Prologue

It came on suddenly, startling him from his much needed sleep, prompting him to throw off his bedding as he sat up.  His movement spooked the mounts, who snorted and shook nervously before settling down again in the shadows of the campfire.  But Damien failed to notice.  He was lost in his own mind, where the spark of something old, something he'd though long dead and buried, had flickered for just a moment, but it was long enough that he was sure he had not imagined it.  A name almost came to his lips, the cause and perpetrator of the sensation, the bond.  But the link had died with its creator, hells below, he had felt the finality of it's breaking, and its creator was best left forgotten with the ghost of the magic.  He cut off the name, the thought even, violently.  To invoke it could mean the death of another, or perhaps it could kill the same man for the second, no the third, time.

            Wincing, Damien Kilcannon Vryce kicked off his bedding, which, as it doubled as his saddle blanket, stunk of the sweat of the three-toed beasts he and his current client rode.  The body guarding business was making him soft, he thought.  Once a warrior priest, his former life had been spent traveling lands no one else dared to pass, battling creatures created by nightmares and the deepest fears of the victims of the fae.  But now, such a life was dead.  The fae was invisible to humans, unWorkable, unSeeable even, and all due to his own actions.  His own sacrifice.  Well, perhaps not singularly his own.  The same name drifted through his thoughts again, before he could quench it and the memories it implied.  It was because of that name that he had been a priest in the first place, and it was because of that name that he could no longer return to his priesthood.  The church still existed, but his faith in it did not.  He was lucky his priesthood had led him on the path of the warrior.  Most adepts before the reWorking had been rendered useless after.  Many had taken their own lives in shame and grief at the loss of their skills.  Damien missed them, oh did long to See again, but he had other talents.  He was nearly broad as he was tall, a thick mass of muscle from years of training, and his skill with a sword was better than average.  Hells below, he was damn good.  And so he hired his services out as a bodyguard.  He glanced over at his client, still sleeping soundly, swathed in his monstrosity of a blanket.  The vulking fool had no idea of how to travel light.

Damien crouched by the fire, letting its warmth seep into aching bones, old injuries protesting the cold desert night.  Once, he could have healed such injuries easily as soon as they were acquired.  Working them with the fae as easily as he moved his lips to speak the words of invocation.  Once, this fire would have been a true weapon, a true Fire, to burn the nightmares and demons that haunted this world.  Once, it might have burned blue, and cold, cold as his skin.  Damien shuddered, knocking a log on its side, sending sparks—bright, orange, hot sparks, into the air.  That was dangerous thought, deadly to the one he wanted least to harm if he were truly alive.

He looked up at the sky.  Thin tendrils of dawn stretched out over the dark tree-tops.  It would be light soon.  He settled down next to the fire, figuring it would be useless to try and sleep anymore that night.  He heard a few birds off in the woods, signaling the new day.  One of the horses snorted, waking the others, and all were soon grazing.  Inspired, Damien fished a pot out of the saddle packs and headed for the nearby creek to fill it.

            The morning was crisp and cool, but Damien stripped to the skin and sat down in the icy water, letting it wash away a week's worth of accumulated grime.  Despite the gooseflesh that pricked all over his body, it felt good to be clean.  He dunked his head once, hastily scrubbing his fingers through the thick dark hair, and sputtering against the cold water.  He rose then, and dressed, and after filling up the pot made his way back to camp, and the fire's warmth.

            His client, Rodney Valcart, a young noble whom he was escorting from the touristy Black Ridge to the boy's home town of Jaggereth, stirred in his nest of blankets when he returned and placed (more like dropped, if truth be told) the pot in the midst of glowing embers.  "Have you been up long?" the young man mumbled, still more than half asleep.

            "No, Mer Valcart" Damien lied.  "Go back to sleep.  I'll wake you when there's food."

            Instead, the young man rolled onto his back, looking up at the sky.  "Looks like a fine morning.  From the shape of the clouds I'd bet there'll be clear weather."  His voice was still groggy, and Damien waited for him to say more, but instead heard the loud, even breathing of sleep.

            Shaking his head, Damien returned his attention to breakfast. The boy acted every bit an eccentric young lording, attempting to dabble in the arts of science, which had become so popular since the fae had become unWorkable by human hands.  Since technology no longer meant death.  When humans had first come to Erna so many years ago they had been alien, invaders, and the planet had treated them as such, slowly killing them.  As Damien had just recently discovered, only the madness of one man saved humankind from being destroyed by the planet when he destroyed their spaceship, their technology.  But now, with the fae altered, technology was once again useful and mankind struggled to recreate it from the rough, ancient designs their ancestors, the first humans on Erna, had sketched onto whatever paper they had available.  But really, Damien mused, this boy thought he was a scientist because he could, as he put it, "read the sky."  Any fool with half a vulking brain could do so.  Hells below, he'd been able to his whole life, even before science became a trend.  The only difference was that before, when there was no science, no technology, he could have Worked the fae and changed what they skies held in store for him that day.

            But Mer Valcart was right, Damien mused as he poured a generous amount of dried wheyseed into the water, it would be a fine day.  He was grateful their journey was almost finished.  He longed for a little action to break the monotony of escorting an all but helpless body along a well traveled road.  Perhaps the next job he took would be to the east, a much more dangerous and less attempted route, and all the more thrilling for it. 

            He scolded himself as he drained the water from the boiled wheyseed and added a few sweet spices from the packs to it.  A year or two ago, God above, had it really been that long, and he would have sat for hours in prayer as atonement for such thoughts.  Vulk, he would never have even thought it.  A priest sought neither adventure nor excitement.  A priest protected when necessary attacked only in defense.  But now… well, people change.  He most certainly had.  There were things he accepted now that he never would have before, mostly because of one man.  Besides, he had left the priesthood behind him.  It saddened him to think of it, but at least the soul-searing pain of regret at the thought of it had died down.  He had a new life now.

            "Mer Verant," he called, "there's food when you're ready." 

            The boy sat up quickly, blinking sleepily in the quickly brightening morning light.  With a yawn, he pulled on his boots and made his way over next to Damien, trying to run fingers through sleep tousled hair as he did so.  He made a face when he saw the fare that awaited him.  "Wheyseed again?  I thought we'd eaten the last of it yesterday."

            "Sorry," Damien replied, handing him a bowl and a spoon.  "We're short on supplies.  I added some spices this morning, so it shouldn't be too bad."

            Spooning the grayish-white substance into his mouth with distaste, Rodney asked, "When will we be arriving in Jaeggeth?"

            "Sometime this afternoon, I hope.  If we make good time."  Damien shoveled some of his own breakfast into his mouth, stomach and palate protesting at the bland fare.  Yep, he had definitely been an independent agent for too long.  Church fare had been ten times as bad.  Still, he emptied the bowl quickly enough, years of rough living having taught him to take a meal when he had the chance, no matter how inedible.  Across the firepit, the boy picked sluggishly at his own food.

            "So, what do you think of these new rumors, that the fae has once again appeared?" the boy asked suddenly, causing Damien to nearly choke on the last bite of wheyseed.  Cursing, he grabbed the waterskin, swallowing loudly, while he swore at his employer under his breath.  God above, he wished the boy would just eat his vulking wheyseed.  At least that would keep his mouth shut.  Of course, he couldn't blame the boy for asking; the same thoughts had been haunting him the past two days, ever since they had first heard the rumors from a wanderer they passed along the road.  The old man had come to their fire early one morning, startling Rodney from sleep and Damien from his cooking so silently had he made his entrance.  Dressed in a long cloak and well-worn blouse and pants, his boots tied tightly to his knees, leaning heavily on a polished walking stick, he had asked to share their food that morning.  And Rodney, the romantic that he was, had instantly agreed, intrigued by the lonely wanderer.  Damien had been more hesitant, noting the slight bulges that, from experience, he knew betrayed concealed weapons.  Following his employer's orders, he handed over a bowl of porridge, all the while making sure his sword was close by.  The stranger answered Rodney's inquiries of the wide world, saying he had traveled all the way to the lands across the sea, to Raenth, and back, hunting demons.  Rodney had scoffed at that and dismissed the stranger for a looney, but Damien was now intrigued.  The demon the traveler said he had pursued sounded very similar to the forms Damien knew the Rakh were apt to take.  But the faint lines of fae that the stranger claimed to have felt Damien refused to believe in.  To believe would be to have hope, and Damien had learned through many hard years that hope often led to heartache.

            Damien realized he had been drifting, and, lowering the waterskin from his mouth, hastily answered his employer.  "One man's mutterings are hardly rumors.  He looked half starved.  Perhaps he was imagining things in his hunger." 

            "Aha," Rodney exclaimed.  "Just as I thought.  Everyone knows there is no more fae, nor demons."

            "Yes," Damien agreed, though he was not so sure.  That faint buzzing in the back of his mind was beginning to stir again, bringing with it an image of a store, on a busy street, with a sign out front that read "Hunt Shope."  He gripped the top railing of the porch as he stood on the deck, trying hard to stand steady as the world swam around him and his legs felt weak.  He fled inside as he realized people were stopping to stare rather than to pass on by, barely managing to open the door, looking hazily at the pimply face of the surprised shopkeeper….

"Mer Vryce!  Are you all right?  Mer Vryce?!"  He blinked suddenly, realizing that he was sitting in the same spot by the fire, his employer inches away from him looking at once slightly concerned and extremely interested, as though Damien had turned into a particularly interesting bug that he had just stepped on. 

"Sorry," he said sheepishly, waving the boy away.  "Just lost in thoughts."

"Ha, I'll say!"  The boy peered closer at him, making Damien decidedly uncomfortable.  "You're not getting sick, are you?  It wouldn't do to have my bodyguard come down with something.  You could make me sick as well."  He was slowly putting distance between them, for which Damien was grateful, but suddenly had a change of heart and practically leaped on the older man.  "Oh, I know.  One of the demon hunters at Black Ridge taught me a few healing arts.  I'll go find a few of the plants he showed me and brew a tea for you that will guarantee you won't get sick."

Damien shuddered at the thought.  Perhaps he wouldn't get sick, but he also might not survive the boy's healing skills.  "No, I'm alright.  We should be getting started for Jaeggert.  We'll make it today if we get on it.  I'll clean up here if you go pack your things."

The boy nodded, thankfully having forgotten about his attempts at becoming a healer.  As his client bounded off for his pile of blankets, Damien found himself thinking of cold, pale eyes and colder skin, of the revivalist architecture of the hunt shoppe he'd seen.  Moving slowly, he began to pick up breakfast, dumping the remaining wheyseed and kicking out the smoldering embers.  "God above, I'm too old for a mystery," he muttered to himself, shaking his head as he stowed the gear.  Somehow, though, he knew this was something he couldn't ignore.  Or wouldn't.

Packing up camp was easy, at least for Damien.  He traveled light, and years of practice had made him an expert at the rather mundane art of rolling his few belongings into a bundle.  He sat around the remains of their campfire when he finished, taking a perverse pleasure in watching Mer Rodney struggle with his own heaping pile of luggage.  Maybe it would teach the boy not to bring along an entire general store the next time he went pleasuring.  Of course, he got up once Mer Rodney began to bring his gear over towards the pack animals.  Already the hairy things had laid back their ears at his lurching, jangling approach, looking as if they thought as much about the extra luggage they would have to carry as Damien himself did.

"Shh," he soothed, rubbing the closest one under the chin and guesturing with his free hand for Rodney to lay down his pile.  The boy didn't even know how to pack a bedroll tight! he thought as he reached absently to scratch the ears of the second animal.  Once they both had quieted, he quickly loaded them, messy gear and all, and they set off.

The pace was slow, Damien limping from not-quite healed injuries from his last job (which, he thought to himself, had been a whole lot more interesting than this!), and Rodney from his not-quite-broken-in travel boots.  And despite the morning's clear sky and Rodney's best attempt at forecasting, the clouds covered up the sun shortly after midday and the wind picked up.  By the time the sun was setting behind the trees, guardee, guard, and horses were all soaked to the skin and Jaeggereth's borders were still a good three hours away. 

"Bah!" Rodney finally exclaimed, flinging off his water-logged cloak and throwing it into the nearest mudpile.  "Waterproof, that old fool called this!  Obviously he never used it."

Damien reached down and calmly picked it up.  "Waterproof only goes so far.  We've practically been walking through a waterfall for the past hour.  You can't expect anything to stand up to that."  He failed to mention that his own cloak was reasonably dry.

"A waterfall it is, Mer Varant," Rodney exclaimed, his eyes lighting up.  Damien tried hard not to groan.  "This can't be natural, can it?  This morning there was not a cloud to be seen and suddenly it's as though night fell early.  Do you think this could be fae?"

Damien had to grit his teeth around the sharp answer that wanted to come out.  Instead he replied, "I doubt that.  I heard owls hooting this morning.  That most often means that it will rain.  Besides, this isn't unheard of.  It's the monsoon season in these parts, is it not?"  Even as he said it, though, he felt that there was something wrong.  A faint prickling of sensation he had not felt since….  And suddenly, the feeling of his bond to Tarrant roared back to life with such force he staggered, clutching briefly at the horse's pack to steady himself.  It was so loud that everything around him disappeared, lost in the roar and the whirlwind, the feel of emotions so dark, and desperate need, for hate, for fear, for blood, and that little tiny, almost invisible inkling of humanity, that loneliness.

He became aware slowly of Rodney shaking him, hands wrapped around his arm, calling his name.  It was like blinking water out of his eyes, and took a few moments for him to realize what was happening around him.  "Mer Verant, Look!" he yelled frantically, pointing out into the trees.  It took Damien a few moments more to regain his bearings enough to see what he was pointing at.  When he finally saw, he gasped.  There, moving silently through the trees, were fae.  They circled around the travelers, the winds following them.  Damien's cloak moved with it, and he felt a strong pull at his arm as Rodney's cloak was caught by the currents.  Suddenly, they stopped, and all stood still.  The forest was as silent as the Hunter's had been, oh so long ago.  Damien's nostrils twitched, waiting for the scent of rotted flesh to come with the stillness.  But the sky was still grey, not the pitch black of the Hunter's land, and all he could smell was the musty scent of new-fallen rain.

Rodney gasped, clinging closer to Damien's arm as all at once, the creatures took a step towards them, closing the circle.  "What do they want?" he asked, eyes wide.  His sword hung by his side, well forgotten in the heat of the moment.

Damien did not reply.  The roar of his supposedly dead bond to Tarrant had died down, but still it clouded his thoughts.  It was as if after so long an absence it clamored for attention more strongly than it should.  At least, before, he had never noticed it to be so bothersome.  Not physically.  It took all of his concentration to keep his senses turned outwards to the circled fae.

As one, the fae morphed.  Where before, they had been shapeless entities, a mishmash of colors and edges and lines all clashing with one another, all suddenly took the same shape.  Now they were surrounded by black creatures, almost human seeming, though they stood hunched over and growled ferally, shaking large manes of spiky black hair threateningly.  Finally pushing the noise of the bond far enough back into his mind that it was little more than a whisper, Damien looked on in astonishment.  Never before had he seen such an occurrence, seen so many fae all take the same shape.  Normally, each one had a preferred shape which they showed to the humans unlucky enough to encounter them.  Either that, or they took the shape that their victim feared most.

One came forward, towards Damien, sniffing the air.  Bells that had appeared around its wrists and ankles jingled softly as it walked.  Rodney dove behind Damien as the creature came up to the warrior's chest and laid its sharp claws lightly on the halberd that ran across his shoulders.  Damien's hand crept slowly down to his sword, hoping that the years had not dulled his reflexes enough that he would be unable to strike the creature down before it did the same to him.  The fae, of course, noticed, but did nothing.  Damien's hand rested on his hilt.

Suddenly, the feeling of the bond was gone again from Damien, and at the same moment his mind cleared, all the creatures stiffened, turned, and fled.  Only the one near him remained, for Damien grabbed its arm before it could leave.  When the coal black eyes looked his way, though, he found himself at a loss for words.  "H..how?" he managed.

The thing grew a mouth right before his eyes.  "We would ask the same of you, Gerald Tarrant.  We thought you dead."  And with that, the fae morphed its arm back into its body and ran, leaving Damien holding onto air.

Rodney recovered himself when the last fae disappeared.  "Gerald Tarrant," he asked, "Why would they think you him.  Of course he's dead!  Dead nine hundred years."

"Ah," Damien nodded, lost in thought.  "So they say."  But they also say that the fae are gone, and the Hunter banished.  And Gerald Tarrant had not been dead as long as the Church books' tell.  Suddenly, Damien found himself very happy that he'd taken this job.  He had a place he needed to visit in Jaggareth.  Wrenching stray thoughts away from a raven-haired youth with eyes as old as Erna herself, Damien grabbed his employer under the arm.  "We'd best be going," he said, not paying attention to how curt he sounded.

"Ah," Rodney agreed, nodding.  His fear had left, though wariness still remained.  He seemed unable to stand still, fluttering nervously around the horses till Damien stilled him out of fear the beasts would kick.  Already they stamped in irritation.  "What do you think those were, Mer Vryce?"  Rodney had turned all wide-eyed innocent as they took up the path again.  "They couldn't be fae.  It's impossible.  And why would they think you to be Gerald Tarrant?"

Damien merely shrugged, his thoughts already in Jaggareth, tracing the path through town to the Hunt Shoppe, where he hoped to find answers.  What were the fae doing here?  And how had the link come back?  He squared the small pack he wore and continued down the road.  He could feel Gerald Tarrrant's presence.  The other man was only half alive, yet his precience, undetectable, he knew, by anyone else, continued to alter the way things should be.  Fae formed according to his will, shaping the surface of Erna like clay in a potter's hands, yet wild and just waiting to take shape, yet contained by his desire and by his conscience.  It remained fluid in his mind, like quicksilver.  He did not know what was to come, but he would prevail, just as he always had.

"It matters little," Damien replied.  "Let's move, for daylight wastes.  And I believe I now have business in Jaggareth."  He ignored his employer's puzzled look, knowing only that he had to reach the Hunte Shoppe as soon as possible, or the worst might come to pass.  Tarrent was alive, waiting only to be reclaimed.  What he left behind mattered little.  How could it, when this world knew few of his secrets?  It was time to move on.