Crown of Shadows (36 page)

Two glasses of cool wine lubricated his tongue, and by the end of the second, against his will, he could feel himself starting to relax. The Patriarch seemed to sense it, for he leaned back into his chair with seeming casualness and said, in a voice that was artfully calm, “There are some issues I would like to discuss with you, Mer Tarrant, that I think are of mutual interest.”

Heart pounding anew, he poured himself another glass. If he could have exchanged it for a hypodermic full of tranquilizer right now, he would have done so. “Oh?” He tried to make his voice sound equally casual, but instead it had the forced ingenuousness of bad melodrama.

The Patriarch said nothing for a moment; Andrys had the distinct impression that he was waiting for him to compose himself, so he drew in a deep breath and tried to do so. When his heartbeat had slowed enough that he could make out its individual strokes again, the Holy Father said, “You’ve heard, no doubt, of our troubles in the north.”

Feeling that he was expected to say something, he offered, “I’ve read the papers.”

“The Forest has always been a thorn in our side. I’m sure you know that the Church once tried an all-out effort to cleanse the place, once and for all. It failed, of course. You can’t do battle with the planet itself, and that’s what the Forest is: a whirlpool of fae that no act of man can unmake. They didn’t understand that then, or perhaps they simply chose not to believe it. It cost them dearly.”

He nodded, and muttered something meant to indicate that yes, he knew Church history, he remembered the salient details of the Great War and its devastating finale.

“For years now the Forest has been a reasonable neighbor: evil, but civilized. Its neighbors enjoyed a tense and wary peace, and it in return has been permitted to flourish unopposed for more than five centuries.” He laid his own glass down on the table and seemed to be studying its rim thoughtfully as he said, “Obviously, that truce no longer exists.”

“Are you sure about that?” he dared. He wished he had read the newspapers more closely, so that he had a better understanding of the matter to draw upon. “After all, there have only been a few incidents.”

The blue eyes were a cold fire that sucked in his soul. “I’m sure,” he said quietly. “What we’ve seen is only the beginning. The Forest will devour its neighbors—body by body, acre by acre—until in time it has the strength to do battle with us upon our own holy ground. That is,” he added, “if it goes unopposed.”

Fear was a sharp thrill inside him. “You’re going to make war against the Forest?”

“I’m going to make war against the Hunter,” he answered coolly. “Once the prince of that domain has been humbled, his unholy construction will topple from the center outward. His most fearsome creations will become no more than nature meant them to be: simple demons, subject to the sword or to prayer or to any of a thousand other simple tools. With our triumphant song resonating from mountaintop to river shore, with our victory echoing in a million human souls, we will do the Forest more damage than all the armies of our greatest age could manage in their time.” He paused then, perhaps waiting to see what Andrys’ reaction would be. Could he sense the hunger in him, Andrys wondered, the fear, the sense of standing balanced on the edge of a pit, so precariously that a light breeze might cause him to topple forward into the darkness? “I was told,” he said at last, “that you might have an interest in serving this cause.”

Heart pounding, he struggled to keep his face and voice calm as he answered, “I might.”

“You have a special connection to all of this, Mer Tarrant.” He stressed the last name ever so slightly, as if testing its veracity. “One that you and I must explore a bit, before I can offer you your place in our enterprise.”
With your permission,
his eyes seemed to say. As though they were discussing some mundane bit of business over afternoon tea.

“Of course,” he murmured, and he nodded.

He picked up his glass and sipped from it again, studying Andrys over its rim. When at last he was done, he placed it carefully before him, sculpting the moment of silence so that it lent double weight to the words which followed. “How much do you know about your ancestor, the first Neocount of Merentha?”

The only Neocount of Merentha.
The words echoed in his memory with stunning power, voiced in the inhuman tones of his family’s murderer. For a moment it was hard not to lose touch with the present moment and return to that time; the scent of fresh blood was thick in his nostrils as he tried to force out some kind of coherent response. “I don’t ... what is it you want to know?”

“Do you know that he lives today?”

He hesitated, knowing that the crux of his future lay in this one moment. If he meant to feign ignorance in order to back out of this enterprise, this was his last chance to do so.

He thought of his family lying dead upon the ancient stone floor. The fire dying in the hearth while he wept, unmanned and unfutured, in a heap in the corner. He thought of all the months that he had suffered after that, the accusations leading to a nightmarish trial, hallucinations driving him to the brink of madness ... and the girl.
She
knew what was going on. What would she say, if he had his chance and backed away? How could he face her again?

“I know,” he whispered.

Something in the Patriarch’s posture seemed to relax ever so slightly, as if he, too, knew what that acknowledgment signified. “The man once called Gerald Tarrant became transformed at the end of his mortal life, into the creature we now know as the Hunter. He moved into the Forest soon after our last assault against that realm failed, and remade it to suit his own needs. To reflect back upon him his own damned nature.”

He nodded slowly, trying to see where this all was leading. What was it they wanted him to do?

“The Forest in Jahanna is now so perfectly ordered that it functions like a living body, with all its parts in harmony. Like a construct of natural flesh it depends upon its center, its brain, for purpose and for balance. And like a body of flesh it defends its brain with utmost vigor. Anything of foreign origin which breaches its borders would be subject to immediate attack, much as a microbe which invades human flesh would be set upon by antibodies. Only in this case, the antibodies are the stuff of our own nightmares, turned against us by a man who can sculpt our very fears.”

He nodded ever so slightly—afraid of what was coming next, but unwilling to cut the narrative short.
Calesta,
he begged silently,
give me strength. Give me courage.

“The Hunter can come and go as he pleases. So can his minions, who are but an extension of his own will, and his beasts, and all his infernal creations. But any creature which has its origin in the world outside—or any army composed of such—would no sooner step into his realm than the earth itself would move against them, and every living thing from microbe to man would become their enemy.” He paused, then added quietly, “Unless the Forest believed that such creatures were also a part of him. Then and only then could they proceed.”

The Patriarch’s plan hit him so suddenly that it drove the breath from his body; his numbed hand dropped the glass as he pushed himself up and away from the man, overturning the chair in his panic. “No!”

The Patriarch did not respond. If he had—if he had said anything at all—Andrys would surely have bolted from the room at a dead run and never looked back. His nerves were trigger-taut, and any word—even one of intended comfort—would set them off. But the Holy Father said nothing. Time passed. After a small eternity had come and gone, Andrys found that he could breathe again. Several millennia later, the urge to flee subsided somewhat. Terror maintained its painful edge, but it no longer mastered his flesh.

“I see you understand the situation,” the Patriarch said quietly.

“I ... I think so,” he managed. His voice was hoarse and strained, and seemed to him like the voice of a stranger. “You want me to ... lead ... some kind of group? Is that it?”

“More than that, I’m afraid.” His eyes were coolly sympathetic, and their message was clear:
We understand the pain we cause but cannot turn aside. This mission is greater than both of us.
“I need you to stand in for the Hunter. I need you to
be
him. Not in truth—not in your heart or in your soul—but in those aspects which his creatures will recognize.” He paused, as if waiting to see if his guest would flee at this new revelation. Though he was afraid to hear more, Andrys nodded. “The resemblance between you is uncanny. With the proper accoutrements—”

“I have his armor,” Andrys said quickly. “And I have his crown. Like the things he wore into war. In the mural,” he stammered, and he nodded stiffly in the direction of the sanctuary, toward where that hateful painting hung. He had thought that the Patriarch would be startled by such a revelation, but the man only nodded, as if he had expected to hear it. The local Church was rife with rumors of his visionary power, and some murmured that God’s own prophecies came to him in the night and showed him what was to be. Had he foreseen Andrys’ coming, and the role he was to play? Was he weighing every moment now against a host of futures revealed to him, trying to choose the one that would not send his guest running away in a fit of panic, never to return? He remembered the Patriarch’s long silence, so perfectly measured against his own fear, and began to tremble deep inside. What kind of power did this man wield, that gave him such terrible control?

“Then you’re with us?” the Holy Father asked.

He shut his eyes, and felt his very soul quake. “Yes,” he whispered. The sound was barely loud enough for a man to hear, so he said it louder. “Yes. I’m with you.”

Was this the fate you meant for me, Calesta? Was this why you wouldn’t tell me what the crown and the armor were for? For fear that sheer terror would drive me back to Merentha before your arrangements could be completed?
He lowered his head and thought dully,
How well you anticipated everything. How well you controlled it all.

“I’m very grateful for that, Mer Tarrant. With your assistance we may yet triumph over Erna’s most vicious demon. Praised be God, who in His wisdom brought us both to this point.”

“Praised be God,” he muttered weakly. Suddenly needing to escape this place, and all the plans within it. Suddenly needing clear air and room to move . . . and the healing arms of a woman. Narilka was waiting for him back at the hotel, he knew that. More loyal a woman than he deserved by far, but now as necessary to him as the very air he breathed. Could he make it through all this without her quiet strength supporting him? He hoped he never had to find that out.

He muttered a leavetaking, hoping it was polite. Evidently the Patriarch sensed his need—or had he foreseen it?—for he made no attempt to convince him to stay longer. And why should he anyway? The deed was done. The contract was all but signed. Andrys Tarrant belonged to the Church now, proud soldier in its mad dest enterprise.

But at the door he stopped, unable to leave the room, There was still something unspoken here, something the Patriarch should know. Something he needed to know, if Andrys was to play his role effectively.

He turned partway back, not far enough that he had to meet the Patriarch’s eyes but enough that his words would be clearly audible. “Gerald Tarrant killed my family,” he whispered hoarsely. Choking on the words, and on the painful memories they conjured. “I want him to pay for that. I ... I would do anything to hurt him.”

It seemed to him that the Patriarch sighed. Then, with a soft whisper of silk on silk, the Holy Father rose from his seat and came over to where Andrys stood. He put a hand upon the young man’s shoulder, and it seemed to Andrys in that instant that the man’s own strength and certainty flowed through the contact, bolstering his own fragile hopes.

“He’ll pay for that sin in Hell,” the Holy Father assured him. “And so many others. We’ll see to it.”

“
Tell me
about Senzei Reese.”

Startled, Damien looked up from the volume he was studying. “What? Why?”

“Tell me about him.”

He stared at the Hunter for a moment as if that action might net him some information, but as usual Tarrant’s expression was unreadable. At last, with a sigh, he closed the book. “What do you want to know?”

“The man. His habits, his beliefs. Tell me.”

“May I ask why?”

“Later. Just tell me.”

So he did. It wasn’t the easiest task in the world, but after half a night’s frustrating dedication to dusty tomes and wan hopes, it was as good an assignment as any. He tried to remember Ciani’s assistant, and to describe him for Tarrant. Thin. Pale. Studious. Utterly devoted to Ciani, and to their work. What was it that Tarrant wanted? he wondered. Why did a man who’d been dead for nearly two years suddenly matter so much? Not knowing what his focus of interest was, Damien floundered through a description.
Meticulous. Focused. Frustrated.
He went through the easy adjectives first, and then he came to the painful part.
He was obsessed by the desire to become an adept. He was convinced that somehow it could be managed. He believed
... He struggled to remember, to find the right words.
He thought that the potential was there inside him, waiting to be let out. That somehow, if he could only “set it free,” he’d be the equal of Ciani.