Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [123]
Calm. That was the answer. Perfect, unshakable calm. It was a front that he cultivated as he interviewed dozens—or was it hundreds?—of would-be warriors. Calm, that most precious illusion, that kept his inner torment from being expressed and so kept it from being reflected back at him one, ten, a thousand times, in the mirror of others’ souls. A stillness so absolute that Nature had no equivalent... save at the heart of a storm.
The hurricane bore down on him. Housewives. Craftsmen. Stevedores. Journalists. They came from all walks of life, some for reasons of faith, some for reasons of pride, a few out of sheer boredom. He could See the strength of their courage, or their lack of it. He could See which of these fledgling crusaders would accept the yoke of his leadership and dedicate their energies to the common good, and which would threaten the ranks by continual disruption. And he assigned them each a role in the coming war by virtue of that assessment. There were roles enough that all could serve the cause, and he was diplomat enough to make each offering sound like a unique honor. Fund-raisers would be needed, purchasing agents, advance men sent ahead to Kale and Mordreth to prepare for the army’s passage; there would be crew chiefs to organize labor at the fringe of the Forest, where a vast swath of landscape must be cleared in order to contain the cleansing fire which would be their final effort; there were med ics needed, and veterinarians, and seamsters, and messengers, and even envelope stuffers ... so many duties that there was always a niche to be offered, hopefully one suitable enough that it was received with a nod of gratitude, not a glare of resentment.
What amazed him was how fast it was all coming together. How tempting it was to thank God for that, and ignore the role Vryce’s demon had played in making it happen! But there’s no shame in that, he told himself, as he waited for yet another warrior-applicant to present himself before the throne of God. Using evil to destroy evil is a blessed enterprise. Didn’t the Prophet teach that? Clearly the world was ready for such action. The Forest had been a threat for too long. And there was no other organization on the face of this planet, religious or otherwise, with the courage to attempt such an assault, and the skill to make it succeed.
Only the Church.
His Church.
God save us, he prayed between interviews. And he bowed his head in guilt at the power he now wielded, the visions he could not turn away. They were there even when he shut his eyes, burning his eyes, a constant reminder of his damnation. God save us all, he prayed. Wondering if his God could ever forgive him for what he had done ... or if he could forgive himself.
Dusk, the day’s interviews over, the clamor of angry souls giving way, at long last, to silence.
Time to decide.
Wordlessly, the Patriarch left his chamber and descended to the secret room that waited far below. By now his attendants were used to his strange silence, and in their eagerness to anticipate his needs they ran down the corridor ahead of him, calling for assistance. By the time he reached the double-locked door there was a priest waiting for him, key in hand. Awe flickered about his head in a wild halo, belying the cool texture of his greeting. Two keys turned in unison, unlocking the ancient door. The Patriarch descended the stairs alone, leaving the priest behind him. To his surprise the ceaseless clamor of the earth-fae grew muffled as he descended, granting him an unexpected respite. He leaned against the wall and breathed the silence in deeply, desperately, as a drowning man might gasp for air. If he descended deep enough, would the earth-fae abandon him altogether? Was there a depth at which he might find peace—true peace—at which the tumult of futures would cease their racket and allow him a few seconds in which to think? To pray? To be? What a rare and precious gift that would be!
But it was not yet time to rest, not for a