You knew this would be bad, he told himself. Defiance will only make it worse. Swallow your pride for once in your goddamn life and wait this out. It’ll pass. 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 circumstances—”
"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? 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 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. You needed his 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, you 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 arsenal, 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 hell 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 drearris had no emotive power at all compared to this, the real thing.
Where the hell 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 damned 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 pass 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—”
"You gave in to corruption." The very air seemed to shiver with the power of the Patriarch’s condemnation. “You fell into the Prophet’s own trap, justifying your sins by the very scriptures that damned you.” He paused, then demanded, “Must I deal with each transgression individually?” he demanded. “Or will you simply accept that I know them all? That I pass judgment on you not only for one sin, or several, but for nearly two years of continual defiance?”
He drew in a deep breath. “Your Holiness, if you would only let me explain—”
“In good time, Reverend Vryce. I’ll read your report. I may even listen to what you have to say. After I’ve made my position perfectly clear.”
He paced a few steps toward the far wall and back again. “If you were one of my own I wouldn’t hesitate to demote you, maybe even cast you out of the priesthood entirely. Because allowing you to serve the Church is one thing, but allowing you to represent it is another matter entirely. If I had ordained you-if any of my people had-I might free you here and now of all your Church obligations, so that you could spend your years warring with demons and gambling for human souls without any concern for my interference. I suspect you would be happier that way.