He stopped suddenly. And drew in a long, slow breath.
“Gerald?” Ciani asked. “What is it?”
His arms tightened about his body. But he said nothing.
“You know a way,” Damien said quietly.
“Maybe,” he whispered. “The risk would be tremendous. If she were sane, if we could predict her response . . . but she isn’t, and we can’t.” He shook his head. “Too dangerous, priest. Even for this expedition.”
“Tell me.”
The pale eyes fixed on him. Silver in white, with hardly a trace of red; the man was healing.
“You would have come here alone,” he said softly. A challenge. “If we had not been available—or necessary—you would have traveled to this place by yourself, and dealt with her unaided. Gone into the heart of her citadel, if that’s what it took, with nothing but your own wits and a small handful of weapons. Am I correct?”
“If I judged it to be worth the risk,” Damien said warily.
“The rakhlands won’t support her forever. Already the currents are too weak to truly satisfy her, drained as they are by her Wardings. Soon she would begin to draw on the Canopy itself, and after that . . . I imagine she would move into the human lands. Utterly mad, forever hungry, and backed by a horde of demons capable of reducing her enemies to brainless husks. Would that be worth the risk, Reverend Vryce? Would you brave her citadel alone, for that—risk her rage, and that of the earth itself, to gain the upper hand in this war? Because I think I know a way that she might be rendered vulnerable, but it would have to be done by a single man. Human, and not an adept. There’s only one of us who fits that description. How great is your courage now?
“If I’d come alone, as you say, I would expect to do no less,” he said tightly. “What are you thinking?”
“It wouldn’t be pleasant, I warn you.”
“As opposed to the rest of this trip?”
Despite himself, the Hunter smiled; the expression was edged with pain. “You’re a brave man, Reverend Vryce, and true courage is rare. I respect you for it. But there’s more than simple risk at issue here.” The silver eyes burned like fire. Coldfire, unwarm and uncomforting. “Could you trust me, priest? Without reservation? Could you give yourself to me, for the lady’s sake? Entrust your soul to me, for safekeeping?”
Damien remembered the touch of the man’s soul against his own, which he had endured once in order to feed him. The mere memory of it made his skin crawl—and that had been but a fleeting contact, with no real depth to it. Even the Hunter’s coldfire in his veins, for all the pain and horror it had inspired, had been nothing compared to that. The utter revulsion. The soul-searing chill. The touch of a mind so infinitely unclean that everything it fixed upon was polluted by the contact. He shivered to recall it . . . but said nothing in response. The man hadn’t asked if he would enjoy such contact, but if he could endure it. If he would trust him.
He looked at the man’s face, at the taut tissue so recently ravaged by fire. At the weakness that lurked just beneath his facade of arrogance, which had so nearly consumed his life just now. All this, in a man who feared death more than any other single thing. All these things he had risked, and suffered, for the sake of one promise. One word. One single vow, which his present companions had not even witnessed.
“I assume it would be temporary,” he said quietly.
“Of course.” The Hunter nodded. “Assuming we both survive to undo it.”
“I have your word on that?”
“You do.” The pale gray eyes glittered with malevolence; toward him, or toward their enemy? “And I think you know what that’s worth, Reverend Vryce.”
He felt himself on the brink of a vast cliff, balancing precariously on its crumbling edge. But the darkness of the citadel which loomed overhead was even more threatening than the imagined depths beneath, and at last he heard himself say, in a voice that seemed strangely distant, “All right, Hunter. Tell me what you have in mind.”
Tarrant nodded. And turned to the pierced one. In all the time he had been awake, he had made no move to acknowledge the Lost One’s presence. Now he gazed upon the crouching form, whose cave-pale fur protected it from the night’s chill, and seemed to consider what the others had told him about it.
“Go back to your people,” he told the cave-rakh. Gesturing for Hesseth to translate his words. “Tell them they must leave this region quickly. The earth will move soon, and the caves here are too fragile to protect them. Tell them they must go down to the plains, or else head west. Away from the fault zone, as quickly as possible. Their lives depend on it.” He glanced up at the night sky as if trying to judge the time by it. “They’ll have till tomorrow night,” he said. “Tell them that. We won’t begin until nightfall, and even then it may take some time.” He looked at the rakh-woman. “But not much,” he warned. “Make that clear.”
She stared at him for a minute—suspiciously, it seemed—and then finished translating his words. It took some time for their meaning to sink in; when at last it did, the Lost One rasped a few hurried questions at Hesseth. Her answers were short hisses, and the hostility in them was clear even to those who didn’t speak her language. Finally the Lost One stood, stiffly, and looked at the party—looked long and intently at Tarrant with an expression that was unreadable—and then turned away sharply, and moved off into the night. Motion silent in the soft snow, long tail curled tightly in foreboding.
Damien waited until the Lost One was out of sight—and, presumably, out of hearing—and then said to Tarrant, “That wasn’t like you.”
“No,” the Hunter said softly. “I find myself doing a lot of things that aren’t like me, these days.”
“I wouldn’t have thought their lives mattered to you,” Hesseth challenged.
The silver eyes fixed on her, filled with a languid malevolence. “They don’t. But I do recognize my obligations.” He turned back to Damien. “You saved my life. All of you did. But in the Reverend’s case . . . I know what that meant for you,” he told Damien. “We share the same background, you and I—and I remember enough of it to understand what that cost you.” The pain of it, his expression seemed to say. The guilt. He nodded toward where the lost One had gone, now rendered invisible by the shadows of night. “Consider this my small gesture of gratitude. A few hundred less deaths to darken your conscience, Reverend Vryce. It won’t outweigh the evil of my existence, in the long run . . . but it’s all I can offer you without hazarding my own survival. I regret that.”
“Just get us through this, and you’ll have done enough,” Damien said tightly. “That’s what I brought you back for.”
Gerald Tarrant bowed. And if there was weakness in him now, it was overlaid by such hatred for the enemy that it was hard to make out. The hunger for revenge, combined with Ciani’s blood, had replenished not only body but spirit.
“As you command,” the Hunter whispered.
Forty-four
The tunnel was long and dark, and filled with the smell of mold. Which told Damien two things: that life passed this way often enough to deposit the fragile spores, and that the tunnel was deep enough to be protected from the worst of winter’s chill.
He was dressed in a woolen shirt and breeches, his only other protection a tough leather vest that was concealed by the loose folds of his garments, and matching bracers strapped about his wrists. His heavy jacket had been left at the tunnel’s entrance, along with the knitted scarves and overshirts of winter’s travel. Such garments might have kept him warmer, but they also added to his bulk—and for once that wasn’t desirable. His sheath was no longer strapped to his back but harnessed to the side of his belt: he fervently hoped he would remember it was there when the time came to draw it. Other than that he carried only a single long knife, a length of rope, two folding hooks, a number of small locksmithing tools, and several amulets. Those last were compliments of Gerald Tarrant, who had Worked them with just enough power to justify their presence on his person. He had no
springbolt. That had been the hardest thing to leave behind, but it was a bulky weapon, not quickly drawn, and a man bent on assassination couldn’t afford to slow himself down. Or so he told himself, as he mourned the loss of its reassuring weight on his arm.
At his hip lay the flask of Fire, safely cushioned in its leather pouch. He should have left that behind, as well . . . but if the first stage of their plan went askew—or any other part, for that matter—he might well need some weapon that could drive back the enemy’s demonic guard. And he had stripped himself of anything else that might serve.
He felt naked, thus weaponless. But also exhilarated. Because for the first time since leaving Jaggonath, he was on his own. Oh, he still had Ciani’s safety to worry about, and Tarrant’s Workings were wrapped tightly about him, a cocoon of malevolence that shadowed his every step . . . but that still wasn’t the same thing as having them here, as knowing that he must watch out for them every time he planned, every time he took a step . . . no, this was much better. This was the way it was meant to be. Every sound that he heard was important because it concerned him—or unimportant because it didn’t. There was no middle ground. His progress was a study in black and white, threat and nonthreat, and no other concern existed in his mind but that he must get from here to there in safety. And then manage what he came to do, with minimal damage to his person.
If that last is possible, he thought grimly. And he remembered what Tarrant had told him about their enemy, running the details through his mind as he crept slowly forward, eyes and ears alert for any sign of danger. He prayed that Tarrant’s guesses were right, prayed that he had arrayed himself properly for this foray . . . and then prayed in general, just for good measure. Not because his God would interfere in such a thing—or even care about the short-term consequences—but such prayer was a reminder of his identity. And with Tarrant’s taint wrapped about him like a shroud, darkening his every thought, he needed all the reminders he could get.
I only hope he’s right. I only hope he understands her as well as he thinks he does. And then he added, somewhat dryly, The ruthless, analyzing the mad. . . .
Periodically another tunnel would merge with the one he was following, and he would pause to check it out. Egresses from the lower caverns, Tarrant had told him, that merge with the citadel’s excape route. They were fortunate that the underground system was close enough to Erna’s surface to affect the currents above it: otherwise the Hunter might never have managed to locate it at all. As it was he knew only the location of its entrance, and its general route beneath the eastern mountains. It wasn’t enough, he told himself. Except that it had to be. Because it was all they had.
At each intersection the priest paused, hooding his lantern with his hand so that no light would precede him. And he listened—ears alert, eyes narrowed, his whole soul focused on perceiving. But not with Worked senses. That was impossible, because of what Tarrant had done to him. That was why he’d had to submit to the man, choking on the blackness of that warped morality as the Hunter’s mind wrapped about his own, picking at his brain like an old woman picking out the stitches of some tightly sewn embroidery—
Don’t think about that, he warned himself. His heart was pounding: he breathed deeply, trying to still the trembling of his hands. All the trust in the world couldn’t have staved off the terror of that experience, and Damien’s stomach turned as he recalled how the Hunter drank in his fear, sucking the terror out of him as surely as he had once drawn out the blood that ran in his veins. The difference was that this time something had been left behind. A coiling malignance, serpentlike, that slithered in the dark recesses of Damien’s mind and licked at his thoughts as they flickered from neuron to neuron—
Stop it!
He moved swiftly between intersections, knowing that the smooth, rakh-made tunnels offered no concealment between those junctures. Time after time he felt himself reaching for his sword, and he had to force his hand to drop back to his side, empty. It was important that he remain unarmed. Every detail of this was important, he knew, which was why every move had been planned out in advance . . . but that was little comfort as he advanced toward certain danger, his palm itching to close about a sword-grip, his arm tensing as if to balance the weight of that defending steel.
And then: he heard it. A noise that whispered behind him in the endless passage. Footsteps? He forced himself to keep moving forward, tensing his ears to catch the sound. Soft, rhythmic . . . yes, footsteps. Unshod, he guessed. Since there were no signs of any large animal in this place, that left only one possibility—
He turned. Too late. He knew it even as he reached for his sword, even as he cursed himself for going to his shoulder instead of his hip to draw it. Cold, clawed hands tore at him from the darkness, and one grabbed his sword arm and twisted it brutally behind him. His sheath swung into the dirt wall as he struggled, dislodging clumps of earth. He fought to break free, desperately, but pain clouded his vision as his arm was twisted even more tightly behind him, and he knew it was within inches of breaking. Another assailant grabbed him by the throat and squeezed, sharp claws drawing blood through the collar of his shirt. There were too many of them, and they were too fast, too strong. The fetid stink of them filled his nostrils, choking him, as he felt the long dagger drawn from his belt even as the reassuring weight of his sword was snapped from his side. Cold hands felt along the length of his body, and one by one his tools and weapons were located and removed from him. The hooks. The rope. The amulets. The latter were broken free with a hiss of amusement, thin gold chains snapping with a sound like a pennant in the wind. Then sharp fingers pried at the pouch at his belt, opening it—and a cry of pain burst forth from one of the creatures as it backed away from the church-Worked light. There was an instant of chaos that Damien tried to take advantage of, but the Dark One who held him prisoner was on the other side of him, and thus sheltered from the light. He twisted the priest’s arm brutally as he struggled, forcing the man to fall to his knees in order to keep it from breaking; a foot forced the leather pouch closed again and pressed down on him as his assailant forced him lower, into the earthen floor. “Let her deal with it!” he heard one hiss. He tried to struggle free, choking on dirt, felt the bite of cold claws digging into his face. Drawing his face upward, forcing his eyes to meet—
Dizzying. Blinding. A whirlpool of raw malevolence, its walls glittering with hunger. He felt himself being sucked down into it, felt the thoughts and memories being torn loose from him as he fell, the rush of them past his ears as the power of the Dark One dismembered, devoured—
And then it ended. Suddenly. As though an impenetrable wall had been slammed down between himself and the Dark One. Damien gasped for breath, heard the demon curse in frustration. Then the cold hand that gripped him squeezed his face even tighter, and he felt that boundless hunger reaching out to him again, the maelstrom forming . . . and it slid from him like claws on ice, unable to take hold.
“Can’t do it,” he heard a voice rasp. And another, hungry, hissed, “Let me try!” He felt his head turned forcibly to one side, as blood from a claw-wound dripped into one eye. For a moment there was the sensation of falling, of a power so vast that it must surely overwhelm the barrier Tarrant had established in him . . . and then that, too, dispersed, and he was left shivering in pain as they debated, hotly, the cause of their failure.
“Let her deal with him,” one hissed at last, and the others agreed. Damien felt himself jerked to his feet, his other arm pulled up sharply behind him. Then the pressure on the first mercifully let up, and through his fog of pain and confusion he could tell that they were binding him, using the very rope he had been carrying on his person. They tied tight knots about his leather wristlets, binding wrists that he made taut with tension as he tried to fight them. But the creatures knew by his weakness that though they had failed to drain him of memory, they had served his flesh from his spirit; bereft of passion, securely bound, he appeared all but helpless in their hands. He snarled
fevered curses as they dragged him forward, but his words were impotent weapons; the creatures chittered sharply as they gathered up his steel and the rest of his equipment, in some dark equivalent of laughter. And one stopped to lick the blood from his face—as if to remind him that they fed on his kind, that once they managed to break through the barrier which Tarrant had Worked in him, he would be no better than an evening’s snack to them.
They dragged him down the length of the corridor, his neck leashed like an angry dog’s. And as he stumbled along behind them—weaponless, bleeding, his face and arms stinging from the prick of their foul claws—it was all he could do to reflect upon his purpose, and keep from pitting his full strength against the bonds that had rendered him helpless. Because helplessness was what he needed right now. It went against his every instinct to accept that, to play along with it, but Tarrant was right; if the Dark Ones could not have rendered him helpless, they would have been forced to kill him. Their primitive minds knew no middle ground.
As he stumbled towards the enemy’s stronghold, he thought grimly, So far, so good.
The citadel was a jewel, a prism, a multifaceted crystalline structure that divided up the night into a thousand glittering bits, turning the sky and the landscape beneath into a cubist’s nightmare of disjointed angles and broken curves. Domina’s cold blue radiance reflected from the mirror-bright surfaces in seemingly random splinters, making it impossible for Damien to isolate any one structure as cohesive as a wall, or a doorway. When they walked he was forced to rely upon his feet to feel out the structure of the floor; stairs and inclines were all but invisible, masked by that visual chaos.
A reflection of her madness, he thought. He was appalled, but also impressed. What would the place be like in the sunlight? Or in Core-light? Brilliant, he decided. Disturbingly beautiful. It was clear to him that the Master of Lema was no creature of the night, as her servants were.
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