Black Sun Rising (64 page)

He searched for the patterns of earth-fae that would indicate some sort of entrance. This was where the tunnels began, so didn’t it stand to reason that there was some kind of opening here? He searched for long minutes, using all his skill and all his strength, and at last he found it. Barely in time. Already the rising sun had cast its first blazing spears across the sky, to light up the western peaks in warning. Even that much reflected light was enough to burn him, and he felt his exposed skin redden and peel as he tore away the tangled brush that hid the entrance to the rakhene tunnels. Barely in time, he crept inside. And worked his way to where a large protruding rock cast shadows of true darkness beyond. There he rested, while dawn slowly claimed the valley he had just left, and the mouth of the tunnel behind him.

Playing it close, Hunter.
He put a hand up to his face, felt a blister split beneath his fingertip.
Too damned close
. Ahead of him, cool darkness beckoned. Utter blackness, soothing and sweet; the healing power of total lightlessness. For the first time since he had overseen Ciani’s possession, he felt something akin to optimism. And when some of his strength had returned to him—not all of it, by any means, but enough—he pushed himself away from the rock at his back and began to make his way into the lightless labyrinth.

Soon dark fae began to gather around his feet, humming with the power of the underearth. The song of it was a subtle symphony compared to the blazing cacophony of day, and he drank in the delicate harmonies with relish. Behind him the last notes of dawn crashed their way through fissures and passages, but the light—and the sound—could not penetrate this far. He breathed a sigh of relief, knowing himself safe at last. And penetrated further, into the Lost Ones’ ancient lair.

The underground rakh had settled themselves in a system of interlinked caverns, altering the natural pattern only when necessary. The larger rooms were thus exactly as nature had carved them, vaulted cathedrals filled with the limestone residue of a million years of erosion. The tunnels connecting them, on the other hand, had clearly been enlarged, and chisel marks scoured the rock where ceiling and walls had been altered to allow for easy passage. There was no sign, anywhere, of recent occupancy. On the contrary, the one relic Tarrant found—a slender knife blade chipped from obsidian—was affixed to the floor by a thin film of limestone, that told of centuries passing since its deposition.

A good enough place to rest, at least. And I do need that.
Sleeping in this secure a place would give him a chance to renew himself, and he needed that desperately. Time enough later to explore, when the darkness had healed his wounds.

Suddenly, there was a sound behind him. A faint whisper only, like the breath of silk against flesh. But it was enough. He had Seen that there was nothing alive in these caverns, would never have taken shelter here otherwise. So whatever might greet him here was not alive, neither human nor rakh—and therefore, it was likely to be dangerous. He braced himself to Work, took a precious second to bind the wild power to his will, then turned—

And froze. Only for an instant—but that was enough. His concentration shattered. The fae he had bound broke free of his will, and dispersed into the pool of its making. In that instant, that terrible instant, he knew just how much danger he was in, and he drew his sword in a last attempt to save himself; coldfire blazed forth from the Worked steel, filling the cavern with icy light.

And
she
stepped forward. Flawless in beauty, as she had been the day he’d killed her. Red-gold hair gathered about her shoulders like an aurora of light, warm skin and delicate blush defying the harsh illumination of the fae. Almea.... It couldn’t be. It wasn’t. The dead never returned once Death had claimed them; at best this was a Sending, mindless and soulless, that had taken on her face in order to gain access to him. Or a demon, with some even darker intent. He forced himself to move, to strike—but it was too late already, he saw that in her eyes. Even as he unfroze, she moved. Delicate hands turning, canting forward an object whose surface flashed purple and blue as it moved. A mirror. Even as he raised his sword it fell into position, caught hold of a slender beam that had filtered down somehow through a crack in the earth—

Sunlight. It struck him full in the face, hard enough to send him reeling back against the rock. He shut his eyes against the terrible pain of it, felt his hands spasm helplessly as they burned, his sword dropping noisily to the rock beneath his feet. The dark fae sizzled and smoked about him, the reek of its dying thick in his nostrils. He tried to move, to find some kind of shelter—anything!—but the beam of light followed him. He tried to Work, gritting his teeth against the pain of it—but the earth-fae was too weak here, or else he was simply incapable, the pain of it was making concentration impossible.... He reached back with numbed hands to the rock beneath him, and closed his shaking fingers about the thick folds of his cloak. And raised it, so that the cloth might cover his eyes. At least he might have that much darkness. But even as he did so, the light was diverted upward. A prism hidden deep in a fissure caught the beam, and divided it. Mirrors set in the rock reflected it once—again—a thousand times—until the whole of the cavern was filled with it: a vast cacaphony of light, a symphony of burning. It wrapped about him like a web and speared through his skin at every unguarded point—pierced through the cloth itself and seared his flesh within, so that his muscles refused to obey him and he fell helplessly to the wet stone floor, unable to protect himself.

The lines of light connected, bent, became a terrible prison of pain that surrounded him on all sides. Gleaming mirrors reflecting the killing light of the sun down onto him, prisms dividing it into a thousand beams, a thousand colors, each one a separate note of agony, a separate flame in his flesh. Slowly, his struggles subsided. His body, incapacitated by the light, refused to respond to him; only his will remained, trapped within it like a caged animal. But even that was being drained of strength. The light was like a massive jewel, and he was in its center; there was no escape. Slowly darkness came to him—hot darkness, desolate of comfort—and the brimstone scent that lurked behind it was almost enough to start him struggling again. Almost. But the sun had burned him dry of life, and nothing remained but fear. Pain. And the absolute certainty of what awaited him, on the other side of death.

The last thing he heard was his dead wife’s laughter.

“He’s not coming back.”

For a moment, silence. Only the words, hanging in the air between them like a knife. Sharp and chill. Even in his absence the Hunter had that kind of power.

Ciani wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. “Or he’d be here by now,” she whispered. She stared out into the night as if daring it to contradict her. Her voice was shaking. “He’s not coming back, Damien.”

The priest bit back at least a dozen reponses—sharp answers, empty optimisms, they were unworthy of her. Something cold was uncoiling inside him. Dread? Fear? He fought it back with effort, tried to keep the sound of it out of his voice. “Something must have happened,” he agreed. He forced his tone to remain even, unimpassioned. Now, most of all, they needed his strength. Now, most of all,
she
needed him.

Dusk. Twilight. Nightfall. They had waited through it all, the various stages of evening, and had received no word or sign from the Hunter that might explain his absence. How long did one wait, before finally giving up hope? Before admitting that the enemy’s
divide and conquer
policy seemed perfectly capable of taking on a single man and destroying him? Even such a man as Tarrant was. Preternaturally fae-fluent. Utterly cautious. If the enemy could take on someone like that, what hope did that leave for the rest of them?

He was trying not to think about that. And failing, miserably.

“What now?” Ciani whispered. “What do we do now, Damien?”

He forced his voice to be calm, though the rest of him was anything but. “We go on,” he said quietly. He reached out to touch her, gently—and then took her into his arms. He felt her soften, as if her flesh was a hard clay warmed by the heat of human contact. Slowly the stiffness of her fear gave way to the weakness of utter desolation, and finally exhaustion. Her face buried in the thick wool of his jacket, she wept. Gave way to the pressure of the last few weeks at last and let it all pour out, all the terror and the hope and the striving and the loss.
Too much
, he thought, as he tightened his arms around her.
Too much for anyone.
He could feel the tears building inside himself, tears of frustration and rage, but fought them back; she needed him now, too much for him to let go. First Senzei’s death. Then the loss of the Fire. Now ... this. His thoughts were a jumble, fear and mourning and hatred and dread all tangled up so thoroughly that it was impossible for him to isolate any one emotion, to analyze its source. Which was just as well. Some things didn’t stand close inspection.

“We go on,” he repeated.

“Can we?” She drew her head back and looked at him. Her eyes were bloodshot, red-rimmed from lack of sleep. It struck him suddenly how very fragile she looked—not like Ciani at all. When had her strength given way to this? Or was that only a trick of his mind, that insisted on seeing her vulnerability plastered across her face? “If they could get to Gerald—” she began.

“That means nothing,” he said firmly. Keeping the doubt carefully out of his voice. He had to sound confident for her sake. “Tarrant was vulnerable,” he told her. “Powerful, yes, and manipulative, ruthless ... but fatally flawed, in the Working that sustained his flesh. Remember what the Fire did to him, even from a distance? All our enemy would have had to do was keep him from finding shelter before daylight and he would be finished. That simple. It wouldn’t even require a direct confrontation.” He drew in a breath, sharply.
“If
he knew how to do that.” How did one entrap the Hunter? It frightened him more than anything that their enemy had figured out how.

“He should have stayed with us. We could have protected him.”

“Yes. Well.” He drew in a slow breath, tried to calm his own shaking nerves. “There wasn’t much likelihood of that, was there? He trusted me only slightly less than I trusted him. And now we’re both paying the price for it.”

Flim more than me. A thousand times more. What kind of hell awaits a man like that!
He tried to imagine it, and shivered.
I wouldn’t wish that on any man. Not even him.

“What now?” the rakh-woman asked. “What plans, without the killer?”

He turned to face her. In the light of Prima’s crescent she looked particularly fierce, blue-white light glinting off her teeth like sparks of coldfire. His stomach tightened, to think of that power lost. That deadly potential.

“We wait out the night,” he told her. “Let him have that much time before we give up on him for good. If by morning he hasn’t come ... then we make other plans.”
Plans that don’t include him or the Fire. Or Senzei
. He tried not to let his face betray his misgivings.
Too much. Too quickly. How does one compensate for something like this?

He pulled his sword from its sheath, felt its leather grip warm to the touch of his hand. Already there were shadows gathering about the edges of their camp that were more than mere darkness: bits of the night given independent will—and hunger—by the party’s misgivings. How solid would such things become in the rakhlands’ inferior currents? How many such creatures would come to hover about the camp, thirsting for a taste of the human minds that had helped birth them? Ever since Tarrant had joined the company in Kale his presence had driven off such threats, in a manner they had come to take for granted. Now, how many of their own fears would Damien have to kill—or at least frustrate—before the light of dawn scoured the landscape clean of such monstrosities?

Damn you, Tarrant,
he thought grimly, as he hefted his sword.
You picked a lousy time to die.