When True Night Falls

  At the bottom was a large chamber with lamps along the nearer side. The rakh lit those also as Damien struggled to catch his breath. Was that the drug weakening him, or had he gotten sick from being cold and wet for so long? She hoped it was the drug. Hadn’t the rakh said that it would wear off soon?

  Separating the two halves of the chamber was a wall of iron bars, the spaces between them narrow enough that not even Jenseny could squeeze through. With sudden panic she realized that they were going to lock them up down here and leave them. For how long? She would have begged them for an answer if she thought they would give her one. As it was, she had no choice but to allow herself to be maneuvered through the narrow gate, Damien right behind her. They unbound his hands, at least. Wasn’t there some comfort in that?

  “His Highness has instructed me to apologize for the nature of your accommodations,” the rakh said to Damien. The heavy iron gate was being swung closed again, and its lock fastened securely shut. Jenseny felt panic rising up inside her; she struggled not to let it show. “But as a sorcerer yourself you understand the necessity for such an arrangement. We can hardly allow you free access to the earth-fae.”

  With drug-dulled eyes Damien took in the details of their prison. Smooth floor, roughly carved walls, not much else. He seemed about to say something, but the words couldn’t make it past his lips. At last Jenseny, sensing his intentions, whispered, “We need water.”

  There was silence. A long silence. Then, slowly, the rakh captain nodded. “I’ll have it brought.”

  “And food,” she dared. “We need that, too.”

  A couple of the soldiers seemed to stiffen at her audacity, but the rakh was unperturbed. “And food,” the rakh agreed.

  “And blankets. We need blankets. And maybe ... if you have some kind of clothing. Anything dry. He needs it,” she said defiantly.

  The green eyes were fixed on her—searching, weighing, warning. “Is that all?” he asked coldly.

  “No,” she said. A little scared by her own defiance—but what choice did she have? She had to be brave enough for both of them now. “We need something to ... to go in,” she said clumsily. And then she added, to clarify, “Unless you want us to pee on the floor.”

  For a minute the rakh said nothing. An expression, ever so minimal, softened the harsh lines of his face. It might have been a smile.

  “No,” he said quietly. “We don’t want you to pee on the floor, do we? I’ll have something brought.”

  He ushered the soldiers from the room. It seemed to Jenseny that they were less than thrilled about the prospect of climbing up all those stairs, but none of them complained. When the last of them had left the chamber, the rakh turned to Jenseny again, and nodded toward Damien. “When the drug wears off, you may tell him that the Prince will deal with him tomorrow night. As soon as he has met with his other guest.”

  He left them then, alone with the lamps and the bars and the chill of the underearth. Damien had collapsed onto the smooth stone floor and she knelt down by his side, wishing she knew how to help him. He was breathing heavily, hoarsely, and his forehead was flushed. There was a little bit of light in the chamber, so she could see just how bad he looked.

  “Don’t worry,” she whispered. Her small hand trembled as she stroked back his hair from his face, just like Hesseth used to do with her. “We’ll be okay. We will. I promise.”

  Forty-three

  Sunset. Slabs of crimson light flashing across crystal spires, deep purple clouds drifting like wraiths down glassy walls, stars reflected a thousand times over as the night unsheathed their brilliance. The Core’s light, only half-swallowed by the distant mountains, adding the gold of fire to the tips of the towers, like a thousand glass candles all set alight in an instant. And with each moment, change. Darkness where there was brilliance. Blood-red light where there was shadow. The light of the heavens reflected, refracted, filtered, divided. A symphony of fire, now dying as night’s embrace beckoned.

  Tarrant watched it for a long time, though the sunlight made his eyes burn. How odd, that even after sunset it might still affect him so. There must be some special property to the crystal that enabled the solar fae to cling to its substance long after its carrier, mere light, had faded. How curious. He had never experimented with crystal himself, prefering the storage capacity of ice and silver and finely honed steel, but he knew there were those who swore by it. Even Erna’s settlers had used tiny crystals in connection with their power sources ... or so it was said. Who knew for sure?

  When the last of the gold had faded, when there was nothing reflecting from the glistening towers but stars and a single sliver of moonlight, the Neocount of Merentha moved toward the citadel. Though there were no signs to direct him, nor servants to guide him, he had no trouble picking his way through the forest of false walls and faceted illusions that hid the entranceway to the Prince’s palace. He saw by the light of the earth-fae, and that power did not cling to illusion; therefore the false walls were no more than ghosts, and the columns and spires that might otherwise cause him to be distracted were dismissed with no more attention than one might give to an errant wraith. At one point he even considered Banishing them just for the exercise, but that seemed poor etiquette for a guest of his stature, and so he let them stand.

  Inside the citadel itself there were guards, but they let him pass without word. There were servants also, and perhaps they would have attended him had he required them to, but he chose instead to wrap himself in a Distracting so that they were not even aware of his passage. Voices shivered in the crystalline halls, reflecting down the labyrinthine hallways, and occasionally the sound of human laughter accompanied them, but he met no other people in the mazelike corridors. Whether in response to his will or that of the Prince—or both—the illusory walls proved more than efficient in isolating him from the inhabitants of the strange citadel.

  Alone, unannounced, he at last reached what he presumed to be an audience chamber. Vast, multifaceted, it glimmered with falsehoods and illusions in an ever-changing array, ghostly columns winking in and out of sight as he gazed about its walls. There were rugs cast down on the floor, and they lent that surface a stability rare in this place; as he walked to the edge of the nearest, he noted threads of gold and silver and half a dozen other fine metals worked into its surface, along with a dusting of what might well be gemstones. Or were there crystal threads as well, nature’s bounty drawn out and made flexible so that a man might walk upon them? As he set down his foot upon its thick pile, the nearest illusions faded, and a room took shape before him. Furniture in dark wood inlaid with gold, ivory fastenings, scarlet tassels. Silken cushions in the colors of the sunset. Gold silk spilled across a table, with polished silver goblets on its surface.

  And two men.

  One was a rakh, though not like any rakh that Tarrant had ever seen. His uniform and manner proclaimed him to be a guard of some kind, and Tarrant ignored him. The other was human, and familiar to him. He seemed older now than he had in his Sending, but perhaps that was just the inaccuracy of the fae interfering; it was hard for even an adept to send a perfect image across such distances.

  “Neocount Merentha.” The Prince’s eyes were a cool blue, Tarrant noted, his expression not hostile but guarded. “What a rare honor it is to welcome such a guest. Your reputation precedes you.”

  He bowed ever so slightly, a flawless blend of respect and wariness. Aware that his every move was being watched, his every expression studied and judged, he responded formally. “The honor is mine, your Highness.”

  “I regret that your journey here could not have been more pleasant.” He moved toward the table; ringed fingers closed about the stem of a goblet. “May I offer you some refreshment to wash away the dust of the road?” He extended the cup toward him.

  He came close enough that he might catch the scent which wafted forth from its contents, then accepted the cup from the Prince’s hand. For an instant their fingers touched, and while a lesser man might
have used such contact to probe his true intentions, the Prince’s touch was utterly neutral. As was his, of course. They were both being infinitely careful.

  He raised the goblet to his lips and breathed in its bouquet. Sweet and fresh and warm to the touch; body temperature? He took a ritual sip, bracing himself against the hunger it awakened, and then put the goblet down. Carefully steady, artfully disinterested.

  “Weak vintage?” the Prince asked. Smiling slightly.

  With studied nonchalance he shrugged. “Disembodied blood is a convenience, not a pleasure. But I thank you for the thought.”

  “I thought you might be hungry after days in my wasteland. But you wouldn’t admit that in front of me, would you? Not even if you were starving.”

  “Would you, in my place?”

  “Hardly.” He chuckled. “We’re very much alike, you and I. If we can ever learn to trust each other enough to work together, it will be quite an alliance.”

  “I’ll admit that the potential intrigues me.”

  “And the promise of godhood, eh? No small reward for a simple betrayal.”

  “If you think it was simple,” the Hunter said quietly, “then perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think.”

  The blue eyes sparkled coldly. “You know I have the priest and the girl in custody.”

  Tarrant shrugged.

  “They mean nothing to you?”

  “You know why I came here. You know what I want.”

  For a moment he said nothing. Then: “Calesta.”

  “Calesta.”

  The Prince’s expression tightened. “Calesta’s been my servant for years. He helped me build this kingdom, and was instrumental in planning our invasion of the Church lands—”

  “And the death by torture of several hundred humans.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “I despise waste.”

  “The Iezu aren’t like other demons. They do their best work when you give them free rein. Who am I to complain about his methods, when I stand to gain so much from them? Or you, for that matter?”

  “You intend to protect him, then?”

  “I intend for you to be an honored guest here. Stay in my realm, see with your own eyes what part he plays here. I suspect that your feelings will change.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  The Prince’s gaze was intense. “A Iezu is born every hour, it’s said. A man like yourself ... once in a lifetime. If that. I made my choice when I invited you here.”

  He turned to the rakh and muttered. “Go get her.” With military precision the maned guard bowed and left. The doorway was somewhere behind the prince, but Tarrant never saw it; one minute the rakh was yards away and the next he was gone, as though he had stepped into another dimension.

  The Prince’s gaze followed Tarrant’s own; he smiled. “The joy of this arrangement is that one can be fully protected without that protection being visible.”

  “I never doubted that,” Tarrant assured him.

  “It’s all natural, you know.” He placed a loving hand on the nearest column, fingers stroking the glassy surface with obvious affection. “I accelerated the process a million times over—redirected it a bit—but in the end it was Nature that did the work. A far more creative architect than man will ever be.”

  “An exquisite piece of work,” the Hunter agreed. “What about the volcanoes?”

  “What about them?”

  “You’re sitting on a lava plain. Where I come from that’s considered quite a risk. Or have you learned how to tame magma?”

  The Prince chuckled. “Taming it is hardly necessary, Neocount. One need merely keep certain vents open, occasionally drain off a little gas here or there ... it’s little enough effort to see that the lava flows west instead of east, and does so in a civilized manner. Ah. But I forget.” His gaze was piercing. “You have no dominion over fire, do you? Or anything that fire touches?”

  Inwardly the Hunter stiffened; outwardly he managed—just barely—not to let it show. “Don’t underestimate me,” he warned. Or bait me.

  The Prince smiled coldly. “I have no intention of it.”

  Footsteps approached. Crystal walls shifted. The rakh had returned, and with him was a woman. No, not a woman: a girl. Slender and dark and very frightened. Deliciously frightened.

  “Permit me,” the Prince said, “to offer you the hospitality of my house.” He walked to the girl’s side and cupped a hand under her chin, turning her face toward Tarrant. Her eyes were wide, her lips trembling. “As befits a guest of your station: the best my realm has to offer.”

  For a moment he was still. Then, very slowly, he walked to where the girl stood. Her fear was like a fine wine, its bouquet intoxicating. Hunger welled up inside him with stunning force.

  “I’m told you like them pale, but I’m afraid that’s a rare commodity in these parts. All the rest should be proper.”

  He put out a hand to touch her cheek, so very gently; terror flowed sweetly through the contact. It took everything he had not to shut his eyes and savor the sensation.

  “She pleases?” the Prince asked.

  “Very much so,” he whispered.

  “You can hunt her in the Black Lands if you like. It lacks the conveniences of your own Forest, of course, but I think it will please you. Unless you would rather just take her here.”

  He forced himself to release the girl’s face; he could still feel her warmth on his fingertips. “No,” he breathed. “Let her run.”

  The Prince nodded toward the rakh, who drew the girl away. She was clearly so frightened it was hard for her to walk, and her eyes were bright with tears. Exquisite.

  When she was gone, when he and the Prince were alone once more, he said quietly, “She’s one of your people.” A question.

  The monarch smiled. “And you’re my guest. And I feed my guests, Neocount, as their nature demands. Enjoy her. There are more where she came from—thousands more, if our alliance prospers. Not to mention all the innocents of the northern realms.” He chuckled darkly. “All gods require their sacrifices, Neocount. Why should you be an exception?”

  He could feel her presence calling to him from beyond the crystal walls. Sweet, so very sweet. How long had it been since he had last hunted? The deaths of invaders were nothing compared to this. The nightmares of a priest hardly served as appetizer.

  “Go on,” the Prince said softly. “Enjoy her. We can talk business tomorrow night. Or after. We have so much time, my friend. Endless time. Why rush things? Enjoy.”

  Running. She was running. He could sense the motion, the fear. It awakened old instincts, too long denied. He burned to go after her, to take her, to kill.

  First things first. Gestures. Ritual. He bowed in the way his era had taught, when kings and princes and their noble cohorts still roamed the planet in numbers enough that such gestures need be codified; the Prince’s nod said that he understood the maneuver in all its subtle refinement.

  The rakh had returned, and though he kept a respectful distance, Tarrant could sense him studying him. Assessing him as a possible threat? If so, he had his work cut out for him.

  “Among men such as ourselves,” he said quietly—with only a hint of warning in his voice—“a Knowing must be considered an invasion of privacy, and hence a hostile act. I would hate for anything like that to compromise our newfound fellowship, your Highness.”

  “Indeed,” the Prince said coolly. “I think we understand each other.” He nodded solemnly. “Good hunting, Neocount.”

  When he was gone—when the curtains of illusion had swung shut behind him, a barrier to sight and sound—the rakh asked, “Do you trust him?”

  “Trust isn’t an issue,” the Prince said coolly.

  “Will you Know him, then?”

  He shook his head. “You heard what he said. That would be tantamount to a declaration of war.”

  “Then how can you make sure of him?”

  He stroked the side of the silver goblet
gently; the warmed blood within it trembled.

  “There are other ways of getting information,” he assured his captain.

  Forty-four

  The drug was wearing off, at last. Damien could see again. The edges of his world were coming into focus, black and sharp and hostile. He could speak if he wanted to. Language was no longer disconnected from thought, so that every word was a struggle for meaning, every sentence a herculean effort. He could think.

  With a moan he tried to sit up; to his amazement his body responded. It seemed a small eternity ago that the Prince’s drug had robbed him of every mental capacity he held dear; in his more lucid moments he had feared that it would never wear off, that the prince had crippled him as one might cut off the claws from a hunting cat, or clip the wings of a captive bird. Only this was a hundred times, a thousand times more horrible. There was no way to keep a man from Working, he understood that now. All you could do was scramble his brain enough that any organized activity—including Working—was impossible.

  Jenseny must have seen him stir, for she came to his side and tried to help him up. Not that she could have lifted his bulk, but the support was welcome. “I’m okay,” he whispered hoarsely, and he put his arm around the girl. His wrists burned from where the shackles had cut into them, and instinctively he Worked his vision so that he could begin to Heal them. Or tried to. But there was barely enough power to transform his sight, so that he might see for himself how totally inadequate the currents were for his purpose. For any purpose.

  “Underground?” he whispered.

  “Pretty deep,” the girl told him. “He said you’d understand why.”

  “Who did?”

  “The rakh.”

  He struggled for memory, dimly recalled striped markings and a long, full mane. Green eyes, perhaps. Any more than that was unavailable, lost in the mists and veils that the drug had conjured. He wondered what other memories had been lost as well.