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[21 jan 2002 - scanned, proofed and released for #bookz]
[Version 2.0]
[Corrected and formatted by braven]
C. S. Friedman
Black Sun Rising
This book is for several very special readers:
Rick Umbaugh, who started it all; Kellie Owens, Linda
Gilbert, Lori Cook, David McDonald, and Joe and Regina
Harley, who keep it going; and Betsy Wollheim, whose
criticism is, as always, worth its weight in gold.
The author would like to thank the following people for
their insight, inspiration, and/or vital emotional support
during this novel's formative period: Jeanne Boyle, Adam
Breslaw, Christian Cameron, Tom Deitz, Nancy Friedman,
Bob Green, John Happ, Delos Wheeler, Karen Martakos,
Robin Mitchell, Steve Rappaport, Vicki Sharp, Mike
Stevens, Sarah Strickland, Mark Sunderlin, and Glenn

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Zienowicz. 
Prologue
She wondered why she was afraid to go home.
She was within sight of the castle now, and its proximity
should have calmed her. She loved the traditional building
which her husband had designed, and all the men and
women who lived inside it. The seat of the Neocounty of
Merentha was a gleaming, ivory-colored monument to the
Revivalist dream: all the elements of Gothic perpendicular
architecture that seemed so oppressive elsewhere - at the
royal seat, for instance - were here combined by that
unerring aesthetic sense that was her husband's strongest
attribute, to create a building that was at once a soaring
display of stone arches and finials, and a very real, very
comfortable home.
For a moment she reined up her unhorse, commanding it
to stillness, and tried to focus on the source of her anxiety.
As ever, the effort was doomed to failure. She wished she
had her husband's skill to name and analyze such feelings.
He would have taken one look at the building and said
there, you see? The demonlings are out early tonight, it's
their presence you sense. Or,the currents are unsteady
tonight, of course you're nervous. Or some other
explanation, equally dependent upon his special vision, that
would render up the source of her discomfort in small,

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comprehensible packets of knowledge, so that it might be
dealt with and then discarded.
The sun had set. Maybe that was it. The piercing white
sun which bathed the land in sanity was gone, and the Core
had followed it into its westerly grave. Only a few stars
remained, and soon they too would be swallowed up by
darkness. Things were abroad now that hid from the light
of day, maverick human fears that had taken on a life of
their own and coursed the night in search of a bodily home.
She looked up at the sky and shivered.
Even Erna's moons were missing now, two having al-
ready set and one, the smallest, yet to rise. Soon there
would be as much darkness as the Earthlike world could
ever know. A true night, her husband would have called it.
A very rare, very special occurrence, for a world near the
heart of the galaxy.
A night of power.
She kneed her unhorse gently into motion again and
tried to lose herself in memories of her family, as a means
of combatting the uneasiness that had been growing in her
since she left the Bellamy household nearly an hour earlier.
Her daughter Alix, barely five, had already mastered the
rudiments of riding, and delighted in bare-backing the
castle's miniature unhorses whenever her parents would let
her. Tory, nine, had clearly inherited his father's insatiable
curiosity, and could be found at any given moment in the

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place he least belonged, doing something that was only
marginally allowable. Eric, the oldest, proud master of
eleven years of lifely experience, was already practicing his
charm on all the household staff. He alone had inherited his
father's manner, which would serve him well when he
received his lands and title; the Neocount had charmed
many an enemy into martial impotence with the force of his
presence alone.
As for her husband, the Neocount himself . . . she loved
him with a passion that was sometimes near to pain, and
adored him no less than did the people he ruled. He was an
idealist who had swept her off her feet, caught her up in his
dreams of Revival and then set her by his side while king
and church jockeyed to do him the greatest honor. A young
genius, he had turned Gannon's wars into triumphs, thus
abetting the unification of all the human lands. He had bred
unhorses from local stock that were almost
indistinguishable from the true equines of Earth, imposing
his will on their very evolution with a force and efficiency
that others could only wonder at. Likewise his uncats
chased the local rodents with appropriate mock-feline
fervor, ignoring the less harmful insects which were their
grandsires' preferred prey; in two more generations he
would have the fur looking right - so he promised - and
even the behavioral patterns that accompanied their
hunting.
In truth, she believed there was nothing he couldn't do,
once he set his mind to it . . . and perhaps that was what

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frightened her.
The castle courtyard was empty when she entered,
which was far from reassuring. She was accustomed to
returning home at dusk, and her children were accustomed
to meeting her. Pouring forth from the house like a litter of
overexcited unkittens, plying her with a thousand questions
and needs and "look-sees" before she could even dismount.
Today they were absent - a disconcerting change - and as
she gave her reins over to the groom she asked him, with
feigned nonchalance, where they were.
"With their father, Excellency." He held the unhorse
steady while she dismounted. "Belowground, I believe."
Belowground. She tried not to let him see how much
that word chilled her, as she walked through the evening
shadows to the main door of the keep. Belowground . . .
there was only his library there, she told herself, and his
collection of Earth artifacts, and the workroom in which he
studied the contents of both. Nothing more. And if the
children were with him . . . that was odd, but not
unreasonable. Eventually they would inherit the castle and
all that was in it. Shouldn't they be familiar with its
workings?
Nevertheless she was chilled to the bone as she entered
the cold stone keep, and only her knowledge that the chill
was rooted deep inside, in the heart of her fear, caused her
to give over her cloak and surcoat to the servant who

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waited within.
"Here's a message for you," the old woman said. She
handed her an envelope of thick vellum, addressed in the
Neocount's neat and elegant hand. "His Excellency said to
see you got it, as soon as you arrived."
With a hand that was trembling only slightly she took it
from her, and thanked her. I won't read it here, she told
herself. There was an antechamber nearby that would give
her more privacy. Not until she was well inside it, with the
heavy alteroak door firmly shut behind her, did she remove
the folded sheet from its vellum envelope and read the
words her husband had written.
Please come to me,it said, at your earliest convenience.
The workshop below. There was little more than that - his
family crest imprinted above, the swirl of his initials below
- but she knew as she read it that there was a volume of
meaning between the lines . . . and that she lacked the
resources to read what they said, and thus must descend to
him uninformed.
She glanced into the huge glass mirror that dominated
the low-ceilinged room, and briefly wondered if she should
change her clothes before joining him. Her gown, true to
Revivalist style, had dragged in the dust all day; its warm
cream color was nearly rust about the hem, stained dark by
the red clay of the region. But elsewhere it was clean, its
soft woolen nap protected by the heavy surcoat she had

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worn. She pulled the few pins out of her hair, and let red-
gold curls pour down about her shoulder and back. He
loved her hair, and this style of gown; he loved her, she
told herself, and would never let her come to harm. She
settled for fluffing the curls to more volume and using a
dampened cloth to wipe the dust from her eyes and off her
face. That would be enough. That had to be enough, if he
wanted her to come to him quickly.
Filled with more than a little misgiving, she descended
the winding staircase that led down to the belowground
rooms.
The library was empty, and lit only by a single candle.
Kindled long ago, she thought, noting its length; he must
have been down here most of the day. Its four walls were
lined with books, a history of man from the time of First
Sacrifice to the current day - scribbled in tight, fearful
letters, by the settlers of the Landing, printed in the heavy
ink of Erna's first mass-production presses, or
painstakingly copied from holy scriptures, with letter forms
and illuminatory styles that harkened back to nearly-
forgotten ages back on the mother planet. She recognized
the leather bindings of his own twelve-volume treatise on
the arts of war, and less formal notebooks, on mastering
magic. Only . . .
Don't call it magic, he would have said to her. It isn't
that. The foe is as natural to this world as water and air
were to our ancestors' planet, and not until we rid

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ourselves of our inherited preconceptions are we going to
learn to understand it, and control it.
And next to those books, the handbooks of the Church.
They caused this, she thought. They caused it all, when they
rejected him. Hypocritical bastards! Half their foundations
were of his philosophy, the genius of his ordered mind
giving their religious dreams substance, transforming a
church of mere faith into something that might last - and
command - the ages. Something that might tame the fae at
last, and bring peace to a planet that had rarely known
anything but chaos. But their dreams and his had diverged
in substance, and recently they had come but one word
short of damning him outright. After using him to fight their
wars!she thought angrily. To establish their church
throughout the human lands, and firmly fix their power in
the realm of human imagination . . . she shuddered with the
force of her anger. It was they who changed him, slowly
but surely - they who had planted the first seeds of darkness
in him, even while they robed him in titles and honor.
Knight of the Realm. Premier of the Order of the Golden
Flame. Prophet of the Law.
And damned as a sorcerer, she thought bitterly.
Condemned to hell -or just short of it - because he wants to
control the very force that has bested us all these years.
The force that cost us our heritage, that slaughtered our
colonial ancestors . . . is that a sin, you self-righteous bas-
tards? Enough of a sin that it's worth alienating one of
your own prophets for it?

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She took a deep breath and tried to steady herself. She
had to be strong enough for both of them now. Strong
enough to lead him back from his fears of hell and worse, if
they had overwhelmed him. He might have gone on for
years, bitterly cursing the new Church doctrine but
otherwise unconcerned with it, had his body not failed him
one late spring night and left him lying helpless on the
ground, bands of invisible steel squeezing the breath from
his flesh as his damaged heart labored to save itself. Later
he could say, with false calm, this was the reason. Here
was the cause of damage, which I inherited. Not yet
repairable, by my skills, but I will find a way. But she knew
that the damage had been done. At twenty-nine he had seen
the face of Death, and been changed forever. So much
promise in a single man, now so darkened by the shadow of
mortality . . .
The door opened before she could touch it. Backlit by
lamplight, her husband stood before her. He was wearing a
long gown of midnight blue silk, slit up the sides to reveal
gray leggings and soft leather boots. His face was, as
always, serene and beautiful. His features were elegant,
delicately crafted, and in another man might have seemed
unduly effeminate; that was his mother's beauty, she knew,
and in its male manifestation it gave him an almost surreal
beauty, a quality of angelic calm that belied any storm his
soul might harbor. He kissed her gently, ever the devoted
husband, but she sensed a sudden distance between them;
as he stepped aside to allow her to enter she looked deep

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into his eyes, and saw with sudden clarity what she had
feared the most. There was something in him beyond all
saving, now. Something even she could not touch, walled
away behind fear-born defenses that no mere woman could
breach.
"The children," she whispered. The chamber was dark,
and seemed to demand whispering. "Where are the
children?"
"I'll take you there," he promised her. Something
flickered in his eyes that might have been pain, or love -
but then it was gone, and only a distant cold remained. He
picked up a lamp from the corner of a desk and bid her,
"Come."
She came. Through the door which he opened at the rear
of the chamber, leading into an inner workroom. Artifacts
from the Landing caught his lamplight as they passed by,
twinkling like captive stars in their leaded glass enclosures.
Fragments of unknown substances which once had served
some unknown purpose . . . there was the soft silver disk
that tradition said was a book, although how it could be
such - and how it might be read - was a mystery her
husband had not yet solved. Fragments of encasements, the
largest barely as broad as her palm, that were said to have
contained an entire library. A small metal webwork, the
size of her thumbnail, that had once served as a substitute
for human reasoning.

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Then he opened a door in the workroom's far wall, and
she felt a chill breeze blow over her. Her eyes met his and
found only cold there, lightless unwarmth that was
frightening, sterile. And she knew with dread certainty that
some nameless, intangible line had finally been crossed;
that he was gazing at her from across an abyss so dark and
so desolate that the bulk of his humanity was lost in its
depths.
"Come," he whispered. She could feel the force of the
fae about her, bound by his need, urging her forward. She
followed him. Through a door that must have been hidden
from her sight before, for she had never noticed it. Into a
natural cavern that water had eroded from the rock of the
castle's foundation, leaving only a narrow bridge of
glistening stone to vault across its depths. This they
followed, his muttered words binding sufficient fae to
steady their feet as they crossed. Beneath them - far
beneath, in the lightless depths - she sensed water, and
occasionally a drop could be heard as it fell from the
ceiling to that unseen lake far, far below.
Give it up, my husband! Throw the darkness off and
come back to us -your wife, the children, your church.
Take up your dreams again, and the sword of your faith,
and come back into the light of day . . . But true night
reigned below, as it did above; the shadows of the
underworld gave way only grudgingly to the light of the
Neocount's lamp, and closed behind them as soon as they
had passed.

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The water-carved bridge ended in a broad ledge of rock.
There he stepped aside and indicated that she should
precede him, through a narrow archway barely wide
enough to let her pass. She did so, trembling. Whatever he
had found in these depths, it was here. Waiting for her.
That knowledge must have been faeborn, it was so
absolute.
And then he entered, bearing the lamp, and she saw.
"Oh, my God! . . . Tory? . . . Alix?"
They were huddled against the far wall, behind the bulk
of a rough stone slab that dominated the small cavern's
interior. Both of them, pale as ice, glassy eyes staring into
nothingness. She walked slowly to where they lay, not
wanting to believe. Wake me up, she begged silently, make
it all be a dream, stop this from happening . . . Her
children. Dead. His children. She looked up at him, into
eyes so cold that she wondered if they had ever been
human.
She could barely find her voice, but at last whispered,
"Why?"
"I need time," he told her. There was pain in his voice-
deep-rooted pain, and possibly fear. But no doubt, she
noted. And no regret. None of the things that her former

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husband would have felt, standing in this cold stranger's
shoes. "Time, Almea. And there's no other way to have it."
"You loved them!"
He nodded slowly, and shut his eyes. For an instant -
just an instant - the ghost of his former self seemed to hover
about him. "I loved them," he agreed. "As I love you." He
opened his eyes again, and the ghost vanished. Looked at
her. "If I didn't, this would have no power."
She wanted to scream, but the sound was trapped within
her. A nightmare, she begged herself. That's all it is, so
wake up. Wake up! Wake up . . .
He handled her gently but forcefully, sitting her down
on the rough stone slab. Lowering her slowly down onto it,
until she lay full length upon its abrasive surface. Numb
with shock, she felt him bind her limbs down tightly, until
it was impossible for her to move. Protests arose within her
- promises, reasoning, desperate pleas - but her voice was
somehow lost to her. She could only stare at him in horror
as he shut his eyes, could only watch in utter silence as he
worked to bind the wild fae to his purpose . . . in
preparation for the primal Pattern of Erna. Sacrifice.
At last his eyes opened. They glistened wetly as he
looked at her; she wondered if there were tears.

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"I love you," he told her. "More than everything, save
life itself. And I would have surrendered even that for you,
in its proper time. But not now. Not when they've opened
hell beneath me, and bound me to it by the very power I
taught them how to use . . . Too many prayers, Almea! Too
many minds condemning my work. This planet is fickle,
and responds to such things. I need time," he repeated, as
though that explained everything. As though that justified
killing their children.
He raised a long knife into her field of vision, even as
his slender hand stroked the hair gently out of her eyes.
"You go to a far gentler afterlife than I will ever know," he
said softly. "I apologize for the pain I must use to send you
there. That's a necessary part of the process." The hand
dropped back from her forehead, and the glittering blade
was before her eyes.
"The sacrifice is not of your body," he explained. His
voice was cold in the darkness. "It is . . . of my humanity."
Then the knife lowered, and she found her voice. And
screamed - his name, protests of her love, a hundred
supplications . . . but it was too late, by that point. Had been
too late, since true night fell.
There was no one listening.
CITY OF SHADOWS

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One
Damien Kilcannon Vryce looked like he was fully
capable of handling trouble, for which reason trouble
generally gave him a wide berth. His thick-set body was
hard with muscle, his hands textured with calluses that
spoke of fighting often, and well. His shoulders bore the
weight of a sizable sword in a thick leather harness with no
sign of strain, despite the fact that the dust stains on his
woolen shirt and the mud which caked his riding boots said
that he had been traveling long and hard, and ought to be
tired. His skin had tanned and scarred and peeled and
tanned again, over and over again with such constancy that
it now gave the impression of roughly tanned leather. His
hands, curled lightly about the thick leather reins, were still
reddened from exposure to the dry, cold wind of the
Divider Mountains. All in all a man to be reckoned with . . .
and since the thieves and bravos of Jaggonath's outskirts
preferred less challenging prey, he passed unmolested
through the crowded western districts, and entered the heart
of the city.
Jaggonath. He breathed in its dusty air, the sound of its
name, the fact of its existence. He was here. At last. After
so many days on the road that he had almost forgotten he
had a goal at all, that there was anything else but traveling .
. . and then the city had appeared about him, first the timber
houses of the outer districts, and then the brick structures
and narrow cobbled streets of the inner city, rising up like

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stone crops to greet the dusty sunlight. It was almost
enough to make him forget what it took to get here, or why
they had chosen him and no one else to make this particular
crossing.
Hell, he thought dryly, no one else was fool enough to
try. He tried to picture one of the Ganji elders making the
long trek from westlands to east - crossing the most
treacherous of all mountain ranges, fighting off the
nightmare beasts that made those cold peaks their home,
braving the wild fae and all that it chose to manifest, their
own souls' nightmares given substance - but the diverse
parts of such a picture, like the facets of a badly-worked
Healing, wouldn't come together. Oh, they might have
agreed to come, provided they could use the sea for
transport . . . but that had its own special risks, and Damien
preferred the lesser terrors of things he could do battle with
to the unalterable destructive power of Erna's frequent
tsunami.
He prodded his horse through the city streets with an
easy touch, content to take his time, eager to see what
manner of place he had come to. Though night was already
falling, the city was as crowded as a Ganji marketplace at
high noon. Strange habits indeed, he mused, for people who
lived so near a focal point of malevolence. Back in Ganji,
shopkeepers would already be shuttering their windows
against the fall of night, and making ward-signs against the
merest thought of Coreset. Already the season had hosted
nights when no more light than that of a single moon shone

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down to the needy earth, and the first true night was soon to
come; all the creatures that thrived on darkness would be
most active in this season, seeking blood or sin or semen or
despair or whatever special substance they required to
sustain themselves, and seeking it with vigor. Only a fool
would walk the night unarmed at such a time - or perhaps,
Damien reflected, one who lived so close to the heart of
that darkness that constant exposure had dulled all sense of
danger.
Or was it that there was simply safety in numbers, in a
city so large that no matter how many were taken in the
night, the odds were good that it wouldn't be you?
Then something caught his eye; he reined up suddenly,
and his three-toed mount snorted with concern. Laughing
softly, he patted it on the neck. "No danger here, old
friend." Then he considered, and added, "Not yet, anyway."
He dismounted and led the dappled creature across the
street, to the place that had caught his eye. It was a small
shop, with a warded canopy set to guard the walkway just
outside, and a marquee that caught the dying sunlight like
drops of fire. Fae Shoppe it said, in gleaming gold letters.
Resident loremaster. All hours.
He looked back over his shoulder, to the gradually
darkening street. Night was coming on with vigor, and God
alone knew what that would mean. The sensible thing to do
would be to find an inn and drop off his things, get his

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mount under guard, and affix a few wards to his luggage . .
. but when had he ever done the sensible thing, when
curiosity was driving him? He took a moment to remove
his most valuable bag from the horse's back - his only
valuable bag, in fact - locked the beast's lead chain to a
hitching rack, and went inside.
Into another world. The dying sunlight gave way to
orange and amber, the flickering light of tinted lamps.
Warm-toned wood added to the sense of harmony, possibly
aided by a ward or two; he could feel his travel-weary
muscles relax as he entered, but the Working that made
them do so was too subtle to define.
All about him were things. Marvelous objects, no two of
them alike, which filled to overflowing the multitude of
shelves, display cases, and braces that lined the interior of
the shop. Some were familiar to him, in form if not in
detail. Weapons, for instance: his practiced eye took in
everything from blades to pistols, from the simple swords
of his own martial preference to the more complicated
marvels that applied gunpowder in measured doses - and
just as often misapplied it. Household items, of every kind
imaginable. Books and bookmarks and bookstands, pen and
paper. And some objects that were clearly Worked:
talismans etched with ancient Earth symbols, intricately
knotted wards, herbs and spices and perfumes and oils, and
all the equipment necessary to maximize their effect.
A bizzarre sort of gift shop, or general grocery? He read

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some of the labels, and shook his head in amazement. Was
it possible - really possible - that the objects surrounding
him were Worked? All of them? What a fantastic notion!
In the center of the room, dividing the public area from
that space which clearly served as a reference library, a
glass counter served to support several dozen books and the
man who was perusing them. He was pale in a way that
westerners rarely were, but Damien sensed nothing amiss
about the coloring; despite its stark contrast with his dark
hair, eyes, and clothing, it probably meant nothing more
sinister than that he worked the late shift. In a city that
remained active all night, anything was possible.
The man lifted up his wire-rimmed spectacles as he
noticed his visitor, then removed them; Damien caught a
flash of delicately etched sigils centered in the circles of
clear glass. "Welcome," he said pleasantly. "Can I help you
with anything?"
The counter was filled with more whimsical objects,
taffeta-quilt hearts and small calico bags with rosette bows,
wards made up to look like massive locks and chalices
engraved with sexually suggestive motifs. All of them
labeled. And if the labels were accurate . . .
"Do they really Work?" he asked.
The pale man nodded pleasantly, as though he heard the

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question every day. "Lady Cee's a certified adept. Each
object in the shop has been fae-bound to a purpose. Results
are guaranteed, in most cases. Can I show you something in
particular?"
He was about to answer when a door in the back of the
shop swung open - well camouflaged by the mountains of
books that flanked it, or perhaps by a Working? - and a
woman entered, her bright eyes jubilant. "Found it!" she
announced.
Her associate sighed melodramatically and shut the thick
volume before him. "Thank gods. At last."
"If I hadn't worked that damned Obscuring on it in the
first place-" She stopped as she saw Damien, and a smile lit
her face. "Hello, I'm sorry. I didn't realize we had
company."
It was impossible not to return that infectious smile.
"Lady Cee, I presume?"
"If you like. Ciani of Faraday." She came forward and
offered her hand, which he grasped with pleasure. Dark
hair and soft brown skin served as a backdrop for wide,
expressive eyes, and lips that seemed to find their natural
placement in a broad grin of pleasure. Fine lines fanned out
from the corners of her eyes, hinting at age, but the quality
of her skin and the firmness of her figure told another story.

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It was impossible to read either her true age or her origin,
which might have been intentional; whatever the case, he
found himself more than marginally attracted to her.
Be honest, Damien. You've always been attracted to
things faewise, and here's a true adept; would her looks
have made much of a difference?
"My pleasure," he said with gusto. "Damien Kilcannon
Vryce, lately of Ganji-on-the-Cliffs, at your service." Her
eyes crinkled with amusement, which hinted that she knew
how many titles he was omitting. She must have worked a
Knowing on him as soon as she saw him; that he had never
noticed her doing it said much for her skill.
But that stands to reason. As an adept she isn't simply
more powerful than most, she's immersed in the fae in a
way no others can be. Then he remembered where he was,
and thought in amazement, What must that mean for her, to
have such awareness, living in the shadow of such a great
Darkness . . .
"And are you the resident loremaster, as well?"
She bowed her head. "I have that honor."
"Meaning . . . an archivist?"
"Meaning, I research, collect, Know, and disseminate

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information. As it is said our ancestors once used machines
to do, before the Great Sacrifice. For a modest consultation
fee, of course."
"Of course."
"Meaning also that my position is one of absolute
neutrality, regarding the uses to which such data is put."
Her eyes sparkled mischievously, and she added,
"Discretion assured."
"That's necessary, I assume."
"Oh, yes. We learned that the hard way. Too many so-
called Datalords were killed in the early days, by sorcerers
seeking vengeance for one indiscretion or another. We
learned not to take sides. And the populace learned to
respect our neutrality, in order to benefit from our
continued presence. Is there something I can show you? Or
some service we can offer?"
He wondered just how deep within him her Knowing
had searched. And watched her closely as he said, "I need a
local fae-map. Do you carry them?"
Her eyes sparkled with amusement, reflecting the amber
of the lamplight. "I think we may," she answered simply.
Not rising to the bait. "Current or historical?"

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"Current."
"Then I'm sure we do." She stepped back to search
through one of the book-strewn shelves, and after a few
minutes chose and pulled forth a heavy vellum sheet. She
laid it out on the counter before him and pinned its corners
down with several unlabeled objects that had been lying
about, allowing him to study it.
He whistled softly. Currents of fae flowed through the
city in half a dozen directions, each carefully labeled as to
its tenor and tidal discrepancies. North of the city, beyond
the sheltered ports of Kale and Seth and across the twisted
straits that separated two continents, a spiral of wild
currents swirled to a focal point so thick with notes and
measurements that he could hardly make out its position.
The Forest? he wondered, seeking out the region's name
from among the myriad notes. Yes, the Forest. And smack
dab in the middle of it was the wildest fae on any human
continent, and by far the most dangerous. So close!
"Will it do?" she asked. In a tone of voice that said
plainly that she knew it made the fae-maps of his home
look like mere road maps of a few simple country paths. He
had never seen, nor even imagined, anything like this.
"How much?"
"Fifty local, or its western equivalent. Or barter," she

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added.
Intrigued, he looked up at her.
"We have very few visitors from your region, and fewer
still who brave the Dividers. Your news and experience are
worth quite a bit to me - professionally speaking, of course.
I might be willing to trade to you what you want, in return
for what you know."
"Over dinner?" he asked smoothly.
She looked him over, from his mud-caked boots to his
rough woolen shirt; he thought he felt the fae grow warm
about him, and realized that she was Knowing him as well.
"Isn't there someplace you're supposed to be?" she
asked, amused.
He shrugged. "In a week. They don't know I'm here
early - and won't unless I tell them. No one's waiting up
for me," he assured her.
She nodded slightly as she considered it. Then turned to
the man beside her - who was already waiting with an
answer.
"Go on, Cee." He, too, was smiling. "I can hold the shop

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till midnight. Just get back before the-" He stopped in mid-
sentence, looked uncomfortably at Damien. "Before they
come, all right?"
She nodded. "Of course." From under a pile of papers
she drew out two objects, a ward on a ribbon and a small,
clothbound notebook. These she gave to the man,
explaining, "When Dez comes in, give him these charts. He
wanted more . . . but I can do only so much, working with
the Core stars. If he wants anything more, try to convince
him to trust the earth-fae. I can do a more detailed Divining
with that."
"I will."
"And Chelli keeps asking for a charm for her son, to
ward against the perils of the true night. I've told her I can't
do that. No one can. She's best off just keeping him inside .
. . she might come in again to ask."
"I'll tell her."
"That's it, I think." She lifted a jacket from the coatstand
near the door, and smiled at Damien as she donned it.
"Your treat?"
"My honor," he responded.
"The New Sun, then. You'll like it." She glanced back,

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toward her assistant. "I'll be there if you need me, Zen; just
Send."
He nodded.
Damien offered her his arm. She stared at it for a
moment, clearly amused by the custom, then twined her
own smaller limb about it. "You can stable your horse
there," she informed him. "And I think you'll find the
neighborhood . . . interesting."
Interesting was an understatement.
The Inn of the New Sun was one of several buildings
that bordered Jaggonath's central plaza, as prime a piece of
real estate as one could ask for. The restaurant's front room
looked out upon several neat acres of grass and trees,
divided up into geometrical segments by well-maintained
walkways. By its numerous pagodas and performance
stands, Damien judged that the plaza hosted a score of
diverse activities, probably lasting through all the warm-
weather months. It was truly the center of the city, in more
than just geography. And at the far side, gleaming silver in
the moonlight . . .
A cathedral. The cathedral. Not surrounded by satellite
buildings of its faith, as was the Great Cathedral in Ganji,
but part and parcel of the bustling city life. He moved to
where he could get a view clear of the trees, and exhaled

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noisily in admiration. If rumor was truth, it was the oldest
extant church on the eastern continent. Built at the height of
the Revival, it was a monument to the tremendous dramatic
potential of the Neo-Gothic style. Archways and buttresses
soared toward the heavens, creamy white numarble
reflecting moonlight and lamplight both with pristine
perfection. Set against the dark evening sky, the building
glowed as though fae-lit, and drew worshipers to it like
moths to a flame. On its broad steps milled dozens - no,
hundreds of worshipers, and their faith tamed the wild fae
that flowed about their feet, sending it out again laden with
calmness, serenity, and hope. Damien stared at it, awed and
amazed, and thought, Here, in this wild place, the Dream is
alive. A core of order, making civilization possible. If only
it could have been managed on a broader scale . . .
Her light touch on his sleeve reminded him of where he
was and who he was with, and he nodded.
Later.
She ordered food for both of them. Local delicacies, she
said. He decided not to ask what they'd looked like when
they were alive. But despite his misgivings he found them
delicious, and the thick, sweet ale that was Jaggonath's
specialty was a welcome change after months of dried
rations and water.
They talked. He told her stories, in payment for the map,
embroidering upon his true adventures until her gentle

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smile warned him that he bordered on genuine dishonesty.
And gave her real news, in a more sober vein. Five ships
wrecked on the Ganji cliffs, a diplomat from the Wetlands
lost in the tragedy. Summer storms from out of the desert,
as if the sandlands themselves would claim new territory.
Tsunami. Earthquakes. Politics. She was interested in
everything, no matter how trivial it seemed to him, and
would give him no information in return until he had
finished to her satisfaction.
By the time their dessert came the night was as dark as
most nights ever got, the sun and Core wholly gone, one
moon soon to follow, a few lingering stars barely visible
above the horizon.
"So," she said pleasantly, as she spooned black sugar -
another Jaggonath specialty - into a thick, foamy drink.
"Your turn. What is it you hunger most to know?"
He considered the several half-jesting answers he might
have offered another woman, then reconsidered and
discarded them. An open offer of information was just too
valuable an opportunity to waste on social repartee.
"Forest or Rakh," he answered, after very little thought.
"Take your pick."
For a moment - just the briefest moment - he saw
something dark cross her countenance. Anger? Fear?

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Foreboding? But her voice was its usual light self as she
leaned back and asked him, "Ambitious, aren't you?"
"Those things are only legends where I come from. And
shadowy legends, at that."
"But you're curious."
"Who wouldn't be?"
"About the Forest? When merely thinking about it opens
up a channel for the dark fae to travel? Most men prefer to
avoid that risk."
The Forest. The fact that she had chosen that topic
meant that it was the other one which had caused her such
acute discomfort; he filed that fact away for future
reference, and addressed himself to the issue she preferred.
The Forest, calledForbidden in all the ancient texts. What
did they know of it, even here? It was a focal point of the
wildest fae, which in an earlier, less sophisticated age had
been calledevil. Now they knew better. Now they
understood that the forces which swept across this planet's
surface were neither good nor evil in and of themselves, but
simply responsive.To hopes and fears, wards and spells
and all the patterns of a Working, dreams and nightmares
and repressed desires. When tamed, it was useful. When
responding to man's darker urges, to the hungers and
compulsions which he repressed in the light of day, it could

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be deadly. Witness the Landing, and the gruesome deaths
of the first few colonists. Witness the monsters that Damian
had fought in the Dividers, shards of man's darkest
imaginings given fresh life and solid bodies, laying traps
for the unwary in the icy wilderness.
Witness the Forest.
"Sheer concentration makes the fae there too strong to
tame," she told him. "Manifestial response is almost
instantaneous. In plainer English, merely worrying about
something is enough to cause it to happen. Every man
that's dared to walk in those shadows, regardless of his
intentions, has left some dark imprint behind him. Every
death that's taken place beneath those trees has bound the
fae to more and greater violence. The Church once tried to
master it by massive applications of faith - that was the last
of the Great Wars, as I'm sure you know - but all it did was
give them back their nightmares, with a dark religious
gloss. Such power prefers the guarded secrets of the
unconscious to the preferences of our conscious will."
"Then how can man thrive so close to it? How can
Jaggonath - and Kale, and Seth, and Gehann - how can
those cities even exist, much less function?"
"Look at your map again. The Forest sits at the heart of
a whirlpool, a focal point of dark fae that draws like to like,
sucking all malevolent manifestations toward its, center.
Most things that go in never come out again. If it were

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otherwise we could never live here, this close to its
influence."
"You said that mostthings never leave."
She nodded, and her expression darkened. "There's a
creature that lives within the Forest - maybe a demon,
maybe a man - which has forced a dark sort of order upon
the wild fae there. Legend has it that he sits at the heart of
the whirlpool like a spider in its web, waiting for victims to
become trapped in its power. His minions can leave the
Forest and do, in a constant search for victims to feed to
him."
"You're talking about the Hunter."
"You know the name?"
"I've heard it often enough, since coming east. Never
with an explanation."
"For good reason," she assured him. "Merely men-
tioning the name opens a channel through the fae . . .
people are terrified of such contact. It's more than just the
Hunter himself. He's become our local bogeyman, the
creature that lurks in dark corners and closets, whose name
is used to scare children into obedience. Easterners are
raised to fear the Hunter more than any other earthly
power, save the Evil One himself. And don't take me

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wrong - he is, genuinely, both powerful and evil. His
minions hunt the shadows of the eastern cities for suitable
prey, to take back to the Forest to feed to him. Women,
always; mostly young, inevitably attractive. It's said that he
hunts them like wild animals there, in the heart of that land
which responds to his every whim. A very few survive - or
are permitted to survive, for whatever dark purpose suits
him. All are insane. Most would be better off dead. They
usually kill themselves, soon after."
"Go on," he said quietly.
"It's said that his servants can walk the earth as men,
once the sun is gone. For which reason you'll rarely see
women abroad alone after dark - they walk guarded, or in
groups."
"You call it he,"he said quietly. "You think it's a man."
"I do, myself. Others don't."
"An adept?"
"He would have to be, wouldn't he?"
"Whom the Forest dominated."
She studied him, as if choosing her words with care.

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"Maybe," she said at last. Watching him. "I think not."
Or he dominated the Forest. The thought was stag-
gering. All the might of the Church had been pitted against
the measureless evil in a war to end all wars . . . to no avail.
Was it possible that one single man might dominate such a
place, when thousands had given up their lives failing to do
so?
With a start he realized that she had signaled for the bill,
and was gathering her jacket about her shoulders. Had they
been here that long?
"It's getting late," she said, apologetically. "I do have to
get back."
"To meet with them?" He tried to keep his tone light but
there was an edge to it that he failed to disguise.
The bill was placed between them. He looked at it.
"There are ninety-six pagan churches in this city," she
warned him. "Nineteen adepts, and nearly a thousand more
that style themselves sorcerers,or its equivalent. You
won't like any of them, or approve of what they do. So
don't ask."
"I don't know about that. I rather like this one."

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She looked at him, clearly bemused, and at last shook
her head. "You're not half bad company, considering your
livelihood. Far better than I expected."
He grinned. "I try."
"You'll be in town for a while?"
"If they can tolerate me."
She didn't ask who he was referring to, which confirmed
the fact that she already knew. Her Knowing had been
thorough indeed - and little surprise, in such a place as this.
He looked out into the night-bound plaza, and thought of
the things that such darkness might hide.
"Come on," he told her, and he scattered eastern coins
on the table. "I'll walk you back."
If the cathedral had seemed magnificent from a distance,
it was even more impressive from up close. Greater
archways soared above lesser ones, the space between them
filled with a rich assortment of stylized carvings. Layer
upon layer of ornamentation covered the vast edifice, as if
its designer had suffered from a phobia of unadorned space;
but if the whole of it was overworked, by modem
standards, that too was part of its style. The strength of
Revivalist architecture lay in its capacity to overwhelm the

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viewer.
Damien stood at the base of the massive front staircase
and let himself open up to all that its presence implied: the
faith of thousands bound together, serving one Law; the
remnants of a great dream that had been damaged but not
destroyed in one terrible war, that had fragmented man's
Church and left him at the mercy of what this strange
planet called Nature; the hope that someday faith would
conquer fae, and the whole of Erna could be colonized -
safely - at last.
All those impressions filled him, joining with the
warmth of his body: the coursing heat of rich ale in his
veins, the triumph of his arrival, and the exhilaration of
sexual diplomacy.
If I were not so dusty, he had said to her, when at last
they returned to her shop, I might attempt to seduce you.
If you were not so dusty, she had answered with a smile,
you might stand a chance of success.
An excellent omen for the future, he thought.
The last congregants of the night were descending on
both sides of him, parting like a wave as they poured down
the ivory steps. No women walked alone, he noted, but they
stayed together in small groups, or were guarded by men;

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even here, on God's own front steps, the shadow of the
Hunter was felt.
Then the last well-wishers shook hands with their priest
and made their descent, and the great ornate doors were
swung slowly shut, closing out the night.
He looked at them for a while, admiring their intricate
carvings, and then climbed the steps himself and knocked.
A sub-door opened and a robed man with a small lamp
peeked out. Against the background of the gleaming white
steps, in the wake of so many well-dressed attendants,
Damien knew that he looked his grubbiest.
"Well?" the man asked, in a tone of voice that clearly
stated:We are closed for the night. He shot a suspicious
glance toward Damien's sword.
"The building is open?"
With a sigh of exasperation the man stepped aside,
allowing Damien to enter. Yes, technically the building was
unlocked, and anyone could enter it to pray - that was
Church custom, in east and west alike - and if some rough
warrior wanted to do so at this time, the man had no right to
turn him away. Damien had known that when he asked. But
as he ducked beneath the lintel of the low, narrow sub-door,
and entered the foyer of the cathedral itself, the man's hand

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fell like a warning on his shoulder.
Two
Image of a Patriarch: stark white hair above aquiline
features, eyes a cold, piercing blue. Thin lips drawn back in
a hard line, a fleeting glimpse of flawless teeth within. Pale
brown skin dried and thickened by age. Lines of character
deeply incised: tense, severe, disapproving. The body, like
the face, toughened rather than weakened by seventy
winters of life. Broad, strong shoulders, from which
cascaded a waterfall of ivory silk, voluminous enough to
obscure the body's outline. Power - in every feature, even
in his stance. Authority.
And something else, to be read in his face, his eyes, his
very posture - and his voice, a rich baritone that any
chorister would pray to possess. Anger. Resentment.
Distaste.
Exactly what Damien had expected.
"You have a commission?" the Patriarch asked coldly.
Books lined every wall, punctuated by small, pierced-
glass windows that broke up the city's lights into a
thousand jeweled sparks. What furniture there was, was
rich: a heavy mahogova desk, crimson velvet cushions on
the single matching chair, antique drapes and patterned car-

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pets that spoke of wealth in careful, tasteful investment.
Damien looked around for some convenient resting spot, at
last chose a shelf edge to support his bag while he
rummaged inside it for the Matriarch's letter. Dust rose up
from the travel-stained pack and settled on several of the
nearer shelves; he could feel the Patriarch's eyes on him,
disapproving, even before he faced him.
"Her Holiness sends her best," he announced, and he
handed over the vellum envelope. The Patriarch regarded it
for a moment, noting that the seal of the Church which
granted it official status had been set to one side, so that the
envelope remained open. He glanced up at Damien, briefly,
cold blue eyes acknowledging the message: She trusts you.
And adding his own: I don't.
Then he removed the commission itself and read.
Power,Damien thought. He radiates power. When he
was certain that the Patriarch's attention was firmly fixed
on the document, he whispered the key to a Knowing.
Softly - very softly - knowing that if he were caught
Working the fae at this time and place, he might well be
throwing away everything he'd hoped to accomplish. But
the words, barely spoken, went unheard. The fae gathered
around him, softly, and wove a picture that his mind could
interpret. And yes . . . it was as he had suspected. He
wondered if the Patriarch even knew, or if the man
attributed the force of his own presence to mere human
concepts, like charisma. Bearing. Instead of recognizing

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the truth - which was that his every thought sent tiny
ripples coursing through the fae, altering his environment
to suit his will. A natural, in the vernacular. A born
sorcerer, whose chosen profession forbade him from
acknowledging the very source of his authority.
At last the Patriarch nodded, and with carefully
manicured hands he folded the commission again, sliding it
back into its vellum container. "She thinks highly of you,"
he said, placing it on the desk beside him: statement of fact,
with neither approval nor disapproval implied. "He is loyal,
she writes,and wholly dedicated to our mission. You may
depend upon his honor, his vigilance, and his discretion."
He glared, and the thin mouth tightened. "Very well. I
won't do you the dishonor of dissembling, Damien
Kilcannon Vryce. Let me tell you just how welcome you
are here - you and your sorcery."
Four long steps took him to the nearest window; Damien
caught the flash of jeweled rings as he swung it open,
revealing the lights of the city. For a moment he simply
stared at them, as though something in the view would help
him choose his words. "Since my earliest years," he said at
last, "I've served this region. Since that day when I was
first old enough to understand just what this planet was,
and what it had done to mankind, I've devoted myself body
and soul to our salvation. It meant adhering to one god, in a
world where hundreds of would-be deities clamored for
worship, promising cheap and easy miracles in return for
minimal offerings. It meant clinging to a Church that still

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bled from the memory of its greatest defeat, in an age when
triumphant temples rose up like wheat in springtime. I
chose what was clearly the harder path because I believed
in it - believein it, Reverend Vryce! - and I have never
once faltered in that faith. Or in my belief that such faith is
necessary, in order to restore man to his Earth-born
destiny."
A cold evening breeze gusted in through the window;
the Patriarch turned his face into it, let the chill wind brush
back his hair. "Most difficult of all was Church custom
regarding the fae. Especially in this city, where sorcery is
so cheap that the poor can buy visions of plentiful food
more easily than the real thing . . . and then they die of
hunger, Reverend Vryce. Their bodies gutted by starvation,
but a ghastly smile on their faces. Which is why I believe
as I do - as my Church has believed, for nearly a thousand
years. We won't tame this tyrannical force by parceling it
out to sorcerers, for their paltry spells and their squalid
conjurations. The more we expose it to humankind's greed,
the more it stinks of our excesses. Gannon saw that very
clearly, back in the Revival. He outlawed private sorcery
for that very reason - and I agree with him, heart and soul.
If you need an example of what the fae can do to a man,
once it has hold of him . . . consider the Prophet's Fall. Or
the First Sacrifice. Witness all the monsters that the fae has
brought to life, using man's fear as a template . . . I swore
to fight those things, Reverend Vryce. At any cost to
myself. I swore that the fae would be tamed, according to
the Prophet's guidelines."

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"And then came a letter. From your Matriarch, your
Holy Mother. Informing me that the west had begun an
investigation into how the fae might be manipulated for
Church purposes, by a chosen few trained toward that end.
Sorcery! Dress it up in holy silks as you will, it still stinks.
I argued with her, pleaded with her, I would have gone so
far as to threaten her if I thought it would do any good . . .
but your Holy Mother is a headstrong woman, and her
mind was made up. And now I am watching my Church
dissolve, Reverend Vryce, my dream of salvation corrupted
. . ." He turned back to Damien, cold eyes narrowed. "And
you are the vehicle of that corruption."
"No one said you had to have me," Damien snapped -
and instantly regretted his lack of control. He'd been
prepared for much worse than this; why was he
overreacting? It was the fae that had affected him,
responding to the Patriarch's will. Why? What did he want?
For me to lose control, he realized.For me to act in
such a way that he would have no choice but to cast me out.
It staggered the imagination, that a man who neither
accepted nor understood the fae could Work it so well -
without ever knowing that he did. How much of the man's
intolerance was rooted in his own need to deny the truth?
"No," the Patriarch agreed. "I could have fragmented the
Church instead, given birth to a schism that might never
heal . . . or begun a holy war, trying to avoid that. Those

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options were even more distasteful, in the end, and so I
agreed. Send me your sorcerer, I told her. Let me see what
he does. Let me see how he operates. Let me see for myself
that his Working is no threat to our faith." His expression
was icy. "If you can demonstrate that to my satisfaction I'll
be a very surprised man."
Mustering all his self-control, Damien answered coolly,
"I'll regard that as a goal, Holiness."
The blue eyes fixed on him, pinpoints of azure fire.
"Damien Kilcannon Vryce. Knight of King Gannon's
Order of the Golden Flame. Companion of the Earth-Star
Ascendant. Reverend Father of the Church of the
Unification of Human Faith on Erna. What is our calling, to
you?"
Damien stiffened. "A dream - that I would die to uphold,
or kill to defend."
The Patriarch nodded slowly. "Yes. Well recited. The
definition of your Order - first voiced in a more
bloodthirsty time than this, I dare say. But you, Reverend
Vryce - the man. The dreamer. What do youbelieve?"
"That you're wrong," Damien answered quietly. "That
our traditional belief system is outdated. That our ancestors
perceived of the world in terms of black and white, when
nearly all of it is made up of shades of gray. That the

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Church must adapt to that truth, in order to remain a vital
entity on this world. The survival of our dream," he
stressed, "depends upon it."
For a long moment the Patriarch simply gazed upon
him, silent. "She chose well," he said at last. Ivory silk
rippled in the breeze as he reached out to take hold of the
window and shut it again. "But tell me this. When you
work your sorcery - when you hold the essence of this
world in your hands, and use your will to give it form - can
you honestly tell me that the concept of, power, for its own
sake, doesn't tempt you? Have you never once Worked the
fae for your own good - your own personal good,
independent of the Church's need? Never once changed the
face of Nature for your own benefit? Or dreamed of doing
so?"
"I'm as human as you are," Damien answered curtly.
"We all have our temptations. But our ability to rise above
them - to serve an ideal, rather than the dictates of selfish
instinct - is what defines us as a species."
"Ah, yes." The Patriarch nodded. "The Prophet's words.
He failed us, you'll recall. And himself. As have all men,
who tried to reconcile sorcery with our faith. Remember
that."
He walked to the heavy mahogova chair and sat down in
it, smoothing the folds of his robe beneath him as he did so.
And he sighed. "You'll have your students, Reverend

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Vryce. Against my better judgment and despite my
objections, but you'll have them. A dozen of our most
promising acolytes - chosen not because they have great
sorcerous potential, but because their theological
background is sound. You will not reach out beyond that
group until I'm satisfied that this . . . experiment . . . can
proceed without danger to my charges. Or my Church. Am
I making myself clear?"
Damien bowed, and managed not to grin. Barely. "Very
clear, Holiness."
He clapped his hands twice. Barely a few seconds later
the door swung open, and a young girl in servant's livery
entered.
"This is Kami. She'll get you settled in. Kami, take
Reverend Vryce to the rooms that have been prepared for
him. See that he has a schedule of our services, and
anything he needs for tonight. Breakfast is in the Annex, at
eight," he informed Damien. "A chance to meet the rest of
our staff under slightly less . . . trying circumstances." His
mouth twitched slightly; a smile? "Is that too early for
you?"
"I'll manage it, Holiness."
The Patriarch nodded to Kami, a clear gesture of
dismissal. Damien gathered up his pack and turned to

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follow her - but when they reached the door the Patriarch
called his name softly, and he turned back.
"When it comes time to die," the Patriarch said, "- and
the time will come, as it comes to all men - what will you
do then? Bow down to Nature, to the patterns of Earth-life
which are the core of our very existence? Help us to lay a
foundation whereby our descendants can reclaim the stars?
Or submit to the temptations of this alien magic, and sell
your soul for another few years of life? As the Prophet tried
to do? Consider that as you retire, Reverend Vryce."
It was clearly a dismissal, but Damien stood his ground.
"The fae isn't magic."
The Patriarch waved one ringed hand, dismissing the
thought. "Semantic exercises. What's the real difference?"
"Magic can be controlled," Damien reminded him. He
gave that a moment to sink in, then added, "Isn't that what
Erna's problem is all about?"
And he bowed - with only a hint of defiance. "I'll
consider it. Holiness. Good night."
Three
The sun had set.

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Narilka stood in the shop's narrow doorway, eyes fixed
on the western horizon. She was cold inside, just as the
night was cold without. The sun had set while she was
downstairs. Long ago, by the looks of it. How could she;
have been so careless?
The stars were almost gone.
There was no strong light in the heavens, save one full
moon that stood balanced along the eastern horizon. Soon
even that would be gone, and only the stars of the Rim -
sparse, insubstantial - would accompany a slender crescent
in the west, lighting her way home.
For a moment she almost went back into the shop, panic
tightening her throat. Help me,she would say, I've been at
work longer than I should have, please walk me home . . .
But home was a good distance away and Gresham would
be busy - and besides, he had already expressed his total
disdain for her fear of the night, often enough that she knew
any plea to him would fall on deaf ears. You carry wards
enough to supply the damned city with ‘em, he'd say
scornfully. Women have walked the streets with less, and
made it home all right. Where's your sense, girl? I have
work to do.
With one last deep breath of the shop's dusty air, taken
for courage, Narilka forced herself to step out into the
night. The chill of the autumn evening wound around her
neck like icy tendrils - or was that her fear manifesting? -

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and she drew her shawl closer about her, until its thick
wool managed to ward off the worst of the cold.
Was she overreacting? Was she being unreasonable?
Gresham had said it so often that now she was beginning I
to doubt herself. Did she really have any concrete evidence
that the risk to her was greater than that facing other
women - which is to say, that a female should always be
careful and keep moving, but most survived the night?
As she passed by the silversmith's shop she stopped,
long enough to catch sight of her reflection in the smooth
glass storefront. Thick hair, onyx-black; smooth white skin,
now flushed pink from the cold; lashes as thick as velvet,
framing eyes nearly as dark. She was delicate and lovely, as
a flower is lovely, and fragile as a porcelain doll. It was a
face mortal women envied, men would die for, and one
neither man nor mortal, but an evil thing, Erna's darkness
made incarnate would destroy, with relish.
Shivering, she hurried onward. The faster she went, the
sooner she would get home. In the inner streets of
Jaggonath there were still people about, crowds enough that
she could imagine herself lost among them. But they
thinned as she left the commercial districts, leaving her
feeling naked in the night. She had to keep moving. Her
parents must be worried sick by now - and with good
reason. She looked about herself nervously, noting the
abandoned streets of Jaggonath's western district, the tiny
houses set farther and farther apart. The road had turned to

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mud beneath her feet, cold enough to chill her through the
soles of her shoes but not yet frozen enough to be solid; her
feet made rhythmic sucking noises, painfully conspicuous,
as she walked. She felt like a walking target.
The Hunter. That was what they called him. She
wondered what he was, what he had once been. A man?
That was what the tavern girls whispered, between giggles
and mugs of warm beer, in the safety of their well-lit
workplace.Once a man, they said, and now something else.
But with a man's lust still, corrupted though it might be.
Why else were all his victims female, young, and inevitably
attractive? Why would he have such a marked taste for
beauty - and for delicate beauty, most of all - if some sort
of male hunger didn't still cling to his soul?
Stop it! she commanded herself. She shook her head
rapidly, as if that could cast out the unwanted thoughts. The
fear.Don't! She would make it home all right, and
everybody would be very relieved, and that was that. Her
parents would be furious at Gresham for keeping her after
dark and they would write him an angry letter, which he
would promptly ignore - and then it would be over.
Forever. No more than a memory. And she could say to her
children that yes, she had been out after dark, and they
would ask her what it was like, and she would tell them. A
fireside story like any other. Right?
But you are what he wants, a voice whispered inside her.
Exactly. You are what he sends his minions into Jaggonath

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to find.
"Damn you!" she cried suddenly - meaning her parents,
her fears, the night itself. And her own looks, for that
matter. Gods above, what might her life have been like if
she were unattractive, or merely plain, or even of a sturdier
type than she was? Might she have been allowed to play
outside after sunset, as some other children were? Might
she have grown accustomed to the night, ranking its terrors
alongside other childhood fears, dealing with them simply
and rationally? Come home on time, her parents would have
cautioned. Don't talk to strangers. Raise up a ward if some
demon appears. And then they would have let her go out.
Gods of Erna, what freedom, what freedom!
She reached up to wipe a tear, half frozen, from her
cheek, and then stopped walking in order to dislodge a bit
of mud that had oozed its way into her shoe. And as she did
so, she became intensely aware of the silence that
surrounded her. No other footsteps sounded in the night,
though the road on all sides of her had been heavily trod.
No birds sang, no insects chittered, no children cried in the
distance. Nothing. It was as if the whole world had died,
suddenly - as if she were the only creature left on Erna, and
this section of road the last spot where life might exist, in
the whole of creation.
Then a sound behind her made her start suddenly. Al-
most silent, a mere hint of movement, but set against the
night's backdrop of utter soundlessness it had the power of

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a scream. She whirled about, staring back the way she had
come. At a man.
"Forgive me." His voice was smooth, his carriage
elegant. He bowed, soft brown hair catching the moonlight
as he moved. "I didn't mean to frighten you." "You didn't,"
she lied. Another bit of mud was trickling coldly into her
shoe, but she didn't want to take her eyes from him to
dislodge it; she shifted her weight a bit, and almost fell as a
result. Gods, was she that unsteady? She didn't dare look as
afraid as she felt. The Hunter was attracted to fear. "It just
seemed so . . . quiet."
"The night can be like that." He walked toward her
slowly, casually, his languid grace mesmeric in the
moonlight. A tall man, lean, with delicate features,
arresting eyes. Unadorned, save for a thin gold band that
held back his hair from his face, the latter cut shoulder-
length in a style several years out of date. His eyes were
pale gray flecked with silver, and in the moonlight they
flashed like diamonds. She sensed a cold amusement
lurking just beneath his surface. "Forgive me," he repeated,
"but a young woman out alone? It seemed unusual. Are you
all right?"
It occurred to her that she hadn't heard him approach,
that in the midst of all this sticky mud she should have had
some warning - but then his eyes caught hers, held hers,
and suddenly she couldn't remember why that bothered
her.

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"Yes," she stammered. "That is - I think so." She felt
breathless, as if she had been running instead of walking.
She tried to step back, but her body wouldn't obey. What
kind of Working had he used to bind her?
But though he came close - too close - it was only to
touch her chin with the tip of a well-manicured finger,
turning her face up toward him. "So fragile," he murmured.
"So fine. And alone in the night. Not wise. Would you like
an escort?" She whispered it. "Please."
He offered his arm. After a moment, she took it. An
antiquated gesture, straight out of the Revival period. Her
hand shook slightly as it came to rest on the wool of his
sleeve. No warmth came from the arm beneath, or any
other part of him; he was cold - he radiated cold - like the
night itself. Just as she, despite her best intentions, radiated
fear.
Gods above, she prayed, just get me home. I'll be more
careful in the future, I swear it. Just get me home tonight. It
seemed to her he smiled. "You're afraid, child." She didn't
dare respond. Just let me get through tonight. Please.
"Of what? The darkness? The night itself?"
She knew she shouldn't speak of such things, but she
couldn't hold back; his voice compelled response. "The

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creatures that hunt in it," she whispered.
"Ah." He laughed softly. "And for good reason. They do
value your kind, child, that feed on the living. But these -"
and he touched the wards embroidered on her sleeve, the
warding clasps that held back her hair "- don't they bind
enough fae to guard you?"
Enough to keep away demons, she thought. Or so it
should have been. But now, suddenly, she wasn't sure.
He put his hand beneath her chin, turning her gently to
face him. Where his fingers touched her flesh there was
cold, but not merely a human chill; it burned her, as a spark
of fire might, and left her skin tingling as it faded. She felt
strangely disassociated from the world around her, as if all
of it was a dream. All of it except for him.
"Do I read you correctly?" he asked. "Have you never
seen the night before?"
"It's dangerous," she whispered.
"And very beautiful."
His eyes were pools of silver, molten, that drew her in.
She shivered. "My parents thought it best."

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"Never been outside, when sun and Core had set. Never!
I wasn't aware the fear had reached such an extreme here.
Even now . . . you don't look. You won't see."
"See what?" she managed.
"The night. The beauty of it. The power. The so-called
dark fae, a force so fragile that even the moonlight weakens
it - and so strong in the darkness that death itself falls back
before it. The tides of night, each with its own color and
music. An entire world, child! - filled with things that can't
exist when the light in the heavens is too strong."
"Things which the sun destroys."
He smiled, but his eyes remained cold. "Just so."
"I've never been allowed."
"Then look now," he whispered. "And see."
She did - in his eyes, which had gone from pale gray to
black, and from black to dizzying emptiness. Stars swirled
about her, in a dance so complex that no human science
could have explained it - but she felt the rhythms of it echo
in her soul, in the pattern of mud beneath her feet, in the
agitated pounding of her heart. All the same dance, earth
and stars alike.This is Earth science,she thought with
wonder. The Old Knowledge. Tendrils of fae seeped from

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the darkness to wind themselves about her, delicate strands
of velvet purple that were drawn to her warmth like moths
to flame. She shivered as they brushed against her, sensing
the wild power within them. All about her the land was
alive, with a thousand dark hues that the night had made its
own: fragile fae, as he had said, nearly invisible in the
moonlight - but strong in the shadows, and hauntingly
beautiful. She tried to move toward it, to come closer to a
tangle of those delicate, almost unseeable threads, but his
hand on her arm stopped her, and a single word bound her.
Dangerous, he cautioned; language without sound. For
you.
"Yes," she whispered. "But oh, please . . ."
Music filled the cool night air, and she shut her eyes in
order to savor it. A music unlike any other she had ever
heard, delicate as the fae itself, formless as the night that
bound it. Jeweled notes that entered her not through her
ears, as human music might, but through her hair and her
skin and even her clothing; music that she took into her
lungs with every breath, breathing out her own silver notes
to add to their harmony. Is this what the night is? she
wondered. Truly?
She felt, rather than saw, a faint smile cross his face.
"For those who know how to look."
I want to stay here.

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He laughed, softly. You can't.
Why? she demanded.
Child of the sunlight! Heir to life and all that it implies.
There's beauty in that world, too, although of a cruder sort.
Are you really ready to give all that up? To give up the
light? Forever?
The darkness withdrew into two obsidian pinpoints,
surrounded by fields of cracked ice. His eyes. The dark fae
was alive in there, too, and a music that was far more
ominous - and darkly seductive. She nearly cried out, for
wanting it.
"Quiet, child." His voice was nearly human again.
"The cost of that's too high, for you. But I know the
temptation well."
"It's gone . . ."
"It'll never be gone for you. Not entirely. Look."
And though the night was dark again, and silent, slit was
aware of something more. A tremor of deepest put pie, at
the edges of her vision. Faint echoes of a music that came
and went with the breeze. "So beautiful."

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"You avoided it."
"I was afraid."
"Of the darkness? Of its creatures? Such beings aren't
kept at bay by a simple closed door, child, or by lamplight.
If they want to know of you, they do, and if they want to
have you, they certainly will. Your charmed wards are
enough to keep lesser demons at bay, and against the
greater ones mere lamplight and human company won't
help you at all. So what's the point in locking yourself
away from half the wonders of the world?"
"None," she breathed, and she knew it to be the truth
He took her arm and applied gentle pressure, forward. It
took her a moment to realize what he meant by it and even
then the gesture seemed strange. Too human. for this
extrahuman night. In silence she let him walk her toward
her home, his footsteps utterly silent beside her own. What
else did she expect? All about them shadows danced, alien
shapes given life by the moonlight. She shivered with
pleasure, watching them. Was this her forever now, this
marvelous vision? Would it stay when he was gone - his
gift to her, in this unearthly night?
At last, eons later, they came to the last rise before her
house. And stood on it, silently, gazing upon the all-too-

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human abode. There, in the light, the music would fade.
The fae would be gone. Bright sanity, in all its dull glory,
would reign supreme.
His nostrils flared as he studied the small house, as if
testing the breeze that came from it. "They're afraid," he
observed.
"They expected me home before dark."
"They had good reason to fear." He said it quietly, but
she sensed the threat behind his words. "You know that."
She looked into his eyes and saw in them such a mixture
of coldness and power that she turned away, trembling. It
was worth it, she thought. Worth it to see the night like that.
To have such vision, if only once. Then the touch of his
finger, cold against her skin, brought her back to face him.
"I won't hurt you," he promised. And a hint of a smile
crossed his face - as if his own benevolence amused him.
"As for what you do to yourself, for having known me . . .
that's in your own hands. Now, I think, you'd better go
home."
She stepped back, suddenly uncertain. Dazed, as the fae
that had bound her will dissolved into the night. He laughed
softly, a sound that was disconcertingly intimate; she
sensed a glimmer of darkness behind it, and for a moment

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she could see all too clearly what was in his eyes. Black
fae, utterly lightless. A silence that drank in all music. An
unearthly chill, that hungered to consume living heat.
She took a step backward in sudden panic, felt the wet
grass bunch beneath her feet. "Nari!"
She whirled around, toward the source of the sound. Her
father's form was silhouetted against the glowing house, as
he ran up the rise to reach her. "Narilka! We've been so
worried!" She wanted to run to him, greet him, to reassure
him - to beg for his help, his protection - but suddenly she
had no voice. It was as if his sudden appearance had
shattered some intimate bond, and her body still ached for
the lover it had lost. "Great gods, Nari, are you all right?"
He embraced her. Wordlessly. She couldn't have spo-
ken. She clung to him desperately, dimly aware of the tears
that were streaming down her face. Of her mother, running
out to join them.
"Nari! Baby, are you all right? We didn't know what to
do - we were so worried!"
"Fine," she managed. "Fine." She managed to
disentangle herself from her father, and to stand alone with
some degree of steadiness. "It was my fault. I'm sorry . . ."
She looked back toward where her escort had last stood,

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and wasn't surprised to find him gone. Though the grass
was crushed where she had been standing there were no
such marks from beneath his feet, nor any other sign of his
passage. Again, no surprise.
"Fine," she murmured that single word, how little of the
truth it conveyed! - and she let them lead her home across
the farmland, into the negligible safety of the light. And she
mourned for the beauty that faded about her as the shadows
of night fell farther and farther behind. But that vision
would be hers now, whenever she dared to look for it. His
gift.
Whoever you are, I thank you. Whatever the cost, I
accept it.
Reluctantly, she let them lead her inside.
Four
They used the river to gain the coast, though the swift-
running water made them feel an equivalent of human
nausea. One was lost at sea, caught up in Casca's evening
tide and swept far beyond any hope of earthly purchase
before his companions could reach him. His companions
mourned, but only briefly; he had known the risk, as all of
them had, and had signaled his acceptance when he
entrusted himself to the cold, treacherous waters. To mourn
him now - or to mourn anyone, at any time - would run

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

counter to their very nature. Regretwas not in their
vocabulary, nor sorrow.They knew only hunger and -
possibly - fear. And that special fealty which bound them
together in purpose, which demanded that they brave the
ultimate barrier and walk the human lands, in service to
another.
By dawn they had found caves to hide in, ragged hidey
holes gutted out of granite cliffs by wind and ice and time.
Below them the surf raged as tidal patterns crossed and
tangled, Casca and Domina and Prima battling for
dominance of the sea, while Sun and Core together ruled
the sky. They slept as the dead sleep, oblivious to such
liquid disputes, resting on mounds of newly killed animals,
that of the caves' former occupants. Whose flesh did not
interest them as such, though they licked at the dried blood
once or twice upon awakening, as if to cleanse their palates.
What little food such animals could supply had been
drained from them quickly the night before, in battle, and
flesh without purpose offered these creatures little
sustenance. And no pleasure. Humankind, on the other
hand, could offer both: pleasure and sustenance combined,
more than even the rakh could offer. They knew that. They
had tasted. They hungered for more, and their hunger was
powerful enough to take the place of courage when it had
to. As it often had to in those nights that they skirted the
sea.
After three and a half days - eight moonfalls - they
sighted a light far out on the water, that revealed the

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presence of a small trading craft. Using flares they had
brought for just such a purpose, they signaled a desperate
cry for help. The sudden splash of green light against the
black sky illuminated a small vessel, riding the waves with
difficulty. An answering flare - life-orange, hot with
promise - was sent aloft, and they watched with nightwise
eyes as a small rowboat was lowered to the water,
presumably to brave the deadly shoreline and, if possible
save them.
Food! one whispered.
Not yet, another cautioned.
We have a purpose, the third reminded them both.
They stood shoulder to shoulder on the cold northern
shore, as they imagined real humans might stand, and
cheered on their saviors in desperate voices - exactly as
they imagined real humans might do. All the while arguing,
in whispers, the value of food versus obedience.
There'll be humans enough once we reach the
humlands, the wisest one among them pointed out - and
they savored that thought, while the ship's men braved rock
and surf to reach the shore. 
Five

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The interior of the boutique was small, and crowded
with a tangle of hanging garments and treelike accessory
displays; Damien had to push aside a rack of beaded belts
to get far enough back from the mirror that the whole of his
bulk could be reflected within its narrow confines.
He glanced at Ciani - who was managing not to smile -
and then at the fluttering moth of a proprietor who picked
at his clothes periodically, as though searching for pollen
between the patterned layers. And back at the mirror.
And at last said: "I hope you're joking."
"It's the height of fashion."
The image that stared back at him was draped in multi-
ple layers of purple cloth, each of a slightly different hue.
The layered ends of vest over half-shirt over shirt proper,
triple-tiered upper sleeves and cuffed pants - each in a
different shade of plum, or grape, or lavender, some in
subtle prints of the same - made him look, to his own eyes,
like a refugee from some dyer's scrap heap.
"What all of those in the know are wearing," the
proprietor assured him. He plucked at Damien's vest front,
trying to pull the patterned cloth across the bulk of the stout
man's torso. The thick layers of muscle which comprised
most of Damien's bulk had been further padded by the
eastland's rich foods and seductively sweet ale; at last the

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man gave up and stepped back, diplomatically not pointing
out that fashions such as these were designed for
considerably smaller men. "Subtly contrasting hues are the
fashion this season. But if your taste runs more to the
traditional,"he stressed the word distastefully, as if to
indicate that it wasn't normally part of his vocabulary, "I
can show you something with more color perhaps?"
"I doubt that would help."
"Look," Ciani was grinning. "You told me that you
wanted to dress like a Jaggonath cleric-"
"A Jaggonath cleric with taste."
"Ah. You didn't say that."
He tried to glare, but the obvious merriment in her eyes
made it difficult. "Let me guess. You got paid by some
pagan zealot to make me look like a fool?"
"Now, would I do that?"
"For the right price?"
"I'll have you remember I'm a professional consultant;
First coin, sound contracts, reliable service. You get what
you pay for, Father."

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"I'm not paying you for this."
"Yes." Her brown eyes sparkled mischeviously. "There
is that to consider."
"Please!" the proprietor seemed genuinely distressed by
their exchange. "The lady Ciani is well known to us, your
Reverence. She's helped clothe some of the most important
people in Jaggonath-"
He stared at her in frank astonishment. "A fashion
consultant? You?"
"I'm helping you, aren't I?"
"But, for real? I mean - professionally?"
"You don't think me capable?"
"Not at all! That is - yes, I do . . . but why? I mean, why
would someone pay an adept's consulting fee just to have
you help pick out their clothing? One hardly needs the fae
to get dressed in the morning."
"Ah, you are a foreigner." She shook her head sadly
"Everythinghere involves the fae. The mayor runs for
reelection, he wants his sartorial emanations assessed.

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Some power-hungry businessman itches to close the deal of
a lifetime, he needs someone to tell him which outfit will
best serve that cause. Or say that some notable from
another district comes to town, he wants his potential read
in everything that he might wear. I consult on everything,
Damien because everything involves the fae, in one way or
another. Now . . . do you want this outfit, or not?"
He regarded his reflection with renewed interest, if not
with aesthetic enthusiasm. "What will it do for me?"
She folded her arms across her chest in mock severity. "I
do usually get paid for this."
"I'll treat you to dinner."
"Ah. Such generosity."
"At an expensive restaurant."
"You were going to do that anyway."
He raised an eyebrow. "I thought you couldn't read the
future?"
"I didn't. It was obvious."
He sighed melodramatically. "Two dinners, then.

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Mercenarylady."
"My middle name, you know." She came up to where he
stood and studied him casually. He tried to discover some
hint of a Working in her demeanor - a whispered word, a
subtle gesture, perhaps eyes tracking some visualized
symbol used for a key, even some indication that she was
concentrating - but there was nothing. If he hadn't seen her
Work before, he would have thought she was tricking him.
Reading: not the future, but the present. Not fate,but
tendency. A true Divining was impossible, as there was no
certain future, but the seeds of all possible futures existed
in the present moment. If one had skill enough, one could
read them.
"You'll stand out in a crowd," she assured him.
He laughed softly.
"Among strangers, men will be put off. Women will
find you . . . intriguing."
"I can live with that."
"Among those who know you . . . there aren't that many
in Jaggonath, are there?" Her brown eyes twinkled. "I think
you look charming. Your students will be even more
terrified of you than they are now - no major change there.

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I read at least one barmaid who will find you unutterably
attractive."
"That's appealing."
Her eyes narrowed. "She's married."
"Too bad."
"As for your superiors . . ." She hesitated. "Superior? Is
there only one?"
He felt himself tense at the thought of the man. Easy,
Damien. You've got months to go, here. Get a hold of
yourself. "Only one that matters."
She checked him out from head to foot, then did the
same again. "In this outfit," she proclaimed at last, "will
irritate the hell out of him."
He stared at her for a minute, then broke into a grin. And
turned to face the proprietor, who was nervously twisting a
red silk scarf between his fingers.
"I'll take it," he declared.
The street outside was gray upon gray, chill autumn
sunlight slowly giving way to the shadows of Jaggonath's

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dusk. Dark shapes shivered about the corners of an
alleyway, the cavernous mouth of an open doorway, the
scurrying feet of a dozen chilled pedestrians. Was it lamp
shadows, tricking the eye? Or some force that genuinely
desired life, and might seek it out in sunlight's absence?
"Hey." She prodded him. "Ease up. You're not at work."
"Sorry." He caught up half his packages under his right
arm, carried the rest with that hand. So that he might walk
with her close to his other side, her body heat tangible
through the coarse wool of his shirt. His hand brushing
hers, in time to their walking.
"Your Patriarch doesn't approve of this, does he?"
"What? Shopping?"
"Our being together."
He chuckled. "Did you think he would?"
"I thought you might have charmed him into it."
"The Patriarch is immune to charm. And most other
human pleasantries, I suspect. As for us . . . suffice it to say
that battle lines have been drawn, and we both are poised
behind our armaments. He with his moral obsessions, and I

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with my fixation on rights to an independent private life.
It'll be quite a skirmish, once it starts."
"You sound like you're looking forward to it."
He shrugged. "Open conflict is infinitely more attractive
to me than fencing with hints and insinuations. I'm a lousy
diplomat, Cee."
"But a good teacher?"
"Trying to be."
"Can I ask how that's going? Or is it . . . classified?"
"Hardly." He grimaced, and shifted his packages "I have
twelve young fledglings, ranging in age eleven to fifteen.
With marginal potential at best. I culled out two of the
younger ones, who seemed to be in the worst throes of
puberty. Damned rotten time to be teaching anyone to
Work . . . and I think His Holiness knows it, too." He
remembered his own adolescence, and some very nasty
things he had unconsciously created. His master had made
him hunt them down and dispatch them, each and every
one; it wasn't one of his more pleasant memories. "Hard to
say whether they're more terrified of me or of the fae. Not
a good way to start out. Still, they're all positives on one
scale or another, so there's hope, right? As of yesterday-"

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He saw her stiffen suddenly. "Ciani? What is it?"
"Current's shifted," she whispered. Her face was pale.
"Can't you see?"
Rather than state the obvious - that only an adept could
see such things without conscious effort - he worked a
quick Seeing and observed the earth-fae himself. But if
there was any change in the leisurely flow of that force
about their feet, it was far too subtle for his conjured vision
to make out. "I can't-"
She gripped his arm with fingers that were suddenly
cold. "We need to warn-"
An alarm siren pierced the dusk. A horrendous
screeching noise that wailed like a banshee down the
narrow stone streets, and echoed from the brickwork and
plaster that surrounded them until the very air was vibrating
shrilly. Damien covered an ear with one hand, tried to reach
the other without dropping all his purchases. The sound
was a physical assault - and a painfully effective one.
Whoever designed that siren, he thought, must have
served his apprenticeship in hell.
Then, just as quickly, the sound was gone. He took his
hand down nervously, ready to hold it to his head again if
anything even remotely similar started up. But she took his

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hand in hers and squeezed it. "Come on," she whispered.
He could barely hear over the ringing in his ears, but a
gesture made it clear what she wanted. "Come with me."
She urged him forward, and he went. Running by her
side, down streets that were suddenly filled with people.
Dozens of people, in all stages of dress and activity:
working folk with their dinner plates in hand, children
clutching at homework sheets, women with babies nursing
at their breasts - even one woman with a hand full of
playing cards, who rearranged them as she walked. Pouring
out of the houses and shops that lined Jaggonath's narrow
streets like insects out of a collapsed hive. Which brought
to mind other images.
He stopped, and forced her to stop with him. His eyes
were still Worked enough to let him see the current that
swirled about their feet, though the image was little more
than a shadow of his former vision. He checked the flow
again, felt his heart stop for an instant. It had changed. He
could see it. Not in direction, nor in speed of flow, but in
intensity . . . He gripped her hand tightly. There was less of
it than there should have been, less of it than any natural
tide could have prompted. It was as if the fae itself were
withdrawing from this place, gathering itself elsewhere to
break, with a tsunami's sudden force-
"Earthquake?" he whispered. Aghast - and awed - by the
revelation.

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"Comeon,"she answered. And dragged him forward.
They ran until they reached the north end of the street,
where it widened into a sizable shopping plaza. She
stopped there, breathless, and bade him do the same. There
were already several hundred people gathered in the small
cobblestoned square, and more were arriving each minute.
The horses that were tethered there pulled nervously at
their reins, nostrils twitching as if trying to catch the scent
of danger. Even as Damien and Ciani entered the tiny
square the hanging signs of several shops began to swing,
and a crash of glass sounded through one open doorway.
Shopkeepers exited the buildings hurriedly with precious
items clutched in their arms - crystal, porcelain, delicate
sculptures - as the signs above them swung even more
wildly, and the panicked animals fought for their freedom.
"You had warning,"he whispered. What an incredible
concept! He was accustomed to regarding Ernan history as
a series of failures and losses - but here was real triumph,
and over Nature herself! Their ancestors on Earth had had
no way of knowing exactly when an earthquake would
strike - when the concentrated pressure that had built up
over months or years would suddenly burst into movement,
breaking apart mountains and rerouting rivers before man
even knew what had hit him - but here, on Erna, they had
warning sirens. Warning sirens! And not on all of Erna, he
reminded himself. Only in the east. Not in his homeland.
Ganji had nothing to rival this.

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He was about to speak - to share his awe with Ciani -
when a sound even more terrible than the siren split the
night. It took him a few seconds to realize that its source
was human; it was a voice racked by such pain, warped by
such terror, that Damien barely recognized it as such.
Instinctively he turned toward its source, his free hand
already grabbing for a weapon . . . but Ciani grabbed him
by the arm and stopped him. "No, Damien. There's nothing
you can do. Let it be."
The scream peaked suddenly, a sound so horrible it
made his skin crawl - then, as suddenly as it had begun, it
was cut short. Damien had fought some grotesque things in
his life, and some of them had been long in dying, but
nothing in his experience had ever made a sound like that.
"Someone Working when it hit," she muttered. "Gods
help him."
"Shouldn't we-"
"It's too late to help. Stay here." She grasped his arm
tightly, as if afraid he would leave despite her warning.
"The siren went off in plenty of time. He had his warning.
That's why we run the damn thing. But there's always
some poor fool who tries to tap into the earth-fae when it
begins to surge . . ."
She didn't finish.

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"And they die? Like that?"
"They fry. Without exception. No human being can
channel that kind of energy. Not even an adept. He must
have wagered that the quake would be small, that he could
control a small bit of what it released and dodge the rest. Or
maybe he was drunk, and impaired in judgment. Or just
stupid." She shook her head. "I don't understand. Only an
idiot would bet his life against an earthquake. No one ever
wins that game - no one. Why do they insist on trying?
What can they possibly gain?" Something in his manner
made her look up at him suddenly, and she asked, "You
were warned about that in the west. Weren't you?"
"In general terms." His stomach tightened as his mind
replayed that terrible scream. "We were warned. But not
quite so . . . graphically."
He was about to say something more when she squeezed
his arm. "It's starting. Watch."
She pointed across the plaza, to a tailor's shop that faced
them. Sunken into the lintel of its arched doorway was a
sizable ward, made up of intricate knotwork patterns etched
into a bronze plate. The whole of it was glowing now, with
a cold blue light that silhouetted its edge like the corona of
an eclipsed sun. Even as he watched the display it increased
in intensity, until cold blue fire burned the pattern of its
warding sigil into his eyes and his brain.

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"Quake wards," she told him. "They're dormant until
the fae intensifies . . . then they tap into it, use it to
reinforce the buildings they guard. But if it's a big one,
there's more than they can handle. What you're seeing is
the excess energy bleeding off into the visible spectrum."
On every building surrounding the plaza, similar wards
were now firing. Awed, he watched as tendrils of silver fire
shot across doorways, about windows, over walls, until the
man-made structures were wholly enveloped in a shivering
web of cold silver flame. And though the force of the
earthquake was enough to make brickwork tremble, no
buildings toppled. No windows shattered. Furniture crashed
to the floor within one shop, glass shattered noisily inside
another, but the buildings themselves - reinforced with that
delicate, burning web - weathered the seismic storm.
"You've warded the whole city?" he whispered. Stunned
by the scale of it.
She hesitated. "Mostly. Not all of it's as well done as
this. Sorcerers vary, as does their skill . . . and some people
simply can't afford the protection." As if in illustration, a
roar of falling brick sounded to the south of them. Dust and
a cloud of silver-blue sparks mushroomed thickly over the
rooftops. Damien could feel the ground tremble beneath his
feet, could see brick- and stone-work shiver all about him
as the force of the earthquake fought to bring the man-made
structures down - and the Workings of man fought to keep

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it all intact. The smell of ozone filled the air, and a sharp
undercurrent: sulfur? The smell of battle, between Nature
and man's will.
Our ancestors had nothing like this. Nothing! Venerate
them we might, but in this one arena we have surpassed
them. All the objective science on Earth could never have
managed this . . .
Incredible,he thought. He must have voiced that, for she
murmured, "You approve?"
He looked into her eyes and read the real question there,
behind her words. "The Church should be using this, not
fighting it." The ground was singing to him, a deep,
rumbling sound that he felt through his bones. "And I'll see
to it they do," he promised.
The tremors were increasing in violence, and the wards -
fighting to establish some sort of balance - filled the plaza
with silver-blue light, as nearly bright as Core-light. Some
of them began to fire skyward, releasing their pent-up
energy in spurts of blue-white lightning, that leapt from
rooftop to rooftop and then shot heavenward, splitting the
night into a thousand burning fragments. Nearby a tree,
unwarded, gave way to the tremors; a heavy branch crashed
to the ground beside them, barely missing several
townspeople. It seemed second nature for him to put his
arm around Ciani, to protect her by drawing her against
him. And it likewise seemed wholly natural that she lean

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against him, wordlessly, until her hip brushed against his
groin and a fire took root there, every bit as intense as the
faeborn flame which surrounded them.
He ran his hand down over the curve of her hip and
whispered in her ear, "Is it safe to make love to a woman
during an earthquake?"
She turned in his arms until she faced him, until he
could feel the soft press of her breasts against his chest, the
lingering play of her fingers against the back of his neck.
Her heat against the ache in his loins.
"It's never safe to make love to a woman," she
whispered.
She took him by the hand, and led him into the
conflagration.
Senzei Reese thought: That was close.
Behind him, some precious bit of crystal that Allesha
had collected - in deliberate defiance of earthquakes, it
seemed to him - shivered off its perch and smashed noisily
on the hardwood floor. One more treasured piece gone. He
wondered why she would never let him bind them in place,
with the same sort of Warding that reinforced their
building. Wondered if her "mixed feelings" about using the
fae might not translate into "mixed feelings" about him.

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Don't think about that.
Power: He could feel it all about him. Power thick
enough to drown in, power like a raging fire that sucked the
oxygen right out of his lungs, leaving him dizzy -
breathless - trembling with hunger. For a moment it had
nearly been visible - a sheer wall of earth-force, a tidal
wave of liquid fire - but he had forced himself to cut the
vision short, and now he was as fae-blind as Allesha
herself. Only Ciani and her kind could maintain their fae-
sight without a deliberate Working - and a Working, under
these circumstances, meant certain death.
But what a way to go!
He had almost done it this time. Even knowing the risk,
he had almost chanced it. Almost gritted his teeth against
the bone-jarring pain of the warning siren and continued
with his Work as if nothing was happening. What a
moment that would have been, when the wild fae surged
into Jaggonath - into him - burning down all the barriers
that kept him from sharing Ciani's skill, Ciani's vision . . .
the barriers that kept him human. Merelyhuman.
Every few earthquakes some tormented soul took that
chance, and added his dying scream to the siren's din. Ciani
couldn't understand why - but Senzei could, all too well.
He understood the hunger that consumed such people, the
need that coursed through them like blood, until every

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living cell was saturated with it. Desire.For the one thing
on Erna that Senzei might never have. The one precious
thing that Nature had denied him.
In the other room another bit of crystal fell, and shat-
tered noisily against the floor.
He wept.
Not until the sunlight was wholly gone and the worst of
the tremors had subsided - the immediate tremors, at any
rate - did the stranger come up out of his subterranean
shelter. The fae still vibrated with tectonic echoes; it was
the work of mere moments to read them, determine their
origin, and speculate upon the implications.
The Forest will shake, he decided.Soon. Too big a
seismic gap there to ignore. And the rakhlands . . . But
there was no way to know that, for sure. No news had come
out of the rakhlands for generations, of earthquakes or lack
of them - or anything else, for that matter. He could do no
more then speculate that the plate boundaries there would
be stressed past endurance . . . but he had speculated that
many times before, with no way of ever confirming his
hypothesis. In a world where Nature's law was not
absolute, but ratherreactive,one could never be certain.
Then he squatted down close to the earth and touched
one gloved finger to its surface. Watching the earth-fae as it

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flowed about that obstacle, tasting its tenor through the
contact.
The current had changed.
Impossible.
For a moment he simply watched it, aware that he might
have erred. Then he sat back on his heels and looked off
into the distance, watching the flow of his taint upon the
current. And yes, it was different. A minute change, but it
was noticeable.
He watched it for a moment more, then corrected
himself:Improbable. But true. Any bit of the fae
contaminated by his person should have scurried off toward
the Forest, subject to that whirlpool of malignant power. It
took effort for him not to travel there himself, not to
unconsciously prefer that direction every time he made a
decision to move. That the taint of his personal
malevolence was being channeled elsewhere meant that
some new factor was involved. A Working or a being -
more likely the latter - headed in this direction. Focused
upon Jaggonath in both its malevolence and its hunger.
It would have to be very focused, to come here against
the current. And nasty as hell, to have the effect it did.
Nastier than the Hunter, perhaps?

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The stranger laughed, softly.
If not for the siren - the damned warning be damned, he
thought - Jaggonath's Patriarch might never have known
there was an earthquake. That, and the sloshing of tea over
the side of his cup. He picked up the delicate porcelain
piece and sipped it thoughtfully. While the siren screamed.
And some damned fool of a sorcerer screamed, too - but
that served him right. There was no free ride in this world,
least of all with the fae. It was time they learned that, all of
them.
It occurred to him briefly that he should have warned his
visitor about that particular danger. Coming from the
westlands, where quakes were less frequent and far less
severe, he might not be aware of it. Might even try to
harness that surging flow, to bend it to his sorcerous will.
Then there would be justice, he mused. And I would be
free of this burden. But for how long? They would just send
someone else. And I would have to start all over again.
He put his cup down carefully, watched for a moment to
see that it didn't slide, and then walked to the window. The
floor trembled beneath his feet, and a low rumbling sound
filled the air, but except for that there was little evidence of
any disturbance. There never was, in Jaggonath's great
cathedral. The faith of thousands, year after year, had
reinforced the ancient stonework with more power than any

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sorcerer could have harnessed. No wards guarded its
doorways, no demonic fire would flash from its pinnacles
and spires at the peak of seismic activity - but the building
would stand, nonetheless. And those thousands of people
who had gathered in Jaggonath's central plaza would see it
stand, an island of calm in a city gone mad. And a precious
few would wander through the cathedral's doors, and
devote their lives to the faith that had made it possible.
The whole planet could be like this, he thought.Will be
like this, one day.
He had to believe that. Had to maintain that belief,
though sometimes his ministry seemed about to be swal-
lowed up by the great maw of Erna's cynicism. Had to
remember, always, that the dream which he served would
not be fulfilled in one lifetime, or five, or even a dozen.
The damage which man had done here was too great to be
corrected in a single generation . . . and it was still going
on. Even now the wild fae, loosed in hideous quantity by
the earthquake, would be gravitating toward the minds that
could manifest it. A child's brain, dreaming of monsters. A
malicious adult, envisioning vengeance. A thousand and
one hates and fears and paranoid visualizations, plucked
from the human mind, that would all be given flesh before
morning. His stomach turned at the thought. What could he
say that would make them understand, that every day the
odds against man's survival increased geometrically? A
single man could dream into being a thousand such
monsters in a lifetime - and all those things would feed on

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man, because he was their source. Could any one sorcerer's
service, no matter how well-intended, compensate for such
numbers?
He felt tired. He felt old. He was becoming aware, for
the first time in his life, of a hope that had lived in him
since his first moments in the Church: a desperate hope that
the change would come now, in his lifetime. Not all of it -
that was too much to ask for - but enough that he could see
it started. Enough that he could know he had made a
difference. To live as he had, to serve without question,
then to die without knowing if there was a point to any of it
. . . his hands clenched at his sides as he looked out over the
blazing city. He wished there were truly no other choice.
He wished the fae could notbe used to maintain youth, and
thus to prolong life. He wished he didn't have to face that
terrible decision every minute of his life: commitment to
his faith versus the chance to court the fae, extend his life,
and see what effect that faith would have upon future
generations. Death itself was not nearly so daunting as the
prospect of dying in ignorance.
Thus the Prophet was tempted, he thought darkly.
As for that blustering fool of a priest . . . his stomach
tightened in anger at the thought of him. How easy it was,
for him and his kind! How seemingly effortless, to take a
piece of sharpened steel from the armory and simply go
hack up the product of man's indulgence. This is my faith,
such a man could say, pointing to a heap of dismembered

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vampire-kin. Here is my service to God. An easier faith
than the one the Patriarch had embraced, for sure. A faith
that was continually reinforced by the adrenaline rush of
violence, the thrill of daring. A faith that could be reckoned
in numbers: Ghouls killed. Demons dispatched. Converts
made. So that when his time of reckoning came such a man
might say: This is how the world was bettered by my
presence. Not through moral influence, or by teaching, but
in these human nightmares which I have dispatched.
And I envy him that, the Patriarch thought bitterly.
Six
When theNeoqueen Matilla finally pulled into harbor,
it took two men to hold Yiles Jarrom back long enough for
it to dock. And strong men, at that.
"Vulkin' assholes!" he muttered - with venom enough
that the two men backed off a bit, though they still held
onto him. "I'll teach'em what it means, to break contract
with me!"
The two men - dockhands, recruited by the Port
Authority in order to avoid outright murder on the piers -
held tightly to his arms, while the shallow-hulled snipping
vessel that was the subject of his invectives settled itself
into position. A bevy of dockworkers moved in quickly and
made her fast in record time. And then the gangplank was

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set in place and the ship's first mate, a young and rather
lanky man, trekked the length of the pier toward where they
stood. And the men let Jarrom go, which was good for
them. Because in another few minutes he would surely
have spouted fire and burned his way free of them, if they'd
continued to hold onto him.
"Vulkin' bastards!" His face was red with rage, his
shaking hands clenched into fists. "Vulkin' incompetents!
Where you been, with my cargo? Where's your coward-ass
captain, who lied to make contract?"
The first mate didn't look directly at him, but at his own
feet. "Give me a minute, sir, and I'll try to explain-"
Jarrom snorted derisively. "Give you a minute? I'll give
you my fist! I don't have to waste my precious time talking
to a lackey! Where's your captain, boy? Or that damned
best-eye-in-the-eastrealm pilot he's so vulkin' proud of?
Bring those men out, and then we'll talk!" When the young
man didn't answer him immediately, he added, "Two of
Prima's months, boy - that's how long he said it would
take. Two lesser months, come hell or white water or
smashers from Novatlantis. And how long has it been, I ask
you? A good three shortmonths, going on four - and my
buyers threatening to blow my whole business to hell - so
where the vulk have you been?"
In a carefully measured voice, the young man said, "It's
a dangerous route, Mer Jarrom. You know that. Orrin's a

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damned good captain, and Jafe was as good a pilot as
Erna's ever seen. It's still a nightmare of a trip, and you
knew that when you hired us. Knew we might not make it
at all, contract or no contract." His voice faded away to a
whisper. "Almost didn't. Gods help us."
"That's through no fault of mine - eh? No big storms
this way, no smashers out of the east, a small quake down
south but that'd barely shake the waters, so what-" It struck
him suddenly what the first mate had said. "What the hell
do you mean, was? You lose a pilot, boy? Is that your
excuse? Jafe Saccharat die on route?"
The first mate raised his head, and met Jarrom's eyes at
last. And Jarrom nearly took a step backward from the
force of that gaze. He was a strong man, to be sure, and
brave in the way that the strong can afford to be brave; he
had seen his share of dockside violence and come out on
top of most of it, had even wrestled a succubus once and
not had his life sucked out in the process - which was as
close to victory as anyone ever got with that kind. But
though none of those situations had ever made him really
afraid, the look in the boy's eyes was enough to make his
blood run cold. Bloodshot orbs stared out from a pale,
hollowed face, underscored by purple crescents dark
enough that they might have been bruises . . . but that
wasn't what shook him up so. A dozen men a day looked
that bad, dockside, and Jarrom neither pitied nor feared
them. No. It was something else that took him off guard,
which he'd never seen before, not in man or demonling, or

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even dockhand. Not something inthe first mate's eyes,
exactly. Perhaps . . . something absent?
"Not dead," young man muttered. "The pilot's alive.
They're all - we'reall - alive. I suppose."
"You'd better explain yourself," Jarrom warned. But the
fire was out of his voice now, he could hear it. What had
happened? What could happen, to put that look in a man's
eyes?
"It's a dangerous route," the first mate repeated. Empty
of emotion, as if the explanation had been rehearsed so
many times that it had lost all meaning to him. "First
there's the Shelf, y'see, and that's safe enough unless a
smasher comes, but who can take the chance? Then there's
the ridges where the Serpent turns - jagged mounts, that can
rip a hull to pieces in a minute - and the bars of the eastern
Straits, they're murderous too, and the whitewaters just east
of Sattin . . . You wanted us to rush your cargo in, Mr.
Jarrom, and that means taking a lot of chances. Only a good
pilot would dare it. Jafe was the best, y'see? And he took us
to where we needed him most, in close to the shore of the
rakhlands. All cliffs and boulders and treacherous
shoreline, but he said it could save us time enough . . . and
he knew the way. He said. Knew it all: every submerged
mount and rock and how high each one sat, and how deep
they'd be when the tides changed, and how much time
between tide and countertide there was when a special way
was open . . ." He blinked. "Knew it all, Jafe did."

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"So what happened?" Jarrom demanded. "Why the hell
weren't you here when you were supposed to be?"
The first mate drew in a deep breath, exhaled it slowly.
When he spoke again, there was a faint tremor in his voice.
"I . . . that is, he . . . forgot, sir."
"Forgot?"
"That's right, sir."
Indignation heated Jarrom's blood anew, rage coursing
through his veins like cheap booze. "Forgot? Your vulkin'
pilot forgot the route?"
The first mate nodded. "That's right, sir. Forgot . . . the
whole Straits, I think he said. You see, there was this
scream . . . that's how we found out. We found him
screaming like a looney on the forecastle, threatening to
throw himself off. Said something had taken away all his
landmarks, just wiped them clean out of his brain. Took
three of us just to calm him down."
Jarrom snorted. "That's as likely the result of hard liquor
as anything."
The first mate glared, a look all the more accusatory for
coming from those bloodshot eyes. Those terrible haunted

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eyes. "We don't drink while doing the eastern stretch," he
said coldly. "No one does. The lay's just too dangerous.
Gets you killed faster than you can open a bottle."
"All right, all right. So your saint of a pilot wasn't
drinking. He was . . . his landmarks were taken, all right?
Taken right away. So what about his rutters? Were those
snatched too? Or did the best Straits pilot in the east not
bother taking notes?"
"Oh, he had ‘em," the first mate assured him. "Brought
them out and showed them to us. Fine leather volumes,
copied in his own hand. A signed hand, all personal
symbols and the like."
"So you couldn't read them." The story got more and
more preposterous. "And I suppose, he ‘forgot' how to
read?"
The first mate hesitated, seemed about to elaborate,
Then he simply nodded, and looked down at his feet again.
"Yessir," he whispered. "That's the lot of it."
"And your captain? And the rest of that mangy crew?
All their brains taken, as well? You look whole enough."
"It was like something took a part of you out," the first
mate whispered. "While you were sleeping, it'd happen.
And then when you woke, that part just wasn't there. It

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never came back, either. The captain . . . it won't do you
much good to talk to him, Mr. Jarrom. I say just take your
cargo and go, and feel lucky it got here at all. And hope
that whatever got us isn't contagious." He looked up again,
met Jarrom's gaze with his own. "You catch my drift?"
He turned away, refused to meet that tortured gaze. "I
had buyers, you know. With a contract. Gods alone know if
they were willing to wait another night, when all I could
give them were empty promises. If they-" He stopped, and
scowled. Squinting, to see the Matilla more clearly in the
early evening's darkness. "Who the hell are they?"
Three men were disembarking from the shallow craft.
They hadn't been among the crew, Jarrom knew that. He
had signed on the crew himself. "You pick up passengers,
boy? That's against all contract, and you know it."
"I . . . know that." He seemed to be struggling for words.
His hands, Jarrom noticed, were trembling. "I think . . .
they were marooned. We saved them. I think."
"You're not sure of much, are you?" They were pale
men, and they moved with almost feral grace. Dressed like
locals, but the cloth sat awkwardly on their bodies. They
were used to something else, clearly. Something less? One
of them turned toward Jarrom and grinned briefly - a cat's
grin, a hunter's grin, lean and hungry - and above all else,
amused. Though all his instinct said he should go and
confront them, Jarrom suddenly found he didn't want to

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move. Didn't want to go toward them, not for any purpose.
"I remembered enough myself," the boy was whisper-
ing. "Barely enough. We went north, a different route.
Safer up there, if you strike ground; some hope of getting
moving again. Had to take it slow, you understand?
Couldn't help the schedule, sir. We'd have died, otherwise.
Had to take it slow, do you understand?"
The strange men were gone now - vanished like fae-
wraiths into the deep evening shadows - but Jarrom felt as
if their eyes were still on him, mocking him. Felt his skin
crawl, in a way it never had before. "Well," he said loudly -
as if somehow mere volume could overcome his growing
unease. "We're lucky you didn't forget also, aren't we?"
The reddened eyes blinked once, slowly. "I didn't forget
the route," he said softly. "No. Not that."
Suddenly, an eruption of sound and color whirled across
the dock toward the two of them. "Bassy!" Silk taffeta
rustling like the wind, tiny feet beating a rushed staccato on
the fog-dampened timbers. Perfume, in feminine quantity.
"Bassy, honey! You made it!"
Then she was in his arms, a tiny girl even thinner than
the boy was. And she was crying with joy, and kissing him,
and leaving smears of lipstick all over his tan, weathered
face. "I was so scared, honey, so scared! When they said

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you all hadn't come in on time - and I knowhow prompt
Captain Rawney is, but you can imagine all the terrible
things I thought of, when no one knew where you were-"
And Yiles Jarrom would never forget the look in the
first mate's eyes, when the boy's fiancee embraced him.
Never. Though days and weeks and even months might
occlude the rest of that awful night in his memory, it could
never erase that terrible vision - of a glance which said, in a
single instant, what volumes of prose could never have
expressed so eloquently. So horribly.
Who is she? the reddened gaze begged him. Who?
Help me!
"Gods help us all," Jarrom whispered.
Seven
The Patriarch, remembered:
"Mom?"
The house was quiet, preternaturally so. The boy
hesitated at the doorway. "Mom?" No answer. He dropped
off his school books in the hallway, on the heavy alteroak
cabinet put there for that purpose. "Mom?" Suddenly he

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felt cold inside, and angry. Cold, because something was
obviously very wrong. Angry, because he knew what it
probably was.
"Mom!"
Damn it all, if she was doing that stuff again . . . he
searched the house for signs of her presence, her self-
indulgence: half-empty bottles lying wherever they
happened to fall, thin foil wrappers with the remnants of
cerebus powder - and the paraphernalia of her household
tasks scattered about, left lying wherever the mood
happened to strike her. But for once, all the obvious signs
were absent. Whatever had happened, it wasn't that. The
tightness that had begun to build in the boy's chest eased
somewhat, and he thought: she's still sober. Then added:
maybe.
"Mom?"
The house was silent, except for a strange chittering
sound that came from the kitchen. He walked that way, one
hand nervously playing about the handle of his ward-knife.
Any minute now his friends would start calling for him,
impatient for his return. They might even come in after him,
if they got bored enough with waiting. He had to find his
mother before that happened, deal with her quickly, and get
out. The shame of having them see her when she was
doubly loaded was something he had no desire to
experience. It had been bad enough with alcohol, when she

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was only doing that. Now that she had started mixing
cerebus powder into her drinks, it was a hundred times
worse.
That combination will kill you, the doctor had warned
her. It'll eat your brain right up. Is that what you want? Is
that what you want for your family?
One of the boy's friends hammered on the front door,
impatient. The boy quickened his pace. He just had to find
her, get permission to cross the river with the others, and
then he could go. It didn't even matter if she was wholly
conscious of what she was saying when she gave him
permission; as long as he did his duty and asked, he was
covered. The important thing was, if he did it all quickly
enough his friends would never have to see her. Oh, they
could probably guess why they hadn't been invited in . . .
but that still wasn't as bad as having them actually see.Not
by a long shot.
As he put his hand on the kitchen doorknob he found
that he was shaking. What if she was really in trouble?
What if the doctor was right - that mixing illusory drugs
and alcoholic disinhibition was really more than the human
brain could handle? That someday she would fry her brain
for good? What would he do, if that had finally happened?
Shaking, he forced himself to turn the doorknob. Not
wanting to know what lay beyond.

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Please, Mom. Be okay. Be sober . . . at least long
enough to talk to me. Please.
He opened the door.
And saw.
And screamed.
Somewhere in the distance, a heavy alteroak door
slammed open. He barely heard it. Terror had filled his
throat so that it was impossible to breathe; he tried to step
backward, but his hand was locked on the doorknob. In the
kitchen, dozens of things chittered; dark things, wetthings,
things with shining claws and sharp teeth that dripped
bright crimson on the Everclean tiles. Things that sat on
his mother's shoulders, dipping bright claws into her
matted hair and bringing up soft, slimy tidbits to eat.
He managed to take a step backward. Heart pounding.
Mind reeling. Two steps. Another.
It'll eat up your brain, the doctor had said. He ran.
Eight
Never sleepthrough the true night, Damien's master had
taught him. Whether you mean to use its power or not, you

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should be awake to observe its passage. There are too
many things in our world that draw their life from that
ultimate Darkness, too many evils that can only be Worked
when all sunlight is gone. So be awake, and take your
enemy's measure.
He sat on the wide ledge of his room's northernmost
window, looking out over the city. His nerves still jangled
from the dream which the harsh mechanical alarm clock
had dispelled. It was 3:05. The true darkness would last a
mere three minutes tonight - and true to his training, he was
awake to watch it happen. He pulled open the heavy
curtains at his window, saw Casca's yellow-green crescent
sinking defiantly in the east. He watched as its light slowly
faded from the night sky. Then: utter darkness. The Core
was gone, and with it the millions of stars that marked the
heart of the galaxy; Erna's night sky looked out on
desolation, across an emptiness so vast that it was easy to
forget there were other stars at all, much less other planets
where living things flourished and fought and gave birth
and died . . . much less any place called Earth.
Damien breathed deeply, and patterned a Seeing so that
his vision might respond to the fae's special wavelengths.
Below him, in the city streets, deep purple shadows
stretched tentatively forth, as if testing their strength.
Tendrils of deepest violet - so dark they could hardly be
seen, so intense that to look on them was painful - began to
creep their way into the city's open spaces. Shopping
plazas, city squares, even rooftops: places where the

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

sunlight normally kept such things at bay, now made
defenseless by the true night's special darkness.
Damien watched the flow of it, muttered a prayer of
thanksgiving that there were no people in the streets. Of all
the forms the fae might take, this was the most dangerous.
It could manifest in minutes what would otherwise take
hours, if not days - and with a much more violent tenor.
Thank God for the light of the Core, which kept the stuff at
bay half the year, and the three moons, sun-reflecting,
which guarded the darker nights. Most of the darker nights.
He tried to get some sense of the local currents - to read
who might be Working this special darkness, and why - but
it was like trying to focus on a single ripple in the midst of
white-water rapids. At last, exhausted by the effort, he let
his Vision fade. Back home he could have identified every
sorcerer in town by now, and spotted those few who dared
to Work the stuff - but the currents here were so volatile
and so complex that his skill was barely more than a child's
by comparison.
He watched as the point of Domina's crescent slipped
over the eastern horizon, right on schedule. Watched the
deep violet light thin out and dissipate, as if it were no
more than an early morning ground fog scattered by
sunlight. He watched it recede into the myriad cracks and
crevices that would protect it from the light, while fresh
moonlight scoured the streets and rooftops clean of its
deadly presence. He watched until the moon was half-risen,

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then went back to bed.
3:35. He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
Fifteen minutes later, the explosion came.
"What the hell?" He sat up groggily, still half-immersed
in sleep. Remembering a loud, sudden noise that hadn't
been fully incorporated into his dream, which was gone
before he was awake enough to identify it. Was it his
imagination? He shook his head to clear it, and heard doors
slam along the corridor of the Annex. Feet running in the
hallway, slipper-shod. No. Not his imagination at all.
He threw on a cotton robe and, as an afterthought,
grabbed for his sword. No telling what was going on, he'd
best be prepared. Out into the corridor then, to quickly take
his bearings. A sister-priest from Kale was just emerging
from the room opposite his; her face was white.
"Southwest," she whispered, and he realized that the
window of her room must face that way. "What is it?" he
asked, but she shook her head: No, can't help you, I don't
know.
Southwest. He ran down the corridor as quickly as he
could, took the broad central stairs two at a time. The outer
door was just closing as he reached it. There was too much
light coming in through the windows, much more than the
crescent Domina should have provided. A light that

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

flickered, like flame gone mad. As he put his hand to the
door and flung it open he realized, with a start, that even
that was wrong. Fire should be yellow, orange, even
yellow-white; this light was a chill blue, as if from some
unnatural flame.
Outside the Annex, some two dozen guests of the
Church stood with their heads thrown back, gaping at the
sky. Damien didn't stop to look. If the fire - or whatever it
was - was to the southeast of here, he was in the wrong
place to determine its source. He sprinted around the side
of the Cathedral, until that building no longer blocked his
view. And then saw-
Fire. Spurting heavenward. Not a natural fire, no; cold
blue, like the quake-wards. Fae-spawned flame, without a
doubt. Damien tried to visualize the city's layout, to
determine the fire's source. And as he did so something
tightened inside him, a mixture of dread and fear so cold
and so intense that he trembled where he stood.
Ciani . . .
He ran. Down Commerce Street, pushing his way past
frightened mothers and scurrying vendors and the
inevitable rubber-necked tourists. Shoving them out of the
way, when necessary. Past Market Lane, past Seven
Corners, into the artisan's district, then through it and
beyond. Here, on this quiet street, the Fae Shoppe had done
its business. And here, on this suddenly crowded street-

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It burned. Burned with a fae-light so intense that it drove
him back; he had to fight his every physical instinct to get
within a block of it. It was impossible to look at, it burned
like a thousand suns, it would surely sear the retinas of
anyone who tried. He worked a Shielding for his eyes, felt
the light about him dim, then tried to look again. Better. He
forced himself forward, past the fire-wagons that were even
now being pushed into place, past an adept in singed robes
whose attention was fixed on the fire, past . . . there were
too many people to count, running toward the fire or away
from it. He got as close to it as he could, with all the force
of the faeborn flames pushing back at him. Until he could
feel its unnatural smoke in his lungs, and had to work a
Shielding against that, too.
The shop was gone. His altered sight could see that now;
what was left to burn was no more than the rubble of what
had already been destroyed. Some monstrous explosion had
ripped the place to pieces, along with the better part of two
adjoining buildings. Now it was all gone, along with
whoever had been tending shop at the time . . .
Fae Shoppe, the sign had said. Open all hours.
No one could have survived that blast. No one.
Ciani!

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He tried to work a Divining, but the currents were in
chaos, their patterns unreadable. All he could make out was
that somehow a chain reaction had been triggered - that
some malicious Working aimed at Ciani had ignited her
wards, one after the other, until the whole place blew-
There were tears in his eyes; he wiped them away with
his free hand, tried to breathe steadily. The smoke was
thick in his lungs; he Shielded against that, too. It occurred
to him that several adepts in the crowd were working hard
to contain the faeborn flames, to keep them from spreading
to neighboring buildings. He raised one hand as if he, too,
would begin to pattern a Working - but another hand
grasped his, and a familiar voice warned, "They can do it
better than you or I."
He turned, as if facing an attacker. It took him a moment
to absorb the fact that the speaker was Senzei, and that the
man was dressed in a thick cotton robe, his hair still tangled
from sleeping. Slowly, painfully, the truth of it sank in.
Senzei Reese: in a bathrobe, because he had rushed here in
the middle of the night after hearing the explosion . . .
because he hadn't been there at the time it happened.
Which meant Ciani had. Damien cursed fate, for making it
so - and hated himself, for wishing it were otherwise.
Ciani!
He lowered his head and blinked forth new tears, to
wash the smoke out of his eyes. Senzei was silent, which

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

confirmed the horrible truth of it all. If she had survived, he
would have spoken. If she had stood even a chance of
survival . . . but she was inside the Fae Shoppe when it
blew, and never had a chance. Senzei's silence confirmed
that.
With an anguished curse - at fate, himself, Jaggonath,
the true night - Damien turned back into the crowd, and
elbowed his way away from Loremaster Ciani's crematory
fire.
Loss. Like an empty wound, out of which all the blood
had drained. Incapable of healing, because all its vital
fluids were gone. Dried up by grief.
Alone in the still of the night, he struggled to come to
terms with his feelings. He'd lost friends before, and even
lovers; those were the risks which his chosen vocation
entailed, and each loss was its own separate grief, an island
of mourning, finite and comprehensible. Why was this so
different? Was it the shock of what had happened, the
suddenness of it - the terrible impotence of standing there,
unable to do anything, while the last remnants of a
woman's life went up in smoke? Or . . . something more?
Some feeling he hadn't yet acknowledged, which had been
growing between them along with the jokes and the
entertainment and the loving? Some feeling which had been
cut short now by the heat of the fire, as if it had never
existed. As if some part of him that had never fully opened
up had begun to, just briefly . . . and then slammed shut

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again, charred by the heat of that terrible fire.
Was this love? Was this what love would have felt like,
had it lasted?
Alone in his room in the Annex, Damien Vryce wept
silently.
Do you even know how old I am? she had asked him
once. Bright eyes sparkling in amusement.
No. How old?
Nearly seventy.
He had thought then how wonderful it must be, to reach
one's seventieth birthday without aging a day past thirty.
That number had seemed filled with wonder, because of
her. Filled with vitality.
Now, it was just a rotten age to die.
The door creaked open slowly. Damien raised his head
just enough to see who had entered, that much and no
more. And when he saw, he lowered his head again.
"I'm sorry," the Patriarch said softly. "Genuinely sorry."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Are you? he wanted to snap. But for once, the anger was
gone. Emptied out of him, by grief.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"Is there anything I can do?"
"No." He managed to shake his head; even that much
movement took effort. "I can't . . . I just need time. It was
so sudden . . ."
"It's always hard, losing those we care for. Especially in
such a senseless accident."
"It wasn't an accident," he whispered.
The Patriarch came into his room - slowly, quietly - and
took a seat opposite him. When he spoke, his tone was
gentler than it had ever been before. Gentler than Damien
had imagined it could be. "You want to talk about it?"
"What's the use? I couldn't read it clearly enough.
Something attacked either her or the shop, and her defenses
. . . backfired. I couldn't read what, or how, or why. I don't
know what I could do about it now, even if I knew. And I
think . . ." He shut his eyes, tightly. "I think . . . I was
falling in love with her."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I guessed that," the Patriarch said softly.
"I feel so damned helpless!" He got up suddenly,
upsetting a chair as he did so. And turned away, to stare at
the weapons which hung on the wall behind him. "I stood
there while it burned - while sheburned, for all I know! -
and what on Erna could I do to help? I couldn't even get
near the place . . ." He shook his head, was aware of new
wetness on his cheeks. "You don't know what it's like,
seeing something like that happen, feeling like you could
stop it if you could just figure out what to do . . . and then
not being able to. Standing there helplessly, unable to save
someone you care about . . ."
"I do understand," the Patriarch said quietly. "More than
you know."
He heard the Holy Father stand, and walk to where he
stood. But unlike Senzei, the Patriarch made no physical
contact.
"She was very active in this community. Very respected.
There'll be representatives sent from organizations in
Jaggonath and beyond, to honor her passing." He hesitated;
Damien could hear in his voice just how much these words
were costing him. "Given her community service, it
wouldn't be . . . unreasonable . . . if our Church made such
a gesture."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Surprised by the offer, Damien turned about to face him.
And thought: If she had lived, they would be about the
same age. Only how much longer would the Patriarch go
on, without the benefit of sustained youth?
"No," he muttered. "Thank you . . . but it isn't
appropriate. I do understand that." He shut his eyes. "But
thank you for offering."
"Those who court the fae take certain chances. But
knowing that doesn't make it any easier, does it? Human
loss is all the same in the end." He seemed as if he was
about to say more but then stopped. Considering what his
feelings probably were on the matter, Damien was grateful.
"Whatever we can do to help," the Patriarch said at last.
"You let me know. I'll see it done."
Nine
It's finished, the first one whispered.
Not well.
No. But it is finished.
Too bad we didn't know the wards would blow. Hun-
grily:We could have killed her ourselves, in that case.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They were silent for a moment, savoring that concept.
She had a rich life, one said at last.
A full life, another agreed.
Delicious.
And we can go home, now. Yes?
They turned to the one who had become, for lack of a
better title, their leader.
We go home, he told them. But not just yet . . .
Ten
Damien thought:I just can't believe she's dead.
A shapeless heap of blackened rubble was all that
remained of the Fae Shoppe. Investigators had been sifting
through it for almost 24 hours now, but still hadn't offered
any explanation of the blaze more plausible than their first
hypothesis: Something had attacked the shop, powerful
enough to set off a chain reaction in the protective wards.
Ciani's own defenses had killed her.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It can happen, he reminded himself. For all that we
Work the stuff, it's easy to forget just how unstable it is.
Even in the hands of an adept.
Those who court the fae must pay the price.
He blinked the growing wetness from his eyes, and
focused his senses on the ashes. Even knowing that half a
dozen adepts had already done the same - and discovered
nothing - he had to try. The pain of losing her was bad
enough; the frustration of inaction was more than he could
bear.
Though the ashes were cool to the eye, they were white-
hot to his inner senses; it took only a minimal Working for
Damien to see the power that remained there. It was as if
all the tamed earth-fae that had been in the shop had been
boiled down and concentrated into one hot spot of chaotic
power. He wondered, distantly, how it would affect the
local currents, to have such a channel of raw heat located
here. Then wondered who would bother to map it, now that
Ciani was gone.
Stop it. Now. You're only making it worse on yourself.
How long before some idiot would try to harness that
stuff? He looked for a telltale mark, saw a sigil chalked on
a bit of brick. Ciani would have been outraged. Gods in
heaven, she would have said, there nothing so dangerous

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some fool won't try to Work it?
Once more, he tried to Divine just what had happened.
Once more, the sheer mass of unfettered power clogged his
senses, and his Working accomplished nothing. It was like
trying to focus on the flicker of a candleflame, when that
candle was in front of the sun. His head hurt from trying.
And then there were footsteps behind him, and he turned
to see who else had come to this place.
Senzei.
The man looked terrible. Haggard. Drained. Damien
guessed that he hadn't slept since the accident, and
wondered if he'd had the time to eat. Or the desire.
The man looked about nervously, as if checking for
eavesdroppers. There were none. His bloodshot eyes fixed
on Damien, then quickly looked away. In that instant,
Damien thought he saw fear in them.
"I need to talk to you," he said. His voice lacked
substance, like that of a ghost. It took effort to hear him.
"But not here." He looked up and down the street again, a
quick and nervous gesture.
"Where?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"My place. Can you come? It's . . ." He hesitated. Met
Damien's eyes. "It's about Ciani."
Wild hope lurched inside the priest. "She's alive?"
Senzei looked thoroughly miserable; it struck Damien
that he seemed afraid to speak. "Come with me," was all he
would say."I . . . we can't talk here."
He wanted to shake him, to demand answers, but with
effort he bested that instinct. Instead he nodded stiffly, and
let Senzei lead the way.
Just beyond the narrow, stone-paved streets of the city's
mercantile district was a small residential neighborhood.
The house that Senzei took them to was one of a dozen
similar buildings, modest brickwork abodes whose narrow
structure and lack of yard space made a clear statement
about the cost of real estate in this district. Senzei led them
to a corner house, and Damien took in details: neatly
whitewashed brickwork, small porch, hanging plants. Sigil
over the door - a quake-ward - and smaller symbols etched
into each window, in the lower corners. Curtains in the
downstairs window that seemed surprisingly feminine for
Senzei's taste . . . and then Damien remembered that he
lived with a woman. Roommate? Girlfriend? It
embarrassed him that he couldn't remember the exact
relationship.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The door opened as they approached. In the shadow of
the doorway Damien made out the form and features of a
woman. In many regards she resembled Senzei - pale, dark-
haired, a little too thin for her height. And afraid. Very
afraid. The same kind of fear that was in him.
"You found him," she breathed.
"At the shop." They passed quickly inside; she bolted
the door behind them, two locks and a burglar-ward.
Despite the afternoon's relative warmth, Damien noticed
that all the windows were shut tight.
"Were there insurance people-"
"No." He shook his head emphatically. "No one."
"Thank the gods for that, anyway."
Senzei introduced them: Allesha Huyding, his fiancee,
and Reverend Sir Damien Vryce. It might have been
Damien's imagination, but he seemed to stress the titles.
"I'll get you something to drink," she said, and before
Damien could respond that it wasn't necessary she was
gone.
"The fae makes her nervous," Senzei explained. "And

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

this situation . . ." he sighed, raggedly. "I think more than
anything she's afraid our adjusters will find out what really
happened."
It took all of Damien's self-control to keep his voice
level as he demanded, "What about Ciani?"
The fear in Senzei's eyes seemed to give way to
something else. Sadness. Exhaustion. Desolation.
"She's alive," he whispered. But there was no joy in his
voice. "Alive . . . but little more than that."
"Where?"
Senzei hesitated, but his eyes flicked toward a door that
led from the living room, and that was enough. Damien
stepped toward it-
And Senzei caught his arm with surprising strength. And
held on to him, tightly.
"She's hurt. Badly. You need to understand, before you
go see her-"
"I'm a Healer, man, I-"
"It isn't that kind of pain."

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His hand, on Damien's arm, was trembling. Something
in his tone - or perhaps in his expression - kept Damien
from pulling free.
"What is it?" he asked sharply.
"She was hurt," Senzei repeated. "She's . . ." He
hesitated, searching for the right words. Or perhaps the
courage to speak. ". . . not what she was."
"You mean the explosion-"
"It wasn't the explosion. I caused the explosion." He
released Damien's arm, began to twist one hand nervously
in the other, as if trying to cleanse himself. "To cover up
what happened. To make whatever had hurt her think she
had died . . . so it would leave her alone."
Damien heard the door open behind him, the padding of
footsteps, the tinkle of ice in glasses. And then the door
closed, and they were alone again.
"Tell me," he said quietly.
Senzei took a deep breath; Damien could see him
tremble. "We had an appointment at three a.m. She wanted
to try something in the true darkness, needed me to help. I
came . . ." He shut his eyes, remembering. "I found her . . .

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that is . . . she had been attacked . . ."
"Physically?" Damien pressed.
Senzei shook his head. "No. There were no marks of any
kind. No sign of any physical confrontation. But they had
gotten to her - somehow - and she was lying curled up on
the floor. Whimpering, like a wounded animal. I . . . tried to
help her. Got her wrapped up in something, to keep her
warm. I couldn't tell if she was in physical shock or not,
but it seemed practical. I didn't know what else to do. She
cried out a few words, then, and I tried to make sense out of
what she was saying, but they were only fragments. Mostly
incoherent. I don't think she even knew I was there. There
were threethings, she said. And something about a demon
in human form. She was hysterical by then, terrified that
they were coming back. That's what scared me most of all.
Her reaction to it. I . . . well, you know Ciani. It wasn't like
her. She told me they were coming back for her, to take her
away somewhere." He bit his lower lip, remembering.
"That she would rather die than go, and would I please kill
her before it could happen . . ."
Damien looked toward the door, but said nothing.
"That was when I decided what had to be done. I figured
I could make it seem like her defenses had overloaded,
blown the place to hell . . . and no one would ask questions.
Except the insurance people," he added bitterly. "I figured I
could use the shop's contents as a sacrifice, leave

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everything in there to burn . . . there's power in that kind of
destruction, you know that. And if I did it right . . . whoever
was after her, they would think she was dead. And leave
her alone." He drew in a deep breath, still shaking. "An
adept could have done it and told you all about it. I
couldn't. In order to make it take right, I didn't dare tell
anyone . . ." He looked up at Damien, bloodshot eyes
glistening. "That's why I couldn't tell you then. I'm sorry."
"Go on," he said quietly.
"I brought her here. No one saw us, praise fate; the true
night had kept everyone indoors. No one - and no thing -
bothered us. I managed to salvage some books that first
trip, but the rest of it had to go; the value of what's
destroyed is what gives a sacrifice its power, you know."
He hesitated, as though waiting for the priest to criticize
him; Damien said nothing. "I threw on a robe and ran back,
and did it. Blew the place. But it worked, didn't it?" He
shut his eyes, and shivered. "All that knowledge. All those
artifacts. If I had known then what I know now . . . it was
more of a sacrifice than I was even aware of. Because I
didn't know about her."
"What about her?"
He looked toward the door. "She's in there," he
whispered. "Alive. Physically uninjured. Only . . . without
memory. They took her memory. And the fae . . ." He
turned away until Damien could no longer see his face. His

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

shoulders shook. "She's lost it! She's like us, do you
understand? You and me. Most of humanity. They took it
away, took it all away, she can't See any more . . ."
Damien put a hand on the man's shoulder. Tried to
steady them both. Inside, his thoughts were whirling. "She
doesn't remember anything?"
"She remembers who she is. What she is. What she was.
But she hasn't got the knowledge, you understand? All
those million and one little facts that she had accumulated
over the years - all the things that made her a loremaster -
that's gone now. You understand? This isn't some
godsawful accident that just happened to strike her with
amnesia. They took her knowledge - they took her Vision!.
And they left her with just enough to understand what had
been lost. No wonder she wanted to die!"
It was only sinking in, what he was saying. The
ramifications. "And now her research library-"
"Is gone!" Senzei said angrily. As if daring him to
criticize. "I did what I thought was best. Sometimes you
have to make decisions so godsdamned fast that there's no
real time to think. You do the best you can. I did the best I
could. I thought maybe my arrival had interrupted them,
that they might come back any minute to hurt her more . . .
that's whatshe thought. She was terrified - and I couldn't
think of any other way to protect her." His hands had balled
themselves into fists, knuckles white. "And it worked,

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didn't it? You couldn't read past it. The adepts can't.
They've called in consultants, but no one can make heads
or tails of what happened. Even the godsdamned insurance
people can't read through it. You think I could have
managed that, without one hell of a sacrifice?"
"Easy," Damien said quietly. "No one's blaming you."
He drew in a deep breath, released it slowly. "They
would if they knew," he muttered. "The adjusters alone
would have my head."
"No one's telling them."
Senzei looked up at him. His face was a ghastly white.
"She would have trusted you. That's why I did."
"Let me see her," Damien said softly.
Senzei nodded.
The room Ciani was in was small and lined with books
on every wall. A cot had been placed in the center of the
room, and on it lay a figure so still, so colorless, that for a
moment he feared she was indeed dead. He came to her
side and sat on the edge of the cot, careful not to jar it. He
had thought she was sleeping, but now that he was beside
her he could see that her eyes were open. Empty. Staring
into nothingness.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Cee," he said gently.
She turned toward him, slowly, but her eyes were
unfocused. He could see now that her face was wet with
tears, and her pillow was soaked with them. He took her
nearer hand in both of his and squeezed it tightly; the flesh
was pliant, unresponsive. As empty of life as her
expression.
No longer an adept. Dear God, what a blow. How do
you come to terms with that? How do you start over again,
after such an incredible loss?
He brushed some stray hair out of her eyes; she might
have been carved in marble, for all that she responded to
him. Nevertheless he held her hand, as a devoted mother
might cling to a child in coma, and talked to her. As if that
could bring her back. As if anything could bring her back.
And fought with his own pain, his fury at being unable
to help her.
We have to change this damned world, before it's too
late. We have to make some fate for ourselves, other than
this.
"Father."

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A touch on his shoulder, feather-light. He turned to
acknowledge Senzei's presence, then looked back at her.
Her eyes were half-shut, her breathing slow and even.
Asleep, it seemed. He disentangled himself from her hands
gently, careful not to wake her.
"I've Summoned help," Senzei whispered. "I don't
know that there's anything he can do to save her . . . but he
might know something we don't."
Sick at heart, Damien nodded.
What good is it to play at Healing, if you can't save the
ones you care about?
Senzei led the priest upstairs, to what appeared to be his
workroom: a semi-finished, cluttered space which took up
half of the second story. The nearer wall was lined with
shelves, on which all manner of books and artifacts rested;
opposite it a broad, aged desk supported piles and piles of
documents. Damien caught sight of ward specifications,
and recognized a symbol that had once been in the shop.
Clearly, Senzei was trying to determine who - or what -
might have circumvented Ciani's defenses.
In the center of the room stood a man . . . or rather, what
appeared to be a man. He was bearded, husky, and dressed
in a manner that seemed wholly inappropriate for such a
gathering. A lush, fur-edged robe of emerald velvet hung

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open at the chest, and swept the floor behind his heels. It
gave the impression of having been but loosely belted in
place, with nothing underneath. From his summer sandals
to his opulent jewelry, his every accessory was
inappropriate for the time and the place he was in - and
mismatched to each other as well, as if he had chosen each
ring and necklace for its momentary appeal, without
thought for its relationship to the whole of his appearance.
Damien keyed a Knowing, and what he saw made his
hair stand on end. Instinctively he reached for his sword -
and discovered that he didn't have it on him.
The stranger nodded. "Your priest would slay demons."
He raised a brass goblet to his lips and drank - it hadn't
been in his hand a minute ago, Damien was sure of it - and
nodded. "An admirable reflex. But speaking as one who
prefers not to die, I hope he'll get over it."
"This is Karril," Senzei said quietly. "An old . . . friend,
of Ciani's."
Damien took a deep breath, reminded himself where he
was, and managed to unclench his fists. Nevertheless his
heart was pounding, and adrenaline rushed through his
system as if he were heading into battle. It's just reflex for
him to consult the faeborn. He doesn't understand that
each such contact serves to reconfirm man's vulnerability
on this planet.

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But where do we draw the line? When do we start
controlling this world, instead of just accepting it?
"How is she?" the demon asked him.
Startled, Damien took a moment to respond. What kind
of Summoning was this, that allowed the faeborn such
autonomy? Then he found his voice, and answered,
"Asleep. At least for now. Thank God for that, anyway."
He sighed, heavily. "I wish I knew what to do for her."
"Karril healed her once before," Senzei told Damien.
"I gave her peace," the demon corrected. "An illusion,
no more. At that time, it was enough. All she wanted was to
forget. This time they maimed her - and I'm not a Healer."
"But you know what happened?" Damien asked. "Do
you know who did it?"
For a brief moment, the demon was very still. "I know,"
he said at last. "Who hurt her, why they did it . . . and why
she can't be healed this time. And I'm sorry, but that is the
case."
"I don't accept that."
The demon seemed startled. "Unusual spirit," he mused

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aloud. "I'm beginning to understand what she saw in you."
Damien's expression darkened. "If you have informa-
tion, I'm ready to hear it. If you're here to assess our
relationship . . ."
Karril drank heavily from his goblet, then dropped it; it
disappeared before it hit the ground. "Church manners are
so atrocious, don't you think, Senzei? They have no
concept of how to deal with the faeborn. As if they could
wish us out of existence merely by being rude."
Damien glared. "Under the circumstances-"
"Enough! You're quite right. I've been Summoned, after
all." For some reason that term seemed to amuse him. "I'll
tell you, priest. Everything I know. And later, Senzei can
explain what it costs me to do that. Just being near such
pain as hers weakens me considerably. Discussing it, in
detail . . ." He shuddered melodramatically. "And in truth, I
don't know very much," the demon warned. "But it's more
than you'll get from any other source."
He sighed heavily. "First I should explain that Ciani and
I have known each other for a long time. She was the first
to catalog my family line, and to raise certain questions
regarding our existence." He chuckled. "Don't worry, priest
- I'll spare you the details. Suffice it to say that I knew her
well. And when she decided to go off into the rakhlands -

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alone - I was one of the few whom she told. I tried to talk
her out of it, of course. Any sensible entity would. But she
was determined. It did no good to point out that although
many explorers had braved that place, none had ever
returned to talk about it. She wanted knowledge - hungered
for it - and I'm sure I don't have to tell you how strong that
drive was in her. Had the rakh survived? she asked. Was it
they who erected the barrier that we call the Canopy, or did
that predate them? If they survived, what had they become?
You see, she had to have answers. And there was only one
way to obtain them."
"I saw her off at the base of the Southern Pass, in the
Worldsend Mountains. She was more alive than I had ever
seen her, flush with the ecstasy of taking on a new
challenge. Exquisite! I watched her as long as I could, but
once she reached the edge of the Canopy my vision could
no longer follow her. She passed through the barrier
without looking back, into the fae-silence that has guarded
the rakhlands for centuries."
"Six years passed. And then she was brought to me.
They had picked her out of the water by Kale, half
drowned, more than half starved, battered by prolonged
exposure to the elements. Shivering, even when her body
was made warm. Terrified. They thought she was mad, or
possessed, or worse. They did what they could to help her,
using human skills - and then, when that failed, left it in the
hands of the gods. In this case," he bowed slightly,
"myself." Damien stiffened, but Senzei put a warning hand

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on his arm. "Like it or not," the demon continued, "that is
my status in this region. Take it up with my priests if it
bothers you."
"My domain is pleasure - human pleasure, in all its
manifestations. There are few kinds of pain that I can
tolerate, fewer still that I can feed on. But apathy is my true
nemesis. It is anathema to my being: my negation, my
opposite, my destruction. You should understand this when
I say that I did what I could for her, but I know little of
what happened to her. A few whispered words, a few
fleeting images. No more. To delve into her memories
would have meant my dissolution - my death - and it would
have done her no good in the long run."
"This much I learned from her: The rakh who fled to
that land survived, and it was their need for protection from
humanity's aggression that caused the Canopy to exist.
They affect the fae like all native species - unconsciously -
and their psyche is wholly unlike the human template.
Nevertheless, there are similarities - and the demons
they've created are just as happy to feed on man, once the
option is presented to them."
"Ciani discovered an underground nest of such demons.
She made the mistake of exploring it. I'm sure I don't have
to tell you what kind of power lurks in the places where
sunlight never reaches; there's a reason that mines and
wine cellars are ritually exposed to daylight once a year.
They found her, and they trapped her, and they used her for

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food. But what they hungered for wasn't blood, or flesh, or
any other bodily matter. They wanted substance - depth -
complexity - and they gained it at the expense of prisoners
like Ciani, whom they kept entombed beneath the earth for
that purpose. They fed on their memories for as long as
they were sane, and then on the tide of their madness. At
first, these creatures were little more than wraiths; later, as
they established a permanent link with their hosts, they
gained solidity at their expense. Eventually their food
source would wither and die, and they would have to find
another. For they were eternally hungry, forever requiring a
fresh input of life to sustain their own existence. And I
think, as well, that the feeding amused them."
"These were the creatures that trapped Ciani and bound
her away from the sunlight. This was the slow and terrible
death they doomed her to, by making her feed one of their
kind. And this was the prison she escaped from, against all
odds. Killing her keeper so that her memories might be
freed, because otherwise no time and no Working could
ever heal her. Half-dead from her ordeal, more than a little
mad, she fought her way back to the human lands - to be
brought to my temple, where the pain could be soothed at
last."
He paused for a moment, giving his human listeners a
chance to digest his words. Then added quietly, "That's all
I know. That's all anyone knows. There was nothing I
could do to help except bury the memories within her, so
that was what I did. Maybe it was the wrong thing to do -

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I'm not sure - but she never could have regained her
identity with her soul still trapped in the past."
"You present her assailants as . . . primitive," Damien
challenged.
The demon hesitated. "I think that the beings Ciani dealt
with were simple fae-constructs, primitive-minded, who
knew only the promptings of hunger and sun-fear, and
perhaps just a tad of sadism. I think some of them have
become far more than that. Maybe it was their contact with
her - or with humanity in general, once they passed beneath
the Canopy. There's no question that they've demonstrated
a sadistic instinct right up there with humanity's finest."
His eyes sparkled. "Quite an adversary."
"I've killed demons before," Damien said coldly.
Karril leaned back and studied him. "You want to help
her, don't you? But there's only one way to do that. You'll
have to kill the one who hurt her. That specific creature.
And he is, by definition, the most sophisticated of his
kind." His expression was grim. "He's probably back home
by now, on the other side of a barrier no human can Work
through - so you can't possibly prepare yourselves for what
you'll find there. As for the rakh . . . your people tried to
eradicate them once before. Do you think they'll bear you
any fondness for it? Do you think your sorcery can stand up
to theirs, when they Work the fae as naturally as you
breathe? When their power is fueled by memories of

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humanity's attempted genocide?"
For a moment Damien said nothing. Just sat there,
remembering Ciani. As she had been. As she was now.
Then he looked at Senzei - and saw, in the man's eyes,
exactly what he had hoped to find: pain overcome by
determination, enough to equal his own.
"It'll be tough," he agreed. "So where do we start?"
Eleven
The Temple of Pleasure was located just beyond the
county line, which meant that Jaggonath's strict laws
regarding public intoxication were not in effect there.
Accordingly, in response to the warmth of the night, seven
of the eight walls had been rolled up. The breeze poured in,
and worshipers poured out. Couples and triples and even a
few determined loners sprawled on the steps outside the
temple, energetically pursuing whatever passed, in their
own minds, for pleasure. Warm air caught the scent of
wine and drugged incense and human pheromones and
gusted it out toward the city, along with the sharp aroma of
several dozen torches. At the border of the temple's
influence, where the light grudgingly gave way to
midnight's darkness, figures milled about with the
energetic restlessness of circling insects. The curious, come
from Jaggonath to watch. The demonic, come from the
depths of night to feast. A succubus flickered into female
form at the edge of one such gathering, eyes hungrily

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searching for a safe way to approach the well-warded
temple. A vampire in male form touched its tongue tip to its
dry lips in anticipation, as a local woman accepted its
advance. All forms of pleasure were deemed worship here,
even such as theirs; as for the safety of those humans who
fed them, the pleasure-god Karril protected only his own.
A tall man stood at the edge of the temple's light. Lean,
aristocratic, tastefully dressed, he clearly was no part of the
voyeuristic entourage. In confirmation of which he stepped
forward, and entered the temple's circle of light. Women
looked up as he passed by, intrigued by his beauty, and one
reached out to him. But he failed to notice most of them,
and the one whose hand had come too close met his eyes
and faltered, then drew back shivering.
There was a fountain in the center of the temple - one
might call it an altar - with sexually explicit carvings that
spewed forth the drugged red wine of Karril's worship.
Leaning against it was a man of middle age, considerably
shorter than the newcomer, whose disheveled clothing and
hearty grin implied that he had just found fulfillment in
someone's embrace.
The stranger came to where he stood, and waited.
"Good guess," the shorter man said pleasantly.
"You forget that I have demon-sight."

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"I meant, that I would be here."
"You forget that I know you."
The shorter man chuckled. "So it is." He sighed, and
looked out over the congregation. "They'll make a god of
me in truth someday - isn't that the way it works? Rather
awesome, to be at the receiving end of it. I keep wondering
if I'll feel it when it happens. Or if it will be a gradual
conversion."
"Spare me the pagan philosophy."
"It's your philosophy, my friend, not mine." He dipped a
jeweled goblet deep into the fountain, dripped red wine
from his sleeve end as he drank from it.
"Can we talk?" the stranger asked.
"Of course."
"Privately."
He shrugged. "As much as there ever is privacy, in this
place." A room appeared about them, tastelessly luxurious
in its trappings. "It's all illusion anyway, but if it makes
you more comfortable . . ."

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"I find the sight of such worship . . . unpleasant."
"Ah. Church sensibilities, once more. My theme for the
week." He chuckled. "Shame on you, my friend. I'd have
thought you'd have outgrown all that by now."
He reclined on a plush velvet couch and pointed to a
matching stool opposite. "That one will support you."
The stranger sat.
"Can I offer you something? Wine? Cerebus? Human
blood?"
The stranger's expression softened into something that
was almost a smile. "I always refuse you, Karril."
"I know. It pleases me to offer, just the same." He drank
deeply from his goblet, then vanished it when it was
emptied. "So, what brings the Forest to Jaggonath?"
"A search for beauty. As always."
"And did you find it?"
"A lovely, overprotected flower, growing in the mud of
a farm."

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A shadow passed over the demon's face. "To be
hunted?"
"Curiously, no. She caught me in a rare moment of
magnanimity, and I'm afraid I promised her safety."
"You're getting soft." The demon grinned.
"My pleasures vary. Although this one, admittedly, was
. . . odd."
"You may lose your reputation for evil."
The stranger chuckled. "Unlikely."
"So what brings you to this place? To me? Or am I to
believe that you simply desired my company?"
For a long moment the stranger just looked at him.
Karril made himself another full goblet and drank from it,
waiting him out; such a silence could mean anything.
"What do you know," he said at last, "about the incident
at the Fae Shoppe?"
The demon's expression darkened perceptibly. He stood,
and turned away from his visitor. Goblet and couch both

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disappeared; the passionate reds of the room's interior were
exchanged for blue, sullen and grayed. "Why do you want
to know?"
"I was at the place earlier this evening. At what
remained of it. I worked a Knowing - and a Seeing, and a
Divining, and several more things whose titles you
wouldn't recognize. All blocked. It takes more than an
apprentice's skill to block my sight, Karril. Something
about that shop was damned important to someone - and
they must have worked one hell of a sacrifice to protect it."
"It doesn't concern you," the demon said quietly.
"Everything concerns me."
"This doesn't." He turned back; his expression was
strained. "Trust me."
"I could take it down, you understand. There isn't an
adept in Jaggonath whose Working could stand before me
if I was determined enough. But then it would be down for
good. And whatever it's protecting . . ." He spread his
hands suggestively.
Karril winced, but said nothing.
"Need I remind you that I could simply work a
Summoning and bind you?" the stranger pressed. "That you

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would then have to tell me what I want to know? That's a
much more unpleasant relationship, Karril. Why don't you
spare us both the trouble."
"Because there's someone I don't want hurt."
The stranger's eyes widened with sudden understanding.
His voice, when it came, was a whisper. Seductive. "Do
you really think I'd use you as an accessory to pain? After
all these years, don't you think I know better?"
"Your standards and mine differ somewhat."
"You feed on the Hunt."
"I feed on the Hunter. And if his pleasures changed
tomorrow, I would celebrate."
"Even if-"
"Why do you care?" the demon demanded. "What is this
to you, that you bother?"
The stranger sat back, suddenly distant. "A loremaster
has been attacked. I happen to be among those who respect
the neutrality of such people. Shouldn't I be upset? The
currents in town have shifted - which hints at something
much more nasty than a simple accident. Shouldn't I be

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concerned? A nonadept sacrifices God knows what, to set
up a blockage even I can't Work through-"
"And something dark that isn't of the Forest moves into
Jaggonath. That's what this is really all about, isn't it?
Territorialism. Defense of the Hunter's turf. The loremaster
and her mercantile enterprises have nothing to do with it."
One corner of the stranger's mouth twitched slightly: the
hint of a smile without its substance. "There is that also,"
he said quietly.
The blue of the room shifted through gray, to orange.
"I want your word," the demon said.
"I recently gave that to a young girl," he mused. "She
didn't know what it was worth." He looked at the demon
sharply. "You do."
"That's why I want it."
"That I won't hurt the lady Ciani? I have no reason-"
"Your word."
"You can be very tiresome, Karril." His tone was light,
but his eyes were narrow, his gaze dark. "As you wish. I

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will neither harm Ciani of Faraday, nor cause her to be
harmed, until this matter is dealt with."
"Ever."
"All right - ever. Are you satisfied now? Do you trust
me?" He smiled, but his eyes were cold. "So few creatures
would."
"But we go back a long time, don't we? I know where
you came from. I know what you are. Even more
importantly, I know what you were."
"Then it's time you made me equally well-informed."
"There's a priest involved," the demon warned. "A
Knight of the Flame. Do you care?"
He shrugged. "His problem, not mine."
"I wonder if he'll appreciate that fact."
Again: an expression that was not quite a smile, a tone
that was not quite humor. "It could make it . . . amusing."
The demon smiled. And made himself a chair. And sat
in it. The room faded slowly to red again; plush velvet, in
quantity.

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"You sure you wouldn't like a drink?"
"Tell me," the stranger demanded.
He did. 
Twelve
"This is a rakh."
Senzei took hold of the ancient drawing with care and
gently freed it from its tissue cocoon. The paper had
yellowed with age and its ink had browned; he was
infinitely careful as he turned it toward the lamplight,
sensing just how fragile it was.
On it was sketched a mammal, four-legged and tailed as
all Ernan mammals were. Visually unimpressive. He read
the Latin name inscribed beneath it (Earth words, Earth
terms, the species had been renamed so many times it
hardly seemed to matter what it had originally been called)
and then the date. And he looked up at Damien, startled. "2
A.S.?"
"The original. This is a copy. Done some two hundred
years later, but supposedly an accurate reproduction. If the
introduction is correct, the artist was copying from a
sketchbook belonging to one of the original colonists. The

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landing crew," Senzei breathed. Tasting the concept.
Damien leaned back in his leather-bound chair; over-
head, the deeply shadowed vaults of the cathedral's Rare
Document Archives seemed to stretch toward infinity.
"That's the earliest representation we have. And, for quite
some time, the only one. Evidently, the original settlers
didn't consider the species worthy of too much attention.
Of course, they had other things to worry about."
"Like survival."
Damien nodded. "Look at these." He pushed a pile of
sketches - chronologically arranged - across the table.
Silently, Senzei began to leaf through them. After a while
his eyes narrowed slightly and he shook his head, amazed.
Then he went through them again, more carefully.
"It's incredible," he said at last. "One can see why the
settlers were frightened." "Gods, yes. If they didn't
understand the fae . . ." "And this is before First Impression
was verified. Before they really understood how man's
presence had altered the natural pattern here." He picked up
the first sketch and studied it. "Animal," he muttered. "No
more than that. Hardly worthy of notice, until Pravida
Rakhi declared it to be the most sophisticated life-form
native to this planet. That was forty-one years After
Sacrifice. Man's innocence lasted only that long." He
tipped the fragile paper toward the light, careful not to
crease it. The creature that posed on its surface could have

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been related to any one of half a dozen species he knew - or
even one that had ceased to exist. With but one aged
sketch, it was hard to tell.
"You think they began to change after Rakhi's
announcement?"
Damien shook his head. "No. Before that. As near as I
can tell, it started right after the Sacrifice. But when Rakhi
declared that this species was man's Ernan equivalent - that
but for man's presence, the species would have developed
advanced intelligence and complex dexterity and eventually
taken to the stars - the pace picked up alarmingly. Such is
the power of the popular imagination."
Senzei leafed through the sketches again, laid several
out before him in chronological order. Though they were
done in a variety of hands using dissimilar media, the
overall pattern was clear. The species was changing.
"Of course, now we understand what happened. Now we
know that evolution is a very different process here than it
was on Earth. Here, if trees grow taller, the next gaffi
calves are born with longer necks. If lakes dry up, the
offspring of underwater creatures are born with
rudimentary lungs. Their need affects their DNA, in precise
and perfect balance. To us, it seems wholly natural; several
adepts have even managed to Work the process, giving us
our un-Earth species. But we understand this all now, after
centuries of observation. Imagine what it must have meant

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for our ancestors, to see this happening before their eyes!"
Senzei looked up at him. "When did they guess where it
was headed?"
"Not for a while. Not until Rakhi. The settlers observed
that changes were occurring - but they were occurring in
hundreds of species, in every ecological niche on the
planet. And they had, as you say, much better things to
worry about."
"So now, imagine the rakh in that time. Moderately
intelligent, seemingly self-aware, possessing opposable
digits and thus a fair degree of manual dexterity. Inhabiting
the very same ecological niche that man's primitive
ancestors did on Earth, in that evolutionary instant before
he gained his true humanity. Changing, generation after
generation - adapting to man's presence, to the sudden
appearance of a rival species. Slowly. Erna was feeling its
way along genome by genome, testing out each new
evolutionary concept before making the next adjustment.
Keeping the ecosphere in balance."
"And then, along comes Pravida Rakhi. Convincing all
concerned that if man had never come here, these creatures
would have been the natural monarchs of this planet. They
would have become the local equivalent of us. The popular
imagination is aroused, on all levels of consciousness.
Intellectual curiosity, gut fear response, competitive instinct
- you name it. Every possible mode of thought, every

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manner of instinct and emotion, every level of man's mind,
all are focused on the image of these creatures as pseudo-
human. Is it any wonder that the fae was affected? That
these natives, who were a natural part of this world,
evolved accordingly?"
He shuffled through the sheets that were spread out
before him until he found the one he wanted. And placed it
before Senzei. "131 A. S.,"he said quietly.
Erna's dominant natives had altered drastically in both
shape and balance. The back legs were sturdier, the hind-
quarters more heavily muscled. The spine had bent so that
the torso might be carried erect, although the front paws -
hands? - were still being used as auxiliary feet. Most
dramatic of all was the change in the skull, from the sharply
angled profile of an animal predator to something that
looked disturbingly human.
Senzei tapped the date on the drawing. "This was when
they guessed what was happening."
"This was when they began to suspect.You have to
remember how alien such a concept was to their inherited
way of thinking. It took five generations of close
observation before anyone was sure. And several
generations after that, to see if human sorcery could reverse
the trend. It couldn't. Erna had supplied us with a competi-
tor, and one cast in our own image. We had accepted it as
such. The work of a single sorcerer was hardly a drop in the

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bucket, compared to that. Generation after generation, the
rakh were becoming more human."
"And we answered with the crusades."
"Wholesale slaughter of an innocent species. And the
unwitting creation of a host of demons, as byproducts of
man's most murderous instincts. All feeding on his hatred,
all savoring his intolerance. Is it any wonder that human
society nearly devolved into total chaos? That the rigid
social patterns of the Revivalist movement seemed to be
man's only hope of maintaining order?"
"And thus the Church was born."
Damien looked at him but said nothing. For a moment,
the room seemed unnaturally still.
"And thus the Church was born," he agreed. At last he
looked down at the table again, and unrolled a heavy
parchment sheet atop the pile of drawings. A map.
"The rakhlands."
Senzei looked it over, muttered, "Shit."
Damien agreed.

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The land that the rakh had retreated to was well fortified
by nature to resist man's most aggressive instincts. To the
west, the Worldsend Mountains provided a daunting barrier
of ice-clad peaks and frozen rivers. To the east, sheer basalt
cliffs carved out by centuries of tsunami offered no easy
landing site, no hope of shelter. The southlands were hardly
more appealing, acre upon acre of treacherous swampland
that harbored some of Erna's deadliest species. Only in the
north was there any hope of passage, between the jagged
peaks and wind-carved cliffs that looked out onto the
Serpent Straits.
Damien tapped a finger to the mouth of the Achron
River, and muttered, "Only way."
"What about the mountains?"
Damien looked up at him sharply - and realized, in an
instant, how little the man had traveled. "Not with winter
coming. Not if we want to live to get to the rakhlands. I
traveled the Dividers in midsummer, and that was rough
enough. Even if the cold doesn't kill you outright, there are
nasty things that inhabit those peaks - damned hungry
things - and it's hard to fight them when your body's half
frozen. Of course, if we wait until summer . . ."
"I can't. Shecan't."
"Agreed - on all counts. River it is, then. Hell of a

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landing, but I think it can be done. And you can bet we'll
pay dearly for it. In cash, I mean." He leaned forward in his
chair, intent upon the display before them. "Where's the
Canopy?"
Senzei hesitated. "That depends. Roughly, there."He
sketched a rough circle with his finger: up through the
center of the Worldsend range, east along the coast, to a
curve that extended up to ten miles off the eastern shore,
and back through the swamps. "Half a mile wide, in places
- and as much as six, elsewhere. It moves, too. Sometimes
it edges out into the Straits - which is why most boats avoid
that shoreline like the plague. I have better maps at my
place," he added.
"Good. We'll need them. Tell me about it."
"We don't know much. A wall of living fae, that first
appeared shortly after the rakh fled into the Worldsend. No
natural fae-current passes through it. No Working can pass
from one side to the other. Tamed fae that's Worked in the
middle of it can go wild, and do anything. Ships that
flounder into it discover that their instruments have
suddenly gone haywire, that the very shoreline seems
changed . . . but so much of our technology is fae-based,
how can we be sure of what that means?"
"What's it made of? Earth-fae? Tidal? Solar?"

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Senzei shook his head. "None of those. Nothing we
humans understand. Ciani thought there might be some sort
of force inherent in the rakh themselves - we see similar
things in other species - and that the Canopy is an extension
of their communal existence. Their need for protection."
"From man," Damien said grimly.
There was no need for Senei to comment.
"Do we know what the rakh are now? Did Ciani ever
say?"
"We know they survived. We know they must be at least
moderately intelligent in order to have manifested the kind
of creatures that she encountered. And that there are large
numbers of them - or the Canopy wouldn't exist. That's all.
I can list a hundred rumors for you . . . but you know how
reliable those are. There's no way of knowing whether they
followed through on their initial Impression, and eventually
developed a human-compatible form, or went off in some
other direction entirely. The fact that their demons can
adopt human form seems to imply the former - but I
wouldn't bet my life on that conclusion. Some demons are
very versatile."
Wouldn't a world without demons be better? Damien
wanted to argue. Worth sacrificing for? But he bit back the
words before they were spoken; this was neither the time

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nor the place for theosophy. Senzei and he would be
spending a long time together, under very trying
circumstances; anything that might add additional tension
to the situation was a course to be avoided, at all costs.
"Let's prepare for everything," he said. "Once we get
there, there'll be no sending home for supplies. If it's small
and it might be useful, we take it with us. If it's large and
heavy . . . maybe we pack it anyway. Often it's the little
things that make a difference - especially when you don't
even know what it is you're going to be facing."
Senzei leaned back, but there was nothing relaxed about
the posture; his body was stiffly erect, tense. "You really
think we can do it?"
Damien hesitated. Met his eyes. Let him see the doubt
that was there, inside him. "I think we have to try," he said
quietly. "As for the rest . . . there's no way of knowing that
until we're inside, is there? Until we can see what we're up
against. The odds are certainly against us." He shrugged.
"But we won't even know what they are until we get
there."
"We need an adept," Senzei muttered.
Damien looked around, as if checking for
eavesdroppers. The gesture reminded Senzei of where they
were - as it was no doubt meant to do. "Not here," he mut-

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tered. He began to gather the drawings. "Good enough for
research, but for the rest . . . it isn't appropriate."
"I understand."
"We'll go to your place. All right? I'll have copies made
of the map, and sent there." He glanced about, paused just
long enough to draw Senzei's attention to the two other
priests, ritually clad, who were within hearing distance.
"We need to have this worked out as well as we can before
we take a single step toward the rakhlands, you know."
"And gods help us then."
Jarred by the plural, Damien looked up at him. "Pray
long and hard, if you want your gods to interfere." His
voice and manner were strained. "And do it soon. Because
once we get under the Canopy, and that silence stretches
between us and Jaggonath . . . no god of this region is going
to hear your prayers. Or anything else, for that matter."
She lay still as death on Senzei's guest cot, glazed eyes
staring out into nothingness. The light of a single candle
illuminated her face and hands in sharp relief, from the
stark white highlights of her colorless flesh to shadows so
sharp and deep that they might have been carved in stone.
Even her eyes seemed paler, as though sorrow had leached
the color from them. As though her assailants had drained
her not only of memory, but of hue.

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The food that had been placed beside her was un-
touched. Damien moved it carefully out of the way and
then sat by her side.
"Cee." His voice was no more than a whisper, but in the
absolute silence of her chamber it might as well have been
a shout. "Cee. We're going after them. Do you
understand?" He put a hand on her shoulder - ice-cold
flesh, without response - and squeezed gently. "You've got
to get hold of yourself."
She turned to him slowly. Her face was dry of tears, but
he could see the streaks of salt-stiffened flesh where they
had coursed. The desolation in her eyes nearly broke his
heart.
"What's the point?" she whispered.
He Worked her then. Gently, praying that she wouldn't
notice. Worked a link between them that would keep her
attention on him, keep her from falling back into
unresponsive darkness. "We need you."
For a moment it seemed as if she would turn away
again, but something - perhaps the fae - held her steady.
Her voice, when it came, was a dry, dehydrated whisper.
"For what?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Ah, Cee. I thought you would have guessed that." He
took her nearer hand, prying it gently from the blanket's
edge to enfold it in his own. Cold flesh, nearly lifeless.
How dilute was her vitality now - how fragile had that
thread become, which binds such a woman to life? "You
have to come with us."
For a moment she looked startled; there was more
vitality in that single expression than he had seen in all the
days since the assault. He felt something in himself tighten,
tried to quell the tide of hope rising inside him. Or at least,
control it. So much depended on how she took this . . .
"We can't leave you here," he told her. "You'd be
unprotected. There's no ward Senzei or I could Work that
would hold them off, if your own didn't. And he's not all
that sure that the illusion he Worked at the shop would hold
once he's under the Canopy. They might suddenly realize
that you're alive . . . and we'd have no way of getting back
to you. Or even knowing what had happened." He took a
deep breath, chose his next words carefully. "And without
you, Cee . . . we can't find the one who did this." He felt
her stiffen beneath his hand, saw the fear come into her
eyes. He continued quickly, "If not for the Canopy we
could rely on a Knowing, but with the Canopy between us .
. . no one can read through it, Senzei said, not even an
adept. And God knows, we're not that. With you on one
side and us on the other, locating your assailant would be
like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Even worse: like
trying to find one single blade of hay in that stack, when

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you don't know which one you're searching for. How
would we even know where to start?" He squeezed her
hand gently, wished he could will some of his own warmth
into her flesh. His own vitality. "We need you, Cee."
She shut her eyes; a tremor of remembered pain ran
through her body. "You don't understand," she whispered.
"You can't possibly understand." A tear gathered under her
lashes, but lacked the substance to free itself; her body was
too dehydrated to spare that much fluid. "What it's like to
live with the fae. Like adepts do. Zen thinks it's like a
constant Seeing, but it's not that at all." Her brow furrowed
as she struggled for words. "It's everywhere. In everything.
There are so many different kinds that I don't even have
names for them all, some so fleeting that they're just a
spark out of the corner of your eye - a flash of light, of
power - and then they're gone, before you can focus on
them. And the currents flow through it all - everything! -
not just around it, like he Sees, but permeating every
substance on this planet, living and unliving, solid and
illusory. Sometimes you'll be looking at the sky and the
tidal-fae will flux for an instant and there it is - like a flaw
in a crystal that suddenly catches the light, a spectrum of
living color that's gone before you can even draw a breath.
And there's music, too, so beautiful that it hurts just to
listen to. Everywhere you look, everything you touch, it's
all permeated with living fae - all in a constant state of flux,
changing hourly as the different tides course through it.
And the result is a world so rich, so wonderful, that it
makes you shiver just to live in it . . ." She drew in a shaky
breath. "Do you understand? When I touch a stone, what I

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

feel isn't hard rock - I feel everything that stone has been,
everything it might become, I feel how it channels the
earth-fae and how it interacts with the tidal fae and how the
power of the sun will affect it, and what it will be when true
night falls . . . do you understand, Damien? That bit of rock
is alive alive - everything is alive to us, even the air we
breathe - only now-" She coughed raggedly, and he could
hear the tears come into her voice. "Don't you see? That's
what they took! It's all dead now. I look around, and all I
see are corpses. A universe of corpses. Like everything I
see is sculpted out of rotting meat . . . except it's not even
rotting; there's life in corruption, you know, even carrion
has its own special music . . . and here there's nothing.
Nothing! I touch this bed -" and she grasped the bedframe
with her free hand, and squeezed it until her knuckles were
white with the pressure, "- and all I feel . . . gods, there's no
life in it . . . can you understand? It wasn't methey drained,
it was the whole of my world!"
"Cee." He stroked her hair gently from her face, letting
his fingers warm her skin. "Cee. We're going to get it back
for you. Do you understand? But we need your help. We
need you to come with us. It's all a waste if you don't.
Cee?" He continued to stroke her hair - gently, as one
would a frightened kitten's - but she only moaned softly,
wordlessly. As the tears finally came.
"We'll help you, Cee," he whispered. "I swear it."
The books and documents that had been brought to

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Senzei's workroom had long since overflowed the confines
of his desk; when Damien entered the room he found him
sitting on the floor in the center of his sigil-rug, surrounded
by carefully ordered stacks.
Damien waited until Ciani's assistant looked up at him.
"I'm going to kill them," he hissed. "Going to kill those
sons of bitches - hard, and slow. You hear me? I'm going to
make them suffer."
"Thus speaks the guardian of peace."
"There's nothing in my Order's charter about peace. Or
in the Church's Manifesto, for that matter. That's post-war
PR." He grabbed a free stool, put it down by the desk, and
sat on it. "Find anything?"
"A simple question for a complex task." Senzei began to
point to the piles around him, naming them one after the
other. "Things we should take with us. Things we should
read before we go. Things we should take with us except
they're too large, fragile, or heavy to carry, so we should
have the information in them copied into something else,
preferably with waterproof ink. Things we-"
"I get the picture." He flipped back the cover of a
leather-bound volume that sat on the edge of the desk -
Evolutionary Trends in Native Species: a Neo-Terran
Analysis - "How about the manpower problem? Any

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

progress there?"
Senzei hesitated. "I have her records, you know - one of
the few things I saved. Detailed dossiers on all adepts
living in this region. Depressing as hell, given our
situation."
"You don't trust their power?"
Senzei sighed. "I don't trust them.Need I remind you
that the gift of adeptitude is utterly random, that we don't
understand the least thing about how it comes to those it
does, or - more importantly - why? The adepts in Jaggonath
are an utterly random sample of humanity: most of them
are self-centered, unstable, intellectually limited . . . replete
with all the flaws that define us as a species. One or two are
marginally hopeful . . . but I don't like it, Damien. I don't
like trusting a stranger in this, adept or no."
"You were the one who wanted us to find someone."
"I wanted Ciani," he said bitterly. "Someone like her.
Only there isn't someone like her. She was the exception. I
can't imagine any of these people," he waved his hand over
three of the nearer piles, "taking on the cause of a stranger,
like she would have done. Risking their lives just to find
out what's on the other side of those mountains. All right? I
was wrong. So shoot me."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Easy." Damien made himself a place on the rug and sat
down, opposite Senzei. "You can't let it get to you, Zen.
Not this early in the game." He picked up a piece of paper
from the pile nearest - a fae-map of the Serpent Straits - and
looked it over as he said, "I'd just as soon have an adept
along, too, but if we can't, we can't. You and I have power
enough, in our various fields. It'll have to suffice."
"I hope," Senzei said miserably.
He put the map down again, tried to change the subject.
"How about the rakh?"
He hesitated. "What exactly are you asking?"
"When can we find one? How can we do it?"
Senzei stared at him for a moment, clearly astonished.
"You mad? We need to stay clear of them at all costs. Their
hatred of humanity-"
"Was last documented almost a thousand years ago. I'm
not saying it's not still in effect - might even have
worsened - but is it safe to assume that? I do know that
we'll be crossing their lands, and I'd be surprised if we can
avoid any contact. Don't you think we'd be better off
approaching one or two under carefully controlled
circumstances, than riding blindly into a city full of
potential enemies?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Senzei digested that concept. "I suppose. Once we're
inside the Canopy I could work a Calling; that might bring
us something with a potentially sympathetic mindset. But
we'd have to wait until we get inside to know for sure. If
only some of the rakh were outside the Canopy-"
Ciani's voice interrupted. "How do you know they're
not?"
The two men looked up to find her leaning in the
doorway. Wrapped in a blanket and shivering, as though
protecting herself from the chill autumn winds that blew
outside the house. Despite that - despite her ghastly pallor,
hollowed cheeks, and the thin red webbing that filmed her
eyes - she looked better than she had in days. Since the
accident.
Alive, Damien thought. She looks alive.
"How do you know where they are?" she pressed.
"The rakh never travel outside the Canopy. They-"
Her voice was a ragged whisper. "How do we know
that?"
Senzei started to speak again, but Damien put a hand on
his arm. Quieting him. On first impression it seemed that

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ciani was asking for simple information: What facts had
she forgotten which caused them to believe this about the
rakh? But on second impression . . . He looked in her eyes,
saw a brief glint of fire there. Intelligence. They had taken
her memory, but they hadn't dimmed her sagacity. They
couldn't.
"We don't know," he told her. "We assumed."
"Ah." She shook her head sadly; there was a hint of
humor in the gesture, a mere shadow of her former self.
Weakly, she whispered, "Bad move."
Senzei stiffened. "You think they might travel? That one
or more might be outside their own wall of protection?"
"I have no information on which to base such a guess,"
she reminded him gently. Damien could see the pain of it in
her eyes, the constant frustration of reaching inside for
memories that weren't there. Of not even knowing how
much knowledge she had lost. "But it's possible, isn't it?"
She hesitated. "Do we know any reason why it wouldn't
be?"
"None at all," Damien assured her. And then he was up
and by her side in an instant, to catch her as her spurt of
strength finally died. As she fell. So light, so fragile . . .
"She needs food," he said. "I'll take her downstairs, try

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

to feed her something. Zen-?"
"Working on it," he responded. He climbed over several
stacks of books to reach the desk; once there, he began to
rummage through a stack of maps. "I can do a Converging,
to draw whatever's out there. If there's anything out there.
I'll try to get it to meet up with us en route - that's better
than waiting for it here, don't you think?"
"Much better."
"We won't know what it is, of course. Or where it's
coming from. Not until it gets to us." He looked back at
Damien. "You're sure-"
"Yes," he said quickly "A rakh contact this side of the
Canopy is worth any risk. Do it."
"It may not like us."
"We may not like it," Damien said dryly. "That's life."
And he carried Ciani downstairs.
Senzei found Allesha in the kitchen, washing out the last
of their dinner dishes. He waited for a moment in strained
silence, hoping that she would notice him. But if she did,
she made no sign of it. It did seem to him that her body was

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

somewhat tenser, that her hands were scrubbing more
vigorously, as if using the household chore to vent some
private anxiety . . . but that was probably his imagination.
The stress. Not Allesha.
Finally, "Lesh," he said softly. He saw her stiffen. She
put down the dish she was working on, carefully, but didn't
otherwise acknowledge him. "Lesh? I need to talk to you.
Can you spare a minute?"
She turned to him slowly; something in her disheveled
manner, so utterly free of cosmetics or artifice, reminded
him of when they had first met. How deeply he had been in
love with her since that first moment. It made him all the
more miserable that a breach had been growing between
them. That for all his efforts he seemed unable to recover
the joy of those innocent, happy days.
"Lesh? You want to sit?" He indicated the table with its
delicately carved chairs. The whole of the kitchen was
delicate, like her.
"I'm all right," she said softly.
He hesitated. Not knowing how to start. Not knowing
how to commit to speech all the things she must be aware
of, which lacked only official pronouncement. "You know
how bad it is with Cee. I mean . . . Damien thinks the only
way to change that is to go into the rakhlands. To hunt

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

down the creature that did this and destroy it." The violent
words felt strange on his tongue. Hunt. Destroy.Not words
of study, or of quiet city life, but keys to a far darker
universe. "I think . . . that is, I mean . . ."
"That you're going," she whispered.
Stiffly, he nodded.
She turned away.
"Lesh-"
She waved him to silence. He could see her shoulders
trembling as she fought to hold back tears. Or anger? He
moved toward her, his every instinct crying out for him to
hold her, to use their physical closeness to blunt the edge of
his announcement, but she drew away from him. Only
inches - but it hinted at a much more vast gulf between
them, that had been months in the making.
"Just like that," she whispered. "So easy . . ."
His heart twisted inside him. "I didn't know how to tell
you. I didn't know when. It just sort of happened, all of it . .
. Lesh, I'm sorry, I would have come to you earlier . . ."
She shook her head. "It isn't that. It isn't that at all." She

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

turned back to him. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and not just
from the last few minutes. She had been crying. "And it
isn't just Ciani, either. Or the events of the last few days. I
want you to understand that, Zen. It's been going on for too
long, and I . . . I can't take it anymore."
She turned away from him again; her voice became so
low he could hardly hear it. "I think we should end it," she
whispered. "Give up. It's not going anywhere, Zen - and it
won't get better. Maybe it was a mistake in the first place.
Maybe there was a time when I could have changed things .
. ." She looked back at him. "But I'm sorry. I failed you.
Failed us both."
She reached down to the edge of the sink where a
slender gold ring lay in a dish of soap-suds. And wiped it
clean as carefully and as delicately as if it were fine china.
"I think you'd better have this," she told him. She didn't
meet his eyes as she held it out to him. "You can keep
mine. It's okay. I don't want it. I wouldn't want to see it . .
." 
He stared at the engagement ring in shock, not quite
believing it. Not quite absorbing.
"I've been thinking about it for a long time," she said
hurriedly. "I want you to know that. Gods, I've been going
over it in my mind for so long that I can hardly remember a
time when I wasn't. Isn't that awful?" She took a deep
breath. "Because I realized one day that though I can be

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many things to you, I can never be first in your life. Never.
Oh, I tried to convince myself otherwise - I reasoned that if
we only spent enough time together, if you cared enough
about our commitment . . . we could work out our
priorities, establish the kind of relationship I want. The
kind of relationship I need. But we can't. I understand that
now. This incident didn't start it, it just drove the lesson
home. And it's all right, Zen, it's just the way you are, I
have to deal with that-"
"If it's Ciani-"
"It's not Ciani! Don't you think I know that? It's not any
other woman. Gods!" She laughed shortly; it was a bitter
sound. "I wish it wereanother woman. I'd know how to
compete with a woman. I don't know how to compete with
this."She was facing him now, and her eyes, normally soft,
blazed with anger. With pain. "I mean the fae,Zen. I mean
your hunger for something you can never have. Don't you
think I see how it eats at you? Don't you think I can feel it
in you every time I'm with you? Every time we touch? Feel
it in you every time we make love - how you wish it could
be more, how you wish you could experience it on all those
different levels - don't you think I can sense your
frustration? Your distraction?" she drew in a deep breath,
shakily. "I can't live with it any more. I'm sorry. I've tried
and tried . . . and I just can't do it any more."
"Lesh . . . we can work it out. We can work on it-"

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"When you come home again? Two, three years from
now? Do you really think I should wait - for this?"
He could say nothing. The words were all choked up
inside him. Words of anger, pleading, surprise . . . and
guilt. Because he had seen it coming. Deep inside him, on
levels he hated to probe. And he despised himself for not
knowing how to stop it.
"I love you," he said. Willing all his passion into his
voice - wishing he could communicate his emotions di-
rectly, without need for such an artificial vehicle as words.
"I love you more than anything, Lesh-"
"And I love you," she whispered back. "I always have."
She shut her eyes tightly; a tear squeezed out from the
corner of one of them. "I only wish that was enough to base
a marriage on, Zen. But it isn't. Can't you see that?"
He wanted to argue with her. He wanted to beg her to
stay, to tell her that soon he would be back again soon, they
could start all over - he would change, she would see! - but
the words caught in his throat and he just couldn't voice
them. Because she was right, and he knew it. He could
make all the promises he wanted, and it wouldn't change a
thing. The hunger was first in his life, had always been.
Would always be. Mere words couldn't alter that. And if it
wasn't enough for her that he tried not to express that, that
he worked to repress that terrible yearning while they were
together, tried to hide it . . . then there was nothing he could

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

do to fix things. Nothing at all.
"I'm sorry," he gasped. Sensing clearly the vast gulf that
had formed between them, not knowing how to reach
across it. Feeling lost, as though suddenly he were
surrounded by strangers. "I'm so sorry . . ."
"I just hope you find what you want," she murmured.
"Or make some kind of peace with yourself, at least. If
there was anything I could do to help . . . I would. You
know that."
"I know it," he whispered.
She came to where he stood, and kissed him gently. He
put his arms around her and held her tightly. As if
somehow that could make the problems go away. As if a
mere demonstration of affection could make everything
better. But they had passed that stage, long ago, while his
attention was elsewhere. While he devoted the core of his
attention to the fae, failing to see that all about him the
pieces of his life were slowly dissolving. Withering, like
houseplants that had been starved of water. While he failed
to see their need.
Numbly he watched as she put the thin gold ring down
on the kitchen table; it made a small puddle, mirror bright,
with the water that dripped from her fingers.

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"I'll keep the house," she said gently. "Take care of it,
until you come back. So you don't have to worry about
your things . . . while you're gone." She looked toward the
remaining dishes, then away from them. Away from him.
"I'm sorry, Zen." She whispered it, in a voice that echoed
with fresh tears. "So sorry . . ."
She ran from the room. He moved as though to follow
her - and then checked himself, with painful effort. What
was he going to say to her? Where was he going to find the
magic words to make it all better, so that somehow they
might pretend it had never happened? So that somehow he
could pretend that she wasn't right, that he hadn't failed
her, that when he came back from the rakhlands everything
would go back to normal?
He sat in the kitchen chair heavily. And fingered the thin
gold ring, with its delicately engraved sigils of love.
And he wept. 
Thirteen
"Holiness."
The Patriarch closed the heavy volume before him and
pushed it to one side. "Come in, Reverend Vryce." He
pointed to a cushioned chair set opposite the desk. "Have a
seat."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Damien tried to bring himself to sit, but couldn't. His
soul was wound too tight with tension; he felt that if he
tried to bend his body, to relax in any way, something
inside him would snap. "Holy Father. I . . . need to make a
request."
It could still go wrong here. It could all fall apart.
The Patriarch looked him over, from his rumpled hair
and sleepless eyes to the simple beige shirt and brown
woolen pants he had worn for the audience. And nodded,
slowly. "Go on."
"I need . . . that is, something has come up . . ." He
heard the tremor in his voice, took a deep breath, and tried
to steady himself. It's not just that you're afraid he'll
refuse you, remember that. It's the way the fae responds to
him. He started to speak again, but the Partiarch waved him
to silence.
"Sit down, Reverend Vryce." His voice was quiet but
dominant; authority flowed forth from him, thickening the
fae between them. "That's an order."
Damien forced himself to sit. He started to speak again,
but again the Patriarch shushed him. He passed a goblet
across the desk to him, scarlet glass with a darker liquid
within. Damien took it and drank: sweet red wine, freshly

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chilled. With effort, he forced himself to relax. Took
another drink. After a few minutes, the pounding of his
heart subsided to a somewhat more normal rythm.
"Now," the Patriarch said, when he had set the glass
aside. "Tell me."
He did. Not the presentation he had planned, with its
careful interweaving of truth and half-truth and insinuation,
designed to manipulate the Patriarch into making the
decision he required. Something in the Holy Father's
manner inspired him to do otherwise. Maybe it was the fae,
communicating between them on levels Damien could
hardly sense. Or maybe simply human instinct, which said
that the Holy Father was ready to hear - and deserved to be
told - the truth.
He told it all. The Holy Father interrupted once or twice,
to request that a point be clarified, but otherwise he offered
no response. His expression gave no hint of either
sympathy or hostility, or of any wariness on his part. Any
of the things that Damien might have expected.
"The end result," he concluded - and he took a deep
breath to steady himself - "is that I must request permission
to leave my duties here in order to go east. A leave of
absence, your Holiness. I believe that the situation merits
it."

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For a long time the Patriarch looked at him, clear blue
eyes taking the measure of his soul. Or so it seemed. At last
he said, "If I refuse you?"
Damien stiffened. "This isn't merely a personal concern.
If these demons are able to leave the rakhlands-"
"Answer the question, please."
He met those eyes - so hard, so cold - and answered in
the only way possible. Though it tore him apart inside to do
it. "I swore an oath, your Holiness. To give the Prophet's
dream precedence over my own life. To serve the patterns
which he declared were necessary . . . including the
hierarchy of my Church. If you're asking me if I
understand my duty, that's my answer. If you mean to use
this situation to test me . . ." He felt his hands tighten on the
chair's wooden arms, forced them to relax. Forced the
anger out of his voice. It is his right. In some ways, his
duty. "Please don't. I implore you. As a man, and as your
servant."
For a long time the Patriarch was silent. Damien met his
gaze for as long as he could, but at last turned away. He felt
helpless, not being able to Work the fae to his advantage.
Doubly helpless - because the Patriarch, just by existing,
did.
"Come," the Holy Father said at last. He stood. "I want

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to show you something."
He led Damien through the western wing in silence, the
whispering of his hem against the smooth mosaic floors the
only sound to accompany their footsteps down the long,
vaulted corridors. Soon they came to a heavily barred door,
whose steel lock was inscribed with passages from the
Book of Law. A thick tapestry ribbon depended from the
ceiling, and this the Patriarch pulled. They waited. Soon,
hurried footsteps could be heard coming from down the
hall, and the tinkling of metal upon metal. A priest
appeared, still shuffling through the key ring that depended
from a gold chain around his neck. He bowed his obeisance
to the Patriarch even as he managed to single out the key he
wanted. Damien turned toward his Holiness - and saw a
similar key cradled in his hand, its grip made of fine gold
filigree, fragments of bloodstone set in a spiral pattern.
Together, synchronized, they unlocked the heavy door.
The Patriarch nodded for Damien to pass through, then
took down a lamp that hung by the threshold and followed.
The door was then shut behind them and locked.
"This way," he said.
Down stairs. Into the depths of the building, into the
very foundation of the structure - into the earth itself - until
they were far enough beneath Erna's surface that the earth-
fae grew thin and feeble. Damien cautiously worked a
Seeing, could barely see it clinging to the rock that

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surrounded them. Curiously - or perhaps ominously - there
was no dark fae present. There should have been in such a
place, this far beneath the prayers that safeguarded Church
property. Was there some sort of Warding here? Or . . .
something else?
At last they came to another door, with a single keyhole.
A sigil was inscribed in the aged wood, and Damien
thought, A ward? Is that possible? The floor creaked as
they approached, and Damien heard machinery shift behind
the walls; an alarm system of some kind. He imagined a
thief being trapped in this place; it wasn't a pretty picture.
The Patriarch touched the engraved sign with reverence,
then carefully unlocked the door. Despite its weight, he
pulled it open without assistance - and power washed over
them like a tidal wave, tamed fae in such concentration that
it was impossible not to feel it, even without a Working;
impossible not to seeit, a light that glistened like molten
gold sprayed into the air, a fine mist of luminescence that
glittered like the stars of the outer Core, making the flame
of the Patriarch's lamp seem dull and dark by comparison.
"Relics of the Holy War," he said quietly. He set the
lamp on a table by the door and stepped aside, nodding for
Damien to enter. "Take a look. See, if you need to."
He did so. Carefully. Despite the relative lack of earth-
fae underground, his vision burst into full being the mo-
ment he Worked it. And suddenly he could barely see the

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objects that surrounded him, so bright was their power; the
intensity of it brought tears to his eyes. After a moment he
was forced to desist, and let the Working fade. The world
returned - very slowly - to normal.
"Light was, of course, their primary weapon. Their tool
of invasion. There are other things bound into each item
here . . . but always light. They thought they could conquer
the Forest with it." The Patriarch reached out to the wall
beside him, fingered the edge of a rotting tapestry.
"Sometimes, I think, that's what was responsible for our
defeat. When we play by the rules of the enemy, we inherit
his weaknesses."
"Go ahead," he urged. "Look around."
The chamber was large, its high, vaulted ceiling more
reminiscent of the cathedral that towered high above it than
the rough stone tunnels which led to its entrance. Niches
had been carved into the walls and sealed with glass; the
more delicate relics had been protected thus, safe from the
moisture that might otherwise damage them. Most of these
were mere fragments - a scrap of cloth, a few golden
threads, a bit of rusted metal - but power poured forth from
all of them equally, as if the fae that had been bound to
them in the days of their use was unaffected by their
material state. On the walls, warded shields bore mute
witness to the desperate fervor of those days, in which
priests served as sorcerers and soldiers simultaneously -
and eventually, as martyrs. For the Forest had triumphed.

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The creatures which humanity had given birth to in its
violent years had accumulated far more power than a single
army of sorcerer-priests could hope to conjure.
At the far end of the room, in a gilt-edged case, a crystal
flask filled with golden liquid glowed richly with internal
light. The Patriarch walked to it, gestured for Damien to
follow. "Solar fae," he explained. "Bound well enough to
survive even in this place, where no sun ever shines. No
single adept could have managed it; only the prayer of
thousands has that kind of power. Imagine a time when that
kind of unity was possible . . ." His voice trailed off into
silence, but Damien continued the thought: When our
dream was that close to completion. When consummation
of our Purpose was still within sight. Then the Patriarch
reached out and opened the case, and lifted the flask up
from its velveteen bed. "They bound it to water. Such a
simple substance . . . they reasoned that since all living
things consume water, and ultimately incorporate it into
their physical being, this would be the perfect tool of
invasion." He held it up so that the crystalline facets
[garbled text here] it back in a thousand scintillating
fragments. "In here is all the power of sunlight. All the
force of that heavenly warmth. Whatever it is in the solar
fae that weakens night's power, this fluid contains it. If a
thing runs from light, this will hurt it. If it can't bear the
heat of life, this will burn it. All this . . . bound to the most
common substance on Erna." He turned the flask slowly,
watched the light revolve around it. "They meant to seed
the Forest with it. They meant to give it to the ground and
let every living thing that took root there suck it up for

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nourishment. In time, it would have infected the entire
ecosystem. In time, it might have defeated even that great
Darkness."
When he fell silent, Damien asked, "So what
happened?"
The Patriarch bit his lip, considering the flask. And
shrugged, wearily. "Who knows? No one ever returned
from that expedition. In the battle that followed, our armies
were slaughtered. The tide of the War turned against us."
He looked at the priest, his eyes feline-green in the golden
light. "God alone knows what happened to the rest of it.
This is all that remains."
He turned the flask gently, and shards of light coursed
the room. Eyes still fixed on it, he said quietly, "Your
Order wasn't founded to provide nursemaids for fledgling
sorcerers, Reverend Vryce. It exists because violent times
sometimes require violent acts. And because a single man
can sometimes succeed where an army of men might fail."
He lowered the cover of the case and set the flask on top
of it. From the pocket of his robe he drew out a square of
cloth - white silk, thickly woven - and this he wrapped
about the precious bottle, until the light that came from it
was no longer visible.
He held it out to Damien. And waited. The priest

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hesitated. Finally the Patriarch took his hand and placed the
silkenpackage in it. Not until Damien had folded his
fingers securely over it did the Holy Father let go.
A faint hint of a smile crossed his face. "I thought you
might have some need of this, where you're going."
Then he looked about the room, at the tattered remnants
of his faith, and shook his head sadly.
"May you have better luck than its creators," he
whispered. 
Fourteen
It was a chill, bleak morning when the last of the bags
were finally packed and secured onto the horses. In the
distance, stormclouds threatened; Senzei glanced at them
uneasily and muttered the key to a Knowing, making sure
that nothing had changed since his Divining that morning.
But no, it still appeared that the worst of the storm would
pass them by. And the rest of it - they had all agreed - was
not worth delaying for.
"We should make Briand well before sunset," Damien
said. "As for whether we choose to put up there, or push on
after nightfall . . ." He looked up at Ciani for a response.
But although she was feeling somewhat better - almost in
high spirits, compared to her previous state - she wasn't

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about to bear the weight of such a decision.
And rightfully so, he reminded himself. She's forgotten
the very things that make such decisions important. Like
what kind of creatures are out there, in the night.
We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.
Her appearance had changed. They had changed it. Not
with the fae, but by simple cosmetic art. Looking at her
now, Damien was pleased by their efforts. They had
bleached her hair to a golden blonde and added an olive tint
to her skin. Between the features which she had redrawn
and the deep hollows that her suffering had added to her
face, she looked as unlike her former self as was reasonably
possible. Bulkier clothing and heeled boots had altered her
size and stance as well, and Damien was reasonably sure
that no one - not even her tormentors - would recognize her
now. But just in case, he had added an Obscuring. To cover
all bases.
The Canopy will probably cancel it out. But until then,
every little bit helps.
Senzei was reading off the last few items on their
checklist, crossing each off as he verified that it had indeed
been packed. Anything of vital importance was with one of
the three travelers; additional items - and duplicates - were
secured to one of the three extra horses the small group was

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

taking with them. The checklist was four pages long, in
small print; Damien wondered what they had managed to
forget, despite it. Senzei had accused him of packing
everything but the kitchen sink. (Did we forget that? he'd
asked), but Damien had learned from experience that it was
better to pack too much than too little for a journey such as
this. There'd be time enough later to strip down their
outfits, and they could always sell off the extra horses and
supplies if they needed to. He had been on too many
journeys in which a missing item or a disabled horse had
ground the whole expedition to a halt. When they needed to
travel light, they would; until then, they were prepared for
anything.
At last Senzei looked up. His eyes met Damien's, and
the priest thought he saw a flicker of pain in them. He'd
been unusually quiet ever since they started packing - quiet
and morose. Was it trouble with Allesha, perhaps? Damien
didn't know the man well enough to draw him out on it,
much less to help him cope, but he knew from experience
just how hard it was to establish a relationship that could
weather such a departure. He'd never quite gotten the hang
of it himself.
"That's it," Senzei told him. "It's all here. We're ready."
Damien looked out into the early morning light - gray
mists gathering to the north, stormclouds heavy and black
in the east, western horizon still veiled in night's darkness -
and muttered, "All right. Let's get moving." The sooner we

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get where we're going, the sooner those bastards die.
In the foothills of the Worldsend Mountains, a figure
stood very still. She had been still like that for hours since
the call had first come to her. Since her sleep had first been
disturbed by human sorcery, in a manner unprecedented
among her kind.
For hours now, she had studied the currents. She had
watched as the ripples birthed by that alien call had dashed
themselves against the stolid earth-fae of the mountains.
Had watched while that alien message was absorbed into
the fae-tides of early morning, to course outward again in
delicately altered patterns. From such patterns, she could
read much of the sorcerer who had sent that call, and why
he did so. She could also read what other patterns were
moving to converge with his, and how her own presence
might alter that balance. The situation was complicated.
The danger was real. And as for traveling with humans . . .
she shuddered.
After several hours, she decided that she was more
intrigued than wary. A very strange feeling.
She chose a path that would intersect with theirs, and
began to hike along it.
NIGHT'S KEEP

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Fifteen
Oh, the joy of flying! Swimming through the air with
long, sweeping motions - pulling himself through clouds,
overtaking birds, thrilling to the sure caress of the wind
upon his body. And underneath him, glimpsed through an
occasional break in the cloud cover: Briand. Home. Only
now it seemed different - a fairy place, made up of light and
music and fine brush strokes of color. So delicately
constructed that it seemed to him a strong rain might wash
it all away. Houses dissolving into gray and ocher streams,
trees bleeding green and amber into the muddy streets -
even people dissolving into so much color, like a
watercolor painting put under the faucet. His mother and
father liquefying into streams of pink and brown and green,
spiraling into the flood and down, down, down into the
secret storm drain beneath the city that lay waiting for it
all, ready to swallow up all those beautiful tones . . . he
could see Briand's colors running down into the river now,
to meet with the dilute hues of Kale and Seth, the harsh,
bright tones of Jaggonath, the cold ash-gray tones of the
distant mountains. All swirling together, mixed by the
river's harsh current. What a glorious vision! And he with
no concern but the moment's pleasure, mated to the wind,
flying high above the chromatic floodwaters, into-
Into-
Darkness. Ahead of him. A point of blackness, searing in
its intensity. A tiny fragment of no-light in this universe of
color, a blotch on the fairy landscape. He shuddered and

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banked to the right, looking away. The blackness hurt his
eyes, burned them like a sun might. Better not to look at it.
Better to focus on the colors of the sky, the myriad hues of
life. Better to-
It was back. In front of him.
Startled, he lost his rhythm. For a moment the winds had
hold of him, and they were suddenly no longer the friendly
breezes he had been riding, but the harsh staccato blasts of
a storm front. He floundered. Ahead of him was that bit of
burning blackness, no longer a mere speck amidst silver-
gray clouds, but a full-fledged hole in the rapidly darkening
sky. And inside it - or beyond it - lay something in waiting,
whose thoughts were so loud that they screamed like
thunder in his ears. He tried to fly away, but the winds had
turned against him. Tried to slow his flight, but the
blackness was like a vacuum, and it sucked him ever closer.
At last, having exhausted all other means of escape, he
tried to focus on the world he had left behind - that other
world, the colorless one, the one that made him want to kill
himself from boredom -  because if he could remember it,
he knew he would return to it. But the chemicals coursing
in his bloodstream were too strong for that. He couldn't go
back. He was flying - had always flown - knew no reality,
other than flying. And the blackness, which spread itself
hungrily before him.
Terrified, he fought to escape it.

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It was larger, now. It took up half the sky, blotting out
the sun like a giant storm cloud. He clawed at the air
desperately, trying to pull himself away. But when he
turned, it turned. When he reversed his direction, it
appeared before him. Hungry. Implacable. Devouring all
the color in the sky, the very air that supported him. He fell
into a pocket of hurricanic turbulence, felt the stormwinds
battering him closer and closer to his nemesis. That great
maw of darkness which had almost devoured the sky, which
would certainly devour the land, which so palpably
hungered to devour him . . .
And as he touched it, as he knew it for what it was, he
screamed. Consumed by terror, desperate to be heard.
Forgetting, in his final moments, that the same narcotic
which had given him flight had also disconnected his
consciousness from his flesh, thus making a real scream
impossible. He screamed, and screamed . . . and was silent.
His body lay unmoving atop a patchwork quilt, a thick fold
of calico clutched between his frozen fingers. No one came
to help him.
Who can hear the death screams of a disembodied soul?
The city called Briand was solidly fortified, as befit a
travelers' sanctuary that served the main trade route
between Jaggonath and the northern portlands. A double
stockade of roughly hewn posts hid most of the complex
from view, but over its jagged top Damien could make out
the roof of at least one sizable hostelry, steeply angled in

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the manner of northern houses. Even that limited view
made it clear what manner of place Briand was. The roof
was overthatched with hellos thorns - said to repel the
undead - and the two dormer windows which were visible
were barred with iron, worked in a protective motif.
As if mere walls could keep out a true demon, he thought
grimly. As if bars made a difference to blood-wraiths.
"We stop?" Senzei asked.
Damien looked at Ciani - at Fray,he corrected himself -
and tried to assess her condition. It was difficult to see past
the various elements of her disguise, to judge just how tired
she was. Hard to see Ciani herself, between the makeup
that had altered her countenance and the fog of despair that
enshrouded her soul.
She could go on, he decided at last. They all could go
on. And there was something to be said for pushing toward
their goal as quickly as possible, especially with winter
coming on. But the thought of possibly being stuck outside
when night fell was not a pleasant one. Damien alone could
have handled it - God knows, he had camped out often
enough - and Senzei, perhaps, could have coped. But not
Ciani. Not now. Not when night was so very threatening to
her. They had to safeguard her soul as well as her body, and
the former was so terribly fragile . . .

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"We stop," he said firmly, and he thought he saw relief
in her eyes.
There was a guard at the main gate, polite but efficient;
after a brief interrogation they were permitted to pass
within the protective walls. Damien noticed sigils burned
into the wood, ward-signs etched into the heavy posts.
Most of them were useless, he suspected. For every faeborn
consultant that sold legitimate Workings, there would be at
least a dozen con artists imitating the trade. And knowing
that, to be sure, a dae such as Briand must buy twelve times
as much protection.
He reflected upon the cost of that and muttered,
"There's good money in sorcery here."
Senzei managed a halfhearted grin, and nodded toward
the building ahead of them. "Don't you think she knew
that?"
Following Senzei's gaze into the compound, he saw one
of Ciani's wards guarding the hostelry entrance. Finely
worked, beautiful even in its quiescence, it occupied a
place of honor high over the arched lintel. They must have
paid a pretty penny for it, he reflected; Ciani's work didn't
come cheap.
Then he saw her face - the total lack of recognition, as
she gazed upon her own handiwork as if it were that of a

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stranger - and something tightened inside him. As if for the
very first time he finally understood just what had been
done to her.
They'll die for this, Cee. I promise you. The bastards
will die.
As with all such sanctuaries, the dae was a sprawling
conglomerate of disparate buildings, linked together by
warded walkways, and - in the case of several two-story
buildings - sturdily enclosed bridges. Once inside the dae,
one need not leave it for any reason. Like most such
sanctuaries, Briand would have space to house a trade
caravan when necessary, as well as sufficient food to feed
its people and all the supporting services - practical,
aesthetic, and hedonistic - that they might require. Private
domiciles no doubt clustered about its back walls like
satellites, each linked to the whole by a private walkway.
But for all its space and supplies, Briand would be a sterile
place. All daes were, regardless of location. There was
profit enough to be made off a traveler's need that men
might come here to garner it, but no other reason was
sufficient to draw people to such a place - and even the dae-
keepers often left, once their fortune was secure. Briand
was no more than a stopover point - even for those who had
made it their permanent home. The portal warded by
Ciani's Working was clearly the main guest entrance.
Damien and Ciani unpacked the horses while Senzei went
off in search of a groom. After some moments he
reappeared, a pair of lanky boys in tow. Teenagers, both of

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them, with the nervous, uptight gestures of boys whose
pubescent energies had not yet found safe outlet. They need
a good night out on the town, Damien thought. Then, upon
reflection, added, They need a good town.
It was dark inside the hostelry, despite the light of day
that still burned outside; a crackling fire in the center of the
large common room seemed to be the only source of light.
Lanterns hung unlit on posts set about the outer walls,
waiting for some hand to kindle them. No doubt when more
travelers began to arrive - when the sun was nearer to
setting, and the dangers of the night that much nearer to
rising - the place would be well lit for their comfort. Now,
empty of patrons, unattended, it had somewhat the aspect
of a tomb. "No windows," Damien muttered. "What did
you expect?" "I saw some upstairs."
"Farther from the earth," Senzei told him. "Fae is
weaker there. It still means a risk . . . but if some rich guest
demands a view . . ." He shrugged.
Damien looked about at the thick timber walls, the
heavily plastered ceiling, and shook his head. "Do they
really think this will stop a demon?"
"If the guests believe it," Senzei countered, "doesn't that
give it some power?" "Enough to matter?"
He had no time to answer. A woman had entered the

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room, with a thick black ledger book in one hand and a
coarse pencil in the other. Middle-aged, with hair that was
gray about the temples and forehead, drawn tightly back
into a bun. She seemed distressed but managed a
businesslike nod to serve as welcome. Crossing the room
quickly, she spared a quick sideways glance to assess the
state of the fire. And nodded, satisfied.
"Name's Kanadee," she said brusquely. Offering no
gesture of physical contact, merely a brief nod of welcome.
She reached up to brush back a stray lock of hair from out
of her eyes, then opened up the book and took their names.
Senzei Reese,Damien told her. Fray Vanning. Reverend
Damien Vryce.She looked up at that entry, and her eyes
searched his face for . . . what? It happened too quickly for
Damien to read her expression; by the time he noticed it,
she was all business once again. "You'll be wanting rooms
for the night," she said. Now that Damien was listening for
it, he could hear a faint tremor echoing her speech. Her
cheek glistened moistly in the firelight - from recent tears?
"Please," Damien said. "Adjoining, if that's possible."
She studied the others for a moment, assessing them
quickly. Ciani was clearly acceptable; Senzei received a
brief frown, then a nod. "Forty a night, per head. That
includes dinner. Bell's at six-and-half, serving's at seven.
Other food anytime you like, but it's extra. Call into the
kitchen, if there's no one out here." She nodded toward a
heavy door at the far end of the common room. "Only three

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of you?" Damien nodded. "Good. Lucky number. Tam'll
take your things up, get you settled." She pulled a bell out
of her apron pocket; a tangle of cords and keys fell to the
floor. "Any questions, you ask for me. See?" She rang the
bell sharply, then stopped to recover her possessions.
Amulets with sigil signs, keys with horoscopic symbols
etched into them, a plain but finely worked image of the
Earth...she had it all back in her pocket by the time a
spindly young boy appeared, and she gestured him toward
their packs. "Take ‘em up to the east suite," she ordered.
"Settle them in, and show ‘em the place."
He began to gather their bags, groaning as the weight of
Senzei's books joined all the rest on his shoulder. But
despite his obvious discomfort, he would let none of the
travelers carry their own. "He's a good boy," she told them.
Again, there was an echo of sorrow behind her words - so
fleeting that Damien nearly missed it, but so poignant that
it seemed to dim the light about them. Had she lost a child
recently? Or, closer yet (he struggled to define what he had
sensed, to put a name to it), was she contemplating losing
one? "You tell him what you need, he'll get it for you.
See?"
Sometimes, hungering for a symbol, followers of the
One God would carry an earth-disk. Sometimes the need
for a material symbol of their faith was simply too great,
and their understanding of the Church's goals too limited . .
. and that was the most acceptable option. The Church had
learned to tolerate it.

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He muttered a Knowing - and his breath caught in his
throat as the nature of her suffering became thickly visible
about her. As he read its cause.
For a moment he hesitated. His first duty lay with his
friends . . . except that they wouldn't really need him until
dawn, when it was time to move again. Ciani's wards alone
should be enough to protect them in this well-guarded
place, and it was possible that one or two of the other
charms that had been nailed to the wall might actually
Work. While he . . . he hungered to be active. To be
needed. To do something.
"Go on up," he said to his companions. "I'll be there
shortly."
Her business done, Mes Kanadee began to withdraw,
back the way she had come. But when she saw that he was
following, she stopped and confronted him. "I told you,
Tam'll take care of you. There's work I have to see to-"
"I'm a priest," he said softly. "And a Healer. Will you
let me help you?"
She seemed about to say something sharp - and then the
defense crumbled, and exhaustion took over. Despair. She
protested weakly, "What can you do? If prayers alone
would suffice . . ."

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"We use more than prayers, sometimes."
Startled, she looked up at him. Deep into his eyes. No
assessment there this time, only wonder. And not a little
fear. He could see the struggle raging within her - her
hunger for hope in any form, versus a daeborn distrust of
strangers. Her fingers tightened on the ledger book, as if
feeling his title through the thick leather cover. Reverend.
Her church. The title seemed to calm her. Surely a priest
could be trusted.
At last she lowered her eyes, and he saw her tremble.
"God willing you can," she whispered. "God willing
anyone can." She opened the heavy door, and motioned for
him to follow. "Come. I'll show you."
The boy lay still on a rumpled bed, fingers clutching the
quilt beneath him. His skin was pale, but that was typical of
dae-folk. His complexion betrayed his adolescence, while
his mussed and untrimmed hair - and less than aesthetic
clothing - hinted at a vague air of defiance. Personal
artifacts littered the room, making it hard to walk to the bed
without knocking into something. Sigils pinned to the wall
ranged from the fae-signatures of popular songwriters to
symbols with more arcane overtones, and a few that
seemed touched with genuine power. Dark power, Damien
noted, and tainted with the chaos so typical of adolescence.
But power nonetheless. The boy was trying to Work.

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She saw him gazing at the walls and blushed. "He had . .
. interests. I didn't know whether to try to stop it, or how . .
." But now it's too late, she seemed to imply. And if he
courted some Power that he shouldn't have, and hurt
himself in the process, am I not to blame for failing to
prevent it?
"Let me take a look at him," Damien said quietly.
He sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jar the boy
as he did so. The youth's breathing was regular, and his
color - despite the daeborn pallor - was good. He took the
boy's nearer hand in his own and tried to dislodge it from
the quilt it clutched. The fingers were stiff, but they did
open; that ruled out most legal drugs as the source of the
problem.
"How long?" he asked.
"Day and a half now." Her hands twined nervously in
her apron, knuckles white. "We found him in the morning,
just like this. We've . . . tried to feed him. He won't take
anything. Even liquids. I had a doctor in. He sent for a
specialist. Should arrive by tomorrow. To set up an IV, so
we don't lose him . . . but they don't know what to do about
the coma, Father. They don't even know what caused it. I
had a Healer, too - he was a pagan, Father, but what else
was there to do? There was no one available from the
Church, and I was desperate." Her tone was begging for

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forgiveness.
"Did he find anything?"
"He couldn't say. Or wouldn't say. I shouldn't have
asked him," she said miserably.
He asked it as gently as he could, but it had to be asked.
"Any prolonged drug use that you know of?"
She hesitated. He sensed her gaze flitting across the
walls, from sigil to sigil. "No," she said at last. "He tried
some things, once or twice. Out of curiosity. Don't they
all?"
"Which ones?" he pressed. "Do you know?"
She looked away, and bit her lower lip in concentration.
"Blackout, I think. Maybe cerebus, once. Maybe slowtime.
We said it was all right - at least to try them, just once -
provided he purchased them in Jaggonath. On the open
market. Was that wrong?" Her tone was a plea - for
forgiveness, understanding, absolution. "We didn't think
we could stop him."
"If that's what he took, it's not what's got him now." He
lifted the limp hand a few inches above the blanket, and
gently let it fall. "Jaggonath's drugs are strictly regulated; if
he kept to that market, it's unlikely he met with any

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surprises. And his limbs are pliant," he pointed out. "If he
was currently in a drugged state, that wouldn't be true.
There's a paralytic in all Jaggonath legals." He looked up at
her. "The doctor couldn't tell you anything at all?"
"He didn't know. They're going to take him to a hospi-
tal in the city, with better facilities. But travel time . . ." She
looked around, and shook her head helplessly. "All these
fae-things. Could it be that I mean, could he have called up
something . . ." That fed on him, her tone said desperately.
That took his mind away from us.
"I'll take a look," Damien said gently.
Such a Working came easily to him; it was what the
Church had trained him to do. Fae gathered in response to
his will - slightly tainted by the presence of adolescent
instability, but his will was enough to give it order - and
linked him to the boy in a personal Knowing. Allowing him
to peer deep into the youth's soul and, hopefully, read the
cause of this unconsciousness.
But to his surprise, he met resistance: a wall of fae,
tightly woven, that forced him to keep his distance.
Unusual. He probed at it, trying to find its weak spot.
Trying to channel through. But the barrier was remarkably
balanced in structure - remarkably unlike the boy himself,
or anything such a youth might have conjured. Resilient, it
gave just enough to diffuse his aggressive energies; he
couldn't seem to pierce it, no matter hard he tried.

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He added prayer to his efforts. Unlike most pagan faiths,
his Church didn't believe in a God who made personal
appearances on demand; nevertheless, prayer was a
powerful focus for any Working. Strangely - and
inexplicably - the resistance seemed to grow even stronger
as he did so. As if something in his prayer had added its
strength to that seemingly impenetrable barrier.
That's impossible, he thought darkly.Patently
impossible. Even if a priest had Worked the damned thing
in the first place . . . I'd be able to read that. Or some kind
of personal signature, at least.
Who would do such a thing? What purpose would it
serve?
Frustrated, he turned his attention to the boy's corporeal
shell. But every aspect of the body was just as it should be,
save for its comatose state. He spent a long time studying
the boy's flesh, on every level possible, and at last had to
concede defeat. There was no apparent biological damage.
And as for the boy's soul . . . that was unreachable. Unless
he could come up with some new plan of attack. Hit it from
a different angle.
Ciani could have handled this. Ciani could have
dispelled such a barrier in half the time it took me just to
recognize it. Damn those creatures, and their hellhound
hunger! Even without the fae she could have told us who

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might have set up such a thing. Because it isn't the boy
who's behind this. It can't be the boy. But then who? Or
what? And, most important: Why?
"Is it your son?" he asked gently.
"My firstborn," she whispered. "I . . ." She blinked back
tears. Couldn't speak for a moment. Then: "Can you help
him, Father? Is there any hope at all?"
He let the last of his Knowing fade; his head was
pounding from the strain of his efforts, and from the
unaccustomed taste of failure. He managed to keep his
voice steady as he told the woman, "There's nothing my
skills can do. That doesn't mean the doctors won't be able
to help." He could hear the exhaustion in his voice, but
managed somehow to keep it sounding strong. She needed
his strength. "I'm sorry, my child. I wish it could be
otherwise." She wept in his arms for a long, long time.
Sitting in the darkest corner of the common room, the
three travelers went unnoticed. Nearly two dozen guests
had taken shelter in the dae's protective confines before the
gates were shut at sunset, but for the most part they were a
travel-weary, introverted lot, who offered no threat to the
small company's privacy. One particularly large group of
men had been drinking since dusk, and occasionally a voice
would rise from among them to dominate all others in the
common room, underscoring some vital point in their
debate - but in general they were a tight, self-contained

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social unit, who might acknowledge a comely waitress or
two but who otherwise had no interest in the people
surrounding them. The other guests had collected in
couples and trios and were far more interested in the central
fire and its warmth than in the three travelers who had
chosen to isolate themselves in the shadows of a far corner.
"It didn't go well?" Senzei asked quietly.
"It didn't go at all." Damien took a deep drink from the
tankard before him. Briand ale; not the best, but any
alcohol was welcome. "There was some sort of barrier . . .
I've never Seen anything like it before. Couldn't get
through it, no matter what I did." He took another drink and
sighed. "It seemed deliberate; a Worked obstruction. That
was the oddest thing. I mean, who would have set it up?
And why? The boy didn't have that kind of skill, I'm sure
of it. But who would? And why?" He took another deep
drink of the ale, winced at the bitterness. "If we assume that
his problem wasn't just a medical one - that something
faeborn hurt the boy - the question is, what sort of demon
would do that and then bother to cover its tracks? And do it
so vulking well!"
"Careful," Senzei warned - meaning his volume, his
anger, his profanity. "You did what you could. That's all
any of us can do."
"If only-" But he stopped himself. Just in time. If only
Ciani's skills were whole, he wanted to say. She could have

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read that boy like a book. She could have fixed him up in
half the time it took me to confirm the problem. He ached
for her loss - and for their loss, having to travel without her
skills to protect them. God heaven, everything would be so
much easier if she we whole . . . but then again, if she were
whole, they would still be in Jaggonath. They could make
love in her Jew Street apartment with no more thought for
the future than a passing concern over whether they had
enough food for breakfast in the morning.
I think I was falling in love with you. In a way that I
haven't experienced before. Why couldn't we have had just
a little more time to see where it was headed before this
happened?
He started to turn to Senzei - to ask him for advice on
the boy's condition - when a noise from the far end of the
room caught his attention. He turned toward the door - and
stiffened as he saw it opening. As he heard the creaking of
its thick metal hinges and the jangling of its disengaged
lock.
"Don't the daes-" he whispered.
"Yes." Senzei nodded sharply. "The doors are locked
after sunset. An exception would be . . . unusual."
One of the night guards had squeezed inside, and he
traded hurried words with the dae's keeper. Mes Kanadee

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hesitated, then nodded; the door swung fully open.
Darkness poured in - and with it a man whose movement
was so fluid, so graceful, that it was hard to believe he
couldn't have simply flowed in through cracks in the door,
had he wanted to.
All heads in the place were turned toward him, all eyes
assessing this man for whom the rules of the dae had been
broken. But the Keeper stared back at them as if daring her
guests to protest. One by one they turned away and went
back to their former conversations. Just a man,her gaze
seemed to say. What business is it of yours, anyway?
Damien whispered the key to an Obscuring under his
breath, so that her eyes passed over his table as though it
were empty; he had no intention of confronting her, nor did
he intend to relinquish his right to study the stranger in
secret.
The newcomer was a tall man, slender, who carried
himself with easy elegance. Handsome, refined - attractive
to women, Damien decided - he moved with a grace that
seemed to come naturally to him. His clothes were simple
but well made, unadorned but clearly expensive. A calf-
length tunic of fine silk brushed the top of glove-soft boots,
accentuating his height and rippling with his every
movement. Midnight blue, the color of evening, His hair
was soft and simply dressed, not in the complex cut and
curls of modern fashion but caught back in a simple clip at
the nape of his neck. Save for that one piece, there was no
gold visible on him, nor jewelry of any kind. Or any other

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thing of obvious value, other than a slender sword with a
heavily embroidered sheath that swung at his side . . . and
the pistol tucked into his belt. Damien worked a minor
Knowing - and hissed in surprise. In disbelief.
"UnWorked," he whispered.
Senzei nodded. "I know."
That means . . .
They looked at each other.
"I'll check," Senzei muttered, and as soon as he was
sure that the stranger wouldn't see him, he slipped away to
go to their rooms. Damien turned back - and saw Ciani's
eyes on him. Curious. Suffering. Anxious to know.
He tried to explain to her. About firearms, and how
dangerous they were. About technology in general, and the
power of human fear, and how sometimes when there was a
physical process that a man couldn't watch happen -
because it was too small, or happened too fast, or was
simply out of his sight - his fears could foul it up, and cause
it to backfire. So that such a gun might well blow up in its
owner's hand at the moment he most needed it to function.
Which meant that no man would carry such a thing, unless
he'd had it Worked for safety. Or unless he was a total fool,
who thrived on senseless risk. Or unless . . .

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Unless he was an adept.
He stiffened at the thought. Eager and wary, in equal
measure. He had a nose for suspicious coincidence, and this
man's arrival stank of it.
The odds against one of that kind just happening to walk
in here are . . . incredible. So either he isn't what he seems
to be, or there's some reason he showed up tonight. And I
can't think of one that I'd like to hear.
Senzei slid back into his seat, a small black notebook
clutched in one hand. "Nothing," he whispered. "None of
the descriptions match. If he's an adept, he isn't from this
region. Or else we just didn't know about him . . ."
"Unlikely," Damien muttered. That kind of skill was
hard to hide, especially in the childhood years. And news of
adeptitude traveled fast. If the man wasn't described in
Ciani's notes, he wasn't from this area.
Carefully, Damien worked a Knowing. Verycarefully.
The stranger might take it in his stride that other Workers
would wish to identify him . . . or he might consider it an
invasion of his privacy and exact revenge. Adepts were a
touchy lot.
He relaxed the Obscuring that protected the three of

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them, just enough to Work through it. Then he reached out,
ever so delicately, meaning to brush the stranger with a
Knowing. Even if the man felt so delicate a touch, he might
consider it no more than it was - a polite inquiry - and let it
pass unnoticed.
Breathing deeply in concentration, Damien felt the
Working build, spanning the room between them. It gave
order to the fae along its path, like a magnet would
organize iron filings. Soon a single shining filament of
purpose stretched from Damien's table to the one where the
stranger now sat - fine as spider's silk, luminous as crystal -
allowing him to extend his senses into the stranger's
personal space and touch the man's essence with his own.
And he encountered a surface like polished glass.
Smooth - reflective - impenetrable. His Knowing brushed
up against it; there was a brief moment when it seemed he
was touching not glass, but ice; and then it was gone, all
contact between them broken. His Working had simply
vanished - the thread was dissolved, into thin air - as
though it had never been. As though he had never even
tried.
A Shielding, he thought. He was awed by its execution.
An adept's work, without question. And even by that
standard, magnificently done. There was no doubting the
man's power - or his skill in applying it.
Slowly, calmly, in response to Damien's fleeting touch,

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the stranger turned toward him. Across the length of the
common room their eyes met. The man's clear, steady gaze
was more informative than any Working could have been -
and much more discerning. Damien felt his own space
invaded, the chill touch of a strange mind sorting out who
and what he was - and then as quickly it was gone, and the
space between them was impenetrable once more.
A faint smile crossed the stranger's face. Then, clearly
satisfied with whatever information he had garnered, he
turned away again. A stemmed goblet had been placed
before him and he sipped from it, delicately, while he
watched the fire dance in its stone enclosure. Utterly calm,
he seemed unconcerned with Damien's presence, or with
the Working that had so briefly disturbed his peace. Or
with anyone else in the room, for that matter.
"Damned sure of himself," Senzei muttered.
Damien noticed the edge in the man's voice, felt it echo
in his own thoughts. How much of our reaction is jealousy?
he wondered. How can a man experience that kind of
power and not want to control it?
And especially Senzei, he reminded himself. Ciani had
told him that. The man hungered for Sight like a starving
man hungered for food; what did it mean to him, to see that
kind of power displayed so openly?

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"You think he's an adept," Ciani breathed.
Damien looked at her. Measured his words. "It's
possible," he said at last.
She leaned forward slightly; her eyes were gleaming.
"You think he could help us?"
For some reason, he was chilled by the mere thought.
"That would be very dangerous. We know nothing about
him.Nothing. Even if he would be willing to join us, can
we afford to take on a total unknown?" Who arrived at just
the right moment, he added silently. Too right. I don't trust
it. 
He suddenly looked back at the man, and wondered how
much of his response was rational, and how much of it was
the result of growing tension over other matters. Like
having to sit here in this overfortified inn while the
creatures they sought after were probably getting farther
and farther away with each passing minute. Like his
problems with the boy, the unaccustomed taste of a failure.
With an adept's power to back him . . .
No. Unthinkable. The risk simply wasn't worth it.
"To involve a stranger in our personal business -
knowing absolutely nothing of his power or his purpose -
that would be incredibly dangerous. How could we risk it?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"The problem is our ignorance?"
He looked at her sharply; there was a note in her voice
he couldn't quite read. "That's a good part of it, yes."
She hesitated only an instant, then pushed her chair back
and stood.
"What are you doing?" he hissed.
"Knowing," she said tightly. "In the old Earth sense."
And she smiled, albeit nervously, for the first time since
leaving Jaggonath. "Someone has to do it, don't you
think?"
And she was gone. Before Damien could protest. Before
Senzei, reaching out, could stop her. The two men watched,
aghast, as she wended her way across the dimly lit room.
As she waited for the stranger's attention to fix on her, and
then began to speak to him. After a few seemingly pleasant
words, he offered her a seat at his table. She took it.
"Damn her," Damien muttered.
"And women in general," Senzei growled.
"That, too."

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The stranger called a waitress over. It was the same girl
who had served Damien and Senzei, but now her blouse
was tucked down tightly into her belt, outlining breasts that
she was clearly proud to display to him. Whatever charisma
the stranger possessed, it seemed to work tenfold on
women. For some reason, that was more irritating than all
the rest combined.
"You think she's safe?" Damien whispered.
Senzei considered. And nodded, slowly. "I think maybe
she's in her element."
He looked at Senzei, surprised.
"Watch her," the sorcerer whispered. There was a kind
of love in his voice that Damien had never heard him
express before. For the first time he sensed the true depth of
their friendship - and he reflected sadly upon the fact that
he had never heard such a note in Senzei's voice when he
spoke of his fiancee.
She must have realized that. And it must have hurt like
hell.
Ciani was indeed in her element - tense, wary, but more
alive than she had been in days. And why not? Whatever it
was that had caused her to devote her life to the acquisition

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of knowledge, that instinct was still intact and thriving.
They had taken the facts from her mind, but they couldn't
change what she was.
Seeing that the stranger was responding well to her
advances - and that she herself was slowly becoming more
comfortable with him - Damien relaxed. Or rather, tried to.
But there was another kind of tension within him, and that
was growing. Not concern for her, exactly. Rather, more
like . . .
Jealousy. Simple-minded, ego-centered, masculine
jealousy. Well, grow up, Damien. You don't own her. And
just because he has a pretty face and some new stories to
tell doesn't mean that he does, either.
"They're coming," Senzei whispered.
He must have been watching them on other levels,
because it was several minutes before Ciani and the
stranger actually got up. He first, rising effortlessly, then
stepping behind her chair to help pull it out for her. The
custom of another time, another culture. When she turned
in their direction, she no longer seemed afraid; her eyes
were sparkling with newfound animation. Not for the man,
Damien reminded himself. For the mystery that he
represents.
As if that made it any easier.

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If the stranger bore them any ill will for their previous
invasion of his privacy, he didn't show it. He bowed
politely as Ciani introduced them but offered no hand for
them to clasp. The social patterns of a bygone age - or a
paranoid adept. Damien suspected the latter.
"This is Gerald Tarrant," Ciani announced. "Originally
from Aramanth, more recently from Sheva." Damien
couldn't identify the place name exactly, but like all cities
near the Forbidden Forest it had been named for an Earth-
god of death or destruction. He was from the north, then.
That was ominous. Generally anyone with the Sight steered
clear of that region - for good reason. The Forest had a
history of corrupting anyone who could respond to it.
"Please join us," Senzei said, and Damien nodded.
The newcomer pulled up chairs for the two of them,
helped Ciani into hers before sitting down himself. "I was
hardly expecting company," he said pleasantly. "Arriving
at such an hour, one often receives a less than enthusiastic
welcome."
"What brings you to Briand?" Damien asked shortly.
The pale eyes sparkled - and for a moment, just a mo-
ment, they seemed to be reaching into Damien's soul,
weighing it. "Sport," he said at last. With a half-smile that

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said he knew just how uninformative that was. "Call it
pursuit of a hobby." He offered no more on that subject,
and his manner didn't invite continued questioning.
"Yourselves?"
"Business. In Kale. Family shipping, for Fray - and for
us, a chance to get away from town. An excuse to travel."
The stranger nodded; Damien had the disquieting feeling
that he knew just how much wasn't being said. "It's
dangerous traveling at night," he challenged the man.
"Especially in this region."
The stranger nodded. "Would that all our pursuits could
be completed in neat little packets of time during the day,
and we need never stir between dusk and dawn." He sipped
from the goblet in his hand. "But if that were the case,
Ernan history would be quite a different thing than it is,
don't you think?"
"You're lucky they let you in."
"Yes," he agreed. "That was fortunate."
And so on. Damien designed questions that should give
him insight into some facet of the man's existence - and he
parried them all, without missing a beat. He seemed to
enjoy fencing words with them, and would sometimes cast
out tidbits of knowledge to draw them in - only to turn

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them aside with a quick response or a well-planned
ambiguity, so that they came away knowing no more of the
man than exactly what he meant them to know. Which was
next to nothing.
Damien wondered if he had played the same game with
Ciani. Was it possible to play that kind of game with Ciani?
At last the newcomer leaned back in his chair, as if
signaling the end of that phase of their relationship. He set
the goblet down before him; red liquid glinted within,
reflecting the lamplight.
"The lady tells me you're working on a Healing."
Startled, he looked at Ciani - but her eyes were fixed on
the stranger. He weighed his alternatives quickly and
decided at last that there was no better way to test the man
than to tell him the truth.
"The Keeper's son," he said quietly. Watching the man
for any kind of reaction. "He's comatose. I tried to help."
He bowed his head gracefully. "I'm sorry." Which
might have meant anything. Sorry for the illness. Sorry
about your desire to help. Sorry about your failure. "May I
be of service?"
"You Heal?" Damien said suspiciously.

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The stranger smiled, as if at some private joke. "Not for
some time. My own specialty is in analysis. Perhaps that
might be of use to you?"
"It might," he said guardedly. He looked across the
room, couldn't locate the boy's mother. She must have
gone back to his bedside. When a waitress looked in his
direction he waved her over, and asked her to please locate
the dae-keeper for them. He had news that might interest
her.
"She's wary of strangers," he warned. "She trusted me
because of my calling. My Church. Whether she'll want
you near the boy is another thing."
"Ah." The stranger considered that for a moment. Then
he reached into the neck of his tunic and drew out a thin
disk on a chain. Fine workmanship, a delicate etching on
pure gold: the Earth.
And he smiled; the expression was almost pleasant. "Let
us see if I can't convince her to accept my services. Shall
we?"
The boy's room seemed even more quiet after the rela-
tive noisiness of the common room. Oppressively so.
Damien found it claustrophobic, in a way it hadn't been
before. Or was that his territorial instinct, responding to a

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newcomer's intrusion?
Childish, Vryce. Get over it.
It was just the three of them in the small room. The
boy's mother had agreed to let the newcomer look at her
child - fearful, apprehensive, but she had agreed - but she
drew the line at admitting the pagan multitudes. Just as
well. Damien welcomed a chance to assess the man,
without Ciani's presence to distract him.
Gerald Tarrant walked to the far side of the bed and
gazed down at the child. With a start, Damien realized that
the man's skin was hardly darker than that of the boy; flesh
sans melanin. It suited him so well that Damien hadn't
noticed it before, but now, contrasted against the boy's
sickly pallor . . . the coloring was ominous. And here it was
soon after summer, too. Damien considered all the reasons
a seemingly healthy man might not have a tan. A few of
them - very few - were innocent. Most were not.
Be fair. Senzei's pale. Some men have business that
binds them to the night.
Yes . . . and some of that business is highly suspect.
Slowly, the stranger sat on the edge of bed. He studied
the boy in silence for a moment, then made a cursory
inspection of obvious signs: lifting the eyelids to study the

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pupils, pressing a long index finger against the boy's upper
neck to take his pulse, even studying the fingernails. It was
hard to tell when he was simply looking and when he was
Knowing as well; he was like Ciani in that he needed no
words or gestures to trigger a Working, only the sheer force
of his will. An adept without question, then.
As if that was in doubt.
Damien looked at the boy's mother, and his heart
wrenched in sympathy. Because he had vouched for the
stranger, she had allowed him to approach her son. But
Gerald Tarrant wasn't a priest, and it was clear that his
presence here made her very nervous. She twisted her
hands in her apron, trying not to protest. Glanced at
Damien, her eyes begging for reassurance. He wished he
had it to give to her.
He looked down at the boy again - and froze, when he
saw the stranger's knife pressed against the youth's inner
arm. A thin line of red welled up in its wake: dark crimson,
thick and wet.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he hissed.
The stranger didn't acknowledge him in any way. Fold-
ing his knife, he tucked it carefully back into his belt. The
boy's mother moaned softly and swayed; Damien
wondered if she was going to faint. He was torn between

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wanting to go to her and desperately wanting to stop this
lunacy. What purpose could it possibly serve, to cut the boy
open like that? But he stood where he was, chilled by a
terrible, morbid fascination. As he watched, the stranger
touched one slender finger to the wound, collecting a drop
of blood. He brought it to his lips and breathed in its
bouquet; then, apparently satisfied with it, he touched the
crimson droplet to his tongue. And tasted it. And stiffened.
He looked at the woman. His expression was dark.
"You didn't tell me he was an addict."
The color drained suddenly from her face, as if someone
had opened a tap beneath her feet and all her blood had
poured out. "He isn't," she whispered. "That is, I didn't . .
." 
"What is it?" Damien asked hoarsely.
"Blackout." The cut he had made was still oozing blood;
a thin line of crimson dribbled down the boy's wrist, onto
the quilt. "And not all legal, was it?"
She was shaking. "How can you know that?"
"Simple logic. This boy had quite an addiction. If he'd
fed it with legals, that would have meant repeated trips into
Jaggonath . . . and you would have known. On the other

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hand, with all the travelers that you have passing through
here . . ." He shrugged suggestively. "It guaranteed his
secrecy, but at a high cost. He knew the risk, and accepted
it. I suspect that was part of the thrill."
"You can't say that!"
His eyes narrowed - just that, and no more. But no more
was necessary. She took a step backward and turned away
rather than meet his gaze.
"Is that it, then?" Her voice was a whisper. Her hands
were trembling. "Just . . . drugs?"
He turned back to study the boy. After he was silent for
a moment, Damien conjured his own Sight into existence -
and watched as the shield he had fought with for so many
hours was peeled back, layer by layer. Parting, like the
petals of a flower coming into bloom. He felt a sudden
surge of jealousy, had to fight to keep concentrating.
Why does it have to come so damned easily to him!
Beyond the barrier was . . . darkness. Emptiness. A
blackness so absolute that the cold of it chilled Damien's
thoughts. He dared not reach out to read its source, not
when a stranger was in control - but even so he could tell
that something was wrong, very wrong. Something that
went far beyond mere addiction, or the self-destructive

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fantasies of a depressed adolescent. Something that hinted
at outside interference. At a malignance far greater than
anything this poor boy might have conjured.
"Leave us," Tarrant ordered. He looked up at the
woman. She began to protest - and then choked back on the
words, and bowed to the force of the man's will. Tears
were pouring silently down her cheeks as she turned and
left the room, and Damien longed to comfort her. But he
was damned if he was going to leave the boy alone with
this stranger, even for a minute.
When the door had shut securely behind the woman,
Gerald Tarrant reached out to touch the boy, one slender
finger resting against the skin of his forehead. Slowly, layer
by layer, the barrier that he had parted restored itself.
Slowly the gaping blackness that was inside the boy
became less and less visible, until even Damien's strongest
Knowing could no longer make it out. Deep blue lines
began to radiate from the adept's fingertip, like blood that
had been starved of oxygen. Damien watched as they began
to penetrate the boy's skin, delicate threads of azure ice that
chilled the capillaries as they entered the boy's
bloodstream-
And then he reached out and grabbed the man's arm -
the flesh was cold, and seemed to drain the warmth from
his hand where there was contact - and he pulled him away
from the boy as violently as he could. And hissed in fury,
"What the helldo you think you're doing?"

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Tarrant's eyes fixed on him - infinitely calm, infinitely
cold. "Killing him," he said quietly. "Gradually, of course.
It won't culminate until morning. The family will consider
it . . . natural. Medics will ascribe it to the contamination
found in black market drugs. And the matter will end there.
Isn't that desirable?"
"You have no right!"
"This boy's body serves no purpose," he said quietly.
"They can ship it from city to city for months, pour bottles
of sugar and tonic and what have you into its bloodstream
to keep it alive for years . . . but what's the point? There's
nothing left here that's worth maintaining." His pale gray
eyes sparkled coldly. "Isn't it kinder to the living to remove
such a hindrance, rather than let it drain them of money and
energy until they have nothing left worth living for?"
He felt like he was being tested somehow, without
knowing either the parameters of the test or its purpose.
"You're saying he can't recover."
"I'm saying there's nothing left torecover. The soul is
still there, hanging on by a thread. But the mechanism that
would allow it to reconnect has been removed, priest.
Devoured, if you will."
"You mean . . . his brain?"

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"I mean his memory.The core of his identity. Gone. He
let the drugs weaken his link to this body . . . and
something moved in while he was absent. Moved in, and
cleaned house." The gray eyes were fixed on him, weighing
his reaction. "There is no hope for him, priest - because he,
as such, no longer exists. That," and he indicated the body,
"is an empty shell. Would you still call it murder, knowing
that, if I caused it to expire?"
Memory,Damien thought. Identity. God in Heaven . . .
He reached for a chair - or anything that would support
him - and at last lowered himself onto the corner of a trunk.
Memory. Devoured. Here, in our very path.
He thought of those thingsgetting into the dae. Feasting
on the boy, as they had once feasted on Ciani. Only this
time they'd had no need for vengeance, no vested interest
in prolonging their victim's suffering. They'd eaten all
there was to eat, and left no more than an empty shell
behind . . .
Does that mean they're right ahead of us, traveling the
same route? Do they know we're coming? Are they letting
us know it? Challenging us, perhaps? Merciful God, each
possibility is worse than the last . . .

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Then he looked up into the stranger's eyes and read the
truth behind his calm.
"You've run into something like this before," he
challenged.
There was a silence. A long one. The cold, pale eyes
were impossible to read.
"Say that I'm hunting something," Gerald Tarrant said at
last. "Say that this is its mark, its trail. Its spoor." He
looked at the boy's body, and said quietly, "What about
you, priest?"
Hunting. The very things we're after. Is that the mark of
an ally - or a trap? There's too much coincidence here. Be
careful.
"They killed a friend," he said quietly.
He bowed. "My condolences."
He tried to think. Tried to factor this new variable into
all his equations. But it was happening too fast; he needed
time to consider. He needed to talk to Senzei and Ciani. If
the creatures they were trying to kill were only one day
ahead of them, on the same road they meant to travel . . . he
shook his head, trying to weigh all the options. Maybe they
should speed up, not cower in the daes at night. Or change

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their route, try to circle around and get ahead. Or else
maybe the creaturesmeant them to do one of those things,
had set up this little tragedy to throw off any possible
pursuit. To pressure their pursuers to choose a lesser road,
one with fewer protections . . .
Too many plots and counterplots. Too many variables.
He smelled danger, but couldn't tell just where the odor
was coming from.
"Which way are you headed?" he asked.
Tarrant hesitated, suddenly wary. It occurred to Damien
for the first time that he, also, was loath to trust a stranger.
That was a sobering concept.
"Wherever the trail leads," he said at last. "North, for the
moment. But who can say where it will turn tomorrow?"
As anxious as I am not to give anything away. For
similar reasons?
"You'll be here till morning?"
The stranger laughed softly. "The trail I follow is only
visible at night, priest - and so that must define my hours. I
stop at the daes when I can, for a taste of real food and the
sound of human voices. When they let me in. But already
I've been here too long. The spoor -" and he indicated the

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

boy's body, "- is already growing cold. The hunter must
move on. Now, if you will permit me . . ."
He moved toward the boy once more. Damien had to
force himself to be still as those delicate fingers settled
once more on the colorless skin. Like flies. Leeches. The
chill blue fae began to build once more, a slender web-
work of death that wove itself about the boy's skin. He had
to fight himself not to interfere.
"You could tell her," he said quickly, "the truth."
"His mother?" He looked up at Damien, and one corner
of his mouth twisted slightly. In amusement? "He died in
terror. Do you want her to know that?" Then he focused his
attention back on the boy, on the delicate veil of death
taking form beneath his fingertips. "You do your job,
priest. I'll take care of mine. Unless you'd rather do this
yourself."
"I don't kill innocents," he said coldly.
The death-fae halted in its progress. Gerald Tarrant
looked up at him.
"There are no innocents," he said quietly.
They let the man out into the night, as carefully as they
had previously let him in. Mes Kanadee guarded the door

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until it was safely locked behind him, and Damien - who
had volunteered to help - added a Protecting to reestablish
the fae-seals.
He felt both bitter and relieved that the man was leaving
them. And envious, in equal measure. It was terrifying to
be out there alone at night, especially in an area as actively
malignant as this. But it was also exhilarating. For a man
who knew how to take care of himself - as Gerald Tarrant
clearly did - it was the ultimate challenge.
He watched as the last of the bolts was thrown, then
joined his companions at the fireside. Night had thinned the
ranks of travelers that previously had filled the common
room; save for one woman asleep by the fire, and a middle-
aged couple nursing their drinks at a far table, the small
company was alone.
Senzei looked up at him, then back to the fire. "Where's
he headed?"
"North."
"Our route?"
"Most likely."
"Did you learn his business?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He stared into the fire. Tried to get the man's image out
of his mind. "I learned a little of his nature," he answered.
"That's enough." He wished he could rid himself of the
chill that had entered his soul, the images that refused to
leave him. Of a gaping black hole where a boy's soul used
to be. Of the cold blue worms that were even now sucking
out his life, to give him a "natural" death. Of pale gray
eyes, and the challenge that had been in them . . .
Despite the heat of the fire, he shivered. "I'll tell you
about it later. In the morning. Let me sort it out in my own
mind first, so it makes some kind of sense when I tell it."
"He's an adept," Ciani said. Her tone was a plea.
He put an arm around her and squeezed gently. But the
tension in her body refused to ease; there was a barrier
between them now, a subtle but pervasive blockage that
had begun when her assailants devoured so many of the
memories they shared. But now it seemed even stronger -
colder, somehow. As if the stranger's presence had caused
it to grow. He had assumed that time would give them back
what they had lost; now, suddenly, he was no longer
certain.
"I've seen power like that before," he told her. Trying to
explain the coldness that was inside him, the nameless chill
that rose up whenever he thought of allying with that man.
"But I've never seen it exercised so coldbloodedly."

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And there are so many little things that are wrong, with
him. Like the Earth medallion. His supposed allegiance to
a Church that rejects his kind. No adept has made peace
with my faith since the Prophet died.
"We're better off without him," he told her. Working the
fae into his words. Trying to make himself sound
convincing.
He wished he truly believed it himself.
Sixteen
Slowly, carefully, the xandu came down out of the
mountains. Flexible feet treading silently on soft earth,
picking a way between the sharp, treacherous boulders on
one hand and the tangle of fallen branches on the other.
Dead, all of it was dead. Autumn might be coming to the
lowlands, but winter had already crowned the Worldsend
peaks in white - and mile by mile, inch by inch, the carpet
of life on which the xandu and his kind depended was
being smothered by winter's cold.
It lifted its head and sniffed the wind, seeking some
promise of change. How much farther could it go on, this
utter desolation? The xandu's instincts insisted that there
would be food to the west, thick green grasses not yet made
brittle by winter's ice, curling leaves turned rust and amber
by autumn's breath, but not yet fallen. Not yet dry. Not yet

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dead as this place was dead - as all of its usual grazing
lands were dead, rocky lands carpeted in dried-out, useless
husks of what once might have served for food.
It was a young animal, not yet experienced in the harsh
rhythm of the seasons. Not yet aware, on all the levels that
a xandu might become aware. Fae-tides rippled about its
feet, but they were as meaningless to it as the stars which
rose in the daytime, which were not required for light. It
ignored them. Its only concern now, beyond that of safety,
was food - and it sent that need out, echoing across the
foothills of the Worldsend and into the lowlands, without
ever knowing that it did so.
And it was answered. Not with a scent, exactly. Not
with anything the xandu could have defined, or anything it
knew how to respond to. Call it . . . a certainty. A sense of
direction, and definition. It was hungry, and there was food,
and if it traveled in a certain direction, at a certain pace, the
twin paths of need and supply would converge. It knew this
as it knew the rhythms of its own body, the taste of
highgrass just coming into bloom, the smell of winter.
Without doubt. Without words.
It began to gallop. Pounding feet noisy on the packed
earth, it kept alert for predators. But there were few beasts
who would hunt a young, healthy xandu. Its long, gleaming
horns might have been intended for sexual combat, but they
were just as effective in goring an arrogant predator.

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It traveled for many hours. The sun set in the western
sky, and soon after was followed by that curtain of stars
which was its closest rival in light. Evening fell darkly
across the lowlands. The xandu was picking up new scents
now, strange scents, of plants and animals native to this
foreign terrain. Still it traveled. There were things growing
here that might have served it for food, but food was no
longer its primary concern.
And then, on the horizon, it saw something. Merely an
amorphous shape at first, which slowly became more
defined as the xandu galloped closer. A strange animal, that
stood back on its hind legs as though raised up in sexual
display. The xandu slowed to a trot, then to a walk. There
was a feeling of Tightness about the creature, of
completeness, such that the xandu didn't think to fear. It
had sought food, and here was food. It would soon need
warmth, and here was a creature who commanded fire. It
would ache with loneliness . . . and here, in this creature,
was a companion for its winter, who would brave the
ravages of the ice-time by its side, and then release it to
seek out its own kind when the spring came again.
Wordlessly, effortlessly, it absorbed the stranger's need.
Inside its body, unseen, molecules shifted their allegiance
from one chemical pattern to another; instincts which had
been merely dormant before this moment quickened with
new life, and others - which had previously ruled its actions
- subsided into half-sleep. And it knew, without
understanding how, that the strange creature had also

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

changed. And that the change was natural, and correct.
Then the stranger reached into its skin - a false skin, the
xandu observed, which was wrapped around its own - and
brought out food, which it gave to the xandu. And then
more, and yet more, until the xandu's hunger was sated. It
offered water, too, poured into its cupped hands, and the
xandu drank.
Then the creature swung itself up onto the xandu's back;
and that, too, was correct, and exactly as it should be. So
much so that it suddenly seemed strange to the xandu that it
had never borne such a creature before.
They turned north, and - at a vigorous gallop - began to
close the distance between where they were and where they
needed to be. 
Seventeen
He couldn'tdo it.
Senzei sat alone in the center of a clearing, and tried to
quiet his mind. Ever since they had encountered that man at
the dae his nerves had been jangling like a hundred wards
all set off at once, making it hard to concentrate. Now,
every time he tried to take hold of the fae and commit
himself to Working it, the memory of Gerald Tarrant got in
the way.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It bothered him. It wouldn't stop bothering him. He felt
like the man had been toying with them somehow, without
knowing how or why.
You can't let it get to you. Not this much. We have to
know where Ciani's assailants have gone and what they
intend . . . and if you can't get your act together to Know
that, you might as well have stayed home. Which thought
brought its own special pain. It could be simply that the
man had awakened a storm of conflicting emotions within
him: hunger and anger and jealousy combined, all in
response to his obvious power. Or it could be something far
more ominous than that: it could be that the stranger had
established a channel between them, a subtle link between
himself and the three travelers that hinted at darker
intentions. But toward what end?
Only one way to find out, he thought grimly.
He hadn't shared these misgivings with his companions.
Not yet. Damien had been sullen all morning, and Senzei
suspected that something Tarrant did when they were alone
together was the cause. No reason to add to it. And Ciani . .
. his chest tightened with grief at the mere thought of her.
She would just hurt - silently, but he would see it in her
eyes - and he would feel guilty for feeling such things, for
feeling anything at all. While all the time he would want to
scream at her,You had it, you had it all and you lost it, how
could you let it go! As if somehow it had been her fault, as

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

if she could have stopped it from happening.
Despite the relative warmth of the morning, he shivered.
We're none of us as rational as we'd like to be. Gods keep
that from dividing us.
A sudden rustling disturbed the brush behind him; he
twisted around to see its cause, saw Ciani standing at the
edge of the clearing.
"I didn't mean to interrupt," she said quickly. "Damien
said to see if you'd be ready to move soon."
So we can make the next dae by sunset, he finished
silently. And lock ourselves away in safety one more time.
The answer's here, in the night. Tarrant knew that.
"Come here," he said gently, and he patted the ground
beside him.
She hesitated, then entered the clearing and sat. "I don't
want to disturb you," she said.
"I was going to Work. You can Share it, if you'd like."
In her eyes: Elation. Fear. Hunger. He fought the instinct
to turn away, knowing how much that would hurt her.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mygods. Did I look like that to her? Has fate done no
more than reverse our roles?
He took her hand in his, weaving their fingers together.
Holding her tightly, palm to palm, until it was possible to
feel the pounding of her pulse against his flesh, to imagine
that their two bloodstreams had somehow become linked
together - and through that linkage, all the skills that made
a Working possible.
All right, you bastard. Obviously I'm not going to be
able to Work on anything else until I settle with you in my
mind. So let's get a good look at just where you are, and
what you're up to.
He sent his will questing along the fae-currents, noting
the distinct northward pull that seemed to affect everything
in this region. That would be the Forest, exerting its
malevolent influence. Soon it would be difficult to Work in
any other direction. How could an adept bear to live in such
a place, where every thought was dragged toward that
single point? Didn't Tarrant claim to come from
somewhere north of here?
Slowly, the landscape about them began to take shape
before his special senses. He clasped Ciani's hand tightly,
Sharing the vision with her. The ground began to glow,
with a colorless light. Currents of earth-fae swirled like fog
about their knees, responding to some unseen pattern deep

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

in the earth beneath them. He drew back - and upward -
willing his viewpoint to expand and take in the surrounding
terrain. Now he could see the clearing from above, with
their two small bodies sitting side by side. Higher.The
trees gave way to brush, to open ground. To a road, dusted
with discolored leaves. He followed it southward, noting
the pull of the current against him; soon it would be all but
impossible to Work against its flow. Slowly, the vision he
sought unfolded before Him. There was the dae, in all its
protective glory. There was the stockade gate, with a spot
of light marking each active fae-signature, every working
ward. And there were the footsteps leading to the road, a
fading remnant of each traveler's identity that clung to the
earth they had walked on, leaving a record that the faewise
were able to read.
It was no great trial to determine which marks were
Gerald Tarrant's; they stood out from among the others like
a livid black spot on the face of the sun - a trail so dark that
it seemed to vibrate, sucking the sunlight into its substance.
The other footprints seemed weaker by the light of day, but
his had gained in substance. As though each were a raw
scar upon the earth, which the sun's rays worried at.
Not pretty,he thought grimly. Not pretty at all.
He followed the trail several yards, tracking the man's
progress toward the road. And then the trail ended.
Suddenly. Not tapering out, as a line of true footsteps
might. Nor marked with the hard light of a Working, to

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

indicate that the man had deliberately hidden his trail. It
simply . . . wasn't there. At all.
Senzei sank himself deeper into concentration, straining
to summon all the Sight that was available to him. The
image of the dae sharpened. Tarrant's trail came into clear,
almost painful focus . . . and still it disappeared, just as
suddenly and in the same spot as before. It was as if the
man had ceased to exist beyond that point.
He withdrew from the dae's confines, taking Ciani with
him. And moved his viewpoint to high above, trying to gain
some perspective.
"What if he mounted?" Ciani whispered.
The concept was so utterly naive, so ignorant of the
most basic laws of the fae, that Senzei nearly wept for
hearing it from her. His concentration, and therefore the
Vision, wavered. "This isn't like a physical trail. You don't
lose it when his feet are off the ground. It's the result of his
presence affecting the currents . . . and that shouldn't
disappear, just because he's sitting on a horse. The trail
might look different, but it should still be there."
"What if he . . ." She hesitated. "Became something
else?"
Startled, he looked at her. The vision shattered into a

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

thousand bits, like breaking glass. He let it go.
"That's not possible," he whispered.
"Why not?"
He drew in a deep breath and tried to gather his
thoughts. Tried to banish the feeling that somehow,
somewhere, they were being Watched. "Shapechanging is .
. . technically feasible, I suppose. And there are legends.
But no one I ever knew could manage it, or had ever seen it
done." He met her eyes. "You couldn't do it," he said.
Gently. "I asked you why. You said it would require total
submission to the fae. The kind of submission that the
human mind can't accept. Maybe native sorcerers could
manage it, you said. If there ever were any native
sorcerers."
She said it quietly. "That wasn't what I meant."
"Cee, shapechanging-"
"I didn't mean shapechanging."
He stared at her for a long minute, trying to compre-
hend. "What, then? What is it?"
"What if he isn't human?" she pressed. "What if that

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

was just a . . . a guise? A mask? What if once he was
outside the dae, out of sight of the guards . . . he didn't need
it any more?"
He stared at her, speechless.
"Isn't it possible? I don't remember . . ."
"It's possible," he finally managed. "But there were
wards up all over the place! Nothing that wasn't human
should have been able to get within yards of it. Least of all
in a false body."
"Something got in to hurt that boy," she pointed out.
"Something that the wards were supposed to be guarding
against."
He wanted to say to her, Your ward was up there, too,
right over the front door. Are you telling me something got
past that? Not only walked right in under it, but maintained
a false human body all the time it was there?
But he was remembering something she had once told
him. Remembering it as though she were saying it now, her
voice low and couched in a tone of warning.
Every Warding has its weak spot. Every one, without
exception. Sometimes you have to search hard to find it, but
it's there, in all of them. Which means that the wards only

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

protect us as well as they do because so few demons are
capable of working an analysis . . .
My speciality is in analysis, Tarrant had said.
Senzei squeezed her hand tightly. Hoped that she
couldn't feel his fear. The air seemed suddenly warm, too
warm; he loosened his collar, felt his hand shaking.
Don't let it get to you. You can't let it get to you. Her
strength depends on yours. Don't lose it, Senzei.
"Come on," he said. He managed to stand. "Let's get
back to Damien." He helped her to her feet. "I think he
should know about this."
Damien listened to what they had to say - silently,
patiently, without interrupting even to question them
further - and then answered simply, "I had the same
problem. Which just means we won't be able to track them
by Working. Otherwise our plans stay the same."
"Damien," Senzei protested. "I don't think you
understand-"
"I do," he said stiffly. Something in his manner - the set
of his shoulders, the tone of his voice - bespoke a terrible
tension. A struggle inside him that was only now breaking
through to the surface. "I understand more than you're even

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

aware of."
"If those things are right ahead of us-"
"Yes. That sound reasonable, doesn't it? Only, how do
we know that?"His hands had balled into angry fists by his
sides; he looked about himself, as if searching for
something to hit. "I'll tell you how. Twenty-five words or
less. We know it because Gerald Tarrant told us. That's
how we know." He drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly.
Fighting for control over the rage that seemed ready to
consume him. "I've gone over it in my mind again and
again since we left the dae this morning. And each time it
comes to the same thing. I trusted his word. Not willingly -
not even knowingly - but like an animal trusts its trainer.
Like a laboratory rat trusts the men who feed it when it
finally runs the way they want it to. Gerald Tarrant said that
something had devoured the boy's memory, and I accepted
it. God knows, I had good reason not to test him then. If I'd
let myself be drawn into his Working, there's no telling
what might have happened. So I didn't. You understand
what that means? I didn't Know for myself. I took his word
for it that what he said was the truth, when I should have
Seen for myself-"
"You couldn't have known," Senzei said hurriedly.
"Such power-"
"Damn the power!" His eyes blazed with fury - at
Gerald Tarrant, at himself. "Don't you understand? If he

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wasn't telling the truth - if the boy's memory hadn't been
taken - then what didattack him? What left him wounded
like that, and then set up a Shielding so perfect that no one
but Mer Tarrant could get through it? Ask yourself that!"
He took a deep breath. Then another. Trying to calm
himself. It didn't work. "I should have confirmed it," he
muttered. "If not then, later. I should have checked."
Senzei hesitated - and then reached out and put a hand
on the priest's shoulder. Emotional support, without the
pressure of a Working; after a moment Damien nodded,
acknowledging the gesture.
"We can go back," Senzei said gently. "If you need to
Know-"
"We can't go back. One, because we have a mission to
complete - and the longer we delay here, the harder it will
get. Two, because . . . because . . ."
He turned away. Slipping out from under Senzei's grasp
so that he stood alone. His shoulders trembled.
"The boy is dead," he said at last. "Tarrant killed him.
You understand? He called it a mercy killing. Maybe it
was. But damned convenient, don't you think?
"God," he whispered; his voice was shaking. "What

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have I been witness to?"
"What do you want to do?" Senzei asked quietly.
He turned back to face them; his eyes were red. "We go
to Kale," he told them. "Directly to Kale. If Tarrant was
right and those things did attack the boy, then they're
nearly two days ahead of us; we won't pass them without
intending to. If he was wrong . . . then they could be
anywhere. Behind us, ahead of us, even back in the
rakhlands by now. I couldn't get a fix on them any more
than you could, Zen. He's right in that; such a Working has
to be done at night. But in Kale. In the relative safety of a
city's confines. Not out here . . . where camping outside the
daes means setting ourselves up for God knows what."
"You think he's allied with them?" Ciani asked
anxiously.
"I don't know what he is - and I don't want to know.
He's setting up some kind of game, maybe just for his
amusement, maybe for some darker purpose. I say we don't
play by his rules. That means we go straight to Kale, like
we planned. No detours, no delays, and above all else no
forays out into the night. We tell the daes to keep their
doors shut; if he wants the night that badly, let him stay in
it. Agreed?"
"And if he really is hunting them?" Senzei asked.

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"In that case," he muttered, "more power to him. I hope
he makes his kill."
He looked out over the road ahead - northward, toward
the Forest - and added, "May they take him with them,
when he does." 
Eighteen
Tobi Zendelwas securing the last of his nets when dusk
fell, and because his attention was wholly fixed on the task
before him he failed to notice the figure as it approached
him, and did not hear it coming until the planks of the small
pier finally creaked in warning.
"What the-" He turned about to see what had come up
behind him; the anatomically complex profanity he had
been about to spout forth withered on his lips, unvoiced.
"What the hell?" he said softly - a socially acceptable
substitute.
The figure that stood on the pier before him was that of
a woman, oddly dressed. She was about his height, which
was not tall; slender, and delicately boned; precisely made,
with small, high breasts - although the latter were
somewhat obscured by her clothing, so it was hard for him
to judge their exact appeal. She was clothed in layers of
tight cloth, which might have been actual garments but had

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more the appearance of wrappings. Gloves hid her hands,
and a scarf which was tightly wrapped about her head and
neck hid all the rest of her from view, except for her face.
That was delicately sculpted, delicately colored - a clear
golden brown that perfectly matched her garments - and
oddly soft, as though he were viewing it through frosted
glass.
"I'm sorry, Mes." He breathed the words, as though
somehow her presence demanded silence. "I didn't see you
coming, was all. Can I . . . can I help you?"
She looked out across the Serpent, as if searching for
something. After a few seconds her gaze fixed on a distant
point, and she extended her arm toward it. A question; a
command.
He looked over his shoulder, toward where she was
pointing. And laughed, somewhat nervously. "Morgot
Lady, that's out." The fingers of her glove were split, he
noticed; thin curving claws, like those of a cat, gleamed in
the slits. "That's upstraits, crosscurrent . . . and bad luck,
besides. You want that crossing, ferry over to Kale. They'll
take you, sure enough - if the price is right."
She reached into a fold of fabric at her hip, brought out a
small purse.
"Lady, it isn't money. I value my neck. You understand?

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That's a rough crossing. And I'm a coward."
Slowly, she lowered her arm. And waited. He was about
to speak again when he saw something move, up by the
start of the pier. Not a person, this time. A . . . a . . .
Gods of Earth n' Erna. A xandu?
It was horse-sized, and roughly horse-shaped, but there
the similarity ended. Thick fur gleamed along its limbs,
tufting thickly about its five-toed feet. It was pearl-gray, for
the most part, but a mane of thick white hair adorned its
chest and shoulders, and small white tufts marked the
poirits of its ears. Its head was slender and pointed, its large
eyes positioned in a manner that could have served it as
predator or prey. And its horns . . . he had to fight not to
reach out and touch them, not to put his hands on their cool,
rainbow length and know for a fact that, yes, they were
real. The creature was real. A true xandu, which mankind
thought had been Worked into extinction, so many years
ago . . .
He looked at the woman - dark, her eyes were so dark,
you could see neither iris nor white in them, only pupil -
and said, in a voice that shook slightly, "You'll trade him?
I'll take you, for that. Take you over. There'll be mounts
there, you understand? You can buy a mount on Morgot. I
mean, you know where to get a xandu, right? So it's not
like I'd be taking anything you couldn't replace." He was
fighting to speak coherently, while greed and wonder

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conspired within to rob him of speech. "I mean . . . I'd take
the risk, for that."
She looked at him - and at the xandu - and then back at
him. Assessing. After a moment, she moved her head
slightly. He thought it was a nod.
"We can go right now if you want." He started to
prepare to cast off, loosening the ropes he had only so
recently tied. "It's pretty safe, out on the water. Unless
you'd rather wait for sunlight-"
Silently she stepped to the edge of the pier, her soft
leather boots making no sound. For a moment he was close
enough to see her face in detail - and it seemed that the
golden surface was not skin, but close-lying fur. He
shivered. Then she was past him, stepping into the boat.
Tobi looked to where the xandu was waiting - and found it
already beside him, ready to board. After a moment he
stepped aside and let it do so.
Heart pounding - head spinning with thoughts of fame
and wealth soon to come - he freed his boat from its
mooring posts and set sail for the northern caldera.
Nineteen
Five days and nights now, in safety. Five daes that
protected them from unknown demon-hunters - and from

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decisions.
Damien dreamed. At first only misty images, vignettes
of dread mingled with bits of memory: a fear-mosaic. Then
the dreams began to gain substance, and definition. Night
after night he played the same saga out: their journey, their
arrival, their final confrontation. And night after night, in
every variation, he watched his companions die. And died
himself, at the hands of a creature who squeezed the
memories from him like pulpy juice from an overripe fruit,
then cast the rind aside.
Again and again. With no hope of success. Because
what they had wasn't enough. They lacked the numbers
they needed, and the knowledge. They lacked the power.
Evil is what you make of it, the Prophet had written.
Bind it to a higher Purpose, and you will have altered its
nature. And: We use what tools we must.
Damien wondered if - and how - Gerald Tarrant could
be bound.
The port called Kale was as unlike Jaggonath as any
place could possibly be. The city's plan was a veritable
mazeof narrow, twisting streets, flanked by houses that had
been hurriedly built and, for the most part, poorly
maintained. Rich and poor were quartered side by side,
laborers' hovels leaning against the thick stone walls of a

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rich merchant's estate - barbed iron spikes adorning the top,
to discourage the curiosity of strangers - which was flanked
in turn by the mildewed shells of workhouses, the miserly
confines of tenement flats, the iron-clad husks of massive
storage sheds. The streets themselves might once have been
paved with stones, and occasionally a flat slab of shallite -
deep green, or slate gray, or midnight black - would peek
out from beneath the layers of mud and debris and animal
droppings which seemed to coat everything in sight. The
whole place smelled: of damp, of dung, of decay. But there
was commerce here, enough to support thousands. And
where trade flourished, humankind inevitably congregated.
They arrived shortly before dusk and wasted the next
hour getting themselves thoroughly lost. As the sun sank
slowly behind mildewed walls, the maze of streets became
stiflingly close. At last Senzei grabbed hold of a passing
youngster - a mud-caked ten-year-old who clearly had more
time on his hands than he knew what to do with - and
offered him a few coins to serve as guide. The boy glanced
once at the darkening western sky, as if to point out the
danger involved in taking on business at such a late hour -
but when no more money was offered he coughed and
nodded, and led them through the maze of tangled streets to
a somewhat more promising sector.
The breeze shifted, coming in from over the straits: salt
air, sharp with promise. Here, the River Stekkis emptied its
fresh water and its mud into that precious conduit which
connected Erna's great oceans, dividing the human lands in

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two. Here, just beyond the whitewaters of Naigra Falls
(named for a similar formation on Ancient Earth, or so it
was said), goods from along the river were weighed and
measured and packaged and assessed and taxed, to be
shipped to the hundred-and-some-odd cities that flanked
the length of the Serpent Straits. Golden figurines from
Lyama rested in sealed crates, next to precious spices from
Hade and spring wine from Merentha County. And
traveling merchants gathered in lamplit taverns, drinking
Kale beer with one hand while they outlined the financial
future of nations with the other.
"Let's get rooms and food," Damien said. "And secure
our things. After that . . . I think we need to take a good
look around."
Five days of travel along the trade roads of the east had
come to an end at last - and not a moment too soon, for
Damien's taste. Five endless days spent covering the miles
one by one, nights spent cowering in the daes like timid
ground-skerrels that went to burrow at dusk, lest something
that called the night its home should snatch them up. Five
days of hiding from Tarrant, too - although they used other
terms for that strategy - by making sure that each dae
understood there was something out there desperate to get
in, so that none would dare to open their doors. Was that
necessary? Was it circumspect? Damien was no longer
sure.
"He might not mean us any harm," Ciani had said.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

How could they be certain of that?
Kale. Damien breathed in its rich scents with relief, his
heart pounding with newfound exhiliration. The miles
before this had been necessary, but tedious. A road devoid
of choices. Now . . . they could begin to plan in earnest.
Could begin to weave the net that would eventually draw in
their enemies, and free Ciani.
Her assailants would have come through here. Might
even still be in the city. They might take this opportunity to
feed, feeling themselves safe in such a murky, anonymous
place. In that case . . . good. The battle could take place
here, on human ground, and no one need ever go on to the
rakhlands. Oh, the three of them might decide to go
anyway, after it was all over - but that would be a choice,
not a necessity. They might choose to explore the lands that
mankind had abandoned, as Ciani had once tried to do.
Who knew what secrets might be waiting for them, in the
shadow of the Worldsend Mountains?
Then he thought of Ciani, and her vulnerability, and he
muttered, "We don't leave her alone." Senzei nodded and
moved closer to Ciani. "Not until we know for a fact that
those things aren't here in town."
"You want me to Divine that?" Senzei asked.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He thought about it. "Dinner first. Let's find ourselves
rooms and settle the horses. Then."
By then it would be night. The demon/adept Tarrant
(which was he? Damien wondered. Was it possible to be
both?) had said that the creatures were best tracked at night.
They'd give it a shot and see if he was right. One try. It
would be worth the risk. Wouldn't it?
We'll have to face the night soon enough, anyway, he
thought dryly. There are no top-rank hotels in the
rakhlands.
(Even as he thought that, he imagined Ciani's voice -
always tender, always teasing - as she challenged him, How
do we know that?)
They took rooms in a cliffside inn that had gargoyles
over every doorway - not Worked, Damien noted, but ugly
enough to drive away any demon with aesthetic
sensibilities - and crude iron grilles over the windows,
twisted into some sort of sigil-sign. Again, not Worked.
There was an absence of Working all over the city, Senzei
pointed out, which was doubly jarring after the
proliferation of wards in Jaggonath and the daes.
More like home,Damien thought. It was oddly
comforting.

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They ate. Strange shapes culled from the sea, inundated
with local spices. Spongy tendrils of flesh in cream sauce,
suckers sliced into delicate rings and fried, something small
and spiderlike with its head and legs intact: pull the limbs
off these little guys yourself, the menu urged. Kale was
proud of its seafood.
And afterward, for dessert, a sense of anticipation so
keen that the three could almost taste it. Mere sweets were
bland by comparison, and one by one the travelers pushed
them aside.
"It's time," Damien muttered. "Let's go."
They had chosen this particular hostel because of one
very special facility: it had a flat, easily accessible roof. For
a small bribe -" call it a damage deposit, the manager had
said - "Damien had obtained the key. Now, in the
darkening night, with only a few remaining stars and a
single moon to light the sky, they let themselves out of the
inn's smoky confines, into the chill of evening.
The earth-fae would be weak up here - but that was
good, Senzei had insisted. Good that the taint of the Forest
would be thus diluted before he tried to Work it. Damien
looked at his companion, saw the fear in his eyes. The
excitement. He's in his element, the priest thought. At last.
Damien loosened his sword in his scabbard - and then,

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

as an afterthought, drew it free. There was no telling what
manner of creature such a Working might call to them, or
how quickly it might come. He made sure Ciani was safely
on the other side of him before he nodded to Senzei: Yes.
Go ahead.
The dark-haired Worker took a deep breath, steadied
himself - and then began to weave a Seeing.
Power. A vast, unending seascape of power-swirls and
eddies and cresting waves of it, earth-fae so fluid and deep
that it laps up against the sides of the inn, and dashes a
spray of limitless potential into the air before his eyes.
Magnificent! For a moment Senzei can do no more than
stare at it, drinking in the Sight. So much of it! So . . . raw.
Chaotic. Potent. He considers the sterile city, its wordless
walls and unWorked gates, and shakes his head in
amazement. How can such a thing be? How can this kind of
power exist, without men coming here to tame it? The city
should be full of sorcerers - should cater to sorcerers -
should be renowned among the fae-wise, as a focal point of
power. So why isn't it? What is there that his eyes can't
See, which has kept that from happening?
He opens himself up to the power, welcomes its wildness
into the core of him. Not slowly, as he had meant to do. Not
cautiously, as he knows it should be done. Joyfully -
exuberantly - his soul's barriers thrown wide open, the
core of his being laid bare. And the fae pours into him. An
ecstasy more intense than any sex suffuses his limbs: the

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

taste of true power. Here, in this place, he might do
anything. Do they want information? It is there for the
Knowing. Do they need protection? Here, he might craft a
Warding that would endure for ages. Had he envied the
adepts of Jaggonath? For all their vision, they had never
tasted this! He shivers in pleasure and awe as the power
flows through him - wild power, wholly undisciplined, fae
that lacks only his command to give it substance and
purpose.
This is living, he thinks. This is what I was meant for!
In the far north, across the Serpent's waist, a midnight
sun is rising. Black sphere against ebony blackness, jet-
pure; a thing that can only be Felt, not Seen. Into it all the
light of the world is sucked, all the colors and textures that
the fae contains: into the crystalline blackness, the Anti-
Sun. He stares at it in adoration and horror and thinks:
There, where all the power is concentrated, like matter in a
black hole . . . there is the power we need for this quest.
Power to shake the rakhlands and make our kill and move
the earth besides!
And one thing is as certain as the night sky above him,
the broad disk of Domina looming overhead: he alone can
channel this power, can make it serve their purpose. Who
else? Certainly not Ciani, whose skill was excised from her.
Nor Damien, whose priestly Workings are too entangled
with intellect, with questions of morality and correctness
and Revivalist philosophy . . . no, of all of them only he can

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

master this terrible force and make it serve their will.
It seems to Senzei that his life was spent preparing for
this, making him ready for this single moment. He reaches
out toward the source of the power - meaning to take it, to
shape it, to let it shape him - but something grabs at him
from behind, forcing him back. He struggles against it
wildly, like an animal caught in a net. There, in the
distance - there is freedom, there is power! He feels himself
forced back one step, then another - and his soul screams
out in anguish, as he is forced farther and farther away
from the blackening dawn. Farther away from the only
thing that can give him the power he hungers for, the only
thing that can give him peace. The fae surges forward
about him, mindless of his suffering; he grabs wildly at the
rising tide, tries to link himself to it so that it will carry him
with it, toward that point of Power . . . but something is in
his way, something that drives the breath from his body in a
sudden burst of pain, until he reels from the force of it and
falls - his head striking hard against the ground, or is it the
roof? - his senses caving in one by one as the ebony sun
fades, the whole of his Vision fades . . .
Light. Real light. Moonlight, falling across the tarpaper
roof. Senzei moaned, turning away from it. Searching for
shadows. Anywhere.
Then, slowly, other things came into focus. People.
Ciani's beloved face, contorted with worry. Damien's eyes,
blazing with . . . what? His head ached; he couldn't read it.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His stomach ached, too, with a throbbing hurt that spoke of
real bodily damage. He put a hand to his abdomen and
winced. Tender, very tender.
"What . . . what happened?"
"You tried to walk off the roof," Damien said quietly.
"Ciani tried to stop you. I helped as soon as I could." A
brief nod indicated the deep purple fluid on his blade, the
dark shapes that lay huddled and bleeding on all sides of
them. Pain pounded in Senzei's temples. "I've never seen
anything manifest so fast," Damien said. There was an odd
tone in his voice which Senzei couldn't identify. "Or in
such quantity. You all right?"
He looked out over the roof's low edge toward the north.
Toward where the earth-fae still flowed, now invisible to
his unWorked senses. Moisture gathered in the corners of
his eyes; he blinked it free, felt it work its way slowly down
his face.
"Yes," he whispered. "I think so. It was . . ." He
shivered. "Incredible."
"Untamable, more likely. We should have known that.
Should have guessed it when we saw the town." Damien
took out a handkerchief and wiped his sword clean. "I think
it's safe to say that now we know why there are so few
Workings in Kale, yes? We'll have to avoid that angle

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

ourselves - at least until we get out of range of that."He
nodded toward the north as he resheathed his sword. Then
he offered his hand to Senzei. "Can you stand?"
After a moment, he nodded. It took several tries, but at
last the two of them managed to get him to his feet. He felt
as though his limbs were made of gel, barely able to
support him.
"It would have drawn you in," the priest said quietly. A
question.
Senzei hesitated. Considered it. "Yes. I think. I wanted
to go to it. I wanted for it . . . to devour me. So I could be
part of it. You . . . you can't know." He choked on the
words, and a sense of terrible loss filled him. And fear. He
could do no more than mutely shake his head. "Thank you.
Thank you."
"Come on." It was Ciani, slipping underneath one arm
to help him walk. "Let's get inside. We can talk about it
later."
"An adept," Senzei muttered. "Can you imagine? To
live with that vision, endlessly . . . one would drown in it . .
." 
"Which is why there are no adepts in Kale," Damien
reminded him. "Remember your notes?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Unless there is now,Senzei thought. Unless Tarrant
followed us.
At the door that led into the building, Damien paused.
He looked out over the tarpaper expanse of the roofs
surface, at the dozen or so newborn demonlings that were
slowly bleeding out their substance in the moonlight.
"Damn it," he muttered. "It'll cost us good money to
have this cleaned up."
Always practical, Senzei thought dryly. Who else would
care?
Dear friends, if you could have seen what I have seen . .
. 
And then his thoughts slid down into darkness, and the
blissful numbness of sleep.
Midnight. Plus some. An hour of peace, even this close
to the whirlpool. Ciani was sleeping soundly - at last - and
Senzei was still lost in the oblivion of his healing trance.
The three of them were sharing a suite, which had turned
out to be the perfect situation; Damien could check on his
companions easily enough, but if one of them happened to
wake in the night and glance about before returning to
sleep, they wouldn't see that he'd left. He had left a note on

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his pillow just in case, but didn't really expect anyone to
find it; he should be back long before they awoke. And
hopefully, he would have some new answers.
The town itself was silent, so much so that he could hear
the soft wash of salt-laden waves against Kale's rocky
shore. He made his way toward the sound, using it as a
compass to maneuver through the narrow, twisting streets.
As with most of the northern coast, Kale's shoreline was
a series of ragged cliffs and overhangs, inhospitable to
travelers. Damien worked his way slowly westward, toward
the port itself. Natural caverns were etched deep into the
rock beneath him, and periodically something dark would
fly out of the mouth of one, to shriek its way across the
jagged shallows. Not a good place for boats or men, he
reflected. But it was still far safer than the ocean shorelines
which were battered by an endless procession of tsunami;
and so man had forced this coast to accept a port wherever
there was the slightest opening for one, and would make do
with its shortcomings. Erna was a harsh mistress.
Soon, the cliff edge he traversed began to drop. A
narrow path led him around several major obstacles, to a
place where the earth, shaken by one too many tremors, had
collapsed. A mountain of jagged boulders sloped down to
the Serpent, covered over by a webwork of wooden
walkways and stairs that made safe descent, if strenuous,
possible.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Damien clambered down, noting that there was activity
about several of the boats that were docked below. Erna's
opposing moons made for a complex tidal pattern, and the
few windows of opportunity that occurred must be grasped
when they did; in the city itself life might subside at sunset,
but Kale's shipping fleets never rested.
At last he reached a sizable boardwalk that gave him a
level surface to the water's edge. Long piers stretched out
across miles of water, bridging the boulder-strewn
shallows. At high tide it was perhaps possible for a boat to
come in close to the shore itself; at low tide, the sailors
would have quite a hike after docking. For a moment
Damien wondered why they hadn't done something more
permanent to fill the land in, or thoroughly dredge it out;
then he remembered where he was, and reminded himself:
There is no such thing as permanence, in this part of the
world. What man chooses to construct, earthquakes can
unconstruct in an instant. Better to build flexibly - or at
least temporarily - and give way to Nature's temper
tantrums when they occur.
Come to think of it, didn't the whole Stekkis River shift
once, within recent centuries? Wasn't Merentha once the
port city at its mouth, instead of Kale? It must be hard to
invest time or money in a city that might be made worthless
tomorrow, he thought. That alone would explain an awful
lot about the city's appearance.
He watched the men moving about the piers for some

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

time, assessing various facets of their activity. Ganji-on-
the-Cliffs had a similar port, and it was no hard task for
him to draw parallels between them. After a while, he
thought he saw what he was looking for, and he began to
pick his way over to the far eastern end of the docks, near
where the cliffs began to rise. There was a small boat
docked there, whose relatively shallow draft was well
suited to inhospitable ports. As he came closer, he could
see that it had strong masts and a small steam turbine in the
rear; its owner didn't trust technology, but had enough
survival sense to pack it as a backup. Excellent. Damien
assessed its size, its probable speed, the amount of room on
board, and nodded. This one was promising.
He walked out to where the small ship was moored.
Two men were bustling about its deck, gathering up the last
of some precious cargo. A third stood at the bow and
watched; he glanced up shortly when Damien approached
but didn't acknowledge him otherwise. Damien waited.
The cargo was loaded into a coarse hand-wagon with a
shipping emblem seared into its side. When it was full the
two men handed documents to the third, who read them by
moonlight. And nodded. Not until the laborers had grabbed
hold of the handcart and begun to pull it toward shore - not
until they were out of hearing, and almost out of sight - did
the overseer acknowledge Damien with his eyes and slowly
walk over to meet him.
"C'n I help you?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Damien nodded towards the boat. "Yours?"
The overseer assessed him. "Maybe."
"I need to hire transportation."
The man said nothing.
"I'm prepared to pay well for it."
The man chuckled. "That's vulkin' fortunate. It don't
come cheap."
Somewhat disdainfully, Damien pulled a small leather
pouch from his pocket; he rattled it once, so that the sound
of metal striking metal was clearly audible.
The man's nostrils flared, like an animal scenting its
prey. "Where you headed?"
"East. Southern shore. Near the mouth of the Achron
River. You interested?"
The man coughed, and spat into the water. "You'd need
more'n money to buy that kind of passage."
"What, then?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"You need a pilot that's vulkin' set on suicide - which
I'm not. That's some of the worst shoreline on the
Serpent." He grinned, showing stained and chipped teeth.
"How about somewhere else for vacation, eh? I hear there's
a good river up north."
"It's business," Damien said shortly.
"Then I'm real sorry." He looked hungrily at the purse,
but his expression didn't soften. "That's death on the rocks,
that trip. I don't want none of it. No one will. Not unless
you can find some young fool of a merchant's son with a
spanking new yacht to wreck . . . and then you'd just die in
the landing, along with'im. You catch my drift?"
Damien stretched open the mouth of the purse and
spilled two gold coins into the palm of his hand. The man's
eyes widened.
"Perhaps you know someone who can take us."
The man hesitated - it seemed that two parts of him were
at war with each other - but at last he shook his head. "Not
in Kale, Mer. Don't know anyone foolish enough to try.
Sorry." He chuckled. "Wish I even had a good lie, for that
kind of money."
Damien was about to speak when another voice -
smooth as the night air and nearly as quiet - intruded.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I believe the gentleman doesn't understand the value of
your currency."
He turned quickly toward the source of the voice, and
found Gerald Tarrant standing not ten feet from them.
"Permit me," the tall man said, bowing slightly.
After a moment Damien nodded. Tarrant approached -
and withdrew a thin golden disk from his tunic, which he
displayed to the mariner.
The side that Damien saw was a familiar image: it was
the earth-disk that the stranger had displayed in Briand. But
whatever was on the other side made the mariner's face go
white beneath its stubble, the jaw dropping slack beneath.
"Tell him what he needs to know," Tarrant said quietly.
The man looked over his shoulder - northward, across
the Serpent - and then stammered, "Not here. You
understand? You need to go to Morgot. That's where the
kind of men would be, who could help you. Morgot."
Damien looked questioningly at Tarrant, who explained,
"an island just north of here. A caldera, made into a port. It
occasionally serves as a way station for the . . . shall we
say, less than reputable sort?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He reached over toward Damien, so smoothly and so
quickly that the priest failed to react in time. He took the
gold coins out of his hand, and gave them to the mariner. A
faint chill touched the priest's flesh where contact had
almost been made.
"You'll take his party over to Morgot tomorrow."
Tarrant's tone was one of confident authority. It was hard
to say exactly where in his words or his manner the threat
was so evident. "No questions asked. Agreed?"
The man took the money awkwardly, as though not
quite sure what the ritual of acceptance should be. "Yes,
your lordship," he whispered. "Of course, your lordship."
He scrambled down to the deck of his craft and disappeared
hurriedly into the cabin; after a few minutes had passed
without him reappearing, Tarrant turned to Damien, clearly
satisfied that the man would not disturb them.
"Forgive me for intruding in your business."
Damien forced himself to respond to the politeness of
the man's manner, rather than what he imagined lay be-
neath the surface. Which made his skin crawl. "Not at all.
Thank you."
"I think you now have what you came out into the night
to find." Tarrant said quietly.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Now I do," he assured him.
Tarrant laughed softly. "You're a curious man, priest.
Courageous enough to take on the demons of Kale, not to
mention the rakh's vicious constructs . . . but not quite
confident enough to share a dae's fireside with another
human traveler."
"Are you that?" Damien said sharply.
Tarrant's expression tightened, ever so slightly. The pale
eyes narrowed. "Am I what?"
"Human."
"Ah. Let's not get into philosophy, shall we? Say that I
was born a man - as you were - and as for what a man may
become . . . we don't all follow paths that our mothers
would have approved of, do we?"
"A bit of an understatement, in your case."
The silver eyes met his. Cold, so cold. The dead might
have eyes like that. "You don't trust me, do you?"
"No," he said bluntly. "Should I?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Some have chosen to."
Ciani wants to, Damien thought. And: I never will.
"You killed that boy. In Briand."
"Yes. I told you why."
"And I believed it - at the time." It was impossible to tell
from the man's expression whether he would buy a bluff or
see right through it. He decided to chance it. "I didn't know
then what I do now."
"Ah." Tarrant's eyes were fixed on him: piercing
through his wordly image, weighing his soul. "I did un-
derestimate you," he said at last. "My apologies. It won't
happen again."
He felt like he had won points in some game, without
even knowing what he was playing. Or if he would ever see
the rulebook. He indicated the boat that was tied up before
them, in whose cabin the mariner was presumably still
cowering. Probably won't show his face until we're out of
here, he thought. Then corrected himself: Until Tarrant's
out of here.
"What was it you showed him?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tarrant shrugged. "I merely indicated that I understood
the situation."
"Which is?"
"Morgot plays host to a number of legitimate shipping
concerns. It's also a refuge for smugglers and other
unsavory types. For all he knew, you were some kind of
local inspector trying to track down a freelance. Out to hurt
his friends. You see," he said quietly, "trying to maneuver
in this region without knowing the rules can be . . .
difficult."
"And you know the rules."
He shrugged. "This is my home."
"Kale."
No answer. Only silent, unvoiced amusement.
"He called youlordship," Damien pressed.
"An ancient honorific. Some men still use it. Does it
bother you so much?"
He met Tarrant's eyes - so pale, so cold - and suddenly
understood what made the man so dangerous. Control.

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Over himself, over his environment . . . and over everyone
who dealt with him.
"It would seem," the priest said quietly, "that we hunt
the same creatures."
"So it would seem."
"For the same purpose?"
Again Tarrant shrugged; the gesture was anything but
casual. "I want them out of the human lands. If they die en
route . . . so much the better."
Damien hesitated; he felt as though he were balanced on
the edge of a precipice, and anything - the wrong words,
even the wrong thoughts - might send him over. But he
knew why he had come here. What he had to do. He might
not like it, but his dreams had made it clear.
"We're here to kill them."
Tarrant smiled indulgently. "I know."
"My friends think you could help us."
"And you don't."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This time it was Damien's turn not to answer.
One corner of Tarrant's mouth twitched slightly; a
smile? "We do serve the same cause," he observed. "If you
won't trust me, trust in that."
"Should I trust you?"
"I would say . . ." He smiled, and shook his head. "No.
Not you."
"But you're willing to help us."
"For as long as our paths coincide - and our purposes are
compatible - yes." He indicated the boat beside them, the
caldera in the distance. "I thought I made that clear."
Damien drew in a deep breath, tried to settle his unease.
It was dangerous to let the man know their weakness - but
if he was to help them, he would have to. There was no
other way.
"We've lost the trail," he said quietly. Watching Tarrant
for his reaction. "We can't Work the fae here."
"Most can't," he agreed.
"The currents are-"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tarrant waved him to silence.
For a moment the tall man just stood there, nostrils
flared as if to test the air. Then he turned toward the
shoreline. Casually, as if his only intention was to watch
the waves break. He raised a hand - but made no gestures
with it, nor did Damien hear a whispered key for Binding.
Minutes passed.
"They're not here," he said at last. "Not in Kale." He
stared southward a moment longer, then added quietly,
"But this was their route. Without question."
"You're sure."
"Their taint is unmistakable." He turned back to the
priest - and for a moment it seemed that his eyes were not
gray but black, his gaze a measureless emptiness. "And
besides, if they mean to go home, this is the only way to do
it. Short of swimming - or climbing the Worldsend."
"And how is it that you can Work the fae here?"
The stranger smiled; his perfect white teeth glinted in
the moonlight. "Call it practice."

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"That's all?"
"That's enough. You're too full of questions, priest. I
don't make a habit of explaining myself."
"That's too bad. I like to know who I'm traveling with."
Tarrant seemed amused. "Is that an invitation?"
"We've just booked passage to Morgot. You're wel-
come to join us . . . unless you'd like to swim."
"I prefer to leave that to the fish, thank you. But yes, I'll
travel with you tomorrow. For as long as our paths
coincide, you may count on me."
He turned away as if to leave - and then looked back at
Damien. "We don't leave until dusk, of course. I prefer not
to travel in sunlight. But you guessed that, didn't you? You
guessed so very much." He smiled, and bowed his head
ever so slightly. "Until tomorrow, Reverend Vryce."
Speechless, Damien watched while Tarrant strode the
length of the pier, disappearing at last into the shadows that
lay along the shore. The priest's hands clenched into fists
slowly, then unclenched, then repeated the pattern. Trying
to bleed off some of the tension, so that the night wouldn't
throw his own fears back at him. The last thing he needed
now was a battle with brainless demonlings. He needed to

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think.
What's done is done. You made your decision, and now
you'll have to live with the consequences. For better and
for worse.
There was a stirring inside the boat's small cabin, as if
in response to the sudden silence without. After a moment
the mariner peeked out; when he saw that Damien was still
there, he began to withdraw.
"He's gone," the priest said quickly. "But I do need to
talk to you."
The man hesitated, then came out onto the deck. "Mer?"
"The trip tomorrow." He felt himself stiffen, fought to
keep the tension out of his voice. "We won't be able to
leave until after dusk."
The man just stared at him. "I figured," he said at last.
"You travel with that kind, those are the hours."
He started to turn away, but Damien indicated with a
gesture that he wasn't done with him.
"Mer?"

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"What was the medallion he showed you?" the priest
asked tightly. "What did it mean?"
The man hesitated; for a minute, it looked like he wished
he were somewhere else. Anywhere else. Damien just
waited. And finally the man muttered, "The Forest. The
Hunter. His servants wear that sigil." He looked up at
Damien; his expression was a warning. "We don't anger
that kind. I suggest you don't either. Not in this region,
anyway." Maybe nowhere at all, his face seemed to say.
"They take care of their own. Their enemies die. No
exception. You understand?"
"I understand," Damien said quietly. Hearing his own
thoughts echo within him, like that of a stranger.
Evil is what you make of it. We use what tools we must.
"Damn it!" he hissed angrily, when the man was out of
hearing. It was a long while before he started back.
Twenty
The sun was still shining brightly when Tobi Zendel's
steam-driven boat approached the Morgot docks. With
care, he brought it in safely at the far end of the harbor.
There were few people about. Which meant few police and
few inspectors. That was intentional. With the xandu on
board - and a damned strange passenger to boot - he was

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anxious to avoid anyone in uniform.
"This is it," he told her. He looped a mooring line over a
convenient post, then leapt up onto the pier to secure it. The
boat rubbed up gently against the cold, swollen wood.
"Sorry I can't take you closer in by boat, but . . . well, hey."
He offered her a hand to help her onto the pier but she
looked right through him, as if it were beneath her pride to
notice. After a moment his hand withdrew. She stepped up
easily onto the boat's polished edge, and from there
continued without hesitation or slippage to step across the
water to the more stable surface of the pier.
"You got your sea legs fast, that's for sure." He grabbed
at another rope from the back end of the boat and affixed
that, too; then he tested them both. "Tell you what. I need
to arrange for some fuel before I start back. You come with
me, I'll show you the way up to the travelers' facilities.
Okay?" She said nothing. He patted the last of his mooring
lines affectionately, then looked back uneasily at the boat.
"Think I ought to secure him? I mean, I left him inside and
all . . . but those are damned flimsy walls, you know what I
mean? Not meant to do much more than keep out the rain."
He glanced at her. Her expression was unreadable. "Think
so?" Still nothing. At last he shrugged and climbed back
down onto the slowly shifting deck.
She waited.
After a moment, there was a noise from inside the cabin.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Some quick movement, and one sharp impact against the
wall. Then silence.
She waited.
The xandu climbed out of the cabin and shook itself
quickly, like a cat shedding water. It looked at her, at the
well-worn pier, and the distance between them. And then,
in one powerful leap, it bypassed all the obstacles. Its feet
landed heavily on the thick planks by her side, toenails
digging into the soft wood for balance.
Wordlessly, she took a small bit of cloth from out of her
right hip pocket. And wiped its two horns dry, of blood and
sea-spray both.
They walked to where the trees began, and made sure
they were well out of sight before she mounted.
Twenty-one
Gerald Tarrantarrived promptly at sunset. His height
and his bearing made him stand out from the locals, even at
a distance: long, easy stride contrasted with their short-
legged hustling, fluid grace set against their unrefined
simplicity. Aristocratic, Damien thought. In the Revivalist
sense of the word. He wondered why the adjective hadn't
occurred to him before.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The horses had been on edge since being lowered like
cargo from the eastern cliff wall; now, as Tarrant
approached, they grew even more agitated. Damien moved
closer to his mount and put his hand on its shoulder.
Through the contact he could feel the animal's fear, a
primal response to dangers sensed but not yet
comprehended.
"I know just how you feel," he muttered, stroking it.
Gerald Tarrant was all politeness, as always. And as
always, there was a dark undercurrent not quite concealed
by his genteel facade. Stronger than before, Damien
noticed. Or perhaps simply more obvious. Was that in
response to the local fae, which would tend to intensify any
malevolence? Or was it simply that the mask of good
nature he normally assumed was allowed to slip a bit, now
that he was close to home?
Or your own fertile imagination working overtime, he
cautioned himself. Senzei and Ciani aren't having any
problem with him.
Not quite true. Senzei was polite, but Damien knew him
well enough to read the added tension in his manner. The
revelation of Tarrant's origin hadn't pleased him any more
than it did Damien. But Ciani-
With consummate grace, Tarrant walked to where she

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

stood, took her hand in his, and bowed gallantly. Gritting
his teeth, Damien was forced to acknowledge the man's
charm.
"Watch her," he muttered, and Senzei nodded. Tarrant's
ties to the Hunter should have been enough to make Ciani
keep her distance - except that she was Ciani, and even
before the accident she had loved knowledge for its own
sake, without the "taint" of moral judgment. With a sinking
feeling Damien realized just how drawn she would be to
the Hunter, and to the mystery that he represented. It would
mean little to her that he tortured human women as a
pastime, save as one more fact for her to devour. For the
first time it occurred to him just what a loremaster's
neutrality meant, and it made his stomach turn. He had
never considered it in quite that way before.
Tarrant came over to where he stood beside the horses;
instinctively he moved closer to his own mount, protecting
it. Tarrant regarded the animals for a moment, nostrils
flaring slightly as he tested their scent. Then he touched
them lightly, one after the other. Just that. As contact was
made with each animal it calmed, and when it was broken
each lowered its nose to the planks of the deck, as if
imagining that it was not at sea, but somewhere on its
favorite grazing ground.
"Not mine," Damien warned him.
"As you wish." They were being approached by the

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

boat's captain and owner; the grubby mariner of the day
before had been transformed by a shave and a change of
clothing into something marginally neater, but no less
obsequious. He clearly considered Tarrant the master of
this expedition.
"Welcome on board, your lordship."
"The wind is adequate?" Tarrant asked.
"Excellent, your lordship. Of course."
"It will hold until we reach Morgot," he promised.
"Thank you, your lordship."
Tarrant glanced about the deck, taking in all of it: the
travelers, their luggage, the newly docile mounts. And
Damien, with his own horse nervously pawing the deck. He
spared an amused, indulgent nod for the pair of them, then
told the man briskly, "All's in order. Take us out."
"Yes, your lordship."
Mooring lines were cast off, sails were raised to catch
the wind, and they began to move. The piers gave way to
open harbor, and then to the sea. Dark waves capped by
moonlight, and a wake of blue-white foam behind them.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the ride was smooth enough for study, Senzei took
out his maps again and began to go over them with Ciani.
Trying to inspire her enthusiasm? Damien winced at the
memory of how lively she had been only a handful of days
ago. And he ached anew, for the loss of the woman he had
come to know so well.
After a time he moved to the bow of the small ship, and
tried to make out the shape of what would be Morgot. But
the island was too dark, or too small, or else too far away.
For a moment he thought he saw mountains in the distance
- but no, those must be low-lying clouds that fooled his eye.
The northern mountains were too far away to be glimpsed
from here.
"You're apprehensive."
He whipped about, a combat-trained reaction. How did
the man manage to come up so close behind him without
him being aware of it?
"Shouldn't I be?" he retorted stiffly.
Gerald Tarrant chuckled. "Here, where no rakh-born
demon can reach you? Remember the power of deep water,
priest. They can't even sense your trail, over this."
He moved so that he could look out over the waves
without quite losing sight of Tarrant. Miles upon miles of

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

water surrounded them, flowing over earth and earth-fae
alike. Far beneath them, hidden from sight, the currents still
flowed northward, but they clung to the surface of the
earth's crust. Here, above the waves, such power was all
but inaccessible. Faeborn creatures usually avoided
crossing bodies of water for that reason; shallow waters
might rob them of their special powers, and deep enough
waters might cost them their life.
He wondered if the creature called the Hunter could
survive such a crossing. Was that why he sent out his
minions, his constructs, but never left the Forest himself?
Or was his form simply so unhuman that the men who plied
the straits for a living would respond poorly to his overtures
- unlike their response to the elegant, courteous Gerald
Tarrant?
Easy, priest. One quest at a time. Let's clean up the
rakhlands first, then take a good look at the Forest. Too
many battles at once will cost you everything.
Black water, pale blue moons. Domina overhead, rising
as they sailed northwards, and the whiter crescent of Casca
counter-rising in the west: a heavenly counterpoint. For an
instant he sensed a greater Pattern forming between them,
as if the tides of light and gravity were cojoined with the
rhythms of lunar rotation in a delicate, ever-shifting web of
power. Then the moment was gone, and the night was
merely dark.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Yes," Tarrant whispered. "That was it."
Damien looked up at him.
"Tidal fae. The most tenuous of all powers - and the
most potent." The silver eyes looked down on him, re-
flecting the cool blue of moonlight. "You're a very fortu-
nate man, Reverend Vryce. Few men ever see such a
thing."
"It was beautiful."
"Yes," Tarrant agreed. There was a strange hush to his
voice. "The tidal power is that."
"Can it be worked?"
"Not by such as you or I," he responded. "Sometimes
women can See it - very rarely - but no human I know of
has ever mastered it. Too variable a power. Very
dangerous."
Damien looked up at him. "You've tried," he said
quietly.
"In my youth," he agreed. "I tried everything. That
particular experiment nearly killed me." The pale eyes
sparkled with some secret amusement. "Does it comfort

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

you, to imagine I could die?"
"We're all mortal," he said gruffly.
"Are we?"
"All of us. Even the faeborn."
"Certainly the faeborn. They lack the innovation - and
thus the initiative - to make it otherwise. But men? With all
this power waiting to be harnessed? Have you never
dreamed of immortality, priest? Never once wondered what
the fae might do for you, if you harnessed it to fend off
death?"
Something stirred inside Damien, that was half pride
and half faith. It was the core of his strength, and he
wielded it proudly. "I think you forget the God I serve," he
told Tarrant. "Those of my calling neither fear death, nor
doubt their own immortality."
For a brief moment, there was something in the other
man's expression that was strangely human. Strangely
vulnerable. And then the moment was gone and the cold,
mocking mask was back in place. "Touche," he muttered,
with a slight bow. "I should know better than to fence
rhetoric with your kind. My apologies."
And abruptly he left, for the company of the others.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Damien just stared after him. Wondering what it was that
he had seen in Tarrant's face - so fleeting, but so very
human - and wondering why it was that that brief hint of
humanity chilled him more than all other facets of the man
combined.
Morgot. It took shape slowly on the horizon, a mountain
of deep gray jutting up from the glassy blackness of the
water. As they came closer, Damien could make out details,
etched in moonlight: the jagged upper edge of a crater's
rim, the thick mass of vegetation clinging to its slopes, the
place where the walls had collapsed into the sea, permitting
entrance into the crater's mouth. Dark, all of it dark. Was
there no night life on Morgot?
Then, as if in answer to his thoughts, a bright light
flashed on one side of the entrance gap. It was followed
seconds later by a matching light on the other side, of the
same angle and intensity. The ship's captain hurried toward
the mirrored lamp that was affixed to the forward mast. He
struck a match and applied it; flame surged upward in the
glass enclosure, made triply brilliant by the mirrors behind
it. Using shutters to focus its beam, he turned it toward the
challenging lights at the caldera's entrance. Short and long
bursts of light in carefully measured proportion flashed
across the water toward Morgot; a few seconds later, a
similar code was returned. The captain muttered to himself
as he interpreted Morgot's messages, reciting weather
warnings, customs codes, docking instructions. At last he
seemed satisfied and shuttered the signal lantern.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Cleared to go in," he muttered - then added, for his
passengers' benefit, "Risky passage at night. Could be
worse, though." He grinned. "Could be moonless."
He moved to the stern of the boat, then, and kicked the
small furnace open. Inside, an orange fire hungrily
consumed its store of fuel. He fed it more. Then, when he
was satisfied that the heat was as it should be, and that the
volume of steam thus produced was to his satisfaction, he
engaged the boat's small turbine. For some minutes more
he remained by the mechanism, following each motion
with his eye, reaffirming the patterns of how it worked in
his own mind. That was necessary to counteract any doubts
his passengers might have had about it, as well as the
formless fears of the horses. The deep water beneath them
meant that such fears couldn't manifest too easily, but it
never hurt to make sure. One good jinxer on board and the
whole mechanism could blow sky high.
When he was finally satisfied with the machine's
performance, he ordered the sails struck and steered them
toward Morgot. Entering the gap in the crater wall was like
entering a tunnel: dark, silent but for the sound of the
turbine, claustrophobically close. The crater's ragged edge
towered over them on both sides, massive walls of igneous
rock that seemed precariously balanced, dangerously
topheavy. What little moonlight seeped down into the
narrow passage only worsened the illusion, and Damien
found himself holding his breath, all too aware of what the

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

most minimal earthquake could do to such a structure. And
earthquakes there must be in quantity, right at the heart of a
collision zone. But then, just when it seemed that their boat
wouldn't make it through to the end, the gap widened.
Enough so that another boat, traveling in the opposite
direction, could pass them in safety. They came about a
sharp jag in the wall-
And Morgot's interior unfolded before them in all its
luminous splendor.
Stars. That was Damien's first impression: a universe
filled with stars, upon whose light they floated. On all sides
the crater's walls rose up about them, its curving slopes lit
by thousands upon thousands of tiny flickering lights:
lanterns, hearth-lights, port markers, open fires. Lights
flickered along the shoreline, lights lined the water's edge,
lights shone from every boat and pier - and all of it was
reflected in the rippling harbor water, each light mirrored a
thousand times over, each image dancing energetically to
the rhythm of the waves. They were in a vast bowl filled
with stars, floating in a dark summer sky. The beauty of it -
and the disorientation - was breathtaking.
He heard soft footsteps coming up behind him, guessed
at their source. But not even Tarrant could make him turn
from that glorious vision.
"Welcome to the north," the man said quietly.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Colored lanterns marked each of the boats in the harbor;
their captain fitted a colored gel to his own signal lantern,
and red sparks danced in the water on all sides of them.
"Not bad, eh? Best beer in the eastlands, to bet. It's out of
Jahanna."
"Jahanna?"
"The Forest," Senzei explained. He and Ciani had come
up to join them at the bow, to watch the sea of scarlet stars
part before their hull.
"The Forest makes beer?"
The captain grinned. "Can you think of something that
place'd need more, besides a good drink?"
The harbor was busy - so much so that Damien won-
dered if Earth hadn't looked like this, once; a place where
night contained no special dangers, where business - and
pleasure - might be conducted at any hour. What was Earth
like now? It had been half-covered in steel and concrete
when the colony ships first left it. How many tens of
thousands of years ago was that? The colonists had crossed
a third of the galaxy in coldsleep to get here; how many
Earth-years would that take? Damien knew the theories -
and he also knew that any real knowledge of how
interstellar travel had worked had been destroyed in the
First Sacrifice. All they had left were guesses.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The efficacy of sacrifice,the Prophet had written, is in
direct proportion to the value of that which is destroyed.
And Ian Casca damned well knew that, Damien thought
bitterly. And understood its implications, all too well. If
only they could have stopped him . . . But there was no
point in pursuing that train of thought, and he knew it.
What was done was done. If mere regret could have
brought the Earth ship back, it would have done that long
ago.
Wending his way through a bewildering array of light
and shadow, the captain brought them unerringly to the
proper pier, and came up against it with hardly a bump to
jar their concentration. The horses looked up slowly, dazed,
and Damien and his two companions moved to get them off
the boat before their full faculties returned.
When they had finished that job, Damien turned to pay
the captain for their passage - and found Gerald Tarrant
counting out coins from a small velvet purse. Gold, by the
look of it.
"That isn't necessary-"
"The Forest pays its servants well," he said shortly.
"Which is why such men are willing to serve us at
inconvenient hours." Then he looked up at Damien; his

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

pale eyes sparkled. "One of the reasons."
"Damien." It was Ciani; she pointed along the pier with
one hand, holding reins in the other. A man in uniform was
walking toward them.
"Police?"
"Probably customs." Tarrant tucked the small purse into
his outer tunic, then opened that garment at the neck. The
gold of the Forest medallion glinted conspicuously between
layers of blue and black silk. "I'll take care of it."
"Is there anything you haven't prearranged?" Damien
said sharply.
He seemed amused. "You mean, do I ever leave any-
thing to chance?" He smiled. "Not by choice, priest."
He moved off to deal with the official. When he was out
of hearing, Damien walked over to where Ciani was, and
helped her fasten the travel packs back onto their mounts.
"He's interesting," he said quietly. An opening.
"And you're jealous."
He stepped back and feigned astonishment.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She tightened the last strap on her own mount's harness,
then turned to him. "Well, you are." She was smiling - not
broadly, not energetically, but with genuine humor. It's a
start, he thought. "Admit it."
And suddenly he wanted her. Wanted her as he had in
Jaggonath, wanted any little bit of the old Ciani that was
left inside her, wanted to take that bit and nurture it and
coax it into life, until she could look at him and smile like
that and her eyes would be the same, her expression would
be what it once had been . . . and that precious feeling
would be there again, binding them, making them oblivious
to Tarrant and the rakh and all such mundane concerns.
The sudden rush of emotion took his breath away; with
effort he managed, "Tarrant?"
"Deny it," she dared him.
"Jealous?"
"Damien." She stepped forward toward him, close
enough to touch. And she put a hand to the side of his face,
soft warm palm against the coarseness of a long day's
stubble. "Women know things like that. Did you think you
were hiding it?" Her eyes sparkled - and it did seem that
there was life in them, a hint of a younger, unviolated
Ciani. "You're not a subtle man, you know."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He was about to respond when Senzei coughed
diplomatically: Tarrant was back. Damien stepped back
from Ciani, putting a less intimate distance between them -
but there was an unspoken challenge in his expression as he
turned to face the Forest's servant, and he knew without
doubt that it communicated exactly what he meant it to.
"Can you pick up a trail?" he asked him.
"Unlikely," Tarrant answered. "Not here, at any rate. A
live volcano exudes its own fae, in quantity; that, and the
strength of the northbound current, will muddy the trail
considerably." He looked up toward the crest of the cone, at
the lights that marked the crater's upper edge. "Perhaps up
there it can be managed. Perhaps. There should be an inn,
at any rate, and the three of you will want refreshment." He
began to lead them toward the narrow shoreline, but
Damien stopped him.
"Alive volcano?" he asked. "I thought Morgot was
extinct. You're telling me this thing could go off beneath
our feet?"
"The verb you're looking for is vulk. And as for this
being an extinct volcano, there's no such thing. Not in a
collision zone. All we know about Morgot is that it hasn't
erupted while man has been present on Erna - a mere
twelve hundred years. That's nothing, geologically
speaking. Volcanoes can have a period considerably longer

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

than that. Ten thousand years - one hundred thousand -
perhaps even longer." He smiled. "Or twelve hundred and
one, for that matter. So I would say that if you want to eat
and get some kind of a fix on things we should start moving
now. Who knows what the next hour may bring?"
"All the sorcerers in the Forest," Damien muttered to
Ciani, "and we have to get a smartass."
She grinned at that. And he put his arm around her. And
felt for the first time since leaving - the first time since the
attack on the Fae Shoppe - that things were going to be all
right. It would take a lot of work and one hell of a lot of
risk to assure it . . . but that was what life was all about,
wasn't it?
The path up to the inn was steep and narrow, a winding
switchback road barely wide enough for them to traverse
single file. Rushlights bordered the path along its outer
edge, illuminating a sheer drop down to the rocky shore
beneath.
"Lovely place," Damien muttered.
After what seemed like hours - but it must have been
much less than that, the crater's edge simply wasn't that
high up - the path widened out, and a broad shoulder
developed along its outer edge. Soon trees became visible,
their roots trailing down like tangled snakes, their bare

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

branches breaking up the moonlight into webwork patterns
across the road. As they continued, more and more trees
began to crowd the shoulder until the harbor beneath them
was no longer visible. Then they reached the crest itself -
and they stopped for a moment, to gaze out upon one of the
most infamous territories in man's domain.
"So close," Ciani whispered.
It was close. A mere channel separated Morgot's
northern boundary from the shore of the mainland; it could
be swum, if one were foolish enough to try it. Ferries plied
the distance even as they watched, and disappeared into the
base of the caldera.Some kind of tunnel there, Damien
decided. And: Hell of a lot of traffic for a place like that.
"You make assumptions." It was Gerald Tarrant's voice,
disconcertingly close behind him. "Where there is
commerce, there will be men. And the Forest holds its own
in trade."
But in what sort of goods! Damien thought darkly.
The inn at the head of the winding road was clearly a
popular one. Half a dozen horses were roped to a lead rail
outside the front door, and the stable-boy who ran out to
greet them looked like he'd been used pretty hard for most
of the night.

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"Staying the day, mers?" he asked.
The travelers looked at each other - and at Tarrant - and
at last Senzei answered, "Looks like it." To the others he
said, "Go on inside. I'll unload."
The interior of the inn was dim and smoky, rushlights
serving as lamps along the outer walls. A fire burned in an
open pit at the far end of the room, but it wasn't quite
enough to banish the autumn chill. Despite the cold,
Damien chose a table far from the fire; it was quieter there,
and somewhat more private. It seemed safer.
There were menus already waiting on the table, and
Ciani opened one as she sat. She looked at it for a moment,
scanning its contents - and then her eyes went wide.
"There's blood on the menu," she whispered.
"It's a rough place," Damien observed. He dropped his
sword harness over the back of a chair.
Tarrant smiled coldly! "I don't believe that's what the
lady meant."
He looked at her. She nodded slowly. And said,
"There's blood listedon the menu."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It took him a second to find his voice. "Animal or
human?"
"Several varieties. I believe . . ." She looked at the menu
again. "The human is more expensive."
"Tastes differ," Tarrant said quietly. "Morgot prides
itself on being hospitable to all travelers."
"And what will you be having?"
He laughed softly. "Nothing, for now. I thought that
while the three of you ate I might take a look around."
"At the fae?"
"If it's possible. There was a nice little clearing about a
hundred yards back. It should offer as good a view as any.
I'll be back shortly," he promised.
You do that, Damien thought.
Senzei joined them a few minutes later, their valuables
in tow. Then a young boy, introducing himself as Hash,
offered to serve as their waiter. The blood? he said, in
response to Damien's query. Quite healthy. Freshness
guaranteed. Now, if the gentleman had a particular type in
mind . . .

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Damien shuddered, and told him just to bring a drink.
Anything that wasn't red. He didn't hear what Senzei and
Ciani ordered; his attention was fixed on the door to the
outside, his imagination fixed on the man just beyond it.
"You worried?" Senzei asked.
Damien looked at him sharply. "Shouldn't I be?"
"Why don't you go check on him?"
He started to protest, then stopped himself. And stood.
"I will," he promised. "If the food comes before I get back .
. ." Then something has gone very wrong. "Eat without
me," he said simply.
He took his sword with him.
Outside, the night was cold. They hadn't noticed it on
the climb up - the climb itself must have warmed them - but
now, alone in the darkness, he wrapped his jacket tightly
about himself and thought, Winter's coming. Traveling will
get harder. Everything will get harder.
Coming up north didn't help.
A short distance from the inn's front door, he found a

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small clearing that looked out over the harbor. Gerald
Tarrant was standing there, eyes slowly scanning the
crater's interior. Once. Twice. Again.
At last, Damien dared, "Anything?"
He hesitated. "Hard to say. A trace, perhaps. Hard to
focus on. Nearly every signal is drowned out by the
volcano's outpouring . . . very little is comprehensible. The
image of someone watching stands out - not our quarry, I
might add - and a taint at the harbor's mouth which might
have been left by the ones we seek. But as for when they
left here, or exactly where they went . . . the interference is
simply too great."
"Like trying to search for a candle flame in front of the
sun," Damien said quietly.
Tarrant glanced at him. "It's been a long time since I
stared at the sun," he said dryly.
Damien stepped forward - and was about to speak, when
the slamming of the inn's door warned him that someone
else was about to join them. He looked back the way he had
come and saw Ciani running toward them. Senzei was right
behind her.
When she came to where the two men stood she
stopped, and then hesitated; there was a sense of wrongness

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about her that Damien was hard put to identify, but it was
enough to put him on his guard. Senzei tried to put a
restraining hand on her arm, but she pulled away sharply.
"I want to be here," she told them. Something about the
cadence of her voice seemed oddly wrong, as though the
words were being forced out. By her, or someone else?
"When things are decided. I needto be here. Please . . ."
"She just got up and left," Senzei said. "I tried to stop
her, but she didn't give me any warning. I had to leave the
stuff behind-"
Damien strode to her, quickly. His heart was pounding
in a fevered rhythm he knew all too well, and he felt his
sword hand tensing in combat readiness as he took her
firmly by the arm and said, "We're going back. Now. We
can talk inside. You should never have come out here, Cee .
. ." And would never have, he thought grimly. Not without
some sorcerous influence to cloud your judgment.
"Too late for that." Tarrant said softly. He nodded
toward the trees on the far side of the road, to where motion
that was not windborn stirred the dying branches. Ciani's
eyes, mesmerized, followed the motion. "They have us,"
the tall man whispered.
And the creatures attacked. Not merely three of them
now, but a band whose numbers had clearly been swelled

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by reinforcements. They came from the far side of the road,
and Damien had barely a moment to reflect that if luck had
been against them - if Tarrant had chosen that side of the
caldera's rim for his efforts - the humans would have been
slaughtered before they could make a move to defend
themselves. As it was, there was less than a second before
they struck, and Damien used it. He shoved Ciani behind
him, hard, and drew his sword in one sweeping motion.
"Get her!" he hissed to Senzei - and thank God, the man
understood. He ran behind Damien - unarmed, the priest
noticed, damn the luck! - to get hold of Ciani before she
could recover herself. So that whatever power had taken
control of her mind, it couldn't force her back into the
center of things.
Then the creatures were upon him, and as he swung the
keen blade into them he felt himself giving ground, trying
to retreat to some position that would keep the enemy from
surrounding him. There were too many, they were too fast,
and there was simply no cover in sight . . . bad, it was very
bad. If he'd had more than an instant to think about it, the
fear might have frozen his limbs; as it was, he channeled all
his tension into his sword blade, and it struck his first
opponent's blade with enough power to force back the
crude steel, so that his blade bit into flesh and the creature's
blood-dark purple, glisteningly unhuman - began to flow.
But it was only a drop in a flood tide of violence, and he
knew as he recovered his sword that were simply too many
of them, that sooner or later they must surely overwhelm
him-

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And then, without warning, light filled the clearing.
Cold light that blinded but did not illuminate - that washed
the moonlit battlefield in a chill blue luminescence, whose
presence seemed to intensify rather than drive back the
shadows. Tarrant, he thought darkly, as he brought up his
sword to defend himself from another blow. Must be. He
dared to twist his head around for an instant - only an
instant - and saw the tall figure standing with sword drawn
beside him. The chill light came from that slender steel and
was as blinding as a sun to look upon; Damien fell back as
his vision was seared into near-uselessness, trusting to
instinct rather than sight to fight for a moment of recovery.
He saw the blazing unlight arc, heard it bite into the flesh
of their nearest opponent. An icy wind whipped at his face,
as if the blow itself were sucking the heat right out of him.
And then two of the creatures were upon him - or was it
three? - and the whole of his energy had to go to fighting
them off. He felt the shock of a sword stroke reverberate
against his own steel, tried to draw back into a parry that
would defend against his second opponent - but they were
too fast, there were too many of them, and he felt sharp
steel bite into his arm, releasing a gush of warm blood
down his shirt sleeve. Can't do it, he thought despairingly -
and, with bitter determination: Have to.He was aware of
Senzei behind him, struggling to keep Ciani out of the line
of battle. Both of them unarmed. Helpless. He saw Tarrant
swing again by his side, saw the brilliant unlight cut into
another one of the creatures. But: Not enough, he thought.
He felt the cold bite of fear deep inside him as he swung
again, forcing one of his opponents back. Trying not to

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open himself up to the others while he did so. Not enough!
And then, everything stopped. Suddenly. It was as if the
air about them had suddenly become solid; as if both their
bodies and their minds had been paralyzed. For a moment,
there was no movement - not even thought - only the
physical shock of forced immobility. Utter fear . . . and
wonder.
At the far side of the road, a figure stood. The cold blue
unlight hinted at a form that was human in shape, tightly
bound in layers of cloth. Female. Though only her face was
visible, and that was without expression, Damien was
suddenly overcome by the sense that she was suffering -
had suffered - would suffer endlessly, unless he helped. For
one blind moment there was no armed enemy in his
universe, no Tarrant, not even Senzei or Ciani: only this
one strange figure, whose need for his help overwhelmed
all his defensive instincts, drawing him forward . . .
And then the paralysis that gripped him shattered like
breaking glass. He could hear Tarrant's sharply drawn
breath beside him, but he had no time to contemplate its
cause - becausetheyhad turned toward her, all of them, and
he could taste the hunger rising in them like some palpable
thing, a tide of malevolence that made the bile rise in his
throat. They were responding to the same image that he
was, drawn by the woman's utter vulnerability. But their
instinct was not to defend, but to devour. Not to protect, but
to rend. He saw them moving toward her and gripped his

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sword tightly, then lunged - and felt his sword tip thrust
through the back of one of the creatures, just beside the
spine. He forced the steel to shove through - blade
horizontal, thrusting through ribs and flesh and out again
through the chest, steel grating against bone as it passed.
Then he jerked it out, hard, and prepared himself for a
return assault. But there was none. The creatures were
wholly fixated upon their prey, oblivious to all but their
hunger and her helplessness. She had stepped back from the
road now, into the limited shelter of the trees, and as the
creatures moved forward to take her, as Damien moved
forward to take them, he could almost see the power
radiating forth from her, lancing forth to the moons and the
stars and back again, a rainbow web of fae that shimmered
about her like some translucent silk. Tidal fae, he thought
in wonder, as he swung again. Targeting the head of one of
the creatures.She's Worked us all.
The full force of his moulinet smashed into the crea-
ture's skull, shattering it in a cloud of blood and hair bits.
The body of his victim went flying across the road, brains
and bone shards spilling out across the feet of its fellows. It
got their attention at last. The nearer one turned and looked
at Damien - and blinked, like a man awakening from deep
sleep. The priest thrust, but it was too late; the creature
managed to dodge him, stumbling, and quickly backed
away. He heard a muffled scream behind him, and the
blood ran cold in his veins at the sound of it. Ciani? Where
the hell was Senzei, and what was Tarrant doing? He didn't
dare take a moment to look. The woman's spell was rapidly
fading, and the creatures were but an instant away from

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attacking anew. He braced himself for a second onslaught -
how many of them were there, now? Four? Five? - but to
his surprise, they made no move toward him. He tried to
advance and found himself suddenly dizzy; his left arm was
warm and wet and becoming weak. How much blood had
he lost? No matter. Against even odds he could stand his
ground and parry, but against so many opponents he must
press for any advantage, never let them regain the initiative
. . .
They moved. Suddenly. Not toward him, as he had
expected. Nor toward the strange woman, or even Ciani.
Away. Their legs splattered with the blood of their fallen
comrades, their feet treading on bits of bone . . . they ran.
Bolted like animals into the brush. Damien moved to
follow . . . and then stopped and drew in a deep breath. He
fought the urge to look down at his arm and looked instead
at the woman. She was still there, but the power
surrounding her had faded; whatever she was, she was no
longer Working.
Ciani!
He turned back toward the clearing, heart pounding.
Toward a tableau that was as chilling as the one which he
had just witnessed. Senzei lay on the ground, Half-stunned,
his stomach and side drenched in blood; barely two feet
away lay the body of the creature who must have gotten to
him, now decapitated. There was another such creature on
the far side of the tableau, similarly dispatched. Whatever

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else Tarrant's sword might be, it was efficient enough in
battle. But as for the man himself . . .
He stood in the center of the clearing, eyes blazing in
hatred and defiance. In his right hand he still held the
sword, and its chill glow made his pale flesh look like
something long dead. And in his other arm . . . Ciani lay
there, limp and unmoving, her one visible hand as white
and as bloodless as ivory. Where he pressed her against
him there was blood, and it trickled down from under her
hair to his shirt sleeve as though binding them together. For
an instant it was as if Damien could See the very power that
linked them, and he stiffened as he recognized its nature.
Hating, as he had never hated before.
"You bastard!" he hissed. "You were one of them all the
time!"
The rage in Tarrant's eyes was like a black fire, that
sucked the very heat from Damien's soul. "Don't be a
fool!" he whispered fiercely. The words came hard, as
though he were struggling for speech. "You don't
understand. You can't understand."
"You did what they did," he said. Seeing the flow of
power between them, sensing the new emptiness inside her.
"You took her memories. Deny it!"
Tarrant shut his eyes for an instant, as if struggling with

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something inside himself. Damien gauged the distance
between them, Ciani's position, his own fading strength -
and then the moment was gone, and the black gaze was
fixed on him again. Shadowed, as if in pain.
"I became what she feared the most," the man whis-
pered. "Because that's what I am." He spoke the words as
if he didn't quite believe them himself, and as he looked
down at Ciani he seemed to shudder. Senzei, behind him,
began to stir weakly - and the look that Tarrant shot at him
told Damien that not all of the man's wounds had been
imposed by the enemy.
"Tried to stop him," Senzei gasped. "Tried . . ."
Slowly, Damien sheathed his sword. Pain pierced
through his arm like fire, but he gritted his teeth and
managed to ignore it. Ever aware of the hot blood that was
dripping from his wounded arm, he snapped open the
pouch affixed to his belt. Inside it, in a carefully padded
interior, two special flasks lay side by side. One was silver,
and now held most of the Church's precious Fire - the
Patriarch's gift. The other, its original vial, was glass; if he
threw it hard enough it would shatter on contact, and the
moisture still clinging to its inner surface should be enough
to burn the life from any nightborn demon.
"Don't be a fool!" Tarrant hissed. He seemed to draw
back - but whether in fear or in preparation for a Working,
Damien couldn't say.

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"You claiming power over this as well?" He drew it out
- and even as little moisture as remained in the fragile vial
was enough to send beams of golden light lancing through
the clearing. Tarrant breathed in sharply in pain as they
struck him, but made no effort to escape them.
"You idiot . . . do you really think you can hurt me with
that? I can blast the ground beneath your feet faster than
you can move - or the air between us, before you can take a
breath."
"Give me Ciani," Damien said coldly.
Tarrant winced. Seemed to be struggling within himself.
At last he whispered, hoarsely, "You can't help her now."
"Give her to me!"
If he didn't throw the flask then, it was because of the
expression that came over the man's face: so human, so
strangely tormented, that for a moment he was too shaken
to attack.
Tarrant's voice was hoarse. "I vowed once that I would
never hurt this woman. But when that woman's Working
hit, with the full force of the tidal fae behind it . . . it
awakened a hunger too intense. I feed on vulnerability,
priest - and she was too close. Too helpless. I lost control."

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"So much for your precious vow," Damien growled.
Something flickered in those lightless eyes that was not
rage or hatred. Pain? "The true cost of that is beyond your
comprehension," he whispered.
Damien took a step forward. The clearing spun dizzily
about him. "Give her to me," he demanded.
Tarrant shook his head, slowly. "You can't help her," he
said. "Not without killing me."
His fingers tightened on the flask. "Then we'll just have
to try that, won't we?"
Gerald Tarrant tensed. He raised his sword overhead, a
gesture more of display than of active aggression - and if
Damien hesitated for an instant, it was in the hope that the
man would let go of Ciani before he attacked. So that she
would be out of danger. But then the blazing sword was
suddenly thrust point downward into the earth, deep into
the dirt between them-
And earth-fae met earth-fae in an explosion that rocked
the entire ridge. The ground erupted toward Damien, a wall
of dirt and shattered stone that hit him like a tidal wave. He
was knocked to the ground with stunning force, half buried
by the clumps of earth and gravel and rotting wood that the

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explosion had thrown at him. With a moan he tried to
move, but the effort was too much; he tried to close his
hand, to see if he still held the precious vial, but his fingers
were numb and packed in earth, helpless to move. He made
one last effort to get himself up, or at least to dislodge some
portion of the debris that covered him . . . but it was too
much, or else the blood loss was too much, or all of it was
too much combined. He slid down slowly into darkness -
and even the curse that might have accompanied his
passing was muffled by the earth, and went unheard.
Twenty-two
Dirt, plugging his nostrils.
Dirt filling his mouth and throat, mud-wet with blood.
Pounds upon pounds of it, covering him over like grave -
filling, burying him alive. He struggles, coughs, tries to
take in air. Fights to free himself from the monstrous
weight that pins him down - tries to turn over, or sit up, or
even just raise up an arm, any sign of life - but the earth
clings to him like an incubus, mud-fingers gripping his
clothing, pulling him down . . .
"Damien."
He pits all his strength against the weight of the earth
above him and feels himself move at last, so that he can
strike out at the fingers that clutch at him-

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"Damien!"
Hundreds of them gripping his skin, holding him down.
He strikes out with all his strength at the creature that must
be out there, somewhere, whose hands dig so deeply into
his flesh that it seems they must draw blood-
"Damien, you hit me once more, I'll give it to you good.
You understand me? Damien!"
He drew in a deep breath, slowly. No dirt. The hundreds
of fingers became dozens, became ten. He opened one eye-
the other seemed to be swollen shut - and studied a hazy
outline that might or might not be Senzei.
"Thank the gods," the sorcerer muttered. "You all
right?"
It seemed that the words had miles to travel before they
got to his mouth. "I . . ." He coughed heavily, and the dirt-
filled mucus that clogged his throat loosened; the words
came easier. "I think so. Where's Ciani?"
"Gone." Senzei's face was coming into focus now -
pale, bruised, hollowed by misery. "He took her."
"Where?" He tried to sit up. Pain lanced through all his
limbs and his head-especially his head-with such searing

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force that he fell back, gasping. "Where, Zen?"
"Take it easy." There was another hand, now, smaller
and gentler, and it laid a cool cloth against his brow.
Damien snatched it away.
"Where,Zen?"
He hesitated. "The Forest is my guess. As good as any.
She said he went north-"
He managed to get his other eye open; a second Senzei
swam hazily in his vision. "Who said that?"
"The woman."
"The one who . . ." He floundered for words.
"Yeah. That one."
"Merciful God." He raised up a hand to rub his temple,
but the touch of flesh against flesh burned him like acid.
"What happened, Zen? Tell me."
The sorcerer reached out and took his hand, and gently
put it down by his side. "Take a deep breath first." Damien
started to protest, then obeyed. He coughed raggedly.
"Again." The next one went down a bit easier. He took a

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few more voluntarily, until the flow of air seemed a bit
more reliable.
Then he forced both eyes open and took a look around.
It was a small room, windowless; Senzei was standing by
the bed on one side, a plain, middle-aged woman was
seated on the other. An older man in more formal clothing
stood at the foot of the bed, scowling in disapproval. After
seeing that Damien was both conscious and coherent, the
latter figure stalked out.
"Tell me," the priest whispered.
"After Tarrant-" Senzei drew in a shaky breath. "There
was an explosion. Most of it went your way, I think. It must
have knocked you out. It hit me, too, but not nearly as hard.
I thought I saw a figure picking its way over the mounds of
earth . . . it must have been him. I couldn't see Ciani. No
details. I passed out. No idea how long. When I came to
again . . ." He bit his lower lip, remembering. "There was
something on top of you. Feeding. The woman was pulling
it back, twisting its neck so it would let go . . . it had scaled
wings, and a tongue like a snake, and its mouth was
dripping with blood . . . she snapped its head off. Just like
that. And threw it over the edge, harbor-side. Then she . . .
she dug the dirt out of your mouth, so you could breathe.
And she took something out of her clothing and rubbed it
on your arm, where the wound was. She did some other
things - I couldn't see clearly, I was barely conscious
myself - and then she stood, and this . . . some kind of

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animal came to her, walking like a horse but it looked like
something else, and it had two long horns, like rainbow
glass . . ." He closed his eyes, remembering; his voice sank
to a whisper. "I asked, where did he go? For a moment, she
didn't acknowledge me. Then she looked out toward the
northlands, and pointed there. "Forest," she said. "Where
men devour men." He coughed heavily. "Then she mounted
and rode off. I tried to get to you, so I could help - but I
couldn't. I couldn't move. The pain was so bad . . . I
thought I was dying. Then the sun rose, and they came to
help."
"They?"
"From the inn. They'd heard the explosion." He glanced
at the woman, then away. His voice was bitter. "They
waited till dawn before they went outside. Afraid for their
precious skins. So we lay there without help till then. The
sun rose, and they came outside and got us. They did what
they could for our wounds. They gave us blood. You were
delirious. It's been hours . . ."
Damien tried to sit up. The room swirled around him,
and blood pounded hotly in his temples . . . and he tried it
again. And again. On the third try, he succeeded.
"We need to go," he muttered.
Senzei nodded. No questions about why, or where. He

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

understood. "You're in bad shape," he warned.
"How bad?"
"The doctor said you'd be out for days."
"So much for that diagnosis. What else?"
"Blood loss, concussion, possible internal damage - he
wasn't sure on that last one, might have thrown it in just to
cover all the bases. The wound in your arm seems to be
closing up all right - whatever she put on it seems to have
kept it from getting infected - but all the stitches in the
world won't keep it from opening up if you use it too
much. And you're bruised like all hells."
"That's par for the course," he said. "What about you?"
Senzei hesitated. "Took a thrust in one side. Pretty ugly,
very bloody, but nothing vital was hit. Or so it seems. Hurts
like hell - but that goes without saying. The doctor said not
to exert myself until it heals."
Damien noted the stiffness with which he moved, the
thickness about his middle where bandages were no doubt
layered. "She didn't do anything for you? The woman, I
mean."

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Senzei looked away. "No," he said softly. "I've been
thinking about it a lot since it happened. At this point I'm
not even sure she meant to save our lives. I mean, the
timing was certainly fortunate, but it seems like a chancy
way to enter a fight. I think she meant it as a kind of . . .
test, maybe. To see what we would do. I think . . . she
helped you because you tried to save her. Because that was
your first instinct, when her Working hit."
"So what was yours?" Damien asked quietly.
Senzei bit his lip. Shook his head. "Let's not discuss it,
all right? Few of us are as perfect as we'd like to be."
Damien forced himself to look away. "All right. You're
hurt, I'm hurt . . . simple flesh wounds, maybe an infection
or two. Nothing I can't Heal."
"Oh, yeah? Using what fae?"
Damien stared at him. And realized what he meant.
"Shit."
"I've been a Worker all my life, you know. Moved the
toys near my crib without touching them, and all that. Now
. . ." He wrapped his arms about himself and shivered. "It
almost killed me in Kale. It'd be a thousand times worse
here, this close to the Forest. I think I'd rather bleed."

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"We can't wait for nature to heal us before we leave."
"I know that," he whispered.
Damien swung his legs over the side of the bed. The
pounding in his head - and the pain - had subsided to a
mere throbbing drumbeat. "He can only travel at night,
right? It was well past midnight when he left here. Dawn
came soon after that, and the sun's still up. That means he
got, what, three hours of travel time on us? We push hard,
we've got him." He looked at Senzei. "If we leave now."
"All our things are packed," Senzei said quietly.
"Can you make it?"
The sorcerer looked at him sharply. "Can you?"
"No question," he said. "He's got Ciani."
Senzei nodded. "Same here."
Damien drew in a deep breath, tried to gather his
thoughts. "If we're moving fast, we won't want all the
horses. We'll keep three - two for us, one for backup. And
for Ciani. Drop off some of the duplicate supplies in
Mordreth, hopefully where we can get at them later . . . but
if not, not. We strip down and travel fast. Get that son of a

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bitch before he knows what hit him."
"You really think we can take him?"
"Oh, I've killed nastier things. None of them were quite
so eloquent . . . but remember, we're not playing by his
rules this time. And I do have a weapon that'll hurt him."
He reached for the padded pouch at his belt - and suddenly
panicked, when he realized it wasn't there. "Zen, they-"
"It's here." He reached to the side of the bed, where the
pouch and its supporting belt lay coiled atop a small table.
"They took it off you when they cleaned you up. I didn't let
it out of my sight."
"Good man." He opened the flap of the pouch, and saw
both the silver flask and the crystal vial cushioned within.
The latter had dirt encrusted in its delicately etched surface;
he picked at it with a fingernail and muttered, "I'm
surprised this survived."
"You had it gripped so tightly it didn't have a chance to
get broken. Even in your delirium you wouldn't let go; we
had to pry it out of your fingers."
Damien tried to fasten the belt around himself, but his
wounded arm - swollen, stiff, and throbbing with pain -
lacked the dexterity. Senzei helped him.

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"You sure you can make it?"
Damien glared. "I have to. We both have to." He patted
the pouch into place over his hip, felt the outline of the flat
silver flask within. "I guess if we're going to leave the extra
horses behind, we should try to sell them. We've been
going through capital like water-"
"I sold three of them this morning," Senzei told him.
"Not a great price, but it covered the medical bills. And I
gathered our things - what was left of them - and settled
with the people here, for their time and supplies. And I
found this." He dropped a small golden object onto the bed
beside Damien. It took the priest a moment to realize what
it was.
"My God," he whispered. He picked it up, and held it by
the broken chain so that the earth-disk dangled before his
eyes. Its reverse side, engraved with a delicate sigil, caught
the light as it turned.
"I found it near where he'd been standing. She must
have pulled it off him when he attacked her. Damned lucky
accident, don't you think?"
"Knowing Ciani, I would say . . . not an accident at all."
He imagined her in that last moment of terror, some
precious particle of her mind clinging to sanity long enough
to reason out what they might need, striking out in seeming

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chaos until his tunic front was torn open, until her fingers
closed over the precious gold and pulled . . .
"What a woman," he breathed. "Give me ten like that,
and I could take an empire."
Senzei forced a smile. "It's getting hard enough just
keeping track of one."
Slowly, Damien eased himself forward. He braced both
his hands against the edge of the bed - and paused for a
minute, breathing heavily. Then he pushed upward, forcing
his legs to bear the weight. Pain shot like fire up his left
arm - but it was going to do that for quite some time, he
might as well get used to it. After a moment, he managed to
stand. A few seconds more, and the room stopped spinning.
He managed a step. Two. The room was steady. The pain in
his arm subsided to a stabbing throb.
"All right," he said. He looked at Senzei. "Let's do it."
"And no more going unarmed," he said harshly, as the
ferry carried them across to Mordreth. "I want you with a
weapon on you at all times. That means if you go behind
the bushes to take a piss you have a sword in your hand
when you do it. You go off to bed a woman, I want a sword
on the pillow next to you. Got me?"
Senzei looked out over the water. "I guess I deserve

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that."
"Damn right you do. It's a miracle you didn't get your-
self killed out there. And miracles rarely repeat
themselves."
There were a number of small tables at the center of the
ferry, a few of them occupied by travelers: eager merchants
conversing over lists of merchandise, a group of laborers
quickly bolting down sandwiches, a nursing mother.
Damien found them a vacant table and pulled over two
chairs for them.
"Let's get to work."
He spilled out a box of ammunition on the table between
them, picked one bolt up and turned it about, thoughtfully.
The short wooden shaft had a metal tip on one end, a
curved band on the other. He took out his pocket knife and,
with the tip, tried to pry off the two metal pieces. The tip
came off easily. The band at the base was tight, and took
some work.
"Wax," he muttered. "Adhesive."
Senzei rummaged through the pack that held their
smaller supply items. After a few minutes he managed to
find a small chunk of amber wax. The stick of glue took
longer.

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"Would there be any point in asking what you're
doing?"
"Preparing for war," Damien muttered. "Watch and
learn."
He laid the naked shaft before him on the table, and
rolled it over until he was satisfied with the placement of
the grain. Then, carefully, he used his knife blade to split it
open. It took little encouragement to get it to crack open
along the grain, down the length of the shaft.
He looked about to see if anyone was watching. But the
other passengers were perusing their own work at their own
tables, or sitting on the long benches that flanked the
staircase to the second level, casually chatting, or else
standing at the rail that guarded the edge of the deck,
watching the muddy green water course by.
He took the silver flask out of its pouch and carefully -
reverently - opened it. And he dribbled a few precious
drops down the exposed center of the wooden shaft, until
the Fire was absorbed into the wood. The shaft glowed
dully, like cooling charcoal.
"Now." He capped the flask and put it beside him -
carefully, oh so carefully - and took the glue from Senzei.
The halves went together easily, with only a narrow scar

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where his knife had been applied. Next he briskly rubbed
the wax onto the surface of the shaft, until the whole of it
was coated. The metal tip and anchoring band he glued
carefully back in place.
"There." He set the finished product before him. It
looked little different than the other bolts, and Senzei had
to fight to keep himself from Working his sight to see if
there was indeed a difference. The change would be visible
enough when molecules of the Fire, seeping through the
dry wood, reached the surface of the shaft. Maybe.
"You think it'll work?"
"I think it can't hurt to try. A few dozen drops of Fire at
risk . . . and if it works, it gives us one hell of an arsenal."
He looked up at Senzei - and for an instant, just an instant,
the sorcerer thought he saw a flicker of fear in the priest's
eyes. He felt his own throat tighten, knowing what it must
take to cause such a thing.
You're the brave one, Damien. If you give in . . . I don't
know if I can handle it.
"You okay?" the priest said quietly.
He met his eyes. And managed to shrug. "I'll be all
right."

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"There's nearly two hours of daylight left. We should
reach the Forest's border by then. He can't be too far ahead
of us. If we can find a physical trail-"
"And what if we can't?"
Damien forced his knife into the center of another shaft.
The wood snapped apart with a sharp crack, into two nearly
equal halves.
"Then I'll have to Work to find one," he said quietly.
"Won't I?"
Mordreth. It was a mining town, a gold rush town, a
trapper's camp . . . and all the worst elements of those
things combined, with none of their redeeming features. It
was a transitory camp somehow made permanent by sheer
persistence on the shoreline, by the need for its dismal bars
and rat-trap inns and cheap entertainment halls, as well as
the manpower that was its most precious commodity. But if
the inhabitants of Mordreth had any hunger for beauty, they
clearly indulged it elsewhere. The place was gray: muddy
gray along the water, dirty gray in the streets, weathered
gray about the houses. The only color that existed in the
town was in a few garish signs, a tattered line of pennants,
and occasionally the undergarments that the whores wore
as they gathered in the brothel windows, beckoning to
passing strangers.

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Damien and Senzei rode through the muddy streets at a
rapid pace; the horses seemed as anxious as they were to
get through the town quickly. The place had an aura of
entrapment about it - as if by staying too long within its
borders, one might lose the will to leave. By the time they
reached the far side of the dingy settlement Senzei was
shivering - and not from the cold.
"You really want to leave our supplies here?" he asked.
Damien shook his head grimly but said nothing.
They rode through a long stretch of flatlands, the only
vegetation sparse patches of dead grass that reminded them
how very close at hand winter was. The ground was hard,
nearly frozen. Which was something to be grateful for,
Damien pointed out; in another season, it might have been
mud.
Senzei was beginning to understand why he had never
traveled.
A few miles later they came upon the first signs of
human life. A scrap of cloth, lying in a clump of dead
grass. The shards of a packing crate, long since dismem-
bered. A circle of stones, blackened by fire, and beside it
the marks of a recent encampment. Damien glanced at the
latter once but gave it no more notice; their quarry would
not be camping.

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They rode on. The sun dropped lower and lower in the
west, the colors of dusk adding their own special tenor to
that sullen, swollen star. Greenish-yellow light spilled
across the landscape: skies before a storm. It was becoming
easier to spot the artifacts on the ground around them now,
outlined as they were by vivid black shadows. They came
to a low rise, then another. And another. Shallow rises
became rolling hills: the vanguard of a mountain range.
How far north had they come?
Senzei watched it all pass by, clutching himself against
the chill of nightfall. The pain in his side was growing
worse and worse, each jolt of the horse on the uneven
ground driving spears of fire deep into his flesh. He tried to
ignore it, tried to overcome the faintness that threatened to
overwhelm him, the grayness that had fogged all but the
very center of his field of vision. Because they couldn't
afford to slow down, not for him. Slowing down meant
losing Ciani. Taking time to heal now is as good as
committing her to death, he told himself. And so he clung
unsteadily to the saddle beneath him, and somehow
managed to keep riding.
And then they came to it. Damien first, topping a
particularly high rise. He pulled up suddenly, to the
confusion of his mount. Senzei followed suit. The extra
horse snorted in alarm and tried to break away, but their
own two mounts were calm enough and a sharp jerk on the
reins of the third served to discipline him for the moment.

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They regarded their destination.
In the distance were trees. They began suddenly, a solid
wall of brown and black and beige trunks jutting up from
the half-frozen ground, overlaid by jagged branches and
brown, dying leaves. The Forest. From their vantage point
Senzei and Damien could see far into the distance, over the
treetops to the mountains beyond. The Forest's canopy
stretched out for miles upon miles, a thick tangle of
treetops and dead leaves and parasitic vines that smothered
the entire region like some vast, rotting blanket. Here and
there an evergreen peeked out, a hint of somber green
struggling for sunlight. Yellow-green light washed over it
all, sculpting the canopy with light and shadow so that it
seemed like a second landscape, with hills and valleys and
even meandering river beds all its own.
That was what caught their attention first, and held it for
several long minutes. Then, when they had taken it in, their
eyes traveled downward. Into the valley before them.
Where men were gathering.
They were camped just before the tree line, where the
shallow earth had guaranteed that nothing but grass and
simple brush would take root. Their encampments were
crude and severe,functional rather thancomfortable, and a
sharp, ammoniac smell arose from the land they had
claimed, as though some territorial beast had sprayed every

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tent in the place. There were several cabins - crudely built -
and a structure that might have been meant to serve as
outhouse, but otherwise the make-do shelters that dotted
the landscape were transient structures of pole and canvas,
unenduring. There were a few wooden frames with animal
skins stretched across them, a few cooking fires, a single
laundry line. And men. They were gathering at the foot of
the hill, as though preparing to welcome the travelers - or
challenge them. Damien glanced at Senzei, about to issue
instructions - and then looked again, more closely, his eyes
narrowing in concern. "You all right?"
Senzei managed a shrug. "I'll live," he muttered. And
though that was all he said, they both understood what he
meant; not I'm sure I'll survive this, but rather,I
understand our priorities. We have to keep moving. Don't
stop for me.
With a brief nod of approval, Damien started down the
hill. He made no move for his weapon, but Senzei knew
from experience just how quickly he could get to it if need
be. He wished he had half the priest's skill at combat; if a
fight broke out here, he'd probably wind up skewered
before he could get his own blade halfway out of its
scabbard.
Say it right, he told himself. It wouldn't be a fight. Not
with two against this many. That's called a slaughter.
The two slowed their horses as the locals gathered

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

around them, until they were brought to a full stop at the
base of the hill. The locals were all men, for the most part
hardy types in their prime, functionally dressed. All were
possessed of that particular hard expression that said, we
don't need strangers, or their questions. Justify your
presence or get out of here, fast.
Damien rose up in his saddle; Senzei could feel the
crowd tense. "We're looking for someone," the priest said.
His voice was carried crisp and clear by the dry autumn air;
a preacher's voice, strong and unhesitating. "He would
have come through just before dawn - a tall man, with a
woman in tow." He looked out over the sea of faces -
neither hostile nor sympathetic, but coolly unresponsive -
and added, "We'll pay well for any information."
There was a murmur at that, and several glares, passed
between the men. One voice spoke up, openly hostile.
"Yeah, we've seen one. A Lord of the Forest, that one.
Came through like fire - untouchable, y'know? We don't
look, we don't ask. Them's the rules."
Damien looked toward the source of the voice. "Did he
have a woman with him?"
The men looked at each other; it was clear they were
debating whether or not to answer Damien. "Think so," one
said at last. "Across his saddle?" "Yeah," another
confirmed. "I saw it."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A man who was close to the horses stepped forward and
tried to put his hand on Damien's mount, in warning. The
horse, well-trained, backed tensely away.
"You understand," he said to Damien. "We're not
supposed to notice that kind. It's death to interfere with
‘em."
"Interference is my business," Damien assured him.
"You know where he went?"
"Listen to me," another said. He, too, stepped forward,
divorcing himself from the crowd. A middle-aged man,
silver-haired, with dark weathered skin and a workman's
hands. "Three or four times a year, His people come
through here like that. And right behind them, often as not,
a herd of men comes galloping along in hot pursuit.
Brothers and fathers, husbands, lovers - sometimes hired
swords that were paid to fight alongside them - all of them
determined that thistime, this one time, the Hunter won't
get what He wants." His eyes narrowed as he regarded
Damien. "You hear what I'm saying? Men just like you
two, with questions just like yours. Armed to the teeth and
ready for anything. They think. So they ride into the Forest
with a curse against the Hunter on their lips . . . and never
come out again. Never.I've watched a dozen, two dozen go
in . . . and not a single one ever showed his face on the
outside again, in all the years that I've been here."
Damien looked at Senzei; there was something cold in

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

the priest's expression that hadn't been there a moment
before, as if some terrible thought had just occurred to him.
It took Senzei a minute to realize what it was - and when he
did, he felt his hands tighten involuntarily on his reins, his
heart skip a beat inside his chest. Was Ciani to be hunted?
It was a possibility that hadn't occurred to either of them.
But if she was alive, and vulnerable, and the Hunter got
hold of her-
"Where's he headed?" Damien demanded. He turned to
the silver-haired man. "You seem to know what goes on
here. Where's he gone? How do we follow him?"
The man just stared at him like he'd lost his mind. And
maybe he had. At last he said quietly, "There's a fortress in
the heart of the Forest; they say it's black as obsidian,
impossible to make out in the shadows - unless He wants
you to see it. That's where He stays, the Hunter, and never
leaves, except to feed. They'll have taken her there."
Damien looked the men over. "Have any of you ever
seen this place?"
"No one's seen it," a man answered quickly. "No one
that ever lived to talk about it. You hear me? If you go in
there searching for Him - for any reason - you'll never
come out again. Not with the woman, or without her.
Ever."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"The Hunter's merciless," someone muttered. And
another urged, "Give it up, man."
"The Hunter can take his Forest and shove it," Damien
said sharply. "How do we get to this black fortress of his?"
They were silent for a moment, stunned by the force of
the blasphemy. At last the silver-haired man said, "All
roads lead to the Hunter's keep. Go in deep enough - so the
shadows can herd you along - and you'll get there, all right.
Whether you seeit or not is another thing. But there's no
way back, after that," he warned them. "Not by any path a
living man can follow."
Damien looked toward the Forest. Where the trees
parted somewhat there was a well-worn trail. As he
watched, a pair of men on horseback broke free of the
Forest's confines and cantered over toward where their
fellows were gathered.
"You go in there," Damien challenged. "And you come
out again."
"Sometimes not," someone muttered. Damien heard
whispered curses. A rugged man in a black wool jacket said
harshly, "That's because there's stuff in there that's worth
that kind of risk. Plants that don't grow anywhere else, that
sorcerers want - animals that mutate so fast, each
generation has a different coat. There's a pack of white

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wolves in that Forest, belongs to the Hunter himself - you
kill enough of them to make a man's coat from he skins, I
can point you to a buyer who'll pay a small fortune for it.
Yeah, we'll risk going in. Because we know the rules. Do
as you like in the daytime . . . but if you're in the Forest
after nightfall you're His. Period. So we do it fast and
clean. Mark ourselves a good trail. Get out before sunset."
He glanced nervously toward the edge of the Forest; a
shudder seemed to pass trough his frame. "Not as easy as it
sounds," he muttered. "Not when you can't see the sun. Not
when the ace plays games with your mind." "All right,"
Damien said; clearly he'd heard enough, reached into his
tunic front and drew out a small purse. He looked around,
then threw it to the silver-haired man - who let it fall before
him and made no move to pick it up. "Save your money,"
he said. "It's one thing in the Hunter's eyes to trade a little
gossip - and quite another sell His secrets for profit." He
glanced toward the ringe of the Forest and added soberly,
"He reminds us that distinction, every now and then."
"Your choice," Damien responded. He left the pouch where
it was and began to ease his mount forward, Senzei moved
to follow - but for a moment his legs wouldn't move, and
his hands were strangely numb. "Damien . . ." In his side
the sharp pain had become an amorphous fire that throbbed
in time with his heartbeat. "I can't . . ."
The priest twisted in his saddle, studied his companion's
face. Senzei could imagine the things that were going
through his mind: He's weak. City-born. Never suffered a
serious wound in his life, and now this. But no one can do a
Healing here without losing his soul to the Forest. And if

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

we stop to rest, even for an hour, that might cost Ciani her
life.
"I'm fine," Senzei managed. And when Damien kept
staring at him, he added, "Really."
After a moment, Damien nodded. He turned back
toward the Forest, and kneed his horse into motion once
more. Gritting his teeth from the strain of it, Senzei man-
aged to get his body to obey him. Slowly, his horse moved
to follow Damien's. And the third in line, behind him, took
its accustomed place behind his.
You'll be all right, he told himself. You will. It's a
question of mind over matter. You can't afford to be sick,
therefore you will get well. Right?
But mind over matter - or any other conscious control of
the flesh - required the fae. And for the first time in his life,
Senzei was beginning to understand what it meant to do
without that. 
Twenty-three
There were seven of them now, and they lay along the
northern crest of Morgot, staring hatefully at the distant
shore. One was wounded. Three had died. Of the original
band that had traveled to Jaggonath, only one remained -
and if he acted as the leader of the backup team that had

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

met them in Morgot, it was because he alone had been there
since the start of it.
They had a sorcerer! one whispered angrily.
The leader answered quietly: They are all sorcerers.
You know what I mean. That one-
It was that bitch from the plains, another interrupted. If
she hadn't interfered-
You should have killed that sorcerer-woman in
Jaggonath, one of the newcomers accused.Then this
wouldn't have happened. None of it would have happened.
Yes, the leader said quietly.I agree.
So why didn't you?
I had other orders, he answered simply.
But it was the same woman? a newcomer demanded.
You're sure of that?
Yes. Very sure. The disguise was good, but her mind still
tastes the same. He licked his lips, remembering. So good,
these human souls.

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They stared out across the water. At Mordreth. Toward
the Forest.
Are we going in after them? one asked nervously.
No need, another whispered. They will come out. They
must come out. And we'll kill them then, when they do.
And if the plains bitch interferes again?
One hissed angrily. Another clenched his hands into
fists, as if readying himself for battle.
The plains bitch is gone. She refused to enter the Forest.
I saw her arrange passage to the rakhlands; by now, she
must be within the Canopy. I say . . . we deal with the
humans when they leave the Forest. And kill the
plainswoman later, when we pass through her own camp.
He added, in a hungry whisper: She can serve as food, for
the long journey home.
Twenty-four
Just beforethey reached the tree line, Damien signaled
for Senzei to stop. He had seen to it that they each were
carrying a springbolt, disassembled. Now he removed his
from its worn leather saddlepack and motioned for Senzei
to do the same.

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With quick, efficient motions he assembled both their
weapons. Senzei's was brand new, a gleaming, polished
weapon that had been purchased for the journey. Damien's
was an older model, heavier about the grip, whose well-
worn finish and blood-stained shaft spoke of much use, not
all of it at projectile distance.
"Ever use one of these?" he asked Senzei.
"Arcade sports." He said it apologetically - as if
somewhere in his citybound upbringing he should have
seen fit to practice on live targets.
"Same theory. Heavier weapon." He eased his horse
over, close enough that he could point to details. "It'll hold
two bolts; keep it loaded at all times. There's the safety;
make sure it's on if the weapon's cocked - which it will be,
at all times." He watched while Senzei hefted it up to eye
level, left hand forward to hold the barrel ready. "Try it,"
he directed. "That tree."
He sighted carefully, and pulled the trigger. There was a
snap as the upper spring was released, and the metal-tipped
bolt shot out from the barrel. Straight toward the tree and
almost into its bark; but it missed by an inch and whistled
past the target, into the Forest's darkness.
"Close enough," Damien muttered. "We'll put in some

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practice time when we get out of here." Not if,Senzei
noted; when. The man's confidence was unbelievable.
"You've got a blade on the barrel tip and some heavy brass
on the shoulder piece; if anything comes in close, use it. If
something's coming at you, don't even tryto reload; it's a
fifty pound draw, you'd have to wind it back, and that takes
too long." He took the weapon from Senzei and forced it
back to a cocked position with a single draw; the pulley
mechanism meant to ease such a procedure spun silently
below, as if in protest of his strength. "And here's the
special ammo." He pulled a bolt out of his forward pocket-
and whistled softly. "Look at that, will you?"
The bolt's shaft was glowing. A soft light, that would
have been all but invisible in the daytime - but with the
darkness of the Forest looming up before them, and God
knows what waiting there in the shadows . . . the effect of
the Fire was clearly visible. A glow from within the heart
of the shaft, resonating against the impermeable wax
surface as if it chafed at its imprisonment.
"Gods of Erna," Senzei whispered.
"This power was bound by the Church, for Church
purposes." Damien slipped two bolts into the loading
chamber, saw that they were settled properly. "Please have
the decency not to invoke other gods while using it."
Senzei started to force a smile - then realized that
Damien was deadly serious. He nodded and managed to

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take the weapon back. It was a heavy piece, almost more
than he could lift. He didn't remember that being the case
when they had bought it. He must be losing strength rapidly
. . .
"All right, then." Damien's voice was grim. "Now lis-
ten: if you see Tarrant, if you have an opening, you shoot to
kill. No questions, no conversation. Got it?"
"What kills that kind?"
"Go for the heart. There's leeway for error that way;
leave the fancy targets to me." He glanced at Senzei. "You
ready?"
He wasn't, he never would be - but he nodded, all the
same. No other answer was possible.
With a last grim glance at the dying sun - now half-lost
behind the horizon's edge, powerless to aid them - Damien
turned his horse toward the narrow path and led them into
the Forest.
And night closed over them. Close-set trees, their upper
branches intertwined, formed a thick canopy overhead that
was reinforced by vines and dead foliage and gods alone
knew what else, until no more than a mere hint of sunlight
was capable of seeping through. By the time they had gone
a few hundred yards into the Forest the road ahead of them

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

was already lost in shadows, indistinguishable from the
woods beyond. Senzei glanced back the way they had come
and saw no more than a faint carmine glow at the place
where the road left the Forest: the last vestige of sunlight,
rapidly dying. But even that vision seemed to waver as
though viewed through running water, or flawed glass. And
though he could make out the road's starting point - barely
- it was impossible for him to focus on it. He wondered if
even now they had lost the option of turning back. Would
that part of the road still be there if they wanted to use it?
"Dark fae," Damien muttered. "Makes sense."
"What's that?"
He indicated the trees that loomed over them, the thick
canopy of vegetation overhead. "No direct sunlight ever
reaches the ground here," he whispered. "Think of what
that means! Have you ever watched during the true night,
how quickly the dark fae moves out into the open, how
powerful it gets even in that limited time? A very hungry,
very volatile power, that tends to manifest man's darker
urges. But here - imagine this place in the summer, when
those branches are thick with leaves . . . my God! Morning,
even high noon . . . no light would ever touch the ground
then. The dark fae would live on, oblivious to sunrise, and
it would grow, and it would manifest-"
"Damien."

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The priest twisted around to look at him; his horse
nickered softly.
"If there's no sunlight here," Senzei said slowly, "or
very little, anyway . . ."
He could see Damien's hand tighten on the springbok's
grip. He thought he heard him curse.
"So Tarrant didn't have to stop," he whispered. "Damn
him! We should have guessed that." He reached into the
pouch at his side and drew out the Patriarch's crystal vial;
in the gloom of the artificial night it glowed twice as
brightly as before: a star in the measureless gloom. "We
have a light, at least." His voice was grim as he affixed the
vial to his saddle. "And one the Hunter won't like. That's
something, anyway." But his voice was far from optimistic.
Was he thinking what Senzei was - that with a whole day's
head start on them, Tarrant might have delivered Ciani to
her destination already?
They rode. Not slowly, as they might have done if Ciani
were with them. Not cautiously, by any measure. Ahead of
them the light of the Fire etched out details of their road in
sharp relief - and their horses' hooves pounded quickly
past, as the mounts choose the most solid ground with
certain instinct. No doubt there were dangers out there for
which they should be watching - but the need to reach
Ciani as quickly as possible, to make up for the time lost in
Morgot, overwhelmed any need for caution.

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Senzei hungered for his Sight. He wanted to see the road
ahead as it really was: dark earth seething with the violet
hues of the night-fae, delicate tendrils of that hungry power
reaching out like fingers to grasp at the horse's hooves . . .
and then curling back, burning up, turning to mist as the
Fire's light struck it. Or perhaps withdrawing into some
secret place, to venture forth again when the threat had
passed. Maybe somewhere in the distance, unseen, Senzei's
fears were already sculpting the dark fae, manifesting his
uncertainty. How ancient the power must be here - and how
sensitive, how deadly! He longed to see it on its own terms,
to do battle with it directly. And for a moment - just a
moment - the key to a Knowing was on his lips. He tasted
the words . . . and then bit them back, forcing himself to
swallow them. The currents had nearly dragged him under
in Kale; here, in the Forest itself, he would be swept away
to his death before he knew what hit him. And while even
that might have tempted him once - to taste such power,
even for an instant! - he had Ciani to think of. He hungered
to cast himself into the black sun, drink in its power - but
for now, it would have to rise without him.
The path they followed became less and less defined, a
mere hint of direction as opposed to the well-worn road
they had started out on. The light of the Fire fanned out
before him, illuminating the road ahead. Despite the fact
that no threats were visible, Senzei began to feel a prickling
along the back of his neck. As if someone - or something -
were watching. He glanced behind them as best he could,

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saw only darkness. The feeling persisted.
Not watching, exactly.Anticipating. Waiting.
Instinctively he began to key a Knowing - and though he
stopped himself after a single phrase, those few sounds
were enough to unlock a fearsome Working. Currents of
earth-fae roared past his ears like a flood; the force of it
nearly knocked him from his saddle. He had to hold on for
dear life as the currents battered him, enveloped him,
attempted to drag him under . . . it was so deep, so very
deep! How could there be so much power in one place? He
tried to cry out - in panic, in warning, in an attempt to
banish his Knowing - but the current was too strong, and
too swift for him. In the instant it took him to focus on a
portion of the fae, that portion swept past and was gone.
And what replaced it was new and hungry, untamable, a
force as inexorable as the tides or the winds, as powerful as
a newborn tornado . . .
He managed to cry out. Somehow. Damien twisted back
to look at him, his right hand raising the springbok to firing
position, thumbing off the safety catch - and then
something black and sinuous launched itself from a
shadowed tree trunk, directly at him. He must have heard it
coming - or seen its flight reflected in Senzei's eyes - for he
turned back even as its claws reached out for him and
discharged the loaded weapon point-blank into its gut.
Senzei felt the bolt strike home as if the flesh it tore
through was his own, and he cried out in agony as the Fire
began to consume him. Striking out at Damien in primal

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fury - and then being struck across the base of the skull
with the brass butt of the springbolt, claws tearing loose
from horse and saddle and spinning, spinning, down into
the raging current . . .
"There are more!" he gasped. The bulk of his voice was
lost in the flood; he prayed that Damien could hear him.
The wounded beast was writhing in pain on the ground
before them, and Senzei had to fight not to share its
convulsions. Had to fight not to share its descent into death,
as the Fire at last consumed it. "Others!" he managed. He
fought against the pounding of the current and managed to
bring up one arm. To point. He whispered the key to an
Unseeing, desperately, as he fought to bring his own
weapon up. To find enough strength to hold it, and pull the
safety free.
He did so.
Just in time.
They came from the woods, silent and smooth as
shadow. Their souls sang loudly of hunger and of hate,
chords of death that reverberated along the current, making
Senzei's blood run cold. He braced the springbolt against
his shoulder, praying for the strength to fire it. They had
come up from the rear, which meant that Senzei had to turn
to face them; Damien was behind him. All that was before
him was the unmanned horse, rearing up in terror - or
trying to, the reins didn't quite allow it - and four dark,

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sleek shapes with eyes that burned purple and breath that
stank of hate. He muttered the Unseeing once, twice, again,
as he waited for them to come close enough that he could
be certain of hitting his target. The roar of the flood
subsided somewhat - enough that he could hear Damien
shouting instructions, not enough that he could make them
out. The hand that was holding the barrel shook slightly -
from fear or weakness? - as he centered his sights on the
leader of the pack, directly between its eyes. And fired. He
heard the sharp snap of the springshot's release, saw a
spark of light shoot out from the barrel, heard the crack of
bone as it struck home, a sudden burst of brilliance as the
Fire took root in its victim . . . he forced himself not to
watch, not to think, just to turn and aim again and listen for
the click that meant the second bolt was safely engaged . . .
and fire. Not as clean a shot as his first, but it struck one
creature solidly in its hindquarter and sent it off screaming
into the woods. That was two. He reached to his pocket for
another pair of bolts, suddenly remembered Damien saying
something about not reloading - and then one of the beasts
was on him, claws digging into his horse's flank, purple
eyes burning with hunger. Without even thinking he
rammed the point of the weapon into its face and felt the
blade bite into flesh, the cold wash of its nightborn blood as
it gushed out blackly over his hand. He fought not to vomit.
His horse bucked, panicked by its pain, and for a moment it
took everything he had not to fall off. When he at last got it
to stand still again, he saw that the reins of the third horse
had been snapped off from his saddle; dizzily he looked
around, trying to see where it had gone.

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"Back off!" Damien barked. The voice gave him a sense
of direction, and purpose; he forced his mount a step
backward, then two. In that two of the beasts were
struggling with the riderless horse not far from where they
stood, Senzei's mount was happy to move as ordered. It
surprised him for a moment that it didn't just turn and run,
overwhelmed by the experience. But Erna had bred its
equines for transportation in some of the most dangerous
parts of the human lands; any beast that gave way to blind
fear would have been weeded out of the breeding stock
long ago.
Damien pulled up beside him; his springbolt was cocked
and raised and splattered with black blood. He aimed
quickly and fired at the nearest of the creatures. The
screaming horse reared up, nearly getting itself in the way
of the shot - but then the bolt drove home in a sleek black
throat, and one of the attackers was down.
Before he could turn to fire at the next one, the terrified
horse kicked out; its tripart hoof took the last beast in the
head, and sent it flying backward into a nearby tree. There
was a sharp crack as it hit, and when its body struck the
ground it was twisted oddly, and all its limbs were still.
Senzei reached out to catch the bridle of the free horse -
too far, too hard, pain lanced through his side, forced him
back in a sudden spasm of agony. The animal reared up,
blood running from its legs and a wound in its neck, and
then took off into the depths of the Forest, screaming in

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rage and pain. Senzei gasped, and held tightly to his saddle.
The pain was like fire in his veins, the whole world was
spinning about him . . . but at least the currents were
invisible again. Powerless to claim him. Thank the gods for
that.
"You okay?" Damien whispered. Senzei tried to find his
voice, tried to make his mouth form words - and then a
sudden screaming split the night to the west of them, a
sound of equine terror and agony that came from just
beyond the reach of their Firelight.
Wordlessly, Damien reloaded for both of them. There
were long scratch marks across his knuckles, and crimson
blood had welled up there in thick, parallel lines. He from
that direction. And once the sun rose the river would mean
safe refuge, should they need it.
If it ever rises again, Senzei thought. If we live long
enough to see it happen.
They rode as fast as they dared, taking into account the
stamina of the horses. Damien was very clear on that: to
wear out their mounts in pursuit of Ciani so that they were
left on foot in this haunted wilderness was as good as
committing all three of them to death. The Fire cast a light
just far enough ahead that if the road suddenly ended, or
was blocked by some faeborn antagonist, they would have
just enough time to pull up before riding smack into it.
Barely.

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Thus it was that Damien's nerves were trigger-taut, and
he pulled back on his reins the minute he saw a flicker of
movement reflecting back at him from the endless tunnel
that was their road. Senzei, some yards back, managed to
follow suit without running into him - mostly because his
mount had picked up on the fact that it was supposed to be
doing whatever Damien's horse did. Side by side they
paused in the center of the barren path, trying to make out
moving forms in the lightless shadows. Between their legs
the horses stirred anxiously, no doubt remembering the
clawed creatures that had come running out of the woods
mere minutes - or hours? - ago.
And then the shape moved close enough to become
visible. Human in its general form, but strangely hunched
over; Damien raised his springbolt to eye level as he
watched it stagger toward them. The shadowed form
resolved into a true human shape, and as it entered the outer
boundary of the Fire's light it was possible to see that it
staggered in exhaustion, and perhaps in pain. It came closer
and lifted its head, its eyes half shut against the pain of so
much light after the darkness of the road.
Ciani.
Senzei felt his heart skip a beat, and adrenaline poured
into his bloodstream like a tidal wave: from fear, from joy,
from concern for her life. She was a mere shadow of her
former self, dressed in tattered remnants of her traveling

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attire. Blood pooled beneath her bare feet as she came to a
stop, swaying weakly, and she shielded her eyes with her
hand so that she might see them against the Fire's glare. A
whisper barely escaped her lips, too fragile a sound to cross
the distance between them. A name, perhaps. A plea. There
were bruises about her face and arms, and long scratch
marks on one side of her face. She seemed to have lost half
her weight overnight, and most of her color with it. "Thank
god," she whispered. "I heard the horses . . ." Tears choked
her voice and she took a step forward - then fell, her legs
too weak to support her. Tears poured down her face.
"Damien - Senzei - my god, I can't believe I've found you .
. ."
The sense of shock which had frozen Senzei's limbs
released him at last. With a cry of joy he slid off his horse -
and his wound stabbed into him like fire, like a blade of
molten steel, but what did that matter? They had found her!
- and he ran toward her as best he could, his legs weak and
shaking and stiff from hours in the saddle-
And something whizzed past his ear. A bolt of light - a
spear of fire - a searing bullet, that left the air hot where it
passed. He barely had time to recognize what it was, what
it must be, before it struck her. The glowing bolt hit her
square in the chest, slightly right of center: through the
heart. With a scream, she ceased reaching for him and
clutched at the projectile - so close, she had been so close,
he had almost touched her! - but it was buried deep within
her flesh, and she couldn't pull it out. And then, without

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warning, she ignited. The whole of her body went up in an
instant, like dry leaves sparked by heat lightning. Senzei
cried out as he shielded his eyes against the glare of her
burning, fell to his knees as the pyre roared up before him.
Tongues of Fire licked at the canopy far overhead, and
small black shapes fell - screaming, smoking - onto the
road. Only slowly did it sink into him what had happened.
Only slowly did it sink in what Damien had done. And
why.
As the Fire died down at last - leaving no bones to mark
the place where Ciani had stood, nor even any ash, only a
faint smell of sulfur - he looked up to where Damien sat,
one hand on the reins of Senzei's horse and the other still
bracing the springbolt against his shoulder.
"How?" he gasped. His whole body was shaking. "How
did you know?"
The priest's expression was grim, his face deeply lined.
It seemed he had aged a decade in the past few hours.
"She wouldn't come into the light," he said. "Ciani would
have known that the Fire meant safety for her, and come to
it at any cost. She invoked my god, not hers. She called you
by your formal name - which she's never done before, at
least not in my presence. Do you want more?"
"But you weren't sure!" he exclaimed. "You couldn't

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possibly be sure! And what if you were wrong?"
"But I wasn't, was I?" His face was like stone, his tone
implacable. "You'd better learn this now, Zen. Some of the
things that the darkness spawns can take on any form they
like. They read your fears from the fae that surrounds you
and design whatever image they need to break through your
defenses. And you only get one chance to recognize them,
one chance to react. If you're wrong - or if you hesitate,
even for an instant - they'll do worse then kill you." He
looked off into the darkness; Senzei thought he saw him
shiver. "Compared to some of what I've seen, death would
be a mercy."
The Fire had died down. Senzei stared at where it had
been, heartbeat pounding loudly in his ears. Why did it
suddenly seem so hot? Had the Fire somehow affected his
perception, so that even after it was gone something inside
him continued to burn? He felt overwhelmed. He wanted to
cry out, I can't make it! I'm out of strength! How can I do
anything to save her, like this?
Damien said nothing, allowing Senzei the time to pull
himself together. Then, suddenly, he stiffened. In a voice
that was quiet but firm, he ordered, "Mount up. Now."
Senzei looked at him, saw him reloading the springbolt.
The priest's eyes were turned to the west, his gaze fixed on
something in the distance. "Mount up!" he hissed.

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Shaking, Senzei obeyed. Pain speared through his side
as he slid into the saddle and he thought, I can't do this
again. If I get down again, I won't be able to get up.
And there was peace in that thought. A dark kind of
peace, in knowing that soon all fighting might be over.
He took the reins of his horse from Damien and fol-
lowed the priest's gaze, slightly ahead and to the left of the
road. There were two points of light that winked at them
out of the darkness, set a yard or so above the ground.
Bright crimson, like blood.
"Let's move," Damien muttered.
They rode. At first slowly, watching the lights as they
went. Then more quickly, when they saw that the crimson
sparks were keeping pace with them. Soon after, another
pair of lights joined the first. Then a third.
Eyes,Senzei thought, reflecting the Firelight. Gods help
us.
They broke into a fevered gallop.
The eyes stayed with them.
There were more and more of them now, too many to

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count. They would flash bright as stars as their owners
turned to assess their prey, then become invisible a moment
later as the beasts turned their attention to the ground
underfoot, or the Forest ahead. Whatever manner of
creature they were, they were swift and seemingly tireless.
Try as they might, the travelers couldn't lose them. Senzei
heard Damien curse under his breath, knew that he hated to
drive the horses this hard for any length of time - but no
matter how fast they rode, the gleaming eyes managed to
keep pace with them.
Finally Damien slowed, and Senzei did the same. His
horse was covered with sweat, and it shivered as the chill
night air gusted over it. He was suddenly acutely aware of
how desperately they needed these animals, of how little
good it would do them to get where they were going - even
to rescue Ciani - if they had to walk back through this
place. We wouldn't last an hour.
Damien lifted his springshot to eye level and cursed,
"Damn them!"
"What?"
"They're just beyond firing range. Exactly the right
distance. Damn! It means they're either hellishly lucky . . ."
He lowered his weapon. "Or experienced," he said
quietly.

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Senzei whispered, "Or intelligent."
There was a moment of silence. "Let's hope not," he
said at last.
Something stepped out into the road.
It looked like a wolf, at first - an unusually large wolf,
with bleached white fur and blazing red eyes. But there
were differences. In its paws, which were splayed out like
human hands. In its jaws, which were broader and more
powerful than even a wolfs should be. And in its bearing,
which hinted at more than mere hunger: a subtle
malevolence, not at all bestial.
It moved to the center of the road and stood there, as if
challenging them to ride over it.
Damien moved. His mount, responsive to his needs,
broke into a sudden gallop. Despite his misgivings Senzei
followed suit. The priest charged directly at the wolflike
beast, as if daring it to stand its ground. But its only
response was a low snarl and a twitch of its lips: a mockery
of human laughter.
Then, when he was almost upon the beast, Damien
veered off toward the right. Off the path. The move sent
them toward the river, and their horses were forced to make

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their way through thicker and thicker brush. Damien's
mount stumbled once but managed to stay on its feet. After
they had ridden parallel to the river for some distance the
priest turned west again; Senzei realized that he was hoping
to circle around the pack, and regain the road. But as they
went farther west, they saw that the eyes were already
there, waiting for them. Arrayed at an angle that seemed
just a shade too calculated, as though they meant for the
pair of them to reach the road at one particular point.
Herding us, Senzei despaired. Evidently the same
thought had occurred to Damien; with sudden
determination he pulled his sword free of its sheath and
made ready to hack his way through their line. Senzei
clutched his springshot to his chest and tried to pray. He
wondered if Damien was praying as well - and whether the
priest thought his prayers would be answered, or used them
only to discipline his mind.
They broke from the trees, back onto the road. At least a
dozen animals were arrayed before them, red eyes
gleaming hotly; each of them was clearly capable of taking
a man and a horse to the ground, and enjoying the fight.
And then Damien pulled up short, and motioned for
Senzei to do the same. Confused, he did so.
In the middle of the road, poised tensely before them,
was a man.

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He was thin and lanky, with hair the same bleached
color as the animals' fur and skin that was nearly as white.
He had red eyes that reflected the Firelight like crimson
jewels. His skin was thin, translucent - so much so that it
was possible to see the veins throb in his neck, deep blue
veins running down into a white silk collar. He wore a
white shirt and sleeveless jacket, white leggings, white
leather boots. As if he, being albino, would only wear such
animal produce as came from beasts that shared his
affliction.
He smiled, displaying needle-sharp teeth. One of the
beasts moved to his side; its claws flexed as it waited.
Too many, he despaired. How can we fight that many?
Apparently, Damien thought the same thing. He didn't
sheathe his sword, but he lowered it. With his other hand he
reached into his pocket, and drew out the golden earth-disk.
The man grinned, a bestial expression. In a voice that
was half hiss, half laughter, he challenged Damien: "You
claim to be a servant of the Hunter?"
"I'm looking for one of his people."
"Then you're brave, sun-man. Or stupid. Or both." He
squinted toward the Fire. "Put that thing away."

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Damien hesitated. "Light a torch," he ordered. It took
Senzei a moment to realize that he was talking to him. He
fumbled in one of his packs for a brush torch and matches.
Finally he found them. And managed to get the thing lit.
His hands, and therefore the light, shook badly.
Damien slid the crystal flask out of his belt and into the
neck of his shirt. The Firelight faded, replaced by Senzei's
flickering orange flame.
"Much better." More of the beasts had come onto the
road; Senzei could feel his horse trembling, anxious to flee
the smell of danger. "It hurts the eyes."
"I'm looking for Gerald Tarrant," Damien told him.
"Yes. He knows that."
"You know where he is?"
The thin man shrugged. "In the keep. The Hunter's
warren. Where he belongs."
"And the woman he had with him?"
The red eyes sparkled. "I don't keep track of the
Hunter's women."

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Damien tensed; for a minute Senzei thought that his rage
would get the better of him and he would attack the man.
He looked at the two dozen animals waiting to take them,
and despair filled him. Prepare to die,he thought, and he
gripped his weapon even more tightly.
But Damien didn't attack. Instead he said coldly,
"You'll take us to him."
Something flashed in the albino's eyes. Irritation?
Anger? One of the white wolves growled. But then he
answered, in a voice as smooth as silk, "It is what I came to
do."
He looked to the south, where the road behind them was
swallowed up by darkness. For a moment it seemed that his
eyes gave off a light of their own, a crimson far more
brilliant than mere reflection could account for. He
whispered something into the air - a Working? - and then
waited. After a moment, a pounding could be heard in the
distance. Rhythmic. Familiar. Horses' hooves? Senzei
wished that Damien was facing him, so that he might read
his expression. But the priest refused to be distracted, and
kept his eyes fixed on the albino sorcerer. When a horse
broke into their circle of light and galloped past them, he
didn't turn. Not even Senzei's horrified gasp was enough to
bring him about, although his body went rigid in
anticipation when he heard it.
It was their horse. The one they had left behind, the one

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that Damien had killed. Now it was drained of all its color
as surely as it had been drained of life. Thin rivers of blue
coursed down its hide where red blood once had spilled. Its
eyes were empty, unfocused, its expression unresponsive.
And from its belly-
Senzei fought the urge to gag, succeeded only because
there was nothing left in him to bring up. Or no strength
left in him to vomit. Out of the horse's belly hung the tail
ends of the worm-creatures, which writhed from side to
side as their forward halves, buried within the beast, sought
out choice morsels of horse flesh.
The white man swung himself up onto the ghastly ani-
mal. One of the worm-ends, responding to his proximity,
wrapped itself around his ankle - and then snapped back
suddenly, as if burned. After a moment, it shuddered and
went limp. The rider grinned.
"Since you will not be driven," he hissed, "then you
must be led. Yes?" He kneed the gruesome mount into
motion, one hand tangled in its death-bleached mane.
"Follow me."
And he laughed softly - a silken, malevolent sound. "I
believe the Hunter is expecting you."
Twenty-five

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I'm going to kill him, Damien thought.
It wasn't anyone in particular that he meant, so much as
a general desire to strike out at the source of his frustration.
The Hunter would serve. So would the courteously arrogant
Gerald Tarrant. Even this albino henchman of the Hunter
would do nicely - although if it came down to trying to
unhorse him in combat, Damien didn't know if he could
bring himself to kill the same animal twice.
But he was checked in his rage by a single thought,
which echoed in his soul with unaccustomed power. Ciani.
She was still alive. He sensed it. If he gave in to his fury,
and by doing so caused her to suffer more . . . no. It was
unthinkable. Alone, he could have risked such action. God
knows, his sword had gotten him out of worse situations
than this. But now he was traveling with others and was
responsible for their well-being. It was an unaccustomed
burden, and sometimes it chafed as sorely as manacles. It
would have been far, far easier to deal with this situation if
he were alone.
But let's be honest, shall we? If it wasn't for the others
you wouldn't be here in the first place.
He twisted back in his saddle to take a look at Senzei,
who was following somewhat behind him. The man was
flushed with fever, and the bruise on his forehead shone
livid purple in the flickering torchlight. His hand on the
reins trembled slightly - not from fear, Damien suspected,

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so much as from weakness. He looked bad, in the ways that
Damien had come to recognize as life-threatening. He
should never have let him come this far. But what other
choices had they had, realistically speaking? Should Senzei
have remained behind in Morgot so that the rakh-creatures
could make a second attempt to kill him? Or stopped for a
rest in mid-Forest, in the hope that a doctor would just
happen by? Damien wished he dared to Heal his
companion, or even do a Numbing. That was the most
frustrating part of all of this: riding through a land of such
incredible raw power, and being unable to Work it to save
the ones he cared about. But he remembered Senzei on the
roof of the hotel in Kale, trying to throw himself over the
edge in order to embrace something he later described as a
"black sun." If the current had been that bad there, then
Working it this close to the center of the whirlpool would
be tantamount to suicide.
I'd do it, Damien thought grimly. I thought I could Heal
him before it got me, I'd do it in a second.
They reached the base of yet another steep incline;
Damien felt his horse shudder in exhaustion. And for the
first time all night he felt a touch of true despair. All of his
assorted skills couldn't save them if his mount gave out;
they might free Ciani and even manage to heal Senzei, but
without horses they would never make it out of the Forest
alive.
The trail switchbacked several times, growing steeper

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and steeper as they went. They were near the mountains,
then. Perhaps even among them; it was impossible to gain
any sense of their true position with the canopy overhead,
and the endless exhausting miles behind them. He patted
his horse firmly on the neck and heard it nicker in response.
They had been through worse together. They would get
through this. Senzei's mount, on the other hand, was city-
trained; Damien wondered how much longer it would last.
And then they came around a turn and it was there
before them: a soaring edifice of black volcanic glass that
broke through the canopy high above and laid bare the
night sky beyond it. Prima's silver-blue crescent crowned
the central tower like a halo, and cold moonlight shivered
down the glassy stone walls like gleaming mercury, caught
in the streaks and whorls of the obsidian brickwork. It was
surreal. Breathtakingly beautiful. And, to Damien,
disturbingly familiar.
Where had he seen it before? He tried to pin down the
memory, but nothing would come. Maybe it wasn't the
castle itself that he remembered. Maybe just something like
it. 
Something like the Hunter's keep?
They rode into the courtyard and for a moment simply
sat still on their horses, stunned by what was before them.
The volcanic glass of the castle's facade reflected their
torchlight back in pools and arcs that shimmered across the

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brickwork like living things. Finials rose like tiny black
flames from the tips of sweeping arches, and a tracery of
fine black stone guarded narrow windows that reached up
toward the moonlight. Revivalist, Damien observed. The
pinnacle of that style. And for the first time in his life, he
understood what the allure of the period must have been.
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

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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 reins over to the black-cloaked men. Senzei's
they simply took, assuming - rightly so - that the wounded
sorcerer 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-

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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."

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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?"

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"I know he was one of the figureheads of the Revival. A
strategist of Cannon's, yes? A supporter of your Church-"
"Asupporter? 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?"
"Heis 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 . . .

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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 sorcerer said nervously, "by becoming
something that's no longer human."
Damien stared at him.

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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 sorcerer, 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

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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."

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"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.

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"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 exactlywhat 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

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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 sorcerer, 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

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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."

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He began to move toward the fallen sorcerer, 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 willtrust 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."

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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 he 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

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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 sorcerer's skin. A putrid scent filled

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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.
His entire side was black and swollen; the sides of his
wound gaped open like the mouth of a fish, despite the
stitches that had been meant to close it. Within, it was
possible to see the damp sheen of muscle and the sharp
edge of a lower rib, both darkly discolored, both smelling
of decay. Damien studied it for a long, despairing moment,
then looked up at Tarrant - and found the man watching
him, pale eyes made gold by the firelight.
"You may See, if you wish." The Hunter's voice was
quiet, barely discernable above the crackle of the flames.
"The currents are safe enough for you here. But don't
interrupt me, or try to interfere. To do so would cost your
friend's life. You understand?"
Stiffly, he nodded.
The Hunter turned back to Senzei and fixed his eyes on
the wound. Slowly, soundlessly, his lips formed words; a
key? Damien considered Working his own vision, felt a
chill of fear flood through him - and carefully ignored it, as
he envisioned the patterns that would give him Sight.

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Delicately. Only a word, a thought; he had no desire to
touch any more of the Forest's fae than he had to, Worked
or no. Malevolence rose about him like a black, ice-cold
lake; he dipped his thoughts into it just briefly, then quickly
withdrew. The lake subsided, though its cold had invaded
his veins. And his Sight-
Was as it had never been before. Or was it simply that
the fae was so different here, which made its form so alien?
Dark purple power pooled about the bedposts, slithered up
the carved wood like deep violet serpents - and then slid
across the coverlet, seeking Senzei's flesh. Damien had to
stop himself from reaching out to Banish them. Though he
sensed in every fiber of his being that the purpose of these
things was to devour, to destroy, the Hunter's last words
echoed in his brain: Interfere, and it will cost your friend's
life.
And his other words, even more ominous. You will trust
me . . . because you have to.
Damn you, Merentha!
He watched as the tendrils of violet dissolved, becoming
a thick purple fog that surrounded Senzei, clinging to his
skin. There seemed to be movement within its substance;
Damien Worked his senses to let him take a closer look -
and stiffened in horror as he Saw. For the cloud was not a
cloud at all, but a swarm of creatures too tiny for the

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unWorked eye to see. Wormlike, hungry, they searched the
surface of Senzei's skin until they found a pore or other
opening large enough to admit them. Then they slithered in,
their microscopic tails lashing from side to side as they
worked their way deeper and deeper into his flesh. Damien
caught the flash of teeth at one forward end, and
remembered the creatures that had devoured their horse;
these were clearly their kin, though made of much less
solid stuff. He had to fight to swallow back the rising tide
of disgust inside him. If this was supposed to be some kind
of Healing . . . but no, it wasn't that. Tarrant had made that
very clear.
They were under Senzei's skin, now, working their way
into his bloodstream. Where his veins were close enough to
the surface it was possible to see them moving, the skin
rippling as they passed. Thousands upon thousands of them
had entered Senzei's body already, enough to tint his blood
deep purple, and more were digging their way in each
second. It seemed that his entire body had become filled
with purple fluid, filled near to bursting. Damien looked at
the wound itself and saw larger creatures nestled in the
rotting flesh, feasting on its putrescence. Sickness rose in
the back of his throat, and he struggled not to give in to it.
He had seen more terrible things in his life, but never under
conditions like this: watching them devour a traveling
companion while he stood impotently on the sidelines.
Suddenly he hated Tarrant with a passion that surpassed
even his religious abhorrence of the man; this was personal,
intensified by his suspicion of just how much the man
enjoyed having him in such a position. As if frustrating a

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member of his former Church was itself a triumph, to be
savored.
And then, the cloud withdrew from Senzei. The fog,
now black, seeped from his veins like blood, and hovered
over him silently, a storm cloud waiting to break. Where
the firelight played on its substance it sizzled, and thin
filaments could be seen writhing on its surface. Then
Tarrant muttered the key words of a Banishing, and it
vanished. Not slowly, like a fog being scattered by the
wind, but immediately - as though his will, which
commanded the action, knew no middle ground.
Damien looked at the wound, saw the clear red of
untainted blood slowly pooling in that opening. The
carrion-eaters were gone, or at least invisible; he had no
real desire to find out which. He looked up at the Hunter -
and saw that the man's face was white with pain, as if the
healing of Senzei were somehow wounding him.
"Now the fever," the Hunter whispered. He held out a
hand, palm up, over the body. Slowly it began to give off a
strange glow, a cold silver light that illuminated little of
what surrounded it, but burned the eyes to look upon as if it
were an actual flame. "Coldfire," he whispered. He molded
it in his hand like some nacreous clay, forming it into the
shape of what it was not: true fire. And it burst up suddenly
in his hand, like a flame devouring fresh fuel, and flickered
like its namesake - but there was no heat that came from it,
and little of its light reached beyond its brilliant surface.

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Staring at it, Damien felt the warmth drawn out of him,
gone to feed something at the heart of the non-fire; with
effort he drew back, and erected a barrier that he hoped
would suffice to protect him.
"As volatile as true fire," the Hunter whispered. "And as
dangerous." He brought his hand down to the wound and
tipped it over; the coldfire slid into the wound like a
viscous liquid. As it made contact with his flesh, Senzei
cried out - a scream of pain, of terror, of utter isolation.
Damien leaned forward and took him by the shoulders, not
to hold him down so much as to reassure him, by that
touch, that he was not alone. Beneath his fingers he could
feel the chill of the Hunter's coldfire as it worked its way
through Senzei's veins, consuming the heat of the fever
with mindless hunger. As it passed through the thick veins
in his neck, toward his brain, Senzei stiffened; then, with a
sudden sharp cry, he went limp. Damien turned back
sharply to the Hunter - who was leaning back, clearly well
satisfied with his work.
"He'll sleep now," Tarrant said. "I've cauterized the
wound as well as my skills will allow. True Healing is
denied me - it would cost me my life to attempt it - but the
coldfire is an adequate substitute, in some things. His fever
is down and shouldn't rise again. It will take some
regeneration of living flesh to close the wound properly . . .
but the Workings of life are no longer in my repertoire. I
must leave that to you."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Damien was about to answer when a gong suddenly
sounded in the distance. In answer to his unspoken question
the Hunter said, "Dawn. And I have work to do before the
keep can be shuttered for the day." He pulled something
out of a pocket in his outer tunic and threw it to Damien; a
small key. "For the window." He paused. "I'm sure you'll
understand that I cannot allow you free run of the castle
during the daylight hours. Not yet, anyway."
The exhaustion of the last few endless days was taking
hold of Damien; he found that he lacked the strength to
argue. "What about Ciani?"
"Tomorrow night. I promise you. In the meantime . . . I
will see that you're brought suitable food." His eyes
narrowed as he studied Damien's person. "And a bath.
There's a chamber adjoining this one, with amenities
between; you may make free use of both. The doors beyond
this suite will be locked until dusk, except when my
servants attend you. I'm sure you could easily overwhelm
my people if you wished - if you dared to leave your friend
here alone . . ." The threat in his voice was unmistakable.
"But I still have the lady, don't I? So it would behoove you
to cooperate." He nodded toward Senzei. "See that he's
exposed to the sun when it rises. That will destroy any
remnants of my power which still adhere to his veins. I
recommend you don't attempt a Healing until that's done."
The distant gong sounded again: a deeper, more resonant
note. "If you will excuse me."

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Without further word or gesture he left the room. There
must have been a bolt on the outside, for it was that rather
than the turning of a lock that Damien heard. The priest
turned toward the window - and felt his physical defenses
giving way at last, to a tide of hunger, exhaustion, and
hopelessness so powerful that it had taken all his reserves
to hold it back this long. He tried to estimate the hours
since they had awakened on Morgot, but couldn't; it
seemed like days - years - a lifetime. As if they hadn't just
arrived in the Forest, but had always been there - subject to
its hungers, its fears, its eternal darkness, the fierce currents
of its power . . .
With effort, he managed to reach the window. He
reached up and pulled the heavy curtain aside, only to find
two heavy planks of wood that served as internal shutters,
holding back the light. He rumbled for the key that Tarrant
had given him and fitted it into the small golden lock
between the two panels. The key turned easily, but the
heavy wooden shutters required all his remaining strength.
When he had them pushed back halfway into their storage
slots, he paused and leaned against the wall to one side,
breathing heavily. And he contemplated that there was only
so long a body could function in overdrive, without sleep or
food to sustain it. In the distance, a dark gray light was
seeping across the horizon. He estimated how long it would
take the sun to rise to the height of this window, then
checked to see that Senzei was lying in the path of its light.
It was all he had strength to do. The pain in his side, denied
for so many hours, lanced through his torso with fresh
reminder of his own weakness, and the strain of forty hours

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with no more rest than a brief fit of delirium in Morgot
added its weight to his exhaustion. He stared at the horizon
for a few more moments, watching for a change that he
knew would occur too slowly for him to see - but by the
time the white sun of Erna had cleared the horizon and the
first few stars of the galaxy had grudgingly succumbed to
its light, he was lost in a sleep so deep, so insulating, that
not even the thought of sunlight over the Forest was enough
to awaken him.
They came for him at sunset, as soon as it began to grow
dark. They gave him time to see that Senzei was well, to
affirm that the Healing he had done at midday hadn't been
banished by the coming of night - and then they directed
him to follow them, through the castle's upper corridors.
For once, he was not afraid to leave his companion behind.
It seemed unlikely that the Hunter would have invested so
much effort in saving Senzei's life if he was only waiting
for Damien's absence in order to kill him.
Food and rest had done much to renew his confidence -
not to mention a much-needed bath and a timely shave. His
face was raw but no longer stubble-covered, and his skin
had been rubbed clean of both Forest grime and caked
blood. He had even toweled down Senzei, scraping off the
residue of gore that encrusted him to find clean, pink flesh
beneath, rapidly healing. The latter was a monument to the
Forest's earth-fae, which, once tamed, intensified each
Working a thousandfold. He wondered if it was just his
room that had been guarded from the ferocity of the

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currents, or the entire castle; if the latter, it meant that he
and the Hunter were on much more equal ground.
Then they took him into the guest room where the
Hunter was waiting - and where Ciani lay, as still and white
as Senzei had been.
He ignored the adept and hurried to her side. Her flesh
was cool to the touch, but the pulse that throbbed beneath
his fingertips was regular. No sooner had he ascertained
that than her eyes fluttered open - and she was in his arms,
shivering in a mixture of fear and relief, her tears soaking
the wool of his shirt as he held her.
"You see," the Hunter said quietly. "As I promised."
"Her memory is back?"
"All that I took." The adept seemed to hesitate. "Perhaps
. . . more."
Damien looked up at him, sharply. In his arms, Ciani
trembled.
"This reunion will be managed better without my
presence," the Hunter said shortly. "You should know that
these are her first waking moments since Morgot - she
knows nothing of what you've done, or what has passed
between us. You'll need to bring her up to date. When

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you're done here, have my servants bring you to the
observatory. We have plans to discuss."
And he left, without further word. Not until the heavy
door had closed behind him did Ciani draw back from
Damien. Her eyes were red, her breathing unsteady.
"Tarrant . . ."
"Is the Hunter," he said quietly. And he told her - what
they knew, what they suspected, what they feared. She
drank it all in hungrily, as though somewhere in that sea of
knowledge the key to life was hidden. And it was, for her.
Even in such a state, that much remained true.
In time, she grew calm. In time, he was convinced that
what the Hunter had said was true: her memories were
intact, back to the day of the attack in Jaggonath. He had
returned them.
"It hurt him," she whispered. "I think . . . I think it
almost killed him, to absorb so much of my psyche. As if
the sheerhumanity of my memories was somehow a threat
to him. I sensed that. Without knowing where I was, or
what was happening." She shivered. "I sensed it . . . as
though his thoughts were my own."
"Anything else?"
"He was furious with you. For entering the Forest.

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Furious because he would now have to deal with you,
instead of just settling things with me. Any entanglement
with the living is a threat to him . . . as if it somehow could
cost him his life, I don't understand it exactly. He blames
you for that."
Damien's eyes narrowed. "That's fair enough. I blame
him for a lot."
A hint of a smile crossed her face; the old Ciani, show-
ing through. "What did he mean, we have plans to
discuss?"
"He says he's going with us."
There was fear in her eyes - but only for an instant, and
then it was subsumed by something far stronger: her
curiosity. "It's what we wanted, isn't it?"
"It's whatyou wanted," he reminded her. "But now
there's no way to avoid it. I don't believe we can get out of
here without his help, and he's raised questions . . ." He
hesitated. He didn't want to bring that up, not now; Ciani
had enough to deal with without facing the fact that her
assailants were perhaps merely tools for some much darker,
much more powerful force. "If his honor really binds him,
as he insists, we may be safe enough."
"It does." Her eyes stared out into empty space, as if

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looking out upon a remembered landscape. "It's the glue
that holds it all together for him. The last living fragment of
his human identity. If he lets that go . . . he'll be no more
than a mindless demon. Dead, to all intents and purposes. A
tool of your hell, without any will of his own."
"Not a pretty concept."
"He's very proud, and very determined. His will to live
is so strong that every other force in his life, every other
concern, is subordinated to it. That's what's kept him alive
all these years." She shuddered. "If he didn't feel that the
question of honor was so linked to his personal survival-"
"Then we would all be dead," he finished for her. "That
explains a lot. What I don't understand is that he's returned
the memories to you - along with a few of his own, I gather
- and now we're all here together, restored as a group. He's
undone the damage he caused. So why is it so necessary for
him to come along? How does Revivalist honor play a part
in that?"
Her eyes were wide, her voice solemn. "He promised
someone," she whispered. "Just that. He promised someone
he would never hurt me . . . and then he did. He betrayed
himself. The force of his self-hatred . . ." She looked away.
"You can't imagine it," she breathed. "But I remember it,
as though it were my own. And . . . there aren't words . . ."
She clutched herself, as though by doing so she could keep
his memories from coming to her. "He perceives himself as

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balanced on a very fine line, with death on both sides of
him. And if at any moment he fails to choose the course
that will maintain his balance-"
"He dies," Damien muttered.
"Or worse," she told him. "There are far, far worse
things than mere death that lie in wait for him now."
Yes, Damien thought, there would be. A thousand years
or more of hell in the making, with new devils spawned by
each sinner. And all of them gunning for him, the one
arrogant adept who escaped their clutches . . .
He kissed her on the forehead. "You've earned your
keep," he told her. And despite all his fears, and the long
hours of despair behind him, he smiled. "Lucky for us that
when he returned your memories he did so this imperfectly;
the information you picked up from him may give us
enough control over the situation to make traveling with
him viable-"
"As he probably intended," she whispered.
Startled, Damien fell silent. Long enough to consider
what he knew of the man - and just how hard it would have
been for the Hunter to discuss such things openly. To bare
his soul as it must be bared, lest the group refuse to travel
with him. In which case it would mean that his honor

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couldn't be vindicated. In which case-
"Yes," he said quietly. "In control, as always." He
glanced at the door, felt his arm about Ciani tighten
protectively. "Even when he's not here."
He got up from the bed, and helped her to do the same.
"Come on," he said. "I think it's time we had a little talk
with our host."
The observatory had been established on the roof of the
castle's highest tower, surrounded by a low crenellated wall
and a panoramic view of the Forest far below. A number of
farseers had been set about the edge, alongside more arcane
machinery whose form gave no hint as to its purpose. Far
below, white mist veiled the Forest's canopy, and the
distant mountains jutted through it like islands rising from a
foamy sea. In the center of the roof was an unusually large
farseer with an intricate viewpiece. Surrounding it, carved
into the black stone surface of the tower, was a circle of ar-
cane symbols, precisely aligned. It struck Damien as odd
that an adept should require such things. Generally it was
only the unschooled who relied so heavily on symbology.
Gerald Tarrant was busy adjusting the largest farseer
when they arrived, but he quickly looked up from the
faceted eyepiece to acknowledge them. He bowed formally
to Ciani - the gesture of another time, another world. He

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might have been born of a different race entirely, so much
had Erna changed since he had last lived in it.
"You have decided," he said. A question.
Before Ciani could answer, Damien snapped, "I don't
see that we have much choice."
"Just so," he agreed. He turned from them to gaze out
into the night, as if reading meaning into its darkness. "It
might interest you to know that your enemies have staked
out the road to Sheva as your most likely point of departure
from the Forest."
"They won't enter the woods, then?" Ciani asked.
"If they did, it might save you all some trouble; nothing
within my borders can withstand me."
"How many are there?"
"Six. A formidable company. They've established a
false trail leading to the Serpent, meant to convince you
that they departed for home . . . but their presence is like a
cancer at the edge of my realm. It would be impossible for
me to miss it." His gaze came to rest on Ciani, lingered
there. "I regret, my lady, that your own assailant no longer
seems to be among them; apparently he left soon after the
incident in Morgot. Perhaps they sensed that if he were

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with them, we need only destroy that small company to see
that your faculties were returned to you."
Damien's tone was bitter. "As it is . . ."
"We must do what you originally planned, and enter the
rakhlands to hunt him down. Only now you must travel at
night."
Damien refused to rise to the bait. "I take it we avoid
Sheva?"
"And have them on our tail all the way? No." The
Hunter smiled. "I have other plans."
When he said nothing more, Damien prompted, "Share
them with us?"
"Not yet. When the preparation is complete. Have
patience, priest."
Overhead, the clouds shifted. From Prima's disk, now
visible, silver light spilled across the landscape. Tarrant's
eyes flickered toward the moon, and his hand tightened on
the body of the farseer.
"Stargazing?" Damien asked.

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"Call it an ancient science." He studied the pair of them
as though considering how much to tell them. Then he
stepped back and gestured toward the heavy black machine.
"Take a look."
Damien glanced at Ciani; she nodded. Somewhat warily,
he stepped into the warded circle. If the ancient symbols
focused any Working on him, he didn't feel it. He lowered
his right eye to the viewpiece, saw Prima leap forward from
the darkness to confront him. The leading edge of Magra
Crater was a fine line on the silver horizon, and just below
were five long channels, stretching like fingers across the
face of the globe.
When he had seen his fill of the familiar lunar features
he stood up again. "Seems like a lot of excess bulk for that
kind of magnification."
"Is it?" the Hunter asked softly. "Work your Sight, and
you may think otherwise."
"In this place? The current would-"
"I insulated your rooms, so that you could Heal there.
What I did here was . . . similar. You're quite safe where
you stand. Go ahead," he urged. "The view will educate
you."
Damien hesitated; the degree to which the man knew

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exactly how to bait him was beginning to get on his nerves.
But at last curiosity won out over caution. "All right." He
envisioned the first key of a Seeing in his mind, let it mold
the earth-fae to his will-
And nothing happened.
Nothing at all.
He tried to Work his other senses. The result was the
same. The totality of his failure was staggering. It was as if
the fae had somehow become . . . unworkable. As if all the
rules he had come to take for granted had suddenly been
unwritten.
"Inside that circle," Tarrant said quietly, "there is no
fae."
He heard Ciani gasp, almost did so himself. "How is that
possible?"
"Never mind that," the Hunter put his hand on the barrel
of the farseer. "Look now."
Damien lowered his eye to the viewpiece - and saw the
surface of Prima, just as before. Magnified exactly as it had
been, with the farseer still fixed on the features he had
chosen.

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He stood, but said nothing. Words had failed him.
"Damien?" It was Ciani.
"The same," he managed. "It's still . . . the same." The
truth was almost too fantastic. "It's not a farseer."
Tarrant shook his head. "The old Earth word was
telescope.He stroked the black tube proudly, possessively.
"Crystal lenses, ground to precise specifications. Distanced
apart at intervals determined by Earth-science. And it
works. Every time. No matter who uses it, no matter what
they expect, or what they might hope for, or fear . . . it
works." There was something in his voice that Damien had
never heard there before. Awe? "Imagine a whole world
like that. A world of unalterable physical laws, where the
will of the living has no power over inanimate objects. A
world in which the same experiment, performed at a
thousand different sites by a thousand different men, would
have exactly the same result each time. That is our heritage,
Reverend Vryce. Which this world denied us."
He looked at the telescope and tried to envision a world
such as the Hunter described. And at last could only mutter,
"I can't imagine it."
"Nor I. After years of trying. The magnitude of it
staggers the imagination. That a whole planet could be so
utterly unresponsive to life . . . and yet life as we know it

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evolved on its surface."
"Advanced life."
The Hunter smiled faintly. "We do like to think so." He
looked toward Ciani and indicated the telescope; an
invitation. As she came forward and lowered her eye to the
viewpiece, he said quietly, "Are you prepared for another
question?"
Damien felt himself stiffen. Ciani looked up.
"Let's hear it," he said.
"What was it the lady's assailants wanted, in
Jaggonath?"
"You mean when they attacked me?" Ciani asked.
"Exactly."
"Revenge," Damien told him. "Ciani had escaped from
them-"
"Hell of a long trip, for vengeance."
The night was very quiet.

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"What are you suggesting?"
"I suggest nothing. I merely . . . ask questions. Like
what would have happened if the lady's assailant had
returned to the rakhlands after crippling her - as he sup-
posedly intended." He gave them a moment to digest that,
then continued, "According to what we know about the
Canopy, when he crossed to the other side of that barrier,
the bond that joined them would have been severed.
Banished. From the lady's standpoint, I imagine . . . it
would be much the same as if he had died."
"She would have been freed!"
"Not exactly an efficient vendetta, eh? A week or two of
misery for her, and then it would all be over." His pale gray
eyes were fixed on Ciani, drinking in her response; there
was a hunger in him that made Damien uneasy.
"You think they had something else in mind."
With obvious reluctance, he forced his eyes away from
her. "I think they intended one of two things. To kill her . . .
or take her with them. Either way they would have
benefited from having her disabled, by loss of memory and
adeptitude. Except that in the former case, it wouldn't
really be necessary. A knife thrust through the heart is as
fatal to an adept as it is to your common man on the street;
if they had her under their control long enough to disable

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her, it seems unlikely they would have failed to kill her. If
that was what they intended."
Damien moved closer to where Ciani stood, to put a
reassuring arm around her. She was trembling. "You think
they meant to take me back?" she whispered.
"I'm afraid I do, lady. It's the only explanation that
makes sense. They must have come to Jaggonath for that
purpose, then panicked when your shop's defenses hit
them. Had your assistant not faked your death they would
surely have come back for you. As it was, they thought you
were beyond their reach."
"So they started home."
"And met with reinforcements. Perhaps more of their
kind who had been left behind, to cover the trail; perhaps
some who came later, after the initial attack was launched.
No matter. They guessed your friends' intention to be a
mission of vengeance on your behalf and joined forces to
deal with you. And prepared to ambush you all in Morgot,
because they knew you would have to pass through that
port to reach their homeland.
"They know who she is now, I'll bet."
"So much for disguise. What next?"

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"That depends on why they want her. They may try to
capture her again. Or they may simply settle for killing the
whole party, just to have the matter ended. Three of their
kind have already died at our hands, I'll remind you. They
must be questioning whether the game is worth the cost."
"Either way . . ."
"We'll be ambushed in Sheva," Ciani said quietly.
"Because of me."
"We'll be ambushed in Sheva because we're hunting
them down like the dogs they are," Damien corrected her.
"We will not be ambushed in Sheva." Tarrant said
irritably. "I've already launched a Working that will take
care of that. By the time your friend is fit to travel, that
small army will be long gone. Which leaves us with several
larger problems to confront." Overhead the clouds had
covered Prima's disk, darkening the night a thousandfold. It
was impossible to see Tarrant's face as he told them, "The
lady would be safest if she remained here."
"No," Damien said firmly. And Ciani stiffened proudly,
as if somehow the suggestion had poured fresh strength
into her veins. "I can't just sit back and wait," she said. "I
can't! It's my fight, more than anyone's."
"As I expected." Tarrant said quietly. "But it had to be

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said. It has to be your decision. So: the lady comes with us.
We cross under the Canopy. And discover what force is
allied to these creatures, that hungers so desperately to
possess her. There is no alternative to that course of action
if the lady's to be freed."
"But consider this," he said - and his voice took on
something of the autumn night, its darkness and its chill. "If
we take the lady into the rakhlands, whatever our intentions
may be . . . might we not be doing exactly what our enemy
wants?" 
Twenty-six
They waited alongside the road to Sheva, as they had
done for many nights. But despite the doubts that several
had expressed, the one who guided them insisted that they
were right, that this was the correct place to be; and so they
waited, hungry and uneasy, anxious to obtain their
vengeance and then hurry home. As one of them had done
already, in order to report to the Keeper.
And then the humans came.
They emerged from the Forest's edge barely an hour
after dusk. Two men and one woman, the same trio that had
left from Jaggonath so many days ago. Only now it was
possible to see past the woman's makeup, as though her
nights in the Forest had somehow compromised her skill in

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applying it. Even the newcomers could recognize her, from
the description given them in the rakhlands.
So she's not dead! one hissed.
Not yet, another responded hungrily.
They could hear the humans speaking now, and as the
trio drew closer they could make out words. The woman
was angry at the Hunter for what he had done to her and
wanted to get away from him as quickly as possible. The
large man - who had been so much trouble in Morgot -
insisted that it was all for the best, that if she hadn't
demanded they leave without the Hunter, he would have
insisted on it. Only the tall, pale one was silent, but it was
easy to see as he adjusted his Worked spectacles that he
had been through much, and not recovered well.
Excellent.
The attackers were still six strong, twice the number that
had first set forth on this ill-fated mission. Compared to the
puny human force that faced them, they were little less than
an army.
The sorcerer isn't with them!one exulted.
They refused to travel with him.

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Our luck.
Yes . . .
He had taken them by surprise, that one. He, and that
damnable bitch from the plains. Shehad gone right home
after the battle, driven off by the raw malevolence of the
sorcerer's domain. So now she was out of the picture. As
for the sorcerer himself . . . who cared where he was, as
long as he was absent? The humans were alone. That was
all that mattered.
We kill them, one of the newcomers instructed. Quickly.
And make sure of it this time.
There were murmurs of protest - of hunger, of fear - but
they soon settled down. The newcomer was right. They had
tried a more complicated plan, and the humans had come
hunting them. Now it was time to end it.
The Keeper would simply have to accept that.
The humans were closer now; it was possible to hear
them arguing. The six tensed, waiting for the right moment.
"This is a mistake-" the thin man was saying.
"You're outvoted, Zen" The large man's voice was

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brusque, unyielding. "Tarrant's just too vulking dangerous.
I'd rather face a horde of these demons, unarmed, than have
that kind of power behind my back."
"But-"
"He's right," the woman said quietly. Her voice was
tense, her manner strained. She looked as though she hadn't
slept for days. "We don't know anything about his motives.
Except that he thrives on human terror - and if he traveled
with us, we'd be the only humans in range for quite some
time." She shivered. "He fed on me once. Once is enough."
They charged.
They ran silently, slipping from shadow to shadow as
fluidly as though they themselves were composed of
nothing more solid than darkness. The humans were so
wrapped up in their argument that it was seconds before
they noticed that anything was amiss. And seconds were
enough. The first of the attacking army was within arm's
reach of the nearest horse when the priest cried out, "Heads
up!" and the battle was joined.
Too late, for the humans. Even as the priest whipped out
his sword, the nearest attacker had his horse by the bridle;
with a sharp jerk he twisted the creature's head at an angle
it was loath to adopt. The horse staggered wildly, and the
priest's swing went wide of its target. Another twist and the

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horse went down violently, slamming onto its side. The
priest rolled free, barely. A second attacker leapt onto him
while he was still completing his roll, while his sword was
still trapped beneath his body; claws raked the suntanned
face, drawing rivers of blood. The priest shivered, feeling
the first touch of their cold hunger invade his flesh. He
kicked out with all his might - and his strength was
considerable, for a human - but though his assailant's leg
cracked sharply and swung free at an odd angle from the
knee down, the attacker managed to hold onto his prey.
The priest fought desperately - as did his companions,
each locked in their own small knot of combat - but the
attackers knew their tricks now, and would not be defeated
the same way again. Besides, the tall and deadly sorcerer
had not yet come to help the humans - which meant that he
would not come at all, that he had abandoned them as
thoroughly as they had abandoned him.
Hunger surged in the priest's opponent as the fresh
exhilaration of victory charged his limbs with newfound
energy. He was beginning to drink in the man's substance
now, and flickers of memory formed in its brain - images
so rich in content that he hissed in delight even as his claws
dug into the priest's protective collar and began to close on
his windpipe. He absorbed the priest's aspirations, his
conquests, his fears. His lives. He experienced the passion
of a woman's embrace as this man had known it - wild and
intoxicating, obsessive, uninhibited - and the thrill of battle,
which felt much the same. He drank in all these things and

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more: childhood memories, adult desires, dreams and hopes
and the terrors that came at midnight, all of them - and as
he did so he gained in substance, his pale, translucent flesh
taking on the color and texture of life, his empty eyes filled
with the warm light of earthly purpose. In that moment, for
an instant, the priest's attacker was human - and that was a
thing that none of his kind had ever been before. Not per-
fectly. Not until tonight.
Then the rivers of blood that had pulsed out over his
hands, from the wounds his claws had made in the man's
neck, ceased. Likewise, the memories ceased to flow, and
with it the warming pleasure that came from a kill. Make
sure, the attacker told himself, and he cut deeply into the
man's flesh, severing a vital artery that was lodged in his
throat. No more than a thin stream came forth; no more
than that little bit was left in him. He lapped at the trickle,
felt the man's memories pulse in him like a second
heartbeat. And then even that was gone, subsumed into his
hunger. The priest was dead.
Sated, the attacker climbed to his feet. The battle was
over. At the far end of the field the pale human lay, and he
saw that his eyes had been torn out in the heat of that battle.
His companions sat between the bodies, licking warm
blood from their hands and faces, shivering with the
pleasure of stolen memories. He looked for the woman -
surely she hadn't escaped - and found her where she had
been felled, not far from her thinner comrade.

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Dead. Her horse had reared up, terrified, and she had
been thrown from the saddle. She had struck an
outcropping of granite headfirst, and her cranium had split
open like an overripe melon. A thick, wet mass oozed out
between the cracks and dribbled wetly onto the ground.
Dead, he whispered.
They gathered around him.
Dead, another agreed. And a third added, Without
question.
Who will tell the Keeper that we lost her?
They looked at the bodies, the fallen horses, the roads . .
. anywhere but at their fellows.
The Keeper will know,one said at last. When we enter
the homeland. As soon as we do.
They considered that. Several of them shivered.
We could . . . choose not to go home.
For a moment there was silence, as they all considered
that option. But it really was no option, and they knew it.
The rage when the Keeper learned of their failure would be

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nothing compared to what they would suffer if they tried to
flee. The Master of Lema was wise, they told themselves,
and experienced, and would know that these things
happened. Surely their punishment would not be too harsh.
They looked at the bodies - and licked the blood from
their lips - savoring the last echoes of the humans' screams.
And then they turned south, toward the outskirts of Sheva,
and began the long journey home.
Twenty-seven
Gazing outinto the night, Gerald Tarrant thought, It's
done.
The black stonework of his observatory was barely
visible even to him, cloaked as it was by the absolute
darkness of the true night. Soon, however, Casca would rise
in the west, shedding its maverick light upon the landscape.
And then the most delicate wisps of the dark fae - which
were also the most powerful - would dissolve into
nothingness, and take their Workings with them.
Good enough. The job was done. The demons from the
rakhlands, secure in their triumph, had already turned
toward home. In a few days' time they would cross beneath
the edge of the Canopy, which barrier would then keep
them from realizing the truth - that they had been tricked,
and tricked thoroughly.

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He watched with his special vision as his Working faded
in the distance, as the three humans he had altered regained
their original identities. It didn't matter now. The demons
had already moved on and wouldn't see the change. Only
with the dark fae was such an illusion possible - one that
was maintained not only on the gross physical planes but in
the arena of thought as well - but the dark fae was a fickle,
impermanent force, and could hardly be bound now to
sustain an illusion that no longer had purpose. He would
have to lead the lady's people along a slightly different
path, to avoid the questions which the presence of bodies
might raise . . .
Listen to yourself, he thought angrily. You're catering to
them!
Better that they should cater to you.
Three nights, at most. Maybe less. Then he would leave
the Forest which had been his home - his shield - his
refuge. The land which washim, as much as the flesh he
wore.
And what if some idiot lights a match while I'm gone?
He looked out over the thickly webbed canopy and
considered calling rain. With enough effort he could
establish a weather pattern that would guarantee regular
precipitation for months . . . but with winter coming that
could as easily mean snow, and too much snow meant its

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own special perils. No. Let nature take its course. Amoril
could handle the Forest. The albino couldn't Work the
weather yet - possibly he'd never be able to - but his skills
were strong enough in other areas. And if at times he
seemed to lack . . . say, a sense of aesthetics . . . he more
than made up for that with his enthusiasm.
And besides, no one would know that the Hunter had
left. He must remember that. No one would know that the
Hunter had passed beyond a boundary through which no
human thought could travel, and was cut off from that
source of power which he had cultivated for centuries . . .
He felt a tremor deep within himself, as if some part of
the human self he had buried had trickled through to the
surface. Fear? Anticipation? Dread? He had lived for so
long within the Forest's hospitable confines that he could
no longer remember what it was like to be afraid.
Somewhere along the line he had lost that, too, as if fear
and love and compassion and paternal devotion had all
been a package deal, discarded together in that first red
sacrifice which took him from one life to another.
And if he feared, was there something that would feed
on that? As he fed on the fear of others - that last delicious
moment when the human mind abandoned all hope and the
defenses of the soul came crashing down? Man had arrived
on this planet little more than a millenium ago, and already
there were myriad creatures that relied on him for
sustenance; why should the food chain stop there?

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In the quiet of the night, the Neocount of Merentha
mused: How long does evolution take, among the damned?
CITADEL OF STORMS
Twenty-eight
They leftthe gloomy replica of Merentha Castle
promptly at dusk. Or so they were told. High up on the
ramparts it might have been possible to see the sun,
possible to verify that day had indeed ended and the reign
of night begun. But in the closed corridors of the castle's
interior and beneath the Forest's thickly woven canopy, one
had to take such things on faith. The Hunter's faith.
They had no other choice.
Tarrant provided horses for Ciani and himself, jet-black
creatures with muscular limbs and rich, glossy coats. They
left behind them a trail of crescent indentations, as unlike
the three-toed marks left by Damien's mounts as those of
another species would be. Their proportion, likewise,
seemed strange to the eye, almost but not quite identical to
that of their southern brethren. Damien was hard pressed to
put his finger on the difference - but he knew, whatever it
was, that it was both controlled and intentional. With a
thousand years of leisure time on his hands and the nearly
unlimited potential of the Forest's fae, the Neocount of

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Merentha had completed his most ambitious task. Erna now
had true horses.
Without a word, as if they feared that the noise of
speech might somehow put them in danger, the party rode
east. The foliage of the Forest parted before them like a
living thing - and on those occasions when it failed to do
so, the Hunter's coldfire would flare in the path ahead of
them, clearing the way. When they passed, then, they
would find the plant life frozen and brittle; the tree
branches that had previously hindered them shattered into
frigid dust at the mere sound of their passage.
They rode for hours. At last it was Damien who called a
halt, judging that the horses would need a breather if they
were to continue at pace until dawn. He looked at Tarrant
and gestured toward the ground, as if questioning its safety.
After a moment the Hunter smiled - faintly, ever so faintly,
as if traveling with mere humans had sapped him of humor
- and then drew his sword. Silver-blue light filled the air,
and a gust of frigid wind went sweeping past Damien,
sucked toward the Worked steel. Then the Hunter thrust
downward, casting his weapon into the earth. The ground
seemed to shudder and cracks appeared, jagged lines that
radiated out from the invading swordpoint. The front end of
a wormlike creature broke ground and then stiffened - and
shivered into a thousand bits of crystal that sparkled like
fresh snow on the frozen ground. After that, there was no
further movement.

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"You can dismount," the Hunter assured them.
Damien and Senzei fed their mounts from the stores they
had brought with them; the Hunter's black horses, weaned
on the Forest's vegetation, seemed content to crop the
leafless stalks that flanked the cleared area. Damien
wondered what adjustments he had made to their digestive
systems that allowed them to thrive in this dismal place.
Did their massive hooves keep them safe from Forest
predators who might otherwise track them through the heat
of their trail? What adaptive purpose had such thick armor
plates served on Earth, where a beast might tread the
ground without fear of heatseekers?
"When we reach Sheva," Tarrant told them, "and from
then on, I would prefer you not use my title. Or refer to my
true identity."
"They seemed to recognize you outside Mordreth,"
Senzei challenged.
"As a servant of the Hunter. Not as the Hunter himself."
"It makes so much difference?"
"Enough. When a man thinks of killing the Hunter's
servant - or even disobeying him - he must take into
account what the master's reaction will be. Which is very
different from how he will act if he imagines that he might,

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through the luck of a single kill, dispense with the master
altogether." And he added dryly, "It spares me the
inconvenience of killing every time I travel. Surely you
find that appealing."
Through gritted teeth, Damien muttered. "Surely."
Night. Truenight reigned below, blind to what was
happening in the heavens; even Domina's light couldn't
pierce the thick canopy, which had been designed to keep
the sunlight out. Thick, white-skinned vines glittered in the
lamplight as they passed, their leafless lengths twining
upward about the tree trunks until they reached a height
where sunlight was available. Research in the castle's
library had revealed that the Forest was once a fairly
normal place, unique only in that it was located near a
natural focus of the Earth-fae. The Hunter had changed
that. It was he who had evolved the Forest's special trees,
which trapped their own dead leaves in a webwork of hair-
fine branches, so that even in the dead of winter no light
would reach the ground below. But what other adjustments
must have been made to this ecosystem to keep it
functioning? The perpetual darkness would have killed any
light-dependent species within the Forest's confines,
throwing the whole ecosystem out of balance. He must
have Worked it all - plant by plant, animal, insect, and bush
alike - until he had stabilized thousands of species in a new,
light-starved balance. And created a few new ones, to
facilitate its functioning. Damien thought of the wormlike
creatures, and realized that even they must play their part.

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A biosphere with so little energy input had no room for
waste.
What kind of a mind did it take to think on that scale?
To take on such a project and then succeed with it, rather
than making the Forest into a lifeless wasteland, whose
survival was compromised by the lack of one special insect,
or one minute step in the food chain ladder? The sheer
scope of the project was staggering. But with a thousand
years of spare time on his hands, a very special man could
succeed. A man like the Neocount of Merentha, who had
spent his last living years redefining man and God,
evolving human society with the same precise attention to
detail that he gave to horses and Forest flora . . .
And then there was light on the path ahead of them, ever
so little - but it silhouetted the Hunter as he passed between
the final trees and flooded the land beyond with the clean,
subtle promise of dawn.
"Almost daylight," Tarrant said distastefully. He ges-
tured toward the east. "Sheva's five miles further, at most.
You can find shelter there."
"Not as dismal as Mordreth, I hope," Senzei muttered.
It seemed that the Hunter might have smiled, but a quick
glance at the lightening sky sobered whatever humor he
might otherwise have exhibited. "Mordreth is a special

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case," he assured them. "But the autumn nights end too
quickly for prolonged conversation. Save your questions
for the darker hours, and they may get answered."
"This much light doesn't seem to be hurting you,"
Damien challenged.
Tarrant shot him a quick, searing glare - and it was hard
to tell exactly what was behind it. Exasperation, irritation,
disdain . . . or all three. "Any man who can stand under the
stars can survive the touch of sunlight, priest. It's simply a
matter of degree." He dismounted gracefully, making no
sound as his boots struck the earth. "I have no desire to test
my limits."
He held his reins out to Damien. After a moment, the
priest took them. "Feed the animal with your own," the
Hunter instructed. "Give it whatever you imagine horses
eat. It'll survive."
"You mean you're not joining us for breakfast?"
"I doubt that witnessing my appetite would do much for
yours." He glanced again at the eastern sky; Damien
thought he saw him tense. "Do as you will with the daylight
hours," he said softly. "I'll be back soon enough."
"How will you-" Senzei began. But the man had stepped
into the shadows of the Forest once more, and its darkness

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closed about him like the folds of a cloak.
"Not much of a morning person," Damien observed.
It was good to be in a city again, surrounded by live
human beings. Good to be in whitewashed rooms inside
brick buildings, with bright quilt coverlets on modern beds
and thin curtains that failed to block out all of the glorious,
wonderful sunlight. Good to be surrounded by the bustle of
human activity once more - even if it meant that getting to
sleep was a little bit harder for all the noise. Not to mention
the sunlight.
It was good for a few hours. Only that. By the time the
sun set they were anxious to move again, and when Gerald
Tarrant finally rejoined them there was almost an air of
relief about the party.
We want to be there, Damien thought. We want to get it
done.
They rode east. Soon Sheva gave way to open ground,
the floor of the Raksha Valley. They found the river Lethe
and followed it southeast, through some dozen small
settlements that had been established along its banks. When
they needed a break, they ate real food in real restaurants.
While Tarrant watched silently, delicately sipping a glass
of fresh blood, or - if that was lacking - a northern wine.
What he did for his main sustenance, in the short time after

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each sunset that he assigned to his own needs, Damien had
no desire to know. But during the day he dreamed of a
thousand possibilities and often awoke in a cold sweat, his
hand groping for his sword, aware that he had just
witnessed some terrible dreambound atrocity, and that
Tarrant was the cause. And he wondered how much longer
he could be the cause of that man coming to his region,
without feeling responsible for the human suffering that
must be littering their trail in the Hunter's wake.
And then they came to it. A small city encircling a tiny
harbor, whose business was not in trade so much as
tourism. Sattin: close enough to the rakhland border that on
a clear day it was possible to gaze out across the Serpent
and see the jagged cliffs guarding that secret land and - just
possibly - the curtain of power that protected it. The city
overflowed with tourists, even in this harsh season, who
had paid good money and traveled many days in the hopes
of seeing what one pamphlet described as the last bastion
of native power. Which it wasn't, by any strict definition of
native,or evenbastion. But the phrase made good press.
There were sorcerers here, enough to populate a minor
colony on their own, and as a record of their presence they
left headlines splashed in bold print across the gray of
cheap northern paper: Southern Sore Feeds the Serpent:
Suicide or Sacrifice? Sorceress finds Hunter's Mark
Carved on Bedpost. And, inevitably, The Ghost of Casca is
Back - Local sorcerer Reveals the Terrifying Truth. Their
advertisements lined the streets, and filled the windows of

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shops and taverns. Offers to Share a Seeing, boat rides to
Take you close enough to touch the Canopy, andSeer
Reads the Future - Reasonable Rates.
If Sattin's tasteless commercialization of the rakhland's
defense system amused Damien, it seemed to irritate
Gerald Tarrant no end. Either that, or something else was
eating at the nightbound adept. More than once he snapped
at Damien in a manner unbefitting his normally smooth
demeanor; once the priest thought he even saw an emotion
flash in those quicksilver eyes that might have been fear, or
something akin to it - but the expression was gone so
quickly, and was so out of character for the Hunter they had
come to know, that in the end he decided he'd been
mistaken. What was there in a place like this for the Hunter
to fear?
It was while they were sampling what passed for dinner
in one of the city's many restaurants - overpriced fare with
no pretensions of quality, hardly preferable to their own
dried traveling rations - that Tarrant went seeking a vessel
to take them to the rakhland's rocky shoreline. It took him a
surprisingly long time, given his past record with such
things, and several dismal courses had come and gone
before he returned to join them.
"They're cowards, all," he informed them. "Ready to
risk the Canopy's edge for a handful of tourist gold, but ask
them to sail through it . . ." His fingers tapped the tabletop
as he spoke, a gesture of tension that was uncharacteristic

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of him; Damien wondered what prompted it. "I found a
man who'd risk the trip. His price is high. If I were of a
mind to criticize such business practices, I would call it
robbery - but never mind that." He saw Damien about to
speak, waved short his interruption. "I have the funds. And
my Jahanna coinage may cause him to think twice before
dumping us into the Serpent."
Startled, Ciani asked, "You think that's possible?"
"My lady, the human soul's a dark place - who knows
that better than I? - and greed is a powerful master. Add to
that man's passion for self-preservation . . . and yes, I think
it very possible that a man we hire to take us to the
Achron's mouth might find it expedient to . . . shall we say,
lighten his load before reaching shore? I would even call it
likely. There's a real danger in that landing, and not all men
like the smell of risk. I suggest we be careful."
"I could Work-" Damien began.
"So could I. More efficiently than you. And then, when
we passed under the Canopy, all that would be gone. Do
you want our pilot's murderous instincts suddenly
unleashed at the very moment we're least able to defend
ourselves? When even an unconscious Working might
backfire on us all?" He shrugged; there was a weariness in
the gesture that seemed oddly human. "I chose the best man
I could. I paid well and threatened carefully. Coercion is
one of my skills. Let's hope it works." He turned to Ciani.

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"Lady, I've scanned the city three times over - and its
environs, and the Serpent, and each and every current of
power that passes through or near this place. You have no
enemies here. Our pilot says we must wait two nights for a
suitable syzygy - a high tide will make the rakhland shore
considerably more accessible - and that means waiting
here. Which I regret. The place is . . ." he scowled.
"Distasteful, to say the least. But it is safe. I want you to
know that. Your enemies passed through here days ago,
and they left neither ward nor watcher behind. I made
certain of that."
"Thank you," she said softly. "That's worth . . . a lot.
Thank you."
"And now." He pushed his chair back from the table and
stood; his pale eyes fixed on Damien, their depths
brimming with hostility. "You're not my ideal of a
traveling companion, priest, and I know I'm not yours.
Since the lady is safe and our transport assured, may I
assume that you would have no objection to my passing my
time in other company until we depart?"
"None whatsoever," Damien assured him.
And he wondered: What the hell's eating him?
The hill was some distance from town, and not easy to
climb. Which was why it was empty of tourists, despite its

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position overlooking the water. It took her some time to
reach the top, and when at last she did she rested for a
moment, trying to catch her breath.
He stood at the crest, utterly still. Dark cloak rippling
slowly in the night breeze, pale eyes fixed on a point
somewhere across the water. Or perhaps on nothing.
Coming closer, she saw no other motion about him, nothing
that hinted at life. Not even breathing. Did he need to
breathe, she wondered, when he wasn't speaking? Exactly
where was he balanced, in that dark gulf between life and
unlife?
And then he turned and saw her. Surprise glittered
briefly in his eyes - then there was only control once more,
and his expression was unreadable. "Lady." He bowed.
"Alone?"
"You said it was safe here."
"I said your enemies were gone. There are still the
assorted muggers, rapists . . . etcetera. It is a city," he
reminded her.
"I'm city born and bred," she told him. "And well
armed, as you may recall. Even without the fae, I think I
could give a mugger a run for his money."
He studied her for a moment; something that was almost

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

a smile softened the corners of his mouth. "Yes. I believe
you could."
Then he looked out over the water again, and the soft-
ness fled from his expression. His nostrils flared, as if
testing the air.
"You came to find me," he challenged her.
She nodded.
"They let you come here?"
"They don't know."
He looked surprised. "They think I'm in my room," she
said defiantly. As though daring him to criticize her. "You
said I was safe."
For a moment he said nothing. Then, very quietly, he
told her, "You understand that it's somewhat jarring for me
to hear a woman refer to my presence as safe."
"Isn't it?"
"For you? Absolutely. But your men don't seem too
certain of that."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"They haven't seen inside you. I have."
He stiffened, turned away from her. Gazed out across
the water. "How did you find me?"
"It wasn't hard. There aren't many places in this region
where one can be alone . . . and an adept would want a
view of the Canopy. I asked the same questions I thought
you would have, to find such a place. They brought me
here." She followed his gaze across the water, to the
blackness of the nightbound horizon. "What do you See?"
He hesitated - then answered, "Nothing."
"Maybe when we get closer-"
He shook his head. "You misunderstand me. I can see
the Canopy quite clearly from here. There's no mistaking
it. It's as if the world ends suddenly at that point, as if
there's a line beyond which nothing exists. Oh, I can see
the water beyond, and mountains in the distance . . . but
those forces which are visible only to the adept's eye come
to a halt in midair, and beyond it is - nothing. Absolute
nothingness. A wall of nonexistence, beneath which the
water flows."
"And you think it'll kill you."
He stiffened. She saw him about to respond in his usual

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manner - eloquent and misleading, dryly evasive - but then,
his voice strained, he answered simply. "It may. I don't
know. I can't read into it at all. If no fae can be Worked in
that zone . . . then the power which keeps me alive may
well be inaccessible there." He shrugged; it was a stiff
gesture, clearly forced. "Your priest knows this? Your
sorcerer friend?"
"They might have guessed. I didn't tell them."
"Please don't."
She nodded.
"Is that what you came to find out?"
Instead of answering him, she asked, "Is there anything I
can do to help?"
He looked at her, and she could sense him trying to read
her. Trying to keep himself from using the fae to do it.
"Just keep them away from me," he said at last. "The boat
has a secure cabin, and I have the key. It was one of the
requirements. But who can say what damage they might do
if they tried to interfere? Even if they meant to help." He
laughed; it was a mirthless sound. "Unlikely as that is."
"I'll try," she promised. And she nodded, gently, "That's
what I came to find out."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She turned from him, then, and began to make her way
down the rocky slope, heading back toward the city.
"Lady."
She stopped where she was, and turned to him.
"You could have the fae back."
For a moment she just stared at him. Then, in a voice
that trembled slightly, she asked, "How?"
"Not as an adept - even I can't give you that. But you
could still learn to Work, as sorcerers do. It wouldn't be the
same as before. It wouldn't restore your Vision. It would
require keys and symbols, volumes of catch-phrases and
mental exercises-"
"Are you offering to teach me?" she breathed.
His pale eyes burned like coldfire in the moonlight; it
hurt to look directly at them. "And what if I were?"
She met his eyes - and drank in the pain, the power, all
of it. "What would you say," she asked him, "if, when you
were dying, someone offered you life? Would you question
the terms - or simply grasp at the bargain with all your

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strength, and live each moment as it came?"
"That's a loaded simile," he warned her. "And I don't
think I have to tell you what my own answer would be.
What it was, when I had to make that choice."
"Then you know my response."
He held out his hand. Without hesitation, she took it.
The chill of his touch shocked her flesh, but the cold of it
was pleasure - promise - and she smiled as it filled her.
"When can we start?" she whispered.
They left for the rakhlands as soon as the sun set. Their
captain grumbled about the time of their departure, and
about the horses, and the weather, and a thousand other
things that weren't exactly as they should be . . . and then
Gerald Tarrant came to where he stood and simply looked
at him, as eloquent in his silence as a snake about to strike.
The complaints quickly ceased.
But there were some very real problems, with no easy
solutions. The matter of the horses, for example. This boat
was smaller than the one that had taken them across to
Morgot, and its shallow draft and simpler deck meant that
there was really no place to stand where one was not
acutely aware of the water just underfoot, and no place to
safely shelter the animals. Damien found himself wishing

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

for a deeper vessel with more enclosed cargo space, even
though he knew damned well that such a boat couldn't
navigate the treacherous shallows of the rakhland shore.
Tarrant couldn't even Work to calm the animals, as he had
done before, without risking that his efforts would be
negated - or even worse, reversed - as their ship passed
under the Canopy. There were drugs made that could
render the animals more tractable, and the party had
discussed the possibility of using them, but that entailed its
own special risk; their landing might prove dangerous, and
any drug-induced lethargy on the part of the animals might
cost them dearly. So they had settled for blindfolding them
according to the captain's instructions, in preparation for
crossing the Canopy, and binding them as securely as they
could, in a place where they would hurt no one if they tried
to break free.
We have to be prepared to lose them, Damien told
himself. In anticipation of which they had already taken
their most precious possessions from the horses' packs and
affixed them to their own bodies, feeling more in control
that way. But how much good would that do if they had to
swim? Given the choice between approaching their enemy
unarmed and trying to avoid drowning with two heavy
weapons strapped to his back, Damien would be hard put to
choose the better course.
The situation's bad. There's no way around that. We'll
do the best we can. And pray for luck, he added.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For now, things seemed to be going well enough. De-
spite the captain's muttered complaints the Serpent was
reassuringly calm, and it gleamed like quicksilver in
Domina's light. In the east Prima had already risen, and her
quick pace rapidly consumed the degrees of the sky that
stood between her and her more massive sister. Syzygy
would occur at midnight, or thereabouts: Erna's two larger
moons would pull at the tides in conjunction, deepening the
Serpent until the worst hazards of the rakhland coast were
buried under several feet of water. Or so they hoped. It was
all a matter of degree, and inches might well mean the
difference between safety and disaster. Damien hoped that
their captain knew the deadly coastline as well as he
claimed. And that it hadn't changed too much; in this
geologically active zone, no feature was permanent.
And then, looking out over the water, he thought he saw
something. A wisp of fae-light, rising from the surface. He
tried to focus on it, to make out what it was, but its form
eluded him. Each time he tried to fix his gaze on it his eyes
would start to wander, or - when he managed to hold them
still - his mind.
"The Canopy's edge," Tarrant said from behind him.
For once, he didn't start to find the man so close; it made
sense that the adept would be here, eyes as still and as
glisteningly cold as the water they gazed out upon. After a
moment Ciani touched Damien's arm lightly, letting him
know she had also come up beside him. To her left was
Senzei, face flushed pink from his recent Healing, hands

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resting lightly on the thick brass railing that guarded the
vessel's bow.
"Don't try to See," the Hunter warned. Softly, as if
cautioning a child. For some reason Damien had the
impression that his words weren't meant for him and
Senzei, but for Ciani. He looked up sharply at the adept,
meaning to question him - but before he could speak the
Hunter stiffened, like a wolf catching the scent of prey. His
eyes narrowed, and his hands clenched at his sides. In fear?
Was that possible? Or was Damien reading his own unease
into the adept's manner, injecting a dose of human emotion
into a man who had left his humanity behind long ago?
He looked out toward the south, following the Hunter's
gaze. And the Canopy was there, or at least its leading
edge; clearly visible, even to their unWorked sight. Not as a
physical object would be visible, nor even something so
substantial as a cloud. It wasn't so much a thing as an
impression, that touched the brain quickly and then fled,
leaving a bright afterimage etched into one's mind. Wisps
of it danced about the surface of the water, and Damien was
reminded of the mirrored surface of lake water, when seen
from underneath: crystal clear, gently rippling, a fluid,
fickle reflector. Like the stars at the border of the galaxy,
they sparkled in and out of sight, teasing the edges of his
vision. If one looked closely enough, it was possible to
make out more solid images in the distance, viewed
through that glittering filter: the rakhland's shoreline,
jagged rocks and looming cliffs edged in double moonlight,

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and the whitewater surf of its shallows. For a moment it
was reassuring, to see anything so solid. But then, as
Damien watched, even the outlines of the cliffs seemed to
alter - as though the shoreline itself were transforming, as if
the rocks were no more solid than the veil of rakh-fae that
hung before his eyes. Illusion, he told himself, The thought
was cold, fear-filled. If the Canopy could affect their vision
across miles of open water, how were they to navigate?
How were they to land? It would be impossible, he
realized. They would have to reach the other side of this
barrier before trying to wend their way through the
shallows, or else there was no way on Erna they could
manage it. He tried to remember what the Canopy's
parameters were in this region: its width, its rhythm of
fluctuation, its average distance from shore. But the
knowledge wouldn't come. He turned to Tarrant, certain
that the adept would know - he seemed to collect all
manner of arcane knowledge, why not that? - but when he
looked back to where the Hunter had been, he found only
undisturbed air. Neither shadow nor chill to witness that the
man (if man he could be called) had ever stood there, or to
explain why he had left.
The captain joined them where they stood. He was
grinning. "It's said that when fish swim from one side to
the other, they come out different from what they started,"
He wiped his hands one against the other, smearing streaks
of dark oil on both. He seemed about to say something else
- equally reassuring, no doubt - but Damien interrupted
him.

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"Where's Mer Tarrant?"
"You mean his Lordship?" He nodded sharply toward
the center of the vessel, where a locked door guarded his
own private cabin. "He's just taking a rest, of sorts. You
don't go bothering him now, see? That's the deal."
Damien glared, and began to move toward the cabin.
Ciani grabbed his arm and held it.
"Let him be," she said quietly.
"What's he pulling now-"
"Please,Damien. Just stay here. He'll be all right."
He stared at her for a moment, not comprehending. And
then it all came together for him. The Canopy. The Hunter.
The constant Working that must be required, to maintain
that unnatural life. What the Canopy would do to such a
Working, and to the man who required it-
He must have started to move again; Ciani's grip
tightened on his arm, and kept him from leaving her.
"Let him be," she insisted. Quietly, but firmly. "Please.
There's nothing we can do except make it worse."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"How bad?" he said hoarsely. God in Heaven, he had
just come to terms with that man's presence. How like
Tarrant it would be, to leave them just when he was
becoming useful . . .
He saw the concern in her eyes, the unvoiced fear. Not
just for a faceless adept, an ancient evil, but a man.
Jealousy flared in him - and he bit back on it, hard. No
place for that now. No time for it, not for days to come.
Better get used to that right now.
And then the Canopy touched them. Gently at first,
disarmingly, like a breeze that whispered at the leading
edge of a hurricane. He saw Ciani's face waver in his
vision, no longer the solid, dependable picture he had
grown accustomed to, but a foggy duplicate that wavered as
the night air passed through it and grew thin upon the
breeze until it was possible to see through the back of her
eyes, to the shoreline in the distance. He drew in a breath -
and the air was fluid, molten, stinging his lungs as it passed
into his body, igniting his blood as he absorbed it. There
was a music in the air, it seemed, but even that was
inconstant: subtle one moment, complex and cacophonous
the next, passing from delicate chimes in perfect harmony
to a brassy, earsplitting screech, like that of an orchestra
attempting a crescendo with all its instruments warped out
of tune. Damien found himself shaking, more from
confusion than discomfort. Behind him one of the horses
whinnied, its voice pitched high in panic, and hooves struck

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noisily against the varnished wood of the deck. And that,
too, became a sort of music, and the glittering fae struck up
a harmony, as if zoofuls of animals had begun screaming in
sympathy. The gravity beneath Damien's feet began to
shift, so that it pulled at him from beyond the bow, from
out in the depths of the Canopy's power; it took effort for
him to stay where he was, to resist its strange siren song of
weight and stability. It was no longer possible to see
anything clearly, least of all Ciani. He was no longer
certain if her hand - or both her hands, or perhaps more
than two of them - still rested on his arm. He reached out
for the ship's railing, found it shifting lithely beneath his
hand, like the body of a snake in motion. Behind him a
horse screamed in terror, another in pain as the first struck
out blindly about him. He thought he felt Ciani fall into his
arms - or was that a wisp of fog, taking her shape? - and
suddenly he was no longer even certain that she was with
him, or that the deck of the boat was underfoot. Something
coursed about his feet, chill as the Serpent's waters, and
began to pull at him. Sweet-smelling, sweet-sounding,
seductive as a woman's embrace. He had to fight to
maintain his grip on reality - limited as that had become -
and remain firmly rooted on the boat's deck where he
belonged. As the Canopy thickened, it became harder and
harder. His survival instinct said he should Work to save
himself - but he knew that would be dangerous and might
well cost him his life. At best, the Canopy would simply
negate his efforts; at worst, it would turn them against him.
He closed his eyes, trying to close out the chaos that
surrounded him - how lucky the horses were, to enter this
region blindfolded! - but he saw through the lids of his eyes

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as though they were glass, as a storm of discordant colors
descended on the small ship. No! He forced himself to
close his eyes, inside and out. Forced himself to believethat
he had closed them. He worked to remember darkness, how
it felt and tasted and what the smell of it was, the feel of it
against his skin; he recreated it within his brain until it
began to seep outward from him, conquering the intrusive
vision. And at last darkness came, responding to his
summons: cool as night, it soothed his fevered brain. Never
had he thought it would be so welcome.
After what seemed like an eternity - and it might have
been, who could say how time progressed in such a place? -
the deck began to grow solid again beneath his feet. With
tortuous slowness, gravity resumed its natural balance and
its accustomed force. The fog by Damien's side became
more solid, and took on a familiar form and scent: Ciani.
The strange lights faded. Music withered. The fear which
had gripped him loosened its hold, enough that he could
breathe again. He closed an arm about Ciani, protectively,
and felt no more than the flesh of a woman, her heat and
her trembling. She whimpered softly, and he whispered,
"Shhh" - gently, meaning to comfort her. But the sound
came out a hiss, distorted by the power of the Canopy's
fringe; she tensed in his embrace. By the cabin he could
make out a form that might be Senzei, but the visual
distortion engendered by the Canopy made it impossible to
be sure. It might as easily be the captain - or something
wholly fantastic, which the wild fae had conjured.

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Just wait it out, he thought. There's nothing you can do
to hurry it along. The worst is over. Just wait.
And for a moment he was so glad to be seeing normally
again that he forgot the danger they were in, and how
quickly they needed to get in control of things again. As
Tarrant had suggested, this was the most effective moment
for treachery on the captain's part; if he meant to
unencumber himself by casting them into the Serpent, he
would do so while they were still partially incapacitated.
He forced himself to open his eyes and look around - but it
was like coming to a stop after spinning in circles. The
world spun about him with dizzying speed, he found
himself losing his balance . . . then his foot banged into a
brass railing post, and he was falling. He hit the edge of the
waist-high rail and was about to go over into the dark,
churning water, when a warm weight fell on him, brought
him back down inside the rail, bore him down to the
wooden deck with force enough that the world about him
settled, illusion driven from his mind by the presence of
real and immediate pain, of his head striking the hard
wooden planking.
He dared to look up, saw a sky without stars. His head
throbbed sharply. Ciani's face came into focus, her
expression taut with worry.
"You almost went over," she whispered.
He twisted onto his side, searching for the captain. This

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time he found him. The man was in the back with one of
his crewmen, checking on the turbine. Discussing in low
tones whether the crossing had affected its mechanism.
When he saw Damien looking at him, he grinned
mischieviously and winked, as if he were aware of exactly
what was going through the priest's mind. As if the whole
thing had been staged to amuse him.
"Rough passage," he called over to him. "Just about
over. Sit tight."
Senzei staggered over to where they lay, and helped the
two of them to their feet. That meant everyone was
accounted for - except for one man.
"Where's the vulk's Tarrant?" Damien muttered.
Ciani hesitated. "He'll be out," she promised. But she
sounded less than certain. She glanced at the cabin door
and then away again, as if somehow her fear might
adversely affect the adept. "Soon," she whispered.
"Land ho!" the captain called over to them. And he
added: "Looks like your horses made it through."
Damien looked toward where the animals were bound.
His practiced eyes found the man's optimism a bit
premature. One of the horses was covered in sweat, panting
heavily, and another was clearly favoring a hind leg. But

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still, they were alive. They were here. It could have been
worse, he told himself. Much worse.
He looked to Ciani and saw her eyes still fixed on the
cabin door. She seemed to be shivering. He touched her
cheek gently, felt her start at the contact.
She's afraid. Of him, or for him?
He forced his voice to be gentle, his tone to be
nonconfrontational. "Is he hurt?"
She hesitated. "He could be," she said at last. Lowering
her eyes, as if somehow saying that was a betrayal. "He
said the Canopy might kill him. He was willing to chance
it, to help me . . ."
He was willing to chance it to save himself, he thought
irritably. But he managed to keep his voice neutral. If
Tarrant was dead, so be it. If he was alive - or whatever
passed for alive, in his state - there was nothing to be
gained by adding further tension to their already strained
relationship. "Maybe you'd better check," he suggested.
It was then that the door opened. And Tarrant stepped
forth, blinking as if the moonlight hurt his eyes. For a
moment he just stood in the doorway, hands gripping the
edges of its frame as though he required such support in
order to stand. He looked terrible - which is to say, as he

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should have under normal circumstances: haggard, drawn,
unnaturally pale. It occurred to Damien that for the first
time since he had met the man, he genuinely looked
undead. The thought was strangely unnerving.
"You're all right?" Ciani asked.
It took him a moment to find his voice. "I'm alive," he
said hoarsely. "As much as that word can apply." He
started to say something else, then shook his head. His head
dropped slightly, as if he barely had the strength to hold it
up; his hands tightened on the doorframe. "That's all that
matters - eh, priest?"
"You need help?" Damien asked quietly.
"What would you do - Heal me? That kind of power
would be more deadly than the Canopy, to my kind."
The adept looked to where the horses were milling
nervously about their bonds. He seemed to flinch at the
thought of having to Work them, but nontheless forced
himself away from the doorframe. Slowly, somewhat
unsteadily, he walked to where he might touch the animals.
His movements were agile enough that they might have
seemed natural in another man, but Damien had traveled
with him long enough to see the awkwardness that haunted
his gestures, to guess at the pain that shortened his steps,
that made his footfall uncharacteristically heavy on the

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damp wooden planking.
As he had done in Kale, Tarrant tried to Work the
horses. But this wasn't Kale, and he clearly wasn't at full
strength. Each Working seemed to cost him, in strength and
energy; each effort was preceded by a moment of silence
and a long, deeply drawn breath, and accompanied by an
almost indiscernible shiver that might have been born of
exhaustion, or pain.
Damien walked to his side, watched as the horses
lowered their heads one by one to graze on imaginary lush
fields of grass. At last he said, conversationally, "Water's
deep, here. The fae must be hard to access."
For a moment the Hunter said nothing, merely stared out
at the water. Finally he whispered, "That, too."
"You all right?"
"I'm surprised you care."
"Ciani was concerned."
The Hunter's eyes fixed on him, hollowed and blood-
shot. "I've been through worse." Then a faint smile touched
his lips, a pale, sardonic shadow of humor that did little to
soften his expression. "Not recently," he amended.

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At the bow of the ship Senzei had begun to Work, his
attention fixed on the water that flowed before them. The
captain had brought them in to the east of the Achron's
mouth, which was the smoothest stretch of shoreline in this
region - but even that was peppered with hundreds of
unseen obstacles, pinnacles of rock that rose from the
Serpent's bottom, carved by the conflicting tides of Erna's
three-moon system and split into jagged shards by the
tremors that repeatedly shook this region. Some were
avoidable, most were not. But all were visible to a
Worker's Sight, by virtue of the earth-fae that clung to
them. Shallow waters would glow with power, deeper
recesses shadowed in insulating darkness. One by one
Senzei noted the obstacles and pointed them out to the
vessel's pilot, who made subtle adjustments to his course to
compensate. Under normal circumstances no ship of this
size would brave such waters; that job would be left to the
smaller canoes and rowboats - at most to tugs - whose
safety lay in their maneuverability. But the party's desire to
bring their mounts to the rakhlands had made that option
unviable; a horse could hardly be expected to balance itself
in a canoe.
Inch by inch, yard by yard, they approached the shore.
The splashing of the twin paddlewheels had slackened to
near-silence, and the boat drifted forward with agonizing
slowness. The captain stood by Senzei's side, nodding
approval as each new instruction was passed on to his crew.
And Ciani stood by his other side, her eyes fixed steadily
upon the waves. To see her there like that nearly brought
tears of pain to Damien's eyes. How like a sorcerer she

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stood at that moment! - how like a Worker she concentrated
all her energy on studying the shallow waters, as if she
might somehow See the fae-light that coursed beneath it.
Like a blind man might stare at the sun, he thought - as if
doing that might burn the darkness from out of his eyes.
I can't even imagine her pain, he thought. Can't even
pretend to understand what it means to her, to have lost
what she had. But so help me God, we'll get it back for her.
I swear it.
At last the captain seemed to see something promising
in the distance; he pointed toward the east, and nodded for
Senzei to take a look. The sorcerer squinted, trying to focus
- and then nodded, hesitantly at first but then with greater
confidence as they drew nearer to the point in question.
"You ought to hire out," the captain told him. "There's
good money for that kind of skill, around these parts."
"You found a place we can land?" Damien asked.
"I found a place we can come in damned close without
tearing the hull to bits . . . and that's as good as we're going
to get in this region. Let's hope it's good enough." He
nodded toward the lifeboat. "I can give you that to take you
in, with one of my men to bring her back. The horses will
be a problem-"

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"They can swim," Tarrant said coldly.
"You sure of that?"
The pale eyes fixed on him with clear, if tired, disdain.
"You mean, am I sure they were born with that instinct? I
made certain of it."
He left the captain standing there openmouthed - not
unlike a beached fish - as he went to the bow to watch their
progress. And Damien thought - somewhat guiltily - that it
was nice to see Tarrant's arrogance directed at someone
else for a change.
The shoreline passed by in jagged bits. Repeated tremors
had split the cliff walls in at least a dozen places, and the
cascades of sharp-edged boulders that had fallen to the
earth blurred the borderline between water and shore until
distinguishing between the two was all but impossible. Not
a hospitable place, Damien thought. And it was probably
worse when the tide was out. How many dangers were
passing submerged beneath their feet, that another few
hours might uncover?
The Captain knew what he was doing, when he
scheduled us to come in during syzygy. In that it reflected
on the man's general competence, it was a reassuring
thought.

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What the captain had spotted, and Senzei had confirmed,
was a ledge of rock that stretched out into the water, a
diagonal shelf flat enough to be safe and just deep enough
to suit their purposes. The water over it was relatively still,
without the whitewater eddies that dominated so much of
the shoreline. As they came in closer the captain nodded his
approval, and exchanged a few words with Senzei that
seemed to satisfy him further. Seeing the relative calm on
the man's face - knowing just how worried he had been
about this part of the journey, Damien thought, We're
going to make it. And then added, somewhat more soberly,
This far, anyway.
It was about time something went right.
Suddenly something brilliant flashed from a clifftop, a
brief glint of light that was gone almost before he noticed
it. He turned toward where he thought it had been and
scanned the cliff with wary eyes - but he could see nothing
other than jagged rock walls and the trees that clung to
them, their roots trailing down to the water like thirsty
serpents. He Worked his sight, carefully. It was hard to
contact the earth-fae through the water, but with effort he
managed it. And Knew-
Metal ornaments - light glinting off glass beads - human
eyes that mirrored nonhuman thoughts, and the acrid smell
of hatred-
He shivered, and broke off the contact before the crea-

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

ture he saw could Work it against him. Clearly, their efforts
were being observed. By what he couldn't say - the contact
had been too brief, his touch too wary - but it wasn't
human, and he didn't think that it was friendly. After a
moment he steeled himself, and dared to Know again. But
the watcher was already gone, and any fae-mark he might
have left behind was too far away, or else too weak for
Damien to identify.
He was suddenly very glad that they'd gotten a good
night's sleep in Sattin. He suspected they weren't going to
get one again for some time to come.
"Something wrong?" It was Tarrant.
He nodded toward the cliff wall, looming tall in the
double moonlight. "Some sort of lookout, I think. Not
human."
"Rakh," the Hunter whispered.
Damien looked at him sharply. "You Know that? Or are
you guessing?"
"Who else would guard these cliffs so carefully? Who
else would know the very spot where a safe landing might
be made, and set a sentry to watch over it?" He paused,
considering the site in question. "This land is the rakh's last
refuge, priest - I would be very surprised if under those

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circumstances they didn't at least set a watch over it. And
defend it with vigor, against man's intrusion."
"You think they'll attack us?"
"I don't think there's any doubt about that. Our only
question is when."
"You can't Divine that?"
"If you mean read the future, no one can do that. And as
for reading the present clearly enough to make a reliable
prediction . . . not now. That takes strength, clarity of mind
. . ." His voice trailed off into the darkness, his silence
proclaiming his weakness more eloquently than any words
could. Damien looked at him, wished he had some scale
against which to judge his condition. How long did it take
the undead to heal themselves? For as long as Tarrant was
incapacitated, the danger to all of them was increased.
"Coming in!" the captain called; the tone of relief in his
voice reassured Damien. The man watched while his crew
prepared to disengage the turbine and drop anchor, and
then, when he was satisfied that all was going well, came to
where the priest and the Hunter stood. And looked out at
the shoreline flanking them, whose deepening shadows
might hide any number of dangers.
"This is safe as it gets," he assured them. "You could

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

practically walk in from here. Wish I could take you in
closer - but if I run aground in this tide, I won't get off till
doomsday."
"You did well," Tarrant said quietly. He took a small
leather purse from his pocket and held it out to him; if the
coins inside were of gold, there was an impressive amount
of them. He offered it to the man. It was a gratuity, Damien
knew. Tarrant had paid for the trip in advance.
The captain made no move to take the purse - but he
bowed ever so slightly, acknowledging the offer. "Tell the
Hunter I served him."
"When I return, I'll do that. Until then . . ." He took the
man's hand in his own and turned it palm up, then placed
the small purse in his palm and closed his fingers over it.
"Say that he is pleased with your service."
The man bowed deeply - a formal gesture that his
sincerity made graceful - and then took his leave, to
oversee the last moments of their journey.
When he was safely out of hearing, Damien said to
Tarrant, "I know heads of state who would give their lives
to have half your influence."
The Hunter smiled - and for the first time since the
Canopy there was life in his eyes, and a hint of genuine

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humor.
"If they truly gave their lives," he said, "they might have
it all."
The disembarkation went no worse than they had
anticipated - which was to say that it was tense and
strenuous and very, very difficult, but they finally made it
ashore. So did the horses. Tarrant had Worked them again,
and though his strength was clearly waning - or perhaps the
fae was harder to access here, it was hard to be certain - he
did manage to get them off the ship and into the water. By
the time they had been driven ashore the horses had
managed to get everyone thoroughly soaked, but that was a
small inconvenience when weighed against their need for
having mounts for the long journey ahead.
They stood on the shore and watched as the small ship
withdrew, watched until the night swallowed it once more
and the moons shone on nothing but the Serpent's froth.
And Damien thought, We're here. Praise God - we made it.
They were wet and they were tired and they were freezing
cold, but they were inside the Canopy at last, and that was
all that mattered.
He turned back to study the cliffs again - to see if their
watcher had returned, or if some other danger had taken its
place - but before he could complete the motion a terrified
screech from one of the horses forced his attention back to
the shoreline once more. It was Ciani's horse, a

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

magnificent black animal that had so far come through the
journey unscathed. Something had shifted underfoot as it
waded through the shallows and it was down, thrashing at
the water as it tried in vain to stand up again. From the
sharp angle of its forward leg Damien judged that the bone
had broken, and badly. In pain and fear it lashed out at
Senzei, who fell back just in time to keep his face from
being crushed by its flailing hooves.
Tarrant and Ciani were there in an instant. She helped
Senzei out of the water, safely away from the terrified
animal. Between the horse's dark coat and the water it was
impossible to see the extent of the wound, but Damien
thought he smelled blood. He started into the water himself,
to try to reach the beast, but Tarrant's hand held him back.
"Wait."
The adept's brow was furrowed in tension as he tried to
Work the earth-fae at their feet so that it would serve his
will above the surface of the water. Not an easy task under
any circumstances, and the Hunter was clearly not in the
best of shape. Damien heard the sharp intake of breath,
almost a gasp of pain, but the adept's attention never
wavered. The horse's body jerked spasmodically, as if from
seizure, and then stiffened. Froze, as though its skeleton
had locked in place. Damien could see its forelimbs
trembling, the gleam of terror in its eyes.
"Go," the Hunter whispered.

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He waded to the animal's side, cold water chilling his
flesh anew. The leg in question was underwater. He looked
back at Tarrant, who nodded slowly, his eyes narrow with
the force of his effort. Damien grasped the damaged leg.
The horse shuddered and snorted once, but otherwise
seemed incapable of motion. He moved the leg gently, to
bring the break above the water's surface. It was bad: a
compound fracture that had broken through the skin in two
places. Probably worsened by the horse's own fear, Damien
thought; the fae could do that.
Carefully, he began to Work. It was difficult reaching
down through the water to tap the earth-fae, unlike
anything he had ever experienced before. And even
allowing for the interference of the water - which clung to
the fae like glue, making it almost impossible to manipulate
the stuff - the current itself seemed weak. Insubstantial. As
though somehow the earth-fae had been drained from this
place, leaving little more than a shadow of what had once
been.
As for Tarrant's holding the horse steady for him . . . he
tried not to think about that. Tried not to think how much
was riding on that man's power right now - his power, and
his "honor." Tried not to think about how easy it would be
for him to ease up just a little - just for an instant - and let
fate take care of the only member of his party who seemed
willing to challenge him.

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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?"

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"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. "Whenyoudo 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."

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"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."

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"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

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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

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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 withinthe 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

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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
obeisance 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
scraping on chalk.
"Worthless fools!" the sorcerer spat. "What good are
they? I gave them the richness of an adept's soul to feed on

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and they acted like children at a banquet - dropping their
food as soon as there was some new game afoot! No. This
timeyou'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.

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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

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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 at 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

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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

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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 some 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 beachit could be called) a tiny cookfire

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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

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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?"
"It wasn't wasted," the Hunter said softly. "Given three
more nights and total control over your environment I
could have managed better . . . but for what it was, it served
well enough."
"You can Work now?"
"If the currents allow. The fae was fairly weak as I recall
- or at least it seemed so when we landed. I wasn't in the
best of shape then."
"But you're all right now."
"Yes." For a moment he seemed to hesitate. Searching
for the right words? How many centuries had it been, since
he had last been indebted to a mere human being?
"Thank you," he whispered at last. The words clearly
came hard to him. "I am . . . very grateful."

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Somehow, Damien managed to shrug.
"All in a day work" he assured him.
The watcher hadn't come back. That was the first piece
of news that greeted them when they made their way down
from their protective niche in the cliff wall. Whatever
manner of creature had watched them as they made their
way to shore, it had not returned. Damien wished he could
read something optimistic into that, but it was still too early
to judge. And optimism could be dangerous, when it was
founded on mere guesswork.
While they ate - a haphazard stew of dried rations and
the meat of some reptilian creature Senzei had managed to
shoot during his first watch - Gerald Tarrant withdrew,
ostensibly to test the currents. When he returned to them,
his expression was grim. Yes, he said, the earth-fae was
sparse here, and the currents that governed its motion weak
and insubstantial. Which made no sense, he told them. No
sense at all. He seemed almost angry, as though the fae
were somehow consciously plotting to frustrate him. When
Senzei started to question him further, he went wordlessly
to where their packs were stored and withdrew a thick tube
of maps from among his own possessions. The heavy
vellum sheets had come through undamaged, rolled tightly
inside waterproof, wax-sealed containers.
"Here," he said, and he unrolled one of the precious

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maps before them. Firelight flickered on its surface as he
weighted its corners down with stones. "See for
yourselves."
The map - undeniably ancient, certainly from the time
before the Canopy had been raised - depicted local currents
in the region they were now traversing. They could see rich
currents of earth-fae flowing along the fault lines, eddies of
power that swirled about the foothills of the Worldsend
Mountains and the eastern range, just as it should be.
Tarrant stared at the maps, as though trying to reconcile
them with the reality he himself had observed, and at last
shook his head in frustration.
"The fae here is weaker than it should be," he said
finally. "There's no natural law I know of that would
account for its being so - but it is. Unquestionably. Which
means that all our Workings - including my own - will be
that much less effective."
"What about our enemy?" Senzei asked.
"Probably the same for him. But I wouldn't bet my
survival on that," he warned.
"You don't think this could have occurred naturally?"
"The earth-fae is, and always has been, a predictable,
ordered force. Faithful to its own laws of motion and power

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which, when understood, can be manipulated. Or have you
forgotten your Prophet's teachings?" he asked dryly.
"Excuse me for challenging your canon."
His pale eyes glittered with amusement.
"What about its reactive power?" Ciani asked him.
"That's not predictable, is it?"
He hesitated - as if a dry, mocking answer was ready
upon his lips, about to be launched into their company.
Then he swallowed that, with effort, and said simply, "It is.
Utterly predictable. The complication with man's Working
it is that there are too many levels to human consciousness,
and the earth-fae doesn't distinguish between them. If
man's fears resound louder than his prayers, the former is
what will manifest results. The fault lies within ourselves,
lady - not with the fae." He looked down at the ground
beside him and touched a slender finger to it: observing the
current, Damien decided. Using his adept's sight to
determine its strength. "With every new seismic event,
earth-fae rises to the surface of the planet. Eventually it
congregates, in pools and eddies and currents that we can
map. Except that here those aren't what they should be. Not
at all." He paused, and looked at each of them in turn -
studying them for reaction? "To my mind, that hints at
outside interference."

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But the scale of it! Damien thought. What kind of
creature - or force - could be responsible? He envisioned
that vast atomic furnace which was the planet's core, tons
of magma thrusting upward against the crust of the planet
until the continents themselves shifted in response, earth
buckling and cracking from the pressure of the assault -
seismic shockwaves releasing that power which they had
come to call the earth-fae, in quantities so vast that no
human being dared touch it, so powerful in its pure form
that the merest attempt to Work it was enough to fry a man
to cinders. And here it was weakened. How? By what
process? What had happened here, in the centuries since the
rakh had claimed these lands, that had altered the very
nature of Erna?
Or is it simply our understanding that's lacking?
Damien wondered. What clue is here we're not seeing?
That we perhaps don't even know how to look for?
Carefully, Gerald Tarrant withdrew another sheet from
its protective tube. Its value was evident in the way he
handled it, in the reverence of his motions as he carefully
unrolled it and weighted its corners down with smooth,
water-polished stones.
At first, Damien couldn't make out what it was. He
moved one of the lamps in closer, saw the tenuous outline
of a continent subdivided by several sharp red lines. The
shoreline was unfamiliar to him, but after a while, by
looking only at the larger forms, he began to make out

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familiar shapes. The eastlands. The rakhlands. The Serpent.
With a start he realized that the Stekkis River coursed
westward rather than to the north, and met the sea at
Merentha. The Lethe had also shifted, and the coastline by
Seth was markedly different.
"It's old," he murmured.
The Hunter nodded. "Over twelve hundred years. And
not designed for permanence, even then. If not for my
Working, it would have crumbled to dust long ago."
"Over twelve centuries?" Senzei asked sharply. "That
would mean-"
"It's a survey map," the Hunter informed him. "A
tectonic extrapolation. Done on board the Earth-ship,
before the Landing. According to one document in my
possession, that was standard procedure aboard such
vessels. They would scan each possible landing site for
seismic activity - and other variables - to assess the dangers
that the colonists might face. It normally took five to ten
Earth-years to determine whether or not a planet was
suitable for colonization. In the case of Erna, nearly ninety
were invested." He tapped the map with a slender
forefinger. "This was the reason."
"Seismic activity." Damien's tone was bitter.

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The Hunter nodded. "Enough to make colonization
difficult, if not downright impossible. Maybe if there'd
been an alternative, the ship would have moved on. Maybe
somehow it knew that there was nothing beyond this - that
it had come so far, rejecting so many planets along the way,
that if it rejected this one there was nowhere left to go. It
was balanced on the brink of the galaxy, with nothing but
darkness ahead of it, and it knew only two options: wake up
the colonists and settle them here, or move on. No turning
back. No going home. Those were the rules."
"They were crazy," Senzei whispered
"Maybe so. As were those men and women who braved
the eastern sea to find out what lay beyond it, and those
who traveled to Novatlantis despite the constant eruptions
in that place . . . and the lady here, who passed through the
Canopy unattended, to explore forbidden lands. It's a
human craziness, the need to explore. The hunger for a new
frontier. But since we are its children, I would say we have
little right to criticize."
He tapped the map with a slender forefinger, indicating
a point some three hundred miles to the east of them.
"Assuming we do indeed have an enemy," he said quietly,
"this is where he will be located."
"How can you be so sure?" Damien demanded.

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"Simply put: because there is no better place." His
finger traced a red line that coursed upward through the
eastern mountain range to where another, sharply angled,
intersected it. "Look at the fault lines. Three continental
plates meet here, each forced against the other by earthly
powers too vast to contemplate. The plates collide,
continents crumple into mountain ranges, rivers are
rerouted . . . and a vast amount of raw power is released
each time it happens." He sketched a circle around the
intersection of the fault lines, approximately forty miles in
diameter. "This is what we call a point of power - a
wellspring of the earth-fae - and if there's anything in this
land that feeds on the fae, or Works it . . . it will be here.
Somewhere within this periphery."
"Why not on the point itself?" Ciani asked.
He looked up at her, and there was something in his eyes
that made Damien tense. Not his usual amusement at an
ignorant question, or his customary derision toward the rest
of the party. Something far more subtle. More intimate.
Damien was reminded of the seductive undulations of a
snake, as it mesmerized its prey.
"Only a fool builds his fortress on a fault line," Tarrant
assured her. "It's one thing to ward against the tremors of
an earthquake - and quite another to try to maintain a
structure when half the ground beneath it suddenly rises, or
sinks, or moves to the west of that which remains. Even an
adept will die if the roof falls in and crushes his head, lady.

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Especially if it happens at the one time he dares not Work
to save himself."
"I see," she whispered.
"What it means," he said, rerolling the map, "is that we
have a difficult journey ahead of us."
"And an enemy who knows we've arrived," Senzei
added soberly.
Tarrant looked up at the cliffs; his eyes narrowed as if
somehow he might see the watcher again if he looked
carefully enough.
"Impossible to read that trace," he muttered. "Damn the
weakness of the currents here! In the Forest I could have
told you who it was that saw us, and what his or her
intentions were . . ."
"Orits,"Damien reminded him.
A cold breeze gusted in across the Serpent. For a
moment there was silence, broken only by the sound of the
horses feeding. The shifting of sand as Ciani began to
douse the fire.
"Yes," Tarrant said at last. Clearly not liking the taste of

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the word, or its implications. "His, her, or its."
"Come on," the priest said. "Let's get moving."
It had never occurred to Senzei that he might wind up
the most powerful of them all. No, not powerful exactly . . .
more like useful. Adaptable.
Maybe it came from all those years of watching the
currents at home, of focusing on their intensity with a
desperate need to perceive minute changes, as an
affirmation of his skill. Maybe it was from all those years
of watching Ciani Work, of honing his Sight while she
refined more concrete skills, knowing that whatever else he
might choose to do she could do better and more easily.
Whatever. The end result was that here and now, in this
special place, Senzei Reese had exactly the skills required
to get his companions from one point to another in safety.
Trudging through the chill autumn waters, mostly on
horseback, sometimes on foot, his eyes fixed on the
swirling liquid before them, he used his Sight to feel out the
currents that lay beneath that saline froth. Used his Sight to
ferret out the rock formations that might cause them to
stumble, the hairline faults and pebble-filled hollows that
would cause the ground to shift if too much weight was put
on it. Each was reflected in the earth-fae as it shimmered up
through the water, each had its own special flavor, its own
peculiar light. As he had guided their boat through the
rakhland's shallows, he now guided his party along the

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shoreline, across terrain that shifted from pebbled beach to
half-submerged boulders to waist-high waters in a matter of
minutes. And no one else could do it as well as he could.
That was simple fact. The priest specialized in Healing
skills, the arts of Life; the adept Gerald Tarrant, for all his
awesome power, seemed ill at ease Working through the
water, and preferred to leave that duty to another. And
Ciani . . . it hurt him to think he was benefiting from her
disability, but the truth was that he had never experienced
this kind of pleasure before - this absolute certainty of
being needed, of having the skills which the moment
required and needing to use them. Of being the only one
who could use them. His years with her had been rich ones,
in both experience and friendship, but he realized now just
what it had cost him to function in her shadow all these
years. How much of him had never lived, before this
moment.
Step by step, obstacle by obstacle, the four of them
worked their way westward, toward the Achron's outlet. At
times the shoreline was almost hospitable, a narrow beach
of worn pebbles and broken shells overlaid with thick
strands of seaweed that allowed them to ride as quickly as
their horses could find footing. But then it would drop
away suddenly and the sheer palisades would meet the
water without junction, leaving them to work their way
through pools of deep, ice-cold water, their horses
struggling to find firm footing amidst the potholes and the
undertow that were invisible beneath the black waters. It
was a dangerous route, rife with tension - but he, Senzei
Reese, led them through. Skirting deadly pits which the

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tides had carved at the base of the cliff walls, finding the
one solid path across a mud-covered landscape, sensing the
hollows in which venemous creatures hid, obscured
beneath mounds of rotting seaweed . . . with a constant
Working on his lips to support his special senses he read
the oh-so-subtle variations in the earth-fae, and then used
that vision to find the one safe path amidst a thousand
deadly ones. It was exhausting work, and by the end of the
night his head rang with pain from the exertion. But it was
a wonderful pain. An exhilarating pain. A pain that was as
exquisitely sexual as the first time he had entered a woman,
all the heat and the giddy fear and the sense of Tightness
combined, in one blinding agony of exhaustion.
This is what I was born to do, he thought, as he lifted a
hand to rub one throbbing temple. Persevere, where the
adepts falter.
They paused once along the way, for food and a brief
respite. The horses nibbled uneasily at the rations they were
offered, grainy cakes that combined nutrition with a high-
calorie supplement; it was better than nothing, but the
animals clearly weren't happy about it. Damien muttered
something about hoping they found proper grazing ground
before their limited supply of the stuff ran out. They
discussed stopping for a while while they were still on
hospitable ground, but it was no real option; Tarrant's
presence among them meant they couldn't travel during the
daylight hours, which in turn meant they needed to cover as
much ground as possible during the night. So they wrung

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out their clothing and waited while the priest tamed enough
earth-fae to ward off sickness and stabilize the temperature
of their flesh - not a sure thing in these currents, he warned
them, but better than no effort at all - and they continued.
Their first indication that they were nearing their
objective was a faint roaring sound in the distance, not
unlike the noise one might hear cupping a shell to one's ear
to catch the sound of blood surging within the body. It had
no rhythm, unlike the waters at their side, no heartbeat of
surf breaking over an inconstant shore, but was more like
the rush of water surging through a confined space: river
rapids, Senzei thought. He saw Damien's head snap up as
he first became aware of the sound, and the priest's
expression darkened slightly. Not good? he thought
despairingly. He didn't dare ask. Even his own skills would
be of little use in river whitewater, and the footing . . . he
shivered as he envisioned it. Gods willing, the land there
would be solid enough to serve them.
It took nearly another hour to reach the mouth of the
river, across such difficult terrain that for a while Senzei
thought they might not make it. But then, when the roar of
whitewater had grown so loud that they could hardly speak
to one another without shouting, they came around a bend
and it was there before them, in all its violent glory. A
break in the cliff wall to their left, through which the river
poured like a herd of wild beasts in desperate stampede,
casting themselves upon the mounds and mudbars that time
and the tides had erected. Roaring white surf capped the

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Serpent's waters, and moonlight shattered into a million
sparks on its wild, frothing surface. A fog of spray rose for
yards above the water, and eddies of mist curled like
phantoms within it, ghostly forms that were barely born
before the water and the wind swallowed them up again.
Senzei moved closer to the cliff wall, blinking the spray
from his eyes. It was hard to see, hard to get any sense of
where they were, or where they needed to be. He tried to
Work, but he had always depended upon vision for his
focus - and here, clear vision was impossible.
"There!" He heard Tarrant's shout with unexpected
clarity - but of course, the adept would have augmented his
voice. He tried to respond, but his horse had begun to back
away from the spectacle before them, and he had to fight to
bring it under control before he could look where the
Hunter was pointing. Damien's hand was on Ciani's reins
and he could see that her mount was ready to bolt, might
have done so moments ago if not for that restraint.
"There," the Hunter told them, and he pointed to the
cliff wall.
For a moment, it was impossible to see. Then - perhaps
by chance, perhaps in response to Tarrant's will - the worst
of the fog parted before them. It was now possible to see
the gap where the river poured out, to a short but violent
waterfall that met the Serpent in thunder. It was also
possible to see that the river had once been higher - or

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might be again, in a wetter season - and that a narrow ridge,
erosion-carved, paralleled the course of the waters. Ten
yards above them, perhaps half a mile away. It might as
well have been on another planet.
"How are you at parting the waters?" Damien yelled to
Tarrant - and it must have been some kind of religious joke,
because the Hunter smiled dryly.
There's no going back, Senzei thought grimly. And this
is the only way forward.
As if in answer to his thoughts, Damien slid from his
mount's back, to stand on the pebbled ground. He fumbled
for a moment among the horse's several packs, withdrew
one, and strapped it to his own shoulder. And looked
toward his companions. His expression was dark but
determined, and in it Senzei read his absolute certainty that
somehow, with or without a horse beside him, he was going
to get himself up to that ridge. Were they with him? Senzei
looked at Ciani, felt his heart lurch as he saw the
determination in her eyes - and recognized its source. Not
courage, or even resolution; she simply had nothing left to
lose.
They dismounted. Tarrant had packed few special
possessions for the journey, but his horse had been carrying
a share of the camping equipment for the party; Damien
removed those bags which were the most important and,
without a word, shouldered them as well. Ciani's horse

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reared back as it felt her weight leave its back - but a sharp
word from Tarrant, that carried above the roar of the water,
made it shudder into submission.
Leading the horses, they walked with care, blinking
constantly against the force of the spray. They felt their
way across the narrow bit of solid ground by touch even
more than by sight. The roar of the water was like thunder,
an utter cacophony that made speech impossible, thinking
nearly so. Somehow, Senzei managed to keep his feet.
Ciani stumbled once, but he managed to reach out and grab
her by the arm, holding her steady until she managed to get
her feet back under her. It amazed him that the horses were
still with them, though the animals were clearly unhappy
about their destination. Maybe Tarrant had helped with
that, somehow; gods knew, they needed all the help they
could get.
At last they were at the base of the cliff wall, as near as
they could get to the break itself without swimming. Senzei
saw Damien point upward, but he couldn't make out what
the priest was pointing at. Blindly, he followed. Stumbling
up an incline made slippery by water and algae, trying to
guide his mount to safe footing when he could scarcely find
it himself. He could feel panic building in the animal,
powerful enough to affect the fae and manifest before him:
a cloud of equine fear that engulfed him as he tried to move
forward, driving spears of animal terror into his own flesh.
He stumbled, felt his ankle twist and nearly slide out from
under him. Desperately, he tried, to Work - there was solid

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ground under him, therefore there must be earth-fae
accessible - and he managed the ghost of a Banishing,
barely enough to dissipate the fear directly before him, not
enough to keep its fringes from affecting the rest of his
party.Not good enough. Gritting his teeth against the tides
of fear that were rising within him - his own and the
animal's, and gods alone knew who else's - he threw all his
will into his Working, every last bit of power that he could
possibly manifest. And the dank cloud of terror wavered,
thinned, and dispersed at last into the mist.
Exhausted, he climbed. And somehow managed to get
both himself and the frightened horse up to the top of the
incline, to a narrow ledge of rock that looked over the
Achron. Damien grasped him by the arm and helped him
along - was the man ever bothered by anything? - and then
the spray was behind him, the thunder dimming to a mere
roar, and smooth, solid ground was underfoot once more.
He tightened his hand about his horse's reins - and then
doubled over and retched, helplessly, as though that might
somehow cast the fear and the exhaustion out of him.
When he finally straightened up again he found his
companions with him, as soaked and exhausted as he was
but yes, every one of them had made it. Even the horses.
He saw Damien strap his pack back onto his mount's back,
and managed weakly to grin in acknowledgment.
They had made it. The worst part was over. This worst
part, anyway.

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Tarrant took some minutes to soothe the last of their
mounts' fears - perhaps blinding the animals to the dangers
of their path, perhaps merely numbing their emotional
response - and Ciani seemed as grateful for the break as
Senzei was. She wrung the water from her hair and tried
not to look down at the river beneath them. There, mere
yards below their feet, the glassy current had already begun
to froth, as if anticipating the drop soon to come.
Senzei looked out over the seething waterfall, toward the
Serpent. He could see nothing but clouds - white clouds,
silver clouds - rising like steam from the water's surface.
And perhaps, ever so elusive, sparks of liquid illusion that
shimmered in the air like sea-spray. The Canopy. This
close?
He turned back and found Damien watching him. When
the priest saw that he was all right, the concern in his eyes
gave way to wry humor; the grimace of tension softened to
a smile.
"Welcome to the rakhlands," he told him.
The Achron had carved its meandering path through the
rakhlands over the course of eons, and now was seated in a
twisting, steep-walled canyon, whose eroded strata made
for narrow ledges that flanked the water like roads. They
followed one, single file, until at last it widened to a more
hospitable proportion. Then, when they could move about

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

without the constant fear of falling into the swift current
beneath them, they finally stopped to catch their breath.
Ciani was pale, and her body shook as she lowered herself
to sit on the ground, legs unsteady beneath her. Senzei felt
little better. Even the tireless Damien Vryce looked
exhausted, wrung out by hours of fighting the cold waves
and the treacherous rocks, and the fears that had crowded
about them like specters ever since nightfall.
"That," he gasped, "was one hell of a climb."
"We should build a fire," Ciani said.
"Dry out," Senzei agreed.
"Find shelter," Tarrant said quietly - and something in
his tone drew their attention to him, so that their eyes
followed his up the rock wall beside them, to a point some
twenty yards above their heads.
"We're being watched?" Damien whispered tensely.
The Hunter shook his head. "Not now. But the trace is
there." He narrowed his eyes in concentration, then
murmured, "The same trace. But old."
"How old?" Damien demanded.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"One day. Maybe two. I would guess it was part of the
same watch system that spotted us when we landed;
perhaps even the same individual, riding from one post to
another. The impression is very similar."
"But not identifiable?" Damien pressed.
The Hunter looked at him. His expression was
unreadable.
"Not human," he said quietly. "Isn't that enough?"
Damien stared up at the sheer wall and cursed softly.
"They set the watch right here," he muttered darkly. "It's
the first place any traveler could rest in safety, after getting
to the canyon."
"Our enemy chose his vantage points well," the Hunter
agreed. "I only wish . . ."
His voice trailed off into darkness.
"What?" the priest demanded.
Tarrant seemed to hesitate. "In another place, I might . .
. but not here. Not with the fae this weak."
"See, you mean?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"That, too. I meant reconnaissance. But the point is
moot," he said quickly, waving short Damien's response. "I
can't do it. And certainly none of you can."
"I can't make it much further," Ciani whispered.
"And neither can the horses," Tarrant agreed. "I've been
supplementing their strength up until now . . . but my own
has its limits, as you know." And he looked at Damien -
very strangely, Senzei thought - as if reminding him of
some secret knowledge that the two of them alone shared.
"We'll camp as soon as we can," the priest told them.
Somehow, they managed to get to their feet. Managed to
move again, though all their flesh screamed in protest of
further exertion. As they progressed, the walls of the
canyon grew closer overhead, the river deeper. Mica
glistened erratically in the stratified rock, like spirits trying
to manifest upon its surface. Already the moons had
dropped low enough that no light shone directly into the
canyon; the lanterns they had lit might banish mere
darkness, but it was hardly enough to dispel the dark fae
that was slowly gathering about them. Once Senzei thought
he saw a face begin to form on a glistening outcropping of
rock - but he quickly muttered the key to a Banishing, and
the face disappeared. Once or twice he heard Damien
whisper a word that might been meant to key a Working,
and his stomach lurched in fear as he envisioned what

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

manner of things might manifest in such a place as this. He
even thought he heard a whisper of Working from Ciani -
but that just said how frightened he was, how potentially
irrational. How could Ciani be Working? Only Tarrant was
silent, clearly at peace with the night and its darkness. And
why not? Half the things that might hunger for their life,
that might take on familiar form to gain access to their
blood and their vitality, were kin to him. What did he have
to fear?
As if in answer, Tarrant reined up his horse. Peering,
and then pointing, into the darkness ahead.
"There's shelter, of sorts." He looked up at the cliff wall
that towered over them, as if searching for something. A
hint of daylight? "The sun will be up soon."
Damien peered into the darkness ahead of them, saw
nothing. "Your eyes are better than mine, Hunter."
"That goes without saying." He pointed slightly ahead
and to the left. "That crevice, there."
Squinting into the darkness, Senzei could barely make
out the form of a cleft in the rock. It was narrow, but
passable, and might open into a larger space within.
"You think it's safe?" he asked.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I think nothing here is safe," he said shortly. "But to
continue onward in your current condition avails us nothing
- except greater risk. Our enemy is waiting for us. The sun
is about to rise. And I, for one, have no intention of
confronting either at this time. You may do as you will."
He dismounted and walked toward the opening. His
horse was either too well-trained or too numb from
exhaustion to do anything other than stand there and wait
for him; he made no attempt to secure it. Senzei watched
with growing despair as Tarrant approached the dark
crevice, studied it, and then slipped within. It was as if he
could feel the jaws of a trap closing about them, the eyes of
an unseen watcher fixed on their backs as they went about
securing shelter, hordes of unseen warrior-creatures
awaiting only a word to strike . . . he shivered, from cold
and misgivings both, and wrapped his arms tightly around
himself. As if that could somehow still the tide of fear
inside him.
Think rationally, Zen. Like the enemy does. They knew
where we would stop to rest - but they weren't there when
we arrived, were they? They don't know that we have to
travel only at night, therefore they can't second-guess our
schedule. And they also don't know that we need an abso-
lute shelter from the sun, that a cavern would draw us in
like honey in an insect trap . . . The words sounded good,
but they did little to quell the fear inside him.
Suddenly a snarl sounded from beyond the cavern's

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

mouth, followed by a wild, bestial howling that made his
skin crawl in horror. He saw Damien start forward, then
stop himself, forcibly. The priest's expression was grim.
The howling rose in pitch, a war cry of pain and terror and
territorial urges - all cut short, suddenly. Sucked up into the
utter silence of the night.
Tarrant reappeared. Brushing lightly at one shoulder, he
dislodged a bit of cave-dirt that had stuck to his clothing.
"Shelter enough for one day," he announced - and it might
have been Senzei's imagination, but it seemed there was a
glint of red about his teeth as he spoke.
"Unoccupied?" Damien asked.
Tarrant's eyes glistened coldly. "It is now. You may
help yourself to . . . dinner, if you like. There's meat for it."
And he added, with an ominous smile, "I've already
dined."
They stared at him for a moment, all three of them. No
one more anxious than any other to see what manner of
place he had found for them, or what manner of carrion it
now harborerd.
Then: "What the hells," Ciani muttered. She slid from
her horse's back, and somehow managed to stand steadily
despite the obvious weakness in her legs. Gods, they were
all near collapse. "As long as it's dry," she said.

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There was something going on between them, Damien
decided - something happening between Ciani and Gerald
Tarrant that he didn't like at all. He couldn't quite identify
what it was - but it was there, without doubt. Like a channel
had been established between them. He could almost See it.
As they made their preparations for the day's
encampment, he kept half an eye on each of them. Tarrant
explored the back recesses of the narrow cavern, making
certain there were no hidden dangers there - and Ciani
accompanied him. Tarrant took it upon himself in the last
hour of relative darkness to see that the horses were rubbed
dry and calmed, and tethered within reach of edible brush -
and Ciani, who had little experience with such duties, went
to help him. Damien was aware of whispers passing
between them, things more felt than heard: a subvocal
purring of conspiracy, of coalition. But what purpose could
it possibly serve? Without knowing, he told himself, he had
no right to interfere. Ciani had every reason to be curious
about the adept, and if Tarrant was answering her
questions, the more power to her. And if that was all it was,
Damien had no right to interfere. But what if it wasn't? Did
Ciani really understand how dangerous the Hunter was -
how utterly corrupt a soul must be, to sink from the
Prophet's heights to such a murdering, parasitic existence?
The thought of prolonged contact between the two of them
made Damien's stomach turn, and he watched them
carefully. Trying to stay within hearing distance. Hoping
for any excuse he might reasonably use to keep her away

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

from their deadly companion.
The cavern which Tarrant had found them - little more
than a cleft in the cliff wall, six feet wide at its broadest
point and considerably less than that as it angled back into
the stratified rock - had clearly been occupied, and for
some time. It reeked of generations of animal occupancy:
the oils of mating, the exudations of birth, the pungent
spray of territorial markings. Not to mention the carrion
that Tarrant had provided, a tangle of bloody fur and moist
meat that still stank of animal terror. But it was dry and
safe, and the floor was layered in insulating dirt, and at this
point that was all any of them wanted. They unpacked their
bedrolls along its length, rendered Tarrant's kill down for
its edible portions and threw the rest into the Achron, and
laid their wet clothing - which was most of what they
owned - out on the ledge by the cavern's mouth, to be dried
by the rising sun. Watches were scheduled. A minimal fire
was kindled. The cave's former occupant became a
satisfying, if somewhat gamy, repast. And they waited for
the sun to rise, knowing that only for a few hours would it
shine directly down into the gorge which the Achron's
current had scoured into the land - waiting to see what
manner of place they had come to, what patterns of promise
and danger the light of day might reveal.
Once, when his watch had ended, Damien made his way
to the rear of the cavern, where Tarrant had isolated
himself, to see how the adept was doing. A slab of rock that
had fallen from the ceiling in some past earthquake

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

concealed the back recesses of their shelter from immediate
view; when he made his way past it, he found that a wall of
coldfire had been erected in the lightless recess. Utterly
frigid. Utterly impassable.
"Well, fine," he muttered. "Just fine."
And then - hoping the Hunter could hear him - he added,
"I trust you, too."
The land through which the Achron coursed was a rich,
three-dimensional tapestry of geological history, whose
cross-section had been revealed by the cutting action of the
river's progress. From a layer of granite through which the
water coursed, up through layers of black basalt and
alluvial sediment and compressed volcanic ash, it was
possible to read the history of this region in the patterns
that decorated the cliff walls - volcanic eruption and glacial
invasion and always, as elsewhere, the violent geo-
signatures of earthquakes. Where the narrow strata had
once comprised an ordered map of geohistory, it had now
been split by successive upheavals into a jagged mosaic
that lined the walls of the gorge like some immense,
grotesquely abstract artwork. Winds had grooved the
junctures of strata, widened fissures, and eroded away the
underpinning of various outcroppings, so that ragged
columns and angular arches loomed overhead, a giant
surreal sculpture that had been abandoned to the elements.
Vegetation had taken root wherever it could, but for the
most part the upper reaches of the walls were utterly

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

lifeless: a bit of lichen, a patch of coarse grass, perhaps a
few dried roots to mark the place where a desperate tree
had once tried to grasp hold. No more than that.
Unclimbable, at any rate. Which meant that they were
doomed to traverse the river's bed until some variation in
the canyon's structure allowed them to ascend to the rich
lands surrounding it.
At sunset they moved again, Senzei concluding the last
watch of the day as they urged their horses back onto the
narrow path. There was still no sight of the watcher, or any
other attempt at surveillance. Damien was beginning to
think that maybe something positive might be read into
that. Maybe whoever had seen them land was merely an
independent observer who had chanced upon the spot, with
no lasting interest in what became of them, no dangerous
allies to mobilize-
Right. Damned likely. Dream on, priest.
They rode. The horses were clearly less than thrilled
about their chosen road, but a good day's rest in a relatively
dry place - not to mention fresh food and water - had given
them back something of their accustomed spirit. Damien
had little trouble convincing his mount to lead the way
along the narrow ledge, and the struggles of the previous
night receded into hazy memory as the rhythm of travel
engulfed them all.
When Casca's three-quarter face cleared the western

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

wall, they stopped for a short while. In the shadow of the
grotesque natural sculptures they nibbled at bits of meat
and cake and discussed, in guarded murmurs, the
possibility of finding a way out of the canyon in the nights
to come. Tarrant took out his maps again and located
several points of possible egress: tributary junctions in the
Achron's course, which might or might not involve some
variation in the canyon's structure. He seemed to feel that
the odds were good - and since it was the first real
optimism the man had expressed about this journey,
Damien found it doubly comforting. For once, things
seemed to be going their way.
But then he thought: When we get up to the plateau,
that's when the real work begins. The real danger. It was a
sobering thought, and one that he didn't share with his
companions. Let them enjoy this last bit of security while it
lasted; such things would become rare soon enough.
In time Casca set behind the eastern wall, and a nearly-
full Prima took her place in the skies. The presence of any
moon above them weakened the dark fae which might
otherwise harass them, and Damien was grateful for the
current lunar schedule. Not long from now there would be a
period of true night, when no natural light was available; by
that time, he hoped, they would be out of the canyon, not
trapped on some twisting path beneath walls that were
prone to fracture, with the angry black water waiting just
beneath them, and all their fears manifested by the power
of the ultimate Night.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tarrant will gain strength, then, he thought. He'll come
into his true power for the first time since our landing. It
was a chilling thought, but somehow it lacked the power of
his previous fears. Was it possible that Tarrant's usefulness
was beginning to outweigh the abhorrence of his nature, in
Damien's mind? That was dangerous, the priest reflected.
That was truly frightening. That worried him more than the
true night itself - more than all the rest of it combined.
Could one become inured to the presence of such an evil?
So much so that one lost sight of what it truly was, and saw
no further than the elegant facade which housed it? He
shivered at the thought, and swore he would keep it from
happening. Prayed to his God that he could keep it from
happening.
Gradually, the canyon narrowed. The water could be
heard to course northward with a far more violent current
than before, and although he hesitated to look down - the
view was dizzying - Damien knew from the sound of it that
there was now white water below their feet, that the walls
here had fragmented and fallen often enough to place a
thousand obstacles in the river's path - obstacles over
which the water now coursed angrily, obstacles against
which any fallen creature would certainly be crushed. All
the more reason not to fall from the ledge. He eased his
horse farther from the edge and hoped his companions
would follow suit. As long as they were careful - and the
ledge grew no narrower - they should be in little danger.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Then they came around a bend, and his heart went cold
within him. He signaled for a stop, forced his own horse to
stand steady as he studied the road ahead as well as he
could by moonlight. The apprehension of his fellow
travelers was like a tangible thing, a cloud of pessimism so
thick that he could hardly breathe through it.
Finally he gestured to Tarrant, signaled for him to come
to the front. "Your night vision is best of anyone's," he
said. "What do you make out?"
The Hunter dismounted, and made his way on foot to
the front of the procession. There he gazed into the dark-
ness for some time before responding.
"The path continues to narrow," he said. "And I don't
like the look of it. The water has eaten its way underneath
that shelf, and there are visible damages . . . it's not as solid
as what we've been traveling on, by any means."
"Can it support us?" Senzei asked tensely.
Tarrant's expression tightened, and the concentration
that Damien had come to associate with his Working
flashed briefly in his eyes. "As it is now, it will," he
responded. "If nothing interferes."
"Are there alternatives?" Ciani asked him.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He looked up to her, cold eyes fluid, like quicksilver.
"None that I see here, lady. Except going back, of course.
That's always an option."
She stiffened. "No," she whispered. "Not while I have
the strength left to move."
"Then there are none."
"We go on," she said firmly.
The Hunter nodded and remounted. Without a word,
they began to move forward onto a section of ledge that
was scored by faults. They moved slowly, carefully, ever
aware that a single overemphatic hoofbeat might crack
something loose underfoot and send them plummeting to
the white water below. As they rode, the ledge narrowed.
After a time Damien could no longer keep his horse to the
path without his left leg scraping against the wall of the
gorge periodically; small bits of rock showered to the
ground beneath him after each such contact, and bounced
off the ledge down into the shadows beneath to disappear
into the hungry river.
Even if we wanted to turn back now, we couldn't. Not
without backing the horses up for miles - and they'd rather
jump into the water than put up with that.
God help us if the ledge peters out, he thought - and

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

then, because there was no constructive way to think about
such a possibility, he put it forcibly out of his mind. The
ledgewould continue, it would be sound enough to support
them, and if it wasn't they would manage to do . . .
something.
They traveled in tense silence, each cocooned in his
fears. Beneath them the river coursed, noisily now, and
white froth glittered in Prima's light. The edge of that
moon had already dropped behind the eastern wall of the
gorge, with the rest soon to follow. What would they do
when its light was gone? Could they traverse a path this
dangerous, with nothing but lamplight to guide them?
Damien felt like he had been traveling forever, leading the
way along a path so narrow, with a surface so irregular, that
it seemed only a matter of time before one of them
stumbled and fell. His own horse was unlikely to lose its
footing; that animal was experienced in handling such
situations and knew what it meant to test each footstep in
advance. But would Senzei's animal, city-bred, slip from
the path? Or the Forest beasts, which had known only
packed, level earth before this? If anyone went down into
that angry water . . . it was better not to think about such
things. Better just to keep the mind blank and hope the
horses got them through.
Finally - after what seemed like an eternity - the ledge
began to widen. Slowly, almost imperceptibly - but at last
the point came when the travelers' legs no longer brushed
against the wall, when his horse's easier gait informed him

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that the animal now felt more secure about the ground
underfoot. "On our way," he whispered. He began to think
they would really make it through. Damien allowed himself
the luxury of a few deep breaths, and stretched his cramped
feet in their stirrups to bring life back into them-
"Heads up!" The Hunter called. "And don't Work,
whatever you do!"
The urgency in his voice made Damien twist back
quickly. The adept had one hand raised as if to shield his
eyes from light. But there was nothing in the canyon that
Damien could see, and Senzei and Ciani seemed similarly
confused. What force had the adept's vision disclosed,
which would suddenly become so bright-
"Hells!" he heard Ciani whisper as she realized what
was happening. A rumbling filled the air around them -
which meant an earthquake, very close and very bad. Damn
it! Not now! The rock overhead began to tremble visibly,
and he could feel his horse shift its weight nervously,
responding to signals half-sensed, half-felt, from the
ground beneath its feet. He tightened his hands on the reins,
spasmodically - but there was nothing he could do,
absolutely nothing. They were utterly at the mercy of
Nature, and she was known for her ruthlessness. He tried to
urge his horse a step closer to the cliff face, but either the
animal didn't like that strategy or it was so far gone in its
own mounting terror that it simply didn't acknowledge the
command. He decided he would be safer on his own two

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

feet and began to dismount. Suddenly the cliff wall
overhead split, with a sound like thunder, and segments of
rock the size of a man's head crashed to the path right
before them. The horse reared back, squealing in terror, and
nearly crushed Damien against the jagged wall behind
them. He didn't dare let go lest the animal trample him, but
nor did he have a secure hold on its saddle; as falling rocks
pelted them like hailstones he struggled to stay in control,
tried to calm the beast. But all his practiced words and
signs could do nothing to lessen its terror. Maybe it could
sense from him just how dangerous their position was.
Maybe the fae had taken his own fear and injected that into
the animal, so that it must deal with human terror along
with its own. Or maybe the tremendous surge of earth-fae
that had blinded Gerald Tarrant was capable of amplifying
all their reactions so that logical decisions were drowned
out in a deluge of primal fright.
Something struck Damien. Hard. Sharp rock cut deeply
into his skull, as though he had struck the wall - or the wall
had struck him. He felt something massive come down onto
him, crushing him against his saddle, driving both him and
the horse to the ground. Only the ground wasn't there
anymore. His horse's feet struck wildly at where the ledge
should have been and found only emptiness. The flawed
rock had crumbled - and they were tumbling downward, the
two of them, blood pouring down into Damien's eyes as the
river rushed up hungrily to meet them. He felt darkness
closing in on him and fought it, fought it back with
everything in him that hungered for life - because to lose
consciousness now was to die, plain and simple. Head

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

pounding in pain, hands shaking, he somehow managed to
yank his foot out of its stirrup and twist himself so that
when the animal landed he wouldn't be beneath it. They
struck with a force that sent water flying high up onto the
cavern walls. The horse screamed in pain as it landed,
began flailing out wildly. Rock rained down like hail about
them as Damien struggled to get out of range of the
animal's hooves. Then the current grabbed him and he went
under; ice-cold water filled his mouth as the river's angry
force slammed him against rock - once, twice, again. He
reached out for anything to serve as anchor, to fight against
the current, but his fingers met only slick rock and slid off,
leaving him to the mercy of the water. Dimly he was aware
that the current had dragged him down deep, very deep, and
was taking him out into the middle of the river. His lungs
already throbbed with pain, and he had to struggle not to try
to breathe as he tried to determine which way was up. But
all was chaos about him, a churning hell of icy water and
rock that had neither direction nor order. He felt one
shoulder strike bottom with a force that nearly drove the
last air out of his lungs, and for one desperate moment he
thought that he might Work to save himself - but the
ground was still trembling, and the rumble of the
earthquake still sounded even below the water, which
meant that a Working meant death. Absolutely. Only a fool
would even try it.
Or a dead man.
He gathered himself, knowing with one portion of his

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

mind that he was about to be fried to a crisp - and knowing
with another that if he did nothing he would certainly die.
The river was too strong to fight. He needed air. Blood-red
stars exploded before his eyes as his lungs began to
convulse spasmodically, but he kept his throat closed as he
gathered himself for a Working. The cold of the water had
numbed him with a chill that was strangely warm. Was this
what dying was? Time, now. Grasp the power-
And then something jerked him, hard. The stale air burst
from his lungs and before he could stop himself he breathed
in; water poured into him, drowning out his life. But
something had taken hold of his harness, was dragging him
back. Stars were swimming in his vision as he reached out
toward the source of the movement. A strong arm grasped
him, hand to wrist, and held. He was yanked upward - and
he broke the surface gasping, water pouring out of his nose
and mouth as he retched helplessly, dragged above the level
of the river's surf by a grip even colder than the water,
colder than the river and the freezing wind and all his fear
combined. He stumbled as he was pulled through the icy
current. The grip on his wrist was so steady it could have
been made of solid rock; the hand that drew him upward
was the center of his universe, the only thing he saw as the
red stars slowly receded into blackness, as his lungs finally
acknowledged the presence of air and drew it in, aching
from the effort.
He looked up, saw Tarrant's visage highlighted by
moonlight. The man's expression was strained, his hair

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plastered down about his face like wet seaweed. But despite
the whitewater current that threatened to drag them both
under again, his grip was like steel as he drew Damien up,
inch by inch, until he was safely above the level of the
water. The priest gasped for breath, tried to mouth
something useful. Like, Thank you. Or,Thank God. Or
perhaps, What took you so damned long? But it took too
much effort just to breathe; he had to settle for gasping like
a beached fish as the tall man held him, while the current
swept hungrily about their knees.
"It's over," the Hunter told him. "That one, anyway." By
which he meant, of course, the first shock wave. With a
quake of that intensity, there could be several. Many. It
could go on for days. "We need to move."
He managed to nod, felt his head explode with raw pain.
Something red ran down into his left eye. "Zen - Ciani-" He
managed to twist so that he could see back the way he had
come, toward the figures that still clung to that precarious
ledge. He caught the glint of moonlight on Ciani's hair,
recognized Senzei's lanky frame. Both safe, then. Thank
God. The figures were hazy, masked by a distance that was
greater than he had expected; the river must have swept
him far downstream before Tarrant had managed to save
him. He counted the horses - or tried to, the dark figures
bled into each other at this distance - and it seemed to him
that one was missing. But whose? And with what
equipment? Their lives might well depend on the answer to
that.

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And then he sensed Tarrant's stillness, and looked
down. At the river about them. At the three figures who
stood in it, knee-high in the swirling water. All were
human, in general form - and anything but human, in the
details of their features. Golden eyes stared out of faces that
were insulated in matching fur, and tufted ears swung
forward to test the breeze, as a cat's might. He was aware
of thick manes that covered both the shoulders and chests
of the creatures, and trinkets of metal and shell that had
been knotted into them. Aware most of all of the weapons
they were holding, sharp-tipped spears that were aimed at
the humans' midsections with obviously hostile intent.
Hatred glimmered in the golden eyes, far more intense than
anything the moment should warrant. It was the hatred of
an entire people, that had been festering for decades. The
hatred of an entire species, for Damien's own.
As for Tarrant . . . he was staring at the spearpoint
directed at him with an expression that was half
bemusement - was someone daring to threaten him? - and
half something darker. Anger? Fear? Would the Hunter die
if his heart were pierced? A knife through the heart is as
fatal to an adept as it is to anyone else, he had said. And
with the earth-fae still surging in the quake's deadly
aftermath, he didn't dare Work to save himself. For one
dizzying instant Damien thought that this was indeed what
Gerald Tarrant would look like when facing his own
mortality. When facing the fact that in one moment all the
work of centuries might be thrown away, and a single

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spear-stroke commit his soul to the hell he had been
determined to avoid.
Then the Hunter looked at him - and something that was
almost a smile passed across the man's lips. Something that
was almost humor glittered in his eyes.
"I do believe," he said quietly, "that we have found the
rakh." 
Thirty-one
The demon Calesta took form slowly, like blood
congealing in open air. The scent of the river still clung to
him, and it clashed with the musty closeness of the
Citadel's confines until at last the former was abolished,
freshwater breezes choked out of existence by the cloying
sweetness'of the Master of Lema's favorite incense.
"You found them," came the whisper.
The demon bowed.
"Tell me."
"There are four: the woman, an adept, and two others.
The adept is the most dangerous."

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"Of course." Hunger was an echo behind the words.
"Also the most satisfying. Their purpose?"
"To kill you. And, en route, your servants. As well as
any other hungry thing foolish enough to cross their path."
"An ambitious plan."
"It is the priest's. He dominates."
"And the adept?"
"He endures."
A chuckle sounded. "You'll take care of them, yes? It's
so easy, with that kind. You'll read what's in their hearts,
and know what to do. As always."
The demon bowed.
"Spare the adept, of course. And the woman. Weaken
them if you can, by all means, bring them as near to death
as you like - but bring them to me intact. I . . . hunger for
them."
The demon's voice was a hiss, a low screech, the sound
of metal on metal. "I understand."

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"As for the others . . . it's no concern of mine whether
they live or die. Do what pleases you, Calesta - provided
their power is neutralized. You have such marvelous
instincts regarding these things. And they're coming here,
yes? Marching here right into our hands. How very
convenient."
"The adept, my lord, is sun-sensitive."
The One Who Binds stiffened. And nodded, slowly.
Anticipation, like a drug, coursed through veins that had
been jaded by time; the thought of conquest surged through
ancient flesh like orgasm.
"That's sweet news indeed," came the whisper. "And
power enough, for any who know how to use it. He was a
fool to come here! And the woman - more than a fool, that
one. I had her once. I will have her again. And when I am
done . . . you, Calesta, may have what remains. Serve me
well, and I promise it."
The demon bowed. The hint of a smile played across its
obsidian visage; the mirrored eyes flashed hunger.
"As you command," it hissed.
Thirty-two
For a moment,no one made a sound. The tension was

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eloquent enough, with its accompanying kinesthetic
signals: a rakhene hand tightening on a spear haft. A
rakhene body testing the river bottom for stability,
preparing to thrust. Rakhene eyes filled with a terrible
hatred, that looked simultaneously upon the present
moment and a horrifying past: the attempted obliteration of
an entire intelligent species. In the shadow of such a
holocaust there was nothing to say, no way to say it.
Attempts to bargain would have been an insult. Pleas for
mercy would have seemed a joke. Man's own actions had
provided him with a far more ruthless enemy than anything
the fae might invent.
Breath ragged, water surging about his knees, Damien
itched to reach for his sword. Not so much to bring it into
play as to make sure it was still there; the harness was loose
about his shoulders, clearly damaged from the fall, which
meant that the river might well have disarmed him. He
flexed his shoulders ever so slightly, trying to judge the
weight - and a spear point bit into his flesh, deeply enough
to draw blood. He checked his motion, glanced up at
Tarrant. The man understood - and nodded carefully, an
almost imperceptible gesture. Yes, it said, you're armed.
But the grim expression on his face told an additional story,
and when Damien looked down he saw that the man's
Worked sword - and its scabbard, and the heavy belt that
supported it - were gone. He must have taken it off before
entrusting himself to the river. Shit!How good was the
Hunter at hand-to-spear combat? With his sorcerous skills
made off-limits by the earthquake-

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A call sounded from the cliffs high above: half speech,
half animal yowling. Damien's captors tensed. The one
holding a spear to Tarrant's torso glanced up at the cliff just
long enough to bark out an answer - and Damien could see
the Hunter gathering himself, muscles tensing secretly in
that precious, unguarded instant. But then he checked
himself, and his mouth tightened in anger and frustration as
the furred warrior turned back to him. Not moving. Not
saying a word.
Because of us, Damien thought. He could have saved
himself - but not Ciani. Not when the fae is still too hot to
handle.
He could see dark figures gathering about the ex-adept,
could see Senzei tense as if he were about to fight them.
Not now, he begged silently. There are too many of them.
Our position is too desperate. Even while he prayed, he
saw the figure fall back. Saw the dark figures closing in on
it. And he wondered at the man's inner courage - or was it
blind devotion to Ciani? - that would allow him to even
consider resistance under such overwhelming
circumstances.
There's a strength in him that's never really been tested,
he thought grimly. And: God willing, that'll never be
necessary.
Something flew down the cliff wall toward them, and

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then snapped to a stop mere feet from the bottom. A rope,
of sorts - more like a tapestry, or an intricate knot-work
sampler. Mere seconds later a figure slipped over the edge
and climbed rapidly down toward them, fingers - or claws?
- slipping in between the knots and out again with fluid
efficiency. It dropped the last few feet in silence, landing
on the ledge above them. Smaller than its fellows, it was
dressed in layers of patterned cloth that swathed its limbs
tightly to the wrist and ankle. No place for a shoulder-mane
beneath those garments, nor any need for it. What this rakh
lacked in raw mass it made up for in feline agility. And as it
shifted its weight in the moonlight, so that the shadows no
longer obscured its form - female, undeniably female -
Damien realized why this one seemed so familiar.
"Morgot," he whispered. And the Hunter answered
softly, "Just so."
She called out toward them - and though the words were
unintelligible to Damien, the sharpness of the sound made
it clear that its message was either a warning or a
command. Or both. The language the creature used was one
of hissed consonants and sharp vowels, utterly foreign to
Damien's ears - and yet, without question, the cadence of it
was familiar. Somewhere, sometime in the distant past, his
own language had influenced this one.
They had no language when they left the human lands.
That must have evolved here, in isolation. What else did
they develop, that humankind knows nothing about?

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One of their captors barked out a response, in tones so
harsh that it was clear what manner of action he would
prefer. Damien was aware of a cold wind blowing across
his body, freezing his soaking clothes and hair until they
felt like ice against his skin. A shivering had begun deep
inside him, a last desperate attempt on the part of his body
to generate warmth. The current that pushed at his legs was
frigid, insistent. He was afraid - and also angry. At having
to feel his life bleed away into the cold, when he could be
spending his last moments in battle. Taking some of them
with him.
If these bastards argue long enough, I'll die of hypother-
mia. But he could do no more than fight to keep his teeth
from chattering - they'd probably use the sound as an
excuse to kill him - as they continued in their conversation.
Because there was, as always, Ciani to consider. And if her
presence had tied the Hunter's hands in this situation, it did
the same to Damien ten times over. He dared take no action
that would bring rakhene wrath down on her head.
At last some manner of conclusion seemed to have been
reached. One of their captors barked out an order toward
them and prodded Damien sharply in the chest. Blood
began to spread from the point of contact, staining his
jacket carmine. But if the wound was meant to anger him,
to make him lose control, it accomplished just the opposite.
He held himself utterly still - as much as was possible in
the swift river current - as one of the rakh jerked his arms

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behind his back and bound them together, coarse rope
biting into his wrists. A jerk to his harness strap from
behind told him that he had also been disarmed. He saw
Gerald Tarrant being bound in the same manner. The look
in the adept's eyes was one of pure murder - but he endured
it, just as Damien did. There was no other choice.
In a nightmare journey they were forced upriver, back to
where their companions waited. And then beyond that
point, with Senzei and Ciani prodded forward on a course
parallel to theirs, picking their way carefully along the
broken ledge. Stumbling, often slipping, without their
hands to steady themselves, the priest and the Hunter were
forced to rely on their captors' occasional supportive grasp
to keep them on their feet. Often it came too late, and
several times Damien fell to his knees, hard, water swirling
cold about his chest. Once he lost his balance entirely, and
it was a clawed, alien hand that pulled him out of the water,
jerking him up by the neck of his jacket as though it were
the scruff of a cub's neck, meant for that purpose.
The look in Tarrant's eyes was murderous. What must it
be like, Damien wondered, to have a soul that could
command the ages, trapped in a body that could be made so
vulnerable? He imagined the force of the rage and fear that
must be building inside the man - and was glad he wasn't
going to be at the receiving end of it when it broke. The
man who killed sadistically for a hobby must be even more
vicious when dealing with his enemies.

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At last there was a shore, of sorts, and they were prod-
ded toward it. The ledge which they had once traveled upon
had dropped to nearly the level of the water, and widened
also. Ciani and Senzei had been bound, he saw, and the two
surviving horses were being led by rakhene warriors.
Damien recognized Senzei's mount and one of Tarrant's
animals. Which one of the true horses had they lost - and
with it, which supplies? He thought of his own horse, fallen
screaming to the rocks, and his gut tightened in anger. And
sorrow. That animal had crossed through the Dividers with
him, had seen vampires and smashers and an earthquake
that leveled half a city, and come through it all unharmed.
And now . . . the loss was an emptiness, an aching pain that
stabbed at him even through the numbness of his frozen
flesh.
Damn you! he thought, as a frigid wind gusted over him.
As if somehow the horse could hear him. You picked a hell
of a time to die, you know that?
They were forced up against the edge of the ridge, and
then strong, clawed hands lifted them up onto it. Talons
biting into cloth and flesh alike, like meat hooks digging
into a fresh carcass. Damien saw Ciani's face was white
with shock, Senzei's driven equally pale from fear. Hell, at
least those two were dry. He felt like a fish on ice.
Then the rakh-woman was before them, alien eyes
glaring out at them from a harsh, fur-sculpted visage. "You
come," she hissed, "or you die. Simple. You understand?"

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He nodded stiffly, was aware of his companions doing
the same. Then she pointed to the Hunter and snapped a
sharp command in her own tongue. The rakh standing
behind Tarrant pulled a strip of cloth from out of his belt -
heavily decorated, some kind of ornament - and before the
adept could respond, bound it across his eyes. Damien
heard Tarrant draw in a sharp breath, saw the muscles in his
shoulders tense as he tested the ropes binding his arms, felt
his rage engulf them all like a dark cloud - but whatever he
might have tried to do to free himself, he didn't manage it.
The blindfold was fastened tightly about his head, denying
him both his earthly vision and his Sight. Damien
wondered if an adept could Work the fae without seeing it .
. . and then realized what the answer had to be. The woman
had seen him in Morgot, and knew his power. She had
bound him well.
Grimmer and grimmer,Damien thought.
She turned, then, to guide them south. A rakh dug his
claws into Tarrant's collar and forced him forward; a sharp
prod in the center of Damien's back, that bit through cloth
to break his flesh, forced the priest to do the same. Give me
half a chance and you'll eat that vulking spear, he
promised silently. He could feel Ciani and Senzei behind
him - the heat of their bodies, the sharp tang of their fear.
They should never have come this way, should never have
been so unguarded . . . but what choice had they had?
They'd taken every possible precaution. In the end, the land

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itself had turned against them. How could a man defend
against that?
Limbs nearly frozen, he staggered onward. To the left of
them the river gradually widened, until it formed a small
lake between the steep canyon walls. From ahead came the
sound of water falling, and Damien pictured the first
tributary marked on Gerald Tarrant's map. A sheer drop
from the surface of the plateau to the Achron, he guessed.
No way up, then, for horses or men. How long would they
have had to continue on, without ever gaining the plateau?
But as they came around one final bend, a new land-
scape revealed itself. A portion of the canyon wall had split
off and fallen into the river, and on the resulting slope of
rubble a crude road had been built. No, hardly a road; a
slender path, that wound its way through hairpin turns on
the side of the towering cliff wall, just barely wide enough
for a horse to travel. Damien glanced behind him once as
they ascended, to where an impatient rakh forced the
blinded Hunter forward. A good thing the adept didn't
know just how narrow the path was. Damien thought. It
was a bad enough climb with one's eyes open - the thought
of having to trust one's enemies to guide one along it was
enough to make his stomach turn. He managed to make
fleeting eye contact with Senzei, who nodded stiffly in grim
encouragement, but Ciani's eyes were fixed on the
hazardous road ahead of them. He thought he could see her
trembling.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At last they reached the top, and the humans were
allowed a few brief seconds to catch their breath. Damien
was shivering violently, knew he wouldn't last much longer
if he didn't get his body temperature up. Did he dare Work,
this soon after a quake? How long did the earth-fae take to
subside in this place? Damn it, he needed Tarrant's Sight . .
. With a muttered curse, he decided to wait. At least a short
while longer. Every second that passed made it safer.
There were beasts waiting for them at the top of their
climb, horselike in general form, but as unlike true horses
in the finer details of their anatomy as the rakh warriors
were unlike men. They tossed their heads impatiently as the
party approached: silk-fine fur rippled in the cold autumn
breeze, pearlescent horns gleaming with reflected
moonlight. Xandu,he thought, awed by their wild beauty.
They shied away from Tarrant distastefully, as if somehow
they could sense what role he had played in their history.
And sniffed at the humans' horses with gentler mien, as if
pitying them for the grandeur they had lost.
Roughly, Damien was jostled toward one of the horses.
He wasn't sure whether they meant for him to mount it as
he was - a dubious endeavor - or whether they intended to
unbind him temporarily. He never found out. Because in
that moment, Tarrant moved. Blue flame flickered first at
the edges of his blindfold, then consumed the fabric utterly.
An unearthly chill swept through Damien, as if somehow
all remaining warmth had been leached from the air around
him; when he breathed, his breath turned to white fog that

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misted toward Tarrant. Then the adept stepped away from
the rest of the company, and as he did so the blue fire died -
and the blindfold shattered like glass and fell to the cold
earth around him in a thousand tiny slivers.
Cold silver eyes regarded the rakh, and Damien knew
from experience just how much power was behind them.
Half of him was jubilant to see a member of his party freed
- and the other half of him shuddered at the thought of the
slaughter that might take place if Tarrant's fury was fully
unleashed. Was there any way to stop that from happening?
Did he have any right to stop it from happening? Coldfire
flashed again, and coarse rope snapped into a thousand
brittle fragments: Tarrant's hands were freed. One of the
rakh began to move toward him, spear raised into an
aggressive position; Tarrant's eyes narrowed and he
dropped the spear with a sudden cry of fear and pain. There
was flesh adhering to it, frozen to its surface; from his
hand, dark blood dripped slowly.
Tarrant turned to the rakh-woman; his expression was
dark. "If you meant to kill us, you waited too long. If you
have any other intention, now's the time to make it known.
I find myself short of patience."
One of the other warriors started to move forward, but
she warned him back with a quick gesture. "You live
because you saved his life." She nodded sharply toward
Damien. "Because somewhere in that wretched thing you
call a soul, that much of value still exists." She looked at

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them all, with varying degrees of disapproval. "My people
are torn between wanting to know why you came here, and
wanting your heads for souvenirs. I've convinced them to
swallow their death-hunger long enough for you to answer
questions. That's why the rest of you have been spared.
Whether you remain alive after they have their answers . . .
is up to you."
"Untie my companions," Tarrant said quietly.
She made no response, other than to step back a bit.
Giving him room.
After a moment the Hunter stepped forward and applied
himself to Damien's bonds. The priest's flesh was so numb
from the cold that he couldn't even feel it when his hands
were at last freed, but observed them as they swung down
by his sides as though they were strange to him, the limbs
of some other creature. He forced himself to acknowledge
them, to use one to try to rub warmth into the other, as
Tarrant untied the two other humans.
Then the adept turned, and faced the rakh-woman again.
Even soaking wet - his hair plastered messily to the side of
his face, his clothing torn in a dozen places by the
application of claws and spearpoint - he was possessed of a
regality that commanded a power all its own. A dark
charisma, which even the rakh must respond to.

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"You touch my companions again," he warned - and his
eyes scanned the warriors as he spoke - and you die.
Instantly." His eyes fixed on the rakh-woman. "Tell them,"
he commanded.
For a moment the woman just stared at him. Then,
without answering, she walked to where her xandu stood.
With a motion as fluid and unpredictable as a cat pouncing
suddenly on its prey, she gained its back. And twisted one
hand into its mane, sharp claws entangled in gleaming silk.
"They understand you," she told the Hunter.
And she smiled coldly, displaying pointed teeth. "They
understand more than you think."
The xandu rode like the wind. The horses rode like
overtired, overwrought horses, who'd had enough of
earthquakes and waterfalls and long rides without rest, and
who hadn't collapsed before now only because no one had
let them stand still long enough to do so. It didn't help that
Senzei and Ciani were sharing a mount, or that Damien - a
heavy man to start with - was carrying twice his weight in
water-logged clothing. But at least they'd been spared a
fourth rider. Damien looked up at the sky, at the great white
predatory bird that soared high above their company, and
felt a cold, unaccustomed awe fill him. Shapechanging
wasn't supposed to be possible, at least not for the flesh-
born - but he had seen it done, and the memory chilled his
blood more than weather and river-water combined.

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Against his will, he recalled it: a budden burst of coldfire
brilliance, so frigid that it blinded, human flesh dissolving
as if in an acid bath, features running together like water in
a whirlpool - and then, in that last instant, white wings
rising up out of the conflagration, bearing the Hunter's new
body into a moonlit sky. But it wasn't the transformation
itself that made Damien's blood turn to ice in his veins, or
even the memory of human flesh dissolving before his
eyes. It was the look on Tarrant's face, in that last moment
before he entrusted his life to the earth-fae. Utter discipline,
total submission - and an echo of pain and fear so intense
that Damien, remembering the man's expression, still
shivered before the force of it.
I couldn't have managed it, he thought. Not for all the
power in the world. No sane man could.
Unsane, unconquerable, the Hunter soared high above
them. Periodically a rakhene warrior would glance up at
him, and the fur-bordered eyes would narrow. In defiance?
In fear? It wasn't unreasonable to hope for the latter.
Damien's small party needed every advantage it could get
in dealing with these creatures - and if the rakh decided that
Tarrant was a man to be feared, so much the better.
He'd feed on that, too. Draw strength from it.
He nodded grimly, and thought, Good for him.

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Miles passed beneath the pounding hooves, flat land
layered in thick black soil and the dying remnants of
summer's bounty. In places the browning grass was so deep
that the horses' legs sank into it a foot or more, before
withdrawing; In other places it was so sparse that a
shoulder of granite might be seen, forcing its way through
the moist black cover of the earth. Damien wrapped himself
as tightly as he could in the thick woolen blanket he had
taken from their stores, which did little to raise his body
temperature but at least kept the wind off his soaked hair
and clothing. Just a little bit farther, he promised himself.
Body heat is an easy thing to conjure, once you're standing
still. No damage has been done that you can't undo, if
they'll just leave you alone to Work. But the likelihood of
them doing that was very small indeed, and the dry clothing
he would have liked to change into must be halfway down
the Achron by now, still strapped to his horse's corpse.
It was Tarrant who first spotted the rakhene
encampment - and he let out a shrill shriek to warn his
companions as he circled down lower, overseeing their
arrival. Seconds later the leader of the rakh drew a finely
engraved horn from out of his belt and blew on it, presum-
ably to alert the camp to their presence. The rakhene
formation pulled in tighter about the humans, spear-points
nearly touching the horses' flanks, forcing them to a halt.
After a few minutes Damien could see a second company
riding toward them, maned warriors who gripped their
weapons tightly as they approached, as if impatient to use
them. They glared at the humans as they approached the
raiding party, and angry words passed between the leaders

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of the two groups. The cadence of the newcomer's speech
resonated with fury as he indicated Damien's unbound
hands, and those of the other humans. Their captors
responded defiantly, and Damien could only guess at his
argument: the humans were disarmed, they were wounded
and exhausted, they were sharing two mounts among three
of them - how much damage could they possibly do? At
last, with an angry nod, the leader of the second group
agreed to lead them in. His companions went galloping on
ahead, presumably to warn the camp that they were
coming.
The great white bird swooped low overhead: a warning
to the rakhene warriors, a gesture of support to the three
humans. Despite his anxiety, Damien smiled.
Never thought I'd be this glad to have you around, you
son of a bitch.
They rode to the top of a gentle swell, where thick
autumn growths crowded about their horses' ankles. From
here it was possible to see the rakhene encampment, a
village of tents and lightweight structures that stretched as
far as the eye could see. Xandu grazed between the
primitive dwellings, with no hobble or leash to bind them
in place. Despite the lateness of the hour there were
numerous people about, going about the day's business as
if the sun were still high in the sky. Children darted out into
the moonlight and then were gone again, small golden
forms as naked as the xandu who indulgently made way for

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them. Full-grown rakh tended cookfires, carved new
weapons, sat around low-banked fires with bowls of
steaming drink in their hands and made noises that might
have been laughter. There were warrior-rakh like the ones
who had captured Ciani's party, broad-shouldered, heavily
maned males with glittering ornaments woven into their
fur; slender females, clothed from neck to ankle in finely
gathered cloth, layered necklaces cascading down the front
of their tabards; other females, aggressively naked, whose
few, carefully chosen ornaments served only to highlight
full rounded breasts, a sensitive strip of hairless skin that
ran the length of their abdomen, hips and thighs that
swayed as they walked in a motion at once exotic and
familiar: the timeless dance of sexual desire. There were
others, too, whose dress or manner blurred the dividing line
between those groups, but they were gone too quickly for
Damien to identify. Castes? Genders? What manner of
society did these creatures develop, when human-style
intelligence first began to stir within them?
With a brusque, barking sound, one of the rakh ordered
him to dismount. Damien tried to obey. But his legs,
weakened by the exertions of the night and numbed by the
searing cold, were barely able to support him. He held onto
the horse for support and breathed deeply, trying to will the
feeling back into his flesh, praying for the strength not to
look as weak as he felt in front of his enemies. Ciani and
Senzei dismounted quickly, without being ordered to, and
came running toward him. There were spears placed in
their path, but Zen shoved them aside; for once he seemed
more angry than afraid. Then, suddenly, a shadow swept

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cross Damien's face. The rakh nearest to him drew back -
fearfully, it seemed to him. Then, in the space that they had
cleared, the great predator-bird landed. Feathers gave way
to burning coldfire.
Which melted into flesh; Tarrant caught Damien before
he could fall, and for once his skin was no colder than the
priest's own.
"Good flight, I hope," the priest whispered.
"I've had better." He held Damien steady while Senzei
rewrapped the blanket around his shoulders. "You need to
get warm, fast."
"Tell me something I don't know."
A group of rakh were approaching from the camp.
Damien managed to stand up straight, though he could feel
the strain of it pounding in his heart. Beneath the blanket he
grasped at Tarrant's arm, hoping such weakness went
unseen. Whoever thought that man's presence would be so
reassuring?
They waited, side by side, as the strangers approached.
Seven in all: three males, two females, and two that might
have been either - slender figures, fully clothed, whose
form and manner offered no hint of gender or social status.
Eunuchs? Adolescents? Not knowing their society, Damien

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couldn't begin to theorize.
The newcomers seemed to command some special
respect, and warriors hurried out of their way as they joined
the raiding party. They came to within several paces of
where the humans stood and studied them. So focused was
he upon staying on his feet, denying his own weakness, that
Damien almost missed it when the rakh-woman joined
them. Clearly, she was one of their number.
It was Tarrant who spoke first; his tone was harsh. "If
you mean to kill us, now's the time to try it. If you intend
anything else, I think it's time you told us about it." It was
hardly a speech calculated to make friends - but there was
very little time left for diplomacy, Damien realized. In less
than an hour's time the sun would begin to rise, and Tarrant
would have to leave them. He was trying to force some
kind of confrontation before that happened.
It was the rakh-woman who responded. "It's your
intentions that need to be judged - not ours."
"We came to heal one of our own kind. Not to do battle
with the rakh."
"Our peoples are at war," a male challenged him. "Do
you deny that?"
Damien stiffened. "That war ended centuries ago."

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The woman hissed softly. "Not for us, human. Not for
us."
Damien was about to respond when Ciani broke in.
"Please . . ." she said softly. "We're exhausted. Can't you
see that? We don't have the strength left to hurt you, even
if we wanted to." Damien felt Tarrant stiffen at his side, as
aghast as he was at her admission of weakness. What in
hell's name did she think she was doing? "Please. We need
. . . a fire. Something to drink. A minute to breathe. Just
that," she begged. "We'll do what you want. Whatever you
want, after that. Please."
For a moment, utter silence reigned. Damien trembled -
in disbelief, and apprehension. He'd never imagined that
such words would ever come from her lips, such an abject
admission of weakness . . . and not here! Not now! Not
when they needed so desperately to establish themselves on
strong ground. But because she was Ciani - because she
must have something in mind, some reason to act this way -
he bit back on the defiant words that were half-formed on
his lips, and forced himself to be silent. To wait. To let her
speak for the four of them.
The rakh conferred among themselves, sharp phonemes
passing like animal hisses between them. At last the woman
looked back at them. For a few seconds she just waited,
perhaps to see if one of the men would protest Ciani's
message. But Senzei and Tarrant had clearly come to the

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same decision that Damien had - in fact, Tarrant was
nodding slightly in approval.
"Come with us," the rakh-woman said. "You'll be fed,
and given warmth - and then you can explain yourselves."
The woman's small group surrounded them in guard
formation, herding them to the north. As for the real
guards, the rakhene warriors, they hissed disapprovingly as
their prisoners were taken from them - but they did let them
go, which said much for the status of the woman's group.
Damien glanced up at Tarrant, who put a slender finger
to the side of his face. Through the contact of flesh-on-flesh
a Working formed, that widened the channel between them
until words could pass along it.
Very clever of her, don't you think? Assuming that
animal instincts would still be active among them. Enough
so that a display of abject submission might be enough to
short-circuit their aggressive instincts. She seems to have
earned us a place - however low - within their hierarchy.
Which means the hierarchy may now afford us some
protection.
Quite a woman, he thought, and his words resonated
with admiration. She's put us all to shame, for not having
thought of it before.

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It surprises me that the Hunter can still experience
shame, Damien thought back.
Very rarely,he admitted. It's not my favorite emotion.
The hand fell away from his cheek, fine skin grating on
several days' stubble. Time to shave, Damien thought - or
maybe time to give up on it and just let the beard grow.
Sometimes that was the best thing to do, while traveling. It
occurred to him that Gerald Tarrant seemed to have no such
problem - and it was faintly amusing that a man of such
power should have devoted a portion of his skills to
something as inconsequential as facial hair. But then he
glanced at Tarrant - at the clean, delicate profile, the perfect
skin, the eyes brimming with vanity - and thought. No big
surprise. The man's got his priorities straight. Appearance
tops the list. And he smiled to note that the adept's hair,
though still wet, had been Worked back into a smooth,
gleaming mass; the holes that the rakh had poked in his
finely woven garments had been cleaned of blood and
repaired, with similar finesse. He looked like a refugee
from a garden party.
The tent that the woman led them to was a large one,
situated at the western face of the encampment. As they
ducked beneath the flap she raised to enter it, Damien was
aware of faces peering at them from behind the protection
of its bulk: young faces, mostly, anxious and curious and
clearly fascinated by the presence of these strangers among

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them. In some there was no hostility, merely a desire to
learn what these strange creatures were - which meant that
the former trait was learned, not faeborn.
What was learned can be unlearned, Damien thought. It
was a promising sign.
The tent was a large one, that easily accommodated both
the humans and their self-appointed guards. In its center
was a low fire, mere glowing embers beneath a blanket of
ash. But that was more heat than Damien had seen in hours,
and when the woman gestured toward it he settled himself
gratefully on a coarse rug laid before it, and shivered in
relief and pain as the unaccustomed warmth of it began to
drive the deadly cold from his body.
The tent itself was made of the skins of various animals,
stitched together with painstaking care. But that surface
was nearly invisible from the inside; tapestries and arrases,
richly worked, hung from the tent-poles in carefully
orchestrated layers, trapping warmed air between them.
Rugs were scattered across the floor, so numerous and so
carefully overlapped that not a hint of grass was visible.
Small sculptures hung from the juncture of tentpoles -
wards, perhaps, or some rakhene equivalent - and they
rattled like wind chimes whenever some harsh wind shook
the structure. There was furniture - short tables engraved
with intricate designs, screens and mirrors, chests and
shelves - and bits of jewelry, shell and colored glass, that
lay strewn about the interior like fallen leaves. These

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people might have had nomadic roots, Damien reflected,
but he doubted that they traveled much now; there was
enough stuff here to keep a moving company busy for days.
They settled themselves in a circle about the fire, hu-
mans on one side and rakh on the other. A constant tinkling
accompanied the movement of their hosts, delicate
necklaces and hair ornaments and mane-beads striking
against each other as the rakh took their positions about the
fire. Such noise would alert prey or enemies from quite a
distance; the warriors must shed enough decoration to
move silently in the field, before they left the camp.
Drink was passed, a hot, bitter brew reminiscent of tea.
Damien gulped it down with relish, felt its heat spread
quickly through his veins. The aching relief of it nearly
brought tears to his eyes. There was food, mostly meat, and
Damien registered the fact that the early rakh had been
carnivores; any taste for plant life that they might have
developed would have come after man's Impression had
begun to alter them.
Their hosts waited until they had eaten their fill, as silent
and still as a beast stalking game. No words had passed
among them since the time they entered the tent, yet it was
clear that a hierarchy had somehow been established. When
the last cup of steaming drink had been emptied, when
nothing remained of the strips of roasted meat but a thin
puddle of juice on carved wooden plates, one of the maned
rakh stirred, and with an air of obvious authority addressed

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the humans.
"You should know what we are, before you begin. Our
rank among this people - that of khrast -has no translation
in your tongue. It's a rakh-thing, born of the persecution
time-"
The woman hissed sharply. A few words of the rakhene
language passed between the two of them, sharp, biting
phonemes with obvious anger behind them. Damien sensed
a wealth of emotion that reached back into the rakh's early
years, when a species torn between human potential and
bestial inheritance was forced to flee from the very race
that had brought it into being. The male's tone, when he
spoke again, was filled with anger and resentment. And
something else, perhaps, that lurked about the edges of his
words, nearly hidden behind his facade of racial aggression.
Fear? Awe?
"What I mean to say," he amended gruffly, "is that
although our people are familiar with your tongue, we
seven alone are fluent. Our ancestors foresaw a time when
we might need such fluency, perhaps to bargain for our
lives - and so they captured women of your tribes, and
sometimes men, and forced them to interact with our
young. Until your English took root here, and our few
khrastfamilies were established." With a short, sharp
gesture he indicated his companions. "Each one of us has
spent time in the human lands, among your kind, absorbing
the vernacular. Some have passed as demons, some as

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visions, some - occasionally - as humans. We've traveled in
your world; we know your ways. We seven can interpret
your words so that our people will understand what you
have to say. That's all. We have no other rank but that;
nothing in common as individuals, beyond the khrast
tradition. No authority as a group, beyond that which we
may wield as individuals."
"We understand," Ciani said.
The rakh-woman leaned forward; her eyes flashed
iridescent, like a cat's. "Tell us why you came here," she
commanded.
It was Senzei who answered. In a voice that trembled
only slightly, he told them what manner of creatures had
come to Jaggonath, and with what intention. He described
the attack upon Ciani - and its devastating result - in terms
so passionate that Damien felt as though he had witnessed
the incident himself. Then, for a moment, Senzei's
overpowering grief at Ciani's loss stopped the words from
coming. For a moment he shook silently, the pent-up anger
and frustration of the preceding days finally getting the
better of him. That, too, seemed to communicate something
to the rakh. When he spoke again, they seemed . . .
different. More receptive, somehow. As if he had finally
reached them on a level they could relate to.
"They came from your lands," he concluded. "Demons
that feed on the memories of others, and keep intelligent

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beings like farm animals to feed on. We came here hunting
them. One demon in particular. All we ask is the right to
pass through your territory in order to reach it. In order to
free our companion from that curse."
Damien glanced at Ciani, saw that she was trembling.
Merciful God . . . if it was hard for Senzei to describe these
things, how much harder for her, who had suffered in ways
he could barely comprehend? He longed to take her hand,
to offer her that minimal comfort, but dared not. Who could
say what manner of interaction might anger these
creatures?
After a silence that seemed painfully drawn out, one of
the slender rakh spoke. "I've seen such things," he
muttered. "In the east, near the House of Storms. Seen, but
not believed."
"Human demons," a maned male spat. "Born of human
fears."
"Inside the Canopy?" a female challenged him.
"Humanity is like a disease. It spreads without limit."
With sharp rakhene syllables, the male who had spoken
first silenced their bickering. "It's not our place to make
decisions for our people," he said firmly, "merely to
interpret for them." He looked the small group over; his

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expression was cold. "We'll pass on what you've told us
and let the others decide. But you should know this: We're
not a forgiving people, and our hatred of your kind runs
very deep. The punishment for humans who trespass in our
lands has always been death. In all my years, I've only
known of one exception to that rule. One human who
managed to bridge the gap between our species, and earn
the respect of a southern tribe, so that they permitted her to
live. One."
He stood. His amber eyes were fixed on Ciani. "I
remember that woman. I remember her scent." His voice
dropped to a soft hiss. "And the fact that you don't
remember me, Lady Faraday, says more for your suffering
than a volume of human arguments ever could."
He drew back a tent flap, allowing the warrior-rakh who
were waiting outside to enter. The other khrast gathered
themselves to leave. Clearly, the interview was over.
"I'll do what I can," he promised.
The camp of the rakh did not lend itself to the
maintenance of prisoners. As negotiations between their
captors were hissed in low tones, Damien reflected upon
what the maned rakh had said, and the implications of it.
The punishment for humans who trespass in our lands is
death. It meant that the rakh had no experience in dealing
with human prisoners - and if they handled their political
affairs with the same animal instincts that they used to

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establish their local hierarchy, they might not even have
experience in holding rakhene captives.
He glanced at Ciani as they were led from the tent,
herded like milk-beasts. He expected to see fresh pain
evident in her face, the anguish of lost memory suddenly
brought to light. And there was certainly that, in
considerable measure. But something more, also.
Something that gleamed in her eyes with aggressive fervor,
as she watched the rakh respond to unspoken, almost
unseeable signals. Something that was coming to life in
her, here . . . as it must have come to life the first time, so
many years ago. They had sensed it in her, and it had saved
her.
Hunger. A thirst for knowledge, as powerful as Senzei's
yearning for power - or Tarrant's hunger for life. Or my -
my what?
What did he hunger for? If his life were to be rendered
down to one ultimate statement of purpose, if the energy
that kept him fighting were to be attributed to one driving
force, what would it be?
To know, when I died, that my descendants would
inherit Earth's dream. To know that my children's children
would possess the stars. To believe that I've changed the
world that much.

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Then: Nice thought, he reflected dryly. You need to stay
in one place long enough to havechildren, if you want all
that.
They were driven through a good part of the rakhene
camp, to a modest tent some distance from the center of
things. In response to a barked command the tent's owner
came forth from its confines, ducking in order to pass
through the minimal opening. He was a slender rakh,
maneless, and not dressed for company; he hurriedly
wrapped a patterned robe about him as he emerged,
allowing one brief flash of a minimal loinskirt adorning a
thin, lanky body.
The warrior-rakh's mane-beads rattled as he issued a
command, the hair about his shoulders rising so that
considerable bulk was added to his already sizable frame.
Looking at the two of them, it was hard to imagine them
being from the same species. As the thin rakh protested -
weakly - Damien thought he caught sight of a small ruff of
fur about the neck that might be the remnants of a mane. Or
the undeveloped promise of one? Male, then, most likely,
and either young or poorly formed. Such a creature would
rank low in any animal hierarchy.
And - let's be honest -among humans, too. Would I have
gotten half as far as I did without the physical capacity to
back up my intentions?
Clearly resentful, the rakh finally relented. As he ducked

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back into the tent to collect a few treasured belongings his
back was rigid with resentment, and his teeth were bared in
a whispered hiss - but all that was gone when he faced the
maned one, defiance giving way to the power of a pecking
order he lacked the strength - and courage - to challenge.
Prodded by spear-point, the party was forced into the
small tent. All but Tarrant, who paused by the door flap and
turned east, to look at the sky. Dark gray, Damien noted;
still somber in tone, but no longer lightless. There was
perhaps half an hour left.
"You stay here," he said sharply. "I'm going hunting."
The maned one stiffened as he tried to withdraw, and
blocked his way with the shaft of a spear. "You all stay
here until we release you," he said sharply. The rakhene
accent made his words hard to decipher, but his intentions
were clear. His fur bristled stiffly, mane ornaments jingling
like wind chimes. "You understand? You go in, with
others."
A spear was leveled, poised to strike through Tarrant's
heart at a moment's notice. Damien tensed - and wished he
had his sword, his springbolt, even a heavy rock - but with
a tight knot building in his gut he realized he was more
weaponless than he had ever been in his life. Tarrant had
damned well better know what he was doing - because
three unarmed humans against eight of these sturdy rakh
wouldn't even buy him a moment's time. Not when every

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weapon was already leveled against them.
In answer to the rakh, Tarrant simply stared. Something
in his expression warned Damien to look away . . . but
fascination overrode that instinct, and he watched as the
pale gray eyes seemed to take on a light of their own. An
unnatural light, that seared one's vision but offered no real
illumination: coldfire. For a moment even the rakh were
fascinated, and though no weapon was lowered it was clear
that, for the moment, no one would strike. Like animals led
to the slaughter, Damien thought grimly, mesmerized by a
flash of sunlight on the butcher's knife blade. Then,
suddenly, the lead rakh cried out. His body convulsed in
wavelike spasms, which rippled through his flesh with
almost audible force. A cry escaped his lips - pain and
terror and fury all combined, a wordless screech of agony
that made Damien's flesh crawl - a sound so like the death
cry of Tarrant's last kill that for a moment it was almost as
though they were down in the canyon, listening to that cry
again. And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over.
The rakh's body fell to the ground, spasmed once, and then
was still. Thick blood, blue-black, stained the fur about its
mouth, oozed from the eyes and ears. And its groin.
Damien felt his own testicles draw up in cold dread as he
forced himself to look away, tried not to consider what
manner of internal damage might give birth to such a
seepage.
For several seconds the remaining rakh were too stunned
to move. Damien wondered if they had even seen human-

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style sorcery before, or if this kind of killing had been made
doubly horrible by their ignorance of the power that caused
it. Either way, it was now clear to them that Tarrant was a
force to be reckoned with. Damien could see their fear and
their anger warring with hierarchical instinct, hatred and
awe comprising a volatile mixture in their half-bestial, half-
human brains.
"Any other objections?" Tarrant asked quietly.
If there were, no one dared to voice them.
Coldfire flared about the adept's form, close enough to
Damien that he could feel its flame - a thousand times
colder than mere ice, or winter's chill - lick his flesh. Then
the man's body was suddenly gone, and in its place a
glorious hunting bird rose from the ground. Black this time,
with feathers that gleamed like shards of obsidian and
claws that glittered like garnets. It was a powerful form,
and one clearly designed to impress the rakh; they backed
away as the glistening wings beat hard above them, and a
thick smell that might have been fear rose from the place
where they stood.
Damien saw Ciani slip her hand into Senzei's, saw the
man squeeze it tightly in reassurance. And he felt
something inside himself tighten as if in loss, to see her
turning to another man. Jealousy? That isn't rational, he
told himself. Certainly not with Zen. But he wondered in
that moment if he had ever known so close a friendship as

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the two of them shared - or if he could ever establish one,
for as long as he kept moving. That simple contact - so
slight, yet so eloquent - was years in the making.
He forced his thoughts back onto their circumstances,
and forced his gaze to follow theirs, to the fallen rakh's
body. Already it had begun to decompose, as if the flesh
itself was anxious to decay. As they watched, deep purple
carrion larvae crawled in the body's shadowed contours.
He looked up at Tarrant and shivered, despite himself.
Guessed at the death-anger which must burn inside the
man, to foster a power of that nature. So carefully
controlled. So masked, by that elegant facade.
Thank God he's on our side, he thought.
And then added, with grim honesty: For now.
It was light outside when the delegation came to them,
and the three humans winced as they exchanged the close
darkness of their prison-tent for the searing light of day. All
about them the camp was still; the few figures that moved
about did so with obvious reluctance, doing their chores
quickly and then disappearing once more into the shadowy
confines of a patchwork tent. Occasionally, several children
would scamper out into the open. Then the sharp cry of an
adult would ring out, and the youngsters would disappear
again, into their parents' dark haven. Clearly, the rakh were
nocturnal creatures.

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"You come," an aged female announced. Her fur was
yellow-white, stripped of its color by her many years, or
perhaps by stress. The khrastfemale was with her, as was a
male of that group. There were several others as well, but
their attitude made it clear that they were subservient;
Damien focused his attention on the dominant threesome.
They were led through the camp to a large and ornate
tent near its center. The older rakh hissed a few short words
into the doorway and received an equally short response.
She stood aside and beckoned for the humans to enter.
From the doorway wafted a familiar odor, animal musk
tinged with a vinegar scent. Fear? Damien ducked within -
and saw a tableau of mourning, a sorrow so passionate that
despite its alien form the full force of it was communicated,
and set his priest's soul vibrating in sympathy. He glanced
around the tent as Ciani and Senzei entered behind him,
noted ornaments draped in soot-blackened cloth, tapestries
turned to the wall, rugs rolled up to reveal dry, dead earth.
A woman knelt in the center of the room, and she looked
up as Damien studied her; her fur was caked with thick
black mud in what was obviously mourning-custom, and
her eyes were red-rimmed from sleeplessness. By her side,
on a plain woven mat, the figure of a maned male lay still.
But for his shallow breathing, one might have assumed him
to be dead. But for his open eyes, that gazed out into
nothingness, one might have thought him asleep.
Damien's first instinct was that they had brought him
here to Heal - and then he realized that these people knew

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nothing of his vocation, and must therefore have some
other purpose. He looked at the khrastfemale for
explanation - and saw a measureless anger fill her eyes. It
was not directed at him.
The older rakh muttered something to him, hissed
phonemes and whispered gutturals; the khrastwoman
translated. "She says, do you see, this one has been
emptied. Totally. In humans there are many parts of
thinking, so that when they eat your thoughts maybe only
one part of the soul is consumed; the rest remains, and can
function. But when they eat from the rakh, all is one: one
brain, one soul, one heart. One meal, for the eaters.
Everything is gone, but life." "When did it happen?"
Damien asked. The khrastquestioned the older woman
briefly, then answered, "Five nights ago. He was on watch,
by the river. The next watch found him . . . like this."
He felt Ciani close behind him, felt her fear like a
palpable thing between them. And her fascination. So: the
demons that had consumed her memory had struck here,
too. Fresh from the human lands, they had stopped off for a
snack on their way to . . . wherever.
He looked into the male's eyes - empty, so empty! - and
wondered how many others there were. Empty bodies
strewn along the path of these demons, marking the way to
their homeland. God in heaven, how long had this thing
been going on? How much more suffering would they
discover, as they came ever closer to its demonic source?

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"We came to kill them," he told her. "We have reason to
believe that when they die, their victims may recover.
Whether that will hold true for your people, as well as for
ours . . ." He didn't finish. He didn't need to. The rakh
might seem alien to him, but they were certainly intelligent
enough to realize what was at stake here: not only Ciani's
health, Ciani's recovery, but that of their own people. And
ultimately, the safety of their species.
"This is your purpose?" the older woman asked.
"It is."
"This is reason you come here?"
"Our only reason," Ciani assured her.
"And Mer Tarrant's, as well," Senzei added.
She considered that. She considered each of them, in
turn - and her face shadowed briefly as she considered their
absent companion. At last she indicated the soulless body
that lay before them, and demanded, "You help this."
Damien hesitated. "If we kill these demons, he may
heal. But we can only do that if you let us go free."

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"And your . . . friend"she said coldly. "The one who
kills rakh. Speak of him."
"Tarrant's a weapon," Damien answered sharply. "He
can turn the fae against these creatures, better than any of
us. If you want these demons killed, this man freed . . ." he
indicated the body on the mat. "Then we need him. We
four must work together."
She hissed softly, but made no other response. Clearly,
Damien's answer was not to her liking.
"We think," she said at last. Harshly. "We talk, to rakh
hris. Own kind." She looked to the younger woman, who
explained, "Your fate is no longer in the hands of our
fighting males. No longer subject to their temper. That is,
for as long as you behave as you should . . . there'll be no
harm done to you. You understand? Not to you, or your
possessions.If you behave."
"We understand," Ciani said quietly.
"When does the killer return?"
It took him a moment to realize whom she meant.
"Tarrant?" He hesitated. "Maybe this afternoon - maybe
not until tonight." He wondered just how much the woman
knew about them. Whether she knew that Tarrant could be
killed by sunlight, a fact he was trying to obscure.

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"Certainly no later than that."
"You come then," the older rakh commanded. "We talk,
all rakh and human four. Together."
She looked at the body on the mat - at the mud-covered
figure mourning by its side - and whispered, "There is
maybe something here we hate, even more than you"
Thirty-three
"Our purposein coming here," Gerald Tarrant said, "is
to kill one demon, and free our companion. Nothing more."
Damien had known him long enough to sense the fury
that lay behind those words, but the Hunter masked it well.
There was no way for his rakhene audience to know how
close he was to killing them all, how much it infuriated him
to negotiate with them like this, bargaining for freedom
rather than simply claiming it. Damien didn't doubt for a
minute that the man's tainted soul would much rather rend
their flesh and spirit and leave their camp a shattered ruin,
for the audacity of having interfered with him. And he
blessed whatever remnants of honor still existed in the man,
for forcing him to follow a gentler course.
At least they were according him - and his party - some
small measure of respect. His display of murderous sorcery
seemed to have earned not only their fear but a grudging

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deference; now, when the humans were herded about they
were no longer treated like animals, more like . . . loaded
weapons, he decided. And yes - that's exactly what Tarrant
was. Loaded, cocked, and itching to fire.
With one half of his mind he listened to the adept
describe their travels to date, a version that he
diplomatically edited to suit their current purpose. With the
other half he studied their audience. A good portion of the
village must be gathered here tonight, ranged around them
in concentric ranks so numerous that the outermost rakh
were beyond the reach of the firelight; only the occasional
flash of green eyes betrayed their presence at the edge of
the gathering. In the center, grouped about the bonfire,
were the humans and their rakhene judges: elders, a handful
of heavily maned males, and of course the seven bilingual
khrast.A gathering so disparate that it was hard to imagine
them coming to any manner of agreement, least of all on a
matter as complex as this one.
Then: Not complex at all, he thought grimly.They want
us dead. Period. We're fighting to earn the right to live.
The fact that we're using words rather than weapons
doesn't make it any less of a battle.
Quietly, he tried to shift his weight into a more
comfortable position. The ground was rocky, and the
rakhene clothing they had given him did little to cushion
him from its assault. He stopped himself from cursing the
shortcomings of his hosts, decided to be grateful that they

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had accorded him even this much hospitality. His personal
possessions were God alone knew where, swept downriver
along with his horse. His only clothes had been those on his
person when he arrived, soaked through and nearly frozen
solid. Once the rakhene elders had decided they were going
to wait for Tarrant's return, they had outfitted him as best
they could . . . and it was hardly their fault that none of the
rakh were of his stature. The largest garment that could be
procured - a kimonolike robe decorated with colorful
pictoglyphs - fell several inches short of covering his chest,
and ultimately it had to be combined with with an
underrobe and female tabard to do its job. He must have
looked extremely odd, judged by their custom . . . but that
was still an improvement over displaying his bare chest to
the winds. Not to mention exhibiting his relative
hairlessness in a tribe where such a quality was associated
with females and runt males.
Holding all those layers in place was his thick leather
belt, which he refused to relinquish even for a moment. He
hadn't dared to check on its contents for some time after
their capture - he was afraid that if the rakh observed how
much he valued it they might take it away from him, as
they had his sword - but as soon as the humans had been
left to their own devices he had unlaced its closure, and
drawn out the two precious containers. Both were still
intact - thank God! - though neither was wholly
undamaged. The silver flask had a dent in one side, which
spoke of some severe impact; the crystal flask, still glowing
with the pure golden light of the Fire, had developed a
jagged flaw that followed the line of its engraved surface

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pattern, but was still apparently airtight enough to
safeguard the few drops of moisture remaining within it.
Relief was so strong in him when he saw that the Fire was
safe, he could taste it in his mouth. God help them all if that
most precious weapon were ever lost.
Tarrant had finished with his narration now, and there
was no way to tell whether it had fallen on sympathetic ears
or not. The rakhene faces were unreadable.
"You came to kill one demon," an elder female
challenged them.
It was Damien who spoke. "We came to see to it that
one demon dies, in order for our friend to be freed. As for
the rest of them . . ." he hesitated. What was it they wanted
to hear? What words would buy his party safe passage? "I
think we would all rather see them dead than feeding on the
living. Wouldn't you? But whether that's something we
four can accomplish remains to be seen."
The high-ranking rakh whispered among themselves in
their native tongue, an occasional English word thrown in -
usually mispronounced - to clarify a given point. Damien
noted that one of the khrostwomen was nearly naked now,
her few minimal garments adorning rather than concealing
full, heavy breasts, dark nipples, rounded hips and thighs.
She fidgeted restlessly as she listened to the proceedings,
unable to concentrate on any one focus for more than a
minute or two. Periodically her eyes would wander over to

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one of the inner circle's males, and fix on him with candid
hunger.In heat? Damien wondered. The thought was oddly
disquieting.
"There is more than demons in our east," an elder
female announced at last. "There is a human also."
Across the circle, he saw Senzei stiffen. His own heart
doubled its pace excitedly as this new information hit
home.
"What manner of human?" he asked her. "Where?"
It was clear that she lacked the words she needed to
answer his question efficiently. "In Lema," she offered.
"Which is place most east, before water. In the place of
storms.Assst!"
Clearly frustrated, she turned to the khrast.The female
they knew from Morgot took over. "Our people call it the
House of Storms, because when the human first came and
built his citadel there were great storms that gathered there
- lightning that filled the sky for months on end, thunder so
loud it made speaking impossible. There are still more
storms than there should be, in that region. No one knows
why."
"Who is this human?" Damien asked. "What's he doing

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here?"
The khrastwoman exchanged quick words with her
elder, then explained, "They call him the One Who Binds.
And other names, equally descriptive. He came here over a
century ago and established himself in the region we call
Lema. No rakh has ever seen him - but we can taste his
human taint on the currents, and smell his stink along the
eastern Canopy."
"Over a century," Ciani whispered.
"More than a single lifetime," Tarrant agreed. And he
explained to the rakh, "Avoiding death takes more than
mere sorcery, among our kind. What we're dealing with
here is either an adept . . . or he's made one hell of a
Sacrifice."
"Or both," Damien said grimly.
The rakh spoke among themselves in quick, sharp
syllables; no doubt considering how much they would tell
the humans, and in what manner.
At last: "Bring her," an elder ordered, and a lesser male
sped from the circle to obey.
A few minutes later he returned, a small female in tow.
Unlike all the others she was dressed in unpatterned cloth,

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and her fur was thin and matted. Her fearful, darting gaze
made her seem more animal than any of the others - indeed,
when judged against her standard, they seemed doubly
human by contrast.
"This one came from the east many greatmonths ago,"
the khrastwoman explained. "She's been sheltering with
one of our southern tribes, here in the plains. Our hris sent
for her last morning."
The woman came nervously into their circle; Damien
had the impression she was ready to bolt for cover at the
first sign of danger. He felt driven to comfort her, to ease
her terror - but he knew that he lacked the custom, the
language, and the knowledge needed to do so. If she would
even let a human that close to her, which was doubtful. He
forced himself to stay where he was as she approached, and
to say nothing to her - but he fumed at his own enforced
impotence.
She knelt near the center of the circle, facing the tribal
elders. A female addressed her gently. "You are from
Lema,"
The girl hesitated, then nodded. Damien guessed that her
English was poor.
"Tell us," an elder male prompted. "Tell us, in human
speech, what you saw there."

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She looked around the circle, seemed to notice the
humans for the first time. She almost cried out - but the
sound seemed to die on her lips, and though she started as
though to flee the motion was cut short, aborted before it
began. Damien glanced at Tarrant, saw his pale eyes
focused in a Working. A Tranquilizing? No. Probably
something more malevolent, that accomplished the same
end. Anything that close to a Healing would be too out of
character for him.
"I see . . . in Lema . . ." She drew in a deep, shaky
breath; there was moisture under her eyes. "I see . . . my
people are in fear. Many go to feed the hungry ones,
disappear from family. Large years, it so. Many of those,
eaters of souls. All hungry. Always hungry." She shivered,
and a gust of fear wafted over Damien; rakh emotion,
tainting the earth-fae. "All rakh fear. All work in day,
unnatural, live in sun to be free from fear. Is pain in day,
sisst? - but safe. Yes? More safe than dark. Theyhunt in
dark."
"Tell us about the hungry ones." Tarrant's voice was
low and even, filled with quiet power. Damien could
almost see the link he had established with the terrified
woman - perhaps because of his own link to the Hunter,
quiescent though it was. He felt the adept's mesmerism as
though it were directed at him. As though the man's
knowledge of English was flowing into him, not the woman
- and with it, the Hunter's enforced calm.

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"They came from the east," she whispered. "In big
ships, like the humans use. From across the Sea of Fire.
Many, many years ago. There were few of them then. For a
long time, there were few. They hunt like animals, in night.
Some rakh die, but not many. Some rakh . . ." She
hesitated, shivering as some particularly painful memory
passed through her. "They eat rakh thoughts. They leave
the body, eat the mind. Sometimes rakh hunt them like
animals, kill them. But the hungry ones hide. Hide good.
Come again, later. But always, before, there were few of
them. In the past."
She looked about the circle, studying her audience. Her
eyes fixed on Tarrant for a long, silent moment, and
suddenly Damien knew what manner of Working had
quieted her. No: what manner of mesmerism made her
seemso calm, while the Hunter drank in the sweet savor of
her terror. Damien started forward instinctively, stopped
himself only with great effort. There's nothing you can do,
he told himself bitterly. And: He needs it. He's got to feed.
If he doesn't live off the fear he finds here, he'll have to go
out and inspire some of his own. And that's even worse -
isn't it? But his soul ached to free her from that malignant
bond, and only by reminding himself, Tarrant's power is
the only thing keeping her lucid, did he manage to keep
himself from interfering.
Damn you, Hunter. For making us need you. Damn you
for everything.

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"Tell us about the human," an elder prompted.
"I . . ." She hesitated, struggling with her fear. Damien
didn't dare look at Tarrant, for fear of seeing the pleasure
that must light his eyes. He might kill him if he did. "I
think . . . it was when the human came. That there were
more of the eaters. Suddenly many more, and they begin to
hunt in groups. Whole families of rakh disappear. I see . . .
I see . . ." she shook her head in frustration, unable to find
the proper word. "Rakh with no mind, rakh with half-mind,
dead and damaged and wounded, so many . . ." Her voice
shook; her shoulders were trembling. "Lema is half dead,
many try leaving, but the hungry ones hunt the borders . . ."
"You escaped," a female elder said gently.
She shook her head stiffly: yes. "Very few get out," she
whispered. "Very hard. No riding animals in Lema, like
you have, must walk . . . more than one day to walk that
way, and in night theycome . . ."
She lowered her face to her hands and shook; short
gasping sounds that might have been rakhene weeping
came from beneath the muffling fur.
After a brief consultation with the elders, the khrast-
woman told the humans, "She can't tell you any more than
that, not even in our own tongue. All she has left are

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fragments of memory - and fear."
"We understand." Damien said quietly. He watched as
Tarrant dissolved the bond between them - regretfully, it
seemed - and waited until the male who had brought her to
the circle escorted her out of it once more. Waited till she
was safely out of hearing, so that their conference might
cause her no further pain.
Then he challenged, "They've taken over a whole
district."
The khrast-woman's amber eyes fixed on him. Her
expression was alien, unreadable. "It would appear so," she
hissed softly.
"With the aid of a human. As protector? Servant?
Probably the former, if he's an adept." He exhaled noisily.
"No wonder you hate our kind so much."
"This incident is the least of it," she assured him.
Senzei spoke up, unaccustomed strength in his voice.
"Look. You all want the same things we do. The death of
these creatures. The fouling of their plans. If you would just
let us go, let us do what we came to do - wouldn't that help
your people?" He hesitated. "Isn't that what you want?"
"Is not easy, now," the elder's spokeswoman informed

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him. "Before, yes. Four humans, four horses, weapons,
supplies, plans. You go east, and maybe die. Or maybe not.
Maybe you kill the ones who eat rakh soul. But now . . ."
She paused meaningfully. "Is not enough, just humans go.
Just be free. Four humans with twohorses, half of supplies,
few weapons. If you go now, like that, you die sure. You
fail."It was clear from her voice that the latter was what
disturbed her. "You understand? My words enough good?
Need translate?"
"No," he said quietly. "We understand."
"To make you free now, no more than this, is same as to
kill you. Why not just kill? More easy, yes? And we keep
supplies. But if humans go free - if humans go to kill Dark
Ones - then rakh must help. And to help humans . . ." She
shivered dramatically.
It was Ciani who spoke. "You've already decided."
She hesitated, then nodded. "We have decided."
"And?" Damien pressed.
She looked at the khrastwoman. Who told them, coolly,
"You'll need fresh mounts. We have xandu. You'll need
weapons. Ours are primitive by your standards, but they'll
spill blood readily enough. We have food and cloth to
spare, and oil for your lamps." She looked at Damien. And

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added, somewhat stiffly, "You'll need a guide."
He nodded his understanding. "A rakh."
"Akhrast.One who knows your people as well as ours -
and the land itself, which few of our people travel.
Someone to get you safely to the east, so you can do what
you came to do . . . and liberate our people from this horror,
as well as your own. That's the deal," she concluded.
"Serve us as you serve yourselves - or die, and fail us
both."
"Not much of a choice," he pointed out.
She grinned, displaying sharp teeth. "It wasn't meant to
be, human. So what do you say?"
He looked at his companions, saw in their eyes exactly
what he expected. He nodded, and turned back to face the
khrastwoman.
"We accept," he said. "Thank you."
"This is debt," an elder male warned him. "You come
back here, tell what you see. Understand?"
"We do," he assured him. "And we'll do whatever we
can, against these demons. I promise it."

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He looked around at the various khrast,saw the half-
clad woman rubbing against a thickly maned male. Saw
amber rakh-eyes, narrow and resentful, luminous with
species hatred.
"So who's the guide?" he asked.
"Who should it be?" the khrast-woman countered. "One
who knows you better than any. One who's seen you in the
human lands, among your own kind. One who's recently
tolerated the combined stink of your species, so that her
senses are numb to the reek of a few individuals."
"In other words, you."
Her thin nostrils flared. "Unless you have someone else
in mind."
From somewhere he dredged up a hint of a smile. "I
wouldn't presume."
She turned to face the others of his party. "Is this
acceptable?" One by one, they assented - Senzei with vigor,
Ciani with relief, Gerald Tarrant with . . . hell, did he ever
look agreeable? At least he nodded. But there was hatred
burning just behind the surface of that carefully controlled
facade, and Damien suspected he knew just how little it
would take to fan it to a full-blown conflagration.

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Not now, Hunter. Just hold out alittle bit longer. Please.
We'll be out of here soon enough.
"I believe," the rakh-woman said, "we have a bargain."
The springbolt was a mess of battered wood and bent
fixtures, and under normal circumstances he would simply
have replaced it. But the nearest supply outlet was a good
two hundred miles away, and so he took the damned thing
apart, piece by piece, and filed and clipped and sanded -
and prayed - and then put it carefully back together, in the
hopes that it would work again.
The rakh-woman watched silently while he worked, still
as a statue. Or a hunting animal, he thought. He flexed the
loading pin once, twice, and was at last satisfied with its
performance. The stock clipped into place with a reassuring
snap. To his left he saw Senzei wiping down his sword
blade, Ciani oiling their other remaining springbolt. That
their weapons had finally been returned to them should
have been cause for rejoicing - but instead it had driven
home just how much they'd lost at the river, and how very
unprepared they were going to be when they reached their
enemy's stronghold at last. As for Tarrant . . . he was off
wherever adepts went to, when they wanted to Work in
privacy. Or maybe he just didn't like the company.
I still have the Fire. That's something our enemy can't
possibly anticipate - and a power no single sorcerer can

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negate. As long as we're armed with that, there's still a
chance we might succeed in this.
Albeit a slim one, he forced himself to add.
The special bolts were gone, along with the rest of his
personal arsenal. For the tenth time that night, he tried not
to resent that fact that it was his horse which was lost -
along with his notes, his clothing, and all his special
traveling gear. He had made a few replacement bolts, but
hesitated to commit too much of the Fire to that one
purpose; with only two springbolts between them, it was
unlikely they were going to rely too heavily upon such
ammunition.
With practiced care he braced the reassembled
springbolt against his shoulder and pulled back on the
trigger; the sharp crack of its mechanism assured him that it
was, for the moment, in perfect working order. With a sigh
of relief he lowered it. At least they had two of the
powerful weapons left; things could have been much
worse. He tried not to think about the loss of his horse as he
wound back the tightened spring, forcing its lever up the
length of the stock. And then he cursed, loudly and
creatively, as the pulley system broke and the lever went
flying forward.
"Problem?" the rakh-woman questioned.

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"Damned draw system. The thing'll fire - and I can cock
it - but as for Cee and Zen . . ." He shook his head, his
expression grim. There were no finely milled parts here to
replace those which were damaged, nor even the kind of
steel he would need to jury-rig a replacement. Damn it to
hell! What good would it do them to have the vulking thing
in working order, if half their party couldn't load it?
The rakh-woman reached out for the weapon; he let her
take it. Her tufted ears pricked forward as she studied the
half-open mechanism, her eyes as bright and curious as a
cat's. "What's the problem?"
He indicated the cocking lever with a disgusted gesture
and muttered, "Damn thing will only draw straight, now.
Fine lot of good that does us! I suppose I could ease up on
the pull . . . but it wouldn't have much power then. Hell! I-"
She had curled one claw around the lever, and now she
pulled it. Backward, in a motion as fluid and graceful as a
dancer's extension. Her layered sleeves and loose tabard
hid whatever play of muscle and bone supported her as she
drew the lever back, far back, all the way to its primed
position. And locked it there. Effortlessly. And looked at
him.
"Damn," he whispered.
"Is that good enough?" Her expression was fierce.
"Good enough for killing?" There was an edge of hunger in
her tone so primal, so intense, that it seemed to fill the

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small tent; he felt something primitive deep within him
spark to life in response, and quelled it forcibly.
"Oh, yes," he assured her. His muscles ached in
sympathy as he considered her strength. Considered her
ferocity. "More than enough."
And God help the creature that gets in your way, he
added silently.
The Hunter stood alone on a gentle rise, black against
black in the night. Staring into the distance as if somehow
mere concentration could bridge the hundreds of miles
between him and his object. And perhaps it could; Damien
wouldn't put anything past him, at this point.
He came to his side and waited there, silently, certain
that Tarrant was aware of his presence. And after a moment
the adept stirred, and drew in a deep breath. The first breath
he had taken since Damien's arrival.
"Things are going well?" The Hunter asked.
"Well enough. We lost a lot at the river . . . but how
much that will cripple us remains to be seen. I meant to ask
you - your maps-"
"Are probably in the Serpent by now."

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He drew in a slow breath. "I'm sorry."
"So am I. Very. They were priceless relics."
"I know collectors who would have killed for them."
"I did," the Hunter said coolly.
Damien looked at him, bit back his first response. At last
he offered, "You were hard to find."
"I apologize for that. It was necessary for me to get
away. Not from you," he amended quickly. "From the rakh.
They overwhelm the currents, making it impossible to
Work cleanly. I needed to get clear of their influence."
Damien looked toward the east, saw nothing but
darkness. "You're trying to Know the enemy?"
He affirmed it with a nod. "And trying to keep the
enemy from Knowing us. The current flows east here,
which means that our every intention is carried toward him.
Like a scent of confrontation on the wind: easy to read,
simple to interpret. I tried to Obscure it. Whether I've
succeeded . . ." He shrugged, somewhat stiffly. "Time will
tell. I did what I could."
Then he turned to face Damien, and the pale gray eyes

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fixed on him. Silver pools of limitless depth that sucked in
all knowledge: for a moment Damien nearly staggered,
made dizzy by the contact. Then the eyes were merely eyes
again, and the channel between the two men subsided into
quiescence once more.
"Why did you come here?" the adept asked.
He had considered many different approaches, a host of
varied words and phrases that differed in degrees of
diplomacy. But when the moment came, he chose the
simplest of his repertoire - and the most straightforward. "I
need to know what you are," he said quietly.
"Ah," he whispered. "That."
"This trip is getting more dangerous each night. It's
difficult enough planning for four instead of one; I won't
pretend it comes easily to me, or that I like it. But it has to
be done. And I can't do it efficiently when I don't even
know what I'm traveling with. Already we've been in one
situation when I didn't know what the hell to do, to try to
help you or just leave you alone . . . I don't like feeling
helpless. And I did, back at the river. I don't like traveling
with ciphers, either - but you're forcing me to do just that.
And it makes everything that much harder for all of us." He
waited for a moment, hoping for a response; when he
received none, he continued. "I think they could have killed
you, back at the river. I don't think you could have stopped
them. Am I wrong? Centuries of life, more power than

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

other men dare to dream of - and I think they could have
ended it all with a single spearthrust. You tell me, Hunter -
do I misjudge you?"
The adept's eyes narrowed somewhat; the memory of
that night clearly disturbed him. "If I'd had only myself to
consider, they could never have taken me. But being
indebted to the lady, and therefore you . . ." he hesitated.
"Complicates things."
"We've got a job to do, together. You and I may not like
that fact, but we've both chosen to accept it. I've done my
share to make that partnership work - you know that,
Hunter. Now it's your turn."
Tarrant's voice was low but tense. "You're asking to
know my weaknesses."
"I'm asking what you are. Is that so unreasonable? What
manner of man - or creature - we're traveling with. Damn
it, man, I'm tired of guessing! Tired of hoping that we
won't get caught up in some situation where my ignorance
might really cost us. I might have been able to help you,
back at the river - but how was I to know what you needed?
What really might bind your power, as opposed to what
theythought might bind it? The closer we get to our enemy,
the more powerful he looks. Some day very soon we're
going to face the bastard head-on, and you may have to
count on one of us for support. God help us then, if all we
have to go on then is my guesswork. You want to bank

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your life on that?"
The Hunter looked at him. Cold eyes, and an even
colder expression; his words slid forth like ice. "A man
doesn't explain his vulnerabilities to one who intends to
destroy him."
Damien drew in a sharp breath, held it for a minute.
Exhaled it, slowly. "I never said that."
A faint smile - or almost-smile - softened the Hunter's
expression. "Do you really think you can hide that from
me? After what's passed between us? I know what your
intentions are."
"Not here," Damien said firmly. "Not now. Not while
we're traveling together. I can't answer for what happens
later, after we leave the rakhlands - but for now, the four of
us have to function as a unit. I accept it. Can't you read the
truth in that?"
"And afterward?" the adept asked softly.
"What do you want me to say?" Damien snapped. "That
I approve of what you are? That it's in my nature to sit
back and watch while women are slaughtered for your
amusement? I swore I'd be your undoing long before I met
you. But that vow belongs to another time and place -
another world entirely. The rules are different here. And if

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we both want to get home, we'd damn well better
cooperate. After that . . . I imagine you know how to take
care of yourself once you're back in the Forest. Do you
really think mere words can change that?"
For a moment, Tarrant just stared at him. It was
impossible to read what was in those eyes or to otherwise
taste of the tenor of his intentions; he had put up a thorough
block on all levels, and the mask was firmly in place.
"Bluntness is one of your few redeeming traits," he
observed at last. "Sometimes irritating . . . but never
unenlightening." The wind gusted suddenly, flattening the
grass about their feet. Somewhere in the distance, a
predator-bird screeched its hunger. "You ask what I am - as
though there's a simple answer. As though I haven't spent
centuries exploring that very issue." He turned away so that
Damien might not see his expression; his words addressed
the night. "Ten centuries ago, I sacrificed my humanity to
seal a bargain. There are forces in this world so evil that
they have no name, so all-encompassing that no single
image can contain them. And I spoke to them across a
channel etched in my family's blood. Keep me alive,I said
to them, and I will serve your purpose. I'll take whatever
form that requires, adapt my flesh to suit your will - you
may have it all, except for my soul. That alone remains my
own. And they responded - not with words, but with trans-
formation. I became something other than the man I was, a
creature whose hungers and instincts served that darker
will. And that compact has sustained me ever since."

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"What are the rules of my existence? I learned them one
by one. Like an actor who finds himself on an unfamiliar
stage, mouthing lines he doesn't know in a play he's never
read, I felt my way through the centuries. Did you think it
was different? Did you imagine that when I made my
sacrifice, someone handed me a guidebook and said, ‘Here,
these are the new rules. Make sure you follow them.' Sorry
to disappoint you, priest." He chuckled coldly. "I live. I
hunger. I find things that will feed the hunger and learn to
procure them. In the beginning my knowledge was crude,
and I found crude answers: blood. Violence. The
convulsions of dying flesh. As my understanding grew
more sophisticated, so did my appetite. But the old things
will still sustain me," he warned. "Human blood alone will
do that if nothing else is available. Does that answer your
question?"
"You were a vampire."
"For a time. When I first changed. Before I discovered
that there were other options. A pitiful half-life, that . . .
and gross physical assault has never appealed to me. I find
the delicate pleasures of psychological manipulation much
more . . . satisfying. As for the power that keeps me alive . .
. call it an amalgamation of those forces which on Earth
were mere negatives - but which have real substance here,
and a potential for power that Earth never dreamed of.
Cold, which is the absence of heat. Darkness,which is the
absence of light. Death,which is the absence of life. Those

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forces comprise my being - they keep me alive - they
determine my strengths and my weaknesses, my hungers,
even my manner of thinking. As for how that power
manifests itself . . ." He paused. "I take on whatever form
inspires fear in those around me."
"As you did in Morgot."
"As I do even now."
Damien stiffened.
"The lady knows that I can mimic the creatures that
attacked her, make her relive that pain any time it pleases
me. That's fear enough, don't you think? With Mer Reese
the matter is much more subtle. Say that I embody the
power he hungers for, the temptation to cast aside
everything he values and plunge into darkness - and the
fear that he will do so only to come up with empty hands,
and a soul seared raw by evil."
"And myself?" Damien asked tightly.
"You?" He laughed softly. "For you I've become the
most subtle creature of all: a civilized evil, genteel and
seductive. An evil you endure because you need its service
- even though that very endurance plucks loose the
underpinnings of your morality. An evil that causes you to
question the very definitions of your identity, that blurs the

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line between dark and light until you're no longer certain
which is which, or how the two are divided. That's what
you fear most of all, priest. Waking up one morning and no
longer knowing who or what you are." Pale gray eyes
glittered hungrily in the moonlight. "Does that satisfy you?
Is that what you wanted to hear?"
For a moment, Damien said nothing; emotion was too
hot in his brain for him to voice it effectively. Then at last,
carefully, he chose his words. "When all this is over - when
our enemy has been dealt with and we're safely out of the
rakhlands - I will kill you, Hunter. And rid the world of
your taint forever. I swear it."
It was hard to say just what wry expression flickered
across the Hunter's face. Sadness? Amusement?
"I never doubted that you'd try," he whispered.
They left at sunset. A tremor struck the camp as they
were mounting up, which made tent ornaments jingle like
windchimes and rakh children run howling about like
banshees - but despite the noise of the small quake, it did
little real damage. And since it meant that for a short while
there would be fresh earth-fae - strong currents - Damien
considered it an excellent omen.
On the surface, they seemed a well-supplied company:
five travelers, five mounts, and supplies enough to get them

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all to the east coast and back again. None of them had
discussed how likely it was that not all would survive the
round trip journey; packing a full store for each of them
had been a ritual of hope, a gesture of denial - a necessary
armoring against the presence of Death, as they began a
journey into his domain. Nevertheless, Damien could not
help but notice how the various elements of their small
company seemed a composite of opposites: Ciani and
Senzei seated on xandus, the rakh-woman clutching a
springbolt, himself dressed in clothes made from quickly-
woven cloth, fashioned in the rakhene style.
He ought to have been grateful for the thick woolen
shirt, for it kept out the autumn chill far better than his
human wardrobe, but the vivid pictures that had been
hurriedly painted onto it seemed somehow . . . conspicuous.
Mere color had never bothered him, of course, and he had
worn the stuffed and padded styles of Ganji-on-the-Cliffs
without reserve, but to have his exploits - as the rakh
understood them - splashed in vivid hues across his person .
. . he wondered if there wasn't just a hint of sarcasm hidden
in those cryptic pictoglyphs, some little bit of rakhene
humor at his expense. Or was the sight of his personal
history splayed across his belly humor enough for their
kind?
As for Tarrant, he was . . . well, Tarrant. Tall and
elegant and fastidiously arrogant, he rode the last remaining
Forest steed as though it always had been and always
would be his mount. There had been no question of his

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taking a xandu, of course; the animals wouldn't have him,
and he clearly considered them to be inferior stock. Much
to Damien's surprise, the party had no sooner left the
rakhene camp than the adept urged his black horse forward
into a point position. It was as if he was wordlessly daring
their enemy to strike at the party through him.
Which means he knows damn well that no one's going to
attack us now, Damien thought. The man's not a fool.
Then: Not fair, priest. Not fair at all. He reminded
himself what the adept had done for him. Not only saved
his life at the river, but later cleansed him of the illness that
had taken hold in those terrible, frozen hours. He shivered
to remember the touch of coldfire in his veins, the pain and
terror that racked his body (no doubt feeding the Hunter as
it did so) while the killing cure took hold - but the end
result was more than he could have managed himself, in his
weakened state.
Call it what you like, he thought to the Hunter. It looked
like a Healing to me.
Technicalities. He knew now what a true Healing would
do to the adept's compact. Any act of life - or fire, or true
light - would negate the power that kept him alive. A hell
of a price to pay, for a single act of compassion.
What a thin line you must have to walk in order to travel

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with us.
Then he looked at the adept's back - and beyond it, into
the darkness that obscured their enemy's domain. And he
shuddered.
What a thin line we're all walking, now.
Thirty-four
It scared Senzei,that their enemy might See them
coming. It scared the hells out of him. Sometimes he found
it hard to control his fear, to go about the motions of
traveling and camping and foraging and guarding without
the fear taking hold of him utterly, making it impossible for
him to do anything other than crawl into his bedroll and
shiver in terror. How did his companions deal with it? Did
they not experience such feelings at all, or were they
simply better at hiding it?
For a while he'd been all right. On the way to Kale,
through the Forest itself, right up to the border of the
Canopy. Because their enemy had been not a man, then, but
a measureless abstraction. A faint whiff of evil, a shadow
of threat - not a creature with a name and a homeland, a
being with armies and citadels and weapons that one could
only guess at. An enemy who knew how to read the
currents, who might well be watching their every move as
they progressed slowly across his realm. Tarrant's

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Obscurings might give them some cover, but was it
enough? Their presence in the rakhlands, so alien to the
local currents, sent out waves of identification so clear and
intense that only a blind man could fail to read them. Or so
Tarrant told them.
Damn him, for sharing that truth.
There was no other way; that was what Damien told
them. No other path to take to get them where they were
going, and no better way to travel it. The risk was real but
unavoidable. Tarrant Worked each morning and night to
reinforce the patterns that would keep their enemy from
reading their true identities, the extent of their arsenal, their
intentions . . . but whether such a subterfuge was possible,
or just a wasted effort, only the gods could say. They did
what they could. And hoped it was enough.
And prayed.
For days there was nothing but grassy plains to cross, a
seemingly endless expanse of flat land that was host to a
thousand varieties of life. Wild xandu grazed on autumn's
browning stalks, and eyed their domesticated brethren
warily as the party moved past them. Small tufted
scavengers leapt through the grass, then fell to the lightning
strike of a sharp-toothed predator. When the company was
silent, they could hear that the air was filled with chirpings
and duckings and a thousand varieties of rustling; nature's
kingdom, winding down for winter. Periodically Senzei

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would Work his vision and See the patterns that dominated
this land: even, steady currents, delicate in design, whose
gentle whorls and eddies linked predator to prey to carrion
hunter, and all those beasts in turn to the fauna around
them, the sunlight that warmed them, the weather that
supplied them with moisture. Against such a landscape, the
humans' own presence stood out like a fresh wound - livid,
swollen, seething with intended violence. It was impossible
to imagine that Tarrant could Obscure such a mark - or
even mask it in any way. If their enemy had Sight, he could
certainly See them - and there was no doubt, in any of their
minds, that this was indeed the case.
Gods help us, Senzei thought feverishly. Gods help us
all.
At night the demons would come out, bloodsuckers and
their kin - but they were mild creatures compared to the
denizens of the Forest, or even Jaggonath's demonagerie:
constructs of the party's fears that had manifested enough
flesh to make a fleeting appeal for sustenance, but little
more than that. They lacked the substance it would take to
withstand even a mild Dispelling, the kind of solidity that
comes only from years of feeding on one's host/creators, of
drawing life from the pit of darkness that resides in every
man's soul. Even Senzei could banish them, with hardly a
whispered word to focus his Working. Clearly, whatever
convolutions of human character created such demons, the
rakhene mind had no equivalent. The land Erna's natives
had settled was more peaceful than any the travelers had

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seen, nearly free of the nightmares that had devoured the
first colonists.
So where did the memory-eaters come from? Senzei
wondered. Surely one mind couldn't be strong enough to
manifest horrors on that scale.
Mile after mile of featureless terrain passed beneath
their mounts' hooves, each one indistiguishable from the
last. Slowly, gradually, the distance behind them blanketed
the Worldsend peaks in a haze of soft blue fog. One
morning Senzei looked about and discovered he could no
longer see any landmarks: not the mountains behind them,
nor the eastern range ahead of them, nor any feature to mar
the perfect flatness of the earth. In that moment it seemed
they might travel forever without seeing any variety in
earth or sky, only a few wispy clouds that floated languidly,
casting fleeting shadows upon the ground beneath.
Then, without warning, a call came. A whistle, followed
by an animal cry - or perhaps a voice crying words, that
were almost but not quite English. The thick grass parted to
make way for a rakhene warrior, who established himself
before them with a bristling mane and obviously hostile
intentions. Others followed - a hunting party - fierce
nomadic warriors clearly ready to deal with any humans
who happened to cross their path. Their tempers were so
animal, so volatile, that the one time Senzei dared to See
them they left their afterimage seared into his retina, as if
he had stared too long into the sun.

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It was their rakhene guide who saved them, who
bargained for their lives. Hissing commands and arguments
in the native dialect, posturing herself to convey a plethora
of kinesthetic signals: territorial combat fought with words
and hisses, hierarchical issues resolved with the ruffling of
fur, the stiffening of neck muscles. Eventually, resentfully,
the hostile tribes parted to let them pass. Deep growls
sounded low in rakhene throats as the hated odor of
humankind drifted past their sensitive nostrils, but they
made no move to harm their chosen enemies - and soon
enough they, too, were gone, swallowed up by the endless
sea of grass that stretched from horizon to horizon, without
surcease.
They encountered other tribes, with much the same
result. And Senzei came to realize just how lucky they were
that the khrast-woman was with them. They had survived
the Forest's worst, they had maneuvered through deadly
surf and earthquakes and an ambush by their enemies, but
they would never have made it through the plains without
her. The rakh were simply too many, too hot-tempered, too
eager to kill humankind. They would have been spitted like
shish kebob before the first words of parley came out of
their mouths.
Tedium began to eat at their nerves, an all too human
response to the endless, identical miles. Tempers flared
hotly in the featureless days, petty annoyances transformed
into grievous trespasses by the joint powers of fear and

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boredom. How many hours could one ride thus,
sandwiched between terrible dangers but unable to address
oneself to them - riding endless miles in the constant
company of others, without even a moment of true privacy
in which change one's clothes, or bathe, or defecate, or
even just get away? At least Tarrant left each morning.
That helped. Senzei could almost see the cloud lift from
about Damien when the Hunter finally transformed,
adopting the broad feathered wings that would bear him to
a daytime shelter. Tarrant refused to take shelter with the
rest of the company, and clearly that was the wisest course;
who could say when the temptation of an easy kill might
overwhelm all prior agreements in the priest's mind, when
all that was required to rid the world of the Hunter forever
was the lifting of a single tent flap? The land was riddled
with shelters, Tarrant told them, and his adept's vision
easily picked out the subtle variation in earth-fae currents
that betrayed the presence of a suitable cavern. So he rested
in the earth, like the dead, while they camped and slept and
stood uneasy watches. And when he returned each night
there was as much regret as relief in Damien's eyes, that he
had managed to get through the day safely.
Nightmares began to plague them - violent images, full
of dire, unnatural symbols. More often than not the humans
would awaken with pounding hearts, pulses throbbing hot
with terror, all hope of sleep banished for that day. Even
the rakh-woman wasn't immune, but shivered in the grip of
some half-bestial nightmare that brought snarls and hisses
to her lips as she thrashed about angrily, cocooned in her
blankets. True rest became nearly impossible, something

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garnered in fevered snatches between the dreambound
assaults.
And assaults they well might be, in a very literal sense.
That was the most frightening thought of all. That their
enemy might be watching them so closely that he was able
to Send these images to torment them, to rob them of sleep
until they arrived in his realm mere shadows of their former
selves. Because that was a real possibility - and a
frightening one - they fought it. All of it. The nightmares,
the fear, the growing claustrophobia that came from being
too close to other people too long, the burning need to be
alone. It was Tarrant who unWorked the nightmares
themselves, burning some precious document he had
tucked about his person; the value of his sacrifice flared
hot, like sunlight, and seared the vicinity clean of whatever
taint might have formed about them. Perhaps it would last
for a day, or two; Senzei had his doubts.
They traveled southeast, as the rakh-woman advised. It
would bring them to a break in the eastern range where the
mountains folded upon themselves to create a lowland pass.
They debated long and hard the efficacy of such a route -
wasn't it exactly what the enemy would expect of them? -
but in the end they decided that they had no choice; in this
harsh season, there was no other viable crossing. Besides,
did they really think secrecy was possible in this place? Did
they really imagine they weren't being Known anyway,
every step they took, regardless of where they went?

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At last it was Tarrant who convinced them to take the
lowland course. The current will be strongest in the
mountains, he said, and it flows toward our enemy. Thus
far, that's been to our detriment; it takes all my strength
just to block the flow, to keep our intentions from reaching
him. But when we get to the mountains, and the earth-fae is
stronger, I can turn that same current against him. Create
a simulacrum of our party, to take our place and draw his
attention. So that we can move unobserved. A Distracting,
Damien mused.
Far more complex than that, Tarrant assured him. But
the results are much the same. Are you sure it will work?
Senzei had demanded.
The pale eyes turned on him - utterly lifeless, utterly
cold. Ithas once already, he said dryly. And he left them to
wonder just what manner of imposture had taken place at
the Forest's edge, that had saved their fragile flesh.
Senzei wanted power like that. He wanted to taste it, just
once in his life. Feel what it would be like, to have the fae
pour through his soul like light through glass: focused,
pure, powerful. Once would be enough, he told himself -
but he knew even as he thought that it wouldn't be, it
couldn't be, he could never give up such a glorious vision.
Never! Never suffer as Ciani had, to have it taken from him
. . .
I would die first, he thought. And he shivered, to imag-

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

ine it.
Then, at long last, the eastern mountains appeared be-
fore them. Misty purple peaks contrasted against a glis-
tening dawn, velvet blue and gray slopes to frame the rising
sun. The company stood there for a short time in silence,
each mouthing his own prayers of thankfulness. The
mountains were not of naked granite, like so much of the
Worldsend range, nor covered with the spotty brush and
narrow pines that typified so many northern ranges; these
were lush, fertile hills, whose slopes were still stained
orange and red and sunlight gold by the palette of late
autumn, whose thickly forested heights gave way to snowy
peaks with obvious reluctance, high in the distance.
"Beautiful," Senzei whispered. He heard the priest
mutter something; a thanks to his god, perhaps, that they
had succeeded in getting this far. The rakh-woman - who
had given her full name as Hesseth sa-Restrath -hissed
something in her native tongue, and for once the coarse
rakhene words seemed gentle in tone. Almost loving.
We made it, Senzei thought, as he urged his mount
forward.
And then he added, in unhappy honesty, This far,
anyway.
They camped in the shadow of trees, by the side of a

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small stream. It was the rakhene woman who chose their
campsite, using senses Senzei could only guess at to find
them a source of water. Smell, perhaps? Or perhaps some
rakhene Working. He remembered her manipulation of the
tidal fae in Morgot and shuddered, despite himself. She has
more skills than she's admitted to, he thought. What does
that mean, for the rest of us? Will she help us if we need it -
or leave us to sink or swim, as our human limitations
dictate? He strongly suspected the latter. To date she had
spoken little to the party, and when she did her
conversation was limited to practical concerns: estimations
of travel time, course advisement, foraging instructions.
No,he thought. Correct that. The rakh-woman had spoken
little to the men.To Ciani she vouchsafed a few parcels of
genuine conversation, even went so far as to ride beside the
woman several times in order to converse while traveling.
Now and then Senzei caught snippets of their conversation,
tidbits carried back to him on the evening breeze: Rakhene
history. Rakhene custom. Rakhene legends.
Alien knowledge, he thought, with awe. Even without
her knowledge, her confidence, the skills of an adept, Ciani
was very much the same person she had been - hungry for
knowledge the way most men are hungry for food.
Or power.
He wondered what it was like, to want something that
could be obtained so easily. His own hunger had become a
hole in him, an emptiness, a vast wound incapable of

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

healing. The adepts spoke of the music of life; which filled
every living thing with song and echoed from each
molecule of inanimate matter, an endless symphony of
being; he ached to hear it for himself. The rakh-woman
could see tidal fae flicker into being across an evening sky,
a vast aurora of power shimmering like the light of a
thousand jewels; he yearned to possess that vision. Ciani
had Shared her special senses with him once, but that
wasn't the same thing. That had been as much pain as
ecstacy, as muchwanting ashaving. He had withdrawn
from it confused and hurt, too shaken to manage his own
Workings for some days afterward. They had never tried it
again.
What I want, no one human being can give me. It was
the truth of his existence - but it hurt no less for being
familiar to him.
At sunset, promptly, Gerald Tarrant rejoined them. That
he did so when the sun had barely dropped below the
horizon warned his companions that something was amiss;
generally he hunted for his own sustenance before returning
to them.
He wasted no time on preliminaries, but addressed the
group as soon as his form was human enough to allow for
speech. "Do you know the date?" he demanded, as the last
of his feathers melted back into flesh, hair, the intricate
weave of clothing. "Do you realize what happens in a few
hours?"

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For a moment, no one responded. Then Damien
stiffened - and Senzei likewise, as he realized what Tarrant
was driving at. Like the rest of them, he had lost track of
human calendrical reckoning in their trek across the
rakhlands; now he looked up at the sky, his blood running
cold in his veins as he realized what the Hunter was driving
at.
In the east, half-veiled by trees, Casca was already
setting. In the west, following the sun in its course, Domina
and Prima would soon do the same. And the last stars of the
Core would be gone within the hour. Then: darkness. Utter
darkness.
"True night," someone whispered.
"Just so," the Hunter agreed.
They had forgotten. They had all forgotten. Even in the
autumn such times were rare, and the last few true nights
had been so short . . . Senzei thought of how long this one
might last, with all three moons just now setting, and he
shivered in dread. It was madness to be outdoors at such a
time. Absolute madness. But what other choice was there?
"How long will it last?" Damien asked.
"Hours," Tarrant told him. "No way to know the precise

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

time without a good lunar chart - and mine was lost back at
the river. But Casca will have to rise again before the dark
fae is driven back - and a good part of the night will pass
before that happens."
Senzei tried to keep the fear from his voice as he asked,
"Do you think they'll attack us?"
"Our enemy, you mean?" Tarrant considered it, then
shook his head. "Not now, I think. Not here. There'll be
enough nights like this later on, when we're in a position
more favorable to assault. But we can certainly expect to be
hit with a Knowing, or similar probing. Something of
unusual strength. But I can block those easily enough, once
the sunlight is gone." An expression that was almost a
smile flitted across his face. "The true night is my time,
also."
"So is there anything you do feel we need to watch out
for?" Damien asked tightly.
"Not so much watch out for, asdo."The Hunter turned
to Ciani; his pale eyes gleamed silver in the moonlight.
"Lady?"
She drew in a deep breath, slowly. There was a strange
intensity about her - fear and desire combined, an almost
sexual excitement. Something about it made Senzei's skin
crawl. "Is it time?" she whispered.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"If you're ready for it."
She shut her eyes tightly. And nodded, a barely
perceptible motion. Senzei thought he saw her trembling.
"Time for what?" Damien demanded. "Now's not a
good time to play at mysteries, Hunter."
"No such thing was intended. The lady and I have
discussed some . . . arrangements. I think tonight would be
a good time to test them. It'll take some courage on her part
- but I've never found the lady to be lacking in that."
"You wouldn't care to be more specific, would you?"
The priest's voice was carefully controlled, but not so much
so that Senzei didn't hear the edge of violence in it. As if
the mere threat of the true night had begun to dissolve his
inhibitions, those precious checks and balances that must
exist in order for him to tolerate Tarrant's presence among
them. Or pretend to tolerate it.
The Hunter explained, "You know that there's a bond
between Ciani and her attacker, which was established in
the initial attack. You yourselves intended to manipulate
that link once you reached the enemy's domain. Wasn't
that the very reason you brought her along? With a simple
Knowing, carefully planned, you would be able to locate
her attacker, pick him out from among the dozens of his

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kind . . . an admirable scheme, given your knowledge and
your power. But tonight, in the true darkness, I can do
much more than that. Give us an advantage that the enemy
can't foresee." He bowed toward Ciani. "If the lady is
willing."
Senzei saw Ciani's hands clench and unclench, her flesh
made colorless by fear. Damien saw it too, and said
harshly, "You won't do anything that increases the risk to
her. Understand? She's in danger enough."
Tarrant's eyes flashed angrily. "Don't be a fool, priest.
The risk is already tremendous. She's the one that our
enemy wants, not us - and he's going to try to claim her as
soon as we cross these mountains. By bringing her this near
to his domain you've placed her in greater danger than any
other course could have done. And yes - you had your
reasons. I agree with them. But now it's time to use the
tools our enemy has provided, Because to failto use them,
to fail to turn them against him by whatever means possible
. . . is to fail her, Reverend Vryce. And I remind you that I
have a very strong personal interest in the success of this
mission. One which I will not allow you to jeopardize." He
paused. "Am I making myself clear?"
For a moment there was silence between the two men:
chill, acidic, sharp with hatred. Then Damien found his
voice, and managed to make it civil. "Go on."
The Hunter looked at Ciani. "Through her," he told

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them, "I can reach the mind of her tormentor. It's a
dangerous process. Using earth-fae alone I would never
chance it - our enemy is clearly as fluent in that domain as I
am, and could easily turn such a Working against us. But
using the dark fae, in those few precious hours when it
dominates this land . . . that force is my substance, priest.
Mylife. No mere man can best me in that arena, without
first making a Sacrifice to equal mine."
"Damned unlikely, that," Damien muttered. His reaction
to what the Hunter had done was strong enough to taint the
earth-fae surrounding him; the valley was filled with the
scent of blood, the heat of his revulsion. "So what will this
accomplish? If you succeed?"
"If I succeed - and the odds of that are excellent - we
will have far more information regarding our enemy than
any other technique might procure. We'll learn his
whereabouts, his intentions, perhaps even his weaknesses.
We'll know what this link with Ciani means to him, and
how he might use it against us."
"And if you fail?" Damien challenged.
"If I fail?" He looked at Ciani - and she met his eyes
boldly, a faint nod saying that yes, she knew the risk, and
yes, she was willing to try it. But her hands were trembling
violently, and Senzei thought he saw a tear glitter wetly in
the corner of one eye.

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"If I fail," the Hunter said softly, "then there will be no
point in continuing this expedition. Because he will have
her. I will have given her to him."
For a moment, there was nothing in the camp but
stillness. The fire, dying, crackled in its embers and spewed
forth a few meager sparks. The rakh-woman tensed as if in
anticipation of combat, but there was no way to read her
intentions. Damien looked toward Ciani - and read
something in her eyes that made his expression darken,
deep furrows across his brow giving silent voice to his
misgivings.
"All right, then," he said at last. "If Ciani's willing. If
there's no better way."
"I am," she whispered.
And Tarrant assured them, "There isn't."
Dark fae. Strands of it, fine as spider's silk, drifting out
from the secret places in the earth. Deep violet power that
twined like slender serpents out from the shadows, snaking
along the ground in rhythmic patterns as primal - and as
complex - as human brainwaves. Power so responsive that
the mere act of watching it was enough to make it shiver in
its course. Power so volatile that it could manifest human
fears long after their original cause had faded from
memory. Power so hungry that it fed on darkness,

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devouring the very essence of the night in order to
reproduce itself over and over again, filling the night with
its violent substance.
"Ready?" the Hunter whispered. His voice was little
louder than the breeze, and as chill as the night which was
swiftly descending on them. Senzei shivered as he watched
him prepare to Work, and not merely because the air was
cold.
"As ready as I'll ever be," Ciani murmured.
With care he bound her, wrists and ankles tightly affixed
to stakes driven deep into the ground. Another rope,
tightened across her chest, would keep her from rising up.
Such preparation was necessary, Tarrant had explained, in
case her attacker should gain control of her body - but it
made Senzei queasy to see her like that. Damien had told
him how the Neocount's wife was bound, when they found
her body. Too similar, he thought. It made his gut knot just
to think of it.
"All right," the Hunter said. He looked at each of them
in turn - and though Damien managed to meet his gaze
without flinching, Senzei couldn't. It was as if something in
those pale gray eyes had come to life, something dark and
terrible. And hungry. "I need silence. Absolute. And you
mustn't interfere - no matter what happens. No matter what
the cost may be of completing this Working. Because to
interrupt it midway is to give her soul to the enemy. You all

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understand that?" His words might have been meant for all
of them, but his eyes were fixed on Damien. After a
moment the priest nodded stiffly and muttered, "Go on."
No matter what happens. Already Senzei could see
forms taking shape about the circle of their campsite, the
company's fears given life and substance by the malignant
fae of the sunless hours. Tarrant had assured them that
nothing would approach - his own nature fed on the dark
fae, and would devour any manifestation that made it past
his wards - but even so Senzei shivered, as the legions of
creatures that their fears had spawned flitted about the
warded circle, seeking entrance. He was tempted to
unWork his vision, to let that terrible vision fade . . . but the
alternative was far, far worse. This way at least there was
light; the deep violet essence of true night's power might
not be wholesome illumination, but at least it was
something. Without it, the autumn night would be utterly
lightless: cave-black, cellar-dark, in which a man might
raise his hand before his face without seeing it - in which
the darkness seemed to close in until one could hardly
breathe, until one wanted to run desperately for light, any
light . . . only this time, in this place, there was nowhere to
run. And the darkness would last for hours. Even the
minimal illumination of night's special fae was preferable
to that. Slowly, like wisps of smoke, the fae began to gather
about Ciani's body. Senzei saw her shiver, though whether
it was in pain or simply in dread he had no way to see. She
certainly had cause enough for the latter. As she breathed
in, thin violet strands caught hold of the breath and
followed it into her lungs, her flesh; the air she breathed out

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was merely dark, liquid swirls of onyx blackness that had
been leached of all power. She slowly closed her eyes, but
even as she did so Senzei could see the violet light that
shimmered in their depths, radiant as the green that would
sometimes flash in a cat's eyes at night. She had absorbed
the dark fae.
"Submit to me," the Hunter whispered. His voice was a
chill caress, that made Senzei's flesh crawl. "With every
thought, in every cell of your being." And then he added, in
a tone that was almost tender, "You know I'd do nothing to
hurt you."
She nodded. Then a shudder seemed to pass through her
body, and Senzei thought he heard a faint sound - a moan?
- escape from her lips. Tarrant's Worked fae was
thickening about her, and he could see it connect to the
wild fae beyond - creating what might be a lifeline, an
umbilical cord. A connection that pulsed with its own
special life, in time to some unheard heartbeat.
"You hunger," Tarrant commanded. Chanting the
words: a mantra of possession. "For memory. For life. For
fragments of the past, which you draw from the souls of
others. The hunger is constant, all-consuming. It torments
you. It strengthens you. It drives you to feed - and gives
you the power to do so." In his voice was promise,
commiseration, a dark seduction that went beyond mere
recitation of demonic qualities. How much of his own
nature was he drawing on in order to establish this rapport?

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As he reached down to touch Ciani, to lay one slender hand
over her heart, it struck Senzei for the first time just how
like their enemy he was. The Hunter and Ciani's tormentor
might feed on different emotions, but they both served the
same dark Pattern.
When Tarrant touched her, Ciani cried out - and then
was suddenly still, so much so that Senzei feared for her.
For a moment she lay like one dead, so utterly
unmoving that Senzei found himself searching in vain for
any sign of breathing, any tremor of a heartbeat. There was
none. Then she trembled, and her eyes shot open. Black, ut-
terly black, with no sign of iris or white. Pits of emptiness,
which anything might fill.
"Who are you?" the Hunter demanded.
In a voice that was Ciani's but not Ciani's, she an-
swered, "Essistat sa-Lema. Tehirra sa-Steyat. Ciani sa-
Faraday. Others." A ghastly sound escaped her lips, that
might have been intended as laughter. "I don't remember
all the names."
Tarrant looked up at Hesseth, who nodded shortly. Rakh
names,the gesture indicated. For once, the khrast-woman
seemed as tense as the human company.
The Hunter turned his attention back to Ciani. "Where

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are you?" he asked.
Again the ghostly laugh - then, in a cryptic tone,
"Night's turf. Hunter's den. The basement of storms."
"Where?" Tarrant pressed.
The thing that was Ciani shut her eyes. "In darkness,"
she whispered at last. "Beneath the House of Storms."
"In the earth?"
"No. Yes."
"In caverns? Tunnels? Man-made structures?"
Her eyes shot open, fixed on him. "Rakh-made," she
corrected fiercely. "Where the Lost Ones dwelled until we
drove them out. We fed on their memories, too - but those
were narrow things, all tunnels and hunger and brainless
mating. Not like the memories of the other rakh." She
closed her eyes, and a shudder passed through her frame;
strangely sexual, like the first shiver of orgasm. "Not like
with the humans," she whispered. "Nothing like that."
Again Tarrant glanced at Hesseth, and this time he
mouthed the words. Lost Ones?Her brief nod sufficed to
indicate that she knew the reference, would be willing to

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explain it later. Or so Senzei hoped.
Tarrant returned his attention to Ciani. The black depths
of her eyes gleamed like obsidian as she watched him.
"Do you fear?" he asked her.
"Fear?"
"As the rakh do. As humans do."
"Fear? As in ‘for my life'? No. Why should I?"
"You feel safe."
"Iam safe."
"Protected," the Hunter probed.
"Yes."
"Efficiently."
The empty eyes opened; a hint of violet light stirred in
their depths. "Without question."
"How?"

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She seemed to hesitate. "Lema protects. The Keeper
shields."
"Against what?" When there was no answer, he pressed,
"Against the rakh?"
"The humans," she whispered. "They're coming for us.
That's what Lema said. They're coming, with a Fire that
can burn away the night. Can burn us."
"But you're not afraid."
"No." The voice was a hiss. "Lema protects. The Keeper
is thorough. Even now-"
She hesitated. Gasped suddenly, as if in pain. Tarrant
said quickly, "It took a lot of planning."
"Not much," she answered. Her body seem to sag into
the ground, as if in relief, and her voice was strong once
more. Senzei sensed that some barrier had been not
overcome, nor destroyed, but somehow sidestepped. "Only
a misKnowing. The rest is up to us."
Senzei saw something flicker in Tarrant's eyes, too sub-
tle and too quick for him to identify. Fear? Surprise?

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"A misKnowing?" he whispered.
"Yes. The demon said that would be best. To turn their
own Workings against them. To let them feel confident in
their knowledge, while all the while they were walking into
a trap. That's the only way to take an adept, Calesta says.
Trick them, using their own vision."
For a moment, there was silence. Shadows of forms
began to shiver into existence about the Hunter's body, bits
of misgivings seeping out from his soul, given shape by the
night. A death-mask. A spear. A drop of fire. In another
time and place such images might have gained real
substance, but his hungry nature swallowed them up again
as quickly as they were formed. Only a brief afterimage
remained, black against black in the night.
"Tell me," he whispered tightly. "The misKnowing.
What is it?"
Ciani seemed about to speak, then hesitated. "Tell me."
She gasped soundlessly, like a fish out of water. Seemed
incapable of making the words come.
He reached forward and grasped her by the upper arms;
his power flowed into her like a torrent, purple fae marked
with his hunger, his purpose. "Tell me!" he demanded. She
tried to resist, tried to pull away - and then cried out, as the
cold power wrapped itself around her soul. Senzei saw

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Damien start forward, then force himself back. Because she
might die if he interfered. Only because of that. But there
was murder in his eyes. "Tell me," the Hunter commanded
- and Senzei could feel him using the dark fae to squeeze
the information out of her, like juice from a pulped fruit.
"Sansha Crater!" she gasped. There were tears running
down her face, and she was shaking violently in his grip.
Information began to pour out as if it had a life of its own,
words and concepts struggling to get free. "The humans'
Knowings will lead them there in search of us. They'll
believe that our stronghold is there, beneath the House of
Storms. Most important, he will believe it - their adept -
because Calesta took the image from his mind. When he
looked at his maps and said this is where the enemy will be,
the Hungry One noted it. And the Keeper will let them
think that he was right, warp his Knowings to serve that
end . . . and the adept's own Workings will lead them into
ambush."
For a moment Tarrant was still, and utterly silent. The
look in his eyes was terrible - shame and fury and blind,
raw hatred, intermingled with even less pleasant emotions
that Senzei didn't dare identify - but Ciani, or whatever
manner of creature now inhabited her body, seemed
oblivious to it. Had his own word not bound him to protect
her, Senzei was pretty sure the Hunter would have struck
out at the body before him, Working the dark fae so that it
would transmit the damage to Ciani's possessor; but he was
bound, and by his own will, and so his rage went

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unexpressed.
"Where is the House of Storms?" he hissed. Dark purple
tendrils swirled about his rage, dissolved into the night.
"Where is your people's stronghold?" When she didn't
answer him his eyes narrowed coldly, and she gasped;
Senzei could see the last of her resistance crumble.
"On the point of power," she whispered. "Where the
earth-fae flows in torrents, hungry for taming. Where the
plates sing in pain as they crush the power out. Where the
Keeper-"
Ciani's body went rigid. She mouthed a few words,
soundlessly - and then a spasm of pain racked her body,
traveling from head to foot like a wave. "No!" she cried out
- Ciani's voice, Ciani's pain. She pulled against her bonds
with a force that almost dragged the tent pegs from the
earth. "Gerald!" But the adept did nothing to help her.
"Stop it!" Damien hissed. He started forward - and then
forced himself to halt, though his fists were clenched in
fury.To interrupt this Working is to give her soul to the
enemy."Stop it, damn you! She can't take any more!" As if
in answer to him, blood trickled from Ciani's mouth. And
Tarrant did move, at last. He put his hands to the sides of
her face - and she tried to bite him, wild as a wounded
animal - but he grasped her firmly and held her head back
against the earth, while her body struggled against its
bonds. Fixing his eyes on hers, pinioning her to the ground

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by the power of his gaze. A power that Senzei could see, a
vivid purple that vibrated with the force of his hatred.
"Let go," he whispered fiercely. "This is not your flesh,
not your place. Obey me!" She struggled in his grasp -
helplessly, like an infant. Blood poured down her cheek
and smeared on his hand, deep purple in the fae-light. It
dripped to the ground. He took no notice of it. "Obey me,"
he whispered. And the power that flowed from him was so
bright, so blinding, that Senzei had to turn away.
For a brief moment, the whole of Ciani's body went
rigid; her bonds creaked as she strained against them. Then,
suddenly, all the strength went out of her. She lay on the
bloodied earth like a shattered doll, her intermittent gasping
for breath the only sign of her survival. After a moment,
Tarrant released her. Her eyes - now human, heavily
bloodshot - shut. She shivered, as if from cold.
"Take out the Fire," the Hunter said quietly to Damien.
"You're sure-"
"Take it out!"
He stood as the priest complied with his command, and
put a few hurried steps between himself and the rest of the
party. Nevertheless, he was clearly loath to go too far from
Ciani; he remained close enough that when the Fire was

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uncovered its light burned a swath across his face that
blistered an angry red as he watched her.
For a moment, Senzei could see nothing: the Fire's light
was brilliant, blinding. He felt his Seeing fade, knew that it
would be long minutes before he could conjure such vision
again. But there was no need for it. The dark fae was gone,
consumed in an instant by the force of that Church-
spawned blaze. And with it, whatever remnants of the
night's power that had clung to Ciani. She whimpered
softly as Damien went to her, clung to him as he severed
her bonds and gathered her up in his arms, the light of the
Fire pressed into her back.
"She'll be all right," the Hunter promised. "Keep the
Fire out until Casca rises. No. Until the sun comes up.
She'll be safe, once she's exposed to true sunlight; neither
his power nor mine can cling to her then."
"But if you-" Damien began.
"You'll have to function without me," he said sharply.
"There are several things that want looking into, and I can
handle them best alone."
"Not to mention the Fire," Damien said quietly.
Tarrant turned toward him, slowly, and let him watch as
the sanctified light spread across his features. The skin of

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his face and hands reddened, tightened, began to peel - but
his cold eyes gazed steadily at Damien, and there was no
hint in his manner of any pain or hesitancy.
"Don't underestimate me," he warned. Blood pooled in
the corner of one eye, and he blinked it free; it traveled
down the side of his face like a tear. Still he did not turn
away, nor shield himself from the Fire's light. "Don't ever
underestimate me."
"I'm sorry," Damien said at last.
"You should be," he agreed. And he bowed to Ciani - a
minimal gesture, hurried but graceful. "It's vital that you
don't discuss what happened here tonight - any of it - until
the sun rises. Otherwise your attacker might learn . . . too
much. Lady?"
She whispered it. "I understand."
He stepped - and was gone, more quickly than the eye
could follow. Reddened flesh fading into blackness, burnt
skin swallowed up by darkness. Salved, by the true night's
special power.
"The Fire didn't hurt him," Senzei whispered, "Not like
it should have."
"Ofcourseit hurt him," Damien said sharply. "And it

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would have killed him if he'd stayed here long enough."
"But he didn't seem-"
"No, he didn't, did he? And what gets to me is that he
would have stayed there, endured the pain - till the Fire
fried him to a crisp, if that's what it took. Just to prove a
point."
He drew in a ragged breath, and closed his arms tightly
about Ciani.
"That's what makes him so vulking dangerous," he
muttered.
Rain fell. Not the gentle rain of days before, a chill but
tolerable mist that wet the land without truly soaking it, but
a downpour that swept in from the East, borne on winds
that had coursed over thousands of miles of open sea,
scooping up foam and spray and converting them into
thick, black storm clouds. If Casca rose, they never saw it.
Water fell in sheets, interspersed with bits of hail and
clumps of crystal, as if it couldn't decide what form it
wanted to take - but it was all cold, and dark, and
drenching.
They huddled inside the rakhene tent, thick hides
stretched across hollow poles to form a cone-shaped
shelter. The women, that was. Senzei and Damien stayed

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outside long enough to fashion a primitive shelter for their
animals. Already the real horses were straining at their
tethers, and the xandu, unbound, milled nervously about the
campsite as if they were beginning to regret their faebound
allegiance to the rakh-woman and her companions. But the
two men managed to find a granite overhang near the
camp, and jam enough branches into a crevice above it that
when soaking leaves were stuffed in between them they
stayed in place. The downpour became a trickle within the
shelter, a turbulent sheet at its edge. Good enough, Damien
indicated. They led the drenched animals inside, the light of
the Fire casting harsh shadows across jagged granite walls,
and saw that they were safely settled there before returning
to the camp.
Tarrant, perhaps predictably, did not return. Damien
muttered something about him not wanting to get his hair
wet, which Senzei assumed was facetious. The men wrung
out their clothing as well as they could, exchanging their
soaked cloth for cold but dryer garments. In the tent's
narrow interior comfort was difficult, privacy impossible -
but four warm living bodies in that narrow space slowly
warmed it until the air was tolerable, and by the time dawn
came at last Senzei discovered that he had fallen asleep
sometime in that interminable darkness.
Dawn. They assumed it came, because the sky grew
slowly lighter. But the sun was hidden by deep gray storm
clouds, and its light was filtered through sheets of rain.
Several times Senzei saw Damien hunch over toward the

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tent's small opening, studying the sky with narrowed eyes.
Waiting for sunlight to break through the cloudcover.
Because until Ciani was exposed to the sun's cleansing
power, none of them dared talk about what they had seen,
or heard, or feared in the night. Nor could they make plans.
It was the longest day they had ever spent together.
Toward sunset, a break came at last. A glimmer of light
in the distance, that broke up the downpour into a thousand
glittering jewels. A break in the clouds that showed first the
sun, then the Core. White light commingled with gold
warmed the frozen land slowly, and broke up the rain into a
fine silver mist. Soon a patch of clear sky passed overhead,
and then another; nevertheless, it was many long hours
before Ciani could stand in the full light of day, shivering
in pain as the solar fae burned the last vestiges of true
night's Working from her flesh.
Gerald Tarrant returned at sunset. By then they had
reclaimed their mounts - the animals were skittish and
hungry, but otherwise unharmed by the downpour - and
found enough dry twigs beneath the tent, and in other
places, to kindle a feeble fire. The four of them sat about it,
silent, while Tarrant reestablished his wards. Guarding
against eavesdroppers, Senzei guessed. At last he seemed
satisfied, and lowered himself to a place by the fire. His
hair, Senzei noted, was not only dry but perfectly groomed.
"I had hoped for several more nights of travel before

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certain decisions were necessary," he told the group. "We
need more information than we have, and I'd hoped to find
it in Lema. But I think it's clear we've run out of time. Our
enemy has anticipated us, and the result is that we nearly
walked right into his hands. So we have to decide a few
things here and now - what we're doing, and how we mean
to do it - so that we can set everything in motion now,
before our enemy realizes that we're on to him."
"Without knowing the land we're traveling to?" Senzei
asked.
"One doesn't win a war by letting one's enemy write the
rules. And he's trying to do just that. We need to plan -
quickly, and thoroughly. Otherwise we may as well march
into Sansha Crater and deliver the lady to him ourselves."
"What are the chances he's aware of what you did last
night?" Damien asked.
Tarrant hesitated. "In a general sense, that's unavoid-
able. No sorcerer could miss it. In a specific sense . . . I was
very, very careful. And the dark fae is my element,
remember; its manipulation is as natural to me as breathing
is to you. If he investigates the matter, he'll discover that
we tried to use the link between Ciani and himself to
facilitate a direct assault. And failed. Not that information
flowed in the opposite direction, toward us." He turned to
the rakh-woman. "There are some facts we need, before we
make any decisions. He mentioned some names that were

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unfamiliar to me. They may be crucial. And you seemed to
recognize them."
"The Lost Ones."
"And Calesta."
She shook her head. "That name is unfamiliar to me. But
the Lost Ones . . . that's a rakhene term for a tribe of our
people that disappeared back in the years of the Changing.
You understand, we had no language then, and our form
was still unstable; each generation differed from the last,
making social continuity nearly impossible. We have only
oral records from those times, and even those are uncertain.
Bear that in mind as I speak."
"The rakh who came here - the ones who survived the
Worldsend crossing - spread out across the land, each
group establishing its own territory. They weren't even
tribes then, more like . . . extended families. Many settled
in the plains because that land was so hospitable. Others
went south, into the swamplands. Or east. Our ancestors
were territorial creatures, who needed their own space as
much as your people need food and water; it was
humanity's intrusion into our lands in the first place that
caused-" She drew herself up sharply, inhaled through
gritted teeth. "That's dead and gone, now. Our people
spread out. They changed. We gained language.
Sophistication. Civilization. Eventually the plains rakh
began to travel, to see what our world had become, and

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learn more of yours - thus the khrast tradition - and slowly,
warily, the scattered tribes made contact once again. We
discovered two things: that even though man's Impression
still dictated our general evolution, we had adapted to our
chosen lands. The rakh who hunt for sustenance in the
southern swamplands bear little resemblance to my people,
or any other tribe; in some cases the differences are so great
as to preclude intermating, implying - according to your
science - that we have become several species."
"Second, we discovered that during the time of our
dispersal a large number of rakh were lost. They had
chosen to settle in the mountains - these mountains - and
had lived there during the early stages of their
development. We found artifacts of their civilization -
tools, trash heaps, broken ornaments - but never any hint of
where they had gone. Legend says," - and here she breathed
in deeply - "that they went underground. That there was a
time of terrible cold, when debris from an upland volcano
cut us off from the sun's warmth, and the mountains were
covered in ice. Certainly, most rakh would rather seek
shelter under their territory than abandon it utterly. If so,
they never came out again. Only legends remain."
"And now this testimony," Damien said. "Where the
Lost Ones dwelled, until we drove them out. If we knew
how long ago that was-"
"Three centuries," Tarrant said coolly, "give or take a
decade or two."

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Damien stared at him in astonishment. "How do you
know that?"
"The rakh-girl from Lema. Remember? I . . . interro-
gated her."
For a moment, Damien was speechless. Then he hissed,
"You bastard."
Tarrant shrugged. "We needed information. She had it."
His eyes glittered darkly. "I assure you, any interest in her
emotional state was strictly . . . secondary."
Damien made as if to rise, but Ciani put a hand on his
shoulder. Firmly. "It's over," she said. "You can't help her
now. We have to work together."
He forced himself to sit back; it clearly took effort.
"Go on," he growled.
"Three centuries ago," Tarrant repeated. "The Lost Ones
were alive and thriving then, and they built their tunnels. Or
adapted them from existing caves - our informant seemed
to indicate both. Then came this foreign sorcerer. Lema's
human Master, who built his citadel above their warren.
And the demons who served him took refuge in the caves
beneath, driving out their former inhabitants. So that they

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might be protected from sunlight."
"Three centuries," Ciani mused. "The lost rakh might
still be alive."
"Adapted to the darkness - and thus very photosensitive.
I doubt that they care much for sunlight themselves - in
fact, it stands to reason that their underground domiciles
would be interlinked. So that they might go from one to the
other without ever coming aboveground."
"Including-" Senzei began.
Tarrant nodded. "That one."
"Underground access," Damien whispered.
"If their tunnels were rakh-made, no. The new tenants
would have sealed those off, for defensive purposes. Or
they'd have them guarded. But if we're talking about
natural caverns, with all their infinite variety . . . there's a
real possibility of finding some way in that our enemies
don't know about. Or creating one, through adjoining
chambers."
"Coming in through the back door," Senzei mused.
"Just so."

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Damien turned to the khrast-woman. "What's the chance
of finding these underground rakh? Of communicating with
them, if we do?"
"Who can say where they are - or even if they still exist?
No one's seen them for centuries. As for communication . .
. they wouldn't speak English, I'm sure; that was a later
development. They might still speak fragments of the
rakhene tongue . . . or they might not. Too much time has
passed to be certain."
"But the tunnels will be there, regardless," Tarrant said.
Damien turned to him. "You think you can find them?"
He chuckled. "Just what do you think I do every morn-
ing, when it comes time to find shelter? Locating caves is
child's play for anyone who can See the currents. It's much
the same skill that Senzei used, bringing us to shore. But
locating the rightcaverns . . ." He nodded thoughtfully.
"That will take some effort."
"All right, then," Damien said. "Let's say that we may
have a way to sneak up on them. And we have an effective
weapon, if they're sun-sensitive." He patted the pouch at
his hip. "There's time enough ahead to decide how best to
use it. As for our enemy's ambush . . . now that we know
what game he's playing, we should be able to counter it.

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Which leaves us with only one question left-"
"Where the hell we're going," Senzei supplied.
Tarrant withdrew a sheet of vellum from his pocket; it
had been folded so many times that it was barely as wide as
two fingers, yet it opened up to display a sizable map of the
area. "I sketched this from memory, soon after losing the
original. I can't guarantee its accuracy, but I believe that
the general form is right." He spread it out before them. It
was a map of the rakhlands and its surrounding regions,
superimposed over a webwork of jagged ink lines.
"Fault lines," Damien whispered. Tarrant nodded.
"Missing a few minor ones, no doubt, but I believe the
major plate boundaries are all in place." This map, unlike
the first, was labeled. Greater Novatlantic plate. Eastern
Serpentine. Lesser Continental. He pointed to where those
three plates met. "Here's the single point of power for this
region," he mused. "I assumed he would have settled
somewhat near it. According to our informant, however,
he's sitting right on top of it."
"I thought you said-" Damien began. "That only a fool
would do that? I did. And I'll stand by it. Don't ask me
how he's kept his citadel standing, in a region this
seismically active. Wards alone won't do it. He must be
counting on something else. Maybe luck. The girl said
there hadn't been a quake in this area for a long time.
Years." "That's impossible," Damien muttered. He nodded.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Certainly odd, to say the least. The small ones sometimes
go unnoticed, of course . . . but even so, we're talking about
a considerable seismic gap in this region. I just hope it
holds long enough for us to get where we're going."
"Speaking of which," Damien said, "is there any way to
keep the Master of Lema from tracking us? He seemed to
read through your Obscuring-"
"You can't blind a man to the obvious," Tarrant said
sharply. "But you can divert his focus. Last night I prepared
a Working that should do that. It will take effect . . . here."
He indicated a point on the map some two days' journey
east of them. "We have to stay with the pass this far to get
to Lema; he knows that. But once the five of us reach this
point, I've arranged for simulacra to take our place. They
will continue along this path," - his finger traced a line
through the mountains, into Lema, toward the place where
the three plates met - "to here." He indicated a point some
twenty miles to the east of that place of power, and looked
at the rakhene woman for confirmation. She reached out
and moved his hand a few inches southward. And nodded.
"The crater is there." She looked up at him. "And the
ambush."
"While they travel toward it, his Workings will be
drawn to them. We will be all but invisible."
Damien stared at him. Something in his expression
made Senzei's skin crawl.

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"You used people," he said quietly. "Rakh."
"A good simulacrum can't be created out of thin air.
Such an illusion wouldn't fool an adept for an instant.
There has to be enough substance that when one probes
beneath the surface-"
"Innocent rakh."
The Hunter's expression darkened. "This is a war, priest
- and in a war, there are casualties. The innocent are
sometimes among them."
"You have no right!"
"But I have the power. And that's all there is to it. I
won't argue this point. Not when my own survival is at
stake. I have far too much already invested in that, and one
hell of a reception awaiting me if I die. The Working exists.
I've already warded it. When you reach this point," and he
tapped the map aggressively, "five simulacra will leave for
Sansha Crater. And because my Working was bound to
living flesh they will be convincing, and our enemy will
watch them,not us, until they die." He shook his head
slowly. "I don't intend to perish here, priest. Certainly not
for your morals. You'd better come to terms with that."
Speechless, Damien turned to Ciani. "Cee-"

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"Please. Damien. He's right." She put a hand on his arm;
he seemed to flinch at the contact. "We have no choice,
don't you see? We need this Working, or something like it.
Otherwise, we might as well just give up now. And I can't
do that, Damien. Can't give up. Can you?"
Wordlessly, he pulled away from her. His expression
was unreadable - but there was a coldness in it that made
Senzei shiver.
"You have me," he muttered at last. "I won't interfere. I
can't. But you'll pay for those lives - in blood. I swear it."
The Hunter laughed softly; it was an ominous sound.
"Those and a thousand others," he agreed.
Morning. Next day. She came to Senzei while he was
gathering wood. And startled him so badly that he nearly
dropped his bundle.
"Ciani?"
Sunlight poured down through the half-stripped
branches above them, illuminating her pallor. Her weak-
ness. The possession of two nights before had taken more
out of her than any of them wanted to admit.

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"I thought you might like company," she offered.
The words were out of him before he could stop them.
"You shouldn't have left camp."
She shrugged; the gesture, like all her gestures, was a
mere shadow of her former state. Even her gaze seemed
weakened. "You worry as much as he does." She looked
about for something to sit down on, settled on a broken
stump. "Which is a little too much, sometimes." She
lowered herself onto it with a sigh. "Sometimes you have to
get away . . . from fears, from people." She met his eyes,
held them. "You know what I mean?"
He could feel the color come to his face; he fought the
impulse to turn away from her. "It's too dangerous, Cee.
You shouldn't be alone, not even for a few minutes."
"I know," she told him. "And yet . . . it's as if too much
risk numbs the mind to danger. Is that possible? Sometimes
I have to consciously remind myself how close we are to
our enemy, how much power he has . . . but even then it's
distant, somehow. Unreal. As if I have to work to be
afraid."
She looked down at her hands, as if studying them for
answers. And at last said, quietly, "I never had a chance to
tell you. About the memories. Just bits and pieces . . . but I

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had them again, for a time. During Gerald's Working. As
if, while that creature used my body, I could sense
something of his. My memories, stored in his flesh." She
looked up at him; her brown eyes glistened in the sunlight.
"I relived . . . when you came to me. Do you remember,
Zen?"
It had been so long ago - and was so much a part of a
different world, to which he no longer belonged - that it
took him a minute to recall it. To recall himself, at that age.
"Yes," he said softly. And he winced, remembering.
"You were young. So young. Do you remember? That
was the image I got when we made contact. Your face -
what I saw in it - what I Knew of you. But what I
remembered most of all was your youth. Gods, you were so
young . . ."
"I'm only thirty-four now," he said defensively.
"Yes. Still young. Body not aging yet - not irrevocably,
anyway. Still at an age where the fae can regenerate flesh . .
." She let the thought trail off into silence. Let him finish it
for himself. "Do you remember why you came to me?
What you wanted?"
The color was hot in his face now, and he did turn away.
"Cee, please . . ."

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"It's nothing to be ashamed of."
He shook his head slowly, and bit his lower lip; it
alarmed him that the memory could still awaken such pain.
"It's not shame, Cee. It's . . . I didn't understand. That's all.
I wanted the world to be something that it wasn't."
"You came to me seeking vision," she said softly. "Not
power, not wealth, not even immortality . . . not any of the
things that other men seek. Just the Sight."
He kept his voice even, but it took all his self-control;
beneath that surface he could feel himself trembling, his
whole soul shivering with humiliation. "And you explained
the truth. That I couldn't ever have it."
"Yes. I had to. Dedication like yours deserved honesty,
no matter how much the truth might hurt. And maybe, if
the knowledge hurt that much, it was in part because so
many people had lied to you - had led you to believe that
there was some kind of hope, when there wasn't-"
"They weren't adepts," he said quickly. "They couldn't
know."
"It's just- I'm sorry," she whispered.
He shut his eyes; his soul ached with regret, with the

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pain of shattered dreams. "You did what you had to."
"It was what I believed. What we all believed. That
adeptitude was an inborn trait; one either had it or one
didn't. That no act of man, no manner of Working, might
causethe Sight to exist in one who hadn't been born with
it."
He heard her draw in a deep breath. Gathering her
courage? "I was wrong, Zen."
He turned to her. Not quite absorbing her words, or what
they might mean. The shock was too great.
"Ibelievedwhat I told you," she assured him. "And any
adept would have said the same - any honest one. But that's
only because none of us had lived long enough to
understand-"
She stopped herself suddenly, as if her own confession
distressed her. He could feel his hands shaking, with need
and fear combined, and he felt as if he stood on the edge of
a precipice. Balanced at the edge of a great yawning Pit,
about to topple into it.
"Long enough for what?" He could barely manage the
words. "What are you saying, Cee?"
She whispered it - furtively, as if afraid that some other

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might hear. "No act of man could do it, I told you. No act
of man could wield enough power to break down the soul's
own barriers . . . no act of a single man," she stressed. "But
what if hundreds of sorcerers were to combine their skills -
what if thousands were to pour all their vital energy, all
their hopes and dreams, into one all-powerful Working -
wouldn't that be enough? Couldn't the laws of Erna be
altered with such a force as that?"
He stared at her in disbelief, could find no words to say.
"Gerald made me aware of the pattern. Showed me what
to look for. He was around when that kind of power was
first conjured, saw with his own eyes what it could do . . .
but I don't think even he thought of this. Or would have
told you, if he did." She leaned forward, hands on her
knees. Her voice was couched low, but there was fever in
her tone. "The Fire, Zen. That's what it is. The power of
thousands, concentrated in that one tiny flask. Tamed, to
serve man's will." She paused, giving the words time to
sink in. Their meaning burned like flame. "I believe it
could free you. I believe it could give you what you want."
She rose from where she sat and came to him; not close
enough to touch, but nearly. "I don't have all my old
knowledge," she told him. "I can't know for sure that it'll
work. But the more Gerald tells me about the kind of power
that was wielded in the days of the Holy Wars, the more I
think . . ." She drew in a deep breath. "It could change you,
Senzei. Give you what you dreamed of, in those days. You

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still want it, don't you?"
"Gods, yes . . ." Was it really possible? He had worked
so hard to bury that hope, so that he might not destroy his
life with it. Now, to consider it again, after all those years .
. . For a moment he could hardly speak in answer. He was
afraid that in the place of words might come something less
dignified, like tears, or gasping, or simply speechless
trembling. The emotion was almost too much to bear.
"Does he know?" he managed. "Damien. Did you tell
him?"
"How could I?" she said gently. "He'd never let you
have it. Such a use would be . . . blasphemy, to him."
"Then isn't this - your being here - isn't that a kind of
betrayal?"
"I don't share his faith," she reminded him.
"But doesn't that mean- I mean, Damien-"
"Don't mistake me. I care for him, deeply. But
philosophically . . ." She seemed to hesitate. "We're from
different worlds, it seems sometimes. The faith he serves . .
." She shook her head. "It's not that I don't respect it, or
him. But gods! They're living in a dreamworld, filled with
misty hopes and misguided passions . . . and I'm simply a

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pragmatist. A realist. This is my world. I accept it. I livein
it. And if you give me a source of power, I'll use it - as the
gods intended."
She touched a hand to his cheek, gently; the storm of
emotion inside him made the contact seem an almost alien
thing, oddly distant from him. "Romance between man and
woman is such a fleeting thing," she said softly. "You of all
people should know that. But the devotion of a true friend .
. . that endures forever. My loyalties are just what they
should be, Zen. And I'll stand by them to my grave."
He should have had so many misgivings, so many fears
- but the pounding of his heart drowned them all out, until
it was hard to focus on any one thought. Feebly -
mechanically - he protested, "It's his weapon. Our
weapon."
"And do you think this will lessen it? Would the whole
pint of Fire be so diminished by a few drops? He spared
that much to Work his weapons, back in Mordreth. And
again in the rakhene camp." Her voice was a whisper,
barely audible above the sound of the breeze stirring the
leaves - but he heard every word as though it were a shout,
felt her meaning etched in fire upon his soul. "One drop,
maybe two," she whispered. "That's all it would take. I
know it. And think, Zen, if it worked . . . then you'd be our
weapon. You'd be able to use everything that's inside you,
instead of keeping it all pent up in your brain. Take the
hunger of all those years and turn it into power . . . and he'd

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still have nearly a pint left. He'd never even know it was
gone! And Zen . . . you'd be able to help us, like you never
could before. Wouldn't that be a fair trade? If you could
only manage that, then we wouldn't have to rely so much
on-"
She stopped suddenly, and wrapped her arms around
herself as if her own words had chilled her.
"The Hunter?"
She whispered it. "Yes."
He chose his words carefully, tried to keep his voice
steady. "Damien wouldn't give it to me."
"No. Not willingly."
"Is there any other way?"
She hesitated. He felt mixed emotions - elation, terror,
need - flood his soul. "Please, Cee."
"I can Distract him," she said softly. "Gerald taught me
how. He didn't mean it for this purpose . . . but he wouldn't
have to know, will he? I can give Damien dreams while
he's sleeping. Keep his attention fixed on them, so that he
doesn't wake up. You'd only need minutes. Later . . ." She

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breathed in deeply. "Later you could Work him yourself.
Like an adept, Zen. You'd be an adept."
He shut his eyes, felt a violent trembling course through
his body. The dream, the need . . . it was almost too much
to bear. The hope itself was too powerful, too
overwhelming; like an ocean tide, it threatened to drag him
under.
"Dangerous . . ." he whispered.
"The sun-power? The church's fae? How could it be?
That's a force born of pure benevolence, bound together for
cleansing purposes. What could be possibly be safer? You
saw him use it last night - saw him hold it against me, to
protect me from the dark fae. Did it burn me? Could it burn
me?" When he said nothing, she pressed, "What's the only
Working that his church will tolerate, even now? Healing.
Because that's what his faith is all about, Zen - that's where
their power lies.That's what the Fire is."
He had lost his voice, and with it his resistance. The
dream had hold of him again, and the hunger that had
burned in him for so long had become something else - a
lover, a seduction - no longer fever-hot but cool, blissfully
cool, like the touch of a woman whose skin had been
chilled by the night, all fluid ice and liquid passion and
burning need at once . . .

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Then she touched a finger to his lips and whispered - so
low that he could hardly hear her - "We can't discuss this
again, you understand that? There's a link between Damien
and me, strong enough that he might read your intentions
through it. And as for Gerald . . ." She turned away from
him; a shiver seemed to pass through her flesh. "There's
nothing I can keep from him now. Nothing. Not after I
submitted my soul to him." She shook her head. "It would
be too dangerous, you understand that? He depends on his
adept's skills to control the party. And me. If he thought for
a moment that there was a way you could challenge his
dominance-"
He shivered in fear - but the fear was enticing. Chal-
lenge Gerald Tarrant? "I understand," he whispered.
"I think I can keep him from knowing, for a time.
Despite . . . what's between us. But I can only manage that
if I can pretend that nothing's happening. Pretend I don't
know myself what you're planning. So we can't discuss it
again, ever."
"But if you do that - I mean, how can you-"
"Help you?" She turned back to face him. Her eyes were
bright. "I can Work Damien's dreaming ahead of time.
Gerald taught me how. If I do that, and then you go to his
side when he's sleeping, nothing short of a quake would
wake him up. I promise it. You don't even have to tell me
your decision. It would be safer if you didn't - for both of

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us. Only . . ." she hesitated. "If you do it, it has to be soon.
We don't have many more days before . . . before . . .
gods." She lowered her head, and he thought he saw her
tremble. "We'll be in their territory," she breathed. Her
voice so soft that he could hardly hear it. "Soon."
"Cee. You'll be all right. I promise you." He put his arm
around her - her flesh was cold, her skin so pale - and she
cupped his nearer hand in hers and squeezed it. So much
love in that simple gesture. So much support. He ached to
know how to return such emotion. If he only had the skills
of an adept, with which to Work a suitable response . . . he
ached with longing, just thinking of it. The old dreams were
taking hold of him again. The old recklessness. Soon, he
promised himself. Soon. If the Fire freed him, then all the
rules could change. For the better.
"Be careful, Senzei," she whispered.
In a party of four, only so many duty combinations were
possible. With two of the company sleeping and two
sharing watch at any given time - and at least three days'
travel left before they reached Lema's western border - the
odds were good that chance would favor Senzei, and give
him the opportunity he required.
Or so he told himself. Because waiting and hoping was
easier - and safer - than doing.

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I don't want the power just for myself, he told himself,
as the cold sweat of guilt kept him from sleeping. I want to
be able to help Ciani. I want to be able to do my share, like
she said. And I could, if the Fire would free me.
He wanted it so desperately. And feared it, with equal
fervor. Most of all he wanted the decision to be out of his
hands; wanted the dreadful balance of need versus betrayal
to swing one way or the other without him, so that he might
be spared such an awesome responsibility.
It's not betrayal. Not if I take what the Fire gives me
and use it to help others. Is it?
Ciani, I need your counsel! But her warning had been a
sound one: to speak of anything, in this company, was to
risk being heard by all. And he couldn't afford that. Not if
he meant to do it. Any of them would stop him. Any one of
them . . .
Damien, I wish I could confide in you. I wish your faith
would allow it.
On the second day, during the late afternoon shift, his
chance came at last. Hesseth and Ciani took the watch
together, removing themselves to a nearby promontory
from which they might view the surrounding area. Damien
and Senzei were left to get what rest they could . . . but
there was no question of Senzei sleeping. Long after

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Damien had wrapped himself in blankets against the chill
of the afternoon, long after his husky snoring indicated that
he, at least, had found some respite, Senzei's pounding
heart kept him awake, and the rush of adrenaline through
his body made him tremble with need.
Now. Do it now.
Carefully, he pushed back his own blankets. Quietly, he
dressed himself. Thick shirt and jacket, worn leather boots.
The weeks of traveling had taken their toll on his wardrobe;
nearly every layer was patched or repaired in some place.
When he was done, he crept to where Damien lay and
settled there, watching him. The priest slept clothed, as
always, and his sword was laid out by his side. Ready for
battle, even in slumber. Ready to respond to the slightest
disturbance with a lunge for that sharpened steel, and-
Stop it!
A cold sweat filmed his forehead as he studied the
sleeping form. Would Ciani's Working take? Would it
hold? How would he know when - or if - it was happening?
But even as he watched, a change in the priest's demeanor
became apparent. His eyes flickered rapidly beneath closed
lids, as if scanning some dreambound horizon. A soft hiss
escaped his lips, and his brow furrowed tightly. His hands
began to flex, like a sleeping animal's, and the muscles

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across his shoulders tightened as if in preparation for
combat. Whatever dream had him in its thrall, he was
wholly its creature.
Now. Do it.
Gently he folded the priest's blanket down to his waist,
then crouched back nervously to see if there was any
response. None. With trembling hands, then, he reached out
to where the small leather pouch was bound to the man's
belt and somehow managed to slide open its clasp. Damien
groaned once, noisily, but the sound was clearly in
response to some dreamworld menace, not Senzei.
Carefully, gently, he slid the silver flask from its housing.
Golden light warmed his hand, made his skin tingle with
anticipation. Even the few drops of moisture still trapped in
the crystal vial had that much power; how much more was
in his hands, in that precious pint of fluid?
Shaking, he managed to get the pouch closed again. It
was important to leave things just as they should be, so that
if Damien awoke too soon he wouldn't suspect what had
happened. Would Ciani's Distracting work again so that
Senzei could return the Fire to its housing? He didn't know;
he should have asked. But that was the least of his
concerns. By that time - gods willing - he would be an
adept himself, capable of protecting his own secrets.
For a moment he simply sat there and cradled the silver
flask in his hands; its warmth soothed his nerves, drove out

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the chill that had been part of him for longer than he cared
to remember. If he had feared that the Fire might harm him,
the touch of its light was utter reassurance. Like the
sunlight that it mimicked, it had no power to harm an
ordinary man; the force of its venom was directed at the
nightborn, the demonic, creatures that shied away from the
source of life even as they fed upon its bounty.
With care he crept from the camp. Gods alone knew
what would happen to him when he took in the Fire, what
form such a transformation of the soul might take; he didn't
want to risk waking Damien and facing both his rage and
the Fire at once. Hand closed tightly about the precious
flask, he found his way through an insulating thicket of
trees, and did not stop until he was safely out of sight of his
companions' camp. Only then, safe in a tiny clearing, did
he dare to unfold his fingers and regard the smooth
polished metal, and the light that seemed to radiate even
through its substance.
"Gods of Erna protect me," he whispered. And with
shaking hands, he unstoppered the small container.
Light spilled out from it, a cloud of purest gold. Even in
the brilliant sunlight it was visible, driving back the
afternoon shadows that filled the tiny clearing and
suffusing the air with clear, molten luminescence. For a
moment he just stared at it, at its effect, drinking in the
promise of its power. And fearing it. The hunger was so
strong in him that he could barely hold his hand steady, and

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it was several minutes before he dared to pour out a few
drops of the precious elixir. With utmost care, he gentled
them into his palm. And raised his hand to his lips, that his
body might drink and absorb that cleansing power.
I willingly accept change, in whatever form it comes. I
willingly accept the destruction of everything I have been,
in order to create what I must become.
He touched his tongue to the precious drops and shiv-
ered in fear and need as his flesh drew the moisture in. Heat
surged through him, not the essence of the Fire yet, but
something from a far more human source: a heat in his
loins that made him stiffen with need, the hunger of his
soul made manifest in his flesh. His heart pounded wildly
as he swallowed the church-Worked water, its beat so loud
in his ears that he couldn't have heard his companions if
they'd called to him. For a moment, sheer anticipation
surged through his veins - and with it a giddy ecstacy a
thousand times more intense than sexual excitement, more
intoxicating than a gram of pure cerebus. He nearly cried
out from the force of it. Pure hunger, pure need, coursing
through his veins like blood; he shook from the onslaught,
embraced the pain of it, felt tears come to his eyes as the
desperate need of an entire lifetime was coalesced in one
burning instant.
Do whatever you want to me, he thought - to his gods, to
the Fire, to whatever would listen. He felt tears coursing
down his cheeks - and they were hot, like flame. Whatever

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it takes. Whatever will change me.
Please . . .
The Fire was inside him now, and its sorcerous heat
took root in his flesh. His muscles contracted in sudden
pain as the burning lanced outward, heat stabbing into his
flesh like white-hot knives. The pain pulsed hotter and
hotter with each new heartbeat: the agony of sorcerous
assault, of transformation. With effort he gritted his teeth
and endured it, though his whole body shook with the
effort. Tears burned his face like acid as they coursed from
his eyes to his cheeks, and then dropped to the ground; he
thought he heard them sizzling as they struck the grass, and
the thick smell of dry leaves smoking filled his nostrils,
crowding out all oxygen. Inside him, he could feel his heart
laboring desperately to keep pace with the transformation,
and its beat was a fevered drum-roll inside his ears.
He had shut his eyes in the first onslaught of pain; now,
somehow, he managed to open them. The trees about him
had been stripped bare as if by fire, and he could see
between their blackened trunks to the sun beyond, a
thousand times more bright and more terrible than any
mere sun should be. With one part of his mind he
acknowledged how deadly it was to gaze upon that blazing
sphere for more than an instant - but then he knew with
utter certainty that it had changed, that he had changed, and
that no mere light could harm him. And so he stared at it
defiantly even as new pain racked his flesh; kept his vision

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fixed on it as his muscles spasmed erratically, pain
overwhelming him in spurts of fire. The very woods about
him seemed to be burning now, with a flame as pure and as
white as that of the sun itself; he heard its roaring eclipse
the sound of his racing pulse, felt the song of its burning
invade the very marrow of his bones. The clearing he was
in was surrounded by fire, and white flames licked at him,
smoking his clothing, scalding his flesh. He fought the urge
to flee, to scream, to try to unmake the bond that was trans-
forming him. Whatever it takes!he repeated, as fresh pain
speared through his flesh. Blood sizzled in his ears, his
fingers, its red substance boiling within his flesh. Whatever
is required! The whole sky was ablaze with light, the whole
forest filled with fire - and he was a part of it, his flesh
peeling back in blackened strips as he embraced the flames,
his blood steaming thickly in the superheated air. A sudden
pain burst in his eyes and his vision was suddenly gone;
thick fluid, hot as acid, poured down his cheeks.
It was then that he began to fear. Not as he had before,
but with a new and terrible clarity. What if he didn't
consume the Fire, but rather, itconsumedhim? What if its
power was simply too vast, too untempered, for mere
human flesh to contain it? He tried to move his body, but
the roasted meat that his flesh had become would not
respond. Daylight can't hurt you, Ciani had said - but it
could, he realized suddenly, in enough quantity. It could
burn, and dehydrate, and inspire killing cancers . . . he
struggled to move again, to gain any sense of control over
his flesh, but the precious nerves that connected thought to
purpose had sizzled into impotence, and his body would not

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respond. Uncontrolled, his body spasmed helplessly on the
dry, cracked earth. Flame roared skyward with a sound like
an earthquake - and then was suddenly silenced, as the
mechanism that allowed him to hear split open and curled
back in blackened tatters, releasing one last bit of moisture
into the conflagration.
And somewhere, amidst his last fevered thoughts -
somewhere in that storm of pain, that endless burning - the
knowledge came to him. Not a knowing of his own
devising, but one placed there: a last sharp bit of suffering
to make the dying that much more painful, so that the
creature who fed on it might be wholly sated. Knowledge:
sharp, hot, and terrifying. Despair burned like acid inside
him as he saw her approach - as he submitted to the vision
that was placed in his brain, in the absence of true eyes to
see it with.
Ciani. Cold, and dark against the fire. She came to his
side and knelt there. Not concerned, not upset . . . only
hungry. And he could feel the hot tongue of her hunger
lapping at his suffering, as he slid down into the fevered
blackness of utter despair.
The last thing he saw was her eyes. Backlit by fire.
Gleaming, faceted eyes. Insect eyes.
Ciani!

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Damien scanned the sky anxiously. In the west the sun
had already set, and the bloodstained bellies of the farthest
clouds were the last vestige of a short but dramatic sunset.
Soon the last of the stars would follow, leaving Domina's
crescent alone in the heavens. Dark, it was nearly dark. So
where the hell was he?
"There." Ciani pointed. "See?"
In the distance: white wings, gleaming like silver against
the evening sky. Not for the first time, Damien wondered at
the Hunter's choice of color; black seemed much more his
style, both for its ominous overtones and its very real value
as camouflage. Of course, it was always possible that he
did it just to irritate the priest. That would be very much his
style.
While the three of them waited anxiously, Tarrant cir-
cled twice above the camp, checking out the surrounding
terrain before he landed. Damien wondered what he would
find. Would his bird's-eye view give him some insight into
what had happened, and make explanations unnecessary?
Or would he come to ground as ignorant as they were, and
thus dispel the last of their fevered hopes? Something in
Damien's chest tightened as he watched. He doesn't know
what happened, he told himself. So if he doesn't see
anything special in the currents, it might be because he
doesn't know what to look for.

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The Hunter came to ground before them, wings curling
so fluidly to brake his flight that the action seemed a ballet,
a dance of triumph of one man's will over mere avian flesh.
Then coldfire blossomed, consumed him; white features
melted into flesh with practiced efficiency, a display that
never ceased to awe. But this time Damien had other more
important things on his mind, and the few minutes that it
took for the Hunter's flesh to readopt its human form
seemed a small eternity. At last, when the coldfire finally
faded, he searched the Hunter's face anxiously, looking for
some hint of what the man might have discovered. But the
adept's expression was the same as always: cool, collected,
a smooth stone mask meant to frustrate prying eyes. If he
had seen anything useful, it couldn't be told from his face.
So he said the words, and made it official - the act, and
the fact of their ignorance. "Senzei's gone."
The Hunter drew in a breath, sharply; he didn't like it
any more than they did, though probably for other reasons.
"Dead?"
Damien felt that bitter sense of helplessness rising in
him again, which he had been fighting all afternoon. The
frustration of total ignorance. The shame of forced inaction.
"Missing. Sometime in the afternoon. He was in the camp
with me, sleeping . . . and when I awoke he was gone." He
shook his head tightly. "No sign of why or where."
"Did you track him with the fae?"

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Damien's face darkened in irritation. "Of course. And
we found a trail leading to the edge of the forest. That
ended there. Abruptly. As if-" He hesitated.
"Something had erased it," the Hunter supplied.
Damien felt something cold stir inside him, that was half
fear and half anger. "Possibly."
"Did you search for him? Bodily?"
It was Ciani who spoke. "As much as we dared."
Hearing the tremor in her voice, Damien took her hand and
squeezed it. Her flesh was nearly as cold as his own. He
explained, "It meant dividing the party so that one of us
would be alone. Or leaving the camp unguarded. We didn't
dare-"
"No," the Hunter said shortly. "Because if something
had waylaid Mer Reese for the express purpose of ren-
dering you vulnerable, you would be playing right into its
hands." He glanced at the party's mounts - packed and
dressed and ready to go - and at the campsite, already
scrubbed clean of any sign of human habitation. "Did you
find-"
"Nothing," Ciani whispered. She lowered her head. "No
sign of him beyond that which led to the edge of the camp.

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No trail."
"We could hardly scour the woods at random," Damien
said.
"You did exactly what you should have done, and -
more important - you avoided doing those things which
might have gotten you killed." The silver eyes fixed on
Damien and seemed to bore into him. "To feel any guilt
over the matter-"
"That's my business," the priest said harshly. "And if I
want to feel lousy because a friend of mine might have
been in danger - dying, possibly - while I had to sit here
and twiddle my thumbs until night fell . . . you just stay out
of it, all right? That's part of being human."
The breeze had shifted direction, bringing a gust of cold
toward them from the east. Tarrant blinked a few times, as
if something in the chill air had caught in his eyes. "As you
wish," he said quietly. "As for the trail, or lack thereof . . ."
He turned to the rakh-woman. "Did you search with them?"
Her lips parted slightly, displaying sharpened teeth. "I
packed the camp," she told him.
"She hasn't tracked in the woods before," Damien said.
"I asked. She wouldn't know the kind of sign-"

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"Maybe not. But there are senses which atrophied in
humankind that may still function among the rakh. And if
our enemy doesn't yet know that a nonhuman travels with
us, he might not have allowed for them."
"You mean, that a trail might still exist for her."
"Precisely. His attempts to obscure-"
He coughed suddenly, and brought his hand up to his
mouth in unconscious reflex, to mask the rasping sound.
Such behavior was so uncharacteristic for him that no one
said anything, merely watched as he breathed once,
heavily, as though testing the air. And then coughed again.
When at last it seemed that the spasm had ended, he
lowered his hand from his mouth and seemed about to
speak. And then he looked down at his hand, and all speech
left him. What little color he had faded into white - the hue
of fragile vellum, of corpses. It made Damien's blood run
cold.
"Gerald?" It was Ciani. "What is it?"
Silently he opened his hand, and turned it so they could
see. Moonlight illuminated a smear of deep carmine.
Blood. His.
"Something's very wrong," he whispered. He looked up,
and out into the night. His manner reminded Damien of a

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hunting dog, testing the air for a scent of its prey. Or
perhaps of a deer, seeking the smell of predators.
At last he turned to the priest. His eyes were bloodshot,
their pupils shrunk to mere pinpoints. His face was flushed,
as if from fever. Or sunburn?
In a voice that was tense, he asked, "Where's the Fire?"
It took Damien a moment to realize what he was asking,
and why. When he did so, he reached to the pouch at his
side and hefted it slightly in answer. But the weight that
should have been in it wasn't. He fumbled with the catch,
finally got the small pouch open. The crystal vial was still
intact, and it glowed with reassuring light - but the silver
flask, its companion, was gone.
Gone.
He looked up at the Hunter. The man had one hand
raised, while the other was shielding his eyes. It was clear
that he was Working - or trying to. His breathing was
labored, and obviously painful. After a moment, the wind
shifted direction. After several moments, it held.
The Hunter lowered his hand from before his eyes - they
were red, a terrible red, like balls of congealed blood - and
asked, in a hoarse whisper, "Is it possible that Mer Reese
would betray you?"

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"Never!" Ciani cried, and Damien muttered, "No. Not
that."
"Are you sure?" He looked at each of them in turn,
fixing them with his bloodshot gaze. "So very sure? What
if our enemy offered him what he wanted most of all - an
adept's vision, in return for one simple betrayal of trust?
Wouldn't that tempt him?"
Damien shook his head - but something in him tight-
ened, something cold and uncertain. "Tempt him, maybe.
Seduce him, no. Not Senzei." His voice was firm, as if he
was trying to convince not only Tarrant but himself. Was
he? "Not like that."
Ciani offered, "He might have gone off alone if he
thought there was something he could do that way, to help-
" 
"He didn't have that kind of courage," the Hunter said
harshly.
"He had courage enough to put his life on the line for a
friend," Damien said sharply. "That counts in my book."
"Can you find him?" Ciani asked. "Can you use the
Fire?"

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He turned his eyes on her; already the redness was
receding, but he was still a terrible sight. "I can't, in any
form, shape, or manner, use the Fire.But we do have a
direction in which to search, now." He looked eastward,
toward the source of the Fire-laden breeze. "With that, and
Hesseth's senses, we may succeed in picking up his trail."
He looked at the rakh-woman; she nodded. "Only one thing
worries me-"
"That the wind was no accident," Damien supplied.
He looked at him sharply. "You felt that?"
Damien shook his head. "Call it good guesswork."
"There's the touch of a foreign hand on the weather
patterns. Fleeting, evasive . . . and the Fire burns too
brightly. I can't read its origin. But it's a good bet that
someone - or something - wants us to go after him."
The priest walked to where his horse was tethered and
patted it once on the neck. He removed the springbolt from
its pack, and pulled back on it hard, to load. "Then we go
armed," he said. "And we go damned carefully. Right?"
For once, they all agreed.
They found him in a small clearing perhaps a mile from
the camp. Hesseth had picked out the smell of death and led

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them toward it, so they already knew what they might find.
Nevertheless it was a shock to see him lying there - lifeless,
so utterly, obviously lifeless - that for a moment no one
could say anything, only stare at the corpse of their
companion in terrible, mute silence, as the magnitude of the
loss only slowly hit home.
Senzei was dead. And he had not died easily; that much
was clear from the condition of his corpse. His mouth was
open, as if in a scream. The eyes were wide, and rolled up
into his head so that the pupils - mere pinpoints, hardly
visible - lay at their upper edge, against the lid. Every
muscle of his body was rigid, as if death had merely frozen
him in his suffering; his muscles stood out like gnarled
ropes along his neck, wrists, and face, giving his skin the
striated texture of a mummy. His body was arched back in
the manner of corpses left in the sun to dry, and his fingers
were splayed apart in a grotesque mockery of a Working-
sign.
"He died in terror," the Hunter told them. "Or perhaps,
of terror."
Damien approached. Behind him, he heard the soft
scrunch of grass as Ciani did the same. She went to the
body. He went to the place some feet distant from it, where
a single glint of silver in the moonlight hinted at an even
more terrible loss.
It was there, lying on a bed of browning leaves. The

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silver flask, unstoppered. Open. Empty. There was still a
faint shimmer about the ground where it had fallen, but the
light was so dim compared to the Fire itself that it was clear
the thirsty earth had drawn the water down, deep down,
where no simple act of man might retrieve it. What little
had remained for the air to claim had been carried to them
on the wind, and was now dissipated. The Fire was gone.
He picked up the emptied container, and its metal was
cold to the touch. Almost as cold as his flesh. Inside him
was a bleak and terrible emptiness, as if all the accustomed
warmth of his soul had deserted him. Sorrow took its place.
And in its wake, shame.
He turned back to the body. Ciani was kneeling by its
side, clasping Senzei's hand in hers as though somehow the
contact could bring him back to life. But the emptiness in
her eyes told a different story.
"He's gone," she whispered. Her voice, shaking, was
barely audible. Her hands tightened about Senzei's. "I did .
. . I can't . . ." She looked up at him; her eyes were wet
with tears. "For me," she whispered. "He died because of
me."
"He did what he felt he had to." The words of comfort
came automatically, dredged up from some distant
storehouse of priestly wisdom. "That's all any of us can do,
Cee. You can't blame yourself."

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"The Fire's gone?" It was the Hunter.
He shut his eyes, felt the shame rising again. Damn you,
Tarrant. Damn you. "Yes," he said quietly. "The Fire's
gone." He looked at Ciani, felt a wetness on his cheeks to
match her own. "We'll bury him," he said softly.
It was the Hunter who responded. "There's no soul here
to do honor to - surely we all know that. To waste time
administering to empty flesh-"
"Burial isn't for the dead." He looked up at Tarrant,
found the man's eyes and skin already healing. He
wondered if the wounds in his own soul would heal as fast.
"It's for the living," he whispered. "Part of the healing."
"Even so, we can't-"
"Hunter!"He could feel the coldness come into his own
gaze, like ice, could hear it in his voice. "You don't
understand. You can't understand. That part of you's been
dead for so long you couldn't remember it if you tried. And
you don't want it back," he whispered hoarsely. "You
willed it to die. All right. You succeeded. The living have
their needs. You have yours. So just go, and leave us alone.
Stand guard if you want - or go kill something if it makes
you happy. Anything. Just leave.You have no place here."
Tarrant's expression was unreadable - and for once,

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Damien had no desire for insight. Then he turned, and with
a swirl of his cloak disappeared into the deepening
shadows. The depths of the forest hid him from sight.
A soft noise from Hesseth caused him to look in her
direction. The rakh-woman had taken out a small shovel
from among their camping supplies, and was offering it to
him. Wordlessly, he took it. And began to dig.
And he prayed: Forgive me, God. Forgive me, for my
human weaknesses. Forgive me, for my failure to rise
above the distractions of day-to-day life, and keep my spirit
fixed on Your higher ideals. Forgive me, that in that
moment of shock I forgot Your most important lesson: that
a lost object might be replaced, a lost work recreated, a
lost battle rejoined . . . but a human life, once lost, can
never be restored. Forgive me, that I forgot that primal
truth. Forgive me that when I came here my first thought
was for the Fire - a mere object! - and not for the loss of a
human life, or the sorrow of the living.
He dug his blade deep into the chill earth, pressed onto it
with a booted foot to drive it even deeper.
And help me to forgive myself, he pleaded.
Thirty-five
Gerald Tarrantthought: It has to be here. Somewhere.

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Beneath his wings the vast expanse of the eastern divide
rippled with the currents of fae pouring over rocks: brilliant
blue earth-power, the rainbow flicker of tidal forces,
strands of vibrant purple that licked forth from the deepest
shadows as if testing the air for sunlight. To the east of him
the sky was already lightening, midnight black and navy
blue giving way to a sullen gray, first harbinger of the
dawn. He should be in hiding by now. He should have
found some place deep beneath the earth and already be
settling himself into it. So that the powers that hid from
sunlight might wrap him in their soothing chill, and renew
his failing strength.
But not yet. Another few minutes, another few miles. It
must be here, somewhere...
In the east, slowly, deep gray gave way to a sickly
green; he winced as the light burned his feathers but kept
on flying. He had chosen a white form, and that should
protect him for a while; nothing short of direct sunlight
would make it past that reflective coat. Nevertheless, his
eyes felt hot and tender, and his talons throbbed painfully
in time with each wingbeat. Time to land, soon. Time to
take shelter. How many minutes left till sunrise? He was
cutting it damned close, that was certain.
Taking chances, Hunter? Not like you.
Hell. This whole damned trip isn't like you.

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With careful eyes he scanned the ground beneath him,
searching for . . . what? What shape would the Lost Ones'
caverns take, that would be reflected in the currents above?
What kind of sign would there be, and would he know how
to read it? Most important of all - would he find such a sign
before the sun's hateful light drove him underground once
more, so that he might return to his companions with some
measure of hope?
Damn them all, he thought darkly. And: Damn the fate
that brought me to this place.
He would be hard put to say exactly what drove him to
continue, as dawn's increasing light made each wingstroke
harder to manage, each rational thought that much harder to
muster. He had already found two caverns that would have
been more than adequate shelter for the coming day, but
had entered neither of them. Instead he had turned toward
the north and begun to search for some sign of the Lost
Ones, some gesture of hope that he might bring back to his
grieving party. And even while he searched, it irritated him
that he cared enough to bother. Cared enough to risk the
pain of sunlight in service to their cause. That was
dangerous. That was human. But the feeling was there, too
strong to ignore. Not born of sympathy, however, but of
anger.
My failure, he thought grimly, recalling Senzei's body.
It wasn't the man's death that bothered him so much; that

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life was as valueless as any other, and in another place and
time he might have snuffed it out himself, with no more
passing thought than one gave to the squashing of an insect.
No - what bothered him was simply the fact that he, Gerald
Tarrant, had been bested. Tricked. His own Working had
been turned against him, without him even sensing it. That
burned him, more than Domina's light and the coming
dawn combined.
You're going to die, my enemy, and not pleasantly. I
promise you that.
He searched the land with an adept's eye, reading the
currents that coursed beneath him. It was no hard task to
locate mere caverns; the eddies that formed above them
made them as visible as rocks in running water, and he
easily assigned to each a location, size, and probable shape.
But he was looking for something different this time. A
smoother flow, perhaps, or staccato burst of turbulence;
something that would indicate a cave-but-not-cave, an
underground structure that rakh, not nature, had created.
And then, just as the sky turned a forbidding gold at its
lower edge - just as he knew that he must take shelter
immediately, with or without reaching his goal - he saw it.
His attention fixed wholly on the ground ahead of him, he
banked to a lower altitude. And studied the area closely.
Yes. There.
A unique pattern of earth-fae marked the western slope

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of the mountain beneath him, a succession of whorls and
eddies too uniform to be wholly natural. The ground above
tunnels might look like that, if the tunnels were uniform
enough. He looked about, saw other slopes with the same
pattern; the whole area must be riddled with tunnels. He
fought the urge to explore further and dropped down to the
earth, seeking shelter. His muscles burned from the light of
dawn; overhead, the stars of the Rim were already fading
from sight. He searched the ground about him quickly,
looking for some sign of the enemy's presence; there was
none. At last, satisfied that he was safe - for the moment -
he let the current take him. Let his flesh dissolve, so that no
more than his faith remained to maintain the spark of his
life. It was terrifying, never ceased to be terrifying, not in
all the years he had practiced it. And it was made no easier
by the rakhland's currents, which were barely strong
enough to support a simple Working, much less one of such
vital complexity. But one did what one had to, in the name
of survival. There was no other option.
The changing drained him of the last of his strength, and
because the humans weren't present he allowed himself to
be drained, to take a precious second and indulge in the
sheer exhaustion of it. He had been growing weaker
nightly, forced to rely upon primitive rakh and sometimes
even more primitive animals for his sustenance. If the fae
had to come from within him instead of being garnered
from without, he would have been forced to stop Working
long ago. The humans had no idea how much this trip was
draining him - and they damned well weren't going to find
out, either. It wasn't that he was afraid, exactly. Certainly

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not of that brash, swaggering fool of a priest. It was more a
question of . . . pride. Stubbornness. And of course, self-
defense.
Fat lot of good that'll do you if you stay outside past
dawn.
He searched for the patterns of earth-fae that would
indicate some sort of entrance. This was where the tunnels
began, so didn't it stand to reason that there was some kind
of opening here? He searched for long minutes, using all
his skill and all his strength, and at last he found it. Barely
in time. Already the rising sun had cast its first blazing
spears across the sky, to light up the western peaks in
warning. Even that much reflected light was enough to burn
him, and he felt his exposed skin redden and peel as he tore
away the tangled brush that hid the entrance to the rakhene
tunnels. Barely in time, he crept inside. And worked his
way to where a large protruding rock cast shadows of true
darkness beyond. There he rested while dawn slowly
claimed the valley he had just left, and the mouth of the
tunnel behind him.
Playing it close, Hunter. He put a hand up to his face,
felt a blister split beneath his fingertip. Too damned close.
Ahead of him, cool darkness beckoned. Utter blackness,
soothing and sweet; the healing power of total
lightlessness. For the first time since he had overseen
Ciani's possession, he felt something akin to optimism.
And when some of his strength had returned to him - not all

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of it, by any means, but enough - he pushed himself away
from the rock at his back and began to make his way into
the lightless labyrinth.
Soon dark fae began to gather around his feet, humming
with the power of the underearth. The song of it was a
subtle symphony compared to the blazing cacophony of
day, and he drank in the delicate harmonies with relish.
Behind him the last notes of dawn crashed their way
through fissures and passages, but the light - and the sound
- could not penetrate this far. He breathed a sigh of relief,
knowing himself safe at last. And penetrated further, into
the Lost Ones' ancient lair.
The underground rakh had settled themselves in a sys-
tem of interlinked caverns, altering the natural pattern only
when necessary. The larger rooms were thus exactly as
nature had carved them, vaulted cathedrals filled with the
limestone residue of a million years of erosion. The tunnels
connecting them, on the other hand, had clearly been
enlarged, and chisel marks scoured the rock where ceiling
and walls had been altered to allow for easy passage. There
was no sign, anywhere, of recent occupancy. On the
contrary, the one relic Tarrant found - a slender knife blade
chipped from obsidian - was affixed to the floor by a thin
film of limestone, that told of centuries passing since its
deposition.
A good enough place to rest, at least. And I do need
that. Sleeping in this secure a place would give him a

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chance to renew himself, and he needed that desperately.
Time enough later to explore, when the darkness had
healed his wounds.
Suddenly, there was a sound behind him. A faint whis-
per only, like the breath of silk against flesh. But it was
enough. He had Seen that there was nothing alive in these
caverns, would never have taken shelter here otherwise. So
whatever might greet him here was not alive, neither
human nor rakh - and therefore, it was likely to be
dangerous. He braced himself to Work, took a precious
second to bind the wild power to his will, then turned-
And froze. Only for an instant - but that was enough.
His concentration shattered. The fae he had bound broke
free of his will, and dispersed into the pool of its making. In
that instant, that terrible instant, he knew just how much
danger he was in, and he drew his sword in a last attempt to
save himself; coldfire blazed forth from the Worked steel,
filling the cavern with icy light.
And she stepped forward. Flawless in beauty, as she had
been the day he'd killed her. Red-gold hair gathered about
her shoulders like an aurora of light, warm skin and
delicate blush defying the harsh illumination of the fae.
Almea . . . It couldn't be. It wasn't. The dead never
returned once Death had claimed them; at best this was a
Sending, mindless and soulless, that had taken on her face
in order to gain access to him. Or a demon, with some even
darker intent. He forced himself to move, to strike - but it

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was too late already, he saw that in her eyes. Even as he
unfroze, she moved. Delicate hands turning, canting
forward an object whose surface flashed purple and blue as
it moved. A mirror. Even as he raised his sword it fell into
position, caught hold of a slender beam that had filtered
down somehow through a crack in the earth-
Sunlight. It struck him full in the face, hard enough to
send him reeling back against the rock. He shut his eyes
against the terrible pain of it, felt his hands spasm
helplessly as they burned, his sword dropping noisily to the
rock beneath his feet. The dark fae sizzled and smoked
about him, the reek of its dying thick in his nostrils. He
tried to move, to find some kind of shelter - anything! - but
the beam of light followed him. He tried to Work, gritting
his teeth against the pain of it - but the earth-fae was too
weak here, or else he was simply incapable, the pain of it
was making concentration impossible . . . He reached back
with numbed hands to the rock beneath him, and closed his
shaking fingers about the thick folds of his cloak. And
raised it, so that the cloth might cover his eyes. At least he
might have that much darkness. But even as he did so, the
light was diverted upward. A prism hidden deep in a fissure
caught the beam, and divided it. Mirrors set in the rock
reflected it once again - a thousand times - until the whole
of the cavern was filled with it: a vast cacaphony of light, a
symphony of burning. It wrapped about him like a web and
speared through his skin at every unguarded point - pierced
through the cloth itself and seared his flesh within, so that
his muscles refused to obey him and he fell helplessly to
the wet stone floor, unable to protect himself.

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The lines of light connected, bent, became a terrible
prison of pain that surrounded him on all sides. Gleaming
mirrors reflecting the killing light of the sun down onto
him, prisms dividing it into a thousand beams, a thousand
colors, each one a separate note of agony, a separate flame
in his flesh. Slowly, his struggles subsided. His body,
incapacitated by the light, refused to respond to him; only
his will remained, trapped within it like a caged animal. But
even that was being drained of strength. The light was like
a massive jewel, and he was in its center; there was no
escape. Slowly darkness came to him - hot darkness,
desolate of comfort - and the brimstone scent that lurked
behind it was almost enough to start him struggling again.
Almost. But the sun had burned him dry of life, and
nothing remained but fear. Pain. And the absolute certainty
of what awaited him, on the other side of death. The last
thing he heard was his dead wife's laughter.
Thirty-six
"He's not coming back"
For a moment, silence. Only the words, hanging in the
air between them like a knife. Sharp arid chill. Even in his
absence the Hunter had that kind of power.
Ciani wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.
"Or he'd be here by now," she whispered. She stared out
into the night as if daring it to contradict her. Her voice was

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shaking. "He's not coming back, Damien."
The priest bit back at least a dozen responses - sharp
answers, empty optimisms, they were unworthy of her.
Something cold was uncoiling inside him. Dread? Fear? He
fought it back with effort, tried to keep the sound of it out
of his voice. "Something must have happened," he agreed.
He forced his tone to remain even, unimpassioned. Now,
most of all, they needed his strength. Now, most of all, she
needed him.
Dusk. Twilight. Nightfall. They had waited through it
all, the various stages of evening, and had received no word
or sign from the Hunter that might explain his absence.
How long did one wait, before finally giving up hope?
Before admitting that the enemy'sdivide and conquer
policy seemed perfectly capable of taking on a single man
and destroying him? Even such a man as Tarrant was.
Preternaturally fae-fluent. Utterly cautious. If the enemy
could take on someone like that, what hope did that leave
for the rest of them?
He was trying not to think about that. And failing,
miserably.
"What now?" Ciani whispered. "What do we do now,
Damien?"
He forced his voice to be calm, though the rest of him

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was anything but. "We go on," he said quietly. He reached
out to touch her, gently - and then took her into his arms.
He felt her soften, as if her flesh was a hard clay warmed
by the heat of human contact. Slowly the stiffness of her
fear gave way to the weakness of utter desolation, and
finally exhaustion. Her face buried in the thick wool of his
jacket, she wept. Gave way to the pressure of the last few
weeks at last and let it all pour out, all the terror and the
hope and the striving and the loss. Too much,he thought, as
he tightened his arms around her. Too much for anyone. He
could feel the tears building inside himself, tears of
frustration and rage, but fought them back; she needed him
now, too much for him to let go. First Senzei's death. Then
the loss of the Fire. Now . . . this. His thoughts were a
jumble, fear and mourning and hatred and dread all tangled
up so thoroughly that it was impossible for him to isolate
any one emotion, to analyze its source. Which was just as
well. Some things didn't stand close inspection.
"We go on," he repeated.
"Can we?" She drew her head back and looked at him.
Her eyes were bloodshot, red-rimmed from lack of sleep. It
struck him suddenly how very fragile she looked - not like
Ciani at all. When had her strength given way to this? Or
was that only a trick of his mind, that insisted on seeing her
vulnerability plastered across her face? "If they could get to
Gerald-" she began.
"That means nothing," he said firmly. Keeping the doubt

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carefully out of his voice. He had to sound confident for her
sake. "Tarrant was vulnerable," he told her. "Powerful, yes,
and manipulative, ruthless . . . but fatally flawed, in the
Working that sustained his flesh. Remember what the Fire
did to him, even from a distance? All our enemy would
have had to do was keep him from finding shelter before
daylight and he would be finished. That simple. It wouldn't
even require a direct confrontation." He drew in a breath,
sharply, "If he knew how to do that." How did one entrap
the Hunter? It frightened him more than anything that their
enemy had figured out how.
"He should have stayed with us. We could have pro-
tected him."
"Yes. Well." He drew in a slow breath, tried to calm his
own shaking nerves. "There wasn't much likelihood of that,
was there? He trusted me only slightly less than I trusted
him. And now we're both paying the price for it."
Him more than me. A thousand times more. What kind of
hell awaits a man like that? He tried to imagine it, and
shivered. I wouldn't wish that on any man. Not even him.
"What now?" the rakh-woman asked. "What plans,
without the killer?"
He turned to face her. In the light of Prima's crescent
she looked particularly fierce, blue-white light glinting off

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her teeth like sparks of coldfire. His stomach tightened, to
think of that power lost. That deadly potential.
"We wait out the night," he told her. "Let him have that
much time before we give up on him for good. If by
morning he hasn't come . . . then we make other plans."
Plans that don't include him or the Fire. Or Senzei. He
tried not to let his face betray his misgivings. Too much.
Too quickly. How does one compensate for something like
this?
He pulled his sword from its sheath, felt its leather grip
warm to the touch of his hand. Already there were shadows
gathering about the edges of their camp that were more
than mere darkness: bits of the night given independent will
- and hunger - by the party's misgivings. How solid would
such things become in the rakh-lands' inferior currents?
How many such creatures would come to hover about the
camp, thirsting for a taste of the human minds that had
helped birth them? Ever since Tarrant had joined the
company in Kale his presence had driven off such threats,
in a manner they had come to take for granted. Now, how
many of their own fears would Damien have to kill - or at
least frustrate - before the light of dawn scoured the
landscape clean of such monstrosities?
Damn you, Tarrant, he thought grimly, as he hefted his
sword. You picked a lousy time to die.
Maps. Spread out in the sunlight, dappled leaf-shadows

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mottling their surface like lichen. The breeze stirred and
their edges lifted, struggling against stone paperweights.
"These are all we have left," Damien said grimly.
"Not the survey map."
"No. He must have had that on him when . . . whatever."
It was safest not to speak of what had happened. Speaking
led to questioning, which led to wanting to Know. And
Knowing was dangerous. Whatever force had bested
Tarrant might be waiting for them to establish just such a
channel, in order to take them all. They dared not risk it.
Not even to lessen the sting of ignorance.
"I've copied the important information, so we can each
have a copy. In case we get separated." He saw the fear
coalescing in Ciani's eyes, reached out to squeeze her hand
in reassurance. Her flesh was cold, her eyes red. Her face
was dry with exhaustion; had she slept at all since Senzei's
death? It bothered him that he didn't know.
"We have to plan for it," he told her, gently. "We have
to plan for everything. I don't like that any more than you
do, but it's suicide to do otherwise. The enemy's strategy is
clear: pick us off one by one, before we can get to his
stronghold." Leaving only the one he wants, he thought.
You.But he didn't say that. "God alone knows how he got
to Tarrant, but with Senzei we can venture a guess. And
when you've got an enemy that can play on your
weaknesses like that . . . we've got to be prepared, Cee. For

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anything."
"Do you still think there's hope?" Her voice was a
whisper, utterly desolate. "Even after all this?"
He met her eyes, and held them. Tried to will strength
into his gaze, that she might draw on it for courage. "Very
little," he admitted. He wished he had the heart to lie to her.
"But that's as much as there ever was, on this trip. As for
our chances now . . . remember, we planned this journey
before we even met Tarrant. We'll manage without him."
"And Zen?" she asked softly. "And the Fire?"
He looked away. Forced his voice to be steady. "Yes.
Well. We'll have to, won't we?"
He pulled the nearest map toward him and studied it,
hoping she would do the same. Hesseth was silent, but her
alien eyes followed his every movement. Carefully, he
circled a few vital landmarks. Sansha Crater. Northern
Lema's focus of power. The trigger-point that Tarrant had
Worked, so that when they reached it their duplicates - their
simulacra - would begin the hazardous journey into
ambush. The taste of that plan was bitter, but there was no
stopping it now. And part of him was grateful. God knows,
they needed a good Obscuring now. More than ever. He
hated himself for feeling such gratitude.

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Damn you, Hunter. Even in your death you haunt me.
"According to this, we've reached the point Tarrant
meant us to." He looked eastward - as though somehow
mere vision could pierce through rock and span the miles,
so that he might see that doomed quintet of doppelgangers.
Quartet? Trio? How many? "Which means that even now
the simulacra are setting out, to take our place."
"So the enemy will focus his attention on them."
"We can only hope so."
He said it would be automatic. Said that when we
reached this point, five rakh would depart for the Crater,
wearing our forms. But we're no longer five ourselves. Did
he allow for that possibility? He was a thorough man, who
anticipated so much . . . but would he ever make allowance
for his own death?
He couldn't imagine Tarrant doing that. And if not, then
the whole scheme was wasted: five innocent rakh were
marching toward death for no purpose. Because the minute
their enemy saw that the numbers didn't match, he would
know that something was wrong. The thought of it made
Damien sick inside - and he tried not to think about
whether it was the death of five innocents that bothered him
most of all, or the failure of Tarrant's deception.

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Carefully, he folded the maps. "We go north," he said.
"Toward the House of Storms. And we try to make contact
with the Lost Ones. If we're lucky - and Tarrant's Working
is a good one - we won't be watched on the way."
"And if not?" the rakh-woman asked.
He looked at her. And cursed the alien nature of her
face, which made it impossible to read. "You tell me."
"Can you back it up?" Ciani asked. "Do an Obscuring
independent of Tarrant's, in case the simulacra . . ." She
hesitated.
"Don't work?" he said gently.
She nodded.
"That would be very dangerous," he said. Not meeting
her eyes. "There was a . . . a channel, between the Hunter
and myself." Don't ask me about it, he begged silently.
Don't ask me to explain. "If I were to attempt such a
Working, while the fragments of his own still clung to the
party . . . I could very well open up a clear channel between
ourselves and the force that killed him." And anything that
could take on the Hunter could probably destroy us without
pausing for breath.
"So all we have is what he did," she said quietly. Eyes

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downcast; voice trembling slightly.
"Maybe."
She looked up at him.
"I can't do it. And neither can you. But that leaves one
other person." He looked at Hesseth meaningfully. "And I
think she might have exactly the skill we need."
The khrast-woman's lips parted slightly; a soft hiss
escaped between the sharp teeth. "I don't do human
sorcery."
"But it wouldn't be human sorcery, would it? And it
wouldn't involve the kind of fae that humans could
manipulate. Would it?"
"The rakh don't Work," she said coldly.
"Don't they?" He turned back to Ciani. "Let me tell you
something I discovered about the rakh. I was going through
Zen's notes last night, you see, and I found a bit of early
text he'd dredged up somewhere and copied. About the
rakh's ancestors. They were true carnivores, it seems.
Unlike our own omnivorous ancestors, they were utterly
dependent upon hunting for their foodstuffs. No agriculture
for them, or the complex social interaction that farming
inspires." He glanced at the rakh-woman. "They were pack

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animals. As we were. But with a markedly different social
structure. The males spent their lives in competition with
each other, expending most of their energy in sexual
display and combat. When they hunted they did so in large
groups, and only went after dangerous game. The risk
seemed to be much more important than the food, and their
social hierarchy was reshuffled - or reinforced - with each
hunt. What they killed they ate on the spot, or left to rot."
"Sounds like some men I know," Ciani said, and
Damien thought he saw something that might be a smile flit
across Hesseth's face. Briefly. Then it was gone again,
replaced by guarded hostility.
"The females hunted for the rest of the pack," he
explained. "And fed them, in accordance with the local
hierarchy. Dominant males first, then children, then
themselves. With scraps for the lesser males, if any
remained. Mammalian social order at its finest."
He leaned forward tensely. "Do you see it? The females
did the hunting. Not for show, but for sustenance. Not to
display their animal machismo, but to feed their young.
And the fae would have responded to their need, as it does
with all native species. And what two skills does that kind
of hunter need the most? Location and obscuring. The
ability to find one's prey, and the capacity to sneak up on it
unobserved." He looked to the rakh-woman, met her eyes.
There was challenge in his tone. "If a rakh female were to
Work the fae, wouldn't those be the two areas in which her

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skills would be strongest? The two very skills we need so
desperately right now."
The khrast-woman's voice was quiet but tense. "The
rakh don't Work."
"Not like we do. Not with keys, pictures and phrases and
all the other hardware of the imagination. They don't need
that, any more than a human adept does." He paused,
watching her. "But it isn't wholly unconscious anymore. Is
it? Somewhere along the line your people ceased to take the
fae for granted and began to manipulate it. Improved
intellect demands improved control. Maybe on a day-to-day
basis the old ways were enough . . . but I know what I saw
in Morgot," he told her. "And that was deliberate, precise,
and damned powerful. A true Working, in every sense of
the word." When she said nothing he pressed, "Do you
deny it?"
"No," she said quietly. "As you define your terms . . .
no."
"Hesseth." It was Ciani. "If you could work an
Obscuring-"
Her eyes narrowed. "That's a sorcerer's concept, I can't-
" 
"Call it whatever you like," Damien interrupted. "We'll

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find a rakhene word for it, if that makes you happy. Or
make one up. Damn it, can't you see how much is riding on
this?"Careful, Damien. Calm down. Don't alienate her. He
forced himself to draw in a deep breath, slowly. "Tarrant's
gone," he said quietly. "So's Senzei. Even if I could Work
this myself, my skills in this area are limited; sneaking up
on enemies isn't a regular part of Church service. Whatever
cover the Hunter Worked for us is going to fade away now
that he's dead - if our enemy doesn't Banish it outright."
"Could you help us?" Ciani asked her. "If you wanted
to? Could you keep the enemy from finding us?"
She looked them over, one after the other. Reviewing
her natural hostility to their kind, perhaps, and seeing how
far it would give.
She picked her words carefully. "If you were my kin,"
she told them. "My blood-kin. Then I could protect you."
"Not otherwise?"
She shook her head. "No."
"Would you, if you could?" Damien challenged her.
She looked at him. Into him: past the surface, past his
social conscience, into the heart of his soul. The animal part
of him, primitive and pure. Something unfamiliar licked at

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his consciousness, warm and curious. Tidal fae?
"Yes," she said at last. "If that comforts you. But you're
not my blood-kin. You're not even rakh. The fae that
answers to me wouldn't even acknowledge your existence."
"Then force it to," Damien told her.
She shook her head. "Not possible."
"Why?"
"The tidal fae never has -"
"- and never will? I don't buy that kind of reasoning."
He leaned forward, hands tense on his knees. "Listen to me.
I know what the rakh were, when humans first came here. I
understand that those animal roots are still a part of you.
Have to be a part of you. But you're also an intelligent,
self-aware being. You can override those instincts."
"Like the humans do?"
"Yes. Like the humans do. How else do you think we
got here, ten thousand light-years from our native planet?
Of all the species of Earth, we alone learned to override our
animal instinct. Oh, it wasn't easy, and it isn't always
reliable. I don't have to tell you what a jury-rigged mess the

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human brain is, as a result. But if there's any one definition
of humanity, that's it: the triumph of intelligence over an
animal heritage. And you inherited our intellect! Your
people could be everything to this planet that we were to
ours. All you have to do is learn to cast off the limitations
of a more primitive time-"
"And look where that got you!" she said scornfully. "Is
this supposed to be our goal? To have our souls divided,
with each part pulling in a different direction? Like yours?
Vampires don't haunt us in the night; ghosts don't disturb
our sleep. Those things are humanity's creation - the
echoes of that part of you which you've buried. Denied.
The ‘animal instinct' which screams for freedom, locked in
the lightless depths of your unconscious mind." She shook
her head; there was pity in her eyes. "We live at peace with
this world and with ourselves. You don't. That's our
definition of humanity."
She stood. The motion was smooth and unhuman, silken
as a cat's. "I'll do what I can - on my own terms. Rakh
terms. And if the fae will respond to me . . . then I
guarantee you, no human sorcerer will read through it."
"And if it doesn't?" he asked quietly.
She looked northward, towards the point of power still
far in the distance. Observing the currents? Or imagining
the House of Storms, and its human master?

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"Then your own Workings had better be good," she said.
"Damned good. Or we'll be walking right into his hands."
Thirty-seven
Power. Hot power, rising up from the foundations of the
earth. Sweet power, filtered through the terror of an adept's
soul. Raw power, that reverberated with pain and fear and
priceless agony of utter helplessness. The taste of it was
ecstacy. Almost beyond bearing.
The demon asked: "It pleases?"
"Oh, yes." A whisper of delight, borne on the winds of
pain. That delicious pain. "Will it last, Calesta? Can you
make it last?"
The faceted eyes blinked slowly; in the dim lamplight
they looked like blood. "A thousand times longer than any
other." His voice was the screech of metal on glass, the
slow scraping of a rust-edged knife against a window. "His
fear and the pain are perfectly balanced. The earth itself
supplies the fuel. It could last . . . indefinitely."
"And he'll cling to life."
"He's terrified of death."

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"Ah." A deep breath, drawn in slowly and savored.
"How marvelous. You do know how to please, Calesta."
"The pleasure is mine," the demon hissed.
"Yes. I'm sure it is." A low chuckle, half humor and half
lust, sounded from the Master's lips. As raw power lapped
against the smooth stone walls, staining them with blood-
colored fae. The color of pain. The color of delight.
"See that you have something equally suitable arranged
for when she gets here."
Thirty-eight
Snow. It wasn't unexpected - Hesseth had smelled it
coming, and even Damien had made note of the ominous
color of the sky that morning - but that was little
consolation. The last thing they needed now was for winter
to begin in earnest. Damien cursed himself for failing to
anticipate such weather, even as he beat the powdery white
stuff from his jacket. He should have checked for it
regularly. Weather was hard to predict, but not impossible -
general trends betrayed themselves some days in advance -
and he could have turned this choice bit of misery into
something else, if only he had Seen it coming. A little push
to the wind pattern there, perhaps a little shove to the jet
stream . . . there were a dozen and one ways in which the
weather might be Worked, but all of them involved

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advance planning. And Damien had been too wrapped up in
other things to remember that a good winter storm might
lay ruin to all their plans.
The snow deepened to ankle height, gusted in billowy
dunes to the level of their mounts' knees, caught in their
collars and their boot-cuffs and trickled down inside their
clothing as ice-cold water. Still they pressed onward,
making what progress they could. They couldn't afford to
slow down, not now. Once or twice the snow turned to hail,
or hail mixed with freezing rain, and they were forced to
stop. Battered, disheartened, they took what shelter they
could find and waited for the downpour to abate. And
began moving again as soon as they could, anxious to make
up for lost time.
He wondered, in those cold times of waiting, if their
enemy might not have sent the storm. Certainly it seemed
the perfect tool for his purposes, in that it struck at both
their strength and their spirit. And there was damned little
Damien could do about it, either way. Oh, he tried. But
weather-Working had never been his forte, and trying to
alter a storm once it had actually begun was a task that
would have given an adept nightmares. The best he could
do was to Know it carefully, which allowed him to reassure
his party that the worst of it had in fact passed them by; the
flatlands east of the mountains had received a tempest ten
times worse. But as cold, dark days gave way to icy nights,
that was little consolation.

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Tarrant could have shifted it away from us, he thought.
Tarrant would have seen it coming, and known what to do.
Bitterly he tried to drive such thoughts from his head, but
they kept returning. It bothered him that he had any
positive feelings about the Hunter, even so vague a one as
that. Whatever worth the man had once possessed had
become buried beneath so many centuries of corruption and
cruelty that the resulting creature was more demon than
man, and hardly a suitable subject for admiration.
Especially for one of Damien's calling.
But he was of my calling, too. A founder of my faith.
How do you reconcile those two identities?
They traveled in somber silence, their passage soundless
but for the crunching of fresh snow and ice beneath their
animals' hooves. The xandu were growing restless, in a
way that made Damien uneasy. Apparently it bothered
Hesseth, too, for when they finally made camp she tethered
the animals as though they were horses, so that they might
not wander off. Over dinner she explained that the
mountain snows of the Worldsend often triggered a
migration instinct in the beasts, driving them to lower
ground. Perhaps they were responding to that ingrained
mandate. All night Damien could hear the xandu struggling
against the pull of the leather leashes, snorting in
indignation at their bondage. When it came his turn to
sleep, he tried to shut out both the noise and the cold with a
thick cocoon of blankets, but he was unsuccessful. The best
he could manage was a restless half-slumber that refreshed

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his body but did little for his nerves.
Through calf-deep snow they resumed their travels in
the morning. The clouds parted just long enough to confirm
that the sun had risen, then closed overhead and plunged
them into a timeless dusk of cold, white flurries alternating
with sleet. Once Damien's horse slipped and nearly fell,
while precariously close to the edge of a sheer drop - but it
managed to stay on its feet somehow and edged past the
dangerous spot.
I feel like a jinxer, the priest thought. Like some poor
fool who Works the earth-fae without even knowing it - only
it does the exact opposite of what he wants. Isn't this how it
works with that kind? You just manage to figure how bad
things really are, and just then another disaster crops up.
Would it be possible to use that as a Cursing? To take a
mind that affected the currents naturally, and warp it so that
its effect was negative? After several hours' contemplation
- and a cold lunch, eaten hurriedly beneath the half-shelter
of a rocky overhang - he decided that it would be
impossible. There were too many variables to account for;
too much was still unknown about the relationship of brain
and fae. If you tried to Work a system like that, the whole
thing would come crashing down around your ears. Only
nature could alter biology on that scale and get it right.
But then he remembered the trees of the Forest - a whole
ecosystem, redesigned to suit its human master - and he

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shivered, thinking of the kind of man it took to Work that.
And what manner of sacrifice he had made, to conjure that
kind of power.
A man who could Work the Forest could do it. A man
like that could do anything, Then: Anything except save
himself, he added grimly. And he tightened his knees about
his horse's cold flanks, and tried not to think about how
much this weather - cold and lightless - would have pleased
the Hunter.
He's dead. And you wanted him dead. So forget him.
But the memory of the man hung about him like a ghost.
Was that because of the channel that had been established
between them? Or simply the force of the man's
personality? It was impossible to say. But sometimes when
he looked at Ciani he saw the ghost there, too - a fleeting
image, in the back of her eyes. What had gone on between
the two of them, in the Hunter's last days? Damien
hungered to know - and didn't dare ask. It was dangerous to
pose questions, when you weren't sure you could handle
the answers.
All day, the snow continued to fall. They rode. And
somewhere in the distance, an unknown number of
unknown rakh hiked northward, snow blinding them to the
sight of their destination. Five of them, or perhaps three.
Wearing alien faces, marching to an alien purpose.
Struggling their way through this very storm. To their
deaths.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Or - Damien thought suddenly - had that Working
dispersed when its maker died? That was a frightening
thought. What if the simulacra had never started out in the
first place? What if, now that Tarrant was dead, the party
had no cover at all?
Then we must depend on Hesseth's skill, he thought.
And he looked at the rakh-woman, and wondered just how
strong her power was. And how willing she would be to
harness it to their need if all other defenses failed them.
Fire. Brilliant, like sunlight: white-hot, molten, filling
the air with a blazing heat. Senzei's face, like wax: melting,
sizzling, running down into the grass like Fire, sucked
down into the soil. Flesh running free like water, blood and
bones dissolving into liquid fire, essence burning, dis-
solving . . . transforming. Until the hair is Core-golden, soft
strands tangling in the thermal gusts. Until the eyes are
silver-white, hot as metal freshly poured into a wound.
Until the mouth is solid enough to voice a scream - and it
screams, and the screams resound along with the roar of
the flames, across the burning heavens, and as far beneath
as the gates of hell and beyond.
The Hunter's face.
The Hunter's eyes.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Hunter's screams . . .
He awoke. Suddenly. Not because of the dream. He was
too exhausted for a mere nightmare to awaken him, too in
need of the sleep that had been shattered. Besides, he'd
seen those images before. Never in that form, never with
such terrible clarity . . . but ever since Tarrant's
disappearance he had been envisioning fire, both waking
and sleeping. Had dreamed of Tarrant, in fire. Ciani had
also. He'd had to reassure her that such dreams were only
natural, given their recent experiences. Her dreaming brain
was combining the elements of Senzei's and Tarrant's
deaths, fusing the two disasters into a single, gut-wrenching
nightmare. It was frightening, but only that. Not
meaningful, he assured her. It couldn't possibly be
meaningful.
Could it?
Carefully, he freed himself from his blankets. More than
anything else he hated this weather because of the
vulnerability it fostered. The tight cocoon of blankets
which he needed to combat the cold was the last thing he
wanted to be trapped inside if danger came calling. Even
fully clothed it was bad enough - and he knew damned well
that if he really wanted to be warm he should be naked
inside that cocoon, his body heat warming the blankets and
the air inside it rather than lost to his clothing. But that was
where he drew the line. He'd once had to fight off a pack of
ghouls in below-zero weather with nothing on but a pair of

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socks, and it wasn't an experience he was anxious to repeat.
He looked about the campsite, quickly took in details:
Ciani, curled tight in uneasy slumber; Hesseth crouching by
the campfire, springbolt in claw; the mounts half-asleep,
restless. Nothing else amiss - or at least, nothing that was
immediately obvious. Thank God, the snow had stopped at
last.
He came to where Hesseth was and crouched down
beside her. But the position which came so naturally to her
rakhene form was painful for his cold-stiffened limbs, and
after a moment he simply sat.
"How goes it?" he asked quietly.
She nodded toward where their mounts were tethered.
"The horses are starting to get edgy now."
"And the xandu?"
She shook her head. "Increasingly restless. There's
obviously something here they're responding to . . . but
damned if I know what it is."
"Scent of a predator, perhaps? If something were
following us-"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I'd smell that," she reminded him.
He drew in a sharp breath. "Of course. That was . . .
human of me." He managed a halfhearted grin. "Sorry."
She shrugged.
He looked out into the night, wondered what unseen
dangers the darkness was obscuring. As he had done each
night since Tarrant's death - and each day, and morning
and evening besides - he Worked his sight and studied the
currents. They were harder than ever to see now, faint blue
veins of shadowy light barely bright enough to shine
through the blanket of snow that covered them. But after a
few minutes he was able to focus on them and discern their
current state. Which was just what it had been yesterday,
and the day before, and probably countless days before this
as well. Weaker than earth-fae should be here. Weaker than
earth-fae should be in any mountain range.
It's as if there was no seismic activity here,he thought.
None at all. But that simply wasn't possible. Even on Earth
the mountains weren't that quiescent. Or so logic dictated.
Certainly the colonists had been familiar enough with the
nature of seismic disruptions to scan for such activity when
they arrived - which said that they understood the nature of
that particular danger, because they had experience in
dealing with it.

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Weak currents. Inexplicably stable terrain. A nest of
demons. And a human adept who had settled himself right
at the juncture of three crustal plates, heedless of the risk
which that entailed. How did those elements fit together? It
seemed to Damien that if he could only determine how they
were interlinked, he could find the answers they so
desperately needed. But the more he studied the puzzle, the
more it seemed as if there was a vital piece missing. One
single fact, which might make the whole pattern fall into
place.
If we knew how they trapped Tarrant we might
understand them better. We might understand them enough.
With effort he forced himself away from that train of
thought and turned his attention back to his companion.
Animal-alert, she was scanning the brush around their
camp for any sign of movement.
"How's your Working?" he asked her.
She shrugged. "As humans would say, I Called. Last
night, when the moons passed overhead and the tidal power
was strong. If the Lost Ones are anywhere within hearing,
they'll come to us - or we'll go to them. Either way, we'll
meet." She shook her head slowly, as her eyes scanned the
white-shrouded land encircling their camp. "There's no
saying how, of course. Or when."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Or if?"
Again she shrugged.
"Is that how Zen called you to us?"
"Very similar. In my case I read his message directly,
and decided to respond to it. But the result is much the
same. If this attempt succeeds, my call will fix on a Lost
One whose path might cross our own - if such is available -
and the currents will shift in response, to maximize the
odds of our meeting. If the Lost One is conscious of the
currents she may be aware of that process. I was. If not . . ."
She raised her hands, palms open, suggestively.
"You say yes?"
The corner of her mouth twisted upward in a slight
smile. "They are rakh," she pointed out. "If they have
anything similar to a Worker, it will be a female. Our men
generally lack the . . . time for such pursuits."
"And the interest?"
"Their interests are quite limited," she agreed. She
looked him over, top to bottom; it was an appraising
glance, clearly meant to assess the features of his manhood.
"But they do have their uses," she told him finally.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"It's nice to be good for something," he said dryly.
"I meantrakh men," she corrected. "Who knows what
humans are good for?"
She stood, in one fluid movement that belied the
discomfort of her previous posture. And threw the
springbolt to him so that he caught it in his lap.
"Your turn to stand guard," she told him. "I'm going to
try to get some sleep."
Then she looked over to where their mounts were
tethered, and her whole body suddenly tensed. Eyes
narrowed, her attention focused on . . . what? What special
signs were visible to her rakhene senses, that went
unnoticed by his human sight?
"Watch the xandu," she said quietly. "If anything
happens . . . it seems to be focusing on them. Watch them
carefully."
"What is it?"
"I don't know," she whispered. "But I don't like the feel
of it." She shook her head slowly. "I don't like the feel of it
at all."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nightmares. Of Tarrant and conflagration, and the two
combined. Of pain, bright and molten, that shot through the
brain like burning spears. And fear - so primal, so intense,
that they shook from the force of it long after their bodies
had awakened, their minds still vibrating with otherworld
terror.
Nightmares. Identical. Every time he and Ciani shut
their eyes, every time they tried to rest. The same dreams
for both of them. But only for both of them. Neither their
rakhene guide nor the animals were bothered. It seemed
that only humans could dream such dreams . . . or perhaps,
only those who had established a blood-link with the
Hunter.
And it was Ciani who first voiced the fear. Or was it a
hope?
"I don't think he's dead," she whispered.
Riding. Endless miles of snow-shrouded earth. And
questions that needed to be asked, no matter how painful
the answers might be.
"What happened between you two?" he asked Ciani. He
spoke softly, but even he could hear the strain in his voice.
How could he keep his tone light when his spirit was
anything but?

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The ice underfoot crunched beneath the horses' hooves,
broke beneath the xandu's toenails. It made for a complex
rhythm, not unpleasing.
"You really want to know?" she asked him.
"I think I should."
White ground, snow-shrouded trees. The creaking,
tinkling sound of limbs overburdened with ice. Periodically
a bough would crack loose and fall to the path before them,
scattering snow in its wake. The worst of the storm had
passed to the east of the mountains, but it would be long
before the destruction truly ended.
"He apprenticed me," she said quietly.
He felt something tight and cold coiling inside him,
forced it to loosen its death-grip on his heart. She was
desperate for sorcery, in any form. It would have been
worth the price . . .
"Anything else?" he asked stiffly.
And she answered gently: "Isn't that enough?"
There was no more intimate link in the world than that.
A true apprenticeship would color one's development for

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

the rest of one's life - long after the training period itself
ended. Even if her memory was returned to her now, all her
Workings would bear the Hunter's mark. His taint.
The woman I loved will never come back now. Even if
her memories are restored to her, she'll be . . . different.
Darker. That taint will always be there.
And the part that hurt most was not that it had happened.
It was knowing that she didn't care - knowing that the very
aspects of the Hunter which made him so abhorrent to
Damien were little more than items of curiosity to her.
Never before had the gap between them seemed so wide, so
utterly impassable. Never before had he so clearly
understood its nature.
"And you?" she asked him. "What was there between
the two of you?"
He shut his eyes and told her, "I bled for him."
Even now, I bleed.
It was Hesseth's warning cry that woke him up. He
came to with the reflexes born of a decade of living with
danger - fully awake, fully armed, and half free of the blan-
kets that bound him before he even paused to take in his
surroundings. Domina's light filled the camp, which meant
it was near midnight; the full orb of Erna's largest moon

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made it easy to locate the source of the disturbance, to see-
The xandu. They seemed to have gone mad, were
striking out at everything in their vicinity. Pale manes
flying, sharp horn tips stained with blood. He could see
where one of the horses had gone down, and the other was
straining at its tethers, trying to get as far away from the
maddened animals as possible. The fallen horse was lying
still, and blood pooled thickly about its chest; nevertheless
the nearer xandu impaled it once - twice - again with its
horns, as if maddened by its refusal to fight back.
Hesseth was drawing near the creatures, as if intending
to calm them. "Stay back!" he ordered. The maddened
squealing of the animals made it hard for him to make
himself heard. "Back!" She glared at him but at last gave
ground, springbolt braced against her shoulder. As he
approached the horses, she scanned the surrounding woods
quickly for danger. A good move. The screams of the
animals were deafening; anything that hadn't known they
were in this part of the mountains sure as hell knew it now.
His practiced eye picked out details of the fight, and he
struggled to make some sense of it. The horses seemed
terrified, but no more than was reasonable under the
circumstances; any attempt on their part to break free
seemed to be survival-motivated. And it seemed that one of
the xandu - the louder one - was fighting to defend its flesh,
rather than struggling for freedom. That left only one out of
four to be causing the trouble, and with only three riders to

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be carried-
He swung his sword in a powerful moulinet, stepping in
quickly on the downstroke. Gleaming horns passed within
inches of his chest even as the steel blade struck leather and
parted it, and he jumped back quickly. The xandu reared
back in rage, as if intending to crush him - but when it
realized that it was free it turned about and bolted from the
camp, almost toppling itself in its mad rush for freedom.
Hesseth looked at the other animals, then at him.
"Follow?" she asked.
He glanced at the remaining animals - somewhat calmer,
but still agitated - and nodded curtly. "But we don't
separate, under any circumstances. And we don't leave
without our gear. For all we know this is some new gambit
to split us up . . . or to separate us from our possessions.
We've got good light; there'll be a visible trail. Let's pack
it fast and move."
"It could be a trap," Ciani said. Her voice trembling,
ever so slightly.
"It could be," he agreed. "And we're going to be
damned careful because of that." He nodded in the direc-
tion the xandu had fled mere seconds before. "But if we
don't find out what the hell happened here - and why - it
may happen again, later. And that would leave us with too

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few mounts. Not to mention no answers."
They broke camp quickly. Within minutes their
possessions were bundled onto the three remaining animals,
pack straps carefully tightened. It took longer to affix the
saddles, as the animals were still highly nervous; Damien
had to spare a precious moment to do a Calming, in order
that they might be mounted.
Then he knelt by the side of the fallen animal and took
its measure. A large, ragged hole had gouged it through one
side; the froth that formed on its lips as it struggled to
breathe was stained deep red. He put down his sword long
enough to draw a knife from his belt, and with one quick
motion sliced across the animal's neck. Quickly, and
deeply. There was no struggle, no cry, only a gush of blood
that stained his blade and the surrounding snow crimson as
the animal died.
He caught Ciani's eyes on him as grabbed the reins of
Tarrant's horse - the only true horse remaining - and
mounted. "Carotid artery," he muttered. "Kills almost
instantly."
He gestured to his two companions, assigning them
positions behind him. "You in the middle," he told Ciani,
"and stay there. Because if you get picked off . . ." Then
there's no point in any of this, he finished silently. Her
grim nod said she understood, and she pulled in behind
him. Followed by Hesseth, and then-

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Into the woods. Ice-laden branches creaking as they
passed, miniature avalanches spilling to the ground before
and after them. Damien had his springbolt out, braced
against his shoulder in a one-handed grip. He could fire it
that way if he had to, with his other hand tight on the reins.
Not for the first time he wished for his own mount, that had
drowned in the river. That animal could have been guided
by his knees alone, leaving both his hands free for battle . .
. but it was dead and gone now, and wishing for it was no
use to anyone. This was what he had to work with, and at
least it was a proper horse. And probably a damned good
one, given that Gerald Tarrant had raised it.
The trail was easy to see but hard to follow, a furrow
gouged into the snow that wheeled erratically between the
rocks and trees as if the xandu itself had no idea where it
was going. And maybe it didn't. Maybe some Working had
stung it on the ass - so to speak - and it was fleeing blindly,
with no particular destination in mind. Which was
marginally reassuring. If the xandu was supposed to lead
them into ambush it would probably be following a more
direct course, one designed to bring them in at the right
angle, at the right time, and in the right frame of mind.
He shouldered his springbolt and aimed at the treetops
ahead, watching for motion. But unlike the trees of the
Forbidden Forest these had been stripped of their mass by
the coming of winter; moonlight clearly illuminated a
canopy bereft of life, that offered neither threat nor cover.

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And then they came upon it. In a clearing, spacious and
well-lit by moonlight. Damien heard his horse's hooves
break through ice as he approached, felt the cold spray of
water about his ankles. A stream, frozen over by winter's
chill. He warned the others with a wave of his hand, heard
them fording it carefully. The xandu was before him, and it
snorted as if in rage - but its eyes were fixed on
nothingness, its hot gaze utterly empty. It seemed to be
struggling - but with what, Damien couldn't say. It was
almost as if some unseen rope was pulling it backward,
while all its brute instinct urged it to flee; animal flesh
versus some unseen power, with the latter slowly winning.
There was foam on its lip, speckled with red, and when it
struck the ground with its front feet Damien could see that
it had sprained an ankle, or worse. He glanced back
worriedly at the other xandu . . . but whatever madness had
claimed this one, it did not extend to the others. It was
almost as if whatever power had focussed in on it was
content to claim one animal and leave them the rest. A truly
chilling concept.
Then the xandu staggered backward, and the ground
gave way beneath its feet. First the area directly beneath it,
then the ground surrounding - as if the earth itself had lost
all support and was falling in on itself. It screamed and
struck out blindly - but there was no solid footing, not
within reach, and as the ground opened up it fell, limbs
flailing, into the lightless hole beneath.

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And then a scream pierced the night. One scream, utterly
horrible. It was pain and fear and confusion combined, the
dying scream of a soul drowning in terror. Damien's skin
crawled to hear it, and he had to pull back on his reins to
hold his mount steady. Beside him he could hear the others
doing likewise, and he glanced at them briefly to see how
they were doing. Hesseth's eyes were scanning the clearing
with fevered urgency, her hand tight on the springbolt's
stock. Ciani's face was white, but her sword was drawn;
fear hadn't immobilized her. Good.
And then: silence. Utter silence, unbroken by anything
save the ragged breathing of their three mounts.
After a moment Damien slid from his saddle; his boots
sank deeply into the snow as his horse snorted anxiously,
concerned. Ciani's eyes met his, and she seemed about to
say something - and then simply nodded and took his reins
from his hand.
He walked forward slowly, utterly cautious. Long sword
probing the ground ahead, testing for weakness. The snow
was deep here, which made for uncertain footing, but he
made certain of each step before he committed himself to
the next one; he couldn't afford to be off-balance, not for a
moment.
He could hear sound now, from the place where the
xandu had fallen. A soft scraping sound, like that of cloth
against snow. Or flesh? Something about it made his skin

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crawl. Inch by inch, he worked his way to the place where
the earth had given way.
And stared down into a massive pit, splattered with
blood. There were wooden stakes set in the bottom, a good
six feet long, perhaps two feet apart from each other. Easily
as thick as a man's arm, but narrowing to a slender point.
The sharpened tips pointed upward, as neatly arrayed as
soldiers in formation; waiting for some animal to fall
through the earth and impale itself, with such utter finality
that struggle was meaningless.
And in the center of the pit, their xandu. Or rather, the
collection of meat and hide that had once been a xandu.
Now, blood-splattered, it was barely the shell of its former
self, a mere parody of life; its rainbow horns, coated with
blood, were stripped not only of beauty but purpose, and its
flesh was so ruptured by its brutal impalement that it was
hard to imagine its owner running free on the ground above
only moments before.
A hunting call, Damien thought. That's what got it.
Something needed food, and its hunger Worked the fae. He
stared down at the trap and corrected himself. Not
something - someone.
"Damien?" It was Ciani.
"Come look," he murmured. "Carefully."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Something was moving in the depths of the pit, between
those sharpened stakes. Something that dipped in and out of
shadow, its form utterly elusive. And then another one.
They were clearly mammalian, though something about
their skin reminded Damien of a slug. Then one of them
looked up at him. He was dimly aware of details: a long
tail, hairless, like a rat's. Immense pale eyes, filmed with a
thick mucus. Hands shaped like the human extremity, but
with fingers that seemed stretched to twice their
accustomed length, that twined like nervous serpents as
their owner looked up at him.
Not skin, no. Fur, short and close-lying. Ears flattened
down against the skull, but a small tuft was still visible at
their tips. And in those eyes . . . a hint of amber?
He looked up as Ciani and Hesseth came up beside him,
their horses tethered to trees far behind them. "What is it?"
Ciani asked, as she came to the edge of the pit. But his eyes
were on the woman. She came to where the earth had caved
in, and gazed at the tableau below - and then drew back,
hissing, her claws unsheathing as she braced herself for
conflict. Her ears had flattened, in self-defense, and there
was no mistaking the shape. Or the resemblance.
"It's the rakh," he told her. "The Lost Ones."
There were five of the creatures in all. The sight of their
dead-white eyes and altered limbs made Damien's skin

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

crawl, but he managed to bury his revulsion deep inside
him. Jelly eyes, tentacle fingers . . . he looked at Hesseth,
saw her body go taut with hostility. A reaction to the scent
of the strangers, no doubt - an instinctive response to the
right-but-not-right odor of their presence.
"Hesseth." He hissed the name softly, and as a result it
sounded truly rakhene. He waited until she looked at him
before he spoke again. "You can't follow your instinct
here. You can't. It's fine for territorial conflict, but it won't
get us where we're going." The eyes were gleaming with
feral hostility. "Hesseth. You understand me?"
After a moment, she nodded. Stiffly. A shudder seemed
to pass through her flesh, as though pain had suddenly
racked it. Her lips drew back from her teeth and she hissed:
a warning. But then her ears seem to relax somewhat, and
they lifted slightly. The fire in her eyes became a mere
smolder. Her claws sheathed - halfway.
"Human tricks," she hissed.
He nodded grimly. "It's the name of the game right
now."
Beneath them, four of the five misshapen rakh crouched
tensely, waiting for them to make a move. The fifth had
gone forward to the xandu carcass, and was beginning to
carve it up into manageable chunks with a crude obsidian

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

blade; but even she was wary, and she cast frequent glances
at the travelers standing above her to make sure that they
were keeping their distance.
She. Four of them were female. The fifth was male, but
nearly as slight of build as his companions. A lesser male,
Damien guessed, who had adopted a female role in order to
get access to food. He hoped for all their sakes that the
male was firmly ensconced in his new role; that way, they
might get through this meeting with no need for macho
heroics.
"Talk to them," he urged Hesseth. "See if they
understand you."
For a moment, she seemed incapable of speaking. Then,
quickly, she barked out a few sharp phonemes. It was
obviously taking great effort for her to speak at all, much
less in a civil manner. The lone male looked up at her, his
alien face utterly unreadable. After a moment he stepped
back to where his companions stood, his tentacular fingers
wrapped tightly about the base of his blade.
"Try hello,"Damien prompted.
She shot him a searing glance, then turned back to the
Lost Ones. And rasped out some other sounds, that sounded
like a cross between a command and an invective.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This time they reacted. The male glanced at his
companions, then handed his knife to one of them. And
dropped back into the shadows that veiled the back of the
pit, and from there into darkness.
"Not good," Damien muttered. "Gone back for
reinforcements?"
"How bad can it be?" Ciani asked. "We're armed, and it
would take them time to climb from the pit-"
"No need to. You saw what they did to the xandu." His
expression was grim. "Their enemies come to them."
Ciani turned to Hesseth. "What did you say to them?"
"What had to be said," she answered sharply. "With
words, since they lack all the other signs."
Damien looked down at the agitated foursome and
realized, suddenly, just how much of a barrier there was to
communication. Their alien physique would certainly alter
their body language, and it was clear that they lacked the
right scents . . . that left only words, and words were a poor
second in rakhene communication. No wonder Hesseth was
edgy.
That, and her instinct. God give her strength to override
it . . . and the desire.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They waited. In silence, the nervous pawing and snort-
ing of their mounts the only sound within hearing. Damien
shifted his weight cautiously, as the wet snow began to
invade one boot; otherwise, there was no movement.
And then the shadows in the back of the pit stirred to
life, and several figures emerged from it. The lesser male.
Two others, like him. And a figure nearly twice their
height, a male who was clearly decades past his prime. His
fur hung in patches on wrinkled skin, folds of loose flesh
hanging from his bones like an oversized tunic. His skin
was pierced: not merely in one place, or a dozen, but all
over the surface of his body. Thorns, sharpened twigs, thin
blades whittled from bone, pins carved from precious stone,
all those had been thrust through the soft folds of skin to
serve as a gruesome adornment. A thin shaft of shell,
clearly precious, had been thrust through one cheek, and
tiny beads dangled from its larger end; delicate needles of
carved jet had been passed through the skin of his penis. It
made Damien's skin itch just to look at him.
The pierced male addressed them - and there was no
mistaking his authority, even without a common tongue
between them. It surrounded him like an aura; it seeped
forth from him, like blood from his manifold wounds.
Without consulting the humans, Hesseth answered. She
had no time to translate before the next question came, or
the one after that; the ghastly figure voiced his challenges

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too quickly, and she dared not hesitate in answering. But
though he understood none of the words and even less of
the kinesthetics, Damien grasped what was happening. Who
are you? the pierced rakh was asking. What are you? Why
are you here? He wondered what Hesseth considered
suitable answers to be - and wished that it were possible for
her to confer with him before she answered.
Watch it, he told himself. She's smarter than you give
her credit for, and she knows her people better than you
ever will. He studied the pierced rakh as he spoke, and he
shivered in sympathy. What was his position in the social
hierarchy, and why was he . . . like that? Damien had seen
no equivalent among the plains rakh that he might compare
it to. He envied his ancestors, whose knowledge-base had
encompassed an entire planet with thousands of diverse
cultures; how much easier this would have been for them,
with so many different examples of primitive behavior to
draw on!
At last the pierced one gestured shortly. There was a
scurrying sound behind him, in the shadows. Then
footsteps. Then the slow scraping of metal on rock as
something was dragged out of the shadows. And into the
open, where they might see it.
Tarrant's sword.
It was every bit as brilliant as he remembered it, and
every bit as malevolent. Its vivid unlight filled the pit's

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

interior with disarming color, turning human skin a pasty
white and the Lost One's skin an even less wholesome
color - and yet it did nothing to dispel the shadows that
ranged close behind it, or to otherwise illuminate the scene.
The darkness that had gathered beneath the lip of the pit
seemed to draw fresh life from the sword's presence and
became even blacker. The shadows became sharper-edged,
unyielding. A cold wind swept upward from where the Lost
Ones stood, and Damien shivered as it touched him - not
wholly because of the temperature.
The pierced one spoke to them. It was a short question,
harshly voiced. Hesseth turned to them to translate.
"He asks, is this yours?"
Damien drew in a deep breath, glanced toward Ciani.
But her eyes - and her attention - were fixed on the sword.
On what it meant, that the sword was here.
"Tell him . . . that it belongs to one of my people. One of
my blood-kin," he chanced.
He thought he saw her nod slightly in approval as she
translated. It was clear that the Lost Ones' dialect differed
greatly from her own - which was only to be expected,
given their isolation - but there seemed to be enough
common ground that the pierced one understood her.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Ask him where he found it," Damien said quietly.
She did.
"He says, far south of here. Many one-walks. His people
. . . sensed that it was there and went to investigate." She
hesitated. "The language is very different, I'm not sure of
that one. Perhaps, heard it?"
"Ask if there was a body nearby when they found it."
It all centered on that. He wished he knew what answer
it was that he wanted to hear.
"He says, no."
Beside him, he felt Ciani stiffen. He forced himself to
speak again, to keep his voice even.,
"Or anywhere near it?"
She asked, and the pierced one answered. "No."
"Did you find any part of a body? Or . . . personal
equipment?"
She conversed at length with the pierced rakh; it seemed
they were defining terms. At last she turned back to

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Damien, and told him, "Nothing. Only the sword. No a sign
of how it had gotten there."
"That means he's alive," Ciani whispered,
"Or was, when they took him," Damien corrected.
Hesseth looked at them sharply. "Can you be sure?"
He shook his head. "No. But it's only logical. If their
only concern was to kill him, they would have left the body
where it fell. Or whatever remained of it. If they wanted the
kind of power you can conjure from a corpse - or needed
his flesh for some symbolic purpose - can you think of
anything more powerful, or more personal to him, that
that?"He indicated the sword. "Even if they killed him and
then got rid of the body, they would have included the
sword in their plans. Would have had to, to keep his spirit
from wielding further influence. But if all they wanted was
him, alive . . . what would it matter that his weapon of
choice was left behind? It only meant that much less danger
for them."
Hesseth's tongue tip touched the edges of her teeth as
she considered that. Ran over them, lightly. It was a
ferocious expression.
The pierced one spoke again; clearly some sort of
command. Hesseth stiffened, and barked back a sharp

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

response.
The pierced one snarled. The rakh in the pit tensed, as
though readying themselves for battle.
"What was that?" Damien demanded.
"He says that if this is a thing of your blood-kin, then
it's now yours. You must come and take it."
He looked at the glowing blade, felt something inside
his gut go ice-cold at the thought of touching it. "Okay," he
said quietly. "That's fair enough."
"He means . . ." She floundered for the proper English
words to describe it. "That is . . . he challenges you to come
get it."
And suddenly he understood. Understood all the levels
of status that were involved, all the crucial posturing. And
the risk.
Their females hunt for food. Their males hunt for status.
And the more dangerous the prey, the better.
"All right," he said at last. He began to move toward the
edge of the pit, looking for a way down. And hoped he was
guessing right about their customs.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Unarmed," Hesseth added.
He looked up at her and said sharply, "What?"
"Unarmed," she repeated. "He said that. Actually,naked
of threat is what he said."
He looked at the pierced one. And something in him
darkened - some part that had had its fill of tact and
diplomacy and was very near the breaking point.
"Tell him I'll be happy to disarm," he said coldly.
"Provided he removes his teeth and claws."
"They have no claws."
"Then translate the rest."
She looked at him somewhat oddly, then did so. The
pierced one snarled but otherwise said nothing.
"I'll take that as a yes," the priest told her.
"Damien-" Ciani began. She hesitated, then whispered,
"Be careful."
From somewhere he dredged up a hint of a smile; it

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

cracked ice crystals from his beard, that had set in a harder
line. "I think we're past that point."
He found a place where the nearest stake was several
feet distant from the wall of the pit, and lowered himself
down. But the seemingly firm earth crumbled to bits be-
neath his fingertips and he was forced to drop the last few
feet, landing unceremoniously on his side as the icy ground
refused him purchase.
The Lost Ones watched.
He gained his feet quickly, noting for future reference
that the ground down here offered little traction.
Undoubtedly the snow drained into this area when it
melted, only to freeze again come nightfall. He made his
way carefully between the sharpened stakes, noting that
their bases were set deep into the ice; a permanent hunting
site, then, or at least semipermanent. Coarse wood caught at
the wool of his coat as he passed; sometimes he had to
press the stakes aside in order to squeeze his bulk between
them.
Couldn't draw a sword in here even if I wanted to. He
passed by the carcass of the xandu, felt a momentary pang
of loss at seeing such an elegant creature reduced to
formless carrion. And then he was clear of the deep-rooted
spears and opposite the Lost Ones. They seemed larger
from up close than they had from the ground above, and
their smell was rank and musty, the reek of enclosed

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spaces. He could see now that their fur was edged with
green, as if some species of mold had adopted them as its
habitat; rosettes of pale gray marked the shoulder of one
and muddy brown the haunches of another. Those growths
added their own smell to that of their hosts, the odor of
mildew and decay. In addition it seemed that some of the
pierced one's ornaments were olfactory in nature; the sharp
smell of pine needles and the pungence of musk drifted
about his person like fog, a miasma of adornment.
He came as close as he could to his challenger and
postured himself opposite the creature. Though the Lost
One was taller he was also considerably thinner, and he
lacked Damien's layers of insulating wool and fur. Though
he tried to provide an imposing presence, he was no match
for the priest's hefty bulk - and his ritual hostility was
nothing compared to the potential for violence that lurked
beneath the priest's carefully controlled facade, waiting for
its first excuse to surface.
"You make one wrong move," Damien growled, "and
I'll cut your vulking head off. Don't translate that," he
warned.
"No chance of it," Hesseth assured him.
The pierced one hissed angrily, but made no move to
harm the priest. Instead he stepped aside, so that the sword
behind him was visible. The malevolent power of it blasted
Damien in the face like an arctic wind; it took everything

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he had not to react visibly, so that the Lost Ones wouldn't
know his weakness. With a cold, tight clenching in the pit
of his stomach he went to where the sword lay. And
regarded it. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure the
Lost Ones were keeping their distance from him - they
were - and then reached down to where it lay, and closed
his hand about the grip - and pain exploded in his hand, like
spears of ice thrust suddenly into his flesh. He could feel all
the warmth in his arm coursing down toward his hand,
through it, drawn out to feed that hungry steel. He gritted
his teeth and raised the weapon up, his fingers numb from
the searing cold of it - but he held on, despite the pain,
despite the panic that was rising up inside him. The Hunter
feeds on fear, he told himself. His weapons would be
Worked to inspire it. He fought the panic down, forced his
fingers to stay wrapped about the leather-bound grip even
as the killing power flowed into his flesh - his lungs - his
heart. He had submitted to Tarrant's coldfire once, and this
felt much the same - a hundred times more powerful, a
thousand times more terrifying, but its nature was clearly
similar. He closed his eyes and remembered that ordeal,
used it to fortify himself as the power filled him, remade
him - tested him, against some dark and terrible template -
and then withdrew, until the pain became bearable.
Somewhat. Until the cold, though still piercing, was no
longer a direct threat to his survival.
He turned to the Lost Ones, fingers still wrapped tightly
about the sword's grip. His hand was still numb from the
cold of it, but the blade seemed to have a life of its own; he
had no doubt that if he had to wield it, he could.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

And it will drink in life, like its owner does. It will drink
in the terror of the wounded . . .
The pierced one spoke. His tone was challenging.
"He says, that thing has killed many."
Yes, Damien thought. He noted the rope still wrapped
about its quillons, which they had used to drag it here. And
the only reason it didn't kill me just now is my link to
Tarrant. The sword knows its own.
"It belongs to my blood-kin," he repeated. The weight of
it was like ice in his hand, but he refused the temptation to
put it down.
The pierced one spoke again.
"He says, it eats souls."
Damien drew in a deep breath, forced himself to think
before answering. "Tell him . . . that we came to kill an
eater of souls. An eater of rakhene souls. Tell him . . .
sometimes it takes power of the same sort to kill one like
that."
He could see them react as Hesseth translated. He

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

waited. Dark power flowed up his arm, wrapped itself
around the circuitry of his brain. Kill, it whispered. Kill,
and be done with them.
He shifted his grip on it and tried to block out its
message. Tendrils of malevolence continued to seep into
his brain, but he refused to acknowledge them.
"There is only one eater of souls here," Hesseth
translated for them. "In the . . ." she hesitated. "I think he
means, the House of Storms."
"What did he say, exactly?"
"I'm not sure. Their speech is so different . . ."
"Then don't try to translate the concept - just give me
the words."
Her brow furrowed tightly as she considered. "The place
of . . . blue lightning?"
"Blue lightning?"
"I'm not sure. I-"
"Blue lightning?"

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"Ithink that's the word. Why?" she demanded. "Is it so
significant?"
He was remembering the sky over Jaggonath, when the
earthquake struck. The blinding spears that had shot up
from the earth, filling the heavens with light. So much like
nature's lightning, only a hundred times more intense. And,
of course, silver-blue - earth-fae blue - as opposed to
nature's white.
He tried to recall what it was that Hesseth had described,
back at her people's encampment.Lightning,she'd said,
that filled the sky for months on end. Thunder so loud it
made speaking impossible.
That's what it was. That's what the storms were. Not
real lightning at all. Power; boundpower.
My God, the implications . . .
"Tell him what we need," he ordered. He could hear his
voice shaking as he spoke, tried to steady it. So much
seemed to depend upon a display of strength, with these
people. "Ask him if he'll help us."
An overload, firing heavenward. But an overload of
what? There are no earthquakes in this region. And the
currents here are so weak . . . It was hard to think clearly
with the power of the Hunter's sword chilling his brain.

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Even so, he sensed that he had glimpsed the last piece of
the puzzle. Finally. He had only to see where it fit into the
whole picture, and then they would know where to strike . .
. 
Tarrant would have understood it. Then he corrected
himself, grimly: Tarrant still may.
"He'll lead us," Hesseth told them. "As far as the . . .
region of no, is the phrase."
"Forbidden zone?" Ciani offered.
"I don't know. What he says . . . it's not a concept I'm
familiar with."
"Can we get from there to the House of Storms?"
Damien asked. "To the tunnels underneath them? That's all
that matters."
"He says . . . that region is a place of dying. The tunnels
beneath the House of Storms are filled with dying. Those
are the . . . the places of no."She shook her head. "I'm
sorry."
"Taboo," Damien guessed. "As any dwelling place
would be, once demons moved in." He looked at the
pierced one. "Tell him yes. Tell him that's what we want.
What weneed."

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He looked to the dirt wall behind the Lost Ones, to the
tunnel mouth that waited there. Somewhere at the far end
was their human enemy. Ciani's assailant. And - just
possibly - Gerald Tarrant.
"That's our entrance," he whispered.
Thirty-nine
The winter windhowled across the eastern flatlands,
flinging snow across everyone and everything in its path. It
was a bitter wind, fresh from the arctic regions, and the
moisture it had picked up while crossing the Tri-Lakes area
and the Serpent made it doubly vicious. There was nothing
to do but find shelter from the storm and stay there, and the
various inhabitants of eastern Lema had done just that. The
local rakh huddled in their tents, gathered tightly about
their fires, and waited for the storm to pass. Flatland
browsers were packed tightly in their caves and their
tunnels, yawning as the first waves of hibernation dulled
their minds with drowsiness. Even winter's predators had
taken shelter, and they paced restlessly in their cramped
hiding places as they waited for the worst of the storm to
pass, so that they could follow the trails made by their prey
in the smooth, white snow.
It was no time for animals or rakh to be abroad, and all
the inhabitants of Lema seemed to know this.

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All but three.
They walked like humans, though their anatomy was
clearly rakhene. It was a mismatch of body and purpose, as
though somehow a human persona had been welded to
native flesh. They were furred, like most rakh, and heavily
clothed, but the wind that whipped across the open plains
was more than a single coat could ward against. Beneath
the thin fur, warm flesh was already turning white with
death. Extremities first: the fingers and toes, then nose, lips,
cheeks . . . in the frigid cold of winter's first storm they
labored for breath, and the moisture of their lungs gathered
like frost on their lips as they exhaled, gasping, into the
wind.
Mindlessly they staggered forward, their legs knee-deep
in snow. Drivento stagger forward, by a force they could
neither comprehend nor fight. It had taken their memories,
this alien force, and replaced them with others. Foreign
pictures; alien recall. Names and places and hungers and
needs, feelings so intense that their own memories were
mere shadows beside them. Shadows that faded as day
turned into night turned into day again, as the hours of
travel became endless and the goal ahead - if there was one
- seemed forever beyond their reach.
The wind gusted suddenly. And one of them fell. It was
the youngest of the three, a female barely old enough to
mate. Exhaustion had robbed her limbs of strength and she

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lay in the snow, her face cracked and bleeding from the
cold. Panting lightly, as if she lacked even the strength to
breathe.
The other two looked at her. They were her father and
sister, blood-kin to her flesh . . . and they looked at her
now, and were unaware of any kinship. Were unaware of
anything save the force that drove them northward, and its
demands.
For a moment was silence. Within them, and without; a
precious moment of non-being in which the alien memories
ceased their clamor, and the flesh was emptied of all
thought. A single instant of peace, in the midst of their
nightmare journey.
And then it came, as a whisper. Invading their flesh,
their souls.
Two is enough, it said. Move on. Leave the dying one
here.
The female hesitated, then turned away. The male
looked down at his daughter. Some memory stirred in the
back of his mind that might have involved warmth and
paternal devotion . . . but then it was gone, crowded out by
alien images.Human images. He fought them for a
moment, but the force that had implanted them was
stronger than he was - and at last he gave way, and the old

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memories died within him.
Slowly, he, too, turned away. Slowly they began to
move again, breaking a trail through the knee-deep snow.
Two of them, now. But two was enough. The force that had
bound their wills made that clear.
In the snow behind them, in a shallow grave of crystal
and ice, the simulacrum who had once been their blood-kin
breathed her last. 
Forty
They letthe horse and the xandu go free. They could
hardly take them underground, and had no way to lodge
them safely until they returned. If they returned. So they let
them go. The xandu were born to the wild, and could easily
return to it. As for the Forest steed . . . Damien debated
killing it, to spare it a slower death by freezing or
starvation. But the horse had ridden beside the xandu for so
long that when they were freed to go it tried to go off with
them, like one of their number. Well enough, Damien
decided. It was the Hunter's stock, after all; doubtless it
could manage to fend for itself.
The sword was another matter. That had to come with
them, there was no question about it. But even wrapped in
multiple blankets it radiated power, and its aura of
malevolence was so intense that Damien wondered how

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long he would be able to carry it. The mere thought of
contact with the Worked steel made his blood run cold with
dread, and revived echoes of a voice - and a person - he
would rather forget.
Just like him, too. Even in death his evil affects us.
Or in imprisonment, he corrected grimly.
Carrying their most vital possessions on them - the rest
had been buried, or given to the Lost Ones - they entered
the narrow tunnel that led from the back of the hunting pit.
Dark earth closed in about them, walls too close and ceiling
too low and the whole of it damp, rank with the smell of
that mildewed species. Damien could see Hesseth shiver in
revulsion as they descended, deep into the reeking earth,
and he prayed that she could hold out. Her sense of smell
was stronger than all the humans' put together, and the
odor seemed to awaken some primal fight-or-flight instinct
within her. He hoped she had the strength - and the desire -
to overcome that response. For all their sakes.
As the moonlight faded far behind them, no light took
its place that unaltered humans might see by. The pierced
one seemed to wend his way by the light of the earth-fae,
his pale eyes split wide to reveal a glistening pupil, as
broad as Damien's palm. If the tunnels descended deep
enough, Damien thought, only the dark fae would be
available for illumination. He debated using the Fire to
facilitate his own sight, or even kindling a small lamp. But

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in the end he simply Worked his own vision and saw as the
natives did. He turned to check on Ciani, to offer her a
similar service - and found to his surprise that it wasn't
necessary. She had Worked her own vision, using the
techniques that Tarrant had taught her.
Good for her, he thought. But his soul was sick as he
contemplated the cost of that Working, the darkness that
would slowly be taking root inside her.
She'll never be what she was, he thought grimly. And
what bothered him most of all was not that it was
happening, or that he didn't know how to stop it. It was that
she didn't care. Didn't even recognize the problem.
It's all the same power to her. He's just another adept.
More interesting than most, perhaps - but that only makes
him more desirable. The cost of it means . . . nothing.
By the light of the dark fae alone they descended, so
deep into the earth that only a few wisps of earth-fae
coursed about them; Damien felt strangely naked, in a
world without that omnipresent power. He cast about with a
cautious Working, anxious to catch wind of any threat to
his party before it manifested. But he found himself
incapable of Working on that level, and the truth of what
Tarrant had said to them earlier finally hit home: The power
does not come from within us, but from without. Which
meant that in a place where the earth-fae was scarce, there
was no Working. Period. It was all he could do to maintain

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his altered vision, and who knew how long he could keep
that up? If their Workings should fail them they would be
trapped here in true darkness, hundreds of feet beneath the
earth. Totally helpless. He reached back instinctively to feel
the haft of his sword, to comfort himself that even facing
such adversity he could hold his own. But his fingers
closed about the grip of Tarrant's sword instead - he had
strapped it to the same harness, as a means of carrying it
without having to look at it - and its chill power shot up his
arm with stunning force. He tried to release it immediately,
but his hand was slow to respond. Ice-cold power slammed
into him, and the tunnel errupted in violet iridescence.
Twisting threads of light filled the air about him, too bright
to look at directly. They tangled about his feet, clung to his
clothes as though seeking the flesh beneath. And burned,
with a purple brilliance that was blinding. He forced
himself to release the sword, and after a moment - a very
long moment - the power subsided. And with it, the vision.
He forced himself to breathe steadily, slowly.
The dark fae, he thought. Awed by the vision, so unlike
anything he had ever seen. Is that how it looks to him? It
was an incredible concept, that the man who seemingly
thrived on darkness lived in a world of such brilliant light.
Never lacking illumination, because his vision was always
Worked.
Ciani was like that. That's what she lost. And his hands
clenched at his sides, remembering what the loss had done
to her. That's what we're getting back for her.

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The pierced rakh led them onward without a word,
through an underground labyrinth of dizzying complexity.
Natural tunnels met and merged in combination with rakh-
carved corridors, that twisted back on themselves and
merged again and opened out into natural chambers, with a
thousand nooks and crannies in which the dark fae lurked .
. . Damien tried to memorize the pattern of their progress,
but it was impossible. Which meant they had no hope of
finding their way back, or of locating any other exit,
without the pierced one's help. It was a kind of
helplessness he despised - and it was all the more
frustrating because there was nothing he could do about it.
After a time the rakh-made caverns altered in nature.
The ceiling became more even, the cave floor more regular.
And the walls . . . they had been reinforced with the bones
of the Lost Ones' prey - long, sweeping femurs and radia
cemented into place beneath fragile stone formations, like
the armature of some ghastly sculpture. These increased in
number as they progressed, their sheer profusion giving the
tunnels the aspect of a behemoth's rib cage seen from
within. Those gave way in turn to larger spaces, in which
Nature had seen to the decorating: huge vaulted chambers
whose ceilings dripped limestone formations like icicles,
waterfalls of crystalline calcite that gleamed like fresh
snow in the dark fae's light, underground lakes that were
no more than an inch or two deep, but that seemed fathoms
in depth - and always there were the veils of memory that
the dark fae conjured, that parted like silk curtains at their

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approach and fluttered slowly into misty darkness behind
them. Evidently their fears had no power to manifest in the
pierced one's presence, which was fortunate for all of them.
Damien was exhausted - from walking, from Working.
When they at last stopped to rest, he kindled a small tin
lamp and let his eyes take a break. Ciani dropped down by
his side, equally exhausted, and he saw her rub her eyes as
if they hurt her. He put his arm around her, tenderly, but
there was little comfort he could offer. Except to whisper
that he would keep the lamp out from now on, that its light
was inferior but they would have to make do with it. They
couldn't keep Working forever.
"But we tried, yes?" she whispered. And despite their
redness her eyes gleamed with pride, because she had
Worked as long and as well as he had.
It was hard for them to get moving again. Even Hesseth
seemed to bend beneath the weight of her pack, as though it
had doubled in weight since she had last borne it. The
pierced one watched them in silence, and seemed to need
no rest; his own body was clearly more accustomed than
theirs to the rigors of underground hiking. And in the end it
was his searching gaze that got them moving again, the
sight of his mucus-filmed eyes searching for weakness in
them. Any weakness.
And then - hours later, miles later, who could say how
far they'd come, or how long they'd been traveling? - there

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was life. At last. First the smell of it: musty and close, like
the Lost Ones themselves. Then a faint whiff of smoke, that
drifted tantalizingly past them and then, just when they had
noticed it, disappeared. Followed by the pungent aroma of
the rakh's fur-mold, which they could now see clinging to
the damp cave walls, as well as to the pelt of their host.
And the scent of warmth - of fire - of blessed heat, that
drove the last of winter's chill from their weary limbs and
promised at least a brief respite from their exertions.
The corridor turned, and widened. And opened into a
vast chamber filled with the wide-eyed Lost Ones. They
were gathered in small groupings - families? - whose
members huddled close together as they stoked their small
fires, scraped and polished bones, carved ornaments, picked
at each other for parasites. The nearer heads shot up as the
party entered the vast common chamber, and Damien
caught the glint of firelight on ornaments, thin needles of
stone and shell thrust through cheeks, nostrils, even eyelids.
Mostly on the men, he noted. And the stronger ones wore
more of them and courted more painful placement. What
manner of rakh did that make their guide? Damien glanced
at the pierced one, saw him studying the inhabitants of the
chamber with clear authority. Some sort of leader, then. Or
priest. Did the cave-rakh have priests?
The walls were ornate, albeit primitive in design, and
had been painted with charcoal and bits of lichen in crude
but intricate patterns. Once more, the Lost Ones had used
the bones of their food-animals to reinforce the walls, but

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here the effect seemed more decorative than structural.
Polished to a gleaming white, the bones glittered like
candleflames in the relative brilliance of the rakhene
cookfires. Toe bones and hand bones and slender fingers,
worked like mosaic tiles into some sort of native cement-
And then he looked closely at those gleaming bits and
hissed softly, rakhlike, as he recognized some of them. He
felt his arm muscles tensing as if for battle, had to forcibly
keep himself from reaching for his sword.
Not here. Not yet. Find your way out of this warren first.
He took care to position himself so that the women had
no chance to see the wall behind him; he could only hope
there were no similar displays elsewhere. He felt despair
growing inside him, the impotence that came of feeling
totally powerless. And he was, indeed, made powerless: by
the darkness, by the labyrinth, by the lack of Workable fae
in this place - but most of all by their enemy's all-Seeing
power, which was probably even now scouring the
rakhlands in search of them. There was some small comfort
in that, at least - as long as they were this far underground,
not even he would be able to find them.
The cave-rakh began to gather around them, half-
crawling, half-walking, coming as close as they dared and
then sniffing noisily, white nostrils distended as they tried
to catch the strangers' scents. Tails whipped urgently
behind them, twining about each other like serpents in the

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darkness. How they could smell anything over the moldy
reek of their own bodies was beyond Damien; this close,
their odor was nigh on overwhelming. He gathered Ciani
close to him, a protective arm about her shoulder; Hesseth
he kept behind him, lest the like-but-unlike quality of her
scent should trigger some violence among these creatures.
The pierced male spoke to them. After a moment of
waiting, he snapped another few phrases in the rakhene
tongue, hurling them at Hesseth like knives. With effort she
composed herself, barely enough to translate, "He says
these are the fringe-folk, who live on the borders of the . . .
the no-place. He says . . ." She drew in a deep breath,
shaking; it was hard for her to translate calmly when all her
animal senses were screaming at her to flee. "He is the
dream-one, the seeing-one, and they'll respect his wishes.
Because he asks it, they'll keep us here, so that we may
sleep in - in - I'm sorry," she said, flustered. "I just don't
know that one."
The pierced one continued. "From here they can show
us the House of - the place of blue light," she corrected
herself. Damien could hear the strain in her voice, echo of a
self-control that was alien to her and her kind. That's it, he
thought approvingly. Keep it up. "He says that the tunnels
we want are under this place, but they are not easy tunnels.
The small ways are too narrow, and the walls are . . .
falling-threat, he says. Which is why the tunnels were
abandoned." He saw her nostrils flare in terror, innate
response to some half-sensed threat. Once more she drew in

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a deep, slow breath, as if struggling for air. "Very
dangerous," she gasped. Was she translating the dream-
one's words, now, or referring to their general situation?
"In past times there was much death, in the no-place. No
rakh ever goes there, now. No rakh will ever go there." The
pierced one grinned, displaying crooked teeth. "But I will
go there," she translated, as he slapped his breast proudly.
A thin drop of blood welled forth from the base of a
pectoral ornament he had struck. "I, the seeing-one, the
dream-one, who dares the places of no, I will take you
there." The filmy eyes fixed on Damien with clear hostility.
"I think this is some kind of male statement-"
"I understand it," he told her. Oh, yes: the social pattern
was very familiar. Primitive, even bestial . . . and not
without its congruent among human males. He remembered
one young boy braving the true night alone, in order to
achieve the status that only foolhardy courage could earn.
Because of a dare, he remembered. It was always because
of a dare.
"Tell him yes," he said brusquely. "Tell him I want to
see if he can lead us there, to the place where no rakh go. I
want to see if his . . . if his seeingis stronger than his fear.
Say it that way," he urged her.
He watched the pierced one's face as his challenge was
voiced. And therefore did not see the faces surrounding
them, as several rakh gasped in response to his audicity.

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But the pierced one merely nodded, once, tightly, as he
accepted the challenge. "After sleep, then," he told them
through the khrast-woman. "After you have seen the
lightning-place. We go then." He waved to one of the local
females, who scurried off ratlike into the darkness. "The
fringe-folk give you shelter, for resting in. You will not be
sleeping together, so-"
"We stay together," Damien said sharply. And he
sensed, rather than saw, relief in Hesseth's eyes. "At all
times."
The pierced one fixed wide black eyes on him, as if
trying to stare him down. Fat chance, Damien thought. He
stared back with equal vigor. At last the rakh nodded,
somewhat stiffly. "All three together," he pronounced. The
myriad impalements of his face made his expression
particularly grotesque. "You come, then, and the fringe-
folk will bring food-"
"No food," Damien said sharply. He said it again, when
the pierced one hesitated. "No food."
It seemed to him that several of the smaller rakh giggled
- or some gurgly equivalent - and for a brief moment
nausea washed over him, as he recognized the source of
their mirth. But he kept his expression stern, puffing
himself up in his best rakhene-male manner. And after a
moment of silent confrontation, the pierced one nodded
stiffly.

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"There will be no food," he agreed. "Come," He waved
back the mildewed crowd, giving them room to move. Just
in time, Damien reflected; the air had become nearly
unbreathable. He kept a protective arm about Ciani as they
fell in behind him, and a close eye on Hesseth.
"I gather you got the upper hand," Ciani murmured to
him, as they were led from the common chamber. "I don't
suppose you'd care to explain what that last little bit was
about?"
He glanced back toward the vast cavern, towards its
ornamented walls, and shivered. "Don't ask," he muttered.
"Not till we're out of here, at least." Don't ever ask,he
pleaded silently.
And he remembered the polished bones that he had seen
on the cavern wall, remnants of the Lost Ones' meat-
animals applied to decoration. Much as a man might make
a rug from the hide of his kill, he thought, or hang its head
on the wall. There had been hundreds of bones in that
place, all of them smooth and gleaming, some of them
carved in intricate patterns . . . and among them at least one
hand, nearly human-sized, that was not from a beast. He
remembered the fingers of that one - remembered them
very clearly - slender bones with rakhene claws at the tip.
The retractable talons of the plains-rakh, without doubt.
Glued to the wall like some grizzly trophy, a memento of
past feasts relished.

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He hoped with all his heart that Hesseth hadn't seen it.
He wished with all his heart that he hadn't, either.
"I didn't think their food would agree with us," he
muttered.
Darkness. Closeness. The chill of stone, close about
them. Packed earth, at their backs. In a sleeping-crevice so
narrow that the three of them were forced to huddle
together, like a family of Lost Ones might have done. It
was not uncomforting, under the circumstances. But it was
a bad position to be in, should they be attacked.
Damien cradled the clear vial of Fire against his chest,
and let its light drive back the dark fae that even now was
trying to reach them. As soon as the cave-rakh had left
them, that dark force had begun to manifest their fears, with
the result that several amorphous shapes were now lying in
sliced-up bits around the party. But that was before. The
golden light of the Fire was enough to keep it at bay, and
Damien meant to keep it out until the Lost Ones returned to
them. After one-sleep, they had said. Whatever the hell that
meant.
Beside him, cradled against his chest, Ciani moaned
softly, trapped in the grip of some nightmare. He nudged
her gently, hoping to urge her out of the dream state
without quite awakening her. On his other side Hesseth
slept fitfully, deep growls and animal hisses punctuating

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the soft, whistling snore that counterpointed her slumber.
And he . . . he needed sleep desperately, but didn't dare
succumb to it. There was too much here that was unknown
- too much that was dangerous. If the Lost Ones considered
their cousins to be food-animals, what would they make of
the humans, who were even more unlike them? He was
acutely aware of the stone shelf close overhead, of his
inability to swing a sword without first climbing down
from the sleeping-crevice. But to take up guard elsewhere
meant that either he or his companions must be without the
Firelight, and that was simply unacceptable; the dark fae
was too responsive, their fearful imaginations too fertile.
They would be overwhelmed in moments. So the best he
could do for them was to remain where he was and doze as
he had in the Dividers: mere moments of sleep, quickly
claimed and quickly abandoned. Mere moments of
darkness, punctuating long hours of alertness
Too many hours. Too long a vigil. But who could say
how long the night took to pass, in a place where the whole
world was darkness?
"There it is."
They stood upon a ridge of naked granite which the
wind had scrubbed clean of snow, and tried to adjust to the
harsh morning light. In the distance, barely visible to the
naked eye, the House of Storms rose from the ground like
some sharp, malignant growth. All about it the land had
been flattened, a no-man's waste of barren ground that

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made their enemy's tower all the more visible by contrast.
Whatever defenses their enemy might value, invisibility
was clearly not one of them.
"Don't Work," Damien warned Ciani. "Whatever you
do, don't Work to see it. Or for any other reason." Not
knowing how much she remembered - or, more accurately,
how little - he explained, "Any channel we establish can be
used against us, no matter what its purpose. We're too close
now to chance that."
"And it would let him know we've arrived?"
"If he doesn't already know," he said grimly.
"What's the chance of that?" Hesseth asked.
"Hard to say. We've had nothing happen since Tarrant's
death, to further thin the ranks of our party . . . but that
could just mean that he considers us sufficiently weakened
already."
"Or that his attention's fixed on the simulacra instead."
He hesitated. All his gut instinct warned him not to bank
his hopes on that one deception - never count on anything
you can't See yourself, his master had cautioned him - but
to deny Ciani such a small hope now was little less than
cruelty. "Let's hope so," he muttered. And he raised the

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small farseer to his eye.
The fortress seemed to leap toward him: slowly he
coaxed it into focus. And drew in his breath sharply as its
bizarre design gradually became clear.
"Damien?"
"No windows," he muttered. "No windows at all." But
even those words couldn't capture the oddity of it. The
utterly alien quality of its design. "He's a paranoid bastard,
that's for sure."
What rose up from the distant ground was a polished
obelisk of native stone, whose slick surface betrayed no
hint of doorway, viewport, or any structural joining. It was
as if it had not been raised up from the earth, but rather
carved from the mountainside itself. A massive sculpture of
cold, unliving stone that required no petty adornments -
such as entrances or windows - to proclaim its purpose. He
studied its surface for many long minutes, and had to bite
back on his urge to Work his sight further. That would be
too dangerous. He sought mortar lines, the thin shadows of
juncture, any hint that mere mortals might have erected that
eerie sculpture, but there were none. Not a single crack in
the polished surface, that might serve as handhold to an
invader. Not even a tiny viewport, through which weapons
or gas might enter. Or an agile invader, he thought. Fear of
attack was written across every inch of the structure.

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"Utterly defensive," he muttered. "To say the least." He
handed the farseer to Ciani, heard her gasp as she brought
the strange edifice into focus. For a moment he looked at
her, concerned; was it possible that old memories were
surfacing, this close to her tormentor's fortress? Her hands
shook slightly as she held the farseer, and she drew in a
long, ragged breath as she stared through it. But no, that
was impossible. Her memories weren't buried, but wholly
absent. Taken from her. And if he made the same mistake
Senzei had - of confusing absence with suppression - he
might well be courting a similar fate.
"Cee?"
"I'm all right. It's just that it's so . . ." She fumbled for
an adjective, shivering. "That's it, isn't it? Where we're
going."
"That, or somewhere beneath it." He took the farseer
back from her and handed it to Hesseth. Who looked it over
with catlike curiosity before finally raising it to her eye to
look through it.
Naked stone, polished to an ice-slick surface. A six-
sided tower that rose up from the earth like a basalt column,
as though Erna herself had vomited it up from the volcanic
depths of her core. A structure that widened as it rose so
that the walls were forced outward, doubly discouraging
anyone who might try to scale it.

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It was structurally impossible, plain and simple.
Earthquakes might not strike here, but the sun still shone
and the seasons still progressed, as in any normal place.
And any mass that huge, that solid, was bound to develop
flaws as Nature went through her paces. Uneven expansion
and contractions, the erosion of wind and ice, the
deforming pressure of its own top-heavy mass . . . such a
monument could not exist and therefore it did not, simple
as that. Not even a Warding would hold it together, against
such complex forces. Which meant that something else was
involved.
"Illusion?" he mused aloud.
The women looked at him. "You think?" Ciani asked.
"‘When one is in the presence of the seemingly
impossible, that which is merely unlikely becomes more
plausible by contrast.' That's a quote, you know, from-" He
stopped suddenly, even as the words came to his lips. And
forced himself to voice them. "The Prophet," he told them.
"His writings."
"Gerald," Ciani whispered.
He said nothing.
"He's in there, isn't he?" Her voice was low and even,
but in it was such yearning, such hurting, that it made his
soul ache to hear it. "Trapped in there."

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"That's likely," he agreed. Knowing, even as he spoke,
that it was more than likely. It was certain. He could feel
that in his bones, as if his link to the Hunter had allowed
knowledge to take root there, without his even knowing it.
"Whatever's left of him," he said quietly. "Remember the
dreams of fire."
She nodded, remembering. More than mere dreams, but
less than true Knowings. How much could they trust such
visions?
She stared at the distant citadel, and whispered, "He's in
pain."
"Yeah." He forced himself to look away, toward the
citadel in the distance. "So are a lot of other people, whose
lives he destroyed. Not to mention the hundreds he's
killed."
"Damien-"
"Ciani. Please." He knew what was coming, and dreaded
it. "He took his chances. If he's-"
"We have to help him," she whispered.
He could feel his chest tighten - in anguish, in fury. But
before he could speak she added quickly, "It's not just

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because he needs help. That wouldn't be enough for you, I
understand that. It's because we need him." With slender
hands she turned him to face her, so that his eyes were
forced to meet hers. "In that citadel - or beneath it - are
three things. A human sorcerer, who's already proven
himself capable of killing our best. A high-order demon
who may be defended by dozens - if not hundreds - of his
kind. And a single man who can wield more power than
you and I could ever dream of - and will wield it, in our
defense, if he's free to do so. Don't you see?" She shook
her head tensely, her bright eyes fixed on him. There was
wetness gathering in the outer corner of one of them. "It's
not a matter of sentiment, Damien, or even ethical
judgment. It's the odds against us, plain and simple. Gods, I
want to come out of this alive. I want to come out of this
whole. And now, with your Fire gone, Senzei murdered . . .
don't we stand a better chance of success, with Tarrant's
power on our side?"
"I would sooner walk through the gates of hell," he told
her, "than loose that man on the world again. Do you
realize what he is? Do you realize what he does? The
hundreds of people who will suffer because of him - the
thousands! - because we set him free?"
"You had an agreement with him. You said that for as
long as we were traveling together-"
"And I damned well stood by that agreement, though
every minute I encouraged him rather than cutting him

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down will count against me at my day of judgment. No, I
wouldn't have made a move against him while we were
traveling together - but God in heaven, Cee, am I supposed
to go in after him now that someone else has? Risk my life
to save him?"
"He's trapped in there because of me-"
"He's in there because he values his own vulking life
more than fifty of yours - and mine - combined! Because
some little footnote in his survival contract dictated that he
come here in order to safeguard his own existence. Nothing
more than that - nothing, Cee! The man's a monster - even
worse than that, a monster who once was human. That's far
more dangerous than your average demonkind. Do you
think he really cares for you? Do you think he cares for
anything, other than his own continued existence? He'd
sacrifice you in a minute if you stood in his way." The
words were pouring from him like a flood tide, and with it
poured all his anger. All his hatred for the man and what he
represented. Everything he had been suppressing for weeks.
"Do you know what he did to his wife, his family? Do you
imagine you'd rate any better, if he thought that it would
profit him to kill you? Do you think he values you more
than he valued those of his own blood? He would kill you
without a second thought - and worse, if he stood to gain
from it."
"Don't get me wrong," she said quietly. "I have no
illusions about his nature. I think maybe I even understand

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him a little better than you can" - and her eyes narrowed -
"seeing as I'm not half-blinded by theological prejudice.
Let me tell you what he is. Strip away the sword and the
collar, and all the accoutrements of his evil . . . and what
you come up with is an adept, plain and simple. What I
was."She just stared at him for a moment, giving the words
time to sink in. "We're the same," she whispered, "he and
I."
"Cee, you're not-"
"Listen to me. Try to understand. It's not what you want
to hear, I know that. Why do you think I never said it
before? For all our closeness, there's a part of me you never
really knew. A part you didn't want to know. A part no
nonadept could ever understand . . . except maybe Zen. I
think, sometimes, that he did."
She put a hand on his arm - but the contact felt cold, and
strangely distant. Uncomforting. "We were born the same
way, Gerald Tarrant and I. Not like your kind, in the midst
of a comprehensible world, born to parents who could
foresee your troubles and prepare for them. Most born
adepts don't make it past infancy. Or if they grow up, they
grow up insane. The infant brain just can't handle that kind
of input - it's too much, too chaotic, they can't sort it out.
We spend our lives trying to adapt, fighting to impose some
kind of order on the universe. He did it. So did I. Different
paths, but the end goal was the same: stability. Of
ourselves, and of our world."

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"And now, suddenly, you remember all this?" he asked
sharply. He hated himself the minute the words left his
mouth, for how they might hurt her. But it was as if the
hatred had opened a floodgate; he could do nothing to stop
the words from coming.
"I Shared his memories. He offered," she said quickly.
"And why not? It's a means of learning, isn't it? They
weren't memories from the . . . not from the time after he
changed. Not that, oh no. But from his human years. And
gods, the richness of them, the depth . . ."
He closed his eyes, understanding at last. The darkness
within her. The taint he had sensed, without knowing how
to define it. Tarrant had poured his soul into her, to fill the
empty places in hers. And in the short term it had probably
assuaged her pain, somewhat. It had certainly given her a
knowledge base to replace what she had lost, something to
draw on. But in the long run . . . he had to turn away from
her, lest she see the rage in his eyes. The hate. And the
mourning . . .
She would be unable to leave him behind. Physically
unable, due to his influence. Period. No matter what he said
or did, it could be no other way.
"As for what he is, that's just his adaptation," she said.
"Don't you see? To you it means something else, it's all
tied up with questions of faith and honor - but to me it's

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just that. A terrible adaptation, it's true - I don't deny that -
but does that make it any less of an accomplishment? He's
alive. He'ssane. Not many of our kind can lay claim to that
much."
"I wonder about the sanity," he muttered, bitterly.
"Damien." She said it softly, her tone so gentle that it
awakened memories of other places, better times. She
touched the side of his face with a soft hand, chilled by the
morning breezes. "Don't you want him on our side? Don't
you want that kind of power on our side?"
And live with that, all the rest of my life? He shuddered
at the thought.The knowledge that I was the one who made
it possible for the Hunter to feed again. All the hundreds he
would torment, feast upon, kill . . . their deaths would be on
my head, all of them. A multitude of innocents who would
have been alive, but for me.
"I can't," he whispered. "I can't do it."
For a moment there was silence. Then a hand touched
his arm. Strong, and with sharp nails that pierced through
his sleeve. Not Ciani.
He opened his eyes, and saw Hesseth standing before
him.

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"Listen to me," she said softly. Her voice a half-whisper,
half-hissing. "It's not just your species at risk here,
remember? I was sent with you because rakh are dying, in
every part of this region. People every bit as real and as
‘innocent' as the humans you ache so to protect. Suffering,
no less than the victims of your Hunter. Are all those lives
worth nothing to you?" She glanced back at Ciani. "I
despise your killer companion. I sympathize with your
hatred of him. But I also tell you this: Our chances of
success in this are next to nothing without him." She bared
her teeth, an expression of warning. "You tell me to bury
my primitive instincts, act with my head. Now it's time for
you to do that. Because if we fail here, we doom my people
to more and more attacks like the ones that take place in
Lema now. Maybe even outside the Canopy, later, among
your own people. Is that what you want? To waste all our
effort?" She growled softly. "I say we go to this place and
see what our options are. If we have a clear shot at our
enemy, we use it. But if not, and we think we can liberate
this Hunter of yours . . . then we'd be fools not to, priest,
and that's the simple truth. And I have no tolerance for
foolishness when it threatens my life."
For a moment he couldn't answer. For a moment the
words were all bottled up inside him, like a wine under
pressure. Waiting to explode. And then he exhaled slowly,
slowly; an exercise in self-control. Two breaths. Another.
At last he spoke, in the low monotone of one who has
choked back so hard on his feelings that nothing, not even
normal emotions, can surface in his speech.

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"All right," he said. "As you say. We'll see what the
situation is, first, and then decide. The three of us." He felt
somehow polluted, shamed by his betrayal of . . . what? His
people? The rakh? The matter was too complex for simple
answers, and he knew it. But he felt as though he had
betrayed his faith - himself - and the shame of that burned
like fire. He turned away from them both, lest they see the
hot reddening of his cheeks. Lest they guess at his shame.
Lest they realize that beneath his bitter hatred of Tarrant
there ran an undercurrent of something else. A sharp sense
of relief, that when they finally went into battle they might
have Tarrant's power backing them. And that shamed him
more than anything.
Damn you, Tarrant. Damn you to hell. "All right," he
whispered. Hoarsely, as though the words hurt his throat.
"Let's do it." You'd better be worth it, you bastard.
Forty-one
Caverns.Not like the tunnels of the Lost Ones, which
had been carved and plastered and buttressed and adorned
for rakhene convenience; these were empty spaces, utterly
lifeless, whose silence was broken only by the slow drip of
water as it wended its way down from the surface, chamber
by chamber. Tunnels that were comfortably six feet in
height would shrink to a mere crawlspace yards later.
Room-sized chambers that accommodated four people
would be reduced to mere crevices at their farther end,

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requiring a painstaking divestment of all supply packs
before the party could pass through. Steep inclines dead-
ended against blank walls and pits dropped down into
seeming nothingness, while shallow lakes, mirror-surfaced,
made it all but impossible to guess at the hazards that lay
underneath.
Under the best of circumstances, progress would have
been slow. With what they had to deal with - inadequate
lighting, lack of proper tools, and an enemy who might turn
their own Workings against them - it was maddeningly
frustrating. Though they knew that they were only a short
distance from their objective, it was impossible to travel a
straight line in the torturous underground system.
Sometimes the most promising route would double back on
itself, returning them to a point they had passed by hours
ago. The pierced one was doing what he could to guide
them, but even his rakhene sense of direction could do
them little good in such a place. They could only fight their
way forward step by step, chamber by chamber, and hope
thatground gained exceededground lost in the long run.
What kept them going was the knowledge that there
was, for them, no other way. Unless they were ready to
break into the citadel itself, this was the only known
entrance to the labyrinth beneath it. And so they fought on,
and kept their weapons tightly in hand as they wended their
way through the underearth - ever aware that if the demons
attacked them, it would be without light, without warning,
and without mercy.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At last, wary of the weakness that exhaustion would
conjure, they found themselves a chamber more defensible
than most and slept. Briefly. Having no knowledge of how
many hours had passed since they had first entered the
random tunnels, or whether sunlight or darkness reigned in
the world above. They stood guard in teams, as they had
above ground, but silently Damien questioned the efficacy
of such an arrangement. If the demons they sought could
shed their human form, then there was no truly defensible
place; the earth was too full of mysterious cracks and
crevices, and dark pits that extended to other levels of the
labyrinth. So he made sure that his sword was close at hand
and napped in a sitting position, springbolt braced against
his knees.
How much time did they have to search? He wished he
knew. Even if Tarrant's Working had succeeded in buying
them cover it would only work for as long as the party's
doppelgangers were alive. The minute those poor doomed
souls reached Sansha Crater and the ambush took them, the
deception was ended forever. And in that moment their
enemy, who very likely knew the party's purpose - or at
least guessed at it - would begin to search his domain with
a fine-toothed comb, searching for them.
He hoped that the simulacra would take longer than
expected to reach their goal. And hated himself for doing
so. He hated himself for wanting the deception to work at
all; for being grateful that five innocents had been doomed

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to a grisly death, instead of his own party. But worst of all
were those rare instants when he was honest enough to
admit that he was grateful to Tarrant for making that move
without asking him. Without giving him the chance to stop
it. That gratitude was like a cancer on his soul, a growing
uncleanliness which he lacked the knowledge - or perhaps
the will - to eradicate.
It's what he said he would do to me, he thought darkly.
Exactly what he described. The thought of going in to
rescue the man was doubly abhorrent because of it. But the
longer they traveled, the closer their destination loomed in
his mind, the more Damien was forced to admit that they
needed him. Plain and simple. As for the ramifications of
that . . . he would deal with them later.
When he slept he dreamed of fire, and it burned in his
brain with such an intensity that his skin was actually
flushed with fever when he awakened, as though the fire
burned within him. From the place where Ciani lay curled
up, asleep, he heard soft moans of anguish, and he knew
without needing to ask that the same dream had her in
thrall. Neither Hesseth nor the pierced one seemed troubled
by such visions, but who could say whether the mechanism
of their sleep bore any similarity to a human standard?
There was no way to judge whether something was in the
currents that only humans might respond to, or - a far more
alarming possibility - whether Tarrant himself was the
source of those visions, using his links with Damien and
Ciani to communicate in symbols what he lacked the ability

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to send in words. But fire? From the Hunter? He considered
many possible causes for that, in the hours they traveled,
and all of them were chilling.
It wasn't until long after their sleep break - when they
were taking a brief rest in a large, dry chamber - that he
thought to mention it to his rakhene companions. To his
surprise the pierced one responded immediately.
"It is the fire of the earth,"Hesseth translated.
Suggesting by her hesitation a far more complex phrase,
with connotations that had no parallel in her own dialect.
"It lives in this place."
Damien heard Ciani's sudden indrawn breath, felt
excitement stir within him. "Fire of the earth? What is that?
Ask him?"
She did so. And listened to the answer at length, and
questioned him about it, before turning again to her human
listeners. "I'm not sure of this," she warned them. "His
language is very unclear. Highly symbolic. But what I
make of it is that here, somewhere in these caverns, is a fire
which the earth itself supplies with fuel. He says it burned
when his people first came here, and kept burning in all the
time they occupied this region. Before the falling-threat
finally drove them away. It has some kind of . . . spiritual
significance, I think."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"The word is religious,"Damien said quietly. "Go on."
"That's all he knows. They don't have the kind of oral
tradition we do; all he remembers are snatches of stories,
that were retold because of their dramatic value." She
smiled slightly. "I gather the young of his kind are
threatened with being thrown into this fire if they
misbehave too often."
"A fire of the earth," Ciani whispered.
And he nodded. Not in response to what she said, but to
what she was thinking. Because there was no question
about it: the fire of the earth was Tarrant's fire, the same
yellow flame that haunted their dreams and their thoughts,
which seemed to guard the secret of their dark companion's
disappearance. As soon as he even considered that
connection he knew it for the truth. It was as though some
some vital circuit in his brain had finally closed - or as
though the channel between Tarrant and himself allowed
that much knowledge to flow, before distance and distaste
could occlude it. And he knew, without asking Ciani, that
her experience was the same.
"Tarrant's fire," he muttered. "Fed by the earth? I'd
guess fossil fuel, in some form. Probably solid, or a shifting
of the earth would have cut the supply channel at some
point."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Except that the earth hasn't moved here," Ciani
reminded him.
"It's moved some. Maybe not enough to shake the
ground hard - maybe so little that no one's ever aware of it
- but it moves. It has to." He turned to Hesseth. "Ask him if
he knows where it is. Ask him if he can tell us anything of
how to find it."
She talked to the pierced one again, and this time it was
clear he was the one having difficulty. After a time he
answered her, haltingly, and she told the humans, "Deep
down. Very deep down. I'm not sure whether he means the
lowest caverns in this system, or the lowest caverns not
underwater. Or even the lowest caverns not rakh-made;
there might be tunnels that were dug below that level,
later."
"Good enough," Damien muttered.
"Damien?" Ciani put a hand on his arm; he noted that
she was trembling slightly. "What are you thinking?"
"That it may be a safe way in," he told her. He put his
own hand over hers, and squeezed it tightly in reassurance.
"We can't Know the caverns, because then our enemy
would See exactly where we are. We can't Locate Tarrant,
because the minute we tried we'd be opening up a channel
that our enemy could use to strike at us. But a fire? A

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simple fire? A straightforward Working, fixed on that . . . it
would be doubly safe, because he'd never anticipate it.
How could he know that we'd even heard of the fire of the
earth? How could he anticipate that we would understand
its significance? It just might work, Cee. Safely. We just
might get away with it."
In a voice very still, very fragile, she asked, "You'll go
after him?"
For a moment there was only the darkness around them,
and the chill silence of the underworld. Then, choosing his
words very carefully, he told her, "I said I'd take the best
way in, didn't I? I said if it turned out the best thing to do,
I'd go with it." You have no idea what it's going to cost me
to save that man, he thought grimly. Or of what it will cost
our world, to have him free in it. But Hesseth was right. If
his strength and his knowledge can help end this plague,
then I have no real choice, do I? We use the tools we must.
"If nothing else, it gives us a clear road in. And God
knows, we need that."
Then he took her hand in both of his, warmed it between
his palm. "The relationship you had with him means that
you know him better than I can," he said softly. Trying to
keep his voice utterly neutral, trying not to let his tone and
manner betray how appalling he found that fact. "He knows
how abhorrent I found him. He knows how much I
despised him, for everything he represented. Tell me this, if
you can . . . if he were in trouble - captured, let's say, and

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in pain, incapable of helping himself - does he think that I
would come after him?" When she hesitated, he added, "Or
that I would let our party come to help him? Or does he
think I would leave him to die - perhaps even be grateful to
our enemy for arranging it?"
For a long time she stared at him, as if by doing so she
could read what was in his mind. But he was careful to
keep his expression neutral, and at last she answered,
"There's not any real question about that, is there?"
"Hebelieves it."
She hesitated, then nodded.
"He believes itutterly."
This time the nod came faster.
"What is it?" Hesseth asked. "What does that mean?"
"If our enemy were rakhene, nothing. But it has to do
with the way human sorcery works - with the way that our
enemy would naturally use Gerald Tarrant as a focus for
any Working that concerned us."
"He would take the knowledge of our plans from his
mind?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Either that, or use it as a . . . say, a filter of sorts, for a
more general Knowing. But either way . . ." His hands
tightened about Ciani's. A familiar excitement was
beginning to course through his veins, driving out all
memory of fatigue and frustration. This was the approach
they needed, at last; it felt right, in a way that years of
experience had taught him to trust. "He wouldn't see us
coming," he whispered fiercely. "If Tarrant thinks what you
say he does, if he's that certain of it . . . why would the
enemy assume him wrong? It means that way would would
be only lightly guarded, if at all. And probably not Worked
against us. But most important . . . it means we have a way
to find our way through this damned labyrinth without
being caught at it. Praise God," he breathed. "Now, let's
just hope that when we get that bastard back . . ."
He released Ciani and lifted his springbolt. And tested
the draw, to make sure it was tightly cocked.
"Let's just say he'd better earn his keep," he warned her.
Caverns. So deep within the earth that the earth-fae itself
faded to a whisper: a mere hint of power with no sense of
motion about it. A shallow pool of unWorked potential,
utterly unlike the swift-flowing currents that coursed on the
planet's surface. But for what Damien intended, it was
enough. He cast his will out upon the mirror stillness of its
surface and shaped it slowly, carefully, to serve his
intentions. After a moment, there was a ripple - more felt

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than seen, like a shadow of thought that flitted through the
mind without taking form - and then the fae began to flow.
Slowly. Not as it would have done on the surface of the
planet, where the power born of seismic disruption was
constantly pouring into it, stirring it to life. But moving
nonetheless, with clear direction. It was enough.
"Toward the fire," Damien whispered. And they Worked
their sight - with effort - and followed it. Wading
downcurrent, following the whispery power as it clung to
the edges of water-carved stone, marking a path that they
might tread. The pierced one was silent now, his jangling
ornaments bound up with bits of cloth so that they might
not betray the party. Nor did he speak, but climbed through
the caverns lost in the web of his own thoughts.
Communing with his gods, perhaps, or contemplating his
masculine bravado. Whatever it was, it served their purpose
well enough; Damien encouraged it.
And then they came to a place where the last chamber
narrowed, until all that led from it was a low-ceilinged
crawlspace, barely wide enough to accommodate a man.
Small formations edged its upper surface like teeth, and
two stalagmites the thickness of a man's wrist rose from its
mud-covered floor. Damien looked at it dubiously, was
about to speak - and then heard a gasp behind him that
caused him to whip about with his weapon at the ready.
It was Ciani. Pale as a ghost, shivering as though she
had just seen - or heard - something utterly terrifying. She

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had her hands up before her face as if trying to ward off
some terrible danger - but when Damien turned back in
response to that gesture, to seek out the cause of her terror,
he saw nothing more than he had previously. Only empty
stone corridors, weakly coursing fae, and glistening of
moisture on slender calcite branches.
"The smell," she whispered. "Gods, I remember . . ."
He came to her then, handed his weapon to Hesseth -
who understood, and was ready to take it - and took the ex-
adept into his arms. And held her tightly, making his body
into a shield that might protect her from all dangers.
"I smell it," she whispered. "Can't you? I remember
running . . . Gods, I must have come this way. There were
places . . . I thought . . . but I had so little light, then, and so
little strength . . . and these caves all look the same, don't
they? But I thought . . . oh gods, don't you see, I've been
here . . ."
Then she lowered her head to his chest and sobbed
softly there; he stroked her hair gently and wished he could
will some of his own strength into her. It had been bound to
happen, this outburst, and he'd been expecting it . . . but he
knew that there was even worse to come, and so he just
held her, gently, and let her have her tears. God knows,
she'd been holding them in long enough.

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Soon she'll remember all of it. All of it! Her capture, her
captivity, whatever torture she endured at the hands of
these creatures . . . it'll all return to her in an instant. A
single blow. What will that be like? So much terror pouring
back into her, all those years of suffering relived in an
instant . . . this is nothing, compared to it. Her hardest
moment will be the one in which we restore her to what she
was.
When he thought she was capable of listening to him, he
said to her gently, "You couldn't have come this way, Cee.
Think about it. You'd have had to come through that
tunnel, and you'd have had to break the formations to do it.
Right? They're still there."
"It's the smell," she whispered. Her whole body was
shaking. She clung to him desperately "It's like that all
through their tunnels. Can't you smell it? I couldn't escape
it. I ran and ran, and I couldn't get away from it . . ."
He tested the air, caught a faint whiff of sourness com-
ing from the tunnel. Too faint, or else too unfamiliar, for
him to identify; he looked to Hesseth and saw her nod
grimly.
"Carrion," she hissed softly. And the pierced one
concurred. "Rotting carrion," she translated for him.
The region of no, he thought. The place of dying.

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"All right," he muttered. "We're going through. The
fae'll guide us to the fire all right, so if we see anything
move we shoot - or swing, or whatever - and worry about
what it was later. Agreed?"
Ciani nodded, as did Hesseth. When the khrast woman
translated for their pierced companion, he bared his teeth
and hissed aggressively, his naked tail curling at the tip. I'll
take that for a yes, Damien thought.
He approached the narrow passageway and studied it.
Had it been clear of mud and monuments it might have
been wide enough for him - barely - but as it was, there was
no clear way through.
"How strong are those things?" he asked the pierced
one, pointing to one of the slender stalagmites.
It took the Lost One a moment to realize what he was
driving at. Then he answered, "When small, very brittle.
When that large," - and he pointed to the two stalagmites
rising from the mud-covered floor - "they will still crack, if
much force is applied."
"Good enough," he muttered. He opened the buckles on
his sword's harness and lowered the sheathed weapon from
his back. "Hand this through as soon as I'm out," he said,
giving it to Ciani. Tarrant's sword had been affixed to the

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same harness, but he unfastened it so that it would come
through separately. All he needed in a moment of trouble
was to grab the wrong one. Even through its multiple layers
of wrapping the cold sword throbbed with malevolence,
and Damien thought he perceived a certain . . . call it
hunger. Was that because it sensed it was close to its
master/creator? Or because it knew that soon it might be
going into battle, with all the mayhem that implied?
He divested himself of all the layers he could: outer
jacket, fleece vest, thick overshirt. He left on the thick
leather undervest which had saved his life on so many
occasions, and hoped that its bulk wasn't too excessive.
"Leave the general supplies here," he ordered. "Take
weapons, tools, some food and water. We'll come back
here when we're done." Ifwe can."Take light," he added.
And he removed the precious pouch of Fire from his belt
and hung it about his neck instead, so that it might not
impede him in the narrow passageway.
Then: head first, shoulders brushing the uneven walls as
he crawled slowly through. He had a long knife clasped in
his teeth so that whatever danger might lurk on the other
side would not find him unarmed, or unready. Thin calcite
spines caught on his shut as he passed, snapped off like
burrs as he pressed onward. Good enough. He elbowed his
way forward, through a tunnel that grew narrower and
narrower, until he could feel the stone walls pressing close
on both sides of him. Then he came to the first of the
slender formations, and he leaned all his weight against it;

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it snapped off cleanly near the base, and he set it to one
side. The same with the second. The tunnel widened
somewhat, enough that he could crawl through. And then
opened suddenly, without warning, into a much larger
chamber.
He thrust himself into it and rolled to his feet, and then
reached back the way he had come. Ciani had followed
after him, close enough that when she extended his long
sword toward him he was able to grasp its hilt and draw it.
Thus armed, he surveyed his surroundings. A large room,
empty of adversaries but filled with the reek of their
presence. He saw where a tunnel opposite had been
widened to allow for more comfortable passage, and he
thought with grim satisfaction, This is it. This is where
they'll be.
"Come through," he whispered. "Carefully."
They did, with considerably less difficulty than he'd
had. He noted that if they fled this way he would need to
make sure he went through last, in order that they might not
be delayed while he squeezed his bulk through the passage.
Not a cheery thought.
"Can you See?" he asked Ciani. And even more than
listening for her answer, he watched for her response. But
she seemed to be somewhat under control, and she nodded
as she gazed down at the fae. "Barely," she whispered. "It's
very weak."

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"But it'll have to do. We can't use real light in here;
they'd see it coming miles away." Again she nodded, and
he extinguished their illumination. It had only been
minimal to start with, a bare spark of fire in a mostly
hooded lantern, but now it was gone. He handed the lantern
to Ciani, who hooked it to her belt. And looked down at the
earth-fae, to see which way his guiding current was
flowing.
"This way," he whispered, and he led them into the heart
of the demons' lair.
It was dark, and cold, and rank with the smell of death.
The chill of it seemed to exceed the natural cold of the
underneath, as though some force had leached the heat
from the very stone about them; Damien thought of the
Hunter's sword - now strapped again to his harness - and
wondered at the similarity. An eater of souls, the pierced
rakh had called it. Like the ones they were hunting. How
similar were they, really?
And then Hesseth whispered Hsssst!in warning, and
Damien fell back. The cold stone behind him pressed
Tarrant's sword even closer, so that its unnatural chill
lanced into his back muscles; he had to fight not to alter his
position, to remain utterly still and utterly silent while his
companions also hid, waiting for any sight or sound that
might tell him what the danger was. And after a moment, it
came. The padding of flesh on stone, the whisper of

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clothing. The hoarse breathing of one who has no need to
be silent, the muttered conversation of one who knows no
reason to fear.
Then they came around the corner, and Damien paused
just long enough to acertain that there were only two of
them before he swung. He put all his strength into it,
knowing that the unWorked steel was all but invisible to
their fae-sight. And the full force of it hit the first creature
at neck level and sliced through muscle and bone with a
crack, coming out the other side with some speed still left
in it. The creature's head struck the wall, bloodily, and
caromed off it to the floor; its body sank slowly, as if not
yet fully cognizant of the fact of its death. Damien turned to
the other one, quickly, ready to face whatever manner of
defense the surprised creature could muster - but the face
that stared at him had a black hole in the place of one eye,
from which acrid smoke and golden sparks issued as he
watched. He caught sight of the rear metal band of a bolt as
the creature twitched, the Fire spreading in its veins like
poison. And he turned back to see Ciani standing with
springbolt in hand, an expression that was half fear and half
pride suffusing her countenance.
"It seemed like the thing to do," she whispered.
Damien leaned down to inspect the headless body.
Vaguely human in shape, it was dressed in an assortment of
mismatched garments, haphazardly arranged. Barefoot.
After a moment he placed his hand on its flesh and

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muttered "Warm. The body's alive. Not just a demon, then.
Truly embodied."
"What does that mean?" Hesseth asked.
"It means they bleed. It means they die." He looked up
at her; he could feel the fierceness in his own expression.
"It means that whatever these things are, the odds in our
favor just got a little better."
They hid the bodies as well as they could. They couldn't
wash the blood from the ground or drive the reek of
burning flesh from the area, but at least if someone passed
through quickly they wouldn't see what had happened. The
earth-fae was faint enough here that whoever relied upon it
for sight might miss seeing details. The dark fae, though far
more intense, clearly had no love of carrion; it withdrew
from the corpses as it would withdraw from cold, unliving
stone, and therefore offered no illumination.
"Good enough," Damien muttered at last.
They went on. Damien in the lead, with Hesseth right
beside him. Her senses of hearing and smell were clearly
more accurate than his, so he trusted her to be on guard for
approaching danger. He studied the current, and the walls,
and tried to get some feel for the lay of the land. At least
this cavern system had been modified so that a man might
walk through it upright. He had given one springbolt to the

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rakh-woman, and Ciani carried the other. Damien preferred
his sword, not because it was more efficient - it wasn't - or
even because it was marginally quieter - it was - but
because it was . . . well, familiar. A weapon he had wielded
through so many battles, relied upon in so many tight
situations, that using it was like using part of his body.
Second nature. And besides, he told himself,it doesn't need
reloading. The pierced one carried a slender wooden spear,
brought with him from his home caverns. If the look on his
face was any guide, he knew how to use it.
Well armed and more than ready, he thought grimly.
They passed through a number of chambers and
passageways, including some where several routes
intersected. At each of these he paused, and worked to
commit the place to memory. He didn't dare mark the walls
here as he had during their descent; the marks he made
would be as likely to lead their enemies to them as serve
any purpose of theirs.
And then they came to it. It was the pierced one who felt
it first, and hissed sharp sounds to Hesseth in warning.
"Heat," she translated. "From up ahead." They looked at
each other. "I don't feel it," the rakh-woman whispered.
"You wouldn't, necessarily," Damien whispered back.
"Specialized senses. The temperature belowground is so
constant, any change would have significance." He nodded
his approval - and his admiration - to the pierced one. And

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checked the current carefully before he moved again.
Now, if possible, they were doubly alert. If there were
guards at all, they would be here. Damien felt a breeze
brush by his face, something far more suited to open spaces
than this underground warren. And then he understood: the
fire. Drawing oxygen, and with it air. Creating suction as it
burned, so that fresh air would be drawn to it. How else
could it keep burning so long, regardless of its fuel?
"Very close," he whispered. He signaled for them to
stop, and strained his senses to the utmost. The fetid stink
of the demons' lair was stronger here, perhaps concentrated
by the fire's pull. Not certain that Hesseth would pick up
any smell besides that foul odor, he listened for a hint of
movement. None. Not a sound or a smell to hint at the
presence of any other being in this chamber, or in any
adjoining passage. It was almost too good to be true.
He doesn't expect us here,he reminded himself. There
was a chance - just a chance - that the fire wasn't guarded.
At all. If so, they might even make contact with Tarrant
before anyone realized they were there . . .
And then all hell breaks loose. Because no matter what
their enemy was doing with Tarrant, he'd damn well be
monitoring the results. Which meant that the moment they
interfered with his plans, he'd be aware of both their
presence and their purpose. They'd be lucky if he didn't
blast them right on the spot; if he lacked that kind of power

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he'd certainly send his people after them, and it was a good
bet the resident soul-eaters knew this labyrinth better than
Damien and his company.
We'll deal with that when we get to it.
There was light, now, flickering and faint - but real light,
golden light, like the kind that came from a natural fire. It
seemed to Damien that now he, too, could feel heat on his
face, as if each few steps brought him into a place where
the air was noticeably warmer. He felt a cold buzz course
up his back, as though Tarrant's sword was somehow upset
by the concept of warmth. Tough shit, he thought to it. He
turned a sharp corner and squeezed around an obstruction -
the light was much brighter now, and it seemed that in the
distance he could hear the roar of flames - and then Fire.
Burning so brightly that he had to turn away from it.
Burning so hot that the skin of his face reddened, just from
standing before it. For a moment he saw nothing but the
fire itself, a narrow-based bonfire that blazed upward a
good fifty feet before licking even farther into a wide crack
in the cavern's upper surface. The chamber it was in was a
good forty feet wide, if not more, and a jagged crack ran
down the center of the floor; it was the middle of that
which had broken open, giving access to the limitless fuel
beneath. Sometime in the distant past someone or
something must have ignited it - but that moment was little
more than legend now, if that. As far as the Lost Ones were
concerned, the fire had burned forever.

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He forced himself away from the entrance so that the
others might follow. And scanned the chamber as well as
he could, for any sign of enemy activity. But for as much as
his darkness-adapted eyes could see past the blazing fire, it
seemed they were alone. Except for a pile of fabric against
the far wall, and a long, slender object that lay atop it . . .
He walked toward it, half-aware that the others were
following. He had a terrible feeling about what it was and
fervently hoped he was wrong. But when he got to the pile
at last, he saw that it was indeed what he had feared.
Midnight blue silk and fine gray worsted, in layers that
were all too familiar. And atop it all an empty sheath, its
surface inscribed with at least a dozen ancient symbols . . .
Tarrant's sheath. Tarrant's clothing. He felt sick, realizing
why they were here.
He looked at the bonfire - squinted against its glare, and
tried to make out details - and at last muttered, "He's there.
In that."
Ciani shivered, and looked at the fire. And then said,
"But it isn't Worked. How could it hold him-"
"He can't Work fire," Damien said tightly. "Or anything
connected to it." It seemed to him that for a moment he
understood what that meant, what it felt like for a being that
powerful to be rendered impotent - utterly neutralized - by
so simple a means. And the pain of it, the utter humiliation
ofit, was so intense that he nearly staggered back, as

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though struck. For a man of the Hunter's arrogance to be
trapped thus . . . he wondered if that fierce pride could
survive such an experience. If the identity he knew as
Gerald Tarrant could emerge from it unscathed - or even
recognizable.
"I think," he said slowly, "if there's any one facet of our
enemy that terrifies me . . . it's how well he knows us. How
well he knows how to get to each of us."
He walked toward the fire slowly, his eyes filling with
tears as the heat of it seared his face. He came as close as
he dared and then stopped and stared into it. Into the brutal
heart of it, the blazing core of its heat.
And he could barely make out, amidst the dancing
flames, the black figure of a man. Stretched out across the
opening, arms spread out in a cruciform arrangement. The
fingers - if there still were fingers - would be just inches
short of the fire's edge. Damien looked for some kind of
support, saw the blunt ends of coarse steel bars resting on
both sides of the crevice. The metal glowed with heat
where it lay against the stone floor. If he lay on that
framework, perhaps bound to it . . . merciful God. No doubt
it was the powerful air currents, fire-stirred, that kept the
smell of roasting flesh from reaching them. Damien had no
doubt that it was there, in quantity.
"We have to turn it off," he muttered. His mind racing as
it considered - and discarded - at least a dozen options. "I

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can't get to him while it burns."
"Smother it?" Ciani asked. She was by his side, a hand
shielding her eyes as if from bright sunlight.
"Can't. There's air coming in, all along there." He
indicated the narrower portions of the crevice. "If not from
underneath, too."
"Block it?" Hesseth asked.
He bit his lower lip as he considered that. "Going to
have to try," he said at last. "The earth-fae's weak, but I
can't think of another good option." He turned back toward
the chamber's one entrance, saw that the pierced one had
taken up guard there. "They'll be on us the minute I Work.
It may take them time to get down here, but they'll come.
In force. As soon as I alter the fire."
"Then we'll just have to be ready for them," the rakh-
woman said fiercely, and she braced the springbolt against
her shoulder.
He went back where Tarrant's possessions lay, and
considered them. Then he removed the coldfire blade and
unwrapped it, carefully. The Worked steel blazed with a
chill blue light, as blinding as snow - and then was
extinguished, as he thrust it deep into its warded container.
He tested the handle, and sensed no active malevolence.

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Thank heaven for that, anyway.
He positioned the other members of their small company
as best he could, to prepare for the arrival of the enemy's
servants. But: Our best won't be good enough, he thought
darkly. Without Tarrant's power behind them they were no
match for a horde of demons, flesh-dependent or no; they
would have to work fast and get out quickly, and hope that
Tarrant could be restored before battle commenced.
He looked at the body within the flames, and felt despair
uncoiling within him. If he can be restored, he thought
grimly. What if we're doing all this for nothing?
He gathered himself for Working, and stared into the
fire. Stared beneath it, to where the sharp lips of rock gaped
wide above the earth's store of fuel. He Worked his sight -
no easy task, with the earth-fae so thin - and tried to look
deep down into that opening, to assess its structure. But
there was no place immediately below where the walls of
the crevice drew any closer together. With a sigh he
resigned himself to Working its upper edges, and braced
himself for the effort.
And air roared past him, sucked up by the conflagration.
Earth-fae swept past him, too thin to grasp. He tried to
enclose it in his will, to force a form and purpose upon its
tenuous substance - but it ran through his fingers like
smoke and was sucked up into the inferno. Not enough of
it, he despaired. Not enough! He was used to the currents of

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Erna's surface, so deep and rich that the simplest thought
was enough to shape it, the simplest Working enough to
master it . . . but here, Working the fae was like trying to
breathe in a vacuum. There simply wasn't enough power
for what he needed to do.
But there has to be, he thought darkly. Because we have
no other choice. Already he could feel the malignant
thoughts of their enemy closing in around him, like a fist
being clenched. How long did they have before he struck?
Mere minutes, he guessed. He poured everything he had
into his Working: all the force of his hatred for Tarrant, his
love for Ciani, his despair at losing her twice - first to the
assault in Jaggonath, then to Tarrant's corruption. If raw
emotion could master the earth-fae, then he would use that
as his fuel. His will blazed forth in need, in pain, and he
grasped at the elusive power. And fought to weave it into a
barrier, that might bridge the mouth of the crevice. But
there simply wasn't enough fae there to do what he needed.
Again and again he tried, until his soul was scraped raw by
remembered anguish, until his whole body shook from the
force of his exertion. But his Bindings dissolved even as he
made them, and the force of the fire broke through his
every Working.
"I can't" he gasped at last. "Can't do it." His brain was
on fire, his whole body shaking, his plans in chaos. What
now? he thought desperately. What now? Behind him he
could sense Ciani's despair, and it cut into him like a knife.
I failed her. I failed them all.

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How much time had passed, while he wrestled with the
earth-fae? He didn't dare ask. But every second they spent
here increased their danger. Already their only escape route
might be cut off-
Think, man. Think! The earth-fae isn't strong enough
here. The dark fae can't be used to bind fire. There's
nothing we can do by physical means alone. What else is
there? What? Think!
He knew, suddenly. And turned to Hesseth.
"Tidal power," he gasped. "Can you-"
"Not stable," she warned. "Not for solid work. There
would be danger-"
"To hell with the danger! It's that or nothing." He was
drenched with sweat but refused to move back from the
fire."Can you do it?"
For a moment her eyes unfocused, and she stared not at
him, but past him. Through him. He remembered the tidal
fae fluxing over Morgot, the brief rainbow power that had
suddenly filled the sky with brilliance, then vanished with
equal rapidity. It was a fickle power, utterly impermanent.
Dangerously unstable. And right now, it was the only hope
they had left.

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"I can try," she said at last. "But you understand-"
"Just do it!" He was counting down the seconds in his
mind, wondering how long it would take their enemy's
soldiers to reach them. "Do it fast," he whispered. Was it
possible that the enemy's attention had been elsewhere
when they struck, delaying his response? He prayed that it
was so. Every minute counted now.
Hesseth turned her attention to the fire, and he followed
her gaze. He tried to See the forces she was summoning,
but the delicate power eluded him. How much fae would be
available to her, and how long would it last? The tidal
patterns altered minute by minute, as time and tides
progressed about the planet. Even if she could conjure a
barrier for them, would it remain solid long enough for
them to do what they had to?
"There it is," Ciani whispered. Pointing to the crevice. It
could be seen at one edge of the opening, now: a fog, a
darkness, that grew solid even as they watched, and
eclipsed the fire behind it. He felt his heart pounding as he
watched it extend - several inches into the crevice, a foot,
two feet, now halfway across it - and he wiped the sweat
from his face with a salt-soaked sleeve. Go for it, Hesseth.
You can do it. The remaining fire was ragged now, as if
struggling against some unseen bond. Smoke was
beginning to seep from other places along the crevice,
desperately seeking egress from the pit of its birth. For a

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moment he feared that the fire would break out elsewhere,
that Hesseth's Working might force it to break through the
very rock beneath their feet. Then the last of the Fire
spurted upward, licking the ceiling with its orange tongue -
and was suddenly gone, vanished beneath the shadowy
blockage.
It wasn't hard to see what the enemy had done to Gerald
Tarrant; the grating that supported him still glowed red-hot,
supplying them with more than enough light. Atop the thick
steel bars lay a body that had been burned and healed and
burned again, so many times that its surface was little more
than a blackened mass of scar tissue. Where cracks
appeared red blood oozed forth, and it sizzled as it made
contact with the superheated skin. Damien didn't look at
the face - or what was left of it - but he felt hot bile rise in
his throat as he studied the man's bonds. Wide metal bands
bound the Hunter to his rack at the wrist, upper arm, ankle
and neck; they, too, glowed with heat, and had burned their
way deep into his flesh until the edges of bones were
visible.
"How long-" he began.
"Eight days," Ciani whispered. "If they brought him
right here." She looked up at him; her face was drenched
with sweat, or tears. Or both. "What do we do?" she begged
him. "How do we get him off it?"
He fought back his growing sickness and tried to Work.

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It wouldn't take much fae to break those bonds; that was a
simple exercise, a straightforward molecular repulsion. But
either Hesseth's Working had affected the earth-fae or he
was simply too exhausted to Work it. He fought with the
fae until his vision began to darken about the edges, the
whole of the room swimming about him. And then knew, at
last, that he was defeated. The best of his efforts couldn't
conjure more power than there was in this place, and there
simply wasn't enough. Tarrant might have been able to do
it. He couldn't.
He looked up, and saw Ciani's eyes fixed on him. Not
despairing, now, but filled with a feverish excitement. And
with a terrible fear. The combination was chilling.
"The coldfire," she whispered. "The sword."
It took him a moment to realize what she meant. "Too
dangerous-"
"Not for me."
He remembered the malevolence housed within that
blade, and shuddered. "Can you?" he whispered. "Can you
control it?"
She hesitated. "Hecontrols it," she said hoarsely. "But I
think I can use it. For him."

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She went to get the blade. He tried to fight back his
growing sickness, his sense of horror at what she was
attempting. If she tried to master that power and failed,
what would the cost be? He remembered the hunger he had
sensed while handling it, that had so horrified him. What
had the Lost Ones called it - the Eater of Souls?
And then she was back, and the sword was in her hands.
She hesitated just an instant - and he knew in that moment
that she feared it every bit as much as he did - and then
drew it from its sheath. The containment wards let loose
their hold, and the chill power of Tarrant's coldfire blazed
forth freely.
Hot versus cold. Expansion and contraction. If she could
gain control of that frigid force, if she could focus it finely
enough . . . it might be enough to break through those
bonds and free the Hunter. But if not . . .
He saw the barrier flicker for an instant; a burst of flame
shot through it, enveloping Tarrant's torso, and then was
gone. He looked at Hesseth, saw her whole body tense with
the effort of Working. Hang in there,he begged her. Hold
onto it . . .
Ciani touched a hand to the blade - and cried out as the
blue-white power shot up that extremity, up to her
shoulder. Her skin took on the ghostly pallor of long-dead
flesh, and frost rimmed her fingernails. Then she grasped
the shaft of it with that hand, and it seemed that her fingers

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froze closed about the grip. Slowly she extended the
Worked weapon toward the nearest of Tarrant's bonds; he
could see her struggling to bind its power, fighting to
impose her own focus on its chaotic essence. Then the tip
of the sword touched the red-hot metal, and sparks flew.
Coldfire arced upward with electrical brilliance, and
snapped like lightning in the charged atmosphere. Then it
was gone, and the sword was withdrawn . . . and the steel
band that had bound his wrist was shattered, its frosted
pieces falling like shrapnel to the fae-worked barrier
beneath.
Smoke spurted and curled upward through Hesseth's
Working as she struggled to move the sword again. Hold
onto it! Ciani's face had taken on the same ghastly pallor as
her hand, and he could almost hear her heart laboring to
maintain its beat as the Hunter's killing cold invaded her
flesh. Damn the man! Would they free him from death,
only to lose her? He watched her face as a second metal
strap shattered into frozen crystals, saw the pain - and the
fear - that was etched across her brow. Still she continued.
Tarrant's neck was freed now, and Damien's hand closed
tightly about the grip of his own sword. They could cut
through the man's other wrist if they had to, and even his
ankles; let him regenerate the flesh at his leisure, once they
were out of here. He thought he could hear footsteps now, a
distant pounding as if from running feet. The fourth bond
shattered. The sweat on Ciani's face had frozen, and ice
crystals rimmed the bottoms of her eyes. Five. He started to
move forward, saw a wall of flame erupt before him. Ciani!
But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and though

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her hair was singed and the skin of her face burned, Ciani
seemed unharmed.
Hang in there, Hesseth. Just a few minutes longer!
He moved as the sixth bond shattered, so that by the
time Ciani reached to free Tarrant's second ankle he had
hold of the man's flesh, was grasping him tightly about the
wrist. Hot blood scalded his hand, but he knew there was
no time to experiment with less direct measures. As soon as
Ciani had broken the last steel band, he pulled with all his
strength. The body moved like a broken doll, burned flesh
pulling loose from it as it was jerked from the red-hot
framework, scar tissue sizzling as it was dragged across the
grating - and then they were both out of the danger zone,
and just in time. Thin flames licked upward through
Hesseth's barrier and then suddenly, with a roar, shot
upward toward the ceiling, burning with newfound energy.
He felt his own hair curling from the force of the heat,
could only pray that Ciani had made it back in time.
He dragged the body back from the flames, tried to wipe
some of the sweat from his eyes so that he could see. There
was blood on his sleeve; his, or Tarrant's? It no longer
seemed to matter. He was dimly aware of blisters all along
his palm, from where he had grasped the body. His sword-
hand, too - damn, that was careless!
"They're coming!" Hesseth hissed.

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He took up his sword in his right hand, wincing as his
burned palm closed about the rough grip. And saw Ciani
throw a length of cloth about the body - Tarrant's cloak? -
so that when they wanted to move it they might do so
safely.
And then they came. In numbers, as he had feared.
Not a trained guard, but six of the soul-eating creatures
who inhabited this underground lair. They were only the
first wave, no doubt, the ones who had been closest to the
fire when the enemy spotted their activity; there would be
others to follow, dozens more, better armed and far more
dangerous. But for now, these were enough.
The heat of the fire blazed across his back as he turned
to face his attackers. A bolt shot past his head, from Ciani,
but she had fired from too far back; it missed its intended
target and struck the wall, wooden shaft splintering from
the impact. Hesseth had picked up the other springbolt and
she fired it point-blank into the gut of one of the creatures;
even as it pierced his abdomen and came out through his
back he grabbed at the weapon, long claws scoring her arm
as he fought to claim it. A second bolt whistled past
Damien's ear, and this one struck; a shot to the arm that
began to smolder in the pale flesh. Only two of the
creatures were armed, but though they bore sizable swords
they used them clumsily, like men unaccustomed to armed
combat. As Damien engaged the first, trying to keep his
back close enough to the fire that none would circle behind

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him, he wondered what manner of contact was required for
their most deadly mode of attack. Mere touch? Bodily
penetration? He parried his opponent's sword down to the
stone floor and slammed his foot down on it, hard; the
cheap steel snapped with a crack, and the momentum of it
made the creature stagger off-balance, into his own waiting
blade. He wrenched the steel from between the creature's
ribs and swung about just in time to duck a blow that was
coming at him from the side; it cut his arm, but not deeply,
and he moved to take control of their interplay. Where the
hell was the pierced one? He saw Hesseth struggling hand-
to-hand with an attacker, was dimly aware that one was
burning, one had gone off after Ciani, and he could account
for two . . . that left a creature missing, as well as one of his
own party. He prayed fervently that the pierced one knew
how to take care of himself; the thought of trying to find a
way out of these caverns without him was terrifying indeed.
He heard a sudden scream from somewhere behind him
- it didn't sound like one of his companions - and the
smashing of a heavy object into a metal grate. The
screaming became a shrieking as flesh began to sizzle, as
the creature Ciani had forced into the fire roasted in its
core.
Good for her. He parried a cut that was meant to
decapitate him and managed to get his back against a wall.
One, two, three accounted for . . . there was still one
missing, by his reckoning. Gone for help? That was bad.
He saw Hesseth go down, her assailant on top of her, and

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knew with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach what
manner of attack was taking place. But there was no way he
could help her, not with sharp steel thrusting at his gut from
one side and sharp claws threatening his face from the
other. He brought his own blade around two-handed,
forcing the thrust aside - and kicked out at his other
attacker, taking him right in the kneecap. Whatever manner
of flesh they wore, it was as fragile in that joint as its
human counterpart; the creature went down, howling, and it
was no hard work to follow through with a second sharp
kick, into the face. Bone snapped and blood gushed and he
was down for good - and then Damien's other opponent left
himself open along one side of his rib cage and he was
down, too, blood spurting from a gaping wound in his side.
He looked about, saw nothing but blood and dead flesh
about him. He stepped over one of the bodies and ran to
where Hesseth lay, her assailant only now coming to his
feet by her side. Her eyes were dilated, glazed, like the
empty stare of a fish stranded on dry land. Her attacker's
glee made it quite clear what manner of exchange had taken
place between them, and the eyes that gazed out from that
death-white pallor were so like Hesseth's in shape and
expression that Damien felt fresh horror take hold of him as
he raised his sword to strike - and light blazed past him as a
Fire-laden bolt hit home, piercing the creature's eye and
driving deep into his brain. He screamed and fell back; dark
blood gushed from the socket, and other less wholesome
fluids as well. With a twitching motion he fell, and as the
Fire began to consume his brain the whole of his body
shuddered, ripples of pain coursing through his flesh as he

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soundlessly mouthed screams of agony.
Ciani came to where Hesseth lay and helped her up;
dazed, the rakh-woman seemed uncertain as to where she
was, or exactly what had happened. Then she saw the body
of her assailant, and memory returned to her. All of it. As
Ciani helped her to her feet, she whimpered softly in terror.
"The Lost One-" Damien began. But before he could
finish Ciani directed his attention upward, to the wall of the
cavern just over its entranceway. There, clinging to the
jagged stone surface, the pierced one displayed the body of
the last attacker to them proudly. It hung by one ankle,
which was wrapped in the cave-rakh's prehensile tail. Its
throat had been torn out. When he saw that they had
witnessed his kill, the Lost One released the body; it fell to
the floor like a bag of wet cement, bones snapping as it
struck. The cave-rakh then climbed down, serpentine
fingers taking purchase in the tiniest of crevices, tail
grasping at convenient stone protrusions for support.
Damien looked about, and counted the bodies. Six. All
accounted for - but there'd be more, soon enough. "Let's
get out of here," he muttered. He went back to where
Tarrant's body lay, now covered in the folds of his cloak,
and hefted the weight of it up to his shoulder. It was
impossible to tell if any life was left in that limp form, but
at least the heat of it had cooled somewhat. Time enough
later to analyze its condition.

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They ran. As well as they could, considering Hesseth's
wounds and Damien's burden. The rakh-woman turned
back once or twice briefly as if to Work, but whether she
had the strength to do so effectively was something Damien
couldn't begin to guess at. He held his own wounded arm
tightly against him as he wended his way through the
demons' labyrinth, hoping that no blood was dripping to
the floor - because if they left a trail that distinct, all the
Workings in the world couldn't hide it.
At last they came to the narrow tunnel that had been
their entrance into this area. Ciani, who had caught up
Tarrant's possessions in her flight, now threw down a long
silk tunic to cover the rough stone bottom and crawled
through. Tarrant's sword went with her, now safely
sheathed. Hesseth followed, her bright blood staining the
folded silk as she crawled over it. Then the pierced one. By
now Damien though he could hear the faint sounds of
pursuit from the area they had just left.
He lowered Tarrant's body down from his shoulder -
still warm, still bleeding, still utterly lifeless - and, with
great effort, managed to get it far enough into the tunnel
that the pierced one could pull it through. The cloak Ciani
had wrapped around it kept the broken flesh from tearing
on the sharp formations, but he could see at the end of the
tunnel where dark blood, seeping through the wool, had
stained the stone beneath. Quickly Damien divested himself
of his weapons and passed them through the narrow space,
then balled up Tarrant's bloodstained tunic and threw that

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after it. Then, somewhat awkwardly, he began to back
himself into the passageway. Voices sounded from a
nearby corridor as he forced himself through the narrow
space. As his feet reached the other side he felt hands close
about his ankles, meaning to pull him through - but he
kicked them off and halted midway, fumbling in the
darkness for the two stalagmites he had broken earlier.
The earth-fae was weak here, but this Working was a
minor one; it took only seconds for him to use that force to
bind the two slender spires back in place, so that the
passage was once more impassable. Then he thrust out his
feet behind him and let his companions grab hold and pull;
stone edges scraped his sides as the neck of the tunnel
finally let him pass, and he was through - not a second too
soon. Even as he dropped below the lip of the tunnel he
saw a flash of light coming from its opposite end, and
clearly heard voices from the adjoining room.
They crouched there, hearts pounding, and waited.
Hesseth had Obscured their path, but how well? Had they
made it through without leaving a telltale path of blood
behind them, or a more subtle trail of sweat and scent that
the demon-creatures might follow? It was because Damien
had considered that possible that he had risked a few
precious seconds to Work the two stone pinnacles back in
place. Now, as best they could make out, it appeared to be
that move which turned the trick. The creatures stared
down the tunnel for some time, evidently considering it a
viable exit from the area. But it was clear that no man-sized

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being could have made it through that space and left the
formations intact, and so at last they moved on.
"They'll be back," Ciani whispered. "They don't
understand how we got away, but their master will."
"That'll take time," he whispered back, hoarsely. "First,
we bind up these wounds so we don't leave a trail of blood
behind us." He nodded toward Hesseth - whose golden fur
was scored with at least a dozen deep, bloody gashes - and
indicated his own injured arm. "Then we get as far from
this place as we can, preferably high up enough to work a
good Obscuring. If that's possible. Then . . ." He felt fresh
pain wash over him, and the weakness of exhaustion. How
deep was his wound? How much blood had he lost? "We
see what we rescued," he whispered. "We see if Gerald
Tarrant still exists. We see if he can help us."
"And then?" Ciani asked.
From somewhere, he dredged up a grin. Or at least, the
hint of one. It hurt his face.
"Then the real work starts," he told her.
Forty-two
"Calesta!" The voice rang out imperiously, echoing in
rage. "Calesta! Attend me, now!"

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Slowly the demon's form congealed, drawing its
substance from the nearby shadows; when the figure was
solid enough to bow, it did so. "My Master commands."
"They took him, Calesta. Out of the fire! You said he
would burn there forever. You said they would never come
- never! - that they would let him burn. And I believed you.
I believed you!"
"You commanded me to look into his heart," the demon
responded. "I did that. You told me to read his weaknesses.
I did that. You bade me devise a way of binding him to
your purpose, so that he would be helpless to free himself. I
did that also. As for the others, you said, Leave them to me .
. ."
"They came for him, Calesta! How? They were miles
from here when last I Knew them - miles! I-"
"They were never there," the demon said coolly.
Blood drained from the enraged face, turning it a ghastly
white. "What? What does that mean?"
"It means that you were wrong. It means that your
Knowing was misdirected. It means that these humans
anticipated you, and made false replicas of themselves to
draw your attention."

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The word came, a whisper: "Simulacra."
The demon bowed its head.
"Why didn't you see it happening? Why didn't you warn
me?"
"I serve," the demon answered. "I obey. Those were the
parameters you set when you first Conjured me. Had you
ordered me to inspect the strangers, I would have done so.
You didn't."
"So you stayed in the caverns, to feed on the adept's
pain-"
"I never fed on the adept. I've never fed on any of your
victims." The faceted eyes glittered maliciously. "I think
perhaps you mistake my nature."
Pacing: quickly, angrily, to the window and back again.
"I must have him back. You understand that? Him, and the
woman. And I want no room for error this time - none at
all. You hear me, Calesta? We work out the best way to go
after them, and-"
"That won't be necessary," the demon interrupted.

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"Meaning what?"
The demon chuckled. "You need only wait. They'll
come here by themselves."
The pacing stopped. The tone was one of suspicion.
"You're sure of that?"
"Their nature demands it."
"Afterme? Not after the woman's assailant?"
"They understand now that the two are linked. They
recognize you as the stronger force. The priest will insist
that they deal with you first. And the adept will demand
your death - or worse - for what you did to him." The
demon paused. "Do you require more than that?"
"No," came the answer. "That's enough." The voice
grew harsh. "They're coming here? Good. Then we'll be
ready. That's an order, Calesta. You understand? Watch
them. Neutralize them. Take them prisoner. No taking
chances, this time. Nothing fancy. Just bind them and bring
them to me. To me.I'll deal with them."
Calesta bowed. And it seemed that a hint of a smile
creased the obsidian face, gashing its mirrored surface.

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"As you command," the demon responded.
Forty-three
Not until they were near the surface did the four
travelers stop, and lower their various burdens to the
muddy floor beneath them. As soon as it was clear that they
would be staying in one place for more than a few minutes
Hesseth sank to the ground, and sat with her head lowered
between her knees, her breathing hoarse and labored. Ciani
came to where Damien stood and helped him lower
Tarrant's body to the ground. It was a dead weight, cold
now, and though neither would voice such a thought they
both feared that the Hunter's spirit might truly have
deserted them.
And what then? Damien thought. What if all this was for
nothing?
Carefully, the two of them unwrapped the battered form.
Bits of burned flesh and crusted blood adhered to the wool,
tearing loose from the Hunter as the cloak was removed
from him; fresh blood dripped from the resulting wounds,
making his flesh slick and hard to handle. By the time
Damien had freed him from his wrappings the priest's
hands were coated in blood, and the black ash of burnt flesh
stuck to his skin as though glued there.
"Look," Ciani urged. She pointed to where the Hunter's

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arm lay exposed, to the deep gash seared into it by the band
of red-hot steel. Blackened skin curled back from the
wound, displaying muscles and nerves that had been seared
to a bloody ash. But the bone itself was no longer visible.
Damien drew in a sharp breath as he realized that, and he
turned the man's arm over, to make sure of it. "My God . .
." 
"He's healing," she whispered.
He looked at the body - which displayed no other sign of
life, and numerous signs of death - and felt awe creep over
him. And horror. "He must have had to repair his flesh
constantly in order to survive. Drawing on what little fae
there was, to replace what the fire destroyed . . . my God."
He looked at the man's face - or what was left of it - and
felt his sticky hands clenching into fists at his side. "It
could have gone on forever. He could never have Worked
the fire itself, never have freed himself . . . only this." He
worked himself a Knowing, with care; the mere act of
Working was painful. "He's trapped in it," he whispered.
"Lost in a desperate race against the fire. He doesn't even
know he's out of there."
"Can you Work through to him?"
He shook his head. "He would suck me in, as fuel.
Never even know who or what I was."

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"So what do we do?" she demanded. There was an edge
of hysteria in her voice that he had to force himself not to
respond to. It was all too easy to abandon reason, and let
blind emotion reign.
He reached up to where his sleeve had been sliced open,
over his wound. The makeshift bandage was already
soaked with blood, and as he wound it off it dripped
carmine spots on the floor. He felt dizzy and his arm
throbbed hot with pain, but that had been the case for so
long now that he had grown accustomed to it. He gritted his
teeth as he pulled the bloodsoaked length free at last and
flexed his arm to keep fresh blood from flowing. With his
other hand he bunched up the cloth and brought it to
Tarrant's lips. What remained of his lips. And squeezed.
Red blood, warm and thick. It dribbled onto the corner
of his mouth, coated his lips with glistening wetness. He
squeezed again, and forced a trickle between the parted
teeth.
"Drink it," he urged. His voice was a hoarse whisper,
half hate and half anxiety. "Drink, damn you!"
"Damien, he's not a-"
"Heis. Or at least, he was. And he said he could feed
this way again, if he had to. I'd say he has to." He pressed
the bunched-up cloth against his arm again; it soaked up the

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fresh blood like a sponge. "Drink," he whispered,
squeezing the precious fluid out into Tarrant's mouth. "Or
so help me God, I'll take you back down there and stick
you in the fire myself . . ."
He thought he saw movement, then. A flicker of
wetness, within the mouth: a tongue tip? He squeezed
harder, and saw the lips move slightly. The skin of
Tarrant's throat contracted slightly, and crusted flesh
cracked off from its surface. Beneath, the tissue was pale
and moist.
Damien began to collect more blood - and then cast the
bandage aside, and lowered his gashed arm to the Hunter's
mouth. Sharp teeth bit into his flesh, a blind and desperate
response to the presence of food; he bore the pain of it with
gritted teeth as the cavern swayed about him, telling
himself,He doesn't know where he is. He doesn't know
who you are.
And then, at last, with a shudder, the teeth withdrew. He
pulled back and pressed the wound closed, watching the
man's face closely. The blackened crust was flaking off,
and beneath it new tissue gleamed moistly in the lamplight.
The process reminded Damien of a snake shedding its skin.
"Come on," he muttered. "Come back to us." He
Worked his vision and saw the dark fae gathering about the
Hunter's body, saw it weaving a web about the man's flesh
that acted as a buffer between him and the light. Between

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him and the world. Cutting him off from the source of his
pain - and with it, the rest of the living universe. "Tarrant!"
He grasped him by the shoulder, but his blood-slicked hand
slid off - and took with it a layer of burned flesh, revealing
the newmade skin beneath. Cell by cell, layer by layer, the
Hunter was restoring his body.
Hesseth hissed softly to get his attention and held out a
flask of waxed leather toward him. He took it, somewhat
perplexed, and smelled the stopper. And then nodded
gratefully. The smell was familiar to him, the same odor
that had clung to his flesh after their fight on Morgot. He
poured a bit of the rakhene ointment into his right palm and
rubbed it into and around his wound. And thanked her.
Then Tarrant stirred. A shiver passed through his frame,
as though somewhere inside that battered flesh a spark of
life was fighting to manifest itself. Damien reached out to
him - and then, remembering what the Forest's monarch
had said about Healing, used the hand that was free of
ointment to grasp him by the shoulder.
No telling what the rakhene liniment might do to a man
who thrived on death.
"It's over," he told him. "Over."
"The fire . . ." It was hoarsely voiced, barely a whisper -
but it was speech, and it was audible, and he used it as a

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lifeline to reach the man.
"Gone. Left behind." He dared a comforting lie:
"Extinguished."
The eyes opened, slowly. Fresh new lids of smooth, pale
flesh, smeared with blood and black ash. For a moment he
gazed emptily at the ceiling; then he shivered, and moaned
softly. His eyes fell closed again.
"Tarrant. Listen to me. You're out of there. Safe. It's
over. You're with us now." He paused. "Do you
understand?"
The lids blinked open, tears of blood in their outer
corners. For a minute or two the Hunter stared without
seeing, silver eyes fixed on nothing. Then he turned, slowly
- painfully - and met Damien's eyes. There was an
emptiness in his gaze that made the priest's flesh crawl.
"Where?" the Hunter gasped. "Where is this?"
"We're in a cave, near the surface. Judging from the
earth-fae, that is." He hesitated. "Tell me what you need.
Tell us how to help you."
The pale eyes shut again, as if keeping them opened
required more strength than the Hunter had. "More blood,"
he whispered. "But you can't give me that. I've already

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taken as much as your body can spare."
"Gerald." It was Ciani. She crawled over to where the
Hunter lay and seemed to be about to reach out to him, but
Damien warned her back. "I can supply-"
"Don't," the priest warned her.
"But I wasn't wounded. I haven't lost-"
"Don't."
"Damien-"
"Ciani, think! He takes on the form of whatever his
victims fear the most. That means that if he feeds on you,
he'll become more like them. The ones who hurt you; the
ones we're hunting. I don't think he's strong enough to
fight it now. I don't think we can afford to risk it."
"But if we don't-"
"He's right," the Hunter whispered. "Too much risk . . ."
He shivered, as if from some secret pain. "I would hurt you.
I might even kill you. And . . . I would rather die, than do
that."
Damien watched for a moment as he lay there - his

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breathing labored, his movements weak - and then asked,
"You going to make it?"
The Hunter raised a hand to his face, rubbed his eyes.
The fingers were whole, but stained with blood. Flakes of
charred skin fell from his face as he rubbed, revealing
smooth white skin beneath. "I think . . . yes. They didn't do
anything that time won't heal. Not to my flesh, anyway."
He tried to force himself to a sitting position but fell back,
weakly. "How long?" he gasped.
"In the fire? Eight days, Ciani figured."
"It seemed like so much longer . . ." He looked about
weakly - at Ciani - at Hesseth - at the pierced one. His gaze
lingered on the latter, and for a moment curiosity flared in
those silver eyes. Then exhaustion took its place, and he
turned away. "You saved my life," he whispered. The pale
eyes fixed on Damien - and in the back of them, deep in the
shadows, was a flicker of something familiar. A faint spark
of sardonic humor, reassuringly familiar in tenor. "I didn't
expect it of you."
"Yeah. Well. That makes two of us." He got to his feet,
and brushed at some of the caked mud which clung to his
clothing. "You get some rest, all right? Finish putting
yourself back together, if you can." He looked at Hesseth.
"Will the Lost One stand guard? I think he's the only one
of us left with the strength to do it."

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She murmured rakhene sounds to the pierced one, who
grunted. And then assented, in phonemes that were
becoming familiar to Damien.
"All right." He turned down the lantern wick as far as it
would go, trying to save oil; of the store of fuel they had
brought, only half a flask remained. When that was gone . .
. he shuddered to think of it. One could only Work one's
sight for so long.
"Let's all get some sleep while we can," he urged his
party. "It may be our last chance." His body felt weak and
drained, almost incapable of moving; the combined fatigue
of loss of blood and too many nights without slumber. He
lay back on a tangle of clothing and blankets, and listened
to his heart pounding in his chest: a metronome of
exhaustion. Then, slowly, he slid down into darkness.
Warm and sweet and utterly welcome.
For the first time in eight days, he didn't dream of fire.
When he awakened, things weren't where they should
be. It took him a moment to place the wrongness, to fight
off the dizziness of his recent blood loss and think clearly.
The light wasn't coming from where it should, he decided.
Which meant that the lantern wasn't where he'd left it. He
looked around the cavern, saw a spark of light at the far
side of the chamber. And a tall figure who held it, whose
body eclipsed its minimal light as he moved, casting
Damien into utter darkness.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tarrant.
The man had apparently found his clothes - what few
items Ciani had salvaged - and had managed to pull on a
silk shirt and woolen leggings, which hid most of his
ravaged skin from sight. Where his hands and feet were
visible his flesh was a chalky white, utterly bereft of living
color; it bothered Damien that he couldn't remember
whether that was his normal hue or not.
The Hunter had unhooded the lamp and turned up its
wick, and was casting its bright light upon the length of an
oddly twisted column. As Damien approached, he reached
out and touched the glistening stone, running his hand
down its finely grooved surface. And then did so again,
more carefully.
"Not right," he whispered, as the priest came to his side.
"Not possible."
Damien studied the formation. It seemed to be oddly
shaped for its kind, and there were tiny ridges up and down
its length, but otherwise it looked like all the others. And he
had seen enough cave formations in the last few days to last
him a lifetime.
"It isn't just this one," the Hunter whispered. "They're
all wrong. Every column in this chamber, every formation

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that bridges between two surfaces. So wrong . . ." He shook
his head in amazement - and even in that simple gesture, so
sparingly performed, Damien could read his weakness.
"What is it?" the priest asked quietly.
He turned down the lantern's wick again, to save the last
of the oil. Then he put one hand against the gnarled
formation: his fingers, like the rest of him, were lean and
wasted. "See these ridges," he whispered. "Each of these is
where the column cracked when the earth shifted beneath
it. Slowly new minerals would seep in and fill the cracks . .
. but they left scars. Thousands of scars." He gestured with
the lantern, toward formations Damien had never noticed
before. Fallen stalactites. Severed columns. Jagged shapes,
all of them, that defied the normal pattern. "Do you see?"
the Hunter whispered. He turned the lantern until its light
shone on a slender column nearby; looking closely, Damien
could see that it had been split cleanly through the middle,
and its upper and lower halves no longer lined up with each
other. "This isn't the result of secondary vibration. We
must be right in the fault zone. The earth is deforming right
here, all about us, and the cave formations reflect it. Lateral
movement along a major fault line. To be reflected in the
stone . . ." His hand closed about the narrow column as if
he needed it for support. Damien had to fight the urge to
reach out and hold him upright.
"There's nothing recent," the adept whispered. "Nothing
at all. Not here, not in any place I could look . . . and that's

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just not possible. Not possible! But all the fractures have
been filled in, and that takes centuries . . ." He shook his
head in amazement. "Am I to believe there's been no
movement here? For that long? That defies all science."
"The rakh said there have been no earthquakes here. Not
for a century, at least."
"That's not what I mean. Not at all. What's an
earthquake? A series of vibrations that informs us the crust
of the planet has shifted beneath our feet. We measure it by
how much it inconveniences us - how much we're aware of
it. The earth could move so slowly that all our instruments
would never detect it - and it would still add up to the same
motion, in the end. The crust of the planet acts in response
to the currents of Erna's core. How could that simply
cease? And cease only in one place, while all surrounding
areas continued on as normal? Because they do, I know
that; I monitor these things. The land all about here is
normal, utterly normal. Except in this one place. How?"
"Our enemy built his citadel right on the fault line,"
Damien pointed out. "You said only a fool would do that.
But if he wanted the power of this place at his disposal, and
could keep the earth from shaking . . ."
For a moment the adept looked at him strangely. "No
one man could ever bind the earth like that," he said. "No
one man could ever hope to conjure enough power to offset
the pressures of the planet's core. And besides . . ."

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He turned away. And shut his eyes. And whispered,
"The Master of Lema is a woman."
"What?"
"The Keeper of Souls is a woman," he breathed. "Our
enemy. My torturer. The architect of the House of Storms.
Awoman."
For a moment Damien couldn't respond. Then, with
effort, he managed to get out, "That doesn't make a
difference."
The Hunter turned on him angrily; his eyes were red-
rimmed, bloodshot. "Don't be a fool," he snapped. "Of
courseit makes a difference. Not because of gender, but
because of power. Raw physicality. What can you know of
it - you, who were born with the size and the strength to
defend yourself from any physical threat? What can you
know of the mindset of the weak, whose lives are centered
around vulnerability? When you hear footsteps behind you
in a darkened street, do you fear being kidnapped? Raped?
Overcome by the sheer physical strength of your attackers?
Or do you feel confident that with firm ground and a
reliable weapon in your hands you could hold your own
against any reasonable threat? How can you possibly
understand what it means to lack that confidence - or what
it can drive a human to do, to try to gain it?"

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"And you do, I suppose?"
The Hunter glared. "I was the youngest of nine sons,
priest. My brothers took after their father, in form and
spirit: a hulking, crude beast of a man, who believed that
there wasn't an enemy on Erna he couldn't bring to his
knees if only he swung his fist hard enough. I grew up
among them, sole inheritor of our mother's mien - and I
didn't come into my height until late, or my power. Now,
you think about the cruelty of that kind - and of sibling
youths, in general - and the brutality of my age, which was
at the end of the Dark Ages - and then tell me how much I
don't understand." He turned away. "I think I understand it
very well."
"They died," Damien said. "Within five years of your
disappearance. All of them."
"It was the first thing I did, once I had gained the power
- and the moral freedom - to work my will upon the world.
And those eight murders are among my most pleasurable
memories." The cold eyes fixed on Damien, piercing him
to the core. "What they were to me, you and I are to her.
The whole world is that, to her: a thing to be mastered,
defeated. Broken. Do you understand? Power has become
an end unto itself; she feeds on it, demanding more and
more . . . it's like a drug that has slowly taken over her
body. Until she lives only to assuage its demands, to do
whatever will blunt the edge of that terrible hunger." His

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brow was furrowed as if in pain. As if even the memories
burned him. "And I'll tell you something else, priest. I've
seen that hunger before. Not in such a blind, unbalanced
form . . . but it might have become that, in time. In fact, I
believe that it would have become that, if not for Ciani's
influence."
It took him a moment to realize what Tarrant meant. He
felt something tighten inside, when he did. "You mean
Senzei?"
Tarrant nodded. "I think so. I think this is what a man
can become, when that kind of hunger goes unchecked -
when it continues to grow, like some malignant cancer,
until it devours the very soul that houses it. Until all that's
left is an addiction so terrible that the flesh lives only to
serve it."
"But that would imply that he . . . that sheisn't an
adept."
"I don't believe she is," Tarrant said quietly, "and I
wonder if-" He swayed, and shut his eyes for a moment.
"Not now," he whispered. "Not here." He looked up, as if
seeking some opening in the water-etched ceiling. "Up on
the surface, I could be sure. If there's any Working in this
region, it would be where the currents were strongest. I
could read it there."

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"What are you thinking?"
He hesitated. "Something so insane that I wouldn't even
suggest it," he whispered. "Except that I've seen with my
own eyes just how insane she is. God in heaven, if she were
that blind - but no. I shouldn't talk about it until I can test
my suspicions." His silver eyes were ablaze with hatred -
and he seemed to draw strength from the emotion. Slowly
he released the slender column at his side, so that he stood
unaided. And it seemed to Damien that he trembled only
slightly as he did so.
"She was able to take us because she knew what we
were," Tarrant said. "She knew what the flaw was in each
of us. And if I'm correct in what I'm thinking . . . then I
may know hers, as well." The pale eyes fixed on Damien,
and in their depths was a flicker of power. Faint, weak,
barely discernible - but it was there, and that was more than
Damien had seen in him since the rescue.
"And I will be no less ruthless in exploiting it," the
Hunter promised.
The surface of the planet was bitterly cold, and wind-
swept snowdrifts coursed down from the peaks like waves
of sea froth, frozen in mid-motion. In the distance it was
possible to see the enemy's tower, a gleaming black
chancre on the white landscape. Tarrant looked about, then
pointed away from it. His eyes were narrowed, as if trying
to focus on something in the distance. What? Domina's

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light was strong enough that the dark fae would have
withdrawn from the surface of the planet, and Damien's
Worked sight revealed no other special power. What had
the adept's vision uncovered, that merely human sight was
incapable of making out?
They followed him, struggling across the snowbound
landscape. Tarrant seemed somewhat stronger than before,
but that could simply be the force of his hunger for revenge
making itself felt. Damien wondered how long it would
support him.
He led them through knee-high dunes and ice-clad
gullies, hesitating after each obstacle was passed to study
the lay of the land again, and perhaps shift their direction
slightly. He gave no hint of what he was seeking or how
long it might take them to reach it. Though Damien knew
that the Hunter's cold flesh thrived on the chill of the icy
peaks, he nevertheless shivered as the wind whipped
Tarrant's thin shirt about his haggard frame. How much
longer could the man go on, with no more than a single
draft of blood to sustain him?
And then the Hunter stopped, and stiffened. His sudden
alertness reminded Damien of an animal, ears pricked
forward to catch the sound of danger. The adept began to
walk forward, more quickly now, stumbling through the
ankle-deep snow that cloaked this part of the mountain.
And then he knelt and touched one hand to its whiteness.
Again there was the sense of utter alertness. As if his whole

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body was tensed to respond to the slightest sound. Then he
began to brush the snow away. After a moment, Damien
knelt beside him and helped. He Worked his vision in the
hope of catching some glimpse of what the adept had seen,
but though the currents coursed clearly beneath the
insulating snow - more and more visibly now, as they
cleared away that obstacle - Damien was forced to admit
that he could make out no sign of what was drawing his
companion.
And then his fingers touched something which was
neither earth nor stone nor frozen brush. "Here," he
muttered, and the Hunter's efforts joined his own in
clearing the snow from it. Slowly a disk came into view:
black onyx, carved with an intricate motif. The snow which
caught in its etchings made its pattern doubly visible, and
Damien struggled to place the design in his memory.
When he did, at last, he looked up at Tarrant. And said -
not quite believing his own words - "A quake-ward?"
Ciani knelt down by his side; her fingers, cold-whitened,
touched the etched surface delicately. "But what would it
protect?" she whispered. "The citadel's too far away."
For a moment the Hunter just stared at it, as if not
believing his own find. Then, slowly, he reached for his
sword. And drew it. Coldfire blazed along its length,
doubly bright against the whiteness of the snow. Damien
remembered the last time he had seen that power used, and

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flinched. But Ciani was gazing at it - and the Hunter - with
hunger.
"You had better all stand back," Tarrant said quietly.
"You might need to move rather quickly."
"What are you going to do?" Ciani asked.
"See what this is linked to. See where it leads." He
touched a hand to the ward's icy surface; snow clung to his
fingertip, unmelting. "See what it's warding," he
whispered.
They stood back. Too fascinated to feel the cold, or the
bite of the wind on their faces. Damien heard Hesseth
whispering explanations to the pierced one - but how much
did she really understand herself? He watched as the
Hunter took his sword in both hands, watched as he bound
its power to his purpose, to trace the lines of Warding - and
light shot out from it, brilliant and blinding. Pale blue fire,
that blazed about the etched tile and then arced out from it,
coursing over the surface of the earth like streamers of
azure lightning. A branch of light struck the earth some
distance from them, and snow shot up in a thick white
plume, baring the ground beneath. When the air had cleared
they could see the glint of moonlight on another ward-
stone, its etched patterns filled with the gleaming coldfire.
And south of that, yet another. Soon the land was alive with
ward-fires, and the gleaming network of power that bound
them together in purpose.

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Damien looked at Tarrant, could see his haggard face
rigid with strain as he fought to control the coldfire. The
power may come from outside us, the priest thought, but the
order we impose on it must come from within. And then,
apparently, the strain was too much. The Hunter shut his
eyes and fell to his knees. The sword in his hand blazed
bright as an unsun as it struck the earth, and all the power
that had gone out from it slammed back into the Worked
steel with a force that made the man reel visibly, trying to
control it. Damien had to stop himself from moving
forward to help, knowing the cold power would drain him
of life before he could get close enough to touch the man.
What had the Lost Ones called the blade - the Eater of
Souls? He looked at Ciani, worried that she might move
forward to help the Hunter without realizing how
dangerous it was. But though her eyes were on him, she did
not approach. Instead she reached into her jacket pocket as
though seeking something. After a moment she pulled out
two small items: a folded knife, and a piece of notpaper.
Damien recognized Senzei's handwriting on the latter as
she twisted it tightly with trembling fingers into a funnel
formation. He started to object as he realized what she was
doing - and stopped himself. And forced himself to take the
paper cone from her hand, that she might be free to open
the knife. To use it.
She sliced quickly across the ball of her thumb, a cut
that slid just beneath the skin. Maximum blood, with
minimum damage. He held the makeshift cup for her as she

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squeezed out a thin stream of red into it, and wondered that
his own hand wasn't shaking. Could one become so inured
to the Hunter's needs that they no longer seemed
unreasonable?
When the cup was full, she took it from him and knelt
by Tarrant's side. His nostrils flared as he caught the scent
of her offering, and hunger flashed in those silver eyes.
Then he turned away, and whispered hoarsely, "Please
don't. I can't."
"The cut's already been made," she said quietly. "The
blood's already been shed. You wouldn't be hurting me by
taking it." When he didn't respond, she whispered, "Gerald.
Please. There'd be no risk this way." Blood dripped from
her hand to the snow, staining it purple in the coldfire's
glare. "I need you."
"Don't you understand?" he gasped. "I gave my word.
And keeping it is the only thing that keeps me from
becoming like she is." He nodded back toward the citadel,
shivering. "Don't you realize what an addiction power is?
Any power? If you don't impose some order on it, it
consumes you-"
"Honor is one thing," Damien told him. "Stupidity is
another. Take the blood, man - or do I have to pour it down
your goddamned throat?"

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The pale eyes fixed on him. And the Hunter nodded
slowly. "I believe you would," he whispered.
"Take it."
Slowly he raised one hand from the grip of the sword
and closed it about Ciani's. And raised the makeshift cup to
his lips, and drank. Damien could see a tremor pass through
him as he absorbed the precious fluid. Pleasure? Pain?
Tarrant made no protest while she filled the cup again, and
made no effort to resist the second offering. While he
drank, Damien took out one of the cloth strips he had
prepared for bandages, so many nights ago, and offered it
to Ciani. She wound it tightly about her hand, forcing the
wound closed.
Slowly, when he was done, the Hunter moved. With
effort he managed at last to sheathe his sword, sliding it
into the heavily Worked enclosure that would confine its
power. And he sighed - in relief, it seemed - as the coldfire
faded from sight.
"Now tell us: what was that all about?" Damien indi-
cated the carved ward before them. "What are those
things?"
The Hunter drew in a deep breath, then said, in a voice
that shook slightly, "Our enemy has warded the crust of the
planet."

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"To do what?" Ciani asked.
"To Bind the fault, I assume." His voice was a whisper.
"To freeze the earth in its motion."
"I thought you said that wasn't possible."
"It isn't, in the long run. But if one's vision were limited
enough - or blinded, by dreams of power . . ." He looked
out across the snow-clad mountains, where a vast webwork
of coldfire had so recently burned. Where a vast network of
wards had been revealed, that stretched across miles of
earth in perfect alignment. A thousand or more quiescent
Workings that waited to tap the energy of the earth itself,
when the tides of the planet's core released it. "I said she
was insane," he whispered. "I meant it. But insanity on
such a scale . . . my God. When it fails - and it must fail,
some day - what does she think will happen? To her, and to
everything she's built here?"
"You mean the wards won't hold."
"How can they? The power of the fae is constant. The
pressure along the fault is building. There must have been
enough fae in the beginning to make such a Binding
possible in the first place . . . but now? After pressure has
been building up here for a century, unrelieved? It would
require more and more fae just to maintain the status quo -

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and you see how weak the currents are in this region.
Where is the power to come from if the earth isn't
moving?"
Damien looked at Hesseth. "What was it your people
said? That the storms here were constant, when the Master
of Lema first came. And then, after a time, there were
fewer." He turned to the Hunter. "The reference was to
lightning, apparently. Ward-lightning. Overload."
"There would have been more than enough fae at first
for her purposes," he murmured. "When the earth began to
shift, the wild power would have surged . . . and then her
wards would Bind it, and the excess fae would bleed off
into the sky. What remained would be safely tamed.
Consumable."
"But why?" Ciani asked. "What purpose did it serve?"
The silver eyes fixed on her. "Why did Senzei steal the
Fire? Why does any non-adept take in a power wild enough
to kill him, if not to satisfy that most primal of all hungers?
Every time a quake strikes Jaggonath there's someone fool
enough to try to Work it. Here's a woman who tamed the
earth itself so that she could drink in its power in safety.
But only for as long as her wards hold; that's the catch.
Remember what the rakh said? The storms are fewer, now.
Not because there's less power, but because more and more
of it is required to maintain the Binding. And as pressure
continues to build within the earth, that imbalance will

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increase geometrically, until one day soon mere wards will
no longer be sufficient . . ."
Slowly, he got to his feet. "We are standing on a time
bomb," he whispered. "Of such immense proportion that it
defies description. And if what the rakh say is true . . . then
it's very near to going off."
"You're thinking you can trigger it," Damien said
quietly.
He looked out over the snow-shrouded earth, at the
places where the quake-wards lay.
"It's a simple series," he said at last. "Break one, and the
rest would go. But would the earth respond immediately?
There are so many variables . . ."
"But the odds are high."
"Oh, yes. The odds are very high. Higher than they
could ever get without man's interference." He shook his
head in amazement. "Only someone with a complete
disregard for seismic law would dare something so intrin-
sically stupid as this . . ."
"Or someone so addicted to the rush of power that she
can't think clearly any more. Isn't that what we're dealing
with?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"She fed on me," he whispered. Wrapping his arms
about himself, as if that could protect him from the mem-
ory. "She used my pain as a filter, to tame the raw earth-
fae. That's what she wants Ciani for. As a living refinery
for the kind of power she lusts after. As if by using us in
this manner she can somehow break through the barriers
inside herself, give herself an adept's capacity . . ."
"I thought that wasn't possible," Damien challenged.
"It isn't. But it's a powerful fantasy, nonetheless. Man
has always been loath to accept his limitations. How much
easier it is to deny the truth altogether - to imagine that
Nature has given us all the same potential, and that a single
act of will can suddenly cause all limitations to vanish." He
laughed bitterly. "As if Nature were just. As if evolution
hadn't designed us to compete with each other, so that only
the strong would survive."
"What about the Dark Ones?" Ciani asked. "Where do
they fit in?"
"Servants. Symbiotes. She has to remain at the heart of
her web in order to maintain its power. They serve as her
eyes and ears and hands, to scour the land in search of what
she needs . . . and in return they have her protection. Which
is no small thing, in a land with no other human sorcery."
His eyes narrowed, and a new edge of coldness entered his
voice. "If we mean to destroy one of her creatures, then we

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must deal with her first. That, or have her strike us from
behind at a crucial moment."
"If we could release the earth from her Binding, would
that do it?"
He hesitated. "There were wards in her citadel. I
remember seeing them when I was brought in. But I have
no way of knowing what they were, exactly. Quake-wards?
If so, the building might endure for a time. Only a few
minutes, at most - but that would be enough. Because she'd
have warning, remember. The surge of earth-fae that
precedes an earthquake would have reached her minutes
before, with all its power intact. She would have known
then that her precious system had failed her, and if she
could get away from the citadel in time-"
Then he stopped. And said, very quietly, "Unless she
was Working when it happened. In that case, there would
be no escape."
"Can we force that?" Damien asked. "Set her up, so that
she doesn't see it coming?"
"How?" the Hunter whispered.
"Some sort of attack. Something she would have to
defend against-"

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Tarrant shook his head, sharply. "That would require an
active assault, which would mean that when the surge hit . .
. it would be fatal for both parties. No, she would have to
be the only one Working, and I don't see how . . ."
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 tremen-
dous. 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

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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.

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"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.

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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

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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 hereto 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

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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.

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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

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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.

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"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 severed
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 crystal-
line 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 Corelight? 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.
She came, then, down a staircase that glittered like
diamonds in the fractured moonlight. He couldn't make out
the edges of the stairs beneath her feet, but judged their size
and shape by the action of her long robe upon their surface.
Silk sliding over glass, a waterfall of color. Mesmerized, he
watched until the delicate fabric was level with his own

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feet, until that signal informed him that the Keeper of Souls
had entered the very chamber he was in.
A taloned hand forced him to his knees; he didn't fight,
but dropped down as though beaten. And watched her
intently, as she approached.
She was not a young woman any more, though her skill
with the fae had kept her from aging too badly. She might
have been beautiful once, but decades of obsession and the
relentless power of her addiction had robbed her face of
whatever natural elegance it might once have possessed.
Her eyes were deeply hollowed, underscored with carmine
lines where the bone edges pressed against the sallow
tissue. Her skin was dry and taut with the inelasticity of
enforced youth. Her lips, once full, were textured with a
webwork of fine lines, that left only a hint of what must
have once been vital sensuality. Only her eyes blazed forth
with life, and they were so filled with hunger - with raw,
uncaring need - that despite all he had known of her nature,
Damien shuddered as he met her gaze.
"So you're the one," she said shortly. Her eyes flickered
up to meet those of her captors; it seemed to him that the
Dark Ones flinched before her. "What were my orders?"
"To claim his memories, Keeper."
She hooked a hand beneath Damien's chin and forced

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his head upward, to face hers. Studied his eyes, and all that
was behind them.
"You disobeyed me," she said softly. "Is there a
reason?"
"We couldn't do it," one of Damien's captors rasped,
and another offered, "There was a barrier . . ."
"Ah." The eyes pierced into him, burning his brain -
then withdrew, and were merely eyes once more. "A
Shielding. Very good. They have both intelligence and
power." She let go of his head. "But not enough."
She stood back. "Get him up."
Sharp claws bit into his upper arms as two of the
creatures jerked him to his feet. He was careful to appear
unsteady, as if from pain or weakness, but feared it would
do little good. Carmine cloth swept from her shoulders to
the floor, draped over an armature of padding that was
clearly meant to lend aggressive mass to her frame. Even
so, she was considerably smaller than he was, and he knew
to his despair that no feigned emotions could counteract the
sheer power of his bulk - or the threat she would read into
it. 
She nodded to one side, and the Dark Ones scurried to
lay out Damien's weapons before her. She waited until they

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were done and then said in a disdainful tone, "Is that all?"
She reached down and took up a handful of amulets; thin
gold chains slithered down between her fingers, like
serpents. "Did you really think these would affect me?" She
opened her hands and let the precious medallions slip
through her fingers like so much refuse. "I think you
underestimate me." And a smile, faint and unpleasant,
wrinkled her lips. "I know that hedid."
She came back to him and cupped a cold hand beneath
his face. Sharpened nails bit into his skin, not unlike the
talons of her servants. "I want him," she said. "And I want
the woman. Tell me where they are, and I'll let you go."
Elation filled him, at the realization that Hesseth's ef-
forts had paid off; the human sorceress couldn't read
through her tidal Workings. But he kept it carefully from
his face as he said, in a tone edged with fear, "I won't
betray my friends."
She smiled coldly. "Oh, you will do that. No question
about it. All that's at issue is how long it will take . . . and
how much pain has to be applied in the process." An odd
hunger flickered in the depths of her eyes; her tongue tip
touched her lips briefly, as if in anticipation. "Well? Will
you answer me now? Or do I have to break you to get what
I want?"
Damien's heart was pounding so loudly he wondered
that she couldn't hear it. What was the safest way to

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answer? He had to goad her into specific action, without
bringing down the full weight of her wrath upon his head.
He tried to remember what Tarrant had told him, tried to
weigh all his alternatives - and at last he gasped, in a tone
that he hoped was more fearful than defiant, "I can't.
Please. Don't ask that."
Her expression hardened. She reached out to him again,
and took his face in her hands. Gripped him tightly, so that
his blood pounded beneath her fingers. So that he was
incapable of looking away. "You'll serve me," she told
him. "Like it or not, you will." She willed him to look up at
her, into her eyes; fae wrapped about him like a vice,
forcing obedience. "I need to know where they are and
what they're doing. You're going to tell me that." Hot
thoughts slithered into his mind, wrapping about his
brainstem like serpents. Stroking the centers of pleasure
and pain within him as she practiced her control. "Submit
to me," she whispered. He shut his eyes, tried to fight her
off - but she was inside him, her hunger filling his flesh, her
thoughts stabbing into his brain. Where the hell was
Tarrant's barrier now? He tried with all his will to force her
out of his mind - to sever her control - but without a
Working to focus his efforts he didn't have a prayer. And
he didn't dare Work, not now.
Amused by his struggles, she stroked his brain anew;
waves of sensation, shamefully erotic, reverberated through
his body, followed by a pain so intense that it would have
doubled him over if not for the fae that bound him upright.

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She was playing his flesh like an instrument, there was no
place he could hide, no way he could stop it . . . but he
knew that if he gave in, even for a moment, if he let his
human intellect be swept away by the tide of her madness,
that he was lost forever. Her hunger knew no middle
ground.
And then, suddenly, the sea turned cold. The lust be-
came darkness, and ice shot through his veins. His body
shook as the essence of the Hunter filled him - unclean,
inhuman, but oh, so welcome! - forcing out the foreign
influence, chilling his burning flesh. His stomach spasmed
as the force of Tarrant's unlife filled it and he vomited
suddenly, as if by casting out the bitter liquids within him
he might also cast out that influence. Never before was the
Hunter's essence so alien, so physically intolerable. And
never before was it so welcome.
When he came to himself he saw her standing back from
him, rage burning like wildfire in her eyes. Somewhere in
the back of his numbed brain he remembered something
about a signal, his link to Gerald Tarrant . . . what was it?
He grasped at the fact, used it as a lifeline to restore his
reason. Something about a sign, and the wards . . . that was
it. This was what they'd set up, as the trigger: their enemy,
trying to break through Tarrant's barrier. The Hunter would
have sensed that and taken it for his starting sign. Even
now, the quake-wards were being broken.
Which left very little time. Minutes, perhaps. Or so he

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hoped. He tried to focus on what he needed to do and how
fast he needed to do it, tried not to think about what might
happen if the earth failed to respond to its newfound
freedom. Because that possibility was enough to chill him
to the bone. The longer it took, the less was the likelihood
that this woman would be Working when the wave hit - and
for him to be here, bound and helpless, with her still alive
and whole, and knowing what they had intended . . . it was
unthinkable. She would destroy him. She would destroy
them all.
"You're a fool," she said angrily. "Do you really think
your precious adept can protect you? After I broke him? He
couldn't even save himself - how on Erna is he going to
help you?" The voice became seductive, cloying. "Tell me
what I want to know, and you can go free. Isn't that the
easiest way? Or else . . . I might have to dissect your mind,
thought by thought, until I find what I need. Until there's
nothing left in you, but that one bit of information and
enough strength to voice it. Not a pleasant prospect." Her
eyes narrowed to slits, her expression drawn. "The choice
is yours, priest."
And he took his chance. Daring her rage. Daring her
hatred. Because it was her obsession he wanted, and that
must be directed at him. Quickly, before the quake-wards
failed.
"Go to hell," he spat.

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He was struck from behind on the head, hard enough to
draw blood. He allowed the blow to drive him to his knees,
gasping audibly as a thin, warm trickle began to seep down
the back of his collar. Defiance, laced with weakness: that
was the winning formula. Play it right, and he would goad
her into Working him without doing him permanent harm.
Play it wrong . . . he shuddered. She was perfectly capable
of maiming him - or worse. He had put himself in her
power. If she had been sane he would have been confident,
but she wasn't - and the victims of addiction, any addiction,
were notoriously unstable.
The taloned fingers caught in his hair and jerked his
head up, so that he was forced to meet her eyes. Hatred was
hot in her gaze, and a disdain so absolute that he knew for a
fact she would never see the blow coming. Not if he could
get her Working. Not if he could keep her involved.
"You made a fatal error," she informed him. "Not just in
coming here, but in guarding yourself against my pets. That
interrogation would have been far more merciful than this
one will be."
And her power hit him, full in the face, a wall of searing
force that drove the breath from his body and left him
stunned, half-blinded. The fire of her addiction focused in
on him, became a red-hot spearpoint that probed deep
inside his flesh, testing for weaknesses. If she had used a
real blade, she couldn't have made the pain any greater; his
nerves rang out as though scraped by sharpened steel, his

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body shaking uncontrollably as pain consumed his
universe.
He struggled not to fight back. That was harder than all
the rest combined: forcing himself not to respond, as she
played his body like some terrible instrument. It went
against every instinct in him, against all his years of
learning and experience. But any Working now might mean
death, if luck and Erna turned against him. And so he
swallowed back on all the ingrained keys that might unlock
his defenses, and banished the images that floated in front
of his eyes, before they could Work the fae to save him.
And he drank in the bitter draught of utter defenselessness
as her will probed sharp within him.
And then - an eternity later - she released him. He would
have fallen, but clawed hands had taken hold of his
shoulders and they held him upright. The woman's face
was a mask of rage and indignation - How dare you defy
me! - with a desperate edge that might well blossom into
something more dangerous.
"Please," he whispered. Daring a subterfuge. "I can't.
Don't you understand? I can't!"
The burning eyes narrowed suspiciously. She turned to
regard a figure who stood just behind her left shoulder - he
had not been there before, Damien was certain of that - and
demanded, "Well?"

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Faceted eyes in an ink-black face. Glassy surface that
refracted the light, like chipped obsidian. Damien had seen
figures in his nightmares that looked more forbidding - but
not many. And not often.
"The adept has Worked a barrier," the surreal figure
rasped. The quality of his voice - like sandpaper on an open
wound - made Damien's skin crawl. "And he's Warded it
into this man's flesh, so that it requires no sustaining
power. In fact, you empower it every time you try to break
through it." The glistening eyes fixed on Damien, and
seemed to pierce through him. What was that creature?
What if it could read the truth in him? "Well Worked," the
dark figure rasped.
"Spare me your admiration," she snapped, "just tell me
how to break it."
"You can't. Not directly. Its power feeds off yours. The
more force you use, the stronger it gets."
"You're telling me I can't get inside him?"
"I'm telling you that mere force won't succeed here.
You'll have to dismantle it, step by step. Reversing the
process he used to erect it in the first place. Assuming you
can," he added.
"I can do anything," she said acidly.

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She took hold of Damien again, sharpened nails tangling
in his sweat-soaked hair. "You'll regret the day you
decided to serve him," she promised the priest.
"Or of course," the black figure interjected, "there's
always physical torture."
She looked back sharply at him. And Damien could
barely hear her words, so loud was the pounding of his
heart. "Would that work?" she demanded. Hunger echoed
in her voice.
"Who can say? It would certainly be . . . interesting."
"I can't," Damien whispered. Trying to will as much
fear into his voice as he could muster. In the face of
possible torture, it wasn't hard. "He said the barrier
wouldn't permit it. Said that his blockage was absolute,
from both directions . . ."
"So that you can't betray him," she concluded. "Not
even to save yourself from pain." Disappointment flashed
briefly in those hollow eyes. "A shame." Then her
expression hardened once more; the grip on his hair
tightened, pulling his head back. "Not that it will help you,"
she whispered.
He shut his eyes this time, so that he didn't have to see

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the inhuman depths in hers. There was something in her so
blindly ravenous that the mere thought of contact with her
made his stomach tighten in dread. This wasn't just a
hunger for vision, like Senzei had known, or even an
obsession with power. It had gone beyond that - far beyond
that - into realms so utterly corrupted that barely a fragment
of her human soul remained, clinging to the flesh that
housed it as if somehow the two could be reunited. Could
mere hunger do that to a woman? Or would it take
something more - some outside influence, that fed on the
soul's dissolution? He thought of the obsidian figure
standing beside her and wondered at its source. At their
relationship.
Then: Her hunger enveloped him. Dark, unwholesome,
utterly revolting - and focused, this time, in a way it hadn't
been before. He felt her mental fingers prying at the edges
of Tarrant's barrier, trying to Work it loose from his flesh.
Though he didn't doubt the Hunter's skill, he knew that her
tenacity went far beyond anything a sane mind might
conjure - and he shivered to think of what would become of
him if she managed to dismantle Tarrant's Warding before
the fae-surge struck her.
Where's your earthquake, Hunter? He imagined all the
things that might have gone wrong - Gerald Tarrant too
weak to Work, the quake-wards too strong to be broken,
some secondary defense system, hitherto unnoticed,
coming into play - but nothing frightened him more than
the simple fact that the earth might not move. Period. Even

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if all their planning had been perfect, even if Tarrant had
succeeded in all he set out to do . . . the nature of seismic
activity was random, and all the Workings in the world
wouldn't make it otherwise. The odds had been in their
favor, true - but what if odds weren't enough? What if the
earth betrayed them, and took its sweet time in responding?
Then I'm dead, he thought darkly. Behind his back, his
fingers played with the edges of his bracers. Thick leather,
but soft; he unsnapped them. The Keeper's thoughts
burrowed inside his mind - like so many worms - but her
attention was fixed on Tarrant's Warding.
Keep Working, he begged her silently. Just keep
Working. It seemed that time had slowed down for him,
that something in the enemy's assault had altered his
temporal functioning; he was aware of long minutes
passing as he pushed at the forward edge of his bracers,
forcing the leather back through the ropes that bound his
wrists. Buying himself additional slack, through that action.
He told himself that he had to be ready, in case their plan
failed. Had to be ready to free himself and move quickly.
He tucked one thumb against his palm and tested his hand
against his rope, seeing if he had gained enough slack to
force his hand through. Coarse rope bit into his skin, but
the fit was promising. One good jerk - and the loss of some
skin - and he might be free. He gauged the distance
between himself and the woman, reached out with his
senses to Know the whereabouts of her servants - and then
stopped himself, sickened by his carelessness, and forced

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himself not to Work. Not to Work at all. It seemed to him
that hours had passed, that while he had been lost in the
mechanics of bodily defense she had launched whole
offensives against the structure of Tarrant's Warding. And
still the earth hadn't moved. Had Tarrant managed to dispel
the quake-wards, or was he still struggling with them? Was
there still some hope that the adept might succeed, and
trigger the surge they required?
And then she drew back from him, and the world
spiraled out into her eyes. And he saw the anger there, and
knew with dread certainty that she had sensed some hidden
purpose in the barrier. Enough to stop her from Working.
Which meant that it was over. It was all over . . . and
they had lost.
"I think," she said coldly, "we may try torture after all."
He looked about himself, desperately, as his hands
prepared to pull loose from their bonds. As he steeled
himself to move, and move quickly, in a sudden bid for
freedom. But then his eyes fell on the eastern wall, at the
soft glow rising up from its base - and he flinched, as the
meaning of that became clear. As the full measure of his
vulnerability hit home.
Light. Gray light, rising in the east.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dawn.
He was suddenly aware that the Dark Ones had left
them, no doubt withdrawing to some protective recess deep
within the earth. Tarrant was powerless now. If he hadn't
broken the quake-wards yet, he wasn't going to. Not in
time to help Damien. The priest's last hope had died with
the night.
"What is it?" she demanded. Sensing that something
was amiss with him, not knowing what. She turned toward
the eastern wall, back to Damien. "What new trick . . ." Her
eyes grew hard, and he heard her mutter something; a key?
He felt a Knowing taking shape around him, felt it working
to squeeze the information out of him, examining his link
to the dawn, to Tarrant-
And then it struck. He saw it, for an instant, through her
eyes - for one terrible instant, in which the whole world
was ablaze. Power surged through the crystalline walls,
dashed against the mirrored steps, cycloned fiercely about
them. Earth-fae fresh from the depths of Erna, hot as the
magma that spawned it. She screamed as it struck her,
screamed in terror as it blasted its way into her, its power
filling and then bursting each cell in her brain.
He threw himself back. The distance somehow seemed
to sever the contact between them, and the terrible vision
was gone - but her screaming went on, rising in pitch to a
fevered shriek as the earth-power poured through her. He

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tried not to listen as he jerked hard at his bonds, fighting to
free himself. The coarse rope cut into him as he tried to
force his hand through it, drawing blood - but with that
lubrication, and a near-dislocation of his thumb, he
managed to pull one hand free. Burning suns swam in his
vision, an afterimage from the fae; he blinked as though
that could cool their glare and tried to see past them to
locate an exit. The shrieking numbed his brain, made it all
but impossible to think clearly. How had he come in? He
had no hope of finding a true exit from the citadel, not in
time; his only chance lay in getting himself underground,
and in hoping that the coming quake was merciful to
whatever space housed him. With luck he could find his
way back to the entrance tunnel - which would lead him
down to the plains, and relative safety . . .
He grabbed his sword as he ran, sweeping it up from the
crystalline floor - now spattered with blood and vomit,
therefore visible. He didn't dare be unarmed, not now.
Thank God mere steel was enough to dispatch the Dark
Ones. He ran, trusting to blind instinct to guide him.
Stumbling, as unseen steps trapped his feet, hitting one
mirrored wall hard enough to shatter it. Where was the
exit? Where was the passage down? He tried to remember
all the turnings they had taken on the way in, tried to reason
his way through the glassy labyrinth - and then he took his
sword and slammed its pommel into an obstructing wall,
hard. Crystal shivered into bits, revealing the dark mouth of
a tunnel beyond. Praise God,he thought feverishly. Please,
let it be in time. Bits of mirror crunched underfoot as he
fought his way toward the entrance, slipping and sliding on

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the glassy fragments. And then the earthen wall was beside
him, and his hand was upon it, and he was stumbling down
into the depths-
And the earth convulsed, with force enough that he was
thrown from his feet, headfirst into a hard dirt wall.
Overhead the citadel tinkled, like a thousand wind chimes
in a stormy sky - and then began to shatter, wall by wall,
staircase by staircase, as the ground swelled up and broke
beneath it. Huge chunks of crystal crashed to the earth
behind him, sending fragments like spears down into the
tunnel at his feet. Half-stunned, he forced himself to move
again, to work his way down into the heart of the trembling
earth. To his side, a wooden support snapped and came
loose; chunks of rock and dirt hailed down on him as bits of
crystal caromed into the depths. Too close to the surface, he
thought, despairing. Too close!A shockwave threw him off
his feet, and dirt rained down on him as he struggled to
recover his balance.Must get deeper . . . He struggled on
blindly, not pausing to consider whether greater depth
would really mean safety - not stopping to question
whether any place could be truly safe, in such an utter
upheaval.
It should only last seconds. Shouldn't it? What were the
parameters of a quake like this, that had been decades in the
making?
The tunnel grew dark about him, dawn's dim light
filtered through a rain of dirt and gravel that fell from its

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ceiling. He staggered down the length of it by feel, praying
for enough time to save himself. But even as he did so he
knew that if the quake had already begun, his time was just
about up.
And then a support overhead broke loose, and swung
down into him. It knocked him against the far wall, hard,
leaving him stunned where he fell. The motion loosed a
fresh avalanche of dirt and rock that rained on him as he
struggled to right himself. All around him he could hear the
tunnel collapsing, the roar of the earthquake as it raged
through the planet's crust. His hand clenched tightly about
his sword grip as he struggled to his feet - as if that weapon
could somehow protect him from the fury of the earth itself
- but then the ground beneath him spasmed furiously, and
the whole of the ceiling gave way at last. Pounds upon
pounds of dirt and rock poured down upon him, battering
him into the ground. He tried to fight free, but the torrent of
earth overwhelmed him. Gasping for breath, he choked on
dirt - and as he struggled to clear his lungs, something large
and sharp struck him hard on the head. Driving him down,
deep down, into the suffocating depths of Nature's
vengeance. 
Forty-five
Light. Blinding.He shrank back from it - or tried to -
but a strong hand had hold of him, long fingers entangled in
his shirt. It jerked him up, forcing his mouth above the
level of the earth. He gasped for breath, winced from the

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pain of the effort. Then his lungs spasmed suddenly, and he
began to cough up the dirt that had filled them. Retching
helplessly, as the strong hands continued to pull him out of
his earthbound tomb.
The light faded slowly to a mere star, to a tiny lamp
flame. By its glow he could see that the tunnel was mostly
gone, and what little that remained was filled with dust.
Even while he watched, a fresh trickle of gravel began to
course down from what remained of the ceiling.
"Can you move?" Tarrant asked.
His limbs felt numb, but they responded. He nodded.
"Then let's go. This place is death."
The Hunter wrapped an arm about his shoulder - so cold,
so very cold, who could ever have thought that the man's
chill could be so comforting? - and with his help, Damien
somehow managed to make his way to open space. He
paused there for a minute, shivering.
"Close?" Tarrant asked softly.
"Too close," he whispered. A wave of sudden weakness
washed over him; he let the Hunter support him. "Ciani,"
he breathed. "Where-"

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"Right ahead of us. With Hesseth. No one's being left
alone anymore till this is over."
"Did she-" He was afraid to voice the words. Afraid of
what a negative answer would mean. "Is she-"
"Whole? Recovered?" He shook his head, grimly. "Not
yet. But this is just the beginning. If her assailant isn't
killed in a cavern collapse, I'll hunt him down later. Now
that his protector is dead, it should be easy enough."
He looked up at him, sharply. "You know that?"
"She fed on me," he answered quietly. "A channel like
that works both ways, you know. Did you think I wouldn't
drink in her terror when she died? She owed me that
much."
He struggled to get his feet firmly beneath him. "Good
meal, I hope."
"Damned good meal," the Hunter assured him. "Let's
move."
Together they crept through the remains of the access
tunnel, through passages made dangerously narrow by
earthfall. At times they had to dig their way through,
heaving aside rocks and mounds of earth to make enough
room for a body to squeeze through.

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"You came in this way?" Damien asked.
"It's still collapsing, if that's your question." He grasped
a fallen support beam and pulled; a narrow passage opened
up to receive them. "Somewhat less violently, farther
along. That's where the women are. But I wouldn't like to
be here when the next shock wave hits," he added.
"I'm surprised it hasn't yet."
The Hunter looked at him; there was a faint smile on his
lips. "That may be because I left some of the quake-wards
intact. I Worked them to kick in again after the first tremors
ended. They won't hold long, of course, not without the
rest of the series . . . but every minute counts."
"You're very thorough."
"I try to be." He wiped dirt from his eyes with the back
of a sleeve. Damien tried to do the same, and his hand came
away from his face sticky with blood. The quantity of it
unnerved him. "Much further?"
The Hunter glanced at him. "You'll make it."
He thought of the dawn light he had seen from the
citadel. How much time had passed since then? What kind
of safety was there for his dark companion, if the sun had

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risen? "What about you?"
He jerked loose a piece of splintered wood that blocked
their path; dirt showered down in the narrow passageway.
"I'm strong enough, if that's the question."
"I meant the sun."
For a moment the Hunter was still. Damien thought he
saw a muscle tense along his jaw, and the pale eyes
narrowed. "Let's deal with that problem when we get to it,"
he said at last - and he heaved the broken timber from him,
hard enough that it gouged the far wall.
"If you think-"
"Talk won't make the sun set," he said sharply. "And
we're still far from getting out of here. Look." He pointed
to the far side of the passageway, to a hole that yawned in
the far wall. "Can you see it? In the currents. They're
stirring, underground. The ones that survived the first
shockwave will be coming to the surface, where they
imagine things are safer. Idiots! If they knew their science,
they'd stay where they are, where the surface waves can't
reach-"
"You're afraid," Damien said quietly.
The Hunter began to protest, then stopped himself. "Of

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course I'm afraid," he muttered. "I'd be a fool if I weren't.
Does that satisfy you?" He kicked loose a thick clod of
earth, clearing the passage ahead of them. "I suggest we get
to the lady and Hesseth before our subterranean friends do -
and worry about fear later. There'll be time for it, I assure
you."
He gave the lamp to Damien - his own sight didn't
require it - and led the way eastward, through the ruins of
their enemy's escape passage. As the tunnel cut deeper into
the earth the damage seemed to be lessened, but it was still
a struggle to make good time through the ravaged warren.
Periodically Tarrant would turn and look back, his eyes
narrowed as he focused on the weak underground currents.
But if he saw anything specific that disturbed him, he kept
it to himself. Once, at the mouth of a narrow tunnel that led
down to the Dark Ones' realm, he paused to listen - senses
alert as a hunting animal's, nerves trigger-taut in tension -
but he said nothing. His expression grim, he nodded
eastward, urging the priest away from the citadel.
And then they came across the body. It was half-buried
in dirt, as though in its fall it had loosed some new, private
avalanche. Tarrant turned it over, brushed the dirt from its
face - and breathed in sharply as the charred hole of a Fire-
laden bolt became visible, right where one eye should be.
He looked up, lips drawn tight, and muttered, "Come
on." And ran. In time they passed another body - this one's

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chest had a gaping hole, with fresh smoke rising from its
Fire-seared edges - but they didn't stop to examine it. The
smell of burning flesh was thick and sharp, doubly acrid in
the tunnel's claustrophobic confines. They passed a turn
where the earth had fallen, kicked a hurried path through
loose clods of dirt that barred their way-
And found them. Springbolts in their hands,
determination in their eyes. There were bodies here, too,
and the scent of their blood was fresh. Tarrant had been
right: the Dark Ones were surfacing.
Damien went to where Ciani stood - her back braced
firmly against the wall, her hands gripped tightly about the
weapon - and put one bruised arm around her. She
softened, slightly, just enough to lean against him, barely
enough to accept the reassuring gesture. Then she put her
free arm around him, too, and squeezed.
"Thank the gods you're still alive," she whispered.
He glanced back at the adept. "Thank Tarrant, in this
case."
"We'd better move," the Hunter warned them. He
grabbed up supply pack that had been left by Hesseth's
feet, swung it to his back. "And fast."
"How much ammunition is left?" Damien asked the

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women.
"Plenty," Hesseth responded. "But only three with the
Fire." Her teeth were half-bared, as if in a dominance
display. "You think there'll be more of them?"
"I think there's no doubt of it," Tarrant assured her.
"The only question is how fast they'll come."
"He hasn't died yet," Ciani whispered. "I would know
that . . . wouldn't I?"
My God, will you know it. The memories will smash into
you like a tidal wave - like the surge of fae that killed your
enemy. The experience of an entire lifetime, reabsorbed in
an instant. He hated himself for dreading that moment.
Hated himself for wondering, with steel-edged calculation,
whether that moment might not be the most dangerous of
all.
They ran. And they were not alone. Close behind them,
back the way they had come, something else was moving
through the tunnels. Something that chittered in half-human
speech, as it followed the path they had cleared. One
demon - or many? With a sudden start Damien realized that
his sword was still buried near the citadel, the rest of his
weapons inside it. All he had left was the flask of Fire - if
that was still intact - and he couldn't draw that out without
burning Tarrant. Still, if Tarrant could survive it, and if it

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could drive back their enemies . . . he fingered the flap of
the pouch as he ran, made sure that it was free to open.
Tarrant would understand. Strategy demanded it. Survival
might demand it.
And then they came around a turn, and there were the
Dark Ones. A good four of them at least, and perhaps more
in the shadows beyond. They were bruised and bleeding,
and more than a little disoriented - but their eyes blazed
with hatred, and hunger, and their nostrils flared as they
caught the scent of human fear. Of food.
"Don't let them touch you," Hesseth whispered. A
tremor of fear was in her voice; was she remembering when
she'd been drained, back at the earthfire? Damien stepped
to Ciani's side and took the springbolt from her. "Get
back," he whispered. Out of the corner of his eye he saw
Tarrant reach out to her - for a moment he was lost in
Morgot again, as the tidal power Hesseth had conjured
dissolved all their barriers, and set loose the Hunter's evil -
and then he nodded, and gestured for her to go to him,
knowing that there was no place where she would be safer
than by the adept's side.
And then the creatures fell upon them. Mindless as
animals gone rabid, and ten times as deadly. He brought
one down with a shot to the gut, fired point-blank into the
demonic flesh. And then cursed himself as he brought the
second bolt into line, for failing to ask which one of the
weapons had only one Worked bolt in it.

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And then one was upon him, and his weapon was still
uncocked - so he brought the brass butt up into its face,
hard, cursing it as he did so. There was blood, and the sharp
crack of bone splitting, but the blow did nothing to slow the
creature down. One clawed hand grasped the barrel of the
springbolt, another grabbed at Damien's arm. He tried to
throw the creature off, but a strange numbness had invaded
his arm; he found it hard to move. Shadows began to fill his
mind, and his thoughts were slow in coming. He needed to
fight it. Didn't he? He needed to drive it back from him,
before it . . . what? What would it do? He found himself
shaking as the numbness claimed more of his flesh, found
himself filled with a dread and a fear that was all the more
terrible because he couldn't remember its cause.
And then the Dark One howled, and fell back. In its
chest was a smoking hole, where the point of a Fire-laden
bolt had pierced through the flesh. Hesseth was ready
behind it, her blade poised as if to decapitate the creature,
but the Fire made that unnecessary. With a last desperate
cry, the Dark One fell - and memories flooded Damien's
brain like some wild dream, a thousand and one disjointed
bits pouring into him with nightmare intensity. He
staggered, trying to absorb the onslaught. Trying to brace
himself for further battle, even as he reclaimed his
humanity. But beside him the cold blue light of Tarrant's
sword filled the tunnel, and he could see by its glow that an
icy path had been etched through the flesh of two of their
assailants. Carmine crystals glittered where the great veins

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had been severed, and a frosty steam arose from the newly
chilled flesh.
"Let's go-" Damien began, but Tarrant ordered, "Wait."
He walked several yards down the tunnel, back the way
they had come. And studied the ceiling overhead as if
searching for something. After a minute had passed he
seemed to find it, and he raised up his sword so that the
glowing tip brushed the packed earth overhead. And then
thrust up, suddenly. Chunks of dirt burst outward from the
point of contact in an explosion that echoed down the
length of the tunnel. And when the dust cleared, they could
see that passageway behind them was filled. There might
be Dark Ones still ahead of them, but none would be
coming from behind. Not without a digging crew.
The Hunter resheathed his sword. "Now we go," he
whispered. His posture was tense, in a way that Damien
had never seen before. Had the enemy touched him, as
well? Or was it just that the odds against them were
growing, too swiftly for the adept's liking?
If he's afraid of them, Damien thought grimly, what
does that mean for the rest of us?
They passed other openings that offered access to the
lower regions. Half of them were already filled with rubble,
rendering them useless to the Dark Ones. The other ones

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they left alone. There were simply too many, and each one
that Tarrant chose to seal meant another delay, another
chance that their enemies would get ahead of them . . .
Damien caught sight of the adept's expression as they
passed by a particularly large opening, and it was utterly
colorless and grim. And he remembered the sunlight that
awaited them all, if they ever did reach the end of this
passage, and wondered what the man could do to save
himself. Was it safe for him to stay down here until sunset?
With so many Dark Ones coming to the surface, half-mad
with rage and hunger?
I won't let him do it alone, Damien thought darkly.
Remembering the hands that had pulled him from the earth,
which might just as easily have left him there. Feeling a
loyalty which might have shamed him, in another time and
place, but which now felt as natural as breathing.
"They're coming," Tarrant whispered, and he turned to
look behind them. There was nobody visible there, not yet,
but Damien knew enough to trust the man's senses. He was
about to speak when Ciani cried out, sharply - and the look
on her face was one of such abject terror, such utter
despair, that Damien's blood chilled as he recognized what
the cause must be.
"He's there," the Hunter said. Giving voice to her fear.
"He's coming."
"Is he aware of us?" Damien asked him.

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The pale eyes narrowed as Tarrant studied the fae. "Not
yet," he whispered. "But he will be soon. He listened for a
moment longer, then added, "There are many of them
together. Too many to fight."
"Then we move," Damien told him. "The entrance can't
be much farther. If we can make it out before they get to
us-"
He stopped. Met the pale eyes squarely. "Then Ciani can
be safe in the sunlight," he concluded, "while you and I
deal with her assailant."
They had just started to move again when it seemed, for
an instant, that the earth trembled beneath them. Damien
felt his heart skip a beat, and he prayed wildly, Not now.
Please! Just a few minutes more.As if his God might really
interfere. As if the guiding force of the universe was
concerned with a handful of human Wardings, or the lives
that might depend on them.
They ran. The walls and ceiling of the earthbound
passage began to rain down fresh dirt on their heads, but
they shielded their eyes with their hands and continued
onward. Knowing how close they must be to the tunnel's
eastern exit, knowing how close that exit was to the relative
safety of the plains, they pressed on - through dirtfall, over
rock-strewn drifts, across huge heaps of splintered wood
and boulders - they scrambled over obstacles as quickly as

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they could, not daring to take the time to study their
surroundings. Again the earth trembled, and this time a dull
roar could be heard. "They're going," Tarrant muttered,
and Damien whispered, "God help us all." The tunnel
seemed at least twice as long in this direction as it had been
when Damien first entered it; where the hell was that exit?
And then the worst of it struck. Not nearly as violent as
its predecessor - but such violence was no longer necessary.
The supporting structure of the tunnel had already been
weakened, and its walls were riddled with gaping holes. It
didn't take much to shake loose what was left, so that the
remaining ceiling fell in huge chunks behind them, on top
of them, directly in their path. Damien threw himself at
Ciani just as a massive shard of stone hurtled down from
the ceiling above her; he managed to roll them both out of
its path, barely in time. Gravel pelted them, and earth that
had been packed to a bricklike consistency. He sheltered
Ciani with his body and prayed that the other two were all
right. And that their enemies weren't. Wouldn't that be
convenient, if the earth itself swallowed up Ciani's
assailant?
But when he finally raised himself up from where he
lay, and looked at her, he knew that they'd had no such
luck. Her face betrayed none of the joy - or the
disorientation - that returning memories would have
brought.
He felt sharp nails bite into his shoulder, heard Hesseth

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hiss softly. "I think you'd better look at this," the rakh-
woman told him. She nodded toward the east, down to
where the tunnel turned. He paused for a second to make
sure the tremors had ceased - they had - and then got to his
feet and followed her. The space remaining was barely
large enough to admit him, and his shoulder pressed against
damp earth as he forced his way through. To where the
passageway turned, just prior to its ascension . . .
It was filled. Completely. The weight of the earth had
collapsed a whole segment of the tunnel, rendering it
impassable. Damien felt despair bite into him, hard, as he
regarded the solid mound before him. They, might dig
through it, given enough time and the right tools . . . but
they had neither, and there was no telling how far the
blockage went. If the whole tunnel between here and the
surface had caved in ahead of them, then there was simply
no way to get through it. No way at all.
He made his way back to the others and prepared to tell
them the bad news - and then saw that it wasn't necessary.
Tarrant had read the truth in the currents, and Ciani's eyes
were brigfit with despair. The single lantern which
remained to them shed just enough light to show him that
her hands were trembling.
"We're stuck," he muttered.
"Can we dig out?" Ciani's voice was a whisper, hoarse
and fragile. "Dig up, I mean."

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Damien glanced at the ceiling. And then at Tarrant.
"We're near the surface," he said quietly. "I can hear the
solar fae as it strikes the earth. Can almost feel it . . ." He
paused, and then Damien thought he saw him shiver. "If the
earth above is soft enough to dig, but solid enough not to
bury us when we begin to disturb it . . . it would still take
time," he said. "A lot of time." He looked back the way
they had come. "I'm not sure we have that," he said
tensely.
Damien listened - and it seemed to him that he could
hear a scrabbling in the distance, like rodents. "They
survived."
"Enough of them," the Hunter said grimly. "More than
we can handle, without using the earth-fae."
Damien glanced at Hesseth, but she shook her head.
Whatever combination of tides she required in order to
Work simply wasn't available now. It might be, in the
future . . . if they lasted that long. If there was any future
for them.
Louder, now; the sounds were approaching. Damien
heard voices among them, hissing human phonemes. He
looked about desperately, trying to think of some way out,
or some new way in which they could defend themselves -

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but there was nothing. They were trapped. Even if they
could fight off the Dark Ones for a time, they were still too
close to the surface; the next quake would bury them.
And then the Hunter turned away from them. And put
one hand up against the dirt at his side, as though he
required its support.
"There is a way," he whispered hoarsely. "One way
only, that I can think of. It would save the lady."
The voices were getting louder. Damien came close to
where the adept stood so that they might talk quietly. "Tell
me."
Tarrant looked up at the ceiling, as if searching for some
sort of sign. It occurred to Damien with a start that this was
how he had searched before, in the moments before he
brought down a whole section of the tunnel.
"I could blast a way out," the Hunter muttered. "There's
enough tamed fae in the sword that I could do it, without
having to use the currents. Only . . ."
"The sunlight," Damien said softly.
Tarrant turned away again.

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"You can't," Ciani whispered. "Gerald . . ."
"I appreciate your concern," the adept breathed, "but
there's no real alternative. Other than dying here beneath
the earth, our souls gone to feed those . . . creatures."He
shook his head, stiffly. "Even I can't Work an adequate
defense, without the earth-fae to draw on. There are so
many of them, and we have so few weapons left . . . it
would only be a matter of time."
"Until nightfall?" Damien asked.
The Hunter shook his head, grimly. "Not that long, I
regret." He turned to Ciani. "This would free you," he
whispered. "I could open this part of the passage to the
sunlight, and if your assailant was here at the time . . . it
would free you."
"And you?" Damien asked. "Could you survive it?"
He hesitated. "Probably not. Sunlight is relative, of
course; I've stood in the light of three moons, and beneath a
galaxy of stars . . . but this is different." A tremor seemed
to pass through his flesh. Damien recalled the fire
underground, and what it had done to him. If a mere earthly
blaze could wreak that kind of damage, what chance would
the Hunter have when facing the sun itself?
Then: "I see no other way," he said grimly. And he drew

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the coldfire sword from its sheath.
The voices were coming closer now. Ciani moved to his
side, reached out as if to touch him - and then drew back,
trembling. "Gerald."
"Lady Ciani." He caught up her hand in his free one and
touched it quickly to his lips. If she had any sort of negative
response to the chill of his flesh, Damien didn't see it. "I
owe you a debt of honor. I've risked much to fulfill it. If
this succeeds, and your memory is restored-"
"Then I would say your honor is satisfied," she
whispered. "And I free you from any further obligation."
He let go of her hand. And bowed. "Thank you, lady."
"If you can find shelter-" Damien began.
"There'll be no shelter when I'm done." He gestured for
them to move back, clearing the space nearest to him. And
studied the ceiling again, looking for a workable fault.
"You'll have to move quickly. Gain the surface as fast as
you can, and then get away from here. Fast. You don't
know how long those things will take to die, or what
damage they might do to you in their death throes. The best
defense is distance. Don't even pause to look back," he
warned them - and Damien wondered if his concern was for
their lives, or that they might see the Hunter burning.

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"Now," he hissed. "Get ready."
The voices were approaching. Damien stood back, and
gathered Ciani to him. Hesseth pressed close by his other
side, springbok at the ready. He began to shield his eyes -
and saw Tarrant's pale gaze fixed on him.
"Good luck, Hunter," he said quietly.
And they came. Climbing over the mounds of earth like
oversized rodents, inhuman eyes blazing with hunger. The
first one saw them there and pulled up, hissing a sharp
warning to its fellows. Then they came into the lamplight
as well, swarming about him like hungry insects, filling the
far end of the tunnel. Wary, because Tarrant's sword was
drawn and they clearly sensed its power.
And then one of them fixed its eyes on Ciani and hissed
softly, in pleasure. A sharp tongue tip stroked the points of
its teeth, and Damien knew by the tremor that ran through
her that this was the one, the demon who attacked her in
Jaggonath. The one who contained her memories.
"Now," the Hunter whispered.
The demons began to move.
He thrust. Up into the earth, deep into the fault he had

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located. The force of the coldfire-bound steel took root and
expanded, exploding outward with all the force of a bomb.
Dirt bits slammed into Damien and his companions, and the
force of the compression struck them like a fist. For a
moment there was nothing but a hailing of dirt and rocks,
like shrapnel. And then: light. Blinding. The brilliance of
the morning sun, to eyes that had spent days in darkness.
He threw up his arm across his eyes, as the pain of it seared
his vision. The whole world was white, formless, utterly
blinding . . . he forced his arm down, remembered Tarrant's
last warning. Get away from here. Fast. Against the glare
of sunlight he could barely make out shapes, now, hot
white against the hotter white of the morning sky. He
clambered toward one of them, felt a newly-formed wall of
earth take shape beneath his fingertips. He pulled Ciani
over to it and guided Hesseth to follow. "Climb!" he
whispered fiercely. He could barely see the ground beneath
him, but trusted his hands to guide him. The earth here
sloped back in smoothly curved walls, like that of a
meteoric crater; he tried not to think of Tarrant as he
struggled up that slope, as he tried to gain solid purchase in
the shifting, inconstant earth, helping the others to climb
along with him-
Ciani screamed. It was a sound of pain and terror
combined, so utterly chilling in its tenor that for a moment
Damien froze, stunned by the sound. Then he saw her
slipping as her body convulsed, and he grabbed out for her.
Caught her by the sleeve of her shirt, and tried to keep her
from sliding back down to the tunnel below.

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"Can't," she gasped. "Gods, I can't-"
"Help me!" he cried - and Hesseth reached out from the
other side, grabbing Ciani's arm. Together they held their
ground as she shivered from the onslaught of her own
forgotten memories, all the pain and fear of a lifetime
compressed into one burning instant. Her skin was hot to
the touch, but that might have been because of the sun.
After weeks among the nonhuman and the semi-human,
wounded and tired in cold, dark tunnels, Damien would be
hard pressed to remember what normal body temperature
felt like.
They began to drag her upward. Slowly. Afraid to move
on the treacherous slope, but even more afraid to stay
where they were. That Ciani's assailant was now dead was
all but certain. But how many others remained, who might
find a short climb into sunlight an acceptable price for
revenge? Inch by inch, carefully, the two of them worked
their way up the earthen slope. Beneath them clods of earth
broke loose and tumbled down into the crater's depths.
They fought not to tumble down with them. The slope grew
steeper, and Damien had to drive his hands deep into the
soil to get the support he needed. Ciani moaned softly,
utterly limp beneath his grasp, and he could only hope that
the climb was doing her no damage. He reached into the
crumbling earth, and caught hold of something solid at last.
A root. He looked up, and against the glare of the sun he
could make out the form of trees, not far above them. With

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a prayer of thanksgiving on his lips he grabbed at the firm
root, and used it to pull himself up the slope. Hesseth, on
the other side of Ciani, saw what he was doing and
followed suit. The soft earth gave way to a tangle of
vegetation, gave way to the underearth limbs of mature
trees . . .
And they were over. All three of them. Damien lay
gasping on the ground for a moment, his legs still resting
on the edge of Tarrant's crater. Then, with effort, he forced
himself to his feet. Ciani was utterly still, but the look on
her face was one of peace; lowering his head to her chest,
he could hear her measured breathing. He lifted her up into
his arms, gently, and murmured, "She's all right." Cradling
her, as one might a child. "She's going to be all right."
And the winter chill was nothing to them as they
staggered away from the site of their recent trials. Because
the sunlight was streaming down on them, and that was life
itself.
The series of earthquakes which Tarrant had triggered
continued for nearly three days, but none were as violent as
those first few had been. Trees had been torn down,
mountains reshaped, whole cavern systems refigured - but
in the end the land survived, and that was all that really
mattered.
They camped on the plains, on open ground, until the
worst of the aftershocks had ended. Only then did Damien

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dare to climb back up, to that place where they had so
recently escaped from the earth's confines. The landmarks
had all changed, and massive rockslides made climbing all
but impossible . . . but in the end he found it, a circle of
land devoid of trees, where the ground sloped down in a
gentle arena of freshly-turned earth.
It had been filled in, almost to the brim. The repeated
tremors must have done it, shaking the broken earth until it
sought its own level, like water. Whatever Tarrant had done
to the demons - and to himself - it was buried forever in the
mountainside, along with the remains of his body.
He tried not to think of what that burning must have
been like, as he knelt in the soft earth to pray. Tried not to
remember the Hunter's charred flesh as it had been in his
hands, as he softly intoned the Prayer for the Dead.
Pleading mercy for a soul that had never earned mercy, for
a man who had so committed himself to hell that a
thousand prayers a day, offered up for a thousand years,
would not negate one instant of his suffering.
"Rest in peace, Prophet," he whispered.
He hoped that someday it would be possible.
Forty-six
Winter had comeearly to the plains - but it was

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nothing compared to the frigid abuse of autumn in the
mountains, and Damien was grateful for it. After nearly
two hundred miles of travel it was good to be clean again
and in fresh clothes, and knowing that he and Ciani were
safe was a luxury he had begun to despair of ever experi-
encing. And if she had changed somewhat, if she was no
longer the woman he had known . . . hadn't he seen that
coming, in the last few days? Hadn't he seen it building in
her, all the way back from the eastern range?
That doesn't help, he told himself, bitterly. It doesn't
help at all.
He looked toward the center of the rakhene camp, where
even now a celebration was taking place. The night was
dark, almost moonless, but the jubilant rakh had set it alight
with over a hundred torches, and their triumphal bonfire
blazed like a sun in miniature from the center of their camp.
And she danced among them - not like one of them,
exactly, but not like a human woman, either. An adept who
had chosen to suspend herself between two worlds, so that
she might bridge the gap between them. A loremaster. He
turned away, remembering the word. Resenting it. And
hating himself, for the unfairness of his reaction.
She was never really yours. You never really knew her.
It didn't help. Not a bit. But then, cold reason never did.

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He felt restless. Confined, by the nearness of so many
tents. So many rakh. The ranks of Hesseth's tribe had been
swelled by numerous visitors who had come to hear the
tales and see the relics and gaze in fascination upon the
hated, fearsome humans. He sensed power games going on
all about him, on levels too complex for him to interpret, as
tribes who normally avoided each other tried to sort
themselves out into a new, all-inclusive order. Human
society,he thought.We've planted the seeds. In time there
would be nations, and treaties, and all the ills that came of
such things . . . he didn't know whether to feel glad or
guilty, but he suspected the latter was more appropriate.
God willing the Canopy would remain intact so that the
rakh could make their own fate, in peace, before having to
deal with humankind again. God willing.
Slowly, he turned from the camp. It was cold outside,
but the heavy garments which the rakh had made for him
were more than sufficient to ward off the wintry chill. He
tucked his hands into his pockets and began to walk
eastward, away from the starkly lit celebration. The noise
of rakhene chanting faded behind him, as well as the
occasional burst of human laughter that sparkled in its
midst. Herlaughter. He pulled his jacket tightly about him
and increased his pace. The trampled earth of the rakhene
encampment gave way to half-frozen slush, which in turn
gave way to snow: pristine, unsullied, a glistening white
blanket that draped over the plains like the softest wool,
cushioning the land in silence.

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He walked. Away from the camp, from the noise. Away
from all signs of life, and all protestations of joy. He had
put in one hard night's celebration, and now he was ready
to move again. Restless, as always. To the west of him the
Worldsend Mountains loomed, sterile and foreboding. He
knew that all its passes were frozen by now, would remain
frozen for months to come, and that its slopes were ripe
with avalanches in the making, and a thousand other
hazards of winter. He would never have risked such a route
in this season, not with others by his side - but he might do
so alone. Now that Senzei had found his peace, and Ciani
had found . . . other things.
And then a movement caught his eye, back the way he
had come. And he turned, to see who had followed him
from the camp, what rakhene business would disturb his
solitude.
When he saw, he froze.
The figure stood with the moon to its back, so that all of
its front was in shadow. Thick fabric fell from its shoulders,
enveloping it like a cloak, rendering its form doubly
invisible. Its face was no more than an oval of blackness,
its body an amorphous shadow. But there was no mistaking
its shape. Or its identity. "I see that the lady is well," the
Hunter whispered. Relief surged up inside him - and moral
revulsion also, as fresh within him as the day on which he'd
learned the Hunter's name. The force of the admixture was
stunning, and it rendered him utterly speechless. He was

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grateful that he had no weapon on him - glad that he was
thus spared the trauma of having to sort out his feelings,
having to decide whether or not this was an appropriate
moment to remind the Hunter of their natural enmity.
At last he found his voice. "You survived. The sunlight .
. ."
"It's all a question of degree, Reverend Vryce, as I told
you. Fortunately, the Dark Ones lack such sophistication.
Since they had no knowledge of any other option, they
died." His voice was a mere breath, hardly louder than the
breezes of the night. It seemed also to be coarser than usual
- but it was so hard to hear him at all that Damien couldn't
be certain of that. "I thought you would want to know that I
lived. I thought you had that right."
"Thank you. I'm . . . glad." "That I survived?" he asked
dryly. "That you didn't die . . . like that." He meant it
sincerely and knew that could be heard in his voice. "I
intended . . . something cleaner."
"So you'll still be coming after me when you leave the
rakhlands. I regret that, priest. There's a quality in you that
I would hate to destroy. A certain . . . recklessness?"
"But you'll manage it anyway." "If you try to kill me?
With relish." "Then I'm sorry to ruin your sport," he said,
"but I'm afraid you're going to have to wait for that

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particular pleasure." He watched the dark figure carefully
as he spoke, wondering what it was about it that seemed so
strained, so very . . . wrong. "I'm going east."
The voice was a whisper, no louder than the wind. "East
is the ocean. Novatlantis. The deathlands."
"And more than that, I'm afraid." He nodded toward the
camp; its fires were invisible in the distance. "The Lost
Ones returned, you know. The males, that is. I think the
risk appealed to them. They're cleaning out the last of the
Keeper's warren, braving rock falls and tunnel collapse in
order to hunt down her servants. For food, they told me.
The last of the Dark Ones will be their winter sustenance."
"That's impossible," the cloaked figure muttered.
"Demonic flesh wouldn't be-"
"It isn't demonic flesh," the priest said quietly. "Because
the Dark Ones aren't constructs." He looked east: toward
the mountains, toward the fallen citadel. "Hesseth found a
body. We examined it. We thought we could determine
what sort of construct it was, maybe find out how it had
come into being . . . only it wasn't a construct at all.
Hesseth was the first to suspect it, and Ciani confirmed it.
The truth." He drew in a deep breath, remembering that
moment. Reliving it, as he spoke. "It was rakh," he told
Tarrant. His own voice little more than a whisper. "The
Dark Ones are rakh."

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For a moment, Tarrant's form was utterly still; Damien
imagined he could hear the man's thoughts racing, aligning
fact with fact like the pieces of some vast puzzle. "Not
possible," he said at last. "That would mean-"
"Someone - or something - has been evolving them.
Like you did to the Forest, Hunter. Only this time on a
grander scale. This time with high-order intelligence." He
felt the tightness growing inside him again, the same
restless tension he had felt when the truth first became
apparent. His hands in his pockets tightened into fists.
"Nature couldn't do it. Nature wouldn't. Take a tribe of
intelligent, adaptable creatures, and bind them to the night
like that? Suppress their own vitality, so that they could
only live by torturing others? Those Dark Ones diedwhen
you exposed them, Hunter and you didn't. You, who've
spent a thousand years avoiding the sun - whose very
existence depends upon constant darkness - you survived.
Why would Erna imbue one of her creatures with such a
terrible weakness? What point could it possibly serve?"
"You think someone's done it," he whispered.
"Deliberately."
"There's no question in my mind," he said grimly.
"And it would have to be on a massive scale, to succeed
like that - the corruption of a whole environment. There's
nothing like that in the human lands. Remember what the
rakh-girl said? They came from the east."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"So you're going after them."
"Five expeditions have tried to cross that ocean. Two in
your own age, three in the centuries after. None were ever
heard from again. But that doesn't mean that they failed,
does it? For all we know, humankind managed to populate
those regions . . . and gave birth to something which has
warped the very patterns of Nature. I think that what we
saw here . . . that's just the tip of the iceberg. I think we
need to know what the hell is going on over there before
something far worse comes over." He looked at the dark
figure before him, and felt something stir in him that was
not quite revulsion. Not wholly abhorrence.
"Come with me," he whispered. "Come east with me."
The figure stiffened. "Are you serious? Do you know
what you're asking?"
"A chance to strike at your real enemy. The one behind
all this; the force responsible. Doesn't that appeal to you?"
"In the past few weeks," Tarrant said darkly, "I have
been bound, humiliated, starved, burned, blasted with
sunlight, tortured in ways I will not describe, and nearly
killed on several occasions. I, who have spent the last five
hundred years building myself a safe refuge from such
threats! Are you suggesting that I should court such

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disasters again? Truly, I shouldn't have taken so much of
your blood," the dark figure mused. "The shortage clearly
affected your brain."
"You have no curiosity? Or even . . . hunger for
vengeance?"
"What I have, Reverend Vryce, is a haven of absolute
safety. A domain that I have built for myself, stone by
stone, tree by tree, until the land itself exists only to indulge
my pleasure. Should I give that up? Commit myself to the
eastern ocean, with all the risk that entails? I'm amazed you
want me with you in the first place."
"Your power's unquestionable. Your insight-"
"And it would keep me out of trouble, eh? For as long as
I was with you, there would be no hunting in the Forest. No
innocent women suffering for my pleasure. Isn't that part of
it? Isn't that how your conscience would deal with the fact
of my continued existence, when you've sworn on your
honor to kill me?"
Despite himself, Damien smiled. "It has its appeal."
"Let me tell you what that ocean means, to my kind.
Thousands upon thousands of miles of open water, too deep
for the earth-fae to penetrate. Do you understand? The very
force that keeps me alive, that I require for most of my

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Workings, would be inaccessible. Which means I couldn't
help you, or myself, if anything happened. One good
eruption out of Novatlantis when we're in that region and
no power of mine or yours could do anything to save us.
Why do you think no one crosses that water? Why do you
think it was only attempted five times, in all the years that
man has been here? And, I would be all but helpless. At
your mercy. Do you think that appeals to me? Such
vulnerability is unthinkable, for one of my kind."
"I gave you my word before. You know I was good for
it. Try me," he dared him.
The figure stared at him in silence for a moment; unable
to see the Hunter's expression, Damien was unable to read
its cause.
"I thought you traveled alone," Tarrant said at last.
"Yes. Well." He looked back toward the camp.
"Hesseth's going. She insisted. You should have seen her
when we learned the truth, when she realized that her own
species was being corrupted . . ."
"And the lady Ciani?"
His expression tightened; it took him a moment to find I
the proper words. "This is her life's work," he told the
Hunter. "The rakhlands. Their culture. I didn't know that

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before because she didn't have the memory . . . but then, I
didn't know so much about her."
For a moment there was silence, then: "I'm sorry," the
figure said softly.
He forced a shrug. "It was good while it lasted. That's
the most you can ask for, isn't it?" He forced his hands to
unclench inside his pockets. Forced his voice to be steady.
"We're from two different worlds, she and I. Sometimes
you forget that. Sometimes you pretend it doesn't matter.
But it's always there." He looked up at the figure, toward
where his face would be. Like all of him, it was sheathed in
darkness. "There's something growing in the east," he said.
"Something very powerful, and very evil. Something that's
had both the time and the patience to rework the very
patterns of this planet, until Nature was forced to respond
to it. Don't you want to know what that is? Don't you want
to make it pay for what it did to you?"
"Set evil against evil, is that it? In the hope that they
might destroy each other."
"You were the one who recommended that. Or don't
you remember?"
"I was very young, then. Inexperienced. Naive."
"You were the voice of my faith."

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"Past tense, Reverend Vryce. Things have changed. I
have changed." The figure stepped back, breathing in
sharply as it did so. In pain? "Years ago, I decided that I
would sacrifice anything and everything in the name of
survival. My blood. My kin. My humanity. Should I render
all that meaningless now, by courting death at this late age?
I think not."
Damien shrugged. "We'll be leaving from Faraday if
you change your mind. In late March or April, probably; it
will take at least that long to work out the practical details.
I'll save you a private berth," he promised. "With no
windows, and a lock on the door."
For a long moment, the dark figure just stared at him.
Though the silver eyes were lost in shadow, Damien could
feel them fixed on him.
"What makes you think you know me so well?" the
Hunter asked hoarsely. "What makes you think you can
anticipate me, in ways that go against my nature?"
"I know who you were," Damien answered. "I know
what that man stood for. And I'm willing to bet that
somewhere in the heart of that malignant thing you call a
soul is a spark of what that man was - and the boundless
curiosity that drove him. I think your hunger to know is
every bit as great as your hunger for life, Neocount. I'm
offering you knowledge - as well as vengeance. Are you

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telling me that combination has no appeal?"
The figure lifted one arm, so that the folds of his cloak
fell free of it. "Appeal or no," he whispered. "The price is
too high."
Moonlight shimmered on the wetness of bloody flesh,
on muscle and veins stripped bare by the force of the sun's
assault. Sharp bone edges poked through strands of
shrunken flesh, their tips charred black by fire and crusted
with dried blood. The fingers were no more than seared bits
of meat, strung together along the slender phalanges like
some macabre shish kebob. If a scrap of silk or wool
adhered to that flesh, or any other bit of clothing, it had
been so torn and so bloodied that it was now
indistinguishable from the man's own tissue.
"Enough is enough," the Hunter whispered. The arm
dropped down, and the cloak fell to cover it. The voice
echoed with pain, and with the soft gurgle of blood. "The
answer is no, Reverend Vryce. And it will stay no, through
all the years that you remain alive." He gestured toward the
distant camp, across the field of spotless snow. "You may
consider the life of these tribes my parting gift, if you like -
I had once sworn to kill them all, for their audacity in
binding me."
"A few less souls to darken my conscience?" he asked
sharply.

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"Exactly."
The Hunter bowed. And the effort that it took was so
apparent, his pain thronghout the motion so obvious, that
Damien winced to see it. How many muscles had been
burned to ragged strands, that a man would require for such
a gesture? How much blood was being made to flow, for
that last show of elegance?
"Good luck, Reverend Vryce," the Hunter whispered. "I
suspect you'll need it." 
Epilogue
Deep in the bowels of night's keep, in a chamber
reserved for the Lord of the Forest, a figure lay still atop a
numarble table. There, where the sun would never shine its
baleful light, where earthquakes had never yet disturbed the
carefully warded walls, the body of the Hunter lay
immersed in dark fae, purple power clinging to his death-
pale skin. Utterly cold. Utterly lifeless. Silk robes spilled
over the sides of the polished table like a waterfall frozen in
motion, their contours hinting at the items that lay beneath.
For if this castle was a duplicate of Merentha's citadel in
every other regard, so was its underground workroom a
dark reflection of the Neocount's original - and the straps
which had bound Almea Tarrant in her dying adorned the
polished worktable like some macabre ornament, now
parted to receive the Hunter's body.

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Power: not weakened by sunlight - or even moonlight -
and not compromised by the presence of some local
primitive mind. Pure power, deep and swift-working - a
death-hungry power, that had been building in these
caverns for longer than man could remember. It gathered
around him like a blanket - a shroud - a barrier against life -
and any observer would be hard pressed to say whether the
flesh thus protected was cradled in the true chill of death, or
in some macabre facsimile.
In that place where no sound had been heard for so
many days, footsteps now resounded. Soft and measured,
slowly approaching. There was a rattle at the door as the
great lock was opened, then the slow creak of steel hinges
overweighed by the mass of their burden. Fae-light
shimmered on an albino's brow, purple light reflecting
bright magenta in the pigment-free depths of his eyes. He
regarded the figure that lay before him, then bowed, ever so
slightly. And reached out a tendril of his own dark will, to
touch the currents that guarded that motionless form.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with infinite
slowness, the pale eyelids opened. The dark fae parted as
the Lord of the Forest spread his fingers, flexing his hands
into motion once more. Stretching his arms, likewise. After
a moment he levered himself to a sitting position - and
though he winced as though in pain while doing so, it was
clear from his movements that the worst of the sun-
spawned damage had been repaired.

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"Forgive me," the albino said. "I know you didn't want
to be disturbed-"
"How long has it been?"
"Nearly a long month, Excellency."
"So long." He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath
slowly, as if savoring the air. "You wouldn't bother me
without a reason, Amoril, I know that. What is it?"
"You have a petitioner, my lord."
The pale eyes shot open. Their depths sparkled violet in
the fae-light. "Indeed? What manner of petitioner?"
"A demon, Excellency. High-order, if I read him right.
He said that you would know him, and respect his business.
He gave his name as Calesta."
For a moment there was silence. Then the Hunter said,
softly, "I know him. And I think I know his business, as
well."
"Is he the one you fought, in the rakhlands?"
He swung his legs over the side of the table, and tested
their strength against the floor. "He was a symbiote of the

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one that I fought. And that kind can't last long, without
some kind of human partner." He chuckled softly. "I'm
surprised I still rate that designation."
"Partner?"
"Human."
"You think he wants to link himself to you."
"Let's say I consider it possible."
"After what he did?"
"Demons aren't whole people, Amoril. Like animals
they know only blind hunger and a channel to the hand that
feeds them. And the desire to survive, as passionate as
anything humans might experience." He eased himself onto
his feet, until he was standing free of any support.
"Calesta's symbiote is dead. His enemy lives. It's to his
advantage to placate that power which might still destroy
him - and perhaps even court it. Demons rank themselves
according to such alliances."
"And would you ally with him?"
The Hunter's expression grew dark. "I haven't forgotten
what he did to me. But we're in my realm now, playing by

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

my rules. Let's see how well he adapts to that, shall we?"
He brushed at the silk of his shirt sleeve, binding enough
dark fae to smooth out the wrinkles. "Have him come to the
audience chamber, and await me there." And he warned, "I
may leave him waiting some time."
The albino bowed. "Excellency."
Darkness. Absolute. He let it fill his eyes and his heart
for a moment, let it seep deep into his soul to where the
sun-born wounds still throbbed. And then he let himself
See, and Hear, and breathe in the power of the Forest. A
symphony of power rising up out of the earth, all dark and
cold and rich with his signature. So beautiful, he thought.
So very beautiful. He felt the presence of the trees that
dwelled there, remade to serve his special need; the
predators that stirred above and below the earth, responsive
to his will; the blood-filled life that hovered at the edges of
his domain, all restlessness and greed and human
recklessness. Their nearness awakened a hunger in him so
intense that for a minute it seemed the whole Forest was
filled with their blood, and all its air was ripe with the smell
of their fear. And the music of their mortality, almost
painful in its intensity.
How long ago had it been since last he'd hunted? He
ached for the sweet taste of a woman's terror, for the
boundless pleasure of hunting in a land where all life
responded to his will - where the land itself could be
reshaped, if he so desired it, to force his prey back upon her

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

own path, into his waiting arms . . . he shivered in hunger,
just thinking of it. Too many days. Too many nights of
rakhene fear and disembodied blood and a need so
powerful that it had nearly overwhelmed him. Now there
was no need for him to deny himself. Now he could choose
his prey and set her loose in these woods, and feed as his
nature demanded. Wash his soul clean with killing, until
the taint of his contact with humankind was nothing more
than an unpleasant memory.
Until you come for me, Vryce, he thought. Until you do
what your nature demands, and try to put an end to me. In
my domain. On my terms. He chuckled darkly.You haven't
a chance in hell, my friend. But I'll enjoy watching you try.
Dark fae swirling about his feet, silken robes brushing
the floor as he walked, the Neocount of Merentha headed
toward his audience chamber.
Black floor and dark draperies: they soothed the eye and
calmed the heart, nourishing his nightbound soul. His
visitor was a different story. Though the demon's chosen
body was also black, his form was riddled with flaws and
sharp edges that caught what little light there was and
magnified it, making it bright enough to sting the Hunter's
newly-healed eyes. His voice was likewise irritating, a
thing of life and hidden sunlight and the ceaseless
cacophony of day.
"Excellency." The demon bowed. "Allow me to-"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"You're a guest in my domain," the Hunter interrupted.
"And not a very welcome one. You can design yourself a
suitable form for this audience or leave. Now." When the
demon failed to respond he added sharply, "I'm prepared to
Banish you, if necessary."
Calesta stiffened. "Of course, my lord." The glittering
edges of his obsidian flesh began to pulse - and then
melted, into a smooth, rippling surface. His voice became a
whispering thing, all night air and cool darkness. "Is this
better, Prince of Jahanna? Does this please you?"
"It'll do," the Neocount said shortly. "What's your
business?"
"Exactly what you expect, my lord. I saw what your
vengeance did to my Mistress. I have no wish to suffer a
similiar fate." The black form bowed deeply. "I've come to
make an offering. A gesture of conciliation."
"With no strings attached?" the Hunter asked dryly.
The demon laughed softly. "You're not the fool that she
was, my prince. You know the world, and its workings.
Let's say that it would please me if you accepted my
offering. It would please me very much."
"I'm listening."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The demon glanced toward the window; faceted eyes
glittered in the fae-light. "I've found you a woman. A rare
delight. A beautiful, delicate flower of a girl, whom the
gods must have designed with you in mind. A fragile spirit
and a strong young body married together in perfect unity,
so that the one might suffer while the other endures. She
could pleasure you for hours, Hunter. Not like the others.
This one was born to be devoured."
"And where is this . . . jewel?"
"In your realm, prince. I took the liberty of bringing her
here while you slept. I anticipated that when you awakened
you might be . . . hungry. See for yourself," he whispered.
"It's all there, for the Knowing."
The Hunter gathered the dark fae about him and bound it
to his will. Tendrils of power stretched forth, and touched
the fleeing woman. He tasted the memory of her looking
into a mirror, felt the absolute certainty of her beauty
reverberate within him. And that soul! As fragile and as
fine as porcelain in its tenor, but utterly resilient in its
substance. He stroked her brain tenderly with his power,
savoring her capacity for terror; she responded to him on at
least a dozen levels, from the personal to the archetypal. A
finely tuned instrument, that might produce whole
symphonies of fear. It would have been a delight to hunt
her under any circumstances; now, with the abstinence of a
month or more sharpening the edge of his hunger, she was

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doubly irresistible.
"You would feed off my pleasure," he challenged the
demon.
The dark figure chuckled. "You'd have more than
enough pleasure to spare in this hunt."
"I don't support parasites."
"Not true, my prince. Not true at all. What about Karril?
You've dedicated more than one hunt to him. While all he
does is watch, and cheer you on. I can bring you victims,
Hunter. I can read the hunger inside you better than any
other, and scour the world for suitable prey. You doubt my
skill? Test me, then. This one's a gift. No strings attached -
this time. If she pleases you as much as I think she will . . ."
He bowed, deeply. "I live to serve, my lord."
The taste of her was on his lips, in his soul. It was hard
to keep his voice steady as he asked, "What have you told
her?"
"The Hunter's rules. The Forest's tradition. That you'll
track her as a man would, in a man's form, using no
Working. That she has three days and nights in which to
evade you . . . and if she succeeds, she'll be free of you
forever."

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"And did she believe that last point?"
"Of course she did. I understand how important that is,
Hunter. It's the death of hope, rather than of the flesh itself,
which is your true kill." And he added, "I have taken one
special liberty, my lord."
The Hunter's eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"This is her third night here. I tracked her myself for two
of them, just as you would have. So that her terror would be
at its peak by the time you went out to take her. After such
a long healing sleep . . . I thought you might be very
hungry."
"And you were right," he said softly. "In that . . . and in
your choice. I accept your offering, Calesta. If she pleases
me as much as I think she may . . . then we can talk about
the possibility of future arrangements." He looked toward
the window, at the Forest beyond; it seemed he could smell
her fear on the wind. "That's all for now," he said quietly.
"You may go."
The demon smiled, and bowed again. "Good feeding,
Hunter."
The forest air was cold and dry, and her fear was
something he could taste on his lips as he breathed it in,
testing the wind for her scent. Beneath his feet her imprints

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were clear, hurried steps that dug deep into the half-frozen
earth and then tore it loose-running steps that were skewed
as if from exhaustion, a line of imprints that staggered from
tree to tree as if she were desperate for some support, but
dared not pause long enough to take it. Because resting,
even for a moment, meant losing ground before him. And
with only hours to go before her last dawn, she dared not
waste a precious second.
Run, my fragile one. Run for the sunlight. Only a short
time more before your safety is certain . . . and then, in
those last desperate moments, I'll take you. And I'll taste
your hope as it dies, drowned out in a sea of terror . . . He
could feel her already, a faint flicker of fear against the
edge of his mind, and desire filled him. What form should
he take, once he had her? Her fears were so many, and so
deeply rooted . . . he had never faced such a wealth of
options before. The thought of taking her blood excited
him, a strange sensation; not since his early days had he
taken pleasure in so brutal an attack, or taken on a form so
centered in pure physicality. Perhaps it was the result of
traveling among humans again, of accepting their blood in
cold, measured doses - enough to awaken that hunger
again, not enough to satisfy it. Whatever the reason, he
found that the thought of such a physical assault made him
burn with hunger, and his hands shook as he brushed a drift
of dead leaves from her trail, in order to read it more
clearly. Perhaps a sexual assault would serve his purpose
best. Not that he was capable of sexual congress, or even of
mimicking its forms; procreation was an act of life, and it
was as forbidden to him as fire was, or the light of the sun.

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But a woman such as that, who found herself overpowered
by a man, who might be rendered naked with so little effort
. . . she would come to her own conclusions regarding his
intent, and those were nearly as nourishing as the act itself.
He imagined the taste of her blood under those
circumstances, and shivered from the force of his need.
Calesta knew my hunger well, he thought. Better than I
knew it myself.
And then he caught her scent on the wind, and he knew
that he was close. Very close. He took care to move quietly,
now, avoiding the crisp leaves that littered the ground about
him. It seemed that he could hear her labored breathing,
underscored by the pounding of her heart. So much blood,
rendered so very warm by her terror . . . it seemed he could
taste it on his lips already as he followed her trail, seemed
that he could feel the rush of her fear as it enveloped him,
hot and wild and utterly unfettered . . .
He ran. Long legs consuming the Forest ground at a
pace her own could not possibly equal, sharp eyes picking
out the marks of her trail in the near darkness. Calesta was
right, he could never have waited. And this way there was
no need to. For two nights now the demon had tracked her
in his stead, playing all the subtle games that he had
perfected in order to bring her terror to a fever pitch. All
that remained was for the Hunter to harvest that fear, to
drink it in along with her life and the last of her hope - to
replenish the strength that two months of traveling with
those humans had drained from him. A sweet prospect,

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indeed.
A clearing. Trees fell back, as though parting for him. At
the far side a slight figure paused, then spun about in panic.
Black hair whipped across a pale face, obscuring delicate
features. Her slender fingers were red with blood, where
thorns and rough bark had scraped them raw; her clothing,
once fine, had been tattered by three days of flight through
the woods. Fear blossomed out from her like a welcoming
fire, and he had neither the strength nor the desire to resist
its heat. He crossed the ground between them quickly and
closed his hand about her wrist. Her pulse fluttered wildly,
like that of a terrified bird, and she moaned softly as he
pulled her toward him. Too weak to struggle; too
overwhelmed to plead. He shut his eyes and let himself
sink into the depths of her nightmare imagination, let all the
images that were within her surface and take form, so that
he might choose from among them. So many, so rich . . .
the smell of her blood made him giddy with hunger, and he
felt himself pushing the torn shirt back from her shoulders,
baring skin as pale as the moonlight itself-
"You," she whispered.
The word was like a blow. For a moment the world spun
about him, dizzily - and then he managed to regain control,
and he opened his eyes. And he released her suddenly, and
staggered back. Stared at her, not quite believing.
"I won't run from you," she whispered.

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Those eyes, that face . . . he remembered the night he
had walked her home, so comfortably arrogant as he played
at shielding her from the dangers of the night . . .
remembered the promise he had made to her, the vow she
didn't know how to value. That the Hunter would never
harm her. That he would never harm her.
"I promised myself that," she breathed. There were tears
in her eyes now - of sadness, not fear, a tender mourning
that had no place in his brutal realm. "For what you gave
me . . . if you wanted . . . whatever." She bit her lower lip,
fighting for courage. "I won't run," she whispered. "Not
from you."
"Son of a bitch," he muttered. He turned away. His
hands were shaking - with rage, with hatred. "That bastard .
. ."
He drew in a ragged breath, tried to master his hunger.
Tried to dim down the passion that had been driving him,
until he could control it. Tried not to think how close he
had just come to betraying himself, or at whose prompting
it had almost happened . . .
There was a touch on his arm. Light, like the wingstroke
of a bird. "Are you all right?" she whispered. And suddenly
he could neither strike out at her, nor laugh at the total
incongruousness of the question - but was caught
somewhere between the two expressions and thus frozen.

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Unable to react.
At last he managed, "We were betrayed. Both of us." He
turned back to her, tried to still the tide of hunger that rose
up within him at the sight of her. So very, very delicate . . .
he swallowed back on that impulse, hard, and said, "I
promised not to hurt you. I promised the Hunter would
never hurt you."
Son of a bitch!
The rage, hot inside him, was finally overwhelming the
hunger. It allowed him to think. "Here." He pulled his
medallion out of his shirt - on a new chain, made to replace
that which Ciani had torn from his neck so many weeks ago
- and handed it to her. "Take this. Hold onto it. None of my
people will harm you while you have it, and the beasts . . .
they obey my will. Nothing will hurt you."
"Thank you," she whispered. Confused, as her fingers
closed about the thin disk and its chain. "I don't
understand-"
"You don't want to," he assured her. "Ever."
With effort, he managed to step back from her. The
smell of her blood was like a magnet to his hunger - but she
no longer feared him, and that helped immensely. Even as
it amazed him, that it was true.

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"I'll send you help," he told her. "Someone to get you
safely out of here. You wait, with that . . . someone will
come. You show him that. You'll be safe."
Calesta, you bastard . . . you'll pay for this indignity.
And so will whoever or whatever spawned you. I swear it!
He turned to go. And he felt her fingers on his arm
again; there was fear in her touch.
"Do you have to go?" she breathed. I mean . . . please."
He turned to her in amazement, saw the desperate hope
in her eyes. She was afraid - not of him, now, but of the
Forest. His creation. He was her island of refuge in a vast
sea of terror, the single creature whom she did not fear in
all of his domain. The concept was so bizarre he could
hardly absorb it.
"I have a score to settle," he told her. And then, because
it seemed to suit this bizarre new role that he had made for
himself, he added, "You'll be all right."
I promise you.
The harbor at Faraday was bustling with activity,
longshoremen swarming across the open docks like insects
on honey. By now most of the tugs had put out to sea, and

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the small skiffs that would transport passengers across the
shallow harbor waters were already making their way
tbward their motherships, whose vast sails and steady
turbines stood ready to tame the dangerous eastern waters.
The captain of the Golden Glory looked out over the
docks and snorted sharply. Then he climbed to where
Damien stood, on a shelf overlooking the harbor. And put
his hands on his hips, facing the man.
"Tide's going out soon," he informed him. "Another
hour."
The priest nodded.
"It's a hard double, this time. Best we'll get. It could
take us past the Shelf before anything from outwater could
hit us - you listening to me?"
"A hard double tide," Damien repeated. "One hour.
Anything else?"
"Only that we've really got to leave, this time. The
investors won't stand for another delay - and neither will I.
You want a safe crossing, we start now. Otherwise you can
find yourself another captain, not to mention another ship."
Damien smiled faintly. "And you think that pack of
gold-seekers on board will let you quit, just like that?"

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The captain grinned, displaying several broken teeth.
"You got me there. Reverend. But look: it's you who got it
all together, right? You who found enough bodies willing
to cross the sea, to get us some investors to pay the backing
costs, to buy yourself a good safe crossing . . . so why
waste all that? I don't want to be out there in storm season
and neither do you. Whatever you're waiting for . . . it's
had its fair chance, all right? Let's take this one and go."
He waited a moment for an answer - and then, receiving
none, shook his head in exasperation and began the long
climb down. "One hour!" he called back. "Be there!"
Damien watched as he negotiated the dangers of the rubble-
covered slope, finally down the last twenty feet or so to the
level of the piers. Then he looked up, back toward the road
from Faraday proper - and froze, as a tall, lean figure and a
single horse stepped out into the moonlight.
He climbed up the remaining slope quickly until he
stood face to face with the man. The Hunter's gaze was as
cold as ever, and considerably more confident than when
he'd last seen it. The pale eyes blazed with anger.
"If you say one smug word about this," Gerald Tarrant
warned, "- at any time - anything like ‘I told you so,' or,
‘What took you so long?' - I will sink that miserable crate
to the bottom of the ocean, and swim home if I have to. Am
I making myself clear?"

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He carefully avoided all the obvious rejoinders, and said
only, "Of course, your Excellency. Infinitely clear." And
bowed, with only a hint of mockery.
The Hunter glared at him, as if about to speak - and then
simply shook his head in exasperation, and began to walk
toward the harbor. The night-black horse, laden with
several travel bags, followed obediently behind.
Damien watched as the figure faded into darkness,
disappearing behind a turn of the switchback road. And
then shook his own head, smiling slightly.
"Welcome aboard," he whispered.