Crown of Shadows

by C. S. Friedman

  He saw this woman accompanying Andrys Tarrant into battle, and he saw her left behind. Those two futures divided once, twice, a hundred times each, until the whole room seemed filled with images, blood-filled and fearsome. It was far more intense than the kind of Divinings he had experienced before—save perhaps with Andrys Tarrant himself—and he struggled in vain to absorb it all without losing himself. A storm of images, a riot of raw potential, bits and pieces that flickered in and out of existence so quickly he could barely focus on them. Was this one decision really so important? Could it be that whole futures depended on whether or not this woman joined their effort? A chaos of answers assaulted his brain, and he struggled to sort them out. If she came with them, they might succeed, but the chances of that were slim. If, on the other hand, she stayed behind ... then there were a thousand new futures to choose from, and so many more of those led to success. He saw images of a white face grinning, of her slender throat being slashed, of ribbons of blood flowing down a wall of black glass ... he shivered to watch her die time and time again, to watch her not die, to watch the Forest triumph and wither and grow and burn.... Enough! He took a step back from her and shut his eyes, shielding them with a trembling hand. Enough. It was too much for him to interpret, he knew that; if he tried to understand it all, he might lay waste to that fragile shell which was all that remained of his sanity. The pattern was clear enough, though painful to acknowledge. All his planning, all his hopes, all his faith ... without this woman it might all come to naught. Without her in her proper place, his chosen futures might fall to pieces, like the fabrics of the Great War which rotted far below him.

  His head spinning, his mouth dry, he struggled to find his voice. Not to guide her now, or to comfort her, but to drive her away. Even as the words left his lips, he ached inside to be causing her pain, but he knew it was necessary. He had Seen.

  “If that’s God’s will, so be it.” He tried to put scorn into his voice—just a little bit—so that his words would seem doubly callous. He could see futures dissolving as he did so, and others taking their place. “We’re all risking our lives here, and much more. Did you think it would be easy? Did you imagine that war could be waged without pain, without sacrifice?” Be careful, he warned himself, as some frightening new potentials began to take shape about her. In one of them he was callous enough that she devoted all her energy to convincing Andrys not to go to the Forest at all. “I’m sorry,” he said, and he kept his voice carefully neutral. “Genuinely sorry. But the answer has to be no.”

  She seemed about to speak, but apparently words failed her. “You’ll kill him,” she whispered at last. Hoarsely pushing the words out one by one, wincing as they left her. “Maybe not in body, but in spirit. Don’t you care about that at all?”

  He looked away, so that he need not see the thousand faeborn images that reflected her suffering. “I’m sorry,” he said. Quietly but firmly, finality in his voice. “I can’t allow it.”

  For a moment there was silence. He dared not look back at her, for fear of what the fae would reveal. Finally he heard motion: footsteps on the rug, the click of a latch opening, the hard, cold sound of a door slamming shut. Gone. She was gone.

  “Dear God,” he whispered. Feeling her pain as though it had somehow charged the air in the room, so that he drew it into his lungs with every breath. His legs felt weak beneath him and he permitted them to fold, his hand against the wall for support as he fell slowly to his knees.

  Forgive me, Lord, for being the cause of pain in others. Forgive me for manipulating so many lives in ways that go against Your teachings. Forgive me....

  And then the weight of his sorrow was too great even for prayer, and he wept.

  Twenty-nine

  They left the city right after sunset, as soon as Tarrant could tolerate the light. The Hunter had wrapped his cloak about his head and shoulders in a manner that made him seem more like a spectre than a man ... which was wholly appropriate, Damien thought, given the nature of their business. Not until the Core had followed the sun into its westerly grave did he push back his improvised hood and breathe in deeply, testing the scents of the night.

  “Nothing,” he said quietly, which might mean any number of things. Seemingly satisfied, he urged his mount forward. Marginally confident, Damien followed.

  There were two routes available to them, and they had argued for over an hour about which one to take. One followed the west bank of the Stekkis River to Kale, along a road that catered to the needs of travelers. It offered supplies, shelter, and various other amenities that Damien found appealing. But it was also the road that the Church would take in its newly declared war against the Forest, and those troops would be leaving any day now. True, the odds of meeting up with them were small—hopefully they would be several days ahead of them at least—but Tarrant was loath to risk even those odds. And since, truth be told, there was nothing Damien would enjoy less than running into the Patriarch with the Hunter by his side, he had finally agreed to the eastern route, on the far side of the river.

  He tried not to think about Calesta as they rode, but it was damned hard not to. Did the demon know about their mission, and was he even now making plans of his own to counter theirs? Tarrant had said that the Iezu could read the secrets in the hearts of men. How did you work up a defense against someone like that? Maybe the demon would be so busy with the Church and its campaign that Tarrant and he were safe for the moment. The Hunter had said that Calesta was involved in that enterprise, although he didn’t know exactly how. Maybe it would use up all the demon’s energies—

  Yeah. Right.

  Two hours’ ride brought them to the western bank of the Stekkis, at a tiny settlement called Lasta. The town’s few businesses were all closed for the night, its houses locked and shuttered securely against the darkness. Tarrant used a Locating to find the ferryman’s house. Left to his own devices the Hunter might have coerced the man into his service, but Damien took over, and eventually they agreed upon a price which was half coinage and half sorcery. Glaring, Tarrant worked a Warding on a piece of crystal the man supplied, and not until he was content that it worked would the ferryman step forth out of his house to lead them to the river.

  Demonlings fluttered overhead as they led their horses along a narrow paved path behind the house, to where a simple wooden ferry waited. It seemed to Damien that there were a lot of them here, given the size of the town. Either the inhabitants were unusually creative or something else was responsible. Maybe the city-born entities that foraged in this direction found the water to be a barrier, and piled up here like trash in a cul-de-sac, too stupid to know that if they just turned around and went home their odds of finding food would increase a hundredfold. Their presence was a solemn reminder of just how many nasty things were out there, that usually kept their distance when Tarrant was around. No wonder the ferryman had insisted upon the Warding as part of his price.

  The river here was broad but shallow, nothing like it was where it roared over Naigra Falls a hundred miles to the north of them, nothing like the vast delta that was host to half a dozen ports beyond that. The ferry was small but adequate, and if the horses had any complaints, they were quickly banished by Tarrant’s faeborn skills. Leaning against the rail, watching the inky black water rush by, Damien remembered his protests the first time he’d seen Tarrant use that trick. Now it was just one more choice bit of sorcery, more practical than some, less offensive than most.

  Face it, man. You’ve gotten used to him.

  On the far side of the river there was no town, no road, only a rough dirt path that led away from the river. There would be settlements arrayed between there and the coast, but they would be few and far between and their inhabitants would be wary of strangers. Since the road west of the river offered both comfort and safety, anyone choosing the eastern bank would be highly suspect.

  As the ferryman poled his way back home, Damien came to where Tarrant stood, one hand resting against the black flank of h
is horse. It was clear from his expression that he was Working, and not until Damien saw him move and judged him finished did he speak to him.

  “Anything useful?”

  Tarrant’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “The Patriarch intends to lead his people into the Forest itself, straight to my keep. They mean to confront me in my lair, confident that God will favor them in their mission and lead them to victory.”

  No more. After a moment of silence, Damien pressed, “And?”

  He shook his head; clearly he was perplexed. “There are futures in which they succeed. Only a few ... but how could they make it through my domain? Do they think I have no defenses? The very ground will rise up against them, the species I nurtured will—”

  “Gerald.” He put a hand on the other man’s shoulder, for once not noticing the chill of his undead flesh. “It doesn’t matter any more. Not the Forest, not any of it.” He didn’t say the words, but let them hang between them in the chill autumn air, unspoken: You have twenty-nine days left. That’s all. You can’t afford to lose your focus now. “As long as Calesta’s alive and kicking, everything’s at risk.”

  The Hunter hesitated; Damien could see something dark flash in those cold, cold eyes. Anger? Frustration? Tarrant glanced northward toward the Forest, as though he wanted to Know what was going on there, but the strong northerly flow of the current wouldn’t allow it. With a muttered curse he forced his eyes away and took up the reins of his horse once more. “You’re right, Reverend Vryce. Much as I hate to admit it.”

  He mounted his horse and swung it around so that it faced east. But Damien didn’t mount up, and after a moment Tarrant looked back at him, to see what was wrong.

  “I’m not,” Damien said hoarsely. “Reverend, I mean.” He swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “Not a priest anymore.”

  For a moment there was silence.

  “They cast you out?”

  “No.” He shook his head stiffly. “I quit. I was ...” God, he wished there were an easy way to end this conversation. But Tarrant had a right to know. “It was my choice. Really. I ...” Whom was he trying to convince, Tarrant or himself? “It was right,” he whispered hoarsely. “The right thing to do.”

  For a long time the Hunter said nothing. Then: “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah.” He shut his eyes, trying not to feel the pain of it all over again. How long would it be before the healing started, before he could think about his choice and not feel sick inside? “Let’s just go on, okay?” He vaulted up onto his horse’s back and grabbed up the reins. “We’ve got things to do.” He kneed his horse into motion, hoping Tarrant would just follow. He didn’t want to look at him again, for fear that he would see something all too human in those death-pale eyes. Something he couldn’t deal with right now.

  Pity.

  They rode hard, pausing only to rest the horses when they had to in order to keep going. There were no stables midway along this route at which one could trade for fresher mounts, hence the animals would have to keep their strength up until they reached the coast. That meant three days at the very least, maybe more. Damien and Tarrant pushed them as hard as they dared on that first night, but both of them knew that speed would cost them dearly if one of their mounts became injured as a result.

  You could make the trip faster without me, Damien wanted to say. You could put on wings and make the coast in a day or two, and Shaitan in little more than that. But he didn’t voice that thought. The Hunter was aware of his own capacity, and he knew damned well that having Damien with him slowed him down. Yes, he could reach Shaitan in less than a week if he traveled alone, but clearly he preferred not to. He doesn’t want to face death alone, Damien mused. And, darkly: I don’t blame him.

  It was Tarrant who determined their route, leading them away from the packed dirt of the narrow road into the grassy lands beside it. There weren’t many caves in this area, he explained. They would have to swing farther east to where the mountains started to rise, to increase their odds of finding shelter when dawn came. What went unsaid was an eloquent reminder of what their relationship had become. Tarrant himself could find shelter alone along any stretch of earth, using his fae-sight to locate an underground passage and his sorcery to facilitate entrance. What would complicate this search was that he meant to keep Damien with him. And that was the first time in all their travels together that the Hunter had voluntarily chosen to share a shelter with anyone.

  He’s afraid, Damien mused, as a third moon rose to shed light on their journey. Hell, I’d be, too, in his shoes. Any sane man would be.

  As for being in Damien Vryce’s shoes ... he tried not to think about that.

  Near dawn they reined up at last, and Damien dismounted with a sigh that was half relief and half pain. Ten months at sea had weakened his leg muscles enough that he could feel every mile of this trip. If the Hunter felt any similar discomfort, as usual he didn’t show it. In silence they led the horses to the place where Tarrant had Located shelter, and after a brief bout with a shovel and a wrestling match with several heavy rocks, Damien managed to break into the underground space. It was dry at least, which was more than he could say for some of the other places Tarrant had led him to.

  “I’ll stay up here with the horses,” he said, nodding toward the camping supplies in his saddlebag. “They should be able to graze, which’ll help stretch our supplies. I’ll keep them close to home.”

  And then came the question he didn’t want to ask. The answer he didn’t want to know. He drew in a deep breath and forced the words out one by one, trying to make them sound casual. “I guess you’ll need to ... tonight or in the morning....”

  “Feed myself?”

  He muttered something unintelligable.

  In answer Tarrant unbuckled one of his saddlebags and drew out a large canteen. “As you see, I came prepared.” He uncapped the container and took a long drink from it; something about the weight or the way he handled it made Damien certain it wasn’t water. “No more nightmares, Vryce. Not this time. You need your strength as much as I need mine, and in the face of Calesta’s power ... there should be enough nightmares to go around soon enough, for both of us.” He took another short swallow, then capped the canteen once again. “I can make it on this until we reach the coast. After that ...” He shrugged.

  Don’t think about it, Damien warned himself, as the Hunter shouldered his supplies and slipped down into the darkness of his subterranean shelter. The misery that this world will suffer if Calesta succeeds in his plans is a thousand times worse than anything the Hunter could devise.

  He wished he could be sure of that. He wished he were sure of anything.

  Twenty-eight days left.

  What will happen to the Church’s troops if they do make it through? Damien had asked Tarrant. If your creations let them pass and they reach the keep. What then?

  Then their fate will be in Amoril’s hands, he responded. And as for what Amoril is capable of . . . He shook his head grimly. The Forest is still mine, and will be until my death. He may tap into its power, but he can never fully control it.

  So they could win out, then.

  For a long time the Hunter didn’t answer. It was a long enough delay that Damien began to wonder if he had heard him at all, and was about to repeat the question when the Hunter said, very quietly, The price for that kind of success would be high. I wonder if your Patriarch is willing to pay it.

  It took them three days to reach the northern coast. Each night as Tarrant arose, Damien could see him stop and gaze northward toward their distant goal, and he could almost hear him counting down the days that were left to him. Twenty-seven. Twenty-six. Twenty-five. It was enough time to do what they had to, Damien told himself. It had to be. Shaitan wasn’t all that far away, so if the journey didn’t kill them outright, they should make it with at least a week to spare. Right?

  Calesta had still made no move against them. Rather than reassuring Damien, that fact made him doubly nervous. Despite Tar
rant’s insistence that the Iezu would make no direct attempt to kill them, Damien wasn’t so sure. Tarrant had said that the laws of the Iezu forbid them from interfering in human development, and Calesta was doing that already, wasn’t he? God only knew what the demon was planning for them, but it was damned likely not to be pleasant. Maybe he would wait until they got to Shaitan, Damien thought. Maybe this first part of the journey would be relatively easy, as they all prepared for a confrontation on the Iezu’s home turf. Maybe—

  He sighed, and shifted his position in the saddle so that his legs ached a little less.

  Yeah. Right. Dream on, Vryce.

  They came within sight of Seth shortly after midnight on the fourth night of travel. It was a small town by Jaggonath’s standards but adequate for their purposes, with the kind of harbor that should host at least one vessel willing to carry them. Damien saw Tarrant fingering the neck of his tunic as they approached the southern gate, and wondered if he had replaced the Forest medallion Ciani had torn from his neck so very, very long ago. It had made negotiations easier once before, but he wondered if wielding it now would be such a good idea.

  As if in answer to his thoughts, Tarrant dismounted and motioned for him to do the same. “Try not to Work here,” he warned, as he wrapped the horses’ reins about a nearby tree limb for security. “The currents this close to the Forest may well overwhelm you.” Damien nodded that yes, he understood. Senzei Reese had almost been swallowed up by the fierce currents in Kale, and that city was just across the river from them. He wasn’t anxious to test himself against a similar power.

  For a moment Tarrant stood still, gathering himself for a Working. It must be of considerable complexity, Damien noted; the Hunter rarely required such mental preparation. Then Tarrant reached out toward him; Damien could almost feel a gust of power whip about him like a whirlwind. For a moment he couldn’t see, and then vision returned to him, and the wind died down. His flesh tingled as if it had just been scraped with a rasp.