Celia Friedman - When True Night Falls

“Mes Hesseth forfeited her life when she committed herself to this journey,” Tarrant said coolly. He sipped from the goblet in his hand; another precious second passed. “The mission was a mistake from start to finish, as you both should have realized.”

The Prince was turning away from him. Maybe it was only to give an order to one of his men; maybe it was to dismiss Damien from his presence. He would never get closer than this, Damien realized, or have a better shot at the man; it was now or never.

He pulled against his chains, hard. Praying as he had never prayed before, that the coldfire had done its work and the steel was brittle and it would give way before the violence of his motion. He saw the rakh starting forward, alerted by the motion, and the Prince was turning back toward him-

And there was a sound like breaking glass and then his hands were free, pain shooting up his arms as he brought them around, frozen shrapnel scattering across the silken carpet as the rakh lunged forward, the Prince fell back, the knife was an arc of silver fire as he brought it up toward the only possible target, the one single inch that he absolutely must strike-

Steel met flesh with a shower of icy sparks. Damien’s momentum was such that even though the Prince brought up an arm in time to block his blow, it could not stop him; the point of the knife cut into the skin of the man’s neck and through his flesh and deep into the artery that carried blood and life to his brain. Scarlet gushed hotly out of the wound as Damien ripped the blade back, and he prayed that in his last few seconds the Prince would be too shaken to Work the fae. Because if he wasn’t, if he managed to close up the wound with his power . . . then they were all dead, he and Tarrant and Jenseny and all the millions up north who had been earmarked for destruction. The Prince would see to that.

The monarch’s body jerked back suddenly, the motion knocking the knife out of Damien’s hand. He saw it skitter across the rug as the Prince fell to his knees, lost sight of it against the fine silk pattern. No matter. He followed the bleeding monarch to the ground as he fell, prepared to tear out his throat with his bare hands if need be, the minute it looked like that ravaged skin was closing itself up. He heard voices, movements, weapons being drawn. Any moment now the men standing around might kill him, and the thought of death didn’t upset him half as much as the fact that he might die with his work unfinished.

The scarlet stream was thinning now, and the Prince’s face was a pasty white. Only seconds now, and the sorcerer would be beyond all saving. Only seconds.

It was then that Jenseny screamed.

Grief and horror and a terrible, numbing guilt all flooded Damien’s soul, but he dared not turn back toward her. If the Prince healed himself in that one unguarded instant, then not only would she die but all that she’d helped them fight to accomplish would be lost forever. He couldn’t let that happen. “Forgive me,” he whispered, as he watched the last blood pulse out of the Prince’s body. Knowing that even if she did forgive him, he could never forgive himself.

And then it was over.

And the room was silent.

And there was something so terribly wrong that he could taste it.

Why hadn’t the guards moved? Why wasn’t anyone doing anything? He dared a glance back toward where Jenseny was and saw her standing frozen with fear—not hurt, not dead, but utterly paralyzed by terror—her gaze fixed upon a figure who even now was approaching the corpse of the Prince, his shadow darkening the rivers of royal blood that played out along the carpet.

Katassah.

Damien stepped back quickly, expecting some kind of attack. There was none.

“You’re a fool,” the rakh rasped.

His voice was different. His eyes had changed. They were still rakhene, still green . . . but there was something new in their depths that chilled Damien to the bone. Something all too familiar.

“And you,” the rakh said, turning to Tarrant, “are a traitor.”

Comprehension flashed in the Hunter’s eyes, and he moved quickly to draw his sword, to use the power stored within it. He wasn’t fast enough. Even as the Worked steel cleared its sheath the rakh raised one hand in a Working gesture—and light blazed forth from all the walls, from the ceiling and floor, from every facet of every crystal in that vast room. Light as brilliant as sunlight, reflected and refracted a thousand times over until it filled the space with all the force of a new dawn. With a cry Tarrant fell back, stumbling over the chair behind him; the sword crashed to the floor by its arm. Damien started toward him, but the rakh grabbed him roughly by the arm and twisted it, forcing him down. By the time he could begin to rise up again, the Hunter had collapsed, beaten down by the raw power of the conjured light; his Worked blade smoked where it lay on the carpet, and it seemed that his skin was smoking as well. Strangely, madly, the woman he’d been torturing was trying to help him; in the end one of the guards had to pull her back so that the Hunter might be fully exposed to the killing light.

Guards held onto Damien as the rakh/Prince approached Tarrant’s body. The Hunter had drawn up one arm to shield his face from the conjured light; the rakh kicked it away. “You’re not the only one with a storage system, you know.” He nodded toward one of his guards. “Take him to the roof of the east tower,” he ordered. “I’ve prepared it for him. See that he greets the dawn in suitable attire.”

With a sick heart Damien saw them gather up the Hunter’s ravaged form and carry it away; Tarrant might have been dead already for all that he fought them. I led you from fire into fire, the priest thought. The rakh was coming back to him now, and the guards forced the priest to his knees to receive him.

“You can’t kill me,” he said coldly. “Not with your knives and not with your Workings. All you can do is force me to take another body before I’m ready, and that will hurt me a bit. But the pain is nothing permanent, I assure you—and in the end you’ll answer for my discomfort.”

Damien looked for Jenseny, found her crouched down some ten feet away, shivering like a frightened animal. Had she Seen the change? What a horrifying thought! “What happened to Katassah?” he demanded.

“Oh, he’s still within this flesh. He just . . . relinquished control for the moment.” He brushed one hand down the front of his uniform, savoring the touch of its decorations. “He’s not too happy about the change in command, but that can’t be helped. It’s easier to claim a host when you know him well, and I was pressed for time. He’ll have to understand.”

He nodded to the guards holding Damien, who pulled him to his feet. “You destroyed the Terata,” he accused. “That breeding-ground of adepts which I depended upon for rejuvenation. You destroyed them just when I was making arrangements to have a suitable youth brought to me . . . so I think it’s only fitting that you take his place.” He reached out a hand to Damien, and though the priest jerked violently back the guards held him in place; sharp claws stroked down the side of his face, as if testing the resiliency of his skin. “You’re older than I would like, and it won’t be ten years before deterioration begins . . . but look at that from the bright side. In ten years you’ll be free again. You won’t have to live in a body that moves without your willing it, or gaze out through eyes that are under another’s control . . . by then you’ll be grateful for what’s left to you, priest. I guarantee it.”

“No.” It was Jenseny. “No!” She started forward toward the rakh, but not fast enough; one of the guards tackled her roughly to the ground. “No,” she sobbed. “Don’t do it!”