Black Sun Rising

by C. S. Friedman

  His entire side was black and swollen; the sides of his wound gaped open like the mouth of a fish, despite the stitches that had been meant to close it. Within, it was possible to see the damp sheen of muscle and the sharp edge of a lower rib, both darkly discolored, both smelling of decay. Damien studied it for a long, despairing moment, then looked up at Tarrant—and found the man watching him, pale eyes made gold by the firelight.

  “You may See, if you wish.” The Hunter’s voice was quiet, barely discernable above the crackle of the flames. “The currents are safe enough for you here. But don’t interrupt me, or try to interfere. To do so would cost your friend’s life. You understand?”

  Stiffly, he nodded.

  The Hunter turned back to Senzei and fixed his eyes on the wound. Slowly, soundlessly, his lips formed words; a key? Damien considered Working his own vision, felt a chill of fear flood through him—and carefully ignored it, as he envisioned the patterns that would give him Sight.

  Delicately. Only a word, a thought; he had no desire to touch any more of the Forest’s fae than he had to, Worked or no. Malevolence rose about him like a black, ice-cold lake; he dipped his thoughts into it just briefly, then quickly withdrew. The lake subsided, though its cold had invaded his veins. And his Sight—

  Was as it had never been before. Or was it simply that the fae was so different here, which made its form so alien? Dark purple power pooled about the bedposts, slithered up the carved wood like deep violet serpents—and then slid across the coverlet, seeking Senzei’s flesh. Damien had to stop himself from reaching out to Banish them. Though he sensed in every fiber of his being that the purpose of these things was to devour, to destroy, the Hunter’s last words echoed in his brain: Interfere, and it will cost your friend’s life.

  And his other words, even more ominous. You will trust me ... because you have to.

  Damn you, Merentha!

  He watched as the tendrils of violet dissolved, becoming a thick purple fog that surrounded Senzei, clinging to his skin. There seemed to be movement within its substance; Damien Worked his senses to let him take a closer look—and stiffened in horror as he Saw. For the cloud was not a cloud at all, but a swarm of creatures too tiny for the unWorked eye to see. Wormlike, hungry, they searched the surface of Senzei’s skin until they found a pore or other opening large enough to admit them. Then they slithered in, their microscopic tails lashing from side to side as they worked their way deeper and deeper into his flesh. Damien caught the flash of teeth at one forward end, and remembered the creatures that had devoured their horse; these were clearly their kin, though made of much less solid stuff. He had to fight to swallow back the rising tide of disgust inside him. If this was supposed to be some kind of Healing . . . but no, it wasn’t that. Tarrant had made that very clear.

  They were under Senzei’s skin, now, working their way into his bloodstream. Where his veins were close enough to the surface it was possible to see them moving, the skin rippling as they passed. Thousands upon thousands of them had entered Senzei’s body already, enough to tint his blood deep purple, and more were digging their way in each second. It seemed that his entire body had become filled with purple fluid, filled near to bursting. Damien looked at the wound itself and saw larger creatures nestled in the rotting flesh, feasting on its putrescence. Sickness rose in the back of his throat, and he struggled not to give in to it. He had seen more terrible things in his life, but never under conditions like this: watching them devour a traveling companion while he stood impotently on the sidelines. Suddenly he hated Tarrant with a passion that surpassed even his religious abhorrence of the man; this was personal, intensified by his suspicion of just how much the man enjoyed having him in such a position. As if frustrating a member of his former Church was itself a triumph, to be savored.

  And then, the cloud withdrew from Senzei. The fog, now black, seeped from his veins like blood, and hovered over him silently, a storm cloud waiting to break. Where the firelight played on its substance it sizzled, and thin filaments could be seen writhing on its surface. Then Tarrant muttered the key words of a Banishing, and it vanished. Not slowly, like a fog being scattered by the wind, but immediately—as though his will, which commanded the action, knew no middle ground.

  Damien looked at the wound, saw the clear red of untainted blood slowly pooling in that opening. The carrion-eaters were gone, or at least invisible; he had no real desire to find out which. He looked up at the Hunter—and saw that the man’s face was white with pain, as if the healing of Senzei were somehow wounding him.

  “Now the fever,” the Hunter whispered. He held out a hand, palm up, over the body. Slowly it began to give off a strange glow, a cold silver light that illuminated little of what surrounded it, but burned the eyes to look upon as if it were an actual flame. “Coldfire,” he whispered. He molded it in his hand like some nacreous clay, forming it into the shape of what it was not: true fire. And it burst up suddenly in his hand, like a flame devouring fresh fuel, and flickered like its namesake—but there was no heat that came from it, and little of its light reached beyond its brilliant surface. Staring at it, Damien felt the warmth drawn out of him, gone to feed something at the heart of the non-fire; with effort he drew back, and erected a barrier that he hoped would suffice to protect him.

  “As volatile as true fire,” the Hunter whispered. “And as dangerous.” He brought his hand down to the wound and tipped it over; the coldfire slid into the wound like a viscous liquid. As it made contact with his flesh, Senzei cried out—a scream of pain, of terror, of utter isolation. Damien leaned forward and took him by the shoulders, not to hold him down so much as to reassure him, by that touch, that he was not alone. Beneath his fingers he could feel the chill of the Hunter’s coldfire as it worked its way through Senzei’s veins, consuming the heat of the fever with mindless hunger. As it passed through the thick veins in his neck, toward his brain, Senzei stiffened; then, with a sudden sharp cry, he went limp. Damien turned back sharply to the Hunter—who was leaning back, clearly well satisfied with his work.

  “He’ll sleep now,” Tarrant said. “I’ve cauterized the wound as well as my skills will allow. True Healing is denied me—it would cost me my life to attempt it—but the coldfire is an adequate substitute, in some things. His fever is down and shouldn’t rise again. It will take some regeneration of living flesh to close the wound properly . . . but the Workings of life are no longer in my repertoire. I must leave that to you.”

  Damien was about to answer when a gong suddenly sounded in the distance. In answer to his unspoken question the Hunter said, “Dawn. And I have work to do before the keep can be shuttered for the day.” He pulled something out of a pocket in his outer tunic and threw it to Damien; a small key. “For the window.” He paused. “I’m sure you’ll understand that I cannot allow you free run of the castle during the daylight hours. Not yet, anyway.”

  The exhaustion of the last few endless days was taking hold of Damien; he found that he lacked the strength to argue. “What about Ciani?”

  “Tomorrow night. I promise you. In the meantime . . . I will see that you’re brought suitable food.” His eyes narrowed as he studied Damien’s person. “And a bath. There’s a chamber adjoining this one, with amenities between; you may make free use of both. The doors beyond this suite will be locked until dusk, except when my servants attend you. I’m sure you could easily overwhelm my people if you wished—if you dared to leave your friend here alone. . . .” The threat in his voice was unmistakable. “But I still have the lady, don’t I? So it would behoove you to cooperate.” He nodded toward Senzei. “See that he’s exposed to the sun when it rises. That will destroy any remnants of my power which still adhere to his veins. I recommend you don’t attempt a Healing until that’s done.” The distant gong sounded again: a deeper, more resonant note. “If you will excuse me.”

  Without further word or gesture he left the room. There must have been a bolt on the outside, for it was that rather than the turning o
f a lock that Damien heard. The priest turned toward the window—and felt his physical defenses giving way at last, to a tide of hunger, exhaustion, and hopelessness so powerful that it had taken all his reserves to hold it back this long. He tried to estimate the hours since they had awakened on Morgot, but couldn’t; it seemed like days—years—a lifetime. As if they hadn’t just arrived in the Forest, but had always been there—subject to its hungers, its fears, its eternal darkness, the fierce currents of its power. . . .

  With effort, he managed to reach the window. He reached up and pulled the heavy curtain aside, only to find two heavy planks of wood that served as internal shutters, holding back the light. He fumbled for the key that Tarrant had given him and fitted it into the small golden lock between the two panels. The key turned easily, but the heavy wood shutters required all his remaining strength. When he had them pushed back halfway into their storage slots, he paused and leaned against the wall to one side, breathing heavily. And he contemplated that there was only so long a body could function in overdrive, without sleep or food to sustain it.

  In the distance, a dark gray light was seeping across the horizon. He estimated how long it would take the sun to rise to the height of this window, then checked to see that Senzei was lying in the path of its light. It was all he had strength to do. The pain in his side, denied for so many hours, lanced through his torso with fresh reminder of his own weakness, and the strain of forty hours with no more rest than a brief fit of delirium in Morgot added its weight to his exhaustion. He stared at the horizon for a few more moments, watching for a change that he knew would occur too slowly for him to see—but by the time the white sun of Erna had cleared the horizon and the first few stars of the galaxy had grudgingly succumbed to its light, he was lost in a sleep so deep, so insulating, that not even the thought of sunlight over the Forest was enough to awaken him.

  They came for him at sunset, as soon as it began to grow dark. They gave him time to see that Senzei was well, to affirm that the Healing he had done at midday hadn’t been banished by the coming of night—and then they directed him to follow them, through the castle’s upper corridors. For once, he was not afraid to leave his companion behind. It seemed unlikely that the Hunter would have invested so much effort in saving Senzei’s life if he was only waiting for Damien’s absence in order to kill him.

  Food and rest had done much to renew his confidence—not to mention a much-needed bath and a timely shave. His face was raw but no longer stubble-covered, and his skin had been rubbed clean of both Forest grime and caked blood. He had even toweled down Senzei, scraping off the residue of gore that encrusted him to find clean, pink flesh beneath, rapidly healing. The latter was a monument to the Forest’s earth-fae, which, once tamed, intensified each Working a thousandfold. He wondered if it was just his room that had been guarded from the ferocity of the currents, or the entire castle; if the latter, it meant that he and the Hunter were on much more equal ground.

  Then they took him into the guestroom where the Hunter was waiting—and where Ciani lay, as still and white as Senzei had been.

  He ignored the adept and hurried to her side. Her flesh was cool to the touch, but the pulse that throbbed beneath his fingertips was regular. No sooner had he acertained that than her eyes fluttered open—and she was in his arms, shivering in a mixture of fear and relief, her tears soaking the wool of his shirt as he held her.

  “You see,” the Hunter said quietly. “As I promised.”

  “Her memory is back?”

  “All that I took.” The adept seemed to hesitate. “Perhaps . . . more.”

  Damien looked up at him, sharply. In his arms, Ciani trembled.

  “This reunion will be managed better without my presence,” the Hunter said shortly. “You should know that these are her first waking moments since Morgot—she knows nothing of what you’ve done, or what has passed between us. You’ll need to bring her up to date. When you’re done here, have my servants bring you to the observatory. We have plans to discuss.”

  And he left, without further word. Not until the heavy door had closed behind him did Ciani draw back from Damien. Her eyes were red, her breathing unsteady. “Tarrant. . . .”

  “Is the Hunter,” he said quietly. And he told her—what they knew, what they suspected, what they feared. She drank it all in hungrily, as though somewhere in that sea of knowledge the key to life was hidden. And it was, for her. Even in such a state, that much remained true.

  In time, she grew calm. In time, he was convinced that what the Hunter had said was true: her memories were intact, back to the day of the attack in Jaggonath. He had returned them.

  “It hurt him,” she whispered. “I think . . . I think it almost killed him, to absorb so much of my psyche. As if the sheer humanity of my memories was somehow a threat to him. I sensed that. Without knowing where I was, or what was happening.” She shivered. “I sensed it . . . as though his thoughts were my own.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He was furious with you. For entering the Forest. Furious because he would now have to deal with you, instead of just settling things with me. Any entanglement with the living is a threat to him . . . as if it somehow could cost him his life, I don’t understand it exactly. He blames you for that.”

  Damien’s eyes narrowed. “That’s fair enough. I blame him for a lot.”

  A hint of a smile crossed her face; the old Ciani, showing through. “What did he mean, we have plans to discuss?”

  “He says he’s going with us.”

  There was fear in her eyes—but only for an instant, and then it was subsumed by something far stronger: her curiosity. “It’s what we wanted, isn’t it?”

  “It’s what you wanted,” he reminded her. “But now there’s no way to avoid it. I don’t believe we can get out of here without his help, and he’s raised questions. . . .” He hesitated. He didn’t want to bring that up, not now; Ciani had enough to deal with without facing the fact that her assailants were perhaps merely tools for some much darker, much more powerful force. “If this honor really binds him, as he insists, we may be safe enough.”

  “It does.” Her eyes stared out into empty space, as if looking out upon a remembered landscape. “It’s the glue that holds it all together for him. The last living fragment of his human identity. If he lets that go . . . he’ll be no more than a mindless demon. Dead, to all intents and purposes. A tool of your hell, without any will of his own.”

  “Not a pretty concept.”

  “He’s very proud, and very determined. His will to live is so strong that every other force in his life, every other concern, is subordinated to it. That’s what’s kept him alive all these years.” She shuddered. “If he didn’t feel that the question of honor was so linked to his personal survival—”

  “Then we would all be dead,” he finished for her. “That explains a lot. What I don’t understand is that he’s returned the memories to you—along with a few of his own, I gather—and now we’re all here together, restored as a group. He’s undone the damage he caused. So why is it so necessary for him to come along? How does Revivalist honor play a part in that?”

  Her eyes were wide, her voice solemn. “He promised someone,” she whispered. “Just that. He promised someone he would never hurt me . . . and then he did. He betrayed himself. The force of his self-hatred....” She looked away. “You can’t imagine it,” she breathed. “But I remember it, as though it were my own. And . . . there aren’t words....” She clutched herself, as though by doing so she could keep his memories from coming to her. “He perceives himself as balanced on a very fine line, with death on both sides of him. And if at any moment he fails to choose the course that will maintain his balance—”

  “He dies,” Damien muttered.

  “Or worse,” she told him. “There are far, far worse things than mere death that lie in wait for him now.”

  Yes, Damien thought, there would be. A thousand years or more of hell in the making, with new d
evils spawned by each sinner. And all of them gunning for him, the one arrogant adept who escaped their clutches. . . .

  He kissed her on the forehead. “You’ve earned your keep,” he told her. And despite all his fears, and the long hours of despair behind him, he smiled. “Lucky for us that when he returned your memories he did so this imperfectly; the information you picked up from him may give us enough control over the situation to make traveling with him viable—”

  “As he probably intended,” she whispered.

  Startled, Damien fell silent. Long enough to consider what he knew of the man—and just how hard it would have been for the Hunter to discuss such things openly. To bare his soul as it must be bared, lest the group refuse to travel with him. In which case it would mean that his honor couldn’t be vindicated. In which case—

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “In control, as always.” He glanced at the door, felt his arm about Ciani tighten protectively. “Even when he’s not here.”

  He got up from the bed, and helped her to do the same.

  “Come on,” he said. “I think it’s time we had a little talk with our host.”