Hell, he thought. You can get used to anything.
It took them nearly two hours to find a suitable campsite. By then they were truly exhausted, and even the horses looked drained. Five midmonths of confinement had taken their toll on the beasts, and Damien guessed that it would be a long time before they exhibited the strength and endurance that was the hallmark of their species.
They found a patch of ground that was reasonably smooth and threw their blankets down upon it. The bulk of the galaxy had set some time ago, leaving the sky mostly black. Damien muttered something about how long would it be until the first true night occurred? Did anyone know? Tarrant said something back which involved calendars and timetables and a whole list of details . . . but at least he knew when it was coming. Which was all Damien really needed to know tonight. Certainly all he could absorb.
He was asleep as soon as his head touched the ground.
And dreamed.
. . . the cathedral is dark, so dark, not even a glimmer of moonlight breaking through the colored windows, nothing to illuminate the cold stone vastness but the glitter of one tiny candle, flickering like the light of a distant star . . .
. . . and he walks down the aisle toward it as one might walk toward the light of God, feeling its warmth in the breezes of the aisle, drawn to it with palpable force . . .
. . . scent in the air, sweeter than incense, stronger than perfume, musky and compelling. A thick, caressing aroma that warms his throat when he breathes, that tingles in his lungs like cerebus smoke and spreads outward in his blood, outward with every heartbeat, outward to every cell of his body, warming, caressing, inviting . . .
At the altar is a figure. Wraithlike, it is veiled in layers of fine white silk that ripple with each breath it takes. The light of a single candle is captured by one layer, then another, then by the flesh beneath. It is a woman’s body, Damien notes, round and well-formed and infinitely pleasing. The curve of a breast catches the light, the darkness of a nipple, the shadow of an inner thigh. Only the face is darkness in shadow, so that Damien cannot make out who it is. But the invitation is clear in her posture as well as her scent.
A slender hand reaches to the neck of the gauzy robe, unfastens it. Silk whispers downward over smooth flesh, layer after layer until all are puddled on the floor about her feet. Her breasts are full, heavily rounded, and a sheen of sweat is on her thighs. The musky aroma envelops him, and he feels his body stiffen in response. It is not so much pleasure that drives him now, but need; a primal hunger that has no name, that ceased to have a name millennia ago when humans learned to dilute their animal drives and thus control them. This has no control. This has no trappings of civilization, or of intellect. This has no possible end but the utter submission to a drive so deeply embedded in his flesh that a million years of species denial could never fully conquer it.
He reaches out to her. The flesh is dark beneath her breasts, with a line of small brown spots beneath each one. Something is wrong about that. His head throbs as he tries to think, as he struggles to remember. That and the smell and the touch of her body, silk-soft, more like fine fur than like human skin . . .
He feels a coldness stirring deep inside, even as he moves toward her. Something is wrong, so very wrong . . . his head is spinning. He struggles to orient himself, even as his body responds to her invitation. No: to her demand . . .
And then he looks at her face. The flickering light illuminates her features in spurts of amber, a strobe of recognition.
Golden eyes
Golden fur.
The Matria’s crown . . .
He awoke suddenly. Breathless. Shaken. It took him a minute to remember where he was, to make out Tarrant’s outline in the shadows. The Hunter was watching him. He shuddered once, uncomfortably aware of the stiffness in his groin. Not hot now, nor expectant, but tight with dread. And fear.
He let the blanket gather in his lap as he forced himself to a sitting position. And breathed the night air deeply, trying to calm himself.
“Bad dream?” the Hunter asked softly.
“Yeah.” He looked up at him. “One of yours?”
Tarrant smiled faintly. “There’s no need for that now, is there?”
He rubbed his temples. The dream’s afterimage was rapidly fading from his mind. It was important to remember . . . what? The thoughts wouldn’t come together. Something important. Something he had almost understood.
“You need help?” Tarrant asked softly.
He noticed that the Hunter’s sword was thrust into the ground not far from him. Absorbing the earth-fae? He could feel the cold of its power through his blankets. “I dreamed of the Matria . . . I think. Only it wasn’t her, it was a rakh . . .”
Rakh.
He was remembering now. The rakhene women who’d been in Hesseth’s camp. Some of them clearly in heat—or its rakhene equivalent—their naked hunger distracting every male within reach. Clearly that image had etched itself upon his brain, along with attendant hormonal messages.
He was remembering other things, too. Things he had learned on their last journey together. The facts came together, impacted, almost too fast to absorb.
“The rakh women-” he whispered. “Oh, my God . . .”
Somehow he managed to sit up. He was shaking badly.
Tarrant’s face was lost in shadow, but even so the priest could sense the intensity of his scrutiny.
“You asked why would only the women be the seers—the Matrias—when women have no more prophetic power than men. But they do. You said it yourself, back in . . . hell, I don’t remember. Soon after I met you. You said that only women could use the tidal fae. Remember?”
“I said that women could sometimes See it,” the Hunter said coolly. “No human being has ever Worked it. It defies that kind of control—”
“Are you sure of that?”
“I tried it, Reverend Vryce. I nearly died. Later, assuming my failure to be a consequence of my gender, I tried to manipulate one woman who could See it.” He shook his head stiffly. “Not even my will can tame such a power. And if not mine, then whose?”
“The rakh,” he whispered. Knowing the craziness of the suggestion even as he voiced it. “That’s the fae they draw on. Remember? And a few of them know how to control it consciously.” He looked over at Hesseth. “She does,” he whispered. “We found that out after you’d been captured. The rakh females use sorcery. All of them! Not human-style, not with the earth-fae . . . but it’s sorcery all the same.” He felt suddenly breathless. Suddenly afraid. “Do you understand? Only the females.”
The Hunter’s voice was very quiet. “Are you saying the Matria is rakh?”
“Am I?” He shook his head, as if to clear it. “Is that possible? It seems insane . . . but so much is in this place. You asked it yourself: why would men be banned from Church leadership? It doesn’t make any sense at all if they’re human. But if they’re rakh . . .” He looked down at Hesseth. Fully asleep, probably dreaming, her claws twitching slightly as if in response to an unseen threat. “She said they used the tidal fae. Can humans do that?”
Tarrant hesitated. “The women I’ve known who could See that power were very rare . . . and usually quite mad. The tidal fae’s inconstant, unpredictable, often violent. Anyone tapping into it—”
“Would be equally unpredictable. Yes? Especially if they relied upon it for disguise. They’d have to hide when the power waned, come out only when it was stable enough for Working. Don’t you see? My God!” He shut his eyes, trembling. With excitement? With fear? “That’s what the Matria did. They never knew when she was going to show up, or when she’d suddenly cancel an appearance.” He looked at the Hunter. “You were in other cities. You tell me. Was it like that in all of them?”