When True Night Falls (53 page)

And he attacked. Not Tarrant, nor the girl. The vision. Though he knew he lacked the strength to stand against the Hunter—though he knew that to anger the man now might well be suicidal—he couldn’t stand back and let this happen. Not to that fragile soul. He leaned forward and grabbed hold of the girl—her limbs were like ice—and pulled her against the living warmth of his body, even while he gathered himself for a Working. The power was like a fire within him, scalding fury and compassion and raw indignation all mixed in together, fanned by months upon months of frustration into a conflagration almost too hot to contain. Months in the rakhlands. Months at sea. Months in this place, holding his peace while the Hunter tortured, the Hunter killed, the Hunter remade this land in his own malign image. Choking back on his conscience until it bled, until all his dreams ran red with guilt. No more.

It all poured out of him like a flood tide, too much power for one man to contain. It Worked the fae into a wall of fire, which no undead sorcery might pierce. It wrapped Tarrant’s malignant vision in a scalding cocoon and scared, one by one, the fine strands of its construction. Images melted like wax and dissipated into the still night air. Bodies and blood evaporated into dust. Cradling the girl in his arms, Damien beat back the last fragments of the Hunter’s assault, trying not to think about the power that lay behind them. Trying not to consider the fact that when the vision was finally gone there would be only Tarrant and himself, and the hate which he had conjured between them.

And then the full force of the Hunter’s fury struck him. A power born of darkness, of death, of ultimate cold. It roared in his ears as it whipped about him like a tornado, tearing his fiery wall to shreds. Rage, pure rage; the feral fury of a man who was so powerful that no living creature dared to defy him, no man or beast had ever interfered with his plans ... until now. Damien heard the girl in his arms cry out as the sorcerous hate enveloped them, and he realized to his horror that she was sharing his vision of the assault.
God lend me strength,
he prayed desperately. Not for himself, but for the girl.
Help me protect her.
The thought of her innocence laid bare before Tarrant’s assault was so horrible that he struck out in sheer desperation—but his Working was a twisted thing, warped by the force of his despair, and it couldn’t stand against the man. Darkness invaded his vision, his mind, his soul. He felt the girl shiver in his arms as he made one last attempt to summon power. Pouring all the force of his despair into one last prayer, making the very heavens ring with his plea, the currents resonate with his need—

And something responded. A power. A Presence. It was sunlight to Tarrant’s night, peace to his fury, water to Damien’s flames. It soothed and commanded and smoothed and cleansed, washing away the debris of Tarrant’s Working like a spring shower might cleanse the land of dust. The heat of Damien’s rage turned to cool, soothing rain, and he felt the girl relax in his arms as the power washed over her as well. Utter tranquillity. Consummate peace. It unknotted his defenses even as it unmade Tarrant’s assault, casting the dust of their conflict upon the currents. Its power was not force but quiet, like the rippling of lakewater in the moonlight. Damien’s anger dissolved into the night, and with it all his fear. Tarrant couldn’t hurt him now; he knew it, and so did the girl. Nothing fleshborn could hurt either of them.

He saw the forest trees as if through a rippling glass, their edges softened and made wondrous by the power that still filled the clearing. Color shimmered about their bark and among their leaves, and it seemed to him that the branches stirred as if in an unfelt wind. In his arms the child was peaceful, breathing steadily, and he knew that she, too, was possessed by a preternatural peace, an utter confidence in their safety. As for Tarrant ... the pale gray eyes were narrow and cold, and for once in this journey—perhaps for the first time in his life—Damien had no trouble reading what was in them.

Fear.

Their eyes locked for a moment, then the Hunter turned and moved quickly toward the forest. Damien tried to call out to him, but for a moment no words would come. His body was numb, stunned by the force of what it had absorbed. Slowly, with effort, he regained control of his flesh. He wasn’t aware of how completely the power had filled him until it was gone, or of how blissfully
complete
he had felt in its presence. Now it was no longer there, and his body ached with regret. He wondered if the girl felt the same. He wondered what Hesseth had experienced. And he wondered about Tarrant’s fear.

“Take her,” he whispered, and Hesseth moved forward to take the trembling child from his arms. Somehow he knew that she wasn’t shaking from fear now, but from awe; in a way that was even more affecting. “Take her,” he repeated—with more strength this time—and Hesseth gathered up the girl in her arms and held her, murmuring rakhene endearments to her as Damien somehow managed to get to his feet.

The ground felt strange. The air tasted strange. The act of speaking was an alien act, that he managed only with effort. “Tarrant....” He couldn’t finish the thought. But Hesseth nodded, understanding. And he somehow got his legs to move, to carry him across the encampment to the place where Tarrant had disappeared. A minimal Working, whispered, served to make the Hunter’s path visible, and silently he followed it. Committing himself to the woods, to the currents, and to whatever faeborn mysteries this strange night might have conjured.

But there were no fae-wraiths abroad tonight, and for once Tarrant had made no effort to disguise his trail. Damien found him in a clearing perhaps half a mile from the camp. So dark was the Hunter’s form, so still, that he very nearly passed him by. But something moved him to look again at one of the many shadows which the trees had etched into the Corelight, and there he found him.

He was leaning against a broad, twisted tree, his pale hand resting on its ragged bark. Above him and about him the shadows of leaves fluttered like so many birds, underscoring his utter stillness. His head was pressed against his upraised hand, forehead and palm against the tree’s broad trunk. Wisps of power, night-black, appeared like tiny flames around him, only to be swallowed up by his own darker substance an instant later.

Knowing that the Hunter must have heard his approach, Damien stopped where he was. The strange peace which had possessed him back at the camp had evaporated into the night, but even in its wake the fury of battle did not return. Another emotion—not quite fear, not exactly awe—was taking its place.

At last the Hunter spoke to him. Not opening his pale eyes, nor turning toward the priest. Nor lifting his head from where it was bowed.

“What you tapped into,” he said hoarsely. “Have you ever done that before?”

Slowly Damien shook his head, somehow certain that Tarrant would be aware of his response. The Hunter’s presence seemed to fill the whole clearing, seemed to reach out into the forest and beyond, as if questing for something. No, not
questing
exactly. More like ...
hungering.

“Do you know what it was that you conjured?” Tarrant demanded. The words seemed to choke him.

He hesitated, at last offering, “A power born of faith.” The description seemed hopelessly inadequate, but he had no better way to describe it. Some things couldn’t be reduced to simple language.

Slowly the Hunter turned to him. His face was pale and hollow in the dim Corelight, as though some terrible disease had ravaged both flesh and spirit. Though Damien knew that Tarrant’s appearance was as much the result of mist-filtered shadows playing across his face as anything, still it was a wrenching, tortured visage. The priest shuddered to look at him.

“Nearly one thousand years ago,” the Hunter muttered hoarsely, “I conceived of a plan to change this world. Wielding human faith like a sword, I meant to remake the very power base of Erna. For years I pored over holy text after holy text—those few which had survived the Sacrifice, as well as others which were written afterward—crafting my weapons word by word, phrase by phrase, sentence by sentence. It was my life’s greatest work, compared to which all else was mere accompaniment. If there was a God of Earth, I reasoned, then we must mold the fae with our faith until our pleas could reach His ears. If there was a God who ruled the entire universe, then we would craft such a message with our prayers that He must surely respond to us. And if there was no One God in either place, nor any being who might adopt that role ... then the faith of man would
create
one. A sovereign god of Erna, whose power would be so vast that all the currents of earth-fae would pale in significance before Him. That was my dream. No, more: that was
my purpose in existing.
And if in the end I chose to barter my soul for a few extra years, it wasn’t so much out of fear of death as a fear of what death implied. Ignorance. Blindness. An inability to see the seeds of my work take root and grow, and to observe what manner of fruit might be harvested from it. Survival for me meant the chance to see the centuries unfold, to watch mankind take what I had given him and add to it, develop it, make it his own, until by his faith he could tame the fae itself. It was a plan so vast that no one human lifetime could contain it, and I burned to see it through to completion. Do you understand, priest? That was what I sacrificed my humanity for. That was why I smothered in blood the core of my mortal existence. Because I wanted to
know.
Because I wanted to
see.
Because the concept of dying in ignorance was terrifying to me, and I lacked the courage to face it. Do you understand?”

The intensity of his speech—and his pain—flooded Damien’s mind; it was hard to focus on mere words in the face of such a deluge. But slowly understanding came, and with it the power to voice it. In a voice that resonated with awe, and not a little fear, he whispered, “You looked upon the face of God.”

For a moment the Hunter just stared at him. The hollowed eyes were haunted, and it seemed that he trembled slightly.

“No,” he whispered. “I saw.... No.”

He turned away again, and leaned his weight against the weathered bark by his side. His eyes fell shut, and slowly—painfully, it seemed—he drew in a slow breath. “Without doubt we have created something,” he whispered. “The faith of millions has finally reached that critical point where it’s capable of manifesting something greater than itself. Perhaps there was a God here to start with; perhaps the will of man created Him. Does it matter how it happened? Something is now active in our world that wasn’t before. You felt it. You saw it. A power so vast that the human imagination can hardly encompass it. A power capable of remaking this world....” He drew in a ragged breath; Damien thought he saw his shoulders tremble.

“Shall I tell you what I learned tonight?” the Hunter whispered. “There is indeed a God of Erna. And because of what I am—because of the bargain that I struck so many year ago—I can’t even look upon His face. This is the fruit of my labors, Reverend Vryce. That I can never gaze upon the result of all my labor. I sold my soul for knowledge of the future, only to have that very pact render me forever ignorant.”

He leaned heavily against the bark of the tree, as if in pain. Silence gathered about him like a cloak, like armor. For a long while Damien dared not compromise it, but at last he said, very softly, “You know as well as I do that pact doesn’t have to be permanent.”

The Hunter turned to him, slowly. Strands of pale hair were fanned across his forehead like a spider’s web. Incredulously he asked, “Are you trying to sell me on repentance? Now?”

“You know that it’s never too late,” Damien said gently. His heart was pounding like a timpani, but he managed to keep his voice steady. “Your own writings proclaimed that.”

For a moment Gerald Tarrant just stared at him. The look in his eyes said clearly that he thought Damien was mad, or worse. Then he blinked, and asked hoarsely, “You really believe that?”

“You know I do.”

“Do you realize what repentance would mean for me? Do you understand the price?”

“I know it means going against the habit of nearly a thousand years. But even so—”

“It means death, Reverend Vryce, plain and simple! My body is nine hundred years older than it has any right to be; what do you think will happen to it when the pact that sustains me is broken? Return magically to the condition of its youth, so that I can pick up where I left off? I doubt it, priest. I doubt it very much.”

“Would death be so terrifying if Hell were out of the picture?”

He shook his head. “It isn’t out of the picture, priest. It never will be.”

“Read your own writings,” Damien reminded him.
“The nature of the One God is Mercy, and His Word is forgiveness. The man or woman who truly repents—”

“Do you know what repentance means, for me? Do you really understand it?” There was anger in his voice now, but it had a desperate edge. “Repentance means standing before God and saying, I’m sorry. For everything. All the sins I ever committed, I wish they could be undone. I wish I could to go back to that time and do it all over again, so that Death could take me in my proper hour. I wish I could have died at twenty-nine, without ever seeing the future. I wish I could have died before my dream took hold, before mankind had time to interpret my works. I wish I could have died in ignorance of what this world would become, severed from the world of the living before I could begin to untangle the mysteries that surrounded me. I can’t do it, Vryce. Not honestly. I could say the words, but I could never mean them. And my last dying thought would be of all that I had yet to see, which God’s forgiveness had cost me.” He laughed shortly, bitterly. “Do you really think that would work? Do you really think such an attitude would save me?”

Now it was he who shut his eyes. He could hear the pain in his own voice as he spoke. “You’re trapped by your own intelligence, you know. A simpler man would have found his way back to God long ago.”