I have to, he thought feverishly. That’s all there is to it And he braced himself for Working. Wishing that it were as easy to brace himself for revelation. Wishing that his heart could be made invulnerable, just for an instant.
With care he reached out and touched the foreign currents—they were rich and strong, all that a sorcerer could ask for—and he tapped into the earth-power to remake his sight, so that it would respond to the fae’s special wave-lengths. For a moment he didn’t dare look at the church, but fixed his eyes upon the ground. Silver-blue fae rippled across the rutted concrete in patterns of moire complexity, obscuring the muddy cracks beneath. Then, slowly, he raised up his eyes.
And he Saw.
Oh, my God . . .
For a moment he was simply stunned, incapable of accepting what his senses proclaimed. Then, slowly, it sank in. The church was clean. Clean! Its aura glowed warmly with faith and hope and the prayers of generations, just as one would expect in another time, another place. Its music was not the dissonance of earthly corruption, but the delicate harmony of true devotion. He stared at it in amazement, not quite believing. He shook his head, as if somehow that would clear his Sight. Nothing changed. The aura of the building was bright and pure, as befit a true house of worship. The currents which coursed about those worn foundations sparkled and glittered with the fragments of human hope which they had absorbed, as pure as the Corelight which fell upon them. The fae that poured forth from the building itself . . . that was as sweet and as reverent as any which flowed from the great cathedral in Jaggonath, and as he listened he could hear the whisper of prayers that it carried, and catch the faint, sweet smell of human faith.
Impossible.
Simply impossible.
He stared at it aghast, struggling to understand. Why would the eastern rakh invest so much time and effort in taking control of his Church, and then do nothing to alter it? What was their ultimate purpose, if not an assault on the human spirit? And what about the force that seemed to be guiding them? He could understand a demon who fed on human degradation, an Enemy whose goal it was to twist human faith toward a darker purpose . . . but that wasn’t happening here. Not at all. These people were steadfast in their faith, and it showed. The very earth glowed with their dedication.
What is it you want? he demanded silently. Of all of them: the Regents, the Matrias, the unknown enemy who grew closer each night. What game are you playing here? Until this moment he’d thought that he understood the pattern here, at least on a visceral level; now even that basic assumption was in doubt. If mankind had made an enemy here, its nature was so alien that Damien couldn’t begin to guess at its motives; or else its plans were so long-sighted that in the context of a single year—or even a century—the greater pattern was all but invisible. And that made Damien afraid. Very afraid. It made him fear in a way he never had before, and it made him wonder—perhaps for the first time—if he might not have taken on a task that no one human could accomplish. Even with Tarrant’s help. Even with Hesseth’s power, and the girl’s.
What are you? he demanded. What is it you want? But there was only silence to answer him, and the sibilant whisper of faith. Pure. Righteous. Terrifying.
Heart cold, hands shaking, he turned back toward the grimy hotel, to await the dusk and Tarrant’s return.
31
Night fell slowly in the harbor cities, accompanied by a sunset the color of blood. Long after twilight’s darkness had shadowed the city streets it was still possible to see sunlight in the distance, breaking in between the peaked islands and glimmering across the water. When that had faded, the Core remained: light without warmth, a false golden sheath for the city. How long would it be before that faded as well? The Core had been two hours behind the sun when they’d landed in Mercia; how long had it been since they’d fled that city?
With a sigh Damien let the curtain drop from his hand, falling back into place of its own accord. The strong northerly current here meant he couldn’t use the earth-fae to access information about the Matrias’ plans, or Know the details of their pursuit. He could test the fae that was coming up from the south, use it to Know the enemy . . . but Tarrant was better at that kind of thing than he was. Tarrant was better at interpreting the strange and often cryptic visions that a long-distance Knowing was wont to conjure. Let him do it.
Damien looked over at the rooms they had rented, one bedroom and a small parlor connected by a curtained archway. He would sleep in the parlor tonight, on its well-worn couch, and leave the bedroom for Hesseth and the girl. A semblance of privacy. After their weeks together in the woods it seemed almost a frivolous arrangement—God knows, they had seen each other naked more than once—but it pleased his sense of propriety that they now had this option. A token civilized gesture. And of course, there was the girl now to consider.
The girl . . .
She was nestled against Hesseth’s side like a kitten, the two of them intertwined on the couch. How peaceful she looked, now that there were walls between her and the outside world. But how real was that barrier? Damien didn’t have to Know the room’s interior to tell that it had seen its share of violence and misery. Why didn’t that affect her? Why could she fight off the empathic images here, but not out in the streets?
Because this is her territory now, he mused. Watching as she snuggled her way even deeper into Hesseth’s embrace. She’s defined it as such, therefore it doesn’t bother her. What did that imply about her Vision? Was her reaction in the streets a symptom of true power, or of mental instability? He was all too aware that it could be both. In which case she really might be dangerous. He had tried to Know her once or twice, to no avail. Whatever power she drew on eluded his own Sight, and he had to assume that the same was true for Tarrant. And that, all by itself, was a daunting concept.
Sensing his scrutiny, Hesseth looked up at him “Tarrant?”
He shook his head “Didn’t see him.” He unhooked the swag of the ceiling lamp and lowered it down to where he could reach it more comfortably. “And it’s well into night,” he muttered, lighting the four wicks. They were dusty, and sputtered as they caught fire. “Core’s almost gone. So where the vulk is he?”
Her amber gaze was reproachful. “You know that.” With lone hand she stroked Jenseny’s long dark hair, separating the strands with her claws. “Don’t you?”
He exhaled heavily. “Yeah. I guess so.” For a minute he just stared at the tiny flames, four stars behind grimy glass panes. Then, with a sigh, he hitched the lamp back into place overhead. “It usually doesn’t take him this long.”
How many will he kill tonight? He tried not to think about that. Again. The ache in his conscience translated into a sharp pain between his eyes, which he rubbed with dry fingers. He needed the sanctity of a church tonight, the cultured tranquillity of formal prayer. Needed it badly. But if the Matrias were watching for him in this city . . . he dared not risk it. Standing outside a church was risky enough; entering one would be downright suicidal.
He was startled suddenly as the door creaked, and his hand went instinctively for the sword at his shoulder. But the weapon was in its harness, resting on the bed a good ten feet away. He didn’t need it anyway. It was Tarrant, at last. Damien bit back on his anger as the tall man entered, quieting the rusty hinges with a glance. The Neocount looked about the room, peered through the curtain to the bedroom beyond, and his pale eyes narrowed in distaste. Suddenly the place seemed twice as dingy, the air twice as stale. Damn him for noticing! And damn him twice for disapproving. He hadn’t been here when they’d been searching for a safe haven, had he? So he’d damn well better not criticize their choice.