Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [149]
They made camp there, within sight of their enemy’s domain. Amidst the wreckage of former encampments, now abandoned by the hunters and foragers who had erected them, they unpacked tents and bedrolls so new that price tags still dangled from the ends of many, and advertising leaflets fluttered to the grass as packs of foodstuffs were wrenched open. They would spend the night here and then move with the sun, letting that ultimate enemy of night light their way into Hell’s domain. Not that the light would actually help them much beneath that canopy, Zefila observed, studying it with a farseer, but the symbolism was important.
Symbolism.
It was in the name of symbolism that he unpacked his armor late that day. It was in the name of symbolism that he would be expected to wear it now, so that the troops might become accustomed to him in his new role. It was in the name of symbolism that he would be introduced to them anew, not as a visitor from a foreign realm, but as one who held the key to the Hunter’s domain: flesh of the Hunter’s flesh, blood of his blood.
One of the men had been sent in to help him, and at last it was he who took up the heavy breastplate and fitted it around Andrys’ torso, over his shirt. The youngest Tarrant shut his eyes and trembled, not only for what the moment represented in a military sense, but for the memories that were suddenly awakened. Her hands, soft upon the steel, gentle against his flesh. Her eyes, so deep and dark that a man could drown in them. Lost forever now. He felt a wetness come to one eye and wiped it away quickly, hoping that the man who was adorning him didn’t see it. He had to be strong now, that was part of his new image. Part of his new persona. Andrys Tarrant, a leader of men ... he almost laughed aloud. Was there ever a greater contradiction than that one? How Samiel would have roared with outraged laughter to hear it!
And then hands were guiding him and the man was telling him that all was finished, and he found himself stepping out of the tent, being led by a stranger’s touch toward the place where his fellow warriors awaited, where the Patriarch awaited....
Where his fate awaited.
The Patriarch stood at the crown of the mount, with the men and women who served him ranged in a half-circle beneath. Andrys came to the Patriarch’s side and bowed formally, acutely aware of how much each gesture mattered now. They had schooled him well on the journey here, and he went through each move like a seasoned dancer, sensing the power of his performance. Eighty-seven men and women—for they had left none in Mordreth—gazed upon the image that he projected, and their response shimmered in the unseen currents, creating a reality more powerful than any one man could manifest on his own. The fae here was so volatile, it was said, that a man’s dreams took on reality before they were even completed; what power did that give to the joint dreams of a hundred, when their minds were all fixed on a single focus?
Him.
He looked like the Prophet now, as much as any living man could. His hair had been cut straight across the bottom, in the Prophet’s chosen style, and though it wasn’t quite long enough for the illusion to be perfect, it was damned close. His armor was the same as that in the mural which overhung the sanctuary in Jaggonath, down to the finest detail, and the clothing he wore beneath it was likewise identical. He was an image out of history, a creature of living legend, and as the