Shame flushed his face. “I’ve tried to serve the Church.”
“Yes. As have thousands of unordained worshipers, each in his own way. Loyalty isn’t an issue here. Or even judgment. I thought once that it was, but now ...” He hesitated. “I have a somewhat broader perspective.” He shut his eyes for a second, and Damien thought he saw him shiver. “The issue isn’t loyalty, or the quality of your service. The issue isn’t even whether or not a man must do terrible things to serve his God. Obviously, there are times he must. The only issue is whether or not a man who has defied Church tradition should represent that Church, and so cast doubt upon its teachings in the public mind. That’s an issue I can’t judge, Vryce. Not when condemning you means that I strengthen our enemy’s hand.”
He said nothing. It seemed amazing to him that the thing he had feared most, his expulsion from the
Church, now was overwhelmed by a horror more subtle, but infinitely more terrifying. The Holy Father of the Eastern Autarchy, the living representative of the One God, must now hesitate in performing his duty for fear of pleasing a demon! Is that what the Church had come to? Is that what Calesta had done to them? He despaired to see this sign of it, and to feel it echo in his own soul.
“I see you understand,” the Patriarch said, after some time of silence had passed. He slid open a drawer by his side and drew out an envelope from it. “As of today, you have no more duties in this autarchy. You’ll still be granted full access to all Church facilities; the campaign which you’re fighting deserves no less. Other than that, I think it best for all concerned that you act as an independent.”
He could feel the weight of that icy gaze upon him, and he nodded. “Yes, Your Holiness.” The words barely made it past the knot in his throat. “I understand.”
The Patriarch studied him for a moment longer—was he using the fae in some way, Knowing him as well?—and then handed him the envelope. “This will provide you with some revenue for room and board, and other basic necessities. Whatever remains may be addressed to your cause as you see fit. You needn’t bring me an accounting of it, unless you intend to ask for more.”
Surprised, Damien looked up from the envelope, searching for some hint of purpose in the Patriarch’s expression. He can’t officially approve of me, he realized, but he doesn’t dare drive me away. Not only because it would please Calesta, but because I’m one of the few people who really understand what’s at stake here. Had the Patriarch looked into the future and decided that Damien’s role was vital to the Church’s survival, or was the inspiration less focused than that? Damien folded the envelope in his hand; the pulse in his palm made the paper tremble. “Thank you, Your Holiness.”
“It leaves open the question of what your role should be in larger issues, of course. But you can address that in your own conscience far better than I can. You were trained as a priest, Damien Vryce, and ordained in a centuries-old tradition of sanctity and obedience. I pray that you will reflect upon that tradition during the trials yet to come, and consider how your actions reflect upon us all.” He paused, as if to ascertain that his point had hit home, and then said quietly, “That’s all. You are dismissed.”
Stunned, Damien managed to get to his feet. He wanted to say something, to protest, anything-but the Patriarch’s attention had already turned elsewhere, cutting that option short. And what was he going to say to him anyway? How would his petty trials of conscience measure up to this man’s, whose shoulders had taken on a burden so terrible that God’s own Church might topple if he stumbled? What were one priest’s paltry misgivings, compared to that?
Shaken, he pushed the folded envelope into his pants pocket without looking at it. The Patriarch’s words had given him freedom to act as he saw fit, yet he felt more bound than ever. The man had acknowledged that conscience must sometimes give way to expediency, and yet Damien’s conscience burned even hotter as a result. Had he done right, he wondered suddenly, to cling to the priesthood with such desperation? Was that true service to God, in the face of all he had done, or service to himself?
Swallowing hard, he forced himself to bow. Deeply: a motion not only of ritual obeisance, but of heartfelt respect. You had the right to judge me, he thought somberly. Only you, of all men. I would have respected it. 1 would have obeyed. Now, instead, the Patriarch had left that judgment in Damien’s hands. It wasn’t a burden as heavy as his own, but it was heavy enough. The priest flinched as he accepted it.
“May God be with you,” he whispered, bowing again. Meeting the Patriarch’s eyes for one fleeting second as he rose, sensing the torment behind them.
And may the fae be merciful.
33
YAMAS: The violence surrounding the Forest took a dark turn last night as residents of Yamas sacrificed two of their own people, in what appears to be an effort to placate that hungry power.
Nile Ashforth and Maklesia Sert were hanged shortly before dawn at the western gate of Yamas, barely ten miles from the Forest’s edge. Both men had apparently been rousted from their beds by an angry mob of some two dozen townspeople and dragged to the site, where they were stripped, hanged, and mutilated. Police say that the symbols carved into their chests correspond to those used by the Hunter’s servants for identification, and that the bodies may have been meant as a kind of offering, intended to propitiate the Hunter and protect the town. If so, it marks the first time that living men have turned against their own kind in this region, and officials in Yamas consider it a dangerous precedent.
A joint funeral for the two men will be held at the Leonia Funeral Home at six p.m. on Sunday. Offerings in memory of Mers Ashforth and Sert can be made to the gods Keruna and Tlaos at that time, in accordance with their respective traditions.
24
The waiting room outside the Patriarch’s study was exactly ten paces by six. Long paces, hurriedly measured, with a pounding heart for accompaniment. As he completed his tenth circuit-or was it his twelfth?-Andrys wondered if he might not be better off fleeing right now, rather than waiting for the Father of the Church to frighten him into doing so.
What did he want with him anyway? In another time and place he might have imagined it had something to do with the perceived importance of his family (he had told that priestess his name, after all) or some other matter connected with the fact that the Tarrants had been avid Church supporters for longer than most families had even been in existence. But to take refuge in such a story now, no matter how tempting, was to be hopelessly naive. Calesta had brought him to Jaggonath, and had ordered him to attend services here. Now, less than two weeks after he had begun to establish a pattern of regular attendance, the single most important man in the Eastern Autarchy had asked him to come here for a private interview. Obviously it had something to do with Calesta’s plan. What he couldn’t figure out was why the demon hadn’t given him some kind of guidance-what he should say, how he should act-or even some warning that this might happen.
The door at the far end of the chamber opened suddenly; startled, he quickly brushed his hair back in place and turned to face it. The servant who had brought him here smiled pleasantly and told him, “He’ll see you now.” She held the door wide for him as he passed through it, and then shut it quietly behind him. She was a pretty thing, and ordinarily he might have regretted that he had no chance to make her acquaintance. Now, however, his focus was elsewhere.