The Patriarch had been sick, it was said, struck down for a day and a night with a malady so serious that they had thought he might die. The harsh notes of illness still echoed in his flesh, clearly enough that even Andrys, a stranger, could see it. Yet beneath that the man was undeniably powerful, with a physical presence that belied his years and an aura of dignity that no sickness could compromise. He looked like what a Patriarch should look like, Andrys thought: a leader of men, a spokesman of God. Never before had he been in a presence that so totally defined itself.
With a faint smile of greeting the Holy Father moved toward him, and suddenly Andrys realized that he had no idea how one was supposed to greet such a personage. Did you bow, or maybe kneel, or just nod and mutter something suitably acquiescent? Samiel would have known what to do, or Betrise, but he had no idea. He was acutely aware of his own lack of religious background as the Patriarch studied him, nodded, and then deliberately offered a hand. Thank God. He shook it, and the man’s firm grip lent him newfound strength. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all.
“Mer Tarrant. I’m glad you could come.”
“The honor is mine, Your Holiness.” Now that the first awful moment was over with, some bit of his accustomed ease was coming back to him. “Although it was a bit unexpected, I must admit.”
The Patriarch’s eyes-a startling blue, as bright and clear as sapphires-fixed on him with unnerving intensity. For a brief moment he had the impression that not only his physical person was being judged, but his very soul. At last, after what seemed like an eternity, the man turned away and gestured toward a pair of chairs arranged beside a window. “Please,” he said. “Will you join me?”
He nodded, and hoped the motion looked natural. He felt like a bug pinned to a dissection board when the
Patriarch looked at him, and he hoped those piercing eyes would find other things to focus on while they spoke. The chairs, heavily upholstered, flanked a small table outfitted with a plate of confections, crystal glasses, and a-chilled pitcher. What on Erna did this man want with him, that he had taken such obvious trouble to set up an environment conducive to casual conversation?
The pitcher apparently contained a light wine, and he accepted a glass of it gratefully, glad to have an object to hold in his hands, another focus for his attention. The wine was cold and sweet and delicate in flavor; not a vintage that he recognized, but clearly an expensive one. As Andrys looked around the chamber, taking in its paintings and its rugs and its gold-embossed books, he realized that for the first time he was seeing the Church as his ancestors had known it—rich, proud, and timeless.
“It’s rare we have guests from so far away,” the Patriarch said. An obvious lie, Andrys thought; the center of the Eastern Autarchy must surely draw tourists from all the human cities, some that would make Merentha seem like a close neighbor. “And rarer still, from so illustrious a family. Our cathedral is honored.”
It was obviously the time for him to say something complimentary, and he did. The words of social concourse flowed like honey across his tongue, while all the while he wondered, with increasing alarm, Why did he bring me here? What’s this all about? He didn’t believe for a minute that the mere presence of a Merenthan noble had prompted this interview. He hoped the Patriarch didn’t expect him to believe it. But the forms must be observed, and so Andrys gave over control of his speech to the part of his brain so well versed in social repartee that he could hold a conversation like this in his sleep. While all the while another part fluttered in panic like a caged bird, waiting for the blow to fall.
Was the Church thriving in Merentha? Was that city still populous? Had it made successful conversion from a port city to something less ambitious, when the
Stekkis River shifted its course five centuries ago and left it high and dry? These were all questions that any history book could answer, and Andrys had no doubt that the Patriarch had read them all. Was his family still a patron of the Church, as it had been in the early days? He hesitated over that one; the words my family is dead almost came to his lips, but instead he said simply, the Tarrants have always been devout. He didn’t add, as honestly prompted, except for me, but the Patriarch’s piercing gaze and slow, knowing nod suggested that he knew that as well.
Two glasses of cool wine lubricated his tongue, and by the end of the second, against his will, he could feel himself starting to relax. The Patriarch seemed to sense it, for he leaned back into his chair with seeming casualness and said, in a voice that was artfully calm, “There are some issues I would like to discuss with you, Mer Tarrant, that I think are of mutual interest.”
Heart pounding anew, he poured himself another glass. If he could have exchanged it for a hypodermic full of tranquilizer right now, he would have done so. “Oh?” He tried to make his voice sound equally casual, but instead it had the forced ingenuousness of bad melodrama.
The Patriarch said nothing for a moment; Andrys had the distinct impression that he was waiting for him to compose himself, so he drew in a deep breath and tried to do so. When his heartbeat had slowed enough that he could make out its individual strokes again, the Holy Father said, “You’ve heard, no doubt, of our troubles in the north.”
Feeling that he was expected to say something, he offered, “I’ve read the papers.”
“The Forest has always been a thorn in our side. I’m sure you know that the Church once tried an all-out effort to cleanse the place, once and for all. It failed, of course. You can’t do battle with the planet itself, and that’s what the Forest is: a whirlpool of fae that no act of man can unmake. They didn’t understand that then, or perhaps they simply chose not to believe it. It cost them dearly.”
He nodded, and muttered something meant to indicate that yes, he knew Church history, he remembered the salient details of the Great War and its devastating finale.
“For years now the Forest has been a reasonable neighbor: evil, but civilized. Its neighbors enjoyed a tense and wary peace, and it in return has been permitted to flourish unopposed for more than five centuries.” He laid his own glass down on the table and seemed to be studying its rim thoughtfully as he said, “Obviously, that truce no longer exists.”
“Are you sure about that?” he dared. He wished he had read the newspapers more closely, so that he had a better understanding of the matter to draw upon. “After all, there have only been a few incidents.”
The blue eyes were a cold fire that sucked in his soul. “I’m sure,” he said quietly. “What we’ve seen is only the beginning. The Forest will devour its neighbors-body by body, acre by acre-until in time it has the strength to do battle with us upon our own holy ground. That is,” he added, “if it goes unopposed.”
Fear was a sharp thrill inside him. “You’re going to make war against the Forest?”
“I’m going to make war against the Hunter,” he answered coolly. “Once the prince of that domain has been humbled, his unholy construction will topple from the center outward. His most fearsome creations will become no more than nature meant them to be: simple demons, subject to the sword or to prayer or to any of a thousand other simple tools. With our triumphant song resonating from mountaintop to river shore, with our victory echoing in a million human souls, we will do the Forest more damage than all the armies of our greatest age could manage in their time.” He paused then, perhaps waiting to see what Andrys’ reaction would be. Could he sense the hunger in him, Andrys wondered, the fear, the sense of standing balanced on the edge of a pit, so precariously that a light breeze might cause him to topple forward into the darkness? “I was told,” he said at last, “that you might have an interest in serving this cause.”