Crown of Shadows (70 page)

“Come on,” Karril urged, nudging her forward. “We’ll miss the fun.”

A reception line was forming now, and it stretched across the courtyard and back again; officials first, then neighbors, friends, and whoever else cared to greet the host and hostess of the afternoon’s festivities. In that Andrys Tarrant was claiming the ancient title of
Neocount
with all its prerogatives and responsibilities, there were more than a few men and women of local importance who had seized this opportunity to introduce themselves. Most of them clearly had their doubts about the situation—a few even had the bad manners to mutter that it would have been better for them all if Samiel had survived, rather than this irresponsible playboy—but one by one, as they shook Andrys’ hand, they saw in his eyes an indefinable something which said that yes, this man had changed, and if they would give him a chance, he might surprise them. That, too, was a Iezu gift, but one so subtle that neither side noticed its oddness.

“I don’t understand—” Saris began, and Karril whispered, “Shhh!”

There were past lovers coming to the head of the line now, buxom women with temptation in their gait and a knowing sparkle in their eyes. Coolly the first one took Narilka’s hand and offered her congratulations, her eyes never leaving those of Andrys.
Acknowledge me,
they urged him,
if you dare.
To her delight he caught up her hand and kissed it, his manner as flirtatious as ever, and introduced her to his bride in a way that made it clear he still found her utterly desirable. Smugly she glanced at the new bride, her face warm with triumph.
You can marry him if you like, my dear, but you’ll never change him. And when he tires of your meager pleasures, we’ll have him back again, and teach him just how poor his judgment was when he bound himself to you.
But if she expected the black-haired girl to respond with embarrassment, or (even better) with jealousy, she was to be disappointed. The bride greeted her graciously, even gladly. Amazing! Was she that blind to her husband’s proclivities, or was she simply living in a fantasy in which marriage, like a magical spell, would suddenly and completely alter his behavior? But then she looked at Andrys again, and she saw the way he regarded his bride, and a flush rose to her own cheeks as the truth hit home. The habits of a lifetime could not be shed in a single afternoon, and thus it was with this playboy’s surface mannerisms. But deep within his eyes an adoration glowed that put all his former lovers to shame. And his bride, however young, however inexperienced, understood that. She endured his flirtation because she knew it for what it was: a habit, no more, now empty of meaning, no more to be criticized in him than the way he walked, or the casual elegance with which he dressed. It was all show without substance now, and she was too savvy to feel threatened by it. Andrys’ former lover slunk away with chastened mien, and another, eyes glowing with anticipated triumph, took her place.

“You’re a voyeur,” Saris accused.

Karril chuckled. “No argument there.”

Tables were set out laden with rich foods, a lavish spread such as only the rich could conjure. Karril walked behind the tables while servants doled out portions to the guests, checking the quality of each offering, prepared to intervene should any one item come up short. But it was all perfect, from hors d‘oeuvres to wine to the inevitable wedding cake, and at last he retired in the shade of a tree to feast himself on the enjoyment of those who were eating.

“They’re gone,” Saris noted.

“What?” He followed her gaze toward the main gate of the keep, then chuckled anew as he realized what she meant. “Their guests are satisfied. The requisite ceremony’s been performed. Why not sneak off for a few minutes to celebrate in private, while attention is fixed elsewhere?” He shot her an appraising glance and noted, “You don’t hang out with humans a lot, do you?”

“This is the first time I’ve put on a really human form.”

“It looks good.”

“Thank you,” she said, startled.

He leaned back against the tree trunk and crossed his arms, to all appearances a well-sated guest who was waiting for his food to digest. “There’ll be more of that now, you know. Curiosity will win out over fear in all but a few of our kind. New emotions to learn, new experiences to court ... we might even try that one in time,” he said with a smile, nodding toward the keep where the two lovers had disappeared.

“What? You can’t mean—” She looked at him in astonishment. “It’s just an illusion, Karril, you know that. The fact that this time you chose a male form and I chose a female—”

“I didn’t meant that,” he said quickly. “Obviously we’re not human in fact, that goes without saying. But think about it, Saris: surely our mother did more than spawn a few random demons when she conceived us. She meant to create a
species,
according to the rules of life as she knew them. Clearly she wanted us to be self-sustaining. Doesn’t that imply some kind of reproductive capacity? And doesn’t that in turn imply some kind of ... interactive potential?”

She stared at him in disbelief, unable to muster words. At last she laughed, a silver sound. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

He grinned. “It’s been said.”

“You’ve spent too many hours in human form. It’s addled your mind.”

“And you’re too mired in your aspect for your own good. Break loose! Experiment! I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

“I have a religion to run. Worshipers to entertain—”

“You think they’ll complain if we give them a new godling? Ah, Saris, think of it! What kind of a child would the gods of beauty and ecstasy produce? I shiver just to imagine the possibilities.”

She looked at him in amazement. “Is that a proposition?”

He chuckled. “I guess it is.”

“You don’t even know what reproduction entails, for us.”

“No,” he admitted. “But I think that figuring it out could be a lot of fun.” He winked at her. “Reproduction usually is.”

“That’s your aspect, not mine.”

“Ah, Saris!” He caught up her hand in his; through the veil of fine flesh he could feel the throb of living energy, the true substance of the Iezu. “ ‘Aspect’ is just preference, not a prison. Don’t you see that? We’re the children of living creatures, with the capacity to be just as versatile as our parents. Why not give it a try?”

“I don’t see you reaching outside your aspect in this experience.”

With a soft laugh he let loose her hand, and struck at his chest as though marking the entrance point of an arrow. “Touché.”

A sudden commotion among the guests drew their attention. Someone was proposing a toast, it seemed, raising a glass of perfect wine to catch the sunlight, in dedication to the newlyweds. Others joined in, and the fine wine was sipped and savored. A hundred souls resonating in perfect unison, relishing the moment: a symphony of pleasure. Karril leaned against the tree in contentment, drinking it in as a toast of his own, and shut his eyes as the waves of human enjoyment washed over him.

She watched him for a moment, observing his reaction, and then a faint smile softened her expression. She relaxed a bit and leaned against the tree beside him, watching the guests as they feasted.

“I’ll think about it,” she promised.

The shop
was in a quiet part of town, and despite the fame it had quickly earned since opening—or one could say, the
notoriety
—its facade was modest and unassuming. HUNT SHOPPE, the sign said, its type-face and proportion suggesting a modest business. There was a display of fishing rods in one corner of the window, bows and crossbows in the other. In the center a finely tanned skin served as backdrop for all the accoutrements of the hunter’s art: compasses and maps, backpacks and canteens, and a selection of heavy-bladed knives guaranteed (so the sign read) to gut with a simple twist of the wrist, and skin with the ease of slicing butter.

The man looked in the window a long, long while, and wondered about why he had come here. He’d never cared for the sport much in general, and the thought of gutting a living animal—or at least one very recently dead—made his stomach turn. For a moment he almost turned back and went home. Then he remembered how lonely it was there, how empty the spacious house was without the sound of other voices. And he drew himself up and pushed open the heavy wooden door, bracing for what was inside.

The shop’s interior was larger than he would have guessed, and every inch of it was filled with hunting apparati. There were other customers there, half a dozen of them, and he watched for a moment while a man hefted a brass-butted springbolt to his shoulder, testing its balance. Another bent the length of a fishing rod in a wide U-shape and harrumphed that yes, it would probably do.

Once more, he almost turned and left. Almost.

“Can I help you?”

The clerk was a young man, about his own height and build. Nondescript, just as he was. For a moment he hesitated. “Riven Forrest?” It couldn’t be him, could it? Surely a man capable of helping him would be more ... more ... well, more
something.

To his relief the clerk nodded toward a door at one side of the shop. “Probably in the office. Just go on through, you’ll find him.”

The door led to another room, smaller than the first, less crowded. There were paintings in this room and other forms of art as well, all depicting objects of the hunt. Skerrels, nudeer, lynkesets ... some were wandering through their native habitat in a wholly natural mode, the kind of nature-loving art that would be hung over the couch in a family room, or by the fireplace. Others were less natural, and oddly disturbing. A mar mosa frozen atop a fallen log, its large ears cocked forward with desperate intensity, its eyes wide and anxious. Nudeer crouching in the high grass, preparing to bolt for their lives. And a waterfowl of some kind, floating on the rippled surface of a lake. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was about that last one that bothered him so, until at last he realized that the shadow of an armed human loomed over the water, its reflection barely visible among the reeds. Animals caught in their last living moments; the passion of the hunt as seen through the eyes of those who must die to consummate it. He felt uncomfortable viewing those paintings, but it was hard to look away. Involuntary voyeurism: the fascination of Death. For the first time coming here, he believed that he might be in the right place after all.

There were rooms beyond that one, small corridors that twisted back on themselves, even a walk-in closet that had been made to house a Hunt Shoppe display. There were tools he didn’t recognize, and restraining devices that seemed better proportioned to human limbs than to any animal he had ever seen. There were traps of all shapes and all sizes, deadly and humane, and wax images demonstrating how some of them were meant to be used. There was a lot more art, and not only of animals. One lithograph, finely rendered, depicted the final showdown between the Selenzy Slasher and the police who ran him down; the bright red ink was particularly effective. Another showed the last moments of Karth Steele as he plunged through the southern swamps, the head of his latest victim still in his hands. Convicts and torturers, criminals turned prey ... he felt somehow unclean as he viewed their last moments on Erna, as if something voyeuristic had awakened in his soul that he would far, far rather pretend wasn’t there in the first place.

At last, with effort, he forced himself away from those pictures and through the next doorway. Beyond it was a small room, unmistakably outfitted as an office. He felt a wave of relief wash over him, as if he, too, had been fleeing from some unseen pursuer, and had finally, here, found sanctuary. Even the furniture was normal, and the only painting—a portrait of an attractive man hung over the small fireplace—was blessedly unthreatening.

The man behind the desk said nothing as he entered, but looked up at him and waited. He was pale of skin, dark-haired, and his sharp, angular features reminded the man of a predatory bird. His eyes might have been a human color—brown or gray or maybe even a dark blue—but in the hooded lamplight which was the room’s only illumination they appeared black, a limitless black that sucked in the lampglow and swallowed it whole.

“Forrest?” he stammered, finding his voice at last. “Riven Forrest?”

The man behind the desk nodded, and indicated a chair by his visitor’s side. It was a welcome offering, and he fell into it heavily.

“I’m Riven Forrest. And you are?”

He started to speak his name, then hesitated.
Gods, this is crazy. He can’t help you if he doesn’t know who you are, now can he?
“My name is Helder. Allen Helder.” He had to force the words out; beads of sweat were beginning to form on his brow. “I have a ... an unusual problem. I was told you might be able to help me.”