But now they were coming here. All of them. The ones who could speak to her, and the ones who could not. The few who could share her memories directly, and the hundreds who were all but unaware of her existence. They were coming because several of their number had defied her, coming to see if she would accept their transgressions, or punish them ... or what?
What indeed, she thought.
She had made rules for them so that they might live and learn and grow, and ultimately serve her purpose. For a thousand solar cycles those rules had gone unquestioned. That was as it should be: a mother giving life had every right to define what paths her children would take, and to eradicate those few who failed to accept her guidance. But what about a child who did understand, but who consciously chose to defy her? The concept was so alien to her that she could scarcely comprehend it. It would never have happened in her homeland, that was certain.
You don’t know what’s driving them. You cannot judge.
She had given them orders. They had disobeyed. She had set forth the laws of their existence, which was her right as their creator. They had chosen to ignore her.
They should die.
It was her right, without question. Some might have argued that it was even her duty. Certainly her first family, who had accompanied her to this place, would have been quick to condemn any of their own number who defied her will so openly. But these new children of hers ... these wild, defiant infants ... might they not have something to teach her, before they died? Had she not sent them out into the world for precisely that purpose?
They are only half mine, she reminded herself. Remembering that act which was neither passion nor pain, but simple desperation. So many matings. So many failures. She had thought once that by choosing the right mate she could ensure a successful brood, but that plan had gone awry so often she despaired of ever making it succeed. In fact she had lost nearly all of her hope, nearly all of what little strength remained to her ... until now.
Her children were coming! So many, all at once. They had never gathered together like this before, not for any one purpose. Would it make a difference? she wondered. Would there be a power in the sheer mass of their gathering, a force born of their limitless variety, that might shed a ray of hope into the void of her despair? If she killed the disobedient ones now, she would never know. They would disperse again, the strong ones and the weak ones and the ones so distant that it seemed none could speak to them at all. What would it take to bring them together again after that? What kind of tragedy would she have to invoke? It was far easier to withhold her punishment now, she thought. Far easier to let them all come here first, and then cleanse the family as tradition required.
Hope. It was almost an alien concept to her now. She savored it, reflecting.
And waited.
Where Power Abides
Twenty-eight
They came by ones and twos, and then—as the day progressed and they gathered courage and friends—in small, fiercely bonded groups. The Patriarch met with them all. His advisers protested that by doing so he was only encouraging people who would feign great faith in order to stoke the fires of their own self-importance, and—to be fair—they were not entirely wrong. For every genuinely faithful man there were half a dozen whose only purpose in coming was to brag at a later time that they had been in the presence of the Holy Father. For every truly devout woman there were half a dozen whose friends fluttered around the doorway to his chamber like anxious birds, their only purpose being to serve as witnesses that this unique honor had really taken place. But though he heard the truth in his peoples’ warnings, he chose to disregard them. There was no other servant of the Church who could see into these people’s hearts as he did, and therefore no other one who could choose. It was that simple.
At times his visitors were exactly the type he would have predicted: coarse and simple men, whose faith was as rough-hewn as their manner, whose innate preference for a world divided into clear domains of black and white was uniquely well suited to this enterprise. He didn’t doubt that among those faces were many that had been seen in the pagan quarter at night, and indeed several of them seemed familiar to him from his brief appearance at Davarti’s Temple. Those were the men he had expected his proclamations to draw, and he welcomed them in a manner that was sure to secure their loyalty. Others were more surprising. There were more women than he would have expected, for one thing; given that gender’s lesser propensity for organized violence, he had expected that few would sign on for such a venture. But he had underestimated the symbolic power of the Forest in the minds of his female congregants, and the depths of their hatred for the Hunter. Some claimed that they would give their lives in order to bring that demon to his knees, and he did not doubt for a minute that it was true.
There is the kernel of a warrior in all of us, he thought grimly, as he watched the futures that swirled madly about each applicant. God give me the strength to control it, once I have encouraged it to dominance.
He judged them each individually, one after another, with his eyes and his new Vision both. With some it was instantly clear what manner of support—or danger—they might provide. With others he was forced to unravel a tapestry of potential so tangled, so volatile, that it took all his self-control to maintain a human conversation while trying to make sense of it all. It wasn’t under his control, this new power, but swept him along in a flood tide of prescience that threatened, at each moment, to drown him utterly. Did his advisers suspect the weakness in him? Did they sense how fragile his grip on sanity was now, how easily he could lose his purchase and be lost to them forever?
Calm. That was the answer. Perfect, unshakable calm. It was a front that he cultivated as he interviewed dozens—or was it hundreds?—of would-be warriors. Calm, that most precious illusion, that kept his inner torment from being expressed and so kept it from being reflected back at him one, ten, a thousand times, in the mirror of others’ souls. A stillness so absolute that Nature had no equivalent... save at the heart of a storm.
The hurricane bore down on him. Housewives. Craftsmen. Stevedores. Journalists. They came from all walks of life, some for reasons of faith, some for reasons of pride, a few out of sheer boredom. He could See the strength of their courage, or their lack of it. He could See which of these fledgling crusaders would accept the yoke of his leadership and dedicate their energies to the common good, and which would threaten the ranks by continual disruption. And he assigned them each a role in the coming war by virtue of that assessment. There were roles enough that all could serve the cause, and he was diplomat enough to make each offering sound like a unique honor. Fund-raisers would be needed, purchasing agents, advance men sent ahead to Kale and Mordreth to prepare for the army’s passage; there would be crew chiefs to organize labor at the fringe of the Forest, where a vast swath of landscape must be cleared in order to contain the cleansing fire which would be their final effort; there were med ics needed, and veterinarians, and seamsters, and messengers, and even envelope stuffers ... so many duties that there was always a niche to be offered, hopefully one suitable enough that it was received with a nod of gratitude, not a glare of resentment.
What amazed him was how fast it was all coming together. How tempting it was to thank God for that, and ignore the role Vryce’s demon had played in making it happen! But there’s no shame in that, he told himself, as he waited for yet another warrior-applicant to present himself before the throne of God. Using evil to destroy evil is a blessed enterprise. Didn’t the Prophet teach that? Clearly the world was ready for such action. The Forest had been a threat for too long. And there was no other organization on the face of this planet, religious or otherwise, with the courage to attempt such an assault, and the skill to make it succeed.
Only the Church.
His Church.
God save us, he prayed between interviews. And he bowed his head in guilt at the power he now wielded, the visions he could not turn away. They were there even when he shut his eyes
, burning his eyes, a constant reminder of his damnation. God save us all, he prayed. Wondering if his God could ever forgive him for what he had done ... or if he could forgive himself.
Dusk, the day’s interviews over, the clamor of angry souls giving way, at long last, to silence.
Time to decide.
Wordlessly, the Patriarch left his chamber and descended to the secret room that waited far below. By now his attendants were used to his strange silence, and in their eagerness to anticipate his needs they ran down the corridor ahead of him, calling for assistance. By the time he reached the double-locked door there was a priest waiting for him, key in hand. Awe flickered about his head in a wild halo, belying the cool texture of his greeting. Two keys turned in unison, unlocking the ancient door. The Patriarch descended the stairs alone, leaving the priest behind him. To his surprise the ceaseless clamor of the earth-fae grew muffled as he descended, granting him an unexpected respite. He leaned against the wall and breathed the silence in deeply, desperately, as a drowning man might gasp for air. If he descended deep enough, would the earth-fae abandon him altogether? Was there a depth at which he might find peace—true peace—at which the tumult of futures would cease their racket and allow him a few seconds in which to think? To pray? To be? What a rare and precious gift that would be!
But it was not yet time to rest, not for a long while yet. The earth-fae still coursed about his feet as he continued down the long staircase, weaker than above-ground but undeniably potent No peace yet. At the base of the staircase was a heavy door, banded with iron, and he fitted his key into the ancient lock with a steady hand. It seemed to him there was another light besides that of the earth-fae, one that seeped out from under the door as he cracked it open. For a moment he hesitated, afraid of what his new vision would disclose in the room beyond. Then, with a prayer upon his lips, he quickly pulled the heavy door open.
Beyond it was a sea of light so blinding that he cried out involuntarily as it struck his eyes, burning them, and threw up a robed arm across his face to protect himself. Above him footsteps clattered on the stairs as his people responded to his cry, but he called out harshly for them to stay where they were. This was his trial, not theirs. By feel then, without sight, he worked his way slowly into the room. All he could see was a field of black spots against a blazing sun, undulating in time to his heartbeat. Was this what Vryce had seen when he had conjured his special vision? Or was it one more facet of his own special Hell, the price of accepting a demon’s gift, that he could not look upon the Workings of his own Church?
But slowly, painfully, his vision adjusted. By that time his face was drenched in sweat, and much of his body also. His eyes felt raw and tender, so that the mere act of blinking was painful. But he could see now, and with wonder and not a little fear he gazed upon the relics of the Great War, which had been Worked by priests of his faith so long ago.
Shards of steel, long since gone to rust. Fragments of cloth. Scraps of gilded leather. They were all imbued with the solar fae, that nearly untamable power, so that even in their decay they made the very air resonate with sunfire. Blazing like a thousand captive suns, they bore witness to a power so far beyond anything the Patriarch might command that for a moment he reached out to the nearest case for support, overcome by the memories they conjured. It was lost now. All of it. Those warriors, their strength, their dreams ... all gone now. Only these few relics remained, that might with care be forged into a weapon again. To serve the Church anew, this time in triumph.
But as he gazed upon those few precious fragments, imagining what they might become, he realized suddenly that there was more than sunpower visible in their auras. There was a taint also, a kind of slithering darkness, that was visible just at the edge of his new vision. After a moment he realized what it represented, and the knowledge made him tremble inside, and brought tears of frustration to his eyes. To him these relics might be symbols of man’s ultimate faith, but to his people they were reminders of the Church’s greatest failure. To bear them into battle against the Forest again would be to shackle his army to that great defeat, to awaken echoes of a loss so devastating that the fae would be forced to respond, damning their efforts. They might as well just feed their blood to the enemy, he thought, as try to use this power. The end result would be much the same.
Oh, my God, he despaired. Will You send us naked againstthe enemy? Will You make us batter at the walls of Hell with no more than cold steel in our hands?
Let faith be your shield, a cold voice whispered, and its tone was such that his skin crawled to hear it. Was that some inner voice of his own speaking, or the whisper of his God? Or was it a suggestion from some more demonic source, Gerald Tarrant’s ward, perhaps, or the demon Calesta, using the Patriarch’s human weakness as a path of invasion into this holy place?
Take this trialfrom me, Lord. I’m not strong enough to handle it. Give it to someone who won’t fail you.
But the visions refused to fade. The relics continued to burn. And about him, above him—within his very soul—an endless stream of futures clamored for fulfillment.
She was slender and delicate, and beautiful in the way that a porcelain doll might be beautiful, a priceless antique. For a moment he just stared at her, unable to grasp why such a woman would choose to be part of his mission ... and then the tumult of images that cascaded about her flesh came into focus, and with it an identity.
“Narilka Lessing.”
She seemed startled by the fact that he knew her name, but quickly regained her composure. He sensed a tension within her so great that it might have broken a lesser soul; the fact that she could contain such a thing and not even show it bore witness to a strength far beyond anything her physical self even hinted at. Was this the woman that Andrys Tarrant had fallen in love with? If so, it wasn’t hard to see why.
“Your Excellency,” she said. Hesitantly, not knowing if the honorific would please or offend. A curious pagan, this one, uncomfortable with his identity as the voice of the One God, yet anxious to do him appropriate honor. He accepted the honorific with a gracious nod, his eyes fixed upon the storm of images that surrounded her. Bright, sharp, volatile images; in all his interviews he had rarely seen such a tumult of potential.
“I take it you told my people that you belong to the Church.”
Her face flushed hotly, but her gaze didn’t flinch. “There was no other way to get in to see you. I tried.”
He nodded, and watched as an image of blood and flesh spattered into fragments by the side of her head. What was that white face beside hers, grinning? “I regret that we forced you to such subterfuge. It wasn’t our intention.” He struggled to focus on her face through the whirlwind of images. “Now that you’re here, what is it I can do for you?”
She drew in a deep breath, and then said bluntly, “I want to go with you to the Forest.”
So that was it. He should have guessed. “Mer Tarrant already asked me if that was possible. I told him no.”
“I can’t accept that.”
In another time, another life, he might have gotten angry at her. Now, in this transformed self, he felt strangely distant, as though he were watching two strangers converse. “This campaign is a Church matter. All the people involved serve the One God. You, Mes Lessing, don’t.” He nodded slightly. “At least, that’s my understanding of it. Correct me if I’m wrong.”
“Are you afraid I’d try to convert your people?” She challenged him proudly. “Is that what you think? Is their faith in your God so weak? Do you really think I’d be a threat to them?”
“That isn’t the point,” he said quietly. He turned away from her slightly, as if to gaze out the window while he spoke; anything to look away from the faeborn chaos that surrounded her. “Faith has power, Mes Lessing, real power. Unified faith can reWork the very currents, changing reality so that it favors our cause. One discordant soul might not seem like much of a problem to you, but its effect upon our mission would be like that of a sour note
in an otherwise perfect symphony.” He paused, giving her a moment to muse upon that. “If you came with us, it would increase the risk to all of us—and to Andrys Tarrant—a thousandfold. Is that what you want? To place him in even greater danger?”
“You don’t know what you’re doing to him,” she said fiercely. “It’s eating him up inside, taking on this role. It’s making him crazy. You want him to face that alone?”
“He has us,” he said coolly. “And he has his God.”
“That isn’t enough!” she retorted. “Your God doesn’t hold a man’s hand when he’s alone in the night. Your God won’t show up to comfort him when he’s scared. Your God doesn’t care if he hurts, as long as—” The words caught in her throat then, and she coughed heavily. He glanced back at her, just in time to see a white mask with frightened eyes scream as its throat was slashed, then fade into a mist of blood about her hair.
“I won’t get in your way,” she promised. Pleading now, all anger leached from her tone in a desperate bid to placate, to persuade. “I won’t say anything to offend anyone. I can even hold my own when we fight....” She drew in a deep breath, and dark images fluttered about her head like bats. “And the Forest can’t hurt me. It’s a ... a kind of gift. Nothing that belongs to the Hunter will hurt me. I’d be safe.” She took a step closer to him; futures flickered in and out of existence with blinding speed as she moved. “Please,” she begged. “Let me go with him. He needs somebody.”
If you care so much, he wanted to say, then embrace his God. Join him in faith, and you can truly share in his enterprise. The words were forming, balanced on his lips—and then a new set of images took shape around her, a chaos of futures so vivid, so powerful, that the breath meant for words was expelled in a gasp, and it was all he could do to stand there and stare at them.