When True Night Falls (80 page)

Slowly the cloaked figure approached him. As it did so, it passed from shadow into light, and Damien could see its features. Beside him he could hear Jenseny breathe in sharply, her struggles momentarily halted as she gazed upon the face of their captor.

Rakh.

A glorious, majestic rakh, with a thick silken mane that lifted in the breeze as he moved and eyes that glowed green in the moonlight. Not from Hesseth’s own species, but a sibling race that had been transformed by the same power which remade hers. His face was marked with the bands and stripes of a jungle hunter, sable upon gold, and it gave his expression a fierceness that no human countenance could rival. His mane was not coarse and shaggy like those of the western rakh, but a thick ruff of silken fur that framed his head and shoulders in a corona of gold. Though his features were more naturally human than Hesseth’s had been, the markings made him seem doubly bestial, and like war paint on a human face hinted at a ruthless, unforgiving nature.

“It’s over,” the rakh said quietly.

Spoken in that way—so utterly calm, so perfectly confident—the words were like a spear thrust into Damien’s heart.
It’s over.
They had failed. It was finished.

He lowered his head in despair. God, forgive me.
We did our best. What more could we have done
?

“Get the boats,” the rakh instructed.

Three men ran off eastward along the narrow shore; moments later they rounded a promontory and disappeared.

“There should be three of them,” a familiar voice pronounced.

Startled, Damien twisted about. Despite the firm hand on his shoulder which kept him from moving too fast or too far, he was able to twist around far enough to see the tall, lean man who was approaching them now, his long silk tunic sweeping the rock wall at his side as he moved.

Gerald Tarrant.

“You bastard,” Damien whispered hoarsely. “God damn you! You sold us out.”

“Where’s your companion?” the rakh demanded from behind him.

He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. He could hardly breathe, so totally consumed by rage was he. Rage, and also despair; because if Tarrant was helping the enemy, Damien and his small ward didn’t have a chance in hell of getting free. Not now, not ever.

With leisured grace the Neocount crossed the space between them. The soldiers carefully kept out of his way.

“Where’s Mes Hesseth?” he demanded.

For a moment Damien couldn’t speak. Then the words came, spiked with a burning hatred. “What’s the matter, you don’t get paid as much for just two of us?”

He was struck on the head from behind, hard enough that for a moment his vision exploded in stars. “Where is she?” the rakh demanded. His voice made it clear that he was ready to strike again if necessary.

“She’s dead,” Damien choked out. He looked up at Tarrant, loathing the lack of reaction on that pale, arrogant face. Had Damien ever truly traveled with a creature that inhuman? Could he ever have really trusted him? “God damn you!” he spat. “She died for our cause.” The words were an accusation, and he poured as much scorn and venom into them as his voice could possibly contain.

“Your cause,” the Neocount said coolly. “It hasn’t been mine for some time now.”

“Where did she die?” the rakh demanded. “When?”

The past seemed a blur; he struggled to remember. “A day north. Maybe. There was a chasm....”

“I know the one,” the rakh said. “I’ll send men out there in the morning to confirm it.”

He remembered Hesseth’s body, so lifeless, so broken. Thank God she had died before this moment. Thank God she didn’t have to witness their defeat.

The boats were coming into sight now, three long canoelike structures that would seat two men across, three in the center. Two-thirds of the way back was a small metal housing that might contain some sort of engine or turbine, but its shape gave no hint as to its mechanical nature. The combined package was light enough and maneuver-able enough that all three boats were easily brought to shore, and there a man held each in place, bracing it against the river current.

The rakh walked to the water’s edge and knelt down by it, scooping up a mouthful of the ice-cold water into a pewter cup. When he had enough he stood again, and took out a small glass vial from a pocket in his uniform. This he unscrewed and upended over the cup; Damien saw a thin stream of white powder glisten in the moonlight.

He walked toward Damien, swirling the cup so that the powder and water might mix thoroughly. When he reached the priest, he held it out to him, close enough that he might touch his lips to its brim.

“Drink it,” he ordered.

His heart pounding wildly in fear, Damien asked, “What is it?”

“It will make you temporarily incapable of Working. I trust you understand why that’s necessary.”

He looked up at Tarrant, hoping for ... what? Sympathy? Support? He’d sooner get it from a host of bloodsuckers than from that corrupted soul.

The cup was before him. The rakh commander was waiting. Fear was a garrote around Damien’s heart.

“You can drink it,” the rakh said at last, “or I can have you beaten into unconsciousness. Your choice.”

He saw Jenseny’s eyes fixed on him, wide and terrified. For a moment that was all he could look at, all he could bear to see. Then he turned back to the rakh, shuddering, and nodded. The cup was brought to his lips and tilted up; bitter water, ice cold and algae tainted, filled his mouth and throat.

He swallowed.

Again.

When at last the cup was empty, it was removed from him. Trembling, Damien wondered what the potion’s effect would be. Was there truly a substance that could rob man of his power to Work, without damaging his other faculties? He doubted it. Dear God, what had he gotten himself into?

They pulled him to his feet. Not gently and not slowly; he stumbled once as his legs unfolded, half frozen from their previous immersion. The wind was like ice on his body, its coldness trapped by the folds of soaking wet fabric. Hadn’t he been in similar condition the last time a rakh had taken him prisoner?
Ernan tradition,
he thought wryly, as they pushed him toward the water once more. In another time and place it might almost have amused him.

They helped him board one of the canoe-things—no easy task with his hands bound behind his back—and then the rakh came over and clipped his shackles to a chain running along the seat. Worse and worse. He leaned back, shivering, not wanting to look at his captors, not willing to look at Tarrant. “Don’t hurt the girl,” he whispered hoarsely. He could hear his voice shaking. “Please.”

The rakh didn’t answer. On the shore one of the men had picked Jenseny up and was carrying her to a boat; when she saw it wasn’t the same boat that Damien was in she started struggling, and such was the strength born of her desperation that she wriggled free of him and splashed down into ankle-deep water. He reached for her quickly, but by then she was gone, plunging through the ice-cold river with desperate strength, struggling to get to the priest before they grabbed hold of her again.

In the end it was the rakh who caught her, yanking her back just before she could reach Damien. She screamed and struggled and clawed and bit, but all to no avail; his species was accustomed to dealing with far more dangerous attacks from their children.

At last, exhausted, she hung whimpering in his grip, limp as a rag doll. One of the other men moved in to take her.

Damien met the rakh’s eyes. “What’s the matter?” he challenged. “Afraid that she might hurt you?”

The rakh hesitated, then looked at Tarrant.
Well, Damien thought, that’s the end of it. After all the times that he’s urged me to kill her, he’s hardly about to indulge her now
.

But to his surprise Tarrant nodded. The rakh released Jenseny, and the girl splashed over to where Damien was. One of the men grabbed hold of the back of her shirt and lifted, and between that and her own efforts she was soon sitting crumpled in the bottom of the boat, her arms about Damien, sobbing into his chest.

“Chain her up?” one of the men asked.

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” the rakh said coldly. “Our guest will answer for her behavior.” He shot a quick look of warning at Damien, then turned away to give orders to another man. Damien looked down at the girl.

“Shh,” he whispered to her. “It’s all right. We’ll be all right.” It was such a lie he could hardly stomach it—and he was sure that she recognized it as such—but the moment seemed to demand a ritual reassurance.

If Tarrant told the Prince about her power, then it’s only a question of time until they kill her. If not ... then she may live long enough to see me killed first
.

The rakh turned to Tarrant. “You’re welcome to join us.”

The Hunter shook his head. “I’ll be there tomorrow after sunfall. Tell his Highness to expect me.”

The rakh bowed his assent.

Damien’s head felt fuzzy, and his thoughts were becoming muddled. Was that the drug? What must a potion do to a man’s body in order to keep him from Working? How long would it last?

Dear God, I’m sorry. We tried our best. Forgive my many failures, I beg you. All that I did was done for love of You. Even my death.
He sighed and shut his eyes
. Most of all my death
.

The boats were pushed into deep water and the current caught them up. Damien felt the thin hull bob as the last of the soldiers boarded, and then they were floating free. A few terse orders were voiced, after which the only sounds were the quiet dip and splash of oars and the near-hysterical sobs of the small, frightened child who clung to his chest.

Alone on the shore, impassive and aloof as always, Gerald Tarrant watched in silence as the river carried them away.

The rakft children were gone.

She had heard them scream when Hesseth fell—a shrill high-pitched keening that bespoke pain and fear and loss all in one sound—and then the noise was gone, and they were gone, and Hesseth was gone. Forever.

Jenseny shivered as she huddled close to the priest, partly from cold but mostly from fear. She had no one left in the world but him now, and it took no great stretch of intellect to realize that the chains on his wrists and the soldiers which surrounded him meant that he might soon be taken from her as well. She didn’t know if she was more scared for herself or for him, but the combination of fears was overwhelming. All she could do was hold him, cling to him, press her face against his cold, wet chest, and pray. To his god, who believed in protecting children. Damien had said he wouldn’t help them here, that he didn’t do that kind of thing, but she wasn’t so sure. When you really cared about someone, didn’t you
want
to help them? Why would a god be different?

She could feel the priest’s exhaustion as he leaned back against the engine housing, could sense his bone-deep weariness as the length of chain binding him tinkled and rattled into its new position. It wasn’t just a tiredness of the flesh, like you felt when you had walked too far, or had gone too long without sleep, but a tiredness of the soul. She had never sensed anything like that in him before. She didn’t think it was because of the long walks, or because of having to carry her so far, or even because of Hesseth’s death. All those things were a price he had been willing to pay to get where he was going, to do what he felt he had to do. No, it was more than that. This tiredness was because he had been fighting hopelessness for so long, so very long, and now he was losing the battle. And she didn’t know what to say or do to make it better, so she just stayed very quiet and held onto him and tried to keep him warm with her body, while the boats of the Undying Prince brought them closer and closer to the enemy’s seat of power.

Black walls gave way to higher walls yet, speckled with rosettes of white and gray. She tried to focus on them as a way of fighting back the panic, but it welled up inside her anyway, sharp and hot and demanding. What was the Prince going to do with them, now that he had taken them prisoner? Each thing she thought of was more terrible than the last. It was clear that they had to get away from these people, but how? Once the Light flashed briefly and she tried to use it like Hesseth had taught her, to break through his chains, but she just wasn’t strong enough, or maybe she didn’t do it right. Or maybe it was like Hesseth had said, that the Light did its best work with minds and souls, and wasn’t that good with inanimate objects. The failure filled her with frustration, and with anger. Tarrant had said that the Light was a kind of power, but what good did that do if she couldn’t Work it?

The river meandered through the wasteland, twisting and turning as its current carried them westward. The walls were so high that Jenseny couldn’t see the trees above them at all, not even when the moonlight was strongest. And then Domina—if that big moon was Domina—began to set, and sometimes the light would be lost behind a twist in the canyon. That was a very scary thing, when they were all in darkness except for the single great lantern at the head of each boat. Jenseny thought she could see things stirring along the edges of the water then, things that sometimes looked like white trees and sometimes animals and sometimes the Terata. Were those fear-things which they had made? Tarrant had explained that once, how the fae could make shapes out of fears and hopes and give them a life of their own. Did that mean she might see her father one day, reflected in the fae’s dark substance? She huddled close to Damien, afraid of the thought. Tarrant said that all the fae-things fed on people, even when they looked like things you loved. What a horrifying concept, that your most precious dreams could be turned against you! How she longed to be in her own room again, where the love and order of her father’s house had protected her from such nightmares!

Slowly, mile by mile, the canyon walls lowered. Equally slowly the river widened, until it was hard to see the far shore in the darkness. The nearer shoreline glistened like Tarrant’s handful of gems had, only all white and silver and black, with no colors. She looked up at Damien to see if he was watching it, but he was gazing into the night with unfocused eyes, his brow furrowed as if in painful concentration. “Are you all right?” she whispered. She made her voice as soft as it could be, so the soldiers wouldn’t hear her. For a moment the priest’s eyes turned her way, but they remained as glazed and unresponsive as before. He seemed to be trying to talk, but for a long time no words would come. “Can’t think,” he gasped at last; it was clear those two words were a triumph. “The potion....” Then his strength failed him, or maybe it was just that the words deserted him; he sagged back against the engine housing and shut his eyes, shivering in the cold of the night.