Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [119]
“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 damned little chance of success. It seems like one hell 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, damn 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 bastard 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.”
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.
Gratitude.
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.”
“But this draft—”
“The Patriarch’s a practical man. He knows there are things I can do as a free agent which he, because of his rank, can’t even try. And he knows that if we don’t stop Calesta now, the Church he loves may have no future. That’s all.” He laughed shortly, harshly. “Believe me, I wish there were more to it.”
He said it quietly, with rare compassion: “They didn’t turn you out?”
“Not yet,” he muttered. Color