Black Sun Rising

  The shop was gone. His altered sight could see that now; what was left to burn was no more than the rubble of what had already been destroyed. Some monstrous explosion had ripped the place to pieces, along with the better part of two adjoining buildings. Now it was all gone, along with whoever had been tending shop at the time. . . .

  Fae Shoppe, the sign had said. Open all hours.

  No one could have survived that blast. No one.

  Ciani!

  He tried to work a Divining, but the currents were in chaos, their patterns unreadable. All he could make out was that somehow a chain reaction had been triggered—that some malicious Working aimed at Ciani had ignited her wards, one after the other, until the whole place blew—

  There were tears in his eyes; he wiped them away with his free hand, tried to breathe steadily. The smoke was thick in his lungs; he Shielded against that, too. It occurred to him that several adepts in the crowd were working hard to contain the faeborn flames, to keep them from spreading to neighboring buildings. He raised one hand as if he, too, would begin to pattern a Working—but another hand grasped his, and a familiar voice warned, “They can do it better than you or I.”

  He turned, as if facing an attacker. It took him a moment to absorb the fact that the speaker was Senzei, and that the man was dressed in a thick cotton robe, his hair still tangled from sleeping. Slowly, painfully, the truth of it sank in. Senzei Reese: in a bathrobe, because he had rushed here in the middle of the night after hearing the explosion . . . because he hadn’t been there at the time it happened. Which meant Ciani had. Damien cursed fate, for making it so—and hated himself, for wishing it were otherwise.

  Ciani!

  He lowered his head and blinked forth new tears, to wash the smoke out of his eyes. Senzei was silent, which confirmed the horrible truth of it all. If she had survived, he would have spoken. If she had stood even a chance of survival . . . but she was inside the Fae Shoppe when it blew, and never had a chance. Senzei’s silence confirmed that.

  With an anguished curse—at fate, himself, Jaggonath, the true night—Damien turned back into the crowd, and elbowed his way away from Loremaster Ciani’s crematory fire.

  Loss. Like an empty wound, out of which all the blood had drained. Incapable of healing because all its vital fluids were gone. Dried up by grief.

  Alone in the still of the night, he struggled to come to terms with his feelings. He’d lost friends before, and even lovers; those were the risks which his chosen vocation entailed, and each loss was its own separate grief, an island of mourning, finite and comprehensible. Why was this so different? Was it the shock of what had happened, the suddenness of it—the terrible impotence of standing there, unable to do anything, while the last remnants of a woman’s life went up in smoke? Or . . . something more? Some feeling he hadn’t yet acknowledged, which had been growing between them along with the jokes and the entertainment and the loving? Some feeling which had been cut short now by the heat of the fire, as if it had never existed. As if some part of him that had never fully opened up had begun to, just briefly . . . and then slammed shut again, charred by the heat of that terrible fire.

  Was this love? Was this what love would have felt like, had it lasted?

  Alone in his room in the Annex, Damien Vryce wept silently.

  Do you even know how old I am? she had asked him once. Bright eyes sparkling in amusement.

  No. How old?

  Nearly seventy.

  He had thought then how wonderful it must be, to reach one’s seventieth birthday without aging a day past thirty. That number had seemed filled with wonder, because of her. Filled with vitality.

  Now, it was just a rotten age to die.

  The door creaked open slowly. Damien raised his head just enough to see who had entered, that much and no more. And when he saw, he lowered his head again.

  “I’m sorry,” the Patriarch said softly. “Genuinely sorry.”

  Are you? he wanted to snap. But for once, the anger was gone. Emptied out of him, by grief.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No.” He managed to shake his head; even that much movement took effort. “I can’t . . . I just need time. It was so sudden. . . .”

  “It’s always hard, losing those we care for. Especially in such a senseless accident.”

  “It wasn’t an accident,” he whispered.

  The Patriarch came into his room—slowly, quietly—and took a seat opposite him. When he spoke, his tone was gentler than it had ever been before. Gentler than Damien had imagined it could be. “You want to talk about it?”

  “What’s the use? I couldn’t read it clearly enough. Something attacked either her or the shop, and her defenses . . . backfired. I couldn’t read what, or how, or why. I don’t know what I could do about it now, even if I knew. And I think . . .” He shut his eyes, tightly. “I think . . . I was falling in love with her.”

  “I guessed that,” the Patriarch said softly.

  “I feel so damned helpless!” He got up suddenly, upsetting a chair as he did so. And turned away, to stare at the weapons which hung on the wall behind him. “I stood there while it burned—while she burned, for all I know!—and what on Erna could I do to help? I couldn’t even get near the place. . . .” He shook his head, was aware of new wetness on his cheeks. “You don’t know what it’s like, seeing something like that happen, feeling like you could stop it if you could just figure out what to do . . . and then not being able to. Standing there helplessly, unable to save someone you care about. . . .”

  “I do understand,” the Patriarch said quietly. “More than you know.”

  He heard the Holy Father stand, and walk to where he stood. But unlike Senzei, the Patriarch made no physical contact.

  “She was very active in this community. Very respected. There’ll be representatives sent from organizations in Jaggonath and beyond, to honor her passing.” He hesitated; Damien could hear in his voice just how much these words were costing him. “Given her community service, it wouldn’t be . . . unreasonable . . . if our Church made such a gesture.”

  Surprised by the offer, Damien turned about to face him. And thought: If she had lived, they would be about the same age. Only how much longer would the Patriarch go on, without the benefit of sustained youth?

  “No,” he muttered. “Thank you . . . but it isn’t appropriate. I do understand that.” He shut his eyes. “But thank you for offering.”

  “Those who court the fae take certain chances. But knowing that doesn’t make it any easier, does it? Human loss is all the same in the end.” He seemed as if he was about to say more but then stopped. Considering what his feelings probably were on the matter, Damien was grateful.

  “Whatever we can do to help,” the Patriarch said at last. “You let me know. I’ll see it done.”

  Nine

  It’s finished, the first one whispered.

  Not well.

  No. But it is finished.

  Too bad we didn’t know the wards would blow. Hungrily: We could have killed her ourselves, in that case.

  They were silent for a moment, savoring that concept.

  She had a rich life, one said at last.

  A full life, another agreed.

  Delicious.

  And we can go home, now. Yes?

  They turned to the one who had become, for lack of a better title, their leader.

  We go home, he told them. But not just yet. . . .

  Ten

  Damien thought: I just can’t believe she’s dead.

  A shapeless heap of blackened rubble was all that remained of the Fae Shoppe. Investigators had been sifting through it for almost 24 hours now, but still hadn’t offered any explanation of the blaze more plausible than their first hypothesis: Something had attacked the shop, powerful enough to set off a chain reaction in the protective wards. Ciani’s own defenses had killed her.

  It can happen, he reminded himself.
For all that we Work the stuff, its easy to forget just how unstable it is. Even in the hands of an adept.

  Those who court the fae must pay the price.

  He blinked the growing wetness from his eyes, and focused his senses on the ashes. Even knowing that half a dozen adepts had already done the same—and discovered nothing—he had to try. The pain of losing her was bad enough; the frustration of inaction was more than he could bear.

  Though the ashes were cool to the eye, they were white-hot to his inner senses; it took only a minimal Working for Damien to see the power that remained there. It was as if all the tamed earth-fae that had been in the shop had been boiled down and concentrated into one hot spot of chaotic power. He wondered, distantly, how it would affect the local currents, to have such a chancre of raw heat located here. Then wondered who would bother to map it, now that Ciani was gone.

  Stop it. Now. You’re only making it worse on yourself.

  How long before some idiot would try to harness that stuff? He looked for a telltale mark, saw a sigil chalked on a bit of brick. Ciani would have been outraged. Gods in heaven, she would have said, is there nothing so dangerous some fool won’t try to Work it?

  Once more, he tried to Divine just what had happened. Once more, the sheer mass of unfettered power clogged his senses, and his Working accomplished nothing. It was like trying to focus on the flicker of a candleflame, when that candle was in front of the sun. His head hurt from trying.

  And then there were footsteps behind him, and he turned to see who else had come to this place.

  Senzei.

  The man looked terrible. Haggard. Drained. Damien guessed that he hadn’t slept since the accident, and wondered if he’d had the time to eat. Or the desire.

  The man looked about nervously, as if checking for eavesdroppers. There were none. His bloodshot eyes fixed on Damien, then quickly looked away. In that instant, Damien thought he saw fear in them.

  “I need to talk to you,” he said. His voice lacked substance, like that of a ghost. It took effort to hear him. “But not here.” He looked up and down the street again, a quick and nervous gesture.

  “Where?”

  “My place. Can you come? It’s . . .” He hesitated. Met Damien’s eyes. “It’s about Ciani.”

  Wild hope lurched inside the priest. “She’s alive?”

  Senzei looked thoroughly miserable; it struck Damien that he seemed afraid to speak. “Come with me,” was all he would say. “I . . . we can’t talk here.”

  He wanted to shake him, to demand answers, but with effort he bested that instinct. Instead he nodded stiffly, and let Senzei lead the way.

  Just beyond the narrow, stone-paved streets of the city’s mercantile district was a small residential neighborhood. The house that Senzei took them to was one of a dozen similar buildings, modest brickwork abodes whose narrow structure and lack of yard space made a clear statement about the cost of real estate in this district. Senzei led them to a corner house, and Damien took in details: neatly whitewashed brickwork, small porch, hanging plants. Sigil over the door—a quake-ward—and smaller symbols etched into each window, in the lower corners. Curtains in the downstairs window that seemed surprisingly feminine for Senzei’s taste . . . and then Damien remembered that he lived with a woman. Roommate? Girlfriend? It embarrassed him that he couldn’t remember the exact relationship.

  The door opened as they approached. In the shadow of the doorway Damien made out the form and features of a woman. In many regards she resembled Senzei—pale, dark-haired, a little too thin for her height. And afraid. Very afraid. The same kind of fear that was in him.

  “You found him,” she breathed.

  “At the shop.” They passed quickly inside; she bolted the door behind them, two locks and a burglar-ward. Despite the afternoon’s relative warmth, Damien noticed that all the windows were shut tight.

  “Were there insurance people—”

  “No.” He shook his head emphatically. “No one.”

  “Thank the gods for that, anyway.”

  Senzei introduced them: Allesha Huyding, his fiancée, and Reverend Sir Damien Vryce. It might have been Damien’s imagination, but he seemed to stress the titles.

  “I’ll get you something to drink,” she said, and before Damien could respond that it wasn’t necessary she was gone.

  “The fae makes her nervous,” Senzei explained. “And this situation . . .” he sighed, raggedly. “I think more than anything she’s afraid our adjustors will find out what really happened.”

  It took all of Damien’s self-control to keep his voice level as he demanded, “What about Ciani?”

  The fear in Senzei’s eyes seemed to give way to something else. Sadness. Exhaustion. Desolation.

  “She’s alive,” he whispered. But there was no joy in his voice. “Alive ... but little more than that.”

  “Where?”

  Senzei hesitated, but his eyes flicked toward a door that led from the living room, and that was enough. Damien stepped toward it—

  And Senzei caught his arm with surprising strength. And held on to him, tightly.

  “She’s hurt. Badly. You need to understand, before you go see her—”

  “I’m a Healer, man, I—”

  “It isn’t that kind of pain.”

  His hand, on Damien’s arm, was trembling. Something in his tone—or perhaps in his expression—kept Damien from pulling free.

  “What is it?” he asked sharply.

  “She was hurt,” Senzei repeated. “She’s . . .” He hesitated, searching for the right words. Or perhaps the courage to speak. “. . . not what she was.”

  “You mean the explosion—”

  “It wasn’t the explosion. I caused the explosion.” He released Damien’s arm, began to twist one hand nervously in the other, as if trying to cleanse himself. “To cover up what happened. To make whatever had hurt her think she had died . . . so it would leave her alone.”

  Damien heard the door open behind him, the padding of footsteps, the tinkle of ice in glasses. And then the door closed, and they were alone again.

  “Tell me,” he said quietly.

  Senzei took a deep breath; Damien could see him tremble. “We had an appointment at three a.m. She wanted to try something in the true darkness, needed me to help. I came . . .” He shut his eyes, remembering. “I found her . . . that is . . . she had been attacked. . . .”

  “Physically?” Damien pressed.

  Senzei shook his head. “No. There were no marks of any kind. No sign of any physical confrontation. But they had gotten to her—somehow—and she was lying curled up on the floor. Whimpering, like a wounded animal. I . . . tried to help her. Got her wrapped up in something, to keep her warm. I couldn’t tell if she was in physical shock or not, but it seemed practical. I didn’t know what else to do. She cried out a few words, then, and I tried to make sense out of what she was saying, but they were only fragments. Mostly incoherent. I don’t think she even knew I was there. There were three things, she said. And something about a demon in human form. She was hysterical by then, terrified that they were coming back. That’s what scared me most of all. Her reaction to it. I . . . well, you know Ciani. It wasn’t like her. She told me they were coming back for her, to take her away somewhere.” He bit his lower lip, remembering. “That she would rather die than go, and would I please kill her before it could happen....”

  Damien looked toward the door, but said nothing.

  “That was when I decided what had to be done. I figured I could make it seem like her defenses had overloaded, blown the place to hells . . . and no one would ask questions. Except the insurance people,” he added bitterly. “I figured I could use the shop’s contents as a sacrifice, leave everything in there to burn . . . there’s power in that kind of destruction, you know that. And if I did it right . . . whoever was after her, they would think she was dead. And leave her alone.” He drew in a deep breath, still shaking. “An adept could have done it and told you all a
bout it. I couldn’t. In order to make it take right, I didn’t dare tell anyone. . . .” He looked up at Damien, bloodshot eyes glistening. “That’s why I couldn’t tell you then. I’m sorry.”

  “Go on,” he said quietly.

  “I brought her here. No one saw us, praise fate; the true night had kept everyone indoors. No one—and nothing—bothered us. I managed to salvage some books that first trip, but the rest of it had to go; the value of what’s destroyed is what gives a sacrifice its power, you know.” He hesitated, as though waiting for the priest to criticize him; Damien said nothing. “I threw on a robe and ran back, and did it. Blew the place. But it worked, didn’t it?” He shut his eyes, and shivered. “All that knowledge. All those artifacts. If I had known then what I know now . . . it was more of a sacrifice than I was even aware of. Because I didn’t know about her.”

  “What about her?”

  He looked toward the door. “She’s in there,” he whispered. “Alive. Physically uninjured. Only . . . without memory. They took her memory. And the fae . . .” He turned away until Damien could no longer see his face. His shoulders shook. “She’s lost it! She’s like us, do you understand? You and me. Most of humanity. They took it away, took it all away, she can’t See any more. . . .”

  Damien put a hand on the man’s shoulder. Tried to steady them both. Inside, his thoughts were whirling. “She doesn’t remember anything?”

  “She remembers who she is. What she is. What she was. But she hasn’t got the knowledge, you understand? All those million and one little facts that she had accumulated over the years—all the things that made her a loremaster—that’s gone now. You understand? This isn’t some godsawful accident that just happened to strike her with amnesia. They took her knowledge—they took her Vision! And they left her with just enough to understand what had been lost. No wonder she wanted to die!”