“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.
Temptation.
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.
Trembling, he prayed.
Eleven
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 f
elt 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.
But this one was different.
The figure wore the breastplate. His breastplate! Embossed with the Earth-sun in that unlikely golden color, rays spreading out in just the way that he had drawn them, copying Gerald Tarrant’s own renderings. Andrys felt sick as he looked up at the mural, as the power of its image hit home. Was this what Calesta wanted him to see—that his fear and his shame were emblazoned on the cathedral wall for all to witness? The vast sanctuary suddenly seemed very close, and its air was hard to breathe. He had to get out of here. He had to get away from that thing, far away, before its presence strangled him utterly. Weak-legged, he struggled to work his way down the row of seats to where the exit was. It seemed to him that there were eyes in that painted face, pale gray eyes that watched him from across the sanctuary. Thank God he was far enough from the other congregants that few seemed to notice his departure; as for the priest, he probably saw him from his standpoint up at the dais, but he wouldn’t interrupt the traditional service to comment upon the departure of one wayward parishioner. Dear God, if he only knew....
He managed to get outside—somehow—and made his way from the great double doors to a place some few yards away where trees provided a modicum of shade. Several strangers noticed his shaky passage .and began to approach as if they meant to offer help, but he warned them off with a look and leaned heavily against a tree trunk, trying to catch his breath.
Ifailed you, Calesta. Despair was a knot in his heart, a knife in his soul. You told me what to do and I couldn’t. I couldn‘t! But if he’d hoped for any kind of response from his patron, he wasn’t going to get it here. No demon could manifest on the One God’s doorstep. He had to face this moment alone.
God, why couldn’t he have brought his pills with him? Even a few grains of slowtime, just to act as a tranquilizer. He saw a few passersby staring at him, and he tried to look stronger than he felt so that they wouldn’t come over to help him. After a moment they looked away and continued walking, and he breathed a sigh that was half relief and half dread.
He knew what he had to do. He knew, but he couldn’t face it. How could he go back in there, back in where that was, and endure a whole service beneath that living image of his enemy? I’m not that strong, he despaired, and sickness welled up so strongly inside him that for a moment he could hardly breathe. I can’t do it.
Then you will never have your revenge, a cool voice warned.
Startled, he stiffened. Was that Calesta? Here? For some reason that possibility scared him more than all the rest combined, that his demon-patron could speak to him so close to God’s holy altar. Wasn’t the very point of the Church worship supposed to be control of such creatures?
Did you think it would be easy, Andrys Tarrant? Did you think you could conquer the Hunter without pain?
The words didn’t comfort him, but rather made him feel horribly isolated. In that church were hundreds of worshipers sharing a communion he could never taste, a faith he had no right to counterfeit; here was he with his demon guide, utterly alone even in the midst of a crowd. How long could he go on like this, pretending that he was coping? Pretending that he was truly alive? He needed more than a demon’s voice in his head to keep going; he needed human warmth, human contact, human touch ... a vision of the black-haired girl took shape before him, and he cried out softly in pain for wanting her. Not that. Never that. To court her now was to condemn her to death—or worse—and he could never, ever be the cause of that. Not even though it made his soul bleed to have her so close, so very close, and not reach out to her.
If you prefer to continue without me, the cold voice warned, that can be arranged.
That fear was worse than all the others combined. “No!” he whispered. “Don’t leave me!” What would he be without Calesta? He no longer had a life of his own, but was defined by the demon’s will, the demon’s plans. How would he survive alone, facing his memories with no hope of redress?
Then go, the voice commanded, and its tone was like acid. Obey.
Slowly, reluctantly, he turned back toward the cathedral. The outer doors were still open; the inner doors, leading to the sanctuary, beckoned. Slowly he walked up the polished stone stairs once more, and then hesitated. Could he sit through the rest of the ritual without staring at the portrait of his ancestor, without reliving his one bloody memory of the man? Why should his quest for vengeance demand such a trial?
“Calesta—” he whispered.
Obey, the voice hissed, and its tone made his skin crawl. Or our compact ends here and now.
Terrified of the memories that the mural would awaken, but far more afraid of being abandoned by the only living creature who could give him back his soul, Andrys Tarrant forced himself to cross the foyer and enter the sanctuary once again. May God forgive him for his presence here, for his use of the Church to further a demon’s plans. May God understand that in the end he would be serving His cause, ridding this world of one of the greatest evils it had ever produced. May God forgive ... everything.
Behind him, out of hearing, Calesta laughed.
Twelve
In the depths of the Forest
In the Hunter’s citadel
The albino moved silently, secretly, grateful for the Hunter’s absence.
Through fae-sealed doors he went, well-warded portals protecting the Hunter’s domain. He knew the signs to open them. Down curving stairs, well-guarded by demonlings. He knew how to turn them aside. Into the workshop, and through it. To the secret room beyond, and its torture table: the heart and soul of Gerald Tarrant’s dominion.
Wisps of blackness trailed behind him, like smoke from a candle flame. There there there, voices whispered as it passed. It must be in that place. That place only.
If one’s eyes were sensitive enough, one could see the memories that clung to this place. Almea Tarrant, dying a slow and painful death by her husband’s hand. Gerald Tarrant’s two youngest children, crying out as their father betrayed them. Three elements in a compact established centuries ago, with power enough to sustain a man past death. Three deaths. Nine centuries. Not a bad deal, when all was considered.
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The blackness followed him into the chamber and paused there, where it coalesced into a single dark flame. It should be done in Merentha, a voice whispered hungrily. It should be done where the pact was first made.
“If I go to Merentha he’ll find me out,” the albino said sharply. “This place is a perfect copy of the original; it’ll be good enough.”
The blackness parted into a hundred tiny flames, a thousand; its voices fluttered like insects about the room. Then do it do it do it now now NOW!
He put a hand to the cold stone table, feeling the power that was lodged within it. The whole room was filled with power, centuries of it building and feeding and growing here in the subterranean darkness, seeded by memories of bloodshed and cruelty. Power such as few men ever knew. Power such as no man but the Hunter had ever controlled.
“State the terms of our compact,” the albino demanded. It was his first command to the unnamed power that had approached him so very long ago. For one who had never commanded demons in his own right, it was a heady tonic. “Clearly and simply. I want no room for confusion.”
We will sustain you as we once sustained him, beyond natural death. We will give you the Forest which was his, and show you how to control it. We will take him from the face of the planet, so that all his domain may be yours to claim.
“And in return?” he asked hungrily.
The lightless presence coalesced into a single flame, a limitless shadow; it hurt his eyes to look at it directly. We must have him, a single voice demanded. It was deeper than those which had sounded before, and power echoed in its wake. Because his soul is independent of Us, We must have a channel in order to claim his flesh. You will give that to Us.
Crown of Shadows Page 14
