Black Sun Rising

  “You’re lucky they let you in.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “That was fortunate.”

  And so on. Damien designed questions that should give him insight into some facet of the man’s existence—and he parried them all, without missing a beat. He seemed to enjoy fencing words with them, and would sometimes cast out tidbits of knowledge to draw them in—only to turn them aside with a quick response or a well-planned ambiguity, so that they came away knowing no more of the man than exactly what he meant them to know. Which was next to nothing.

  Damien wondered if he had played the same game with Ciani. Was it possible to play that kind of game with Ciani?

  At last the newcomer leaned back in his chair, as if signaling the end of that phase of their relationship. He set the goblet down before him; red liquid glinted within, reflecting the lamplight.

  “The lady tells me you’re working on a Healing.”

  Startled, he looked at Ciani—but her eyes were fixed on the stranger. He weighed his alternatives quickly and decided at last that there was no better way to test the man than to tell him the truth.

  “The Keeper’s son,” he said quietly. Watching the man for any kind of reaction. “He’s comatose. I tried to help.”

  He bowed his head gracefully. “I’m sorry.” Which might have meant anything, Sorry for the illness. Sorry about your desire to help. Sorry about your failure. “May I be of service?”

  “You Heal?” Damien said suspiciously.

  The stranger smiled, as if at some private joke. “Not for some time. My own specialty is in analysis. Perhaps that might be of use to you?”

  “It might,” he said guardedly. He looked across the room, couldn’t locate the boy’s mother. She must have gone back to his bedside. When a waitress looked in his direction he waved her over, and asked her to please locate the dae-keeper for them. He had news that might interest her.

  “She’s wary of strangers,” he warned. “She trusted me because of my calling. My Church. Whether she’ll want you near the boy is another thing.”

  “Ah.” The stranger considered that for a moment. Then he reached into the neck of his tunic and drew out a thin disk on a chain. Fine workmanship, a delicate etching on pure gold: the Earth.

  And he smiled; the expression was almost pleasant. “Let us see if I can’t convince her to accept my services. Shall we?”

  The boy’s room seemed even more quiet after the relative noisiness of the common room. Oppressively so. Damien found it claustrophobic, in a way it hadn’t been before. Or was that his territorial instinct, responding to a newcomer’s intrusion?

  Childish, Vryce. Get over it.

  It was just the three of them in the small room. The boy’s mother had agreed to let the newcomer look at her child—fearful, apprehensive, but she had agreed—but she drew the line at admitting the pagan multitudes. Just as well. Damien welcomed a chance to assess the man, without Ciani’s presence to distract him.

  Gerald Tarrant walked to the far side of the bed and gazed down at the child. With a start, Damien realized that the man’s skin was hardly darker than that of the boy; flesh sans melanin. It suited him so well that Damien hadn’t noticed it before, but now, contrasted against the boy’s sickly pallor . . . the coloring was ominous. And here it was soon after summer, too. Damien considered all the reasons a seemingly healthy man might not have a tan. A few of them—very few—were innocent. Most were not.

  Be fair. Senzei’s pale. Some men have business that binds them to the night.

  Yes . . . and some of that business is highly suspect.

  Slowly, the stranger sat on the edge of bed. He studied the boy in silence for a moment, then made a cursory inspection of obvious signs: lifting the eyelids to study the pupils, pressing a long index finger against the boy’s upper neck to take his pulse, even studying the fingernails. It was hard to tell when he was simply looking and when he was Knowing as well; he was like Ciani in that he needed no words or gestures to trigger a Working, only the sheer force of his will. An adept without question, then.

  As if that was in doubt.

  Damien looked at the boy’s mother, and his heart wrenched in sympathy. Because he had vouched for the stranger, she had allowed him to approach her son. But Gerald Tarrant wasn’t a priest, and it was clear that his presence here made her very nervous. She twisted her hands in her apron, trying not to protest. Glanced at Damien, her eyes begging for reassurance. He wished he had it to give to her.

  He looked down at the boy again—and froze, when he saw the stranger’s knife pressed against the youth’s inner arm. A thin line of red welled up in its wake: dark crimson, thick and wet.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he hissed.

  The stranger didn’t acknowledge him in any way. Folding his knife, he tucked it carefully back into his belt. The boy’s mother moaned softly and swayed; Damien wondered if she was going to faint. He was torn between wanting to go to her and desperately wanting to stop this lunacy. What purpose could it possibly serve, to cut the boy open like that? But he stood where he was, chilled by a terrible, morbid fascination. As he watched, the stranger touched one slender finger to the wound, collecting a drop of blood. He brought it to his lips and breathed in its bouquet; then, apparently satisfied with it, he touched the crimson droplet to his tongue. And tasted it. And stiffened.

  He looked at the woman. His expression was dark.

  “You didn’t tell me he was an addict.”

  The color drained suddenly from her face, as if someone had opened a tap beneath her feet and all her blood had poured out. “He isn’t,” she whispered. “That is, I didn’t. . . .”

  “What is it?” Damien asked hoarsely.

  “Blackout.” The cut he had made was still oozing blood; a thin line of crimson dribbled down the boy’s wrist, onto the quilt. “And not all legal, was it?”

  She was shaking. “How can you know that?”

  “Simple logic. This boy had quite an addiction. If he’d fed it with legals, that would have meant repeated trips into Jaggonath . . . and you would have known. On the other hand, with all the travelers that you have passing through here. . . .” He shrugged suggestively. “It guaranteed his secrecy, but at a high cost. He knew the risk, and accepted it. I suspect that was part of the thrill.”

  “You can’t say that!”

  His eyes narrowed—just that, and no more. But no more was necessary. She took a step backward and turned away rather than meet his gaze.

  “Is that it, then?” Her voice was a whisper. Her hands were trembling. “Just . . . drugs?”

  He turned back to study the boy. After he was silent for a moment, Damien conjured his own Sight into existence—and watched as the shield he had fought with for so many hours was peeled back, layer by layer. Parting, like the petals of a flower coming into bloom. He felt a sudden surge of jealousy, had to fight to keep concentrating.

  Why does it have to come so damned easily to him!

  Beyond the barrier was . . . darkness. Emptiness. A blackness so absolute that the cold of it chilled Damien’s thoughts. He dared not reach out to read its source, not when a stranger was in control—but even so he could tell that something was wrong, very wrong. Something that went far beyond mere addiction, or the self-destructive fantasies of a depressed adolescent. Something that hinted at outside interference. At a malignance far greater than anything this poor boy might have conjured.

  “Leave us,” Tarrant ordered. He looked up at the woman. She began to protest—and then choked back on the words, and bowed to the force of the man’s will. Tears were pouring silently down her cheeks as she turned and left the room, and Damien longed to comfort her. But he was damned if he was going to leave the boy alone with this stranger, even for a minute.

  When the door had shut securely behind the woman, Gerald Tarrant reached out to touch the boy, one slender finger resting against the skin of his forehead. Slowly, layer by layer, the barrier that he had parted resto
red itself. Slowly the gaping blackness that was inside the boy became less and less visible, until even Damien’s strongest Knowing could no longer make it out. Deep blue lines began to radiate from the adept’s fingertip, like blood that had been starved of oxygen. Damien watched as they began to penetrate the boy’s skin, delicate threads of azure ice that chilled the capillaries as they entered the boy’s bloodstream—

  And then he reached out and grabbed the man’s arm—the flesh was cold, and seemed to drain the warmth from his hand where there was contact—and he pulled him away from the boy as violently as he could. And hissed in fury, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Tarrant’s eyes fixed on him—infinitely calm, infinitely cold. “Killing him,” he said quietly. “Gradually, of course. It won’t culminate until morning. The family will consider it . . . natural. Medics will ascribe it to the contamination found in black market drugs. And the matter will end there. Isn’t that desirable?”

  “You have no right!”

  “This boy’s body serves no purpose,” he said quietly. “They can ship it from city to city for months, pour bottles of sugar and tonic and what have you into its bloodstream to keep it alive for years . . . but what’s the point? There’s nothing left here that’s worth maintaining.” His pale gray eyes sparkled coldly. “Isn’t it kinder to the living to remove such a hindrance, rather than let it drain them of money and energy until they have nothing left worth living for?”

  He felt like he was being tested somehow, without knowing either the parameters of the test or its purpose. “You’re saying he can’t recover.”

  “I’m saying there’s nothing left to recover. The soul is still there, hanging on by a thread. But the mechanism that would allow it to reconnect has been removed, priest. Devoured, if you will.”

  “You mean . . . his brain?”

  “I mean his memory. The core of his identity. Gone. He let the drugs weaken his link to this body . . . and something moved in while he was absent. Moved in, and cleaned house.” The gray eyes were fixed on him, weighing his reaction. “There is no hope for him, priest—because he, as such, no longer exists. That,” and he indicated the body, “is an empty shell. Would you still call it murder, knowing that, if I caused it to expire?”

  Memory, Damien thought. Identity. God in Heaven. . . .

  He reached for a chair—or anything that would support him—and at last lowered himself onto the corner of a trunk.

  Memory. Devoured. Here, in our very path.

  He thought of those things getting into the dae. Feasting on the boy, as they had once feasted on Ciani. Only this time they’d had no need for vengeance, no vested interest in prolonging their victim’s suffering. They’d eaten all there was to eat, and left no more than an empty shell behind. . . .

  Does that mean they’re right ahead of us, traveling the same route? Do they know we’re coming? Are they letting us know it? Challenging us, perhaps? Merciful God, each possibility is worse than the last. ...

  Then he looked up into the stranger’s eyes and read the truth behind his calm.

  “You’ve run into something like this before,” he challenged.

  There was a silence. A long one. The cold, pale eyes were impossible to read.

  “Say that I’m hunting something,” Gerald Tarrant said at last. “Say that this is its mark, its trail. Its spoor.” He looked at the boy’s body, and said quietly, “What about you, priest?”

  Hunting. The very things we’re after. Is that the mark of an ally—or a trap? There’s too much coincidence here. Be careful.

  “They killed a friend,” he said quietly.

  He bowed. “My condolences.”

  He tried to think. Tried to factor this new variable into all his equations. But it was happening too fast; he needed time to consider. He needed to talk to Senzei and Ciani. If the creatures they were trying to kill were only one day ahead of them, on the same road they meant to travel . . . he shook his head, trying to weigh all the options. Maybe they should speed up, not cower in the daes at night. Or change their route, try to circle around and get ahead. Or else maybe the creatures meant them to do one of those things, had set up this little tragedy to throw off any possible pursuit. To pressure their pursuers to choose a lesser road, one with fewer protections. . . .

  Too many plots and counterplots. Too many variables. He smelled danger, but couldn’t tell just where the odor was coming from.

  “Which way are you headed?” he asked.

  Tarrant hesitated, suddenly wary. It occurred to Damien for the first time that he, also, was loath to trust a stranger. That was a sobering concept.

  “Wherever the trail leads,” he said at last. “North, for the moment. But who can say where it will turn tomorrow?”

  As anxious as I am not to give anything away. For similar reasons?

  “You’ll be here till morning?”

  The stranger laughed softly. “The trail I follow is only visible at night, priest—and so that must define my hours. I stop at the daes when I can, for a taste of real food and the sound of human voices. When they let me in. But already I’ve been here too long. The spoor—” and he indicated the boy’s body, “—is already growing cold. The hunter must move on. Now, if you will permit me. . . .”

  He moved toward the boy once more. Damien had to force himself to be still as those delicate fingers settled once more on the colorless skin. Like flies. Leeches. The chill blue fae began to build once more, a slender webwork of death that wove itself about the boy’s skin. He had to fight himself not to interfere.

  “You could tell her,” he said quickly, “the truth.”

  “His mother?” He looked up at Damien, and one corner of his mouth twisted slightly. In amusement? “He died in terror. Do you want her to know that?” Then he focused his attention back on the boy, on the delicate veil of death taking form beneath his fingertips. “You do your job, priest. I’ll take care of mine. Unless you’d rather do this yourself.”

  “I don’t kill innocents,” he said coldly.

  The death-fae halted in its progress. Gerald Tarrant looked up at him.

  “There are no innocents,” he said quietly.

  They let the man out into the night, as carefully as they had previously let him in. Mes Kanadee guarded the door until it was safely locked behind him, and Damien—who had volunteered to help—added a Protecting to reestablish the fae-seals.

  He felt both bitter and relieved that the man was leaving them. And envious, in equal measure. It was terrifying to be out there alone at night, especially in an area as actively malignant as this. But it was also exhilarating. For a man who knew how to take care of himself—as Gerald Tarrant clearly did—it was the ultimate challenge.

  He watched as the last of the bolts was thrown, then joined his companions at the fireside. Night had thinned the ranks of travelers that previously had filled the common room; save for one woman asleep by the fire, and a middle-aged couple nursing their drinks at a far table, the small company was alone.

  Senzei looked up at him, then back to the fire. “Where’s he headed?”

  “North.”

  “Our route?”

  “Most likely.”

  “Did you learn his business?”

  He stared into the fire. Tried to get the man’s image out of his mind. “I learned a little of his nature,” he answered. “That’s enough.” He wished he could rid himself of the chill that had entered his soul, the images that refused to leave him. Of a gaping black hole where a boy’s soul used to be. Of the cold blue worms that were even now sucking out his life, to give him a “natural” death. Of pale gray eyes, and the challenge that had been in them. . . .

  Despite the heat of the fire, he shivered. “I’ll tell you about it later. In the morning. Let me sort it out in my own mind first, so it makes some kind of sense when I tell it.”

  “He’s an adept,” Ciani said. Her tone was a plea.

  He put an arm around her and squeeze
d gently. But the tension in her body refused to ease; there was a barrier between them now, a subtle but pervasive blockage that had begun when her assailants devoured so many of the memories they shared. But now it seemed even stronger—colder, somehow. As if the stranger’s presence had caused it to grow. He had assumed that time would give them back what they had lost; now, suddenly, he was no longer certain.

  “I’ve seen power like that before,” he told her. Trying to explain the coldness that was inside him, the nameless chill that rose up whenever he thought of allying with that man. “But I’ve never seen it exercised so cold-bloodedly.”

  And there are so many little things that are wrong, with him. Like the Earth medallion. His supposed allegiance to a Church that rejects his kind. No adept has made peace with my faith since the Prophet died.

  “We’re better off without him,” he told her. Working the fae into his words. Trying to make himself sound convincing.

  He wished he truly believed it himself.

  Sixteen

  Slowly, carefully, the xandu came down out of the mountains. Flexible feet treading silently on soft earth, picking a way between the sharp, treacherous boulders on one hand and the tangle of fallen branches on the other. Dead, all of it was dead. Autumn might be coming to the lowlands, but winter had already crowned the Worldsend peaks in white—and mile by mile, inch by inch, the carpet of life on which the xandu and his kind depended was being smothered by winter’s cold.

  It lifted its head and sniffed the wind, seeking some promise of change. How much farther could it go on, this utter desolation? The xandu’s instincts insisted that there would be food to the west, thick green grasses not yet made brittle by winter’s ice, curling leaves turned rust and amber by autumn’s breath, but not yet fallen. Not yet dry. Not yet dead as this place was dead—as all of its usual grazing lands were dead, rocky lands carpeted in dried-out, useless husks of what once might have served for food.