Gate of Darkness, Circle of Light

by Tanya Huff

  Tom lifted his head from his paws and glared at the light.

  “I thought you’d gone out,” Roland muttered.

  Tom yawned, pink tongue curling up delicately, clearly not giving a damn what Roland thought. He settled back into his hollow between the pillows with the air of a cat who plans to stay the night. Only by the quivering white tip to his tail did he give any indication that Roland still existed.

  Quashing the urge to give the furry flag a tweak, Roland made a quick trip to the bathroom—immaculate as expected—and headed back out to the main room.

  “If you want the light off,” he said to the cat as he passed, “you get up and turn it off.”

  Rebecca was leaning halfway out the window.

  “What are you doing?”

  She straightened and tossed her curls back off her face. “Putting out a bowl of milk for the littles.”

  “What?”

  Patiently, she repeated herself.

  “Okay. Why?”

  “Because they like it.”

  He took a deep breath. Why not? He was just going to have to get used to an absence of explanation in his life from now on.

  “You’re sure that the Adept of the Light will come here?” he asked.

  “Yes. Even if Ivan doesn’t say who sent him and give my address—which I don’t think he knows so he can’t—we have the dagger and that should attract him.”

  That made sense. In fact, upon reflection, it made a great deal of sense and up until tonight Roland had thought sense and Rebecca were mutually exclusive. Either she was smarter than previous observation indicated or he wasn’t handling things as well as he thought.

  Or a bit of both, fairness forced him to admit.

  The bag, still zippered shut, lay in the middle of the floor, Roland pushed it under the table with the toe of one desert boot. No sense leaving it lying out in the open where it might attract more than the Light. He shot a suspicious glance at the dirt in the flowerpots.

  Rebecca yawned and Roland suddenly felt exhausted.

  “I’m going to bed now,” she told him. “The Light can wake me up when it gets here.”

  They both seemed to take it for granted that Roland was spending the night.

  “Do you want to sleep with me?”

  Roland closed his mouth, took a deep breath, and told himself sternly to clean up his gutter mind. Her face was as innocent and guileless as a child’s, open and trusting, the faint sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks adding a wholesomeness that was almost cliché. But her body … Her breasts were heavy, the nipples denting through both bra and tank top, with more freckles scattered lightly across their upper curves. Below a remarkably tiny waist, her hips flared then tucked down into muscular thighs. A little plump in this age of anorexia, but the flesh was firm and the form most definitely woman. When the kid says sleep, she means sleep, you pervert. Nothing more.

  “No. Thanks. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  “Okay.” Rebecca yawned again and headed for her bed. “Good night, Roland.”

  “Good night, kiddo, pleasant dreams.”

  “I always have pleasant dreams.”

  Roland grinned. In that calm assurance, he found the Rebecca he knew again and could banish the ripe form of the other from his mind. He checked that the door was locked, lifted Patience from her case, and flicked off the light. Settling down on the couch, a huge old piece of furniture at least as long as his six feet, he began to pick out a quiet melody. He hadn’t needed light to play for years.

  He heard the mattress creak as Rebecca got into bed and then he heard her murmur peevishly; “Move over, Tom, you’re hogging all the space.”

  Good thing I didn’t take her up on her offer. All I need to finish off the evening is a cat fight.

  His hands continued making music without him and after a few moments he realized he was playing an old Irish Rovers’ hit.

  Oh, no, he chided himself, moving his fingers away from that, particular tune, that’s just a little too close.

  “It’s dark down here tonight.”

  Police Constable Patton peered through the open window of the patrol car and frowned. “It’s always dark down here,” she pointed out acerbically. “Too god-damned many trees.”

  It was, in fact, easy to forget they were driving through the heart of a major city. Rosedale Valley Road followed the bottom of one of Toronto’s many ravines and on either side huge trees crowded the pavement, looming out over this slash through their domain, intimidating the infrequent streetlights, and generally making Man aware in no uncertain terms that, down here at least, he was an intruder.

  “Rally lights,” PC Patton muttered. “That’s what we need, rally lights.”

  “You worry too much.”

  “You don’t worry enough.” She turned from the window to face her partner. The litany was a familiar one, guaranteed to take place once a shift. Maybe she did worry too much, but surely that was better for a cop than never worrying at all. “Don’t forget to slow down right before we get to the bridge.”

  PC Jack Brooks smiled, the expression hidden in his heavy moustache. “You figure they’ll come back?”

  The young woman shrugged. “Beats me. Who can tell with transients? All I know is it’s too damn dry for them to be lighting any fires down here.”

  “Can’t argue with that, Mary Margaret.”

  She rolled her eyes at her given names. The son of a bitch insisted on using them together, refusing to call her Marge like everyone else did. “And why can’t you argue with it?” she asked. “You argue with everything else I sa … Holy shit!” She grabbed at the dashboard as Brooks swerved to avoid the glowing white shape that darted out from among the trees. But it was too close. And they’d been moving too fast.

  There was a jar as the fender hit it, then a double bump as it went under front and back wheels.

  Brooks fought the car to a stop, his curses accompanying the scream of rubber on asphalt. Both officers grabbed for hats and sticks and scrambled out onto the road. They could see what they’d hit about fifteen feet away, the night making it no more than a pale, crumpled shape against the pavement. They paused for an instant, knowing there was no way it could still be alive.

  “Someone’s big white dog?” Brooks offered.

  “Maybe.” She took a deep breath; dead people had always been easier for her to deal with than dead animals. “Come on.”

  Brooks reached it first, knelt down, and froze. Away from the car, his vision had adjusted quickly to the lack of light and he could clearly see what they’d hit. It couldn’t have been more than three feet high at the shoulder, each slender leg ending in a tiny, cloven hoof. Its head was as delicate as a flower and from its brow grew a spiraled crystal horn. An onyx eye gazed up at him, bright with pain, and he realized that, it still lived, although as he watched the brightness began to dim.

  “Jack, what is … Mary, Mother of God …”

  This isn’t possible. This can’t be possible. She knelt as well and, while her right hand sketched the sign of the cross, her left reached out and gently stroked the long white hair. It flowed soft and warm under her trembling fingers, as real and as insubstantial as a summer breeze.

  The unicorn sighed, one long drawn out breath that carried the scent of moonlit pastures, shuddered, and died.

  The road was empty between them.

  Tears running down his cheeks, Brooks reached out and touched the spot where it had lain. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Jack!”

  His head snapped up at the urgency, at the fear, in his partner’s voice. She was on her feet, her nightstick angled across her body, the knuckles of both hands white. A rustling in the underbrush drew his gaze to the side of the road.

  Black on black. And a fetid smell that made him choke.

  Slowly, he rose from his knees, fighting against a fear that threatened to paralyze him. An ancient fear, of the dark and of the unknown things that

dwell in it. Run, screamed a voice in his head, RUN! But training held, and carefully, they backed up to the car. Where they sat, hearts pounding, palms damp with sweat, although no threat had followed them.

  “That thing …” The words cracked into a myriad of pieces so she tried again. “That thing,” marginally better, “drove it out onto the road.”

  “Yeah.” He didn’t trust his voice for more.

  They sat a while longer until the headlights of an oncoming car snapped them back into the real world.

  In the harsh glare of the passing vehicle, which had slowed considerably upon spotting the patrol car, PC Patton shot an anxious glance at her partner. His face looked drawn and tired, but he seemed okay. She gave thanks to all the saints that she hadn’t been driving.

  “We didn’t see anything,” she said at last.

  “No,” he sighed, the sound a faint echo of the unicorn’s dying breath, “we didn’t.”

  He started the engine and they continued their patrol.

  A single white hair blew off the car fender and was lost in the night.

  Roland, always a light sleeper, came fully awake at the first knock. He shook his head to clear the last remnants of a dream—Mrs. Ruth dancing naked in the moonlight was a dream bordering on nightmare—and tried to swing his legs off the couch.

  A warm and furry weight held them right where they were.

  In the dim light, for no city apartment is ever completely dark, Roland could see the faint golden gleam of eyes. He kicked.

  “Ouch! Damn it, cat …”

  The second knock got lost in the brief scuffle that followed.

  “Roland, what’s wrong?”

  He squinted against the sudden glare. Rebecca stood by the light switch, a fuzzy blue dressing gown belted around her, her hair an even more unruly mass of curls than usual. He pointed at Tom who sat washing one shoulder with sublime indifference.

  “That cat bit me!”

  “Why?”

  “Well …” He had the grace to look sheepish. “I, I kicked him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he was sleeping on my feet.”

  The third knock diverted Rebecca’s attention. “There’s someone at the door,” she said with a happy smile. “It must be the Light.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” Roland’s bare feet made no sound on the smooth wooden boards as he padded around the end of the couch. “But the odds are just as good it’s the Dark.”

  Rebecca looked thoughtful. “I don’t think the Dark would knock.”

  The fourth knock sounded a bit impatient.

  “Okay, okay, we’re coming.” The chain lock clattered against the wall. “Stay behind me, kiddo.”

  “Why?”

  “For protection.”

  “Against the Light?”

  Roland sighed as he worked the deadbolt. “We don’t know that it’s the …”

  A young man in his late teens or early twenties stood framed in the open door. His eyes were a stormy mix of blue and gray and Roland’s gaze dropped before them, seeking stability in the speckled brown pattern of the hall carpet. When the world had stopped spinning and he thought he had his pulse under control again, he took a deep breath and began working his way back up, taking inventory as his vision climbed: black boots; tight and faded jeans; a red bandanna knotted just above one knee; three belts, thick with studs surrounding slim waist and hips; one arm circled halfway from wrist to elbow with a jangle of silver bracelets in all sizes; a blinding white T-shirt with the sleeves ripped out sporting a single, tiny button … a happy face, white on black.

  Roland paused for a moment at the long, golden line of the throat, then snapped his eyes up before he chickened out. The point of the young man’s chin just missed being delicate and his face missed being pretty by the same small margin. A large silver hoop pierced one ear and his heavy sweep of hair darkened gradually from white blond at the tips to golden blond at the roots. Roland didn’t think it was dyed.

  Then he smiled and Roland forgot everything he’d just seen in the sweet sensuality of the expression.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  The smile quirked into an equally fascinating grin.

  “Not quite.” His voice caressed the words like verbal velvet. “Can I come in?”

  “Uh, yeah.” Forcing his gaze to one side, Roland stepped back. He felt dizzy. He felt other things as well, but he refused to acknowledge them, pushing them down with panicked force. Forget that, I’m too old for a major lifestyle change. I don’t care how pretty he is. When he turned, the young man was bending over Rebecca’s hand.

  It should’ve looked ludicrous—a heavy metal wet dream genuflecting before a tousle-haired, vacant-eyed young woman in a fuzzy blue bathrobe—but it didn’t. It looked right. It looked more right than anything that had happened to Roland since his mother had died four years ago. He could see the song in it, hear the music, feel the power.

  “You have called, the Light has come. Lady, my name is Evantarin.”

  His silver bracelets chimed as he lifted her hand to his lips.

  Rebecca looked momentarily puzzled until she figured out what he was doing, and then she grinned. “Hello Evantarin, my name is Rebecca.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, and Roland added the twinkle in those stormy eyes to the music he heard, “but I will call you Lady, and you will call me Evan. Evantarin is for those who do not know me well.”

  “Okay.” She nodded, satisfied with his explanation although it made no sense to Roland at all. In trying to work it out, he lost the threads of his song.

  “No.” The word came out almost as a moan. It had been the most perfect song….

  “Don’t worry,” Evan reached back and touched Roland’s arm. “There will be many more songs before this is over. And you will find that one again, I promise.”

  Roland’s eyes widened.

  “What else could have caused you such pain?” Evan answered the unasked question. “You are a Bard; or will be.” He spread his hands in a fluid gesture that spoke eloquently of understanding. “Such pain could only be the loss of a song.” Then he started and the stormy eyes snapped down. “Small furred one, you surprised me.”

  Tom sniffed the offered fingers, then butted his head against Evan’s hand, a deep rumble beginning in his throat.

  “I’m going to make tea,” Rebecca told them, including Tom in the declaration. “Everyone sit down.”

  I don’t believe this, Roland thought a few moments later. It’s ten after three in the morning and I’m sitting drinking herbal tea with an Adept of the Light. At the other end of the couch, the Adept yelped as Tom’s kneading claws dug through his jeans. I don’t even like herbal tea. Every time he looked at Evan he could hear the broken pieces of the music, but they came and went as they would; he could no longer hold them.

  He cleared his throat and Rebecca looked expectantly up at him from where she sat cross-legged on the floor.

  “The first thing we have to determine,”—Good lord, I sound like Uncle Tony at his most pompous—“is just who exactly you are.” The expression on Rebecca’s face stopped him for a second, but he took a deep breath and continued. These were words that had to he said, even if Rebecca thought he’d lost his mind. “I mean, we’ve been assuming you’re from the Light and for all we know you could be a trick of the Dark.”

  “Oh, Roland.” Rebecca frowned. “Can’t you See?”

  Roland opened his mouth to defend himself, but Evan broke in.

  “He does not See as well as you, Lady, and the Dark can appear to be very fair. Our foe is strong, and will use any tool he can to achieve his ends.” Rebecca nodded thoughtfully and Evan turned to meet Roland’s eyes. “But if you do not See, surely you Hear.”

  And the song burst forth again, whole for an instant.

  “Yeah, okay,” Roland muttered, his tone brusque to distract the others from the tears in his eyes, “but I had to ask. I mean, you look like …” Words failed him.

  Evan looked worried. He glanced down at himself then up at Roland. “Is it not suitable? As I crossed the barrier, I let the power form me as it would.” He tossed his hair back off his face and frowned. “I like it, but maybe …”

  “No, no!” Roland broke in, stifling the ridiculous urge to reach out and brush the frown away. “You look great.”

  “Do you really think so?” Evan ducked his head a little sheepishly. “It’s foolish, I know, but I have always been vain. If my appearance …”

  “Your appearance is fine, I really think so. In fact, I think …” I think I’m in over my head. I mean he’s … And I … Oh, shit. Roland could tell by Evan’s expression that the Adept knew exactly what thoughts were chasing themselves around in his head. He felt his face grow hot.

  “Roland, all good people wish to become closer to the Light. When the Light has physical form,” Evan shrugged, a graceful movement that involved his whole body, “that desire is physical, as well.” Then the grin returned and one silken eyebrow rose. “I don’t mind.”

  His tone hovered between acceptance and invitation.

  Roland forced himself to hear it as the former.

  Rebecca poked at the toe of Evan’s boot. “I like the way you look.”

  The grin softened. “And I like the way you look, Lady.”

  “Becca!” BANG. BANG. BANG.

  Rebecca’s fingers tightened around her mug. “It’s the large-blonde-lady-from-down-the-hall.”

  “Becca, I know you’ve got a man in there!” BANG. BANG. BANG.

  “Old news,” Roland muttered, irrationally peeved that Evan got this reaction and he didn’t seem to count.

  “I’m not going away until you open this door!”

  “Does that mean she’ll go away when I open it?” Rebecca sounded completely confused. “Why does she want me to open the door if she’ll just go away?”

  “Never mind, kiddo.” Roland began preparing his best scathing glare. “I’ll get it.”

  “No.” Evan lifted Tom, who had gone boneless in contentment, off his lap. “Let me.”

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