Part 19 (1/2)

”But this draft-”

”The Patriarch's a practical man. He knows there are things I can do as a free agent which he, because of his rank, can't even try. And he knows that if we don't stop Calesta now, the Church he loves may have no future. That's all.” He laughed shortly, harshly. ”Believe me, I wish there were more to it.”

He said it quietly, with rare compa.s.sion: ”They didn't turn you out?”

”Not yet,” he muttered. Color rising in his cheeks. They're leaving that to me. They're leaving that to me.

Leaving the draft on the table beside him, the Hunter came to where he stood, and put a hand on his shoulder. Just for a moment, and then it was gone. A faint chill remained in Damien's flesh where he had touched him, and he nodded ever so slightly in appreciation of the supportive gesture. Then, without a word, Tarrant walked to the door and let himself out. The sky outside the window was a paler gray than before; he had little time to take shelter.

Cutting it close, Damien thought, but it didn't surprise him. With Tarrant's remaining lifespan measurable in hours, it was little wonder that he squeezed out every minute he could. Damien thought, but it didn't surprise him. With Tarrant's remaining lifespan measurable in hours, it was little wonder that he squeezed out every minute he could.

Alone in the rented room, his hand clenched tightly about the Patriarch's draft, Damien tried hard not to think about the future.

Twenty-six.

It was nearly dawn. The city's central square was all but deserted, its myriad muggers banished by the growing light, its hidden lovers long since gone to bed. At its far end the great cathedral glowed with soft brilliance, its smooth white surface as fluid and ethereal as a dream. nearly dawn. The city's central square was all but deserted, its myriad muggers banished by the growing light, its hidden lovers long since gone to bed. At its far end the great cathedral glowed with soft brilliance, its smooth white surface as fluid and ethereal as a dream.

Damien stood for some time, just staring at it, not thinking or planning or even fearing... just being. Drinking in the human hopes that had polished the ancient stone, the soft music of faith that answered every whisper of breeze. Then, as Erna's white sun rose from the horizon, he climbed up the stairs and rapped softly upon the door, alerting those within to his presence. After a moment he heard footsteps approach and a bolt was withdrawn along one of the smaller doors; he stood before it as it was opened, presenting himself for inspection.

”Reverend Vryce.” It was one of the Church's acolytes, working off his required service hours as night guard. A thin and gangly teenager, he seemed strangely familiar to Damien. ”Do you have business here?” Ah, yes. A face out of memory. One of the dozen lads whom the Patriarch had a.s.signed to him as a student, several eternities ago when he had first come to Jaggonath. His fledgling sorcerers.

He nodded in what he hoped was a rea.s.suring manner. ”I came to pray.” The boy looked considerably relieved, and stood aside to let him enter. What did you think, that I would ask you to rouse your Patriarch near dawn so I could discuss sorcery with him? What did you think, that I would ask you to rouse your Patriarch near dawn so I could discuss sorcery with him? Then he looked at the boy's young face and thought soberly, You did think exactly that, Then he looked at the boy's young face and thought soberly, You did think exactly that, didn't didn't you? you?

”I won't be long,” he promised.

The sanctuary was empty, as he had hoped. The night crew had finished its cleaning and retired long ago. His footsteps echoed eerily in the empty s.p.a.ce as he approached the altar. A familiar path. A familiar focus.

The altar. There was nothing on it to wors.h.i.+p, really, as there would be on a pagan altar. The Prophet had dreamed of a Church without such symbols, in which the center of wors.h.i.+p would be something greater than a silk-clad table, something less solid and more inspiring than a block of earthly matter. But Gerald Tarrant had lost that battle, like so many others. The children of Earth expected an altar, and their descendants did likewise. The baggage of humanity's Terran inheritance was not to be discarded so lightly.

He knelt before the ancient symbol of faith, feeling the vast emptiness gathering around him as he shut his eyes, preparing his soul. He wished that any words could ease the tightness in his chest, or dull the sharp point of his despair. He wished mere prayer had that kind of power.

G.o.d, he prayed, he prayed, I have loved You and served You all my life. Your Law gave meaning to my existence. Your Dream gave me purpose. In Your service I grew to manhood, measuring myself against Your eternal ideals, striving to set standards for myself that would please You. I live and breathe and struggle and Work-and accept the inevitability of my own death-all in Your Name, Lord G.o.d of Earth and Erna. Only and always in Your Name. I have loved You and served You all my life. Your Law gave meaning to my existence. Your Dream gave me purpose. In Your service I grew to manhood, measuring myself against Your eternal ideals, striving to set standards for myself that would please You. I live and breathe and struggle and Work-and accept the inevitability of my own death-all in Your Name, Lord G.o.d of Earth and Erna. Only and always in Your Name.

He sighed deeply. The weight of centuries was on his shoulders, past and present combined into a numbing burden. If he died here and now, with this prayer upon his lips, there would be a kind of justice in that, he thought. And an eas.e.m.e.nt, that he had been spared one final test.

Unto my dying day I will serve Your Will, obey Your Law. No matter how much it hurts, my G.o.d. No matter how hard it is. That was the vow I made so many years ago, when I first came into the Church; that's the oath I serve today.

He knelt a moment longer, head bowed, soul aching. The pain of despair was sharp within him now, and when he rose up to leave, it stabbed into his flesh with brutal force as if trying to bring him to his knees again. Trying to put off that most terrible moment, which beckoned to him like a spectre. He bore the protest silently, without complaint, knowing that it was a kind of communion with his conscience, and therefore the most perfect prayer of all.

Slowly he walked back down the length of the aisle. At the end of the sanctuary he paused, and he fingered the opening to the offering receptacle, the protective flap which would allow departing wors.h.i.+pers to commit a coin or two to the Church's coffers, without giving them access to the offerings of others. Human nature being what it is, Human nature being what it is, he thought grimly. For a moment he fingered the flap without thought, moving it back and forth along its hinges. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. he thought grimly. For a moment he fingered the flap without thought, moving it back and forth along its hinges. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope.

For His Holiness, it said. Only that. He held it in his hand for a minute, trembling slightly, and then slid it beneath the flap. He could hear it fall to the smooth metal bottom of the offering case, and then there was silence. It would wait until the next well-attended service, when an attendant would take it up and deliver it. By then, he hoped, he and Gerald Tarrant would be long gone. it said. Only that. He held it in his hand for a minute, trembling slightly, and then slid it beneath the flap. He could hear it fall to the smooth metal bottom of the offering case, and then there was silence. It would wait until the next well-attended service, when an attendant would take it up and deliver it. By then, he hoped, he and Gerald Tarrant would be long gone.

In Your Name, my G.o.d. Only and always in Your Name.

His formal resignation in its place, Damien Vryce began the long and lonely walk back to his apartment.

Twenty-seven.

Her children were coming. were coming.

She sensed their presence as she brooded within her sanctuary, and wondered at the sudden stirring of activity. Most of her children never bothered to look in upon her once they were set free in the world. They preferred to make their own fates, and she had no argument with that. It was what she had intended so very long ago, when she had brought the first of them into existence.

But now they were coming here. All of them. The ones who could speak to her, and the ones who could not. The few who could share her memories directly, and the hundreds who were all but unaware of her existence. They were coming because several of their number had defied her, coming to see if she would accept their transgressions, or punish them ... or what?

What indeed, she thought.

She had made rules for them so that they might live and learn and grow, and ultimately serve her purpose. For a thousand solar cycles those rules had gone unquestioned. That was as it should be: a mother giving life had every right to define what paths her children would take, and to eradicate those few who failed to accept her guidance. But what about a child who did understand, but who consciously chose to defy her? The concept was so alien to her that she could scarcely comprehend it. It would never have happened in her homeland, that was certain.

You don't know what's driving them. You cannot judge.

She had given them orders. They had disobeyed. She had set forth the laws of their existence, which was her right as their creator. They had chosen to ignore her.

They should die.

It was her right, without question. Some might have argued that it was even her duty. Certainly her first family, who had accompanied her to this place, would have been quick to condemn any of their own number who defied her will so openly. But these new children of hers ... these wild, defiant infants ... might they not have something to teach her, before they died? Had she not sent them out into the world for precisely that purpose?

They are only half mine, she reminded herself. Remembering that act which was neither pa.s.sion nor pain, but simple desperation. So many matings. So many failures. She had thought once that by choosing the right mate she could ensure a successful brood, but that plan had gone awry so often she despaired of ever making it succeed. In fact she had lost nearly all of her hope, nearly all of what little strength remained to her ... until now. she reminded herself. Remembering that act which was neither pa.s.sion nor pain, but simple desperation. So many matings. So many failures. She had thought once that by choosing the right mate she could ensure a successful brood, but that plan had gone awry so often she despaired of ever making it succeed. In fact she had lost nearly all of her hope, nearly all of what little strength remained to her ... until now.

Her children were coming! So many, all at once. They had never gathered together like this before, not for any one purpose. Would it make a difference? she wondered. Would there be a power in the sheer ma.s.s of their gathering, a force born of their limitless variety, that might shed a ray of hope into the void of her despair? If she killed the disobedient ones now, she would never know. They would disperse again, the strong ones and the weak ones and the ones so distant that it seemed none could speak to them at all. What would it take to bring them together again after that? What kind of tragedy would she have to invoke? It was far easier to withhold her punishment now, she thought. Far easier to let them all come here first, and then cleanse the family as tradition required.

Hope. It was almost an alien concept to her now. She savored it, reflecting.

And waited.

Where Power Abides

Twenty-eight.

They came by ones and twos, and then-as the day progressed and they gathered courage and friends-in small, fiercely bonded groups. The Patriarch met with them all. His advisers protested that by doing so he was only encouraging people who would feign great faith in order to stoke the fires of their own self-importance, and-to be fair-they were not entirely wrong. For every genuinely faithful man there were half a dozen whose only purpose in coming was to brag at a later time that they had been in the presence of the Holy Father. For every truly devout woman there were half a dozen whose friends fluttered around the doorway to his chamber like anxious birds, their only purpose being to serve as witnesses that this unique honor had really taken place. But though he heard the truth in his peoples' warnings, he chose to disregard them. There was no other servant of the Church who could see into these people's hearts as he did, and therefore no other one who could choose. It was that simple. by ones and twos, and then-as the day progressed and they gathered courage and friends-in small, fiercely bonded groups. The Patriarch met with them all. His advisers protested that by doing so he was only encouraging people who would feign great faith in order to stoke the fires of their own self-importance, and-to be fair-they were not entirely wrong. For every genuinely faithful man there were half a dozen whose only purpose in coming was to brag at a later time that they had been in the presence of the Holy Father. For every truly devout woman there were half a dozen whose friends fluttered around the doorway to his chamber like anxious birds, their only purpose being to serve as witnesses that this unique honor had really taken place. But though he heard the truth in his peoples' warnings, he chose to disregard them. There was no other servant of the Church who could see into these people's hearts as he did, and therefore no other one who could choose. It was that simple.

At times his visitors were exactly the type he would have predicted: coa.r.s.e and simple men, whose faith was as rough-hewn as their manner, whose innate preference for a world divided into clear domains of black and white was uniquely well suited to this enterprise. He didn't doubt that among those faces were many that had been seen in the pagan quarter at night, and indeed several of them seemed familiar to him from his brief appearance at Davarti's Temple. Those were the men he had expected his proclamations to draw, and he welcomed them in a manner that was sure to secure their loyalty. Others were more surprising. There were more women than he would have expected, for one thing; given that gender's lesser propensity for organized violence, he had expected that few would sign on for such a venture. But he had underestimated the symbolic power of the Forest in the minds of his female congregants, and the depths of their hatred for the Hunter. Some claimed that they would give their lives in order to bring that demon to his knees, and he did not doubt for a minute that it was true.

There is the kernel of a warrior in all of us, he thought grimly, as he watched the futures that swirled madly about each applicant. he thought grimly, as he watched the futures that swirled madly about each applicant. G.o.d give me the strength to control it, once I have encouraged it to dominance. G.o.d give me the strength to control it, once I have encouraged it to dominance.

He judged them each individually, one after another, with his eyes and his new Vision both. With some it was instantly clear what manner of support-or danger-they might provide. With others he was forced to unravel a tapestry of potential so tangled, so volatile, that it took all his self-control to maintain a human conversation while trying to make sense of it all. It wasn't under his control, this new power, but swept him along in a flood tide of prescience that threatened, at each moment, to drown him utterly. Did his advisers suspect the weakness in him? Did they sense how fragile his grip on sanity was now, how easily he could lose his purchase and be lost to them forever?

Calm. That was the answer. Perfect, unshakable calm. It was a front that he cultivated as he interviewed dozens-or was it hundreds?-of would-be warriors. Calm, that most precious illusion, that kept his inner torment from being expressed and so kept it from being reflected back at him one, ten, a thousand times, in the mirror of others' souls. A stillness so absolute that Nature had no equivalent... save at the heart of a storm.