Damien couldn't find his voice; it was Tarrant who filled in. "We're looking for Allesha Huyding."

"What's it about?" he demanded. "And why can't it wait until morning?"

Damien was about to risk an answer when a female voice sounded from the back of the house. "What is it, Rick?"

"Two men," he answered curtly. "I don't know either of them."

There was movement in the room behind him now, as someone else approached. "Let me see," she said softly. She peered over his arm and studied Tarrant, then turned to look at Damien. And gasped.

"Sorry to bother you-" the priest began.

"No bother," she answered quickly. She nodded to the man. "Let them in."

"But, Lesh-"

"It's okay. Let them come in."

He clearly thought otherwise, but he pushed the door closed for a moment, undid the chain, and then opened it wide. Whatever Tarrant had done to keep her calm and cooperative, it had clearly not worked on him. "h.e.l.l of an hour," he muttered, as they stepped into the small, neat living room. He radiated hostility.

Memories. They rose up about Damien as the lamplight flickered, picking out details of a room that was painfully familiar. Here, on that chair, he had waited to see Ciani. There, in the room beyond, she had lain in a state near death. There, in that place, the demon Karril had started them on a journey more terrible than any could predict....

He forced his awareness back to the present time, and to the matter at hand. Allesha's new boyfriend was regarding them with the kind of hostility a wolf would exhibit upon finding that another wolf had p.i.s.sed in its den. He was a thick-set man, heavy with muscle, and Damien suspected that he harbored a violent temper. A dark man, bearded, who was the opposite of Senzei Reese in every way. Again the priest felt a sense of acute mourning for the loss of his friend, and the manner in which this house had been so thoroughly cleansed of his presence.

"My name is Gerald Tarrant," the Hunter said, focusing his attention on Allesha. "I was a companion of Senzei Reese during his recent travels, as was Reverend Vryce."

She nodded slightly to Damien. "Yes. I remember you."

"I'm sorry to bring up what must be painful memories, Mes Huyding, but we have great need of some notes that were in your fiance's possession. I was wondering if you could tell us what became of his things."

"What the h.e.l.l is this?" her new boyfriend sputtered. "Can't it wait until morning? Who the h.e.l.l are you, to show up on our doorstep at this hour and-"

"It's all right," she told him. To Damien's surprise, the words seemed to quiet him. "I don't mind. You go back to sleep if you want. I'll be there as soon as we're finished."

"I'll be d.a.m.ned if I'm going to bed while you-"

Tarrant caught his eyes then. And held them. Something pa.s.sed between them that Damien could sense, an invisible power that soothed, smothered, silenced.

"Yes," he said quietly. His eyes were half-lidded, as if sleep were already reclaiming him. "I'll do that."

They were silent as he turned and left, walking as slowly as if he had never awakened. At last, when he was safely behind the bedroom door and well out of hearing, Allesha said softly, "I'm sorry. He's protective, that's all."

"We understand," Damien a.s.sured her.

"The truth is, I didn't really know what to do with Zen's things when he died. He didn't have any family that I knew of, and as for friends ... he was close to Ciani. You know that. But there weren't many other people in his life." She picked up a lamp from a nearby table and lit it with her own; the flickering light picked out warm shadows amidst the furniture. "I kept the things that looked important, notes and such, and a few valuables. They're upstairs." She handed the second lamp to Damien and gestured toward the staircase. "This way."

The two men followed her up into the attic, into a room that brought back painful memories to Damien. There was the rug Senzei had knelt on while they planned their trip to the rakhlands; there was a box of Ciani's papers he had rescued from the Fae Shoppe fire. The rest was stacked in boxes in a comer of the room, books and notebooks and papers and charms that filled their wooden crates to overflowing. "There's no order to it, really." She sounded apologetic. "I didn't know what to do with it all-"

"You did fine," Damien a.s.sured her.

"I wouldn't know where to look for anything. I-"

"It's fine," Tarrant said. The power behind his words was musical, compelling. "Everything's fine. Leave us here, and go back to sleep. We'll lock the house behind us when we go."

For a moment it seemed as if she might make some protest, but then the fae that Tarrant had conjured took hold at last and she nodded. Wraithlike, silent, she made her way downstairs again.

When she was out of hearing Damien said softly, "That would have bothered me once."

"And you would have been a pain in the a.s.s about it. Fortunately for us both, you changed." He knelt down by the nearest pile of crates, running a hand along the rough surfaces. "Can you Locate what we need, or do I have to do this alone?"

"If you tell me what I'm looking for."

"Any notes he might have made regarding the use of earthquake surges. Or volcanic hotspots, for that matter. Any fae-current too intense for human skill to Work."

"And you want notes on Working it."

"Exactly."

Apparently he didn't see the contradiction in that statement, and Damien wasn't in the mood to argue with him. Drawing in a deep breath, he focussed his own attention on the fae, and envisioned the mental patterns that would allow him to control it. When he had impressed it with his need, he went over to the nearest pile of crates and began to search through them, using the fae to stroke each page, each book, searching for a connection.

It took nearly an hour. They had to rearrange the room twice, to gain access to the crates that were buried in the rear. But at last Tarrant stiffened and breathed, "This is it." And together they managed to unearth the crate in question and free its contents.

"Why don't we just take it all?" Damien whispered. He felt like an intruder, acutely conscious of the innocent people sleeping just downstairs from them. "We can carry it."

"I want to make sure we have what we're looking for." He was rummaging through a stack of clothbound books-ledgers, from the look of them-and at last he pulled out one that seemed to please him. It was a large volume, leatherbound, that had seen much handling in its life. An inkstain marked its spine and spread across one cover, from some accident long in the past. Tarrant put it down on the floor and set the lamp beside it. As Damien crouched nearby, he began to turn the pages.

G.o.d in heaven....

It was the sc.r.a.pbook of a man obsessed, maintained for more than two decades. Newspaper articles were glued to the pages with meticulous care, chronicling every attempt that humankind had made to harness the wild power of the earth. Every sorcerer who had tried to Work the earthquake surge was in there, along with a description of each gruesome demise. Damien would have guessed that few men were stupid enough to attempt such a thing, but apparently there were hundreds. As Tarrant turned page after page, as the volume of human tragedy gained in weight and horror before them, Damien could only wonder at the lunacy of such men, who would give their lives to test themselves against a force that no human will had ever harnessed.

Senzei would have done it, he thought grimly. he thought grimly. Given enough time, enough frustration, he would have tried the same thing. And he would have died the same way. Given enough time, enough frustration, he would have tried the same thing. And he would have died the same way.

"This is it," Tarrant said at last. "The rest can go back."

Damien lifted up the nearest crate and hauled it back to where it belonged. "Is it time to tell me what all this is about?"

He could hear Tarrant hesitate. "Not yet. Let me go through this in detail. I need one piece of information, and I'm more likely to find it in here than in any other source. If it's here, if it says what I think it does ... there'll be time enough then to discuss things. If not, why waste the effort?"

"I don't know what you have in mind," Damien said sharply, "but remember: none of those people survived. None of them, None of them, Gerald." Gerald."

"None of them survived," he agreed. "But that doesn't mean that all of them failed, does it?"

"What does that mean?"

But the Hunter didn't answer. And at last, realizing that nothing he could say was going to change that, Damien resigned himself to putting the room back in order.

It was nearly dawn. Domina's light shone down through the window of the rented room, illuminating well-worn pages. There was weariness in Damien's body, and in his soul.

Then the Hunter closed the book and said, "It's here."

Sleep, which had been closing in about Damien, was banished in an instant. He sat up in the chair and demanded, "What is?"

"The data I was looking for. He found it." He put his hand on the leather cover and shut his eyes; Damien thought he saw him tremble slightly. "All through human history men have tried to harness the fae-surge that precedes earthquakes. It's common knowledge that it can't be done, yet they keep trying. The thought of that much power outweighs all natural caution, it seems, and not until the fae fries their brains to ash does it become clear that there are some things men were never meant to do." His hand spread out across the mottled leather of the sc.r.a.pbook, as if drinking in its contents through that contact. "Likewise there are those who try to Work at the site of an active volcano, for the same reason. The results there are identical. Man can't channel that kind of power and live to talk about it."

"You needed Zen's notes to tell you that? h.e.l.l, I could have saved you the trouble."

Instead of being irritated, the Hunter smiled faintly. "But you see, there were other questions left to be asked. Questions no one thought of, except our obsessed friend Mer Reese."

"Such as?"

He indicated the volume before him. "These men and women all died Working. What happened to their Workings when they perished? Were they obliterated alongside their makers, dispersed in that one fatal instant? Or did they take hold of the wild current, impressing the fae with their purpose even as their owners burned?"

"Does it matter?"

"It might." Though his voice was calm, his posture was rigid, as if all his tension had been channeled into that one outlet. "It might matter very much."

"Why?"

In answer the Hunter pushed the heavy book away from him, and forced himself to lean back in his chair. For a moment he was still, his eyes fixed on a distant, imaginary horizon. At last, in a tense voice, he said, "The negative of sadism sadism is is altruism." altruism."

Damien inhaled sharply. "Are you sure about that?"

"Is it possible to be sure? I think it likely."

Altruism. Unselfish concern for the welfare of others. Damien tried to fit it into the Iezu pattern, to see if it would work. Could one want to spare others from pain, and at the same time take delight in hurting them? "It feels right," he said at last. "Better than anything else we've come up with, that's for sure." Unselfish concern for the welfare of others. Damien tried to fit it into the Iezu pattern, to see if it would work. Could one want to spare others from pain, and at the same time take delight in hurting them? "It feels right," he said at last. "Better than anything else we've come up with, that's for sure."

The Hunter nodded.

"But how does that help us? I mean, we can hardly force Calesta to do charity work."

"With enough power," the Hunter said evenly, "we can force him to do anything."

It took a second for Tarrant's meaning to sink in; when it did so, he felt his gut tighten in dread. "Gerald, you can't. No man has ever survived that kind of Working-"

"And what is altruism, if not the sacrifice of one's self for the common good?"

"So you'll burn out like the others? For what? How does that help us?"

"Read this," he said, pushing the heavy book toward Damien. "Read the articles that Senzei Reese put in here, and the notes he made. These men who risked their lives to Work-"

"They all died, Gerald!"

"But they didn't all fail. Read it! In three separate cases he was able to demonstrate that their Workings survived them. Think of that, Vryce! Think of the power!" Read it! In three separate cases he was able to demonstrate that their Workings survived them. Think of that, Vryce! Think of the power!"

"Three out of how many?" he demanded. "You're talking about odds so low I can't even do the math. Be real, Gerald."

The Hunter looked out the window; the morning sky was brilliant with starlight, and a faint band of gray marked the eastern horizon.

"Beyond my home in the Forest," he told Damien, "is a source of power so immense that if there weren't mountains bounding it, no human being could live on this continent. You've seen its power active in the Forest itself, and yet that's but its edge. Its shadow. Its focus is Mount Shaitan, an active volcano, and its fae is so wild that few men dare to even approach it."

Shaitan? It sounded strangely familiar to him, but he couldn't place it. "I've heard the name."

"I'm not surprised; it's legendary. Every now and then some sorcerer makes a pilgrimage to its slopes; a few live to talk about it. I've been to its valley myself, and seen that awesome power. Nothing on Erna can rival it, Vryce. No earthquake surge, no sorcerer's will ... no demon."

"But the Iezu aren't normal demons." He was suddenly afraid of where this was heading. "Remember?"

"Karril's first memory is of Shaitan. I know of at least two other Iezu for whom that's also true. There's a link between them that goes deeper than a simple question of power. What better way to destroy a Iezu than at the place of his birth?"

"And what about the creature that gave birth to him?"

A muscle tensed along the line of his jaw. "There's no record of any such creature active in that realm."

"No one ever tried to kill its children before."

The Hunter turned toward him; a shadow sculpted the scar on his face in vivid relief. "So there's risk, Reverend Vryce. Did you think there wouldn't be? Did you think we'd find an easy answer? Some simple incantation that would allow us to unmake our Iezu enemy without effort, without loss?" He shook his head sadly. "I'd have thought you wiser than that."

"You're talking about almost certain death, and d.a.m.ned little chance of success. It seems like one h.e.l.l of a long shot to me."

"Yes," he agreed. "But what if that's all we have?"

Damien started to protest, then swallowed the words. Because Tarrant was right, d.a.m.n it. As usual.

The Hunter rose to his feet. Damien knew him well enough to see the underlying tension in his body, and to guess at the inner turmoil that inspired it. But the polished facade was perfectly emotionless, and Tarrant's voice likewise betrayed no human weakness as he recounted the details of his fate. "As of this dawn I have only twenty-nine days left. At the end of that time the Unnamed will dissolve our compact, and I will, in all probability, die. So you see, Reverend Vryce, I have nothing to lose by taking such a chance. Perhaps the earth-fae will claim me, as it has with so many others, but if I can impress it with one last Working ... I would like to take that b.a.s.t.a.r.d with me," he said, his voice suddenly fierce. "I would like my death to mean that much. Can you understand that?"

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I understand."

"It'll be a long and dangerous journey, and not one I would ordinarily relish. Few living men have survived it. And if Calesta should guess at my purpose, and turn his full illusory skill against me ..." He drew in a deep breath, and exhaled it slowly. Damien thought he saw him tremble. "You don't have to go. I'll understand."

"Of course-"

"You have a life here, and duties, and a future-"

"Gerald." He waited until the Hunter was silent, then said sharply, "Don't be a fool. Of course I'm going." He waited until the Hunter was silent, then said sharply, "Don't be a fool. Of course I'm going."

Backlit by the light of early dawn, the Hunter stared at him. What was that emotion in his eyes, so hard to see against the light? Fear? Determination? Dread? Perhaps a mixture of all three, but something else besides. Something that was easier to identify. Something very human.

Grat.i.tude.

With a glance toward the window, as if gauging the sun's progress, Tarrant nodded. "All right, then." His voice was little more than a whisper, as if the growing light had leached it of volume. "Purchase whatever provisions you need. There won't be food available in Shaitan's valley, so pack enough for several weeks. We'll have to change horses to make good time; don't invest too much in that area. Do you have money?"

In answer, he took out the draft that the Patriarch had given him, and handed it to him. Tarrant's eyes grew wide with astonishment as he read it. In all the time Damien had known him, he had never seen him so taken aback.

"Ten thousand? From the Church?"

"And more if I can justify it."

"So they... approve of you?"

He snorted. "Hardly."