When True Night Falls

29

There it is. Damien thought. We made it.

The cities of the coast lay nestled in a crescent-shaped valley whose broad, curving mouth opened to the sea. To the east and west loomed the bald granite peaks of the continent’s two mountain ranges, which curved like pincers about the cities’ bounty and then extended far out into the water. There they became two diminishing lines of weatherworn ridges and jagged islands which stretched southward as far as the eye could see, providing the crescent shore with a vast harbor that was sheltered from storm and from foreign tsunami alike.

Clearly humankind had thrived here. Looking down upon the cities of the south—there were three that he could make out by moonlight, and probably more that would be visible in the light of day—Damien saw all the signs of successful settlement. Lush farmlands hugged the mountains, and a system of roads was visible that spanned the valley like a web. The fact that it was all at sea level, or very near to it, spoke volumes for the natural safety of this fertile niche; if the harbor waters had ever spawned any smashers of their own, man would have sought higher ground.

He stood on a ridge some two hundred feet above the valley floor and gazed at their destination. Some hundred yards to the east of them the waters of the valley—now a sizable river, formidable in current—plunged headlong over the rocky edge, roaring like a hurricane as they smashed themselves upon the rocks below. From there it was another drop, and then another, as the vast waterfall plummeted in stages to the floor of the harbor basin. Damien gazed down into the mist-filled lower valley and thought he saw figures milling about the foaming lake below. Fae-wraiths? Real people? Perhaps lovers, braving the dangers of the night in order to spur on their passion. Or perhaps even tourists, from the Protectorates or beyond; who could say what manner of commerce these thriving cities supported? One thing was certain: after weeks of traipsing through cold forests and over bare granite plateaus, Damien was overjoyed to see people again. Any people. He felt muscles unknot that had not been relaxed for weeks, and even though he knew that the dangers in those cities might be every bit as deadly as those without, he couldn’t help the sense of optimism that filled him at the sight of this thriving human metropolis.

Jenseny was something else again. She wouldn’t even come near the edge of the cliff, but stayed back by the horses, cowering close against their flesh. Humanity meant danger and betrayal to her—how quickly the young learned to fear!—and clearly she dreaded the coming descent. But at least she had stayed with them this long. That was something Damien hadn’t expected, and if he had failed to sketch out plans for her in the past few days it was mostly because he hadn’t really thought she’d still be with them. For a while it had seemed that she might bolt from them, animal-like, at the first sign of danger, disappearing into the brush like a frightened skerrel. Now she seemed somewhat more stable, if no less terrified. Somewhat more human.

How ironic, that the rakh-woman should prove the humanizing factor with her. He wondered if Hesseth had noticed the change. He wondered if she had caught the humor of it.

Love is a universal language, he reminded himself. Then he glanced back at the girl—still terrified, still cowering, but Hesseth had gone to comfort her—and thought, So is loneliness.

With a sigh he looked about for Tarrant. At last he spotted him some hundred yards away, standing by the edge of the river, gazing down upon the valley beneath. He made his way to where the tall man stood and offered him the telescope. But Tarrant shook his head, his pale eyes fixed on the panorama below. Studying the southern cities, with all the special senses available to him. Damien waited in silence. At last the Hunter nodded shortly and stepped back from the edge; fine mist sparkled in his hair like diamonds.

“Our enemy isn’t here,” he said quietly. Despite the roar of the compound waterfall beside him, his words carried easily to Damien’s ears. “Although his people have been to this shore, without question.”

“As invaders?” he asked. He had to shout to make himself heard. Not for the first time, he was jealous of Tarrant’s easy power. “Spies?”

The Hunter brushed back a lock of hair from his forehead; water dripped from it like a tear. “I’m not sure. The traces are complicated, and layered about each other like the rings of a tree; it’s hard to sort them out. But I would say from the fortifications here—” and he waved an eloquent hand out over the valley, “—or rather, from the lack of them, that whatever conflict now exists is diplomatic rather than martial. Hardly what one would expect,” he mused.

He turned to look at the river by his side, whose chill water rippled and foamed as it gushed over the edge. It gave Damien a rare moment in which to study the man unobserved. There had been a change in him recently, and not for the better. Damien would have been hard-pressed to capture it in words, but he could sense it clearly enough. Maybe it’s hunger, he thought. He thought of the cities before them, nestled in the lower valley, and shuddered. He considered how many nights had passed since they’d left the Terata camp, long nights spent traveling in an empty land. Though Tarrant hadn’t talked about his needs, it was clear what the cities must mean to him. Fresh food. Rejuvenation. Maybe even—with the right luck—a hunt.

Damien felt sick inside, and turned away. You never get used to it. Not ever. You never learn to accept it.

God help me if I ever do.

In recent nights Tarrant had avoided Jenseny, and the rest of the party as well. He no longer rode with them but flew overhead as they traveled, keeping pace with them far above the thick canopy of treetops. Which was just as well, Damien mused. God alone knew how he would have reacted if they’d asked him to ride double with someone, or how Hesseth’s mare would have handled it if they tried to put three people on her back. There was a limit to what even strong horses could handle. No, it was best that they travel as they did. He just wished he didn’t feel in his gut that this was just another facet of the strange darkness which now hung about the man like a shroud, which seemed to grow as the long days of travel progressed.

He stood in the presence of God, he reminded himself, and was rejected. He’s faced the truth of his own damnation head on. Wouldn’t that change a man? Shouldn’t that change a man?

Repentance meant death, the Neocount had told him. And death, in his philosophy, meant eternal judgment. Was there any way out of that intellectual trap which the sorcerer had crafted for himself? Was there any path he would accept? The thought of saving that twisted soul instead of destroying it was a heady concept, and not one that he had considered before. He wasn’t yet sure it was possible.

“We’ll need to get rid of the horses,” the Hunter announced.

“What?” It took a second for him to get his conversational bearings. “Why?”

“Because they’ll give us away. There’s no creature native to the east that’s even remotely like them, and the Matrias know that. If they’ve sent any warning to these people, it’ll include a description of our mounts. In the mountains we could hide them, but down there?” He gestured toward the city lights below them.

Damien considered it. He hardly relished the thought of traveling south without the beasts, particularly in the unknown lands of their enemy . . . but the Hunter was right. Even if they could hide the animals in the midst of a city—a dubious enterprise at best—they could hardly book sea passage without revealing their existence. And if the Matrias had indeed alerted this region, they might as well emblazon their coats with bright red targets as go down to the coast with two horses in tow.

Damn the luck. Damn it to hell.

“What’s the alternative?” he asked gruffly.

“Kill them,” he said easily. “Or set them free here, before we descend.”

“That would just be a slower death, wouldn’t it?”

A faint smile curled the Hunter’s thin lips. “Mine’s a resourceful beast, Reverend; he’ll survive well enough. And Hesseth’s mare might choose to stay with him, which would give her a better chance.”

“Yeah. What are the odds of that?”

“The ancient xandu mated for life. Some of that instinct no doubt still remains in their descendants. I’m sure that between your skills and mine we would have no trouble reawakening it.”

Damien stared at him, incredulous. “Haven’t you forgotten something?” When the Hunter didn’t respond, he pressed, “What about the mating part? Isn’t that kind of important?”

“My horse wasn’t gelded,” he pointed out.

“Sure. He isn’t exactly a raging stallion either. If he was, don’t you think with a mare present—”

“I didn’t say he wasn’t altered, Reverend Vryce. I stopped up the flow of certain hormones to render him tractable in mixed company. That can be undone easily enough. Given a few months of normalcy . . .” He shrugged. “I imagine the old patterns would reassert themselves soon enough.”

“In which case . . .” He looked back at the horses. “They might breed.”

He sensed, rather than saw, the Hunter’s smile. “Very probably.”

“How successfully?”

“It’s hardly an ideal gene pool, but I’d say they stand a chance. Certainly more than they would if we took them with us.”

Wild horses. Not xandu. Not some tamed equivalent. A truly wild gene pool, adapting itself to this hardy terrain. The concept was intriguing, he decided. God knows, this valley needed some new input.

And then another thought struck him, and he looked sharply at Tarrant. “Are you doing this for their good, or for yours?”

He shrugged. “The species was wild once, and might be wild again. How much of its survival instinct survived the process of forced evolution? I would be lying if I said that the experiment didn’t appeal to me.”

And that’s the heart of it, Damien thought. Once you’ve started a project, you can’t let go of it. This whole planet is no more than a vast experimental laboratory for you, a testing ground for your pet theories. And nothing else really matters to you, does it? Ten thousand men might be slaughtered in front of you and you wouldn’t bat an eyelash, but if anyone threatened one of your precious experiments you’d move heaven and earth to destroy him. What manner of dark vanity could produce such a finely honed selfishness? It was almost beyond his comprehension.

“Well?” the Hunter pressed. “What’s your judgment on the matter? Since I’m so biased,” he added dryly.

Damien resisted the temptation to glare at him. Narrowly. “Don’t you think we ought to ask Hesseth what she thinks? There are three of us,” he reminded him.

Only there were four of them now, he realized with a start, not three. How long would the girl stay with them? He had given passing thought to the concept of finding her a home in one of the coastal cities, but how likely was that? And what about the information she had hinted at, but never dared reveal?

“Let’s ask Hesseth,” he repeated quietly.

He didn’t just mean the horses.

What made you want to be a priest? the girl had asked him.

So hard to answer. So difficult to choose the right words. So hard to explain to this child what the Church was to him—what God was to him—when he knew that in the back of her mind were all the atrocities the Holies had committed. All the years she had spent locked away from light and life, for fear of his God.

And yet she asked him. Eyes wide and bright, with only a flicker of fear in their depths. Compelling an answer.

What made you want to be a priest?

Was there a moment of revelation he could share with her, one single instant which turned him away from secular courses and fixed his heart on this most difficult of paths? It seemed he had always been a priest, had always wanted to be a priest. But the decision had to come sometime, didn’t it? Certainly he hadn’t been born to the priesthood.

There was one incident he did remember clearly, and he shared it with her. He had been young, very young, and they were studying Earth History in school. He remembered the teacher tying together facts and fragments into a narrative that breathed life into the mother planet, unlike the usual dry recitation that graced those schoolroom walls. And that night he dreamed. Fantastic dreams, terrifying dreams. Dreams of what Earth might have been like, a chaos of energy and ambition and hope, almost too intense to absorb. He remembered gleaming tubes of metal that darted across the earth without a horse to pull them, capsules of painted metal that soared through the sky with effortless grace, words and pictures flying across the length of a continent in less than the time it took to draw a breath. And of course the greatest accomplishment of all: the Ship. Vast as an ocean, powerful as an earthquake, it stood ready to tame the wastelands of the galaxy, to spread man’s seed throughout the universe. Those visions were so bright, so solid, that when he awakened his heart was pounding, and his breath was dry in his throat. And he understood about Erna at last. He understood. Not in some little pocket of his brain, which memorized Earth-facts only to spew them out on a standardized test and then forget them, but in his heart. In his soul. He understood what Earth had been and what Erna could be, that awesome and terrible birthright which was the very core of man’s heritage. And he understood, for the first time in his young life, just what the fae had done to his species. To his future.

Life was pointless, he understood that now. All that mankind was doing on Erna was marking time, fighting for survival on a day-to-day basis while the planet grew in power and malevolence. Man’s doom was inevitable, and in the shadow of such a judgment his life, his dreams, even his few accomplishments were leached of all meaning. So why go on? Why keep fighting?

It was a terrifying revelation, almost more than his young mind could handle. For months he struggled with it, while all around him others succumbed to the power of similar awakenings. Four of his classmates started seeing counselors as a result, and one—he heard this years after the fact—tried to kill himself. The others blocked it out, or failed to understand, or in some other way avoided the issue. In time they would adapt, begetting children of their own to face this damned and damning planet. In time, perhaps, some of those might become sorcerers.

Why did he become a priest? Because the One God was a living expression of man’s optimism. Because his Church was man’s greatest hope—if not his only hope—on a wild and hostile planet. Because only by devoting his strength and his passion to God did Damien feel he could justify his own existence. Any other profession would have been an exercise in futility.

He didn’t say it in those words. He didn’t want to frighten her the way he had been frightened back then. And most of all he didn’t tell her about the Prophet, whose brilliant vision had given his life a focus. Because that might lead to other questions, which might have lead to certain answers . . . and he didn’t want to have to explain to her that the murderous demon who traveled with them was all that was left of that illustrious figure. Not yet. The truth was hard enough for him to come to terms with, and he had spent nearly a year traveling with the man; he didn’t want her newborn understanding—so precious, so frail—contaminated by such knowledge.

And then there was the night that he and Tarrant had fought.

He wondered how much she had seen that night. He found to his surprise that he couldn’t bring himself to ask her. It was as if his memory of the Peace which had filled him was a fragile thing, no more substantive than a dream, which the wrong words might disperse. Any words. And yet it was there between them, always. The answer to all her questions. The core of his lifelong faith.

He looked at her, nestled against the warmth of Hesseth’s fur in much the way that he had seen rakhene children snuggle against their parents, and an unaccustomed warmth suffused his soul. The bond between them truly amazed him. From Jenseny’s viewpoint it made sense, of course; lonely and terrified, robbed of home and hope, she would of course cling to the first nurturing soul who welcomed her. But Hesseth? She hated humans and all that they stood for, even (he guessed) human children. So what special chemistry had taken place between the two of them, which permitted such closeness to develop? He didn’t dare ask about it, for fear he would disturb its precious balance.

But he wondered. And he admired. And sometimes—just sometimes—he envied.

They decided to let the horses go. No one was happy about it, but it was clear to all that there was no alternative Tarrant Worked his own steed so that its hormonal balance would be what nature intended, then stripped it of its saddle and gear and set it loose. He Worked Hesseth’s mare as well—a process that the rakh-woman was clearly not thrilled about—and in the end expressed equal satisfaction with that work. He even tried to instill an instinctive avoidance of such thorned flora as the Terata had created, in the hope that would keep them safe from the worst of those nightmare experiments.

And then they let them go.

Thus have we altered this ecosystem, Damien thought as he watched them canter off—hesitantly at first, then with increasing confidence. The last sight he had of them was the stallion tossing its head in the wind, black mane rippling in the moonlight. Forever. If anyone else had suggested such a move, he would have been worried about the possible repercussions, but in this one area he had utter faith in the Neocount’s judgment. The Hunter’s Forest might have been a fearsome place, but it was also a perfectly balanced ecosystem. And if Tarrant had loosed fertile horses here, then the local environment could handle it; Damien didn’t doubt that for a moment.

Their descent had to wait until the morning. Once the Core had set there simply wasn’t enough natural light for them to negotiate the terraced cliff face safely, and Tarrant was loath to light the lanterns. They didn’t dare be seen descending, he cautioned them, lest some city guard be sent out to greet them. Damien agreed. And so they waited until the sky grew pale with sunlight and the shadows of the peaked islands stretched westward across the water before they moved, packing their camp even as Tarrant took his leave to seek out a more secretive shelter.

“What about the saddles?” Hesseth asked, and after a brief discussion they decided to bury them. It would hardly do to have some sportsman climb that slope and discover their equipment scattered along the ridge. Only when the equestrian gear was well underground, and the earth over it had been tamped down and camouflaged, did Hesseth draw out her linen coif once more and bind it over her head, hiding her tufted ears from sight. Time for disguises again, Damien thought darkly. For once he was glad that Tarrant wasn’t with them; one less person to hide. As for Jenseny . . . they would have to leave her, down there. Somewhere in those cities. They would have to find her a home, or at least a means of survival, so that they could leave her safely behind when they moved into the enemy’s territory . . .

And what if she has information that we need? What if her power could help us? He shook his head, banishing the thought. Too many ifs. Too many unknowns. The walls of her trauma were high and strong, and if they’d had a long month to work on them in safety, perhaps they could have convinced the girl to open up, to share her precious knowledge with them . . . but not in a week’s time, and not under these conditions. And there was no way that he would permit her to be broken, not by Tarrant’s power or his own careful lies.

Bound together by a length of rope, they descended. It was a tricky descent but not an impossible one, and the one time Jenseny slipped he managed to pull her up short by the rope before she had dropped more than a yard. That was the only mishap. Freshwater spray cast rainbows in the air about them as they sought out the dryer handholds, and by the time the Core rose over the eastern mountains they were standing on firm ground, the fertile southlands spread out before them. Golden light played over the slopes as they packed away their climbing gear, and the waterfall’s spray shivered into spectral drops as it fell. It was hard to connect such panoramic beauty with the places they had just been, hard to reconcile where they were today with the horrors of their communal yesterdays. Then he looked at Jenseny, sensing the aura of desolation that hung about her like a dank cloud, and he thought, Not so hard. Because they had brought a bit of the valley with them, in her eyes. A link to where they had come from, and where they were going. A reminder.

God grant that we never forget it, he thought grimly. As he coiled the last rope and fitted it into Tarrant’s pack. As he hoisted the black leather up on his shoulder, preparing to hike onward once more.

“Come on,” he muttered, as he urged his party forward. “Let’s get there.”

Jenseny tried hard not to be afraid.

Maybe if it was still night she could have managed it. She had gotten used to the night. When the Core was up, it meant that the whole world gleamed with golden highlights, as if some giant lamp had been lit, and the shadows were warm and gentle. The Core didn’t make noise like the sun did, and its light wasn’t nearly as piercing; if she closed her eyes and tried hard, she could almost imagine that she was back in her own rooms, the steady flame of an oil lamp her only illumination. And when the Core went away, it was even better. The night enfolded her with its darkness, making her feel that she was not out in the open but in some small enclosed space, safe and comfortable. Sometimes the moons would rise and they had their own sounds—a faint clatter from Domina, a dull buzz from Prima, a bare whisper of a hum from Casca—but their light didn’t fill the heavens like the sunlight did, and still she felt safe.

And then it was day.

And they came to the city.

It was a terrible place, a fearsome place, a place that made her feel dizzy and weak and terrified all at once. The houses were thick and tall and set so close together that as they walked down the street it seemed she was back in Devil’s Chasm, wending her way over rubble and across pits while praying that the earth wouldn’t suddenly shift beneath her feet. The houses had voices, too loud voices—and though she tried not to hear them she couldn’t shut them out. Sometimes she would brush up against a wall accidentally and then the voices would become a scream, as if the whole history of the house had been compressed into one noisy instant. Contractor squabbles and rent wars and once the forcible eviction of a man who took up a sword and started hacking at his neighbors . . . it was terrible, too terrible, and she couldn’t even stand before the force of it, much less hope to contain it. Once the passing crowd pressed her against the pillar of a butcher’s shop, and the sense of raw animal pain was so overwhelming that she fell sobbing to her knees, unable to go on. Damien picked her up then and carried her for a while, and she was content to lay huddled in his arms and drink in the comfort he was offering. Trying to shut out the terrible voices, and all the pain they embodied.

She had to be brave for them, she knew that. Though she didn’t understand the details of their journey she knew that these people had come here for a vital mission, and that her presence among them might threaten their success. She tried hard not to be a burden. But the crowds! The voices! The narrow streets seemed to focus the sunlight, magnifying its light and its sound until she almost couldn’t stand it. Sometimes she just couldn’t seem to make her legs move at all, but froze up in the middle of the street and shook while the hurrying crowds parted like a river around her. Then Hesseth would come and whisper words to her, rakhene words she couldn’t understand, but she knew that they were meant for children, that back in the rakhene homeland young girls like herself would be comforted with just such sounds. She loved those sounds. Sometimes when the Light was strong she would stop and just listen to them, not even try to go on walking, and it took the priest’s gentle touch on her shoulder to get her moving again. And even then the sounds stayed with her, like a whisper of rakh-children playing in the high grass. A comfort to both her fear and her loneliness. If she could have curled up in Hesseth’s arms forever, she would have been happy, just listening to those sounds. Shutting out the horror of the city that surrounded.

At last, on Damien’s cue, they approached a stocky building and stopped. It was an old building, and though its owners had dressed it up in bright, gaudy colors, its paint was now chipping from its pillars and its front steps were sagging. She huddled close to Hesseth, trying hard not to hear the voices that were resident in that wood.

“You think?” the rakh-woman asked.

The priest nodded grimly. “Unpleasant enough, that’s for sure.” Then he raised up one hand and quickly sketched a shape in the air in front of him; Jenseny felt a shock, as if thousands of needles had all pricked her at the same time. Hesseth looked at her in concern.

“They’ll keep secrets,” Damien muttered. And he led them inside.

The big room inside the building was as worn and weathered as the outside. The rugs were painful to walk on, but though she would have preferred to go around them Jenseny didn’t want to leave the rakh-woman’s side. Once she stepped on a dark brown stain and was nearly overcome by a stabbing pain in her side; Hesseth’s arm held her upright. “Kasst,” the rakh-woman whispered, and she drank in comfort from the sound. One step after another, forced and hesitant. And then she was beyond the rugs and the floor was much better, it didn’t hold the pain so badly. She shivered as she stood, waiting while the priest negotiated with a stocky man. At last a few precious treasures changed hands: from the priest, a small handful of coins. From the other man, a pair of tarnished keys. The stocky man turned to go then, but Damien put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

“No questions,” the priest said quietly, and Jenseny felt the needles prick her again. For a moment the man looked dazed, and then he nodded.

Worked, she thought. Tasting the alien word, struggling to understand it. He Worked him.

They went upstairs.

The hallways were grimy and narrow and close, but for Jenseny they were a welcome change. She huddled in the center of the corridor while Damien fumbled with the keys, testing them both. At last the door before him swung open, and he waved his companions inside.

Hesseth sighed as she let the heavy pack slide off her back. “Assst! I miss the horses.”

“Ditto,” he grumbled, as he did the same. “But there’s no way around it.”

Jenseny looked up at him. “Isn’t it bad for you to control people like that?”

For a moment there was silence. She heard him draw in a deep breath, slowly, and then he asked—ever so quietly—“What do you mean?”

She struggled to find words for what she wanted to say. The concepts were alien, and defied definition. “You told me that your God doesn’t want you to use the fae to control people, only . . . to heal and such. But didn’t you control that man down there?” When he didn’t answer, she added in explanation, “When you told him no questions.”

For a moment he said nothing. But she could hear the words, as clearly as if he had spoken them. They were in his eyes, and his body, and the breath that he exhaled.

How did you know that?

After a moment he came to her, and crouched down before her so that he was at her level. It was good to look directly into his eyes like that. Brown eyes, so very warm. She could feel their heat on her face.

“What we’ve come here to do is very important,” he told her. His voice was soft and carefully controlled and he was choosing his words with obvious care. “If we don’t succeed, a lot of people will be hurt. Like your father. Remember? We came here to stop that kind of thing from happening again, so no one else is ever hurt like that again. And sometimes, to do this . . . sometimes we have to do things we don’t like. Things we wouldn’t do at any other time.”

“Isn’t it still wrong?” she asked.

For a long, long moment he didn’t answer her. She could feel Hesseth’s eyes upon them both, the long ears pricked forward to catch his answer. Had she asked something bad? She just wanted to understand.

“My Church thinks it’s wrong,” he said at last. “Sometimes I’m not so sure.” He stood up slowly, one knee popping as he did so. “In the name of this quest we’ve done a lot of things we didn’t want to do, Jenseny, and I guess we’ll do a lot more. That’s how it goes, sometimes. You make the best choice you can.”

“Tarrant would be proud of that argument,” Hesseth said softly.

The priest looked over at her—and something passed between them that Jenseny couldn’t interpret, but it was sharp and was hot and it was filled with pain.

“Yeah,” the priest muttered. Turning away from them both. “Who the vulk do you think it was taught it to me?”

They were going to leave her here.

They didn’t say it. They didn’t have to. It had been clear enough on the journey here that they weren’t going to take her past the cities, and that didn’t leave a whole lot of options. Oh, they would try to provide for her, they would try to prepare her for it, maybe they would even try to find a home that would take her in . . . but it all meant the same thing, in the end. They would leave her here. In this place. With the voices. Surrounded by buildings and people that virtually screamed with pain, abandoned to a life of such unremitting fear that they couldn’t begin to guess at it.

The rakhene children would be gone then. So would Hesseth. And so would Damien, and with him the last vestige of that fragile Peace which she had experienced in the forest. A Peace so sweet and so warm that she would give her very life to feel it again. Part of it was still here, inside him. She sensed it when he held her. And if he went away . . . then she would lose that Peace. Forever.

Alone. She had been so alone before, so full of pain. Then these people had rescued her. She still mourned her father’s death, still woke in the night quaking from terrible nightmares of loss and desolation—but the priest and the rakh-woman had eased her suffering, and the Peace had numbed her grief. Now she would lose all that. It was more than she could stand to think about.

Sometimes when she thought about her father she got angry, and that frightened her. Why? she demanded of him. Why did you leave me? Even as the words came, she was shamed by them, but they flowed from the heart of her too fast and too hard to stop. Why didn’t you protect me better? Why did you go and die and leave me alone? What am I supposed to do now that you’re gone? She felt that by blaming him she was somehow betraying him, but the anger was too real and too intense for her to stop it. Where are you, now that I need you? Didn’t you know this would happen?

Tears pouring down her cheeks—body trembling with fear and shame—Jenseny gazed out through the grimy window at the crowds and the sunlight and tried hard not to think about her future.

30

The Church was small, and the strip of land that surrounded it was narrow and muddy. Houses and storefronts crowded close about its walls on all four sides, casting its thin strip of lawn into shadow, robbing it of vitality. If not for a low wrought-iron fence—more show than substance as its height was easily scaled by any thief—and that narrow band of green and brown, the church might well have shared its very walls with the businesses that clustered claustrophobically in the city’s low-rent district, so well did its facade of faded brick and mildewed mortar match their own.

No doubt there were finer churches in the better neighborhoods, and perhaps a great cathedral or two in the city’s center. Perhaps, as in Mercia, city life revolved around a central cathedral, and rich lawns and costly ornaments framed a building whose gilded arches gleamed in the Corelight, drawing the faithful like flies. Such a building would be beautiful, breathtaking in both its scope and its upkeep. It would also—Damien was willing to bet—be heavily guarded.

A wagon rattled to the left of him as he approached the rusted iron fence, drawn by the short, stocky animals that this region used as beasts of burden. There was a sharp cry off to his right, followed by the crash of glass; a domestic dispute, he guessed, spawned by the humid closeness of this district. He took advantage of the double light—a rosy mauve from the early sunset, Core-gold from the galaxy overhead—to study the sanctified building. A modest church to start with, it had clearly seen better days. Its few stained-glass windows were protected by thick wire mesh, and bars reinforced those on the lower floors. But despite its humble design and defensive hardware, the small church was clearly used, and used often. The steps were well-worn, the brass-fitted doors polished to a bright finish by the press of a thousand passing hands. Even as Damien watched, more than a dozen men and women traversed the broad stone stairs, some in pairs or chatting groups, one or two alone. And their faith would have left its mark. The prayers of thousands, day after day, would have seeped into the ancient stonework and the deeply carved wood, leaving their mark upon the building’s substance as clear and as readable as any bars or iron deadbolts. The faith of these people, and all that it implied. Which meant that whatever corruption the Matrias had engendered here, that, too, would would cling to this building. Easy to read, for one who had the Sight. Or at least so he hoped.

He braced himself to Work . . . and then hesitated. It wasn’t that he was afraid of being found out. He had come to this dismal corner of the city precisely for that reason, afraid that if the servants of the local Matria were watching for his arrival they might well have staked out the better-known cathedrals. There was anonymity in these garbage-strewn streets, and with his travel-stained and clumsily repaired clothing he was perfectly suited to take advantage of it. No, no one would notice him here. And in this land, so utterly bereft of human sorcery, it was unlikely that the Matrias or their servants would think to focus in on his Working to locate him, or would even know how to do so.

He was as safe here as he was going to get in this warped and corrupted land, and it wasn’t the thought of capture which made him tremble in the church’s dusky shadow. Not exactly. It was more like . . . like . . . I’m afraid to Know, he thought. Fear wrapped cold tendrils around his heart. Afraid to See. Afraid to know the corruption for what it truly is, and to witness how far it’s progressed.

He hadn’t been near a church since their flight from Mercia. Which meant that up until now he’d had no chance to See for himself what changes had been worked among these people, to analyze what effects the secret rakhene matriarchy had had upon their faith. Not yet. And as he stood beyond the gates of the modest church, as the inhabitants of the city shuffled and clattered past him, he realized that he didn’t want to see. Didn’t want to know. Not ever. His hands closed tightly about the cast-iron bars, squeezing them until his knuckles went white. Knowledge is power, he told himself. You need it. You can’t fight the enemy without it. Doubts assailed him, made doubly powerful by the force of his fear. He had thought that if he Worked his sight near a church he might see the corruption here for what it was, might be able to read some pattern into the degradation of his faith, some purpose . . . but what if he couldn’t? And what if he succeeded in conjuring such a vision, only to find that he couldn’t bear to absorb its message? The corruption of this region struck at the very heart of who and what he was; did he dare experience it directly?

I have to, he thought feverishly. That’s all there is to it And he braced himself for Working. Wishing that it were as easy to brace himself for revelation. Wishing that his heart could be made invulnerable, just for an instant.

With care he reached out and touched the foreign currents—they were rich and strong, all that a sorcerer could ask for—and he tapped into the earth-power to remake his sight, so that it would respond to the fae’s special wave-lengths. For a moment he didn’t dare look at the church, but fixed his eyes upon the ground. Silver-blue fae rippled across the rutted concrete in patterns of moire complexity, obscuring the muddy cracks beneath. Then, slowly, he raised up his eyes.

And he Saw.

Oh, my God . . .

For a moment he was simply stunned, incapable of accepting what his senses proclaimed. Then, slowly, it sank in. The church was clean. Clean! Its aura glowed warmly with faith and hope and the prayers of generations, just as one would expect in another time, another place. Its music was not the dissonance of earthly corruption, but the delicate harmony of true devotion. He stared at it in amazement, not quite believing. He shook his head, as if somehow that would clear his Sight. Nothing changed. The aura of the building was bright and pure, as befit a true house of worship. The currents which coursed about those worn foundations sparkled and glittered with the fragments of human hope which they had absorbed, as pure as the Corelight which fell upon them. The fae that poured forth from the building itself . . . that was as sweet and as reverent as any which flowed from the great cathedral in Jaggonath, and as he listened he could hear the whisper of prayers that it carried, and catch the faint, sweet smell of human faith.

Impossible.

Simply impossible.

He stared at it aghast, struggling to understand. Why would the eastern rakh invest so much time and effort in taking control of his Church, and then do nothing to alter it? What was their ultimate purpose, if not an assault on the human spirit? And what about the force that seemed to be guiding them? He could understand a demon who fed on human degradation, an Enemy whose goal it was to twist human faith toward a darker purpose . . . but that wasn’t happening here. Not at all. These people were steadfast in their faith, and it showed. The very earth glowed with their dedication.

What is it you want? he demanded silently. Of all of them: the Regents, the Matrias, the unknown enemy who grew closer each night. What game are you playing here? Until this moment he’d thought that he understood the pattern here, at least on a visceral level; now even that basic assumption was in doubt. If mankind had made an enemy here, its nature was so alien that Damien couldn’t begin to guess at its motives; or else its plans were so long-sighted that in the context of a single year—or even a century—the greater pattern was all but invisible. And that made Damien afraid. Very afraid. It made him fear in a way he never had before, and it made him wonder—perhaps for the first time—if he might not have taken on a task that no one human could accomplish. Even with Tarrant’s help. Even with Hesseth’s power, and the girl’s.

What are you? he demanded. What is it you want? But there was only silence to answer him, and the sibilant whisper of faith. Pure. Righteous. Terrifying.

Heart cold, hands shaking, he turned back toward the grimy hotel, to await the dusk and Tarrant’s return.

31

Night fell slowly in the harbor cities, accompanied by a sunset the color of blood. Long after twilight’s darkness had shadowed the city streets it was still possible to see sunlight in the distance, breaking in between the peaked islands and glimmering across the water. When that had faded, the Core remained: light without warmth, a false golden sheath for the city. How long would it be before that faded as well? The Core had been two hours behind the sun when they’d landed in Mercia; how long had it been since they’d fled that city?

With a sigh Damien let the curtain drop from his hand, falling back into place of its own accord. The strong northerly current here meant he couldn’t use the earth-fae to access information about the Matrias’ plans, or Know the details of their pursuit. He could test the fae that was coming up from the south, use it to Know the enemy . . . but Tarrant was better at that kind of thing than he was. Tarrant was better at interpreting the strange and often cryptic visions that a long-distance Knowing was wont to conjure. Let him do it.

Damien looked over at the rooms they had rented, one bedroom and a small parlor connected by a curtained archway. He would sleep in the parlor tonight, on its well-worn couch, and leave the bedroom for Hesseth and the girl. A semblance of privacy. After their weeks together in the woods it seemed almost a frivolous arrangement—God knows, they had seen each other naked more than once—but it pleased his sense of propriety that they now had this option. A token civilized gesture. And of course, there was the girl now to consider.

The girl . . .

She was nestled against Hesseth’s side like a kitten, the two of them intertwined on the couch. How peaceful she looked, now that there were walls between her and the outside world. But how real was that barrier? Damien didn’t have to Know the room’s interior to tell that it had seen its share of violence and misery. Why didn’t that affect her? Why could she fight off the empathic images here, but not out in the streets?

Because this is her territory now, he mused. Watching as she snuggled her way even deeper into Hesseth’s embrace. She’s defined it as such, therefore it doesn’t bother her. What did that imply about her Vision? Was her reaction in the streets a symptom of true power, or of mental instability? He was all too aware that it could be both. In which case she really might be dangerous. He had tried to Know her once or twice, to no avail. Whatever power she drew on eluded his own Sight, and he had to assume that the same was true for Tarrant. And that, all by itself, was a daunting concept.

Sensing his scrutiny, Hesseth looked up at him “Tarrant?”

He shook his head “Didn’t see him.” He unhooked the swag of the ceiling lamp and lowered it down to where he could reach it more comfortably. “And it’s well into night,” he muttered, lighting the four wicks. They were dusty, and sputtered as they caught fire. “Core’s almost gone. So where the vulk is he?”

Her amber gaze was reproachful. “You know that.” With lone hand she stroked Jenseny’s long dark hair, separating the strands with her claws. “Don’t you?”

He exhaled heavily. “Yeah. I guess so.” For a minute he just stared at the tiny flames, four stars behind grimy glass panes. Then, with a sigh, he hitched the lamp back into place overhead. “It usually doesn’t take him this long.”

How many will he kill tonight? He tried not to think about that. Again. The ache in his conscience translated into a sharp pain between his eyes, which he rubbed with dry fingers. He needed the sanctity of a church tonight, the cultured tranquillity of formal prayer. Needed it badly. But if the Matrias were watching for him in this city . . . he dared not risk it. Standing outside a church was risky enough; entering one would be downright suicidal.

He was startled suddenly as the door creaked, and his hand went instinctively for the sword at his shoulder. But the weapon was in its harness, resting on the bed a good ten feet away. He didn’t need it anyway. It was Tarrant, at last. Damien bit back on his anger as the tall man entered, quieting the rusty hinges with a glance. The Neocount looked about the room, peered through the curtain to the bedroom beyond, and his pale eyes narrowed in distaste. Suddenly the place seemed twice as dingy, the air twice as stale. Damn him for noticing! And damn him twice for disapproving. He hadn’t been here when they’d been searching for a safe haven, had he? So he’d damn well better not criticize their choice.

Easy. Easy. Don’t let him get to you. Don’t let this whole damned trip wear down your nerves.

Without a word Tarrant walked to the room’s small table and pulled out a chair for himself. Damien nodded to Hesseth, who followed suit, disentangling herself from Jenseny’s embrace with gentle care. When they all were seated, Damien pulled over the table lamp and lit it; light sputtered resentfully into being behind tinted glass, etching human and rakhene features in hard yellow highlights. The color made Tarrant’s eyes look feral, inhuman. More like his true self, Damien thought. It was a disquieting vision.

Sensing that the Hunter was about to make some deprecating comment about their lodgings, Damien said quickly, “It was safe. The first safe place we found.”

“The girl was having trouble-” Hesseth began.

“Ah, yes. The girl.” The pale eyes narrowed, fixed on that sleeping form. A thin frown of distaste curled the Hunter’s lips. “Do we know what she is yet? Has she chosen to share her precious knowledge with us? Or is she still just a parasitic cipher—”

“Don’t,” Damien warned. He felt his hand edging up toward his shoulder, toward where his sword would normally be harnessed; an instinctive gesture. “Don’t make it worse than it has to be.”

The Neocount’s expression was unusually cold, even for him. In recent days he had avoided the young girl’s company entirely, cutting short any discussion which centered on her. Now the hostility in him seemed more intense than Damien remembered from before, and the priest didn’t quite know how to account for it. When they’d first rescued the girl, Tarrant had been angry, yes, and justifiably suspicious, but not this openly hostile. Not this much like a snake with its fangs bared, ready to strike. It had all changed that night in the woods, he thought. The night Tarrant had dared to attack the girl, and Something had intervened. Could one brief incident change a man so drastically?

She saw his God, he reminded himself. He knew that instinctively for the truth, though he and the girl had never discussed it. And Tarrant knew it, too. He must. What a terrible thing that must be for him, to watch a stranger be granted the ultimate Vision while he was forbidden communion. And jealousy could spawn hatred, Damien thought. A uniquely vicious hatred. No wonder he had been on edge since then.

He forced himself not to address that issue, tried to steer the conversation onto safer ground. “The city has a safe harbor—”

“Closely guarded, no doubt.”

“You think the Matrias are looking for us this far south?” Hesseth asked.

“Without question,” Tarrant assured her. “I can see it in the currents. I can smell it in the winds. The whole city stinks of ambush.”

Damien felt his heart sinking in his chest as the words hit home. Not until this moment had he realized how much he’d been hoping that Tarrant would prove his suspicions wrong. “What, then? You have a suggestion?”

“We need to move quickly. Book passage across the water before the local Matria realizes we’re here. With a good enough Obscuring we might be able to hire a ship before—”

“Hold on,” Damien said sharply. “Just a minute. We were talking about collecting information when we got here, weren’t we? Trying to take the enemy’s measure before we decided what to do next. Wasn’t that the idea? I don’t like the concept of rushing over to the enemy’s turf before we even know—”

“Time is a luxury here,” the Hunter snapped. “And one we can’t afford. Do you think that the soldiers of the Matria will sit back and indulge us while we gather our maps and our notes and our courage? There’s a price on your heads—”

“You don’t know that—”

“I do,” he said coldly. “I know it for a fact. And I know the amount that’s been offered, as well, and it’s high enough to make every local contact suspect. Do you really want to stay here, under those circumstances? Do you really think you can accomplish so much here that it’s worth throwing your lives away?”

“The alternative doesn’t sound much better,” Hesseth challenged. “Blind flight . . . toward what? For what?”

“We need to get off this continent. We need to get beyond the reach of the Matrias’ network before it finds us. I understand that you’re uncomfortable with such a move—”

“That’s putting it lightly.”

“—But I assure you, remaining in this city is the most dangerous thing we could do right now. Or in any city on this coast, for that matter.”

Damien shook his head. “The Matrias’ lands don’t trade with the southern kingdom, did you know that? They may not be technically at war, but they’re hostile enough. Travel between the two is strictly forbidden.”

“Yes,” the Hunter said dryly. “All commerce with the southern kingdom is forbidden.” His smooth voice dripped with disdain. “Do you think that stops it? Rule one of history is that trade goes on, priest. Always. It may give way for a time, say during a war—if a strong enough blockade is established—but as soon as there is a crack in one’s defenses, even a tiny flaw, traders will smell it out. Profit is every bit as powerful a motivator as patriotism, Vryce. Perhaps more so.”

“You’re saying there’ll be transportation.”

He nodded. “Without question.”

“Any suggestions on how to find it?”

“As a matter of fact, I have a name for you.” He withdrew a folded paper from his pocket and handed it over; Damien unfolded it carefully, angling it so it would catch the light. Ran Moskovan, it said. Licensed port Angela Duro, #346-298-J. Beneath that was the name of a local bar, a street address, and a time. “Free merchanter by day, black marketeer by night. He’s got his own ship—streamlined and swift—and it’s got enough secret cubbyholes to make any smuggler green with envy. According to my Divining, he’s the safest bet we’ve got in this town. You’ll have to meet with him tomorrow and talk price.” He leaned back in his chair. “I suggest you be generous. Gold’s the only master such men pay heed to.”

“Easier said than done,” Damien muttered. He looked at Hesseth, who caught his meaning and reached into her pocket. A thin handful of coins was all she had, and she scattered them across the table. “I have about fifty left, that was on me when my horse went down. The rest is with my supplies—wherever the hell they are.”

“And it’s all northern coin, or foreign.” Hesseth pointed out. “A dead giveaway, if anyone knows to watch for it.”

The Hunter seemed undisturbed by the news. “Which is why I collected these.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a small silken pouch. Mud-stained, Damien noted, or perhaps crusted with something worse. Wordlessly the Hunter pulled open the mouth of the pouch and spilled out a stream of gems across the tabletop, mud-covered and blood-splattered but undeniably precious.

“Where-” Hesseth gasped.

It took Damien a moment to make the obvious connection. “Terata?”

Tarrant nodded. “It occurred to me then that we might need capital. I must admit that the thought of using Calesta’s offerings—”

There was a moan from the couch. Low, barely voiced, but so resonant with pain that even Tarrant fell suddenly silent, and twisted about to look that way. It was the girl. She was awake now, and her eyes were wide, her body trembling. It was hard to read her expression. Fear? Surprise? Confusion?

“What?” she whispered. Sensing their eyes on her. “What is it?” She struggled to her feet, her eyes fixed on them. No, Damien thought. Not on them. On the table between them, and what lay on it.

Slowly she walked toward them, her eyes never leaving that spot. Damien didn’t have to See to know that she was radiating fear, or that the Hunter was feeding on it. “What is it?” she whispered. “What did you bring?” Her voice was shaking now, and her hands seemed to tremble as she reached out toward the table. For a brief moment Damien considered sweeping the gems away from her, out of reach—and then the instant was gone and she had seen them, she was touching them, she was rubbing her tiny fingers over the pile of gems as if searching for something, moaning in pain even as she did so. He remembered her reaction to the city, to its walls and its pillars and people, and he ached to pull her away, to protect her from this new source of pain. But like his two companions, he was paralyzed by curiosity. Curiosity and dread.

She gasped as she found something in the pile, and moaned softly as she raised it up. A ruby or a garnet, Damien assessed, that gleamed a dark red from beneath its crust of dried blood and dirt. Her shaking fingers stroked its surface, caressing it free of the dirt that caked its surface. Her breath came in shorter and shorter gasps as she absorbed whatever pain the small stone carried. Damien ached to help her, didn’t know where to start.

“It was his,” the small girl gasped. Choking out the words. A tear squeezed out of the corner of one eye, glistening like a diamond in the lamplight. “His!”

It was Hesseth who first made the connection. “Her father,” she whispered. “He must have owned it.”

“But how-” Damien began.

A cold hand on his shoulder warned him to silence. He glanced at the Hunter, saw the man’s eyes fixed on the center of the table. No: above it. He followed his gaze—and felt his breath catch in his throat, as he saw what was happening there.

There was a shape forming in the air between them, a slow swirling of light and color that seemed to draw its strength from the pile of dirty gems on the table. At first it seemed formless, as insubstantial as a cloud of dust motes reflecting the flickering lamp flame. But as they watched it gained in substance, Until it seemed to Damien that an object was now suspended in the air before them. No. Not an object. A hand. Medium brown in coloring, lightly scarred along one side, with nails that were short and clean with just a hint of silken fabric wrapped about the wrist. Even as they watched it flexed, and the glint of the red stone set on one finger was unmistakable. He didn’t need to see the one Jenseny was holding to know they were one and the same; the knowledge seeped into his brain like a Knowing and stuck there, spawned by the same power that had conjured this vision.

“How?” he whispered. And though the answer was obvious, he could hardly accept it. Jenseny?

And then, suddenly, the vision was gone. Extinguished in a rainbow cascade of light, dissolved into the air once more. The girl’s hand trembled, clutched about her treasure; tears ran freely down her cheeks.

“It was his,” the girl whispered. Her voice was shaking. “He gave it to one of his people, he said.”

“Someone who later ran into the Terata,” Tarrant supplied.

She nodded wildly and sobbed, “I can feel how he died . . .” She gasped suddenly and one hand twitched; Damien guessed that the ring had not been stolen gently, but severed from a living hand.

“It’s not earth-fae she’s drawing on,” Tarrant mused aloud. “Something stronger. Wilder.”

“They killed him,” the girl whispered. “They killed him and they killed my father, and they’ll keep on killing if you don’t stop them!”

Damien saw Hesseth reach out for the child. “If it’s really stronger than the earth-fae—”

“But wild, priest. Remember that. There are forces in this world that can never be tamed—”

“And humans can’t use them because you only think in terms of taming,” Hesseth retorted. “The rakh know that sometimes using a power means submitting to it.” She looked down at Jenseny, now nestled in her arms; her expression was one of awe. “I think she knows that, too,” she whispered.

The girl looked up at them. Her face was streaked by tears and her lower lip was trembling, but her voice was strong as she challenged them, “Take me with you.”

Damien could feel the fury gather about Tarrant like a storm cloud. “Out of the question,” he snapped.

“They killed my father!”

Tarrant ignored her, turned to glare at Damien. “This is your doing, priest. I suggest you find a solution.”

“I want to help you!”

Tarrant stood. He seemed twice as tall in that dusty space, looming over the girl’s head like some spectre the night had conjured. His expression was dark.

“She’s unstable,” he said shortly. “Utterly undisciplined. And I see nothing to indicate that she has any control over the power she uses, or even an understanding of what it is.”

“I know where the Black Lands are!” Jenseny cried out. “And I know the traps there! If you don’t take me with you, you won’t see them, and he’ll kill you!”

For a moment there was silence—a terrible silence, filled to bursting with suspicion and fear and yes, a faint flicker of hope. At last Damien found his voice once more and managed, “What are the Black Lands?”

“Where the Prince lives. The one they call the Undying.” Her tone was defiant now, her wide eyes fixed on Tarrant. Daring him to stop her. “Inside the Wasting. I’ve seen it, I tell you. I could take you through.”

“How?” Tarrant demanded. His voice was like ice. “How do you know all this?”

“I saw . . . pictures.” She was clearly struggling for words now, trying to describe something that defied the confinement of language. “He used to tell me stories, and there would be pictures.”

“Your father drew them for you?” Hesseth asked.

“He didn’t know they were there,” she whispered. “He never saw them.” The tears were running freely now, as grief broke through her air of defiance. “Sometimes when he talked they would be there, and I could see what he was saying. Like I’d been there myself. The Black Lands, and the Wasting, and all the places in the south . . .” Her words trailed off into silence as she lowered her face onto Hesseth’s shoulder. Weeping into the warm golden fur. “I could get you there,” she sobbed. “I could help you make it through!”

“Out of the question,” the Hunter repeated coldly.

Damien was less certain. “If she knows the way—”

“Think about it, priest! Two nations are at war here. The whole coastal region is fortified against invasion. And one Protector goes and visits the heart of the enemy’s territory, right in the midst of all that. Why don’t you ask yourself why, Reverend Vryce. Better yet—why don’t you ask the girl?”

Jenseny pulled away suddenly from Hesseth; her light brown face had gone sallow with fear. “He didn’t mean it!” she cried out. “He wanted to help. He thought he could save them!”

It all came together then in Damien’s mind—her father, the rakh, the bloody invasion . . . The Protector of Kierstaad had bargained with the enemy, and had paid for that treachery with his life. Which meant that inasmuch as any one man could be said to bear the responsibility for the recent invasion, Jenseny’s father was clearly guilty.

My God, thought Damien. Watching as the small girl cringed, clearly in terror of their judgment. What a terrible weight for a young soul to bear.

“I won’t put my life in the hands of a child, priest. Valuable or not, we leave her here.”

“No!” the girl cried out, suddenly panicked. “Not here! Not with the voices!”

“Quiet,” the Hunter breathed, and his words, power-laced, made the very air shiver. “Now.”

Choking, she swallowed back on her fear.

“Look at her!” he demanded. “Do you doubt my judgment now? There’s no place in this mission for a child. You should have known that from the start.”

“I couldn’t leave her there.”

“No? So now what? Do you suggest we start interviewing nursemaids? Every time we stop to talk to a local we increase the risk of detection! Perhaps we should approach an adoption service.”

“Then what do you suggest?” the priest demanded. “You tell me.”

His gaze was like ice as it centered on the girl. “You know what I suggest,” he said coldly. There was death in his voice. “You know what my answer is.”

“No,” the rakh-woman hissed, as his meaning struck her. “You have no right—”

“Ah. Are we back to morals again? Have we so soon forgotten the lesson our enemy taught us—that if we hope to succeed, we must be willing to sacrifice everything? Even that?”

“I don’t remember learning that,” Damien growled. And Hesseth protested, “She’s just a child—”

“And you think I don’t know that? I had children of my own, Mes rakh, have you forgotten? I raised them and I nurtured them, and when they got in my way I killed them. Children are expendable—”

“Two,” Jenseny interjected.

Startled, the Hunter blinked. “What?”

“Two of them,” the girl said. Her thin voice shaking. “You only killed two.”

For a moment he stared at her in amazement. And in fear? Then he whipped about and caught up his pouch, shoving it into a pocket of his tunic. “You found her,” he spat at Damien. “You get rid of her.” It seemed to Damien that there was something else in his tone besides anger now, something far less confident. Was it possible the Hunter was afraid?

And then he was gone, and the door slammed shut behind him. Dust coiled thickly in the yellow light.

“Is that true?” Hesseth asked him. “What she said.”

He looked at the girl—and discovered that he, too, was afraid. Was it truly her power that was wild, or was that a manifestation of her own unstable nature? Was there any safe way to distinguish between the two?

“About what?”

“His children. Not killing them all.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t know. The Church says . . . I don’t know, Hesseth.” Then he looked toward the door, so recently shut behind the Hunter, and muttered, “I’d better go after him.”

“Damien—”

“He’s right, we can’t waste time here.” And we can’t let our party fall apart now, not when we’re almost within striking distance of the enemy.

He grabbed up his jacket and started toward the door, but her voice stopped him.

“That was tidal fae, Damien.”

He turned back, aware that his expression was one of utter disbelief.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded.

“But humans can’t-” He couldn’t finish. The mere thought of it was too incredible.

“Maybe now they can,” she said quietly. She had drawn the child to her again, was stroking the long dark hair with half-sheathed claws. “Maybe your species is adapting to this world at last. Once upon a time your people couldn’t see or work the earth-fae at all; now human adepts take those skills for granted. Maybe the fae can alter humans, after all—but only slowly, over the course of generations.”

A chill ran up his spine,. If the fae was capable of changing humanity like it changed the native species . . . he looked at Hesseth’s half-human form, at her oh-so-human features, and shivered. What if adaptation to this world meant giving up the very things that made them human? What if the price of universal Sight was the loss of their human heritage?

He couldn’t afford to think about that. Now now. That was a whole new domain of fear, and he had enough to deal with. He reached for his sword, then decided not to take it. Too conspicuous. He grabbed up a hunting knife instead and tucked it inside his sleeve, where no stranger would notice it. “Keep her in here,” he warned. “Keep her quiet.”

“Don’t leave me,” the girl whispered.

He looked at her—and knew then and there that Tarrant was right, that the risk involved in taking her with them was incalculable, that she might well cost them all their lives . . . but she knew the way. She had seen the Black Lands. Wasn’t it less risky to take her along than to go on that journey blind, feeling their way along trap by trap, danger by danger? Suddenly he didn’t know. Suddenly he wasn’t sure of anything.

“I’ll be back,” he muttered. And he shut the door firmly behind him as he committed himself to the Hunter’s trail.

Cool night. Heavy air, dank with the smell of fish and mildew and human refuse. He breathed in deeply, as if somehow he could catch the Hunter’s scent. A whore stumbled past him, muttering a drunken apology as she banged her shoulder against a brick wall. A young man came over to help her and they moved off together, laughing at some crude sexual innuendo he had improvised. The life of the city, Damien mused. Any city. In the end they were all the same.

He leaned back against the coarse brick of the hotel’s facade, all too aware of how well he fit in with the natives here. I’ll buy a clean shirt first thing in the morning, he promised himself, fingering one spot on his elbow where the heavy linen was wearing through. Clean pants. A change of underwear.

God! What a sad luxury . . .

When he was sure that no one was watching him, he relaxed against the building, half-shutting his eyes as he fought to concentrate. Although there was a channel established between him and Tarrant, he had never before tried to access it, or to use it for his own purposes. On a certain level it bothered him to do so, for there was certainly an unspoken agreement between himself and the Hunter that neither of them would use that channel for a Working except by mutual agreement. To hell with that, he thought grimly. He tried to sense that tenuous link, tried to grab hold of it with his mind and lend it some real solidity. It wasn’t easy. A channel wasn’t a thing in itself, simply a path of least resistance for the fae to follow. It took him some time to figure out what it felt like and an even longer time to become sensitive to its messages. Where is he? he demanded of it. Trying to sense its strength, its direction, its tenor. How far? He received no answer in words, nor in images as such, but had a vague feeling of which way to go. Good enough. He started off down the narrow street, and just in time; a head peeking out of a third-floor window warned him that he had been noticed, and no doubt if he had stayed in place a few minutes longer some kind of local policeman would have stopped by to see what he wanted. And that . . .

Would have been the end of it, he thought. Chilled by the image the Hunter had raised, of a whole city primed for ambush. If they didn’t get out of here soon, he realized, they might never get out of here at all.

He followed Tarrant’s trail through the heart of the slums, feeling the flow of earth-fae along the channel that bound them and guiding his steps by its direction. Past the crowded slums of the city’s center, past the tightly packed houses of its outer districts, past the wider lawns and whitewashed walls of a richer residential neighborhood at its border . . . at first he was afraid that the Hunter might have gone out to kill, to slake his fury in a brutal bloodletting, but now he knew better. If Tarrant had gone this far without feeding, then he was after something else. Escape. Solitude. Silence within and without him, in which to gather his thoughts. In which to regain control.

There were wraiths outside the city borders as well as more solid demonlings, enough of the latter to make him sorry that he hadn’t brought his sword along. The price of traveling with Tarrant (he thought as he dispatched one particularly nasty winged thing, which had managed to dig its claws into his shoulder before he gutted it with a back-swipe of the hunting knife) was that you tended to forget such things existed. They sure as hell didn’t manifest in the Hunter’s presence.

Which was how he found Tarrant, eventually. Like a child playing warm—and-cold, he went in the direction where the creatures seemed most scarce, until he came to a place where there were none at all. A few steps more brought him over a broken ridge, to a place where a steep mound of boulders lay piled against a vertical wall of sheer granite. Tarrant stood at the pinnacle of the mound, his dark nature devouring the night’s power before any wraith or demonling could make use of it. In the distance, barely visible from that vantage point, the sea cast white-capped waves against a jagged granite island; in the stillness of the night it was just possible to hear the surf.

When the Hunter made no move to descend, Damien sheathed his knife and climbed up after him. When he reached the top, the Hunter didn’t look at him, or otherwise stir to acknowledge his presence, but he said—very softly—“Your shoulder is infected.”

With a soft curse Damien sat, and he worked a quick Healing to cleanse and close his wounds.

The delicate nostrils flared, sifting the night air for scents. “The rest of the blood?”

“Just scratches,” Damien assured him. Then: “There’s a lot of nasty stuff in this region.”

“Local constructs can’t feed inside the city. Therefore they gather outside the gates and wait for food to come to them.”

His eyes remained fixed on the south. Looking for signs of the enemy, or simply watching the sea? His profile, outlined against the moonlight, was a chill and perfect mask. So utterly controlled, Damien thought. Every hair in place. Every inch of skin spotless and smooth. And cold, so cold. No wonder mere sunlight could kill him.

“Is it true?” Damien asked quietly.

“What?”

“What she said about your children. That you didn’t kill them all.”

His voice was a whisper, hardly louder than the breeze. “Don’t you know?”

“I thought I did. Now I wonder.”

“What do the Church’s texts say?”

“That you killed your family. Murdered your children and dismembered your wife. Just that.”

“Just that,” he repeated softly. As if the phrase amused him.

“Is it?” he pressed.

The Hunter sighed. “My oldest son was gone that night. Staying at a neighbor’s, as I recall. I didn’t consider his presence important enough to justify my going after him.”

“The other deaths were enough for you.”

The pale eyes fixed on him, sparkling like cracked ice in the moonlight. “They were enough to establish my compact,” he said. “That was all I required.”

“And that’s it?”

He looked away again, gazed at the distant sea. “That’s it, priest. The whole story. You may add it to your texts, if you like. No doubt the Church will benefit from the correction.”

For a moment he could hardly respond, just stood there in amazement. Then: “You’re full of shit, you know that?” When the Hunter said nothing, he pressed, “You’re asking me to believe that one of your children just happened to be elsewhere that night? The most important Working of your whole damned life and you didn’t plan it well enough to keep all your victims together?” He spat on the stony ground. “How gullible do you think I am?”

The Hunter chuckled darkly. “So you tell me.”

“I think you wanted him alive. I think that vanity is your one weakness, and this time you couldn’t let go. The Tarrant line was something you’d created and you couldn’t resist the temptation to see what he would do with it all—the land, the power, the title—once you were gone. No mercy involved, Hunter—just another one of your precious experiments, to add to all the others.” When Tarrant didn’t respond, he pressed, “Well? Am I right?”

The silver eyes fixed on him—disdainful, forbidding. “Why did you come here?” he demanded.

He answered quietly, “Hesseth says the girl’s using the tidal fae.”

He heard Tarrant’s response, an indrawn hiss. “So. Humanity adapts to that power, at last.”

“You don’t sound very surprised.”

“Longevity gives one a special perspective, Reverend Vryce. I was born in an era when adepts were rare, and I’ve watched their ranks increase with each new generation. Yet few of us have children of our own, and the Sight is rarely inherited. So what other explanation is there? This planet is changing us, bringing us in line with all the native species. But the tidal fae . . . that’s something else entirely.”

He shook his head, folding his arms across his chest. It was a strangely human gesture. Strangely vulnerable. “That night . . .” he whispered.

Damien didn’t have to ask which night. There was only one that mattered.

“I thought that night . . . if our enemy were Iezu . . . dear God.” Tarrant’s self-embrace tightened as he leaned back against the rock behind him. Remembering? “We had no chance, you understand. Not against one of that clan. Not against a demon who could turn our own senses against us.” He drew in a deep breath, slowly. “So I thought . . .”

The words trailed off into silence. In the distance surf rumbled, and the distant roar of thunder warned of a storm closing in. Or passing by.

“No good,” he whispered. “It’s no good.”

“What?”

Tarrant shook his head. Lightning shot over the ocean, a distant spark. “I thought there wasn’t a demon I couldn’t handle in open combat, but a Iezu . . . that changes all the rules.”

“What you’re saying is that we need the girl.”

Slowly, as if every word were being weighed and considered before it was spoken, he answered, “Her vision is extraordinary, and seems to pierce through Iezu illusion. I suppose that if we were to continue our intended course, then one might believe we could benefit from that.”

“Which means what?” he demanded. The compound conditionals made his head spin. “She comes, or no?”

“If you wish,” the Hunter whispered.

And that was so unlike him that Damien just stopped speaking altogether and stared at the man. Wondering why his sudden complacency scared him more than all the threats, all the anger. Wondering why he suddenly had the sinking feeling that the very rules he’d been playing by had been changed, only no one would tell him what the new rules were. Or when they had been instituted.

“Your call, Reverend Vryce.” Lightning flashed across the southern sky. “It’s your expedition, your quest . . . your call.”

Thunder rumbled across the sea.

“All right,” Damien said. “We take her with us. And since it’s the tidal fae she’s using, maybe Hesseth can teach her how to control it.”

“The rakh can’t Work for strangers,” Tarrant reminded him. “Otherwise Hesseth could serve us herself, and we wouldn’t need the child at all. As I recall, the plains rakh can only Work for their own kin.”

He thought of the small girl nestled against Hesseth’s fur, of the long claws cleaning and combing her hair with loving precision. “Somehow I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

More lightning flashed. Damien counted eight seconds, then thunder rumbled. The storm was moving in.

“I told you where to find Ran Moskovan,” the Hunter told him, “and I can tell you what the odds are that he’ll help us, without turning us in. Not much more than that.”

“The time you wrote down. That’s for tonight?

“That, or tomorrow. Your choice. After that he’ll be gone.”

For gone, read south. The enemy’s turf.

“Two days,” he muttered. Already it seemed too long to be staying in this place. He looked up at Tarrant and asked him, “Alone?”

“Your call, Reverend Vryce.”

The priest sighed. “You know, you were a lot easier to deal with when you were nasty.”

It seemed to him that the Hunter smiled. “You’d better start back now, priest. There’s rain coming, in quantity.” As if in illustration of his point a bright spear of lightning cut across the sky. Thunder followed almost immediately.

“Gerald.”

Startled by his use of the familiar address, the Hunter looked down at him.

The words caught in his throat; he had to force them out. “If you really think we can’t win here . . . if you think there’s no chance at all . . . then tell me. In those words.”

“And then what? You’ll give it up and go home?”

“I came here to risk my life for a cause. Not to waste it away in some suicidal exercise. That benefits no one.” He waited for a response, but when the Hunter was not forthcoming he pressed, “I may not care much for your lifestyle, but I do value your judgment. You know that. So if you tell me that we don’t have a chance of success here—not any chance at all—I’ll reconsider our mission.”

“And turn back?”

“Well . . .” He coughed. “Let’s say I’d look for some other way to attack this mess.”

Silence.

“Well?”

“There is a chance,” the Hunter whispered. “A very slim chance, but it’s there. And the girl’s presence might cost you dearly, but it will also confound your enemies. Only time can tell whom that will serve most in the end.”

He felt something unknot deep in his gut, something cold and hard and—yes—scared. For the first time in several long minutes he dared to draw in a deep breath. “That’s enough, then.” Who would have thought such a tenuous judgment could give him such a sense of relief? “Thank you.”

A cold drop hit him on the head then, and another on his arm. The faint patter of raindrops sounded from nearer the shore, coming their way.

He almost didn’t ask it. Almost.

“How much did they offer?”

A raindrop splattered on the light brown hair. “Ten thousand for you, Reverend Vryce. Five thousand for Mes Hesseth. Two thousand for any other poor soul who happened to be accompanying you at the time the reward was claimed.”

He thought of the child and his stomach tightened. “Dead? Alive? What?”

“Only dead,” the Hunter said quietly. “They have, as you see, no interest in detaining you. Only in removing you from the picture.” The pale eyes fixed on him. “You’d better start back now. It’s a long walk, and there’s rain coming.”

“And you?”

“I can take care of myself,” he assured him. And added, somewhat soberly, “I always do.”

But Damien didn’t move right away. For a moment he just stayed where he was, watching the man. Wondering at the past that Tarrant had revealed to him.

His descendants may still be alive, he realized. A whole Tarrant clan, sired by this demonic pride, baptised in sacrificial slaughter. Dear God! To live and die under such a shadow . . . What would that do to a child, to come and face such a thing? What mark would it leave to the generations that followed? I shiver just to think of it.

Then the rain came down in earnest, and he scrambled down the slippery rocks to more solid ground. Tarrant was invisible behind a veil of water, lost glistening darkness. If he was there at all. If he somehow found shelter in that last dry instant.

Like I should have done, Damien chided himself, started the long, wet walk back to his companions.

32

The Matria of Esperanova didn’t like to keep her Regent waiting. The other humans were only so much flotsam to her—she would leave them waiting for hours without a second thought—but this Regent was a special case. She had carefully nurtured their relationship down through the years, and now she had no doubt that if a puddle suddenly appeared in front of her, he would throw himself down bodily in the mud and the water so that, by treading on his back, she might keep her silk shoes dry. She even felt a vaguely maternal protectiveness toward him sometimes, like one might feel for a starving kitten, a puppy lost in the rain . . . or a pet. Yes, that’s what Kinsei Donnel was. A pet.

She hated to keep him waiting, but the tides weren’t being cooperative today. She had already tried twice to put on her disguise, but the sluggish tidal force wouldn’t vouchsafe her enough power to whip up half a human nose, much less a whole convincing face. For many long minutes she struggled with it, and then, just as she was ready to throw up her claws in frustration, the power flickered into existence briefly in the air surrounding her. Not much, but it was good enough. She molded it with a practiced touch, and used it to weave a mask over her features that no human could see through. There wasn’t enough power to mask her rakhene scent as well, but that was all right. The humans never noticed it anyway.

Frustrated by the delay, she walked quickly to her receiving chamber to welcome the Regent. Like most Matrias she kept the better part of her body hidden, swathed in the robes and headdress of her calling, and that kept the effort of disguise down to a minimum. Nevertheless, there had been times when the power had failed her utterly and she had been forced to slough her illusory features before the appointed time. Usually she had managed to get to some private space before that happened, but once a human servant had been with her and she hadn’t thought to send him away until the change had already begun. She’d had him killed, of course. Some religious excuse. Heresy? Possession? She couldn’t remember. The man had seen her true self emerge, and so he had died. Finita.

Human religions were so useful.

Some of the Matrias went so far as to cultivate a quasi-human appearance, tinting their facial fur to a more human shade or even shaving it off entirely. The closer you came to looking like a human in fact, the easier it was to conjure an illusion to complete the facade. But this Matria had never been able to bring herself to do it. Humanity was a repellent species, and sometimes the only thing that got her through the day was knowing that at night—in her secret locked chamber, where no human being had ever set foot—she might cast off that hated visage along with her robes and truly relax, resplendent in fur and the features that Erna had blessed her with.

And the smell, she thought, as a human servant passed by her in the hall. The sharp, sour stink of his species stung her nose, and she grimaced in distaste. Don’t forget the smell.

Reception chamber. Small and informal, with a minimum of religious clutter. The kind of room you used when you wanted to communicate to someone that his relationship with you had taken on a truly personal air, that he was—in your eyes—a Special Person. It was the kind of gesture that humans reveled in, and she had used it time and again as positive reinforcement for her well-trained Regent.

Stupid animals, she thought, as she opened the alteroak doors.

Kinsei Donnel was inside waiting, and as usual there was no surprise involved in greeting him. Familiar eyes in a nondescript face, faintly bovine. Limpid expression, also bovine. A faint aura of excitement about him today, which she could have read if the power were stronger. That intrigued her; Esperanova’s Regent rarely got excited.

“Kinsei,” she purred.

He came to her and dropped to one knee, that he might kiss her hand in adoration. “Your Holiness.”

“This is an unexpected surprise.” He got to his feet slowly and clumsily, not unlike a cow who had been knocked over in its sleep. “What brings you here?”

The limpid eyes glittered with rare animation. “They found them,” he told her. “Here. In Esperanova.”

“Who?”

“The strangers. From Mercia. The westerners,” he clarified, voicing the title with awe.

She felt her heartbeat quicken, and her claws unsheathed reflexively; she was glad that the same illusion which guarded her face would mask that extremity as well. “Tell me.”

“Selkirst found them. You remember him, freelance out of Justa? Seems he staked out the moneychangers and a couple of jewelers, figuring if the westerners came here they’d need some local cash. Because they’d lost a horse in Kierstaad, he explained, and maybe a third of their supplies with it. So he had his men staked out by those places, told them what to look for but not why.”

Of course, she thought dryly. Wouldn’t want to share the reward with them. “Go on.”

“He saw the priest. That is, one of his men did. He fit the description and all, real travel-worn, bearded but otherwise just like your posting said. The man followed him from a jeweler’s to a hunting supply, then to a grocery. Checked up on his purchases later, and they all fit the profile. Dried stuff, high-cal nutrient supplements and such. Vitamins.”

“Weapons?”

He shook his head. “Clothing, mostly. Mess kit, field razor, canteen. Travel gear.”

With effort she made her claws retract. “Verda,” she whispered. “So it’s our city, is it? Verda ben. We’re ready for them.”

“Do you want me to pick them up?”

“Was the woman with him?”

His brow furrowed deeply as he thought about that. “No. I don’t think so.”

“What about the horses?”

He hesitated; clearly neither he nor his informant was too sure what a horse was. “I don’t think so, Holiness.”

She managed to suppress her growing irritation. “Where is he now?”

“Selkirst said he was staying at a hotel in the tenderloin. Budget Hourly. His men are watching the place. But . . .”

He seemed to hesitate then, so she urged him, “Go on.”

“It’s just . . . he said they questioned the proprietor. To find out if the woman was there, to confirm it. But it was odd, he said. Like the man didn’t even know who was staying there.”

“Given the establishment,” she said dryly, “that’s no great surprise.” But even as she spoke the words, she felt something deep inside herself tighten—something primitive and bestial and very, very hungry. Our prey is a sorcerer, she told herself. And: That makes the hunt more interesting.

She had hunted a human once, in the Black Lands, long before she came north for this assignment. Sometimes she sorely missed those days. The freedom. The exhilaration. The sharp scent of hatred stirring free her rakhene blood. And now the fugitives were here, in Esperanova. Her city. It was a pale shadow of that former hunt, but it was the best she was going to get. Her claws flexed at the thought.

“All right,” she said. “Get your people on it. Have them put the building under watch, twenty-four hours a day. But no move is to be made while the man’s inside, ken verda? It’s vital.”

“I understand,” he said. His expression said that yes, he’d obey, but no, he didn’t really understand.

“We need them both, Kinsei. The woman, too. If we take the man now and she isn’t with him . . .” You can’t break a sorcerer for information, an inner voice warned. Not with claws.

No, she answered. But you can have fun trying. “If she’s not with him, then follow him. Discreetly. I want them both.”

“And if she is?”

“Instruct your men to wait until they’re out in the open. I don’t want any innocent bystanders hurt. Wait for open ground, then strike.”

“You want them taken?”

“I want them killed, Kinsei. I want their bodies brought here. I want to see proof of their death with my own eyes.”

He coughed raggedly. “What if . . . there are others?”

“Besides the priest and the woman?”

“Yeah. What if there’s someone else with them?”

She smiled then, remembering an Earth saying that she had once heard. From one of Earth’s many religious wars.

It had stuck in her mind ever since, a sterling sample of human reasoning.

“Their God will know His own,” she purred. “Let Him sort them out.”

33

They left before sunset. The tides wouldn’t be right for travel until well after dusk—so Moskovan assured them—but Damien wanted to get moving while the daylight crowds were still in the streets. This city might be relatively free of faeborn dangers, but its people generally still kept to a daylight schedule. Human instinct. It would certainly play in their favor now; crowded city streets offered a cover that no mere Working could rival. No matter how well it was worked, an Obscuring was only as effective as the environment allowed. And as Damien’s teachers had never ceased to stress, it was far easier to get yourself lost in the multiple distractions of a crowd than it was to conjure up invisibility when there wasn’t a distraction in sight.

Not that he’d been able to Work much anyway. There had been tremors only an hour ago, barely strong enough to feel—but the fae bad been like wildfire when he’d tried to use it, and he’d had to back off before the job was really perfect. If only they’d had another hour to let the power cool down, to resume its accustomed course . . . but there was no point in complaining about that now. You made do with what you had when you had it, and tried to be grateful for all the times that the fae had been workable when you needed it most.

Tarrant could have Worked it, he thought. But there was still enough light in the sky that Tarrant couldn’t possibly join them yet. God alone knew where he was, or what manner of shelter he currently occupied. Damien found himself praying that the Hunter was safe. Without shame this time, and without regret. Because while they had little chance of success in their mission as things stood right now, they would have no chance at all without the Hunter’s power behind them.

They hurried down the narrow streets, trying to match the pace of the crowd, anxious to get where they were going. The girl struggled along beside them, her hand entwined in Hesseth’s, her face pale and drawn. It said much for her courage that she was doing as well as she was; Damien knew that the sounds and sensations which accosted her were nigh on overwhelming, and that it took all her strength to shut them out and keep going. So far she was doing well enough. Soon they would be out of this crime-ridden district and in a quieter quarter, and perhaps that would help. He hoped so, for her sake. He could almost feel her pain.

Then he heard Hesseth hiss softly beside him, a sound meant for his ears and his ears only. Without breaking stride or looking directly at her, he whispered, “What is it?”

“Footsteps. Behind us. Matching our pace. They’ve been there for a while,” she added.

Damien took a minute to listen. The noise of the crowd about them was chaotic—workers traipsing home for the night, mothers screaming at dawdling children, conversational snippets appearing and disappearing on all sides of them—and he found that his merely human ears couldn’t focus on the one noise he wanted. He braced himself and muttered the key to a Working. Power surged up through his body with such force that he wondered if he might not have taken on more than he could handle, but a moment later it subsided; the earth-fae released by the tremors was quieting down at last.

He made sure that his feet kept moving while he fashioned the Knowing, careful not to break his stride. Such a Working did not require total immersion in the currents, which gave him some hope of managing it. Carefully, gingerly, he touched his will to the surging earth-fae. Barely brushing its surface with his thoughts, but that was enough: the power was like wildfire. He tried to Work it, focusing on sound rather than vision, to detect that one special rhythm which Hesseth had noted. He heard Jenseny gasp as the Working took shape—clearly she could feel it happening—but a hand on her shoulder was enough to warn her to stay quiet. She was learning.

Now he heard it. Not one pair of footsteps but two, perhaps ten yards back from them. His Knowing broke down the rhythms of the crowd into several ordered patterns, and he could hear how much those two stood out. Too fast. Too hard. Too determined, for this meandering crowd. He slowed down a bit, motioned for Hesseth to follow suit. The footsteps kept their distance. He speeded up—gradually, hoping they wouldn’t note the deliberate pattern in his movements—and they speeded up also, so that they were neither closer nor farther behind. At last he exhaled heavily and let the Knowing fade.

“Damien?” the rakh-woman whispered.

“We’re in trouble,” he whispered back.

They were coming out of the tenderloin district now, into an area of nicer housing and wider streets. It was a good bet the crowds would thin out here, leaving them without that precious shield. That’s what their pursuers were waiting for, he realized. An open field, devoid of innocent targets. A clean line of fire.

“God of Earth,” he muttered. And he steered them eastward, even as he prayed.

Not now, he thought feverishly. Please. Not like this. We have too much to do. Please don’t let them stop us now.

If he had prayed to a pagan god, perhaps it would have answered. Perhaps, for a favored son, it would have staged a truly divine rescue, complete with pyrotechnics and a choir of demons. Certainly Tarrant’s Iezu seemed to have the power and the temperament to stage such a thing. But the price of changing the world through faith was that one had to forgo such convenient spectacles, and it was with heavy heart and a trembling hand that Damien steered his companions away from their intended path, into the heart of the factory district.

Here long, featureless buildings housed the manpower that had made Esperanova a city to be reckoned with. Here young men and women—and sometimes children, despite the labor laws—picked among baskets of freshly prospected gems, choosing those whose color or brilliance held especial promise. Here slender hands refined the stones one by one, not only the larger, prouder specimens but rubies as fine as dust, diamonds as delicate as powder. For some techniques only a child’s hand would do; those of an adult were simply too large and clumsy to manage the requisite manipulation. In other buildings precious metals were melted, blended, and cast into myriad decorative forms for sale in the northern cities. Fine steel blades were forged and whetted. Wood was whittled into furniture as smooth as glass. Esperanova’s wealth was based upon her labor force, and the western quarter of the city was a maze of factory complexes, large and small. All of which, without exception, would soon be closing for the night.

The streets were almost empty when they arrived, which was good cause for panic. He had taken a chance in coming here—a big one—and for a moment he feared he had gambled too much. He could almost feel Hesseth’s eyes on him as he guided them through the labyrinthine district, questioning his purpose in bringing them to such a place. Maybe even questioning his sanity. For a short while he wondered about that himself, as he herded his party from street to street, trying to avoid those streets and alleys which were truly deserted. It was getting harder and harder.

And then, without warning, a whistle split the dusky air. He felt Jenseny’s hand tense up in his own, and he squeezed it once in reassurance. For a moment he could only wait, praying that his assessment of the situation was sound. The people surrounding them had thinned out long minutes ago, which meant there wasn’t much cover left. Already he could feel the back of his neck begin to crawl, as if in response to some springbolt or firearm which was aimed at that spot-

Then they came. In twos and threes at first, and then in a herd. A swarm. Women and children and young boys and older men, red-eyed and tired and anxious to wend their way through the maze of factory streets, until they got to wherever home might be. A boundless, shapeless mass of people, who comprised by their mere presence the greatest Obscuring of all. He exhaled heavily in relief as the crowd enveloped them, sensing the potential for safety in their numbers. He felt Jenseny tense as all those new psyches battered her, as she shared their memories and their fears and . . . who knew what else? He made sure he had a firm hold on her hand and dragged her forward, muttering a key under his breath as he did so. It was hard to concentrate in the midst of such a stampede, but he had no illusions about the task: his very life depended on it. And so he wove a Working even while strangers shouldered into him from the right and the left, even while he had to pull Jenseny close against him to keep the flood tide of humanity from sweeping her away, even while he had to watch for Hesseth’s coiffed head and make sure that it, too, was within safe distance.

He needed an Obscuring. A powerful Obscuring, that drew on the very nature of human distraction for its strength. For while a single grain of sand might be observed upon a granite plain (his teacher would have argued), in the midst of a sand dune it was all but invisible. So it would be with them, now. If Damien could hold onto the power—if he could channel it right—they should be able to distract their pursuers long enough to lose them. Nothing obscures a clear trail, Damien’s teacher would have insisted, better than a thousand other footprints. He hoped to hell the man was right.

The earth-fae was still hot, shrill to the touch, hard to mold. He felt an unaccustomed sweat break out on his forehead as he plunged into it, struggling to break it to his will. It would have been difficult under the best of circumstances; done while walking, knocked about by this indifferent crowd, it was all but impossible. Once Hesseth had to urge him forward with a touch in order to keep him moving; he had instinctively turned inside himself as sorcerers were wont to do, shutting out all awareness not directly connected to his Working. Such behavior was a luxury here and now, and he was glad she had awakened him. Already several of the people nearby were looking at him strangely, which was the last thing he needed. He picked up his pace again, letting the motion of the crowd carry him along. No time now to focus on footsteps, or wonder where those two pair were; it took all he had to concentrate on the flow of the earth-power, to wrestle it into subservience. And then . . . yes. There it was. The current shifted itself beneath his touch and began to reform. He held his breath, trying to stabilize it. A child running through the crowd barreled into his legs, but he barely felt it; his Working was the only thing real to him, the hot earth-fae and the dripping sweat and the pain that lanced through his limbs like needles as he struggled to tame the wild power that flowed about his feet. He no longer even knew if he was walking, and he barely knew where he was; only the power mattered now, the surging flow which the quakeling had released. Only the Obscuring mattered.

And then it was done. He let his Vision fade—and staggered for a moment, blinded by its afterimage. Hesseth tried to pull him along, but he put out a hand to stop her, and he caught up the child before the crowd could sweep her away.

“It’s done,” he gasped. He nodded toward the nearest wall. “Get out. Now.”

She understood immediately, and together they managed to get themselves and the child over to the wall, and away from press of flesh. Jenseny was shivering, clearly terrified, but at least she was still with them. Still standing. That was something, wasn’t it? Damien leaned against the brick wall and breathed deeply, trying to calm himself. It was done. It had worked. Any minute now their pursuers would be passing them by, eyes fixed firmly on the crowds ahead, unaware that their prey had turned aside. And then they would be safe for a while. Maybe long enough. One could only hope.

“What did you do?” the girl whispered. Frightened to speak but too curious to remain silent. “What happened?”

“I caused them to be distracted,” he whispered back. He probably could have spoken aloud in utter safety, but why push his luck? “When they try to see us, they’ll wind up watching other people, until it’s too late.”

“How long will it last?” Hesseth asked.

He sighed, and rubbed his temples. “Long enough. If we keep to crowded areas, we should be able to make it to the harbor unnoticed; that much’ll stay with us.”

“And then?”

He shut his eyes and allowed himself the luxury of a long, deep breath. An Obscuring like this was a touchy thing, and a thousand and one variables affected it. But one thing mattered more than any other. One single element could be their undoing.

“That depends,” he said quietly, “on if they’re expecting us.”

Night falling. Harbor shadowed. Perfect time for an ambush.

“There they are.”

From behind the bulk of a storage shed—corrugated tin, mottled with rust—the Regent’s soldiers took the measure of their prey. Tucked away in the shadow of the shed they were nearly invisible. Perfect.

“Now?” A soldier whispered, but their leader shook his head: No. Not yet.

There were few enough people on the wharf now that it was possible to make out the strangers clearly. The priest, coarsely dressed, with no sign of rank or vocation other than the sturdy sword harnessed across his back. The woman, lithe and mysterious, swathed in such layers of wool as were reserved for church tradition. And a child, thin and fearful, whose dark eyes swept over the piers again and again, as if searching for something to be afraid of. Her thick dark hair coiled like snakes over her shoulder, and she twisted its ends in her fingers as she gazed at shadows of the harbor.

“Who’s the kid?” Charrel demanded, his voice a hoarse whisper in the darkness.

“Doesn’t matter,” their leader told him. “You know our orders.”

They began to move. Slowly at first, like pack animals testing the ground for solidity. Slipping from shadow to shadow, silent as men could be, their dark clothing all but invisible in the thick, gloomy dusk. Their quarry hadn’t seen them yet, which was good. If they could manage to surround them before they responded-

And then the child looked at them. Straight at them, her dark eyes piercing through the shadows like lances. Her mouth fell open and she trembled violently, momentarily unable to respond to what she had seen. It would only last an instant, the leader guessed, and he was gesturing for one of his men to fire just as a family group wandered across the wharf, fouling the line of fire. He cursed under his breath and hissed, “Fan out! Contain them!” Even as the girl moved. Even as she warned her companions about the danger that was closing in on them, and they began to run.

Damn! The officer thought, holding his weapon close to his side as he moved out into the open. Running now, his hand clenched tightly about the pistol’s grip. Damn! The people on the wharf got out of his way when they saw him coming—as they’d damned well better—but it wasn’t soon enough, it couldn’t possibly be soon enough, the fugitives were running toward the nearest crowd and would soon be lost among them, damn it!

And then he saw one of his men cut them off, herding them back into the open. The child stumbled, and the priest caught her up in his arms. That slowed them. They were approaching a part of the harbor where business was slow, and the crowds that had served them as shelter were thinning. The leader pushed his way by an old woman, nearly trampling a child in his haste. The Regent had said that the fugitives would be boarding a free merchanter, but that wasn’t the direction they were heading in now; he could only assume that the Regent’s source of intelligence had been mistaken, that they hoped to make it to one of the great passenger ships docked at the west end of the harbor, now drawing in their gangplanks to catch the departing tide. Well, you won’t get there, he swore silently, and he pushed for even greater speed. You won’t get past this harbor alive.

And then there was an opening. Charrel had the clearest shot, and fired first; a crossbow quarrel lanced across the space between them and speared through the child’s thigh. She spasmed in the priest’s arm and screamed, and for a moment it seemed to her pursuer that a brilliant light, blood-red, enveloped her body. Then an elderly couple moved out of the way—at last!—and he fired, he held up the pistol and pulled on the trigger and felt the explosive power take root in his hand, to send death plummeting through the air with a force no crossbow could rival. The soft lead pellet missed the priest by inches but took the woman in her side, and she fell; red blood exploded across the white of her robe as she fell to her knees, and

—and—

—and—

His vision wavered. He staggered as though struck, dimly aware that sorcery was the cause. Trying to fight the effect. It seemed to him that the three figures were blurring, as in a drawing whose edges had been erased. Giving up their color, their form, to meld into the twilight. He shook his head desperately, hoping that his men were holding on. He couldn’t lose them now, not when they were so close to triumph. He squinted into the shadowy air as he lined up the second pellet in the gun’s chamber, as he aligned the second priming. It wasn’t that they were becoming invisible, so much as . . . changing. Yes. That was it. The girl’s dark hair becoming a tangle of blond curls, the priest’s formidable bulk shrinking to the middle-aged potbelly of a henpecked bureaucrat, the woman’s robe becoming mere housewife’s garb, blood-spattered . . .

“My God,” he whispered.

And he lowered his gun.

And he stared.

They were cringing now, terrified of him and his men, but they needn’t have been. Not now. Because he knew in his gut as he gazed at them that these faces were the real ones. Not what he had seen before. Not what he had fired at.

He looked about wildly, as if somewhere on the wharf an explanation would be waiting. What he saw, in the distance, was a merchanter setting sail. White canvas leaves dropping to catch the wind, angled sails billowing in the stiff southerly breeze. He struggled to make out the flag that topped the mizzenmast, and when he did he cursed. He knew that symbol, all too well. He had studied it in the Regent’s chamber only hours before.

“What is it?” came a voice at his shoulder. One of his men. “What happened?”

He turned back, saw one of his soldiers tending to the wounded. Trying to comfort the innocent victims, in a voice that must be shaking with fear. He felt that fear himself, like a knot in his gut.

“We vulked up,” he muttered. “We vulked it up good.”

In the distance, safely out of reach, the Desert Queen made for the open sea.

Not until they were safely out of the harbor did Damien feel the knot in his own gut loosen up. Not until the lights of the city were so low on the horizon that a passing wave might swallow them up, and the granite arms that reached out from the mainland to the harbor were all but invisible in the fading light, did he feel that he could relax.

Soft golden Corelight washed over the deck as he made his way to where Tarrant stood and it picked out jeweled highlights on the water beyond. About and above them the sailors scurried to make the most of what the wind had to offer, and Damien had no doubt that if the wind held in their favor the Desert Queen was capable of outrunning—and probably outmaneuvering—any possible pursuit. Wasn’t that the one capacity a smuggler needed most?

“I can’t believe we made it,” Hesseth was saying as he joined them. The girl was by her side, her arm around the rakh-woman’s waist. “I can’t believe there was no one watching for us.”

“They were watching,” Tarrant said quietly.

Damien looked up at him—delicate profile haloed in gold, eyes as dark and as secretive as the sea—and demanded, “So what happened?”

The Hunter shrugged; his eyes remained fixed on the sea. “They must have been misled, somehow.” A faint smile ghosted across his lips, then was gone. “Perhaps they followed the wrong trail. Perhaps they attacked the wrong people.”

A cold, sick feeling stirred in Damien’s gut. He had to force the word out. “Simulacra?”

“Perhaps,” the Hunter murmured.

Sickness transmuted into sudden anger. He grasped the man by the arm, closing his finger angrily about flesh no warmer than ice. “Do we have to leave a trail of blood behind us?” he demanded. “Does every victory have to cost some innocent his life?”

The dark eyes turned on him with gentle disdain. “You’ve made your feeling on that point rather clear, Reverend Vryce.” With his free hand he plucked Damien’s own from his arm, handling it like one would a child’s. “As it happened, I didn’t kill them. Nor do I think that our enemies will. I gave them, as you would have wanted, a fair chance. Even though that increased the risk to us all.”

For a moment Damien was utterly speechless. “But . . . if the enemy thinks they’re us—”

“That illusion faded as soon as we were safely under sail, priest. Not the safety margin I would have preferred, but obviously it will have to do.”

He turned to go then—to seek out some private niche on the tiny vessel, no doubt, some shadow he could claim for himself—but Damien challenged him, “You spared their lives?”

The Hunter turned back to him; a sparkle of dry humor glinted in his eyes. “In all probability, yes.”

“For what reason?” He couldn’t imagine Tarrant motivated by human compassion.

“For the best of reasons,” the Neocount assured him. “Because I knew that if they died I would have to spend the better part of this voyage hearing about it.” And he added, with gentle maliciousness, “Verda?”

34

The Sea of Dreams, it was called.

It was dark. It was cold. It was turbulent and deadly. Eastern and western waters met with a clash above a sea floor studded with mounts and mountains, driven by a system of tides that revealed new hazards with every passing hour. Or concealed them, just as swiftly. In places there were obstacles so close to the surface that the currents parted around them, rippling with whitewater ferocity. In others there were pools where chance had turned the currents aside, so that in the midst of chaos one might find a circle of water as smooth as glass, a surreal arrangement that might last only seconds, or perhaps as long as hours. It was rumored that somewhere in the midst of the Sea of Dreams lay a vast pool of untroubled water, where even the wind had ceased to blow. After more than an hour on board the Desert Queen, Damien was ready to believe it.

Here the Novatlantic Ocean, fifty feet higher than its eastern neighbor, plunged through the rocky gap which nature had supplied, dashing its waves upon numerous obstacles as it churned its way east. Here the cold currents of the antarctic region met the warm waters of the tropics with whirlpool ferocity, raising a mist that gathered about the peaked granite islands, hiding them from sight. Here there was a path from north to south that might be sailed, but only by men who knew these waters like the back of their hands. And then only with luck, and only when the tides permitted.

Much to his surprise, Damien found that he had been afraid for so long now that even the sight of rocky obstacles passing mere yards from the bow wasn’t enough to upset him. In the face of what they were up against—and how long they had been fleeing—it just wasn’t enough to upset him. Besides, he had been through Novatlantis, which was a journey ten times longer than this and easily ten times as turbulent. If he had made it through that terrible trip without panicking, he could certainly manage to make it through this one.

Moskovan had given the option of remaining below, but not one of them had taken him up on it. Now they watched as barren islands, knife-edged in the moonlight, passed mere yards away to port and starboard. They watched as the sea gathered itself into an impromptu whirlpool between two islands, then suddenly dispersed. As the Novatlantic Ocean poured over some unseen obstacle to create a waterfall not ten yards high, but nearly two miles in length. It was a wondrous and terrible sea, and Damien was grateful that the man Tarrant had found to take them across it seemed eminently capable of doing so. God alone knew how many ships had been lost in those rocky depths.

If the Sea of Dreams seemed strange to the travelers, the sailors of the Desert Queen were even more so. Silent and somber, they maneuvered the sleek vessel through its passage with no more than short whistled signals passing between them. To Damien, who had grown accustomed to the shouts and banter of the Glory’s crew, their behavior seemed even stranger than the sea itself. But though there were at least a dozen questions he would have liked to ask Moskovan, the ship’s owner was not available for questioning. He might take on passengers for a price, but he clearly had no interest in catering to their curiosity.

And then the last of the great islands fell behind the stern, swallowed up by mist and darkness. Ahead lay somewhat calmer water, and a promise of smoother sailing. Damien let loose of the rail he had been gripping, and as the blood rushed painfully back into his hands he acknowledged just how tightly he’d held it. God in Heaven, what he wouldn’t give to be back in Jaggonath right now! Or any inland city, for that matter.

Moskovan had told them of a safer route, had even given them the option of choosing to take it. Nearly four times the length of this one, it involved sailing west into the Novatlantic, and circling wide round this turbulent sea. That course took longer but entailed little risk, and most black marketeers preferred it. As did he, Moskovan assured them. And then he looked pointedly at Damien and added: When I’m not being hunted.

Whereupon Damien had made the only choice possible.

He looked back the way they had come and tried to imagine one of the Matria’s ships making it through that maze of islands and whirlpools. No. The choice they’d made had been the right one, and if it cost them more money and rubbed their nerves raw, that was just the price of freedom. Money well spent, in his book.

A firm hand on his shoulder startled him; he turned around to find one of the sailors beside him. The man stepped quickly back so as not to offend and muttered, “Captain said to stay with you.” A glance back to where Tarrant stood showed a sailor beside him also—though the adept’s response looked anything but cordial—but when Damien looked for Hesseth and Jenseny, he found them nowhere to be seen. One hand moved instinctively toward his sword as he demanded, “Where are my companions?” Suddenly aware that their greatest danger might not come from the sea.

The sailor, who had turned away to regard the sea, didn’t respond. He repeated the question again, more loudly, and this time the man seemed to hear it. “Back in the cabin. Captain suggested. Not good waters for the young, you see? Verdate,” he added, for Damien’s benefit. Assuming him to be a northerner, no doubt.

The priest was about to respond when something in the distance caught his eyes. Hard to say exactly what it was; it disappeared as soon as he looked directly at it, and thus was glimpsed more by memory than by sight. A glimmering, ever so faint, that seemed to shiver beneath the waves. He had barely drawn in a breath to question the sailor when another one flashed on the sea’s glassy surface—like a star this time, that glittered and bounced as it rode the waves, then disappeared from view.

“What is it?” he demanded. The sailor didn’t answer, but his expression was grim. He held out something toward Damien, two small objects nestled in a weathered palm. Damien picked them up, holding them up to the moonlight so that he might see them better. Small rubber bits of irregular shape, their base perhaps as wide as his thumb. They looked like . . . earplugs? He glanced up at the sailor, saw the dull sheen of similar bits resting in the man’s own ears. Yes. That explained the whistling, anyway. And the men’s silence. They must all be wearing them. But why? It seemed an inconvenient accoutrement for a voyage like this.

And then one of the silvery lights came near the ship and took up station there. Perhaps five yards from the Desert Queen’s hull, just below the surface of the water. Another joined it. It was hard to make out their shapes through the water, hard to see them past the sheen of moonlight on the rippling surface. At times they seemed almost human in form, at others almost eel-like. Their images shivered through the water like quicksilver, defying his interpretation.

“What are they?” he whispered. Forgetting that the sailor couldn’t hear anything less than a shout. Two more creatures joined the first, and the four spaced themselves out along the hull with silent and perfect precision. More were coming. He could see their strange light glittering along the waves as they made their way toward the ship, eerie and beautiful beneath the glassy surface. Fascinated, Damien worked a Knowing—and only then remembered where he was. There was no earth-fae accessible here, not for him and not for them. Which meant that whatever they were, they must be wholly natural.

Incredible.

One of the creatures rose up through the water then, its silvery head rising above the glassy surface, strands of hair coiling about the waves as it rode. How bizarre, Damien thought, as it turned its face toward him. And how exquisitely beautiful. It had eyes and lips and cheekbones and nose all of a human cast, but made of a substance that rippled like mercury in the moonlight. Its eyes glistened like diamonds and strands of its long hair, cast loose upon the waves, rippled with eerie phosphorescence. They were all rising up now, some two dozen of the creatures—and perhaps there were more on the port side of the ship, who could say?—and their faces were wondrous things, delicate human sculptings that were sometimes female, sometimes male, sometimes magically androgynous. Breathtaking, all of them. Utterly mesmerizing.

They began to sing. Not with mere voices, as humans might do, but with their bodies. With their flesh. Chimes flowed from the silver skin, jarringly discordant, strangely beautiful. The thin floating hairs quivered like harp strings, and each stroke of the creatures’ arms and legs—or fins?—added one more glissando to the weird harmony. Though he was dimly aware that this must be the danger the sailors were guarding against, Damien found himself unable to put the plugs in his ears to shut the sound out. It was too beautiful. Too . . . compelling.

Visions began to dance before his eyes. Wispy images at first, which became more solid as the strange music took hold in his brain. Slowly they became faces he knew, visions from his past. His mother. His brother. His Matriarch. His first lover. Ciani of Faraday, humor sparkling in her bright eyes. The khrast-woman Hesseth, hostile and proud. Images that had once seemed commonplace to him, but now were infused with a rare and perfect beauty. The strange sounds swam in his head, awakening his most precious memories, granting them new and vital substance within his soul.

Come to us, the voices sang. Inhuman, but somehow comprehensible to him. Come to us, and we will give you more.

Ciani reached out to him. Not the Ciani he had left in the rakhlands, proud and hungry and distant. The Ciani he had known and loved in Jaggonath, filtered through the veil of his longings, needing him in a way the new Ciani never would. “Come to me,” she whispered. Suspended in the air just beyond the deck, but he knew that the air would support him, too. Knew that in this place, in this time, he was no more solid than she. “Join us,” she whispered. And he felt his feet moving forward moving, his fears giving way . . .

The sailor grabbed him, jerking him back. It shouldn’t have been necessary. He knew how to guard against a demon’s wiles, had been drilled in the proper defensive Workings so often they should have come as second nature. Only there are no Workings here, he realized suddenly. The sailor was helping him put the plugs in his ears, which was good; his arms so heavy that he could hardly move them. “Come to me,” Ciani whispered. “Let me show you what I’ve found . . .” When the rubber bits were finally in place, the strange music faded abruptly, and along with it the dreamlike images. No Workings, therefore no defense. He wondered how Tarrant had fared. Could one demon seduce another? He glanced toward the bow, saw the Hunter standing rigid with his sword half-drawn; icicles hung from the railing before him as the coldfire glow of a recent Working faded into the night. Which meant that he had felt the music’s power. Which meant that he had feared it. Which meant that there was still enough humanity about him that some demons might consider him fair game. That was an interesting thought—and a frightening one. It certainly didn’t bode well for their mission.

He could no longer hear the silver swimmers, but now he could see them clearly. What he had taken for arms and legs were slender tentacles, serpentine fins; they mimicked the rhythm of human movement in much the same way that a bit of flesh on the lip of a clam might mimic the movements of a fish. Their phosphorescence filled the water as they gathered close about the hull, frustrated and angry now that their pet enchantment had failed. Their faces, upraised, were anything but human, and their expressions were far from amiable.

He felt the footsteps without hearing them, and turned instinctively; it was Ran Moskovan, with a heavy package hoisted up onto one shoulder. The sailor who had saved Damien moved to help him, and together they lowered the bulky burden and unwrapped it. Red meat, not altogether fresh; its odor drifted to Damien on the breeze and soured his stomach as he breathed it in. Hard to say what the cut was, or what animal it had come from. But given the size and the shape of it-

“Human?” he whispered.

Artificially deafened, the two neither heard nor answered him. Together they hefted the dead weight up to the railing—and yes, it could have been a human torso once, a body that someone had sliced and gutted and then sewn shut again—and without ceremony they shoved it over into the water. It hit with a splash, and the sea-demons gave it no chance to sink. In an instant all twenty of them converged on it, and the water became a bloody, foaming mass as they ripped it to shreds. More creatures were coming now, from the far side of the ship, and fights ensued as the newcomers demanded their share. As the ship began to pull away from the seaborn battle, Damien thought he saw silver flesh being torn as well, and a dark fluid that was not human blood stained the froth in the Desert Queen’s wake.

They watched the fight for some minutes, until it was clear that all of the creatures were involved. Then and only then did Moskovan and his man remove their earplugs, and signal that it was safe for Damien to do the same.

“That’ll hold them for a while,” Moskovan told him. “Maybe long enough for us to make deep water.”

“What were they?” he demanded.

Moskovan shrugged. “Who really knows? They call them sirens, after some singing demons on Earth. I call them a pain in the ass. Plugs are all right for a while, but sooner or later the music gets through. You want to keep your crew intact, the only way is to feed them.” He saw Damien’s expression go dark, and easily guessed at its cause. “Medical school leftovers,” he told him, nodding toward the spot where the meat had been thrown overboard. “Costs a pretty penny—and it’s damned hard to get hold of between semesters—but there’s no other way to do it. Fish’ll eat anything, but the faeborn’ll only eat humans. That’s a fact.”

“How can they be faeborn?” he demanded. “How can anything faeborn live here?”

“Water’s shallow in spots. Shallow enough that the power comes through—and where there’s power there’s demons. First law of Erna.” He gestured toward the plugs in Damien’s hand. “Next time you see the lights, you get those in fast. Or go inside and let my men lock you in. Understand?”

“No problem,” he assured him. Wondering what kind of visions the little girl had seen. Wondering if Hesseth had been affected. Wishing he had the nerve to go up to where Tarrant stood—still and silent, utterly alone—and ask what visions the sirens had awakened in him. As if the Hunter would confide in him . . . or in any man.

He sighed, and turned back to study the water. Dark now, and cleansed of blood. Cleansed—temporarily—of enchantment.

The Sea of Dreams, he mused. Apt name.

He’d be glad as hell when they were out of it.

The galley was narrow and low-ceilinged, which meant that for a man of Damien’s size—not to mention Tarrant’s height—it was markedly claustrophobic. But it had the amenities they needed: a place to sit, a modicum of privacy, and heat. In the far corner a wood stove with one burner drove back the worst of the sea’s chills, and the coffeepot set atop it promised a more direct application of warmth. The coffee was bad, very bad, but at least it was hot. Damien was on his third cup.

He was seated by the stove alongside Hesseth; Gerald Tarrant stood opposite, as if disdaining their need for heat. Jenseny was at the table playing with toys the Neocount had given her: a set of playing cards with heavily decorated face cards—not Jack, Queen and King, Damien noted, but Protector, Regent, and Matria—and a small pile of twisted metal bits, each one a puzzle requiring her to join or unjoin their knotted elements. Tarrant had apparently purchased them in Esperanova for the purpose of keeping her young mind occupied, and in that way they had succeeded admirably. Damien was torn between being grateful to him for thinking of such a thing and feeling vaguely shamed that the Hunter had shown more proper paternal instinct than he had. Never mind that the Neocount had once been a family man. It was still embarrassing.

“Well?” Damien prompted. “What next?”

“We land in the south,” Hesseth offered. Ever the practical one. “We settle in, take our time and do some research, find out where the enemy is.”

“And what he is,” Damien reminded her. “Not to mention what his connection is with the Iezu.”

Tarrant said nothing.

Quietly, setting down the coffee cup before he rose, Damien went over to where Jenseny was and sat down beside her. If he had been watching only her face, he would have thought she didn’t notice him. But he was watching her hands, and he saw them tremble.

“Jenseny.” He said it gently, willing all the softness into his voice that it could possibly contain. Praying that it would be enough. “You said you knew something about the Prince, and about the Black Lands. We need to know about those things. Will you tell us?”

She said nothing. Her hands, shaking, closed into fists. Her eyes shut tightly, as if in pain.

“Kastareth.” Hesseth voiced the rakhene endearment gently as she moved to join them. “You’re part of our team now, remember? We need your help.” Her gloved hand reached out and touched Jenseny’s; a graceful gesture, delicate as a butterfly landing on a flower petal. “Please, kasa. Help us. We need you.”

The child looked up at her, and Damien could almost feel her drawing strength from the rakh-woman’s soul. Then she looked at Damien, her dark eyes searching his face for some quality he couldn’t begin to define. Then, last of all, she turned to Tarrant. For once the sorcerer refrained from making an inflammatory comment. God bless him for it.

“Jenseny.” Hesseth’s tone was liquid, soothing. Was there tidal power woven into those words, lending them subtle force? Damien wouldn’t have been surprised if there were. “What did your father tell you about the south? What did he see there?”

The girl blinked heavily; something that might have been a tear glittered on her lashes. “He didn’t want to hurt anyone,” she whispered. “He thought he was doing good.”

“We know that,” Damien said gently, and Hesseth said, “We understand.”

“He said that they’d attack the north sooner or later, and if it didn’t happen for a long time, then there would be too many of them, and we wouldn’t be ready, and no one would be able to stop them.” She drew in a long breath, shaking. A tear shivered free at last, and wended its way down her cheek as she spoke. “He said the way things were going they would just take over and we wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. And they would hurt us, because of how much they hated us.”

Damien asked quietly, “And was he going to change that?”

The dark eyes fixed on him. So very frightened, Damien thought. Of their rejection, as much as of the enemy. It pained him deeply to see her like that. It pained him deeply to see any child hurting that much.

“He said,” she whispered slowly, “that if a few of them came north—only a few—that maybe the Matrias would get scared. Maybe they would see how much danger there was and do something about it.”

“Controlled invasion,” Tarrant said quietly. “He must have gambled that an attack on his Protectorate would motivate the northern cities into providing a more stalwart defense. Or perhaps even an offense. Perhaps he wanted to force a true war here and now, before the south was ready for it.”

“Either way he failed,” Damien said bitterly. “How could he know that his country was already controlled by the enemy? All they needed was a place to start the invasion proper . . . and he provided that.”

“He didn’t want to hurt anyone,” the girl whispered. Hesseth moved closer to her, and with a gentle arm drew her close. “He said he had made a good deal with the Prince, and everything was going to be all right . . .”

“As it should have been,” Damien assured her. “But evidently our enemy doesn’t keep to his bargains.” He reached out gently and took one of the child’s hands in his. Her skin was damp, and cool to the touch. “We understand what your father was trying to do. And it wasn’t his fault that it didn’t work, Jenseny. We’re not blaming him for what happened.” He wished that the fae was Workable here so that he might give the words extra weight, extra power. As it was, he had only his voice for a tool, and limited physical contact. “He went south, didn’t he, Jenseny? He went and met with the Prince to arrange all this. Did he tell you about that? Did he tell you what he saw there?”

The girl hesitated. After a moment she nodded.

“Can you tell us about it?” When she still didn’t answer, he encouraged her, “Anything you can remember.”

“Please, kasa,” Hesseth murmured.

The girl drew in a deep breath, shivering. “He said that the Prince of the south never dies. He said that the Prince is very, very old, but you can’t see it because he makes his body young again whenever he needs to. He said that he’ll do it again soon. He’ll make his body young, but he’ll also make it different so that he looks like a different person every time, but he’s really still the same.” She looked up nervously at Damien, desperately seeking reassurance. The priest nodded, even as he hoped that Tarrant was absorbing these facts. Of all of them, the Neocount was the most likely to understand the Prince’s Workings.

“Go on,” he urged gently.

“He said . . . that’s how the Prince keeps his power.” She glanced up at Tarrant, then shivered and looked quickly away. “He can be all different kinds of people, so all kinds of people obey him. Even the rakh.”

Hesseth hissed softly, but said nothing. It was up to Damien to prompt the girl, “Tell us about the rakh.”

She hesitated. “They’re like people, but they aren’t really people. They have marks on their faces, here.” She ran a finger up along her forehead, then down again. Paint? Tattoos? Or animal markings? Damien glanced over to Hesseth, wondering. Did the original rakh have markings like that, before the fae humanized them? If not, was it possible their foreign brethren did? But Hesseth shook her head ever so slightly, indicating that she had no helpful information. Damn.

“Do the rakh obey the Prince?” he asked Jenseny.

She hesitated, then nodded. “Most of them. Because one time he made himself into a rakh, so they act like he’s one of them. Not really one of them, because he’s human now, but . . . kind of half—and-half.”

“Which explains a lot,” Tarrant said quietly. “Few rakh would accept the authority of a true human.”

“But how could he become a rakh?” Hesseth said sharply. She looked up at Tarrant. “Is that possible?”

The Hunter mulled over her question for a long minute before answering. “One could shapeshift into that form,” he said at last. “Although such a change would be difficult to maintain, and also dangerous. But there is an easier way.”

It took Damien a moment to catch his drift. “Illusion?”

He nodded. “Just so.”

“But . . . that perfect? That lasting?”

“A mere human couldn’t do it,” he agreed. “But remember, there are other forces involved here.”

The priest whispered it: “Iezu.”

The Hunter nodded; his expression was grim.

“Would they be willing to do that? Maintain an illusion for so many years—generations, it sounds like—just to keep one man in power? Do the Iezu do things like that?”

“Not usually. One must therefore assume that if they did, they are being well paid for it.”

“Or well fed,” Damien muttered.

The Hunter nodded. “Precisely.”

Either the girl had picked up enough details of their business here to understand what they were discussing, or the sheer grimness of their tone must have frightened her; Hesseth felt her stiffen, and she tightened her arm about the girl protectively. Sharp claws flexed in their sheaths, as if ready to do battle with her fears.

“Tell us about the rakh,” she urged softly.

She shut her eyes, trying to remember. “He said . . . they don’t like the sunlight. Most of them. I think. He said that they called themselves the People of the Night.”

“Not surprising,” Hesseth noted. “Our common ancestors were nocturnal creatures.”

“But your cousins in Lema were truly nightbound,” Tarrant reminded her. “So much so that they were taken for real demons, and when they were exposed to sunlight it killed them, as certainly as it would kill any ghoul or vampire. I doubt that your ancestors would have suffered such a fate.”

“No native species is that sensitive,” she said quietly.

“Of course not. Nature may be quixotic, but she isn’t stupid. It takes a human mind to sculpt such a deadly weakness, and human motivation to bind it to a thriving species.”

“But why?” Damien demanded. “If they’re his servants, why disable them? And if they’re his enemies, why stop there?”

“Maybe he’s not done with them yet,” the Hunter suggested.

Damien was about to say something more when the galley door swung open suddenly. The tall, lean figure of the ship’s owner came into view feet first as he descended the short staircase into the galley.

“Feeling a need for heat, are you?” Moskovan grinned as he made his way toward the coffee pot. “You’ll be glad to know we’re out of the dreamsea at last. No more obstacles between us and Freeshore except a few well-charted islands and maybe the occasional spring storm.”

He pulled down a wooden cup from its hook and poured the thick coffee into it. The cup was halfway to his lips before Damien fully registered what he said.

“Freeshore? I thought we were heading toward Hellsport.”

Moskovan glanced at Tarrant. A brief communication seemed to flash between them, subtle and wordless. “That was the original plan, yes. But Mer Tarrant and I’ve discussed things, and we decided on a course adjustment. Freeshore’ll get you where you’re going much sooner.”

“And just where are we going?” Damien demanded.

It was Tarrant who answered him, his voice as level and cool as always. “Freeshore offers access to the Black Lands, and thus the Prince’s domain.”

Damien stared at him. “Are you out of your vulking mind? The last place we want to be is on the Prince’s doorstep.”

Moskovan chuckled. “Oh, it’s hardly that.”

“And who gives you the right to alter our course just like that? Without asking anyone, or even telling us?”

“You were occupied,” Tarrant responded coolly. “It was left to me to arrange the details—”

“Bullshit.”

With a dry smile Moskovan drained the rest of his coffee and put the mug back on its peg. “I’ll leave you alone to work this out.” As he walked past Tarrant, he said to him, “Let me know if you need me.”

When he was gone, and the thick door had swung closed behind him, Damien demanded, “What the vulk is going on here?”

Tarrant shrugged. “Mer Moskovan suggested an alternate route. It seemed reasonable to me.”

“Don’t you think you should have consulted us?”

“You weren’t there at the time.”

He somehow managed to keep his fury out of his voice. It took a hellish effort. “All right. So tell us about it now.”

In answer he took a folded map out of his tunic pocket, came to where they sat, and laid it out on the table before them. It was folded so that the Sea of Dreams was at the top, with the slender mass of the southern continent visible beneath it.

He gave them a moment to get their bearings by finding Hellsport, at the northernmost tip of the continent. Then he indicated a point some hundred miles farther down the coast, marked by a large star and far bolder lettering. FREESHORE, it proclaimed. HUMAN CAPITAL.

“Where’d you get this?” Damien muttered. “No, don’t answer that. Moskovan, of course.” He perused the detailed map, so obviously of southern manufacture, noting that the same river which ran through the Black Lands made its mouth at Freeshore. Which meant that any trade ship supplying the Black Lands would use that river for access. Which meant that for all there were nearly a hundred miles between Freeshore and the Black Lands, in terms of travel the one was indeed as good as on the doorstep of the other.

“And you thought this was a good idea?” he said sharply

“I thought it had its merits.”

“Did you?” he demanded. “Did you really?” He pushed his chair back and stood. It was easier to speak that way, now that he was angry. There were some things you couldn’t say cramped into a small chair behind a smaller table. “Let me make one thing clear to you, Tarrant. The last thing I want to do is march into this man’s stronghold before we even know who he is, what he is, or what the vulk he’s doing here. You understand that? You may have forced that strategy on us in the rakhlands by getting yourself captured, but I’m damned if I’m going to chance it again. We’ve got the luxury of time and distance this time around, so let’s use a little caution, all right? Lema wasn’t all that pleasant an experience that I’m anxious to repeat it.”

He said it quietly, in a voice as smooth and as chill as ice. “You don’t understand all the variables, priest—”

“The hell I don’t!” he snapped. “What about the currents? In Hellsport they’d be running north—straight from the Prince’s domain to us. An ideal situation on every front. In Freeshore we’d be off to the west, which means we’d have to work that much harder to Know the enemy, while he wouldn’t have to work nearly as hard to get at us.” When the Hunter said nothing he demanded, “Well? Isn’t that worth something?”

“Of course it is,” he said evenly. “And don’t you think our enemy’s aware of it? Don’t you think he gets news from the north—directly from the Matrias, most likely—and therefore knows every detail of our flight across that nation? Including our departure from Esperanova, priest. You think about that. You think about what it means to head straight for the one place he’d most expect us to land. And then if you can come up with a good argument for landing there anyway, let me know. I’d be interested in hearing it.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. At last Damien turned away.

“Shit.” He sat down heavily. “You should have said something. You should have told us.”

“I apologize for that,” the Neocount said evenly. “If it’s any consolation, I would have much preferred the Hellsport landing. We could have made that port soon after midnight, but as for Freeshore . . .” He shrugged; the gesture seemed strangely artificial. “That’ll take longer.”

“Will we make it by dawn?”

“If not, there are enough hidden corners on this vessel to shelter me. I made sure of that before I committed us to this voyage.”

Damien looked over at Hesseth; her expression was grim, but she nodded slightly. “All right,” he muttered. Rubbing his forehead as if it pained him. “We’ll do it your way. But from now on we’re in this together, you understand? No more bargains struck behind our backs. No more surprises.”

“Of course.” The Hunter bowed ever so slightly. It was a polished gesture, precisely executed. It made Damien want to strangle him. “And I assure you, this is the better course. For all of us.”

“Yeah,” Damien muttered. Closing his eyes again. Trying hard not to think about the future. “We’ll see.”

Jenseny slept.

The sea is black, blacker than ink, blacker than night’s deepest shadows, and it stirs restlessly in the evening wind. There’s a storm off to the west, but it won’t come in this close; all that the shoreline will taste is a brief fit of ozone and a few wintry gusts. The rest will blow itself out over the deep ocean.

Jenseny dreamt.

The ship pulls into harbor, cutting through whitecaps like a finely honed blade. Freeshore’s piers are crowded with boats of all sizes, but not with people. Like all southern cities it fears the night, and the only people abroad at this dark hour are those who must be, those whose livelihoods depend on it.

And others.

She smells it first on the icy wind: a sourness tainting the midnight air, a wrongness fouling the offshore breeze. She tries to make out something that might serve as a source—anything at all—but the wooden piers are empty of all but a few night watchmen and a drunkard or two. Nothing she can see would make such a smell.

Water laps at the hulls of anchored ships, and she can hear the creaks of the smaller boats as they rub against the docks, rising and falling with the waves. Isn’t there something else also? A whisper perhaps. A soft rustling, like cloth against wood. She struggles to make it out, but there are too many distractions. Sails being winched. Orders being shouted. A thousand and one petty noises that drown out . . . what? What is it that she can almost, but not quite, hear?

A hand falls on her shoulder: she turns to find the priest behind her, Hesseth and Tarrant beside. They look strained and tired, but happy to be landing at last. “Ready to go?” the priest asks, and she manages to nod. Should she tell them what she senses? Or will Tarrant just chalk it up to a child’s imagination and insist they all ignore her? What if it really is her imagination, finally driven out of control by emotional exhaustion? Suddenly she doesn’t know what to do. Suddenly she isn’t even sure of what she smelled or what she heard or what she expected to see, there on the docks. But the sense of dread is so cold within her that she can hardly move when they urge her forward, so tightly is it cramping her stomach.

She watches as the sailors tie up the ship, then bridge the choppy water with a narrow gangplank. The priest urges her across it, gently. For a moment she almost turns back and runs, so suddenly does terror overwhelm her, but the priest’s hand is firm on her shoulder and Hesseth is a warm presence behind her and from somewhere she finds the strength to move forward. The piers are wet from a recent rain and the damp wood makes her footsteps sound more heavy and more certain than they are. A guard comes over to them as they disembark, but the smuggler Moskovan is ready for him; he shows the uniformed man their travel papers and at last the guard nods that yes, all is in order, they may proceed with their business.

Again—in the distance—come the whispers. Again comes the certain feeling that things aren’t right, that things aren’t going to be right until they get out of this place. They should turn around and run away as fast as they can—to their ship, to a different one, anywhere!—before those whispers find them.

“Jenseny?” The priest stops walking and kneels down beside her. He senses that something is wrong. “What is it?”

She doesn’t know how to tell him. She doesn’t know if she should. Didn’t he explain to her that the voices in Esperanova were only memories of things that had happened there, no more worthy of notice than a display in a storefront window? That’s what he’ll think these noises are, too. How can she possibly convince him they’re any more than that?

“I’m okay,” she whispers. Not because the words are true, but because they’re the only ones she can bring herself to voice. How can she make them understand the danger?

They go on. The pier is long and walking on solid planks feels strange after so many hours at sea; Tarrant say that’s normal. She’s shivering, but from more than the cold, and the fear inside her is so tight and painful that she can hardly stand upright.

And then they come. Black figures, swift and silent. They come from beside the travelers and before them and even from underneath the pier itself, so that in an instant the company is surrounded. Jenseny hears the whisk of steel against steel as the priest’s sword is drawn, but the gesture of defiance is doomed to failure even before it is begun. There are too many of them and they are everywhere, and their own swords glitter in the moonlight along with tiny stars that are arrow-tips and worse, as the blustery wind begins to move in from the sea-

She awakened with a suddenness that left her breathless; it took her a minute to get her bearings. The lamp in the galley had been turned down so that shadows reigned in the narrow space, and she shivered as she fought to make out shapes in the darkness. The rakh-woman was by her side and she stirred as Jenseny awoke, alarmed by her sudden tension. “Kasa? What is it?”

I had a bad dream, she wanted to say. But it wasn’t just a bad dream. She knew that as surely as she knew that the Enemy was waiting for them in Freeshore, not Hellsport. The same Enemy who had killed her father, and who would kill her too if he had half a chance. He was in Freeshore. Now. Waiting. She knew it as surely as she breathed.

“It’s a trap,” she gasped. Fighting her way to her feet. She was shaking so badly she could hardly stand upright, and the motion of the ship wasn’t helping. “They’re waiting for us!”

The rakh-woman looked at her strangely for a moment, then said—very quietly, very calmly—“Wait here. I’ll get the others.” Jenseny did so, shivering in the chill of the galley while Hesseth ran to get Tarrant and the priest. There was Light now, but not much of it, and it did no more than exacerbate her fear. What was the Light but a window that opened onto terrible things, a way of seeing the truth when illusion was far, far preferable? In that single instant she would have shut it out of her life forever if she could have. So powerful was the force of her revulsion that she doubled over with it, and was retching dryly when the others came to her.

The priest was by her side in an instant. “Easy now. Easy.” With gentle words and gentle touch he eased her through the last of the spasms, and though she knew that he could work no Healing in this place she felt better for his being there. The cramp in her stomach eased up a little bit and after a few seconds she was able to stand up straight. After a few seconds more, with his help, she managed to sit down on a chair and breathe again.

“Freeshore. Trap.” She gasped the words, shaking so badly she could hardly speak. When she shut her eyes she could see the black figures rising up again, oh so many of them . . . the Light was stronger now and it silhouetted them, making their outlines burn like fire. “They’re waiting for us there,” she breathed. Half-sobbing as she forced the words out. “It’s a trap!”

She saw the priest look at his companions, but her vision was too blurred by tears for her to see what passed between them. At last Hesseth volunteered, “She was asleep.”

“Probably dreaming,” the Hunter offered.

“Which doesn’t mean she’s wrong,” the priest snapped.

He knelt before her then, so very gentle in his voice and in his manner, so tender and loving in every way, and he asked her to tell him what she had seen. So she did. Haltingly, hesitant, not quite sure how to capture the terrible vision in words. When she was done she lowered her face into her hands and whimpered softly, and the rakh-woman came over and sat by her side and held her close, so that the voices of all the rakh children could comfort her.

“It’s a dream,” Tarrant said derisively. She could hear the scorn in his voice. “Forged by the mind of a frightened child, manifesting her fears. Nothing more.”

“I don’t like it,” the priest muttered. “I don’t like any of it.”

The Hunter snorted. “Are we to be ruled by dreams now? Not just our own, but those of a half-crazed child?”

“She’s more than that,” he growled. “You know that.”

“What I know is that I chose Freeshore because it seemed the best port for our purposes. And so it remains, despite all dreams to the contrary.”

“But it wasn’t even your idea in the first place. Was it? As I recall, it was Moskovan who suggested—”

“Please, priest! Do you think I’m stupid? Before I sent you to meet with Ran Moskovan, I subjected him to such a thorough Knowing that I could write his autobiography for him—and then I added a few extra Workings just in case, to keep him in line. That man could no more betray us now than he could sail this sea without a ship.”

There was a long-drawn silence, cold and hostile.

“Look.” Tarrant’s voice was like ice. “You do what you want with the child. But if there’s an ambush waiting anywhere for us, it’s probably in Hellsport—and I for one have no intention of meeting it. Dreams or no dreams.”

His footsteps were hard and angry on the cold wooden stairs, and when he had passed through the galley door it slammed shut behind him, as if underscoring his mood. Jenseny cringed deep into Hesseth’s warmth, where the hate and the rage couldn’t reach her. The rakh-children whispered to her, words of comfort in an alien tongue. Go to Hellsport, they whispered. Hellsport is safe. Freeshore is a trap.

I know, she thought to them. The Light swirled about her, brilliant now. What can I do? How can I change things? Tell me, she begged. But the voices faded into a dull rumbling, not like speech at all. More like distant thunder.

“What now?” Hesseth asked.

The priest exhaled heavily as he dropped down onto the bench beside them. “What, indeed? I can’t turn the damned ship around by myself, can I?”

“Would you if you could?” she asked quietly.

Jenseny heard him catch his breath. There was a long pause.

“Maybe,” he muttered. “It doesn’t matter, does it? The decision’s been made for us. It’s not like you and I can start off to Hellsport on our own.”

She could hear something else now, a new kind of whisper. Like a wind blowing toward them, sweeping across miles of open water. With it came the delicate percussion of rainfall, the timpani of distant lightning. Too soft yet for other ears to hear; it was the Light that brought it to her, spanning the empty miles for her ears alone.

“God damn it,” the priest muttered. “I hate sea travel.” And then he was gone and the galley door slammed shut behind him also, leaving Jenseny and Hesseth alone.

In the darkness.

With the Light.

With the music of the coming storm . . .

For all his months at sea, Damien had never gotten a firm grasp on sailing. Oh, he knew that a wind from behind them was good, that a wind from head-on was bad, and that no wind at all was a pain in the ass since it meant either waiting until the breeze kicked in again, or stoking up the furnace with appropriate prayers and meditations so that steam power hopefully would get them moving. But he had never really gotten a sense of the fine points in between: when it was best to gather up some of the sails (but not all of them), why an angled wind was sometimes the best wind of all, and what subtle hints the wind and sea provided when trouble—real trouble—was on its way.

What he had learned to interpret were the people around him. By the time they’d been at sea a month he could tell by the lowering of Rasya’s brow when rain was coming, and he’d learned that the best barometer of the sea’s condition was the relative coarseness of Captain Rozca’s manner. After four midmonths at sea he could tell when a storm was on its way by the way the first mate swore, and how fast it was moving in by the portions that the cook doled out at evening mess.

Now, though these sailors were unknown to him and their whistled code was wholly incomprehensible, that same sense told him that something was wrong. He didn’t have to see Moskovan make repeated trips to check his instruments to know that conditions were changing quickly; that was clear in the men’s manner as they worked, in the first mate’s face as he scowled at the sea. He remembered the squalls they had struggled through in Novatlantis—one of which had forced them to land for repairs, at an island so new that parts of its shoreline were still steaming as it cooled—and he felt a cold knot form in his gut at the thought of facing one here.

Moskovan said before we left that the weather looked good. He said it should stay good for a day or two. But he knew that weather prediction was a chancy art at best. Even Earth, it was rumored, had never fully mastered it.

He located Tarrant, moved to join him. But the Hunter shook his head ever so slightly as he approached, as if to say No, I have no more information than you do. Damn, he missed Rozca. And that whole crew. They never would have gone on like this without someone telling the passengers what was happening.

At last—when the last of the sails was set and everything on board the deck had been firmly fastened down—Moskovan vouchsafed them a few words. “Wind’s shifted,” he told them. “And the pressure’s dropping fast. That’s a bad sign in any waters, but here . . .” He shook his head grimly. “Most likely it’s coming straight up the coast. That means right smack into us, if we keep on going the way we are.”

“Then I assume that’s out of the question,” Tarrant said evenly. “What are our options?”

He looked out at the waves surrounding them, white-capped and angry. “We’re going in,” he said shortly. “No other way. We can make the cape inside an hour, and that should be good enough. Hellsport’s got a sheltered harbor that’ll keep us safe and sound, if we can get there in time.” He looked up sharply at Tarrant. “Unless you’ve got something that’ll turn this aside. If so, now’s the time to use it.”

Tarrant gazed out at the sea in silence, for so long that Damien wondered if he had heard. But at last he said quietly, “No. I can’t Work this. Do what you must.”

When Moskovan had left them, Damien asked, “Not enough power available?”

He put a hand on the pommel of his sword, rested it there. “There’s enough.”

“Don’t want to use it up?”

The Hunter turned to him; in the mist-filtered lamplight his eyes were as pale as ice. “I can’t Work this storm,” he said evenly, “because it’s already been Worked. And not by a power I care to spar with.”

“Our enemy, you mean?”

He turned away. “Don’t be naive, Vryce.”

It took him a minute to realize what the Hunter meant; when he did so, he was stunned. “You think the girl-” He couldn’t finish.

“I checked the weather before we left. Even allowing for typical meteorological surprises, it shouldn’t have become . . . this.” A sweeping gesture encompassed it all: the white-capped waves, the rising wind, the slap of ocean foam against the hull. “There’s no question in my mind that the storm was altered so that it would come in closer to shore. And likewise no question that the tool used for that alteration was not earth-fae, or any earth-bound sorcery.” He glanced back meaningfully toward the galley. “Hesseth doesn’t Work the weather. That leaves only one possibility I can think of. Unless you have another suggestion.”

It seemed too incredible. He could hardly respond. “You once told me weather-Working was so complicated that most adepts can’t even do it.”

“No, Vryce. Moving a storm is easy, provided it already exists. Controlling it is hard. Anyone with enough raw power can yank a few clouds into position, or draw in a respectable wind. But very few can alter an entire weather system, so that the storm thus changed stays under control.” He gazed out at the foaming waves, now casting sheets of spray about the ship’s hull. Thin rainbows hung before the ship’s lanterns. “Merely raising a storm, without thought for consequences? That’s not so very difficult. Under the right circumstances, even a child could do it.”

“A scared child,” Damien muttered. “One who thinks we’re all going to die if we land in Freeshore.”

For a moment the Hunter said nothing. The look in his eyes was strangely distant, as though his thoughts were not fixed on this time and place at all, but on some internal vista. “It would seem,” he said at last, “that the matter is now out of our hands.”

“Not necessarily. When the storm passes—”

“Then there will be another. Or something worse. The girl is afraid of Freeshore, and Nature responds to her fear; do you want to tempt that power? This time it was only a storm. Let’s be grateful for that.”

“You were worried about Hellsport,” Damien reminded him. “Do you think we can deal with whatever’s waiting for us?”

The Hunter gazed out over the sea, where foamy waves were breaking into spray. The rising wind was audible in the rigging, a whistling that rose and fell with each gust.

“Let’s just hope we make it to Hellsport in time,” he said quietly. “That’s enough to worry about for one night, don’t you think?”

They made it.

Just barely.

The wind was shrieking through the rigging by the time they rounded Hellsport’s sea wall, and the foaming waves that beat against the hull filled the air with cold, salty spray. It was hard to stand on the swaying deck with the wind that strong, so Damien had gone below, where he waited with Hesseth and Jenseny. Tarrant alone remained above. Watching for the distant light of the earth-fae, Damien guessed. Searching for land as only he could see it.

The girl was sick and miserable, but she had managed not to throw up thus far. A major accomplishment, Damien thought. He and Hesseth had sailed through so much rough water in the Golden Glory that they were somewhat accustomed to it, but even so the last half-hour was difficult. Whatever power the child had drawn upon to summon up this storm, it had done its work blindly, with no attempt to control its course or its fury. If there hadn’t been a sheltered port nearby when it struck, it probably would have killed them all.

The most unnerving thing about the incident was that the girl apparently knew nothing of what she had done. Whatever tidal forces she had wielded in her moment of terror, allowing her to call the storm, it had been purely unconscious effort. Which was all the more dangerous, he reflected. Ignorance and power were a dangerously volatile mixture. They were going to have to deal with that, and soon.

He looked over at Hesseth and said quietly, “You’ll have to train her. No one else can do it.”

She bared sharp teeth as she answered him, “My people can only teach their blood-kin.”

He looked up at her. And waited.

At last she looked down at the girl who lay curled up on her side, her head on Hesseth’s lap. With care she smoothed the tangled black hair, gently enough not to wake the girl.

“I’ll try,” she promised.

Suddenly there was a thump on the hull, hard enough to shake the bench they were sitting on. For a moment Damien feared that they had hit a rock, and his whole body tensed as he prepared to grab the child and carry her abovedeck. Then there was another thump, somewhat softer than the first. And then a third. After a moment he recognized the sounds for what they were and leaned back, exhaling heavily.

“I take it we’re secure.”

“Jenseny.” Hesseth shook the girl gently so that she would awaken. “We made it. We’re safe. Wake up, kasa.”

The large eyes fluttered open, bloodshot and tired. “In Hellsport?” she whispered weakly. Her face was still a ghastly ashen hue.

“For what it’s worth,” Damien told her. He patted the girl on the head with what he hoped was fatherly reassurance. “Come on. Let’s get out of this bucket.”

The port they’d chosen might have been sheltered, but one wouldn’t know it from on board the ship; climbing up the galley stairs as they pitched and swayed was a trial in itself. The deck seemed somewhat more stable, but the difference was purely psychological. He could see from the way the long boat was rubbing against the pier that it was far from steady, despite its careful mooring. A cold rain had begun to fall, and Damien turned up his collar to keep it from seeping in at the neck.

“Well?” Moskovan joined them, wrapped in an oilcloth slicker. “What’s the verdict? You want to wait this out and then move on to Freeshore? Or take your chances here?”

Damien looked at Tarrant, and hesitated.

“I should Know the city first-” the priest began.

The Hunter waved him short. “I already did. There’s no danger to us here. Not yet, anyway.”

Damien was aware of how hard those words must have been for him. It wasn’t in the Neocount’s character to say I was wrong, but that was damned close.

He looked out at the city, now sheathed in a curtain of rain. Impossible to see in the darkness. The lamps of the harbor were ghostly and inconstant, flickering like stars in the downpour.

“All right. We’ll try it here.” He felt like a weight was lifted off his chest the minute he said it. No more sea travel, now. Not until they’d finished the job they’d come to do, or died trying. And in the latter case (Damien consoled himself) at least there’d be no more ships to worry about. That was something, anyway.

He dug several gold coins out of his pocket and offered them to Moskovan; in the face of what they had paid for this passage it wasn’t much, but the gesture clearly pleased the man.

“Take care,” the smuggler warned them, taking the coins. “The people here aren’t overly fond of strangers.”

Yeah. That’s the story of our life. He heard a bang as the gangplank was lowered, linking them to the pier. It looked far from stable. With a sigh he shouldered his pack and started toward it.

Just one more time, Vryce. Once you get your feet on solid ground, that’s it for the duration.

God willing.

“Good luck,” Moskovan told them, as they made their way across the swaying gangplank. And then he added, cryptically, “I hope he likes the child.”

Had they not been on a narrow bridge of wood over choppy waters, trying to make their way in the freezing rain without slipping, Damien might have turned back to him. Not to question him: that would have been too obvious, too dangerous. But to see his face. To try to read some kind of meaning into his last comment. But the short walk was treacherous, and allowed no such distraction. And by the time they had gotten across and were safely on the pier Moskovan was gone, swallowed back into the bowels of the Desert Queen.

“Come on,” Tarrant urged, as the downpour worsened. “This is no place to stand about.”

At last he nodded and turned back to his companions, and they began the long walk to land. Like all Ernan piers this one extended well out into the water, to make it useful in all depths of tide, and in the rain-lashed darkness the distance seemed endless. The storm winds battered them from the north, sometimes so powerfully that despite his best efforts Damien found himself staggering a step or two sideways as he walked; once he had to catch up the girl to keep her from being swept off the pier, into the angry breakers just beneath them.

Just a little bit more, he promised himself. Careful not to question just how long that little bit would take them. Almost over.

And then they were over land, making their way toward the myriad buildings that flanked the harbor. Temporary buildings, Damien noted, whose woven walls were lashed together with rope and whose roofs were plaited masses of reed, tarred over to make them waterproof. Such a structure could survive the worst earthquake, its pliant walls giving way to every tremor without snapping. Such a structure might survive stormy winds, if it was lashed firmly down to the ground beneath it. And such a structure could easily be replaced if a tsunami swept it away—which Damien suspected was the most important point of all. The seawall might protect Hellsport from the majority of waves, but there was always the chance that some monster might wash over it. A good chance, from the look of it.

“Come on,” he muttered. “Let’s get to high ground, fast.”

Tarrant was carrying a lantern ahead of them, but its light was swallowed up by rain-drenched darkness so quickly that it was all but worthless. Damien took shelter under the eaves of one of the woven buildings long enough to light another. He wondered how far off dawn was. The Hunter might not like its killing light, but he would be grateful for it. When had they landed, about one or two a.m.? When did the sun rise in this latitude?

At last they found the narrow stairs that would allow them to ascend to the city proper, more than one hundred feet above the harbor itself. Lightning flashed, outlining buildings that were balanced high above them, well out of reach of tsunami or tidal flood. He thought he saw the braided steel ropes that would be used to raise and lower cargo up the cliff—and if necessary, he thought, boats as well. In the lightning’s flash they seemed like serpents slithering down the rock face, gone to hunt some helpless thing now lost in the depths of night. He shivered and pressed himself close to the rock as he ascended the twisting staircase, so that the wind might not sweep him away. The girl was having a hard time and at last it was Tarrant who steadied her, his cold flesh making her cry out in surprise as he pressed her back, saving her from being blown away by one particularly violent gust.

“Almost there,” Damien muttered. For his benefit more than for the others. It was doubtful they could even hear him above the wind now, so furiously was it driven.

At last they reached the top and they paused there for a moment, catching their breath. Hesseth took advantage of the break to wrap a blanket about Jenseny’s shoulders, shawl-style. It was meant more to conserve heat than to keep her dry; at this point, with all of them soaked to the skin, the latter would be a futile effort at best.

They moved on into the darkness, able to see no more than a yard or so ahead of them before the downpour cut their visibility short. The lamps were little more than sparks in a measureless blackness, about which they gathered like insects. The rain buffeted them in sheets, and more than once Jenseny needed a helping hand to keep going.

At last there were buildings. Small at first, but even those helped cut the wind somewhat. Damien’s whole body ached from the effort of fighting the wind. They skirted the lee side of long warehouses, wading in ankle-deep water that was as cold as ice. At one point Tarrant signaled for them to stop and Damien did so, shivering as he used the opportunity to readjust the straps of his backpack. It was a new one that he had purchased back in Esperanova, and was not yet broken in; its stiff, unyielding straps rubbed the wet cloth against his body where he least needed discomfort. At last he slipped one arm out of its strap and used the other to sling it more loosely, satchel-style, over his shoulder. Better.

“There.” Tarrant pointed into the darkness. Though he couldn’t see what the man was pointing to—didn’t even know what he was looking for, for that matter—Damien was hardly in a mood to argue. They began to move again, splashing their way through the impromptu rivers that coursed down the street, stumbling as an unseen pothole or unnoticed ridge confounded their balance. Once the girl went down hard on her hands and knees in the water, and Damien had to help her up. It was hard to be sure of anything in the dark, but he thought she was crying. He hesitated only an instant, then lifted her up in his arms and held her tightly against his chest. Her own weight was slight, but her waterlogged clothing added considerably to the burden. Damien was just having second thoughts about his decision when he felt a hand on his other shoulder. Tarrant. The tall man placed a hand on the strap of his pack and waited for him to release it. After a minute he did so, shrugging out of it awkwardly while he maintained his grip on the girl. Much to his surprise the Hunter took it up, clearly meaning to carry it for him. It was a gesture so generous, so utterly unlike him, that for a moment Damien could do no more than stand there gaping while the rain poured down on them all. At last a sharp jab from Hesseth got him moving again, and he shifted his grip on the girl so that he could carry her more easily. He thought, as he moved, that he saw the Hunter smile. Slightly, very slightly. Hard to be sure, in the rain.

They passed through a squalid residential district, where homeless figures crouched shivering in doorways and refused to meet their eyes. Taking them for demons, no doubt. Who else would be walking about on a night like this? They made their way south as quickly as they could, keeping to the lee side of buildings whenever they were able. Jenseny shook in Damien’s arms, but whether from tears or fear or simple cold he couldn’t begin to tell. There’d be time enough later to sort that out, when they found some sort of shelter.

Won’t do us any good to find a hotel, he thought grimly. Can’t afford to be noticed, and that would sure as hell do it. Besides, what manner of place would take in four strangers at this hour? He didn’t like to think that they would have to camp outdoors in this weather, but there didn’t seem to be much of an alternative. Unless Tarrant’s preternatural Sight could locate them a cave somewhere to serve as shelter. Or anything.

They followed the Hunter for what seemed like miles, until at last the man seemed to find what he was looking for. They had skirted what looked like the center of town, and were now far beyond the main clustering of houses and shops. Trees loomed high on either side of a muddy road, cutting the wind until it could almost be dealt with.

Damien’s limbs ached from the cold and the exertion, but he kept on moving. And he kept on carrying the child as well, though her weight made walking twice as hard. There was no way she could have gone on.

At last Tarrant turned from the road, following a path that led deep into the woods. Too tired to question him, Damien simply followed. He could see Hesseth beside, wearily keeping the pace. The narrow path was overgrown, and drowned grass squelched beneath their feet as they walked. Once he almost tripped, but the Hunter’s chill grip steadied him. Hardly colder than his own skin, now. That was unnerving.

And then the path opened up to reveal a small clearing, inches deep in rainwater. In its center sat a primitive cabin, high enough on its log foundations that the groundwater hadn’t flooded it. Yet. Without hesitation Tarrant walked up to the front door and lowered his lamp so that he might make out its details. There was a heavy padlock on it which he studied for a moment, then held it in his hand and silently conjured power. Silver-blue light flickered in and about the lock. He gave it a moment to do its work, then pulled back, hard. The lock’s bar shattered like glass and fell in icy bits to his feet.

He kicked the door hard and it opened, granting access to a pitch-black space. As the lanterns were brought inside, Damien could make out details: rough walls, a coarsely-made table and chairs, two cots, a fireplace. Not much, but right now it looked like heaven. Despite his misgivings he moved inside, and lowered the girl gently to one of the cots. She collapsed on it trembling, her body limp as a rag doll.

He turned to find Tarrant setting their lanterns on the rough wooden mantel. Dust clouded up about the glass, stirred by his motion. Whoever owned this place, they hadn’t cleaned it for a good long time.

He took a moment to catch his breath, then said what had to be said. “This place belongs to someone.”

“Obviously.”

“They might come back—”

“They won’t. Not right away. I don’t know all the details, but my Working indicated that this place is only used in the summer. Which it isn’t quite, yet.”

He looked about, and couldn’t help but mutter, “Breaking and entering?”

“Would you rather camp outside?”

He looked at the small girl shivering on the cot, and over at Hesseth; the khrast-woman looked equally miserable. “No,” he said at last. “I guess not. We can pay for anything we use.”

A faint smile flitted across the Hunter’s face. “If that makes you more comfortable.”

It was Hesseth who made them a fire, digging through her pack to reach the one dry square inch where her matches were stored, tightly wrapped in layers of waxed paper. Bless her for it. Soon the cabin’s interior was glowing amber and orange from the flames, and though the heat of the fire was minimal at first Damien knew it would soon fill the small space.

Outside the wind whistled angrily; inside, the only sound was the crackle of the flames and the slow drip of water as it seeped down from their hair, their clothes, their possessions.

“You’ll need to get the girl dry,” Tarrant told them. “At her age children take sick easily. And she’s never been outside before, which means her immune system is mostly untested; best not to subject it to too much stress.”

He moved toward the door then, as if to leave.

“You’re going out?” Damien asked. Incredulous.

“It’ll be dawn soon.” He looked out the window, as if searching for a hint of sunlight. If there was any, Damien couldn’t make it out. “I need shelter, too, priest.”

He moved as if to grasp the door handle.

“Gerald. Please.” When he said nothing in response, Damien added gently, “Don’t be an ass.”

The pale eyes narrowed.

“There’s a trapdoor in the corner that must lead down to some kind of cellar. If that’s flooded, we can easily cover the one window.” He nodded toward the thick glass, to the rain and the wind that shrieked beyond. “There’s no need to go outside in that mess.”

The Hunter hesitated. Water dripped from the hem of his tunic.

“We’re all in this together,” Damien said quietly. “Aren’t we?”

Something flickered in the depths of Tarrant’s eyes—some dark and secret emotion, that was gone too quickly for Damien to analyze it. When it was gone, the man’s accustomed mask was back in place: perfectly controlled, utterly unreadable.

Slowly, Tarrant took his hand from the handle. Slowly, after a moment more, he stepped away from the door.

“Yes,” he said softly. As if savoring the words. “We’re all in this together, aren’t we?”

Outside, the wind was still rising.

35

Damien dreamed. Not in cohesive images which held true to some internal narrative, but chaotic fragments, layered one over the other with no sense of unity. Images of a dark and sterile land where the earth was black and the trees were white and the sky burned crimson and orange overhead. Images of running, of terrible thirst, of a paralysis that came upon him muscle by muscle, limb by limb, until he could do no more than lie helplessly on the ground, his every breath a struggle for survival. And then there was rakhene laughter. Always that: gales of rakhene laughter, as cruel and as bloodthirsty as any he had heard in Hesseth’s homeland. Sometimes there were crystals, too, glistening black columns like the citadel they had seen in Lema—the Master’s citadel, which they had destroyed—only now there were thousands of them, more than thousands, large ones and small ones and carved ones and broken ones . . . some of the carved ones were in the shape of skulls, but instead of empty sockets they had vast, glaring eyes. Faceted eyes, insect-bright, that reflected the fiery skies in a thousand molten bits. No need to ask where that image came from; he would never forget that baleful glare as long as he lived.

Maybe torture will loosen his tongue, the crystal skull urged. Bug-eyes glistening. Certainly worth a try . . .

He awakened in a cold sweat, and for a moment couldn’t remember where he was. Then it all came back to him: the rain, the cold, the frightened child in his arms. His shoulders throbbed painfully as he levered himself to a sitting position and his feet felt cold and sore, but at least everything was in working order. After more than a decade on the road you learned to be grateful for that and ignore the rest.

Outside the storm was still raging, and the light coming in through the one window was so feeble that Tarrant probably could have stayed upstairs without danger. So much for traveling tonight, he thought grimly. Hesseth had nurtured a fire in the small fireplace and its golden flames dispelled some of the gloom inside, but there were limits to what a mere fire could accomplish. As he eased himself gingerly onto his feet, hoping they would support him, he could feel the weight of the storm outside pressing against the walls and roof of the tiny cabin, and it was as if the pressure made their dimensions shrink. Suddenly the room seemed very dank and close, and it took considerable effort on his part to resist its depressive power.

Hesseth’s voice broke into his reverie, a welcome distraction. “You up to breakfast?”

He grunted assent and took in the rest of the room. The small table had been set with bowls and spoons and a pot of something steaming that smelled excruciatingly good. Beside it sat Jenseny, who had evidently just finished eating; her empty bowl had been set to one side so that she could concentrate all her attention on the little metal puzzles Tarrant had provided for her. As Damien approached the table, Hesseth produced another bowl and a ladle and spooned out a hefty portion of the steaming concoction. Some kind of grain-based porridge, he guessed. He didn’t recognize the vegetables floating in it, nor did he care what they were. He’d have eaten swamp mud if it was hot enough.

The girl glanced up as he sat down opposite her, and cast him a fleeting, nervous smile. He tried to smile back, aware that between stubble and dried mud and rain-mussed hair he must look particularly gruesome. Hell, if she could face that in the morning, she could handle anything.

They let him eat in silence, Hesseth nursing a mug of some sweet juice she had heated over the fire. Like the grain and the vegetables it was not from their own stores but from among foodstuffs kept in the cabin. One more thing to pay for, Damien thought. Surely if they left a generous amount of money for the owner, he could manage not to feel guilty about all this. What man wouldn’t happily trade a few tins of cereal and a can or two of vegetables for a handful of coins? He’d leave enough to assure fair payment and then some. Let Tarrant scorn him if he liked. Fair was fair.

“I had a dream,” he said at last, pushing the twice-emptied bowl away from him. It seemed to him that his words hung heavy in the silence, and that the air cooled somewhat for having contained them. He pushed back his chair a bit so that it was closer to the fire; the heat on his back was reassuring. “Bad one?” Hesseth asked.

“Yeah.” The child had stopped her play and was watching him now. For a brief moment he thought of sending her elsewhere (but where? It wasn’t like the cabin had another room), and then the total idiocy of that hit home. She had signed on to follow them into this sorcerous realm, knowing that they were facing death and worse. And even forgetting about that, look at where they had found her: among the Terata, sole witness to the true nature of that cursed tribe. And he, Damien, was going to protect her now by sending her away so she wouldn’t hear about his nightmare? He remembered how she had cringed in the streets of Esperanova, how the pain and the suffering that clung to the streets of that city had come nigh onto overwhelming her. She sees more horror in a walk down Main Street than most of us see in a lifetime . . . and she’s still hanging in there, despite it. How many other children her age could manage that? She’s a lot tougher than she looks, and it’s time we gave her credit for it.

So he described his nightmare to both of them, both the images he’d seen and the emotions attending them. The latter was what was truly horrible about the experience: not the rakhene laughter, not the crystal skulls, not even the image of Calesta. It was his own feeling of utter helplessness as he lay upon that sterile plain, paralyzed by God alone knows what power.

Jenseny’s eyes were wide as he described the scenario, and her toys lay forgotten on the table before her. Though she didn’t interrupt Damien in any way, he could feel the tension building in her, and it didn’t surprise him when, after he finished, she was the first one to speak.

“The Black Lands,” she breathed. “Those are the Black Lands.”

Damien grimaced at the revelation; he would much have preferred to believe that his dream represented some symbolic vista, rather than an actual landscape. It was left for Hesseth to prompt the girl, “Tell us about the Black Lands.”

The tidal power must have been strong then, for before she could begin to speak an image took form before her, hovering over the center of the table. A glistening black surface, that reflected the moonlight in ripples and whorls much like the surface of the sea. The image had barely become clear when it disappeared, too quickly for Damien or Hesseth to study it.

“He said . . . the Prince lives in the Black Lands.” Her brow was furrowed tightly as she struggled to remember what her father had told her, so very long ago. Who had ever thought that she’d need to recall it all? “He said the land there looks like the sea, or like a river, only it’s black and it’s frozen in place.” Again the image appeared before her, but this time only a flicker. She seemed not to notice it. “He said . . . nothing grows there. He said it’s a desert. And it’s flat, so that the Prince can see everything.”

“No sneaking up on that bastard,” Damien muttered. Force of habit, assessing the enemy. The last thing he wanted to do this time around was go calling on the enemy face-to-face. Luck had been with them in Lema—not to mention forested mountains and a rakhene guide—but here, out on that open plain . . . they wouldn’t stand a chance.

A man doesn’t get that lucky twice, he thought grimly. “Go on,” Hesseth urged.

“He said . . . the Prince lives in crystal. But not like a jewel, not like in his ring. He said that crystals can grow just like plants, and in the Black Lands there’s a forest of them. That’s where he lives. That’s where he rules from.” She looked up at him hopefully. Obviously she wasn’t all that sure that the information she was providing was what they wanted. “You’re doing fine,” Damien told her, and he took one of her hands in his own and squeezed it. “Go on.” There was a flash of images in front of her: white trees, black earth, a strange knotted tube that turned inside out as they watched it. It took Damien a second to realize that the last was one of her puzzles.

“There’s the Wasting,” she told them. Her voice was slowly growing stronger as she gained confidence in her narrative. “The Prince put it between where humans live and where the rakh live, so that if one side gets angry it won’t kill the other. He said he had to put it there because humans and rakh don’t get along, and they always want to fight. But now it’s hard for them to start a war, because no one can get through the Wasting without the Prince’s help.”

“Why not?” Damien asked.

She said it with the simple candor of childhood. “They die.”

“How?” Hesseth asked her.

The young brow furrowed tightly. At last she shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think he knew. He just said that all things die in the Wasting, except things that normally live there. And . . . he said he saw it from a distance once and it was really weird, all black like the Prince’s lands but it had white trees, only they had no leaves and he couldn’t see anything else alive there . . .” She shook her head sharply, frustrated. “I don’t think the Prince told him anything about how it works.”

“Of course not,” Damien muttered. “As far as he knew, the Protector might still turn against him. Why give a potential enemy more information than you have to?”

“It sounds pretty grim” Hesseth muttered.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “It does at that.”

“But necessary. I wondered how humans and rakh could live together—”

“And now we know. They don’t.”

“They do in the Prince’s house,” the girl told them. “Humans and rakh work together there, and even though they don’t like each other everybody behaves. Because the Prince is a human now, but he was rakh one time, so they don’t fight because of him.” Her eyes, previously unfocused with the effort of remembering, fixed on them: first Damien, then Hesseth. “Does that make sense?” she begged. “I think that’s what he said.”

Damien drew in a deep breath. “Apparently the Prince . . . transforms, somehow. It must happen when he becomes young again; he can change his species or gender when he rejuvenates.”

“That’s a strange kind of sorcery,” Hesseth mused.

“Not for one who rules in a place like this. Think about it. Is there any other way that a human could have earned the loyalty of a whole rakhene nation? Enough to keep them from tearing out the throats of their human neighbors?”

She snorted. “Not likely.”

“My dad said the Prince is getting old now,” Jenseny offered. “He said that means he’s going to have to change soon.”

“So he does nothing to alter the aging process itself,” Damien mused. “Just one gala transformation at the end of it.”

“Conserves energy,” Hesseth noted.

“But it’s risky. Men have died playing that game,”

“Do other people do things like that?” Jenseny demanded.

Damien sighed. When he spoke at last, he chose his words with care. “Lots of people would like to stay young,” he told her. Or stay alive—like Tarrant—at any price. “Some people are skilled enough that they can manage it for a time.” He remembered Ciani, so very youthful at seventy years of age. Could she stay that way forever?

“Are you going to do that?” the child asked him.

“No,” he said softly. “No. I’m not.”

“Why not?”

He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to come up with the proper words. How did one explain to a child what death was on this world, or what it would mean to his Church when he chose to die at his appointed time? “Because we try not to use the fae just for ourselves,” he said finally. “We only use it when it helps us to serve God.”

“Like back in the hotel?” she demanded.

Suddenly he felt very tired. Very old. He pressed her hand tightly in his, wishing that he had some better words to offer. “Yes, Jenseny. Like back at the hotel. I believed that I was serving God by keeping us safe long enough to do His work here. And believe me, if I weren’t convinced that there was some terrible evil here and that only we could fight it . . . then I never would have done what I did. Even if it meant that I might get hurt.”

He didn’t dare look at Hesseth, but kept his eyes fixed on the girl. Despite his best efforts he could imagine the rakh-woman’s expression: taut, disapproving. But much to his surprise she reached out across the table and placed her hand briefly atop his own, a gesture of reassurance if not approval.

“Your god demands a lot,” she said quietly.

From somewhere he managed to dredge up a smile. “I never said it was easy.”

Afternoon watch: the girl and the khrast were asleep, curled up together on one of the cots. A bracing pot of tee, double-strength, hung over the fire. The rain outside was dying down, but the sky was still overcast.

Damien sat by the fire, nursing a cup of the hot, bitter liquid. The girl’s questions had disturbed him deeply. Not because of what she said, or even how she said it. But the questions she asked struck deep at the root of who and what he was, a foundation already riddled with doubt.

Have I become too accepting, too complacent? Has the line between good and evil become so blurred in my mind that I no longer worry about where it is?

Long ago, on a dark grassy plain, the Hunter had told him what effect his presence would have on the priest. For you I’ve become the most subtle creature of all: a civilized evil, genteel and seductive. An evil you endure because you need its service—even though that endurance plucks loose the underpinnings of your morality. An evil that causes you to question the very definitions of your identity, that blurs the line between dark and light until you’re no longer sure which is which, or how the two are divided. Had he done that? Had the Hunter’s unquestioning acceptance of sorcery as a tool desensitized him to its dangers?

The issue was not one Working, he reminded himself, or even the sorcerous manipulation of another human being for a holy purpose. Every time that a man Worked the fae for his own private benefit it was another nail in humanity’s coffin, a reinforcement of the patterns which were destroying them all. Where did you draw the line? When was survival a personal concern, and when was it service to God?

Once he had been sure. Now he was far less certain. And it had taken no more than a child’s questioning to break down the barriers he had erected around his soul, forcing him to face his own doubts head-on. Forcing him to address his conscience.

He put his cup aside, setting it on the thick wooden table-top. And stared into the flames as if they could provide some answer. Golden fire, hot and clean. How long had it been since he’d felt truly clean? How long had it been since he’d felt sure of himself?

He closed his eyes slowly and sighed. The fire crackled softly before him.

Damn you, Tarrant. For everything. But most of all . . . for being right.

“Fact:” Tarrant pronounced. “The Undying Prince appears to be the only figure in this region capable of altering the rakh the way we know they have altered. Fact: It was he who launched the invasion which resulted in the death of Protector Kierstaad, and the subsequent destruction of several villages.” Damien looked up sharply at that, but Tarrant refused to meet his eyes. How many scenes of brutal destruction had he visited when the Hunter left their company to feed in the Protectorates? They had never thought to ask him. Maybe they should have.

“Clearly,” he continued, “Inasmuch as we have one enemy, the Undying Prince is it.”

“What about Calesta?” Damien asked him.

“No doubt the demon is allied to him, and serves his purpose. Which would make any direct assault exceedingly dangerous.”

“Downright impossible,” Damien reminded him. “That’s what you said before.”

The Hunter shrugged.

“What are our options?” Hesseth asked.

“For a band of four attacking an established monarch? Very limited.” He leaned back in his chair, steepling slender fingers before him. “Assassination is the simplest solution, and it has distinct advantages. But with a Iezu for a bodyguard, he’s not likely to give us an opening.”

“What else?” Damien demanded.

“Short of raising an army of our own—and Conjuring our own demonic patronage—we must work with what this country has to offer.”

“You mean look for someone local who can do the job.”

“Or help us to do it. Yes.”

“But if this Iezu is protecting him,” Hesseth pointed out, “surely even a local couldn’t get through.”

“Ideally, Calesta wouldn’t recognize our agent as an enemy. But I wasn’t even thinking of assassination. The Prince himself is a sorcerer of considerable power, and very probably an adept as well. Such men always incite envy, and they must be prepared for the violence that attends it.”

It took Damien a minute to realize what he was driving at. “You’re talking about an insurrection.”

The Hunter nodded. “Just so.”

“A revolution?” Hesseth’s tone was frankly incredulous. “According to you, this country has been ruled by one man for centuries—”

“And there are always those who are restless, Mes rakh, and who await only the right opportunity to take the reins of power in their own hands. That’s the human pattern. The more powerful a ruler is, the more likely it is that the seeds of his downfall are already taking root around him. We have only to find those seeds and nourish them.”

“If his enemies have been secretive all this time, they’re hardly likely to come out in the open just because we need them.”

“Any sane man is secretive when he plans to overthrow a sorcerer,” Tarrant said evenly. “And he would remain so despite our best arguments . . . unless he had a sorcerer of equal skill for an ally.”

“You mean you.”

The Hunter bowed his head in assent.

“But that still leaves Calesta,” Hesseth reminded them. “Surely once an inusurrection begins he’ll use his power in the Prince’s behalf—and these people will be no more immune to his illusions than you are. So what does that leave us? A whole army doomed to failure, instead of just us.”

“Precisely.” The Hunter’s silver eyes glittered coldly. “A whole army doomed to failure, instead of us.”

Damien breathed in sharply. “A decoy.”

“I prefer to call it a distraction.”

“So that the Prince and his demons are watching them and not us,” Hesseth mused.

Damien’s voice was very cold and tightly controlled. “You’re talking about killing these people. Sending them off to a war they can’t win with the promise of your support—and then leaving them to die, while you attack another front.”

“If they want to free their land of its current ruler,” Tarrant responded coolly, “then this would accomplish it. Many of these men are no doubt prepared to die in order to achieve that. Why should it matter how and when it happens, if in the end their goal is achieved?” When Damien said nothing, he added, “Sometimes war requires a sacrifice.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I know. I still don’t like it.”

“If we were to do that,” Hesseth asked him, “how would we start? How would we go about finding a group like that?”

“Ah,” he said softly. “That is the sticking point.”

“Come on,” Damien snapped. “With one Knowing—”

“I could interpret the tides of revolution in this land—and also announce our presence to the Prince like a thousand trumpets heralding an army. No, Reverend Vryce. We need to be circumspect in using the fae here. Any fae,” he added, and he looked pointedly at Jenseny.

The girl didn’t quail as his cold gaze met hers, not in body nor in spirit. For all that the outside world still frightened her, she had come to terms with Tarrant’s particular emanations. In that, Damien thought, she’d done better than most adults could dream of. Better than himself, sometimes.

“Jen.” Hesseth stroked her hand gently. “Can you tell us anything? Something your father said, maybe, or something he showed you?”

She hesitated. “Like what?”

“About people who weren’t happy with the Prince. About places where the Prince might be in trouble.”

“Do you really expect her to know that?” Tarrant asked sharply.

“Her father came here because he was the Prince’s enemy,” Damien reminded him. “Whatever other reasons he might have given for the journey, basically he came here to scout out the Prince’s situation—including possible weaknesses.” He reached out and squeezed Jenseny’s shoulder in reassurance. “Since he seems to have told his daughter everything else, why not that?”

“I think . . .” she said slowly. The words faded into silence as she struggled to remember. “I think he said there were rakh who weren’t happy.”

Hesseth exhaled noisily, “I can believe that.”

“He said it was hard for them, because the Prince was like one of their kind. But also he wasn’t.”

“Species bonding instinct at war with intellect,” Tarrant observed. Hesseth hissed softly.

“Do you know any names?” Damien asked softly. “Did he ever talk about anyone in particular?”

“He saw a rakh city,” Jenseny said. Her eyes were unfocused, as if struggling to see something far, far away. “The Prince took him on a tour. He said that he wanted to impress him with how good everything was. But my dad said that some of it wasn’t good. He said he thought some of the rakh were angry, and they really wanted their own country. But they would never dare say anything.”

“Names,” Damien urged. “Do you know any names?”

She bit her lower lip, concentrating. “Tak,” she said at last. “The city was Tak. And there was a guide, a rakh-woman . . . Suka, I think her name was. Suka . . . there was another part.”

“We need-” Damien began

“Shh.” It was Tarrant. “Let her talk.”

“Suka . . . I can’t remember.” Her hand, still covered by Hesseth’s, had balled into a fist with the strain of remembering. “And then there was another. Somebody important.” Damien could feel himself tense as she said that; it took effort not to press her for details, but to wait until she chose to offer them. “He was strong, and really important. The way rakh-men are important, and women aren’t.”

“Alpha male,” Tarrant provided.

Hesseth shot him a look that could kill. “Prime male,” she corrected him. Insisting on the title that her own people used, instead of the one that humans had created for studying animal behavior. And she was right, Damien mused. A people capable of overriding their inherited instincts deserved something better than a term used to describe dogs and horses.

“I think . . . his name was Kata something. Katas . . . Katassah.” Her hands unclenched as the memory came to her at last. “That was it. Katassah.”

“A prime male,” Damien said softly.

“Which means that the others will obey him.”

“Which means that the others might,” Hesseth corrected.

“Tell us about this Katassah,” Damien urged.

The girl hesitated. “My dad said that he was tall and strong and he liked to fight. All the rakh-men like to fight.”

“Assst!” Hesseth hissed. “Tell me about it.”

“He acted like he liked the Prince, and maybe he really did, but my dad didn’t think so. He didn’t think any of the rakh really liked the Prince. He said that if there was a chance for the Prince to be overthrown, some rakh might go for it.”

“Including this Katassah?”

“I think so,” she said. “But he wasn’t really sure. It was something he said he just sensed, but he couldn’t talk about it with anyone. Just a guess.”

There was silence about the small table. A sharp silence, heavy-laden with thought. At last it was Hesseth who spoke what they all were thinking.

“Dealing with the rakh,” she said quietly, “means crossing the Wasting.”

“Yeah,” Damien muttered. It was not a concept he relished.

“Are we so sure they’d be willing to ally with us?” Tarrant challenged. “A rakhene warrior who’s dedicated himself to the overthrow of a human master is hardly going to welcome allies from that species.”

Damien looked at Hesseth, who reminded him, “I’m not human.”

“What I meant—”

“You forget why I’m here,” she said evenly. Her voice was calm, but her eyes glittered darkly with remembered hatred. “This man—this Prince—is transforming my people into demons. Worse: he’s transforming them into monsters who think they’re demons, who hunt and feed like the lowest of the faeborn, even to the extent of surrendering their lives to the sun.” She looked at Jenseny. “Did these rakh go out in the sun? Did your father say?”

For a minute the girl was silent. “He said they don’t like the sun,” she said at last. “But I don’t think it hurts them. Not a lot.”

Hesseth hissed. “So. What was finished in the west is only half-begun here. Maybe it’s harder to alter a nation of a hundred thousand than it is a tribe of several dozen. Or maybe the woman who ruled there was more determined to make the transformation complete. Either way . . . what we saw there was a sign of things to come for these people. Why else would they be turning into . . . what Jenseny saw?” She turned to Tarrant, amber eyes flashing in the firelight. “Do you think there is a rakh who wouldn’t join us, once he understood that? Do you think any rakh would continue to serve the Prince once they saw where his power was leading?”

“I think there are always men who will serve a tyrant,” Tarrant said dryly, “and your species is no exception. But the point is well taken.”

Silence fell once more, amid the golden flickering of flames. Amid thoughts of the Wasting, and its ruthless monarch.

“I don’t see an alternative,” Damien said at last. “Does anyone else?”

Hesseth looked pointedly at Tarrant. The tall man nodded slowly, his expression grim. “No,” he said. “There’s no other way that presents itself here.” His tone was strange, but Damien chalked that up to the subject matter. Starting a war was no small thing.

“All right,” Damien said. “But I want this understood. We’ll go to the rakh cities, we’ll find this Katassah, and we’ll see if he wants to work with us. Agreed? And then we’ll discuss what our options are. But I’m not agreeing to use him as a sacrificial cover. Ever. If we ally with him, then we ally. Period. All cards on the table.” He glared at Tarrant. “Understood?”

The adept’s voice was quiet, but his eyes were burning frost. “You would doom us all for the sake of some abstract morality.”

“Maybe. We’ll see. In the meantime, those are the conditions.” When Tarrant did not respond, again he pressed, “Well? Agreed?”

“Your quest,” the Neocount said quietly. Very quietly. It was hard to say just where in his words the disdain was so evident, but it was. In his tone, perhaps. Or maybe in his expression. “You call the shots.”

“Fine. That’s it, then. On those terms.” He glanced out the window, at the darkness beyond. “We’ll wait another day to let the ground dry out a bit; if the weather stays this cold, that could make a big difference. I imagine in the Wasting it’ll be even harder, with no real shelter—”

“And we don’t know what traps that place will contain,”

Tarrant reminded him. “I don’t imagine black land and ghostly trees will be the whole of it.”

“No.” A chill ran up Damien’s spine, just thinking of the place. “But we have my experience and Hesseth’s senses, not to mention your own considerable power.”

“Yes,” the adept mused distantly. “There is, of course, that.”

“And Jenseny’s special vision,” he said, and he squeezed the girl’s hand. To his surprise—and relief—he found that she wasn’t trembling. Did she trust in them that much? Did she think they could protect her?

We don’t know even what we’re facing, he thought grimly. We can hardly begin to prepare.

But what the hell. He’d faced faeborn dangers before. Once with no more than a naked sword and a pair of socks.

From somewhere he managed to dredge up a smile.

“We’ll make it,” he promised them.

36

In the realm of black ash,

In the citadel of black crystal,

Beneath skies that burned crimson at the edges,

The Prince waited.

Through the walls he could feel the messenger’s approach. Softer than sound, subtler than vision, the man’s movement was no more than a faint tinkling in the ancient rock. But that tinkling was magnified as it passed from column to column, from spire to spire, and by the time it reached the Prince’s senses it was a clear message, replete with information.

He was, therefore, not surprised when at last it was not the messenger himself who approached him, but the captain of his guard. Like all his guards this man was rakh, and he served the Prince with a ferocity normally reserved for his own kind. That pleased the Undying. It also pleased him that in a realm where he ruled both humans and rakh, both species should be personally bound to his service. Oh, it hadn’t been easy at first. Even before they had learned to hate humankind like their western brethren, these rakh had been loath to accept domination by an outsider. That was simple species survival instinct at play. But he had fought that battle on their own terms, and at last—on their own terms—won it. Now it was no longer necessary for him to adopt rakhene flesh in order to prove himself. And once the rakh had learned to accept his status as alpha male—regardless of the flesh he adopted, its species or its gender—they made excellent servants.

The captain bowed deeply. “Highness.”

“You have news. From Moskovan?”

If the rakh was surprised by the Prince’s knowledge, he gave no sign of it. “The storm forced him into port by the cape.”

Ah, yes. The storm. That had been a surprise. He had Known it when it was still a fledgling squall way out in the ocean, and had been confident that it would never disturb his lands. He had even given his western ports some vague assurance to that effect. It had been distinctly irritating, therefore, to have the thing come to shore after all. But that was the way of weather-Working, and every adept understood it. You played your best cards out, and then Nature reshuffled the deck. Weather could be seduced, cajoled, even prodded . . . but never controlled. Never completely.

“His ship landed at Freeshore two days behind schedule,” the captain informed him. “He apologizes that it did so without passengers. Apparently they chose to disembark at Hellsport.”

“Ah.” Briefly he considered his last communication with Gerald Tarrant, and wondered if he should have trusted in it. But no, there was no evidence of betrayal here. The company of travelers now moving through his lands consisted of four people, each with his own will and purpose. It was little surprise that in the face of such a tempest they’d had second thoughts and decided to travel over land. For Gerald Tarrant to defy such a consensus would only have focussed suspicion on him. No. It was better this way.

“Do you want me to dispatch some men to Hellsport?” the captain asked.

He shook his head sharply. “By the time our men could reach Hellsport from here, they’ll have been long gone. It would be a wasted effort.”

The current was in their favor, he reminded himself. He was experienced enough to understand what that meant. The minute he made a move it would be echoed by the earth-fae, whose ripples and signs would be carried swiftly north. He could Obscure such a trace, but not completely; if the travelers knew what to look for—and he strongly suspected they did—they could Know his every move.

“No,” he told the captain. “Let them make their move. When they decide what they’re going to do . . . then we’ll deal with them.”

There’ll be time enough, he thought. Since Gerald Tarrant will give us warning.

It was a pleasing thought.

37

When night fell they started off due south, toward the narrowest part of the Wasting. Soon the damp woods surrounding Hellsport gave way to a land bereft of trees or comfort, a rocky plain so cold and hostile that only a few scraggly bushes had managed to take root there. The animals which scurried quickly out of their way were tiny things, thin and nervous, that offered no threat to their supplies or to themselves. They hiked as long as they could and then camped for the day; a chill wind that swept in from the west was a solemn reminder that although they were not in the mountains proper, the land they were passing through was high enough in elevation that spring was unlikely to warm them.

It beats the rakhlands, Damien reminded himself. He remembered that icebound journey, and the unholy fire that awaited them at the end of it. God willing there would be no similar reception at the end of this one.

They took up their packs again promptly at sunset, waiting only for Tarrant to rejoin them before they resumed the long trek south. It was hard traveling—harder, in a way, than any which Damien had done before. The joint strains of looking after Jenseny and worrying about Tarrant—not to mention waiting for Tarrant to blow up because he was looking after Jenseny—frayed at his nerves constantly. So did the very real difficulties involved in bringing a small child with them. She could not match their pace. She could not equal their endurance. She could not do as they did, force their bodies to push on long after exhaustion had set in, because they had not yet found a site defensible enough to serve as a resting place. And yet she struggled to keep up with them and bore all her pains in silence, even when the blisters on her feet broke open along one particularly rough stretch of ground. If not for Tarrant’s special senses, preternaturally attuned to the smell of human blood, they might never have known that anything was wrong at all.

He remembered that. He remembered the feel of her small feet in his hands, hot and swollen and sticky with blood. He remembered thinking that he was going to have to Heal her despite the risk or she simply couldn’t go on, and he had expected Tarrant to argue with him. But when he had looked up at the Hunter, the man had simply nodded, his brow already furrowed in the concentration that presaged his Working. And while Tarrant Obscured, Damien Healed. Hopefully the Prince hadn’t noticed it. Hopefully it hadn’t served as a beacon to his power, giving away their position and their destination and—worst of all—their weakness.

But neither soldiers nor sorcery accosted them as they made their way through the Prince’s lands, which meant that even if the Undying knew they had arrived, he did not yet know their exact position. Thank God for that. Or rather, more accurately, thank Tarrant for that. Without his constant Obscurings Damien had no doubt that the Prince would be breathing down their necks right now. He prayed that the adept’s power would hold, and that the seismic tremors which occasionally interrupted his Workings would prove as much of a hindrance to the Prince’s power as it did to his.

Day bled into day, night into night. The rocky wasteland gave way to broken hills, and that, in turn, to a damp, chill forest. There the leaves overhead shut out even the moonlight, so that they were forced to travel single file through tunnels of darkness with their lanterns held aloft, much as they had in the Terata’s lands. Only here, of course, there were no horses. As he collapsed upon the chill earth at the end of one particularly hard night’s hiking, Damien reflected that he had never appreciated that species quite so much as now. Or ever wanted to obtain a member of it quite so badly.

And then they came to it, and they saw it, and they felt its power.

The Wasting.

It was vast. It was lifeless. It was utterly dark. A land as black as the thick night which enshrouded it, all but invisible from their vantage point. Valley bled into mountains bled into the night sky, and even the illumination of Prima’s slender crescent failed to distinguish between them. In such a darkness it was impossible to make out any details of the land before them, or to estimate its dangers. It was there, black and forbidding; that was the sum total of their knowledge.

It had taken them more than an hour to get to where they might see even that much, climbing up a loose slope of broken rock and gravel that threatened to give way with every step. Hesseth had taken a bad fall near the top and, but for Damien’s intervention, might have gone into a headlong tumble down the treacherous slope. Now, as she crouched upon the summit and studied the land before them, mouth parted slightly in rakhene fashion to drink in its scents, she said nothing of pain and asked for no Healing, though surely Damien’s skills could have afforded her relief. Now, more than ever, they needed to refrain from casual Workings.

Damien stared down upon the night-shrouded land for a long time in silence, but if he had hoped that sheer persistence would render the region more visible he was clearly in for a disappointment; his merely human eyes were incapable of piercing its cover. At last, frustrated, he turned to Tarrant. The adept’s eyes, dilated to absorb the night, shone like black jewels against the ivory pallor of his skin as he stared out at the land before them. Loath to interrupt him, Damien waited. Once he thought he saw a deep violet flame spark in those depths, a glimmering of dark fae kindled by sheer force of will. It must pain him to conjure such a power in the moonlight, the priest reflected; that he did so meant that he was as uneasy as they about the nature of land before them.

At last the Hunter turned to acknowledge him; the violet sparks shivered into darkness, the darkness fading to a familiar silver scrutiny. He drew in a breath, as if preparing to speak, then hesitated. Choosing his words? At last he said quietly, “No.” Only that.

“No what?” Hesseth demanded.

“No sorcery.” He turned to gaze upon the land again, his pale brow furrowing in perplexity. Silver eyes scanned an unseen horizon. “No Workings, no Wardings . . . nothing.”

“Is that possible?”

The Hunter shook his head. Clearly this was not what he had expected.

“What about the Prince?” Hesseth asked. “Is there any sign of his Working?”

“There wouldn’t be,” Damien told her. “Not unless he’d set some kind of trap.” He looked at Tarrant as he said that, but the adept made no response. “Or unless he had managed to Know us. But he hasn’t done that, has he?”

“Not to my knowledge,” the adept said quietly.

No sorcery. It seemed so unlikely that Damien could hardly credit it. Why would a sorcerer of the Prince’s caliber go to all the work of setting up a buffer zone between two warring peoples and then not use his power to reinforce it? The thought was so incredible that Damien almost Worked his own sight then and there, to See the truth for himself. Maybe Tarrant had missed something, or misinterpreted a key element. That was possible, wasn’t it? But even as he considered the move he knew it wasn’t worth the risk. If there really was no active sorcery in this realm, then even a simple Working would stand out like a blazing beacon in the darkness. He couldn’t even Work his vision without giving them all away.

“All right,” he said at last. Accepting the concept—for now. “If there’s no sorcery, at least that’s one thing less to worry about.”

“Is it?” The Hunter asked sharply. “A simple Warding would have left its mark on the currents here, or even an Obscuring. But there are other Workings that might not be as visible.” He turned back to Damien. “You saw my Forest. I evolved each species in it with painstaking care, and set them loose in an environment which my power had nurtured. Generations later, when those altered creatures had hunted and mated and born their own young in a wholly natural manner, would my sorcerous mark still have been visible on them? I think not. And yet, they still served my purpose.” He nodded toward the black plain that awaited them. “Knowing what we do of the Prince’s power, I would suspect his techniques are . . . similar.”

“So, in other words, the fact that you can’t see any sign of sorcery here doesn’t mean that sorcery isn’t involved.”

Tarrant nodded. “Just so.”

“Well, that’s just great.” He was remembering the Hunter’s Forest and its warped inhabitants. It wasn’t a pleasant memory. “So much for an easy hike.” He turned to Hesseth. The rakh-woman’s fur had risen along the back of her neck and her ears were flattened tightly against her head. “You picking up anything?” he asked her.

She hesitated. “A smell,” she said at last. “Very faint. I’m not even sure of it.”

“What is it?”

She exhaled noisily and stood. Her ears were more erect now, but her expression was strained; it was clear that what she had smelled worried her. “Dried blood,” she told them. “Sun-bleached bone. Subtle scents, very faint . . . the kind of smells you would never notice if there were other scents to mask them, other living things surrounding—”

“Only here there aren’t.”

She nodded.

He looked over at Jenseny. The girl sat hunched by Hesseth’s side, thin arms clasped about her knees. Her wide, dark eyes were glazed with fear and exhaustion, but when she looked up at him there was something else there, too. Something so utterly trusting that his heart clenched in a knot just to see it.

Dear God, what have we brought her to? What are we doing here, all of us?

In a voice that was as steady as he could possibly make it, he said, “All right. The night’s still young. We can make good distance before dawn, then work out—”

“In the dark?” Jenseny demanded.

Startled, he looked out at the enemy’s terrain and reconsidered. In his months with the Hunter he had grown accustomed to traveling in near darkness, to stumbling his way over roots and rocks with nothing more than a single lantern to guide him . . . but this place was different. What if darkness was part of this land’s special power, and once they were within its grasp . . . He shuddered. No. Not this time. The child was right. This time they would wait for the daylight, so that they could at least see what they were walking into. They needed that much.

As if sensing his thoughts, the Hunter warned, “You’re talking about considerable delay.”

He nodded.

“If the Prince has figured out where we are—”

“Then we’d be his prisoners by now, and you know it. At the pace we’ve been forced to travel-” He stopped himself from going on, but it was already too late. The girl had turned away from him, and he thought he saw her trembling. Blaming herself for their delay, no doubt. Hating herself on their behalf. Damn his lack of diplomacy! Stiffly, awkwardly, he continued, “Either your Obscurings worked and he isn’t sure where we are, or else he’s made other plans for dealing with us. Either way, I don’t think a few hours here will hurt us.” Defiantly he added, “I want to see this place.”

For a moment—a brief moment—he thought the Hunter was going to argue with him. But all he said was, “As you wish, then.” Just that. Damien was struck with a sudden urge to strike him, to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, to shout at the top of his lungs, Argue with me, dammit! Tell me I’m wrong! Tell me that I don’t understand the dynamics of this place, or that my vision is too limited, or that we need to keep moving . . . anything! He wanted the old Gerald Tarrant back, the one he understood. The arrogant, exasperating Neocount who had saved his life in the rakhlands even while threatening to destroy him. That Tarrant he knew how to deal with. That Tarrant he trusted.

What had changed the man? What could change such a man? He couldn’t begin to fathom an answer.

“All right,” he muttered. Turning away, so that he need not meet Gerald Tarrant’s eyes. “We’ll camp back there by the stream we passed—” and he pointed to the north, the way they had come, “—for the rest of the night. When the sun rises, we can take a look at what we’re heading into. All right?”

He didn’t wait for the Hunter’s assent. He didn’t dare meet his eyes. He began the treacherous descent with no further word, knowing that his companions would follow him. Hesseth, because she believed in him. Jenseny, because she needed them both. And Tarrant . . .

Tarrant . . .

Tarrant for his own reasons, he told himself. As always.

In this place, the thought seemed particularly chilling.

The dawn shed crimson light on the Prince’s buffer zone, and the details that it illuminated were far from reassuring.

Before them lay a twisted land, its hard black earth rippled and coiled like some swirling mudbath, its surface glistening in the harsh morning sunlight. Here and there a finger of rock jutted up from the ground, or a sun-baked dome blistered its surface, or a jagged crack, earthquake-born, reminded the viewer that even here, in this desolate place, greater destruction was always possible. It was jarring, forbidding, desolate. A sampler of distortion.

It was their destination.

In the distance were Jenseny’s trees, strange jagged blades of sun-bleached white that thrust their way up through the earth all along the blackened plain. Some grew in clusters, twining about each other with serpentine complexity. Others jutted up spear-straight from the dark earth, their slender trunks brilliant against the unbroken black of their surroundings. There was no sign of any leaf on them, or any flower, or any other sign of vegetative normalcy. With their bleached white trunks and their slender, twisted limbs they seemed almost skeletal in aspect, hands and arms and fingers reaching up from the black earth as if struggling toward the sun. It was a markedly unpleasant image, and one perfectly complemented by the aspect of the ground itself. In the distance the ripples of black earth appeared smooth, almost liquid, but where it lapped against the foot of their hill they could see that its surface was wrinkled and pitted, scored with a network of tiny faults in much the way that an aged human face might be riddled by tiny wrinkles. In places these gave the mad swirlings an aspect not unlike that of living flesh: a serpent’s coils resting in the sun, a tangle of intestines drying in the breeze. The combination of images gave Damien a sick, vertiginous feeling, and at last he turned away, to give his stomach a chance to settle.

“Assst!” The hissed exclamation was sharp and hostile. Glancing over at Hesseth, startled, Damien saw that the rakh-woman’s fur was stiffly erect; the coarse bristle about her face banished any illusion of humanity which her altered features might otherwise have conjured.

“It’s lava.” He forced the words out, imprinting the strange land with the ordered power of scientific nomenclature. “Cooled lava flow. Perfectly normal.” He remembered seeing land like this in the Dividers, when he crossed the Fury Basin, and once before that in the desert—north of Ganji. He had even seen trees like that once, trunks and limbs stripped bare by the heat of an eruption. Perfectly natural, he told himself. But though the shape of this land might have its origin in the natural balance of earth and fire, its aura was anything but wholesome. And he needed no Knowing to confirm that a man’s hand, a Prince’s will, was the source of its strangeness.

The crust could be thin in places, he thought. Under our combined weight it might well give way, and then what? Cold tubes and tunnels if we’re lucky, and if not . . . He had broken through the ceiling of an active lava tube once, and only barely managed to throw himself back rather than plummet down into it; the acrid fumes and raw heat that had blasted him in the face were sensations he would never forget. Was there a live volcano somewhere nearby? He searched the hills and mountains within sight for some characteristic sign. There was none. Which didn’t mean that one of those mountains might not explode while they were passing by, or that some hidden vent might not vulk to life without warning, right beneath their feet. Volcanoes were notoriously unpredictable.

The Black Lands bordered on this region, he remembered suddenly. Was the Prince’s stronghold also a lava plain of some kind? The name made it likely. If so, what did that say about the man who had chosen to make such a region his home?

If he’s living this close to a volcano—any volcano—then he’s a lunatic for sure. The woman in the rakhlands had built her home on an earthquake fault, he remembered. She had been quite insane, of course, and twice as dangerous for it. He prayed that the Undying Prince was more stable, for all their sakes; a crazy enemy was impossible to predict.

“Come on,” he whispered hoarsely. “We’ve seen enough. Let’s go back down.”

They had made their camp by a stream some two miles back, and although it was not a difficult journey once they had slid down the north side of the ridge, they hiked it in silence. Hesseth’s fur was still erect, and periodically she hissed softly as she walked; clearly she had never seen such a landscape before, or considered its implications. After a while Jenseny began to come up with questions—mostly about volcanoes—but though he answered them thoroughly and honestly there were things in his experience he was careful not to tell her about. Like the cloud he had witnessed from a distance, that had descended without warning from Mount Kali and scalded nearly twenty thousand people to death. Like the molten boulders he’d had to dodge when he was searching for passage through the Dividers. Like the volcano-born tsunami he had once seen, a wall of water nearly three hundred feet high that had crashed into the shore by Herzog, swallowing half the town in minutes. Those were the kinds of images that would give a child nightmares, and he was careful not to share them with her. But it was humbling to consider the true power of Erna; compared to it even Tarrant’s depredations were mere child’s play, the Forest a mere amusement park.

But give him time, he thought dryly. He’s working on it.

They ate a somber breakfast, a porridge of grain and local roots that Hesseth had concocted. There had been no game for many days now, which was just as well; he wasn’t all that anxious to have her leave the camp in order to hunt. Fortunately he had purchased an assemblage of pills in Esperanova that should keep them nutritionally fit; he doled them as the tea brewed, vitamins and minerals and amino acids in thin gelatinous shells that should supplement the nutritive limitations, if not the boredom, of their fare. Hesseth made a face as she swallowed hers, as if to imply that her rakhene biology should be above such things. Jenseny watched her, then bravely gulped hers down.

All right, he thought. Nobody’s starving, anyway.

“Let’s see the maps,” he said.

Hesseth rummaged through her pack until she found the one they had consulted before, a crudely drawn rendering of the Prince’s whole continent. The upper edge of the land mass, a ragged coast, was dotted with cities and towns whose names evoked a time of persecution and conflict. Misery. Warsmith. Hellsport. Farther south the names grew gentler, but the land was equally harsh, and most of the populated centers seemed to be on or near the coast. That was good news. He had cursed the emptiness of this land more than once in the last few days, but there was no denying the part it had played in helping them to travel undetected. As for the desert they were about to enter . . .

It stretched across the bulk of the continent, dividing the Prince’s land cleanly in two. To its west a line of mountains served as stark sentinels of its border, denying access to the coast by any landbound route. To its east were more of the same, scattered mountains which coalesced into a vast continental spine, which continued down the eastern coast for hundreds of miles until at last it met and merged with the tip of the Antarctic land mass. Below the desert was a vast region with no cities marked, no roads, no borders: the rakhene sub-nation, shrouded in cartographic mystery. He frowned at that, knowing that it would make things all the harder for them once they got there.

One thing at a time, Vryce. First the Wasting. Then the rakh.

It was a vast area, nearly five hundred miles from east to west and two hundred across at its widest point. The western part, nearest the coast, was labeled The Black Lands; the rest was simply Wasting. There was no clear indication of where one region became the other, or what sort of barrier might divide them. Nor was there any indication of where the Prince’s stronghold might be located. He stared at the map for some time, memorizing its details. At last he looked up at Jenseny.

“Your father went to the Black Lands.”

She nodded.

“Do you know how he got there?”

The tiny brow furrowed as she struggled to remember. “He said . . . he took a boat to somewhere on the coast. Then the Prince’s men picked him up in a different boat, and took him up the river.”

“Into the Black Lands?”

She nodded.

He studied the map again. There was indeed one path through the western mountains, a narrow river that wound its way down from the desert plateau through nearly seventy miles of rocky territory before at last reaching the coast. He noted the port where it met the sea: Freeshore. That must have been where the Protector met his guides.

And where Tarrant wanted us to go, he remembered. He was suddenly very glad that he had nixed that plan.

“His stronghold, whatever it is, will be located on or near the river. That’s good for him, since it guarantees both water and transportation. Not so good for us.”

“In what way?” Hesseth asked him.

He pointed to the northernmost tributary, a thin line of water that flowed through part of the Wasting. “Normally we’d make for here; that would guarantee a source of water and maybe fresh food about two-thirds of the way through. But if the river’s his main highway, it’s a hell of a risk.”

“Tarrant will want to go that way,” she said quietly.

He felt something inside his gut knot up when she said that, something hard and tight and angry. Because she was right, God damn it. Even as his mouth opened to protest the thought, he knew she was right. Every time Tarrant had made a suggestion it had pointed in that direction, from his intended landing in Freeshore to a dozen tense discussions they’d had since. It was as if Tarrant wanted to bring them as close as possible to the Prince’s territories—no, Damien thought, as if he was drawn to it, in much the same way that an insect might be drawn to a candleflame.

And suddenly it all came together, and he understood.

The Prince is a sorcerer of his own dark caliber. His equal, perhaps, or maybe even his better. When’s the last time there was someone like that in his world? Was there ever?

He doesn’t know how to deal with it. He’s afraid and, at the same time, fascinated. He knows we can’t afford a direct confrontation, yet he hungers for knowledge of the enemy. The concept was both reassuring and unnerving. Reassuring because it offered an explanation for the Hunter’s bizarre behavior. Unnerving because it implied that Tarrant had lost his objectivity without even realizing it.

I wonder how much he’s aware of the struggle going on inside him. How much of it is conscious, and how much is masked by his unwillingness to look too deeply into his own soul.

“We’ll take the safest route,” he promised Hesseth. Suddenly realizing that if the Hunter’s judgment was impaired, the determination of what was safe and unsafe lay entirely in his hands. Hesseth didn’t know enough of human sorcery to make the crucial judgments. The child didn’t know enough of life.

Dear God, please help me. Not for my own sake, but for all the generations who have been and will be corrupted by the Wasting’s creator. For the rakh and for the humans here, and for whatever future they might share. Help me to cleanse this land of his corrupt power forever, so that mankind may achieve its true potential without his interference.

He lowered his eyes. The heat of the fire warmed his face.

And help Tarrant get his shit together, he added. For all our sakes.

Night fell. Tarrant returned. He must have taken shelter not far from them, for the faeborn denizens of this desolate region had barely begun to gather about the campfire before he arrived; his presence, as usual, drove them off, or dissolved their wraithly essence, or maybe just absorbed their demonic substance into his own. Damien had never questioned the mechanics of it, was merely grateful to have the demonlings dispersed. One less threat to deal with.

They brought out the map again, and studied it together. Damien watched Tarrant closely as he considered the various options, and wished more than ever that he had some way of reading the man. But the pale face was stone-steady, impassive, and even when Tarrant looked up and met Damien’s eyes, there was a mask in place that no mere human skill could penetrate.

“The river lies east, near the Black Lands.” he said, “Going that way would mean added danger. But it also would provide a source of water, which might be scarce otherwise.”

He could almost hear Hesseth’s soft indrawn hiss behind him. He didn’t turn to her, but met the Hunter’s pale gaze head on. “We think it would be too dangerous.”

Seconds passed, silent and leaden. At last the Hunter turned away. “Your expedition,” he said quietly. “Your decision.”

Be glad for me, Hunter. Without me you would march right into the enemy’s hands, without even knowing why.

“All right, then,” Damien muttered. “Let’s get going.”

They set off southward, canteens and water skins sloshing against their packs. Damien had purchased a dozen of the latter in Esperanova and last night they had filled them all, in anticipation of the long dry march ahead of them. This time Tarrant made no offer to shoulder the extra burden. Perhaps he meant to drive home the fact that mere human thirst was no longer of any concern to him.

But he must be weakening, Damien thought suddenly. There can’t be prey in these lands for him, not enough to keep him at full strength. What can he find within an hour’s flight of here—a hunter maybe, a lone forager, a handful of travelers at best. More likely he’s gone hungry quite a few times, and that bodes ill for all of us.

Or was he feeding on Jenseny’s fear? That would be quite a feast. He looked sharply at the girl, trying to sense any linkage between them, any trace of the Hunter’s aura clinging to her own. But no, Tarrant feared her wild power too much to attempt such a thing. For better or worse, he would leave the girl alone.

The night was clear and all three moons were out when they regained their vantage point at the edge of the Wasting, but still the land itself was dark. Damien tried not to look at it as he half-climbed, half-slid down the crumbling ridge. The girl slipped once, but Tarrant caught her—and no, he saw nothing in the man’s manner that would indicate a deeper, more predatory relationship. He felt something loosen up within his gut, to see that she was safe.

From him, anyway.

Carefully, warily, they entered the Prince’s dark domain. The hard earth felt strange beneath their feet, and it took concentration not to stumble on the seemingly chaotic convolutions. Despite Tarrant’s assurances regarding sorcery, Damien’s every nerve was on edge, and it took all he had not to Work his sight and See the truth for himself. But the night was dark and the ground was unpredictable and it took all his concentration just to stay on his feet; he couldn’t have Worked if he’d wanted to.

Half a mile into the wasteland they came to the first of the trees. Tarrant paused to examine it, running a pale finger lightly along its bark. Damien brought the lantern close so that he and Hesseth might get a closer look; the girl stayed back, shivering, unwilling to approach the things her father had described so vividly.

“Is it alive?” Hesseth asked.

Tarrant nodded. “Unquestionably. Its life processes are slow, mostly dormant . . . but it is alive.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Damien muttered.

“No. Or rather, if it is alive, then other things should be. Land like this is fertile; once its hard surface begins to break down, many plant forms should take root. The fact that they haven’t—”

“Nothing lives here but the trees,” the girl said from behind them. “And one animal that eats them. That’s what he told me.”

“Immune,” Tarrant mused, “to whatever force the Prince created to safeguard this land. If we understood why those two species lived, perhaps we would know how to safeguard ourselves.” He caressed the tree’s smooth bark slowly, as if searching for something, but at last with a soft curse turned away. Obviously he could uncover no clue in the tree itself.

They resumed walking. Deeper and deeper into the Wasting, until the darkness swallowed up the hills behind them and they were left walking on a blackened stone sea without any land in sight. Cold sione ripples passed beneath their boots, frozen wavelets, rigid whirlpools. The hard ground made their ankles ache and the constant need to study it as they walked—lest some crack or crevice surprise them—made Damien’s head pound.

Then the texture of the earth beneath their feet changed, from the smooth flow of its southern border to a more broken, scrambled ground. After some discussion they decided to cross it rather than turn aside. But the footing was bad and the rocks were sharp and when they stumbled—which they did often—the rock fragments cut their knees and their hands, scoring deep into clothing and flesh alike. When they were finally on the other side of the broken region, they had to stop to clean and bind up their various wounds, and Hesseth brought out her healing ointment for all of them to use. It was bad enough that Damien thought perhaps he should dare a Healing, but when he looked up to get Tarrant’s opinion on the matter, he saw the man staring toward the west, brow furrowed, as if he feared that some tendril of the Prince’s power might be reaching out to them and was struggling to turn it aside. So with a shiver he simply rose up and shouldered his pack anew, aware that the aches and pains of their recent trial would be small enough suffering compared to what their enemy would put them through, if one careless Healing should draw his attention.

Two hours. Three. They stopped often, favoring Jenseny’s young legs, but though her face was white and strained and a red trickle seeped from under the bandage on her knees, she never complained. Afraid that they would leave her behind, Damien thought. Afraid that if she became a burden they would no longer want her with them. To see a child live in fear like that tore at his heart, and more than once he reached out a comforting hand to pat her shoulder or stroke her hair or offer her a steadying arm as they climbed up the slope of a cracked black wavelet.

And then they saw the bones.

They didn’t recognize them at first. The ghostly white trees were so ubiquitous that at first they thought the small white things on the ground were related to them; seedlings, perhaps, or root ends, or maybe random branches that had broken off and fallen. But as they drew closer, they could make out the edge of a rib cage etched in moonlight, fine white needles that had once been fingers, the staring sockets of an empty skull.

Bones. Animal bones. A whole skeleton, nearly undamaged. Damien knelt down by it and carefully tilted its jaw. Scavenger, he judged. No doubt it had wandered into this land in search of carrion, then had fallen prey to . . . what? He looked up at Tarrant.

“No sign of sorcery,” the adept whispered. He, too, knelt down by the small tiny skeleton and studied it. “Nor any sign of violent death,” he said at last. He passed a hand over it, eyes shut, and breathed in deeply. “Nor the scent of fear, or even its memory.”

Damien breathed in sharply. “That’s not good news.”

The Hunter’s eyes opened. “No,” he agreed.

“Can you Know it?”

“Of course.” The pale eyes glittered. “The question is, is it worth the risk?”

Damien looked over at Hesseth. She nodded ever so slightly; her expression was strained. “Go ahead,” he told Tarrant. Feeling his hand rise involuntarily to his sword grip as he voiced the words, an instinctive acknowledgment of the danger involved.

The Hunter closed his hand about the small skull, as if its texture might communicate some special message. For a moment he shut his eyes to close out distractions, then opened them again. His eyes were black.

“It came in search of food,” he told them, “because it had found none in the surrounding lands. It wandered a long time on the black plain, searching for a promising scent. It found none. Nor was there any overt danger,” he added. “At last, exhausted, it lay down to sleep. And died.”

“Just that?” Damien demanded.

The pale eyes met his. “Just that.”

“And no sorcery?”

The Hunter shook his head.

“Shit.”

“Probably starved to death,” Hesseth offered. But she didn’t sound like she believed it.

“The Prince didn’t want it to live,” the child whispered. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.

“Disease?” Hesseth offered.

The Hunter considered—perhaps Worked—and then shook his head. No.

Damien balled his hands in frustration, longing for something to hit. Any kind of solid threat, that he could strike out at. “So it died, all right? Maybe naturally. It was tired, it was hungry, sometimes animals just die.”

“You don’t believe that,” the Hunter said quietly.

“So what now?” Hesseth demanded. “Now there are bones. Does that change anything?” She stared defiantly at the two men. “We know that the Wasting kills. We know most animals can’t survive here. Is it such a surprise that there are bones?”

Damien knew her well enough to hear the edge of fear in her voice, and therefore he kept his voice carefully even as he responded, to calm her. “You’re right, of course. There’s no point in wasting time here.” He looked up at Tarrant. “Unless you think there’s something more we can learn from it.”

The adept shook his head.

They continued onward, silent and uneasy. Their footsteps grated on the coarse stone as they walked, and it seemed to Damien that a man many miles away might hear it. A soldier, waiting in ambush . . . he banished that thought, with effort. They had no way of knowing if the Prince had detected them, had sent out his men to intercept them. Hadn’t Jenseny said that the Prince could enable his people to enter the black desert safely? It was something Damien tried not to think about. The flat plain with its lack of cover was less than an ideal battlefield, and he dreaded the thought of the Prince’s servants confronting them there.

Nothing we can do except keep up the Obscurings and be ready to fight, he thought grimly.

There were more bones scattered throughout the black land, many more. Most of the skeletons they passed were whole, but some were missing a tail or a leg, and one was missing its skull. One had been broken apart, its pieces scattered across a good half-acre. Two were nestled together as if in peaceful sleep. That last was especially eerie, and as Tarrant dared another Knowing Damien prayed that it would net him some kind of explanation that would help them avoid a similar fate. But like the first, these two had died peacefully, and their remains offered no useful information.

And then there was the human skeleton.

Unlike the animals it was clothed, in wisps of cloth that clung to its bones like weeds. There was a knife by its side, a can by its hip, the rusted remains of a belt buckle lying between its ribs. There were bits and pieces of other things as well, but they were so rotted and wind-torn and faded that it was impossible to make out what they were, or what purpose they had originally served.

Damien knelt down near the skull and examined it. Male, he decided, and he checked the pelvis to make sure. Yes, definitely male. Its owner had died leaning up against a cluster of trees and had fallen in between them; in the moonlight it was hard to distinguish bone from branches, and the ribs which splayed out about one tree base were nearly indistinguishable from the tangle of roots surrounding it.

He drew in a deep breath and felt himself tremble. Maybe up until that point he had thought they were safe. Maybe he had convinced himself that the Wasting had the power to claim smaller lives, but that men—intelligent men, wary men—were immune. Now that illusion shattered, and he was left standing naked and vulnerable before whatever strange force the Prince had conjured.

Then the Hunter said, in a low whisper, “The stars are out.”

He looked up sharply at the sky. The stars were indeed out, a sprinkling of them overhead and a solid bank along the horizon. That meant that Corerise was less than three hours away, which meant, in turn, that the sun would rise soon. Too soon.

“You have to go.”

The Hunter nodded.

“Where? Do you know?”

“The land is riddled with cracks and crevices, and there should be empty spaces beneath the surface. I should be able to find safe shelter nearby.”

Damien looked up at him. He was remembering the night in the rakhlands when Tarrant had left them and had not returned. The night the enemy had taken him prisoner. “Be careful.”

He nodded. “Will you camp here?”

He looked down at the skeleton and shivered. “No. Not here. We’ll go south a while more, get away from . . . this.” He hesitated, embarrassed by his own discomfort. “It doesn’t make sense, I know—”

A faint smile creased the Hunter’s lips. “I understand.”

He didn’t transform right away, but first crafted a careful Obscuring. A complex Obscuring, that must hide the awesome power of a shapechange. Only when it was done did he let the earth-fae claim him, and remake him, and give him the shape he needed to seek out a daylight shelter. Only then.

With a sigh Damien loosened his sword in his scabbard, ready to deal with any wraiths who might use these last few minutes of night to check out the strangers wandering through their realm. The faeborn would be hungry, in a place like this. Hungry and desperate. He didn’t look forward to dealing with them.

“Come on,” he muttered. “Let’s find a good campsite and call it a night.”

And let’s set up a damned good guard, he thought. Because God alone knows when the thing that killed this man will come for us, or what form it will take.

The weight of the night on his shoulders, Damien led his party onward.

38

Fire. Rising up out of the bowels of the earth, licking the walls of the cavern. Rising up into the canyons of the ceiling, lost in its whorls and crevices. Heat shimmering in the firelight, distorting outlines, distorting forms. A man’s arm, shackled to an iron bar. An icy sword, blazing with silver power. A man—or a demon who had once been a man—confined to the fires of Hell while still alive, consumed by the unearthly flames even as he struggles to heal himself . . .

He tries to crawl forward, but the heat is too great to bear. Tries to reach out to this devil incarnate—his enemy, his companion—but the fire melts his flesh even as he struggles forward, and he knows that the moment is lost, the battle is over, the Enemy has won . . .

No! he screams. Refusing to accept it. His hands are gone now, charred to cinders, but he uses the stumps to pull himself forward, inch by inch, into the blazing heat . . .

Into the flames themselves, a white-hot silhouette . . .

Man’s face, insect eyes

Faceted

Glittering

Laughing . . .

Damien awakened suddenly, his face hot with sweat, his whole body trembling. For a moment he could hardly gather his thoughts, or even remember where he was. It was as if each concept was mired in glue, and he had to slowly pry it loose before the next one would come.

I was dreaming.

Of the fire of the earth.

Of Tarrant’s imprisonment.

Of Calesta.

When he had worked out that much, he shut his eyes and drew in a deep breath, exhausted. How much effort it took to think! His every fiber cried out for him to abandon the exercise, to drift in the shadows of ignorance, to rest . . . but he had traveled enough and experienced enough to recognize the danger in that, and so he fought it. His whole body shook as he struggled to remember who he was, where he was, what he was supposed to be doing. Every thought was a battle. It was as if some vital connection in his brain had been severed, or at least weakened; the simplest facts refused to come to him. Panic began to rise up inside him, and his pulse pounded like a drumbeat inside his head. What was wrong? What had happened? What had he been doing when it started? He sensed that the last question was vital to his survival, that he had to place himself in time and purpose immediately, because if he didn’t-

If he didn’t-

What?

He could feel the sweat trickling down his neck, cold now as it soaked into his collar. Where was he? What was he supposed to be doing? He struggled for a context. Images came to him, drifting in and out of the shadows like disembodied wraiths. He and Hesseth and the child . . . camping in the Wasting . . . tent erected, food shared . . . dawn’s light bright over the hard earth . . . first watch established . . .

He gasped as it hit him. Suddenly, with the force of a blow.

First watch!

The child and the rakh-woman had gone to sleep, huddled in a nest of blankets. He had leaned his back against a tree and set himself to guard them, a process so familiar that it was now second nature to him. If any danger should approach, he would be armed and ready. He felt himself relax into the familiar watch-state, sleepless, alert . . .

And he had dreamed.

Fear knifed into him, cold and sharp. Never in all his years had he fallen asleep while on guard. Not even when he was traveling alone, when the only permissible sleep was garnered in restless snatches, too short to measure. Not even when exhaustion was a dead weight on his chest and he could barely keep his eyes open a moment longer—and yet he did, he did it because he had to, because you couldn’t travel in this world without keeping your wits about you, there were too many things all too happy to feed on a sleeping man.

He had slept.

He had slept!

What the hell had happened?

He forced his eyes open and got to his feet, his hand already reaching for his sword. Or so he intended. But though his eyes did open and his right arm twitched, the rest of his body did not move. It was as if some vital link between mind and flesh had been severed, and his limbs would no longer respond to him.

He remembered his dream of the Black Lands, the terrible fear that had consumed him. It was nothing compared to what he felt now, the hot panic that blazed in his gut as he realized the full extent of his helplessness. Neither nature nor sorcery acted without a purpose, he reminded himself, which meant that if he was helpless there was something that wanted him to be helpless, something that would perhaps feed on his helplessness. Or on him.

Trapped in the confines of a crippled brain, Damien struggled to make his flesh respond to him. Each attempt was a trial, each thought a torment. It would be so much easier to give in, to rest, to let the shadows have him . . . but there was no question of his giving in to that, none at all. He had done too much and seen too much for the concept even to tempt him. Thought by thought he forced his will out into the shell of his flesh, demanding that it respond to him. Thought by thought his demands dissipated into the shadows of his mind. He could feel his body trembling, feverish as he tried to work his will on an arm, a leg, anything. And that gave him hope. If he could feel his flesh, then surely he could control it! But effort after effort resulted in failure—devastating failure—and at last he lay panting, exhausted, caged within himself, unable to fight any more.

The fae.

Using it meant risk. Accessing it meant that the enemy might See them, might get a fix on them, might know how to reach them . . . but did he have a choice? It was that or die, he realized suddenly. Because whatever had taken control of him wasn’t going to let go. And if he didn’t Work soon, while he still had the strength, he might never get the chance to do so.

He envisioned the patterns of a Healing in his brain, felt the power coalesce in response. He didn’t know if such a Working would help him, but it seemed the most likely course—and it was the strongest Working in his repertoire, which made it doubly appealing. The short prayer which he used to focus his intentions was normally muttered out of ritualistic habit, one part of a complex formula; this time he prayed it with all his soul, begging for response. Give me the strength, God, to use this power. Guide me in my handling of it, so that my every use may be concurrent with Your Will.

The power surged within him and he rode it down the avenues of thought, seeking the damage within him. There, a shadow; he burned it away, reveling in the smell of heat and ash which his senses supplied. There, bright thoughts mired in a bog; he set them free with a thrust of power, tasting their sharpness as he did so. Again and again he burned, cleansed, opened, freed—and each time he did so his thoughts came faster, his purpose was clearer, the power was easier to wield.

At last he felt that it was time. Eyes open, body braced, he tried to move an arm. For an instant his flesh failed to respond and he felt despair flood his soul—and then the flesh stirred, first faintly and then distinctly, as fingers, hand, and forearm came under his control. He used the arm to rise up, to support the weight of his torso as he forced that solid mass to respond to him as well. Pain lanced through him as his body left the ground, but he refused to relinquish his advantage. His legs were moving now, he had them under him, he was sitting upright and then rising, then standing unsteadily on the hard black earth-

He swayed and gasped for breath, reaching out to one of the white trees for support as he struggled to get his bearings. There was no enemy visible, thank God, although that didn’t mean that none was around. Hesseth was sleeping soundly some ten yards away, Jenseny curled up against her side like a slumbering kitten. They both looked peaceful enough, but was that the result of true sleep or of drugged immobility? Try as he might, Damien could see nothing nearby that would account for his strange weakness, though even now he could feel the drag of it on his thoughts, the numbness of it in his body. There was no question in his mind that the minute he ceased to struggle the strange malaise would come upon him again, and this time it would consume him utterly.

He let go of the tree and headed toward Hesseth and the girl. Or tried to. But his body was weak, or else his control was lacking; he fell to the ground, hard, scraping his hands and bruising his knees on the black rock, his vision swimming as he focused downward on the place where he had been lying-

And for a moment he stopped breathing. Was still. Tried to focus on the ground before him, on the black expanse that had once been smooth and unbroken, which he had chosen for his watch-site.

It had changed.

With a trembling hand he reached out to touch the thing he had seen, to test its reality. His fingers made contact with a network of fibers that must have sprouted from the ground while he slept, rootlike in form, their casing as hard and as white as the trees at his back.

The trees.

His heart pounding wildly, he struggled to his feet. He was seeing in his mind’s eye the piles of bones they had passed, not sheltered by the bleached white trunks like he had thought but wrapped around them, invaded by them. And he knew what kind of creature would need to immobilize its prey, first lulling it to sleep and then invading its dreams, its mind, and at last its very flesh . . .

He fell to his knees by Hesseth’s side, oblivious to the pain as his bruises hit the earth. He grabbed her by the shoulder and shook her violently, willing her to come awake. But for all his effort it was long seconds before her eyelids fluttered open, and even then the spark that was in them was dim and confused.

“You have to get up,” he told her. “Our lives are in danger, Hesseth!” He shook her again, harder. Slowly her eyes came into focus, and she managed to nod. Thank God; whatever had gotten hold of him hadn’t fully gotten control of her yet. As he helped her sit up, then helped her stand, he could sense the presence of the trees at his back. Hungry, so hungry. How long did they normally have to wait before some prey blundered by, some animal who had happened upon the black lava desert and then lost its way, until sleep—and death—at last claimed it? He tried not to think about it as he helped Hesseth get her balance, then looked at Jenseny. The girl hadn’t moved in all this time, which was a dangerous sign; she had been shaken and jostled enough times by now to wake her ten times over.

It was Hesseth who took the girl by the shoulder and shook her—gently at first, then with greater and greater vigor as she failed to respond. “Kasa!” she hissed. But the girl was unresponsive. Hesseth tried to pull her upright, but the girl’s body wouldn’t move that far. The rakh-woman looked at him, terrified. Damien grabbed the girl by the shoulders and pulled her toward him, but though she was limp enough and light enough, there was a point beyond which she would not move.

His heart cold with a sudden certainty of what he would find, he held her against him as he leaned down over her body, peering into the shadowed recess between flesh and blankets, a mere four inches of space. And yes, there it was. It had grown through the blankets and then into her flesh, rooting her to the ground. Feeding on her vitality, no doubt. Little wonder she hadn’t woken up, despite all their efforts. If he didn’t free her from the tree’s embrace, she might never awaken again.

“Damien?”

He didn’t answer. It was still hard to think clearly, and he needed all his strength to focus on the girl. Still holding her, he fashioned a Knowing, focusing it on the tangle of roots before him. His vision was augmented by the fae so that he could see it all: a network of roots that had insinuated itself throughout the lava, so fine that in places they were no more than threads. A network that waited, somnolent, until it sensed prey on the ground above. He traced it with his Sight as it passed through the earth, above the earth, into her flesh, saw it growing even as he watched-

And he cut it. Pulled forth his knife and severed the fine white threads, so that they no longer bound her to the earth. She cried out as he did so, and he had no doubt that it hurt like hell—but it would have hurt her even more had he delayed, he was sure of that. Quickly he rose, noting with horror that the fine white roots had pierced the blanket in more than one place; the whole ground beneath them must be coming alive even as they stood there.

“We have to get out of here,” he told Hesseth. Cradling the girl’s limp body in his arms. Was that stuff still growing inside her, still feeding? Had it gotten inside him? “Fast.”

She nodded her understanding. Her eyes were fixed upon the blanket’s surface, and her expression was one of horror; she had figured it out, then. Good. She would know to watch for the roots while she gathered up their supplies, to leave behind anything that had been contaminated. God alone knew what these things required in order to reproduce, but he was willing to bet that a small clump of fibers, even one detached from its main body, could become a tree in time. Would become a tree in time, if it was rooted in something that would nourish it.

Like the fibers inside the girl?

He tried not to think about that. Tried not to think about the fact that the fibers might be inside him as well, and inside his rakhene companion. They didn’t dare stop to check. It was too important that they get away from this area before the trees’ influence grew stronger, before the unnatural exhaustion that still dogged their steps overcame their will and their survival instinct and turned them into sleeping foodstuffs for the hungry plants.

Hurriedly they gathered up their things, packing them hastily into bundles wrapped in spare clothing, bound in belts and scarves. Hesseth had to do most of the work herself; Damien was afraid to put the girl down for even a minute, afraid that once she made contact with the earth it would claim her again, maybe this time for good. If it hasn’t already, he thought grimly, shouldering the dead weight of her unconscious form. Maybe it was his imagination, but it seemed to him that there were more and more white filaments rising up through the ground each moment that they delayed. He could feel the power of the trees beating against his brain, and once he nearly fell as a result of it. But the sheer horror of touching that ground, of lying down upon it again, was enough to keep him upright. He was acutely aware that if his nightmares had not awakened him when they did, they might all be plant food by now.

At last Hesseth was finished, and without a word he began walking quickly south. He was still too dazed to think about direction, and for now it didn’t matter; the most important thing was to get away from this tree cluster, fast. Dimly he was aware of all the items they were leaving behind, blankets and clothing and some of their foodstuffs. Organic matter, all of it. No doubt it would serve as food for the hungry plants, allowing them to grow and spawn and spread . . . and hunt.

They walked. In the heat of the morning sun, which blazed livid orange to the east of them. Dry, exhausted, afraid to stop for either water or rest, they continued onward, struggling to make every footfall steady enough to bear their weight. Within minutes their camp and the trees that surrounded it were left behind, but the dark malaise that gripped their limbs refused to relinquish its hold on them; once or twice when they stopped to catch their breath, or when Damien paused to shift the weight of the girl on his shoulder so that he might bear her more easily, he felt that deadly sleepiness stir within him again, and he knew that if he stopped to rest for more than a minute he would drift away into sleep, long enough and deep enough for the local plant life to sense his presence and respond to it.

“Where?” Hesseth hissed. She looked out toward the horizon, where endless miles of basalt faded into the hot morning sky without visible juncture, a mirage of brilliance. “Should we turn back?”

He thought of all the miles behind them, of how much ground they had covered the night before. “Can’t,” he whispered hoarsely. They would never make it, not in their current state. And if they did, what then? Their only chance of long-term survival lay in reaching the rakhene lands and making their case with that people. If they went back to the human lands—assuming they got there at all—they would spend their last days waiting for the Prince to find them. That land would not shelter them forever, nor would it support their mission.

“We go on,” he told her, and though fear flashed deep in her eyes she nodded, understanding. We go on—because there is no other choice.

Mile after mile the black desert stretched out before them; hour after hour they forced themselves to keep moving, keep moving, keep moving at any cost. Once when they stopped for a moment, to drink from their precious stores, Damien dared to sit down on a jagged outcropping of rock—and almost immediately he felt the trees’ mind-numbing power engulf him, so suddenly and so forcefully that the cup he was drinking from dropped from his hand and the precious water spilled out upon the earth. It was a wonder he didn’t drop Jenseny as he struggled to his feet, or when he turned to look back at the rock he had been sitting on. No white strands there, not yet. But he had no doubt that they were present, buried deep within the porous rock, wanting only the prolonged heat of his flesh or the spark of his life to start growing toward the surface.

Water. Walking. Food without taste, hurriedly swallowed. More walking. The child was a hot weight on his shoulder, and his whole body ached from supporting her. Once or twice he shifted position, trying to find a more comfortable means of carrying her. Once Hesseth moved toward him as if she meant to take the child, but he waved her away. He gave himself reasons for that, like the fact that he was stronger and taller and more capable of bearing her for long periods of time . . . but he didn’t really know the limits of either rakhene strength or rakhene endurance, and was aware that the two might well surpass his own. The truth was that as he walked he imagined he could sense the roots within her, still growing, and while he trusted himself to put up a good fight if they came through the surface of her flesh and tried to link up with his, he didn’t know if Hesseth could handle it. And so he carried the girl through the endless miles, until his back and his legs and his feet burned with the pain of it, and tried not to think about what it would feel like when the slender roots invaded his flesh, tried not to think about how peaceful it would be when their power wrapped itself around his brain and cushioned him down in deep, numbing sleep . . .

“We need Tarrant,” he whispered hoarsely. Clinging to the name like a lifeline. Tarrant would be immune to the trees’ power—or he would make himself immune, with much the same result. Tarrant would know how to excise the alien tendrils from the girl’s flesh—and perhaps from their own—without killing them in the process. Tarrant would save them, as soon as night fell.

If they lived that long.

Hours passed, without rest or relief. They came to a crevice, earthquake-born, that turned them aside to the east for several miles. And then another, its tributary. The hard rock was brittle and seismic shock had taken its toll in this region; they tried to hold to a southward course, but sometimes it was impossible. Once they skirted a deep chasm whose rim led them directly into the sun; after nearly an hour of staggering toward that blinding disk, Damien’s eyes were watering so badly that he could barely see. Still they kept moving. He didn’t dare ask himself how long they could keep going, or what they hoped to accomplish. They could never reach the rakhlands by nightfall, and it was clear that this land offered no safe refuge. Time and time again they passed tree clusters that were littered with bones, and now that he knew what to look for he could clearly see what had taken place there. One tree, rooted in a human rib cage, rose up like a surgeon’s scalpel just beside the sternum; another had cracked through a pelvis in its quest for further growth. They passed one skeleton that might have been rakhene, but neither he nor Hesseth wanted to stop to examine it. And what if it was, anyway? They knew the two peoples were enemies. Doubtless there had always been madmen of both species willing to brave the Prince’s wasteland in search of vengeance or glory or some other gain. And doubtless they all had expired here, some taken in their dreams their first night in the Wasting, others struggling onward as Damien and Hesseth were now doing, until sheer exhaustion forced them to their knees and the Prince’s creations claimed them at last.

There was no shelter. No hope. If they could make it until nightfall, then Tarrant might be able to help them, but if not . . . he didn’t dare think about that. Not now. It sapped his strength, to fear like that.

And then they came over a rise and he heard Hesseth hiss sharply.

“Look,” she whispered. “Look!”

They had been traveling due west for a while, and it was in that direction that she was pointing. The sun had begun to sink and was now directly ahead of them, which made it almost impossible to see; he blinked heavily, as if the moisture of his tears might somehow clear his vision. Black land, ripples and knots and whorls of it . . . what had she seen? A mound in the distance, somewhat taller than most, but that was no surprise; the vagaries of the lava flow had produced a number of swells, all of which served as host for at least one tree cluster. Yet it was clearly the mound she was pointing to. He stared numbly at it, trying to understand. At last, with an exasperated hiss, she grabbed him by the wrist and guided him on. The girl’s weight jarred into his spine as he staggered westward, following her lead, wondering at her sudden spurt of energy.

And then they were walking on rock, only it wasn’t basalt any more; it was rough and it was gray and he knew without Knowing it that it was granite, blessed granite—a granite island in the midst of the black lava sea, about which the magmal currents had parted so many eons ago, leaving it high and dry . . . and safe. Praise God, it was safe! No trees broke through its surface, though there were clusters enough about its boundaries. It stretched for hundreds of yards in each direction, and all those yards were utterly barren. Bereft of bones. Bereft of life.

It was sanctuary.

With a moan he fell to his knees, and he lowered the girl from his shoulder as gently as he could. Pain lanced through his spine as her weight finally left him, the agony of sudden relief. He could feel himself shaking—not quite in fear, not quite in joy, but in some strange admixture of the two that was totally overwhelming. And he succumbed to it. For the first time in long, tortured hours, he embraced the utter abandon of submission. Emotions engulfed him that he had been fighting off since morning; the weakness which he had fought for so long was at last allowed to take hold.

We made it, he thought. His heart was pounding, his body filmed with sweat. Thirst rasped hotly in the back of his throat; with shaking hands he managed to uncap his canteen long enough to take a drink without spilling anything. One precious mouthful, savored cool and sweet on his tongue. In the midst of this black desert he dared drink no more.

He looked out over their granite island, Hesseth’s crumpled body, the girl’s. “We made it,” he whispered. To them. To no one.

Made it . . . to what?

“It’s still alive,” the Hunter pronounced.

Damien pressed a hand to his head, as if somehow that could ease the pounding inside it. “Can you help her?” he asked. “Can you do anything?” He could hear the exhaustion in his own voice, knew that his weakness was painfully evident.

Night had come. Tarrant had been late. And Damien and Hesseth had spent a small eternity fighting off the faeborn scavengers that scoured the desert night for food. They were simple creatures, primitive in form, unschooled in demonic wiles and guises—but their simplicity made them no less deadly, and by the time Tarrant had arrived, the granite island was littered with the bodies of the fanged and toothed nightmares that the desert had thrown at them. One for each human who died here, Damien thought grimly. Or maybe more. Spawned by the terror of those whom the desert entrapped, given shape by their dying fears. It would be a slow death, to have one’s flesh consumed by the trees; a man would have time enough to create a legion of monsters.

The Hunter leaned back on his heels and studied the girl. Stripped to the waist, she lay facedown on the bare rock before them, as still and unmoving as the trees themselves. Circular welts pockmarked the region between her scapulae and down to the right of her spine; here and there a white root was visible, pricking out from the swollen flesh.

“It’s alive,” the Hunter mused aloud, “without doubt. And still growing.”

“How far has it gotten?” Hesseth asked.

Tarrant hesitated; his gray eyes narrowed as he focussed his Sight on the girl. “There are tendrils in her lungs, and at least one has pierced the heart. The other major organs seem to be unviolated . . . so far.”

“Can you kill it?” Damien asked sharply.

The pale eyes narrowed disdainfully. “I can kill anything,” the Hunter assured him. “But as for removing it from her system . . . that would leave wounds I cannot heal.”

“Like an opening in her heart.”

“Precisely.”

Damien shut his eyes and tried to think. His head throbbed painfully. “Then we do it together,” he said at last. He couldn’t imagine himself Working, not in his current state, and the thought of Working in concert with the Hunter was abhorrent to him at any time . . . but what other choice was there? The girl couldn’t recover with a root system feeding on her vital organs.

A strange look came into the Neocount’s eyes. “I don’t think that would be wise,” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” Damien agreed. “And it won’t be pleasant, that’s for sure. But I don’t see an alternative. Do you?” His expression dared the Hunter to state the obvious: that by killing the girl here and now they would be saved the necessity of such a trial.

But Tarrant, for once, did not rise to the bait. His lips tightened ever so slightly. A muscle tensed along the line of his jaw. He said nothing.

“Well?”

“I think it would be unwise,” he repeated.

Anger surged up in him, hot and sharp. “Look. I won’t kill her. I won’t leave her behind. And I can’t carry her for another day. That means she has to be healed, right? And if you can’t do it alone and I can’t do it alone, then we have to do it together, right?”

The Hunter turned away. Said nothing.

“Is it the act of Healing? Is that it? Are you afraid—”

“I would be killing a plant,” he said brusquely. “Nothing more. The healing itself would be in your hands.”

“Then what’s the problem? There’s already a channel between us. Are you afraid of using it? Afraid that I might see something inside you so terrible—”

He stopped suddenly. He had seen the Hunter stiffen, and suddenly, with all the force of a thunderbolt, he understood. And the understanding left him speechless.

You’re afraid, he thought. Afraid I’ll see something inside you that I shouldn’t. Something you don’t want me to know about. The concept seemed incredible. They had experienced close contact before, once when the channel between them was first established and then later in the rakhlands, when the Hunter’s soul took control of his. And Tarrant had fed on him for more than five midmonths on board Golden Glory, which was as intimate a contact as you could get. So what was he afraid of now? What new element was alive inside that dark and deranged soul that he didn’t want Damien to see?

He looked at the Hunter standing there, so still, so alone, and he thought, I don’t know this man any more.

“Look,” he said quietly. “You do what you can. I’ll move in and Heal her as soon as you’re finished. If we’re lucky, if we’re fast . . .” Then she won’t bleed to death before I can fix her up, he thought. “All right?”

The Hunter nodded.

It was a nightmare Healing, and not one he would ever care to repeat. The network of fibers had invaded a good part of her body, and was still growing even as Tarrant focused his power on it. Damien Worked his sight so that he could watch the operation, but otherwise kept a respectful distance. He watched as the Hunter destroyed the network, strangling its life branch by branch, fiber by fiber. Watched as he degraded its substance, so that it might be broken down and absorbed by the fluids of the young girl’s body. Watched as the slender branches dissolved into fluid, leaving pockmarks and scars wherever they had touched her flesh-

And he was Working then, quickly, before her flesh had a chance to react to those wounds. Closing up the wall of her heart where it had been ruptured, repairing the torn tissue in her lungs, sealing and cleansing and forcing cells to replicate themselves with feverish haste, before her fragile life could seep away. It seemed to him in that moment that he had never Healed so fast or so hard in all his experience.

When it was all over—at last—he sat back and drew in a deep breath, shaking. The girl was still asleep, but she seemed to be all right now. Physically, at least. God alone knew if that fragile spirit would respond to his ministrations and find its way back to the flesh that had housed it . . . but he had done what he could. The rest was in her hands.

“It would have been a mercy to leave her here,” the Hunter said quietly. “To let her die.”

For once, Damien didn’t respond in anger. Wiping the sweat from his brow with an unsteady hand, he gazed out at the desert before them. Miles upon miles of broken black landscape, that stood between them and their destination. Thousands upon thousands of deadly trees, and who knew how few islands like this one? Maybe a hundred such granite havens. Maybe a handful. Maybe only this one.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Maybe it would have been.” He looked up at Tarrant. “How far did we get?”

“In miles traveled, a considerable distance. That’s why it took me so long to find you. The distance is a monument to your stamina.”

“More like our desperation,” Hesseth muttered. She had the girl’s head in her lap and was stroking her hair gently, oh so gently. Damien wondered if the child was even aware of it.

“On the other hand,” Tarrant continued, “you hardly kept to a direct route.”

“There were a few minor obstacles-” Damien snapped.

“I wasn’t criticizing. I was merely pointing out that in terms of passage south, you are hardly farther along now than you were when I left you at daybreak. Though considerably farther west.”

Damien lowered his head in exhaustion. For a moment it seemed like the whole of the desert was closing in on him, black and dry and deadly. For a moment he could hardly speak. Then: “All right. We knew it wouldn’t be easy.”

“There’s an understatement,” Hesseth muttered.

“Clearly you can’t travel tonight,” Tarrant observed.

He looked at the girl, at the rakh-woman. Considered his own state, drained and battered. “No,” he muttered. “Not tonight.”

“Which means waiting until dusk tomorrow, if you want me with you. Do you have enough water for that?”

He tried to remember how much they had drunk on that terrible journey. How much they had consumed at the end of it, half dead and not thinking straight. Too much, he thought grimly. “We’ll make it. If there are no more surprises.”

“Do you want to count on that?”

Damien sighed heavily. “You know an alternative?”

“There’s always the river.”

He said it so calmly that for a minute Damien was at a loss to respond. Hadn’t he said once that they shouldn’t go to the river? For a moment he couldn’t remember why.

At last it was Hesseth who protested, “That means going farther west. Almost to the Black Lands themselves.”

“You asked me if there was an alternative,” he pointed out. “Not how safe it was.”

“He knows where we are now,” Damien said. “No way he could miss us, with all the Working we’ve done. What’s the chance that your Obscurings will work for us now that his attention’s fixed on us?”

“Practically none,” the Hunter admitted. “That’s in the nature of the art.”

“Great,” he muttered. “Just great.”

He walked to the edge of the granite mound; lava coiled in ropy whorls near his feet. God, it was hard to think clearly.

“How about a misKnowing?” he asked at last.

The Hunter considered. “Feed him the wrong information?”

“Would it work?”

“Possibly.” Not saying what they both were thinking: that it had been used against them in the rakhlands, and had almost cost them their lives. “There are no guarantees, of course.”

There never are, Damien thought darkly.

He rubbed his head and tried to think. Was the power of the trees still affecting him, or was he just that tired? “All right,” he said at last. “It’s our only chance. Let’s do it.”

“You want me to lead him to believe that you’re not going to the river?”

He closed his eyes. His head throbbed painfully. “He won’t believe that. Not if he knows what happened today. He’ll know we’ve got to go for water . . . but that doesn’t mean he has to know where we’re coming in.” He looked up at Tarrant; in the moonlight the man’s skin looked almost as pale as the trees. “Would that work?”

“Perhaps.”

“No better than that?”

“The Prince isn’t an amateur,” he said quietly. “Any Working can be seen through, if one knows how to look.”

Damien looked at Hesseth. The rakh-woman hesitated, then nodded. “All right,” he muttered. “We’ll do that. And then we’ll pray.”

He started to take a step back toward Tarrant, but his legs were weak and his feet were unsteady and suddenly his knees folded and he was down, bruised legs striking the ground with numbing force. His upper body followed, and though he managed to get his arms out in front of him to keep from cracking his head open, his elbows hit the ground hard enough to send fresh pain shooting up his arms.

And then he was down, gasping. The granite island was spinning about him and the stars . . . they were streaks across the sky, throbbing in time to his pain.

Then: footsteps on rock. Soft-soled shoes. Gentle hands touching him and then a firmer, colder grip.

“Nothing’s broken,” the Hunter assessed. “Yet.”

“Thanks a lot,” he gasped.

The chill hand reached inside his collar, pressed against the side of his neck as if to test the pressure of his pulse. He could feel the channel that bound him to Tarrant come into focus, as if drawing power from the heat of his body; he let it, knowing that the Hunter was using it to examine him.

“He’s tired.” The cold hand withdrew; the soft hands remained. “Tired and dehydrated and bruised and cut up . . . but otherwise fine. He needs salt and water and sleep, in that order.”

The soft hands withdrew. The soft footsteps moved away.

For a moment there was silence.

“I’ll stand guard,” Tarrant told him. There was the sound of someone rummaging through their packs. Hesseth? “You just sleep.”

He could barely manage to shape coherent words. His tongue was hot and swollen. “If the Prince attacks—”

“He won’t. Not tonight.”

There was something being placed on his tongue, something small and salty. Then cool hands helped him rise up long enough to drink from the cup that was held to his lips, a cool arm braced against his back to support him. He took enough water to wash down the pill and then tried to stop, to conserve their precious stores, but the water remained at his lips and he swallowed and swallowed and at last it was all gone.

Gently the strong hands lowered him back down to the rock. There was something soft beneath his head, something folded up to serve as a pillow. The soft wool of a blanket settled down over him, shutting out the chill of the night.

“You’re a stubborn man, Vryce.” The Hunter’s tone was surprisingly gentle. “But you have real courage. That’s a rare attribute.”

He could hear the Hunter rising. He could sense him standing, gazing at him. Studying him, for God alone knew what purpose.

“Let’s hope it’ll be enough,” the adept said.

39

According to theologians, the Hell of the One God was a truly terrible place. It was so bad, they said, that if you tried to imagine all the terrible things that might exist in the universe, and then you put them all in one place, and then you multiplied them a thousand times over, the combination still wouldn’t hold a candle to the horrors of Hell.

In short—Damien thought—Hell was probably worse than the Wasting.

But not by much.

He awoke soon after dawn, with a dry mouth and an aching head and a body that hurt in at least a dozen places. After a moment he dared to test it, and found that at least it moved when he wanted it to. After his last awakening, that seemed like little less than a miracle.

He managed to push off the blanket and get to his feet. It took his eyes a minute to adjust to the light: blinding yellow from the east, a cooler white from overhead. Around the Core the sky was an odd shade of green; he felt that he had seen it once before, but couldn’t quite place the memory. His legs seemed strong enough, but his sense of balance felt precarious, and he stood where he was for a few long minutes, giving it time to settle in. When at last he felt that he could walk without falling he started back toward the center of the island, and looked for his companions.

The granite mound had a hump in its center and Hesseth was seated on it, her strange northern weapon cocked and ready by her side. Looking at her crouched there—long ears pricked forward, fur bristling slightly, eyes as golden as the Core itself—it was easy to forget her human attributes and see instead a predator, an alien, a creature to whom scent-cues and survival reflexes were as natural as they were to any four-legged hunter. He was suddenly very glad to have her there, and to have those reflexes on his side.

“Morning,” he managed, as he hiked up to join her. His mouth felt like he’d been eating rock dust all night. Ten yards across, maybe three feet up; it wasn’t much of a vantage point, but it was the best the island had to offer.

She shot him a look that was half smile, half grimace. It took him a second to realize the reason for the latter.

“You see something?”

She exhaled noisily. “Smell it.”

“Shit.” He flexed his arms in an easy, conservative stretch; they hurt like hell. “Animal, rakh, or human?”

She shook her head. “Not sure yet.”

Trouble. It could only mean trouble. God damn it, couldn’t it have waited a day? Long enough for them to heal? “If you had to guess, what?”

She hesitated. “Animal. Maybe.” She faced into the wind again and drew in a deep breath, drawing it in through her nose and her mouth. Her neck fur bristled in the breeze. “Shouldn’t be here,” she said shortly. “Nothing should.”

“Jenseny said there were animals in the Wasting.”

“Jenseny said they fed on the trees,” she reminded him. “But I didn’t see any sign of feeding on the trees we passed. None at all.”

He tried to remember, but revulsion welled up inside him at the mere thought. For a moment he swayed, wondering if he was going to be sick. “No,” he muttered at last. “I don’t remember anything like that.” Was his fear of the trees that great, or was this some kind of defense mechanism his body had conjured, to keep them from getting hold of his mind again? Or had Tarrant whipped it up and glued it to his psyche while he was sleeping? If so, he could have picked something a little more pleasant.

With a sigh he turned in the direction she indicated and tried to detect any odd scent on the wind, but his merely human senses could not see or smell anything of consequence. At last frustrated, he looked about for the girl. “How’s the kid?”

“Alive. Just. I gave her some food about dawn. She seemed pretty shaken. I take it she had some rather fierce nightmares.”

Yeah. And I’ll bet it wasn’t just because of the trees. I had nightmares, too, the first time Tarrant Worked on me.

Hunger stirred in his belly, sharp and demanding. He looked back at the camp. “She sleeping now?”

The rakh-woman nodded. “Soundly, I think. Maybe for the first time all night.”

“I won’t disturb her.”

He made his way down to the place where Hesseth had laid out their supplies; given her predilection for neat tents and carefully tended campfires, the jumbled blankets and scattered piles of supplies were mute testimony to her own exhaustion. The pile of food was all too small, Damien noted, the water skins too empty for comfort. He managed to find the vitamins with the first aid kit and downed two of them, wondering what their caloric value was. Could you survive on those alone if all other food ran out, or would you wind up poisoning yourself with some toxic dose of a trace mineral before they did you any good? He wasn’t anxious to find out.

He ate as sparingly as he could, but even so their stock was noticeably depleted when he was finished. They must have left a feast behind when they fled from the trees. Damn it. He hoped there was game at the river, or at least some kind of edible plant life. They’d need something if they were going to make it to the rakhlands with their strength intact.

He looked out toward the east—the way that Hesseth was facing—and thought, At least if it’s animal she’s smelling, it might serve as game when it gets here.

If we can kill it, he told himself soberly.

And: If it doesn’t kill us first.

Shoe leather scraped on the rock behind him: it was Hesseth, coming down from her guard position.

“Joining me for breakfast?” he asked her.

“Hardly.” With a quick glance over her shoulder she stooped down, and with agile hands she began to place the food goods back in their pack. “We’ve got problems.”

He capped the canteen in his hand and put it down. “They getting close?”

She glanced up at him. “Maybe.” Then down again, to the packages she was quickly storing. “The scent’s faded. It was coming straight at us and then it faded. Suddenly.”

“What do you make of it?”

“Something was upwind of us. Now it’s not.” He knew her body language well enough to see the tension in her movements, to hear the tautness in her speech. “Animals will do that. Hunting animals. When they get close to their prey, they position themselves downwind . . . or at least where the wind won’t betray them.”

He felt something tighten inside him as the understanding came. “Not the habits of a tree-eater.”

“No.”

She had finished with the dry goods now, and he helped her tie up the canteens and the water skins. The first aid kit was lying out on the rock; he closed that up and packed it, too.

“If they’ve been upwind of us up until now, then how would they know we’re here?”

She looked at him. The was a spark of incredulity in her eyes, as if she couldn’t understand why he would need to ask her that. “The trail,” she said. “They’re following our trail.”

It hit him then. The trail they must have left behind them, paved in blood and sweat and fear. Not the kind of thing a man might follow easily, but it would stand out like a beacon to any predator.

Damn!

He stood. The wind ruffled his sweat-stiffened hair as he looked about the island, assessing their defensive options. Bad, he decided. Very bad. The low mound offered them a good enough vantage point but no shelter to speak of, and there was none within sight. None within miles, he thought, gazing out upon the flat wasteland surrounding them. In another time and place he might have noted the location of major tree-clusters and worked them into his defensive plans; in this time and place he would rather walk naked and unarmed into a den of ravenous meat eaters than ever approach one of those things again.

“Get the girl,” he said quietly.

He checked his weapons as Hesseth went to Jenseny, loading the projectile weapon Tarrant had left with them. Like the western springbolt it would launch a metal-tipped quarrel with good speed and reasonable accuracy; unlike a springbolt, it would only do so once before needing to be reloaded. Not a good situation if there was a whole pack of animals on the way, he thought grimly. Didn’t the Neocount have a gun? He seemed to remember it at one point. Was it tucked into the pack Tarrant had left behind? He began to go look, then reconsidered. This was a hostile land, undeniably sorcerous in origin, controlled by an enemy adept who even now was focusing his attention on them . . . in short, if ever there was a situation asking for a misfire, this was it. No. He’d take his chances with the simpler weapons, and not give the Prince such an opening.

Then Hesseth was beside him, and the girl was with her. Eyes bloodshot, weaving slightly, she looked so small and so fragile that he could hardly believe she had made it this far. He’d known a lot of children who couldn’t have.

“You okay?” he asked gently.

Her face was drawn and pale and there were deep circles under her eyes, but she nodded. From her movements he guessed that she still hurt badly—probably along her back, where the tree roots had pierced her flesh—but she obviously wasn’t going to admit it. Still afraid, he thought. Still convinced that if she hurt too much or feared too much they might leave her behind. As if that was an option in this place.

Someday this will all be over, he promised her silently. Someday we’ll be able to take you away from here and find you a real home, where you can grow up in peace. Where you can be a real child again.

“I’m going to Work,” he warned them.

He turned to the east and braced himself. Maybe it was foolish to Work again, but the way he figured it the Prince already knew where they were and what they were doing here, so he wasn’t going to make matters worse by Grafting a Knowing in their defense. He used a visual key, a linear pattern that he traced with his mind’s eye in order to focus his consciousness-

The Knowing took shape suddenly, brilliantly, before him. He saw a scaled animal, obsidian black, whose long, low body flowed over the ground with serpentine grace. The narrow head sported sharp white teeth that glinted in the sunlight as it opened its mouth to take in the smells of the region; its talons flexed on the hard black earth as it caught the scent of blood. In the distance similar creatures were moving silently, swiftly, their movements so perfectly coordinated that it seemed as if some single will might have organized them. As well it might have, Damien thought suddenly. How much sorcery would it take to reach out from the Black Lands and take control of these creatures? Very little, if they had been created for that purpose.

Suddenly cold, he turned to Hesseth. He didn’t have to say anything; the look on his face said it all.

“Assst,” she hissed. “A pack?”

“Maybe worse,” he told her. “Maybe a pack under somebody’s control.”

“How many?” she demanded

The vision was gone now; he shut his eyes and tried to resurrect it. “At least a dozen,” he said finally. “Maybe more.”

“Predators,” she mused. “But how? There’s no game here.”

“There’s us,” he reminded her. “And all the victims of the trees. Maybe the roots don’t use up all the meat. Maybe there’s enough left for scavengers.” And sometimes living bodies, too, immobilized by the power of the tree. He remembered the skeletons that had been torn apart, limbs and torso and head and tails each gone to provide an individual meal. There would be other game, too, men and animals not yet claimed by the trees’ power but affected by it, who lacked the strength to run and the clarity of thought to defend themselves . . .

Like we were last night. Like we might be again, once we leave this island.

“We can’t defend ourselves here,” he heard himself saying. “Not if they surround us.” There were species that did that, he knew. Pack instinct. Those were the most deadly hunters of all.

“Where can we go?”

He looked around helplessly, knowing what he would see. A grouping of trees here and there on the plain, one low dome of crusted lava. Otherwise: Flatness. Emptiness. A total and absolute lack of shelter, for God alone knew how many miles.

He felt panic rising inside him, drew in a deep breath as he struggled to fight it down. He had faced worse than this, hadn’t he? He’d done it and come out on top. He would come out on top of this one, too.

“Undying Prince be damned,” he muttered. The man had made a crucial mistake. By forcing them to Work to defend themselves he might have managed to locate them, but now that they had given themselves away they had no more reason not to Work the fae. He drew in another deep breath, reaching out to take hold of the earth-currents. Not a Knowing this time, but a Locating. Something focused on the concept of defensive ground, something that would help them find a place where they could put their backs to a wall—so to speak—and face their enemy together.

“South,” he whispered, as the information came. “Due south. Almost a mile.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.” The Locating had faded as soon as its mission was accomplished; he didn’t resurrect it. “Some place where the terrain will favor us. Some place we can defend.”

She looked into his eyes. Deep into his eyes. “That’s a hell of a walk, isn’t it?” And he knew what she meant. He knew what she was afraid of.

“The trees didn’t attack us until we tried to rest,” he said quietly. Feeling his own gut tighten up at the thought of braving the trees’ domain once more. “If we keep moving, we should be all right.”

“You sure of that?”

He hesitated. “We can’t stay here,” he said at last. “That means taking a chance. But it makes sense, doesn’t it? If their power lies in sleep-inducement, it stands to reason they would wait until their victim’s body had done half the work for them. Or at least given them some kind of opening.”

“Let’s hope so,” she muttered.

They gathered up their things as quickly as they could. Damien took special care to see that the first aid supplies were easily accessible; there was no telling when or how quickly they might need them. Jenseny wanted to shoulder part of the burden, but when she hoisted up a blanket roll to her tiny shoulders Damien took it from her, and added it to his own. She was too small and too weak and too badly shaken by her recent experience; if they needed those small legs to keep up with them at a run, they’d better make sure she wasn’t weighted down with anything.

“I can carry it,” she insisted, and he heard the fear in her voice. Not of the trees, he thought, or even of the Prince. Of her own uselessness, and the fact that it might cause her to be left behind.

“It’s all right,” he whispered hoarsely, and he patted her shoulder in reassurance. “You just keep up with us.”

They set out from the south end of the granite island, and if there was any difference between the hard gray rock they had rested on and the frozen lava beyond it, their feet couldn’t feel it. Nevertheless, it was one of the hardest single steps Damien had ever taken. He could feel his whole body bracing itself for the onslaught of the trees, and he had to fight to make it move forward, to place even one foot on the ground which harbored that deadly species. But then he made contact and there was no assault, and he knew that the power the trees had gained over him had faded in the night. Or else been banished, by Tarrant’s chill power and his own fledgeling efforts.

A mile. That would have meant maybe fifteen minutes for him alone, a little longer with Hesseth’s shorter legs setting the pace. He didn’t want to think about how long it would take with the small girl by their side. They pushed on as quickly as they dared. Sometimes when they walked too fast for her, Jenseny would break into a short run to try to keep up with them. That was all right. She could afford a brief jog here and there; they couldn’t. At the end of this mile they would have to defend themselves against a pack of the Prince’s pet killers, and if they didn’t have their breath and their energy and their wits about them, then they could all kiss it good-bye together.

He stopped every few minutes to work an Obscuring; not because he thought that he could turn the hunters aside, but because he hoped that maybe he could slow them down. Maybe by casting out a false lead into the desert he could distract them from the true trail for a short time, and maybe—just maybe—it would take them a while to work their way back again. He could only hope. He had even tried to Work an illusion back on the granite isle, to make it seem as if they had never left, but he knew how hard it was to create an image so complete that an animal would believe it. And besides, when the beasts finally attacked, they would know the illusion for what it was and its power would fade instantly. Tarrant had the kind of skill it took to create an illusion that smelled right and tasted right and struggled properly as it died . . . but he would have needed a living creature to bind it to, in order to make that work. And Damien had seen enough simulacra die on their behalf that he couldn’t have stomached another one. Not even to save their lives.

As for Hesseth, she made no offer to reinforce his Working with her own, by which he judged that the tidal power was simply not available. He deeply regretted that. As fleeting and unreliable as the tidal fae was, it was a type of power the Prince would have no experience with; Damien would have given anything to have it Obscuring them now. Perhaps it would become available later. He didn’t imagine Hesseth would have any trouble Working it on their behalf this time. Though normally she could only protect her own family, he had traveled with her long enough and under intimate enough conditions that he might as well be her blood-kin. And as for the girl . . . he remembered a conversation he had half-heard one morning, as he rose up slowly from the depths of sleep to full consciousness.

Do you have any children? Jenseny had asked her.

It had taken her a long time to answer; when at last she did, her voice was strained. I had one child, she told her. She was five years old when I first went into the human lands. I left her with my kin for a longmonth, so that I might go.

What happened?

There was . . . an accident. During an earthquake. It happens sometimes. A pause. I didn’t even know until I got home. They didn’t know how to tell me . . . Her voice trailed off, thick with sorrow.

In a hushed whisper: Will you have more children someday?

There was a long silence before she answered. From the halting quality in her speech it was evident that she was struggling to find the right words, words that Jenseny would understand. When the women of my species are ready to have children . . . it’s different than with humans. They can’t think of anything else, they can’t do anything else . . . and humans would notice that. So when the khrast women want to leave the plains, they have to give that up. Forever. That’s what I did.

So you can’t ever have children again?

No, kasa. Not ever. And she added, in a whisper, But I have you.

He had felt shamed, that morning. Shamed for having traveled with her so far, for knowing her so well, yet for never having asked such a basic question. Perhaps he had felt that if she had wanted to share her private life with him she would have, and it was not his place to pry. Of perhaps—more honestly—the memory of seeing a rakhene woman in heat still made him uncomfortable, and he had avoided any subject which might link such a display to his traveling companion. An unfair prejudice, perhaps, but a human one.

Periodically he turned back the way they had come and worked a quick Knowing. It was hard to manage against the current, and he could get only snippets of information. The animals had followed the false trail. They had abandoned it. They had found the true trail again and were tracking along it, losing time here and there to circumvent his Distractings, but always returning to the trail in the end. Clearly there was no hope of shaking this pursuit, and Damien prayed that he and his companions would reach their defensive post in time. If they were caught out in the open, they wouldn’t stand a chance.

And then they came to a place where the ground fell away before their feet, into a chasm so deep and so shadowed that it was impossible to see the bottom of it. The walls of it were lined with black crystals, their edges gleaming like knives in the sunlight.

Twelve feet across, he judged. Too far to jump with any surety; certainly too far for Jenseny to leap across.

“Is this what you Located?” Hesseth asked sharply.

“Looks like it. Damn.” He shook his head as he gazed down into the depths of the abyss. “Not what I would have preferred, that’s for sure.”

“But better than open ground. Isn’t it?”

Is it? “Yeah.” He forced the words out. “A little.”

Think, Vryce, think. There’s got to be a way out of this mess.

“Can we get across?” Jenseny asked.

“Can’t jump,” he muttered.

“What about the trees?” Hesseth asked. Pointing to one particularly stout specimen that was rooted several feet back from the chasm’s lip.

He saw what she was driving at, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like the thought of even going near one of those things again, much less cutting it down and manhandling it into position, and then trusting his life to it as they inched along its twisted trunk, over God alone knew how much empty space . . . but it might work. God damn it. It might save them, if they could get across before the animals reached them and then cast off their makeshift bridge, down into the chasm’s depths.

He took a deep breath—a very deep breath—and started off toward the stocky tree. As he took his first step, a noise sounded to the north of them: a thin, wailing shriek that might have been the wind. Or a scream of pain. Or a hunting cry, voiced by an animal that had finally sighted its prey.

God, he prayed, just give us time. That’s all I ask. A few extra minutes to work with, so we can get ourselves out of here. Please, God. Just that.

The tree Hesseth had spotted was tall and straight and its base was nearly as thick around as his thigh. He tried not to think about what manner of victim had nurtured it into such healthy growth, tried not to look for the bones that must surely be scattered about its base. Those things were irrelevant now. He reached for a nearby branch and bent it down, fighting the sickness that welled up inside him at the mere thought of touching the thing. But it might have been a normal tree for all that it affected him now, and the resiliency he noted as he tested its branch spoke well for the strength of its wood. Which was a damned good thing, he thought. Because twenty feet up it wasn’t all that thick around, and he’d hate for it to break beneath their weight just when safety was within sight.

“All right!” he called back. “We’ll try it.”

He could hear the baying of the beasts now, the triumphant howls of hunters who were closing in on their prey. With a pounding heart he knelt down by the base of the tree and prepared himself for Working. No time for finesse now, or the delicate manipulations of a Knowing; he needed brute force, wielded with the Hunter’s killing power. And he would summon that force for them here and now, if he had to draw on Tarrant’s own power to do it.

Too determined to be afraid—at least for the moment—Damien plunged his will into the living wood. The shock of contact was almost unbearable, and it took all his strength and all his courage not to withdraw from it, not to try to save himself. If the tree’s power had lapped at his conscousness before, now he was wholly immersed in it, and he shook body and soul as he fought to maintain control. The tree sucked him in, deep into its soul, deep into the source of its power, and even as he struggled with it he could sense the slender roots growing toward him, hairs so fine that the porous rock was hardly an obstacle, thin white fingers of death that were even now licking at the surface beneath his feet. It took a monumental effort not to think about them, not to back off and defend himself—but if he failed now, with this tree, then he might as well just give himself over to the pack and have it done with. And that knowledge gave him fresh strength, if not added courage.

He took hold of its substance, cell by cell. He insinuated his will into the very fibers of its being, in much the same way he would for a Healing. Then, instead of forcing the tree to grow, he forced it to die; instead of forcing the cells to bind tighter together, he ripped apart the very structure that bound them. It was a perfect reversal of the Healer’s art: an un-Healing, an anti-Healing, an act that he would have found wholly repulsive had he not required it for survival. And the wood responded. Cells died, choked off by his power. Cell walls shattered and gave way, loosening their hold on their neighbors. Inch by inch he worked his way through the trunk of the white tree, cell by cell by endless cell . . .

And then it was done. He drew back, gasping for breath, and regarded his handiwork. The damage was barely visible on the outside of the trunk, but his Worked senses could see the wound scything through the living wood like a sword cut. Good enough. Now if he could only get the thing to fall right . . .

“They’re coming,” Hesseth warned.

He didn’t look. He couldn’t afford to. If he couldn’t get the tree in place by the time the pack attacked, then they were all doomed, and so he refused to spare the few seconds that looking would entail. Instead he moved to the north side of the tree and gathered all his power—not in the way he had been taught to do but the way that Tarrant did it, using the raw force of the currents to split the tree apart—and he pushed, he pushed for his life, he pushed with all the force of the earth-fae behind him, forcing the tree into a fall that would place it cleanly across the chasm and then using the earth-fae to see that it didn’t break, it didn’t bounce, it didn’t skitter off to one side or the other and go plunging down into the depths. His whole body shook as the power surged through him, using his will as its focus. And then the tree began to fall. Slowly at first, as if fighting the fatal drop. Then smoothly, almost gracefully, its topmost branches sketching an arc through the air as it hurtled toward the ground. Damien found himself praying as he watched it fall, knowing that if even one of his Workings failed this might all be wasted effort.

The tree struck with a resounding crash, and all the ground around them shook. He could sense the force of the impact coalescing in the trunk, could feel it fighting to tear the wood apart. But it held. God be praised, it held. It shuddered once or twice and then settled into place, spanning the gap perfectly.

He looked back toward Hesseth—and saw movement in the distance, the glint of white light on ivory teeth, obsidian scales. “Go!” he told her. “Take the girl.” He saw that she had taken her shoes off so that her sharp claws might help her keep her balance. “Now!”

“What about you—”

He glanced at the narrow bridge, felt fear tighten its grip on his heart. It was too thin, too thin; had he ever dreamed it would support him? “If it’s going to break, it’ll do so under my weight. You get across first, then I’ll follow.” When she hesitated, he snapped at her, “Do it!”

She grabbed the girl’s wrist and ran to the edge of the chasm. There she caught the girl up and scrambled to the upper side of the trunk. For a moment Damien’s heart was in his throat as he watched, and then—as he witnessed the perfection of her rakhene balance, the anchoring power of those long, unsheathed talons—he knew she was going to make it. The rakh were designed for such excursions.

Not like humans, he thought grimly.

With a quick glance behind him to see how close the hunters were, he bolted for the makeshift bridge. He could hear claws clattering on the hard earth as the animals rushed to close in on him, could hear their growls of hunger and exultation as they ran those last few yards to claim their dinner. And then he was up on the trunk and he was moving south, out over the chasm’s yawning mouth, trying not to look down or look back or, worst of all, think about the fact that any moment the trunk might crack and sent him plummeting down into those black, hungry depths . . . the tree shook beneath his feet as the animals grabbed hold of it and he realized with sudden terror that their claws would give them perfect purchase, that they could move along the twisted trunk as easily as Hesseth had, while he dared not slip so much as an inch. Don’t think about that. Don’t. He felt his hand go for his sword, but he forced himself to use it for balance instead. One step and then another, quickly but oh so carefully managed. There had been a kink halfway up the tree and he glanced down long enough to locate it, taking care that it didn’t trip him. The wood was shaking beneath his feet; it seemed he could feel the animals’ hot breath on his heels. His every instinct screamed for him to draw his sword, a knife, anything—but he knew that if the animals attacked him here, he had no hope of survival, none at all, and so he put all his energy into speed, into care, into hoping desperately that the slender end of the trunk would bear his weight . . .

And then he was across. He jumped to the ground so quickly that he stumbled and fell, tangling in the tree’s upper branches as he went down. Had he been alone, that would have been the end of him, but even as one of the beasts lunged toward his leg, Hesseth met it head-on with a knife thrust that cut it open along the side of its neck, from the bottom of its jaw to the artery that coursed deep inside its flesh. Red blood spurted out onto the tree and the ground and the two of them, staining everything crimson. While Hesseth defended him against the next assailant, Damien struggled to his feet, and then his sword was drawn and he was cutting, thrusting, doing everything he could to keep the pack from completing their crossing. Sometimes one would get past him and Hesseth would have to bring it down, and once he heard her yowl shortly in pain as long claws raked her arm.

“The tree!” he yelled out. Hoping she understood. He looked desperately at the line of animals working their way across the bridge and saw a gap between two of them that was wider than most. Two animals down. He skewered the next that gained the ledge, and left its struggling, bloody form for Hesseth to dispatch. He thanked God for the length of his sword as he struck again, and for the advantage it gave him. He swung, and a black scaled body went hurtling down into the depths, screaming as it fell.

And then there was the gap in the rush of scaled bodies.

Not much of one, but he knew in his gut that he wasn’t going to get a better chance than this and so he took it. Throwing all his weight against the trunk he tried to dislodge it from its position on the ledge, trusting that Hesseth would see what he was doing and get the hell out of the way. For a moment there was extra weight as the rakh-woman scrambled over to his side, and then her strength was added to his and the trunk began to move, ever so slowly at first and then sliding along the hard black rock, farther and farther-

Pain stabbed suddenly into his shoulder and the weight of a large, hot animal slammed him sideways. The leading beast had dared a leap across the abyss and now it was on him, its sharp teeth swinging around mere inches from his throat. He couldn’t bring his sword around in time but rammed its pommel into the black-scaled head again and again, trying to force it back. Hot, sour breath blasted him in the face as the animal struggled for access to his throat, where a single bite might dispatch him. As he fought, he prayed—not for himself, but for Hesseth. Prayed that she could push the tree over the edge by herself before the rest of the animals came across. Because if she couldn’t, they were doomed. That simple. No single warrior, no matter how skilled, could fight off such an invasion.

Claws raked his stomach as he slammed the sword’s pommel into the creature’s eye, and for a moment he feared that the beast would eviscerate him; then the animal spasmed and he threw it off and managed to rise up despite his wounds. A quick slash through its neck satisfied him that the beast would be no more trouble, and though his stomach was cut badly and his clothes were splattered with blood, there were no vital pieces falling out of him and all his muscles worked, which was good enough for now.

Hesseth had managed to push the tree far enough that the bulk of it was now over the chasm, and she was struggling to get the topmost part over the edge so that the whole of it would fall. The child was beside her, gamely adding her pittance of strength to the effort, and rainbow sparks glittered about both their hands as the tidal fae manifested additional force. But though the tree was moving, there was now additional danger, for the sharp angle at which it now bridged the chasm permitted the leading animals to leap directly across to Hesseth.

He got there just in time. His sword stroke was desperate, undisciplined, but the sheer force of it knocked the creature off course and sent him slamming down into the chasm wall. There was a brief pause then, which Damien used to take up a better position beside Hesseth. Only seconds more and then the bridge would be gone, and all three of them would be safe . . .

It happened quickly. An animal leapt straight at him, forcing him to bring up his sword between them in order to defend himself. The beast impaled itself, but sheer velocity carried it forward, and the dead weight of its flesh slammed into him with stunning force. He was thrown back against the earth with a suddenness that drove the breath from his body, and his head banged the rock so hard that for a minute his vision deserted him, and all he could see were brilliant white stars in an endless sea of blackness. Then there were figures, hazy and indistinct, and he focused on them as he tried to struggle to his feet.

One of the beasts had gotten to Hesseth and they were locked in a death-grip atop the tree trunk, teeth and claws and silver knife flashing in the sunlight. He tried to stand, to go to her, but something was wrong with his balance and he fell, he fell hard, he fell down to his knees while the world swam in circles about him, fighting to orient himself. Dimly he was aware of Hesseth getting atop the beast, of the silver knife flashing again and again as it cut downward-

And the tree broke. With a crack like thunder its trunk split in two right near Hesseth. The part which had bridged the chasm went hurtling down into its depths, taking the rest of the animals with it. The shorter end hesitated for a second, counterweighted by Hesseth and the animal atop it, and then its balance point slipped over the edge and it, too, began to slide—

“Hesseth!”

—and she saw what was coming, she tried to get free, but the beast had hold of her and the branches were tangled about her and the sheer weight of it all dragged her off her feet-

“No!”

—and she reached out for something to hang onto, anything! but all her claws could find was the tree, branches and trunk all spattered with crimson, and then she went over-

—and down.

He lunged toward the lip of the chasm as she fell, trying to grab hold of her. Branches struck his face as the last limbs went sliding down into the chasm, slamming against the jagged black walls as it fell. For a moment rainbow power flashed in those lightless depths, and he thought that she had used the tidal fae to save herself. But then that was gone and there was only darkness, accompanied by the howls and the thrashing of dying beasts.

No. God, no. Not her. Please.

Pain was a fire in his stomach as he tried to focus on the earth-fae, enough to conjure light. His hands, slick with blood, gripped the edge of the chasm with spastic force as he spoke the key words over and over again. At last a faint light answered his summons, and as he felt the girl rush to the ledge by his side, as he heard her crying, the conjured light filled the chasm and let them see what had happened.

Bodies. Everywhere. Black, scaly bodies and broken tree limbs and pink flesh and rock . . . he searched desperately for Hesseth’s body, at last found it sprawled across the viciously sharp outcropping which had stopped its fall. There was so much blood all over the place that it was impossible to see where her wounds were, but the sharp angle of her neck and the impossible bend in her back left no doubt about her fate. Grief welled up inside him with such raw force that he lost control of the light, and it faded. Into blackness. Into death.

“No!” the girl screamed. She jumped toward the chasm as if she would throw herself into it, but Damien grabbed her by the neck of her shirt and pulled her back. “No!” She struggled blindly against his confining grasp, as if somehow by doing so she was also fighting Death. Bits of rainbow light swirled about her as she cried out to Hesseth, screaming words Damien didn’t understand—rakhene words?—hysterical in her shock, in her grief. Numbly he let her rage. She was doing it for both of them, voicing the horror of this loss better than he ever could.

Hesseth. She was gone. The Wasting had killed her. She had been by his side for so long now that it seemed impossible that he would never see her again. Tears ran down his face as the loss of it—the terrible, fearsome loss of it—hit home. For a moment he envied Jenseny the freedom of childhood, which permitted her to rant and rave with total abandon; all he could do was lower his head, his whole body shaking, and let the tears come.

After a time the girl’s struggles weakened, and she fell sobbing to her knees. He drew her to him then, gently, into his arms. She resisted at first, then clutched at him desperately, burying her face in his bloodied shirt and sobbing uncontrollably. Did she smell faintly of Hesseth? Was that possible? He lowered his face to her hair and for a long time just held her. The two of them alone in the Wasting.

In the end it was the pain in his shoulder and the hot cuts across his stomach that reminded him they needed to move. Softly, ever so softly, he whispered, “Jenseny. We can’t stay here.”

She drew back from him; her expression was fierce. “We can’t leave her!”

“Jenseny, please—”

“We can’t leave her here!”

He held her out at arm’s length, so that she was forced to look at him. “Jenseny, listen to me. Hesseth is gone now.” He said it as gently as he could but, oh, how the words hurt! He could see her flinch as he voiced them and she shook her head wildly as if somehow that would make the fact untrue . . . but she knew. She knew. “Her soul is free. All that’s down there is empty flesh. The part you loved, the part that loved you . . . she’s back with her people now. What you saw down there was just a . . . a container. She doesn’t need it anymore.”

“She left,” the girl gasped hoarsely. “She left us.”

“Oh, God.” He drew her to him and held her tightly, so tightly that there would be no room for grief or loneliness or any other source of darkness in that tiny, frightened soul. “She didn’t want to go, Jenseny. She was trying to protect us. She didn’t want anything to hurt you, not for all the world.” He blinked fresh tears from his eyes as he stroked her hair gently, softly. “She loved you so much,” he whispered.

Suddenly faintness welled up inside him. He forced himself to push the girl away and for a moment just sat there, trying not to lose consciousness. Then, when the world seemed steady once more, he pulled open his shirt front.

Bloody strips parted to reveal a torso that had been ripped and torn in at least a dozen places; his chest and stomach were coated with blood, and his pants were soaked with it. As if in confirmation of the sight a fresh wave of pain washed over him, and its force was such that he nearly doubled over and vomited onto the lava.

“God.” He tried to work a Healing to close up the wounds, but the fae was slippery, blood-slick, and it defied him. He drew in a shaky breath and tried it again—and this time there was a response, he could feel the earth-power pricking his skin as the torn cells healed, the gashes filled in, the pain receded. When he was done, all that was left was an ache in his chest, a faint echo of the pain that had been. And an emptiness inside him that no mere Working could heal.

She was watching him with wide, frightened eyes. Calm at last, as if the sight of his wounds had scared her back to sanity. She could have lost us both, he thought. Maybe that just hit her.

“Come on,” he whispered. “We have to get moving.”

He tried not to think about Hesseth as he helped the child to her feet. Tried not think about how vital and alive she had been a mere hour ago. How much she had gone through to come to this place only to be killed by beasts—by beasts!—at the very threshold of victory. He tried not to think about all those things, because when he did his eyes filled with tears and his throat grew tight and he found it hard to walk. And they had to keep walking no matter what, he and the child both. Otherwise the trees would have them.

Miles. Hours. He worked a Locating to find them another island, but no Working could bring it closer to them. Step by step he forced himself to keep moving, and when the girl grew too tired or frightened or numb with grief to walk they took a brief rest—never too long, lest the trees reach out to them—and they drank sparingly from their dwindling supply of water, and swallowed a few mouthfuls of dry food. It had no taste. The fact of Hesseth’s death had leached all color from the world, all smells, all flavor. They marched on a black plain into a gray sky, and even when the tidal fae gathered around Jenseny to sketch a fleeting image of the rakh-woman before her eyes, its work was rendered in shades of slate and granite and mist.

It was well past noon when they reached their haven. This island was a sharp slab that thrust up through the lava flow at such a steep angle that they had to circle nearly all the way around it before they found a place where they could climb. On its south side the slab had shattered and fallen, leaving a pile of rubble that could serve as a functional, if precarious, staircase.

When at last they reached a resting spot—a wide ledge some ten feet down from the island’s highest point—Damien felt the raw grief of the day’s experience finally overwhelm him. He let it. The girl collapsed on the granite shelf—safely back from the edge, he saw to that—and sobbed wildly, giving vent to all the misery and the fear that she had been fighting for hours. He let her. He had seen enough grief in his time to know that this, too, was part of the healing. No wound could close until it had been properly drained.

At last, softly, he spoke her name.

At first she didn’t seem to hear him. Then, seconds after he had spoken, she looked up at him. Her eyes were red and swollen and her whole face was wet with tears. Shaking, she wiped a sleeve across her nose as she looked at him, waiting to hear what he had to say.

“I’m going to say a prayer for Hesseth,” he told her. “It’s a very special prayer that we say when someone dies. Normally-” The words caught in his throat suddenly and for a moment he couldn’t speak. “Normally we say it when we bury people, but sometimes the people we love die when they’re far away, or something happens to a body so that we can’t get to it . . . like with Hesseth. So we just say it when we can, because God will hear it anywhere.” He gave that a minute to sink in, then told her, very softly, “I’d like you to do it with me.”

For a moment she didn’t answer. Then, in a hoarse whisper, she asked him, “What is it?”

He drew in a deep breath, “We tell God how much we loved Hesseth, and how sorry we are that she’s gone. And then we talk about the good things she did, and how much she cared for all of us, and we ask God to please take care of her, and see that she gets back to her people, and to see that her soul is surrounded by the souls of those she loved . . . That’s all,” he said hoarsely. “It’s just a . . . a way of saying good-bye.” He held out a hand to her. “Come on. I’ll lead you through it.”

She didn’t move at first. The look in her eyes was strange, and at first Damien attributed it to her fear of his Church. For a brief moment he wondered if he had chosen badly, if the offer of healing he had intended might not hurt her more.

But then she whispered, with tears in her voice, “After we do it for Hesseth, then we . . . can we please . . . say one for my father?”

“Oh, my God.” He pulled her to him, oh so gently, wary lest she reject the contact. But she came to him and she put her arms around him and she sobbed into the fabric of his shirt, shedding tears that had been kept inside for so long that they must have burned like fire as they flowed. “Of course, Jen. Of course.” He kissed the top of her head. “God forgive me for not having thought of it sooner. Of course we can.”

In the desert night, by the light of a single moon, they prayed for the souls of their loved ones.

40

The river was swollen fat from the spring tides, and its icy current easily submerged the various rocks and promontories which might be hazards in another season. The three boats slid over its surface with ease, reflections shimmering in the Corelight as the oars dipped quietly in unison, drew free of the water, dipped again.

They were using no steam tonight, nor any form of power that might make noise. If their quarry had been merely human, the captain might have chanced it, but one of the travelers was rakhene—and that kind could pick out the mechanical sound of a steam engine down a hundred miles of canyon, if they knew that their lives depended on it.

It was rare that he got to hunt his own kind. It was . . . intriguing.

They came to where the canyon turned, and then he signaled the three boats ashore. The thin leather gloves he wore made his hand seem almost human as it executed the command gesture, and the irony of it was not lost on him.

They dragged the boats ashore, beyond the reach of a sudden spring swell, and gathered about the captain. With minimal words and gestures he described the situation, their position, their intention.

One of them asked, “Alive?”

“If possible,” he responded.

He opened the hood that protected his head and face from the sun and let it fall back on his shoulders. A cool breeze ruffled his mane and he breathed it in deeply, sifting it for scents. Nothing useful.

“Are you sure they’ll land here?” one of the humans demanded. “Shouldn’t we have some kind of backup?”

He turned to face the man. There was no need to hiss a warning; his expression was enough. The man’s color, already light in tint, went two shades paler.

“His Highness says they’ll land here.” There was scorn in the captain’s voice, and the absolute authority of one who has earned his position not only through civilized human channels, but by blood and by claw. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“No, sir.” He shook his head vigorously. “Of course not, sir.”

Deliberately, the captain turned away from him. “All right,” he said. “You know the plans. Take up your positions and be ready. Stay quiet. And remember: they have sorcery. Don’t take chances.”

“Sir?”

Humans. It never ceased to amaze him how they needed everything spelled out for them,

“If they look like they’re about to Work,” he told them, “then kill them.”

And he added, just because they were human, “Any questions?”

This time, there were none

41

There was an earthquake soon after sunset. By the light of the Core they could see the twisted land rippling as the shock waves passed through it, the black earth heaving like a storm-tossed sea. And then, at last, all was quiet. New cracks surrounded the base of their island, but there was nothing they couldn’t get across if they had to.

“Is he coming soon?” the girl asked.

Tarrant.

In Hesseth’s absence he was their anchor, their key. Damien’s Workings might net them a few helpful tips about dealing with their immediate environment, but it would take a man of Tarrant’s power and experience to obtain what they must have now: exhaustive knowledge about a land few humans had ever seen, and a safe means of approaching a species hostile to their own. With Hesseth gone, he was their only hope.

“Soon,” Damien promised.

The local faeborn were beginning to gather about their mount, but they were few in number and lacked strength; evidently the more enterprising wraiths had made their bid for nourishment the night before. Unable to Banish them because of the earthquake-hot currents, Damien held the child close to him and watched as they flitted about the camp. Ghostlings, bloodsuckers, a single succubus. He watched the latter for a few seconds, marveling at the way she—it—responded to his scrutiny. Slowly the foggy form adopted all the features that he found desirable in women, and if he had responded even for a moment it would have taken that as an opening and attached itself to him faster than he could draw in a breath. But he knew all too well what it was and what it could do, and far from arousing his sexual interest it repelled him so thoroughly that at last the thing screeched in frustration and darted off into the night, no doubt to seek more cooperative prey. The rest kept their distance, circling warily about the ledge. Damien kept his hand on his sword, ready to deal with the more solid manifestations, and prayed that the subtler demonlings would make no move until the fae cooled off. Wouldn’t that be the ultimate waste, to come all this way and fight so hard to get here, only to fry himself to a crisp in a single careless gesture-

Oh, my God.

For a moment he was unable to move, and barely able to think; if one of the ghostlings had attacked him then and there, that would have been it for him. Because a thought had just occurred to him that was so terrible, so absolutely devastating in its implications, that his mind could barely touch on it without opening a gateway to utter panic.

Tarrant.

Had awakened at sunset.

Had transformed himself in order to return to them.

Had Worked?

He remembered the earthquake which had so recently shaken their granite mount, rock shards tumbling down on them as the ground convulsed from horizon to horizon. And yet that physical upheaval was nothing compared to what preceded it. To the surge of earth-fae which flowed just ahead of it, swallowing everything in its path . . .

How alert was the Hunter when he first awoke? How careful? Did the deathlike trance release him so suddenly when sunset came that his mind was alert and functioning mere seconds later? Or was there, as with the living, a short period of dullness in which the brain struggled to throw off the bonds of sleep and get on with the business of living? Was that precisely disciplined soul so perfectly oriented that he would never think of transforming his flesh without first checking the currents for an earthquake’s subtle warning signs? Or had he Worked his own flesh so many nights now, so fearlessly, that a glance at the earth-fae would seem enough? A token gesture without real concentration behind it-

“What is it?” Jenseny demanded. “What’s wrong?”

Shaking, he wrapped his arms around his chest and tried to believe that everything was all right. Because if Tarrant was gone, then there really was no hope for them. They might get through the desert, they might even find a willing ear or two among the rakh, but without Tarrant’s power to back them up there was no way they could defeat a man like the Prince. Not a sorcerer who was so deeply entrenched here that even the plants served his will.

Oh, God, he thought, shivering. Let him be all right. Please.

“Nothing,” he managed, in answer to the girl’s question. With childlike acuity she seemed to sense that he was lying to her, but with rare maturity she accepted his words at face value and did not press the point. Perhaps she was afraid to. Perhaps, after Hesseth’s death, she had little stomach for bad news.

“Come on,” he muttered. “Let’s eat something.”

They went through the motions mechanically, silently. The dry food was tasteless to Damien, and the girl hardly picked at her portion. Another slight tremor shook the ridge as they washed the meal down with water—precious mouthfuls, carefully rationed—but the aftershock was of little consequence. Hopefully there would be no more of them as they traveled; Damien didn’t relish the thought of the black earth rupturing beneath his feet.

When they had packed away the food and hooked the canteens to their packs, Damien took out his one spare shirt and pulled off the bloodstained one he was wearing. Neither was clean by any standard, but the new one was at least still in one piece; the other was so badly scored by claws that it pulled free of his body in strips, glued to his flesh by the blood and the sweat that had soaked into it. Not a pretty sight, he thought grimly as he packed away the ragged garment. Tarrant, with his usual hygienic chauvinism, would doubtless make some disparaging comment when he arrived.

If he arrived.

They watched together as the Core followed the sun into its western grave, the golden light turning amber and then blood-red as it was filtered through Erna’s veil of volcanic dust and windborn ash. Still the Hunter did not return to them.

Tarrant, I need you. I need your knowledge, I need your insight, I even need your God-damned cynicism. Get back to us soon, will you please?

But Tarrant didn’t come.

And in time, his heart as cold as ice, his brain a numb morass of confusion, he whispered to the girl, “We’re on our own.”

To do what? Confront the rakh?

Numbly he lowered himself to the lava plain, and helped her down beside him. Numbly they started off across the black earth, their movements mechanical, their conversation strained. Again and again Damien went over their situation in his mind. Again and again he didn’t like what he saw.

You’re on your own, Vryce.

The girl might help him somehow. She had been close to Hesseth, close enough to absorb some of her language and a number of her memories; Damien regretted now that he had respected their privacy too much to explore the parameters of that absorption. And Jenseny had power. Wild power, untamed power, but power nonetheless. A power the Prince could neither foresee nor dominate, if ever she could learn to wield it properly.

If.

The miles passed beneath their feet like an abstract painting, details blurred by the brushstrokes of a distracted mind. Occasionally Damien surfaced from his thoughts long enough to see a tree, an outcropping, a blistered dome. Most of it passed unnoticed by him as he trod the hard earth, careful always to set a pace that Jenseny’s young legs could manage.

The river. That was the thing. They needed to reach the river first, and then all the rest would follow. Fresh water would renew them in body and spirit, and give them the strength to plan. If they were lucky, there would be some kind of food there, some plant or animal whose flesh could supplement their meager dried fare. And perhaps there would be time enough and safety enough for him to wash up a bit, so that when Tarrant arrived-

He stopped suddenly, unable to walk any farther. Emotion welled up in him with such force that it nearly drove him to his knees; only the knowledge that the trees were waiting for him to do just that kept him standing.

Tarrant was gone. There was no doubting it now, not after all these hours. First Hesseth, and then the Hunter . . . and the most painful part of all was that he couldn’t begin to untangle his emotions, couldn’t tell where the grief began or the anger ended or the pragmatism of their quest gave way to genuine caring . . . did he really care if Tarrant lived, beyond the practical advantages of their partnership? He abhorred what the man stood for so passionately that it was painful even to ask the question, and he dared not try to answer it.

I hope for his sake that he’s dead. That would be far more merciful than the alternatives: To be incapacitated but not killed by the earthquake’s power, so that he must wait out the centuries in a land bereft of food or healing. Or to be captured by the enemy, perhaps, while the earth-power still surged. After what he went through in the rakhlands, I think even he would prefer death to such an imprisonment.

“Are you all right?” the girl asked him.

He drew in a deep breath, then managed to nod. “Yeah. I am now.” He caught up her hand in his—so small, her fingers, and her skin was so cold—and he squeezed it with all the love he could muster. “I was just thinking. Trying to figure out where we’re going . . .”

“The river,” the girl reminded him.

He chuckled—somewhat sadly—and squeezed her hand again. “Yeah. The river. Thanks, kid.”

They didn’t see it until they were nearly upon it.

The Wasting’s one river had flowed long enough and hard enough to have eroded its way down through the layers of volcanic rock, down through the base rock beneath, carving out a steep canyon whose walls glistened in layers of black and gray and marbled white strata. Between those walls the current rushed westward, audible even from where they stood as it gushed over the rocks at its border. In the center it was deep enough that the water moved smoothly, swiftly, a silken black reflector that cast the moonlight back in a thousand shivering bits. After days in the desert, the smell of it was like something from another world.

For a moment he just stared at it. One moment. A luxury. Then, with a finger on his lips to warn the girl to silence, he worked a Knowing. Casting out a fine net, to trap the scent of danger. But though he directed his Working west and east and then both ways again, there was nothing upstream or downstream that seemed the least unnatural. Nor was there danger lurking hidden on either side of the canyon.

“Thank God,” he whispered. “Tarrant pulled it off.”

“What?” the girl demanded.

“He was trying to make the Prince think that we were going somewhere else. Somewhere farther west along the river. I guess it worked.” He sighed heavily, feeling a weight lift from his chest at last. One weight among thousands. “We’re safe here, Jen. For a while at least.”

He led her along the edge of the canyon, searching the ground far below by Domina’s light. At last he found a place where descent seemed possible and there was dry ground at the bottom, and after that it was easy. After days and nights of combating wraiths and nightmares and preternatural malaise, he welcomed the logistical challenge of simple rock climbing. Within minutes he had marked his path of descent, and soon after was rappelling downward with the child clutched tightly to his chest. It pleased him that the end of his rope had been looped about the trunk of a killer tree for support; let that species serve him now.

Water. He could feel it at his back even as he looked back up the way they had come, wondering if he should leave the rope where it was or yank it down to them. The water was more than a mere substance now, but also a symbol; in reaching it they had beaten the desert at its own game, at least for this leg of the journey. He breathed in its cool scent gratefully as he turned from the rope, leaving it in place for the moment.

He saw the girl moving toward the river and reached out quickly. “Be careful,” he warned.

She looked at him with frightened eyes; he felt her tremble beneath his hand. “Is something in there?” It was a reasonable question for one who had seen the Terata’s warped creations, and before he answered he muttered the key to a Knowing under his breath. But the water held no secrets beneath its shimmering surface, and he assured her of the fact.

“The current’s fast and the rocks’ll be slippery . . . and it’ll be damned cold besides. Wait till the sun comes up, girl. It’ll be safer then.”

It seemed to him that even as he spoke something flickered out on the river’s surface. He recalled the sirens of the Sea of Dreams, the flickerings that had preceded their attack. His hand moved instinctively toward his sword, even as he told himself that it couldn’t possibly be that, or anything like it. His Knowing would have detected such a threat.

Again the flicker. He could see it more clearly now, and no, it wasn’t like the sirens. Those had been beautiful; this was repellent. A sliver of white that curled and uncurled beneath the surface, wormlike, reflecting the moonlight in broken bits. A tendril perhaps, attached to some larger whole? No, he told himself stubbornly. It couldn’t be that. The Knowing would have revealed that.

But it bothered him. It bothered him so much that he didn’t even dare turn back to look at the girl, to make sure that she was safe; he felt as though if he turned his back on the thing for a minute it would somehow manage to bridge the distance between them and do . . . what? He wasn’t sure. But he felt in his gut that the thing was deadly, and that constant scrutiny was required. “Stay with me,” he whispered, drawing his sword. “Don’t go near it.” Desperately he tried to study its shape despite the surface reflections that masked it, to figure out what the hell it was and what it was doing here before it could-

Before it-

What?

Too late, he realized what was happening. Too late he realized the pattern of his own thoughts, and what they were doing to him. Too late. Even as he tried to turn around—struggling against a tide of dread that demanded he watch the thing, watch the thing!, not take his eyes off it for a single instant—something struck him on the back of the head hard enough to send him reeling. The water was right before him and he splashed down into it, ice-cold liquid that drove the breath from his body in a startled gasp. Somehow he managed to keep hold of his sword. Somehow he managed to get his head above water before he breathed it in, and to ignore the blinding pain in his skull long enough to get to his feet and turn around-

There were a dozen of them, maybe more. Men in uniform, spread out with military precision along the narrow shore. One of them was holding Jenseny, and above the gloved hand which muffled her screams he could see her wide, terrified eyes pleading with him for help.

Tarrant had failed them. Or perhaps the earthquake had disabled him before he even had a chance to Work; perhaps the misKnowing was never even cast. Even so, there must have been a hell of an Obscuring guarding this company that Damien had never sensed its presence. Which meant there might be a Worker with them, and one of considerable power. If so . . . he tried not to think about that. He tried to focus on what he could possibly do against such numbers, the one slim chance he had. With a desperate prayer in his heart he reached with his will down into the water at his feet, the icy current that hid the earth-fae from view-

“Don’t try it,” a cool voice warned.

Startled, he looked for its source. A dark figure was moving among the soldiers, a figure cloaked in heavy wool that walked through the shadows with unhuman grace. The glint of buckles and clasps hinted at a uniform not unlike those which the other men were wearing, but with considerably more decoration. The voice was silken, with a trace of an accent that Damien didn’t recognize.

“Don’t,” the figure repeated. It was holding something up toward Damien, and with a chill the priest realized what it was. A pistol. “If you Work—or even try to Work—I’ll kill you on the spot. You understand me?”

Stiffly he nodded. Desperately he tried to think. There had to be a way out of this. Had to be. But as he looked at the soldiers spanning the shore, at the tall figure who so obviously commanded them, he could feel his heart sinking. There had to be a way out . . . but he couldn’t see one for the life of him.

The figure nodded a command, and two of his men waded into the water toward Damien. For a brief instant he considered resistance, and then one of the men raised up a pistol of his own and trained it on Damien’s face. Point blank. He stared down the cool steel barrel in utter despair, icy water swirling about his ankles as the other man yanked his sword from his hand, his knife from his belt, anything and everything that might be used aggressively from his person. If he had been stripped of his clothes in front of all these men, he could not possibly have felt more naked. Despair welled up inside him with numbing force. Was this it? Was this the end of everything they had fought for, suffered for, prayed for? He didn’t want to accept that. He struggled not to believe it.

Roughly they hauled him back to shore, and forced him to his knees. His arms were jerked behind his back and manacles were snapped shut about his wrists; defeat engulfed him then, so powerfully that it nearly brought tears to his eyes. But he wouldn’t give them the pleasure of seeing that. They had beaten him, bound him, stolen his dreams, but he would not give them his weakness as an added gift.

Slowly the cloaked figure approached him. As it did so, it passed from shadow into light, and Damien could see its features. Beside him he could hear Jenseny breathe in sharply, her struggles momentarily halted as she gazed upon the face of their captor.

Rakh.

A glorious, majestic rakh, with a thick silken mane that lifted in the breeze as he moved and eyes that glowed green in the moonlight. Not from Hesseth’s own species, but a sibling race that had been transformed by the same power which remade hers. His face was marked with the bands and stripes of a jungle hunter, sable upon gold, and it gave his expression a fierceness that no human countenance could rival. His mane was not coarse and shaggy like those of the western rakh, but a thick ruff of silken fur that framed his head and shoulders in a corona of gold. Though his features were more naturally human than Hesseth’s had been, the markings made him seem doubly bestial, and like war paint on a human face hinted at a ruthless, unforgiving nature.

“It’s over,” the rakh said quietly.

Spoken in that way—so utterly calm, so perfectly confident—the words were like a spear thrust into Damien’s heart. It’s over. They had failed. It was finished.

He lowered his head in despair. God, forgive me. We did our best. What more could we have done?

“Get the boats,” the rakh instructed.

Three men ran off eastward along the narrow shore; moments later they rounded a promontory and disappeared.

“There should be three of them,” a familiar voice pronounced.

Startled, Damien twisted about. Despite the firm hand on his shoulder which kept him from moving too fast or too far, he was able to twist around far enough to see the tall, lean man who was approaching them now, his long silk tunic sweeping the rock wall at his side as he moved.

Gerald Tarrant.

“You bastard,” Damien whispered hoarsely. “God damn you! You sold us out.”

“Where’s your companion?” the rakh demanded from behind him.

He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. He could hardly breathe, so totally consumed by rage was he. Rage, and also despair; because if Tarrant was helping the enemy, Damien and his small ward didn’t have a chance in hell of getting free. Not now, not ever.

With leisured grace the Neocount crossed the space between them. The soldiers carefully kept out of his way.

“Where’s Mes Hesseth?” he demanded.

For a moment Damien couldn’t speak. Then the words came, spiked with a burning hatred. “What’s the matter, you don’t get paid as much for just two of us?”

He was struck on the head from behind, hard enough that for a moment his vision exploded in stars. “Where is she?” the rakh demanded. His voice made it clear that he was ready to strike again if necessary.

“She’s dead” Damien choked out. He looked up at Tarrant, loathing the lack of reaction on that pale, arrogant face. Had Damien ever truly traveled with a creature that inhuman? Could he ever have really trusted him? “God damn you!” he spat. “She died for our cause.” The words were an accusation, and he poured as much scorn and venom into them as his voice could possibly contain.

“Your cause,” the Neocount said coolly. “It hasn’t been mine for some time now.”

“Where did she die?” the rakh demanded. “When?”

The past seemed a blur; he struggled to remember. “A day north. Maybe. There was a chasm . . .”

“I know the one,” the rakh said. “I’ll send men out there in the morning to confirm it.”

He remembered Hesseth’s body, so lifeless, so broken. Thank God she had died before this moment. Thank God she didn’t have to witness their defeat.

The boats were coming into sight now, three long canoelike structures that would seat two men across, three in the center. Two-thirds of the way back was a small metal housing that might contain some sort of engine or turbine, but its shape gave no hint as to its mechanical nature. The combined package was light enough and maneuverable enough that all three boats were easily brought to shore, and there a man held each in place, bracing it against the river current.

The rakh walked to the water’s edge and knelt down by it, scooping up a mouthful of the ice-cold water into a pewter cup. When he had enough he stood again, and took out a small glass vial from a pocket in his uniform. This he unscrewed and upended over the cup; Damien saw a thin stream of white powder glisten in the moonlight.

He walked toward Damien, swirling the cup so that the powder and water might mix thoroughly. When he reached the priest, he held it out to him, close enough that he might touch his lips to its brim.

“Drink it,” he ordered.

His heart pounding wildly in fear, Damien asked, “What is it?”

“It will make you temporarily incapable of Working. I trust you understand why that’s necessary.”

He looked up at Tarrant, hoping for . . . what? Sympathy? Support? He’d sooner get it from a host of bloodsuckers than from that corrupted soul.

The cup was before him. The rakh commander was waiting. Fear was a garrotte around Damien’s heart.

“You can drink it,” the rakh said at last, “or I can have you beaten into unconsciousness. Your choice.”

He saw Jenseny’s eyes fixed on him, wide and terrified. For a moment that was all he could look at, all he could bear to see. Then he turned back to the rakh, shuddering, and nodded. The cup was brought to his lips and tilted up; bitter water, ice cold and algae tainted, filled his mouth and throat.

He swallowed.

Again.

When at last the cup was empty, it was removed from him. Trembling, Damien wondered what the potion’s effect would be. Was there truly a substance that could rob man of his power to Work, without damaging his other faculties? He doubted it. Dear God, what had he gotten himself into?

They pulled him to his feet. Not gently and not slowly; he stumbled once as his legs unfolded, half frozen from their previous immersion. The wind was like ice on his body, its coldness trapped by the folds of soaking wet fabric. Hadn’t he been in similar condition the last time a rakh had taken him prisoner? Ernan tradition, he thought wryly, as they pushed him toward the water once more. In another time and place it might almost have amused him.

They helped him board one of the canoe-things—no easy task with his hands bound behind his back—and then the rakh came over and clipped his shackles to a chain running along the seat. Worse and worse. He leaned back, shivering, not wanting to look at his captors, not willing to look at Tarrant. “Don’t hurt the girl,” he whispered hoarsely. He could hear his voice shaking. “Please.”

The rakh didn’t answer. On the shore one of the men had picked Jenseny up and was carrying her to a boat; when she saw it wasn’t the same boat that Damien was in she started struggling, and such was the strength born of her desperation that she wriggled free of him and splashed down into ankle-deep water. He reached for her quickly, but by then she was gone, plunging through the ice-cold river with desperate strength, struggling to get to the priest before they grabbed hold of her again.

In the end it was the rakh who caught her, yanking her back just before she could reach Damien. She screamed and struggled and clawed and bit, but all to no avail; his species was accustomed to dealing with far more dangerous attacks from their children.

At last, exhausted, she hung whimpering in his grip, limp as a rag doll. One of the other men moved in to take her.

Damien met the rakh’s eyes. “What’s the matter?” he challenged. “Afraid that she might hurt you?”

The rakh hesitated, then looked at Tarrant. Well, Damien thought, that’s the end of it. After all the times that he’s urged me to kill her, he’s hardly about to indulge her now.

But to his surprise Tarrant nodded. The rakh released Jenseny, and the girl splashed over to where Damien was. One of the men grabbed hold of the back of her shirt and lifted, and between that and her own efforts she was soon sitting crumpled in the bottom of the boat, her arms about Damien, sobbing into his chest.

“Chain her up?” one of the men asked.

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” the rakh said coldly. “Our guest will answer for her behavior.” He shot a quick look of warning at Damien, then turned away to give orders to another man. Damien looked down at the girl.

“Shh,” he whispered to her. “It’s all right. We’ll be all right.” It was such a lie he could hardly stomach it—and he was sure that she recognized it as such—but the moment seemed to demand a ritual reassurance.

If Tarrant told the Prince about her power, then it’s only a question of time until they kill her. If not . . . then she may live long enough to see me killed first.

The rakh turned to Tarrant. “You’re welcome to join us.”

The Hunter shook his head. “I’ll be there tomorrow after sunfall. Tell his Highness to expect me.”

The rakh bowed his assent.

Damien’s head felt fuzzy, and his thoughts were becoming muddled. Was that the drug? What must a potion do to a man’s body in order to keep him from Working? How long would it last?

Dear God, I’m sorry. We tried our best. Forgive my many failures, I beg You. All that I did was done for love of You. Even my death. He sighed and shut his eyes. Most of all my death.

The boats were pushed into deep water and the current caught them up. Damien felt the thin hull bob as the last of the soldiers boarded, and then they were floating free. A few terse orders were voiced, after which the only sounds were the quiet dip and splash of oars and the near-hysterical sobs of the small, frightened child who clung to his chest.

Alone on the shore, impassive and aloof as always, Gerald Tarrant watched in silence as the river carried them away.

42

The rakh children were gone.

She had heard them scream when Hesseth fell—a shrill high-pitched keening that bespoke pain and fear and loss all in one sound—and then the noise was gone, and they were gone, and Hesseth was gone. Forever.

Jenseny shivered as she huddled close to the priest, partly from cold but mostly from fear. She had no one left in the world but him now, and it took no great stretch of intellect to realize that the chains on his wrists and the soldiers which surrounded him meant that he might soon be taken from her as well. She didn’t know if she was more scared for herself or for him, but the combination of fears was overwhelming. All she could do was hold him, cling to him, press her face against his cold, wet chest, and pray. To his god, who believed in protecting children. Damien had said he wouldn’t help them here, that he didn’t do that kind of thing, but she wasn’t so sure. When you really cared about someone, didn’t you want to help them? Why would a god be different?

She could feel the priest’s exhaustion as he leaned back against the engine housing, could sense his bone-deep weariness as the length of chain binding him tinkled and rattled into its new position. It wasn’t just a tiredness of the flesh, like you felt when you had walked too far, or had gone too long without sleep, but a tiredness of the soul. She had never sensed anything like that in him before. She didn’t think it was because of the long walks, or because of having to carry her so far, or even because of Hesseth’s death. All those things were a price he had been willing to pay to get where he was going, to do what he felt he had to do. No, it was more than that. This tiredness was because he had been fighting hopelessness for so long, so very long, and now he was losing the battle. And she didn’t know what to say or do to make it better, so she just stayed very quiet and held onto him and tried to keep him warm with her body, while the boats of the Undying Prince brought them closer and closer to the enemy’s seat of power.

Black walls gave way to higher walls yet, speckled with rosettes of white and gray. She tried to focus on them as a way of fighting back the panic, but it welled up inside her anyway, sharp and hot and demanding. What was the Prince going to do with them, now that he had taken them prisoner? Each thing she thought of was more terrible than the last. It was clear that they had to get away from these people, but how? Once the Light flashed briefly and she tried to use it like Hesseth had taught her, to break through his chains, but she just wasn’t strong enough, or maybe she didn’t do it right. Or maybe it was like Hesseth had said, that the Light did its best work with minds and souls, and wasn’t that good with inanimate objects. The failure filled her with frustration, and with anger. Tarrant had said that the Light was a kind of power, but what good did that do if she couldn’t Work it?

The river meandered through the wasteland, twisting and turning as its current carried them westward. The walls were so high that Jenseny couldn’t see the trees above them at all, not even when the moonlight was strongest. And then Domina—if that big moon was Domina—began to set, and sometimes the light would be lost behind a twist in the canyon. That was a very scary thing, when they were all in darkness except for the single great lantern at the head of each boat. Jenseny thought she could see things stirring along the edges of the water then, things that sometimes looked like white trees and sometimes animals and sometimes the Terata. Were those fear-things which they had made? Tarrant had explained that once, how the fae could make shapes out of fears and hopes and give them a life of their own. Did that mean she might see her father one day, reflected in the fae’s dark substance? She huddled close to Damien, afraid of the thought. Tarrant said that all the fae-things fed on people, even when they looked like things you loved. What a horrifying concept, that your most precious dreams could be turned against you! How she longed to be in her own room again, where the love and order of her father’s house had protected her from such nightmares!

Slowly, mile by mile, the canyon walls lowered. Equally slowly the river widened, until it was hard to see the far shore in the darkness. The nearer shoreline glistened like Tarrant’s handful of gems had, only all white and silver and black, with no colors. She looked up at Damien to see if he was watching it, but he was gazing into the night with unfocused eyes, his brow furrowed as if in painful concentration. “Are you all right?” she whispered. She made her voice as soft as it could be, so the soldiers wouldn’t hear her. For a moment the priest’s eyes turned her way, but they remained as glazed and unresponsive as before. He seemed to be trying to talk, but for a long time no words would come. “Can’t think,” he gasped at last; it was clear those two words were a triumph. “The potion . . .” Then his strength failed him, or maybe it was just that the words deserted him; he sagged back against the engine housing and shut his eyes, shivering in the cold of the night.

“It’ll be okay,” she promised him. Echoing his earlier words, hoping they would comfort him. “We’ll get through it okay.”

You can’t be strong anymore, so I’ll have to be strong for both of us.

She was hungry and she was thirsty and there was not much she could do about it. The soldiers had taken Damien’s pack and that was where all the food was. She could scoop up water in her hand if she stretched down as far as possible, but she was afraid of drinking too much and then having to go to the bathroom. That would be incredibly embarrassing. She had gotten used to slipping off behind a rock or a bush to do her stuff, but there were no rocks or bushes here and she figured the soldiers would be quick to anger if she fouled their boat. What did they do when nature called?

“Water,” the priest whispered, and she cupped her hands and scooped some up—almost falling out of the boat in the process—and brought it up to his lips. He sipped a little, then nodded for her to spill back the rest. Evidently he didn’t want to fill up his bladder too much either.

And then the three boats turned, bright oars managing the maneuver with practiced precision. That brought them into a cave that led from the river, and they were quickly swallowed up by its narrow confines. Lamplight glittered on a crystalline ceiling not ten feet from their heads; if one of the men had stood up, he could have reached up and touched it. She wondered what would happen if the river got higher. Maybe after a hard rain they couldn’t use this route at all.

After a time, the walls opened up. The ceiling gave way to darkness, then to stars. They floated on the surface of a lake so black that it could hardly be distinguished from the land surrounding it. And then before them . . .

They rose up from the ground suddenly, magnificently, their manifold facets reflecting the moonlight with solar brilliance, their myriad surfaces like mirrors. Vast towers of crystal that soared toward the heavens, their peaked tips sharp against Domina’s brilliance. Some were as wide as buildings and equally as solid; others were slender spines of glass, barely translucent, that jutted out from among their perpendicular brethren at sharp, arresting angles. Here and there a cluster of crystals, diamondlike, adhered to one of the mirror surfaces, or filled in the gap between two towers; here and there a spine had been broken by some mischance of nature and tiny crystals gathered in the wound like blood. It was a chaos of brilliance, of knife-sharp edges and night-black surfaces that flashed with light as the boats moved toward them, a field of living crystal so complex, so intertwined, that it was impossible to focus on any one form, or to trace a single outline to its end. Staring at it, Jenseny felt dizzy and breathless and afraid all at once, and at last she turned away from it.

“Rakhlands,” the priest whispered. No more than that. Rakhlands. She wished he had told her more about that journey, so that she could understand the reference.

Directly east of them, low on the horizon, the pale light of dawn was just beginning to compromise the night. Cool sparks played along the edges of the crystal towers where the newborn sunlight touched them, and one mirrored surface, angled perfectly to catch the dawn light, flashed a blue so bright that it hurt her eyes. Jenseny wondered what this place would look like in the sunlight. She wondered if they would live to see it.

The boats were brought to a gentle shore and there moored. Clearly the beach, like the lake it surrounded, had been deliberately sculpted; the land in this region was a wild mixture of swirling lava and crystalline growths, hardly suitable for a harbor. There were other boats nearby, Jenseny noted, some like the ones they were in and others much larger and much more complicated. None were tall, she noted. She guessed that was because of the cavern they had to sail through to get here.

When they had reached the beach, the soldiers at the front quickly disembarked, boots splashing in the water as they took up careful positions around their prisoners. They needn’t have bothered. It was clear that Damien could hardly stand, and as two of the soldiers helped him from the boat he went down on his knees, hard; it was clear that their firm grip on his upper arms was the only thing keeping him upright at all.

She stayed by his side, trying to help him. One of the soldiers tried to push her away, but she clung to the priest’s shirt, unwilling to leave his side for even an instant. From on shore the rakh captain snapped a sharp command, and the soldiers indulged her. Together, with effort, the men got Damien to shore. Together they forced him to his knees.

“The drug will wear off soon,” the rakh informed him. Jenseny heard the rattle of chain behind her, twisted around just in time to see shackles being fastened about the priest’s ankles. A short length of chain connected them, enough to allow him to walk but not enough to run. Did they fear him that much? She looked up at the striped rakh, found his glistening green eyes fixed on her. They weren’t afraid of him, she realized. Not at all. They were just being careful.

“Let’s go,” he ordered, and the soldiers lifted Damien to his feet.

They were marched along a road of sorts, where the lava had been leveled and the crystals had been crushed and the result was a flat bed of black grit that crunched beneath their feet. Higher and higher the towers loomed as they approached, until the tallest of them seemed lost among the stars themselves. Would they be going inside them somehow? Jenseny wondered. Or was there some kind of space hidden in between them? As they passed into the shadow of the first of the great columns she saw Damien look up, not at the looming crystals but straight up at the sky—and she realized with a start that he was looking at the moon and the stars and the dawn because he thought that he might never see them again.

They passed between two crystal spires, into a space whose faceted walls reflected the soldiers’ lamplight in flashes of molten gold. It was hard for her to see where she was going, and more than once Damien stumbled; the reflected light, constantly shifting, made it seem like walls existed that weren’t really there, and once or twice a real wall was so shadowed that she nearly walked into it. The soldiers seemed to do well enough, but of course they were used to it; there was no doubt in her mind that a stranger would be trapped in this place like an insect in a spider’s web, unable to move more than ten feet without walking into something.

And then they were going downward. Down past the crystal, down into the earth, on stairs that had been crudely carved from the black rock itself. It was hard going even for her, and she could feel the tension in Damien’s body as he fought the length of chain about his ankles, struggling to descend safely. They seemed to go down forever, and only because she kept count of the lamps that the rakh captain lit as they passed did she have any idea of how far it was. Ten lamps, she counted. Probably ten turns on the rough stone staircase. Far enough that she didn’t look forward to climbing back up.

At the bottom was a large chamber with lamps along the nearer side. The rakh lit those also as Damien struggled to catch his breath. Was that the drug weakening him, or had he gotten sick from being cold and wet for so long? She hoped it was the drug. Hadn’t the rakh said that it would wear off soon?

Separating the two halves of the chamber was a wall of iron bars, the spaces between them narrow enough that not even Jenseny could squeeze through. With sudden panic she realized that they were going to lock them up down here and leave them. For how long? She would have begged them for an answer if she thought they would give her one. As it was, she had no choice but to allow herself to be maneuvered through the narrow gate, Damien right behind her. They unbound his hands, at least. Wasn’t there some comfort in that?

“His Highness has instructed me to apologize for the nature of your accommodations,” the rakh said to Damien. The heavy iron gate was being swung closed again, and its lock fastened securely shut. Jenseny felt panic rising up inside her; she struggled not to let it show. “But as a sorcerer yourself you understand the necessity for such an arrangement. We can hardly allow you free access to the earth-fae.”

With drug-dulled eyes Damien took in the details of their prison. Smooth floor, roughly carved walls, not much else. He seemed about to say something, but the words couldn’t make it past his lips. At last Jenseny, sensing his intentions, whispered, “We need water.”

There was silence. A long silence. Then, slowly, the rakh captain nodded. “I’ll have it brought.”

“And food,” she dared. “We need that, too.”

A couple of the soldiers seemed to stiffen at her audacity, but the rakh was unperturbed. “And food,” the rakh agreed.

“And blankets. We need blankets. And maybe . . . if you have some kind of clothing. Anything dry. He needs it,” she said defiantly.

The green eyes were fixed on her—searching, weighing, warning. “Is that all?” he asked coldly.

“No,” she said. A little scared by her own defiance—but what choice did she have? She had to be brave enough for both of them now. “We need something to . . . to go in,” she said clumsily. And then she added, to clarify, “Unless you want us to pee on the floor.”

For a minute the rakh said nothing. An expression, ever so minimal, softened the harsh lines of his face. It might have been a smile.

“No,” he said quietly. “We don’t want you to pee on the floor, do we? I’ll have something brought.”

He ushered the soldiers from the room. It seemed to Jenseny that they were less than thrilled about the prospect of climbing up all those stairs, but none of them complained. When the last of them had left the chamber, the rakh turned to Jenseny again, and nodded toward Damien. “When the drug wears off, you may tell him that the Prince will deal with him tomorrow night. As soon as he has met with his other guest.”

He left them then, alone with the lamps and the bars and the chill of the underearth. Damien had collapsed onto the smooth stone floor and she knelt down by his side, wishing she knew how to help him. He was breathing heavily, hoarsely, and his forehead was flushed. There was a little bit of light in the chamber, so she could see just how bad he looked.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered. Her small hand trembled as she stroked back his hair from his face, just like Hesseth used to do with her. “We’ll be okay. We will. I promise.”

43

Sunset. Slabs of crimson light flashing across crystal spires, deep purple clouds drifting like wraiths down glassy walls, stars reflected a thousand times over as the night unsheathed their brilliance. The Core’s light, only half-swallowed by the distant mountains, adding the gold of fire to the tips of the towers, like a thousand glass candles all set alight in an instant. And with each moment, change. Darkness where there was brilliance. Blood-red light where there was shadow. The light of the heavens reflected, refracted, filtered, divided. A symphony of fire, now dying as night’s embrace beckoned.

Tarrant watched it for a long time, though the sunlight made his eyes burn. How odd, that even after sunset it might still affect him so. There must be some special property to the crystal that enabled the solar fae to cling to its substance long after its carrier, mere light, had faded. How curious. He had never experimented with crystal himself, prefering the storage capacity of ice and silver and finely honed steel, but he knew there were those who swore by it. Even Erna’s settlers had used tiny crystals in connection with their power sources . . . or so it was said. Who knew for sure?

When the last of the gold had faded, when there was nothing reflecting from the glistening towers but stars and a single sliver of moonlight, the Neocount of Merentha moved toward the citadel. Though there were no signs to direct him, nor servants to guide him, he had no trouble picking his way through the forest of false walls and faceted illusions that hid the entranceway to the Prince’s palace. He saw by the light of the earth-fae, and that power did not cling to illusion; therefore the false walls were no more than ghosts, and the columns and spires that might otherwise cause him to be distracted were dismissed with no more attention than one might give to an errant wraith. At one point he even considered Banishing them just for the exercise, but that seemed poor etiquette for a guest of his stature, and so he let them stand.

Inside the citadel itself there were guards, but they let him pass without word. There were servants also, and perhaps they would have attended him had he required them to, but he chose instead to wrap himself in a Distracting so that they were not even aware of his passage. Voices shivered in the crystalline halls, reflecting down the labyrinthine hallways, and occasionally the sound of human laughter accompanied them, but he met no other people in the maze-like corridors. Whether in response to his will or that of the Prince—or both—the illusory walls proved more than efficient in isolating him from the inhabitants of the strange citadel.

Alone, unannounced, he at last reached what he presumed to be an audience chamber. Vast, multifaceted, it glimmered with falsehoods and illusions in an ever-changing array, ghostly columns winking in and out of sight as he gazed about its walls. There were rugs cast down on the floor, and they lent that surface a stability rare in this place; as he walked to the edge of the nearest, he noted threads of gold and silver and half a dozen other fine metals worked into its surface, along with a dusting of what might well be gemstones. Or were there crystal threads as well, nature’s bounty drawn out and made flexible so that a man might walk upon them? As he set down his foot upon its thick pile, the nearest illusions faded, and a room took shape before him. Furniture in dark wood inlaid with gold, ivory fastenings, scarlet tassels. Silken cushions in the colors of the sunset. Gold silk spilled across a table, with polished silver goblets on its surface.

And two men.

One was a rakh, though not like any rakh that Tarrant had ever seen. His uniform and manner proclaimed him to be a guard of some kind, and Tarrant ignored him. The other was human, and familiar to him. He seemed older now than he had in his Sending, but perhaps that was just the inaccuracy of the fae interfering; it was hard for even an adept to send a perfect image across such distances.

“Neocount Merentha.” The Prince’s eyes were a cool blue, Tarrant noted, his expression not hostile but guarded.

“What a rare honor it is to welcome such a guest. Your reputation precedes you.”

He bowed ever so slightly, a flawless blend of respect and wariness. Aware that his every move was being watched, his every expression studied and judged, he responded formally. “The honor is mine, your Highness.”

“I regret that your journey here could not have been more pleasant.” He moved toward the table; ringed fingers closed about the stem of a goblet. “May I offer you some refreshment to wash away the dust of the road?” He extended the cup toward him.

He came close enough that he might catch the scent which wafted forth from its contents, then accepted the cup from the Prince’s hand. For an instant their fingers touched, and while a lesser man might have used such contact to probe his true intentions, the Prince’s touch was utterly neutral. As was his, of course. They were both being infinitely careful.

He raised the goblet to his lips and breathed in its bouquet. Sweet and fresh and warm to the touch; body temperature? He took a ritual sip, bracing himself against the hunger it awakened, and then put the goblet down. Carefully steady, artfully disinterested.

“Weak vintage?” the Prince asked. Smiling slightly.

With studied nonchalance he shrugged. “Disembodied blood is a convenience, not a pleasure. But I thank you for the thought.”

“I thought you might be hungry after days in my wasteland. But you wouldn’t admit that in front of me, would you? Not even if you were starving.”

“Would you, in my place?”

“Hardly.” He chuckled. “We’re very much alike, you and I. If we can ever learn to trust each other enough to work together, it will be quite an alliance.”

“I’ll admit that the potential intrigues me.”

“And the promise of godhood, eh? No small reward for a simple betrayal.”

“If you think it was simple,” the Hunter said quietly, “then perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think.”

The blue eyes sparkled coldly. “You know I have the priest and the girl in custody.”

Tarrant shrugged.

“They mean nothing to you?”

“You know why I came here. You know what I want.”

For a moment he said nothing. Then: “Calesta.”

“Calesta.”

The Prince’s expression tightened. “Calesta’s been my servant for years. He helped me build this kingdom, and was instrumental in planning our invasion of the Church lands—”

“And the death by torture of several hundred humans.”

“Does that bother you?”

“I despise waste.”

“The Iezu aren’t like other demons. They do their best work when you give them free rein. Who am I to complain about his methods, when I stand to gain so much from them? Or you, for that matter?”

“You intend to protect him, then?”

“I intend for you to be an honored guest here. Stay in my realm, see with your own eyes what part he plays here. I suspect that your feelings will change.”

“And if they don’t?”

The Prince’s gaze was intense. “A Iezu is born every hour, it’s said. A man like yourself . . . once in a lifetime. If that. I made my choice when I invited you here.”

He turned to the rakh and muttered. “Go get her.” With military precision the maned guard bowed and left. The doorway was somewhere behind the prince, but Tarrant never saw it; one minute the rakh was yards away and the next he was gone, as though he had stepped into another dimension.

The Prince’s gaze followed Tarrant’s own; he smiled. “The joy of this arrangement is that one can be fully protected without that protection being visible.”

“I never doubted that,” Tarrant assured him.

“It’s all natural, you know.” He placed a loving hand on the nearest column, fingers stroking the glassy surface with obvious affection. “I accelerated the process a million times over—redirected it a bit—but in the end it was Nature that did the work. A far more creative architect than man will ever be.”

“An exquisite piece of work,” the Hunter agreed. “What about the volcanoes?”

“What about them?”

“You’re sitting on a lava plain. Where I come from that’s considered quite a risk. Or have you learned how to tame magma?”

The Prince chuckled. “Taming it is hardly necessary, Neocount. One need merely keep certain vents open, occasionally drain off a little gas here or there . . . it’s little enough effort to see that the lava flows west instead of east, and does so in a civilized manner. Ah. But I forget.” His gaze was piercing. “You have no dominion over fire, do you? Or anything that fire touches?”

Inwardly the Hunter stiffened; outwardly he managed—just barely—not to let it show. “Don’t underestimate me,” he warned. Or bait me.

The Prince smiled coldly. “I have no intention of it.”

Footsteps approached. Crystal walls shifted. The rakh had returned, and with him was a woman. No, not a woman: a girl. Slender and dark and very frightened. Deliriously frightened.

“Permit me,” the Prince said, “to offer you the hospitality of my house.” He walked to the girl’s side and cupped a hand under her chin, turning her face toward Tarrant. Her eyes were wide, her lips trembling. “As befits a guest of your station: the best my realm has to offer.”

For a moment he was still. Then, very slowly, he walked to where the girl stood. Her fear was like a fine wine, its bouquet intoxicating. Hunger welled up inside him with stunning force.

“I’m told you like them pale, but I’m afraid that’s a rare commodity in these parts. All the rest should be proper.”

He put out a hand to touch her cheek, so very gently; terror flowed sweetly through the contact. It took everything he had not to shut his eyes and savor the sensation.

“She pleases?” the Prince asked.

“Very much so,” he whispered.

“You can hunt her in the Black Lands if you like. It lacks the conveniences of your own Forest, of course, but I think it will please you. Unless you would rather just take her here.”

He forced himself to release the girl’s face; he could still feel her warmth on his fingertips. “No,” he breathed. “Let her run.”

The Prince nodded toward the rakh, who drew the girl away, She was clearly so frightened it was hard for her to walk, and her eyes were bright with tears. Exquisite.

When she was gone, when he and the Prince were alone once more, he said quietly, “She’s one of your people.” A question.

The monarch smiled. “And you’re my guest. And I feed my guests, Neocount, as their nature demands. Enjoy her. There are more where she came from—thousands more, if our alliance prospers. Not to mention all the innocents of the northern realms.” He chuckled darkly. “All gods require their sacrifices, Neocount. Why should you be an exception?”

He could feel her presence calling to him from beyond the crystal walls. Sweet, so very sweet. How long had it been since he had last hunted? The deaths of invaders were nothing compared to this. The nightmares of a priest hardly served as appetizer.

“Go on,” the Prince said softly. “Enjoy her. We can talk business tomorrow night. Or after. We have so much time, my friend. Endless time. Why rush things? Enjoy.”

Running. She was running. He could sense the motion, the fear. It awakened old instincts, too long denied. He burned to go after her, to take her, to kill.

First things first. Gestures. Ritual. He bowed in the way his era had taught, when kings and princes and their noble cohorts still roamed the planet in numbers enough that such gestures need be codified; the Prince’s nod said that he understood the maneuver in all its subtle refinement.

The rakh had returned, and though he kept a respectful distance, Tarrant could sense him studying him. Assessing him as a possible threat? If so, he had his work cut out for him.

“Among men such as ourselves,” he said quietly—with only a hint of warning in his voice—“a Knowing must be considered an invasion of privacy, and hence a hostile act. I would hate for anything like that to compromise our new-found fellowship, your Highness.”

“Indeed,” the Prince said coolly. “I think we understand each other.” He nodded solemnly. “Good hunting, Neocount.”

When he was gone—when the curtains of illusion had swung shut behind him, a barrier to sight and sound—the rakh asked, “Do you trust him?”

“Trust isn’t an issue,” the Prince said coolly.

“Will you Know him, then?”

He shook his head. “You heard what he said. That would be tantamount to a declaration of war.”

“Then how can you make sure of him?”

He stroked the side of the silver goblet gently; the warmed blood within it trembled.

“There are other ways of getting information,” he assured his captain.

44

The drug was wearing off, at last. Damien could see again. The edges of his world were coming into focus, black and sharp and hostile. He could speak if he wanted to. Language was no longer disconnected from thought, so that every word was a struggle for meaning, every sentence a herculean effort. He could think.

With a moan he tried to sit up; to his amazement his body responded. It seemed a small eternity ago that the Prince’s drug had robbed him of every mental capacity he held dear; in his more lucid moments he had feared that it would never wear off, that the prince had crippled him as one might cut off the claws from a hunting cat, or clip the wings of a captive bird. Only this was a hundred times, a thousand times more horrible. There was no way to keep a man from Working, he understood that now. All you could do was scramble his brain enough that any organized activity—including Working—was impossible.

Jenseny must have seen him stir, for she came to his side and tried to help him up. Not that she could have lifted his bulk, but the support was welcome. “I’m okay,” he whispered hoarsely, and he put his arm around the girl. His wrists burned from where the shackles had cut into them, and instinctively he Worked his vision so that he could begin to Heal them. Or tried to. But there was barely enough power to transform his sight, so that he might see for himself how totally inadequate the currents were for his purpose. For any purpose.

“Underground?” he whispered.

“Pretty deep,” the girl told him. “He said you’d understand why.”

“Who did?”

“The rakh.”

He struggled for memory, dimly recalled striped markings and a long, full mane. Green eyes, perhaps. Any more than that was unavailable, lost in the mists and veils that the drug had conjured. He wondered what other memories had been lost as well.

“Tell me about it,” he prompted her. “Tell me what happened.”

She did so. As she talked, he studied the space they were in: the thick iron bars, the solid walls, the all but nonexistent earth-fae. No hope, not anywhere. The Prince knew who and what he was dealing with and he had planned their imprisonment well. Until someone unlocked that door, Damien and the girl weren’t going anywhere.

“There’s food,” Jenseny said. She seemed strangely proud, as if somehow the food was of her making, but he lacked the strength to question her about it. How long had he been trapped in that terrible half-sleep, his body starving while his mind struggled for control? Hunger, once acknowledged, was a sharp pain in his gut. He took the food she held out to him—sandwiches, no less!—and gratefully wolfed them down. Followed by clean water, which she also provided. Good enough, he thought. At least the bastard wasn’t going to starve them.

“Is he going to kill us?” the girl asked him suddenly.

He looked down at her, reached out to stroke her hair gently with his hand. His hands and nails were encrusted with dirt, and his clothing likewise; Tarrant would have been disgusted. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “Does it make you afraid, thinking that he might?”

She bit her lower lip as she considered. “Would I be with my dad, then? Wherever he is,” she amended quickly, Not yet confident enough to assume him into the One God’s heaven.

“I’m sure of it,” he whispered. They were words that had to be said; he wondered if they were true. What would happen to this precious child when the end came, where her soul was free to ride the currents of Erna? The One God took care of His Own, it was said, and she was hardly a member of His flock. What happened to those who embraced no god, who gave no thought to an afterlife, but simply lived from birth to death in the best way they knew how? In a world where faith could create gods and demons, where prayers could sculpt heaven and hell, what happened to those who gave no thought to the moment after death, who made no provision for dying?

With a sigh he made his way over to a low pot set in a far corner of the cell, and, after ascertaining that it was indeed what he had guessed it to be, he relieved himself of the day’s accumulated pressure. His urine was dark and murky and smelled strangely sour; he hoped to God that was due to the drug passing out of his system and not some more ominous sign. All he needed now was for his body to fail him.

And then he leaned against the rock wall and shut his eyes and thought, Does it really matter? Does anything really matter any more?

“Are you okay?” the girl asked.

Don’t, something whispered inside him. Don’t give in to despair. When you do that, then he’s won.

“You mean he hasn’t already?” he whispered.

“What?”

He drew in a deep breath, fighting to steady himself. Then he went back to her and sat down by her side. He took her hand in his—so small, so very small—and stroked it gently.

“Jenseny.” He said it quietly, very quietly. Was he afraid that someone might hear? There was no one within sight now, but what did that mean in a place like this? “The fae that I use is too weak here; I can’t do anything with it. What about the kind of fae that Hesseth was teaching you to use? Can you see that here?”

She hesitated. “Sometimes. It was strong right after we came down here. There isn’t too much now, but sometimes it changes fast. I never know.” She said that apologetically—as if somehow the shortcomings of the tidal power were her fault.

He squeezed her hand in reassurance. “When it is strong, when you can use it . . . do you think you could Work this?” He didn’t point to the bars of their prison—the real issue—but to the thin chain between his ankles. Metal was metal, and if she could use the tidal fae to alter his bonds, then maybe there was hope for the bars as well.

But she cast her eyes downward and said miserably, “I tried. On the boat. Only I’m not good enough . . .”

“You just need practice,” he comforted. Thinking wryly, And you may have a lot of time for that here. “Let me know the next time you feel there’s enough to work with and we can try—”

Footsteps. He stopped speaking suddenly, hoping that whoever it was hadn’t heard them. What would happen if the Prince found out about Jenseny’s tidal sorcery? And for that matter, since Tarrant had sold them out, why the hell didn’t he know already? There was a mystery worth examining!

The first figure to come into sight was a soldier, followed by three others. They must think me capable of miracles, he thought dryly, If they imagine they need that kind of manpower. Following them was the rakh from the river, his mane not hooded now but bared to the shoulder, golden highlights playing along the fur as he entered the chamber. The latter nodded toward the bars, and one of the soldiers took up station there. Armed, Damien noted. Another nod, and a pistol was drawn. The cold steel barrel pointed directly at his face.

“Come over to the bars,” the rakh commanded.

Slowly, heart pounding, he obeyed. The barrel was now little more than a yard from his face; even a born jinxer couldn’t miss a shot like that.

“Turn around.”

He turned back toward Jenseny. She was crouched like a frightened animal, ready to bolt if threatened. Where? To what haven? Where could one find safety in this place?

“Put your hands between the bars,” the rakh commanded.

He felt his heart sink as he realized the purpose of all these directions. But what choice did he have? He extended his arms behind him, far enough that his hands slid between the bars. Cold steel shackles snapped shut about his wrists, pinning him in place. He tested them once to see how much slack they allowed him. Not much.

“He’s secure,” the rakh announced.

Footsteps approached from behind. Damien tried to twist around, to see who was approaching, but the angle was wrong and the light was bad and all he could see was the sweep of crimson cloth as a tall, robed figure made its way toward his cell.

Then: a key rattled in the lock. The heavy door was swung aside. A man entered the cell, and took up position directly in front of Damien.

Oh, my God . . .

With one part of his mind he saw the body that stood before him: lean, aging, draped in a sleeveless robe of crimson silk that opened down the front to reveal a tighter, more tailored layer. He was fifty, maybe sixty, and the thin gold band that held back his hair betrayed graying temples, aging skin, a receding hairline.

Utterly familiar.

For a moment he was back in the rakhlands. Kneeling before the Master of Lema, his hands tied behind his back with simple rope (what he wouldn’t give for that now!), at the mercy of her madness as a demon whispered behind her shoulder, There is always torture.

They were the same, she and this man. Not in body. Not in gender. Not even in their features, or any other physical attribute. But in their clothing—their bearing—even their expression! Watching him move was like watching her move; being bound before him was like reliving that awful day, when he waited in vain for the earth to move, to save him from her madness.

“Prince Iso Rashi,” the rakh announced. “Sovereign Lord of Kilsea, Chataka, and the Black Lands.” And he added, “Called the Undying.”

They didn’t look at all alike. They couldn’t be related—could they? The woman had left this region more than a century ago. Could two people be so very alike that after a century’s isolation their taste in clothing would still develop identically? It was crazy. It was impossible.

It had happened.

“So,” the Prince said. His voice was a smooth baritone, even and disciplined. “This is the soldier of God who would lay siege to my throne.”

He managed to shrug. “I gave it my best.”

The expression that came across the Prince’s face was eerily familiar; he wished he could forget where he had seen it before.

“So you did,” he said softly. “And now that your efforts have been dispensed with, you can make up for the trouble you caused me by rendering a simple service.”

“I don’t have a lot of choice, do I?”

“None at all,” the Prince assured him. “But as for how much it hurts . . . that’s up to you.”

He reached out to take Damien’s face in his hands—and for a moment the situation was so much like what Damien had experienced in the rakhlands that panic overwhelmed him, and he tried to back away. But the bars at his back allowed no retreat, and the cool hands settled on his face with firm authority. Jenseny started to move toward them, but Damien saw her and warned her, “No!” There was nothing she could do to help him now. “Stay where you are! Don’t interfere.”

“How very considerate of you,” the Prince murmured.

He tried to look away, but he couldn’t. He tried to shut his eyes, but it was as if his lids had been glued open. The chill blue gaze of his captor drew him in, and its power skewered him like an insect on a mounting board. Where the hell is he getting the power from? Damien thought desperately. Then he felt the fire that was pressed against his cheek, the glowing ring that was pouring out tamed earth-fae to fuel the Prince’s Binding. Like Tarrant’s sword, Damien thought. Remembering all too well what that sword was like, and what it was capable of doing.

“Tell me about Gerald Tarrant,” the Prince commanded.

Images exploded in his brain, sight and sound and emotion all bound together into a blazing tapestry of memory. The Hunter in his forest. Ciani, helpless in his arms. Rakh dying in agony. Blood. Fear. Revulsion. He shook as the memories poured through him, all the emotion of a long, hard year packed into one terrifying instant. The boy that Tarrant killed. The women he tortured. The horror of knowing that they had to go in and rescue him, that there really was no choice, that the Hunter would live and thrive and feed because of Damien Vryce-

“No,” he gasped. “Stop it, please!”

—and then this journey, this terrible doomed journey, the days and the nights and the battles and the horror and then that moment at the river, that terrible moment when all his hopes came crashing down and he looked at Tarrant and he knew—he knew—it was over, it was all over, their efforts were for nothing and all the dying was a waste, the Hunter had proven true to his nature at last and betrayed them to the enemy-

The power that held him released him suddenly and he slumped back against the bars. Weak and shaken, he shut his eyes. Though he heard the Prince step back from him, he had no strength to look up at him, and no desire.

Though he heard the door swing open again, he didn’t even look toward it. It was as if all the life had been wrung out of him along with his memories. It was an effort just to live.

And then the shackles were unlocked and taken from his wrists, and he was free to move. He fell to his knees on the hard stone floor, and felt the child run to his side. He hugged her hard, drawing strength from the contact.

“Thank you,” the Prince said from behind him. “That was most informative.”

He refused to turn around. He refused to acknowledge the taunting words, spoken with an arrogance so like Tarrant’s own. If he did, he would probably try to kill the man, despite the bars and the shackles and his obvious power. His need to strike at Tarrant was that strong, and at that moment the two seemed indistinguishable.

Damn you, Hunter! I trusted you. I did. How many others have you seduced into that fatal mistake over the ages? How many others wanted to believe that the Hunter’s soul was still human, only to discover in the end that it was as cold and as ruthless as the Wasting?

From behind him the Prince was speaking. “That’ll be all, Katassah. No need to leave a guard down here.”

Katassah!

He twisted about suddenly, but they were already moving into the stairway’s shadows. All he could see was the fleeting glint of lamplight on sable-striped fur, long golden strands masking the shoulders of a uniform.

And then they were gone and even that hope was gone—that fragile, nameless hope—and he slumped against the bars of his prison. Wishing he had known earlier. Wondering what the hell he could have done if he had.

“He called him Katassah,” the small girl whispered.

“Yeah.” He leaned back against the bars and shut his eyes. Desperate plans were flitting through his brain, but they all dissolved before they gained substance. “Fat lot of good it does us now,” he muttered.

But deep inside, he wondered.

Dawn was coming.

A lone bird circled high in the darkness. Its talons were like rubies, its eyes as bright as diamonds. Its wingspan was broader than any bird’s wingspan should be, and its feathers were tipped in cool silver unfire.

It banked low, took its bearings, then rose again. Seeking.

In the west a dull light glowed that was neither sun nor starshine. A faint red light that played along the ridge of one mountain, crowning its summit in blood. The bird flew toward it. As it came near the currents grew fierce, so much so that as it struggled to tame the winds to its purpose it must also fight to maintain its chosen form. Even a minute’s relaxation in the vicinity of a volcano could prove fatal to a shapechanger.

It crossed over the ridge, and hot winds buffeted it from below. The coldfire on its wingtips died, and the feathers began to char and curl. It was struggling now as volcano-born thermals rose up from the ground with violent force, sometimes accompanied by a spray of molten rock or hair-fine ash.

At last it could fly no farther, and it landed. Earth-fae swirled hotly about its feet, almost too violent to tame; it took long minutes for it to mold the stuff to its will, to drain it of its intrinsic heat so that it might be Workable. At last, not without fear, it changed. Feathers gave way to flesh, talons to hands, down to clothing. Silken robes were cooked in the process, crisped to ash along the edges. The scabbard of the Worked sword was singed.

Gerald Tarrant looked down the long slope of the volcano, studying the deadly landscape. Not half a mile to the west of him the earth had been rent open, and lava poured red-hot down the mountainside; he could feel its heat on his face even from where he stood, and knew that he dared get no closer if he valued his life. Accompanying the lava was a flood of earth-fae so powerful that only a madman would try to Work it, and it established a current that flowed westward, toward the sea, away from the Prince’s citadel.

Excellent, Tarrant thought.

The Prince had offered him accommodations in his palace, which Tarrant had politely refused. He wasn’t about to spend his most vulnerable hours in the man’s stronghold, alliance or no alliance. So he had put on his wings and headed west, toward the volcano. Let the Prince think that he had done it for privacy. Let him think that Tarrant had chosen this place because the fierce currents would disrupt any Seeing, any Knowing, any attempt on the Prince’s part to discover his daytime hiding place. That was certainly part of the reason, but it was not all. And if the Prince ever knew the rest of it . . . then burning currents and molten rock would be the least of Gerald Tarrant’s problems.

The ground trembled beneath him as he knelt on the black earth, and the smell of sulfur drifted to him on a hot breeze. The place reminded him of Mount Shaitan back home, a volatile crater whose outpouring fueled the Forest’s currents. He had made a pilgrimage to it once, to tap that awesome power, and he knew just how deadly a volcano’s outpouring could be.

This time he had an alternative.

He put his hand about the hilt of his sword and drew it free of its sheath. Coldfire blazed furiously as it made contact with the hot power of the local currents, and a hiss like that of steam rose from its sharp steel edge. It was bright again, nearly as bright as it had been in the rakhlands; he had been charging it night after night throughout their journey, molding the earth-fae with painstaking care until it suited his special need, then binding it to the steel until the whole length of the sword blazed with frigid power. It enabled him to Work when the currents were made deadly by earthquakes, or when he was deep underground where the earth-fae was feeble. It would enable him to Work safely now, even in this hostile environment.

One more tool, and then he was ready. He took it out of his pocket and opened it, laying it on the warm black earth before him. Memories clung to it like vapor, and for, an instant he thought that the volatile currents would bring several of them to life. But all that manifested was a thin red fog, that twined about the handle in crimson filigree and left small drops, like blood, floating in the air.

Shutting the rest of the world out of his mind, he braced himself for Working. In all of his repertoire there was no harder task than what he was about to attempt here. It went against the very patterns of Nature, defied the very flow of reality. He had done it only once before, as an exercise, and even then he had not been wholly successful. This time, however, there was no room for error.

Carefully he wove power into the slender object, priming it to take the fae in the same way he had done to his sword so many centuries ago. That was easy enough. Next would come the Warding, a complex command that would enable the object to craft the fae itself, molding the currents, dodging magnetism, bending light . . .

An UnSeeing.

An Obscuring would have been far easier to establish, but that only decreased the chance of an object being noticed. A Distracting was more effective—he had used one against Damien and Jenseny at the river—but that was more suited to a single moment in time than a lasting need for secrecy. And a sorcerer might notice either of those Workings if he were alert for it, which the Prince most certainly was. No, this had to be the real thing. And that must affect not only the mind of the observer but reality itself, remaking the physical world so that nowhere was there even a shadow of its existence. True invisibility. Scholars had argued that it wasn’t possible. He had argued that it was. And here, on this torrid ridge, he was about to bet his life on that assessment.

With care he molded the fae, weaving it about the small object as finely as a silk cocoon. Light, striking that barrier, would pass about its perimeter and then resume its course. Magnetic currents would be shielded from contact with the metal within before they were allowed to pass through. Heat and cold and conductivity and the currents, the winds, the tides . . . they must all be dealt with separately, for they all had their own special patterns. The only thing he left untouched was a narrow band of visible light; that would have to be dealt with on a more mundane level.

When at last he was done, he leaned back, exhausted, and studied his creation. Out here in the field it looked good, but if the Prince turned his attention upon it . . .

Then we’ll find out if I’m right or not, he thought grimly. The hard way.

45

“Damn Stairs” the guard muttered. “Don’t know why he can’t keep his prisoners on the ground floor this time, like all the others.”

He was less than thrilled about having drawn this duty, but he was hardly going to admit that to the captain. You didn’t tell a rakh that you’d rather do sentry duty than walk a simple food tray down ten turns of stairs. He’d read you for a wimp in two seconds flat, and then there’d be some damn animal pecking-order bullshit and the next thing you knew you’d be hauling out garbage or waxing canoes or some such crap thing like that. No, better to just walk the vulking tray down the vulking stairs and try not to think about the climb back up.

He was about halfway down when a hand grasped his shoulder from behind. Startled, he turned around as fast as he could. Instinct said go for your weapon, but instinct also said don’t drop the tray! and the result was that in his panic he nearly dropped them both.

“No need to be startled,” a cool voice assured him. The hand fell from his shoulder; his flesh was faintly chilled where it had grasped him.

The foreign Neocount. That’s who it was. For a minute his testicles drew up in cold dread, because he’d heard what the man was and what he could do. Then he remembered what the captain had told him: that there were at least a thousand wards in the palace all fixed on this man, all waiting for the first time he used his power against the Prince. Let him mutter even the first word of a Knowing, the rakh had assured him, and those wards will fry him to a cinder. Which meant that he was safe, didn’t it? Didn’t hurting one of the palace guards count as hurting the Prince?

Then the smooth, perfectly manicured hands closed about the sides of the tray and he could feel its woven surface grow cool in his hands. For a moment he held onto it, thinking that the captain would give him hell if he let go—and then he looked into those eyes, those bottomless silver cold-as-ice eyes, and his hands lost all their strength.

“I’ll deliver it,” the Neocount told him. “You can go back up.”

He almost started to protest, but his voice failed him. At last, realizing that he was outgunned and outclassed and not about to start an argument with a sorcerer in a dark place like this where no one could hear him yell, he nodded his acquiescence. The Neocount’s gaze released him and he shivered as the tall, cold figure passed him in the stairwell.

Oh, well, he thought. I didn’t want to climb the damned stairs anyway, right?

Shaking, he went back up to tell his captain that the food had been delivered.

The light was dim, and in order to read by it Damien and Jenseny had to sit with their backs to the bars. Thus they were positioned now, with various piles of coins and cards and miscellaneous small items spread out between them. They were filthy, worn and bruised, and their attention was clearly fixed on the cards in their hands. Neither of them noticed Tarrant as he approached.

“Two,” the girl said, and she took two cards from her hand and put them on the floor. “Give me two.”

The priest counted two cards off the deck and gave them to her. Evidently he had heard Tarrant move then, for after that he turned around-

And stared. Just long enough for Jenseny to turn around and see Tarrant and gasp. Just long enough for the Hunter to read the venom in his gaze. Then he turned back to the pile of items before him and picked up a coin. With studied disdain he cast it through the bars to the Hunter’s feet; it rolled to a stop against his boot.

“You can leave it by the bars,” he said shortly. “We’ll get to it when we’re done.”

He turned his back on the man then, and counted three cards for himself off the deck.

“Jen?”

“Two coins,” she said. She pushed them to the pile between them, where two other coins already lay.

He considered his cards, then added two coins of his own. “I’ll see you that, and raise you . . . a piece of chalk.”

“I’m out of chalk.” She dug a grimy hand down into her pocket, searching for any miniscule tidbits that previous searches had not revealed. At last she came up clutching something. She held it up into the light and asked, “What is it?”

He studied the small bits of dark rock and rendered judgment. “Lava.”

“What’s it worth?”

He considered. “Half a chalk each.”

Tarrant came forward as she counted off two pieces and added them to the pile of wagers. He put the tray down on the floor, right by the bars. “I thought you would want to know what happened,” he said.

“I vulking well know what happened,” Damien muttered through gritted teeth. Then to the girl, “What have you got?”

“Three Matrias.”

“Damn. Pair of sevens.” He watched as she pulled the booty over to her side, then cast another coin down between them. “Your deal.”

“I thought you should understand—”

“I understand, all right!” He got to his feet in one sudden motion and turned to face the man; he felt as taut as a watchspring that had been overwound, about to snap. “I understand that I fed you for five vulking months so you could get here and sell us out to the man we came to kill, that’s what I understand! What did he offer you, anyway? A house of your own with some nifty crystal architecture, maybe a few girls to run around and bleed for you? What?”

“Immortality,” the Hunter said.

Stunned, Damien couldn’t find his voice.

“The real thing.”

“God,” he whispered. He shut his eyes. “No. I can’t outbid that. Good God.”

“We didn’t have a chance,” the Hunter told him. “Not with a Iezu involved. I couldn’t get within ten feet of the Prince without half a dozen wards attacking, and you . . . you wouldn’t last a minute. The first time you even hinted at a threatening gesture your senses would be so warped by Iezu sorcery that you couldn’t tell dream from reality, and then it would all be over. No contest at all.”

“Then you could have told me that!” he spat. “When I asked you in Esperanova, you should have told me that. God damn it! I trusted you.”

“And I warned you not to,” the Hunter reminded him. “Several times.”

“You could have told me!”

“I did. I told you there was almost no hope. I told you your only chance lay with one wild element—and it didn’t come through, did it? That’s hardly my fault.”

Damien’s hands had clenched into fists by his sides; his knuckles were white with rage. “Damn you,” he whispered hoarsely. “Damn your infernal honesty!”

“I gave you the odds. You made your decision. Isn’t it a little hypocritical to play the martyr now, priest?”

He might have answered—if he could have gotten words out past the rage boiling up in his throat—but at that moment another person entered the chamber, and her presence startled him so much that words abandoned him.

She was slender. She was dark. She was beautiful, in the way that the Hunter preferred beauty: fragile, delicate, vulnerable. It was clear from the way she looked at Tarrant that she feared him, feared him terribly, and yet she approached him, drawn to his presence in the way a mesmerized skerrel might be drawn to a hungry snake. Every instinct in Damien’s soul cried out for him to go to her, to help her, to shelter her from the Hunter’s cruelty, but the chain binding his legs and the thick iron bars before him made any such movement impossible. Whatever Tarrant might do to this woman, Damien could do no more than stand and watch.

She looked at the priest, then at the Hunter, then quickly away. Her hand on the wall was trembling, and her voice shook slightly when she spoke. “His Highness says to please come see him when you’re finished here, he has some business he needs to discuss with you.” A bare whisper of a voice, so fraught with fear that Damien’s heart ached to hear it. And for good reason, he thought; he could almost feel the Hunter’s hunger reaching out to her, caressing her, savoring her terror-

“Leave her alone!” he choked out. Powerless words, futile sounds. There was nothing he could do if the Hunter chose to harm her. Nothing but watch, and hate.

Tarrant moved to where the woman stood. Though she drew back from him in terror, she made no move to get away. He lifted a long, slender hand to her hair, then stroked it; his finger passed down along the line of her throat, pausing gently to test the heat of her pulse. She moaned softly, but made no move to escape him. Her dark eyes glittered with fear.

“Tarrant. Please.” How he hated his helplessness! His hands closed tightly about the thick iron bars, but mere desperation couldn’t bend them. “She just came to bring you a message. Don’t hurt her.”

The Hunter chuckled coldly. “Our journey together is over now, priest. I no longer have to indulge your tedious morality.” He leaned down to the girl and kissed her gently on the forehead, a mockery of human affection; Damien saw the girl shiver violently. “Sisa belongs to me. A gift from the Prince, to cement our alliance. A fitting tribute, don’t you think?”

“You can’t own a person,” Jenseny protested.

“Can’t I?” the Hunter smiled. “Last night I hunted her in the Black Lands. Tonight she lives only because I chose to spare her life. From this moment onward her every breath will be drawn in at my will—or extinguished at my command. That’s ownership in my book, Mes Jenseny.”

He had to turn away. He couldn’t watch it. Helplessness was a cold knot in his gut, a tide of sickness in his soul. “Listen to yourself!” he said hoarsely. “Look at what you’re doing! That isn’t the Gerald Tarrant I knew. What’s happening to you?”

“Come now, priest, you would be the first to catalog my sins. What makes this woman different from a thousand others? My hunger hasn’t changed. My techniques are hardly different.”

“You told me once about how you hunted when you were in the Forest. How you gave your victims a chance to escape you—”

“A chance so slim it was all but nonexistent.”

“But you gave it to them! Slim or not. You told them that if they could evade you for three nights you’d let them go free. Didn’t you?” He waited for an answer, and when none came pressed on. “You told me how you hunted them on foot, and how you wouldn’t Work even if you wanted to because then they would have no chance at all. Remember that? Remember how you told me that at the end of three nights they would either die for your pleasure or be free of you forever, that that was part of the game?” He drew in a deep breath, struggling to make his voice steady. “What you did to those women was finite, Tarrant. It tore them apart, but it ended. What you’re doing here . . .” He couldn’t look at the woman’s face. It would bring tears to his eyes, to match those which were forming in hers. “This place is corrupting you,” he whispered. “First your loyalties, now your pleasures . . . what will you be when it’s all finished? Immortal and independent? Or a slave of the Black Lands?”

“Maybe I have changed,” the Hunter said quietly. “Maybe the freedom to cast off all fear of death has given me options that I lacked before. Or maybe . . . maybe you never really knew me as well as you thought. Maybe you saw what you wanted to see and no more. Only now the blinders have been removed.” He stroked the woman’s hair possessively. “Now the truth is uncovered,” he said. “Now I can be what I was meant to be, what I might have been centuries ago had I not wasted half my energies in the paltry mechanisms of survival.”

“Come,” he said to the woman, when he released her. “I’m finished here. Let’s go see your Prince.”

She went up the stairs ahead of him, one slender hand brushing the wall for support as she climbed. Damien watched until they were out of sight, then listened until the last of their footsteps echoed down the winding staircase, into silence. When the two were truly gone, he lowered his face into his hands, his shaking angry hands, and his whole body shook from rage. And sorrow. And fury, at his own helplessness.

After a time, Jenseny asked gently, “You okay?”

He drew in a deep breath, tried to make his voice as steady as it could be. “Yeah. I’m okay.” He lifted up his face from his hands; his eyes were wet. “Deal the cards, all right?”

As she laid out the decorated cardboard rectangles, he remembered the food that Tarrant had brought, and after a moment he mastered his anger enough to reach through the bars to get it. There was no space large enough for the tray to pass through, so he had to collect it piece by piece: bread, cheese, meat, something wrapped in a napkin . . . the last thing struck him as odd, he couldn’t remember anything like it coming down with previous trays. Maybe silverware, he thought as he unwrapped it. Maybe the Prince was going to trust them with a fork-

It was a knife.

Its handle was mother-of-pearl with a fine silver filigree. Its hilt had the crest of the Tarrant clan embedded in its center. The blade was as bright as sterling, and it glimmered with a light which was too cool to be reflected lamp-glow, too shadowless to be natural.

He stared at it, stunned. Coldfire. It had to be.

What the hell . . .

Jenseny crawled over to where he was and pulled his hand toward her so she could see. “What is it?”

“It’s his,” he breathed. He remembered it from Briand, drawing blood from a young boy’s arm. From the Forest, slicing loose infected bandages from Senzei’s stomach. From so many other places . . . “His knife. Only it wasn’t Worked back then . . .”

It was now, there was no doubt of it. And yet . . . if that light was the Hunter’s coldfire, then he should be able to feel it through the cloth. He closed his hand about it—gently, lest he tempt the blade—but still he felt nothing. No cold. No evil. None of the sensations he had come to associate with Tarrant’s power, or with the charged sword he carried.

“Is it now?” she asked.

He opened his hand again. The folds of the cloth were dark about the knife, yet the blade was bright. That was the unlight of coldfire, no question about it. He had seen it often enough to know.

“I think so,” he whispered. Thinking: Coldfire! He might be able to control it. No other man could. Even the Prince wouldn’t dare attempt such a thing, not with a power that could suck the life out of him as surely as he drew a breath. The only reason Damien could was because of his link with Tarrant, the living channel between them. But to draw on that now . . . he had to fight off a wave of hatred and revulsion just to consider it. That lying, scheming bastard . . . but Tarrant had given them this. One chance. One slim, almost nonexistent hope.

The only hope we had, he realized suddenly. The only possible chance he could see.

“Why didn’t he tell you about it?” Jenseny asked.

Even as he heard the words he realized the answer, and his hand closed reflexively about the knife. Wrapping it in its cotton shroud, hiding it from sight. “Because the Prince doesn’t trust him yet,” he told her. “Because he watches him, always.”

As he might be watching us, even now.

“No,” he whispered. “He thinks we’re helpless. Tarrant’s a possible threat; we’re not.”

“What?”

He opened the cloth again and took up the knife to study it; after seeing that it was hinged, he folded the blade into its handle. Thus arranged it was slim and compact, and fitted easily within his hand. Or within a pocket. Or within a sleeve.

“We can’t talk about this,” he told her. Very quietly. “Because if we do, and someone is listening . . . then it’s all over. You understand, Jenseny? Not a word.”

Eyes wide, she nodded. He wrapped the knife back up in its napkin, then slid it into his pants pocket. Later, when he was calmer, he would think of what to do with it. Where to keep it. How to use it.

A knife in the heart is as fatal to an adept as it is to a common man. Who had said that? Ciani? Or was it Tarrant? The memories were all muddled. God, he needed time to think. He needed time to plan.

“What should I do?” the girl whispered.

“Just play,” he told her. His mind was racing as he cast out a coin into the space between them, a northern half-cent. No, Gerald Tarrant, I didn’t know you. He picked up his cards and spread them, sheltering them with his hands. I didn’t know you at all.

In his pocket, the coldfire burned.

46

“Damien. Damien, wake up.”

Darkness faded into near-darkness, punctuated by lamp-fires. There were figures standing outside the bars, the glint of steel by their sides. Jenseny was shaking him.

“They say we have to go see the Prince,” she told him.

Slowly, painfully, he rose to his feet. His legs ached from cold and inaction and the short length of chain that bound them made it hard for him to get up. At last he stood, and faced the men who were waiting outside the cell. Six men in all, and the rakh who commanded them. Katassah.

“His Highness requests your presence,” the maned captain told him.

There was nothing to do but nod his comprehension and then step back while they unlocked the door. Three men came through it and took up position before him. “Turn around,” the rakh ordered. He did. His arms were pulled back behind him, and cold steel bands were snapped shut about his wrists. They were linked by a shorter chain than the last time, he noted. The boys were being careful today.

“Bring him out,” the rakh commanded.

“What about me?” Jenseny demanded. She tried to go to Damien, but a guard held her back. “You’re not leaving me alone here!”

“You can come,” the rakh told her. “But you have to wear this.” He held out something toward her, that shone in the lamplight. A metal band, half an inch in width and maybe ten, twelve inches around. There was a seal inscribed in a metal disk that hung from it; Damien couldn’t make out the markings.

“What is it?” the priest asked.

“If you behave as you should, then it’s merely a piece of jewelry. But if your behavior should in some way compromise the Prince’s well-being . . . then let us say, the child would share his discomfort.” He gave Damien a few seconds for the implications of that to sink in, then asked, “You understand?”

“Yeah,” he muttered. You bastard.

Jenseny was waiting for some kind of guidance from Damien; her eyes were wide and frightened. Did he have any right to involve her like this? he wondered desperately. He was probably going to get killed sometime soon. If he was lucky—very lucky—he might manage to take the Prince with him. Now, with this ward on Jenseny . . . killing the Prince would mean killing her.

Dear God, guide me. I have made the choice to sacrifice my own life, if necessary. Do I have the right to sacrifice hers?

At last he said, ever so gently, “I don’t think they’ll let you come without it.” Guilt was a cold knot inside him, but there was nothing more he could say without giving himself away. Did she understand what it was she’d be agreeing to?

“Okay.” Her voice was barely a whisper. A guard took her by the arm and led her from the cell—a bit roughly, Damien thought—and then the rakh came over to her and fit the band around her neck. It snapped shut with a metallic click.

That done, the rakh ordered, “Bring him out.”

They led Damien out of the cell, to where the rakh stood. Despite the chains binding his arms and his legs they held on to him while their leader studied him; Damien wondered just what it was they considered him capable of doing.

“You understand,” the rakh told him, “that my orders are to kill you the instant you try anything. Not to wait, not to question, not to assess your true intentions . . . just to kill you.”

He looked into those eyes, so green, so cold, and wondered what secrets they housed. What was it that the Protector had seen in this man, that he had considered him a possible ally? Whatever it was, Damien sure as hell couldn’t make it out.

Kierstaad was an honored guest. That’s a hell of a different vantage point than what I’ve got.

“You understand?” the rakh captain prompted.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “I understand.”

“All right.” He turned to his men and signaled. “Let’s go.”

They were pushed toward the stairs and then up them. One of the men had grabbed hold of Jenseny’s arm, but she wriggled free somehow and came running over to Damien; the rakh let her stay! He could feel her warmth by his side as he struggled to make the endless climb, and he wished he had some hope to offer her.

I haven’t done you any great favor by bringing you here, he thought to her. You would have been better off among the Terata. But then he thought of how she was when they found her—filthy and frightened and living like an animal in the Terata’s dungeon. Now she’s just filthy and frightened, he thought wryly. Feeling the crust of sweat and dirt and dried blood flake from his own body as he walked. I must smell like hell. Bet the rakh loves it. It gave him a dry pleasure to think that the enemy—at least one of the enemy—was being made miserable by his presence. Not that this rakh—or any rakh—would ever admit that.

Halfway up he fell, his feet tangling in the short chain as he tried to go from one step to the next. He went down fast and hard and his knee hit the stair with a force that was audible. Pain lanced through his leg and he would have gone sliding downward if not for the grip of an alert guard on his arm. Another grabbed him from the opposite side and together they managed to get him back on his feet; he swayed as he stood between them, wincing from the pain.

The rakh came over to where they were and studied him, first his expression and then his feet. “Take it off,” he said at last. Damien felt the shackles pull against his ankles as someone behind him unlocked them, and then he was free and the weight was gone and he could take a full step again. Thank God.

One down, he thought, as he started to climb again. His knee hurt like hell and he knew he could well have done it serious damage in his fall, but his gamble had proved worth the risk. The leg irons were off now, and while it was a small triumph it was nevertheless his first one in this place. And he had learned long ago that when things were really bad, so bad that it was all you could do to not think about the thousands of things that were going wrong, the best way to cope was to take one problem at a time and try to chip away at it. And so: one down.

He tried not to think about Tarrant’s knife as they climbed the endless staircase. He tried not to feel its weight on his arm, its blade against his flesh. The guards hadn’t seen it when they’d bound him, nor felt its stiffness when they grabbed his arms; was that due to Tarrant’s Working, or the skill with which he had concealed it within his shirt sleeve? He wished he knew what the man had done to it. In truth, he couldn’t feel it even when he tried, and he suspected that even if it cut his arm open to the bone he wouldn’t be aware of it. It seemed to be protected by a strange kind of Obscuring, that allowed the eyes to see it but blocked all other senses. He wondered if he would be able to take hold of it when he needed to. Had Tarrant thought of that?

At last the stairs ended and they were standing in a gleaming crystal chamber. On all sides of them faceted walls glimmered and shone, their surfaces mercurial as they reflected light from some unseen source. He recognized the style, of course, and it chilled him in much the same way that the Prince’s presence had. Because the Master of Lema’s architecture might have been less grand, less magical, but it was inspired by the same design. Perhaps she had been attempting to copy the grandeur of this place, as she had copied the Prince’s clothing. If so, she had fallen short. He had to half-shut his eyes as the guards led him forward, to close out the illusions that danced about him as he walked. Glittering walls like diamonds, waterfalls of light. How did they find their way around in this place? Was it some kind of Working they used, or were they just more accustomed to it?

I could never get used to it, he thought, as they led him through a sea of crystalline chaos. Jenseny kept a hand on his arm, and he could feel her trembling. Had her father described this place to her also? Or had he lacked the words to capture it?

And then the walls before them parted—or seemed to part—and they were standing in a vast room whose ceiling flickered with reflected lamplight, whose walls were spectral panels of shifting color. The room was filled with people—mostly guards—but it was the two figures seated directly opposite him that commanded Damien’s attention. A perfectly matched pair, regal and arrogant.

The Undying Prince sat to the right, and his long fingers stroked the carved animal head of his chair’s gilded arm as he studied Damien. Two guards stood behind him, and their manner made it clear that they were ready to move at a moment’s notice to safeguard their lord and master. It seemed to Damien that the man was older than when last they met—had it been only a day ago?—but that must have been a trick of the light, or the shadow that his princely crown now cast across his face. He was wearing red again, and the thick silk robe spilled like blood over the arms of his chair. So like the Master of Lema, he thought. It was an unnerving comparison.

To the left sat Gerald Tarrant, who sipped casually from a silver goblet as he studied Damien and Jenseny. This was not the dusty traveler who had ridden several hundred miles and then walked half that many, but a nobleman who had at last taken his place among his own kind. His outer robe was silk velvet, midnight blue in color, and the black tunic beneath was richly embroidered in gold. A coronet had been placed on his head so as to catch back his shoulder-length hair, and it made his eyes seem twice as bright, his gaze twice as piercing. By his side was the woman Damien had seen before, kneeling on the floor beside his chair; as the Hunter studied Damien he stroked a finger down the length of her hair, and though the priest saw her shiver she made no move to escape him.

“Reverend Vryce.” The Prince raised up a goblet as he spoke, as if toasting the priest’s arrival. “You claim to be a man of justice. Tell me, then: what judgment should I render to a man who has interfered with my army, disrupted my most vital project, invaded my lands, and plotted the overthrow of my government?”

Damien shrugged. “How about some clean clothes and a bath?”

For a second the Prince’s expression seemed to darken; then he glanced over at Tarrant and asked, “Was he always like this?”

It seemed to Damien that the Hunter smiled slightly. “Unfortunately.” He stroked the woman’s hair absently as he drank from the cup and she shivered audibly with each new contact: a purring of terror. Her eyes were glazed and her lips slightly parted, and Damien knew that even as she sat there part of her was still in the Black Lands, running from a man so ruthless and so cruel that he would not even allow her the privacy of her own thoughts.

Regally arrogant, the prince rose from his golden chair and came toward Damien. As he did so, the priest slid one hand slowly up his sleeve, struggling to keep the rest of his body as still as possible while he did so. Thank God there were no guards directly behind him; he could only hope that the ones at his sides didn’t notice the motion of his hands. In moments the Prince was close enough that Damien could see his face clearly and yes, he was older than before. Much older. There were lines on his face that hadn’t been there the night before, and patches of skin that were just now discoloring. It took effort for Damien not to stare at the man, not to become so fascinated by the change in him that other concerns—like the knife—were forgotten.

Damn the knife! He couldn’t feel it, not even by pressing down where the blade should be, risking a cut to his own skin. Whatever Tarrant had done to the thing to keep the Prince from sensing its presence, it was making it all but impossible for Damien to locate it.

He jerked back as the Prince drew up before him, trying to look fearful enough that the man would attribute his motion to a memory of what had been done to him the other night. In fact, it was meant to cover up the sound of his wrist chain as he slid one hand far up his other arm, scraping desperate fingers along the surface of his skin where he knew the knife should be, must be. And at last he found it. Not by feeling it between his fingers, like any normal instrument. He located it by the space that was left when his fingers closed, the gap between them which seemed to contain no more than air. That had to be it. He stepped back again as he pulled the slender instrument out from under its wrappings—or tried to, who could tell what was happening in that unfelt, unseen space?—and he saw one of the guards step forward, another take up his gun. That was it, then. That was as far as they would allow him to go.

“How old are you?” the Undying Prince asked him.

The question startled him so badly that he nearly lost hold of the knife. “What?”

“I asked how old you were.”

For a moment he couldn’t think, couldn’t remember. The Prince waited.

“Thirty-four,” he said at last. Was he really that old? The number seemed too high, the age unreal. “Why?” he demanded.

The Prince smiled; it was a strangely chilling expression. “The Neocount has told me of your exploits. Tales of your strength, your endurance, your vitality . . . I wondered how much of that was left to you. Such qualities fade quickly once youth begins to wane.”

He had the knife free of its wrappings now, its grip firmly grasped in his right hand. “I expect it’ll fade rather fast sometime in the next few days,” he said dryly. His heart pounding as he fought to keep his voice steady.

The Prince nodded. “I expect so.”

If he could have wished any one change into his life, he would have transformed the steel on his wrists to rope right then and there. Just that. But the substance which bound him wasn’t anything that a mere knife could sever, and he could only pray that the power Tarrant had bound to the blade was sufficient to render the steel links brittle, as he had seen the coldfire do many times in the past. If not . . . then this was the end of it for both of them. Because the minute they moved him they’d see what he had in his hand, and it would take little Work for the Prince to decipher both its nature and its source.

He could feel Tarrant’s eyes upon him, the silver gaze intense. He risked it all, he thought. Everything, just to give me this one chance. He flinched dramatically as the Prince drew closer to him, using the sound of his chains to cover his motion as he slipped the Worked blade between the links. Let the monarch think that he was responding to the threat inherent in his closeness; that excuse was as good as any.

Playing for time, he nodded toward Tarrant and asked harshly, “What did you pay him for this?” Was that a chill creeping up along the steel links, toward his skin? Or simply wishful thinking?

The Prince turned halfway toward the Hunter, acknowledging him with a nod. “His Excellency and I have an understanding. Among men of power such things are not a question of purchase, so much as mutual convenience.”

Time. He needed time. He forced himself to look at Tarrant, to make his voice into an instrument of venom and hate and spit out at the man, “You killed Hesseth, you bastard! As surely as if you’d cut her throat with your own hands.”

Cold. He could feel it now. Cold on his wrists, where the thick steel pressed against his flesh. Ice on his fingertips, where the coldfire licked as it worked. How long would it take to complete the job? How would he know when to chance movement? He’d only have one opportunity, and if he misjudged the timing . . . that didn’t bear thinking about.

“Mes Hesseth forfeited her life when she committed herself to this journey,” Tarrant said coolly. He sipped from the goblet in his hand; another precious second passed. “The mission was a mistake from start to finish, as you both should have realized.”

The Prince was turning away from him. Maybe it was only to give an order to one of his men; maybe it was to dismiss Damien from his presence. He would never get closer than this, Damien realized, or have a better shot at the man; it was now or never.

He pulled against his chains, hard. Praying as he had never prayed before, that the coldfire had done its work and the steel was brittle and it would give way before the violence of his motion. He saw the rakh starting forward, alerted by the motion, and the Prince was turning back toward him-

And there was a sound like breaking glass and then his hands were free, pain shooting up his arms as he brought them around, frozen shrapnel scattering across the silken carpet as the rakh lunged forward, the Prince fell back, the knife was an arc of silver fire as he brought it up toward the only possible target, the one single inch that he absolutely must strike-

Steel met flesh with a shower of icy sparks. Damien’s momentum was such that even though the Prince brought up an arm in time to block his blow, it could not stop him; the point of the knife cut into the skin of the man’s neck and through his flesh and deep into the artery that carried blood and life to his brain. Scarlet gushed hotly out of the wound as Damien ripped the blade back, and he prayed that in his last few seconds the Prince would be too shaken to Work the fae. Because if he wasn’t, if he managed to close up the wound with his power . . . then they were all dead, he and Tarrant and Jenseny and all the millions up north who had been earmarked for destruction. The Prince would see to that.

The monarch’s body jerked back suddenly, the motion knocking the knife out of Damien’s hand. He saw it skitter across the rug as the Prince fell to his knees, lost sight of it against the fine silk pattern. No matter. He followed the bleeding monarch to the ground as he fell, prepared to tear out his throat with his bare hands if need be, the minute it looked like that ravaged skin was closing itself up. He heard voices, movements, weapons being drawn. Any moment now the men standing around might kill him, and the thought of death didn’t upset him half as much as the fact that he might die with his work unfinished.

The scarlet stream was thinning now, and the Prince’s face was a pasty white. Only seconds now, and the sorcerer would be beyond all saving. Only seconds.

It was then that Jenseny screamed.

Grief and horror and a terrible, numbing guilt all flooded Damien’s soul, but he dared not turn back toward her. If the Prince healed himself in that one unguarded instant, then not only would she die but all that she’d helped them fight to accomplish would be lost forever. He couldn’t let that happen. “Forgive me,” he whispered, as he watched the last blood pulse out of the Prince’s body. Knowing that even if she did forgive him, he could never forgive himself.

And then it was over.

And the room was silent.

And there was something so terribly wrong that he could taste it.

Why hadn’t the guards moved? Why wasn’t anyone doing anything? He dared a glance back toward where Jenseny was and saw her standing frozen with fear—not hurt, not dead, but utterly paralyzed by terror—her gaze fixed upon a figure who even now was approaching the corpse of the Prince, his shadow darkening the rivers of royal blood that played out along the carpet.

Katassah.

Damien stepped back quickly, expecting some kind of attack. There was none.

“You’re a fool,” the rakh rasped.

His voice was different. His eyes had changed. They were still rakhene, still green . . . but there was something new in their depths that chilled Damien to the bone. Something all too familiar.

“And you,” the rakh said, turning to Tarrant, “are a traitor.”

Comprehension flashed in the Hunter’s eyes, and he moved quickly to draw his sword, to use the power stored within it. He wasn’t fast enough. Even as the Worked steel cleared its sheath the rakh raised one hand in a Working gesture—and light blazed forth from all the walls, from the ceiling and floor, from every facet of every crystal in that vast room. Light as brilliant as sunlight, reflected and refracted a thousand times over until it filled the space with all the force of a new dawn. With a cry Tarrant fell back, stumbling over the chair behind him; the sword crashed to the floor by its arm. Damien started toward him, but the rakh grabbed him roughly by the arm and twisted it, forcing him down. By the time he could begin to rise up again, the Hunter had collapsed, beaten down by the raw power of the conjured light; his Worked blade smoked where it lay on the carpet, and it seemed that his skin was smoking as well. Strangely, madly, the woman he’d been torturing was trying to help him; in the end one of the guards had to pull her back so that the Hunter might be fully exposed to the killing light.

Guards held onto Damien as the rakh/Prince approached Tarrant’s body. The Hunter had drawn up one arm to shield his face from the conjured light; the rakh kicked it away. “You’re not the only one with a storage system, you know.” He nodded toward one of his guards. “Take him to the roof of the east tower,” he ordered. “I’ve prepared it for him. See that he greets the dawn in suitable attire.”

With a sick heart Damien saw them gather up the Hunter’s ravaged form and carry it away; Tarrant might have been dead already for all that he fought them. I led you from fire into fire, the priest thought. The rakh was coming back to him now, and the guards forced the priest to his knees to receive him.

“You can’t kill me,” he said coldly. “Not with your knives and not with your Workings. All you can do is force me to take another body before I’m ready, and that will hurt me a bit. But the pain is nothing permanent, I assure you—and in the end you’ll answer for my discomfort.”

Damien looked for Jenseny, found her crouched down some ten feet away, shivering like a frightened animal. Had she Seen the change? What a horrifying thought! “What happened to Katassah?” he demanded.

“Oh, he’s still within this flesh. He just . . . relinquished control for the moment.” He brushed one hand down the front of his uniform, savoring the touch of its decorations. “He’s not too happy about the change in command, but that can’t be helped. It’s easier to claim a host when you know him well, and I was pressed for time. He’ll have to understand.”

He nodded to the guards holding Damien, who pulled him to his feet. “You destroyed the Terata,” he accused. “That breeding-ground of adepts which I depended upon for rejuvenation. You destroyed them just when I was making arrangements to have a suitable youth brought to me . . . so I think it’s only fitting that you take his place.” He reached out a hand to Damien, and though the priest jerked violently back the guards held him in place; sharp claws stroked down the side of his face, as if testing the resiliency of his skin. “You’re older than I would like, and it won’t be ten years before deterioration begins . . . but look at that from the bright side. In ten years you’ll be free again. You won’t have to live in a body that moves without your willing it, or gaze out through eyes that are under another’s control . . . by then you’ll be grateful for what’s left to you, priest. I guarantee it.”

“No.” It was Jenseny. “No!” She started forward toward the rakh, but not fast enough; one of the guards tackled her roughly to the ground. “No,” she sobbed. “Don’t do it!”

“Your little friend is loyal,” he noted. “But never fear, there are compensations. You’ll share an adept’s vision for nearly a decade; there are men who would kill for a single year of that. Although admittedly, some don’t cope too well when the vision is withdrawn.” Again the claws touched his face, this time not so gently; the contact made his skin crawl.

“Don’t take him!” the girl yelled. “Take me! I’ll do it!”

The rakh smiled coldly. “I took a woman for a host once,” he told them. “I lived in her for nearly forty years. When I left her at last, her mind snapped; apparently the gender change combined with the loss of adeptitude was a little too much for her.” He bowed toward Jenseny, a mocking salute. “So I thank you for the offer, little one. But I think I’ll stick to my own sex this time. As well as my own species.”

He turned back to Damien, about to speak.

“You could see like I do!” the girl cried.

Damien realized in an instant what she meant, what she was doing. “Jenseny, no!”

The rakh studied him for a moment, then turned back to the girl. “And how is that, little one?”

“Don’t,” Damien begged. Struggling in vain to get free, to go to her. “Don’t tell him!”

But she didn’t listen, or else she just didn’t care. “I can see the tidal fae,” she said proudly.

The rakh was stunned. “What?”

“I can see the tidal fae,” she repeated. Defiantly. “And more than that. I can Work it a little. Hesseth said I could learn to Work it more, only we didn’t have the time . . .” The last words were choked out as memory overcame her; she lowered her head, trembling. “Only now she’s gone,” she whispered.

“Is this true?” the rakh whispered. It was not so much a question addressed to her as a key to a Knowing; Damien could feel the fae gathering around him as he used it to test the truth of her words. “Gods of Earth,” he whispered. “You can.”

He walked over to her, knelt down, by her side, put a hand to the side of her face. Though there was fear in her eyes, she did not back away. His fingers wiped a narrow path through the grime and the tears on her face and then fell back, releasing her.

“Why?” he demanded.

“Jenseny-” Damien began, but one of the guards struck him and he went down, hard.

“I don’t want to be alone,” she said. “And I don’t want to be afraid any more. I’m tired of running and I want to have a place to live and I want the voices to stop. I think you know how to stop them. Don’t you?”

“Maybe,” he said. “Do you know what it is I do? Do you understand it?”

“Does that matter?” Damien demanded from where he lay. He was struck in the back and in the side; one blow landed right in his kidneys, and the pain nearly blinded him.

“I saw you move into that body,” she told the rakh.

“And I can see that he’s still inside it, too. You’re sharing it, aren’t you? The two of you together. I could do that. You could use my eyes to see the tidal fae . . . and I wouldn’t have to be alone any more.” She choked on those words, and the pain in her voice made Damien’s heart lurch in sympathy. “Not ever again,” she whispered.

The rakh stood. For a long time he just looked at her, assessing the situation. “It would be hard to rule in such a body,” he said at last. “But to see the tidal fae—to Work it!—that might be worth the inconvenience.”

He turned back toward Damien, who lay gasping on the carpet. “Take them back down,” he commanded. “I need time to think. I need—”

“Don’t put me back with him!” the girl cried out. “He’ll try to stop me, try to talk me out of it . . . he might even hurt me if he thought I’d help you. Please, don’t put us together.”

Oh, Jenseny. His eyes fell shut as despair filled his soul to bursting. Please don’t do this. He’ll hurt you like no one else ever could, and you won’t be able to get away from him. Not ever.

“All right,” the rakh agreed, and he told his guards, “Take her to the west wing and watch her there. He can wait in his cell until I’m ready to deal with him.” The venom in his voice left no doubt as to what Damien’s eventual fate would be.

Strong hands hauled him roughly to his feet; vomit welled up in his gut as pain shot through his back, and he struggled to keep it down. Spears of fire lanced through his left side with every step, and his feet were numb beneath him. How much damage had they done when they beat him? How long would he last if he couldn’t Heal himself?

Down, down, down, they took him, down into the earth. Far beneath the crystal palace, whose walls still burned with the killing light. Miles beneath the place where Tarrant lay, his body left to catch the first,rays of dawn. Down into the insulating depths where earth-fae was sparse and hope was nonexistent and pain was the only companion he had left.

Don’t let him hurt her, God. Please. She’s young and she’s scared and she doesn’t know what she’s doing. Protect her, Lord, I beg of you.

Alone in the darkness, Damien Vryce wept.

47

Jenseny waited.

It was a small room they had brought her to, cluttered with furniture and wall hangings and so many scatter rugs that she could hardly see the crystal walls surrounding. That was all right with her. The Prince’s architecture still burned with the false sunlight that had disabled Gerald Tarrant, and she couldn’t look at it without sharing his pain, his terror, his despair.

Jenseny remembered.

That moment in the big room, that awful moment when the Prince’s essence had left one body and moved to the next: she couldn’t get it out of her mind no matter how she tried. Not just because the change itself was terrifying. Not just because the image she had seen in that instant was so like the one that marked her father’s killer: a slavering beast with blood on its jaws, hungry to devour its next victim. Hesseth had explained to her that the visions she saw didn’t necessarily reveal what things really were, but their inner essence. So she understood that the Prince and her father’s murderer might look the same because they both fed on death, and not because they really were the same kind of creature. That wasn’t a problem.

It was what she had seen in the instant after that still chilled her soul. Snippets of a vision so bizarre that try as she might she couldn’t explain it away. A white, shriveled form that might once have been human. A vast sea of green and brown mud, foul-smelling. Small things that fed on slime and rot and a wormlike creature that crawled along spongy flesh . . . the images were so real that they were with her even now, and none of the techniques that Hesseth had taught her did anything at all to control them. Only knowledge would do that, she sensed: knowledge of what she had seen, and how it connected to the rest of this nightmare.

Jenseny feared.

This wasn’t like running away from her father’s house, when she knew that the creatures who had killed him were coming after her. There was a chance they might not catch her, after all. It wasn’t like quivering beneath the onslaught of the solar fae, like she had that first day out. Even then she knew the sun would set in time. It wasn’t even like cowering in the corner of a Terata dungeon, watching as malformed children and crippled adults beat members of their own tribe to death. Because even then she had prayed for freedom, and in some small corner of her soul she had dared to believe that somehow she might gain it. This fear was different. This was the kind of thing you felt when you had made a choice so terrible that you wanted to take it back more than anything in the world, but you knew you couldn’t. It was like jumping off a cliff and then having to wait those terrible seconds while the ground rushed up at you, and maybe you wanted to change your mind now, but it was too late, too late, sometimes there’s just no turning back . . .

The Light was still there; at least that was something. It wasn’t strong but it was enduring, and that was a good sign. Hesseth had told her about something called a soft tide, when the tidal fae might last for hours. It wasn’t nearly as powerful as a hard tide, which was when several planetary rhythms came together at once and their joint friction made the whole world glow, but it was much more reliable. And reliability was what she needed right now.

She wrapped her hands around her chest and shivered. He’d be coming soon. The hungry beast in a rakhene body, ready to abandon that furred flesh which he had claimed and move into hers. She wondered how Katassah would handle it when the Prince finally left him. Would he be like he was before, with a few hours of unclear memories? Would he be angry with the Prince for having used him like that, or grateful for having been able to serve him? Had he tried to fight the Prince in that first few seconds of possession, so that deep inside he might be hurt and afraid? I’ll know soon enough, she thought unhappily. Wrapping her arms even tighter about her body, as if she could squeeze all the fear away.

A knock. She turned about quickly, just in time to see the heavy door swing open. It was the rakh guard, the Prince-thing.

He stepped into the room and gestured to the men behind him. “Leave us,” he ordered, and they did. He pushed the door and it swung slowly shut, closing with a click as it finally met the frame.

She could see him as a man now, if she tried. His features kept shifting, maybe because he had taken so many bodies. Maybe she was seeing all of them at once.

“Mes Jenseny-” the Prince began.

“Kierstaad,” she said defiantly. “My name is Kierstaad.”

The rakh eyes narrowed in irritation and for a moment she was afraid that he was angry enough to hurt her, but then she realized that she couldn’t possibly be safer. In a very short while he would be living inside her body; surely he wouldn’t want to lay claim to damaged property.

She thought suddenly of that thing moving inside her and for a moment she almost panicked. Did she have to do this? Wasn’t there some other option?

No, an inner voice said gently. No other option. Go on. Do it.

“Mes Kierstaad,” he said. “Does your offer still stand?” She whispered it. “Yes.”

“I’ll need to have a look at your motivation first. Just to make sure there are no . . . surprises.”

She nodded. And shut her eyes. And concentrated oh so hard on everything she wanted him to know: how she really was tired and she really felt lost and she really was terrified of being alone, so much so that she would welcome him into her soul just to make that feeling go away. And she wanted to save Damien, she mourned for the loss of Hesseth, the voices followed her everywhere—everywhere!—and she wanted them to stop, she just wanted to be safe and warm and not be afraid any more, not ever afraid again. All those things were true, painfully true, and as his Knowing unearthed her feelings she felt tears come to her eyes, tears and a sorrow so intense that her whole body started shaking violently. Never mind that those weren’t the real reasons she was doing this; if he believed them, then that was enough.

Evidently he was satisfied, for the next thing that happened was that the room was gone suddenly, along with its rugs and its furniture and its crystal light. She heard him moving toward her and she forced herself not to back away, not even when he reached out and touched her, not even when the power flowed from his flesh into hers-

From his flesh into hers-

Suddenly she Saw. Not the creature she had seen before, and not the man he pretended to be. She saw what he really was, the secret that was the core of his very existence. And the vision was so horrible that she almost tried to draw back from him, using the tidal fae to establish some kind of barrier between their souls so that no more visions could come. But he was inside her now and there was no turning back, not ever. Her eyes were his eyes.

She saw a space deep underground, a chamber fortified by so many quake wards that every inch of its inner surface was inscribed with signs of power. In the center of the room was a glass tank, and though the light cast by several of the wards was dim she could see it quite clearly, and smell its reek, and understand its purpose . . .

“No,” she gasped. “No.”

Floating in the tank was a man. No, not a man any more. It had four limbs and one head and it wore a man’s shape, but there the resemblance ended. The fingers were thick and white, and in the place of fingernails grew a dense brown fungus. The body was so bloated and its surface was so mottled with various growths and discolorations that it would have been a stretch of the imagination to call it human. The face . . . the face was a thing of pure nightmare, its hair and eyebrows long since rotted away, its eyes coated with thick brown sludge, its lips distended to serve as a gateway for the tiny finned creatures that used its mouth as home. All about the body there was movement: snails and slugs and tiny leggy things, all scrounging for the waste matter exuded by their host. There were plants to eat the leggy things and fish to eat the plants, a cycle of life so perfectly balanced that a little light and an occasional infusion of oxygen was all that was required to keep the tiny ecosystem alive.

My first body. The words were not spoken so much as placed in her mind; the taste of them was sour, the feel of them unclean. Keeping it alive makes me all but invulnerable. And no man will ever find where it is buried. She saw how the nutrients in the water were absorbed by that pliant flesh, so that the brain it housed might go on living year after year, century after century, sending out its spirit to claim more attractive bodies while it floated in the semi-darkness, slugs and snails for its nursemaids.

And then it was inside her. Unclean and loathsome, it slithered into her brain and coiled within like a serpent. She could feel its tendrils reaching out through her arms, her legs, all her extremities, and parts of her body began to twitch as it tested its control. Panic welled up inside her, and for an instant she nearly gave in to it. How easy it would be to go crazy now, to release her feeble grip on reality and slide down into madness for thirty years, forty years, until her body burned out and began to age and the Prince no longer wanted it. How easy . . .

Do it, he urged her. Hungry for a kind of control he could never have if she remained active in her flesh. I’ll give you dreams. I’ll give you peace.

She didn’t give in, nor did she draw away. Instead she opened her eyes so that he might see as she did, to fully cement their bargain. Combined with his own abilities her vision was doubly powerful, and the brilliant, scintillating Light of the tidal fae filled the room almost to bursting. She could sense his shock as he shared her vision; she could taste his hunger as if it was her own. Watch me, she thought. I can Work it. As he gazed out in wonder through her eyes, she took up the tidal fae and wove it into pictures for him, beautiful pictures that stunned him with their power, pictures he could feel and taste as well as see (and all the while she was taking out the object she had stolen, praying for him not to notice as she drew it from her pocket and opened it) and she wove the tidal fae into a glimmering shell that contained them both, a vast knotwork of power that would support and enhance their union. He was too lost in wonder to question it. He was too busy reveling in his newfound potential to consider the implications of such a simple Working. No man has ever Worked like this, he thought to her. Not even among the rakh. While he explored the nooks and crannies of her mind, she wove and wove and wove with all her strength, using every skill that Hesseth had taught her and every ounce of power that the tides made available. Tidal power didn’t work that well on material substance, the rakh-woman had told her, but in matters of spirit it was unequaled. She prayed it was so as she bound them together, forging a bond with her fledgling sorcery to support that which he had conjured, a bond which—she hoped—might never be broken.

Then she struck. Hard and fast, a single upswipe of her right arm that brought the knife—Tarrant’s knife, rescued from the floor of the throne room when no one was looking—straight into her own throat, into that one special place (Damien had said) where the blood drew near the surface of the body as it carried life-giving oxygen to the brain. She struck fast and she struck hard, because she knew she would never get a second chance. And all the while she poured out her rage at this man, she drowned him in her hatred and her grief and her determination to destroy him, emotions she had been desperately holding in check up until now so that he wouldn’t catch on to what she was really doing, but now that the act was done they poured out of her like a tidal wave.

You killed my father! she screamed silently. As the knife cut deep, deep in her throat, freeing the hot blood to gush down her neck, her chest, her arm. There was no fear in her now, only the fierce joy of triumph. You killed Hesseth! You took away everything I had and now you’ll do it to others, so many others! Only you won’t, you won’t, I figured out how to stop you!

He was startled at first, then cocky, indignant—and then he tried to return to his other body, and he couldn’t, and he got scared. He had thought that he could never be killed—certainly not by her!—but now he realized that wasn’t true, she had thought of a way. She would drag him down into death along with her if it took every ounce of strength she had, every bit of power she could conjure. As he struggled to withdraw from her dying flesh, she gripped the tidal power with all her might, holding onto the rainbow tides and using them to reinforce her Binding, to hold onto him, to keep him from slipping free-

Earth-fae rose up from the ground beneath her with a roar, engulfing her in the flames of his fury. Blinded, she could no longer See; stunned, she couldn’t Work. Even as she began the long slide down into the darkness of death she could feel him using his power to unravel the bond between them; he was starting to slip away from her, his spirit abandoning her bleeding flesh for a more dependable body. No! she screamed. You can’t go! But he was going, and she was fading fast.

God, please. She prayed feverishly, desperately. Help me! Her vision was growing dim, as were her other senses; she could hardly feel the flames he had conjured anymore. Please. For Hesseth and my dad and the children with the Terata and all the thousands he’ll hurt, all the thousands who’ll get eaten or worse if he goes free . . . please help me. There was a ringing in her ears now, and the pulse of blood from her throat had weakened to a trickle.

“Please,” she whispered. As she fell to the ground, the soft ground, and darkness folded over her like a blanket. Soft, so soft. She struggled against it, but its power was numbing, suffocating. Please, please don’t let him go free . . .

And Something answered. Something that cooled the flames around her until they vanished back into the currents which had given them birth, to flow like water around her supine body. Something that stilled her fears and soothed her hate and quieted the storms of her spirit. Something that reached out and touched the Prince’s soul as well, filling his spirit with Its Presence. Peace. Quiet. Utter tranquillity. He recognized the danger and he fought it, fought it desperately, but it wasn’t the kind of power a man could do battle with. His experience was in games of violence and domination, and those things had no power here. She felt his fear bleed out into the darkness—the soft, loving darkness—and slowly, gradually, his struggles ceased. It no longer mattered to him which body he was in, or whether his flesh was dying; his hunger for life had given way to something far more powerful. Slowly the tidal cocoon about them rewove itself, binding him to her flesh; slowly she slid down into the warm shadows of death, and he came with her.

Thank you. Voiceless words, silent peace. Thank you.

There were faces now, floating in a whirlpool of light. Hesseth. Her father. Her mother. All the rakhene children. She reached out for them, only to have them dissolve between her fingers like ghosts.

Come, they whispered, reforming just beyond her reach. Time to move on. Come with us.

She walked toward them. A bright figure led the way, a soldier whose armor gleamed golden like the Core, and whose crystal standard tinkled in the wind. She remembered him from a vision she’d had once, of thousands of bright knights preparing to give their lives for their faith. He held out a hand to her and she took it; the contact made her tingle.

Some things, he whispered, are worth dying for.

And then the whole world was filled with light, and there was only peace.

48

Well, Damien thought, this is what it’s all come to.

The lamps had gone out maybe an hour ago. The darkness itself wasn’t such a terrible thing—there was just enough fae in the cell that he could Work his sight to see by its dull glow—but the implication of that darkness was the final thread in a vast tapestry of despair. In his previous incarceration he had never been left without light. Men had come down those stairs at regular intervals to see that the wicks were trimmed and the fuel pots were full, so that the lamps might never go out. Now they were empty. And in a palace run with such clockwork precision, Damien could read no other meaning into that than the fact that he was meant to waste away in the darkness, to die at his own slow pace.

He tried to shift position, but pain stabbed through his back as he moved and he had to give it up. He had managed to gather enough fae to work a minimal Healing, enough to stop the internal bleeding, but the power in this underground cell simply wasn’t strong enough for anything more than that. The pain was centered around his kidneys, where the worst blows had fallen, and he knew all too well just how bad that could be. How long would it be before he knew if there was fatal damage? What kind of dying would that entail? Maybe it was more merciful to let his system fill up with poisons, rather than die the slow death of starvation. Maybe he should be grateful.

There was a sound on the stairs. He looked up, startled, but saw only the dim glow of earth-fae as it trickled down over the stone. He listened so hard that it seemed his blood roared and his heart beat like a timpani, but even over those distractions he could still make out the sound of footsteps. Footsteps! They came toward him with excruciating slowness, echoing down the spiral stairwell. And then light, coming toward him like the dawn. Never mind that it was a single lamp. Never mind that the figure who carried it was cloaked, and the folds of his garments cast deep shadows on the cold stone walls. In this place a match flame would have seemed like the sun itself, and the light of a lantern was nothing short of miraculous.

He managed to rise to a sitting posture, though pain shot through his back as he did so. The figure approached the bars. The light of the lamp was blinding, and for a moment Damien couldn’t make out any details of his visitor’s face. At last the figure moved the lamp so that it was off to one side, and its light silhouetted rakhene features that Damien knew all too well.

For a long time Katassah just looked at him, as if trying to read something in his expression. It might have been a trick of the shadows, but his fur seemed strangely dull; a thin membrane had drawn across the inner corner of his eyes, making his expression twice as alien as usual.

“He’s dead,” the rakh said quietly. His voice was strangely devoid of emotion, like that of a shock victim. “She killed him.”

It took him a minute to realize what he meant, to accept that the rakh standing before him was exactly that, and not a sorcerer in disguise. The Prince was . . . dead? Then they had succeeded, he thought dully. The mastermind behind the atrocities of this region had been vanquished, and his works could now be undone. It seemed unreal, like something in a dream; he had trouble accepting it.

“Where’s Jenseny?” he pleaded. “Is she all right?”

The rakh said nothing. For a minute he just looked at Damien, and then he shook his head slowly. “She took him with her,” he told Damien. “Sacrificed herself so that he might die. All in the name of your god, priest. She bought into your myth and it saved her.”

He reached into his cloak and removed something from an inner pocket; Damien heard the jangle of keys. “Under the circumstances I think it best that you leave here.” He seemed to fumble with the key ring, as though lacking the coordination to manipulate it. “As soon as possible.” The key slid into place and turned; the door swung slowly open. He looked at Damien. “Can you walk?”

He nodded and tried to get up, but pain shot through his back. Breathing heavily, he gritted his teeth and tried again. This time he got as far as a kneeling position. From there it was only one lurching twist and a gut-wrenching extension to a standing position. He reached out for the nearest bar and used it to steady himself; the lamplight was swimming in his vision. The rakh offered no aid and voiced no concern, but he waited patiently until Damien had released the bar and then said, “Come with me.”

The Prince is dead, he thought. Waiting for the joy to come. But there was no room for it in his soul, not with so much grief already filling him. Later, he promised himself. Later.

Ten stairs. A hundred. Each one was a separate trial, an individual agony. More than once he had to stop and lean against the wall, fighting to catch his breath. The rakh said nothing, offered nothing, waited. At last, when they were close enough to the top that his Worked sight revealed enough earth-fae, he muttered, “A minute. Please.” When the rakh stopped and turned to him he gathered up the precious power and patterned it into a Healing, a blessed Healing that poured through his broken flesh, cooling the fire of his pain. With desperate care he rewove broken blood vessels, mended shattered cells, prompted his body to clean out the pool of waste fluids that had accumulated in his wounded flesh. At last, satisfied that he had done the best he could possibly do, he let the Working fade and leaned against the cold stone wall, breathing heavily. Thank God the pain was fading quickly; that didn’t always happen right after a Healing.

“All right,” he muttered. Pushing himself away from the wall at last, forcing himself to move again. For the first time since they had started their climb, he felt as if he might really make it. For the first time, it sank in that they had won.

No. He had won. Hesseth was dead, and Jenseny also, and as for Tarrant . . . how many hours had it been since the Prince had consigned him to the dawn? He wanted to ask, but he couldn’t find the breath. At the top, he promised himself. He’d ask when they reached the top.

The stairwell was beginning to lighten, reflecting light from the palace above. The rakh drew up his hood to shield his face, and wrapped the cloak tightly around his body. His people are sensitive to sunlight, Damien remembered. Was he injured when the Prince conjured light to attack Tarrant? Was the Prince willing to accept that pain in order to guarantee his victory?

It could have been him in that situation, he realized. Hell, it almost was. What was that like, to have another mind controlling your arms, your legs, your eyes and hands, perhaps your very thoughts? It was too horrible to consider. Thank God Jenseny had died before the Prince had subjected her to that.

Two turns. Three. The light was brilliant now, and Katassah put up a hand to shade his eyes. Damien noted that the fur of his arm was matted and stained. With blood, it looked like. Whose? The rakh staggered then, and it was clear he was having trouble. Was he hurt also? If so-

“I can help you,” Damien offered. “There’s enough fae here for a Healing if you need one.” He reached out toward the rakh, intending it as a gesture of support, but the rakh snarled and backed off. Sharp white teeth were bared; the matted, stained fur of his mane bristled with aggressive vigor. Damien stepped back as far as he could, to where his back was against the inner wall; it didn’t seem far enough. This was an animal display far beyond Hesseth’s civilized snarlings, and he sensed that if he moved too fast or said the wrong thing those long, thin claws would slash his face to threads before he could draw another breath. Frozen, tense, he waited. At last the rakh seemed to shudder, and his claws resheathed. His lips closed over his sharp teeth, hiding them from sight. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, and he clearly had to struggle to discipline it into human words.

“I’m . . . sorry.” The words were clearly hard for him; how often did he have to apologize? “Human contact—”

“Hey.” Damien managed to force a smile to his face. It was stiff and awkward but he thought it communicated what it was meant to. “I understand.”

Together they ascended into the light. After so many hours in darkness the brilliance of the palace was blinding; both he and the rakh paused at the topmost step, shading their eyes, struggling to adapt to it. “He didn’t care,” the rakh muttered. “He could see using the fae, and that was enough. He didn’t care if the light damaged my eyes.”

“Sweet guy,” Damien muttered. “Sorry I didn’t get to know him better.” And then he dared, “Speaking of light . . .”

The rakh understood. “Your friend?”

Friend. What a bizarre word that was. What an alien, almost incomprehensible concept. Could one call the Hunter a friend? Would one ever want to?

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Tarrant. Is he alive?”

The rakh hesitated. “I think so. I went to him first when it happened, because time was such a factor.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t do anything. Maybe you can.”

“How much time is left?”

He glanced toward one of the walls, but if there was some kind of clock there Damien couldn’t see it. “Not much,” he muttered. “I’ll take you there. You can see for yourself.”

There were more stairs, crystal stairs that glowed with all the brilliance of the sun. It was clear that the light hurt Katassah’s eyes, and more than once he stumbled. Was the whole damn palace Worked?

Two men came into sight. They looked startled to see Katassah there, but were far more surprised by Damien’s presence. After a moment of confusion and hesitation they both bowed low to the rakh and then hurried away in pursuit of other business. Katassah stood still just long enough to accept their obeisance, then resumed the long climb by Damien’s side.

“They don’t know, do they?”

The rakh shook his head. “No one knows. No one will know, until I tell them. Or until they guess.”

He would have asked him more about the Prince’s death, but at that moment the stairs grew steep and uncomfortably narrow, and he decided that his attention was better spent on his footing. They climbed perhaps twenty feet that way, to a narrow tunnel which opened onto darkness-

And the night sky unfolded before them, in all its predawn glory. Overhead the heavens were as black as ink, with a spray of stars scattered across the east like drops of fire. Beneath that was a band of pale blue rising along the horizon, and it was bright enough already that the stars directly over it were nearly invisible. Damien had watched the sun rise often enough on this trip to know how little time they had left.

“Where is he?”

The rakh pointed. It was hard to make out shapes on the glowing rooftop, but he thought he saw a man-sized shadow in the direction indicated. Carefully but quickly he made his way over to where it lay; the walking was treacherous, and more than once he stumbled over one of the sharp crystalline growths that littered the roof of the palace. In the end he made his way more by feeling than by sight, to the place where the Hunter lay.

Gerald Tarrant had been bound, but not by chains. There were wards etched into the glassy surface beneath him, and the crystal substance of the palace roof had grown over his arms and legs in several places, binding him in arched fragments of a faceted cocoon that hugged his flesh tightly, cutting into it in several places. Whoever had brought him up here had torn his outer robes from his body, leaving only his leggings and boots and—ironically—his sigil necklace. Prepared to meet the sun, Damien thought grimly. He remembered what a moment’s exposure had done to Tarrant in the rakhlands, and knew there was no hope of him surviving a longer immersion.

He knelt down by his body, noting the strain on the Hunter’s face, the subtle tremors in his body. He was conscious, then, and struggling to overcome the pain the light was causing him long enough to free himself from his sorcerous bonds. But the light was too strong, too lasting; even Damien could feel its power, and he lacked the Hunter’s sensitivity. The priest ran a hand over the nearest of the wards and worked a Knowing, but it netted him little real knowledge; whatever patterns had been used to grow those bonds were too subtle and complex for a man of Damien’s skill to unravel it.

He glanced east, saw the sky just above the mountains brightening ominously. There wasn’t much time.

“Can you unWork it?” the rakh asked.

He looked at the wards, at the Hunter’s crystal bonds, at the Hunter himself. I should leave you here, he thought. The world would be a better place for your absence. But somehow it didn’t seem the time or the place to be making that decision.

“Do you have a sword?” he asked.

For a moment Katassah looked at him like he had gone crazy, but apparently he decided not to question the request. He reached inside the folds of his cloak and drew his own sword from its sheath: a short sword, narrow-bladed, which was meant to complement gunfire rather than replace it. Damien took it from him and noted the thick quillons, the heavy pommel. Good enough.

He chose a spot on one of the growths and brought the butt of the weapon down hard on the crystal, in the place where he judged it most likely to be weak. Chips flew as the steel pommel struck, but the formation held. He struck again. On the second blow a chunk of the arch broke loose and went flying, leaving a space just big enough for Tarrant’s bare arm to be dragged through. In the east the stars were disappearing, swallowed up by the sun’s early light. He moved quickly to another of the growths and struck at it, hard and fast. This one was a thick arch, and it took three blows for it to begin to shatter and five more before there was enough space to pull Tarrant’s leg free. Katassah was helping now, pulling the man’s limbs out of the way as soon as Damien made such action possible, and it was a damned good thing; the arches were growing back almost as fast as he could destroy them, and if Tarrant lay in one place for too long he might well have to do this all over again.

At last Tarrant was freed, and together they dragged his limp, death-cold body to the exit. Spears of white light crowned the eastern mountains in fire as they forced him into the narrow passageway, and as they fought to maneuver Tarrant’s limp form down the stairs Damien imagined he could hear the solar fae striking the crystal spires behind them. They completed two turns down the staircase, then three, and Damien allowed himself a sigh of relief; the sunlight was behind them now, and while the conjured light inside the palace might cause Tarrant pain, he doubted it had the power to kill him.

The Healing Damien had Worked on himself might have helped ease the pain of his injuries somewhat, but it couldn’t negate the strain of carrying a grown man across so much space; by the time they reached the stairs leading down to Damien’s prison cell he could barely walk, and he had to lean against the wall for a long time gasping for breath. The rakh looked little better. But Damien was afraid that if Tarrant stayed in the light too long it might prove too much for him, and so he forced himself to move again, to drag the man’s body downward, downward . . .

They stopped after the third turn, when the light in the stairwell was dim enough that a lamp’s illumination would have been welcome. “This is it,” Damien gasped. “This is good enough.”

“Wouldn’t he be better off at the bottom? It’s darker there.”

Damien shook his head, “He needs the earth-fae to heal himself. I think. And there isn’t enough of it much farther down than this.”

He hoped he was right. He hoped the faint light which remained wasn’t enough to cause further injury, or to keep the Hunter from healing. For now there was nothing more he could do for him, other than wait. The rest was in Tarrant’s hands.

They set the body down on the wider part of a step; there was just enough room for it to lie securely. Kneeling down beside the Hunter, Damien studied his traveling companion with a practiced eye. The tremors had ceased; that was one good sign. And it seemed to him that the strain on Tarrant’s face had eased somewhat; that was another. No, there was nothing more he could do here. Nothing more anyone could do.

He looked up at the rakh. How worn Katassah looked, how tired! In another time and place the captain might have tried to hide his infirmity, but here there was no point in dissembling. Damien knew what had happened to him. Damien understood. And more than any other man on the planet, Damien comprehended that the most damaging part of his experience was not the horror of bodily possession, or his sense of betrayal at his ruler’s callousness, but the utter degradation of having a human soul inside his flesh. A wound like that would, not heal easily, nor quickly. Damien understood.

“Is there anything I can do?” the rakh asked.

“Yeah.” He stood. The ache in his back was duller now, a mere vestige of pain; with a muttered key he Worked enough earth-fae to make sure that dragging Tarrant here hadn’t damaged it anew. It was partly a safety precaution and partly a test of sorts; if he could Work the fae this far underground, it was a good bet that Tarrant could also. Given that power, the Hunter could heal himself.

He turned to the rakh and said softly, “I’d like to see Jenseny.”

She lay on the couch where Katassah had placed her, one arm draped down so that its slender fingers brushed the floor, her eyes shut. There was blood all over the room, red and wet, and trickles of it had coursed down from the gash in her neck to stain the white couch crimson. Her coloring had gone from pale brown to an ashen gray, and the look on her face should have been one of fear and anguish. It wasn’t. It was a look of utter contentment, such as men might dream of but never know. Of perfect and absolute peace.

Damien knelt down by her side, taking up her tiny hand in his own. It wasn’t cold yet, not completely; he could still feel the echo of life beneath his fingertips, and it brought new tears to his eyes.

God, take care of her. She was gentle and loving and so very brave, and in the end she served You better than most would have the courage to do. Give her peace, I pray You, and reunite her with her loved ones. As he wiped his eyes he added, And let her play with the rakh children now and then, if that’s possible. She would like that.

“How did it happen?” he asked.

Katassah had hung back at the door, unwilling to intrude upon the privacy of Damien’s mourning; now that he had been addressed, he approached. “He moved into her body and meant to take over. She held him there and took her life.”

“I wouldn’t have thought she had that kind of power.”

The rakh’s voice was full of awe. “She called on those who did.”

He shut his eyes for a moment and drew in a slow breath; the fact of her death was finally sinking in. “All right. At least it’s over.”

“It isn’t, I regret.” The new voice came from behind him. “Not by a long shot.”

Katassah whipped about with the reflexes of a trained guard; Damien followed suit. The man leaning against the far wall was familiar to him, but for a moment he couldn’t place the memory. A stout, bearded figure draped in black velvet and black fur, perhaps in deference to their mourning. Oddly decorated for this time and place, Damien thought. In the end it was the tastelessness of the man’s jewelry, its utter inappropriateness for the occasion, that prompted him to remember.

“Karril,” he whispered. This was Tarrant’s Iezu: the one who had healed Ciani, the one whom Senzei had consulted. Damien discovered to his surprise that the abhorrence he should feel for such a creature was absent. Had his recent experiences inured him to the concept of demonkind? Even the faeborn who did good deeds were still dangerous parasites.

“I came to warn you,” the demon said. As he stepped forward into the center of the room, the crystal walls lost their light, dimming to a comfortable glow. “You need to go home, Damien Vryce, and you need to do it fast.”

He ignored the advice for the moment, focusing on a more important message. “What did you mean, it isn’t over?”

The demon seemed to hesitate, and looked around the room as if he expected to find someone listening. “You’ll find out when you go north,” he said finally. “So I’m not telling you anything, really. Only what you would discover yourselves.”

“What is it?” Katassah demanded. His hand was on the brass grip of his pistol, a warning sign. “What’s happening?”

The demon turned to him. “Your Prince was a pawn, Captain, nothing more. And now Calesta’s game is played out. You forced his hand a hundred years early, but in the end that’ll make little difference. You won the battle, but the war has just begun.”

Something cold tightened around Damien’s heart. He had known that the death of the Prince was only the first step in healing this land, but something in the demon’s tone warned him that the issue went far beyond that. “Tell us what you mean,” he said sharply.

The demon looked pained. “I can’t. Not in detail. If I interfere in his affairs by helping you . . .” He drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled it, trembling; the gesture was oddly melodramatic coming from a creature that didn’t have to breathe. “It’s forbidden,” he said at last. “But so is what he’s done. To tamper with mankind’s development . . . that’s strictly forbidden. So which is the worse crime? Which is more likely to be punished?”

“Tamper how?” Katassah demanded, and Damien snapped, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Go north,” the demon said. “You’ll see. He used the Prince, he used the rakh, and now . . . I’m sorry,” he said to Katassah. “Genuinely sorry. But you see, he can’t feed on your people. So it really doesn’t matter to him whether they live or die.” He looked at Damien and then quickly away, as though he feared to meet his gaze. “Twelve centuries ago your ancestors came to this planet. There were only a few hundred of them then, few enough that when Casca made his grand sacrifice it shook this planet to its very roots. Now, with millions of humans on Erna, with thousands of them Working the fae, no one man can have that kind of influence. No single act can impress the fae so that its basic nature alters again. But a thousand men—a hundred thousand—might. A plan of action carried down through the centuries could.”

“That’s Church philosophy,” Damien said sharply.

“Yes. And Calesta watched your Church develop. He learned from it, and from its founder. He took the lessons your Prophet taught him and applied them here, as a sort of grand experiment.” He shook his head, his expression somber. “All too effectively, I’m afraid.”

“What is it he wants?” Katassah asked sharply. “What’s the goal?”

“A world that will respond to his hunger. A world with such an outpouring of the emotional energy he covets that the fae will absorb it, focus it, magnify it—until that in turn alters the very nature of humanity.”

“What does he feed on?” the priest demanded. He was trying to remember what Gerald Tarrant had told him about the Iezu. “What aspect of mankind? Tell us.”

The demon stiffened, and for a moment Damien thought he would refuse to answer. But at last he said, very quietly, “Calesta feeds on that spark of human life which delights in the pain of others. A universal sentiment, I’m afraid. Calesta grows stronger every time that spark is expressed.”

“It’s far from universal,” Damien objected.

“Is it? Can you show me one man or woman who has never, never wished hurt upon another? Not as a child fleeing from bullies, not as a lover wronged by his or her companion, not even as a righteous crusader setting out to save the world from those who would corrupt it? Have you never longed to see an enemy hurt, Reverend Vryce? Not the Prince, not Gerald Tarrant, not anyone?”

His lips tightened. He said nothing.

“Go home,” the demon urged. “As soon as you can. You can’t do anything to save this place—no one man can—but you can still save the people you love. Because he’ll strike at them, I’m sure of that. He knows it’ll be a year or more before you can get back to the west, and in that time he can do a lot to change things. If you stay away longer, if you give him that much more to work with . . . then the world you return to may not be the same as the one you left. Trust me.”

“Vengeance,” Katassah muttered. “For interfering with his plans here.”

The demon nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

“Why are you telling us this?” Damien asked suddenly. “If you’re not allowed to interfere with him, then why come here at all? What’s in it for you?”

“I like humanity,” the demon told him. Smiling slightly. “With all its quirks and its foibles and its insecurities intact. I enjoy them. Oh, I’d survive the change if Calesta had his way. Sadism is a form of pleasure, after all. But it wouldn’t be nearly the same. Food without entertainment is nearly as bad as no food at all.” His expression darkened slightly, though the smile remained. “Of course, I may yet pay for this indulgence. Who knows which transgressions the mother of the Iezu will tolerate, and which she’ll punish? No one’s ever dared to test her before now.” He shrugged, somewhat stiffly. “I expect we’ll know soon enough.”

With a formal bow he said to the rakh. “I’m afraid your people have a long, hard battle ahead of them, Mer Captain. The Prince used his power to evolve your species to suit Calesta’s need, and it will be a long time before those weaknesses breed out. But they will in time, if no human interferes. I’m sorry I can’t help you more.”

“You’ve done enough by explaining things,” Katassah said tightly. “Thank you.”

The demon turned back to Damien. His flesh was starting to fade, solid cells giving way to a more shadowy substance. The flicker of a lamp behind him could be seen, through his black-robed torso. “My family are symbiotes, not parasites,” he told the priest. “And some of us are proud of that distinction. Be careful, Reverend Vryce. Be wary. Travel fast.” He was little more than than a veil of color now, fading out around the edges. “And take care of Gerald Tarrant, will you? He seems to be getting himself into a lot of trouble these days.”

“I’ll try,” the priest promised. A tight smile softened the lines of his face.

As they watched, the demon dissolved completely, his color and form fading into the very air that surrounded him. When he was finally gone, the illusion of darkness faded also, and the room was restored to its former painful brightness. Damien stared at the spot where he had been for a long time in silence, the demon’s words echoing in his brain.

“Well, shit,” he said at last. “That’s just great.”

49

They left from Freeshore on a merchant ship bribed to ply the northern seas for their purpose. It was Katassah who had paid for the journey, dispensing royal gold as if it was his own. Which it was, in a way. His men had seen the Prince take over his body, and until he informed them of the new state of things—or until he made some vital mistake that caused them to guess at it—the throne and the power were his for the asking. It would cost him dearly in the end, Damien knew. As the lights of Freeshore faded behind them and the gentle swells of the Novatlantic drew them northward, he remembered the rakhene captain as he had been at their departure: studiously proud, carefully arrogant, imitating with perfection the man whom he had served for half a lifetime. It was a masquerade that couldn’t last, of course, no matter how well he played at it; in time his lack of sorcery would give him away, and the game would disintegrate from there. They would turn on him then, all the men and women who had served the Prince. He knew it would happen. And yet he wore the royal robes over his rakhene uniform and placed the Prince’s crown on his head, risking that fate. Because—he explained—with Calesta’s dark plan coming to fruition, he dared not leave his people leaderless.

There’s the soul of a born ruler, Damien thought. If only it could have been expressed under happier circumstances.

They had taken a case of homing birds with them, and Damien released the first after a day at sea. Found passage with the Silver Siren, it said. Proceeding as planned. The rest of the birds would be saved for when they reached the northern kingdom, when they learned what havoc Calesta had wreaked there.

How isolated Katassah must feel, how very helpless, now that the Prince’s power no longer served as a link between his people and their northern contacts! The crystalline palace was no longer the nerve center of an empire, but a tiny island of hope and fear nearly lost in the vastness of the black lava desert. Damien wished him well with all his heart, and prayed feverishly that his self-sacrifice would serve its intended purpose: to stabilize his divided nation against the threat of war, so that when the truth was at last made known the country might adapt and thrive, rather than dissolving into chaos.

The girl Sisa had come with them. When she had first shown up with her few belongings as the boats were loading, Damien had been aghast—no, furious—and he raged at Tarrant, declaring in no uncertain terms that he would not permit the man to bring her along for the sole purpose of feeding on her terror. To which the Hunter had replied, quite calmly, “I must have food, Vryce, and you can’t supply it any more. We’ve discussed that. As for the woman’s motives . . . I suggest that you ask her yourself.”

He did. And though she had claimed that she wanted to come with them, that Tarrant had in no way coerced her to make the trip, he found it hard to believe. Each time she glanced at the Hunter she trembled; each time conversation turned toward the Hunter and his needs she grew visibly paler. Had Tarrant found himself the perfect masochist, a woman who delighted in suffering? Damien doubted it. Not because such people couldn’t exist—he had no doubt that they did—but because he couldn’t imagine Tarrant taking any real pleasure in torturing one of them.

Why are you here? he asked her later that night, when chance left them alone together. Why do you want to be with him?

He thought for a moment that she wouldn’t answer him. But though her eyes were cast low, there was fear in her voice, it was clear when she spoke that she trusted him. Slowly, hesitantly, she told him of the night that Tarrant had hunted her in the Black Lands, the night she had run like an animal in the desert night, fully expecting to die. But instead of killing her when he finally ran her down, the monster had offered her an alternative fate: Survive my hunger, he said, and I will free you. Keep me alive for the months it will take us to reach my homeland, and I’ll set you up as a rich woman in a land with no princes, no religious wars, no slavery. And she had accepted. The challenge was all that was keeping her sane now, and the dream of success kept her going. So that she might suffer all the more, Damien thought. So that she might feed him. Like the women who ran from him in the Forest, convinced that three days of successful flight would buy them a lifetime of safety. How utterly consistent Tarrant was in his sadism, how perfectly ordered! Damien wondered if this woman would survive the test that so many had failed. He prayed for her sake that she would.

As for Tarrant . . .

He came to the place where Damien was standing, late in the second night of the voyage. There were no other people nearby and the sea was smooth and quiet. It was the kind of night in which two men might stand together companionably and watch the waves, thinking of the lands ahead and the trials yet to come. The kind of night in which a priest might turn to his dark companion and ask softly, Why? and expect to be answered with honesty.

For a long while the Hunter watched the sea, and Damien knew better than to press him. “It was as I told you,” he said at last. “We had no chance. No chance at all. Not with a Iezu involved, and a sorcerer of that caliber. I perceived that the only way to get near enough to strike was to allow ourselves to be taken by him, and thus I designed my subterfuge. I wanted to tell you,” he said, and his tone was one of rare sincerity. “I wanted you to share in the choice. But it was already apparent to me that there was a real connection between the Prince and our adversary in the rakhlands, and I suspected their strategies would be the same. She Knew me, as you may recall, in order to determine what you would do; I guessed that he would proceed similarly. Which meant that you couldn’t know, Reverend Vryce. The whole plan hinged on your ignorance. I’m sorry,” he said softly. Facing the night. Addressing the waves. “I did try to make it easier on you. Tried to bring us in at Freeshore for an early capture, or arrange for a controlled ambush afterward. I wanted to spare you the hardships of the Wasting, but you fought me at every turn. I’m sorry.”

“That wasn’t what I meant,” Damien said quietly.

The Hunter blinked. “What then?”

“He offered you immortality. To use your own words, the real thing.” Damien shook his head. “I know you, Gerald. Pretty well, I like to think. And I know what death means to you. I know that avoiding it is the focus of your very existence, and that nothing—not family, not ethical obligations, not even fear of divine judgment—is allowed to threaten that focus.” He looked at Tarrant, meeting the pale gaze head-on. “So what happened? Why didn’t you sell out? I’m grateful for it, mind you, I always will be—but I don’t understand it. Not at all.”

Tarrant’s expression tightened; after a moment he turned away, as if he feared what Damien might read in it. “In my lifetime,” he said solemnly, “I created only one thing of lasting value. One thing of such beauty and promise that long after I had committed my soul to darkness I still reveled in watching it grow, in seeing what turns it would take and what new paths would open up for it. Your Church, Reverend Vryce. My most precious creation. The immortality the Prince offered me was based upon its corruption. He would have taken my work and twisted it—destroyed it—reduced it to some neo-pagan drivel in order to harness its power for his own ends. And I couldn’t stand by and let that happen. My vanity was too great in the end, my pride too all-conquering; to accept immortality on those terms. It would be like letting part of myself die in order that a lesser part might live. So you see,” he said quietly, “it was that very offer which turned me against him.”

He turned away then, and left his place at the rail; perhaps he felt that in the wake of such a confession it was best to leave. But as he walked away from Damien, his footsteps as silent as the breeze in the sails, the priest said, “Two things, Gerald.”

He turned back partway, startled. “What?”

“You said you gave us one thing of value. But there were two. Have you forgotten? The Church of the Unification . . . and horses.” He smiled slightly. “I know some who would even argue that the second was the more important creation in the long run.”

“Pagans,” he retorted, dismissing the thought. But it seemed to Damien that he, too, was smiling, and as he left the priest’s company his step seemed lighter than it had in too many long, hard nights.

There’s hope for you yet, Hunter.

North. Into warmer seas, brighter skies.

Into nightmare.

The Prince had died, and along with him a network of Wardings that supported the rakhene invasion. Now all of that was gone. Now the invaders, stripped of their protective coloration, were revealed for what they were: brutal imposters who had terrorized the land, using the Prince’s illusions to mask their true identity while they put humanity to the sword.

No longer.

In every village where the Silver Siren stopped, in every city, in every Protectorate, the spirit of vengeance held sway. The luckiest rakh were simply slaughtered, their throats cut or their bodies gutted as hordes of humans descended on their strongholds. They had nowhere to run to, no way to hide. The Prince, being dead, could no longer protect them with his sorcery; Katassah, not knowing of their plight, could not send reinforcements. Quickly the humans learned their weaknesses, and the rakh who had once terrorized small human villages now cringed in terror as their victims rose up, their souls filled with fury, their hearts set on vengeance. And all the while Calesta fed, Calesta inspired, Calesta rejoiced, as a holocaust of epic proportions took root in the Church’s most blessed lands.

Nightmare:

Rakhene bodies in Especia, flayed alive and staked out for the sun to torment. Rakhene heads adorning the gates of Tranquila. Rakhene claws worn as common adornment in Shalona. Everywhere there was rakhene suffering, rakhene pain . . . and more than that. Horribly, terribly more than that. Drunk with hatred, high on vengeance, the human mobs lost that fine sense of discretion which separated righteous indignation from blind destructiveness. In Infinita a human child who was sensitive to sunlight had been taken up and tortured to death; in Verdaza an adult suspected of sorcery had suffered a similar fate. Every man was suspect; every woman was vulnerable. Rumors circulated of impossible couplings, resulting in offspring which looked truly human but were loyal in spirit to their rakhene heritage. Children were torn from their parents and slaughtered for seeming rakhlike in their play; others were orphaned when a word or a sign hinted that their parents had tasted forbidden pleasures. All to cleanse the world of brutality, the killers claimed; all to make God’s most favored land safe for human habitation.

No one man can save this place, Karril had said. Sick with horror at what he had witnessed, Damien found it easy to believe that. The very foundations of human society were beginning to crumble, and it wouldn’t be long before such damage was done here that no one generation might save it. Did they understand what was happening to them? Did anyone even suspect? If so, that would probably be seen as a mark of the enemy’s power. No doubt any churchman who tried to warn his fellows of the danger inherent in this course would be cut down in mid-speech, damned along with those he meant to save. In a time like this, who would dare to speak out?

In the Kierstaad Protectorate, where the rakh had razed whole villages, the cleansing had been thorough indeed. The once proud keep had been set afire so that only its stones remained, mute witness to the slaughter that had taken place within. Charred bones lay throughout the chambers and corridors, some skeletons missing hands or feet or even larger appendages; they had probably been crippled and left to die while the fire closed in on them. One balcony which overlooked the sea was carpeted in shards of glass, as though some fragile and beautiful thing had been systematically smashed; Damien remembered Jenseny’s description of her mother’s crystal garden and mourned for its loss.

They had brought her body with them, preserved by Tarrant’s frigid power, to lay it in the ground of her homeland. But Damien couldn’t leave her there, not in the midst of all that evil. So they went a mile or more down the coast, to a place where the trees were green and the ground cover was lush and no blood had been shed in recent history. And they laid her there, with a piece of her mother’s crystal beside her and her father’s gemstone in her hand. He said a prayer aloud over her grave, though no one else in the ship’s small company shared his faith; let them see that his God was gentle at heart, that He cared about the welfare of a child’s soul. It wasn’t much in the face of all this horror, but right now it was the best he could do.

Rest in peace, precious child. God spared you sight of this slaughter, for which I will always be grateful. God spared you the knowledge of what kind of ugliness lies waiting in the human soul, wanting only the proper catalyst to bring it to life.

A familiar hand clasped his shoulder, strong and cold. In comfort? In warning? He nodded, and allowed himself to be led away. Toward the ship which would take them north. Toward the capital of this shadowed empire, and the men who might save it. If they could. If any men could.

Toward Mercia.

Sunset: the sky red and orange, with deep purple clouds hanging heavy at the horizon’s edge. Overhead the Core, outlining shapes in molten gold. On the field of green a platform, lined in stone. On that platform, bound to a stake, a body.

Burning.

There were nearly fifty thousand people in the great square of Mercia, and only Tarrant’s power made it possible for him and Damien to approach the platform unhindered. The breeze was blowing westward, but every so often it shifted and passed over them, carrying the sharp smell of burning, the pungent aroma of roasting flesh. Even Tarrant seemed sickened by it, or at least by its implications.

They were burning—had burned—their Matria.

It had happened in other cities, Damien knew. They had heard of it as they traveled up the shore, and once they had seen its gruesome aftermath. But never this. Never these thousands of people, so hungry for suffering. Never this palpable sense of corruption, so powerful that he could feel it Working the fae around him. So overwhelming that at times he felt he would surely choke on it.

A sudden, movement by the platform caught his attention; beside him he felt Tarrant stiffen as a mounted figure robed in white and gold rode up to smoldering ashes. He was tall and regal and the horse he rode was one of Mels

Lester’s finest, a broad-shouldered stallion with a champagne coat whose glossy white mane and elegant tail rippled in the wind as it moved. It rode up to where the crumbled body smoked and then turned to face the crowd; the man on its back saluted the assembled with a motion that was half-religious, half-military in nature.

Toshida.

His power was tangible, his presence overwhelming. In a land where chaos and violence now held sway, he clearly controlled the reins of his city as surely and as firmly as he did the reins of his lustrous mount—and the crowd responded to him as obediently as that beast did. When he gestured for silence, they subsided; when he commanded attention, they listened; when he proclaimed Mercia’s triumph over its adversaries, they cheered with a passion that was near hysteria in its intensity. The energy was the same as in the other cities, Damien noted, and every bit as volatile. But here it had a focus, a control. Here the hatred had been channeled, refined . . . used.

The spectacle was over at last. Slowly the crowd dispersed, as firemen saw to the safe removal of the still-smoldering debris. There would be parties aplenty tonight, as Mercia celebrated her freedom. None would question the fact that the Matria’s death had freed them from rakhene domination. None would stop to consider that in dozens of cities up and down the coast, this burning would not have been a triumphal end but a dark beginning.

Damien looked at Tarrant; the Hunter said nothing, but nodded ever so slightly. As the crowd thinned out about them, they began to walk northward, and as they moved, the Hunter conjured an Obscuring that kept the masses looking elsewhere, moving elsewhere—in other words, out of their way. It took them little time to reach the Regent’s Manor—or was it now the Patriarch’s Manor?—and they had no trouble with the guards. The few who were allowed to notice them were carefully controlled, smoothly manipulated. Thus the two gained access to the building, the upper floors, Toshida’s private wing. Thus they gained audience to the Patriarch himself.

“Your Holiness.” It was Tarrant who bowed first, a deep obeisance that acknowledged and glorified Toshida’s new status. Damien followed suit. He could see the man’s eyes glitter with pleasure as he accepted the offering. How long had he been waiting for this? Damien wondered. How great had his hunger become?

“I thought you might come here,” he said to Damien. “Verdate. Although I will admit I expected you to travel with members of your expedition,” he nodded toward Tarrant, “not locals.”

Tarrant smiled coldly. “I came east on the Golden Glory along with Reverend Vryce. However, as I chose to disembark before the ship reached Mercia, I regret we haven’t met yet. Sir Gerald Tarrant, Neocount of Merentha.” And again he bowed.

“Ah. No doubt you are the western sorcerer the Matrias warned us against.” He smiled tightly. “I think I can say with some certainty that any enemy of theirs is welcome in my city.”

“Are all the Matrias dead?” Damien asked.

“Not quite all. Some have fled for the mountains, and will have to be tracked down. And they have their own citadel in the far north, where they train more of their kind; that has yet to be stormed. But give us time, Reverend Vryce. Only recently did we learn what the true situation was; day by day our knowledge grows. Give us time, verdate, and soon all the human lands will be cleansed of their taint.”

Damien tried hard not to let that phrase turn his stomach; given what he had, seen in the past weeks, it took considerable effort. “We were hoping you could tell us what happened to the ship that brought us here.”

Toshida hesitated. There was something in his expression that warned Damien all was not well, so that when at last he said, “The Golden Glory is gone,” it came as no real surprise.

“Left?” he asked. Knowing the real answer even as he asked.

“Wrecked. Off the shore of Almarand, in a squall. Most of the crew made it safety ashore, but the ship itself was destroyed, along with the cargo it was carrying. I’m sorry,” he said, and there seemed to be genuine regret in his voice.

“Captain Rozca? Pilot Maradez?”

A muscle along his jawline tensed. “The captain is in Penitencia, negotiating for a replacement vessel. Rasya . . .”

Damien’s heart sank. “Drowned?”

He shook his head stiffly; his expression was strained. “She made it ashore. Spent a week in Almarand, studying their old sea charts. Then she set off for Lural Protectorate, seeking some old log book that supposedly was stored there. An expeditional relic, I believe.”

“And?”

Toshida turned away. “She was a stranger,” he said quietly. “This is a bad time for strangers.”

Oh, my God. He pictured Rasya lost in an angry crowd, her height and her coloring and her accent branding her as an outsider, an unknown, a threat . . . he pictured her falling victim to one of the crowds he had seen and he trembled inside. Not that. Please, God. Not her.

“It happens,” Toshida said. Though he might have meant the words to be comforting, to Damien they sounded harsh. Inhuman. “The price we pay, Reverend.”

“For what?”

“For freedom. For an end to tyranny. The land must be cleansed, and if in the end that cleansing causes pain—”

“God in heaven!” Damien exploded. “Do you really buy that crap? I would have expected more of you than that, Patriarch.”

Toshida’s expression darkened. “Who are you to judge our ways? If the people need violence to heal, then let them have it. You can’t expect emotion like that to stay bottled up forever; sooner or later it must express itself, and if that expression is uncontrolled—”

“And is this controlled! Is that what you call it?”

“They’re killing rakh. I call that justice.”

“They killed Rasya!” His voice was shaking—with rage, with grief, with incredulity. “And hundreds of others. Thousands of others. Anyone who gets in their way, or disagrees with their cause, or just plain isn’t lucky—”

“That’s the price we must pay, Reverend Vryce. Verda ben.”

“For what?”

“For unity.” His expression was hard. “Or have you forgotten? The great tenet of the Church we both serve. Unity of faith. Unity of purpose. Unity of fate, at any cost—”

“No,” Tarrant interrupted. “Not at any cost.”

Toshida turned on him. “Will you teach me my own religion now? I was raised in the Church; I think I know the Prophet’s teachings well enough.”

“You may know them,” Tarrant said coldly. “But you clearly don’t understand them.”

Toshida’s eyes blazed with rage; his skin blushed copper with fury. “How dare you! As if any outsider can ever understand the world we’ve built here, or what it takes to maintain it—”

“You want to see what it is you’ve built here?” The Hunter’s anger was filling the room, chilling the air within it. Rage—wraiths flitted about his head, trembling in time to his speech. “You want to see the precious world your religion of hate, will foster? I’ll show you!”

The room became a whirlpool of color, into which Toshida and Damien were sucked. The walls lost their substance, and the floors and ceiling also. Even gravity lost its hold; everything was sucked toward the center of the whirlwind, all matter and thought, all flesh and spirit, all hopes and fears and dreams-

And the future unfolded before them. Not one single timeline, pristine in its certainty. A wild, unfettered morass of futures, a chaos of raw possibility. Damien saw worlds in which Calesta’s holocaust had swallowed up whole cities, whole regions, setting brother against brother in a war whose only purpose was to destroy life. He saw worlds in which the Church had become a tool of control, a vehicle of tyranny, and the Prophet’s dream had been smothered in ritual brutality. World after world passed before his eyes, bloody and violent and hopeless and corrupt. He could see the corruption spreading out like waves, from the populace to the Church to the fae itself, until pollution flowed like a tide about the planet, fouling every soul it touched. Calesta’s dream; Calesta’s hunger. And in the midst of it all there was only one world with hope, only one vista in which any light shone. Only one world in which a man stood strong against the tide, a single man of vision and determination who could turn back the flood of corruption if he chose to, who could set his city on a new path, and through that city, his world. One new-made Patriarch, dark-skinned, triumphant-

There was a sudden cry—half anger, half anguish—and then the vision exploded like shattering crystal. Fragments of reality rained down on Damien as he struggled to get his bearings again, but for a long minute it was impossible; by the time he could make out the outline of the door it was already closing, and the figure that had passed through it had long since faded from sight.

“Gerald!” No thought for Toshida now; he bolted for the door himself, hoping to catch the Neocount in the hallway beyond. But the Hunter had moved quickly, or else he’d had a substantial lead; not until Damien had run from the building, startling half a dozen guards in the process, did he see Tarrant’s lean form fleeing the Manor grounds, long legs covering the ground with feverish speed-

“Gerald! Stop!” He didn’t know if the man could hear him, but it couldn’t hurt to try. “Please!” It had no effect. He pushed himself for as much speed as he could manage, trying to make up for Tarrant’s natural advantage in height and endurance.

And at last, in a deserted district, he caught up with him, not because he was running faster, but because Tarrant had stopped. Fear showed starkly on that death-pale face; the silver eyes were bright with it.

“Do you know what I did back there?” he demanded. His voice was hoarse with terror. “Do you understand?”

“You shared a Divining,” Damien told him. “And if Toshida saw what I saw, then you may have saved this world. You’ve certainly saved this region—”

He stopped. No more words would come. Because suddenly, he understood. He understood..

“What I’ve done,” the Hunter whispered fiercely, “is to commit suicide. Have you forgotten my pact? Have you forgotten the power that sustains me? There are conditions set on my existence, priest. And if in truth I inspired Toshida to lead this region away from its current course, then I just broke them all.”

For a moment Damien couldn’t speak at all. “You’re still here,” he managed. “You’re still alive.”

The tortured face turned away from him. “For how long?” Tarrant whispered. “Until Toshida commits himself to change? Until that change begins to take effect? Where in that process is my life to be terminated? Nine hundred years of service, wiped out in one careless instant!” He shut his eyes. “You brought me to this, priest. You and your philosophy! You and your human influence! Are you happy now?” he demanded. “Is this what you wanted? Will it please you to imagine me suffering in Hell while you plan your next campaign against Calesta?”

“If I did,” he said evenly, “wouldn’t that just feed the bastard more? Gerald. Please.” The Neocount had turned away; Damien could see his strong shoulders trembling. “I don’t relish the thought of fighting him alone. Quite frankly, without you I wouldn’t last a minute.” As for the other question the Hunter’s words had raised, he didn’t dare face that. Not now. After months of praying that Gerald Tarrant would be brought to judgment for his many sins, that the world would be freed from his tyranny forever, he wasn’t ready to admit that the thought of it actually coming to pass made him feel sick inside. Had his feelings toward the man changed so drastically in these last few months? If so, it was a dangerous development.

A shudder seemed to pass through that lean, tormented frame. “Go find Rozca,” Tarrant whispered hoarsely. “Help him get hold of a ship that can make the passage. Without our pilot we have little chance of surviving a journey, but make what arrangements you can. When they’re done I’ll know, and I’ll come back to you. If I’m still alive.”

He began to walk away.

“Gerald—”

The Hunter turned back to him. His eyes were empty, black and cold and utterly without boundary; looking into them chilled Damien to the bone. “I must be what I was meant to be,” he said coldly. Bits of his intentions were manifesting about him as he spoke, fueled by the raw power of his desperation; the images were filled with violence and pain. “So don’t look for me to return to Mercia until you’re ready to leave here, Vryce. Because my only hope in surviving that passage—in surviving to begin that passage—lies in defining myself anew. In praying that the power which sustains me is capable of forgiveness . . . or at least of forgetfulness. If I please it.”

“Don’t,” Damien whispered. Sick at heart as he realized what the Hunter intended. “Don’t do it!” But Tarrant wasn’t listening to any arguments. Coldfire blazed up from the ground, engulfing his body in frigid power. His flesh melted, reformed, became a giant winged figure—not a bird this time, but something with a sleek black body and leathery wings, a creature out of nightmare realms—and then he was gone, rising up high into the sky so that he might survey his new hunting-ground.

Sick inside, Damien watched him fly until his black form faded into the distant night. Headed toward Paza Nova, perhaps, or Penitencia, or the Kierstaad Protectorate . . . anywhere there was fear. Anywhere there were unprotected souls to be harvested, so that the Hunter might cleanse his dark soul with the terror of innocents.

As he turned back toward Mercia’s central district, as he numbly began to walk again, Damien tried hard not to think about how delighted Calesta would be when he learned of the Hunter’s decision.