Crown of Shadows (49 page)

“I removed the drugs from your pack en route to Mordreth,” the Holy Father said quietly, “and I gave them to the Serpent. I assume that’s what you’re looking for?” When Andrys didn’t answer, he nodded slightly as if reading confirmation into his pained expression. “What you did with your life before this point is your own business, Mer Tarrant, but now you no longer live for yourself. You live for all of us. And I will not have my Church’s dreams compromised by a handful of pills, or by your willingness to parade your addictions in front of my people.”

Shame rose to his face in a hot flush; he tried to stammer some kind of protest, but couldn’t get the words out. Had the Patriarch known all along what Andrys carried with him? Was it a vision that had betrayed him, or some more human source? “I wouldn‘t—” he began. Then shame caught in his throat, and even those words failed him. “You don’t understand,” he whispered.

“I understand enough to see what would happen to my people if they perceived such weakness in you. Before tonight it might have meant little, but now, after all their vows ... you have a responsibility, Mer Tarrant, and it’s my job to see that you live up to it. Painful though that might be.”

He hung his head, and thus didn’t see what the Patriarch was doing as the wool robes shifted. He didn’t see what the Patriarch removed from his pocket, not until the man cast it down in front of him.

A bottle.

“It’s from Jaggonath,” With numb fingers Andrys picked it up; the velvet black pills of a blackout fix tumbled one over another as he turned it in his hand, incredulous. “The founding fathers of that city, in their wisdom, declared that no man should ever have the right to burden others with his intoxication. They ordered that all mind-altering drugs be combined with a paralytic, so that the user must suffer its effects in the privacy of his own soul.” He gestured down toward the bottle. “If you perceive such a desperate need for comfort that you would be willing to risk a period of paralysis, then here it is. You may do whatever you like in private, so long as you remember that your public life is no longer your own.”

Lowering his head in shame, he whispered, “You don’t understand.”

“As one who has lived in the public eye for almost fifty years, I
do
understand,” His tone was bitter, unforgiving. “I understand more than you know.” He paused for a moment; his condemnation was like a gust of hot wind, that made Andrys’ face flush even redder. “I won’t have this mission compromised by a moment of weakness, Mer Tarrant—not yours, not mine. Remember that.”

He left the tent as silently as he had come, but something of his condemnation seemed to remain behind him: Andrys could feel it as he turned the bottle over and over in his hand, hungering desperately to open it and swallow its precious contents, but knowing in the tortured depths of his heart that there would be no place and no time safe enough to do so until this campaign was over. Then even that vestige of the Holy Father’s presence faded, and he was alone at last. Just him and the bottle. Just him and the night.

Just him, and the Hunter in his soul.

“Going west,” the Hunter repeated, in a voice that was so maddeningly calm Damien wanted to choke the life out of him. “Toward the pass that lies near the Forest. You remember, we discussed it last night.”

“I know, I just ...” He shook his head, torn between anger and amazement. “Just like that? You woke up and decided that we’d wasted the last ten hours, time to pick a new direction?”

“Not at all,” Tarrant said coolly. “The decision was made long before that.”

“You mean you lied to me.”

“I regret that it was necessary.”

He almost hit him. Really. Even though it wouldn’t do any good. Even though the Hunter could Work the earth-fae and stop him faster than he could carry through the blow. It would feel that good just to try it. Only the look in those pale, cold eyes kept him from moving. The utter calm in them, and the unshakable certainty. Before those things he quailed.

“Think about it,” Tarrant urged. “Our enemy has the power to read what’s in our hearts. Which means that we can have no secrets from him. Unless he doesn’t bother to look for secrets. Unless he thinks he knows all there is to know.”

“So, in other words, you set me up. You told me we were going east when you never intended to, so that Calesta would believe it.” His hands had curled into fists of their own accord; he forced himself to open them. “And what made you so sure he would look into my heart, and not yours? Wasn’t that a hell of a risk to take?”

The pale eyes, golden in the Corelight, glittered with disarming intensity. “We already know he’s not watching us every minute. What else explains the Locatings I worked in Seth? The one I conjured while we were in flight was masked by an illusion meant to mislead us, but the one before that wasn’t. Such trivial games were of no concern to him when he thought he had us cornered. He has a war to fight, remember.” He nodded west, toward the distant Forest. “No doubt he’s anxious to focus on it.”

With a hot flush Damien remembered their flight through Seth, and his own angry cries.
Dammit, man, you’re going the wrong way! Remember the map?
He hadn’t noticed that the two images Tarrant had conjured didn’t match up. He had trusted in the Hunter’s power....

“In the face of Iezu illusion,” Tarrant said, answering his thoughts, “even my own Workings must be suspect.”

“How do you know he’s reading my mind?” he demanded. “What if you’re his source?”

“Unlikely. Of the two of us, I would be more likely to recognize signs of his interference. With you ...” He hesitated. “No offense, Vryce, but you’re hardly well versed in demon recognition.”

“He could fool you if he tried.”

“But he’d have to work much harder at it. And I’m willing to bet that the Iezu, like men, prefer the path of least resistance.”

“Yeah, but can we be sure of that?”

“No,” he admitted. “It’s a gamble. A last-ditch effort in a game where Calesta controls most of the pieces. I’m sorry I had to plan it alone, but sharing my fears with you would have meant sacrificing the effectiveness of the feint. And seeing how little we have going for us without it ...” He shrugged. “I apologize, Vryce. You deserved better.”

“No.” He sighed heavily and raised up a hand to rub his temples. “Don’t. You were right, as usual. Let’s just hope it worked.” He glanced toward the east, where the mountain cleft beckoned. “So what happens now?”

“If Calesta’s paying attention to us right now, then he’ll assign his local pawns to direct pursuit. But I don’t think he is. I think that he’s arrogant enough—and distracted enough—to believe that his current arrangements are sufficient.”

“But we can’t really know that, any more than we can know what his next move will be.”

“There are four dozen men waiting for us right now at Gastine Pass,” he said calmly. “That much is without question. Assuming my understanding of the situation is correct, I estimate two hours before Calesta realizes something is wrong, as that’s how long it would have taken us to reach his little trap. At that point it will be too late for anyone from there to catch up with us. He’ll have to make new plans, focusing on the western route.”

“And then what? If he can motivate that many to come after us ...”
Four dozen! God in Heaven!
“You said yourself that the towns bordering on the Forest would be ready and willing to protect their turf. What makes that region any safer for us?”

“Time, Vryce. Time.” With a jerk he tightened the strap securing his horse’s saddle. “He can give them all the dreams he wants, but few men will rise up out of bed at that instant to fight his battles. I’m willing to bet he can’t muster a lynch mob until morning, and by then we should be far beyond their reach.”

“Gerald.” He put a hand to the saddle of his own horse. “It’s more than a hundred miles to the pass from here. That’s a hell of a ride in one night, even for horses that are endurance trained. Do you really think these two are going to make it?”

“All they have to do is get us there.” His black cloak fluttered in the evening breeze as he mounted, like a vast pair of wings. “As for their endurance ... I did what had to be done to assure that.” He brought his animal about so that it faced their distant goal. “And no complaints from you this time. Two horses are a small enough sacrifice, if their expiration puts us ahead of the enemy.”

Hand trembling slightly, Damien touched his horse’s flank. He could feel no change in the animal’s substance, but that didn’t mean that nothing had been altered. How little effort would it take to refigure its equine biochemistry so that the beast devoured itself for energy, ignoring all signs of exhaustion? How many vital systems had the Hunter reWorked, so that the processes which would normally kill the beast were circumvented, redirected, thwarted? He felt sick as he swung himself up to his accustomed seat. He felt as if death itself were poised there between his legs, wanting only the proper hour to make its true aspect known. But what other option was there?

“No complaints,” he muttered. Swinging his own horse around, so that they faced the looming Ridge. “I promise.”

Full-out gallop: the rhythm of death.

He wondered if Calesta could hear it.

Hour melding into hour, knees aching as he gripped the animal beneath him. A short stop to dig food out of his pack, then hurried mouthfuls swallowed while riding. Trying not to feel sick over the decay that was taking place beneath him, only telling himself over and over that there was no choice. If they didn’t make the western pass by morning, then Calesta would have the whole day to mobilize the valley folk against them.

God help him, what had he become?

Closer and closer to the great ridge they rode, until its shadow blocked out the moon setting behind them, leaving only Casca’s crescent to light their way. It was a vast mountain range, barren and forbidding, and its stark silhouette was as unlike the gentle rolling hills of the south as the cracked frozen surface of a glacier was unlike a cool mountain stream. A steep oceanic ridge birthed when this continent was at the floor of the ocean, it cut across the land like an immense wall, protecting the fertile human settlements from the winds and the poisons of the regions beyond. It was said there were similar mountains to the north, scoring the land in parallel welts like claw marks, but most were submerged in a frozen sea, and none but the Earth-ship had ever seen them. One was enough, as far as Damien was concerned.

They rode through its foothills—if that word could be applied to such a place—where the earth began its steep slope upward. The towns which had been built in this region were far to the south of them, clustered along the river that coursed down the valley’s center. And for good reason, Damien noted. There was a tem blor as they approached the ridge, and the cascade of sharp-edged rocks that came plummeting down the steep slope were an eloquent warning to any would-be traveler. Yet it was worth the risk for them, he thought, if it kept other people away. In this land where any human soul might be controlled by their enemy, isolation was a prerequisite for survival.

Mile after mile beat numbly into Damien’s flesh, his horse’s skin like fire between his legs, beneath his hands. God alone knew what was happening inside it, as the miles pounded underfoot one by one. Once he started to rein up to feed them, but Tarrant waved angrily for him to continue.
Not necessary,
his expression seemed to say. Or perhaps instead, No point. His heart cold, Damien obeyed. This ride would echo in his dreams for years to come, he knew, but not half so loudly as the ones he would have if they failed to get through the western pass before dawn.