Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [67]
“What can I do?” she whispered. “Anything?”
In terms of affecting the outcome of the conflict? The figure hesitated. I can’t counsel you on that issue. Such interference with another ... it’s forbidden. As for Andrys Tarrant, I will tell you this: he would be fortunate to lose his life in this endeavor, for his ally intends to destroy him in soul as surely as he means to destroy the Hunter in body.
Even more softly: “What can I do?”
You know the options. Now you know the risk. Make your choices accordingly.
“What would you do?”
The figure drew back; if it had been more human in countenance, Narilka might have thought it was startled. I lack the emotions that would make such a question meaningful. The Hunter has created great beauty in his time, though of a cold and inhuman sort; part of me would regret his passing. As for his enemy ... we do not share priorities, he and I. And I think that in a world where he ruled, I would have no comfortable place. But the concept of taking sides is meaningless, when I am forbidden to interfere. Only to protect my own may I act.
Her heart was pounding so loudly she could barely hear the whispering voice above its beat; her hands twisted nervously, one about the other. “You can protect me?”
From his ally. From the illusions that are his power. No more than that.
“How?”
It seemed to her the figure smiled. The same rules bind us all, it said. Silken veils swirled about its thighs. For as long as you are mine, he cannot touch you.
She shut her eyes; the figure was still bright in her vision. “I’ve always been yours. I always will be.”
For now. Until this war is over.
“Always!”
You may choose differently when this is finished.
“I won’t.”
We shall see, the figure said quietly. Until then, however you choose, know that I am watching you. Always.
The figure began to fade slowly, becoming translucent first so that the walls (there were walls again!) showed through it. Then the veils misted into smoke, and were scattered by the air; the gleaming flesh dissolved into random glitter, then dissipated before her eyes. Nothing was left of the image of the goddess, save the memory which even now made her tremble.
“Thank you, Saris.” She could barely find enough voice to shape the words. “Thank you.”
She managed to get to her feet somehow. Managed to get to where her clothing lay and put it back on, piece by piece. How few mortals ever saw a god incarnate, much less were counseled by one? Her hands were shaking as she put the communion robe aside. Saris was watching, she told herself. She would always be watching. For whatever reason, the goddess seemed to care about the outcome of this ... what had she called it? A war.
Fully dressed now, she shivered. Oh, Narilka. What are you getting yourself into?
Had she looked behind her as she left the temple, she would have seen nothing unusual, for Saris no longer maintained the illusion of a solid form. Had she listened closely, she would have heard nothing unusual, for Saris no longer couched her words in cadences the fleshborn might hear. But there was a presence behind her, and there were words, and both were echoed by the fae as it flowed about her feet.
Careful, my brother, the Iezu/goddess whispered. We are all watching now.
Fifteen
The snake is black, and its eyes are drops of blood. At one end its many necks twine like tentacles, promising to enmesh the unwary in a living web of cold flesh and sharp teeth. At the other end is a face out of Hell, whose hot breath stinks of sulfur and carrion as it lunges for him, jaws snapping shut mere inches from his throat as he throws himself backward—
Damien awoke suddenly, heart pounding. He was lying on the couch of his rented apartment, and his body was drenched with sweat. What a nightmare! He tried to sit up, but his muscles were like knots and he had to work them loose before they would obey him. What the hell had brought that on?
He would have suspected Tarrant, but the dream wasn’t his style at all; the Hunter generally preferred a