When True Night Falls (83 page)

And then he leaned against the rock wall and shut his eyes and thought,
Does it really matter? Does anything really matter any more?

“Are you okay?” the girl asked.

Don’t, something whispered inside him.
Don’t give in to despair. When you do that, then he’s won
.

“You mean he hasn’t already?” he whispered.

“What?”

He drew in a deep breath, fighting to steady himself. Then he went back to her and sat down by her side. He took her hand in his—so small, so very small—and stroked it gently.

“Jenseny.” He said it quietly, very quietly. Was he afraid that someone might hear? There was no one within sight now, but what did that mean in a place like this? “The fae that I use is too weak here; I can’t do anything with it. What about the kind of fae that Hesseth was teaching you to use? Can you see that here?”

She hesitated. “Sometimes. It was strong right after we came down here. There isn’t too much now, but sometimes it changes fast. I never know.” She said that apologetically—as if somehow the shortcomings of the tidal power were her fault.

He squeezed her hand in reassurance. “When it is strong, when you can use it ... do you think you could Work this?” He didn’t point to the bars of their prison—the real issue—but to the thin chain between his ankles. Metal was metal, and if she could use the tidal fae to alter his bonds, then maybe there was hope for the bars as well.

But she cast her eyes downward and said miserably, “I tried. On the boat. Only I’m not good enough....”

“You just need practice,” he comforted. Thinking wryly,
And you may have a lot of time for that here
. “Let me know the next time you feel there’s enough to work with and we can try—”

Footsteps. He stopped speaking suddenly, hoping that whoever it was hadn’t heard them. What would happen if the Prince found out about Jenseny’s tidal sorcery? And for that matter, since Tarrant had sold them out, why the hell didn’t he know already?
There
was a mystery worth examining!

The first figure to come into sight was a soldier, followed by three others.
They must think me capable of miracles
, he thought dryly,
if they imagine they need that kind of manpower
. Following them was the rakh from the river, his mane not hooded now but bared to the shoulder, golden highlights playing along the fur as he entered the chamber. The latter nodded toward the bars, and one of the soldiers took up station there. Armed, Damien noted. Another nod, and a pistol was drawn. The cold steel barrel pointed directly at his face.

“Come over to the bars,” the rakh commanded.

Slowly, heart pounding, he obeyed. The barrel was now little more than a yard from his face; even a born jinxer couldn’t miss a shot like that.

“Turn around.”

He turned back toward Jenseny. She was crouched like a frightened animal, ready to bolt if threatened. Where? To what haven? Where could one find safety in this place?

“Put your hands between the bars,” the rakh commanded.

He felt his heart sink as he realized the purpose of all these directions. But what choice did he have? He extended his arms behind him, far enough that his hands slid between the bars. Cold steel shackles snapped shut about his wrists, pinning him in place. He tested them once to see how much slack they allowed him. Not much.

“He’s secure,” the rakh announced.

Footsteps approached from behind. Damien tried to twist around, to see who was approaching, but the angle was wrong and the light was bad and all he could see was the sweep of crimson cloth as a tall, robed figure made its way toward his cell.

Then: a key rattled in the lock. The heavy door was swung aside. A man entered the cell, and took up position directly in front of Damien.

With one part of his mind he saw the body that stood before him: lean, aging, draped in a sleeveless robe of crimson silk that opened down the front to reveal a tighter, more tailored layer. He was fifty, maybe sixty, and the thin gold band that held back his hair betrayed graying temples, aging skin, a receding hairline.

Utterly familiar.

For a moment he was back in the rakhlands. Kneeling before the Master of Lema, his hands tied behind his back with simple rope (what he wouldn’t give for that now!), at the mercy of her madness as a demon whispered behind her shoulder,
There is always torture.

They were the same, she and this man. Not in body. Not in gender. Not even in their features, or any other physical attribute. But in their clothing—their bearing—even their expression! Watching him move was like watching
her
move; being bound before him was like reliving that awful day, when he waited in vain for the earth to move, to save him from her madness.

“Prince Iso Rashi,” the rakh announced. “Sovereign Lord of Kilsea, Chataka, and the Black Lands. And he added, ”Called the Undying.“

They didn’t look at all alike. They couldn’t be related—could they? The woman had left this region more than a century ago. Could two people be so very alike that after a century’s isolation their taste in cloth would still develop identically? It was crazy. It was impossible.

It had happened.

“So,” the Prince said. His voice was a smooth baritone, even and disciplined. “This is the soldier of God who would lay siege to my throne.”

He managed to shrug. “I gave it my best.”

The expression that came across the Prince’s face was eerily familiar; he wished he could forget where he had seen it before.

“So you did,” he said softly. “And now that your efforts have been dispensed with, you can make up for the trouble you caused me by rendering a simple service.”

“I don’t have a lot of choice, do I?”

“None at all,” the Prince assured him. “But as for how much it hurts ... that’s up to you.”

He reached out to take Damien’s face in his hands—and for a moment the situation was so much like what Damien had experienced in the rakhlands that panic overwhelmed him, and he tried to back away. But the bars at his back allowed no retreat, and the cool hands settled on his face with firm authority. Jenseny started to move toward them, but Damien saw her and warned her, “No!” There was nothing she could do to help him now. “Stay where you are! Don’t interfere.”

“How very considerate of you,” the Prince murmured.

He tried to look away, but he couldn’t. He tried to shut his eyes, but it was as if his lids had been glued open. The chill blue gaze of his captor drew him in, and its power skewered him like an insect on a mounting board.
Where the hell is he getting the power from?
Damien thought desperately. Then he felt the fire that was pressed against his cheek, the glowing ring that was pouring out tamed earth-fae to fuel the Prince’s Binding.
Like Tarrant’s sword,
Damien thought. Remembering all too well what that sword was like, and what it was capable of doing.

“Tell me about Gerald Tarrant,” the Prince commanded.

Images exploded in his brain, sight and sound and emotion all bound together into a blazing tapestry of memory. The Hunter in his forest. Ciani, helpless in his arms. Rakh dying in agony. Blood. Fear. Revulsion. He shook as the memories poured through him, all the emotion of a long, hard year packed into one terrifying instant. The boy that Tarrant killed. The women he tortured. The horror of knowing that they had to go in and rescue him, that there really was no choice, that the Hunter would live and thrive and feed because of Damien Vryce—

“No,” he gasped. “Stop it, please!”

—and then this journey, this terrible doomed journey, the days and the nights and the battles and the horror and then that moment at the river, that terrible moment when all his hopes came crashing down and he looked at Tarrant and he knew—he knew—it was over, it was all over, their efforts were for nothing and all the dying was a waste, the Hunter had proven true to his nature at last and betrayed them to the enemy—

The power that held him released him suddenly and he slumped back against the bars. Weak and shaken, he shut his eyes. Though he heard the Prince step back from him, he had no strength to look up at him, and no desire. Though he heard the door swing open again, he didn’t even look toward it. It was as if all the life had been wrung out of him along with his memories. It was an effort just to live.

And then the shackles were unlocked and taken from his wrists, and he was free to move. He fell to his knees on the hard stone floor, and felt the child run to his side. He hugged her hard, drawing strength from the contact.

“Thank you,” the Prince said from behind him. “That was most informative.”

He refused to turn around. He refused to acknowledge the taunting words, spoken with an arrogance so like Tarrant’s own. If he did, he would probably try to kill the man, despite the bars and the shackles and his obvious power. His need to strike at Tarrant was that strong, and at that moment the two seemed indistinguishable.

From behind him the Prince was speaking. “That’ll be all, Katassah. No need to leave a guard down here.”

He twisted about suddenly, but they were already moving into the stairway’s shadows. All he could see was the fleeting glint of lamplight on sable-striped fur, long golden strands masking the shoulders of a uniform.

And then they were gone and even that hope was gone—that fragile, nameless hope—and he slumped against the bars of his prison. Wishing he had known earlier. Wondering what the hell he could have done if he had.

“He called him Katassah,” the small girl whispered.

“Yeah.” He leaned back against the bars and shut his eyes. Desperate plans were flitting through his brain, but they all dissolved before they gained substance. “Fat lot of good it does us now,” he muttered.

But deep inside, he wondered.

Dawn was coming.

A lone bird circled high in the darkness. Its talons were like rubies, its eyes as bright as diamonds. Its wingspan was broader than any bird’s wingspan should be, and its feathers were tipped in cool silver unfire.

It banked low, took its bearings, then rose again. Seeking.

In the west a dull light glowed that was neither sun nor starshine. A faint red light that played along the ridge of one mountain, crowning its summit in blood. The bird flew toward it. As it came near the currents grew fierce, so much so that as it struggled to tame the winds to its purpose it must also fight to maintain its chosen form. Even a minute’s relaxation in the vicinity of a volcano could prove fatal to a shapechanger.

It crossed over the ridge, and hot winds buffeted it from below. The coldfire on its wingtips died, and the feathers began to char and curl. It was struggling now as volcano-born thermals rose up from the ground with violent force, sometimes accompanied by a spray of molten rock or hair-fine ash.

At last it could fly no farther, and it landed. Earth-fae swirled hotly about its feet, almost too violent to tame; it took long minutes for it to mold the stuff to its will, to drain it of its intrinsic heat so that it might be Workable. At last, not without fear, it changed. Feathers gave way to flesh, talons to hands, down to clothing. Silken robes were cooked in the process, crisped to ash along the edges. The scabbard of the Worked sword was singed.

Gerald Tarrant looked down the long slope of the volcano, studying the deadly landscape. Not half a mile to the west of him the earth had been rent open, and lava poured red-hot down the mountainside; he could feel its heat on his face even from where he stood, and knew that he dared get no closer if he valued his life. Accompanying the lava was a flood of earth-fae so powerful that only a madman would try to Work it, and it established a current that flowed westward, toward the sea, away from the Prince’s citadel.

Excellent, Tarrant thought.

The Prince had offered him accommodations in his palace, which Tarrant had politely refused. He wasn’t about to spend his most vulnerable hours in the man’s stronghold, alliance or no alliance. So he had put on his wings and headed west, toward the volcano. Let the Prince think that he had done it for privacy. Let him think that Tarrant had chosen this place because the fierce currents would disrupt any Seeing, any Knowing, any attempt on the Prince’s part to discover his daytime hiding place. That was certainly part of the reason, but it was not all. And if the Prince ever knew the rest of it ... then burning currents and molten rock would be the least of Gerald Tarrant’s problems.

The ground trembled beneath him as he knelt on the black earth, and the smell of sulfur drifted to him on a hot breeze. The place reminded him of Mount Shaitan back home, a volatile crater whose outpouring fueled the Forest’s currents. He had made a pilgrimage to it once, to tap that awesome power, and he knew just how deadly a volano’s outpouring could be.