Crown of Shadows (18 page)

“Someday those dreams will become reality,” the demon promised. “Think of the pleasure of that moment! Worth more than a little sacrifice now, I should think.”

He said nothing. He had no words. The memory of the girl was hazy now, unclear, its outlines obscured by clouds of blood. Had he imagined that he might love? Where was there room for love in this life of his, lived in the Hunter’s shadow?

“There is something else,” the demon warned him.

“What?” he choked out.
What more than this?

“He’ll never kill you because you’re the last living Tarrant. That’s what makes you capable of striking back at him; under any other circumstances such a move would be suicidal.” He paused meaningfully. “But what would happen if another Tarrant were born? Maybe not one to whom you gave the name, but one who might, in time, lay claim to it.”

“But I never—” he began.

And then what the demon was saying hit him. It hit him hard.

“I think that you should be careful where you spill your seed, Andrys Tarrant. Because the moment you impregnate a woman—
any
woman—the Hunter will have no more reason to spare you.” In a chilling tone he added, “And I doubt very much that he would be merciful in killing you, after you so flagrantly defied him.”

Andrys shut his eyes tightly; fear churned coldly in his gut. Dear God in Heaven! how many chances had he already taken, never thinking, never realizing.... Oh, he had always been careful, but sex was a gambler’s game and he knew it; sooner or later even the best contraceptive might betray you. And if so ... if so ...

“I see that my meaning is clear,” the demon approved.

Something landed in his lap, startling him; it was a moment before he could muster the physical control to take it up, and even then his fingers seemed numb. A small object, that rattled when it moved. Cool glass, with a rubber stopper.

Pills.

“I thought you might need them,” Calesta said dryly. “After all, we have a long battle ahead of us. I would hate to see you lose your nerve.”

The coldness in the room faded; the demon was gone. Andrys gripped the bottle in his hand, feeling hot tears squeeze from his eyes. What color were the pills, what essence was their magic? It didn’t matter. They all brought forgetfulness, one way or another. They were all ways of escaping this world, with its inescapable nightmares. The only escape there was, other than death.

His hand clenched tightly around the bottle, Andrys Tarrant wept.

The
Patriarch
dreamed of war.

He awoke. His heart was beating loudly, and he lay still while it slowly quieted. His fists were clenched by his sides; he forced them to open. Was this the third time he’d had that dream, or the fourth? It clearly wasn’t a clairvoyancy, as so many other dreams were, but the scent of prophecy clung to it nonetheless.
Should he take it seriously or dismiss it, as he had done before? Surely persistence should translate to something.

With a groan he got out of his bed and drew on a robe that lay waiting for him. The heavy silk overlapped tightly about a body that was losing weight from its battle with stress, and tonight it seemed that even his slippers were loose. He was wasting away along with his people, he thought. Some day he would be gone entirely, and only a shadow would remain to guide them.

Leaving his bedroom, he walked down the narrow corridor that led to his private chapel. The servant who was posted outside it against his midnight need jumped to his feet as he came by, startled into sudden waking by his footsteps on the hardwood floor, but he waved him back to his slumber. His was a need that could only be met in solitude.

At the end of the corridor was the door to the chapel. He opened it and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. There were candles burning beside the altar—it was the servant’s job to keep them alight at night—but their illumination was minimal, and most of the chamber was shrouded in shadow. He came to the altar and knelt before it, and all the fear and the doubt which he had been cloistering within his heart came pouring out, an undertide to prayer.

It wasn’t the first night he’d come here since the dreams started, and if he stayed until dawn to pray, it wouldn’t be the first time that happened either. And now this dream was back, and he was no less tormented by it than he had been the last time, or the time before. Because it promised him an answer to his problems, and at the same time posed an even greater question. If it was a true prophecy—if this battle was the course that God intended for him—what would the cost of it be? Not to him, or to the men who fought beside him, but to the generations that would come after?

He had been tormented by those questions since his first dream of battle. It was a torment which only grew worse as the riots continued, as night after night he was called from his bed or his study chamber to witness some new act of violence. All in the name of God, the rioters claimed. Couldn’t they see that by wor shiping violence they had created a new god, who was slowly consuming them? That worried him far more than the lawsuits. which might drain his Church of economic vigor but could never quell its spirit. This violence threatened the very heart of who and what they were.

And then there was Vryce’s report. He felt himself tense up at the mere thought of the man, at the name which now automatically inspired his rage. But whatever he might think of Vryce himself, the report could not be ignored. How did the Iezu demon Calesta connect to all of this? Was he the unseen instigator in this wave of violence? If so, then it would do little good to address human issues in the matter. Any solution which the Church pursued would succeed only up until the point when Calesta was willing to strike again. How did you fight a creature who could read the darkness in men’s hearts and stoke it to such new strength, as naturally as a man drew breath?

He lowered his head to pray again, but a faint sound from behind him alerted him to the presence of someone or something else in the room. He turned about slowly, expecting no more than a young acolyte with a message to bear, or perhaps his chamber-servant coming to see if there was anything he needed. What he saw was something else again, and he rose to his feet quickly, wondering how a stranger had gotten in past his private guard.

The stranger stepped forward as he watched, just far enough that the candlelight could pick out highlights along his pale, aristocratic features. He was tall and slender, and dressed in a manner that was at once modern and reminiscent of the Revival period. Flame-born highlights played upon shoulder length hair, and sparked along the gold headband that held it in place. His features were so unmarked by worldly trouble that his face might have seemed that of an angel, had the eyes not been so dark, so hungry, so ... empty.

“Do you know who I am?” The man’s voice was clear and fine and his words, though no louder than a whisper, seemed to echo in the small chamber like some strange music. The Patriarch studied him, and then nodded. Yes, he knew. Vryce’s sketches had been good enough for that. The knowledge both elated and terrified him, but he was statesman enough not to let those emotions show, or to let them sound in his voice.

In a voice that was tightly controlled, he asked, “Why are you here?”

The dark eyes flickered toward the altar, then back again. “A fate that neither you nor I would court has made us allies, it seems. I came to offer my services.”

“No.” His heart was racing; it took everything he had to sound calm and collected when he was anything but. Was he really standing here talking to the man who founded and then betrayed his Church? Up until a year ago he would have considered that patently impossible. Even now, knowing otherwise, it was hard to absorb the truth. “Not allies, Neocount. Enemies.”

The man’s expression darkened ever so slightly, and he stepped forward as if to approach the Patriarch; with a flutter of fear in his heart, the Holy Father moved back. Then he realized that his visitor wasn’t moving toward him, but toward the altar. The Patriarch’s soul cried out for him to protect his holy symbols from the touch—or even the scrutiny—of this damned creature, but a distant, more reasonable part of him knew that it would be suicide to even attempt it. And it didn’t really matter, did it? The gold on the altar was simple metal, no more. The symbols themselves could be melted down to slag without injuring his faith. If the Prophet had taught them nothing else, it was that God didn’t reside in such things.

The Prophet. A cold thrill shivered through his flesh as he realized just what it was that stood before him. Not the Prophet any longer, but a damned and degenerate creature who wore the Prophet’s identity like a ragged bit of cast-off clothing. Was this the chill that Vryce had felt, when he first stood in his presence? Did he grow numb to it after a time, or simply learn to ignore its warning?

When the man reached the altar he reached out to its central figure, a double circle sculpted in gold. He traced the interlocked shapes with a death-pale finger, and his nostrils flared as if taking in the scent of this place. Was he testing the Patriarch, seeing if he would respond? Despite his powerful instinct to protect the altar, the Patriarch forced himself to hold back. God alone knew what this creature would do if he moved against him.

After a moment the Hunter turned to face the Holy Father once more. His eyes were no longer black but a pale, glistening gray. There was a coldness in them that reminded the Holy Father of glacial ice, and of death. They were the eyes of the damned, that had gazed upon the glories of the One God and then turned away forever. Gazing at them, the Patriarch couldn’t help but shudder.

“Believe as you will,” the visitor said. “It’s taken me years to come to this point; why should you accept it in a single night? We have the same enemy, therefore we fight the same war. Let that be enough.”