He had no further need for subterfuge but brandished his corrupted title proudly, glorying in our discomfort. He even claimed that he still served the Church, although in what manner he meant this I could not imagine. He told us that we would be permitted to leave the Forest, along with Ciani, to continue in our quest. And more. Our host announced that he would be joining our party, allying himself with our company until the lady’s assailants were destroyed. He used words like honor and obligation to explain his motives, but the bottom line was this: the Hunter adheres to a code of behavior that is part fear, part vanity, and part Revivalist tradition—and he wields it like a shield to safeguard the last remnants of his human identity. By that code, he explained, he was now bound to us—against his will, it seemed—his dark power allied to our purpose until Ciani was freed. We were given no choice in the matter.
Alone, I might have defied him. Alone I might have chosen to face our enemies unarmed, rather than ally myself to such a malignant power. But I was not alone, and my companions did not share my revulsion. Never before had I been so acutely aware of the vast gap that exists between our nature, Church-nurtured, and that of the pagan multitudes. And I wished I had some way to explain to them that it is better to die with a clean soul than persevere through corruption. But my companions wanted that power supporting them more than they feared its nature, and in the end I was forced to acquiesce to the Hunter’s will.
Together we four traveled eastward to the port of Sattin—journeying by night, because the sun was anathema to the Hunter’s undead flesh. There, where the waters of the Serpent became so narrow that one could almost see across them, we found a captain willing to brave the rugged rakhland coast. But that was not the only danger facing us. There is a barrier about the rakhlands through which no Working may pass, a place where the power is wild, utterly chaotic, and even human senses lose their focus ... suffice it to say that I am still haunted by images from that terrible crossing. We made it across and set down on the rakhland shore without incident, for which I give thanks to God; it was no small miracle that got us there.
We struggled westward along the rugged coast, to the mouth of the Achron River. From there we turned southward, into the heart of the continent. The terrain was harsh and traveling took its toll on us, as did the growing certainty that someone—or something—was watching us. Several nights later an earthquake struck, with devastating result: two of the horses were killed, and but for Tarrant’s aid I would have drowned in the whitewaters of the Achron. Even worse, it disarmed us at a crucial moment. For it was then that the rakh attacked.
Your Library has information on what these native predators once were; I have attached several drawings of what they now are. Though evolution has forced them to adopt a human shape, they are not human in nature; their intelligence, which rivals our own, seems at war with a bestial inheritance, making them unpredictable and often violent. They have never forgotten what humankind did to them—or attempted to do—and the memory of that holocaust is as fresh and as real to them as though the attempted genocide of their species occurred only days ago. In truth, the only thing which saved our lives was that their curiosity outweighed their anger—for the moment—and we were taken as bound prisoners to their camp. I have enclosed separate notes on their encampment and what little we could observe of their society. We tried to argue for our lives, our pleas translated into their tongue by the bilingual khrast, but how could we argue with such an ingrained hatred? In the end it was our purpose that saved us. For the demons we sought had struck here, as well, and the ravaged souls they had left behind gazed out at us through rakhene eyes, behind a veil of rakhene tears. In serving our own quest we would be serving the rakh as well.
We were given a guide from among their people, a khrast female named Hesseth. Ours was a tense partnership, made more so by an open display of Tarrant’s murderous powers. But she led us across the great plains of the rakhlands, negotiating with various hostile tribes along the way, and we soon came to realize that we could not have made the journey without her. Not in the face of a hatred that had festered for so many centuries, with so many different tribes to appease.
We now knew that there was a human sorcerer allied to the demons we sought, and we did what we could to misdirect his Sight. For a time it seemed that we were successful—and then, amidst the snow-clad peaks of the rakhland mountains, he struck at us. Senzei Reese was tricked into going off alone and was killed, gruesomely; may his soul find peace in whatever pagan afterlife he created for himself. Tarrant was nearly killed as well, and in the end it was only our unity as a company and the strength of the holy Fire with which you had entrusted me that enabled us to reach our enemy’s border alive.
There, on Hesseth’s advice, we sought the aid of a rakhene tribe native to the region, whose ancestors had descended belowground during a period of inclement weather (possibly the Small Ice Age of the seventh century?) and remained there ever since. I append notes and sketches in quantity. You will note that they have adapted thoroughly to their dark environment, and now have few features in common with their aboveground brethren. It is a jarring lesson in how fast evolution works on this planet, when man is not present to interfere.
Using their underground tunnels we invaded the enemy’s domain. There we learned that the leader of Ciani’s assailants was human, a woman “from the east” whose thirst for power drove her to imprison and feed upon the souls of adepts, filtering the earth-power through their pain. In the end it was her own madness that we turned against her, using her obsession to blind her to our purpose while we set loose the very earth that she had bound. The resulting earthquake destroyed her citadel and killed many of her servants, while the surge of earth-fae that accompanies all such upheavals drowned her in a mortal excess of the very power she lusted after.
By the grace of God and the power of the holy Fire, Ciani, Hesseth, and I escaped the ruins of the madwoman’s citadel without further injury. The Hunter was not so fortunate. Forced to choose between certain death at the hands of our enemies and nearly certain death in the face of the sun, the Hunter chose to submit to the dawn—and thus freed our party, perhaps at the cost of his own life. May God grant me equal courage in my last moment, to embrace my fate with similar dignity. By his sacrifice Ciani was freed at last, and restored to all her former facilities. And we began the long trek home, back to the human lands.
I wish it ended there.
Even as I pen the words of this report the rakh are hunting down the last of the so-called demons, cleansing the land of their influence. Except that they were not demons, your Holiness. It was Hesseth who discovered the truth: that our enemies were in fact rakh, warped by some malevolent will until they evolved to take this monstrous form. What manner of creature would deliberately alter a native species so, so that its natural vitality was suppressed and it was forced to feed upon the souls of others? And what purpose could it possibly have in binding these creations to the night, so that simple sunlight might destroy them? I fear the answers to those questions, Holiness. Something evil has taken root in the eastlands—something whose hunger spans the centuries, whose patience has allowed it to rework the very patterns of Nature—and we must deal with it swiftly, before it can learn from its losses here. Before it has a chance to respond.
I am going east to the ports of the Shelf, to seek passage across Novatlantis. Ciani tells me that in her native city there are mariners who will risk such a journey if the price is right, and backers who will provide the coin if they see a potential for profit in it. I believe that I can assemble a crew willing to try it. Five expeditions have attempted the crossing in the past, and it may be that one or more found safe harbor across those deadly waters. If so, I pray that God has protected them from the evil that has made its home there, and that they may see fit to become our allies. If not ... then it will be that much greater a battle, Holiness. Was it not you who said that a single man may sometimes succeed where an army of men would fail?
Hesseth will be coming with me. It is her right, she says, and her duty. It is an awesome thing to watch the species altruism unfold in her—rakhene in its origins, perhaps, but utterly human in its expression. As for the fallen Prophet ... he escaped true death by a slender margin, and I do not know whether to give thanks or weep that the living world must still suffer his presence. For if power such as his could be bound to our purpose, our chance of success would be increased a thousandfold.
Bind evil to serve a worthy cause, the Prophet wrote, and you will have altered its nature forever. I pray it will be so with him.
Thus it is, your Holiness, that as soon as I seal this letter (and find a reliable messenger, no easy task in this city) I will be leaving for Faraday. If luck is with me I will find a ship and a crew in time to sail with the spring tides, before the storm season threatens. But only if I move quickly. Holiness, I beg for your blessing. For my enterprise, if not for myself. It pains me deeply that I cannot return to Jaggonath to ask this in person, to kneel before you in the tradition of my Order and renew my vows before departing, but time does not permit it. Who can say what new evil may be spawned in a year, by a creature who feeds on crippled souls? I know that you would approve of my mission and sanction my haste if you could. Thus I seal this letter, and append to it all the information I have gathered in recent months, sending it to Jaggonath in my stead. May it serve you well. God willing, I shall return triumphant to add to it.
I remain, obediently,
Your servant and His,
Damien Kilcannon Vryce,
R.C.U., K.G.F., C.E.A.
A study in anger: speechlessly, restlessly, Jaggonath’s Holy Father paced once from his desk to the window, then back again. Barely glancing at Damien before he began the course anew. Body rigid with tension, ivory robes rippling sharply with the force of his stride, snapping like pennants in an angry wind.
And then the dam burst. At last.
“How dare you,” he hissed. His voice was not loud, but the rage that it communicated was deafening. “How dare you go off on your own, sending this in your stead ... as if I would accept it as a substitute!” He slapped the package that lay on his desk with accusatory vehemence. Damien’s letter. Damien’s notes. A pile nearly an inch thick, made up of all his records from the rakhlands. All his notes on the Hunter. “As if mere paper could excuse you from your duty! As if mere notes and pictures could serve as a substitute for proper procedure!”
“Your Holiness.” Damien swallowed hard, biting back on his own growing anger. It was a struggle for him to keep his voice calm, to keep from exploding in indignation. Right or wrong, he deserved better treatment than this ... but he also knew that the fae which surrounded them was partly responsible for his response, that its currents had been altered by the Patriarch’s rage so that its power was abrading his temper to the breaking point. Not that knowing that makes it any easier to deal with, he thought grimly. If he gave in and responded in kind—or even worse, dared to work a Shielding in the Patriarch’s presence—it would be tantamount to vocational suicide. And so he forced his voice to be steady, low, even submissive. “I beg of you, consider—”
“I have considered,” the Patriarch interrupted sharply. “For weeks now. Since your message first arrived. Every waking moment, I have considered ... and the situation looks worse each time.” He shook his head in mock amazement. “Did you really think I wouldn’t guess what you intended? Did you think I wouldn’t understand why you sent this?”
“I felt there was a chance that I might not come back,” Damien said stiffly. “I thought you should have all the facts you would need to deal with the Hunter, in case he returned without me—”
The blue eyes were fixed on him, their depths unforgiving. “That’s not the issue and you know it. The issue is your failure to return here. The issue is your summary dismissal of my authority. The issue is not whether you sent me a report, but the fact that you sent it in lieu of a personal audience. And I think we both know why you did that.”
Accusation, plain and simple. Damien’s hands clenched at his sides; his heart began to pound, so loud it was hard to concentrate. He could lose it all here. Everything. All he had to do was say the wrong word, lie the wrong lie, and his whole life might come crashing down around him. The Patriarch had that kind of power.
“Time was of the essence,” he said at last. Choosing his words with care. “I tried to explain that in my letter. What I intended—”
The Patriarch cut him off with a sharp gesture. “What you intended, Reverend Vryce, was to avoid any personal contact with me. Do you think I don’t know why? You were afraid that if you petitioned for leave to pursue this matter—as you should have done, as the hierarchy of our Church demands that you do—that I would have denied it. And rightfully so.” His gaze was fixed on the priest, as chill and as piercing as coldfire. “Or perhaps you were afraid that I would permit you to go ... but demand that you choose more suitable allies.”
Damien drew in a deep breath slowly, and thought: There it is. That’s what this is all about. Not that Damien had failed to return to Jaggonath, not that his report was insufficient, not even that he had acted without sanction from his superior ... but that he had chosen to travel with one of the greatest evils his world had ever produced. An evil so subtle and so sophisticated that it might corrupt even a priest’s soul, a priest’s dreams. And through that priest—just perhaps—the Church.
Was that possible? Had it begun already, deep inside him, where he refused to look? In his mind’s eye he could see the Hunter grinning, a drop of fresh blood gleaming at the corner of his mouth. And he recoiled inwardly at the memory of that polluted soul, the touch of its malignancy against his own being. But Gerald Tarrant represented power, plain and simple, and they needed that kind of force. It was worth any price, he told himself, to have it. Even the risk of corruption.
Wasn’t it?
We need his power on our side, he told himself. Otherwise an even greater evil will take control of us all. Doesn’t that mandate some kind of alliance? But suddenly he wasn’t sure of that. Suddenly he wasn’t sure of anything. It was one thing to dismiss such a creature in mere words, especially as it had been months since he had last seen Gerald Tarrant. But the Patriarch’s words, fae-reinforced, awakened memories far more direct, more horrifying. The Hunter’s soul, caressing his own. The Hunter’s vileness invading the deepest recesses of his heart, his soul, his faith. Leaving behind a channel that clung to him like a parasite, a reminder of the power that linked them. What would the Patriarch say if he knew about that? If he understood that Damien had submitted to a bond with the Hunter, which would endure for as long as they both lived?
“That was your real fear,” the Patriarch accused. “Wasn’t it? That I would recognize your lies for what they were—”
“There are no lies—”
“Half-truths, then! Evasions. Deceptions. It all amounts to the same thing, Vryce!” He slammed his hand down on the report. “You write that Senzei Reese died, but never mention how! Never mention that in his last moments he destroyed a holy relic I had entrusted to you. That this treasure from our past was wasted. Wasted! And then there is the matter of the Hunter—”
“I can explain—”
“What? That fate flung the two of you together? That for the sake of your partnership he committed no sins while in your presence?” The cold eyes burned with condemnation, intense as the Hunter’s coldfire. “You saved his life,” the Patriarch accused. “When the enemy had captured him, and bound him, and sentenced him to destruction, you freed him. You. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” he demanded. “Is that why you sent me this ... this ...” He struggled to find a suitable phrase, at last spat out, “This travesty of a report? Hoping I would never learn the truth?”
He desperately tried to think of something to say—a protest, a plea, anything—but how could he answer such a charge? When he had written his report (agonizing over each and every word, analyzi
ng every turn of phrase a thousand times over) he had never imagined that the Patriarch would learn the truth. Never. But now he realized that he had underestimated the man. The Patriarch was a natural sorcerer, even though he refused to acknowledge the fact. It stood to reason that the fae, altering the laws of probability in response to his will, should cause him to meet up with a source of information. Damien should have seen it coming. He should have prepared....
“You saved his life,” the Patriarch repeated. Utter condemnation, spiced with a more personal venom. “In his name you betrayed your vows, your people. And God Himself, who sits judgment on all of us! Every evil which the Hunter commits, from now until the moment of his demise, will be because of you. Every wound the Church must suffer because of his influence, it will suffer because you freed him. Because you encouraged him to endure.”
He stepped forward, an openly aggressive move. Startled, Damien stepped back. The thick white wool of his ritual robe tangled about his ankles, an unfamiliar obstacle. About his neck the heavy gold collar of his Order pricked his skin with etched flame-points, sharp metal edges hot against the chill of his skin. Why had he worn these things? Had he thought that the regalia of his Order might shield him from the Patriarch’s anger? If so, they had failed utterly.
“In the name of the One God,” the Patriarch pronounced, “I have been given authority over this region—and you.” He paused, giving the fact of his absolute authority a moment to sink in. “And in the name of God I now exercise it. In the name of those thousands who gave their lives to redeem this world, choosing death before corruption. In the name of the martyrs of our faith, who served the Church in its darkest hours—and never wavered in their service, though they faced more terrible trials than you or I can imagine. In their name, Reverend Sir Damien Vryce, in their most holy memory do I now divorce you from our service—”
When True Night Falls Page 3
