Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [107]
“Reverend Vryce.” The Patriarch bowed his head ever so slightly, a formal greeting. It was a far more mild reception than Damien had expected, and he tried not to look flustered as he returned the gesture. What was going on here? “Have a seat.” The Patriarch indicated a tufted chair set opposite his desk. Damien hesitated, then moved forward and sat as directed. Was this some other creature that had taken over the Holy Father’s body? In that moment it seemed that anything was possible.
Then the blue eyes fixed on him, and the fae stirred between them, and he saw what was truly behind that measured gaze: not calm, nor any other kind of human peace, but a pain so intense that it hovered near the brink of madness. And he knew in that moment that he had seen it because the Patriarch had wanted him to see it, that the man’s natural power would have masked such a weakness from Damien’s sight unless he willed it otherwise.
He began to shiver, deep inside, without quite knowing why. He had prepared himself for the Patriarch’s rage, or worse; how was he supposed to deal with this stranger?
The Holy Father sat down opposite him, behind the broad mahogova desk, and for a moment said nothing. Damien was intensely aware of that stem gaze fixed on him, studying him, assessing him. At last the Patriarch said quietly, “I believe we have some things to discuss.”
Damien nodded stiffly, but said nothing.
“Your recent activities.” He paused, perhaps waiting for a response, but Damien didn’t dare commit himself without first knowing how much the Patriarch had discovered. “Your journey of a night ago,” he prompted. Damien felt his throat tighten in dread but he said nothing. At last the Patriarch leaned forward and accused, “A trip through Hell, Reverend Vryce, to rescue its darkest prince.”
“How do you know that?” The words were out of him before he could stop them. That would never have happened with the old Patriarch, but this man unnerved him in ways his former self never had. “Where do you get such information?”
The Patriarch leaned back in his chair. There was an infinite weariness about the movement that made him seem suddenly fragile, as though a strong word might cause him to shatter into a thousand fragments. “I have dreams,” he said quietly. “Visions of the truth, that take place in real time. I thought once that they were clairvoyancies. I thought that God had blessed me with a gift—or perhaps cursed me—so that I might serve my people better. Now ...” He paused; a muscle tensed along the line of his jaw. “Now I know them for what they are. Visions crafted by a demon, to herd me along his chosen path. He thought me blinded by my faith, and thus never tried to hide his marks. Only now ... I see them. Now I know.”
“And you trust these dreams?”
He had expected anger in response—at least a hint of it—but the hollowed face was maddeningly calm, perfectly controlled. Whatever terror raged inside the Patriarch as a result of the changes Tarrant had wrought, he kept it well hidden. “Thus far all his visions have been true, at least as far as I can test them. But that could change at any moment. Perhaps it has now.” He leaned forward and placed his arms upon the desk. “I saw you call a demon for a guide and then walk through Hell, all to save the soul of a man that God himself reviles. Was that a true vision, Reverend Vryce, or a demon’s lie? You tell me.”
For a brief instant he considered lying. Then, an instant later, his face flushed hot with shame. A year ago he would never have considered lying to the Patriarch, not for any reason. That he had done so now, for no better cause than to evade just punishment, was a jarring reminder of how much the last year had changed him. He had been ready to cast aside his vows of obedience for no more than a moment’s comfort; how much else might he be willing to sacrifice, if the moment’s temptation were right? For the first time he saw himself through the Patriarch’s eyes, and realized just how far he had fallen. He couldn’t meet his gaze,