Karril said nothing.
“Only the Iezu are capable of such artifice. Only one of that kind could cloak a valley so completely that no human sorcery could defy it—and leave not even a mark upon the currents, to testify to his interference. Only the Iezu, Karril.”
The demon said nothing.
“You hear me?”
“I hear you,” he whispered.
“I want answers, Karril. I want them now.”
“And if not?” the demon challenged. “What then? Will you Bind me? Disperse me? I told you, we can’t be controlled like that.”
“Ah, yes. That was an unpleasant surprise. But I’ve given the problem a lot of thought since you told me that . . . would you like to hear my conclusions?” He waited for a response; when there was none he continued. “All human Workings involve a mental formula. One has to define the Worker—oneself—and one’s subject, and the form which the earth-fae will take to link the two together. So I thought, what if some part of that formula were flawed? Not the linkage, obviously, but something less noticeable. Perhaps the supporting definitions. In short, might a Summoning fail—or a Binding, or a Dispersing—because my understanding of its recipient’s nature was flawed?” He wasn’t sure, but he thought that Karril was trembling. “I could correct that,” he said quietly. No need for volume; the threat was inherent in his tone. “I could focus all the power I needed by drawing on my negative emotions—my anger, my indignation, hate, fear, pain—and then direct it at someone I knew, without trying to define who or what he was. Such as you, Karril.” He gave that a few seconds to sink in. “What do you think? Would it work?”
“I don’t know.” The demon’s tone was miserable. “No one’s ever tried that.”
“Perhaps it’s overdue, then.”
He watched as Karril struggled with himself—with his conscience?—in silence. At last the demon muttered, “What is it you want?”
“I told you. The lifting of the veil that masks what’s in the valley. You don’t have to help me beyond that; just let me see the enemy’s work, and I’ll fight my own battles.”
The demon shut his eyes tightly. “I can’t,” he whispered.
“Karril—”
“I can’t! It’s not my doing. I don’t have the power.”
“But it is a Iezu Working,” the Hunter persisted.
The words came slowly, squeezed out of him one by one. “Yes. That’s why I can’t get involved, don’t you see? We’re forbidden to fight one another.”
“By whom?” Tarrant demanded.
Karril turned away. Staring down into the valley, he whispered. “By the one who created us. Our progenitor.”
“Progenitor? Are you telling me that the Iezu were born!”
The demon nodded.
“That’s impossible. The very definition of a demon—”
“That’s how I understand it,” Karril said quickly. “It’s how we all understand it. So maybe we’re wrong. What difference does that make? If we believe ourselves to be a family—if we function as if we are—does it change anything to have you question our origin?” He turned back to Tarrant; his voice was shaking. “I’ll tell you another thing. The same force that gave birth to us can kill us, just as quickly. We all know that. And I’m no more anxious to die than you are. Consider this: do the Iezu, being born, have souls that will survive death, or do they simply dissipate into the currents like other demons do? I’m not anxious to find out, Hunter. And I will, if you force me to get involved in this. That’s the truth.”
For a moment there was no sound but the wind, slowly dying. Then the Hunter’s voice, as quiet as the night. “The valley has been cloaked by one of the Iezu.”
“Yes.”
“And you can’t dispel his Working.”
The demon shook his head.
“Then offer me an alternative, Karril. I’m desperate, and that means I won’t hesitate to kill you, if necessary. You know that. Tell me what you can do.”
The demon drew in a deep breath, trembling. It was a human gesture, not necessary for either life or speech. His flesh was only an illusion, after all. “I can talk to him. I can . . . plead. That’s all.”
“And what are the chances that will work?”
“Very slim,” he admitted. “But if the alternative is open conflict between us . . . we’d both die, then.”
“Good. I suggest you remind him of that.”
“And if it doesn’t work?”
The gray eyes narrowed. “That would be unpleasant for both of us, wouldn’t it?”
“There’s an understatement,” the demon muttered.
“Just do that one thing for me. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Do you think you can?” Karril asked sharply.
“What?”
“Destroy him. The one responsible for this. That’s what you intend, isn’t it?”
“Do you think I can’t?”
The demon sighed. “If any other man had asked me that question . . . then I would have said no. No human power could defeat him. But you, Hunter? If the years have taught me nothing else, it’s never to underestimate you. And none of your enemies have survived, have they? So who am I to judge the odds against you?”
The Hunter’s expression softened slightly, into something that might almost be called a smile. “You flatter me.”
“Hardly.” But the demon’s expression softened as well, as he bowed his leavetaking.
It would have been hard to define the exact moment at which Karril’s chosen flesh began to fade; one minute he seemed as solid as any natural human, and the next he seemed transparent, so that the distant stars shone through him. A perfect illusion, Tarrant mused. The greatest talent of the Iezu demons—and their most potent weapon.
Before the demon’s form completed its dissolution—when the ruddy flesh and opulent attire had not yet faded into the shadows of the night—Tarrant ventured, “Karril?”
The figure remained as it was, half flesh and half mist. The translucent eyes were curious.
“I’m . . . sorry. That it has to be this way.” The words came hard to him; regret was an uncomfortable emotion. “I wish there were an alternative.”
It seemed to him that Karril’s ghost-flesh smiled slightly.
“Yeah,” said the demon. “Same here.”
And as the last of his form dissolved into the night, he whispered, “Take care, old friend.”
25
The night passed slowly. Tarrant never came. Damien tried hard not to think about what might have happened to him, but images from the past refused to be put down. The Hunter in fire. The Hunter screaming. The Hunter’s flesh in his hands, so charred and tortured that the skin came off when he pulled, displaying smoking red meat . . .
It doesn’t have to be that way. He might not even have been captured. Maybe the strange sorcery of this place is keeping him away. Maybe any minute now he’ll learn to break through it.
Maybe.
Demonlings arrived with the night, wispy bits of malevolence that crowded about the bars of their prison like so many starving animals. He worked a simple Repelling to keep them out of the cave itself, but they hung about its border with unnerving persistency. Periodically he had to reinforce his work, and while he did so memories of the quakes of this region ran through his mind. Once there was a slight tremor just after he was done, and he shook for many long minutes afterward. How long could he keep it up before sheer chance defeated him?
Through it all the little girl watched him. She had squeezed back into the farthest corner of the cell, a water-carved alcove so tiny that Damien couldn’t have pried her out if he’d tried. That she was mortally afraid of the priest was obvious; it only took one accidental step in her direction for her to cry out, and try to wedge herself even farther back into the rock. And the accusations she cried out at him! Your God can’t have me. I won’t bleed for him. As if the One God would collect children. As if He would hurt them.