When True Night Falls (47 page)

Terror. That’s what all those pictures were born of, he thought, as he let the Knowing fade. He had no way of guessing how many of the images were real, and how many were the result of terror feeding on itself. Imagination could do terrible things in a place like this, especially to a young mind. Especially to one so infinitely vulnerable as this.

He longed to go to her. He hungered to comfort her. It went against all his training—against his very nature—to see such suffering and not move to heal it. But the priest’s face that he had seen in his Knowing loomed large in his mind, radiating a hate that was almost palpable. Real or not, it was real to
her
, and that was all that mattered. Maybe that was the face she saw when she looked at him. Maybe it was what she had learned to expect from his kind.

He prayed for her quietly. And mourned within, that he could not conjure a balm for her soul half so easily as he could Heal her flesh. Was that not the ultimate irony of his calling?

Food. It was brought to them in small bundles, inexpertly cooked. He tasted his dubiously, then downed a small bit of it. Hesseth studied hers, then decided against it; perhaps its mildly sour smell warned her of contents that her rakhene stomach couldn’t assimilate. His own body had fought off food poisoning often enough that he thought he must have calluses on his stomach lining by now, but even so he ate little. Just enough to keep up his strength. Weakness could be as dangerous as food poisoning in a place like this.

The girl still wouldn’t come near them, but waited until they withdrew to the far corner of the cave before she would claim her share. Even then her movements were strained, and it was clear that she was prepared to bolt the instant that either of them moved. Neither of them did. To Damien’s surprise she didn’t return immediately to her tiny shelter, but sat where the food had been left for her and gulped it down quickly. Her eyes left them only once, and that was when she looked for the cup of water. She gulped from it thirstily, her gaunt throat trembling as the water went down. She hadn’t gotten her share from the night before, Damien recalled, which meant she was probably desperate for fluid. Oh, well. He and Hesseth could manage without for a day if they had to.

But to his surprise she stopped before the small portion was finished, and slowly lowered the bowl. It was clear that she was still thirsty, and that the movement took effort. She glanced down into the cup, as if making sure that there was enough left over, and then placed it in front of her. Pushing it toward them. Then she moved slowly back to her own corner of the cavern, her eyes never leaving Damien.

After a minute he crept forward and took up the bowl. He passed it to Hesseth first, then drank from it himself. The girl hadn’t left them much, but considering how hard it must have been for her to keep from drinking it all it was practically a feast.

“Thank you,” he said. Very gently. Willing his voice to be as soft as it could become. “Thank you very much.”

The girl stared at him, but said nothing.

“Do you have a name?”

Still no response.

“I’m Damien Kilcannon Vryce,” he told her. “This is Hesseth sa-Restrath. We came from the western continent, to explore this land. To see if anyone had settled here.”

For a moment there was no response. Then, in a voice no louder than a whisper, the girl said hoarsely, “Jenseny.”

“Jenseny.” He said the name slowly, let her hear how very gentle it sounded on his tongue. “Are you from here, Jenseny? From the valley?”

“You’re a priest,” she accused.

For a moment he said nothing. Then he nodded.

“A priest of the One God.”

“Yes,” he said. Trying to remove all possible threat from his voice.

Her wide eyes blinked; was that a tear on her lashes? “Priests
kill
,” she accused.

He drew in a deep breath. Remembering the contorted face in his Knowing, the vicious downstab of a Church sword as it sliced into ... what? A child? Yes, that was the image. And here she was, only
a
child herself. No wonder she was afraid!

He couldn’t bring himself to tell her that priests didn’t kill. Children had an uncanny ability to tell when you were lying, and he sensed that if he lost her trust now he’d lose her forever. So he said very gently, “Priests kill sometimes. But where I come from, they
only kill the faeborn.
So that people don’t have to be afraid all the time.” “

He could see her trembling as she considered that. “Never children?” she breathed.

“No, Jenseny. Never. My people would rather die themselves than ever hurt a child.”

He saw her tremble then, and she bit her lower lip so hard that there was a bead of blood there when she spoke again. “
They
do it,” she whispered. “All the time.”

“Yeah.” He could hear the shame of it resonate in his own voice as he whispered, “I know.”

Her eyes moved from Damien at last, and fixed on Hesseth. “She isn’t human,” she accused.

“No,” Damien agreed, and Hesseth said quietly, “I’m rakh.”

She shivered then, and nearly withdrew to the safety of her bolt-hole. Damien thought it said much for her innate courage that in the end she stayed where she was.

“Rakh killed my father,” she said. Tears started to flow down her cheeks, etching ravines into the mud on her face. She simply drew her knees up and clasped them tightly to her. “They
ate
him,” she whispered feverishly. “They ate him and took his place.”

“Not all rakh are like that,” Damien told her. Willing utter calmness into his voice. Hoping that it would affect her.

But her head snapped up in rage. “Yes they are! They’re all the same! My father knew! My father was there! My father saw....”

And then it seemed to hit her all at once—the loss, the fear, the utter hopelessness of her plight—and she sobbed helplessly into her arms. “He was there,” she whispered hoarsely. “He said they were all the same. All monsters of the dark—”

Damien looked at Hesseth.

“It’s daylight now,” the rakh-woman offered.

But the girl was past all hearing. Her body wracked by sobs, she wept into the mud that coated her arms with a passion Damien ached to heal. But what good could he do, when she clearly feared him so? And when she perceived his traveling companion as one of the tribe that had “eaten” her father? Best now to keep his distance, lest he frighten her even more. Maybe later he could work on increasing the fragile contact between them. Maybe later he could earn her trust.

And maybe later, he thought, he could find out just where this strange girl’s father had been, and what it was that he saw.

Footsteps approaching. He heard them before he could identify their source; the mist had thickened so much that it was hard to see more than ten feet past the prison gate. The glassy black statue was lost in the distance, swallowed up by the gray veil of fog.

Would Tarrant come tonight? he wondered. Or was the Hunter gone for good? Much as he didn’t like the thought of that, it was certainly possible. At any rate they were on their own until nightfall, and that was hours away.

A delegation of eight diminutive warriors approached the makeshift prison. Damien noted that these were all somewhat older, as Terata standards went, and armed with long spears that would permit them to threaten Damien and Hesseth without getting within hand-to-hand combat distance. A bad sign, he decided; it meant they anticipated trouble.

The bolts that supported the heavy grate were pulled back, and then the two tallest boys removed the grate itself. They had painted their faces, Damien noted, in a parody of the masks they had worn off the island; another bad sign. The whole day was looking downright ominous.

“It’s time,” one of the painted warriors announced. A girl. A boy’s voice ordered, “Get out.”

Damien looked at Hesseth, and at the girl. At last, though he was less than happy about the order, he began to move. The minute he cleared the cavern entrance four spears were lowered and pressed against his chest; not only couldn’t he run away, but if he moved too quickly in any direction he would skewer himself in an instant.

His hands were tied behind his back once more, and a nooselike rope was slipped over his head to serve as a leash. When they had him thus trussed up, they signaled for Hesseth to come out, and she was subjected to similar preparations. Testing his bonds, Damien noted that they were tighter than the last time. Yet another bad omen.

Two of the adolescent warriors had to go in after Jenseny. Since Damien had seen her run to the grate to plead with them at one point, he was surprised to see the utter terror that suffused her face when the Terata actually approached her. Maybe it had been enough for her then that the grate had been there, protecting her from close contact. Maybe. More likely it was that she feared the Terata, but had feared Damien even more. Enough to send her running to the children who so clearly terrified her, who even now grabbed hold of her with bruising strength and dragged her, struggling, from the prison.

They were led like leashed animals along the muddy path, toward the clearing where Calesta’s statue stood. The noose about their necks would tighten at the slightest provocation, and once when Damien stumbled it nearly choked him. But the child who was leading him reached into the hemp collar and loosened it for him. He had to stand on tiptoe to do it—no, he
should
have had to stand on tiptoe, but in fact he didn’t. How odd. The touch of his fingers was cold, and ... something odd. Something Damien couldn’t put a name to, but when the flesh made contact with his own he couldn’t help but shiver. For an instant the boy’s face seemed to fade, to be forming into something else ... and then the moment was gone, and everything was as it should be.

Or as it
seemed
to be, Damien thought.

The clearing surrounding Calesta’s statue was already filled with children, and though Damien couldn’t count them he guessed there were at least three or four dozen. The Terata came in all ages and sizes, from lanky preteenagers to children so small that they could hardly walk. But no one older than that, he noted. No one who had gone through puberty. What happened to them when they aged?

Their leashes were tied to a squat tree that sat at one edge of the clearing. At first he thought that the children would leave them together, but that was too good to be true. A young girl scrambled up amidst the twisting branches and affixed their leashes to opposite ends of the tree; the rope was taut enough that if they tried to move they would probably hang themselves. Great. Jenseny was released nearby, and she darted for the cover of the great trunk behind them. Out of the corner of his eye Damien could see her huddled beneath a tangle of twisted branches, staring with wide eyes toward the clearing.

From where she sat she could see his hands, and Hesseth’s; would she betray them if they tried to free themselves? He didn’t think so. He began to flex his hands, testing the knots that bound him for strength. There was a little slack, and he struggled to get it around to where it would do him the most good. Hard to do all that without moving his body, but the noose about his neck gave him no choice. He just hoped the children wouldn’t notice.

But their minds were on other things now. They were heaping small items about the base of the statue. Food, spears, bits of shining metal ... offerings, Damien decided. One child brought forth a handful of glittering gems and broken bits of jewelry and dropped it on the pile. Another offered up a torn silk shirt. He heard Hesseth gasp as several of their own possessions were added to the pile. Either these children had captured other travelers or they raided the villages themselves, he thought; there were too many valuable items here for any other explanation.

When the pile was at last complete, the children gathered around the statue. Some stood utterly silent, waiting. Others began to sway impatiently, fidgeting with the restlessness of youth. He could feel their expectation filling the clearing with volatile force, and he worked all the harder at getting himself free. Whatever happened here, he didn’t think he was going to like it.