Crown Of Shadows Part 32

And then there was a stirring in the main portal of the keep, and a figure emerged from the shadows within it. One man, clad in armor of silver and gold, bloodstained sword gripped tightly in one hand. There was a dark-haired girl in the crowd who ran toward him, but something in his manner made her stop before she had reached him. The Patriarch rose up from where he sat and took one step toward him, but then Andrys Tarrant's gaze-haunted, bloodshot-froze him in place.

Slowly he raised his other hand, along with the trophy it held. His bloodied fingers gripping it by the hair, he raised up the severed head of Gerald Tarrant so that all could see it. Damien shut his eyes, but the image was already burned into his brain and he couldn't shut it out. That white skin, truly bloodless now. Those silver eyes, emptied of all intelligence. That life which was ever so much more than a mere human life, smothered out like a candleflame....

He mourned. G.o.d would condemn him for it, perhaps, but he mourned. The man who had once been called Prophet deserved that much, surely.

Five steps brought Andrys Tarrant to the edge of the fire. For a second he paused, as if giving those about him a chance to fix the moment in their minds. Then he cast the head onto the pyre-that tortured face, so like and unlike his own-and cried out as the first flames licked at it, as if feeling their bite on his own flesh. He fell then, and the dark-haired girl ran to him, and she dropped to her knees and held him and wept. The Patriarch came up beside them and offered his own words of comfort. G.o.d has led us to triumph, G.o.d has led us to triumph, perhaps. Or something like that. Some ritual prayer that couldn't possibly do justice to this moment, or to the man whose death had made it possible. perhaps. Or something like that. Some ritual prayer that couldn't possibly do justice to this moment, or to the man whose death had made it possible.

No one noticed Damien Vryce as he left the courtyard. No one saw him slip into the shadows of the Forest, away from the light of the flames. Away from the keep, and its storehouse of knowledge. Away from ... everything.

In the silence of the Forbidden Forest, in the darkness that the Hunter had called home, Damien prayed for G.o.d's forgiveness, and for the peace of his friend's soul.

Forty-one.

They blew up the black keep at solar noon, when the hot white light of day set the finials ablaze and the gla.s.s stones shimmered like quicksilver. It had taken them all morning to prepare for the act, exposing all the rooms of the keep before a single fuse was lit, so that there was no chamber, no closet, no corner in which a shadow of the Hunter's power might remain to sabotage their efforts. Amidst the towering, thickly thatched trees of the Forest that had meant waiting until day was well under way, for dawn, like sunset, lacked the angular power to breach the lower windows. In the meantime they mixed the materials they had brought to the Forest with meticulous care and constant prayer, and laid their fuses to the sound of Church-chants. Every grain of powder was tamped down in the One G.o.d's name; every precious fiber was dedicated to His purpose. In a world where one man's doubts might skew a host of enterprises, one couldn't be too careful. the black keep at solar noon, when the hot white light of day set the finials ablaze and the gla.s.s stones shimmered like quicksilver. It had taken them all morning to prepare for the act, exposing all the rooms of the keep before a single fuse was lit, so that there was no chamber, no closet, no corner in which a shadow of the Hunter's power might remain to sabotage their efforts. Amidst the towering, thickly thatched trees of the Forest that had meant waiting until day was well under way, for dawn, like sunset, lacked the angular power to breach the lower windows. In the meantime they mixed the materials they had brought to the Forest with meticulous care and constant prayer, and laid their fuses to the sound of Church-chants. Every grain of powder was tamped down in the One G.o.d's name; every precious fiber was dedicated to His purpose. In a world where one man's doubts might skew a host of enterprises, one couldn't be too careful.

They were following a plan set down by the first settlers, in the days when the ravaged colony had struggled to record all of Earth's knowledge. Inner walls first, and supporting columns, then the outer structure of the keep. On Earth such a pattern would have guaranteed a controlled infall of debris, minimizing the risk to those who watched. On Erna, where there was no guarantee that any of the fuses would fire properly, much less any fantasy that all the explosions could be timed ... call it a dream. Call it an act of faith.

It went off perfectly.

They heard the first blast from down the mountainside, and felt the ground tremble beneath them. The second followed seconds after, and then the third, and a barrage that was more deafening than all three combined. With a sound like thunder the black walls shattered, some blowing outward, most falling inward. Floors collapsed beneath the weight of ceilings, fell to the floors below, collapsed again. The mountain shook. The sun was obscured by smoke. Fragments of obsidian, sharp as arrow points, fell to the ground like rain.

After the smoke cleared, the Hunter's keep was gone.

Some monuments still remained, spared by the conquerors' lack of adequate explosives, or else by the limits of their book-learned skill. A single b.u.t.tress arched up against the sky, seemingly defiant. A segment of the courtyard wall jutted up from the ground, its base buried in rubble. There were parts of walls still standing within the keep, against which debris had drifted like sand, or snow; vast dunes of wreckage that promised frustration to any man or beast that might dare to brave the site in search of buried knowledge, or some key to power.

They said prayers over the rubble, as soon as the dust had settled. Prayers and sunlight would expose and destroy any remnant of power clinging to the ancient stone. No one doubted the power of that combination. No one doubted that the Hunter was now gone forever. No one doubted that a great and terrible age had finally been brought to a close, with this single act that would reverberate through history. Such was the power of symbols in men's minds, they told each other. Such was the power of their Patriarch.

And Damien alone, sitting apart from all the others, removed from their celebration, saw what was within the Patriarch's soul that day. Not joy, but a dark and terrible anxiety. Not relief, but a fresh determination. Damien alone, knowing his Church, knowing the Patriarch-but most of all, knowing his fellow men-understood the cause of that anxiety.

And knowing, he mourned.

Forty-two.

The Holy Father walked out carefully upon the rocks, booted feet wary on the slippery surfaces. Thick brush tangled about his ankles, not the twisted, perverted vines of the inner Forest, but the rich green life of a region that was daily bathed in sunlight. After days in that stifling domain, their smell was a heady tonic. walked out carefully upon the rocks, booted feet wary on the slippery surfaces. Thick brush tangled about his ankles, not the twisted, perverted vines of the inner Forest, but the rich green life of a region that was daily bathed in sunlight. After days in that stifling domain, their smell was a heady tonic.

He stood where the rocks went out into the river listening to the waters of the Lethe rush about his feet. Fish darted quicksilver beneath the gleaming surface, and a red crab scuttled out of the way as his shadow fell upon its hunting ground.

He looked at the place-its sun and its water and its rich, teeming life-and he looked at the currents of earth-fae which were bright beneath his feet, and he gazed into a plethora of possible futures, so tangled together now that his best efforts could barely pull loose a single thread. He shut his eyes and let them seep into him, and when he was sure that he liked the feel of them, he nodded and said quietly, "This is the place."

The soldier who had accompanied him on his search beat his way back through the bushes that lined the river, hurrying back to tell the others. For a short, precious time the Patriarch was alone.

Give me courage, G.o.d. Lend me Your strength.

His left leg hurt so badly that he could barely stand on it. There was a good chance that it had broken back when the white beasts attacked them, but he hadn't told anyone. There could even be an infection by now, if a shard of bone had broken through the skin. No matter. He had managed the tortuous climb despite it, wincing at every step, almost crying out when a misplaced footfall caused his wounded leg to jar against the earth. But he knew that if he'd told them what was wrong, they would have stopped then and there to tend to him, increasing the risk to all at least tenfold. And maybe deep inside, in that hidden place where a man least wanted to look, he was afraid that if he sat down and gave in to the pain, if he offered exhaustion that opening, he would never rise up again.

His body ached from a fatigue so terrible that it was only raw faith that kept him standing. Raw faith and the knowledge that if he gave in now, if his soldiers had to carry him back, the Church would lose more than any campaign could ever restore. Now was the crux, the focal point of a thousand futures; now was the moment when loss must be turned to gain, when the hundreds of futures in which his Church succ.u.mbed to the temptation of easy violence must be cut short, so that brighter fates could flourish.

There was a rustling behind him, and then a man appeared in the waist-high brush. He bowed deeply to the Patriarch, as one might bow to a G.o.d. That hurt him more than the pain in his leg and all his exhaustion combined. Didn't they see what they were doing? Didn't they comprehend the risk?

They never do, his conscience a.s.sured him. Which is why the Church must lead them. Which is why the Church must lead them.

As he must lead the Church.

With careful steps he waded across the shallow river. The water was ice-cold, mountain drainage, and within a few steps his feet were so numb he could hardly feel them. Good, he thought. At least they wouldn't hurt. With all of the burdens he bore today, he deserved a few square inches of flesh that didn't pain him.

There was a crowd gathered on the bank of the river by the time he reached the other side, and more were coming. The wounded were helped into place by their fellows, foliage trampled flat as dozens of men and women sought a place to stand or sit. That a place as beautiful as this should exist a mere stone's throw from the Hunter's mountain was a gift of G.o.d, he mused; he prayed that it would recover once they had left.

He took up a position on a rock on the far side of the river, staggering slightly as he fought for balance on its slippery surface. Two of the men started toward him to help, but he waved them back. For this he needed them in one place, so that his speech would have full effect.

Past where he stood, the water flowed into the Forest proper, nourishing all life forms within that darkened realm. Past where he stood, the currents of earth-fae on which all power depended, even the creative power of prayer, flowed directly toward his people. Overhead the sun was bright, washing the light gap clean of any lingering malignance, burning away the fears and sorrows which might otherwise create new demons in these volatile currents. Good. That was as it should be. A handful of dark futures dissipated as he watched, and it seemed that several promising ones took their place. Many of the futures now emerging were similar, he noted with satisfaction, their potentials converging upon this moment like animals at a water hole. Soon, soon, he would nourish his chosen few, banishing the others forever.

He drew in a deep breath and gazed upon his people. Blood-stained, muddied, they waited on the opposite sh.o.r.e for the words that would seal their victory. He counted them silently, making sure that all were there. Zefila had taken up a position behind and above the others, he saw. Andrys Tarrant was off to one side, as if doubtful that the rest of the company would accept him. He had his pagan girlfriend with him, the Patriarch noted. There were so many futures tangled about that pair that he couldn't pick any one out, but it seemed to him that the balance, on the whole, was positive. Let her share in this moment, then. Let her see what kind of courage the One G.o.d inspired in His faithful.

Only Damien Vryce was missing, and for a moment-one terrible moment-the Patriarch feared that he wouldn't show up at all. He didn't know why it was so important that the ex-priest be present-indeed, he would much rather never look at him again-but his faeborn visions had convinced him that Vryce's presence would increase the odds of success here a hundredfold. How ironic-and unfair!-that G.o.d would reward such a man with that kind of importance.

And then the flurry of futures that swirled around him resolved to a mere hundred or so, as Damien Vryce beat his way through the underbrush and took up a place on the riverbank. He looked toward the Patriarch, but didn't dare meet his eyes. Nor did he look at the other soldiers, or Andrys Tarrant. That was probably best, the Patriarch mused. He had kept far enough apart from the others that none had asked him why he was there, or what part he had played in the battle between faith and sorcery, but every man knew that he had come out of the black keep, and that was condemnation enough. If the Holy Father hadn't made a show of tolerating his presence, they probably would have run him out of camp. Or worse.

Watch now, he bade Vryce silently. Gaze upon true faith, in all its fearsome glory. Gaze upon true faith, in all its fearsome glory.

He raised up a hand to still the group, and dozens of whispered conversations ceased. In the silence that resulted, it seemed to him he could hear their hearts pounding ... and maybe, with the fae underscoring his every thought with power, he could. An adept's d.a.m.nation.

"Praised be G.o.d," he p.r.o.nounced, "who has brought us to this day of triumph." He could see waves of power spreading out from where he stood, echoing the rhythm of his speech. "Praised be the courage of the fallen, who gave all that they had to defend their fellows." Had it always been thus, and he had simply lacked the power to See it? He watched as the shimmering futures shifted in response to those fae-waves, and he shivered inwardly. How could a man live with such vision, and still remain a man?

He led them in the Prayer for the Dead, a recitation crafted ages ago by some anonymous hand. It was beautiful, it was comforting, it was a somber reminder that their victory had cost them dearly. He wondered if the Prophet had written it.

When they were done, he gave them a moment to revel in their pride, taking the time to draw in a deep breath, trying to still the trembling of his flesh so that they would see only the image he wanted them to see, a leader serene and confident. Not a man overcome by hesitancy, remorse ... and yes, he had to admit it, fear. Not the truth.

"There comes a time," he began at last, "when a man is tested. Sometimes the test is of his courage, or his strength, or his endurance. Sometimes it is of his inner conviction, his faith." He drew in a deep breath. "Sometimes it is of his judgment. That is the most difficult test of all, my children ... and it can be the most painful.

"Like the father who steals a loaf of bread to feed his starving child, daring the vengeance of the law because he feels that the law of life is more pressing, we each make our choices when we must. Who can judge a man in such an instance, or say with certainty that the course of his heart is wrong? What is the will of government, when contrasted against a man's innate morality?

"Such are the ways of the laws of man, which are by definition imperfect. But human governments come and go, and statutes change daily in response to circ.u.mstance. The Law of the One G.o.d is a different thing. Written by G.o.d's own Prophet, affirmed by generations of priests, it was meant to be an absolute Law, which would endure for all time. A reflection of G.o.d's own Spirit, whose wisdom would be unquestionable. A pathway to salvation.

"Decry violence, the Law instructs. Reject sorcery. Resist, above all else, corruption of the human spirit."

His throat was dry. He drew in a deep breath, and wished he could reach down into the water and draw up a handful to cool his mouth. But his wounded leg throbbed and his muscles felt weak, and he thought that if he tried he might not rise up again.

"It came to pa.s.s that an Evil was born into our world, so great that faith alone could not do battle with it. We tried, my children, we tried. Five centuries ago we marched against the Forest with an army vast enough to tame a continent, with standards and with sorcery and with a host of weapons ... and we lost. We lost. We suffered a defeat so devastating that in the five centuries since we haven't managed yet to recover, in numbers or in faith.

"What would have happened after that war, if the soldiers of the One G.o.d had succeeded? Would those men and women have gone back to their homes and their families and enjoyed the rewards of their success? Or would they have sought out other enemies, other Evils, so that now, five hundred years later, you and I would live in a world in which faith faith and and violence violence were all but synonymous? A world in which constant war drained man of all his vital energies, so that nothing was left to devote to higher aspirations? were all but synonymous? A world in which constant war drained man of all his vital energies, so that nothing was left to devote to higher aspirations?

"Such were the questions I asked myself as I saw this Evil growing. Such was my torment of faith that nightly I prayed for guidance. While all about me temples fell, blood was shed, the souls of my people were made black by intolerance." He looked pointedly at the handful of soldiers who had been involved in the temple riots, and he saw them flinch as the accusation struck home. "The man in me longed to respond in kind to this Evil. The leader in me knew the cost of such action.

"Will You let Your people perish? I asked G.o.d. Is it truly Your will that mankind surrender to this darkness, rather than risk one transgression of Your Law? Would You rather we die now, blindly obedient, than survive to serve You?

"Then one night, I saw a vision. Say perhaps that G.o.d sent it to me, responding not to one man's prayers but to the pain and the fear of all His people. Or say instead that it welled up from the depths of my soul, from that secret place where conscience resides. What I saw was a creature of light, so bright and so beautiful that it hurt my eyes to look upon it. Its voice was not one voice but a choir, and as it spoke, its words echoed in my soul with a power that made me tremble. one voice but a choir, and as it spoke, its words echoed in my soul with a power that made me tremble.

"The Lord G.o.d of Earth and Erna is perfect, it said to me, but the world of men is not, nor are the creatures who inhabit it. Therefore are human choices uncertain, and full of strife. If given a choice between one man's sin and the destruction of a nation, what leader would choose the latter? But remember this if you choose to transgress, it warned me. Like the father who steals bread for his child, knowing it to be against the law, you must be prepared to pay the price for your actions. Thus alone can you save the child and still uphold the Law."

He lifted up to his hands toward the heavens in an age-old att.i.tude of prayer; futures flitted about his head like restless birds, bright and agitated. "Hear me, oh, my G.o.d," he prayed. "Hear me, Lord of Earth and Erna, creator of humankind, now made King of this Forest. In order to serve my people, I have trangessed against Your greatest Law. I have committed bloodshed, and sanctified violence, and encouraged in my people a fever of destruction which runs counter to Your every teaching. Let the sin be mine alone, not theirs. If any soul is to suffer corruption, let that soul be mine. Forgive these people, repair their spirits, replenish their souls' inner strength, make them as innocent in their faith as they were before my call urged them to violence. On my head and mine alone is the fault for any wrong we have committed. On my soul sits the weight of your judgment, my G.o.d."

All eyes were upon him, unwavering. He could see in their depths a ghost of doubt now, a quiver of fear. Good. Let them question what they had done here and they might yet be saved.

"In acceptance of Your Will," he drew out a slender knife from his sleeve, turning its blade so that it glittered in the sunlight, "and in recognition of the righteousness of Your most holy Law, do I offer You this sacrifice." Quickly he placed the knife against his palm and cut downward with it, hard. There was little pain, for the blade was sharp, but something stabbed his heart as the blood began to flow free. Fear? Regret? Those emotions had no place here, he thought fiercely. He raised up his hand in a gesture of benediction, so that all might see what he had done; a thin crimson waterfall splashed down into the river, and it seemed to him that the fae itself was stained red as it coursed outward from him.

"May You cleanse this land forever of the darkness which once ruled here," he prayed. Thin streamers of red were unfurling in the water, reaching toward the stunned men and women who stood upon the opposite bank. "May You cleanse my people of the darkness which has gripped their souls, so that in this new world which they have made they may be worthy of salvation. In Your Name, Lord G.o.d of Earth and Erna."

Earth-fae. It would give his words tenfold power, and adhere his message to the souls of his people. With his new sight he could see the power of his sacrifice spreading out in waves from the falling blood, and as each wave touched the future-images surrounding him they shimmered and shifted, taking on new patterns of potential. Some were more positive than before, but not enough. Not enough! G.o.d in Heaven, was he offering up his life for nothing?

And then Damien Vryce moved forward. Hesitantly at first, his eyes never leaving the Patriarch, then with firm conviction as he stepped into the river. He walked forward until he was near the river's center, knee-deep in the mountain water, then reached down with his hand and touched it. A thin stream of red curled about his fingers, almost invisible now as the Patriarch's blood thinned in the river's swift current. With a muttered prayer he brought up his hand to his forehead and touched it, leaving a drop of water on his brow. As he bowed to the Holy Father, another man staggered forward, following his lead. And another. And another. In the waters of sacrifice they baptized one another, and he could see the futures that gathered about them shifting tenor as they accepted, by that ritual, the gesture he had made. Scenes of violence dissipated even as he watched, and he felt tears come to his eyes as he saw them replaced by visions of hope, and peace, and reverence.

It wasn't all in vain, then.

No one saw him raise up the knife again, to a point some six inches down from where he had cut before. No one saw him press its slender point into his flesh, or twist it deep between the bones, or cup his hands so that the sudden spurt of arterial blood might be disguised as something less vital.

I accept Your judgment, G.o.d of Earth and Erna, and give myself into Your Hands.

He saw Andrys Tarrant step into the water, then turn back to see if his lover was following. Did she know that for a thousand years the Tarrant men had refused to marry except within the Church? After a moment-a long moment, fraught with obvious indecision-she nodded, and stepped into the water beside him, accepting the hand that he offered her.

One more soul for G.o.d, he thought. That was how you won a world. Step by step. Infinite patience.... he thought. That was how you won a world. Step by step. Infinite patience....

The world began to waver in his vision. The futures-so many favorable now!-began to fade. How long would it be before they realized what he had done? He tried to step down from his perch, but the water surrounding it was deeper than he remembered and he went down heavily, his damaged leg slamming into the river bed hard enough to send spear points of pain shafting up into his groin and beyond. He groaned, and for a moment almost fell. One or two of his people started toward him, but he waved them back. His wounded arm hung down now, where none could see it, and it seemed strangely distant now, not like part of his own flesh at all. From somewhere came the sound of splashing, as if of a body approaching, but that, too, seemed distant, a sound from another world. He drew in a deep breath and swayed, his strength ebbing out into the cold river current that swirled about his thighs. The efficacy of sacrifice is in direct proportion to the value of that which is destroyed. The efficacy of sacrifice is in direct proportion to the value of that which is destroyed. Or so the Prophet had written. What could possibly be of more value to this Patriarch, whose greatest dream had been to live long enough to see his world change? "I have nothing more precious to give," he whispered to his G.o.d. Darkness was closing in about his vision like a tunnel. The river's murmur had become a roar that filled his ears and drowned out all other sound. He could feel himself drifting off, could feel his soul's linkage to the flesh that housed it separating like a frayed cord, and he struggled to remain upright as long as possible. Best to die with dignity, he thought, to give this symbol power. Best to hold out long enough that no one tried to save him, until he was finally past all saving. Or so the Prophet had written. What could possibly be of more value to this Patriarch, whose greatest dream had been to live long enough to see his world change? "I have nothing more precious to give," he whispered to his G.o.d. Darkness was closing in about his vision like a tunnel. The river's murmur had become a roar that filled his ears and drowned out all other sound. He could feel himself drifting off, could feel his soul's linkage to the flesh that housed it separating like a frayed cord, and he struggled to remain upright as long as possible. Best to die with dignity, he thought, to give this symbol power. Best to hold out long enough that no one tried to save him, until he was finally past all saving.

And then he felt a touch at his side, human warmth, a powerful grip. He managed to focus clearly enough to make out a face, bearded and scarred and furrowed with concern. Vryce. At first he thought the man was going to try to help him, but then he saw the truth, that Vryce understood-not only what he was doing, but the necessity for doing it-and he let the man support him as the last of his worldly strength left him. Upright unto the end, his lifeblood staining his robes and Vryce's jacket as it streamed off into the river, to cleanse the Forest with its power.

Unto your judgment, my G.o.d. For Love of You.

In the darkness that was gathering now he saw a vision slowly take shape. A hazy point of light shimmered, shivered, then expanded into the shape of a planet, complete and perfect before his eyes. Erna. He could sense the rhythms of its tides, the heat of its life, the immeasurable beauty of its potential. He sensed the peace of a planet in utter harmony, where all life and all of nature were bound together by a power that flowed around and through everything....

... and he felt the presence of Man on Erna, an alien intrusion, abhorrent. He saw the tides of fae respond to the invader's presence, struggling to absorb him, to adapt. He heard the voice of one man rising above that of three thousand, offering Erna a key, a channel, a Pattern for contact.

Sacrifice.

Loss as a link; destruction as a creative force. Casca's madness reshaped the currents, carving out a niche of violence and mourning for his species to inhabit. And mankind thrived. The children of the colonists spread out across the planet, until their numbers were so great that no one man might command that kind of power again. Only something greater than a man, that served as the focus of a thousand souls. Something like a Church. A crusade.

A legend.

He saw a mountain crowned with smoke, whose slopes spewed forth gouts of fire, whose base was ringed by ghosts. He saw a man climb up that slope-but no, not a man, not merely merely a man. This was a legend incarnate, figurehead for a nation of fear. The Hunter trailed nightmares in his wake, that linked him to a million souls across the face of the planet. And when he raised up his sword and bound the fae to serve him, when he offered up the most valuable thing that any man possessed, the very currents shook with the force of his conjuring. From the ground at his feet shock waves swept across the planet, and the Patriarch saw that when they pa.s.sed, the currents of the fae shifted, as if accepting some new message into their substance. A new Impression, more powerful than Casca's. A new Pattern for contact, that would change the face of sorcery forever. a man. This was a legend incarnate, figurehead for a nation of fear. The Hunter trailed nightmares in his wake, that linked him to a million souls across the face of the planet. And when he raised up his sword and bound the fae to serve him, when he offered up the most valuable thing that any man possessed, the very currents shook with the force of his conjuring. From the ground at his feet shock waves swept across the planet, and the Patriarch saw that when they pa.s.sed, the currents of the fae shifted, as if accepting some new message into their substance. A new Impression, more powerful than Casca's. A new Pattern for contact, that would change the face of sorcery forever.

He saw his own body as if from a great height, Vryce now wholly supporting its weight. He saw men wading across the river in panic as they realized what he had done, but it was too late now for them to save him. The deed was done, the Pattern consummated. A new set of futures was taking shape, brighter and clearer than any he had seen before, and in them he could see the force of his own sacrifice encircling the globe, reflected and magnified in the souls of his faithful like sunlight in fine crystal. Such power, he saw, could change Erna forever. The Hunter had already paved the way, establishing a new channel for the currents to follow. He, with his death, would confirm that Pattern, and set it upon the face of the planet forever.

Self-sacrifice.

How many sorcerers would practice their Art when death was the price of a Working? How many men would be willing to part with their lives as casually as they had once parted with books, or artifacts, or even the lives of others? Those few who might dare to Work wouldn't be men of greed or cowardice now; the new rules would scare those away. Perhaps one man in a million would dare to pay the price the fae demanded, to serve a higher goal. Perhaps. As for the rest, they would observe that the fae was now a distant force, unWorkable ... and slowly the fae would respond to that belief, and become so in truth. As it had changed after Casca's sacrifice, so it would change again.

Bright futures exploded before his eyes, blinding in their brilliance. He saw a sky peppered with colorful explosions, winged carriages that flew like birds, a thousand and one precious legends of Earth come alive before him. There were things he didn't know the name for and things whose purpose he couldn't begin to guess at, but oh, the overall pattern was clear. Tears came to his eyes as future after future unfolded before him, not all of them perfect, but so full of hope! He saw what must have been a s.p.a.ceship-how smooth it was, how plain in design, how unlike anything he would have imagined a s.p.a.ceship to be!-and then the visions began to fade, pictures bleeding into a field of light, sensations into a numbing warmth- "Thank You, Lord," he whispered. Voicing the words within his soul, not knowing or caring if they ever reached his lips. "Thank You for giving me this."

Slowly, peacefully, the Patriarch let loose his hold on life, and slid down into the embrace of his G.o.d.

Dawn

Forty-three.

The Wedding was held in Merentha, beneath suitably sunny skies. There were storm clouds to the west, but no one saw them. There was a faint whiff of ozone in the air, harbinger of trouble to come, but no one smelled it. There were even a few drops of rain that fell upon the crowd during the ceremony itself, but no one noticed them, and the spots of wetness that lingered for some time afterward went likewise unregarded. All in all, despite the true weather, it seemed a beautiful day. was held in Merentha, beneath suitably sunny skies. There were storm clouds to the west, but no one saw them. There was a faint whiff of ozone in the air, harbinger of trouble to come, but no one smelled it. There were even a few drops of rain that fell upon the crowd during the ceremony itself, but no one noticed them, and the spots of wetness that lingered for some time afterward went likewise unregarded. All in all, despite the true weather, it seemed a beautiful day.

From his vantage point at the edge of the milling crowd, Karril grinned at the figure by his side. "Nice going, Sis."

Saris smiled.

There were flowers strewn about the ancient estate in such profusion that the air was a heady perfume, the scents of roses, carnations, lilacs, and a dozen other varieties all mingling in the afternoon breeze. True Earth-flowers, all of them, rushed to Merentha from gardens and hothouses all over the continent. They were gathered in pots by the front of the house, they twined up the trellis supports of the bridal canopy, they festooned the silk canopy itself in carefully orchestrated profusion. On the great wall they had been arranged so as to cover the sections of new mortar and stone which had recently been added, making it seem that the antique barrier was as perfect on this day as it had been when erected, nearly five hundred years ago. And if the scent of the flowers lacked perfect balance in any one place, if the cloying sweetness of one bloom interfered with the delicate fragrance of another ... well, that was one problem easily corrected. It paid to have Iezu among the wedding guests.

"How many of us are here, do you think?" Saris whispered.

Karril looked over the mult.i.tude and ventured a quick count. "Ten that I can see. Maybe more. Hard to pick them out in this crowd."

"All in human form," she mused. Her tone that made it clear that she found the thought incredible.

"Of course." He chuckled. "Wouldn't want to detract from the proceedings, would we?" He patted her gently on the shoulder-nesh-toned, not silver, and as flawless in texture as one would expect from a Iezu of her aspect-and whispered, "It's more fun this way, isn't it?"

"Fun is your department, not mine." But she smiled as she said it, and he sensed her relaxing at last into the unfamiliar masquerade. is your department, not mine." But she smiled as she said it, and he sensed her relaxing at last into the unfamiliar masquerade.

A bridal canopy had been raised in the middle of the courtyard, in accordance with some ancient Earth-custom whose purpose had been forgotten even as its aesthetic details were faithfully preserved. Sunlight shone through the fine white silk, rendering it aglow against the azure brilliance of the afternoon sky. White was the color of weddings, according to Earth tradition, and despite the fact that most of Erna preferred more festive colors, the Tarrant clan had always been Earth-reverent in its practices. Today was no exception.