Crown of Shadows (48 page)

They rode northward for several hours, until at last, atop a low rise, Zefila called a halt. In the distance it was just possible to see the grasslands give way to a tightly wooded expanse, and Andrys felt his soul clench up at the sight of it. For a long time they stood there, gazing down at the enemy’s domain, and no one spoke a word. The air seemed to be thicker coming from that direction, and colder, and it carried a scent that was markedly unpleasant, of blood and illness and flesh gone to rot. One man was sickened enough by it that he went off to the rear of the company to vomit; Andrys could hear his heaving off to the left somewhere as he struggled to gather his own courage, and he wished desperately that he could sneak away and steal a drink. But there’d be no more ale now and no more wine until this matter was finished, he knew that. In a realm where one’s every fear would be given wings and teeth and the hunger to kill, drunkenness was too volatile a weakness.

They made camp there, within sight of their enemy’s domain. Amidst the wreckage of former encampments, now abandoned by the hunters and foragers who had erected them, they unpacked tents and bedrolls so new that price tags still dangled from the ends of many, and advertising leaflets fluttered to the grass as packs of foodstuffs were wrenched open. They would spend the night here and then move with the sun, letting that ultimate enemy of night light their way into Hell’s domain. Not that the light would actually help them much beneath that canopy, Zefila observed, studying it with a farseer, but the symbolism was important.

Symbolism.

It was in the name of symbolism that he unpacked his armor late that day. It was in the name of symbolism that he would be expected to wear it now, so that the troops might become accustomed to him in his new role. It was in the name of symbolism that he would be introduced to them anew, not as a visitor from a foreign realm, but as one who held the key to the Hunter’s domain: flesh of the Hunter’s flesh, blood of his blood.

One of the men had been sent in to help him, and at last it was he who took up the heavy breastplate and fitted it around Andrys’ torso, over his shirt. The youngest Tarrant shut his eyes and trembled, not only for what the moment represented in a military sense, but for the memories that were suddenly awakened. Her hands, soft upon the steel, gentle against his flesh. Her eyes, so deep and dark that a man could drown in them. Lost forever now. He felt a wetness come to one eye and wiped it away quickly, hoping that the man who was adorning him didn’t see it. He had to be strong now, that was part of his new image. Part of his
new persona.
Andrys Tarrant, a leader of men ... he almost laughed aloud. Was there ever a greater contradiction than that one? How Samiel would have roared with outraged laughter to hear it!

And then hands were guiding him and the man was telling him that all was finished, and he found himself stepping out of the tent, being led by a stranger’s touch toward the place where his fellow warriors awaited, where the Patriarch awaited....

Where his fate awaited.

The Patriarch stood at the crown of the mount, with the men and women who served him ranged in a half-circle beneath. Andrys came to the Patriarch’s side and bowed formally, acutely aware of how much each gesture mattered now. They had schooled him well on the journey here, and he went through each move like a seasoned dancer, sensing the power of his performance. Eighty-seven men and women—for they had left none in Mordreth—gazed upon the image that he projected, and their response shimmered in the unseen currents, creating a reality more powerful than any one man could manifest on his own. The fae here was so volatile, it was said, that a man’s dreams took on reality before they were even completed; what power did that give to the joint dreams of a hundred, when their minds were all fixed on a single focus?

Him.

He looked like the Prophet now, as much as any living man could. His hair had been cut straight across the bottom, in the Prophet’s chosen style, and though it wasn’t quite long enough for the illusion to be perfect, it was damned close. His armor was the same as that in the mural which overhung the sanctuary in Jaggonath, down to the finest detail, and the clothing he wore beneath it was likewise identical. He was an image out of history, a creature of living legend, and as the waves of reaction rose up from the small crowd, he could feel it like a dull heat on his face. God, it was hard to breathe. He pulled at his collar to loosen it, but that didn’t help much. The constriction was internal.

He stood there as the Patriarch explained to them all just what the link was between Andrys Tarrant and the Hunter. He tried not to flush with shame as several of his companion warriors nodded knowingly, as if to say
yes, we knew he wasn’t one of us, this at least explains why he’s here.
Had he proven himself so unworthy in the past few days that such an explanation was required ? As the Patriarch detailed the role that he would play, as the sun set in golden splendor behind him, Andrys heard few of the words. He was alone again, alone among aliens, and the one person who might have brought him comfort was a hundred miles behind him now, in another world.

The Forest will recognize this man as its own,
the Holy Father explained.
It will let him pass through unhindered, and every man that belongs to him will likewise be protected. Therefore every one of you must swear fealty to him, here and now, so that the relationship is clearly established.

They came to him one by one, then, to kneel before him and clasp their hands between his own. The words of oathtaking left his lips automatically, and he hardly heard them. Because as each man and woman knelt before him, as they repeated the ritual oath that the Patriarch had designed, the fae that coursed about them began to take on a new texture. He could feel it as he spoke, and the hair along the nape of his neck began to rise as if something loathsome were stroking him. It took everything he had not to draw back from them, to stand his ground and force the ritual words to his lips as if nothing whatsoever were wrong. After five of the oaths had been taken, it seemed to him that the loathsome
something
had somehow gained entrance to his brain, so that its presence seemed more intense when he struggled to think clearly. Panic welled up inside him, all the more intense because no one surrounding him seemed to be aware that anything was wrong.

Then, as the tenth oath was completed, it suddenly became clear to him what was happening.

The vows which these people were reciting had been carefully crafted for the occasion in much the same way that other prayers—and the Law of the Church itself—had been crafted in the past. Emotive phrases had been designed to evoke specific images, so that the fae might be imprinted with the Church’s will. And it was working, all too well. The volatile fae at the edge of the Forest was quick to acknowledge the Church’s chosen imagery, and to set it upon the flesh which served as its focus. As soldier after soldier knelt before Andrys, acknowledging him as the Hunter’s kin, he could feel that fae pounding at him, driving the image home. He could feel bits of his identity tearing loose, and like a drowning man whose strength is failing him, he sensed the vast emptiness beneath him, which wanted only a moment’s acquiescence to swallow him whole.

He panicked then, and if the Patriarch hadn’t been by his side, he might have turned and run. But either the Holy Father sensed the turmoil in him, or his visions had given him warning; he came up behind Andrys and put a hand firmly upon his shoulder. Just that. The simple touch reminded him of everything that had driven him here, of the horror that his life had become, of his commitment to the Church and to these people who served it. Trembling, he stood his ground. Another man knelt before him, and then a woman, and then two men. Each oath spawned a new tidal wave of power that slammed into him, leaving him so breathless it was all he could do to mouth the words of acceptance which had been assigned to him, not hearing them, just struggling to survive. He was seeing visions now, vile hallucinations that would no doubt have pleased the Hunter, images of blood and death and violence so extreme that it seemed impossible anyone could have witnessed them. Were these Gerald Tarrant’s memories, or some nameless, less precise horror? He shivered as they poured into him, struggling to hold onto his sanity. Twenty oaths. Thirty. The line seemed endless, and as each new soldier knelt before him, he wanted to scream at them, he wanted to turn and run, he wanted to be anywhere but here, doing anything but this....

And then there was a familiar touch in his mind, and the visions shifted. Only for a moment, but the moment was enough. Calesta’s touch, sure and effective, rekindled the hatred that was his only remaining strength. Visions of blood gave way to visions of his family’s slaughter; dreams of violence gave way to the hunger for vengeance. He clung to the moment’s offering as a lifeline, and somehow forced the required words past his lips time and time again:
I accept the dedication of your life to mine, I acknowledge you as an extension of my will, I swear unto you protection against all harm....
He gasped as the cold malignance of the Hunter’s presence surged through his flesh, and felt the Patriarch’s grip tighten on his shoulder.
Oh, God, he prayed, if you’re really out there, if you give a damn, help me!
But the God of Earth wasn’t known for interference in such affairs, and His holy representative, for all his good intentions, had no idea what manner of power he had conjured with this ritual.

And then it was over. The last man retreated a respectful distance from the mound, giving Andrys room to breathe at last. Shivering violently, the young man prayed that he would be allowed to withdraw soon. Surely it was in all their best interests that his terror not be made manifest before the troops! But then there was a stirring by his side, and the Patriarch himself stood before him. The clear blue eyes met his for a minute and he felt himself pierced through by their intensity. Then, with a nod, the Holy Father slowly lowered himself to one knee and offered up his own hands for oathtaking.

No! Andrys wanted to scream.
I’m unclean now! Can’t you see that?
But the Patriarch’s gaze was steady, and his hands didn’t waver from their position. At last, trembling, Andrys took up the required pose. “For this one occasion,” the Patriarch’s oath began. “In this single set of circumstances.” He had chosen his words carefully, but Andrys could barely hear them. The cold grip of the Forest was squeezing his heart, and terror surged within his veins. What if the creature who received this oath was no longer entirely Andrys Tarrant, but some half-made being that was even now being reWorked by the Forest’s currents? He understood why the Patriarch felt that even he must be fully a part of their deceit, but wasn’t the risk just too high?

Don’t do it! he wanted to yell.
Save yourself, your people need you!

And then it was truly over, all of it. Finally. Dazed, he listened to the closing rites, watching as the golden Corelight took precedence over the clean white light of the sun. The latter was wholly gone now, and the first stage of night was descending. Soon the demons of the night would come out in force, and if they didn’t acknowledge Andrys in his chosen role-

Don’t think about that,
he thought desperately. Knowing, in the core of his soul, that the unclean essence of the Hunter was inside him now, and that any hungry demonling with eyes could see it.
Oh, God.
He had thought that it might drive him mad to pretend to be the Hunter; what would it do to him if the Forest’s fae transformed him utterly, making him into a copy of that damned soul in truth? What would his Church allies do then—struggle to save him, to salvage his soul, or condemn him to the same fate as his forebear?

He suddenly felt trapped, and was desperately glad that the tents had already been erected; as soon as this nightmare scene was over, he could take refuge in the limited privacy of his assigned canvas quarters. The thought of that privacy was all that sustained him as the last prayers were said, the last evocations recited....

He walked. He wanted to run, but that would only alert the others, and then they would follow him. He walked to the tent that had been assigned to him—a private tent, in deference to his new position of authority—and carefully ducked in beneath the flap. His heart was pounding so loudly he was amazed they couldn’t hear it, but maybe their minds were on other things. Maybe in the face of what was coming tomorrow they had little time to spare for worrying about the mental health of their chosen figurehead.

His pack was lying beside his bedroll; he dropped to his knees beside it and struggled to open it, his hands shaking as he attacked its ties and clasps.
Soon,
he promised himself.
Soon.
Thinking of what was inside and the peace that it would bring, he could barely manage the patience required to get the damn thing opened. Then the top flap was open at last and he spilled his possessions out onto the ground, all of them in a pile. With feverish hands he sorted through the pile, having no concern for any item other than the one he sought. Buried, it eluded his searching fingers for long, painful minutes. He drew in a deep breath and started again, this time moving each item to a new pile as he searched beneath it. Clothing, first aid, toiletries ... It wasn’t there.
No,
he thought. Not daring to believe it. He searched through the pile again, this time less neatly, and when he was done the interior of the tent was littered with his possessions. Still the small bottle eluded him. He began a desperate search through the pack itself, forcing shaking fingers down into its deepest pockets, squeezing the lining to see if anything had fallen down into it, madly searching even the straps—

“Looking for something?”

The voice stopped him cold. The straps of the pack fell from his numbed fingers as he looked up from the ground to his visitor’s face, scanning robes that were all too familiar.
God, please,
he prayed,
spare me this humiliation.
But no simple prayer was going to make the Patriarch go away, no matter how heartfelt it was.