Then the Hunter—closed the book and said, “It’s here.”
Sleep, which had been closing in about Damien, was banished in an instant. He sat up in the chair and demanded, “What is?”
“The data I was looking for. He found it.” He put his hand on the leather cover and shut his eyes; Damien thought he saw him tremble slightly. “All through human history men have tried to harness the fae-surge that precedes earthquakes. It’s common knowledge that it can’t be done, yet they keep trying. The thought of that much power outweighs all natural caution, it seems, and not until the fae fries their brains to ash does it become clear that there are some things men were never meant to do.” His hand spread out across the mottled leather of the scrapbook, as if drinking in its contents through that contact. “Likewise there are those who try to Work at the site of an active volcano, for the same reason. The results there are identical. Man can’t channel that kind of power and live to talk about it.”
“You needed Zen’s notes to tell you that? Hell, I could have saved you the trouble.”
Instead of being irritated, the Hunter smiled faintly. “But you see, there were other questions left to be asked. Questions no one thought of, except our obsessed friend Mer Reese.”
“Such as?”
He indicated the volume before him. “These men and women all died Working. What happened to their Workings when they perished? Were they obliterated alongside their makers, dispersed in that one fatal instant? Or did they take hold of the wild current, impressing the fae with their purpose even as their owners burned?”
“Does it matter?”
“It might.” Though his voice was calm, his posture was rigid, as if all his tension had been channeled into that one outlet. “It might matter very much.”
“Why?”
In answer the Hunter pushed the heavy book away from him, and forced himself to lean back in his chair. For a moment he was still, his eyes fixed on a distant, imaginary horizon. At last, in a tense voice, he said, “The negative of sadism is altruism."
Damien inhaled sharply. “Are you sure about that?”
“Is it possible to be sure? I think it likely.”
Altruism. Unselfish concern for the welfare of others. Damien tried to fit it into the Iezu pattern, to see if it would work. Could one want to spare others from pain, and at the same time take delight in hurting them? “It feels right,” he said at last. “Better than anything else we’ve come up with, that’s for sure.”
The Hunter nodded.
“But how does that help us? I mean, we can hardly force Calesta to do charity work.”
“With enough power,” the Hunter said evenly, “we can force him to do anything.”
It took a second for Tarrant’s meaning to sink in; when it did so, he felt his gut tighten in dread. “Gerald, you can’t. No man has ever survived that kind of Working—”
“And what is altruism, if not the sacrifice of one’s self for the common good?”
“So you’ll burn out like the others? For what? How does that help us?”
“Read this,” he said, pushing the heavy book toward Damien. “Read the articles that Senzei Reese put in here, and the notes he made. These men who risked their lives to Work—”
“They all died, Gerald!"
"But they didn’t all fail Read it! In three separate cases he was able to demonstrate that their Workings survived them. Think of that, Vryce! Think of the power!”
“Three out of how many?” he demanded. “You’re talking about odds so low I can’t even do the math. Be real, Gerald.”
The Hunter looked out the window; the morning sky was brilliant with starlight, and a faint band of gray marked the eastern horizon.
“Beyond my home in the Forest,” he told Damien, “is a source of power so immense that if there weren’t mountains bounding it, no human being could live on this continent. You’ve seen its power active in the Forest itself, and yet that’s but its edge. Its shadow. Its focus is Mount Shaitan, an active volcano, and its fae is so wild that few men dare to even approach it.”
Shaitan? It sounded strangely familiar to him, but he couldn’t place it. “I’ve heard the name.”
“I’m not surprised; it’s legendary. Every now and then some sorcerer makes a pilgrimage to its slopes; a few live to talk about it. I’ve been to its valley myself, and seen that awesome power. Nothing on Erna can rival it, Vryce. No earthquake surge, no sorcerer’s will ... no demon.”
“But the Iezu aren’t normal demons.” He was suddenly afraid of where this was heading. “Remember?”
“Kami’s first memory is of Shaitan. I know of at least two other Iezu for whom that’s also true. There’s a link between them that goes deeper than a simple question of power. What better way to destroy a Iezu than at the place of his birth?”
“And what about the creature that gave birth to him?”
A muscle tensed along the line of his jaw. “There’s no record of any such creature active in that realm.”
“No one ever tried to kill its children before.”
The Hunter turned toward him; a shadow sculpted the scar on his face in vivid relief. “So there’s risk, Reverend Vryce. Did you think there wouldn’t be? Did you think we’d find an easy answer? Some simple incantation that would allow us to unmake our Iezu enemy without effort, without loss?” He shook his head sadly. “I’d have thought you wiser than that.”
“You’re talking about almost certain death, and damned little chance of success. It seems like one hell of a long shot to me.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “But what if that’s all we have?”
Damien started to protest, then swallowed the words. Because Tarrant was right, damn it. As usual.
The Hunter rose to his feet. Damien knew him well enough to see the underlying tension in his body, and to guess at the inner turmoil that inspired it. But the polished facade was perfectly emotionless, and Tarrant’s voice likewise betrayed no human weakness as he recounted the details of his fate. “As of this dawn I have only twenty-nine days left. At the end of that time the Unnamed will dissolve our compact, and I will, in all probability, die. So you see, Reverend Vryce, I have nothing to lose by taking such a chance. Perhaps the earth-fae will claim me, as it has with so many others, but if I can impress it with one last Working ... I would like to take that bastard with me,” he said, his voice suddenly fierce. “I would like my death to mean that much. Can you understand that?”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I understand.”
“It’ll be a long and dangerous journey, and not one I would ordinarily relish. Few living men have survived it. And if Calesta should guess at my purpose, and turn his full illusory skill against me ...” He drew in a deep breath, and exhaled it slowly. Damien thought he saw him tremble. “You don’t have to go. I’ll understand.”
“Of course—”
“You have a life here, and duties, and a future—”
"Gerald." He waited until the Hunter was silent, then said sharply, “Don’t be a fool. Of course I’m going.”
Backlit by the light of early dawn, the Hunter stared at him. What was that emotion in his eyes, so hard to see against the light? Fear? Determination? Dread? Perhaps a mixture of all three, but something else besides. Something that was easier to identify. Something very human.
Gratitude.
With a glance toward the window, as if gauging the sun’s progress, Tarrant nodded. “All right, then.” His voice was little more than a whisper, as if the growing light had leached it of volume. “Purchase whatever provisions you need. There won’t be food available in Shaitan’s valley, so pack enough for several weeks. We’ll have to change horses to make good time; don’t invest too much in that area. Do you have money?”