Crown of Shadows

by C. S. Friedman

  He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t have to. Either way, Calesta’s what we have to worry about. He can make us see canyons that aren’t there, or run from shadows that don’t exist, or even make us walk over the edge of a chasm, thinking it solid ground.... But no, Karril had said he would protect them from a move like that. If only their ally would expand his beneficence to encompass lesser strategies!

  They set as good a pace they could along the rocky earth, moving sometimes by the light of the lantern and sometimes, when the mist cleared from overhead and the clouds were obliging, by the blood-colored fire of Shaitan. Ghostlike shapes wisped in and out of life on all sides of them, and occasionally Tarrant would lead Damien out of the range of one that was becoming too solid for comfort. Shadows, he called them. Reflections of the dead. Damien saw one whose head had been severed, and another whose ghostly blood flowed where its arms and legs should have been. Most of them seemed confused rather than dangerous, as befit spirits whose minds contained but one single moment of consciousness, but some were clearly hostile to living men, and while they had no interest in Tarrant, it was clear they considered Damien fair game. More than once the Hunter had to bluff them back, and one time, when a wretched creature with its skull split open proved itself determined to vent its undead wrath on Damien, Tarrant pulled his sword wholly free and let the coldfire blaze. The result was like a block of ice slamming into Damien’s gut, that left him dazed and gasping and very nearly toppled him over into the canyon beside him.

  “What the vulk was that?” he demanded, as the Hunter finally sheathed his sword. At least the hostile shadow was gone; one less threat to deal with. “I don’t remember it doing anything like that before.”

  “The currents here are like a warped mirror, that reflects and distorts any Working. That’s why I try not to use this,” he explained, as he settled the sword back into place. “Or any other kind of power.”

  That’s just great, Damien thought, as he struggled to get his breath back. Another thing to worry about.

  Periodically Tarrant would gaze at the earth and sky with an almost desperate intensity, and Damien knew that the adept was searching their environment for any detail out of place—no matter how small or seemingly irrelevant—that would warn them of Calesta’s power being used against them. But after each such stop Tarrant simply shook his head silently, frustrated, and then took up the march again. Were the canyons real, or illusions meant to mislead them? How easy it would be for Calesta to turn them aside from their proper path, or draw them toward a false one! If the demon’s work lacked perfection in any detail, it could well be so subtle that no merely human eye was going to catch it. Or even Tarrant’s.

  If so, we’re doomed. He didn’t dare meet Tarrant’s eyes, but through the newly intensified channel between them, he could taste the panic that was slowly taking root inside him. It matched his own. If we can’t find a way to tell what’s real from what isn‘t, we don’t stand a chance. Standing by Tarrant’s side, he stared out at the same daunting vistas, hoping against hope that his limited vision might reveal some secret detail the adept missed. But each and every canyon looked hopelessly real, and the bones that were scattered here and there along their bottom—and even at the top, where the two walked—were eloquent reminder of how deadly this land was, and how few travelers made it through.

  At last, weary, they paused for a rest. Damien pulled a hunk of bread from his stores and chewed it dryly, careful to disturb the thin veil no more than he had to. Tarrant neither ate nor drank, but stared off into the darkness surrounding them as though somehow he might find an answer there. Through the link between them Damien could sense his state of mind, and it wasn’t comforting.

  At last the adept said, “I’m going to have to Work. There’s no other way.” He glanced up toward the sky, a reflexive action only; the ash cloud overhead would keep him from seeing the dawn until it was all but upon him.

  “A Locating?”

  The Hunter shook his head. “Too easy for our enemy to fake. Remember what he did in Seth? And besides, any precise Working is doomed in this place. Much in the same way that complex music loses its coherency in a hall with too many echoes. No, this Working must be in its purest unstructured form: a plea for the fae to accommodate our mission, however it sees fit. A single chord, pure and simple.”

  “Sounds damn vague to me.”

  “Anything more than that is doomed to failure, I assure you.”

  “And how do we know that Calesta won’t vulk the results of this Working, too?”

  The Hunter hesitated. And for a moment, just a moment, the channel between pulsed with fresh energy and Damien could taste the emotion inside the man. Thick fear, black and choking; it was hard to believe that a man could contain that kind of emotion inside himself and not let it show. “He’ll no doubt try to,” he admitted. “And we know all too well how adept he is at that game. But if my Working succeeds, then by definition it must offer us a tool over which he has no power.”

  “And what are the odds of that?”

  The pale eyes met his. The voice betrayed not a tremor of fear. “Better than the odds if we don’t try anything.”

  Working. Normally Tarrant could manage it with no more effort than a single moment of tension, perhaps a narrowed gaze if the matter was difficult, but now ... Damien watched the adept brace himself, eyes shut tightly in concentration, and felt himself grow sick at what that implied. Then he drew out his sword from its warded sheath, and the fae bound to the sharpened steel seemed to glitter hungrily in Shaitan’s bloody light. Damien felt the Working take shape and braced himself for the frigid bite of the Hunter’s coldfire, but the power that surged through him when the moment came was like nothing at all familiar. It was a force that froze and burned all at once, that left his flesh shaking as if an entire storm system had squeezed through his veins. He didn’t need Tarrant to tell him that wasn’t all from the Working; the feeling of heat was a dead giveaway that some other power was involved. Tarrant had stated his Call, and the fae was reflecting it back at him with the accuracy of a funhouse mirror. God willing, the distortion would be minor. God willing they wouldn’t conjure something worse than what they were already dealing with.

  When he was done Tarrant resheathed his sword, and the coldfire faded. “Do you think—” Damien began, but the Hunter waved him to silence. The tension in the man was palpable now, and Damien had to turn away and not look at him, to keep from being sucked into it. He had enough fear of his own, thank you very much, and didn’t need to absorb any one else’s.

  And then, in the mist before them, something stirred. He saw Tarrant take a half step forward, then stop. A shadow? An illusion? Or something else? Wisps of silver fog twined and gathered, and slowly took on a form that seemed human. Was this the fae’s answer to their need, or simply another of the walking dead, drawn by their cry of desperation? As it slowly became distinct from the mist that surrounded it, Damien saw that its form was female, and that in life it must surely have been a beautiful woman, for even in death its features were graceful and pleasing—

  Then Tarrant gasped, and stepped back as if struck. There was more fear in that one sound than Damien had ever heard him utter, and for a moment Damien was rooted to the spot. Then he took a step forward as if to—what, protect the man?—close enough to see the figure clearly, and make out its details.

  She was a slender woman, delicately formed, with a thick corona of hair that still hinted at its living color, a soft red-gold. Her eyes were large and were fixed on Tarrant with such intensity that it was clear her living self had known him. A victim, perhaps? Her lips were full and likewise tinted with a trace of rouge, so alive in their aspect that Damien could almost imagine a human breath passing through them, and a heartbeat behind it. She wore a long gown of what must have been a fine wool, pale in color, and on it ... he squinted, trying to bring it into focus. The folds of the gown shifted slowly as if in a breeze, and sometimes they seemed pure whit
e, while others ... he caught a flicker of color and tried to focus on it ... thin tendrils of red running down between the folds, and a scarlet stain just where the heart would be.

  And then Tarrant whispered, “Almea.”

  And he understood. Dear God. He understood.

  “Your wife?”

  “No.” The Hunter shook his head. “Not my wife. A shadow, formed by the currents here. Not her.”

  He looked at the ghostly image, then back at Tarrant. It was hard to say which of the two was paler.

  “Maybe it was formed in answer to—”

  “No!” The figure was moving toward Tarrant; the Hunter backed away quickly. “It’s Calesta’s illusion. It must be. Or else a real shadow, drawn by our presence here. My God,” he whispered. His voice was shaking. “If it’s the latter ...”

  “It’s your wife, Gerald.”

  “As she died!” The red lines on her body came into focus for a moment, and Damien could see the whole of her clearly: bloodstained, ravaged, tortured by a madman’s blade ... and then the white cloth folded in again, softly, gently, and the only pain visible was in her eyes. “Almea Tarrant as she was in her last living moments, with none of what came before! None of the love, none of the memories, none of the things that might mitigate her terror as she—as she—”

  The shadow had stopped moving. Was watching him.

  Damien dared, “I don’t think she’s here to hurt you.”

  “How can she be here for anything else? Remember what I did to her, Vryce!”

  She was waiting, Damien thought. She expected something. What?

  “You called for help,” he offered.

  He whispered: “I tortured her.”

  She was watching. Waiting. Not Tarrant’s wife, but an isolated fraction of the woman. One instant of her living existence, frozen in time by the power of this place.

  He drew in a deep breath, trying to sound calmer than he felt. “She’s the first shadow here that hasn’t gone after us. Maybe that means something.”

  Tarrant said nothing.

  The figure turned. Not wholly away from them, but slowly moving in that direction. There was no hate in her eyes, Damien noted, nor anger, but a vast tide of pain. And maybe something else ... something more.

  “She loved you very much,” he observed.

  Tarrant shuddered. “This thing wouldn’t remember love.”

  She had stopped. She was waiting. For them.

  “Gerald,” He said it gently, testing the words. “I think she wants us to follow her.”

  “For what? To help us? More likely to lead me deeper into this trap—”

  He looked into the shadow’s eyes, at the reflection of life that shimmered in their depths.

  “I don’t think so,” he said quietly.

  Tarrant looked at him in astonishment. “Why?” he demanded hoarsely. “Why would she help me, after what I did to her?”

  “Maybe she wants to see you punished for what you did. You did say you expected to die on Shaitan, didn’t you? Maybe she wants to lead you to your death.” He drew in a deep breath. How could he word the next idea so that the Hunter would accept it? “Or maybe in that last moment what she wanted was to save you. Maybe she saw the man she had married being swallowed up by an evil so powerful that all her words, all her love, couldn’t save him ... and now he has one chance to redeem himself. The first real chance he’s had in centuries.” He waited a moment, then said softly, “You knew her, Gerald. You tell me.”

  The shadow was waiting.

  “If she’s an illusion—” Tarrant began.

  “She isn’t.”

  “How can you be sure of that?”

  “Because for all of Calesta’s subtlety, I don’t think he could have created this.” He gestured toward the shadow; did it smile sadly in response? “A reflection of pain, yes, and maybe hatred, and certainly a hunger for vengeance. Those are things he understands. But the rest?” Reading what was in her eyes, he shivered. God, what a woman she must have been. “Calesta knows nothing about human love; how could he mimic its form so perfectly?”

  The Hunter turned to him. His pale eyes were so haunted, so tormented, that Damien had to fight not to look away. “Is that what you see in her?” he demanded.

  “Among other things,” he said quietly. “Enough that I think she might want to lead us where we’re going. And we haven’t got a whole lot of other options, have we? Unless you have something up your sleeve you haven’t told me about.”

  “No.”

  “So?”

  For a long time he just stood there. Damien waited. So did she.

  “All right,” he said at last. A whisper, barely audible. “All right.”

  They turned to where the ghostly figure stood, and saw that it had moved a few steps away. Damien waited until Tarrant had begun to walk toward her, then did so himself. His heart was pounding, with hope and fear both. Almea Tarrant’s shadow would be immune to Calesta’s illusory persuasions; the Iezu had no power over faeborn creatures. Which meant that she could probably lead them around the true obstacles, and save them the trouble of avoiding things that weren’t really there.

  If she wanted to. That was the catch. Watching her from behind, her ghostly substance trailing out into wisps of white smoke that were swallowed up by the omnipresent mist, he prayed that he had read her right. If not, they had so little hope....

  She led them away from the canyon they had been following, onto a stretch of plain with little to distinguish one mile from another. Damien glanced nervously at Tarrant, but there was no way of telling from the adept’s expression if he could see anything useful, or if he was equally without a reference point. Soon the noxious mist closed in around them, sealing them in a shell of fog so thick that they could see no farther than the few steps ahead of them. Strange things moved within that mist, half-made creatures that pressed against its border like curious fish, but nothing came too close. Was that in response to Tarrant’s power, or hers? Did the shadows of the dead respect each other’s territory, so that no other creature would bother them while she was there? He stiffened as something with red eyes seemed to be coming straight at him, but it scattered like smoke before it could reach him. For now, for whatever reason, they seemed safe enough. God willing it would stay that way.

  Step after step, mile after mile, they followed the shadow of Almea Tarrant across the poisoned earth. Skirting monuments of blackened rock, crushing malformed grasses beneath their feet, working their way around the shore of a tiny lake whose surface smoked like water about to boil. The smell that surrounded them was sometimes rotting, sometimes sickeningly sweet, but always backed by the sharp tang of sulfurous poisons. Thank God for the scarves Tarrant had Worked, which seemed to keep the worst of it out of their lungs. Damien reached up to his every now and then to make sure it was secure. He had traveled enough in volcanic regions to know how quickly your lungs could seize up once that stuff saturated them, and was doubly grateful to Tarrant for having prepared for it.

  We’re going to make it, he thought, even as his legs began to ache from the hike. His mouth was growing dry from thirst, as well, and he knew that should be dealt with. He struggled to get out his canteen without slowing his pace and fumbled the cap open, but when he lifted his veil to access its contents a sudden gust of sulfurous fumes hit him full in the mouth. Before he could stop himself, he had breathed some of it in, and though he dropped the veil right away, it set off a coughing fit so powerful that for a moment he couldn’t walk at all. Over and over a deep hacking cough shook him, and he could only pray that the others would stop long enough for him to pull himself together. Did the Almea-shadow care if he reached Shaitan, or was she only concerned with her husband’s fate? The thought of being abandoned in this place was truly terrifying, and he was overcome with relief when his eyes cleared at last and he saw that both Tarrant and the ghost were still with him. “You can drink through the veil,” the Hunter told him. Great. Just great. He did so as they
began to walk again, wincing as the bitter taste of some unknown chemical flowed into his mouth along with the water. Thanks for warning me in advance.

  And then they came to a place where a canyon cut across their path, blocking their way. Deeply etched, steep-walled, it cut off the land to the right of them, forcing them to swing around to the left if they meant to continue their journey. But the shadow of Almea didn’t go that way. It didn’t move at all. It stood at the edge of the canyon as if judging the depth a man might fall, then looked back at them. Just for a second. And then, without a sound, it stepped forward, into the chasm itself.

  Dear God ...

  She hung suspended above empty space, her feet pressed against the air as if she stood on solid ground. The far wall of the canyon was perhaps twenty feet away, but she didn’t seem in any hurry to reach it. As casually as if it were real earth beneath her feet, she walked out to the middle of the empty space, then stopped and turned back to them. After a moment, when they didn’t follow, she reached out a slender arm toward them. Bidding them forward.

  “If she is an illusion—” Tarrant began.

  “Then she can’t kill us like this. Remember? Karril promised.”

  “Karril promised Calesta wouldn’t kill us. I don’t remember him saying anything about my wife.”

  Silent, she waited. Without her help there was no way to go on.

  “Look,” Damien said at last. “She hasn’t got any reason to hate me, right? So I’ll go first. If it’s a trap for you, maybe ...” He couldn’t finish the sentence. Maybe she’ll take pity on an innocent man and warn me back. “Maybe it’ll be okay,” he finished lamely.

  He walked to the edge of the canyon and started to look down into it ... and then forced his eyes up, fixing them on her. There was no way to read in her face what she intended, or how far she might go to entice Tarrant over that edge. Finally he drew in a deep breath and forced his right foot forward. He kept his eyes fixed on her as he moved, resolve like an iron fist around his heart. He moved his foot forward a few feet and down, to where open air seemed to be, and then he was stepping forward but there was nothing solid under him, nothing! and his survival instinct cried out in panic for him to throw himself back hard and fast, before his full weight was committed ... but he knew that a good illusion would feel like that, too, and so he didn’t. Eyes shut, cold sweat breaking out across his brow, he committed his full body’s weight to his forward leg. And it held. Praise be to God, it held! He took another step forward, and then another. Slowly exhaling, he opened his eyes and looked down. It was a dizzying sight.