heal it.”
“No. No, you must not.”
“I must.”
She clutched him, though she gasped, though her broken body
writhed with the effort and the anguish of it. “No. Oh, no. They left me alive
for this. They left lips and tongue. They knew—they wanted—”
Sarevan’s face was set, closed, implacable. He laid his
hands on that head with its bitter paradox of beauty and ruin.
The air sang; Hirel’s flesh prickled. Almost he could see.
Almost he could hear. Almost know. Power like wind and fire, solid as a sword,
ghostly as a dream, terrible as the lightning.
Gathering, waxing, focusing. Reaching within the shattered
body, willing it to live, to mend, to be whole.
“No!” cried the priestess, high and despairing.
The bait was taken, the trap was sprung. The hunter came in
wind and fire, but his fire was black and his wind bore the stink of darkness.
The healing frayed and chilled and broke. Sarevan reared up,
and the masks were gone, torn away from purest, reddest rage. He roared, and it
was no man who sprang, but a great cat the color of night, with eyes of fire.
Hirel had no pride in the face of a world gone mad. He
cowered in the farthest comer. Perhaps he whimpered. He scrabbled at the wall,
hoping hopelessly that it would give way and free him from this horror.
As far from him as the cell’s walls permitted, and much too
hideously close, there was nothing to see, and there was everything. A cat
crouched over a shapeless thing that had been a woman. A cat that was also a
redheaded northerner, locked in combat with something that was now Lord Ebraz’
tame sorcerer and now a direwolf with bloody jaws.
The cat’s fangs closed on the wolf’s throat. It howled; it
fought. The cat grunted, perhaps with effort, perhaps with the laughter of the
prey turned hunter and slayer.
The wolf slashed helplessly at air. Cruel claws rent its
body. Its blood bubbled and flamed like the blood of mountains.
With a last vicious stroke, the cat flung down his enemy. A
man, broken and bleeding, and his blood had still that fiery, sorcerous
strangeness.
Power, Hirel knew without knowing how. The mage bled his
magic at Sarevan’s feet.
“Thus,” said the priest, cold and proud, “do you learn the
law. A journeyman does not challenge a master. Go now; reap the reward your
folly has won you. Live without power and without magic, and know that
Avaryan’s line cannot be cast down by any mortal man.”
The enemy vanished. Sarevan began to sink down beside the
body of the priestess.
Wind swept over him, with fire in its jaws. It caught him
unawares. He reeled and fell. Hirel’s wandering wits observed the priest’s
braid, how bright it was as he toppled, bright as new copper, clashing with the
blood on his bandages.
He twisted in the air, supple, impossible, feline. His form
blurred and steadied, human shape grappling with living shadow.
There were eyes in the shapeless darkness. Terrible eyes:
golden, luminous, and infinitely sad. I
must , they said, as the sky speaks of rain. You threaten us all. I cannot grant you mercy .
“Mercy?” Sarevan’s wrath had gone quiet. “Was it mercy you
granted my torque-sister? Share it, then. Share it in its fullness.”
They closed, darkness and darkness, flesh and shadow. The
shadow—
Hirel giggled, quite contentedly mad. The shadow had the
voice of a woman and the suggestion of a woman’s shape; a soft curve of cheek,
a swell of breasts, a slimness of waist. So close and so fiercely did they do
battle that they looked to be locked in an embrace less of war than of love.
Hirel’s manhood rose in fancied sympathy. His breathing
quickened. It was a woman, that shadow, and such a woman, ineffably beautiful,
ineffably sad. All Asanion dwelt in her body and in her great grieving eyes.
Sarevan destroyed them.
Hirel howled. Now that he must move, he could not. He raged
and wept. He forsook the last rags of his sanity. Yet through it all, his eyes
saw with perfect and hideous
“No. No, you must not.”
“I must.”
She clutched him, though she gasped, though her broken body
writhed with the effort and the anguish of it. “No. Oh, no. They left me alive
for this. They left lips and tongue. They knew—they wanted—”
Sarevan’s face was set, closed, implacable. He laid his
hands on that head with its bitter paradox of beauty and ruin.
The air sang; Hirel’s flesh prickled. Almost he could see.
Almost he could hear. Almost know. Power like wind and fire, solid as a sword,
ghostly as a dream, terrible as the lightning.
Gathering, waxing, focusing. Reaching within the shattered
body, willing it to live, to mend, to be whole.
“No!” cried the priestess, high and despairing.
The bait was taken, the trap was sprung. The hunter came in
wind and fire, but his fire was black and his wind bore the stink of darkness.
The healing frayed and chilled and broke. Sarevan reared up,
and the masks were gone, torn away from purest, reddest rage. He roared, and it
was no man who sprang, but a great cat the color of night, with eyes of fire.
Hirel had no pride in the face of a world gone mad. He
cowered in the farthest comer. Perhaps he whimpered. He scrabbled at the wall,
hoping hopelessly that it would give way and free him from this horror.
As far from him as the cell’s walls permitted, and much too
hideously close, there was nothing to see, and there was everything. A cat
crouched over a shapeless thing that had been a woman. A cat that was also a
redheaded northerner, locked in combat with something that was now Lord Ebraz’
tame sorcerer and now a direwolf with bloody jaws.
The cat’s fangs closed on the wolf’s throat. It howled; it
fought. The cat grunted, perhaps with effort, perhaps with the laughter of the
prey turned hunter and slayer.
The wolf slashed helplessly at air. Cruel claws rent its
body. Its blood bubbled and flamed like the blood of mountains.
With a last vicious stroke, the cat flung down his enemy. A
man, broken and bleeding, and his blood had still that fiery, sorcerous
strangeness.
Power, Hirel knew without knowing how. The mage bled his
magic at Sarevan’s feet.
“Thus,” said the priest, cold and proud, “do you learn the
law. A journeyman does not challenge a master. Go now; reap the reward your
folly has won you. Live without power and without magic, and know that
Avaryan’s line cannot be cast down by any mortal man.”
The enemy vanished. Sarevan began to sink down beside the
body of the priestess.
Wind swept over him, with fire in its jaws. It caught him
unawares. He reeled and fell. Hirel’s wandering wits observed the priest’s
braid, how bright it was as he toppled, bright as new copper, clashing with the
blood on his bandages.
He twisted in the air, supple, impossible, feline. His form
blurred and steadied, human shape grappling with living shadow.
There were eyes in the shapeless darkness. Terrible eyes:
golden, luminous, and infinitely sad. I
must , they said, as the sky speaks of rain. You threaten us all. I cannot grant you mercy .
“Mercy?” Sarevan’s wrath had gone quiet. “Was it mercy you
granted my torque-sister? Share it, then. Share it in its fullness.”
They closed, darkness and darkness, flesh and shadow. The
shadow—
Hirel giggled, quite contentedly mad. The shadow had the
voice of a woman and the suggestion of a woman’s shape; a soft curve of cheek,
a swell of breasts, a slimness of waist. So close and so fiercely did they do
battle that they looked to be locked in an embrace less of war than of love.
Hirel’s manhood rose in fancied sympathy. His breathing
quickened. It was a woman, that shadow, and such a woman, ineffably beautiful,
ineffably sad. All Asanion dwelt in her body and in her great grieving eyes.
Sarevan destroyed them.
Hirel howled. Now that he must move, he could not. He raged
and wept. He forsook the last rags of his sanity. Yet through it all, his eyes
saw with perfect and hideous
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