Crown of Shadows

by C. S. Friedman

  God, when I first took my vows, I said that I would be willing to give my life to serve You. I meant it. He breathed in deeply, shaking. But don’t let that sacrifice be in vain. I beg of You. Use me however You will, take my life if it pleases You to do so, but help me free this planet from Calesta’s grasp. I beg You, God.

  “I have to try,” he whispered.

  For a long moment the demon just looked at him. Could he read into his heart, see all the doubts that were there? Tarrant had said the Iezu had that kind of power. “The path we have to take,” he warned Damien, “lies through the substance of the Hunter’s own fear. Are you ready for that?”

  It seemed to him that the blackness was closer now. A foul odor rose up from its surface, a stink of blood and carrion ... and worse. “He feared sunlight. Heat. Healing. All the things that life is made of.”

  “Don’t be naive, Reverend Vryce.”

  The blackness was extending an oily finger now, that oozed slowly toward him. If he stayed where he was it would soon make contact. “Death,” he said sharply. “He feared that more than anything.” How could he face death without dying himself? Karril must know some special trick, or he wouldn’t have brought him here.

  “Not death,” the demon said.

  Startled, he looked at Karril. The Iezu’s eyes were dark, unreadable.

  “Death isn’t a thing or a place,” Karril told him. “It’s a transition. A doorway, not a destination. Think,” he urged. “You know the answer.”

  And he did, suddenly. He knew it, and grew weak at the thought. Was that what lay ahead of them? No wonder Karril didn’t want to get involved.

  “Hell,” he whispered. “He feared Hell.”

  “His own perception of it.” Could this Iezu experience gut-wrenching fear, or was that not part of his aspect? Some people mix passion and terror, he thought. So the emotion should be in his repertoire. “You still mean to follow him?”

  “There’s no other choice for me.” Damien drew in a deep breath, exhaled it slowly. “You know that.”

  “Yeah.” He sighed. “I know.”

  He shut his eyes for a moment, and tried to still the rising tide of terror in his soul. Damn you, Tarrant! Damn you for making me go through this, just to save your murderous hide. But in the face of such a journey his accustomed curse was rendered powerless, even ludicrous. Tarrant was in Hell already, or someplace beyond it. And he was going there to save him.

  He drew in a deep breath, and didn’t look down at his feet. He could feel how close the evil stuff was to him without needing to look, could feel its hunger sucking at his legs with growing force. Instead he looked to the demon, and tried to steady his voice long enough to manage two words without sounding as afraid as he felt.

  “You coming?”

  The demon hesitated. And sighed. And then, to his great relief, nodded. “Can’t let you go in there alone, can I?”

  He offered his hand. After a moment, Damien grasped it. And then, with only the briefest grimace, the priest stepped forward. Onto the path that Tarrant’s soul-blood had marked. Into the blackness that waited there.

  Damn you, Calesta.

  Eighteen

  MORDRETH: Police have confirmed reports that forty-three men were killed last night by a pack of animals that came out of the region known as the Forbidden Forest. The men, who had established temporary residence just outside Jahanna’s borders, were taken by surprise shortly after midnight when the Forest beasts stormed their camp without warning. Although a few men managed to arm themselves before being struck down, the sheer ferocity of the assault quickly overwhelmed their defenses. Less than an hour after the pack’s arrival, every man inside the camp was dead.

  Lestar Vannik, who was returning to the area when the attack took place, managed to flee the camp before the animals caught his scent. According to a press release from Darvish Sanitorium, he described them as “white monsters, with hands instead of real paws, and eyes that glowed bright blood red.” The beasts were apparently accompanied by a swarm of demonlings, who descended upon the camp’s would-be protectors and blinded them so that they could not fight back effectively. Sanitorium officials will not confirm rumors that Vannik also saw a human figure running with the pack, whose coloration and ferocity matched those of the animals.

  It is not yet known what prompted the attack, but communities throughout the region are concerned that the border truce between the Forest and its neighbors may no longer be protection enough. Several have begun collecting arms and training men, in order to defend themselves against similar assaults. The mayor of Sheva, a prosperous city which borders on Jahanna to the east, is negotiating for special troops to guard its periphery, and it is expected that neighboring cities will do likewise. A special meeting of mayors is expected to be convened within the month, to discuss the financing of such operations.

  The informal truce which has been observed in the region for nearly five hundred years has permitted the commercial development of areas surrounding the Forest, notably in the fertile Raksha Valley to its east. Tradition has it that the arrangement was originally established by the Hunter, a demon or sorcerer who came to the region at approximately that time. Under the terms of the truce, communities who offered no threat to the Forest would themselves not be threatened, although individuals of either side were fair game. The truce was broken only twice: in 1047, when an expedition of twenty men breached the Forest borders with intent to find and destroy its sorcerous ruler, and in 1182, when a radical faction from Mordreth set fire to the Forest in the dry season, in hopes of burning it to the ground. In both cases vengeance was swift. In the fall of 1047, twenty heads minus eyes and tongues were impaled on stakes outside the gates of their city. In 1183 the Mordreth Massacre, now infamous, turned a thriving port town into a ghost city overnight. Historians are quick to note that both these incidents were in response to real provocation, and that neither was succeeded by any further acts of violence.

  It is not yet clear in what way, if any, the men of this camp provoked their sorcerous neighbor to new atrocity. But amidst rumors of the Hunter’s disappearance, the border cities are doing what they can to protect themselves. Authorities hope that as Vannick recovers he can shed further light on the details of this conflict, but for now all concerned must assume that the ancient truce is no longer being honored by its Forest patron, and defend themselves accordingly.

  “He’s here.”

  The priest who spoke was a short man, round in the belly, red-faced, congenial. The words he spoke so sharply seemed ill-suited to him, as if some other mouth had formed them. Or was that only the Patriarch’s perception, knowing as he did what those words implied?

  “Are you sure?” the Holy Father asked.

  The double chin bobbed as he nodded. “Elerin spotted him in the foyer. I can have him come in if you want.”

  “Please do.”

  As the priest went to the door to summon his acolyte, the Patriarch reached into his desk to pull out the sketch he kept there. It was a pencil drawing on low-quality paper, well worn from handling. He studied it once more as the priest fetched his acolyte, filled with wonder and more than a little misgiving. If he really had seen this man ... He shook his head, banishing the thought. One thing at a time. Confirm the sighting first.

  The acolyte Elerin was a freckled teenager with bright red hair and a line of pimples along his chin. The Patriarch couldn’t remember having seen him before, but that was hardly a surprise; lesser priests handled the training of such boys until they took their vows in his presence.

  The youth bowed clumsily, clearly anxious about this interview, and mumbled something that might have been, “Your Holiness.”

  The Patriarch handed him the drawing. “Have you seen this man?”

  The boy glanced at the picture and then back toward the priest, who nodded his encouragement. “I think so, Your Holiness. The drawing I saw was a little different, though.”

  “That was a copy. This is the origi
nal.”

  He looked at it again and then nodded, somewhat stiffly. Clearly he wasn’t comfortable in such august company. “He was at the afternoon service, I think. On Tuesday. Yesterday,” he added helpfully. “I was watching in the foyer, like Father Renalds told me to. This guy came out of the sanctuary right after the service, almost the first one out. He was in a real hurry.” He looked down at the picture again, then nodded. “I’m pretty sure it was him. His hair was a little shorter, and he wasn’t quite this thin, but the face looked about the same.”

  “Did you find out who he was?”

  He shook his head, scattering the red hair out of its embankments. “I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t stop. I asked a few people who were there if they knew who he was, but no one did.”

  “Did you follow him?”

  The boy looked stricken. “No, Holy Father, I ... I’m sorry.” His face had flushed so bright a red that it almost rivaled his hair. “I didn’t think of it. I didn’t realize.... Please, forgive me.”

  “It’s all right.” He took the drawing back from the boy. “There’s no reason you should have thought to do that. We’re not training you as a spy.” He tried to keep his tone as beneficent as possible; the boy was so nervous he looked as if a light breeze would knock him over. “Thank you, Elerin. You may go now.”

  He did so anxiously, bowing repeatedly as he backed his way toward the door. Not until he was gone did the Patriarch let his smile fade, and a more businesslike expression take its place.

  “I want to know who this man is,” he told the priest, tapping the drawing. “If that means following him, then do it. If our people lack the skill to pull that off gracefully, then hire someone who can.” He glanced at the picture again. “Get one of our priestesses to keep watch outside the sanctuary during services. Someone young and pretty, whom he might be willing to talk to. Unmarried,” he added sharply.

  Would that be bait enough? The face in the picture, though roughly sketched, was clearly a handsome one. Such a man might stop to talk to a pretty woman, while ignoring the man right beside her.

  “Are you sure he’ll come back, Your Holiness?”

  He shut his eyes for a moment; visions rose unbidden before his inner eye. “A vision showed me that he would come here, and he did. It also showed me that he would return.”

  “Of course, Your Holiness.” The priest’s voice trembled with awe as he bowed deeply before his religious master; clearly he was of the faction that considered the Patriarch’s visions to come directly from God. “We’ll find out who he is, I promise you.”

  I am a prophet in their eyes, the Patriarch mused, as the priest made his way out of the chamber. Would that I could be so sure of it myself.

  As he gazed down at the drawing in his hands, he could not help but shiver. And a chill wind of awe coursed up his back as it seemed to him, for one fleeting instant, that Reverend Vryce’s sketch of Gerald Tarrant was looking back at him.

  JAGGONATH: Violence shook the Street of Gods once more as vandals skirmished with police, following the fifth in a series of assaults upon houses of worship here.

  Police estimate that the vandals gained entrance to the Maidens of Pelea Temple sometime between three and four a.m. through the servants’ entrance in the rear of the building. As in the previous incidents, the only motivation appeared to be desecration of the temple and its relics. Banners, signs, books, and other fiammable items were assembled in the worship chamber, doused with kerosene, and burned. As in the previous incidents, the nature of the articles destroyed, combined with lack of theft in the incident, suggests either a hostile secular organization, or rivalry between religious factions based within the city.

  Neighborhood watches along the Street have been doubled, and a Street of Gods defense fund has been established to defray the cost of private guards and additional investigators. Several local leaders have demanded an inquiry into the Unity Church’s possible interest in this matter. The Church, which has been the source of several anti-polytheism riots in recent months, has made no official statement regarding the matter, but sources within its hierarchy indicate that the leadership is deeply concerned over recent developments, and has retained several lawyers specializing in religious liability to advise them.

  ANDRYS TARRANT.

  The Patriarch looked at the letters written before him as though they were foreign shapes, sounding them out one by one, tasting their meaning. So few symbols. So potent a message.

  ANDRYS TARRANT.

  A shiver ran up his spine as he considered the implications of that name. The Prophet had killed his children, or so the Church taught. Was it possible that one had survived? Was this Andrys Tarrant not only a man who looked like the Hunter, but who bore the Hunter’s blood within his veins as well? A man so like him in the substance of his being that the very patterns of his DNA were echoes of the Prophet’s own?

  If so—Dear God!

  Help me, Lord, he begged. Guide me, so that I may serve You more perfectly.

  Tarrant. There was a wealth of power in that name, a power that might save or destroy. He remembered the man who had led his dream-army into the Forest—so bright a symbol, the focus of all their hopes—and for the first time since his war dreams began, he felt the stirring of hope. This was the key they needed, this stranger with history running in his veins. That he had suddenly appeared in Jaggonath’s cathedral now, when their need was greatest, only served to confirm his purpose in the Patriarch’s mind. With him, they could fight this war and win it. They could break the Forest’s hold upon this region and send its ruler up in smoke. The centuries would resound with their triumph.

  But did they dare?

  Help me, Lord. Give me the wisdom to deal with this.

  By night, he dreamed of holy war.

  By day, he dreamed of Gerald Tarrant’s offering.

  MORDRETH:The murder of two brothers that took place in the city last night has all inhabitants of this northern city bolting their doors and cleaning their weapons. Benjin and Sorrie Heldt were found by their housekeeper at eight a.m. this morning, having been murdered in their beds less than three hours before. The bodies had been savaged by one or more large animals who apparently gained entrance through a window, but no flesh was eaten.

  While police will not confirm a link between this incident and last week’s slaughter in Jahanna, many locals are convinced that the Forest’s inhabitants are moving to expand their territory. Sales of small arms are already up 400% in the region, and a continued increase is expected.

  The blue stone lay within its box, deep cobalt light reflecting from the polished alteroak.

  Help me, Lord. Guide me.

  The Patriarch bowed his head before the altar, and his body trembled like a branch in a high wind. Was it sin to take up this gift, if all it offered him was knowledge ? Was it wrong to use the Hunter’s power, if in the end that power was to be turned against him?

  For a long time he remained as he was, bowed before the hateful object. Since the moment when it had been placed here he had been continually aware of it, as if it had already established some kind of link to his mind. He felt its presence while eating, while reading, even while conducting services in the sanctified hall of the cathedral. But most acutely of all, he felt it when reports of escalating violence were brought to him. Violence within his church, that must be cleansed. Violence surrounding the Forest, that must be answered.

  The dreams were so tempting, with their dramatic solution: a war against the Forest, in which the growing violence in his people could be channeled toward a positive end. A second Great War, in which the Church would at last be triumphant. The spirit of his people was ready for it. The means existed. The funds could be assigned.

  The consequences were terrifying.

  He had prayed for nights on end for some new insight, but none had come to him. It was so tempting, those dreams of triumph. But if he obeyed his visions and started a war, how would he end it? Violence begets violenc
e, he despaired. How could he encourage it among his people, and then expect it to disperse at the campaign’s end? What kind of act or symbol would be powerful enough to disrupt such a cycle?

  Through it all, silent witness to his torment, was the Hunter’s gift. The ultimate temptation. Not power, but something far more subtle. Not sorcery, but something even richer.

  Knowledge.

  He took the blue crystal up in his hand, and held it out toward the candlelight. It was so cool in his palm, and so very still. He had half-expected that it would show its power by radiating heat, or vibrating, or in some other way indicating that the fae contained within it waited only for the proper sign before it could break out. But there was nothing. Except for its eerie light, the crystal could have been no more than glass, a finely faceted paperweight.

  There was no other way, he told himself. No other way. God would understand that, wouldn’t He? And if He didn’t (he told himself), then He would damn only the Patriarch, and spare those innocents who followed him. Wouldn’t He?

  Slowly, hesitantly, his fingers closed around the stone. His hand was shaking so badly that the cobalt light shimmered across the altar like waves. Then, with a sudden spasm of determination, he clenched his fist shut about the crystal, trapping its light.

  In Your Name, God of Earth. For the sake of Your people.

  A roaring filled the chapel, and light flooded the small room. The sudden brilliance was stunning, blinding; he fell back with a cry and threw an arm up across his eyes, as if that could protect them. But the vision stayed with him even when his eyes were closed, as if it were burned into his eyelids. Light on the floor, like liquid fire; light on the altar, sizzling as it spread out from the blessed candle flames; light that seeped in from under the door frame, light from the distant windows, light from his very flesh. The blue crystal fell from his hand and was lost in the swirling tide as bright as the sun itself, that lapped at his legs and left shimmering rivulets to run down his robe.