After several hours, she decided that she was more intrigued than wary. A very strange feeling.
She chose a path that would intersect with theirs, and began to hike along it.
NIGHT’S KEEP
Fifteen
Oh, the joy of flying! Swimming through the air with long, sweeping motions—pulling himself through clouds, overtaking birds, thrilling to the sure caress of the wind upon his body. And underneath him, glimpsed through an occasional break in the cloud cover: Briand. Home. Only now it seemed different—a fairy place, made up of light and music and fine brush strokes of color. So delicately constructed that it seemed to him a strong rain might wash it all away. Houses dissolving into gray and ocher streams, trees bleeding green and umber into the muddy streets—even people dissolving into so much color, like a watercolor painting put under the faucet. His mother and father liquifying into streams of pink and brown and green, spiraling into the flood and down, down, down into the secret storm drain beneath the city that lay waiting for it all, ready to swallow up all those beautiful tones . . . he could see Briand’s colors running down into the river now, to meet with the dilute hues of Kale and Seth, the harsh, bright tones of Jaggonath, the cold ash-gray tones of the distant mountains. All swirling together, mixed by the river’s harsh current. What a glorious vision! And he with no concern but the moment’s pleasure, mated to the wind, flying high above the chromatic floodwaters, into—
Into—
Darkness. Ahead of him. A point of blackness, searing in its intensity. A tiny fragment of no-light in this universe of color, a blotch on the fairy landscape. He shuddered and banked to the right, looking away. The blackness hurt his eyes, burned them like a sun might. Better not to look at it. Better to focus on the colors of the sky, the myriad hues of life. Better to—
It was back. In front of him.
Startled, he lost his rhythm. For a moment the winds had hold of him, and they were suddenly no longer the friendly breezes he had been riding, but the harsh staccato blasts of a storm front. He floundered. Ahead of him was that bit of burning blackness, no longer a mere speck amidst silver-gray clouds, but a full-fledged hole in the rapidly darkening sky. And inside it—or beyond it—lay something in waiting, whose thoughts were so loud that they screamed like thunder in his ears. He tried to fly away, but the winds had turned against him. Tried to slow his flight, but the blackness was like a vacuum, and it sucked him ever closer. At last, having exhausted all other means of escape, he tried to focus on the world he had left behind—that other world, the colorless one, the one that made him want to kill himself from boredom—because if he could remember it, he knew he would return to it. But the chemicals coursing in his bloodstream were too strong for that. He couldn’t go back. He was flying—had always flown—knew no reality, other than flying. And the blackness, which spread itself hungrily before him.
Terrified, he fought to escape it.
It was larger, now. It took up half the sky, blotting out the sun like a giant storm cloud. He clawed at the air desperately, trying to pull himself away. But when he turned, it turned. When he reversed his direction, it appeared before him. Hungry. Implacable. Devouring all the color in the sky, the very air that supported him. He fell into a pocket of hurricanic turbulence, felt the stormwinds battering him closer and closer to his nemesis. That great maw of darkness which had almost devoured the sky, which would certainly devour the land, which so palpably hungered to devour him. . . .
And as he touched it, as he knew it for what it was, he screamed. Consumed by terror, desperate to be heard. Forgetting, in his final moments, that the same narcotic which had given him flight had also disconnected his consciousness from his flesh, thus making a real scream impossible. He screamed, and screamed . . . and was silent. His body lay unmoving atop a patchwork quilt, a thick fold of calico clutched between his frozen fingers. No one came to help him.
Who can hear the death screams of a disembodied soul?
The dae called Briand was solidly fortified, as befit a travelers’ sanctuary that served the main trade route between Jaggonath and the northern portlands. A double stockade of roughly hewn posts hid most of the complex from view, but over its jagged top Damien could make out the roof of at least one sizable hostelry, steeply angled in the manner of northern houses. Even that limited view made it clear what manner of place Briand was. The roof was overthatched with hellos thorns—said to repel the undead—and the two dormer windows which were visible were barred with iron, worked in a protective motif.
As if mere walls could keep out a true demon, he thought grimly. As if bars made a difference to blood-wraiths.
“We stop?” Senzei asked.
Damien looked at Ciani—at Fray, he corrected himself—and tried to assess her condition. It was difficult to see past the various elements of her disguise, to judge just how tired she was. Hard to see Ciani herself, between the makeup that had altered her countenance and the fog of despair that enshrouded her soul.
She could go on, he decided at last. They all could go on. And there was something to be said for pushing toward their goal as quickly as possible, especially with winter coming on. But the thought of possibly being stuck outside when night fell was not a pleasant one. Damien alone could have handled it—God knows, he had camped out often enough—and Senzei, perhaps, could have coped. But not Ciani. Not now. Not when night was so very threatening to her. They had to safeguard her soul as well as her body, and the former was so terribly fragile. . . .
“We stop,” he said firmly, and he thought he saw relief in her eyes.
There was a guard at the main gate, polite but efficient; after a brief interrogation they were permitted to pass within the protective walls. Damien noticed sigils burned into the wood, ward-signs etched into the heavy posts. Most of them were useless, he suspected. For every faeborn consultant that sold legitimate Workings, there would be at least a dozen con artists imitating the trade. And knowing that, to be sure, a dae such as Briand must buy twelve times as much protection.
He reflected upon the cost of that and muttered, “There’s good money in sorcery here.”
Senzei managed a halfhearted grin, and nodded toward the building ahead of them. “Don’t you think she knew that?”
Following Senzei’s gaze into the compound, he saw one of Ciani’s wards guarding the hostelry entrance. Finely worked, beautiful even in its quiescence, it occupied a place of honor high over the arched lintel. They must have paid a pretty penny for it, he reflected; Ciani’s work didn’t come cheap.
Then he saw her face—the total lack of recognition, as she gazed upon her own handiwork as if it were that of a stranger—and something tightened inside him. As if for the very first time he finally understood just what had been done to her.
They’ll die for this, Cee. I promise you. The bastards will die.
As with all such sanctuaries, the dae was a sprawling conglomerate of disparate buildings, linked together by warded walkways, and—in the case of several two-story buildings—sturdily enclosed bridges. Once inside the dae, one need not leave it for any reason. Like most such sanctuaries, Briand would have space to house a trade caravan when necessary, as well as sufficient food to feed its people and all the supporting services—practical, aesthetic, and hedonistic—that they might require. Private domiciles no doubt clustered about its back walls like satellites, each linked to the whole by a private walkway. But for all its space and supplies, Briand would be a sterile place. All daes were, regardless of location. There was profit enough to be made off a traveler’s need that men might come here to garner it, but no other reason was sufficient to draw people to such a place—and even the dae-keepers often left, once their fortune was secure. Briand was no more than a stopover point—even for those who had made it their permanent home.
The portal warded by Ciani’s Working was clearly the main guest entrance. Damien and Ciani unpacked the horses while Senzei went off in search of a groom. After some moments he reappea
red, a pair of lanky boys in tow. Teenagers, both of them, with the nervous, uptight gestures of boys whose pubescent energies had not yet found safe outlet. They need a good night out on the town, Damien thought. Then, upon reflection, added, They need a good town.
It was dark inside the hostelry, despite the light of day that still burned outside; a crackling fire in the center of the large common room seemed to be the only source of light. Lanterns hung unlit on posts set about the outer walls, waiting for some hand to kindle them. No doubt when more travelers began to arrive—when the sun was nearer to setting, and the dangers of the night that much nearer to rising—the place would be well lit for their comfort. Now, empty of patrons, unattended, it had somewhat the aspect of a tomb.
“No windows,” Damien muttered.
“What did you expect?”
“I saw some upstairs.”
“Farther from the earth,” Senzei told him. “Fae is weaker there. It still means a risk . . . but if some rich guest demands a view. . . .” He shrugged.
Damien looked about at the thick timber walls, the heavily plastered ceiling, and shook his head. “Do they really think this will stop a demon?”
“If the guests believe it,” Senzei countered, “doesn’t that give it some power?”
“Enough to matter?”
He had no time to answer. A woman had entered the room, with a thick black ledger book in one hand and a coarse pencil in the other. Middle-aged, with hair that was gray about the temples and forehead, drawn tightly back into a bun. She seemed distressed but managed a businesslike nod to serve as welcome. Crossing the room quickly, she spared a quick sideways glance to assess the state of the fire. And nodded, satisfied.
“Name’s Kanadee,” she said brusquely. Offering no gesture of physical contact, merely a brief nod of welcome. She reached up to brush back a stray lock of hair from out of her eyes, then opened up the book and took their names. Senzei Reese, Damien told her. Fray Vanning. Reverend Damien Vryce. She looked up at that last entry, and her eyes searched his face for . . . what? It happened too quickly for Damien to read her expression; by the time he noticed it, she was all business once again. “You’ll be wanting rooms for the night,” she said. Now that Damien was listening for it, he could hear a faint tremor echoing her speech. Her cheek glistened moistly in the firelight—from recent tears?
“Please,” Damien said. “Adjoining, if that’s possible.”
She studied the others for a moment, assessing them quickly. Ciani was clearly acceptable; Senzei received a brief frown, then a nod. “Forty a night, per head. That includes dinner. Bell’s at six-and-half, serving’s at seven. Other food anytime you like, but it’s extra. Call into the kitchen, if there’s no one out here.” She nodded toward a heavy door at the far end of the common room. “Only three of you?” Damien nodded. “Good. Lucky number. Tam’ll take your things up, get you settled.” She pulled a bell out of her apron pocket; a tangle of cords and keys fell to the floor. “Any questions, you ask for me. See?” She rang the bell sharply, then stopped to recover her possessions. Amulets with sigil signs, keys with horoscopic symbols etched into them, a plain but finely worked image of the Earth . . . she had it all back in her pocket by the time a spindly young boy appeared, and she gestured him toward their packs. “Take ‘em up to the east suite,” she ordered. “Settle them in, and show ’em the place.
He began to gather their bags, groaning as the weight of Senzei’s books joined all the rest on his shoulder. But despite his obvious discomfort, he would let none of the travelers carry their own. “He’s a good boy,” she told them. Again, there was an echo of sorrow behind her words—so fleeting that Damien nearly missed it, but so poignant that it seemed to dim the light about them. Had she lost a child recently? Or, closer yet (he struggled to define what he had sensed, to put a name to it), was she contemplating losing one? “You tell him what you need, he’ll get it for you. See?”
Sometimes, hungering for a symbol, followers of the One God would carry an earth-disk. Sometimes the need for a material symbol of their faith was simply too great, and their understanding of the Church’s goals too limited . . . and that was the most acceptable option. The Church had learned to tolerate it.
He muttered a Knowing—and his breath caught in his throat as the nature of her suffering became thickly visible about her. As he read its cause.
For a moment he hesitated. His first duty lay with his friends . . . except that they wouldn’t really need him until dawn, when it was time to move again. Ciani’s wards alone should be enough to protect them in this well-guarded place, and it was possible that one or two of the other charms that had been nailed to the wall might actually Work. While he . . . he hungered to be active. To be needed. To do something.
“Go on up,” he said to his companions. “I’ll be there shortly.”
Her business done, Mes Kanadee began to withdraw, back the way she had come. But when she saw that he was following, she stopped and confronted him. “I told you, Tam’ll take care of you. There’s work I have to see to—”
“I’m a priest,” he said softly. “And a Healer. Will you let me help you?”
She seemed about to say something sharp—and then the defense crumbled, and exhaustion took over. Despair. She protested weakly, “What can you do? If prayers alone would suffice. . . .”
“We use more than prayers, sometimes.”
Startled, she looked up at him. Deep into his eyes. No assessment there this time, only wonder. And not a little fear. He could see the struggle raging within her—her hunger for hope in any form, versus a daeborn distrust of strangers. Her fingers tightened on the ledger book, as if feeling his title through the thick leather cover. Reverend. Her church. The title seemed to calm her. Surely a priest could be trusted.
At last she lowered her eyes, and he saw her tremble.
“God willing you can,” she whispered. “God willing anyone can.” She opened the heavy door, and motioned for him to follow. “Come. I’ll show you.”
The boy lay still on a rumpled bed, fingers clutching the quilt beneath him. His skin was pale, but that was typical of dae-folk. His complexion betrayed his adolescence, while his mussed and untrimmed hair—and less than aesthetic clothing—hinted at a vague air of defiance. Personal artifacts littered the room, making it hard to walk to the bed without knocking into something. Sigils pinned to the wall ranged from the fae-signatures of popular songwriters to symbols with more arcane overtones, and a few that seemed touched with genuine power. Dark power, Damien noted, and tainted with the chaos so typical of adolescence. But power nonetheless. The boy was trying to Work.
She saw him gazing at the walls and blushed. “He had . . . interests. I didn’t know whether to try to stop it, or how. . . .” But now it’s too late, she seemed to imply. And if he courted some Power that he shouldn’t have, and hurt himself in the process, am I not to blame for failing to prevent it?
“Let me take a look at him,” Damien said quietly.
He sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jar the boy as he did so. The youth’s breathing was regular, and his color—despite the daeborn pallor—was good. He took the boy’s nearer hand in his own and tried to dislodge it from the quilt it clutched. The fingers were stiff, but they did open; that ruled out most legal drugs as the source of the problem.
“How long?” he asked.
“Day and a half now.” Her hands twined nervously in her apron, knuckles white. “We found him in the morning, just like this. We’ve . . . tried to feed him. He won’t take anything. Even liquids. I had a doctor in. He sent for a specialist. Should arrive by tomorrow. To set up an IV, so we don’t lose him . . . but they don’t know what to do about the coma, Father. They don’t even know what caused it. I had a Healer, too—he was a pagan, Father, but what else was there to do? There was no one available from the Church, and I was desperate.” Her tone was begging for forgiveness.
“Did he find anything?”
“He couldn
’t say. Or wouldn’t say. I shouldn’t have asked him,” she said miserably.
He asked it as gently as he could, but it had to be asked. “Any prolonged drug use that you know of?”
She hesitated. He sensed her gaze flitting across the walls, from sigil to sigil. “No,” she said at last. “He tried some things, once or twice. Out of curiosity. Don’t they all?”
“Which ones?” he pressed. “Do you know?”
She looked away, and bit her lower lip in concentration. “Blackout, I think. Maybe cerebus, once. Maybe slowtime. We said it was all right—at least to try them, just once—provided he purchased them in Jaggonath. On the open market. Was that wrong?” Her tone was a plea—for forgiveness, understanding, absolution. “We didn’t think we could stop him.”
“If that’s what he took, it’s not what’s got him now.” He lifted the limp hand a few inches above the blanket, and gently let it fall. “Jaggonath’s drugs are strictly regulated; if he kept to that market, it’s unlikely he met with any surprises. And his limbs are pliant,” he pointed out. “If he was currently in a drugged state, that wouldn’t be true. There’s a paralytic in all Jaggonath legals.” He looked up at her. “The doctor couldn’t tell you anything at all?”
“He didn’t know. They’re going to take him to a hospital in the city, with better facilities. But travel time. . . .” She looked around, and shook her head helplessly. “All these fae-things. Could it be that I mean, could he have called up something. . . .” That fed on him, her tone said desperately. That took his mind away from us.
“I’ll take a look,” Damien said gently.
Such a Working came easily to him; it was what the Church had trained him to do. Fae gathered in response to his will—slightly tainted by the presence of adolescent instability, but his will was enough to give it order—and linked him to the boy in a personal Knowing. Allowing him to peer deep into the youth’s soul and, hopefully, read the cause of this unconsciousness.
Black Sun Rising Page 13
