The figure wore the breastplate. His breastplate! Embossed with the Earth-sun in that unlikely golden color, rays spreading out in just the way that he had drawn them, copying Gerald Tarrant’s own renderings. Andrys felt sick as he looked up at the mural, as the power of its image hit home. Was this what Calesta wanted him to see-that his fear and his shame were emblazoned on the cathedral wall for all to witness? The vast sanctuary suddenly seemed very close, and its air was hard to breathe. He had to get out of here. He had to get away from that thing, far away, before its presence strangled him utterly. Weak-legged, he struggled to work his way down the row of seats to where the exit was. It seemed to him that there were eyes in that painted face, pale gray eyes that watched him from across the sanctuary. Thank God he was far enough from the other congregants that few seemed to notice his departure; as for the priest, he probably saw him from his standpoint up at the dais, but he wouldn’t interrupt the traditional service to comment upon the departure of one wayward parishioner. Dear God, if he only knew....
He managed to get outside-somehow—and made his way from the great double doors to a place some few yards away where trees provided a modicum of shade. Several strangers noticed his shaky passage and began to approach as if they meant to offer help, but he warned them off with a look and leaned heavily against a tree trunk, trying to catch his breath.
I failed you, Calesta. Despair was a knot in his heart, a knife in his soul. You told me what to do and I couldn’t. I couldn’t! But if he’d hoped for any kind of response from his patron, he wasn’t going to get it here. No demon could manifest on the One God’s doorstep. He had to face this moment alone.
God, why couldn’t he have brought his pills with him? Even a few grains of slowtime, just to act as a tranquilizer. He saw a few passersby staring at him, and he tried to look stronger than he felt so that they wouldn’t come over to help him. After a moment they looked away and continued walking, and he breathed a sigh that was half relief and half dread.
He knew what he had to do. He knew, but he couldn’t face it. How could he go back in there, back in where that was, and endure a whole service beneath that living image of his enemy? I’m not that strong, he despaired, and sickness welled up so strongly inside him that for a moment he could hardly breathe. I can’t do it.
Then you will never have your revenge, a cool voice warned.
Startled, he stiffened. Was that Calesta? Here? For some reason that possibility scared him more than all the rest combined, that his demon-patron could speak to him so close to God’s holy altar. Wasn’t the very point of the Church worship supposed to be control of such creatures?
Did you think it would be easy, Andrys Tarrant? Did you think you could conquer the Hunter without pain?
The words didn’t comfort him, but rather made him feel horribly isolated. In that church were hundreds of worshipers sharing a communion he could never taste, a faith he had no right to counterfeit; here was he with his demon guide, utterly alone even in the midst of a crowd. How long could he go on like this, pretending that he was coping? Pretending that he was truly alive? He needed more than a demon’s voice in his head to keep going; he needed human warmth, human contact, human touch ... a vision of the black-haired girl took shape before him, and he cried out softly in pain for wanting her. Not that. Never that. To court her now was to condemn her to death-or worse—and he could never, ever be the cause of that. Not even though it made his soul bleed to have her so close, so very close, and not reach out to her.
If you prefer to continue without me, the cold voice warned, that can be arranged.
That fear was worse than all the others combined. “No!” he whispered. “Don’t leave me!” What would he be without Calesta? He no longer had a life of his own, but was defined by the demon’s will, the demon’s plans. How would he survive alone, facing his memories with no hope of redress?
Then go, the voice commanded, and its tone was like acid. Obey.
Slowly, reluctantly, he turned back toward the cathedral. The outer doors were still open; the inner doors, leading to the sanctuary, beckoned. Slowly he walked up the polished stone stairs once more, and then hesitated. Could he sit through the rest of the ritual without staring at the portrait of his ancestor, without reliving his one bloody memory of the man? Why should his quest for vengeance demand such a trial? “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.
12
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!