Crown of Shadows (63 page)

Speechless, Damien turned to Karril for support. But the Iezu only nodded sadly, as if to say, Yes,
he’s
right.
It’s
only
a
matter of time. “So what?” he demanded. “You’re going to stay here? There’s no food here for you either, Gerald, do I have to remind you of that? And what the hell are you going to do for them, anyway?”

“I’m not going to stay,” he said quietly.

He forced himself to breathe in deeply. “Well. That’s something, anyway.”

“Humanity will need a means of translation. So will the Iezu for that matter, at least the ones most human in aspect.”

“So what do you propose to do? Work some kind of translating pattern? You know that’s impossible right now. You said yourself that until you had a chance to test the currents you wouldn’t know why they had failed to respond to us, much less be able to Work them again. So what then?”

“A Working isn’t what’s needed now. Not as much as a sound understanding of who and what the Iezu are, and how their mother’s need was expressed through each of them. They are her true language, Vryce, her cries of desperation rendered in fae and flesh. What form did each one first appear in? What pattern did their learning take?” He looked at Karril. “At what point did they first express emotions outside of their aspect, and what prompted that change?”

“You’re talking about a complete family history,” Damien challenged. “Going back—what—nearly a thousand years?”

“Nearly that,” Karril agreed.

“No one’s going to have that kind of information just sitting around. If you want those kinds of facts, you’ll have to do research, and for that you need to go back to where there are people and libraries and loremasters to help you.” Ciani had kept notes on everything, he remembered suddenly. Perhaps other adepts did the same. “We can look for some sorcerer who specializes in demon lore—”

And then it hit him. Just like that. One moment blissful ignorance, and the next, stunning truth. “Shit,” he whispered. “No.”

Tarrant said quietly. “I’m afraid so.”

“There’s a war on in the Forest. Have you forgotten that? More enemies than you can count, all focused on your destruction—”

“And they mean to burn the Forest to the ground when they’re done, and all my possessions along with it. Which means that in a few days’ time my notebooks will be ash, and the lezu’s history lost forever.”

“We can work a Remembering—” he began.

And then he remembered what the fae was like now. How hard it was to Work. And he knew that they dared not count on being able to use it in the future, not for a matter this complex.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Shit.”

“I told you I have a tunnel, Vryce. It comes in under my keep, to a chamber so well warded that even if my enemies gain access to the building itself, they will never find its entrance. We’ll come in and take what we want and be gone again before the Church ever realizes we’re there, I promise you.”

“And do you know for a fact that your wards still work?” he demanded. “Have you thought of that?”

“I tested one which I carry, and its effect is unchanged. Apparently past Workings still maintain their power.” His pale eyes glittered redly in the dying sunlight ; even without the fae his gaze had tremendous power. “So what do you say, Vryce? Must I go there alone? Because with or without you, I cannot allow those notes to burn. Too much of mankind’s future depends on them.”

He turned away from them both, struggling to think it out clearly. The last thing he needed now was a trek to the Forest, least of all while the Patriarch and his soldiers were tearing the place apart. The last thing Tarrant needed now was a fresh exertion, when his newly healed flesh was still struggling with the transition from undeath to life. The last thing anyone here needed was to risk all that they had won for a handful of books—
books,
God damn it! Even if those books were the key to humanity’s future, and that of the Iezu. Even if those books might allow both species to return to the stars.

Shit.

He raised a hand to his head and rubbed his temples wearily. He didn’t have a headache yet, but one was surely on the way. The body had to do something to protest such utter lunacy.

It’s
safe, right? Doors locked
and warded.
Books safely hidden. One quick visit
and
then it’s
all
over. And Tarrant would go with or without him, that much was clear. Did Damien want that newborn soul running head-on into the Patriarch’s troops without someone there to support him? Such a confrontation could well send him spiraling down into darkness again. And after all the time and effort he had put into saving the man, he could hardly allow that. Could he?

“All right,” he muttered. Sighing heavily. “What the hell. Let’s do it.”

Tarrant nodded. “I thought you might feel that way.” He sounded relieved, Damien thought. As well he should.

It could be worse. At least we don’t have to get on
a boat
again.

Shaitan rumbled in the distance.

At first Andrys tried to deny it. He told himself a hundred reasons why the demon might be unwilling to respond to him, or unable to respond to him, and he managed to half-believe one or two. But then, as hours passed and his desperate entreaties brought no response, fear began to take hold. He fought the emotion off as long as he could, but now, hours later—days later, perhaps, who could judge time in this place?—certainty set in, and with it a dread so cold that he shivered inside his blood-spattered armor, not knowing how he could go on.

Calesta was gone, without question.

Andrys was on his own.

They were forging through a hostile Forest now, and every turn held new threats. More than once they were attacked by creatures that called the Forest their home, and if thus far those assailants were too few or too weak to pose any real danger, that was just the luck of the draw. The next time they were attacked it might be the white pack again... or worse.

More than half the horses had been lost in that battle, either killed or maimed or run off in terror. The tethers of those that fled had been burned through in some cases, cut through cleanly in others, as if somehow their fear had managed an equine Working and freed them. More likely it was the fears of their riders which had done exactly that. Before they left the battle site the Patriarch had led them in prayer for a few minutes, trying to focus their energies in a positive manner, but how much good was that going to do? In the back of all their minds was a new awareness of the power of the Forest’s fae, and a growing fear that it would betray them. What happened to tethers could just as easily happen to explosives.

A good portion of the remaining horses were now carrying the wounded, with the result that all had to take their turn at walking. Andrys preferred it. His role as pathfinder required continued sensitivity to the Forest’s fae, a terrifying immersion in its power; he used the act of walking as a focus for his sanity, the pain of his blistered feet as an anchor to the world of solid things. Though the Hunter was no longer actively mated to the Forest, yet his essence still permeated it, and if the younger Tarrant relaxed his guard even for an instant, the chill power of that corrupt soul would come pouring into him, drowning out the warmth of his living spirit and replacing it with something in its own dark image. Step by step he fought its influence, but despair was growing inside him. How long could he keep this up, without some kind of assistance? What hope did he have of coming out of this sane, if Calesta had truly abandoned him?

His only comfort lay in a black silk scarf, now wound about his waist beneath the armor. Her scarf. He still felt shame about stealing it from her and, in fact, had tried to bring himself to ask for it on at least three separate occasions, but each time his courage had failed him. Was he afraid she would withhold such a gift? That she would laugh at him for wanting it? Or was it that putting such a request into words would be as good as admitting that he lacked the strength within himself to succeed in this mission without such a token ? Now that scarf was his only comfort, and the sweat-soaked silk tugged at his waist with every movement, reminding him of the brief time they had spent together.

Hour after hour, mile by mile, they fought their way through the Hunter’s domain. Even the plant life seemed determined to resist them now, and more than once they had to hack their way through a tangle of thorn bushes and tree limbs in order to move forward. It hadn’t been like that before, Andrys noted. When they stopped for a meal and the ground began to stir beneath their feet, forcing them to move on, that was new, too. Clearly whatever power he had provided as the company’s talisman was at an end, now that the Hunter was no longer in control here. And that was a terrifying thought indeed.

They broke march three more times to water the horses and see to their own bodily needs—always in rocky areas, where the underground scavengers couldn’t reach them—and once to rest in short shifts, restless and fearful. Try as he might, Andrys couldn’t sleep; he wondered how many could. These weren’t soldiers, trained to pursue combat in the face of enervating exhaustion, but simple men and women whose concept of exertion before today was a short stint in a gym, followed by a hot bath and dinner. Not this.

His own strength was wearing thin from exhaustion, and his nerves, continually stretched to the breaking point, were beginning to give way at last. How much longer could he last?

Calesta, help me! I can’t make it alone. I’m not
strong enough.

No answer.

Shedidn’t know how long she had been in this place. It was long enough for her to have crawled along the length and breadth of her prison and explored with her fingers every inch of its surface. The walls were of roughly carved stone, wet with slime, and the muddy water that pooled on the floor was ankle-deep in places, barely a film in others. There was no sign of a
door that she could make out,and as for
the soft lumps she
landed on
as she moved, severalof which squirmed underfoot . . . she’d rather not know.

Oh, Andrys....