Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [151]
And then there was a familiar touch in his mind, and the visions shifted. Only for a moment, but the moment was enough. Calesta’s touch, sure and effective, rekindled the hatred that was his only remaining strength. Visions of blood gave way to visions of his family’s slaughter; dreams of violence gave way to the hunger for vengeance. He clung to the moment’s offering as a lifeline, and somehow forced the required words past his lips time and time again: I accept the dedication of your life to mine, I acknowledge you as an extension of my will, I swear unto you protection against all harm.... He gasped as the cold malignance of the Hunter’s presence surged through his flesh, and felt the Patriarch’s grip tighten on his shoulder. Oh, God, he prayed, if you’re really out there, if you give a damn, help me! But the God of Earth wasn’t known for interference in such affairs, and His holy representative, for all his good intentions, had no idea what manner of power he had conjured with this ritual.
And then it was over. The last man retreated a respectful distance from the mound, giving Andrys room to breathe at last. Shivering violently, the young man prayed that he would be allowed to withdraw soon. Surely it was in all their best interests that his terror not be made manifest before the troops! But then there was a stirring by his side, and the Patriarch himself stood before him. The clear blue eyes met his for a minute and he felt himself pierced through by their intensity. Then, with a nod, the Holy Father slowly lowered himself to one knee and offered up his own hands for oathtaking.
No! Andrys wanted to scream. I’m unclean now! Can’t you see that? But the Patriarch’s gaze was steady, and his hands didn’t waver from their position. At last, trembling, Andrys took up the required pose. “For this one occasion,” the Patriarch’s oath began. “In this single set of circumstances.” He had chosen his words carefully, but Andrys could barely hear them. The cold grip of the Forest was squeezing his heart, and terror surged within his veins. What if the creature who received this oath was no longer entirely Andrys Tarrant, but some half-made being that was even now being reWorked by the Forest’s currents? He understood why the Patriarch felt that even he must be fully a part of their deceit, but wasn’t the risk just too high?
Don’t do it! he wanted to yell. Save yourself, your people need you!
And then it was truly over, all of it. Finally. Dazed, he listened to the closing rites, watching as the golden Corelight took precedence over the clean white light of the sun. The latter was wholly gone now, and the first stage of night was descending. Soon the demons of the night would come out in force, and if they didn’t acknowledge Andrys in his chosen role-
Don’t think about that, he thought desperately. Knowing, in the core of his soul, that the unclean essence of the Hunter was inside him now, and that any hungry demonling with eyes could see it. Oh, God. He had thought that it might drive him mad to pretend to be the Hunter; what would it do to him if the Forest’s fae transformed him utterly, making him into a copy of that damned soul in truth? What would his Church allies do then—struggle to save him, to salvage his soul, or condemn him to the same fate as his forebear?
He suddenly felt trapped, and was desperately glad that the tents had already been erected; as soon as this nightmare scene was over, he could take refuge in the limited privacy of his assigned canvas quarters. The thought of that privacy was all that sustained him as the last prayers were said, the last evocations recited....
He walked. He wanted to run, but that would only alert the others, and then they would follow him. He walked to the tent that