Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [56]
He had been tormented by those questions since his first dream of battle. It was a torment which only grew worse as the riots continued, as night after night he was called from his bed or his study chamber to witness some new act of violence. All in the name of God, the rioters claimed. Couldn’t they see that by wor shiping violence they had created a new god, who was slowly consuming them? That worried him far more than the lawsuits. which might drain his Church of economic vigor but could never quell its spirit. This violence threatened the very heart of who and what they were.
And then there was Vryce’s report. He felt himself tense up at the mere thought of the man, at the name which now automatically inspired his rage. But whatever he might think of Vryce himself, the report could not be ignored. How did the Iezu demon Calesta connect to all of this? Was he the unseen instigator in this wave of violence? If so, then it would do little good to address human issues in the matter. Any solution which the Church pursued would succeed only up until the point when Calesta was willing to strike again. How did you fight a creature who could read the darkness in men’s hearts and stoke it to such new strength, as naturally as a man drew breath?
He lowered his head to pray again, but a faint sound from behind him alerted him to the presence of someone or something else in the room. He turned about slowly, expecting no more than a young acolyte with a message to bear, or perhaps his chamber-servant coming to see if there was anything he needed. What he saw was something else again, and he rose to his feet quickly, wondering how a stranger had gotten in past his private guard.
The stranger stepped forward as he watched, just far enough that the candlelight could pick out highlights along his pale, aristocratic features. He was tall and slender, and dressed in a manner that was at once modern and reminiscent of the Revival period. Flame-born highlights played upon shoulder length hair, and sparked along the gold headband that held it in place. His features were so unmarked by worldly trouble that his face might have seemed that of an angel, had the eyes not been so dark, so hungry, so ... empty.
“Do you know who I am?” The man’s voice was clear and fine and his words, though no louder than a whisper, seemed to echo in the small chamber like some strange music. The Patriarch studied him, and then nodded. Yes, he knew. Vryce’s sketches had been good enough for that. The knowledge both elated and terrified him, but he was statesman enough not to let those emotions show, or to let them sound in his voice.
In a voice that was tightly controlled, he asked, “Why are you here?”
The dark eyes flickered toward the altar, then back again. “A fate that neither you nor I would court has made us allies, it seems. I came to offer my services.”
“No.” His heart was racing; it took everything he had to sound calm and collected when he was anything but. Was he really standing here talking to the man who founded and then betrayed his Church? Up until a year ago he would have considered that patently impossible. Even now, knowing otherwise, it was hard to absorb the truth. “Not allies, Neocount. Enemies.”
The man’s expression darkened ever so slightly, and he stepped forward as if to approach the Patriarch; with a flutter of fear in his heart, the Holy Father moved back. Then he realized that his visitor wasn’t moving toward him, but toward the altar. The Patriarch’s soul cried out for him to protect his holy symbols from the touch—or even the scrutiny—of this damned creature, but a distant,