“You’re talking about your Prophet.”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“Gerald Tarrant.”
He winced “In his life—his natural life—that’s what he was to us. He took our prayers and rewrote them, until every word served his purpose. Every phrase. He redesigned every rite and every symbol—even dictated the relative lack of symbology which is the hallmark of our faith—so that with every prayer they voiced, with every breath they drew, the worshipers of the One God would reinforce the power of that vision. If there were enough believers, he taught, and if their faith were strong enough, the very nature of this world could be altered, in accordance with his vision.”
“Which was?”
He paused for a moment, arranging his thoughts. How long had it been since he had tried to explain his faith in language so simple? And yet if she were to travel safely among them she must have that knowledge. Toshida’s manner had made that clear.
“The goal was threefold,” he said at last. “One: To unify man’s faith, so that millions of souls might impress the fae with the same image in unison. Two: To alter man’s perception of the fae—to distance him from that power—thus weakening the link which permitted it to respond to him so easily. This meant a god who wouldn’t make appearances on demand, nor provide easy miracles. It meant hardship and it meant sacrifice. But he believed that in the end it would save us, and permit us to regain our technological heritage. Three: To safeguard man’s spirit while all this was taking place, so that when at last we cast off the shackles of this planet and rejoined our kin among the stars, we wouldn’t discover that in the process we had become something other than human. Something less than we would want to be.” He paused, considering. “I think in some ways that last one’s the hardest part. But I believe it’s the most important.”
“So what happened?” she pressed.
“Humankind learned the lesson too well. Because if man could make a true God in his image, why couldn’t he create an obliging godling with even less effort? What you worship shall come to exist, the Prophet wrote. The power of your faith will give your dreams substance. And so it was. A thousand selfish men designed their own prayers and their own psalms and gave birth to a thousand godlings, each with its own petty domain, each feeding on man while serving his earthly desires. Even as the Church grew in strength, this trend continued, until there were over a hundred tiny states with their own pet deities, their own claim to power. So we went to war: man’s final recourse when diplomacy fails him. It was a disaster. Oh, if it had been a clean and glorious conflict, filled with images of faith and capped by a clear-cut victory, it might have stirred men’s hearts and won them to our side. It wasn’t. It was a bloody mess that spanned three centuries, and it ended only when we bit off more than we could chew and tried to do battle with the fae itself—or rather, with the evil the fae had spawned. Our power base destroyed, our precious image sullied, we crept back to our churches and our pews to lick our wounds in private.”
“And now?”
He shut his eyes. “We do what we can, Hesseth. We still serve the same dream, but defeat has taught us patience. We no longer see the Prophet’s vision as the end of a neat progression that’ll be consummated in our lifetimes, but as an ideal state that may not be realized for centuries yet. For tens of centuries. Except here,” he whispered, and he glanced toward Toshida’s ship. “Isolated, unified, devout . . . they may have accomplished what the west failed to do. By establishing a state free of pagan influence, by raising their children in unquestioning faith . . .what power, Hesseth! It could alter the world. It may already have begun to.”
“And Tarrant?”
He stiffened at the sound of the name. “Cast out by his own creation,” he said sharply. “The Church knew that it would never alter the fae’s response to man until it had done away with private sorcery . . . and he couldn’t give that up. Not even to save his own soul.” He drew in a deep breath of cool night air, exhaled it slowly. “He tried to do away with Hell, you know. Excess philosophical baggage, he called it. Detrimental to our cause. He erased it from all the texts, expunged it from the liturgy. They put it back. The habits of Earth were too deeply ingrained, the image of divine judgment too comforting for the righteous. In the end he lost that battle.” And so much more . . .
“And does he still believe in your Church?”
“He claims he still serves it. I still don’t know. I think that in the end he’s unwilling to let go of what he knew or admit that it defeated him. He’s vain, Hesseth, very vain, and the Church was his ultimate masterpiece. Sheer ego won’t let him abandon it, even when it damns him with all its strength. Which is part and parcel of his madness.”
“And what about your own sorcery? How does that fit in?”
He shut his eyes. Isn’t that the question? How would Toshida answer it, I wonder? “Everything I do is done in the name of God, drawing on that Power for strength. Our Church—the western Matriarchy—believes that such a Working is compatible with our faith. Others disagree. And here . . .”
Here that issue never came up. Here they didn’t have to compromise. It was a sobering thought indeed. And he felt a delicate chill run down his spine at the thought. I’ve never drawn on the fae in my own name, or used it for my private benefit. But will that matter to these people? Will they recognize such fine distinctions?
“We’ll have to wait and see,” he whispered. Looking out at the foreign ship once more. Wondering about the land that had spawned it. The faith that drove it. Wondering . . . and worrying.
“You know,” Hesseth said quietly, “I don’t envy your species.”
Yeah, he thought. Doesn’t that say it all?
They placed bets on the nature of Mercia: where it was, how large it was, how important it was in the scheme of things. Jones Hast made a crude copy of Tarrant’s survey map and pinned it to the outer wall of the cabin section, along with a sharpened pencil. Passengers and crew were invited to mark their guesses and—for ten Faraday dollars or its equivalent—register them with the captain. Two dozen sets of initials now marked the crude reproduction, most of them clustered about the mouth of the inland sea, or fringing the two rivers that emptied their waters into it. Where was Toshida’s capital city most likely to be located? With as little information as they had it was hard to say. He sought out Rasya’s mark, found it sketched in darkly some miles south of a vast delta. The location seemed a little strange to him, but he knew Rasya well enough to suspect that her guess was founded on a sound understanding of what that shoreline was and what it might become. He even put ten dollars of his own on the line, betting that she was right.
As he handed his coinage to the captain, he remarked, “I’m surprised you let yourself be put in charge of this.”
Rozca shrugged. “They’ve got to work off their tension somehow, right? Might as well let it be harmless.” As he tucked the bills in his pocket, he added, “I’ve seen worse than this, coming into an unknown shore. Much worse.”
Aye, Damien thought, I’ll bet you have.
And then at last the lead ships turned east, heading toward land. Those whose wager marks adorned that portion of the map grinned and exulted as Rasya fought to make out some sign of land in the distance. At intervals she had a small pail let down to catch up a sample of water, which she tasted. Most of the time she spit her mouthful back into the sea with a frown that indicated she was searching for some clue in particular and not finding it. But then, on the fourth day of their escorted voyage, her ritual taste received a different response.