Crown Of Shadows Part 4

With a shaking hand he brushed back his hair, trying to tame it into some semblance of order. A hopeless gesture. Calesta had ordered him to let it grow, and though the reason for that was something Andrys couldn't begin to guess at, like all of Calesta's orders it was meant to be obeyed. Did the demon really have a greater plan, Andrys sometimes wondered, or was he just toying with a wounded soul, seeing how long it would take Gerald Tarrant's last descendant to break? He didn't dare think about that. He needed the illusion of purpose even more than he needed its substance. The demon hated Gerald Tarrant every bit as much as he did, and had sworn the sorcerer's destruction. That was enough, wasn't it? Who cared what the details of his strategem were, if in the end the battle was won? Who cared if Andrys understood it?

He opened his leather satchel to made sure the painting was still there. It was. Hateful, hateful thing! It made his heart knot up just to look at it, rolled up into a tight little tube as if it were just some innocuous work of art being carted home from the decorator's. Amazing, what kind of power a simple object could have. He hoped he wouldn't have to unroll it. He hoped they wouldn't need to see it. He prayed that someday he would be free to burn it, along with all the hateful memories it conjured.

Someday.

With a trembling hand he reached out to open the door. Bells jingled merrily as he turned the k.n.o.b and pushed it open, a discordant counterpoint to his mood. He tried to relax as he stepped inside, and tried to force himself to walk in such a way that his movements would seem natural. Women could sense it when you weren't comfortable with yourself, and it made them nervous.

She was with a customer, a woman wrapped in fur and draped in oversized jewelery. She looked up and saw him, and it seemed to him that her smile broadened. Just a moment, Just a moment, her expression promised, and he thought that her eyes lingered on him for a moment before she turned her attention back to her customer. He forced himself to look elsewhere, wandering about the shop as he studied the works of art displayed there. Gentle, graceful silver forms: it seemed to him that he could pick out which were hers and which had been crafted by another hand. Delicate webworks, sinuous twinings, leaves and vines and wildlife ornaments so delicate that he feared to touch them. So like their maker, he thought. What would it be like to feel that delicate skin in his hands? her expression promised, and he thought that her eyes lingered on him for a moment before she turned her attention back to her customer. He forced himself to look elsewhere, wandering about the shop as he studied the works of art displayed there. Gentle, graceful silver forms: it seemed to him that he could pick out which were hers and which had been crafted by another hand. Delicate webworks, sinuous twinings, leaves and vines and wildlife ornaments so delicate that he feared to touch them. So like their maker, he thought. What would it be like to feel that delicate skin in his hands?

Easy, Andri. Easy. His heart was pounding so loudly he wondered if she could hear it. His heart was pounding so loudly he wondered if she could hear it. Take it slow. Take it slow. The bells rang as the door slammed shut, and he dared to turn around-and found her eyes fixed on him, those beautiful dark eyes which he knew so well from his dreams. His breath caught in his throat. The bells rang as the door slammed shut, and he dared to turn around-and found her eyes fixed on him, those beautiful dark eyes which he knew so well from his dreams. His breath caught in his throat.

"Well. Welcome back." Smiling, she fixed a stray lock of hair in place; was she aware of the s.e.xual interest that gesture communicated? She seemed at once an innocent, untested by the world, and a confident, enticing woman. It was a heady combination. "Have you decided to order some more regalia?"

He leaned against the counter with what he hoped was an easy grace; he had never felt less natural in his life. "Not quite." He glanced back toward the display of her work with studied casualness, then back to her again. "It occurred to me I forgot something the last time I was here."

"Oh? And what was that?"

He met her eyes then, and held them. "You never told me your name."

She looked away, but not before he had caught the flash of interest in her eyes. "Narilka," she said softly. "Narilka Lessing."

Narilka: Lilting, exotic, almost Earth-like in its rhythm. He was about to say something about how very beautiful the name was, how well it suited its owner, when the back door of the shop swung open and hit the wall, shattering the fragile spell between them. Lilting, exotic, almost Earth-like in its rhythm. He was about to say something about how very beautiful the name was, how well it suited its owner, when the back door of the shop swung open and hit the wall, shattering the fragile spell between them.

"Nari, could you-Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize we had a customer." The intruder was a heavyset man with a thick head of gray hair, a lined face etched in patterns of affection, and a strong, slightly coa.r.s.e voice. He nodded slightly in acknowledgment of Andrys' presence, a gesture at once proud and professional. "Please forgive me, Mer. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"This is Andrys Tarrant," the girl said, before he had a chance to respond himself.

The man's face lit up at the sound of his name. "Indeed?" He came forward toward Andrys, offering a hand. "An honor, Mer Tarrant. Gresham Alder, at your service."

"The honor is mine," he responded formally. The man's hand was warm and rough-skinned, his grip strong; he hoped he couldn't feel him trembling as they shook. "I got your letter. I'm anxious to see your work."

"Not all that impressive in its current state, I'm afraid. Now, as for Narilka's...." He beamed at the girl, and in that moment Andrys knew with unerring instinct that they had discussed him; the man's praise was his gesture of approval. For an instant he sensed the depth and complexity of their relationship, the degree to which she would rely on him for advice in all things. "Why don't you show him the crown, Nari?"

Her cheeks flushed slightly at the implied praise. "It's only half-finished," she told Andrys.

"I'd love to see it."

She led him through the door at the back of the shop, into the workroom beyond. Two heavy wood tables supported a plethora of tools, stacks of wire, canisters and flasks and narrow burners whose doused wicks gave off a strange acidic smell. One slender vise held a blackened silver ring, clearly in the process of being polished, and another gripped a small figurine whose upper half was inlaid with tiny stones. These things he saw peripherally as he followed the girl through the workroom, mesmerized by the play of lamplight upon her hair. It wasn't until they approached the second table that he saw the object laid out upon its surface clearly enough to react to it.

It was the coronet. Not rounded yet, but laid out flat atop the table, with his drawing spread out above it. Delicate figures of exquisitely fine detail supported the central sun motif, which was the focal point of the piece. There were still empty s.p.a.ces where other figures would be added, and the whole of it was stained black from the process of its manufacture, but there was no denying that even in this incomplete state it was a masterful work.

For a moment he forgot what it was, what price the original had demanded of his family, and could only whisper, "It's beautiful. Just beautiful." He reached out to touch it but then drew back, wary of the memories such contact might conjure.

"It's all right," she prompted. "It's strong enough."

He forced himself to reach out and touch the slender figures. The metal was cold, surprisingly lifeless. What had he expected? It was only an ornament-half-finished at that-whose place in history was a.s.sured by its power as a symbol, not some intrinsic malignance. Why then did he shiver as he touched it?

"Have you thought about the armor?" the silversmith asked him, when he finally turned away from the worktable. When he didn't answer, the man pressed, "Whether you'll want to wear it?"

He hesitated. The truth was, he didn't know how to answer. Calesta hadn't responded to his appeal for information on the matter, leaving him to guess at the demon's intentions. "I'd guess I should have that option," he dared. "Is it too much trouble?"

"Not at all. I just need to check the waist length, to see that the peplum sits properly. Your drawings were geared toward a taller man... which doesn't mean there's a problem, necessarily. Figure types vary in proportion as well as height."

It came to him suddenly, unwelcome knowledge that brought panic in its wake. They wanted him to try it on. Here. Now. In front of the girl, In front of the girl, he despaired, as the gray-haired man lifted up the heavy armor and offered it to him. He couldn't. Could he? he despaired, as the gray-haired man lifted up the heavy armor and offered it to him. He couldn't. Could he?

For a moment he couldn't seem to make himself move. The strap of his leather pack seemed to burn into his shoulder, reminding him of the hateful thing inside it. Then, stiffly, he released it and let it slide to the floor. The girl caught it up and for one mad moment he wanted to grab it away from her, lest that thing thing somehow contaminate her as well. He forced himself not to move, to draw in a deep breath, then to step forward and let metal plates be fitted around his body. Cold, so cold. The weight of it was heavy on his shoulders and it crushed his velveteen jacket against his body; even as Gresham Alder explained the nature of the garments he should wear beneath it he felt himself struggling for breath, trying not to be overcome by the suggestive power of this fitting. somehow contaminate her as well. He forced himself not to move, to draw in a deep breath, then to step forward and let metal plates be fitted around his body. Cold, so cold. The weight of it was heavy on his shoulders and it crushed his velveteen jacket against his body; even as Gresham Alder explained the nature of the garments he should wear beneath it he felt himself struggling for breath, trying not to be overcome by the suggestive power of this fitting.

"Fine," the armorer murmured, as he turned Andrys with steady hands. A tug at the waist, a pull at the arm-hole. "It'll be fine." And then he was facing the man and looking up into his eyes, and the smith asked, "Would you like to see it?" And he nodded, because he knew there was no other acceptable response.

The girl had brought a mirror, and now she held it before him. Trembling, he placed himself so that he could see his reflection. At first there was only a blur of gray, as if his eyes were unwilling to acknowledge what was before him... and then it came into focus suddenly, all of it, and it was too much. Too much! Gold sun splayed across his chest, gold wires coiling about its rays, pectoral and abdominal muscles sculpted like living flesh. Bold in its artwork, perfect in its craftsmanship, and oh, so familiar! Hateful, terrifying relic! He felt the metal burning where it touched him, hot through his clothing, acid-sharp; his his armor, brought back to life by the power of gold and craftsmanship. But even that wasn't the worst of it. It was when he looked at the whole image, from top to toe, from the s.h.a.ggy long hair to the black leather boots to the breastplate with the sun in between, that golden sun so like and unlike Earth's, that face so like a killer's- armor, brought back to life by the power of gold and craftsmanship. But even that wasn't the worst of it. It was when he looked at the whole image, from top to toe, from the s.h.a.ggy long hair to the black leather boots to the breastplate with the sun in between, that golden sun so like and unlike Earth's, that face so like a killer's- The sickness rose up in him with numbling force, too fast and too hard for him to fight it; helplessly, he fell to his knees, hot bile welling up in his throat as his body fought to shake off the power of that hated image. Then the horror of it was too much at last, and his body convulsed, spewing out the bile and the terror and the bitter exhaustion in one wretched flood of vomit. Seconds only, but it seemed an eternity. He brought his hand up to his mouth quickly, hiding behind it as he wiped his mouth clean with the silk cuff of his shirt sleeve; his cheeks burned hot with shame. He could sense the girl standing behind him, and her proximity increased his humiliation a thousandfold. How could he ever face these people again? How could he ever face her? her?

It was Gresham Alder who knelt by his side, muttering words meant to bridge that awkward moment. Andrys heard himself apologizing profusely, offering to clean up, insisting... but his offers were set aside, politely but firmly. Of course, Of course, he thought bitterly. he thought bitterly. They don't want me around here any longer than I have to They don't want me around here any longer than I have to be. As the smith helped him to his feet, he dared to meet the girl's eyes-just for an instant-and the pity he saw in them made his shame burn even hotter. No hope of getting to know her now, not after a fiasco like this. That knowledge hurt worse than all the fear and shame combined. be. As the smith helped him to his feet, he dared to meet the girl's eyes-just for an instant-and the pity he saw in them made his shame burn even hotter. No hope of getting to know her now, not after a fiasco like this. That knowledge hurt worse than all the fear and shame combined.

Somehow he pulled himself together. Saying the necessary words as he wrested the cursed breastplate from his torso, making the requisite excuses... somehow he managed to take up his bag again and get out of the shop without further catastrophe. He didn't even check to see that the rolled-up painting was still in it, but took off at a run down the narrow street. Feet pounding on cobblestones, shame pounding in his temples. When he reached the Hotel Paradisio, the doorman wouldn't let him in, so wild-eyed and disar rayed did he appear; he had to search through his bag with shaking hands to produce his key as proof of residency, and even then the doorman insisted on es corting him to the door of his suite. Taking care to steer him clear of the other guests. What did it matter? What did anything matter? He fell to his knees as the door slammed shut behind him, hot tears flowing down his cheeks. G.o.d in heaven, how long could he go on like this?

"What do you want?" he begged aloud. Willing Calesta to hear him, to answer. "What's the point of this? Tell me!" But there was no response. At last he struggled to his feet and staggered over to his bureau, where a flask of Jaggonath brandy awaited him. Disdaining gla.s.ses, he upended it and drank directly from its narrow neck, feeling the powerful liquid burn its way down his throat. Not enough. Not enough. Stumbling over to the table at his bedside, he caught up a small gla.s.s vial; black pills winked at him from within, promising the ultimate forgetfulness. It was dangerous to drink and then take these, too, he knew that. But what did it matter? Did he really want to live another day? Did he dare to face her her again? again?

Choking with shame, he spilled out a small handful of pills, enough for an evening's oblivion. With a quick motion he tossed them all into his mouth and used the brandy to wash them down. Fast. Before he could have second thoughts. If it killed him, then it killed him. At least this torture would be over with.

"What's the armor for?" he begged. The demon didn't answer him, which raised new doubts. What if Calesta didn't just hate Gerald Tarrant, after all, but all all the Tarrant clan? Him included? What if this was just some complex game the demon had concocted to torture them all- the Tarrant clan? Him included? What if this was just some complex game the demon had concocted to torture them all- No, he didn't dare think that, he didn't dare- Too much torture, too much too much!

"Calesta," he gasped. "Please. Help me."

But there was only darkness, and silence.

"That boy," Gresham said, "has real problems."

She wrung out the rag in the sink, not saying anything. She didn't trust herself to speak.

"Nari."

Slowly she turned to him, laying the rag aside. The floor was clean. The armor was clean. Her hands had finally stopped shaking.

"Nari. He's trouble."

She didn't dare look at him. She knew how well he could read her.

"You're stuck on him, aren't you?" His voice was gentle but the disapproval was clear. "Couldn't you have picked a sane one, this time? There are a few around, you know.

"Please, Gresh." She leaned against the edge of the worktable; her blouse front brushed the coronet. "Not now."

"Nari. Listen to me." He came up behind her and took her by the shoulders, turning her to face him. "You're like family to me, you know that? And when family gets hurt, it hurts me, too."

She was looking away, refusing to face him; he caught up her chin in his and and gently turned her back to him. "He's good-looking. He's rich. He's got charm that most men would kill for. And he's got problems, Nari. Real problems. Did you see the look on his face when he saw his reflection? Did you?"

"I saw," she whispered.

"I don't know what's going on with that boy, but I'd bet this shop it isn't healthy. Haven't you had enough of that kind? Don't you deserve something better?"

"I saw," she whispered. Fingering the delicate silverwork. He had touched it, too, and his hand had trembled. Why?

Yes, I saw him. I saw eyes wide with the kind of terror most men never know. Looking into those eyes was like looking into a mirror. Like being back in the Forest again, running from the unknown. Alone, so alone. Yes, I know that look.

"Nari-"

"I'm not a child," she snapped. Pulling away from him. "Not anymore. I can take care of myself."

And he would accept that, she knew it. That was the marvel of their relationship. Even though he was concerned for her, even though he thought she was dead wrong, even though he was sure she was heading for disaster. That was the difference between Gresham Alder and her parents. He had seen the change in her, when she returned from the Forest, and he had accepted it. Her parents couldn't. They still wanted to baby her, to shield her from all the evils of the world, and no matter what she said or did, they would never change in that orientation. How could she explain to them that she had already faced the greatest evil of all, the well of terror in her own soul? How could she explain the way in which that confrontation had transformed her, smothering the helpless child who so needed protection, giving birth to someone older and stronger and far more adaptable. What did the petty evils of this world amount to, when compared to the Hunter's Forest? Abusive men were an annoyance, nothing more. Even rapists were a finite terror. And as for men who wore the Hunter's face, whose haunted eyes hinted at wounds so vast that no mere words could set them to healing....

I can handle it, she told herself. Running her fingers over the sterling figures, imagining that she could feel Andrys Tarrant's warmth through the metal. Drawn to his pain, even as powerfully as she was drawn to his person. she told herself. Running her fingers over the sterling figures, imagining that she could feel Andrys Tarrant's warmth through the metal. Drawn to his pain, even as powerfully as she was drawn to his person. And I want to. And I want to.

"I'll be careful," she told him. "I promise."

Six.

"His Holiness will be with you shortly." will be with you shortly."

Damien nodded a distracted acknowledgment as the acolyte left him. He had been left to wait in the antechamber to the Patriarch's formal audience chamber, which didn't bode at all well for his upcoming interview. It was a s.p.a.ce designed to impress, perhaps intimidate, and it did so with marked aesthetic efficiency. The high, vaulted ceiling was of dark polished stone, unwarmed by paint or plaster; the numarble walls were sleek and minimally decorated. The furniture was stiff and formal, and after sitting in a high-backed chair for several seconds he decided he would much rather pace. All in all it was a markedly uncomfortable place, and Damien guessed that the room beyond, where the Patriarch meant to receive him, was much the same. Maybe worse. Not the kind of atmosphere he'd hoped for, that was certain.

What the h.e.l.l did you expect? 'Come into my parlor for tee, and oh, by the way, would you mind filling me in on your recent activities?' Fat chance, Vryce. You'll be lucky if he listens to you at all, and doesn't just throw you out before you get a chance to open your mouth in your own defense.

There was a small mirror on the far wall, a minimal concession to visitors who might wish to see if they looked as uncomfortable as they felt. He paused in his pacing to look in it, to see what manner of man the Patriarch would be confronting. The priest who gazed back at him was not the same man who'd left Jaggonath two years earlier, that was sure. Limited rations at sea had thinned his stocky frame until he looked almost trim, an unfamiliar somatype. With a weathered hand he stroked the short beard that now marked his jawline, and wondered if he shouldn't have shaved it off. His skin was markedly darker than it had been two years ago, a tawny brown that spoke eloquently of long months beneath an equatorial sun. There was gray in his hair now, a few strands at the temples and scattered bits of it in his beard. Gray! It was an affront to everything he perceived himself to be, the first hint of decay in a life too full of challenges to slow down for anything as mundane as aging. aging. He had almost pulled the hairs out when they first appeared-back when there were fewer than a dozen-but the sheer vanity of such an act reminded him of Tarrant, and so he'd let the d.a.m.n things stay. He had almost pulled the hairs out when they first appeared-back when there were fewer than a dozen-but the sheer vanity of such an act reminded him of Tarrant, and so he'd let the d.a.m.n things stay.

You could use the fae to maintain youth, he told himself. he told himself. Others have done it. Ciani did it. Others have done it. Ciani did it. At times, now, he could see how tempting that path might become, as age continued its inexorable a.s.sault on his flesh. But the Patriarch's words, voiced so long ago, came back to him at such moments. At times, now, he could see how tempting that path might become, as age continued its inexorable a.s.sault on his flesh. But the Patriarch's words, voiced so long ago, came back to him at such moments. When the time comes to die, as it comes to all men, will you bow down to the patterns of Earth-life that are the core of our very existence? Or submit to the temptations of this alien magic, and sell your soul for another few years of life? When the time comes to die, as it comes to all men, will you bow down to the patterns of Earth-life that are the core of our very existence? Or submit to the temptations of this alien magic, and sell your soul for another few years of life? The acceptance of such natural processes was central to Damien's faith, and dying at his appointed time would be his ultimate service to his G.o.d. Sure, it would be hard. Many things in this world were hard. That's what gave them power. The acceptance of such natural processes was central to Damien's faith, and dying at his appointed time would be his ultimate service to his G.o.d. Sure, it would be hard. Many things in this world were hard. That's what gave them power.

"Reverend Vryce?" It was the Patriarch's secretary, a young man Damien dimly remembered from two years back. "Please come in."

To his surprise the man did not lead him into the audience chamber, but opened the heavy mahogova doors for him and stepped aside for him to enter alone.

It was a large room, formal like the antechamber but more impressive in size and proportion. It reminded him somewhat of Gerald Tarrant's own audience chamber in his keep in the Forest. He stiffened as the memory of that tense meeting (so long ago that it might have been in another world, so real that it seemed hardly yesterday) came back to him. Back then one friend had been dying, another kidnapped, and the Hunter was his enemy. Now... he felt something tighten inside his gut as he walked toward the arbiter of his faith. Now he was... what? The Hunter's ally?

The Patriarch's expression was stonelike, unreadable, but a cold rage burned in his eyes. Such was the chill of it that Damien could feel his skin tighten in physical response. In two years' time he had managed to forget the power the Holy Father wielded: not simply the force of a unique personality, but the faeborn aggression of a man who molded the currents to his will without even knowing it. Now, standing against the force of that rage was like trying to keep his footing in a riptide.

If only you could learn to wield that power consciously, Damien thought, Damien thought, no man could stand against no man could stand against you. But the Patriarch never would. Sorcery was anathema to him, and so he had blocked all knowledge of his own natural skills, and lived an illusion of flesh-bound helplessness. you. But the Patriarch never would. Sorcery was anathema to him, and so he had blocked all knowledge of his own natural skills, and lived an illusion of flesh-bound helplessness. G.o.d alone knows what would happen to you if you ever learned the truth. G.o.d alone knows what would happen to you if you ever learned the truth.

"I've received your reports," the Patriarch said acidly. He gestured briefly to a table by his side, and the ma.n.u.scripts that lay upon it. Damien saw the coa.r.s.e sheets of his first report, shipped home from Faraday, and the thinner package of notes and drawings he had delivered himself to the Cathedral two days ago. At the time it had seemed like a good idea, letting the Patriarch see the nature of the war they were fighting in the hope he would be more forgiving about how the battle had been waged. But the ribbon which sealed the second package was still unbroken. He began to protest, then stopped himself. The Holy Father had deliberately chosen not to read his work in advance of their meeting as a gesture of his condemnation. To protest such a move would only bring that rage crashing down upon his head.

You knew this would be bad, he told himself. he told himself. Defiance will only make it worse. Swallow your pride for once in your G.o.dd.a.m.n life and wait this out. It'll pa.s.s. Defiance will only make it worse. Swallow your pride for once in your G.o.dd.a.m.n life and wait this out. It'll pa.s.s. But it was hard, so very hard. It went against every instinct of self-preservation that he had. But it was hard, so very hard. It went against every instinct of self-preservation that he had.

"I'm sure I don't need to comment upon your breach of protocol in leaving this continent without permission." The Patriarch's tone was like ice. "Your own report made it clear that you knew exactly what you were doing-and, I suspect, exactly what the eventual cost of such disobedience would be. To show such a level of disrespect for proper authority is a grave offense in a Church whose very foundation is hierarchical stability." He shook his head stiffly. "But you're not a stupid man, Reverend Vryce, though sometimes you play at it. You've read the Prophet's writings often enough to know your sin for what it was."

"I thought the situation merited it," he dared. Where was the safe ground in this scene? He wished he dared work a Knowing for guidance, but that was, of course, out of the question. "Under the circ.u.mstances-"

"Please. Don't insult us both. You knew exactly what you were doing, and what my reaction would be. And you also knew that your blatant defiance would give me the authority to discipline you in whatever manner I thought best, without interference from anyone."

There it was, the threat at last. How bad will it be? How bad will it be? he thought desperately. He remembered the nightmare Tarrant had once crafted for him, in which the Patriarch had cast him out of the Church. Would he really go that far? Without even reading his report, which justified so many of his actions? He began to protest, then bit back on it in anguish. The Patriarch was radiating rage in waves that warped the fae all around them; he he thought desperately. He remembered the nightmare Tarrant had once crafted for him, in which the Patriarch had cast him out of the Church. Would he really go that far? Without even reading his report, which justified so many of his actions? He began to protest, then bit back on it in anguish. The Patriarch was radiating rage in waves that warped the fae all around them; he wanted wanted the priest to react to him in anger, to justify the very harshest sentence. If Damien gave in to that influence and lost his temper, even for a moment, he might indeed lose everything. the priest to react to him in anger, to justify the very harshest sentence. If Damien gave in to that influence and lost his temper, even for a moment, he might indeed lose everything.

"I am the Church's loyal servant," he muttered.

"Yes," he said icily. "You are still that. For now."

He stared at Damien in silence for several long seconds. Studying him? Measuring his response? He forced himself to say nothing, knowing that any words he chose would be wrong.

"You traveled with the Hunter," the Patriarch said at last. His voice was cold, his manner utterly condemning. "A man so evil that many consider him to be a true demon. There's enough wrongdoing in that one act alone to condemn a dozen priests like you... and yet the matter doesn't end there, does it?" The cold eyes narrowed. "Does it!"

"We needed him," Damien said tightly. "We needed the kind of power he controlled to-"

"Listen to yourself! Listen to your own words! You needed his power. power. You needed his You needed his sorcery." sorcery." He shook his head sharply. "Do you think it makes a difference whether you fashion a Working yourself, or hire another to do it? Either way, He shook his head sharply. "Do you think it makes a difference whether you fashion a Working yourself, or hire another to do it? Either way, you you are responsible for the proliferation of sorcery. And in this case, for the proliferation of evil." are responsible for the proliferation of sorcery. And in this case, for the proliferation of evil."

He waved his hand suddenly, as if dismissing all that. For an instant something flashed in his eyes that was not rage. Exhaustion? Then it was gone, and only steel resolve remained. "But you know that argument as well as I do, Reverend Vryce. And I have no doubt that you've gone over it yourself time and time again, trying to find some theological loophole to save yourself with. An intelligent man can justify anything in his own mind, if he's determined enough."

He paused for a moment then, and Damien could almost feel the waves of condemnation lapping about his feet. The man's power was vast, if unconscious; by now all the fae in the room would be surely echoing his words, undermining the foundations of Damien's confidence. How did you fight such a thing without Working openly? "My only intention-" he began.

The Patriarch cut him short. "You fed him your blood." It wasn't a question, but a statement of utter revulsion. "More than once."

He was so stunned by the accusation that he could manage no coherent response, could only whisper "What?" The Patriarch couldn't possibly have knowledge of that incident. Could he? What was going on here?

"Let's ignore for the moment the symbolic power of such an act. Let's ignore the vast power you added to his a.r.s.enal, by making a voluntary sacrifice of your own flesh. Let's ignore even the channel it established between you, which by definition cuts through the heart of your defenses and makes you vulnerable to all his sorcery. Thus making the Church vulnerable, through you."

Was this another nightmare that Tarrant was feeding him, in order to make him afraid? If so, it was working. How the h.e.l.l did the Patriarch know such details of his travels, when his reports had made no hint of them? He found that he was trembling, and hoped that the Holy Father couldn't see it.

"Yes or no," the Patriarch said icily.

Did he really know, or was he only guessing? Why would one guess a thing like that? Feverishly he tried to work out how to minimize the damage. If the Patriarch's source of information was unreliable- "Yes or no!" he demanded.

Nightmare. It was a scene out of nightmare. How many times had Damien dreamed this scene, or its equivalent? And yet those dreams had no emotive power at all compared to this, the real thing.

Where the h.e.l.l had the Patriarch gotten his information?

"Yes or no."

He looked up into the Patriarch's ice-cold eyes, and suddenly knew the futility of denial. If the Patriarch had such detailed information as this, then there was no point in dissembling; the man had d.a.m.ned Vryce long ago, and long ago decided his punishment. Lying to him now would only make things worse.

He said it quietly, trying not to sound either guilty or defiant. "Yes."

A strange shiver seemed to pa.s.s through the Holy Father's frame. Had he expected some other answer? Damien felt as if he were being tested somehow, but not in any manner he could understand.

"You conversed with demons." There was no hesitation in the Patriarch's manner now; whatever confirmation he had required from Damien, he was clearly satisfied that he had it. "You countenanced the slaughter of numerous innocents, in order that the Hunter might be fed."

It took all his strength not to snap back a sharp response; the fae was beating at his will, battering his self-control. "It was necessary," he forced out between gritted teeth. "If you would read my report-"