It was then that his eyes, seeking something to focus on other than the priest, looked beyond the podium at the head of the aisle and fixed on a mural that adorned one section of the upper wall. It caught his attention because of its human subject matter-the Church forbade all but a few symbolic representations of humankind-but then it held his attention, it gripped gripped his attention, because of who and what that human was. his attention, because of who and what that human was.

Despite himself he rose to his feet, drawn to the brilliant mural even as he was repelled by it. He was all but deaf to the service going on as he stared at the painting in horrified fascination. It was the Prophet, there was no doubt of that. The figure had no face as such-that was Church tradition-but it glowed with a light that made the absence seem a deliberate artistic choice, rather than philosophical censure. At its feet a creature writhed whose outline was unclear, but it hinted at a form that was at once serpentine and spider-like: black and sinuous, with a large fanged head like that of a snake at one end, and a hint of several dozen smaller heads at the other. The Prophet-figure had a foot on the neck of the greater head and was running it through with a spear that glowed hot white, sun-pure in its energy. Symbolism, Andrys thought, his heart pounding wildly. It was only symbolism. The faith of the Prophet had bound the Evil One to darkness, and rendered it unable to maintain earthly form. The faith of the One G.o.d was more powerful than all the evils which this planet had conjured. It was a familiar image, and one that he had seen rendered before in the books of his faith. It was familiar. It was traditional. It should have pa.s.sed without notice, just like all the other symbolic murals that adorned the inner walls of the sanctuary.

But this one was different.

The figure wore the breastplate. His His breastplate! Embossed with the Earth-sun in that unlikely golden color, rays spreading out in just the way that he had drawn them, copying Gerald Tarrant's own renderings. Andrys felt sick as he looked up at the mural, as the power of its image hit home. Was this what Calesta wanted him to see-that his fear and his shame were emblazoned on the cathedral wall for all to witness? The vast sanctuary suddenly seemed very close, and its air was hard to breathe. He had to get out of here. He had to get away from that thing, far away, before its presence strangled him utterly. Weak-legged, he struggled to work his way down the row of seats to where the exit was. It seemed to him that there were eyes in that painted face, pale gray eyes that watched him from across the sanctuary. Thank G.o.d he was far enough from the other congregants that few seemed to notice his departure; as for the priest, he probably saw him from his standpoint up at the dais, but he wouldn't interrupt the traditional service to comment upon the departure of one wayward parishioner. Dear G.o.d, if he only knew.... breastplate! Embossed with the Earth-sun in that unlikely golden color, rays spreading out in just the way that he had drawn them, copying Gerald Tarrant's own renderings. Andrys felt sick as he looked up at the mural, as the power of its image hit home. Was this what Calesta wanted him to see-that his fear and his shame were emblazoned on the cathedral wall for all to witness? The vast sanctuary suddenly seemed very close, and its air was hard to breathe. He had to get out of here. He had to get away from that thing, far away, before its presence strangled him utterly. Weak-legged, he struggled to work his way down the row of seats to where the exit was. It seemed to him that there were eyes in that painted face, pale gray eyes that watched him from across the sanctuary. Thank G.o.d he was far enough from the other congregants that few seemed to notice his departure; as for the priest, he probably saw him from his standpoint up at the dais, but he wouldn't interrupt the traditional service to comment upon the departure of one wayward parishioner. Dear G.o.d, if he only knew....

He managed to get outside-somehow-and made his way from the great double doors to a place some few yards away where trees provided a modic.u.m of shade. Several strangers noticed his shaky pa.s.sage .and began to approach as if they meant to offer help, but he warned them off with a look and leaned heavily against a tree trunk, trying to catch his breath.

Ifailed you, Calesta. Despair was a knot in his heart, a knife in his soul. was a knot in his heart, a knife in his soul. You told me what to do and I couldn't. I couldn't! You told me what to do and I couldn't. I couldn't! But if he'd hoped for any kind of response from his patron, he wasn't going to get it here. No demon could manifest on the One G.o.d's doorstep. He had to face this moment alone. But if he'd hoped for any kind of response from his patron, he wasn't going to get it here. No demon could manifest on the One G.o.d's doorstep. He had to face this moment alone.

G.o.d, why couldn't he have brought his pills with him? Even a few grains of slowtime, just to act as a tranquilizer. He saw a few pa.s.sersby staring at him, and he tried to look stronger than he felt so that they wouldn't come over to help him. After a moment they looked away and continued walking, and he breathed a sigh that was half relief and half dread.

He knew what he had to do. He knew, but he couldn't face it. How could he go back in there, back in where that that was, and endure a whole service beneath that living image of his enemy? was, and endure a whole service beneath that living image of his enemy? I'm not that strong, I'm not that strong, he despaired, and sickness welled up so strongly inside him that for a moment he could hardly breathe. he despaired, and sickness welled up so strongly inside him that for a moment he could hardly breathe. I can't do it. I can't do it.

Then you will never have your revenge, a cool voice warned. a cool voice warned.

Startled, he stiffened. Was that Calesta? Here? For some reason that possibility scared him more than all the rest combined, that his demon-patron could speak to him so close to G.o.d's holy altar. Wasn't the very point of the Church worship supposed to be control of such creatures?

Did you think it would be easy, Andrys Tarrant? Did you think you could conquer the Hunter without pain?

The words didn't comfort him, but rather made him feel horribly isolated. In that church were hundreds of worshipers sharing a communion he could never taste, a faith he had no right to counterfeit; here was he with his demon guide, utterly alone even in the midst of a crowd. How long could he go on like this, pretending that he was coping? Pretending that he was truly alive? He needed more than a demon's voice in his head to keep going; he needed human warmth, human contact, human touch ... a vision of the black-haired girl took shape before him, and he cried out softly in pain for wanting her. Not that. Never that. To court her now was to condemn her to death-or worse-and he could never, ever be the cause of that. Not even though it made his soul bleed to have her so close, so very close, and not reach out to her.

If you prefer to continue without me, the cold voice warned, the cold voice warned, that can be arranged. that can be arranged.

That fear was worse than all the others combined. "No!" he whispered. "Don't leave me!" What would he be without Calesta? He no longer had a life of his own, but was defined by the demon's will, the demon's plans. How would he survive alone, facing his memories with no hope of redress?

Then go, the voice commanded, and its tone was like acid. the voice commanded, and its tone was like acid. Obey. Obey.

Slowly, reluctantly, he turned back toward the cathedral. The outer doors were still open; the inner doors, leading to the sanctuary, beckoned. Slowly he walked up the polished stone stairs once more, and then hesitated. Could he sit through the rest of the ritual without staring at the portrait of his ancestor, without reliving his one b.l.o.o.d.y memory of the man? Why should his quest for vengeance demand such a trial?

"Calesta-" he whispered.

Obey, the voice hissed, and its tone made his skin crawl. the voice hissed, and its tone made his skin crawl. Or our compact ends here and now. Or our compact ends here and now.

Terrified of the memories that the mural would awaken, but far more afraid of being abandoned by the only living creature who could give him back his soul, Andrys Tarrant forced himself to cross the foyer and enter the sanctuary once again. May G.o.d forgive him for his presence here, for his use of the Church to further a demon's plans. May G.o.d understand that in the end he would be serving His cause, ridding this world of one of the greatest evils it had ever produced. May G.o.d forgive ... everything.

Behind him, out of hearing, Calesta laughed.

Twelve.

In the depths of the Forest of the Forest In the Hunter's citadel The albino moved silently, secretly, grateful for the Hunter's absence.

Through fae-sealed doors he went, well-warded portals protecting the Hunter's domain. He knew the signs to open them. Down curving stairs, well-guarded by demonlings. He knew how to turn them aside. Into the workshop, and through it. To the secret room beyond, and its torture table: the heart and soul of Gerald Tarrant's dominion.

Wisps of blackness trailed behind him, like smoke from a candle flame. There there there, voices whis There there there, voices whispered as it pa.s.sed. It must be in that place. That place only. It must be in that place. That place only.

If one's eyes were sensitive enough, one could see the memories that clung to this place. Almea Tarrant, dying a slow and painful death by her husband's hand. Gerald Tarrant's two youngest children, crying out as their father betrayed them. Three elements in a compact established centuries ago, with power enough to sustain a man past death. Three deaths. Nine centuries. Not a bad deal, when all was considered.

The blackness followed him into the chamber and paused there, where it coalesced into a single dark flame. It should be done in Merentha, flame. It should be done in Merentha, a voice whispered hungrily. a voice whispered hungrily. It should be done where the pact was first made. It should be done where the pact was first made.

"If I go to Merentha he'll find me out," the albino said sharply. "This place is a perfect copy of the original; it'll be good enough."

The blackness parted into a hundred tiny flames, a thousand; its voices fluttered like insects about the room. Then do it do it do it now now NOW! Then do it do it do it now now NOW!

He put a hand to the cold stone table, feeling the power that was lodged within it. The whole room was filled with power, centuries of it building and feeding and growing here in the subterranean darkness, seeded by memories of bloodshed and cruelty. Power such as few men ever knew. Power such as no man but the Hunter had ever controlled.

"State the terms of our compact," the albino demanded. It was his first command to the unnamed power that had approached him so very long ago. For one who had never commanded demons in his own right, it was a heady tonic. "Clearly and simply. I want no room for confusion."

We will sustain you as we once sustained him, beyond natural death. We will give you the Forest which was his, and show you how to control it. We will take him from the face of the planet, so that all his domain may be yours to claim.

"And in return?" he asked hungrily.

The lightless presence coalesced into a single flame, a limitless shadow; it hurt his eyes to look at it directly. We must have him, We must have him, a single voice demanded. It was deeper than those which had sounded before, and power echoed in its wake. a single voice demanded. It was deeper than those which had sounded before, and power echoed in its wake. Because his soul is independent of Us, We must have a channel in order to claim his flesh. You will give that to Us. Because his soul is independent of Us, We must have a channel in order to claim his flesh. You will give that to Us.

"And h.e.l.l?"

It seemed to him there was laughter in that blackness; the tenor of it made his skin crawl. He betrayed Us, and must be made to answer for it. h.e.l.l may have what is left when We are done. He betrayed Us, and must be made to answer for it. h.e.l.l may have what is left when We are done.

And then it asked: Agreed? Agreed? A thousand voices once more, all echoing the same demand. A thousand voices once more, all echoing the same demand.

For a moment the albino hesitated. Only a moment, and not because he was afraid. This was an act to be savored: the moment in time at which his path and the Hunter's would separate forever. Centuries from now he would look back on this night and celebrate the birth of his soul, as mortals celebrated the birth of their flesh. And were not the two acts congruent in spirit as well as form? A baby's flesh existed for months before its arrival in the world; all that its "birth" signified was pa.s.sage from one state of being to the next. So it was with him. So it was exactly. The Hunter was a fool, if he didn't see it coming.

"Agreed," he said.

He pulled a knife from his belt, white steel blade with a handle of human bone; the seal of the Hunter was etched into the blade. "When I first came to him, when I swore to serve him, he fed me a portion of his blood to bind us. He said that it would be with me always, part of my own blood for as long as I lived. A channel between us far stronger than mere fae could ever conjure." He drew the blade across his palm, sharply; blue blood welled up in the wound. "If so, then here it is." He made a fist and squeezed; the viscous fluid dripped to the tabletop and pooled there. "Flesh of his flesh: the blood of the Hunter. Take it from mine and use it to bind him. I give it to you freely."

A thousand sparks of black flame spurted to life on the tabletop. The hunger they exuded was so sharp that the albino stepped back quickly, lest he be drawn into the flames himself. How many men throughout history had summoned these demons with the intention of bargaining, only to be devoured themselves in the midst of their offering? Even the Hunter didn't trust the Unnamed Ones, and he had served them for over nine hundred years.

And just see where it got you, he thought triumphantly. he thought triumphantly.

At last the flame drew back from his offering. The pool of blood seemed undiminished, but how little flesh did that awesome Power need for its work? A single cell would do it, or even a fragment of a cell, if it came from the Hunter himself. Freely sacrificed, it gained in power tenfold.

The skin of his palm twitched suddenly where he had gashed it; he looked down, to find the wound already closed.

It is done.

"The Forest is mine?" he asked hungrily.

When he has left the world of the living, then the Forest will be yours. Until then- Hunger welled up inside him with such force that it left him reeling, a hunger that filled every cell of his body with such frigid fire that he shook to contain it. Not hunger for cruelty, or even for power; this was a need more simple, more primitive, more driving. The need to devour blood. Life. Hope. The hunger to destroy those things which the living cherished most, and consume them into his own dark soul. Into that boundless pit of cold, dark hunger which would never, ever be filled....

With a cry he fell to his knees, his flesh convulsing as the black need filled him. More hunger than any human body could contain; more raw need need than any human soul could ever satisfy. It remade him from the inside out, pulping his body and his soul until both were a raw, bleeding ma.s.s, and then it sculpted him anew. Making him into a more perfect container for its crimson frenzy. than any human soul could ever satisfy. It remade him from the inside out, pulping his body and his soul until both were a raw, bleeding ma.s.s, and then it sculpted him anew. Making him into a more perfect container for its crimson frenzy.

No! he screamed. Pain folded about him like a fist and squeezed. Dendrites tore loose in the confines of his skull and reattached in new, unhuman patterns. A section of the forebrain, pulped to liquid, oozed forth into his bloodstream to be processed as waste matter.

As it should have been for the Hunter, the voices proclaimed. As it the voices proclaimed. As it almost was, nine centuries ago. almost was, nine centuries ago.

Shivering in hunger, the creature that was once called Amoril twitched in pain as the final ripples of transformation coursed through its flesh. It still looked human, to a degree. It could still act human, if it had to. Beyond that point all similarity ended.

What a pity that you lacked your master understanding of Us, a thousand voices mused aloud. And his strength. But then, that will make this relationship so much easier.

Then the voices were gone, and there was only hunger.

Thirteen.

Her children children were restless. were restless.

She wasn't sure yet if that were good or bad. She had no way to communicate with them, to test them to see if their natures were right, if they were indeed what she had created them to be. Only a few of them could speak to her at all and those were, by that definition, her greatest failures. As for the rest, sometimes she was aware of them. Most often she was not. Sometimes the few who could speak to her brought her news of their distant siblings, but they themselves understood so little that their reports were hardly better than a dream.

She wondered if she should try again. In theory she could. In theory she had the strength and the knowledge, so why not make another attempt? But she lacked the emotional stamina she had once had, she was drained from an eternity of wasted efforts. She had cast out her hopes into the world countless times before and so few of her children had come back to her, so few of them tried to communicate, so very few understood their own nature, or why she had created them in the first place. So what was the point? Her first children were long gone now, and she could no longer remember what it was like to bond with them. These new children, the seeds of her desperation, would never know such intimacy. Why go on creating them as if that formula would change? As if somehow, magically, the same forces which killed her first family could be made to nurture these, the offspring of her despair?

These new children were restless. She knew that. She sensed it. They were testing the boundaries she had set for them, and soon she would have to decide their fate. Should she endure their rebellion, or wipe the slate clean and start over? With her first children-her proper proper children-the question would never have arisen. But with these strange creatures, in whom the bonds of family were so weak as to be virtually nonex istent, how was she to judge? children-the question would never have arisen. But with these strange creatures, in whom the bonds of family were so weak as to be virtually nonex istent, how was she to judge?

She would give them time, she decided. She would see where their restlessness led them. If it proved that their transgressions were serious, then their lives might be put to better use as fodder for a new generation. For there must be children. There must always always be children. Living and learning, dreaming and needing, playing their parts without knowing they did so, in the hope that one of them might some day glimpse the greater game that controlled them all. be children. Living and learning, dreaming and needing, playing their parts without knowing they did so, in the hope that one of them might some day glimpse the greater game that controlled them all.

And then, she thought, then at last- Dreams of the first family. Union. Hope. Hope.

She waited.

The Dark Within Within

Fourteen.

The main temple of Saris was at the edge of town, just beyond one of Jaggonath's better neighborhoods. Though the G.o.ddess had other temples elsewhere in the city-one on the Street of G.o.ds, even one in the slums of the south side-this was by far her most prosperous, and the best attended. Little wonder. The worship of Beauty is a luxury for most, and is ill attended to in areas where such basic needs as food, shelter, and safety are still at issue. of Saris was at the edge of town, just beyond one of Jaggonath's better neighborhoods. Though the G.o.ddess had other temples elsewhere in the city-one on the Street of G.o.ds, even one in the slums of the south side-this was by far her most prosperous, and the best attended. Little wonder. The worship of Beauty is a luxury for most, and is ill attended to in areas where such basic needs as food, shelter, and safety are still at issue.

Narilka walked to the temple. It was a good five-mile hike from where she lived, but she thought of the walk as part of her worship. It gave her time to relax her mind, to focus it on the issue she wished to address. Normally that was some artistic project for which she hoped to gain special inspiration, Saris' most precious gift. Sometimes it was an offering, the joy of a project completed or a moment of aesthetic inspiration realized. But today ...

I shouldn't be going here. This isn't right.

Today she was far from calm, and far from certain that she was doing the right thing. She had discovered Saris in her youth, when she was still working on her parents' farm; it was the G.o.ddess who had made her acknowledge the spark of an artist in her soul, and who had helped her to see that her restlessness was the result of stifling that inner fire. It was Saris who had granted her the courage to confront her parents, and to demand a situation that would give outlet to her innate talent. Thus, after much teary-eyed debate, her apprenticeship with Gresham had been arranged. And she had learned the joy of molding liquid silver into forms so beautiful that they might have graced this very temple.

But today it was not art that drove her here, but need; need for the kind of rea.s.surance that only a G.o.d could offer. Would Saris respond? She was a minor G.o.ddess, as such beings were measured, and her domain was a limited one. Was it right to bring these problems to her, when there were at least a dozen other G.o.ds dedicated to that kind of turmoil?

You are the patron of my soul, she thought, gazing upon the gleaming temple. Even now, tormented by doubts, she felt a sense of serenity at the sight of the familiar building. It was simple, clean-lined, conspicuously undecorated; only Saris' faithful would understand how its plain columns and carefully sculpted empty s.p.a.ces were like a blank canvas to the mind, supporting a greater beauty than any human architect could achieve. she thought, gazing upon the gleaming temple. Even now, tormented by doubts, she felt a sense of serenity at the sight of the familiar building. It was simple, clean-lined, conspicuously undecorated; only Saris' faithful would understand how its plain columns and carefully sculpted empty s.p.a.ces were like a blank canvas to the mind, supporting a greater beauty than any human architect could achieve.

Slowly she walked up the broad stairs and entered the temple proper. Like the facade the sanctuary was plain, but infinitely beautiful. Sunlight fell in shafts from the pierced-work roof, that wove amongst themselves to sculpt shifting patterns on the floor. Open s.p.a.ces in the walls allowed the breeze to play through, carrying with it all the scents of spring. Water flowed within, a natural fountain over which the temple had been built, and she paused to scoop up a mouthful in her palm and taste it. Would that it could calm her. Would that it could convince her that she'd been right to come here, to place her inner torments before a G.o.ddess of beauty and peace.

She looked up for a priest or priestess, and found one waiting in the shadows. As soon as Narilka began to move toward him (her?), the figure glided forward, silken robes in delicate mottled hues fluttering in the sunlight. The mask the figure wore was of silver, finely polished, and gave no hint of gender or ident.i.ty. Anonymity and grace, in perfect combination.

"I've come for communion," she said quickly; could the priest hear how hard her heart was pounding? "If that's possible."

Wordlessly the wraithlike figure turned to lead her to a communion chamber; she fell into step behind him. They left the main sanctuary and entered the part of the temple reserved for private offerings. She tried not to think of Andrys Tarrant or the Hunter as she walked, but struggled instead to focus on images that the G.o.ddess would find pleasing. It was no use. Images of her finest work faded into images of the coronet, and Andrys' hand testing its substance; abstract images re formed themselves, becoming images of the young n.o.bleman. By the time they reached an empty communion chamber she was trembling, wondering if she could manage the self-control that prayer required. How would Saris respond to such images?

G.o.ddess, help me. I don't know where else to turn.

The priest left her alone in the communion chamber. Grateful for privacy, she shut the door behind him and locked it. There was a robe laid out in the antechamber, of soft white linen, and a basin of water beside it. She took off her clothes and laid them aside, her hands shaking as she undressed. The white robe was soft against her skin, the water cool and bracing as she rinsed her face and hands. Dressed thus, cleansed thus, she left all the cares of the real world behind her, and entered into the G.o.ddess' presence a blank slate, an open soul. At least that was the theory. But her memories and her need were too powerful today, and the ritual failed to calm her.

Saris, I'm sorry. I tried.

Slowly, hesitantly, she moved into the communion chamber. There a low brazier filled with charcoal awaited her, with a circle of cushions about it. She chose one of the cushions and settled herself onto it, heart pounding. Beside the brazier were small bowls of dried herbs, and she chose a few handfuls of the ones that pleased her. Rosewort. Briarwood. Nuviola. Opening her hand slowly, she let the leaves and bark bits fall onto the glowing charcoal. Scented smoke began to rise, twining in tendrils as it worked its way up to the ceiling vent. Stare at the smoke, she thought. Let the visions come.

She prayed. Not in words but in images, because words could never capture all that she felt. The Hunter in all his dark and terrible glory, with the music of the night surging up about him and a secret world so rich in beauty it was painful to behold. And Andrys Tarrant in his need. So wounded, so irresistible, so like the Hunter in outer aspect and utterly unlike him in spirit. She saw them take form in the smoke, and suddenly was unsure of herself. Why had she come here? What did she expect the G.o.ddess to do? She shivered and wrapped her arms about herself; the faces in the smoke faded and were gone.

If I let myself love him, I'll lose myself forever. It was a thrilling, terrifying thought. It was a thrilling, terrifying thought. Guide me, Guide me, she begged. Not knowing who else or what else to turn to, not even sure that her G.o.ddess would listen. she begged. Not knowing who else or what else to turn to, not even sure that her G.o.ddess would listen. Help me! Help me!

Slowly an image began to form within the smoke, that was not of her own making. The heady scent of nuviola filled her lungs as she watched it, trembling. Wisps of silver danced in the smoke, twining about each other like serpents. Slowly, sensuously they knotted, melded, re-formed, redefined themselves ... with a start she realized that the vision had begun to take on human form, neither male nor female but a wispy, slender figure that might be either. Or both. The image looked so solid that she felt as if she could reach out and touch it, and yet it seemed utterly weightless as it floated there before her. Silver eyes. Silver face. Silver hair like fine-spun silk, that wafted weightless in an unseen breeze. The smoke became a silken veil that rippled across the figure's surface, adorning rather than concealing its form. It was so detailed, so l.u.s.trous, so real.... real.... With a start she realized that she couldn't see the far wall through it, as she should have been able to do with a normal vision. Nor did the walls at her sides frame the vision with clean white plaster, as they should have done. The entire room seemed to have faded-walls and pillows, brazier and herbs and yes, even the smoke-leaving her alone in a sweet-scented darkness with a figure that gleamed like moonlight. With a start she realized that she couldn't see the far wall through it, as she should have been able to do with a normal vision. Nor did the walls at her sides frame the vision with clean white plaster, as they should have done. The entire room seemed to have faded-walls and pillows, brazier and herbs and yes, even the smoke-leaving her alone in a sweet-scented darkness with a figure that gleamed like moonlight.

"Saris?" She whispered. She barely got the name out past the tightness in her throat. "Is it ... ?"

Tell me your need.

She opened her mouth to speak-and emotion poured out, raw and primitive, unfettered by the bonds of language. All the hope and fear and l.u.s.t and need and love (was that love?) in a flood tide of memory that she could neither control nor comprehend. Pouring out of her blindly, into the surrounding darkness. When it was over, she fell back shaking, and her eyes squeezed forth hot tears. "Saris?"

For a moment the figure just stared at her. Digesting her response? At last it said, in an even voice, Andrys Tarrant is doomed. Andrys Tarrant is doomed.

It took the words a moment to sink in, and then it was a few seconds more before she found her voice. "What?"

He's fighting a war he does not understand, for stakes he cannot begin to comprehend. He has given himself to one who will use him and then discard him, taking pleasure from the destruction of so tender a soul. He is a p.a.w.n, Narilka Lessing, nothing more. A blind, unwitting soldier in a war of G.o.ds and demons. The figure paused. A sacrifice. The figure paused. A sacrifice.

"No," she whispered.

I speak the truth, it a.s.sured her. Its tone was cool, emotionless. it a.s.sured her. Its tone was cool, emotionless. I have no vested interest in this matter to cause me to lie. I have no vested interest in this matter to cause me to lie.

"No!"