For gone, read south. The enemy’s turf.
“Two days,” he muttered. Already it seemed too long to be staying in this place. He looked up at Tarrant and asked him, “Alone?”
“Your call, Reverend Vryce.”
The priest sighed. “You know, you were a lot easier to deal with when you were nasty.”
It seemed to him that the Hunter smiled. “You’d better start back now, priest. There’s rain coming, in quantity.” As if in illustration of his point a bright spear of lightning cut across the sky. Thunder followed almost immediately.
“Gerald.”
Startled by his use of the familiar address, the Hunter looked down at him.
The words caught in his throat; he had to force them out. “If you really think we can’t win here . . . if you think there’s no chance at all . . . then tell me. In those words.”
“And then what? You’ll give it up and go home?”
“I came here to risk my life for a cause. Not to waste it away in some suicidal exercise. That benefits no one.” He waited for a response, but when the Hunter was not forthcoming he pressed, “I may not care much for your lifestyle, but I do value your judgment. You know that. So if you tell me that we don’t have a chance of success here—not any chance at all—I’ll reconsider our mission.”
“And turn back?”
“Well . . .” He coughed. “Let’s say I’d look for some other way to attack this mess.”
Silence.
“Well?”
“There is a chance,” the Hunter whispered. “A very slim chance, but it’s there. And the girl’s presence might cost you dearly, but it will also confound your enemies. Only time can tell whom that will serve most in the end.”
He felt something unknot deep in his gut, something cold and hard and—yes—scared. For the first time in several long minutes he dared to draw in a deep breath. “That’s enough, then.” Who would have thought such a tenuous judgment could give him such a sense of relief? “Thank you.”
A cold drop hit him on the head then, and another on his arm. The faint patter of raindrops sounded from nearer the shore, coming their way.
He almost didn’t ask it. Almost.
“How much did they offer?”
A raindrop splattered on the light brown hair. “Ten thousand for you, Reverend Vryce. Five thousand for Mes Hesseth. Two thousand for any other poor soul who happened to be accompanying you at the time the reward was claimed.”
He thought of the child and his stomach tightened. “Dead? Alive? What?”
“Only dead,” the Hunter said quietly. “They have, as you see, no interest in detaining you. Only in removing you from the picture.” The pale eyes fixed on him. “You’d better start back now. It’s a long walk, and there’s rain coming.”
“And you?”
“I can take care of myself,” he assured him. And added, somewhat soberly, “I always do.”
But Damien didn’t move right away. For a moment he just stayed where he was, watching the man. Wondering at the past that Tarrant had revealed to him.
His descendants may still be alive, he realized. A whole Tarrant clan, sired by this demonic pride, baptised in sacrificial slaughter. Dear God! To live and die under such a shadow . . . What would that do to a child, to come and face such a thing? What mark would it leave to the generations that followed? I shiver just to think of it.
Then the rain came down in earnest, and he scrambled down the slippery rocks to more solid ground. Tarrant was invisible behind a veil of water, lost glistening darkness. If he was there at all. If he somehow found shelter in that last dry instant.
Like I should have done, Damien chided himself, started the long, wet walk back to his companions.
32
The Matria of Esperanova didn’t like to keep her Regent waiting. The other humans were only so much flotsam to her—she would leave them waiting for hours without a second thought—but this Regent was a special case. She had carefully nurtured their relationship down through the years, and now she had no doubt that if a puddle suddenly appeared in front of her, he would throw himself down bodily in the mud and the water so that, by treading on his back, she might keep her silk shoes dry. She even felt a vaguely maternal protectiveness toward him sometimes, like one might feel for a starving kitten, a puppy lost in the rain . . . or a pet. Yes, that’s what Kinsei Donnel was. A pet.
She hated to keep him waiting, but the tides weren’t being cooperative today. She had already tried twice to put on her disguise, but the sluggish tidal force wouldn’t vouchsafe her enough power to whip up half a human nose, much less a whole convincing face. For many long minutes she struggled with it, and then, just as she was ready to throw up her claws in frustration, the power flickered into existence briefly in the air surrounding her. Not much, but it was good enough. She molded it with a practiced touch, and used it to weave a mask over her features that no human could see through. There wasn’t enough power to mask her rakhene scent as well, but that was all right. The humans never noticed it anyway.
Frustrated by the delay, she walked quickly to her receiving chamber to welcome the Regent. Like most Matrias she kept the better part of her body hidden, swathed in the robes and headdress of her calling, and that kept the effort of disguise down to a minimum. Nevertheless, there had been times when the power had failed her utterly and she had been forced to slough her illusory features before the appointed time. Usually she had managed to get to some private space before that happened, but once a human servant had been with her and she hadn’t thought to send him away until the change had already begun. She’d had him killed, of course. Some religious excuse. Heresy? Possession? She couldn’t remember. The man had seen her true self emerge, and so he had died. Finita.
Human religions were so useful.
Some of the Matrias went so far as to cultivate a quasi-human appearance, tinting their facial fur to a more human shade or even shaving it off entirely. The closer you came to looking like a human in fact, the easier it was to conjure an illusion to complete the facade. But this Matria had never been able to bring herself to do it. Humanity was a repellent species, and sometimes the only thing that got her through the day was knowing that at night—in her secret locked chamber, where no human being had ever set foot—she might cast off that hated visage along with her robes and truly relax, resplendent in fur and the features that Erna had blessed her with.
And the smell, she thought, as a human servant passed by her in the hall. The sharp, sour stink of his species stung her nose, and she grimaced in distaste. Don’t forget the smell.
Reception chamber. Small and informal, with a minimum of religious clutter. The kind of room you used when you wanted to communicate to someone that his relationship with you had taken on a truly personal air, that he was—in your eyes—a Special Person. It was the kind of gesture that humans reveled in, and she had used it time and again as positive reinforcement for her well-trained Regent.
Stupid animals, she thought, as she opened the alteroak doors.
Kinsei Donnel was inside waiting, and as usual there was no surprise involved in greeting him. Familiar eyes in a nondescript face, faintly bovine. Limpid expression, also bovine. A faint aura of excitement about him today, which she could have read if the power were stronger. That intrigued her; Esperanova’s Regent rarely got excited.
“Kinsei,” she purred.
He came to her and dropped to one knee, that he might kiss her hand in adoration. “Your Holiness.”
“This is an unexpected surprise.” He got to his feet slowly and clumsily, not unlike a cow who had been knocked over in its sleep. “What brings you here?”