When True Night Falls (50 page)

“I have business to attend to.”

“I’d have thought you killed enough for one night.”

The Hunter’s expression was frigid. “The currents will move in their course whether you choose to notice them or not. We’re far enough south that there’s a chance I can read them now, get some kind of bearing on the enemy. And I’d prefer not to Work too close to your guest, if that’s all right with you.”

Damien wondered just what it was about the tone of his voice that set him on edge. The words were certainly no more arrogant and condescending than Tarrant’s usual ripostes, but the tone was ... odd. Too subtle in its difference for him to pinpoint, but the difference was definitely there. For some reason it was unnerving.

“Yeah,” he managed. “Sure. Go ahead.”

As the Hunter left the camp he thought:
He’s hiding something.

In the darkness of the forest, in a small clearing sheltered over by trees so thick that even the moonlight was dim, Gerald Tarrant stopped. He took a moment to gather himself, then whispered a Iezu name. As he had anticipated, no formal Summoning was necessary. Even as the last syllable left his lips the demon came to him, drawing its substance from the night.

“So,” Karril said. “You’ve decided?”

His mouth set tightly, the Hunter nodded.

The demon held out a hand to him. In his palm was cradled a tiny star, a bit of Worked light that glimmered and pulsed against his illusory flesh. “Kind of tasteless, given your preferences, but he said it was the best he could do without a physical ward to contain it. And I couldn’t have carried that back with me.”

“It’ll do,” the Hunter said shortly.

He held out his own hand to receive it. The tiny star moved from Karril’s palm to his own, shimmering brightly against the whiteness of his flesh.

“You want me to go?” the demon asked.

“I want you to stay.”

Slowly he closed his fingers over the thing. Power pulsed out from it, fanning out along the current. None of it went to the south, he noted, which was a good sign. Or at least a safe sign. He was still wary of a trap.

Slowly an image formed in the clearing before him. First the shape of a man imprinted itself upon the darkness: not quite as tall as Tarrant, not nearly as young. Then color spilled from its shoulders, became crimson robes. Silk, Tarrant noted, unadorned but finely woven. Jewelry glittered on age-weathered hands. A crown took shape above graying temples.

When the image was complete, it portrayed a man perhaps fifty years of age, light-skinned, mildly athletic. A man who had taken care of his flesh. The figure waited a moment before beginning to speak, perhaps to give Tarrant a moment in which to study it. Then it began.

“Greetings, Neocount of Merentha.” It bowed its head ever so slightly, a gesture of carefully measured respect. “My servant brings me word of your history and your exploits. May I say what a pleasure it is to have a man of your power come here.”

Tarrant said nothing, but his eyes betrayed his impatience.

“By now you are no doubt wondering whom and what you face. Permit me to enlighten you. My name is Iso Rashi, and I serve as Prince of this region. My parents came here some five hundred years ago as part of the Third Expedition. No doubt you know the fate of those ships. The warriors of the One God are fond of bragging of their exploits, but they aren’t quite so eloquent when it comes to their failures. Nearly one hundred men and women survived the slaughter of the Third Expedition, and made their way to the south. Their descendants are my subjects. Ours is a nation birthed in violence, and its currency is hate—for the cities of the north and for all they represent. I make no attempt to hide that fact, or to make apologies for it. We are what the followers of the One God have made us.

“I reach out to you now because I believe that you and I are much the same, Gerald Tarrant. And because there are so few others capable of claiming that distinction. I perceive in your power echoes of my own; I sense in your determination and your ruthlessness the kind of drive that maintains this throne. And we have both conquered death. There is a very special distinction in that. Surely the scale of our lives is different than that of the common man. Surely our vision must be that much more ambitious.”

The figure paused; it reached out one hand toward Tarrant. “I’ve come to offer you an alliance. The undead allied to the undying. My demons have told me of your power; you’ve seen enough evidence of mine to judge it. Can you envision a more perfect match than this? Power allied to power, enough to shake a world.

“What’s in it for me, you ask? The chance to spare my nation what could be a devastating attack, and avoid a conflict that might kill one or both of us. The spirit of Death has a marked distaste for immortals, as you must surely know; I prefer not to tempt him. And for you, Neocount of Merentha? What price would be sufficient to turn you away from battle? What power could tempt you away from your isolation, after so many centuries?”

The figure smiled; the cold eyes gleamed. “
I can make you a god
.” it pronounced. “My people control the reins of faith in the north. I can put them at your disposal. You can conquer the north in an instant—a vengeful deity whose arrival makes the priesthood of the One quail in terror—or you can play a more subtle game. After a decade of careful propaganda, the Prophet could live again. Within two decades, he could be deified. Within a century....” He gestured broadly. “But I hardly have to describe to you what the power of the popular imagination can accomplish. Think about it, Neocount. The power of a god. The options of a deity. What will the patrons of Hell think of you then, when you raise yourself up out of their clutches forever?”

The figure paused; its arms fell back down to its sides. “That is the substance of my offer, Gerald Tarrant. A true alliance between self-declared immortals, as befits their power and purpose. My mission demands that I subjugate the north, but it doesn’t demand that I destroy it. There’s enough wealth in this region for two men like us, and I propose that we share it. As for any demons who might come between us, perhaps the Iezu ... the faeborn were created to be servants of man, and not his master. Servants are replaceable. Yours
and
mine.” He smiled coldly. “I think you understand me.”

“Think about it, Neocount. Think about it carefully. I await your reply.”

Its message completed, the figure faded slowly into night. The last thing to fade was the glitter of its crown

Tarrant opened his hand. His palm was empty.

The night was very quiet.

“Will you answer him?” Karril dared.

“Yes.” He shaped the words carefully, deliberately. It was clear he was deep in thought. “I’ll answer him.”

His eyes were unfocused, fixed on landscapes and possibilities that were visible only to the mind. Wisps of intentions sparked to life about him, only to be swallowed up once more by the darkness of the Hunter’s soul.

“When I’ve decided,” he said quietly.

Jenseny awakened in a strange place.

For a moment she just lay huddled in the darkness, unable to remember where she was, or even what day it was. Then, slowly, it all came back to her. She felt strangely numb, as if she had been afraid for so long that something inside her had finally snapped and she just couldn’t be afraid any more. Or maybe, instead, she felt safe. Maybe this was what safety felt like in the Outside.

Slowly, as if her newfound sense of security was something that might be dispelled by movement, she raised herself up on one elbow and looked around. She was in a dark space whose irregular walls were made up of woolen blankets, crudely stitched together; some kind of makeshift shelter. There were a few holes through which sunlight shone, and a triangular opening in the far wall that was propped open with a stick. In the far corner there was a pile of supplies, too much in shadow for her to make out details. Opposite where she lay was another pile of blankets, with the rakh-woman curled up warmly inside them, sleeping.

Silently, with the care of a frightened animal, she crept from her own bedding. Even in sleep the ralch-woman’s presence was reassuring, and she wished she were awake so that she might crawl closer to her and curl up by her side. That she had feared her once seemed so distant now, so unreal, that it might have been in another life for all it affected her. Because in that moment when Hesseth had pulled Jenseny away from the white-feathered sorcerer she had blazed with such protectiveness, such searing maternal ferocity, that Jenseny could no longer think of her as one of the southern rakh. She had become something different, a species all her own, so replete with warmth and protective strength that Jenseny ached to hold her again, to drink it in anew. When the rakh-woman held her she felt safe again, like she could nuzzle herself into that warm fur and just forget that the rest of the world existed, because the rakh-woman would take care of her. No matter what.

When she was very quiet and very still she could hear the voices in that golden fur, the songs of a life lived far away from mistborn jungles and human sorcery. Sometimes if she was very, very still and the Light came on strong enough, she could see a camp filled with rakh like this one, with tinkling ornaments and painted tents and golden-furred children who ran from tent to tent, squealing with delight as they tumbled and raced like kittens. She liked the rakh children. She was sorry when the Light faded, taking that vision with it. Doubly sorry, because when they were gone she felt so lonely. Her father had been good to her, and the few servants who’d cared for her had been gentle and kind, but what was it like to run with other children? What was it like to laugh and yell with no care for who might hear you, safe in the knowledge that you
belonged
in your world, that nobody was going to show up suddenly and take you from the ones you loved because you had screamed too loud, or because someone had seen you running.... It hurt, watching those children. It hurt to want what they had so very much, and to know she could never have it.

But at least she was away from the Terata. And the rakh-woman was here. And the strange priest also. She didn’t yet know if she should be afraid of him or not. Her father had said that all priests were the enemy, and that if any of the One God’s servants ever found out about her they would take her away and kill her, and probably kill him also for having protected her. But this priest couldn’t be like that, could he? When he’d told her that his kind would rather die than hurt children, it had seemed to her that he really
believed
that, and even though the Light was pretty strong then, she could hear no false note in his voice to warn her that he was lying. What an incredible thought that was! That a servant of Erna’s most vicious god could be so very gentle. Maybe it wasn’t really the same god that he worshiped. Maybe his people called it by the same name, but it was a different god altogether. Yes. That would make sense.

Slowly she crawled to the flap of the tent, where a crooked stick held the wool covering to one side. Warily she peeked out. The mist outside was thin and sunlight had trickled down to the forest floor, its noise muted to a dull clatter. She looked around for danger, but couldn’t seem to find any. There was a low fire burning some ten feet from the tent, its glowing embers surrounded by a circle of stones. A cookpot hung from a tripod arranged over the flames, and whatever was in it smelled good. Hunger stirred in her belly, and she wondered whether she dared take some of the food. Surely it would be all right. The priest and the rakh-woman would hardly rescue her and then not feed her, right? Especially since she was so very hungry.

She had just started toward the cookpot—timidly, like a skerrel braving open ground—when a footfall behind her set her heart pounding so hard against her rib cage that she could hardly breathe. She jumped up and was about to run when a kindly voice said, “Easy, girl! The camp’s warded tight, and Tarrant says there’s nothing within miles to hurt you.”

She whirled around to find the priest behind her. He was half naked and dripping wet, and over one arm he carried a load of soaking wet cloth. “Give the stew a few minutes to cool so you don’t burn yourself. Here.” He came over to the fire and lifted up the pot by its hook, setting it aside on the stones to cool. She carefully kept her distance. “There’s a stream if you want to get clean,” he told her, nodding back the way he had come. He began to take the pieces of wet cloth from his arm and hang them on the tree branches surrounding the camp, so that the wind would dry them. One was a shirt, she saw, and an undershirt, a jacket, leggings ... she watched while he laid out all his garments of the day before, except the woolen breeches that he was wearing.
He kept those on for me, she realized. So that I wouldn’t feel uncomfortable.
The thought quieted alarm bells that had been ringing in her head, and she relaxed a tiny bit. The priest must have seen it, for he grinned.