Crown of Shadows (55 page)

Bones lay scattered across the floor of the narrow canyon, the skeletons of three men clearly visible. Shreds of fabric and flesh still clung to their upper portions, but their legs had been stripped and polished until nothing remained but lengths of bone as white as snow. Serpents of mist writhed in and out of the joints as Damien watched, like maggots on fresh meat.

He tried to think, at last ventured, “Acid?”

Tarrant nodded. “Shaitan’s breath is venomous, and so is her blood. Or so the legend says. They should have listened to it.”

“Is all the water here like that?”

He nodded. “It’s leached out of the ash-clouds by rain, so that the very earth is soaked with it. That’s why so few things live here ... so few
natural
things, that is.”

“Shit.”

A faint smile flickered across the Hunter’s face. “Aptly put, Vryce. As usual.” He looked both ways along the length of the canyon, then nodded toward the left. “Shall we?”

“If you tell me we’ve got something better to go on than guesswork,” Damien challenged. “Otherwise we’d be better off looking for that tunnel of yours, and heading to Shaitan from there.”

“My Vision will afford us some guidance, at least for the nearer obstacles.” In illustration of which he reached out a gloved hand towards Damien, and the channel that bound them flared to life; Damien could see with his own eyes how the currents of the earth-fae followed the lips of the canyon, their patterns reflected in the mist-clouds overhead. “As you see.” In the distance it was just possible to see a place where the canyon turned, perhaps giving access to the plain beyond. “And the path is no easier to my tunnel from here, I regret. Either way, the real risk ...”

He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t have to.
Either way, Calesta’s what we have to worry about. He can make us see canyons that aren’t there, or run from shadows that don’t exist, or even make us walk over the edge of a chasm, thinking it solid ground....
But no, Karril had said he would protect them from a move like that. If only their ally would expand his beneficence to encompass lesser strategies!

They set as good a pace they could along the rocky earth, moving sometimes by the light of the lantern and sometimes, when the mist cleared from overhead and the clouds were obliging, by the blood-colored fire of Shaitan. Ghostlike shapes wisped in and out of life on all sides of them, and occasionally Tarrant would lead Damien out of the range of one that was becoming too solid for comfort. Shadows, he called them. Reflections of the dead. Damien saw one whose head had been severed, and another whose ghostly blood flowed where its arms and legs should have been. Most of them seemed confused rather than dangerous, as befit spirits whose minds contained but one single moment of consciousness, but some were clearly hostile to living men, and while they had no interest in Tarrant, it was clear they considered Damien fair game. More than once the Hunter had to bluff them back, and one time, when a wretched creature with its skull split open proved itself determined to vent its undead wrath on Damien, Tarrant pulled his sword wholly free and let the coldfire blaze. The result was like a block of ice slamming into Damien’s gut, that left him dazed and gasping and very nearly toppled him over into the canyon beside him.

“What the vulk was that?” he demanded, as the Hunter finally sheathed his sword. At least the hostile shadow was gone; one less threat to deal with. “I don’t remember it doing anything like that before.”

“The currents here are like a warped mirror, that reflects and distorts any Working. That’s why I try not to use this,” he explained, as he settled the sword back into place. “Or any other kind of power.”

That’s just great,
Damien thought, as he struggled to get his breath back.
Another thing to worry about.

Periodically Tarrant would gaze at the earth and sky with an almost desperate intensity, and Damien knew that the adept was searching their environment for any detail out of place—no matter how small or seemingly irrelevant—that would warn them of Calesta’s power being used against them. But after each such stop Tarrant simply shook his head silently, frustrated, and then took up the march again. Were the canyons real, or illusions meant to mislead them? How easy it would be for Calesta to turn them aside from their proper path, or draw them toward a false one! If the demon’s work lacked perfection in any detail, it could well be so subtle that no merely human eye was going to catch it. Or even Tarrant’s.

If so, we’re doomed.
He didn’t dare meet Tarrant’s eyes, but through the newly intensified channel between them, he could taste the panic that was slowly taking root inside him. It matched his own.
If we can’t find a way to tell what’s real from what isn‘t, we don’t stand a chance.
Standing by Tarrant’s side, he stared out at the same daunting vistas, hoping against hope that his limited vision might reveal some secret detail the adept missed. But each and every canyon looked hopelessly real, and the bones that were scattered here and there along their bottom—and even at the top, where the two walked—were eloquent reminder of how deadly this land was, and how few travelers made it through.

At last, weary, they paused for a rest. Damien pulled a hunk of bread from his stores and chewed it dryly, careful to disturb the thin veil no more than he had to. Tarrant neither ate nor drank, but stared off into the darkness surrounding them as though somehow he might find an answer there. Through the link between them Damien could sense his state of mind, and it wasn’t comforting.

At last the adept said, “I’m going to have to Work. There’s no other way.” He glanced up toward the sky, a reflexive action only; the ash cloud overhead would keep him from seeing the dawn until it was all but upon him.

“A Locating?”

The Hunter shook his head. “Too easy for our enemy to fake. Remember what he did in Seth? And besides, any precise Working is doomed in this place. Much in the same way that complex music loses its coherency in a hall with too many echoes. No, this Working must be in its purest unstructured form: a plea for the fae to accommodate our mission, however it sees fit. A single chord, pure and simple.”

“Sounds damn vague to me.”

“Anything more than that is doomed to failure, I assure you.”

“And how do we know that Calesta won’t vulk the results of this Working, too?”

The Hunter hesitated. And for a moment, just a moment, the channel between pulsed with fresh energy and Damien could taste the emotion inside the man. Thick fear, black and choking; it was hard to believe that a man could contain that kind of emotion inside himself and not let it show. “He’ll no doubt try to,” he admitted. “And we know all too well how adept he is at that game. But if my Working succeeds, then by definition it must offer us a tool over which he has no power.”

“And what are the odds of that?”

The pale eyes met his. The voice betrayed not a tremor of fear. “Better than the odds if we don’t try anything.”

Working.
Normally Tarrant could manage it with no more effort than a single moment of tension, perhaps a narrowed gaze if the matter was difficult, but now ... Damien watched the adept brace himself, eyes shut tightly in concentration, and felt himself grow sick at what that implied. Then he drew out his sword from its warded sheath, and the fae bound to the sharpened steel seemed to glitter hungrily in Shaitan’s bloody light. Damien felt the Working take shape and braced himself for the frigid bite of the Hunter’s coldfire, but the power that surged through him when the moment came was like nothing at all familiar. It was a force that froze and burned all at once, that left his flesh shaking as if an entire storm system had squeezed through his veins. He didn’t need Tarrant to tell him that wasn’t all from the Working; the feeling of heat was a dead giveaway that some other power was involved. Tarrant had stated his Call, and the fae was reflecting it back at him with the accuracy of a funhouse mirror. God willing, the distortion would be minor. God willing they wouldn’t conjure something worse than what they were already dealing with.

When he was done Tarrant resheathed his sword, and the coldfire faded. “Do you think—” Damien began, but the Hunter waved him to silence. The tension in the man was palpable now, and Damien had to turn away and not look at him, to keep from being sucked into it. He had enough fear of his own, thank you very much, and didn’t need to absorb any one else’s.

And then, in the mist before them, something stirred. He saw Tarrant take a half step forward, then stop. A shadow? An illusion? Or something else? Wisps of silver fog twined and gathered, and slowly took on a form that seemed human. Was this the fae’s answer to their need, or simply another of the walking dead, drawn by their cry of desperation? As it slowly became distinct from the mist that surrounded it, Damien saw that its form was female, and that in life it must surely have been a beautiful woman, for even in death its features were graceful and pleasing—

Then Tarrant gasped, and stepped back as if struck. There was more fear in that one sound than Damien had ever heard him utter, and for a moment Damien was rooted to the spot. Then he took a step forward as if to—what, protect the man?—close enough to see the figure clearly, and make out its details.

She was a slender woman, delicately formed, with a thick corona of hair that still hinted at its living color, a soft red-gold. Her eyes were large and were fixed on Tarrant with such intensity that it was clear her living self had known him. A victim, perhaps? Her lips were full and likewise tinted with a trace of rouge, so alive in their aspect that Damien could almost imagine a human breath passing through them, and a heartbeat behind it. She wore a long gown of what must have been a fine wool, pale in color, and on it ... he squinted, trying to bring it into focus. The folds of the gown shifted slowly as if in a breeze, and sometimes they seemed pure white, while others ... he caught a flicker of color and tried to focus on it ... thin tendrils of red running down between the folds, and a scarlet stain just where the heart would be.

And then Tarrant whispered,
“Almea.”

And he understood.
Dear God.
He understood.

“Your wife?”

“No.” The Hunter shook his head. “Not my wife. A shadow, formed by the currents here. Not her.”

He looked at the ghostly image, then back at Tarrant. It was hard to say which of the two was paler.

“Maybe it was formed in answer to—”

“No!” The figure was moving toward Tarrant; the Hunter backed away quickly. “It’s Calesta’s illusion. It must be. Or else a real shadow, drawn by our presence here. My God,” he whispered. His voice was shaking. “If it’s the latter ...”

“It’s your
wife,
Gerald.”

“As she died!” The red lines on her body came into focus for a moment, and Damien could see the whole of her clearly: bloodstained, ravaged, tortured by a madman’s blade ... and then the white cloth folded in again, softly, gently, and the only pain visible was in her eyes. “Almea Tarrant as she was in her last living moments, with none of what came before! None of the love, none of the memories, none of the things that might mitigate her terror as she—as she—”

The shadow had stopped moving. Was watching him.

Damien dared, “I don’t think she’s here to hurt you.”

“How can she be here for anything else? Remember what I did to her, Vryce!”

She was waiting, Damien thought. She expected something. What?

“You called for help,” he offered.

He whispered: “I tortured her.”

She was watching. Waiting. Not Tarrant’s wife, but an isolated fraction of the woman. One instant of her living existence, frozen in time by the power of this place.

He drew in a deep breath, trying to sound calmer than he felt. “She’s the first shadow here that hasn’t gone after us. Maybe that means something.”

Tarrant said nothing.

The figure turned. Not wholly away from them, but slowly moving in that direction. There was no hate in her eyes, Damien noted, nor anger, but a vast tide of pain. And maybe something else ... something more.

“She loved you very much,” he observed.

Tarrant shuddered. “This thing wouldn’t remember love.”

She had stopped. She was waiting. For them.

“Gerald,” He said it gently, testing the words. “I think she wants us to follow her.”

“For what? To help us? More likely to lead me deeper into this trap—”

He looked into the shadow’s eyes, at the reflection of life that shimmered in their depths.

“I don’t think so,” he said quietly.

Tarrant looked at him in astonishment. “Why?” he demanded hoarsely. “Why would she help me, after what I did to her?”

“Maybe she wants to see you punished for what you did. You did say you expected to die on Shaitan, didn’t you? Maybe she wants to lead you to your death.” He drew in a deep breath. How could he word the next idea so that the Hunter would accept it? “Or maybe in that last moment what she wanted was to save you. Maybe she saw the man she had married being swallowed up by an evil so powerful that all her words, all her love, couldn’t save him ... and now he has one chance to redeem himself. The first real chance he’s had in centuries.” He waited a moment, then said softly, “You knew her, Gerald. You tell me.”

The shadow was waiting.

“If she’s an illusion—” Tarrant began.

“She isn’t.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“Because for all of Calesta’s subtlety, I don’t think he could have created
this.”
He gestured toward the shadow; did it smile sadly in response? “A reflection of pain, yes, and maybe hatred, and certainly a hunger for vengeance. Those are things he understands. But the rest?” Reading what was in her eyes, he shivered.
God, what a woman she must have been.
“Calesta knows nothing about human love; how could he mimic its form so perfectly?”