Black Sun Rising (7 page)

“Nari!”

She whirled around, toward the source of the sound. Her father’s form was silhouetted against the glowing house, as he ran up the rise to reach her. “Narilka! We’ve been so worried!” She wanted to run to him, greet him, to reassure him—to beg for his help, his protection—but suddenly she had no voice. It was as if his sudden appearance had shattered some intimate bond, and her body still ached for the lover it had lost. “Great gods, Nari, are you all right?”

He embraced her. Wordlessly. She couldn’t have spoken. She clung to him desperately, dimly aware of the tears that were streaming down her face. Of her mother, running out to join them.

“Nari! Baby, are you all right? We didn’t know what to do—we were so worried!”

“Fine,” she managed. “Fine.” She managed to disentangle herself from her father, and to stand alone with some degree of steadiness. “It was my fault. I’m sorry....”

She looked back toward where her escort had last stood, and wasn’t surprised to find him gone. Though the grass was crushed where she had been standing there were no such marks from beneath his feet, nor any other sign of his passage. Again, no surprise.

“Fine,” she murmured—that single word, how little of the truth it conveyed!—and she let them lead her home, across the farmland, into the negligible safety of the light. And she mourned for the beauty that faded about her, as the shadows of night fell farther and farther behind. But that vision would be hers now, whenever she dared to look for it. His gift.

Reluctantly, she let them lead her inside.

They used the river to gain the coast, though the swift-running water made them feel an equivalent of human nausea. One was lost at sea, caught up in Casca’s evening tide and swept far beyond any hope of earthly purchase before his companions could reach him. His companions mourned, but only briefly; he had known the risk, as all of them had, and had signaled his acceptance when he entrusted himself to the cold, treacherous waters. To mourn him now—or to mourn anyone, at any time—would run counter to their very nature.
Regret
was not in their vocabulary, nor
sorrow.
They knew only hunger and—possibly—fear. And that special fealty which bound them together in purpose, which demanded that they brave the ultimate barrier and walk the human lands, in service to another.

By dawn they had found caves to hide in, ragged hidey-holes gutted out of granite cliffs by wind and ice and time. Below them the surf raged as tidal patterns crossed and tangled, Casca and Domina and Prima battling for dominance of the sea, while Sun and Core together ruled the sky. They slept as the dead sleep, oblivious to such liquid disputes, resting on mounds of newly killed animals, that of the caves’ former occupants. Whose flesh did not interest them as such, though they licked at the dried blood once or twice upon awakening, as if to cleanse their palates. What little food such animals could supply had been drained from them quickly the night before, in battle, and flesh without purpose offered these creatures little sustenance. And no pleasure. Humankind, on the other hand, could offer both: pleasure and sustenance combined, more than even the rakh could offer. They knew that. They had tasted. They hungered for more, and their hunger was powerful enough to take the place of courage when it had to. As it often had to, in those nights that they skirted the sea.

After three and a half days—eight moonfalls—they sighted a light far out on the water, that revealed the presence of a small trading craft. Using flares they had brought for just such a purpose, they signaled a desperate cry for help. The sudden splash of green light against the black sky illuminated a small vessel, riding the waves with difficulty. An answering flare—life—orange, hot with promise—was sent aloft, and they watched with nightwise eyes as a small rowboat was lowered to the water, presumably to brave the deadly shoreline and, if possible, save them.

Food!
one whispered.

Not yet,
another cautioned.

We have a purpose,
the third reminded them both.

They stood shoulder to shoulder on the cold northern shore, as they imagined real humans might stand, and cheered on their saviors in desperate voices—exactly as they imagined real humans might do. All the while arguing, in whispers, the value of food versus obedience.

There’ll be humans enough once we reach the human lands,
the wisest one among them pointed out—and they savored that thought, while the ship’s men braved rock and surf to reach the shore.

The interior of the boutique was small, and crowded with a tangle of hanging garments and treelike accessory displays; Damien had to push aside a rack of beaded belts to get far enough back from the mirror that the whole of his bulk could be reflected within its narrow confines.

He glanced at Ciani—who was managing not to smile—and then at the fluttering moth of a proprieter who picked at his clothes periodically, as though searching for pollen between the patterned layers. And back at the mirror.

And at last said: “I hope you’re joking.”

“It’s the height of fashion.”

The image that stared back at him was draped in multiple layers of purple cloth, each of a slightly different hue. The layered ends of vest over half-shirt over shirt proper, triple-tiered upper sleeves and cuffed pants—each in a different shade of plum, or grape, or lavender, some in subtle prints of the same—made him look, to his own eyes, like a refugee from some dyer’s scrap heap.

“What all of those
in the know
are wearing,” the proprieter assured him. He plucked at Damien’s vest front, trying to pull the patterned cloth across the bulk of the stout man’s torso. The thick layers of muscle which comprised most of Damien’s bulk had been further padded by the eastland’s rich foods and seductively sweet ale; at last the man gave up and stepped back, diplomatically not pointing out that fashions such as these were designed for considerably smaller men. “Subtly contrasting hues are the fashion this season. But if your taste runs more to the
traditional,”
he stressed the word distastefully, as if to indicate that it wasn’t normally part of his vocabulary, “I can show you something with more color, perhaps?”

“I doubt that would help.”

“Look,” Ciani was grinning. “You told me that you wanted to dress like a Jaggonath cleric—”

“A Jaggonath cleric
with taste.”

“Ah. You didn’t say that.”

He tried to glare, but the obvious merriment in her eyes made it difficult. “Let me guess. You got paid off by some pagan zealot to make me look like a fool?”

“Now, would I do that?”

“For the right price?”

“I’ll have you remember I’m a professional consultant. First coin, sound contracts, reliable service. You get what you pay for,
Father.”

“I’m not paying you for this.”

“Yes.” Her brown eyes sparkled mischeviously. “There is that to consider.”

“Please!” the proprieter seemed genuinely distressed by their exchange. “The lady Ciani is well known to us, your Reverence. She’s helped clothe some of the most important people in Jaggonath—”

He stared at her in frank astonishment. “A
fashion
consultant? You?”

“I’m helping you, aren’t I?”

“But, for real? I mean—professionally?”

“You don’t think me capable?”

“Not at all! That is—yes, I do ... but why? I mean, why would someone pay an adept’s consulting fee just to have you help pick out their clothing? One hardly needs the fae to get dressed in the morning.”

“Ah, you are a foreigner.” She shook her head sadly.
“Everything
here involves the fae. The mayor runs for reelection, he wants his sartorial emanations assessed. Some power-hungry businessman itches to close the deal of a lifetime, he needs someone to tell him which outfit will best serve that cause. Or say that some notable from another district comes to town, he wants his potential read in everything that he might wear. I consult on
everything,
Damien—because everything involves the fae, in one way or another. Now ... do you want this outfit, or not?”

He regarded his reflection with renewed interest, if not with aesthetic enthusiasm. “What will it do for me?

She folded her arms across her chest in mock severity. “I do usually get paid for this.”

“I’ll treat you to dinner.”

“Ah. Such generosity.”

“At an expensive restaurant.”

“You were going to do that anyway.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I thought you couldn’t read the future?”

“I didn’t. It was obvious.”

He sighed melodramatically. “Two dinners, then.
Mercenary
lady.”

“My middle name, you know.” She came up to where he stood and studied him casually. He tried to discover some hint of a Working in her demeanor—a whispered word, a subtle gesture, perhaps eyes tracking some visualized symbol used for a key, even some indication that she was concentrating—but there was nothing. If he hadn’t seen her Work before, he would have thought she was tricking him.

Reading: not the future, but the present. Not
fate,
but
tendency.
A true Divining was impossible, as there was no certain future, but the seeds of all possible futures existed in the present moment. If one had skill enough, one could read them.

“You’ll stand out in a crowd,” she assured him.

He laughed softly.

“Among strangers, men will be put off. Women will find you ... intriguing.”

“I can live with that.”

“Among those who know you ... there aren’t that many in Jaggonath, are there?” Her brown eyes twinkled. “
I
think you look charming. Your students will be even more terrified of you than they are now—no major change there. I read at least one barmaid who will find you unutterably attractive.”

“That’s appealing.”

Her eyes narrowed. “She’s married.”

“Too bad.”

“As for your superiors ...” She hesitated. “Superior? Is there only one?”

He felt himself tense at the thought of the man.
Easy, Damien. You’ve got months to go, here. Get a hold of yourself.
“Only one that matters.”

She checked him out from head to foot, then did the same again. “In this outfit,” she proclaimed at last, “you will irritate the hell out of him.”

He stared at her for a minute, then broke into a grin. And turned to face the proprieter, who was nervously twisting a red silk scarf between his fingers.

“I’ll take it,” he declared.

The street outside was gray upon gray, chill autumn sunlight slowly giving way to the shadows of Jaggonath’s dusk. Dark shapes shivered about the corners of an alleyway, the cavernous mouth of an open doorway, the scurrying feet of a dozen chilled pedestrians. Was it lamp shadows, tricking the eye? Or some force that genuinely desired life, and might seek it out in sunlight’s absence?