When True Night Falls (52 page)

“Most of the Iezu never take on human form. Most of them never appear to humans in any shape at all, or interact with them except in the course of feeding. It’s doubtful if their victims are even aware of their existence. But a few, skilled in the arts of illusion, create bodies and voices and mannerisms with which to communicate, and seem to delight in human-style intercourse. The first of these appeared in the early fourth century, and more followed soon after. In my library back home I have files on nearly three dozen, and that’s by no means a final figure. None have ever died that we know of.

“If I assumed that you knew of them—” and here he was speaking to Damien, “—it was because so many sorcerers do. The lady Ciani consulted several, and when an enemy’s attack robbed her of her facilities it was a Iezu who tried to help her.”

“Karril,” Damien recalled. “I think that was the name.”

Tarrant nodded. “Perhaps the very first of his kind; certainly one of the oldest. Karril is worshiped as a god in some regions, as many of the Iezu are; their nature makes them particularly compatible with that role. And he seems to enjoy interaction with adepts, which not all of them do. I, too, have relied on him for information. Sometimes even for guidance.”

“You would trust a demon?”

“The Iezu aren’t common demons, Reverend Vryce. Many pride themselves on their interaction with man. And even when they feed, they don’t take anything from man that can’t be replenished. Their hunger is for emotional energy, and they seem to be able to feed off that without weakening their prey. In fact, the bond between Iezu and human can even intensify the emotional experience for both.”

“Karril was worshiped as a god of pleasure, wasn’t he?”

Tarrant nodded. “And the men and women who couple in his temples not only feed him with their passion, but draw on him for intensification of their pleasure. It’s a true symbiosis between man and the faeborn—or as close to one as Erna is capable of providing.”

“So what’s the catch?” the priest demanded. “There has to be one, or the whole damn planet would have set up Iezu shrines.”

“A lot of them have, Reverend Vryce. Of the ninety-six pagan churches in Jaggonath, more than forty are dedicated to Iezu. Not that they know it, of course. The lady Ciani was trying to catalog them when events ...
distracted
her.

“As for the ‘catch,’ it’s both simple and deadly. Obsession. Addiction. Dependency. And not all of the Iezu hunger after pleasant emotions. Some lust after varieties of pain, and bond themselves to men and women who delight in self-torture; others have needs so complex or abstract that their victims expend all their vital energy trying to define just what it is they hunger for. Obsession can kill, remember that, and even when it doesn’t, it always deforms its victims. That’s the price of a true Iezu bond, for those who choose to embrace it.”

“So why would a sorcerer chance it?” Damien asked. “Surely they understand the risk.”

“Some think they can handle it. Some see it as a challenge. Most—like myself—perceive in the Iezu a valuable tool. Those who are willing to appear in human form—perhaps a tenth of their total number—are eloquent, sophisticated, and often amiable in nature. They have considerable knowledge about demonkind in general, and can tap sources of information that humans have no access to. And they recognize their own dependence upon humankind. That’s what really sets them apart from common demons: they may feed on man, they may delight in seducing him into symbiotic bondage, but in the end they do recognize that it is they who will be the losers if humankind fails to thrive.”

“So what does it mean that our enemy is Iezu?” Hesseth demanded. “To us, and to this mission?”

“You’ve seen it for yourself,” he said quietly. “The one power that all the Iezu have. The skill that defines their kind.”

It took Damien a minute to realize what he meant. “Illusion.”

The Hunter nodded.

“You mean those children—” Hesseth began.

“Illusion. That’s all it was. That’s all it had to be. The Iezu have no other power than that. But isn’t that enough?” he demanded. “A Iezu cloaked the valley so thoroughly that all my sorcery couldn’t see through his work. The children rotted to pieces even as they worshiped their Iezu patron, unable to see the truth of their own flesh.”

“You saw through it,” Hesseth challenged.

He turned to look at her. “I bargained with a Iezu for that right,” he said quietly. “Which may not work again. We would do well not to count on it.”

“Still,” said Damien, “If they have no power beyond that—”

“Don’t underestimate the danger of illusion,” Tarrant warned. “Remember the power of human belief. In the rakhlands I was captured by an enemy who wielded sunlight against me. Was that real or illusory? In that moment I believed it, and so it burned me. It could have killed me. We’re not talking about some parlor conjuration, which you can Banish with a little concentration, but a total warping of natural perception, manipulated by an enemy who knows its power. And you can bet he’ll use it carefully, in circumstances where we aren’t prepared to resist. It was surprise as much as anything which defeated me in the rakhlands.”

“So is it this Calesta who’s one of them?” Hesseth asked. “Is he your Iezu demon?”

The Hunter’s expression darkened. “Most likely. And we can expect him to be allied to some powerful human, as he was in the rakhlands. That’s not uncommon with demons in general, but it’s standard operating procedure for the Iezu.” Something dark seemed to flicker in the back of his eyes then, something cold and uncertain. Whatever it was, he didn’t choose to share it. “It will make our campaign more difficult,” he said quietly, “and far more dangerous.”

“You sound afraid,” Damien challenged him.

The Hunter hesitated. “Maybe I am. Maybe we all should be. If you told me that I would have to face a horde of demons unarmed, with nothing but my Workings to support me, I would be reasonably confident that my power was up to the challenge. But the Iezu? No man has ever killed one. I wonder now if any man has ever controlled one. Many of the laws of demonkind seem to be suspended in that family, which means that the techniques mankind has developed for dealing with such threats may well be inoperative here. Isn’t that reason enough to fear?”

“What about the atrocities we’ve seen?” Hesseth asked him. “Do you think this Calesta’s responsible?”

Tarrant seemed to hesitate. “Without knowing exactly what emotion he feeds upon, I couldn’t answer that. But my instinct says no. Not him alone. When a Iezu feeds, there’s usually a clear pattern. An emotional theme, if you will. I don’t see that here.”

“What about pain?” Hesseth demanded. “What if he fed on human suffering? Wouldn’t that explain a lot of what we’ve seen?”

“Pain may indeed be part of it,” he agreed. “But it isn’t enough. The inhabitants of the Proctectorates were suffering, but what about those in the northern cities? Except for a few frightened children, those regions were remarkably peaceful. No, if a Iezu were responsible, his mark would be visible there also.”

“What about degradation?” Damien offered. “You mentioned that as a pattern.”

“Yes—but rakh were also affected. The Iezu can’t feed on the rakh—or any other native species—so why waste effort corrupting them? No, it has to be something else. Possibly something that reflects Calesta’s human alliance.”

“You know for a fact that he’s allied with someone?”

A strange, dark emotion flickered in the depths of the Hunter’s eyes. “I think it’s likely,” he said quietly. “And why not? He served a human master in the rakhlands; why not do the same here? In time such a human would have no choice but to serve the demon who had bonded with him, regardless of their original relationship....”

His voice faded into the night, into silence. For a moment he shut his eyes.

“No human being who accepted such a bond could ever be free,” he said softly. “He might think that he was, but that would be just another illusion. There is no surer way to lose one’s soul than to ally oneself with a Iezu demon.”

Something in his tone made the hair on Damien’s neck start to rise. He was about to say something—more to break the mood than to question the man—when a rustling behind him reminded him suddenly that they were no longer a party of three.

He saw Tarrant’s eyes shoot open as he turned back toward the tent, and he could feel the chill of the Hunter’s scrutiny on his back. He hoped that Jenseny didn’t see it as she stood at the edge of the firelight her dark hair haloed by fog.

“I heard voices,” she said weakly. Her dark eyes flickered toward Tarrant, then away again quickly. As if she feared even to look at him. “You said we’d leave when it was dark, and it looked dark, so I came out....”

“Quite all right,” Tarrant said softly. His tone was like velvet, silken and cool. “Come to the fire. Sit down. Join us.”

Damien whipped about to confront him, but the Hunter didn’t meet his eyes. Instead his gaze remained fixed on the girl. As she walked somewhat slowly to a place by the fire, and gradually lowered herself to the earth, her eyes rose to meet his own. She seemed to be trembling.

“If you hurt her—” Hesseth began.

“Shhh.” He was utterly still, utterly focused. The power pouring forth from him was palpable. “I know what I’m doing. Our guest has nothing to fear if she cooperates with us. You know that, don’t you, Jenseny?” “

The girl nodded dully. There was a flicker of panic in the back of her eyes. Her breathing was slow and heavy.

“You have no right!” Damien protested.

“I have the right of one who’s risking his life on this miserable quest—and I’ll not let you get in my way, priest, I warn you.” He leaned forward slowly, his eyes still fixed on the girl. “She won’t be hurt. Not if she obeys me. She understands that. Don’t you, Jenseny?”

The girl nodded slowly. Something glistened in the corner of the eye nearest Damien. A tear? He ached inside to help her, but was afraid to interfere. He had seen Tarrant’s power work often enough to know that trying to break in now would put the girl at risk. Behind him he could hear Hesseth hissing softly, and he knew that she had come to the same conclusion. He could only guess how much it was costing her.

Damn you, Tarrant. Damn you for what you put us through. Damn you for what you force us to condone
.

Helpless, bitter, he watched while the girl’s eyes glazed over, her mind consumed by Tarrant’s hypnotic power. And he remembered all those other times that he’d had to sit back and do nothing while innocent souls were forced to submit to that malignant will. Senzei. Ciani. A frightened rakhene girl. Now this fragile child. His heart ached to see the fear in her eyes, to imagine the terror that was in her soul.

“If you feed on one drop of her fear,” he muttered, “so help me God, I’ll rip out your heart with my bare hands.”

Though the cold silver eyes remained focused on the girl, a hint of a smile curled those thin lips. “Now now, priest. No need to get violent. Everything’s under control ... isn’t it, Jenseny?”

The girl trembled, said nothing.

“You are so very relaxed,” Tarrant told the girl. His low voice musical in the darkness, rich with silken malevolence. “So very safe. Isn’t that right?”

The girl hesitated before nodding. Damien’s heart twisted.

“No one’s going to hurt you. No one’s going to hurt you at all. The things you fear are far away, and we’re here to protect you. No reason to be afraid. No reason at all.”

A tear squeezed from the girl’s left eye. She said nothing.

“Reverend Vryce told me you were afraid to talk to us. But there’s no reason to be afraid, is there? Because we can protect you. We can keep you safe.”

The girl was still. Her face was drained of color.

“You want to talk to us, don’t you? Because that would help us protect you. That would help us keep the things you fear away from you.”

She shook her head stiffly, fearfully: No.

“You want to talk to us,” he insisted, and Damien could sense the power behind his words. The raw force that towered like a wave over his cool, even pronouncements. He wondered if she could see it, if that was why she was so afraid. What were the parameters of her special vision?

“Go easy,” he whispered to Tarrant.

If the Hunter heard him, he gave no sign of it. With increasing firmness he told the girl, “You want to tell us what you know. You want to tell us what your father said about the rakh. About the place they came from. You want to tell us everything.”

Beads of cold sweat broke out on the girl’s forehead. She shook her head again, more weakly this time. Clearly she was losing ground.

The Hunter’s eyes narrowed. Though his voice was carefully controlled, Damien could sense the growing impatience behind it.
Talk to him, Jenseny. Please. Tell him what he wants to know. It’s the only safe course
.

“Tarrant.” It was Hesseth. “Maybe you’d better—”

“She’ll talk,” he snapped. “Secrecy is a luxury in times like these, one we can’t afford. She needs to understand what will happen if she
doesn’t
help us, and then the words will come.”

Sensing his intention—its tenor if not its form—Damien lunged forward toward the girl. Not quickly enough. The Hunter’s power engulfed her like a whirlwind, and she screamed—a shrill, terrible sound. As Damien reached out for her, he Worked his vision so that he could see what Tarrant was doing, what vision he had conjured for her eyes to see—

And he was back in the village, where the slaughter had taken place. No. He was back in the village
while
the slaughter was taking place. Dark figures coursed the blood-soaked streets, holding parts of human bodies aloft like trophies. Arms. Legs. Entrails. The screams that came from the houses were deafening, broken only by the beast-like howls of the invaders as they gloried in their gruesome indulgence. Then the scene shifted, as the Hunter’s Knowing focused his vision even more finely: he was seeing the inside of the meeting hall now, where a man and a woman had been nailed to the floor, and two of the invaders moved forward with blades that were clearly intended for disemboweling—