Spiderlight

by Adrian Tchaikovsky

  “My child, the Light blesses you,” he announced. “Long has it been prophesied that one shall rise who will free us from the tyranny of Darvezian. And here you are.” He put a hand to her forehead in benediction and nearly poked her in the eye as she flinched. Lief saw her say something—too far for him to hear—and the Potentate smiled benignly, “Why know, child, that the greatest diviners of the church have sought to know when Armes’s champion will arise. We have long known, to the moment, when you would pass through our gates.”

  “Now that is some impressive divination,” Penthos said, genuinely impressed by someone else for a change.

  Lief himself said nothing, because he was thinking about all those powerful men and women of the Light sitting on their hands for decades, knowing that Darvezian was out there, and defeatable, but feeling no particular inclination to go do it, because they knew that someone else would eventually take up the slack. Which is exactly the problem with prophesies.

  Now the Potentate was turning around, the entire complex clerical machine rearranging itself around him to escort him to the High Temple, and there was a space beside him plainly meant for Dion. She glanced desperately back at her fellows, naked panic on her face, and Lief elbowed Cyrene in the hip.

  “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” he prompted.

  Cyrene’s expression was not one of particular eagerness. The scale of the spectacle had plainly daunted her. A moment later, Harathes was striding forward, though, and with a slump of her shoulders, the woman was sloping off to catch up with him. Lief reckoned that she’d probably have preferred it in the Heathen’s Quarter, but he was hoping for a quiet night without much in the way of executive oversight, so getting Cyrene out of the way was a bonus.

  “Right,” he said. The clergy had all swept off with their various hangers on, leaving only a big mob of pilgrims, artisans, and opportunistic beggars, who were eyeing Lief, Penthos, and Nth as though wondering if they would put on some sort of show. In Lief’s experience, it was the sort of idle attention that could turn ugly quite quickly given provocation, and Nth was essentially provocation on legs.

  “Keep your hood up and your spectacles on,” he cautioned. “Penthos, I reckon we need to get out of sight. I know a place.”

  The wizard regarded the massed congregation of the faithful, who were plainly coming to the conclusion that the three of them were not particularly holy or important, but were not sure whether that meant they should be ignored or persecuted. “Lead on,” he agreed.

  The private chambers of the Potentate were appointed tastefully, but not opulently. Dion was someone who strove to believe that consecration to the Light was in itself a shield against vice. As all humanity was born to the Light, and must fall away into Darkness by evil choices, so all the clergy were, according to doctrine, under the direct scrutiny of Armes, and therefore constantly guided to do the right thing. In practice she was miserably aware that a corrupt priest was not only possible but documented, for all the church tried to keep such matters as internal problems. She could only try to believe that it was that much harder for a priest to stray than one of the flock.

  She had, therefore, been dreading the vast riches surely on display in the heart of the Light. The relatively spare and plain environs encouraged her no end.

  The Potentate had seen her quick appraisal, and he nodded. “It’s a difficult line to walk, child,” he agreed sadly. “Too rich, and how are we different from any tinpot noble or king in the abuse of our influence? And yet too impoverished, and we have no respect. People equate wealth with success, no matter how we instruct them.” He was an old man, but not frail. If he had not been beaming so much at her, in a proudly paternal way, he would probably have looked tired. The Potentate was master of two score separate sects, orders, and factions within the church, each of which had profoundly different ideas about the interpretation of doctrine and the role of the church. The office brought with it all the responsibility one might expect, but perhaps very little of the power and freedom. Potentates could be challenged and replaced if sufficient of the clergy believed they had ceased to receive inspiration direct from Armes.

  “Everything made simply, therefore, but of the finest materials. Even here, life is compromise.” His table was of marble, exactly as he described in its solid workmanship, and he seated himself behind it. Standing before him, she felt very much as though she were about to be punished for something, and wished Harathes and Cyrene had been let in with her. Instead, her bodyguards were kicking their heels in an antechamber, being insufficiently holy to enter the Potentate’s personal chambers.

  “Your Potence,” she addressed him respectfully.

  “No need for such formality. A simple ‘Father’ will suffice,” he assured her.

  Some part of her wondered if that was, in fact, particularly less formal, but she had been schooled to obey her superiors, and so: “Father, how has this all happened? How could you have known?”

  “That you could come to fulfill the prophecy?” he asked her. “Well, I won’t say we knew it would be you. It was known that someone of the faith would come, who is so destined, though. The diviners were accurate to the very minute. And just as well—you try holding a crowd together for very long, if the chosen one turns out to be late.” He chuckled a little at his own words. “But it’s you. You’re the one. You will destroy Darvezian. Armes blesses your venture, believe it.”

  This had been what she wanted, of course, but the words seemed to fall emptily between them. She should let him flick some blessed water on her forehead and be very grateful and basically just go, really, but instead she felt her lips move, and out came the words, “Does he?” almost plaintively.

  She was horrified at her own ingratitude, but the Potentate seemed to understand. “Child,” he said, “sit, please. You’re giving me a pain in the neck looking at you.”

  She found a chair—not marble, thankfully—and dragged it over. Not even servants were allowed in the Potentate’s chambers unless they were also ranking priests, and apparently none of the man’s staff felt that rearranging the furniture or serving drinks was sufficiently holy for them.

  “Armes blesses you,” he told her. “I say he does, anyway. I’m the Potentate, who’s to argue? A thousand years ago, the divine Armes saw that mankind lived in sin and suffering and without hope, and he went into the Higher Realms and returned with his gift. Since then we are born to the Light, though often we stray; we are able to recognize the Dark for what it is, though often we are tempted and fall.” He sighed and rubbed at his face. “How lucky we are compared to the Ghantishmen or those others born to the Dark, eh? At least we are given the hope of salvation.”

  “Yes, Father,” because some sort of confirmation was presumably in order.

  “And we feel the Light, we priests, and we draw upon it, and its power against the Dark is undeniable. At least we have that, eh? Can you imagine if all we had was Armes’s assurance, without proof of the might that backed up his promise? Would there even be a church, if it was all based on faith?”

  “But I have faith—!” she burst out.

  “Yes, but at least you have proof that there’s something to have faith in.” The Potentate shrugged. “Even if we still find a thousand things to argue about, in the details. But I am chosen head of the church, as close as any living person can come to Armes, who left our realm as a mortal man and returned a Divine Being. I feel the Light, and I have faith that the Dark must be fought, and Darvezian is the champion of the Dark, and that you will fight him.” His smile was beatific. “As you are here, I am sure you have already found the truth of the prophecy. You have the weapons and the tools required to perform the task.”

  Her heart lurched. “I—yes, I have, Father.” Then there were more words forcing themselves up her throat like vomit: all the sordid details, Penthos’s unspeakable ritual, Enth, her monster.

  But there was his hand, lifted to forestall her. “Do not tell me,” he insisted. “This secret
is your own.”

  And although she had sworn to the others that she would keep it close—although she could not have imagined confessing to what she had countenanced before sitting down here—she was suddenly filled with a terrible need to blurt it all out. If only she could tell the Potentate, and he would nod, and agree that, yes, it would all be for the best. If only she had that absolute reassurance of the righteousness of her cause, then she could cast out doubt, and do what need be done, no matter what . . . “Father, I fear . . . some means of mine may not justify the ends.” She found she was shaking. “I cannot see, sometimes, which way the Light is. I cannot tell if I am yet on the path of virtue. It is hard.”

  And she choked the words off, terrified that already she had lost his approval, and indeed his eyes had gone wide with alarm, but not for the reason she was prepared for.

  “No, no,” he said hurriedly. “It can’t be hard for you. For me, yes! For all of us, trying to keep the candle of the Light burning under the constant shadow of the Dark. But you are the one who will fulfill the prophecy and rid the world of the Dark’s great champion, Darvezian. You must surely be certain. Your every action and thought is pure, I know it.”

  She felt something twist and freeze within her. “But you . . .”

  “I am but a man. I am not immune to temptation. Stand however close to the Light you will, a man can still turn his back on it.” His face creased unhappily. “I have waited so long for you, the paragon of our faith. I thank Armes that I have lived to see a genuine prophesied hero of the church, irreproachable and destined, standing before me.” There was a hurried, desperate tone to his voice, and she felt she was not the person he was at heart trying to convince.

  “But you are the Potentate . . . ,” she said in a small voice. “Armes stands beside you,” she ventured. “He guides your hand so you can be sure . . .”

  “I try, child, I do.” He was looking past her, perhaps into a reflection of his own soul. “Every day I fight my own failings and strive to do what Armes would have wished, and I fight the predilections of those beneath me too—their tendencies to pride, bias, preference, and ambition. Did you think the power given to us as priests could not itself lead us from the Light? I have read the secret histories of my predecessors. Even Potentates have died in Darkness. Champions of the Light cast deep shadows. And such shadows! I have rooted out evils from within the very church that even Darvezian might blink at, and the work is eternal. I know that Armes is at my elbow, and that he guides me, but even then he must fight the nest of worms that are my own desires! And I cannot know, when my hand moves, whether it is he or my base urges that truly govern it.” His eyes were tortured as he stared at her. “But you, you are the Light’s champion.” His expression desperately invited agreement. “You are destined, the sword that will cut the heart out of the Dark. How could you have got so far, without divine guidance? If there is someone in this room that Armes stands beside, it is you.”

  Dion by now wanted to be anywhere but in that room. Here was where priests came, once in their lives, to know that they were right. She did not want to stand before the Potentate and have to weather the storm of his own anguished doubts.

  Abruptly the rush of his confession had ceased, his words lying between them like stones. “But please, you wanted to speak,” he said heavily, seeming exhausted by his outburst.

  Of course she wanted to speak. She had been about to tell him just how she was going about her oh-so-very-holy mission.

  And he was an old man, older than she had thought, and smaller than she had thought, in this big, barren office. He was doing his best. That was the true and honest impression she had. He could have been a venal monster and given her every assurance in the world, touching her forehead on the way in and groping her backside on the way out. But he was trying, as he said. All the power of the church at his command, and his time was spent fighting off his own crude humanity.

  He was looking brightly at her now, smiling a brave smile, and she realized that he was waiting for her to go into detail about her quest. It weighed on her heart, the whole business with the spider creature, but she found she could not unburden herself now. She could not load the weight onto him, to tell him that his prophesied savior was already walking a treacherous path, and might plummet from grace at any moment.

  “Thank you for your blessing,” she whispered. “It means a lot to me.” She felt very empty.

  Cyrene was staring moodily out of the window, elbows on the sill. Harathes studied the curve of her back, the elegant lines of her legs. He was a man who could hold two thoughts in his head simultaneously, sometimes contradictory ones. He was currently admiring his view of her, and simultaneously thinking that, as a respectable woman in the heart of the Light, she should not just be slouching around. She should carry herself with more dignity. He himself was practically standing at attention.

  That sounded wrong, to him, and actually, as his eyes were drawn inexorably down Cyrene’s body, with those leggings she would always wear, he became pointedly aware of the possibility that he might actually find himself standing to attention, here in the Potentate’s antechamber. Quickly he turned away. It was always the problem with Cyrene. She was such a well-made woman, and yet so immodest! She should have more respect for men’s passions. No wonder she was constantly attracting the wrong sort!

  Harathes himself was a deeply devout man. He had been raised from an early age to know that he was of the Light, and that his actions were to defend the Light. Without his sword, countless things of the Dark would still be crawling and shambling in the world, that he had put an end to. Without his shield, there would be many of the Light who would have fallen victim to their depredations. He was a champion, the man who would stand between Dion and Darvezian when the time came for that epic confrontation.

  It was reasonable enough, therefore, that he was entitled to a little consideration from the world, a little payment ahead of time. Virtue, after all, conferred a kind of entitlement. It was infuriating that Cyrene didn’t see it that way. After all, she was notably less virtuous than he, having led a far more shadowy life before deciding to seek revenge on the Dark by signing on with Dion. Surely she could see that she should be seeking not vengeance but redemption. She needed to step into the embrace of the Light and learn to be happy there.

  Instead of which she was maddeningly unpredictable. She had come to him once, and Harathes had thought that was the end of it, but the moment he had tried to demonstrate that they were together, that she was safe and could allow herself to be shielded from the worst of the world, then she had pulled away from him again. And that louse-ridden ranger was not the first that she had hooked on to, either. Harathes knew, with his heart’s simple certainty, that such licentious behavior was aimed at increasing his ardor. Of course she was not really interested in those others, not since she had been his.

  Still, she was too wild. It was an attractive wildness, and it had drawn him to her, but at the same time the woman needed to let herself be guided a little.

  And here they were in the heart of the Light.

  Harathes glanced about them. The Potentate’s antechamber was simply appointed, which had surprised him. He had expected fountains of wine and scripture written in letters of gold and all that, but perhaps they had been taken out for cleaning or something.

  There were some guards at the door they had come in with, fellow warriors in the cause of the Light in gleaming armor. There was also a string of junior priests sitting on a stone bench waiting for Dion to come out so that they could bother the Potentate with some piece of tedious bureaucracy, but they all looked far too menial for Harathes’s purposes. The woman who obviously controlled access to the Potentate was a more interesting prospect. She sat at a table beside his door, poring over a sheaf of papers that one of the little clerks had passed her. She looked to be close to sixty, her gray hair cut short like all these clerical types, with a lean and compact build. Her face had a distinct authority. Hara
thes wandered over.

  “So tell me, you’re His Potence’s secretary?” he asked respectfully.

  She cocked an eye at him, and he had the awkward feeling that his question had been somewhat unnecessary.

  “I am a servant of the destined one, the priestess Dion,” he pointed out, in case the woman was unaware of his importance.

  She nodded patiently, papers held in her thin-fingered hands, pointedly waiting.

  “My companion and I will shortly venture into deepest Darkness on behalf of blessed Armes and his church,” Harathes elaborated, sticking his chest out. “I was hoping that, while our mistress seeks a blessing from the Potentate, we might also receive the benediction of the church. Is there any chance you could send one of these for a priest—a senior priest?”

  Her hard expression might have softened a little. “I understand,” she told him. “I am myself the head of the Ordo Scriptian, as the Potentate’s secretary always is. I suspect I will be quite senior enough for you.” There was a hint of a smile there, although Harathes suspected it was about as much smile as she ever allowed herself. She had a formidable presence to her.

  Some words about whether a merely clerical priest would suffice or whether he wanted one of the warrior orders bubbled about in his head, but his common sense jumped them and kicked them down again, because plainly this woman was very important indeed. Of course those who served the Potentate were themselves senior in the church. It made perfect sense to Harathes that one way of showing importance was to have other important people performing menial or tedious tasks for you. Perhaps that said more than all the gilded archways in the world.

  “Cyrene,” he called. The archer looked over from the window, glanced to see if Dion had made a reappearance, and then stared at him blankly.

  “We are to be blessed,” Harathes told her. “We need all the help we can get, after all, given where we’re going.” And what we’re having to do, to get there, he added silently.