Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [54]
“Every sabbath. You understand? I want you to be seen there. One of the faithful.”
“I understand.”
The gift came then, inserted into his brain with sure demonic skill, the ultimate reward for obedience: visions of vengeance that flooded his soul, catching him up in a whirlwind of anticipated triumph. He fought it for a moment, clinging to the gentleness of his former mood like a lifeline—and then it swept him away and he was lost in it, lost in a hatred and a blood lust and a hunger for revenge so desperate that he shook as it swept through him. It lasted forever and yet it could not last long enough, and when it was over he collapsed back into the chair, shaking from the sudden withdrawal.
“Someday those dreams will become reality,” the demon promised. “Think of the pleasure of that moment! Worth more than a little sacrifice now, I should think.”
He said nothing. He had no words. The memory of the girl was hazy now, unclear, its outlines obscured by clouds of blood. Had he imagined that he might love? Where was there room for love in this life of his, lived in the Hunter’s shadow?
“There is something else,” the demon warned him.
“What?” he choked out. What more than this?
“He’ll never kill you because you’re the last living Tarrant. That’s what makes you capable of striking back at him; under any other circumstances such a move would be suicidal.” He paused meaningfully. “But what would happen if another Tarrant were born? Maybe not one to whom you gave the name, but one who might, in time, lay claim to it.”
“But I never—” he began.
And then what the demon was saying hit him. It hit him hard.
“I think that you should be careful where you spill your seed, Andrys Tarrant. Because the moment you impregnate a woman—any woman—the Hunter will have no more reason to spare you.” In a chilling tone he added, “And I doubt very much that he would be merciful in killing you, after you so flagrantly defied him.”
Andrys shut his eyes tightly; fear churned coldly in his gut. Dear God in Heaven! how many chances had he already taken, never thinking, never realizing.... Oh, he had always been careful, but sex was a gambler’s game and he knew it; sooner or later even the best contraceptive might betray you. And if so ... if so ...
“I see that my meaning is clear,” the demon approved.
Something landed in his lap, startling him; it was a moment before he could muster the physical control to take it up, and even then his fingers seemed numb. A small object, that rattled when it moved. Cool glass, with a rubber stopper.
Pills.
“I thought you might need them,” Calesta said dryly. “After all, we have a long battle ahead of us. I would hate to see you lose your nerve.”
The coldness in the room faded; the demon was gone. Andrys gripped the bottle in his hand, feeling hot tears squeeze from his eyes. What color were the pills, what essence was their magic? It didn’t matter. They all brought forgetfulness, one way or another. They were all ways of escaping this world, with its inescapable nightmares. The only escape there was, other than death.
His hand clenched tightly around the bottle, Andrys Tarrant wept.
Ten
The Patriarch dreamed of war.
... hundreds on the mountainside, maybe thousands, men and women, priests and layfolk, and the energy that arises from them ripples in the air overhead, like heat ...
... armor in bits and pieces, mismatched ...
... and banners: the circle, the Earth-in-circle, and some that are simply red. Red for blood, red for triumph, red for cleansing....
... These are my people, he thinks, and he gazes out upon them in wonder. These are my people, who only yesterday brought down a pagan temple and terrorized its faithful. These are my people, who were willing to risk imprisonment and worse to vent their intolerance, and now are channeling all that negative energy into this blessed enterprise. These are my people, who may die on the morrow or live to go home again, but who will never forget this moment, or its transforming power.