Celia Friedman: When True Night Falls

We now knew that there was a human sorcerer allied to the demons we sought, and we did what we could to misdirect his Sight. For a time it seemed that we were successful—and then, amidst the snow-clad peaks of the rakhland mountains, he struck at us. Senzei Reese was tricked into going off alone and was killed, gruesomely; may his soul find peace in whatever pagan afterlife he created for himself. Tarrant was nearly killed as well, and in the end it was only our unity as a company and the strength of the holy Fire with which you had entrusted me that enabled us to reach our enemy’s border alive.

There, on Hesseth’s advice, we sought the aid of a rakhene tribe native to the region, whose ancestors had descended belowground during a period of inclement weather (possibly the Small Ice Age of the seventh century?) and remained there ever since. I append notes and sketches in quantity. You will note that they have adapted thoroughly to their dark environment, and now have few features in common with their aboveground brethren. It is a jarring lesson in how fast evolution works on this planet, when man is not present to interfere.

Using their underground tunnels we invaded the enemy’s domain. There we learned that the leader of Ciani’s assailants was human, a woman “from the east” whose thirst for power drove her to imprison and feed upon the souls of adepts, filtering the earth-power through their pain. In the end it was her own madness that we turned against her, using her obsession to blind her to our purpose while we set loose the very earth that she had bound. The resulting earthquake destroyed her citadel and killed many of her servants, while the surge of earth-fae that accompanies all such upheavals drowned her in a mortal excess of the very power she lusted after.

By the grace of God and the power of the holy Fire, Ciani, Hesseth, and I escaped the ruins of the madwoman’s citadel without further injury. The Hunter was not so fortunate. Forced to choose between certain death at the hands of our enemies and nearly certain death in the face of the sun, the Hunter chose to submit to the dawn—and thus freed our party, perhaps at the cost of his own life. May God grant me equal courage in my last moment, to embrace my fate with similar dignity. By his sacrifice Ciani was freed at last, and restored to all her former facilities. And we began the long trek home, back to the human lands.

I wish it ended there.

Even as I pen the words of this report the rakh are hunting down the last of the so-called demons, cleansing the land of their influence. Except that they were not demons, your Holiness. It was Hesseth who discovered the truth: that our enemies were in fact rakh, warped by some malevolent will until they evolved to take this monstrous form. What manner of creature would deliberately alter a native species so, so that its natural vitality was suppressed and it was forced to feed upon the souls of others? And what purpose could it possibly have in binding these creations to the night, so that simple sunlight might destroy them? I fear the answers to those questions, Holiness. Something evil has taken root in the eastlands—something whose hunger spans the centuries, whose patience has allowed it to rework the very patterns of Nature—and we must deal with it swiftly, before it can learn from its losses here. Before it has a chance to respond.

I am going east to the ports of the Shelf, to seek passage across Novatlantis. Ciani tells me that in her native city there are mariners who will risk such a journey if the price is right, and backers who will provide the coin if they see a potential for profit in it. I believe that I can assemble a crew willing to try it. Five expeditions have attempted the crossing in the past, and it may be that one or more found safe harbor across those deadly waters. If so, I pray that God has protected them from the evil that has made its home there, and that they may see fit to become our allies. If not . . . then it will be that much greater a battle, Holiness. Was it not you who said that a single man may sometimes succeed where an army of men would fail?

Hesseth will be coming with me. It is her right, she says, and her duty. It is an awesome thing to watch the species altruism unfold in her—rakhene in its origins, perhaps, but utterly human in its expression. As for the fallen Prophet . . . he escaped true death by a slender margin, and I do not know whether to give thanks or weep that the living world must still suffer his presence. For if power such as his could be bound to our purpose, our chance of success would be increased a thousandfold.

Bind evil to serve a worthy cause, the Prophet wrote, and you will have altered its nature forever. I pray it will be so with him.

Thus it is, your Holiness, that as soon as I seal this letter (and find a reliable messenger, no easy task in this city) I will be leaving for Faraday. If luck is with me I will find a ship and a crew in time to sail with the spring tides, before the storm season threatens. But only if I move quickly. Holiness, I beg for your blessing. For my enterprise, if not for myself. It pains me deeply that I cannot return to Jaggonath to ask this in person, to kneel before you in the tradition of my Order and renew my vows before departing, but time does not permit it. Who can say what new evil may be spawned in a year, by a creature who feeds on crippled souls? I know that you would approve of my mission and sanction my haste if you could. Thus I seal this letter, and append to it all the information I have gathered in recent months, sending it to Jaggonath in my stead. May it serve you well. God willing, I shall return triumphant to add to it.

I remain, obediently,

Your servant and His, Damien Kilcannon Vryce, R.C.U., K.G.F., C.E.A. D D D

A study in anger: speechlessly, restlessly, Jaggonath’s Holy Father paced once from his desk to the window, then back again. Barely glancing at Damien before he began the course anew. Body rigid with tension, ivory robes rippling sharply with the force of his stride, snapping like pennants, in an angry wind.

And then the dam burst. At last.

“How dare you,” he hissed. His voice was not loud, but the rage that it communicated was deafening. “How dare you go off on your own, sending this in your stead . . . as if I would accept it as a substitute!” He slapped the package that lay on his desk with accusatory vehemence. Damien’s letter. Damien’s notes. A pile nearly an inch thick, made up of all his records from the rakhlands. All his notes on the Hunter. “As if mere paper could excuse you from your duty! As if mere notes and pictures could serve as a substitute for proper procedure!”

“Your Holiness.” Damien swallowed hard, biting back on his own growing anger. It was a struggle for him to keep his voice calm, to keep from exploding in indignation. Right or wrong, he deserved better treatment than this . . . but he also knew that the fae which surrounded them was partly responsible for his response, that its currents had been altered by the Patriarch’s rage so that its power was abrading his temper to the breaking point. Not that knowing that makes it any easier to deal with, he thought grimly. If he gave in and responded in kind—or even worse, dared to work a Shielding in the Patriarch’s presence—it would be tantamount to vocational suicide. And so he forced his voice to be steady, low, even submissive. “I beg of you, consider—”

“I have considered,” the Patriarch interrupted sharply. “For weeks now. Since your message first arrived. Every waking moment, I have considered . . . and the situation looks worse each time.” He shook his head in mock amazement. “Did you really think I wouldn’t guess what you intended? Did you think I wouldn’t understand why you sent this?”

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