But he was also wise enough to question the source of such temptation. That same seductive power which had drawn him to the Forest in the first place now sought to bind him here, and even the thoughts in his own head must be considered suspect. Would he feel the same way about the Forest if were not trying to draw him in? How could one even begin to evaluate one’s options, so close to the center of the whirlpool?
A scream split the night.
For a moment he thought it was a human cry. It had the emotional resonance of one, and Tarrant’s fae- sight could see the ripples of frustration and rage that followed in its wake, clearly from a human source. But the sound itself was bestial in nature, clearly not formed by a human throat.
How very curious.
In another time and place he might have worked a Knowing to gather more information. Here, he dared not do so. Any contact he made with the Forest’s fae would increase its influence over his mind tenfold. No, if he was curious about the source of the sound he was going to have to investigate it the old-fashioned way.
Loosening his sword in its scabbard, he began to head in that direction. He moved quickly and quietly, a shadow among shadows, and the local wildlife must have been moving out of his way, for he saw no other creatures. Even some vines and branches seemed to draw back as he approached, clearing a path for him. Was that possible? He knew of no plants that were sentient enough to control their movement like that, but that did not mean that none existed. In a place like this anything was possible.
Soon he could hear a low keening noise coming from directly in front of him. He stopped moving and extended his senses to their utmost capacity as he strained to analyze it. Canine, he decided at last. Only one animal was vocalizing clearly, but he could hear the huffing and panting of many others. A wolf pack, perhaps? In the world outside the Forest such things were of little concern to him; animals could sense his unnatural nature and generally kept their distance. But here, where so much of the environment was itself unnatural, they might be less inhibited. Or the wolves might be faeborn themselves, in which case they would play by a whole different set of rules. He would take no chances.
He drew his sword from its scabbard. Ice blue flames danced along the edge of the blade, a ghostly fire bereft of heat; frost appeared suddenly on the plants that were nearest to him, and the edges of a few leaves grew stiff, shattering like glass as he brushed against them.
The trees thinned out a short way ahead, opening into some kind of clearing. The noise seemed to be coming from there. He did not approach the clearing directly, but took up position behind the last dense stand of trees, letting the folds of his surcote fall about his sword so that its light would not betray him.
There were indeed wolves in the clearing, real flesh-and-blood animals, but they were twisted and malproportioned creatures from a species he had ever seen before. There were about two dozen of them, and they paced anxiously back and forth across the clearing, snarling at one another whenever two paths crossed. In the center of the clearing a single wolf lay motionless upon the ground. It was larger than all the others, with fur that had probably been white at one time. Now its coat was dank with filth and only a few patches of colorless hairs showed through. The scent of its blood came to Tarrant on the wind, and to his surprise it stirred his hunger. Since he fed exclusively on human blood, that answered one question… but it raised a thousand others.
Sword at the ready, he stepped out from his place of concealment.
As soon as the wolves saw him they began to snarl. Several rushed at him, but they drew up just short of attack, unable to overcome their instinctive fear of a supernatural predator. Others froze in place, their long matted fur rising up in clumps like surreal porcupine quills, making fearsome growling sounds as they tried to warn him away. He observed them for a moment and then, when he felt certain that none of them were likely to summon the courage to approach him, he walked over to the wounded wolf. It did not seem to notice him until he came close enough for the chill of his sword to raise frost along its flank, at which point it bared its teeth and growled a warning. But the sound lacked conviction and its fierce expression faded quickly, giving way to sheer exhaustion. There was a deep gash in its side, Tarrant noted, and the ground beneath it was soaked with blood. That was not good for his purposes. Whatever manner of creature this was, he did not want it to die before he had a chance to study it.
He was not able to Heal it, of course. The power that sustained him was derived from death and darkness, and he could no more work a true Healing than he could bang together two blocks of ice to start a fire. But there were other things that he could do. Lowering his sword until it almost touched the wolf, he summoned forth the coldfire that was bound to its blade and molded it to his purpose. A frosty mist began to rise from its surface, like human breath in winter. Then he touched the blade to the wound. The wolf howled in pain and tried to pull away, but the muscles along that side spasmed and then froze, and it was helpless to escape.
The mist rising from the sword was crimson now, and Tarrant’s nostrils flared as he drank in the scent of it. Human blood, without question. He moved his blade down along the wound, making sure that the sorcerous steel made contact with every inch of damaged tissue. The flesh that it touched blackened and curled back upon itself, taking on a mummified aspect. He continued until the whole of the wound had been treated thus, and no more blood was flowing. Then he stepped back and studied his handiwork.
It would be a long time before all the flesh he had just destroyed would slough off and be replaced, but for now at least the wound was cauterized. The white wolf lay panting on the ground, its eyes rolled halfway up into its head, but it seemed calm enough. Now that that the worst of the pain was over it appeared to understand what Tarrant was doing. A flicker of something that was almost human intelligence seemed to glimmer deep within its eyes, but it was quickly gone again. Whatever human spark nestled in the heart of this creature, it was deeply buried.
With a glance about the clearing to make sure that the other wolves were still keeping their distance-they were-Tarrant braced himself to perform a Knowing. Doing any manner of Working in this place was risky, but he needed to know what this strange creature was, and there was no other quick way to gather data. The currents about his feet grew agitated as he summoned forth his power once more, and doubtless the Forest’s fae would have been drawn into his Working if he allowed it. But he kept his mind focused and shut the local currents out, unwilling to risk any direct contact. His blade flared brightly as he drew upon fae he had bound to its steel long ago: his own private store of power.
Gradually the Knowing took shape, and he could sense it drawing forth information from the wounded creature at his feet. After a moment he shut his eyes and invited it into his mind, commanding it to present itself as a vision.
Pale, he is-so pale! — milk white skin, hair like spun moonlight-gleaming red eyes overlaid with some sort of Working, no doubt to enhance his vision. He stands proudly amidst the trees of the Forest, and its currents reflect his own essence back at him: power, ambition, vanity. So much vanity! This place is the greatest source of power on the continent-in the world-and he will become its Master.
He spreads his arms wide as if to welcome a lover and whispers to the earth-fae: come to me, come to me, come to me…
And it comes. Core-bright, life-hungry power-ravenous! — pours into his soul with molten fury, flooding his mind with the spiritual detritus of mankind’s nightmares. Madness churns in his brain as he absorbs the dying fears of all the men who walked this path before him, who tried to master the Forest and failed. But he will not fail. He envisions the mental patterns that will allow him to establish control over the powerful tide, muttering the ritual words that he prepared so long ago. He has dreamed of this day since his first Working. He is ready for it. He is strong. Soon, soon, this legendary realm that has destroyed so many will belong to him.
But he is not strong enough.
The power of the Forest engulfs him, chokes him, drowns him. It crashes into his soul like a tidal wave and sweeps it clean of all human thought. It invades his flesh and begins to reshape it, molding his body into a form that reflects the Forest’s twisted essence. He howls in agony, but it is a beast’s agony, not a man’s. And he understands, in his final human moments, the full measure of his failure…
Tarrant stared down at the wolf as the vision faded, trying to reconcile the arrogant sorcerer he had just seen with the pitiful animal that now lay helpless before him. How many years had it been since the creature had last experienced a human thought? Did it have enough rational awareness to understand the magnitude of what it had lost? To mourn what it had become? The involuntary transformation it had suffered was both horrifying and fascinating to Tarrant, in that it reflected the very essence of the Forest. It was also a clear warning to him not to lose his metaphysical footing in these deadly riptides.
Kneeling down by the wolf’s side, Tarrant waited until it opened its eyes and looked at him. It seemed to
