Black Sun Rising

  It was no time for animals or rakh to be abroad, and all the inhabitants of Lema seemed to know this.

  All but three.

  They walked like humans, though their anatomy was clearly rakhene. It was a mismatch of body and purpose, as though somehow a human persona had been welded to native flesh. They were furred, like most rakh, and heavily clothed, but the wind that whipped across the open plains was more than a single coat could ward against. Beneath the thin fur, warm flesh was already turning white with death. Extremities first: the fingers and toes, then nose, lips, cheeks . . . in the frigid cold of winter’s first storm they labored for breath, and the moisture of their lungs gathered like frost on their lips as they exhaled, gasping, into the wind.

  Mindlessly they staggered forward, their legs knee-deep in snow. Driven to stagger forward, by a force they could neither comprehend nor fight. It had taken their memories, this alien force, and replaced them with others. Foreign pictures; alien recall. Names and places and hungers and needs, feelings so intense that their own memories were mere shadows beside them. Shadows that faded as day turned into night turned into day again, as the hours of travel became endless and the goal ahead—if there was one—seemed forever beyond their reach.

  The wind gusted suddenly. And one of them fell. It was the youngest of the three, a female barely old enough to mate. Exhaustion had robbed her limbs of strength and she lay in the snow, her face cracked and bleeding from the cold. Panting lightly, as if she lacked even the strength to breathe.

  The other two looked at her. They were her father and sister, blood-kin to her flesh . . . and they looked at her now, and were unaware of any kinship. Were unaware of anything save the force that drove them northward, and its demands.

  For a moment was silence. Within them, and without; a precious moment of non-being in which the alien memories ceased their clamor, and the flesh was emptied of all thought. A single instant of peace, in the midst of their nightmare journey.

  And then it came, as a whisper. Invading their flesh, their souls.

  Two is enough, it said. Move on. Leave the dying one here.

  The female hesitated, then turned away. The male looked down at his daughter. Some memory stirred in the back of his mind that might have involved warmth and paternal devotion . . . but then it was gone, crowded out by alien images. Human images. He fought them for a moment, but the force that had implanted them was stronger than he was—and at last he gave way, and the old memories died within him.

  Slowly, he, too, turned away. Slowly they began to move again, breaking a trail through the knee-deep snow. Two of them, now. But two was enough. The force that had bound their wills made that clear.

  In the snow behind them, in a shallow grave of crystal and ice, the simulacrum who had once been their blood-kin breathed her last.

  Forty

  They let the horse and the xandu go free. They could hardly take them underground, and had no way to lodge them safely until they returned. If they returned. So they let them go. The xandu were born to the wild, and could easily return to it. As for the Forest steed . . . Damien debated killing it, to spare it a slower death by freezing or starvation. But the horse had ridden beside the xandu for so long that when they were freed to go it tried to go off with them, like one of their number. Well enough, Damien decided. It was the Hunter’s stock, after all; doubtless it could manage to fend for itself.

  The sword was another matter. That had to come with them, there was no question about it. But even wrapped in multiple blankets it radiated power, and its aura of malevolence was so intense that Damien wondered how long he would be able to carry it. The mere thought of contact with the Worked steel made his blood run cold with dread, and revived echoes of a voice—and a person—he would rather forget.

  Just like him, too. Even in death his evil affects us.

  Or in imprisonment, he corrected grimly.

  Carrying their most vital possessions on them—the rest had been buried, or given to the Lost Ones—they entered the narrow tunnel that led from the back of the hunting pit. Dark earth closed in about them, walls too close and ceiling too low and the whole of it damp, rank with the smell of that mildewed species. Damien could see Hesseth shiver in revulsion as they descended, deep into the reeking earth, and he prayed that she could hold out. Her sense of smell was stronger than all the humans’ put together, and the odor seemed to awaken some primal fight-or-flight instinct within her. He hoped she had the strength—and the desire—to overcome that response. For all their sakes.

  As the moonlight faded far behind them, no light took its place that unaltered humans might see by. The pierced one seemed to wend his way by the light of the earth-fae, his pale eyes split wide to reveal a glistening pupil, as broad as Damien’s palm. If the tunnels descended deep enough, Damien thought, only the dark fae would be available for illumination. He debated using the Fire to facilitate his own sight, or even kindling a small lamp. But in the end he simply Worked his own vision and saw as the natives did. He turned to check on Ciani, to offer her a similar service—and found to his surprise that it wasn’t necessary. She had Worked her own vision, using the techniques that Tarrant had taught her.

  Good for her, he thought. But his soul was sick as he contemplated the cost of that Working, the darkness that would slowly be taking root inside her.

  She’ll never be what she was, he thought grimly. And what bothered him most of all was not that it was happening, or that he didn’t know how to stop it. It was that she didn’t care. Didn’t even recognize the problem.

  It’s all the same power to her. He’s just another adept. More interesting than most, perhaps—but that only makes him more desirable. The cost of it means . . . nothing.

  By the light of the dark fae alone they descended, so deep into the earth that only a few wisps of earth-fae coursed about them; Damien felt strangely naked, in a world without that omnipresent power. He cast about with a cautious Working, anxious to catch wind of any threat to his party before it manifested. But he found himself incapable of Working on that level, and the truth of what Tarrant had said to them earlier finally hit home: The power does not come from within us, but from without. Which meant that in a place where the earth-fae was scarce, there was no Working. Period. It was all he could do to maintain his altered vision, and who knew how long he could keep that up? If their Workings should fail them they would be trapped here in true darkness, hundreds of feet beneath the earth. Totally helpless. He reached back instinctively to feel the haft of his sword, to comfort himself that even facing such adversity he could hold his own. But his fingers closed about the grip of Tarrant’s sword instead—he had strapped it to the same harness, as a means of carrying it without having to look at it—and its chill power shot up his arm with stunning force. He tried to release it immediately, but his hand was slow to respond. Ice-cold power slammed into him, and the tunnel errupted in violet iridescence. Twisting threads of light filled the air about him, too bright to look at directly. They tangled about his feet, clung to his clothes as though seeking the flesh beneath. And burned, with a purple brilliance that was blinding. He forced himself to release the sword, and after a moment—a very long moment—the power subsided. And with it, the vision. He forced himself to breathe steadily, slowly.

  The dark fae, he thought. Awed by the vision, so unlike anything he had ever seen. Is that how it looks to him? It was an incredible concept, that the man who seemingly thrived on darkness lived in a world of such brilliant light. Never lacking illumination, because his vision was always Worked.

  Ciani was like that. That’s what she lost. And his hands clenched at his sides, remembering what the loss had done to her. That’s what we’re getting back for her.

  The pierced rakh led them onward without a word, through an underground labyrinth of dizzying complexity. Natural tunnels met and merged in combination with rakh-carved corridors, that twisted back on themselves and merged again and opened out into natural chambers, with a t
housand nooks and crannies in which the dark fae lurked . . . Damien tried to memorize the pattern of their progress, but it was impossible. Which meant they had no hope of finding their way back, or of locating any other exit, without the pierced one’s help. It was a kind of helplessness he despised—and it was all the more frustrating because there was nothing he could do about it.

  After a time the rakh-made caverns altered in nature. The ceiling became more even, the cave floor more regular. And the walls . . . they had been reinforced with the bones of the Lost Ones’ prey—long, sweeping femurs and radia cemented into place beneath fragile stone formations, like the armature of some ghastly sculpture. These increased in number as they progressed, their sheer profusion giving the tunnels the aspect of a behemoth’s rib cage seen from within. Those gave way in turn to larger spaces, in which Nature had seen to the decorating: huge vaulted chambers whose ceilings dripped limestone formations like icicles, waterfalls of crystalline calcite that gleamed like fresh snow in the dark fae’s light, underground lakes that were no more than an inch or two deep, but that seemed fathoms in depth—and always there were the veils of memory that the dark fae conjured, that parted like silk curtains at their approach and fluttered slowly into misty darkness behind them. Evidently their fears had no power to manifest in the pierced one’s presence, which was fortunate for all of them.

  Damien was exhausted—from walking, from Working. When they at last stopped to rest, he kindled a small tin lamp and let his eyes take a break. Ciani dropped down by his side, equally exhausted, and he saw her rub her eyes as if they hurt her. He put his arm around her, tenderly, but there was little comfort he could offer. Except to whisper that he would keep the lamp out from now on, that its light was inferior but they would have to make do with it. They couldn’t keep Working forever.

  “But we tried, yes?” she whispered. And despite their redness her eyes gleamed with pride, because she had Worked as long and as well as he had.

  It was hard for them to get moving again. Even Hesseth seemed to bend beneath the weight of her pack, as though it had doubled in weight since she had last borne it. The pierced one watched them in silence, and seemed to need no rest; his own body was clearly more accustomed than theirs to the rigors of underground hiking. And in the end it was his searching gaze that got them moving again, the sight of his mucus-filmed eyes searching for weakness in them. Any weakness.

  And then—hours later, miles later, who could say how far they’d come, or how long they’d been traveling?—there was life. At last. First the smell of it: musty and close, like the Lost Ones themselves. Then a faint whiff of smoke, that drifted tantalizingly past them and then, just when they had noticed it, disappeared. Followed by the pungent aroma of the rakh’s fur-mold, which they could now see clinging to the damp cave walls, as well as to the pelt of their host. And the scent of warmth—of fire—of blessed heat, that drove the last of winter’s chill from their weary limbs and promised at least a brief respite from their exertions.

  The corridor turned, and widened. And opened into a vast chamber filled with the wide-eyed Lost Ones. They were gathered in small groupings—families?—whose members huddled close together as they stoked their small fires, scraped and polished bones, carved ornaments, picked at each other for parasites. The nearer heads shot up as the party entered the vast common chamber, and Damien caught the glint of firelight on ornaments, thin needles of stone and shell thrust through cheeks, nostrils, even eyelids. Mostly on the men, he noted. And the stronger ones wore more of them and courted more painful placement. What manner of rakh did that make their guide? Damien glanced at the pierced one, saw him studying the inhabitants of the chamber with clear authority. Some sort of leader, then. Or priest. Did the cave-rakh have priests?

  The walls were ornate, albeit primitive in design, and had been painted with charcoal and bits of lichen in crude but intricate patterns. Once more, the Lost Ones had used the bones of their food-animals to reinforce the walls, but here the effect seemed more decorative than structural. Polished to a gleaming white, the bones glittered like candleflames in the relative brilliance of the rakhene cookfires. Toe bones and hand bones and slender fingers, worked like mosaic tiles into some sort of native cement—

  And then he looked closely at those gleaming bits and hissed softly, rakhlike, as he recognized some of them. He felt his arm muscles tensing as if for battle, had to forcibly keep himself from reaching for his sword.

  Not here. Not yet. Find your way out of this warren first.

  He took care to position himself so that the women had no chance to see the wall behind him; he could only hope there were no similar displays elsewhere. He felt despair growing inside him, the impotence that came of feeling totally powerless. And he was, indeed, made powerless: by the darkness, by the labyrinth, by the lack of Workable fae in this place—but most of all by their enemy’s all-Seeing power, which was probably even now scouring the rakhlands in search of them. There was some small comfort in that, at least—as long as they were this far underground, not even he would be able to find them.

  The cave-rakh began to gather around them, half-crawling, half-walking, coming as close as they dared and then sniffing noisily, white nostrils distended as they tried to catch the strangers’ scents. Tails whipped urgently behind them, twining about each other like serpents in the darkness. How they could smell anything over the moldy reek of their own bodies was beyond Damien; this close, their odor was nigh on overwhelming. He gathered Ciani close to him, a protective arm about her shoulder; Hesseth he kept behind him, lest the like-but-unlike quality of her scent should trigger some violence among these creatures.

  The pierced male spoke to them. After a moment of waiting, he snapped another few phrases in the rakhene tongue, hurling them at Hesseth like knives. With effort she composed herself, barely enough to translate, “He says these are the fringe-folk, who live on the borders of the . . . the no-place. He says . . .” She drew in a deep breath, shaking; it was hard for her to translate calmly when all her animal senses were screaming at her to flee. “He is the dream-one, the seeing-one, and they’ll respect his wishes. Because he asks it, they’ll keep us here, so that we may sleep in—in—I’m sorry,” she said, flustered. “I just don’t know that one.”

  The pierced one continued. “From here they can show us the House of—the place of blue light,” she corrected herself. Damien could hear the strain in her voice, echo of a self-control that was alien to her and her kind. That’s it, he thought approvingly. Keep it up. “He says that the tunnels we want are under this place, but they are not easy tunnels. The small ways are too narrow, and the walls are . . . falling-threat, he says. Which is why the tunnels were abandoned.” He saw her nostrils flare in terror, innate response to some half-sensed threat. Once more she drew in a deep, slow breath, as if struggling for air. “Very dangerous,” she gasped. Was she translating the dream-one’s words, now, or referring to their general situation? “In past times there was much death, in the no-place. No rakh ever goes there, now. No rakh will ever go there.” The pierced one grinned, displaying crooked teeth. “But I will go there,” she translated, as he slapped his breast proudly. A thin drop of blood welled forth from the base of a pectoral ornament he had struck. “I, the seeing-one, the dream-one, who dares the places of no, I will take you there.” The filmy eyes fixed on Damien with clear hostility. “I think this is some kind of male statement—”

  “I understand it,” he told her. Oh, yes: the social pattern was very familiar. Primitive, even bestial . . . and not without its congruent among human males. He remembered one young boy braving the true night alone, in order to achieve the status that only foolhardy courage could earn. Because of a dare, he remembered. It was always because of a dare.

  “Tell him yes,” he said brusquely. “Tell him I want to see if he can lead us there, to the place where no rakh go. I want to see if his . . . if his seeing is stronger than his fear.—Say it that way,” he urged her.

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nbsp; He watched the pierced one’s face as his challenge was voiced. And therefore did not see the faces surrounding them, as several rakh gasped in response to his audicity.

  But the pierced one merely nodded, once, tightly, as he accepted the challenge. “After sleep, then,” he told them through the khrast-woman. “After you have seen the lightning-place. We go then.” We waved to one of the local females, who scurried off ratlike into the darkness. “The fringe-folk give you shelter, for resting in. You will not be sleeping together, so—”

  “We stay together,” Damien said sharply. And he sensed, rather than saw, relief in Hesseth’s eyes. “At all times.”

  The pierced one fixed wide black eyes on him, as if trying to stare him down. Fat chance, Damien thought. He stared back with equal vigor. At last the rakh nodded, somewhat stiffly. “All three together,” he pronounced. The myriad impalements of his face made his expression particularly grotesque. “You come, then, and the fringe-folk will bring food—”

  “No food,” Damien said sharply. He said it again, when the pierced one hesitated. “No food.”

  It seemed to him that several of the smaller rakh giggled—or some gurgly equivalent—and for a brief moment nausea washed over him, as he recognized the source of their mirth. But he kept his expression stem, puffing himself up in his best rakhene-male manner. And after a moment of silent confrontation, the pierced one nodded stiffly.