There were priests in the temple, male and female both, but they wore no special costume to identify themselves, merely a silver neckpiece with Karril’s blatantly phallic symbol engraved upon it. He began to approach one, but suddenly hesitated. What was he supposed to say? Excuse me, I really need to talk to your god in private, could you arrange an interview? How did you make contact with a godling, other than through prayer? He flushed as he considered what manner of worship Karril might require, and for the first time since coming gave serious consideration to turning back. He even glanced back the way he had come, as if to assure himself that his way out was unimpeded—
—and the worshipers were gone. All of them. The walls had been replaced by tapestried hangings, and a cool breeze flowed between them. Even the priests were gone, and the buffet table that had been set up by the back wall banished as if by sorcery. Only the central fountain remained, and the wine that poured from its ornate spigots was no longer red but crystal gold, and smelled like champagne.
“Well, well.” The voice came from behind him. “Look who’s come to be a guest at our festivities.”
He turned around to face the source of the voice, a woman of thirty or so clad in a few meager bits of silk. A lot of woman, and all in the right places. Shaggy blonde hair half-obscured the priest’s necklace she wore, but—like her clothing—obscured little else. He found his eyes wandering of their own accord to vistas that were better left unstudied, and at last managed to focus on an ornate piece of jewelry hanging precariously from her shoulder. “I need to find Karril,” he muttered. Bright jewelry glittered on a bed of tanned flesh at her waist, on her breast, down her arm. “I need to talk to him.” Did he sound as awkward as he felt? Her perfume came to him on the breeze and he felt an involuntary stiffening in his groin; given the gravity of his mission here, the response was doubly embarrassing. What kind of power did this woman have, that so easily overbore his self-control, his fears for Tarrant, his revulsion for the very temple that surrounded them?
And then it all came together. The jewelry. The illusion. His response to this woman ... and the woman herself. He forced himself to look upward, to meet her eyes. It was no easy task, given the alternatives.
“Karril?”
With a soft chuckle the woman bowed; it was a precarious angle for certain parts of her clothing. “At your service, Reverend. Whatever that service might be.”
“I didn’t ... that is ... I thought you were male.”
“Neither male nor female, as humans know gender. And either one, as the need of the moment dictates.” Her eyes sparkled flirtatiously. “Given the Hunter’s attitude toward women, I usually avoid the feminine in his presence. Too distracting. As for you ...” She glanced down at Damien’s crotch, imperfectly curtained by the hem of his shirt, and smiled. “Perhaps as a good host I should make things more comfortable....”
He never saw the change happen, though he watched it from start to finish. There was no surging of the earth-fae, as with Tarrant, and no melding of flesh from one form to another. One instant the woman was standing before him, and the next instant a man stood in her place. That simple. He was shorter than Damien, stouter, and slightly older. The tasteless brooches fastening his full velvet robe at the waist were the same ones the woman had worn, and jeweled rings flashed on his fingers as he gestured broadly to a couch some few yards away. “Will you be seated, Reverend? I can offer you refreshment, at least.”
He breathed in deeply and exhaled, trying to clear his head of the cloying perfume the woman had worn. “What about the others?”
“Who?” He saw Damien look around the temple—now empty—and he chuckled. “What, my faithful? They’re still there. Surrounded by curtains of illusion so fine that each one imagines himself truly alone, in an environment that caters to ...” He grinned. “Shall we say, to individual taste? I try to be an obliging god.”
“I saw them all.”
“You wanted to see them all, my dear Reverend. You needed to despise them—and me—in order to set yourself at ease here.” He shrugged. “As I say, I try to be a good host.”
He walked to the fountain and dipped a hand beneath its surface; when he withdrew, there was a chalice of finely engraved silver in his hand. “I would love to think you came here for a simple diversion, but, alas, I’m not so naive. Though the illusion is tempting.” He sipped from the chalice as if assessing its contents, and nodded his approval. “So what brings a Knight of the Church to this den of unholy indulgence? Surely not an attempt at proselytizing.” Again he chuckled. “My worshipers are too loyal for that game.”
He forced the words out somehow, past the knot in his throat. “Gerald Tarrant’s gone.”
The demon’s expression darkened. Damien thought he saw him stiffen.
“So?” His voice was low now, and quiet, and all humor was gone from his tone. “What does that have to do with me?”
“I need help finding him.”
Karril snorted, then drained the chalice of its contents and cast it into the fountain; it disappeared before it hit the surface. “I’m not a Locater, you know that. There are some in the town. Go to them.”
“I know what you are,” he said sharply. “And I know how close you were to him. Close enough that I’d think you’d want to help if—” He couldn’t finish the sentence. Dared not give the threat a name, for fear of making it real. “I’ve tried every Working I know, consulted everyone I dared. You would think with the channel between us, a Locating would be easy, but ...” He shook his head. “Nothing, Karril. Nothing! What do I do? How do I find him? You’re my only hope.”
“Then I’m sorry.” He turned away. “I can’t help you.”
“He called you a friend.”
It seemed to him the demon winced. “Did he?” he whispered. “Shame on him. He was usually more careful with his choice of words.” His robes were black now, and the bright jewels were muted as if by smoke. “I’m not a friend to him, or to anyone else. Not as humans know the word. Friendship implies a full range of emotions, a wide assortment of bonding criteria. Humans can do that. Iezu can’t.” He looked at Damien; his expression was strained. “All I am, my dear Reverend, is the hunger for pleasure that resides in your own soul, given a face and a voice and enough knowledge of etiquette to mimic human interaction. That’s all. No love, no loyalty, only a ghost of self-interest in human guise. So you see,” he said, turning away again, “you came to the wrong place.”
“He didn’t believe that,” Damien challenged. “And I’m not sure I do.”
“Oh?” The demon’s voice was strained. “Is the Church claiming a monopoly on demon lore, now?”
“You came to warn us about Calesta,” he reminded him. “Was that self-interest? You said that you liked humankind, that its foibles ...” he struggled for the proper word, “... amused you. Was that just hunger speaking? I don’t think so.” He walked to where the demon stood and grabbed him by the shoulders, as he might any man; Karril’s “flesh” was comfortably solid, utterly human in temperature. “You saved Ciani’s life. ” He forced the demon to turn toward him, forced him to meet his eyes. “I don’t remember all the details of that incident, but I seem to remember you saying it wasn’t easy. You could barely stand the pain of it, I recall. Was that hunger that drove you then? Or was it something else? Maybe a more human emotion.”
For a long moment Karril was silent. At last he pulled himself loose from Damien’s grasp, and turned away; the priest let him go.
“He knew the risk all those years ago.” Was that pain in his voice, or some demonic emotion? “Knew it and accepted it. Let him go, Reverend Vryce. He made his own fate. You make yours.”
“Where is he?”
For a long time Karril was silent. Damien waited him out, though his hands were shaking from impatience. At last the demon said, in a voice that was little more than a whisper, “Where Gerald Tarrant has gone, no living man can follow.”
Damien breathed in sharply. “Where?
”
“To be judged.” As the demon turned back to him, Damien saw that now even his jewelry was black. “By those whom he feared the most.”
“The Unnamed?”
He hesitated only a moment, then nodded. “There’s nothing you can do, Reverend Vryce. You have to believe that. His own word gives them the power to judge him, his own blood makes him vulnerable....”
“How do I get there?” he demanded. His heart was like ice as he heard his own words, as he felt the power of his own commitment. “Tell me!”
The demon shut his eyes as if in pain. “Through the nightmare of his own fears. That’s the only path left, now that he’s in their hands. But no fleshborn being can travel that road safely. Even my kind—”
He stopped, but not soon enough.
“You can go there.”
He hesitated.
“Karril. Please.”
“I can go there,” he admitted. “I can also die there. I’m not willing to risk that.”
“Gerald told me that no Iezu has ever died.”
“Because we don’t take chances! Because we’re selfish spirits, who trade illusions for food in our neat little houses and mind our own business when meaner demons come calling!”
“Is that what Calesta’s doing?” he demanded. “Minding his own business?”
The demon winced. “I don’t ... leave him out of this.”
“He can’t be out of it! He’s part and parcel of this whole mess, and you know it!” He took a step closer to the demon, into what would have been his personal territory had he been truly human. “Or don’t you care if he has his way? Don’t you care if the whole human species is remade to suit his taste, bred and winnowed like animals until all they can do is eat and sleep and suffer. Is that what you want, Karril? Is that what any of the Iezu want? Where will you find your worshipers then?”
“I’ll survive,” he muttered. “But some of the others ...” He shook his head and whispered hoarsely, “I can’t get involved. It’s simply not allowed. The penalty—”
“Is worse than what I just described?” he demanded. “All right, so I was wrong. Maybe you and Calesta aren’t so different after all.” He made his tone as venomous as he could, hoping scorn might stir the demon where loyalty and compassion had failed. “Sorry to have bothered you.”
A shudder seemed to pass through the demon’s body. “That way is pain, and worse,” he whispered. His voice was strained, barely audible. “Don’t you understand? I couldn’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 assault.”
“So I’ll masturbate for you,” he said harshly. “Is that good enough? In the midst of Tarrant’s nightmares I’ll dream acts of pleasure, so you can stay on your feet. Hell, it worked for him, it should damn well work for you.”
The demon turned away. “I’m not human,” he whispered. The hanging tapestries had all turned black; even the wine in the fountain was dark. “The rules for us are ... different.”
“Yeah. I guess so.” Rage and despair churned in his gut at the thought of this, too, being a dead end. Where else was there to turn? He forced himself to turn away, while adding bitterly, “Sorry to bother you.”
He began to walk away from the demon, assuming the illusion surrounding him would fade when he tried to leave. It didn’t.
“Even if you survived the journey,” Karril pressed, “what would you do once you got there? Do battle with the Unnamed? Try to reason with it? It’s too powerful for the former, and far too unstable for the latter. And it might make things even worse for Gerald Tarrant, that a man of your stature cared enough to try to save him. Have you thought about that?”
“I’ve thought about everything,” he said sharply. “Most of all about what this world will be like if Calesta goes unopposed, and how little chance I have of stopping him without Tarrant’s help. As for the rest ...” He shrugged stiffly; despair was a cold knot within him. “I guess it doesn’t matter much, does it?” And he snapped, “Hope the new order works out for you.”
He turned to leave then, and the tapestries did fade. The amorous couples were visible once more, but thinly, like ghosts. The half-clad priests and priestesses fluttered like wraiths about the borders of his vision.
“Reverend Vryce.”
He didn’t turn back, but he did stop walking. The entire room seemed frozen in time, as if the very walls were waiting.
“True night falls for an hour tomorrow.” The demon’s voice was low and even; there was only the faintest tremor of fear in it. “Eat well and drink well before that, and rest with a pitcher of water by your side. In a secure room,” he added quickly, “so that no one disturbs your flesh.” He whispered, “It can’t make the journey.”
And then the tapestries were gone and the demon also, and the warm smell of the temple filled his nostrils and his head. “Can I help you?” a priestess asked, approaching him. He shook his head and waved her away. His legs felt weak beneath him. What had just happened? Did Karril mean to help him, or merely point him on his way and say good-bye? Either way—
Either way I have to go, he thought grimly. Because there is no other option. May God have mercy on my soul.
Then he thought of the risk that Karnl had already taken, of the rules the Iezu had broken just to talk to him—of the pain that he might yet endure, in order to betray his own brother—and he added, May God have mercy on us both.
Sixteen
The Patriarch dreamed :
Armies on a plain, arrayed in Church regalia. Beyond them lies the Forbidden Forest, whose trees even now cast blackened shadows before the setting sun. He lifts his hand to bless them and the armies start forward, into that haunted darkness....
... and the Forest is alive, it tears them apart, it strews their blood upon the ground to nurture its foul growth....
Armies on a plain. He lifts his hand to bless them and a chosen few start forward, armored with sigils of fire....
... and the Forest swallows them whole, so that not even the light of their Worked weapons shines forth, so that not even their fellow soldiers can find them....
Armies on a plain. He lifts his hand to bless their purpose and a few men move forward with firebrands, setting them against the nearest trees....
... and rain lashes down from the heavens in fury, sun-bright lightning striking in the midst of their encampment with thunderous fury while the downpour douses their flames....
Armies on a plain. He lifts his hand to bless them and one man rides forward, accoutred in the Prophet’s glory....
... and the Forest parts before him. Tall he rides in the saddle, and proud, and his armor glints in the dying light like molten gold. He is an image out of mural splendor, this brave soldier, with the coronet of Merentha holding back his golden hair, and the armor of that doomed neocounty glittering upon his chest and limbs. He is the living image of the Prophet himself, and as he approaches the twisted trees of the Forest, they give way before him, thinking him their master. Safely he rides into its depths, making a path where none have been able to before.
The Patriarch lifts his hand in blessing and the troops begin to follow. Riding in the wake of the false Neocount, they encounter no opposition, but make their way toward the heart of the Forest with a prayer upon their lips and the song of the One God loud within their hearts. The Forest thinks that they belong to him, its master, and it makes no move against them. Wave after wave moves into the preternatural darkness, as the spear of the Church is leveled against the Hunter’s throne....
He awoke in a cold sweat, his heart pounding. The last moments of his dream were as fresh in his brain as if he had really lived them, and the implications of it were so stunning that as he rose to a sitting position, he noticed that his hands were shaking.
Was this what all his war-dreams had been leading up to? He reached over to his lamp and cracked open the hood s
lightly, letting a faint light into the room. God in Heaven. Was there really a man like that, whose mere presence could disarm the Forest’s defenses ? If so ... He breathed in deeply, trying to accept the implications. The Church had lost its Great War when its armies turned against the Forest; that cursed land was more powerful than mere human troops could ever hope to be. But if there were a key to that realm, a way of entering and traveling through it without setting off its defensive sorceries ... then they might indeed make it to the heart of the Hunter’s domain, and make war with him outright. They might then destroy the tyrant who had dominated that land for centuries, and thus free the human lands of his predations forever.
As spokesman for the One God’s Church, the Patriarch knew the power of symbols all too well, and this one reverberated in his soul with stunning force. A symbolic victory over the Forest’s prince would affect the fae in a way that generations of sorcerers could never manage, winning a far greater battle in the long run. It wouldn’t be necessary for men to make war against the Forest itself, or even try to contain it; that was the mistake the Patriarch’s predecessors had made, which had resulted in the Church’s greatest defeat. No, if they made war against the symbol of the Forest, by attacking its demonic monarch, and if they won, the planet itself would be their ally.
It could be done, he thought. Numbed by the concept. It could really be done.
For a moment he shut his eyes and prayed, opening himself up to the wisdom of his God. If this is foolishness, he begged, then tell me now. Could there possibly be a man like the one he saw in his dream, who so resembled the Hunter in outer aspect that he might pretend to be him, and lead Church troops to victory? It would take more than mere physical resemblance, the Patriarch suspected. What kind of man would be able to take on the Hunter’s persona—become him, in essence—and still serve the Church’s purpose in attacking his stronghold?