Crown Of Shadows Part 2

He soon came to the silver district, so named for the metal that best reflected the sun's white brilliance. Warded windows were filled with treasures, worked in that metal and others: yellow and pink gold, copper and bronze, and the sun-metals: silver, white gold, platinum, polished steel, others. He didn't know the names of all of them and often couldn't tell them apart; when Betrise used to bring out her prize serving utensils, worked in five different white metals, he used to shake his head in amazement that anyone would spend a small fortune to purchase such a thing.

Not that money had been an issue in those days, of course. The first Neocount had seen to that by sinking his wealth into investments that tripled in value before anyone could manage the legal contortions required to get at it. If Andrys had thought about it then, he might have believed that the man was trying to provide for his abandoned son by a.s.suring wealth for his progeny. Now it just seemed like a cruel joke. Money couldn't bring his family back, could it? Money couldn't make this nightmare end. But it did pay for drugs and liquor and occasionally-when he required that kind of cold, impersonal convenience-it paid for women.

He forced his attention where it belonged and studied the objects in the windows before him, trying not to dwell on the implications of what he was about to do. Better not to think about that. Better not to think about anything, just accept Calesta's orders and obey them blindly and pray that somewhere, somehow, vengeance would be achieved. Calesta said that Andrys should come to Jaggonath, so he had done so. Calesta said that Andrys should seek out a silversmith, so he would. Calesta said that he should cause to be made- A cold shiver coursed up his spine. Don't think about what he wants with it. When it's ready, that's time enough to know. Don't think about what he wants with it. When it's ready, that's time enough to know. He forced himself to study the objects displayed in the windows, searching for something that would help him decide on one shop or another. Each shop seemed to have its own specialty: he pa.s.sed by displays of jewelry, daggers, decorative goblets, engraved tableware, a thousand and one items suitable for courtship, weddings, formal ceremony. Nothing displayed was exactly like what he needed, but was that a surprise? How long had it been since that kind of work was last done in Jaggonath? Or anywhere, for that matter? He forced himself to study the objects displayed in the windows, searching for something that would help him decide on one shop or another. Each shop seemed to have its own specialty: he pa.s.sed by displays of jewelry, daggers, decorative goblets, engraved tableware, a thousand and one items suitable for courtship, weddings, formal ceremony. Nothing displayed was exactly like what he needed, but was that a surprise? How long had it been since that kind of work was last done in Jaggonath? Or anywhere, for that matter?

At last, with effort, he winnowed the choices down to five likely candidates. One by one he studied them through their mesh-bound windows, trying to get a feel for the businesses inside. Hoping for some kind of sign or omen that would narrow his choices even further, so that he wouldn't have to go through the same painful interview more than once. He didn't think he could stand that.

He studied two shops in that way, found no such omen, and with a sigh he moved on to the third. This one had a promising display, a unique collection of bowls and goblets with delicate figurines intertwined to serve as stems, handles, and spouts. Each one was individual, he noted, and meticulously detailed. So far so good. He looked past the fine steel knives with sinuous sterling handles, the elegant silver picture frames and anniversary mementos, to see what was within the shop itself- And his heart stopped for a moment. The steel and sterling bits faded into shadows, as inconsequential as dreams. For a moment he could hardly move, then he walked to where the door was and grasped its handle. The ornate grip felt warm in his palm, and he could feel his pulse pound as he held it. Quickly he turned it and pushed the heavy door inward; bells jingled merrily as he stepped into the shop's cool interior. There were display cases within, tables topped in velvet, a long counter capped in fine white numarble....

And a girl.

He stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind him. G.o.d, but she was lovely! Not in the way of the women who normally appealed to him-those were buxom and full-hipped, flamboyantly s.e.xual-but in a way that made it hard for him to breathe, impossible to think. Skin as fine and as pale as porcelain glowed in the late afternoon light, with the pale flush of a sunburn crowning the cheeks and forehead. Hair as black and as l.u.s.trous as silk shimmered in a loose chignon at the nape of her neck. Slender hands with impossibly delicate fingers smoothed the black velvet of a display table. Fragile, she seemed. Slender and pale and so very fragile. Like a china cup that might shatter if you held it wrong. Like a pane of fine stained gla.s.s with its delicate webwork of lead veins, beautiful to look at but oh, so easy to destroy. Her presence awakened new feelings within him, disturbing feelings, so different from his usual feelings about women that for a moment he could do nothing but stand there mutely, unable to respond.

"Can I help you?" she asked. It was a reflexive response to the presence of a customer, which she began even as she turned toward him. Then the dark eyes met his-G.o.d, those eyes, you could drown in them!-and with a short gasp she stepped back. To his amazement, it seemed as if she were afraid. Of him? He looked around, startled, expecting to see someone else in the room. But it was just the two of them. The response was for him alone.

"I'm sorry," he said hurriedly. Not knowing what he had done wrong, but anxious to correct it. Was it possible that in his fevered entrance he had seemed threatening? She seemed the kind of creature who would shy away easily, like a wild and wary skerrel. "I didn't mean to startle you-"

She drew in a deep breath; he could sense her struggling to compose herself. "It isn't you," she said at last. "It's just... I thought you were someone else. Someone I didn't expect here. I'm sorry." She shook her head slightly; the black hair rippled about her neck. "I shouldn't have reacted like that." She smiled then, and her expression softened. "Can I help you with something?"

He fumbled in his pocket for the papers he had brought, and somehow he managed to tear his eyes away from her long enough to make sure they were the right ones. "I need some custom work done. Here." He handed her the drawings, a well-worn package. "It's all there."

She led him to one of the velvet-clad tables and pulled up a chair before it; he sat opposite, and watched her as she studied the drawings. G.o.d, but she was beautiful! In another time and place he would already have been making a play for her, if only for the sheer pleasure of the hunt. But in this time and place he felt strangely helpless, and he sat there quietly as she studied the drawings, watching as her slender fingers smoothed the papers flat for better perusal.

"A coronet," she mused.

Something tightened in his throat. "Family heirloom," he managed. "It was... lost."

Lost in a pool of blood, shattered by sorcery. Shards of metal swimming in the red that dripped down chair legs, over tiles- "Hey. Are you all right?" Her hand reached toward him.

He shivered as the vision receded. "Yeah," he managed. "Just a little faint." He forced himself to put his hands on the table, so that he might look a little more natural. "I wasn't feeling well this morning." There There was an understatement! "I thought it had pa.s.sed." He managed an awkward grin. "Guess not." was an understatement! "I thought it had pa.s.sed." He managed an awkward grin. "Guess not."

"Can I get you something?" When he hesitated, she suggested, "A gla.s.s of water?"

"No, I ..." He drew in a slow breath, tried to think clearly. "Yes. Please. That would be wonderful."

Water. It meant a moment when she wouldn't be watching him, a moment when he could struggle to pull himself together. Those visions... he should have taken something before he left his room, he knew that now. A few grains of tranquilizer to ease the painful interview along. How in G.o.d's name was he going to get through this?

You have to, he told himself. he told himself. Calesta says this has to be done, therefore you will do it. Period. Calesta says this has to be done, therefore you will do it. Period.

"Here," she said, as she set down a small gla.s.s before him. Her voice was gentle, soothing; he could listen to it for hours. "I wish we had more to offer."

"This is fine." The water was cool and refreshing, and the gla.s.s gave him something to do with his hands. "Thank you."

When she was satisfied that he was going to be all right, she returned to her seat opposite him. He noticed that her hair had one narrow streak of white in it, falling from a spot just above her left temple. A natural discoloration, or faddish vanity? For some reason he hoped it was the former. She seemed a wholly natural creature, more like the timid nudeer that wandered free on his estate than the painted beauties he usually dated. Though such women had never appealed to him before, this one had him totally captivated.

She was paging through the pile of sketches, studying each one in turn. One meticulous rendering of a' county coronet. Ten pages of details, in perfect scale. Other drawings, other items. She shook her head in amazement as she went through them. "You did a beautiful job on these."

"I traced the artist's originals." When she looked up at him in curiosity, he added, "My ancestor saved everything."

How bizarre this conversation was, he thought. How utterly bizarre to be discussing the archival habits of Gerald Tarrant in this cool and offhand manner, as if men hadn't wept and suffered and died for that very coronet.

"In sterling?" she asked.

"If that was the original metal."

She nodded. "Silver was customary up until the sixth century. I take it this is older than that."

He nodded.

"It must have been beautiful," she mused aloud. Her eyes traced the lines of his drawings with obvious relish, and he knew in that instant that she was the artist who would be translating his sketches into reality. The thought pleased him. "Revivalist, right?"

"I think so."

"Neocounty?" She smiled as he affirmed that, too, her dark eyes sparkling. "I've never worked for n.o.bility before."

The words caught in his throat; he had to force them out. "We haven't... we don't use the t.i.tle. Not for a long time."

"Are these from the same period?" She had found the sketches of armor at the bottom of the pile: breastplate and bracers of fine steel with embossed and inlaid motifs. "Armor?"

"I should have removed those," he said quickly. Reaching for the sketches. "That's a different job, I know you don't-"

"But we do. At least, Gresham does. My boss," she explained. "He used to do this kind of work. There isn't much of a call for it, you know. Not enough to base a business on. But I think he would love to work on these." The dark eyes were fixed on him again; he didn't dare meet them. "Unless you have someone else in mind, that is."

"No," he managed. "Not at all."

"Then I'll show these to him. He can probably get you an estimate on all this by ... say, Thursday?"

Estimate. He felt something knot up inside himself at the sound of the word. He felt something knot up inside himself at the sound of the word. Estimate Estimate meant another interview about these d.a.m.ned pieces, more questions, always more questions ... and he couldn't begin to answer them because he didn't know why Calesta wanted these things made, only that he did. meant another interview about these d.a.m.ned pieces, more questions, always more questions ... and he couldn't begin to answer them because he didn't know why Calesta wanted these things made, only that he did.

"I don't need an estimate," he said quickly. Trying to get the words out before he could have second thoughts. "Whatever it takes. Just make everything as much like the originals as you can. Whatever that costs."

She hesitated. "It's going to be expensive."

"That's all right."

"Really expensive. This is all gold here, look." She showed him one of the sketches, her finger tracing the line of decoration on a breastplate. "The materials alone-" expensive. This is all gold here, look." She showed him one of the sketches, her finger tracing the line of decoration on a breastplate. "The materials alone-"

"Money's not an issue. Really."

She sat back, and for a moment said nothing. He could see curiosity burning bright in her eyes, but knew she wouldn't question him about his wealth. Not directly.

"He'll want a deposit," she said at last.

He reached into his jacket to where his traveling purse was secured and removed it. Untying its clasp, he spilled its contents out on the table. They were thick coins, heavy coins, the kind of gold one bought for investment purposes, not the kind one normally carried around town for day-to-day expenses. He had brought them with him so that he wouldn't have to wait for the local banks to clear his account before he could buy anything locally. Now he was infinitely glad he had them.

She whistled softly. Despite himself he smiled, pleased with the drama of the moment. "Will that be enough?"

"Oh, yes. I think so." She picked up one of the coins and studied it with a smile. "Yes, I think Gresham'll take these."

"How much do you want?"

She hesitated, then picked out half a dozen of the coins; one was a beautiful memorial piece which she admired before putting it away. In a smooth, flowing hand she wrote him a receipt. "I'll need some information from you."

"Of course."

"Your name?" she asked. And it seemed to him that there was more than professional interest in her tone. Or was that just wishful thinking on his part?

G.o.d, he used to be so good at this! Where was all that skill when he needed it?

"Andrys. Andrys Tarrant." Other questions followed, more difficult to answer. Where did he live? Permanent address? How long would he be in Jaggonath? Business references? Personal? He knew the questions were unavoidable, given the value of the work he was ordering, but some of them were difficult to answer. How long would would he be here? Calesta had said that the process of vengeance would begin in Jaggonath. How long would that take? he be here? Calesta had said that the process of vengeance would begin in Jaggonath. How long would that take?

Later, when he was finally out of the shop, he leaned against the brick wall outside and shut his eyes and cursed himself for being a fool.

You're an idiot, Andri, you know that? The after-image of her face was burned into his soul. The after-image of her face was burned into his soul. You could have said something You could have said something useful. useful. You You could have made some could have made some kind of beginning. kind of beginning. Though the fragile appeal of her was new to him, he was no stranger to games of attraction. If this had happened in the days before, he would have had her address by now and probably a tentative date as well. Had this project so unmanned him that he couldn't even manage that? Though the fragile appeal of her was new to him, he was no stranger to games of attraction. If this had happened in the days before, he would have had her address by now and probably a tentative date as well. Had this project so unmanned him that he couldn't even manage that?

Good G.o.d. He laughed bitterly, mirthlessly; the sound devolved into coughing. He laughed bitterly, mirthlessly; the sound devolved into coughing. I don't even know her name. I don't even know her name.

It was just as well. What did he have to offer a woman, anyway? Restless, distracted days. Bitter, frustrating nights. No, he had better reserve his attention for the wh.o.r.es who asked for nothing but money, and opportunistic wenches who could be purchased with gifts and small talk. That was his venue now, the comfort and prison of his new existence. Better stick to it.

G.o.d, those eyes....

With effort he pushed himself away from the wall and began the long walk back to his hotel. It was just as well, he told himself. Women like that usually had a man already, and if they didn't, there was probably a good reason for it. He had enough problems of his own to deal with, didn't he?

He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself, cold despite the warmth of the city streets. The pills would help him. Little black pills. They were waiting on his dresser, a kiss of velvet oblivion. Under their influence he could forget it all for an hour, an evening, an eternity. The pain. The confusion. The fear.

And the girl.

Trembling, he hurried back to the hotel.

For a long, long time after Andrys Tarrant left, Narilka stared at the door in silence. Her heart had been pounding all the time he had been there; only now, with him safely gone, did it resume its normal beat. Only now could she begin to breathe normally, as if nothing whatsoever were wrong.

That face. So familiar. Those eyes... she could picture them cast in a paler hue (silver, cracked silver, the color of ice and sunlight) and that was enough to transform them, because in all other ways-in shape, in expression-they were the same as his. Just as this man's hair was the same (golden brown, fine as silk), only Andrys Tarrant had trimmed his in a stylish cut, indisputably modem, while the other had let his grow to the shoulder. And so it was with so many other features: token differences, superficial, which only served to highlight the uncanny, unnerving resemblance between the two men.

The Hunter.

She remembered him from the Forest, that terrible, fear-filled night. Remembered his eyes burning black with hunger, his power so chill and fierce that it froze the very air in her lungs as she drew in a breath to scream. Not a man but a demon-a cold, cruel G.o.d-whose eyes were doorways into another world, a world of such terrible alien beauty that even as he threatened to devour her, even as the fire of her life flickered weakly before him, about to be extinguished, she longed to be drawn into his private night forever. Mystical, magical, secretive night. Violet light and unearthly music and tides of fae so subtle that the roar of a single breath would drown them out....

And now there was Andrys Tarrant. Here. In her world. Alive in a way the Hunter was not, solid and real in a way he could never be. Capable of living and loving with a human heat- G.o.ds. She shut her eyes and tried to focus on something else. Anything else. She shut her eyes and tried to focus on something else. Anything else. That's not a healthy reason to want a man and you know it. That's not a healthy reason to want a man and you know it. She had enough trouble with men already without asking for more, didn't she? The type of man who was attracted to her was usually looking for a victim, not a lover, and she had fended off enough of that kind to last her a lifetime. The last thing she needed now was another bad relationship. She had enough trouble with men already without asking for more, didn't she? The type of man who was attracted to her was usually looking for a victim, not a lover, and she had fended off enough of that kind to last her a lifetime. The last thing she needed now was another bad relationship.

But his haunted eyes (green, not gray, and so alive!) stayed with her for hours, and the memory of his presence was still warm in her flesh when she finally closed up the shop for the night.

Three.

The Hunter flew west along the Raksha Valley, following the course of the river Lethe. Westward over Sattin, where they had once booked pa.s.sage across the Canopy: he and the priest, Senzei Reese, and the lady Ciani. It seemed a century ago. His goals had been so finite then, his self-definition so simple, so clear ... when had it all gotten so muddied? west along the Raksha Valley, following the course of the river Lethe. Westward over Sattin, where they had once booked pa.s.sage across the Canopy: he and the priest, Senzei Reese, and the lady Ciani. It seemed a century ago. His goals had been so finite then, his self-definition so simple, so clear ... when had it all gotten so muddied?

He could feel the weight of his compact on his back as the strong feathered wings drew him closer and closer to home. In Mercia, in one thoughtless act, he had saved a civilization from ruin. The powers which sustained his unnatural life would surely condemn him for that, and take action to teach their wayward servant a lesson. The only question in his mind was when, and what form the "lesson" would take. They hadn't done anything yet. And though after a year of being unmolested he had begun to hope that they would continue to honor the compact which kept him alive, he had no illusion that he would go unpunished forever. The Unnamed was not known for compa.s.sion.

Soon the Raksha Valley broadened out into the Plain of Sheva, on the very doorstep of the Forest. He came to the ground there and reclaimed his human form, the better to study the currents in that place and see if there were any sign of Calesta's interference. But malignant power was sucked into the Forest here with such force that no trace remained outside its borders. In his months outside the Forest, he had forgotten just how strong it was. He could feel its pull on his own soul as he stood there, as if that whirlpool of malevolence would devour him whole. It had tried, once. He had tamed it. And it took little effort now to resist its call, and to rise up on broad white wings once more, to review his domain.

Dare he hope that Calesta had focused his vengeance elsewhere and left the Forest alone? If so, it was a temporary respite, and the Hunter knew it. This place is my source, my nourishment. If he means to hurt me, then he will strike here. This place is my source, my nourishment. If he means to hurt me, then he will strike here. Even the fact that he could see no mark of Calesta's interference here didn't guarantee that the demon had been absent. A Iezu demon could easily conjure an illusion to cover his tracks, so that even an adept's Sight would be hard-pressed to make them out. Was there a limit to that skill? How many perfect illusions could a Iezu sustain at once? On that question, Gerald Tarrant suspected, their very lives might depend. If only he had more knowledge of the Iezu. d.a.m.n the code of behavior which bound them from interfering in each others' battles, which kept others of that kind from helping him! Even the fact that he could see no mark of Calesta's interference here didn't guarantee that the demon had been absent. A Iezu demon could easily conjure an illusion to cover his tracks, so that even an adept's Sight would be hard-pressed to make them out. Was there a limit to that skill? How many perfect illusions could a Iezu sustain at once? On that question, Gerald Tarrant suspected, their very lives might depend. If only he had more knowledge of the Iezu. d.a.m.n the code of behavior which bound them from interfering in each others' battles, which kept others of that kind from helping him!

There were trees beneath him now, and a tangled canopy of vines and branches so thick that even his special Sight couldn't see through to the ground beneath. The earth-fae which coursed below it sparkled through the canopy like stars, hinting at a power so vast that surely no single demon, Iezu or otherwise, could stand against it. He could feel the force of the Forest's fae coursing through his veins like blood, even from this height, invigorating him body and soul. Let Calesta test him now, with all his power at hand, and that Iezu would see how quickly and how ruthlessly the Hunter dealt with his enemies.

It was nearly dawn when he came to the observatory tower of his keep, jutting up from the tangled canopy like a sleek black spear. The sigils engraved upon its narrow roof reflected the moonlight like fire. He took care to avoid the circle they inscribed, a spot he had painstakingly scrubbed clean of all fae for the sake of Earth-like experimentation. That, too, seemed a lifetime ago. Had it really been less than three years ago that he had lived this isolated life, surrounded by nothing but his trees and his servants and his precious experiments? Would that he could simply reclaim that life, and let the darkness of the Forest heal him of all the wounds the living world had inflicted! But that dream, though seductive, was not feasible at the moment. As long as Calesta lived and hated and plotted his Iezu vengeance, not even the Forest would be safe from his demonic predations.

Afterward, he promised himself. he promised himself. When all this is over, when Calesta is neutralized and my compact defended and Vryce has gone off to make a separate fate from mine ... then I will have the time and the leisure to find myself again. To define myself anew, on such terms that living men may never again compromise my spirit. When all this is over, when Calesta is neutralized and my compact defended and Vryce has gone off to make a separate fate from mine ... then I will have the time and the leisure to find myself again. To define myself anew, on such terms that living men may never again compromise my spirit.

Amoril was waiting for him atop the tower. The taste of the albino's subservience, carried to him on the chill Forest breeze, was rea.s.suringly familiar. Despite his hunger to resume his accustomed role in the Forest hierarchy, he remained circling for long minutes overhead, searching for some sign in the terrain below to warn him that Calesta had been active here. He was painfully aware of the futility of the act, given the nature of his enemy, yet he dared not sacrifice any possible advantage in this deadly war that the Iezu had declared. But he saw nothing to excite his suspicions, save a fleeting shadow that tasted of the Unnamed's special malevolence. That his patron-demon had been here was hardly a surprise. It had probably set out a Watcher to alert it to its servant's arrival, and was even now preparing its own special welcome for him. He shivered as the cold winds bore him in yet another circle, and tried not to think about what that welcome might be.

I served you faithfully for nine hundred years, he thought to it. As if it could hear him. As if it cared what he thought. he thought to it. As if it could hear him. As if it cared what he thought. And but for one moment of carelessness, I have never failed you. And but for one moment of carelessness, I have never failed you. But he knew even that wasn't true, that in his travels with Vryce he had more than once pushed the envelope of the Unnamed's tolerance. G.o.d willing, when this all was over he would have a chance to establish himself anew and cleanse the taint of Vryce's human spirit from his soul. But he knew even that wasn't true, that in his travels with Vryce he had more than once pushed the envelope of the Unnamed's tolerance. G.o.d willing, when this all was over he would have a chance to establish himself anew and cleanse the taint of Vryce's human spirit from his soul.

Finally he dropped to the tower and regained his human form, coldfire licking at his flesh as he transformed. The Prince of Jahanna, come home to claim his own.

As soon as he had human eyes with which to see, Amoril bowed deeply to him. "My lord." He evinced no surprise at Tarrant's return, which was as it should be. The man who had been a.s.signed to watch over the Forest had d.a.m.ned well better Divine well enough and often enough to foresee that his Master was coming home.

"Is all well?" he asked shortly.

The albino nodded. "There was some trouble out by Mordreth last month-some of the prospectors decided that if they cleared a bit of the Forest their work would be easier-but we settled all that."

"You made a warning of them, I hope."

"I left them impaled on tree limbs, in such a posture that implied the trees might have more volition than Mordreth gives them credit for." His eyes sparkled redly. "They'll think twice before fetching their axes again."

"Excellent," he approved. And it was. A taste of normalcy, after so many months of tension.

The albino bowed again. "I had an excellent teacher."

Together they descended into the lightless depths of the keep itself, where even the moonlight was not allowed to intrude. Though the Forest outside was thriving, the building's interior had not done quite so well. There was dust in the numarble halls, he noticed, irritated. He thought in addition that there was a faint ammoniac smell, like that of stale urine, wafting toward them from a distant corridor. Had the albino's wolf charges been given free run of the keep? Perhaps Amoril himself had seen fit to mark the building in the manner of his pets; Tarrant wouldn't put it past him. He felt rage rise up inside him like a tidal wave, but then drew in a deep breath and forced himself to let it go, unvoiced. For all he knew the smell wasn't even real, but a sensory illusion meant to foster discord between him and his servants. He wouldn't let it distract him now. Once Calesta was safely out of the picture there'd be time enough to teach Amoril the fine points of a Cleansing, and to see that he received sufficient practice in its use.

"What about the Forest?" he asked, forcing his thoughts onto other paths. "My latest Workings?"

"There was a problem with that disease you introduced into the scuttler population just before you left." It seemed to him that the albino was slightly on edge; was he antic.i.p.ating retribution for his housekeeping failures, or was something more significant at the root of it? "It mutated spontaneously and was beginning to threaten other species. I isolated and destroyed the infected animals, which will hold the disease at bay for a while, but in the long run a more permanent solution will have to be found."

The Hunter nodded, his eyes never leaving his apprentice. "I'll design a counterphage for the new mutation. You have samples of the infected flesh?"

There was a door at the end of the corridor they were traversing; the albino pulled it open for him. "Of course, my lord."

"Such concern over minute biological detail is commendable, Amoril. I'm pleased by your development."

"One learns a lot when one is left alone, my lord."

Black halls, dark curtains, a lightless and soothing domain: he drew confidence from it step by step, and from the chill power flowing about his feet. This place was his strength, he thought. His soul. As long as he had the Forest, no man could stand against him.