Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [62]
“Calesta—” he whispered.
Obey, the voice hissed, and its tone made his skin crawl. Or our compact ends here and now.
Terrified of the memories that the mural would awaken, but far more afraid of being abandoned by the only living creature who could give him back his soul, Andrys Tarrant forced himself to cross the foyer and enter the sanctuary once again. May God forgive him for his presence here, for his use of the Church to further a demon’s plans. May God understand that in the end he would be serving His cause, ridding this world of one of the greatest evils it had ever produced. May God forgive ... everything.
Behind him, out of hearing, Calesta laughed.
Twelve
In the depths of the Forest
In the Hunter’s citadel
The albino moved silently, secretly, grateful for the Hunter’s absence.
Through fae-sealed doors he went, well-warded portals protecting the Hunter’s domain. He knew the signs to open them. Down curving stairs, well-guarded by demonlings. He knew how to turn them aside. Into the workshop, and through it. To the secret room beyond, and its torture table: the heart and soul of Gerald Tarrant’s dominion.
Wisps of blackness trailed behind him, like smoke from a candle flame. There there there, voices whispered as it passed. It must be in that place. That place only.
If one’s eyes were sensitive enough, one could see the memories that clung to this place. Almea Tarrant, dying a slow and painful death by her husband’s hand. Gerald Tarrant’s two youngest children, crying out as their father betrayed them. Three elements in a compact established centuries ago, with power enough to sustain a man past death. Three deaths. Nine centuries. Not a bad deal, when all was considered.
The blackness followed him into the chamber and paused there, where it coalesced into a single dark flame. It should be done in Merentha, a voice whispered hungrily. It should be done where the pact was first made.
“If I go to Merentha he’ll find me out,” the albino said sharply. “This place is a perfect copy of the original; it’ll be good enough.”
The blackness parted into a hundred tiny flames, a thousand; its voices fluttered like insects about the room. Then do it do it do it now now NOW!
He put a hand to the cold stone table, feeling the power that was lodged within it. The whole room was filled with power, centuries of it building and feeding and growing here in the subterranean darkness, seeded by memories of bloodshed and cruelty. Power such as few men ever knew. Power such as no man but the Hunter had ever controlled.
“State the terms of our compact,” the albino demanded. It was his first command to the unnamed power that had approached him so very long ago. For one who had never commanded demons in his own right, it was a heady tonic. “Clearly and simply. I want no room for confusion.”
We will sustain you as we once sustained him, beyond natural death. We will give you the Forest which was his, and show you how to control it. We will take him from the face of the planet, so that all his domain may be yours to claim.
“And in return?” he asked hungrily.
The lightless presence coalesced into a single flame, a limitless shadow; it hurt his eyes to look at it directly. We must have him, a single voice demanded. It was deeper than those which had sounded before, and power echoed in its wake. Because his soul is independent of Us, We must have a channel in order to claim his flesh. You will give that to Us.
“And Hell?”
It seemed to him there was laughter in that blackness; the tenor of it made his skin crawl. He betrayed Us, and must be made to answer for it. Hell may have what is left when We are done.
And then it asked: Agreed? A thousand voices once more, all echoing the same demand.
For a moment the albino hesitated. Only a moment, and not because he was afraid. This was an act to be savored: the moment in time at which his path and the Hunter’s would separate forever. Centuries from now he would look back on this night and