The tunnel seemed to go on forever. Maybe it did, Damien thought. Maybe this was the true h.e.l.l, and they would spend the rest of eternity trudging through this stifling darkness, heading toward a destination that didn't even exist. If so, it would serve Tarrant right. seemed to go on forever. Maybe it did, Damien thought. Maybe this was the true h.e.l.l, and they would spend the rest of eternity trudging through this stifling darkness, heading toward a destination that didn't even exist. If so, it would serve Tarrant right.

But it was hard to be angry at a man who was so clearly having a hard time of it. His battered mortal flesh needed mortal things to heal itself-food and water in quant.i.ty, safety from stress, adequate sleep-and on this trip it wasn't likely to get any of them. He knew what the Hunter had been capable of, but what were the limits of this living man who walked by his side? He couldn't begin to guess. Yet despite the flush which bore witness to painful exertion, and the increasing stiffness of his stride, Tarrant refused to slow down for any reason. That was the old Hunter, Damien knew. He only hoped the new one was up to past standards.

When they slowed down for a moment to dig out a portion of their dwindling supplies, or stopped completely-miracle of miracles-to relieve themselves of meals long since processed, Damien took a moment to study his companion. Tarrant was limping now, and the manner in which he walked hinted at blisters near the breaking point, but despite that obvious pain his spirit was unflagging. Whatever the Iezu mother had taken from him, it wasn't affecting either courage or endurance. What kind of child had the Hunter's soul given birth to, that would now walk the land with a mind of its own and the ability to orchestrate detailed illusions? He kept looking for a sign of something missing in Tarrant, some facet of his personality that had been drained of substance, but thus far in their journey he had been unable to identify it. Perhaps he had been wrong about the process, and the conception of a new Iezu would cost its father nothing. G.o.d willing.

They had walked for hours now, too many to count, and when Damien raised up his lantern to look at Tarrant's face, he could see a brief flicker of pain tense across his brow with each step. It did no good to suggest that such pain would only intensify if he refused to pace himself properly. The one or two times that Damien even dared to hint at such a truth, Tarrant glared at him with a venom that would have done his old self proud, as if the suggestion that they take a few minutes to recoup were not only foolish, but deeply offensive.

"Look," the ex-priest said at last, when they paused once more to eat a portion of his dwindling supplies. "They can't find this secret place of yours, right? And they're not going to burn the Forest until they're safely out of it, which'll take days at best." He leaned back against the cold stone wall, his muscles throbbing painfully as he shifted his weight. "So we've got a little time to pace ourselves. We can spare a few minutes to rest. Just long enough to get a second wind." And he added dryly, "Living people do that kind of thing, you know."

Tarrant stared at him for a long moment, then silently upended the canteen and swallowed one more precious bit of its contents. It was their last such container, Damien noted; somewhere they were going to have to find more water, and soon. Tarrant capped the canteen with meticulous care and hung its strap about his shoulder, for once not a.s.suming that Damien would carry it.

"They intend to blow up the keep," he said. And he began to walk down the tunnel again with a quick, lop-sided stride.

"Blow up?" For a minute he was too shocked to move. Then he had to run a few steps to catch up to Tarrant, and for a moment that left him no breath for words. "You mean, as in explosives?"

"That is the usual procedure."

He grabbed Tarrant by the arm, jerking him to a stop. "Are you telling me that while we're in there sorting through your notebooks the entire keep is going to come crashing down on our heads?"

A faint ghost of a smile flitted across his face. "I do hope our timing will be better than that."

"These are books we're going after." His voice was low but his tone was fierce. "Books, Gerald! I appreciate how important they are, but that doesn't make them worth dying for. I don't mind risking my life to save a life-or even to preserve an ideal-but to risk something like that for a pile of books-" books-"

"Those books are a gateway to the future," he said sharply. "A dictionary of translation between our own species and that of the Iezu's maker, which will allow us take a step our Terran ancestors never even dreamed of. And if you're correct about the changes in the fae ... if, in fact, humans will not be able to Work to gain knowledge... then that gateway might never be accessible again. Ever. If we let those books be destroyed now, our descendants will be doomed to centuries of trial-and-error guesswork. And who can tell how much that will net them? The knowledge we sacrifice today may be lost forever-" he said sharply. "A dictionary of translation between our own species and that of the Iezu's maker, which will allow us take a step our Terran ancestors never even dreamed of. And if you're correct about the changes in the fae ... if, in fact, humans will not be able to Work to gain knowledge... then that gateway might never be accessible again. Ever. If we let those books be destroyed now, our descendants will be doomed to centuries of trial-and-error guesswork. And who can tell how much that will net them? The knowledge we sacrifice today may be lost forever-"

"And you'd be willing to risk death for that?" he demanded. "For knowledge?"

"I did once before," he pointed out. "Perhaps the second time is easier."

He smoothed the fabric of his sleeve where Damien had crushed it, but bound no fae with the gesture; the wrinkles remained. "Stay here, if you like. The way out will be safe soon enough." He dropped the canteen strap off his shoulder and let the metal container fall to the floor; in the smooth-walled tunnel the impact echoed like a gunshot. "I'll go alone."

"Like h.e.l.l you will." Damien reached down to catch up the canteen. Tarrant was moving quickly; he had to jog to catch up with him. "Who'll get you out of trouble next time if I'm not there?"

The Hunter made no answer.

The tunnel began to slope upward at last, hinting at an end. Damien's legs hurt so badly as he forced himself up the angled floor that he feared they would lock up from exhaustion and refuse to carry him; he didn't even want to think about what Tarrant was feeling. How long had they been walking now-one day? Two? If they did get blown up they'd have a chance to rest, at least. It didn't sound all that bad right now.

At last, just when it seemed that neither of them could manage another step, they came to the base of a staircase carved into the mountain's stone. Without even pausing for breath, the Hunter began to ascend. Damien saw him stagger once and he braced himself to catch him from behind, but the Hunter put out a hand against the wall of the tunnel for balance, paused long enough to draw in one long, shaky breath, and began to climb once more. The man's determination was inhuman, Damien observed as he climbed unsteadily behind him. And why should that surprise him? This was a man who had once bested Death by sheer force of will; why should a little detail like physical pain slow him down?

They climbed two flights' worth of stairs, maybe more. At the top there was a small landing where they paused to catch their breath, and a heavy alteroak door barring the way beyond. Thick iron braces were clearly meant to hold a wooden bar that would lock it from this side, but-thank G.o.d-that wasn't in place. Damien wasn't sure he could have lifted it. Without asking for help, Tarrant grabbed hold of the nearer brace and began to pull; when it was clear that his effort wasn't enough, Damien grabbed hold of the other one and added his strength to the effort. Together, inch by inch, they pulled the ma.s.sive door open. Its hinges made a creaking sound loud enough that Damien flinched, and a foul smell gusted through the opening, right into his face. It was an odor of rotting meat and bodily waste and at least a dozen other things that he didn't care to identify, and for a minute or two it was all he could do not to vomit. What the h.e.l.l was going on here?

If Tarrant noted the smell, he made no mention of it. When the door was open far enough to admit a man, he slipped through, and Damien followed. As he did so, he turned up the wick of his lantern a bit so that they could see the s.p.a.ce they were entering. It was a small chamber, crudely carved, with little in the way of comfort or decoration. There was a large slab table in its center, carved whole from the same gray stone, and his lantern's dim light picked out several objects that lay upon its surface. Damien took a few steps closer, trying to make out what they were. Chains. Manacles. Feces of some sort, possibly human, that had been smeared across the table's surface. The latter smelled pungently recent.

"Do I want to know what this place is?"

"No," Tarrant stared at the mess on the table for a few seconds, his eyes narrowed to slits. G.o.d alone knew what he was thinking. "Suffice it to say that I kept it somewhat cleaner."

He moved to the far corner of the room, where a lighter door swung open easily at his touch. As they pa.s.sed through this one, Damien could hear faint sounds from above, murmurs and impacts transmitted down through the layers of rock. The soldiers of the Church must be very close.

"My wards will hold," the Hunter said quietly, as if sensing his thoughts. As they walked on blistered feet through the fetid darkness, Damien wondered which of them he was trying to convince. Then suddenly the Hunter drew himself up, as if alerted to a hostile presence. Damien stiffened and drew his sword, ready for action. But Tarrant's eyes were fixed upon the ground, where the earth-fae would be bright and rich with meaning; it was knowledge that had alerted him, not some foreign presence.

At last Tarrant said, in a voice that was still and cold, "He's dead."

"Who?"

"Amoril. My apprentice." The pale eyes narrowed. "My betrayer."

"Are you sure?"

He seemed to hesitate. Were the messages of the fae less clear to him now that he had no Working to interpret them? "Yes," he said at last. "He lived-and ruled here-long enough to leave his mark upon the currents. That stink is his as well, no doubt... or that of his animal familiars. He never was fastidious." The thin mouth curled in distaste. "That he's gone now is equally clear, and there's only one way to explain that." He looked at Damien; his expression was grim. "If they've truly killed him, then we have very little time left."

They moved on, through a s.p.a.ce that was more cavern than tunnel, in whose distant recesses water dripped with agonizing slowness. Now and then a noise would drift down to them, echoing through some flaw in the stone overhead. Soldiers' voices, issuing orders. Animals' howls, the cries of the dying. It was good that they could hear such things, Damien told himself. It was when the noises stopped that they would be in real trouble.

They came to another door, this one so finely worked that it seemed out of place in the rough stone corridor. Tarrant touched a ward at its center, which may have been meant to unlock it; the polished wood pushed easily inward, and the two men moved into the room beyond. Damien's lantern light revealed a modest chamber, shelf-lined, which might have been a library in another age. Tarrant's workshop, no doubt.

Utterly devastated.

He could feel the sight of the destruction strike Tarrant like a physical blow, and he flinched himself as he gazed about the room. Books had been hurled down from the shelves and mangled. Ma.n.u.scripts had been shredded and wadded up like garbage. Leather covers, ripped from their volumes and scored with claw marks, reeked of urine and decay. He could hear the Hunter's indrawn breath as he gazed upon the wreckage of his storehouse of knowledge, and he sensed that in some bizarre way this pained him more than Amoril's other betrayals, or even the loss of the Forest itself.

You believed that knowledge like this would be sacred, he thought. You thought that even the Evil One, being man-made, would respect its value. He shook his head sadly. Welcome to the real world, Gerald.

There was a large trestle table in the center of the room, now overturned. Silently Tarrant moved to one end and reached down for a handhold; Damien put down his lantern and hurried to the other end to do the same.

"At least your people hate fire," he offered, as they righted it. "If they'd burned the place there'd be nothing left at all."

Tarrant made no comment. Reaching down into the mess that was under his feet, he brought up a single page, torn and crumpled and crusted with something brown. For a long time he stared at it, and Damien sensed that he was watching how the fae clung to the paper, how the current responded to the words that were on its surface. Then his hand clenched tightly, crushing it.

"We'll never find the right pages in time," he muttered. Damien could hear the exhaustion in his voice. "Not without a Locating."

"Of course we will. We have to, right?" He spotted several whole notebooks on one of the shelves and pulled them out. "h.e.l.l, my desk in Ganji looked worse than this."

For a moment Tarrant's eyes met his. For a moment he could sense the utter despair welling up inside the man, not a product of this one moment or even of several moments past, but of everything he had experienced since they'd started on this G.o.d-forsaken mission. Even the Hunter's indomitable spirit had its limits, he realized. And there was no sorcery left to sustain him now.

In the distance there was a louder sound; voices arguing, it seemed to Damien, and the impact of metal on stone. It seemed uncomfortably close.

"Come on," he urged. He put the notebooks down on the table and began to search for more. "We've got a lot to go through here."

He didn't look at Tarrant again, but focused on the shelves surrounding him. Whoever had ravaged the hidden library might have worked with enthusiasm, but he lacked efficiency; there were several dozen volumes still intact, and he pulled them free and shook them off and brought them to the table. There Tarrant searched through them page by page, sorting through the diaries of his undead centuries to find the notes he needed. G.o.d willing, Damien thought, they'd be somewhere in these intact volumes. Otherwise... he looked at the mess on the floor and shook his head, trying not to think about what that search would be like. Or how d.a.m.ned long it would take.

There were voices even closer now. Too close. He looked at Tarrant.

"My wards will admit no one but myself or Amoril to this chamber," he said, responding to Damien's unspoken question. "And Amoril being dead-"

"What if they carry his body with them?"

"Even if they think to do that-and I doubt they have so much insight-it won't work. The wards respond to a man's vital essence, not to dead flesh." But despite his a.s.surance it seemed to Damien that he turned the pages faster than before, and his eyes darted up occasionally to ascertain that the door to the library was indeed still shut.

Then footsteps resounded, heavy and purposeful and clearly headed in their direction. "s.h.i.t," Damien muttered, putting down the book he held in order to draw his sword. The Hunter rose, swaying slightly as he did so; clearly his exhausted muscles were less than enthusiastic about the concept of a fresh workout. Damien's own muscles ached like h.e.l.l, but that didn't matter now. Whatever had gotten past the Hunter's wards was d.a.m.ned likely not to be friendly.

And then the door opened and the light of an unshuttered lantern blinded him for an instant. He took a step backward and squinted against the light, fighting to make out details of a figure that seemed to glow with all the power of the sun- "Oh, my G.o.d," he whispered. Almost dropping his sword. "Who the h.e.l.l... ?"

The figure in the doorway was wearing armor cast in silver and gold, that captured his lamplight and reflected it a thousand times over, making the golden sun upon his breastplate blaze like the star of Earth itself. After hours spent in the semi-darkness, the light was blinding. But that wasn't what stunned Damien so. He was a seasoned enough warrior not to be unmanned by simple pyrotechnics, and even the sight of the Prophet's famous armor come to life, just as it had been painted on the Cathedral's high wall, was something he could come to terms with. It was the sight of the man who wore the armor that utterly unnerved him, so that his grip upon his sword grew weak and the familiar steel blade nearly fell from his hand.

The man was Gerald Tarrant.

No, Damien thought. Fighting the power of the image. This man's skin was tan, where Gerald's was pale. This man's eyes were darker, and deeper set. He was slightly shorter than the Hunter, and maybe a little bit stockier, and his hair wasn't quite the same length. But except for those minor details the resemblance was amazing. Unnerving. Even-given the circ.u.mstances-terrifying.

This was how Gerald Tarrant must have looked in his first lifetime, when the heat of life still surged in his veins, when the pa.s.sions of mortal existence still blazed in his eyes. Even the man's wounds bore witness to his living state: a livid red scratch mark swelling across his brow, a hot purple bruise along the line of his jaw. And the look in his eyes . . . there was a hate so hot in them that Damien could feel it like a flame upon his face; even the hate-wraiths that wisped in and out of existence about the man were red and gold and orange, fire-hues that sizzled in the keep's chill air.

The burning eyes fixed on him, then on Tarrant. There was madness in them, and an echo of pain so intense that Damien flinched to see it. With bruised hands the newcomer put down his lantern and then swung a hefty springbolt into firing position, aiming at the Hunter's chest. But Damien stood between the two of them, close enough to foul a clean shot.

"Get back," the man rasped. There was a hysterical edge to his voice, the sound of a soul pushed almost to the breaking point. Damien had seen enough men in that state to know how very dangerous it was. "Get out of the way!"

He couldn't move. He didn't dare. A knife in the heart is as fatal to an adept as it is to any other human. knife in the heart is as fatal to an adept as it is to any other human. Who had said that? He couldn't remember. "Who are you?" he managed. Not because he thought the man would answer him, just to buy a precious moment's delay. Who had said that? He couldn't remember. "Who are you?" he managed. Not because he thought the man would answer him, just to buy a precious moment's delay.

To his surprise it was the Hunter who responded. "Andrys Tarrant." Was that a tremor of fear in his voice? "Last living descendant of my family line."

"You killed them!" the newcomer cried hoa.r.s.ely. His hand on the springbolt was shaking; the dried blood on his face was streaked with sweat. "G.o.d d.a.m.n you to h.e.l.l for it." He reached up with his left hand to wipe away what might have been a tear, or maybe just a drop of sweat, then quickly returned it to the barrel of his weapon. "I don't know who you are," he snapped at Damien, "and I don't care. But I've got two bolts loaded and so help me G.o.d, if you don't move out of my way, one of them's for you."

There was nowhere to run to. No way to Work a defense. One slender wooden shaft was all it would take, to pierce a heart that had only just started to beat again. In this strange new world they were in, there was no way to stop it.

G.o.d, don't let it end like this. Please. Give him a chance to come back to You.

The Hunter's manner gave no sign of his desperation, but Damien knew him well enough to hear it in his voice."It's over," Tarrant said quietly. "You've won."

"Shut up!" the man shouted. He raised the weapon higher, and cursed as he confirmed the fouled sightline along the barrel. In a voice that edged on hysteria, he shouted at Damien, "Move!"

"The Forest is dead," Gerald persisted. His voice was low and even; Damien could sense the monumental self-control required to keep it that way. "That's what you came to do, isn't it? The Forest and its current master are dead, and its past master...." He let the sentence trail off into eloquent silence, as if daring his enemy to complete it. "Isn't that what you wanted, Andrys? To destroy all my work, so that I would have nothing left?" How much did he know about the man from past Knowings, Damien wondered, how much could he read in the currents now, how much was he guessing? His very life depended on those skills. "You won. It's over. Go back to your life."

"I have no life, you son of a b.i.t.c.h." The man's voice was shaking. "Not while you're alive."

The finger on the trigger tensed. Damien's muscles were ready to move, wound taut as the steel springs inside that killing weapon.

"Calesta is dead," Gerald Tarrant said quietly.

The newcomer's face went white. He reeled slightly as if struck, and his finger moved a precious inch or two back from the trigger.

"You bound yourself to him," Gerald pressed. "Didn't you? What did he promise you? Forgetfulness? Purging? An orgy of vengeance?" He paused. "Did he tell you what the cost of that would be? Did he tell you that you would lose your soul if you served him?"

"That doesn't matter," he whispered.

"He was my enemy long before you were involved." Damien could see the newcomer flinch as each word hit home, forcing him to reconsider a relationship he had clearly taken for granted until this moment. "Did you know that? He'd use any tool that was available to accomplish his ends. Even my own flesh and blood. Or did you think when he offered his power to you that it was only for your benefit?" He shook his head sharply, tensely. His whole body was poised like that of an animal about to bolt for cover, or launch itself at its prey. "He lived for pain and pain alone. Not only mine, but yours. Killing me wouldn't be enough for him, not unless I knew in my last dying moment that he had also destroyed those things I valued most. The Forest. The Church. And now you."

"You value value me?" He spat the words out in disbelief, almost unable to voice them. "What kind of bulls.h.i.t is that? How stupid do you think I am?" me?" He spat the words out in disbelief, almost unable to voice them. "What kind of bulls.h.i.t is that? How stupid do you think I am?"

"You're my own flesh and blood," the Hunter said icily. "Not the proudest member of my line, certainly not the strongest, but right now you're all that's left. When he claims your soul, he will debase a history that stretches back nearly a thousand years." The pale eyes were an icy flame that chilled whatever they gazed upon. "That will be his true triumph, Andrys Tarrant. Not my death. Your corruption."

"If Calesta's dead, then he has no power now-"

"Doesn't he?" the adept demanded. "Do you know what will happen if you kill me now? That spark of Calesta's hate which lies like a dormant seed within you will take root and grow, until it strangles all within you that is still human. That's That's his vengeance, Andrys Tarrant. Not your paltry campaign, not even the rigors of h.e.l.l itself, but the knowledge that as you pull that trigger, you commit yourself to his world, in which the only joy is suffering." his vengeance, Andrys Tarrant. Not your paltry campaign, not even the rigors of h.e.l.l itself, but the knowledge that as you pull that trigger, you commit yourself to his world, in which the only joy is suffering."

The man reeled visibly, as if the words had been a physical blow. "No," he whispered hoa.r.s.ely. "You're just trying to talk yourself out of a-"

"Look within yourself, then! Imagine the hatred taking hold, Calesta's Calesta'shatred taking hold, the embrace of vengeance consummated at last ... and then ask yourself how you'll return to the real world after that. Or did you think it would all end when you pulled that trigger? Did you think your soul would be magically cleansed at the moment of my death?" He shook his head sharply. "This is just the beginning. The easy part."

"You killed them," he whispered. Raising up the weapon again, aligning it with his eye once more. "My brothers, my sister, all of them! G.o.d d.a.m.n you to h.e.l.l! You deserve to die!"

"Then pull the trigger," the Hunter dared him. "And destroy us both."

Andrys Tarrant blinked hard; sweat ran redly down the side of his face. "I don't ... I can't...." His hands were shaking. Suddenly he gestured toward Damien with the springbolt. "Go," he whispered hoa.r.s.ely. "Get out of here."

"I think-" he began.

"This isn't your fight! It's between him and me. Whoever the h.e.l.l you are, just get out of here! Now!"

Damien hesitated, then looked at Gerald. The Hunter nodded ever so slightly. "He's right, Damien." His voice was quiet but strained. "There's nothing more you can do here."

"Gerald-"

The Hunter shook his head. Damien's protest died in his throat.

"Go," Gerald Tarrant whispered.

He swallowed hard, trying to think of something to do, something to say, anything that could change this moment. He imagined himself in Andrys Tarrant's place, and sensed how very easy it would be to fire. How many times had he dreamed of putting an end to the Hunter so quickly, so easily? But now the issue was no longer that simple. Now the Hunter had become ... something else.

Hadn't he?

You killed my family, the younger Tarrant had accused. the younger Tarrant had accused.

He forced himself to move as indicated. Andrys took a few steps into the room to give him a wide berth in case he intended to attempt a last minute rescue ... and indeed he might have, if there had been an opening. But there wasn't. And then he pa.s.sed through the door and it slammed shut behind him, and he knew that one way or another a man was going to die.

You killed my family.

It was justice, surely. Long overdue. Generations would celebrate the death of a man who was every bit as evil as Calesta, whose heart was so like the Iezu's in its core that when he had beckoned to his enemy with the full force of the Hunter's sadism, Calesta had come to him like a lover.

He needed time, G.o.d. A man can't contain that kind of evil and then be rid of it overnight. But he would have come back to You.

His heart heavy, his feet like lead, he ascended the winding staircase that led to the upper levels. Up he climbed, toward the black halls he remembered so well. Up to where the soldiers of the Church were laying down explosives and fixing fuses in place. Up to the living world, where the Forest was dying so that new things might be born, where the legend of the Hunter would give way to other things fearsome and terrible, but none so full of despoiled brilliance, or of courage....

There were tears in his eyes, blinding him. Hot tears.

He kept walking.

They had built a bonfire in the courtyard. He watched as they carried the pieces of Amoril's body over to it and threw them one by one onto the flames. He watched the pieces char and sizzle and lose their human coherency, and he sensed the relief among the soldiers as it was guaranteed, by that burning, that no undead resurrection would bring their enemy back.

Distantly he watched, as if from another world. No one disturbed him. Not the soldiers whom he knew, not the Patriarch ... no one. Surrounded by a coc.o.o.n of darkness he watched as the flames danced, feeling their heat upon his face, an alien thing in the Forest night.