When True Night Falls

by C. S. Friedman

  The demon said nothing.

  “You hear me?”

  “I hear you,” he whispered.

  “I want answers, Karril. I want them now.”

  “And if not?” the demon challenged. “What then? Will you Bind me? Disperse me? I told you, we can’t be controlled like that.”

  “Ah, yes. That was an unpleasant surprise. But I’ve given the problem a lot of thought since you told me that ... would you like to hear my conclusions?” He waited for a response; when there was none he continued. “All human Workings involve a mental formula. One has to define the Worker—oneself—and one’s subject, and the form which the earth-fae will take to link the two together. So I thought, what if some part of that formula were flawed? Not the linkage, obviously, but something less noticeable. Perhaps the supporting definitions. In short, might a Summoning fail—or a Binding, or a Dispersing—because my understanding of its recipient’s nature was flawed?” He wasn’t sure, but he thought that Karril was trembling. “I could correct that,” he said quietly. No need for volume; the threat was inherent in his tone. “I could focus all the power I needed by drawing on my negative emotions—my anger, my indignation, hate, fear, pain—and then direct it at someone I knew, without trying to define who or what he was. Such as you, Karril.” He gave that a few seconds to sink in. “What do you think? Would it work?”

  “I don’t know.” The demon’s tone was miserable. “No one’s ever tried that.”

  “Perhaps it’s overdue, then.”

  He watched as Karril struggled with himself—with his conscience? —in silence. At last the demon muttered, “What is it you want?”

  “I told you. The lifting of the veil that masks what’s in the valley. You don’t have to help me beyond that; just let me see the enemy’s work, and I’ll fight my own battles.”

  The demon shut his eyes tightly. “I can’t,” he whispered.

  “Karril—”

  “I can’t! It’s not my doing. I don’t have the power.”

  “But it is a Iezu Working,” the Hunter persisted.

  The words came slowly, squeezed out of him one by one. “Yes. That’s why I can’t get involved, don’t you see? We’re forbidden to fight one another.”

  “By whom?” Tarrant demanded.

  Karril turned away. Staring down into the valley, he whispered. “By the one who created us. Our progenitor.”

  “Progenitor? Are you telling me that the lezu were born?”

  The demon nodded.

  “That’s impossible. The very definition of a demon—”

  “That’s how I understand it,” Karril said quickly. “It’s how we all understand it. So maybe we’re wrong. What difference does that make? If we believe ourselves to be a family—if we function as if we are—does it change anything to have you question our origin?” He turned back to Tarrant; his voice was shaking. “I’ll tell you another thing. The same force that gave birth to us can kill us, just as quickly. We all know that. And I’m no more anxious to die than you are. Consider this: do the Iezu, being born, have souls that will survive death, or do they simply dissipate into the currents like other demons do? I’m not anxious to find out, Hunter. And I will, if you force me to get involved in this. That’s the truth.”

  For a moment there was no sound but the wind, slowly dying. Then the Hunter’s voice, as quiet as the night. “The valley has been cloaked by one of the lezu.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you can’t dispel his Working.”

  The demon shook his head.

  “Then offer me an alternative, Karril. I’m desperate, and that means I won’t hesitate to kill you, if necessary. You know that. Tell me what you can do.”

  The demon drew in a deep breath, trembling. It was a human gesture, not necessary for either life or speech. His flesh was only an illusion, after all. “I can talk to him. I can ... plead. That’s all.”

  “And what are the chances that will work?”

  “Very slim,” he admitted. “But if the alternative is open conflict between us ... we’d both die, then.”

  “Good. I suggest you remind him of that.”

  “And if it doesn’t work?”

  The gray eyes narrowed. “That would be unpleasant for both of us, wouldn’t it?”

  “There’s an understatement,” the demon muttered.

  “Just do that one thing for me. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Do you think you can?” Karril asked sharply.

  “What?”

  “Destroy him. The one responsible for this. That’s what you intend, isn’t it?”

  “Do you think I can’t?”

  The demon sighed. “If any other man had asked me that question ... then I would have said no. No human power could defeat him. But you, Hunter? If the years have taught me nothing else, it’s never to underestimate you. And none of your enemies have survived, have they? So who am I to judge the odds against you?”

  The Hunter’s expression softened slightly, into something that might almost be called a smile. “You flatter me.”

  “Hardly.” But the demon’s expression softened as well, as he bowed his leavetaking.

  It would have been hard to define the exact moment at which Karril’s chosen flesh began to fade; one minute he seemed as solid as any natural human, and the next he seemed transparent, so that the distant stars shone through him. A perfect illusion, Tarrant mused. The greatest talent of the Iezu demons—and their most potent weapon.

  Before the demon’s form completed its dissolution—when the ruddy flesh and opulent attire had not yet faded into the shadows of the night—Tarrant ventured, “Karril?”

  The figure remained as it was, half flesh and half mist. The translucent eyes were curious.

  “I’m ... sorry. That it has to be this way.” The words came hard to him; regret was an uncomfortable emotion. “I wish there were an alternative.”

  It seemed to him that Karril’s ghost-flesh smiled slightly.

  “Yeah,” said the demon. “Same here.”

  And as the last of his form dissolved into the night, he whispered, “Take care, old friend.”

  Twenty-five

  The night passed slowly. Tarrant never came. Damien tried hard not to think about what might have happened to him, but images from the past refused to be put down. The Hunter in fire. The Hunter screaming. The Hunter’s flesh in his hands, so charred and tortured that the skin came off when he pulled, displaying smoking red meat....

  It doesn’t have to be that way. He might not even have been captured. Maybe the strange sorcery of this place is keeping him away. Maybe any minute now he’ll learn to break through it.

  Maybe.

  Demonlings arrived with the night, wispy bits of malevolence that crowded about the bars of their prison like so many starving animals. He worked a simple Repelling to keep them out of the cave itself, but they hung about its border with unnerving persistency. Periodically he had to reinforce his work, and while he did so memories of the quakes of this region ran through his mind. Once there was a slight tremor just after he was done, and he shook for many long minutes afterward. How long could he keep it up before sheer chance defeated him?

  Through it all the little girl watched him. She had squeezed back into the farthest corner of the cell, a water-carved alcove so tiny that Damien couldn’t have pried her out if he’d tried. That she was mortally afraid of the priest was obvious; it only took one accidental step in her direction for her to cry out, and try to wedge herself even farther back into the rock. And the accusations she cried out at him! Your God can’t have me. I won’t bleed for him. As if the One God would collect children. As if He would hurt them.

  But then he remembered the children of the cities, chained up as bait for the faeborn. And the adepts, all the helpless adepts, murdered in their cribs for the crime of being able to See. And all the others there must have been as well, babies who couldn’t See but who seemed a little strange, the children of hysterical
parents who were all too ready to sacrifice their own to keep humanity pure ... yes. Whether or not this little girl had suffered at the Church’s hands, she had every right to fear men of his calling.

  How terrible. How unthinkable, that the seeds of his faith had garnished such a dark harvest. If he thought about it too long he would surely weep, like he had for so many nights after they’d left Mercia. Secretly, of course. In silence. Such tears were a very private thing.

  It’s not just the Church that’s gone wrong here. This whole land is wrong, from start to finish.

  He took out the Fire. Gently, carefully, wary of breaking its container yet again. So little was left. Even in the darkness of the cave it hardly glowed at all, and the creatures who fluttered about the thick wooden grate merely paused to take note of it, then resumed their fluttering. He closed his hand about it, could barely feel its warmth. So much power gone, he mused. So much wasted. If only the faith of those thousands could have been focused where it was needed. Here. If only it could have been used for a Cleansing.

  It was Hesseth’s soft hiss that alerted him. He glanced first at the gate, then toward the back of the cave. The girl. She had moved. Crouched forward on all fours, alert as a beleaguered animal, prepared to bolt back to her hole should danger threaten. She froze when he looked at her, but when he didn’t move—he made very sure he didn’t move—she inched forward. Slowly, one hand in front of the other, flexing her weight on her fingers like a stalking predator, her body low to the floor. Her eyes seemed twice as large as they caught the dim Firelight, and amber highlights played along lengths of black, matted hair.

  He held himself utterly still as she approached, hardly daring to breathe. When she came within an arm’s length, she reached out to him, slender fingers oh so delicate in the darkness, short nails underscored by dirt. He could see the hunger in her now, sunken cheeks and deep-set eyes half-masked by dirt, the hollows at the base of her neck and the deep channels along her muscles that spoke of weeks of starvation, a body stressed almost beyond endurance. Then the thin fingers stretched out toward his hand, then hesitated; he could see her lower lip trembling.

  Slowly, carefully, he opened the hand that held the Fire, until the crystal vial was cradled in his open palm. Only then did she reach out to it, tiny fingers struggling toward its light like a plant seeking the sun. Her index finger made contact, then and she gasped; it took all his self-control not to move toward her, away from her, not to do something. But he sensed that any movement on his part might shatter the fragile moment, might send her scuttling back to her muddy den to starve alone in silence once more.

  “Damien—” Hesseth whispered, but he shushed her. The girl’s hand closed about the crystal vial. Tiny, and so very fragile; she couldn’t be more than thirteen or fourteen at the most, probably younger. He could feel the girl’s eyes on him, but he didn’t meet them; he sensed that whatever she might read in his expression would only drive her away.

  And then she lifted the vial, and took it from him. Small hands clasped tightly about it, bright eyes fixed on its secrets. He thought she moaned softly, but couldn’t tell if it was from pleasure or pain. Or both. By his side Hesseth was crouched tensely, ready to move if the precious vial was threatened. But Damien wasn’t afraid. He knew the power that was in those few drops of moisture, and he was willing to bet that the girl could see it somehow. Or feel it. Or ... something.

  Then she knelt in the mud and clasped the vial to her, whispering something too low for Damien to hear. She clutched the Fire to her stomach and doubled over it, her whole body shaking. Sobbing in utter silence; weeping without a sound. His heart went out to her and he nearly moved forward, nearly took her in his arms—but how would she take that? Might it not undo whatever this fragile moment had accomplished? He sat back on his heels and waited, hurting inside. Wanting to help. Daring to do nothing.

  And then the shaking ceased. Like an animal she curled up about the Fire, hiding it from sight. Her head, tucked beneath one arm, was invisible. Only her long hair trailed out from the compact bundle, matted black strands mixing with the mud until it was impossible to tell where one began and the other ended. Exhaustion hung about her like a pall of smoke.

  After many minutes, Damien dared to move. The girl didn’t stir.

  “Asleep?” Hesseth whispered. As she, too, shifted position.

  He dared a Working. There was a chance it would awaken her, but he tried to be very careful. He gathered up the earth-fae as though it were the most delicate silk, and bade it weave a picture for his eyes. A Knowing. But what he saw was half as much sound as vision, and a thousand more elements he couldn’t begin to define. A symphony of meaning that he had no way to interpret. No experience.

  But one thing was clear and he voiced it. Softly. “She’s sleeping. Peacefully.”

  There were songs on the hillside, glorious songs of sunlight and optimism and energy, the endless music of faith. She could see them arrayed along the gentle slope, warriors whose armor gleamed Coregolden in the light of noon, soldiers whose banners were strung with bits of glass so that as they moved their standards sparkled, and as the wind beat on the richly woven cloth there was the sound of bells, of sparkling water, a thousand glassy chimes that rang out the song of God’s One Faith across the Darklands. Young men, old men, women astride their horses, soldier-priests so young they were nearly children—all helmeted in silver and gold and pennanted in brilliant silks, lining up for battle. The very air about them rang with their faith, their sacrifice, their passion. The very daylight was a song of triumph.

  She floated through their ranks like a fae-wraith, touching, seeing, hearing all. Shields that flashed like fire in the sunlight. Swords that sang of perseverance and hope. She touched one blade and could hear all the hymns that had gone into its making, the thousand and one voices that had lent it power. Years of chants, years of prayer, years of utter faith ... she moved to where another soldier stood and gazed at the crystal flask in his hand. The liquid within glowed with a heat that she could feel on her face, and its music was a symphony of hope.

  They were riding into death, she knew. All these brilliant soldiers, all these priceless weapons, were about to ride into a darkness so terrible that it would snuff out all their songs forever. She could feel their place in history taking shape about them, not a beginning of hope but an ending, the extinguishing of a time of untrammeled dreams in exchange for one of cynicism and despair. She wanted to cry out and warn them, but what good would her words do? They knew the odds. They knew that the Evil they had decided to fight might well prove more powerful than all their prayers and charms and spells combined ... and still they gathered. Thousands upon thousands of them, knees clasped tightly about their anxious steeds, hands closing restlessly about their sword-grips and their springbolt butts and their polished pistols. And the Fire. It glistened in a dozen crystal orbs, in a thousand crystal vials. So very beautiful that it hurt her to look upon it, so rich in hope that she cried out to hear its song. Faith. Pure faith. She could drink it in all her life and still hunger for it. She could drown herself in it and never have enough.

  You’ll die! she cried out to them. Not wanting the music to end. You’ll all die, horribly! The Forest will eat you alive! What good is that to anyone? Go home while you still can!

  And then it seemed to her that one of the soldier-priests turned to her. Eyes of liquid flame, brilliant as the Holy Fire, fixed upon the space she occupied. His shield and sword were molten gold, and his banner-glass tinkled in the wind. He was too bright to look upon, too beautiful for her to look away. His voice was like the wind.

  Some things, he whispered, are worth dying for.

  And then the music became sunlight became peace, blissful peace, and she felt the vision fading. Melting into warmth. The gentle warmth of a mother’s arms. The loving warmth of a father’s eyes.

  For the first time in many long nights, Jenseny Kierstaad slept.

  Twenty-six

  In
the realm of black lava

  In the citadel of night

  In the throne room of the undying Prince

  Calesta waited.

  The form which appeared before him did so without fanfare, without flourish. He hissed softly as it solidified, a sound like fingernails scraping on slate. Recognition was instant.

  “Karril.” The sharp black lips shaped sharp words, harsh to the ear and mind. “To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?”

  When Karril’s eyes had fully manifested, he looked around, taking in the rich trappings of the throne room: gilded chairs, crystal lamps, a wall of black glass through which the whole realm might be glimpsed. “You seem to be doing well for yourself.”

  Calesta bowed his head. “My patron is wealthy.”

  “And powerful?”

  “Of course.”

  “No doubt you see to that.”

  “We each have our own ways of bonding with humans.” The black mist that drifted about his glassy form coiled around his neck like serpents. “Why are you here? There’s no love lost between us.”

  “No,” Karril agreed. “And never will be, I’m afraid.” He took a few steps toward Calesta, running his finger along the edge of a gilded chair. When he spoke again, there was an unaccustomed hardness in his voice. “You trespass, Calesta.”

  The black figure snorted. “Hardly.”

  “You trespass,” Karril repeated. “Nine centuries ago I bonded with a human, and now you interfere.”

  Understanding glistened in Calesta’s faceted eyes. “Gerald Tarrant.”

  Karril nodded.

  “If that’s what you came about, you’re wasting your time. Tarrant’s mine. I swore it the day he destroyed my project in the rakhlands. Him and that oversized priest of his—”

  “The priest is no concern of mine. The Hunter is.”