Free Hounds of God by Judith Tarr Page A

barriers, was an open wound. Were they so weak? Could
they not see? They had played full into their enemies’ hands.
    They rolled on the floor, Bishop and Chancellor, like hounds
quarreling in their kennel. Fools; children. Nikki made his mind a whip and
lashed them with all the force he had. Be
still!
    They fell apart. He was hardly aware of it. The one scent,
the vital one, was well-nigh gone. But he could follow, must follow, down the
long winding ways of the mind. It was strong, and arrogant in its strength; it
had not shielded itself fully, although it overwhelmed the minds of all its
prey together.
    He was close—closer. Walls and sanctity. Walls, and
sanctity.
    Snake-swift, it struck.
    Nikki swam up out of night. Alf stooped over him. The world
reeled into focus. Alf was corpse-pale; a bruise purpled his jaw. But his eyes
were sane.
    Nikki seized him. I know , he said . I know where they are.
    The sanity staggered, steadied. The voice was soft, but the
mind was a great swelling cry. “Where?”
    In Rome. With a power—
    Alf’s face shimmered. Nikki snatched with mind and
hand. No! He must not go, not
knowing, not seeing—
    Alf was strong. Before that Hell-strong stroke of power, he
kept his consciousness, if little else.
    Nikki glared at the face beside his own. With a power, he continued grimly, greater than any I’ve ever known. It’s
on guard now; we won’t get closer to it than we have. Not from here, and
not with the strength that’s in us.
    Alf sat up with care and pushed his hair out of his face,
holding it there, drawing a shuddering breath. “In Rome,” he
muttered. “From Rome, he—she—whoever, whatever it is—did
this.” His eyes closed. “Dear God.”
    “Dear God indeed.” Jehan knelt stiffly beside
them. For Alf’s lone bruise, he had a dozen; already one eye was swelling
shut. “A force that can reach through all Rhiyana’s walls, kill
Alun, take Anna and Thea and the twins, drive you back—it must be the
Devil himself.”
    “Or one of his minions. Or,” Alf said, “one
of us.”
    Nikki’s body knotted with denial, but his mind spun
free of it. Yes. Horrible as that was, it could well be. It was power he had
scented, and power that had felled him.
    But the Kindred were gentle people. They did not, they could
not hate as that one hated, without measure or mercy.
    “No?” Alf smiled with all the sadness in the
world. “Nikephoros my child, you saw me only a moment ago. And I am one
of the gentlest of us all.”
    Nikki groped for his hand and clung with convulsive
strength. As if that one weak mortal grip could hold him; could unmake it all
and bring back the brightness that had been the world. Thea will be strong. I know she will. We’ll get her back, or she’ll
come back herself, hale and whole and spitting green fire. Why, she could make
trembling cowards out of the very devils in Hell!
    Alf smiled faintly but truly. “And Heaven help any
mere black sorcerer.” He rose, wavering, steadying. “As for us, for
now, we’re needed here.”
    That was all Alf, and all sanity. Yet they stared, taken
aback. That he could be so calm, so easy; that he could abandon his sister and
his lady and his children, abruptly and completely, with no visible qualm.
    His eyes flickered. Like Gwydion’s: deep water above
and fires raging below. Their gazes dropped.
    “Come,” he said. “We have much to do.”

8.
    One could forget, for a little while. One could drive
oneself, body and mind, until thought was lost and all one’s being
focused on the duty at hand.
    Until one was weary beyond telling, and one reached for the
strong bright other, steeled against her mockery, bolstered already by the
prospect of it—and met nothingness. She was gone; she was not. There was
only the void, bereft even of pain.
    Alf could not sleep. His bed, his whole tower, was full of
her absence. The cradle tormented him with its emptiness. He should dispose of
that at least; he could not bear to. As if the