Black Sun Rising (44 page)

They stood on the shore and watched as the small ship withdrew, watched until the night swallowed it once more and the moons shone on nothing but the Serpent’s froth. And Damien thought,
We’re here. Praise God—we made it.
They were wet and they were tired and they were freezing cold, but they were inside the Canopy at last, and that was all that mattered.

He turned back to study the cliffs again—to see if their watcher had returned, or if some other danger had taken its place—but before he could complete the motion a terrified screech from one of the horses forced his attention back to the shoreline once more. It was Ciani’s horse, a magnificent black animal that had so far come through the journey unscathed. Something had shifted underfoot as it waded through the shallows and it was down, thrashing at the water as it tried in vain to stand up again. From the sharp angle of its forward leg Damien judged that the bone had broken, and badly. In pain and fear it lashed out at Senzei, who fell back just in time to keep his face from being crushed by its flailing hooves.

Tarrant and Ciani were there in an instant. She helped Senzei out of the water, safely away from the terrified animal. Between the horse’s dark coat and the water it was impossible to see the extent of the wound, but Damien thought he smelled blood. He started into the water himself, to try to reach the beast, but Tarrant’s hand held him back.

“Wait.”

The adept’s brow was furrowed in tension as he tried to Work the earth-fae at their feet so that it would serve his will above the surface of the water. Not an easy task under any circumstances, and the Hunter was clearly not in the best of shape. Damien heard the sharp intake of breath, almost a gasp of pain, but the adept’s attention never wavered. The horse’s body jerked spasmodically, as if from seizure, and then stiffened. Froze, as though its skeleton had locked in place. Damien could see its forelimbs trembling, the gleam of terror in its eyes.

“Go,” the Hunter whispered.

He waded to the animal’s side, cold water chilling his flesh anew. The leg in question was underwater. He looked back at Tarrant, who nodded slowly, his eyes narrow with the force of his effort. Damien grasped the damaged leg. The horse shuddered and snorted once, but otherwise seemed incapable of motion. He moved the leg gently, to bring the break above the water’s surface. It was bad: a compound fracture that had broken through the skin in two places. Probably worsened by the horse’s own fear, Damien thought; the fae could do that.

Carefully, he began to Work. It was difficult reaching down through the water to tap the earth-fae, unlike anything he had never experienced before. And even allowing for the interference of the water—which clung to the fae like glue, making it almost impossible to manipulate the stuff—the current itself seemed weak. Insubstantial. As though somehow the earth-fae had been drained from this place, leaving little more than a shadow of what had once been.

As for Tarrant’s holding the horse steady for him ... he tried not to think about that. Tried not to think how much was riding on that man’s power right now—his power, and his “honor.” Tried not to think about how easy it would be for him to ease up just a little—just for an instant—and let fate take care of the only member of his party who seemed willing to challenge him.

With effort, he concentrated on Working. He could feel the horse’s flesh trembling as it fought Tarrant’s control, and knew it would take only a momentary slip on the part of the adept for the creature to strike out at him. As he manipulated the bone fragments, first by hand and then by Touch, he could feel the pain coursing up the animal’s leg. But with the current as weak as it was and the water interfering, there was simply no way to anesthetize the beast. Relying upon his Seeing to show him what must be done, he wound strands of healing fae about the bone ends and slowly drew them together. The horse screamed once, in agony—and then Tarrant’s power silenced it. Damien prompted the equine flesh to deposit calcium where he needed it, and accelerated the production of new bone a thousandfold.
Hold onto him, please. Just a short while longer.
Spongy tissue filled the gap and then hardened; bone chips were absorbed by the body, to fuel the new construction. Damien felt a cold sweat break out on his face, and channels of that and the Serpent’s spray coursed down his neck as he Worked.
Just a little bit longer.
He felt the horse shudder beneath his hands as the adept’s control slipped, just a little.
One more minute!
And then the leg was whole again and he jumped back—just in time. The muscular animal staggered to its feet, nostrils distended in outrage. But its leg was whole and the pain was gone, and the whole experience was fading rapidly from its memory. That was part of the Healing, too, and Damien was relieved to see it take.

Shivering in the chill of the night, he finally led the animal ashore. Ciani had opened his oilcloth-wrapped pack and laid out dry clothes for him; with no thought for modesty, he changed into them, glancing at the cliff only once as he used an extra dry shirt to wring the water from his hair.

Then he looked for Gerald Tarrant.

The adept was nowhere in sight. Ciani saw Damien searching and nodded toward the west, where an outcropping of rock hid part of the shoreline from view. But when he passed by her on the way there, she grasped his arm and held it.

“He’s in bad shape.” She said quietly. “Has been since the Canopy. The horse took a lot out of him. Just give him time, Damien.”

He disengaged himself from her gently. With a last glance toward the clifftop to check for enemies—there were none—he walked cautiously in the direction she had indicated, to where a boulder, grotesquely carved by wind and water, hid some of the shoreline from view.

He was there, behind it. Eyes shut, leaning against the rock as if, without its support, he would surely go down. He didn’t hear Damien approach—or perhaps he simply lacked the strength to respond. A delicate shudder ran through his body as he watched, a glissando of weakness. Or pain.

“You all right?” Damien asked softly.

The adept stiffened—but if there was a curt response on his lips, he failed to voice it. After a moment the tension bled out of his frame; his shoulders slumped against the rock.

“No,” he said. “No, I’m not.” His voice was little more than a whisper. “Does it matter to you, priest?”

“If it didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”

Gerald Tarrant said nothing.

“You’re hurt.”

“How observant.”

Damien felt himself stiffening in anger—and forced himself to relax, his voice and body to be calm. “You’re making it pretty damned hard for me to help you.”

The Hunter looked at him, hollowed eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “Is that what you came to do? Help me?”

“Part of it.”

He looked out into the night. Shut his eyes once more. “The Canopy drained me,” he whispered. “Is that what you want to hear? The Working that sustains my life had to be renewed minute by minute, against a turbulent and unpredictable current. Is it any surprise I’m exhausted? I almost didn’t make it.”

“So what you need is rest?”

He sighed. “When you do strenuous work, priest, you eat to sustain yourself. My chosen fare may have changed, but the need remains the same. Is that what concerns you? Be reassured—I have no intentions of feeding on your party. God alone knows if the rakh are sophisticated enough to offer me what I need, but the currents speak of other human life inside the Canopy. I have no intention of starving to death,” he assured him.

“What is it that you need?” Damien asked quietly.

He looked at the priest. A flicker of evil stirred in the depths of his eyes, and a cold breeze stirred in the air between them.

“Does it really matter?” he whispered.

“It does if I want to help.”

“I doubt you would be willing to do that.”

“Try me. What is it?” When the adept said nothing, he pressed, “Blood?”

“That? Merely an aperitif. The power that sustains me is demonic in nature—and I feed as the true demons do, upon the vital energy of man. Upon his negative emotions: Anguish. Despair. Fear. Especially fear, priest; that is, by far, the most delectable.”

“Thus the Hunt.”

His voice was a whisper. “Exactly.”

“And that’s what you need now?”

He nodded weakly. “Blood will suffice for a while—but in the end, I require human suffering to stay alive.” The cold eyes fixed on him. “Are you offering that?”

“I might,” Damien said evenly.

“Then you’re a brave man,” he breathed. “And a foolish one.”

“It’s been said.”

“You trust me?”

“No,” he said bluntly. “But I don’t think you want me dead just now. Or incapacitated. And I don’t see that you’re much good to us, the way you’re going.”
And I want you on your feet before the others think of trying to help you. Senzei couldn’t handle it. Ciani isn’t strong enough
. “Is there a way it could be done, just this once, without ...” He floundered for the proper phrase.

“Without you dying?” He nodded. There was a new note in his voice, a sharper undercurrent. Hunger? “There are dreams. Nightmares. I could fashion them in your mind, to inspire the emotions I require ... but it would take a special link between us to allow me to feed off them. And that wouldn’t fade when the sun came up. Are you willing to have such a channel established—for life?”

He hesitated. “Tell me what it would entail.”

“What any channel does. A path of least resistance for the fae, that any Working might draw upon. Such a thing could never be banished, priest. Not by either of us.”

“But if it wasn’t used?”

“It has no power of its own, if that’s the question. Nor would it fade with time. Only death can sever that kind of link—and sometimes not even that.”

He thought about that. Thought about the alternatives. And asked, grimly, “Is there any other way?”

“Not for me,” the Hunter whispered. “Not now. And without sustenance my strength would continue to fade ... but I’m surprised you don’t find that preferable.”

“You’re part of our company now,” Damien said sharply. “And from the moment we passed under the Canopy until we get out from under it, we’re all in this together. That’s how I see it. If you have any trouble with that attitude, now’s the time to let me know.”

Tarrant stared at him. “No. None at all.”

“You obviously can’t feed off the horses or you would have done that already—and I won’t let you touch Ciani or Senzei. Period. That leaves me. Or else you stay as you are, and we all suffer from the loss of your power. Right? As far as I’m concerned, your company isn’t so pleasant that I would keep you around just for conversation. —So are you going to tell me what you need to establish this link between us, or do I have to guess at it?”

For a moment the Hunter was still. Then he said, in a voice as cool as the Serpent’s water. “You never do cease to surprise me. I accept your offer. As for the channel we’ll be establishing ... that’s potentially as deadly for me as it is for you. If it’s any consolation.”

He pushed himself away from the boulder, and managed to stand unsupported. It clearly took effort. “Before we deal with that, I suggest we move on. Find somewhere where there’s shelter, from prying eyes and sunlight both. A place where we can camp in safety. Then....”

He looked at Damien curiously. The hunger in his eyes was undisguised.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve tasted a cleric’s blood,” he mused.

Deep within the House of Storms, in a room reserved for Working, the Master of Lema halted in mid-invocation, startled by a sudden change in the current. A quick movement of a gloved hand and a well-trained mind served to Dispel the entity that was slowly taking form in the warded circle, and a muttered key established a Knowing in its place.

After a moment—a long moment—there was a nod. A hungry nod.

“Calesta.” The name was a whisper—an incantation—a command. “Take form, Calesta. Now.”

Out of the darkness a figure formed, a shadow made solid by the power of sorcerous will. The shape it wore resembled that of a man, but no single detail was wholly human. Its skin bore the hard black gloss of obsidian, and its clothing flowed like smoke over its limbs. Its features were somewhat human in shape—if carved volcanic glass might be said to resemble humanity—but where human eyes should have been were faceted orbs, mirror-surfaced, which reflected back the object of the figure’s attention in a thousand fractured bits.

The demon called Calesta bowed but made no sound. In its silence all things might be read, all manners of obesance to the one it served—to the one who was called Master of Lema, Keeper of Souls, The One Who Binds.

“Taste it, Calesta.” A hungry whisper, tense with anticipation. “She’s entered the Canopy. Can you feel it? And another, with her. An adept. Two adepts....”