Crown of Shadows (26 page)

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 passed 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 passed 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 sexual attractiveness, from her aggressively protruding breasts to her incredibly padded buttocks, 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 passed 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 basement, 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 passage 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.

“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 assure 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.

“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.

“Hell,” he whispered. “He feared Hell.”

“His own perception of it.” Could this Iezu experience gut-wrenching fear, or was that not part of his aspect?
Some people mix passion and terror,
he thought.
So the emotion should be in his repertoire.
“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.
Damn you, Tarrant! Damn 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 Hell 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.

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
no longer be protection enough. Several have begun collecting arms and training men, in order to defend themselves against similar assaults. 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.

“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.”