“How can they be faeborn?” he demanded. “How can anything faeborn live here?”
“Water’s shallow in spots. Shallow enough that the power comes through—and where there’s power there’s demons. First law of Erna.” He gestured toward the plugs in Damien’s hand. “Next time you see the lights, you get those in fast. Or go inside and let my men lock you in. Understand?”
“No problem,” he assured him. Wondering what kind of visions the little girl had seen. Wondering if Hesseth had been affected. Wishing he had the nerve to go up to where Tarrant stood—still and silent, utterly alone—and ask what visions the sirens had awakened in him. As if the Hunter would confide in him . . . or in any man.
He sighed, and turned back to study the water. Dark now, and cleansed of blood. Cleansed—temporarily—of enchantment.
The Sea of Dreams, he mused. Apt name.
He’d be glad as hell when they were out of it.
The galley was narrow and low-ceilinged, which meant that for a man of Damien’s size—not to mention Tarrant’s height—it was markedly claustrophobic. But it had the amenities they needed: a place to sit, a modicum of privacy, and heat. In the far corner a wood stove with one burner drove back the worst of the sea’s chills, and the coffeepot set atop it promised a more direct application of warmth. The coffee was bad, very bad, but at least it was hot. Damien was on his third cup.
He was seated by the stove alongside Hesseth; Gerald Tarrant stood opposite, as if disdaining their need for heat. Jenseny was at the table playing with toys the Neocount had given her: a set of playing cards with heavily decorated face cards—not Jack, Queen and King, Damien noted, but Protector, Regent, and Matria—and a small pile of twisted metal bits, each one a puzzle requiring her to join or unjoin their knotted elements. Tarrant had apparently purchased them in Esperanova for the purpose of keeping her young mind occupied, and in that way they had succeeded admirably. Damien was torn between being grateful to him for thinking of such a thing and feeling vaguely shamed that the Hunter had shown more proper paternal instinct than he had. Never mind that the Neocount had once been a family man. It was still embarrassing.
“Well?” Damien prompted. “What next?”
“We land in the south,” Hesseth offered. Ever the practical one. “We settle in, take our time and do some research, find out where the enemy is.”
“And what he is,” Damien reminded her. “Not to mention what his connection is with the Iezu.”
Tarrant said nothing.
Quietly, setting down the coffee cup before he rose, Damien went over to where Jenseny was and sat down beside her. If he had been watching only her face, he would have thought she didn’t notice him. But he was watching her hands, and he saw them tremble.
“Jenseny.” He said it gently, willing all the softness into his voice that it could possibly contain. Praying that it would be enough. “You said you knew something about the Prince, and about the Black Lands. We need to know about those things. Will you tell us?”
She said nothing. Her hands, shaking, closed into fists. Her eyes shut tightly, as if in pain.
“Kastareth.” Hesseth voiced the rakhene endearment gently as she moved to join them. “You’re part of our team now, remember? We need your help.” Her gloved hand reached out and touched Jenseny’s; a graceful gesture, delicate as a butterfly landing on a flower petal. “Please, kasa. Help us. We need you.”
The child looked up at her, and Damien could almost feel her drawing strength from the rakh-woman’s soul. Then she looked at Damien, her dark eyes searching his face for some quality he couldn’t begin to define. Then, last of all, she turned to Tarrant. For once the sorcerer refrained from making an inflammatory comment. God bless him for it.
“Jenseny.” Hesseth’s tone was liquid, soothing. Was there tidal power woven into those words, lending them subtle force? Damien wouldn’t have been surprised if there were. “What did your father tell you about the south? What did he see there?”
The girl blinked heavily; something that might have been a tear glittered on her lashes. “He didn’t want to hurt anyone,” she whispered. “He thought he was doing good.”
“We know that,” Damien said gently, and Hesseth said, “We understand.”
“He said that they’d attack the north sooner or later, and if it didn’t happen for a long time, then there would be too many of them, and we wouldn’t be ready, and no one would be able to stop them.” She drew in a long breath, shaking. A tear shivered free at last, and wended its way down her cheek as she spoke. “He said the way things were going they would just take over and we wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. And they would hurt us, because of how much they hated us.”
Damien asked quietly, “And was he going to change that?”
The dark eyes fixed on him. So very frightened, Damien thought. Of their rejection, as much as of the enemy. It pained him deeply to see her like that. It pained him deeply to see any child hurting that much.
“He said,” she whispered slowly, “that if a few of them came north—only a few—that maybe the Matrias would get scared. Maybe they would see how much danger there was and do something about it.”
“Controlled invasion,” Tarrant said quietly. “He must have gambled that an attack on his Protectorate would motivate the northern cities into providing a more stalwart defense. Or perhaps even an offense. Perhaps he wanted to force a true war here and now, before the south was ready for it.”
“Either way he failed,” Damien said bitterly. “How could he know that his country was already controlled by the enemy? All they needed was a place to start the invasion proper . . . and he provided that.”
“He didn’t want to hurt anyone,” the girl whispered. Hesseth moved closer to her, and with a gentle arm drew her close. “He said he had made a good deal with the Prince, and everything was going to be all right . . .”
“As it should have been,” Damien assured her. “But evidently our enemy doesn’t keep to his bargains.” He reached out gently and took one of the child’s hands in his. Her skin was damp, and cool to the touch. “We understand what your father was trying to do. And it wasn’t his fault that it didn’t work, Jenseny. We’re not blaming him for what happened.” He wished that the fae was Workable here so that he might give the words extra weight, extra power. As it was, he had only his voice for a tool, and limited physical contact. “He went south, didn’t he, Jenseny? He went and met with the Prince to arrange all this. Did he tell you about that? Did he tell you what he saw there?”
The girl hesitated. After a moment she nodded.
“Can you tell us about it?” When she still didn’t answer, he encouraged her, “Anything you can remember.”
“Please, kasa,” Hesseth murmured.
The girl drew in a deep breath, shivering. “He said that the Prince of the south never dies. He said that the Prince is very, very old, but you can’t see it because he makes his body young again whenever he needs to. He said that he’ll do it again soon. He’ll make his body young, but he’ll also make it different so that he looks like a different person every time, but he’s really still the same.” She looked up nervously at Damien, desperately seeking reassurance. The priest nodded, even as he hoped that Tarrant was absorbing these facts. Of all of them, the Neocount was the most likely to understand the Prince’s Workings.