“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 flammable 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 Johanna, 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 violence, 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.