Crown of Shadows (38 page)

“What does that mean?”

But the Hunter didn’t answer. And at last, realizing that nothing he could say was going to change that, Damien resigned himself to putting the room back in order.

It was nearly dawn. Domina’s light shone down through the window of the rented room, illuminating well-worn pages. There was weariness in Damien’s body, and in his soul.

Then the Hunter closed the book and said, “It’s here.”

Sleep, which had been closing in about Damien, was banished in an instant. He sat up in the chair and demanded, “What is?”

“The data I was looking for. He found it.” He put his hand on the leather cover and shut his eyes; Damien thought he saw him tremble slightly. “All through human history men have tried to harness the fae-surge that precedes earthquakes. It’s common knowledge that it can’t be done, yet they keep trying. The thought of that much power outweighs all natural caution, it seems, and not until the fae fries their brains to ash does it become clear that there are some things men were never meant to do.” His hand spread out across the mottled leather of the scrapbook, as if drinking in its contents through that contact. “Likewise there are those who try to Work at the site of an active volcano, for the same reason. The results there are identical. Man can’t channel that kind of power and live to talk about it.”

“You needed Zen’s notes to tell you that? Hell, I could have saved you the trouble.”

Instead of being irritated, the Hunter smiled faintly. “But you see, there were other questions left to be asked. Questions no one thought of, except our obsessed friend Mer Reese.”

“Such as?”

He indicated the volume before him. “These men and women all died Working. What happened to their Workings when they perished? Were they obliterated alongside their makers, dispersed in that one fatal instant? Or did they take hold of the wild current, impressing the fae with their purpose even as their owners burned?”

“Does it matter?”

“It might.” Though his voice was calm, his posture was rigid, as if all his tension had been channeled into that one outlet. “It might matter very much.”

“Why?”

In answer the Hunter pushed the heavy book away from him, and forced himself to lean back in his chair. For a moment he was still, his eyes fixed on a distant, imaginary horizon. At last, in a tense voice, he said, “The negative of
sadism
is
altruism.”

Damien inhaled sharply. “Are you sure about that?”

“Is it possible to be sure? I think it likely.”

Altruism.
Unselfish concern for the welfare of others. Damien tried to fit it into the Iezu pattern, to see if it would work. Could one want to spare others from pain, and at the same time take delight in hurting them? “It feels right,” he said at last. “Better than anything else we’ve come up with, that’s for sure.”

The Hunter nodded.

“But how does that help us? I mean, we can hardly force Calesta to do charity work.”

“With enough power,” the Hunter said evenly, “we can force him to do anything.”

It took a second for Tarrant’s meaning to sink in; when it did so, he felt his gut tighten in dread. “Gerald, you can’t. No man has ever survived that kind of Working—”

“And what is altruism, if not the sacrifice of one’s self for the common good?”

“So you’ll burn out like the others? For what? How does that help us?”

“Read this,” he said, pushing the heavy book toward Damien. “Read the articles that Senzei Reese put in here, and the notes he made. These men who risked their lives to Work—”

“They all died, Gerald!”

“But they didn’t all fail.
Read it! In three separate cases he was able to demonstrate that their Workings survived them. Think of that, Vryce! Think of the power!”

“Three out of how many?” he demanded. “You’re talking about odds so low I can’t even do the math. Be real, Gerald.”

The Hunter looked out the window; the morning sky was brilliant with starlight, and a faint band of gray marked the eastern horizon.

“Beyond my home in the Forest,” he told Damien, “is a source of power so immense that if there weren’t mountains bounding it, no human being could live on this continent. You’ve seen its power active in the Forest itself, and yet that’s but its edge. Its shadow. Its focus is Mount Shaitan, an active volcano, and its fae is so wild that few men dare to even approach it.”

Shaitan? It sounded strangely familiar to him, but he couldn’t place it. “I’ve heard the name.”

“I’m not surprised; it’s legendary. Every now and then some sorcerer makes a pilgrimage to its slopes; a few live to talk about it. I’ve been to its valley myself, and seen that awesome power. Nothing on Erna can rival it, Vryce. No earthquake surge, no sorcerer’s will ... no demon.”

“But the Iezu aren’t normal demons.” He was suddenly afraid of where this was heading. “Remember?”

“Karril’s first memory is of Shaitan. I know of at least two other Iezu for whom that’s also true. There’s a link between them that goes deeper than a simple question of power. What better way to destroy a Iezu than at the place of his birth?”

“And what about the creature that gave birth to him?”

A muscle tensed along the line of his jaw. “There’s no record of any such creature active in that realm.”

“No one ever tried to kill its children before.”

The Hunter turned toward him; a shadow sculpted the scar on his face in vivid relief. “So there’s risk, Reverend Vryce. Did you think there wouldn’t be? Did you think we’d find an easy answer? Some simple incantation that would allow us to unmake our Iezu enemy without effort, without loss?” He shook his head sadly. “I’d have thought you wiser than that.”

“You’re talking about almost certain death, and damned little chance of success. It seems like one hell of a long shot to me.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But what if that’s all we have?”

Damien started to protest, then swallowed the words. Because Tarrant was right, damn it. As usual.

The Hunter rose to his feet. Damien knew him well enough to see the underlying tension in his body, and to guess at the inner turmoil that inspired it. But the polished facade was perfectly emotionless, and Tarrant’s voice likewise betrayed no human weakness as he recounted the details of his fate. “As of this dawn I have only twenty-nine days left. At the end of that time the Unnamed will dissolve our compact, and I will, in all probability, die. So you see, Reverend Vryce, I have nothing to lose by taking such a chance. Perhaps the earth-fae will claim me, as it has with so many others, but if I can impress it with one last Working ... I would like to take that bastard with me,” he said, his voice suddenly fierce. “I would like my death to mean that much. Can you understand that?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I understand.”

“It’ll be a long and dangerous journey, and not one I would ordinarily relish. Few living men have survived it. And if Calesta should guess at my purpose, and turn his full illusory skill against me ...” He drew in a deep breath, and exhaled it slowly. Damien thought he saw him tremble. “You don’t have to go. I’ll understand.”

“Of course—”

“You have a life here, and duties, and a future—”

“Gerald.”
He waited until the Hunter was silent, then said sharply, “Don’t be a fool. Of course I’m going.”

Backlit by the light of early dawn, the Hunter stared at him. What was that emotion in his eyes, so hard to see against the light? Fear? Determination? Dread? Perhaps a mixture of all three, but something else besides. Something that was easier to identify. Something very human.

Gratitude.

With a glance toward the window, as if gauging the sun’s progress, Tarrant nodded. “All right, then.” His voice was little more than a whisper, as if the growing light had leached it of volume. “Purchase whatever provisions you need. There won’t be food available in Shaitan’s valley, so pack enough for several weeks. We’ll have to change horses to make good time; don’t invest too much in that area. Do you have money?”

In answer, he took out the draft that the Patriarch had given him, and handed it to him. Tarrant’s eyes grew wide with astonishment as he read it. In all the time Damien had known him, he had never seen him so taken aback.

“Ten thousand? From the Church?”

“And more if I can justify it.”

“So they... approve of you?”

He snorted. “Hardly.”

“But this draft—”

“The Patriarch’s a practical man. He knows there are things I can do as a free agent which he, because of his rank, can’t even try. And he knows that if we don’t stop Calesta now, the Church he loves may have no future. That’s all.” He laughed shortly, harshly. “Believe me, I wish there were more to it.”

He said it quietly, with rare compassion: “They didn’t turn you out?”

“Not yet,” he muttered. Color rising in his cheeks.
They’re leaving that to me.

Leaving the draft on the table beside him, the Hunter came to where he stood, and put a hand on his shoulder. Just for a moment, and then it was gone. A faint chill remained in Damien’s flesh where he had touched him, and he nodded ever so slightly in appreciation of the supportive gesture. Then, without a word, Tarrant walked to the door and let himself out. The sky outside the window was a paler gray than before; he had little time to take shelter.

Cutting it close,
Damien thought, but it didn’t surprise him. With Tarrant’s remaining lifespan measurable in hours, it was little wonder that he squeezed out every minute he could.

Alone in the rented room, his hand clenched tightly about the Patriarch’s draft, Damien tried hard not to think about the future.

It was
nearly dawn. The city’s central square was all but deserted, its myriad muggers banished by the growing light, its hidden lovers long since gone to bed. At its far end the great cathedral glowed with soft brilliance, its smooth white surface as fluid and ethereal as a dream.

Damien stood for some time, just staring at it, not thinking or planning or even fearing... just being. Drinking in the human hopes that had polished the ancient stone, the soft music of faith that answered every whisper of breeze. Then, as Erna’s white sun rose from the horizon, he climbed up the stairs and rapped softly upon the door, alerting those within to his presence. After a moment he heard footsteps approach and a bolt was withdrawn along one of the smaller doors; he stood before it as it was opened, presenting himself for inspection.

“Reverend Vryce.” It was one of the Church’s acolytes, working off his required service hours as night guard. A thin and gangly teenager, he seemed strangely familiar to Damien. “Do you have business here?” Ah, yes. A face out of memory. One of the dozen lads whom the Patriarch had assigned to him as a student, several eternities ago when he had first come to Jaggonath. His fledgling sorcerers.

He nodded in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. “I came to pray.” The boy looked considerably relieved, and stood aside to let him enter.
What did you think, that I would ask you to rouse your Patriarch near dawn so I could discuss sorcery with him?
Then he looked at the boy’s young face and thought soberly, You did think exactly that,
didn’t
you?

“I won’t be long,” he promised.

The sanctuary was empty, as he had hoped. The night crew had finished its cleaning and retired long ago. His footsteps echoed eerily in the empty space as he approached the altar. A familiar path. A familiar focus.

The altar. There was nothing on it to worship, really, as there would be on a pagan altar. The Prophet had dreamed of a Church without such symbols, in which the center of worship would be something greater than a silk-clad table, something less solid and more inspiring than a block of earthly matter. But Gerald Tarrant had lost that battle, like so many others. The children of Earth expected an altar, and their descendants did likewise. The baggage of humanity’s Terran inheritance was not to be discarded so lightly.