Crown of Shadows (19 page)

Calesta.
He felt the name take shape within his brain, etched in ice. For one brief moment he envisioned what power the Church could wield, with this man’s knowledge and skill harnessed to its purpose—and then that image shattered like glass, as the real threat of the situation hit home.
This is how Vryce
started, he thought, chilled.
And this is how the Prophet fell.

“It isn’t enough,” he said quietly. The strength in his own voice surprised him. “Not for that kind of alliance.”

For a moment the Hunter said nothing. It was impossible to read his expression, or otherwise guess at the tenor of his emotions. The death-pale face was a mask, that permitted no insight.

“I’ve come to make you an offer,” he said at last. “For the sake of our common cause. Nothing more.”

He shook his head slowly. “I want nothing of yours.”

“Even if my gift would enable your Church to survive?”

“It would be at the cost of my soul, and the souls of all my faithful. What kind of triumph is that?”

The pale eyes narrowed, and he sensed a cold anger rising in the man. He neither moved back nor looked away, but met the unspoken assault with a shield of utter calm. His faith would preserve him. Even if this man killed him now, his God would protect his soul.

At last his visitor said, in a razor-edged voice, “You already have what you need to safeguard your Church. What you lack is an understanding of how to use it. I came to bring you that, no more.”

“And I reject that offer,” he said coolly. Watching a flicker of anger spark in those pale, dead eyes. “I’m not Damien Vryce, or any of the other souls you’ve corrupted over the years. Some of those must have started out just this way, yes? Wanting your power enough to compromise their faith.
Trusting
you, long enough to forget who and what they were.” Strength was coming into his voice now, and the full oratory power of a Patriarch. “I won’t make Vryce’s mistake,” he said firmly. “I won’t take that first step. We’ll wage our battles alone, and win them or lose them according to God’s will.”

He shook his head. “You don’t understand what losing means in this case. The threat to all you stand for—”

“I understand
that what stands before me now is a man who’s lived apart from the Church for nearly ten centuries. Should I favor his interpretation of the Law over my own? Should I abandon all my learning, and the centuries of struggle that came before me, for an alliance that would make mockery of my faith? I think not.”

“Then you’ll go down,” he said sharply, “and the Church will go down with you.”

“If that’s God’s will, then so be it. At least our souls will be clean.”

“Who knows your God’s will better than I? As your Prophet—”

“The Prophet is dead!” the Patriarch snapped. “He died the day that he murdered his wife and children, and no man’s will can resurrect him. Something else took his place that night, that wears his body and uses his voice, but that
thing
isn’t a man, and it certainly isn’t an ally of the Church. However well it pretends to be.”

An icy fire burned in the depths of those pale eyes, reflections of a rage so venemous that if Tarrant should let it loose, even for a moment, the Patriarch knew it would consume him utterly. It was hard not to tremble in the face of such a thing, but he sensed that fear—any kind of fear—would allow this creature to take possession of his soul. That he must never permit.

“I could have killed your guard on the way in,” Tarrant told him. “In another time and place I would surely have done so, and gained strength from his death. I didn’t. Let that be a sign of my sincerity. A token—if you will—of my true intentions.”

“The day I judge- a man by such standards,” he retorted, “is the day I turn in my robes.”

“We’re fighting the same war!” There was anger in his voice now, frigid and dangerous. “Can’t you see that? How do I get through to you?”

“You know the way,” he said quietly. Inside his heart was pounding wildly, but he managed to keep his voice calm. In the face of the Hunter’s rage there was power in tranquility. “You’ve known the way for nine centuries now.”

The Hunter’s eyes narrowed, and he took a step backward. He reached one hand into a pocket as though seeking some kind of weapon, and the Patriarch stiffened. But the object he drew forth was no weapon, at least not of any kind the Patriarch had ever seen. It was a large crystal, finely faceted, of a deep blue color so resonant that it seemed to give off light of its own. Such a color couldn’t exist naturally in this chamber, the Patriarch realized, not with the golden light of the candleflames compromising its hue. Its very clarity sang of sorcery.

The Hunter turned the object so that the Patriarch might see all sides of it; there was no denying the sense of power that resonated from its polished planes. “Do you know what a ward is?” he asked. Watching him, watching the stone, the Patriarch did not reply. “It’s a Working designed to be independent of its maker, so that the two are no longer connected. It has a trigger—in this case your own will—and the ability to tap the currents for power, in order to fuel itself. In short,” he said, indicating the object in his hand, “this is no longer connected to me, or to any other living creature. It will fulfill its one purpose and then expire. Do you understand that?”

“I want nothing of yours,” he said quietly.

“Then you’re a fool!” he snapped. “And you’ll drag your Church down with you!” He held up the deep blue ward to catch the light; cobalt shimmers ran across its facets like ripples on a dark lake. “All I offer you is knowledge. The chance to see your own arsenal for what it is, without delusion masking it. That knowledge could save your people!” His pale eyes fixed on the Patriarch again, with fierce intensity. “It will also, most probably, destroy you.” He held the crystal aloft as if in illustration, then slowly laid it down upon the altar cloth. “Are you willing to make such a sacrifice for your Church? I wonder.”

“Don’t pretend to test me,” the Patriarch warned. “You of all people have lost that right.”

The Hunter tensed, and for a minute the Patriarch thought that he had finally pushed him too far, that he would give in to his rage and strike out at him. He braced himself, praying for courage, trying to master his fear so that this damned creature couldn’t benefit from it. But a minute passed, and then two, and then he sensed that the crisis was over. In a voice that was as chill as death itself, the Hunter said, “Take it up if you want to use it. Fold it in your hand, and it’ll do the rest.” He bowed, stiffly and formally. “It’s your choice.”

He turned then, and left the chamber quickly. Too quickly for the Patriarch to voice a protest. Far too quickly for him to do what he wanted, which was to take up the crystalline ward and force it upon him, to make him take it back to whatever hellish domain had forged it. Silk faded into shadow and without any sound to mark his passage, be it footstep or a whisper of flesh-upon-flesh or the soft creak of a door hinge, Gerald Tarrant was gone.

The deep blue crystal lay where he had left it, between two candles on the altar. There it shimmered with a life of its own, sparkling with reflected flames. What was this thing that the Hunter had left? Knowledge? Perhaps. Sorcery? Without question. A chance for victory? Maybe.

Slowly he lowered himself to his knees before the altar.
Oh, my God, he prayed, fill me with Your strength. Guide me with Your certainty. Keep my eyes fixed on Your path, so that I may never waver.

Blue facets, glinting in the candlelight. Power, in carefully measured dose. Was this thing salvation? Destruction? Or both?
The world isn’t made up of black and white, but shades of gray.
Who had said that once? Vryce? He shivered as the words struck home. Too
easy an answer,
he told himself.
Too tempting a refuge.
Indecision is cowardice.
Uncertainty is weakness. And we can afford neither, in the face of this enemy.

The Jaggnath Cathedraf
was a far more impressive building than Andrys had expected, and for some time he just stood in the square opposite it, savoring the strange mix of emotions it aroused. It wasn’t merely a question of how grand the building looked, but of what that grandeur implied. Here in the east, where moderate quakes shook the city several times each month, it was rare to see a building more than two stories in height, and even the simplest hovel was studded with quake-wards designed to keep it intact. Yet here was an edifice that rose into the heavens in seeming defiance of earthquakes, its gleaming arches bright against the sky, its polished facade bra zenly naked of any protective Working. Could faith alone manifest enough power to keep such a building standing, or were there internal secrets of construction wedded to the polished stone that lent it a more earthy strength? Andrys knew that the walls of his own keep back in Merentha had been built in such a manner, with resiliant inner layers designed to keep the building standing should its stones and mortar ever give way. Even so, it, too, was reinforced by wardings, and he had little doubt that without them the keep would have been shaken to pieces long ago. Could prayers alone maintain such a building as this, when sorcery was forbidden within its bounds? It was a wondrous and intimidating concept.

And more.

Gazing up at the stained glass windows so similar to those in the Tarrant keep, drinking in the familiar line of arches and buttresses, pierced-work and finials, he felt an upwelling of homesickness in his soul so powerful that for a moment he had to fight back tears. What he wouldn’t give to go home now! No, he corrected himself bitterly: what he wouldn’t give to
have
a home to go to, rather than that skeleton of a keep filled with ghosts and memories and the scent of Tarrant blood. There was no home for him now: not there, not anywhere.

With a shiver he forced himself to start toward the cathedral, though the thought of going inside it filled him with dread. There was something unclean about entering this building at the bidding of a demon, and he half expected to be struck down for it before he crossed the portal. When he finally managed to bring himself to enter, his heart was pounding so wildly that he was sure the other people there could hear it. But they passed him by in utter ignorance of his state, leaving him alone to face his fears.

Always alone.

He drew in a deep breath for courage and made his way hesitantly into the sanctuary. No one and nothing stopped him. Surely this was just a temporary reprieve, he thought. Surely the One God would sense his purpose in being here, and would rage at his use of the Church for a private vendetta. Could Calesta save him then? Could any demon even enter this place, which the God of Earth had sanctified?

The sanctuary was large, and not yet half full. He chose a seat in the very last row, in the shadow of the balcony. From there he could watch the proceedings without being seen clearly by anyone. It wasn’t exactly what Calesta wanted—the demon had ordered him to “be seen”—but for this first visit it would have to be good enough; he felt too vulnerable to do otherwise. He watched as the priest approached the dais, as his ritual words began the afternoon service. Andrys knew the rites of the Church vaguely, distantly, as one recalled something from one’s childhood. Family rituals had been repeated often enough to carve out a place in his memory without his being aware of the details. Little good it had done his family to dedicate their lives to the One God, he thought bitterly. Perhaps a pagan deity would have done more to protect its worshipers. Perhaps it would have given them some power to stand up against the horror that stalked them, the death that was waiting—

Stop it,
he ordered himself. He folded his shaking hands in his lap, and tried to breathe evenly. A cold sweat had broken out on his forehead, but it was long minutes before he felt steady enough to raise up a hand and wipe it away. What was the point of this visit? he wondered. Why was Calesta making him endure this? Was there something the demon expected him to
do
here? And if so, why wouldn’t he just tell him what it was and get it over with?

It was then that his eyes, seeking something to focus on other than the priest, looked beyond the podium at the head of the aisle and fixed on a mural that adorned one section of the upper wall. It caught his attention because of its human subject matter—the Church forbade all but a few symbolic representations of humankind—but then it held his attention, it
gripped
his attention, because of who and what that human was.

Despite himself he rose to his feet, drawn to the brilliant mural even as he was repelled by it. He was all but deaf to the service going on as he stared at the painting in horrified fascination. It was the Prophet, there was no doubt of that. The figure had no face as such—that was Church tradition—but it glowed with a light that made the absence seem a deliberate artistic choice, rather than philosophical censure. At its feet a creature writhed whose outline was unclear, but it hinted at a form that was at once serpentine and spider-like: black and sinuous, with a large fanged head like that of a snake at one end, and a hint of several dozen smaller heads at the other. The Prophet-figure had a foot on the neck of the greater head and was running it through with a spear that glowed hot white, sun-pure in its energy. Symbolism, Andrys thought, his heart pounding wildly. It was only symbolism. The faith of the Prophet had bound the Evil One to darkness, and rendered it unable to maintain earthly form. The faith of the One God was more powerful than all the evils which this planet had conjured. It was a familiar image, and one that he had seen rendered before in the books of his faith. It was familiar. It was traditional. It should have passed without notice, just like all the other symbolic murals that adorned the inner walls of the sanctuary.