When True Night Falls (51 page)

“Feeling better, are you?” He knelt by where the cookpot was and picked up a tin cup that was lying beside it. With a wooden spoon he began to ladle the hot stew into it. “I thought a good night’s sleep might do it for you. Here, try this.”

He handed her the cup. Her first instinct was to try to avoid coming in contact with him, but then she bit her lip and just reached out and tried not to worry about it. Her hand brushed against his as she took the warm metal cup from his grasp ... and it was all right. He
felt
just as gentle as he sounded. She relaxed just a tiny bit more, and studied him as she blew on the hot stew to cool it.

He was a big man. Not merely tall, the way her father had been, but thick and solid. His face and arms were a leathery brown, but where his body had been protected by clothing it was a lighter shade, not unlike her own. Wet hair curled on his chest and arms, but not enough to obscure the half-dozen sizable scars that marked his barrellike torso, or the multitudes more that had healed enough to become no more than faint ridges along his flesh. There was one particularly bad gash along his left arm, a ridge of angry pink that ran from his elbow halfway down to his wrist. He saw her looking at it and smiled. “That’s from the last expedition. Skin takes a long time to get its natural color back, you know.” There were parallel ridges along his rib cage on one side—claw marks?—and a welter of stripes across his back that she couldn’t begin to interpret. She was almost grateful that the Light wasn’t strong just then, because then she would have seen even more, and there would have been too much to make any sense of it. Best to take these things slowly, she thought.

He handed her a wooden spoon and she scooped up some of the cooling stew. The scent of cooking vegetables and some aromatic meat tingled her nose. “Hesseth went hunting,” he explained as she tasted it. Hot. Very hot. But, oh, it was so good.... The heat and the smell of it blossomed within her as she ate; she felt more alive than she had since leaving home.

He rubbed his jaw as he sat down opposite her, somewhat self-consciously. “I guess they gave my razor to Calesta. Hope the bastard cuts himself with it.”

She shivered at the sound of the demon’s name. He was scooping some stew up for himself, and didn’t notice. Or so she thought.

“You all right?” he asked softly.

She managed to nod.

“Were you there very long? With the Terata, I mean.”

His voice was so very gentle. Like the rakh-woman’s touch. Hard and strong but infinitely tender.

“Three days. I think. I’m not sure.” Again she shivered, remembering. Following
them
through the forest. Trying to run when she realized what they really were. Driven forward at spearpoint....

“Easy,” he murmured. “That’s over now, Jenseny. You don’t have to go back there, ever.”

“I was so scared,” she whispered.

“Yeah. Truth to tell, so were we.” He spooned up some of the stew and tasted it. “Even Tarrant, I think. Though he puts on a damned good show.”

Tarrant. That was the third one in their group, the pale-skinned sorcerer. He didn’t like her at all. His gaze was like ice, and when he looked at her she could feel her very blood freeze up. But he was also fascinating, in the way that dead things could be both terrible and fascinating. She remembered an animal she had found in the forest, the first day after she had left her father’s keep. It was a small thing, golden and furry, and it must have been killed in a territorial fight because although its neck was torn up it hadn’t been eaten, just left there for the scavengers to find. When she had come across it, the body was still warm, and the blood-spattered eyes were closed as if in sleep. She remembered putting her hand on it, driven by a terrible fascination, feeling its warmth like the heat of a living thing. For long moments she knelt there, her hand on its tiny body, waiting. For a heartbeat, maybe. An intake of breath. Anything. It seemed incredible that anything which felt so alive could be so utterly dead. So perfectly silent.

Tarrant was like that, she thought.

The priest had gotten himself a portion of the stew as well—his own tin cup was battered and bent, and had clearly seen better days—and he ate in easy silence, glancing at her occasionally but never looking at her for so long that she felt uncomfortable. She found that she was able to relax a little, for the first time since leaving home. This man wasn’t going to hurt her, and certainly the rakh-woman wouldn’t. Tarrant, now ... that was another story. But Tarrant wasn’t here. She drank in the sunlight and the safety and the warm fullness of her meal with a grateful heart, while the knots in her soul slowly began to untangle.

The next time the priest looked at her—kind, his eyes were so kind, it was hard to imagine a man like that killing anything—she nodded toward the tent. “Doesn’t she want breakfast, too?”

The priest smiled, and took a deep drink from a cup by the fire. “It’s her sleep time now.”

“Don’t you sleep at the same time?”

“Not while we’re traveling. This way one of us is always awake, in case there’s trouble. She’ll have her turn later.”

“Why don’t you sleep at night?” she asked.
Night
was only a vague concept to her—in her rooms at home lamps might be lit at any hour, and all
ight
meant was that her father was more likely to come—but now she had seen the sunlight and the twilight and midnight’s darkness, and was struggling to sort them out into some kind of order. “Don’t most people do that?”

The priest hesitated. Only for an instant—but she heard it in the music of his voice, a faint sour note amidst the comforting glissando. “Most people do. Certainly it’s easier that way. But Tarrant ... the sunlight hurts him. So we move at night.”

Something inside her knotted up again, something cold and afraid. For a moment she couldn’t speak.

“Jenseny?”

“They were like that,” she whispered. “The rakh. They could come out in the sun if they had to, but it burned them. That’s what my father said.”

For a moment there was silence. She was afraid to look at him. Afraid to listen.

“You don’t have to be afraid of Tarrant,” he said at last. “He’s a violent man, and he does a lot of bad things, but he won’t hurt you.” His tone was gentle but firm, not unlike her father’s. She lowered her head, feeling tears start up in her eyes. The priest’s tone awakened so many memories ... she tried not to see her father’s face, tried not to hear his voice. It hurt too much.

“Jenseny?”

“I’m okay,” she whispered. Wanting to be brave for him.

“We came here because of those rakh,” he told her. “To stop the killing.”

“They ate him,” she whispered. Choking on tears. “They ate him, and took his place....” Eyes squeezed tightly shut, she fought not to cry. She tried not to remember. But there was enough Light in the camp that the visions came unbidden, and with them a sense of loss so terrible that she could hardly choke out the words. “I can’t go home....”

He didn’t come over to her then, but he did something. Because the vision slowly faded, and with it the hurt. It wouldn’t have faded on its own, she knew that. How had he made it stop?

“Jenseny.” His tone was gentle. “We came here to stop that from happening. We can’t help your father now, but we can stop them from hurting others. That’s why we’re here.”

A new fear took root in her, which had never been there before. Would they do that to others? Would all the Protectors die like that—eaten by monsters and then replaced—and would all their children have to cry away the nights, pretending that they didn’t know? It was almost too terrible to think about.

“We need your help,” he said. Very softly. “We need to know what your father told you about the rakh. We need to know what he saw. Jenseny ... it’ll help us fight them.” When she didn’t answer—
couldn’t
answer—he whispered, “Please.”

What if they ate not only the Protectors, but their families and children as well? What if they went into the villages along the coast and ate the people there, too? She could almost hear the screams as those people died, mothers and fathers and children, too, children just like her, eaten up by things that looked like people but that weren’t really people. Ralch-things from the Black Lands, eating their way through the One God’s country.

“
Jenseny
.” He had come to her side so that he might take her in his arms. His skin was cool and damp, but his arms were strong, and she shook violently as he held her. “It’s all right,” he murmured, stroking her hair gently. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I’m sorry I asked.”

She wanted to help them so much. That was the part that hurt worst of all. She wanted to help them more than anything, but she was afraid to. What would they think when they found out that her father was responsible for all this? What would they think if she told them that the Protector Kierstaad, whose job it was to keep the ralch-things out, had opened wide his gates and welcomed them in? Would they understand? Would they let her explain why he had done it? Or would they hate her, too, for having been a part of it?

She couldn’t risk that. Not now. Not when these people were all she had.

“I can’t,” she choked out. Hoping he would understand. Not knowing how he possibly could. Choking on guilt because she knew she could help them, and yet ... if these people came to hate her then she would have no one. No one at all. And she didn’t want to be like that again, not ever.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Hot tears dripping down her face. “I’m so sorry....”

And he held her while she wept. Just like her father would have done. Just like her mother used to do. He held her in this strange place, with dangers all about them, and whispered words of hope and safety. And even more important words, in response to her apology.

“It’s all right,” he whispered to her. Stroking her hair. Soothing her fears. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. It’s okay.”

“I can’t....”

“Shh. It’s all right.”

And he held her, just held her, while she wept away her sorrow. While the sunlight—the beautiful sunlight—washed away all signs of mourning, and left at last only peace.

“Our enemy is Iezu,” Gerald Tarrant pronounced.

The mist had grown thicker with nightfall, blocking out what little Corelight still shone down into the valley. The air was damp and heavy, and at moments the mist felt more like rain than fog. They had left the tent pitched because of the wetness, and Jenseny was tucked away inside it, presumably sleeping. God knows she needed it.

Jenseny Kierstaad
, Damien thought. Remembering that family name from their maps. Guessing at the horrors which her young eyes had seen, in the Protectorate where rakhene invaders had tortured dozens of people to death. No wonder she wasn’t up to talking about it yet. God alone knew if she ever would be. It was miracle enough that she was still alive, and as sane as she was.

“Which means what?” Hesseth asked.

“Trouble.” There was something doubly dark in Tarrant’s tone tonight, Damien thought, as if the news he had brought was disturbing on a personal level as well. He seemed ... well,
edgy
. Which wasn’t like him. Another thing to worry about? “The Iezu have never been enemies of man, but that may be changing. And if it does....”

“Assst!” the rakh-woman hissed in exasperation. “Some of us haven’t spent a lifetime obsessed with human demonology, you know.”

“And some of us haven’t been as obsessed as others,” Damien added. “Who and what are the Iezu?”

For a moment the Hunter was still. The dying fire reflected gold sparks in his hair and eyes as he studied them both. At last, ever so slightly, he inclined his head.

“All right. I’ll explain what I know—but I warn you, it isn’t much. The Iezu have been around a long time, and most sorcerers have interacted with them, but they’ve always been obscure about their origins. Nevertheless—for the sake of the unschooled—I’ll do my best.

“The Iezu are a sub-group of demons. That is—by modern definition—faeborn constructs with enough intelligence and sophistication to communicate on a human level. Like all true demons they feed on man, and manifest solid flesh only when they require it, but there the similarity ends.

“All demons feed on man in one way or another, and most prefer the role of
predator
to that of
parasite.
Even the low-order types who feed on renewable resources, such as semen or blood, prefer to suck their victims dry. Very few have the desire—or the self-discipline—to spare their victims’ lives. And they give nothing in return for what they take, except for those fleeting illusions which might be required to seduce a man or woman into their clutches.

“The Iezu aren’t like that. They rarely kill. As for how they came into being ... no one really knows. Those few Iezu who speak of such things refer to a Maker, or Creator, who chose to bring their kind into the world. One of them even claims to have been
born,
rather than
manifested
.” He paused for a moment, as if reflecting upon that concept. “How curious,” he murmured. “And how ominous, for what it implies about this world.