Dear God. What must this place be like in the sunlight! He stared at the perpendicular windows, wondering if the dawn would reveal patterns of tinted glass. And again, a sense of familiarity flickered in the back of his mind.
Where do I know this building from?
The albino had dismounted, and he came to where Damien and Senzei’s horses stood. He waited. After a moment Damien dismounted, careful to favor his wounded arm. And Senzei did so also—or tried to. Fortunately, Damien was close by, and he was at Senzei’s side the instant he began to fall. He caught him about the chest and helped lower him to the ground, until his feet were steady beneath him and it seemed that he could stand unaided. His flesh was distressingly hot, and it burned like fire even through the fabric of his shirt. He needs rest, Damien thought grimly. He needs a Healer. But how likely are we to get either one of those, in this place?
Shadows came at them from one of the archways—human-shaped figures swathed in black, that reached out to take their mounts. A muttered warning from Damien was enough to cause them to draw back, long enough for him to remove their more valuable possessions from his and Senzei’s horses. God alone knew if they would see the animals again. He patted his horse one last time to calm it, then gave its rein over to the black-cloaked men. Senzei’s they simply took, assuming—rightly so—that the wounded sorceror had neither the strength nor the will to oppose them.
Side by side, the travelers entered the Hunter’s keep. Black volcanic glass gave way to black numarble, streaked with random bits of crimson. In the light of Senzei’s torch, it made the floor look bloodstained. The furniture was black as well, heavy novebony pieces that were as intricately worked as the building’s facade, cushioned in jet black velvet. Red silk tassels and fine red fringe edged black velveteen draperies, fixed permanently shut over the high arched windows. There were bits of gold visible here and there—drawer handles, locks, opulent doorknobs—but the dramatic darkness of the castle’s interior was only intensified further by the contrast.
At last they came to a door at which the albino paused. “You can wait here if you like,” he said. “I think you’ll find this room . . .” He grinned. “Comforting?”
He pushed the door open. For a moment, Damien could see nothing. Then the torch that Senzei was holding began to pick out details of the furnishings within—
And he stepped inside, motioning for Senzei to follow him. Not quite believing what he saw. Not knowing how to react to it.
It was a chapel. A room dedicated to the God of his faith, outfitted in the Revivalist style. No black stone here, nor any hint of visual blasphemy; the place might have been lifted out of Jaggonath a thousand years ago, and set down here without a single alteration. Which was, simply . . .
Impossible. Damien walked to the altar, let his fingers brush against the fine silk damask that covered it. He hungered to be able to Work, to Know for himself that this was indeed what it appeared to be, that no subtle malevolence was at work here, defiling the very patterns of his faith. But even in such a place as this he dared not use the fae. Especially in such a place as this, he told himself.
There were oil lamps flanking the door, and the albino lit them. “No need for open fire,” he said, and he pried the torch carefully out of Senzei’s fingers. Holding it at a distance as if in distaste, he turned to Damien. And smiled, clearly amused by the priest’s reaction.
“His Excellency is a religious man,” he said. As if that would answer all their questions. “I’ll tell him you’re here. Please feel free to make yourselves at home here . . . if you think you can.”
He turned to leave, but Damien stepped forward quickly and caught him by the arm. His body was as chill as ice, and the scent of his flesh was like carrion—but that might be just a perceptual Working meant to discourage physical contact, and Damien held on.
“His Excellency?” the priest asked tensely. “You mean the Hunter?”
“He prefers his Revivalist title,” the albino said. He closed a hand over Damien’s own—cold, so cold—and then pulled it off his arm. “Your people knew him as the Neocount of Merentha. He prefers Revivalist custom in general, I might add. You would do well to indulge him.” Lamplight glinted off the points of his teeth as he grinned: a ferocious expression. “I’m sure he’ll be delighted to find out that you made it here.”
He left them. Shutting the door firmly behind him, as if by leaving it open he might contaminate the rest of the keep. Senzei looked at Damien—and found him leaning against the altar for support, his face as pale as a ghost’s.
“Merentha Castle,” he whispered. “It’s a copy. That’s why—oh, my God. . . .”
His hand on the altar clenched, catching up a fold of damask and crushing it. “Zen . . . do you understand? Do you know who the Neocount of Merentha was?”
“I know he was one of the figureheads of the Revival. A strategist of Gannon’s, yes? A supporter of your Church—”
“A supporter? My God, he wrote half our bible. More than half! His signature is on nearly every holy book we have. The dream that we serve is his, Zen. His!”
Senzei looked confused. “What about your Prophet?”
“He is the Prophet. Don’t you understand? That was the name that they gave to him, when . . .” He shut his eyes; a shiver ran through his frame. “A name for the first part of his life. The time when he served God and man, and designed a faith that he believed could tame the fae, if only humanity would accept it. How could we follow in his footsteps without recognizing the source of our inspiration? But the Church didn’t dare use his name, because that might have invoked something of his spirit. They struck it from the books. And after . . . after. . . .”
He turned away. He didn’t want Senzei to see the tears that were coming. He might misread their source, assuming weakness—when in fact they were tears of rage. “He was an adept,” he whispered hoarsely. “One of the first. And the premier knight of my Order. One day he . . . snapped. We don’t know what caused it. We’re not even sure exactly what happened. But those who searched through Merentha Castle after his disappearance found the remains of his family, gruesomely slaughtered. Apparently he . . . vivisected his wife. His children.” He turned back to Senzei. “You have to understand,” he whispered urgently. “In our tradition, there is no greater evil. Because he was, before he fell, all that we venerate. All that we strive to become. And then he threw it all away! In an act of such brutal inhumanity that there could be no question that he had damned his soul forever. . . .”
“And no one knew where he went, after that?”
“They thought he died! They thought that hell had claimed him. And of course, yes—there were rumors. There always will be, after something like that. His brothers died in violent accidents, and he was blamed. His fiercest rival was found with his throat torn out, and of course it wasn’t mere animals that had done it. The ghost of the Neocount was given credit for at least a hundred crimes—but there never was any proof, not for any of it. And when several lifetimes had passed since his disappearance, it was reasonable to assume him dead. Mortality is the one constant of human existence.” He shook his head in amazement, and struck his fist against the altar top; a candelabra trembled. “It’s been almost ten centuries, Zen. Ten centuries! How can a human being live that long?”
“Maybe,” the sorceror said nervously, “by becoming something that’s no longer human.”
Damien stared at him.
And the door swung open.
It was the albino. His red eyes took in the picture, and he smiled. It was a faint, fleeting expression that barely touched the edges of his lips; the eloquent minimalism of it reminded Damien of the Hunter’s other servant, Gerald Tarrant.
“He’s ready for you,” the albino told them. And he gave them a moment of silence in which to realize that he wasn’t going to ask them if they, too, were ready. Because they couldn’t possibly be. The Hunter knew that.
“Follow me,” he said—and though his heart was
cold as ice, Damien obeyed.
They walked through halls of gleaming black numarble, past tapestries of black and crimson silk, over rugs so dark that only their texture made them visible: velvet black against the glistening mottled stonework of the floor. Though candles set in golden sconces along the wall had been lit some time ago, the cold stone sucked in their light as soon as it was cast. The albino sorceror, with his white hair and clothing, seemed to glow like a torch by contrast.
And then they came to a pair of novebony doors, and the albino stopped. With a grin he pushed against the heavily carved surfaces—panels of hunting scenes, battle scenes, the Dance of Death—and announced, “The Neocount of Merentha.”
Beyond the door was an audience chamber, whose vaulted ceiling and decorative arches all drew the eye to the center of the room and the man who waited there to receive them. Haughty, arrogant, he wore the robes of an earlier age: delicate silks in graduated layers, the longest of them sweeping the ground about his feet. And on his shoulders, a broad collar of beaten gold, worked in a pattern of overlapping flames: the mark of Damien’s Order.
For a moment, rage nearly got the better of Damien. He thought of the weapons at his disposal—the Fire, the springbolt, the clean steel edge of his sword—and only with effort did he keep his hands from going for one of those tools. Only with a supreme act of will did he keep himself from succumbing to a fury so dark and terrible that it seemed he must give vent to it or burst. But he was not so blinded by anger that he lost sight of the power of the man who faced him, or the vulnerability of his own position. Not to mention—as always—Senzei and Ciani.
Hands shaking, thoughts reeling, he somehow managed to find his voice. “You vulking bastard. . . .”
Gerald Tarrant chuckled. “The soul of courtesy, as always. You surprise me, priest. I would think that the premier of your Order deserved more respect.”
“You’re no servant of the Church!”
“Oh, I am that. More than you could possibly understand.”
“Where’s Ciani?” Senzei demanded.
The Hunter’s expression darkened. “Safe. For now. You needn’t worry about her. There’s no place on Erna safer for her to be right now than here.”
“I doubt that,” Damien said coldly.
Tarrant’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll get the lady back. Healthy and fit and full of all the memories that I inadvertently drained from her. It was to restore those to her that I brought her here. And the three of you will go to the rakhlands, just as you planned. In addition, your chance of success has increased considerably—because I will be going with you.”
“Like hell you are!”
The pale eyes glittered. “Exactly.” And before either of the men could respond he added, “I see that I’ve failed to communicate a vital point. You have no choice.” He paused; an expression flitted across his face that was strangely vulnerable—and then, just as quickly, it was gone. “I, too, have no choice,” he said softly.
“You expect us to trust you? After what you did to Ciani?‘
“Because of what I did to Ciani.” His expression was strained, his manner tense. Damien cursed his inability to read the man. “You would be fools not to have me. You realized that in Kale, when you thought I was merely an adept. Is it any less true now?”
“We don’t need your kind of help,” the priest spat.
“On the contrary—it’s exactly what you need. A mind not so blinded by dreams of vengeance that it will fail to ask the right questions. As you have failed, priest—you, and your friend.”
“Such as?”
The silver eyes fixed on him. “Why has the lady lost her adeptitude?”
For a moment the silence in the chamber was absolute; so much so that Damien could hear the slow sizzle of wax from one of the room’s few candles. Then Tarrant continued. “Adeptitude isn’t a learned skill. It’s inborn. Inseparable from the flesh. A woman like Ciani could no more forget how to interact with the fae than she could forget to breathe, or think. Yet that’s precisely what happened. I question how. You believe that her assailants were constructs of the fae that sustain themselves by feeding on human memory. But the worst part of what was done to her had nothing to do with memory, and everything to do with power.” He paused, giving that thought a moment to sink in. “Which means one of two things. Either these creatures aren’t what they appear to be . . . or they’re allied to something else. Something far more dangerous and complex. Something powerful enough to—”
He stopped as Senzei moaned softly; he turned toward the sorceror, and his expression darkened. Damien turned to his friend, just in time to see him crumple to the floor. Quickly he moved to his side, careful to place his bulk between the two men, protecting Senzei. With one hand he pulled open his collar, with the other he tested his forehead for fever. The flushed skin burned like fire, an ominous heat. Senzei’s eyes were open, but glazed and expressionless; his mouthed opened and closed soundlessly, shaping a whisper.
“The scent of death is on him,” the Hunter said quietly.
“I’m surprised you can make it out in this place.” Damien felt his hands shaking as he felt for his friend’s pulse—weak and rapid, like the heartbeat of a frightened bird—and knew that he was going to have to Heal him. Here. Now. It was that or let him die.
I should never have let you go on this long, he thought grimly. Forgive me. And then the hardest admission of all, one he rarely made: I was afraid. . . .
Senzei gasped. A broken voice forced its way through his swollen throat. “Sorry. . . .”
“It’s all right,” the priest said quietly. “It’s going to be all right.” If it has to be done, so be it. His heart was cold, as if the chill of the Forest had already invaded his flesh. He began to draw inside himself, to gather his consciousness in preparation for Working—when Tarrant’s presence stabbed into him like a knife, breaking his concentration.
“You can’t Heal him,” the Hunter warned. “Not here.”
Damien stood and faced him. The fear inside him gave way to rage; his hands balled into fists at his side as he demanded, “What the hell do you suggest? That I just let him die? Is that what you want?”
“I’ll deal with him,” the Hunter said calmly.
For a moment Damien just stared at him, speechless. “You’re telling me you can Heal?”
“Not at all. But that isn’t the skill your friend requires right now.”
He began to move toward the fallen sorceror, clearly intending to Work him—but Damien grabbed him by the tunic front and forced him back, all his anger transmuted into sudden strength.
“You stay away from him!” he spat. “I’ve had enough of your Workings—and so has he. You think I’ll let you do to him what you did to that boy?” He shook his head angrily. “I only make a mistake once, Hunter.”
Something flashed in Tarrant’s eyes, an emotion so human that Damien had no trouble at all interpreting it. Hatred—unbridled, undisguised. The honesty of it was strangely refreshing.
“You will trust me, priest.” His voice was a mere whisper, but the power behind it was deafening. Ripples of earth-fae carried the words deep into Damien’s brain, adhered their meaning to his flesh. “Not because you want to. Or because it comes easily to you. Because you have no choice.”
He reached up and pulled Damien’s hand from his tunic front. His flesh was like ice; Damien’s hand spasmed once in his grip, then went numb. Tarrant pushed him away. Then he glanced down at his clothing and scowled, as though the sharp creases Damien had left in the fine silk were distortions in his own flesh. “As I must serve the lady’s cause, in this.” His tone was bitter. “I, too, have no choice.”
He looked toward the door. Damien felt the power rise in him, tides of fae responding to his will like a dog coming to heel for its master. The priest clutched his injured hand to his chest and wondered just how fast—and how effectively—his other hand could draw and strike. Could he get to the Fire before Tarrant realized what h
e was doing?
Then the doors were flung open and a pair of men entered. Tarrant nodded toward Senzei’s body.
“You did a brave and foolish thing in coming here,” he told Damien. His polished mask was back in place, his tone once more aloof and controlled. “I’ll admit that I didn’t expect it of you. But now that you’re here and I’m forced to deal with you, it’s time you faced the facts.” The men were gathering up Senzei’s body. “We are allies, you and I. You don’t have to like it. I curse the day it became necessary. But you will accept it—for the lady’s sake. As I must.” He glanced toward Senzei and back again, meaningfully. “I suggest you accept my service while it’s still available, priest. Your friend has very little time left.”
It’s that or Work the fae myself, Damien thought. And he knew, with sudden dread clarity, that he would never survive such an immersion. The evil in this place was too deeply entrenched; it would draw the life from his wounded flesh before he had the chance to whisper his first key.
We have no alternative, he thought bitterly. We have run out of options.
“For now,” he responded. Not in years had he spoken such distasteful words—but the Hunter was right. There was no other choice. “This once.”
God help you if you betray us!
They carried the body to an upstairs room, a vaulted chamber that had clearly been outfitted for guests. There they laid Senzei atop a velvet-draped bed, beneath a heavy brocade canopy supported by four carved posts. The wood of the bed was dark, as was all the room’s furniture; even the heavy curtains were a carmine so deep that it might almost have been black. But the fire that had been kindled in the room’s large fireplace cast a crisp, golden light across the room, and picked out features of the decor in reassuring amber. Compared to the jet black rooms below, it was almost a human place.
Tarrant wasted no time in superficial examination. With a slender knife that he had produced from somewhere on his person, he cut through the layers of Senzei’s clothing with the innate skill of a surgeon and laid his dressing bare. The thick white bandages were stained with a motley of dark, unpleasant colors, and a fetid smell arose from their surface. Damien was dimly aware of the two servants leaving them as Tarrant’s knife slid beneath the blood-soaked cloth, dividing it. Slowly, he peeled the crusted layers back from the sorceror’s skin. A putrid scent filled the room: the stink of advanced infection. It was a smell Damien knew all too well—the smell of flesh failing, of a body too far gone into death for any mere Healing to save it. With a sinking heart he watched as Tarrant took out a handkerchief—fine white linen, edged in gold embroidery—and carefully wiped Senzei’s side clean of the rotted gore that clung to him, so that the wound itself might be seen.
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