Crown of Shadows

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Demon’s wake

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  The Dark Within

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Where Power Abides

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Dawn

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  JOURNEY INTO NIGHTMARE ...

  “The path we have to take,” the demon warned Damien, “lies through the substance of the Hunter’s own fear. Are you ready for that?”

  Through the smoky film guarding the room he could see a glistening blackness, like an oil slick, that rippled thickly as the earth-fae flowed into it. Hungry, it seemed. Terribly hungry. A foul odor rose up from its surface, a stink of blood and carrion... and worse.

  “He feared sunlight. Heat. Healing. All the things that life is made of.”

  “Don’t be naive, Reverend Vryce.”

  The vile stuff was moving slowly toward him; if he stayed where he was it would soon make contact. “Death,” he said sharply. “He feared death more than anything.”

  “Not death,” the demon said.

  Startled, he looked at Karril. The Iezu’s eyes were dark, unreadable.

  “Death isn’t a thing or a place,” Karril told him. “It’s a transition. A doorway, not a destination. Think,” he urged. “You know the answer.”

  And he did, suddenly. He knew it, and grew weak at the thought. Was that what lay ahead of them? No wonder Karril didn’t want to get involved.

  “Hell,” he whispered. “He feared Hell.”

  The critics rave for C. S. Friedman’s stunning Coldfire trilogy:

  “Stunning... combines good historical world-building, vampires, religion, and transcendence in a tale that is both entertaining and cathartic.... A feast for those who like their fantasies dark, and as emotionally heady as a rich red wine.”—Locus

  “Words do not suffice to describe the sheer imaginative genius, not to mention incredible power, of Ms. Friedman’s formidable storytelling gift—you simply have to experience it.”—Romantic Times

  “The creative genius of C. S. Friedman bums brightly with the publication of her stunning new novel, blending elements of science fiction and fantasy into an extraordinary reading experience.”—Rave Reviews

  “Friedman writes cogently on the nature of human desire for knowledge and the dangerous covenants necessary to attain it....”—Publishers Weekly

  “Some of the best writing I have seen in quite a while, and the ending is excellent. Buy this one. Don’t wait for it to come out in paperback. Very highly recommended.”

  —Science Fiction Review

  “A superb storyteller of amazing power and infinite subtlety, Ms. Friedman sweeps us off on the magical wings of her imagination for another splendid reading experience.” —Rave Reviews

  “This sequel to BLACK SUN RISING secures Friedman’s reputation both as a gifted storyteller and an innovative creator.”—Library Journal

  “A good mystery wrapped in an adventure story and set against an original and often fascinating background.”

  —Science Fiction Chronicle

  “WHEN TRUE NIGHT FALLS combines SF and fantasy motifs in a believable manner. C. S. Friedman also manages to work theological discussions in without slowing the pace. Recommended.—Starlog

  “Competently wrought, independently intelligible, engaging.” —Kirkus

  “An excellent blend of horror, fantasy, and science fiction. I can’t wait for the final volume.”

  —Philadelphia’s Weekly Press

  “One of the better fantasy series in recent memory ... readers will be enthralled... (Friedman’s) general mastery of her material should delight her fans.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Complex and compelling... The richly detailed setting and strong supporting characters give substance to a tale that explores the consequences of embracing evil in hopes of achieving its redemption. A priority purchase.”

  —Library Journal

  “Epic fantasy with a keen, dark edge... shows off Friedman’s gifts of craft and authorial insight.

  —SouthBend Tribune

  Novels by C. S. Friedman available from DAW Books

  The Magister Trilogy

  FEAST OF SOULS

  WINGS OF WRATH

  THE MADNESS SEASON

  THIS ALIEN SHORE

  IN CONQUEST BORN

  THE WILDING

  The Coldfire Trilogy

  BLACK SUN RISING

  WHEN TRUE NIGHT FALLS

  CROWN OF SHADOWS

  Copyright © 1995 by C. S. Friedman.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-17416-6

  All Rights Reserved.

  DAW Books Collectors No. 1001.

  DAW Books are distributed by Penguin U.S.A.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living, dead, or undead

  is strictly coincidental.

  First Paperback Printing, August 1996

  S.A.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Nancy Friedman

  Because the only thing better than hanging fifty feet over a smoking volcano with nothing but a thin sheet of plastic between you and it—with a pilot whose idea of fun is to tip the helicopter over on its side without warning and cheerily yell, “Don’t worry, you won’t fall out!”—is having someone to share that with.

  The author would like to thank the following people for their help in making this book possible:

  Neil Rackham, for sharing his volcano;

  Gene Fisher, for sharing his horses;

  Helen Zebarth, for fielding some very strange

  medical questions;

  and Shirley Maddox, for the most precious gift of

  all: time.

  Prologue

  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 epi thet 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 t
he 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 comer 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—everybrother and sister and cousin that had ever laid claim to the name, down to the last helpless infant in its own crimson puddle—andwatching 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 col
d 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....