“The god of the cities don’t have no power here,” the boy reminded her. “Remember? As for them-” and he nodded toward Damien and Hesseth, “-they’ll just be here till sacrifice.” His eyes glittered hungrily. “I expect old Bug-eyes’ll eat ’em for a snack, don’t you? Eat ’em up whole, and spit out the bones for us to play with. So don’t you worry.”
Sacrifice. Damien didn’t like the sound of that. How long till night fell? They needed Tarrant, badly.
It was Hesseth who kept her head together and thought to ask, “When is this sacrifice?”
The boy looked at her. If her strange ears and hands aroused any curiosity in him, it didn’t show. “Tomorrow,” he told her. “Whenever he says it’s time.”
He nodded back as he spoke, not the way that Damien and Hesseth had come, but down another path. One half of a circular clearing was visible, and in its center a statue. Black stone—obsidian?—crudely carved into a man’s shape. Only not a real man. The body was human enough, allowing for the crudity of the carving, and its arms were outstretched as any carved figure’s might be, but the face seemed . . . wrong, somehow. The eyes were too large, and they were not of a human cast. Strangely familiar, it seemed to him. He waited until the fog shifted, until enough light came through the mist to illuminate the features . . .
And then he remembered. That face. Those eyes. They had mocked him from over a woman’s shoulder, once. In the crystalline tower in the rakhlands, just minutes before Tarrant’s conjured quake had surged through those walls.
Faceted eyes, like a fly’s. Mirror-perfect. They seemed to turn toward him as the sunlight shifted, sparkling with amusement. But that was his imagination. Wasn’t it?
“Who is that?” he gasped. Barely managing to get out the words.
The boy grinned. “That’s our god, city-man. And you’ll meet him soon enough.”
He pushed some small packages through the bars, followed by a crude wooden cup. Food of some sort. The girl grabbed up one of the tiny bundles—half-cooked meat wrapped in a large green leaf, it looked like—and ran to her corner, where she tore into it like one starving. Her eyes never left Damien. After a time, Hesseth went over and got the two remaining packages, which she sniffed and then presented to Damien.
The priest didn’t move. His eyes were fixed on that statue, on the terrible visage that was all too familiar. The dusky air about it had taken on a gray cast, and the sky overhead—where he could see it—was tinted with the gold of the setting Core. The sun must be gone by now. Night had fallen. Where was Tarrant? Couldn’t he sense Damien’s need through the link that bound them? Didn’t he know to rush?
Calesta. That was the demon’s name, he recalled. Tarrant’s tormentor. Servant of the House of Storms. The one who had stood behind the shoulder of Damien’s captor in that terrible place, encouraging torture as the ultimate means of dominance. Even after all these months the memory made him shiver, and the name was enough to turn his blood to ice. They had known that he might be here, that he might be connected with the enemy they had come to fight . . . but this?
If they believe in him enough, they can make him a god. They can give him that kind of power.
Two dozen mad children, and a god who delighted in pain. No wonder the city-folk were afraid of them. No wonder they embraced the distancing power of legends, preferring to believe that the Terata were animals, or fae-wraiths, or perhaps even demons themselves . . . anything but human. Anything but this.
“Come quickly,” he whispered. As if Tarrant could hear him. “As soon as you can. We need you.”
24
The Hunter flew over the valley fifteen times—or was it sixteen?—and still he couldn’t find the others. He sifted through the earth-fae with meticulous care, but still could discover no trace of them. He even conjured up a wind to scour the valley clean of its omnipresent mist, but despite the increased visibility he still found nothing.
Which was patently impossible. If they had ridden on, if they were in hiding, even if they had died, there would have been some sign of their passing. Even an Obscuring would have left its mark, a faint echo of power that would be discernible in the currents. But there was nothing. Nothing! It was as if they had simply disappeared. Or . . . as if they had never existed.
Just like the other humans here, he thought grimly.
He came to a stop on a barren peak and exchanged his feathers for human flesh. The wind whipped his long tunic around his calves as he stared down into the valley, his fists clenched tightly in silent frustration. They had to be there, he thought. They had to be. And if he couldn’t locate them, there was only one explanation. Not a pleasant one, but he was prepared to deal with it.
He drew in a deep breath to brace himself for Working—the mountain air was cold, and left a film of ice in his lungs—and then he patterned the earth-fae into a Summoning. It would have no real power over the one he was calling, he understood that now. But he wanted something that was more than an invitation, something that communicated not only his desire for an audience but his power, his determination.
If he’s still in the east, he thought.
The demon came. It took him half an hour to arrive, but Tarrant was ready for that; he was prepared to wait another five days if he had to. Karril brought with him no decorative backdrop this time, no false panorama. Perhaps he sensed Tarrant’s mood. Perhaps he knew that Iezu illusion was the one thing that might push the Hunter over the edge, toward unfettered violence.
“So,” Tarrant said, when the familiar form had solidified. “You did stay in the east, as I thought.”
Karril looked about quickly: at the mountain, at the chill night sky, at the hills in the distance . . . but not down into the valley, Tarrant noted. Not that.
“What is it you want?” he asked quietly.
“Reverend Vryce and the rakh-woman have disappeared. I need your help to find them.”
Karril stared at him in astonishment. “You know I can’t get involved in this. Did you think just asking again—”
“Perhaps I should explain the circumstances.” His voice uncoiled like a serpent, slick and venemous. “Three nights ago there were humans there.” He pointed down into the valley, to where they had been two nights ago. “Now they’re gone. One night ago Hesseth and Reverend Vryce made camp beside that river. Now they’re gone.” Ice-cold eyes fixed on the demon, black with hate. “Not dead. Not deserted. Not even Obscured. Gone.”
“So what?” Despite the demon’s tone of bravado, there was nervousness in his eyes. He can sense the rage in me, Tarrant mused. He knows how close I am to directing it at him. “What do you expect me to do?”
“Find them.”
Karril was silent.
“Then tell me how to.”
The demon turned away from him. Afraid to meet his eyes? “I told you, I can’t ever—”
“Get involved? Don’t fool yourself, Karril; you are involved. This isn’t the work of some human sorcerer; I’d smell that a mile away. And it isn’t the work of a simple demon either, I know that.” He took a step closer to Karril, was pleased to see that the move made him nervous. In some ways the demon was remarkably human. “It must be illusion. What else? A veil of false reality, obscuring their movements. But there’s only one kind of creature on this planet that can create an illusion so perfect, so utterly undetectable. Isn’t there, Karril?”
“I know nothing about sorcery,” he whispered.
“But you can change the world’s appearance with a thought, can’t you? Create images of material objects so real that the human mind, accepting their existence, finds them utterly solid. You can even kill with such illusions—though I doubt you ever tried.” He paused. “All the Iezu have that power, don’t they? Isn’t that part of what defines your kind?”