Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [42]
“Maybe it despises Calesta as much as you do,” Damien suggested. “Maybe it regards your current attempts as a kind of service.”
“Doubtful.” His brow furrowed as he considered the thought. “One would think Calesta’s habits would be to its liking.”
“Rivalry, perhaps?”
“The Iezu are petty demons. The Unnamed is ... beyond that.”
“Petty demons who can’t be Banished, or otherwise controlled. Independent spirits who mean to remake the Unnamed One’s domain.”
“Perhaps,” he said dubiously. “At least that might explain—”
He stopped then. And did not proceed.
“What?” When the Hunter didn’t respond, he pressed, “Tell me, Gerald. What is it?”
“I Divined our conflict,” he said softly. Eyes shut, recalling the Working to his inner vision. “It’s an imprecise art at best, as you know, and in this case all it conjured was chaos. I watched the corruption of the Church proceed from a thousand beginnings, and in none of them could I see any hope of change. I witnessed both our deaths a dozen times—yes, yours and mine—in a dozen different forums. I saw worlds in which Calesta triumphed, and such change was wrought that our human ancestors wouldn’t have recognized Erna’s children as their kin. All tangled together, Reverend Vryce: a skein of futures so enmeshed that even my skill couldn’t pull the threads loose. But there were patterns even in that chaos, things which recurred time and time again.” He looked at Damien. “The interference of the Unnamed was one. I had assumed it would strike at me directly, in vengeance for my many transgressions, but who can know what passes for vengeance in a mind that knows no permanence? And more than once I saw a sorcerer at the head of the Church, a man whose power was equal to my own, who might lead that body down the one safe path among millions. But what sense does that make? Even if such a man existed, the Church would cast him out.” He shook his head tightly, frustrated. “Too many futures, Vryce, and nearly all of them lead to failure. I can’t make out anything useful.”
He managed to keep his voice steady, though suddenly his heart was pounding. “There is a sorcerer in the Church, Gerald.”
“What? Where?” Then he waved a hand, dismissing the thought. “This was a man in control of things, Vryce. They would never give a sorcerer such authority.”
“They would if he were the Patriarch.”
The look on Gerald Tarrant’s face was one he never thought he would see: pure, unadulterated astonishment. “The Patriarch? But how—?”
“He doesn’t know it. And I’m sure no one else has guessed. But I worked a Knowing in his presence once....”
And he told him about his conversations with the Holy Father. About the way the fae responded to the man, even though he couldn’t See it. About how it served his unconscious will even while his words denied its power.
“He’s a natural,” he concluded. “I’m sure of it.”
Tarrant reached for the nearest chair and dropped himself heavily into it. It was clear that he hadn’t been braced for this kind of news. And how could he be? His own damnation had been assured by the Church’s rejection of any such power. How could he accept that suddenly the rules might change, without questioning his own existence? “An adept?” he breathed. “Could he be that also?”
“Is it possible?”
“You mean, could a man be born with Sight and deny it? Block it so utterly that he never even knew it existed?” He hesitated. “It might be. So many infants die or go insane each year, that we think might have been fledgling adepts. Is it unreasonable to think that a newborn might learn to deny its fae-visions, when no other family member acknowledges their reality? God of Earth