Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [75]
He turned to leave then, and the tapestries did fade. The amorous couples were visible once more, but thinly, like ghosts. The half-clad priests and priestesses fluttered like wraiths about the borders of his vision.
“Reverend Vryce.”
He didn’t turn back, but he did stop walking. The entire room seemed frozen in time, as if the very walls were waiting.
“True night falls for an hour tomorrow.” The demon’s voice was low and even; there was only the faintest tremor of fear in it. “Eat well and drink well before that, and rest with a pitcher of water by your side. In a secure room,” he added quickly, “so that no one disturbs your flesh.” He whispered, “It can’t make the journey.”
And then the tapestries were gone and the demon also, and the warm smell of the temple filled his nostrils and his head. “Can I help you?” a priestess asked, approaching him. He shook his head and waved her away. His legs felt weak beneath him. What had just happened? Did Karril mean to help him, or merely point him on his way and say good-bye? Either way—
Either way I have to go, he thought grimly. Because there is no other option. May God have mercy on my soul.
Then he thought of the risk that Karnl had already taken, of the rules the Iezu had broken just to talk to him—of the pain that he might yet endure, in order to betray his own brother—and he added, May God have mercy on us both.
Sixteen
The Patriarch dreamed :
Armies on a plain, arrayed in Church regalia. Beyond them lies the Forbidden Forest, whose trees even now cast blackened shadows before the setting sun. He lifts his hand to bless them and the armies start forward, into that haunted darkness....
... and the Forest is alive, it tears them apart, it strews their blood upon the ground to nurture its foul growth....
Armies on a plain. He lifts his hand to bless them and a chosen few start forward, armored with sigils of fire....
... and the Forest swallows them whole, so that not even the light of their Worked weapons shines forth, so that not even their fellow soldiers can find them....
Armies on a plain. He lifts his hand to bless their purpose and a few men move forward with firebrands, setting them against the nearest trees....
... and rain lashes down from the heavens in fury, sun-bright lightning striking in the midst of their encampment with thunderous fury while the downpour douses their flames....
Armies on a plain. He lifts his hand to bless them and one man rides forward, accoutred in the Prophet’s glory....
... and the Forest parts before him. Tall he rides in the saddle, and proud, and his armor glints in the dying light like molten gold. He is an image out of mural splendor, this brave soldier, with the coronet of Merentha holding back his golden hair, and the armor of that doomed neocounty glittering upon his chest and limbs. He is the living image of the Prophet himself, and as he approaches the twisted trees of the Forest, they give way before him, thinking him their master. Safely he rides into its depths, making a path where none have been able to before.
The Patriarch lifts his hand in blessing and the troops begin to follow. Riding in the wake of the false Neocount, they encounter no opposition, but make their way toward the heart of the Forest with a prayer upon their lips and the song of the One God loud within their hearts. The Forest thinks that they belong to him, its master, and it makes no move against them. Wave after wave moves into the preternatural darkness, as the spear of the Church is leveled against the Hunter’s throne....
He awoke in a cold sweat, his heart pounding. The last moments of his dream were as fresh in his brain as if he had really lived them, and the implications of it were so stunning that as he rose to a sitting position, he noticed that his hands were shaking.
Was this what