“But you aren’t mine. You’re a guest from a foreign autarchy, with different traditions. Different beliefs regarding our faith. For all that we venerate unity, it would be unjust of me not to recognize that fact. Or to allow for it in my judgment.”
Shaking, he struggled to voice some neutral response. “I thank you, Holiness.”
“Don’t. Not yet.” The sharp gaze was venemous. “I wrote to your Matriarch, and outlined the situation. A month ago I received her response.” He pulled a letter out from his robe, cream-colored parchment folded in thirds; the gold seal of the Church hung from the bottom. “It gives me permission to wield authority in both our names.” The cold eyes narrowed. “Do you understand me, Vryce? If I decided that you aren’t fit to be a priest, there’ll be no running home for redress. Judgment is here and now.”
Damien said it very quietly, his heart pounding so loudly he could barely hear his own words. “Is that what you’ve decided?”
For a moment the Patriarch said nothing, only studied him. “No,” he said at last. “Not yet. But the future’s in your hands. I want you to understand that. Comport yourself like a priest and you’ll remain one. Otherwise ...” The words trailed off into silence, a threat too terrible to be voiced. Otherwise you will have nothing, the silent words continued. Because without the priesthood, what are you?
“I understand.” He tried to sound calmer than he felt. If only the Patriarch had read his report before meeting with him! Surely knowledge of the situation would mitigate his rage at Damien, and direct his energies elsewhere!
What good will your holy protocol do if Calesta has his way? What good can the Church do in a world where sadism rules supreme? It’s humanity’s soul we’re fighting for now, can’t you see that? Can’t you see how petty your rules seem by contrast, when the future of the whole world is at stake?
“Our most holy war is against corruption,” the Patriarch reminded him. “In this world, and in ourselves. The first battle is easy compared to the second. So the Prophet taught. I suggest you reflect upon that, and seek guidance from his writings. It may help put things in perspective for you.”
He nearly lost control then, nearly snapped at the
Patriarch that yes, he damned well knew about the Prophet’s writings, he had traveled with the bastard for two years now and probably had a better handle on his philosophy than any man alive. But—
The Prophet is dead in this man’s eyes, he realized. And maybe that’s right. Maybe I sense a ghost of that identity in Tarrant because I want it to be there, not because it really is. Maybe I fear my own corruption too much to look at him objectively.
He met the Patriarch’s gaze head-on; in coldness and power it reminded him of the Hunter’s own.
You would have no power over me if I weren’t already plagued by guilt, he thought to the man. You would have no power to make me obey if I didn’t believe, in the core of my soul, that you were right.
“I am the Church’s servant,” he said quietly. Trying his best to sound humble. “Now and always.”
The Patriarch nodded; his expression was grim.
“Then let’s see it stays that way, Reverend Vryce.” His voice was quiet, but the threat behind his words was clear. “Shall we?”
7
Narilka remembered:
Kneeling on the ground, the cold ground, the Forest earth. Fingers raw and bleeding. Legs cramped from endless running. Exhaustion like a vise around her chest, and every breath gained a fleeting triumph against its constriction.
Wait, he had said, when the Hunt was over and he had decided to spare her life. Just wait. My people will come for you.
She tried not to be afraid. This was the Hunter’s land, wasn’t it? The people here were his. The beasts obeyed his will. Even the tentacles of thorny vines which had torn at her ankles while she fled, the black-barked trees which had blocked her path, the tangled branches overhead which filtered the moonlight so that practically none of it reached the ground ... they were all his creatures, weren’t they? And he wouldn’t hurt her. He had promised her that. The Hunter would never, ever hurt her.
"Please come soon,” she whispered, clutching the amulet he had given her. Blood from her roughened hands filled in the delicate etched channels, smeared across the golden surface. She could feel the Forest closing in around her like some vast living thing with a will of its own, its cold heartbeat throbbing beneath her knees. Every creature in its confines was a part of that system, every branch and insect and microbe. One living anatomy, all of it, united as the cells of a single body were united. And the Hunter was its brain. If he chose to kill her, then his Forest would rise up, every living and unliving thing within its borders, and crush her as surely as the swat of a human hand might kill an insect. All with no more thought than that, she knew. The Forest was his reflex, no more. He had promised not to hurt her. She clung to that thought as the cold breeze stirred branches too near her face, as their sharp tips scratched her skin ever so lightly. She jerked back, startled. There was rustling in the bushes all around her, and it took all her willpower not to struggle to her feet and start running again. Not that she would last long. She hadn’t slept for nearly three days now, and her only food had been hard black berries that had made her stomach cramp and had bloodied her stool. Fortunately she had found water on her second day, or she might not have made it this long—
Fortunately? She laughed bitterly. There was no fortune in this place, nor any random hope to cling to. The Hunter had meant to chase her for three nights, therefore she had found enough water to keep going; his Forest had herded her properly. What kind of mind did it take to create such a place, what magnitude of power did it demand to keep it going? She couldn’t begin to understand it, but she had heard its music. Black music, whirlpooled in his eyes. She shivered, remembering it. She shivered for wanting it so badly, and for fearing that desire.
The rustling had stopped, she realized suddenly. It seemed to her that it ended abruptly, or perhaps she was only suddenly aware of it. Trembling, she rose to her feet. Her legs shook and her feet burned in pain, but she managed to straighten up, her hand clenching the amulet so tightly that its edge cut hard into her palm. What new danger was this, that drove the normal denizens of the Forest to silence? It was a man.
He stepped from the darkness suddenly, into a thin beam of moonlight that allowed her to see him. A ghost of a man, with ghastly pale skin and eyes that blazed blood-red in the darkness. His hands were long and thin and his fingernails had been sharpened like claws; his teeth, when he grinned, were long and sharp likewise, as though Nature had stripped them from some predatory beast and set them in his mouth. There was no color about him, not anywhere on his person, and his flesh had a nacreous glow that spoke of a chill, unwholesome power.
There was sudden movement behind her, about her, and she whipped about to see its source. Wolves, lean and hungry ... but not any creatures that Nature had made. These were warped, obscene entities, whose thin legs ended in handlike extremities, whose eyes glowed redly like the eyes of their master, whose fur was as pale as the fur that he wore on his vest, as the hide that made up his boots. It took effort to turn away from them, to face the man again; but he was their master, that she sensed clearly. Growl they might, paw the ground with their mishapen limbs, but they wouldn’t attack her without his approval.