Crown of Shadows Read online

  He turned away again, and gazed out the window. Perhaps he was studying the flow of fae in the streets below, analyzing it for data. Perhaps he was only thinking.

  “He’s attacking the Church,” Damien said quietly.

  “I thought he might,” he said, without turning back. “Tell me the details.”

  “Outbursts of violence all over town. Bands of the faithful desecrating pagan shrines, beating priests, destroying property. One group was just about to lynch a priestess for crimes against the One God when the police arrived, just in time. And such outbursts are more and more frequent. The Patriarch himself had to step in the last time, and even so there was a lot of damage done.” He put the empty bottle down on the table again and wiped his mouth with a shirt sleeve. “The Temple of Bakshi is suing the Church for half a million in damages to person and property. If they win....”

  “Then there’ 11 be more to follow.”

  He snorted. “That goes without saying, doesn’t it?”

  The Hunter nodded slowly. “He’s subtle, our enemy, and all too clever. Multiple lawsuits could bring the Church to its knees faster than any direct Working. And the public humiliation involved would certainly affect the fae, weakening the Church’s effect on local currents. Negating the very power which the Church was designed to wield. And after Jaggonath, others will follow. Until such momentum is gained that it no longer requires his direct interference.”

  He turned back to face Damien again; his silver eyes were blazing. “He means to destroy my greatest work. Morally, socially, financially ... if that lawsuit goes through, then he’s already won the first battle. How many more campaigns has he set in motion, which will remain secret until their culmination? Nine hundred years, Vryce! You perceive that I abandoned it years ago, but I tell you the Church is still my passion. My child. Nine hundred years of carefully crafted development, and this demonic filth will send it all spiraling down into Hell in a single generation!”

  “There has to be a way to stop it. There has to be a way to nullify the effect—”

  “We must kill him,” Tarrant interrupted. “There is no other way.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know.” His voice was tight with frustration. “But there has to be a way.” He thought for a moment, then added, “Their progenitor can kill them. So obviously the means exists. And I got the distinct impression that whatever technique he or she uses, the Iezu would be helpless to fight back.”

  “You think he could be convinced to help us?”

  “To kill his own creations? Not likely. But there might be others who are privy to his secrets.”

  “Such as?”

  “Maybe demons. Some other class, whom we can still coerce by simple means. Or maybe even adepts. Someone close to the Iezu, who might invite their confidence.” He paused. “Maybe Ciani.”

  Ciani. Even after two years the memory was sharp and painful. Ciani of the quick wit and ready laughter, whom he had loved. Ciani the adept, whom a Iezu had saved. Ciani the loremaster, who valued knowledge more than any mere love affair and had gone to live among the rakh in order to study them more closely. Ciani, whom he had left behind.

  “Ciani’s gone,” he said quietly.

  “But not dead, Reverend Vryce. And not unreachable.”

  She would be in the rakhlands now, protected by un-scalable mountains on one side and an ocean on the other. The Canopy would be there, too, a wall of living fae that no human Working could cross. If not for that they might Send for her, using the fae to communicate across the miles that separated them. With it ...

  “I don’t relish going back there,” he muttered.

  “Nor I. If nothing else, it would mean our extended absence from Jaggonath, leaving Calesta free to do his worst here unopposed. I’m not sure we can afford that.”

  Ciani. Even now, years later, the memory of her made Damien ache with regret. But it had been a doomed match from the start, he accepted that now. Or at least he tried to.

  “She’s a loremaster,” he said at last. “They take a vow of neutrality, don’t they? Would she be willing to help us?”

  “I don’t know. She certainly has no vested interest in the Church’s survival. She’d probably be more interested in chronicling its fall than in providing for its salvation. And then there are, as you say, the vows of her profession, which forbid her from taking sides in any fae-related conflict. The irony is, if it were anyone else, I could force her to serve us. But the lady Ciani ... to harm her in any way would be to give myself over to the ones I serve, in soul as well as aspect.” He laughed shortly, a forced sound. “And I suspect that they’re not in a forgiving mood these days.”

  An unfamiliar emotion flickered in the back of those cold, clear eyes. Fear? “They haven’t done anything to you yet.”

  “Not yet,” he agreed. “But for how long?” To Damien’s surprise he sighed heavily; the action was disturbingly human.

  He walked the length of the room, then stopped; Damien thought he saw his shoulders tense. “Do you know, sometimes I pray to them? Not as a worshiper to a god, but as servant to an angry master. I try to make them understand that in seeking Calesta’s destruction I’m only ensuring my own survival, the better to serve them. If such an act happened to benefit the Church I founded, or humankind in general ... that would be an unfortunate side effect, nothing more.” He shook his head. “I wish I believed that myself.”

  Damien chose his words carefully. “You think it isn’t true?”

  The Hunter hesitated. “I was so sure of myself, once. I lived in a world without doubt, without any need for introspection. My soul was as pure in its darkness as the night-fae itself, which is banished by the merest hint of sunlight. Then you came into my life. You! With your questions and your warped logic and your bonds of mutual dependency and purpose ... and I changed. Slowly, but I did change. No human soul could fail to do so, under the circumstances—and the core of my soul is human, Vryce, despite what Karril would call its ”hellish trappings.“ That was both the source of my strength and my greatest weakness. In the end, thanks to you, it will be my destruction.” The sharp eyes narrowed. “But that was what you hoped for, wasn’t it? After all this is over, I could do you no better service than to die and be damned.”

  “Gerald, please—”

  He waved a hand, cutting short his protest. “I don’t blame you, Vryce. I blame myself for letting it happen. You did no more or less than your nature demanded. I only wonder what the price will be, when I’m finally called to answer for my actions.”

  “Surely a few months of weakness won’t outweigh the record of nine hundred years.”

  “The Unnamed has no compassion, and nothing to lose by injustice. Its judgment is as much the result of momentary structure as of logic. Divided into parts, it can be petty and fickle and unpredictable; unified, it’s the most ruthless evil this world has ever known. Thank God the latter state rarely endures for long.”

  “What do you mean, divided? I don’t understand.”

  The cold eyes fixed on him: black now, and empty as the true night. “Better that you don‘t,” he warned.

  “That force has a habit of devouring anything which touches it; better men than you have fallen to it in the past, for no greater sin than seeking to understand its nature. And I wasn’t the first to court it for its power, you know. But I may be the only one to come through such negotiations with my soul intact. It delights in corrupting humanity, and will toy with its victims like a cat tortures prey. Also its servitors,” he added grimly. “Anyone who gives it an opening.”

  “Maybe it despises Calesta as much as you do,” Damien suggested. “Maybe it regards your current attempts as a kind of service.”

  “Doubtful.” His brow furrowed as he considered the thought. “One would think Calesta’s habits would be to its liking.”

  “Rivalry, perhaps?”

  “The Iezu are petty demons. The Unnamed is ... beyond that.”

  “Petty demo
ns who can’t be Banished, or otherwise controlled. Independent spirits who mean to remake the Unnamed One’s domain.”

  “Perhaps,” he said dubiously. “At least that might explain—”

  He stopped then. And did not proceed.

  “What?” When the Hunter didn’t respond, he pressed, “Tell me, Gerald. What is it?”

  “I Divined our conflict,” he said softly. Eyes shut, recalling the Working to his inner vision. “It’s an imprecise art at best, as you know, and in this case all it conjured was chaos. I watched the corruption of the Church proceed from a thousand beginnings, and in none of them could I see any hope of change. I witnessed both our deaths a dozen times—yes, yours and mine—in a dozen different forums. I saw worlds in which Calesta triumphed, and such change was wrought that our human ancestors wouldn’t have recognized Erna’s children as their kin. All tangled together, Reverend Vryce: a skein of futures so enmeshed that even my skill couldn’t pull the threads loose. But there were patterns even in that chaos, things which recurred time and time again.” He looked at Damien. “The interference of the Unnamed was one. I had assumed it would strike at me directly, in vengeance for my many transgressions, but who can know what passes for vengeance in a mind that knows no permanence? And more than once I saw a sorcerer at the head of the Church, a man whose power was equal to my own, who might lead that body down the one safe path among millions. But what sense does that make? Even if such a man existed, the Church would cast him out.” He shook his head tightly, frustrated. “Too many futures, Vryce, and nearly all of them lead to failure. I can’t make out anything useful.”

  He managed to keep his voice steady, though suddenly his heart was pounding. “There is a sorcerer in the Church, Gerald.”

  “What? Where?” Then he waved a hand, dismissing the thought. “This was a man in control of things, Vryce. They would never give a sorcerer such authority.”

  “They would if he were the Patriarch.”

  The look on Gerald Tarrant’s face was one he never thought he would see: pure, unadulterated astonishment. “The Patriarch? But how—?”

  “He doesn’t know it. And I’m sure no one else has guessed. But I worked a Knowing in his presence once....”

  And he told him about his conversations with the Holy Father. About the way the fae responded to the man, even though he couldn’t See it. About how it served his unconscious will even while his words denied its power.

  “He’s a natural,” he concluded. “I’m sure of it.”

  Tarrant reached for the nearest chair and dropped himself heavily into it. It was clear that he hadn’t been braced for this kind of news. And how could he be? His own damnation had been assured by the Church’s rejection of any such power. How could he accept that suddenly the rules might change, without questioning his own existence? “An adept?” he breathed. “Could he be that also?”

  “Is it possible?”

  “You mean, could a man be born with Sight and deny it? Block it so utterly that he never even knew it existed?” He hesitated. “It might be. So many infants die or go insane each year, that we think might have been fledgling adepts. Is it unreasonable to think that a newborn might learn to deny its fae-visions, when no other family member acknowledges their reality? God of Earth and Erna,” he whispered. There was a new note in his voice. Awe? “If so ... that would explain more than one Divination.”

  “You think he would help us?” He tried to keep the doubt out of his voice, but it was hard. “Is that what you saw?”

  “What I saw,” he said slowly, “was Calesta subverting a powerful man. I saw great vision and great stubbornness, that might be harnessed for a thousand different purposes. I saw a man destroying himself, unable to face his own potential ... and that would make sense, if it is who you suggest. But I also saw this: in any future where the Church stood the least chance of survival, this man’s actions were pivotal.” He looked up sharply at Damien. “Pivotal, Vryce. In its literal sense. The man I saw could save the Church, but he could also destroy it.”

  “Can you tell where those paths diverge?” he demanded. “What’s the catalyst? We can go after that.”

  Tarrant’s eyes were unfocused as he tried to remember what he’d Seen. At last he shook his head, clearly frustrated. “It was all too tangled to make out clearly. He’s not even aware of his own power yet; how can I read a future that depends upon such awareness?”

  “What if he were?” he pressed. “What if he accepted it?”

  The Hunter’s gaze fixed on him: diamondine, piercing. “You mean, what if he became a sorcerer in truth? Then he must face the condemnation of the Church as few men have known it ... perhaps even the condemnation of his own soul. Would you wish that kind of torment on any man?”

  Knowing the question for what it was, he met the Hunter’s gaze head-on. “No,” he said quietly. “I wouldn’t wish that on any man.”

  The Hunter turned away from him. Sensing that he needed the moment of privacy, Damien upended his bottle of ale once more. There was still nothing in it.

  “He must know the truth, then,” Tarrant said at last. “Or all our efforts are doomed to failure.”

  “Yeah. Only who the hell is going to tell him?”

  “Perhaps 1--2’

  “No,” he said sharply. “You’re right up there with the Unnamed as far as he’s concerned. If not worse. What good can you possibly do? Stay out of this one. I’ll think of ... something.”

  Only, dear God ... what?

  “Very well, then,” Tarrant muttered. It was clear he had misgivings about Damien’s judgment, but for now he was acquiescing. Thank God. “See what you can come up with. If not ... it need not be direct contact, you understand. Or anything he would connect with me.”

  Realizing what he meant, Damien rose up from his seat as he warned, “Don’t you Work him! You understand me? We’re talking about something that could cost this man his soul; leave him his free will to face it with!” When Tarrant didn’t answer, he pressed, “You understand me, Gerald?”

  The Hunter glared. “I understand.”

  “Promise me.”

  “Don’t be a fool! I said I understood. I respect your opinion, although I don’t agree with it. That’s more than most men have had of me. Leave it at that.”

  “You’ll leave him alone?”

  The Hunter’s tone was venemous. “I won’t compromise his free will, I’ll promise you that much. As for the rest ... find a safe way to enlighten him, or I’ll do what I must. The odds against us increase dramatically if he remains ignorant, and I won’t risk that just to coddle your overblown sense of morality.” Before Damien could protest again, he ordered, “You go see if the Church Archives have anything useful on the Iezu. I’ll Locate the local adepts, see if they have any notes of their own.” He shook his head angrily. “Damn Senzei Reese, for what he destroyed! If the man weren’t already dead, I’d kill him myself.”

  For a moment there was silence between them, but it was a purely vocal phenomenon; the channel that linked them was alive with such hostile energy that Damien could hear the Hunter’s next words as clearly as if they had been spoken. Don’t press me for assurances I won’t give. All that you’ll accomplish by that is to strain the tenuous foundation of our alliance, and that would put us both at risk.

  Tarrant started toward the door. Damien stepped forward quickly and put out a hand to stop him. With his other hand he reached into his pocket for the object he had stored there, drew it out, and offered it to the man.

  The Hunter’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What is it?”

  “A key. Basement apartment in this building. It’s paid for.”

  “For what? My lodging?” He stared at Damien as if the priest had suddenly gone mad. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll find myself a safe place—”

  “This isn’t the rakhlands,” he snapped, “with miles between us and the enemy. He’s here, all around us. Can’t you feel it?” He held out the key toward him, urging hi
m to take it. “There’s a bolt on the front door that can’t be opened from the outside. I boarded up all the windows. The landlady was paid well to leave you alone—she thinks you’re a rich eccentric—and I even checked the quake-wards on the building, to make sure they were sound.” When Tarrant made no move to take the key, he pressed, “Remember how he dealt with us? Divide and conquer. First Senzei, then you. Then Hesseth and me in the Terata’s realm. He’ll try it again, you can bet your undead soul on that. Let’s make it as hard as possible for him, okay?”

  He glared at the key, but finally took it from Damien’s hand. “I’ll assess the danger myself,” he growled. “If the place seems safe ... I’ll consider it.”

  “Good enough.” He stood back, giving Tarrant room to exit. At least one thing had gone right tonight; he had feared Tarrant wouldn’t take the key at all. God damn him for his stubborn, pigheaded independence.

  When the Hunter was gone, he went to the icebox, pulled out a fresh bottle of ale, and opened it with a sigh. Iezu and Unnamed demons, sadism and vengeance ... each separate thing was terrifying in its own right, and he had to deal with them all at once. Yet those threats paled to insignificance in the face of an even more daunting challenge, and he grimaced as he swallowed the cold ale, dreading it with all his heart and soul.

  How the hell were they going to deal with the Patriarch?

  Nine

  The lobby of the Hotel Paradisio was a study in conspicuous consumption, and an effective one at that. While Narilka was critical of its aesthetic approach—too gilded for her taste, too discordant, the artificially aged paint of the ceiling murals at odds with the gleaming fresh quake-wards that guarded the entrance—there was no denying that its message came through loud and clear. Enter here, all ye who can afford it. And as for the rest of you, back to the streets. She was glad that she had once delivered a commissioned necklace to one of the luxury suites here, and thus could find her way about without having to ask for assistance; the check-in staff was cold to mere trades-men.