“I have a religion to run. Worshipers to entertain—”
“You think they’ll complain if we give them a new godling? Ah, Saris, think of it! What kind of a child would the gods of beauty and ecstasy produce? I shiver just to imagine the possibilities.”
She looked at him in amazement. “Is that a proposition?”
He chuckled. “I guess it is.”
“You don’t even know what reproduction entails, for us.”
“No,” he admitted. “But I think that figuring it out could be a lot of fun.” He winked at her. “Reproduction usually is.”
“That’s your aspect, not mine.”
“Ah, Saris!” He caught up her hand in his; through the veil of fine flesh he could feel the throb of living energy, the true substance of the Iezu. “ ‘Aspect’ is just preference, not a prison. Don’t you see that? We’re the children of living creatures, with the capacity to be just as versatile as our parents. Why not give it a try?”
“I don’t see you reaching outside your aspect in this experience.”
With a soft laugh he let loose her hand, and struck at his chest as though marking the entrance point of an arrow. “Touché.”
A sudden commotion among the guests drew their attention. Someone was proposing a toast, it seemed, raising a glass of perfect wine to catch the sunlight, in dedication to the newlyweds. Others joined in, and the fine wine was sipped and savored. A hundred souls resonating in perfect unison, relishing the moment: a symphony of pleasure. Karril leaned against the tree in contentment, drinking it in as a toast of his own, and shut his eyes as the waves of human enjoyment washed over him.
She watched him for a moment, observing his reaction, and then a faint smile softened her expression. She relaxed a bit and leaned against the tree beside him, watching the guests as they feasted.
“I’ll think about it,” she promised.
Forty-four
The shop was in a quiet part of town, and despite the fame it had quickly earned since opening—or one could say, the notoriety—its facade was modest and unassuming. HUNT SHOPPE, the sign said, its type-face and proportion suggesting a modest business. There was a display of fishing rods in one corner of the window, bows and crossbows in the other. In the center a finely tanned skin served as backdrop for all the accoutrements of the hunter’s art: compasses and maps, backpacks and canteens, and a selection of heavy-bladed knives guaranteed (so the sign read) to gut with a simple twist of the wrist, and skin with the ease of slicing butter.
The man looked in the window a long, long while, and wondered about why he had come here. He’d never cared for the sport much in general, and the thought of gutting a living animal—or at least one very recently dead—made his stomach turn. For a moment he almost turned back and went home. Then he remembered how lonely it was there, how empty the spacious house was without the sound of other voices. And he drew himself up and pushed open the heavy wooden door, bracing for what was inside.
The shop’s interior was larger than he would have guessed, and every inch of it was filled with hunting apparati. There were other customers there, half a dozen of them, and he watched for a moment while a man hefted a brass-butted springbolt to his shoulder, testing its balance. Another bent the length of a fishing rod in a wide U-shape and harrumphed that yes, it would probably do.
Once more, he almost turned and left. Almost.
“Can I help you?”
The clerk was a young man, about his own height and build. Nondescript, just as he was. For a moment he hesitated. “Riven Forrest?” It couldn’t be him, could it? Surely a man capable of helping him would be more ... more ... well, more something.
To his relief the clerk nodded toward a door at one side of the shop. “Probably in the office. Just go on through, you’ll find him.”
The door led to another room, smaller than the first, less crowded. There were paintings in this room and other forms of art as well, all depicting objects of the hunt. Skerrels, nudeer, lynkesets ... some were wandering through their native habitat in a wholly natural mode, the kind of nature-loving art that would be hung over the couch in a family room, or by the fireplace. Others were less natural, and oddly disturbing. A mar mosa frozen atop a fallen log, its large ears cocked forward with desperate intensity, its eyes wide and anxious. Nudeer crouching in the high grass, preparing to bolt for their lives. And a waterfowl of some kind, floating on the rippled surface of a lake. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was about that last one that bothered him so, until at last he realized that the shadow of an armed human loomed over the water, its reflection barely visible among the reeds. Animals caught in their last living moments; the passion of the hunt as seen through the eyes of those who must die to consummate it. He felt uncomfortable viewing those paintings, but it was hard to look away. Involuntary voyeurism: the fascination of Death. For the first time coming here, he believed that he might be in the right place after all.
There were rooms beyond that one, small corridors that twisted back on themselves, even a walk-in closet that had been made to house a Hunt Shoppe display. There were tools he didn’t recognize, and restraining devices that seemed better proportioned to human limbs than to any animal he had ever seen. There were traps of all shapes and all sizes, deadly and humane, and wax images demonstrating how some of them were meant to be used. There was a lot more art, and not only of animals. One lithograph, finely rendered, depicted the final showdown between the Selenzy Slasher and the police who ran him down; the bright red ink was particularly effective. Another showed the last moments of Karth Steele as he plunged through the southern swamps, the head of his latest victim still in his hands. Convicts and torturers, criminals turned prey ... he felt somehow unclean as he viewed their last moments on Erna, as if something voyeuristic had awakened in his soul that he would far, far rather pretend wasn’t there in the first place.
At last, with effort, he forced himself away from those pictures and through the next doorway. Beyond it was a small room, unmistakably outfitted as an office. He felt a wave of relief wash over him, as if he, too, had been fleeing from some unseen pursuer, and had finally, here, found sanctuary. Even the furniture was normal, and the only painting—a portrait of an attractive man hung over the small fireplace—was blessedly unthreatening.
The man behind the desk said nothing as he entered, but looked up at him and waited. He was pale of skin, dark-haired, and his sharp, angular features reminded the man of a predatory bird. His eyes might have been a human color—brown or gray or maybe even a dark blue—but in the hooded lamplight which was the room’s only illumination they appeared black, a limitless black that sucked in the lampglow and swallowed it whole.
“Forrest?” he stammered, finding his voice at last. “Riven Forrest?”
The man behind the desk nodded, and indicated a chair by his visitor’s side. It was a welcome offering, and he fell into it heavily.
“I’m Riven Forrest. And you are?”
He started to speak his name, then hesitated. Gods, this is crazy. He can’t help you if he doesn’t know who you are, now can he? “My name is Helder. Allen Helder.” He had to force the words out; beads of sweat were beginning to form on his brow. “I have a ... an unusual problem. I was told you might be able to help me.”
Crazy, crazy, crazy. If this man turns me in, then what do I do? The law doesn’t take kindly to this kind of thing.
But Forrest was utterly calm; his voice, when he spoke, was more suggestive of casual visitation than of secretive negotiations. “I’m familiar with your problem, Mer Helder. I believe we may be able to do business.” He leaned forward on the desk, steepling his fingers. “Why don’t you give me the details?”
He knew, the man thought wildly. He knew! That meant that the person who had given him Forrest’s name must have also told him ... how much? Oddly, the thought didn’t inspire panic, only a strange sort of calm. He was committed now. Forrest knew his business. What could he do under such circumstances,
other than proceed?
“My wife and I divorced two years ago.” He said the words quickly, forcing them out before he could think about them. Before the pain could take hold again. “We had three children. I got custody. A girl, Sofie, and two boys, Rori and Tonio. I have all the particulars here....” He reached into his jacket and brought out a small packet of papers; he cradled it in his hands as he spoke as if it were itself some precious living thing. “My wife was ... abusive. Not toward me, but when she was angry, or when she was frustrated, she used to take it out on the kids.” He paused, biting his lip. Gods, how the memories hurt! “I had to prove that to get custody of all three. I had to ... there were bruises ... I had to discuss some things....” He shook his head, feeling the tears come again. Hating himself for being that weak in front of a stranger. “She was furious about the judgment. She spent a year trying to fight it in court, then finally gave up and left Jaggonath. I don’t know where she went. Things were so bad between us then ... we couldn’t talk. Not about anything. She was so bitter. So angry.” He looked up and found the black eyes fixed on him; hungry, hungry eyes. “I don’t know what happened,” he whispered. “I was so careful....”
“You think she kidnapped your children.”
His eyes squeezed shut as he remembered. The empty house. The closets and drawers in disarray, so obviously ransacked for supplies. The open door, swinging in the wind. “I know it,” he choked out. “I’d left them in Toni’s care—he was so proud of being old enough to take care of the others, a little man of the family!—and then, when I came home ... nothing! What else could have happened? He would never have opened the door to a stranger. There wasn’t any sign of a struggle. Who could have done it, other than her?”
The pale man regarded him as he reached for a cup by his side. His eyes never leaving the man‘s, he sipped from it, then set it aside. “You’ve gone through legal channels.”
“Oh, yes. First the police. They were no help at all. I’ve been through three private investigators, and they keep coming up with promising leads, but each time they get to a place they find out that she just left it. Once, it turned out she was never there at all.”
Forrest nodded thoughtfully. “She’s running. And she has the sense to set a false trail, or at least make an effort at it.”
“They can’t help me,” he stammered. “I was told ... maybe you can. I’ll do anything,” he added quickly. “Just get them back for me, and you can name your price. If I have it, it’s yours.”
For a long time Forrest looked at him. In the silence the man could hear his own heart pounding; did he look as desperate as he felt? If you fail me now, he thought, what other hope is there? But he didn’t dare move. He didn’t dare speak. The black gaze had him frozen, like a nudeer in a predator’s jaws.
“I can track her,” Forrest said at last. “I can get your children and bring them back to you. I can see that she never interferes in your life again. The price is one hundred fifty a day, plus expenses. Do you care if your ex-wife is injured?”
“I—” For a moment the words wouldn’t come; he had to force them out. “I’d rather not. If that’s possible.”
“One hundred and sixty, then. Payment due in full when the children are returned to you.”
He offered his hand. The man stared at it for a moment, then took it. And shook it, hard.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you.”
“Thank me when the work is done, Mer Helder.”
He indicated the packet of papers in his hand. “I have all the information written down here, including the reports of the men I hired. Charcoal portraits of the children—”
“Leave it,” Forrest said quietly. “I’ll go through it tonight. For now, go home. Forget you ever came here. The next time you see me will be when I bring you your children. If you seek me out before that, I’ll consider our contract null and void. Do you understand that?”
“I understand,” he whispered. Trying not to think about what special techniques this man must employ, that he took such care to keep his workings secret.
“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Mer Helder.” Forrest nodded what was obviously a dismissal.
But the man didn’t move. “Do you think—” he dared. “I mean, can you—”
“Prey is prey,” he said. “The fact that it’s human in this case makes the game more interesting, but not necessarily more difficult. Intelligence, like instinct, can be anticipated. Manipulated.” He took another sip from the cup, his gaze never leaving the man. “If your children are still alive, then I guarantee results. If not ... then you haven’t spent anything, have you?” The black eyes glittered; in the lamplight they seemed strangely inhuman. “Good night, Mer Helder.”
He managed to get to his feet and head toward the door, even though he longed to beg for better reassurance. Was there really a chance for him to be reunited with his children? Could this strange man succeed where so many had failed? But it was clear from Forrest’s manner that he was no longer welcome in the office, and so he hurried out. The last thing he wanted to do was anger the only man who could help him.
He’ll get them for me, he thought desperately. He will. I know it.
Repeating that thought like a mantra, he made his way out of the strange shop, and started the long walk home.
For a long time after his visitor left, the man called Riven Forrest was still. Waiting for the air to clear, it seemed. Waiting for the psychic dust to settle. At last, when he judged that the atmosphere was right, he reached out and put his hand on the packet the man had left behind. Just that. He could breathe in its contents in images, which was faster and far more satisfying than reading. What were words, anyway? At best they only hinted at the exhilaration of the hunt; at worst, they muddled and obscured it.
Leaning back, he shut his eyes and envisioned the task at hand. She would be afraid even now, after all these months. He would dissect that fear. Fear was what made animals run, and the shape of that fear was what you used to divine their path. Do it right, and the fae itself would vibrate in harmony with your pursuit. There was no escape after that. Not when the planet itself was your collaborator, and every living thing on it an extension of your will.
At last, when he was satisfied that he had absorbed the emotional essence of this new case, he smiled. Plans were already forming in his brain. Patterns were already being sketched out, tested, and adjusted within him, in a process far more natural than breathing. He was in his element now, and he loved every minute of it. Was there any sweeter challenge to court than the hunt of intelligent prey?
He picked up the cup before him. The liquid inside was thick and red, and carefully heated to body temperature. He liked it best that way. Traditional.
The painting which loomed over the fireplace was a portrait of the Hunter. With a smile, the creature called Riven Forrest raised the cup up toward it; the red liquid sloshed thickly inside.
“Here’s to you, Dad,” he whispered.
And he drank.
Forty-five
Damien thought, I can’t believe he’s dead.
People were shouldering their way past Damien in anxious haste, as if afraid that the world might change again before they could profit from it. Newsmongers and merchants and sorcerers and tourists and even one or two who labeled themselves “Earth scientists,” going from south to north in search of new knowledge, or north to south seeking profit for what they had already gleaned, or else staying here, at the midpoint of the journey, to sell their fellow travelers whatever they’d be willing to buy. Human enterprise at its best.
Let it go, Vryce. Just let it go.
The first week he had been here he’d told himself it was because he didn’t know what else to do with himself. In a way, that was true. The priesthood was closed to him, not because he couldn’t get himself reinstated if he wanted to—the Holy Mother in the West would surely respond positively to a heartfelt appeal—but because the Patriarch had been right, d
amn him. The clarity of faith which had once been Damien Vryce’s hallmark was gone now, and what had taken its place might be made to serve the Church in a thousand ways, but it wasn’t appropriate for a priest. There were other things he could do, of course, such as bodyguarding couriers and explorers or taking on such commissions himself. For all that the fae was “tame” now, there were enough demons left over from the time before that it would be quite a few generations before anyone felt safe traveling alone. In token of which ... he half rose out of his seat as something dark and winged swept down from the smoke-filled sky, swinging his springbolt up as he thumbed off the safety—but it pulled up sharply into the thin winds and was lost behind a cloud before he could track it and fire. Lucky beastie. Between his own sure aim and the handful of trigger-happy tourists who fished for demons in the smoke-filled valleys, damn few things made it through. He had shot down over a dozen himself this week, and collected a fair bounty on each from the tavern’s owner. A good deal, all around. That and the free ale made it possible for him to put off certain decisions that he would rather not make ... like what he was going to do with himself when this was all over. Like when the hell he was going to acknowledge that it was all over, and get his shit together and start living again.
With a sigh he emptied the mug of ale, and waved away the server who offered to bring him another. Black Ridge Tavern. He looked about it in amazement, at walls and chairs and beer-taps that would have been unthinkable mere weeks before. The place was crowded as always, and the rough space was filled with the smell of fire, sweat, and sawdust as tourists and tabloid artists and self-appointed ambassadors to the Iezu made their best attempt at conversation. Overhead roof beams were being nailed in place even now, and the sounds of saw and hammer added to the overall din. With a sigh he finally rose up from his seat, and made his way out of the crowded common room. Onto the deck which wound over and about the mountain’s crest, offering men a firm path where once even horses feared to tread.
Crown of Shadows Page 50
