“And then came a letter. From your Matriarch, your Holy Mother. Informing me that the west had begun an investigation into how the fae might be manipulated for Church purposes, by a chosen few trained toward that end. Sorcery! Dress it up in holy silks as you will, it still stinks. I argued with her, pleaded with her, I would have gone so far as to threaten her if I thought it would do any good ... but your Holy Mother is a headstrong woman, and her mind was made up. And now—I am watching my Church dissolve, Reverend Vryce, my dream of salvation corrupted . . .” He turned back to Damien, cold eyes narrowed. “And you are the vehicle of that corruption.”
“No one said you had to have me,” Damien snapped—and instantly regretted his lack of control. He’d been prepared for much worse than this; why was he overreacting? It was the fae that had affected him, responding to the Patriarch’s will. Why? What did he want?
For me to lose control, he realized. For me to act in such a way that he would have no choice but to cast me out. It staggered the imagination, that a man who neither accepted nor understood the fae could Work it so well—without ever knowing that he did. How much of the man’s intolerance was rooted in his own need to deny the truth?
“No,” the Patriarch agreed. “I could have fragmented the Church instead, given birth to a schism that might never heal . . . or begun a holy war, trying to avoid that. Those options were even more distasteful, in the end, and so I agreed. Send me your sorceror, I told her. Let me see what he does. Let me see how he operates. Let me see for myself that his Working is no threat to our faith.” His expression was icy. “If you can demonstrate that to my satisfaction I’ll be a very surprised man.”
Mustering all his self-control, Damien answered cooly, “I’ll regard that as a goal, Holiness.”
The blue eyes fixed on him, pinpoints of azure fire. “Damien Kilcannon Vryce. Knight of King Gannon’s Order of the Golden Flame. Companion of the Earth-Star Ascendant. Reverend Father of the Church of the Unification of Human Faith on Erna. What is our calling, to you?”
Damien stiffened. “A dream—that I would die to uphold, or kill to defend.”
The Patriarch nodded slowly. “Yes. Well recited. The definition of your Order—first voiced in a more bloodthirsty time than this, I dare say. But you, Reverend Vryce—the man. The dreamer. What do you believe?”
“That you’re wrong,” Damien answered quietly. “That our traditional belief system is outdated. That our ancestors perceived of the world in terms of black and white, when nearly all of it is made up of shades of gray. That the Church must adapt to that truth, in order to remain a vital entity on this world. The survival of our dream,” he stressed, “depends upon it.”
For a long moment the Patriarch simply gazed upon him, silent. “She chose well,” he said at last. Ivory silk rippled in the breeze as he reached out to take hold of the window and shut it again. “But tell me this. When you work your sorcery—when you hold the essence of this world in your hands, and use your will to give it form—can you honestly tell me that the concept of power, for its own sake, doesn’t tempt you? Have you never once Worked the fae for your own good—your own personal good, independent of the Church’s need? Never once changed the face of Nature for your own benefit? Or dreamed of doing so?”
“I’m as human as you are,” Damien answered curtly. “We all have our temptations. But our ability to rise above them—to serve an ideal, rather than the dictates of selfish instinct—is what defines us as a species.”
“Ah, yes.” The Patriarch nodded. “The Prophet’s words. He failed us, you’ll recall. And himself. As have all men, who tried to reconcile sorcery with our faith. Remember that.”
He walked to the heavy mahogova chair and sat down in it, smoothing the folds of his robe beneath him as he did so. And he sighed. “You’ll have your students, Reverend Vryce. Against my better judgment and despite my objections, but you’ll have them. A dozen of our most promising acolytes—chosen not because they have great sorcerous potential, but because their theological background is sound. You will not reach out beyond that group until I’m satisfied that this . . . experiment . . . can proceed without danger to my charges. Or my Church. Am I making myself clear?”
Damien bowed, and managed not to grin. Barely. “Very clear, Holiness.”
He clapped his hands twice. Barely a few seconds later the door swung open, and a young girl in servant’s livery entered.
“This is Kami. She’ll get you settled in. Kami, take Reverend Vryce to the rooms that have been prepared for him. See that he has a schedule of our services, and anything he needs for tonight. Breakfast is in the Annex, at eight,” he informed Damien. “A chance to meet the rest of our staff under slightly less . . . trying circumstances.” His mouth twitched slightly; a smile? “Is that too early for you?”
“I’ll manage it, Holiness.”
The Patriarch nodded to Kami, a clear gesture of dismissal. Damien gathered up his pack and turned to follow her—but when they reached the door the Patriarch called his name softly, and he turned back.
“When it comes time to die,” the Patriarch said, “—and the time will come, as it comes to all men—what will you do then? Bow down to Nature, to the patterns of Earth-life which are the core of our very existence? Help us to lay a foundation whereby our descendants can reclaim the stars? Or submit to the temptations of this alien magic, and sell your soul for another few years of life? As the Prophet tried to do?—Consider that as you retire, Reverend Vryce.”
It was clearly a dismissal, but Damien stood his ground. “The fae isn’t magic.”
The Patriarch waved one ringed hand, dismissing the thought. “Semantic exercises. What’s the real difference?”
“Magic can be controlled,” Damien reminded him. He gave that a moment to sink in, then added, “Isn’t that what Erna’s problem is all about?”
And he bowed—with only a hint of defiance. “I’ll consider it, Holiness. Good night.”
Three
The sun had set.
Narilka stood in the shop’s narrow doorway, eyes fixed on the western horizon. She was cold inside, just as the night was cold without. The sun had set while she was downstairs. Long ago, by the looks of it. How could she have been so careless?
The stars were almost gone.
There was no strong light in the heavens, save one full moon that stood balanced along the eastern horizon. Soon even that would be gone, and only the stars of the Rim—sparse, insubstantial—would accompany a slender crescent in the west, lighting her way home.
For a moment she almost went back into the shop, panic tightening her throat. Help me, she would say, I’ve been at work longer than I should have, please walk me home. . . . But home was a good distance away and Gresham would be busy—and besides, he had already expressed his total disdain for her fear of the night, often enough that she knew any plea to him would fall on deaf ears. You carry wards enough to supply the damned city with ‘em, he’d say scornfully. Women have walked the streets with less, and made it home all right. Where’s your sense, girl? I have work to do.
With one last deep breath of the shop’s dusty air, taken for courage, Narilka forced herself to step out into the night. The chill of the autumn evening wound around her neck like icy tendrils—or was that her fear manifesting?—and she drew her shawl closer about her, until its thick wool managed to ward off the worst of the cold.
Was she overreacting? Was she being unreasonable? Gresham had said it so often that now she was beginning to doubt herself. Did she really have any concrete evidence that the risk to her was greater than that facing other women—which is to say, that a female should always be careful and keep moving, but most survived the night?
As she passed by the silversmith’s shop she stopped, long enough to catch sight of her reflection in the smooth glass storefront. Thick hair, onyx-black; smooth white skin, now flushed pink from the cold; lashes as thick as velvet, framing eyes nearly as dark. She was delicate and lovely, as a f
lower is lovely, and fragile as a porcelain doll. It was a face mortal women envied, men would die for, and one—neither man nor mortal, but an evil thing, Erna’s darkness made incarnate—would destroy, with relish.
Shivering, she hurried onward. The faster she went, the sooner she would get home. In the inner streets of Jaggonath there were still people about, crowds enough that she could imagine herself lost among them. But they thinned as she left the commercial districts, leaving her feeling naked in the night. She had to keep moving. Her parents must be worried sick by now—and with good reason. She looked about herself nervously, noting the abandoned streets of Jaggonath’s western district, the tiny houses set farther and farther apart. The road had turned to mud beneath her feet, cold enough to chill her through the soles of her shoes but not yet frozen enough to be solid; her feet made rythmic sucking noises, painfully conspicuous, as she walked. She felt like a walking target.
The Hunter. That was what they called him. She wondered what he was, what he had once been. A man? That was what the tavern girls whispered, between giggles and mugs of warm beer, in the safety of their well-lit workplace. Once a man, they said, and now something else. But with a man’s lust still, corrupted though it might be. Why else were all his victims female, young, and inevitably attractive? Why would he have such a marked taste for beauty—and for delicate beauty, most of all—if some sort of male hunger didn’t still cling to his soul?
Stop it! she commanded herself. She shook her head rapidly, as if that could cast out the unwanted thoughts. The fear. Don’t! She would make it home all right, and everybody would be very relieved, and that was that. Her parents would be furious at Gresham for keeping her after dark and they would write him an angry letter, which he would promptly ignore—and then it would be over. Forever. No more than a memory. And she could say to her children that yes, she had been out after dark, and they would ask her what it was like, and she would tell them. A fireside story like any other. Right?
But you are what he wants, a voice whispered inside her. Exactly. You are what he sends his minions into Jaggonath to find.
“Damn you!” she cried suddenly—meaning her parents, her fears, the night itself. And her own looks, for that matter. Gods above, what might her life have been like if she were unattractive, or merely plain, or even of a sturdier type than she was? Might she have been allowed to play outside after sunset, as some other children were? Might she have grown accustomed to the night, ranking its terrors alongside other childhood fears, dealing with them simply and rationally? Come home on time, her parents would have cautioned. Don’t talk to strangers. Raise up a ward if some demon appears. And then they would have let her go out. Gods of Erna, what freedom, what freedom!
She reached up to wipe a tear, half frozen, from her cheek, and then stopped walking in order to dislodge a bit of mud that had oozed its way into her shoe. And as she did so, she became intensely aware of the silence that surrounded her. No other footsteps sounded in the night, though the road on all sides of her had been heavily trod. No birds sang, no insects chittered, no children cried in the distance. Nothing. It was as if the whole world had died, suddenly—as if she were the only creature left on Erna, and this section of road the last spot where life might exist, in the whole of creation.
Then a sound behind her made her start suddenly. Almost silent, a mere hint of movement, but set against the night’s backdrop of utter soundlessness it had the power of a scream. She whirled about, staring back the way she had come.
At a man.
“Forgive me.” His voice was smooth, his carriage elegant. He bowed, soft brown hair catching the moonlight as he moved. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“You didn’t,” she lied. Another bit of mud was trickling coldly into her shoe, but she didn’t want to take her eyes from him to dislodge it; she shifted her weight a bit, and almost fell as a result. Gods, was she that unsteady? She didn’t dare look as afraid as she felt. The Hunter was attracted to fear. “It just seemed so . . . quiet.”
“The night can be like that.” He walked toward her slowly, casually, his languid grace mesmeric in the moonlight. A tall man, lean, with delicate features, arresting eyes. Unadorned, save for a thin gold band that held back his hair from his face, the latter cut shoulder-length in a style several years out of date. His eyes were pale gray flecked with silver, and in the moonlight they flashed like diamonds. She sensed a cold amusement lurking just beneath his surface. “Forgive me,” he repeated, “but a young woman out alone? It seemed unusual. Are you all right?”
It occurred to her that she hadn’t heard him approach, that in the midst of all this sticky mud she should have had some warning— but then his eyes caught hers, held hers, and suddenly she couldn’t remember why that bothered her.
“Yes,” she stammered. “That is—I think so.” She felt breathless, as if she had been running instead of walking. She tried to step back, but her body wouldn’t obey. What kind of Working had he used to bind her?
But though he came close—too close—it was only to touch her chin with the tip of a well-manicured finger, turning her face up toward him. “So fragile,” he murmured. “So fine. And alone in the night. Not wise. Would you like an escort?”
She whispered it. “Please.”
He offered his arm. After a moment, she took it. An antiquated gesture, straight out of the Revival period. Her hand shook slightly as it came to rest on the wool of his sleeve. No warmth came from the arm beneath, or any other part of him; he was cold—he radiated cold—like the night itself. Just as she, despite her best intentions, radiated fear.
Gods above, she prayed, just get me home. I’ll be more careful in the future, I swear it. Just get me home tonight.
It seemed to her he smiled. “You’re afraid, child.”
She didn’t dare respond. Just let me get through tonight. Please.
“Of what? The darkness? The night itself?”
She knew she shouldn’t speak of such things, but she couldn’t hold back; his voice compelled response. “The creatures that hunt in it,” she whispered.
“Ah.” He laughed softly. “And for good reason. They do value your kind, child, that feed on the living. But these—” and he touched the wards embroidered on her sleeve, the warding clasps that held back her hair “—don’t they bind enough fae to guard you?”
Enough to keep away demons, she thought. Or so it should have been. But now, suddenly, she wasn’t sure.
He put his hand beneath her chin, turning her gently to face him. Where his fingers touched her flesh there was cold, but not merely a human chill; it burned her, as a spark of fire might, and left her skin tingling as it faded. She felt strangely disassociated from the world around her, as if all of it was a dream. All of it except for him.
“Do I read you correctly?” he asked. “Have you never seen the night before?”
“It’s dangerous,” she whispered.
“And very beautiful.”
His eyes were pools of silver, molten, that drew her in. She shivered. “My parents thought it best.”
“Never been outside, when sun and Core had set. Never! I wasn’t aware the fear had reached such an extreme here. Even now . . . you don’t look. You won’t see.”
“See what?” she managed.
“The night. The beauty of it. The power. The so-called dark fae, a force so fragile that even the moonlight weakens it—and so strong in the darkness that death itself falls back before it. The tides of night, each with its own color and music. An entire world, child!—filled with things that can’t exist when the light in the heavens is too strong.”
“Things which the sun destroys.”
He smiled, but his eyes remained cold. “Just so.”
“I’ve never—been allowed.”
“Then look now,” he whispered. “And see.”
She did—in his eyes, which had gone from pale gray to black, and from black to dizzying emptiness. Stars swirled about her, in a dance so com
plex that no human science could have explained it—but she felt the rhythms of it echo in her soul, in the pattern of mud beneath her feet, in the agitated pounding of her heart. All the same dance, earth and stars alike. This is Earth science, she thought with wonder. The Old Knowledge. Tendrils of fae seeped from the darkness to wind themselves about her, delicate strands of velvet purple that were drawn to her warmth like moths to flame. She shivered as they brushed against her, sensing the wild power within them. All about her the land was alive, with a thousand dark hues that the night had made its own: fragile fae, as he had said, nearly invisible in the moonlight—but strong in the shadows, and hauntingly beautiful. She tried to move toward it, to come closer to a tangle of those delicate, almost unseeable threads, but his hand on her arm stopped her, and a single word bound her. Dangerous, he cautioned; language without sound. For you.
“Yes,” she whispered. “But oh, please. . . .”
Music filled the cool night air, and she shut her eyes in order to savor it. A music unlike any other she had ever heard, delicate as the fae itself, formless as the night that bound it. Jeweled notes that entered her not through her ears, as human music might, but through her hair and her skin and even her clothing; music that she took into her lungs with every breath, breathing out her own silver notes to add to their harmony. Is this what the night is? she wondered. Truly?
She felt, rather than saw, a faint smile cross his face. “For those who know how to look.”
I want to stay here.
He laughed, softly. You can’t.
Why? she demanded.
Child of the sunlight! Heir to life and all that it implies. There’s beauty in that world, too, although of a cruder sort. Are you really ready to give all that up? To give up the light? Forever?
The darkness withdrew into two obsidian pinpoints, surrounded by fields of cracked ice. His eyes. The dark fae was alive in there, too, and a music that was far more ominous—and darkly seductive. She nearly cried out, for wanting it.