Celia Friedman - When True Night Falls

Running. She was running. He could sense the motion, the fear. It awakened old instincts, too long denied. He burned to go after her, to take her, to kill.

First things first. Gestures. Ritual. He bowed in the way his era had taught, when kings and princes and their noble cohorts still roamed the planet in numbers enough that such gestures need be codified; the Prince’s nod said that he understood the maneuver in all its subtle refinement.

The rakh had returned, and though he kept a respectful distance, Tarrant could sense him studying him. Assessing him as a possible threat? If so, he had his work cut out for him.

“Among men such as ourselves,” he said quietly—with only a hint of warning in his voice—“a Knowing must be considered an invasion of privacy, and hence a hostile act. I would hate for anything like that to compromise our new-found fellowship, your Highness.”

“Indeed,” the Prince said coolly. “I think we understand each other.” He nodded solemnly. “Good hunting, Neocount.”

When he was gone—when the curtains of illusion had swung shut behind him, a barrier to sight and sound—the rakh asked, “Do you trust him?”

“Trust isn’t an issue,” the Prince said coolly.

“Will you Know him, then?”

He shook his head. “You heard what he said. That would be tantamount to a declaration of war.”

“Then how can you make sure of him?”

He stroked the side of the silver goblet gently; the warmed blood within it trembled.

“There are other ways of getting information,” he assured his captain.

The drug was wearing off, at last. Damien could see again. The edges of his world were coming into focus, black and sharp and hostile. He could speak if he wanted to. Language was no longer disconnected from thought, so that every word was a struggle for meaning, every sentence a herculean effort. He could think.

With a moan he tried to sit up; to his amazement his body responded. It seemed a small eternity ago that the Prince’s drug had robbed him of every mental capacity he held dear; in his more lucid moments he had feared that it would never wear off, that the prince had crippled him as one might cut off the claws from a hunting cat, or clip the wings of a captive bird. Only this was a hundred times, a thousand times more horrible. There was no way to keep a man from Working, he understood that now. All you could do was scramble his brain enough that any organized activity—including Working—was impossible.

Jenseny must have seen him stir, for she came to his side and tried to help him up. Not that she could have lifted his bulk, but the support was welcome. “I’m okay,” he whispered hoarsely, and he put his arm around the girl. His wrists burned from where the shackles had cut into them, and instinctively he Worked his vision so that he could begin to Heal them. Or tried to. But there was barely enough power to transform his sight, so that he might see for himself how totally inadequate the currents were for his purpose. For any purpose.

“Underground?” he whispered.

“Pretty deep,” the girl told him. “He said you’d understand why.”

“Who did?”

“The rakh.”

He struggled for memory, dimly recalled striped markings and a long, full mane. Green eyes, perhaps. Any more than that was unavailable, lost in the mists and veils that the drug had conjured. He wondered what other memories had been lost as well.

“Tell me about it,” he prompted her. “Tell me what happened.”

She did so. As she talked, he studied the space they were in: the thick iron bars, the solid walls, the all but nonexistent earth-fae. No hope, not anywhere. The Prince knew who and what he was dealing with and he had planned their imprisonment well. Until someone unlocked that door, Damien and the girl weren’t going anywhere.

“There’s food,” Jenseny said. She seemed strangely proud, as if somehow the food was of her making, but he lacked the strength to question her about it. How long had he been trapped in that terrible half-sleep, his body starving while his mind struggled for control? Hunger, once acknowledged, was a sharp pain in his gut. He took the food she held out to him—sandwiches, no less!—and gratefully wolfed them down. Followed by clean water, which she also provided. Good enough, he thought. At least the bastard wasn’t going to starve them.

“Is he going to kill us?” the girl asked him suddenly.

He looked down at her, reached out to stroke her hair gently with his hand. His hands and nails were encrusted with dirt, and his clothing likewise; Tarrant would have been disgusted. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “Does it make you afraid, thinking that he might?”

She bit her lower lip as she considered. “Would I be with my dad, then? Wherever he is,” she amended quickly, Not yet confident enough to assume him into the One God’s heaven.

“I’m sure of it,” he whispered. They were words that had to be said; he wondered if they were true. What would happen to this precious child when the end came, where her soul was free to ride the currents of Erna? The One God took care of His Own, it was said, and she was hardly a member of His flock. What happened to those who embraced no god, who gave no thought to an afterlife, but simply lived from birth to death in the best way they knew how? In a world where faith could create gods and demons, where prayers could sculpt heaven and hell, what happened to those who gave no thought to the moment after death, who made no provision for dying?

With a sigh he made his way over to a low pot set in a far corner of the cell, and, after ascertaining that it was indeed what he had guessed it to be, he relieved himself of the day’s accumulated pressure. His urine was dark and murky and smelled strangely sour; he hoped to God that was due to the drug passing out of his system and not some more ominous sign. All he needed now was for his body to fail him.

And then he leaned against the rock wall and shut his eyes and thought, Does it really matter? Does anything really matter any more?

“Are you okay?” the girl asked.

Don’t, something whispered inside him. Don’t give in to despair. When you do that, then he’s won.

“You mean he hasn’t already?” he whispered.

“What?”

He drew in a deep breath, fighting to steady himself. Then he went back to her and sat down by her side. He took her hand in his—so small, so very small—and stroked it gently.

“Jenseny.” He said it quietly, very quietly. Was he afraid that someone might hear? There was no one within sight now, but what did that mean in a place like this? “The fae that I use is too weak here; I can’t do anything with it. What about the kind of fae that Hesseth was teaching you to use? Can you see that here?”

She hesitated. “Sometimes. It was strong right after we came down here. There isn’t too much now, but sometimes it changes fast. I never know.” She said that apologetically—as if somehow the shortcomings of the tidal power were her fault.

He squeezed her hand in reassurance. “When it is strong, when you can use it . . . do you think you could Work this?” He didn’t point to the bars of their prison—the real issue—but to the thin chain between his ankles. Metal was metal, and if she could use the tidal fae to alter his bonds, then maybe there was hope for the bars as well.

But she cast her eyes downward and said miserably, “I tried. On the boat. Only I’m not good enough . . .”

“You just need practice,” he comforted. Thinking wryly, And you may have a lot of time for that here. “Let me know the next time you feel there’s enough to work with and we can try—”