He awoke in a cold sweat, his heart pounding. The last moments of his dream were as fresh in his brain as if he had really lived them, and the implications of it were so stunning that as he rose to a sitting position, he noticed that his hands were shaking.
Was this what all “his war-dreams had been leading up to? He reached over to his lamp and cracked open the hood slightly, letting a faint light into the room. God in Heaven. Was there really a man like that, whose mere presence could disarm the Forest’s defenses? If so ... He breathed in deeply, trying to accept the implications. The Church had lost its Great War when its armies turned against the Forest; that cursed land was more powerful than mere human troops could ever hope to be. But if there were a key to that realm, a way of entering and traveling through it without setting off its defensive sorceries ... then they might indeed make it to the heart of the Hunter’s domain, and make war with him outright. They might then destroy the tyrant who had dominated that land for centuries, and thus free the human lands of his predations forever.
As spokesman for the One God’s Church, the Patriarch knew the power of symbols all too well, and this one reverberated in his soul with stunning force. A symbolic victory over the Forest’s prince would affect the fae in a way that generations of sorcerers could never manage, winning a far greater battle in the long run. It wouldn’t be necessary for men to make war against the Forest itself, or even try to contain it; that was the mistake the Patriarch’s predecessors had made, which had resulted in the Church’s greatest defeat. No, if they made war against the symbol of the Forest, by attacking its demonic monarch, and if they won, the planet itself would be their ally.
It could be done, he thought. Numbed by the concept. It could really be done.
For a moment he shut his eyes and prayed, opening himself up to the wisdom of his God. If this is foolishness, he begged, then tell me now. Could there possibly be a man like the one he saw in his dream, who so resembled the Hunter in outer aspect that he might pretend to be him, and lead Church troops to victory? It would take more than mere physical resemblance, the Patriarch suspected. What kind of man would be able to take on the Hunter’s persona-become him, in essence—and still serve the Church’s purpose in attacking his stronghold?
He’d have to be crazy, he thought. And if he wasn’t crazy to start with, he sure as hell would be by the time it was over.
With a sigh, he forced himself to lay back down. What were the odds that someone like that could be found, even if he existed? A million to one, if that. It was a dream, nothing more. Not a vision this time. Just a dream, like other men had. Just that.
But the image wouldn’t leave him. And even when he forced himself to shut his eyes-even as sleep shuttered his restless brain once more-he couldn’t help but imagine what it might mean to his Church if this dream, like so many others, proved true.
17
He ate a big meal at the end of the day, just as Karril had advised. It was hard for him. His appetite had faded long ago, and it went against all his best instincts to load himself up just at the moment when danger was beckoning most strongly. But if he couldn’t trust Karril then he figured the whole game was lost anyway, so what the hell.
He rented a small room in one of the poorer neighborhoods, using Church credit for the deposit. Having given the better part of his remaining cash to his previous landlady, he had no other option. He winced at the thought of the Patriarch hearing about it, but then, if the Holy Father heard about this incident at all, Damien would be in such deep shit anyway that a little bit of cash more or less would hardly matter. If the Patriarch found out that he was traveling with demons now, and knew what he planned to do ... he didn’t like to think about that possibility.
In the small, dingy room, by the light of a single lamp, he lay back on the worn coverlet of the bed and tried to relax. Beside him lay his sword, its leather-wrapped grip reassuringly familiar in the gloom. Outside the window Casca was setting, and the Core had yet to rise. True night would come soon, whether he was ready or not. He, dreaded what kind of power Karril might be conjuring, that required such a forum. Or was it Tarrant’s own nature that gave the true night special power over his affairs?
He lay still for a few minutes, and then it occurred to him that the lamplight, dim though it was, might hinder whatever process Karril meant to initiate. He turned the wick down nearly all the way and closed the hood tightly, leaving the room in nearly perfect darkness. Good time for demonlings to strike, he thought grimly, resting one hand upon the grip of his sword. God, what he Wouldn’t give to be back in the days when the worst of his worries was that some hungry brainless thing would try to snatch a bite of his flesh while he slept! That seemed like heaven, compared to the dangers he was courting now. He could hear little things scrabbling under the bed and for a moment he tensed, but then he realized they were probably no worse than bugs and rodents, arguing over some choice bit of refuse a previous occupant had left behind.
Damn it all, I hate waiting. He trained his vision on where the ceiling must be, darkness within darkness within darkness. There was no longer moonlight coming into the room, or any other light that could help him. His hand closed reflexively about the hilt of his sword as the thick, surreal blackness of the true night closed in around him. Now what? Was he supposed to change, or the room, or ... what? He listened to the scrabbling for another few minutes, until he thought he would go insane from doing nothing. Maybe Karril had chickened out, he thought; given the demon’s state of mind, that was a real possibility. If so, what was his next step? He tried to work out some kind of plan in his mind, but the close-lying darkness made organized thought difficult and, besides, he had already exhausted every plan he could think of. If Karril failed him now, then Tarrant was gone for good. In which case Calesta might as well chow down on the whole western continent, because there was nothing Damien could do to stop him.
He sensed several hungry things flitting outside the window, no doubt spawned by the brief bout of true darkness. Fortunately for them, none mistook him for prey and tried to enter. He almost regretted it. It would feel good to cut something to pieces-anything-for the sheer physical relief of such action.
Then, slowly, it dawned on him that he could see again. A rectangle of dull light where the window had been. A shadow in place of the back of a chair. With a muttered curse he rose up to a sitting position, and
Stopped moving. Stopped breathing. Stared.
The walls were gone now, and in their place was something far less substantial, through which he could see the lights of the town beyond. The floor of his room was still dark, but beneath it-through it-he could see currents of fae-light coursing like water over the ground, sparkling here and there with silver and silver-blue highlights. The rest of his room was gone, simply gone-all the furniture, the rug, even the sad little picture that hung crookedly on the far wall—and only shadows of those things remained, some clear to his eye, others barely discernible.
“Ready to go?”
He started to hear Karril’s voice from right beside him, and grabbed reflexively for his sword as he turned to acknowledge him. The demon had exchanged his velvet robes for a tight-fitting jacket and breeches not unlike Damien’s own; a short cloak was clasped to his shoulders by jeweled brooches the size of a man’s fist. He seemed unarmed, but who was Damien to judge the nature of a demon’s arsenal? He also seemed tense, which was so uncharacteristic that it heightened Damien’s own sense of impending danger.