Black Sun Rising (48 page)

There was something going on between them, Damien decided—something happening between Ciani and Gerald Tarrant that he didn’t like at all. He couldn’t quite identify what it was—but it was there, without doubt. Like a channel had been established between them. He could almost See it.

As they made their preparations for the day’s encampment, he kept half an eye on each of them. Tarrant explored the back recesses of the narrow cavern, making certain there were no hidden dangers there—and Ciani accompanied him. Tarrant took it upon himself in the last hour of relative darkness to see that the horses were rubbed dry and calmed, and tethered within reach of edible brush—and Ciani, who had little experience with such duties, went to help him. Damien was aware of whispers passing between them, things more felt than heard: a subvocal purring of conspiracy, of coalition. But what purpose could it possibly serve? Without knowing, he told himself, he had no right to interfere. Ciani had every reason to be curious about the adept, and if Tarrant was answering her questions, the more power to her. And if that was all it was, Damien had no right to interfere. But what if it wasn’t? Did Ciani really understand how dangerous the Hunter was—how utterly corrupt a soul must be, to sink from the Prophet’s heights to such a murdering, parasitic existence? The thought of prolonged contact between the two of them made Damien’s stomach turn, and he watched them carefully. Trying to stay within hearing distance. Hoping for any excuse he might reasonably use to keep her away from their deadly companion.

The cavern which Tarrant had found them—little more than a cleft in the cliff wall, six feet wide at its broadest point and considerably less than that as it angled back into the stratified rock—had clearly been occupied, and for some time. It reeked of generations of animal occupancy: the oils of mating, the exudations of birth, the pungent spray of territorial markings. Not to mention the carrion that Tarrant had provided, a tangle of bloody fur and moist meat that still stank of animal terror. But it was dry and safe, and the floor was layered in insulting dirt, and at this point that was all any of them wanted. They unpacked their bedrolls along its length, rendered Tarrant’s kill down for its edible portions and threw the rest into the Achron, and laid their wet clothing—which was most of what they owned—out on the ledge by the cavem’s mouth, to be dried by the rising sun. Watches were scheduled. A minimal fire was kindled. The cave’s former occupant became a satisfying, if somewhat gamy, repast. And they waited for the sun to rise, knowing that only for a few hours would it shine directly down into the gorge which the Achron’s current had scoured into the land—waiting to see what manner of place they had come to, what patterns of promise and danger the light of day might reveal.

Once, when his watch had ended, Damien made his way to the rear of the cavern, where Tarrant had isolated himself, to see how the adept was doing. A slab of rock that had fallen from the ceiling in some past earthquake concealed the back recesses of their shelter from immediate view; when he made his way past it, he found that a wall of coldfire had been erected in the lightless recess. Utterly frigid. Utterly impassable.

“Well, fine,” he muttered. “Just fine.”

And then—hoping the Hunter could hear him—he added, “I trust you, too.”

The land through which the Achron coursed was a rich, three-dimensional tapestry of geological history, whose cross-section had been revealed by the cutting action of the river’s progress. From a layer of granite through which the water coursed, up through layers of black basalt and alluvial sediment and compressed volcanic ash, it was possible to read the history of this region in the patterns that decorated the cliff walls—volcanic eruption and glacial invasion and always, as elsewhere, the violent geo-signatures of earthquakes. Where the narrow strata had once comprised an ordered map of geo-history, it had now been split by successive upheavals into a jagged mosaic that lined the walls of the gorge like some immense, grotesquely abstract artwork. Winds had grooved the junctures of strata, widened fissures, and eroded away the underpinning of various outcroppings, so that ragged columns and angular arches loomed overhead, a giant surreal sculpture that had been abandoned to the elements. Vegetation had taken root wherever it could, but for the most part the upper reaches of the walls were utterly lifeless: a bit of lichen, a patch of coarse grass, perhaps a few dried roots to mark the place where a desperate tree had once tried to grasp hold. No more than that. Unclimbable, at any rate. Which meant that they were doomed to traverse the river’s bed until some variation in the canyon’s structure allowed them to ascend to the rich lands surrounding it.

At sunset they moved again, Senzei concluding the last watch of the day as they urged their horses back onto the narrow path. There was still no sight of the watcher, or any other attempt at surveillance. Damien was beginning to think that maybe something positive might be read into that. Maybe whoever had seen them land was merely an independent observer who had chanced upon the spot, with no lasting interest in what became of them, no dangerous allies to mobilize—

They rode. The horses were clearly less than thrilled about their chosen road, but a good day’s rest in a relatively dry place—not to mention fresh food and water—had given them back something of their accustomed spirit. Damien had little trouble convincing his mount to lead the way along the narrow ledge, and the struggles of the previous night receded into hazy memory as the rhythm of travel engulfed them all.

When Casca’s three-quarter face cleared the western wall, they stopped for a short while. In the shadow of the grotesque natural sculptures they nibbled at bits of meat and cake and discussed, in guarded murmurs, the possibility of finding a way out of the canyon in the nights to come. Tarrant took out his maps again and located several points of possible egress: tributary junctions in the Achron’s course, which might or might not involve some variation in the canyon’s structure. He seemed to feel that the odds were good—and since it was the first real optimism the man had expressed about this journey, Damien found it doubly comforting. For once, things seemed to be going their way.

But then he thought:
When we get up to the plateau, that’s when the real work begins. The real danger
. It was a sobering thought, and one that he didn’t share with his companions. Let them enjoy this last bit of security while it lasted; such things would become rare soon enough.

In time Casca set behind the eastern wall, and a nearly-f Prima took her place in the skies. The presence of any moon above them weakened the dark fae which might otherwise harass them, and Damien was grateful for the current lunar schedule. Not long from now there would be a period of true night, when no natural light was available; by that time, he hoped, they would be out of the canyon, not trapped on some twisting path beneath walls that were prone to fracture, with the angry black water waiting just beneath them, and all their fears manifested by the power of the ultimate Night.

Tarrant will gain strength, then
, he thought.
He’ll come into his true power for the first time since our landing
. It was a chilling thought, but somehow it lacked the power of his previous fears. Was it possible that Tarrant’s usefulness was beginning to outweigh the abhorrence of his nature, in Damien’s mind? That was dangerous, the priest reflected. That was truly frightening. That worried him more than the true night itself—more than all the rest of it combined. Could one become inured to the presence of such an evil? So much so that one lost sight of what it truly was, and saw no further than the elegant facade which housed it? He shivered at the thought, and swore he would keep it from happening. Prayed to his God that he
could
keep it from happening.

Gradually, the canyon narrowed. The water could be heard to course northward with a far more violent current than before, and although he hesitated to look down—the view was dizzying—Damien knew from the sound of it that there was now white water below their feet, that the walls here had fragmented and fallen often enough to place a thousand obstacles in the river’s path—obstacles over which the water now coursed angrily, obstacles against which any fallen creature would certainly be crushed. All the more reason not to fall from the ledge. He eased his horse farther from the edge and hoped his companions would follow suit. As long as they were careful—and the ledge grew no narrower—they should be in little danger.

Then they came around a bend, and his heart went cold within him. He signaled for a stop, forced his own horse to stand steady as he studied the road ahead as well as he could by moonlight. The apprehension of his fellow travelers was like a tangible thing, a cloud of pessimism so thick that he could hardly breathe through it.

Finally he gestured to Tarrant, signaled for him to come to the front. “Your night vision is best of anyone’s,” he said. “What do you make out?”

The Hunter dismounted, and made his way on foot to the front of the procession. There he gazed into the darkness for some time before responding.

“The path continues to narrow,” he said. “And I don’t like the look of it. The water has eaten its way underneath that shelf, and there are visible damages ... it’s not as solid as what we’ve been traveling on, by any means.”

“Can it support us?” Senzei asked tensely.

Tarrant’s expression tightened, and the concentration that Damien had come to associate with his Working flashed briefly in his eyes. “As it is now, it will,” he responded. “If nothing interferes.”

“Are there alternatives?” Ciani asked him.

He looked up to her, cold eyes fluid, like quicksilver. “None that I see here, lady. Except going back, of course. That’s always an option.”

She stiffened. “No,” she whispered. “Not while I have the strength left to move.”

“Then there are none.”

“We go on,” she said firmly.

The Hunter nodded and remounted. Without a word, they began to move forward onto a section of ledge that was scored by faults. They moved slowly, carefully, ever aware that a single overemphatic hoofbeat might crack something loose underfoot and send them plummeting to the white water below. As they rode, the ledge narrowed. After a time Damien could no longer keep his horse to the path without his left leg scraping against the wall of the gorge periodically; small bits of rock showered to the ground beneath him after each such contact, and bounced off the ledge down into the shadows beneath to disappear into the hungry river.

Even if we wanted to turn back now, we couldn’t. Not without backing the horses up for miles
—
and they’d rather jump into the water than put up with that
.

God help us if the ledge peters out
, he thought—and then, because there was no constructive way to think about such a possibility, he put it forcibly out of his mind. The ledge
would
continue, it
would
be sound enough to support them, and if it wasn’t they would manage to do ...
something
.

They traveled in tense silence, each cocooned in his fears. Beneath them the river coursed, noisily now, and white froth glittered in Prima’s light. The edge of that moon had already dropped behind the eastern wall of the gorge, with the rest soon to follow. What would they do when its light was gone? Could they traverse a path this dangerous, with nothing but lamplight to guide them? Damien felt like he had been traveling forever, leading the way along a path so narrow, with a surface so irregular, that it seemed only a matter of time before one of them stumbled and fell. His own horse was unlikely to lose its footing; that animal was experienced in handling such situations and knew what it meant to test each footstep in advance. But would Senzei’s animal, city-bred, slip from the path? Or the Forest beasts, which had known only packed, level earth before this? If anyone went down into that angry water ... it was better not to think about such things. Better just to keep the mind blank and hope the horses got them through.

Finally—after what seemed like an eternity—the ledge began to widen. Slowly, almost imperceptibly—but at last the point came when the travelers’ legs no longer brushed against the wall, when his horse’s easier gait informed him that the animal now felt more secure about the ground underfoot. “On our way,” he whispered. He began to think they would really make it through. Damien allowed himself the luxury of a few deep breaths, and stretched his cramped feet in their stirrups to bring life back into them—

“Heads up!” The Hunter called. “And don’t Work, whatever you do!”

The urgency in his voice made Damien twist back quickly. The adept had one hand raised as if to shield his eyes from light. But there was nothing in the canyon that Damien could see, and Senzei and Ciani seemed similarly confused. What force had the adept’s vision disclosed, which would suddenly become so bright—