The girl hesitated. After a moment she nodded.
“Can you tell us about it?” When she still didn’t answer, he encouraged her, “Anything you can remember.”
“Please, kasa,” Hesseth murmured.
The girl drew in a deep breath, shivering. “He said that the Prince of the south never dies. He said that the Prince is very, very old, but you can’t see it because he makes his body young again whenever he needs to. He said that he’ll do it again soon. He’ll make his body young, but he’ll also make it different so that he looks like a different person every time, but he’s really still the same.” She looked up nervously at Damien, desperately seeking reassurance. The priest nodded, even as he hoped that Tarrant was absorbing these facts. Of all of them, the Neocount was the most likely to understand the Prince’s Workings.
“Go on,” he urged gently.
“He said ... that’s how the Prince keeps his power.” She glanced up at Tarrant, then shivered and looked quickly away. “He can be all different kinds of people, so all kinds of people obey him. Even the rakh.”
Hesseth hissed softly, but said nothing. It was up to Damien to prompt the girl, “Tell us about the rakh.”
She hesitated. “They’re like people, but they aren’t really people. They have marks on their faces, here.” She ran a finger up along her forehead, then down again. Paint? Tattoos? Or animal markings? Damien glanced over to Hesseth, wondering. Did the original rakh have markings like that, before the fae humanized them? If not, was it possible their foreign brethren did? But Hesseth shook her head ever so slightly, indicating that she had no helpful information. Damn.
“Do the rakh obey the Prince?” he asked Jenseny.
She hesitated, then nodded. “Most of them. Because one time he made himself into a rakh, so they act like he’s one of them. Not really one of them, because he’s human now, but ... kind of half-and-half.”
“Which explains a lot,” Tarrant said quietly. “Few rakh would accept the authority of a true human.”
“But how could he become a rakh?” Hesseth said sharply. She looked up at Tarrant. “Is that possible?”
The Hunter mulled over her question for a long minute before answering. “One could shapeshift into that form,” he said at last. “Although such a change would be difficult to maintain, and also dangerous. But there is an easier way.”
It took Damien a moment to catch his drift. “Illusion?”
He nodded. “Just so.”
“But ... that perfect? That lasting?”
“A mere human couldn’t do it,” he agreed. “But remember, there are other forces involved here.”
The priest whispered it: “Iezu.”
The Hunter nodded; his expression was grim.
“Would they be willing to do that? Maintain an illusion for so many years—generations, it sounds like—just to keep one man in power? Do the Iezu do things like that?”
“Not usually. One must therefore assume that if they did, they are being well paid for it.”
“Or well fed,” Damien muttered.
The Hunter nodded. “Precisely.”
Either the girl had picked up enough details of their business here to understand what they were discussing, or the sheer grimness of their tone must have frightened her; Hesseth felt her stiffen, and she tightened her arm about the girl protectively. Sharp claws flexed in their sheaths, as if ready to do battle with her fears.
“Tell us about the rakh,” she urged softly.
She shut her eyes, trying to remember. “He said ... they don’t like the sunlight. Most of them. I think. He said that they called themselves the People of the Night.”
“Not surprising,” Hesseth noted. “Our common ancestors were nocturnal creatures.”
“But your cousins in Lema were truly nightbound,” Tarrant reminded her. “So much so that they were taken for real demons, and when they were exposed to sunlight it killed them, as certainly as it would kill any ghoul or vampire. I doubt that your ancestors would have suffered such a fate.”
“No native species is that sensitive,” she said quietly.
“Of course not. Nature may be quixotic, but she isn’t stupid. It takes a human mind to sculpt such a deadly weakness, and human motivation to bind it to a thriving species.”
“But why?” Damien demanded. “If they’re his servants, why disable them? And if they’re his enemies, why stop there?”
“Maybe he’s not done with them yet,” the Hunter suggested.
Damien was about to say something more when the galley door swung open suddenly. The tall, lean figure of the ship’s owner came into view feet first as he descended the short staircase into the galley.
“Feeling a need for heat, are you?” Moskovan grinned as he made his way toward the coffee pot. “You’ll be glad to know we’re out of the dreamsea at last. No more obstacles between us and Freeshore except a few well-charted islands and maybe the occasional spring storm.”
He pulled down a wooden cup from its hook and poured the thick coffee into it. The cup was halfway to his lips before Damien fully registered what he said.
“Freeshore? I thought we were heading toward Hellsport.”
Moskovan glanced at Tarrant. A brief communication seemed to flash between them, subtle and wordless. “That was the original plan, yes. But Mer Tarrant and I’ve discussed things, and we decided on a course adjustment. Freeshore’ll get you where you’re going much sooner.”
“And just where are we going?” Damien demanded.
It was Tarrant who answered him, his voice as level and cool as always. “Freeshore offers access to the Black Lands, and thus the Prince’s domain.”
Damien stared at him. “Are you out of your vulking mind? The last place we want to be is on the Prince’s doorstep.”
Moskovan chuckled. “Oh, it’s hardly that.”
“And who gives you the right to alter our course just like that? Without asking anyone, or even telling us?”
“You were occupied,” Tarrant responded coolly. “It was left to me to arrange the details—”
“Bullshit.”
With a dry smile Moskovan drained the rest of his coffee and put the mug back on its peg. “I’ll leave you alone to work this out.” As he walked past Tarrant, he said to him, “Let me know if you need me.”
When he was gone, and the thick door had swung closed behind him, Damien demanded, “What the vulk is going on here?”
Tarrant shrugged. “Mer Moskovan suggested an alternate route. It seemed reasonable to me.”
“Don’t you think you should have consulted us?”
“You weren’t there at the time.”
He somehow managed to keep his fury out of his voice. It took a hellish effort. “All right. So tell us about it now.”
In answer he took a folded map out of his tunic pocket, came to where they sat, and laid it out on the table before them. It was folded so that the Sea of Dreams was at the top, with the slender mass of the southern continent visible beneath it.
He gave them a moment to get their bearings by finding Hellsport, at the northernmost tip of the continent. Then he indicated a point some hundred miles farther down the coast, marked by a large star and far bolder lettering. FREESHORE, it proclaimed. HUMAN CAPITAL.
“Where’d you get this?” Damien muttered. “No, don’t answer that. Moskovan, of course.” He perused the detailed map, so obviously of southern manufacture, noting that the same river which ran through the Black Lands made its mouth at Freeshore. Which meant that any trade ship supplying the Black Lands would use that river for access. Which meant that for all there were nearly a hundred miles between Freeshore and the Black Lands, in terms of travel the one was indeed as good as on the doorstep of the other.
“And you thought this was a good idea?” he said sharply.
“I thought it had its merits.”
“Did you?” he demanded. “Did you really?” He pushed his chair back and stood. It was easier to speak that way,
now that he was angry. There were some things you couldn’t say cramped into a small chair behind a smaller table. “Let me make one thing clear to you, Tarrant. The last thing I want to do is march into this man’s stronghold before we even know who he is, what he is, or what the vulk he’s doing here. You understand that? You may have forced that strategy on us in the rakhlands by getting yourself captured, but I’m damned if I’m going to chance it again. We’ve got the luxury of time and distance this time around, so let’s use a little caution, all right? Lema wasn’t all that pleasant an experience that I’m anxious to repeat it.”
He said it quietly, in a voice as smooth and as chill as ice. “You don’t understand all the variables, priest—”
“The hell I don’t!” he snapped. “What about the currents? In Hellsport they’d be running north—straight from the Prince’s domain to us. An ideal situation on every front. In Freeshore we’d be off to the west, which means we’d have to work that much harder to Know the enemy, while he wouldn’t have to work nearly as hard to get at us.” When the Hunter said nothing he demanded, “Well? Isn’t that worth something?”
“Of course it is,” he said evenly. “And don’t you think our enemy’s aware of it? Don’t you think he gets news from the north—directly from the Matrias, most likely—and therefore knows every detail of our flight across that nation? Including our departure from Esperanova, priest. You think about that. You think about what it means to head straight for the one place he’d most expect us to land. And then if you can come up with a good argument for landing there anyway, let me know. I’d be interested in hearing it.”
There was a long, uncomfortable silence. At last Damien turned away.
“Shit.” He sat down heavily. “You should have said something. You should have told us.”
“I apologize for that,” the Neocount said evenly. “If it’s any consolation, I would have much preferred the Hellsport landing. We could have made that port soon after midnight, but as for Freeshore....” He shrugged; the gesture seemed strangely artificial. “That’ll take longer.”
“Will we make it by dawn?”
“If not, there are enough hidden corners on this vessel to shelter me. I made sure of that before I committed us to this voyage.”
Damien looked over at Hesseth; her expression was grim, but she nodded slightly. “All right,” he muttered. Rubbing his forehead as if it pained him. “We’ll do it your way. But from now on we’re in this together, you understand? No more bargains struck behind our backs. No more surprises.”
“Of course.” The Hunter bowed ever so slightly. It was a polished gesture, precisely executed. It made Damien want to strangle him. “And I assure you, this is the better course. For all of us.”
“Yeah,” Damien muttered. Closing his eyes again. Trying hard not to think about the future. “We’ll see.”
Jenseny slept.
The sea is black, blacker than ink, blacker than night’s deepest shadows, and it stirs restlessly in the evening wind. There’s a storm off to the west, but it won’t come in this close; all that the shoreline will taste is a brief fit of ozone and a few wintry gusts. The rest will blow itself out over the deep ocean.
Jenseny dreamt.
The ship pulls into harbor, cutting through whitecaps like a finely honed blade. Freeshore’s piers are crowded with boats of all sizes, but not with people. Like all southern cities it fears the night, and the only people abroad at this dark hour are those who must be, those whose livelihoods depend on it.
And others.
She smells it first on the icy wind: a sourness tainting the midnight air, a wrongness fouling the offshore breeze. She tries to make out something that might serve as a source—anything at all—but the wooden piers are empty of all but a few night watchmen and a drunkard or two. Nothing she can see would make such a smell.
Water laps at the hulls of anchored ships, and she can hear the creaks of the smaller boats as they rub against the docks, rising and falling with the waves. Isn’t there something else also? A whisper perhaps. A soft rustling, like cloth against wood. She struggles to make it out, but there are too many distractions. Sails being winched. Orders being shouted. A thousand and one petty noises that drown out ... what? What is it that she can almost, but not quite, hear?
A hand falls on her shoulder: she turns to find the priest behind her, Hesseth and Tarrant beside. They look strained and tired, but happy to be landing at last. “Ready to go?” the priest asks, and she manages to nod. Should she tell them what she senses? Or will Tarrant just chalk it up to a child’s imagination and insist they all ignore her? What if it really is her imagination, finally driven out of control by emotional exhaustion? Suddenly she doesn’t know what to do. Suddenly she isn’t even sure of what she smelled or what she heard or what she expected to see, there on the docks. But the sense of dread is so cold within her that she can hardly move when they urge her forward, so tightly is it cramping her stomach.
She watches as the sailors tie up the ship, then bridge the choppy water with a narrow gangplank. The priest urges her across it, gently. For a moment she almost turns back and runs, so suddenly does terror overwhelm her, but the priest’s hand is firm on her shoulder and Hesseth is a warm presence behind her and from somewhere she finds the strength to move forward. The piers are wet from a recent rain and the damp wood makes her footsteps sound more heavy and more certain than they are. A guard comes over to them as they disembark, but the smuggler Moskovan is ready for him; he shows the uniformed man their travel papers and at last the guard nods that yes, all is in order, they may proceed with their business.
Again—in the distance—come the whispers. Again comes the certain feeling that things aren’t right, that things aren’t going to be right until they get out of this place. They should turn around and run away as fast as they can—to their ship, to a different one, anywhere! —before those whispers find them.
“fenseny?” The priest stops walking and kneels down beside her. He senses that something is wrong. “What is it?”
She doesn’t know how to tell him. She doesn’t know if she should. Didn’t he explain to her that the voices in Esperanova were only memories of things that had happened there, no more worthy of notice than a display in a storefront window? That’s what he’ll think these noises are, too. How can she possibly convince him they’re any more than that?
“I’m okay,” she whispers. Not because the words are true, but because they’re the only ones she can bring herself to voice. How can she make them understand the danger?
They go on. The pier is long and walking on solid planks feels strange after so many hours at sea; Tarrant say that’s normal. She’s shivering, but from more than the cold, and the fear inside her is so tight and painful that she can hardly stand upright.
And then they come. Black figures, swift and silent. They come from beside the travelers and before them and even from underneath the pier itself, so that in an instant the company is surrounded. Jenseny hears the whisk of steel against steel as the priest’s sword is drawn, but the gesture of defiance is doomed to failure even before it is begun. There are too many of them and they are everywhere, and their own swords glitter in the moonlight along with tiny stars that are arrow-tips and worse, as the blustery wind begins to move in from the sea—
She awakened with a suddenness that left her breathless; it took her a minute to get her bearings. The lamp in the galley had been turned down so that shadows reigned in the narrow space, and she shivered as she fought to make out shapes in the darkness. The rakh-woman was by her side and she stirred as Jenseny awoke, alarmed by her sudden tension. “Kasa? What is it?”
I had a bad dream, she wanted to say. But it wasn’t just a bad dream. She knew that as surely as she knew that the Enemy was waiting for them in Freeshore, not Hellsport. The same Enemy who had killed her father, and who would kill her too if he had half a chance. He was in Freeshore. Now. Waiting. She knew it as surely as she breathed.
“It’s a trap,” she gasped. Fighting her way to her feet. She was shaking so badly she could hardly stand upright, and the motion of the ship wasn’t helping. “They’re waiting for us!”
The rakh-woman looked at her strangely for a moment, then said—very quietly, very calmly—“Wait here. I’ll get the others.” Jenseny did so, shivering in the chill of the galley while Hesseth ran to get Tarrant and the priest. There was Light now, but not much of it, and it did no more than exacerbate her fear. What was the Light but a window that opened onto terrible things, a way of seeing the truth when illusion was far, far preferable? In that single instant she would have shut it out of her life forever if she could have. So powerful was the force of her revulsion that she doubled over with it, and was retching dryly when the others came to her.
The priest was by her side in an instant. “Easy now. Easy.” With gentle words and gentle touch he eased her through the last of the spasms, and though she knew that he could work no Healing in this place she felt better for his being there. The cramp in her stomach eased up a little bit and after a few seconds she was able to stand up straight. After a few seconds more, with his help, she managed to sit down on a chair and breathe again.
“Freeshore. Trap.” She gasped the words, shaking so badly she could hardly speak. When she shut her eyes she could see the black figures rising up again, oh so many of them ... the Light was stronger now and it silhouetted them, making their outlines burn like fire. “They’re waiting for us there,” she breathed. Half-sobbing as she forced the words out. “It’s a trap!”
She saw the priest look at his companions, but her vision was too blurred by tears for her to see what passed between them. At last Hesseth volunteered, “She was asleep.”