under the circumstances, but he was thorough. No living creature could have hidden from his scrutiny.

Then belowdeck, to the vast storage space within the hull. Every corner was searched. Every crate whose size or weight seemed consequential was pried open, to the accompanying protests of its owner. Gold ingots flashed in the lamplight, bricks of spices, flasks of perfume, books and gems and herbs and furs and bolts of silk, fine wool, silver bullion. It was the first time Damien had actually seen what his co-travelers were bringing with them, and he was stunned by its diversity and its value. No wonder they were terrified; Toshida could take it all from them if he liked, and claim some foreign law as justification. What could they do to stop him? How could they fight back? Whom would they turn to for justice?

But he had no interest in their baubles, nor in their complaints. Silently he continued through the ship, sparing a sharp glance for the space that Gerald Tarrant hid so recently occupied. For a moment he paused, and Damien wondered if it was some structural anomaly that had caught his eye, or a whisper of power that had somehow seeped into the ancient wood, defying their ritual cleansing. He was suddenly very glad that Tarrant was gone, and even more glad that they’d brought down the ship’s great mirrors and flooded this space with sunlight. If he had still been here, or his cabin still remained . . . he shuddered to think of the consequences. Thank God for the Hunter’s foresight.

Last on the list was livestock. They went to the forward end of the hold where the horses were kept, and for a moment the Regent just stared at them; it was clear that to him they were totally alien creatures. Finally he motioned for one of his guards to inspect their space, and it said much for the man that despite his obvious misgivings he did so without hesitation. He needn’t have worried. The horses’ owners had fed them an herbal mixture designed to keep the animals docile while on the long journey, and to prevent the mares from coming into heat. Even the stallions were tractable.

“How very beautiful,” the Regent murmured. He turned to Damien. “Pack animals?”

“Mostly ” he lied. “But they’ll carry a man.” For some reason he found that he wanted to keep the horses’ true strength a secret. It was a minor advantage, but at least it was something.

“We brought breeding stock,” Mels Lester informed him. Five of the horses were his. “Just in case.”

“Then I congratulate you on your foresight. Nyquist’s expedition attempted to bring what they called ‘unhorses’ with them, but more than half died enroute. Including all the males. A terrible loss.” He held out his hand to the nearest mare, who sniffed at it with passing interest. Damien could see the effect of the drug in her eyes, in her coat, in her mane, but to one who didn’t know the species’ natural state she must still have seemed a magnificent animal. “These may prove to be worth more than all the rest of what you have on board,” Toshida told them. His guard had made the rounds of the enclosure, and nodded tightly toward the Regent. Nothing there, the gesture said. Proceed as you see fit.

The Regent turned to face them. In the shadowy closeness of the hold his gaze was piercing, the whites of his eyes glittering like polished gemstones against the darkness of his skin as he studied first one man, then another.

This is a man who could condemn us to death without a moment’s hesitation, Damien thought. And he would, if he thought we posed any threat to his domain. God grant that he would prove an ally once, this trial was over. God grant, above all else, that he not become an enemy.

“I see nothing on board this ship that would be a threat to my people,” the Regent said at last. A communal sigh of relief seemed to resonate from the westerners, and Damien could feel his own muscles unknotting. “And I also see nothing to indicate that you aren’t exactly what you claim. In which case . . .”

He smiled. It was an expression of genuine warmth, as different from his previous mien as night was from day. And yet it was equally natural to him, the flip side of a nature that must judge men as often as it must reward. “Welcome to the promised land,” he said.

5

Black shapes scurrying across white sand, darting from boulder to boulder and dune to dune with predatory caution: the rhythm of invasion. Seen from up above, the creatures looked like rats or insects—anything but men. Vermin, the Protector thought, as he watched them swarm across his precious beach. That’s what they are: vermin. The mere sight of them made him sick inside.

He stood by the wall at the top of the cliff and watched them as they made their approach, hands clenched tightly at his sides. It was the penance he had set himself, that he should stand here and watch the result of his treachery. Finally he could stand it no longer and he turned away, back toward the garden. All about him crystal tinkled, delicately crafted trees shifting in the night’s chill breeze. It was his wife’s creation, this wondrous place of wrought-glass flowers and etched leaves, and standing in it he imagined he could hear her voice. What would she say, if she were here tonight? Why rush things, my love? Why not wait, and see what opportunity the future brings? There must be a better way.

But we’re running out of time, he thought darkly. You can see that, Mira, can’t you? It has to be done now, for all our sakes.

Suddenly, from far below, screams resounded. Human screams. His men. Shadows of the invaders danced before his eyes. Demon-spawned, nightborn, what was this battle to them? A chance to feed on their enemies’ blood, to revel in the destruction of humanity’s best. He winced as one particularly loud scream ended abruptly, and wished—not for the first time—that it could have been done some other way. But that just wasn’t possible. There had to be blood shed. There had to be bodies—enough so that when the investigation came no one thought to question their numbers, or check to see whether the guards’ weapons had been sufficient. Because they hadn’t been. He had seen to that.

I did it for her, Mira. To protect our daughter. And he whispered—softly, as if she were standing there beside him—“She has your eyes.”

When the screams at last subsided, he forced himself to move again. There was a low stone wall that guarded the cliff’s edge, and this he followed until he was far from the manor house and its crystal garden, until the darkness had swallowed up all signs of human habitation. Only then did he come to the place where the stone wall ended, and a steep staircase—no more than shallow rungs and handholds, painstakingly carved into the cliffs steep surface—provided access to the beach beneath.

He could hear them scrabbling up the granite incline, sharp claws scraping against the unyielding rock. For a moment he thought how easy it would be to send them plummeting to their deaths, one by one as they reached the top . . . and then the first set of hands came over the edge, and a sleek body followed—catlike, wary. And the moment was gone forever.

Chalk-white skin, eyes as black as jet. Hair that seemed more like tangled fur, a mouth that was hard and cruel, without any lips to speak of. Like its face its body was human in form, utterly inhuman in substance. This is the face of my treachery, he thought. This is what I’ve loosed upon the land. He felt sick inside.

The creature grinned; sharp teeth glinted in the moonlight. “You must be the Protector.” Its voice was a serpentine thing, sleek and sinuous. “What—no armies to guard you? No weapons at hand?”

“We made a bargain,” he said shortly. His heart was pounding. “I kept my end of it.” Another was climbing up now, sharp claws gripping the topmost step as it levered itself over the edge. Something thick and crimson dripped from the blade that it held between its teeth. Blood. Human blood. The blood of his men. “I was told you would keep yours.” What were these things, anyway?

The creature said nothing. For a moment it merely studied the Protector, its dark tongue stroking the razor-sharp teeth. Then it looked toward the manor house and its eyes narrowed, as if it had seen someone approaching.

The Protector looked back that way—and something struck him from behind as he did so, something sharp and hard, that drove him to his knees in a shower of pain. He put his hands up to his head to protect it from further assault, felt something warm and sticky clinging to his scalp. Matting his hair.

“So sorry about your bargain,” the invader hissed. “But there are things we need to do here, and leaving witnesses . . . ssssst!”

“My people,” he gasped. “You promised! They know nothing . . .”

He saw it through a mist of blood and pain: the creature was changing. Its thin body gained in height, took on new weight. Its pale skin darkened. Its features, almost human, took on a more familiar cast—and as he looked into its eyes, as he recognized its chosen form, the sickness of pure horror overwhelmed him. He tried to cry out in warning—to his retainers, his soldiers, anyone!—but another blow, even more brutal, drove him to the ground. His moan of pain was smothered by dirt and blood. His vision was drenched in red.

“So sorry,” the invader crooned. Using his accent. His voice. “But war is war, you understand. Of course you do, Protector. And as for your people . . .” The creature chuckled; its tone was horribly familiar. “I’m afraid we need them,” it whispered. His own voice. His own features. “I’m afraid we need them all.”

I’ve failed you, Mira. I’ve failed us all. May God have mercy on my soul . . .

It was the sound of his own laughter that drove him down into the final darkness.

Deep within the Protector’s keep, in a chamber with no windows, Jenseny played with the fringe of her gown and savored its rhythm with her fingers. She’d tried to explain that to her father once, how all the tiny threads hanging there together were a kind of music and how she could feel it through her fingers when she stroked them, but he didn’t understand. He couldn’t hear that and he couldn’t hear the other things: the fall of rain on waxy leaves, the screech of living fibers as they were ripped from the earth, the beat of the spindle and the soft shuffle of the loom as it wove, wove, wove . . . Some days when the Light was strong she thought she could hear the marketplace, too, old women squabbling over prices while her father’s hands stroked the soft cloth, drawing notes from it like it was a harp. She tried to share all that with him, but he couldn’t hear it. Just like he couldn’t hear so many things that were in her world.

Sometimes he would take her outside. Sometimes in the dead of night when his people were asleep he would come and wake her up and they would sneak outside, to stand in the moonlight with the soft wind blowing on their faces, listening to the music of the night. And he would tell her tales of the outside world, trying to draw pictures with his words so that she could see it all for herself. What he didn’t know was that sometimes his words would make the pictures real, so that she had to fight not to reach out and touch them. And then sometimes he was sad and she could see the sadness, too, a thick gray stuff that clung to him like mud. Or black, like when her mother died. Black, like on that terrible day . . .

Suddenly she heard footsteps, and her heart skipped a beat in excitement. It was that time of night when her father usually came to her, just before he went to bed. Maybe he was coming to her now. Maybe he would take her outside again, and let her look upon her mother’s world. She unwound her fingers from the silken fringe and made her hands lie still in her lap, paying no attention to the tinkling murmur of her dress as it fell back down to her knees. It upset him when she listened to things he couldn’t hear. He said it reminded him of why she was here, of how the Church would kill her if they found out he had been keeping her hidden away all these years, so that she could grow up secretly. As always, she felt a quiver in her stomach at the thought of her father—a quiver that was made up of love and awe and excitement and dread and a thousand other things combined. For him, and the world he represented. Because she feared the outside world as much as she hungered for it, and he was its representative.

And then the heavy door swung open and he was there. Face beaming with love and pride and paternal devotion, his joy at setting aside the day’s work so that they could have some time together at last. She ran to his arms and let him hold her tightly, the warmth of his body a shield against all danger. God, she loved him! She’d loved her mother, too, but now he was all she had left, and she hugged him for all she was worth. As if by doing so she was somehow hugging her mother, too.

But something was wrong tonight. She sensed it, without knowing how to define it. Suddenly his embrace seemed . . . wrong, somehow. As if he had suddenly become wrong.

Confused, she drew back from him. And then realized, It’s tonight. With a touch of fear in her heart: They must be here already.

“What’s the matter, pet? You all right?”

For a minute she just stared at him, not understanding the question. Did he think she wouldn’t understand the danger in what he was doing? Did he think such an understanding wouldn’t make her afraid?

She tried to make her voice strong with courage—like his always was—as she asked, “Did they come?” Voice trembling only slightly. Eyes wide, searching his face for unspoken clues as to what was going on. Because something was going on, she was sure of it. Then he turned away, denying her that access. He turned away! As if he was afraid to confide in her. As if he didn’t trust her. That thought hurt worse than any physical pain could. As if he hadn’t told her all about his treaty with the invaders. As if he wouldn’t trust her, his own flesh and blood, to keep such a secret!

“They came,” he said at last. Picking his way through the words with care, as if wondering how much to tell her. Jenseny got a funny feeling in her stomach as she watched him. Queasy and uncertain; she wished she knew where it came from. “It’ll be all right,” he assured her. “Everything’ll be all right. Don’t worry about it.”

Don’t worry about it.

I want to protect you, he had told her, on that terrible day when her mother died. More than anything else, I want to shelter you from all of this - to shelter your spirit from all the evil in this world, all the knowledge that might cause you pain . . . but I can’t do that, Jen. Not any more. It’s a kind of make-believe, and it could hurt you someday. Because what would happen to you if something went wrong? What would happen if someday you did have to go outside, and I couldn’t be there to help you? So I’m going to have to teach you things. Things that’ll help you make it on your own, if you ever have to. Things that’ll help you survive . . .

He had shared everything with her since then. Everything! Even when it involved a treachery so terrible that the merest hint of it to her nurse could cause him to be imprisoned for life. He had trusted her then—no, even more, he had considered it his responsibility to confide in her. To never again pretend that she was a little puppy, who needed only the comforting hand of a master to make everything seem all right.

What had happened since then? What had changed him? Was it possible that a man might say something like that and then forget it? Or . . . pretend it had never been said?

The queasy sensation inside her turned cold and clammy, and she felt her hands trembling. What did you do when all the rules changed, and nobody told you why? When the person you loved most in the whole world—and the only one you really trusted—seemed to suddenly become a stranger, right before your eyes?

Maybe it was that thought which made the vision come. Or maybe the Light just happened to flash at that moment, making everything change. Or maybe . . . maybe she needed to know so much that she forced the Light to come, maybe it heard her crying out inside and therefore it came: a sudden rainbow brilliance that burst to life with blinding power. It was so bright that it hurt her eyes, and she heard herself cry out from the pain. It took a few seconds for her vision to adjust, longer than usual because this time she was afraid to look. Afraid to see.

And then-

And then-

Her father was gone. No! In the place where he had stood crouched something else: something hungry, something four-legged with glistening fangs whose eyes were deep, black pits of hate. Where its claws gripped the floor she heard screams—human screams—as if every person this thing had killed was being rent anew, to die in horrible agony. She put her hands to her ears and pressed them tightly to her head, trying to block out that terrible sound. She could hear its voice—no longer her father’s, no longer human—but she blocked it out, she drowned it out with her own terrified keening, she refused to listen! Through tear-filled eyes she saw blood dripping from the creature’s mouth, and something else: a shred of cloth, horribly mangled. The rainbow Light had become a whirlwind of fire, a typhoon of brilliance, that swirled about her as she recognized the bloodied scrap. Her father’s coat. That was her father’s coat! This thing had devoured her father . . .

Suddenly it was too much for her, the Light and the vision and all the fear combined; she fell to the ground, the sickness swelling up in her like magma in a plugged volcano. She began to vomit helplessly, hopelessly, her body wracked by convulsions of terror—unable to crawl away, unable to cry out—overwhelmed by a sense of loss so terrible, so absolute, that she could barely comprehend its nature.

And then there were footsteps, running toward her. Her nurse. Strong hands gripped her shoulders from behind, forced her to a sitting position. Strong hands forced something into her mouth, that cleared her throat so she could breathe. Gasping, she shut her eyes. Take it away, she begged. Make it go away. Her body spasmed once more, but the convulsion lacked strength. Lacked fury. A warm hand stroked her hair. Hot tears poured down her face.

“What is it, Mira?” The creature that had eaten her father was speaking to her. That’s not my name! she wanted to scream. Why did it call her by her mother’s name? Then it took a step closer and she shivered. The arms about her tightened protectively.

“Give her a minute, Protector.” It was her nurse’s voice. Jenseny drank in the familiar smell, gloried in the warmth and the comfort of the embrace. Buried herself in the familiar flesh. “Let her recover,” the woman cautioned.

“What is it?” the creature demanded. Its voice sounded just like her father’s again, but Jenseny wasn’t fooled any more. Couldn’t her nurse sense the falseness of it? Couldn’t she smell the blood on its breath? “What’s wrong with her?”

“It’s just a fit,” the woman said calmly. “She has them now and then. You know that.” A soft cloth was wiping the tears from her eyes, the vomit from her chin. “It’s all right,” the old woman whispered. “It’s over now. Breathe deep. Breathe slowly.” Jenseny tried to. And choked. She tried again, with better success. “Just a fit,” the nurse repeated. A mantra of comfort, meant to sooth. “Happens all the time.” She tried to rise up, but Jenseny gripped her so tightly she couldn’t. The nurse stroked the girl’s hair gently, lovingly. “It’ll be all right,” she said quietly. To him. To it. “I’ll take care of her.”

There was silence then. Jenseny didn’t dare look up for fear she would meet the creature’s eyes. She sensed that she was in terrible danger now; what would happen if it realized that she knew the truth? But at last it seemed to take the nurse’s words at face value. A heavy hand fell on her head and stroked it once, a caress more possessive than comforting. She shivered, trying to pretend the hand was her father’s. Then at last the creature left them, its firm stride receding to the doorway and beyond, and the heavy thud of the alteroak door told her that she was safe. For now.

“It’s all right, baby.” The nurse’s voice was a soft murmur as she wiped her eyes, her mouth. “It’ll pass. It always does.”

It ate him! she wanted to scream. It ate my father! But she choked on the words, couldn’t make them come out. All about her the room was growing cold with his absence, and the fabric of her dress . . . it cried out in mourning, because he had touched it, he had picked it out, and now he was gone . . .

“Jen?”

It was only a question of time before the creature became aware of the truth, that she knew. And when it did it would kill her—or worse. She would have to get far, far away from here before that happened. Far away, and-

Outside?

Outside was the real world. Outside was the untamed fae. Outside were the minions of a vengeful god, whose Church had doomed her to a half-life inside this windowless apartment. No one would take her in. No one would help her. Outside meant going it alone, now and forever. She thought of what that meant, how terrible and dangerous it would be . . . and then, in her mind’s eye, she saw that scrap of cloth again. The dripping blood. The hate-filled eyes. And she knew she could never pretend again. Not so that it would believe her.

“There,” the nurse whispered. “Don’t worry. You’re safe here. You’ll always be safe at home.”

Never, she thought, as the hot tears flowed down her face. Never safe, never home, not ever again . . .

6

They followed the Regent’s ship to the south. The wind favored them all the way, and Damien couldn’t help but wonder if that was Tarrant’s doing. Wishful thinking. How comfortable it would be to imagine that the Hunter was expending his time and energy controlling the weather, instead of . . . other things.

Meanwhile there was nothing to do but keep to their course and speculate upon the place they were soon to visit. The merchants had been reassured to see signs of wealth on Toshida and his people—most of them had invested in luxury items, assuming that an eight-hundred-year-old colony would probably have all its necessities accounted for—and Mels was downright ecstatic about the Regent’s response to his horses. An air of optimism prevailed overall, and if Damien and Hesseth now and then wondered how a land with all those good qualities could have spawned the kind of evil they’d fought in the rakhlands, they were the only ones who seemed to be worried. Optimism flourished in the cool, obliging winds, and the fear which had consumed them all seemed ready to disperse in the white southern sunshine.

Some thirty miles south of where they had first encountered Toshida they were joined by four other ships, smaller and less heavily armed than the Regent’s, but still imposing to a westerner’s eye. Without need for additional command from their leader’s ship they flanked the Glory two to a side, herding her first toward the south, then to the east. An honor guard, the merchants insisted. Though Damien and the captain were less than certain about that, they realized that nothing would be gained by arguing the point now. Let the passengers indulge in blind optimism if it kept them quiet, the captain advised. There’d be time enough later to adjust their perspective if and when things went sour.

Thus far they had traveled out of sight of land, paralleling the rugged coastline. That said much for how dangerous the local tsunami were, for a seasoned captain would often risk a day or two of shallow seas to have familiar landmarks. Little wonder the coastline was only sparsely inhabited, Damien thought. He watched as Rasya fumed in impotence, unable to mark down a single landmark for future reference. She cursed Toshida while she worked. It wasn’t just a question of making them helpless, she explained, by preventing her from compiling a detailed map that would help them navigate this course on their own; the changes which time and the rising seas had wrought upon this ragged coast would have given them priceless information about what to expect elsewhere on this continent. It was a legitimate concern, no doubt about it—but Damien sensed that what bothered her most was the fact that Toshida’s pilots had detailed maps of this coastline and she did not. He had seen the members of her profession interact often enough to realize that beneath all their courtesy and cooperation was a streak of fierce competitiveness, and Rasya was no exception.

Then land came into sight at last. Two peaks, to the north and south of them. The gates of the inland sea, Rasya declared, and she showed them the place on the map where a narrow gap in the coastline mountain range permitted access to a body of water some six hundred miles long and fifty to one hundred across. A shallow, salty sea, she told them, and one that was bound to be even larger now that the waters of Erna had risen. They had guessed long ago that whatever civilization had developed in this region would be focused along the shores of such a sea. It seemed now that they’d been right.

It was with growing excitement that they gathered along the sides of the ship to watch the cliffs pass by. The sheer granite walls barely gave them room to pass, and mounds of rock that had been poured into the straits by centuries of earthquakes made their passage even more treacherous. The ships which were flanking them strung out single file, two behind them and two before, and they snaked through a maze of islets and breakwaters in the wake of Toshida’s vessel. Rasya took notes furiously as she guided the ship through, and Damien noted darkly that if her hasty sketches failed her then the Golden Glory would be trapped here until the locals saw fit to help them leave. It was clear that the better part of these waters was not passable. And above them . . . he directed his gaze to the peaks which flanked them, and found them as heavily fortified as Toshida’s ship had been. Fortresses built from granite slabs crowned the two mounts at their most stable points, and an impressive array of cannons was trained on the narrow waters between them. Which told Damien several things, not one of them reassuring. These people had a seaborne enemy. They expected attack at any time. And this deadly pass was the most likely point of access for anyone—trader, invader, or traveler—to the rich lands beyond.

They sent Toshida’s ship out to us because if we’d reached this point on our own they would have had to blow us out of the water. No questions asked. No eulogies offered. The etiquette of war, ruthless and unapologizing.

Good for them, he thought grimly. Because if it turned out that their enemy was the same as his, there was no better way to deal with the bastards.

Night. The Core reflected brightly in the sea’s mirrored surface, turning the water to gold beneath their bow. He leaned against the starboard rail, watching it, and then sighed. Time to go to bed. Time to try to sleep. There, was no telling when they’d turn to land, and the sea was what, six hundred miles long? It was clear Toshida wasn’t going to allow them to see the coast until they were ready to come into port, so he might as well relax. Or try to. Right?

He turned, only to find that Hesseth had come up behind him. Her head was still tightly wrapped, as it had been when Toshida and his people came on board. Best not to take chances when in view of strangers. The long robes she had affected since that meeting brushed against the deck as she leaned on the railing beside him.

“I’d never seen the sea, before I went to walk among the humans.” Her voice was soft, a thing of breezes and secrets her sibilant accent rounded out the sharp edges of her English, producing a sound that was doubly soft, strangely beautiful. “I still associate it with your species. These immense bodies of water, as vast as the land . . . not a human thing at all, but they seem that way to me.”

“Does it make you afraid?”

Her gaze flickered toward him, then away. “I tasted real fear once, the day I realized that a force more powerful than all my people combined was set to devour them one by one. The day I realized I would have to fight alongside humans in order to defeat it. Next to that . . .” She shrugged. “What’s a little water? I can swim. Fur dries.”

“What about Novatlantis?”

She nodded tensely. “That was frightening. I admit it.”

They were silent for a few minutes, side by side, remembering. A sky that roared in fury as it thundered black ash down upon its invaders. An ocean that boiled with the birth of a new island, so close to the Glory that a carpet of dead fish rippled in her wake. The stink of sulfur. The deadly nonstink of carbon dioxide. Sunlight blotted out by airborne debris. Smoking pellets that fell from the sky, that probably wouldn’t have set fire to the sails but they had to be ready, they had to have water and buckets and men in the rigging . . . six hundred miles of hell, Rasya had estimated, and while not all of it was that bad, there was the constant fear that it would become so. Not a pleasant trip, he mused. Not one he was anxious to repeat.

“Could I ask you a question?” she asked him. Hesitantly, as though the request might offend him.

“Of course.” He turned to face her, leaning one arm against the railing. Surprised, but not displeased by her query. It was rare she talked to the humans at all, and rarer still that she turned to one of them for help of any kind; species hostility still ran hot in her blood. “Anything, Hesseth. What is it?”

“I was wondering . . .” Again a hint of hesitation, as if she didn’t know the proper way to express herself. “This is hard to put into words.”

“The simplest way is often the best.”

She considered it. And nodded, slowly. “All right, then. Explain it to me. Your Church. Your faith. You talk about it like a religion, but it isn’t just that, is it? I’ve seen human religions—I thought I understood them—but yours is different. When you and Tarrant get together . . . it sounds more like a campaign than a faith, sometimes. Not like I’ve seen in the others. Why?”

“Tell me first what you see in others, and I’ll try to answer you.”

Her eyes, jet black in the darkness, narrowed as she considered. “Your kind has a need to believe that its species is the center of the universe. Some religions address that. You have a need to control your fate; some address that, at least in theory. You want certain things from the world, and so you create gods who’ll deliver them. You fear death, and so there are gods to administrate your afterlives. Etcetera. Etcetera.”

“And the rakh have no such needs?”

“The rakh are the rakh,” she said smoothly. “Very different. Assst, how can I explain it to you? Our species is one small part of a very complex world, and we sense—and accept—our natural place in it. We see this planet as a living, breathing thing and we know ourselves an element of it. We understand what birth and death are to us, and we’re at peace with that understanding. How can I explain? So many of these things have no words, because we never had a need to describe them. The world is. The rakh are. That’s enough for us.”

“Humans struggle all their lives to achieve such acceptance,” he mused. “And rarely succeed.”

“I know. When I’m not filled with fury at their destructiveness—or amazement at their stupidity—I sometimes feel sorry for them. Is that what human religions address?”

“In part.”

“And yours?”

“In part.” He shifted his weight so that he was more comfortable. “How well do you understand the fae?”

“It’s part of us. Like the air we breathe. How can I divorce myself from it enough to answer you?”

“I meant, how well do you understand what it is to humans?”

Her lips curled in a scornful smile. “Your brains are a chaotic mess. That makes the fae a chaotic mess when it responds to you. Right?”

“Damn close,” he muttered. “Look. If a tribe of rakh live in a land where water’s been scarce, if they and their mounts go thirsty, if the plants themselves need rainfall to survive . . . what happens?”

She shrugged. “It rains.”

“All right. Why? Because living things need, and that need affects the fae, and the fae alters the laws of probability, making rain more likely . . . are you with me?”

She nodded.

“Now, consider the human brain. Three distinct levels of functioning, myriad separate parts, each with its own way of reasoning—if reasoning it can be called—some by pure instinct, some by intelligence, some by methods so abstract we have no way of even describing them. All interconnected in such a way that a single thought, a single need, can awaken a thousand responses. Is there drought in the land? One part thirsts. One part wishes for rain. One part fears that rain will never come. One part thinks that if death by thirst is close by, it ought to indulge itself in every pleasure it can. One is angry at nature for starving it, and translates that anger into other things. One channels its fear into violence, in the hope that by redirecting its terror it need not face it head on. One is joyful because enemies are dying also, and another feels that death by dehydration is nature’s just reward for some transgression, real or imagined, which it committed. All of that at once, inside one human head. Little wonder your people consider it chaotic. There’s a type of doctor whose only purpose is to help humans wade through that mess and come to terms with who and what they are. An understanding your people take for granted.”

“So the fae responds to us, just like it responds to you. But it doesn’t recognize that all these levels are integral parts of the same being, it just takes the cue nearest at hand and responds to it. At least that’s how we understand it. With some people the response falls into a predictable pattern—they can always control it, they can never control it, the fae responds to fears, or to hopes, or to hates . . . but with most people the response is utterly random.”

“We do know that religious images are particularly volatile. So much so that over a hundred gods and messiahs appeared in the first twenty years after the Landing. Those were mere illusions; they had little substance and no power of their own. Reflections of mankind’s need for divine reassurance, no more. But as generation after generation poured their hopes and their fears and their dreams into such images, they gained in strength. They gained in power.”

“They took on the personae that man ascribed to them, and came to believe in their own existence. We know that some of the colonists believed in a god-born messiah who would come and save them. The result was twenty false messiahs, each one more convincing than the last. Each one a construct of the fae, who blindly gave us what we wanted or feared the most. And of course they all fed on us, in one way or another. That’s what constructs do: they feed on their source. That’s why even the pleasant ones are so terribly dangerous.”

“There was a time called the Dark Ages, when terror and havoc reigned. Fortunately, there were still a few men and women with clear enough vision to realize that something must be done . . . something to mold the human imagination so that it ceased to be its own worst enemy. Thus the Revival was born, an experiment in rigid social structure based upon traditional Earth-values. It was moderately successful. And the Church was founded. A small movement at first, barely of consequence, which taught that the God of Earth was the only divine creature worthy of worship. Because that one God was a concept so vast, so omnipotent, that not all the fae on Erna could mimic it.”

“And then along came one very gifted man who said, what if we take this concept one step further? What if we mold this faith so that it channels our energies creatively, so that it creates for us the world we want? You must understand, no one had ever thought on that scale before. No one had ever conceived of manipulating the fae as he planned to do: by manipulating humanity’s collective consciousness, so that the fae was forced to respond. It was a brilliant vision, unparalleled in scope. It’s the cornerstone of my faith.”

“You’re talking about your Prophet.”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Gerald Tarrant.”

He winced “In his life—his natural life—that’s what he was to us. He took our prayers and rewrote them, until every word served his purpose. Every phrase. He redesigned every rite and every symbol—even dictated the relative lack of symbology which is the hallmark of our faith—so that with every prayer they voiced, with every breath they drew, the worshipers of the One God would reinforce the power of that vision. If there were enough believers, he taught, and if their faith were strong enough, the very nature of this world could be altered, in accordance with his vision.”

“Which was?”

He paused for a moment, arranging his thoughts. How long had it been since he had tried to explain his faith in language so simple? And yet if she were to travel safely among them she must have that knowledge. Toshida’s manner had made that clear.

“The goal was threefold,” he said at last. “One: To unify man’s faith, so that millions of souls might impress the fae with the same image in unison. Two: To alter man’s perception of the fae—to distance him from that power—thus weakening the link which permitted it to respond to him so easily. This meant a god who wouldn’t make appearances on demand, nor provide easy miracles. It meant hardship and it meant sacrifice. But he believed that in the end it would save us, and permit us to regain our technological heritage. Three: To safeguard man’s spirit while all this was taking place, so that when at last we cast off the shackles of this planet and rejoined our kin among the stars, we wouldn’t discover that in the process we had become something other than human. Something less than we would want to be.” He paused, considering. “I think in some ways that last one’s the hardest part. But I believe it’s the most important.”

“So what happened?” she pressed.

“Humankind learned the lesson too well. Because if man could make a true God in his image, why couldn’t he create an obliging godling with even less effort? What you worship shall come to exist, the Prophet wrote. The power of your faith will give your dreams substance. And so it was. A thousand selfish men designed their own prayers and their own psalms and gave birth to a thousand godlings, each with its own petty domain, each feeding on man while serving his earthly desires. Even as the Church grew in strength, this trend continued, until there were over a hundred tiny states with their own pet deities, their own claim to power. So we went to war: man’s final recourse when diplomacy fails him. It was a disaster. Oh, if it had been a clean and glorious conflict, filled with images of faith and capped by a clear-cut victory, it might have stirred men’s hearts and won them to our side. It wasn’t. It was a bloody mess that spanned three centuries, and it ended only when we bit off more than we could chew and tried to do battle with the fae itself—or rather, with the evil the fae had spawned. Our power base destroyed, our precious image sullied, we crept back to our churches and our pews to lick our wounds in private.”

“And now?”

He shut his eyes. “We do what we can, Hesseth. We still serve the same dream, but defeat has taught us patience. We no longer see the Prophet’s vision as the end of a neat progression that’ll be consummated in our lifetimes, but as an ideal state that may not be realized for centuries yet. For tens of centuries. Except here,” he whispered, and he glanced toward Toshida’s ship. “Isolated, unified, devout . . . they may have accomplished what the west failed to do. By establishing a state free of pagan influence, by raising their children in unquestioning faith . . .what power, Hesseth! It could alter the world. It may already have begun to.”

“And Tarrant?”

He stiffened at the sound of the name. “Cast out by his own creation,” he said sharply. “The Church knew that it would never alter the fae’s response to man until it had done away with private sorcery . . . and he couldn’t give that up. Not even to save his own soul.” He drew in a deep breath of cool night air, exhaled it slowly. “He tried to do away with Hell, you know. Excess philosophical baggage, he called it. Detrimental to our cause. He erased it from all the texts, expunged it from the liturgy. They put it back. The habits of Earth were too deeply ingrained, the image of divine judgment too comforting for the righteous. In the end he lost that battle.” And so much more . . .

“And does he still believe in your Church?”

“He claims he still serves it. I still don’t know. I think that in the end he’s unwilling to let go of what he knew or admit that it defeated him. He’s vain, Hesseth, very vain, and the Church was his ultimate masterpiece. Sheer ego won’t let him abandon it, even when it damns him with all its strength. Which is part and parcel of his madness.”

“And what about your own sorcery? How does that fit in?”

He shut his eyes. Isn’t that the question? How would Toshida answer it, I wonder? “Everything I do is done in the name of God, drawing on that Power for strength. Our Church—the western Matriarchy—believes that such a Working is compatible with our faith. Others disagree. And here . . .”

Here that issue never came up. Here they didn’t have to compromise. It was a sobering thought indeed. And he felt a delicate chill run down his spine at the thought. I’ve never drawn on the fae in my own name, or used it for my private benefit. But will that matter to these people? Will they recognize such fine distinctions?

“We’ll have to wait and see,” he whispered. Looking out at the foreign ship once more. Wondering about the land that had spawned it. The faith that drove it. Wondering . . . and worrying.

“You know,” Hesseth said quietly, “I don’t envy your species.”

Yeah, he thought. Doesn’t that say it all?

They placed bets on the nature of Mercia: where it was, how large it was, how important it was in the scheme of things. Jones Hast made a crude copy of Tarrant’s survey map and pinned it to the outer wall of the cabin section, along with a sharpened pencil. Passengers and crew were invited to mark their guesses and—for ten Faraday dollars or its equivalent—register them with the captain. Two dozen sets of initials now marked the crude reproduction, most of them clustered about the mouth of the inland sea, or fringing the two rivers that emptied their waters into it. Where was Toshida’s capital city most likely to be located? With as little information as they had it was hard to say. He sought out Rasya’s mark, found it sketched in darkly some miles south of a vast delta. The location seemed a little strange to him, but he knew Rasya well enough to suspect that her guess was founded on a sound understanding of what that shoreline was and what it might become. He even put ten dollars of his own on the line, betting that she was right.

As he handed his coinage to the captain, he remarked, “I’m surprised you let yourself be put in charge of this.”

Rozca shrugged. “They’ve got to work off their tension somehow, right? Might as well let it be harmless.” As he tucked the bills in his pocket, he added, “I’ve seen worse than this, coming into an unknown shore. Much worse.”

Aye, Damien thought, I’ll bet you have.

And then at last the lead ships turned east, heading toward land. Those whose wager marks adorned that portion of the map grinned and exulted as Rasya fought to make out some sign of land in the distance. At intervals she had a small pail let down to catch up a sample of water, which she tasted. Most of the time she spit her mouthful back into the sea with a frown that indicated she was searching for some clue in particular and not finding it. But then, on the fourth day of their escorted voyage, her ritual taste received a different response.

Damien and Captain Rozca were with her on the bridge; she handed the bucket to them and smiled. Damien did as the captain did, cupping his hand and scooping up a mouthful of water which he clumsily spilled into his mouth and tasted. Even as he spit it out the captain grinned and slapped Rasya on the back. “Damned good call,” he congratulated her. “Within ten miles, if I remember right. For my book you could smell out the currents in all ten hells and still have time for breakfast.”

Rasya turned to Damien, her blue eyes beaming. “Well?” she demanded.

The water was cool and slightly murky but not unpleasant to the taste. Damien rolled the moist remnants of it about on his tongue, trying to sift it of meaning. But to him it was water, plain and simple. He swallowed the last few drops in silence, noting that the last few stages of the swallowing process were no more informative than the first.

“Tastes like seawater,” he said at last.

“The hell it does,” the captain swore. “What, can’t you tell at all?”

“No sea sense,” Rasya informed him smugly.

“There’s no salt in it, man!” the captain informed him. “Or vulkin’ little, at any rate. That means a river nearby, and a damned big one. Water like that won’t mix with the sea right out if the fresh current’s strong enough. Hell, you can taste the river Vivia nearly a hundred miles out from its mouth; that’s how they found it in the first place, you know.” His hands on his hips, he studied Damien, “When you go into strange waters, you’d better be prepared to do so without a guide and without good charts, and that means learning to read the sea like a book. Gods know, the signs are all there for the seeing—or the tasting,” he amended with a grin. “Rasya and I, we figure practice never hurts. Right?” When Damien said nothing he cocked his head, studying him. “What’s the matter, Reverend? Something’s on your mind, I can see that. Speak up.”

“I was only thinking,” he said slowly, “that maybe now I understand why my contacts in Faraday claimed you were the only two who could manage these waters.”

“The only two crazy enough,” Rasya agreed, and the captain grinned. “Damn right,” he declared, displaying a cracked tooth. “Damn right!”

And I’m also thinking that this watery realm is as alien to me as outer space would be, and that I don’t like the taste of my own helplessness. Whatever course we choose once we reach Mercia, it’ll have to be overland. Unless there’s no alternative.

Tarrant’ll like that, he thought grimly. And he lifted the slender telescope the man had given him, to resume the search for land.

The great eastern river, spilled its water into the sea with considerable vehemence, along with tons of mud that it had scoured from higher ground. The result was a vast delta of low-lying mud bars, some overgrown with reeds and marsh-brush, some nakedly transient. It was the kind of land that would slow down a tsunami, Damien noted, wearing the great wave down as it crossed mile after mile of shallows, until by the time it hit shore proper there would be little left to devastate man’s settlements. Hell, he thought cynically, it’d be no more than thirty or forty feet high by then. A baby. He preferred the tangible safety of a cliffside perch himself, preferably above the two-hundred-foot mark. That, or a hundred miles of dry land between him and the shore. Or more.

Face it, priest. You just hate the sea.

They could see tiny shadows in the distance, dark spots drifting between the mottled islets. Maybe boats, the captain had ventured, sent out to harvest something from the marshland. He’d seen that once in the far west. And Damien watched as vast flocks of birds wheeled and dove and came up sputtering with fish in their beaks, while the captain described in vivid detail the hallucinogenic marsh-grass one could buy in Denastia City.

The breeze held steady. The guide-ships led them steadily northeast, skirting the freshwater current. Mile after mile of muddy green landscape passed by them on the port side, teeming with the life of the sea marshes. The smell of it was so thick on the breeze that it overwhelmed all their senses, so that even their hurried lunch of dried meat and grain cakes tasted of swamp grass and guano. Damien swallowed it quickly and moved to the bow, chewing on a bitter shoot he’d plucked from one of the garden boxes atop the wheelhouse. God willing there’d be real fruit soon, and greens that weren’t watered by sea spray; this stuff might have saved them all from Sailor’s Rot, but he’d welcome the day he never had to touch the stuff again.

Yet another joy of the sea, he thought dryly. He leaned on the bow rail and squinted into me sun, searching for land. The Core was just starting to rise, which was no help at all; between it and the sun he could hardly see.

And then something flickered on the surface of the water, which was neither marsh-grass nor land. He blinked, trying to focus. A jagged shape silhouetted against the rising sun—no, two—long and low to the water, with peaks that shimmered gold and white in the morning light.

I’ll be damned, he thought, as he realized what they were. Other ships.

There were two of them, with more soon to follow: frigates and clippers and at least a dozen other types whose names he didn’t know, who swept by the Glory’s starboard side with no more than a brief flash of red flags in greeting. All bore the same standard, that of the interlinked circles—and-continents, but some flew a lesser pennant beneath. He counted them as they passed by, awed by the sheer number of them. Granted, the complex tides might favor travel at this hour—he knew they affected shipping schedules, wasn’t quite sure of all the details—but to have such traffic in one place, all linked (he assumed) to one port . . . it spoke of considerably more sea travel than he was accustomed to, and he had been around. Was it possible that these people had found a safe harbor—a truly safe harbor—and that there were enough similar ports throughout this land that real sea trade was possible? The concept staggered his imagination. He was accustomed to the sea being regarded as an enemy, unpredictable at best, so that even a simple journey was fraught with peril. But here? He gazed at the great ships in amazement, noting that more than a few spewed the thick smoke of steam power from their central stacks. This was ... this was ...

Downright Earthlike, he thought. Awed by the thought. Jealous of the land that had prompted it.

A tiny shadow had appeared on the horizon that was neither ship nor swampland. The lookout, whose viewpoint bettered Damien’s by some thirty vertical feet, was the first to recognize it. “Land ahead!” the man announced, and he cried down specifics in the sea-code of the west. Damien watched through his glass as the shadow spread, lengthened, covered more than half the horizon with its craggy terrain. Coastline? Island? He wished that Rasya were with him so that he could ask her. But she was much too busy now to be bothered with a mere passenger’s queries. And so he watched uninformed as the land drew nearer and nearer, and tried to read meaning into its form with his oh-so-limited skills.

A ragged, mountainous skyline spoke of a far more solid foundation than the mud islands they had passed, and a much older history. As they drew closer he could see that though its form was lost in the distance to the north its southern tip was clearly discernible, and the foreign ships that headed toward them seemed to be coming from around that point. And they were heading toward it. He watched as signal flags flashed from one ship to the other, bright splashes of red and white and black against the morning sky, and watched the distant shoreline shift to the port side of the ship as the Glory and its escorts made their way through the crowded seaway. Damien tried to guess how far away the land mass was or how tall those peaks might be, but he lacked any kind of reference scale; not for the first time, he wished the sea had mile markers.

A hand tapped his shoulder, interupting his reverie. It was Anshala Praveri, purveyor of . . . (he tried to remember) . . . spices?

“Pilot said to give you this,” she said, and she handed him a roll of paper.

Uncurling it, he discovered the map that had been pinned on the wall of the cabin section. Nothing had been marked on it since last he had seen it, and for a moment he was lost as to why it had been sent to him. Then his eyes traveled down to Rasya’s mark, and the strange position it occupied. South of the river’s mouth by several miles, her initials were entirely circled by a thin ring of land that jutted out from the coast. A few narrow channels gave access to enough water that the surveyors had labeled it a bay, but it hardly had the kind of access one would require for a major port. Unless time and tides—and earthquakes with their smashers—had resculpted that narrow arching tongue, opening wide one entrance to the sea . . .

And the seas have risen, he reminded himself. He felt the paper fall from his hands, heard the rustling of Anshala’s clothing as she bent to retrieve it.

“What is it?” she asked him.

For a moment he couldn’t respond. “A safe port,” he said at last. His voice was hardly more than a whisper. “A truly sheltered harbor.” How many were there in the human lands? He could remember only three, and each had become—for obvious reasons—a center of human commerce. If Lopescu and Nyquist had discovered one here, then their journey was truly blessed.

And then the Glory came around the southern point of the jagged land mass, and he saw.

Ships. They were scattered across the bay like so many thousands of birds just come to land, bright wings fluttering in the noontime breeze. Open-sea ships with rank after rank of weathered sails, coastland yachts with slender masts and peaked canvases, private boats that whipped about their more massive brethren with playful alacrity, some so tiny that a human weight against the spar was enough to shift their course. White upon white upon white upon white, all glistening in the dual skylight: silver from overhead, gold from the east, creating dual shadows that played upon the waters like nuporps, sporting in the multiple wakes. There was smoke as well, mostly from the numerous tugs that wove in and out of the traffic, guiding the larger ships to their safest route. But for most the crisp northeasterly wind was clearly enough, and sails bellowed full as ship after ship wended its way through the harbor’s narrow mouth with no more power than Nature had provided.

If these are to be our allies, Damien thought in awe, then we may yet triumph. But if they turn out to be our enemies . . . then we’re in deep shit. He did notice that few of the larger ships had any kind of visible armament, which was marginally reassuring. And certainly it was hard to imagine the creatures they had fought in the rakhlands—vicious and sun-sensitive, shadowbound and animalistic—having anything to do with this glorious display, or with the society that founded it.

But the Evil that we came here to fight is subtle, and its tools may vary. Don’t give in to assumptions, he begged himself. Even as he felt optimism flood his body like fine wine, making his senses swim. Even as he tried to ignore the fact that a part of his spirit was souring like the wind itself, that a voice inside him rang with the force of a thousand chimes: These are my people, oh, God. Thy people. And see what wonders they have wrought, all in Thy Name!

The coastline to the east of them rose quickly to meet a line of mountains which made it possible to see the city even from this distance. Immense and sprawling, Mercia carpeted the lower slopes in a tapestry of terra cotta tile, gleaming numarble, whitewashed brick. In the center of the city several buildings soared among the others, and sunlight glinted on their heights. One looked like a cathedral. The others could have been . . . anything. Damien raised his eyes above, saw a mountainside terraced for farmland, with the maize and sienna velvet of thriving crops already rippling along its heights.

The sound of winches tightening drew his attention back to the middeck—and up to the rigging, where sailors were scurrying to gather up the sails. Evidently Rozca had received some sign that they were to remain here, for the great anchors were released to fall into the sea even as the last of the sails were furled. Then, as if in response to the Glory’s actions, a small rowboat was lowered from the rear of Toshida’s ship, to make its way across the waves to them.

Damien hurried to the head of the boarding ladder, where the ship’s officers had already assembled. Rasya was gazing out across the harbor, and as Damien watched her study the foreign ships—as he noted the adoration and envy that filled her eyes—he wondered if any mere man could ever inspire such depths of emotion in her. Probably not. Which might be just what had made them so compatible as lovers, he reflected; both their hearts were given over to greater things.

The ladder shifted as it was grabbed from below, then rattled against the side of the ship as a single man climbed it. It wasn’t Toshida this time, nor one of his advisers, but a guard whose uniform and bearing hinted at considerable rank. He climbed up onto the deck somewhat awkwardly, trying to manage the maneuver with a thick roll of fabric tucked under one arm. When he was finally on board he straightened himself regally and addressed them.

“His Eminence Toshida, Lord Regent of Mercia, bids you welcome to his port and to the Five Cities of God’s Grace which bless these shores. He requests your indulgence and your patience while he sees to the details of your welcome. In that there has been no western expedition in centuries—and never one like yours—preparations for your disembarkation may possibly take longer than tired travelers would prefer. For this he apologizes.”

“I am instructed to ask if there is anything he can send aboard which would make your wait easier. Mercia is eager to welcome its guests.”

For a moment there was silence, as each passenger and crew member digested his message. At last the captain ventured, “Fresh fruit’d be welcome.”

“A damned relief,” one of the touchier passengers muttered.

“Fresh meat,” another dared, and the woman beside him added, “but not fish.” That drew a chuckle.

“Soap,” Rasya offered. “Lubricant.” She shut her eyes part way as she tried to remember what conveniences had run short in the last few weeks. A few of the sailors made suggestions of their own; half were for food items. One was for alcohol.

“That’s it,” the first mate said at last. He looked at the captain.

Rozca nodded. “We’ll pay for it all. Keep a tally of what’s brought on board and take care of all of it once we’re settled in.”

“The goods are a gift of the city,” the officer informed him. “A celebration of your arrival here against tremendous odds. His Eminence will permit nothing else,” he said quickly, forestalling Rozca’s argument. “Verdate.”

The captain swallowed his words with effort, then bowed his head. “Like the man says.” Damien suspected he was secretly pleased, despite his token resistance. A gesture like that was an excellent omen.

“His Eminence asks that your crew and passengers remain on board until he contacts you again,” the officer said. “He advises that there could be complications, if any of your people were to leave the ship prematurely. Tambia he asks that you fly this.”

He handed the bundle under his arm to the captain. With the first mate’s help Rozca carefully unrolled it.

It was a flag—a pennant, more accurately—with a red band at the base and a long black tip that would flutter in the wind. On the red section was a series of seals, too small to be made out from a distance. Official markings, Damien guessed, for the benefit of the ship it guarded.

“What is it?” the captain asked.

“It warns other ships not to approach you,” the officer explained. “You understand that we can turn the larger ships away ourselves, but the private boats sometimes go where they want . . . this will warn them off.”

“And if they do come on board?” Damien heard himself asking. “What then?”

“They die,” the officer said coolly. “As all men do, who defy the Regent’s will. So you see, it would be best if the warning were raised as soon as possible. Verda?”

With those words for farewell he formally bowed his leavetaking and lowered himself once more over the ship’s side. This time he had no difficulty with the ladder, as his arms were unencumbered.

For a moment there was silence, thick and uncomfortable. As each man wondered in his own way what manner of land they had come to, that combined hospitality and ruthless quasi-justice with such casual, numbing grace.

“All right,” the captain said gruffly. Breaking the spell. He handed the pennant to his first mate, who in turn handed it to a lesser crewman. “You heard the man. Fly the vulkin’ thing.”

7

Toshida never ran—he thought it lacked dignity—but he had long legs and a quick stride and he put them both to use with gusto. Thus it was that he walked from the harbor to the Matria’s Sanctuary in record time, well ahead (he hoped) of any gawking voyeurs who might have anticipated his route.

The doors were open and he stepped inside. The guards spared him a sharp look—do you belong here? - to which he responded with a glare of his own—what does it look like, you fool? - and he continued on his way. His face had been in at least a thousand newspapier features, not to mention the Mercian five dollar credit note and an Octecentennial coin; if they didn’t know it by now, he wasn’t going to waste time educating them.

He found a Church attendant and didn’t have to state his business; the boy simply nodded and led him upstairs. Thick velour carpet scrunched softly underfoot, a welcome alternative to the coarse planks of the ship. All about him the wealth of his nation welcomed him home: fine white numarble walls with crimson veins, elaborately carved fixtures plated with rose gold, stained-glass windows designed and executed by the most prestigious artists in the Five Cities. Gifts, all of them, and freely given; the house of the Matria would no more pressure its citizens to part with items of value than it would expect the tax department to pick up the tab for her decorating. Which was as it should be, he reflected. Exactly as it should be.

On the second landing there was a small waiting area, and the attendant indicated that he should make himself comfortable there while he announced him. He disdained to sit on the tapestried couch, but spent a moment studying the two engravings that adorned the wall behind it. One was of a sailing ship that had clearly seen better days; its sails were tattered and its mizzenmast had been split in a storm and black ash coated the standard that had been rigged to fly from a forward jib. That would be the First Holy Expedition, Lopescu’s company. The second depicted a handful of ships coming into a primitive harbor; that would be Nyquist. The other walls featured paintings of nature, trees and flowers and a brilliant seascape that stretched across three large panels. No pictures of the other expeditions, he thought. Is that a sign of our honesty, or of hypocrisy?

Then the door before him opened and the attendant stepped out. “She’ll see you now, your Eminence. Please forgive the delay.”

With a gracious nod he passed the boy and entered the Matria’s audience chamber. It was a large space, richly carpeted, whose narrow stained-glass windows cast jewel-like shapes across the floor and walls. A broad desk of polished rosewood dominated the space, with matching chairs on either side. The Matria was seated behind it. As always, he felt strangely awed when ushered into her presence. And as always, that awe was coupled with a deep-seated resentment.

She nodded her welcome as he bowed. “The newsmongers say there’s a foreign ship in our harbor.”

“Then newsmongers can fly, your Holiness, because I came here as fast as a man can travel.”

She smiled. “Actually, I like Raj’s theory that each newspaper has only one common brain, and all those bodies who go running about are merely its limbs in disguise.” She rose from the desk and approached him, extending one slender hand. She was no longer a young woman, but age had been kind to her, and the features that had been striking in her youth had matured into something no less impressive. The white robes of her Order swept the floor as she came to him: narrow sleeves, full skirts, a tight-fitting coif that hid most of her hair from view. Her eyes were large and arresting, and for a moment—just a moment—Toshida was reminded of the Sanctified woman on board the foreign ship.

He took her hand and kissed it reverently, dropping to one knee as he did so. The fact that his station permitted him to remain standing made the gesture doubly dramatic and he knew it. “I came to report to you as soon as we landed.”

“And?”

She returned to her seat behind the great desk and signaled for him to join her. He took a chair opposite.

“It appears to be a trading vessel,” he told her. “Some four dozen passengers and crew with a good bit of merchandise. They claim to have set sail from the West, and I see no reason to doubt them. They all come from different cities, I gather. We’ll get a list before we let them disembark.”

“Did you inspect the pilot’s books?”

It took effort to keep from smiling. In all of his inspection there had been only one rough moment, inside the pilot’s cabin. He remembered the woman—what was her name, Maraden? Marades?—seated atop the thick leather volumes, blue eyes flaring with indignation. No, she had said. This is where I draw the line. I don’t care who you are. Her sun-whitened hair gleaming like silver, so oddly short, so strangely alluring. Ask your own pilots what the custom is. He had. And they’d told him. And since he wasn’t ready to declare war on her ship, or to take her prisoner for personal reasons, he’d left the books alone.

“I saw the captain’s log,” he responded evenly. “It supports their story. And there were other signs. I believe them.”

Her golden eyes fixed on him. “There’s a lot riding on your judgment.”

“Verda, Matria. I was thorough, I assure you.”

“And their cargo? Did you check that?”

“Luxury goods for the most part. Some livestock. I counted seven crates that contained dried vegetable matter in one form or another; we’ll check them for narcotic content before they unload. Nothing else of any concern.” As an afterthought he added, “It’s a rich load, and they brought no guards. Security may be a problem. What courtesies may I extend to them?”

She narrowed her eyes, considering. “A dozen of your private guard for the first week, compliments of the city. After that, supply them with a reference for suitable independents. It sounds like they’re carrying more than enough to pay for it.”

And then her eyes met his and he had the dizzying sensation of falling; for a moment his vision clouded and he could see only soft shapes, red and blue and amber shadows and the hazy outline of what must be her desk. It took effort to pretend that nothing was wrong, to keep from reaching out to take hold of the desk’s edge to stabilize himself. But he was damned if he was going to let the Matria—or any Matria—unsettle him that much. He had come too far and dealt with them too often to quake in the face of their power now.

“The nightborn,” she said quietly. “What of him?”

He didn’t speak until he knew he had full control of his voice again. “I saw no sign of any nightborn creature, human or otherwise.”

“Did you search?”

His vision was returning to normal, but the giddyness remained. He articulated carefully. “I inspected everyone on board in the light of day. Some were pale, a few were burned, but no one seemed worse for the experience. I searched every cabin, with special attention to possible hiding places. I opened every crate on the ship and walked the length and breadth of every level . . . and I saw no nightborn creature there, nor any space that might have sheltered one. I’m sorry.”

She turned away from him; the room snapped suddenly back into normal perspective. “I had a vision,” she said softly. “A ship would come from the West, just as this one did, at just this time . . . and he would be on it, accompanied by a priest. He’s dangerous, Andir, an enemy of our Church and our people. If you tell me there was no man on that vessel who fit his description, I believe you. If you tell me there was no place on that vessel for him to hide, I believe that, too. But what are the odds that this one ship—the only merchant-ship ever sent from the West—would arrive at our shores at just this moment, fulfilling my prophecy in every detail but that one? God warned me of this man for a reason, Andir. We would do well to heed His warning.”

“He wasn’t on the ship, Holiness, and there was no sign of him. I swear it. But there was a priest, as you say, and a Sanctified woman tambia.”

She looked startled. “Sanctified? But that’s impossible. The West doesn’t have—”

And then she stopped herself, and chose her remaining words with care. “The last expedition gave us no reason to believe that the West had developed such an Order.”

“I saw her, Holiness. Verdate.”

She stared at him for a long while in silence, digesting that information. “All right,” she said at last. “It may be the ship I foresaw. Maybe not. Either way, I want the priest and the woman followed whenever they’re on shore. Discreetly, verda? And as for the others . . . what would you recommend?”

“I think we would profit from the trade they offer, your Holiness.” A vision of horses flashed before his eyes; with effort he suppressed it. “There are some things we need to take care of before they disembark, of course. The health issue concerns me; they may carry diseases we’re no longer immune to. I would like to feel secure that their cultural expectations are harmonious with our own, so that they don’t disrupt our society too much. And we presently have no import taxes which would apply to such a vessel . . . it might be well to get a couple on the books before we assess their cargo.”

The Matria smiled, displaying pure white teeth. “I’ve always liked your style, Andir. See that it’s done.” She offered him her hand again, and he stretched forward to kiss it. “I thank you for a thorough job, my Lord Regent. As always.”

“To serve you is to serve the Church,” he responded. His tone was one of absolute reverence, devoid of any political resentment. The latter had no place here—or anywhere, for that matter, save deep within his heart. There it coiled, like a venemous serpent. Undying. Unforgiving.

He pushed his chair back and stood. Then hesitated. He had another question, but wasn’t quite sure how to voice it. “Your Holiness . . .”

“You may speak freely,” she prompted.

“When this is all done . . . when they’ve made their rounds and traded their goods and packed up to go home . . . are you going to let them leave?”

It seemed to him that her smile faltered. Certainly the humor went out of her eyes. What took its place was hard and cold, and strangely predatory.

“When that time comes,” she promised, “we shall see.”

8

On the first day after the Glory dropped its anchor the inquisition began. It started at noon, when Lord Toshida arrived to “ask a few questions.” There were, of course, considerations of where to speak, whom to speak with first, questions of rank and protocol and, certainly, efficiency . . . and before anyone quite realized what was happening he had managed to maneuver the travelers in such a way that it was impossible for anyone he had questioned to make contact with those still awaiting interview. It was all very quietly done, all most politely managed, so much so that many of the passengers seemed not to realize the implications of Toshida’s strategy. Damien did, and he wasn’t happy. Not happy at all.

“Shit,” he muttered. Whispering the oath, lest Toshida’s guards—ever present, ever alert—should hear him. Hesseth looked sharply at him, and despite the tight-fitting coif which masked her head he had the distinct impression of furred ears pricking forward, to fix on his speech.

“Bad?” she whispered.

Very bad, an inner voice insisted. But for her sake he muttered, “Maybe.” Forcing the words out. “Let’s hope not.”

He had prepared the crew for a trial just like this. Hadn’t he? He had explained to the pagan crew members why it would be important for them to pretend to be of his faith, had given them the basic information they would need to persevere in that role . . . but would it work? If the Regent’s questions turned to religion, could they answer him safely based on what little knowledge they had? And what about Hesseth? Would the merchants remember that she was supposed to be human? Would they care enough to maintain that lie, if Toshida became suspicious? There was so much that Damien’s small company stood to lose if anyone made even a tiny slip—one passing reference to Hesseth’s fur, or Hesseth’s claws, or Hesseth’s alien nature. Or even worse, to Damien’s sorcery. Was the Regent listening for hints of such a secret? Was that why he had come on board?

And then, of course, there was Gerald Tarrant.

A cold wind gusted across his soul as he thought of the man. Tear down my walls, he had said, expose my belongings. See that nothing remains of my power. Damien had taken it one step further. He had asked the passengers and crew to pretend that the Neocount had never been on their ship at all. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, and they seemed willing to play along. But would it be enough? If Toshida came to suspect that something was wrong, if he asked the right questions—perhaps threatening them openly, perhaps maneuvering them into a rhetorical corner where it was hard to maintain the lie—might not one of them slip up? It would only take one word, Damien reminded himself, one wrong, careless word . . .

And then the guard was standing before him and waiting, and it was clear from his manner that Damien’s time had come. With a prayer on his lips he followed the man, across the deck to the small cabin which Toshida had commandeered for his interviews. Ushered in by the guard, he entered. The shades inside were drawn, so that none might look in on them; even the sea view was shuttered. Two oil lamps cast cool golden light about the room and its occupants; its hue lent an eerie cast to the Regent’s dark skin, like that of an ancient bronze statue.

“Reverend Vryce.” The Regent’s tone was cool but cordial. “Please sit.”

He took the chair opposite Toshida’s own. Damien glanced down at the desk between them, noted several bills of lading, shipping specs, one map. Then they were gone, gathered up by Toshida’s dark hands and set far to one side, out of the lamplight.

“My government has some concerns,” Toshida said quietly. His voice was utterly neutral in tenor, as befit one whose power was beyond question. “Would you mind clarifying a few issues for me?”

“Of course not,” he responded. Trying not to let his uneasiness affect his tone.

Would it matter if I did?

It began with simple questions, the kind that a government official might be expected to ask of a foreign ship in his harbor. Damien answered those simply and honestly, and when he lacked information he referred Toshida to those who would be able to answer. Then came questions that probed into Damien himself. Was it he who had organized this expedition? Why? Damien answered those questions with care, honestly wherever possible but preferring occasional vagueness to an outright lie. No one on board but Hesseth knew his true motives, thus it was unlikely that Toshida would be able to entrap him. Still he was careful, remembering always that twenty of his co-travelers had already talked to Toshida—possibly about him—and that he was being measured against that template.

At last the Regent seemed satisfied with that line of questioning, and turned to another. “Tell me about the health of the crew.”

“What would you like to know?”

“You were in charge of that facet of the journey, verda?” The dark fingers steepled, casting dual shadows. “Tell me about your preparations.”

It was impossible to tell from Toshida’s expression whether he knew just how revealing this ground might prove. How much had the others told him? Damien cursed his own lack of knowledge, in particular his ignorance of the status of sorcery here. Would the others have thought to protect him? Would they even have realized that such protection was necessary? He chose his words very carefully. “I felt that there would be considerable risk making contact with a colony that had its own disease profile. So I made sure of two things as I signed on my people: that each of them had a good history of resisting illness, and that no one was presently carrying anything which might infect your people. We took every precaution possible,” he assured him. Hoping it would be enough.

“So you relied upon interviews, verda?”

He shook his head. “Everyone was examined. Passengers, officers, crew.”

“By whom?”

He answered without hesitating, because hesitation would be damning. “By qualified professionals.”

I Healed them, you son of a bitch. With my Church-sanctioned powers I Worked the fae and used it on each and every one of them, to make sure that when we got to this precious city of yours we wouldn’t spread eight hundred years of bacterial evolution among your people. I did that. I. And I used the fae to strengthen their immune systems so that they could survive your diseases, and took a few other precautions as well, whose names you wouldn’t even recognize. That’s what I do, Regent. That’s what I am.

He drew in a deep breath, faked a cough to cover it. God, the man was getting to him. That was bad. That was dangerous.

Toshida jotted a few notes on the topmost piece of paper; the light was too poor for Damien to make out what they were. “Reverend Vryce, I’ve been directed to ask you a question which you may find offensive. If so, I apologize. The circumstances we find ourselves in are most unusual, verda? Sometimes that makes for uncomfortable questions.”

“Please go ahead,” he said quietly.

The Regent’s eyes fixed on his, commanding his gaze. They were deep sable brown, Damien noted, nearly black, so dark that in the dim light it was impossible to make out iris from pupil, or tell where the two might be divided. Disconcertingly like Hesseth’s in the darkness.

“Have you ever used sorcery?” he asked. And then added, “For any purpose?”

For a moment there was silence. Utter stillness. How much does he know? Damien thought desperately. What did the others say? To be caught in one lie, no matter how small, meant admitting to the possibility of others. And that meant an endless barrage of questions, with certain condemnation at the end of it.

The dark eyes were fixed on him. Demanding an answer.

“I was ordained in our western Matriarchy,” he said at last. “The Holy Mother taught that sorcery worked in God’s name was a holy enterprise. Later I traveled to the east, where I served that region’s Patriarch. His views were somewhat different, and in accordance with my vows I served his will while I was there.” He drew in a deep breath, choosing his words with care. “My vows demand obedience to the hierarchy of my Church, whatever that may be. That means obedience to your laws, your Eminence, and respect for your customs. The vows of my Order permit no less.”

The Regent’s reaction was strange. He stiffened slightly—but not in response to his words, Damien thought. Perhaps in response to something they implied.

There was something odd in his tone that Damien couldn’t quite define. Something almost . . . hungry.

“Your Patriarch, you say.”

“Yes, your Eminence.”

“A man,” the Regent mused.

Puzzled, Damien nodded.

“Is he your autarch? Is that what the title means?”

He nodded again. “The Church was unified under one leader late in the third century. But the natural barriers between east and west were too great for one man to govern both realms effectively, so it was decided to have an autarch for each region.” And he ventured: “As you would have your own in this region.”

“Each city has its own Matria,” the Regent responded. There was a tightness in him that was almost animal in nature, a tension that belied his smooth, even speech. There’s something in him waiting to explode, Damien thought. Something that’s been ready to explode for a long, long time. “Their communal word is our law.”

“And the Regency?” he dared. “Where does that fit in?”

For the first time since the interview began, the Regent looked away. “The Matria are our visionaries, our oracles. They hear and interpret the Voice of the One God, and live eternally Sanctified in His Name . . . which lifestyle is not particularly well suited to governance, Reverend Vryce. Verda?”

“So you rule in fact?”

“In some things. Always subject to the Matria’s will.” He turned back to face Damien. There was an intensity in his gaze that was hard to meet, an almost predatory alertness. Damien was acutely aware that he was watching him for his reaction. “My rank is as high as a man can aspire to in these lands. But I’m surprised you didn’t know that, Reverend Vryce. Wasn’t it the Prophet himself who established that pattern?”

Was he hearing him right? Was it possible that in this place the autocracy was reserved for women, and this man—this energetic, ambitious man—had been reined in by no more than a perverse sexist custom? He was suddenly very glad that he had played poker as often and as well as he did; he had never had more need of a dispassionate expression. “Customs differ,” he said carefully. “And even the Prophet’s words are subject to interpretation.” He didn’t dare address the question any more directly than that. Not now. Not until he had more of a handle on who and what these people were. To do otherwise would be like throwing a match into a keg of black power, just to see what would happen. Madness.

For a few seconds the Regent was silent. Considering his words. Sifting them for all the messages they contained, voiced and unvoiced.

“You understand,” he said at last, “some of what we’ve discussed here would be . . . upsetting for my people. Verda? This talk of foreign hierarchy, disparate customs . . .” His dark eyes narrowed. “And sorcery. All these things are sensitive issues, best kept to a private forum. Don’t you agree, Reverend Vryce?”

He found that he had been holding his breath; it took effort to speak. “What about my people?” he chanced. In other words, how much is my silence worth to you?

“I see no further need to question them,” the Regent responded smoothly. Which said it all.

Was there anything other than religious faith that could have kept this man from demanding his own long ago, from toppling kingdoms to achieve it? Was there anything that could succeed in holding him down now, once he fully understood his options? Damien felt like he had indeed thrown a match into a powder keg. And that keg was sitting on an arsenal.

The Regent pushed back his chair and stood. “It’s clear you prepared well for this voyage, and I see no reason why you should remain under quarantine. I’ll inform the Matria of that decision.” As he spoke his ruler’s title there was just a trace of hostility in his tone, almost imperceptible—but Damien was sure that if he Worked his vision he would see the fury inside him seething like a demon, screaming its indignation. “My aide will give your people a brief tour of the city tomorrow, so that they know their way around. After that, you’re all free to come and go as you please. I anticipate the merchants will be able to unload their cargo by the end of the week, or move on with it as they desire.”

“Thank you,” Damien said. “I’ll tell them.”

The Regent nodded, his dark eyes narrow. Piercing gaze, oh, so piercing. What future world was he gazing upon, that made his look so fierce? What secret potential had Damien’s words unveiled, which had previously been unspeakable?

“No,” Toshida said softly. “Thank you.”

If Damien had been concerned that there would be any further investigation of his role on board the Glory, he was quickly reassured. Their tour of the city, attended by most of the passengers and all the lesser crew, went without a hitch. There were the predictable swarms of reporters, of course, who flanked them like hunting dogs throughout their journey. Is it what you expected? Was it worth the crossing? How have we surprised, disappointed, impressed, intrigued, appealed to you? And of course the inevitable queries from tabloid artists regarding ghost islands, sea monsters, and western sexual practices. At one point their guide made a point of gathering them together and explaining to them in simple words and an almost decipherable accent that their stories were worth quite a bit to these people, and they shouldn’t part with too much information without getting paid for it. To which Anshala responded, in a tone that was equally patronizing, “We’re not brainless savages, you know.” And they were left to conduct themselves as they saw fit.

On the third night a celebration was declared in honor of the travelers, to include a display of fireworks when the Core set after dusk. The invitation to attend was hand-delivered by the captain of Toshida’s guard to Rozca himself, no doubt in recognition of his stubborn refusal to leave his ship the day before. Despite the fact that Rozca loudly refused to attend that gala display or any other until he was satisfied with the security of his ship, he appeared to be pleased by the attention. And later, when that same officer returned at dusk to take personal charge of the Golden Glory, Rozca allowed himself to be talked off his bridge and across the dock and into town itself.

Fireworks: controlled small-scale explosions, performed for entertainment. An old Earth custom, the Regent’s man assured them, and Damien was amazed at how casually the phrase rolled off his lips. Damien’s own people had been struggling with the basics of survival for so long that they had all but forgotten what true Earth custom was, and used the phrase only rarely to denote a ritual whose roots were so ancient they could no longer be remembered. Here, where relative stability had been achieved a mere three centuries after the Landing, oral tradition had preserved much more of Earth’s heritage. The West might have recorded Earth’s facts in its struggle to preserve its scientific heritage, Damien reflected. But the East alone remembered Earth’s spirit.

Impressive. Like everything else about this land. And, like everything else, utterly alien.

They were led to a vast park in the center of the city, bounded at one end by the Regent’s Manor and at the other by the Governance Center. The central portion of the park was immense, acre upon acre of meticulously landscaped terrain that seemed to Damien a living symbol of the carefully controlled order of this land. No plants grew at random. No weed would dare to sprout. Pink blossoms bloomed exactly where pink blossoms ought to be, and the rows of towering trees that flanked the sides of the central lawn were a living testament to man’s dominion over Nature in this one tiny corner of the universe. Damien wondered if the children who now sported about those trunks would ever understand that fact, or if they took their power for granted. In much the same way that Earth once had, to the detriment of all its inhabitants.

The numbers gathered in the great square were already too great to count, but to Damien’s untutored eye it seemed that the whole city must be present, and then some. Some had clearly come to see the fireworks, and they spread out their blankets on those sculpted hillocks where the view promised to be the best. Their children sported merrily across the crowded plain, as excited by the prospect of staying up this late as they were by the coming spectacle. Others had clearly come to see the strangers, and they crowded about the reviewing stand in ranks so thick that their children could not run, but resorted to playing hide—and-seek behind the bodies and between the legs of strangers. Until some well-meaning relative caught hold of one of them them and tried to imprint upon that child’s brain the importance of the night’s display. Damien smiled as he watched, and estimated the message would remain with them for about five minutes, if that long. He had been that age. He remembered.

The sun had set nearly three hours ago, but the Core had only recently followed. The sky was that curious shade of blue which was neither sun-cold nor Core-warm but that in-between shade, twilight. A fine mist had gathered over the city, hinting at the imminence of rain. Toshida said not to worry, that the fog would only make the fireworks more enjoyable. Damien couldn’t begin to explain to him how utterly alien such a reassurance seemed. If the same thing had happened in Jaggonath, the nervous uncertainty of ten thousand viewers would have stopped the performance dead, or at least made it very dangerous to proceed. Fear had a way of feeding on itself and then altering the fae, which in turn was capable of affecting any physical event. Did these people have such faith in their leaders that they no longer questioned their decisions? Or had centuries of faith finally weakened the link between fearing and being - as it had been meant to do, as the Prophet had designed it to do, so many years ago? The thought was almost too awesome to contemplate.

Today fireworks, Damien mused. Tomorrow the stars.

The reviewing stand had been erected near one end of the great lawn, within the shadow of the Regent’s Manor. No accident there, Damien observed, as he watched the Governor and his retinue make their way to their seats. Damien glanced over toward the Regent, found him in animated conversation with Rasya. Toshida seemed to be fascinated with the Glory’s pilot, although whether or not that interest was mutual remained to be seen. Damien wondered if he might not be put off by her total lack of regard for landbound authority . . . or whether that might not be the attraction. Certainly there were at least a hundred women here who made it clear, by their dress and their gaze and their constant proximity to the reviewing stand, that they were his for the asking.

Maybe he needs a break from that, Damien thought dryly.

Then there was a murmur at one end of the platform, and a wave of motion as the tightly packed crowd rearranged itself to make way for someone. Damien made out the form of a woman, middle-aged, dressed in dun-colored robes that concealed her from wrist to ankle, loose folds obscuring whatever details of her figure might otherwise have been visible. He recalled men and women on Toshida’s ship who had been dressed similarly, and the Regent’s strange response to Hesseth’s presence on board the Glory suddenly became clear. Indeed, as the woman approached them, Toshida stood so that he might bow deeply, a gesture redolent with genuine respect, perhaps even with awe. No ritual obeisance, that. Even Damien felt its power.

“The Matria sends her regrets,” the woman announced. Speaking to them all. Wisps of pale hair misted about the edges of her coif, giving her face an ethereal appearance. “She won’t be able to attend tonight.”

Again the Regent bowed, this time in acknowledgment of her message. “Will you do the honors?” he said. Indicating the speaker’s platform at the front of the platform.

“In her name,” she agreed, and stepped up on to it.

A hush fell over the crowd, as one by one the people closest to the stand realized that an Important Moment was about to take place. It spread across the great lawn like a wave, heads turning one by one as voices died down, to gaze upon the spectacle. The robed woman held out her hands as if in welcoming, and waited. At last—when the silence that greeted her was absolute, the aura of anticipation almost tangible—she began to speak.

“Praised be the One God, Creator of Earth and Erna. Praised be the Holy Progenitor of mankind, whose Will gave us life and whose Faith gives us strength, whose Hand protects us from the faeborn. Praised be the Lord our One Protector, who in His infinite Wisdom protects us from the damned. Praised be His covenant with our ancestors, which decreed that for so long as we serve His Will, so long as we keep His Law, this land and the seas and the sky and all that is between them shall be ours to cultivate. As it was for our forebears on Earth, as it shall be forever for our children. Amen.”

And the crowd murmured, Amen.

Very neat, Damien thought. Despising himself for his cynicism, even as his brain analyzed the facts. In other words, this is God’s show and nothing - not your fears and not the fae - is going to spoil it. A specific targeting of mob faith to the issue at hand. Nicely done. He remembered the robed figures on Toshida’s ship, and suddenly understood what they’d been doing there. A timely blessing on each cannon, on the ammo, on the act of ignition . . . so that the soldiers believed, with all the passion of religious fervor and on every level of their being, that the cannon would work exactly as planned. These people knew the Prophet’s theories, all right. And had taken them one step further than the Prophet ever did. Damien wondered if those selfsame prayers would abort a “natural” misfire. Hell . . . was anything really “natural” on this world?

And then, without warning, the fireworks began. Explosion after explosion split the night in rapid succession, leaving the visitors no time to catch their breath between them. Artificial stars burst into life across the darkening sky, blossoms and streamers and spirals of them, diamonds and spheres and waterfalls of stars that lit the sky like a second Core. As if that spectacle was not enough, the fog captured the light of each starburst and reflected it across the city, illuminating the crowd with wave after wave of eerie color, like the light of a second sun. And through it all, though band after band of shooting stars expired in darkness just above their heads, not one drop of fire touched the earth. Not one gleaming bit swooped low to singe flesh. Not one person in the crowd seemed to quail at the thought that it might. It was a grand symphony of creation, not only of light but of faith. Damien found himself overcome by awe. Not at the display itself—miraculous as it seemed—but at the people who had gathered to watch it. At their utter confidence in the technology they had tamed. Men and women who gazed at the sky without fear, without awe, merely a measured appreciation of the night’s entertainment. And if they broke into applause now and then, it was for the lights, for their makers, and not for the faith that had made this night possible.

They take it for granted, he thought. The concept was so alien it made his head spin. Across nine-tenths of this world such a display would be all but impossible, and yet to them it’s just one more night’s entertainment. Had he ever even imagined such a thing? Had anyone? His ancestors had dreamed of resculpting this world to suit Earth’s parameters, but did they really understood what that meant? No more than Damien had, and he had devoted his life to that subject. But this was it, here and now, the essence of Earth incarnate: not only science, not just technology, but a life founded in utter confidence, in the absolute surety of things and people—a faith in physical causality so deeply rooted that it was given no thought at all. Just lived.

He shut his eyes, trembling. This was his faith. Not the mapping of a world, not the workings of a steam engine, not even the half-dozen warning shots that had been fired across their bow. This confidence in the common people. This utter joy, and the abandon it engendered. This innocence, and the freedom it implied . . .

I’ve worked for this all my life . . . and I would work a dozen lifetimes more, if that time were given to me, and die willingly a thousand times over if it would bring Erna one step closer to this kind of unity.

It ended. Sometime. He watched it through eyes that were brimming with tears—of joy, of faith, of humility. The entire sky was filled with light, with stars, whose combined glare lit the city brighter than a sun . . . and then it was over. The last sparks died. The mist gave up its colors and faded into the night, a mere veil between man and the stars. And Damien felt himself breathe steadily at last.

“Well?” It was the Regent’s voice from beside him, measured and even but with just a trace of tension. “What did you think?”

He met the man’s eyes and thought, The question’s not casual, any more than this “celebration” was. He meant to communicate something, and he has. “Rarely have I been so impressed,” he told Toshida. Using his tone and manner to make it clear that the answer was no more lightly stated than the question had been; this night had shaken his soul to its roots. Toshida nodded his approval, and might have spoken to Damien again had it not been for the Glory’s captain, who chose that moment to come up beside him and shake his hand and declare that in all his travels—which had been many and various, he assured him—he had never seen a public display to rival tonight’s fireshow. Then he was pushed aside by another of the travelers, who in turn gave way to Rasya (and was that flirtation in her eyes?), and Damien watched them take their turns one after another until it was clear that the Regent was well and truly occupied for at least an hour.

Unnoticed, he made his way to the back stairs and descended from the reviewing platform. The Regent’s Manor loomed behind him, and he skirted its carefully sculpted lawns by Domina’s moonlight, searching for a road that would take him where he wanted to go without running into a thousand tourists. At last he found it, a narrow path whose entrance was masked by hedges. He made his way along it to the north, trying to remember the layout of the city. A few people passed by him—teenage couples arm in arm, a group of loud-voiced men, a family of five with two children walking and one, the youngest, slung over his father’s shoulder—but for the most part the narrow street was quiet, an unlikely conduit for the thousands that would be heading home after the night’s celebration.

And at last he came to the building he sought. It stood in the center of an immense circular lawn, whose manicured gardens and precisely aligned trees all drew one’s attention to its gleaming portals, its Revivalist grandeur. He knew from the maps he had seen that this building stood at the true center of Mercia, that though other buildings might rival it in physical grandeur its geographic position made it clear that it was the life and the soul of that miraculous city.

Slowly, reverently, he approached Mercia’s great cathedral.

He expected there to be a guard on duty. There was none. He guessed that they had seen him coming and, observing his robes, had elected to be discreetly absent. For which he was grateful. He would have found it difficult to talk to anyone now, save the One he had come to address. The One whose Presence breathed from the stones of this building like a living essence, drawing Damien in.

With a prayer on his lips, his heart pounding, he pushed open the great doors and entered.

The sanctuary was empty, and utterly silent. The stillness of it was so absolute that it invaded Damien’s soul, quieting the roar of his blood, the whirlwind of his emotions. Domina’s light filtered through stained-glass windows five times the height of a man, spreading a shifting mosaic of colored light across the polished stone floor. The ceiling overhead was so high it was lost in shadows, as intangible as the night itself. The sheer vastness of the space seemed to dwarf him, impressing upon him the ultimate humility of human existence—and at the same time it forced him to expand, to fill its vaulted emptiness with the fire of his human spirit. In here, one could believe there was a God. In here one could believe that man could commune with Him.

He walked quietly to the head of the aisle, listening to his footsteps resound in the emptiness. Faith curled about him like an evening mist, centuries upon centuries of unquestioning devotion that had left their mark upon the floor he trod, the altar before him, the very air he breathed. Earth-fae: utterly tamed, utterly tractable. He had dreamed of it without understanding. Now he knew. Now he understood. He put out his hand, knowing that it curled about his living warmth like a flame. No need to See it; faith was enough.

Silently he knelt on the plush velvet carpet, his white robe gathered beneath his knees. In his eyes the afterimage of the fireworks still burned, sparks that shimmered and died in the shadow of Mercia’s great altar. How unimpressive those lights seemed now, when compared to the triumph of faith that had made them possible! And they knew that, he thought. Not the common people, perhaps, but the leaders. They knew.

Trembling, he bowed his head. And tried to voice a prayer so deeply embedded in his soul that for a moment no words would come. For a moment he did no more than pour his hope, his joy, his love of the Church into the boundless reservoir of faith that surrounded him.

And then the words came.

Thank You, Lord, for giving me this day. This joy. Thank You for letting me taste that beauty of the human spirit which is the core of our faith. Thank You for giving me even one moment in which human greed, uncertainty, and aggression receded from concern, and the Dream that is our faith stood revealed before me in all its terrible splendor. Help me to hold that moment within my heart forever, a source of strength in times of trial, a source of faith in times of questioning. Help me to be a vehicle through which others may glimpse what I have seen, and a tool by which the future may be fashioned in its image. In Your most holy Name, Lord God of Earth and Erna. Always and forever in Your Name.

There were tears on his face, running down his cheeks. He left them alone. They, too, were a kind of prayer, too precious to disturb: a psalm of pure emotion.

Strangely, in my joy. I find I feel terribly alone. The priests of my homeland may devote their lives to a vision of such perfection, but they know it will never be fulfilled in their lifetime. The people here may reap the rewards of their unity,but how can they begin to understand its true value when they have nothing less perfect to compare it with? Only in stepping from one world to the other can one see so clearly the borderline between the two, and the fragile balance necessary to maintain it. Help me to keep hold of that most precious vision, Lord. Help me to serve mankind the better for having known it.

There was a sound behind him. It took a moment to sink into his consciousness. It was as though he floated in another world, halfway between this planet and something that was beyond all definition. Something so painfully beautiful that he could hardly bear to look upon it, much less turn his eyes away to seek out the source of a simple sound.

“Father?”

The realm of the Infinite loosed its grip upon his soul, and gently returned him to the present. He got to his feet slowly, with effort, and turned; his eyes, well-adjusted to the darkness, had no difficulty in making out the speaker’s identity.

“Captain Rozca,” he whispered. Not a little surprised. More than a little confused.

The man came toward him slowly, stepping from shadow into ruby-colored light, then into shadow again. A heartbeat of illumination. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, Father, If it’s a bad time—”

“Not at all,” Damien managed. The captain’s expression seemed strained, as if reflecting some inner turmoil. Best not to address that directly, he thought. Best to let him express it in his own way, in his own time. “How did you find me?”

“I followed you from the fairgrounds. I hope you don’t mind. I thought, that is I felt, that is . . . I wanted to talk to you.”

“I’m here,” he said softly.

“When I saw . . . I mean . . . They couldn’t have done that at home, could they?” He was closer now, close enough that Damien could watch his face as he struggled to find the right words. “The fireworks, I mean.”

“No.” He shut his eyes for a moment, remembering. The brilliance. The joy. “Maybe priests could manage something like it, maybe adepts could mimic it . . . but not like that. Not on such a scale.”

“You talked to me about it on the Glory,” he said. “How if enough people worshiped your god it would make a real difference. Not just in matters of faith, you said, or in religious things, but in the way we lived. I didn’t really understand. Not then. But here . . .” He looked toward a window, helplessly. “I’ve seen things here I didn’t think a god could do. And you know what gets to me? That they vulking take it for granted! It’s just one more show of pretty lights to them, or one more smoking cannon, or one more bustling steamship . . . they don’t even know what they’ve got here, Father. Do you feel that? Am I crazy?”

“No, you’re not crazy. You have vision, and that’s very rare. Very precious.” Hold onto this moment, he wanted to say. You may never have one like it again.

“It’s just that I . . . damn it, this is hard.” He turned back to Damien, but couldn’t meet his eyes. “I don’t say things like this too good, you know. Words don’t come easy to me. It’s just that I’ve been thinking all night, all through the firelights, and I . . .” He drew in a deep breath, shaking. “I want you to take my oath, Father.”

For a moment Damien had no words. Speech seemed an alien concept; words that he might have spoken jumbled in his brain, caught on his tongue. He forced them out. They weren’t the words he wanted to say, but words that he was bound to. Because fairness was part of his duty, too. Perhaps the most important part.

“What you’ve seen here is very impressive, I understand that. But when our business is done here you’ll be leaving, and this night will be no more than a memory. In the world we came from, will that be enough? Mine isn’t an easy faith, captain, or a popular one. Are you sure it’s what you want?”

“Father,” he answered, “The way I see it, you go through life in stages. First you’re young and ambitious and you think nothing’s going to get in your way, not ever. Then you get to the point when you realize that the world’s a damned hard place to live—downright nasty on occasion—and it’s hard enough to keep your head above water all the time, much less come out on top like you want. At that point you figure if some god can make it all a little easier, why not? What’s a prayer or two to you, if it gets you what you want? But then,” he said, “when you get older, you realize there’s something else you want, too. Something that’s harder to put a name to. Something a man gets when he writes a song that’ll be sung long after he’s dead, or paints something that his great-great-grandchildren will hang on the wall . . . or helps change his world. Do you see, Father? There’s a lot of things this world might become, and before tonight I didn’t much bother to think about it. My own little piece of the present was enough, and the rest could take care of itself. But now . . . I’ve seen what the future could be, Father. I’ve seen what this world can become. And I want to help make it happen. Even if it’s just a little bit. I want to do my share.” He hesitated. When he spoke again there was genuine humility in his voice, a tone no man could counterfeit. “Will you take my oath?”

Damien nodded.

The captain knelt before him; it was clearly a position to which he was not accustomed. After a moment’s hesitation he lifted his hands, clasped palm to palm, before him. Damien folded his own about them, his pulse warm against the callused skin. And he spoke the same words that had been said to him so very long ago, so very far away, at the birthtime of his soul.

“This is the way of the Lord the One God, who created Earth and Erna, who led us to the stars, whose faith is the salvation of humankind . . .”

And as he intoned the words that would bind yet another soul to his mission, he whispered silently, Thank you, God. For giving me this moment. For showing me that I wasn’t alone tonight. For showing me that none of us are alone, not ever. Not in Your service.

And thank You for touching this man’s soul. For letting him taste of our dream. There is no more precious gift.

“Welcome to God’s service,” he whispered.

9

A study in Silence: the jagged peak of Guardian Mountain, granite-clad and still. No life stirred on those harsh slopes, nor anything that might attract life. No breeze swept across the bare rock, though winds had gusted strongly up to half an hour before. The storm which had been headed this way had been turned aside, for no better reason than the one with the power to do so had no patience left for storms. The peak was as still as death itself, reflecting the mood of the one who stood upon it. Reflecting his soul.

And then there was movement. Not visible to most, perhaps, but visible to him. A tremor of earth-fae; a whisper of foreboding. The power that was near him thickened, focused, began to coagulate into solid form. Flesh. A woman’s body at first, and then—as the body became more solid—it shifted to a man’s form, draped in a man’s attire. Velvet robes, priceless jewels, fur collar that rippled as if in the wind, despite the lack of breeze. As he changed form, so did the surroundings. The cold peak disappeared, to be replaced by a palace interior. Rich silk tapestries, frescoed walls . . . the fae-creature waited a moment for the man on the peak to react, then shrugged. The tapestries gave way to trees, the walls to a brilliant Coreset. Still no response. He let that fade to a church interior. When even that image failed to stir the man’s interest, he let it fade as well, and replaced it with a scene out of nightmare. A vast field of skulls stretched for miles before them, and in its center—at the feet of the man—an offering cup of blood. About its brim was engraved a ribald limerick in ancient Earth-script. He saw the man glance down to read it, then turn slowly toward him. His expression made it clear he was not amused.

“You really have no sense of humor tonight,” Karril said.

“I Called you five nights ago,” Gerald Tarrant pointed out.

“You did. And someday when you’re in a better mood I’ll tell you just how much fun it wasn’t to cross Novatlantis. My kind rides the earth-currents, remember? Do you know what they’re like in that region? If a horse did to you what the fae did to me, you’d unevolve the whole species.” With a short wave of his hand the demon banished the nightmare images. Black walls took their place, dressed with crimson curtains and golden sconces: the trappings of the Hunter’s palace. “You want to tell me what’s eating you, or you want me to guess?”

“I thought you could read my soul.”

“I can’t read pain. You know that.”

“Is it that?” he murmured. “Already?”

“You tell me.” When the Hunter said nothing he pressed, “You Called me for a reason.”

“I Called you to see if I could Work through to the west from here.”

“Well?” He spread his hands generously. “I heard you. Here I am.”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “With you it worked.”

For a moment the demon studied him. Then, very softly, he ventured, “I wasn’t your first effort, was I? You must have tried other times, without result. Tried to call up some power from your western reservoir, and it wouldn’t respond. Is that it?”

The Hunter nodded tightly.

“I suppose it makes sense, you know. Summon a demon who has a will of his own, and maybe he’ll choose to make the trip. Summon the power of the Forest, which has no independent spirit . . .”

“I couldn’t,” he whispered. “The distance was too great. And Novatlantis—”

The demon shuddered dramatically. “I understand.”

“You know what that means, don’t you?” His voice was quiet but strained; evidently his self-control was being pushed to the breaking point. “I can’t go home. Not the same way I got here.”

“I thought your priestly friend was willing to support you.”

“Yes. He fed me his blood and his nightmares for half a year . . . and I starved, Karril. I starved. Even now the hunger still resonates within me. Why? It’s never been like this before. Never been something I couldn’t master. Until now.”

“You fed, I take it.”

He shut his eyes, remembering. “As soon as we landed, and many times since. Fear so rich it made me giddy to taste it, blood so hot with terror that leaching it of warmth should have cooled my hunger for a decade. This land is ripe for me, Karril, and its people are unprotected. And yet . . . I feel empty again. Desperately empty. The scent of a victim makes me tremble with hunger . . . even though I know that my physical need has been satisfied. Why? It’s never been like this before.”

“You never starved yourself for that long before.”

“Why should that matter? You can starve a vampire for centuries, but within a night after he’s fed—”

“You haven’t been a mere vampire for centuries now. Remember?”

“It shouldn’t make a difference.”

“Of course it does! You have a complex soul, my friend. A human soul, for all its hellish trappings. Such a thing takes time to heal. Hells, even a housecat that’s starved for five months will hoard its food for a while. Give it time.”

“I haven’t got time,” he muttered. Turning away. His hands, clenched into fists, trembled slightly. “Our enemy must know we’re here,” he whispered. “I have no time for weakness.”

“I would help if I could,” the demon said softly. “You know that. But my powers are limited.” He indicated the room that surrounded them, as if to say, this is it. “I can give you illusion. I can intensify the pleasure of killing, perhaps even offer a brief euphoria of forgetfulness. But escapism’s never been your style, I know that. What more can I offer?”

“You can give me information.”

The demon chuckled softly. “Ah, now it all comes together. Is that why you called me here?”

“It’s why I chose you, as opposed to half a dozen other spirits who might have made the trip. For all your shallow posturings you’re a good servant, Karril. And I know I’m not the only adept who’s felt that way.”

The demon grinned. “How much effort does it take, really? The most precious thing in an adept’s world is knowledge. And what is that to me? How hard is it to part with a simple fact or two? And being demonic myself, I do have an advantage in research. So tell me what you need, Hunter. If I can help, I will.”

The Neocount turned so that his eyes were on Karril’s; black fire stirred in their depths. “There was a demon we fought in the rakhlands. He came to me later and . . .” He shook his head sharply, banishing the memory. “Simply put, he tried to destroy me. And almost succeeded. I’m here to keep it from happening again.”

“A worthy crusade.”

“I can’t Know him without increasing the power that binds us together, and that would make him even stronger. Too risky. Yet I need to know who he is, what he is, what his parameters are . . . can you tell me that?”

“If I know him. If not . . .” he grinned. “Let’s say that for an old friend I’d do some research. Did this creature of darkness have a name?”

“He called himself Calesta.”

The demon’s face went white. Utterly white. Not the fleshy pale color of human surprise, in which blood leaves the face and all else remains, but the total colorlessness of one whose face is but an illusion, responsive to one’s moods on a much more primal level. “Calesta?”

“You know of him?”

A long, strained pause. “I know of him,” he said at last. “But I didn’t know . . .” He left off helplessly.

“I need information, Karril.”

“Yes. You would.” He turned away. “But I can’t help you, Hunter. Not this time.”

“Why?”

A pause. The demon shook his head. “I can’t answer that either.” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re playing games with me—”

“No. I’m not. I swear it.”

“Then help me!—or tell me why you can’t. One or the other.”

The demon said nothing. The brightness of the walls about them faded; it was possible to see the lights of a nearby city through one curtain.

The Hunter took a step toward him; his pale eyes flashed in anger. “He tricked me, Karril. He meant to destroy my soul, and he almost succeeded. Now I’ve crossed half a world so that I can have my vengeance, and I will. And you will help me.” When the demon failed to respond, his expression darkened. “If I suffer in this because you refused to help me, so help me God, I’ll bind you to my pain—”

“I can’t!” he whispered fiercely. “Not this time, Hunter. I’m sorry.”

“Why?” he demanded. “You’ve never failed me before. Why is this time different?”

“It’s just . . . I can’t.” If he were human, he might have been sweating heavily; as it was, his gaze flickered nervously from side to side as if trying to escape Tarrant’s own. “I’m forbidden to get involved. Forbidden to interfere. All right? Is that enough?”

The Hunter’s voice was like ice. “Forbidden by whom?”

“No one you would know. And not for any reason you would respect. But it’s binding, I assure you.”

“I can fight it—”

“You can’t.”

“I could Banish—”

“Not this! Not this time. I’m sorry.”

“And I’m supposed to just accept that?” he demanded.

Karril said nothing.

He grabbed him by the shoulders, turned him to face him. “My life is on the line here, demon. I must use the resources that are available to me. You are one of those resources.” He paused, giving that a moment to sink in. “I’ve always valued our relationship. Since the moment you first came to me, centuries ago, I’ve dealt with you honestly and openly. And you’ve always returned that courtesy. Until now.” Earth-fae began to gather at his feet, ready for Working. “For the last time, Karril. Will you tell me what you know of your own accord, or do I have to Summon it out of you?”

For a long moment the demon just stared at him. At last he said, in a low voice, “You can’t, you know.”

“Can’t what?”

“Summon me. Force the information out, in any way.”

“Are you claiming some special protection?”

“No. But I’m telling you that my kind isn’t affected by such things. Never has been.”

“Your kind . . . you mean your sub-type?”

“Yes, my sub-type. My family, if you will. The demons you call Iezu.”

“I’ve Summoned Iezu before. I’ve Summoned you, in fact—”

“And I played along. Because those are the rules of the game as humans define it. I know my place. We all do. But the truth is that your sorcery can’t control any of us. Never could.”

The Hunter’s face was a mask of fury, and something else. Fear? “You’re bluffing,” he accused

“Have I ever bluffed with you? Is that my way? Summon me, if you like. See for yourself. Humans need the illusion of control, but maybe you’re the one exception. Maybe you can handle the fact that your precious Workings won’t affect me. Go on, try!”

Tarrant turned away from him. His hands were shaking. Black fire burned in his soul.

“There’s nothing I can say or do to make a difference in this conflict,” the demon told him. “There’s nothing you can ask me for that I can give you if Calesta’s involved. I’m sorry, old friend. More sorry than you can imagine. But the laws that bind me are older than you or I, and stronger than both of us combined. I wish it were otherwise.”

“Go,” he whispered hoarsely. “Get out of here! To the west, if you want, or feed on these people for a while. God knows they’re ripe for it. Just get out of my sight.”

“Gerald—”

“Go!” His shoulders were trembling, the motion slight but eloquent. In all the time that Karril had known him—nearly nine centuries now—he had never seen him this upset. Never seen him this close to losing it.

It’s the lack of control, the demon thought. The one thing he can’t handle. The one thing he could never handle.

“I didn’t know you meant to fight him,” he said. Softly, oh so softly, hoping that the words would reach him through his rage. “I would have tried to warn you. I would have tried to talk you out of it . . .” And why? he thought. Because I care? That’s not supposed to happen at all. You see, I break the rules just by knowing you. The thought that he was causing pain ran counter to his every instinct. The knowledge that he could do otherwise with a few simple words was almost more than he could bear.

“Be careful,” he whispered suddenly. “He can read you like I do: see into your soul, uncover all your weaknesses. Trust nothing that you see or hear; remember that the senses are flesh-born, and flesh can be manipulated.” He looked about himself nervously, as if checking for eavesdroppers. “Gods of Earth! I’ve said too much already. Be careful, my old friend. The price of defeat is higher than you know.”

Tarrant whipped about as if to confront him, but Karril was already gone: sucked into the night along with all his illusions, dispersed on the evening breeze. For a moment Tarrant just stared at the space where he had been. Then, mastering his rage with effort, he worked a Summoning. To force Karril to return. To force him to respond to him.

Nothing happened.

Nothing at all.

He looked back toward the city lights below, and felt an unaccustomed rage stab through his flesh. Anger, hot as brimstone, set his blood to burning.

“Damn you,” he muttered. “Damn you to Hell!”

He started down the mountainside, toward the city and its innocents.

10

The Consecration of the Faithful took place on the fifth day after Damien’s arrival, the evening of the local sabbath. He was invited to participate. Toshida had supplied him with full sweeping robes in the local style, emblazoned with the golden flames of his Order. Hurriedly made, he guessed, but no less opulent for it. He tried to get Hesseth to attend, but the mere mention of his Church brought a hiss of distaste to her lips. She had been playing Sanctified Woman for several days now—the role forced upon her by her costume—and the continual stress of faking an identity she didn’t understand was beginning to take its toll on her nerves. Damien wished they could find a safe forum in which to ask for information about the Sanctified, but neither he nor Hesseth thought it would be wise to admit their ignorance. It was simply too valuable to have such a role, which permitted her to cover her alien body without raising suspicion; they dared not do anything that would put it at risk.

She was in their rooms when he left her, poring over maps of the region. They had yet to locate anything which might be termed a stronghold of the enemy, although several locations were suspect. Whatever game their nemesis was playing here, it was clearly more subtle than the one he had played in the rakhlands.

If he could ask Toshida openly about it . . . but no. For some reason that thought made him uneasy, and he had learned over the years that his instinct was a thing to be trusted. Maybe it was Toshida’s rank that made him anxious, his obvious power over their situation. But that had never stopped Damien with Jaggonath’s Patriarch, had it? No, it was clearly something more than that. And the thought that there might be something wrong here—subtle enough and unpleasant enough that he had not yet acknowledged it in his conscious mind—was doubly unnerving.

By the time he arrived at sunset the cathedral was full, and he gazed at the assembled faces of the Mercian faithful with wonder. They were darker than his own people on the average, with few blonds among them; no wonder Toshida was so fascinated by Rasya. Tarrant would stand out like a sore thumb, he realized, with his light brown hair and melanin-deficient skin clearly declaring him a stranger. He hoped the Hunter had the wherewithal to notice that, and to compensate. Wherever the hell he was.

The assembled faithful stirred as Toshida made his entrance. Resplendent in the robes of his Church, he was the living image of authority, both temporal and ecclesiastical: a flawless synthesis of power. Against the copper-toned darkness of his skin the white robes gleamed like a beacon; it was impossible for the eye not to be drawn to him, impossible for the soul to resist his mastery. As he raised up his arms in a gesture of benediction the full sleeves spread like wings, and Damien felt rather than heard a hush come over the assemblage.

“May God protect us from the faeborn,” he intoned. “May He defend us from the assaults of the nightborn, the darkbound, the ones who would devour us. May He safeguard our bodies and our souls, so that we may live to praise His Name.”

And the assemblage responded, as one voice, Amen.

Even as he listened to the rest of the service, Damien found himself appreciating its flawless design. The faith of thousands had been harnessed here, not only to worship the One God (or perhaps to create Him, some theologians might argue,) but to turn each city into a fortress, impregnable to demonic assault. In this it had succeeded, utterly. He had been on land two nights now, had already witnessed the unheard-of-freedom that these people enjoyed. Because no demon made it past the city gates. Not ever. There might be a few faeborn dangers spawned inside the city itself, but the kinds of horrors that the west endured—vampiric spirits who went from city to city in search of sustenance, who withdrew to the solitude of the great forests in order to escape the sunlight, then returned again at nightfall—were all but unknown here. Any faeborn wraiths that left the city could not come back. Period. Which made the odds of being attacked by something nasty on a parallel with the odds of being mugged. Not very high, in this carefully policed region.

“Humble we stand before You,” the Regent pronounced, “obedient to Your Law.”

Amen.

He had yet to meet the Matria. He had thought he understood her position in this city, but the more he learned the more uncertain he was of that. If anything, she seemed to be a creature of utter mystery, who came and went with such unpredictability that she was more a symbol-in-absence than a vital part of this thriving theosystem. Which was strange. Very strange. And not like the Church he knew at all.

At last it was time for him to speak. He heard the Regent introduce him as he came to the pulpit, felt the gaze of the assembled fixing on him with an almost palpable force. He drew in a breath, gathered his thoughts . . . and then froze, as the communal gaze shifted elsewhere.

Behind him.

He turned, and felt his own heart skip a beat.

The Matria.

Her body was slight, but her presence was not; as she came forward to take her place beside Toshida, he was struck by just how much presence that slender form could command. Layered robes of fine silk whispered about her legs and ankles, hinting at the form beneath; her veil was anchored by a heavy crown that adorned her hair without fully concealing it. She was not a beautiful woman, but in that costume and role she embodied all the beauty and power of his faith, and when Toshida bowed in greeting, there was no question of who really controlled the reins of state.

She sat beside Toshida, in one of the ornate thrones that flanked the podium. Go on, her gaze said to Damien. Continue. And it seemed that she smiled slightly as she settled back onto the cushions.

It took effort to turn away from her and pick up where he had left off. It took even more effort not to mold the earth-fae into a Knowing, to discover more of who and what she was. But that would be rank stupidity in front of this many witnesses, plain and simple.

And so he addressed his attention—and his words—to the congregation. Presenting something that was not quite a sermon, not exactly a history lesson . . . but it had elements of both, as he used words to sculpt a bridge between their disparate worlds.

He wanted to respond to what they had accomplished. He wanted them to see it through his eyes. He wanted to give them the gift of his vision, to help them draw back from their day to day life and see—really see—how great their triumph was.

And more. He wanted to put all that in context, so that they knew how hard western man was struggling to find a similar peace. And—most of all—he wanted them to know what it would mean to the west when he brought home word of their triumph. For word of their success would surely spread, until all of Erna was inspired to devote itself to the Prophet’s dream. At last.

When he was done, he bowed to the multitude, deeply and formally, and then stepped down from the podium. Toshida nodded his approval as he took up his place once more, and the regular service resumed. When Damien was seated, he looked over toward the Matria, meaning to acknowledge her presence. To his surprise, he found that she was already gone.

What-?

She had come to hear him speak, then. That was all. She had come to hear what the foreign priest had to say—to take the measure of his faith—and then she had left before there could be any more intimate contact between them. Had he displeased her with his sermon? No, he thought. That wasn’t likely. Was it possible she simply wanted to leave before chance or protocol brought them closer together? Why? The question plagued him all through the service, and into the hours beyond. What was there about him that the Matria would feel a need to avoid?

The hour was late when he finally returned to the Regent’s Manor, and he was glad Toshida had been unable to accompany him. He needed to think. The Manor had a guest wing for visiting dignitaries and Toshida had insisted that he accept a room therein. For his comfort, or so he could be watched? Probably both, Hesseth had said. Damien had insisted that she be housed there also, and though Toshida clearly found the request more than a little strange—didn’t she want to stay in the House of the Sanctified with the others of her Order?—in the end he’d agreed. The two of them shared a parlor, and as Damien climbed the vast circular staircase that led to the guest wing he was certain she would be there, waiting for him.

She was.

So was Gerald Tarrant.

For a moment Damien just stood in the doorway. Coming from the church service into the Hunter’s presence was like having a bowl of ice water suddenly splashed in his face; it took him a moment to catch his breath.

Then, very carefully, very quietly, he shut the door.

“Were you seen?” he asked.

“By guards? No.”

“At all.”

The Hunter shook his head. “No one knows I’m in the city. No one knows I’m on this continent, for that matter. I thought it best to keep it that way.”

He nodded tensely in agreement. “They searched the ship, you know. Pretty thoroughly. Just like you said they would.” Looking for you, he wanted to say. But he didn’t know that for certain, did he? “Looking for something nocturnal,” he said at last, and Tarrant nodded.

He forced himself to walk into the room, to overcome his revulsion enough to ask the necessary question. “You feel better?”

“I fed,” the Hunter responded dryly. “If that’s what you’re asking. Nothing that a gourmet would brag about, but let’s say I’ve recovered from the journey here.”

The words were out before he could stop them. “How many?”

“You really want to know?”

The pale eyes were fixed on him. Cold, so very cold. After a moment he managed to look away, and muttered, “No. I guess not.”

“My strength isn’t what it once was . . . but that won’t improve for some time, I regret. Not without the Forest’s power to draw on.” His slender hand fingered the hilt of his sword, as if reminding Damien that it, too, had been drained of strength. “However, my knowledge base is undiminished. And Mes Hesseth has done a fine job of accumulating maps.”

It was only then that he noticed that the floor—the whole floor—was covered with renderings of the land they had come to. Street maps, road maps, nautical charts, maps of landmarks and state monuments and political divisions . . . most were the fold-out type that was sold at newstands and on street corners, but some were in Hesseth’s own hand, painstakingly copied from library references. While he had been playing priest, the rakh-woman had been assembling a cartographer’s wet dream.

“Any luck?” he asked. Trying not to meet that frigid gaze. Trying not to ask where Tarrant had been, or what he had been doing.

The Hunter walked to where one map lay and crouched by its side; like all his movements this one was fluid, catlike in its grace. “Three possibilities. You won’t like one of them.”

Damien glanced at Hesseth—who had taken her place by the side of that map—and then lowered himself to the floor opposite. “Go on.”

“There’s a region here—” he indicated a point some two hundred miles south of them, nestled between two mountain ranges, “—about which the locals know little. But they speak of monsters there, horrible malformed creatures who trap and then devour unwary travelers. That could be meaningful.”

“Or just a legend.”

“Or just a group of faeborn creatures loosely banded together, not at all related to the ones we seek” Trap and devour unwary travelers could be said of half the things that roamed the night. “It’s worth noting that there are few travelers in that region. Not enough to feed a horde of demons.”

“And ours were a horde,” Damien said softly. Remembering that their enemy had kept a stockpile of humans and rakh underground, milking their souls of enough vitality to sustain an unholy army. “Doesn’t sound right, does it?”

The Hunter shook his head.

“Second possibility?”

Hesseth was closest to that part of the map; she spread it flat with long, gold-furred fingers so that Damien could study it.

“The southern continent,” Tarrant explained. “Separated from this one by very little water ... and possibly none at all when the first expedition arrived.” He looked up at Damien. “There’s a settlement down there, Reverend. One that the locals are very much afraid of. That’s what the cannons are for. That’s why the coastline is guarded. If this region has an enemy, its stronghold is here.” A meticulously manicured finger tapped the map. “And that may be our enemy as well.”

Damien considered it. “And the third possibility?”

“You won’t like it,” he warned.

“You said that already.”

Tarrant stood. Taking care not to step on any of the maps, he walked to the window. Damien saw his eyes narrow as he Worked the fae, probably in some form of Obscuring. That precaution concluded, he pulled the heavy curtain aside. The city that was spread out before them was well-lit even at midnight.

“The roots of it are here,” he whispered.

“The roots of what?”

“Our enemy’s power. Can’t you see it?” He nodded toward the city lights. “It’s here. All around us.”

It took him a moment to find his voice. “You’re crazy.”

“I said you wouldn’t want to hear it.”

“These people have a more sane society than any I’ve seen on Erna. They live without fear, without despair. Their life is full of wonder, and their faith is—”

“Is that all you’ve seen? Faith and prayer, safety and order? I’m disappointed, Reverend Vryce. I thought you’d be a little more discerning than that.” His hand on the curtain tightened as he gazed out into the night. “There’s something wrong here. Something so terribly wrong I can’t even put a name to it. But the symptoms are right there in front of you, there for the seeing . . . unless you don’t want to. Unless you prefer dreams to reality.” The Hunter turned back to him; the silver gaze was piercing. “Do you?”

It took effort to keep his voice from resonating with the anger he felt. “Just because your eyes are more attuned to corruption than mine doesn’t mean this land is polluted. Maybe it’s you who sees what you want to see . . . Hunter.”

If Damien had expected Tarrant to respond with anger—or with any human emotion—he was wrong. The slender fingers released the curtain, which fell back into place. The pale gray eyes fixed on him, their depths cool and confident. “Ah. So very confident. You must know a lot about this land, to be so quick to defend it. So tell me, Reverend—if you can—what happened to the last three expeditions that were sent here?”

He tried to remember Toshida’s exact words, but for some reason they eluded him. “They never arrived.”

“So. You have bought their propaganda.” He glanced at the rakh-woman. “Hesseth?”

“Two of them made it,” she said quietly.

“They were slaughtered,” the Hunter informed him. “Man, woman, and child. The first time only the pagans were killed, and the Church’s faithful were allowed to settle here. But that led to problems—social, political—so the next time a ship made it through they killed everyone on board. In the words of an old Earth philosopher, ‘God will know His own.’”

“It’s in the library,” Hesseth told Damien. “They set fire to it while it was still at sea. Any who jumped ship were killed in the water, before they could swim to land.”

“As they would have done to us,” Tarrant assured him. “That’s what Toshida’s ship was prepared to do—what it was sent out to do—and if you’re alive today it’s only because you had enough foresight to coach the crew in its lies long before we got here.”

Damien said nothing. His hands clenched silently, then unclenched. Again.

“Shall I guess what you’re thinking, Reverend Vryce? That all happened four hundred years ago. These people are different now. Maybe so. So let’s consider something else.” He walked to where Damien was and crouched down opposite him again; only the map was between them. “Fact: there’s an Order called the Sanctified. You know what they do. But do you know how they purify themselves for doing it? With a Vow of chastity, Reverend. For three years, for five years, or for life. Now, another man might applaud that—purity of the body equals purity of the soul—but you’ve read my writings. You know how destructive it is to build into any religion an assumption that natural, healthful urges are unclean. For every Sanctified man in this region there are at least ten who wallow in guilt each time they have an unplanned erection. Is that the kind of emotion you want the fae responding to? Not to mention the repressed energies of the Sanctified themselves.”

“So they made a mistake,” he growled.

“Did they? I wonder. The people who came here from the west had no such tradition. So where did it come from? When did it start?” He leaned forward. “And the Matria. Haven’t you wondered about that? Doesn’t it strike you as odd that only women can head the Church here?”

“Why should it?” Hesseth demanded. “Division of labor according to gender is part of your human heritage. What makes this so significant?”

“First, because the colonists who were chosen to come to this world had no such tradition. Each colony had its own socio-psychological profile, and that was part of ours. Second, because there are real biological differences between men and women, and those should serve as a template for any division of labor which develops. It did in my own time, when we resurrected the so-called “traditional” roles as part of the Revivalist experiment. Men competed for the reins of power and women adopted roles of protection and nurturing. That arrangement worked because it was compatible with our biological heritage; this one isn’t.”

“Toshida said they were seers,” Damien told him. “Oracles.”

He shook his head, dismissing the thought. “Neither clairvoyance nor prophecy is strictly a female venue. No, I see no natural cause for this system. And that makes me question its source.”

He gazed down at the map as if remembering; his pale eyes flickered from city to city, all along the eastern coast.

“And then there are the wards,” he said softly. “Religious symbols marked on every pillar and gate, surrounding every city. Emblems placed on buoys throughout the harbor, so that even the closer ships are protected. They outline a sphere of protection so powerful, so perpetually reinforced by religious fervor, that not even a high-order demon can get by them. I know. I watched several try. No horror that this world has spawned can get into the northern cities, not by any means.” He turned back to Damien. His pale eyes were blazing. “And yet I can. For me there’s no resistance, none at all. As if the wards didn’t even acknowledge my existence.” He shook his head tensely. “In Jaggonath no ward could stop me, but that didn’t mean I didn’t feel them. Sometimes with the good ones I actually had to unWork them partway to get past. But not here. Never here.”

“Are you sure?” Damien asked.

The Hunter nodded. “My nature is demonic, Reverend. Plain and simple. And if I didn’t struggle every waking moment to maintain my human identity, I would become a demon in fact as well as essence. Yet the power which guards this land doesn’t even recognize me as a threat, or make any attempt to keep me out. If so, what else doesn’t it recognize?” he demanded. “And who engineered such a weakness?”

“And why,” Damien muttered.

Tarrant nodded.

“Good God.” He reached up and rubbed his forehead. It was too much to absorb; his head was pounding. “Is that all?”

“Isn’t it enough?” the Hunter asked softly.

Damien looked up at him. “Is it all?”

Slowly Tarrant shook his head. “No. There was a child outside Penitencia, chained to a rock as an offering to the monsters of the night. There are children raised in every city for that very purpose: to serve as bait for the faeborn, so that men can destroy whatever comes to feed on their fear. They die very young. Or suffer a fate far worse than death. This one recognized what I was, and what I wanted . . . and welcomed me.”

Damien was silent. He could feel his own hands trembling—with the force of frustration, of rage. Of betrayal. The dream had seemed so perfect . . . What had fouled it? Or who?

“Listen to me,” the Hunter said sharply. “I don’t know how all these facts connect, but they do. There’s no question of that. And whoever or whatever caused it isn’t going to be out in the open, that’s certain.”

He forced his eyes to look at the map. “South, you think?”

Tarrant looked at Hesseth, who nodded. “Best bet.”

He drew in a deep breath, tried to still the shaking of his hands. A young girl chained to a rock, bait for demons . . .” We need more information. First.”

“Listen to me.” Tarrant’s words were reinforced with earth-fae, and they adhered themselves to Damien’s brain like fire. “Don’t talk to anyone. Anyone! Do you understand? Our enemy is subtle, and his strategy spans centuries. Even men and women who mean well may serve his purpose without knowing it. Isn’t that what we’re seeing here? Good intentions twisted to an evil purpose?” He stood; dark silk rippled about his calves. “I let my guard down once in the rakhlands—for less than a second—and endured eight days of burning hell as a result. Our enemy is subtle, Vryce, and that’s what makes him so dangerous. If he weren’t, don’t you think these people would have fought him? Or at least acknowledged his influence?”

“He must know we’re here,” the priest muttered. The vision of the chained child was still before his eyes. “If his influence is as far-reaching as you say—”

“All the more reason to move quickly,” he agreed. “Since we don’t know how far his power extends, or how many people are under his control. Best to move now.”

He walked to the door, carefully avoiding the maps that surrounded it. Before he left, he turned to look at Damien—and something in the priest’s expression must have displeased him, because the pale eyes narrowed.

“I killed eight times in the cities,” he said. Nostrils flaring as he spoke, as if he were recalling the scents of the kill. “Eight women. And each time the wards let me pass by with not even a murmur. You remember that, if you start to have doubts. If Mercia starts to look good again. You ask yourself what kind of power would welcome the Hunter into its stockyards.”

And then he was gone, quickly and silently. Not pausing to work an Obscuring to hide himself, but wrapping the fae about him for that purpose even as the door closed behind him. Damien felt the sudden urge to throw something after him, but the only things at hand were fixtures of the apartment: not his, and far too valuable. At last he saw a shoe peeking out from underneath a couch, that he had kicked off the day before. He grabbed it up and launched it at the door. Hard. It hit with a resounding thwack and slid to the floor, dispelling a small part of his rage. Only a small part.

“Was that because he killed the women?” Hesseth asked. “Or because he told you about it?”

“Neither.”

He sat on the edge of a couch and rubbed his temples; beneath his fingertips he could feel his blood pounding. “Because he’s right,” he whispered hoarsely. “God damn him. He’s right about all of it.”

11

It was midnight. True midnight, when the forces of dawn and dusk were perfectly balanced.

There was a cold front moving out and a warm front moving in; the turbulent line between the two was just crossing the Five Cities district.

Domina was overhead, Casca low in the east, Prima below the western horizon. In accordance with the complex mathematical dynamics of their positioning—which took into account their mass, gravity, and position relative to the planet—they were just coming into perfect geometric alignment.

The upper current in the Straits of Preservation had been flowing east all night. Now it was still, preparing to flow to the west.

Water condensed in the clouds overhead, transforming from vapor to liquid.

Unseen, unfelt, the Diangelo Fault moved slightly.

The wind began to shift.

And power shot out across the land, a power born not of moonlight or earthquakes or the motion of the sea, but of the combination of all those things and a thousand, a million more. A power which was as much a part of Erna as her tides, her seasons, her rhythms of day and night. A power which lanced out in gleaming strands across the length and breadth of the continent, shimmering rainbow threads connecting city with city—cathedral with cathedral—Matria with Matria.

In the far north, where the Teachers waited, one mind reached out to touch the fragile strands. The rainbow web shivered as its message was read, analyzed, considered.

Tides shifted. Power surged across the continent in waves, like bands of spectral light.

The mind reached out again. Its message, a consensus, was placed in the flickering web.

And then the moment passed. The moons moved out of alignment. The wind held steady. Dawn gained in dominance over dusk, and rain began to fall. The upper current in the Straits of Preservation flowed west, as it would until morning.

The power dispersed as quickly as it had appeared, so that no sign of it remained. Whatever message it had carried was likewise dispersed into the night, swallowed by the shadows of oblivion. But not before it had reached its destination. Not before its meaning had been deciphered.

“I understand,” Mercia’s Matria whispered. “Yes. I understand exactly.”

And she promised, “First thing in the morning, I’ll take care of them.”

12

He couldn’t bring himself to tell Captain Rozca the truth. Couldn’t bring himself to take that newborn faith, so very precious, so utterly fragile, and make it bear the weight of his foreboding. And why should he? The captain had made his covenant with an ideal, with a God, not with any one city or socio-political schema. Let him dream on a little longer in his innocence, Damien decided. Let him taste as much of the sweetness as he could, before the bitter undercurrents of this paradoxical land rose to the surface and fouled his perspective.

He did tell him other things. All of it. He couldn’t expect the man to take a risk for him without knowing what the stakes were; he couldn’t expect him to be convincing in his assigned role without being thoroughly grounded in the details of Damien’s quest. Rozca took it all calmly enough, asking questions only when a turn of phrase was unclear to him; otherwise he absorbed the tale of rakh and demons, torture and vengeance, much as he might any seafaring story told over tankards of ale in a cliffside tavern. He’d heard crazier tales before, he told Damien, though never before had he been thrust into the middle of one. He seemed to handle it well enough. Maybe a man who had devoted his life to dodging smashers and cruising volcanic rifts had partaken enough of life’s risks to put this one, however deadly, in its context.

It was all very reassuring for Damien. And when he asked the captain what he had come to ask—the reason he had been up at the break of dawn to make his way down to the harbor, and out to the Glory—the captain simply nodded and said it would be no problem. Or it would be a problem, sure enough, but he figured he could handle it. And he grinned, in a manner that left no doubt that Lio Rozca was up to any challenge this foreign shore could throw at him.

I hope so, Damien thought grimly. Praying that the man’s courage wouldn’t have to be tested too soon.

A tug had brought the priest out to the ship; a rowboat of the Glory, manned by a yawning crewman, took him back. At this hour there was business aplenty in the harbor—the minor tide would be turning in an hour, with Domina’s tide soon to follow—but the crowd of tourists and newsmongers who so often clogged the port was blissfully absent. Everyone working in dawn’s early light had his or her own business to take care of, which meant that as Damien wended his way through the crowds along the shore he could be fairly certain of remaining unobserved. Which was good. Reassuring. And he needed all the reassurance he could get right now.

The scene with Tarrant the night before had shaken him badly. He had hardly slept at all, and what little sleep he had managed to snatch in bits and pieces was riddled with fragments of nightmares, all too familiar in their tenor. It wasn’t what Tarrant had said, or even the way he had said it. It was Damien’s sudden acknowledgment of how careless he had been. How trusting. It was the sudden revelation of how greatly he had put them all at risk by focusing on his religious rapture rather than on the mission at hand. Not that he would have traded those precious moments for anything in the world, he thought. They were part of who he was now, a core of faith for him to draw on. But he should have kept his eyes open. He should have been asking questions. He should have done . . . oh, so many things.

No regretting it now. He could only hope that it wasn’t too late. Five days had passed since their quarantine had been lifted, Which was a very short time in the scheme of things. Or long enough to mobilize an army, if soldiers had been ready and waiting . . .

He had done the best he could, given his sleepless state. When the first light of dawn showed over the mountains, he had gone down to the harbor to find Rozca. Now that part of his plan was taken care of, and he felt marginally safer. Later he would talk to Mels and Tyria Lester and see if they would agree to help him—a far less risky role than the one the captain would be playing, but equally important—and then, if all went well, Damien and his companions would be covered. They could leave Mercia on a moment’s notice without anyone being the wiser, and any pursuit which sought them out would inevitably be delayed.

Paranoia in action, he thought. The only reasonable course.

Tarrant would have been proud of him.

It was still early morning when he made his way back to the Regent’s Manor. He eschewed the more obvious route for one that circled around to the west, through the farmer’s market. Wagons full of fish and game and freshly plucked poultry had been there since first light, and already the restauranteurs and specialty buyers of Mercia’s better districts were picking their way through the heaps of slaughtered flesh, squeezing and sniffing and doing God knows what else to ascertain the value of their wares. The air was thick with the smell of brine and a sweet undercurrent of blood, and for a moment Damien found himself back in the rakhene mountains, a cup of Ciani’s blood in his hand. Knee-deep in ice and snow, feeding blood to the Hunter. He shook his head, banishing the memory with effort. He would have been dead if not for Tarrant, several times over. And vice versa. It was a good thing to remember as they prepared to plunge into this unknown land, with nothing but faith and a tenuous alliance to sustain them.

The market road took him around the back way, so that he approached the Manor from behind. Perhaps if he had come around the front he would simply have entered the great hall, so lost in his musings that he would fail to notice subtle differences around him. Perhaps. But something about the rear walk prodded his attention toward the building and its guards, and what he saw made him stop for a moment, uncertain.

Something was different.

He stepped into the shadow of a tree, wondering why he couldn’t put a finger on. what it was that bothered him. Paranoia in action he chided himself, but the feeling of wrongness refused to go away. It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you. He studied the grounds, the building itself, the guards who were stationed by the gate-

The guards.

He felt his heart skip a beat. The guards, their uniforms . . . he tried to remember what they had been wearing when he left the Manor. Red fitted tunic, sword just so, insignia of rank . . .

Insignia of rank.

He couldn’t remember exactly what it was before. He had never looked that closely. But this was surely different: more ornate, more elaborate. As if the guards who now watched the Manor’s gate were from the same source as the others, but of a considerably higher rank.

The others had been the Regent’s private guard. There was only one rank any higher than that. And only one reason he could think of, short of revolution, why the Matria’s elite soldiers would now be guarding this building.

Shit.

He stepped back onto the pathway, careful not to move too quickly. Careful to let his own pace match that of the people around him, brisk but unhurried. He let the currents of humanity carry him away from the building, until the gleaming white walls were out of sight. Only then did he dare to stop. Only then did he try to think.

Everything he had seen and heard in this place indicated that Toshida and his Matria were in perfect accord, personally and politically. Whatever private bitterness the man might harbor about the limits of his rank, Damien gathered it had never been expressed openly. Indeed, the man had all but sworn him to silence on the matter. So why would the Matria send in her own guards to take the place of his? What service would she require that the Regent could not—or would not—fulfill?

The more he thought about that the less he liked his conclusions. He remembered Tarrant’s accusations, some of them aimed at this Matriarchy. Was it possible that Mercia’s leader was somehow allied with their enemy? Certainly Tarrant had believed that to be possible. If so, and if her guards had come at the break of dawn to surround the Regent’s Manor . . .

Where was Hesseth? he wondered suddenly. Panic flaring suddenly in his gut, at the thought that she might have been taken prisoner. Damn it, how could he find out?

He took a deep breath, and tried to think clearly. Weighing his options. At last he turned about and began to walk again, this time toward the east.

There was no true wilderness available to him, not within the city walls. And there was no other privacy he could have, unless he dared to rent a room in some hotel or hostel. But that meant having to show his identification, which entailed its own special risk. He decided against it. There were several parks in the city, replete with trees and myriad garden paths, and if he headed toward the largest one he stood a good chance of finding some green little nook that would shield him from prying eyes.

He was in luck. The park was nearly deserted, with but a few hardy joggers and one nursemaid with a gaggle of children to avoid. He chose a lesser path whose loose, rocky surface would be inhospitable to sportsmen and followed it until all other roads were lost from sight, whereupon he was fairly certain that no one would disturb him.

Carefully he lowered himself to his knees, and tried to make himself relax. A short prayer served to focus his consciousness, and a simple Working to summon his Sight. Now he could see the earth-fae as it flowed about him, a power as of yet untamed by any human will. It was flowing west, which was hardly ideal; he would have to work against the current to get any information from the Manor. But he had done that kind of thing before, under far worse conditions than this. He let the words of a Knowing shape themselves upon his lips, traced its unlocking patterns with his mind’s inner eye, and saw the fae begin to gather in response. Forming a picture that only he could see, sounds and sights and meanings placed within his mind by the rich power of the earth.

Hesseth, he prompted it. Where?

He saw her awakened at dawn by the sound of movement within the Manor. Saw the almost animal alertness with which she moved, clawed hands grabbing up a few valuable items and wrapping them in a blanket, which she then belted to her person. There were voices in the corridor now, very close, very wrong. He could feel her tension building, could smell her fear as she grabbed up a pile of folded maps and tucked those into her belt as well. Balancing need against risk as the voices drew ever closer. Mere whispers, really. Damien wondered if a human ear could have heard them. Perhaps they considered themselves safe from discovery, not knowing of his sorcery or her rakhene senses. Too late now. She pushed upon the piercedwork window and with feline agility leapt up to the sill; even as her door was thrust open, she dropped down beneath the window, strong claws digging deep into the thick wood frame.

Voices in her room, speaking in foreign accents. He heard her breathing softly, was aware of her scanning the side of the building for danger. Nothing yet. With care she lowered herself, sharp claws biting into whatever wooden fixtures were within reach. Once she had to tuck herself behind a column as a guard passed by beneath, but no one thought to look up at the building itself. Damien watched as she gained the ground, scaled a broad tree by the gate, navigated branches that no human could have traversed to make her way across the iron fence, and from there, via trees, gained the ground once more . . .

He felt something unknot inside him, to know that she had gotten away from them safely. If the forces of the Matria were indeed being mobilized against them, then they were in serious trouble. Thank God Tarrant had upset him the night before, so that he’d been unable to sleep. Thank God he’d been gone before first light, so that the soldiers had missed him.

He took a minute to breathe deeply, willing his panic to subside. It was all right now. The Matria didn’t know about his sorcery or Hesseth’s skills, which gave them an initial advantage. By the time she learned to compensate, Rozca would make his move, and that should distract them for just long enough . . . he felt the pieces of his plan coming together like fragments of a jigsaw puzzle, forced their shapes into alignment. First he had to find Hesseth. Then he had to finish what he had started. Then, when all his preparations were complete, when he had compensated at least in part for his carelessness in the five days preceding . . .

It was time to get the hell out of here.

Toshida didn’t like being roused at daybreak by the Matria’s guard. He didn’t like finding out that his own men had been dismissed, to make way for hers. Even less did he like being summoned to her presence within minutes of awakening, so that the time he might have spent composing himself and preparing for an audience was instead spent trekking to her chambers in the presence of four of her guards.

At least she didn’t keep him waiting. Thank heaven for small favors, he thought, as one of her attendants ushered him into her audience chamber. He tried to compose himself so that his anger wasn’t visible; years of practice in that art permitted him perfect control over his countenance, so that only the emotions he wished to communicate were mirrored in his expression. Not rage. Not rank indignation. Not all the things he truly felt.

“Your Holiness,” he greeted her. Bowing ever so slightly. Kissing her hand with less than perfect enthusiasm. Let her see in this small way that she had insulted him. Let her see that this time she had gone too far.

If she noticed the subtle signs of his displeasure, she made no sign of it. “You have two guests in your Manor,” she told him. “The priest from the western ship, and his Sanctified.” She spoke the word in a manner which made it clear she did not consider the title justified. “I want them.”

“They’re guests of the city,” he said evenly. And then added, ever so quietly, “My guests.”

She dismissed his words with a wave of her hand. “They pose a danger to us, my lord Regent, and therefore they must be taken into custody. I’m sure you can understand the necessity of that.”

He kept his voice calm, his face carefully neutral. It wasn’t easy. “What I understand is that you’ve already gone after them, your Holiness. Your guards have taken over my home and office; are you telling me you need my permission before going any further? A curious time to be drawing that distinction.”

“We did what was necessary,” she said curtly. “No insult was intended. We had to move quickly so as not to alarm them.”

“In which I assume you succeeded?”

Uncharacteristically, she hesitated. “No,” she said at last. “Both of them were out when my people arrived. I was hoping you knew where they might be.”

“They’re free to come and go as they please,” he reminded her. “Or were, until this morning. Nor did they usually inform me of their plans.” They were guests, not prisoners. He felt anger surfacing; he did his best to fight it back. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

For a long moment she stared at him. He expected to feel the dizziness he associated with her power, but for once he was spared that ordeal. “All right,” she said at last. “Their possessions are still in the Manor, which means they’ll most likely come back there. I want them apprehended. You ken? Your guards or mine, as long as they’re taken.”

“On what legal pretext?” he asked calmly.

Her eyes narrowed to amber slits. “A vision from God, Andir. A revelation. These people are evil, and they mean us great harm. They must be arrested immediately, so that the Matrias can deal with them. Pick whatever law you want to support your action, as long as you take them. Soon. That is the Will of the Lord. I—”

She was interrupted by a gentle rapping on the door. “Yes? What is it?”

The attendant entered the room. “Begging your Holiness’ pardon, this message just carrie.” He stepped forward and handed a folded square of paper to her, then bowed deeply as he exited. She took it and unfolded it quickly; Toshida made out the scrawl of hurried writing on its face.

Her expression of anger was more a hiss than a curse. “Two sailors from the Golden Glory came to the Manor to collect the priest’s and the woman’s possessions. They claimed to know nothing of their whereabouts, were merely responding to instructions given some time ago. The guards, having no orders to the contrary, let them proceed.” She looked up at Toshida. “If they’re on that ship, I want them. If they’re not on it yet, then take them when they get there. Ken verda?”

He bowed ever so slightly. A minimal gesture. “As you command, your Holiness.”

“I know this is an unusual order, Andir. But these are unusual circumstances. We took a chance letting the foreigners land here, and perhaps we moved too quickly.” Perhaps you moved too quickly, was the unspoken criticism. It was your decision to let them live. “Just get those two into custody, whatever it takes. We can work out the legalities of it later, when they’re no longer capable of harming us. Free, they threaten . . . everything.”

“Yes, Matria.” His tone was humble, but inside his thoughts were seething. A Sanctified woman and a priest. What harm could they possibly do? Unless you fear the knowledge they bring with them, of places where leadership is based on deeds, not visions. Is that it? Is it not them that you fear, but what they may do to your people? What they may awaken in me?

“As you command,” he told her. Because there was nothing else to say, no other way to proceed. For now, his duty was to serve her will. Even when he didn’t fully understand it. Even when he might not agree.

For now.

The captain of the Golden Glory was annotating his log when the crewman came to him.

“He’s here,” the man said simply.

He closed the leather-bound book and locked it. “Toshida?”

The sailor nodded.

With a sigh he rose up, muttering a prayer to his new-found God. Not that this one was likely to help him; wasn’t that the whole point? He noted with some curiosity, as he left the wheelhouse, that it didn’t really bother him. In fact, it was oddly reassuring to think that his fate was totally—and permanently—in his control.

Toshida was waiting by the boarding ladder, just as Damien had said he would be. Whatever guards or aides de camp he might have brought with him were still down in the boat, out of sight and hearing. That was good. Men who had to save face in front of their inferiors were a lot more dangerous.

Rozca made sure that none of his own people were nearby, then greeted the Lord Regent. “Your Eminence. This is an honor. What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for two people. I believe they may be on board.”

“Two of my passengers? Or crew?”

“A priest named Damien Vryce. And a Sanctified woman who accompanies him. Have you seen them?”

Then again, Rozca thought, sometimes it’s nice to have a god help out. Just to smooth things over a bit.

A man could get himself killed on his own.

“No,” he said at last. Committing himself. Knowing what the result would be. “No, I haven’t.”

“But you sent for their things. Verda?”

He shrugged. “His Reverence asked me to. Said they might want to travel. I didn’t ask for details.”

“So you’re expecting them.”

He shrugged again.

He could feel the anger rising from the man, like heat off a sun-baked sidewalk. “Yes or no; Captain Rozca.”

“Lord Regent. With all due respect, Father Vryce and his friends are free to come and go as they please. Without reporting to you, me, or anyone else. Isn’t that the case?”

“Yes or no, Captain Rozca.”

He met the man’s gaze head-on, coarse bravado versus polished stubbornness. A lifetime at sea and in coastal barrooms had taught him how to stare a man into the dirt, and he applied that skill now with relish.

“Sorry,” he said curtly. “Can’t help you.”

“You’re making a serious mistake,” Toshida warned.

“Maybe,” Rozca agreed, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “But it’s my right to make it.”

“I could search the ship, verda? I’d get my answer then.”

Rozca spat on the deck; not because he felt the need to, but because it seemed an appropriate gesture. “Yeah. You go ahead and do that. But before you start, make sure I get a copy of your Writ of Search and Seizure—that is the right document, isn’t it?—because now that we have visas proper we’re subject to all your laws, aren’t we? Including protection of privacy. At least that’s how I understand it.” He paused. “And if I remember your constitution aright, not even the Lord Regent of the Five Cities is above the law of the land. Verda?”

The narrowed eyes fixed on him, dark with fury. It might have driven back a lesser man, but Rozca stood his ground. Praying, as he did so, that Damien had guessed right about their legal system. If not . . . well, then they were all in really deep shit now. Starting with him.

At last the Regent snapped, “I’ll be back.” And without further word he lowered himself down over the side, and onto the boarding ladder.

Rozca felt himself breathe a sigh of relief as he watched the man descend to his waiting boat. Not that it was over yet, but at least the worst part was done with. The part he had dreaded the most.

When the small boat was safely in the distance, he turned to look for his pilot and first mate, only to discover that they were already beside him. Waiting.

He turned to Tor first. “Crew on board?”

The first mate nodded.

“Supplies?”

“Believe so. Enough for a month at least, what with no passengers on board. I’ll check.”

“Do that.” He turned to Rasya. “You find out the range?”

“Mercia claims ten miles,” she responded. “After that it’s free water.”

“Then I want us eleven miles out, as fast as we can get there. Faster than that man can dig up a writ and get back to us. You understand?” She nodded. “You know what’s riding on it.” Again she nodded.

“All right, then. We’ll sail the kind of route we would if we had two people on board who needed to go south, very quickly and very quietly. Understood?” Rasya nodded. The first mate muttered, “Aye, sir.”

He gestured a dismissal and the two went off to work. The thought of setting out to sea again was not unwelcome to any of them; he only wished the decision had been made under better circumstances.

With a sigh he turned back toward the shore and leaned against the ship’s rail. “All right, Vryce,” he muttered. “There it is. What you wanted.” He sighed again, deeply. “I just hope you know what the vulk you’re doing.”

Mels Lester wasn’t a particularly brave man. If asked to describe himself, he probably would have come up with a list of adjectives that included nervous, hesitant, and even downright cowardly. But when a friend asked you to do something and said that it was a matter of life or death—and when your sister said she’d lock up the liquor cabinet and smash any bottle you brought into the house if you didn’t help him out—well, then, you just did it. And tried really hard not to think about the consequences.

Thus it was that he found himself at the city gate along with Tyria and eight horses, showing his papers to the guard there and praying that no one would look too closely at what they were carrying or how they were carrying it. Not that a local would know the difference. Mercia’s pack animals were too small for riding, so how would they know that the heavy leather saddles strapped to one of the horses didn’t have to be resting on four woolen blankets? And maybe they wouldn’t notice that the windbreaker Mels was wearing was over a considerably heavier jacket, and that over a thick woolen sweater. (All assuming the sweat rolling down his face didn’t give him away). As for Tyria, she had a pack slung across her back that was big enough to be carrying not only the gear they needed, but a month’s worth of camping supplies as well. Add to that a staff here, a hunting knife there, and it was nothing short of a miracle that the guards didn’t stop them. But Father Vryce had said they wouldn’t, and after all he was a priest . . . so maybe it was a miracle after all.

“You see?” Tyria whispered as they led the horses through the gate. “That was all right.”

So far, he thought unhappily. At least the Regent hadn’t come. He had sent Toshida a note to come join them, inviting him to see the horses put through their paces. He had been sure the Regent would be here, despite Damien’s assurance that the man would have “other things to do.” And while Damien could possibly have kept up a pretense in the face of such a man, Mels would surely have folded. So thank God the Regent had been busy.

They set up a temporary camp just out of sight of the city gate, far enough from the main road that few travelers would notice them. There he was able to disrobe at last, piling his excess garments alongside Tyria’s collection of smuggled bits and their own equestrian equipment. They took turns then, one of them walking several horses while the other stood guard over the supplies. The animals were still stiff from their travels, and it took a long while for the natural grace of their gait to return to them; Mels judged it would be some time before they were ready for a more demanding workout. Still, it was good to see them out here, and he took comfort in the healthy sheen of their coats, their obvious pleasure in being outdoors at last. Soon enough their strength would come back to them, and the thought of what a man like the Regent would pay once he saw the animals galloping full out was enough to make his head spin.

He had taken his second turn out in the fields when Tyria said to him, “Come on. It’s time.” And she nodded toward the west, where the sun was rapidly setting.

They bundled the clothing and extra provisions on three of the horses: a sleek black creature with crescent-shaped hooves whom Mels coveted desperately (but Gerald Tarrant had refused to sell), a dun-colored mare whose mane extended down exotically about her shoulders, and a powerful dappled gelding with massive triple hooves and a thick, coarse coat.

Between the city and the terraced farms there was a narrow road, and they followed this southward until they came to a place where trees obscured their view of the city. There they rested, and permitted the horses to take water from the narrow stream paralleling their path.

“Maybe they won’t come,” Mels worried.

“Shhh.”

The light surrounding them began to fade, shadows lengthening about the trees. Soon the creatures of the night would come out. Soon the gates of the city would be locked. Hell, where were they?

And then there was a rustling behind them and Hesseth stepped out. Not Hesseth as they had seen her in Mercia, all hidden behind long robes and mock-human mannerisms, but Hesseth as she had traveled in the west: tightly clad in layers that fit her like a second skin, colored like the earth that surrounded her. Her eyes were black, wide open to the coming night; her ears, tip-tufted, pricked forward as she saw the horses.

“I’ll take them,” she said, and she gathered up the reins of the three laden mounts.

“We brought what we could,” Tyria told her. “Damien said not to go near your own stuff, or ask anyone else about supplies, so we had to guess a lot . . .”

“You brought the horses, which was the most important thing. We couldn’t have gotten near them without being seen.”

“Why’d you have to sneak out?” Mels demanded. “What happened?”

The rakh-woman looked at him, then shook her head. “The less you know, the better off you’ll be.”

“Damien said that,” Tyria agreed.

“Where is he?” Mels asked.

“Checking out the currents,” she said smoothly. “He’ll be here soon.” A merciful lie. She didn’t want to tell them how badly shaken Damien was by the events of that day. Oh, he had held himself together long enough to Locate Hesseth, and had mastered enough fae to keep the two of them Obscured while they climbed the city’s circumference wall. But afterward? It was like a dark cloud had descended on him. Mourning for the corruption of his faith, perhaps. Or guilt over having waited so long to prepare for flight. Maybe both at once, she thought; humans were like that.

She glanced back over her shoulder, toward the distant city gate. “They’ll have changed the guard by now. No one should notice that you’re coming back with fewer horses than you left with, or minus some supplies.” She paused. “We can’t thank you enough.”

“We stand to make a fortune here,” Tyria said frankly. “That’s Damien’s doing. Tell him thanks from us.”

“And good luck,” Mels added. “Wherever you’re going.”

If that was a hint for more information, it went unnoticed. “Thanks,” Hesseth said simply. Offering nothing more. It was safer for all of them that way.

As Mels and Tyria led their horses back toward the city gate, Hesseth went over the situation in her own mind. The city’s research facilities were lost to them now. Any day the Matria might see through their little deceit and launch a pursuit in earnest, which could involve other cities and even the southern Protectorates. They had some supplies—thanks to Mels and Tyria—but most of the bits and pieces that Damien had packed for traveling were somewhere between the Manor and the Golden Glory. The priest was in a dour mood. Tarrant was clearly on edge about something. And it was a good bet that their enemy knew they were here.

“Good luck?” she whispered, with a bitter laugh. “Assst! We’re going to need it.”

13

Jenseny ran. South at first, because she figured they wouldn’t be as quick to search for her there. North were the farms, the flatlands, all gentle terrain and shallow rivers, a far more welcoming land than that which she had chosen. She imagined they would be searching for her there, expecting that a child, like water, would naturally flow toward the point of least resistance. South were the mountains, harshly forested, a tangle of cliffs and trees covered over in places with matted vines that clung to the canopy and blanketed the landscape in half-lit gloom. But there were few faeborn creatures in the great woods—most preferred to hang about the northern cities in the hopes of catching unwary travelers, or of breaching the warded walls through sheer force of numbers—and she was more than a little afraid of the sunlight anyway, so the southern woods were good enough for her. Good enough for now.

There were other Protectorates to the south, she knew, strung out like beacon lamps at intervals along the rocky shore. At first she thought she might find sanctuary in one of them, but the concept of dealing with strangers—any strangers—chilled her to the core. In her newborn terror it seemed that such men were not individuals, but mere fragments of a greater whole which had cast her out, condemned her, and now sentenced her father to die a gruesome death for having dared to shelter her. They were Other, and she was . . .

Alone.

So alone.

She dreamt of her father. Some nights the dreams were good, bits of their life together replayed in all its loving intensity. But waking up from those dreams was a little bit like dying, because it meant rediscovering that he wasn’t there, he wasn’t going to be there, not now and not ever again. More often the dreams themselves were bad. Some were nightmares proper, gruesome replays of her confrontation, distorted imaginings of what his death must have been like. Then there were others, even more frightening—dreams in which her father was his normal self but she was not, dreams in which she screamed at him, screamed at him for leaving her and for not being there for her and for daring to die when she needed him so badly, oh so very badly . . . Those were the dreams that upset her the most, and she lay afterward on the damp loam shivering with guilt and shame, feeling like she had somehow betrayed his love without quite knowing how.

Sometimes the creatures of the night would come after her. She was usually aware of their approach long before she could actually see them, though she couldn’t have said how she managed that. Maybe it was the Light. It didn’t make the truth visible exactly, not like it had with her father’s killer, but sometimes when the air lit up really brightly with its colors she would get a crawling sensation up along her spine, and then she knew that something was coming. Then she would run and run and pray (to the gods of this world, which her father said was a safe prayer) that it would go find some other prey, forget about her, not notice if she stopped to hide . . . and as often as not it did. Maybe the Light did that, too. It had never been more than a diversion to her, something that made the voices around her seem stronger and all the colors brighter, but maybe here in the Outside it was a more active force.

She should have asked her father about that while she had the chance.

She should have asked him so many things . . .

She slept during the day because she knew that was the safest time to let her guard down, and tried to find a cave or a crevice or some other sheltered space to do it in. Once she had tried making a lean-to out of her blanket and some fallen branches—her father had taught her how—but the noise from the sunlight was so terrible that she couldn’t sleep, not even with her head wrapped up tightly in her jacket. Why hadn’t he warned her about that? He had tried so hard to make her ready in case she had to go Outside someday, why hadn’t he ever told her that the sun came into the sky at dawn with a crash like a thousand cymbals being slammed together all at once, that the slender beams which poked down through the canopy at noontime struck the ground with such explosive force that when she lay on the ground she could feel it shake beneath her? Was it possible that he’d never heard these things himself? Like he’d never heard so many other things that were likewise a part of her world?

Oh, dad. She mourned for his limitations even as she mourned the loss of his life, mourned the barriers that had been between them even when they were closest. There was always so much he couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t feel . . .

But you loved me. You always loved me. So much . . .

Why couldn’t I have saved you?

Day passed slowly into night and back again, over and over, exhausting and endless hours filled with a bleak despair. Once when the Light was strongest (it had cracked across the valley like a bolt of cloud-to-cloud lightning, rainbow colors flashing in the clear night air) she had dared to ask the unaskable, namely if the creature that had killed her father was actively trying to find her. The way she figured it, maybe since the Light would help her see and hear so many other things it would help her with that, too. She held her breath, waiting. And suddenly it seemed to her that the woods were very still, very quiet, oh so empty . . . like nothing big was moving except for her. Then the Light was gone, and she was left wondering if she’d gotten her answer or not. Or whether it was just her own loneliness reflected back at her, like in some giant mirror that reflected not your face but the essence of your soul.

She needed her father. Or someone. Anyone. As long as it was someone she could trust. But who was that? Members of the Church would kill her on sight, and the creature who had murdered her father must have allies . . . With sudden horror she realized that if they could eat her father and take his place, they could probably do that with anyone—which meant that anybody might be one of theirs. Even her old nurse. Even the other Protectors. All eaten and replaced, with . . . them.

Shivering, she fell to the ground and wrapped her arms about her knees. Her pants were threadbare, ripped by thorns and rough bark and too many days of sleeping on the ground; her shirt was so muddied and dusted with clay that it nearly matched her skin. Suddenly the dirt and the scratches and the tiredness and the fear were all too much for her, and she lowered her head into her arms and sobbed helplessly, wishing it would just end somehow. Wishing her father hadn’t raised her to always keep on fighting, because you never knew (he used to tell her) how the future might be a better place, so long as you got there to see it. Only now she couldn’t imagine any better future, couldn’t envision anything but more of the same forever and ever, running and hiding and forcing herself to eat berries from the brush even though she could hear them screaming as she pulled them loose . . . and being alone. Utterly. Now, and forever.

Tears weren’t enough, but they were all she had. Think of them as prayers, her father had once told her. That was back when her mother died. Think of every tear which falls as a message to your mother, wherever she is, that you love her very, very much. Because people couldn’t cross into the land of the dead without being dead themselves, he explained, but prayers and love could make the crossing. She always thought of that when she cried, even when it was for some other reason. So that something in her tears was always good, no matter how upset she was.

There was nothing good now. Only a loneliness so terrible that it drained her of the last of her strength, a feeling of helplessness—and hopelessness—so absolute that she didn’t see how she was going to survive the next hour, much less make it through the next few days. Why did it matter, anyway? What future was there for her? Why had her father invested so much time and energy into seeing that she could take care of herself, when in fact the best she had to look forward to was a quasi-animal existence, homeless and companionless and living off berries until the snow came and there were no more of those, and then it would be freezing cold and there would be no food unless she hunted and no one at all to be with her, no one to help keep her going . . .

I want you, dad. She prayed it desperately in her heart. She whispered it into the night. I need you. Come back to me. Please.

There was no answer. No one came.

Given the nature of Erna, that was probably fortunate.

She was sleeping when the Light came, so it invaded her dreams. Rainbow filaments that dissolved her current fantasy and drew her high, high up, so that she was looking down onto the mountains like a bird might. There was her own body, sheltered under a granite overhang, jacket balled up over her ears to cut out the noise of day. There was the crevasse that had turned her aside from her chosen route, deep and ragged and filled with shadows. And there, in the distance-

She awoke. Suddenly. The vision was still with her, framed by shimmering filaments.

People.

People.

She should get up. She should greet them. No, she should hide. They could be enemies. They could be the enemy. They could be . . .

But they weren’t.

They were children.

The vision was fading now, along with the Light; she struggled to maintain it. Five, six, seven children—no, even more than that—she couldn’t see how old they were, the vision was fading too fast, damn damn damn! She sobbed in frustration as it faded out entirely, her hands shaking.

Children.

The enemy? No. That thing had killed her father because he was important; on some visceral level she understood that. It wouldn’t want mere children. They must be from some nearby city, or maybe a Protectorate . . .

Only there weren’t any of those near here. She knew that.

So who were they? Where were they from?

Shivering, she waited. Terrified of meeting them. Terrified that they might pass her by. The loneliness in her was screaming so loudly she was amazed they couldn’t hear it . . . or maybe they could. Maybe that was why they were coming for her.

Children. Like her. They wouldn’t hurt her, would they?

There was a sound above her, farther up the hillside. She dared to peek out from under her shelter. And then she stepped out, there in front of them, and let her jacket fall.

No shelter now. No safety. Only a terrible need, and the barest ray of hope inside her. More than she had felt in days.

There were twelve of them, arrayed along the hillside. The oldest few were armed with crude spears and leather-hilted knives, and some carried bows across their backs. The youngest only had knives. All were dressed in a motley assortment of garments, some clearly woven in the fashionable cities, some crudely cut from untanned skins by less experienced hands. Rought-cut fringes and tiny shell ornaments adorned every edge, and here and there some dye had been painted across a shirt or pants leg in coarse zigzag patterns. It took no trick of the Light to see that though many of them had come from well-off homes, they had been on their own for some time now.

The tallest among them—a pale boy with dark straggly hair—held out his hand toward her. An offer. A welcome.

She started forward toward them, trying to ignore the painful cymbal-crash of sunlight about her feet. The pale boy nodded encouragement. A few of the younger ones grinned openly. Though she couldn’t hear their words of welcome—the sunlight’s noise was too loud, their words were lost in the chaos of it—she saw in their expressions that they were glad to have found her. Almost as glad as she was to be found.

And she knew, then and there, that it was going to be all right. Everything was going to be all right.

She climbed up the hillside to join them.

The Light wasn’t strong again for nearly two days. So she couldn’t see what they really were, not until then. By then it was too late to run.