When True Night Falls (84 page)

This time he had an alternative.

He put his hand about the hilt of his sword and drew it free of its sheath. Coldfire blazed furiously as it made contact with the hot power of the local currents, and a hiss like that of steam rose from its sharp steel edge. It was bright again, nearly as bright as it had been in the rakhlands; he had been charging it night after night throughout their journey, molding the earth-fae with painstaking care until it suited his special need, then binding it to the steel until the whole length of the sword blazed with frigid power. It enabled him to Work when the currents were made deadly by earthquakes, or when he was deep underground where the earth-fae was feeble. It would enable him to Work safely now, even in this hostile environment.

One more tool, and then he was ready. He took it out of his pocket and opened it, laying it on the warm black earth before him. Memories clung to it like vapor, and for an instant he thought that the volatile currents would bring several of them to life. But all that manifested was a thin red fog, that twined about the handle in crimson filigree and left small drops, like blood, floating in the air.

Shutting the rest of the world out of his mind, he braced himself for Working. In all of his repertoire there was no harder task than what he was about to attempt here. It went against the very patterns of Nature, defied the very flow of reality. He had done it only once before, as an exercise, and even then he had not been wholly successful. This time, however, there was no room for error.

Carefully he wove power into the slender object, priming it to take the fae in the same way he had done to his sword so many centuries ago. That was easy enough. Next would come the Warding, a complex command that would enable the object to craft the fae itself, molding the currents, dodging magnetism, bending light....

An UnSeeing.

An Obscuring would have been far easier to establish, but that only decreased the chance of an object being noticed. A Distracting was more effective—he had used one against Damien and Jenseny at the river—but that was more suited to a single moment in time than a lasting need for secrecy. And a sorcerer might notice either of those Workings if he were alert for it, which the Prince most certainly was. No, this had to be the real thing. And that must affect not only the mind of the observer but reality itself, remaking the physical world so that nowhere was there even a shadow of its existence. True invisibility. Scholars had argued that it wasn’t possible. He had argued that it was. And here, on this torrid ridge, he was about to bet his life on that assessment.

With care he molded the fae, weaving it about the small object as finely as a silk cocoon. Light, striking that barrier, would pass about its perimeter and then resume its course. Magnetic currents would be shielded from contact with the metal within before they were allowed to pass through. Heat and cold and conductivity and the currents, the winds, the tides ... they must all be dealt with separately, for they all had their own special patterns. The only thing he left untouched was a narrow band of visible light; that would have to be dealt with on a more mundane level.

When at last he was done, he leaned back, exhausted, and studied his creation. Out here in the field it looked good, but if the Prince turned his attention upon it....

Then we’ll find out if I’m right or not
, he thought grimly.
The hard way
.

“Damn stairs,” the guard muttered. “Don’t know why he can’t keep his prisoners on the ground floor this time, like all the others.”

He was less than thrilled about having drawn this duty, but he was hardly going to admit that to the captain. You didn’t tell a rakh that you’d rather do sentry duty than walk a simple food tray down ten turns of stairs. He’d read you for a wimp in two seconds flat, and then there’d be some damn animal pecking-order bullshit and the next thing you knew you’d be hauling out garbage or waxing canoes or some such crap thing like that. No, better to just walk the vulking tray down the vulking stairs and try not to think about the climb back up.

He was about halfway down when a hand grasped his shoulder from behind. Startled, he turned around as fast as he could. Instinct said
go for your weapon!
but instinct also said
don’t drop the tray!
and the result was that in his panic he nearly dropped them both.

“No need to be startled,” a cool voice assured him. The hand fell from his shoulder; his flesh was faintly chilled where it had grasped him.

The foreign Neocount. That’s who it was. For a minute his testicles drew up in cold dread, because he’d heard what the man was and what he could do. Then he remembered what the captain had told him: that there were at least a thousand wards in the palace all fixed on this man, all waiting for the first time he used his power against the Prince.
Let him mutter even the first word of a Knowing
, the rakh had assured him,
and those wards will fry him to a cinder
. Which meant that he was safe, didn’t it? Didn’t hurting one of the palace guards count as hurting the Prince?

Then the smooth, perfectly manicured hands closed about the sides of the tray and he could feel its woven surface grow cool in his hands. For a moment he held onto it, thinking that the captain would give him hell if he let go—and then he looked into those eyes, those bottomless silver cold-as-ice eyes, and his hands lost all their strength.

“I’ll deliver it,” the Neocount told him. “You can go back up.”

He almost started to protest, but his voice failed him. At last, realizing that he was outgunned and outclassed and not about to start an argument with a sorcerer in a dark place like this where no one could hear him yell, he nodded his acquiescence. The Neocount’s gaze released him and he shivered as the tall, cold figure passed him in the stairwell.

Shaking, he went back up to tell his captain that the food had been delivered.

The light was dim, and in order to read by it Damien and Jenseny had to sit with their backs to the bars. Thus they were positioned now, with various piles of coins and cards and miscellaneous small items spread out between them. They were filthy, worn and bruised, and their attention was clearly fixed on the cards in their hands. Neither of them noticed Tarrant as he approached.

“Two,” the girl said, and she took two cards from her hand and put them on the floor. “Give me two.”

The priest counted two cards off the deck and gave them to her. Evidently he had heard Tarrant move then, for after that he turned around—

And stared. Just long enough for Jenseny to turn around and see Tarrant and gasp. Just long enough for the Hunter to read the venom in his gaze. Then he turned back to the pile of items before him and picked up a coin. With studied disdain he cast it through the bars to the Hunter’s feet; it rolled to a stop against his boot.

“You can leave it by the bars,” he said shortly. “We’ll get to it when we’re done.”

He turned his back on the man then, and counted three cards for himself off the deck.

“Jen?”

“Two coins,” she said. She pushed them to the pile between them, where two other coins already lay.

He considered his cards, then added two coins of his own. “I’ll see you that, and raise you ... a piece of chalk.”

“I’m out of chalk.” She dug a grimy hand down into her pocket, searching for any miniscule tidbits that previous searches had not revealed. At last she came up clutching something. She held it up into the light and asked, “What is it?”

He studied the small bits of dark rock and rendered judgment. “Lava.”

“What’s it worth?”

He considered. “Half a chalk each.”

Tarrant came forward as she counted off two pieces and added them to the pile of wagers. He put the tray down on the floor, right by the bars. “I thought you would want to know what happened,” he said.

“I vulking well know what happened,” Damien muttered through gritted teeth. Then to the girl, “What have you got?”

“Three Matrias.”

“Damn. Pair of sevens.” He watched as she pulled the booty over to her side, then cast another coin down between them. “Your deal.”

“I thought you should understand—”

“I understand, all right!” He got to his feet in one sudden motion and turned to face the man; he felt as taut as a watchspring that had been overwound, about to snap. “I understand that I fed you for
five vulking months
so you could get here and sell us out to the man we came to kill, that’s what I understand! What did he offer you, anyway? A house of your own with some nifty crystal architecture, maybe a few girls to run around and bleed for you? What?”

“Immortality,” the Hunter said.

Stunned, Damien couldn’t find his voice.

“The real thing.”

“God,” he whispered. He shut his eyes. “No. I can’t outbid that. Good God.”

“We didn’t have a chance,” the Hunter told him. “Not with a Iezu involved. I couldn’t get within ten feet of the Prince without half a dozen wards attacking, and you ... you wouldn’t last a minute. The first time you even hinted at a threatening gesture your senses would be so warped by Iezu sorcery that you couldn’t tell dream from reality, and then it would all be over. No contest at all.”

“Then you could have told me that!” he spat. “When I asked you in Esperanova, you should have told me that. God damn it! I
trusted
you.”

“And I warned you not to,” the Hunter reminded him. “Several times.”

“You could have told me!”

“I
did.
I told you there was almost no hope. I told you your only chance lay with one wild element—and it didn’t come through, did it? That’s hardly my fault.”

Damien’s hands had clenched into fists by his sides; his knuckles were white with rage. “Damn you,” he whispered hoarsely. “Damn your infernal honesty!”

“I gave you the odds. You made your decision. Isn’t it a little hypocritical to play the martyr now, priest?”

He might have answered—if he could have gotten words out past the rage boiling up in his throat—but at that moment another person entered the chamber, and her presence startled him so much that words abandoned him.

She was slender. She was dark. She was beautiful, in the way that the Hunter preferred beauty: fragile, delicate, vulnerable. It was clear from the way she looked at Tarrant that she feared him, feared him terribly, and yet she approached him, drawn to his presence in the way a mesmerized skerrel might be drawn to a hungry snake. Every instinct in Damien’s soul cried out for him to go to her, to help her, to shelter her from the Hunter’s cruelty, but the chain binding his legs and the thick iron bars before him made any such movement impossible. Whatever Tarrant might do to this woman, Damien could do no more than stand and watch.

She looked at the priest, then at the Hunter, then quickly away. Her hand on the wall was trembling, and her voice shook slightly when she spoke. “His Highness says to please come see him when you’re finished here, he has some business he needs to discuss with you.” A bare whisper of a voice, so fraught with fear that Damien’s heart ached to hear it. And for good reason, he thought; he could almost feel the Hunter’s hunger reaching out to her, caressing her, savoring her terror—

“Leave her alone!” he choked out. Powerless words, futile sounds. There was nothing he could do if the Hunter chose to harm her. Nothing but watch, and hate.

Tarrant moved to where the woman stood. Though she drew back from him in terror, she made no move to get away. He lifted a long, slender hand to her hair, then stroked it; his finger passed down along the line of her throat, pausing gently to test the heat of her pulse. She moaned softly, but made no move to escape him. Her dark eyes glittered with fear.

“Tarrant. Please.” How he hated his helplessness! His hands closed tightly about the thick iron bars, but mere desperation couldn’t bend them. “She just came to bring you a message. Don’t hurt her.”

The Hunter chuckled coldly. “Our journey together is over now, priest. I no longer have to indulge your tedious morality.” He leaned down to the girl and kissed her gently on the forehead, a mockery of human affection; Damien saw the girl shiver violently. “Sisa belongs to me. A gift from the Prince, to cement our alliance. A fitting tribute, don’t you think?”

“You can’t own a person,” Jenseny protested.

“Can’t I?” the Hunter smiled. “Last night I hunted her in the Black Lands. Tonight she lives only because I chose to spare her life. From this moment onward her every breath will be drawn in at my will—or extinguished at my command. That’s ownership in my book, Mes Jenseny.”

He had to turn away. He couldn’t watch it. Helplessness was a cold knot in his gut, a tide of sickness in his soul. “Listen to yourself!” he said hoarsely. “Look at what you’re doing! That isn’t the Gerald Tarrant I knew. What’s happening to you?”