But at the door he stopped, unable to leave the room, There was still something unspoken here, something the Patriarch should know. Something he needed to know, if Andrys was to play his role effectively.
He turned partway back, not far enough that he had to meet the Patriarch’s eyes but enough that his words would be clearly audible. “Gerald Tarrant killed my family,” he whispered hoarsely. Choking on the words, and on the painful memories they conjured. “I want him to pay for that. I ... I would do anything to hurt him.”
It seemed to him that the Patriarch sighed. Then, with a soft whisper of silk on silk, the Holy Father rose from his seat and came over to where Andrys stood. He put a hand upon the young man’s shoulder, and it seemed to Andrys in that instant that the man’s own strength and certainty flowed through the contact, bolstering his own fragile hopes.
“He’ll pay for that sin in Hell,” the Holy Father assured him. “And so many others. We’ll see to it.”
25
"Tell me about Senzei Reese.”
Startled, Damien looked up from the volume he was studying. “What? Why?”
“Tell me about him.”
He stared at the Hunter for a moment as if that action might net him some information, but as usual Tarrant’s expression was unreadable. At last, with a sigh, he closed the book. “What do you want to know?”
“The man. His habits, his beliefs. Tell me.”
“May I ask why?”
“Later. Just tell me.”
So he did. It wasn’t the easiest task in the world, but after half a night’s frustrating dedication to dusty tomes and wan hopes, it was as good an assignment as any. He tried to remember Ciani’s assistant, and to describe him for Tarrant. Thin. Pale. Studious. Utterly devoted to Ciani, and to their work. What was it that Tarrant wanted? he wondered. Why did a man who’d been dead for nearly two years suddenly matter so much? Not knowing what his focus of interest was, Damien floundered through a description. Meticulous. Focused. Frustrated. He went through the easy adjectives first, and then he came to the painful part. He was obsessed by the desire to become an adept. He was convinced that somehow it could be managed. He believed ... He struggled to remember, to find the right words. He thought that the potential was there inside him, waiting to be let out. That somehow, if he could only “set it free,” he’d be the equal of Ciani.
He remembered what that obsession had cost Senzei, and pain welled up inside him as fresh as the day it had happened. He saw Senzei’s body, twisted and tortured, lying on the mountain grass where it had been struck down. And beside him the flask of holy Fire, which he had tried to take into his body to burn through his inner barriers. Though they hadn’t recognized it at the time, that was Calesta’s first victory over their small party. The first death in a war that had now claimed thousands in the east, and threatened to do the same here.
“Earthquakes,” Tarrant prompted. “Did he talk about them?”
Puzzled by the request, he tried to remember. They had discussed so much on that journey, desperate to pass the time in something other than silence. “He was so fascinated by the fae-surge,” he said at last. Struggling to remember. “I think he wanted to harness it, but didn’t dare try.”
Tarrant hissed softly. There was an alertness about him that reminded Damien of a hunting animal. “He thought it might make him an adept?”
“He thought a lot of things,” Damien said warily. “The last one got him killed. What’s on your mind?”
The Hunter looked at him. His eyes were black and hungry. “Did he take notes?”
“I think so. Why?”
“Might they still exist?”
He considered. “He lived with a woman before we left. I sent back word to her of what happened, when we got out of the rakhlands. Your guess is as good as mine what she did with his things, after that. Why?” he asked suddenly. “What are you thinking?”
“A possible plan,” he said softly. “But I need more data before I can assess its practicality. I think Mer Reese would have collected that data. I mink that some of it may be in his notes.”
“You won’t tell me what it is?”
He shook his head. “Not now. It’s too great a long shot. Let me confirm what I suspect, and then ...” He drew in a deep breath. “I’ll tell you as soon as I know for certain. I promise.”
“Yeah. Thanks. I live for secondhand research.”
If the sarcasm in his tone bothered Tarrant, the Hunter gave no sign of it. “Come,” he said, rising. “Let’s see if his notes are still around.”
Out of habit, Damien glanced at the clock. “Isn’t it a little late to go visiting?”
The Hunter’s gaze was venomous. “I have twenty-nine days left,” he said icily. “In the face of that, do you think I care if I inconvenience someone?”
“No,” he muttered, embarrassed. “No reason you should. I’m sorry.”
“Do you remember where this woman lives?”
“Not exactly. But that’s what the fae’s for, isn’t it?” Then he hesitated. “Are you sure she’ll be willing to help us this late?”
“No.” The Hunter smiled coldly. “Not at all. But that’s what the fae’s for, isn’t it?”
The house was just as he remembered it: small and warm and utterly domestic. There were more quake-wards on the front porch now, as well as several new sigils etched into the window; he felt a pang of mourning at the irony of that. When Senzei Reese had lived here, his fiancée had been wary of such devices. Now that he was gone, and the house was free of his obsession, Worked items became acceptable again. It surprised him how bitter he felt about that.
“All right.” He sighed, and started toward the stairs. “Let’s do it.”
“One moment.” Tarrant’s eyes were focused on the ground before the house; Damien sensed him grow tense as he took hold of the currents with his will and began to mold them. As always, he found it eerie that a human being could Work without any sign or incantation to focus concentration.
When it seemed to him that Tarrant was done, he asked, “What are you doing?”
“Merely compensating for the late hour. I understand that anything more would be offensive to you.
You see?” The pale eyes fixed on him, a spark of sardonic humor in their depths. “I do learn, Reverend Vryce.”
“About time,” he muttered, as they climbed up the porch stairs together.
It was Tarrant who rapped on the door, and Damien could sense his power woven into the sound, making it reverberate inside any human brain within hearing range. He waited a moment and then knocked again, and suddenly a light came on near the back of the house. She had been sleeping, no doubt. Damien wondered how effective Tarrant’s Working would be if she were barely awake.
After a minute they could see a figure padding through the house, a lamp in its hand. It came to the door and fumbled with the latch, then opened it. A short chain stretched taut as the door was pulled open a few inches.
“Yes?” It was a man. “What do you want?”
Damien couldn’t find his voice; it was Tarrant who filled in. “We’re looking for Allesha Huyding.”
“What’s it about?” he demanded. “And why can’t it wait until morning?”
Damien was about to risk an answer when a female voice sounded from the back of the house. “What is it, Rick?”
“Two men,” he answered curtly. “I don’t know either of them.”
There was movement in the room behind him now, as someone else approached. “Let me see,” she said softly. She peered over his arm and studied Tarrant, then turned to look at Damien. And gasped.
“Sorry to bother you-” the priest began.
“No bother,” she answered quickly. She nodded to the man. “Let them in.”
“But, Lesh—”
“It’s okay. Let them come in.”
He clearly thought otherwise, but he pushed the door closed for a moment, undid the chain, and then opened it wide. Whatever Tarrant had done to keep her calm and cooperative, it had clearly not worked on him.