“I know,” he whispered.
Something in the Patriarch’s posture seemed to relax ever so slightly, as if he, too, knew what that acknowledgment signified. “The man once called Gerald Tarrant became transformed at the end of his mortal life, into the creature we now know as the Hunter. He moved into the Forest soon after our last assault against that realm failed, and remade it to suit his own needs. To reflect back upon him his own damned nature.”
He nodded slowly, trying to see where this all was leading. What was it they wanted him to do?
“The Forest in Jahanna is now so perfectly ordered that it functions like a living body, with all its parts in harmony. Like a construct of natural flesh it depends upon its center, its brain, for purpose and for balance. And like a body of flesh it defends its brain with utmost vigor. Anything of foreign origin which breaches its borders would be subject to immediate attack, much as a microbe which invades human flesh would be set upon by antibodies. Only in this case, the antibodies are the stuff of our own nightmares, turned against us by a man who can sculpt our very fears.”
He nodded ever so slightly—afraid of what was coming next, but unwilling to cut the narrative short. Calesta, he begged silently, give me strength. Give me courage.
“The Hunter can come and go as he pleases. So can his minions, who are but an extension of his own will, and his beasts, and all his infernal creations. But any creature which has its origin in the world outside—or any army composed of such—would no sooner step into his realm than the earth itself would move against them, and every living thing from microbe to man would become their enemy.” He paused, then added quietly, “Unless the Forest believed that such creatures were also a part of him. Then and only then could they proceed.”
The Patriarch’s plan hit him so suddenly that it drove the breath from his body; his numbed hand dropped the glass as he pushed himself up and away from the man, overturning the chair in his panic. “No!”
The Patriarch did not respond. If he had—if he had said anything at all—Andrys would surely have bolted from the room at a dead run and never looked back. His nerves were trigger-taut, and any word—even one of intended comfort—would set them off. But the Holy Father said nothing. Time passed. After a small eternity had come and gone, Andrys found that he could breathe again. Several millennia later, the urge to flee subsided somewhat. Terror maintained its painful edge, but it no longer mastered his flesh.
“I see you understand the situation,” the Patriarch said quietly.
“I ... I think so,” he managed. His voice was hoarse and strained, and seemed to him like the voice of a stranger. “You want me to ... lead ... some kind of group? Is that it?”
“More than that, I’m afraid.” His eyes were coolly sympathetic, and their message was clear: We understand the pain we cause but cannot turn aside. This mission is greater than both of us. “I need you to stand in for the Hunter. I need you to be him. Not in truth—not in your heart or in your soul—but in those aspects which his creatures will recognize.” He paused, as if waiting to see if his guest would flee at this new revelation. Though he was afraid to hear more, Andrys nodded. “The resemblance between you is uncanny. With the proper accoutrements—”
“I have his armor,” Andrys said quickly. “And I have his crown. Like the things he wore into war. In the mural,” he stammered, and he nodded stiffly in the direction of the sanctuary, toward where that hateful painting hung. He had thought that the Patriarch would be startled by such a revelation, but the man only nodded, as if he had expected to hear it. The local Church was rife with rumors of his visionary power, and some murmured that God’s own prophecies came to him in the night and showed him what was to be. Had he foreseen Andrys’ coming, and the role he was to play? Was he weighing every moment now against a host of futures revealed to him, trying to choose the one that would not send his guest running away in a fit of panic, never to return? He remembered the Patriarch’s long silence, so perfectly measured against his own fear, and began to tremble deep inside. What kind of power did this man wield, that gave him such terrible control?
“Then you’re with us?” the Holy Father asked.
He shut his eyes, and felt his very soul quake. “Yes,” he whispered. The sound was barely loud enough for a man to hear, so he said it louder. “Yes. I’m with you.”
Was this the fate you meant for me, Calesta? Was this why you wouldn’t tell me what the crown and the armor were for? For fear that sheer terror would drive me back to Merentha before your arrangements could be completed? He lowered his head and thought dully, How well you anticipated everything. How well you controlled it all.
“I’m very grateful for that, Mer Tarrant. With your assistance we may yet triumph over Erna’s most vicious demon. Praised be God, who in His wisdom brought us both to this point.”
“Praised be God,” he muttered weakly. Suddenly needing to escape this place, and all the plans within it. Suddenly needing clear air and room to move . . . and the healing arms of a woman. Narilka was waiting for him back at the hotel, he knew that. More loyal a woman than he deserved by far, but now as necessary to him as the very air he breathed. Could he make it through all this without her quiet strength supporting him? He hoped he never had to find that out.
He muttered a leavetaking, hoping it was polite. Evidently the Patriarch sensed his need—or had he foreseen it?—for he made no attempt to convince him to stay longer. And why should he anyway? The deed was done. The contract was all but signed. Andrys Tarrant belonged to the Church now, proud soldier in its mad dest enterprise.
But at the door he stopped, unable to leave the room, There was still something unspoken here, something the Patriarch should know. Something he needed to know, if Andrys was to play his role effectively.
He turned partway back, not far enough that he had to meet the Patriarch’s eyes but enough that his words would be clearly audible. “Gerald Tarrant killed my family,” he whispered hoarsely. Choking on the words, and on the painful memories they conjured. “I want him to pay for that. I ... I would do anything to hurt him.”
It seemed to him that the Patriarch sighed. Then, with a soft whisper of silk on silk, the Holy Father rose from his seat and came over to where Andrys stood. He put a hand upon the young man’s shoulder, and it seemed to Andrys in that instant that the man’s own strength and certainty flowed through the contact, bolstering his own fragile hopes.
“He’ll pay for that sin in Hell,” the Holy Father assured him. “And so many others. We’ll see to it.”
Twenty-five
“Tell me about Senzei Reese.”
Startled, Damien looked up from the volume he was studying. “What? Why?”
“Tell me about him.”
He stared at the Hunter for a moment as if that action might net him some information, but as usual Tarrant’s expression was unreadable. At last, with a sigh, he closed the book. “What do you want to know?”
“The man. His habits, his beliefs. Tell me.”
“May I ask why?”
“Later. Just tell me.”
So he did. It wasn’t the easiest task in the world, but after half a night’s frustrating dedication to dusty tomes and wan hopes, it was as good an assignment as any. He tried to remember Ciani’s assistant, and to describe him for Tarrant. Thin. Pale. Studious. Utterly devoted to Ciani, and to their work. What was it that Tarrant wanted? he wondered. Why did a man who’d been dead for nearly two years suddenly matter so much? Not knowing what his focus of interest was, Damien floundered through a description. Meticulous. Focused. Frustrated. He went through the easy adjectives first, and then he came to the painful part. He was obsessed by the desire to become an adept. He was convinced that somehow it could be managed. He believed ... He struggled to remember, to find the right words. He thought that the potential was there inside him, waiting to be let out. That somehow, if he could only “set it free,” he’d be the equal of Ciani.
He remembered what t
hat obsession had cost Senzei, and pain welled up inside him as fresh as the day it had happened. He saw Senzei’s body, twisted and tortured, lying on the mountain grass where it had been struck down. And beside him the flask of holy Fire, which he had tried to take into his body to burn through his inner barriers. Though they hadn’t recognized it at the time, that was Calesta’s first victory over their small party. The first death in a war that had now claimed thousands in the east, and threatened to do the same here.
“Earthquakes,” Tarrant prompted. “Did he talk about them?”
Puzzled by the request, he tried to remember. They had discussed so much on that journey, desperate to pass the time in something other than silence. “He was so fascinated by the fae-surge,” he said at last. Struggling to remember. “I think he wanted to harness it, but didn’t dare try.”
Tarrant hissed softly. There was an alertness about him that reminded Damien of a hunting animal. “He thought it might make him an adept?”
“He thought a lot of things,” Damien said warily. “The last one got him killed. What’s on your mind?”
The Hunter looked at him. His eyes were black and hungry. “Did he take notes?”
“I think so. Why?”
“Might they still exist?”
He considered. “He lived with a woman before we left. I sent back word to her of what happened, when we got out of the rakhlands. Your guess is as good as mine what she did with his things, after that. Why?” he asked suddenly. “What are you thinking?”
“A possible plan,” he said softly. “But I need more data before I can assess its practicality. I think Mer Reese would have collected that data. I think that some of it may be in his notes.”
“You won’t tell me what it is?”
He shook his head. “Not now. It’s too great a long shot. Let me confirm what I suspect, and then ...” He drew in a deep breath. “I’ll tell you as soon as I know for certain. I promise.”
“Yeah. Thanks. I live for secondhand research.”
If the sarcasm in his tone bothered Tarrant, the Hunter gave no sign of it. “Come,” he said, rising. “Let’s see if his notes are still around.”
Out of habit, Damien glanced at the clock. “Isn’t it a little late to go visiting?”
The Hunter’s gaze was venomous. “I have twenty-nine days left,” he said icily. “In the face of that, do you think I care if I inconvenience someone?”
“No,” he muttered, embarrassed. “No reason you should. I’m sorry.”
“Do you remember where this woman lives?”
“Not exactly. But that’s what the fae’s for, isn’t it?” Then he hesitated. “Are you sure she’ll be willing to help us this late?”
“No.” The Hunter smiled coldly. “Not at all. But that’s what the fae’s for, isn’t it?”
The house was just as he remembered it: small and warm and utterly domestic. There were more quake-wards on the front porch now, as well as several new sigils etched into the window; he felt a pang of mourning at the irony of that. When Senzei Reese had lived here, his fiancée had been wary of such devices. Now that he was gone, and the house was free of his obsession, Worked items became acceptable again. It surprised him how bitter he felt about that.
“All right.” He sighed, and started toward the stairs. “Let’s do it.”
“One moment.” Tarrant’s eyes were focused on the ground before the house; Damien sensed him grow tense as he took hold of the currents with his will and began to mold them. As always, he found it eerie that a human being could Work without any sign or incantation to focus concentration.
When it seemed to him that Tarrant was done, he asked, “What are you doing?”
“Merely compensating for the late hour. I understand that anything more would be offensive to you. You see?” The pale eyes fixed on him, a spark of sardonic humor in their depths. “I do learn, Reverend Vryce.”
“About time,” he muttered, as they climbed up the porch stairs together.
It was Tarrant who rapped on the door, and Damien could sense his power woven into the sound, making it reverberate inside any human brain within hearing range. He waited a moment and then knocked again, and suddenly a light came on near the back of the house. She had been sleeping, no doubt. Damien wondered how effective Tarrant’s Working would be if she were barely awake.
After a minute they could see a figure padding through the house, a lamp in its hand. It came to the door and fumbled with the latch, then opened it. A short chain stretched taut as the door was pulled open a few inches.
“Yes?” It was a man. “What do you want?”
Damien couldn’t find his voice; it was Tarrant who filled in. “We’re looking for Allesha Huyding.”
“What’s it about?” he demanded. “And why can’t it wait until morning?”
Damien was about to risk an answer when a female voice sounded from the back of the house. “What is it, Rick?”
“Two men,” he answered curtly. “I don’t know either of them.”
There was movement in the room behind him now, as someone else approached. “Let me see,” she said softly. She peered over his arm and studied Tarrant, then turned to look at Damien. And gasped.
“Sorry to bother you—” the priest began.
“No bother,” she answered quickly. She nodded to the man. “Let them in.”
“But, Lesh—”
“It’s okay. Let them come in.”
He clearly thought otherwise, but he pushed the door closed for a moment, undid the chain, and then opened it wide. Whatever Tarrant had done to keep her calm and cooperative, it had clearly not worked on him. “Hell of an hour,” he muttered, as they stepped into the small, neat living room. He radiated hostility.
Memories. They rose up about Damien as the lamplight flickered, picking out details of a room that was painfully familiar. Here, on that chair, he had waited to see Ciani. There, in the room beyond, she had lain in a state near death. There, in that place, the demon Karril had started them on a journey more terrible than any could predict....
He forced his awareness back to the present time, and to the matter at hand. Allesha’s new boyfriend was regarding them with the kind of hostility a wolf would exhibit upon finding that another wolf had pissed in its den. He was a thick-set man, heavy with muscle, and Damien suspected that he harbored a violent temper. A dark man, bearded, who was the opposite of Senzei Reese in every way. Again the priest felt a sense of acute mourning for the loss of his friend, and the manner in which this house had been so thoroughly cleansed of his presence.
“My name is Gerald Tarrant,” the Hunter said, focusing his attention on Allesha. “I was a companion of Senzei Reese during his recent travels, as was Reverend Vryce.”
She nodded slightly to Damien. “Yes. I remember you.”
“I’m sorry to bring up what must be painful memories, Mes Huyding, but we have great need of some notes that were in your fiancé’s possession. I was wondering if you could tell us what became of his things.”
“What the hell is this?” her new boyfriend sputtered. “Can’t it wait until morning? Who the hell are you, to show up on our doorstep at this hour and—”
“It’s all right,” she told him. To Damien’s surprise, the words seemed to quiet him. “I don’t mind. You go back to sleep if you want. I’ll be there as soon as we’re finished.”
“I’ll be damned if I’m going to bed while you—”
Tarrant caught his eyes then. And held them. Something passed between them that Damien could sense, an invisible power that soothed, smothered, silenced.
“Yes,” he said quietly. His eyes were half-lidded, as if sleep were already reclaiming him. “I’ll do that.”
They were silent as he turned and left, walking as slowly as if he had never awakened. At last, when he was safely behind the bedroom door and well out of hearing, Allesha said softly, “I’m sorry. He’s protective, that’s all.”
“We understand,” Damien ass
ured her.
“The truth is, I didn’t really know what to do with Zen’s things when he died. He didn’t have any family that I knew of, and as for friends ... he was close to Ciani. You know that. But there weren’t many other people in his life.” She picked up a lamp from a nearby table and lit it with her own; the flickering light picked out warm shadows amidst the furniture. “I kept the things that looked important, notes and such, and a few valuables. They’re upstairs.” She handed the second lamp to Damien and gestured toward the staircase. “This way.”
The two men followed her up into the attic, into a room that brought back painful memories to Damien. There was the rug Senzei had knelt on while they planned their trip to the rakhlands; there was a box of Ciani’s papers he had rescued from the Fae Shoppe fire. The rest was stacked in boxes in a comer of the room, books and notebooks and papers and charms that filled their wooden crates to overflowing. “There’s no order to it, really.” She sounded apologetic. “I didn’t know what to do with it all—”
“You did fine,” Damien assured her.
“I wouldn’t know where to look for anything. I—”
“It’s fine,” Tarrant said. The power behind his words was musical, compelling. “Everything’s fine. Leave us here, and go back to sleep. We’ll lock the house behind us when we go.”
For a moment it seemed as if she might make some protest, but then the fae that Tarrant had conjured took hold at last and she nodded. Wraithlike, silent, she made her way downstairs again.
When she was out of hearing Damien said softly, “That would have bothered me once.”
“And you would have been a pain in the ass about it. Fortunately for us both, you changed.” He knelt down by the nearest pile of crates, running a hand along the rough surfaces. “Can you Locate what we need, or do I have to do this alone?”
“If you tell me what I’m looking for.”
Crown of Shadows Page 26
