Crown of Shadows (40 page)

Only the Church.

His Church.

God save us,
he prayed between interviews. And he bowed his head in guilt at the power he now wielded, the visions he could not turn away. They were there even when he shut his eyes, burning his eyes, a constant reminder of his damnation.
God save us all,
he prayed. Wondering if his God could ever forgive him for what he had done ... or if he could forgive himself.

Dusk, the day’s interviews over, the clamor of angry souls giving way, at long last, to silence.

Time to decide.

Wordlessly, the Patriarch left his chamber and descended to the secret room that waited far below. By now his attendants were used to his strange silence, and in their eagerness to anticipate his needs they ran down the corridor ahead of him, calling for assistance. By the time he reached the double-locked door there was a priest waiting for him, key in hand.
Awe
flickered about his head in a wild halo, belying the cool texture of his greeting. Two keys turned in unison, unlocking the ancient door. The Patriarch descended the stairs alone, leaving the priest behind him. To his surprise the ceaseless clamor of the earth-fae grew muffled as he descended, granting him an unexpected respite. He leaned against the wall and breathed the silence in deeply, desperately, as a drowning man might gasp for air. If he descended deep enough, would the earth-fae abandon him altogether? Was there a depth at which he might find peace—true peace—at which the tumult of futures would cease their racket and allow him a few seconds in which to think? To pray? To
be?
What a rare and precious gift that would be!

But it was not yet time to rest, not for a long while yet. The earth-fae still coursed about his feet as he continued down the long staircase, weaker than above-ground but undeniably potent No peace yet. At the base of the staircase was a heavy door, banded with iron, and he fitted his key into the ancient lock with a steady hand. It seemed to him there was another light besides that of the earth-fae, one that seeped out from under the door as he cracked it open. For a moment he hesitated, afraid of what his new vision would disclose in the room beyond. Then, with a prayer upon his lips, he quickly pulled the heavy door open.

Beyond it was a sea of light so blinding that he cried out involuntarily as it struck his eyes, burning them, and threw up a robed arm across his face to protect himself. Above him footsteps clattered on the stairs as his people responded to his cry, but he called out harshly for them to stay where they were. This was his trial, not theirs. By feel then, without sight, he worked his way slowly into the room. All he could see was a field of black spots against a blazing sun, undulating in time to his heartbeat. Was this what Vryce had seen when he had conjured his special vision? Or was it one more facet of his own special Hell, the price of accepting a demon’s gift, that he could not look upon the Workings of his own Church?

But slowly, painfully, his vision adjusted. By that time his face was drenched in sweat, and much of his body also. His eyes felt raw and tender, so that the mere act of blinking was painful. But he could see now, and with wonder and not a little fear he gazed upon the relics of the Great War, which had been Worked by priests of his faith so long ago.

Shards of steel, long since gone to rust. Fragments of cloth. Scraps of gilded leather. They were all imbued with the solar fae, that nearly untamable power, so that even in their decay they made the very air resonate with sunfire. Blazing like a thousand captive suns, they bore witness to a power so far beyond anything the Patriarch might command that for a moment he reached out to the nearest case for support, overcome by the memories they conjured. It was lost now. All of it. Those warriors, their strength, their dreams ... all gone now. Only these few relics remained, that might with care be forged into a weapon again. To serve the Church anew, this time in triumph.

But as he gazed upon those few precious fragments, imagining what they might become, he realized suddenly that there was more than sunpower visible in their auras. There was a taint also, a kind of slithering darkness, that was visible just at the edge of his new vision. After a moment he realized what it represented, and the knowledge made him tremble inside, and brought tears of frustration to his eyes. To him these relics might be symbols of man’s ultimate faith, but to his people they were reminders of the Church’s greatest failure. To bear them into battle against the Forest again would be to shackle his army to that great defeat, to awaken echoes of a loss so devastating that the fae would be forced to respond, damning their efforts. They might as well just feed their blood to the enemy, he thought, as try to use this power. The end result would be much the same.

Oh, my God,
he despaired.
Will You send us naked againstthe enemy? Will You make us batter at the walls of Hell with no more than cold steel in our hands?

Let faith be your shield,
a cold voice whispered, and its tone was such that his skin crawled to hear it. Was that some inner voice of his own speaking, or the whisper of his God? Or was it a suggestion from some more demonic source, Gerald Tarrant’s ward, perhaps, or the demon Calesta, using the Patriarch’s human weakness as a path of invasion into this holy place?

But the visions refused to fade. The relics continued to burn. And about him, above him—within his very soul—an endless stream of futures clamored for fulfillment.

She was slender and delicate, and beautiful in the way that a porcelain doll might be beautiful, a priceless antique. For a moment he just stared at her, unable to grasp why such a woman would choose to be part of his mission ... and then the tumult of images that cascaded about her flesh came into focus, and with it an identity.

“Narilka Lessing.”

She seemed startled by the fact that he knew her name, but quickly regained her composure. He sensed a tension within her so great that it might have broken a lesser soul; the fact that she could contain such a thing and not even show it bore witness to a strength far beyond anything her physical self even hinted at. Was this the woman that Andrys Tarrant had fallen in love with? If so, it wasn’t hard to see why.

“Your Excellency,” she said. Hesitantly, not knowing if the honorific would please or offend. A curious pagan, this one, uncomfortable with his identity as the voice of the One God, yet anxious to do him appropriate honor. He accepted the honorific with a gracious nod, his eyes fixed upon the storm of images that surrounded her. Bright, sharp, volatile images; in all his interviews he had rarely seen such a tumult of potential.

“I take it you told my people that you belong to the Church.”

Her face flushed hotly, but her gaze didn’t flinch. “There was no other way to get in to see you. I tried.”

He nodded, and watched as an image of blood and flesh spattered into fragments by the side of her head. What was that white face beside hers, grinning? “I regret that we forced you to such subterfuge. It wasn’t our intention.” He struggled to focus on her face through the whirlwind of images. “Now that you’re here, what is it I can do for you?”

She drew in a deep breath, and then said bluntly, “I want to go with you to the Forest.”

So that was it. He should have guessed. “Mer Tarrant already asked me if that was possible. I told him no.”

“I can’t accept that.”

In another time, another life, he might have gotten angry at her. Now, in this transformed self, he felt strangely distant, as though he were watching two strangers converse. “This campaign is a Church matter. All the people involved serve the One God. You, Mes Lessing, don’t.” He nodded slightly. “At least, that’s my understanding of it. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

“Are you afraid I’d try to convert your people?” She challenged him proudly. “Is that what you think? Is their faith in your God so weak? Do you really think I’d be a threat to them?”

“That isn’t the point,” he said quietly. He turned away from her slightly, as if to gaze out the window while he spoke; anything to look away from the faeborn chaos that surrounded her. “Faith has power, Mes Lessing, real power. Unified faith can reWork the very currents, changing reality so that it favors our cause. One discordant soul might not seem like much of a problem to you, but its effect upon our mission would be like that of a sour note in an otherwise perfect symphony.” He paused, giving her a moment to muse upon that. “If you came with us, it would increase the risk to all of us—and to Andrys Tarrant—a thousandfold. Is that what you want? To place him in even greater danger?”

“You don’t know what you’re doing to him,” she said fiercely. “It’s eating him up inside, taking on this role. It’s making him crazy. You want him to face that alone?”

“He has us,” he said coolly. “And he has his God.”

“That isn’t enough!” she retorted. “Your God doesn’t hold a man’s hand when he’s alone in the night. Your God won’t show up to comfort him when he’s scared. Your God doesn’t care if he hurts, as long as—” The words caught in her throat then, and she coughed heavily. He glanced back at her, just in time to see a white mask with frightened eyes scream as its throat was slashed, then fade into a mist of blood about her hair.

“I won’t get in your way,” she promised. Pleading now, all anger leached from her tone in a desperate bid to placate, to persuade. “I won’t say anything to offend anyone. I can even hold my own when we fight....” She drew in a deep breath, and dark images fluttered about her head like bats. “And the Forest can’t hurt me. It’s a ... a kind of gift. Nothing that belongs to the Hunter will hurt me. I’d be safe.” She took a step closer to him; futures flickered in and out of existence with blinding speed as she moved. “Please,” she begged. “Let me go with him. He needs somebody.”

If you care so much,
he wanted to say,
then embrace his God. Join him in faith, and you can truly share in his enterprise.
The words were forming, balanced on his lips—and then a new set of images took shape around her, a chaos of futures so vivid, so powerful, that the breath meant for words was expelled in a gasp, and it was all he could do to stand there and stare at them.

He saw this woman accompanying Andrys Tarrant into battle, and he saw her left behind. Those two futures divided once, twice, a hundred times each, until the whole room seemed filled with images, blood-filled and fearsome. It was far more intense than the kind of Divinings he had experienced before—save perhaps with Andrys Tarrant himself—and he struggled in vain to absorb it all without losing himself. A storm of images, a riot of raw potential, bits and pieces that flickered in and out of existence so quickly he could barely focus on them. Was this one decision really so important? Could it be that whole futures depended on whether or not this woman joined their effort? A chaos of answers assaulted his brain, and he struggled to sort them out. If she came with them, they might succeed, but the chances of that were slim. If, on the other hand, she stayed behind ... then there were a thousand new futures to choose from, and so many more of those led to success. He saw images of a white face grinning, of her slender throat being slashed, of ribbons of blood flowing down a wall of black glass ... he shivered to watch her die time and time again, to watch her not die, to watch the Forest triumph and wither and grow and burn....
Enough!
He took a step back from her and shut his eyes, shielding them with a trembling hand. Enough. It was too much for him to interpret, he knew that; if he tried to understand it all, he might lay waste to that fragile shell which was all that remained of his sanity. The pattern was clear enough, though painful to acknowledge. All his planning, all his hopes, all his faith ... without this woman it might all come to naught. Without her in her proper place, his chosen futures might fall to pieces, like the fabrics of the Great War which rotted far below him.