Black Sun Rising (52 page)

Very rarely
, he admitted.
It’s not my favorite emotion
.

The hand fell away from his cheek, fine skin grating on several days’ stubble. Time to shave, Damien thought—or maybe time to give up on it and just let the beard grow. Sometimes that was the best thing to do, while traveling. It occurred to him that Gerald Tarrant seemed to have no such problem—and it was faintly amusing that a man of such power should have devoted a portion of his skills to something as inconsequential as facial hair. But then he glanced at Tarrant—at the clean, delicate profile, the perfect skin, the eyes brimming with vanity—and thought.
No big surprise. The man’s got his priorities straight. Appearance tops the Iist
. And he smiled to note that the adept’s hair, though still wet, had been Worked back into a smooth, gleaming mass; the holes that the rakh had poked in his finely woven garments had been cleaned of blood and repaired, with similar finesse. He looked like a refugee from a garden party.

The tent that the woman led them to was a large one, situated at the western face of the encampment. As they ducked beneath the flap she raised to enter it, Damien was aware of faces peering at them from behind the protection of its bulk: young faces, mostly, anxious and curious and clearly fascinated by the presence of these strangers among them. In some there was no hostility, merely a desire to learn what these strange creatures were—which meant that the former trait was learned, not faebom.

What was learned can be unlearned
, Damien thought. It was a promising sign.

The tent was a large one, that easily accommodated both the humans and their self-appointed guards. In its center was a low fire, mere glowing embers beneath a blanket of ash. But that was more heat than Damien had seen in hours, and when the woman gestured toward it he settled himself gratefully on a coarse rug laid before it, and shivered in relief and pain as the unaccustomed warmth of it began to drive the deadly cold from his body.

The tent itself was made of the skins of various animals, stitched together with painstaking care. But that surface was nearly invisible from the inside; tapestries and arras, richly worked, hung from the tent-poles in carefully orchestrated layers, trapping warmed air between them. Rugs were scattered across the floor, so numerous and so carefully overlapped that not a hint of grass was visible. Small sculptures hung from the juncture of tentpoles—wards, perhaps, or some rakhene equivalent—and they rattled like wind chimes whenever some harsh wind shook the structure. There was furniture—short tables engraved with intricate designs, screens and mirrors, chests and shelves—and bits of jewelry, shell and colored glass, that lay strewn about the interior like fallen leaves. These people might have had nomadic roots, Damien reflected, but he doubted that they traveled much now; there was enough stuff here to keep a moving company busy for days.

They settled themselves in a circle about the fire, humans on one side and rakh on the other. A constant tinkling accompanied the movement of their hosts, delicate necklaces and hair ornaments and mane-beads striking against each other as the rakh took their positions about the fire. Such noise would alert prey or enemies from quite a distance; the warriors must shed enough decoration to move silently in the field, before they left the camp.

Drink was passed, a hot, bitter brew reminiscent of tee. Damien gulped it down with relish, felt its heat spread quickly through his veins. The aching relief of it nearly brought tears to his eyes. There was food, mostly meat, and Damien registered the fact that the early rakh had been carnivores; any taste for plant life that they might have developed would have come after man’s Impression had begun to alter them.

Their hosts waited until they had eaten their fill, as silent and still as a beast stalking game. No words had passed among them since the time they entered the tent, yet it was clear that a hierarchy had somehow been established. When the last cup of steaming drink had been emptied, when nothing remained of the strips of roasted meat but a thin puddle of juice on carved wooden plates, one of the maned rakh stirred, and with an air of obvious authority addressed the humans.

“You should know what we are, before you begin. Our rank among this people—that of
khiast
—has no translation in your tongue. It’s a rakh-thing, born of the persecution time—”

The woman hissed sharply. A few words of the rakhene language passed between the two of them, sharp, biting phonemes with obvious anger behind them. Damien sensed a wealth of emotion that reached back into the rakh’s early years, when a species torn between human potential and bestial inheritance was forced to flee from the very race that had brought it into being. The male’s tone, when he spoke again, was filled with anger and resentment. And something else, perhaps, that lurked about the edges of his words, nearly hidden behind his facade of racial aggression. Fear? Awe?

“What I mean to say,” he amended gruffly, “is that although our people are familiar with your tongue, we seven alone are fluent. Our ancestors foresaw a time when we might need such fluency, perhaps to bargain for our lives—and so they captured women of your tribes, and sometimes men, and forced them to interact with our young. Until your
English
took root here, and our few
khrast
families were established.” With a short, sharp gesture he indicated his companions. “Each one of us has spent time in the human lands, among your kind, absorbing the vernacular. Some have passed as demons, some as visions, some—occasionally—as humans. We’ve traveled in your world; we know your ways. We seven can interpret your words so that our people will understand what you have to say. That’s all. We have no other rank but that; nothing in common as individuals, beyond the
khrast
tradition. No authority as a group, beyond that which we may wield as individuals.”

“We understand,” Ciani said.

The rakh-woman leaned forward; her eyes flashed viridescent, like a cat’s. “Tell us why you came here,” she commanded.

It was Senzei who answered. In a voice that trembled only slightly, he told them what manner of creatures had come to Jaggonath, and with what intention. He described the attack upon Ciani—and its devastating result—in terms so passionate that Damien felt as though he had witnessed the incident himself. Then, for a moment, Senzei’s overpowering grief at Ciani’s loss stopped the words from coming. For a moment he shook silently, the pent-up anger and frustration of the preceding days finally getting the better of him. That, too, seemed to communicate something to the rakh. When he spoke again, they seemed ... different. More receptive, somehow. As if he had finally reached them on a level they could relate to.

“They came from your lands,” he concluded. “Demons that feed on the memories of others, and keep intelligent beings like farm animals to feed on. We came here hunting them. One demon in particular. All we ask is the right to pass through your territory in order to reach it. In order to free our companion from that curse.”

Damien glanced at Ciani, saw that she was trembling. Merciful God ... if it was hard for Senzei to describe these things, how much harder for her, who had suffered in ways he could barely comprehend? He longed to take her hand, to offer her that minimal comfort, but dared not. Who could say what manner of interaction might anger these creatures?

After a silence that seemed painfully drawn out, one of the slender rakh spoke. “I’ve seen such things,” he muttered. “In the east, near the House of Storms. Seen, but not believed.”

“Human demons,” a maned male spat. “Bom of human fears.”

“Inside the Canopy?” a female challenged him.

“Humanity is like a disease. It spreads without limit.”

With sharp rakhene syllables, the male who had spoken first silenced their bickering. “It’s not our place to make decisions for our people,” he said firmly, “merely to interpret for them.” He looked the small group over; his expression was cold. “We’ll pass on what you’ve told us and let the others decide. But you should know this: We’re not a forgiving people, and our hatred of your kind runs very deep. The punishment for humans who trespass in our lands has always been death. In all my years, I’ve only known of one exception to that rule. One human who managed to bridge the gap between our species, and earn the respect of a southern tribe, so that they permitted her to live.
One
.”

He stood. His amber eyes were fixed on Ciani. “I remember that woman. I remember her scent.” His voice dropped to a soft hiss. “And the fact that you don’t remember me, Lady Faraday, says more for your suffering than a volume of human arguments ever could.”

He drew back a tent flap, allowing the warrior-rakh who were waiting outside to enter. The other
khrast
gathered themselves to leave. Clearly, the interview was over.

“I’ll do what I can,” he promised.

The camp of the rakh did not lend itself to the maintenance of prisoners. As negotiations between their captors were hissed in low tones, Damien reflected upon what the maned rakh had said, and the implications of it.
The punishment for humans who trespass in our lands is death.
It meant that the rakh had no experience in dealing with human prisoners—and if they handled their political affairs with the same animal instincts that they used to establish their local hierarchy, they might not even have experience in holding rakhene captives.

He glanced at Ciani as they were led from the tent, herded like milk-beasts. He expected to see fresh pain evident in her face, the anguish of lost memory suddenly brought to light. And there was certainly that, in considerable measure. But something more, also. Something that gleamed in her eyes with aggressive fervor, as she watched the rakh respond to unspoken, almost unseeable signals. Something that was coming to life in her, here ... as it must have come to life the first time, so many years ago. They had sensed it in her, and it had saved her.

Hunger. A thirst for knowledge, as powerful as Senzei’s yearning for power
—
or Tarrant’s hunger for life. Or my
—
my what?

What did he hunger for? If his life were to be rendered down to one ultimate statement of purpose, if the energy that kept him fighting were to be attributed to one driving force, what would it be?

To know, when I died, that my descendants would inherit Earth’s dream. To know that my children’s children would possess the stars. To believe that I’ve changed the world that much
.

Then:
Nice thought
, he reflected dryly.
You need to stay in one place long enough to have children, if you want all that.

They were driven through a good part of the rakhene camp, to a modest tent some distance from the center of things. In response to a barked command the tent’s owner came forth from its confines, ducking in order to pass through the minimal opening. He was a slender rakh, maneless, and not dressed for company; he hurriedly wrapped a patterned robe about him as he emerged, allowing one brief flash of a minimal loinskirt adorning a thin, lanky body.

The warrior-rakh’s mane-beads rattled as he issued a command, the hair about his shoulders rising so that considerable bulk was added to his already sizable frame. Looking at the two of them, it was hard to imagine them being from the same species. As the thin rakh protested—weakly—Damien thought he caught sight of a small ruff of fur about the neck that might be the remnants of a mane. Or the undeveloped promise of one? Male, then, most likely, and either young or poorly formed. Such a creature would rank low in any animal hierarchy.

And
—
let’s be honest
—
among humans, too. Would I have gotten half as far as I did without the physical capacity to back up my intentions?

Clearly resentful, the rakh finally relented. As he ducked back into the tent to collect a few treasured belongings his back was rigid with resentment, and his teeth were bared in a whispered hiss—but all that was gone when he faced the maned one, defiance giving way to the power of a pecking order he lacked the strength—and courage—to challenge.

Prodded by spear-point, the party was forced into the small tent. All but Tarrant, who paused by the door flap and turned east, to look at the sky. Dark gray, Damien noted; still somber in tone, but no longer lightless. There was perhaps half an hour left.

“You stay here,” he said sharply. “I’m going hunting.”

The maned one stiffened as he tried to withdraw, and blocked his way with the shaft of a spear. “You all stay here until we release you,” he said sharply. The rakhene accent made his words hard to decipher, but his intentions were clear. His fur bristled stiffly, mane ornaments jingling like wind chimes. “You understand? You go in, with others.”

A spear was leveled, poised to strike through Tarrant’s heart at a moment’s notice. Damien tensed—and wished he had his sword, his springbolt, even a heavy rock—but with a tight knot building in his gut he realized he was more weaponless than he had ever been in his life. Tarrant had damned well better know what he was doing—because three unarmed humans against eight of these sturdy rakh wouldn’t even buy him a moment’s time. Not when every weapon was already leveled against them.