Celia Friedman - When True Night Falls

Then she struck. Hard and fast, a single upswipe of her right arm that brought the knife—Tarrant’s knife, rescued from the floor of the throne room when no one was looking—straight into her own throat, into that one special place (Damien had said) where the blood drew near the surface of the body as it carried life-giving oxygen to the brain. She struck fast and she struck hard, because she knew she would never get a second chance. And all the while she poured out her rage at this man, she drowned him in her hatred and her grief and her determination to destroy him, emotions she had been desperately holding in check up until now so that he wouldn’t catch on to what she was really doing, but now that the act was done they poured out of her like a tidal wave.

You killed my father! she screamed silently. As the knife cut deep, deep in her throat, freeing the hot blood to gush down her neck, her chest, her arm. There was no fear in her now, only the fierce joy of triumph. You killed Hesseth! You took away everything I had and now you’ll do it to others, so many others! Only you won’t, you won’t, I figured out how to stop you!

He was startled at first, then cocky, indignant—and then he tried to return to his other body, and he couldn’t, and he got scared. He had thought that he could never be killed—certainly not by her!—but now he realized that wasn’t true, she had thought of a way. She would drag him down into death along with her if it took every ounce of strength she had, every bit of power she could conjure. As he struggled to withdraw from her dying flesh, she gripped the tidal power with all her might, holding onto the rainbow tides and using them to reinforce her Binding, to hold onto him, to keep him from slipping free-

Earth-fae rose up from the ground beneath her with a roar, engulfing her in the flames of his fury. Blinded, she could no longer See; stunned, she couldn’t Work. Even as she began the long slide down into the darkness of death she could feel him using his power to unravel the bond between them; he was starting to slip away from her, his spirit abandoning her bleeding flesh for a more dependable body. No! she screamed. You can’t go! But he was going, and she was fading fast.

God, please. She prayed feverishly, desperately. Help me! Her vision was growing dim, as were her other senses; she could hardly feel the flames he had conjured anymore. Please. For Hesseth and my dad and the children with the Terata and all the thousands he’ll hurt, all the thousands who’ll get eaten or worse if he goes free . . . please help me. There was a ringing in her ears now, and the pulse of blood from her throat had weakened to a trickle.

“Please,” she whispered. As she fell to the ground, the soft ground, and darkness folded over her like a blanket. Soft, so soft. She struggled against it, but its power was numbing, suffocating. Please, please don’t let him go free . . .

And Something answered. Something that cooled the flames around her until they vanished back into the currents which had given them birth, to flow like water around her supine body. Something that stilled her fears and soothed her hate and quieted the storms of her spirit. Something that reached out and touched the Prince’s soul as well, filling his spirit with Its Presence. Peace. Quiet. Utter tranquillity. He recognized the danger and he fought it, fought it desperately, but it wasn’t the kind of power a man could do battle with. His experience was in games of violence and domination, and those things had no power here. She felt his fear bleed out into the darkness—the soft, loving darkness—and slowly, gradually, his struggles ceased. It no longer mattered to him which body he was in, or whether his flesh was dying; his hunger for life had given way to something far more powerful. Slowly the tidal cocoon about them rewove itself, binding him to her flesh; slowly she slid down into the warm shadows of death, and he came with her.

Thank you. Voiceless words, silent peace. Thank you.

There were faces now, floating in a whirlpool of light. Hesseth. Her father. Her mother. All the rakhene children. She reached out for them, only to have them dissolve between her fingers like ghosts.

Come, they whispered, reforming just beyond her reach. Time to move on. Come with us.

She walked toward them. A bright figure led the way, a soldier whose armor gleamed golden like the Core, and whose crystal standard tinkled in the wind. She remembered him from a vision she’d had once, of thousands of bright knights preparing to give their lives for their faith. He held out a hand to her and she took it; the contact made her tingle.

Some things, he whispered, are worth dying for.

And then the whole world was filled with light, and there was only peace.

Well, Damien thought, this is what it’s all come to.

The lamps had gone out maybe an hour ago. The darkness itself wasn’t such a terrible thing—there was just enough fae in the cell that he could Work his sight to see by its dull glow—but the implication of that darkness was the final thread in a vast tapestry of despair. In his previous incarceration he had never been left without light. Men had come down those stairs at regular intervals to see that the wicks were trimmed and the fuel pots were full, so that the lamps might never go out. Now they were empty. And in a palace run with such clockwork precision, Damien could read no other meaning into that than the fact that he was meant to waste away in the darkness, to die at his own slow pace.

He tried to shift position, but pain stabbed through his back as he moved and he had to give it up. He had managed to gather enough fae to work a minimal Healing, enough to stop the internal bleeding, but the power in this underground cell simply wasn’t strong enough for anything more than that. The pain was centered around his kidneys, where the worst blows had fallen, and he knew all too well just how bad that could be. How long would it be before he knew if there was fatal damage? What kind of dying would that entail? Maybe it was more merciful to let his system fill up with poisons, rather than die the slow death of starvation. Maybe he should be grateful.

There was a sound on the stairs. He looked up, startled, but saw only the dim glow of earth-fae as it trickled down over the stone. He listened so hard that it seemed his blood roared and his heart beat like a timpani, but even over those distractions he could still make out the sound of footsteps. Footsteps! They came toward him with excruciating slowness, echoing down the spiral stairwell. And then light, coming toward him like the dawn. Never mind that it was a single lamp. Never mind that the figure who carried it was cloaked, and the folds of his garments cast deep shadows on the cold stone walls. In this place a match flame would have seemed like the sun itself, and the light of a lantern was nothing short of miraculous.

He managed to rise to a sitting posture, though pain shot through his back as he did so. The figure approached the bars. The light of the lamp was blinding, and for a moment Damien couldn’t make out any details of his visitor’s face. At last the figure moved the lamp so that it was off to one side, and its light silhouetted rakhene features that Damien knew all too well.

For a long time Katassah just looked at him, as if trying to read something in his expression. It might have been a trick of the shadows, but his fur seemed strangely dull; a thin membrane had drawn across the inner corner of his eyes, making his expression twice as alien as usual.

“He’s dead,” the rakh said quietly. His voice was strangely devoid of emotion, like that of a shock victim. “She killed him.”