Crown of Shadows (35 page)

Damien looked up at last, and met the Holy Father’s gaze. There was pain in the man’s eyes, and a moral exhaustion so immense that it seemed impossible any human soul could contain it. How long had he tormented himself over this decision? How many hours had he gone sleepless, while Calesta tried to push him to the breaking point? “I won’t give him that victory, Vryce. I won’t serve a demon’s will in any way. Even when he’s right.”

Shame flushed his face. “I’ve tried to serve the Church.”

“Yes. As have thousands of unordained worshipers, each in his own way. Loyalty isn’t an issue here. Or even judgment. I thought once that it was, but now ...” He hesitated. “I have a somewhat broader perspective.” He shut his eyes for a second, and Damien thought he saw him shiver. “The issue isn’t loyalty, or the quality of your service. The issue isn’t even whether or not a man must do terrible things to serve his God. Obviously, there are times he must. The only issue is whether or not a man who has defied Church tradition should represent that Church, and so cast doubt upon its teachings in the public mind. That’s an issue I can’t judge, Vryce. Not when condemning you means that I strengthen our enemy’s hand.”

He said nothing. It seemed amazing to him that the thing he had feared most, his expulsion from the Church, now was overwhelmed by a horror more subtle, but infinitely more terrifying. The Holy Father of the Eastern Autarchy, the living representative of the One God, must now hesitate in performing his duty for fear of pleasing a demon! Is that what the Church had come to? Is that what Calesta had done to them? He despaired to see this sign of it, and to feel it echo in his own soul.

“I see you understand,” the Patriarch said, after some time of silence had passed. He slid open a drawer by his side and drew out an envelope from it. “As of today, you have no more duties in this autarchy. You’ll still be granted full access to all Church facilities; the campaign which you’re fighting deserves no less. Other than that, I think it best for all concerned that you act as an independent.”

He could feel the weight of that icy gaze upon him, and he nodded. “Yes, Your Holiness.” The words barely made it past the knot in his throat. “I understand.”

The Patriarch studied him for a moment longer—was he using the fae in some way, Knowing him as well?—and then handed him the envelope. “This will provide you with some revenue for room and board, and other basic necessities. Whatever remains may be addressed to your cause as you see fit. You needn’t bring me an accounting of it, unless you intend to ask for more.”

Surprised, Damien looked up from the envelope, searching for some hint of purpose in the Patriarch’s expression.
He can’t officially approve of me,
he realized,
but he doesn’t dare drive me away. Not only because it would please Calesta, but because I’m one of the few people who really understand what’s at stake here.
Had the Patriarch looked into the future and decided that Damien’s role was vital to the Church’s survival, or was the inspiration less focused than that? Damien folded the envelope in his hand; the pulse in his palm made the paper tremble. “Thank you, Your Holiness.”

“It leaves open the question of what your role should be in larger issues, of course. But you can address that in your own conscience far better than I can. You were trained as a priest, Damien Vryce, and ordained in a centuries-old tradition of sanctity and obedience. I pray that you will reflect upon that tradition during the trials yet to come, and consider how your actions reflect upon us all.” He paused, as if to ascertain that his point had hit home, and then said quietly, “That’s all. You are dismissed.”

Stunned, Damien managed to get to his feet. He wanted to say something, to protest,
anything
—but the Patriarch’s attention had already turned elsewhere, cutting that option short. And what was he going to say to him anyway? How would his petty trials of conscience measure up to this man‘s, whose shoulders had taken on a burden so terrible that God’s own Church might topple if he stumbled? What were one priest’s paltry misgivings, compared to that?

Shaken, he pushed the folded envelope into his pants pocket without looking at it. The Patriarch’s words had given him freedom to act as he saw fit, yet he felt more bound than ever. The man had acknowledged that conscience must sometimes give way to expediency, and yet Damien’s conscience burned even hotter as a result. Had he done right, he wondered suddenly, to cling to the priesthood with such desperation? Was that true service to God, in the face of all he had done, or service to himself?

Swallowing hard, he forced himself to bow. Deeply: a motion not only of ritual obeisance, but of heartfelt respect.
You had the right to judge me,
he thought somberly.
Only you, of all men. I would have respected it. I would have obeyed.
Now, instead, the Patriarch had left that judgment in Damien’s hands. It wasn’t a burden as heavy as his own, but it was heavy enough. The priest flinched as he accepted it.

“May God be with you,” he whispered, bowing again. Meeting the Patriarch’s eyes for one fleeting second as he rose, sensing the torment behind them.

The waiting room
outside the Patriarch’s study was exactly ten paces by six. Long paces, hurriedly measured, with a pounding heart for accompaniment. As he completed his tenth circuit—or was it his twelfth?—Andrys wondered if he might not be better off fleeing right now, rather than waiting for the Father of the Church to frighten him into doing so.

What did he want with him anyway? In another time and place he might have imagined it had something to do with the perceived importance of his family (he had told that priestess his name, after all) or some other matter connected with the fact that the Tarrants had been avid Church supporters for longer than most families had even been in existence. But to take refuge in such a story now, no matter how tempting, was to be hopelessly naive. Calesta had brought him to Jaggonath, and had ordered him to attend services here. Now, less than two weeks after he had begun to establish a pattern of regular attendance, the single most important man in the Eastern Autarchy had asked him to come here for a private interview. Obviously it had something to do with Calesta’s plan. What he couldn’t figure out was why the demon hadn’t given him some kind of guidance—what he should say, how he should act—or even some warning that this might happen.

The door at the far end of the chamber opened suddenly; startled, he quickly brushed his hair back in place and turned to face it. The servant who had brought him here smiled pleasantly and told him, “He’ll see you now.” She held the door wide for him as he passed through it, and then shut it quietly behind him. She was a pretty thing, and ordinarily he might have regretted that he had no chance to make her acquaintance. Now, however, his focus was elsewhere.

The Patriarch had been sick, it was said, struck down for a day and a night with a malady so serious that they had thought he might die. The harsh notes of illness still echoed in his flesh, clearly enough that even Andrys, a stranger, could see it. Yet beneath that the man was undeniably powerful, with a physical presence that belied his years and an aura of dignity that no sickness could compromise. He looked like what a Patriarch should look like, Andrys thought: a leader of men, a spokesman of God. Never before had he been in a presence that so totally defined itself.

With a faint smile of greeting the Holy Father moved toward him, and suddenly Andrys realized that he had no idea how one was supposed to greet such a personage. Did you bow, or maybe kneel, or just nod and mutter something suitably acquiescent? Samiel would have known what to do, or Betrise, but he had no idea. He was acutely aware of his own lack of religious background as the Patriarch studied him, nodded, and then deliberately offered a hand. Thank God. He shook it, and the man’s firm grip lent him newfound strength. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

“Mer Tarrant. I’m glad you could come.”

“The honor is mine, Your Holiness.” Now that the first awful moment was over with, some bit of his accustomed ease was coming back to him. “Although it was a bit unexpected, I must admit.”

The Patriarch’s eyes—a startling blue, as bright and clear as sapphires—fixed on him with unnerving intensity. For a brief moment he had the impression that not only his physical person was being judged, but his very soul. At last, after what seemed like an eternity, the man turned away and gestured toward a pair of chairs arranged beside a window. “Please,” he said. “Will you join me?”

He nodded, and hoped the motion looked natural. He felt like a bug pinned to a dissection board when the Patriarch looked at him, and he hoped those piercing eyes would find other things to focus on while they spoke. The chairs, heavily upholstered, flanked a small table outfitted with a plate of confections, crystal glasses, and a chilled pitcher. What on Erna did this man want with him, that he had taken such obvious trouble to set up an environment conducive to casual conversation?

The pitcher apparently contained a light wine, and he accepted a glass of it gratefully, glad to have an object to hold in his hands, another focus for his attention. The wine was cold and sweet and delicate in flavor; not a vintage that he recognized, but clearly an expensive one. As Andrys looked around the chamber, taking in its paintings and its rugs and its gold-embossed books, he realized that for the first time he was seeing the Church as his ancestors had known it—rich, proud, and timeless.

“It’s rare we have guests from so far away,” the Patriarch said. An obvious lie, Andrys thought; the center of the Eastern Autarchy must surely draw tourists from all the human cities, some that would make Merentha seem like a close neighbor. “And rarer still, from so illustrious a family. Our cathedral is honored.”

It was obviously the time for him to say something complimentary, and he did. The words of social concourse flowed like honey across his tongue, while all the while he wondered, with increasing alarm,
Why did he bring me here? What’s this all about?
He didn’t believe for a minute that the mere presence of a Merenthan noble had prompted this interview. He hoped the Patriarch didn’t expect him to believe it. But the forms must be observed, and so Andrys gave over control of his speech to the part of his brain so well versed in social repartee that he could hold a conversation like this in his sleep. While all the while another part fluttered in panic like a caged bird, waiting for the blow to fall.

Was the Church thriving in Merentha? Was that city still populous? Had it made successful conversion from a port city to something less ambitious, when the Stekkis River shifted its course five centuries ago and left it high and dry? These were all questions that any history book could answer, and Andrys had no doubt that the Patriarch had read them all. Was his family still a patron of the Church, as it had been in the early days? He hesitated over that one; the words
my family
is
dead
almost came to his lips, but instead he said simply,
the Tarrants have always been devout.
He didn’t add, as honestly prompted,
except for me,
but the Patriarch’s piercing gaze and slow, knowing nod suggested that he knew that as well.