The bloodshot eyes opened wide and fixed on Tarrant. For a long moment Amoril just stared at him, as if trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
“What are you?” he gasped.
“A creature very much like yourself, originally.” But less reckless, he thought, a nd possessed of a much stronger will. “Now I am… something else.”
The albino’s eyes began to narrow-and then he flinched, and a shadow of pain crossed his face. He must have been about to Work, Tarrant realized. Then the touch of the fae had reminded him what happened the last time he’d tried it. This man would have to seek the answer to his question without a Knowing.
The clues were there for the finding, Tarrant knew, if one looked in the right places. And a sorcerer should know where to look.
Consider it a test, he thought darkly.
“You are fleshborn,” Amoril said at last. “But not… not alive.”
Tarrant nodded solemnly. “That is correct.”
“But not dead. Not truly dead. So strange… ”
Tarrant said nothing.
“Your clothing… like another time. Almost.” His facility for speech seemed to be coming back to him quickly; each word seemed less strained than the last. “From your real time?” He shook his head weakly. “Few last so long. The living die, the walking dead are destroyed.”
Tarrant said nothing. The eerie crimson eyes continued to study him intently. Assessing the paleness of his skin, perhaps, or its subtly unnatural hue.
“Blooddrinker?” he asked at last.
A faint smile flickered across Tarrant’s face as he rose to his feet. “Among other things.” He held out his hand, to help the man to his feet. “I am Gerald Tarrant, Neocount of Merentha.” If this man knew anything about history he would know just how long ago that title had been created.
After a moment of hesitation Amoril accepted his hand, and with Tarrant’s assistance he struggled to his feet. Once he was standing he seemed steady enough; his body evidently remembered how to move as a biped.
“There’s a river nearby,” Tarrant said. “You can satisfy your thirst there.” He took in the albino’s physical state, from his mud-covered legs to his blood-matted hair; a shadow of distaste crossed his face. “And bathe.”
A cold wind gusted through the clearing; he saw Amoril shiver. Living flesh was sensitive to temperature changes, he remembered. He unhooked his cloak and offered it to him. Amoril hesitated, then accepted. As Tarrant watched him wrap the fine wool about his filthy body he reflected upon the fact that he would probably not want the garment back.
“How were you wounded?” he asked. “It didn’t look like the work of an animal.”
“Not an animal.” The albino’s words were flowing almost naturally now, though his articulation was still poor. “Human bitch. Steel armor. Don’t know where she came from. Sigil of the One God here.” He struck his chest weakly with his fist. “Fought like a demon. Wounded. Won’t last long.” The red eyes glittered hungrily. “Should I kill her for you, my Master?”
“Not necessary.” Tarrant ignored the faint edge of sarcasm with which the title had been voiced. It would take some time before servitude came naturally to this one. “I will take care of it.”
Amoril cocked his head and smiled. “You are hungry?”
Tarrant did not respond.
If the sigil of the One God was emblazoned on the woman’s breastplate, that meant that she was probably a knight of the Church. Perhaps even one of its sacred hunters. And now she was here, abandoned by her own kind, surrounded by the very creatures she had sworn to destroy. No doubt she was afraid that she would die by their hands and thus shame her calling. It was the ultimate fear, for such a crusader.
He wondered how that fear would taste in her blood.
“Where is she?” he asked.
The albino pointed southeast. “Not far. Following a dead stream. Not far.” He hesitated. “Listen to the Forest. It will tell you where to go.”
“Are you saying the Forest is sentient?” he asked sharply.
“No. No. Not sentient. No.” The albino wrapped the cloak tightly around himself as he struggled to find the words that he needed. “Many dreams are here,” he said at last. “In the earth, in the soil, in the air. Human dreams. The fae reflects them. Like a mirror.”
It was along the lines of what Tarrant himself had hypothesized. But was this meaningful information from the time before the albino’s transformation, when he had studied the Forest, or had his mind become so unhinged from its recent experience that he was imagining things? Only time would tell. “I will seek out this warrior,” Tarrant told him. “Meanwhile, you proceed to the river. I’ll catch up with you later.”
He turned to leave, but the albino grabbed his arm. Tarrant was not accustomed to having other people lay hands upon him, and when he turned back his expression was so dark and fierce that Amoril backed away from him quickly, fear in his eyes.
“I can’t stay here alone,” the albino protested. “Not without Working. No protection. Too dangerous.”
Tarrant exhaled sharply in exasperation. But Amoril was right. He was just a man now, and a weak one, with neither armor nor weaponry to protect him. The creatures that feared to come near Tarrant would not hesitate to move in on such a man once he was alone. Leaving him here was a death warrant.
Loosening his sword in its scabbard, Tarrant ran his thumb along the blade just hard enough to draw blood, then reached out toward Amoril. The red eyes glistened with fear, but this time he did not back away. Tarrant smeared his blood across the man’s forehead, using a whisper of the sword’s stored power to adhere his personal essence to it. It gleamed against his milk-white skin like a fresh wound.
“The Forest will respond to you now as it responds to me,” he said. “So unless you come across something that is enamored of the undead, you should be safe enough.”
Then he slipped into shadows and left the clearing, anxious to be gone before another distraction surfaced.
He could smell her fear on the wind. It was carried to him by the air, by the earth, by the currents of fae that swirled about his feet. Its bouquet was as complex and enticing as that of the finest wine, and it aroused a hunger in him so powerful that it sent tremors of desire coursing through his soul.
That her fear was sacred in nature made it all the more appealing. This was the emotional exudate of a woman who had no real fear of injury-or even death-but whose spirit cringed at the thought that she might fail her God. Sacred duty: the taste of it burned Tarrant’s tongue, but like spice on a human palate, it enhanced rather than diminished his appetite.
He was surprised at first at how acutely he could taste her emotions without partaking of her blood, but who was to say if those insights were even true? The fae might simply be reflecting his own hunger back at him, plucking choice details out of his mind and manifesting the elements he most wished to believe. Metaphysical bait. Surrender to the Forest’s power, it whispered in its seductive tones, and all that you hunger for will be provided for you.
But imagine if it were real!
The woman was moving fairly quickly now; given how wounded she was, that said as much about her strength of will as it did about bodily stamina. Tarrant had seen many men defy mortality thus, sustained by passion alone. And what greater human passion was there than religious faith?
A fleeting memory surfaced in the black pool of his soul, echo of a life long forgotten. He remembered a man of faith riding to war in the name of his God, the banner of the one true Church whipping in the wind overhead. So idealistic, that man. So pure in motive. So dedicated to everything that was moral and just.
No longer.
The memory sank to the bottom of his soul and was lost again.
If I had not loved God so much, there would have been no power in betraying Him.
He was getting close to her now. Perhaps she could hear the occasional twig that he allowed to snap under his foot. Perhaps it made her even more afraid. Suddenly he heard a soft splash, followed by a cry of pain. She
