You’ll die! she cried out to them. Not wanting the music to end. You’ll all die, horribly! The Forest will eat you alive! What good is that to anyone? Go home while you still can!
And then it seemed to her that one of the soldier-priests turned to her. Eyes of liquid flame, brilliant as the Holy Fire, fixed upon the space she occupied. His shield and sword were molten gold, and his banner-glass tinkled in the wind. He was too bright to look upon, too beautiful for her to look away. His voice was like the wind.
Some things, he whispered, are worth dying for.
And then the music became sunlight became peace, blissful peace, and she felt the vision fading. Melting into warmth. The gentle warmth of a mother’s arms. The loving warmth of a father’s eyes.
For the first time in many long nights, Jenseny Kierstaad slept.
26
In the realm of black lava,
In the citadel of night,
In the throne room of the Undying Prince,
Calesta waited.
The form which appeared before him did so without fanfare, without flourish. He hissed softly as it solidified, a sound like fingernails scraping on slate. Recognition was instant.
“Karril.” The sharp black lips shaped sharp words, harsh to the ear and mind. “To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?”
When Karril’s eyes had fully manifested, he looked around, taking in the rich trappings of the throne room: gilded chairs, crystal lamps, a wall of black glass through which the whole realm might be glimpsed. “You seem to be doing well for yourself.”
Calesta bowed his head. “My patron is wealthy.”
“And powerful?”
“Of course.”
“No doubt you see to that.”
“We each have our own ways of bonding with humans.” The black mist that drifted about his glassy form coiled around his neck like serpents. “Why are you here? There’s no love lost between us.”
“No,” Karril agreed. “And never will be, I’m afraid.” He took a few steps toward Calesta, running his finger along the edge of a gilded chair. When he spoke again, there was an unaccustomed hardness in his voice. “You trespass, Calesta.”
The black figure snorted. “Hardly.”
“You trespass,” Karril repeated. “Nine centuries ago I bonded with a human, and now you interfere.”
Understanding glistened in Calesta’s faceted eyes. “Gerald Tarrant.”
Karril nodded.
“If that’s what you came about, you’re wasting your time. Tarrant’s mine. I swore it the day he destroyed my project in the rakhlands. Him and that oversized priest of his—”
“The priest is no concern of mine. The Hunter is.”
The black face smiled; obsidian teeth glinted in a lightless gash. “So sorry you had to come all this way, then, just to be disappointed. The matter isn’t open to debate.”
“I think it is,” Karril insisted. “I think it bears on the very rules we live by. Or would you like to have the matter arbitrated?”
The faceted eyes flashed angrily. “You wouldn’t dare,” he growled.
“Try me.”
“On what basis? Noninterference? This war began long before you got involved in it.”
“He’s been mine for nine centuries, Calesta. That predates any claim of yours and you know it. Remember the rule? No one of us may interfere where another has staked his claim.”
“Yours? He’s been yours?” The black figure laughed harshly. “Come off it, Karril! When did the Hunter ever submit to you?”
“I’ve fed on him—”
“I’ve fed on thousands—millions!—and it doesn’t make them mine. Not in the sense you mean. No, your precious Neocount values his independence too much to truly bond with you—or any of the Iezu—and because of that the rules don’t apply here. So sorry, brother. If that’s what you came for, you may as well leave now.”
“If I do,” Karril said calmly, “it will be to go straight to our maker.”
The obsidian body stiffened. “You wouldn’t dare. I have the right—”
“Shall we let her decide that?”
The black figure drew itself up; the sharp edges of its flesh glittered dangerously. “You little fool! Petty god of sweaty couplings, patron prince of masturbators . . . don’t you see what you’re interfering with? Can’t you see how many years I’ve put into this, how much planning is behind it? I’ll change this world, Karril. Not just its outward appearance; I’ll change its fundamental laws. I’ll alter the fae itself! In time the entire planet will resonate in harmony with my aspect. Isn’t that worth the death of a piddling sorcerer or two? Think of it! Our natures are so very similar, Karril; you can feed where I do. You often have. Think what it will be like when this whole planet exists only to indulge us—”
“You don’t have to call off your precious project,” Karril said icily. “You don’t even have to let Tarrant go free. Just lift the illusion from the Terata’s domain. That’s all I came to ask.”
“Why don’t you join me instead?” Calesta asked softly. “We’re so very alike, you and I. Together we could tame this human species, and reshape it to suit our will. Why won’t you do it?”
Karril shook his head. “You disgust me, you know that?”
“Your answer never changes, does it?”
“Did you really think it would? We were born to be symbiotes, not predators. And you’re pushing that line. What would our maker think?” When Calesta didn’t answer, he pressed, “Lift your illusion from the Terata camp so that Gerald Tarrant can see your creations for what they are. Or else I’ll go before our maker and let her decide the merit of my arguments.” A pause, threat-laden. “I’m willing to take that chance, Calesta. Are you?”
“You’re bluffing,” he accused.
“I’ve never been more serious.”
“She’d kill us both.”
“Very possibly.”
“You haven’t got the nerve to chance it!”
“Is that your final answer?”
Calesta was about to respond when a third voice broke in. “Go ahead, Calesta. Indulge him. It might prove amusing.”
The two demons turned. In the doorway stood a man, tall and blond and perhaps fifty years of age. Though he wore no coronet to proclaim his rank, it was obvious in the way he entered the chamber. This room had been designed to please him. The whole world existed to indulge him.
“Lift the illusion,” he urged. “What does it matter? We’ll have him in the end, all the same.” He came near to where Calesta stood—the demon’s chosen body was rigid with tension—and looked Karril over with eyes that missed nothing. “Friend of yours?”
“Hardly,” Calesta growled.
“So.” He chuckled. “The faeborn have their own wars. I thought infighting was against Iezu law.” When no one responded, he asked, “What’s this one’s name?”
Neither of them answered. There was power in the name of demons, which made their silence a defiant gesture. The prince’s expression darkened.
“As you wish.” He nodded toward Karril. “You came to speak for the undead sorcerer?”
“I came to ask Calesta to lift his illusion,” he said through gritted teeth. How could he threaten this man? How could he coerce him? The prince was human, and thus immune from the kind of threats one would use on a demon; as for human threats, he had already conquered death. What tool was left for manipulation? “So the sorcerer could fight his own battles.”
“Sounds reasonable to me,” the Undying Prince assessed.
Calesta said nothing.