Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [125]
“Narilka Lessing.”
She seemed startled by the fact that he knew her name, but quickly regained her composure. He sensed a tension within her so great that it might have broken a lesser soul; the fact that she could contain such a thing and not even show it bore witness to a strength far beyond anything her physical self even hinted at. Was this the woman that Andrys Tarrant had fallen in love with? If so, it wasn’t hard to see why.
“Your Excellency,” she said. Hesitantly, not knowing if the honorific would please or offend. A curious pagan, this one, uncomfortable with his identity as the voice of the One God, yet anxious to do him appropriate honor. He accepted the honorific with a gracious nod, his eyes fixed upon the storm of images that surrounded her. Bright, sharp, volatile images; in all his interviews he had rarely seen such a tumult of potential.
“I take it you told my people that you belong to the Church.”
Her face flushed hotly, but her gaze didn’t flinch. “There was no other way to get in to see you. I tried.”
He nodded, and watched as an image of blood and flesh spattered into fragments by the side of her head. What was that white face beside hers, grinning? “I regret that we forced you to such subterfuge. It wasn’t our intention.” He struggled to focus on her face through the whirlwind of images. “Now that you’re here, what is it I can do for you?”
She drew in a deep breath, and then said bluntly, “I want to go with you to the Forest.”
So that was it. He should have guessed. “Mer Tarrant already asked me if that was possible. I told him no.”
“I can’t accept that.”
In another time, another life, he might have gotten angry at her. Now, in this transformed self, he felt strangely distant, as though he were watching two strangers converse. “This campaign is a Church matter. All the people involved serve the One God. You, Mes Lessing, don’t.” He nodded slightly. “At least, that’s my understanding of it. Correct me if I’m wrong.”
“Are you afraid I’d try to convert your people?” She challenged him proudly. “Is that what you think? Is their faith in your God so weak? Do you really think I’d be a threat to them?”
“That isn’t the point,” he said quietly. He turned away from her slightly, as if to gaze out the window while he spoke; anything to look away from the faeborn chaos that surrounded her. “Faith has power, Mes Lessing, real power. Unified faith can reWork the very currents, changing reality so that it favors our cause. One discordant soul might not seem like much of a problem to you, but its effect upon our mission would be like that of a sour note in an otherwise perfect symphony.” He paused, giving her a moment to muse upon that. “If you came with us, it would increase the risk to all of us—and to Andrys Tarrant—a thousandfold. Is that what you want? To place him in even greater danger?”
“You don’t know what you’re doing to him,” she said fiercely. “It’s eating him up inside, taking on this role. It’s making him crazy. You want him to face that alone?”
“He has us,” he said coolly. “And he has his God.”
“That isn’t enough!” she retorted. “Your God doesn’t hold a man’s hand when he’s alone in the night. Your God won’t show up to comfort him when he’s scared. Your God doesn’t care if he hurts, as long as—” The words caught in her throat then, and she coughed heavily. He glanced back at her, just in time to see a white mask with frightened eyes scream as its throat was slashed, then fade into a mist of blood about her hair.
“I won’t get in your way,” she promised. Pleading now, all anger leached from her tone in a desperate bid to placate, to persuade. “I won’t say anything to offend anyone. I can even hold my own when we fight....” She drew in a deep breath, and dark images fluttered about her head like bats. “And the