Inside the citadel itself there were guards, but they let him pass without word. There were servants also, and perhaps they would have attended him had he required them to, but he chose instead to wrap himself in a Distracting so that they were not even aware of his passage. Voices shivered in the crystalline halls, reflecting down the labyrinthine hallways, and occasionally the sound of human laughter accompanied them, but he met no other people in the maze-like corridors. Whether in response to his will or that of the Prince—or both—the illusory walls proved more than efficient in isolating him from the inhabitants of the strange citadel.
Alone, unannounced, he at last reached what he presumed to be an audience chamber. Vast, multifaceted, it glimmered with falsehoods and illusions in an ever-changing array, ghostly columns winking in and out of sight as he gazed about its walls. There were rugs cast down on the floor, and they lent that surface a stability rare in this place; as he walked to the edge of the nearest, he noted threads of gold and silver and half a dozen other fine metals worked into its surface, along with a dusting of what might well be gemstones. Or were there crystal threads as well, nature’s bounty drawn out and made flexible so that a man might walk upon them? As he set down his foot upon its thick pile, the nearest illusions faded, and a room took shape before him. Furniture in dark wood inlaid with gold, ivory fastenings, scarlet tassels. Silken cushions in the colors of the sunset. Gold silk spilled across a table, with polished silver goblets on its surface.
And two men.
One was a rakh, though not like any rakh that Tarrant had ever seen. His uniform and manner proclaimed him to be a guard of some kind, and Tarrant ignored him. The other was human, and familiar to him. He seemed older now than he had in his Sending, but perhaps that was just the inaccuracy of the fae interfering; it was hard for even an adept to send a perfect image across such distances.
“Neocount Merentha.” The Prince’s eyes were a cool blue, Tarrant noted, his expression not hostile but guarded.
“What a rare honor it is to welcome such a guest. Your reputation precedes you.”
He bowed ever so slightly, a flawless blend of respect and wariness. Aware that his every move was being watched, his every expression studied and judged, he responded formally. “The honor is mine, your Highness.”
“I regret that your journey here could not have been more pleasant.” He moved toward the table; ringed fingers closed about the stem of a goblet. “May I offer you some refreshment to wash away the dust of the road?” He extended the cup toward him.
He came close enough that he might catch the scent which wafted forth from its contents, then accepted the cup from the Prince’s hand. For an instant their fingers touched, and while a lesser man might have used such contact to probe his true intentions, the Prince’s touch was utterly neutral. As was his, of course. They were both being infinitely careful.
He raised the goblet to his lips and breathed in its bouquet. Sweet and fresh and warm to the touch; body temperature? He took a ritual sip, bracing himself against the hunger it awakened, and then put the goblet down. Carefully steady, artfully disinterested.
“Weak vintage?” the Prince asked. Smiling slightly.
With studied nonchalance he shrugged. “Disembodied blood is a convenience, not a pleasure. But I thank you for the thought.”
“I thought you might be hungry after days in my wasteland. But you wouldn’t admit that in front of me, would you? Not even if you were starving.”
“Would you, in my place?”
“Hardly.” He chuckled. “We’re very much alike, you and I. If we can ever learn to trust each other enough to work together, it will be quite an alliance.”
“I’ll admit that the potential intrigues me.”
“And the promise of godhood, eh? No small reward for a simple betrayal.”
“If you think it was simple,” the Hunter said quietly, “then perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think.”
The blue eyes sparkled coldly. “You know I have the priest and the girl in custody.”
Tarrant shrugged.
“They mean nothing to you?”
“You know why I came here. You know what I want.”
For a moment he said nothing. Then: “Calesta.”
“Calesta.”
The Prince’s expression tightened. “Calesta’s been my servant for years. He helped me build this kingdom, and was instrumental in planning our invasion of the Church lands—”
“And the death by torture of several hundred humans.”
“Does that bother you?”
“I despise waste.”
“The Iezu aren’t like other demons. They do their best work when you give them free rein. Who am I to complain about his methods, when I stand to gain so much from them? Or you, for that matter?”
“You intend to protect him, then?”
“I intend for you to be an honored guest here. Stay in my realm, see with your own eyes what part he plays here. I suspect that your feelings will change.”
“And if they don’t?”
The Prince’s gaze was intense. “A Iezu is born every hour, it’s said. A man like yourself . . . once in a lifetime. If that. I made my choice when I invited you here.”
He turned to the rakh and muttered. “Go get her.” With military precision the maned guard bowed and left. The doorway was somewhere behind the prince, but Tarrant never saw it; one minute the rakh was yards away and the next he was gone, as though he had stepped into another dimension.
The Prince’s gaze followed Tarrant’s own; he smiled. “The joy of this arrangement is that one can be fully protected without that protection being visible.”
“I never doubted that,” Tarrant assured him.
“It’s all natural, you know.” He placed a loving hand on the nearest column, fingers stroking the glassy surface with obvious affection. “I accelerated the process a million times over—redirected it a bit—but in the end it was Nature that did the work. A far more creative architect than man will ever be.”
“An exquisite piece of work,” the Hunter agreed. “What about the volcanoes?”
“What about them?”
“You’re sitting on a lava plain. Where I come from that’s considered quite a risk. Or have you learned how to tame magma?”
The Prince chuckled. “Taming it is hardly necessary, Neocount. One need merely keep certain vents open, occasionally drain off a little gas here or there . . . it’s little enough effort to see that the lava flows west instead of east, and does so in a civilized manner. Ah. But I forget.” His gaze was piercing. “You have no dominion over fire, do you? Or anything that fire touches?”
Inwardly the Hunter stiffened; outwardly he managed—just barely—not to let it show. “Don’t underestimate me,” he warned. Or bait me.
The Prince smiled coldly. “I have no intention of it.”
Footsteps approached. Crystal walls shifted. The rakh had returned, and with him was a woman. No, not a woman: a girl. Slender and dark and very frightened. Deliriously frightened.
“Permit me,” the Prince said, “to offer you the hospitality of my house.” He walked to the girl’s side and cupped a hand under her chin, turning her face toward Tarrant. Her eyes were wide, her lips trembling. “As befits a guest of your station: the best my realm has to offer.”
For a moment he was still. Then, very slowly, he walked to where the girl stood. Her fear was like a fine wine, its bouquet intoxicating. Hunger welled up inside him with stunning force.