City of Night

by Michelle West

  As he approached her, light held, he saw what she faced, and he froze.

  An arch stood at the midpoint of the arena floor, within a circle traced by carved runes into which shadows spilled. They were large, these runes, and he did not recognize even the shape of the letters, if indeed they were letters at all. Two columns rose from the floor, and above those two, cut stones rested together to form an arch. The keystone rose above them, and it was the keystone that caught his attention, because engraved in that single stone was a lone rune that glowed. The light was not bright, and it was not lovely; it seemed almost sickly in color, some mix of gray and green that pulsed as he watched.

  Ariane surveyed the runes upon the floor before she leaped up and across them, landing heavily—landing loudly—against marble. She did not turn to see if he followed. She was not, he thought, aware of him at all; all of her attention was held by the arch. By what lay, suspended, within it.

  He had thought it an odd structure, a freestanding arch with no walls, no room, no building to surround it. But he realized, as he watched it, that he could not see clear to the other side. Something lay contained within the frame of the arch itself. Something moved within it.

  He froze then.

  Ariane did not. She lifted her sword in both hands, and with a single, angry cry, she brought it down, into the marble upon which the arch now stood. Both hands were upon the hilt, and one remained there as she rose. With the other, she removed her helm and tossed it aside, where its clatter joined the sudden lap of fire.

  Rath rolled across the ground, out of its reach.

  The fire engulfed her where she stood. Her hair flew up in a wild, platinum wind, but it did not scorch or singe or burn; nor did she. If she felt the fire at all, Winter’s Queen, she did not deign to acknowledge it.

  She spoke, hand on sword, hair framing her as it rippled across her cloak and her armor. She gestured, sharply, lifting her head as she did; her voice above the roar of fire and the urgent cries of demons was a song.

  And by the golden light that enveloped her, Rath understood what she did. It was a Summer song. How she could sing it, he didn’t know, for she was Winter’s creature. But here, for just this moment, he saw the Summer in her, and at Winter’s height, it was still glorious; he could not breathe for the sheer beauty of it.

  Power, he thought. Beauty. He understood why they had once been considered the same.

  He heard the demon’s roar at his back, but did not, and could not, turn. He understood, somehow, that her song had weakened the edifice within which darkness resided.

  The arch trembled; the ground beneath the sword fissured. And in the center of the arch, the shadows roiled, and the shadows spoke her name.

  “Ariane, I will destroy you for this when I arrive.”

  She pulled her sword from the cracked, broken stone, and lifted it. “It will not be the first time you have tried, and the last time you failed, you had followers, and you walked upon the plane. Now, you have the dead to do your bidding, no more. And I, Lord of the Hells, have the Hidden Court and the Old paths, and they were never your dominion.

  “The world is not what it was when last you walked here, if you can truly walk here at all. Come, if you can. We will be waiting.”

  She sheathed her sword, and as she did, Rath felt a cold gust of clear wind. She turned to glance at him, and then she began to fade, growing slowly translucent in the dim light until she was gone from sight.

  Lord of the Hells.

  Rath stood upon the marble floor of the arena, his hand around the hilt of a dagger, gazing at the arch. He did not—could not—speak the god’s name, although he knew it.

  He had played his games, scavenging like a carrion creature through the vast empty space of this buried city, with no understanding at all of the stakes. He now understood the interest of Patris AMatie completely.

  They attempted to bring a god to the world.

  The god was not yet here, and Ariane’s brief song proved that the passage was vulnerable; what might the god-born do here, what might Kings achieve, if they came at last in force? It was to hide this arch, this god, and his imminent arrival, that Patris AMatie had undertaken to remove anyone who might have some knowledge of what lay beneath Averalaan.

  And people played out their shallow drama in the streets above, cozened and ignorant, as he had been cozened and ignorant. The voices of the demons grew louder at his back. Still, he could not turn. Nor did he attempt to run. Instead, he waited, the hair on the back of his neck rising.

  She came to him while he stood thus, and paused at his side.

  Sor Na Shannen was capable of doing what fire and the tremble of earth could not; she demanded enough of his attention that he could pry his gaze from the formless, dense shadow that spoke with the voice of a god. He turned to face her, and she looked pointedly at the dagger he held in his hand.

  He could, he thought, stab her. But he sheathed the dagger instead. Wondered, as he did, how much of the impulse was his own, and how much could be laid at her feet.

  “You serve the Winter Queen,” Sor Na Shannen said, when the dagger’s light no longer shone.

  “No, Lady.”

  “You wear her binding.”

  He frowned, and then realized that she spoke of the ring.

  “But she will not save you, now. She cannot.”

  “She would not even try,” Rath replied. “What could I be to her—to any one of you—that it would be worth the effort?”

  A brow rose over her perfect eyes. Instead of answering, she turned to look at the arch, and he saw her expression, made opaque by the turn of her profile, as it changed her face. “You do not fear me, Ararath.”

  “I do, Lady.”

  “No. I am Kialli, and I am kin; I sense fear, and you have none to offer me this eve.” It was not, from her tone, to her liking, but it did not anger her.

  He bowed. He would not argue with her. There was a quiet about her that hinted at awe. He had always desired the quiet places.

  “What is love?” she asked him softly, placing a hand upon his shoulder to hold him fast.

  It was a rhetorical question; he did not seek to answer.

  “What is love?” she asked again, still gazing at the arch as his eyes sought to map the half of her face he could see: the long, unbroken nose, the high cheeks, the full lips and the almost delicate turn of chin. Her hair, long and black, was like silk in its fall; it did not tangle.

  “Sor Na Shannen,” another voice said.

  “I have him. Summon; he will not escape,” she replied, although she did not look away from the arch or in any other way acknowledge the speaker. What she did not do, Rath would not. He found her beauty compelling, and he desired what sight of it she would grant before the end.

  “What is love, that you seek it?” Still, she stared straight ahead. But her hand tightened, and he felt her nails pierce his shoulder. He should have been surprised that they traveled so easily through so many layers of fabric. He was not.

  “What is love,” she continued, “that mortal men and women, through all the long ages, have sacrificed, plotted, and died in its name?”

  “Lady—”

  “You asked what love was to me,” she told him, her voice too low to be husky. “What do you see when you gaze upon the answer?”

  This time he did turn, to gaze in the direction that she herself was gazing. “I see only shadow,” he whispered. “Endless shadow, endless darkness, endless night.”

  “You see no form?”

  “No, Lady.”

  “A pity. When I was counted one of the least of his servants, I served my Lord. He was beautiful, Ararath. He is beautiful.”

  “I am mortal,” he replied, as if it were a failing.

  She nodded. “We followed Allasakar,” she said. “We will always follow Allasakar. When the gods agreed to the binding Covenant, we were given the choice: to remain in the world or forsake it to follow him.

  “We followed.” Her voi
ce was so soft, he had to lean toward her to catch the words. “We followed, and we were betrayed.

  “But even betrayed,” she continued, “even then, were we given a choice, we would follow. What is love,” she asked again, “but pain? What is love but ballast? What is love but the greatest of lies, the most effective of weapons we give to our enemies to use against us? We cannot cast it off. We cannot deny it. We can hate it. We can be destroyed by its imperative. We can rail against it, but even were we to become the most powerful of the kin, we cannot escape its grasp.

  “What love do you feel, that brings anything but the darkness?” She turned to face him then.

  He might have answered. He meant to; he opened his mouth to offer her the words that she clearly desired. And she did desire them; he did not know why. But he hesitated, and in hesitation, lost the moment.

  “Sor Na Shannen, we are ready.”

  “Very well.”

  Her hand tightened, and this time he felt pain as the nails bit deep. He grunted at it, saw the pale blush rise in her cheeks. She pulled her hand back; his blood reddened her nails.

  “The Winter Queen has cost us. If you can take satisfaction from that, take it.” She stepped back, and then nodded, her gaze flickering past his shoulder. “It is all you will have, in the end.”

  His shoulder began to burn, and that fire spread through his body as if it were liquid. He bit his lip, grunting; his knees buckled beneath him. But she held his gaze; he could not look away.

  When the fire began to speak to him, he knew. He felt the voice. He struggled a moment against its imperative, but it rolled over him, ignoring his will as if his will were inconsequential. He opened his mouth to scream, but sound was denied him. His knees straightened, his hands unfolded. He turned—without volition, without will—to Sor Na Shannen, whose lips, full and red, lifted in a cold smile.

  “You will help us now,” she said softly, and she reached out to caress his cheek.

  Ararath Handernesse, the voice inside him said, you are mine.

  He could not think for the pain, but he did think. Of the undercity. Of his sister. Of Jewel.

  No—

  Everything you have ever been is mine.

  He tried to move his hands, and failed. He would have stabbed himself with the consecrated dagger, but it was beyond his reach although it rested in safety against his body.

  Evayne, he thought. Your gift—

  He understood it. He understood why it was a benison. He understood all: the reason for it, the reason for the ring. A moment. A choice. His memories unfolded even in that instant, and were he not in so much pain he might have smiled.

  But without smile, he called the ring’s gift, and was answered.

  Death came, then; he heard it in a sudden scream of surprise and rage. But the pain didn’t end.

  Chapter Thirteen

  21st of Scaral, 410 AA Twenty-fifth holding, Averalaan

  THERE WAS VERY LITTLE IN THE WAY of heat in the apartment, and Jewel suspected that most of it came from the floor below, where one or two of the tenants had had a better season than the den. This year, unlike the previous two, they didn’t have wood for the woodstove. If Farmer Hanson proved wrong about the mildness of the winter, they’d be sleeping in the same room, pressed together so tightly they couldn’t move without waking the rest of the den, because they still wouldn’t have wood; they’d barely have food.

  They had blankets; they had bedrolls. Those didn’t wear out at the same rate that clothing did. And clothing was going to be a problem, because even with half the food, the den kept growing.

  She glanced at the shuttered window; she could see the hint of moonlight between the warped slats. Carver, Lander, Duster, and Angel had gone on a foraging run, out by the taverns where people were less likely to be careful, on account of alcohol. She didn’t expect them home any time soon; drinking apparently took a good deal of time. They’d camp out someplace and wait for the tavern to empty.

  Jewel sat in her chair by the kitchen table, burning a candle. There were two left, and she was almost looking forward to having none, because when she did, she would have to sleep with the rest of the den until Carver came home. Even though they didn’t use the maze, he still took the magestone with him when they went to work; she let him because his work was still the more dangerous.

  Her fingers drummed the top of the table as she added and subtracted numbers on the slate in front of her hands.

  This was where she worked, when she wasn’t out in the streets like the others, winding her way through anonymous crowds, cutting their purses, if they were fool enough to carry them on slender thongs around wrist or shoulder. This was where she sat, the detritus of these nightly attempts at maintaining even the most pathetic grip on hope spread out across a kitchen table that was used for almost nothing else.

  It was the last night that she would do this.

  21st of Scaral 410 AA Thirty-second holding, Averalaan

  Duster glanced at the moon and the magelights of the open streets. People were slowly hauling their butts out of taverns, stumbling in the doors and careening around the light posts. Carver and Lander pulled up the rear; Angel had her left, and the wall of the third building west of the tavern had her right. She carried a dagger; no one else did. They weren’t here to fight; they were here to rob some drunken, careless idiot, empty his pockets, and hightail it back home.

  This was familiar to Duster; it was what she knew. Living with the den for three years had made it pointless—but she hadn’t forgotten anything. Neither had Carver. Lander was predictably silent. Angel was grim. She’d never quite gotten the hang of him. He was good in a fight. She knew enough about fighting to know that. But he didn’t like it. It didn’t prove anything to him. He hated the thieving as well, but never argued; he did his job. Farm boy, she thought. He’d said he was a farm boy. How many drunks did you roll on a farm?

  But if you were going to lie, “farm boy” was a stupid lie. She gestured, den-sign, in the brief light. Carver nodded, started to break off, and froze. Angel froze as well; she could see his back stiffen. Couldn’t see past it. Didn’t have to see to hear.

  “Well, well, well, look who’s come crawling out of the twenty-fifth.”

  Carmenta.

  Duster started to move, then. Carver’s left hand rose; his fingers twisting in the air. Ten. Shit. Ten. He’d dragged out his whole damn den.

  “We’re not hunting on your turf,” Carver said. “Unless you’ve branched out to the thirty-second.” He didn’t lower his hand. Instead, he motioned again. One minute. Run. Split up.

  Duster hesitated, and then sheathed the knife. You didn’t run with a knife you didn’t want to lose, and she was never going to lose this one.

  “You ain’t ever hunting there again.” She couldn’t see what Carmenta was doing; wanted to look. Didn’t. Instead, she watched Carver’s single lifted hand.

  They had no signs for names. Meet back home. Didn’t need ’em.

  Duster glanced behind her, turning to face the streets. Carmenta was still Carmenta; he had all of his ten practically standing on his own damn feet. None of ’em behind her; if he’d tried to box them in, it would have been bad, although they could still hit the river.

  Lander was close to Carver; Lander lifted a hand.

  Angel took one step back, spun.

  Carmenta snarled something. Laughed.

  They ran.

  Duster and Angel took the first left that opened up, heading away from the river. Carver and Lander? They headed farther down the road; she glanced back once, saw them disappearing. Carmenta’s den broke, depending on whom they were following, and she heard Carmenta shouting like a rabid freaking dog.

  Angel signed something; hard to see and run.

  She started to tell him as much, heard shouting come closer, and shut her damn mouth. Move, move.

  But she knew where they were going. Taverns weren’t closing yet, not tonight, and they still had one it was safe to duck
into. They didn’t hang outside Taverson’s, picking off drunks; Jay wouldn’t let them. She liked the man and his wife, and she wanted to hit outsiders first, if they had to hit anyone.

  If they’d had time, Duster would have stayed in the thirty-second, because Carmenta was risking his den there. Yes, he wanted to take them out—but doing it, full den, in another den’s turf was just asking for trouble. Maybe not right away, maybe in an hour or two if they took that damn long. But word was sure to get out to whomever now claimed the thirty-second, and they’d come hunting Carmenta.

  But . . . she didn’t know the thirty-second. And with maybe a minute’s head start, they could dead-end in the wrong damn alley or the wrong backyard, and then it was over. The impulse to see Carmenta crushed by his own stupid mistake warred with the imperative to cut risks wherever possible, but it was close. Angel would follow her; they wouldn’t split up again.

  She could think and run.

  Yeah. Think. Run. Carver had Lander. Lander wasn’t good in a fight; didn’t like ’em. He could stand shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the den—he could do that; could make himself look useful. But he couldn’t fight. And if the odds were bad, he’d spook. Didn’t scream, though. Didn’t make much noise at all.

  Damn it.

  She hit the long road that led to the twenty-fifth; it wasn’t empty, never was. But nothing between them and Carmenta’s gang was going to be much help; there were no magisterians in the thirty-second anymore. If she and Angel were lucky, they’d hit a place to lose the gang before they reached Taverson’s. If they weren’t, they’d get in before Carmenta’s boys. She tried to count steps; too many. Four. Five. But she hadn’t heard Carmenta’s ugly howl since they’d split up.

  Probably meant Carver had him.

  She took another corner, skidding on purpose to make the turn faster. Soon, they’d hit the stretch of alleys and yards that they knew well enough; they’d hit the obstacle course and keep going. Angel was better than anyone at it; taller, for one. But Duster was good.