But then he remembered the children of the cities, chained up as bait for the faeborn. And the adepts, all the helpless adepts, murdered in their cribs for the crime of being able to See. And all the others there must have been as well, babies who couldn’t See but who seemed a little strange, the children of hysterical parents who were all too ready to sacrifice their own to keep humanity pure . . . yes. Whether or not this little girl had suffered at the Church’s hands, she had every right to fear men of his calling.
How terrible. How unthinkable, that the seeds of his faith had garnished such a dark harvest. If he thought about it too long he would surely weep, like he had for so many nights after they’d left Mercia. Secretly, of course. In silence. Such tears were a very private thing.
It’s not just the Church that’s gone wrong here. This whole land is wrong, from start to finish.
He took out the Fire. Gently, carefully, wary of breaking its container yet again. So little was left. Even in the darkness of the cave it hardly glowed at all, and the creatures who fluttered about the thick wooden grate merely paused to take note of it, then resumed their fluttering. He closed his hand about it, could barely feel its warmth. So much power gone, he mused. So much wasted. If only the faith of those thousands could have been focused where it was needed. Here. If only it could have been used for a Cleansing.
It was Hesseth’s soft hiss that alerted him. He glanced first at the gate, then toward the back of the cave. The girl. She had moved. Crouched forward on all fours, alert as a beleaguered animal, prepared to bolt back to her hole should danger threaten. She froze when he looked at her, but when he didn’t move—he made very sure he didn’t move—she inched forward. Slowly, one hand in front of the other, flexing her weight on her fingers like a stalking predator, her body low to the floor. Her eyes seemed twice as large as they caught the dim Firelight, and amber highlights played along lengths of black, matted hair.
He held himself utterly still as she approached, hardly daring to breathe. When she came within an arm’s length, she reached out to him, slender fingers oh so delicate in the darkness, short nails underscored by dirt. He could see the hunger in her now, sunken cheeks and deep-set eyes half-masked by dirt, the hollows at the base of her neck and the deep channels along her muscles that spoke of weeks of starvation, a body stressed almost beyond endurance. Then the thin fingers stretched out toward his hand, then hesitated; he could see her lower lip trembling.
Slowly, carefully, he opened the hand that held the Fire, until the crystal vial was cradled in his open palm. Only then did she reach out to it, tiny fingers struggling toward its light like a plant seeking the sun. Her index finger made contact then, and she gasped; it took all his self-control not to move toward her, away from her, not to do something. But he sensed that any movement on his part might shatter the fragile moment, might send her scuttling back to her muddy den to starve alone in silence once more.
“Damien-” Hesseth whispered, but he shushed her. The girl’s hand closed about the crystal vial. Tiny, and so very fragile; she couldn’t be more than thirteen or fourteen at the most, probably younger. He could feel the girl’s eyes on him, but he didn’t meet them; he sensed that whatever she might read in his expression would only drive her away.
And then she lifted the vial, and took it from him. Small hands clasped tightly about it, bright eyes fixed on its secrets. He thought she moaned softly, but couldn’t tell if it was from pleasure or pain. Or both. By his side Hesseth was crouched tensely, ready to move if the precious vial was threatened. But Damien wasn’t afraid. He knew the power that was in those few drops of moisture, and he was willing to bet that the girl could see it somehow. Or feel it. Or . . . something.
Then she knelt in the mud and clasped the vial to her, whispering something too low for Damien to hear. She clutched the Fire to her stomach and doubled over it, her whole body shaking. Sobbing in utter silence; weeping without a sound. His heart went out to her and he nearly moved forward, nearly took her in his arms—but how would she take that? Might it not undo whatever this fragile moment had accomplished? He sat back on his heels and waited, hurting inside. Wanting to help. Daring to do nothing.
And then the shaking ceased. Like an animal she curled up about the Fire, hiding it from sight. Her head, tucked beneath one arm, was invisible. Only her long hair trailed out from the compact bundle, matted black strands mixing with the mud until it was impossible to tell where one began and the other ended. Exhaustion hung about her like a pall of smoke.
After many minutes, Damien dared to move. The girl didn’t stir.
“Asleep?” Hesseth whispered. As she, too, shifted position.
He dared a Working. There was a chance it would awaken her, but he tried to be very careful. He gathered up the earth-fae as though it were the most delicate silk, and bade it weave a picture for his eyes. A Knowing. But what he saw was half as much sound as vision, and a thousand more elements he couldn’t begin to define. A symphony of meaning that he had no way to interpret. No experience.
But one thing was clear and he voiced it. Softly. “She’s sleeping. Peacefully.”
There were songs on the hillside, glorious songs of sunlight and optimism and energy, the endless music of faith. She could see them arrayed along the gentle slope, warriors whose armor gleamed Core-golden in the light of noon, soldiers whose banners were strung with bits of glass so that as they moved their standards sparkled, and as the wind beat on the richly woven cloth there was the sound of bells, of sparkling water, a thousand glassy chimes that rang out the song of God’s One Faith across the Darklands. Young men, old men, women astride their horses, soldier-priests so young they were nearly children—all helmeted in silver and gold and pennanted in brilliant silks, lining up for battle. The very air about them rang with their faith, their sacrifice, their passion. The very daylight was a song of triumph.
She floated through their ranks like a fae-wraith, touching, seeing, hearing all. Shields that flashed like fire in the sunlight. Swords that sang of perseverance and hope. She touched one blade and could hear all the hymns that had gone into its making, the thousand and one voices that had lent it power. Years of chants, years of prayer, years of utter faith . . . she moved to where another soldier stood and gazed at the crystal flask in his hand. The liquid within glowed with a heat that she could feel on her face, and its music was a symphony of hope.
They were riding into death, she knew. All these brilliant soldiers, all these priceless weapons, were about to ride into a darkness so terrible that it would snuff out all their songs forever. She could feel their place in history taking shape about them, not a beginning of hope but an ending, the extinguishing of a time of untrammeled dreams in exchange for one of cynicism and despair. She wanted to cry out and warn them, but what good would her words do? They knew the odds. They knew that the Evil they had decided to fight might well prove more powerful than all their prayers and charms and spells combined . . . and. still they gathered. Thousands upon thousands of them, knees clasped tightly about their anxious steeds, hands closing restlessly about their sword-grips and their springbolt butts and their polished pistols. And the Fire. It glistened in a dozen crystal orbs, in a thousand crystal vials. So very beautiful that it hurt her to look upon it, so rich in hope that she cried out to hear its song. Faith. Pure faith. She could drink it in all her life and still hunger for it. She could drown herself in it and never have enough.