When True Night Falls

by C. S. Friedman

  So alone.

  She dreamt of her father. Some nights the dreams were good, bits of their life together replayed in all its loving intensity. But waking up from those dreams was a little bit like dying, because it meant rediscovering that he wasn’t there, he wasn’t going to be there, not now and not ever again. More often the dreams themselves were bad. Some were nightmares proper, gruesome replays of her confrontation, distorted imaginings of what his death must have been like. Then there were others, even more frightening—dreams in which her father was his normal self but she was not, dreams in which she screamed at him, screamed at him for leaving her and for not being there for her and for daring to die when she needed him so badly, oh so very badly.... Those were the dreams that upset her the most, and she lay afterward on the damp loam shivering with guilt and shame, feeling like she had somehow betrayed his love without quite knowing how.

  Sometimes the creatures of the night would come after her. She was usually aware of their approach long before she could actually see them, though she couldn’t have said how she managed that. Maybe it was the Light. It didn’t make the truth visible exactly, not like it had with her father’s killer, but sometimes when the air lit up really brightly with its colors she would get a crawling sensation up along her spine, and then she knew that something was coming. Then she would run and run and pray (to the gods of this world, which her father said was a safe prayer) that it would go find some other prey, forget about her, not notice if she stopped to hide ... and as often as not it did. Maybe the Light did that, too. It had never been more than a diversion to her, something that made the voices around her seem stronger and all the colors brighter, but maybe here in the Outside it was a more active force.

  She should have asked her father about that while she had the chance.

  She should have asked him so many things....

  She slept during the day because she knew that was the safest time to let her guard down, and tried to find a cave or a crevice or some other sheltered space to do it in. Once she had tried making a lean-to out of her blanket and some fallen branches—her father had taught her how—but the noise from the sunlight was so terrible that she couldn’t sleep, not even with her head wrapped up tightly in her jacket. Why hadn’t he warned her about that? He had tried so hard to make her ready in case she had to go Outside someday, why hadn’t he ever told her that the sun came into the sky at dawn with a crash like a thousand cymbals being slammed together all at once, that the slender beams which poked down through the canopy at noontime struck the ground with such explosive force that when she lay on the ground she could feel it shake beneath her? Was it possible that he’d never heard these things himself? Like he’d never heard so many other things that were likewise a part of her world?

  Oh, dad. She mourned for his limitations even as she mourned the loss of his life, mourned the barriers that had been between them even when they were closest. There was always so much he couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t feel....

  But you loved me. You always loved me. So much....

  Why couldn’t I have saved you?

  Day passed slowly into night and back again, over and over, exhausting and endless hours filled with a bleak despair. Once when the Light was strongest (it had cracked across the valley like a bolt of cloud-to-cloud lightning, rainbow colors flashing in the clear night air) she had dared to ask the unaskable, namely if the creature that had killed her father was actively trying to find her. The way she figured it, maybe since the Light would help her see and hear so many other things it would help her with that, too. She held her breath, waiting. And suddenly it seemed to her that the woods were very still, very quiet, oh so empty ... like nothing big was moving except for her. Then the Light was gone, and she was left wondering if she’d gotten her answer or not. Or whether it was just her own loneliness reflected back at her, like in some giant mirror that reflected not your face but the essence of your soul.

  She needed her father. Or someone. Anyone. As long as it was someone she could trust. But who was that? Members of the Church would kill her on sight, and the creature who had murdered her father must have allies.... With sudden horror she realized that if they could eat her father and take his place, they could probably do that with anyone—which meant that anybody might be one of theirs. Even her old nurse. Even the other Protectors. All eaten and replaced, with ... them.

  Shivering, she fell to the ground and wrapped her arms about her knees. Her pants were threadbare, ripped by thorns and rough bark and too many days of sleeping on the ground; her shirt was so muddied and dusted with clay that it nearly matched her skin. Suddenly the dirt and the scratches and the tiredness and the fear were all too much for her, and she lowered her head into her arms and sobbed helplessly, wishing it would just end somehow. Wishing her father hadn’t raised her to always keep on fighting, because you never knew (he used to tell her) how the future might be a better place, so long as you got there to see it. Only now she couldn’t imagine any better future, couldn’t envision anything but more of the same forever and ever, running and hiding and forcing herself to eat berries from the brush even though she could hear them screaming as she pulled them loose ... and being alone. Utterly. Now, and forever.

  Tears weren’t enough, but they were all she had. Think of them as prayers, her father had once told her. That was back when her mother died. Think of every tear which falls as a message to your mother, wherever she is, that you love her very, very much. Because people couldn’t cross into the land of the dead without being dead themselves, he explained, but prayers and love could make the crossing. She always thought of that when she cried, even when it was for some other reason. So that something in her tears was always good, no matter how upset she was.

  There was nothing good now. Only a loneliness so terrible that it drained her of the last of her strength, a feeling of helplessness—and hopelessness—so absolute that she didn’t see how she was going to survive the next hour, much less make it through the next few days. Why did it matter, anyway? What future was there for her? Why had her father invested so much time and energy into seeing that she could take care of herself, when in fact the best she had to look forward to was a quasi-animal existence, homeless and companionless and living off berries until the snow came and there were no more of those, and then it would be freezing cold and there would be no food unless she hunted and no one at all to be with her, no one to help keep her going....

  I want you, dad. She prayed it desperately in her heart. She whispered it into the night. I need you. Come back to me. Please.

  There was no answer. No one came.

  Given the nature of Erna, that was probably fortunate.

  She was sleeping when the Light came, so it invaded her dreams. Rainbow filaments that dissolved her current fantasy and drew her high, high up, so that she was looking down onto the mountains like a bird might. There was her own body, sheltered under a granite overhang, jacket balled up over her ears to cut out the noise of day. There was the crevasse that had turned her aside from her chosen route, deep and ragged and filled with shadows. And there, in the distance—

  She awoke. Suddenly. The vision was still with her, framed by shimmering filaments.

  People.

  People.

  She should get up. She should greet them. No, she should hide. They could be enemies. They could be the enemy. They could be....

  But they weren’t.

  They were children.

  The vision was fading now, along with the Light; she struggled to maintain it. Five, six, seven children—no, even more than that—she couldn’t see how old they were, the vision was fading too fast, damn damn damn! She sobbed in frustration as it faded out entirely, her hands shaking.

  Children.

  The enemy? No. That thing had killed her father because he was important; on some visceral level she understood that. It wouldn’t want mere children. They must be from some nearby city, or maybe a Protectorate....
r />   Only there weren’t any of those near here. She knew that.

  So who were they? Where were they from?

  Shivering, she waited. Terrified of meeting them. Terrified that they might pass her by. The loneliness in her was screaming so loudly she was amazed they couldn’t hear it ... or maybe they could. Maybe that was why they were coming for her.

  Children. Like her. They wouldn’t hurt her, would they?

  There was a sound above her, farther up the hillside. She dared to peek out from under her shelter. And then she stepped out, there in front of them, and let her jacket fall. No shelter now. No safety. Only a terrible need, and the barest ray of hope inside her. More than she had felt in days.

  There were twelve of them, arrayed along the hillside. The oldest few were armed with crude spears and leather-hilted knives, and some carried bows across their backs. The youngest only had knives. All were dressed in a motley assortment of garments, some clearly woven in the fashionable cities, some crudely cut from untanned skins by less experienced hands. Rought-cut fringes and tiny shell ornaments adorned every edge, and here and there some dye had been painted across a shirt or pants leg in coarse zigzag patterns. It took no trick of the Light to see that though many of them had come from well-off homes, they had been on their own for some time now.

  The tallest among them—a pale boy with dark straggly hair—held out his hand toward her. An offer. A welcome.

  She started forward toward them, trying to ignore the painful cymbal-crash of sunlight about her feet. The pale boy nodded encouragement. A few of the younger ones grinned openly. Though she couldn’t hear their words of welcome—the sunlight’s noise was too loud, their words were lost in the chaos of it—she saw in their expressions that they were glad to have found her. Almost as glad as she was to be found.

  And she knew, then and there, that it was going to be all right. Everything was going to be all right.

  She climbed up the hillside to join them.

  The Light wasn’t strong again for nearly two days. So she couldn’t see what they really were, not until then.

  By then it was too late to run.

  VALLEY OF MISTS

  Fourteen

  The Hunter didn’t join them right after sunset. He didn’t join them after Coreset either, though the setting of the luminous galactic center took place more than two hours after the sun was gone. A bad omen, Damien thought. But what could they do?

  They had traveled a few miles along the rock-lined gully in which Mels and Tyria had found Hesseth. It was hard going, what with the loose ground and a stream they sometimes had to wade through, but it seemed to be the only path available. In this region all the comfortable terrain had been claimed by the cities or the farms; land that would favor fugitives was by definition unpleasant. Damien cursed as he pried the third stone from between his horse’s hoofed toes, knowing even as he did so that he was being unfair. They should be grateful for the scraggly trees that sheltered them, and for the landscape that had dropped them below the eye level of any casual observer. And they should be doubly grateful that none of the demons who clustered about the city’s gates had taken notice of them. Yet.

  They finally made camp during Coreset. The process was not one of pitching tents and tending a fire as much as going through the assorted bits and pieces that the Lester siblings had brought them and seeing what they had. The collection included a good bit of blanketry and warm clothing, an assortment of knives and small tools, rope, some food, a few cooking aids, and first aid supplies. Damien blessed them for the first aid; he hadn’t thought to mention it. The food consisted of the kind of things noncampers might purchase for a camping expedition—mostly sugared snacks and mixes for soups—but there was some dried meat and cheese and a flat, hard bread that promised to travel well, as well as several pounds of feed for the horses. Could have been worse, he thought, repacking it. Could have been much worse.

  They lit a very small fire and heated some water, while he scanned the skies for any shape that might be Tarrant. But the same twisted trees that gave them partial cover also hid most of the night sky, and t last he gave it up.

  “You think they’ll come after us?” Hesseth asked.

  He broke open a package of crackers—Honey Ginger Nugrams, the wrapper said—and handed one to her. They were chewy and sweet, the kind of thing good parents wouldn’t let their kids eat too often. He had planned to put cheese on top of his, but the taste dissuaded him. “I think we’d know it by now if they did,” he answered. “We’re not that far from the city gates, and there weren’t a lot of paths to choose from. If they look this way, they’ll find us.”

  “Would they leave the city after sunset?” she wondered aloud.

  “Let’s hope not.”

  They’d have to move quickly in the morning, just in case the Matria’s hordes did indeed come after them. Their horses would be an advantage in the long run, but only on open ground, and only after they had worked the stiffness out of their legs. Damien wondered how long it would be before Toshida had a mount of his own and learned how to ride it. Not long at all, he suspected. Not nearly long enough. If he decided to come after the fugitives himself, it could be a close pursuit. They needed open ground in the very near future if they were to make the most of their current advantage.

  And then Hesseth looked up sharply at the sky. Her soft hiss was one that Damien had come to associate with sudden alertness; his hand went to his sword as he followed her gaze. For a moment he saw nothing. Then the broad sweep of a predatory wing blacked out a line of stars, and he felt his own breath catch. Something with very large wings was circling overhead, just above the tops of the trees. The form was familiar, but he didn’t relax his guard. Nor would he until the Hunter—if that was indeed who it was—proved his true identity.

  The great bird circled twice more, as if surveying the surrounding land, and then swooped down into the gully. For lack of more suitable turf it came down in the water, its broad wings nearly touching the two stony banks. Something was in its talons, Damien observed, soft white feathers in the grip of crimson claws, but it was thrust underwater too quickly for him to make out what it was.

  Coldfire blossomed in the stream bed. It was the first time Damien had seen the Hunter transform in water, and it was well worth the vision; ice speared out from the point of contact with a suddenness that was audible, crackling and splitting as it expanded against the sides of the narrow gully. Two of the horses, tethered by the bank, whinnied unhappily and pulled at their reins; Tarrant’s merely snorted as if to say, What took you so long? Blue flames—intense but unilluminating—seared the stream bed with a cold so intense that Damien’s breath fogged in the cool spring air, and frost rimmed the scraggly plants closest to the stream.

  When the coldfire died, it left Tarrant on hard ice, and he quickly stepped to the shore. Frost shivered from his boots as he climbed to where the two had made camp, and ice crystals glimmered in his soft brown hair. It might be early spring in the eastern lands, but the Hunter traveled within his own private winter.

  He looked at the two of them, at the horses, and at the camp. Damien could see the pale silver eyes taking it all in, sifting through what he saw for the information he wanted. At last he nodded, more to himself than to them. “You move quickly when you have to.” He threw something to Damien: soft and white and spattered with blood. “Here. I brought you dinner.”

  Damien looked at the dead bird in his hands, dimly aware that Tarrant had thrown another to Hesseth. For a moment all that occurred to him was how utterly unlike Tarrant it was to hunt for them. Then he saw the harness. With reddened, sticky fingers he undid the tiny catch, pulling the leather contraption from the bird’s cooling body. Knowing in his gut what it was, what it had to be. Not liking that knowledge one damn bit.

  “Carrier birds,” he muttered.

  Tarrant nodded. “They were released at dusk to travel south, and crossed my path soon after. I killed the first because it seemed suspi
cious; after I realized what it was, I hunted down its companion.” He walked to a dry bit of ground and lowered himself onto it; the thickness of his mantle protected him from the dusty earth. “I searched for more, but there were none in that portion of the sky. Which doesn’t mean that no more were sent.”

  “Yeah,” Damien muttered, pulling the message vellum free of its container. With care he unrolled it. “A good hundred or more, the way our luck’s running.”

  The Matria’s seal was on the bottom. Even though deep inside he had known it was going to be there, it was still a shock to see it. It was even more of a shock to read the instructions outlined in the message: where, when, and how he and Hesseth were to be disposed of. Not why, he noted. Was that because the Protectors would understand her motives, or—more likely—because no one around here dared to ask questions? The procedures outlined in the letter were more typical of a police state than a thriving theocracy. He wondered how far that went. He wondered how the hell it had started.

  “God in Heaven,” he muttered. “She’s a vicious one, that’s for sure.” He turned it so that he could read the heading by the fire’s light. “To the Kierstaad Protectorate.” He looked up at Hesseth.

  “To the Chikung Protectorate,” she read from hers.

  “Shit.” He read it again, wincing at the detailed instructions for disposing of the two travelers after capture. “Not much room for compromise here. It’s a good bet she’s warning all the Protectorates, and in that case ... shit. It’ll mean the shore’s off limits all the way down the coast.”

  He offered the letter to the Hunter, who read it. If he had any reaction to its source—or its tone—he didn’t show it. “Clearly they mean business.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “Our enemies are thorough,” he said coolly. “Did you expect any less?”

  Damien glared. “I thought they’d want to capture us, yes, question us to find out who we really were, what we wanted—”