When True Night Falls

by C. S. Friedman

  And he Saw.

  Oh, my God....

  For a moment he was simply stunned, incapable of accepting what his senses proclaimed. Then, slowly, it sank in. The church was clean. Clean! Its aura glowed warmly with faith and hope and the prayers of generations, just as one would expect in another time, another place. Its music was not the dissonance of earthly corruption, but the delicate harmony of true devotion. He stared at it in amazement, not quite believing. He shook his head, as if somehow that would clear his Sight. Nothing changed. The aura of the building was bright and pure, as befit a true house of worship. The currents which coursed about those worn foundations sparkled and glittered with the fragments of human hope which they had absorbed, as pure as the Corelight which fell upon them. The fae that poured forth from the building itself .... that was as sweet and as reverent as any which flowed from the great cathedral in Jaggonath, and as he listened he could hear the whisper of prayers that it carried, and catch the faint, sweet smell of human faith.

  Impossible.

  Simply impossible.

  He stared at it aghast, struggling to understand. Why would the eastern rakh invest so much time and effort in taking control of his Church, and then do nothing to alter it? What was their ultimate purpose, if not an assault on the human spirit? And what about the force that seemed to be guiding them? He could understand a demon who fed on human degradation, an Enemy whose goal it was to twist human faith toward a darker purpose ... but that wasn’t happening here. Not at all. These people were steadfast in their faith, and it showed. The very earth glowed with their dedication.

  What is it you want? he demanded silently. Of all of them: the Regents, the Matrias, the unknown enemy who grew closer each night. What game are you playing here? Until this moment he’d thought that he understood the pattern here, at least on a visceral level; now even that basic assumption was in doubt. If mankind had made an enemy here, its nature was so alien that Damien couldn’t begin to guess at its motives; or else its plans were so long-sighted that in the context of a single year—or even a century—the greater pattern was all but invisible. And that made Damien afraid. Very afraid. It made him fear in a way he never had before, and it made him wonder—perhaps for the first time—if he might not have taken on a task that no one human could accomplish. Even with Tarrant’s help. Even with Hesseth’s power, and the girl’s.

  What are you? he demanded. What is it you want? But there was only silence to answer him, and the sibilant whisper of faith. Pure. Righteous. Terrifying.

  Heart cold, hands shaking, he turned back toward the grimy hotel, to await the dusk and Tarrant’s return.

  Thirty-one

  Night fell slowly in the harbor cities, accompanied by a sunset the color of blood. Long after twilight’s darkness had shadowed the city streets it was still possible to see sunlight in the distance, breaking in between the peaked islands and glimmering across the water. When that had faded, the Core remained: light without warmth, a false golden sheath for the city. How long would it be before that faded as well? The Core had been two hours behind the sun when they’d landed in Mercia; how long had it been since they’d fled that city?

  With a sigh Damien let the curtain drop from his hand, falling back into place of its own accord. The strong northerly current here meant he couldn’t use the earth-fae to access information about the Matrias’ plans, or Know the details of their pursuit. He could test the fae that was coming up from the south, use it to Know the enemy ... but Tarrant was better at that kind of thing than he was. Tarrant was better at interpreting the strange and often cryptic visions that a long-distance Knowing was wont to conjure. Let him do it.

  Damien looked over at the rooms they had rented, one bedroom and a small parlor connected by a curtained archway. He would sleep in the parlor tonight, on its well-worn couch, and leave the bedroom for Hesseth and the girl. A semblance of privacy. After their weeks together in the woods it seemed almost a frivolous arrangement—God knows, they had seen each other naked more than once—but it pleased his sense of propriety that they now had this option. A token civilized gesture. And of course, there was the girl now to consider.

  The girl....

  She was nestled against Hesseth’s side like a kitten, the two of them intertwined on the couch. How peaceful she looked, now that there were walls between her and the outside world. But how real was that barrier? Damien didn’t have to Know the room’s interior to tell that it had seen its share of violence and misery. Why didn’t that affect her? Why could she fight off the empathic images here, but not out in the streets?

  Because this is her territory now, he mused. Watching as she snuggled her way even deeper into Hesseth’s embrace. She’s defined it as such, therefore it doesn’t bother her. What did that imply about her Vision? Was her reaction in the streets a symptom of true power, or of mental instability? He was all too aware that it could be both. In which case she really might be dangerous. He had tried to Know her once or twice, to no avail. Whatever power she drew on eluded his own Sight, and he had to assume that the same was true for Tarrant. And that, all by itself, was a daunting concept.

  Sensing his scrutiny, Hesseth looked up at him “Tarrant?”

  He shook his head “Didn’t see him.” He unhooked the swag of the ceiling lamp and lowered it down to where he could reach it more comfortably. “And it’s well into night,” he muttered, lighting the four wicks. They were dusty, and sputtered as they caught fire. “Core’s almost gone. So where the vulk is he?”

  Her amber gaze was reproachful. “You know that.” With one hand she stroked Jenseny’s long dark hair, separating the strands with her claws. “Don’t you?”

  He exhaled heavily. “Yeah. I guess so.” For a minute he just stared at the tiny flames, four stars behind grimy glass panes. Then, with a sigh, he hitched the lamp back into place overhead. “It usually doesn’t take him this long.”

  How many will he kill tonight? He tried not to think about that. Again. The ache in his conscience translated into a sharp pain between his eyes, which he rubbed with dry fingers. He needed the sanctity of a church tonight, the cultured tranquillity of formal prayer. Needed it badly. But if the Matrias were watching for him in this city ... he dared not risk it. Standing outside a church was risky enough; entering one would be downright suicidal.

  He was startled suddenly as the door creaked, and his hand went instinctively for the sword at his shoulder. But the weapon was in its harness, resting on the bed a good ten feet away. He didn’t need it anyway. It was Tarrant, at last. Damien bit back on his anger as the tall man entered, quieting the rusty hinges with a glance. The Neocount looked about the room, peered through the curtain to the bedroom beyond, and his pale eyes narrowed in distaste. Suddenly the place seemed twice as dingy, the air twice as stale. Damn him for noticing! And damn him twice for disapproving. He hadn’t been here when they’d been searching for a safe haven, had he? So he’d damn well better not criticize their choice.

  Easy. Easy. Don’t let him get to you. Don’t let this whole damned trip wear down your nerves.

  Without a word Tarrant walked to the room’s small table and pulled out a chair for himself. Damien nodded to Hesseth, who followed suit, disentangling herself from Jenseny’s embrace with gentle care. When they all were seated, Damien pulled over the table lamp and lit it; light sputtered resentfully into being behind tinted glass, etching human and rakhene features in hard yellow highlights. The color made Tarrant’s eyes look feral, inhuman. More like his true self, Damien thought. It was a disquieting vision.

  Sensing that the Hunter was about to make some deprecating comment about their lodgings, Damien said quickly, “It was safe. The first safe place we found.”

  “The girl was having trouble—” Hesseth began.

  “Ah, yes. The girl.” The pale eyes narrowed, fixed on that sleeping form. A thin frown of distaste curled the Hunter’s lips. “Do we know what she is yet? Has she chosen to share her precious knowledge with us?
Or is she still just a parasitic cipher—”

  “Don’t,” Damien warned. He felt his hand edging up toward his shoulder, toward where his sword would normally be harnessed; an instinctive gesture. “Don’t make it worse than it has to be.”

  The Neocount’s expression was unusually cold, even for him. In recent days he had avoided the young girl’s company entirely, cutting short any discussion which centered on her. Now the hostility in him seemed more intense than Damien remembered from before, and the priest didn’t quite know how to account for it. When they’d first rescued the girl, Tarrant had been angry, yes, and justifiably suspicious, but not this openly hostile. Not this much like a snake with its fangs bared, ready to strike. It had all changed that night in the woods, he thought. The night Tarrant had dared to attack the girl, and Something had intervened. Could one brief incident change a man so drastically?

  She saw his God, he reminded himself. He knew that instinctively for the truth, though he and the girl had never discussed it. And Tarrant knew it, too. He must. What a terrible thing that must be for him, to watch a stranger be granted the ultimate Vision while he was forbidden communion. And jealousy could spawn hatred, Damien thought. A uniquely vicious hatred. No wonder he had been on edge since then.

  He forced himself not to address that issue, tried to steer the conversation onto safer ground. “The city has a safe harbor—”

  “Closely guarded, no doubt.”

  “You think the Matrias are looking for us this far south?” Hesseth asked.

  “Without question,” Tarrant assured her. “I can see it in the currents. I can smell it in the winds. The whole city stinks of ambush.”

  Damien felt his heart sinking in his chest as the words hit home. Not until this moment had he realized how much he’d been hoping that Tarrant would prove his suspicions wrong. “What, then? You have a suggestion?”

  “We need to move quickly. Book passage across the water before the local Matria realizes we’re here. With a good enough Obscuring we might be able to hire a ship before—”

  “Hold on,” Damien said sharply. “Just a minute. We were talking about collecting information when we got here, weren’t we? Trying to take the enemy’s measure before we decided what to do next. Wasn’t that the idea? I don’t like the concept of rushing over to the enemy’s turf before we even know—”

  “Time is a luxury here,” the Hunter snapped. “And one we can’t afford. Do you think that the soldiers of the Matria will sit back and indulge us while we gather our maps and our notes and our courage? There’s a price on your heads—”

  “You don’t know that—”

  “I do,” he said coldly. “I know it for a fact. And I know the amount that’s been offered, as well, and it’s high enough to make every local contact suspect. Do you really want to stay here, under those circumstances? Do you really think you can accomplish so much here that’s it’s worth throwing your lives away?”

  “The alternative doesn’t sound much better,” Hesseth challenged. “Blind flight ... toward what? For what?”

  “We need to get off this continent. We need to get beyond the reach of the Matrias’ network before it finds us. I understand that you’re uncomfortable with such a move—”

  “That’s putting it lightly.”

  “—But I assure you, remaining in this city is the most dangerous thing we could do right now. Or in any city on this coast, for that matter.”

  Damien shook his head. “The Matrias’ lands don’t trade with the southern kingdom, did you know that? They may not be technically at war, but they’re hostile enough. Travel between the two is strictly forbidden.”

  “Yes,” the Hunter said dryly. “All commerce with the southern kingdom is forbidden.” His smooth voice dripped with disdain. “Do you think that stops it? Rule one of history is that trade goes on, priest. Always. It may give way for a time, say during a war—if a strong enough blockade is established—but as soon as there is a crack in one’s defenses, even a tiny flaw, traders will smell it out. Profit is every bit as powerful a motivator as patriotism, Vryce. Perhaps more so.”

  “You’re saying there’ll be transportation.”

  He nodded. “Without question.”

  “Any suggestions on how to find it?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have a name for you.” He withdrew a folded paper from his pocket and handed it over; Damien unfolded it carefully, angling it so it would catch the light. Ran Moskovan, it said. Licensed port Angelo Duro, #346-298-J. Beneath that was the name of a local bar, a street address, and a time. “Free merchanter by day, black marketeer by night. He’s got his own ship—streamlined and swift—and it’s got enough secret cubbyholes to make any smuggler green with envy. According to my Divining, he’s the safest bet we’ve got in this town. You’ll have to meet with him tomorrow and talk price.” He leaned back in his chair. “I suggest you be generous. Gold’s the only master such men pay heed to.”

  “Easier said than done,” Damien muttered. He looked at Hesseth, who caught his meaning and reached into her pocket. A thin handful of coins was all she had, and she scattered them across the table. “I have about fifty left, that was on me when my horse went down. The rest is with my supplies—wherever the hell they are.”

  “And it’s all northern coin, or foreign.” Hesseth pointed out. “A dead giveaway, if anyone knows to watch for it.”

  The Hunter seemed undisturbed by the news. “Which is why I collected these.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a small silken pouch. Mud-stained, Damien noted, or perhaps crusted with something worse. Wordlessly the Hunter pulled open the mouth of the pouch and spilled out a stream of gems across the tabletop, mud-covered and blood-splattered but undeniably precious.

  “Where—” Hesseth gasped.

  It took Damien a moment to make the obvious connection. “Terata?”

  Tarrant nodded. “It occurred to me then that we might need capital. I must admit that the thought of using Calesta’s offerings—”

  There was a moan from the couch. Low, barely voiced, but so resonant with pain that even Tarrant fell suddenly silent, and twisted about to look that way. It was the girl. She was awake now, and her eyes were wide, her body trembling. It was hard to read her expression. Fear? Surprise? Confusion?

  “What?” she whispered. Sensing their eyes on her. “What is it?” She struggled to her feet, her eyes fixed on them. No, Damien thought. Not on them. On the table between them, and what lay on it.

  Slowly she walked toward them, her eyes never leaving that spot. Damien didn’t have to See to know that she was radiating fear, or that the Hunter was feeding on it. “What is it?” she whispered. “What did you bring?” Her voice was shaking now, and her hands seemed to tremble as she reached out toward the table. For a brief moment Damien considered sweeping the gems away from her, out of reach—and then the instant was gone and she had seen them, she was touching them, she was rubbing her tiny fingers over the pile of gems as if searching for something, moaning in pain even as she did so. He remembered her reaction to the city, to its walls and its pillars and people, and he ached to pull her away, to protect her from this new source of pain. But like his two companions, he was paralyzed by curiosity. Curiosity and dread.

  She gasped as she found something in the pile, and moaned softly as she raised it up. A ruby or a garnet, Damien assessed, that gleamed a dark red from beneath its crust of dried blood and dirt. Her shaking fingers stroked its surface, caressing it free of the dirt that caked its surface. Her breath came in shorter and shorter gasps as she absorbed whatever pain the small stone carried. Damien ached to help her, didn’t know where to start.

  “It was his,” the small girl gasped. Choking out the words. A tear squeezed out of the corner of one eye, glistening like a diamond in the lamplight. “His!”

  It was Hesseth who first made the connection. “Her father,” she whispered. “He must have owned it.”

  “But how—” Damien began.

&
nbsp; A cold hand on his shoulder warned him to silence. He glanced at the Hunter, saw the man’s eyes fixed on the center of the table. No: above it. He followed his gaze—and felt his breath catch in his throat, as he saw what was happening there.

  There was a shape forming in the air between them, a slow swirling of light and color that seemed to draw its strength from the pile of dirty gems on the table. At first it seemed formless, as insubstantial as a cloud of dust motes reflecting the flickering lamp flame. But as they watched it gained in substance, until it seemed to Damien that an object was now suspended in the air before them. No. Not an object. A hand. Medium brown in coloring, lightly scarred along one side, with nails that were short and clean with just a hint of silken fabric wrapped about the wrist. Even as they watched it flexed, and the glint of the red stone set on one finger was unmistakable. He didn’t need to see the one Jenseny was holding to know they were one and the same; the knowledge seeped into his brain like a Knowing and stuck there, spawned by the same power that had conjured this vision.

  “How?” he whispered. And though the answer was obvious, he could hardly accept it. Jenseny?

  —And then, suddenly, the vision was gone. Extinguished in a rainbow cascade of light, dissolved into the air once more. The girl’s hand trembled, clutched about her treasure; tears ran freely down her cheeks.

  “It was his,” the girl whispered. Her voice was shaking. “He gave it to one of his people, he said.”

  “Someone who later ran into the Terata,” Tarrant supplied.

  She nodded wildly and sobbed, “I can feel how he died....” She gasped suddenly and one hand twitched; Damien guessed that the ring had not been stolen gently, but severed from a living hand.

  “It’s not earth-fae she’s drawing on,” Tarrant mused aloud. “Something stronger. Wilder.”

  “They killed him,” the girl whispered. “They killed him and they killed my father, and they’ll keep on killing if you don’t stop them!”