Celia Friedman - When True Night Falls

Footsteps. He stopped speaking suddenly, hoping that whoever it was hadn’t heard them. What would happen if the Prince found out about Jenseny’s tidal sorcery? And for that matter, since Tarrant had sold them out, why the hell didn’t he know already? There was a mystery worth examining!

The first figure to come into sight was a soldier, followed by three others. They must think me capable of miracles, he thought dryly, If they imagine they need that kind of manpower. Following them was the rakh from the river, his mane not hooded now but bared to the shoulder, golden highlights playing along the fur as he entered the chamber. The latter nodded toward the bars, and one of the soldiers took up station there. Armed, Damien noted. Another nod, and a pistol was drawn. The cold steel barrel pointed directly at his face.

“Come over to the bars,” the rakh commanded.

Slowly, heart pounding, he obeyed. The barrel was now little more than a yard from his face; even a born jinxer couldn’t miss a shot like that.

“Turn around.”

He turned back toward Jenseny. She was crouched like a frightened animal, ready to bolt if threatened. Where? To what haven? Where could one find safety in this place?

“Put your hands between the bars,” the rakh commanded.

He felt his heart sink as he realized the purpose of all these directions. But what choice did he have? He extended his arms behind him, far enough that his hands slid between the bars. Cold steel shackles snapped shut about his wrists, pinning him in place. He tested them once to see how much slack they allowed him. Not much.

“He’s secure,” the rakh announced.

Footsteps approached from behind. Damien tried to twist around, to see who was approaching, but the angle was wrong and the light was bad and all he could see was the sweep of crimson cloth as a tall, robed figure made its way toward his cell.

Then: a key rattled in the lock. The heavy door was swung aside. A man entered the cell, and took up position directly in front of Damien.

Oh, my God . . .

With one part of his mind he saw the body that stood before him: lean, aging, draped in a sleeveless robe of crimson silk that opened down the front to reveal a tighter, more tailored layer. He was fifty, maybe sixty, and the thin gold band that held back his hair betrayed graying temples, aging skin, a receding hairline.

Utterly familiar.

For a moment he was back in the rakhlands. Kneeling before the Master of Lema, his hands tied behind his back with simple rope (what he wouldn’t give for that now!), at the mercy of her madness as a demon whispered behind her shoulder, There is always torture.

They were the same, she and this man. Not in body. Not in gender. Not even in their features, or any other physical attribute. But in their clothing—their bearing—even their expression! Watching him move was like watching her move; being bound before him was like reliving that awful day, when he waited in vain for the earth to move, to save him from her madness.

“Prince Iso Rashi,” the rakh announced. “Sovereign Lord of Kilsea, Chataka, and the Black Lands.” And he added, “Called the Undying.”

They didn’t look at all alike. They couldn’t be related—could they? The woman had left this region more than a century ago. Could two people be so very alike that after a century’s isolation their taste in clothing would still develop identically? It was crazy. It was impossible.

It had happened.

“So,” the Prince said. His voice was a smooth baritone, even and disciplined. “This is the soldier of God who would lay siege to my throne.”

He managed to shrug. “I gave it my best.”

The expression that came across the Prince’s face was eerily familiar; he wished he could forget where he had seen it before.

“So you did,” he said softly. “And now that your efforts have been dispensed with, you can make up for the trouble you caused me by rendering a simple service.”

“I don’t have a lot of choice, do I?”

“None at all,” the Prince assured him. “But as for how much it hurts . . . that’s up to you.”

He reached out to take Damien’s face in his hands—and for a moment the situation was so much like what Damien had experienced in the rakhlands that panic overwhelmed him, and he tried to back away. But the bars at his back allowed no retreat, and the cool hands settled on his face with firm authority. Jenseny started to move toward them, but Damien saw her and warned her, “No!” There was nothing she could do to help him now. “Stay where you are! Don’t interfere.”

“How very considerate of you,” the Prince murmured.

He tried to look away, but he couldn’t. He tried to shut his eyes, but it was as if his lids had been glued open. The chill blue gaze of his captor drew him in, and its power skewered him like an insect on a mounting board. Where the hell is he getting the power from? Damien thought desperately. Then he felt the fire that was pressed against his cheek, the glowing ring that was pouring out tamed earth-fae to fuel the Prince’s Binding. Like Tarrant’s sword, Damien thought. Remembering all too well what that sword was like, and what it was capable of doing.

“Tell me about Gerald Tarrant,” the Prince commanded.

Images exploded in his brain, sight and sound and emotion all bound together into a blazing tapestry of memory. The Hunter in his forest. Ciani, helpless in his arms. Rakh dying in agony. Blood. Fear. Revulsion. He shook as the memories poured through him, all the emotion of a long, hard year packed into one terrifying instant. The boy that Tarrant killed. The women he tortured. The horror of knowing that they had to go in and rescue him, that there really was no choice, that the Hunter would live and thrive and feed because of Damien Vryce-

“No,” he gasped. “Stop it, please!”

—and then this journey, this terrible doomed journey, the days and the nights and the battles and the horror and then that moment at the river, that terrible moment when all his hopes came crashing down and he looked at Tarrant and he knew—he knew —it was over, it was all over, their efforts were for nothing and all the dying was a waste, the Hunter had proven true to his nature at last and betrayed them to the enemy-

The power that held him released him suddenly and he slumped back against the bars. Weak and shaken, he shut his eyes. Though he heard the Prince step back from him, he had no strength to look up at him, and no desire.

Though he heard the door swing open again, he didn’t even look toward it. It was as if all the life had been wrung out of him along with his memories. It was an effort just to live.

And then the shackles were unlocked and taken from his wrists, and he was free to move. He fell to his knees on the hard stone floor, and felt the child run to his side. He hugged her hard, drawing strength from the contact.

“Thank you,” the Prince said from behind him. “That was most informative.”

He refused to turn around. He refused to acknowledge the taunting words, spoken with an arrogance so like Tarrant’s own. If he did, he would probably try to kill the man, despite the bars and the shackles and his obvious power. His need to strike at Tarrant was that strong, and at that moment the two seemed indistinguishable.

Damn you, Hunter! I trusted you. I did. How many others have you seduced into that fatal mistake over the ages? How many others wanted to believe that the Hunter’s soul was still human, only to discover in the end that it was as cold and as ruthless as the Wasting?

From behind him the Prince was speaking. “That’ll be all, Katassah. No need to leave a guard down here.”