“What do you suggest?” Hesseth asked.
He gestured toward the south. “For now, continue as we’ve been doing. We won’t have another option for a while. Between your skills and mine we can probably Obscure our trail, but it wouldn’t hurt to stick to rocky ground. It’s always hard to Obscure something once it’s been noticed.”
“And then?”
“The map indicates a pass some forty miles to the south of here. That could be anything from a true break in the mountains to a single ridge which is slightly less daunting than its neighbors. I suggest we take it. It would be easier for me to leave signs that we had continued south than it would be to simply make our tracks disappear. By the time they catch on and backtrack we’ll be put of the Protectorates and truly Obscured. Of course, if we decided to kill whatever was following us—or even just take a look at it—such a region would be ideal for entrapment.”
“That works both ways,” Hesseth reminded him. “What if they anticipate us?”
“Unlikely,” the Hunter responded. “Think about it. They can’t be sure that we know about their pursuit, and the route just west of the mountains—which we’ve been taking—is quick and easy. Why would we change? Also . . .” He glanced at Damien. “There are the Terata. What small party of humans wouldn’t prefer the threat of a simple pursuit to a land filled with bloodthirsty demons?”
“That’s a very good point,” Damien noted.
A faint expression—it might have been a smile—flashed ever so briefly across the Hunter’s face. “I’m far more comfortable with the concept of demons than with an armed pursuit. Demons at least are unlikely to attack in the daylight.”
“So you’re comfortable with demons,” Damien snapped “What about us?”
The pale eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “Do you see a viable alternative?”
He bit his lip, considering. At last he muttered, “No, dammit. But I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.”
“He’s right, though.” Hesseth’s voice was low. “He can handle demons. And most of them won’t care about me. Besides—”
“And I’m lunch. Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
“We’ll protect you,” she promised. Smiling just a little.
He looked at her, then at Tarrant. Surely it was his own imagination that perceived an expression of smugness on that aristocratic visage. Or was it challenge?”
“I don’t know.” He directed his words at Tarrant. “The last time I made a decision like this I wound up getting stuck with you.”
With a sigh he hooked his foot into the stirrup and hoisted himself onto the horse’s back. Already the saddle felt natural to him, as if he had spent the last half-year riding, not sailing. A marked improvement.
“What the hell,” he muttered. “I was getting bored anyway. Let’s do it.”
19
The figure coalesced out of the midnight air, drawing its very substance from the darkness. All about it crystal tinkled, the delicate wrought-glass leaves of Miranda Kierstaad’s last creation. The figure heard nothing. In the west, where it gazed, Domina’s slim crescent was being swallowed by an ink-black roofline; stone crenellations cut into the lunar brilliance like a hundred tiny bitemarks. The figure saw nothing. Inside the keep there was commotion now, as the guard who had first seen the apparition searched hastily for his master. The figure knew nothing. Nor did it stir when the mock-Kierstaad entered the crystalline garden, for its maker had not known which of the many males it sent out would achieve supremacy by invasion time, and therefore could not tailor its Sending to respond to a particular presence. It only waited long enough, in its maker’s opinion, for whoever ran the Kierstaad Protectorate to make his way to the crystalline garden. And then a few minutes more, just to make sure.
Suddenly the figure seemed no longer a simple image, but a living man. Blue eyes looked about the garden, then fixed on the invader standing closest. It was difficult for the mock-Kierstaad to make formal obeisance—he now lacked most of the parts that needed to be smoothed, or flattened, or drooped—but he did the best he could with his inadequate human flesh. It would have to be enough.
The Prince’s image had aged, he noted. The pale skin was no longer perfectly smooth, its blush no longer resonant with perfect health. There was a streak of white in the yellow hair, and lines where no lines had ever been. That was the way of it, he recalled. The chosen flesh of the Undying Prince remained youthful for decades, but once it began to age its decay was swift and dramatic. The soul inside that slender, graceful body would be preparing itself for Rebirth now, and neither man nor rakh could hope to predict what form the Prince would take next time, not even what gender he might adopt.
Briefly, the mock-Kierstaad wondered what the Prince’s first flesh had looked like. Briefly. He was a rakhene warrior, bred for the Prince’s purposes, and as such did not have either the capacity or the inclination to philosophize at length.
The figure drew in a deep breath and spoke. “Word reaches me that two of the Protectorates have fallen. You are to be commended. I hear of no outcry from the humans, so clearly you managed to keep your presence in the north a secret from them. Excellent. I know that this job is difficult for you, that you would far rather kill than hide, far rather take vengeance upon your human enemies than pretend to be one of them . . . but have patience. That time will come. I promise it.”
“Remember: strike now, and a handful of humans will fall. Strike later, in force, and you may cleanse the entire region of their stink forever.”
“On to other matters: You know that the foreigners we seek may now be traveling through your lands. No doubt you’ve sent out teams to search for them, in accordance with the Matria’s request, and established watch posts at the most likely points of passage in your realm. All very good. But the Matrias don’t know who and what these people are, and therefore their instructions were limited. So listen closely, and act upon my words; the fate of our entire project—as well as your own life—may well depend upon it.”
“Of the three humans who are traveling south, at least two—the males—are sorcerers. What this means is that you try to entrap them they’ll probably see it coming, anc the power that they wield may well give them the advantage in battle even if your people outnumber them. But though they are powerful they are also human, and human power is bound to the earth. When the earth shakes and for a brief time afterward, the fae they rely upon will be too hot to handle. Only then can you strike at them. Only then will they be helpless.”
“I realize that the motion of the earth cannot be predicted, which makes it hard for you to plan. Nevertheless the advantage of such a move is worth the inconvenience.”
“Your region is seismically active, and rarely does a week pass without a handful of tremors. Be patient. Be careful. Wait for Erna to give you your cue, and the enemies of our purpose may be dispatched to the hell of their own creation. I myself will launch a Working that should distract them; you may use that cover to move in silence and safety. I am confident in your ability to make this kill and safeguard our great project. Surely the scent of triumph will be strong upon you, so that when you return home your women will be aroused by its power.”
The apparition faded. Eyes first, dissolving into pools of blackness, and then the rest of the figure. For a moment Kierstaad’s conqueror stood very still, absorbing the essence of the message. He hadn’t ever thought in terms of what this project would do for his mating precedence. That was a concept worth savoring.
But he hadn’t come to a position of power through hormone balance alone—though that was certainly part of it—and even as he turned back to the keep he was mentally scouring the lands in his Protectorate, searching for a way to prepare a mobile ambush.