Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [24]
A raid.
With quick, decisive steps the Patriarch moved to where his ritual garments hung and layered a thickly embroidered stole over the beige silk robe he was already wearing. He added to that his most formal head-dress, a peaked form layered and crusted in gilt embroidery. No hesitation in these choices, or in his dressing; he had gone over this moment too many times in his own mind to falter now. Other times he had been too late, had learned of the incident after the fact; now, for the first time, he had a chance to change things.
And I will, he promised his God. I will stop it, and bring them back to You. I swear it.
He ushered the man out of the room ahead of him and hurried toward the rear stairs of the building, his soul praying with all its strength. Help me to serve Your Will in this. Two flights down he came to a narrow hallway, and he practically flew to the door at its end. Beyond that was a small chamber, sparsely decorated, that opened on the stables. Bridles hung on the far wall, their brass fittings polished and gleaming; a liveried man with coffee in hand relaxed over a magazine, clearly not expecting any custom at this late hour.
“A carriage,” the Patriarch ordered, and there was no need for him to shout the command; his bearing said it all. Startled, the man dropped his reading material and hurredly set his coffee cup aside; brown liquid sloshed over the edge of it, splashing a copy of Whip and Bridle. “Of course, Your Holiness.” With a clumsy bow he passed through the far door, into the stables themselves; the Patriarch could hear the snort of horses as he followed.
God willing, the carriage had been kept ready, he thought. God willing, he wouldn’t have to wait while the beasts were brought out and harnessed. Lives could be lost in that much time.
But the carriage was ready, and in less than a minute he was inside it. “Street of Gods,” he ordered, and such was the fever of haste he exuded that the coachman responded immediately, and the carriage began to move the minute the Patriarch’s feet were safely off the ground.
Out of the stable and onto the street. It was dark, very dark, with only one moon visible, and that half-hidden behind a row of townhouses. A suitable night for work like this, he thought grimly. “Faster,” he muttered, but there was no need; the coachman had sensed his need for haste and was barreling down the deserted streets with a speed that would have been unsafe—and strictly illegal—in the crowded daylight hours.
The Street of Gods was not one single roadway, but a route that zigzagged through the cultural and financial districts, so named for the preponderance of pagan temples flanking its course. At any speed its turns were difficult and at this speed they were downright sickening, but the Patriarch held on tightly to his seat as the coachman drove his horses down the narrow streets and made no complaint. Time was of the essence.
“There!” He half-rose from his seat as he saw the flames, fury and despair warring for dominion within him. Was it too late already? “Stop there!” There were dozens of people in the street outside Davarti’s Temple—perhaps hundreds—but it was too dark for him to make out what they were doing. Brawling? Demonstrating? Or simply gawking, as golden flames licked at the ancient building? As he rushed up to the temple’s door—simply pushing aside those who were in his way, there was no time for courtesy now—it seemed to him that some were rushing toward the flames, with buckets in both hands. Good. Something might yet be saved of the building, if they worked hard enough and fast enough. As for the souls within... that was another thing.
He burst into the temple, so filled with righteous indignation that the fae surrounding him seemed to take fire, lighting the