Gate of Darkness, Circle of Light

by Tanya Huff

  He is manipulating the Light in these people; not the Darkness, but the Light!

  As Evan’s power flared with his anger, the three people closest to him, their desire for the Light already forced open by the Dark Adept, fell to their knees, their expressions rapt and beatific. Evan felt himself responding to their need, felt his power manifesting, and knew that each could see a private vision of the Light. The urge to continue, to pull at least these three over fully into the Light, was strong and perhaps the greatest temptation his kind faced in this world.

  For Light could destroy the balance as easily as the Darkness.

  And any destruction of the balance weakened the barriers and aided the Dark.

  He forced his power down and moved to repair the damage. The Light had been too strong for him to erase the memory of it completely, but he did what he could to lessen the impact. Then he retreated to the safety of Rebecca’s apartment and brooded over what to do next.

  Roland’s stomach growled and his mouth flooded with saliva, as he fought to free the harp.

  “Oh, you picked a perfect time to get intimate with a bush,” he muttered, trying to untangle the mess of leaves and twigs and harp strings. His fingers seemed unusually clumsy, probably because his entire mind was on the enticing smell of roasting meat. If he turned, he could see the outline of a building in a clearing just visible between the trees, a building he’d be at right now if the harp hadn’t jerked him off his feet when it tied itself to the bush.

  He frowned as he carefully unwound one of the broken strings from about a sturdy branch. Granted he’d been charging forward pretty fast, his feet propelled by his hunger, but he thought he’d secured the string to the harp better than that; it shouldn’t have come loose. His stomach growled again. It had been over twelve hours since he’d last eaten and he was starved.

  “There.” He got the harp free at last and swung the strap over his shoulder. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to see about getting some food.” With Patience back in his hand, he headed for the clearing. “Maybe I can sing for my supper. Breakfast. Whatever.”

  The harp chimed softly. Patience answered.

  Roland sighed. “All right, I’ll be careful. After all,” he reached back and patted the carved wood, “I don’t suppose you enjoyed that any more than the bush did. But you,” he added, giving Patience a gentle shake, “you’re in a case. What have you got to complain about?”

  Muffled by felt and vinyl came the unmistakable sound of a G-string, violently plucked.

  “Women.” Roland rolled his eyes. It didn’t really bother him that his guitar now made noise independently of his touch. He’d always thought of her as having a personality of her own and this just seemed an extension of that. Besides, he thought, pushing his way slowly through the underbrush, when you’ve almost been eaten by giants at dawn, nothing that happens during the rest of the day can surprise you much.

  He paused at the edge of the clearing and stared in astonishment. Except this.

  The walls of the small gabled cottage were squares of gingerbread, stacked one on the other and mortared with a hard white icing. The round shingles on the roof were cookies—chocolate chip by the look of it—and the door and the window shutters appeared made of peanut brittle. In the yard beyond, Roland could see several round pens he assumed were for livestock as these were made of wood. A small brick oven smoked by the side of the cottage and from it came the delicious odors that Roland had been following.

  He drew in an appreciative noseful and raised his foot to step forward into the clearing. Then he put it down again, an elusive memory nagging at him. This all seemed so familiar….

  The door to the cottage opened and he froze as a little, old, white-haired lady bustled out. She carried a large wooden paddle and Roland realized she was on her way to remove whatever roasted in the oven. He’d never seen a paddle of that type used outside a pizza parlor before, but then he’d never seen an outdoor oven or a house made of gingerbread before either, so he shrugged it off. He wouldn’t bother her now, she could burn herself. He’d wait until she’d moved a safe distance from the heat and then he’d see about getting some breakfast.

  Her hand wrapped in her snowy white apron, she pulled open the oven door and the smell from inside intensified.

  Roland swallowed rapidly as his mouth flooded. I’m so hungry I could eat a …

  … child.

  A boy about seven years old lay curled in a fetal position on the end of the paddle. His hair had been reduced to frizzy stubble by the heat. His skin, except where the fat had broken through and still sizzled and popped, was a well-done golden brown.

  Roland’s stomach heaved, the world twisted, and his last hysterical thought before he turned and fled was, In the story, she never undressed them first.

  Had it been capable of it, Evan’s astral form would have sighed as it moved in ever widening circles out from the Eaton Centre. Although without a body he could take no action, Evan had spotted the residue of power easily enough—the Dark Adept had made no attempt to hide it—and he now knew what had happened to Roland although he still didn’t know exactly where the musician was. He could find him, in time, but time was what he didn’t have, not if he hoped to stop the Darkness by Midsummer Night.

  With Roland’s life balanced against all the others in this world, Evan could make only one decision; the Darkness had to be stopped. If he failed, then Roland was no worse off than the rest of his people. If he succeeded, and Roland still lived, he would find him then. He only hoped by then Roland would still want to live.

  Back in Rebecca’s apartment, Tom jumped up on the Adept’s lap and butted his head into the crease between jeans and T-shirt. The lack of response seemed to annoy him and he sat back, tail lashing. Anchored by claws sunk deep into denim, he leaned forward, sniffed delicately, and snorted. Ears back, he dropped to the floor and stalked toward the window, pausing on the ledge to express his opinion with an eloquent howl. Then he snorted again and leaped down out of sight.

  Except when the cramps dropped him to his knees to spew bitter tasting bile on the forest floor, Roland continued to run, getting as far as he could from that horror in the clearing. He didn’t see what he stumbled over or slammed into or plunged through, his mind reeling with images of giants and corpses and children baked a toasty brown.

  When at last he fell, without the energy to rise again, the images danced round and round and round, leaving him with a single thought.

  I want to go home.

  I don’t care what it costs. I want to go home.

  I can’t take it anymore.

  Nothing happened. Apparently, the Darkness wanted him to surrender out loud.

  He sobbed, a tortured, choking sound that ripped at the lining of his throat, then he managed a breath deep enough for words.

  “I want,” he cried …

  “Well, what have we here?”

  The voice was a warm, deep, and friendly drawl and so far removed from everything that had been happening to him that Roland grabbed onto it with everything he had left.

  “Are ya’ll hurt, young man?”

  “I …” He managed to get up on an elbow and turn until he was looking up into the concerned features of a large brown bear. A large brown bear wearing a pair of overalls and with a spotted kerchief knotted around his neck.

  “I …” Roland repeated weakly. And fainted.

  Chapter Ten

  “Now just as soon as ya’ll finish eating, Papa’ll guide you to the edge of the forest.”

  “Me, too! Me, too!” Baby Bear banged his spoon against his wooden porridge bowl and nearly spilled his milk.

  Roland grabbed the mug and moved it to a safer spot, receiving a smile of thanks from Mama Bear that he tried to accept in the spirit in which it was offered, ignoring the mouthful of sharp teeth now revealed. Not that he appeared to be in any danger from these bears; from the moment Papa Bear had carried him into the cottage, they’d shown him nothing but kindne

ss.

  “Uh, no thanks.” He waved away another helping of porridge. The bowls, even Baby Bear’s, held an obscene amount of food and Roland, afraid of offending the cook, had eaten all he’d been given.

  Mama Bear shook her head. “Ya’ll don’t eat enough to keep a squirrel alive,” she scolded, clicking her claws against the scarred tabletop. “Why, you’ll fall ovah from hungah before you’ve been on the trail ten minutes.”

  “Now leave the Bard alone, Mama,” Papa Bear growled, picking up his bowl and licking it clean. “He knows when he’s had enough. And if you’re not goin’ to finish that honeycomb …”

  “Please, go ahead.” Roland pushed the piece of comb across the table and watched as Papa Bear ate approximately a pound of honey in two bites. It’s amazing what you can get used to, he marveled. When he’d come to, tucked snugly into Baby Bear’s bed with Mama Bear draping a cool cloth across his brow, he’d whimpered and shrunk away from what looked like a new installment in the day’s nightmares. Mama had merely continued to wipe his face and murmur comforting words in her gravelly voice. Finally, convinced he was safe, he’d started to cry and she’d held him, stroking his back, careful of her strength and his relative frailty. Worn out by terror, he’d eventually drifted off to sleep.

  Baby Bear’s cold nose investigating his right ear had jerked him awake a short time later. His startled yell had started Baby Bear squalling, brought Mama Bear running, and resulted in such a normal domestic scene that there was no room for fear.

  “Nothin’ like a little snack between breakfast and lunch.” Papa Bear pushed back from the table with a satisfied belch. “You’ve got a long way to travel, Master Bard, so we’d bettah get goin’.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” Roland began, as the whole family moved to the door with him. He slung the harp over his shoulder and picked up the guitar case. “You saved my life.” His throat closed up and he felt perilously close to tears. “I’ve no way to repay that.”

  “Nonsense.” Mama Bear patted him on the back and almost knocked him to his knees. “Bards are special and we’d do the same for any of them.” She handed Papa Bear his hat, beaming benevolently. “Still and all, it’s a good thing Papa heard youah instruments calling or he’d have just thought you were some po animal blundering by and, well, it’s unlikely you’d have survived till noon.”

  “Yes.” Roland’s free hand dropped back to stroke the smooth wood of the harp. “I know.” He had no memory of anything save horror during his wild run through the bush—Patience and the harp could have been playing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” for all he knew—but he had a very clear memory of what had caused his panicked flight and knew he’d carry it to his dying day.

  Papa Bear unwound Baby Bear from about his leg, handed him, wailing, to his mother, and pushed Roland out the door.

  “Ah hate to see the little guy cry,” he confided as they crossed the clearing surrounding the cottage. “But it’s just too dangerous foah him in the forest. And you,” he straightened to his full height and looked down at Roland, “you’re lucky you’ve got me with you. Yup,” he dropped back down to his usual hulking slouch as they stepped under the first of the trees and he bent a small sapling out of his path. “There’s things in this forest with teeth that bite and claws that catch.”

  “Jabberwocks,” Roland murmured.

  “Why, that’s it exactly. Mama tell ya’ll about them?”

  “No.” Roland tightened his grip on Patience’s case and carefully kept his gaze away from the deep shadows that pooled under certain trees. “I think I’m beginning to get the hang of this place.”

  Mrs. Ruth banged the newspaper against the edge of the garbage can, dislodging a half-eaten cherry danish and an apple core.

  “People,” she snorted, glaring at the damp, sticky splotch, “should have more consideration.” Usually, she picked up her paper first thing in the morning and avoided the day’s trash, but this was an early afternoon edition and if the glimpse she’d already managed was any indication, she needed to see it. “Hrmph. Dumping their leftovers on my paper!” She transferred her glare to a young woman hurrying past. “I ask you, why don’t people take the time to eat properly? Bowel problems. Mark my words, they’ll all end up with bowel problems.”

  The young woman averted her eyes and hurried a little faster. She just didn’t have the time to deal with crazy old bag ladies.

  Mrs. Ruth spread the paper across the top of her overflowing bundle buggy and squinted at the headline. Modern Miracle; Angel Appears at Yonge and Carlton. The story below it reported that a number of independent witnesses had spotted a glowing man with wings standing on the corner during the morning rush hour and that reactions from the various churches were still forthcoming. Mrs. Ruth snorted. “I’ll give you a reaction. Someone got a little too big for his britches.” Shoving the paper down behind a perfectly good hockey stick found in a pile of otherwise disappointing garbage, she began to drag the squealing and protesting buggy down the street.

  “If you want anything done right,” she informed two businessmen as she pushed between them, “you’ve got to do it yourself.”

  “Go on! Scram!” Papa Bear bent, picked up a chunk of stone, and heaved it at the pair of red shoes. They skipped back out of the way and danced off through the underbrush.

  Roland swallowed heavily and managed to keep his gag reflex under control. There’d been feet in the shoes, wrinkled and mummified but quite definitely feet, the ankle bones gleaming dully where the dried flesh had pulled away.

  “Damn nuisance, those things,” Papa Bear growled, stomping forward. “Not dangerous, though.”

  “Great.” Roland tried not to sound sarcastic. Lions and tigers and bears, he thought, would be a nice change. Then he glanced at Papa Bear and added, Okay, cancel the bears.

  “Ms. Sastri?”

  Daru grunted an affirmative without looking up. The bureaucracy had just spit out a new pile of forms needing immediate attention and she was already three days behind on her fieldwork; she had no time to spend on idle chatter.

  “Ms. Sastri, if you could just spare me a few moments of your time.”

  The voice was warmly persuasive; a voice that accepted service as its right. It made the hair on the back of Daru’s neck rise, this voice that sounded vaguely familiar even though she knew without a doubt it belonged to none of the men in the office.

  The sooner I deal with him, the sooner I can get rid of him. She sighed, initialed the top two papers on the pile, pushed the whole stack to one side and swiveled her chair around in the same motion. “I can give you one mo …” she began and trailed off as she realized who stood just inside her cubicle.

  His dark hair was cut fashionably short, a thick lock falling gracefully forward over his brow. His eyes were very blue, surrounded by a fringe of indecently long lashes. Teeth showed brilliant white against ivory skin. He wore a pale gray, raw silk suit, not an Oxford cloth shirt, but Daru recognized him immediately. She wondered if Evan knew how accurate his sketch had been. He’d even captured the contempt that lurked below the surface charm.

  “Yes?” Her voice, she was pleased to note, quavered only a little and she quickly gained control of that. An enemy seen and available to be grappled with was less frightening than one skulking in shadows. “How can I help you, Mr …?”

  He spread long fingered hands. “My name is unimportant. And I rather think that I can help you. May I sit?”

  “Can I stop you?” Daru smiled tightly and waved in the direction of her second chair which was almost buried under case histories. She didn’t see how he did it, but the bulging files were suddenly stacked neatly on the floor and he was crossing one leg over the other, twitching the trouser crease back into place.

  “I have come to make you an offer,” he said.

  “If you’re going to take me up on a mountaintop,” Daru snapped, wondering if anyone would hear her if she screamed, “make it fast. I have work to do.”

  “A mountaintop. Yes.” He drawled the words as though they left a bad taste in his mouth. “As you have no time for pleasantries, I will dispense with them myself. I offer you the power to deal with all of this.” The sweep of his arm encompassed the entire department. “No paperwork. No government red tape. No being forced to stand by as situations go from bad to worse. I can give you the power to deal with problems, to solve them as they happen.”

  No more children destroyed in front of her eyes. No more men and women swept away as she watched helplessly, resources stretched too thin to save them. “And as my part of the deal?”

  “You will cease to fight me.”

  “Well, that makes your whole deal kind of worthless, doesn’t it, because that’s what all this is.” The sweep of her arm mirrored his. “Fighting you.” Her eyes narrowed. “You see, I know you and you’re not some pretty young man in an expensive suit. You’re the landlord who rents a shithole basement apartment with no heat and a toilet that doesn’t work to an immigrant family for nine hundred and fifty dollars a month because you know they’re desperate for a place to live. You’re the punk who beats his pregnant girlfriend almost to death because she forgot to buy beer. You’re the father who rapes his ten-year-old daughter, then blames what he did on her. And you’re every judge, and every jury, and every lawyer who lets those bastards get away with it.” Her eyes blazed and her fingers curled into fists. “And I will never stop fighting you.”

  For a moment, Daru held him pinned with her gaze, then he stood and smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from his jacket. “You know, Ms. Sastri,” his voice picked up an edge, “you are beginning to annoy me.”

  “Well, good,” Daru snarled, “because you’ve always annoyed me. Now get the fuck out of my office!”

  The Dark Adept shook his head. “Such language,” he chided, but he left.

  Daru straightened her hands, laid them flat on the desk to stop their shaking, and tried to remember how to breathe.

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