Black Sun Rising (61 page)

“Gods, yes....” Was it really possible? He had worked so hard to bury that hope, so that he might not destroy his life with it. Now, to consider it again, after all those years.... For a moment he could hardly speak in answer. He was afraid that in the place of words might come something less dignified, like tears, or gasping, or simply speechless trembling. The emotion was almost too much to bear.

“Does he know?” he managed. “Damien. Did you tell him?”

“How could I?” she said gently. “He’d never let you have it. Such a use would be ... blasphemy, to him.”

“Then isn’t this—your being here—isn’t that a kind of betrayal?”

“I don’t share his faith,” she reminded him.

“But doesn’t that mean—I mean, Damien—”

“Don’t mistake me. I care for him, deeply. But philosophically ...” She seemed to hesitate. “We’re from different worlds, it seems sometimes. The faith he serves ...” She shook her head. “It’s not that I don’t respect it, or him. But gods! They’re living in a dreamworld, filled with misty hopes and misguided passions ... and I’m simply a pragmatist. A realist. This is my world. I accept it. I
live
in it. And if you give me a source of power, I’ll use it—as the gods intended.”

She touched a hand to his cheek, gently; the storm of emotion inside him made the contact seem an almost alien thing, oddly distant from him. “Romance between man and woman is such a fleeting thing,” she said softly. “You of all people should know that. But the devotion of a true friend ...
that
endures forever. My loyalties are just what they should be, Zen. And I’ll stand by them to my grave.”

He should have had so many misgivings, so many fears—but the pounding of his heart drowned them all out, until it was hard to focus on any one thought. Feebly—mechanically—he protested, “It’s his weapon. Our weapon.”

“And do you think this will lessen it? Would the whole pint of Fire be so diminished by a few drops? He spared that much to Work his weapons, back in Mordreth. And again in the rakhene camp.” Her voice was a whisper, barely audible above the sound of the breeze stirring the leaves—but he heard every word as though it were a shout, felt her meaning etched in fire upon his soul. “One drop, maybe two,” she whispered. “That’s all it would take. I
know
it. And think, Zen, if it worked ... then you’d be our weapon. You’d be able to use everything that’s inside you, instead of keeping it all pent up in your brain. Take the hunger of all those years and turn it into power ... and he’d still have nearly a pint left. He’d never even know it was gone! And Zen ... you’d be able to help us, like you never could before. Wouldn’t that be a fair trade? If you could only manage that, then we wouldn’t have to rely so much on—”

She stopped suddenly, and wrapped her arms around herself as if her own words had chilled her.

“The Hunter?”

She whispered it. “Yes.”

He chose his words carefully, tried to keep his voice steady. “Damien wouldn’t give it to me.”

“No. Not willingly.”

“Is there any other way?”

She hesitated. He felt mixed emotions—elation, terror, need—flood his soul. “Please, Cee.”

“I can Distract him,” she said softly. “Gerald taught me how. He didn’t mean it for this purpose ... but he wouldn’t have to know, will he? I can give Damien dreams while he’s sleeping. Keep his attention fixed on them, so that he doesn’t wake up. You’d only need minutes. Later ...” She breathed in deeply. “Later you could Work him yourself. Like an adept, Zen.
You’d be an adept.
”

He shut his eyes, felt a violent trembling course through his body. The dream, the need ... it was almost too much to bear. The hope itself was too powerful, too overwhelming; like an ocean tide, it threatened to drag him under.

“Dangerous....” he whispered.

“The sun-power? The church’s fae? How could it be? That’s a force born of pure benevolence, bound together for cleansing purposes. What could be possibly be safer? You saw him use it last night—saw him hold it against me, to protect me from the dark fae. Did it burn me? Could it burn me?” When he said nothing, she pressed, “What’s the only Working that his church will tolerate, even now? Healing. Because that’s what his faith is all about, Zen—that’s where their power lies.
That’s what the Fire is
.”

He had lost his voice, and with it his resistance. The dream had hold of him again, and the hunger that had burned in him for so long had become something else—a lover, a seduction—no longer fever-hot but cool, blissfully cool, like the touch of a woman whose skin had been chilled by the night, all fluid ice and liquid passion and burning need at once....

Then she touched a finger to his lips and whispered—so low that he could hardly hear her—“We can’t discuss this again, you understand that? There’s a link between Damien and me, strong enough that he might read your intentions through it. And as for Gerald ...” She turned away from him; a shiver seemed to pass through her flesh. “There’s nothing I can keep from him now. Nothing. Not after I submitted my soul to him.” She shook her head. “It would be too dangerous, you understand that? He depends on his adept’s skills to control the party. And me. If he thought for a moment that there was a way you could challenge his dominance—”

He shivered in fear—but the fear was enticing. Challenge Gerald Tarrant? “I understand,” he whispered.

“I think I can keep him from knowing, for a time. Despite ... what’s between us. But I can only manage that if I can pretend that nothing’s happening. Pretend I don’t know myself what you’re planning. So we can’t discuss it again, ever.”

“But if you do that—I mean, how can you—”

“Help you?” She turned back to face him. Her eyes were bright. “I can Work Damien’s dreaming ahead of time. Gerald taught me how. If I do that, and then you go to his side when he’s sleeping, nothing short of a quake would wake him up. I promise it. You don’t even have to tell me your decision. It would be safer if you didn‘t—for both of us. Only ...” she hesitated. “If you do it, it has to be soon. We don’t have many more days before ... before ... gods.” She lowered her head, and he thought he saw her tremble. “We’ll be in their territory,” she breathed. Her voice so soft that he could hardly hear it. “Soon.”

“Cee. You’ll be all right. I promise you.” He put his arm around her—her flesh was cold, her skin so pale—and she cupped his nearer hand in hers and squeezed it. So much love in that simple gesture. So much support. He ached to know how to return such emotion. If he only had the skills of an adept, with which to Work a suitable response ... he ached with longing, just thinking of it. The old dreams were taking hold of him again. The old recklessness.
Soon,
he promised himself.
Soon.
If the Fire freed him, then all the rules could change. For the better.

“Be careful, Senzei,” she whispered.

In a party of four, only so many duty combinations were possible. With two of the company sleeping and two sharing watch at any given time—and at least three days’ travel left before they reached Lema’s western border—the odds were good that chance would favor Senzei, and give him the opportunity he required.

Or so he told himself. Because
waiting and hoping
was easier—and safer—than doing.

I don’t want the power just for myself,
he told himself, as the cold sweat of guilt kept him from sleeping.
I want to be able to help Ciani. I want to be able to do my share, like she said. And I could, if the Fire would free me.

He wanted it so desperately. And feared it, with equal fervor. Most of all he wanted the decision to be out of his hands; wanted the dreadful balance of
need
versus
betrayal
to swing one way or the other without him, so that he might be spared such an awesome responsibility.

Ciani, I need your counsel!
But her warning had been a sound one: to speak of anything, in this company, was to risk being heard by all. And he couldn’t afford that. Not if he meant to do it. Any of them would stop him. Any one of them....

On the second day, during the late afternoon shift, his chance came at last. Hesseth and Ciani took the watch together, removing themselves to a nearby promontory from which they might view the surrounding area. Damien and Senzei were left to get what rest they could ... but there was no question of Senzei sleeping. Long after Damien had wrapped himself in blankets against the chill of the afternoon, long after his husky snoring indicated that he, at least, had found some respite, Senzei’s pounding heart kept him awake, and the rush of adrenaline through his body made him tremble with need.

Carefully, he pushed back his own blankets. Quietly, he dressed himself. Thick shirt and jacket, worn leather boots. The weeks of traveling had taken their toll on his wardrobe; nearly every layer was patched or repaired in some place.

When he was done, he crept to where Damien lay and settled there, watching him. The priest slept clothed, as always, and his sword was laid out by his side. Ready for battle, even in slumber. Ready to respond to the slightest disturbance with a lunge for that sharpened steel, and—

A cold sweat filmed his forehead as he studied the sleeping form. Would Ciani’s Working take? Would it hold? How would he know when—or if—it was happening? But even as he watched, a change in the priest’s demeanor became apparent. His eyes flickered rapidly beneath closed lids, as if scanning some dreambound horizon. A soft hiss escaped his lips, and his brow furrowed tightly. His hands began to flex, like a sleeping animal’s, and the muscles across his shoulders tightened as if in preparation for combat. Whatever dream had him in its thrall, he was wholly its creature.

Gently he folded the priest’s blanket down to his waist, then crouched back nervously to see if there was any response. None. With trembling hands, then, he reached out to where the small leather pouch was bound to the man’s belt and somehow managed to slide open its clasp. Damien groaned once, noisily, but the sound was clearly in response to some dreamworld menace, not Senzei. Carefully, gently, he slid the silver flask from its housing. Golden light warmed his hand, made his skin tingle with anticipation. Even the few drops of moisture still trapped in the crystal vial had that much power; how much more was in his hands, in that precious pint of fluid?

Shaking, he managed to get the pouch closed again. It was important to leave things just as they should be, so that if Damien awoke too soon he wouldn’t suspect what had happened. Would Ciani’s Distracting work again so that Senzei could return the Fire to its housing? He didn’t know; he should have asked. But that was the least of his concerns. By that time—gods willing—he would be an adept himself, capable of protecting his own secrets.

For a moment he simply sat there and cradled the silver flask in his hands; its warmth soothed his nerves, drove out the chill that had been part of him for longer than he cared to remember. If he had feared that the Fire might harm him, the touch of its light was utter reassurance. Like the sunlight that it mimicked, it had no power to harm an ordinary man; the force of its venom was directed at the nightborn, the demonic, creatures that shied away from the source of life even as they fed upon its bounty.

With care he crept from the camp. Gods alone knew what would happen to him when he took in the Fire, what form such a transformation of the soul might take; he didn’t want to risk waking Damien and facing both his rage and the Fire at once. Hand closed tightly about the precious flask, he found his way through an insulating thicket of trees, and did not stop until he was safely out of sight of his companions’ camp. Only then, safe in a tiny clearing, did he dare to unfold his fingers and regard the smooth polished metal, and the light that seemed to radiate even through its substance.

“Gods of Erna protect me,” he whispered. And with shaking hands, he unstoppered the small container.

Light spilled out from it, a cloud of purest gold. Even in the brilliant sunlight it was visible, driving back the afternoon shadows that filled the tiny clearing and suffusing the air with clear, molten luminescence. For a moment he just stared at it, at its effect, drinking in the promise of its power. And fearing it. The hunger was so strong in him that he could barely hold his hand steady, and it was several minutes before he dared to pour out a few drops of the precious elixir. With utmost care, he gentled them into his palm. And raised his hand to his lips, that his body might drink and absorb that cleansing power.