Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [203]
The white animals—identical to those which had attacked them earlier—were spaced out at regular intervals along the wall. There were a hell of a lot of them, Andrys noted grimly. But they would have to come down from the wall and cross a good part of the courtyard to get to them. With enough springbolts and a good dose of luck the soldiers might just survive this.
As if in response to that very thought another figure appeared. This one was human, and as it moved to the edge of a parapet it pulled another figure with it. A shaft of moonlight fell across them, illuminating a ghastly albino visage above, a pale and a hollowed face beneath—
Andrys’ heart nearly stopped beating as he realized who it was the albino held as hostage. The whole world seemed to stop for a moment, frozen in that single instant of horror.
“Church-man!” The albino cried out the title in defiance, but it seemed to Andrys that there was a tremor of fear in his voice. “I have your girl! Do you see?” He shoved her forward, into the moonlight, his other hand holding a knife to her throat. “Back off now with all your men, or I’ll cut her throat right in front of you!”
He could see her clearly now, her terrified eyes pleading with him. The albino held her by the hair with one hand, and he jerked at it as he snarled, “I’m waiting.” Andrys saw her wince from pain, but she made no sound. No doubt the albino, like his master, would take pleasure in her cries.
It had to be an illusion, he thought desperately, some kind of evil Working. Narilka couldn’t be here. Could she?
As if sensing his thoughts, the white man pressed his blade into the throat of his prisoner; a jewel of red welled up at its point. “Tell him,” he hissed.
“Andrys.” Her voice was weak, but not nearly as fearful as he would have expected. “Please.”
“You see?” the albino demanded. “Do you need to hear more?”
He looked back at the Patriarch in panic. The Holy Father’s expression was grim, but he shook his head. Some vision had clearly shown him that this was not the time for him to wield his power. Which meant that Andrys was on his own. He looked about desperately for Zefila, but she wasn’t about to interfere without some signal from the Patriarch.
“Leave this place now,” the albino growled. “Or her blood will be on your hands.”
Why wasn’t the man attacking them? His pack was in position. There were enough of the beasts to paint the courtyard red with blood. Did he fear that here, in the heart of the Hunter’s realm, Andrys could tap into his ancestor’s power? Did he imagine that open battle might tip the scale and turn Andrys into an enemy he couldn’t defeat? With sudden inspiration, the younger Tarrant realized just how intense the man’s fear of the Hunter still was. And the reality of his own helplessness was all the more painful for being contrasted against the albino’s expectations.
His soul knotted in anguish, he looked up at Narilka. How helpless she seemed, that fragile body bent back to meet the knife! Fragile unless you knew her inner strength, fragile unless you had seen her defend herself, fragile unless you’d heard stories of the men who had taken her for a victim, only to be taught otherwise....
He looked into her eyes then, and he knew. He saw the message that was in them, and he understood.
“Your choice,” the albino snarled, in a voice so bestial it was barely comprehensible.
Give me a chance, her dark eyes begged. Not trembling with fear, but with another kind of tension. Just one chance.
He saw the albino’s knife arm tense; the moment of choice was at hand. There was only one thing he could think of that would give her a chance, only one distraction that would work. Though his soul quailed at the mere thought of it, he dared not hesitate. He had failed her in so many ways in the past... he would not do so again.
He opened himself to the Forest. Not slowly, not carefully, but all