When True Night Falls (19 page)

If Damien had been concerned that there would be any further investigation of his role on board the
Glory,
he was quickly reassured. Their tour of the city, attended by most of the passengers and all the lesser crew, went without a hitch. There were the predictable swarms of reporters, of course, who flanked them like hunting dogs throughout their journey.
Is it what you expected? Was it worth the crossing? How have we surprised, disappointed, impressed, intrigued, appealed to you?
And of course the inevitable queries from tabloid artists regarding ghost islands, sea monsters, and western sexual practices. At one point their guide made a point of gathering them together and explaining to them in simple words and an almost decipherable accent that their stories were worth quite a bit to these people, and they shouldn’t part with too much information without getting paid for it. To which Anshala responded, in a tone that was equally patronizing, “We’re not brainless savages, you know.” And they were left to conduct themselves as they saw fit.

On the third night a celebration was declared in honor of the travelers, to include a display of fireworks when the Core set after dusk. The invitation to attend was hand-delivered by the captain of Toshida’s guard to Rozca himself, no doubt in recognition of his stubborn refusal to leave his ship the day before. Despite the fact that Rozca loudly refused to attend that gala display or any other until he was satisfied with the security of his ship, he appeared to be pleased by the attention. And later, when that same officer returned at dusk to take personal charge of the
Golden Glory,
Rozca allowed himself to be talked off his bridge and across the dock and into town itself.

Fireworks: controlled small-scale explosions, performed for entertainment.
An old Earth custom
, the Regent’s man assured them, and Damien was amazed at how casually the phrase rolled off his lips. Damien’s own people had been struggling with the basics of survival for so long that they had all but forgotten what true Earth custom was, and used the phrase only rarely to denote a ritual whose roots were so ancient they could no longer be remembered. Here, where relative stability had been achieved a mere three centuries after the Landing, oral tradition had preserved much more of Earth’s heritage. The West might have recorded Earth’s facts in its struggle to preserve its scientific heritage, Damien reflected. But the East alone remembered Earth’s spirit.

Impressive. Like everything else about this land. And, like everything else, utterly alien.

They were led to a vast park in the center of the city, bounded at one end by the Regent’s Manor and at the other by the Governance Center. The central portion of the park was immense, acre upon acre of meticulously landscaped terrain that seemed to Damien a living symbol of the carefully controlled order of this land. No plants grew at random. No weed would dare to sprout. Pink blossoms bloomed exactly where pink blossoms ought to be, and the rows of towering trees that flanked the sides of the central lawn were a living testament to man’s dominion over Nature in this one tiny corner of the universe. Damien wondered if the children who now sported about those trunks would ever understand that fact, or if they took their power for granted. In much the same way that Earth once had, to the detriment of all its inhabitants.

The numbers gathered in the great square were already too great to count, but to Damien’s untutored eye it seemed that the whole city must be present, and then some. Some had clearly come to see the fireworks, and they spread out their blankets on those sculpted hillocks where the view promised to be the best. Their children sported merrily across the crowded plain, as excited by the prospect of staying up this late as they were by the coming spectacle. Others had clearly come to see the strangers, and they crowded about the reviewing stand in ranks so thick that their children could not run, but resorted to playing hide-and-seek behind the bodies and between the legs of strangers. Until some well-meaning relative caught hold of one of them them and tried to imprint upon that child’s brain the importance of the night’s display. Damien smiled as he watched, and estimated the message would remain with them for about five minutes, if that long. He had been that age. He remembered.

The sun had set nearly three hours ago, but the Core had only recently followed. The sky was that curious shade of blue which was neither sun-cold nor Core-warm but that in-between shade, twilight. A fine mist had gathered over the city, hinting at the imminence of rain. Toshida said not to worry, that the fog would only make the fireworks more enjoyable. Damien couldn’t begin to explain to him how utterly alien such a reassurance seemed. If the same thing had happened in Jaggonath, the nervous uncertainty of ten thousand viewers would have stopped the performance dead, or at least made it very dangerous to proceed. Fear had a way of feeding on itself and then altering the fae, which in turn was capable of affecting any physical event. Did these people have such faith in their leaders that they no longer questioned their decisions? Or had centuries of faith finally weakened the link between
fearing and being
—as it had been meant to do, as the Prophet had designed it to do, so many years ago? The thought was almost too awesome to contemplate.

Today fireworks,
Damien mused.
Tomorrow the stars.

The reviewing stand had been erected near one end of the great lawn, within the shadow of the Regent’s Manor.
No accident there,
Damien observed, as he watched the Governor and his retinue make their way to their seats. Damien glanced over toward the Regent, found him in animated conversation with Rasya. Toshida seemed to be fascinated with the
Glory
’s pilot, although whether or not that interest was mutual remained to be seen. Damien wondered if he might not be put off by her total lack of regard for landbound authority ... or whether that might not be the attraction. Certainly there were at least a hundred women here who made it clear, by their dress and their gaze and their constant proximity to the reviewing stand, that they were his for the asking.

Maybe he needs a break from that,
Damien thought dryly.

Then there was a murmur at one end of the platform, and a wave of motion as the tightly packed crowd rearranged itself to make way for someone. Damien made out the form of a woman, middle-aged, dressed in dun-colored robes that concealed her from wrist to ankle, loose folds obscuring whatever details of her figure might otherwise have been visible. He recalled men and women on Toshida’s ship who had been dressed similarly, and the Regent’s strange response to Hesseth’s presence on board the
Glory
suddenly became clear. Indeed, as the woman approached them, Toshida stood so that he might bow deeply, a gesture redolent with genuine respect, perhaps even with awe. No ritual obeisance, that. Even Damien felt its power.

“The Matria sends her regrets,” the woman announced. Speaking to them all. Wisps of pale hair misted about the edges of her coif, giving her face an ethereal appearance. “She won’t be able to attend tonight.”

Again the Regent bowed, this time in acknowledgment of her message. “Will you do the honors?” he said. Indicating the speaker’s platform at the front of the platform.

“In her name,” she agreed, and stepped up on to it.

A hush fell over the crowd, as one by one the people closest to the stand realized that an Important Moment was about to take place. It spread across the great lawn like a wave, heads turning one by one as voices died down, to gaze upon the spectacle. The robed woman held out her hands as if in welcoming, and waited. At last—when the silence that greeted her was absolute, the aura of anticipation almost tangible—she began to speak.

“Praised be the One God, Creator of Earth and Erna. Praised be the Holy Progenitor of mankind, whose Will gave us life and whose Faith gives us strength, whose Hand protects us from the faeborn. Praised be the Lord our One Protector, who in His infinite Wisdom protects us from the damned. Praised be His covenant with our ancestors, which decreed that for so long as we serve His Will, so long as we keep His Law, this land and the seas and the sky and all that is between them shall be ours to cultivate. As it was for our forebears on Earth, as it shall be forever for our children. Amen.”

And the crowd murmured,
Amen.

Very neat,
Damien thought. Despising himself for his cynicism, even as his brain analyzed the facts.
In other words, this is God’s show and nothing
—
not your fears and not the fae
—
is going to spoil it. A specific targeting of mob faith to the issue at hand. Nicely done
. He remembered the robed figures on Toshida’s ship, and suddenly understood what they’d been doing there. A timely blessing on each cannon, on the ammo, on the act of ignition ... so that the soldiers believed, with all the passion of religious fervor and on every level of their being, that the cannon would work exactly as planned. These people knew the Prophet’s theories, all right. And had taken them one step further than the Prophet ever did. Damien wondered if those selfsame prayers would abort a “natural” misfire. Hell ... was anything really “natural” on this world?

And then, without warning, the fireworks began. Explosion after explosion split the night in rapid succession, leaving the visitors no time to catch their breath between them. Artificial stars burst into life across the darkening sky, blossoms and streamers and spirals of them, diamonds and spheres and waterfalls of stars that lit the sky like a second Core. As if that spectacle was not enough, the fog captured the light of each starburst and reflected it across the city, illuminating the crowd with wave after wave of eerie color, like the light of a second sun. And through it all, though band after band of shooting stars expired in darkness just above their heads, not one drop of fire touched the earth. Not one gleaming bit swooped low to singe flesh. Not one person in the crowd seemed to quail at the thought that it might. It was a grand symphony of creation, not only of light but of faith. Damien found himself overcome by awe. Not at the display itself—miraculous as it seemed—but at the people who had gathered to watch it. At their utter confidence in the technology they had tamed. Men and women who gazed at the sky without fear, without awe, merely a measured appreciation of the night’s entertainment. And if they broke into applause now and then, it was for the lights, for their makers, and not for the faith that had made this night possible.

They take it for granted,
he thought. The concept was so alien it made his head spin.
Across nine-tenths of this world such a display would be all but impossible, and yet to them it’s just one more night’s entertainment.
Had he ever even imagined such a thing? Had anyone? His ancestors had dreamed of resculpting this world to suit Earth’s parameters, but did they really understood what that meant? No more than Damien had, and he had devoted his life to that subject. But this was it, here and now, the essence of Earth incarnate: not only science, not just technology, but a life founded in utter confidence, in the absolute surety of things and people—a faith in physical causality so deeply rooted that it was given no thought at all. Just lived.

He shut his eyes, trembling. This was his faith. Not the mapping of a world, not the workings of a steam engine, not even the half-dozen warning shots that had been fired across their bow. This confidence in the common people. This utter joy, and the abandon it engendered. This innocence, and the freedom it implied....

It ended. Sometime. He watched it through eyes that were brimming with tears—of joy, of faith, of humility. The entire sky was filled with light, with stars, whose combined glare lit the city brighter than a sun ... and then it was over. The last sparks died. The mist gave up its colors and faded into the night, a mere veil between man and the stars. And Damien felt himself breathe steadily at last.

“Well?” It was the Regent’s voice from beside him, measured and even but with just a trace of tension. “What did you think?”

He met the man’s eyes and thought,
The question’s not casual, any more than this “celebration” was. He meant to communicate something, and he has
. “Rarely have I been so impressed,” he told Toshida. Using his tone and manner to make it clear that the answer was no more lightly stated than the question had been; this night had shaken his soul to its roots. Toshida nodded his approval, and might have spoken to Damien again had it not been for the
Glory
’s captain, who chose that moment to come up beside him and shake his hand and declare that in all his travels—which had been many and various, he assured him—he had never seen a public display to rival tonight’s fireshow. Then he was pushed aside by another of the travelers, who in turn gave way to Rasya (and was that flirtation in her eyes?), and Damien watched them take their turns one after another until it was clear that the Regent was well and truly occupied for at least an hour.

Unnoticed, he made his way to the back stairs and descended from the reviewing platform. The Regent’s Manor loomed behind him, and he skirted its carefully sculpted lawns by Domina’s moonlight, searching for a road that would take him where he wanted to go without running into a thousand tourists. At last he found it, a narrow path whose entrance was masked by hedges. He made his way along it to the north, trying to remember the layout of the city. A few people passed by him—teenage couples arm in arm, a group of loud-voiced men, a family of five with two children walking and one, the youngest, slung over his father’s shoulder—but for the most part the narrow street was quiet, an unlikely conduit for the thousands that would be heading home after the night’s celebration.