It was only sinking in, what he was saying. The ramifications. “And now her research library—”
“Is gone!” Senzei said angrily. As if daring him to criticize. “I did what I thought was best. Sometimes you have to make decisions so godsdamned fast that there’s no real time to think. You do the best you can. I did the best I could. I thought maybe my arrival had interrupted them, that they might come back any minute to hurt her more . . . that’s what she thought. She was terrified—and I couldn’t think of any other way to protect her.” His hands had balled themselves into fists, knuckles white. “And it worked, didn’t it? You couldn’t read past it. The adepts can’t. They’ve called in consultants, but no one can make heads or tails of what happened. Even the godsdamned insurance people can’t read through it. You think I could have managed that, without one hell of a sacrifice?
“Easy,” Damien said quietly. “No one’s blaming you.”
He drew in a deep breath, released it slowly. “They would if they knew,” he muttered. “The adjustors alone would have my head.”
“No one’s telling them.”
Senzei looked up at him. His face was a ghastly white. “She would have trusted you. That’s why I did.”
“Let me see her,” Damien said softly.
Senzei nodded.
The room Ciani was in was small and lined with books on every wall. A cot had been placed in the center of the room, and on it lay a figure so still, so colorless, that for a moment he feared she was indeed dead. He came to her side and sat on the edge of the cot, careful not to jar it. He had thought she was sleeping, but now that he was beside her he could see that her eyes were open. Empty. Staring into nothingness.
“Cee,” he said gently.
She turned toward him, slowly, but her eyes were unfocused. He could see now that her face was wet with tears, and her pillow was soaked with them. He took her nearer hand in both of his and squeezed it tightly; the flesh was pliant, unresponsive. As empty of life as her expression.
No longer an adept. Dear God, what a blow. How do you come to terms with that? How do you start over again, after such an incredible loss?
He brushed some stray hair out of her eyes; she might have been carved in marble, for all that she responded to him. Nevertheless he held her hand, as a devoted mother might cling to a child in coma, and talked to her. As if that could bring her back. As if anything could bring her back.
And fought with his own pain, his fury at being unable to help her.
We have to change this damned world, before it’s too late. We have to make some fate for ourselves, other than this.
“Father.”
A touch on his shoulder, feather-light. He turned to acknowledge Senzei’s presence, then looked back at her. Her eyes were half-shut, her breathing slow and even. Asleep, it seemed. He disentangled himself from her hands gently, careful not to wake her.
“I’ve Summoned help,” Senzei whispered. “I don’t know that there’s anything he can do to save her . . . but he might know something we don’t.”
Sick at heart, Damien nodded.
What good is it to play at Healing, if you can’t save the ones you care about?
Senzei led the priest upstairs, to what appeared to be his workroom: a semi-finished, cluttered space which took up half of the second story. The nearer wall was lined with shelves, on which all manner of books and artifacts rested; opposite it a broad, aged desk supported piles and piles of documents. Damien caught sight of ward specifications, and recognized a symbol that had once been in the shop. Clearly, Senzei was trying to determine who—or what—might have circumvented Ciani’s defenses.
In the center of the room stood a man . . . or rather, what appeared to be a man. He was bearded, husky, and dressed in a manner that seemed wholly inappropriate for such a gathering. A lush, fur-edged robe of emerald velvet hung open at the chest, and swept the floor behind his heels. It gave the impression of having been but loosely belted in place, with nothing underneath. From his summer sandals to his opulent jewelry, his every accessory was inappropriate for the time and the place he was in—and mismatched to each other as well, as if he had chosen each ring and necklace for its momentary appeal, without thought for its relationship to the whole of his appearance.
Damien keyed a Knowing, and what he saw made his hair stand on end. Instinctively he reached for his sword—and discovered that he didn’t have it on him.
The stranger nodded. “Your priest would slay demons.” He raised a brass goblet to his lips and drank—it hadn’t been in his hand a minute ago, Damien was sure of it—and nodded. “An admirable reflex. But speaking as one who prefers not to die, I hope he’ll get over it.”
“This is Karril,” Senzei said quietly. “An old ... friend, of Ciani’s.”
Damien took a deep breath, reminded himself where he was, and managed to unclench his fists. Nevertheless his heart was pounding, and adrenaline rushed through his system as if he were heading into battle. It’s just reflex for him to consult the faeborn. He doesn’t understand that each such contact serves to reconfirm man’s vulnerability on this planet.
But where do we draw the line? When do we start controlling this world, instead of just accepting it?
“How is she?” the demon asked him.
Startled, Damien took a moment to respond. What kind of Summoning was this, that allowed the faeborn such autonomy? Then he found his voice, and answered, “Asleep. At least for now. Thank God for that, anyway.” He sighed, heavily. “I wish I knew what to do for her.”
“Karril healed her once before,” Senzei told Damien.
“I gave her peace,” the demon corrected. “An illusion, no more. At that time, it was enough. All she wanted was to forget. This time they maimed her—and I’m not a Healer.”
“But you know what happened?” Damien asked. “Do you know who did it?”
For a brief moment, the demon was very still. “I know,” he said at last. “Who hurt her, why they did it . . . and why she can’t be healed this time. And I’m sorry, but that is the case.”
“I don’t accept that.”
The demon seemed startled. “Unusual spirit,” he mused aloud. “I’m beginning to understand what she saw in you.”
Damien’s expression darkened. “If you have information, I’m ready to hear it. If you’re here to assess our relationship . . .”
Karril drank heavily from his goblet, then dropped it; it disappeared before it hit the ground. “Church manners are so atrocious, don’t you think, Senzei? They have no concept of how to deal with the faeborn. As if they could wish us out of existence merely by being rude.”
Damien glared. “Under the circumstances—”
“Enough! You’re quite right. I’ve been Summoned, after all.” For some reason that term seemed to amuse him. “I’ll tell you, priest. Everything I know. And later, Senzei can explain what it costs me to do that. Just being near such pain as hers weakens me considerably. Discussing it, in detail . . .” He shuddered melodramatically. “And in truth, I don’t know very much,” the demon warned. “But it’s more than you’ll get from any other source.”
He sighed heavily. “First I should explain that Ciani and I have known each other for a long time. She was the first to catalog my family line, and to raise certain questions regarding our existence.” He chuckled. “Don’t worry, priest—I’ll spare you the details. Suffice it to say that I knew her well. And when she decided to go off into the rakhlands—alone—I was one of the few whom she told. I tried to talk her out of it, of course. Any sensible entity would. But she was determined. It did no good to point out that although many explorers had braved that place, none had ever returned to talk about it. She wanted knowledge—hungered for it—and I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how strong that drive was in her. Had the rakh survived? she asked. Was it they who erected the barrier that we call the Canopy, or did that predate them? If they survived, what had they become? You see, she had to have answers. And th
ere was only one way to obtain them.
“I saw her off at the base of the Southern Pass, in the Worldsend Mountains. She was more alive than I had ever seen her, flush with the ecstasy of taking on a new challenge. Exquisite! I watched her as long as I could, but once she reached the edge of the Canopy my vision could no longer follow her. She passed through the barrier without looking back, into the fae-silence that has guarded the rakhlands for centuries.
“Six years passed. And then she was brought to me. They had picked her out of the water by Kale, half drowned, more than half starved, battered by prolonged exposure to the elements. Shivering, even when her body was made warm. Terrified. They thought she was mad, or possessed, or worse. They did what they could to help her, using human skills—and then, when that failed, left it in the hands of the gods. In this case,” he bowed slightly, “myself.” Damien stiffened, but Senzei put a warning hand on his arm. “Like it or not,” the demon continued, “that is my status in this region. Take it up with my priests if it bothers you.
“My domain is pleasure—human pleasure, in all its manifestations. There are few kinds of pain that I can tolerate, fewer still that I can feed on. But apathy is my true nemesis. It is anathema to my being: my negation, my opposite, my destruction. You should understand this when I say that I did what I could for her, but I know little of what happened to her. A few whispered words, a few fleeting images. No more. To delve into her memories would have meant my dissolution—my death—and it would have done her no good in the long run.
“This much I learned from her: The rakh who fled to that land survived, and it was their need for protection from man’s aggression that caused the Canopy to exist. They affect the fae like all native species—unconsciously—and their psyche is wholly unlike the human template. Nevertheless, there are similarities—and the demons they’ve created are just as happy to feed on man, once the option is presented to them.
“Ciani discovered an underground nest of such demons. She made the mistake of exploring it. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what kind of power lurks in the places where sunlight never reaches; there’s a reason that mines and wine cellars are ritually exposed to daylight once a year. They found her, and they trapped her, and they used her for food. But what they hungered for wasn’t blood, or flesh, or any other bodily matter. They wanted substance—depth—complexity— and they gained it at the expense of prisoners like Ciani, whom they kept entombed beneath the earth for that purpose. They fed on their memories for as long as they were sane, and then on the tide of their madness. At first, these creatures were little more than wraiths; later, as they established a permanent link with their hosts, they gained solidity at their expense. Eventually their food source would wither and die, and they would have to find another. For they were eternally hungry, forever requiring a fresh input of life to sustain their own existence. And I think, as well, that the feeding amused them.
“These were the creatures that trapped Ciani and bound her away from the sunlight. This was the slow and terrible death they doomed her to, by making her feed one of their kind. And this was the prison she escaped from, against all odds. Killing her keeper so that her memories might be freed, because otherwise no time and no Working could ever heal her. Half-dead from her ordeal, more than a little mad, she fought her way back to the human lands—to be brought to my temple, where the pain could be soothed at last.”
He paused for a moment, giving his human listeners a chance to digest his words. Then added quietly, “That’s all I know. That’s all anyone knows. There was nothing I could do to help except bury the memories within her, so that was what I did. Maybe it was the wrong thing to do—I’m not sure—but she never could have regained her identity, with her soul still trapped in the past.”
“You present her assailants as . . . primitive,” Damien challenged.
The demon hesitated. “I think that the beings Ciani dealt with were simple fae-constructs, primitive-minded, who knew only the promptings of hunger and sun-fear, and perhaps just a tad of sadism. I think some of them have become far more than that. Maybe it was their contact with her—or with humanity in general, once they passed beneath the Canopy. There’s no question that they’ve demonstrated a sadistic instinct right up there with humanity’s finest.” His eyes sparkled. “Quite an adversary.”
“I’ve killed demons before,” Damien said coldly.
Karril leaned back and studied him. “You want to help her, don’t you? But there’s only one way to do that. You’ll have to kill the one who hurt her. That specific creature. And he is, by definition, the most sophisticated of his kind.” His expression was grim. “He’s probably back home by now, on the other side of a barrier no human can Work through—so you can’t possible prepare yourselves for what you’ll find there. As for the rakh . . . your people tried to eradicate them once before. Do you think they’ll bear you any fondness for it? Do you think your sorcery can stand up to theirs, when they Work the fae as naturally as you breathe? When their power is fueled by memories of humanity’s attempted genocide?
For a moment Damien said nothing. Just sat there, remembering Ciani. As she had been. As she was now. Then he looked at Senzei—and saw, in the man’s eyes, exactly what he had hoped to find: pain overcome by determination, enough to equal his own.
“It’ll be tough,” he agreed. “So where do we start?”
Eleven
The Temple of Pleasure was located just beyond the county line, which meant that Jaggonath’s strict laws regarding public intoxication were not in effect there. Accordingly, in response to the warmth of the night, seven of the eight walls had been rolled up. The breeze poured in, and worshipers poured out. Couples and triples and even a few determined loners sprawled on the steps outside the temple, energetically pursuing whatever passed, in their own minds, for pleasure. Warm air caught the scent of wine and drugged incense and human pheremones and gusted it out toward the city, along with the sharp aroma of several dozen torches. At the border of the temple’s influence, where the light grudgingly gave way to midnight’s darkness, figures milled about with the energetic restlessness of circling insects. The curious, come from Jaggonath to watch. The demonic, come from the depths of night to feast. A succubus flickered into female form at the edge of one such gathering, eyes hungrily searching for a safe way to approach the well-warded temple. A vampire in male form touched its tongue tip to its dry lips in anticipation, as a local woman accepted its advance. All forms of pleasure were deemed worship here, even such as theirs; as for the safety of those humans who fed them, the pleasure-god Karril protected only his own.
A tall man stood at the edge of the temple’s light. Lean, aristocratic, tastefully dressed, he clearly was no part of the voyeuristic entourage. In confirmation of which he stepped forward, and entered the temple’s circle of light. Women looked up as he passed by, intrigued by his beauty, and one reached out to him. But he failed to notice most of them, and the one whose hand had come too close met his eyes and faltered, then drew back shivering.
There was a fountain in the center of the temple—one might call it an altar—with sexually explicit carvings that spewed forth the drugged red wine of Karril’s worship. Leaning against it was a man of middle age, considerably shorter than the newcomer, whose disheveled clothing and hearty grin implied that he had just found fulfillment in someone’s embrace.
The stranger came to where he stood, and waited.
“Good guess,” the shorter man said pleasantly.
“You forget that I have demon-sight.”
“I meant, that I would be here.”
“You forget that I know you.”
The shorter man chuckled. “So it is.” He sighed, and looked out over the congregation. “They’ll make a god of me in truth someday—isn’t that the way it works? Rather awesome, to be at the receiving end of it. I keep wondering if I’ll feel it when it happens. Or if it will be a gradual conversion.”
“Spare me the pagan philosophy.�
��
“It’s your philosophy, my friend, not mine.” He dipped a jeweled goblet deep into the fountain, dripped red wine from his sleeve end as he drank from it.
“Can we talk?” the stranger asked.
“Of course.”
“Privately.”
He shrugged. “As much as there ever is privacy, in this place.” A room appeared about them, tastelessly luxurious in its trappings. “It’s all illusion anyway, but if it makes you more comfortable. . . .”
“I find the sight of such worship . . . unpleasant.”
“Ah. Church sensibilities, once more. My theme for the week.” He chuckled. “Shame on you, my friend. I’d have thought you’d have outgrown all that by now.”
He reclined on a plush velvet couch and pointed to a matching stool opposite. “That one will support you.”
The stranger sat.
“Can I offer you something? Wine? Cerebus? Human blood?”
The stranger’s expression softened into something that was almost a smile. “I always refuse you, Karril.”
“I know. It pleases me to offer, just the same.” He drank deeply from his goblet, then vanished it when it was emptied. “So, what brings the Forest to Jaggonath?”
“A search for beauty. As always.”
“And did you find it?”
“A lovely, overprotected flower, growing in the mud of a farm.”
A shadow passed over the demon’s face. “To be hunted?”
“Curiously, no. She caught me in a rare moment of magnanimity, and I’m afraid I promised her safety.”
“You’re getting soft.” The demon grinned.
“My pleasures vary. Although this one, admittedly, was . . . odd.”
Black Sun Rising Page 9
