Crown Of Shadows Part 12

"What is this?" he whispered. A wave of earth-fae crested near his knee, sending a cascade of s.h.i.+mmering sparks up his thigh. He looked down at his body, expecting to find it also changed, but to his surprise his flesh was wholly normal; except for the droplets of power that clung to his legs, he looked as if he had just come in from a mundane walk in the park. "What's going on?"

"This is the world the Iezu inhabit." The demon's voice was surprisingly real, a lifeline of sound in a domain of dreams. "Defined not by boundaries of matter but by human perception." He brushed his hand against a nearby wall as he walked; the ghostly substance gave way like water to his flesh, and ripples coursed outward to the edges of the structure. "This is how the Iezu see."

Despite his tension, Damien was fascinated. "Is that why you take on human form? So you can see the world as we do?"

"We never see as you do. At best we glimpse reflections of the material universe, filtered through your minds. Some of us learn to interpret these forms and can then interact with your kind. Some never gain that skill, and your world remains a mystery to them."

He looked from the misty walls to the demon's rather solid form. "Your body seems real enough," he challenged.

"Merely illusion, produced for your benefit. Like your own body. Figments I plucked from your imagination, to clothe you in comfort while you brave the nether regions. Humans," he said dryly, "require such things."

His mind raced as he considered the implications of that. "Then if this body is hurt-"

"The wounds won't translate, no. Your real flesh is still in that bed," he nodded back the way they had come, toward the boarding house, "with just enough spirit remaining to keep it alive. But that doesn't make the danger any less real," he warned.

"Why? If I can't be hurt in any permanent sense, what's the risk? No more than in a dream, I'd think."

"Don't kid yourself." The glowing fae whirlpooled around the demon's feet, then settled back into its natural current. "First of all, any pain you experience in this form will be real enough as far as your brain is concerned. And if your spirit expires in this place, your body will never reanimate. Death is death, Reverend Vryce. Here and everywhere else." They pa.s.sed what must have been a tree, a shadowy shape which glowed with a soft light where lover's initials had been carved into it: human perception, leaving its trace upon the Iezu's reality. All about them the world was a fairy landscape, with objects and buildings and even living creatures more or less visible as humans accorded them focus. And through it all flowed the fae, more clearly visible than Damien had ever seen it before. Far more powerful. Was this what Tarrant saw, when he viewed the world through an adept's eyes? It was wonderful, but also terrifying.

"And," the demon added, "there is one other very real danger."

He made the mistake of looking down, and stumbled. The ground is solid only when I perceive it to be. The ground is solid only when I perceive it to be. He forced himself to look ahead, to take his footing for granted. It took enough effort that for long minutes he could not respond to the demon's warning, could only concentrate on his immediate physical need. When at last he felt sure of his balance once more, he asked him, "What?" He forced himself to look ahead, to take his footing for granted. It took enough effort that for long minutes he could not respond to the demon's warning, could only concentrate on his immediate physical need. When at last he felt sure of his balance once more, he asked him, "What?"

"Time is your enemy," the demon warned him. "In the shadow of the real world its pa.s.sage is easy enough to define; we still have the sun and the fae-tides to go by, as well as the actions of living creatures surrounding us. But what happens when we leave those things behind?" Even as he spoke, the walls about them seemed to grow mistier, less substantial, as if responding to his words. "Your perception will be our only timepiece, my friend. And human perception is notoriously subjective."

"So what? Say my time-sense gets stretched out for a while, or whatever. What difference does that-"

And then he knew. He realized what the demon meant. The knowledge was a cold knot inside him, that clenched even tighter as he contemplated how easy it would be to fail in this arena, and what the cost would be.

His body still lay on the bed, helpless now that he had abandoned it. It would require certain things to maintain its viability, so that he might return to it. Air and energy, food and water ... how long could a body survive without some kind of liquid? It seemed to him that three days was the maximum, but perhaps that was only when it exerted itself. Was there a wider margin when flesh was thus suspended, requiring little maintenance to keep its minimal processes working?

Three days. Not measured by a clock, but by his own internal sense. Three days in the real world might seem to be minutes here, or an eternity. And once that time had pa.s.sed, his body would wither and die, and the soul that it anch.o.r.ed would follow.

"I see you understand," Karril said quietly.

"Yeah." He grimaced. "I'm afraid so." They were moving through a different kind of neighborhood now; the shadow houses were farther apart, the sinewy tree shapes more common. "So what should I do?"

"Only be careful. That's all I know how to tell you. No other human has willingly gone where I'm about to take you. And those who went unwillingly ..." he shrugged stiffly. "They had other problems."

He looked at Karril. "Tarrant never came here?"

For a moment the demon said nothing. "Not willingly," he answered at last. Refusing to meet Damien's eyes.

The demon turned toward an arching form, and motioned for Damien to follow. Sparks glittered overhead as they pa.s.sed beneath what must have been a door frame, and over a smoky threshold. If being in the street had been disorienting, being inside this building was a thousand times more so. Damien had to stop for a moment to get his bearings, sorting out the path ahead from the lights and objects that bled in from adjoining rooms. There were people here, and their images seemed almost as solid as Damien's own. "Self-perceptions," Karril muttered, in answer to his unspoken question. They pa.s.sed beneath a glowing disk incised with glittering lines-a quake-ward, it looked like-and then another, with a sign in the lower left quarter that he knew to be Ciani's own sigil. Suddenly the two seemed familiar, and their height above his head.... He turned to Karril and asked, in a whisper, "His apartment?"

"Of course," the demon confirmed. "What did you expect?"

From out of the shadows a human figure emerged, headed straight toward them. Damien moved to step aside, but Karril grabbed his arm and shook his head. In amazement he watched as the figure approached, its heeled shoes striking the floor silently, silver power lapping about its ankles. It was a woman, heavily made up and just a little past her prime. Her body was a parody of s.e.xual attractiveness, from her aggressively protruding b.r.e.a.s.t.s to her incredibly padded b.u.t.tocks, to the tight cinch belt which threatened to separate those two parts from each other. It was a surreal image, too grotesque in proportion to be human, too solid to be otherwise. When she had pa.s.sed by, Damien looked at Karril in amazement. The demon was smiling faintly.

"Your former landlady, I believe."

"What?"

"As she sees herself." The brief smile faded. "Come on."

They went down the stairs into the bas.e.m.e.nt, a trial all its own; Damien tried not to think about where the stairs were, or what they were made of, just trusted his feet to the surging waterfall of earth-fae where he knew that stairs should be. He stumbled once, but otherwise it worked. At the base of the stairs was a place filled with memories so sickening that Damien felt the bile rise in his throat again just to approach it. (Could he vomit here, he wondered? Would it do any good if he did?) Through the smoky film that was a door he could see a glistening blackness, like an oil slick, that covered most of the floor. As the earth-fae flowed into it, it, too, turned black, and its pa.s.sage sent ripples flowing thickly through the black stuff's substance. Hungry, it seemed. Terribly hungry. Despite the door's seeming barrier, a cold wind flowed from that place toward Damien, the first he had felt since true night fell. It tasted of blood and bile, and worse.

"Your perception," the demon said quietly. "I only make it easier to see."

He could feel the dark power sucking him forward like a rip tide, and it took all his strength to fight its drag. Though he would have guessed it to be inanimate, it seemed to be aware of his presence, and bulged at the end that was nearest to him. Slowly the oily blackness seeped forward over unseen floorboards, making its way toward them. Toward him. him.

"They didn't expose it to the sun," he whispered.

"I'm afraid they did."

He stared in horror at the thing. His skin crawled at the thought of touching it again.

"They banished the Presence that had come for Gerald Tarrant," Karril explained, "But they couldn't erase its footsteps. That's all this is, Reverend-a faint echo of what came here before." He looked at the priest. "You're still sure you want to follow it?"

He whispered: "Is that what we have to do?"

The demon nodded. "Gerald Tarrant probably took a more direct route, but his struggle left a path marked in his soul's blood. That, and the residue you see here, are the only ways I know of to find him." He paused. "Are you still sure you want to go? Because if you're not, I would be all too happy to abandon this little pleasure trip, I a.s.sure you."

For a moment Damien faltered. For a moment it seemed so impossible that he could survive this crazy mission that he almost stepped back, almost said the words, almost ended their doomed venture then and there. Had he really thought that he could stand up to a Power that even Tarrant feared, and emerge unscathed? The mere thought of touching this thing before him, no more than its residue, made him sick; how would it feel to plunge into it body and soul, without knowing if he ever would rise up again?

But then he thought of Calesta, and of the holocaust that demon had deliberately provoked in the east. He thought of Calesta's plans for his world, and of what would happen to his species if the demon should ever triumph. And he knew in that moment that it wasn't death which frightened him most, or even the thought of facing the Unnamed. It was the prospect of failure.

G.o.d, when I first took my vows, I said that I would be willing to give my life to serve You. I meant it. He breathed in deeply, shaking. But don't let that sacrifice be in vain. I beg of You. Use me however You will, take my life if it pleases You to do so, but help me free this planet from Calesta's grasp. I beg You, G.o.d.

"I have to try," he whispered.

For a long moment the demon just looked at him. Could he read into his heart, see all the doubts that were there? Tarrant had said the Iezu had that kind of power. "The path we have to take," he warned Damien, "lies through the substance of the Hunter's own fear. Are you ready for that?"

It seemed to him that the blackness was closer now. A foul odor rose up from its surface, a stink of blood and carrion ... and worse. "He feared sunlight. Heat. Healing. All the things that life is made of."

"Don't be naive, Reverend Vryce."

The blackness was extending an oily finger now, that oozed slowly toward him. If he stayed where he was it would soon make contact. "Death," he said sharply. "He feared that more than anything." How could he face death without dying himself? Karril must know some special trick, or he wouldn't have brought him here.

"Not death," the demon said.

Startled, he looked at Karril. The Iezu's eyes were dark, unreadable.

"Death isn't a thing or a place," Karril told him. "It's a transition. A doorway, not a destination. Think," he urged. "You know the answer."

And he did, suddenly. He knew it, and grew weak at the thought. Was that what lay ahead of them? No wonder Karril didn't want to get involved.

"h.e.l.l," he whispered. "He feared h.e.l.l."

"His own perception of it." Could this Iezu experience gut-wrenching fear, or was that not part of his aspect? Some people mix pa.s.sion and terror, Some people mix pa.s.sion and terror, he thought. he thought. So the emotion should be in his repertoire. So the emotion should be in his repertoire. "You still mean to follow him?" "You still mean to follow him?"

"There's no other choice for me." Damien drew in a deep breath, exhaled it slowly. "You know that."

"Yeah." He sighed. "I know."

He shut his eyes for a moment, and tried to still the rising tide of terror in his soul. d.a.m.n you, Tarrant! d.a.m.n you for making me go through this, just to save your murderous hide. d.a.m.n you, Tarrant! d.a.m.n you for making me go through this, just to save your murderous hide. But in the face of such a journey his accustomed curse was rendered powerless, even ludicrous. Tarrant was in h.e.l.l already, or someplace beyond it. And he was going there to save him. But in the face of such a journey his accustomed curse was rendered powerless, even ludicrous. Tarrant was in h.e.l.l already, or someplace beyond it. And he was going there to save him.

He drew in a deep breath, and didn't look down at his feet. He could feel how close the evil stuff was to him without needing to look, could feel its hunger sucking at his legs with growing force. Instead he looked to the demon, and tried to steady his voice long enough to manage two words without sounding as afraid as he felt.

"You coming?"

The demon hesitated. And sighed. And then, to his great relief, nodded. "Can't let you go in there alone, can I?"

He offered his hand. After a moment, Damien grasped it. And then, with only the briefest grimace, the priest stepped forward. Onto the path that Tarrant's soul-blood had marked. Into the blackness that waited there.

d.a.m.n you, Calesta.

Eighteen MORDRETH: Police have confirmed reports that forty-three men were killed last night by a pack of animals that came out of the region known as the Forbidden Forest. The men, who had established temporary residence just outside Jahanna's borders, were taken by surprise shortly after midnight when the Forest beasts stormed their camp without warning. Although a few men managed to arm themselves before being struck down, the sheer ferocity of the a.s.sault quickly overwhelmed their defenses. Less than an hour after the pack's arrival, every man inside the camp was dead. Police have confirmed reports that forty-three men were killed last night by a pack of animals that came out of the region known as the Forbidden Forest. The men, who had established temporary residence just outside Jahanna's borders, were taken by surprise shortly after midnight when the Forest beasts stormed their camp without warning. Although a few men managed to arm themselves before being struck down, the sheer ferocity of the a.s.sault quickly overwhelmed their defenses. Less than an hour after the pack's arrival, every man inside the camp was dead.

Lestar Vannik, who was returning to the area when the attack took place, managed to flee the camp before the animals caught his scent. According to a press release from Darvish Sanitorium, he described them as "white monsters, with hands instead of real paws, and eyes that glowed bright blood red." The beasts were apparently accompanied by a swarm of demonlings, who descended upon the camp's would-be protectors and blinded them so that they could not fight back effectively. Sanitorium officials will not confirm rumors that Vannik also saw a human figure running with the pack, whose coloration and ferocity matched those of the animals.

It is not yet known what prompted the attack, but communities throughout the region are concerned that the border truce between the Forest and its neighbors may may no longer be protection enough. Several have begun collecting arms and training men, in order to defend themselves against similar a.s.saults. The mayor of Sheva, a prosperous city which borders on Jahanna to the east, is negotiating for special troops to guard its periphery, and it is expected that neighboring cities will do likewise. A special meeting of mayors is expected to be convened within the month, to discuss the financing of such operations. no longer be protection enough. Several have begun collecting arms and training men, in order to defend themselves against similar a.s.saults. The mayor of Sheva, a prosperous city which borders on Jahanna to the east, is negotiating for special troops to guard its periphery, and it is expected that neighboring cities will do likewise. A special meeting of mayors is expected to be convened within the month, to discuss the financing of such operations.

The informal truce which has been observed in the region for nearly five hundred years has permitted the commercial development of areas surrounding the Forest, notably in the fertile Raksha Valley to its east. Tradition has it that the arrangement was originally established by the Hunter, a demon or sorcerer who came to the region at approximately that time. Under the terms of the truce, communities who offered no threat to the Forest would themselves not be threatened, although individuals of either side were fair game. The truce was broken only twice: in 1047, when an expedition of twenty men breached the Forest borders with intent to find and destroy its sorcerous ruler, and in 1182, when a radical faction from Mordreth set fire to the Forest in the dry season, in hopes of burning it to the ground. In both cases vengeance was swift. In the fall of 1047, twenty heads minus eyes and tongues were impaled on stakes outside the gates of their city. In 1183 the Mordreth Ma.s.sacre, now infamous, turned a thriving port town into a ghost city overnight. Historians are quick to note that both these incidents were in response to real provocation, and that neither was succeeded by any further acts of violence.

It is not yet clear in what way, if any, the men of this camp provoked their sorcerous neighbor to new atrocity. But amidst rumors of the Hunter's disappearance, the border cities are doing what they can to protect themselves. Authorities hope that as Vannick recovers he can shed further light on the details of this conflict, but for now all concerned must a.s.sume that the ancient truce is no longer being honored by its Forest patron, and defend themselves accordingly.

"He's here."

The priest who spoke was a short man, round in the belly, red-faced, congenial. The words he spoke so sharply seemed ill-suited to him, as if some other mouth had formed them. Or was that only the Patriarch's perception, knowing as he did what those words implied?

"Are you sure?" the Holy Father asked.

The double chin bobbed as he nodded. "Elerin spotted him in the foyer. I can have him come in if you want."

"Please do."

As the priest went to the door to summon his acolyte, the Patriarch reached into his desk to pull out the sketch he kept there. It was a pencil drawing on low-quality paper, well worn from handling. He studied it once more as the priest fetched his acolyte, filled with wonder and more than a little misgiving. If he really had seen this man ... He shook his head, banis.h.i.+ng the thought. One thing at a time. Confirm the sighting first.

The acolyte Elerin was a freckled teenager with bright red hair and a line of pimples along his chin. The Patriarch couldn't remember having seen him before, but that was hardly a surprise; lesser priests handled the training of such boys until they took their vows in his presence.

The youth bowed clumsily, clearly anxious about this interview, and mumbled something that might have been, "Your Holiness."

The Patriarch handed him the drawing. "Have you seen this man?"

The boy glanced at the picture and then back toward the priest, who nodded his encouragement. "I think so, Your Holiness. The drawing I saw was a little different, though."

"That was a copy. This is the original."

He looked at it again and then nodded, somewhat stiffly. Clearly he wasn't comfortable in such august company. "He was at the afternoon service, I think. On Tuesday. Yesterday," he added helpfully. "I was watching in the foyer, like Father Renalds told me to. This guy came out of the sanctuary right after the service, almost the first one out. He was in a real hurry." He looked down at the picture again, then nodded. "I'm pretty sure it was him. His hair was a little shorter, and he wasn't quite this thin, but the face looked about the same."

"Did you find out who he was?"

He shook his head, scattering the red hair out of its embankments. "I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn't stop. I asked a few people who were there if they knew who he was, but no one did."

"Did you follow him?"

The boy looked stricken. "No, Holy Father, I ... I'm sorry." His face had flushed so bright a red that it almost rivaled his hair. "I didn't think of it. I didn't realize.... Please, forgive me."

"It's all right." He took the drawing back from the boy. "There's no reason you should have thought to do that. We're not training you as a spy." He tried to keep his tone as beneficent as possible; the boy was so nervous he looked as if a light breeze would knock him over. "Thank you, Elerin. You may go now."

He did so anxiously, bowing repeatedly as he backed his way toward the door. Not until he was gone did the Patriarch let his smile fade, and a more businesslike expression take its place.

"I want to know who this man is," he told the priest, tapping the drawing. "If that means following him, then do it. If our people lack the skill to pull that off gracefully, then hire someone who can." He glanced at the picture again. "Get one of our priestesses to keep watch outside the sanctuary during services. Someone young and pretty, whom he might be willing to talk to. Unmarried," he added sharply.

Would that be bait enough? The face in the picture, though roughly sketched, was clearly a handsome one. Such a man might stop to talk to a pretty woman, while ignoring the man right beside her.

"Are you sure he'll come back, Your Holiness?"

He shut his eyes for a moment; visions rose unbidden before his inner eye. "A vision showed me that he would come here, and he did. It also showed me that he would return."

"Of course, Your Holiness." The priest's voice trembled with awe as he bowed deeply before his religious master; clearly he was of the faction that considered the Patriarch's visions to come directly from G.o.d. "We'll find out who he is, I promise you."

I am a prophet in their eyes, the Patriarch mused, as the priest made his way out of the chamber. the Patriarch mused, as the priest made his way out of the chamber. Would that I could be so sure of it myself. Would that I could be so sure of it myself.

As he gazed down at the drawing in his hands, he could not help but s.h.i.+ver. And a chill wind of awe coursed up his back as it seemed to him, for one fleeting instant, that Reverend Vryce's sketch of Gerald Tarrant was looking back at him.

JAGGONATH: Violence shook the Street of G.o.ds once more as vandals skirmished with police, following the fifth in a series of a.s.saults upon houses of wors.h.i.+p here. Violence shook the Street of G.o.ds once more as vandals skirmished with police, following the fifth in a series of a.s.saults upon houses of wors.h.i.+p here.

Police estimate that the vandals gained entrance to the Maidens of Pelea Temple sometime between three and four a.m. through the servants' entrance in the rear of the building. As in the previous incidents, the only motivation appeared to be desecration of the temple and its relics. Banners, signs, books, and other fiammable items were a.s.sembled in the wors.h.i.+p chamber, doused with kerosene, and burned. As in the previous incidents, the nature of the articles destroyed, combined with lack of theft in the incident, suggests either a hostile secular organization, or rivalry between religious factions based within the city.

Neighborhood watches along the Street have been doubled, and a Street of G.o.ds defense fund has been established to defray the cost of private guards and additional investigators. Several local leaders have demanded an inquiry into the Unity Church's possible interest in this matter. The Church, which has been the source of several anti-polytheism riots in recent months, has made no official statement regarding the matter, but sources within its hierarchy indicate that the leaders.h.i.+p is deeply concerned over recent developments, and has retained several lawyers specializing in religious liability to advise them.

ANDRYS TARRANT.

The Patriarch looked at the letters written before him as though they were foreign shapes, sounding them out one by one, tasting their meaning. So few symbols. So potent a message.

ANDRYS TARRANT. TARRANT.

A s.h.i.+ver ran up his spine as he considered the implications of that name. The Prophet had killed his children, or so the Church taught. Was it possible that one had survived? Was this Andrys Tarrant not only a man who looked like the Hunter, but who bore the Hunter's blood within his veins as well? A man so like him in the substance of his being that the very patterns of his DNA were echoes of the Prophet's own?

If so-Dear G.o.d!

Help me, Lord, he begged. he begged. Guide me, so that I may serve You more perfectly. Guide me, so that I may serve You more perfectly.

Tarrant. There was a wealth of power in that name, a power that might save or destroy. He remembered the man who had led his dream-army into the Forest-so bright a symbol, the focus of all their hopes-and for the first time since his war dreams began, he felt the stirring of hope. This was the key they needed, this stranger with history running in his veins. That he had suddenly appeared in Jaggonath's cathedral now, when their need was greatest, only served to confirm his purpose in the Patriarch's mind. With him, they could fight this war and win it. They could break the Forest's hold upon this region and send its ruler up in smoke. The centuries would resound with their triumph.