“No.” His heart was racing; it took everything he had to sound calm and collected when he was anything but. Was he really standing here talking to the man who founded and then betrayed his Church? Up until a year ago he would have considered that patently impossible. Even now, knowing otherwise, it was hard to absorb the truth. “Not allies, Neocount. Enemies.”
The man’s expression darkened ever so slightly, and he stepped forward as if to approach the Patriarch; with a flutter of fear in his heart, the Holy Father moved back. Then he realized that his visitor wasn’t moving toward him, but toward the altar. The Patriarch’s soul cried out for him to protect his holy symbols from the touch-or even the scrutiny-of this damned creature, but a distant, more reasonable part of him knew that it would be suicide to even attempt it. And it didn’t really matter, did it? The gold on the altar was simple metal, no more. The symbols themselves could be melted down to slag without injuring his faith. If the Prophet had taught them nothing else, it was that God didn’t reside in such things.
The Prophet. A cold thrill shivered through his flesh as he realized just what it was that stood before him. Not the Prophet any longer, but a damned and degenerate creature who wore the Prophet’s identity like a ragged bit of cast-off clothing. Was this the chill that Vryce had felt, when he first stood in his presence? Did he grow numb to it after a time, or simply learn to ignore its warning?
When the man reached the altar he reached out to its central figure, a double circle sculpted in gold. He traced the interlocked shapes with a death-pale finger, and his nostrils flared as if taking in the scent of this place. Was he testing the Patriarch, seeing if he would respond? Despite his powerful instinct to protect the altar, the Patriarch forced himself to hold back. God alone knew what this creature would do if he moved against him.
After a moment the Hunter turned to face the Holy Father once more. His eyes were no longer black but a pale, glistening gray. There was a coldness in them that reminded the Holy Father of glacial ice, and of death. They were the eyes of the damned, that had gazed upon the glories of the One God and then turned away forever. Gazing at them, the Patriarch couldn’t help but shudder.
“Believe as you will,” the visitor said. “It’s taken me years to come to this point; why should you accept it in a single night? We have the same enemy, therefore we fight the same war. Let that be enough.”
Calesta. He felt the name take shape within his brain, etched in ice. For one brief moment he envisioned what power the Church could wield, with this man’s knowledge and skill harnessed to its purpose—and then that image shattered like glass, as the real threat of the situation hit home. This is how Vryce started, he thought, chilled. And this is how the Prophet fell.
“It isn’t enough,” he said quietly. The strength in his own voice surprised him. “Not for that kind of alliance.”
For a moment the Hunter said nothing. It was impossible to read his expression, or otherwise guess at the tenor of his emotions. The death-pale face was a mask, that permitted no insight.
“I’ve come to make you an offer,” he said at last. “For the sake of our common cause. Nothing more.”
He shook his head slowly. “I want nothing of yours.”
“Even if my gift would enable your Church to survive?”
“It would be at the cost of my soul, and the souls of all my faithful. What kind of triumph is that?”
The pale eyes narrowed, and he sensed a cold anger rising in the man. He neither moved back nor looked away, but met the unspoken assault with a shield of utter calm. His faith would preserve him. Even if this man killed him now, his God would protect his soul.
At last his visitor said, in a razor-edged voice, “You already have what you need to safeguard your Church. What you lack is an understanding of how to use it. I came to bring you that, no more.”
“And I reject that offer,” he said coolly. Watching a flicker of anger spark in those pale, dead eyes. “I’m not Damien Vryce, or any of the other souls you’ve corrupted over the years. Some of those must have started out just this way, yes? Wanting your power enough to compromise their faith. Trusting you, long enough to forget who and what they were.” Strength was coming into his voice now, and the full oratory power of a Patriarch. “I won’t make Vryce’s mistake,” he said firmly. “I won’t take that first step. We’ll wage our battles alone, and win them or lose them according to God’s will.”
He shook his head. “You don’t understand what losing means in this case. The threat to all you stand for—”
“I understand that what stands before me now is a man who’s lived apart from the Church for nearly ten centuries. Should I favor his interpretation of the Law over my own? Should I abandon all my learning, and the centuries of struggle that came before me, for an alliance that would make mockery of my faith? I think not.”
“Then you’ll go down,” he said sharply, “and the Church will go down with you.”
“If that’s God’s will, then so be it. At least our souls will be clean.”
“Who knows your God’s will better than I? As your
Prophet—”
“The Prophet is dead!” the Patriarch snapped. “He died the day that he murdered his wife and children, and no man’s will can resurrect him. Something else took his place that night, that wears his body and uses his voice, but that thing isn’t a man, and it certainly isn’t an ally of the Church. However well it pretends to be.”
An icy fire burned in the depths of those pale eyes, reflections of a rage so venemous that if Tarrant should let it loose, even for a moment, the Patriarch knew it would consume him utterly. It was hard not to tremble in the face of such a thing, but he sensed that fear—any kind of fear-would allow this creature to take possession of his soul. That he must never permit.
“I could have killed your guard on the way in,” Tarrant told him. “In another time and place I would surely have done so, and gained strength from his death. I didn’t. Let that be a sign of my sincerity. A token-if you will-of my true intentions.”
“The day I judge a man by such standards,” he retorted, “is the day I turn in my robes.”
“We’re fighting the same war!” There was anger in his voice now, frigid and dangerous. “Can’t you see that? How do I get through to you?”
“You know the way,” he said quietly. Inside his heart was pounding wildly, but he managed to keep his voice calm. In the face of the Hunter’s rage there was power in tranquility. “You’ve known the way for nine centuries now.”
The Hunter’s eyes narrowed, and he took a step backward. He reached one hand into a pocket as though seeking some kind of weapon, and the Patriarch stiffened. But the object he drew forth was no weapon, at least not of any kind the Patriarch had ever seen. It was a large crystal, finely faceted, of a deep blue color so resonant that it seemed to give off light of its own. Such a color couldn’t exist naturally in this chamber, the Patriarch realized, not with the golden light of the candleflames compromising its hue. Its very clarity sang of sorcery.
The Hunter turned the object so that the Patriarch might see all sides of it; there was no denying the sense of power that resonated from its polished planes.
“Do you know what a ward is?” he asked. Watching him, watching the stone, the Patriarch did not reply. “It’s a Working designed to be independent of its maker, so that the two are no longer connected. It has a trigger-in this case your own will—and the ability to tap the currents for power, in order to fuel itself. In short,” he said, indicating the object in his hand, “this is no longer connected to me, or to any other living creature. It will fulfill its one purpose and then expire. Do you understand that?”