C. S. Friedman - Coldfire 3 - Crown of Shadows

C S Friedman - Coldfire 3 - Crown of Shadows

Proloque

There was lipstick on his cheek. He could feel it when the wind brushed by, a spot of waxy moisture on

his cold-parched skin. Red, he thought. Crimson. He recalled it vaguely, distantly, in the same way he

remembered its wearer. Lips. Breasts. Thighs. Parts of a body, divorced from the whole. Flesh without a

soul. He tried to remember her name and found that he couldn't. Was that his fault or hers? What kind of

woman would cast her net for the heir of Merentha, when the very name of his family had become an

epithet for disaster?

Ahead of him the castle loomed, cold stone arches framing the night in moonlit numarble. Once there

would have been lamps in the windows, a crackling fire in the great hearth, the smell of mulled cider

seeping out into the courtyard. Once there would have been servants aplenty, running up to greet him as

he made his wee-hour approach to the great estate. Once Samiel himself might have stood in the

doorway, scowling at his younger brother as he dismounted, prepared to lecture him until dawn on

matters of propriety. Or Imelia might have been waiting, equally concerned but gentler in her castigation.

Or Betrise, broad-shouldered and belligerent.

Not any more. Not ever again.

All gone.

He dismounted-or tried to-but he was drunk enough that he stumbled as he struck the ground, and he

barely kept himself from getting trampled as he disentangled his booted foot from the stirrup. He leaned

against the animal for a moment, breathing heavily.

This was always the worst time, these first few minutes when he came home and and it hit him how

absolutely alone he was. While he was in town he could pretend that nothing was wrong-wining and

dining and womanizing with a vengeance, forcing his flesh into that accustomed mode as if somehow the

spirit could be forced to follow suit-but when he came to the castle gate all his illusions dissolved like

smoke, and he was left with nothing. Absolutely nothing. The emptiness inside him was so vast that no

woman's caress could begin to fill it, the memories so horrible that no amount of alcohol could ever dull

their impact.

He managed to get the horse stripped of its saddle and set it free to roam. He knew he should do more

for it, but that duty-like everything else-was too much for him now. There were hay and water in the

stables, and the horse knew how to get to both. The great wall that had been erected around the estate

during the war of 846 was now crumbling, but it would still serve as a pasture fence. That was enough. It

would have to be enough. He lacked the strength-and the will-to do any more.

Why was I left alive? he despaired. It wasn't the first time he had asked that question. Samiel could have

carried on. Samiel would have mourned and raged... and then he would have picked up the pieces of his

life and carried on, somehow. Building new memories. Learning to forget. They'd had such strength in

them, all of his family... all except Andrys. The playboy. The gambler. The black sheep of the family.

Why had he alone been spared? Why was it that on that terrible night when his family had been

slaughtered, he alone had been allowed to survive?

You know why, an inner voice chided. You don't want to understand it, but you do.

He forced his mind away from that question as he fumbled with the latch. Too painful. The only way he

could get through the empty days was to try to forget, to fight the memories back in whatever way he

could. Even if that meant alcohol. Even if that meant blackout. Even if that meant other drugs, illegal

drugs, that

might calm the terror in his soul for a moment and grant him a simulacrum of peace. Anything that

worked.

He was dying.

He considered that thought as he walked through the great hall of the castle, staring up at the portraits

that flanked him on both sides. A man could die slowly, if conditions were right. The life could seep out

of him gradually, a little bit each day, until at last there was nothing left of him but a shell of flesh, cold and

colorless as a corpse. He looked up at the portraits of the other Survivors-seven of them, whose names

and dates he had learned like a catechism in his youth- and shivered. Seven men who had survived the

death of their families, and lived to renew the family line. How had they done it? Why had they done it?

How could a man put such a thing behind him, and take a wife and sire children and start all over again,

as if nothing had happened? He laughed shortly, mirthlessly. Whatever magical strength they'd had, he

sure as hell lacked it. He lacked even an understanding of its nature.

You picked the weakest one this time, he thought. As if the family's destroyer could hear him. The least

deserving. Maybe he could hear, at that. Maybe he was aware of all their thoughts, and had chosen

Andrys to survive because somewhere, deep inside him, he saw-

What?

Don't kid yourself, he thought bitterly. There's nothing of value in you, and he knows it. He looked up at

the portraits of the other seven, one after another, and saw all too clearly what quality he shared with

them. If only he didn't see! If only he didn't understand-----

With a moan he staggered to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a drink, from the nearest full bottle at

hand. Sweet cordial, his late brother's vice. He threw it back quickly, wincing as the syrupy stuff slid

down his tongue, trying not to taste it. Alcohol was his elixir now, his solace, and its flavor was irrelevant.

If he could figure out how to pour it straight into his bloodstream, he'd do that and save himself the

glasses.

A shadow seemed to move suddenly in the corner of the room. Startled, he dropped his glass. It

shattered on the numarble floor, spraying the sticky cordial on his feet; the sugary smell of norange liqueur

filled the room. A small accident, but it was suddenly more than he could handle. He felt the tears start to

flow free, and with them memories from earlier in the day. Her voice. Her body. Her scorn. God in

Heaven! How much more merciful it would have been if he had been utterly emasculated, instead of this

half-life in which the memory of slaughter might or might not unman him at a crucial moment. In which he

could perform just often enough to get his hopes up, just well enough for him to convince himself that

maybe, just maybe, the healing had finally begun... and then suddenly the room he was in would be

splattered with blood, and the body he caressed so desperately would seem like that of a corpse, bodily

parts disassociated from one another and from their owner.... He wrapped his arms around himself,

shivering. It had to end. God, it had to end. One way or another. How long could a man go on like this?

Until you end it, an inner voice whispered. There's no other way. And how much would it hurt? You're

already dead, aren't you? Like the rest of your family. He killed them fast and he killed you slow, but he

killed you all the same.

"Oh, God," he whispered. "Help me. Please"

The memories were coming now, like they always did at night. Seeping into his brain like some dank

poison, corrupting his senses. Was that real blood, there on the carpet? Was that the smell of death in the

air? He whimpered softly and tried to fight it, but he lacked the strength.

Blood. Splattered everywhere. Drops of crimson glistening in the lamplight like a thousand cabochon

garnets, scattered across the rug and the floor and the clawed feet of the great table. Blood that dripped

from-

Dripped from-

"No!" he whispered. "Please. Not that."

Blood that pooled at the feet of the great chair, blood that coursed down in thin rivulets over the fine

novebony carvings, blood that dripped from his brother's head where it had been thrust upon the sharp

strut of the chair, impaled as if on some warrior's spear....

His eyes squeezed shut, his body spasmed into a foetal knot of terror. The memories hurt. God, they

hurt! Wasn't there any way to stop them? "Anything," he whispered, shivering violently. "Not again. I'll do

anything. Stop them!"

The room was a study in carnage, disjointed fragments too horrible to absorb: Imelia's body, laid out

across the great table. Gutted. Betrise's long hair strung out like silk in a pool of blood, yards from her

body. Dianna. Mark. Abechar. All the Tarrants, every single one of them except him-every brother and

sister and cousin that had ever laid claim to the name, down to the last helpless infant in its own crimson

puddle-and watching over all of it, as if from some grisly throne, his brother Samiel. Samiel, elder and

heir. Samiel, self-proclaimed Neocount of Merentha. His eyes were rolled back in their sockets now, as

if what they had gazed upon were too terrible for human sight; the blood smeared on his face made his

contorted expression doubly unreal, a parody of human terror.

For a moment Andrys was too stunned to react. Then sickness welled up in him, sickness and terror and

raw, unadulterated horror. Doubling over, he vomited. Again and again until there was nothing left in him

to bring up, and even then his body continued to spasm. As if somehow the effort might squeeze him dry

of fear, as well.

Only then did he become aware that there was someone else in the chamber: a tall figure, dark and silent,

who stood halfway across the room. Malevolence was so thick about the figure that it was almost visible,

and the cold that emanated from it chilled the tears on Andrys' face. Though the shadows of the room

obscured its expression, its purpose was clear. Man or

demonling, it was his family's murderer. And it was watching him. Waiting.

Panicked, he fell back as far as the wall behind him would permit. Knocking over a chair as he did so,

which skittered across the blood-slicked floor and at last fell across his sister's outstretched form. "Who

are you?" he cried. His voice was strained and broken, like his nerves. "What do you want?"

For a moment the figure was still; in the chill silence of the room Andrys could hear his own heart

pounding wildly. Then the dark form stirred, and in a voice as smooth and as refined as silk pronounced,

"I am the first-and only-Neocount of Merentha."

Fear made Andrys' bones turn to jelly; he would have fallen, had not the wall held him upright. "The first

Neocount is dead," he gasped. "Dead!" Nine hundred years in the grave, he wanted to say. To shout.

But the words wouldn't come out.

"Hardly," the figure responded. "But that was the story your father preferred, and so it passed for truth in

your schooling. The illustrious Reginal Tarrant! He thought that if he kept you ignorant he might somehow

make you safe." The shadowed head turned to the side briefly as it gazed upon Samiel's ruined head,

then back again. "It didn't work, of course. It never does."

The figure took a step toward him. Terror caused Andrys' bladder to spasm suddenly, and hot urine

trickled down his leg. He wished he could die right here and now, and not wait to be killed like... like

that. Like Samiel, and Imelia, and Mark. Dear God, not like that, please oh please....

But the figure stopped, as if knowing that another step would be one too many for Andrys' frayed nerves.

"He knew the truth." The figure indicated Samiel. "The firstborn has always known the truth. That was

one of the conditions I set for this family, when I first decided to let the line continue. And when he

placed the coronet of this county on his head, when he laid claim to the title that wasn't his to take, he

knew what the price of that would be."

It took him a minute to understand. To believe., "Is

that it?" he choked out at last. "All this... because of that? Just for a title?"

He could sense anger stirring within that dark, faceless form: not hot, like human rage, but as chill and as

biting as an arctic wind. "I gave this family life," the figure pronounced acidly. "And I dictated the

conditions under which it would be permitted to endure. I spared your ancestor when it would have been

just as easy to kill him, not out of human compassion but because I was curious to see what the

descendants of my blood might accomplish. And so I left you my lands, my keep, my wealth, my

library-whose true value is beyond your imagining-all these things and more, a treasury beyond

measurement. Only two things were forbidden to you... and one of those you insist on claiming. Eight

times now." A sweep of one black-cloaked arm encompassed the carnage. "Consider this a reminder."

"You killed them all for that?" he whispered feebly. "Because of Samiel's mistake? All of them?"

For a moment the dark figure regarded him in silence. Andrys was acutely aware of the filth that soiled

his shirt front, the urine that had plastered one pants leg to his flesh. Shame flushed his cheeks, hot blood

suffusing death-white flesh.

"His mistake was defiance," the figure said coldly, "which I will not endure. As for my methods... I find

that the harder the lesson is driven home, the longer it is likely to last. Remember that, when you raise

your own heirs."

Heirs? For a moment he couldn't remember what the word meant, or how it might apply to him. His

heirs? He had no children yet. And never would, if this creature killed him-

Then it sank in. All of it.

Images of the Survivors rose up before him. Haunted figures whose biographies were shrouded in

mystery, who had survived to continue the family when all others died of sickness, or in war, or (the

records were unclear) in some terrible accident.

Or were slaughtered.

Like this?

Oh, my God, Andrys thought desperately. Let this be some drunken dream. Let me wake up in the back

room of some tavern to discover that I passed out and had a nightmare, just a nightmare, please, God,

just that....

"I see you understand," the figure observed. "I trust you will not be so foolish as to repeat your brother's

mistake."

He turned away from Andrys then, meaning to leave him alone with the carnage. To make his peace with

his fate, if he could. But as he turned, a shaft of moonlight fell across his features, illuminating them.

Illuminating a face-

"No," he whimpered. "No!"

Illuminating a face so like his own that he screamed, he screamed, he started screaming and he couldn't

stop, because suddenly he understood-he understood-he knew what kind of dark vanity might drive a

man to murder his entire family except the one child who was most like him, knew it without being able to

put a name to it, knew it even though his soul burned from the understanding of it. And he knew that

every time he looked in the mirror from now on he would see that face, not his own, that those eyes

would stare out at him from his own reflection, terrible empty silver eyes so like and unlike his own, eyes

that had looked out upon the vast expanse of Hell and found its terrors wanting-

Moaning. Weeping. Balled up in a tight little knot, tears streaming down his face. Crying uncontrollably,

as he had done for so many nights now. Would it never end? Would there never come a point when the

memories would fade, in intensity if not in detail? When he could gaze upon the face qf the first Neocount

of Merentha-the only Neocount of Merentha-and riot relive the gut-wrenching shock of that horrible

revelation?

Never, an inner voice whispered. Not until you put an end to it.

"Oh, God," he whispered. "Please. I can't take it any more."

It was then that the voice came: a whispering thing no louder than his tears, but it made his spine shiver as

though ragged fingernails were playing across his flesh. A demonic voice, without question; no fleshborn

creature could make such a sound.

"Andrys Tarrant," it murmured, in tones that made his flesh crawl. "Is that what you really want?

Oblivion? Or would you rather exult in life again?"

He raised himself up on one elbow, and with his other arm wiped the wetness from his face. Opposite

him stood a figure that was somewhat human in shape, though anything but human in substance. Its

surface was a tapestry of sharp edges and ragged darkness, and thin tendrils of fog curled about it like

questing serpents. Its eyes took in the lamplight and broke it up into jagged bits, reflecting it back in a

thousand burning sparks.

For a moment he stared in awe at the thing his fear had conjured. Never in his life had he manifested

something so concrete, so dangerously fascinating. Considering how much he'd had to drink, he was

amazed that the creature was coherent.

Then he realized how much danger he was in. And from somewhere he dredged up a prayer of

protection, that he muttered under his breath as he retrieved his glass and launched it at the demon thing,

as hard as he could. Willing the creature to respond to him, in the way that the faeborn so often

responded to members of his family. Filled with a sudden fury that the thing would pick this moment to

accost him.

The demon didn't move. The glass passed through its flesh and hit the far wall, where it shattered. Sweet

cordial dripped from the wainscoting.

"You didn't create me," the creature informed him, "and you don't have the skill to banish me." Its voice

was like cracked glass, jagged and brittle. "I came to talk to you. Of course, if you feel a need to destroy

more glassware first...." It nodded toward the bar. "I'll wait."

The demon's tone-cultured, sardonic-utterly disarmed him. "What do you want?" he stammered.

"I came to help you. To save you."

"No!" He knew the ways of demonkind enough to grasp that it was looking for an opening, some way to

get to him. Even in his drunken state he knew the danger of that. "Get away from me!"

"You're empty, Andrys Tarrant." The gleaming eyes fixed on him. "So very empty. You try to fill the hole

inside you with alcohol, with drugs, you try to bury it beneath a thousand and one couplings, but it won't

go away, will it?"

"Leave me alone," he whispered hoarsely. "I know what you want. I won't cooperate. I won't-"

"Even though I can heal you?" the demon demanded. "Even though I can fill that emptiness inside you,

and give you life again? Do you really want me to leave?"

He shut his eyes, and his shaking hands curled into fists. Lies. They had to be. Lies and deceptions,

custom-tailored to his needs. He couldn't afford to listen to this creature, or to hope. The cost was too

high. The minute he agreed to let this thing minister to his needs he would find himself sucked dry of

blood or brains or dreams or some other vital substance... because that was how demons worked,

wasn't it? Once you gave them an opening, you were as good as dead.

But what did he have to lose?

From a distance-as if from another man-the words came to his lips. "Go on," he whispered. "Tell me."

"You have an enemy. I'm going to destroy him. For that I need an ally. A human ally. In short, I need

you. And I'm prepared to barter for your service, by giving you a way to earn your peace."

"My family was murdered. You can't change that. Whatever you're offering-"

"How about revenge?"

The words stopped him cold. "He would kill me," he breathed. Aware of a spark of hope that had

suddenly been kindled with that word. Afraid to feed the flame. Unwilling to smother it. "I wouldn't stand

a chance."

"He'll never kill you. Human life is cheap to him, but killing you would mean destroying his family

line-forever-and he would never do that to one of his own creations. No, Andrys Tarrant, you're the one

man on this planet that he won't ever kill. That's why I need you."

"Then he'd torture me-"

"Worse than he has already?"

Andrys lowered his head. And trembled.

"He's powerful," the demon said. "Perhaps the most powerful fleshborn creature that this planet has ever

produced. And evil, without question. But he's also proud, and infinitely vain-and that will be his

undoing." The brittle voice altered, becoming smooth. Seductive. Liquid tones, that lapped at his brain

like a drug. "You know what I want. Now let me show you what I have to offer in return."

Fear wrapped a cold hand about Andrys' heart. A hundred generations of Tarrants clamored for him to

flee.

But-

What did he have to lose?

"Go ahead," he whispered.

-And it occurred to him that maybe with demonic help he could get the bastard who'd slaughtered his

family, could make him pay... but not with a quick death, oh no. Nor with simple pain. With something

equivalent to what he had done to Andrys-some slow, living death that would rot away his soul until there

was nothing left but a core of despair, stripped of all its pride and its vanity and its strength and its power

and

all its hope___He pictured the proud Neocount of

Merentha made helpless by his actions, assigned to a living hell by the force of his hatred, and felt

something stir inside him that had been dead for too long. Purpose. Direction. Hope. His blood ran hot

with it, and he trembled as unaccustomed vitality poured into his brain. As his body flushed with the thrill

of his intentions.

And then it was gone. As suddenly as it had begun.

The hope, the certainty, the sense of power-all dissolved into the night, as if they had never been. All that

remained was a spark of heat in his groin, as if he had just withdrawn from a woman. And an emptiness

so vast it seemed ready to swallow him whole.

"Well?" the demon demanded. "Do you want to live again? Or shall I leave you to crawl your drunken

way into an early grave, and exchange this hell for the one that follows? Which is it?"

His hands shook as he tried to think. Bargaining with demons was suicidal, he knew that. No one ever

won that game. And he was hardly in shape to make life-altering decisions.

But...

He wanted the feeling of purpose back. He wanted it back so badly he could taste it. He would have

traded his soul to have it again... and the demon wasn't asking for that, was he? Only for his assistance in

ridding the world of a murderer. In cleansing the Tarrant name once and for all.

"I can call it off," he said at last. "Whenever I want. When I say it's over, you go and leave me alone.

Agreed?"

The cracked face twisted. The faceted eyes glittered. It was more than a smile, less than a grin-and it

made the air vibrate with hatred, until Andrys' soul was filled with it.

"As you command," it whispered.

Demon's Woke

One

She walks in the moonlight, her footfall on the weathered planks as soft and as silent as a ghost's. All

about her the sailors are busy cleaning up the detritus of the storm: mending sails, untangling lines, freeing

those items which were, for safety's sake, bound to the deck. Intent upon their tasks, they do not notice

her. The wind is crisp and clean and she imagines that she can catch the scent of land in it. So close, so

very close.... For a moment she trembles, and almost turns back. One more month, the priest said.

Maybe less. But then she remembers what that month would be like- what all other months have been

like on this ship-and she stiffens with new-found resolve. No more, she tells herself. No more.

The sea is quiet now, having spent all its anger in the three days before; in the moonlight she can see no

white upon the water's surface, only black glass waves and an occasional sparkle of starlight. Quiet, so

quiet. Death must be like that: black and still and utterly silent, a smooth realm that ripples ever so softly

as each soul passes into it. Free of turbulence. Free of pain. Free of fear and its attendant demon, whose

silver eyes must even now be searching her cabin, wondering where she has gone.

The thought of him makes her breath catch in her throat, and her whole body shivers in dread. No, she

whispers. Never again. She steps up onto the railing, her dark toes gripping the rounded wood. The sea

is beneath her-

"Mes!" A sailor's voice, behind her. For an instant she imagines she knows which one it belongs to-the

blue-eyed Faraday boy, suntanned and lean and oh so innocent-and then she leans forward ever so

slightly, into the night, and lets go. "Mes! No!" Footsteps approach her even as her toes lose hold, the

long fall into darkness beginning just as he reaches the place where she stood-and then more footsteps,

more cries, as the others come running. A world away, they seem to her. A distant dream. She is aloft, a

creature of the air, afiight above the waves. Falling. Beneath her the water seems to gather in

anticipation-not glass now but velvet, cool and welcoming-and then the moment is past and she breaches

the surface, the cold waves give way to her body and she is beneath them, struggling in the icy depths,

shocked out of her dream state by the frigid reality of the sea.

Panicking suddenly, choking on seawater, she fights to get back to the surface. There is no thought of

suicide now, only the blind, unthinking terror of a suffocating animal. Water pours down her face as she

finally lifts her mouth above the surface of the waves and gasps for air, and not until she has drawn in two

or three deep breaths does the sense of panic release her. Shaking, she coughs up some water she has

swallowed, and her frozen body treads water without thought, grateful for the respite.

Above her the sailors are moving quickly. One has shed his heavy woolen jacket while another has

grabbed up a life ring. Will they come down here, after her? Rescue her, and force her to live again? That

is a concept even more terrifying than death, and she begins to swim away from them, her heart pounding

wildly in her chest. Which does she fear more?

And then she sees him, standing among them. So dark. So still. He is like the sea itself-like death

itself-and despite the distance between them she can feel the chill invasion of his thoughts in her head:

seeking, analyzing, weighing. Hungering. She watches as he puts a hand on the naked shoulder of her

would-be savior, and despite the distance between them she can hear his words as clearly as if she stood

on the deck beside him.

"She has chosen," the Hunter tells them, and there is power in his voice; they cannot disobey. "Let her

go."

The silver eyes are fixed on her: watching, waiting. He can sense the presence of Death about her, and it

fascinates him. Frightens him. For all his power, for all his centuries of wordly experience, this moment is

beyond him. For all the choices which his power makes available, this one option is forever closed to

him.

She finds new strength in that, and ceases paddling. The waves are gentle, and caress her face as she

sinks a few inches. She can taste salt on her lip, and a spot of blood where she bit herself in her panic.

Can he smell that? Does it awaken enough hunger in him that he regrets the promise he made so many

months ago, that if she chose to die rather than serve him he would honor her choice and let her go? The

complex interplay of cruelty and honor in him is something beyond her understanding. What kind of

demon clings to a simple promise when his only source of nourishment is sinking beneath the waves?

Suddenly resolved, she dives below the surface. The sea closes over her head, dark and insulating. Deep

down she swims, as far as she can manage, until her lungs are bursting with their need for air. And then

she breathes in deeply, welcoming the cool darkness into her body. Saltwater fills her lungs, and maybe

in another time, another place, there might have been pain. Not now. The spasms of her lungs are a

glorious song of freedom, and even as the darkness closes in about her, she thrills in the sensation of

dying.

No fear this time. So sorry, Hunter. No fear to feed you this time, only the bittersweet embrace of death.

Hardly an appetizer, for one like you. So sorry....

Most Holy Father,

/ write to you from the deck of God's Mercy, which sails westward with its companion ship toward the

port

of Faraday. In our struggles to return home to you we have now been at sea ten months as Prima

measures time, and not a week of that has been easy sailing. The Eastern Gate proved impassable, its

eastbound currents too swift and its guardian volcanos too active to permit us passage. Despite his many

misgivings, Captain Rozca led us south, into truly unknown waters, where even his limited experience

was of little value to us. He hoped to win us passage west between the Fire Islands, which would bring

us into the tropical currents and ease our passage home. Alas, Novatlantis was unobliging. Barely had we

begun on that course when there was an eruption of such magnitude that it deafened us from miles away,

and the sailors struggled in choking fumes to save their sails from the molten hail that fell on us. There

were many injuries that day, and there would have been more had not Gerald Tarrant braved the

unnatural darkness of the ash-blackened sky to work his cold craft in our favor. From its hiding place

within his Worked sword coldfire flared with the force and brilliance of lightning-

"Shit," Damien muttered. "Can't send that." He read the paragraph over again, then balled it up in his fist

and threw it aside. It landed in a pile of similar dis-cardings, now littering the floor of his cabin. He

lowered his head to his hands and tried to think.

Most Holy Father,

These are the details of my voyage to the eastlands, which I undertook in God's Name and for His

eternal glory.

It took five midmonths for the Golden Glory to cross Novatlantis, a journey which God permitted us to

make without injury to any of our people. We knew that in the past five expeditions had preceded us

along that route, but we knew nothing of their fate. To our surprise and delight we found a nation thriving

on that distant shore, which was wholly dedicated to the One God and His Prophet's teachings. Upon

learning that

we, too, traveled in God's name, these people welcomed us and showed us a land that seemed nothing

short of paradise. Even the fae had been tamed there, in accordance with the Prophet's writings, and I

was filled with joy and new hope as I saw with my own eyes what miracles a unified faith might reap.

Alas, the godly image of this land was but a facade. Even as we began to suspect that a darker truth lay

at the heart of this seeming paradise, we were forced to flee into wilder places, long since abandoned to

the fae and its creatures. We traveled as a company of three: myself, the rakh-woman Hesseth, and the

sorcerer Gerald Tarrant. I would be lying if I said that I ever fully trusted the Hunter, or that my

relationship with the rakh-woman was entirely comfortable, but we discovered in our quest a common

cause which overbore our natural tensions. I think it safe to say that not one of us would have survived

the journey without the other two. And indeed, at several points even our concerted efforts were barely

enough to save us.

Our journey brought us through many horrors, of which I will spare you description; suffice it to say that

the poisoning of this land had begun long ago, and was orchestrated by a master hand. Gerald Tarrant

determined that a demonic force allied to human sorcery was responsible, and I saw no reason to doubt

him. In order to learn more of its nature (and perhaps discover a weakness in our ene,my) we traveled

farther south, to a land that was beyond the reach of the One God's faith. There humans and rakh toiled

side by side in rare unity, devoting themselves to the destruction of God's nation and the very faith which

sustained it. It was a land well fortified against invasion, and we were nearly overcome by its gruesome

defenses. In that place Hesseth died, and I will mourn forever that I could give her no proper grave, nor

better resting place than a blood-spattered chasm in a vile and hostile land. In that land also Gerald

Tarrant was approached by the enemy, who offered such a price for the betrayal of our cause that even

his cold heart must have been moved

"Hell." He stared at the last sentence for a long minute, then scratched it out with a sigh. "Can't tell him

that, can I?"

He sat back, trying not to think of those days. The fear. The suspicion. If he had known then what he

knew now-that Tarrant had sold them out in order to get them closer to the enemy, close enough to

strike- would it have made a difference? The enemy had offered Gerald Tarrant true immortality. Could

C. S. Friedman - Coldfire 3 - Crown of Shadows

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