Tarrant considered it. “Yes,” he said at last. “That seems to be the general pattern here. I attributed it to an eccentricity of their Order, but if it’s not . . . if you’re right . . .”
“It would mean a lifetime of subterfuge. Years spent among the enemy. Hesseth says that even humanity’s smell is intolerable to her—”
“It would also mean the Church here was in rakhene hands,” Tarrant reminded him. “And has been for centuries. Toward what end?”
“You said they hunted human children,” Damien said softly. “Considering how the rakh hate our species, wouldn’t that make sense?”
“I said they used human children to hunt the faeborn.”
“Is that so very different? As far as the children are concerned?”
For a moment Tarrant just stared at him. Then he looked away.
“There’s something else I didn’t tell you,” he said quietly. “It didn’t seem important at the time. But maybe it is.” Though the man’s face was turned away from him and half in shadow, Damien thought that his expression darkened. Something hard and cold came into his voice, which had not been there before. “These people kill adepts,” Tarrant told him. “All adepts. They catch them in the cradle when their senses are still so confused that they can’t protect themselves—not even reflexively—and they murder them. Every time.”
“What if it wasn’t obvious—”
“You can’t hide something like that,” he said angrily. “Not in the first few years. Not when a child responds to things that no one else can see or hear. An adept lives in a world five times as complex as that of his parents, and must struggle to sort it out. That can’t be hidden. Trust me. People have tried. Back in my day, when they feared it as a sign of possession, when it meant that a child might be put to the torch . . . it can’t be hidden, Reverend Vryce. Not ever.” He shook his head; his expression was grim. “There’s no living adept in this region at all. I know. I used my power to search the currents, to find some sign—any sign—but there’s nothing. Nothing! Man’s greatest adaptation to this world—his only adaptation—and these people have wiped it out, child by child.”
For a moment Damien couldn’t find any words. At last he managed, “You thought that wasn’t important?”
The Hunter turned back to him. His eyes were black, and cold with hate. “I thought it made perfect sense,” he snapped. “Don’t you? A land ruled by the Church’s iron hand, that tolerates no philosophical disruption . . . a Utopia in name and substance, as long as no one challenges its central doctrine. As an adept would have to do, in order to survive.” He laughed shortly, a bitter sound. “Of course this land kills its adepts, Reverend Vryce. I predicted that it would as soon as I understood who and what these people were. Didn’t you?”
“No,” he said softly. “No, I . . . never.”
“You realize their sanctity is all an illusion, don’t you? The ultimate in self-deception. They’ve learned to control the fae, all right, but it’s been at the cost of their own souls.” His eyes were focused on a distant point; perhaps in the past. Perhaps in his own soul. “Exactly what I feared would happen,” he whispered. “Exactly what I warned them about.” He shut his eyes. “Why wouldn’t they listen? Why don’t they ever listen?”
Tarrant reached out and put a hand on his horse’s shoulder; Damien was amazed to see the pale flesh tremble. He was afraid to say anything, afraid that the fragile moment might shatter like glass at the very sound of his voice. Something deeply buried and very private had come to the surface in Tarrant, perhaps for the first time in centuries. He had the sense of a door cracking open ever so slightly, admitting a brief glimpse of the Prophet’s soul. But he felt that if he said the wrong thing—if he tried to say anything at all—that door would slam shut again, with the finality of a tomb. And the brief glimpse of humanity which echoed in those words would be lost again, perhaps for a second millennia. Perhaps forever.
At last the Hunter lowered his hand from the horse; a shudder seemed to course through his body. “None of that matters now,” he said softly. “Not even their motives. The end result is that there are no sorcerers in this land, with or without the Vision. Which means that these people are helpless. Whatever evil our enemy plans . . . we’re the only ones who can stop him.”
“It also means that our enemy isn’t prepared for opposition. Right? If there’s no human sorcery here, then he’s not used to dealing with it.” He spoke slowly, carefully, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. “That could work to our advantage.”
The Hunter looked at him. And suddenly it seemed to Damien that the pale eyes were mirrors, reflecting more centuries than any one man should have to endure. Reflecting more horrors than any human soul, however corrupt, should have to witness.
“Let’s hope so,” the Hunter whispered.
15
The Protector’s keep was dark when Istram Iseldas approached it, which struck him as odd. But then, so much was odd this longmonth. First there were the reports of an invasion force moving up the coast—thanks be to a merciful God that nothing ever came of that—followed by an extremely cryptic message from the Matria of Mercia. Followed closely by last night’s trespass and arrest . . . most disturbing. Most disturbing indeed.
He lifted up the great knocker (in the shape of a stelf-hound, the symbol of the local Protectorate) and struck it against the heavy wooden door several times. The sun was nearly down, he noted, which meant that he probably should stay here overnight. God willing, he and his neighbor Protector could get things squared away well enough to make that possible.
The heavy door opened. A servant he had never seen before studied him with dark, uncommunicative eyes. Considering Istram’s rank and familiarity with this keep, it was a jarringly cold welcome.
“Protector Iseldas,” he told the man. “I’m here to see Leman Kierstaad.”
The man stepped back wordlessly to allow him to enter. Dark eyes in a pale face, black hair above, dark clothes below: unwholesome looking, Istram decided. Downright unhealthy. He’d have had the man out in the sunshine long ago, nursing a respectable tan. “If he’s in his study, I can find him.”
“Follow me,” the pale man said.
He was led through the keep in silence, his footsteps ringing eerily in the empty halls. Despite the gloom of the afternoon few lamps had been lighted, and the shadows that gathered in corners and beneath the heavy furniture were almost nightlike in their substance. To be sure, the Kierstaad abode had been gloomy since the death of its mistress—whether because Leman lacked the energy to brighten it up, or because he actively preferred it that way as an expression of his mourning, Istram couldn’t say—but its atmosphere had never seemed so dark as today. So downright oppressive. He shivered as he followed the servant, wondering what his old friend’s state of mind must be. Had the joint pressure of a Protector’s responsibility and a widower’s heartache finally proven too much for him?
But when at last he was shown into Leman Kierstaad’s presence it was in a chamber that was brightly lit, amber lamplight flooding the walls like sunshine. He noted that the shutters were closed here as elsewhere, but what did that matter? The lamplight was cheery enough, and he felt his dire mood evaporating in its warmth.