When True Night Falls (20 page)

And at last he came to the building he sought. It stood in the center of an immense circular lawn, whose manicured gardens and precisely aligned trees all drew one’s attention to its gleaming portals, its Revivalist grandeur. He knew from the maps he had seen that this building stood at the true center of Mercia, that though other buildings might rival it in physical grandeur its geographic position made it clear that it was the life and the soul of that miraculous city.

Slowly, reverently, he approached Mercia’s great cathedral.

He expected there to be a guard on duty. There was none. He guessed that they had seen him coming and, observing his robes, had elected to be discreetly absent. For which he was grateful. He would have found it difficult to talk to anyone now, save the One he had come to address. The One whose Presence breathed from the stones of this building like a living essence, drawing Damien in.

With a prayer on his lips, his heart pounding, he pushed open the great doors and entered.

The sanctuary was empty, and utterly silent. The stillness of it was so absolute that it invaded Damien’s soul, quieting the roar of his blood, the whirlwind of his emotions. Domina’s light filtered through stained-glass windows five times the height of a man, spreading a shifting mosaic of colored light across the polished stone floor. The ceiling overhead was so high it was lost in shadows, as intangible as the night itself. The sheer vastness of the space seemed to dwarf him, impressing upon him the ultimate humility of human existence—and at the same time it forced him to expand, to fill its vaulted emptiness with the fire of his human spirit. In here, one could believe there was a God. In here one could believe that man could commune with Him.

He walked quietly to the head of the aisle, listening to his footsteps resound in the emptiness. Faith curled about him like an evening mist, centuries upon centuries of unquestioning devotion that had left their mark upon the floor he trod, the altar before him, the very air he breathed. Earth-fae: utterly tamed, utterly tractable. He had dreamed of it without understanding. Now he knew. Now he understood. He put out his hand, knowing that it curled about his living warmth like a flame. No need to See it; faith was enough.

Silently he knelt on the plush velvet carpet, his white robe gathered beneath his knees. In his eyes the afterimage of the fireworks still burned, sparks that shimmered and died in the shadow of Mercia’s great altar. How unimpressive those lights seemed now, when compared to the triumph of faith that had made them possible! And they knew that, he thought. Not the common people, perhaps, but the leaders. They knew.

Trembling, he bowed his head. And tried to voice a prayer so deeply embedded in his soul that for a moment no words would come. For a moment he did no more than pour his hope, his joy, his love of the Church into the boundless reservoir of faith that surrounded him.

And then the words came.

There were tears on his face, running down his cheeks. He left them alone. They, too, were a kind of prayer, too precious to disturb: a psalm of pure emotion.

There was a sound behind him. It took a moment to sink into his consciousness. It was as though he floated in another world, halfway between this planet and something that was beyond all definition. Something so painfully beautiful that he could hardly bear to look upon it, much less turn his eyes away to seek out the source of a simple sound.

“Father?”

The realm of the Infinite loosed its grip upon his soul, and gently returned him to the present. He got to his feet slowly, with effort, and turned; his eyes, well-adjusted to the darkness, had no difficulty in making out the speaker’s identity.

“Captain Rozca,” he whispered. Not a little surprised. More than a little confused.

The man came toward him slowly, stepping from shadow into ruby-colored light, then into shadow again. A heartbeat of illumination. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, Father. If it’s a bad time—”

“Not at all,” Damien managed. The captain’s expression seemed strained, as if reflecting some inner turmoil. Best not to address that directly, he thought. Best to let him express it in his own way, in his own time. “How did you find me?”

“I followed you from the fairgrounds. I hope you don’t mind. I thought, that is I felt, that is ... I wanted to talk to you.”

“I’m here,” he said softly.

“When I saw ... I mean ... They couldn’t have done that at home, could they?” He was closer now, close enough that Damien could watch his face as he struggled to find the right words. “The fireworks, I mean.”

“No.” He shut his eyes for a moment, remembering. The brilliance. The joy. “Maybe priests could manage something like it, maybe adepts could mimic it ... but not like that. Not on such a scale.”

“You talked to me about it on the
Glory
,” he said. “How if enough people worshiped your god it would make a real difference. Not just in matters of faith, you said, or in religious things, but in the way we lived. I didn’t really understand. Not then. But here....” He looked toward a window, helplessly. “I’ve seen things here I didn’t think a god could do. And you know what gets to me? That they vulking take it for granted! It’s just one more show of pretty lights to them, or one more smoking cannon, or one more bustling steamship ... they don’t even know what they’ve got here, Father. Do you feel that? Am I crazy?”

“No, you’re not crazy. You have vision, and that’s very rare. Very precious.”
Hold onto this moment,
he wanted to say.
You may never have one like it again.

“It’s just that I ... damn it, this is hard.” He turned back to Damien, but couldn’t meet his eyes. “I don’t say things like this too good, you know. Words don’t come easy to me. It’s just that I’ve been thinking all night, all through the firelights, and I ...” He drew in a deep breath, shaking. “I want you to take my oath, Father.”

For a moment Damien had no words. Speech seemed an alien concept; words that he might have spoken jumbled in his brain, caught on his tongue. He forced them out. They weren’t the words he wanted to say, but words that he was bound to. Because fairness was part of his duty, too. Perhaps the most important part.

“What you’ve seen here is very impressive, I understand that. But when our business is done here you’ll be leaving, and this night will be no more than a memory. In the world we came from, will that be enough? Mine isn’t an easy faith, captain, or a popular one. Are you sure it’s what you want?”

“Father,” he answered, “The way I see it, you go through life in stages. First you’re young and ambitious and you think nothing’s going to get in your way, not ever. Then you get to the point when you realize that the world’s a damned hard place to live—downright nasty on occasion—and it’s hard enough to keep your head above water all the time, much less come out on top like you want. At that point you figure if some god can make it all a little easier, why not? What’s a prayer or two to you, if it gets you what you want? But then,” he said, “when you get older, you realize there’s something else you want, too. Something that’s harder to put a name to. Something a man gets when he writes a song that’ll be sung long after he’s dead, or paints something that his great-great-grandchildren will hang on the wall ... or helps change his world. Do you see, Father? There’s a lot of things this world might become, and before tonight I didn’t much bother to think about it. My own little piece of the present was enough, and the rest could take care of itself. But now ... I’ve seen what the future could be, Father. I’ve seen what this world can become. And I want to help make it happen. Even if it’s just a little bit. I want to do my share.” He hesitated. When he spoke again there was genuine humility in his voice, a tone no man could counterfeit. “Will you take my oath?”

Damien nodded.

The captain knelt before him; it was clearly a position to which he was not accustomed. After a moment’s hesitation he lifted his hands, clasped palm to palm, before him. Damien folded his own about them, his pulse warm against the callused skin. And he spoke the same words that had been said to him so very long ago, so very far away, at the birthtime of his soul.

“This is the way of the Lord the One God, who created Earth and Erna, who led us to the stars, whose faith is the salvation of humankind....”

And as he intoned the words that would bind yet another soul to his mission, he whispered silently,
Thank you, God. For giving me this moment. For showing me that I wasn’t alone tonight. For showing me that none of us are alone, not ever. Not in Your service.

“Welcome to God’s service,” he whispered.

A study in silence: the jagged peak of Guardian Mountain, granite-clad and still. No life stirred on those harsh slopes, nor anything that might attract life. No breeze swept across the bare rock, though winds had gusted strongly up to half an hour before. The storm which had been headed this way had been turned aside, for no better reason than the one with the power to do so had no patience left for storms. The peak was as still as death itself, reflecting the mood of the one who stood upon it. Reflecting his soul.

And then there was movement. Not visible to most, perhaps, but visible to him. A tremor of earth-fae; a whisper of foreboding. The power that was near him thickened, focused, began to coagulate into solid form. Flesh. A woman’s body at first, and then—as the body became more solid—it shifted to a man’s form, draped in a man’s attire. Velvet robes, priceless jewels, fur collar that rippled as if in the wind, despite the lack of breeze. As he changed form, so did the surroundings. The cold peak disappeared, to be replaced by a palace interior. Rich silk tapestries, frescoed walls ... the fae-creature waited a moment for the man on the peak to react, then shrugged. The tapestries gave way to trees, the walls to a brilliant Coreset. Still no response. He let that fade to a church interior. When even that image failed to stir the man’s interest, he let it fade as well, and replaced it with a scene out of nightmare. A vast field of skulls stretched for miles before them, and in its center—at the feet of the man—an offering cup of blood. About its brim was engraved a ribald limerick in ancient Earth-script. He saw the man glance down to read it, then turn slowly toward him. His expression made it clear he was not amused.

“You really have no sense of humor tonight,” Karril said.

“I Called you five nights ago,” Gerald Tarrant pointed out.

“You did. And someday when you’re in a better mood I’ll tell you just how much fun it wasn’t to cross Novatlantis. My kind rides the earth-currents, remember? Do you know what they’re like in that region? If a horse did to you what the fae did to me, you’d unevolve the whole species.” With a short wave of his hand the demon banished the nightmare images. Black walls took their place, dressed with crimson curtains and golden sconces: the trappings of the Hunter’s palace. “You want to tell me what’s eating you, or you want me to guess?”

“I thought you could read my soul.”

“I can’t read pain. You know that.”

“Is it that?” he murmured. “Already?”

“You tell me.” When the Hunter said nothing he pressed, “You Called me for a reason.”

“I Called you to see if I could Work through to the west from here.”

“Well?” He spread his hands generously. “I heard you. Here I am.”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “With you it worked.”

For a moment the demon studied him. Then, very softly, he ventured, “I wasn’t your first effort, was I? You must have tried other times, without result. Tried to call up some power from your western reservoir, and it wouldn’t respond. Is that it?”

The Hunter nodded tightly.

“I suppose it makes sense, you know. Summon a demon who has a will of his own, and maybe he’ll choose to make the trip. Summon the power of the Forest, which has no independent spirit....”

“I couldn’t,” he whispered. “The distance was too great. And Novatlantis—”

The demon shuddered dramatically. “I understand.”

“You know what that means, don’t you?” His voice was quiet but strained; evidently his self-control was being pushed to the breaking point. “I can’t go home. Not the same way I got here.”

“I thought your priestly friend was willing to support you.”

“Yes. He fed me his blood and his nightmares for half a year ... and I starved, Karril. I starved. Even now the hunger still resonates within me. Why? It’s never been like this before. Never been something I couldn’t master. Until now.”