When True Night Falls (64 page)

“He said,” she whispered slowly, “that if a few of them came north—only a few—that maybe the Matrias would get scared. Maybe they would see how much danger there was and do something about it.”

“Controlled invasion,” Tarrant said quietly. “He must have gambled that an attack on his Protectorate would motivate the northern cities into providing a more stalwart defense. Or perhaps even an offense. Perhaps he wanted to force a true war here and now, before the south was ready for it.”

“Either way he failed,” Damien said bitterly. “How could he know that his country was already controlled by the enemy? All they needed was a place to start the invasion proper ... and he provided that.”

“He didn’t want to hurt anyone,” the girl whispered. Hesseth moved closer to her, and with a gentle arm drew her close. “He said he had made a good deal with the Prince, and everything was going to be all right....”

“As it should have been,” Damien assured her. “But evidently our enemy doesn’t keep to his bargains.” He reached out gently and took one of the child’s hands in his. Her skin was damp, and cool to the touch. “We understand what your father was trying to do. And it wasn’t his fault that it didn’t work, Jenseny. We’re not blaming him for what happened.” He wished that the fae was Workable here so that he might give the words extra weight, extra power. As it was, he had only his voice for a tool, and limited physical contact. “He went south, didn’t he, Jenseny? He went and met with the Prince to arrange all this. Did he tell you about that? Did he tell you what he saw there?”

The girl hesitated. After a moment she nodded.

“Can you tell us about it?” When she still didn’t answer, he encouraged her, “Anything you can remember.”

“Please,
kasa
,” Hesseth murmured.

The girl drew in a deep breath, shivering. “He said that the Prince of the south never dies. He said that the Prince is very, very old, but you can’t see it because he makes his body young again whenever he needs to. He said that he’ll do it again soon. He’ll make his body young, but he’ll also make it different so that he looks like a different person every time, but he’s really still the same.” She looked up nervously at Damien, desperately seeking reassurance. The priest nodded, even as he hoped that Tarrant was absorbing these facts. Of all of them, the Neocount was the most likely to understand the Prince’s Workings.

“Go on,” he urged gently.

“He said ... that’s how the Prince keeps his power.” She glanced up at Tarrant, then shivered and looked quickly away. “He can be all different kinds of people, so all kinds of people obey him. Even the rakh.”

Hesseth hissed softly, but said nothing. It was up to Damien to prompt the girl, “Tell us about the rakh.”

She hesitated. “They’re like people, but they aren’t really people. They have marks on their faces, here.” She ran a finger up along her forehead, then down again. Paint? Tattoos? Or animal markings? Damien glanced over to Hesseth, wondering. Did the original rakh have markings like that, before the fae humanized them? If not, was it possible their foreign brethren did? But Hesseth shook her head ever so slightly, indicating that she had no helpful information. Damn.

“Do the rakh obey the Prince?” he asked Jenseny.

She hesitated, then nodded. “Most of them. Because one time he made himself into a rakh, so they act like he’s one of them. Not really one of them, because he’s human now, but ... kind of half-and-half.”

“Which explains a lot,” Tarrant said quietly. “Few rakh would accept the authority of a true human.”

“But how could he become a rakh?” Hesseth said sharply. She looked up at Tarrant. “Is that possible?”

The Hunter mulled over her question for a long minute before answering. “One could shapeshift into that form,” he said at last. “Although such a change would be difficult to maintain, and also dangerous. But there is an easier way.”

It took Damien a moment to catch his drift. “Illusion?”

He nodded. “Just so.”

“But ... that perfect? That lasting?”

“A mere human couldn’t do it,” he agreed. “But remember, there are other forces involved here.”

The priest whispered it: “Iezu.”

The Hunter nodded; his expression was grim.

“Would they be willing to do that? Maintain an illusion for so many years—generations, it sounds like—just to keep one man in power? Do the Iezu do things like that?”

“Not usually. One must therefore assume that if they did, they are being well paid for it.”

“Or well
fed
,” Damien muttered.

The Hunter nodded. “Precisely.”

Either the girl had picked up enough details of their business here to understand what they were discussing, or the sheer grimness of their tone must have frightened her; Hesseth felt her stiffen, and she tightened her arm about the girl protectively. Sharp claws flexed in their sheaths, as if ready to do battle with her fears.

“Tell us about the rakh,” she urged softly.

She shut her eyes, trying to remember. “He said ... they don’t like the sunlight. Most of them. I think. He said that they called themselves the
People of the Night.
”

“Not surprising,” Hesseth noted. “Our common ancestors were nocturnal creatures.”

“But your cousins in Lema were truly nightbound,” Tarrant reminded her. “So much so that they were taken for real demons, and when they were exposed to sunlight it killed them, as certainly as it would kill any ghoul or vampire. I doubt that your ancestors would have suffered such a fate.”

“No native species is that sensitive,” she said quietly.

“Of course not. Nature may be quixotic, but she isn’t stupid. It takes a human mind to sculpt such a deadly weakness, and human motivation to bind it to a thriving species.”

“But why?” Damien demanded. “If they’re his servants, why disable them? And if they’re his enemies, why stop there?”

“Maybe he’s not done with them yet,” the Hunter suggested.

Damien was about to say something more when the galley door swung open suddenly. The tall, lean figure of the ship’s owner came into view feet first as he descended the short staircase into the galley.

“Feeling a need for heat, are you?” Moskovan grinned as he made his way toward the coffee pot. “You’ll be glad to know we’re out of the dreamsea at last. No more obstacles between us and Freeshore except a few well-charted islands and maybe the occasional spring storm.”

He pulled down a wooden cup from its hook and poured the thick coffee into it. The cup was halfway to his lips before Damien fully registered what he said.

“Freeshore? I thought we were heading toward Hellsport.”

Moskovan glanced at Tarrant. A brief communication seemed to flash between them, subtle and wordless. “That was the original plan, yes. But Mer Tarrant and I’ve discussed things, and we decided on a course adjustment. Freeshore’ll get you where you’re going much sooner.”

“And just where are we going?” Damien demanded.

It was Tarrant who answered him, his voice as level and cool as always. “Freeshore offers access to the Black Lands, and thus the Prince’s domain.”

Damien stared at him. “Are you out of your vulking mind? The
last
place we want to be is on the Prince’s doorstep.”

Moskovan chuckled. “Oh, it’s hardly that.”

“And who gives you the right to alter our course just like that? Without asking anyone, or even telling us?”

“You were occupied,” Tarrant responded coolly. “It was left to me to arrange the details—”

“Bullshit.”

With a dry smile Moskovan drained the rest of his coffee and put the mug back on its peg. “I’ll leave you alone to work this out.” As he walked past Tarrant, he said to him, “Let me know if you need me.”

When he was gone, and the thick door had swung closed behind him, Damien demanded, “What the vulk is going on here?”

Tarrant shrugged. “Mer Moskovan suggested an alternate route. It seemed reasonable to me.”

“Don’t you think you should have consulted us?”

“You weren’t there at the time.”

He somehow managed to keep his fury out of his voice. It took a hellish effort. “All right. So tell us about it now.”

In answer he took a folded map out of his tunic pocket, came to where they sat, and laid it out on the table before them. It was folded so that the Sea of Dreams was at the top, with the slender mass of the southern continent visible beneath it.

He gave them a moment to get their bearings by finding Hellsport, at the northernmost tip of the continent. Then he indicated a point some hundred miles farther down the coast, marked by a large star and far bolder lettering. FREESHORE, it proclaimed. HUMAN CAPITAL.

“Where’d you get this?” Damien muttered. “No, don’t answer that. Moskovan, of course.” He perused the detailed map, so obviously of southern manufacture, noting that the same river which ran through the Black Lands made its mouth at Freeshore. Which meant that any trade ship supplying the Black Lands would use that river for access. Which meant that for all there were nearly a hundred miles between Freeshore and the Black Lands, in terms of travel the one was indeed as good as on the doorstep of the other.

“And you thought this was a good idea?” he said sharply.

“I thought it had its merits.”

“Did you?” he demanded. “Did you really?” He pushed his chair back and stood. It was easier to speak that way, now that he was angry. There were some things you couldn’t say cramped into a small chair behind a smaller table. “Let me make one thing clear to you, Tarrant. The
last
thing I want to do is march into this man’s stronghold before we even know who he is, what he is, or what the vulk he’s doing here. You understand that? You may have forced that strategy on us in the rakhlands by getting yourself captured, but I’m damned if I’m going to chance it again. We’ve got the luxury of time and distance this time around, so let’s use a little caution, all right? Lema wasn’t all that pleasant an experience that I’m anxious to repeat it.”

He said it quietly, in a voice as smooth and as chill as ice. “You don’t understand all the variables, priest—”

“The hell I don’t!” he snapped. “What about the currents? In Hellsport they’d be running north—straight from the Prince’s domain to us. An ideal situation on every front. In Freeshore we’d be off to the west, which means we’d have to work that much harder to Know the enemy, while he wouldn’t have to work nearly as hard to get at us.” When the Hunter said nothing he demanded, “Well? Isn’t that worth something?”

“Of course it is,” he said evenly. “And don’t you think our enemy’s aware of it? Don’t you think he gets news from the north—directly from the Matrias, most likely—and therefore knows every detail of our flight across that nation? Including our departure from Esperanova, priest. You think about that. You think about what it means to head straight for the one place he’d most expect us to land. And then if you can come up with a good argument for landing there anyway, let me know. I’d be interested in hearing it.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. At last Damien turned away.

“Shit.” He sat down heavily. “You should have said something. You should have told us.”

“I apologize for that,” the Neocount said evenly. “If it’s any consolation, I would have much preferred the Hellsport landing. We could have made that port soon after midnight, but as for Freeshore....” He shrugged; the gesture seemed strangely artificial. “That’ll take longer.”

“Will we make it by dawn?”

“If not, there are enough hidden corners on this vessel to shelter me. I made sure of that before I committed us to this voyage.”

Damien looked over at Hesseth; her expression was grim, but she nodded slightly. “All right,” he muttered. Rubbing his forehead as if it pained him. “We’ll do it your way. But from now on we’re in this together, you understand? No more bargains struck behind our backs. No more surprises.”

“Of course.” The Hunter bowed ever so slightly. It was a polished gesture, precisely executed. It made Damien want to strangle him. “And I assure you, this is the better course. For all of us.”

“Yeah,” Damien muttered. Closing his eyes again. Trying hard not to think about the future. “We’ll see.”

Jenseny slept.

Jenseny dreamt.