Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [111]
It was obviously the time for him to say something complimentary, and he did. The words of social concourse flowed like honey across his tongue, while all the while he wondered, with increasing alarm, Why did he bring me here? What’s this all about? He didn’t believe for a minute that the mere presence of a Merenthan noble had prompted this interview. He hoped the Patriarch didn’t expect him to believe it. But the forms must be observed, and so Andrys gave over control of his speech to the part of his brain so well versed in social repartee that he could hold a conversation like this in his sleep. While all the while another part fluttered in panic like a caged bird, waiting for the blow to fall.
Was the Church thriving in Merentha? Was that city still populous? Had it made successful conversion from a port city to something less ambitious, when the Stekkis River shifted its course five centuries ago and left it high and dry? These were all questions that any history book could answer, and Andrys had no doubt that the Patriarch had read them all. Was his family still a patron of the Church, as it had been in the early days? He hesitated over that one; the words my family is dead almost came to his lips, but instead he said simply, the Tarrants have always been devout. He didn’t add, as honestly prompted, except for me, but the Patriarch’s piercing gaze and slow, knowing nod suggested that he knew that as well.
Two glasses of cool wine lubricated his tongue, and by the end of the second, against his will, he could feel himself starting to relax. The Patriarch seemed to sense it, for he leaned back into his chair with seeming casualness and said, in a voice that was artfully calm, “There are some issues I would like to discuss with you, Mer Tarrant, that I think are of mutual interest.”
Heart pounding anew, he poured himself another glass. If he could have exchanged it for a hypodermic full of tranquilizer right now, he would have done so. “Oh?” He tried to make his voice sound equally casual, but instead it had the forced ingenuousness of bad melodrama.
The Patriarch said nothing for a moment; Andrys had the distinct impression that he was waiting for him to compose himself, so he drew in a deep breath and tried to do so. When his heartbeat had slowed enough that he could make out its individual strokes again, the Holy Father said, “You’ve heard, no doubt, of our troubles in the north.”
Feeling that he was expected to say something, he offered, “I’ve read the papers.”
“The Forest has always been a thorn in our side. I’m sure you know that the Church once tried an all-out effort to cleanse the place, once and for all. It failed, of course. You can’t do battle with the planet itself, and that’s what the Forest is: a whirlpool of fae that no act of man can unmake. They didn’t understand that then, or perhaps they simply chose not to believe it. It cost them dearly.”
He nodded, and muttered something meant to indicate that yes, he knew Church history, he remembered the salient details of the Great War and its devastating finale.
“For years now the Forest has been a reasonable neighbor: evil, but civilized. Its neighbors enjoyed a tense and wary peace, and it in return has been permitted to flourish unopposed for more than five centuries.” He laid his own glass down on the table and seemed to be studying its rim thoughtfully as he said, “Obviously, that truce no longer exists.”
“Are you sure about that?” he dared. He wished he had read the newspapers more closely, so that he had a better understanding of the matter to draw upon. “After all, there have only been a few incidents.”
The blue eyes were a cold fire that sucked in his soul. “I’m sure,” he said quietly. “What we’ve seen is only the beginning. The Forest will devour its neighbors—body by body, acre by acre—until