Celia Friedman - When True Night Falls

“Just play,” he told her. His mind was racing as he cast out a coin into the space between them, a northern half-cent. No, Gerald Tarrant, I didn’t know you. He picked up his cards and spread them, sheltering them with his hands. I didn’t know you at all.

In his pocket, the coldfire burned.

“Damien. Damien, wake up.”

Darkness faded into near-darkness, punctuated by lamp-fires. There were figures standing outside the bars, the glint of steel by their sides. Jenseny was shaking him.

“They say we have to go see the Prince,” she told him.

Slowly, painfully, he rose to his feet. His legs ached from cold and inaction and the short length of chain that bound them made it hard for him to get up. At last he stood, and faced the men who were waiting outside the cell. Six men in all, and the rakh who commanded them. Katassah.

“His Highness requests your presence,” the maned captain told him.

There was nothing to do but nod his comprehension and then step back while they unlocked the door. Three men came through it and took up position before him. “Turn around,” the rakh ordered. He did. His arms were pulled back behind him, and cold steel bands were snapped shut about his wrists. They were linked by a shorter chain than the last time, he noted. The boys were being careful today.

“Bring him out,” the rakh commanded.

“What about me?” Jenseny demanded. She tried to go to Damien, but a guard held her back. “You’re not leaving me alone here!”

“You can come,” the rakh told her. “But you have to wear this.” He held out something toward her, that shone in the lamplight. A metal band, half an inch in width and maybe ten, twelve inches around. There was a seal inscribed in a metal disk that hung from it; Damien couldn’t make out the markings.

“What is it?” the priest asked.

“If you behave as you should, then it’s merely a piece of jewelry. But if your behavior should in some way compromise the Prince’s well-being . . . then let us say, the child would share his discomfort.” He gave Damien a few seconds for the implications of that to sink in, then asked, “You understand?”

“Yeah,” he muttered. You bastard.

Jenseny was waiting for some kind of guidance from Damien; her eyes were wide and frightened. Did he have any right to involve her like this? he wondered desperately. He was probably going to get killed sometime soon. If he was lucky—very lucky—he might manage to take the Prince with him. Now, with this ward on Jenseny . . . killing the Prince would mean killing her.

Dear God, guide me. I have made the choice to sacrifice my own life, if necessary. Do I have the right to sacrifice hers?

At last he said, ever so gently, “I don’t think they’ll let you come without it.” Guilt was a cold knot inside him, but there was nothing more he could say without giving himself away. Did she understand what it was she’d be agreeing to?

“Okay.” Her voice was barely a whisper. A guard took her by the arm and led her from the cell—a bit roughly, Damien thought—and then the rakh came over to her and fit the band around her neck. It snapped shut with a metallic click.

That done, the rakh ordered, “Bring him out.”

They led Damien out of the cell, to where the rakh stood. Despite the chains binding his arms and his legs they held on to him while their leader studied him; Damien wondered just what it was they considered him capable of doing.

“You understand,” the rakh told him, “that my orders are to kill you the instant you try anything. Not to wait, not to question, not to assess your true intentions . . . just to kill you.”

He looked into those eyes, so green, so cold, and wondered what secrets they housed. What was it that the Protector had seen in this man, that he had considered him a possible ally? Whatever it was, Damien sure as hell couldn’t make it out.

Kierstaad was an honored guest. That’s a hell of a different vantage point than what I’ve got.

“You understand?” the rakh captain prompted.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “I understand.”

“All right.” He turned to his men and signaled. “Let’s go.”

They were pushed toward the stairs and then up them. One of the men had grabbed hold of Jenseny’s arm, but she wriggled free somehow and came running over to Damien; the rakh let her stay! He could feel her warmth by his side as he struggled to make the endless climb, and he wished he had some hope to offer her.

I haven’t done you any great favor by bringing you here, he thought to her. You would have been better off among the Terata. But then he thought of how she was when they found her—filthy and frightened and living like an animal in the Terata’s dungeon. Now she’s just filthy and frightened, he thought wryly. Feeling the crust of sweat and dirt and dried blood flake from his own body as he walked. I must smell like hell. Bet the rakh loves it. It gave him a dry pleasure to think that the enemy—at least one of the enemy—was being made miserable by his presence. Not that this rakh—or any rakh—would ever admit that.

Halfway up he fell, his feet tangling in the short chain as he tried to go from one step to the next. He went down fast and hard and his knee hit the stair with a force that was audible. Pain lanced through his leg and he would have gone sliding downward if not for the grip of an alert guard on his arm. Another grabbed him from the opposite side and together they managed to get him back on his feet; he swayed as he stood between them, wincing from the pain.

The rakh came over to where they were and studied him, first his expression and then his feet. “Take it off,” he said at last. Damien felt the shackles pull against his ankles as someone behind him unlocked them, and then he was free and the weight was gone and he could take a full step again. Thank God.

One down, he thought, as he started to climb again. His knee hurt like hell and he knew he could well have done it serious damage in his fall, but his gamble had proved worth the risk. The leg irons were off now, and while it was a small triumph it was nevertheless his first one in this place. And he had learned long ago that when things were really bad, so bad that it was all you could do to not think about the thousands of things that were going wrong, the best way to cope was to take one problem at a time and try to chip away at it. And so: one down.

He tried not to think about Tarrant’s knife as they climbed the endless staircase. He tried not to feel its weight on his arm, its blade against his flesh. The guards hadn’t seen it when they’d bound him, nor felt its stiffness when they grabbed his arms; was that due to Tarrant’s Working, or the skill with which he had concealed it within his shirt sleeve? He wished he knew what the man had done to it. In truth, he couldn’t feel it even when he tried, and he suspected that even if it cut his arm open to the bone he wouldn’t be aware of it. It seemed to be protected by a strange kind of Obscuring, that allowed the eyes to see it but blocked all other senses. He wondered if he would be able to take hold of it when he needed to. Had Tarrant thought of that?

At last the stairs ended and they were standing in a gleaming crystal chamber. On all sides of them faceted walls glimmered and shone, their surfaces mercurial as they reflected light from some unseen source. He recognized the style, of course, and it chilled him in much the same way that the Prince’s presence had. Because the Master of Lema’s architecture might have been less grand, less magical, but it was inspired by the same design. Perhaps she had been attempting to copy the grandeur of this place, as she had copied the Prince’s clothing. If so, she had fallen short. He had to half-shut his eyes as the guards led him forward, to close out the illusions that danced about him as he walked. Glittering walls like diamonds, waterfalls of light. How did they find their way around in this place? Was it some kind of Working they used, or were they just more accustomed to it?