Crown of Shadows

by C. S. Friedman

  Shit.

  He raised a hand to his head and rubbed his temples wearily. He didn’t have a headache yet, but one was surely on the way. The body had to do something to protest such utter lunacy.

  It’s safe, right? Doors locked and warded. Books safely hidden. One quick visit and then it’s all over. And Tarrant would go with or without him, that much was clear. Did Damien want that newborn soul running head-on into the Patriarch’s troops without someone there to support him? Such a confrontation could well send him spiraling down into darkness again. And after all the time and effort he had put into saving the man, he could hardly allow that. Could he?

  “All right,” he muttered. Sighing heavily. “What the hell. Let’s do it.”

  Tarrant nodded. “I thought you might feel that way.” He sounded relieved, Damien thought. As well he should.

  It could be worse. At least we don’t have to get on a boat again.

  Shaitan rumbled in the distance.

  Thirty-nine

  Calesta was gone.

  At first Andrys tried to deny it. He told himself a hundred reasons why the demon might be unwilling to respond to him, or unable to respond to him, and he managed to half-believe one or two. But then, as hours passed and his desperate entreaties brought no response, fear began to take hold. He fought the emotion off as long as he could, but now, hours later—days later, perhaps, who could judge time in this place?—certainty set in, and with it a dread so cold that he shivered inside his blood-spattered armor, not knowing how he could go on.

  Calesta was gone, without question.

  Andrys was on his own.

  They were forging through a hostile Forest now, and every turn held new threats. More than once they were attacked by creatures that called the Forest their home, and if thus far those assailants were too few or too weak to pose any real danger, that was just the luck of the draw. The next time they were attacked it might be the white pack again... or worse.

  More than half the horses had been lost in that battle, either killed or maimed or run off in terror. The tethers of those that fled had been burned through in some cases, cut through cleanly in others, as if somehow their fear had managed an equine Working and freed them. More likely it was the fears of their riders which had done exactly that. Before they left the battle site the Patriarch had led them in prayer for a few minutes, trying to focus their energies in a positive manner, but how much good was that going to do? In the back of all their minds was a new awareness of the power of the Forest’s fae, and a growing fear that it would betray them. What happened to tethers could just as easily happen to explosives.

  A good portion of the remaining horses were now carrying the wounded, with the result that all had to take their turn at walking. Andrys preferred it. His role as pathfinder required continued sensitivity to the Forest’s fae, a terrifying immersion in its power; he used the act of walking as a focus for his sanity, the pain of his blistered feet as an anchor to the world of solid things. Though the Hunter was no longer actively mated to the Forest, yet his essence still permeated it, and if the younger Tarrant relaxed his guard even for an instant, the chill power of that corrupt soul would come pouring into him, drowning out the warmth of his living spirit and replacing it with something in its own dark image. Step by step he fought its influence, but despair was growing inside him. How long could he keep this up, without some kind of assistance? What hope did he have of coming out of this sane, if Calesta had truly abandoned him?

  His only comfort lay in a black silk scarf, now wound about his waist beneath the armor. Her scarf. He still felt shame about stealing it from her and, in fact, had tried to bring himself to ask for it on at least three separate occasions, but each time his courage had failed him. Was he afraid she would withhold such a gift? That she would laugh at him for wanting it? Or was it that putting such a request into words would be as good as admitting that he lacked the strength within himself to succeed in this mission without such a token ? Now that scarf was his only comfort, and the sweat-soaked silk tugged at his waist with every movement, reminding him of the brief time they had spent together.

  Hour after hour, mile by mile, they fought their way through the Hunter’s domain. Even the plant life seemed determined to resist them now, and more than once they had to hack their way through a tangle of thorn bushes and tree limbs in order to move forward. It hadn’t been like that before, Andrys noted. When they stopped for a meal and the ground began to stir beneath their feet, forcing them to move on, that was new, too. Clearly whatever power he had provided as the company’s talisman was at an end, now that the Hunter was no longer in control here. And that was a terrifying thought indeed.

  They broke march three more times to water the horses and see to their own bodily needs—always in rocky areas, where the underground scavengers couldn’t reach them—and once to rest in short shifts, restless and fearful. Try as he might, Andrys couldn’t sleep; he wondered how many could. These weren’t soldiers, trained to pursue combat in the face of enervating exhaustion, but simple men and women whose concept of exertion before today was a short stint in a gym, followed by a hot bath and dinner. Not this.

  His own strength was wearing thin from exhaustion, and his nerves, continually stretched to the breaking point, were beginning to give way at last. How much longer could he last?

  Calesta, help me! I can’t make it alone. I’m not strong enough.

  No answer.

  Rats. There were rats. She could hear them scrabbling in the darkness, searching for food along the muddy floor. Periodically one would come up to her to see if she was food. Sharp teeth would nip her skin and she would kick out wildly, hysterically, and maybe she hurt it or maybe it just went away.For a while. They all came back.

  Shedidn’t know how long she had been in this place. It was long enough for her to have crawled along the length and breadth of her prison and explored with her fingers every inch of its surface. The walls were of roughly carved stone, wet with slime, and the muddy water that pooled on the floor was ankle-deep in places, barely a film in others. There was no sign of a door that she could make out,and as forthe soft lumps she landed on as she moved, severalof which squirmed underfoot . . . she’d rather not know.

  She was hungry now, so hungry that even her terror had weakened, and though her mouth was parched, she dared not drink from the water that was available, or even lick the moisture that clung to the wall by her side. She had wept until she had no more strength left with which to weep, and now she curled up in the dank puddle, shivering, andtried to accepther fate.

  Oh, Andrys....

  She’d only wanted to help him. She would have done anythingto accomplishthat, would willingly have acceptedanyfate in order to make his burden easier. But now she was here andhe was gods knew where and every time she dozed off from exhaustion, something sharp or slimy would crawl acrossher andshe would start slapping it awayhystericallybefore sleep had even fully released her—

  It was just anightmare, she told herself. Some nightmareshappened while you dreamed andsome happenedwhile you were awake, but they all ended sometime, right? She licked at her lips with a dry tongue, wondering how long she would last. Was this all the white man had wanted her for, to waste away in this foul pit without even knowing where she was? Was he feeding on her despair, or on some other part of her emotional substance? She wouldn’t give him that pleasure,she decided. For as long as she had the strength to dream, she would relive memories of life, and of love. She would fantasize aboutAndrys Tarrant until his image was so set in her brain that even in her last moments,even while the rats andlizards gnawed at her dying flesh, her soul would still be joyful. Let that albino bastard feed on her love if he wanted to; it would probably give him heartburn.

  Something stirred overhead, where there had been no motion during all her imprisonment. She sat up weakly, bracing herself against the slimy wall. There was a scraping noise andthen it seemed to her that something moved. There was a line of darknes
s forming that was less black than that which surrounded, dim andinsubstantial,but yes, it might even be calledlight. She blinked hard asshe stared atit, not quite believing.

  “Time to come out. ” It was the white man’s voice, no longer wholly human but a strange gurgling sound; she had trouble making out the words. Something came down from the darkness and splashed to the floor by her side. She reached out a tentative hand to see what it was, and felt a smooth wooden shaft pointing upward.A ladder He had lowered aladder

  “Up,” he growled. “Now!”

  Narilka hesitated. Whatever was waiting for her up that ladder could be even worse than her current misery,which she had almost come to terms with. She rememberedthe foul breath of his pack, the pain of their teeth in her flesh. No. Better the darkness than that.

  When he saw that she wasn’t moving, he howled in fury, a sound more animal than human. She heard scrabbling as his beasts ran toward him, and with a sick feeling in her heart she realized that the things she feared most might simply come down into the darkness and drag her out; her obstinacy would gain her nothing.Slowly, her hands shaking, she forced herself to climb. The creatures up ahead of her were growling, and the white man also. When her head cleared the opening, he reached out and grabbed her long hair, hauling her up by it. Stars of pain danced behind her eyes.

  “I need you, ” he hissed. His hand tangled in her muddy hair, savagely pulling her head back. “Don’t fight me. I’ll let them eat you if you do, you understand me? I’ll hurt you!”

  She didn’t have the strength to nod. She couldn’t summon the voice to answer.

  Snarling, he dragged her away.

  The flat Forest earth gave way to rocky ground, to the gentle slope of hills, to the steep incline of a mountainside. That was a good sign, the Patriarch told them. Vryce’s notes made it clear that the Hunter’s keep was in the mountains, therefore they were headed in the right direction.

  Then there came a point at which the horses could no longer manage the steep climb, and had to be left behind. Given the choice between staying with them or making the climb with their company, the wounded chose to struggle onward. Andrys didn’t blame them. In a place this hostile, where the darkness might erupt with new dangers at any moment, a handful of wounded men and women wouldn’t stand a chance by themselves.

  The dead were unloaded and buried in a makeshift cairn. It seemed a waste of time to Andrys. Didn’t the Church teach that dead flesh was only an empty shell? Wouldn’t their companions want them to hurry on their way, rather than risk a delay to attend to such a meaningless ritual? But once more, the Patriarch insisted. To leave the dead unhonored now would “poison too many futures,” he said. Whatever the hell that meant.

  They climbed. Bearing their supplies upon their backs, foodstuffs and explosives lashed side by side. Upward they climbed, higher and higher, tramping out a switchback path along the rocky slope. At times the way was so steep that they had to cling to the very vines which meant to hinder them, and men who failed to get a handhold slid back two steps for every one they gained. Andry’s wounds burned like fire, but he was willing to bet that was nothing compared to the Patriarch’s own pain, or that of the other wounded soldiers. The currents had become so powerful that he could hear them now without even trying; their roar drowned out all other sounds, making speech impossible. So strong was the pull on his flesh that he had to fight step by step not to be dragged down to the earth, where its power—and Gerald Tarrant‘s—could drown him. How much longer could he hold on?

  At last the ground leveled out a bit. Andrys leaned against a tree to catch his breath, then jerked back violently as a serpent hissed mere inches from his face. Did this damned place never let up? One by one his companions joined him, and though none dared to say it, clearly all hoped that the worst of the climb was over. They were carrying not only their supplies and their weapons, but a share of the equipment which had been on the horses, and that load on their backs made every step hurt tenfold.

  Now, he sensed, the enemy was near. Whatever dark power had been trying to stop them, whatever creature now sat at the heart of the Forest and wove black webs of hate to entrap the living, it was here, right before them. He could taste its presence in his mouth, bitter and repulsive. He could smell it on the wind, a stink so foul that several men and women had wrapped scarves about their noses and mouths in the desperate hope of keeping it out. He could hear it echoing in his brain, a presence so unclean that the Hunter’s own power seemed pristine by comparison.

  There was a ridge ahead of them that blocked their view. Zefila sent out scouts to explore. From where he waited, Andrys could see them tense up as they rounded the natural barrier. At last, after what seemed like an endless wait, the men returned and signaled for the others to join them. Andrys and Zefila went first, with the Patriarch limping behind them. They came to the end of the ridge and crept around it—

  And stopped. And stared.

  Ahead of them, looming up into the night itself, was a castle. The trees which cloaked so much of the Forest gave way in this place, and Andrys could see it clearly by the light of Prima’s crescent. It was a black structure, gleaming black, with a surface that might have been made of rippling water, so did it seem to move when the light shimmered over it. He heard the others gasp as they came around the turn, but their surprise couldn’t possibly equal his own. Nor could they feel the horror that he did, gazing upon the citadel that his undead ancestor had built.

  It was Merentha Castle. His own home keep, down to the last finely worked detail. Cast in black volcanic glass, a mockery of the home which had sheltered him. There, in that window, Samiel had watched for him; there, in that doorway, Betrise had scowled. There, in that courtyard... he started toward it, drawn by his own horror. Would that be the same as well, down to the last black flagstone?

  “Tarrant!” Zefila grabbed him from behind, nearly jerking him off his feet as she pulled him roughly backward. “Stay with us, damn it!”

  Silently, wary, they entered the courtyard. There were bodies all over the place. Human bodies, half-devoured and now rotting. Mounds of horseflesh in similar condition. Soldiers prodded a few just to make sure they were really dead, then fanned out, springbolts at the ready. Where was the danger? Andrys could feel it, but he couldn’t define it. Something was waiting for them. Where?

  “There’s no one here,” a woman dared.

  “Make sure of it,” Zefila ordered. She nodded toward a pair of men, who started toward the building—

  And white shapes appeared along the wall of the courtyard, where moments ago there had been nothing. Of course, Andrys thought darkly. A simple Obscuring, the most basic of all Workings. In a war defined by sorcery, they should have expected it.

  The white animals—identical to those which had attacked them earlier—were spaced out at regular intervals along the wall. There were a hell of a lot of them, Andrys noted grimly. But they would have to come down from the wall and cross a good part of the courtyard to get to them. With enough springbolts and a good dose of luck the soldiers might just survive this.

  As if in response to that very thought another figure appeared. This one was human, and as it moved to the edge of a parapet it pulled another figure with it. A shaft of moonlight fell across them, illuminating a ghastly albino visage above, a pale and a hollowed face beneath—

  Andrys’ heart nearly stopped beating as he realized who it was the albino held as hostage. The whole world seemed to stop for a moment, frozen in that single instant of horror.

  “Church-man!” The albino cried out the title in defiance, but it seemed to Andrys that there was a tremor of fear in his voice. “I have your girl! Do you see?” He shoved her forward, into the moonlight, his other hand holding a knife to her throat. “Back off now with all your men, or I’ll cut her throat right in front of you!”

  He could see her clearly now, her terrified eyes pleading with him. The albino held her by the hair with one hand, and he jerked at it as he sn
arled, “I’m waiting.” Andrys saw her wince from pain, but she made no sound. No doubt the albino, like his master, would take pleasure in her cries.

  It had to be an illusion, he thought desperately, some kind of evil Working. Narilka couldn’t be here. Could she?

  As if sensing his thoughts, the white man pressed his blade into the throat of his prisoner; a jewel of red welled up at its point. “Tell him,” he hissed.

  “Andrys.” Her voice was weak, but not nearly as fearful as he would have expected. “Please.”

  “You see?” the albino demanded. “Do you need to hear more?”

  He looked back at the Patriarch in panic. The Holy Father’s expression was grim, but he shook his head. Some vision had clearly shown him that this was not the time for him to wield his power. Which meant that Andrys was on his own. He looked about desperately for Zefila, but she wasn’t about to interfere without some signal from the Patriarch.

  “Leave this place now,” the albino growled. “Or her blood will be on your hands.”

  Why wasn’t the man attacking them? His pack was in position. There were enough of the beasts to paint the courtyard red with blood. Did he fear that here, in the heart of the Hunter’s realm, Andrys could tap into his ancestor’s power? Did he imagine that open battle might tip the scale and turn Andrys into an enemy he couldn’t defeat? With sudden inspiration, the younger Tarrant realized just how intense the man’s fear of the Hunter still was. And the reality of his own helplessness was all the more painful for being contrasted against the albino’s expectations.