Celia Friedman - When True Night Falls

“How did it happen?” he asked.

Katassah had hung back at the door, unwilling to intrude upon the privacy of Damien’s mourning; now that he had been addressed, he approached. “He moved into her body and meant to take over. She held him there and took her life.”

“I wouldn’t have thought she had that kind of power.”

The rakh’s voice was full of awe. “She called on those who did.”

He shut his eyes for a moment and drew in a slow breath; the fact of her death was finally sinking in. “All right. At least it’s over.”

“It isn’t, I regret.” The new voice came from behind him. “Not by a long shot.”

Katassah whipped about with the reflexes of a trained guard; Damien followed suit. The man leaning against the far wall was familiar to him, but for a moment he couldn’t place the memory. A stout, bearded figure draped in black velvet and black fur, perhaps in deference to their mourning. Oddly decorated for this time and place, Damien thought. In the end it was the tastelessness of the man’s jewelry, its utter inappropriateness for the occasion, that prompted him to remember.

“Karril,” he whispered. This was Tarrant’s Iezu: the one who had healed Ciani, the one whom Senzei had consulted. Damien discovered to his surprise that the abhorrence he should feel for such a creature was absent. Had his recent experiences inured him to the concept of demonkind? Even the faeborn who did good deeds were still dangerous parasites.

“I came to warn you,” the demon said. As he stepped forward into the center of the room, the crystal walls lost their light, dimming to a comfortable glow. “You need to go home, Damien Vryce, and you need to do it fast.”

He ignored the advice for the moment, focusing on a more important message. “What did you mean, it isn’t over?”

The demon seemed to hesitate, and looked around the room as if he expected to find someone listening. “You’ll find out when you go north,” he said finally. “So I’m not telling you anything, really. Only what you would discover yourselves.”

“What is it?” Katassah demanded. His hand was on the brass grip of his pistol, a warning sign. “What’s happening?”

The demon turned to him. “Your Prince was a pawn, Captain, nothing more. And now Calesta’s game is played out. You forced his hand a hundred years early, but in the end that’ll make little difference. You won the battle, but the war has just begun.”

Something cold tightened around Damien’s heart. He had known that the death of the Prince was only the first step in healing this land, but something in the demon’s tone warned him that the issue went far beyond that. “Tell us what you mean,” he said sharply.

The demon looked pained. “I can’t. Not in detail. If I interfere in his affairs by helping you . . .” He drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled it, trembling; the gesture was oddly melodramatic coming from a creature that didn’t have to breathe. “It’s forbidden,” he said at last. “But so is what he’s done. To tamper with mankind’s development . . . that’s strictly forbidden. So which is the worse crime? Which is more likely to be punished?”

“Tamper how?” Katassah demanded, and Damien snapped, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Go north,” the demon said. “You’ll see. He used the Prince, he used the rakh, and now . . . I’m sorry,” he said to Katassah. “Genuinely sorry. But you see, he can’t feed on your people. So it really doesn’t matter to him whether they live or die.” He looked at Damien and then quickly away, as though he feared to meet his gaze. “Twelve centuries ago your ancestors came to this planet. There were only a few hundred of them then, few enough that when Casca made his grand sacrifice it shook this planet to its very roots. Now, with millions of humans on Erna, with thousands of them Working the fae, no one man can have that kind of influence. No single act can impress the fae so that its basic nature alters again. But a thousand men—a hundred thousand—might. A plan of action carried down through the centuries could.”

“That’s Church philosophy,” Damien said sharply.

“Yes. And Calesta watched your Church develop. He learned from it, and from its founder. He took the lessons your Prophet taught him and applied them here, as a sort of grand experiment.” He shook his head, his expression somber. “All too effectively, I’m afraid.”

“What is it he wants?” Katassah asked sharply. “What’s the goal?”

“A world that will respond to his hunger. A world with such an outpouring of the emotional energy he covets that the fae will absorb it, focus it, magnify it—until that in turn alters the very nature of humanity.”

“What does he feed on?” the priest demanded. He was trying to remember what Gerald Tarrant had told him about the Iezu. “What aspect of mankind? Tell us.”

The demon stiffened, and for a moment Damien thought he would refuse to answer. But at last he said, very quietly, “Calesta feeds on that spark of human life which delights in the pain of others. A universal sentiment, I’m afraid. Calesta grows stronger every time that spark is expressed.”

“It’s far from universal,” Damien objected.

“Is it? Can you show me one man or woman who has never, never wished hurt upon another? Not as a child fleeing from bullies, not as a lover wronged by his or her companion, not even as a righteous crusader setting out to save the world from those who would corrupt it? Have you never longed to see an enemy hurt, Reverend Vryce? Not the Prince, not Gerald Tarrant, not anyone?”

His lips tightened. He said nothing.

“Go home,” the demon urged. “As soon as you can. You can’t do anything to save this place—no one man can—but you can still save the people you love. Because he’ll strike at them, I’m sure of that. He knows it’ll be a year or more before you can get back to the west, and in that time he can do a lot to change things. If you stay away longer, if you give him that much more to work with . . . then the world you return to may not be the same as the one you left. Trust me.”

“Vengeance,” Katassah muttered. “For interfering with his plans here.”

The demon nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

“Why are you telling us this?” Damien asked suddenly. “If you’re not allowed to interfere with him, then why come here at all? What’s in it for you?”

“I like humanity,” the demon told him. Smiling slightly. “With all its quirks and its foibles and its insecurities intact. I enjoy them. Oh, I’d survive the change if Calesta had his way. Sadism is a form of pleasure, after all. But it wouldn’t be nearly the same. Food without entertainment is nearly as bad as no food at all.” His expression darkened slightly, though the smile remained. “Of course, I may yet pay for this indulgence. Who knows which transgressions the mother of the Iezu will tolerate, and which she’ll punish? No one’s ever dared to test her before now.” He shrugged, somewhat stiffly. “I expect we’ll know soon enough.”

With a formal bow he said to the rakh. “I’m afraid your people have a long, hard battle ahead of them, Mer Captain. The Prince used his power to evolve your species to suit Calesta’s need, and it will be a long time before those weaknesses breed out. But they will in time, if no human interferes. I’m sorry I can’t help you more.”

“You’ve done enough by explaining things,” Katassah said tightly. “Thank you.”

The demon turned back to Damien. His flesh was starting to fade, solid cells giving way to a more shadowy substance. The flicker of a lamp behind him could be seen, through his black-robed torso. “My family are symbiotes, not parasites,” he told the priest. “And some of us are proud of that distinction. Be careful, Reverend Vryce. Be wary. Travel fast.” He was little more than than a veil of color now, fading out around the edges. “And take care of Gerald Tarrant, will you? He seems to be getting himself into a lot of trouble these days.”