When True Night Falls (58 page)

He forced himself not to address that issue, tried to steer the conversation onto safer ground. “The city has a safe harbor—”

“Closely guarded, no doubt.”

“You think the Matrias are looking for us this far south?” Hesseth asked.

“Without question,” Tarrant assured her. “I can see it in the currents. I can smell it in the winds. The whole city stinks of ambush.”

Damien felt his heart sinking in his chest as the words hit home. Not until this moment had he realized how much he’d been hoping that Tarrant would prove his suspicions wrong. “What, then? You have a suggestion?”

“We need to move quickly. Book passage across the water before the local Matria realizes we’re here. With a good enough Obscuring we might be able to hire a ship before—”

“Hold on,” Damien said sharply. “Just a minute. We were talking about collecting information when we got here, weren’t we? Trying to take the enemy’s measure before we decided what to do next. Wasn’t that the idea? I don’t like the concept of rushing over to the enemy’s turf before we even know—”

“Time is a luxury here,” the Hunter snapped. “And one we can’t afford. Do you think that the soldiers of the Matria will sit back and indulge us while we gather our maps and our notes and our courage? There’s a price on your heads—”

“You don’t know that—”

“I do,” he said coldly. “I know it for a fact. And I know the amount that’s been offered, as well, and it’s high enough to make every local contact suspect. Do you really want to stay here, under those circumstances? Do you really think you can accomplish so much here that’s it’s worth throwing your lives away?”

“The alternative doesn’t sound much better,” Hesseth challenged. “Blind flight ... toward what? For what?”

“We need to get off this continent. We need to get beyond the reach of the Matrias’ network before it finds us. I understand that you’re uncomfortable with such a move—”

“That’s putting it lightly.”

“—But I assure you, remaining in this city is the most dangerous thing we could do right now. Or in any city on this coast, for that matter.”

Damien shook his head. “The Matrias’ lands don’t trade with the southern kingdom, did you know that? They may not be technically at war, but they’re hostile enough. Travel between the two is strictly forbidden.”

“Yes,” the Hunter said dryly. “All commerce with the southern kingdom is forbidden.” His smooth voice dripped with disdain. “Do you think that stops it? Rule one of history is that
trade goes on,
priest. Always. It may give way for a time, say during a war—if a strong enough blockade is established—but as soon as there is a crack in one’s defenses, even a tiny flaw, traders will smell it out. Profit is every bit as powerful a motivator as patriotism, Vryce. Perhaps more so.”

“You’re saying there’ll be transportation.”

He nodded. “Without question.”

“Any suggestions on how to find it?”

“As a matter of fact, I have a name for you.” He withdrew a folded paper from his pocket and handed it over; Damien unfolded it carefully, angling it so it would catch the light.
Ran Moskovan,
it said.
Licensed port Angelo Duro, #346-298-J.
Beneath that was the name of a local bar, a street address, and a time. “Free merchanter by day, black marketeer by night. He’s got his own ship—streamlined and swift—and it’s got enough secret cubbyholes to make any smuggler green with envy. According to my Divining, he’s the safest bet we’ve got in this town. You’ll have to meet with him tomorrow and talk price.” He leaned back in his chair. “I suggest you be generous. Gold’s the only master such men pay heed to.”

“Easier said than done,” Damien muttered. He looked at Hesseth, who caught his meaning and reached into her pocket. A thin handful of coins was all she had, and she scattered them across the table. “I have about fifty left, that was on me when my horse went down. The rest is with my supplies—wherever the hell they are.”

“And it’s all northern coin, or foreign.” Hesseth pointed out. “A dead giveaway, if anyone knows to watch for it.”

The Hunter seemed undisturbed by the news. “Which is why I collected these.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a small silken pouch. Mud-stained, Damien noted, or perhaps crusted with something worse. Wordlessly the Hunter pulled open the mouth of the pouch and spilled out a stream of gems across the tabletop, mud-covered and blood-splattered but undeniably precious.

“Where—” Hesseth gasped.

It took Damien a moment to make the obvious connection. “Terata?”

Tarrant nodded. “It occurred to me then that we might need capital. I must admit that the thought of using Calesta’s offerings—”

There was a moan from the couch. Low, barely voiced, but so resonant with pain that even Tarrant fell suddenly silent, and twisted about to look that way. It was the girl. She was awake now, and her eyes were wide, her body trembling. It was hard to read her expression. Fear? Surprise? Confusion?

“What?” she whispered. Sensing their eyes on her. “What is it?” She struggled to her feet, her eyes fixed on them. No, Damien thought. Not on
them.
On the table between them, and what lay on it.

Slowly she walked toward them, her eyes never leaving that spot. Damien didn’t have to See to know that she was radiating fear, or that the Hunter was feeding on it. “What is it?” she whispered. “What did you bring?” Her voice was shaking now, and her hands seemed to tremble as she reached out toward the table. For a brief moment Damien considered sweeping the gems away from her, out of reach—and then the instant was gone and she had seen them, she was touching them, she was rubbing her tiny fingers over the pile of gems as if searching for something, moaning in pain even as she did so. He remembered her reaction to the city, to its walls and its pillars and people, and he ached to pull her away, to protect her from this new source of pain. But like his two companions, he was paralyzed by curiosity. Curiosity and dread.

She gasped as she found something in the pile, and moaned softly as she raised it up. A ruby or a garnet, Damien assessed, that gleamed a dark red from beneath its crust of dried blood and dirt. Her shaking fingers stroked its surface, caressing it free of the dirt that caked its surface. Her breath came in shorter and shorter gasps as she absorbed whatever pain the small stone carried. Damien ached to help her, didn’t know where to start.

“It was his,” the small girl gasped. Choking out the words. A tear squeezed out of the corner of one eye, glistening like a diamond in the lamplight. “His!”

It was Hesseth who first made the connection. “Her father,” she whispered. “He must have owned it.”

“But how—” Damien began.

A cold hand on his shoulder warned him to silence. He glanced at the Hunter, saw the man’s eyes fixed on the center of the table. No: above it. He followed his gaze—and felt his breath catch in his throat, as he saw what was happening there.

There was a shape forming in the air between them, a slow swirling of light and color that seemed to draw its strength from the pile of dirty gems on the table. At first it seemed formless, as insubstantial as a cloud of dust motes reflecting the flickering lamp flame. But as they watched it gained in substance, until it seemed to Damien that an object was now suspended in the air before them. No. Not an object. A
hand.
Medium brown in coloring, lightly scarred along one side, with nails that were short and clean with just a hint of silken fabric wrapped about the wrist. Even as they watched it flexed, and the glint of the red stone set on one finger was unmistakable. He didn’t need to see the one Jenseny was holding to know they were one and the same; the knowledge seeped into his brain like a Knowing and stuck there, spawned by the same power that had conjured this vision.

“How?” he whispered. And though the answer was obvious, he could hardly accept it.
Jenseny?

—And then, suddenly, the vision was gone. Extinguished in a rainbow cascade of light, dissolved into the air once more. The girl’s hand trembled, clutched about her treasure; tears ran freely down her cheeks.

“It was his,” the girl whispered. Her voice was shaking. “He gave it to one of his people, he said.”

“Someone who later ran into the Terata,” Tarrant supplied.

She nodded wildly and sobbed, “I can feel how he died....” She gasped suddenly and one hand twitched; Damien guessed that the ring had not been stolen gently, but severed from a living hand.

“It’s not earth-fae she’s drawing on,” Tarrant mused aloud. “Something stronger. Wilder.”

“They killed him,” the girl whispered. “They killed him and they killed my father, and they’ll keep on killing if you don’t stop them!”

Damien saw Hesseth reach out for the child. “If it’s really stronger than the earth-fae—”

“But wild, priest. Remember that. There are forces in this world that can never be tamed—”

“—And humans can’t use them because you only think in terms of
taming
,” Hesseth retorted. “The rakh know that sometimes using a power means submitting to it.” She looked down at Jenseny, now nestled in her arms; her expression was one of awe. “I think she knows that, too,” she whispered.

The girl looked up at them. Her face was streaked by tears and her lower lip was trembling, but her voice was strong as she challenged them, “Take me with you.”

Damien could feel the fury gather about Tarrant like a storm cloud. “Out of the question,” he snapped.

“They killed my father!”

Tarrant ignored her, turned to glare at Damien. “This is your doing, priest. I suggest you find a solution.”

“I want to help you!”

Tarrant stood. He seemed twice as tall in that dusty space, looming over the girl’s head like some spectre the night had conjured. His expression was dark.

“She’s unstable,” he said shortly. “Utterly undisciplined. And I see nothing to indicate that she has any control over the power she uses, or even an understanding of what it is.”

“I know where the Black Lands are!” Jenseny cried out. “And I know the traps there! If you don’t take me with you, you won’t see them, and he’ll kill you!”

For a moment there was silence—a terrible silence, filled to bursting with suspicion and fear and yes, a faint flicker of hope. At last Damien found his voice once more and managed, “What are the Black Lands?”

“Where the Prince lives. The one they call the Undying.” Her tone was defiant now, her wide eyes fixed on Tarrant. Daring him to stop her. “Inside the Wasting. I’ve seen it, I tell you. I could take you through.”

“How?” Tarrant demanded. His voice was like ice. “How do you know all this?”

“I saw ... pictures.” She was clearly struggling for words now, trying to describe something that defied the confinement of language. “He used to tell me stories, and there would be pictures.”

“Your father drew them for you?” Hesseth asked.

“He didn’t know they were there,” she whispered. “He never saw them.” The tears were running freely now, as grief broke through her air of defiance. “Sometimes when he talked they would be there, and I could see what he was saying. Like I’d been there myself. The Black Lands, and the Wasting, and all the places in the south....” Her words trailed off into silence as she lowered her face onto Hesseth’s shoulder. Weeping into the warm golden fur. “I could get you there,” she sobbed. “I could help you make it through!”

“Out of the question,” the Hunter repeated coldly.

Damien was less certain. “If she knows the way—”

“Think about it, priest! Two nations are at war here. The whole coastal region is fortified against invasion. And one Protector goes and visits the heart of the enemy’s territory, right in the midst of all that. Why don’t you ask yourself
why,
Reverend Vryce. Better yet—why don’t you ask the girl?”

Jenseny pulled away suddenly from Hesseth; her light brown face had gone sallow with fear. “He didn’t mean it!” she cried out. “He wanted to help. He thought he could save them!”

It all came together then in Damien’s mind—her father, the rakh, the bloody invasion.... The Protector of Kierstaad had bargained with the enemy, and had paid for that treachery with his life. Which meant that inasmuch as any one man could be said to bear the responsibility for the recent invasion, Jenseny’s father was clearly guilty.

My God,
thought Damien. Watching as the small girl cringed, clearly in terror of their judgment.
What a terrible weight for a young soul to bear.

“I won’t put my life in the hands of a child, priest. Valuable or not, we leave her here.”

“No!” the girl cried out, suddenly panicked. “Not here! Not with the voices!”

“Quiet,”
the Hunter breathed, and his words, power-laced, made the very air shiver.
“Now.”

Choking, she swallowed back on her fear.

“Look at her!” he demanded. “Do you doubt my judgment now? There’s no place in this mission for a child. You should have known that from the start.”

“I couldn’t leave her there.”

“No? So now what? Do you suggest we start interviewing nursemaids? Every time we stop to talk to a local we increase the risk of detection! Perhaps we should approach an adoption service.”

“Then what do you suggest?” the priest demanded. “You tell me.”

His gaze was like ice as it centered on the girl. “You know what I suggest,” he said coldly. There was death in his voice. “You know what my answer is.”

“No,” the rakh-woman hissed, as his meaning struck her. “You have no right—”

“Ah. Are we back to morals again? Have we so soon forgotten the lesson our enemy taught us—that if we hope to succeed, we must be willing to sacrifice everything? Even that?”

“I don’t remember learning that,” Damien growled. And Hesseth protested, “She’s just a child—”

“And you think I don’t know that? I had children of my own, Mes rakh, have you forgotten? I raised them and I nurtured them, and when they got in my way I killed them. Children are expendable—”