When True Night Falls (29 page)

He shrugged. “They took what they thought was necessary. I didn’t supervise their choices.”

“At night?”

“Istram. Please.” He spread his hands wide; it was the kind of gesture a man might make to show that he had no weapons. “They were hunters. I’m not. They said the beast would be holed up for the night, would be well-fed and slow to respond then. It was their job, not mine. I trusted them to do it. All right?”

For a moment he just stared at the man, wishing he could read what was in his eyes. At last he sighed. “All right, Lee. If that’s all it was. But let me know next time, all right? God knows, if there’s a maneater at large I should be mobilizing, too.”
Especially when we have warning of a possible invasion fleet, he almost added. Especially when I have to account for everything that moves and breathes within my territory
.

“I’m sorry, Istram. I really am. No insult meant. Really.”

He forced himself to relax. “All right. None taken, I guess. I’ll have them released in the morning.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“I guess I’m just a little jumpy, what with the invasion warning and all. It’s the first one since I became Protector, you know.”

Kierstaad smiled faintly. “It’ll pass without incident, I’m sure. They all do.”

“And now this with the westerners. I guess nothing’s wrong, it’s just ... it seems extreme. I ... what’s wrong?”

“
What
with the westerners?” Kierstaad demanded. Suddenly tense. “What are you talking about?”

“The message that came from Mercia. You were sent one, weren’t you?” He reached into his jacket and pulled the tiny scrap of paper out. “Here it is.” He scanned it for the part he wanted, then nodded. “She wrote that all the Protectorates would be contacted. You should have gotten something by now.”

“Let me see.” He leaned forward to take the paper from him. It rolled up slightly in his hand, still set from its hours in the bird’s harness. His lips pressed together as he read it, and his eyes narrowed.

“No,” he said at last. “No, I haven’t gotten anything.”

Istram hesitated. “Doesn’t it seem a little ... well, extreme to you? Immediate death upon capture? Not even a questioning?”

“The last pagans from the west were dealt with mercifully. And some of them escaped, to found the very nation that now threatens us. Isn’t this a safer course?”

“But these aren’t pagans. These are two of our own. A priest and a Sanctified woman, the letter says. I don‘t—”

“Are you questioning a Matria’s judgment?”

Istram blinked. “No. It’s just that I ... no. Good God. Of course not.”

“Well, then.” Kierstaad reached down to the table at his side, a fine piece with slender legs and tiled top. There was a cup sitting on it, with some pale brown liquid inside. Tee? As Istram watched his old friend sip from the fragile china cup, he remembered that the man had never cared for hot drinks. But perhaps his tastes had changed when Miranda Kierstaad died; so much about him had. “It seems that’s settled, then. I’m glad you came to me. I hear stories of other Protectors, you know, as suspicious of each other as they are of the enemy. I’d hate for that to happen to us.”

Despite himself he smiled. “I can’t imagine that it would.”

The china cup was replaced; it made a faint
ting
on the hand-painted tiles as he set it down. There seemed to be something tense about the Protector, something that belied the warmth of his tone and the casual grace of his gestures. Was he hiding something? The thought was not a welcome one, but it worried at the edges of Istram’s brain as he watched the older man rise from his chair. Was it possible there was something to hide? Or was Istram just seeing the first clear signs of a breakdown that had been six long years in the making? The death of a man who had lost his love of life six years ago, when his wife had gone to sleep one winter night and never awakened?

If not for the Protectorate, he wouldn’t have lasted this long, Istram thought. What else is left that matters to him
?

Kierstaad cleared his throat noisily. “You’re welcome for dinner, of course. And to stay the night if you want. If your people won’t worry....”

“I was on a tour of the border,” he told him. “They don’t expect me back for days.”

The clear gray eyes fixed on him then, with a suddenness and an intensity that were unnerving. Uncomfortable, he looked away. “Indeed? Then we must make doubly sure you’re safe.”

He called out a man’s name; not loudly, but the clear voice carried. A moment later the same servant returned.

“Will you excuse me for a few minutes, Istram?” His tone was apologetic. “I had some duties this evening which I can cancel, but I’ll need to sit down with Sems here and discuss a few things before dinner.”

“Of course.” He gestured toward the outer door. “I’ll wait outside if you like.”

“It won’t take long,” he promised. Gray eyes glittering in the lamplight. “I’ll call you as soon as we’re done.”

The western terrace of Kierstaad’s keep was a place of wonder and beauty, and Istram could never set foot in it without being awed anew. A garden of crystalline structures shimmered and shivered in the slightest breeze, tinkling like glass bells each time the evening air shifted in its course. Standing in its center was like being inside a musical instrument while some exquisite hand plucked notes upon its strings. You could close your eyes and feel the music inside you, or open them and gaze upon the visual symphony that surrounded you. A thousand etched-glass leaves that captured the Core’s golden light. Delicately blown stems that glistened like icicles, refining the light into rainbow strands. A garden of miracle workmanship, a place of true magic and absolute beauty. And the last living work of Miranda Kierstaad, before the lung disease that had plagued her since birth had claimed her final breath.

Here he could share something of Leman’s sorrow, surrounded by the work of the woman his friend had adored. Was it better to have a place like this, which captured the essence of one’s love, or did it only serve as a reminder of his terrible loss? Since the garden was still intact, he assumed the former; Kierstaad was a decisive man who would surely have pulled down the crystalline trees if they had added one fraction to his pain.

The doors to the keep—glass-paneled, now thickly curtained—swung open. With but a moment’s hesitation at the doorstep, Leman Kierstaad came out onto the terrace. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” His eyes were on Istram as he walked toward the western wall, with its delicate glassy ivy. Drawing Istram’s gaze along with his own, until the visitor faced into the setting Core. “And so very fragile.”

He reached out a hand to the nearest hand-blown vine and pulled. A yard-long segment snapped into pieces; splinters of glass fell to the earth like glistening, sharp-edged rain. The motion was so quick, so unexpected, that for moment Istram couldn’t even react. Then he stepped forward, meaning to do—what? Stop the man? It was mindless instinct that drove him, a gut response to witnessing such beauty ravaged. Even as he moved he saw Kierstaad’s eyes focus on a point behind his head. And he knew that he had been distracted for a reason.

He tried to turn. Pain burst in his skull as something struck him from behind, driving him down to his knees. He tried to cry out, but a second blow silenced him, leaving only a gasp that poured from his lips like blood. Again. He tried to raise up his arms, to protect himself, but something had been crushed that was needed to make them move; they fell limply down by his side, streaked with crimson blood, and stayed that way as he fell. Again the blow fell. He heard the crunch of bone splitting as fresh blood filled his throat, choking him. His breath was a gurgle that watered the ground with red foam. All about him was darkness.

And then, as if from a distance, Leman Kierstaad’s voice: “Are you ready?”

He could barely hear the answer over the roaring in his ears. The blazing pain. “Do it now?”

“The imprint’s best at the moment of death. Trying it later.... that’s tricky.”

He tried to move his fingers. Couldn’t. Tried to feel his legs. No.

“How’s that?”

He was dying.

“You’ll leave in the morning, as he would have done. Go directly to the keep. If anyone asks why you cut the tour short, say it was based on classified information that I gave you. No one questions a Protector.”

“And then?”

Betrayed. They were all betrayed. The land had already been invaded, by creatures that hid behind human faces. No boats had to land. Not now. No armies would ever be seen. Nothing would be noticed ... until it was too late.

“I want all your men out in those woods, searching. We have to find that girl. Turn the villages inside out if you have to, check every path, search every stream ... she’s only a child, and she’s never been outside before. She can’t elude us forever.”

“But if she’s just a child—”

“She saw me,” the Kierstaad-voice hissed. “I don’t know why, I don’t know how, but she knew that something was wrong. Why else would she run away that very night, when she could never hope to survive on her own? I want her captured. I want her alive. I want to know what special power she has, that his Highness failed to anticipate....” The voice trailed off into a true hiss, too soft for Istram to hear. His blood was a roar in his ears, a hot flood in his throat. The sounds of the world outside were fading. “Go north into this man’s lands”—something kicked him hard in the back and his body jerked, smearing blood on the floor—“and do what it takes to find her.”

“And if the villagers object to our search?”

“What do you care? They’re human.” The voice had become a predatory hiss. “If they get in your way, then kill them.”

Istram tried to cough. Failed. There was no room left for air in his lungs; everything was filled with blood.

“Just make sure you leave no witnesses,” the Kierstaad-voice cautioned. It was a voice filled with hate. A tone filled with hunger. It seeped down into the darkness that surrounded him, a last flicker of red in the gathering mists. Enough to inspire terror in the throbbing remnants of his soul.

I have to warn them
, was Istram’s last thought. The Protector in him still clutched at life—insane, obsessed—even as his body shuddered in its dying.
Have to get word to the others
.
Somehow
. ...

And then even the terror expired, and there was only darkness.

They followed the stream bed south, though at times the footing was so bad that they had to lead the horses through the water, feeling their way through soaked leather soles.
At least it isn’t winter
, Damien thought, remembering their frozen trek through the rakhland mountains. What he tried not to think about was the fact that a few hundred miles closer to the southern ice cap and ten thousand feet higher up it might be every bit as unpleasant as it had been in the far north. And so when they spread out the maps—Tarrant’s, as always, and the few which Hesseth had managed to salvage from their ill-fated room in the Manor, he studied the geography every bit as carefully as the Hunter did, with an eye for the weather.

For a few nights they concentrated on putting as much distance between them and Mercia as possible. The horses gained energy quickly—much more so than Damien had expected—and to their relief the animals seemed happy to supplement their limited grain supply with a few grassy plants that grew on the banks of the stream. It wasn’t necessary for Tarrant to point out that without a reliable supply of travel feed they were going to have to limit their journey to regions that would support an equine appetite; Damien had thought of that the first day out. At least for the moment that seemed to be no problem. They would have to be careful when they chose their route, and keep a close eye on the vegetation.

One more thing to worry about.

They didn’t have many weapons, and that made the priest nervous. Hesseth had managed to rescue his sword and a few knives, and Tarrant still had his coldfire blade, but that didn’t mean much in a land where every citadel had firearms and even farmers might be armed with some kind of projectile weapon. On their second day from the city Damien tried to manufacture a bow from some supple saplings by the waterside, but though he tried every combination of wood and string that was available to him—short of gutting the horses for their sinew——he could achieve no combination that was satisfactory. At last in frustration he cast the bits of wood aside. They would have to purchase arms somewhere—a risky enterprise at best—or steal some, which was even less savory. Their prospects seemed darker and darker. If only they’d had time to prepare. If only he’d known when he spoke to Rozca how soon they would have to leave the city, so that he could have arranged a way to meet up—

Stop it. Now. You did the best you could. Deal with what you’ve got
.

The gully deepened as they traveled south, and at last they thought it best to climb to higher gound while that was still possible. The scraggly trees flanking the stream had given way to a forest of sorts, but it was far from a healthy system. Stunted trees were spaced far enough apart that sunlight could seep down between them, which meant that every inch from the dirt up to the canopy had given rise to some sort of plant life. Which meant thick underbrush, often studded with thorns or coated with irritant. It was rough going, what with hacking through the underbrush to make way for their horses, and they had to stop often to rest. More than once Damien looked back the way they had come and winced; they were leaving a path so clearly marked that an army of blind men couldn’t have missed it. They would just have to hope that the many miles they had put in concealing their tracks in the stream’s running water would be enough to slow their pursuers down.