Crown Of Shadows Part 22

"You also had a crew to back you up."

"You did fine, Reverend-" Damien heard his quick intake of breath as he caught himself. "You did fine," he said softly. "We're still afloat, aren't we? That's what matters."

Damien stood again and studied the view; the thing that might be land was growing steadily larger ahead of them. "So where are we?"

"Halfway between Hade and Asmody, if I judge it correctly."

Farther east than they'd planned on. "How can you tell?"

"I have Vision, remember? To my eyes this whole region is alive with power, and the Forest-" he nodded toward the darkness ahead and to the left of them, "-is as bright as a beacon to my eyes."

Something occurred to him then, that never had before. "You're never really in darkness, are you?"

It seemed to him that the Hunter smiled slightly. "Not as you know the word. Although when we were out in the ocean there were nights that came close. And the Unnamed-"

He stopped then, unwilling or unable to say more, but Damien could see the muscles along his face and neck tense as he remembered. What had the Unnamed done to him, there in his custom-designed h.e.l.l? Damien didn't want to ask.

"So what now?" he said quietly.

Tarrant exhaled softly, accepting the reprieve. "Calesta will no doubt expect us to put into Hade or Asmody, and continue northward from there."

"Which means he's probably prepared a reception for us in both places."

"Undoubtedly."

"d.a.m.n." It was hard enough avoiding pursuit on open land, where you could go in nearly any direction. How did you do it pulling into a harbor, where one man with a fa.r.s.eer could spot you in time to raise a regiment? "Any idea how he's controlling these people?"

The Hunter shrugged stiffly. "Dreams, perhaps. Visions. Or perhaps even direct control, using those few men who have bonded with him. Does it matter? The result is deadly for us, no matter what the technique."

"So what do we do?" he demanded. "Sail east past Hade, and hope we can make the next port by morning? Hope that he hasn't fortified that one as well?"

For a moment Tarrant didn't answer. Then, without a word, he pointed toward the dark ma.s.s before them.

Damien drew in a sharp breath. "You're crazy."

"Prima's full overhead, and Domina's half should rise soon. That should give us good enough light."

"For what? To see ourselves get killed?"

"I hope something less dramatic than that." He glanced to the left slightly, as if measuring their direction against the Forest's chill glow. All Damien could see was water. "We can't just sail into port. Surely you realize that. Which leaves only one way to land-"

"They built a port on every hospitable mile of this coast," Damien reminded him. "Which means, by definition, that any place without a port is going to be nasty."

"So it is," he agreed. "How fortunate that we both know how to swim." The pale eyes fixed on Damien. "You do know how to swim, don't you?"

"I can swim," he growled.

"It'll take us about an hour to get into position. The horses should be brought out by then, in case I miscalculate. As for supplies-"

"What chance is there of that?"

"What?"

"That you'll miscalculate." miscalculate."

It seemed to him that a fleeting smile flitted across the man's face. G.o.d d.a.m.n him if he finds thisamusing. G.o.d d.a.m.n him if he finds thisamusing. "I can get some sense of the ground beneath us by the light of the earth-fae, but that won't come into clear focus until we're very close. And there is, as you say, no truly hospitable sh.o.r.e. Nevertheless ..." He adjusted the wheel again, ever so slightly; it seemed to Damien that the shadow ahead was noticeably larger. "Even such risk is preferable to marching right into Calesta's hands, don't you think?" "I can get some sense of the ground beneath us by the light of the earth-fae, but that won't come into clear focus until we're very close. And there is, as you say, no truly hospitable sh.o.r.e. Nevertheless ..." He adjusted the wheel again, ever so slightly; it seemed to Damien that the shadow ahead was noticeably larger. "Even such risk is preferable to marching right into Calesta's hands, don't you think?"

"Yeah," he growled. "Only ... oh, h.e.l.l." He drew in a deep breath and counted to ten. Exhaled it slowly. "It doesn't matter, does it? Just tell me when to jump."

Now the Hunter's amus.e.m.e.nt was clear. d.a.m.n him to h.e.l.l for it.

"I will," he promised.

Damien had been on a freighter once that had gotten caught up in a tsunami. It had been a simple flood wave that brought them in, not a bore, but that made it no less frightening. The wave had borne them into the harbor amidst a sea of wreckage and then withdrawn beneath them, das.h.i.+ng them down upon the very pier it had deluged mere moments ago. He still remembered the sound of the hull smas.h.i.+ng as mooring piles stabbed into it from beneath, the screams of men and women as the deck canted wildly, spilling the less fortunate into the madly churning harbor. It was a scene that still haunted his dreams, that had driven him to choose land over sea whenever possible, that had developed in him an almost pathological hatred of the sea and all its arts.

Compared to such a landing, he had to admit, this one wasn't the worst he had experienced.

But it came d.a.m.ned close.

Tarrant brought them in as close as he dared, then paralleled the coast for some miles searching for a promising site. Lacking his adept's Vision, unable to Work his own equivalent with a fathom of water between him and the earth-fae, Damien could only watch and pray as mile after dark mile pa.s.sed to the starboard. At last he saw Tarrant begin to bring about the wheel, a look of grim determination on his face.

"Good spot?" he dared. "Best we'll get," the Hunter responded.

Great.

They drove the boat aground on a rocky slope, their speed carrying them forward for yards more even as the ground ripped wood from the hull beneath them. The sound awakened memories in Damien that were better off forgotten, and he tried to focus on the mechanisms of immediate survival as a way of escaping them. Get the horses into the water as safely as possible, and see that they were moving toward sh.o.r.e. Clear the boat himself and get far away, lest it slip from its precarious grounding and drag him out into the sea in its wake. Try to keep sight of the sh.o.r.e as the breaking waves frothed over his head, pointedly not reminding himself how much he hated to swim even at a civilized beach....

But Tarrant had done it well, give him credit for that. Not yards beyond the place where they ran aground Damien felt solid earth beneath his feet. Within yards more he was walking, as securely as one could with surf pounding at one's chest, and he saw to his satisfaction-and relief-that the horses had likewise found solid footing. He didn't bother to look for Tarrant-if, G.o.d forbid, the current dragged the adept under, he could use the earth-fae beneath the water to save himself-but struggled toward land, sputtering and cursing the fate that seemed determined to drown him.

And then at last he was on sh.o.r.e. A prayer of thankfulness rose to his lips as he struggled along the rocky beach, to a boulder-strewn slope that even the horses didn't seem anxious to climb. There he collapsed, cursed briefly at the impact of sharp rocks against his flesh, and took a few deep breaths to celebrate his safety. From where he sat he could see Tarrant coming up on the beach, and rather than come up directly to where Damien was he loosed the slip knot at his belt and began to pull in the rope that led back to the boat. For a moment Damien held his breath, wondering if their last-minute plan would bear fruit, and then he saw a low shadow coming toward them, riding the waves. He forced himself back up to his feet and down to the water's edge, where he helped the Hunter pull. Their makes.h.i.+ft raft trembled as the waves broke over it, but made it to sh.o.r.e without real incident. Quickly they unloaded the supplies they had lashed upon it, and carried them up to where the horses, milling nervously, waited for them.

"Whoever owns that boat isn't going to be happy about this," Damien noted, as the last of the small s.h.i.+p's stores was brought out of reach of the water.

"Let's hope he has insurance." The Hunter was running his hands over the horses' legs, making sure they had sustained no injury in the landing. "This one's bleeding," he warned Damien, and the priest limped over to Heal the wound. Was there a category of insurance for having your boat stolen by an undead sorcerer while the owner was away attending a demon-inspired posse? If so, the rate schedule must be interesting.

The Hunter walked back to the edge of the water. Damien almost moved to follow him, then decided that if the man wanted help he would have asked for it. He watched while Tarrant fixed his eyes on the wounded boat. Working, no doubt, but toward what end? Then the boat, half-submerged in the water, tore loose from its rocky mooring with a crack of wood and screech of metal so loud that Damien stiffened despite himself. Slowly, inch by inch, it began to back its way out into the Serpent. He could see it shaking as if struggling to rise up, some trapped air pocket not yet willing to acquiesce to the watery embrace, but Tarrant's power and the underwater currents held it fast. The rail slipped beneath the water's surface, then the cabin roof, then the polished wooden wheel, spinning madly as though in protest. Soon only the masts remained, rising up like sea serpents out of the black water. Damien could see Tarrant tense, as an athlete might before lifting a great weight. And then the masts began to bend to one side, and the waves seemed to tremble, and it seemed to him that the earth itself grew warm as the wooden beams finally cracked at their base and plummeted down into the waves. There the power of the Hunter weighted them down, until they sank into a grave that no mere sea might unearth.

"Can't Calesta just create an illusion that it's still there?" he asked as the Hunter came back up the slope.

"We don't yet know the limits of his power." Damien could hear the exhaustion in his voice, from an exercise which, however impressive, shouldn't have drained that much. "Why make it easy on him?" How long had it been since Tarrant had fed properly? Four days at least. He'd planned to find fresh blood in Seth, or across the Serpent if that failed. What would he do now that the cities were off limits?

When the animals were Healed and calmed-the latter by Tarrant's skill, and against considerable resistance-they negotiated the rocky slope at the point where it seemed most navigable. Though their mounts slipped once or twice and Damien had to stop to pry a stone out from between the toes of his, they made it to the top without major mishap, and finally looked out upon the land where fate had deposited them.

It was a bleak and barren landscape, and the cold, lifeless moonlight did little to soften its edge. The rocky ground was softened only by lichens and an occasional island of coa.r.s.e gra.s.s, and jagged black monuments broke upward through its surface like knife blades, eerily aligned all at the same angle. There would be little grazing here, nothing on which to fuel a fire, and no certain cover come daybreak. Thank G.o.d they had brought the s.h.i.+p's store of supplies along with them, now strapped to their saddlebags in makes.h.i.+ft oilcloth packs.

"North," the Hunter directed, and they proceeded with all due haste. Once or twice he called for a halt, dismounting momentarily so that he might make direct contact with the earth-currents. Damien saw him Working, and guessed that he was doing something to hide their trail. An Obscuring? No, that would be too easily countered by their enemy. More likely some Working that actually stirred the dirt and stones until their marks were truly invisible, so that it would take more than a mere illusion to uncover them. Nevertheless he could see a hard truth in the Hunter's eyes, backlit by a growing fear: if the demon Calesta knew where they were going, how great an effort would it take for him to lead men to them? "Let him at least work for it," the Hunter muttered as he remounted. And they started off again.

Some two hours north of the sh.o.r.e the land grew marginally gentler, and plants could be seen to sprout where time and wind had broken the stone down to a hospitable soil. Tarrant Knew some five or six species of gra.s.s before at last he pulled up where one cl.u.s.tered, announcing, "This will do." As soon as he released the horses from the Working that bound them, they lowered their heads to the fresh plants and began to eat as if there were no tomorrow. Which, Damien mused darkly, there might not be.

"Where now?" he asked, as Tarrant rescued his maps from an oilcloth bundle. The well-wrapped papers had suffered little from their immersion, thank Tarrant's power for that. The Hunter was nothing if not thorough. As Damien rescued a meal's worth of food from his saddlebag-the horses were so intent on their own meal that they didn't notice him at all-Tarrant studied the currents to all sides of them as a mariner might study the stars. "We're here," he said at last. He spread out the map on a mound of rock and weighted its corners down with stones. Sitting down on the opposite side of it, Damien studied the familiar handwriting with its a.s.sortment of notes. They had indeed come to land midway between Hade and Asmody, as Tarrant had guessed; even now the men of those two cities might be searching the rocky sh.o.r.e for traces of their pa.s.sage. The Hunter's slender finger marked a place some miles north of the water, then moved upward: over the first line of hills, through the Raksha Valley, up to a mountain range labeled Black Ridge. Black Ridge. "We have to cross this," he told Damien. "And there are only three ways to do that, short of riding up over the top. This pa.s.s-" and he moved his finger west, to a place near the Forest's own border, "-is by far the easier crossing, and the one I would have preferred. But there's little doubt in my mind, given our experience in Seth, that Calesta will marshal local forces to make that pa.s.s inaccessible." "We have to cross this," he told Damien. "And there are only three ways to do that, short of riding up over the top. This pa.s.s-" and he moved his finger west, to a place near the Forest's own border, "-is by far the easier crossing, and the one I would have preferred. But there's little doubt in my mind, given our experience in Seth, that Calesta will marshal local forces to make that pa.s.s inaccessible."

"No argument there," he muttered, thinking of all the violence that had been taking place at the Forest's edge. The men of Yamas and Sheva would be all too happy to ambush a pair of sorcerers, if they believed that by doing so they might render their families safer.

"So: here." The Hunter moved his finger eastward along the Ridge, until it came to rest at a place labeled Gastine Pa.s.s, Gastine Pa.s.s, some forty miles north and twenty miles east of them. "It's bound to be safer than the other right now." some forty miles north and twenty miles east of them. "It's bound to be safer than the other right now."

"And pretty far out of our way."

"Do you see an alternative?"

"You're the one who cares about time."

Did it seem that the Hunter flinched? Certainly he hesitated before answering, "I would rather lose a day reaching my goal than lose my life getting there."

"You're that sure he'll be waiting for us?"

The silver eyes met his. "Aren't you?"

"Yeah," he muttered. "That's the rotten part about traveling with you, you know? Even your enemies are competent." He took a short swig from his canteen, and watched as Tarrant did the same, trying to a.s.sess the weight of the Hunter's canteen by the way he handled it. Half-empty at least, he judged. Did he have others like it, or was he reaching the end of his supply? "What about the Gastine? Won't he try to whip up some kind of ambush there, once he guesses where we're headed?"

"Without doubt. But the towns near there are farther from the Forest, and its people will be less ready to rally to his cause." He paused. "The trick is to beat them there."

He drew in a sharp breath and glanced back at the grazing horses. "Our mounts-"

"Will need attention," he agreed. "And as Healing is your department, not mine, I leave you to it." He rose to his feet in a fluid motion, not unlike a snake uncoiling. "The currents here are strong, but you should be able to Work them. One benefit of having been driven so far from our chosen course," he said dryly. And then he began to walk away from the camp.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Far enough from the three of you that I can Know what's happening in the Forest. Or, at least, try to."

"I thought it was all but impossible to do that from here."

"Yes. Well." The Hunter's eyes glittered in the moonlight, half-lidded and thoughtful. "Doing the impossible seems to be our order of business, doesn't it?" He gazed out at the endless dark vista to the west of them, and Damien thought he saw him stiffen in antic.i.p.ation. "You just see to the horses."

See to the horses. Easier said than done, when the problem was not one wound or a simple illness but general systemic exhaustion. The animals needed sound sleep and a few good meals, not another Working. But with fifty or more miles ahead of them before they reached the Ridge, Damien and Tarrant had little choice. Calesta would certainly make sure that no town let them come close enough to purchase- Easier said than done, when the problem was not one wound or a simple illness but general systemic exhaustion. The animals needed sound sleep and a few good meals, not another Working. But with fifty or more miles ahead of them before they reached the Ridge, Damien and Tarrant had little choice. Calesta would certainly make sure that no town let them come close enough to purchase-or steal, he added grimly-fresher mounts. he added grimly-fresher mounts.

"Don't go far," he warned Tarrant. The man was too far away to hear him now, but what the h.e.l.l. He felt better for saying it.

With a sigh, he braced himself for a Healing.

They pushed hard for the rest of the night, hard enough that Damien wondered if the horses wouldn't collapse before dawn. If so, he didn't know that he could do much to save them. It was one thing to spruce up an animal's biochemistry when it was still relatively healthy, another thing entirely to save it once systemic breakdown had begun. But to his surprise they kept up a hard pace through the remainder of the night, enough to get their riders across the sloping line of hills which bordered the Raksha Valley to the south, and partway across the valley itself.

By morning's light Damien could see their eventual destination, a solid black wall that stretched as far as the eye could see to the east and the west of them, cutting short not only routes of travel but the very winds themselves. Weather systems rarely crossed the Black Ridge, he knew that from Geography 101, and the currents likewise tended to flow around it instead of across it. Which was in the long run what made the valley habitable, since the fae beyond that barrier was hot enough and wild enough that even sorcerers feared it.

And that's where we're headed, he thought, gazing at the snow-clad peaks. Not a happy thought. he thought, gazing at the snow-clad peaks. Not a happy thought.

From where they made their camp, Damien could see the pa.s.s itself, a place where the great ridge had folded in its making, creating a deep cleft through which men might travel without braving its heights. His stomach tightened at the thought of what might be waiting for them there, but he knew in his heart that there was no alternate route. Unlike the varied ranges of the east, the Black Ridge was an all-or-nothing climb for most of its length. And while they could push their horses hard along open ground and hope to make good time, Damien knew that if they tried to ride up there, where heat and oxygen were both in short supply, they would soon find themselves walking.

Nevertheless ... "No other way?" he asked Tarrant as the man dismounted. Hoping that there was some route he didn't know about, which they could turn to.

"I'm afraid not," the Hunter told him. And that was that. Because if there was any man Damien trusted to know the layout of this land, and to a.s.sess its hidden potential, it was the Hunter.

He watched as Tarrant drained the last of his canteen's contents, and waited for him to say something about his need for further nourishment. But the Hunter offered no information, and he didn't want to ask him about it. If he needed something more than he carried with him, surely he would tell Damien. The Hunter had never been shy about his needs.

1'll feed him if I have to, he thought. Wondering even as he did so how he could do battle with Calesta's troops with less blood in his own veins than he needed, or weakened by an endless a.s.sault of nightmares. Then he thought about the pa.s.s and what would be waiting for them there. have to, he thought. Wondering even as he did so how he could do battle with Calesta's troops with less blood in his own veins than he needed, or weakened by an endless a.s.sault of nightmares. Then he thought about the pa.s.s and what would be waiting for them there. Can you make me more afraid than I already am? Can you make me more afraid than I already am?

"Get some sleep," Tarrant urged him. "Tomorrow will be a hard day."

Sleep. Could you sleep in the shadow of such a threat, pretending that it was just another day? When the wind grew quiet, he imagined he could hear men's voices in the distance, as Calesta used the daylight hours to prepare for combat. How many local warriors had he gathered there, how had he prepared them for the battle to come? Did they think they were fighting demons, or some other faeborn threat? What manner of illusion served them in the place of courage, that would keep them fighting long after every human instinct cried, Enough! Enough!

s.h.i.+vering, he laid his head down on his pack and tried to sleep. Wondering if somewhere in between the nightmares that awaited him he might not find five or ten minutes of genuine rest, so that he could be fresh and ready at sunset.

Twenty-three days left.

Thirty-two.

It took the Church's faithful five days to reach Kale. They followed the path that regional planners had laid out centuries ago, when they first came to understand that in order to travel freely across the continent man would need protection from the night and its demons at regular intervals. The daes-small fortress-inns, solidly walled and carefully warded-punctuated the road at planned intervals, and their facilities, designed to accommodate ma.s.sive trade caravans when necessary, were not hard pressed to provide room and board for the small band of warriors and their horses. the Church's faithful five days to reach Kale. They followed the path that regional planners had laid out centuries ago, when they first came to understand that in order to travel freely across the continent man would need protection from the night and its demons at regular intervals. The daes-small fortress-inns, solidly walled and carefully warded-punctuated the road at planned intervals, and their facilities, designed to accommodate ma.s.sive trade caravans when necessary, were not hard pressed to provide room and board for the small band of warriors and their horses.

Eighty-seven men and women. Not all of those would be going into the Forest, of course; there were a handful who would be a.s.signed liaison duties in Mordreth, and at least a dozen more who would man a supporting camp just outside the Forest's borders, to guarantee their supply line should the conflict become an extended one. Several hundred more were already in place at the edge of that d.a.m.ned realm, stripping the land of all that could burn against the day when the Church's final weapon would be wielded, and the Forbidden Forest would pa.s.s into history. It was a small force even in its total, a deliberate contrast to the vast armies which had a.s.saulted that realm in ages past. Those armies had failed, the Patriarch was quick to remind them. Numbers alone could not guarantee safety in a war where the very battlefield was alive and hostile. So this time they would field not an army proper, but a finely honed strike force, who would pierce the Forest quickly, strike its blow, and then-hopefully-get out.

The Hunter's realm, going up in flames. Andrys dreamed of it daily, savoring the vision as his mount carried him closer and closer to its fulfillment. The image sustained him when all else seemed about to fall apart, when the strength he feigned and the courage he pretended to possess seemed more of a lie than ever. The heat of that fire fed him with life, and with hope, and gave him the strength to go on.

His companions were strangers to him. He walked among them, he ate dinner in their company, but they might have been from another planet for all he understood them. It was the religious thing, of course. Like all the Tarrants, Andrys had been raised to serve the One G.o.d, in word and deed if not in spirit, and he had been to services often enough for weddings and the like to be able to mouth the common prayers along with his fellows. But it meant little to him. These people were different. They were marching north to fight, perhaps to die, all in the name of a G.o.d so divorced from human affairs that they never even dreamed He would help them. Why? Between their motives and his comprehension was a chasm so vast, so darkly infinite, that all the well-intended prayers in the world could not begin to bridge it.

Faith. It meant nothing to him. Faith was a fantasy, a delusion. Faith was like wine: you poured it inside you and for a brief time it blossomed, it eased the pain of living, it banished the guilt that tended to clog up a man's head. And then it was gone, like wine: digested, expelled, forgotten. What was the point?

Did anyone really believe the One G.o.d was out there? Did anyone believe that He cared the least bit whether this venture of theirs succeeded? Did they honestly believe that a caring G.o.d would let a creature like the Hunter exist in the first place, much less reward his lifestyle with virtual immortality?

Maybe the pagans have it right, he thought bitterly. Envying his polytheistic brethren for the comforting simplicity of their faith. Do good or evil, and the world responds in kind. Maybe not the way you would have liked, maybe not in a way you even understand, but at least the relations.h.i.+p is there. That, he could relate to. This ... this was a total mystery to him. he thought bitterly. Envying his polytheistic brethren for the comforting simplicity of their faith. Do good or evil, and the world responds in kind. Maybe not the way you would have liked, maybe not in a way you even understand, but at least the relations.h.i.+p is there. That, he could relate to. This ... this was a total mystery to him.

Perhaps if he could just be alone for a short while he could come to terms with it all. But there was little privacy in this new world of his. His days were spent riding with the troops, the Patriarch of the Eastern Autarchy on his right and the Company Commander, a woman named Tabra Zefila, on his left. Sandwiched in by authority like that, he felt self-conscious even sneezing; G.o.d alone knew what would happen if a muttered curse should escape his lips when his horse stumbled. At night he ate with the common troops, while the two leaders withdrew to converse in private. An alien in their midst, he rarely joined in their conversation. When it came time to retire, he joined his fellow men in a room prepared for merchant guards, six bunks to a room with a common bath. Never alone. Sometimes he felt so desperate for privacy that he wanted to scream. It wasn't just because he needed a drink so badly, so often; after dinner there was enough ale and enough wine making the rounds that he could sate his thirst without being conspicuous. In the past he'd had to hide his drunkenness in front of Samiel and Betrise so often that the skill was now second nature to him; he could drink himself to the borders of oblivion and still walk steadily to his room, even climb up to his bunk as if nothing were wrong. No, that wasn't the problem. And it had nothing to do with the drugs he had brought with him, a last desperate gambit in case the journey proved too much for him. He hadn't needed them yet, and if he did, he could always swallow a pill quickly in the bathroom and get back to bed before it took effect. No, that wasn't it either.

It was the memories.

Not just memories of the past now, though chilling images of his family's slaughter-and his own cowardly inadequacy-still churned in his brain. Now there were memories of the girl, as well. Sweet memories, warm and seductive ... and more painful than all the others combined. Because he wasn't going back to her. He knew that. He was going to pit himself against the Forest in the hope of avenging his family, but the odds of his coming back from that quest were minimal. And even if he did, how could he take that gentle girl into his arms again once his flesh had housed the Hunter's spirit? Even if he did survive this, even if he somehow-impossibly-managed to salvage his sanity, how could he pretend to just pick up where he had left off as if nothing had changed? Could a man become the Hunter in spirit and not be poisoned by the experience?

When he could, he lost himself in drink. When he couldn't, he vacillated between fighting the memories-all of them-and giving way to the sweetest ones, a last fleeting indulgence before the darkness of the Hunter's realm swallowed him whole.

They were received warmly in Kale, even pa.s.sionately, as befit the first visit of this Patriarch to the thriving port city. To Andrys, who had never paid much attention to Church hierarchy-or any other power structure, for that matter-it was an eloquent reminder of the importance of the man who rode by his side, and the significance of his position to the men and women who wors.h.i.+ped the One G.o.d.

There were thousands of them lining the south road when they arrived, the faithful and the curious both, come to see this man who embodied G.o.d's Will. Many reached out to touch him, and once or twice the Patriarch reined up and indulged them, offering his hand to be shaken or kissed or whatever. Watching him, Andrys was awed by the aura of the righteous authority which he exuded, and by its power over the people here. Some of them even fell to their knees as he approached, a gesture which he accepted as naturally and as regally as he did all the others. It was hard to remember who and what this man was when you saw him only in small rooms and on dusty horseback, running small affairs, dealing with trivial day-to-day matters, surrounded by people who were accustomed to his presence. It was something else again, Andrys thought, to see this. He found that he was trembling despite himself, and when the Patriarch turned once to look back at him he felt genuinely shaken, as if those blue eyes had been a channel to something greater, something any mere human should be frightened of.