Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [114]
He muttered a leavetaking, hoping it was polite. Evidently the Patriarch sensed his need—or had he foreseen it?—for he made no attempt to convince him to stay longer. And why should he anyway? The deed was done. The contract was all but signed. Andrys Tarrant belonged to the Church now, proud soldier in its mad dest enterprise.
But at the door he stopped, unable to leave the room, There was still something unspoken here, something the Patriarch should know. Something he needed to know, if Andrys was to play his role effectively.
He turned partway back, not far enough that he had to meet the Patriarch’s eyes but enough that his words would be clearly audible. “Gerald Tarrant killed my family,” he whispered hoarsely. Choking on the words, and on the painful memories they conjured. “I want him to pay for that. I ... I would do anything to hurt him.”
It seemed to him that the Patriarch sighed. Then, with a soft whisper of silk on silk, the Holy Father rose from his seat and came over to where Andrys stood. He put a hand upon the young man’s shoulder, and it seemed to Andrys in that instant that the man’s own strength and certainty flowed through the contact, bolstering his own fragile hopes.
“He’ll pay for that sin in Hell,” the Holy Father assured him. “And so many others. We’ll see to it.”
Twenty-five
“Tell me about Senzei Reese.”
Startled, Damien looked up from the volume he was studying. “What? Why?”
“Tell me about him.”
He stared at the Hunter for a moment as if that action might net him some information, but as usual Tarrant’s expression was unreadable. At last, with a sigh, he closed the book. “What do you want to know?”
“The man. His habits, his beliefs. Tell me.”
“May I ask why?”
“Later. Just tell me.”
So he did. It wasn’t the easiest task in the world, but after half a night’s frustrating dedication to dusty tomes and wan hopes, it was as good an assignment as any. He tried to remember Ciani’s assistant, and to describe him for Tarrant. Thin. Pale. Studious. Utterly devoted to Ciani, and to their work. What was it that Tarrant wanted? he wondered. Why did a man who’d been dead for nearly two years suddenly matter so much? Not knowing what his focus of interest was, Damien floundered through a description. Meticulous. Focused. Frustrated. He went through the easy adjectives first, and then he came to the painful part. He was obsessed by the desire to become an adept. He was convinced that somehow it could be managed. He believed ... He struggled to remember, to find the right words. He thought that the potential was there inside him, waiting to be let out. That somehow, if he could only “set it free,” he’d be the equal of Ciani.
He remembered what that obsession had cost Senzei, and pain welled up inside him as fresh as the day it had happened. He saw Senzei’s body, twisted and tortured, lying on the mountain grass where it had been struck down. And beside him the flask of holy Fire, which he had tried to take into his body to burn through his inner barriers. Though they hadn’t recognized it at the time, that was Calesta’s first victory over their small party. The first death in a war that had now claimed thousands in the east, and threatened to do the same here.
“Earthquakes,” Tarrant prompted. “Did he talk about them?”
Puzzled by the request, he tried to remember. They had discussed so much on that journey, desperate to pass the time in something other than silence. “He was so fascinated by the fae-surge,” he said at last. Struggling to remember. “I think he wanted to harness it, but didn’t dare try.”
Tarrant hissed softly. There was an alertness about him that reminded Damien of a hunting animal. “He thought it might make him an adept?”
“He thought a lot of things,” Damien said warily. “The last one