Crown Of Shadows Part 16

"Why?" he asked in amazement. "Oh, he might have rendered Calesta vulnerable, but also himself as well. He's too practiced a survivor for that."

"Oh, I don't think he was aware of doing it. Not in so many words."

The Hunter's eyes were fixed on him now, and there was a brightness in their depths that Damien had feared he'd lost forever. A hunger, but not for triumph. Not even for survival. For knowledge. knowledge.

"Tell me," he whispered.

And he did. He told him what the Iezu had said to him, back when he'd first come to the temple. How he had expressed his own fear of what the journey might mean to him.

The way is pain, and worse. I can't endure it. Even if I wanted to, even if I were willing to risk her displeasure ... I'm not human. I can't absorb emotions which run counter to my aspect. No Iezu could survive such an a.s.sault.

"Well?" he said at last. "Does that mean what I think it does, or not?"

The Hunter's eyes were focused elsewhere, beyond Damien, as he digested the thought. "Yes," he said at last. "You're right. I've heard Iezu express similar fears before, but voiced as a question of discomfort, rather than survival. This would seem to imply there's more to it."

"So there's hope, then."

"A long shot at best. What runs counter to Calesta's aspect? Perfectly counter, so that he can't adapt? Karril can deal with pain if he must, so the matter's not a simple one."

It came to him, then, from the fields of memory, so quickly and so clearly that he wondered if the fae weren't responsible. "Apathy."

"What?"

"Karril's negative factor is apathy. The absence of all pleasure. The absence of ability to experience experience pleasure." pleasure."

"Where the h.e.l.l did you come up with that?"

"He told us. Back at Senzei's place, when Ciani was first attacked." Good G.o.d! The memory seemed so distant now, half a lifetime away. He struggled to remember what the demon had said, at last had to resort to a Remembering. The fae took shape in response to his will, forming a misty simulacrum of Karril before them. There are few kinds of pain I can tolerate, There are few kinds of pain I can tolerate, it said, it said, fewer still that I can feed on. But apathy is my true nemesis. It is anathema to my being: my negation, my opposite, my destruction. fewer still that I can feed on. But apathy is my true nemesis. It is anathema to my being: my negation, my opposite, my destruction. Then, its duty accomplished, the image faded. The room's cool air was heavy with silence. Then, its duty accomplished, the image faded. The room's cool air was heavy with silence.

"Apathy," the Hunter mused.

"There's got to be something like that for Calesta, right? Something similar, that we can use as a weapon."

The Hunter shook his head. "Karril was talking about trying to endure something, not having it forced upon him. How would you inundate a spirit with apathy? If it were deadly to him, he would surely flee from it, like any living creature. And apathy isn't something you can nock to a bow, or insert into the wood of a quarrel. It can't be made into a blade, to cut and pierce on its own."

"Not yet," Damien agreed. "But that doesn't mean there isn't some way to use it. You and I just have to figure out how."

Exhaustion seemed to cloud the Hunter's expression; he turned away and whispered, in a voice without emotion, "In a month?"

"If that's all we have."

Though the Remembering had faded from sight, some vestige of its power must still have remained in the room; Damien could see bits and pieces of the Hunter's recollections taking form about his head. Images of pain and horror and terror beyond bearing, still as alive in his memory as they were in that dark place inside his soul. h.e.l.l was waiting for him. So was the Unnamed. Thirty-one days.

"Not enough," he whispered. "Not enough."

Anger welled up inside Damien with unexpected force. He walked to where the Hunter sat and dropped down beside him, grabbing his shoulders, pulling him around to face him. "I went to h.e.l.l and beyond to bring you back, and so help me G.o.d you'll earn it. You understand? I don't care how little time it seems to you, or how vulking depressed you get, or even whether or not you're going to make it past that last day. What we're talking about is the future of all of humankind, and that's a h.e.l.l of a lot more important than my fate, or even yours. Even yours." Even yours." He paused. "You understand me?" He paused. "You understand me?"

The Hunter glared at him. "Easy enough words, from your perspective."

"d.a.m.n you, Gerald! Why are you doing this?" He rose up from the couch and stepped away, afraid he would hit the man if he remained too close. "Do I have to tell you what the answer is? You're a free agent for the first time in nine hundred years. Take advantage of that!"

"I am what they made me to be," he said bitterly. "None of that has been undone. Going against their will means going against my own nature-"

"d.a.m.n it, man, no one said redemption would be easy! But isn't it worth a try? Isn't that better than handing yourself over to them in a longmonth, without so much as a whimper of protest?"

"You don't know," he whispered. There was pain in his voice. "You can't possibly understand."

"Try me."

The pale eyes narrowed; his expression was strained. "Those sins you saw," he breathed. "Would you forgive them so quickly, if the matter were in your hands? Would you wipe clean a slate of nine hundred years, for one single month of good intentions? For a vow made in the shadow of such fear that its true motivation could never be judged?"

"I wouldn't," he said shortly. "G.o.d might. That's the difference between us."

"Might is a h.e.l.l of a thing to bet one's eternity on." is a h.e.l.l of a thing to bet one's eternity on."

"Yeah," he agreed. "About as shaky as trying to stay alive forever. Only in the latter case, you know it has to end someday." He paused. "You did know that, didn't you? That it had to end sometime. Today it's Calesta and tomorrow it might be something else, but you can't run forever."

The Hunter turned away from him. Though Damien waited, he said nothing.

"All right," the priest said at last. "You think about it. I'll be back in my room if you decide you want my help. Karril has the address."

He turned toward the stairs and was about to leave, but a single sound, voiced quiet as a breeze, stopped him.

"Damien."

He didn't turn back, but he did stop. Waiting.

"Thank you," the Hunter whispered.

For a moment longer he stood where he was. Then, without voicing a response, he climbed the short flight of stairs and pushed open the heavy door. The sounds and smells of Karril's temple greeted him, unwelcome reminders of the world that surrounded. Millions upon millions of men and women and helpless children, whose futures were all at risk.

I saved you, he thought bitterly to Tarrant. he thought bitterly to Tarrant. Now you do your job, and help me save them. Now you do your job, and help me save them.

Twenty-two.

Pleasure was was to to apathy apathy as as sadism sadism was to ... was to ...

What?

The a.n.a.logy ran through Damien's head obsessively, forever uncompleted. And though he tried to satisfy the pattern with over a dozen words, none of them were quite right. The answer continued to elude him, and only the knowledge that it must surely exist gave him the strength to rise above his frustration and keep searching.

The key to it all was the insight that Karril had given them, regarding his own counter-aspect. Pleasure Pleasure was the opposite of was the opposite of pain, pain, and yet a man's soul could be filled with both things at once. Apathy was Karril's true nemesis, the absence of any strong feeling, a state in which pleasure could not even be experienced. Yet it wasn't an opposite exactly, or a compliment, or any other type of thing which Damien's language had a name for. That made dictionaries all but useless, and even more sophisticated linguistic tools confusing at best. and yet a man's soul could be filled with both things at once. Apathy was Karril's true nemesis, the absence of any strong feeling, a state in which pleasure could not even be experienced. Yet it wasn't an opposite exactly, or a compliment, or any other type of thing which Damien's language had a name for. That made dictionaries all but useless, and even more sophisticated linguistic tools confusing at best.

It didn't help to know that Tarrant had indeed confronted the Patriarch. Even after the Hunter had finally admitted that fact, even after the emotional storm that was inevitable had played itself out and subsided to a sullen resentment, Damien couldn't stop thinking about the incident long enough to focus clearly on anything else. What had the Hunter said to the Patriarch, and how had the Patriarch reacted? Tarrant would say only that he had offered the Holy Father knowledge, and that whether or not the man chose to use it was his own concern. Damien could only guess at the torment such an offer would cause. Worst of all was the guilt in the priest's own heart, the certain knowledge that if he had only come up with some better plan, if only he had initiated some milder contact on his own ... then what? What could he have said or done that the Patriarch would accept? The man's heart was so set against Damien that maybe the Hunter, with his ages of experience, stood a better chance with him. Maybe this was, in its own painful way, a more merciful form of disclosure.

He struggled to believe that, as he applied himself to the challenge at hand. He had to believe it, if he was to think about anything else.

Thirty days left now. He had no doubt that the hours were counting down inside Tarrant's skull, in much the same way that he had counted seconds when traversing Tarrant's h.e.l.l. And for much the same reason, he thought. It was all too easy to let such small units of time slip by one after the other, until suddenly they were all gone.

Thirty days.

Help him, G.o.d, he he begged. If he is to die, help him to make the best of that. Now that the last barrier is being removed, help him rediscover his humanity. begged. If he is to die, help him to make the best of that. Now that the last barrier is being removed, help him rediscover his humanity. But though he wished for the best for his dark companion, he knew Gerald Tarrant's stubbornness well enough to guess that such a prayer was futile. The habit of nine hundred years was not a thing to be discarded lightly. And the Unnamed had indeed remade him to suit its own special hunger; the Hunter still required blood and cruelty to live, every bit as much as Damien required food and water. How did you fight a thing like that? How did you win redemption against such odds? But though he wished for the best for his dark companion, he knew Gerald Tarrant's stubbornness well enough to guess that such a prayer was futile. The habit of nine hundred years was not a thing to be discarded lightly. And the Unnamed had indeed remade him to suit its own special hunger; the Hunter still required blood and cruelty to live, every bit as much as Damien required food and water. How did you fight a thing like that? How did you win redemption against such odds?

I'll get you through this, he promised silently. he promised silently. Somehow. Somehow.

He prayed there would be a way.

"He'll see you now, Reverend Vryce."

A servant in Church livery opened the door of the Patriarch's study as he approached; another stood at attention by the outer door, prepared to serve the Holy Father's every whim. In the distance Damien could hear the cathedral bells signaling the call to evening service. It all seemed normal, so utterly normal ... but it wasn't. He knew that. The rules had changed, and while the men and women who served the Patriarch might not yet be aware of it, it made his own game doubly dangerous.

What did Tarrant do? he thought desperately. As he walked across the polished threshold, he felt his stomach tighten in dread, and as the door shut softly behind him, he was aware that his body had gone rigid as if expecting some physical punishment. That wasn't good at all. Even the old Patriarch would have noticed such a thing, and as for the new one.... He tried to relax, or at least mimic relaxation, and then dared to look up at the man. His superior. G.o.d's servant. he thought desperately. As he walked across the polished threshold, he felt his stomach tighten in dread, and as the door shut softly behind him, he was aware that his body had gone rigid as if expecting some physical punishment. That wasn't good at all. Even the old Patriarch would have noticed such a thing, and as for the new one.... He tried to relax, or at least mimic relaxation, and then dared to look up at the man. His superior. G.o.d's servant.

A sorcerer?

The Patriarch was dressed in his accustomed robes, but they hung about his lean form in deeper folds than before, accentuating his thinness. His face was ashen and drawn, and the circles under his eyes spoke eloquently of sleepless nights. Whatever change Tarrant had wrought, it had clearly not been an easy one for the Holy Father. But he had survived. In their bed of wrinkled flesh the man's clear blue eyes stood out like jewels, and they fixed on Damien with a strange, calm sort of power. It wasn't at all what the priest had expected, and therefore it was doubly unnerving.

"Reverend Vryce." The Patriarch bowed his head ever so slightly, a formal greeting. It was a far more mild reception than Damien had expected, and he tried not to look fl.u.s.tered as he returned the gesture. What was going on here? "Have a seat." The Patriarch indicated a tufted chair set opposite his desk. Damien hesitated, then moved forward and sat as directed. Was this some other creature that had taken over the Holy Father's body? In that moment it seemed that anything was possible.

Then the blue eyes fixed on him, and the fae stirred between them, and he saw what was truly behind that measured gaze: not calm, nor any other kind of human peace, but a pain so intense that it hovered near the brink of madness. And he knew in that moment that he had seen it because the Patriarch had wanted wanted him to see it, that the man's natural power would have masked such a weakness from Damien's sight unless he willed it otherwise. him to see it, that the man's natural power would have masked such a weakness from Damien's sight unless he willed it otherwise.

He began to s.h.i.+ver, deep inside, without quite knowing why. He had prepared himself for the Patriarch's rage, or worse; how was he supposed to deal with this stranger?

The Holy Father sat down opposite him, behind the broad mahogova desk, and for a moment said nothing. Damien was intensely aware of that stem gaze fixed on him, studying him, a.s.sessing him. At last the Patriarch said quietly, "I believe we have some things to discuss."

Damien nodded stiffly, but said nothing.

"Your recent activities." He paused, perhaps waiting for a response, but Damien didn't dare commit himself without first knowing how much the Patriarch had discovered. "Your journey of a night ago," he prompted. Damien felt his throat tighten in dread but he said nothing. At last the Patriarch leaned forward and accused, "A trip through h.e.l.l, Reverend Vryce, to rescue its darkest prince."

"How do you know that?" The words were out of him before he could stop them. That would never have happened with the old Patriarch, but this man unnerved him in ways his former self never had. "Where do you get such information?"

The Patriarch leaned back in his chair. There was an infinite weariness about the movement that made him seem suddenly fragile, as though a strong word might cause him to shatter into a thousand fragments. "I have dreams," he said quietly. "Visions of the truth, that take place in real time. I thought once that they were clairvoyancies. I thought that G.o.d had blessed me with a gift-or perhaps cursed me-so that I might serve my people better. Now ..." He paused; a muscle tensed along the line of his jaw. "Now I know them for what they are. Visions crafted by a demon, to herd me along his chosen path. He thought me blinded by my faith, and thus never tried to hide his marks. Only now ... I see them. Now I know."

"And you trust these dreams?"

He had expected anger in response-at least a hint of it-but the hollowed face was maddeningly calm, perfectly controlled. Whatever terror raged inside the Patriarch as a result of the changes Tarrant had wrought, he kept it well hidden. "Thus far all his visions have been true, at least as far as I can test them. But that could change at any moment. Perhaps it has now." He leaned forward and placed his arms upon the desk. "I saw you call a demon for a guide and then walk through h.e.l.l, all to save the soul of a man that G.o.d himself reviles. Was that a true vision, Reverend Vryce, or a demon's lie? You tell me."

For a brief instant he considered lying. Then, an instant later, his face flushed hot with shame. A year ago he would never have considered lying to the Patriarch, not for any reason. That he had done so now, for no better cause than to evade just punishment, was a jarring reminder of how much the last year had changed him. He had been ready to cast aside his vows of obedience for no more than a moment's comfort; how much else might he be willing to sacrifice, if the moment's temptation were right? For the first time he saw himself through the Patriarch's eyes, and realized just how far he had fallen. He couldn't meet his gaze, but looked away. "It's true," he whispered. "All true."

For a moment the Patriarch just stared at him; Damien could feel the scrutiny as if it were a physical a.s.sault. "Such an incredible dream," he mused aloud. "I didn't want to believe it. I told myself, this time the demon has gone too far. This is beyond the scope of Vryce's transgressions." A pause. "I prayed, Reverend Vryce. I asked to be shown that the vision was a lie. For your sake."

Shamed, he lowered his head.

"But it isn't." His long fingers steepled on the desk before him; Damien focused on his heavy ring as a way of avoiding his eyes. "What I should do now is ask you to tell me what kind of judgment is suitable for such a crime. What should be done to a priest whose every action defies the vows he made to G.o.d? But we both know where that kind of question leads, don't we? We both know what the end result would be. And the fact is ..." Was that a tremor in his voice? "The fact is, these dreams were given to me for a reason. It was Calesta's intention that I should react in anger and cast you out from the Church, thus breaking your spirit and rendering you vulnerable to his a.s.saults. And for that reason-that reason alone-I won't do it."

Damien looked up at last, and met the Holy Father's gaze. There was pain in the man's eyes, and a moral exhaustion so immense that it seemed impossible any human soul could contain it. How long had he tormented himself over this decision? How many hours had he gone sleepless, while Calesta tried to push him to the breaking point? "I won't give him that victory, Vryce. I won't serve a demon's will in any way. Even when he's right."

Shame flushed his face. "I've tried to serve the Church."

"Yes. As have thousands of unordained wors.h.i.+pers, each in his own way. Loyalty isn't an issue here. Or even judgment. I thought once that it was, but now ..." He hesitated. "I have a somewhat broader perspective." He shut his eyes for a second, and Damien thought he saw him s.h.i.+ver. "The issue isn't loyalty, or the quality of your service. The issue isn't even whether or not a man must do terrible things to serve his G.o.d. Obviously, there are times he must. The only issue is whether or not a man who has defied Church tradition should represent that Church, and so cast doubt upon its teachings in the public mind. That's an issue I can't judge, Vryce. Not when condemning you means that I strengthen our enemy's hand."

He said nothing. It seemed amazing to him that the thing he had feared most, his expulsion from the Church, now was overwhelmed by a horror more subtle, but infinitely more terrifying. The Holy Father of the Eastern Autarchy, the living representative of the One G.o.d, must now hesitate in performing his duty for fear of pleasing a demon! Is that what the Church had come to? Is that what Calesta had done to them? He despaired to see this sign of it, and to feel it echo in his own soul.

"I see you understand," the Patriarch said, after some time of silence had pa.s.sed. He slid open a drawer by his side and drew out an envelope from it. "As of today, you have no more duties in this autarchy. You'll still be granted full access to all Church facilities; the campaign which you're fighting deserves no less. Other than that, I think it best for all concerned that you act as an independent."

He could feel the weight of that icy gaze upon him, and he nodded. "Yes, Your Holiness." The words barely made it past the knot in his throat. "I understand."

The Patriarch studied him for a moment longer-was he using the fae in some way, Knowing him as well?-and then handed him the envelope. "This will provide you with some revenue for room and board, and other basic necessities. Whatever remains may be addressed to your cause as you see fit. You needn't bring me an accounting of it, unless you intend to ask for more."

Surprised, Damien looked up from the envelope, searching for some hint of purpose in the Patriarch's expression. He can't officially approve of me, He can't officially approve of me, he realized, he realized, but he doesn't dare drive me away. Not only because it would please Calesta, but because I'm one of the few people who really understand what's at stake here. but he doesn't dare drive me away. Not only because it would please Calesta, but because I'm one of the few people who really understand what's at stake here. Had the Patriarch looked into the future and decided that Damien's role was vital to the Church's survival, or was the inspiration less focused than that? Damien folded the envelope in his hand; the pulse in his palm made the paper tremble. "Thank you, Your Holiness." Had the Patriarch looked into the future and decided that Damien's role was vital to the Church's survival, or was the inspiration less focused than that? Damien folded the envelope in his hand; the pulse in his palm made the paper tremble. "Thank you, Your Holiness."

"It leaves open the question of what your role should be in larger issues, of course. But you can address that in your own conscience far better than I can. You were trained as a priest, Damien Vryce, and ordained in a centuries-old tradition of sanct.i.ty and obedience. I pray that you will reflect upon that tradition during the trials yet to come, and consider how your actions reflect upon us all." He paused, as if to ascertain that his point had hit home, and then said quietly, "That's all. You are dismissed."

Stunned, Damien managed to get to his feet. He wanted to say something, to protest, anything anything-but the Patriarch's attention had already turned elsewhere, cutting that option short. And what was he going to say to him anyway? How would his petty trials of conscience measure up to this man's, whose shoulders had taken on a burden so terrible that G.o.d's own Church might topple if he stumbled? What were one priest's paltry misgivings, compared to that?

Shaken, he pushed the folded envelope into his pants pocket without looking at it. The Patriarch's words had given him freedom to act as he saw fit, yet he felt more bound than ever. The man had acknowledged that conscience must sometimes give way to expediency, and yet Damien's conscience burned even hotter as a result. Had he done right, he wondered suddenly, to cling to the priesthood with such desperation? Was that true service to G.o.d, in the face of all he had done, or service to himself?

Swallowing hard, he forced himself to bow. Deeply: a motion not only of ritual obeisance, but of heartfelt respect. You had the right to judge me, You had the right to judge me, he thought somberly. he thought somberly. Only you, of all men. I would have respected it. I would have obeyed. Only you, of all men. I would have respected it. I would have obeyed. Now, instead, the Patriarch had left that judgment in Damien's hands. It wasn't a burden as heavy as his own, but it was heavy enough. The priest flinched as he accepted it. Now, instead, the Patriarch had left that judgment in Damien's hands. It wasn't a burden as heavy as his own, but it was heavy enough. The priest flinched as he accepted it.

"May G.o.d be with you," he whispered, bowing again. Meeting the Patriarch's eyes for one fleeting second as he rose, sensing the torment behind them.

And may the fae be merciful.

Twenty-three.

YAMAS: The violence surrounding the Forest took a dark turn last night as residents of Yamas sacrificed two of their own people, in what appears to be an effort to placate that hungry power. The violence surrounding the Forest took a dark turn last night as residents of Yamas sacrificed two of their own people, in what appears to be an effort to placate that hungry power.

Nile Ashforth and Maklesia Sert were hanged shortly before dawn at the western gate of Yamas, barely ten miles from the Forest's edge. Both men had apparently been rousted from their beds by an angry mob of some two dozen townspeople and dragged to the site, where they were stripped, hanged, and mutilated. Police say that the symbols carved into their chests correspond to those used by the Hunter's servants for identification, and that the bodies may have been meant as a kind of offering, intended to propitiate the Hunter and protect the town. If so, it marks the first time that living men have turned against their own kind in this region, and officials in Yamas consider it a dangerous precedent.

A joint funeral for the two men will be held at the Leonia Funeral Home at six p.m. on Sunday. Offerings in memory of Mers Ashforth and Sert can be made to the G.o.ds Keruna and Tlaos at that time, in accordance with their respective traditions.