Black Sun Rising

  She stopped suddenly, and wrapped her arms around herself as if her own words had chilled her.

  “The Hunter?”

  She whispered it. “Yes.”

  He chose his words carefully, tried to keep his voice steady. “Damien wouldn’t give it to me.”

  “No. Not willingly.”

  “Is there any other way?”

  She hesitated. He felt mixed emotions—elation, terror, need—flood his soul. “Please, Cee.”

  “I can Distract him,” she said softly. “Gerald taught me how. He didn’t mean it for this purpose . . . but he wouldn’t have to know, will he? I can give Damien dreams while he’s sleeping. Keep his attention fixed on them, so that he doesn’t wake up. You’d only need minutes. Later . . .” She breathed in deeply. “Later you could Work him yourself. Like an adept, Zen. You’d be an adept.”

  He shut his eyes, felt a violent trembling course through his body. The dream, the need . . . it was almost too much to bear. The hope itself was too powerful, too overwhelming; like an ocean tide, it threatened to drag him under.

  “Dangerous. . . .” he whispered.

  “The sun-power? The church’s fae? How could it be? That’s a force born of pure benevolence, bound together for cleansing purposes. What could be possibly be safer? You saw him use it last night—saw him hold it against me, to protect me from the dark fae. Did it burn me? Could it burn me?” When he said nothing, she pressed, “What’s the only Working that his church will tolerate, even now? Healing. Because that’s what his faith is all about, Zen—that’s where their power lies. That’s what the Fire is.”

  He had lost his voice, and with it his resistance. The dream had hold of him again, and the hunger that had burned in him for so long had become something else—a lover, a seduction—no longer fever-hot but cool, blissfully cool, like the touch of a woman whose skin had been chilled by the night, all fluid ice and liquid passion and burning need at once. . . .

  Then she touched a finger to his lips and whispered—so low that he could hardly hear her—“We can’t discuss this again, you understand that? There’s a link between Damien and me, strong enough that he might read your intentions through it. And as for Gerald . . .” She turned away from him; a shiver seemed to pass through her flesh. “There’s nothing I can keep from him now. Nothing. Not after I submitted my soul to him.” She shook her head. “It would be too dangerous, you understand that? He depends on his adept’s skills to control the party. And me. If he thought for a moment that there was a way you could challenge his dominance—”

  He shivered in fear—but the fear was enticing. Challenge Gerald Tarrant? “I understand,” he whispered.

  “I think I can keep him from knowing, for a time. Despite . . . what’s between us. But I can only manage that if I can pretend that nothing’s happening. Pretend I don’t know myself what you’re planning. So we can’t discuss it again, ever.”

  “But if you do that—I mean, how can you—”

  “Help you?” She turned back to face him. Her eyes were bright. “I can Work Damien’s dreaming ahead of time. Gerald taught me how. If I do that, and then you go to his side when he’s sleeping, nothing short of a quake would wake him up. I promise it. You don’t even have to tell me your decision. It would be safer if you didn‘t—for both of us. Only . . .” she hesitated. “If you do it, it has to be soon. We don’t have many more days before . . . before . . . gods.” She lowered her head, and he thought he saw her tremble. “We’ll be in their territory,” she breathed. Her voice so soft that he could hardly hear it. “Soon.”

  “Cee. You’ll be all right. I promise you.” He put his arm around her—her flesh was cold, her skin so pale—and she cupped his nearer hand in hers and squeezed it. So much love in that simple gesture. So much support. He ached to know how to return such emotion. If he only had the skills of an adept, with which to Work a suitable response . . . he ached with longing, just thinking of it. The old dreams were taking hold of him again. The old recklessness. Soon, he promised himself. Soon. If the Fire freed him, then all the rules could change. For the better.

  “Be careful, Senzei,” she whispered.

  In a party of four, only so many duty combinations were possible. With two of the company sleeping and two sharing watch at any given time—and at least three days’ travel left before they reached Lema’s western border—the odds were good that chance would favor Senzei, and give him the opportunity he required.

  Or so he told himself. Because waiting and hoping was easier—and safer—than doing.

  I don’t want the power just for myself, he told himself, as the cold sweat of guilt kept him from sleeping. I want to be able to help Ciani. I want to be able to do my share, like she said. And I could, if the Fire would free me.

  He wanted it so desperately. And feared it, with equal fervor. Most of all he wanted the decision to be out of his hands; wanted the dreadful balance of need versus betrayal to swing one way or the other without him, so that he might be spared such an awesome responsibility.

  It’s not betrayal. Not if I take what the Fire gives me and use it to help others. Is it?

  Ciani, I need your counsel! But her warning had been a sound one: to speak of anything, in this company, was to risk being heard by all. And he couldn’t afford that. Not if he meant to do it. Any of them would stop him. Any one of them. . . .

  Damien, I wish I could confide in you. I wish your faith would allow it.

  On the second day, during the late afternoon shift, his chance came at last. Hesseth and Ciani took the watch together, removing themselves to a nearby promontory from which they might view the surrounding area. Damien and Senzei were left to get what rest they could . . . but there was no question of Senzei sleeping. Long after Damien had wrapped himself in blankets against the chill of the afternoon, long after his husky snoring indicated that he, at least, had found some respite, Senzei’s pounding heart kept him awake, and the rush of adrenaline through his body made him tremble with need.

  Now. Do it now.

  Carefully, he pushed back his own blankets. Quietly, he dressed himself. Thick shirt and jacket, worn leather boots. The weeks of traveling had taken their toll on his wardrobe; nearly every layer was patched or repaired in some place.

  When he was done, he crept to where Damien lay and settled there, watching him. The priest slept clothed, as always, and his sword was laid out by his side. Ready for battle, even in slumber. Ready to respond to the slightest disturbance with a lunge for that sharpened steel, and—

  Stop it!

  A cold sweat filmed his forehead as he studied the sleeping form. Would Ciani’s Working take? Would it hold? How would he know when—or if—it was happening? But even as he watched, a change in the priest’s demeanor became apparent. His eyes flickered rapidly beneath closed lids, as if scanning some dreambound horizon. A soft hiss escaped his lips, and his brow furrowed tightly. His hands began to flex, like a sleeping animal’s, and the muscles across his shoulders tightened as if in preparation for combat. Whatever dream had him in its thrall, he was wholly its creature.

  Now. Do it.

  Gently he folded the priest’s blanket down to his waist, then crouched back nervously to see if there was any response. None. With trembling hands, then, he reached out to where the small leather pouch was bound to the man’s belt and somehow managed to slide open its clasp. Damien groaned once, noisily, but the sound was clearly in response to some dreamworld menace, not Senzei. Carefully, gently, he slid the silver flask from its housing. Golden light warmed his hand, made his skin tingle with anticipation. Even the few drops of moisture still trapped in the crystal vial had that much power; how much more was in his hands, in that precious pint of fluid?

  Shaking, he managed to get the pouch closed again. It was important to leave things just as they should be, so that if Damien awoke too soon he wouldn’t suspect what had happened. Would Ciani’s Distracting work again so that Senzei could return the Fire to its housing? H
e didn’t know; he should have asked. But that was the least of his concerns. By that time—gods willing—he would be an adept himself, capable of protecting his own secrets.

  For a moment he simply sat there and cradled the silver flask in his hands; its warmth soothed his nerves, drove out the chill that had been part of him for longer than he cared to remember. If he had feared that the Fire might harm him, the touch of its light was utter reassurance. Like the sunlight that it mimicked, it had no power to harm an ordinary man; the force of its venom was directed at the nightborn, the demonic, creatures that shied away from the source of life even as they fed upon its bounty.

  With care he crept from the camp. Gods alone knew what would happen to him when he took in the Fire, what form such a transformation of the soul might take; he didn’t want to risk waking Damien and facing both his rage and the Fire at once. Hand closed tightly about the precious flask, he found his way through an insulating thicket of trees, and did not stop until he was safely out of sight of his companions’ camp. Only then, safe in a tiny clearing, did he dare to unfold his fingers and regard the smooth polished metal, and the light that seemed to radiate even through its substance.

  “Gods of Erna protect me,” he whispered. And with shaking hands, he unstoppered the small container.

  Light spilled out from it, a cloud of purest gold. Even in the brilliant sunlight it was visible, driving back the afternoon shadows that filled the tiny clearing and suffusing the air with clear, molten luminescence. For a moment he just stared at it, at its effect, drinking in the promise of its power. And fearing it. The hunger was so strong in him that he could barely hold his hand steady, and it was several minutes before he dared to pour out a few drops of the precious elixir. With utmost care, he gentled them into his palm. And raised his hand to his lips, that his body might drink and absorb that cleansing power.

  I willingly accept change, in whatever form it comes. I willingly accept the destruction of everything I have been, in order to create what I must become.

  He touched his tongue to the precious drops and shivered in fear and need as his flesh drew the moisture in. Heat surged through him, not the essence of the Fire yet, but something from a far more human source: a heat in his loins that made him stiffen with need, the hunger of his soul made manifest in his flesh. His heart pounded wildly as he swallowed the church-Worked water, its beat so loud in his ears that he couldn’t have heard his companions if they’d called to him. For a moment, sheer anticipation surged through his veins—and with it a giddy ecstacy a thousand times more intense than sexual excitement, more intoxicating than a gram of pure cerebus. He nearly cried out from the force of it. Pure hunger, pure need, coursing through his veins like blood; he shook from the onslaught, embraced the pain of it, felt tears come to his eyes as the desperate need of an entire lifetime was coalesced in one burning instant.

  Do whatever you want to me, he thought—to his gods, to the Fire, to whatever would listen. He felt tears coursing down his cheeks—and they were hot, like flame. Whatever it takes. Whatever will change me.

  Please. . . .

  The Fire was inside him now, and its sorcerous heat took root in his flesh. His muscles contracted in sudden pain as the burning lanced outward, heat stabbing into his flesh like white-hot knives. The pain pulsed hotter and hotter with each new heartbeat: the agony of sorcerous assault, of transformation. With effort he gritted his teeth and endured it, though his whole body shook with the effort. Tears burned his face like acid as they coursed from his eyes to his cheeks, and then dropped to the ground; he thought he heard them sizzling as they struck the grass, and the thick smell of dry leaves smoking filled his nostrils, crowding out all oxygen. Inside him, he could feel his heart laboring desperately to keep pace with the transformation, and its beat was a fevered drumroll inside his ears.

  He had shut his eyes in the first onslaught of pain; now, somehow, he managed to open them. The trees about him had been stripped bare as if by fire, and he could see between their blackened trunks to the sun beyond, a thousand times more bright and more terrible than any mere sun should be. With one part of his mind he acknowledged how deadly it was to gaze upon that blazing sphere for more than an instant—but then he knew with utter certainty that it had changed, that he had changed, and that no mere light could harm him. And so he stared at it defiantly even as new pain racked his flesh; kept his vision fixed on it as his muscles spasmed erratically, pain overwhelming him in spurts of fire. The very woods about him seemed to be burning now, with a flame as pure and as white as that of the sun itself; he heard its roaring eclipse the sound of his racing pulse, felt the song of its burning invade the very marrow of his bones. The clearing he was in was surrounded by fire, and white flames licked at him, smoking his clothing, scalding his flesh. He fought the urge to flee, to scream, to try to unmake the bond that was transforming him. Whatever it takes! he repeated, as fresh pain speared through his flesh. Blood sizzled in his ears, his fingers, its red substance boiling within his flesh. Whatever is required! The whole sky was ablaze with light, the whole forest filled with fire—and he was a part of it, his flesh peeling back in blackened strips as he embraced the flames, his blood steaming thickly in the superheated air. A sudden pain burst in his eyes and his vision was suddenly gone; thick fluid, hot as acid, poured down his cheeks.

  It was then that he began to fear. Not as he had before, but with a new and terrible clarity. What if he didn’t consume the Fire, but rather, it consumed him? What if its power was simply too vast, too untempered, for mere human flesh to contain it? He tried to move his body, but the roasted meat that his flesh had become would not respond. Daylight can’t hurt you, Ciani had said—but it could, he realized suddenly, in enough quantity. It could burn, and dehydrate, and inspire killing cancers . . . he struggled to move again, to gain any sense of control over his flesh, but the precious nerves that connected thought to purpose had sizzled into impotence, and his body would not respond. Uncontrolled, his body spasmed helplessly on the dry, cracked earth. Flame roared skyward with a sound like an earthquake—and then was suddenly silenced, as the mechanism that allowed him to hear split open and curled back in blackened tatters, releasing one last bit of moisture into the conflagration.

  And somewhere, amidst his last fevered thoughts—somewhere in that storm of pain, that endless burning—the knowledge came to him. Not a knowing of his own devising, but one placed there: a last sharp bit of suffering to make the dying that much more painful, so that the creature who fed on it might be wholly sated. Knowledge: sharp, hot, and terrifying. Despair burned like acid inside him as he saw her approach—as he submitted to the vision that was placed in his brain, in the absence of true eyes to see it with.

  Ciani. Cold, and dark against the fire. She came to his side and knelt there. Not concerned, not upset . . . only hungry. And he could feel the hot tongue of her hunger lapping at his suffering, as he slid down into the fevered blackness of utter despair.

  The last thing he saw was her eyes. Backlit by fire.

  Gleaming, faceted eyes. Insect eyes.

  Ciani!

  Damien scanned the sky anxiously. In the east the sun had already set, and the bloodstained bellies of the farthest clouds were the last vestige of a short but dramatic sunset. Soon the last of the stars would follow, leaving Domina’s crescent alone in the heavens. Dark, it was nearly dark. So where the hell was he?

  “There.” Ciani pointed. “See?”

  In the distance: white wings, gleaming like silver against the evening sky. Not for the first time, Damien wondered at the Hunter’s choice of color; black seemed much more his style, both for its ominous overtones and its very real value as camouflage. Of course, it was always possible that he did it just to irritate the priest. That would be very much his style.

  While the three of them waited anxiously, Tarrant circled twice above the camp, checking out the surrounding terrain before he landed. Damien wondered what he would find. Would his bird’s-eye vi
ew give him some insight into what had happened, and make explanations unnecessary? Or would he come to ground as ignorant as they were, and thus dispel the last of their fevered hopes? Something in Damien’s chest tightened as he watched. He doesn’t know what happened, he told himself. So if he doesn’t see anything special in the currents, it might be because he doesn’t know what to look for.

  The Hunter came to ground before them, wings curling so fluidly to brake his flight that the action seemed a ballet, a dance of triumph of one man’s will over mere avian flesh. Then coldfire blossomed, consumed him; white features melted into flesh with practiced efficiency, a display that never ceased to awe. But this time Damien had other more important things on his mind, and the few minutes that it took for the Hunter’s flesh to readopt its human form seemed a small eternity. At last, when the coldfire finally faded, he searched the Hunter’s face anxiously, looking for some hint of what the man might have discovered. But the adept’s expression was the same as always: cool, collected, a smooth stone mask meant to frustrate prying eyes. If he had seen anything useful, it couldn’t be told from his face.

  So he said the words, and made it official—the act, and the fact of their ignorance. “Senzei’s gone.”

  The Hunter drew in a breath, sharply; he didn’t like it any more than they did, though probably for other reasons. “Dead?”

  Damien felt that bitter sense of helplessness rising in him again, which he had been fighting all afternoon. The frustration of total ignorance. The shame of forced inaction. “Missing. Sometime in the afternoon. He was in the camp with me, sleeping . . . and when I awoke he was gone.” He shook his head tightly. “No sign of why or where.”