Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [199]
“I tested one which I carry, and its effect is unchanged. Apparently past Workings still maintain their power.” His pale eyes glittered redly in the dying sunlight ; even without the fae his gaze had tremendous power. “So what do you say, Vryce? Must I go there alone? Because with or without you, I cannot allow those notes to burn. Too much of mankind’s future depends on them.”
Shit.
He turned away from them both, struggling to think it out clearly. The last thing he needed now was a trek to the Forest, least of all while the Patriarch and his soldiers were tearing the place apart. The last thing Tarrant needed now was a fresh exertion, when his newly healed flesh was still struggling with the transition from undeath to life. The last thing anyone here needed was to risk all that they had won for a handful of books—books, God damn it! Even if those books were the key to humanity’s future, and that of the Iezu. Even if those books might allow both species to return to the stars.
Shit.
He raised a hand to his head and rubbed his temples wearily. He didn’t have a headache yet, but one was surely on the way. The body had to do something to protest such utter lunacy.
It’s safe, right? Doors locked and warded. Books safely hidden. One quick visit and then it’s all over. And Tarrant would go with or without him, that much was clear. Did Damien want that newborn soul running head-on into the Patriarch’s troops without someone there to support him? Such a confrontation could well send him spiraling down into darkness again. And after all the time and effort he had put into saving the man, he could hardly allow that. Could he?
“All right,” he muttered. Sighing heavily. “What the hell. Let’s do it.”
Tarrant nodded. “I thought you might feel that way.” He sounded relieved, Damien thought. As well he should.
It could be worse. At least we don’t have to get on a boat again.
Shaitan rumbled in the distance.
Thirty-nine
Calesta was gone.
At first Andrys tried to deny it. He told himself a hundred reasons why the demon might be unwilling to respond to him, or unable to respond to him, and he managed to half-believe one or two. But then, as hours passed and his desperate entreaties brought no response, fear began to take hold. He fought the emotion off as long as he could, but now, hours later—days later, perhaps, who could judge time in this place?—certainty set in, and with it a dread so cold that he shivered inside his blood-spattered armor, not knowing how he could go on.
Calesta was gone, without question.
Andrys was on his own.
They were forging through a hostile Forest now, and every turn held new threats. More than once they were attacked by creatures that called the Forest their home, and if thus far those assailants were too few or too weak to pose any real danger, that was just the luck of the draw. The next time they were attacked it might be the white pack again... or worse.
More than half the horses had been lost in that battle, either killed or maimed or run off in terror. The tethers of those that fled had been burned through in some cases, cut through cleanly in others, as if somehow their fear had managed an equine Working and freed them. More likely it was the fears of their riders which had done exactly that. Before they left the battle site the Patriarch had led them in prayer for a few minutes, trying to focus their energies in a positive manner, but how much good was that going to do? In the back of all their minds was a new awareness of the power of the Forest’s fae, and a growing fear that it would betray them. What happened to tethers could just as easily happen to explosives.
A good portion of the remaining horses were now carrying the wounded, with the result that all had to take their turn at walking. Andrys preferred it. His role as pathfinder required continued sensitivity to the Forest’s fae, a terrifying immersion in its power; he used the act of walking as a focus for his sanity, the pain of his blistered feet as an anchor to the world of solid