Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [172]
“What the vulk was that?” he demanded, as the Hunter finally sheathed his sword. At least the hostile shadow was gone; one less threat to deal with. “I don’t remember it doing anything like that before.”
“The currents here are like a warped mirror, that reflects and distorts any Working. That’s why I try not to use this,” he explained, as he settled the sword back into place. “Or any other kind of power.”
That’s just great, Damien thought, as he struggled to get his breath back. Another thing to worry about.
Periodically Tarrant would gaze at the earth and sky with an almost desperate intensity, and Damien knew that the adept was searching their environment for any detail out of place—no matter how small or seemingly irrelevant—that would warn them of Calesta’s power being used against them. But after each such stop Tarrant simply shook his head silently, frustrated, and then took up the march again. Were the canyons real, or illusions meant to mislead them? How easy it would be for Calesta to turn them aside from their proper path, or draw them toward a false one! If the demon’s work lacked perfection in any detail, it could well be so subtle that no merely human eye was going to catch it. Or even Tarrant’s.
If so, we’re doomed. He didn’t dare meet Tarrant’s eyes, but through the newly intensified channel between them, he could taste the panic that was slowly taking root inside him. It matched his own. If we can’t find a way to tell what’s real from what isn‘t, we don’t stand a chance. Standing by Tarrant’s side, he stared out at the same daunting vistas, hoping against hope that his limited vision might reveal some secret detail the adept missed. But each and every canyon looked hopelessly real, and the bones that were scattered here and there along their bottom—and even at the top, where the two walked—were eloquent reminder of how deadly this land was, and how few travelers made it through.
At last, weary, they paused for a rest. Damien pulled a hunk of bread from his stores and chewed it dryly, careful to disturb the thin veil no more than he had to. Tarrant neither ate nor drank, but stared off into the darkness surrounding them as though somehow he might find an answer there. Through the link between them Damien could sense his state of mind, and it wasn’t comforting.
At last the adept said, “I’m going to have to Work. There’s no other way.” He glanced up toward the sky, a reflexive action only; the ash cloud overhead would keep him from seeing the dawn until it was all but upon him.
“A Locating?”
The Hunter shook his head. “Too easy for our enemy to fake. Remember what he did in Seth? And besides, any precise Working is doomed in this place. Much in the same way that complex music loses its coherency in a hall with too many echoes. No, this Working must be in its purest unstructured form: a plea for the fae to accommodate our mission, however it sees fit. A single chord, pure and simple.”
“Sounds damn vague to me.”
“Anything more than that is doomed to failure, I assure you.”
“And how do we know that Calesta won’t vulk the results of this Working, too?”
The Hunter hesitated. And for a moment, just a moment, the channel between pulsed with fresh energy and Damien could taste the emotion inside the man. Thick fear, black and choking; it was hard to believe that a man could contain that kind of emotion inside himself and