And then there was a familiar touch in his mind, and the visions shifted. Only for a moment, but the moment was enough. Calesta’s touch, sure and effective, rekindled the hatred that was his only remaining strength. Visions of blood gave way to visions of his family’s slaughter; dreams of violence gave way to the hunger for vengeance. He clung to the moment’s offering as a lifeline, and somehow forced the required words past his lips time and time again: I accept the dedication of your life to mine, I acknowledge you as an extension of my will, I swear unto you protection against all harm.... He gasped as the cold malignance of the Hunter’s presence surged through his flesh, and felt the Patriarch’s grip tighten on his shoulder. Oh, God, he prayed, if you’re really out there, if you give a damn, help me! But the God of Earth wasn’t known for interference in such affairs, and His holy representative, for all his good intentions, had no idea what manner of power he had conjured with this ritual.
And then it was over. The last man retreated a respectful distance from the mound, giving Andrys room to breathe at last. Shivering violently, the young man prayed that he would be allowed to withdraw soon. Surely it was in all their best interests that his terror not be made manifest before the troops! But then there was a stirring by his side, and the Patriarch himself stood before him. The clear blue eyes met his for a minute and he felt himself pierced through by their intensity. Then, with a nod, the Holy Father slowly lowered himself to one knee and offered up his own hands for oathtaking.
No! Andrys wanted to scream. I’m unclean now! Can’t you see that? But the Patriarch’s gaze was steady, and his hands didn’t waver from their position. At last, trembling, Andrys took up the required pose. “For this one occasion,” the Patriarch’s oath began. “In this single set of circumstances.” He had chosen his words carefully, but Andrys could barely hear them. The cold grip of the Forest was squeezing his heart, and terror surged within his veins. What if the creature who received this oath was no longer entirely Andrys Tarrant, but some half-made being that was even now being reWorked by the Forest’s currents? He understood why the Patriarch felt that even he must be fully a part of their deceit, but wasn’t the risk just too high?
Don’t do it! he wanted to yell. Save yourself, your people need you!
And then it was truly over, all of it. Finally. Dazed, he listened to the closing rites, watching as the golden Corelight took precedence over the clean white light of the sun. The latter was wholly gone now, and the first stage of night was descending. Soon the demons of the night would come out in force, and if they didn’t acknowledge Andrys in his chosen role—
Don’t think about that, he thought desperately. Knowing, in the core of his soul, that the unclean essence of the Hunter was inside him now, and that any hungry demonling with eyes could see it. Oh, God. He had thought that it might drive him mad to pretend to be the Hunter; what would it do to him if the Forest’s fae transformed him utterly, making him into a copy of that damned soul in truth? What would his Church allies do then-struggle to save him, to salvage his soul, or condemn him to the same fate as his forebear?
He suddenly felt trapped, and was desperately glad that the tents had already been erected; as soon as this nightmare scene was over, he could take refuge in the limited privacy of his assigned canvas quarters. The thought of that privacy was all that sustained him as the last prayers were said, the last evocations recited. ...
He walked. He wanted to run, but that would only alert the others, and then they would follow him. He walked to the tent that had been assigned to him-a private tent, in deference to his new position of authority—and carefully ducked in beneath the flap. His heart was pounding so loudly he was amazed they couldn’t hear it, but maybe their minds were on other things. Maybe in the face of what was coming tomorrow they had little time to spare for worrying about the mental health of their chosen figurehead.
His pack was lying beside his bedroll; he dropped to his knees beside it and struggled to open it, his hands shaking as he attacked its ties and clasps. Soon, he promised himself. Soon. Thinking of what was inside and the peace that it would bring, he could barely manage the patience required to get the damn thing opened. Then the top flap was open at last and he spilled his possessions out onto the ground, all of them in a pile. With feverish hands he sorted through the pile, having no concern for any item other than the one he sought. Buried, it eluded his searching fingers for long, painful minutes. He drew in a deep breath and started again, this time moving each item to a new pile as he searched beneath it. Clothing, first aid, toiletries ... It wasn’t there. No, he thought. Not daring to believe it. He searched through the pile again, this time less neatly, and when he was done the interior of the tent was littered with his possessions. Still the small bottle eluded him. He began a desperate search through the pack itself, forcing shaking fingers down into its deepest pockets, squeezing the lining to see if anything had fallen down into it, madly searching even the straps—
“Looking for something?”
The voice stopped him cold. The straps of the pack fell from his numbed fingers as he looked up from the ground to his visitor’s face, scanning robes that were all too familiar. God, please, he prayed, spare me this humiliation. But no simple prayer was going to make the Patriarch go away, no matter how heartfelt it was.
“I removed the drugs from your pack en route to Mordreth,” the Holy Father said quietly, “and I gave them to the Serpent. I assume that’s what you’re looking for?” When Andrys didn’t answer, he nodded slightly as if reading confirmation into his pained expression. “What you did with your life before this point is your own business, Mer Tarrant, but now you no longer live for yourself. You live for all of us. And I will not have my Church’s dreams compromised by a handful of pills, or by your willingness to parade your addictions in front of my people.”
Shame rose to his face in a hot flush; he tried to stammer some kind of protest, but couldn’t get the words out. Had the Patriarch known all along what Andrys carried with him? Was it a vision that had betrayed him, or some more human source? “I wouldn’t-” he began. Then shame caught in his throat, and even those words failed him. “You don’t understand,” he whispered.
“I understand enough to see what would happen to my people if they perceived such weakness in you. Before tonight it might have meant little, but now, after all their vows . . . you have a responsibility, Mer Tarrant, and it’s my job to see that you live up to it. Painful though that might be.”
He hung his head, and thus didn’t see what the Patriarch was doing as the wool robes shifted. He didn’t see what the Patriarch removed from his pocket, not until the man cast it down in front of him.
A bottle.
“It’s from Jaggonath,” With numb fingers Andrys picked it up; the velvet black pills of a blackout fix tumbled one over another as he turned it in his hand, incredulous. “The founding fathers of that city, in their wisdom, declared that no man should ever have the right to burden others with his intoxication. They ordered that all mind-altering drugs be combined with a paralytic, so that the user must suffer its effects in the privacy of his own soul.” He gestured down toward the bottle. “If you perceive such a desperate need for comfort that you would be willing to risk a period of paralysis, then here it is. You may do whatever you like in private, so long as you remember that your public life is no longer your own.”