When True Night Falls (45 page)

“I don’t know.” The demon’s tone was miserable. “No one’s ever tried that.”

“Perhaps it’s overdue, then.”

He watched as Karril struggled with himself—with his conscience? —in silence. At last the demon muttered, “What is it you want?”

“I told you. The lifting of the veil that masks what’s in the valley. You don’t have to help me beyond that; just let me see the enemy’s work, and I’ll fight my own battles.”

The demon shut his eyes tightly. “I can’t,” he whispered.

“Karril—”

“I can’t! It’s not my doing. I don’t have the power.”

“But it is a Iezu Working,” the Hunter persisted.

The words came slowly, squeezed out of him one by one. “Yes. That’s why I can’t get involved, don’t you see? We’re forbidden to fight one another.”

“By whom?” Tarrant demanded.

Karril turned away. Staring down into the valley, he whispered. “By the one who created us. Our progenitor.”

“
Progenitor
? Are you telling me that the lezu were
born
?”

The demon nodded.

“That’s impossible. The very definition of a demon—”

“That’s how I understand it,” Karril said quickly. “It’s how we
all
understand it. So maybe we’re wrong. What difference does that make? If we
believe
ourselves to be a family—if we function as if we are—does it change anything to have you question our origin?” He turned back to Tarrant; his voice was shaking. “I’ll tell you another thing. The same force that gave birth to us can kill us, just as quickly. We all know that. And I’m no more anxious to die than you are. Consider this: do the Iezu, being born, have souls that will survive death, or do they simply dissipate into the currents like other demons do? I’m not anxious to find out, Hunter. And I will, if you force me to get involved in this. That’s the truth.”

For a moment there was no sound but the wind, slowly dying. Then the Hunter’s voice, as quiet as the night. “The valley has been cloaked by one of the lezu.”

“Yes.”

“And you can’t dispel his Working.”

The demon shook his head.

“Then offer me an alternative, Karril. I’m desperate, and that means I won’t hesitate to kill you, if necessary. You know that. Tell me what you can do.”

The demon drew in a deep breath, trembling. It was a human gesture, not necessary for either life or speech. His flesh was only an illusion, after all. “I can talk to him. I can ... plead. That’s all.”

“And what are the chances that will work?”

“Very slim,” he admitted. “But if the alternative is open conflict between us ... we’d both die, then.”

“Good. I suggest you remind him of that.”

“And if it doesn’t work?”

The gray eyes narrowed. “That would be unpleasant for both of us, wouldn’t it?”

“There’s an understatement,” the demon muttered.

“Just do that one thing for me. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Do you think you can?” Karril asked sharply.

“What?”

“Destroy him. The one responsible for this. That’s what you intend, isn’t it?”

“Do you think I can’t?”

The demon sighed. “If any other man had asked me that question ... then I would have said no. No human power could defeat him. But you, Hunter? If the years have taught me nothing else, it’s never to underestimate you. And none of your enemies have survived, have they? So who am I to judge the odds against you?”

The Hunter’s expression softened slightly, into something that might almost be called a smile. “You flatter me.”

“Hardly.” But the demon’s expression softened as well, as he bowed his leavetaking.

It would have been hard to define the exact moment at which Karril’s chosen flesh began to fade; one minute he seemed as solid as any natural human, and the next he seemed transparent, so that the distant stars shone through him. A perfect illusion, Tarrant mused. The greatest talent of the Iezu demons—and their most potent weapon.

Before the demon’s form completed its dissolution—when the ruddy flesh and opulent attire had not yet faded into the shadows of the night—Tarrant ventured, “Karril?”

The figure remained as it was, half flesh and half mist. The translucent eyes were curious.

“I’m ... sorry. That it has to be this way.” The words came hard to him; regret was an uncomfortable emotion. “I wish there were an alternative.”

It seemed to him that Karril’s ghost-flesh smiled slightly.

“Yeah,” said the demon. “Same here.”

And as the last of his form dissolved into the night, he whispered, “Take care, old friend.”

The night passed slowly. Tarrant never came. Damien tried hard not to think about what might have happened to him, but images from the past refused to be put down. The Hunter in fire. The Hunter screaming. The Hunter’s flesh in his hands, so charred and tortured that the skin came off when he pulled, displaying smoking red meat....

Maybe.

Demonlings arrived with the night, wispy bits of malevolence that crowded about the bars of their prison like so many starving animals. He worked a simple Repelling to keep them out of the cave itself, but they hung about its border with unnerving persistency. Periodically he had to reinforce his work, and while he did so memories of the quakes of this region ran through his mind. Once there was a slight tremor just after he was done, and he shook for many long minutes afterward. How long could he keep it up before sheer chance defeated him?

Through it all the little girl watched him. She had squeezed back into the farthest corner of the cell, a water-carved alcove so tiny that Damien couldn’t have pried her out if he’d tried. That she was mortally afraid of the priest was obvious; it only took one accidental step in her direction for her to cry out, and try to wedge herself even farther back into the rock. And the accusations she cried out at him!
Your God can’t have me. I won’t bleed for him
. As if the One God would collect children. As if He would hurt them.

But then he remembered the children of the cities, chained up as bait for the faeborn. And the adepts, all the helpless adepts, murdered in their cribs for the crime of being able to See. And all the others there must have been as well, babies who couldn’t See but who seemed a little strange, the children of hysterical parents who were all too ready to sacrifice their own to keep humanity pure ... yes. Whether or not this little girl had suffered at the Church’s hands, she had every right to fear men of his calling.

How terrible. How unthinkable, that the seeds of his faith had garnished such a dark harvest. If he thought about it too long he would surely weep, like he had for so many nights after they’d left Mercia. Secretly, of course. In silence. Such tears were a very private thing.

It’s not just the Church that’s gone wrong here. This whole land is wrong, from start to finish
.

He took out the Fire. Gently, carefully, wary of breaking its container yet again. So little was left. Even in the darkness of the cave it hardly glowed at all, and the creatures who fluttered about the thick wooden grate merely paused to take note of it, then resumed their fluttering. He closed his hand about it, could barely feel its warmth. So much power gone, he mused. So much wasted. If only the faith of those thousands could have been focused where it was needed. Here. If only it could have been used for a Cleansing.

It was Hesseth’s soft hiss that alerted him. He glanced first at the gate, then toward the back of the cave. The girl. She had moved. Crouched forward on all fours, alert as a beleaguered animal, prepared to bolt back to her hole should danger threaten. She froze when he looked at her, but when he didn’t move—he made very sure he didn’t move—she inched forward. Slowly, one hand in front of the other, flexing her weight on her fingers like a stalking predator, her body low to the floor. Her eyes seemed twice as large as they caught the dim Firelight, and amber highlights played along lengths of black, matted hair.

He held himself utterly still as she approached, hardly daring to breathe. When she came within an arm’s length, she reached out to him, slender fingers oh so delicate in the darkness, short nails underscored by dirt. He could see the hunger in her now, sunken cheeks and deep-set eyes half-masked by dirt, the hollows at the base of her neck and the deep channels along her muscles that spoke of weeks of starvation, a body stressed almost beyond endurance. Then the thin fingers stretched out toward his hand, then hesitated; he could see her lower lip trembling.

Slowly, carefully, he opened the hand that held the Fire, until the crystal vial was cradled in his open palm. Only then did she reach out to it, tiny fingers struggling toward its light like a plant seeking the sun. Her index finger made contact, then and she gasped; it took all his self-control not to move toward her, away from her, not to do
something
. But he sensed that any movement on his part might shatter the fragile moment, might send her scuttling back to her muddy den to starve alone in silence once more.

“Damien—” Hesseth whispered, but he shushed her. The girl’s hand closed about the crystal vial. Tiny, and so very fragile; she couldn’t be more than thirteen or fourteen at the most, probably younger. He could feel the girl’s eyes on him, but he didn’t meet them; he sensed that whatever she might read in his expression would only drive her away.

And then she lifted the vial, and took it from him. Small hands clasped tightly about it, bright eyes fixed on its secrets. He thought she moaned softly, but couldn’t tell if it was from pleasure or pain. Or both. By his side Hesseth was crouched tensely, ready to move if the precious vial was threatened. But Damien wasn’t afraid. He knew the power that was in those few drops of moisture, and he was willing to bet that the girl could see it somehow. Or feel it. Or ... something.

Then she knelt in the mud and clasped the vial to her, whispering something too low for Damien to hear. She clutched the Fire to her stomach and doubled over it, her whole body shaking. Sobbing in utter silence; weeping without a sound. His heart went out to her and he nearly moved forward, nearly took her in his arms—but how would she take that? Might it not undo whatever this fragile moment had accomplished? He sat back on his heels and waited, hurting inside. Wanting to help. Daring to do nothing.

And then the shaking ceased. Like an animal she curled up about the Fire, hiding it from sight. Her head, tucked beneath one arm, was invisible. Only her long hair trailed out from the compact bundle, matted black strands mixing with the mud until it was impossible to tell where one began and the other ended. Exhaustion hung about her like a pall of smoke.

After many minutes, Damien dared to move. The girl didn’t stir.

“Asleep?” Hesseth whispered. As she, too, shifted position.

He dared a Working. There was a chance it would awaken her, but he tried to be very careful. He gathered up the earth-fae as though it were the most delicate silk, and bade it weave a picture for his eyes. A Knowing. But what he saw was half as much sound as vision, and a thousand more elements he couldn’t begin to define. A symphony of meaning that he had no way to interpret. No experience.

But one thing was clear and he voiced it. Softly. “She’s sleeping. Peacefully.”

There were songs on the hillside, glorious songs of sunlight and optimism and energy, the endless music of faith. She could see them arrayed along the gentle slope, warriors whose armor gleamed Coregolden in the light of noon, soldiers whose banners were strung with bits of glass so that as they moved their standards sparkled, and as the wind beat on the richly woven cloth there was the sound of bells, of sparkling water, a thousand glassy chimes that rang out the song of God’s One Faith across the Darklands. Young men, old men, women astride their horses, soldier-priests so young they were nearly children
—
all helmeted in silver and gold and pennanted in brilliant silks, lining up for battle. The very air about them rang with their faith, their sacrifice, their passion. The very daylight was a song of triumph.