Black Sun Rising

  It was a young animal, not yet experienced in the harsh rhythm of the seasons. Not yet aware, on all the levels that a xandu might become aware. Fae-tides rippled about its feet, but they were as meaningless to it as the stars which rose in the daytime, which were not required for light. It ignored them. Its only concern now, beyond that of safety, was food—and it sent that need out, echoing across the foothills of the Worldsend and into the lowlands, without ever knowing that it did so.

  And it was answered. Not with a scent, exactly. Not with anything the xandu could have defined, or anything it knew how to respond to. Call it . . . a certainty. A sense of direction, and definition. It was hungry, and there was food, and if it traveled in a certain direction, at a certain pace, the twin paths of need and supply would converge. It knew this as it knew the rhythms of its own body, the taste of highgrass just coming into bloom, the smell of winter. Without doubt. Without words.

  It began to gallop. Pounding feet noisy on the packed earth, it kept alert for predators. But there were few beasts who would hunt a young, healthy xandu. Its long, gleaming horns might have been intended for sexual combat, but they were just as effective in goring an arrogant predator.

  It traveled for many hours. The sun set in the western sky, and soon after was followed by that curtain of stars which was its closest rival in light. Evening fell darkly across the lowlands. The xandu was picking up new scents now, strange scents, of plants and animals native to this foreign terrain. Still it traveled. There were things growing here that might have served it for food, but food was no longer its primary concern.

  And then, on the horizon, it saw something. Merely an amorphous shape at first, which slowly became more defined as the xandu galloped closer. A strange animal, that stood back on its hind legs as though raised up in sexual display. The xandu slowed to a trot, then to a walk. There was a feeling of rightness about the creature, of completeness, such that the xandu didn’t think to fear. It had sought food, and here was food. It would soon need warmth, and here was a creature who commanded fire. It would ache with loneliness . . . and here, in this creature, was a companion for its winter, who would brave the ravages of the ice-time by its side, and then release it to seek out its own kind when the spring came again.

  Wordlessly, effortlessly, it absorbed the stranger’s need. Inside its body, unseen, molecules shifted their allegiance from one chemical pattern to another; instincts which had been merely dormant before this moment quickened with new life, and others—which had previously ruled its actions—subsided into half-sleep. And it knew, without understanding how, that the strange creature had also changed. And that the change was natural, and correct.

  Then the stranger reached into its skin—a false skin, the xandu observed, which was wrapped around its own—and brought out food, which it gave to the xandu. And then more, and yet more, until the xandu’s hunger was sated. It offered water, too, poured into its cupped hands, and the xandu drank.

  Then the creature swung itself up onto the xandu’s back; and that, too, was correct, and exactly as it should be. So much so that it suddenly seemed strange to the xandu that it had never borne such a creature before.

  They turned north, and—at a vigorous gallop—began to close the distance between where they were and where they needed to be.

  Seventeen

  He couldn’t do it.

  Senzei sat alone in the center of a clearing, and tried to quiet his mind. Ever since they had encountered that man at the dae his nerves had been jangling like a hundred wards all set off at once, making it hard to concentrate. Now, every time he tried to take hold of the fae and commit himself to Working it, the memory of Gerald Tarrant got in the way.

  It bothered him. It wouldn’t stop bothering him. He felt like the man had been toying with them somehow, without knowing how or why.

  You can’t let it get to you. Not this much. We have to know where Ciani’s assailants have gone and what they intend . . . and if you can’t get your act together to Know that, you might as well have stayed home.

  Which thought brought its own special pain.

  It could be simply that the man had awakened a storm of conflicting emotions within him: hunger and anger and jealousy combined, all in response to his obvious power. Or it could be something far more ominous than that: it could be that the stranger had established a channel between them, a subtle link between himself and the three travelers that hinted at darker intentions. But toward what end?

  Only one way to find out, he thought grimly.

  He hadn’t shared these misgivings with his companions. Not yet. Damien had been sullen all morning, and Senzei suspected that something Tarrant did when they were alone together was the cause. No reason to add to it. And Ciani . . . his chest tightened with grief at the mere thought of her. She would just hurt—silently, but he would see it in her eyes—and he would feel guilty for feeling such things, for feeling anything at all. While all the time he would want to scream at her, You had it, you had it all and you lost it, how could you let it go! As if somehow it had been her fault, as if she could have stopped it from happening.

  Despite the relative warmth of the morning, he shivered. We’re none of us as rational as we’d like to be. Gods keep that from dividing us.

  A sudden rustling disturbed the brush behind him; he twisted around to see its cause, saw Ciani standing at the edge of the clearing.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said quickly. “Damien said to see if you’d be ready to move soon.”

  So we can make the next dae by sunset, he finished silently. And lock ourselves away in safety one more time.

  The answer’s here, in the night. Tarrant knew that.

  “Come here,” he said gently, and he patted the ground beside him.

  She hesitated, then entered the clearing and sat. “I don’t want to disturb you,” she said.

  “I was going to Work. You can Share it, if you’d like.”

  In her eyes: Elation. Fear. Hunger. He fought the instinct to turn away, knowing how much that would hurt her.

  My gods. Did I look like that to her? Has fate done no more than reverse our roles?

  He took her hand in his, weaving their fingers together. Holding her tightly, palm to palm, until it was possible to feel the pounding of her pulse against his flesh, to imagine that their two bloodstreams had somehow become linked together—and through that linkage, all the skills that made a Working possible.

  All right, you bastard. Obviously I’m not going to be able to Work on anything else until I settle with you in my mind. So let’s get a good look at just where you are, and what you’re up to.

  He sent his will questing along the fae-currents, noting the distinct northward pull that seemed to affect everything in this region. That would be the Forest, exerting its malevolent influence. Soon it would be difficult to Work in any other direction. How could an adept bear to live in such a place, where every thought was dragged toward that single point? Didn’t Tarrant claim to come from somewhere north of here?

  Slowly, the landscape about them began to take shape before his special senses. He clasped Ciani’s hand tightly, Sharing the vision with her. The ground began to glow, with a colorless light. Currents of earth-fae swirled like fog about their knees, responding to some unseen pattern deep in the earth beneath them. He drew back—and upward—willing his viewpoint to expand and take in the surrounding terrain. Now he could see the clearing from above, with their two small bodies sitting side by side. Higher. The trees gave way to brush, to open ground. To a road, dusted with discolored leaves. He followed it southward, noting the pull of the current against him; soon it would be all but impossible to Work against its flow. Slowly, the vision he sought unfolded before him. There was the dae, in all its protective glory. There was the stockade gate, with a spot of light marking each active fae-signature, every working ward. And there were the footsteps leading to the road, a fading remnant of each traveler’s identity that clung to the earth they
had walked on, leaving a record that the faewise were able to read.

  It was no great trial to determine which marks were Gerald Tarrant’s; they stood out from among the others like a livid black spot on the face of the sun—a trail so dark that it seemed to vibrate, sucking the sunlight into its substance. The other footprints seemed weaker by the light of day, but his had gained in substance. As though each were a raw scar upon the earth, which the sun’s rays worried at.

  Not pretty, he thought grimly. Not pretty at all.

  He followed the trail several yards, tracking the man’s progress toward the road. And then the trail ended. Suddenly. Not tapering out, as a line of true footsteps might. Nor marked with the hard light of a Working, to indicate that the man had deliberately hidden his trail. It simply . . . wasn’t there. At all.

  Senzei sank himself deeper into concentration, straining to summon all the Sight that was available to him. The image of the dae sharpened. Tarrant’s trail came into clear, almost painful focus . . . and still it disappeared, just as suddenly and in the same spot as before. It was as if the man had ceased to exist beyond that point.

  He withdrew from the dae’s confines, taking Ciani with him. And moved his viewpoint to high above, trying to gain some perspective.

  “What if he mounted?” Ciani whispered.

  The concept was so utterly naive, so ignorant of the most basic laws of the fae, that Senzei nearly wept for hearing it from her. His concentration, and therefore the Vision, wavered. “This isn’t like a physical trail. You don’t lose it when his feet are off the ground. It’s the result of his presence affecting the currents . . . and that shouldn’t disappear, just because he’s sitting on a horse. The trail might look different, but it should still be there.”

  “What if he . . .” She hesitated. “Became something else?”

  Startled, he looked at her. The vision shattered into a thousand bits, like breaking glass. He let it go.

  “That’s not possible,” he whispered.

  “Why not?”

  He drew in a deep breath and tried to gather his thoughts. Tried to banish the feeling that somehow, somewhere, they were being Watched. “Shapechanging is . . . technically feasible, I suppose. And there are legends. But no one I ever knew could manage it, or had ever seen it done.” He met her eyes. “You couldn’t do it,” he said. Gently. “I asked you why. You said it would require total submission to the fae. The kind of submission that the human mind can’t accept. Maybe native sorcerors could manage it, you said. If there ever were any native sorcerors.”

  She said it quietly. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

  “Cee, shapechanging—”

  “I didn’t mean shapechanging.”

  He stared at her for a long minute, trying to comprehend. “What, then? What is it?”

  “What if he isn’t human?” she pressed. “What if that was just a . . . a guise? A mask? What if once he was outside the dae, out of sight of the guards . . . he didn’t need it any more?”

  He stared at her, speechless.

  “Isn’t it possible? I don’t remember. . . .”

  “It’s possible,” he finally managed. “But there were wards up all over the place! Nothing that wasn’t human should have been able to get within yards of it. Least of all in a false body.”

  “Something got in to hurt that boy,” she pointed out. “Something that the wards were supposed to be guarding against.”

  He wanted to say to her, Your ward was up there, too, right over the front door. Are you telling me something got past that? Not only walked right in under it, but maintained a false human body all the time it was there?

  But he was remembering something she had once told him. Remembering it as though she were saying it now, her voice low and couched in a tone of warning.

  Every Warding has its weak spot. Every one, without exception. Sometimes you have to search hard to find it, but it’s there, in all of them. Which means that the wards only protect us as well as they do because so few demons are capable of working an analysis. . . .

  My speciality is in analysis, Tarrant had said.

  Senzei squeezed her hand tightly. Hoped that she couldn’t feel his fear. The air seemed suddenly warm, too warm; he loosened his collar, felt his hand shaking.

  Don’t let it get to you. You can’t let it get to you. Her strength depends on yours. Don’t lose it, Senzei.

  “Come on,” he said. He managed to stand. “Let’s get back to Damien.” He helped her to her feet. “I think he should know about this.”

  Damien listened to what they had to say—silently, patiently, without interrupting even to question them further—and then answered simply, “I had the same problem. Which just means we won’t be able to track them by Working. Otherwise our plans stay the same.”

  “Damien,” Senzei protested. “I don’t think you understand—”

  “I do,” he said stiffly. Something in his manner—the set of his shoulders, the tone of his voice—bespoke a terrible tension. A struggle inside him that was only now breaking through to the surface. “I understand more than you’re even aware of.”

  “If those things are right ahead of us—”

  “Yes. That sound reasonable, doesn’t it? Only, how do we know that?” His hands had balled into angry fists by his sides; he looked about himself, as if searching for something to hit. “I’ll tell you how. Twenty-five words or less. We know it because Gerald Tarrant told us. That’s how we know.” He drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly. Fighting for control over the rage that seemed ready to consume him. “I’ve gone over it in my mind again and again since we left the dae this morning. And each time it comes to the same thing. I trusted his word. Not willingly—not even knowingly—but like an animal trusts its trainer. Like a laboratory rat trusts the men who feed it when it finally runs the way they want it to. Gerald Tarrant said that something had devoured the boy’s memory, and I accepted it. God knows, I had good reason not to test him then. If I’d let myself be drawn into his Working, there’s no telling what might have happened. So I didn’t. You understand what that means? I didn’t Know for myself. I took his word for it that what he said was the truth, when I should have Seen for myself—”

  “You couldn’t have known,” Senzei said hurriedly. “Such power—”

  “Damn the power!” His eyes blazed with fury—at Gerald Tarrant, at himself. “Don’t you understand? If he wasn’t telling the truth—if the boy’s memory hadn’t been taken—then what did attack him? What left him wounded like that, and then set up a Shielding so perfect that no one but Mer Tarrant could get through it? Ask yourself that!”

  He took a deep breath. Then another. Trying to calm himself. It didn’t work. “I should have confirmed it,” he muttered. “If not then, later. I should have checked.”

  Senzei hesitated—and then reached out and put a hand on the priest’s shoulder. Emotional support, without the pressure of a Working; after a moment Damien nodded, acknowledging the gesture.

  “We can go back,” Senzei said gently. “If you need to Know—”

  “We can’t go back. One, because we have a mission to complete—and the longer we delay here, the harder it will get. Two, because . . . because. . . .”

  He turned away. Slipping out from under Senzei’s grasp so that he stood alone. His shoulders trembled.

  “The boy is dead,” he said at last. “Tarrant killed him. You understand? He called it a mercy killing. Maybe it was. But damned convenient, don’t you think?

  “God,” he whispered; his voice was shaking. “What have I been witness to?”

  “What do you want to do?” Senzei asked quietly.

  He turned back to face them; his eyes were red. “We go to Kale,” he told them. “Directly to Kale. If Tarrant was right and those things did attack the boy, then they’re nearly two days ahead of us; we won’t pass them without intending to. If he was wrong . . . then they could be anywhere. Behind us, ahead of us, even back in the rakhlands by n
ow. I couldn’t get a fix on them any more than you could, Zen. He’s right in that; such a Working has to be done at night. But in Kale. In the relative safety of a city’s confines. Not out here . . . where camping outside the daes means setting ourselves up for God knows what.”

  “You think he’s allied with them?” Ciani asked anxiously.

  “I don’t know what he is—and I don’t want to know. He’s setting up some kind of game, maybe just for his amusement, maybe for some darker purpose. I say we don’t play by his rules. That means we go straight to Kale, like we planned. No detours, no delays, and above all else no forays out into the night. We tell the daes to keep their doors shut; if he wants the night that badly, let him stay in it. Agreed?”

  “And if he really is hunting them?” Senzei asked.

  “In that case,” he muttered, “more power to him. I hope he makes his kill.”

  He looked out over the road ahead—northward, toward the Forest—and added, “May they take him with them, when he does.”

  Eighteen

  Tobi Zendel was securing the last of his nets when dusk fell, and because his attention was wholly fixed on the task before him he failed to notice the figure as it approached him, and did not hear it coming until the planks of the small pier finally creaked in warning.

  “What the—” He turned about to see what had come up behind him; the anatomically complex profanity he had been about to spout forth withered on his lips, unvoiced. “What the hell?” he said softly—a socially acceptable substitute.

  The figure that stood on the pier before him was that of a woman, oddly dressed. She was about his height, which was not tall; slender, and delicately boned; precisely made, with small, high breasts—although the latter were somewhat obscured by her clothing, so it was hard for him to judge their exact appeal. She was clothed in layers of tight cloth, which might have been actual garments but had more the appearance of wrappings. Gloves hid her hands, and a scarf which was tightly wrapped about her head and neck hid all the rest of her from view, except for her face. That was delicately sculpted, delicately colored—a clear golden brown that perfectly matched her garments—and oddly soft, as though he were viewing it through frosted glass.