When True Night Falls (82 page)

“Neocount Merentha.” The Prince’s eyes were a cool blue, Tarrant noted, his expression not hostile but guarded. “What a rare honor it is to welcome such a guest. Your reputation precedes you.”

He bowed ever so slightly, a flawless blend of respect and wariness. Aware that his every move was being watched, his every expression studied and judged, he responded formally. “The honor is mine, your Highness.”

“I regret that your journey here could not have been more pleasant.” He moved toward the table; ringed fingers closed about the stem of a goblet. “May I offer you some refreshment to wash away the dust of the road?” He extended the cup toward him.

He came close enough that he might catch the scent which wafted forth from its contents, then accepted the cup from the Prince’s hand. For an instant their fingers touched, and while a lesser man might have used such contact to probe his true intentions, the Prince’s touch was utterly neutral. As was his, of course. They were both being infinitely careful.

He raised the goblet to his lips and breathed in its bouquet. Sweet and fresh and warm to the touch; body temperature? He took a ritual sip, bracing himself against the hunger it awakened, and then put the goblet down. Carefully steady, artfully disinterested.

“Weak vintage?” the Prince asked. Smiling slightly.

With studied nonchalance he shrugged. “Disembodied blood is a convenience, not a pleasure. But I thank you for the thought.”

“I thought you might be hungry after days in my wasteland. But you wouldn’t admit that in front of me, would you? Not even if you were starving.”

“Would you, in my place?”

“Hardly.” He chuckled. “We’re very much alike, you and I. If we can ever learn to trust each other enough to work together, it will be quite an alliance.”

“I’ll admit that the potential intrigues me.”

“And the promise of godhood, eh? No small reward for a simple betrayal.”

“If you think it was simple,” the Hunter said quietly, “then perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think.”

The blue eyes sparkled coldly. “You know I have the priest and the girl in custody.”

Tarrant shrugged.

“They mean nothing to you?”

“You know why I came here. You know what I want.”

For a moment he said nothing. Then: “Calesta.”

“Calesta.”

The Prince’s expression tightened. “Calesta’s been my servant for years. He helped me build this kingdom, and was instrumental in planning our invasion of the Church lands—”

“And the death by torture of several hundred humans.”

“Does that bother you?”

“I despise waste.”

“The Iezu aren’t like other demons. They do their best work when you give them free rein. Who am I to complain about his methods, when I stand to gain so much from them? Or you, for that matter?”

“You intend to protect him, then?”

“I intend for you to be an honored guest here. Stay in my realm, see with your own eyes what part he plays here. I suspect that your feelings will change.”

“And if they don’t?”

The Prince’s gaze was intense. “A Iezu is born every hour, it’s said. A man like yourself ... once in a lifetime. If that. I made my choice when I invited you here.”

He turned to the rakh and muttered. “Go get her.” With military precision the maned guard bowed and left. The doorway was somewhere behind the prince, but Tarrant never saw it; one minute the rakh was yards away and the next he was gone, as though he had stepped into another dimension.

The Prince’s gaze followed Tarrant’s own; he smiled. “The joy of this arrangement is that one can be fully protected without that protection being visible.”

“I never doubted that,” Tarrant assured him.

“It’s all natural, you know.” He placed a loving hand on the nearest column, fingers stroking the glassy surface with obvious affection. “I accelerated the process a million times over—redirected it a bit—but in the end it was Nature that did the work. A far more creative architect than man will ever be.”

“An exquisite piece of work,” the Hunter agreed. “What about the volcanoes?”

“What about them?”

“You’re sitting on a lava plain. Where I come from that’s considered quite a risk. Or have you learned how to tame magma?”

The Prince chuckled.
“Taming
it is hardly necessary, Neocount. One need merely keep certain vents open, occasionally drain off a little gas here or there ... it’s little enough effort to see that the lava flows west instead of east, and does so in a civilized manner. Ah. But I forget.” His gaze was piercing. “You have no dominion over fire, do you? Or anything that fire touches?”

Inwardly the Hunter stiffened; outwardly he managed—just barely—not to let it show. “Don’t underestimate me,” he warned.
Or bait me.

The Prince smiled coldly. “I have no intention of it.”

Footsteps approached. Crystal walls shifted. The rakh had returned, and with him was a woman. No, not a woman: a girl. Slender and dark and very frightened. Deliciously frightened.

“Permit me,” the Prince said, “to offer you the hospitality of my house.” He walked to the girl’s side and cupped a hand under her chin, turning her face toward Tarrant. Her eyes were wide, her lips trembling. “As befits a guest of your station: the best my realm has to offer.”

For a moment he was still. Then, very slowly, he walked to where the girl stood. Her fear was like a fine wine, its bouquet intoxicating. Hunger welled up inside him with stunning force.

“I’m told you like them pale, but I’m afraid that’s a rare commodity in these parts. All the rest should be proper.”

He put out a hand to touch her cheek, so very gently; terror flowed sweetly through the contact. It took everything he had not to shut his eyes and savor the sensation.

“She pleases?” the Prince asked.

“Very much so,” he whispered.

“You can hunt her in the Black Lands if you like. It lacks the conveniences of your own Forest, of course, but I think it will please you. Unless you would rather just take her here.”

He forced himself to release the girl’s face; he could still feel her warmth on his fingertips. “No,” he breathed. “Let her run.”

The Prince nodded toward the rakh, who drew the girl away. She was clearly so frightened it was hard for her to walk, and her eyes were bright with tears. Exquisite.

When she was gone, when he and the Prince were alone once more, he said quietly, “She’s one of your people.” A question.

The monarch smiled. “And you’re my guest. And I feed my guests, Neocount, as their nature demands. Enjoy her. There are more where she came from—thousands more, if our alliance prospers. Not to mention all the innocents of the northern realms.” He chuckled darkly. “All gods require their sacrifices, Neocount. Why should you be an exception?”

He could feel her presence calling to him from beyond the crystal walls. Sweet, so very sweet. How long had it been since he had last hunted? The deaths of invaders were nothing compared to this. The nightmares of a priest hardly served as appetizer.

“Go on,” the Prince said softly. “Enjoy her. We can talk business tomorrow night. Or after. We have so much time, my friend. Endless time. Why rush things? Enjoy.”

Running. She was running. He could sense the motion, the fear. It awakened old instincts, too long denied. He burned to go after her, to take her, to kill.

First things first. Gestures. Ritual. He bowed in the way his era had taught, when kings and princes and their noble cohorts still roamed the planet in numbers enough that such gestures need be codified; the Prince’s nod said that he understood the maneuver in all its subtle refinement.

The rakh had returned, and though he kept a respectful distance, Tarrant could sense him studying him. Assessing him as a possible threat? If so, he had his work cut out for him.

“Among men such as ourselves,” he said quietly—with only a hint of warning in his voice—“a Knowing must be considered an invasion of privacy, and hence a hostile act. I would hate for anything like that to compromise our newfound fellowship, your Highness.”

“Indeed,” the Prince said coolly. “I think we understand each other.” He nodded solemnly. “Good hunting, Neocount.”

When he was gone—when the curtains of illusion had swung shut behind him, a barrier to sight and sound—the rakh asked, “Do you trust him?”

“Trust isn’t an issue,” the Prince said coolly.

“Will you Know him, then?”

He shook his head. “You heard what he said. That would be tantamount to a declaration of war.”

“Then how can you make sure of him?”

He stroked the side of the silver goblet gently; the warmed blood within it trembled.

“There are other ways of getting information,” he assured his captain.

The drug was wearing off, at last. Damien could see again. The edges of his world were coming into focus, black and sharp and hostile. He could speak if he wanted to. Language was no longer disconnected from thought, so that every word was a struggle for meaning, every sentence a herculean effort. He could
think.

With a moan he tried to sit up; to his amazement his body responded. It seemed a small eternity ago that the Prince’s drug had robbed him of every mental capacity he held dear; in his more lucid moments he had feared that it would never wear off, that the prince had crippled him as one might cut off the claws from a hunting cat, or clip the wings of a captive bird. Only this was a hundred times, a thousand times more horrible. There was no way to keep a man from Working, he understood that now. All you could do was scramble his brain enough that any organized activity—including Working—was impossible.

Jenseny must have seen him stir, for she came to his side and tried to help him up. Not that she could have lifted his bulk, but the support was welcome. “I’m okay,” he whispered hoarsely, and he put his arm around the girl. His wrists burned from where the shackles had cut into them, and instinctively he Worked his vision so that he could begin to Heal them. Or tried to. But there was barely enough power to transform his sight, so that he might see for himself how totally inadequate the currents were for his purpose. For any purpose.

“Underground?” he whispered.

“Pretty deep,” the girl told him. “He said you’d understand why.”

“Who did?”

“The rakh.”

He struggled for memory, dimly recalled striped markings and a long, full mane. Green eyes, perhaps. Any more than that was unavailable, lost in the mists and veils that the drug had conjured. He wondered what other memories had been lost as well.

“Tell me about it,” he prompted her. “Tell me what happened.”

She did so. As she talked, he studied the space they were in: the thick iron bars, the solid walls, the all but nonexistent earth-fae. No hope, not anywhere. The Prince knew who and what he was dealing with and he had planned their imprisonment well. Until someone unlocked that door, Damien and the girl weren’t going anywhere.

“There’s food,” Jenseny said. She seemed strangely proud, as if somehow the food was of her making, but he lacked the strength to question her about it. How long had he been trapped in that terrible half-sleep, his body starving while his mind struggled for control? Hunger, once acknowledged, was a sharp pain in his gut. He took the food she held out to him—sandwiches, no less!—and gratefully wolfed them down. Followed by clean water, which she also provided. Good enough, he thought. At least the bastard wasn’t going to starve them.

“Is he going to kill us?” the girl asked him suddenly.

He looked down at her, reached out to stroke her hair gently with his hand. His hands and nails were encrusted with dirt, and his clothing likewise; Tarrant would have been disgusted. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “Does it make you afraid, thinking that he might?”

She bit her lower lip as she considered. “Would I be with my dad, then? Wherever he is,” she amended quickly, Not yet confident enough to assume him into the One God’s heaven.

“I’m sure of it,” he whispered. They were words that had to be said; he wondered if they were true. What would happen to this precious child when the end came, where her soul was free to ride the currents of Erna? The One God took care of his Own, it was said, and she was hardly a member of His flock. What happened to those who embraced no god, who gave no thought to an afterlife, but simply lived from birth to death in the best way they knew how? In a world where faith could create gods and demons, where prayers could sculpt heaven and hell, what happened to those who gave no thought to the moment after death, who made no provision for dying?

With a sigh he made his way over to a low pot set in a far corner of the cell, and, after ascertaining that it was indeed what he had guessed it to be, he relieved himself of the day’s accumulated pressure. His urine was dark and murky and smelled strangely sour; he hoped to God that was due to the drug passing out of his system and not some more ominous sign. All he needed now was for his body to fail him.