He’s left us alive this long because he perceives that Ciani needs us. What happens if he changes his mind?
With effort, he concentrated on Working. He could feel the horse’s flesh trembling as it fought Tarrant’s control, and knew it would take only a momentary slip on the part of the adept for the creature to strike out at him. As he manipulated the bone fragments, first by hand and then by Touch, he could feel the pain coursing up the animal’s leg. But with the current as weak as it was and the water interfering, there was simply no way to anesthetize the beast. Relying upon his Seeing to show him what must be done, he wound strands of healing fae about the bone ends and slowly drew them together. The horse screamed once, in agony—and then Tarrant’s power silenced it. Damien prompted the equine flesh to deposit calcium where he needed it, and accelerated the production of new bone a thousandfold. Hold onto him, please. Just a short while longer. Spongy tissue filled the gap and then hardened; bone chips were absorbed by the body, to fuel the new construction. Damien felt a cold sweat break out on his face, and channels of that and the Serpent’s spray coursed down his neck as he Worked. Just a little bit longer. He felt the horse shudder beneath his hands as the adept’s control slipped, just a little. One more minute! And then the leg was whole again and he jumped back—just in time. The muscular animal staggered to its feet, nostrils distended in outrage. But its leg was whole and the pain was gone, and the whole experience was fading rapidly from its memory. That was part of the Healing, too, and Damien was relieved to see it take.
Shivering in the chill of the night, he finally led the animal ashore. Ciani had opened his oilcloth-wrapped pack and laid out dry clothes for him; with no thought for modesty, he changed into them, glancing at the cliff only once as he used an extra dry shirt to wring the water from his hair.
Then he looked for Gerald Tarrant.
The adept was nowhere in sight. Ciani saw Damien searching and nodded toward the west, where an outcropping of rock hid part of the shoreline from view. But when he passed by her on the way there, she grasped his arm and held it.
“He’s in bad shape.” She said quietly. “Has been since the Canopy. The horse took a lot out of him. Just give him time, Damien.”
He disengaged himself from her gently. With a last glance toward the clifftop to check for enemies—there were none—he walked cautiously in the direction she had indicated, to where a boulder, grotesquely carved by wind and water, hid some of the shoreline from view.
He was there, behind it. Eyes shut, leaning against the rock as if, without its support, he would surely go down. He didn’t hear Damien approach—or perhaps he simply lacked the strength to respond. A delicate shudder ran through his body as he watched, a glissando of weakness. Or pain.
“You all right?” Damien asked softly.
The adept stiffened—but if there was a curt response on his lips, he failed to voice it. After a moment the tension bled out of his frame; his shoulders slumped against the rock.
“No,” he said. “No, I’m not.” His voice was little more than a whisper. “Does it matter to you, priest?”
“If it didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”
Gerald Tarrant said nothing.
“You’re hurt.”
“How observant.”
Damien felt himself stiffening in anger—and forced himself to relax, his voice and body to be calm. “You’re making it pretty damned hard for me to help you.”
The Hunter looked at him, hollowed eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “Is that what you came to do? Help me?”
“Part of it.”
He looked out into the night. Shut his eyes once more. “The Canopy drained me,” he whispered. “Is that what you want to hear? The Working that sustains my life had to be renewed minute by minute, against a turbulent and unpredictable current. Is it any surprise I’m exhausted? I almost didn’t make it.”
“So what you need is rest?”
He sighed. “When you do strenuous work, priest, you eat to sustain yourself. My chosen fare may have changed, but the need remains the same. Is that what concerns you? Be reassured—I have no intentions of feeding on your party. God alone knows if the rakh are sophisticated enough to offer me what I need, but the currents speak of other human life inside the Canopy. I have no intention of starving to death,” he assured him.
“What is it that you need?” Damien asked quietly.
He looked at the priest. A flicker of evil stirred in the depths of his eyes, and a cold breeze stirred in the air between them.
“Does it really matter?” he whispered.
“It does if I want to help.”
“I doubt you would be willing to do that.”
“Try me. What is it?” When the adept said nothing, he pressed, “Blood?”
“That? Merely an aperitif. The power that sustains me is demonic in nature—and I feed as the true demons do, upon the vital energy of man. Upon his negative emotions: Anguish. Despair. Fear. Especially fear, priest; that is, by far, the most delectable.”
“Thus the Hunt.”
His voice was a whisper. “Exactly.”
“And that’s what you need now?”
He nodded weakly. “Blood will suffice for a while—but in the end, I require human suffering to stay alive.” The cold eyes fixed on him. “Are you offering that?”
“I might,” Damien said evenly.
“Then you’re a brave man,” he breathed. “And a foolish one.”
“It’s been said.”
“You trust me?”
“No,” he said bluntly. “But I don’t think you want me dead just now. Or incapacitated. And I don’t see that you’re much good to us, the way you’re going.” And I want you on your feet before the others think of trying to help you. Senzei couldn’t handle it. Ciani isn’t strong enough. “Is there a way it could be done, just this once, without ...” He floundered for the proper phrase.
“Without you dying?” He nodded. There was a new note in his voice, a sharper undercurrent. Hunger? “There are dreams. Nightmares. I could fashion them in your mind, to inspire the emotions I require . . . but it would take a special link between us to allow me to feed off them. And that wouldn’t fade when the sun came up. Are you willing to have such a channel established—for life?”
He hesitated. “Tell me what it would entail.”
“What any channel does. A path of least resistance for the fae, that any Working might draw upon. Such a thing could never be banished, priest. Not by either of us.”
“But if it wasn’t used?”
“It has no power of its own, if that’s the question. Nor would it fade with time. Only death can sever that kind of link—and sometimes not even that.”
He thought about that. Thought about the alternatives. And asked, grimly, “Is there any other way?”
“Not for me,” the Hunter whispered. “Not now. And without sustenance my strength would continue to fade . . . but I’m surprised you don’t find that preferable.”
“You’re part of our company now,” Damien said sharply. “And from the moment we passed under the Canopy until we get out from under it, we’re all in this together. That’s how I see it. If you have any trouble with that attitude, now’s the time to let me know.”
Tarrant stared at him. “No. None at all.”
“You obviously can’t feed off the horses or you would have done that already—and I won’t let you touch Ciani or Senzei. Period. That leaves me. Or else you stay as you are, and we all suffer from the loss of your power. Right? As far as I’m concerned, your company isn’t so pleasant that I would keep you around just for conversation. —So are you going to tell me what you need to establish this link between us, or do I have to guess at it?”
For a moment the Hunter was still. Then he said, in a voice as cool as the Serpent’s water. “You never do cease to surprise me. I accept your offer. As for the channel we’ll be establishing . . . that’s potentially as deadly for me as it is for you. If it’s any
consolation.”
He pushed himself away from the boulder, and managed to stand unsupported. It clearly took effort. “Before we deal with that, I suggest we move on. Find somewhere where there’s shelter, from prying eyes and sunlight both. A place where we can camp in safety. Then. . . .”
He looked at Damien curiously. The hunger in his eyes was undisguised.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve tasted a cleric’s blood,” he mused.
Twenty-nine
Deep within the House of Storms, in a room reserved for Working, the Master of Lema halted in mid-invocation, startled by a sudden change in the current. A quick movement of a gloved hand and a well-trained mind served to Dispel the entity that was slowly taking form in the warded circle, and a muttered key established a Knowing in its place.
After a moment—a long moment—there was a nod. A hungry nod.
“Calesta.” The name was a whisper—an incantation—a command. “Take form, Calesta. Now.”
Out of the darkness a figure formed, a shadow made solid by the power of sorcerous will. The shape it wore resembled that of a man, but no single detail was wholly human. Its skin bore the hard black gloss of obsidian, and its clothing flowed like smoke over its limbs. Its features were somewhat human in shape—if carved volcanic glass might be said to resemble humanity—but where human eyes should have been were faceted orbs, mirror-surfaced, which reflected back the object of the figure’s attention in a thousand fractured bits.
The demon called Calesta bowed but made no sound. In its silence all things might be read, all manners of obesance to the one it served—to the one who was called Master of Lema, Keeper of Souls, The One Who Binds.
“Taste it, Calesta.” A hungry whisper, tense with anticipation. “She’s entered the Canopy. Can you feel it? And another, with her. An adept. Two adepts. . . .”
“Shall I send the Dark Ones after them?” The demon’s voice was something more felt than heard: a whisper of fingernails against a dry slateboard, the feel of teeth scaping on chalk.
“Worthless fools!” the sorceror spat. “What good are they? I gave them the richness of an adept’s soul to feed on and they acted like children at a banquet—dropping their food as soon as there was some new game afoot! No. This time you’ll do it, Calesta. First find out who they are. Where they’re going. Tell me that. Then we can make our plans.”
The One Who Binds tasted the current again. And shivered as the anticipation of conquest, like a newly-injected drug, prompted a torrent of adrenaline within.
“The adepts are mine,” the Master whispered.
Thirty
Dusk. A swollen, sallow sunset. Dust strewn across a barren landscape, naked hills swelling lifeless in the distance. Sharp cracks that split the air: rhythmic, like a drumbeat. Death.
He staggers onto the field of battle, exhaustion a sharp pain in his side. To his left thunder roars, and the ground explodes in mayhem. Explosives. They’re using explosives. In the distance another patch of ground erupts, and a cloud of dust rises to fill the murky air. Warded explosives, he decides. Designed to ignite when some living thing comes too close. A very dangerous Working, rarely dared; that the enemy has applied it says much for their skill, and for their confidence.
Another hundred yards, and he comes upon the bodies. They litter the ground like volcanic debris spewed from a festering cone. Bits of arms and legs and fragments of shattered skull pepper the ground as far as the eye can see—some bodies still twitching, whole enough to feel pain as they bleed out their last life into the dusty ground. He staggers to one of those and prays for strength: the strength to persevere, the power to Heal. Explosives fire like a sharp drumroll in the distance, the crack of a hundred pistols perfectly synchronized. He feels a sharp bite of fear at the sound, at the unnaturalness of it. What kind of Working must it take, to make it possible for so many guns to fire successfully, with such planned precision? More than he has ever witnessed, or imagined possible.
The swollen sun, storm-yellow, watches in silence as he kneels by the side of the fallen, as he gathers himself to Work. The woman lying before him moans softly, her face half-covered in blood. It’s a painful wound, but not a deadly one; if he can master enough fae to stop the bleeding, the odds are good she will survive.
He Works.
Or tries to.
Nothing responds.
Shaken, he looks over the battlefield. To the south of him black earth spouts upward suddenly, accompanied by the thunderclap of explosives. He tries to Work his sight, to See what the currents are like here—the place is strange, unfamiliar to him, maybe the patterns of the fae need to be interpreted before they can be Worked—but he sees no fae, he Works no vision, there are only the dead and the dying about him. Nothing that speaks to him of power—or hope.
He shivers, though the air is warm.
With effort, he forces himself to his feet again, and staggers over to the next body. A man, with his left hand blown off. Thousands of small wounds pepper his body, sharp metal shards still lodged in some of them. He touches the tender flesh and wills all the power to come and serve him, using all the skill that the years have given him. He focuses on his own hunger to Work and the need to Heal—the desperate need to Heal—and the faith that has sustained him past pain, past death, into realms where only the holy may enter—
And nothing responds. Absolutely nothing. The planet is dead, unresponsive to his will. He feels the first cold bite of despair, then, a kind of fear he’s never experienced before. Danger he can deal with, death he’s confronted on least a dozen occasions, but there’s never been anything like this before—never such absolute helplessness in the face of human suffering, such sudden awareness that his will doesn’t matter, he doesn’t matter, he has no more power to affect the patterns of fate than the dismembered limbs on this field, or the cooling blood that turns the dry earth to mud under his feet.
For the first time in his life, he knows the rank taste of terror. Not the quantifiable fear of assessed risk, but the unbounded horror of total immersion in the unknown. Guns fire once more in the distance, and for the first time since coming here he realizes why they can function with such regularity. Man’s will has no power here—not to kill and not to heal, not to alter the world and not to adapt to it. The whole of this world is dead to man, dead to his dreams, impassive to his needs and his pleas and even his fears. The concept is awesome, terrifying. He feels himself falling to his knees, muttering a key as he tries once more to Work the fae, to find some point of stability in this alien universe. Anything. But there is no response. No fae that he might use, to bind his will to the rest of the universe. The world is closing in around him, like a dead hand closing about his flesh. The claustrophobia of total despair chokes him. He cannot breathe. He—
Woke. Gasping for breath, shivering. Cold sweat beaded his forehead, and his heart pounded like that distantly remembered gunfire. It took him a moment to remember where he was. Another long, painful moment to realize what had happened.
“Zen?” His voice was hoarse. “Cee?”
There was no response. He looked about, saw their bedrolls neatly bundled by the cavern’s entrance. There was little light, which meant the sun was setting—had set?—which meant, in turn, that he had slept for hours. Too many hours. Despite the fact that he had retired from his last watch well before noon, he felt as though he had never closed his eyes. As though he had spent his daylight hours in constant battle, his muscles and his soul still aching from the effort.
He forced himself to his feet and stood with one hand against the cavern wall until the worst of the shaking subsided and he felt he could walk again. As the Hunter had instructed, he had told Ciani and Zen that he should be allowed to sleep until he awakened naturally. He had never thought that it would take so long.
They must be worried as hell. How much should he tell them of what had passed between the Hunter and himself? On the one hand, it would upset them to no purpose—and on the other, if som
e kind of permanent channel had been established, didn’t they have the right to know? His head swam with trying to decide.
Steady, Vryce. One step at a time. Time to move again.
His will gripping his unsteady legs like a vice, he sought the cavern’s entrance. There, sheltered beneath a lip of granite, Gerald Tarrant sat—eyes shut, utterly relaxed, breathing steadily in contentment. From further down on the beach (if beach it could be called) a tiny cookfire flickered, a dark figure huddled over it. Ciani, he guessed. Senzei would be on watch.
He looked down at the Hunter, found that the man’s obvious contentment grated on his nerves more than all his nightmares combined. “I hope you’re satisfied,” he whispered hoarsely.
“It was adequate.” Tarrant turned to him, pale eyes brimming with languid malevolence. Damien was reminded of a sated predator, lazily contemplating his prey. “You seem surprised, priest. That I could inspire such fear in you? If so, you fail to give yourself credit. That was my seventh attempt, and by far the most complex. My victims are usually more . . . vulnerable.” Then his voice dropped to a whisper and he added, with soft intensity, “That was Earth, you know.”
“Your vision of it.”
“It’s the dream you serve. A future the Church hopes to make possible. A land in which the fae has no power, to alter fate or man . . . how do you like the taste of it, priest? The special savor of Terran impotence.”
“They got to the stars,” he retorted. “In less than twelve centuries, our Terran ancestors went from barbarism to galactic colonization. And what have we done in that much time? Settled two continents on a single planet—and barely that. And you dare to ask me if it’s worth a price to regain our lost heritage? Any price, Hunter. Anything.”
“Your faith is strong,” he mused.
“Damned right. Your legacy, Neocount. Your dream. Some of us were foolish enough to stick with it. Now, are you feeling better, or was all that effort wasted?”
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