Crown of Shadows Page 13

  The visions faded. His hands, white-knuckled, gripped the chair with painful pressure.

  “I think we understand each other,” the demon assessed.

  Shaken, he whispered hoarsely, “What do you want me to do?”

  “You will go to the cathedral in the great square of Jaggonath. You will attend the services of your God. Pray with your fellows as Gerald Tarrant instructed, as if you intended to fulfill his misplaced vision.”

  It seemed to Andrys that there must surely be more instructions, but the demon said no more. After a long moment of silence Andrys dared, “And then what?”

  “That’s all. For now.”

  “I don’t understand,” he protested weakly. “How will that hurt him?”

  The demon hissed sharply. “Do you question me now? Or doubt my plans? A thousand elements must all be orchestrated to perfection in order to bring the Hunter down, and you’re just one of them! Go where I tell you. Do what I say. Your own hand will bring about Gerald Tarrant’s downfall, I promise you.” He paused. “Or isn’t that enough for you?”

  He lowered his head, lacking the strength—or was it the courage?—to argue. “It’s enough,” he whispered. “I’ll go.”

  “Every sabbath. You understand? I want you to be seen there. One of the faithful.”

  “I understand.”

  The gift came then, inserted into his brain with sure demonic skill, the ultimate reward for obedience: visions of vengeance that flooded his soul, catching him up in a whirlwind of anticipated triumph. He fought it for a moment, clinging to the gentleness of his former mood like a lifeline—and then it swept him away and he was lost in it, lost in a hatred and a blood lust and a hunger for revenge so desperate that he shook as it swept through him. It lasted forever and yet it could not last long enough, and when it was over he collapsed back into the chair, shaking from the sudden withdrawal.

  “Someday those dreams will become reality,” the demon promised. “Think of the pleasure of that moment! Worth more than a little sacrifice now, I should think.”

  He said nothing. He had no words. The memory of the girl was hazy now, unclear, its outlines obscured by clouds of blood. Had he imagined that he might love? Where was there room for love in this life of his, lived in the Hunter’s shadow?

  “There is something else,” the demon warned him.

  “What?” he choked out. What more than this?

  “He’ll never kill you because you’re the last living Tarrant. That’s what makes you capable of striking back at him; under any other circumstances such a move would be suicidal.” He paused meaningfully. “But what would happen if another Tarrant were born? Maybe not one to whom you gave the name, but one who might, in time, lay claim to it.”

  “But I never—” he began.

  And then what the demon was saying hit him. It hit him hard.

  “I think that you should be careful where you spill your seed, Andrys Tarrant. Because the moment you impregnate a woman—any woman—the Hunter will have no more reason to spare you.” In a chilling tone he added, “And I doubt very much that he would be merciful in killing you, after you so flagrantly defied him.”

  Andrys shut his eyes tightly; fear churned coldly in his gut. Dear God in Heaven! how many chances had he already taken, never thinking, never realizing.... Oh, he had always been careful, but sex was a gambler’s game and he knew it; sooner or later even the best contraceptive might betray you. And if so ... if so ...

  “I see that my meaning is clear,” the demon approved.

  Something landed in his lap, startling him; it was a moment before he could muster the physical control to take it up, and even then his fingers seemed numb. A small object, that rattled when it moved. Cool glass, with a rubber stopper.

  Pills.

  “I thought you might need them,” Calesta said dryly. “After all, we have a long battle ahead of us. I would hate to see you lose your nerve.”

  The coldness in the room faded; the demon was gone. Andrys gripped the bottle in his hand, feeling hot tears squeeze from his eyes. What color were the pills, what essence was their magic? It didn’t matter. They all brought forgetfulness, one way or another. They were all ways of escaping this world, with its inescapable nightmares. The only escape there was, other than death.

  His hand clenched tightly around the bottle, Andrys Tarrant wept.

  Ten

  The Patriarch dreamed of war.

  ... hundreds on the mountainside, maybe thousands, men and women, priests and layfolk, and the energy that arises from them ripples in the air overhead, like heat ...

  ... armor in bits and pieces, mismatched ...

  ... and banners: the circle, the Earth-in-circle, and some that are simply red. Red for blood, red for triumph, red for cleansing....

  ... These are my people, he thinks, and he gazes out upon them in wonder. These are my people, who only yesterday brought down a pagan temple and terrorized its faithful. These are my people, who were willing to risk imprisonment and worse to vent their intolerance, and now are channeling all that negative energy into this blessed enterprise. These are my people, who may die on the morrow or live to go home again, but who will never forget this moment, or its transforming power.

  He walks among the troops, his children, looking for familiar faces among the scores of strangers. There are people here from all across the continent, come to test their faith in this special arena. He loves them. He loves them as one loves children. He loves them as the birds must love, when they push their babies out of the nest to force their wings to open. It is a special and terrible love, and he thanks God for letting him taste it.

  Over the mountains, beyond vision but not beyond march, lies the Forest. Heart of evil by man’s own decree, it is a symbol more powerful than any the Church could devise. Men are drawn to it, obsessed by it, and many will die fighting it in the battle yet to come. But it will not be as it was before, five hundred years ago in the age of their defeat. This time they will use the tools that Erna has provided, and focus their energies on one single point within that corrupted realm. Night’s keep—ell’s watch—the Hunter’s lair. Destroy it and the Forest will shake. Destroy its owner and the Forest will crumble, its power soured to chaos, its very earth made malleable by that action.

  Five hundred years ago the Church tried to conquer a universe, and reaped its own devastation. This time they make war against a symbol, and all the power of God will back them. He feels the thrill of that utter certainty as he looks out over his troops, as his eyes fix upon the one special weapon which will make their invasion possible-

  He awoke. His heart was beating loudly, and he lay still while it slowly quieted. His fists were clenched by his sides; he forced them to open. Was this the third time he’d had that dream, or the fourth? It clearly wasn’t a clairvoyancy, as so many other dreams were, but the scent of prophecy clung to it nonetheless. Should he take it seriously or dismiss it, as he had done before? Surely persistence should translate to something.

  With a groan he got out of his bed and drew on a robe that lay waiting for him. The heavy silk overlapped tightly about a body that was losing weight from its battle with stress, and tonight it seemed that even his slippers were loose. He was wasting away along with his people, he thought. Some day he would be gone entirely, and only a shadow would remain to guide them.

  Leaving his bedroom, he walked down the narrow corridor that led to his private chapel. The servant who was posted outside it against his midnight need jumped to his feet as he came by, startled into sudden waking by his footsteps on the hardwood floor, but he waved him back to his slumber. His was a need that could only be met in solitude.

  At the end of the corridor was the door to the chapel. He opened it and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. There were candles burning beside the altar—it was the servant’s job to keep them alight at night—but their illumination was minimal, and most of the chamber was shrouded in shadow. He came to the altar and knelt
before it, and all the fear and the doubt which he had been cloistering within his heart came pouring out, an undertide to prayer.

  Most holy God, whose Eye is upon us always, whose Word is our salvation. Grant me the grace of Your Insight, that I may serve Your Will more perfectly.

  It wasn’t the first night he’d come here since the dreams started, and if he stayed until dawn to pray, it wouldn’t be the first time that happened either. And now this dream was back, and he was no less tormented by it than he had been the last time, or the time before. Because it promised him an answer to his problems, and at the same time posed an even greater question. If it was a true prophecy—if this battle was the course that God intended for him—what would the cost of it be? Not to him, or to the men who fought beside him, but to the generations that would come after?

  How tempting it is to live in that dream, where all my people’s hatred and destructive energy can be redirected against a more suitable enemy. How tempting, to imagine that the catharsis of battle can wipe our souls clean of this violence. But thats not how the human mind works. If we indulge our darker instincts, if we tell ourselves that yes, they are acceptable if properly channeled—even admirable, under the right circumstances—what do we do when this battle is over? How do we make these soldiers into plain men and women again, and cleanse them of their taste for blood so that they might retire to normal lives? How do we teach them to savor the peace their efforts have won them, rather than seek a new forum for violence?

  He had been tormented by those questions since his first dream of battle. It was a torment which only grew worse as the riots continued, as night after night he was called from his bed or his study chamber to witness some new act of violence. All in the name of God, the rioters claimed. Couldn’t they see that by wor shiping violence they had created a new god, who was slowly consuming them? That worried him far more than the lawsuits. which might drain his Church of economic vigor but could never quell its spirit. This violence threatened the very heart of who and what they were.

  And then there was Vryce’s report. He felt himself tense up at the mere thought of the man, at the name which now automatically inspired his rage. But whatever he might think of Vryce himself, the report could not be ignored. How did the Iezu demon Calesta connect to all of this? Was he the unseen instigator in this wave of violence? If so, then it would do little good to address human issues in the matter. Any solution which the Church pursued would succeed only up until the point when Calesta was willing to strike again. How did you fight a creature who could read the darkness in men’s hearts and stoke it to such new strength, as naturally as a man drew breath?

  He lowered his head to pray again, but a faint sound from behind him alerted him to the presence of someone or something else in the room. He turned about slowly, expecting no more than a young acolyte with a message to bear, or perhaps his chamber-servant coming to see if there was anything he needed. What he saw was something else again, and he rose to his feet quickly, wondering how a stranger had gotten in past his private guard.

  The stranger stepped forward as he watched, just far enough that the candlelight could pick out highlights along his pale, aristocratic features. He was tall and slender, and dressed in a manner that was at once modern and reminiscent of the Revival period. Flame-born highlights played upon shoulder length hair, and sparked along the gold headband that held it in place. His features were so unmarked by worldly trouble that his face might have seemed that of an angel, had the eyes not been so dark, so hungry, so ... empty.

  “Do you know who I am?” The man’s voice was clear and fine and his words, though no louder than a whisper, seemed to echo in the small chamber like some strange music. The Patriarch studied him, and then nodded. Yes, he knew. Vryce’s sketches had been good enough for that. The knowledge both elated and terrified him, but he was statesman enough not to let those emotions show, or to let them sound in his voice.

  In a voice that was tightly controlled, he asked, “Why are you here?”

  The dark eyes flickered toward the altar, then back again. “A fate that neither you nor I would court has made us allies, it seems. I came to offer my services.”

  “No.” His heart was racing; it took everything he had to sound calm and collected when he was anything but. Was he really standing here talking to the man who founded and then betrayed his Church? Up until a year ago he would have considered that patently impossible. Even now, knowing otherwise, it was hard to absorb the truth. “Not allies, Neocount. Enemies.”

  The man’s expression darkened ever so slightly, and he stepped forward as if to approach the Patriarch; with a flutter of fear in his heart, the Holy Father moved back. Then he realized that his visitor wasn’t moving toward him, but toward the altar. The Patriarch’s soul cried out for him to protect his holy symbols from the touch—or even the scrutiny—of this damned creature, but a distant, more reasonable part of him knew that it would be suicide to even attempt it. And it didn’t really matter, did it? The gold on the altar was simple metal, no more. The symbols themselves could be melted down to slag without injuring his faith. If the Prophet had taught them nothing else, it was that God didn’t reside in such things.

  The Prophet. A cold thrill shivered through his flesh as he realized just what it was that stood before him. Not the Prophet any longer, but a damned and degenerate creature who wore the Prophet’s identity like a ragged bit of cast-off clothing. Was this the chill that Vryce had felt, when he first stood in his presence? Did he grow numb to it after a time, or simply learn to ignore its warning?

  When the man reached the altar he reached out to its central figure, a double circle sculpted in gold. He traced the interlocked shapes with a death-pale finger, and his nostrils flared as if taking in the scent of this place. Was he testing the Patriarch, seeing if he would respond? Despite his powerful instinct to protect the altar, the Patriarch forced himself to hold back. God alone knew what this creature would do if he moved against him.

  After a moment the Hunter turned to face the Holy Father once more. His eyes were no longer black but a pale, glistening gray. There was a coldness in them that reminded the Holy Father of glacial ice, and of death. They were the eyes of the damned, that had gazed upon the glories of the One God and then turned away forever. Gazing at them, the Patriarch couldn’t help but shudder.

  “Believe as you will,” the visitor said. “It’s taken me years to come to this point; why should you accept it in a single night? We have the same enemy, therefore we fight the same war. Let that be enough.”

  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.”