When True Night Falls by C. S. Friedman
“They know who you really are,” Tarrant interrupted, “and they know what you want. These documents are no less than a declaration of war.” When Damien said nothing, he pressed, “Do you doubt their purpose? Do you question who sent them?”
“No,” he muttered. Fingering the seal of the Matria which was affixed to the last inch of the missive. Leaving a smear of crimson on the golden wax. “No. You were right. Whatever’s wrong here, the Matrias are part of it. And that means....” He couldn’t finish. The thought was too painful.
That means that the Church is involved.
“At least they think we’re coming by ship,” Hesseth said. “That’ll buy us some time, if nothing else.”
Damien looked again at the letter in his hand, seeking out the line that made reference to that. It is believed they may be traveling south on a Western ship named the Golden Glory. All ports should be alert. “We shouldn’t count on it,” he warned. Then added, thoughtfully, “Rozca’ll have a nasty time thanks to this.”
“Rozca can handle it,” Tarrant assured him. “All he has to do is let his ship be searched and he’s in the clear. Correct? Meanwhile he’s bought us what we needed most: time.” He nodded approvingly. “It was well planned, Vryce. Considering how quickly you threw it all together, it does you credit.”
“Thanks,” he muttered. He felt strangely uncomfortable receiving praise from the Hunter. “What now?”
Tarrant looked back toward the city. “The next step is to choose our destination.”
“South,” Hesseth said quickly.
The men both looked at her.
“If, as you say, the Matria is allied to our enemy ... and if she knows our purpose ... then by her own words, our enemy is to the south of here.” She held up the letter in her hand.
“Just so,” the Hunter agreed. “And I have some information that may bear on our route....” His gaze fixed suddenly on Damien; the gray eyes narrowed. “But I think there’s a need even more pressing than that,” he said softly. “How long since you’ve slept, priest?”
“Since dawn,” he muttered. He had been trying not to think about sleep, had tried to just keep going for as long as it took and deal with the need for rest when time and circumstances allowed, but the Hunter’s words were fresh reminder of just how long it had been. And once named, the specter of exhaustion could no longer be denied. “I didn’t sleep more than an hour or two last night, if you must know.”
“You probably owe your life to that,” he said dryly. “Hesseth?”
“I could go on if we had to,” she said. “But sleep would be welcome.”
He nodded. “We need to move on a bit farther, until we find safer ground—”
“You think they’d come after us tonight?” Damien asked sharply.
“No. But I do think that the walls of this gully were sculpted by water, and it would be a shame if all our plans were laid to waste by a flash flood. It is that season, you know.”
He gained his feet in a single fluid movement, like the uncoiling of a snake. “When we find higher ground, I’ll stand watch for the two of you. So that you can sleep in safety. Until dawn, at least.”
It was a good thing he was too tired to really think about their arrangement, Damien reflected as he helped Hesseth pack up their gear. Otherwise it might really scare him how comfortable he was with the thought of placing his safety in Tarrant’s hands.
Hell, he thought. You can get used to anything.
It took them nearly two hours to find a suitable campsite. By then they were truly exhausted, and even the horses looked drained. Five midmonths of confinement had taken their toll on the beasts, and Damien guessed that it would be a long time before they exhibited the strength and endurance that was the hallmark of their species.
They found a patch of ground that was reasonably smooth and threw their blankets down upon it. The bulk of the galaxy had set some time ago, leaving the sky mostly black. Damien muttered something about how long would it be until the first true night occurred? Did anyone know? Tarrant said something back which involved calendars and timetables and a whole list of details ... but at least he knew when it was coming. Which was all Damien really needed to know tonight. Certainly all he could absorb.
He was asleep as soon as his head touched the ground.
And dreamed.
... the cathedral is dark, so dark, not even a glimmer of moonlight breaking through the colored windows, nothing to illuminate the cold stone vastness but the glitter of one tiny candle, flickering like the light of a distant star....
... and he walks down the aisle toward it as one might walk toward the light of God, feeling its warmth in the breezes of the aisle, drawn to it with palpable force....
... scent in the air, sweeter than incense, stronger than perfume, musky and compelling. A thick, caressing aroma that warms his throat when he breathes, that tingles in his lungs like cerebus smoke and spreads outward in his blood, outward with every heartbeat, outward to every cell of his body, warming, caressing, inviting....
At the altar is a figure. Wraithlike, it is veiled in layers of fine white silk that ripple with each breath it takes. The light of a single candle is captured by one layer, then another, then by the flesh beneath. It is a woman’s body, Damien notes, round and well-formed and infinitely pleasing. The curve of a breast catches the light, the darkness of a nipple, the shadow of an inner thigh. Only the face is darkness in shadow, so that Damien cannot make out who it is. But the invitation is clear in her posture as well as her scent.
A slender hand reaches to the neck of the gauzy robe, unfastens it. Silk whispers downward over smooth flesh, layer after layer until all are puddled on the floor about her feet. Her breasts are full, heavily rounded, and a sheen of sweat is on her thighs. The musky aroma envelops him, and he feels his body stiffen in response. It is not so much pleasure that drives him now, but need; a primal hunger that has no name, that ceased to have a name millennia ago when humans learned to dilute their animal drives and thus control them. This has no control. This has no trappings of civilization, or of intellect. This has no possible end but the utter submission to a drive so deeply embedded in his flesh that a million years of species denial could never fully conquer it.
He reaches out to her. The flesh is dark beneath her breasts, with a line of small brown spots beneath each one. Something is wrong about that. His head throbs as he tries to think, as he struggles to remember. That and the smell and the touch of her body, silk-soft, more like fine fur than like human skin....
He feels a coldness stirring deep inside, even as he moves toward her. Something is wrong, so very wrong ... his head is spinning. He struggles to orient himself, even as his body responds to her invitation. No: to her demand....
And then he looks at her face. The flickering light illuminates her features in spurts of amber, a strobe of recognition.
Golden eyes
Golden fur.
The Matria’s crown....
He awoke suddenly. Breathless. Shaken. It took him a minute to remember where he was, to make out Tarrant’s outline in the shadows. The Hunter was watching him. He shuddered once, uncomfortably aware of the stiffness in his groin. Not hot now, nor expectant, but tight with dread. And fear.
He let the blanket gather in his lap as he forced himself to a sitting position. And breathed the night air deeply, trying to calm himself.
“Bad dream?” the Hunter asked softly.
“Yeah.” He looked up at him. “One of yours?”
Tarrant smiled faintly. “There’s no need for that now, is there?”
He rubbed his temples. The dream’s afterimage was rapidly fading from his mind. It was important to remember ... what? The thoughts wouldn’t come together. Something important. Something he had almost understood.
“You need help?” Tarrant asked softly.
He noticed that the Hunter’s sword was thrust into the ground not far from him. Absorbing the earth-fae? He could feel the cold of its p
Rakh.
He was remembering now. The rakhene women who’d been in Hesseth’s camp. Some of them clearly in heat—or its rakhene equivalent—their naked hunger distracting every male within reach. Clearly that image had etched itself upon his brain, along with attendant hormonal messages.
He was remembering other things, too. Things he had learned on their last journey together. The facts came together, impacted, almost too fast to absorb.
“The rakh women—” he whispered. “Oh, my God. ...”
Somehow he managed to sit up. He was shaking badly. Tarrant’s face was lost in shadow, but even so the priest could sense the intensity of his scrutiny.
“You asked why would only the women be the seers—the Matrias—when women have no more prophetic power than men. But they do. You said it yourself, back in ... hell, I don’t remember. Soon after I met you. You said that only women could use the tidal fae. Remember?”
“I said that women could sometimes See it,” the Hunter said coolly. “No human being has ever Worked it. It defies that kind of control—”
“Are you sure of that?”
“I tried it, Reverend Vryce. I nearly died. Later, assuming my failure to be a consequence of my gender, I tried to manipulate one woman who could See it.” He shook his head stiffly. “Not even my will can tame such a power. And if not mine, then whose?”
“The rakh,” he whispered. Knowing the craziness of the suggestion even as he voiced it. “That’s the fae they draw on. Remember? And a few of them know how to control it consciously.” He looked over at Hesseth. “She does,” he whispered. “We found that out after you’d been captured. The rakh females use sorcery. All of them! Not human-style, not with the earth-fae ... but it’s sorcery all the same.” He felt suddenly breathless. Suddenly afraid. “Do you understand? Only the females.”
The Hunter’s voice was very quiet. “Are you saying the Matria is rakh?” “
“Am I?” He shook his head, as if to clear it. “Is that possible? It seems insane ... but so much is in this place. You asked it yourself: why would men be banned from Church leadership? It doesn’t make any sense at all if they’re human. But if they’re rakh....” He looked down at Hesseth. Fully asleep, probably dreaming, her claws twitching slightly as if in response to an unseen threat. “She said they used the tidal fae. Can humans do that?”
Tarrant hesitated. “The women I’ve known who could See that power were very rare ... and usually quite mad. The tidal fae’s inconstant, unpredictable, often violent. Anyone tapping into it—”
“Would be equally unpredictable. Yes? Especially if they relied upon it for disguise. They’d have to hide when the power waned, come out only when it was stable enough for Working. Don’t you see? My God!” He shut his eyes, trembling. With excitement? With fear? “That’s what the Matria did. They never knew when she was going to show up, or when she’d suddenly cancel an appearance.” He looked at the Hunter. “You were in other cities. You tell me. Was it like that in all of them?”
Tarrant considered it. “Yes,” he said at last. “That seems to be the general pattern here. I attributed it to an eccentricity of their Order, but if it’s not ... if you’re right....”
“It would mean a lifetime of subterfuge. Years spent among the enemy. Hesseth says that even humanity’s smell is intolerable to her—”
“It would also mean the Church here was in rakhene hands,” Tarrant reminded him. “And has been for centuries. Toward what end?”
“You said they hunted human children,” Damien said softly. “Considering how the rakh hate our species, wouldn’t that make sense?”
“I said they used human children to hunt the faeborn.”
“Is that so very different? As far as the children are concerned?”
For a moment Tarrant just stared at him. Then he looked away.
“There’s something else I didn’t tell you,” he said quietly. “It didn’t seem important at the time. But maybe it is.” Though the man’s face was turned away from him and half in shadow, Damien thought that his expression darkened. Something hard and cold came into his voice, which had not been there before. “These people kill adepts,” Tarrant told him. “All adepts. They catch them in the cradle when their senses are still so confused that they can’t protect themselves—not even reflexively—and they murder them. Every time.”
“What if it wasn’t obvious—”
“You can’t hide something like that,” he said angrily. “Not in the first few years. Not when a child responds to things that no one else can see or hear. An adept lives in a world five times as complex as that of his parents, and must struggle to sort it out. That can’t be hidden. Trust me. People have tried. Back in my day, when they feared it as a sign of possession, when it meant that a child might be put to the torch ... it can’t be hidden, Reverend Vryce. Not ever.” He shook his head; his expression was grim. “There’s no living adept in this region at all. I know. I used my power to search the currents, to find some sign—any sign—but there’s nothing. Nothing! Man’s greatest adaptation to this world—his only adaptation—and these people have wiped it out, child by child.”
For a moment Damien couldn’t find any words. At last he managed, “You thought that wasn’t important?”
The Hunter turned back to him. His eyes were black, and cold with hate. “I thought it made perfect sense,” he snapped. “Don’t you? A land ruled by the Church’s iron hand, that tolerates no philosophical disruption ... a utopia in name and substance, as long as no one challenges its central doctrine. As an adept would have to do, in order to survive.” He laughed shortly, a bitter sound. “Of course this land kills its adepts, Reverend Vryce. I predicted that it would as soon as I understood who and what these people were. Didn’t you?”
“No,” he said softly. “No, I ... never.”
“You realize their sancitity is all an illusion, don’t you? The ultimate in self-deception. They’ve learned to control the fae, all right, but it’s been at the cost of their own souls.” His eyes were focused on a distant point; perhaps in the past. Perhaps in his own soul. “Exactly what I feared would happen,” he whispered. “Exactly what I warned them about.” He shut his eyes. “Why wouldn’t they listen? Why don’t they ever listen?”
Tarrant reached out and put a hand on his horse’s shoulder; Damien was amazed to see the pale flesh tremble. He was afraid to say anything, afraid that the fragile moment might shatter like glass at the very sound of his voice. Something deeply buried and very private had come to the surface in Tarrant, perhaps for the first time in centuries. He had the sense of a door cracking open ever so slightly, admitting a brief glimpse of the Prophet’s soul. But he felt that if he said the wrong thing—if he tried to say anything at all—that door would slam shut again, with the finality of a tomb. And the brief glimpse of humanity which echoed in those words would be lost again, perhaps for a second millennia. Perhaps forever.
At last the Hunter lowered his hand from the horse; a shudder seemed to course through his body. “None of that matters now,” he said softly. “Not even their motives. The end result is that there are no sorcerors in this land, with or without the Vision. Which means that these people are helpless. Whatever evil our enemy plans ... we’re the only ones who can stop him.”
“It also means that our enemy isn’t prepared for opposition. Right? If there’s no human sorcery here, then he’s not used to dealing with it.” He spoke slowly, carefully, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. “That could work to our advantage.”
The Hunter looked at him. And suddenly it seemed to Damien that the pale eyes were mirrors, reflecting more centuries than any one man should have to endure. Reflecting more horrors than any human soul, however corrupt, should have to witness.
“Let’s hope so,” the Hunter whispered.
Fifteen
The Protector’s ke
He lifted up the great knocker (in the shape of a stelfhound, the symbol of the local Protectorate) and struck it against the heavy wooden door several times. The sun was nearly down, he noted, which meant that he probably should stay here overnight. God willing, he and his neighbor Protector could get things squared away well enough to make that possible.
The heavy door opened. A servant he had never seen before studied him with dark, uncommunicative eyes. Considering Istram’s rank and familiarity with this keep, it was a jarringly cold welcome.
“Protector Iseldas,” he told the man. “I’m here to see Leman Kierstaad.”
The man stepped back wordlessly to allow him to enter. Dark eyes in a pale face, black hair above, dark clothes below: unwholesome looking, Istram decided. Downright unhealthy. He’d have had the man out in the sunshine long ago, nursing a respectable tan. “If he’s in his study, I can find him.”
“Follow me,” the pale man said.
He was led through the keep in silence, his footsteps ringing eerily in the empty halls. Despite the gloom of the afternoon few lamps had been lighted, and the shadows that gathered in corners and beneath the heavy furniture were almost nightlike in their substance. To be sure, the Kierstaad abode had been gloomy since the death of its mistress—whether because Leman lacked the energy to brighten it up, or because he actively preferred it that way as an expression of his mourning, Istram couldn’t say—but its atmosphere had never seemed so dark as today. So downright oppressive. He shivered as he followed the servant, wondering what his old friend’s state of mind must be. Had the joint pressure of a Protector’s responsibility and a widower’s heartache finally proven too much for him?