He began to walk toward her. A knot of fear twisted in her gut as she tried to draw back from him; inwardly she cursed herself for her weakness. What was it about this man that unnerved her more than all the demons she had fought? Was it because the darkness she sensed within him had left no mark upon his physical person? With his delicately beautiful features and the halo of moonlight glowing about his head, he looked almost angelic. Benign. Was it easier to deal with monsters when they looked like monsters?
Then he was in front of her. It took all her strength of will not to flinch before the power of his gaze.
“So very brave,” he said softly. There was a faint inflection to his voice that she could not identify: an echo of lost lands and forgotten times. “You would fight me if you could, wouldn’t you? Even though the battle would be lost before you began.”
He reached down for her sword. She tightened her hand around its grip—but then he touched her and her fingers froze, and he lifted the weapon from her hand easily as if he were taking a toy from a child. For a moment he just looked at it, studying the Church insignia that adorned its grip. Whatever hope she might have had that the religious symbol would repel him faded as he ran one finger slowly over the design. A hint of dark amusement flickered in his eyes.
“What are you?” she whispered.
“A servant of the One God, in ways that you will never understand.” He put the sword off to one side of him, sliding its point into the ground so that it would stand upright just beyond her reach. Then he reached out to touch her face. She tried to pull away from him, but the vines were wrapped about her too tightly to allow her more than a few inches of leeway. His pale fingers stroked her cheek gently, a mockery of a lover’s caress. “Helplessness,” he murmured. “That’s your greatest fear, is it not? Better to suffer a thousand wounds in battle than to surrender control of your fate to another.” He smiled coldly as he brushed a lock of sweat-soaked hair back from her face; the grip of the vines was so tight that she could not even turn her head away from him. “How very sad, that in the end you must die in a state of submission.”
Anger welled up inside her suddenly, driving out all the fear and the despair; her entire soul was alight with white-hot indignation. I will not be your plaything! her soul screamed. She stared into his visage—so beautiful, so clean, so perfect in its vanity—and realized that she did have one weapon left. Perhaps it would not be enough to win her freedom, in this life, but she could claim her freedom as she headed into the next.
I know your weakness, she thought.
She hawked up phlegm from deep within her lungs. It wasn’t hard to do; her chest was full of the stuff.
“Fuck you,” she growled.
And she spat in his face.
He was clearly unprepared for such a move, and for a moment he did not react at all, as the glob of blood-flecked spittle on his cheek began to slide down his face. Then the human façade seemed to give way, and with a cry of fury he grabbed her by the edge of her helm, jerking her head to one side, bearing her throat. The spittle exploded into a thousand frozen fragments and fell from his face, but she knew he could still feel it there, like a slow-burning brand. Imperfection. Filth. Denial of his dominion. There was a black rage burning inside him now, more intense than any emotion a mortal soul was meant to contain, and she could sense the bloodthirst that welled up in its wake. Better than she could have hoped for.
Shutting her eyes, she muttered a prayer under her breath as she braced herself for death. Receive my soul, God of Earth and Erna, that I may serve you in the next world forever.
But seconds passed, and nothing happened. She could feel his hand tremble where he held her, fingers digging deeply into her flesh, but otherwise there was no motion.
Let the rage overwhelm him. Please, God. Allow me to die quickly.
Finally he lowered his face to her throat, and she braced herself to have it torn open, or sliced through, or whatever other form death might take. But death did not come. She could feel his cold breath just above the edge of her gorget, and then—unexpectedly—the touch of his lips upon her skin. Disarmingly gentle, perversely intimate. She felt more violated by that kiss than she had by all the rest of what had happened to her, and she shivered as his cold breath raised goosebumps along her neck.
“Tell your masters that the Forest is spoken for.” He whispered the words softly into her ear, a lover’s intimacy. “Tell them that trespassers will not be received well.”
Then he let go of her and stepped back. The vines that had been binding her twitched, stiffened, and then shattered like glass. Frozen black crystals showered down around her as she was suddenly freed from bondage. The unexpected absence of support left her unprepared, and she stumbled to her knees. For a moment it was all she could do to catch her breath, trying to absorb what had just happened. Then she looked up at him. The storm of emotion that had briefly possessed him was gone now; his gaze was as steady as a frozen lake, and equally unreadable.
He pointed to the depths of the Forest, in the direction she had been about to run. “South is that way,” he said. And he added, “Nothing will stop you.”
Then he turned and slipped into the shadows of the Forest, and a moment later was gone from sight.
Faith shut her eyes and trembled. Every survival instinct in her soul warned her that that guidance of such a creature was not to be trusted. The wolves had wanted to drive her into that very same darkness, for reasons of their own; how could she be certain his motives were any different? But logic, too, had its voice. There was no point in his giving her a message for the Church if he did not expect her to deliver it, was there? If he sent her to his death he would be defeating his own purpose.
Tell your masters the Forest is spoken for.
She took one last look at the glimmering stream of water, then turned away from it and limped into the shadows of the deep woods, in the direction she prayed was south.
* * *
“She won’t make it out.”
Startled, Tarrant turned to find the albino standing only a few yards behind him. Had the man been following him? If so, he might prove more dangerous than Tarrant had anticipated.
Perversely, he discovered that the concept did not displease him. Too few things in the world gave him any real challenge these days. “It will be a test of her faith,” he responded.
“Her Church people will come here. Your warning won’t stop them.”
No, Tarrant thought. My warning will do exactly what it was intended to do.
The Church would have no choice but to come here. Not immediately—perhaps not even for a generation or two—but sooner or later it must. A religion that was dedicated to bringing the fae under control could not simply sit back and watch while a human sorcerer claimed dominion over the Forest. They would come. They would come in force. It was as inevitable as the sun rising in the morning.
“It will be a test of their faith,” he said quietly.
He did not expect Amoril to appreciate the irony of the situation. The man had no way to know that in another time—another life—Tarrant had been one of the founding fathers of the Church. If the priests came after him now, they would be waging war against their own Prophet.
If they have the courage to challenge me here, in this place, then I will know my creation was worthy of me.
“You mean to stay here?” Amoril asked. Though only one question was voiced, others echoed in its wake: Can we really leave this place? Will the Forest allow us to go? What if you are able to break free of its power and I can’t? “Is that wise?”
That Amoril still feared the Forest so much was a sign of weakness. Tarrant would have to break him of that if the man was to be a useful servant.
He remembered the moment when his own strength had been tested. When rage and bloodthirst had roared through his veins like wildfire, threatening to sear his soul to ashes if he did not submit to it and devour the woman. It had taken all the force of his will to resist the assault,
but he had managed it. And now the Forest knew his true strength. All its tricks could not make him taste a single drop of blood if he did not want to, nor kill at another’s behest. It had tested its own strength against his, and it had failed.
The currents lapped at his ankles now like the tongue of a beaten dog. Still violent and unpredictable—no question about that—but now subservient to his will. Had the Forest adapted to him, or he to it? The bloodthirst that had defined him for centuries now seemed a distant thing, bereft of power. Was he free of it at last, or was this only a brief respite? Either way, it was something to be embraced, a freedom he had dreamed of for many years but never thought possible.
He looked to the north, where stark black mountains were crowned in Domina’s moonlight, poised above a sea of shimmering power. Exquisite. To the south he could sense the woman slowly making her way to freedom, and though she manifested no fear-wraiths in her wake, as a normal women might have, he could taste her fear on the wind. Also exquisite.
Nothing in the Forest would impede her progress. Not unless he commanded it.
So much beauty. So much power.
“Come,” he said quietly. “We have a castle to build.”
He slipped into the depths of the Forest without further word, his midnight garments melding effortlessly into the shadows. The albino watched for a moment, crimson eyes gleaming with a host of unvoiced emotions. Then, lips tight, he nodded his head ever so slightly, and followed his new master into the darkness.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Celia S. Friedman was born in New York City in 1957. From her earliest days she delighted in coming up with strange stories about alien worlds, which pleased some of her grade school teachers more than others. Later, while pursuing a college degree in theater design, she wrote stories for her own private amusement. Some of them would eventually be expanded into her first novel, In Conquest Born. In 1985, while teaching costume design at a university in Virginia, she decided to submit her work to DAW, just to see what would happen. The rest, as they say, is history.
Celia’s published works include In Conquest Born, the Coldfire Trilogy (Black Sun Rising, When True Night Falls, Crown of Shadows), This Alien Shore, The Madness Season, The Wilding, and, of course, the Magister Trilogy. (Feast of Souls, Wings of Wrath, Legacy of Kings.) She has also written a sourcebook for White Wolf’s Vampire: the Masquerade role-playing game, and several works of short fiction. She currently lives in Northern Virginia with two Maine Coon wannabees who like to snuggle between her arms while she types.
Celia loves to hear from her readers, and anyone who would like to drop her a note or get information about her upcoming works is invited to visit the C. S. Friedman Facebook page or to stop by www.csfriedman.com.
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