Black Sun Rising (41 page)

It was good to be in a city again, surrounded by live human beings. Good to be in whitewashed rooms inside brick buildings, with bright quilt coverlets on modern beds and thin curtains that failed to block out all of the glorious, wonderful sunlight. Good to be surrounded by the bustle of human activity once more—even if it meant that getting to sleep was a little bit harder for all the noise. Not to mention the sunlight.

It was good for a few hours. Only that. By the time the sun set they were anxious to move again, and when Gerald Tarrant finally rejoined them there was almost an air of relief about the party.

We want to be there,
Damien thought.
We want to get it done.

They rode east. Soon Sheva gave way to open ground, the floor of the Raksha Valley. They found the river Lethe and followed it southeast, through some dozen small settlements that had been established along its banks. When they needed a break, they ate real food in real restaurants. While Tarrant watched silently, delicately sipping a glass of fresh blood, or—if that was lacking—a northern wine. What he did for his main sustenance, in the short time after each sunset that he assigned to his own needs, Damien had no desire to know. But during the day he dreamed of a thousand possibilities and often awoke in a cold sweat, his hand groping for his sword, aware that he had just witnessed some terrible dreambound atrocity, and that Tarrant was the cause. And he wondered how much longer he could be the cause of that man coming to his region, without feeling responsible for the human suffering that must be littering their trail in the Hunter’s wake.

And then they came to it. A small city encircling a tiny harbor, whose business was not in trade so much as tourism. Sattin: close enough to the rakhland border that on a clear day it was possible to gaze out across the Serpent and see the jagged cliffs guarding that secret land and—just possibly—the curtain of power that protected it. The city overflowed with tourists, even in this harsh season, who had paid good money and traveled many days in the hopes of seeing what one pamphlet described as
the last bastion of native power.
Which it wasn’t, by any strict definition of
native,
or even bastion. But the phrase made good press.

There were sorcerors here, enough to populate a minor colony on their own, and as a record of their presence they left headlines splashed in bold print across the gray of cheap northern paper:
Southern Sorc Feeds the Serpent: Suicide or Sacrifice? Sorceress finds Hunter’s Mark Carved on Bedpost
. And, inevitably,
The Ghost of Casca is Back—Local Sorceror Reveals the Terrifying Truth
. Their advertisements lined the streets, and filled the windows of shops and taverns. Offers to
Share a Seeing,
boat rides to
Take you close enough to touch the Canopy,
and
Seer Reads the Future
—
Reasonable Rates.

If Sattin’s tasteless commercialization of the rakhland’s defense system amused Damien, it seemed to irritate Gerald Tarrant no end. Either that, or something else was eating at the nightbound adept. More than once he snapped at Damien in a manner unbefitting his normally smooth demeanor; once the priest thought he even saw an emotion flash in those quicksilver eyes that might have been fear, or something akin to it—but the expression was gone so quickly, and was so out of character for the Hunter they had come to know, that in the end he decided he’d been mistaken. What was there in a place like this for the Hunter to fear?

It was while they were sampling what passed for dinner in one of the city’s many restaurants—overpriced fare with no pretensions of quality, hardly preferable to their own dried traveling rations—that Tarrant went seeking a vessel to take them to the rakhland’s rocky shoreline. It took him a surprisingly long time, given his past record with such things, and several dismal courses had come and gone before he returned to join them.

“They’re cowards, all,” he informed them. “Ready to risk the Canopy’s edge for a handful of tourist gold, but ask them to sail through it....” His fingers tapped the tabletop as he spoke, a gesture of tension that was uncharacteristic of him; Damien wondered what prompted it. “I found a man who’d risk the trip. His price is high. If I were of a mind to criticize such business practices, I would call it robbery—but never mind that.” He saw Damien about to speak, waved short his interruption. “I have the funds. And my Jahanna coinage may cause him to think twice before dumping us into the Serpent.”

Startled, Ciani asked, “You think that’s possible?”

“My lady, the human soul’s a dark place—who knows that better than I?—and greed is a powerful master. Add to that man’s passion for self-preservation ... and yes, I think it very possible that a man we hire to take us to the Achron’s mouth might find it expedient to ... shall we say,
lighten his load
before reaching shore? I would even call it likely. There’s a real danger in that landing, and not all men like the smell of risk. I suggest we be careful.”

“I could Work—” Damien began.

“So could I. More efficiently than you. And then, when we passed under the Canopy, all that would be gone. Do you want our pilot’s murderous instincts suddenly unleashed at the very moment we’re least able to defend ourselves? When even an unconscious Working might backfire on us all?” He shrugged; there was a weariness in the gesture that seemed oddly human. “I chose the best man I could. I paid well and threatened carefully. Coercion is one of my skills. Let’s hope it works.” He turned to Ciani. “Lady, I’ve scanned the city three times over—and its environs, and the Serpent, and each and every current of power that passes through or near this place. You have no enemies here. Our pilot says we must wait two nights for a suitable syzygy—a high tide will make the rakhland shore considerably more accessible—and that means waiting here. Which I regret. The place is ...” he scowled. “Distasteful, to say the least. But it is safe. I want you to know that. Your enemies passed through here days ago, and they left neither ward nor watcher behind. I made certain of that.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. “That’s worth ... a lot. Thank you.”

“And now.” He pushed his chair back from the table and stood; his pale eyes fixed on Damien, their depths brimming with hostility. “You’re not my ideal of a traveling companion, priest, and I know I’m not yours. Since the lady is safe and our transport assured, may I assume that you would have no objection to my passing my time in other company until we depart?”

“None whatsoever,” Damien assured him.

And he wondered:
What the hell’s eating him?

The hill was some distance from town, and not easy to climb. Which was why it was empty of tourists, despite its position overlooking the water. It took her some time to reach the top, and when at last she did she rested for a moment, trying to catch her breath.

He stood at the crest, utterly still. Dark cloak rippling slowly in the night breeze, pale eyes fixed on a point somewhere across the water. Or perhaps on nothing. Coming closer, she saw no other motion about him, nothing that hinted at life. Not even breathing. Did he need to breathe, she wondered, when he wasn’t speaking? Exactly where was he balanced, in that dark gulf between life and unlife?

And then he turned and saw her. Surprise glittered briefly in his eyes—then there was only control once more, and his expression was unreadable. “Lady.” He bowed. “Alone?”

“You said it was safe here.”

“I said your enemies were gone. There are still the assorted muggers, rapists ... etcetera. It is a city,” he reminded her.

“I’m city born and bred,” she told him. “And well armed, as you may recall. Even without the fae, I think I could give a mugger a run for his money.”

He studied her for a moment; something that was almost a smile softened the corners of his mouth. “Yes. I believe you could.”

Then he looked out over the water again, and the softness fled from his expression. His nostrils flared, as if testing the air.

“You came to find me,” he challenged her.

She nodded.

“They let you come here?”

“They don’t know.”

He looked surprised. “They think I’m in my room,” she said defiantly. As though daring him to criticize her. “You said I was safe.”

For a moment he said nothing. Then, very quietly, he told her, “You understand that it’s somewhat jarring for me to hear a woman refer to my presence as safe.”

“Isn’t it?”

“For you? Absolutely. But your men don’t seem too certain of that.”

“They haven’t seen inside you. I have.”

He stiffened, turned away from her. Gazed out across the water. “How did you find me?”

“It wasn’t hard. There aren’t many places in this region where one can be alone ... and an adept would want a view of the Canopy. I asked the same questions I thought you would have, to find such a place. They brought me here.” She followed his gaze across the water, to the blackness of the nightbound horizon. “What do you See?”

He hesitated—then answered, “Nothing.”

“Maybe when we get closer—”

He shook his head. “You misunderstand me. I can see the Canopy quite clearly from here. There’s no mistaking it. It’s as if the world ends suddenly at that point, as if there’s a line beyond which nothing exists. Oh, I can see the water beyond, and mountains in the distance ... but those forces which are visible only to the adept’s eye come to a halt in midair, and beyond it is—nothing. Absolute nothingness. A wall of nonexistence, beneath which the water flows.” “And you think it’ll kill you.”

He stiffened. She saw him about to respond in his usual manner—eloquent and misleading, dryly evasive—but then, his voice strained, he answered simply. “It may. I don’t know. I can’t read into it at all. If no fae can be Worked in that zone ... then the power which keeps me alive may well be inaccessible there.” He shrugged; it was a stiff gesture, clearly forced. “Your priest knows this? Your sorceror friend?”

“They might have guessed. I didn’t tell them.”

“Please don’t.”

She nodded.

“Is that what you came to find out?”

Instead of answering him, she asked, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

He looked at her, and she could sense him trying to read her. Trying to keep himself from using the fae to do it. “Just keep them away from me,” he said at last. “The boat has a secure cabin, and I have the key. It was one of the requirements. But who can say what damage they might do if they tried to interfere? Even if they meant to help.” He laughed; it was a mirthless sound. “Unlikely as that is.”

“I’ll try,” she promised. And she nodded, gently,
“That’s
what I came to find out.”

She turned from him, then, and began to make her way down the rocky slope, heading back toward the city.

“Lady.”

She stopped where she was, and turned to him.

“You could have the fae back.”

For a moment she just stared at him. Then, in a voice that trembled slightly, she asked, “How?”

“Not as an adept—even I can’t give you that. But you could still learn to Work, as sorcerors do. It wouldn’t be the same as before. It wouldn’t restore your Vision. It would require keys and symbols, volumes of catch-phrases and mental exercises—”

“Are you offering to teach me?” she breathed.

His pale eyes burned like coldfire in the moonlight; it hurt to look directly at them. “And what if I were?”

She met his eyes—and drank in the pain, the power, all of it. “What would you say,” she asked him, “if, when you were dying, someone offered you life? Would you question the terms—or simply grasp at the bargain with all your strength, and live each moment as it came?”

“That’s a loaded simile,” he warned her. “And I don’t think I have to tell you what my own answer would be. What it was, when I had to make that choice.”

“Then you know my response.”

He held out his hand. Without hesitation, she took it. The chill of his touch shocked her flesh, but the cold of it was pleasure—promise—and she smiled as it filled her.

“When can we start?” she whispered.